#it was chapter two….. i forgot to post chapter two last night

[tojicide]

chapter four ── lab partners.

the spider’s sense: a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

(i forgot to post it with tags the first time around so i have to repost it… so sorry for spamming your notifs </3)

synopsis. caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, mdni

chapter summary. after a series of unfortunate events, caleb shatters any hope of reconciliation with you… or so it seems.

prev: chapter three. ┆ series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

Caleb didn’t remember making it to his bed last night.

That wasn’t unusual these days. Most nights ended in a whirlwind of aching limbs and crashing adrenaline, a blur of alleyways and sirens, limbs sore from swinging through Linkon’s crumbling skyline until he could scale the fire escape outside his dorm and collapse.

Sometimes he didn’t even bother removing the suit.

The only proof he was even back in one piece was the dull throb in his shoulders and the familiar, worn-in scent of his dorm—old laundry detergent and someone’s leftover Cheetos. That, and the familiar protest of the bunk mattress digging into his back.

A groan slipped from his throat as he tossed an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the god-awful morning light filtering through the slats of their half-broken blinds.

He could feel the grime still clinging to his skin, last night’s victories sticking to him like second skin. Three attempted robberies, a handful of purse snatchers, and one very memorable dive into a dumpster full of Caesar salad.

(He was trying not to think about that last one.)

The sound of someone clearing their throat sliced through the morning silence.

His whole body went rigid.

He cracked one eye open slowly, only to find Zayne sitting across the room in his desk chair—legs crossed, arms folded, wearing a judgmental expression that practically screamed intervention.

“…Morning, Batman,” Zayne said flatly.

Caleb groaned and rolled over, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then explain why you came in at three in the morning with a limp, croutons in your hair, and—unless I was hallucinating—a fork sticking out of your shoulder.”

Caleb blinked, slowly reaching beneath the blanket to pull the crumpled remains of his suit deeper out of sight. “I got it out. No biggie.”

Zayne gave him a look that could only be described as hardened. Silent. Cold. Stern.

“The silence is so loud,” Caleb muttered, burying his face in his mattress.

“I can wait all day.”

“Okay, okay,” he groaned, pushing himself upright and scrubbing a hand over his face. His hair stood up at odd angles, and he knew from the ache in his back that he probably looked as bad as he felt. “But you have to swear you won’t tell anyone. Not even the snowman plushie on your bed.”

Zayne raised a single brow, then solemnly held up two fingers. “The snowman takes all secrets to the grave.”

“Good.” Caleb exhaled. “Alright, I’ll just rip the bandaid off. I’m Spider-Ma—”

“Spider-Man. Yes. I know. Figured it out two weeks ago.”

Caleb’s words stuttered to a halt. “…You what?”

Zayne reached down, plucking something off the floor. It was Caleb’s mask—plain as day, just lying there like a dirty sock. “Aside from the suspicious injuries, the weird new muscles, and the fact that you literally crawl through the window every night, this thing hasn’t exactly been subtle.”

“Aw, man,” Caleb collapsed dramatically onto the mattress. “I’m so bad at this.”

“You are,” Zayne agreed cheerfully, tossing the mask onto Caleb’s stomach. “But, for what it’s worth, I admire your… let’s call it ‘unshakable sense of justice.’”

Caleb peeked over the edge of his pillow. “Really?”

“Sure. Very noble. Very heroic.” His roommate tilted his head. “Unless you get arrested, in which case it is just incredibly embarrassing.”

Caleb snorted, grabbing the nearest pillow and chucking it at him. 

“Anyway,” he said, fluffing the pillow in his lap, “that was question one.”

“There’s a second question?”

Zayne leaned forward with a nod. “Have you seen the paper this morning?”

Caleb squinted. “The school paper? No offense, but I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who reads that before noon.”

“Unfortunately for you, today’s edition is a little more… relevant than crossword puzzles and department bulletins.”

He pulled out his phone and chucked it toward Caleb, who caught it with the sluggish reflexes of someone who had dodged bullets but not slept.

Bright screen. One swipe. Bold title.

The Spider’s Sense.

And beneath it, a photo—clear, high quality, unmistakable—of him, mid-air, suit vivid against the valley of skyscrapers.

Who Is Spider-Man? Weeks ago, witnesses reported a masked individual, clad in red and blue, moving with inhuman agility...

Caleb didn’t even register the rest at first. He was too focused on the photo. That was him. There was no doubt, and his stomach churned.

The rest of the article blurred into a wash of phrases. Masked vigilante. Real-life superhero. Enhanced human? Technology? Guardian or threat?

His hands trembled slightly as he scrolled. “Who wrote this?”

Zayne shrugged. “No clue. It’s anonymous. Might’ve been a student, or one of the permanent writers trying to make a name for themselves.”

Caleb’s chest tightened. The words on the screen burned themselves into his brain. His entire existence was no longer just speculation—it was documented.

And worse? That was just the beginning.

“Check socials,” Zayne added. “It’s… sort of everywhere.”

With the dread of someone opening a cursed scroll, Caleb tapped the next app.

Twitter. Instagram. TikTok.

The internet was flooded. Hashtags. Edits. Fan accounts. A clip of him saving a cyclist from an oncoming truck looped with dramatic music.

And the comments—

victoriastoji: nah girl if he’s saving cats from trees i’d let him web me up aaaanytime batmanstanfr: This has to be AI. No way he’s real. coolgirl45: oh yup. I just know there's some fine shyt under that mask. BRING ME HIM.

“My Lord,” Caleb whispered.

“You’re famous,” Zayne said, chewing thoughtfully on a granola bar. “Or infamous. I suppose we’ll find out.”

Caleb dropped the phone into his lap and buried his face in his hands. “There’s no way.”

“There is a way,” Zayne echoed. “And that way is: you’ve gone viral.”

He should’ve felt proud. This was what heroes were, right? Public symbols. Masked protectors. Instead, all he found in its absence was a sinking weight.

This wasn’t just about sneaking around and stopping small-time crooks anymore. It wasn’t just about helping old ladies cross the street or making sure kids didn’t get their bikes stolen.

This was bigger.

His name—his face, sort of—was out there. His anonymity was already cracking.

The mask had kept him safe. But now… the city was watching. 

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Tara was sprawled across your bed like a tragic heroine from a Victorian novel, one arm slung over her face as though she’d just received news of an ill-fated engagement. Her jacket had half-slipped off her shoulder, one boot still on, and one sock-covered foot twitching in dramatic protest.

“If I still smell like car wax for the rest of my life,” she whined, “at least I’ll die knowing I did something charitable.”

You snorted quietly, glancing at her from the mirror where you sat cross-legged at your desk. Lip pencil in one hand, tiny sharpener in the other, you worked through the uneven point with surgical focus. Your fingers still ached from scrubbing windshields and hoods three days ago, but the ache was a dull, familiar one. The kind that said: you did something that mattered. That helped, even if it left you sore.

“At least you raised more than your goal,” you said, turning slightly to flash her a small, knowing smile. “Enough for all your upcoming events, and then some. Plus, the extra for the community clinic next month. And, most importantly: more than Lambda Chi Alpha.”

Tara shot up like she’d been electrocuted, her eyes suddenly alive again. “Okay, so— about that,” she said, voice hushed like she was letting you in on a secret. “Because we absolutely crushed it, and because the universe is clearly in our corner for once, the boys are throwing a party this weekend.”

You blinked. “The boys?”

“The frat rats. Xavier, Raf, the entire losing side.” She twirled a hand in the air. “They’re calling it the Midterm Mixer, which is… definitely a choice… but it’ll be so fun, I promise..”

Your face already contorted into a grimace. “Mm, I don’t know. That actually sounds like my worst nightmare.”

“Come on,” Tara pleaded, flopping back into the—your— pillows. “It’s just one night of pretending we’re not slowly drowning in deadlines. A final hurrah before midterms.”

You hesitated, stomach tightening with quiet reluctance. It wasn’t just the looming tests or the pile of lab reports waiting to be written. It was the chance that he might be there..

Caleb. 

You hadn’t seen him properly since the meeting prior to your lab presentation. He’d left you hanging—again—and you’d buried your irritation in your workload, trying not to dwell on it. But you had. Of course you had, no matter how much you tried to hide it.

Tara, of course, picked up on your hesitation like a bloodhound. “Wait… is this about he who shall not be named?”

You frowned. “What? No.”

“That was the most suspicious ‘what’ I’ve ever heard. It had, like… three silent subtexts.”

You tried to wave her off, but she grinned, relentless in her pursuit of the truth. “Oh my God, it is. You don’t want to go because you’re afraid of seeing your favorite academic nemesis.”

“He’s not my favorite anything,” you muttered, opening your laptop a little too forcefully.

Tara tilted her head. “Sure he isn’t. That’s why you twirl a finger in your hair every time his name gets mentioned.”

You paused, lip parting in protest, then closed it again. Your hand not-so-suspiciously fell from your hair and into your lap. There was no winning this one.

“What? There was a knot…” you grumbled.

“Right,” she said, lying through her teeth with a smile. “Just admit it. You don’t want to go because you don’t want to look like you care.”

“I don’t care.”

She looked at you, entirely unimpressed. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Just know that whatever it is that you’re avoiding, it’s pretty obvious that he feels it too.”

A scoff breaches your lips. “If he did, would he have skipped out on me for the past few labs? I don’t think so.” 

Even with your back turned to her, you can hear the smile in Tara’s voice. “Hmm… you certainly have a lot of bitterness in that beautiful voice of yours for someone who ‘doesn’t care.’”

You flushed, caught. You shook your head without a reply, fingers nudging your laptop open once more.

The page for the Linkon Gazette was already pulled up, cursor hovering over your article. The one about him—the masked figure who’d swung across your city like a myth in motion. The one who, for reasons you couldn’t quite explain, kept showing up. The one who’d endured your pepper spray like it was a mild inconvenience and vanished before you could ask a single question.

You knew it was just a story. A journalistic lead. But still… something about him stayed with you.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Or the way he’d moved—graceful and fast and human in the most impossible way.

Or maybe it was the lingering suspicion you couldn’t seem to shake: that you knew him. Or had seen him. Or—

No. That was crazy. 

Still, the article had gone semi-viral. Readers were hungry for updates. And you—no matter how much you told yourself it was just curiosity—kept thinking about the man in the mask.

You hadn’t written everything. Not yet, that is.

“I’m not saying yes to the party,” you mumbled, mostly to distract yourself.

Tara smirked. “You will. You’ll pretend to hate it, then show up wearing that liner and make someone’s son question his entire life path.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward in a way you couldn’t fight off.

She stood and stretched, looking far too pleased with herself. “I’ll circle back later. I’m gonna go ice my legs and emotionally prepare myself for Xavier’s attempts at DJing.”

“Good luck,” you said through a laugh, already clicking through the Gazette’s backend to check the article’s traction.

As she reached the door, she called over her shoulder, “By the way, if you don’t come, I���m sending you a selfie of me at the party every ten minutes until your phone explodes.”

You made a noncommittal noise in response, but something about her words lingered. You didn’t want to go. Not really—but maybe that was the problem.

Because part of you did want to. And you weren’t sure if it was the music, the drinks, the celebration—or the possibility of running into someone whose eyes you hadn’t stopped remembering.

Whoever he was.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

The lab room was too quiet.

Not the comforting kind of quiet that came with focus and cooperation. This was…. tense. Brittle. Like if you breathed too loudly, too harshly, the whole ceiling might come down on your heads.

You sat hunched over a spreadsheet, orange highlighter uncapped. Your eyes scanned row after row of Caleb’s recent data entries, and your stomach sank. These weren’t just lazy mistakes—these were guesses. Sloppy ones, too. Unlike him from what you knew of him, both firsthand and through the grapevine. You knew it because you’d been carrying this project on your back for weeks while he’d been… elsewhere. Distant. Distracted.

He stood across the table, spinning a pen between his fingers like it was the only thing keeping his world in balance. You noticed the way his foot tapped incessantly against the tile floor.

It wasn’t for the stress relief.

He was spiraling.

Not just from guilt—which had been eating away at him since the day the spider sank its fangs into his skin—but from everything. The missed assignments. The long nights swinging between rooftops. The adrenaline spikes. The way his GPA was inching closer to ruin, and his spot as top of the class, the thing he’d clawed toward for years, was now hanging by a thread.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even explain it to you, the single person who might be owed as much.

His gaze flicked—again—to the terrarium at the edge of the bench. Three spiders inside. Neatly labeled, color-coded tags. Clicked shut. 

But there were supposed to be four.

And the second your eyes drifted toward it, he saw the exact moment you noticed.

“Hold on,” you muttered, blinking down at the log sheet in your lap. “Where’s the fourth one?”

Caleb swallowed, heart pounding in his throat. “Huh?”

“The… the striped one,” you clarified, already cross-checking labels. “The one we dosed with the neuromodulator last week.”

He leaned in, squinting at the enclosure like maybe—maybe—it would pop back into existence if he looked hard enough. “Weeeird,” he said weakly. “Maybe it’s in the soil?”

You didn’t even dignify that with a full look. “It’s not a burrowing species.”

Your voice was clipped. Frustrated. Like you’d had enough.

And Caleb couldn’t blame you. He’d been showing up late to labs, forgetting deadlines, spacing out mid-analysis. You had every right to be pissed. Every time he left you to pick up his slack, he told himself he’d make it up to you somehow. And then something else would happen—a car chase, a mugging, a building on fire—and he'd vanish all over again.

Maybe you didn’t know why, but you felt the absence.

“Maybe it teleported,” he tried.

You whipped your head around and gave him a look sharp enough to cut steel.

“Seriously?”

He raised his hands like a white flag. “Just sayin’. Science is full of surprises.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned toward the tank, muttering to yourself as you checked the corners. Caleb watched the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the subtle furrow between your brows. Your fingers moved with purpose. Precision. You were good at this. So good. Better than him, really.

“This doesn’t make sense,” you said under your breath. “Dr. Rappaccini keeps everything airtight—she’s obsessive about it.”

Caleb shrugged, voice too casual. “Maybe one of the other labs took it?”

“Without logging it?” You looked up sharply. “That’s not protocol.”

And there it was again—that hint of disappointment. Not the loud kind, but the quiet, exhausted one. The one that meant you expected more from him.

He felt it like a gut punch.

“Well, we’ve got enough data from the other three, right?” he offered, trying to sound optimistic.

You hesitated. “Barely. It’s not as conclusive without the fourth set, but… I guess we can still present the trends.”

He nodded quickly, seizing the olive branch. “Yeah. And we’ll figure out how to make up the missing variable later. I’ll talk to Rappaccini.”

You blinked, eyebrows lifting. “Since when do you volunteer for extra lab time?”

He looked down at the pipette in his hands. “Just tryin’ to be better.”

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer, like you didn’t quite believe it. “Is this your attempt at a redemption arc or something?” you asked dryly.

Caleb coughed, recovering fast. “You wish.”

You snorted, but the tension between you didn’t ease. He watched you scribble something in your notebook, your pen tapping against the margin in steady, rhythmic bursts. It was always like this—silent patterns, little rituals you probably didn’t even realize you had. He used to think they were annoying. Now they grounded him.

Now they made his chest feel tight.

He wasn’t sure if it was the spider venom mutating his bloodstream or just… you.

Without a word, you slid your notes across the table toward him. “Here. You’re presenting Part B, right?”

He blinked. “Uh… yeah.” He hesitated, frowning. “You sure you don’t wanna split it more evenly?”

“I’ve got the intro and the methodology,” you said, not meeting his gaze. “I trust you to handle the analysis.”

A pause.

“…Ish.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ish?”

You smirked, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well, I did hear you tried to answer a short-answer question last week with ‘vibes.’”

Caleb groaned. “That was in philosophy! C’mon, it was a joke.”

But you were already standing, packing up your notes with brisk efficiency.

Before he could say something else, Dr. Rappaccini’s assistant poked his head in. “You’re both up next.”

Chairs scraped against tile. Caleb shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, repeating his talking points in his head like a mantra.

Buzz.

His phone vibrated once.

Buzz. Buzz.

Twice more.

You turned to him, already scowling. “Seriously? Put it on Do Not Disturb already.”

“I— sorry,” he mumbled, pulling it out to check.

LINKON PD ALERT: Robbery in progress. 5th & Linwood. Nearby units respond immediately.

His stomach dropped.

Everything in him screamed go. People were in danger. If he waited, if he chose himself—chose you—people could get hurt. But—

Your voice broke through, sharp with disbelief. “Caleb?”

He looked up. Your expression was expectant, slightly nervous. Vulnerable.

You needed him here. Just once.

“I—uh,” he stammered, backing away. “I gotta go.”

Your eyes widened. “What? Caleb, we’re literally about to present!”

“I know, I just—something came up, okay?”

“Caleb!” Your voice was louder now. Shaken. “I— I don’t have your parts practiced! I trusted you!”

“I’m sorry, I just— I gotta go!”

And just like that, he turned and ran.

You stood frozen in the lab, fists clenched, heart hammering. All the missed labs. All the vague excuses. All the silence.

You didn’t know where he was always running off to, and maybe you didn’t care anymore.

But what hurt the most was that a small part of you did, even if it was for a reason you couldn’t name.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

It wasn’t until later that night—or more rather, early the next morning—that Caleb got around to checking his emails. 

His most recent email was from you. 

Subject: I HATE YOU I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU!!!!!!!!!! we got a C+. thanks a lot bucko.  Sent from my iPhone.

Right as he opened it, a Canvas notification pinged at the top of his screen.

Your instructor has updated: Lab Partners – Spring Semester.

His eyes scanned the page.

Lab Partner: None

Lab Partner: None

His slot—and yours—were both empty.

And just like that, the panic he felt in the alleyways of the city wasn’t so different from the one spreading in his chest now.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb spotted you across the dining hall like a spy on a mission, armed with a tray that held exactly one sad cookie and all the dignity of a man facing trial.

You sat at a table with Tara and Yvonne, both mid-conversation while you absently picked at your salad, two chocolate chip cookies lined up beside your bowl like trophies. Unbothered. Thriving. The vision of a girl who had deleted him from a shared spreadsheet like she was erasing a stain.

And the worst part? You hadn’t answered his apology emails.

He swallowed and approached anyway. “Is the second cookie for me, or…?”

You didn’t even glance up. Didn’t have to.

“It’s for my dignity,” you said flatly.

“Ah. So… symbolic.”

“Exactly.”

Yvonne looked between you both and muttered something under her breath about emotional turbulence before grabbing her tray and ghosting out of there. Tara followed a moment later, tossing Caleb a brief good luck with that expression.

Now it was just you, him, and the two cookies between you.

He sat down across from you, setting his tray down with a thud that sounded louder than it should’ve. “Okay, I get that you’re mad—”

“Oh, do you?” Your tone was clipped. “Because ditching me during our presentation with zero warning kinda gave the impression that you dropped the class entirely.”

Caleb winced. “It was an emergency.”

“Right. A life-or-death emergency?”

“Yes.”

And it had been. Just not the kind he could explain.

You finally looked up, eyes sharp and cold, and for a second he forgot what language was. “Well, while you were off saving the world or whatever you’re calling it, I had to present your analysis with no prep. I looked like an idiot.”

“You never look like an idiot,” he said instantly. Too instantly.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…W-What I meant was—” he started, voice catching.

“Too late.”

“Okay, fair.” He shifted in his seat, suddenly aware of how warm the room was, how close you were, how he could still smell the faint citrus of your shampoo from across the table. “I’m sorry.”

You arched a brow. “For?”

He hesitated. “For… ditching you.”

“And?”

“…And making you carry the project alone.”

You tilted your head, gaze unreadable. “And?”

He exhaled slowly. “And pushing you to the point that you deleted me from the lab spreadsheet like I was some failed experiment.”

You gave a little hum of satisfaction, grabbing one of your cookies and taking an infuriatingly slow bite. “Apology not accepted.”

Caleb slumped. “C’mon. Seriously?”

“Not unless you find a way to make up the points you lost us.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So this is, what—conditional forgiveness?”

“This is consequential forgiveness,” you corrected, calm as anything. “You cost me an A. You’re lucky I haven’t broken a beaker over your head.”

He nodded slowly, a wry smile creeping in. “That… actually feels fair.”

The truth was, he had screwed up. Repeatedly. Not just with the lab, but with the way he’d pulled away from everything lately—classes, responsibilities, you. And maybe what made it worse was that you noticed.

He didn’t want you to notice.

He didn’t want you to care.

But he really didn’t want you to stop.

You held him accountable, and never wavered. It was… refreshing, in a way.

“I’ll figure something out,” he said. “Extra credit or… something. Just—don’t write me off yet.”

You shrugged, licking a crumb from your thumb in a move that was definitely not lethal but still managed to short-circuit his brain. “If you do that, then maybe I’ll consider reinstating you. Maybe.”

Caleb leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“You bailed mid-step,” you easily reminded him. “You’re lucky I didn’t file for academic abandonment.”

“Academic abandonment,” he repeated, chuckling despite himself. “That’s new.”

“I’m submitting the paperwork as we speak.”

“Ooh. Terrifying.”

You didn’t break eye contact as you reached across the table, plucked his lone cookie off his tray, and took a bite.

His eyes widened. “That was mine.”

You chewed. “Should’ve brought two.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re a flake.”

“You’re… kinda evil.”

“And you’re lucky I haven’t poisoned your food.”

There was a pause. Not icy, but charged. He looked at you—really looked—and wondered when exactly the rivalry had blurred into this. This feeling in his chest that had nothing to do with radioactive spider venom.

Caleb leaned back, the smile still tugging at the edge of his mouth. “I’m gonna fix this. Mark my words.”

You narrowed your eyes, but something behind them softened. “You better,” you said. “Or next time, I’m eating your entire tray.”

He stood, picking up his tray and muttering as he walked away, “Betrayal stings more when it’s chocolate chip.”

You didn’t answer.

But you were smiling.

Just a little.

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Caleb stood outside Dr. Rappaccini office, staring at the little nameplate on the door like it might spare him. It didn’t, of course. He could never be so lucky.

He knocked three times for good measure.

“Come in,” her voice called from inside—calm, efficient, a little like she had five other things she’d rather be doing than speaking to one of her students.

He pushed open the door and stepped inside, trying to look less like someone whose lab partner had asked this very professor to sever their lab partnership.

Rappaccini didn’t look up at first. She was grading with the speed and surgical precision of a woman who’d seen one too many poorly labeled graphs in her day. When she finally glanced up, she set her pen down slowly.

“Mr. Xia,” she said with a forced smile. “I was wondering when you’d crawl out from whatever hole you vanished into.”

Wow. No sugarcoating. Maybe he really had been missing class a bit too much lately.

“I deserve that,” he admitted with a wry grin, hoping it’d earn him brownie points. “Totally fair.”

“Mm.” She leaned back in her chair. “Let me guess. You’re here to ask for extra credit.”

“Sort of. I’m here to ask how I can fix what I broke.”

She stared at him, then gave a dry little laugh. “Well, that’s a refreshing amount of self-awareness. Most students come in blaming poor time management or divine intervention.”

Caleb smiled sheepishly once more. “No lightning strikes or mysterious illnesses. Just… bad decisions. And poor communication.”

She gestured for him to sit. “Your partner already presented the project. I imagine she wasn’t… thrilled.”

“She left me an email that said, ‘I HATE YOU. I HATE YOU’ in all caps, so…” He paused. “I’d have to agree with you there.”

Rappaccini allowed herself the tiniest smirk. “Concise.”

“I’m just… I’m trying to make it right,” he then said. “If there’s anything—and I mean anything—I can do to make up the points for us, I’ll do it.”

There was a long pause as she folded her hands over the stack of papers in front of her.

“Funny you should say that,” she said. “Dr. Connors is running an independent experimental study this month at Oscorp. It involves cellular regeneration—specifically, lizard DNA.”

Caleb blinked. “Lizard DNA?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s studying regenerative properties—limb re-growth, accelerated healing, that kind of thing. It’s early-stage, but it’s part of a bioengineering cross-collaboration with Oscorp’s pre-clinical research team.”

Caleb sat up a little straighter, curiosity stirring. “And he needs students?”

“Volunteers,” she corrected with a raise of her finger. “No grade boost guaranteed, but participating students will receive consideration toward incomplete assignments if the data is thorough and the effort is there. Both you and your lab partner can volunteer. It’s not easy work, though. It’ll take late nights and actual commitment.”

Caleb asked hesitantly, “Do you think my partner would even want to sign up for this?”

Rappaccini deadpanned. “She already did. Yesterday.”

And once he heard that, Caleb didn’t even hesitate. “Okay. I’m in. I mean—we’re in.”

Rappaccini raised an eyebrow. “That confident?”

“I have to be,” he said. “I need to prove I’m not just… the guy who bails when it matters.”

She nodded slowly, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a small stack of forms. “Here. Fill this out, and bring it to Dr. Connors’ office by the end of the week. Orientation starts Monday.”

He took the form, feeling something like relief start to uncoil in his chest.

“Thank you, Dr. Rappaccini.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, picking her pen back up. “This is you digging yourself out of a hole you made. Don’t stop halfway.”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, and Caleb?”

He looked back over his shoulder.

“If you ditch this study the way you ditched that presentation,” she said, looking directly at him, “I will personally request your removal from the department.”

He raised a hand solemnly with a sheepish smile. “Message received, ma’am.”

She went back to grading, placing her glasses on her nose bridge. “Good. Now go earn back your lab partner before she finds someone smarter and… less difficult.”

“Wouldn’t blame her if she did,” Caleb muttered on his way out. But even still, he clutched the Oscorp packet in his hand like it was gold.

Because somewhere between the disaster presentation and the sound of your voice yelling his name as he sprinted away from you… he realized something.

He didn’t just want to make this right for the grade.

He wanted to make it right for you.

series masterlist. ┆ next: soon!

a/n i’m an idiot and forgot to post it without tags, i’m sorry to the taglist bc i tagged you guys like four times 🙁🙁🙁

anyways….. long time no see………. the semester is officially over sooooo i can finally get back to writing. i have a few other wip that i’d like to finish before chapter 5 tho ☝️☝️ currently working on a knight!sylus fic and zayne in a pride and prejudice au :p

taglist. (join it by commenting under this post!)

@leonskenthusiast @universallysoulcreator @devonjs-blog @lacieohlacie @kisswithyoureyesclosed @lovesick-sylus @livonianmaia @hqnge @yuuuumii @mizzfizz @simpfortheseven @nyxthejinx-rantsaboutlads @mariojins @rcvcngers @yizhoupilled @irlsammy @gloomuri671 @risagichi @drinking2nite @seikamuzu @flowers-wilt-on-juniper-lane

@that-one-scoundrel @joy-laufeyson @missaengg @wheatrice @gvenone @desiree-archive @jayhyunglover @flwerie @miffysoo @jijijihanji @ssetsuka @mglwhor3 @sureconfused @vorfreudevortex @honehbee42 @angelbeat994 @codedove @cheesemachine44 @mocha-the-muse @msanimeotaku181 @breadiestpuffs @idkwhatursayinh @hannahchk @rxelarailuj @littlebabyypeach @wooasecret @nikilig @theweevilofsweetreef @etsuniiru

[httpsserene]

hobby hopper — 𝐟𝐚. 𝟏𝟒 fernando alonso x brazilian!fem!reader requested! by @loomiscorpse. smau. fluff and humor.

synopsis: nobody can keep up with your growing list of hobbies, except fernando.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. written for @loomiscorpse 🤍 i promised that i would write this for you in july and i finally found the time to fulfill it! this is how i learned fernando has a back tat. what rock have i been living under? happy reading, babes xxx

(in case i'm m.i.a., there's a category 5 hurricane that's looks pretty serious. i'm probably going to have a power outage. prayers to anyone else in the path of the storm, evacuate if you're on the west coast, and stay safe.)

⌕ join taglist | feedback & requests | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

igstory • yourinstagram just uploaded!

[caption1; sip and paint with the ladies 👩🏽‍🎨🎨 carmenmmundt kellypiquet][caption2; for my first painting, this is good right?]

alexandrasaintmleux: i'll put it in a gallery 🤩 alexandrasaintmleux: i can't believe i'm friends with the best artist of our time 😌 yourinstagram: alex pleaseee omg 😳🤭 yourinstagram: you realize that means you think i'm better than claude monet right ? alexandrasaintmleux: ,,,second best artist of our time yourinstagram: 😆😆😆

fernandoalo_official: looks beautiful 😍 yourinstagram: you really think so??? fernandoalo_official: yes i like what you did with the colors and brush strokes of course yourinstagram: what detailed compliments meu bem 😂

carmenmmundt: i still don't believe that you've never painted before 🤨 carmenmmundt: you did so well !!!!!! yourinstagram: thank you my love 🥰 yourinstagram: i think i am going to keep painting. it was very fun! carmenmmundt: you should! you're quite good at it :)

instagram • yourinstagram

liked by heidiberger_, fernandoalo_official, francisca.cgomes and 101,723 others

yourinstagram encontro noturno em cores 🖼️

view comments

user1: ptbr to eng translation "date night in color 🖼️"

user2: wow!!! you improved so much already! have you been taking lessons?

➥ yourinstagram: thank you! the only lessons i'm learning are from youtube haha ➥ yourinstagram: and i have painted every day since i started! ➥ user3: you definitely have a natural talent for this! and a lot of potential!!! ➥ user4: it's taken me years to develop a minimal understanding of color theory and shadows. she's done it in two weeks 😕

user5: i know leonardo hates that he didn't paint this 😩😩😩

➥ user6: he's rolling in his grave for sureeee 🙂‍↕️ ➥ user7: bitch why tf would a ninja turtle be mad about this ☠️ ➥ user8: leonardo DA VINCI YOU UNEDUCATED CUR ➥ user7: my fault forgot the turtle wasn't the only person named leo 🫣🫠 ➥ user8: HOW DO YOU FORGET THE MAN WHO PAINTED THE MONA LISA ⁉️⁉️⁉️

pepemartiofficial: i loved doing art in school! i can teach you a few things if you want 😁😁😁

➥ yourinstagram: you mean primary school? which was like last year for you? i think i'll pass garoto 🥴 ➥ fernandoalo_official: josep maria marti sobrepepa don't piss me off. ➥ fernandoalo_official: test me and you can say goodbye to a formula one seat. ➥ user9: ain't no way pepe just tried to step to fernando's girl who's TEN !!! years older than him ➥ pepemartiofficial: shhh i can be mature for her 🤤 ➥ fernandoalo_official: count your days 🥱

carlossainz55: the painting is really good, you made the water look so realistic!

➥ yourinstagram: obrigada carlitos! ➥ carlossainz55: where's fernando's painting 😈 ➥ yourinstagram: it was very good! but he did not want me to post a photo of it :((( ➥ fernandoalo_official: it was very ugly carlos 🙄 ➥ yourinstagram: it was not that bad i just could not tell that it was supposed to be a tiger and not a house cat that was struck by lightning 😅 ➥ carlossainz55: i will pay to see this painting 🤣🤣🤣

twitter

igstory • astonmartinf1 just uploaded!

[caption1; admin was just forcibly handed bear coasters ??? she said they remind her of lance 🐻][caption2; the crochet culprit is on to her next project!]

user: lance bear agenda still going strong 💪

lance_stroll: i want bear coasters 😞 astonmartinf1: meet me downstairs, she gave me extras to hand out to the team lance_stroll: she's the best 🤩🤩🤩 lance_stroll: see you in 5?

user: DUDE she's onto clothes already??? how?!!!

user: admin i need you to send me photos of that sketchbook 👺🤲🏻 user: i need her patterns admin i'm not playing around astonmartinf1: lol get blocked loser 💀

instagram • fernandoalo_official

liked by carlossainz55, lance_stroll, yourinstagram and 234,586 others

fernandoalo_official there is yarn and hooks in my car. this has gone too far.

view comments

yourinstagram: you make a man a shirt with the materials HE bought for you and it's a problem. ungrateful behavior nano 😤

➥ fernandoalo_official: the shirt is very nice i even posed for a picture. all i ask is for no hooks to be left in the cupholders? ➥ yourinstagram: can we compromise and i leave them in the glove box 🥺

user10: let me get this straight: you crochet for a month and suddenly you become a fashion designer?

➥ yourinstagram: not a month, three weeks* i have been crocheting ➥ user11: oh fuck off- how are you good at everything 😩😩😩 ➥ yourinstagram: i am not! and i still cannot make a granny square no matter how hard i try to ☹️ ➥ user12: you don't need to know how to make a granny square when you can make actual pieces of clothing!!!

landonorris: may i have something crocheted too?

➥ yourinstagram: what would you like landinho 😊 ➥ landonorris: may i have a beanie? or a sweater?? ➥ georgerussell: ooooh i'd like a beanie too! ➥ francisca.cgomes: i want that top you're wearing! or something similar!!!! ➥ lance_stroll: what about earmuffs? ➥ lilymhe: a cardigan would be so nice ➥ charlesleclerc: i want a sweater!!! ➥ fernandoalo_official: leave her alone you greedy children 👹 ➥ yourinstagram: ignore him! text me what you all want with inspiration photos and i will let you know!!!

messages • sebastian -> fernando

igstory • yourinstagram just uploaded!

[caption1; hobby update >>>][caption2; to the woman at the craft store who put me onto oil paints...you saved my life][caption3; the wag crochet requests are almost finished!][caption4; first pottery class! had a really fun time :)]

user: i-i need to sit down👄 user: how do you even have time to do all of this?

user: i feel like i've never taken my hobbies seriously after seeing this

user: ffs how long have you been doing pottery? user: it's hard to learn at first but it's worth it if you stay committed 🫶🏽

instagram • yourinstagram

liked by charlesleclerc, lilymhe, francolapinto, and 192,037 others

yourinstagram que divertido! thrown, painted, and fired by me 🌸

view comments

user13: this is a reminder that there's always somebody out there doing what you love better than you 😒

➥ user14: wasn't she JUST at her first pottery class? and she already has a set of dishware 😨

user15: i feel like i have to apologize for even attempting pottery

user16: i would hate to give my gift after her on birthdays and christmas 😬😬😬

➥ user17: valid take. she can make custom clothes, paintings, and ceramics??? i might as well not even show up 🤦🏻‍♀️

kellypiquet: where do you even find the time to do this?

➥ yourinstagram: i have not slept for more than five hours in a very long time. it also distracts me when nano is away so, i keep myself busy. ➥ kellypiquet: please take better care of yourself! the clay will be there after you sleep and i'm sure fernando would like you to sleep too. ➥ fernandoalo_official: 8 hours at least mi amor ❤️ ➥ yourinstagram: fiiiiine 😞

lance_stroll: bring the domino set next time! i want to learn how to play!!!

➥ yourinstagram: i will make you cry if we play dominoes 🤫

user18: you need to start an etsy shop or smth? i think anybody would buy something from you!

➥ yourinstagram: if i do that, i'm afraid it would stop being a hobby and become a job. i don't want to lose the love i have for them :) user19: you could do limited releases? or just list a few items at a time? yourinstagram: i guess that's true. i don't think i will though, i didn't start my hobbies to make money. it's just fun for me 😁

twitter

igstory • fernandoalo_official just uploaded!

[caption; onto the next obsession]

user: damn you didn't lie about the entire botantical collection 😧 user: she's crazy user: i respect her grind though

user: and she made them look like actual boquets 😍 user: why didn't i think of that???

yourinstagram: they are not obsessions. yourinstagram: the proper term is hobby, we have talked about this nano 😒 fernandoalo_official: do you want the vespa or the bonsai…🤨 yourinstagram: both por favor! and get the porsche 911 kit while you are there 😚😚😚😚😚😚

user: she crocheted her own cover up dress user: i love women 🙂‍↕️

instagram • yourinstagram

liked by fernandoalo_official, kellypiquet, landonorris, and 317,940 others

yourinstagram um hobby? ok. quatro hobbies ao mesmo tempo? não repita meus erros 🤕

view comments

user20: ptbr to eng translation "one hobby? ok. four hobbies at the same time/once? do not repeat my mistakes 🤕"

➥ user21: thank u translator woman ➥ user22: thank u translator woman ➥ gabrielbortoleto_: thank u translator woman ➥ user24: one of these things is not like the others 🧐

landonorris: can't wait till it gets chilly in monaco 😌

➥ landonorris: the only thing i'm going to be photographed in is my crochet beanie and sweater ➥oscarpiastri: i'm surprised you're not wearing it now since you're perpetually cold ➥ landonorris: i didn't want to bring it in my luggage in case it's the time i lose my luggage 🤓 ➥ oscarpiastri: wow…that's smart ➥ landonorris: why do you sound so surprised 🤨

lilymhe: i see you learned how to make granny squares 😆

➥ yourinstagram: it took me three whole days to make one 🤧 ➥ lilymhe: damn 💀 ➥ yourinstagram: i am not lying when i say making that first granny square was harder than making your cardigan 😮‍💨

fernandoalo_official: is it weird if i feel proud of you?

➥ yourinstagram: i think it is something to be proud of :) ➥ fernandoalo_official: well i am very proud of you mi amor 😘 ➥ yourinstagram: 🥰😚😚❤️❤️❤️

user25: those paintings!!!! woah, you're like a serious artist now 😨😳😱

➥ user26: fr! you can see her own unique style clearly in these! ➥ yourinstagram: you all are too sweet! it took me a while to switch from reference painting into creating my own art pieces! ➥ alexandrasaintmleux: i wasn't joking when i said i want to put your work in a gallery 🤭🥱 ➥ yourinstagram: alex pleaseee 😖

user28: what are you going to do next? book binding LMAO

➥ yourinstagram: you are right! nano is out buying the supplies for me now 😁 ➥ user28: i was joking 😟 ➥ yourinstagram: and after that i think i am going to learn how to make a cute scrapbook!

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos used are from pinterest. divider from @cafekitsune.

[hereforuconnwbb]

The Study of Us - CHAPTER 2

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

word count: 6.4k

warning: language, mention of injury

heres chap 2 guysss !!! im tryna follow the ideas u guys gave me, so im not 100% sure if its exactly what yall had in mind, but im gonna slowly build it up from here 🤞🏽 hopefully there’s no mistakes and it all makes sense cause i wrote the last bit of this chapter and read through this half asleep 😭 anywaysss hope u guys enjoy 🫶🏽

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was still early, but the campus was already alive. The buzz of conversation, the shuffle of students walking to class, and the occasional skateboard rolling past made it feel like the world had hit play again. Paige stood by one of the low stone benches just outside the library, sunlight hitting her face while a gentle breeze played with the hem of her hoodie.

She was early, way too early, but she’d never admit she was nervous. Her phone was in her hand, thumbs scrolling through Instagram, even though she hadn’t really seen a single post. She kept checking her reflection in the dark screen anytime it dimmed. Hair was decent. Fit looked casual but intentional. Nothing screamed I’m trying, even though she absolutely was.

Calm down, she told herself for the twentieth time. It’s just tutoring. You need help. That’s all it is.

A group of students passed by laughing, and Paige looked up, spotting Caroline a few feet away walking with her coffee, headed her direction. She was with Aubrey, Ice, and KK all of them talking shit about something and laughing loudly. Paige already regretted her decision to come to this part of campus.

Caroline smirked the second she saw Paige. “So,” she said, greeting her with a little side hug. “You texted Azzi?”

Paige gave her a side-eye. “How do you already know that?”

“She told me last night,” Caroline said innocently, sipping her coffee.

Aubrey lit up. “Wait, wait, you messaged her? Already? Damn, that didn’t take long.”

KK raised her eyebrows. “What’s going on? Who’s Azzi?”

Caroline turned to her with a smile. “Azzi’s my best friend. She’s super smart. Paige needed help with some classes, so I suggested Azzi could tutor her.”

“And I said I was fine,” Paige muttered.

“And then you texted her anyway,” Aubrey said, grinning. “Knew you would. Couldn’t go under 24 hours without seeing her again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Paige said under her breath, adjusting her bag strap to have something to do with her hands.

Ice laughed. “Hold on, is this the same Azzi girl that Aubrey said had you all flustered yesterday?”

Aubrey nodded proudly. “Yup. Paige met her once and forgot how to talk.”

“I didn’t forget how to—geez, will you all chill?”

KK leaned in toward Ice. “Now I really wanna see what this girl looks like.”

“You might get your chance,” Caroline said casually, checking her watch. “She’s got class with me in a few minutes. She’s probably walking up now.”

And almost on cue, a voice called out from behind them.

“Hey, Caroline!”

The group turned and spotted Azzi walking up to the group of girls, backpack slung over one shoulder, her braids swaying slightly as she walked. The sunlight caught on her hoops, and Paige went completely still.

Azzi looked laid-back and composed, like she hadn’t just unknowingly walked into a firing squad of nosy basketball girls. She gave Caroline a warm smile before her eyes moved naturally to Paige and paused. Her smile lingered, just a bit softer now.

“Hey, Paige,” she added.

Paige nodded quickly. “Hey.”

They made eye contact, and it was enough to set off another wave of chaos in Paige’s chest. She was hoping no one would notice, but of course, the girls clocked it instantly.

Ice nudged KK and whispered, “Yeah, I get it now.”

KK nodded slowly. “Mhm. She’s got that calm, pretty energy. No wonder Paige’s out here acting like a freshman with a crush.”

“Shut up,” Paige hissed through gritted teeth, though her ears were turning red.

Azzi looked toward the two new faces in the group, a little curious but she does recognise them. Caroline jumped in. “Azzi, this is KK and Ice our teammates. KK, Ice, this is Azzi.”

Azzi offered a polite smile. “Nice to meet you guys.”

“You too,” KK said, still smirking. “Heard a lot about you.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

Aubrey was barely holding it together. “We didn’t even say anything yet,” she said, laughing. “But sure, Paige. We’ll be on our best behavior.”

“Liar,” Paige muttered.

Azzi glanced at her, still smiling, and Paige felt the air shift again so subtle, but it was there. That unspoken thing sitting between them that no one was addressing. Paige quickly looked away before her teammates could start up again.

“Welp, I’ll catch up with you guys later,” Caroline said to the group. “Azzi and I have class.”

“Later,” Aubrey called as Caroline and Azzi started walking away. Aubrey turned towards Paige with a smirk so evil Paige felt it in her bones.

Paige groaned. “Don’t. Say. A word.”

“Oh, I’m saying everything,” Aubrey said gleefully. “The way you just shut down when she looked at you? Paige Bueckers, the ultimate rizzler herself, turned into a puppy.”

Ice laughed. “And she didn’t even do anything. She just said hi”

“Fuck off,” Paige muttered, but she couldn’t even bring herself to be mad. Not really. Because yeah, Azzi hadn’t done anything. And yet here Paige was, heart racing from a single look.

—-----------------------

Azzi settled into her usual seat beside Caroline in the lecture hall, her notebook already open, though the pen in her hand wasn’t moving. The lecture hadn’t even properly started yet, but even if it had, she knew she wouldn’t be paying attention right away.

Her thoughts kept wandering.

Specifically, to the text she’d gotten the night before. From Paige.

She hadn’t expected to actually hear from her, not after how Paige had brushed off the idea of tutoring like it was unnecessary, even laughable.

Azzi had stared at the message for a solid minute before replying.

Even now, she wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about it.

“Earth to Az” Caroline murmured, nudging her gently with her elbow. “You’ve been zoning out for the past five minutes. Thinking about someone?”

Azzi blinked and turned toward her, caught but trying to play it cool. “No. I mean—sort of. Just… thinking.”

Caroline’s smirk said she wasn’t buying it. “Thinking about how Paige Bueckers finally caved and texted you for tutoring?”

Azzi let out a soft sigh and shook her head. “I told you last night. I was just surprised she actually did it. She looked so confident yesterday like she was going to fake it till finals.”

“Well, she is confident,” Caroline said, half-amused, half-approving. “But academics? Paige only pretends she doesn’t care. Inside, she’s stressing big time when she’s behind. Girl’s too proud to admit it most of the time.”

Azzi tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook, thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t expect her to be the kind to reach out. Especially to someone she barely knows.”

“She knows who you are,” Caroline said, shooting her a look. “You’re the quiet one who actually takes notes and doesn’t worship the ground she walks on. That probably intrigued her.”

Azzi gave her a look. “I don’t worship anyone. I just… don’t care about basketball or any other sports.”

“Exactly,” Caroline grinned, tapping her nails against the desk. “That makes you different. Refreshing, even.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, unsure how to take that. “I don’t know. I just didn’t think I’d actually be tutoring her. It feels weird.”

Caroline turned more fully toward her, her expression softening. “Weird because you don’t know her, or weird because she was lowkey flustered around you?”

“I don’t think it was anything like that,” Azzi said slowly, trying to sound firmer than she felt. “She was probably just nervous about needing help. That’s all.”

Caroline tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “Sure. That’s all.”

Azzi sighed. “I don’t even know her. Like, I’ve heard of her, obviously, but we’ve never talked until yesterday. And it was barely even a conversation.”

“You don’t need to know her to notice when someone’s acting different around you,” Caroline said, her tone a little more knowing now. “I’ve seen Paige with a lot of people. She’s got this… guard. But with you? She was definitely off her game.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was starting to feel the flutter of nerves deep in her chest. “You’re reading into this too much. I’m just going to help her study, that’s it.”

Caroline shrugged. “Alright, fine. Just tutoring. But don’t act surprised if she tries to flirt in her weird, awkward way.”

Azzi snorted, brushing her hair behind her ear. “She doesn’t even know me.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” Caroline teased with a wink.

Azzi leaned back, glancing up at the slowly-filling lecture hall. “I’m not trying to get involved in anything messy. I’ll help her study. That’s it. No weirdness, no distractions.”

Caroline raised both hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not saying you like her. I’m just saying… keep your eyes open. Paige Bueckers may be all cool and untouchable to the rest of the world, but around you? Something’s shifting.”

Azzi didn’t respond right away, letting the words hang between them as the professor started setting up slides at the front of the room.

She wasn’t crushing on Paige. She didn’t even really know her.

But there was something about the way Paige had looked at her outside, something a little tentative, a little unsteady, that stuck in her head longer than she wanted to admit.

Azzi shook herself out of it and looked down at her notebook again, forcing her mind to focus on the lecture.

Just tutoring. That was all this was.

Right?

—-----------------------

It was 10 minutes to 3, and Paige was sitting stiffly on one of the benches just outside the library steps, her jacket zipped all the way up despite the mild afternoon warmth. She kept pulling at the zipper down halfway, back up, then down again like it was a dial for her anxiety. Her foot bounced restlessly, her fingers twitching every few seconds to check her phone, even though it hadn’t buzzed.

Aubrey was fully stretched out beside her, taking up way more space than necessary like this was a casual trip to the beach instead of her best friend’s slow descent into chaos. One arm was draped over the back of the bench, the other cradling a half-empty iced coffee that had long since lost its chill. She watched Paige out of the corner of her eye with a grin that kept creeping up every time Paige adjusted something for the hundredth time.

“You know,” Aubrey drawled, lifting her cup to her lips, “if I had a dollar for every time you checked your reflection in your phone screen, I’d be rich enough to drop out and live off vibes alone.”

Paige didn’t even look at her. “I was fixing my hair.”

“That the same ‘fix’ you did 3 minutes ago? Or the one right after you dabbed your hoodie with water to flatten that invisible wrinkle?”

Paige groaned and let her head fall back against the bench. “Why are you even here?”

“Entertainment. I live for this.” Aubrey shifted slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “Besides, watching you spiral over a girl you met yesterday is 10 times more fun than whatever I was gonna do with my afternoon.”

Paige turned her head slowly to give her the most deadpan look imaginable.

Aubrey beamed back. “Seriously though, you’re killing me. You’ve checked your lip balm, like, four times. What’s the difference between ‘subtle shimmer’ and ‘barely there glow’? They’re the same.”

“They are not the same,” Paige snapped, immediately regretting how fast she said it.

Aubrey’s laugh rang out loud enough to make a student walking by turn their head. “You hear yourself right now?”

Paige pulled the hood over her head and groaned into it. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You just hate that I’m right.”

There was a moment of silence as Paige exhaled slowly, pulling the hood back off and sitting upright again. Her knee was bouncing now, the nerves nowhere near subtle.

“I just… I don’t know,” she mumbled, eyes flicking toward the library entrance. “She’s really…”

Aubrey perked up. “She’s really what?”

Paige shook her head quickly. “Forget it.”

“Nooo, no, no. Don’t back out now. Say it. I need this.”

Paige sighed and looked out across the quad like the grass was gonna give her strength. Her voice dropped just above a whisper. “She’s really pretty.”

Aubrey clutched her chest like she’d been waiting her whole life to hear it. “There it is!”

Paige frowned, eyes still ahead. “And seems smart. Like, scary smart. But not in a loud way. In a ‘makes you feel dumb without even trying’ kind of way.”

Aubrey raised her brows, clearly loving this. “Damn. You’re gone.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, folding her arms.

“I’m just observing. You’ve had a crush for a solid twenty-four hours and you’re acting like it’s prom night.”

“She’s tutoring me. That’s it.”

“Mhmmmm. You mean she’s ‘tutoring you’ and you’re ‘definitely not falling apart at the seams’ while trying to remember what two plus two is when she looks at you?”

Paige glared. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re in denial.”

“I’m gonna throw your coffee across the quad.”

“I’ll buy another one. Worth it.”

Paige groaned again, running her hand through her hair. “God, what am I even doing? I’m acting like a middle schooler.”

“You’re acting like a college student with a gay panic problem,” Aubrey said with a shrug. “It’s fine. It’s cute. Just maybe stop adjusting your jacket every time someone walks by or they’re gonna think you’re shoplifting nerves.”

Paige looked down at herself and huffed, trying to smooth it down one more time before stopping mid-motion, catching herself. “Damn it.”

“See?” Aubrey grinned, nudging her. “You’re spiraling. It’s kinda adorable.”

Right then, Paige’s phone buzzed. She yanked it out like it was on fire.

2:57pm

Her breath hitched. She shot a glance at the entrance.

A flash of dark curls pulled into a ponytail appeared just inside the glass doors of the library.

“Oh shit,” Paige whispered, standing up too fast. She quickly brushed invisible dust off her sweatpants, glanced down at her sneakers, frowned at a smudge, then looked back up.

Aubrey watched with a lazy smirk. “You good?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Paige muttered. “How do I look?”

“Like someone who’s about to fail basic math but win the gold in gay panic.”

“Okay, seriously. Stop talking.”

“I’m done,” Aubrey said, hands up in mock surrender. “Go learn some equations and maybe flirt like a human person while you’re at it.”

Paige took a deep breath, wiped her hands on her pants, then started walking toward the library steps.

Aubrey called out one last time, “And maybe try not to stare at her!”

Paige didn’t even turn around. She just lifted her hand behind her and gave Aubrey the finger as she reached the door.

Her heart was pounding. Her palms were a little clammy. But she was walking.

Paige let out one last breath.

The second Paige stepped through the library doors, it felt like her shoes were too loud. Like every step echoed through the entire building even though the carpet was doing its best to muffle them. She tugged her hoodie sleeve down over her palm, eyes sweeping over the rows of tables until she found her.

Azzi was near the far corner, by the window. The sunlight filtered through the glass, catching the edge of her curls and lighting up the gold tones like some kinda magic effect from a movie. She had a pencil in hand, lightly tapping the eraser against the page, her other hand flipping through a worn notebook covered in neat little tabs. She looked focused. Comfortable.

Paige was very much neither of those things.

She hovered for a second, literally just stood there, trying to remember how walking worked before finally forcing her legs to move. Her palms were sweaty again. Her backpack felt too heavy. She hoped her hair wasn’t doing anything weird.

Azzi looked up right as Paige reached the table. “Hey,” she said, a casual, soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Paige’s brain glitched for a second. “Hey,” she said, and it came out a little too fast.

Azzi closed the notebook and motioned to the chair across from her. “You’re on time.”

“I’m always on time,” Paige said, slipping into the seat like her limbs were made of static. She regretted the joke immediately. “I mean, usually. Sometimes. Not like always always, but—”

Azzi raised a brow, amused. “You’re good. I’m just saying I expected a minute or two buffer.”

Paige laughed nervously and tugged at the sleeves of her hoodie again. “Yeah, no. I was already out here. Early. Just, you know… prepping.”

Azzi gave her a look like she was trying not to smile. “Prepping to be tutored?”

“Exactly.”

Azzi chuckled under her breath and opened a different notebook, one already half-filled with notes. “Ok. So I looked over the syllabus and the last few slides from class. Want to start with the stuff from earlier in the week?”

“Please,” Paige said, dragging out the word like it physically pained her. “That whole section might as well have been written in some foreign language.”

“Alright,” Azzi said, flipping to the page. “We’re still on systems of equations and matrix transformations. Did you get the basics?”

Paige hesitated. “Define basics.”

Azzi didn’t even blink. “Like… what a matrix is?”

“…Is that the Keanu Reeves one or the number box one?”

Azzi snorted, shaking her head. “Okay, let’s start with the number box one.”

She turned the notebook around and slid it across the table so Paige could see. Her handwriting was crazy clean. Paige immediately noticed how she circled everything in soft, pastel highlighters—blue for definitions, pink for formulas, green for notes. It was weirdly calming to look at.

“So this,” Azzi said, tapping the first example, “is a 2x2 matrix. Two rows, two columns. Easy enough?”

Paige leaned in a little, squinting at the page like it might bite her. “Yeah. I think I remember this part.”

Azzi looked up. “You’re allowed to say you don’t. No judgment.”

“I mean, I kind of remember it. It’s more like it shows up and I recognize the face, but I don’t remember the name.”

Azzi laughed again, light and genuine. “Alright, we’ll reintroduce you.”

She walked Paige through the basics, what each position meant, how they worked when you multiplied them, the reason why flipping them could screw everything up. Paige nodded, trying to focus on the numbers, the shapes, anything that wasn’t Azzi’s voice being low and patient or the way her curls bounced when she looked down to write something.

At some point, Azzi switched to a blank page and turned the notebook so Paige could try a problem herself. She watched closely as Paige worked through it slowly, brow furrowed, tongue slightly poking out the corner of her mouth.

“You’re overthinking it,” Azzi said, voice soft. “Just take it one step at a time.”

Paige huffed and leaned back, pencil pressed between her palms. “One step at a time is how I ended up failing that quiz.”

“True,” Azzi said, grinning. “But now you’ve got me. Upgrades.”

That earned a real smile out of Paige. “Yeah. This is definitely better.”

Azzi looked at her for a second, then tapped the page. “You’re actually not far off. You just missed one sign. Wanna try again?”

Paige nodded, gaze flicking back down to the numbers.

She could do this.

Well… she could try.

And maybe, just maybe if she didn’t totally embarrass herself, there’d be more study sessions like this. Not that she was hoping for anything.

—-----------------------

The soft hum of the library was like a low lullaby, comforting in its quiet, yet full of the sort of focused energy only a place of learning could have. Books, notebooks, and pens were strewn across the table between them, yet all Paige could focus on was Azzi.

Azzi was reading the textbook aloud softly, walking her through another set of equations. Her voice was calm, steady, yet there was an underlying intensity in the way she spoke, like she genuinely wanted Paige to understand. Every now and then, Azzi would pause and ask if Paige was following, looking at her over the top of her glasses, and Paige would just nod though most of the time, her attention wasn’t entirely on the lesson.

She caught herself again, staring. Azzi’s hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few strands framing her face, and those glasses—those damn glasses. Paige had to fight the urge to look away every time Azzi adjusted them, because the way they sat on her face, giving her an effortlessly smart, put-together look, made Paige’s stomach flutter in a way she hadn’t quite figured out.

Azzi wasn’t even trying to impress anyone. She was just sitting there, leaning over the textbook, completely engrossed in helping Paige. Her calm demeanor was almost too much for Paige to handle sometimes like the sort of quiet confidence that was magnetic.

She caught herself again, looking at Azzi’s profile as she read. The way her lips moved as she pronounced the words, her fingers subtly tapping on the page as she went through the steps in the problem.

“Paige?” Azzi asked, her voice snapping Paige out of her daze. “You still with me?”

Paige blinked and tried to clear the fog in her head. “Yeah, sorry,” she said, focusing on the math in front of her. She quickly scribbled a few numbers down, even though she was far more focused on the way Azzi was looking at her now, brows furrowed in concern.

“I said we can move on to the next problem if you’re ready,” Azzi added, voice softer now.

“Yeah, I think I got this one,” Paige lied, her words more rushed than she intended. She was trying her best to concentrate, but the math seemed to fade into the background as she found herself distracted by the soft rhythm of Azzi’s voice and the quiet rustling of pages. The way Azzi’s fingers traced the lines of the book as she found the right spot. The way her eyes would flicker from the textbook to Paige every few seconds to check in on her, making sure she was following along. It was like everything Azzi did was just too perfect, too natural, and it made Paige feel something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Do you want me to slow down? I know this part can be tricky,” Azzi offered, her eyes searching Paige’s face for any sign of confusion.

But the truth was, Paige wasn’t confused about the math at all, she was distracted by Azzi’s presence, her calmness, the way her voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket. She gave a small shake of her head. “No, I’m good,” she said, though her voice came out quieter than she intended.

Azzi nodded, returning her attention to the problem at hand. She explained the next step slowly and clearly, but Paige’s mind wasn’t really processing it. Instead, she was watching the way Azzi’s lips moved as she spoke, the way her fingers tapped the paper, the way her glasses slightly slid down her nose as she read the equations. Paige couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly cool Azzi seemed. She looked so unbothered, so calm in her own skin, and it was something Paige both envied and admired.

The longer they sat there, the more the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken things. Paige could almost feel the weight of the silence, but not in an uncomfortable way, in a way that made her want to lean forward, ask Azzi about her life, about everything that made her the person she was. And yet, every time she tried to get her words together, her thoughts scattered like smoke in the wind.

“Paige, are you sure you’re following?” Azzi asked again, this time with a small frown forming between her brows. She wasn’t accusing or frustrated; just genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, yeah,” Paige quickly said, shaking her head as if to clear the distraction. She forced herself to focus, finally pulling her eyes from Azzi’s face and onto the equation in front of her. “I think I get it now. Thanks for being patient.”

Azzi smiled softly. “No problem. You’re doing great, really. You just need to take a breath every now and then. You’re trying too hard.”

Paige bit her lip, trying to suppress the chuckle that almost slipped out. “Trying too hard?” she repeated, her voice teasing. “I’m not trying hard enough for this?”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, her eyes softening as she leaned back in her chair. “Well, maybe you should try a little harder. You’re already getting the hang of it.”

Paige felt a little flame of pride in her chest at Azzi’s praise, but at the same time, she couldn’t shake the sensation of being drawn to the way Azzi sat there, calm and composed, like she had everything under control. And Paige was… well, a mess of emotions she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

She forced herself to focus back on the book, willing her mind to follow the equations instead of her thoughts, but it was getting harder with each passing second. She glanced back at Azzi, who was quietly writing out steps on the page. Azzi’s head was tilted slightly, a sign of concentration. And it hit Paige then how deeply she was starting to care for this girl. How much more than just math sessions she was starting to crave.

“Alright, I think I’ve got it,” Paige said finally, trying to focus back in, her voice steadying now.

Azzi looked up and nodded, smiling again. “Good. See? You’re getting it.” She paused, and for a moment, Paige thought she saw a flicker of something in Azzi’s eyes—something warm and unspoken. But then it was gone, hidden behind the coolness of her usual composure.

Paige nodded, forcing her eyes to stay on the page, though her thoughts felt like they were running a mile a minute.

“Alright, let’s take a short break before we do the next one,” Azzi suggested. “You’ve been at this for a while now.”

Paige didn’t protest. Instead, she leaned back in her chair and let herself relax for a moment, her gaze slipping to Azzi again, just long enough to catch her watching her with that same quiet focus. That same soft intensity that made Paige’s heart flutter in a way she wasn’t used to.

Paige didn’t mean to do it—didn’t mean to let the curiosity slip out, but the words came before she could stop them.

“So, uh, what made you agree to tutor me?” Paige asked, her voice softer than usual, as if she was treading into unfamiliar territory. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but something about Azzi seemed different. Quiet. Like there was so much more beneath the surface.

Azzi paused, her hand hovering over her bag, and then looked up at Paige. For a brief moment, there was that same familiar flicker of something behind her calm demeanor, but Azzi quickly masked it with her usual composed smile.

“I dunno,” Azzi said after a beat, voice casual, “You seemed like you needed help. And I guess I’m a sucker for helping people out, especially if they’re willing to put in the work. You seem like you actually care about getting it right.”

Paige nodded, appreciating the honesty in Azzi’s voice. “I do. I just… get distracted sometimes.” She chuckled softly, but the sound felt more nervous than anything.

Azzi smiled again, a little warmer this time. “Yeah, I noticed.” She shrugged slightly, picking up her notebook and tucking it into her bag. “I like helping people. I used to tutor a lot when I was in high school. It just feels good, you know?”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “What else? You seem like you’ve got other stuff going on. What do you do for fun when you’re not helping people like me?”

Azzi hesitated for a moment, clearly considering whether to answer. Paige almost regretted asking, but then Azzi sighed, almost reluctantly.

“Well, it’s a bit of a random fact, but I used to play basketball. Like, competitively.” Azzi glanced up at Paige, her eyes not quite meeting hers. She continued quietly, “I stopped playing a few years ago. Tore my ACL in a game, but that’s not the reason I quit. I just… lost the love for it, I guess.”

Paige blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected that. Azzi, with her calm confidence, so different from the athletes Paige was used to, didn't seem like the type who would’ve played a sport like basketball. “You played? For how long?”

Azzi shrugged, her fingers tapping against the desk idly. “Since I was a kid. But by the time I hit high school, I wasn’t really feeling it anymore. It wasn’t about the injury. I could’ve come back after the rehab. But after a while, I just realized it wasn’t my thing anymore.” She paused for a moment, eyes flickering to Paige, then away again. “I guess I was just… over it.”

Paige couldn’t help the slight frown that tugged at her lips. She knew how much basketball meant to her. The idea of walking away from it, losing that love—she couldn’t imagine it. “So, what did you end up doing after that?”

Azzi gave a small smile, almost wistful. “I got more into school. Focused on things I could control, you know? It’s where I found my rhythm again.”

It was almost like she was shutting that chapter down, not wanting to revisit it. But Paige didn’t press further. It was clear that basketball, once a major part of Azzi’s life, had faded into something she didn’t want to talk about too much.

“Sounds like you figured things out,” Paige said softly, leaning back in her chair, watching Azzi carefully. “I respect that.”

Azzi finally met Paige’s gaze, her expression softening a little. “Yeah, well… I guess everyone finds their own way eventually.” She gave a slight shrug, as if brushing the conversation aside, before turning her focus back to the textbook in front of them. “We should get back to it. I think we’re almost done with this chapter.”

Paige hesitated for a moment, a thousand questions swirling in her head, but she could tell Azzi wasn’t quite ready to share more. And for now, Paige was okay with that. She’d already learned something important—that Azzi was much more than the quiet, composed classmate/tutor sitting across from her. There was depth to her, layers that Paige would have to be patient to peel back.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Paige finally said, refocusing on the math in front of her. “Let’s finish this up.”

As Azzi started explaining the next set of equations, Paige felt a little more settled. They were getting somewhere, and for the first time, Paige wasn’t just focused on the math in front of her. She was focused on Azzi, her presence, the way she spoke, the little things she hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t just about the lesson anymore. It was about being with Azzi, understanding her in ways that went far beyond equations and textbooks.

—-----------------------

They finished the last practice question with a shared sigh of relief. Azzi leaned over, checking Paige’s final answer with a quick glance, then nodded in approval.

“Yep. You got it.”

Paige blinked down at the scribbled page. “Wait… I did?”

Azzi chuckled, a genuine laugh that made Paige’s chest feel weirdly warm. “You’re improving. You just need to stop second-guessing yourself.”

“Easier said than done,” Paige muttered, setting her pencil down and rubbing at her temple. “But I’ll take the dub.”

Azzi started to neatly organize  everything back into her bag. “I think that’s enough math for one day.”

“Agreed,” Paige said, stretching again. “My brain’s officially fried.”

Just as she grabbed her water bottle and leaned back in her chair, a voice cut through the quiet hum of the library.

“Yo, Azzi.”

Paige looked up and instantly regretted it.

Strutting toward them like he owned the place was Jace McCallister—tight end on the UConn football team, cocky smirk permanently etched on his face, confidence dripping off him like cologne. Paige knew him. Everyone did. He was loud, flashy, and flirted like it was a full-time job. The kind of guy who wore his jersey to class and thought everyone should thank him for showing up.

Azzi glanced up, face unreadable. “Hey.”

Jace leaned casually against the edge of their table, not even glancing at Paige. “Just wondering when our next session is? You free this week?”

Paige’s brows knit. Our session?

Azzi nodded politely, unfazed. “Yeah, I think tomorrow. Same time?”

“Perfect.” He flashed her a grin. “Can’t say no to learning from the smartest girl on campus.”

Azzi’s lips pulled into a tight, polite smile. “Well thank you.”

Jace chuckled and finally glanced at Paige, as if just noticing her. “Oh. Hey, Bueckers.”

“McCallister,” Paige replied, voice flat.

He raised a brow. “Didn’t know you needed a tutor too.”

“She doesn’t,” Azzi cut in smoothly before Paige could answer, her tone calm but firm. “We’re just going over some extra stuff.”

Paige didn’t say anything. She just watched the exchange, something unsettled building in her chest. She knew Jace. Knew his reputation. And the way he was looking at Azzi now, like she was the next thing to win over, made her stomach twist.

She shouldn’t care. It was just tutoring.

But still.

Jace winked, then tapped the table. “Catch you later, Azzi.” He turned and walked off, not a single ounce of subtlety in his swagger.

Paige stared after him, jaw tight.

“Ugh,” she muttered under her breath.

Azzi looked over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Paige said quickly, shaking her head. “Just… don’t like that guy.”

Azzi tilted her head, curious. “Why not?”

“He’s a walking ego,” Paige said, grabbing her stuff. “And he’s a player. Like, in every sense of the word. He’s not exactly subtle about who he hits on.”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. Just zipped her bag and stood up. “He’s harmless.”

“Sure,” Paige muttered, a little sharper than she meant to. “Just be careful, okay?”

Azzi blinked, surprised at the tone. Paige ran a hand through her hair, sighing.

“Sorry. That came out weird. Just forget it.”

Azzi gave her a long look, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

They walked in silence toward the library exit, Paige internally screaming at herself. ‘It’s not that deep. She’s not yours. You’re literally just studying.’ But no matter how many times she told herself that, her clenched jaw said otherwise.

As they stepped out into the afternoon sun, a small group of girls standing near the library steps caught sight of them—specifically Paige.

“Oh my god, that’s Paige Bueckers,” one of them whispered, eyes wide.

Before she could even react, one of them stepped forward, all smiles and nervous energy. “Hi! Sorry, we don’t wanna bother you, but could we maybe get a picture? We’re huge fans.”

Paige blinked, caught off guard but immediately smiled.

“Of course,” she said, already stepping toward them, voice warm and friendly. “What’s your name?”

One of them nearly melted. “I’m Sam. This is Ava and Kayla.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Paige said, handing her phone to one of them after snapping a few selfies together. “You guys coming to the game on friday?”

“Yeah! We can’t wait! Good luck!”

“Thanks,” Paige said sincerely. “I’ll try to put on a show for y’all.”

They grinned, waved, and scurried off giggling, still whispering to each other as they walked away.

Azzi stood a few feet back, arms loosely crossed. Watching.

Paige turned toward her and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Azzi shook her head slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I just… didn’t expect that.”

“Didn’t expect what?”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “You being… like that. With people.”

Paige tilted her head. “Like what?”

Azzi gave her a soft shrug. “I guess I thought you’d be more… I dunno. Big-time athlete energy. Standoffish. You’re not.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, amused. “So you thought I’d be a bitch?”

Azzi smiled. “I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it, though.”

Azzi’s smile widened just slightly. “Maybe. A little.”

Paige laughed. “Damn. That’s cold.”

Azzi’s gaze lingered on her, more thoughtful now. “You surprise me. In a good way.”

And Paige couldn’t help the flutter in her chest as they started walking again, side by side.

They walked in silence again for a bit, the quiet not uncomfortable—just filled with a weird hum Paige couldn’t place. It clung to her like static, buzzing beneath her skin every time she glanced over and saw Azzi walking next to her, face calm, unreadable as always.

When they reached the small fork in the path outside the library, Azzi finally slowed to a stop.

“This is me,” she said, shifting her bag on her shoulder.

Paige stopped too, a little slower. “Right. Yeah.”

Azzi looked up at her. “That wasn’t too painful, was it?”

Paige snorted. “I mean… there were a few moments where I considered setting my notebook on fire.”

Azzi smiled. “But you didn’t.”

“Thanks to you.”

There was a beat of quiet. Paige swallowed and scratched at the back of her neck. “So… when do you wanna do this again?”

Azzi tilted her head, thinking. “I’m free Thursday evening. If that works?”

Paige nodded too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

Azzi gave her a small nod. “Okay. I’ll text you.”

“Cool,” Paige said, trying not to sound weird. “Coolcoolcool.”

Azzi’s brows lifted just slightly. Paige looked down at the ground, internally facepalming.

Azzi smiled again, more to herself this time. “You’re kind of strange.”

Paige looked up. “Rude.”

Azzi started walking backwards slowly, smirking. “But I mean that in a good way.”

Paige watched her go, lips twitching. “Sure you do.”

Azzi turned around and gave a small wave over her shoulder. “Later, Paige.”

Paige stood there for a second too long after she was gone, staring at nothing in particular. Then she finally exhaled, rubbed her hands over her face, and mumbled under her breath.

“Fuck.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[leejenowrld]

back to you — nine

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 72k words… yikes  

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

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

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

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

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The jab lands clean — cruel, masked, precise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirk. “A hostage in Balenciaga.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you glance up and across the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Maybe I was.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Covered in bruises,” Karina adds unhelpfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause, brows raised. “Which one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark blinks, mid-roll. “Who, Nari?”

Jeno nods. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeno groans louder. “This cannot be real.”

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

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

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

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

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

The guys glance at him, curious now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tilts his head. “‘Okay?’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark’s jaw ticks. “Forty minutes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re cutting through it like a knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’d look good at my funeral.”

“You need help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now I can sing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I object.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice lowers further, becoming chillingly quiet, dripping with disdain and an eerie, detached cruelty. “I said leave,” he repeats coldly, eyes narrowed, jaw tightening viciously, resentment and pain merging into a volatile blend that seeps through his words like venom. “You have no place here anymore. Forget you ever knew me.” The raw cruelty in his tone slices through you more deeply than any physical wound could, tearing through flesh and bone and memory, leaving you hollowed and bleeding invisibly in the bitter wind.

He turns sharply, back rigid, walking away with chilling certainty, each step deliberate, leaving behind only echoes of the warmth he once held for you. You watch helplessly, paralyzed and numb, as he moves further and further into the gathering darkness, becoming one with the shadows stretching toward him eagerly. Jeno disappears from sight entirely, taking with him the last fragments of your shattered heart, leaving you abandoned beneath an unforgiving sky, haunted by the chilling realization that he has become precisely what he swore never to be—a reflection of his father, cold, unfeeling, and terrifyingly final.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄: 𝐒𝐈𝐗 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐆’𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍—𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘, 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖

“In a move that has set both the sports and business worlds ablaze, NBA phenomenon Lee Jeno has officially announced his engagement to renowned influencer and heiress Kim Nahyun—just six months after the death of his father, the infamous mogul Lee Taeyong. The announcement, confirmed late last night through a carefully curated photo drop and closed-door press release, has reignited national conversation around power, inheritance, and the ever-expanding shadow of the Lee family legacy.

At twenty-seven, Lee Jeno has rapidly risen to become one of the league’s most explosive and merciless athletes, his presence on the court described by analysts as “ghostlike, surgical, possessed.” Since his father’s collapse and subsequent death, Jeno’s transformation has been startling: emotionless post-game interviews, streaks of unrelenting performance, and a gaze that, as one coach put it, “doesn’t blink when it should.” His movements echo Taeyong’s relentless hunger but where the elder Lee cloaked his ambition in charisma, Jeno wields his like a blade.

The announcement’s most circulated image? Not the diamond-studded engagement shoot, but a candid photo snapped during what sources confirm was a high-stakes contract finalization: Jeno, shaking hands with Chairman Kim Doyul—CEO of Doyul Group and father of Nahyun. The handshake isn’t simply symbolic. Insiders claim it marks the execution of a sealed merger between legacy holdings long prepared by Taeyong before his death—assets that, up until now, Jeno had deliberately left untouched. Until now.

Kim Nahyun, a household name in fashion and digital influence, boasts over twelve million followers and a curated empire of beauty and luxury endorsements. But her true value lies off-screen—in boardrooms and family lineages. As the only daughter of one of South Korea’s most powerful industrial dynasties, Nahyun brings more than social capital to this engagement—she brings bloodlines, power, and global visibility.

The timing is precise. Too precise, some argue. Though whispers have long tied the two together, the engagement’s sudden confirmation following Jeno’s recent real estate acquisitions and withdrawal from post-season press suggests careful orchestration. Observers point to this union as more than romantic—a calculated alignment of wealth, legacy, and consolidation. Not just a marriage. A new empire.

And yet, beneath the polish, speculation simmers. Those close to Jeno—former teammates, childhood friends—have fallen silent in recent months. Some say he hasn’t been the same since the moment he stepped out of that hospital room, eyes empty, spine too straight. Others say Nahyun is the only one who’s ever been able to hold his gaze without flinching.

Whether love, legacy, or ghost-haunted obligation fuels this union, one thing is clear: Lee Jeno is not stepping out of his father’s shadow. He is wearing it. And now, with Kim Nahyun at his side, he’s walking straight into the empire Taeyong left behind—stone-faced, unreadable, and more dangerous than ever."

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @hyperbolicheart @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi-give me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

positive feedback means the absolute world to me. so remember, fill my inbox! 

important authors note —

hi my loves — before anything, i just want to say thank you so much for reading, for feeling this story so deeply, and for sitting with every chaotic twist i throw your way. i know the ending of this chapter, especially jeno’s behaviour, is a lot. it’s brutal, it’s cold, and it hurts and i promise you, that was entirely intentional. please know that how i write has always been dramatic, layered, and pushed to emotional extremes. i love the ache, the tension, the flawed choices and the uncomfortable silences between characters who don’t know how to save themselves, let alone each other. this scene is no exception.

but also — you’ve only seen that night through fragments. snippets. you weren’t there for the full unraveling, the hours of silence, the things said off-page, the weight jeno’s been dragging behind him for longer than even he realises. grief is not linear. it’s not always quiet. sometimes it manifests in cruelty, in withdrawal, in self-sabotage, especially when someone’s entire identity collapses in a single night. jeno is drowning. and right now, he thinks pushing everyone away is the only way to survive. a lot happened that night but i only showed about 5%.

you don’t know everything that’s happening under the surface yet. you don’t know what’s been buried. or what’s about to resurface.

so please — be kind. not just to jeno, but to the story as a whole. let it breathe. let it get ugly. let it break you before it makes you feel again. remember grief looks different on everyone.

thank you for trusting me with your hearts.

with all my love,

sophs <3

[valeisaslut]

is joel married? 😖

who is ellie's mother? what happend to her? was ellie even planned?!!! 😭😭😭😭

Is her official name ellie miller? is ellie williams just a pseudonym?!!

WOW LIDDY I LOVED THIS QUESTION!!!! i've been waiting to REALLY unravel ellies past and i was wondering when were yall gonna ask ab it lmao

COLLIDE ROCKSTAR!ELLIE'S BACKSTORY: DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY EDITION!

so!!! ellie was the product of one of joel’s wild rockstar one night stands. very much not planned. her mom dipped super early on—like, didn’t even try to stick around—and basically left her with joel, who, despite being a complete mess of a man, actually did raise her. but ellie always knew she wasn’t exactly “wanted” by either of them. not in the traditional, soft-family-photo-on-the-fridge kind of way. she never knew her mother, never wanted to. didn’t feel like she was missing anything and just didn’t care.

but the pain of her mom’s abandonment still lingers, quiet and buried deep in her mind, like a bruise she never touched but never actually healed.

joel and ellie had a really good relationship when she was younger. as good as it could’ve been. he wasn’t perfect—not super affectionate or emotionally open—but he showed up. he did his best. he taught her to play guitar, made pancakes every sunday morning, and called her “kiddo” like it meant something deeper than just a nickname. and she loved him for that. still does.

ellie grew up inside a damn rock music museum. joel’s mansion was less “home” and more shrine to his own legacy—walls lined with platinum records, grammys catching sunlight, mtv moonmen posted up like they were part of the family. every room had a poster of him at some legendary venue: madison square garden, glastonbury, the o2.

his name in lights. the biggest of the biggest musicians scribbled messages on his guitars, which he had over fifty of—lined up like they were sacred artifacts.

and yeah, he was a legend. ellie would sit on the stairs at night, listening to him blast his old albums on the surround system like he forgot she lived there too. sometimes she hated it. sometimes she’d mouth the lyrics and pretend she wasn’t proud. but mostly? it just made her feel like she’d never measure up. like no matter how loud she got, she’d always be chasing a ghost with a grammy in each hand.

joel never really understood ellie’s world. or her pain. and as she got older, things shifted. she started the fireflies. she got famous. she felt the weight of being “joel miller’s daughter” and her own person.

people had opinions about her—too loud, too angry, too queer, too much. and that pressure? that scrutiny? it ate at her. she started numbing herself very early on—drinking, using, pushing people away. joel tried to talk to her, tried to help, but it always came out sounding like disappointment. like judgment. and she couldn’t take that. so she pushed back. harder. until eventually they stopped talking. not because they didn’t care—because it hurt too much to try and fix it.

there was no final fight. no door slam. just a slow fade. calls unanswered. messages left on read. it’s one of those heartbreaks that doesn’t look like a heartbreak unless you know what to look for.

and still—she loves him. god, she does. but she carries so much shame now. so much guilt. and joel? he’s scared. scared of what she’s become, scared of saying the wrong thing, scared that maybe he already did. figures to the prologue, chapter two, four and specially five.

and the last name thing? yeah. “williams” just sounded good. she liked how it looked on a poster. people always assumed it was her mother’s last name or something deep but it really wasn’t. she just didn’t want to walk into every room and be immediately tied to joel. didn’t want to hear the whispers of “oh, that’s joel miller's kid.” didn’t want to live in his shadow, even if she still carries all of his fire, his temper, his sadness, in her blood.

it’s messy. it’s layered. but there’s still love under all that wreckage. even if they don’t know how to say it right now. even if the silence is louder than anything they ever screamed at each other.

and for everyone asking, yes. joel will make an appearance on chapter 8.

[evangelical04]

A Single Daffodil || 4

Summary: Getting arranged to be married to your long-time crush wasn't exactly the fairy tale romance you were hoping for. Nor is the dynamic of the marriage, with your husband treating you like you don't exist. But you're going to make this work, whether he cares about you or not. And he definitely doesn't...right?

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Rating: 18+ minors DNI

Word Count: 12.5K

Genre: angst, romance, unrequited love, smut, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage au, businessman yoongi

Warnings: parental trauma, sibling trauma, toxic parents, unrequited love, explicit language, alcohol usage, yoongi's kind of mean, future smut, body image issues

Author's Note: sorry this is being posted almost a month later! i was on a road trip with my friends but I wanted to get this out before my birthday (it's on the 17th eek!!) but I hope you guys like it! as usual, please tell me what you guys think! i'd love to hear your opinions <33 also I'm sorry if this chapter seems kinda boring, but the next one is gonna have some drama!! oooo

Taglist:

@yoongisducky @kam9404 @sumzysworld @tarahardcore @viankiss @babystarcandylovejk @ktownshizzle @futuristicenemychaos @igot7fairlyoddparents @baechugff @pb89nv @peachytokki @ratherbfangirling @themwordsblog @daisies-and-dandelionpuffs @kimmalik @honeyypages @captainchrisstan @khaimahfe @yoongibaybee @kooklovee @whoa-jo @familiarlikemymirror3 @blueberriesm @llallaaa @weareatthebadlands @purpleheartsandarock1 @lillmeowmeowsblog @this-most-assuredly-counts @kayleefriedchicken @ur-grandmum @praetae @sylviamuela

previous / masterlist / next

Waking up in an unfamiliar room was jarring, initially. It took you a couple of rounds of rubbing your eyes to realize that you were no longer in your cozy two-bedroom apartment with soft lighting and warm-colored pillows. You awoke to harsh sunlight hitting your face, blank walls, and beige furniture. You leaned back against the light brown headboard of your bed and ran your hands through your messy tangles of hair, having forgone brushing it out the previous night. Glancing at your phone beside you, you noted the time being only a bit past nine.

You needed tea, warm tea. 

You shuffled out of bed, feeling the cold air nip at your bare legs, but you couldn’t find the motivation to change into warm clothing. You tied your hair into a messy ponytail, deciding to attend to it later, and exited your room, facing the cold and unfriendly hallway. There was a faint sound of quiet jazz from the kitchen, likely Mrs. Lim, and you descended the stairs. As you reached the bottom, you groaned internally, lamenting the fact that your favorite teas were still in your apartment. 

Rounding the corner into view of the kitchen had you stopping in your tracks. Yoongi was sat atop one of the counter stools, peacefully scrolling on his phone in the same clothes you’d seen him in last night during your discussion. The unexpected sight had you stumbling backwards, bumping into the large recliner that sat behind you. The sound alerted him to your presence, his eyes turning to find your form. 

“Um, hi,” you stuttered, “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

Yoongi hummed, eyes trailing up and down your figure, mouth upturned. You shifted your weight onto the other foot, feeling uncomfortable, before crossing your arms over your chest. You shouldn’t be this comfortable to walk around braless yet, you internally scolded. 

“Well, it is the weekend,” Yoongi mused, still not taking his eyes off your chilled form. You laughed awkwardly, nodding, “Yeah, I suppose it is, isn’t it? I’ll be right back, actually, I forgot my phone upstairs.”

You didn’t wait to see his response before turning around and rushing back up the stairs. Reaching your room and closing the door behind you, you breathed heavily. What was that? You buried your head in your hands, sliding down the door to sit with your knees pulled to your chest, you should’ve expected him in his own goddamn house. Your cheeks burned at the memory of his eyes tracing your silhouette. How embarrassing. You wallowed in your self-pity a bit longer before rising and entering your large closet. 

You picked out a simple cropped grey sweatshirt and black sweatpants, not finding a need to appear any more formal. You wanted to appear casual after the embarrassing display you started the morning off with. Plus, if Yoongi said this marriage meant nothing, you could walk around his house in loungewear. As long as your mother didn’t find out.

The thick cotton felt much more comfortable and warm, considering the slightly chilly air in the house. Yoongi must like it to be a bit colder, you thought absently. As you finished your morning routine, brushing your teeth and combing through your hair, making sure to pat on some moisturizer and acne treatment, your thoughts wandered back to seeing Yoongi earlier.

The way he had been looking at you was strange, much like Hoseok had mentioned. You weren’t dense, you knew the intention hidden behind a gaze like that, you’d been on the giving and receiving end before. What had you so puzzled was why Yoongi would be looking at you like that. Wasn’t he the one to draw such a clear line between you two? 

Aside from the reason as to why he would be tracing the edges of your curves with his eyes was the effect that it had on you. Frustratingly, Yoongi’s hungry gaze sent warmth through your veins, and excitement pooled in your stomach. It was an embarrassing response, considering how he’d treated you before. At the same time, it felt expected. You had been pining after this man for so long and now he was showing the slightest bit of reciprocation, albeit, with more physical intentions than you. It only felt natural that it would leave you giddy with warm cheeks. It made you happy to think that Yoongi could be seeing you in a similar light.

Your dizzy smile faded as you looked in the mirror at your flushed face. What were you doing? The last eight months had been spent trying to drill into yourself that Yoongi would never like you that way because you couldn’t afford to get your hopes up. Why were you entertaining the idea again after one sultry stare? You felt pathetic, you had folded so easily as you always did when it came to him. 

Smacking your cheeks a couple of times, you readied yourself to head back downstairs. He was just a man, no matter how attractive. Descending the stairs once more, you noticed Yoongi had moved to the couch, leaning back with his coffee on the table next to him, scrolling away on his phone. He hadn’t noticed your reentrance just yet and you awkwardly hovered by the edge of the couch, trying to get his attention. 

Awkwardly clearing your throat did the trick and his gaze turned toward you, an eyebrow raised at your changed appearance. 

“Do you, um, do you have any tea,” you mumbled out, avoiding his intense stare. You heard him hum, likely considering his kitchen inventory, before answering, “Sorry, no, just coffee. Would you like me to order some? There’s also coffee and juice if you want that instead.”

You quickly shook your head at his offer of ordering tea, “That’s fine, I’ll just have some warm water, thanks,” and quickly made your way into the kitchen, reaching the fridge. The metal box was massive, towering over you and quite wide, with a sleek, silver finish. There were no magnets or pictures adorning the exterior, though. Pulling it open, your eyes raked over the full contents, spotting a pitcher of what seemed like orange juice, but no Britta Filter or something of the like. Glancing at the sink, you noticed a second spout seemingly for filtered water. Shrugging, you supposed that Yoongi would be able to afford that and not have to have a water filter jug. 

Next, you hunted for a kettle, which wasn’t too difficult to find, placed in a corner of the countertop. You took it out, setting it on the counter next to an outlet, but soon realized you had no idea where the cups were. The sheer amount of cupboards was overwhelming and you had no idea where to start looking, never mind the embarrassment of rifling through the kitchen in front of Yoongi. 

Opening up cabinets as quietly as possible was not the easiest task when you could so heavily feel Yoongi’s presence in the living room. The anxiety in your chest built as you couldn’t tell whether or not he was watching you struggle to find a single mug. Coming to another cabinet above you, you opened it, spotting a mug or two on the edge of the top shelf portion. Just your luck. You hadn’t spotted a step stool anywhere and you were far too embarrassed already to climb on top of the counter to reach it. Your arm stretched out as you stood on your toes, fingers grasping at the edge of the shelf before you felt warmth envelop your back.

Freezing in place, you quickly identified Yoongi behind you, evidently assisting you in reaching the mugs. He didn’t seem quite tall enough either, you deduced, because he lifted his heels slightly, pushing further into you. Your breath stuttered and you almost had to brace yourself against the counter, you hadn’t really been this close to him before. You could feel his warm breath against the top of your hair, making your nape break out into goosebumps. 

His fingers finally curled around the handle of the mug and he set his feet fully on the ground, but not moving away from you. You turned to face him, steadying your hands by grasping the edge of the countertop and lifted your head to look at him.

“Um, thank you,” you stuttered, unable to make full eye contact, instead opting for looking straight at his ear. He was too close and you couldn’t handle it. His other hand rested on the countertop, just beside yours, and his face was only inches away. How were you supposed to focus? Your gaze only lowered further, making your head turn slightly away. There was a second or two of just silence.

“No problem,” he responded bluntly, moving away and placing the mug down on the other counter that sat in the middle of the kitchen. You let out a heavy breath, finally being able to breathe something in other than Yoongi’s subtle cologne. Resisting the urge to question his sudden close proximity, you instead opted for, “Would you like some as well?

Yoongi only raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the living room where his coffee mug sat waiting. Your mouth clamped shut and you stuttered a nod, “Right, well I’ll just, um, finish doing this.”

God, could you be any more awkward?

Yoongi simply nodded and walked back to the living room, leaving you in the kitchen with warm cheeks and many regrets. You went through the motions of filling the kettle and starting it, waiting for it to boil before pouring it into the mug. The warm water was at least comforting in the chilly atmosphere, despite having no flavor. You stood in the kitchen, unsure of where you should go. Should you join Yoongi in the living room or go back to your room? Or should you stay in the kitchen? Nothing in your life had prepared you for the social expectations in a situation like this.

You decided on your room, not wanting to spend more time in Yoongi’s presence after the embarrassing display in the kitchen. As you made your way to the stairs, walking past Yoongi’s form on the couch, he called out to you.

“Y/N, can you sit for a moment?”

You turned towards him and nervously nodded, taking a seat on the same loveseat as the night prior. It was quite comfortable even though you had been the epitome of uncomfortable each time you’d sat in it so far. You looked up at Yoongi, silently gesturing for him to continue. 

“Some of my friends are coming over tonight, the same that made up my groomsmen. If you don’t mind, are you able to stay in your room?”

“Oh, sure,” you nodded, that was all? You were nervous for nothing. 

“Thanks,” Yoongi almost smiled at you, “They’ll be here around seven.”

“Sounds good,” you said while standing up, you couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. In your rush to get back to your room, you didn’t notice Yoongi’s gaze lingering on your retreating form.

Closing your bedroom door behind you, you breathed a sigh of relief. What a day, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Adjusting to life with Yoongi was definitely going to be a learning curve. 

Since you were off work for the next two weeks, you weren’t exactly sure what to do with your time. You couldn’t exactly relax in the living room and watch a movie, not with your husband occupying the couch. Things certainly felt stifled in Yoongi’s home. His presence was overwhelming and nerve-wracking, you couldn’t relax around him at all. The earlier interaction in the kitchen still weighed on your mind. 

Why did he get so close to you? Wasn’t he the one who proposed that the two of you stay as far apart as possible? Maybe he didn’t see his closeness to you as something that went against that principle. You sighed. It felt impossible to read him or know what he was thinking at all. His impassive expressions and ambivalent demeanor were starting to get to you. 

Even though you’d resolved to take on an emotionally removed approach like him, you still craved some sort of transparency in his confusing actions that stirred mixed emotions within you. Some of the things he was doing would point towards him harboring some sort of affection toward you but he had been so adamant in keeping your lives separated. What you needed was a clear message from him about how he felt and actions that aligned with that. 

Not that you thought that was going to happen. 

After setting your mug down on your bedside table, you collapsed onto the soft comforters of your bed. The ceiling above you was plain unlike the one in your apartment and you found yourself missing the nights of tracing along the popcorn pattern in your warm and comfy bed. Speaking of your apartment though, you thought, you should probably check in on how Hoseok’s doing. 

You patted your hand around for your phone, finding it beside you, and dialed Hoseok’s number, setting it to speaker and letting the phone sit beside your head. It only rang twice before he answered.

“Well, hello Mrs. Min,” came his teasing voice. 

You groaned, kicking your legs up in the air, “Shut up, don’t remind me.”

“Aren’t you living the dream, though? Married to your long-time crush?”

“Hardly,” you scoffed, recalling your husband’s cold and calculating exterior.

“Well, what’s up, how’s the first morning? Are you sore,” Hoseok questioned, you could hear him shuffling around, likely lying down on the bed himself. 

“I guess? My calves are kind of sore, those heels fucking hurt after the first hour,” you responded, massaging your aching feet. 

“No,” Hoseok laughed, “Are you sore from your consummation? Tell me how it was!”

“Gross,” you exclaimed, sitting up on the bed incredulously, “We did not have sex! I can barely look at him for fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to sleep with him?”

“That’s your fault for not taking advantage of the situation,” he hummed on the other end, “The opportunity was right there.”

“Dude, c’mon, he can barely stand me. We wouldn’t have been sleeping together even if I could look him in the eye.”

“You’ll get there,” Hoseok chimed optimistically, making you desperately want to change the subject.

“How’s your apartment hunting going,” you asked, grasping at any other topic you could.

“Smooth,” he laughed but acquiesced and answered your question, “Good, I think. I’ve got a couple of showings in a few days that seem promising. Rent here is way more expensive than Busan though.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, “Tell me about it. I don’t know how Yoongi affords this place.”

“He probably owns it.”

“Damn, you’re probably right. Should a peasant like me even be allowed in here,” you half-joked.

Hoseok only scoffed in response, “As if you’re not literally the daughter of chaebols.”

You hummed, nodding, “Touche.”

“Oh, I did talk to my old boss and he said there was an old student of his in Seoul who was also looking to open up a dance studio. Apparently, he’s just finishing up his MBA so I’m going to talk to him and see if he wants to become partners,” Hoseok excitedly detailed.

“That’s so cool! I’m sure he’ll say yes,” you responded happily. Hoseok deserved to succeed after how hard he’d worked and if this other guy knew anything, he’d say yes to Hoseok in a heartbeat. 

“How is everything else,” Hoseok asked, prompting you to sigh.

“It’s fine, I guess,” you said tiredly, wondering if you should divulge what had happened during the wedding and this morning.

“Tell me about it,” he said quietly, encouraging you.

“Alright,” you huffed, settling in for the long haul of recounting the previous day and the conversation when you’d gotten to Yoongi’s penthouse. You finished by detailing the events this morning and the fact that his friends were coming over later. 

Hoseok listened diligently, making sure to have the appropriate reactions at the right moments. When you finished retelling the events of that morning, Hoseok laughed, “How cliche. This really feels like your own movie romance.”

You shook your head, laughing along, “I guess it was pretty cliche. Everything feels so cliche with him, like the first time I’m falling in love as a teenager or something. It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing to like someone, Y/N,” Hoseok says, changing his tone to be a bit softer, “Having a crush isn’t all that immature, it’s the way you act on it that can be.”

“You’re surprisingly profound,” you joked, but you knew he had a point. You had been beating yourself up about feeling anything for Yoongi and feeling embarrassed whenever you became flustered. It felt childish and you hated feeling so vulnerable and disadvantaged. 

“Well, I have my moments,” Hoseok chuckled, “But seriously, don’t be so hard on yourself. Let yourself feel and then choose how to deal with it. If that means moving on, then do that, slowly. And it’s okay if it means keeping the feelings, as long as you're not hurting yourself or anyone else.”

“Thanks, Hobi,” you smiled, he really did have his moments. 

“Anytime, Y/N-ie,” Hoseok responded fondly, making you smile widen at the affectionate nickname.

“But I do have to go now. I’ve got some calls to make about my old apartment. They’re trying to keep my deposit,” he huffed.

“Yikes, good luck with that, let me know how it goes,” you give him a sweet goodbye before hanging up. The conversation with Hoseok had cleared your head some, leaving you wondering what your next move should be. You promptly decided on a nap. 

After a few hours, you awoke, stretching in your bed, feeling slightly groggy, but well rested. Your head felt clearer than ever and you actually felt ready to live in this penthouse.

Sitting up, you took a look around your room before sighing. The beiges and whites were really starting to get to you. You dragged yourself out of your bed and towards your bag from the previous night. After digging around for a moment, you triumphantly located your laptop and its charger, plugging it into the outlet near your desk. Booting up your laptop only took a few moments but you occupied yourself by making a mental list of the decorations you wanted to purchase or bring from your own apartment. After logging in, you dejectedly realized you weren’t connected to the wifi. 

You should’ve asked Mrs. Lim for the wifi password, you thought scornfully, why had you been so careless. Now you had to ask Yoongi. Your mission of avoiding him at all costs was going poorly.

Reaching for your phone, you opted instead to text him to minimize the interaction, feeling proud of your solution. 

You:

Hi Yoongi-ssi, would you mind giving me the wifi password, please?

You quickly set your phone face down on the desk, dreading the reply. What if he thought you were an idiot? What if he didn’t give it to you and you had to use a hotspot for the rest of your life and spend hundreds on your data charges?

Your spiraling thoughts were interrupted by your phone vibrating against the desk’s surface. 

Yoongi:

Sure. It’s worldwidehandsomesvacationhome. No capitals.

You let out a confused chuckle, what a weird name. You had a nagging feeling that Kim Seokjin had something to do with it. 

You: 

Thank you. Have fun with your friends.

You threw your phone against the desk and launched yourself into your bed. Was that too much? Oh god, what if you had royally messed up and crossed a boundary? You stayed in your bed for a few minutes before rising, noting that your phone hadn’t vibrated with a response. Hesitantly approaching your phone, you turned it over to see a blank screen with no notifications. You checked the message thread to see it the same as you left it except that you had been left on read. 

Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do about that.

You shrugged and retook your seat at your desk, entering the wifi password on your laptop and phone. Finding a successful connection, you spent the next few hours browsing through online stores for fun decorations and decals for your room and office in the penthouse. The search took your full attention and you bought multiple items, saving a few of the more expensive purchases for other credit cycles. At the end of it all, you’d bought multiple pillows, a throw blanket, some cute decoration trinkets off of Etsy, a couple of cute flower lamps, a comfy-looking lounge chair, and some lilac curtains. Decorating your room in some fun colors and trinkets would make it feel more like home, or at least, that’s what you hoped. 

Sitting on the desk next to your laptop was a small notebook that held a list of the items you planned to purchase, mainly a TV for your room so you could watch movies and use your console, a larger and cuter desk, and a comfier desk chair, as well as transferring a number of other items from your apartment like your plants, books, and other decorations. 

Coming out of your reverie, you noticed that the time had passed quickly, being a little after seven, and your stomach grumbled, reminding you of your forgetting to eat lunch. Cooking in the kitchen wasn’t an option, noting the laughter downstairs likely meaning that Yoongi’s friends had arrived already, and you didn’t know what ingredients were there anyway, or if you were allowed to use them. 

Sighing, you instead decided to order delivery. You browsed through the local restaurants before settling on a fried chicken restaurant that you frequented that had a location close to your apartment and another near Yoongi’s. Selecting your usual order, you almost checked out before realizing that you were about to order it to your apartment. Grinning, you imagined Hoseok opening your door to a crispy chicken delivery and having no second thoughts about eating your food. 

You couldn’t remember Yoongi’s address, so you resorted to looking at your maps app to figure it out, and your previous texts with Mrs. Lim for the internal building directions. A rush of content flowed through you as you placed the order, eagerly awaiting your hearty meal. 

To pass the time, you grabbed your Switch, loading in whatever game you had been playing previously, some indie puzzle game. You settled into the relaxing and cute gameplay and drowned out the noise of Yoongi’s friends further into the penthouse. 

After a while, your phone vibrated with the notification that the delivery was here, and you jumped up, eager to receive your food. Quickly opening your door, you entered the hallway to make your way to the stairs before hesitating. You could hear Kim Seokjin’s signature laugh in the living room. 

Oh, that’s right, Yoongi didn’t want you to come down.

You tittered around the banister, unsure of whether you should go down before you felt your phone buzz with the driver asking where you were. 

Ah, fuck it.

You quickly descended the stairs and tried to discreetly go through the back end of the living room to avoid Yoongi’s group drinking and playing some sort of game on the coffee table. Of course, you were unsuccessful, spotted by Seokjin immediately. 

“Yah, Seo Y/N,” he shouted, pointing at you, clearly quite drunk already.

You froze in place, turning toward him and sending him a shy wave.

“Why are you over there,” Seokjin slurred, “Come join us! You need to drink!”

You began shaking your head before you were interrupted. 

“Noona!”

Jeongguk’s bright voice and wide smile brought a smile to your own face, and you mouthed a small hello in his direction. 

“Come join us, noona, please,” Jeongguk pleaded, shooting lethal doe eyes in your direction. Your heart melted and you almost agreed, but you felt your phone buzz in your pocket again, making you restart your steps toward the door, “Sorry, Jeongguk-ah, I just came down to get my delivery.”

You ignored his and Seokjin’s protests to open the door and pay the driver, leaving an extra tip for the wait they endured, and taking the food. 

“Woah, is that fried chicken,” you heard from over your shoulder, turning to see Jeongguk suddenly there, eyeing your takeout bag. You chuckled, nodding, before beginning your trek back to the stairs. 

“C’mon Y/N-ah, join us, Yoongi doesn’t mind,” Seokjin attempted once more and you took the moment to search out his face. Yoongi was sitting in the loveseat you had earlier, eyes resting on you in an unreadable expression. Taehyung was on the floor where Jeongguk was previously and Namjoon was on the couch with Seokjin. Yoongi’s stern expression seemed out of place among the group of happy and buzzed faces and it only made you feel worse. 

“Sorry, oppa, I think I’m just gonna head up. I’m kind of tired,” you responded, shying away from Jeongguk’s insistent touch and multiple attempts to snag a piece of chicken. 

“You’re so boring, Y/N, you’ll need to join us soon enough, so why not now,” Seokjin slurred, body swinging to lean on the other end of the couch. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Yoongi open his mouth to say something but was beaten by Namjoon. 

“Let her be, hyung, you can’t force her,” Namjoon smacked Seokjin’s shoulder before sending you a kind smile and gesturing towards the stairs. 

You shot him a grateful smile before ascending, deliberately avoiding Yoongi’s icy stare. Seokjin’s cries faded into the background as you quickly climbed the stairs and reached your room. 

Closing the door behind you, a sigh escaped your mouth. How stressful. You hoped that Yoongi wasn’t upset with you for interrupting, you were just quite hungry. You set the bag down on your desk, mouth salivating at the pleasant aroma. You could almost say the intense encounter was worth the heavenly bite of fried chicken you took. 

The next week went by rather smoothly, mainly because you had barely seen Yoongi at all. He hadn’t come out of his room much the following day after his friends had come and then resumed work afterward with the week starting up once more. You relished the opportunity to set up your room and office in a style more akin to yours and filled the rooms with plants and flowers you adored. 

Mrs. Lim had been happy to help you set up your rooms, citing boredom from the countless greys and blacks that Yoongi’s decor tended to lean towards. You had developed a close bond with her in the week since your arrival in the penthouse and she was a comforting presence in the face of Yoongi’s frosty exterior. 

“Ms. Seo, I think your TV is here!”

You sat up from the intense building of your desk, wiping a line of sweat from your forehead. All of the moving around and lifting had you quite warm and you had changed into a loose crop top and shorts. While the work wasn’t necessarily difficult, it was tedious to do alone but you didn’t have much of a choice. You couldn’t ask Mrs. Lim with her bad back to crouch and bend to help you put it together, Joohee was going out to a work dinner with her colleagues, and Hoseok was off to another apartment showing. Unfortunately, you couldn’t figure out anyone else you could call on a Friday evening to help. 

“Coming,” you shouted down to Mrs. Lim and rose to your feet, having to lean slightly against the wall. You took a glance at the TV stand you had already snagged second-hand from Joohee after she had decided to mount hers and confirmed it was in the spot you wanted. Heading down the stairs to the living room, you noted Mrs. Lim’s conflicted stance, hands on her hips. 

“What’s wrong,” you questioned, rounding the corner of the couch to see the large box the TV had arrived in. The box was quite large and seemed to be rather heavy, which would make it extremely difficult to carry up the stairs by yourself. Immediately, you knew this was going to be an issue because you couldn’t ask Mrs. Lim for help. You’d managed thus far, with your desk arriving in multiple boxes that were more lightweight, your chair being fairly easy to drag up the stairs, and Joohee helping with the TV stand. Crossing your arms, you studied the box before wrapping your hands underneath to test the weight. 

It lifted slightly, but you soon had to release it, the edge slipping from your fingers. There was no way you’d be able to get this up on your own. 

“Don’t try it by yourself, dear,” Mrs. Lim soothed, “You’ll hurt your back and end up just like me.”

You chuckled, brushing the hair out of your face once again, “Yeah, at least one of us needs to be able to reach the bottom shelf in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Lim playfully smacked your shoulder, “What happened to respecting your elders? You’re quite warm though, would you like some cold water?”

You nodded appreciatively, “Yes, please. Thank you!”

Mrs. Lim waved you off as she walked into the kitchen. Turning towards the box, you huffed, staring it down. What should you do?

Suddenly, you heard the door unlock and it popped open, hitting the box in the process, stopping it from opening fully. 

“Mrs. Lim,” came Yoongi’s voice, “Is there something in the doorway?”

“Oh, my bad,” you exclaimed, quickly bending to push the box out of the way. After you’d pushed it aside, you stood to greet Yoongi. 

He was running a hand through his hair, staring at the box before his eyes trailed to you and up your legs to your face. You felt your cheeks heat before sending him a small bow and nod. 

“What’s all this,” he questioned.

“I’m just getting some stuff for my room, sorry for all the trouble,” you wrung your hands together nervously.

Yoongi shook his head and opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by Mrs. Lim arriving with your water,  “Oh, Mr. Min, you’re home!” Handing you the glass, she continued, “Ms. Seo was just trying to figure out how to bring this box up to her room. It’s much too big for just her to handle and I can’t help because of my back. So unfortunate, isn’t it?”

You cringed internally, taking a sip of water to give yourself something to do. Yoongi only nodded, looking at you once more before moving out of the doorway. He started towards the stairs, leaving you breathing out in relief and gulping down more water. 

Just as he began climbing the steps to his room, he turned and faced your form, “Give me a couple minutes to change and I can help you bring that to your room.”

You almost choked on your water as you stumbled through a nod, surprised at Yoongi’s offer to help. He didn’t spare you another glance as he retreated to his room and you were left standing cluelessly as Mrs. Lim sent you a sly smile. 

“Well, I’ll just leave you to it. Your dinner is already prepped, there’s japchae and banchan to cool you down. It’s just about time for me to head home anyway,” Mrs. Lim said, clapping her hands together and starting to untie her apron. 

You pounced, stopping her hands from undoing the knot, “Mrs. Lim, maybe you can join us for dinner?” You were desperate in your attempt to not be left alone with Yoongi, looking up at Mrs. Lim with pleading eyes. 

She only chuckled, gently removing your hands and finishing releasing the knot, her apron falling loose around her front, “Use this as an opportunity to get to know him better. I promise Mr. Min is a nice, young man.”

You almost scoffed, everyone seemed to be trying to convince you of that except for Yoongi himself. 

Mrs. Lim put her apron away and gave your cheek a gentle pinch before opening the door, “Besides, I have a dinner date with Mr. Lim. Good luck!” She closed the door behind her and you were left wondering how to navigate the upcoming interaction. Yoongi didn’t give you much time to prepare, appearing at the top of the stairs only seconds after Mrs. Lim’s exit. He was now dressed in a casual grey t-shirt and black sweats, posing a stunning contrast to his earlier neat and tailored suit. 

“Where did Mrs. Lim go,” he asked, starting his descent to the living room. 

“Um, she left to go home. She said there was dinner already prepped and she had to have dinner with her husband,” you answered awkwardly, avoiding his intense gaze. 

Yoongi simply nodded, “That’s fine. Shall we get started, then?”

You nodded, rushing to one end of the box as Yoongi took his place at the other. 

“I’ll walk backward, so just let me know when I’ve gotten to the stairs,” he said, making you nod in response, finding it difficult to speak. You both lifted, the box becoming much easier to carry with two pairs of hands. 

You kept your gaze firmly trained on the view behind Yoongi, refusing to make eye contact. You were nervous it’d make your grip slip. Warning Yoongi when you had reached the stairs, the rest of the trip had been fairly easy, quietly giving him directions to your room. Thankfully, your door was open and the two of you entered, setting the box down and breathing slightly heavily. 

You looked up to express your gratitude to Yoongi but found him looking around your room instead. You supposed it would be his first time in here since you’d arrived. It had changed quite drastically since you had moved in, sporting much more color and silly accessories. Your bed now had a lilac comforter and a white throw blanket, along with multiple cute, fuzzy throw pillows in fun shapes like clouds or mushrooms. The lounge chair had been set up in the corner with a few other pillows and Pokemon plushes you already had. The lilac curtains you ordered had already been set up, currently open to let some light into the room. A few of your favorite tote bags sat hanging on a hook you’d stuck on by the entrance and there were small crocheted and artsy trinkets plastered or hung around the room. Taking a look around it now, for the first time, your aesthetic felt silly and childish in comparison to Yoongi’s sleek, grown-up look. 

“Um,” you started, wanting to take Yoongi’s gaze off of your colorful and immature decorations, “Thank you for, ah, helping out.” 

Yoongi’s head turned toward you, finding your worried face, biting your lip.

“No problem,” he responded, “I like your room.”

You looked up at him questioningly, not expecting such a response. You had assumed he would think of it as childish and express his distaste, or just ignore it altogether. 

“It’s cute.”

You felt your lips part in surprise at his seemingly earnest reaction to your newly decorated room. It made you feel a bit guilty for assuming he wouldn’t like it before. Furthermore, describing it as ‘cute’ seemed so unlike him. You weren’t sure how to respond. Smiling awkwardly, you nodded, “Thanks, I’m glad you like it.”

You’re glad he likes it? What kind of response is that? You groaned internally, now it seemed like you were pining for his validation. Why couldn’t the ground just swallow you whole?

Yoongi hummed in response before dusting off his hands on his sweats, “Would you like to have dinner then?”

You looked at him in slight shock. The two of you hadn’t had a meal together since you’d moved in, yet here he was offering as if it was a normal occurrence for you. 

“Unless you’re eating later,” Yoongi’s eyebrow raised at your delayed response. 

Quickly, you shook your head, “No, no. I’d love to have dinner now.”

Way to sound over-eager.

The both of you made your way downstairs, unpacking the meal that Mrs. Lim had prepared for you. The cold noodles felt soothing to your overheating body and Mrs. Lim’s kimchi was the perfect balance of fresh and sour. She had even made cucumber kimchi, one of your favorites as she’d learned in the past week, which you happily devoured. While the food was delicious, the atmosphere surrounding the dinner table was awkward. The meal was largely silent, save for the sounds of eating and happy tummies. Distantly, you wondered which of the two of you was going to be the one to break the silence. Surprisingly, it turned out to be Yoongi. 

“Were you told about the gala tomorrow evening?”

You nodded, your mother had called you a few days ago to notify you of it. That hadn’t been a fun phone call. She’d made sure to tell you exactly what she expected you to wear and how to act around Yoongi during the gala. You were just relieved that it started at eight, there was an art gallery that you had been wanting to check out that opened at three. 

“We’ll go together, we’ll leave at 7:45, does that sound good,” Yoongi asked, glancing at his phone between bites of japchae. You only nodded, trying to map out your schedule for the next day so that you could go to the art gallery and still have enough time to get ready. 

“Alright then, that’s settled,” Yoongi stated, taking his last bites of food. 

“Oh, wait,” you interjected, remembering your conversation with your mother, “Do you have a dark blue tie?”

Yoongi’s eyebrow raised, “Yes, I believe so. Why?”

Your cheeks heated, “My mother wanted your tie to match my dress. Sorry.” It was quite embarrassing and your mother had not listened to reason. Apparently, she wanted to solidify the image of you two as a couple at this gala, despite the fact that the only people who matched dresses and ties were high school kids going to dances. 

Yoongi nodded, picking up his phone and rising from the table, “That’s fine. I’ll be sure to wear that tie then.” With that, he exited the dining room and headed upstairs, with you catching a glimpse of him entering his upstairs office.

Sitting back in your chair, you groaned audibly. Could you get through a single day without making yourself look like a fool in front of Yoongi? You flailed slightly in a mini tantrum at the day’s events before gazing at your plate. Opting for more food, you shoveled it into your mouth in an attempt to soothe your aching ego. After finishing admittedly more than a couple of servings worth, you gathered both yours and Yoongi’s plates and put them in the dishwasher. You filled up your water bottle before climbing the stairs to your room. 

You wanted nothing more than to collapse in your bed but your unfinished desk lying in pieces on the floor was weighing on you, in addition to the large TV box that sat inconveniently in the middle of your room. Sighing, you dropped down into a cross-legged position beside the mess of wooden planks and screws and continued putting together the desk, not looking forward to the long night ahead. 

At least you had the gallery tomorrow to look forward to.

When you awoke the next morning, it was just past eleven. The bedsheets were crumpled around you and your hair was a tangled mess, but your desk and TV were set up prettily. You must’ve worked late into the night because you didn’t remember getting into bed, much less finishing the desk or setting up the TV. You still had to attach your console and Blu-ray player anyway. 

Blearily, you pulled yourself out of bed, stumbling down the stairs and into the kitchen for a cup of tea. Your eyes were barely open so you didn’t notice the way your cropped shirt had slipped down your shoulder with its wide neck, nor Yoongi sitting on the couch with a coffee mug in his hand. You squinted through the cupboard to find your favorite mug and picked it out, grabbing the lavender-infused tea that was a regular of yours before setting the kettle to boil. As you waited for the water to boil, you rubbed your eyes awake, finally noticing Yoongi staring at you from the couch. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you bowed slightly, “I didn’t see you there. Good morning.”

Yoongi only nodded, raising his coffee mug to you before returning his gaze to his phone. You were still too tired to feel much embarrassment so you only shrugged and turned back to the kettle. Surprisingly, Yoongi wasn’t done interacting with you, startling you to face him. 

“Do you have any plans for before the gala?”

“Yes, I’m going to an art show nearby. But I’ll be back in time to get ready,” you rushed to answer. 

Yoongi took a sip of his coffee, his eyebrows raised and eyes staring into you from behind the rim of the cup. 

“Oh, sorry, I would ask you to come along but it’s a ticketed event and they’re sold out,” you stuttered, figuring that was why he was still looking at you questioningly. 

Yoongi set his mug down, eyes flickering over your form, “I wasn’t planning on going anyway.”

“Ah, right,” you awkwardly said, internally scolding yourself for the embarrassing display. 

Of course, he wasn’t asking to go with you, how dense could you be?

Your body felt hot with humiliation and you willed the water to boil faster. Somehow, the gods answered you and the kettle went off, making you rush to pour out the water into your mug. You opted to let it steep in your room, ready to get out of the shared space where Yoongi’s judgemental gaze lay. 

Nodding a quick goodbye, you rushed up the steps and entered the oasis of your room. You set down your mug on your desk, letting it steep, and entered your closet to pick out an outfit for the gallery. You ended up choosing a short, brown, corduroy dress to layer over a collared white blouse, feeling quite cute in the outfit. You set the clothes aside, sitting down to drink your tea while reading a bit more of the fantasy book you’d recently picked up. You had made sure to note down your wide collection of books to be part of the things you brought from your apartment. You hadn’t managed to fit everything, but you had brought a significant portion of your favorites and ones you were currently reading. 

Once you finished your tea, you set your book aside and began to ready yourself for a shower. After brushing through your hair and grabbing some undergarments, you entered the shower, making sure to take your time and shave for both your dress now and later tonight. The shower was warm and soothing, relaxing your body underneath the steaming stream of water. 

After exiting, you did your normal post-shower routine of moisturizing, making sure to add a little extra care to your face. Not for any reason, in particular, you told yourself, just to feel a little pretty. After finishing, you donned your dress and blouse, adding shorts underneath just in case, and began styling your hair. It didn’t need too much as you decided to leave it open, parting it slightly to one side and ruffling it a bit to give it some volume. You finished off with some light makeup and simple gold jewelry, satisfied with your final look. You didn’t get dressed up too often, but you liked doing it for events like galleries, partly for the pictures but mostly just to feel cute. 

You snapped a quick picture of your finished look in the mirror in your closet and sent it to the group chat you had with Joohee and Hoseok. 

To: Milf Club (est. 2014)

You:

image attached

art gallery fit 💪

Hoebi:

you look like my wife

*future wife

Joo-nie:

omgg step on me queen

so when are you attending the met gala 🤨

You:

omfg it’s just a dress you guys

also i better see you at the gala tonight joo

bring hobi as your date

Joo-nie:

ew no

you can bring him as yours tho

You:

i have a literal husband who’s my date

Hoebi:

girls girls, don’t fight there’s enough hobi to go around

Joo-nie:

die

You:

nevermind, you can stay home

Hoebi:

you guys are so mean 😭

i was planning on touring a potential studio space anyway so go have fun being rich

Joo-nie:

omg good luck! let us know how it goes!

You:

yes def do

i’ll see you tonight joo

Glancing at your watch, you noted the time being around 2:30. It gave you enough time to stop by a cafe by the art gallery to grab a snack since you hadn’t eaten yet. You opted for your crocheted tote bag, not really caring about it making the look more casual, and stuffed your phone, wallet, and a small water bottle inside. You were planning on walking to the gallery so you didn’t need to bring your keys. Lastly, you pulled on some socks and headed downstairs. 

Yoongi was still sitting on the couch and you felt his eyes follow your form walking to the door. As you slipped on your shoes, he called out to you, “Going to the gallery?”

You nodded, “Yeah, I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Yoongi nodded in response, still looking at you, “You, uh,”

You stood fully, finished with your shoes, and looked at him to continue.

“See you then,” he finished, leaving you slightly confused at his odd demeanor but smiling politely nonetheless. Just as you opened the door and began to exit, you heard his voice once more. 

“Have fun.”

You turned to face him, sending him a genuine smile, “Thanks, I will! See you tonight.”

With that, you closed the door behind you and headed to the small cafe near the gallery. The walk was pleasant with warm weather that wasn’t too hot and a slight breeze to cool you. Soon, you reached the cafe, a cute and quaint spot that had been around for around ten years at that point. You visited often with Joohee on Saturday afternoons when the two of you had plans later in the day. 

You opened the door, it jingling in response to your arrival, and the employee at the counter looked up. The one working that morning was Daehwa, a college student who had been working there for a couple of years now. He knew your order well and often engaged you in conversation if the cafe was empty. There was a bit of a crowd today so he quickly entered your order without you having to say anything, and began making it while you waited off to the side. Once he presented you with your iced tea and croissant with a wink, you sent him a grateful smile, and quickly tore through the croissant, noting the time getting closer to three. 

You finished your snack in record time and quickly stood, clearing away your space and waving a quick goodbye to Daehwa, who sent you a grin in response. The gallery was just across the street and had a small line outside, which you quickly joined. You sipped the last of your tea, looking around for a trashcan near you so you didn’t have to bring it inside the gallery, but only saw one close to the entrance which meant you’d lose your spot in line. The idea made you frown and you considered keeping the empty cup in your bag until you moved forward in the line. 

“Seo Y/N?”

You turned at the mention of your name to find Kim Namjoon standing behind you in a light brown sweater and collared white shirt underneath, with a darker brown corduroy blazer and khakis. He had round, wiry glasses on and wore a stunning smile that showed off his deep dimples. 

“Oh, Namjoon-ssi, I didn’t realize you’d be attending this as well,” you said, smiling and bowing politely. 

“Yeah, I’ve been following this artist for a while now and saw a couple of months ago that they were doing an exhibition. Do you like Cha Heewon too,” he asked, putting his hands into his pockets. His kind gaze on you and sweet smile made your cheeks feel warm as you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Yeah, I’ve been following them for a few years now so I was really excited when I saw the location for this show. I was lucky to get tickets, they sold out so fast!”

“I know, right? I was basically refreshing the page the day they opened up trying to be the first one in,” Namjoon chuckled and his baritone voice reverberated through your bones, almost making you sigh. 

“Yeah, but at least we’re here now,” you smiled, about to turn back around. 

“Would you, uh, like to walk around the exhibit together,” Namjoon asked, scratching the back of his head. 

You hesitated for a moment, wondering if this would be crossing a line with Yoongi, but you steeled yourself. He wasn’t allowed to dictate who you became friends with. You clearly bumped into Namjooon by coincidence and have a shared interest, so why wouldn’t you two walk around together? 

“I’d love to,” you responded, feeling proud of your steadfastness in not letting Yoongi mandate your choices or social interactions. 

Namjoon smiled widely in response, nodding, “Great, none of the other guys want to come with me to these kinds of things. Sometimes, Tae does but he’s super flaky.”

You chuckled, “Same here, Joo always complains about how boring it is and Hobi wasn’t even here, but he wouldn’t enjoy it either.”

“Hobi, that’s Hoseok, right? The one who worked in Busan,” Namjoon recalled, scratching his chin. 

“Yes,” you nodded, “He’s planning on moving back here so he’s all busy trying to get that sorted.”

“Well, maybe we can go to these things together in the future,” Namjoon proposed, smiling down at you. 

You felt your cheeks heat, being around handsome men wasn’t good for your health. You looked up at Namjoon, smiling in response, “I’d really like that, Namjoon-ssi.”

Namjoon cringed, his mouth turning up into a frown, “You can drop the formality, we’re the same age, right?”

You nodded, laughing slightly, “I guess I’m just used to it. I’d really like that, Namjoon-ah,” you emphasized. Namjoon chuckled, turning away for a moment. You could’ve sworn you saw his ears go pink at the edge. 

The line moved forward fairly quickly and the two of you were soon inside the exhibit, with you throwing away your cup at the entrance. Namjoon gave thoughtful commentary on each painting you stopped at, with you providing your thoughts as well. You found yourself quickly becoming comfortable in his presence and the two of you were soon joking around and making very pleasant conversation. 

At one point, an older woman stopped the two of you, stating, “You’re such a cute couple, I love your matching outfits. I hope you’re having a fun date!”

The woman walked off before you or Namjoon could correct her, so you ended up trying to laugh off the encounter. Her words made your cheeks burn and you worried that it had offended Namjoon, especially considering that Yoongi was his friend. If it bothered Namjoon, he didn’t show it, instead carrying on like nothing had happened.

Namjoon’s company was quite enjoyable and you relaxed into his smooth voice, feeling yourself becoming less and less stiff. The conversation flowed easily and you both bonded over your love for art, with Namjoon mentioning other artists that you noted down to look up later. He seemed much more experienced in this area than you and you found yourself enraptured by his explanations and passionate rants. 

A couple of hours passed and the two of you exited, with Namjoon insisting on walking you to Yoongi’s building. Your conversation from inside the gallery continued as you walked, and you found yourself not wanting to return to Yoongi’s apartment in favor of Namjoon’s calming presence. 

“I noticed you weren’t wearing your ring,” Namjoon mentioned, making you stumble in your step. 

You glanced down at your hand before scratching the back of your head embarrassedly, “Yeah, I guess I’m still getting used to it. It’s kind of weird, being married that is.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Namjoon smiled reassuringly, “I’m sure Yoongi hasn’t been the most receptive either.”

“Understatement of the year,” you laughed, a tinge of annoyance present in your tone, “He’s so hard to read.”

“He’s like that with most people. He takes some time to open up. I promise he’s a really great guy once you get to know him, he’s just a bit uncomfortable in the situation. He’ll warm up to you, eventually,” Namjoon said, patting your shoulder. 

“Eventually,” you repeated, twisting your hand around your ring finger. You should really put it on.

You had reached Yoongi’s building at this point and had stopped just outside the doors. Namjoon must’ve noticed your solemn mood because he added one last thing before leaving, “You know, as much as Yoongi’s dragged his feet throughout this whole marriage process, I haven’t seen him without his ring once since the wedding.”

You looked up at Namjoon, lips slightly parted at the surprising statement. Namjoon only winked before turning around, “I’ll see you at the gala tonight, Y/N.”

Nodding mutely, you waved, before entering into the building and taking the elevator up to Yoongi’s floor. You weren’t really sure what to make of Namjoon’s words. 

Adding the final touches to your look felt simple enough, you’d dressed for these types of galas before. The dark blue satin dress felt nice against your skin and the cowl neck flattered your bodice and neckline. You chose a thin necklace that dipped into your cleavage with matching earrings, deciding to keep your hair down to avoid having to style it. After donning your “rich people” watch, as Hoseok had dubbed it due to its stark contrast to your usual digital watch, you felt that your look was complete. Taking one last look in your mirror, you scrutinized yourself, trying to find anything that would make you seem undeserving of Yoongi. 

It wasn’t a train of thought you were comfortable with, but your mother had made sure to emphasize its importance. You needed to look like someone worthy of being at Yoongi’s side. You certainly didn’t feel like it, but your mother didn’t really care about that. Just like in everything else, the outward appearance and how you were perceived by others took the utmost importance. 

Your reflection stared back at you, solemn and lonely. You had tried to hide your tiredness with makeup, but you still felt that you could see the exhaustion in your face. You felt drained. 

Everything was tiring. 

You didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity, though. After tapping your cheeks lightly to give yourself some encouragement, you headed for your door. You were just about to open it, catching a glimpse of your hand encasing the doorknob, feeling that your finger looked empty. 

You considered for a moment whether you should really display your relationship or not, but Namjoon’s words circled inside your head. Shaking them off, you turned around, grabbing your wedding band off your desk, and slipping it on. You did say that you should wear it more regularly, you told yourself. 

You headed down the stairs, catching sight of Yoongi in his regular suit with a dark blue tie that was similar enough to the shade of your dress. He looked stunning with his dark hair combed back and suit fitted to his slender waist. Your eyes trailed up his form, appreciating his full visual before reaching his face, who was looking at you with wide eyes. 

Suddenly, you felt embarrassed, maybe you had tried a bit too hard. A nauseous feeling began building up in your stomach as you descended the staircase, feeling heavily self-conscious of your appearance. Did you try too hard? Not enough? Did you look ridiculous? You bit the inside of your cheek, not wanting to mess up your lipstick, maybe you should’ve tried for a different dress. The sickly feeling grew as you approached Yoongi at the door, avoiding making eye contact. You didn’t have time to change now, but you sure wished that you had a large coat to cover yourself. 

You really didn’t want to go to this gala.

As you finished slipping on your heels, clutching at your stomach to push away the ill sensation, you stood fully, facing the door. Yoongi hesitated for a moment in front of you before opening it and leading you to the elevator. The ride down to the garage was silent, save for Yoongi shifting about in his suit. You wondered if he was as uncomfortable as you, but quickly pushed the thought away. He had no reason to be uncomfortable.

The drive over to the banquet hall was equally silent, with the only words being exchanged between Yoongi and the driver who was waiting in the garage. Your fingers were constantly picking at invisible seams in your lap and your eyes stayed trained on the window beside you, trying your hardest not to think about Yoongi on your other side. 

He hadn’t said anything to you since you left the house, but you swore you could feel his eyes on you, which only made you more anxious. You had to continuously wipe your palms against the leather seats of the car and your dress to wipe off the sweat and his stare dug into you every time. Every few minutes or so, you’d consider trying to strike up conversation with him before thinking better of it, not wanting to face a judgemental or disgusted expression if he wore it. 

After what felt like forever, you finally arrived at the building the gala was being held at, the driver politely informing you that he would be back to pick you up at your request. Yoongi exited first due to you having to adjust your dress so you could exit gracefully, and he surprised you by opening your door and offering his hand for extra balance. 

The action made your cheeks heat before you remembered that you were in a public place now and he had to act the part of your husband. Reality crashed down on you, washing over you in a wave of bleakness, but you plastered on a submissive smile all the same. You took his hand, exiting the car, noticing Yoongi staring at your finger. You were about to question him before his gaze turned to you and his mouth formed a small smile. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, quietly, much too quiet for anyone around you to hear. The words sent warmth straight to your face and leave you stuttering out a ‘thank you’. Yoongi didn’t release your hand as you walked into the banquet hall, nodding your greetings at the guests you see first. Your mother spotted you immediately and waved you over, with you and Yoongi obediently following. 

“Good to see you could make it,” your mother said curtly, surveying your outfit. She only turned away afterwards, so you took that as your approval and discreetly tugged on Yoongi’s hand so you could move on. He got the hint, thankfully, and led you through the other standard greetings and pleasantries that were involved in events like these. 

The questions were repetitive, to say the least. 

“How are you two doing as a newly wedded couple?”

“How’s the business, Yoongi?”

“When are you two thinking of having kids?”

“Are you still working for that game company?”

It was exhausting, but Yoongi’s warm hand grasping your own grounded you. After about an hour, you’d made the rounds throughout the hall and Yoongi still hadn’t let go of you. But you weren’t complaining. A few times, you were offered champagne by a passing server, but you refused each time. Yoongi’s musky cologne was intoxicating enough. 

Finally, you reached a point where you could relax, no longer having any old men or women to dish out backhanded compliments and you having to awkwardly laugh through them. Yoongi seemed to also feel the tension release, noticing his shoulders sag slightly and a deep breath exhale from his lips. He released your hand, making you frown, feeling like your palm was empty now, but you couldn’t protest aloud. 

You figured that was the end of Yoongi’s image maintenance regarding your matrimony but his hand slid down the open back of your dress, erecting goosebumps in its wake. His fingers rested at the small of your back, gently guiding you to the group where Kim Seokjin, Kim Namjoon and Joohee stood talking. It rendered you speechless and you opted for silently following, with your brain working overtime to understand what was going on. 

You arrived at the group, Joohee immediately sending a look regarding the placement of Yoongi’s hands, but you were unable to respond, still too flustered by the warm of his skin against your back. You bowed mutely in greeting to the rest of the people there, smiling at Namjoon who returned it widely. 

“Where’s Yeonhee noona,” Yoongi asked, the mention of Seokjin’s wife pulling you into the conversation. 

“She’s at home with Hwannie,” Seokjin responded, smiling brightly at the mention of his wife and son. Yeonhee had given birth a few months ago to a beautiful baby boy, Hwansoo, and Seokjin hadn’t really shut up about him since. You’d seen Yeonhee at your wedding and she’d looked equally as elated, practically glowing. “I wanted to stay back too, but she mentioned something about wanting me out of the house for quality time with Hwannie,” Seokjin finished, earning a laugh from the group. 

Joohee was trying to silently communicate with you, asking whatever she could through shifts in her eyes and small head movements about your close proximity to Yoongi, but you had no answers. You hadn’t been expecting it either, Yoongi had taken the initiative to make physical contact. You could tell she was getting frustrated with your continued subtle shrugs before she looked behind you and cringed. 

“Great, mom wants me to go over there, probably for another marriage talk,” Joohee groaned, inching behind her brother to avoid her mother’s piercing gaze, “I think that’s Lee Hyunsoo, too! Gross! He’s an ass.”

You frowned at the mention of Hyunsoo, a common figure among those who belittled you in your youth at parties just like these. You felt Yoongi shift beside you before speaking, “Yeah, he is an ass, he kept making weird comments to me throughout the reception last week. Good luck with that.”

Yoongi’s comment only made you frown further. You hadn’t really noticed Hyunsoo during your reception, much less him talking to Yoongi. You couldn’t think on it for long, though, having to wave a solemn goodbye to Joohee who began her trek over to her beckoning mother. Yoongi continued his conversation with Seokjin, talking about some sort of business thing happening, nothing you cared too much about, and you were left staring blankly around you. 

“You look really pretty,” Namjoon said, drawing your attention, making you blush pink at his words. 

“Thanks, so do you, Namjoon-ah,” you teased in response, making him grin and show off his deep dimples. You instantly relaxed in his comforting presence, but you were still aware of Yoongi’s burning palm against your skin. 

“Oh, I meant to mention earlier today, you said you like plants, right? There’s this great plant shop in Samcheong-Dong that you should check out,” Namjoon began excitedly, making you recall your earlier conversation in which you had mentioned your plants at your apartment in passing. 

“We should totally check it out! I’m always down to get more plants, although I probably shouldn’t,” you joked, letting yourself ease into the easy conversation. 

“You can never have enough, or at least, that’s what I tell myself,” Namjoon chuckled, “There’s also another show next month for one of my favorite artists. Do you think you’d be up to check it out?”

You nodded, “Yeah, of course, I’d love to. Just send me the details.”

“I don’t think I actually got your number earlier,” Namjoon mentioned, scratching the back of his head and outstretching his hand holding his phone. 

“Oh, right, that would probably help,” you smiled, taking it and entering your number. You handed it back to him, smiling, but noticed the troubled expression on his fact, looking just beside you. 

Yoongi had stiffened next to you and you had been so absorbed in your conversation with Namjoon that you hadn’t noticed, or noticed the fact that Seokjin was gone now, talking to some other old businessman at another table. 

“Have you two gotten close,” Yoongi asked, though he didn’t really sound like he was looking for an answer, with gritted teeth and his hand pushing into your back. 

“Oh, um, we met at the art show earlier,” you said, looking at Namjoon to continue your thought. 

“Ah, yeah, we ended up walking around together and we became friends,” Namjoon laughed, though it seemed a little stilted, “Your wife’s really nice, hyung.”

“Thanks,” Yoongi said curtly, before releasing you and stepping away, “I have to go speak to a couple other people. Could you keep an eye on her, Namjoon?”

The question made you gawk, feeling anger rise from your trembling fingers. You didn’t need someone to keep an eye on you, you were a grown woman, for God’s sake. You moved to retort Yoongi’s absurd request but he was already walking away. What even was that? Why was he being so weird? Maybe his niceness earlier was just a fluke. Turning to Namjoon in a huff, you took in his sheepish smile. 

“I don’t really think you need babysitting, but I would like to talk more,” he offered kindly, making you release a breath and smile in return. 

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” you agreed, following him to a nearby table where you spent the rest of the evening. The conversation was pleasant, almost making you forget Yoongi’s odd behavior, but your anger for him had only simmered. He had no right to act like you weren’t your own agent, no right to treat you like a child. His earlier pleasant interactions with you and electric contact against your back left you even more confused, only adding to your anger. His moodswings were beginning to give you whiplash. 

You tried your best to focus in on your conversation with Namjoon for the rest of the night but you found your gaze drifting back to Yoongi. He was speaking with other men your father’s age, shaking hands and exchanging practiced polite smiles. He looked tired. 

But what did you care? You shouldn’t care, he had been so rude earlier, but you knew you couldn’t help it. Maybe you’d ask Mrs. Lim to make his favorite meal on Monday when she came back. 

The rest of the evening carried on uneventfully, with you and Namjoon making countless plans for shopping outings and art shows galore. He’d even managed to score tickets to an evening historical art museum tour, something you’d been wanting to attend for a while. Eventually, he had to leave, though, citing an early morning the next day, and hugged you goodbye. As he was doing so, he whispered in your ear, “I saw you put on the ring, I’m glad.” 

His hot breath on your ear made your brain stutter but you mumbled out an acknowledgement, and he soon released you, waving goodbye as he walked toward the exit. The rest of the attendees were beginning to leave too, signalling the beginning of the end of the night. You sat glumly at your table, noting that Joohee had already left, having had a quiet argument with her mother that caused her to storm out. 

You brought out your phone, making sure to message her asking if she was alright. Feeling a tap on your shoulder, you looked up to see Yoongi staring down on you with an impassive expression.

“Are you ready to go?”

You neglected to respond, still feeling upset with his earlier words, and simply stood, waiting to be led to the car. Yoongi obliged, not flinching at your cold demeanor, and you both soon entered the car, riding home in silence. 

During the drive home, your mind swirled with all sorts of questions regarding Yoongi’s behavior. His actions would likely point to jealousy surrounding Namjoon, but how did that make any sense? How could Yoongi harbor affection for you if he barely knew you? Especially if he seemed so opposed to the idea as well. 

You like Yoongi even though you barely know him.

Your mouth upturned at the unwelcome thought. That wasn’t a fair comparison, you didn’t outwardly show any jealousy toward Yoongi’s other conquests. And there wasn’t even anything between you and Namjoon to begin with. 

Well, mostly. You couldn’t deny the excitement you had when you saw him in the hall or the way you enjoyed speaking with him about everything and nothing throughout the art show and gala. But you weren’t going to think about that too hard right now. 

The only logical conclusion you could draw was that your close friendship with Namjoon made him uncomfortable. He did say that he didn’t want you to mix personal lives at all. You almost empathized with that before remembering his condescending words earlier that evening, making anger surge through your blood once more. 

Well, Yoongi could suck it. He didn’t get to dictate who you became friends with and he didn’t have any claim over his own friends, making them off-limits. You weren’t responsible for dealing with his childish feelings and immature attitude. That was all up to him. 

It’s his problem to figure out why he’s acting so bizarrely. 

Why was Yoongi acting so bizarrely? 

He couldn’t understand. Why did he feel so possessive over you? It’s not like he felt any romantic attraction, he was the one to set the open relationship boundary after all. Why did it bother him so much that you were evidently so close to Namjoon now? 

He breathed out a sigh, sitting idly in his studio upstairs, tired from the gala. Namjoon was one of his closest friends, they made music they’d never release together. He shouldn’t be upset that you’re becoming friends with him. He knew this rationally, but why did it still make him so uncomfortable?

As Yoongi leaned back in his chair, head upturned to the ceiling and eyes closed, his mind wandered to the few times he’d seen you in his home since the wedding. The morning after, you’d looked stunning, coming downstairs in nothing but the same shirt and shorts he’d seen you in the night prior, the cold air making him realize you weren’t wearing a bra. He’d averted his eyes at that point, feeling like he was encroaching on your privacy, even though you were in his kitchen. 

Watching you realize your own attire and scramble upstairs to change had been cute, but Yoongi hadn’t wanted to entertain that thought. Either way, it was quickly replaced by the way your body felt against his as he reached above you for a mug. He couldn’t erase the sensation of your soft curves against his front from his mind. 

When he’d arrived home in the middle of you redecorating, he wasn’t sure why he’d offered his help. Maybe he wanted to get a glimpse into your room, grasping at a chance to see your personality transferred to the decorations adorning your bedroom walls. He’d been surprised by how much he’d liked the cutesy embellishments you’d added, finding that the surprising duality suited you. You were so often carefully neutral in your expressions and words and seeing your personal taste being so pretty and pleasant was charming. 

Later that night, he was surprised to see your bedroom light still on at the late hour when he’d left his room to get water. He peeked inside, seeing you lying on the floor in a mess of bolts, evidently trying to finish the last plank on your desk that was set up against the wall. The sight of you spread out so comfortably on the floor, hair strewn around your head almost framing your face like a halo, and your mouth partially open, letting out soft snores made him smile. He entered your room as quietly as he could, gently lifting you onto your bed and tucking you in, not even stirring you in your deep sleep. 

He was about to leave when he stepped on a screw, making him flinch and look at the mess of things still left to do. If he’d finished up your desk and set up your TV, it was because he couldn’t stand a mess, not for any other reason. Not that you seemed to know based on your demeanor the next morning. 

You’d looked adorable, coming down the stairs in rumpled clothing and tangled hair, your shirt’s neck slipping down your shoulder. But, he’d kept that thought to himself, behind pursed lips. You’d looked equally as beautiful in your cute brown dress that you’d worn to the art show, making him frown at his memory of being unable to tell you so. 

Well, why should he? He’d been the one to separate you two so blatantly, after all. He shouldn’t give you mixed signals. 

The thoughts of you in your loose and tight clothing, the image of you coming down the stairs in the silk dress that draped perfectly over your curves, and the tantalizing feeling of your skip against his palm had him leaning further back into his chair. 

Maybe he was just horny.

Yoongi sat up, all of a sudden. That was totally it! He’s just distracted by you because he hasn’t been laid in a while. That had to be it. It couldn’t be anything else, he wouldn’t allow it to be. 

Yoongi grinned, an easy smile taking over his face. Why was he so worried, the answer had been so simple. All he had to do was find a quick one night stand and his problems would be solved. 

His grin faltered. Probably, his problems would probably be solved. He didn’t want to consider what it meant if they weren’t.

previous / masterlist / next

[prodagustd]

the road not taken 04 | myg

part four: a wish

Summary: Were you about to go crazy if you started to consider that Yoongi felt something for you?

<part three | part five>

—pairing: lawyer!yoongi x actress!oc

—rating: +18

—genre: brother's best friend, one sided pinning (or both?)

—warnings/tags: slow burn, angst, FLUFF ❤️‍🩹, eventual smut, angst, sexual tension!!!!! flashbacks, ANGST!! mentions of sex 👀Btw english is not my first language!

—words: 9.6k

—a/note: hiiii friends!!! i'm glad to say that it didn't take me six months to post this :D. I genuinely went through the most stressful two months of my life so I'm really proud that I could finish this chapter while trying to survive this thing called being an adult!! Anywayy, I’m excited for this chapter but I’m MORE EXCITED FOR THE NEXT ONE… 👀 so please have patience with this story!!! I promise it’s worth it hehehe. As always, you are more than invited to discuss this chapter in the asks, feedback is always welcomed <3 this one is very fluffy i hope you enjoy ittt. (Also if you read a typo, no you didn’t)

series masterlist | teaser | playlist

Four years ago

Seven days before New Year’s Eve

Were you too naive to still believe your father when he said that you were granted a wish every Christmas? He used to say that every year when he was still around and you were still a kid, when the clock struck twelve you could wish anything you wanted, as long as it wasn’t something material or more presents, you had to wish for something special, something that made you happy. 

The last Christmas before your father passed away you were seven years old and still believed in Santa Claus. That year, for some reason, your wish slipped your mind, you forgot about it completely. You stayed at your house, watched movies the whole day in your pajamas and at midnight your parents let both you and Simon open only one present before sending you to bed. You remembered how your father chased you to the stairs to tickle you until you cried of laughter and how good the cookies your mother made that night were, perhaps that year you were too happy to remember making a wish, perhaps what you had was enough. When you woke up the next morning, you were sad that you had wasted it, but your father, wise as ever, told you not to worry. He said that it was like you were saving your wish for the next year — maybe then it would be stronger, and maybe, since you waited, you would have a better chance of it coming true.

By the time Christmas came the following year your father was already gone, and with him all the magic of the world. You had to grow up, you stopped making wishes and tried to stop believing in stories, but it was difficult when his words were still at the back of your mind like some sort of tradition every holiday season. Despite knowing that magic didn’t exist and perhaps not a single wish of yours had ever come true, you still couldn't help but believe you still had your last wish, and everytime the idea of finally making it crossed your mind, you stopped to tell yourself you could still wait another year, just to be sure. 

That morning you saw Yoongi leaned over his car, adjusting his cap as he saw you walking over to him and you thought about your saved wish for the first time this year. And then again when he grabbed your hand to drag you out of the room, or when he waited for you at the bottom of the stairs before leaving the house, but you wouldn’t admit it, not even to yourself. 

He dragged you all across your grandmother’s hometown as if you didn’t know it like the palm of your hand, as if the streets weren’t filled with kids running and whole families doing last-minute gift shopping, but he didn’t seem to care, so for once, you didn’t let it annoy you either. You observed the happy families and the kids playing in the snow, and sat in the park for as long as the cold weather allowed.

It was like you entered a trance, you tried to fight the urge to snap out of the moment and talked and talked the whole afternoon about everything and nothing at the same time, Yoongi listened and laughed while playing with the ends of your hair, pushing you closer to the edge of illusion. If you weren’t so adamant to stay in that blurry haze, you would’ve done something to stop him, you would’ve push his hand away when he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, you would’ve hated how easy it was for him to play dumb, how natural it was to touch you without feeling something was wrong. You ignored it instead, you ignored him and his wandering hands and the fact that he didn’t dare to mention the moment you shared in the closet, nor the way your noses brushed together, or how his fingers hugged your waist as if you weren’t just friends. Even if you would’ve died for him to say a word about it, to tease you, to attempt to make fun of you just to know that what happened was real and not something you dreamt last night.

If you were really dreaming, you held on to your sleep for a while. When Yoongi found that secondhand bookstore five blocks away from the park, he grabbed your hand when you ran across the street before the traffic lights turned green and stayed inside wandering the aisles with him, you let him lean over to whisper jokes in your ear and you punched his arms when he made you laugh a little bit too loud. You tried to keep your voices low and made a list of books to read the following year. You didn’t buy any of them but you read the prologues and the author’s biographies like it was the most interesting thing in the world. You waited for Yoongi when he started to talk with an old man about a book he needed for college and, when he felt you drifting away, he hooked one of his fingers on the belt loop of your jeans and pulled you close to him again. You felt his hands on your waist, keeping you pressed against the side of your body while he pretended to be focused on the conversation, but he was focused on something else. His long fingers played with the waistband of your jeans as your chest felt tight and your breath felt heavier. Maybe you were beginning to go insane, maybe you had a fever and everything was just a product of your imagination, but a tiny voice inside your head quietly suggested that maybe this time you weren’t insane, maybe it was just him.

It was getting dark outside, and you were supposed to be home anytime soon, but he turned his head to you and whispered in your ear that you should save a seat at the coffee shop next door and wait for him while he paid for the book. Even if it was cold and snowing neither of you wanted to return home yet, so you agreed. You made your way to the cute little coffee shop adorned with Christmas lights and sat on a table to wait for him to arrive at the table, until you saw him entering the shop with a book wrapped in brown wrapping paper in his hands. 

You observed him approaching with your face on the palms of your hands, you watched his eyes scanning the place until they found you in some poor illuminated corner. He smiled, his eyes never left yours as he made his way to your table, and when he sat in front of you, he slid the book towards you. 

“This is for you.” He simply said, crossing his arms over his chest like it was no big deal. 

You frowned, confused. Did Yoongi get you some lawyer book? You didn’t know, you grabbed the wrapped book in your hands and scanned it as if you were able to see through the envelope. “The book you needed for college?”

“It’s not that.” He huffed. “It’s a present.” 

You tried to bite back a smile, but you failed. “Is this your way to tell me you forgot to buy me a Christmas present?” You joked, making him roll his eyes. 

“C’mon, you know me.” He said “I would never give you a Christmas present before Christmas, are you crazy?”

You laughed “So is this not a Christmas present?” You inquired, teasing him. 

“It is a Christmas present, but not the Christmas present that I got for you.” He tried to clarify, and it sounded confusing but you understood him anyway. 

You nodded, tearing the wrapping paper to reveal that Yoongi just bought you an Anne Sexton poetry book, the title “Love Poems” shinned in red on the cover, making you hold your breath for a second. 

You raised your gaze from the book to find his eyes, which were looking at you expectantly, the same way someone looked at the moon, yearning. The same way you were looking at him. 

“How did you know…?” The question died in your lips.

“I just know.” He cheekily said, and that was enough.

You know me, he said, and you felt your heart aching when you realized that Yoongi knew you too, and it was becoming impossible to escape from it.

You spent these past weeks trying to make it disappear, but there it was again, that strange feeling you felt in your chest, like something tugged from a string tied to your heart to try and steal it away. You were sure Yoongi thought he had his ways with you, that he was some kind of genius that knew exactly what to say and what to do to erase the frown from your face and make you laugh, but the truth was that he didn’t need to do much effort to win you over, the truth was that he already had you. He had you then, and he had you now and you weren’t sure if that was ever going to change, but today you didn’t care, you let him walk you home as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders like that warm wouldn’t chill you to the bone when he left. 

You had successfully gone through dinner without having to answer questions about college, or your future, or anything about yourself at all, part of it was because your grandmother didn’t ask any questions to begin with. Maybe you were a bit jealous that she seemed more interested in Eva, your cousin, who was a biochemist and just got engaged, or Aidan, your other cousin, who was just admitted into college, or even Yoongi, who was about to graduate, however, you felt relieved that the attention was not focused on you. You were used to your family thinking that you were a thirteen year old teenager and not a twenty one year adult, the attention was never really on you, sometimes it bounced on you accidentally like a ball and, from time to time, you got to share a glimpse of information about your life, but most of the time your mother answered for you as if you were a kid in the hospital room, trying to include you in conversations and talking about your own projects, and that was enough for everyone. 

In the past, your mother had sat you down several times to explain that your grandmother was never an easy woman, she reassured you that her judgmental behavior was a reflection of herself, not of you. She always offered to let you stay at home if you wanted to, but you refused only for the rest of the family, you could stand being with your grandmother if that meant being with the rest of them. And you learnt to endure it all: your grandmother’s judging look, all the talking about your cousin’s achievements, their goals, projects, flawless record, and the fact that everyone seemed to be finding their paths except for you. You had to learn to pretend you were happy for them and not jealous, you took several breaths and moved on, and for a while you thought that after two decades of your life you had finally mastered the art in not giving a fuck about what your family thought about you, until today when you ran to hide in the closet so they wouldn’t find you. 

You had to work on that, you knew that, but at least for now the blatant disinterest for your life spared you from having to explain your life crisis, at least Yoongi was by your side, redirecting attention to him and the real question everyone wanted to ask but no one dared, a question that eclipsed any other topic of conversation: what was happening between the two of you? 

You looked at him next to you, charming as ever, talking with your uncle across the table. He decided to put on his glasses, his cheeks were pink and the sleeves of his blue sweater were rolled up to his elbows, his arm was casually resting on the top rail of your chair and every time he made a joke he looked at you to check if you were laughing. Every attempt he made to try to make you part of the conversation made your heart swell, but you were more than happy just observing him blending into your family as if he were part of it; you wanted to be as clueless as everyone on the table and believe that Yoongi could be sitting next year at this very same table to be there for you, for a moment you allowed yourself to dream of a reality where he saved you from every family gathering like he was doing tonight.

From the tip of your nose to the tip of your toes you felt warm, almost as if you had a fever. It was probably because you were still wearing your black sweater inside the house or because the memory of the book Yoongi gave you kept your cheeks burning red, or maybe because when dinner was over and your family lingered over the table for the longest time they could, you saw Yoongi tilting his head towards the stairs, meaning it was time to go to bed. 

There was a couple differences between this weekend and the night Yoongi slept with you after coming back from The Alley, that night you wouldn’t have ask him to stay over if you were sober, and he most likely wouldn’t have stay if he wasn’t high, tonight you had to share the room, but it was impossible for you not to be dramatic and always make big deals out of small things. Unlike you, Yoongi didn’t flinch when you told him you were going to sleep in the same room, you failed to remember that you were the one who had a decade-long crush on him and not the other way around.

Now the house was quiet and everyone was scattered around the floors, your cousins were in the living room with your uncle, your grandmother was already in bed, your mom was in the kitchen washing the dishes and Yoongi was upstairs, waiting for you. Before going with him, you changed into your pajamas and went to the kitchen to steal a few cookies that your mother cooked for tomorrow morning. You could wait a few hours more to eat the cookies, but you were desperately trying to look for an excuse to prolong the moment you entered the room you were sharing with the man upstairs. 

You entered the kitchen, making your mother turn around from the sink to take a quick look at you before coming back to the dishes. “Are you already going to sleep?” She asked, a curious tone on her voice. 

“Yeah, but I wanted to grab a few cookies first, is that okay?” You inquired, already opening the cabinet above her head to grab a big plate.

“Just a few, remember they’re for everyone.” She warned, and you hummed in response, knowing that you were going to grab more than just a few. 

The room fell silent for a moment, you heard the water running and your dragging feet making their way to the cookies on the counter before she raised her voice again. “Are they for you and Yoongi?” 

You hummed again “Yes, just a few, I promise.” You said, grabbing what it seemed to be a whole batch of cookies to put on the plate. 

You tried to be quick, putting an extra cookie for the road between your teeth and turning around to escape from your mother before she could see you and scold you for stealing way too many cookies. Trying not to make any noise, as if that could make you invisible, you made your way towards the door to escape, but when you thought you were about to succeed, you heard the nickname your mom used for you from the corner of the room, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Wait, darling.” You heard her tone of voice, surprised that it wasn’t annoyed, but rather motherly. 

You turned around slowly with your guard up, as if in that way she wouldn’t notice the cookie between your teeth. You took it out of your mouth, hiding it behind your back.

“Yes?” You answered, remaining calm. You would not give yourself away when you already made this far. 

She closed the faucet, turning around to face you. Her eyes fell upon you, offering you an apologetic smile, which was weird, it was the kind of smile she gave you when she knew she was about to upset you. It wasn’t the kind of face someone who was about to scold you would make, she looked hesitant, almost worried. 

“I wanted to-... I mean, I wanted to ask you about something.” She said, stumbling with her own words. Her eyes were not focused on the plate on your hands, not even in your face completely, like she was trying to avoid your eyes. You felt a rush of nervousness running down your body and quickly dissipating, you didn’t know why. 

“About what?” You inquired, wiping the crumbs from your mouth. 

She sighed, playing with the towel in her hands to keep her hands busy. “I know you don’t want me to be all over your business, and I’m aware you are not a teenager anymore, but I can’t help worrying a little bit.” She explained, or at least she tried.

You frowned, more confused than ever. The conversation seemed to be taking a completely different path than you thought five seconds ago. 

“What do you mean, mom?” You said, taking a step forward, what did this have to do with the cookies?

Your mom pursed her lips, hesitating for a microsecond until the words finally came out of her mouth. “You are already a woman, darling, so I wanted to know if you are… cautious.” She pronounced, making emphasis on the last word and letting it sink in the air, but you still didn’t understand what she was talking about. 

“Cautious with what?” You must've looked like a total fool, asking once again what she meant, but your mother seemed to want you to understand without having to explain. 

She shifted in her place and you saw a flash of embarrassment in her eyes, but it quickly disappeared. “With Yoongi, I mean.” She said, making the name resonate in your ears “I know you’re both adults and you can do whatever you want, but I wanted to make sure that you are using protection.”

The realization fell upon you like a ton of bricks, each word she uttered felt like a different punch to your stomach. You opened your eyes widely, almost choking with your own spit.  “What? No, mom-” You wanted to interrupt her, but she was quick to talk over you. 

“I just want to make sure!” She said like she was apologizing “I don’t mean to be invasive, but it’s important to me that you’re being safe.”

You winced, feeling your face burning as you began stuttering “Me and Yoongi…-We are not, I mean-”

“Honey,” She stopped you, looking at you like she was a sex education teacher trying to explain why you should use protection. “I was not born yesterday, I see things happening, and believe me, I have no problem with you sharing a room, but I can’t help but ask.”

You were left completely speechless, and her constant interruptions while you were trying to finish a sentence were not helping. You racked your brain to find a logical explanation, but you were incapable of forming a decent sentence when she was looking at you like she was a doctor. The fact that your mother thought that you and Yoongi were having sex made your stomach squirm, and how she stated that it was obvious left your head spinning. Did she see you today in that closet and immediately assumed you were… fucking? God, that sounded so bad, so incredibly embarrassing. You still felt yourself blushing when you thought about that moment, you couldn’t even fathom the idea of seeing him without a shirt, less alone having sex with him.

“Mom, please. You don’t have to worry, really.” You tried to explain, but that was not enough to leave your mother content, by the look on her face you knew she didn’t believe you one bit. 

“I know I don’t have to worry!” She defended herself “Yoongi is a great boy, and I trust you… But you know, if things get a bit too frisky...” 

You closed your eyes shut, trying not to picture that in your mind, “God, mom, don’t use that word!” 

“Sorry! I mean… You know what I mean! I hope you’re using protection, no matter the circumstances.” 

You took a deep breath, ninety percent sure you were about to die of embarrassment, but with your last breath you made sure to be clear with your mom so tonight she would sleep peacefully “Believe me, mom. You don’t have to worry, nothing happened between Yoongi and me, I mean it.”

You could see it in her eyes, she was not convinced, and she was right to be so. That was a lie, and she knew it. What happened today was not “nothing”, and your mother knowing that only made your cheeks burn.

“Fine.” She said, struggling to let the conversation go “But if something does happen… Be safe, okay?”

You nodded repeatedly, trying to end the conversation as soon as possible. “Yes, of course.” You promised, but the idea of that ever happening sent a chill down your spine, you tried to shake that thought as far away as you possibly could. 

Your mom smiled and you took it as your cue to go. You tried to walk away, but before you reached the door, she spoke again. 

“And darling?” She said, making you turn around to see her. “I know you don’t like coming here without your brother, so thank you for coming anyway.”

“It’s fine, mom.” You said, and it was true. “At least Yoongi made up for it.”

She smirked, suppressing a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure.”

You rolled your eyes, in disbelief. “Yup, I’m going now, goodnight!” You said, finally escaping from the conversation. You heard your mom’s laugh in the distance as you closed the door behind you to run upstairs. 

Present

When you visited Simon’s apartment for the first time you could clearly notice it was a boy’s apartment from the lack of decoration, the lack of food in the fridge and the amount of boxes still unpacked weeks after moving in, but after you entered through the door tonight you saw a completely different version of it. It was a part of him that you missed out when you were gone, now there were plants on the living room and traces of Florence all over the place, like her purple slippers on the door and the purple toothbrush on the bathroom, her scrunchies on the entryway table and the framed picture of her beside them. You found it endearing, it was like a secret world made just for the two of them, a proper home. 

“When is Florence coming back?” You asked, leaving your bag on the couch. 

Simon took off his shoes, wandering through his house as he turned all the lights on “On Monday.” He replied.

You made a mental note to leave on Monday, even if Simon repeated a thousand times that it was okay for you to stay there on the way here, you didn’t want to intrude in his life. Instead you decided it would be easier to intrude in Minnie’s life, who’s apartment was big enough for the two of you, the only person she shared her apartment with was not an actual person, it was just her orange cat. 

 “I was supposed to go with her.” Your brother kept talking “But me and Yoongi are behind on some work and I had to stay… Well, I’m the one who’s behind, really. Yoongi is just helping me.”

You did not forget that Simon and Yoongi worked together at the same law firm downtown ever since they graduated. You knew that Yoongi got the job as soon as he graduated and then he was followed by your brother, after years it was still impossible to keep them apart, which had become a problem for you. 

You nodded but didn’t say anything about it, you reasoned that Yoongi was still working before arriving at your house, that explained the clothes, the shoes and the messy hair. You sighed just by thinking about it, at least dinner was over, at least your first encounter with Yoongi after four years wasn’t the worst thing that happened tonight. 

It was impossible, but you tried not to think about it too much. Yoongi’s presence was some kind of collateral effect that came with your life, it was too late to detach him from it, but you still tried to run away from it for years and years, only to come back and still find him here, talking to you like nothing ever happened, like you were still friends. 

Yoongi and you were always on different stages of your life, on different places, on different paths, but you seemed to agree on one thing: keep everything secret, no one needed to know what happened between the two of you, that was why Simon was always talking about Yoongi when you called him, that was why he couldn’t stop talking about it him now, he didn’t realize that you didn’t want to know anything about his best friend, you could never told him why.

You followed your brother to his guest room as he talked and talked about how smart Yoongi was and how he was capable of taking so many different cases and not dying in the process, how nice it was to work with his best friend and blablabla. You swore that if you heard the name one more time you would explode, so you decided to drastically change the subject of the conversation, you were willing to say anything to take his name out of your brother’s mouth. It took a second, but when the room fell silent, you looked at your feet, a bit unsure, gathering enough courage to finally say what you’ve been meaning to tell him since you arrived home.

“I’m sorry for not telling you about the proposal.” You softly spoke, and Simon, who was looking for a blanket in the closet in the corner of the room, turned his head to look at you. “I wanted to tell you in person, but I wasn’t planning for that article to come out, I didn’t want the whole world to know.”

Simon left the blanket on the bed, turning his body to look at you more clearly. “Mom told me that you think Ian leaked the news” He mentioned, and you nodded, at the risk of looking crazy. 

“Sally suggested it.” You confirmed, sitting on the bed “And if he didn’t, he’s fine with it anyway. He doesn’t care if people see me as this bitch who broke his heart, I might as well be.” 

He looked at the wall behind you, confused. “I think I missed a chapter here.” He said, sitting on the edge of the bed “Maybe more than one. Weren’t you in love with him?”

You wanted to grab a pillow, bury your face on it and scream as loud as you could, but for the sake of looking like a sane person you contained yourself. “I thought I was.” You said sincerely. you believed there was a time when you were sure you were in love with Ian, there were moments you thought that the good things about him could outweigh the bad things, but deep down you knew that if you were really in love you wouldn’t have to do all that math, you wouldn’t have to fight to ignore his arrogance and his big ego. 

“And when did you realize that you weren’t?” He continued to ask “Or when did you realize he was a jerk?”

You scoffed, bitterly. “I guess I always knew both, I tried to make it work regardless. I enjoyed being with him for some time, but then he planned an engagement party full of people I didn’t even know. He didn’t care to call any of you and expected me to say yes… Does that say more about him or me?”

He kept quiet, not knowing what to say, but you already knew the answer. 

“Ian was an asshole, kid. He was jealous of you, of your family, of your job, none of us understood why you were with him.” 

“That was not what I asked.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Ian was a prick, I get it, but I wasn’t much better either.”

“You can’t make me think you deserve each other, are you kidding?” He said. 

“I can’t blame him for everything, I made my own bed.” You huffed “I was terrible and it took me almost four years to snap out of it, that was not his fault.” 

“You are right, but you’re here now, aren’t you?” He reminded you, calmly. “Isn’t that what’s important?” 

You began to become exasperated “C’mon, Simon, don’t try to be nice, you’re supposed to be mad at me.” 

“I am mad at you.” He corrected you, sending a chill down your spine “You’re working all the time, you never call, never text back, we barely see you and the only way to know about your life is when we read some article saying you broke up with your boyfriend because he proposed to you, are you kidding? Of course I am mad, but because I miss you.”

You felt a wave of regret hitting all your senses, suddenly your eyes were burning with tears and you are not supposed to cry, you knew that, but the single tear that slid down your cheek was quicker than any thought that could cross your mind. Somehow, you wished your family hadn't noticed how absent you'd been these past few years, that they just shrugged and said “that’s just her” and forgot about it, it was not necessary to look at Simon’s face to know that he couldn’t just forget about it. He loved you, your mother loved you too, you didn’t have a family that you would want to run away from, but you did it anyway,

“I’m sorry…” You murmured, looking at him with eyes full of regret. “It wasn’t you, it wasn’t any of you, it was me. I was so angry when I left, I didn’t know how to handle it.”

You wouldn’t trade your career for anything, it was one of those few things that made you happy, but after years of trying to convince yourself that every decision you made for the last few years was the right choice, this was the first time that you admitted that maybe you weren’t thinking clearly when you decided to move to the city and never look back. 

Simon frowned, thinking about it twice before asking “Were you angry, bug?”

You tilted your head, giving him a sad smile, hoping that it could explain everything.”I was quite angry, yes.” You answered “Not at you, though.” 

“At mom?” 

“Maybe a little bit at mom, yeah.” You laughed, shaking your head. You sighed deeply, letting the silence sit in the room for a moment before you could put in order all the things you wanted to say. “I remember when I told her I left college she looked at me like I finally lost my mind, it was like she saw it coming, you know? Me, again, being lost, it was not a surprise, but rather something she would expect of me. I know she was just worried and I know I can be a lot sometimes, but it hurt anyway. I don't blame anyone, Simon, but all I needed was someone to believe in me and no one did. I had to leave.” Something ached inside your chest because that was not the whole truth, but it was all you could say tonight, you couldn’t say that Yoongi was also one of the reasons. “I’m not trying to justify myself.” You mumbled “I’m just saying that I was so angry that I didn’t realize how many mistakes I made.” 

The silence that took over the room was so strong it made your stomach squirm. You shifted in your place, but Simon stayed there, with his gaze lost somewhere in the room as he processed what you just said. 

“I always believed in you, you know that?” He spoke, causing your head to snap up towards him. “I know a lot of people tried to tell you that you weren’t, but you’ve always been special and I’ve always seen it.” 

“I know you did.” You sighed. “But I was being so stubborn, I walked away and I’m so sorry.”

“I know you think you’re too much, but you’re not.” He continued talking “Maybe mom just wanted everything to be simple, for her kids to go to college, graduate, get a job and a home and never have to worry about whether they are choosing right or wrong ever again. But you’re not simple, bug, you’re extraordinary and talented and too brilliant to stay still, but you’re not too much, not for me.” 

You held back a sob, feeling ridiculous. “I’m sorry.” You said, once again, because you haven’t said it enough times.

“It’s okay now, I mean it.” Simon reached for your hand to squeeze it tightly. 

You sniffed “God, I should be comforting you for being a bad sister, not the other way around” 

“I don’t need to be comforted, I’m okay as long as you’re here.” He tried to cheer you up. “And you were not a bad sister, you were sad and acted shitty.” 

You smiled, because you told Simon that you were angry but instead he heard that you were sad, you didn’t feel like correcting him because he wasn’t so wrong about that. 

“I’m sorry.” You repeated once again like a scratched record, making him laugh. “Are you still mad at me?”

“No.” he replied, “But only if you promise not to disappear again.” 

You raised your hand, extending your pinky finger in front of his face. “I promise you, Simon, I will not disappear again.”

Simon tangled his pinky with yours, making your promise impossible to be broken, and your soul felt at ease for a moment.

“Fine, good enough for me.” he said, throwing himself back onto the bed. “Now I want to hear everything about the proposal, and I want you to describe to me exactly the face he made when you said no.”

You laughed, throwing yourself on the bed the same way he did and tried to summarize the last three years in just one night. Only for today, your body did you a favor and your head stopped spinning at least for now. Something began to feel right.

Four years ago

Seven days before New Year’s Eve

You could hear the radio at the end of the hallway in your grandmother’s room, softly playing jazz to cancel out the outside noise. Not everyone in the house liked the radio, your cousins always said that it was annoying and kept them awake, but it was still one of those old habits of your grandfather that remained in the house even if he was no longer here, so you liked it. The music inevitably seeped under the door of your room, Yoongi hummed some Frank Sinatra song as if he knew the lyrics to it, making you laugh and beg him to stop. 

You know it’s almost midnight, as your roommate just informed you, but you didn’t want to turn the lights off yet. All of the cookies already disappeared from the plate, Yoongi was laying on his side the same way you were and the lamp on the nightstand warmly lighted up his brown eyes, you couldn’t help but feel you were not supposed to be in such presence, his messy hair and the loose white shirt he wore to sleep, his sleepy eyes, his pink lips; it looked just like the kind of view that was bound to haunt you forever. 

The nightstand that separated you was not far enough to stop that pull from the string in your chest, not when he was looking at you like that, his gaze fixated on yours like he didn’t want to leave you awake alone, and neither did you. You felt yourself shaking because, what was the version of you that existed when you were asleep? And what happened inside his head when you were not there? What was happening inside his head right now?

Did you cross his mind the same way he crossed yours? When you finally fell asleep, would he remember that moment in the closet or would it be just water under the bridge? Did he spend every waking second of the last seven hours thinking of that fleeting moment when you could almost feel his lips on yours?

Or was that just you?

The night was fading away, your eyelids were getting heavy but you still couldn’t find the will to sleep. 

“I’m sorry for today.” You almost whispered, gathering enough courage to mention the little accident “I’m sorry for dragging you with me to the closet.”  

He smiled softly, closing his eyes for a second. “It’s okay, it was cozy.” He teased you, making you groan in annoyance. He laughed loudly at your reaction, annoying you even more. “I’m serious, it was okay.” 

“Was it really?” You asked him “Wasn’t I being silly?”

“It's okay being silly sometimes.” He assured you, but that did not ease that anxious feeling in your stomach. He seemed to see it in your face. “What’s wrong with being a little silly? I would’ve run from your grandmother, too.” 

You bitterly laughed, covering your face with the palms of your hands “Stop, I’m being immature.” You groaned “I’ve got to get my shit together.”

“C’mon Pinky, you have to stop with that.” He said. 

“I would if I could.” You remarked.

“Didn’t you say you were going to get your shit together after the holidays?” He reminded you “Why are you worrying right now?”

Yoongi was right, that was the initial plan, but ever since you came back home everything was pointing in different directions and it was beginning to drive you crazy, it was like the universe was forcing you to think about it, it was not letting you run away from it, not even temporarily. First, it was Yoongi, showing up every few days at your doorstep, grabbing your hand, squeezing your legs, whispering things in your ear like he wanted you to go insane, it was Minnie, offering you a job, talking about The Alley, saying you were supposed to be on the big screen, and then it was your mother, expecting you to make up your mind once for all. And still, you had your whole life ahead, why were you worrying right now?

“I don’t know…” You sighed “What if I come back next year and the plan was not good enough? What if I end up hiding again from everyone?”

Yoongi shifted in bed, curious “Do you have a plan, Pinky?” The nickname rolled off his tongue softly, you swimmed in the tenderness of his voice, something about it made you want to tell him everything.

“Not really, I mean… It all sounds so bad.” 

“You have a plan.” He affirmed, smiling “I want to hear it.”

“It’s not a plan.” You contradicted yourself “If it were a plan, it would suck.”

Yoongi hummed “It’s something like a plan, then.”

You scrunched your nose, unsure. “Yeah, but not quite like a plan, something like a…” You said, but the words died on your lips before you got the chance to finish. 

“Something like a dream, then?” He continued to ask, but you shook your head.

“Something close.” You expressed, unable to find the right words to explain your thoughts. You stayed silent for a second, believing he was beginning to lose interest in the topic, until the words slipped past his lips like a spell.

“Something like a wish.” He pronounced, and he was not asking, it was almost like he knew. 

You thought there was not much difference between a dream and a wish, but in this case, there was. 

You smiled at him, nodding, somehow you felt you could trust him with all your secrets “Yes, like a wish.” You affirmed, and it felt like a confession. “I don’t know Yoongi, have you ever stayed up late and planned something but when you woke up next morning you felt it was stupid? Well, I do that every night.”

“I’m sure that whatever it is, it’s not stupid.” He said, making your heart swell.  

“I would like to believe you…” You murmured “Do you have a dream, Yoongi? Something you’re too scared to wish for?”

You could see him think about it for a moment, but his eyes were still connected with yours. Oh, how you wished to be inside his mind right now, read his thoughts, witness his dreams, know all his secrets.

“Yes.” He confirmed, “But I can’t talk about them out loud right now.” 

You laughed, biting your bottom lip. “Okay, fair. What about those you can say out loud?”

“I’m not going to tell you because you’re going to laugh.” He pouted, making you frown. 

“Laugh?” You repeated, sounding more offended than you actually were. “I would never, c’mon.”

He raised an eyebrow, testing you “You sure?”

“Of course, don’t piss me off.” 

“Fine, fine.” He let out a long sigh, believing you. “My wish would be… to stop time for a while. Sometimes I believe I can’t think when time’s running, all I do is study and come home to my mom, there is very little time that I have for myself.”  

You felt your chest tighten, but it didn't surprise you that Yoongi felt this way. He already mentioned to you that, even if taking care of his mother didn’t feel like a burden, he still felt he was missing out on so many things. 

“And what would you do if time stopped right now?” 

Yoongi shifted his eyes for a moment, and you almost missed it but you saw it, the urge to hold back and the words getting stuck on his throat. 

“Mmm…” He hummed, “I’ll go to the beach.”

“In winter?”

“Yes, I wouldn’t care.”

“And where else?” You continued to ask.

“Honestly? I’ll go anywhere but home.” He confessed.

“What’s wrong with home?” You of all people knew exactly what was wrong with home, but you wanted to hear why he thought that. 

“Home it’s okay,” He waved off. “It just feels like I spent my whole life there. I went to college expecting something to change, and a lot of things did but I still feel like something else is supposed to happen, like there's something else for me to see.” 

It was looking in a mirror, it was the same thing you’ve told him a few days ago but in other words, in another tone. Yoongi sounded resigned, like his wish was clearly something that was not meant to happen and he needed to come to terms with it, nothing could ever make you more sad. 

“There’s plenty for you to see, Yoongi, are you kidding?” You chuckled  “You’re twenty five, you’re barely grasping life.” 

He scoffed, bitterly, “It’s not that easy.” 

“Of course it is easy, do you know it’s not necessary to stop time to go to the beach?” 

“I know, Pinky.” He agreed, “But what does it feel like running away?” 

“Running away would be so bad?” You asked, hearing the question echoing in the room, letting you know that maybe it was something you weren’t supposed to wonder out loud. Yoongi didn’t dare to ask such a question, but you seemed determined to make his wish come true, maybe you were the only one who could do it. 

“Don’t ask me.” He said, looking at the ceiling to avoid your gaze.  “Don’t act like running away isn’t your wish as well” 

You snorted, immediately grabbing a pillow and threatening to punch him in the face with it, but Yoongi is quick to cover his face with his arms.

“Don’t!” He protested, laughing.

 “Don’t expose me like that!” You whined, embarrassed. 

“What, am I wrong?” 

“Maybe you’re not…” You dared to answer, leaving the pillow on the bed again “But how do you know?”

“I told you, Pinky.” He murmured “I just know.”

You shook your head in denial, how could it be? Were you really that transparent or Yoongi really just knew? 

“What else do you know?” You continued to ask, curious. 

He pretended to think about it, pouting his lips and looking at the ceiling as if the answers were to fall from the sky. His eyes shifted towards yours, tilting his head “I know that you would run away to the beach with me if I asked you to.” 

A giggle was built in your throat, you laughed nervously as you tried to decipher if he was joking or not, even if Yoongi could see right through you, it was a bit difficult for you to do the same with him. 

“I don’t know about that.” You said, ignoring the way your heart was beating against your ribcage. “Do you mean in… an hypothetical scenario?” 

“It’s a hypothetical proposal.” He answered.

“I’ll have to check my schedule first.” 

A smirk tugged from the corner of his lips. “What about… two weeks away from now?”

You did the calculation in your head, but you already knew that by then Yoongi would have to go back to class, so you doubted. “What about the semester?” You asked, trying to be the voice of reason. “Your last semester, might I add.”

“That could wait.” He did not hesitate “Isn’t it part of running away? Leaving things behind?”

You laughed “And what would people say about me, then? That I made you leave college, nuh-hu.” 

“Here we go again with that.” He rolled his eyes “I don’t care what people say and, besides, I’m not leaving college, I’m… postponing it.” 

That didn’t sound like the Yoongi you knew at all, but then again, this whole conversation didn’t sound like anything Yoongi from the past would say. A thousand questions crossed your mind, like what do you do on the beach in winter? Wouldn’t being alone be a problem? What are you going to talk about, where are you going to stay? If you say yes, would he grab your hand when you crossed the street, would he try to kiss you again? 

You crossed your arms, thinking about it, not daring to agree right away, but how could you say no? When he was looking at you, convinced that you would say yes. 

You opened your mouth, not sure what you were going to say but still ready to answer, and before you could utter a word, he interrupted you. “Run away with me to the beach, Pinky.” He asked in a soft tone, looking at you with warm eyes and warm words, making your heart shake violently in your chest “Only for now, I promise I’ll make it worth it.”

You smiled, ignoring that little person inside you that tried to warn you about something, but you weren’t sure about what because all you could feel was your heart racing. “Fine, I’ll follow you for now.” You simply said, trying to sound as cool as possible “Let’s run.” 

In that moment you forgot about years and years of disappointment and failed dreams, failed wishes, you ignored the reality, deciding everything was false and true at the same time. You didn’t need to look at the clock to know that it was midnight, something inside your chest sparkled and told you it was time to make your wish, and for some reason, you listened. It echoed in every corner of your mind, your wish was the beach in winter. 

Four days before New Year’s Eve

Two weeks ago, when you bought Yoongi’s Christmas gift, you thought about it like a farewell. You stood in the shop and talked to the tall man with the long face and chose the gift as you tried to convince yourself this was a way of saying goodbye to him. 

That Christmas morning Yoongi tore the brown wrapping paper and opened the long box to find that you decided to give him a red tie. It wasn’t bright red, it was deep dark red, red like a rose. It came with a notebook and a pen with his initials on them. In your mind, you were giving away that version of him that lived in your head and clung to your thoughts and clung to your heart, that version of him you could never let go. Yoongi was about to graduate, he was about to become officially a lawyer, an adult, a man, he wasn’t that boy you fell in love with years ago, he was a wish you had to let in the past and your gift was just a way to remind you of it. You had a purpose, a plan, you had everything figured out until he decided to ask you to run away with him, until you said yes.

His gifts for you were a vinyl copy of Is This It by The Strokes, two tickets to watch When Harry Met Sally at the Alley the following week and a pair of red gloves for the rest of the winter. 

Yoongi looked at you and smiled like you both knew something everyone else in the room didn’t. “The gloves match with the tie.” He had said.

So now you had no plan, what you did have though, was a bunch of pictures of several locations Yoongi thought of booking for your trip to the beach. You were doomed. 

You thought the only person in this town who could possibly understand what you were going through was Minnie, the only person in the world who knew about your feelings for Yoongi, and the only person who you could call a friend at the moment. 

You weren’t expecting to see Minnie again when you saw her at The Alley a few weeks ago, but she had different plans; it was like she forced you to be her friend again. You tried to stop thinking you didn’t deserve it, you had to swallow your guilt and accept her friendship, and after a few five hour calls filled with gossip, you ultimately decided not to be against it, even if she called you everyday and still talked nonstop about that audition in the city, talking with her felt like you were still fifteen, and you liked it.

That night, as she raided her closet looking for a dress for you to wear at the New Year’s party at The Alley, you sat on her bed and gave her a run down of everything that happened with Yoongi since you came back home, it didn’t take her much to get you to admit that you were still in love with your brother’s best friend, so you might as well be honest and tell her everything. 

“You’re being stupid right now, sweetheart.” You heard her muffled voice from inside her closet. The next thing you saw was a piece of fabric flying in the air and landing at your feet. You grabbed it, putting in front of you to reveal a short pink dress that you would never, ever wear. 

You snorted, leaving the dress on the pile of clothes that you already rejected. You seemed to forget that Minnie was not the most adequate person to talk about “boy stuff”, perhaps because she was way too honest. You didn’t know whether it was a mistake or not to tell her about the trip to the beach, because all the questions she was asking and all the things she was stating to be true were thoughts you were desperately trying to avoid. 

“He wants to fuck you, I don’t know how else to tell you this.” She said, walking over the clothes to make her way to you. You threw yourself on the bed, covering your face with your palms “I mean, I wish I could only tell you that he’s head over heels for you, and honey, that he is, but he also wants to fuck you.”

You groaned, kicking your feet. “God, you make me want to throw up.”

“Of excitement, I’m assuming.” She affirmed “I’m telling you, there’s no way you’re going on a trip alone and come back without having fucked.”

You looked at her, begging her to stop talking, but she was not finished. “Stop!”

“Picture this.” She ignored you, forming a rectangle with her fingers and looking right through it as if she was directing a scene from a movie “First scenario, a storm causes the power to go out, there’s no electricity, you have no way to be warm so you sleep in the same bed to warm up, there’s tension, you look at each other and kiss, you fuck.”

“Okay, I don’t see that happening.” You shook your head. 

“Second scenario, you just finished showering, you go out of the bathroom wearing only a towel because you think he’s not there, but he is! He sees you, you kiss, you fuck.”

“That’s not… That sounds like porn.” 

“Third scenario!” She exclaimed. 

“Fine, that’s enough.” You stopped her, waving your arms in the air. 

“No, you have to prepare! And when it happens you will know that I was right.” Your friend insisted, but you refused to let any of those ideas in your mind. 

“What if you’re not?” You wondered “What if he just wants to be my friend and I’m just imagining everything?”

“But you are not, are you kidding?” She laughed “That man is clearly in love with you, why are you convincing yourself otherwise?”

You felt Minnie’s body sitting right next to you, causing you to sit back on the bed to look at her face to face. You were sure you were about to start crying out of frustration. “I don’t know, what if I get hurt?”

Minnie pursed her lips “Baby, I can’t answer that question at all, but you have to take the chance.” 

You groaned, annoyed. “I don’t want to take the chance.” You whined “I was fine before seeing him again, I wasn’t even thinking of him.”

“That is a lie,” She laughed, mocking you. “We both know you never stopped being in love with him, now you have him in the palm of your hand, do something.” 

Minnie stood up again, looking for another piece of clothing on the floor as you kept silent, wondering if any of that could be possible. Did you really have him in the palm of your hand? Was he in love with you and you were being stupid for believing that he wanted to be just friends?

“What should I do?” You asked her, hoping that the redhead in the room knew all the secrets of the universe. 

“Invite him to the New Year’s party and wear a hot outfit, how about that?” Minnie offered, like that could answer all your prayers. 

“Would that resolve all my problems?” You joked, talking to the sky. 

“C’mon, he literally asked you to run away with him, don’t you find that a little bit hot? Don’t you really think that was not code for ‘I want to fuck you’?” 

You laughed “Yoongi is not like that!” You protested. 

“I hate to break it to you, but you are hot.” She insisted, throwing another piece of clothing at your face. “And if Yoongi is not blind, he knows that, and let’s not forget the most important fact here.” 

“Which is…?”

“He’s in love with you, let’s start wrapping our heads around that.” She simply said “Once that’s done, you invite him to the New Year’s eve party at The Alley, you wear a hot outfit and confront him about it, tell him to stop playing around.”

You grabbed the dress Minnie just threw at you, which was another short dress, but this one was actually cute. It was black and was covered in black sparkly sequins with thin straps, you were definitely going to freeze to death if you wore that, but you were sure this fitted the description of “hot outfit”. 

Minnie was right, you couldn’t keep running away from the facts, everything was laid on the table, you didn’t need more proof to know that Yoongi felt something for you, even if you weren’t sure if it was the same that you felt for him, you needed to gather enough courage to find out what it was. 

You grabbed the phone in your pocket and opened Yoongi’s chat, you decided to invite him to the New Year’s party. 

taglist: @kingofbodyrolls @overtherainbow35 @namin13 @p34rluv @moonchild1 @yoongisoftface @namgihours @idkjustlovingbts @yoongisducky @bangtansmauyeondan @tarahardcore @wobblewobble822 @secfir @ot72025 @baechugff @heroinanne @mortal-body-timelesssoul @hiii-priestess @wii-wii @jungkookies1002 @busanbby-jjk @acquiescence804 @yoongibaybee @hsbongwater

[love--and--venom]

Into the Wonderland: Chapter Five

Summary: You're getting some assignments done ahead of time since your heat is swiftly approaching. Marcus tries to make another move, resulting in a fight between him and Hongjoong.

Warnings (IMPORTANT!): Violence!! Descriptions of injuries, Hongjoong loses his shit, campus security and emts are so tired, hospital, slight description of medical procedure (staples), lots of tears, lots of anger, lots of panic

Series Masterlist

“Korean dialogue” / “English dialogue”

Your nightmares didn’t completely disappear, but they were much less frequent. Having a pack member with you helped you calm down and fall back asleep when you did have one, improving your sleep schedule significantly. Hongjoong still kept a watchful eye on you even if he wasn't the one spending the night with you.

With your heat now only a week away, you completely forgot about Marcus in your rush to turn in assignments ahead of their due dates. You’d have less to worry about when you came back to class that way. You were staying late in the computer lab for the third night in a row, but you needed access to a program you couldn’t download on your laptop. You quietly cheered to yourself after you finally submitted the assignment, leaving only one more easy discussion board post to finish. 

“Oh, shit,” you cursed under your breath when you realized the time. You were supposed to meet Seonghwa and Hongjoong fifteen minutes ago. You hastily shoved your class materials in your backpack, locking the door behind you with a key from your professor. Rough hands ripped your backpack from your shoulders, knocking you off balance. An all-to-familiar scent filled you with panic.

“You made a big fucking mistake, Y/N,” Marcus growled next to your ear. Before you could react, his hand wrapped around your throat to slam you against the wall. The back of your head collided with the sheet rock, blurring your vision and sending a sharp pain through your skull. Your classmate slowly came into focus.

“You think flaunting that shitty little pack bond is gonna keep me from taking you for myself?” He was deranged, pupils blown wide and spit dripping down his chin. 

“Marcus, please stop,” you pushed weakly against his wrist, tears stinging the back of your eyes.

“No! I know you want me! You are mine, omega, and I’ll make sure you forget all about that fucking pack.” His face turned red with the effort of keeping his voice down. He refused to be interrupted again. Your chest heaved, tears now streaming down your cheeks. Your mind was fuzzy from the pain. You couldn’t think straight. All of your thoughts turned to one person, so with every ounce of your strength you clasped both hands over your mating gland and you screamed.

“Hongjoong!”

The lobby of the computer science building was lined with large windows and plush armchairs. Seonghwa relaxed into the leather, scrolling on his phone while he and Hongjoong waited for you to finish in the lab. 

“Sit down, she’ll be out soon.” Seonghwa repeated for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. Hongjoong paced in front of the omega, eyes glued to the door labelled ‘Students and Staff Members ONLY’. 

“She’s late, Seonghwa. She’s never late, not without sending a text.” His fingers flexed by his sides, every nerve in his body on edge. He learned a long time ago to never ignore his instincts. “Something’s wrong.”

“You’re being paranoid,” the elder sighed, sparing the alpha a brief glance. Hongjoong glared at the door, the knot of dread in his stomach growing larger by the second.

“Fuck it,” the alpha stormed through the door, ignoring Seonghwa’s protests. The hallway split into two, forcing Hongjoong to stop. 

“What is wrong with you?!” Seonghwa dug his fingers into the younger man’s shoulder.

“What room did Y/N say she was in?” His eyes flicked from one hall to the other, then to the placard on the wall pointing to different room numbers. 

“I don’t –”

“Hongjoong!” His head snapped to the left, sprinting towards your voice with Seonghwa hot on his heels. Marcus slammed you into the wall again right as you came into view. He couldn’t hold back the growl that ripped from his throat, vision glazing over with red.

“Get the fuck away from her!” With his protective instincts on overdrive, Hongjoong didn’t even feel the sting of his knuckles connecting with Marcus’s cheekbone, knocking him to the floor. Hongjoong sat on his chest, locking his arms to his sides. 

“Were we not fucking obvious enough for you, asshole?” Another hit landed on Marcus’s nose, blood pouring from his nostrils. Hongjoong grinned sadistically at the crunch of cartilage under his fist.

“You couldn’t figure it out by our scents, our clothes, my bite on her neck? Let me spell it out for you.” His hand engulfed Marcus’s forehead, yanking him up just to shove his head into the tile floor, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. 

“She’s fucking taken.”

You collapsed to the floor once Marcus let you go, pulling your knees to your chest. Seonghwa dropped to your side, holding your face in both of his hands. You blinked slowly in an attempt to focus on him.

“Y/N? Baby, can you hear me?” His worried voice pushed past the fog surrounding your brain.

“Seonghwa?” You tipped forward, resting your forehead on the elder’s collarbone. Sobs wracked your body as you clung onto his shirt. He ran a hand through your hair to soothe you, but yanked it back at your yelp and the feeling of something warm and wet on his palm.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa stared in horror at the blood covering his hand. Your blood. The pack alpha was blinded by rage, still not satisfied with the damage done to Marcus’s face. 

“Hongjoong, please forget about him. He doesn’t matter, Y/N is hurt. Hongjoong listen to me, god dammit! Hongjoong! Alpha, please, she’s bleeding.” Seonghwa struggled to fight back the panic bubbling in his stomach, voice growing more desperate the longer he was ignored.

“Hwa ‘m tired,” you mumbled into his chest.

“Nononono, you can’t fall asleep.” He forced you to sit up, gently patting your cheek to bring your gaze back to him. Seonghwa’s eyes darted between you and Hongjoong. “Y/N, I know you’re tired and I know you’re scared, but I need you to do something for me.”

“Hmm?”

“I need you to get Hongjoong’s attention. Say his name, call him alpha, anything to get him to stop.” You looked over at your alpha, confused by the snarl marring his pretty face.

“Hongjoong?” You whimpered at the sharp sting in your head from slightly raising your voice. He froze, fist reared back to strike, his anger clashing with his need to comfort you.

“Yes! That’s it, omega. Keep going, sweet girl,” Seonghwa encouraged, stroking your cheek with his thumb. You took a shaky breath.

“Hongjoong. Alpha, please.” In an instant, your classmate was forgotten, left lying on the floor barely holding onto consciousness. He stole you from Seonghwa’s grasp to pull you onto his lap. 

“You’re okay. I’ve got you, alpha’s got you, it’s okay,” he rambled into the crown of your hair, wrapping you tightly in his arms and pressing you into his chest. Your nails dug into his bicep. 

“She’s hurt.” He muttered, eyes snapping over to Seonghwa, the omega’s earlier words finally sinking in. “You said she’s bleeding, where?”

“The back of her head.” Hongjoong gingerly moved your hair, blanching at the large gash. He frantically searched for something to stop the bleeding, coming up empty. Frustrated, he tore the sleeve from his sweater, folding it in half to hold against the wound. 

“Oh, my god!” An unknown voice shrieked from down the hall. Seonghwa tore his eyes from the man on the ground to see a woman with a hand clutched over her heart. “Oh my god, you assaulted those students!” 

“Ma’am, please,” Seonghwa jumped to his feet, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm. He took note of the staff badge hanging from the woman’s belt loop. “We need you to call the police. Or call campus security and have them contact the police. Security knows the situation between the two students. Please trust me.”

“O-okay,” she hesitantly agreed. “What are their names?” 

“Y/N L/N and Marcus, I don’t know his last name.” The staff member nodded, pulling out her phone and stepping further away from you. Seonghwa’s shoulders deflated. He sat next to you and Hongjoong, running his hand across your lower back. 

“I knew something was wrong,” Hongjoong glowered at his elder. Seonghwa turned a sharp eye to the alpha.

“We are not talking about that right now,” he hissed, voice dropping low in his throat. They stared each other down in a heated silence until movement to their side caught their attention.

“This isn’t done, asshole.” Marcus slurred, spitting out a tooth. He tried to sit up, but flopped onto his back with a groan.

“Shut the fuck up,” Seonghwa and Hongjoong said in unison, the former sounding more tired than angry.

“Security, the police, and EMS are all on their way. I can watch him if you’d like to take her to the lobby,” the staff member offered after returning from her phone call. 

“Thank you,” Seonghwa quickly bowed before trailing after you and Hongjoong. The alpha settled into one of the arm chairs with you in his lap, one hand still holding the sleeve to your head. You looked up at your fellow omega through the tears still clinging to your lashes.

“I don’t want to take an ambulance,” you sniffled, then winced again at the throbbing in the back of your skull. 

“Y/N–”

“I’ll go to the hospital, Hwa, but the sirens will be too loud and the lights will be too bright and, and,” you faltered at the lump growing in your throat. 

“Okay,” Seonghwa caved against your pleading, watery eyes. “I’ll call Yunho so he can come pick us up.” He moved a few feet away, growing impatient at the prolonged dial tone.

“Hey Seonghwa,” Mingi answered for Yunho.

“Where’s Yunho? I need him for something,” he avoided giving away any details. He really didn’t need three pissed off alphas on his hands.

“Uhh, I think he’s in the middle of a Valorant match. Why, what’s up?” Seonghwa rolled his eyes. Of course the only pack member with a license was preoccupied with a video game, of all things.

“Well he needs to turn it off. He needs to come pick us up from Y/N’s campus,” he insisted with a huff.

“Why, Seonghwa? What happened?” Mingi demanded, now on edge from how vague his elder was being.

“Nothing happened.” He was immediately contradicted by your yelp and frantic apologies from Hongjoong. 

“Seonghwa.”

“Get the phone to Yunho, then I’ll tell you.” Mingi grumbled curses under his breath, annoyed by the negotiations. He ripped Yunho’s headphones off.

“Turn the game off, something happened to Y/N.” Any arguments from being interrupted mid-game died in Yunho’s throat. “You’re on speaker.”

“Yunho, you need to come pick us up from the computer science building on campus. Marcus attacked her. She’s bleeding and probably has a concussion,” Seonghwa quickly explained, pulling his phone away from his ear.

“He fucking what?!” Mingi shouted, loud enough that it drew Hongjoong’s attention from several feet away. 

“We’re on our way,” Yunho stated after stealing his phone back. 

“Please don’t bring the whole pack,” Seonghwa pleaded. “She doesn’t need to be crowded right now. Security is here, got to go.” He ended the call without waiting for an answer.

“Okay, what happened?” A very tired man with a “head of security” badge asked, looking between the three of you. Seonghwa stepped forward to recount the attack, seeing as you were fighting to stay awake and Hongjoong was still fuming. A female security guard approached you, keeping a bit of space to avoid agitation. 

“I have gauze, if you’d like to use it for her head instead of a sleeve,” she offered, extending a hand with a small stack of clean gauze. Hongjoong eyed the officer warily, but accepted the offer, dropping the bloody sleeve to the seat next to him. After a few minutes, red and blue flashing lights stung your eyes. You hid in Hongjoong’s neck with a groan. Two pairs of EMTs entered the lobby. The pair with a stretcher were led to Marcus, while the others walked up to examine you.

“She’s not taking an ambulance,” Hongjoong snapped before they even opened their mouths.

“She really–”

“We’re going to the hospital, but we’re using our car.” The EMTs shared a look, one of them sighing heavily.

“Alright. Can I at least check on the wound?” Hongjoong didn’t even try to hide his displeasure, curling his lip back to show his teeth. 

“Hongjoong, he’s just trying to do his job,” you vouched for the poor EMT. 

“Fine.” The EMT pulled on gloves and kneeled behind you while his partner left to help with Marcus after a voice from his radio asked for backup. 

“The bleeding has mostly stopped. It’s not too long, 6 or 7 centimeters from what I can see. They’ll probably staple it shut and check for a concussion at the hospital. Keep the gauze on it.” The EMT stood, grabbing his first aid bag and heading back to the ambulance, passing Mingi and Yunho on his way out. 

“What happened?” Yunho asked as the two of them stormed over to you. He kneeled in front of you while Mingi sat on the arm of the chair directly behind you.

“The officer said Y/N can wait until tomorrow to give her statement due to her injury.” Seonghwa returned from talking to security and a cop. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“He drove fucking fast. I’ve never seen him that reckless, I thought I was gonna puke,” Mingi replied. Yunho shrugged at the flat glare from the omega.

“I was leaving the computer lab and he snuck up on me. It’s kinda fuzzy after I hit my head.” You slowly lifted your head from Hongjoong’s neck, fighting back the dizziness. 

“Hey, don’t push yourself. Keep your head down if you’re not feeling well,” Yunho urged with a hand on your knee. 

“I wanted to see you both.” You twisted around to look up at Mingi. 

“Don’t move around like that, I’m trying to keep the cut covered.” Hongjoong turned you to face forward again. Mingi trailed his hand up your shoulders to rest on the back of your neck. 

“Did he–” All five of you looked at the door that slammed open. The EMTs rolled the stretcher out with Marcus handcuffed to the rail, spewing profanities. Your alphas glared at him. Yunho moved into a crouch with his back to you. Marcus faltered under their intimidating stature, clenching his jaw and averting his eyes to his lap. The three of them felt an animalistic sense of pride and satisfaction at the other alpha’s submission. 

“Serves him fucking right,” Mingi snickered at the blood and bruises covering your classmate’s face.

“He deserves worse,” Yunho clicked his tongue. He turned to you again once the stretcher was out the door. 

“I could have kept going, but she needed me. My omega’s health is more important than that shithead,” Hongjoong sneered. “Besides, killing him would have been too merciful. He can rot in prison.” The taller alphas hummed in agreement. 

“Let’s go, she needs to see a doctor,” Seonghwa ordered, herding the alphas up and out the door with you still in Hongjoong’s arms.

“Should one of us take her?” Mingi asked, pointing to the leader’s hands. “You’re bleeding, too. And your hands are shaking.”

“No.” His voice was strained, face and muscles still tense from the slew of emotions going through his mind. He and Mingi got in the backseat, sitting you between them. The car fell to a heavy silence, only interrupted whenever someone shook you awake. Hongjoong opened the door before Yunho even put the car in park.

“I’m going to call the others. I’ll be in soon. Please behave,” Seonghwa urged the alphas. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep them in check,” Yunho called over his shoulder. They walked through the sliding doors of the ER. You were whisked away in a wheelchair almost immediately for a CT scan. Hongjoong’s leg bounced impatiently while they sat in the waiting room. 

“Mr. Kim?” A nurse announced from the door leading to the patient rooms. He shot out of the chair, looking at her expectantly. “Oh, I’m sorry. Y/N is still being evaluated. You can’t see her yet. I’m bringing you back for your hands. She should be ready by the time you’re done.”

“Fine.”

Out by the car, Seonghwa called Jongho. He was the most reliable in terms of answering phone calls. Honestly, he was surprised that anyone picked up when he called Yunho. 

“I hope you’re calling to explain why Mingi and Yunho left the dorms looking pissed,” Jongho skipped the greeting to get right to the point.

“Yeah, is everyone there?” Seonghwa asked with a sigh, tired and fighting back a headache.

“We’re here, you’re on speaker,” San chimed in. The eldest launched into a hasty retelling of everything that happened in the past hour. 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with that guy?” Wooyoung swore once Seonghwa was finished. 

“Is there anything you need us to do?” Yeosang asked.

“Get a nest set up in the living room. I have a feeling she’s going to want all of us near her tonight,” Seonghwa requested. After confirming, they exchanged goodbyes so he could check on you.

No one was in the waiting room, spiking his anxiety. Another nurse spotted him from behind the front desk and led him to your room. You sat on the bed between Hongjoong’s legs, your back to his chest and his arms wrapped securely around your waist. The pack alpha’s hands were wrapped in bandages. Mingi and Yunho stood on either side of the bed. 

“Hey, the doctor’s coming in soon to go over their scan results,” Yunho informed him as he approached the bed, sitting on the edge on the same side as Mingi.

“What scans did they do?”

“CT and MRI for Y/N, x-ray for Hongjoong,” Yunho pointed between the two of you. 

“Y/N, baby, are you still awake?” Seonghwa squeezed your knee. Your eyes stayed closed, but you nodded and mumbled ‘mhm’. 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Lee,” a woman in navy scrubs walked in while reading something on a clipboard. “Hongjoong, you’re lucky you didn’t get any fractures in your hand. Keep the abrasions clean and you’ll be just fine.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hongjoong agreed through gritted teeth.

“Y/N has a minor concussion. As for the cut, I’ll need to put a few staples in so it heals properly.” Dr. Lee placed the clipboard on a counter, thanking the nurse that brought in the staple gun. She gently parted your hair and cleaned the excess blood from your skin. She warned you before she began putting in the staples. You winced at each staple, making the alphas tense up in order to stay calm. A muscle in Yunho’s jaw twitched and the other two stared daggers at the doctor.

“Okay, we’re done. I know it hurts, but you did wonderfully,” she reassured with a pat to your shoulder. Hongjoong suppressed a growl. “You’ll need to have them removed in two weeks. You can either come back here or go to your primary doctor. One of the nurses will stop by soon to go over your discharge paperwork and give a packet for care instructions.”

“Thank you,” Seonghwa nodded to the doctor before she left for her next patient. 

Finally, after forty-five minutes, you were back at the dorms. Hongjoong reluctantly let Seonghwa and Yeosang bring you to the latter’s room to help you change into your pajamas. As soon as you returned to the living room, which was covered with pillows and blankets, Hongjoong pulled you back into his lap. The betas took turns checking on you, giving you soft kisses to your forehead and cheeks. Everyone settled down around you, most going on their phones since it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. You drifted off to sleep, safe and surrounded by your pack.

Permanent Taglist: @furfoxsake22 @babygirlskz98 @miniverse-zen @holly-here @corgilover20 @eastjonowhere @bookswillfindyouaway

Series Taglist: @popcatx0 @m00njinnie @awkward-fucking-thing @fr34k4c1dr41n @nchhuhi @pixie0627 @bby-boo4u @queen-thiccness

[grounded-parasocial]

Happy Wilmon Day! 💜🤍

Established Relationship / One-Shots

There is something to be said about the love and knowing of an established relationship- sometimes it’s mature and domestic, sometimes it’s silly and fluffy, sometimes it’s hurt and comfort and sometimes it’s hot and kinky, but in every Wilmon story, the foundation is love!

*For this list, I narrowed it down(ish) to One-Shots (chapters/series list to follow in another post) and I stayed canon to canon adjacent (he is/was a prince) as I had to draw the lines somewhere which still did not help- oops! Thank you @youngroyals-events for organizing!

ONE-SHOTS

🤍 Simon Eriksson is Not Sick (G, 1.3K) @gulliblelemon

🤍 Everything we wanted, we’ve got it now (T, 1.4K) @hergrandplan

🤍 Have my cake and eat it too (T, 3K) @pagegirlintraining

🤍 Best Laid Plans (T, 3K) by ripki

🤍 orange love (T, 3K) @toffeelemon

🤍 When you find me, let me in (G, 6k) @alltoowille

🤍 Get Me (T, 1.5K) @starvalisedham

🤍 Taken by the view (T, 2K) @hergrandplan

🤍 vegan butter, two slices of Gouda, a few slices of cucumber (G, 1.6K) @skibasyndrome

🤍 The Hillerska Luxury Hotel & Spa (M, 4K) @stretchoutfics

🤍 terrified the present will not last (T, 5K) FakeButILikeYou

🤍 Skin (M, 3K) @zee-has-commitment-issues

🤍 Took a While (but we made it) (G, 2K) @hergrandplan

🤍 Love in Your Pocket (T, 2K) @dreamyelectronicmusic

🤍 With Your Hands On Me (T, 1K) @gulliblelemon

🤍 I was really fucking jealous, okay? (T, 678) By AmyriadfthINGs

🤍 Purple (G, 1K) @gulliblelemon

🤍 Copy and Pasta (M, 3K) @pagegirlintraining

🤍 at night we love (T, 800) @sadhappylady

🤍 somewhere only we know (G, 3K) Loverludes

🤍 Remember me under the sun (G, 4K) @iwouldnevergetintofanfic

🤍 Stay Here By My Side (T, 11K) @waroftheposes

🤍 Sundays (M, 1.8K) @grounded-parasocial

🤍 Got My Heart On Your Hand (G, 2K) @hergrandplan

🤍 Hotter than my boyfriend’s ass (T 6K) @hergrandplan

🤍 Every time you bake, I wanna eat cake (M, 2K) @pagegirlintraining

🤍 I’m tired but I am yours (T, 1K) @grapehyasynth

Explicit

💜 The Purple Hoodie stays ON during sex (E, 2K) @earlgrey-lateatnight

💜 fuck, we forgot about the shirts (E, 8K) @hehehereliesmysanity

💜 På min telefon (E, 3K) @earlgrey-lateatnight

💜 Always (E, 1.4K) @vvachillessongvv

💜 I’ve never met arms like yours (E, 1.7K) @skibasyndrome

💜 gracias a la vida (it gave me my heart) (E, 5K) @omar-rudeberg

💜 In silence, I’m yours (E, 2K) @skibasyndrome

💜 Close (E, 1K) @earlgrey-lateatnight

💜 Sit back and watch (I’m gonna dance for you) (E, 3K) @skibasyndrome

💜 don’t want to waste it (E, 2K) @phneltwrites

💜 that which lives and grows and breathes (E, 7K) by willesworld

💜 words to say that meant a lot to me (E, 1.6K) @phneltwrites

💜 A burning reminder of where we belong (E, 2K) @alltoowille

💜 nothing I cant have (E, 3K) @phneltwrites

💜 Kiss Your Tongue, Strike a Match (E, 3K) @unfortunate17

💜 I didnt just come here to dance (E, 2K) @phneltwrites

💜 another dose (E, 4K) by stargazer

💜 A Diversionary Manoeuver (E, 1.6K) @earlgrey-lateatnight

💜 Body language say you wanna (E- 3K) @skibasyndrome

💜 The honeymoon suite (E, 14K) @stretchoutfics

💜 While The World Goes By (E, 11K) by queerfrogprince

💜 You Pour and I’ll Say (E, 4K) @phneltwrites

💜 The weekend (E, 17K) @stretchoutfics

💜 stay until the sun goes down (E, 2k) @phneltwrites

💜 Heaven's a thing (I go there when you touch me darling) (E, 9K) @embracedthevoid

💜 in the frame from your point of view (E, 3K) @goldenwilmon

💜 You bring me home (E, 2K) @goldenwilmon

💜 Perfect (E, @K) @earlgrey-lateatnight

This got so SO long and I know there are SO many more out there! Please add your favorite on-shot recs!!

Happy Wilmon Day and Happy Reading! 💜

[norixseaweed]

Between Rooms: Chapter 2 - Seunghwa

Title: Between RoomsRating: 18+ NSFW (MDNI) Characters: Seunghwa , Female Reader/You Contains: sensory play, blind folding, hand tying Masterlist Previous Chapter - Next Chapter Synopsis: Eight men. One house. And you, right in the middle of it. What started as a lucky break, an affordable room in a cozy mansion, quickly turned into something else entirely. You didn’t expect to bond with them so easily. You definitely didn’t expect the tension. Or the teasing glances. Or the way they touched you when no one else was around. this is a roommate AU A/N: PLEASE make sure to read the introduction on the masterlist first!!! Feel free to let me know what you think. Also I realized my Jongho chapter was too short so I tried to make this one longer! A/n 2: Let me know if I should do a tag list for one when I post a new chapter!

It was nearing 11PM when you padded softly through the dimly lit hallway, headed toward the kitchen for a late-night snack. As you passed by the familiar stretch of rooms, a soft glow caught your eye, the thin line of warm light leaking out from beneath Seonghwa’s office door.

Working late again.

It wasn’t unusual. In fact, it was routine. When Seonghwa was locked into a creative flow, he often lost track of time and almost always forgot to eat.

You grabbed a tray and began assembling something quick. A few frozen corn dogs went into the microwave, followed by a couple snack packs and two glasses of juice. You didn’t overthink it. This had become its own quiet ritual, checking in on him when the house was still and everyone else was winding down.

Tray in hand, you made your way back down the hall and gently knocked on the door with your foot.

“Come in!” came his voice steady, composed, but just a touch distracted.

“My hands are full,” you called back. “Can you get the door?”

A moment later, the handle turned and the door creaked open. Seonghwa greeted you with a faint smile and stepped aside to let you in.

“What’s all that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Late-night snack,” you said simply, moving to place the tray on the small coffee table in the corner of the room.

His office had a distinct Seonghwa air to it. Clean, curated, and stylish. On one side sat his dark wood desk, neatly arranged with sketchbooks, fabric swatches, and a softly glowing task lamp. Behind it, a tall shelf lined with books, design journals, and carefully labeled boxes. Across from the desk, a low leather sofa and the coffee table made the space feel warmer, more lived in.

The other side of the room was more chaotic, but still precise. Mannequins dressed in works-in-progress, a standing mirror with pins still stuck into the fabric, spools of thread organized by color on the wall. His designer’s corner. Creative energy hummed in the air.

“You didn’t have to bring all this,” he said gently, though his eyes flicked over the tray with clear appreciation.

“I figured you wouldn’t remember to eat otherwise.”

He exhaled softly through his nose. Half laugh, half surrender.

“You’re probably right.”

He sat down beside you on the sofa, reaching for a corn dog and taking a bite without hesitation.

You leaned back against the cushions, watching him chew. “Already working on something new? What happened to the last project?”

“Tossed it,” he said flatly, like it didn’t matter. Another bite followed.

Your brows pulled together. “Seriously? Why? I liked that one, it was beautiful.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It was fine. But fine isn’t enough.”

You huffed. “You say that about everything you make. At this rate, you’re going to have a closet full of ‘not enough’.”

He glanced at you, a soft smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe. But I’d rather trash something than send it out into the world half-satisfied.”

You shook your head, picking up a juice glass. “Perfectionist.”

“I prefer detail-oriented.”

You chuckled under your breath. “Sure. Let me know when you start sleeping regularly again.”

He leaned back against the sofa, the angle of his body just slightly tilted toward you now. “I don’t need sleep when I have snacks hand-delivered to me.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “You’re lucky I like feeding people who forget to eat.”

His gaze lingered on your face a second too long, long enough to make you pause.

You caught it, just barely, the way his eyes flicked down. From your lips…to your neck…then back up.

It was subtle. So quick it could’ve meant nothing. But it left something warm curling low in your stomach.

You didn’t say anything. And neither did he.

Instead, he turned back to the tray and reached for another snack, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just looked at you like that. 

Like you hadn’t noticed.

But you had.

“Actually,” he said, setting the snack down, “I’m glad you stopped by. I think I need to see this one on an actual person.”

He turned his attention back to you. “Only if you’re comfortable with it, of course.”

You gave a small nod, not needing much convincing. “Sure.”

Seonghwa’s smile was soft, but there was something else behind it, something unreadable. He rose from the couch and moved to the mannequin, carefully unfastening the garment with practiced ease. You stood and walked over as he held it out for you, the fabric draping elegantly over his arms.

You took the dress from him, and without another word, he quietly stepped out of the room to give you privacy.

The fabric felt cool and silky against your skin as you slipped it on. The dress was short, ending mid-thigh, with a flowing, asymmetrical hem that moved softly when you shifted your weight. One side clung slightly more to your curves, while the other dipped lower and hung freer.

What made it striking, though, was the open panel that ran along your left side. From just under your arm down to your hip, the dress was cut away, revealing the soft curve of your waist and a teasing glimpse of skin. A single delicate strap held the fabric together near the top, leaving the rest exposed in a sleek, elegant line.

You adjusted the fit, smoothing your hands down your hips as you turned slightly in front of the mirror.

The dress looked beautiful. It hugged your body in all the right places, but it was a little loose. The open side, while intentional, gaped more than expected when you moved. The top strap shifted slightly, not quite sitting the way it was meant to. Elegant, but unfinished.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Can I come in?” Seonghwa asked.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Yeah.”

He stepped in and paused. His gaze moved over you slowly, studying the dress with that familiar critical eye. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he walked over, thoughtful.

“It’s too loose around the waist,” he said.

“I thought so too.”

He circled behind you, adjusting the fabric at your hip. His fingers brushed along your side, then moved up to test the tension at the strap near your shoulder. You felt the weight of each movement, measured, focused, but still so close to your skin.

“It’s the open cut,” he murmured. “It works when you’re standing still, but as soon as you move, the balance shifts.”

He didn’t sound frustrated, just analytical. His hands moved with practiced ease, tugging slightly, smoothing out a fold, then pressing the fabric more snugly against your waist. His fingers lingered where the fabric ended and skin began.

“I can pin it,” he said, glancing toward the table. “Just want to test how it’s meant to fall.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He returned with a pin cushion, then stepped in even closer. You felt his breath at your shoulder as he worked. The space between you had grown impossibly small.

He gathered the loose edge, folding it gently as his knuckles grazed your ribs. Every touch was focused on the dress, but you could feel something else under the surface. The way he held his breath. The way he looked at the place where skin met fabric.

“Don’t move,” he said quietly, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath at your neck.

You didn’t.

His fingers worked slowly, pinning the fabric with care, but the focus had shifted. He wasn’t just adjusting the dress anymore. The pads of his fingers dragged lightly over your bare side, lingering longer than they needed to. His touch dipped just a little lower, grazing the dip of your waist.

He didn’t look at what he was doing. He was looking at you.

You felt it, his stare trailing over your cheek, then your lips, then lower. His gaze burned where it landed, and suddenly the silence between you felt like a held breath, waiting to snap.

His hand settled flat against your side.

Still.

Intentional.

“If I touch you again…” his voice dropped, darker now. “I won’t stop.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t pull away. His thumb brushed softly against your skin, barely there, but enough to make your knees tighten.

“Do you want me to stop?”

You’d always felt like there was something unspoken between the two of you.

Over time, you started to notice the little things, subtle details that never felt accidental. The way Seonghwa’s hand would linger just a beat too long when he adjusted a necklace or smoothed a wrinkle in your sleeve. How his fingers would graze your skin under the guise of fixing something, precise yet gentle. The way his eyes would drop to your lips mid-conversation, not in an obvious, hungry way, but with quiet curiosity. Like he was thinking about something he’d never say out loud.

You caught him watching you more than once. Not in any blatant or inappropriate way. Just...observing. Like he was studying something he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

And you weren’t innocent in it either.

There were moments when you caught yourself staring, a little too long, at his hands as he worked, how precise and careful they were. Or when he was dressed a little too well, sleeves rolled up, collar loose, skin at his neck soft and distracting. You’d bitten your lip and looked away more times than you cared to admit.

Worse were the nights you’d fantasized about him, quietly, guiltily. Thoughts that slipped into your head when you were alone in bed, half-asleep and craving something...more. You’d picture the way his voice might sound in your ear, the way his hands might feel if he stopped holding back. You never let yourself linger too long on those thoughts. But they were there.

You’d always kept it controlled. Silent. Respectful. Just like he had.

But then came that night.

The two of you had watched Fifty Shades of Grey on a whim. A bored evening turned conversation starter. What followed had been surprisingly open, an honest and mature discussion about BDSM, limits, preferences. What intrigued you. What didn’t. What you hadn’t yet tried.

There were no smirks. No teasing. Just quiet, thoughtful words in dim lighting. Like neither of you wanted to risk breaking the stillness between you.

But something shifted that night.

After that, the space between you felt charged. His glances felt heavier. Your awareness of him sharpened. And the tension… the tension became constant.

A pull. A silence that waited.

And tonight, in the warmth of his studio, as his hand settled on your waist and his voice dropped lower...

You realized it had never just been in your head.

You looked up at him, and this time, you didn’t look away.

His gaze met yours. Steady. Searching.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt too still, too thick, like something about to tip over.

His hand didn’t leave your waist. If anything, it pressed a little more firmly against your skin.

His eyes stayed locked on yours.

He was waiting for an answer, but truthfully? He couldn't resist anymore. Not with the way you were looking at him, wide-eyed, breath caught somewhere in your throat, pupils blown with need.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his right hand slid upward, fingers gliding slowly along your neck. The warmth of his touch made you shiver, and when his hand cupped your jaw, you felt your knees threaten to give way.

Then his lips met yours.

It was slow at first, soft, tentative. Like he didn’t want to scare the moment away. You kissed him back, breath catching as if you’d been holding it for far too long. His grip on your waist tightened, anchoring you in place as the kiss deepened. What started gentle became something more, a quiet unraveling between you both.

Your fingers curled into the collar of his crisp white dress shirt, pulling him closer, trying to close what little space remained. The fabric shifted under your touch, warm from his body heat.

Seonghwa pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering close enough that you could still taste him. His breath was steady but deliberate, eyes heavy-lidded as he studied your face.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. Not right away. The silence said enough, but you still gave him more.

You leaned in, brushing your lips softly against his. “What if I don’t?”

Your voice came out low, almost a whisper. It wasn’t really a question. It was a challenge.

His expression shifted instantly. His gaze darkened. The grip on your jaw tightened.

He kissed you again, harder this time. Like he was claiming something he’d waited too long to touch. Your mouths moved in sync, your body responding instinctively. When his tongue pushed past your lips, you welcomed it, meeting him with equal need. A soft moan escaped your throat as you rose onto your toes, desperate to stay connected.

Again, he pulled away, but not far. His forehead pressed against yours, and his thumb brushed gently over your cheek.

“I’ve been wanting to make you my toy for a while now.”

The words sent a pulse between your legs, and you bit your bottom lip, your gaze glassy with lust.

“Of course,” he added, voice softer now, “only if you’re okay with that. Do you want that?”

You nodded quickly.

“I need to hear you say it, love.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “I want you to make me your toy.”

It came out more eager than you intended. He smiled.

“Good.”

He reached for the hem of your dress. “Let’s get you out of this.”

With gentle hands, he helped you undress, peeling the garment from your body and letting it fall aside. You stood in nothing but your underwear, bare-chested, though that wasn’t unusual for you at home.

Seonghwa walked the dress over to the mannequin, smoothing it neatly into place. Then he reached for something on the table. A silk scarf.

You watched as he folded it carefully, his expression calm, focused.

He stepped toward you and brought the scarf to your eyes. His hands moved slowly as he tied it around your head and secured the knot behind.

“Do you have a safe word?”

“I use the traffic light system,” you replied, steady despite the way your heartbeat picked up. “Red, yellow, green.”

Seonghwa hummed in approval.

You felt his hands glide down your arms, soft and unhurried, until his fingers laced with yours. He guided you gently across the room, and you followed without hesitation. You trusted him. You always had. He’d never given you a reason not to.

When he stopped, so did you.

You heard the faint sound of papers being moved. Then drawers opening and closing. His presence disappeared briefly, then returned just as suddenly. His hands were at your hips again, warm and firm, guiding you back until the backs of your thighs hit a flat surface.

The edge of his desk.

You let out a soft breath just before he lifted you effortlessly onto it.

Then came the warmth of his breath against your neck. The heat of it made you shiver again, skin prickling as anticipation danced down your spine. His lips hovered there, brushing lightly, teasing without touching. You squirmed, your body reacting before your mind could catch up.

His hands slid up your thighs, bare, sensitive, his fingers tracing your shape with practiced slowness. Like he was outlining something precious. 

You felt his tongue press hot and wet against your neck, dragging slowly upward until it reached your earlobe. The breath that followed was warm. Then his teeth grazed the delicate skin, nibbling gently, enough to send a shiver straight down your spine.

“Can I leave marks on you?” he murmured, voice husky and low, vibrating against your skin.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Good.”

He moved back down, lips finding your neck again, kissing with purpose this time. He took his time, dragging his mouth along your skin as if searching for something. The moment your breath hitched, he paused, lips hovering.

Then he latched on.

The suction sent a moan slipping past your lips, and you felt his smirk against your throat. His fingers slid along your ribs, slow and sure, before cupping your breasts in both hands. He kneaded gently, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as his mouth stayed busy on your neck.

When he was satisfied with the mark he left there, he trailed kisses downward, past your collarbone. He paused again, lips sealing over your skin, drawing another bruise just beneath your collar. You gasped softly, back arching just enough for your chest to meet his hands.

Your fingers moved without thinking, tangling in his hair.

“Hands down,” he growled against your skin, his voice firm and unyielding. “No touching.”

You obeyed immediately, hands releasing, dropping back to your sides.

“Yes, Sir.”

He pulled back. You could feel the shift in his energy, though you couldn’t see it, not with the blindfold still tied over your eyes. The darkness sharpened every sound, every movement, every pause. Your breath quickened.

The anticipation made you ache.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, his voice lower now, smoother. “Just like a doll.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, but before you could respond, you felt his fingers again, this time pinching your already sensitive nipples.

“And this doll is all mine to play with, isn’t that right?”

He pinched harder.

You gasped, a sharp yelp escaping before you could stop it. The sting caught you off guard after all the delicate touches. But it wasn’t unwelcome. You squirmed, your thighs pressing together involuntarily, hands gripping the edge of the desk for grounding.

“Y-yes, Sir.”

He smirked. You couldn’t see it, but you felt it in the way his fingers lingered.

“Good girl.”

He released your nipples slowly, then placed one hand on your shoulder, the other at your waist. His touch guided you backward.

“Lie back.”

You did as told, allowing him to ease you down until your back met the cool surface of the desk. The shift left you fully exposed, breath quick and chest rising, your body laid out and waiting.

You couldn’t see him.

But you could feel the weight of his stare.

And it made you tremble.

You lay there across his desk, chest rising and falling, body humming from his last touch. The blindfold kept everything hidden, but your other senses were on high alert, every sound, every shift in the air sharpened.

You felt him step closer again. His hands found yours, fingers curling gently around your wrists.

“Give them to me,” he said softly, but there was no mistaking the command.

You offered your arms without hesitation.

He lifted them slowly above your head, and then you heard the sound, the faint metallic clink of something being unhooked. A moment later, your wrists were brought together and secured with rope. It wasn’t rough or tight, but it was firm. Purposeful. You could feel the tension in the knot as he tested it with a gentle tug.

“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

You swallowed, skin tingling.

He leaned close, lips brushing your temple as he whispered, “You look so good like this.”

Then, without warning, his presence disappeared. His warmth vanished from your skin, and you were left alone, blindfolded, bound, laid out across his desk in silence.

The air felt cooler without him.

You heard movement. A few soft footfalls. A cabinet opening. Then nothing.

The stillness made your heart beat louder in your chest. You shifted slightly, testing the rope. It held. The wait was driving you crazy, but it was thrilling all the same.

You didn’t know how long he was gone. Ten seconds? Thirty? A minute? It was hard to tell with your pulse pounding in your ears.

Then you felt it.

A faint breeze. His return.

He moved silently, but you could hear the slight clink of something being set down. Then—

Something cold touched your skin.

You gasped.

A small cube of ice dragged slowly across your sternum, trailing a line of chill in its path. Your back arched instinctively, wrists tugging at the restraint above your head.

He said nothing.

Just let the silence work with the sensation as he continued tracing down to your navel, the contrast of cold ice on warm skin making you squirm.

“You feel that?” he finally asked, voice low and calm again.

You nodded, lips parting around a soft moan.

“Good. Let’s see how much you can take.”

The first cube melted slowly under his touch, trailing drops of cold water down your stomach. Each drag sent a new jolt of sensation through your body, sweet and sharp, your skin responding with goosebumps wherever the ice kissed it.

You whimpered softly, hips shifting against the desk, but he offered no mercy. No words. Only that slow, relentless path.

When the last bit of the cube melted between his fingers, he stepped away again.

You heard it this time, ice clinking in a glass, the low sound of him picking another piece up. But when he returned, you didn’t feel anything immediately. You felt him hovering close, his breath warm near your shoulder. You waited.

Then something impossibly cold grazed your collarbone.

But it wasn’t his hand.

Your breath caught.

His mouth.

You felt the smooth curve of ice, pressed between his lips, being dragged slowly across your skin. The sensation was overwhelming, heat from his breath, chill from the melting cube, the softness of his lips ghosting over you all at once.

A gasp escaped you, sharp and involuntary.

“Oh?” he murmured softly against your skin, lips curling slightly around the melting ice. “Sensitive here?”

He didn’t give you time to answer. He slid the ice lower, moving to the swell of your breast, circling just beneath it, letting the water trail downward. The contrast made you tremble, your nipples already tight and aching from earlier. When he pulled away and blew lightly across the wet path he’d just traced, your entire body jolted.

“Such beautiful reactions,” he muttered. “I could do this all night.”

The cube slipped from his mouth into his hand, and a moment later he brought it directly to your nipple. He rolled it slowly over the stiff peak, then pinched it lightly with his chilled fingers.

You cried out, thighs pressing together again, bound hands clenching the rope.

“Still doing okay?” he asked, voice quiet but edged with control.

“Yes,” you gasped.

His lips brushed your ear.

“Good girl.”

His hand drifted lower, fingers dragging cool water trails down your stomach. The shift in temperature had your whole body on edge, twitching with every pass. Then his touch paused at your hip.

“Let’s get these off,” he said, fingers curling around the sides of your panties.

You lifted your hips instinctively as he slid the fabric down your thighs and off your legs. The air felt colder now against your bare skin, amplified by the slow melt of ice still clinging to your body.

You heard the soft clink again, another cube taken from the glass.

Then a drop of cold water landed just above your slit.

You gasped, spine arching slightly off the desk.

A moment later, you felt his fingers part you and then something cold pressed directly against your entrance. Not ice. His finger. Wet, chilled, and unhurried as it stroked over your folds, circling your clit without touching it directly.

The sharp chill made your hips jerk, your body desperate for more. But he took his time.

“So sensitive,” he murmured. “You’re already dripping.”

His cold fingertip slipped lower, collecting your arousal before teasing your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. Just circled lazily, letting you squirm beneath his touch.

You let out a soft, desperate sound. He smirked.

“Patience.”

Then finally, finally, his finger sank into you, slow and deep. You gasped again, the contrast of his chilled skin inside your heat making your thighs tremble. He moved at a steady pace, curling just enough to make you whimper, then pulling back again.

He added a second finger, this one warmer, letting the cold fade as he stretched you just right. The mix of temperatures, his steady rhythm, the sound of your own slickness filling the room, it was overwhelming.

He pressed his thumb gently against your clit, still avoiding full pressure, just letting it hover and tease.

You tugged at the rope instinctively, breath coming in ragged waves.

“Please,” you whispered.

His voice came close, lips brushing your ear again.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Please… touch me more. Don’t stop,” you gasped.

“Good girl.”

Then he started to move with purpose.

His fingers thrust deeper, firmer, curling just right while his thumb finally applied pressure to your clit. Your breath hitched, body tightening, your thighs pressing in toward his wrist.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Look at how you take it, like you were made for this.”

Your body trembled beneath his touch. His fingers worked you open with slow precision, and his thumb circled your clit in just the right way, just the right rhythm. You could feel it rising, the sharp, coiling heat in your belly about to break.

So close.

“Seonghwa–” you gasped, your voice cracking. “I’m gonna–”

His fingers stopped instantly.

You let out a broken cry, hips bucking for friction that didn’t come. Your body pulsed helplessly around nothing.

“Not yet,” he said softly.

You whimpered, the ache between your legs now unbearable.

“I didn’t say you could come.”

He pulled his fingers out of you, dragging them slow and wet over your inner thigh as if to mock how ready you were. Then he leaned forward and kissed your stomach once, a deceptively sweet gesture after what he’d just taken away.

Your wrists tugged at the rope above you, your body twitching with frustration.

Seonghwa reached up and loosened the knot just enough to lower your arms. Still restrained, but flexible now. His hands returned to your waist and guided you toward the edge of the desk, your back shifting across the surface until your ass met the edge, thighs parted slightly for him.

You could hear the soft metallic slide of his belt.

The slow unzipping of his pants.

Then his voice, low and close again.

“Let me show you what good girls get.”

You felt the heat of his cock brush against your inner thigh first, then slide through your folds, hot, heavy, and teasing. He rocked his hips slowly, coating himself in your slick without pushing in.

“You want it?” he asked, nudging the head of his cock right at your entrance.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you gasped, thighs trying to push forward. “Please.”

He pressed in slowly, stretching you inch by inch until he was fully inside you.

Your breath hitched. It was deep, overwhelming, the fullness making your body freeze before you melted into it.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel so good.”

He stayed still for a moment, just letting you adjust. Then he pulled back, slow and deliberate, before thrusting in again with more force.

Your hands clenched in the loosened rope above you, moaning as the desk creaked beneath you from the movement.

His pace built, first steady and deep, then faster. Rougher.

“You were made for this,” he growled, one hand gripping your hip tight while the other slid up your ribs, holding you in place as he fucked you harder. “You’re mine.”

His thrusts deepened, rhythm growing rougher, sharper. The desk creaked beneath you with every snap of his hips, but all you could focus on was the way he filled you, how he hit every spot like he knew your body better than you did.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. You weren’t even thinking anymore, just reacting, letting the sensations drag you closer and closer to the edge he’d denied you before.

“Please,” you panted, head falling back. “Please, can I come?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer with words. He angled his hips, his next thrust hitting deeper, right there, and his hand dropped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. This time, there was no teasing. Just pressure and rhythm and raw, desperate friction.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice low and breathless. “Now.”

You shattered.

Your body tensed around him, thighs shaking, the orgasm ripping through you fast and hard after everything he’d built up. You cried out, fingers twisting in the rope, mouth falling open as your muscles clenched around him again and again.

Seonghwa groaned, his rhythm stuttering as you pulsed around him.

“Fuck– you’re perfect.”

He thrust a few more times, sharp and deep, chasing his own release. You felt his breath catch before he pressed in one last time, his body going rigid. He came with a low, guttural sound, buried deep inside you, one hand gripping your hip so tight you knew you’d feel it tomorrow.

You both stayed still for a moment, just breathing. Skin flushed. Hearts pounding.

Then, slowly, he eased out of you. You let out a soft whimper at the loss.

His hands were warm again when they reached for the scarf, gently untying the blindfold first. You blinked up at him, eyes adjusting to the light, to his gaze now soft instead of dark.

He brushed your hair from your face with one hand, then moved to untie your wrists. Once your arms were free, he brought both your hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle now.

You nodded, still catching your breath. “More than okay.”

He smiled faintly and helped guide you upright, hands never leaving your body. One at your back, the other steady at your waist.

“I’ll clean you up,” he said. “Just stay here.”

You didn’t argue. You let him move around you, let him wipe your thighs and skin with soft, warm cloths. Every touch was tender. No rush, no expectation. Just him taking care of you, just as thoroughly as he’d undone you.

When he was done, he grabbed a throw blanket from the nearby chair and draped it around your shoulders, then leaned in to kiss your forehead.

“You did so well for me,” he murmured, pulling you gently into his arms.

You rested your head against his chest, breath finally slowing, and let the silence settle around you, this time soft and full.

Next Chapter

[runningincircl3s]

Blood Sport

Noah Sebastian x Reader

Chapter Five

chapter warnings: none..? noah's mixed signals, amy's a whole warning herself lmao

happy friday!!! i've been so lost this week i completely forgot about posting until like 20 minutes ago and i was like ahh i need to edit this weeks chapter!! so i hope it's okay, i like this one hehe :)

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦ 

The next morning, you and Folio were both up early to clean up from the night before. You both wandered around downstairs, clearing up a couple spillages, empty bottles and discarded cups. Last night didn’t turn into the disaster you were expecting, but you were now left feeling even more confused, especially after overhearing a conversation Noah was having with Matt when the guys moved out to the garden to smoke. 

You said your goodbyes and good night and had finally gone up to your room, after fighting back yawn after yawn for half an hour. You get changed, wash your face and brush your teeth before laying down on your bed, completely forgetting you had your window wide open until you faintly caught the smell of weed. As you checked your phone one final time before attempting to get some sleep, you could hear Noah’s voice. 

“I don’t know what to do about Amy.” 

“What do you mean?” Matt asked. 

At this point, you got out of bed, reaching to shut your window, knowing this wasn’t a conversation you should be listening in on. The two of them stood away from the others, so clearly this wasn’t something Noah wanted everyone to hear. 

So why weren’t you shutting the window?

Noah sighed, looking out into your garden. 

“She spoke to y/n earlier, told her she’s worried about losing me,” he let out a humourless chuckle, “Truth is, I left that relationship weeks ago, mentally. But physically, I’m still stuck there.” 

Matt studied him for a moment, wondering what he could say to that? He certainly wasn’t expecting it. 

And neither were you. 

“Shit,” Matt said, his gaze falling to the patio, “So… What are you going to do about it?”

“Dunno,” Noah shrugged, “I don't want to hurt her.” 

“So you’re just going to stay in a relationship you’re not happy in… Just so you don’t hurt her?” 

Noah shrugged, as if to say I guess.

“What else have I got going for me?” He laughed, “The only person I ever loved fucked me over, so if I have to settle for something I’m not too happy about at least I know I won’t get hurt. Amy loves me, what more could I want?”

“You can’t just give up, man. You’ve been caught up on y/n since the night you first met, and I know she still cares about you. You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything for her anymore?”

“Well-” 

Before he could say anymore, you quickly shut your window, feeling your pulse race as you pulled the curtains shut. 

How the fuck were you meant to sleep after that?

“Y/n?” Folio laughed, waving a hand in front of your face. “Lost in thought?”

You blinked, snapping back to reality. 

“Something like that.” You chuckled nervously, turning back to the dishes, scrubbing the same plate for a little too long.

“I was wondering…” Folio started, leaning against the counter. “I’m going to drop by the studio this afternoon. We’ve been working on a new song, Noah wants to get it finished today so we’ll all be there. Wanna come with?”

Your hands paused under the running water. 

“Are you sure?”

Folio gave you a look, like you’d just asked if the sky was blue. 

“I mean it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.”

“I might.” You turned, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Do you?”

You opened your mouth, but no excuse came. A beat of silence passed.

“...No.” You muttered, making him snicker.

“Thought so.” He tossed the dish towel at you playfully. “I’ll tell the guys you’ll be joining us.”

“Are you sure they’ll want me there though? If they’re recording a new song?”

“Seriously? It’s not like you’re going to leak it to the world. And they love your company, y/n.” 

“Noah doesn’t.” You stated, drying your hands off on the towel. 

“Screw Noah, it’ll be 5 against 1.” Folio chuckled. 

… 

“What’s she doing here?”

Noah’s voice was flat, unimpressed, as he barely spared you a glance, too focused on the guitar in his lap. 

“Nice to see you too, Noah.” You sighed, sitting beside him on the couch- not by choice, but simply because there was nowhere else to sit. The second your thigh brushed against his, you felt him tense up, shifting just enough to put an inch of space between you.

Jolly glanced between the two of you, clearly entertained but choosing to stay silent. Folio, on the other hand, shot Noah a warning look before leaning against the doorframe.

“I asked if she wanted to join us. Does anybody else have a problem with y/n being here?”

Ruffilo, Matt, and Bryan all shook their heads, Jolly even shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal.

Noah scoffed under his breath, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he focused back on his guitar, back to playing the same chord he had been since the moment you walked in.

You leaned back against the sofa, tilting your head slightly as you listened. After a few moments, you frowned.

“Is it supposed to sound like that?”

Noah’s fingers froze mid-strum. His jaw clenched as he turned to you, eyes dark with irritation.

“So you’re the guitar expert now?”

You couldn’t help but smirk.

“Well, you’re clearly not.”

Bryan snorted, covering his mouth with his hand, while Folio exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting bringing you here.

Noah set his guitar aside with more force than necessary, jaw tightening like he was seconds away from launching it across the room.

“Are you always this fucking insufferable now, or is it just when I’m around?”

You batted your lashes at him, offering your sweetest, most sarcastic smile. 

“Oh, it’s all just for you, honey.”

Ruffilo finally shook his head, stepping in before things escalated any further.

“Alright, enough. Can we actually get some work done? We wanted to get this song recorded in one session, remember?”

Noah rolled his eyes, muttering something as he reached for his laptop. He clicked through a few files, visibly trying to ignore you, but the way his fingers hovered over the keyboard made it clear you’d gotten under his skin.

You fought back a smirk, crossing your arms as you settled in. You already knew this was going to be a long session.

…

An hour or so in, you were bored out of your mind. Noah kept replaying the track, him and Jolly trying to work out why something sounded different to how they wanted whilst the others all did their own things, waiting for Noah and Jolly to come up with a solution. 

You wanted to say something, suggesting that maybe Noah should sing in a lower register, but you shook it off, getting up from the couch. 

“Anyone want anything? Drinks? Snacks?” You asked, and a couple of the guys nodded, asking for water. 

You nodded at the guys' requests, stretching as you made your way out of the studio. The moment you stepped into the hallway, the heavy door swinging shut behind you, you let out a breath. Being in the same room as Noah for extended periods was exhausting.

You were halfway to the kitchen when you nearly walked straight into someone, making you stop short.

Amy.

You couldn't even bare to look at her after overhearing what Noah had said last night.

She took a step back, and the moment she registered it was you, her expression hardened.

"Oh. It’s you."

"Uh, yeah. It’s me." You hesitated, already bracing yourself.

Amy crossed her arms, looking you up and down like she was debating whether to say something or just walk away.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, Folio asked if I wanted to join the guys in the studio today, and I had nothing better to do. I was getting a little bored in there so I offered to get them some water… So here I am."

"Oh…  I see," she frowned, gaze flicking toward the hallway, "Is Noah in there? It's a stupid question, of course he is." She huffed.

"Yeah, and he's being an ass." You chuckled dryly, hoping to lighten the tension. "Why? Do you need him?"

"Well, he said we’d do something together today," she muttered, arms tightening around herself. "I didn’t expect him to be locked away in there all day. He seems to forget he has a life outside of his music... he also seems to forget he has a girlfriend when you’re about.”

You raised an eyebrow, but before you could respond, she scoffed.

"And I keep telling him those guys he calls friends are bad for him. If they were true friends they wouldn’t let him overwork himself the way he does. He spends hours, days in that studio at a time. I keep telling him there’s more to life than that stupid band!”

Your eyes widened, as if she had the audacity to say that. Suddenly you felt yourself getting defensive.

"Stupid band?" You repeated, voice dropping into something dangerous, venomous. "Right. The same band that means everything to him? The same band that’s the reason you’re even with him in the first place? That ‘stupid band’ is his entire life, it’s everything he’s ever wanted, and it’s all he knows. And those guys are his fucking family, the only family he has. If you actually knew him, you’d know that.”

Her eyes flashed. 

"I do know him."

You swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to lose your shit. You took a slow breath. 

“You don’t know the first thing about him, Amy.” 

But you could tell her everything there is to know about him. How he says his favourite colour is red, but it’s actually the colour of the sky when it’s beginning to set, a little pink, a little orange. How when he’s stressed he’ll pick at his nails, which is why he hasn’t painted them in years. You could list all his favourite shows and movies, how old he was when he learned to ride a bike, his first real job, how old he was when he started playing guitar. 

But why did you still remember all this?

You started to turn away, afraid of where your mind was going, but then she said it.

"I know he’s not over you."

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

Slowly, you turned back to her, heart pounding, but Amy wasn’t backing down. She squared her shoulders, chin lifted defiantly, as if daring you to deny it.

"Yeah," she scoffed, folding her arms tighter around herself. "I see the way he looks at you,  and I..." Her voice wavered, just for a second, before she steadied herself. "I know that look because I’ve been through this all before."

You clenched your jaw, trying to ignore the uncomfortable weight settling in your chest.

"It’s nothing," you muttered, forcing yourself to sound indifferent. "Trust me, Amy. I can’t control whatever he does, but if it makes you feel better, I don’t want him."

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. 

"Do you even believe yourself when you say that?"

Your nails dug into your palms.

"Does it matter?" you shot back. "Noah’s with you, isn’t he? So why the hell are you coming at me like this? If you don’t trust him, that’s something you should be talking to him about."

Amy exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding into her expression. 

"I do trust him, but I also know what it’s like to be second best. And every time you’re around, I feel like I’m just waiting for the moment he realises he made a mistake choosing me."

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep your walls up.

"That’s not my problem," you said flatly, trying to ignore the guilt setting in. 

Becuase you knew the truth.

Her jaw tensed, and she let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. 

"You’re right. It’s not. But I think we both know that if Noah had the chance, if you gave him even the smallest opening, he’d take it. He’d drop everything for you."

The words struck like a slap to the face.

You should’ve brushed it off, walked away, but instead, you found yourself spitting out the truth before you could stop yourself.

"It’s not that simple, Amy."

Her gaze sharpened. 

"Isn’t it?"

You swallowed, looking away, suddenly feeling sick.

“He’d never want me back. I hurt him... Badly.”

“Yeah…” She nodded, “He told me you cheated on him.” 

“That fucking liar- We never dated, I never cheated.”

“You never dated?” Amy’s brow furrowed, “But he told me you did.” 

You scoffed, shaking your head as your arms crossed. 

“No. We were basically just friends with benefits, and I was also kinda seeing this other guy, and I did lie to Noah about it which is how I fucked up and hurt him. But we never dated, Amy.” 

“So then why does he care so much?”

You shook your head. 

“I don’t know," you sighed, defeated, you were sick of having this same conversation over and over, "I’m sorry.”

Her expression shifted, seeming more neutral now as she looked at you. 

“I’m sorry.” She said, “I’ve been in this exact position before, losing a guy I loved to his ex, and I don’t want it to happen again. I love Noah, I can't go through this again!” Her voice broke on the last word as she turned around, walking back down the hallway with her face in her hands, holding back tears. 

“Amy, wait!” You called out, and she turned back around to face you, wiping away a tear that had rolled down her cheek. “I’ll talk to him in there, I’ll see if I can get him to come out and talk to you”

“Thank you.” 

She walked away, and you sighed before continuing on your way to the kitchen, surprised one of the guys hadn’t come to see if you’d gotten lost. 

You reached into the fridge, taking a couple bottles before making your way back to the studio, fire in your veins as you thought about what you were going to say to Noah. 

You pushed open the studio door with more force than necessary, Noah barely glanced up from where he sat on the couch, focused on the laptop screen in front of him. The others were scattered around, Jolly in the recording booth, Folio messing with a set of his sticks, and Ruffilo with a guitar in his lap whilst Matt and Bryan were both sitting next to each other, faces lit up by their phone screens.  

"You take a detour or something?" Folio joked, looking up as you walked in.

You ignored him, marching straight over to Noah and dropping the bottles on the table in front of him with a loud thud.

He blinked, finally looking up, taking off his headphones.

"What’s your problem?"

You scoffed, crossing your arms. 

"Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that your girlfriend just cornered me in the hallway, blaming all of us for keeping you in here."

Noah’s expression darkened slightly, setting his laptop down on the small table.

"She did what?"

"You heard me," you snapped. "Apparently, we’re all bad influences. Apparently, your band is a ‘stupid band’ that you spend too much time with- Oh! And apparently, you ‘forget you have a girlfriend’ whenever I’m around."

Everybody else was suddenly silent.

Noah’s jaw ticked, and for a second, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes, guilt, frustration? But it was gone as quickly as it came.

“I’ll talk to her."

“Yeah? Maybe you should.” You shot back. “Because she’s pissed, Noah. You told her you’d spend time with her today, didn’t you?”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. 

“Fuck. I forgot I said that.”

“Well, clearly she didn’t.” You huffed, dropping onto the couch beside him- once again, not out of choice. “Don’t you see what you’re doing to her? Or do you just not care?”

Before he could come up with an answer, Jolly had come out of the booth, shaking his head at Noah.

"C'mon, are you even listening?!"

... 

Hours passed, and the studio had emptied. The others had stepped out, either to grab food or get some fresh air, leaving only you and Noah behind.

He was in the recording booth, going over a vocal take he still wasn’t happy with. You were sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, boredom gnawing away at you.

Your gaze drifted to Noah’s guitar, resting at the end of the couch. You hesitated before pulling it onto your lap. Your fingers traced the fretboard, pressing down experimentally and attempting to play.

The sound that followed was awful. A buzzing rattle came from the guitar, making you wince, but stubbornly kept going, adjusting your grip, trying to make it sound right.

“That’s not how you do it.”

You startled, nearly dropping the guitar on the floor as Noah’s voice cut through the silence.

“Jesus,” you muttered, pressing a hand to your chest. You turned to find him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “Just creep up on me, why don’t you?”

He smirked, stepping forward and dropping onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours.

“Here,” he said, reaching for your hand. “Give me this.”

You barely had a second to react before his fingers wrapped around yours, guiding them to the right position. His touch was warm. The calluses on his fingertips brushed against your skin, sending a shiver up your arm.

“Like this,” he murmured, voice lower now. Softer. His fingers pressed yours down. “You need to push harder, there. Feel that?”

Push him away. Say something. Do something. Throw the guitar at him!

“Yeah.” You swallowed, nodding your head.

“Try again.”

His hands lingered for a second too long before pulling away, and you hated how much you missed the warmth of them.

You strummed again, this time producing a smoother, cleaner note.

“See?” Noah said, his voice quieter now. His eyes flickered to yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

And then you remembered what Amy had said. He forgets he has a girlfriend whenever you’re around.

Your stomach twisted.

She wasn’t wrong, was she?

Because Noah wasn’t acting like a man who was supposed to be in love with someone else, even if you knew he wasn't. Not when he looked at you like that. Not when his fingers had brushed yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you…

You weren’t over him.

Not even close.

Otherwise you would’ve pulled away by now, putting some distance between you. 

“Huh,” you mused, forcing yourself to break the tension. “Maybe you do know a thing or two.”

His lips curled into a smirk. 

“Or maybe you just suck at it.”

“Asshole.” You scoffed, elbowing him lightly.

He chuckled, standing and stretching. 

“Keep practicing. Maybe one day you’ll impress me.”

You stuck your middle finger up at him as he walked away, but you couldn't ignore how the warmth of his fingers still lingered on yours.

Then, as if it was timed perfectly, the door swung open. 

“We’re back!” Matt announced, stepping inside with the others.

“Good to see you two haven’t killed each other,” Ruffilo smirked.

“You’re just lucky you came back when you did,” you muttered, sending Noah a quick glare.

“So,” Folio began as he plopped down beside you, “We kinda planned it without you, but about this fishing trip we’ve been talking about… How’s tomorrow?”

“Seriously?” You chuckled.

“Hell yeah! The others are up for it too. What about you, Noah?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna come fishing tomorrow? Matt can’t make it but we’ll all be there.” 

His gaze lingered on you for a moment too long, as if debating it before shaking his head, suddenly turning cold again. 

“I can’t. I’ve got a girlfriend I need to apologise to.” 

--------------------@bloody-spades @death-ofpeace-ofmind @miss570 @dominuslunae @dontwantthemoney @amelia-acero @noahslutbastian @blade-dressed-in-red @super-btstrash-posts @kait16xo @oobleoob @sunshine-lvrr @lacy1986 @enemiestolovershoe @samanthasgone @superpiratecriminalchef @lukeevangelista @lunabuna991 @ami-gami

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead's Sister-in-Law!

 Story Masterlist

Chapter 13

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Arranged marriage AU

Interact with this post to be on tag list. The DNI is on it so read that before anything.

UPDATED NOTE: I HAVE EDITED THIS STUPID THING HAHA. Also, I forgot how many people I tagged for this chapter originally and I deleted everything, including the tag list without realizing it... so I just sort of... tagged everyone. Again. Should I retag everyone in the remaining chapters as I edit them? Or no since technically speaking you guys already read the original chapter(s). Let me know in the comments/anon or however.

NOTE: I gave up on looking for computer error codes (I do not understand what they stand for in full detail, I’m just a silly little guy), so sorry if I used the wrong one.

WARNINGS: general yandere themes, obsessive and possessive themes/possible actions/behavior, themes of imprisonment (probably), blood, blood drinking (kinda? Not really, but JUST in case), blood, self-harm (biting thumb hard enough that it’s implies the wound reopened), violence (kicking Dion in the chest), thoughts of violence (thinking of kicking Dion’s face), vomit, panic attack, mention of suicide but Reader is NOT suicidal, one or two suggestive lines, kinda implied future violence (not towards Reader OR her family for plot reasons). Please tell me if I missed any.

Reader is NOT having a good time as usual. Pray for her.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND TOXIC.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT WITH FANDOM RELATED THINGS (REBLOG/COMMENT ON FICS/ART, ETC.) DNI.

= = =

You ruined your own life.

That is the conclusion you come to when you wake up with an awful hangover, head throbbing, mouth dry, nausea kicking at your stomach as your mouth waters with acid. Your entire body aches, fatigue and dizziness making themselves right at home - the room swirls whenever you move.

When you dry heave, it feels like something is punching your lungs and gut, hot tears rolling down your cheeks from the pressure. Your stomach twists, becoming a knot, and you’re both cold and hot - covered in a cold sweat that’s worse than running in the heat. 

You gag again. Your mouth opens wide just like a snake’s and yet nothing comes out - not until you gently squeeze your throat, adding just enough pressure that brings forth the bitter and sour vomit that burns your throat. But it doesn’t stop there, not until you’re grabbing your stomach, praying that this will end.

Why did I fucking drink so fucking much?

The answer is simple - you wanted a distraction before you could become a hysterical mess during the dinner last night. Still, regret is a thing, and oh boy, are you feeling it in full.

Retching, your lungs painfully take in air, upset stomach getting in the way as every breath feels sharp. Sweat dribbles down your temples and face, eyes wide as your body rejects everything from last night. Your entire body trembles violently, holding your stomach like it would decrease the pressure, the urge. Hands clammy, you almost start to think that having a panic attack would be better than this. 

It still hurts when it finally ends.

“Urk! F-fuck…,” wiping away some of the vomit that clung to your chin, your body allows you to have a moment of recovery, muscles relaxing as you pant, lungs finally taking in the air that you desperately need. Heavy eyes struggle to stay open, a small dizzy spell falling over you. Your headache only worsens.

It feels like you’ve been through hell.

Tears stop rolling down your face as your breathing becomes steady. Everything still awfully aches, though. Your throat still burns, the sour taste of vomit doesn’t die on your tongue. It doesn’t go away even when you smack your lips and swallow.

Finally becoming aware of your surroundings, you notice a gentle pat against your back as someone also holds your hair back. So gentle and comforting, and automatically assuming it’s Hana, you accept the help without a word of complaint. Your eyes flutter close, grateful that the older woman is doing her best to comfort you in spite of yourself.

Well, that is until cold shivers run down your spine, as a oh so familiar low and sleepy voice speaks, only now noticing how large the hand that was patting your back was. Your eyes snap open immediately.

“Better?” 

Freaking out was an understatement. 

Violently scampering away, definitely not missing the touch of Dion Agriche, a terrified and horrified expression paints your face, heart running and beating fast enough it could win first place at a race. Nausea fills your entire being, but for a completely different reason now. 

A worse reason. 

Opening your mouth, words fail to leave your dry lips. You lick them, mind racing on what to say and do. In the end you spewed out nonsense that doesn’t even make sense to you.

“O-oh, u-um, Agriche, good - fuck - good day? Weather?” 

The slight twitch of his dead tired eye that resembles blood doesn’t help your anxiety. Had you offended him? If so, how - because he witnessed an unsightly sight? One that he decided to stay for?

Quick pants and shaky legs, you search and search and search for any type of exit - failing to remember that the heavy double doors were literally right behind you. No, instead you eye the terrace behind him and consider jumping off. 

Your legs almost beg you for it. 

How quick can you run? Would he stop you? No, rather would he get the wrong impression and think you were trying to commit suicide?

What then? Hand you over to his mental father or mother to use as a damaged toy? Burn your face and stitch up wounds that they created? 

“S-sorry, but -,” scooting away until your back hits something sturdy and hard, the only thing you’re capable of is stare at your arranged husband like a deer in headlights. Dion doesn’t crawl closer, still kneeling, an unreadable expression across his facial features. Like a predator staying still so as to not scare off their prey.

“I - I, um, didn’t mean to make a mess -” On the verge of crying from stress, you blink rapidly, unable to decide if you should look at him or close your eyes. Tears kept at bay, by reflex you bring your thumb up and -

CHOMP

It hurts more than usual, teeth tearing into injured flesh. It’s raw, desperate, a need to ground yourself. Your tongue swipes over the healing bite mark, crimson blood that resembles his eyes drawn as the metallic taste all but makes itself at home on your tastebuds. Hysterical, you cower, hoping, praying that Dion would look the other way and ignore you.

He does anything but. 

He crawls, fucking crawls like a bug, like he wasn’t Dion Agriche, the man whose pride exceeds the skies - or so you heard, the spoilers hazy. He rests on his knees again once he reaches you, long fingers forcing your thumb out and proceed to wrap around your wrist right after. You hiccup as he stares at it, unable to tell what he’s thinking. Maybe it’s better if you don’t.

“That’s a horrible habit you have there,” he states like it’s the morning news before he, like the creep he is, takes the injured digit into his mouth.

You’re too flabbergasted to react. 

Your brain fries, error code 43. 

It doesn’t reboot until moments later when his disgusting and slimy tongue runs over the wound, his saliva unfortunately soothing it just the slightest bit.

The urge to puke returns.

You jerk your hand back and he lets you. You think your expression is one of disgust, but it’s hard to tell when Dion blinks oh so calmly. Like he didn’t just shove your thumb into his mouth like the pervert he is.

But fear overrides the disgust, helplessly watching as your horrible husband comes even closer. You feel trapped between the wall - doors, actually - and his towering, intimidating figure. Without a care in the world, he wordlessly places a hand on the door slightly above your head. It wasn’t romantic, it was a way to keep you trapped, you’re sure. He resembles more of a creature than a human the longer you look at him - those eyes, so bloody, so bright, are inhumane. 

Because there’s a ‘light’ you can’t recognize, a ‘light’ that wasn’t in the manhwa. Here, he feels more sadistic - he’s only here to study you, to torture you and - 

You flinch when he oh so gently grabs your right wrist again, inspecting your bloodied thumb. You become boneless as he licks it, all the while keeping eye contact with you.

The shivers that run down your back aren’t pleasurable. 

“You should stop this,” he says as his head tilts, like he was curious about your reaction to everything. “You’re just making it worse.”

His genuine concern sounds like nothing but threats to you. Your flight-or-fight response kicks in when the hand planted against the wall - doors - goes to  your cold and sweaty cheek. His fingers are cold.

 As any sane person would, you kick him straight in the chest.

And somehow, someway, it hurts you more than him. It almost feels like a brick wall, wincing while he only fucking blinks. As if finally understanding the situation, he lets go and backs off, but stays in front of you. You’re on the verge of throwing up, of running past him to jump off the terrace, laughing as a fear response.

The only reason you don’t do any of it is because your body is boneless, barely able to breathe. Barely able to think. 

Neither of you talk nor move, the distant sound of footsteps and chirping birds filling the silence. He’s treating you like a scared animal while you’re treating him like a predator. Two people unable to understand the actions of the other. Two people on the opposite sides of the spectrum, their definitions of ‘loving’ completely different.

Regardless, he still tries, and maybe if you were into the possessive and obsessive type, you would have praised him. Assuming you notice and realize he didn’t plan on hurting you and was in ‘love’ with you, of course.

That he tries his best to be a gentle giant.

“D-D-Dion.” You stutter after slightly recovering from the fright, the throbbing of your thumb forgotten in the background. You can’t feel anything, really, even the cold tiles you sit on.

“Wife.” His response does little to soothe your nerves - no, rather, they freeze at his voice. 

“W-what… were you doing? I think-think I’m still half asleep, haha…” Nervously forcing out a small laugh, you truly hope that this is nothing more than a nightmare. You’d rather wake up to the sound of loud and annoying construction going on outside your apartment.

Ah, but, you weren’t in your old world, were you? The world that you foolishly abandoned - 

“Soothing it.” It’s uncharacteristic of him - he should either be mocking or ignoring you. Not whatever… this is.

Your stomach drops the longer you look at him. Words feel like mush in your mouth as you force them out. The air you breathe in feels tainted. 

“O-oh… um, you do realize you essentially drank my blood…?” It’s a miracle you’re holding a conversation without fainting. Still, the idea of jumping off the terrace doesn’t leave your head. It was a reckless plan, but there was a chance you wouldn’t die or break something, and at least would get a minute or two to yourself without him. If you weren’t caught by the guards immediately afterwards, that is. 

“And?” His head tilts, observing your reactions, like you were a science project. Scarlet eyes leave your terrified face to travel to your right thumb. A very, very small part of you want to bite it again, to bite it harder out of spite. The thought leaves when he makes eye contact with you again. 

You look away.

“That’s-that’s really unhygienic…” A whisper is all you can manage, eyes swirling as a dizzy spell falls over you again. How are you able to talk to this perverted brute?

Maybe you were only able to talk to instinctively smooth out the situation as much as you could. Or maybe your mouth was just running on its own, hoping this is what he wanted. Why else would he do such a thing? Aside from satisfying his sadistic and perverted urges.

All you want is to go home.

“So?” His head tilts, unkempt midnight hair falling into his scarlet eyes. There’s a very small expectation in his eyes - like he expected you to accept this ‘treatment’, to at least some degree. 

“I-I mean, it’s rather-rather…disgusting, is it not?” Holding your right hand close to your chest, left one wrapped around your wrist, you hold your breath. You can’t think straight, unable to decide on staying or running away. To keep talking or go silent as a mouse. 

He blinks before saying, “Not if it’s you.” 

Error code 43. 

Error code 43.

Request for maintenance. 

Maintenance needed to continue functions. 

Ever so slightly, a grin tugs at his lips at your flabbergasted expression. Little do you know that your husband doesn’t like seeing you scared, but he enjoys making you speechless, mind blank. Now, if only he could do that to you in other ways…

No. This isn’t the time to think about such things, he chides himself. He shouldn’t have these urges, innocent or not - he should be on the battlefield, soaked in red as corpses lay about, scattered like autumn leaves. He sees the fear in your eyes and something ugly twists and turns - this isn’t like him.

A part of him wants to stab the pang of dim guilt, to get rid of these useless things. But when he sees you, all he wants to do is hold you. And it’s disgusting, but he chooses to accept it, far too late and gone to deny himself any longer. 

It seems that you still haven’t realized you hold his leash.

“Is that so hard to believe?” He questions after a bit, once your mind is working again.

“H-huh? Wait - this - don’t play with me, please…,” you beg while shaking your head. Your breathing speeds up again, heavier than it was moments ago. Your feet firmly plant themselves flat on the floor. 

You think about kicking his face this time, giving you some time to run before the shock wears off. 

“I’m not,” carefully and slowly, he leans in closer, gently holding the back of your neck like it’s his favorite thing to do. He pulls you closer and closer until he’s able to whisper in your ear, hot breath hitting it. He whispers, almost possessively like he was confessing a grave yet delicious sin.  

“I mean it, really. You should stop assuming I’ll eventually throw you away.”

If the circumstances were different, if this was a healthy marriage, if this was a loving marriage, it would have been romantic. But because you’re married into the Agriche family, because your husband is Dion Agriche, it sounds like he’s trapping you in a cage, throwing away the key.

And in a way, he is, not wanting to let his pretty, lovely wife to part ways with him. 

Really, he’s not sure of how much longer he can keep himself in check - you drive him crazy and you don’t even know it. He wants nothing more than to keep you locked up in this room, your eyes reflecting his figure, your attention on him and him alone. His grip on your neck tightens the slightest bit - you’re practically in his arms. 

You fit perfectly against him - and yet, his mere existence makes you bleed. Dion shudders when you weakly push him away, hands pressed against his chest. Reluctantly he backs away, fingers grazing against your tear stained cheek as he lets go of the back of your neck. You don’t make eye contact, instead focusing on your feet - the cold tile reminding you that you’re not dreaming.

He hums while you bite your lower lip. This room is a cage, one that you can’t break out of. No. This marriage was a cage, heavy shackles on your ankles - not to the Agriche family but to him.

An obsessive and possessive husband with a scared wife, who will  one day, realize she has him tied around her pretty little finger. At the cost of her own loose leash in his hand, two people unable to escape the other. 

It’s awful, it’s insane, but who could blame him?

You’re just too lovely, too addicting to pass and give up. 

May God bless the poor soul who’s stupid enough to try.

“You’re starting to hurt my feelings by doing so, (Name).” = = =

@tiny-mimi @corpseri @queenofspades403 @pix-stuff @manitscold @darkumbreon92 @s-ajia @disappointment-san @louissatturi @cjafjatkstke @rainofcrime @danae-misfortune @kokomi2 @elvinapandra @labryel @rentaldarling @ishamyshaylaaa @semi-wife @rosedellamorte @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[hellvst]

OFFSEASON – quinn hughes

featuring ; quinn hughes x fmc (sydney gray)

✮⋆˙ warning & content ; swearing

✮⋆˙ word count ; 4.7k

✮⋆˙ previous chapter – series masterlist – next chapter

a/n ; quinn is playing + canucks won yesterday against la? we are soo back! i kinda forgot to give simon a face claim...oops! but, i did have an idea or picture him to look similar to kevin fiala or roman josi, i just can't find a face claim for him. it's up to your imagination as well! happy reading <3

CHAPTER TWO

SYDNEY

My alarm went off multiple times within the past fifteen minutes, and kept hitting the snooze button each time it did. So much for wanting to wake up early this morning.

I fluttered my eyes open, adjusting to the natural light through the window.

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the dull ache in my right leg. It wasn’t a sharp pain–more like a persistent stiffness, reminding me that no matter how much progress I made, and lots of physiotherapy sessions, I wouldn’t always feel one hundred percent.

There was no point in dwelling on it. I had a busy day ahead, and self-pity wasn’t on the agenda. Not today.

I ungracefully got out of bed–did some stretches, single-leg squats, and hopped on one foot.

Nothing some movement wouldn’t fix.

The discomfort usually disappeared once I got my body moving. Truly odd, but if it got me through the day, I was not going to complain.

I moved through my morning routine with muscle memory. A quick shower, skin care, matching black compression set, an oversized hoodie thrown on without much thought, and tied my hair into a ponytail.

By the time I made it to the kitchen, the coffee machine was already doing its magic. As I waited, I flipped the TV on in the living room out of habit as I did every morning. 

The post-game analysis was still running from last night’s Canucks-Oilers’ game. I wasn’t surprised that this was the first thing that popped up on the screen, considering it’s been a while since my hometown, Vancouver, had made a playoff appearance. It was a huge deal for the city.

I caught a whiff of the last few minutes after getting home late from the studio–just in time to witness the whole debacle unfold. 

My brother, Simon, and his teammate.

The miscommunication. The puck hitting the post. The loss.

A blown play that cost them a ticket to conference finals. 

Now, every analyst, reporter, or fan was commenting and dissecting it.

“This was a complete breakdown,” one of the reporters began. “Simon Gray and Quinn Hughes were on totally different pages the entire game. You can’t have your best forward and your top defensemen out of sync in the most important moments–”

I turned the TV off and took a sip of my coffee, already knowing how that played out. My stomach was tightening at the sight of Simon after the buzzer went off.

Before the game, I sent him a short and simple ‘good luck!’, and haven’t heard from him since. Fair enough, given the outcome of the game.

Simon was going to be miserable for days, maybe weeks, more likely the entire summer. My brother was going to be impossible to deal with after that. And if history has taught itself, he was going to blame others for his mistakes. He always did.

I looked at the time, almost choking on my coffee, “Shit.”

I was running late for my first private session of the day, and Phoebe–one of my regular clients–was going to get there before me. Again.

If someone had asked me years ago what I saw myself doing, being a Pilates instructor wouldn’t even make the list. But life has a way of throwing you in places you’d never expect.

It started after the incident, I don’t talk about it much–there was nothing left to say. It happened. It definitely changed things. And for a very long time, I felt lost in my own body, like going through motions without purpose.

Doctors and my physiotherapist gave me exercises, stretches, and a never-ending list of things to “try”. Nothing clicked. Nothing felt right.

Until, I stepped into my first Pilates class. I remembered feeling a bit skeptical at first, convinced it was another trendy workout–the one all the girls tried out. It was the first time in a long time I felt connected to myself again. 

I kept going. I got better. And then I got really good. Good enough that one day, the owner of the studio I’d been training at, pulled me aside and asked if I ever thought about teaching. 

I laughed at the time, but the idea lingered that it stuck. And here I was: an instructor at Lumé Wellness–the top studio branch in Vancouver–fully booked for the summer, doing what I love.

The studio wasn’t that far from my apartment, twenty minutes tops without traffic which most days I was thankful for.

By the time I made it to the studio, sure enough, Phoebe was already inside one of the private rooms, stretching on the mat.

She raised an eyebrow at me as I put my bag down. “Would it kill you to be on time for once?” Phoebe teased, pulling her dark curls into a bun.

I rolled my eyes and started stretching beside her. “It’s five minutes.”

She shrugged and wiggled her brows, “Five minutes that I spent wondering if you were late because a guy kept you up last night.”

“Oh my God,” I groaned with a smile. “Don’t start this again, Phoebe.”

All she did was grin, absolutely delighted at the sight of my suffering. Phoebe was in her late forties, a social butterfly with too much energy for the morning slot, and too much curiosity for her own good. 

Plus the fact she was newly single and thriving in the chaos of her impending divorce, loved to poke at my non-existing dating life. She was a sucker for drama, and if my love life–or lack thereof–could provide her entertainment, she’d without a doubt take it.

“Oh come on, humor me, Syd. There has to be someone,” she said, settling onto the reformer. “You’re giving off the ‘I’m seeing someone new’ glow.”

I scoffed at her. “That ‘glow’ you’re referring to is just the new overhead lighting.”

She snorted then sighed dramatically as I adjusted her stance, “You know, you should really make time for some fun.”

“I have fun.” I argued.

“Pilates and binge-watching The Office at home doesn’t count.”

She got me there.

We continued on with our session. Usually with Phoebe, time flies so fast when all she did was rant about her life–pestering me about mine–but she eventually let it go once we began the harder exercises.

I barely got a moment to breathe before moving on to my bigger group session. To my luck, this group was breeze to get through as they followed my exercises on the reformer with ease. Not to mention, the music blasting through the speakers in the studio allowed them to get into that rhythm which was helpful as well.

Just when the last song ended, the group of ladies’ chests heaved, the room was filled with breaths of exhaustion, and a few went straight for their water bottles.

“Alright, ladies! Great work today! Hope to see you in our next class.”

They all left one by one, saying ‘bye’ on their way out, until I was the only one left.

Two or three classes to teach in the mornings usually had me working around lunch.

And by then, I was starving. 

My routine was pretty much the same, there was not a lot to do with an hour break. But, most days consisted of grabbing a quick meal at the nearest bistro or cafe with my closest friend. As I was about to pick up my things off the floor, my phone in my pocket buzzed.

Speak of the devil herself.

“Hey, Diane,” I answered, tucking my phone in between my ear and shoulder as I packed.

“Are we still on for lunch? I’m already at the café.”

I heard the faint lively sounds of the city of Vancouver in the background. “Yeah, I’m about to leave the studio and make my way–”

“Sydney?”

Right as I was trying to make a beeline to the doors, I turned to see Grace–the owner of the studio–peeking out her office door. My stomach dropped.

“One sec, Di.” I lowered my phone, ending the call. “Everything alright, Grace?”

“Can you step into my office for a minute?”

Fuck. This cannot be good. 

I followed her inside. It was a rare sight to see any of the studio employees in Grace’s office, she usually came to talk to me after my classes, never the other way around.

She never gave off vibes that ever intimidated me. I have never seen her upset with anyone, unless they truly pushed her buttons. The word ‘nervous’ wasn’t enough to express how I was feeling right then and there.

“Have a seat,” she gestured to the empty chair across from her. I gave her a smile, but beneath that was a wave of anxiety washing over me.

I tried to figure out what I might have done wrong. Did someone complain? Did I mix up the schedules or bookings? Did Phoebe finally rat me out for showing up late most of the time? The idea of me getting fired was not on my list of things today.

Grace sat behind her desk, clasping her hands together. “I have some news for you.”

Oh God. This is it. I was getting fired.

“I know your lunch break just started, so I’ll just get straight to it.” Grace had always been forward when she spoke. “There’s an opportunity with the Vancouver Canucks. Their management reached out about a summer cross-training program. They wanted us to coordinate it.”

I blinked at her, “And…?”

“And I told them you’d do it.”

As if my eyes couldn’t get any wider than it was. I stared at her in complete and utter disbelief, waiting for some sort of punchline. “You’re joking.”

Grace smiled, “Nope.”

I would have never imagined she’d say those words. This might be worse than getting fired.

There had been a few occasions when I had worked with soccer clubs, and a few college football players for cross-training. But, I had never done a session with the professional leagues such as the NHL. This was way different.

“Grace, I’m flattered but–” I thought about my words carefully, “I have a full schedule this summer and–”

“I am aware of your busy schedule,” she said, waving a hand. “I already adjusted your schedule accordingly to accommodate for this.”

Of course she did..

I opened my mouth, then closed it. This conversation was already headed towards the direction I dreaded. “There are other instructors here that I think are more qualified–who have worked in this studio for much longer that are more deserving for this job.”

Grace raised a brow at me, “Do you think I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t think you were more than qualified?”

Shit. I had that coming. I basically dug that hole myself. 

I stayed silent for my own good, Grace knew she was right and she sighed. 

“They want you,” she said simply.

“What? Why?”

I answered a bit too quickly, unknowingly raising my voice an octave or two. I shift in my chair, clearing my throat having just panicked in front of my boss.

“Well, given that you have a good background on hockey, I thought you were perfect for the position. Not to mention that their head coach, Rick Tocchet, had also referred to you. And if it helps, it’s not the entire team you will train with. Just two of their players.” Her lips twitched as she leaned in her seat. “One of them being your brother.”

My stomach twisted. I should have seen this from a mile away. Why didn’t I make that connection instantly right when she said ‘Vancouver Canucks’?

After all, my older brother Simon was one of the top forwards for the team.

Although, he may be my family and I would do anything for him–I wouldn’t train him or anyone on his team for that matter. Hockey was Simon’s thing, and I had my own so we stayed out of each other’s lane. And we like to keep it that way.

Plus, I wasn’t all that into men that played hockey. They weren’t my go-to type. But, I would be lying to myself if I didn't think there were some head-turners, but nothing too crazy of the sort. I have never dated a hockey guy.

I blinked, tapping out of my short trance. My brain was processing the fact that I was going to spend all summer with my brother and his teammate. 

Which led me to another question for Grace. 

“So, if I’m training my brother–” I said, dragging out the last word. “–who is the other?”

She took a moment before she replied, “Quinn Hughes.”

That brought me to a full stop. What?

My eyes were nothing but bloodshot, “Quinn Hughes?” There was absolutely no hiding my distraught expression, even if I tried my hardest to contain it. “That’s asking for the impossible, Grace. It would take a miracle for those two to work together.”

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover what I was feeling.

Simon hated Quinn Hughes. I have spent the last few years listening to him ranting about how Quinn came in a year after he was drafted and ‘ruined’ everything–climbing the ranks, breaking franchise records as a defensemen, and taking the spotlight. 

I never truly understood the obsession. Simon had never acted this way growing up, especially towards another teammate. Now, he’s spent years resenting Quinn, blaming him for everything that has gone wrong in his career. I have asked multiple times specifically why he hated him so much, all I got was some half-assed answer.

And I’ve never met the guy, but from what I’ve seen, he seems alright.

“Your job is to make sure they don’t kill each other,” Grace continued. “I told Rick Tocchet you’d do it. And of course, you will be paid. More importantly, the Canucks’ are willing to invest in our studio. We’re growing and this would help fund more studios to expand, Sydney.”

Wow. It would be a great deal for Lumé Wellness now that I think about it. After adding the brand new Pilates reformers and more intensive sessions, our class attendances shot through the roof. The space in our studio was limited and we were growing in numbers as waitlists were piling up. 

What kind of Pilates instructor would I be if I didn’t want that for the studio?

I exhaled a sigh, “What about the media? They will be a problem–”

“We will handle it,” Grace cut me off. “After what happened last night, there’s no doubt that the press will track two of their star players’ moves throughout the summer. That’s why Rick, the Canuck’s team, and I will ensure that we will keep the training sessions on the down-low to prevent the media from talking.” 

That reassured me to an extent, but I was still skeptical. This was a bad idea.

It was easy to figure out why this arrangement was set in the first place. Those two, especially my brother, needed to stop acting like children and start acting like grown adults. Play like real professional hockey players. 

After the loss last night, it was only a matter of time when their team did something about it. I was surprised that it took them long enough. A few years ago, I wondered why they hadn't forced them to be stranded on an island together. Maybe surviving off an island together surely would have allowed them to work together at least.

The look in Grace’s eyes were telling me that there was no way out of this. Even if I came up with more excuses or tried to find a replacement, her (and apparently Rick Tocchet) mind was already made up.

I leaned back in my chair, my head was spinning in constant circles. “Is there any way for me to get out of this?”

“No.”

Damn. A complete shut down.

“Of course not,” I mumbled.

She gave me a knowing look, “Everything will be fine, that I can assure you, Sydney. Sessions will begin in two weeks.”

And just like that, my fate was sealed. Great.

I nodded my head as Grace dismissed me out of her office, gave her a small wave. I stepped out of the studio, took a deep breath trying to process what just happened in the last few minutes. I still couldn’t believe it.

My phone went off. Four missed calls and numerous text messages from Diane.

I called her back, and the second she picked up, she was already yelling. “Where the hell are you?”

A dull throb in my temple ached. “I got held up, I’ll be there in ten.”

“What happened?”

I sighed and began walking down the sidewalk. “You’re never going to believe me if I told you.”

The café was already packed by the time I got there, the low hum of conversation blending with the clinking of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine.

I spotted Diane almost immediately, she sat by the window, with a half-eaten bagel and small bits of crumbs on the table. She glanced up just as I approached her and instantly raised a brow.

“You’re late,” she said, pointing at me with her bagel in hand. “Again.”

“Sorry, I got held up.” I told her as I dropped into the chair across from her.

She playfully scoffed and held up her now empty cup, “Enough that I already finished one latte.” She smirked before setting it down. “Alright, spill. What was so important that you hung up on me and left me hanging here?”

“Grace.”

Diane’s eyes widened at that. She knew how rare it was for me–or anyone in the studio– to get caught up in Grace’s hair to get sent to her office. There were only good things I have told Diane about my boss over the years. Like the time she gave all the studio employees a gift certificate to the infamous spa in the north side of the city. It was generous of her, but it was quite expensive.

I took a deep breath before explaining to my friend of my new summer plans. Having to say it all out loud made me realize how real this was. It was going to happen and I wasn’t just dreaming in that office.

“Wait. I’m sorry, what?” Diane nearly choked on her coffee.

“Yep,” I popped the ‘p’, and nodded at her. “You heard me.”

For a split second, there was silence. 

Her face lit up accompanied with a squeal. Oh no. Here we go.

Diane’s expression was something between shock and excitement, “Syd, are you serious? That’s freaking nuts!” Unaware of her volume, she earned the glances of other customers in the café. We were both quick to give them apologetic nods. She leaned closer across the table, her voice quieter this time, “That’s huge, Syd!”

I scoffed, “I wouldn’t call it that.”

Diane grinned, “Are you kidding? You get to train professional athletes. NHL players. Do you know how many people would kill for that opportunity?”

She was right. It’s not everyday that you get to work with athletes in the big leagues. Anyone in the studio could have easily taken this job and taken the news a lot more lightly and professionally than I did. But no, oddly enough I didn’t have any other choice or say in the decision.

I shook my head at her, slumping into my seat. “It’s not that simple.”

Diane tilted her head as if I grew another pair of eyes, “What’s not simple about that? You get to train with your brother and I don’t think that’s all too difficult, right? Shouldn’t it be easier since he is your brother?”

As much as I loved my brother, we liked keeping our lives separate from each other. He had his career, and I had mine. Not saying that I wasn’t proud of him or embarrassed that my brother was one of the hockey stars in the league. I was very proud that he achieved his dreams, why wouldn’t I be? I just liked supporting him from the sidelines. 

“Me and Simon are close but–” I paused, tracing the rim of my coffee cup with my finger. “We don’t mix our careers or get involved in each other’s business. Now, I’m being thrown right into it and it just…complicates things.”

Diane watched me carefully, “Is that really a bad thing?”

I hesitated before answering her. “I’ve never really been a part of his hockey world, this was totally unexpected. Hell, I don’t even know if he knows about it. He hasn’t texted me since yesterday before the game.” 

“Okay, so you’re only training your brother. Big deal. It’s not like you’re training with the whole team.” She waved a hand, acting like that was the only issue I was dealing with.

I shot her a look, I accidentally left out a big piece of information while explaining to her.

“And Quinn Hughes,” I added flatly.

Diane’s jaw dropped to the floor, “Wait–Quinn Hughes? As in, the captain of the team and the best defensemen in the league ‘Quinn Hughes’?”

As far as hockey goes for Diane, she had no interest in the sport, unless there was eye-candy on the team. When it came down to the NHL, the only names she was familiar with were the ‘good-looking’ guys, my brother, and Quinn Hughes. 

I nodded, then took a quick sip of my coffee, “Apparently, my job is to make sure they don’t kill each other during the summer.”

“Wow. That’s definitely…something.”

“Exactly.” I crossed my arms. “I barely know Quinn. But, Simon? He’s been going off about the guy for years. And now I’m supposed to train them. Together? That’s a shitshow waiting to happen.”

Diane shrugged her shoulders, looking at me thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s an opportunity.”

My brow raised at that, “To do what? Watch my brother have a meltdown? Yeah, no thanks.” 

“But–”

I groaned, “Diane.”

She was teasing, and she never fails to get away with it. “I’m just saying, maybe this isn’t the worst thing. You’ll be challenged. You’ll make new connections. And–” She paused. “Who knows, this might just be the most interesting thing going for you right now since the accident–nevermind, sorry.”

Ouch. That stung.

But, Diane was right. As much as I’d like to think that my life was perfect and everything was going the right places, deep down, I knew it wasn’t. Ever since I got hurt and went through months of recovering, the course of direction my life was heading towards took a hard turn.

Now, I have ended up here. But, I wasn’t not grateful as things could have been worse, very worse. Over the years, I had to learn how to go with the flow and accept it.

I knew she didn’t mean to say that with bad intentions. Diane always wanted what was best for me, and I was glad that she felt that way since I would do the same with her. She was my longest friend for as long as I could remember.

She gave me an apologetic smile, “If anything, maybe your brother can introduce you to his teammates or–”

I playfully shook my head, then stood up with my empty cup in my hands. “I’m getting more coffee.”

She laughed, “Fine. But, I am not done talking about this.”

I gave her a look over my shoulder before heading over to the front counter. The café was even busier now, and I had to squeeze past a few people waiting for their orders. I handed my cup to the barista, tapping my fingers against the counter as I waited.

Diane’s words lingered in my head. Maybe this was a big opportunity, Maybe I was overreacting. But there was still that anxious feeling in my stomach, my subconscious telling me that I was not ready for this.

The barista handed me the the refilled cup, and I turned back towards our table–

Only to be met with a sudden, solid force.

The next thing I knew, the warmth of hot coffee spilled down the front of my hoodie. I sucked in a sharp breath as the heat seared against my skin right through the fabric. “Fuck!”

The impact rattled me, as I staggered back, barely managing to keep hold of the cup and maintaining my balance. I looked down at the damage, dark brown stains spread across the pale gray fabric.

I clenched my jaw. Just perfect. 

“Shit, I–”

I glanced up, ready to give whoever it was a piece of my fucking mind and–

I froze. No, it can’t be.

Quinn fucking Hughes.

Stood right in front of me, low and behold, looked just as surprised as I did.

Up close, he was taller than I expected–maybe I was just short– lean but solid, his broad shoulders filling out his fitted black hoodie effortlessly. His dark hair was slightly tousled under his hat; damp at the ends like he’d just finished practice or a workout, and completely blended with the crowd of people as if he wasn’t one of the biggest NHL players in the league.

I blinked, my brain lagging for a second. I’ve seen him on TV, many times before, in clips that Simon had angrily sent me after a few bad games, but seeing him up close was different. Very different.

He had his own unique attractiveness, I won’t lie. He had the light scruffy stubble around his jaw–sharp jawline, and piercing green eyes that made him look intense, but there was a softness in the way that he blinked at me, momentarily thrown off.

What was he doing here of all places?

He didn’t seem to realize that I wasn’t saying anything and ran a hand through his hair, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I, uh–” He hesitated, looking vaguely horrified at the sight of my hoodie. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t paying attention.”

I exhaled through my nose, forcing myself to calm down despite the feeling of coffee soaking into my hoodie. “Yeah, no kidding.”

 He pulled a handful of napkins from the counter and offered them to me, “Here.”

“Thanks.” I took them from his grasp and attempted to clean the stain, knowing it wouldn’t do much but tried anyway. 

“I can buy you another one,” Quinn offered, nodding towards the counter. “Or, at least a new hoodie?

I shook my head, frustrated that the napkins were making my hoodie worse. “I don’t need anything from an NHL player, alright–”

Oh shit. My eyes widened as soon as the words slipped from my mouth. 

That caught him off guard, and so had I.

Quinn’s expression lit up and brows furrowed instantly at that, curiosity flashing in his eyes. “So, you know who I am?”

“Yes, I do.” I said in a tone indicating that it wasn’t a good thing. 

He studied me for a moment. Probably thinking that I was a hockey fan or whatnot.

“Can I at least get your name or number?” He paused, scrambling to rephrase what his intentions were behind that question. “To replace your hoodie or pay for dry cleaning, anything to fix what I caused.”

He sounded pretty genuine and his intentions were nothing but pure, hopefully.

I gave him a look, “I’m not making you buy me a hoodie. I can take care of this–” I looked down at the mess. “–myself. So, I think I’ll respectfully pass up on that offer of yours.”

As I was about to turn my back on him, his fingers found the material of my sleeve, and swiftly pulled me back. “Hey look, I’d feel really bad if I left here without making it up to you.”

“Oh, really?” 

He only nodded, which amused me.

“I think I can survive without your help, but thanks.”

Quinn’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but thought the better of it before I turned around.

I felt his eyes linger on me as soon as I made my way back to Diane. She watched the whole thing and she looked like she was about to lose her damn mind once I sat down.

I glanced over my shoulder back to where Quinn stood. I was so lost in that interaction that I hadn’t noticed two other of his Canuck buddies were standing behind him. I watched them laughing–most likely teasing him–about what they witnessed. Great, that was just great.

“What the actual fuck just happened, Syd?” 

I wish I knew.

all rights reserved © 2025 hellvst. please do not copy, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[trafalgarology]

Please Please Please (Don't Prove 'Em Right) Chapter 4

Trafaglar Law x afab Female!Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Warnings: usage of the b word

Summary:

You are the Heart Pirates' beloved cook and sniper. However, you were also an insufferable troublemaker who always seemed to get on Law's nerves. He swears he's going to get rid of you one day, but as much as he hates it, why does he find you fascinating? Was it because you reminded him of someone he was greatly fond of?

As your relationship with Law grows, he only hopes you don't fucking embarrass him. After all, he has an image to uphold as one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea.

This story starts off as short stories between (Y/N), Law and the Heart Pirates, then picks up into the One Piece canon timeline, starting from Punk Hazard. This is a slow-burn Law x Female Reader story!

Updates every Sunday!

Cross-posted in Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57651295/chapters/146705491

Chapter 4: I Forgot to Put In My Two Weeks In and Now My Former Boss Is Trying to Kill Me

Chapter summary: The day after Law's birthday celebration, the Heart Pirates and Kid Pirates run into each other. Law and Kid were already rivals, but when Kid finds out that his former cook and sniper is now a Heart Pirate, he doesn't take that information lightly.

Notes: The Kid Pirates are here! Also, there is a slight Killer x Reader if you squint (more like a one-sided love lol). I think this is my favourite chapter LMAO

I also created a taglist. Let me know if you want to be a part of it!

wc: 3.3k

The sun was rising to start a new day on a tropical island at the Grand Line Paradise. After a raucous evening of celebrating Captain Law's birthday, the crew was passed out on the floor of the local pub. The rays of the sun started to peep through the windows of the pub, and the crew was slowly beginning to wake up. You were sleeping next to the captain with your head on his left shoulder, who was sitting up in the corner. You slowly blinked your eyes, desperately trying to focus your vision as you scanned around the room. Realizing that you were leaning against Law, you quickly scrambled to get up. However, that was a bad idea because your head was pounding from a hangover.

"Ah fuck." you groaned as you got up. With hands on your head, you staggered to find a nearby chair and sat down. You sighed deeply as you remembered what happened last night.

“I really appreciate you, for everything that you are. Happy Birthday, Captain Law.” you had said.

Suddenly, your entire body started to heat up. You banged your head on the table in front of you out of embarrassment.

"Why did I say that? That was basically a confession..." you mumbled.

It felt stuffy in the room full of pirates passed out on the floor, so you decided to step outside for some fresh air. As soon as you stepped out, the sun's warm rays hit your face. You squinted as you observed the quiet town, hearing the birds chirp and the gentle breeze brush against the trees. Taking a deep breath, you took this rare moment of peace and savoured it. After a few minutes, you decided to head back to the Polar Tang. As you were nearing the submarine, you also noticed that there was a ship to the far right of the dock. It looked familiar.

Too familiar.

It was the Victoria Punk.

That means...

"Eustass Kid is here?!" you whispered harshly. Kid was your former captain when you used to be a cook, but you had to run away because the food you made was accidentally poisoned, almost killing Kid. Sweat started to form on your forehead as you rapidly whipped your head back and forth to see if any of the Kid Pirates were around. Once you saw that the coast was clear, you ran back into town to warn the captain.

You were one building away from the pub when you suddenly heard two familiar voices ahead. You took one look and your blood ran cold. It was Wire and Heat.

By now, you were positively panicking and fully freaking out. To avoid being seen, you ran to your right and hid in a nearby alleyway. You crouched behind some wooden crates and waited until the two Kid Pirates members walked past.

"What are you doing here?" a deep voice whispered behind you.

You dismissed the voice you heard, thinking that it was a townsfolk. "Hiding from the Kid Pirates. I have a rough history with them."

You heard a chuckle. "Is that so? How come?" the voice asked.

Sighing, you rubbed your temples. "I used to be part of their crew, but I ditched since I accidentally food-poisoned their captain."

"Oh yeah, the captain wants you dead." he teased.

Annoyed at the 'townsperson', you turned around to retaliate, only to find yourself staring at a pair of legs with blue jeans on. You slowly glanced up and saw that they were wearing a blue shirt with a jolly roger that looked familiar. They were also very ripped, with their muscles protruding through the shirt that you swore it was going to rip. Then you finally glanced up to see that they were wearing a blue and white mask with holes.

"Oh no." you thought. This was no townsfolk, this was-

"Killer!?" you screamed in shock. You rapidly got up to run away from the second in command of the Kid Pirates, but he crouched down, pushed you down with him and placed his large hand over your mouth, muffling your scream.

You glanced at the small crack of space between the crate and wall and saw that Wire and Heat were standing in front of the alleyway, looking at Killer.

"Hey Kil, what are you doing?" Wire asked.

"Yeah, who's that? We heard someone scream your name so we went to check out what was happening." Heat added on.

Your eyes drifted back to the masked man in front of you. You attempted to squirm and crawl away, but Killer pushed you further down to the ground.

"Just a thief who tried to rob me. It's fine," he answered back to his crew-mates.

Wire and Heat looked at each other and shrugged. They proceeded to walk away, continuing their conversation.

Killer released his hand from your mouth and stood up. He looked down at you and saw that you were catching your breath.

You glared up at the man. "Why did you lie to save me? Knowing you, you would've run to Kid and snitched that I was here." you suspiciously asked.

The blond tilted his head. "Do you really think of me as Kid's pet dog?"

Lifting yourself off the ground, you leaned up against the wall and smirked at him. "You are basically his dog since you're always so obedient when following orders. Anyways, are you fond of me or something? Did you miss me?" you teased.

There was a pregnant pause before Killer responded.

"I always was fond of you," he said.

You blinked in confusion before he continued, "The whole crew was. I- we missed you." he continued.

A light pink hue showed up on the side of his neck but you failed to notice it.

"Great whatever thanks. Now be a gentleman and go away and pretend that you never saw me. I'd prefer it that Kid doesn't find out that I'm here." you muttered, ignoring the masked man's sudden confession.

Killer glanced at your boiler suit "Or, you don't want him to find out that you joined his number one rival's crew." he commented.

"Hey, they treated me way better than those brutes on the Victoria Punk. Captain Law treats me way better than Kid does," you argued.

"Even with those ridiculous pranks of yours? I know that you didn't stop doing them now that you're with a different crew." Killer playfully questioned. You swore that you could sense that he was smiling under that mask of his.

"Yup!" you said, putting your hands on your hips with pride. "I even hang out with Captain Law now, and he doesn't treat me like garbage."

The blond man looked at you. You felt his eyes observe the unusually excited expression on your face. He saw that your eyes lit up when you talked about the Surgeon of Death.

"Hey (Y/n), do you like Law?" He straightforwardly asked.

A deep blush appeared on your cheeks. You looked towards your side, trying to avoid eye contact (you can't see his eyes). "W-what? What are you talking abo-"

"(Y/N)?!!" someone bellowed.

You and Killer froze and looked at the entrance of the alleyway. There stood a very angry red-haired man with a mechanical left arm. If looks could kill, you would be long dead by now.

The day just started and someone already wanted to kill you. It was a pirate's life after all.

"H-hey Captain Kid, l-long time no see!" you stuttered as you attempted to defuse the situation.

Kid's nostrils were expanded like a bull as he heaved in and out. His eyes twitched at the sight of his first mate and best friend getting chummy over an ex-crewmate.

The red-haired man took one stomp forward and it was a sign for you to get out there. You pushed Killer away from you and dashed further into the alleyway.

"Killer! Don't just stand there, get that bitch!" Kid yelled.

The masked man sighed. He couldn't disobey his captain, so he dashed off to find you.

You ran until you saw the back door of the pub. Using your pistol, you shot at the door three times and kicked it down. You rushed inside and screamed at the top of your lungs to wake up your crewmates. They all slowly got up and groaned, clearly displeased at your screaming. Law was already awake eating breakfast at a nearby table with Penguin and Shachi, They winced when they heard you barge in and scream.

The captain sighed. "(Y/n)-ya, it's too early for your nonsense." he calmly said as he continued to eat.

You stumbled towards Law, grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "This is no-nonsense captain! T-the Kid Pirates! They're here and they're going to kill me!" you hissed at him.

That statement got the tattooed captain suddenly alert. His eyes shot up at you as he suddenly got up from his chair, grabbing Kikoku, which was leaning on the table.

"Kid Pirates?! Here? And they want to kill you? What did you do to piss them off?!" he hissed back at you.

"I-" you started, but suddenly stopped because you realized that you never told Law that you used to be a part of Kid's crew.

The front door of the pub suddenly split into pieces, revealing a very, very angry Eustass Kid. You ran to the bar area and hid behind the bar table.

"You little bitch! You can't hide from me!" he bellowed. He turned his head to the right and saw Law glaring at him, which pissed him off even more.

"What are you doing here Trafalgar?!" he yelled.

"I could ask you the same thing Eustass-ya." Law calmly retorted.

"I came to this island to restock before heading into the New World, but I ran into a bitch who used to be a part of my crew." he sneered.

Law tilted his head in confusion. "Former crewmate?" he asked.

Kid growled as he marched up to Law. "What's it to ya?! Getting all nosy in my business? That girl who just hopped behind the bar table used to be my cook!"

The doctor's tattooed fingers squeezed around Kikoku. "(Y/n)-ya used to be on your crew?" he lowly said.

You peeked up at the table only to find Kid and Law sending you a death glare your way. You slowly got up and gave a nervous laugh.

"H-hey, so funny story captain..." you said, as you nervously scratched your cheek.

"Cut the bullshit (Y/n)-ya! You joined my crew and didn't tell me that you were previously associated with Kid?!" Law yelled at you.

"WHAT?! YOU JOINED TRAFALGAR'S CREW?" Kid also yelled at you.

The room was filled with tension. The Heart Pirates were silently observing the exchange between you, Law and Kid. You slowly lowered yourself down to hide behind the bar table once again.

"Room." you suddenly heard Law say.

Realizing that you were about to be teleported away from hiding, you scrambled to run away.

"Shambles."

You should've kept those sea prism cuffs on him.

As soon as you were teleported to Law's side, you attempted to run away. However, Law foresaw this and grabbed the collar of your boiler suit.

"Explain yourself here (Y/n)-ya before I behead you," he ordered. So much for the tender moment you shared with him the night before.

You grumbled as you faced Law and Kid. "Alright fine. Before I joined your crew, I was in Kid's crew. I was their chef. I accidentally food-poisoned Kid and ran away because he was going to kill me." you explained.

"You don't just accidentally poison someone with food you rat, you legitimately tried to kill me!" Kid shouted at you, not believing your explanation.

Law grip on your collar tightened. "If you're going to shout at someone Eustass, shout at me." he lowly said.

"Stay out of me and my cook's business Trafalgar." Kid sneered back.

Law took a step forward towards Kid and grabbed his black wifebeater. "(Y/n)-ya is NOT your cook!" he argued.

You smirked. "Yeah Kid, I already joined the Heart Pirates. You all miss my cooking that badly?" you teased the red-hair.

Kid broke his glare away from Law and squinted at you. "Your cooking was shit!" he retorted.

"Puh-lease, I bet after I left you guys were eating dog food since none of you guys can cook for shit!" you shot back.

Killer, who was standing where the front door used to be the entire time, spoke up. "Uh actually, I became the cook after you left. I'm pretty decent at cooking," he muttered.

"SHUT UP!" you and Kid yelled at him.

You sighed. This mess had to stop now before an actual fight broke out. You walked up and wedged in between your captain and Kid. You gently pushed the angry redhead away, much to his annoyance.

"Alright, Kid. I should have apologized to you instead of running away. I'm sorry for food poisoning you." you apologized to him.

The apology, even though it was half-assed, seemed to deflate Kid's anger a bit. He stared long and hard at you before he spoke up. "Whatever, get back on the ship," he ordered.

The Surgeon of Death didn't seem to like that. "Hey Eustass-ya, for your information in case your smooth brain didn't get it, (Y/n)-ya is part of my crew now. So get lost." he scoffed.

"Are you looking for a fight Trafalgar?! (Y/n) is my cook and she belongs to my crew so beat it!" Kid scowled. He started to march up towards you and Law.

You put your arms out and attempted to shove Kid back. "H-hey, let's not fight here okay? Let's actually not fight at all! Let's talk this out like proper pirates we are!" you said with fake cheerfulness.

In the background, Hakugan stiffened a laugh. "Oh man, this is entertaining," he said.

"I agree, seeing captain fight over (Y/n)-ya is kind of cute." Shachi agreed.

"Yeah, he never really stands up for anyone in the crew. He really has a soft spot for her." Penguin said.

"You guys ...we should be helping the captain right now!" Bepo urged nervously,

Ikkaku laughed and patted Bepo's back. "Everything's fine Bepo! Let's just see what happens!" she reassured the mink.

Meanwhile, Kid pushed you aside to the front of the bar. You stumbled and landed on your butt. "You asshole, you didn't need to shove me!" you scowled at Kid.

The redhead ignored you and grabbed Law's white wifebeater. "You have my cook. She belongs to my crew and she's coming back with me now." he lowly growled.

The tattooed doctor scowled at him. "She's not going back to you. Leave this bar Eustass-ya, you are not taking my girl," he said.

The entire room suddenly became quiet. It took everyone three seconds to process what Law said, even Law himself.

"MY GIRL?!" the entire crew yelled in surprise.

You were a blushing mess. Glancing up at your captain, you saw that his ears were red from embarrassment.

"He called me his girl?" you thought.

Meanwhile, Kid and Killer were not amused. The blond masked man suddenly walked inside towards Law, but you stuck out your leg and tripped him on the ground, landing face (mask?) first. The Massacre Soldier promptly got up and glared at you.

The red-haired captain shoved Law up against the wall. "My girl? I see you got all chummy with my cook huh?" he hissed.

"Of course, she's my girl, just like how she's part of my crew. I own my crew." the doctor tried to clear up.

By now, the Heart Pirates were ready to fight. The rest of the Kid Pirates showed up as well, crowding up to the front of the pub.

You nervously whipped your head around. This was not the ideal situation, and you had to get the crew out of there fast.

An idea popped into your head. A very stupid idea.

"Everybody, RUN!" you screamed.

The next five minutes were a blur. As soon as you told everyone to run, the entire bar erupted into chaos. Kid punched Law in the face, and Law proceeded to 'ROOM' the entire bar and teleport the entire crew out. Killer barked orders to chase after the Heart Pirates, and soon enough, the once quiet morning turned into a pirate brawl out in the streets.

You attempted to escape the brawl but were held down by Killer, who shoved you into the ground. However, you maneuvered your leg up so you could kick Killer in the stomach. You quickly picked yourself up and pointed your pistol at him. Seeing that you were one step ahead of him, the masked man raised his hands in defeat.

Killer chuckled. "So you and Law huh? It didn't take long either." he teased.

You huffed as you gripped your pistol tighter. "W-what are you talking about? I told you there's nothing between me and the captain!" you shot back.

The Massacre Soldier slowly walked up to you amidst the chaos. "If I had known that this would happen, I wouldn't have let you escape," he murmured.

You found yourself unable to move as Killer stopped in front of you. He lowered his face down to your level, and you swore you could see his eyes through the holes in the mask. Then he suddenly grabbed your waist and pulled you close to you, with his right hand resting on the back of your head. "I told you, I was always fond of you (Y/n)." he lowly said against your ear.

But before you could react, Killer was violently shoved off of you, and he flew several meters back. Your captain was suddenly in front of you, heaving heavily as he shot the deadliest glare you've ever seen at the masked man. Then he yelled to the crew; "Everyone back at the Polar Tang!"

The pirates abruptly stopped the fight and then proceeded to run. The Kid Pirates started to run too. Law grabbed your left arm and hoisted you up, urging you to run as well. The two of you proceeded to run as Law tightly gripped onto your arm.

"Hey, captain! I had never seen that angry before! Did Killer do something to offend you?" you breathlessly asked as you ran.

The captain didn't glance at you. "Just shut up and run! All of this is your fault! My birthday turned into the worst day ever because the Eustass-ya is here!" he shouted at you.

"That's not nice captain, you were so nice to me yesterday!" you pouted.

"Now's not the time (Y/N)-ya!" Law countered back at you. You failed to notice the light tinge of red that donned on his ears.

You heartily laughed. By hearing your laugh, Law couldn't help but smirk, regardless of this ridiculous situation you put him in.  As you, Law and the rest of the Heart Pirates rushed back to the submarine, you couldn't help but think about how every day was a fun day with your favourite crew.

"You are not taking my girl." Law's voice replayed in your head.

A light giggle escaped your lips. One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea called you his girl and you were definitely not complaining.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bonus Scene:

"Killer, this tastes like shit." Kid complained.

"Yeah, man. Also, do you have to cook spaghetti every day?" Wire also complained.

"Shut up and eat your food. We tried to get (Y/n) back but failed, so you're going to have to deal with my cooking from now on." Killer snapped back, as he sat down with his plate of food.

The redhead glanced at his second command. "You seem more upset about this than I am. What gives?" Kid asked.

Heat poked his fork at Killer's helmet. "Isn't it obvious captain? Killer has a thing for (Y/n)!" he teased.

"Eat your goddamn food," the masked man grumbled. The table of Kid Pirate officers erupted in laughter.

The Kid Pirates were going to miss your cooking, but no one was going to miss you more than Killer.

[lokisprettygirl]

Light into the Darkness (Bill Skarsgard! Eric Draven x Female Reader) (Horror Romance) (18+) (70s AU)

Chapter 1

Series Masterlist

Summary : Life didn't turn out how you had imagined it to be. After a drunken breakdown you call into the void for help, begging someone to hear you, to come for you. And he comes from the beyond.

Warning: 18+, Reader is depressed, reader has plethora of insecurities, she's passively suicidal, she's in her thirties (for some of you that's a warning I guess), when I say alternate universe i mean it

Note: I know Step out of line isn't finished yet but I had inspiration and wanted to post it.

Dull and Meaningless.

If you had to describe your life in two simple words that would be it.

It was meaningless, breathing in and out everyday with no real sense of purpose. At thirty two women your age had everything they dreamt of, a husband, children, family, if they didn't have all that then they had a career, something fulfilling, something that made them stand out. The world was changing, especially in the wake of the 70s—liberation, progress, disco, dreams burning bright under the New York city lights.

You on the other hand? You had nothing. Absolutely nothing in your name. If you disappear tomorrow you don't think anyone will come looking for you.

Last time a man looked your way was four years ago. Adam. He was someone you once thought you could have a future with, but then he found someone worthy of him, someone more educated, more sophisticated, more elegant than you could ever dream of being.

You had spent two years with him, on the first date itself you knew he didn't belong in your world. He was an artist, he was cultured, he only listened to Sinatra, he had travelled all around the world, been around the beauty this world had to offer, you never really understood what he saw in you but you let yourself dream. Dream of a life you were never meant to have.

When he left he didn't leave with a goodbye, all you found was a letter on your doorstep. Written in plain, clear words that you'd understand that he had fallen in love with another.

You are so simple. That's what he always said to you, never felt like a compliment, that's exactly why he left at the end, he found someone interesting.

“Go home dear it's late” Mr. Rogers said to you, pulling you out of your thoughts. He was the owner of the record store you worked at, he was a kind old gentleman in his sixties, he was the only person who ever saw you as someone who wasn't a complete failure in life or maybe he just felt pity for you.

A ten minute walk from the store brought you to the apartment building where you lived.

The apartment was a reflection of you, cold, sad, dead from the inside.

A cheap place that you could barely afford, the space smelled of rotten wood and worn carpets. You flicked the switch to get rid of the darkness the moment you opened the door but light didn't engulf you.

You forgot to pay the electricity bill, it was the last day today. You had been drowning so deep in the bottomless pit of your loneliness that you had forgotten.

“Goddamn” you cursed under your breath as you walked into the dark space, trying to look for a candle in the drawer of the dresser. As you found some you lit enough of them to evade the eeriness.

You took one to the bathroom as you sat down in the bathtub, soaking in the cold water, pouring yourself a glass of wine that turned into two and then more. Before you'd be too delirious to even get up you forced yourself to step out of the tub, putting on a night dress you entered your room. And then it suddenly hit, the quiet, the loneliness of it all. How truly, deeply, pathetic you felt.

All of it came crashing down on you, you collapsed on the carpet in the bedroom, shedding those tears you had been bottling up for days.

You cried and cried like you had always done, you cried for the girl that never got to be the woman she wanted to be, you had dreams but the older you got, the farther you swept away from fulfilling those dreams.

You had nothing now, not even the luxury of youth, no reason for men to even look your way twice now.

“No one will ever look at me again” you whispered as the tears streamed down your cheeks.

“Please.. someone..hear me..anyone..anything” you murmured between the broken cries, you had no clue who you were calling to, not a single part of you reached for god anymore. If he exited you wouldn't be in such pain all the time.

“I'm so lonely..come to me..please come”

You murmured as you laid down on the carpet, feeling pathetic and disgusted by what you had become. The silence around the house prickled your skin, the sound of your sobs were the only thing that echoed.

“I need you”

You whispered before your eyes drifted off, feeling the weight of the exhaustion you had felt all day, every day, for years.

And then you had a dream.

You dreamt of a man, he wasn't Adam—he was someone you had never seen before. He was haunting, ethereal, and he was making love to you. No that wasn't right, he wasn't just making love, he was devouring you.

Your eyes fluttered open as you awakened from the dream, completely soaked in sweat.

A dream ofcourse, a man like that wouldn't be making love to you in real life. You looked around the room as your eyes adjusted to the dim light, some of the candles had extinguished, some still fighting with their last breath.

But that wasn’t what caught your attention. You sat up immediately, your heart racing in confusion. You didn’t remember getting off the carpet or getting on the bed. Sure you were drunk, yes, but not so much that you wouldn’t remember moving.

That's when you saw it.

A loud shrill scream escaped your throat as you saw the shadow lingering in the corner of the room. It stood there in the dark corner. Tall. Imposing.

Even as you screamed he didn’t flinch, he didn't move.

He stood still as a rock, just outside the reach of the candlelight, his presence thick and wrong in a way your mind couldn’t quite process.

You scooted backwards in terror across the bed until your back hit the wooden headboard, heart hammering in your chest, every cell in your body screaming danger.

You had closed the door, you had locked the windows like you always did. Then how did he get in? What was he going to do? Is this how you were going to die? it would be befitting you thought, ending as just another victim in the crime corner of the New York post tomorrow, a meaningless end of a meaningless life

Your mouth opened again as you tried to scream, hoping that perhaps your neighbour would hear them but the sound caught in your throat when he finally stepped forward.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The candlelight trembled with his movements as if it feared him as well, casting flickering shadows across his face. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, black hair tousled around his forehead . His eyes were dark and endless. They weren’t the eyes of a man. They were the eyes of someone who had experienced what it felt like to die.

“Please get out..I won't call police..i won't tell them anything..just please take whatever you want and go” You cried between your tears, fear almost made you wet the bed in desperation.

You had never been in a situation like this, you didn't know what to say or do, you always thought that when it would be your turn to go you would die with ease, you won't complain, you won't resist but every inch of you was fighting to survive now.

As he stepped closer, his tall frame looked down upon your cowering form.

And that's when you saw the resemblance. The man from the dream..he looked exactly like him.

“Who are you?” You built the courage to speak again so he took a deep breath, the kind that seemed to come from deep within his chest, the kind that made you feel as if he didn't have the luxury of breathing until now.

“Fear not beautiful, you called for me”

You looked at him in a mixture of surprise and fear. His deep guttural voice sent shivers down your spine.

“What are you talking about?” you asked in confusion.

“You opened the door for me” he answered.

“No i didn't”

“You did. Your cries, your sorrow, your pain, you spoke into the void. Are you truly baffled that it answered?’

Your tears clung to your lashes as he continued to speak, the more he said, the crazier you felt. Were you finally losing it? You still didn't know if it was real or not. Maybe this was a dream still, maybe you drank much more than you remembered.

“It's not real..it's not real..it's not real”

You murmured under your breath, squeezing your eyes shut, hoping everything would be back to normal once you open them but a soft gasp escaped your throat as he only got closer to the bed, standing at the edge of it now.

That's when you saw him clearly. And you wished you hadn't. Because until then he was just a monster in the shadows.

He was draped in black from head to toe. Not the kind of black you saw every day, not the kind you loved but something older, light didn't reflect off the blackness, that's how dark it was. His long coat hung from his shoulders, tailored perfectly to his broad, tall frame. Underneath the coat he wore a dark, silk shirt, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of his pale chest. The material clung to him like it had been stitched by hand, it seemed old and vintage, nothing you'd see hanging in a random shop.

His trousers were fitted to his long legs, worn leather boots that looked centuries old.

You dared to look into his eyes and he stared right into your soul. His green irises hypnotised you, they were pulling you in deeper into a world other than your own. His face, god his face was carved in a way that made you want to lose your mind, he wasn't just handsome like a model or a movie star, he was breathtaking in every possible way.

And as he stood at the edge of your bed, his presence filled the room like a shadow, consuming everything in its wake.

His scent now lingered in every inch of your room, the old wooden smell replaced with the aroma of his intoxicating sweet musk, you couldn't really make out what he smelled like, all you could think was how divine it felt to your senses.

Clutching onto the blanket to your chest you just stared at him, as if that would make him disappear.

“You can't be real .. please” you murmured, that's when he began to walk around the bed to reach the side where you had shrunken yourself to.

“No no ..no please..” you pleaded in fear but he didn't stop moving.

“Shhhh.. I'm not going to hurt you, not in the way you fear” he spoke, his voice soft but also unnerving as if he was pulling you into a sense of false security.

“I felt you, I heard you, I came for you and now you're scared of me?” he asked.

“I didn't mean anything..i was drunk..I swear I was drunk” he let out a chuckle as you said that.

“Drunken words are more honest than the sober ones. That's what they used to say, pardon me if the meaning has changed now” he said as he brought his hand up to touch your cheek, you wanted to step away from it but his touch felt like a balm on all the wounds you carried.

“I don't understand..what are you?” you asked, your voice still trembling.

“Used to be your kind, not anymore, haven't been for a long time”

“You're a ghost?”

“Ghosts are a fragment trapped in time..I'm your salvation and perhaps you're mine”

He said as he stepped away from you. A strange sadness flashing across his face.

“I didn't mean it..I was just crying.. people cry and say things all the time” you said to him, your voice getting a little louder now that your heart had stopped hammering in your chest.

“They do and it's true but I only heard you. Your pain, your sorrow, they touched me, they awakened me from the depths of the earth”

“And What do you want?” you asked so he smiled but it didn't reach his eyes, he straightened himself as he walked away from you, the candlelight followed him around, flickering in whatever direction he moved to as if they were enchanted by his presence too.

He turned to look at you, his eyes boring deep into your soul.

“You. Entirety of you. You brought me back into this world, now you will take care of me as I do you. You will keep me sated here as I do you. You will keep me alive. Keep me from fading back into the darkness”

His voice was like music to your ears, words melting like honey, he spoke to you like a lover, like a man who desired you. And you felt absolutely manic. Your own desperation made you want to slap yourself.

“And if I refuse?” You dared to ask even though a part of you feared he'd lunge at you for questioning him. Another part wanted him to do it.

“Then I disappear. You’ll wake tomorrow with an aching head and a foggy memory. You’ll blame the wine. You’ll wonder if you dreamed of me. But you’ll never see me again. Back to your good old life” he answered.

Your old life. The one that made you so desperate that you summoned an entity you didn't even understand yet.

“Are you a demon?”

“A demon wouldn't be asking for permission love.. he'd just take” he said softly, his voice like a lullaby “I need you warm and willing, I want to feed off your pain, fill my soul with the ache you carry”

Your eyes welled up again but not with fear this time.

“Why me? I didn't mean to summon you-”

You asked, the question carried several different meanings, you felt so worthless that you didn't understand why an ethereal being or whatever he was would want to do anything with you.

“But you did,” he cut you off gently, his tone never cruel “You wanted someone to see you. Someone to hold you. I came for the woman who never got to bloom the way she deserved to be, it resonates with me, your loneliness”

You choked on a breath. No one had ever spoken to you like this. Not even Adam.

He stepped closer, and your body tensed, but not from fear. From the pull. The unholy, magnetic force drawing you to him, to the unknown. He placed his knee at the edge of the bed before he leaned to cup your cheeks between his palms, his touch somehow freezing cold but it filled you with warmth.

You shivered as his thumb brushed over your lips.

“You can say no if you wish to. I will not haunt you” he whispered.

He was giving you a choice while speaking to you in that voice, while touching you in ways you hadn't been touched in years..or ever.

“And if I say yes?” You asked, your lips trembling beneath his touch. His eyes darkened at the question.

“Then you pay the price.. pay the price for my existence in your world” you gulped as he said that.

“You want my soul?”

A chuckle escaped him as you said that.

“Again. I am not a demon but if you want to keep me tethered to this realm I do need a sacrifice from you sweet girl. A willing one”

He whispered, his thumb caressing your skin, wiping those tears away from your cheeks.

The room was thick with an eerie tension. Every part of you screamed to run, to deny this madness and return to your bleak reality, but as his cold fingers lingered on your skin, a strange sense of calm washed over you. The confusion, the fear, the loneliness, all of it seemed to melt away in his presence.

For the first time in years, someone, something, was seeing you, not as a failure, but as something more. You felt wanted , needed, desired. Someone needed you in ways nobody else did. And this felt like a sin, you didn't even know who he was or what he was. Maybe he was just a demon lulling you in with a false sense of safety but at that moment you didn't care.

You wanted to sin, you wanted to sin with him. You wanted to pay the price, you didn't want to be alone anymore.

“What do you want? What price do I have to pay for you?” you whispered, his mouth lingered over your lips as he spoke. His scent, his eyes, his words, his aura, everything intoxicated you.

“Oh you're going to be so good for me, won't you?” he murmured against your mouth.

You nodded, not sure what that even meant, feeling the weight of his words settle deep inside you.

A promise. A bargain.

“Tell me what you want”

You asked again. His answer awakened you from the haze but only for a moment.

“Blood” he spoke tenderly.

He wasn't an ancient being.

“You'll feed me your blood, in turn I'll give you everything you could possibly want from this life”

He was a vampire, the one you had awakened from a long, deep, cursed sleep.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Taglist @mariaenchanted @malenoradgn

[pedgito]

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒 ╳ SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter Two: Chivalry, Secrets & Hot Tubs (Week One)

[strangers to friends to lovers, age gap (56/mid 20s), forced proximity, no outbreak]

(Series) Content Warning: a very, very lonely joel miller. copious amounts of lusting, tension, joel is an excellent cook (food, alcohol, ect), hot tubs, impromptu snowball fights, awkward situations, deep talks and tragic backstories (specified within chapter warnings, deeply depraved smut/sexcapades and the inappropriate use of a dining table (also specified within chapter warnings), nicknames of endearment (no use of y/n)

quick note: i love all the reblogs/feedback and that you're all enjoying this as much as i am <3 and a huge thank you to @swiftispunk for being the best and looking over the first chapter for me, i am completely scatter-brained and forgot to mention this when i posted last monday, so tysm han and pls go check her out if you haven't! & follow my fic update blog (@pedgitos) and turn on post notifications so you don't miss any updates/posted fics!

Chapter Summary: Settling in is easier than you expect, but it does come with a fair share of challenges. A week filled with getting to know one another and some moments shared, your week doesn't end on the best note, leaving you with a choice.

Chapter Warnings: (8k) no outbreak, grumpy!Joel, domestic shenanigans, Joel being naturally assertive, cooking dinner together, reading is good at encouraging Joel, one hot tub & two stubborn individuals, also...one bed trope incoming

You wake up refreshed, like you’ve been born with a new reverence for life—alright, it might be a bit of an overstatement but it’s a wonder what a decent night of sleep could do and you’re feeling that this idea, playing house with a stranger—though it wasn’t much like that anymore—wasn’t the worst choice. And it reminds you of Joel, having left him in the chair last night, not wanting to burden him but you can only imagine the ache in his bones, his back, the discomfort of sleeping in a chair all night. 

You lay for a moment, bleary eyes adjusting to the early morning light. The morning sunshine wasn’t strong here, blanketed out by a stark white snow that covered the ground, it muted out most colors and left a cool, but bright blue that shined through the window above your bed. 

It was peaceful. No cars, no buzz of strong electricity outside your window, people and their idle conversation a few floors down from your apartment window. Not even a bird, really. But, there’s a distinct clearing of a throat from the living room that has you stirring in bed, rising lazily as you move with the same enthusiasm. 

It was a fresh week. The first official week of your vacation and you were going to start it off on a good note, clambering out of the bed and slipping on a pair of fluffy slippers to keep your toes from freezing off, not bothering to glance in a mirror on the way out—not that you needed to, it didn’t matter. It was early, you were still trying to shed the sleep from your body and you could care less. Plus, it wasn’t like an old t-shirt and sleep shorts was some foreign concept. 

When you peek around the corner, arms crossed tightly over your chest, you can spot Joel’s head tilting to one side, hand kneading at the taut muscle in the center of his back where his neck starts to begin and then you’re stuck watching as he stretches his arms out wide, working out all of those muscles. Every single one. And you’ve been silent for far too long.

Yeah.

Clearing your throat softly, you approach from behind and keep your distance, announcing your presence like you hadn’t been lingering for a minute or two already. 

“Morning,” You greet politely, resting your weight against the edge of the island, taking in full view of a freshly awoken Joel, eyes still puffy from sleep.

He looks very…gentle. Surprisingly, so. It softens his rigid demeanor significantly and you have to silently talk yourself out of glaring at him for too long, “I didn’t want to wake you—I’m so sorry.”

Jeez—you two are getting good at that. Apologizing, afraid to step on each other’s toes. 

“Not your fault,” Joel massages his bicep with the heavy pressure of his thumb, looking slightly pained as he rolls his shoulders, “I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

“Yeah, but I forced you to stay up, so—”

“You didn’t,” Joel quickly shuts you down, “I’m a grown man,” there’s a laugh hidden somewhere in there, but Joel continues, “don’t blame yourself for my own irresponsibility.”

It’s too early for this. You force on a fake smile, void of any real emotion at this hour, running on fumes and the smell of coffee. Speaking of—you sniff, eyes searching for the smell like a dog would track a scent, and Joel is already pointing in the direction you should be looking for when your eyes land on him.

“I already finished it off on my own,” Joel admits, pointedly taking another long sip before resting the mug back on the counter, “I can get another pot goin’ if you need it.”

There’s an inclination to let him, seeing him assert himself so easily and offer, but you shake your head, “I think I can handle a coffee maker,” You assure him, meandering around the kitchen in search of the coffee grounds, ignoring Joel’s tracking of your movements, waiting for a moment to interject and point you in the right direction. You spot them a moment before the urge comes with a soft aha!

“I needed to make a drive into town,” Joel tells you after you’ve gone through the steps of starting your own batch of coffee, “pick up some more food, figured you might wanna tag along.”

He’s not asking, only assuming. But to be fair, his assumption is right. 

“Sure,” You reply cooly, pouring yourself a hefty cup of coffee to sip on, letting your body take hold of the caffeine, “...how far away is the closest town?”

“Hour and a half.” Joel answers and you almost have the nerve to go wide-eyed on him, but then you remember just how deep into the woods you both were and that it was necessary.

Truthfully, there was a more concerning matter at hand.

“How’s your music taste?” 

Joel has the gall to look offended by the question.

“I’m leavin’ in thirty,” Joel ignores you, “don’t think I won’t hesitate to leave you here.”

Okay, noted: Joel wasn’t much the morning person you assumed he was.

-

Joel immediately realizes how little disregard you have for touching things that aren’t yours when you reach for the makeshift box of cassettes tapes placed in the backseat of his truck—the thing was old, riding on it’s last leg, but it was something Joel would cherish until it was unsalvageable, torn seats, dents, and all.

“Ain’t gonna find anything you like in there,” Joel assures you, “None of that pop stuff they’re always playin’ on the radio these days.”

The tables turn on him suddenly, seeing your face contort into a similar emotion that he gave you earlier. Bewilderment, shock, annoyance. You scoff at the comment.

“Says you,” You retort back, sifting through the different cassettes until you find Joel trading glances between you and the road in front of him, almost worried you might chuck his collection out of the passenger side window, “Joel, eyes on the road.”

Joel enjoys a lot of country, which isn’t a total disbelief. But, it wasn’t something you shared the sentiment on, flicking away a handful of country artists you’ve never listened to and reaching some of the good stuff—older rock music, some classic 80s, and late 90s.

You pluck one out carefully, prying open the cassette case with gentle hands before sliding the tape in, allowing the low hum of the music to fill the car. There’s a brief moment of respite before Joel smirks to himself, thumb tapping against the steering wheel.

“What were you saying?” You look at him pointedly, shifting slightly in your seat.

Joel looks away briefly, biting back a chuckle, “Fine—I’ll give you some credit. Foo Fighters aren’t terrible, but you skipped right over Bruce Springsteen, so…”

You scoff in disbelief, “You don’t get to criticize me with that atrocious collection of country music,” You stare down at the box in thought, eyes brimming with a mischievous that Joel knows of immediately, he’s seen it before. Not with you, but he knows, “you know, maybe I should just do you a favor and—”

You can barely get a hand on the window roller before Joel’s hand is gripped tight over the box, trapping your other hand in his grip as he warns, “I’m not above leavin’ you stranded in the cold.”

Your grin is nothing but evil and Joel finds that there’s something about you that infuriates him in a way that is hard to describe, not in anger or rage, but a level that he thinks he could match. A game of back and forth that he could play into—but you’re quickly relenting regardless of the threat and placing the box on the floorboard.

“Already tried that,” You retort, “didn’t work too well for you, did it?”

Fair is fair. Joel doesn’t poke the beast.

Instead, he takes the chance to ask a question.

“So, what exactly was your plan?” Joel asks curiously. “You comin’ out here with no car and all?”

You shrug nonchalantly, “Didn’t really have one, but I would have figured it out.”

Joel shakes his head dismissively, subtly resembling a face of disapproval.

“Hey, you don’t get to judge me, okay?” You don’t wait for a response, “You can have whatever assumptions you want about me, but don’t try and act like you know anything about me.”

It was another reminder. Joel didn’t know you, but you didn’t know him either. You reign your frustration in slightly, quick to defend yourself but aware that not everyone handles confrontation in the same way—if Joel was quick to anger, you didn’t want to stoke the fire. 

“I’m not,” Joel argues, his voice calmer than you expect, thinking back to the saddled rage his voice held the night you arrived, the threat that lingered with every word, “I’m not, alright?”

“Then stop that.” You comment, waving your hand in a vague motion toward his face, “Stop looking at me like—”

“Like what?” Joel interjects, eyes more pensive as he looks over at you.

“Like—like I need a fucking lecture on life or my choices,” You tell him, a hint of pleading in your voice, “I’m not some kid who doesn’t understand how life works.”

“You’re not a kid—” 

“Good, great that we established that,” You lean back in the seat more comfortably, arms crossed over your chest as you keep your eyes on the snow covered road, “now shut up so I can enjoy the music.”

Thankfully, Joel does just that.

-

Conversation falls flat until you arrive at the store in town a while later, Joel fetching a cart and pushing it your way before he stops you suddenly, hand over your own again—a touch that normally you would flinch away from, but he’s already done it once before and the thought doesn’t even cross your mind.

“I’ll catch up,” Joel tells you, “I forgot somethin’ in the car.”

You glance back briefly, knowing that the walk isn’t that far. 

“Oh, I can wait. It’s fine.”

Joel doesn’t say so much, but the look in his eyes goes a long way. A silent plea for you to go with it and don’t ask questions—again, you didn’t have any right to. You nod quickly and wander off toward the store as Joel trails away.

It’s then when your phone starts to vibrate away in your pocket, the sudden availability of service sending a barrage of notifications your way—you’re terrified to take a glimpse, but you do anyway. It should be no surprise to bear witness to the many, many texts from your mother wondering where you’d run off to, but there’s a tinge of guilt settling in your stomach.

You send her a quick, dismissive text to explain that you were fine and enjoying your time, but no elaboration on the things she wanted to know, because really, there was nothing to tell. And if you did decide to expel the details of your trip, mentioning that there was no boyfriend and it was just a stranger you met in the middle of the woods, well…that wouldn’t go over smoothly.

You also find a quick, heated moment of frustration to send an unpleasant text to the owners of the cabin, still polite enough that it wouldn’t warrant your ability to work things out—and you decide that calling would reach them faster, that somehow they’d magically find a way to appear and fix things, but there’s no answer. Only a voicemail that gave vague details about being away on their own vacation.

Just your luck.

Great. You sigh deeply, shoving the phone away into your pocket and returning to the land of obliviousness as you step inside the small market.

You fend for yourself for a while, throwing several random necessities in the cart as you go, enough sustenance to spread over four weeks and manage meals the entire trip, also a few more bottles of alcohol don’t hurt, looking for a few hard liquors that catch your eye and adding them to the growing supply of items. 

You’re lost in concentration of the ingredients on the back of a box dinner when Joel’s voice startles you back to the real world, eyes jumping up to look at him and he spots the panic immediately.

He nods slightly when you recognize him, “Sorry, keep forgettin’ how jumpy you are.”

“You’re just ridiculously fucking quiet,” You tell him, breathing out a long sigh as you toss the box into the cart, “everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Joel assures, doesn’t elaborate. Okay, cool. You weren’t going to pry, no matter how much your instincts told you to. He scans the cart casually, “Mind tradin’ off?”

You lend him the lead and follow, watching as he pointedly finds things, like he’s reading off a list in his head and moves around the store with a purpose. It’s only slightly annoying that you have to keep pace with him, but he’s suddenly speaking out to you as he’s glancing over something on the bottom shelf, “Are you allergic to anything?”

“No,” You responded, eyebrows knitting together in confusion, “Why?”

“Grab some of that fresh rosemary,” Joel says, pointing out somewhere behind you and you whip around, eyes searching furiously and coming up empty, “—find it?”

You’re a little dumbfounded as you search the shelf of fresh herbs, Joel’s heavy footsteps approaching behind you as he reaches over your shoulder and plucks the exact thing he’s looking for with ease, “Hey, I had the right idea.” You defend, noticing how amused he looked at your befuddlement, “And you didn’t answer my question, either.”

“Well,” He tosses the small, plastic package in the cart, still tucked up at your side and you can feel his body heat, the solid wall of his chest against your shoulder, “don’t like the idea of accidentally killin’ you if I cook something you’re allergic to.”

“Well, what if I’m lying?” You challenge and Joel shoves you aside gently to grab the cart, hands on your shoulder as he shifts you away—and when had things gotten so…touchy?

Truthfully, Joel finds it easier than telling you, noting how quickly you quiet down when he asserts himself and does rather than asks. He knows if it made you uncomfortable you wouldn’t have had a problem speaking up immediately. 

“Look at me,” And there’s a deep timbre to his voice that has your chest sparking like a fire, eyes connecting with Joel’s for longer than you’ve ever allowed and it’s like he sees right through you, but he’s searching for something, “—you’re not lyin’.”

“But, if I was?”

Joel nearly leaves you in the dust, but turns to look at you with a subtle grin.

“Well, now I know you’re not.”

–

The ride back is easier, much easier—and Joel doesn’t fault you when you fall asleep halfway through, the heat of the car and the low hum of the music like a perfect mix as you curl in on yourself. Joel wakes you with a gentle hand on your shoulder when you finally make it back, allowing you a moment to shake the grogginess away with a word over his shoulder as he opens his door.

“Careful over that patch of ice on your side,” Joel instructs, “gettin’ colder so it’s slicker than it was a couple days ago.”

Careful. You roll your eyes carelessly, nudging the door open with your shoulder and hopping out, boots hitting the hard ground—your first mistake was underestimating the slickness and Joel’s warning, because the moment you take your first step it’s all downhill. Literally.

Luckily though, like a moment of divine faith as you pray that you don’t hit the ground, Joel is right at your back, arms slipping under your own as he plants his feet firmly and catches you. One arm crossing somewhere over your midsection and the other wrapping around your shoulder, a large palm holding you steady as he helps you back to your feet. You can feel him on the brink of making a comment, eyes looking down tenderly into your own—

“Don’t ask.” You warn him bitterly, face scrunched up like a kicked puppy, shrugging him off lazily. Joel doesn’t argue, making sure you’re steady before he allows you himself to fully let go.

Joel shakes his head subtly, a nuisance of his, and rounds the back of the truck to reach for the bagged groceries, “Fine, I’ll just say I told you so then. How’s that?”

Worse. 

-

Joel never asks for help, doesn’t even seem bothered when you stand there aimlessly, watching him stow away the groceries like he already had a game plan and you feel slightly useless, but it does give you a good opportunity to watch without any explicit reason or excuse. 

There’s an obvious purpose to Joel’s movement, clear that he’s used to doing a lot of heavy lifting and keeping up, probably prefers organization over clutter, and has a certain inclination to do things himself, always. And you can’t help the way your gaze clings to his face, noticing something a little off—not good or bad, just slightly different. You hadn’t noticed it this morning, but with the extended amount of time your eyes lingered on him, you realize he’s cleaned up a bit, shaved his beard down to near stubble, a subtle difference…but you notice.

You’re not sure how long you’re stuck in this state, arms resting against the counter as you stood there, practically useless, thinking about what Joel looks like on a regular basis, when he isn’t cooped up in a cabin in the dead of winter. You want to see that side of him, crave it. It’s an insane thought that doesn’t make sense, eyes widening suddenly at the realization of the thought you’re having—

“You still with me?” Joel’s voice calls out in the haze, muffled slightly as you come back into focus, eyes landing on him. “Think I lost you there for a minute.”

“Oh—no. I mean, yeah. I’m still a little tired, I guess.” It’s a bold face lie, but Joel seems to believe you. “Why?”

“I was sayin’ I need to go chop up some wood for the fireplace,” He explains again, “then you went all wide eyed…”

“Oh, okay,” You nod jerkily, “...do you need help?”

Joel immediately declines. No surprise there.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Joel suggests, “I can manage just fine on my own.”

Sleep sounds great, but it doesn’t happen. 

You try—you do, but the splitting of wood, the strong crack of the axe catching the wood outside of your bedroom window, it isn’t exactly soothing to the ears. So, you find yourself wandering into the kitchen, peeking between the curtains with a wild curiosity that reminds you of when you were younger and trying to catch a peek of the cute boy next door, a bashfulness replaced with a deep, insatiable hunger that you didn’t know existed until this moment. 

Joel was attractive, you could easily admit that. But, seeing him now, it’s a done deal. There was a deep pit of despair in your mind and you were stuck at the bottom with no way out.

It’s almost abysmal how easy he makes it look, the axe he’d brandish as his weapon of choice against you swung over his shoulders, the unfortunate lack of skin stretching over taut muscles as he went through the motions, covered up by thick layers. But, you get the idea. 

There’s a slight pout forming on your face before you catch yourself.

He slices full power through the wood like it was eager to give way to him. You also find that his face tugs up in a scowl after every swing of the axe, a soft sigh of exerted energy as he tosses the logs to the side and starts up again. You could watch for hours. But, you settle for the few more minutes he spends collecting the wood before you’re scrambling back into your bedroom like you had been there the entire time.

Unfortunately, Joel isn’t oblivious. Still, he spares you the embarrassment. 

There was no reason for him to entertain whatever he thought might be going on. He couldn’t.

-

The next few days are uneventful, though that was to be expected. It allows you time to really settle in, usually curled up on the couch watching the fire crackle away until you thought your eyes might melt away, or reading a book that Joel always seemed to be trying to catch a peek at. There was an innocent curiosity there that you could appreciate.

You also learned that Joel only took his coffee one way, offering up your services to refill his cup while you refilled your own, sugar lingering over the rim and he’s quickly pushing away the small container of crystalized goodness. 

“Joel, come on–” You grimace but relent, placing the cylinder of sugar on the counter.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” Is all he offers, almost challenging you to take a sip.

You accept, obviously. But, it isn’t without consequence.

The moment the bitterness hits your tongue you’re scrambling away, forcing the mug into Joel’s waiting hands and spitting out whatever putrid liquid remained in your mouth in the sink.

It’s the first time Joel actually laughs, a full on chuckle that isn’t very receptive on your end.

Joel apologizes with dinner that night, a gesture that wasn’t expected or needed, still you’re thankful nonetheless. But, it offers you the realization of just how good a cook Joel can be.

Steaks grilled to a perfection that only came with repetitive practice and learned techniques, vegetables sautéed and seasoned to an enjoyable level, and a side of pasta that if Joel told you he made from scratch, you would’ve believed wholeheartedly if you hadn’t seen him dump the entire box of pre-made pasta into a pot of boiling water.

You’re halfway through dinner, chewing thoughtfully on a bite when you finally break the long, but comfortable silence that had blanketed over you both.

“So, Joel,” There’s a tone to his name that catches his attention, eyes flicking up to meet yours mid-bite, “what do you do for work?”

At this point, your nosey tendencies take hold.

There’s a scrunch to Joel’s nose before he speaks, almost as if he considered feeding you a lie alongside the beautiful meal he’d made. He settles for a simple answer.

“Uh, carpentry.” Joel tells you after a long pause, “I—build stuff for people, businesses sometimes.”

That explains some of his sturdiness, his practiced strength that came from, probably, years of hard constructive work and building. It also explains why he’s also working away at his hands, rubbing out the stiff joints and knuckles.

“I know what carpentry is, Joel.” You deadpan, but there’s a playfulness lingering in your voice. 

You assume he’s used to explaining himself often, which is why he forces it on you so easily.

“And you?” Joel asks suddenly, “College? You’re about that age, right?”

You snort softly at the tone he offers, slightly patronizing, but all in good fun.

“I’m taking a semester off,” You answer indifferently, remembering how disappointed your parents had been about the ordeal, but you were suffocating, “I’m not sure what I want to do anymore.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Joel assures, “can’t fault you either. Never went to college so I don’t have an opinion on it.”

There’s no judgment on your end, but for the sake of conversation, you bite.

“Any reason?” You ask curiously, wondering if you'd receive the similar sentiment that it’s all just bullshit.

“Didn’t have the money,” Joel answers simply, “didn’t have the grades, either. I thought I could start my own business out of carpentry, but…”

But…you lean into the table slightly, hanging on his words.

“You need a lot of money for that,” Joel finishes, “and, I mean, I’m livin’ comfortable now, but that idea took a lot of money that I didn’t and still don’t have.”

“So, you waste it on month long vacations in the middle of the woods,” You surmise humorously, nodding in approval, “can’t say I blame you, either.”

Joel shakes his head in amusement, chewing around a bite as he speaks, “Your turn.”

Right. An eye for eye. A question for a question. He's watching you expectantly, waiting for you to give a response to the same question you asked him. 

“Oh—I work out of this bookstore in downtown Austin.” You admit, finishing up the last few bites of your food, scraping the plate nearly clean. “It pays the bills and then some. I like it.”

There’s no compliment needed for the food, all the evidence of it gone. But, you feel the need to appreciate it anyways.

“Thanks for this, Joel.” You speak again, softer this time. 

“It’s no big deal, darlin’.” Joel assures you, holding up his hands in a feeble defense at the compliment, clearly something he doesn’t welcome easily. “Just food.”

“It’s been...months,” You tell him, “since I’ve had any type of home-cooked meal. Take the damn thank you, Joel.” 

He smirks at that, seeing the threatening fork raise before you utter those final words.

“You’re welcome.”

And he means it.

–

You force Joel to stay seated while you clean, knowing it was the least you could do after he spent so much time preparing and cooking dinner. There’s a solid few minutes of arguing before you have to physically shove Joel back into his chair despite his protests, hands pressed into his shoulders as you threateningly speak down to him.

 “If you move, I’m locking your ass out in the cold.”

Joel wouldn’t mind, but you’re silently hoping that he’ll just listen.

After all is done, tossing the damp washcloth to the side, you sigh with a newfound relaxation.

There’s only one thing that might top off this night, making it almost the first perfect day here.

“That’s it, I’m getting in the hot tub,” You decide, squeezing tenderly at the tense muscles of your neck, thankful that the owners had a small alcove connected to the cabin that allowed for you to enjoy the hot tub from the safety of the cold, “join me?”

You’re not sure what inclines you to ask so openly, but you don’t second guess it.

“While I appreciate the offer,” Joel starts, “I don’t think I brought the proper…attire.”

He’s still seated where you had him planted and it makes you laugh softly at the idea that he was taking it seriously, which—yeah, you did threaten the possibility of hypothermia on him. 

“Fine,” You relent, rounding the corner of the island closest to him as you quickly call out over your shoulder, “but, there’s still a couple of chairs in there if you need the company.”

He didn’t need just anyone’s either and didn’t need, so much as wanted.

He wanted your company.

A while later, you’re already waist deep in the hot tub, figure hugging white bikini tied back securely, arms resting against the side furthest from the door as you press your chin against your forearms and staring out the wall of vast windows that line the room, allowing a view of the snow storm outside, coming down in a flurry that seemed to only be gaining in strength—and Joel, well, he’s still sitting in that stupid chair.

He’s allowed himself too much time in his own head, thinking over the events of the past few days. His call to Sarah was pleasant, a much needed moment of peace when he hears his daughter’s bright, hyper voice on the other end. When he doesn’t have her for the holidays, it’s hard. The calls are sparse, the communication is clipped, and it feels like he’s being forced away from her, knowing that she’s growing older every day. That he is growing older.

He’s allowed a lot of his life to slip away, when he wasn’t working to pay bills and put food on the table he was usually drinking, bar-hopping with Tommy at his old age to hide the pain he felt everyday, mentally and physically. There’s a problem brewing under his skin, using the company of his brother and alcohol to cope with loss he feels so viscerally everyday. The life he could’ve had.

He feels pitiful, miserable—only took this damn trip to get out of town by the suggestion of Tommy, away from all distractions, hoping for a refresh to clear his head. But instead, he met you.

He had no clue what the fuck to do anymore.

Joel’s never processed emotions well, feelings or anything thereof. 

But, here he was, lusting after you. 

He knows it’s the excitement, the taboo idea around sharing something special with a stranger. Someone who knows nothing about you, someone who doesn’t have the leverage to judge. Someone who doesn’t have to know about all the wrongs he’s committed and bad choices he’s made. 

You’re not privy to the fucked up version of Joel that belongs in his hometown, cooped up in his childhood home that he inherited from his parents, filled with too many now painful memories that he’d made with Sarah when she was younger—when he still had her.

He can’t help the way his mind races every single second of the day, constantly worrying, always trying to busy himself with something, anything to keep that lingering cloud of anxiety away. But, when he thinks about you, even something so mundane as the way you squint to get a closer look at a paragraph of the book you’ve probably read a thousand times, his mind goes quiet. 

Because, frankly, he’s fascinated by the idea of you. That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t actually real. He’s halfway leaning toward the idea that he’s had a full mental break and this is all an illusion he’s cooked up in his head, but then he reminds himself that you are just as full a human as himself. There is a reason for this, even if there had to be some other force at play. 

Maybe you needed this as badly as he did.

A fresh start, no judgment.

And that’s why he decides to follow you, the moment he catches a glimpse of you as you turn the corner to take the steps down into the room that connected to the kitchen, a full glimpse of skin and body that he’s tried to keep his mind off of, despite how openly you stare at him.

There has to be something there. He can’t have imagined all of this.

You feel his presence when the creak of wood gives him away, one hand shoved into his front pocket and his other arm helping him stay upright as he leaned against the doorframe. The steam billows and settles like a cloud over the bubbling hot tub but does nothing to hide how see-through your bathing top is and the slick slope of your breasts, his eyes trailing down toward the small bow that was sewn to the midpoint of your top and know he’s staring at your chest, very openly—Joel’s immediately regretting his choice.

Your eyes follow his but you dare not speak, afraid to startle him.

Now who was the jumpy one?

“Change your mind?” You ask curiously, shimming the expanse of the hot tub as you grab onto the opposite ledge, resuming your previous position, closer to Joel now. If you reached out you could touch the edge of his flannel and soak the trim, maybe even pull him closer, but you resist the urge. “It feels amazing. I’m serious.”

It wasn’t a ploy to get him in, but it wouldn’t hurt. He doesn’t respond, eyes staring at the soft wave of the water as it hits your side, his posture rigid. 

Maybe you’d broken him.

“Joel,” You call out with a soft nudge to his thigh, as far as you could reach with your fingertips, cutting into his line of sight, offering a friendly smile, “just strip down to your underwear and get in.”

“I don’t think—”

Oh, for christ sake. 

“You wouldn’t have come over here if you weren’t at least thinking about enjoying the benefits of the hot tub,” You argue, “so stop being grumpy and strip. I won’t even look.”

It shouldn’t sound as gritty as it does, a playful venom in your tone as you sink back slightly.

It makes Joel feel like he’s back in high school, flirting with who would eventually be his ex-wife and mother of his daughter, but there’s an assertiveness that intrigues Joel, your willingness to put yourself out there without fear. Take a leap, a jump, and hope that someone will catch you. 

Joel caught you, he just needed someone to catch him.

You spot his fidgeting, the wheels and cogs in his mind turning and he just needs that shove.

Just enough.

You rise over the edge, palms pressed flat to bear your weight and squeeze your breasts together, belly button nearly level with the water as you’re close enough to see the fine details of his face, giving him a look that Joel couldn’t deny.

“Get. In.” You stress the words, making direct eye contact. “You can thank me later.”

Finally, he moves. 

You sink back slightly into the pool and wade the water until you hit a corner, watching briefly as Joel works away at the buttons on his flannel, quiet air filling with an unspoken tension. You try to busy yourself with the view outside, something that didn’t require you to look in the vicinity of Joel for a second, knowing that the moment felt more intimate than it needed to. But, it doesn’t stop that sparse glances over your shoulder to check on him, now barefoot and pulling his shirt over his shoulders, the fabric pulling and obscuring your view of his face and his view of you, staring so starkly at him in that moment.

It shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. The freckles that speckle his shoulders, nearly invisible from this distance because of his tanned shoulders and the unevenness of the tan as it continues down his arm, varying in shades of intensity, undoubtedly from hours of working in the sun. There’s also a smaller patch of hair on his chest that with his short cropped beard, seems to be trimmed down too. His strong build doesn’t throw you off, though—solid muscle that flexed across his stomach as he yanked his shirt a little harder to get it over his head fully, not built in a way that rippled down his abdomen, but showed a sturdiness to his figure that had your body humming to a tune that reached down to your core, thighs squeezing together under the water. 

Joel passes the shirt off into a waiting arm chair, clothes slowly piling on the cushion alongside your towel and he pops the button on his jeans, still unaware of your…innocent observation. But, the moment the jeans stretch over his thighs you swallow a little too hard and you’re immediately averting your eyes when he looks up briefly. 

Like you’d been caught. 

Joel clears his throat like a warning, as if he hadn’t felt your eyes on him the entire time, and swings a leg over carefully, a view of the black briefs that molded to his skin perfectly and hugged his backside in a way that feels criminally illegal…and you’re staring again.

He hisses at the sudden change in temperate, but inch by inch he lowers and adjusts, eventually huffing out a low groan, eyes closed, when he finally settles on the seat inside of the tub.

Suddenly, this felt like a terrible idea.

“See?” You break the revered silence for him, “Worth it?”

“Almost forgot how you just bullied me in here.” He jokes—full on fuckin’ jokes before cracking an eye open to catch your reaction, a subtle look of disbelief on your face. “I’m kidding, darlin'.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the seat under the water and you smile, a half-hearted roll of your eyes thrown his way before you relax too, for a moment.

“This is so weird,” You speak softly, after a while, and Joel looks slightly puzzled as he opens his eyes fully now, perking up slightly as he adjusts himself, chest rising over the water slightly, his arms hanging over the ledge with his fingers gripping the ceramic—and you’re gaze is drifting again, mostly to his hands, but you mask it as you look away briefly, down the hall or out the window. Literally anywhere but Joel, “it’s just—not how I expected things to go.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” Joel replies with an underlying amusement.

As the quiet settles, slowly drifting closer to one side, where you originally were when Joel came searching for you—voluntarily, he lingered and waited, waited for the push you gave him—Joel joined alongside you, burrowing himself in the closet corner nook and enjoying the view in silence.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Joel comments, “everything alright?”

Everything was fine and you couldn’t make complete sense out of it. The ability to be so inherently comfortable with someone you’ve only known for a little under a week, the attraction you felt despite your own rational thinking telling you otherwise, the urge to connect openly and without fear of judgment. It terrifies you.

“Can I ask you a question?” You ask quietly, “Like…a real question, not those superficial ones that we’ve thrown at each other.”

Joel doesn’t like the sound of it, but there’s also the inclination that he could feed you a total lie and you wouldn’t have any idea otherwise.

He nods, fist resting against his cheek as he turns to look at you and suddenly the pressure is on, your heart racing in your chest at his sudden, full attention.

“Earlier…you said you forgot somethin’ in the car,” Joel’s fist clenches unknowingly under the water, an instinct to bury his reaction, “I know it isn’t my business, but I was just curious what is was.”

Joel, against every fiber in his being that tells him to deflect, gives you a straight answer. It’s almost startling how easily it comes out, like he’s lifting a weight off his chest that he’s carried for years.

“I had to make a call,” Joel admits, “to uh—my daughter, she’s back home with her mom.”

Your brow pulls together in confusion, “Wait, are you married?”

Joel somehow amidst the heaviness of admitting his truth still laughs, quick to defend himself from your next question.

“Oh, not at all. Never, actually.” Joel responds, “We…I never married her mom, it was obvious pretty quickly we weren’t going to work well together.”

The answer is simpler than you expect, different too. Part of you wondered if he was pleading his own case to the owners and was just as unsuccessful as you, but this is much more vulnerable.

And despite your ability to lie, and his own, neither of you can force it.

You don’t pry further, feeling like it may push things too far. Too personal.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Do I scare you?” Joel asks suddenly, almost like he’s been anticipating the moment too.

You’re almost sure the expression you return makes you look insane, feeling the implication that he might, that he thinks—it’s so far left field that it throws you off.

“No—no,” You quickly reject any lingering doubt he has, “I mean…the first night, maybe. But, now…no.”

“Oh.” It’s all Joel can muster, unsure of why he was expecting a different answer. That you would say yes and whatever shroud of thought he had about this moment you were sharing was only out of fear, that you were just trying to be polite. 

“Look, I get jumpy because you sneak up on me,” You answer, “and you have this…presence about you,” Okay, not the best wording, “not scary or anything, just…strong.” Big, like a wall. Like, if anyone were to ever approach you wrongly, Joel would attack without question. And maybe the fact that he would do that should scare you, but instead, it entices you.

Joel sits with the implication, burdened by his own mind. 

You can see him lost in thought, speaking with a comforting surety, “Thank you…for telling me.”

The truth. Thank you for telling me the truth.

The next stretch of time, what feels like an hour, is spent in a comforting silence. You think Joel is nearly falling asleep but then he moves, make a comment about how the snow won’t let up and eventually you’re forcing yourself out of the hot tub, reaching over the side to snatch your towel and sending all of Joel’s clothes descending to the floor in the process and as if you had a death wish on Joel, your ass pops up at an angle that is physically impossible to look away from.

Joel is a gentleman, he swears. He was raised to respect and care and always put women first, but there’s a split second where he can’t pull his eyes away, feels like he’s just caught a glimpse of something he shouldn’t have, but then you’re turning your head over your shoulder and you definitely catch him—you could ruin the moment and say something or you could ignore it.

Fortunately, you save Joel some embarrassment, covering it with a sly smile as you apologize for dropping his clothes and take the final step out and wrap the towel around your body.

“Shit,” You quickly realize that in the midst of your pushing Joel to join you that he didn’t have a towel, “stay here—I’ll go grab you a towel.”

Joel wasn’t eager to move anyways, admittedly. Sporting half a hard-on under the water, he wouldn’t subject himself to the scrutiny of your gaze or what implications it would make, thinking every horrible possible thought to will it away—luckily your timing is perfect. 

You quickly gather his dropped clothes and pile them in the chair as you toss the towel his way, ignoring any and all chances to glimpse at his wet body, back turned as you quickly excuse yourself away in fear of the idea that you might say something unforgettably stupid.

-

The walk to your separate bedroom is quick, swift, like a desperately needed escape. 

But, as fate would have it, the moment you open the door and wretch the towel away from your body there’s a loud pop! to your left and a spark on the outside that has you halfway on the floor and slamming into the wall out of both shock and an attempt to shield yourself from whatever unseen force was at play, yelping out loud in the process.

From an outside perspective, you can understand why Joel doesn’t hesitate to come running.

He runs straight into your back, bare chest pressed against your know bare shoulders and leaving you half-dressed in front of him, scared out of your wits and willing to grab onto whatever was nearby to keep you upright—fortunately, Joel’s arm is the perfect anchor as your hand wraps around his wrist and squeezes.

“What the hell?” Joel inquires, slightly out of breath as he searches your face for any signs of injury, “What happened?”

You both look at the culprit—the heated window unit that was no longer expelling heat, and while the cabin was still heated, it didn’t reach the bedrooms well enough that you weren’t shivering without some type of additional help. You sigh in frustration, eyes turning up towards the ceiling as you feel no shame, too frustrated to care as you lean into Joel’s chest.

“Shit.” It’s all Joel offers as a solution, not that you were expecting one. But, still, it would be nice.

“Yeah, shit.” You echo, pushing away from him suddenly to gather your damp towel and a change of clothes, padding your bare feet toward the living room, but Joel is grabbing your wrist before you get too far from him.

“Hey, woah,” He starts in a calmer tone, “you can take my room—I’ll drive into town tomorrow and see if I can get ahold of the owners, we’ll figure something out.”

“I already tried calling them,” You admit, “Earlier. Straight to voicemail and something tells me they won’t be answering their phones until after the holidays.”

Pulling away again, you continue your way toward the living room and gather a few pillows and blankets, tossing them on the larger couch beside the fireplace. Joel doesn’t seem to entertain the idea, following on your heels as he gathers each item you throw in that direction and you finally reach a point of full, unrestrained frustration. 

“Joel, cut the shit.”

“Take the room,” He offers as a counter, “I can sleep on the couch.”

With his back? Not a chance. But, he offers anyway.

“Fuck off,” You chuckle bitterly, “I’m not forcing you out of the bedroom.”

“Then it looks like we’re sharin’ the living room.”

You close your eyes, toss the blanket aside and breathe, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to not completely lose it on the man standing opposite of you.

Chivalry be damned, Joel wasn’t giving in.

Fine, two could play at that game.

“I’ll take the bed.” You quickly agree, but there’s a lingering ultimatum.

Joel waits, sees the thought brewing behind your pensive eyes.

“But, so will you.”

“Now—”

“No,” You interject, putting your figurative foot down, suddenly vividly reminded of your vulnerability as you stood there, still slightly damp and in a swimsuit that did nothing to cover your body—it was the reason Joel’s eyes were so pointedly stuck on your face, never lingering elsewhere, “either we both sleep in here on the couch or we share the bed.”

Joel’s hands shift to his hips, towel tight around his waist and you’re too annoyed to admire the way his muscles tense and flex with the movement, the underlying thickening desire settling beneath the surface.

You match his stance, daring him to challenge you.

A small part of you wants him too.

—

“Anyone ever told you you’re damn stubborn?” Joel asks, trailing behind you as you enter his bedroom, a clone of your own but with a small bathroom attached.

“All the time.” You answer truthfully. “I’m going to shower and sleep—no funny business.”

Meaning if Joel did sneak away into the living room to offer up the full amenities of his own room, he would feel your wrath tenfold.

Joel resigns to the idea and gathers his own pair of fresh clothes before disappearing into the bathroom down the hall, leaving you both to a moment of levity.

There’s no anticipation to the arrangement—but the idea is there, burrowing into the back of your mind. 

You’re sleeping with a stranger…someone you knew little to nothing about, but it was your choice. And you trusted your gut. 

Joel was safe, he was good. 

You relax under the spray of hot water, a different heat to the one you enjoyed just a while ago, the type that allowed your thoughts to roam, and you laugh softly at the sight of Joel’s shower supplies, knowing he was stuck with whatever you brought—it wasn’t something you thought about in the moment, but there’s a brief realization that he was sharing a moment similar to your own, scowling at the sight of your fruity scented body wash that you left on the shelf there. It wasn’t a huge deal, Joel wouldn’t fuss over it. 

But, it also lends your mind to roam more.

As if his bare chest wasn’t already at the forefront, and his eyes as they had stared at you so unabashed until the moment he was caught, all innocent looks with deeper intentions that invaded your mind like a plague.

You were so fucking frustrated—annoyed with him, the state of your life, this stupid vacation. With the suds gone and the water drowning out the silence you allow yourself one—just one moment of selfishness...

And as if the house was the biggest tattletale of them all, the floor creaks on the other side of the door.

“Joel?” You call out curiously, as if an intruder in the middle of nowhere was even likely.

There’s several seconds of silence before Joel finally answers.

“Yeah?”

“Your body wash sucks.” You goad lightly, hoping to ease the earlier frustration that had grown between you both, and while you can’t see him, you can hear his laughter on the other side of the door.

“Can’t say yours is any better.”

You smile to yourself, the way he responds with fondness that he tries to hide.

When you finish up and dress, peeking your head out before you move to open the door fully, Joel is already on his side, turned away. It was obvious that he didn’t want to be bothered. The small blanket of division rolled and wedged in the center of the bed like a barrier, a warning. 

Keep your distance and you both may manage to survive the rest of this vacation.

Thank you for reading this to the end! If you enjoyed please extend a like or reblog (with a comment if you'd like, i love reading them <3) to support writers, it helps a ton!