#just know this song and the original are on his playlist | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alygator77 · 11 months ago

Text

.ೃ࿐motherhood and matrimony I ch 4 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, smut, fluff, some angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, triggers of prior domestic abuse » 【note, this chapter contains extreme emotional manipulation from naoya, reader discretion advised】

ꨄ words: 9.3k

ꨄ a/n. okaaaay time for some angst ya'll. this series is taking a serious turn 🥲 also, as i said earlier, originally this chapter was 20k words buuuut i decided to split it up. i know ya'll said you wouldn't mind one long chapter but it's just, there are moments that i really want to give more time to breathe. you'll get ch 5 soon though, enjoy ♡

ꨄ taglist: open (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter →

ch 4 // shadows of doubt

“…you sure you’re okay watching Haru?” you ask, hovering by the doorway, your fingers lightly brushing the doorframe as you steal one last glance into the living room.

The television screen casts a soft glow over Satoru and Haru, nestled together on the couch.

Satoru’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he fumbles with the TV remote, cycling through the menu. His lips are pressed into a thin line, his tongue peeking out slightly at the corner in a classic expression of someone deeply focused.

His usually tousled white hair is messier than usual, as if he’s run his hands through it a few too many times in frustration, and his sweater hangs loosely on his frame, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

It’s a stark contrast to the sharp, tailored suits you’re used to seeing him in.

But that’s because right now, he’s just Satoru—the guy who’s clearly struggling with something as simple as setting up a kid’s TV show, and yet, there’s something incredibly endearing about it.

Haru, oblivious to his difficulties, swings her tiny legs back and forth in a rhythm of excitement as she sits beside him.

It’s a picture of domesticity that feels almost too perfect to disrupt—a scene that brings warmth, but also a sharp pang of guilt.

Guilt—of what you are about to do.

“Yes, of course,” he replies without missing a beat, light yet reassuring. He glances up at you briefly, offering a warm smile. “Do what you need to do, it’s important to have time to yourself.”

Right now, it feels like you don’t deserve that smile.

The ache in your chest intensifies at the sincerity in his words, making the lie you’re carrying out feel even heavier.

Finally, after a few more clicks, the TV springs to life, and a triumphant grin spreads across Satoru’s face as the familiar Digimon theme song bursts through the speakers.

The sound seems to ignite a spark of joy in Haru, her face wide eyed as she turns her full attention to the screen.

“Besides, I promised her we’d watch Digimon together,” Satoru says, his voice laced with affection as he glances at Haru. “Now’s the perfect time. Right, Haru?”

Haru beams, her small body practically vibrating with excitement as she snuggles closer to him.

“Wow, look ‘toru, look!” she exclaims gleefully, her voice high-pitched with exhilaration as she points at the screen.

Her eyes sparkle with wonder, completely captivated by the vibrant colors and lively characters dancing across the television.

“Yay!” she claps her hands together.

A tender smile curls upon Satoru’s lips as he shifts his gaze from Haru to you. His blue eyes, always so vibrant and full of life, are soft and inviting, radiating a sense of calm—a calm that should put you at ease, but why does it fill you with more guilt?

“See? We’ve got it all under control. Go do what you need to do, and don’t worry about a thing.”

His words are spoken with such warmth and trust—it should comfort you, but instead your unease twists further in your gut.

You force a smile, trying to push away the shame that threatens to rise to the surface.

“Alright,” you murmur, “I won’t be long.”

But you linger for just a moment longer, unable to tear your eyes away from the heartwarming sight before you.

The way Satoru drapes an arm around Haru, pulling her closer as they both become engrossed in the show—you realize something profound.

It’s in the subtle details—the way he listens intently to her excited chatter, how he nods along, genuinely interested in every little thing she points out, even if it’s something as simple as a colorful character on the screen.

Satoru isn’t just watching Digimon with Haru; he’s immersing himself in her world.

He’s someone who takes the time to enjoy the things she loves, someone who listens to her with the patience and attentiveness she deserves. He’s supporting her curiosity, encouraging her to explore and express herself, making her feel valued in a way that is both gentle and profound.

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted for Haru—a stable, loving figure in her life, someone she can depend on, someone who can always be there for her. Someone who makes her feel safe, cherished, and free to be her true self.

Someone Naoya never was.

But this relationship is a contract, a charade—a lie.

And now, this new lie you’re about to bring to the table, casts an even darker shadow over this picture of domestic bliss.

There is a storm cloud, threatening to break at any moment—to drench you in an unforgiving rain. And that storm cloud is your reality.

The reality that this relationship has always been a lie, hasn’t it?

So... is what you’re doing really any different?

As you turn to leave, your body feels heavy, burdened by the deception you’re carrying with you.

Closing the door behind you, the soft click echoes in your ears as you begin to walk down the hallway, away from the warmth of the living room and into the cold reality of the decision you’ve made.

ꨄ

A soft jingle rings above your head as you push open the glass door to the coffee shop—a sound almost too cheerful considering what’s to come. Once the door closes behind you with a muted thud, your fate is sealed.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee hits you first, rich and earthy, mingling with the sweet, buttery aroma of pastries that line the display case. It’s a combination that would normally invite comfort, a location for quiet relaxation.

Today, however, that feels entirely out of reach.

Only a few patrons are scattered about, each lost in their own world—reading books, typing away on laptops, or simply enjoying company. The soft murmur of conversation barely registers in your ears as your eyes sweep across the room.

Within moments you spot Naoya, seated at a corner table in the back, a place where the dimness nearly swallows him whole, casting long shadows that seem to cling to him like a second skin.

His chosen spot is strategic, offering both a sense of privacy and an air of intimidation.

It’s a stage he’s set perfectly.

The way he sits—one arm draped casually over the back of the booth, the other cradling a coffee cup—exudes an unsettling confidence, as if he’s already decided the outcome of this meeting.

His minacious eyes rake over you and he registers the trepidation in your step, causing a shiver to run down your spine as his lips slowly curl into a predatory smirk.

Setting down his cup of coffee with a practiced ease, the porcelain clinks softly against the saucer. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he waves you over, the gesture so casual it’s almost insulting, as if he were summoning a servant rather than inviting a conversation.

You lower yourself into the chair across from him with measured deliberation, desperately trying to project a façade of composure even as anxiety, anger, and guilt roil within you like a brewing storm.

Unfortunately, the table between you and Naoya feels woefully insufficient, a flimsy barrier against the man who once wielded a terrifying influence over your life—a man who now threatens to shatter the fragile peace you’ve painstakingly pieced together.

“y/n,” he begins, his voice smooth and slick, like oil spilling over water, spreading tendrils of unease. “I’m glad you decided to show up.”

You force a tight smile, though it feels more like a grimace.

“You didn’t exactly leave me much of a choice, did you?”

A low insidious chuckle leaves Naoya’s lips, the noise grating on your nerves. His cold calculating eyes hold your gaze as he tilts his head to the side, and for a moment, you feel like a mouse caught in a trap, every avenue of escape cut off, leaving you with nowhere to run.

“Tch. What else am I supposed to do?” his tone drips with mock innocence, as if he’s genuinely puzzled. “You don’t answer any of my calls. It’s almost like you’re trying to avoid me.”

His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something dark and unreadable passing through them.

“You look well, though. I’ve missed you.”

The casual cruelty in his tone, the way he throws out those words—words that should carry weight—as if they mean nothing, as if he hasn’t been tormenting you.

It makes your skin crawl.

“I didn’t come here to chat, Naoya,” you say firmly. “What do you want?”

You catch a flash of his white teeth in the dim light of the coffee shop, but there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a smugness that makes your stomach churn with unease.

“Straight to the point, I see. I always loved that about you,” he drawls, his tone almost affectionate.

He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other in a posture of relaxed arrogance.

There is a beat of silence as he pauses, as if savoring each moment of your discomfort, drawing it out and relishing the control he has over the situation.

The control he has over you.

“I think you know what I want, y/n,” he continues, tone almost patronizing, as if speaking to a child who just doesn’t understand. “I want what’s best for Haru. I’m sure you do too.”

“You’re threatening to take her away from me. How is that what’s best for her?” you scoff, though the defiance in your voice barely masks the trembling fear underneath.

His gaze roams over you, assessing, calculating, and it takes everything in you not to shrink under the weight of his scrutiny.

When he speaks again, his voice is a low, dangerous whisper that sends a shiver down your spine, cold as ice and sharp as a blade.

“Because,” he hisses, the word dripping with venom, “you’re not thinking clearly. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment. Haru deserves stability, a future where she’s not dragged into whatever mess you and Satoru are involved in.”

The accusation cuts deep, and despite your best efforts, you flinch slightly at his words, the reaction small but not unnoticed.

Naoya’s eyes glint with satisfaction, feeding off the fear and uncertainty he’s managed to briefly instill within you.

Before you can muster a response, he leans in closer, his tone shifting, becoming smooth and insidious, like poison seeping through the cracks of your resolve.

“Oh y/n,” he sighs, voice dripping with false sympathy, “I know this thing with Satoru is just a charade. You may think you’re merely playing house, but what you’re actually doing is setting Haru up for confusion and heartache. What kind of future is that for her?”

It’s like he’s pulled the rug out from under your feet. The air around you seems to thicken, making it hard to breathe. Because deep down, a part of you has feared how this arrangement may affect Haru.

The doubt that Naoya is sowing isn’t new—it’s something you’ve deliberately tried to ignore.

The connection Haru is forming with Satoru, the bond that’s growing stronger every day—isn’t it built on a foundation of lies?

What happens when it all crumbles—what happens to Haru then?

What if you’re setting her up for a heartbreak that she’s too young to understand?

Ah…but that’s what Naoya is good at, isn’t it?

He thrives on stirring a visceral reaction within you, on playing your emotions like a finely tuned instrument. And you know better—you know better than to believe that his actions have anything to do with Haru’s well-being.

After all, Naoya has only ever used Haru as a tool to control you, to manipulate you into doing his bidding.

He doesn’t truly want Haru—he never has.

This is just a twisted game, another attempt to bend you to his will.

“Naoya,” you begin, voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation, “this isn’t about what’s best for Haru. Cut the crap,” you snap, the frustration seeping through your words, giving you a fleeting sense of strength. “Don’t play games with me. What are you really after?”

Naoya’s response is a soft, chilling chuckle, a sound so unnerving that it slithers around you, making your skin prickle with unease.

He tilts his head slightly, regarding you with a twisted sense of satisfaction, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk that’s as sharp as a knife’s edge.

“You’re not as naïve as you look,” he murmurs.

With a deliberate elegance, he runs his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back and straightening his posture as if ready to present himself for something significant. He then leans forward, fixing you with a gaze that feels like a vise tightening around your heart.

“I’m willing to make a deal with you.”

You swallow hard, forcing the question past the lump in your throat.

“What kind of deal?”

His eyes glisten with satisfaction, a spark of triumph lighting them up as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all along.

“Do you remember the case that was quietly swept under the rug a few years back?” he begins, tone almost conversational. “The one that could have destroyed the Gojo family? Well of course, you don’t—because the Gojos made sure no one remembered.”

A cold dread settles in the pit of your stomach as the gravity of what he’s saying begins to sink in. You try to piece together what he could possibly mean, but the implications are too terrifying to fully grasp.

“…what are you saying?”

Naoya’s smirk widens, a cruel light flickering in his eyes as he watches your reaction.

“Oh, don’t play dumb, y/n. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The Gojo family isn’t as squeaky clean as they’d like everyone to believe. That closed case—it’s a time bomb waiting to go off, and I’m the one holding the detonator.”

With a casual elegance, Naoya places his elbow on the table and rests his chin in the palm of his hand, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I want you to help me reopen the case,” his voice now a silky, dangerous murmur. “I need inside information, something to poke holes in the Gojo family’s defense. Satoru trusts you, doesn’t he? He’s practically handed you the keys to the kingdom.”

Your blood runs cold as you grapple with the enormity of what he’s asking.

“You want me to spy on Satoru? To dig up dirt on his family?”

Naoya shrugs, the gesture so casual, so dismissive, as if the request is the most natural thing in the world.

“Spy is such an ugly word. Let’s call it… protecting your daughter’s future. You help me get the information I need, and I’ll make sure this custody battle disappears. You’ll never have to worry about losing Haru.”

You feel sick to your stomach as the full impact of his ultimatum crashes down on you.

Your skin crawls at the way he frames it—to him it’s as if he’s offering you a lifeline, a way out of an impossible situation. But the reality is, he’s trapping you, coercing you into betraying the one person who has given you a chance at a new life.

Betray Satoru?

The very thought twists like a knife in your gut.

Satoru—the man who has shown you nothing but kindness, who has gone out of his way to make you feel safe, to make you feel valued. The man who has opened his home to you and Haru, who has treated your daughter with a warmth and love that you never thought she would receive.

How could you possibly betray him? Be his downfall? The mere thought of it makes your chest tighten, your heart aching with the weight of the impossible decision that Naoya is forcing upon you.

But then, the other side of the coin looms large and terrifying: the risk of losing Haru forever. The thought of her being taken from you, of her being dragged into Naoya’s world, is a nightmare you can’t bear to even consider.

The two most important people in your life, and Naoya is forcing you to choose between them.

How can you possibly make such a choice?

“I…I can’t do that, Naoya. Satoru—he’s done nothing wrong,”

The words feel hollow, desperate, as if you’re grasping for some semblance of control in a situation where you have none.

Naoya’s expression darkens, the cold veneer of civility slipping as a more menacing presence takes over. He leans in closer, the air around him growing colder, heavier with the weight of his intentions.

“Satoru and his family deserve whatever’s coming to them,” he hisses. “You just have to decide whose side you’re on. Corporate malpractice, insider trading, possibly even a cover-up. The Gojo family has skeletons in their closet, and I intend to expose them. But to do that, I need information. Inside information.”

“No, Naoya,” you say more forcefully, your voice trembling slightly but growing steadier as your resolve hardens. “That would destroy Satoru.”

For a moment, there’s a flicker of something in Naoya’s eyes—frustration, perhaps, or irritation at your defiance. But it’s fleeting, quickly replaced by a darker, more calculating expression.

“You think this is a game, y/n?” his voice drips with disdain. “You think Satoru won’t throw you to the wolves the moment things get tough? He’s a Gojo, through and through. They protect their own, and you’re not one of them.”

A cold dread washes over you as his words echo in your mind, sinking into the darkest corners of your thoughts.

Wait…is he actually, right?

No—you push back against the rising tide of doubt. Satoru wouldn’t do that. He’s been nothing but kind, patient, and understanding. He’s given you no reason to believe he would ever abandon you, especially not in a moment of crisis.

But… then there’s the stipulation in your contract. The one that states any poor publicity to his name would result in being cut off from all financial support.

The words of the contract flash in your mind, stark and unforgiving.

You had brushed it off as a mere formality when you first signed it, a precautionary clause meant to protect his reputation. But now, under the weight of Naoya’s words, it feels like a ticking time bomb, ready to go off the moment anything goes wrong.

Doubt seeps into your veins, intertwining with the fear that Naoya’s threat might have more truth to it than you’d like to admit.

Could Satoru really turn his back on you if the situation spiraled out of control? Would he prioritize his family name, his legacy, over you and Haru?

Seeing the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, Naoya’s expression softens, adopting a mask of concern. His voice lowers, becoming almost gentle, as if he’s offering you a lifeline.

“But if you help me,” he continues, silky and persuasive, “you’ll have leverage—real power. You’ll be in control. Think about Haru. Think about what’s best for her.”

“I… I don’t think I can do it,” the words escape your lips in a trembling whisper.

Naoya’s eyes narrow, and his voice hardens.

“You don’t have much of a choice, y/n. You’re in this mess because of your own decisions. Instead of relying on me you chose him. But lucky for you, I’m offering you a way out—a way to keep Haru safe. But if you refuse, I will use every legal trick in the book to take her from you. And believe me, I will win. I always do.”

The finality in his words leaves no room for doubt—Naoya isn’t bluffing.

He’s a man who gets what he wants, no matter the cost, and the ruthless determination in his eyes tells you that he’s more than willing to destroy your life to achieve his goals.

“You’re a monster,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Naoya’s response is immediate, his smirk widening with satisfaction.

“I’m a lawyer,” he corrects, his tone dripping with smugness. “And I’m very good at what I do.”

You look down, unable to meet his gaze.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” you whisper.

Naoya’s eyes gleam with triumph as a victorious smirk curls upon his lips. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slim envelope.

With a deliberate slowness, he slides it across the table, the paper making a soft, ominous rustle as it comes to a stop in front of you.

“Inside this is everything you need to help me. I want information, y/n. Information on Satoru. His business dealings, his vulnerabilities—anything I can use to gain leverage over him.”

The envelope sits there between you, a tangible representation of the impossible choice you’re being forced to make.

Your hands twitch at your sides, but you can’t bring yourself to reach for it—the burden of its contents is far too heavy.

Naoya leans back in his chair, watching intently for any sign of hesitation, his gaze unyielding. He presses you again, his voice a smooth, sinister whisper.

“You help me, and I’ll make sure this custody battle disappears. You’ll never have to worry about losing Haru.”

Your hand trembles as you extend it, hovering over the envelope. Naoya’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with triumph, anticipating your surrender.

But just as your fingertips brush the envelope, you stop.

The smile slips from Naoya’s face, replaced by a flicker of surprise, then annoyance, as you push the envelope back across the table. The cold edge of the paper scrapes against your skin, the sound eerily loud in the tense silence between you.

“I’ll need some time,” you say finally, your voice quieter now, more controlled, though it takes everything in you to keep it steady. “This isn’t a decision I can make lightly.”

Naoya’s expression darkens, his patience clearly waning. With a swift, almost irritated motion, he snatches the envelope and tucks it back into his coat pocket.

“I’m not a patient man, y/n, you know this,” he warns, the threat clear in his tone. “You have one week. If I don’t get an answer by then, the custody battle begins. And trust me,” his tone drops to a menacing whisper, “you don’t want to fight me in court.”

“I’ll let you know,” you murmur, unable to meet his gaze as your eyes are fixed on the table between you.

Naoya’s smirk returns, a slow, victorious curve of his lips.

It’s a look that says he’s already won, that he’s confident you’ll bend to his will.

“Good girl. I know you’ll see reason. I’ll expect your call soon.”

He stands with a deliberate calmness, smoothing the front of his jacket before tossing a few bills onto the table as if this entire conversation has been nothing more than a routine business transaction.

The casualness of his movements, the ease with which he holds your fate in his hands, only serves to deepen the pit of dread forming in your stomach.

“Think it over, love. I’ll be in touch.”

With those final words, Naoya turns and strides out of the coffee shop, leaving you sitting there, feeling as though the walls are closing in around you.

You can’t shake the feeling that no matter what you decide, something precious will be lost.

ꨄ

It’s much later than you intended—a few hours past the time you told Satoru you’d be home. But after your meeting with Naoya, you simply couldn’t summon the strength to face him.

How could you possibly stand before him now?

The very thought of looking into his eyes feels like a betrayal in itself, as if the truth you’re hiding might spill out just from his gaze alone.

Naoya’s words continue to echo in your mind, twisting around your thoughts like a serpent coiling tighter with each passing moment.

You can almost hear the whispers of scandal creeping through the corridors of the Gojo Corporation.

Surely this custody battle would bring poor publicity to Satoru’s name… knowing Naoya, it would be a spectacle—a media circus designed to tarnish every aspect of Satoru’s life.

Your heart races as you picture the headlines splashed across every tabloid, the relentless swarm of reporters, cameras flashing like a thousand tiny daggers aimed at your very soul.

They’d dig into every corner of your lives, twisting facts and fabricating lies until the truth is buried beneath layers of sensationalism.

You’ve seen Satoru’s world—perfectly organized, meticulously maintained, a reflection of the man himself. But Naoya has the power to create cracks in that perfect image, to expose the vulnerabilities hidden beneath the surface.

He would ensure it—he’d savor every moment of watching Satoru’s pristine reputation crumble, brick by brick.

What would Satoru do if you told him Naoya’s intentions?

Would he support you, or would he choose to protect himself, his legacy, over you and Haru?

The very thought makes your heart ache, a sharp pang of fear twisting through your chest—fear of losing the delicate balance you’ve found with Satoru, of watching it all unravel because of Naoya’s malice.

What is the right choice to make?

The question loops endlessly in your mind, a never-ending cycle of doubt that gnaws at your resolve.

You don’t know what to believe any more.

You need time—something you don’t have an abundance of right now. After all, you can’t avoid Satoru forever—he’ll wonder where you’ve been, what’s kept you away for so long.

And so, reluctantly, with a heart heavy and unresolved emotions, you return home.

ꨄ

The faint ticking of the grand clock echoes in the house as you creak open the door and re-enter. The sound, which usually blends into the background of your day, now feels loud—almost deafening in the silence of the home.

Rounding your way to the living room, the dim glow of the television casts flickering shadows on the walls—the only thing that seems alive in the stillness.

But the sight you are met with is something entirely unexpected—something that pushes away the darkness inside of you, if only for a moment.

Satoru sits on the couch, his posture relaxed but his expression one of bemused helplessness, as though he’s found himself in a situation that he’s not quite sure how to navigate.

His long legs are stretched out in front of him, but there’s a tenderness in the way he holds his arms around the small figure resting against him.

Haru, curled up on his lap, is nestled against his chest, her tiny body rising and falling with each gentle breath as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat seems to lull her deeper into sleep. One of her small hands clutches the fabric of his shirt, as if seeking comfort even in her dreams, while the other is tucked close to her body, holding her favorite plush toy—Pikachu.

The TV is on, but the volume is muted, playing some late-night rerun that neither of them are paying attention to as the soft flickering light illuminates against them.

Satoru glances up as you enter the room, eyes brightening as he spots you. A sheepish smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a mixture of relief and quiet joy at your return.

“Hey, welcome back,” he says softly, careful not to disturb Haru.

It’s moments like this, that make it impossible to doubt him. The warmth in his voice makes the knot of tension in your chest loosen, if only a little.

You manage a small smile in return.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

As you begin to set your things down—your bag, your coat—Satoru’s gaze follows you, soft and attentive.

“Did you enjoy your time to yourself?”

It’s such a simple question, yet it’s loaded with the weight of the lie you’re living.

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels, and nod, trying to keep your voice steady and light.

“Yeah…it was nice to have a little break.”

A tender smile curls upon his lips, his relief evident as he nods back.

“Good. You deserve some time for yourself.”

The words are filled with such warmth and care that it almost breaks you. But you swallow down the guilt, knowing you can’t afford to let it show. Not now.

As you make your way towards him, your gaze softens, drawn irresistibly to the sight of Haru. You kneel down beside the couch, your eyes tracing the delicate lines of her face, so peaceful and content as she rests in Satoru's lap.

“She fell asleep?” your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, shifting slightly but careful not to wake her.

“Yeah. We were watching Digimon like I promised, but she conked out halfway through. I didn’t know what to do, so I’ve just been sitting here for the past two hours.”

Your heart swells at his words—the thought of Satoru sitting there, his world seemingly paused just to let her sleep undisturbed, truly that is real… right?

You reach out and gently brush a strand of hair from Haru’s face, your fingers lingering for a moment on her cheek.

Her skin warm and smooth, her breathing steady and calm, the gentle rise and fall of her chest—each element is a testament to the trust she’s placed in this space that Satoru has helped create.

She looks so at peace, so completely untroubled and…it’s all thanks to Satoru.

You can’t stop the words from slipping out, even though they’re laced with the bittersweet ache of everything that’s happened.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your eyes meeting his. “For everything.”

He smiles at you, that soft, understanding smile that always seems to reach his eyes.

“Of course. She’s a wonderful kid. It’s my pleasure.”

Leaning down, you gently scoop Haru into your arms, cradling her small body against you. She stirs slightly, her little face scrunching up in sleep, but she doesn’t wake, simply burrowing closer to you as you hold her, seeking the comfort of your warmth.

“I’ll put her to bed,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

Satoru watches you with a fond smile, his eyes following you as you move towards the stairway.

“y/n,” he calls after you, his tone a little hesitant.

You turn back to face him, noticing the subtle way his expression has shifted—an unspoken concern lingering in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I need to tell you…” he begins, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture you’ve come to recognize as his way of showing uncertainty. “It’s kind of short notice, but we were invited to a big charity gala tomorrow night. It’s a pretty important event, and they’re expecting us to attend. And, well… we’re anticipated to do an interview this time.”

Ah—the discomfort returns in an instant, like a cold shiver racing down your spine.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your shoulders, adding yet another layer of complexity to the tangled web you find yourself ensnared in.

The thought of standing in front of cameras, of answering questions about a relationship that is already so fraught with secrets and lies, sends your mind spiraling into a storm of anxiety.

But you can’t let any of that show. Not now.

Not when Satoru is looking at you with such sincerity, his blue eyes filled with a quiet expectation, clearly relying on you to be by his side through this.

You force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels.

“Another gala, huh?”

He nods, his expression softening slightly, but the tension doesn’t leave his eyes.

“Yeah, this one’s for a good cause, and, well, appearances matter. It’s important that we present a united front.”

Appearances matter. A bitter reminder of Naoya’s taunting words.

Satoru is a Gojo after all—and for a Gojo, appearances are everything. The pristine image he maintains is not just for show; it’s a fundamental part of who he is, of the world he navigates with such ease.

But where does that leave you? What happens the moment you mess up?

You’ve always been terrible at public speaking, and now you’re expected to partake in an interview?

Will his soft expression turn cold the moment you fail to meet his expectations?

Your heart races, but you push the fear down, locking it away behind a carefully constructed mask of composure.

“Okay,” you swallow. “We’ll figure it out.”

Satoru’s expression softens with visible relief, and he stands up, stretching slightly after having sat in the same position for so long. As his arms extend above his head, the hem of his shirt lifts, revealing a fleeting glimpse of his toned abs.

“Thanks, y/n. I know this whole public thing isn’t easy, but… I really appreciate you doing this with me.”

“Of course,” you manage to say, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “…we’re in this together, right?”

“Yeah. Together.”

The words feel like a betrayal, a dagger of guilt twisting in your chest.

How can you say that when you know what you’re hiding?

How can you say that when you doubt the very man in front of you?

Pushing those thoughts away, you try to focus on the moment, on Satoru’s gentle, almost boyish grin. Despite it all, it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to believe everything will be okay, that makes you want to cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, you will get through this.

There is a beat of silence as you shift Haru’s weight slightly in your arms.

You study his face—the subtle vulnerability there, the softness, it makes you think—maybe, just maybe, you can open up to him. Test the waters, gauge his understanding.

Let’s start small… what if you told him your fear of public speaking?

The words hover on the tip of your tongue, a confession that feels both terrifying and necessary.

Would he laugh? Would he brush it off with one of his easy, confident smiles?

Or would he understand, see the anxiety that lies beneath the surface, and offer the reassurance you so desperately need?

Your heart races as you weigh the options, the fear of rejection battling with the desire for connection.

Finally, you take a deep breath, deciding to take the plunge. It’s a small step, but it feels monumental in the moment.

“I’m… I’m not really good with public speaking,” you admit quietly, your gaze lowering to the floor. “Maybe we could practice a little? Just so I don’t mess up.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

When you finally dare to look up, you see Satoru’s expression softening even further, a gentle warmth radiating from his eyes as he gazes at you.

The way he looks at you, so full of understanding, so free of judgment—it makes your chest tighten.

“Of course, we can. I actually prepared a script earlier today, just in case you may need it. We can go over it together after you put Haru to bed.”

You let out a small sigh, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

“Thank you, Satoru… that would really help.”

Why did you doubt him?

Did Naoya instill that doubt? Or has it always been there, lurking in the shadows of your mind, waiting for the right moment to surface?

The question lingers, a quiet whisper that carries both regret and self-reproach.

He had anticipated your need, had prepared for it without you even asking.

On one hand you feel relief that he’s so understanding, but guilt practically consumes it because now his trust feels like a weight you can’t bear.

It seems at this point, there is no winning for you.

No matter which way you turn, you’re trapped—caught between the desire to commit to him completely and the fear that you’ll inevitably fall short of his expectations.

Your mind is at a constant battle.

“No problem,” he says, his voice pulling you back to the present. He reaches for the remote, turning off the TV, the screen fading to black as the room is cast into a quieter, more intimate atmosphere.

He glances back at you, his expression warm but focused.

“Meet you in the study after you put Haru down?”

Not trusting yourself to speak, you nod, and turn, heading up the stairs towards Haru’s bedroom.

In the quiet of Haru’s room, you smooth the covers around her small, peaceful form and press a soft kiss on her forehead.

You take a moment to just sit there, watching her sleep—a moment to collect yourself before you return to Satoru.

The soft rise and fall of her chest, the slight twitch of her fingers as she dreams, it all serves as a reminder of the innocence you’re trying so desperately to protect.

You can’t risk losing her. Haru is everything to you.

But how long can you maintain this lie, this pretense that everything is okay, when the truth threatens to tear it all apart?

The mere thought of Haru being taken away, of Naoya sinking his claws into her life, makes your blood run cold.

Right now, you want nothing more than to break down, to cry, to let the tears that have been welling up inside you finally fall.

But you can’t afford to do that. Not now.

Sometimes the difficult thing about being a parent is putting on a front that everything is okay... that everything will be okay, even when it feels like it will not be.

You have to be strong, not just for yourself, but for Haru. She needs you to be her rock, her anchor in the storm, even if you feel like you’re barely holding on.

You pull back, your hand lingering on the edge of her bed for just a moment longer, savoring the last bit of peace before you straighten up, steeling yourself for the next challenge that you must face.

ꨄ

As you enter the study, the door closes behind you with a soft click.

Satoru looks up, sitting at the large mahogany desk, papers spread out in front of him as he offers you a small, reassuring smile. He gestures to the chair beside him.

“Ready?”

You nod, pulling out the chair and sitting down, the leather cushion sinking slightly under your weight.

Leaning forward, Satoru props his elbow on the table as he studies you with soft, focused eyes.

“So, let’s start with the basics. They’ll probably ask how we met, what drew us together... you know, easy stuff.”

He slides the script over to you.

You take the paper, your eyes skimming over the questions—questions that are so casual on the surface.

They’re questions that, for most couples, would evoke warm memories and easy smiles. But the simplicity of these questions only highlights the complexity of the situation.

They should feel easy to answer—answers that would roll off the tongue naturally if your relationship was carved from normal circumstances.

But, that’s not the situation you find yourself in.

The reality of your arrangement makes each question feel like a test—a hurdle you need to clear without revealing too much.

If only it were different—if only the answers could come from a place of truth rather than a carefully constructed narrative.

But it’s not.

This relationship is a contract, a charade—a web of lies.

You nod again, the knot in your stomach tightening.

“Alright,” Satoru says, his tone encouraging. “Let’s give it a go. I’ll ask, you answer.”

He clears his throat and starts with the first question.

“So, y/n, how did you and Satoru first meet?”

You take a deep breath, the familiar answer already on the tip of your tongue.

This one is easy because it’s part of the story you’ve both been telling from the beginning. Still, your fingers fidget with the corner of the script, as if grounding yourself in the words.

“I was looking for a new job, and Satoru needed someone with my expertise. It was professional at first, but we just… clicked. Like it was meant to be.”

“Perfect,” he says, tone approving.

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Now…what drew you to each other?”

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to the script in your hands. The paper crinkles slightly under your fingers as you try to commit the answer to memory, but the words feel heavy, loaded with the pressure to say the right thing.

Satoru notices your pause and tilts his head, a gentle smile lingering on his lips.

“I was thinking we keep it simple,” he suggests, his eyes locking onto yours with a reassuring calm. “I’ll talk about how I admire how you always put Haru first. People eat that stuff up.”

“Right,” you nod, your voice a little lighter now. “Then how about I talk about how you’re always so supportive and how you’ve made Haru and me feel safe.”

Satoru’s grin broadens, the corners of his mouth curling into a familiar, playful expression. He lets out a contemplative hum, as if considering your words carefully, and then reaches over to tap the tip of your nose playfully.

The touch is light, almost teasing, but it carries with it a sense of warmth, of genuine affection.

“And you can say something about how I’m the most charming, good-looking guy you’ve ever met.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips, the sound carrying with it a sense of relief you hadn’t realized you needed—like exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your heaviness lifts, replaced by a lightness that feels almost foreign in the midst of all the pressure.

Satoru always seems to know how to break through your tension.

It’s one of the things you’ve come to appreciate about him during this arrangement—the way he can make you laugh, even when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

“Of course, because modesty is your best trait,” you grin, and without thinking, you poke his side gently, eliciting a small chuckle from him. “If I say that, I’m certain it would only go straight to your head.”

“Hmm, what can I say? Confidence is key,” he grins, eyes twinkling with that mischievous spark you’ve come to recognize.

You lean back and fold your arms across your chest in a mock gesture of contemplation, your eyes narrowing slightly as you consider his words.

“Confidence? Or arrogance?” you retort, a smirk playing on your lips. “It’s a fine line, Satoru.”

He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as if you’ve struck a mortal blow.

“Arrogance? Me? I’m wounded, truly,” he declares, his voice dripping with exaggerated hurt, though the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrays the act.

“Right…I think I might have to bring you back down to earth,” your voice carries a note of a playful challenge.

“Glad to know I can count on you,” he replies, leaning back slightly as he comfortably puts his hands behind his neck in a relaxed confidence. “But let’s not forget—you’re the one who’s supposed to be singing my praises. Remember? Charming, good-looking…”

“And don’t forget humble,” you add, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Ah, yes, the humblest,” he agrees, nodding solemnly as if he’s just imparted some great wisdom.

But the solemnity only lasts a moment before he breaks into another grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I’ve always been known for my humility.”

You can’t help but laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief at his antics. This fleeting sense of normalcy was everything you needed. It almost makes you forget the storm of emotions raging inside you.

“Wow. At this point, I think your ego has its own zip code,” you quip, rolling your eyes.

He grins, but then, with a small, exaggerated sigh, he drops his head down onto the table, resting it on his folded arms as he pouts dramatically.

“Okay, okay, I’ll try to keep my ego in check,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled.

Here is a man who commands boardrooms and makes decisions that influence entire industries, pouting like a child in front of you.

It’s kind of cute, actually, that the powerful CEO can be this… unguarded, this silly, this human.

In these moments, all the layers he wears—of strength, of authority, of responsibility—seem to peel away, leaving behind just… Satoru.

After a moment, he lifts his head just enough to look at you, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint.

“You know… people tell me I’m charming and good-looking all the time, but… I think it’d feel different coming from you. I wouldn’t mind hearing it… just once.”

Your breath catches for a fleeting moment as you observe a glimpse of something in his eyes, something deeper than the usual teasing.

The way he says it, with that mix of playfulness and sincerity, makes your heart flutter in a way you’re not entirely prepared for.

Would it be so bad to indulge him?

“You’re… easy on the eyes,” you say, your voice softer, almost shy.

It’s not quite the grand compliment he was fishing for, but it’s enough to make him smile—the kind of smile that lights up his entire face, making it impossible not to smile back.

“Well, I’ll take that,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, and for just a moment, everything else falls away.

But then, as if unable to resist, Satoru props his head up in the palm of his hand and leans in just a little closer, his smile turning slightly smug.

“You know, you could say it again if you really wanted to. I mean, I’m all ears.”

You raise an eyebrow, a grin tugging at your lips as you catch onto his game.

“Don’t push your luck, Satoru,” you warn, though your tone is more amused than serious. “Let’s get back to work.”

Satoru chuckles, leaning back with a mock surrender.

“Alright, alright. Back to work it is.”

The world outside fades away—the complications, the secrets, the uncertainty of what tomorrow holds—all of it dissolves into the background as you share this brief moment of connection with Satoru.

It’s as if time itself has slowed, allowing you to bask in the warmth of this exchange, to let the comfort of Satoru’s presence ease the weight of your worries.

But the moment can’t last forever.

The reality of your situation looms just beyond the edges of this moment, reminding you of the stakes, of the careful balance you’re trying to maintain.

After all, there’s still work to be done, and as much as you’d like to linger here, in this bubble of lightheartedness, you know you need to keep moving forward.

ꨄ

The hours slip by, and you go over each possible scenario, each potential curveball the interviewers might throw your way.

The script between you becomes both a shield and a lifeline, something to cling to as you navigate the complexities of everything.

Satoru’s voice is steady and reassuring as he guides you through your responses. When you stumble—when the nerves threaten to get the better of you—he’s there with gentle corrections.

His words never harsh or critical, but rather encouraging, help you find your footing again. And whenever he senses the tension rising—the anxiety creeping into your expression—he cracks a joke, designed to draw you back from the edge of your worry.

You find yourself leaning on him more than you expected, his confidence bolstering your own, his belief in you seeping into the cracks of your self-doubt, and with each passing hour, the fear that had settled in your chest begins to ease, replaced by a cautious optimism that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to pull this off.

After running through the script for what feels like the hundredth time, Satoru leans back in his chair—the soft smile tugging at his lips telling you that he’s genuinely pleased with your progress.

“I think you’re ready,” his voice is filled with a quiet confidence. “You’ve got this. Now, you should probably get some rest... it's getting late.”

His words are a welcome relief, washing over you like a balm after the tension of the evening. You nod, feeling the exhaustion from the long day finally catching up to you—all you can think about is the comfort of your bed.

But as you begin to stand, you notice that Satoru remains seated. His posture, which had been so relaxed just moments before, now seems slightly more tense as he appears to be focused on something distant, something you can’t quite place.

The shift is subtle, but it’s enough to give you pause.

“Aren’t you coming?” you ask mid-step, your voice tentative, a hint of concern creeping in.

Satoru looks up at your question, the distant look in his eyes fading as his focus returns to you. His expression softens, the edges of his smile returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No,” he replies, tone gentle but firm. “I’ve got some other business I need to take care of. But don’t worry about it,” he adds quickly, as if sensing your concern. “You should get some rest. You’ve done more than enough for tonight.”

There’s something about the way he says it, the way he brushes off your concern so easily, that makes you hesitate.

Is there something he’s not telling you? Or perhaps, choosing to handle on his own?

There’s a slight droop of his shoulders and his fingers absently drum against the armrest of his chair—a silent rhythm betraying the thoughts running through his mind.

You want to push, to ask him what’s really going on, but something holds you back.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes seem to plead with you to let it go, to trust him when he says it’s nothing you need to worry about.

Or maybe it’s the exhaustion that’s finally settling into your bones, making it harder to think clearly, to muster the energy for another round of questions.

So, instead, you nod again, offering him a small, understanding smile.

“Alright. Just… don’t stay up too late, okay?”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and though it eases some of your worry, it doesn’t completely dispel it.

“I’ll try not to,” he promises, though you’re not entirely convinced. “Go on, get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Making your way down the hallway, the soft light of the bedroom is a welcoming beacon at the end.

The prospect of finally getting rest is almost too tempting to resist, but as you near the door, something tugs at you—a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that refuses to be ignored.

It’s not fair, you think to yourself—pausing just before the threshold of your bedroom.

Satoru stayed up late, helping you with the interview questions, guiding you through each potential challenge with patience and care...and now, he’s left alone to handle his own business needs while you get to sleep.

There was a weariness in his eyes that you hadn’t noticed before, a quiet weight that he seemed determined to hide from you.

Why is he shouldering the responsibility when you agreed you would lead Gojo Corporation together?

The thought gnaws at you, making it hard to turn away.

You sigh, torn between the exhaustion weighing you down and the guilt pushing you forward.

Finally, you decide it’s only right to offer your help, even if just to make sure he’s not taking on too much by himself—and so, with renewed determination, you turn on your heel and quietly make your way back down the hall.

As you approach the door to the study, you’re about to knock when you hear his voice, low and serious, coming from inside. You pause, your hand hovering just inches from the wood, and listen.

“No. That’s not an option. We can’t afford any negative press right now, especially with everything that’s happening.”

Satoru’s voice is firm, almost biting, a tone you’re not used to hearing from him. The usual warmth that so often laces his words is gone, stripped away and replaced by something colder, more calculating.

There’s a pause, and you can faintly hear the murmur of someone on the other end of the line, though their words are indistinct through the phone.

Whatever they’re saying seems to only harden Satoru’s resolve.

“I don’t care what it takes,” Satoru continues, his voice dropping lower, the words coming out with an icy sharpness that feels almost like a threat. “Take care of it. Make sure this stays under wraps. My image can’t take a hit like that, not now.”

Your heart skips a beat, an uneasy feeling creeping up your spine—the warmth of the moment you shared earlier evaporating in an instant.

He sounds different—distant, devoid of the tenderness you’ve come to know… cold.

The man who just hours ago was patient and supportive, who made you feel safe and cared for, now seems like someone else entirely—replaced with this man who seems to care more about maintaining an image than anything else.

Whatever the voice on the other end of the phone says next makes Satoru sigh, a tired, almost frustrated sound.

You inch closer to the door, your breath shallow as you strain to hear more, but his voice drops lower, slipping into a tone that’s more guarded, more secretive.

“Yes, I know it’s not ideal, but it’s necessary,” Satoru says, his words clipped, as if he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it fall. “We have to protect the Gojo name at all costs. And that includes… well, you know what it includes. Just handle it.”

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest.

…what does that include? The vague words hang in the air and you feel a sharp stab of anxiety.

You feel a lump form in your throat as you back away from the door, the doubts you’d tried so hard to push aside earlier now crashing back with full force, overwhelming you.

What is he talking about? What could be so important that it needs to be kept under wraps at all costs?

Questions race through your mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

And what did he mean by “protecting the Gojo name”? Is that all this is to him—just a carefully crafted image that needs to be maintained, no matter the cost?

The thought stings, a sharp pain that cuts deeper the more you dwell on it.

You can’t help but wonder, as you stand there in the dimly lit hallway, if you’ll ever truly know where his priorities lie.

The man who once seemed so open, so transparent with you, now feels like a stranger—someone who might not be as trustworthy as you’d hoped.

Will he choose to protect you and Haru, or will he always put his image, his family name, first?

The doubt gnaws at you, growing with each passing second, until it feels like a weight you can barely carry.

You retreat further, your heart pounding in your chest, the sound of it almost drowning out the murmured conversation from the study.

The light at the end of the hallway seems so far away now, the warmth and safety you’d felt earlier slipping through your fingers like sand.

As you finally turn and make your way back to your bedroom, each step is heavier than the last—a shadow cast on everything you thought you knew.

The warmth of the bed offers you little comfort as you slip under the covers, and your mind replays the conversation over and over again.

As much as you want to believe in him, in the connection you share, the seeds of doubt have been planted.

You're uncertain if you're ready for what's to come—the interview, the public scrutiny, or the complicated feelings that have begun to tangle between you and Satoru.

But throughout all this uncertainty, there is one thing that is without a doubt evident.

You still have a decision to make.

a/n. poor y/n can't catch a break...girl is going through it. man i cannot tell you how much i enjoyed writing the coffee shop scene with naoya though, idk it was just so satisfying to write, i literally despise naoya so much lol. and satoru being so clueless with haru 🥲 he sat there for two hours 🤭 he's such a goof. anyways, i really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and i hope you're ready for what's to come! thanks so much for reading 🥺 seriously, your comments make my day. much love 🫶🏻 → onto the next chapterꨄ

taglist :

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer

@stevenknightmarc @maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@alwaysfreakingout @valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @evalynanne @tbzzluvr

@k1ttybean @yu22tas @sanriosatoru @ophelias-flowerss @spookysoowpprince

@luciledreamz @fortunatelyfurrygiver @meowforluv @arishaxml @zetianzz

@itzmeme @whodissbitj @kenmacantakemeaway @satoryaa

@kidd3ath @princessnai @zukowantshishonourback @afro-hispwriter @simbaaas-stuff

@Dilfmasky @veras-fanfic-reblogs @3zae-zae3 @Sugxryratz @inluvkai

@satowooo @ofcqdesi @sad-darksoul @dreamlessnight @mumblepingu

@mshitachin @fandomtrash5092 @e-dollly @thepurpleempath @Reese-is-right

@luna-v-roiya @alicerhr @kyluskaye @goldenglow149 @miizuzu

@bigsimpo343 @fushitoru @zadkielr @ivana013-blog @Matchalatte06

@spindyl @peqch-pie @miizuzu @megumisthirdog @daughteofaphrodite

@vorfreudevortex @Gloriouscherryblossommaker @iveivory @nanasukii28 @lovelyjulieee

@psychoanalyze0 @lilacwh0re

1K notes · View notes

am-i-the-asshole-official · 2 years ago

Note

I am not the asshole, and I think this whole thing is stupid, but I was promised that if I sent my side of things to this blog I could pick the hotel for our honeymoon, and I am marrying a man who once tried to take me BACKPACKING of all things, so this ask has become a necessity. In light of that:

AITA (I'm NOT) for planning the seating for our wedding in a logical way?

I got engaged in June, apparently in part because of my partner writing in to this blog (I don't know how to find or link to his posts, but I'm the man who got the cat to bite him, if that rings any bells?). At any rate, for the past ten weeks, I've been in the beginning stages of planning our wedding with my fiance, whom I have been secretly attempting to remove from the planning process as much as possible. I have ALREADY been given a list of his must-haves, and I AM incorporating as many of them as our budget allows. This has NOTHING to do with the emotional side of the event, and EVERYTHING to do with the fact that this is an idiot with no real planning experience or taste who thinks he knows more than me.

For the most part, this has worked very well. I'm the one who's been collating all the contact information for things, so I just replaced all the emails for the tacky companies with false addresses, responded to his inquiries as the companies to say the date was already booked or the price was outside our budget, and let him filter his way to the ones I DO like on his own. I also made a fuss about being "willing to compromise" on the few things he's picked I'm completely fine with in the hopes I can use it to make him compromise later, and have been humming portions of the songs I want on the playlist in the hopes he'll think he came up with the idea to include them himself.

None of this is the real problem. The PROBLEM is that he is deliberately ruining my seating chart, by moving our horrible friend's seat when I'm not looking.

The man in question dated both of us at one point in our VERY early 20s (both ended BADLY), is generally the messiest person we know, and will almost certainly get sloppy drunk and try to make a speech IF he does make an appearance. I'm banking on the fact that he won't, because he's also ridiculously wealthy, and will almost certainly send us some very lavish gift in lieu of coming.

He is SUPPOSED to be sitting beside my fiances aunt, at the same table as his grandmother, his work friend, and her girlfriend, because all four of these women are stone cold terrors who I believe are more than capable of keeping him in line on the slim chance he does come. My fiance INSISTS they won't be able to have any fun if they're running interference all night, and keeps moving him to sit at the head table instead. You know, where WE are. I finally caught him switching the label magnets on my planning board last night, and confronted him.

I tried leveraging how much I've been compromising already, that he's almost certainly going to RSVP no, and that I shouldn't have to deal with him on our big night. My fiance said he knew about all the fake emailing and such, and told me, and I QUOTE: "Look, the mind game shit was hot when it was just about the colour scheme or whatever, but I actually care about this. So you can suffer with everybody else, or you can do the normal thing and not invite a guy you hate to our wedding, you weirdo."

I said that if I did that, it would take out half his groomsmen, he called me an asshole and said I should go explain this to "literally any rational adult" so they could tell me I was in the wrong, and now here we are.

Would you recommend calling my fiance's bluff, since he doesn't want the man sitting near us either? Or should I focus on ensuring he'll turn down the invitation no matter what, so the matter of where he WON'T be sitting can be a moot point?

What are these acronyms?

Original post

The update

#aita #am i the asshole #the saga of proposal anon

4K notes · View notes

junplusone · 16 days ago

Text

daughter of the sword, son of the wild ; jeon wonwoo

SUMMARY. you were supposed to kill him, he had no reason to keep you alive - and yet, the universe works in mysterious ways. what will you do when your path begins to unravel? how long until you realize the sword you wield can very well be used against you?

PAIRING. jeon wonwoo x f!reader

GENRE. enemies to lovers, rebel!wonwoo, assassin!reader, historical au, angst, some fluff towards the end, lots of introspection, junhao speak cantonese with each other in this universe

WARNINGS. language, mention of drinking, main & side character death (multiple character deaths), violence & blood (not graphic), kissing - slightly suggestive? but not really? read at your own discretion

WORDS. 34.54k

NOTES. um so... let the record show i did not originally intend for this fic to get this long. but! i can't believe it's finally done! this was a very engaging story to write and i genuinely enjoyed every moment of it. huge huge thank you to jay @ppyopulii & calli @hhaechansmoless for letting me scream about this and brainstorming along with me this fic would absolutely not exist without them!! so sorry for causing all of those crashouts guys... i love u so much i promise. anyways, that's all i have to say - i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing! xx (oh also if you see weird gaps between paragraphs that's the shift + entering i had to do to fit this in one post oops)

TAGS. @mochacoda @ppyopulii @jiabae @nerdycheol

PLAYLIST. tsunami - niki / gemini - jun / do i wanna know - arctic monkeys / sailor song - gigi perez / the cut that always bleeds - conan gray / close to you - gracie abrams

The night is quiet – a little too quiet, an eerie kind of silence that cannot be ignored. Wonwoo gets goosebumps on the back of his neck, hairs standing on end, and he knows immediately that something is wrong.

Silently, he taps Jeonghan’s shoulder twice. A signal. The older man raises his eyebrows, hand instinctively moving to his sword.

“We are not alone,” Wonwoo cautions him, taking careful steps forward. It’s a lucky thing that he’s mastered the art of staying calm in situations that are as suddenly critical as this. He and Jeonghan were only hoping to return home after a long day of travel, but now he has the feeling someone wants to prevent that from happening.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wonwoo suddenly catches an unmistakable glint of something that can only be metal. After all, the moon never lies.

Jeonghan has noticed it, too. “There,” he says, sword drawn, “behind that shed. Do you see them?”

“That cannot be any less than fifteen, at least.”

“Only fifteen? This could have been a lot worse.”

Wonwoo is very familiar with that look, the impish smirk that Jeonghan always wears. Nobody knows what it’s meant to mask, but it has become something of a comforting sight.

“Do not get in your own head,” Jeonghan advises, offering him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Remember what we are here for.”

“Right,” Wonwoo nods, before ducking instinctively. The knife, having come out of nowhere, just barely misses the top of his head. We are surrounded, he realizes, surveying the area around him. There is no easy way out.

Jeonghan says nothing, bringing his blade out to parry an unsuspecting blow, slashing the man’s chest with one fluid motion. Wonwoo wonders how many years of this it’s taken him to draw blood with such an indifferent expression.

How much practice does it take to effortlessly kill?

Well, the resistance will not fight itself, he tells himself as he sinks his daggers deep into his attacker, blood splattering onto his face. The metallic scent is not new to him.

There has always been a certain headspace that Wonwoo enters in situations such as these; everything aside from the battle is nothing but a blur. Seungcheol had always liked this about him, and praised his state of focus.

Now, Wonwoo wonders if it is just a way to bottle up his fear.

Every wound he inflicts feels like a cut on himself. He can’t freeze up, he can’t – this is the mantra he repeats to himself in his mind, keeping Seungcheol’s advice with him. All he can do is hope it serves him well now.

The thoughts distract him only for a second. But that moment is enough, he realizes, bearing the brunt of a strong kick to the chest. Wonwoo stumbles backward, just barely dodging his assailant’s sword to his neck.

Close calls in this line of work are one too many, too often.

Belatedly, he feels blood trickling down his cheek. He must have gotten nicked somewhere, comes the afterthought, as he spins his daggers between his fingers, stepping closer for the final blow. He braces himself again before letting the knife fly. The sound is sharp, but subtle. Wonwoo just barely misses flesh, the edge cutting through the fabric covering most of his attacker’s face instead.

For some reason, he freezes at the sight of your prominent cupid’s bow, and the way your skin glows under the moon’s light. You freeze, too, sword halted in mid-air.

Wonwoo doesn’t really understand what’s going on, until he looks into your fiery, lash-framed eyes, and it hits him.

A woman, he realizes, bewildered. It is unheard of, nearly impossible – the emblem stitched onto the side of your robes tells him exactly who sent you, and he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Nobody associated with the palace would even consider sending a woman into the field, even with their best fighters.

And yet, here you are.

Wonwoo’s shock must have been mirrored on his face, because you take advantage of it and slash at him furiously. He’s fast – he’s trained for this, feet quicker than light – but not enough, for you manage to nick his torso with the edge of your sword.

Wonwoo falls back with a grunt, throwing a quick look over his shoulder. Jeonghan is making quick work of the men, his blade swirling around with effortless speed and precision. Bodies lie all around him; some dead, some hardly clinging onto their last breath. It makes Wonwoo sick to his stomach.

He staggers with every parry, trying to ignore the metallic smell that rises in his nostrils. You match him in skill and strength, he notes, strike for strike, and for the first time he finds himself struggling to put up a good fight.

And then, as aggressive as you have been, you back away for a second, alarm clear in your eyes. It catches Wonwoo off guard, the way you suddenly glance behind him to survey the empty valley and slink away into the darkness.

“Wait!” he calls out gruffly, sprinting in your wake, but he’s already lost you. You are quiet, and leave no trace – the night is concealing, and amidst the tall grass and sparse roads, Wonwoo does not know where you have gone. The others have followed in your trail, and soon the valley is as silent as if nothing had occurred in the first place.

There is something akin to guilt. A stronger man would have been able to finish the job, he thinks, reminded faintly of Seungcheol. Empathy is a vice, for people like him. He should not have wavered at the sight of your face. Wonwoo could have finished you then and there, if not for the hesitation that held him back.

Jeonghan approaches slowly, wiping his sword against the grass and staining the blades dark red. “I cannot believe several of them still got away,” he says vengefully. “After this sort of ambush I should have wiped them all out one by one.”

“You say that like you were the only one fighting.” Wonwoo gives a sheepish half-smile. “It is my fault too, hyung.”

Jeonghan seems to soften a little at this. The vexed expression is gone from his face, replaced by something kinder, more forgiving. Carefully, he brushes the dirt off of Wonwoo’s robes, giving him a reassuring pat.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No.”

“I know when you are lying,” Jeonghan points out. His fingers graze the wound on his shoulder, and Wonwoo winces involuntarily. “Make sure you tend to this later.”

The journey home is mostly quiet. Wonwoo is not one for many words, and Jeonghan is not normally inclined to fill the silence, choosing to bask in it instead. It is late, and all Wonwoo wants is to be able to bathe himself and drift off to sleep before another day arrives. Maybe Mingyu is still awake, he muses, painfully aware of the hunger in his abdomen. It has been days of travel, and there is nothing like being back home.

Wonwoo can feel dawn coming on by the time he has returned to the familiar cluster of small houses. Surely nobody is still up, he tells himself, bidding a good rest to Jeonghan and gently letting the curtains fall behind him. He is carefully silent as he washes up, scrubbing away dried blood and bandaging his wounds in the small yard behind the house.

“Jeon Wonwoo, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Oh, dear. He would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Hayun standing behind him, arms crossed sternly, and he thinks he’s never been more intimidated by her before.

“What are you doing up so early?”

Hayun purses her lips, frowning, and chooses to ignore the question.

“Is my husband aware that you’ve gone and gotten yourself injured again, or do I need to inform him?”

Wonwoo sighs through his nose. “Please do not do that.”

She softens at this, a little. The look in her eyes shifts from disappointment to concern.

“You must not put yourself in harm’s way on such a whim. How many times has Mingyu entreated you to look after yourself? What on earth even happened?”

“Jeonghan hyung and I were returning from the capital when we were attacked. He is not hurt,” he adds quickly, “but I am inclined to think it was a planned ambush.”

“You boys must be careful,” she emphasizes, taking a seat on a tree stump. “It is more important now than ever.”

He knows she is right. One wrong move, and it will all be for nothing. “Has Mingyu been well?”

“Better, I suppose.” Hayun’s fingers fiddle with the hem of her sleeves. “He is still recovering. But he is able to hunt on his own now, and walk without much pain.”

“That is good news,” he agrees, memories from the fateful night of Mingyu’s injury flashing in the back of his mind. “I have not seen him in a while.”

“Well, you are home now. He will be very glad to see you, and quite upset about your wounds,” she says pointedly.

“He will not know what I do not show him.”

“If you must.” Hayun rises, brushing the dirt off of her hanbok, and pauses. She is several years younger than Wonwoo, but the look in her eyes is one of motherly concern.

“We will be careful,” he insists. She does not respond to this, just smiles wistfully and pats his shoulder.

“Sleep, Wonwoo. It is nearly sunrise, and you have not gotten any rest. You will need it.”

He struggles for words. He does not know how to tell her that sleep has rather successfully evaded him lately.

“Alright,” he says finally, and watches her retreat back behind the wooden door. Still, he does not move. His legs suddenly feel too heavy to stand, and his wounds ache with sorrow for all the blood he has drawn under the dark cover of the night.

Sparse light begins to filter through the sky, harkening the arrival of another dawn. The clouds split, and Wonwoo wonders what he could have been in another life.

Thirty-two casualties, eight injured, three missing. The numbers are against you, and you know it.

You have not had a moment of peace since arriving back at your quarters. This palace is much smaller than the king’s, and therefore busier, but you would not dare to complain. If anything, having company at all times is better than perpetual isolation.

“I do not think His Highness will punish you,” Seokmin assures you. As your right hand man and faithful friend, it is duty to say such things, even when he might not be absolutely certain he is correct.

“He is not a generous man. You know this,” you tell him, undoing and redoing your braid in frustration. “We are looked after as long as we serve his purpose. Tonight was the exact opposite of that.”

Seokmin’s silence vindicates you further. You pace anxiously in the room, awaiting your impending doom. Will he have you banished? Executed perhaps, for sheer and utter failure. You think of your sisters then, somewhere in your small village waiting for your safe return.

There is a series of harsh knocks on the door. A royal guard, by the look of his attire.

“His Highness would like to speak with you,” he says grimly. You throw an apprehensive glance over your shoulder at Seokmin, who merely nods. It is meant to be comforting, however it is everything but.

You follow the guard down the winding halls and into a room that has housed many meetings before, none of which ended remarkably well. The guard leaves you with a polite bow and shuts the door behind him.

The room is dull, windows drawn and curtains closed. It is mostly bare, save for the sparse bookshelves and the table where the second prince Muyeol is hunched over a scroll. You lower your eyes, not daring to speak first.

“I have received news of recent events,” he says, finally. His voice is low, but sharp as an arrow.

“My deepest apologies, Your Highness.” He does not speak further, just watching you with those eyes that have seen years of war and rebellion, and it compels you to explain yourself. “I assure you, we tried our best. I did not anticipate–”

“I did not ask you here to listen to your excuses.” You realize now the way he so easily holds control over his men, and all those coerced into doing his bidding. Fear is a powerful thing. “I want to know how two village boys overpowered some of the palace’s most highly trained and able warriors.”

“I do not–”

“You had one opportunity to prove yourself,” Muyeol remarks, discarding the scroll he had been inspecting. Whatever light there is highlights the faint streaks of gray in his beard as he rises, stepping closer to you. “After all, it is unheard of for a woman to be involved in such activities, let alone be placed in control of the movement. Some of our allies are wondering if it is too much power, to such feeble a person.”

Your fists clench at your sides. This does not go unnoticed – he laughs, an evil and rumbling thing that only stokes the fire in your chest.

“I am far from feeble,” you say with as much venom as you can muster, “and I believe I have proven so in the past. Do not forget I have been loyal to you and your cause for many moons.”

“True loyalty is not bought.” He picks up one of his knives, a beautiful, glistening weapon. Your breath catches as he points the tip at you, tracing the sharp edge along the curve of your throat. “I have not forgotten the circumstances under which you were brought here. Do you truly believe you would still be here if your family was not at stake?”

Tall flames, pungent smoke in your airways. A ransacked village lies in the distant path of your memories. You remember the price many have paid for attempting to cross this man, the consequences you are still living to this day.

“They are getting in the way,” he continues, coldly. “The commoners believe they are fighting for justice against the crown. It is turning into a problem, for I must rid my brother of the throne before they have the chance to.”

What a cruel man, you think. His words make you sick, but you swallow it down for the sake of your survival.

“I do not forget any allegiance I have pledged, Your Highness.”

The blade drops, and you finally take in the breath you’ve been holding. The air feels sickly sweet in your lungs.

“I want them dead.” Muyeol drops the knife with a loud clang. “All of them. The uprising must be quashed. Bring me their bodies, so that we may burn them as an example to those who dare to ruin our kingdom. You know what is at stake if you do not.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He turns his sharp eyes to you, sly and unsettling. “You may leave.”

The feeling of dread does not leave even as you enter the courtyard, letting the gentle breeze lap against your cheeks. It is so late that you can feel the beginning rays of dawn creep up the horizon, and yet you are not tired. It strikes you then, in the lush expanse of the palace, that you are as good as powerless. That no matter how high you rise in the ranks, you are still a woman where there is room for none. And if only to make matters worse, you are a pawn in a cruel game that you would rather not be playing at all.

For the first time in months, you feel your eyes stinging with tears you should not let fall. You wish someone was there with you – Seokmin, Seungkwan, anyone – but that is not the case.

Under the impassive gaze of the night, you are completely alone.

There is little time before your next mission. You assemble a small group of your most trusted soldiers and start to make your plans.

Your reluctance does not slip past your crew unnoticed. Three of them stay behind after you dismiss the others – your most trusted archers, and confidants. Friend is a precarious title in this line of work, but you have learned to make exceptions for them.

“I hope you know you can speak your mind to us,” Seungkwan begins. “What is holding you back?”

“It is nothing.”

“If it were nothing, we would have left for the foothills tonight.”

It is always uncanny how perceptive he is. “My thoughts do not matter,” you say, “so long as His Highness is satisfied and my sisters are safe.”

Hansol is perched on an armchair, eyes thoughtful. “Do you ever think of what you will do once this is all over? When the king finally abdicates and the people are happy?”

“I do not know if the people will truly ever be happy,” you say truthfully. “The second prince has promised action, and action is better than inaction. But he is not the good and kind man the people want for a ruler.”

“The same man that murdered his own son, for fear that he might lay claim to the throne.” Seokmin shudders. “I feel complicit in all of his crimes.”

You take a moment to really look at him, then, as well as the others. Not as soldiers, not as the deadliest archers this side of the river – but as mere boys of twenty-something, full of locked-up love for fallen friends and slain mothers and burning villages.

What kind of person was Seungkwan at seventeen? What had been Hansol’s favorite fruit to pick and eat in the summertime?

None of that matters, now. They all have shadows in their eyes; sisters, brothers, loved ones they have left behind. Muyeol had been correct. None of them are here because they want to be.

“One day, we will be on the right side of history,” you say, placing a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder. “But we cannot do that as corpses, and that is what we will be if we fail now.”

“You are right,” he says finally, after a few moments. He glances out the window, at the sun spilling the last few drops of light on the earth. “Please rest, Y/N. There will be a long day of travel, and an even longer hunt afterwards.”

“I will try,” you agree absentmindedly. You offer them your best smile, knowing they will always see through it, and bid them a good night, staying behind to watch what is left of the sunset.

That night, a man appears in your dreams. He knows your name, but you don’t seem to find this strange. Instead, you curl yourself further into the calm familiarity of his voice. You have not seen him since you were eleven, just a child who should not have known the grief that was about to befall her.

You are so brave, he tells you. You are so strong. Mother would have been so proud of you.

You reach for him, unconsciously. Am I really?

Yes. You are so much stronger than you know, little tiger.

A single tear seeps through your lashes, illuminated under the moon’s soft glow. You wake up in the morning and cannot remember your brother’s face at all.

The forest had been Wonwoo’s entire childhood. Raised him, in a sense.

There are faint memories of afternoons spent running in the tall grass, peals of carefree laughter while climbing the tall larch trees. His little brother had liked to catch dragonflies, particularly, letting them go after admiring their scintillating wings. Mingyu does the same, when he is able. The bittersweet likeness always puts something of a smile on Wonwoo’s face.

But that had been before the trees burned and the ferns went down in crackling flames, taking everything precious with them. Now, Wonwoo catches a glimpse of forsythia and barely feels anything.

Unlike the others, he has never been able to sleep in for long. It was hours ago when he first rose, shifting the blankets carefully so that he would not wake up Chan. His muscles are still very sore, wounds still stinging, but he basks in the warm sunlight and feels just a little more alive.

“You’re outside quite early.”

Wonwoo turns sharply. He is normally alone at this time, but Seungcheol is standing in the doorway, eyes heavy with sleep. “Mingyu will be elated to see you,” he adds. “Once he is awake, that is.”

“He seems to be more tired as of late.”

“We all are.” Seungcheol’s eyes dart to the bandages on Wonwoo’s shoulder, and across his torso. Unlike Jeonghan, he says nothing – his mouth settles into a thin line that can only be concern. “I am glad the both of you returned safely last night. The attack was a complete surprise. We did not think that the palace would send soldiers so far into the country.”

Wonwoo thinks of you, then, movements as fluid and graceful as a river. Had he dreamt all of it? He cannot quite recall your face, but he remembers the feeling of your sword on his skin and the smell of fresh blood.

“Do you think they will come again?”

Seungcheol takes a seat on the small wooden bench, patting the spot beside him. Wonwoo does as he is told.

“Wonwoo, do you know what makes a far greater weapon than your daggers and swords?” He shakes his head no. Seungcheol only smiles.

“Hope,” he continues. “When our enemies say we are too loud, too demanding, and wish us silenced or dead – that is the greatest ammunition one can have.”

Wonwoo certainly does not feel hopeful, especially not recently. It has been so for many years, under the current king’s rule: starve, or die trying not to. He says so, petulantly, and receives a pat on the shoulder in return.

“You will learn,” is all Seungcheol says. He is not so much older than Wonwoo, but there is a calm wisdom about him that makes it feel like there are many years between them instead of just the one.

The conversation dissipates with the arrival of the others. The sound of laughter, such a rare and precious thing, echoes throughout the clearing. Mingyu approaches him with a grin and an ever so subtle limp in his step.

“You look a little rugged,” he remarks, pulling him into a careful hug.

“You are not so bad yourself,” Wonwoo quips back. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Hayun must have told you, but I’ve recovered very well. Chan still says I look a little silly when I walk, but you should not listen to him.” Mingyu gazes lovingly at his wife and Wonwoo feels a distant sting from a wound he does not have.

“Chan enjoys teasing you,” he says absentmindedly. “You make an easy target.”

“I always say that,” Jeonghan calls from where he’s perched on a tree stump, “and he still never listens to me!”

Mingyu only rolls his eyes at him, before turning back to Wonwoo. “What about you? You are not hurt too badly, I hope? Jeonghan was making a fuss out of it earlier.”

“He always does.” Wonwoo brushes a finger over the freshly changed bandages. “Do not worry. They are only minor injuries.”

Mingyu frowns, like he always does when he inspects and cleans the dried blood off the others’ skin. He often volunteers for it, saying it’s the least he can do to help, but the memories of his own scars never quite leave his eyes.

“You must take care of yourself,” he places a gentle hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, “especially now. Things are only getting more dangerous.”

“You sound more like your wife every day,” Wonwoo teases, but the tension in the air is real. He chooses to ignore it and leave all the words unsaid, like always. Hayun and Chan bring out steaming bowls of porridge, and they all eat together outside under the mid-morning sun. It is moments like this that feel like family. It never matters that these are friendships forged of blood and battle, never has.

Sometimes Wonwoo wonders if this is what he could have had in a different timeline, laying in the tall grass watching the clouds with his brother. Perhaps his father would have returned home from a long day in the fields, with fresh fruit and flowers for his mother in tow. But dwelling on the past that never existed is futile, and he knows this.

“I would advise you all to be careful being out, particularly after dark,” Seungcheol starts, once everyone has finished eating. He’s wearing that frown again, the one he gets when he’s especially worried. “I received word earlier from one of our ally groups in the southeast. Their village was raided at nighttime – many dead, even more missing. There is no telling which of us may be next.”

A hushed quiet falls over the circle. Mingyu folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed. Even Chan, who usually resorts to lighthearted jokes to handle bad news, is entirely silent.

“I am not trying to scare any of you,” Seungcheol adds. “But this is the truth, however harsh, and you should know.”

“Cheol is right,” Jeonghan agrees, “We should be alert and prepared. Always carry some sort of weapon on you, and never let your guard down.” Wonwoo notes the bleak look on his face – saved only for the rarest of occasions – and exchanges an uncertain glance with Chan. They will talk about it at some point, when they can speculate on their own time.

It is colder in the evening, when the sky begins to dim just a little. Wonwoo had agreed, earlier, to exercise with Jeonghan before dinner, and the breeze serves to cool him down whenever they decide to take a break.

“It has been quite a while since we have sparred,” Jeonghan observes, setting his flask down.

“Shall I get the wooden swords?”

“No need. I think you have been past that for some time.” He only chuckles at the dubious expression on Wonwoo’s face. “Do not worry, I know you will not hurt me.”

“Well, that is not my concern,” Wonwoo laughs, “It is myself I worry about. You know you are a far better swordsman than I.”

At this, Jeonghan sets down his sword with a light sigh. “You must not underestimate yourself like this,” he says, gently this time. “Sometimes I feel that is your greatest obstacle.”

“I like to be realistic.”

“Your reality is shrouded by your own fear.” Jeonghan looks at Wonwoo, and it feels like he is staring straight through to his soul. “Do not be so surprised. It is clear in the way you move, and how you wield your weapons. I always see the regret in your eyes.”

Wonwoo shakes his head, shoulders slumped. “How do you do it, hyung? You make it seem so easy.”

“It is not. It never gets easier,” Jeonghan says, sadly. “Some of us are forged out of necessity. Others, courage. But it all leads to the same thing. These are still lives we are taking, regardless of how they were lived.”

Wonwoo watches him carefully, tries to remember what Jeonghan had been like when they first met. He was never the type of person to show how deeply he felt about anything, and still is not. There is a distinct change, however. He had been lighter back then – happier. The mysterious shine in his eyes is still there, but it is different now.

“What would you have done?” Wonwoo turns his observant eyes to his friend. “If you were not a part of all this, I mean.”

Jeonghan ponders this for a second, long hair shadowing his face. In all the years they have known each other, he has barely spoken about his childhood years. His village, his family – nobody knows much about these things at all.

“I do not know,” he says finally. “There was not much of an option, was there? I would have worked in the fields, like my father, and lived a simple life.” Then his expression turns solemn, and his lips form a tight line. “I might have married Haeun, in that timeline.”

This, Wonwoo knows about. He’s only heard her name once before, one night when Jeonghan had just a little too much makgeolli. Drunk Jeonghan was always very chatty, he recalls. But he doesn’t pry further, instead placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Wonwoo, do you know what happens when we die?”

“What?”

“My grandmother used to say that our brain still goes on for seven minutes,” he muses, “Even after our heart stops. Those seven minutes are supposed to be our life’s best memories.”

Wonwoo thinks about this for a moment. “Is that true?”

“When I find out, I will not be able to tell you.” Jeonghan chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree trunk. “But I think that you would be in it, and all of our other friends. And Haeun too, I hope.”

“Do not say such things,” Wonwoo chides, turning away so that the troubled look on his face is not visible. “But it is a happy idea that our last moments of consciousness are spent in comfort.”

“Right? I thought so as well.” Jeonghan lifts his head and glances back at the house. The smell of meat cooking – a rare luxury – fills the air, and Wonwoo is suddenly acutely aware of the hunger in his stomach.

“Come, Wonwoo, let us eat. It seems as if Mingyu is finished preparing dinner.”

The journey to the foothills feels much longer than it should be.

It is easy to distract yourself, however, and listen to the others’ chatter. Your horses walk slowly, occasionally getting sidetracked by a stray plant or butterfly, as Seokmin and Seungkwan bicker endlessly behind you.

Hansol’s yawn catches your eye, and you turn to him. “Tired?”

“No,” he says immediately, but the fatigue is evident in his eyes. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

He only shrugs. It is so very Hansol. “Everything.”

An apt answer, you think. He is not so much younger than you, but he feels it – you wish for him to see and experience more of the world than you have. He still wears a specific type of curiosity in his eyes, the kind that gives you hope.

“What is your favorite fruit, Hansol?”

He thinks about it, then tells you he likes plums. Faintly, you are reminded of your youngest sister, the reddish-purple juice dribbling down her fingers in the summertime. Behind you, Seokmin says something about persimmons. Seungkwan lets out one of those loud, contagious laughs. You wish you could freeze this moment in time.

You glance up at the moon, an early crescent in the darkening sky. One of your men asks whether you will be stopping for the night, but you shake your head.

“We are not too far from our destination,” you explain, “and it is safer to camp nearer to people than here in the woods.”

“I, for one, do not know how I will sleep through Seungkwan’s snoring tonight,” Seokmin announces. “Nobody shall comment on the eyebags I will have tomorrow.”

You wait for the telltale sound of Seungkwan’s fist making contact with his arm – there it is, followed by Seokmin’s pained yelp. You laugh, having grown used to their antics over the years.

Hansol raises an eyebrow. “Are they always like this?”

“More or less,” you tell him. “They are serious when they need to be. I promise you are in good hands.”

“I believe you,” he says sagely.

As the minutes pass, you feel your eyelids growing heavy, the day’s exhaustion hitting you all at once. Seokmin’s bubbling laugh floats over to your ears, and you wonder how he still has the energy for it.

“Tired?” Hansol quips. You shake your head, laughing. It is not long before you begin to see the silhouette of houses in the far distance, glowing lamps dotting the horizon. Seungkwan cheers, eager for some respite.

Suddenly, a sharp sting blossoms at the tip of your ear. The group falls silent at the sound of your surprised yelp, and you bring a hand to your ear in an attempt to stifle the pain.

“What is it?” Seungkwan asks, anxiously.

Your fingers come away red. Blood.

The forest is silent, too silent – the birds have stopped chirping entirely, and the leaves do not carry the wind as they normally do. An eerie feeling rattles down your spine. You grasp the reins a little tighter. Somewhere between the trees, you catch the slightest movement, a flash of blue against the lush foliage. Seokmin sees it too, and his eyes dart to yours, questioning.

“We need to get out of here,” you declare, urging your horse into a gallop. “Now!”

Another arrow whizzes past your head and pierces a tree trunk. Hansol has drawn his bow, letting his own arrows fly. Panic flows through your veins and pools in your chest as you just barely dodge a spear.

Alarmed, you toss a look over your shoulder. The sounds of voices grow louder by the second, accompanied by the thundering hoofbeats of men in pursuit. Seokmin gives you an understanding nod and knocks one of the oncomers clean off his horse.

“What is going on?” Hansol urges, reaching into his quiver. “Who are they?”

“We do not have time to find out.” Some of the men have circled around, approaching you from the sides. You reach for the knife strapped to your thigh and hurl it with precise aim, lodging it into an exposed torso. But one man down does not spell victory – they outnumber you by far, and in a matter of minutes, will have you surrounded. Wildly, you look for something, anything, to provide a way out.

Not so far ahead, half hidden behind bushes, is a slightly less beaten path that branches off to the right. There is another trail further ahead, one that seems to loop around and double back. If you all stay together, you realize, you will be cornered in no time.

“We have to split up!” you shout, amidst the chaos.

You can’t see Seungkwan, but you know he is frowning. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you insist. “You have to trust me!”

From your right, Hansol gives you a concerned look. “I will accompany you,” he says, shooting at someone behind you. You shake your head immediately, not liking the idea.

“No, Hansol. You cannot!”

“I must,” he protests. “I can hold them off with my arrows. Your sword is better suited for a much closer range.”

You think you will never forget this look in his eyes, such a far cry from the young boy he was when you had first met him.

“Alright,” you say reluctantly, catching a glimpse of sudden movement behind him. “Hansol, watch out!”

He whirls around sharply, but his reaction is not fast enough. Without thinking, you pull your sword from your belt and reach over so far you nearly slip off of the saddle, barely managing to pierce the man’s shoulder. Blood spatters across Hansol’s face, dotting his sunkissed skin.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “I did not think they would catch up so fast.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching Seungkwan’s eye. He nods firmly, and it gives you the courage to turn back around so you don’t have to watch him and Seokmin tear off to the side, veering left into the thick forest. They will be able to hold out on their own; you have to believe this to be true.

Your pursuers have split, just like you planned – around half of them remain on the path behind you, fast approaching on horseback. You tug on the reins, a bit harshly. Hansol slows down to let you pass through the narrow side trail first.

“I will cover,” he assures you. “Trust me.”

That is all you can do – making as much distance as you can and dodging stray arrows when they fly just past your head. You do not know who it might be that wants you dead so badly that they would ambush you at night, but as much as you rack your brains looking for an answer, you cannot find one. There are not many who know exactly who you work for, and even less among them who might want to hurt you.

“How much further?” Hansol yells over the commotion, blood dribbling from a gash on his shoulder. “I do not have infinite arrows!”

“I am hoping they will leave us be if we reach the village, if we can make it that far!”

“And how far is that exactly?!”

You turn to face him, but do not get a chance to respond. Before you can open your mouth, an arrowhead lodges itself in the divot beneath your collarbone.

Sharp pain blossoms across your chest as the metallic scent of blood rises in your nostrils. You try to keep your grip on the reins, but your sight goes blurry, and your fingers let the leather slip. Faintly, you hear something that sounds like a shout of your name. But it is too late – your horse rears back, startled, and you cannot stay on any longer. You roll off, hitting the uneven ground with a sickening thud.

The dark red of your blood stains the rocky terrain below you as you attempt to get on your feet, but to no avail. You let out a pained groan, wondering whether Seokmin and Seungkwan have managed to make it to safety.

And what of Hansol? You can only hope he makes it to the village unharmed.

The last thing you see is a vaguely familiar symbol, silver etched on dark velvet fabric, but it soon disappears into the night’s cover. Your fingers tighten around a pebble’s edge, and you send a silent prayer up to whatever god is willing to listen. The world disappears, and your vision goes black.

Have you been well?

Your voice is sticky in your throat. No words come out.

Wake up, little tiger. It is time. A whole world awaits you.

You try to fight it, burrowing yourself into that familiar warmth of your brother’s voice. It does not work. Instead, you feel him tumbling further and further away from you, and a strange light intensifies between your eyes.

You wake with a start. Above you is a ceiling you do not recognize, and around you is a room you have never been inside. Blinking twice, you attempt to orient yourself, but a sharp sting renders you immobile when you try to sit up.

The only other person in the room is seated against the wall, crushing leaves in a mortar. She glances up at the sound of your rustling and lets go of the pestle.

“You are awake,” she observes, carrying the mortar over and kneeling beside you. Carefully, she peels back the layer of bandages and applies the paste to your wound. It stings a little bit, and you wince, not expecting the pain. “This salve should keep it from getting infected.”

The woman is beautiful, with soft features and long lashes. Yet there is a fierceness in her eyes that unsettles and comforts you at the same time.

“Hansol,” you breathe, struggling for words. “Hansol, where is he?”

She arches an eyebrow. “I am assuming you are talking about the boy we found with you,” she says finally. “He was not as badly injured as you are. Do not worry.”

Relief rushes through you, like a spring river. If Hansol is alive and well, then the others have to be, too.

“Where is he?” you repeat, earnestly. “Please, let me see him.”

The woman stares at you for a few moments before heaving a deep sigh, rising to her feet. She leaves the room for a minute or so, and returns with several others in tow. You try to sit up again, leaning yourself up against the wall.

The very first thing you see is Hansol, hands and ankles tied together with thick rope. Behind him are two men, one at each side, wearing grim expressions on their faces.

“What have you done to him?” you demand, albeit weakly. “Let him go!”

Hansol shakes his head at you, as if to tell you to stop talking. The men shuffle him over slowly and deposit him onto the floor so that he sits across from you. He leans forward urgently, eyes desperate.

“Y/N, you have to listen to me, they –”

His sentence is cut short. Without stopping to hesitate, the taller of the two men draws his sword and points it right at this throat.

“Do not hurt him!” you cry out, before succumbing to a coughing fit. The woman rushes to fill a small ceramic bowl with water and brings it to your lips, letting you drink slowly. The man pays no mind at all, and his sword remains in the air.

“Speak,” he says firmly. Hansol throws you a confused glance, the rope chafing his wrists as he fidgets under it.

“I do not know what you ask of me,” he says finally. The man takes a step forward, a subtle limp in his left leg.

“We know everything,” he says coldly. “There is nothing left for you to hide. We know exactly who you are, and who sent you.”

The blade does not drop. You watch Hansol swallow, nervous, as the metal glints threateningly under the morning sun.

“Please, you cannot hurt him,” you entreat once again. “He knows nothing, I swear. I brought him along to aid me.”

The sword’s edge points at you now, sharp and shining. The woman gives him a look, frowning slightly.

“Mingyu, please,” she murmurs. “She is not even able to stand on her own.”

Mingyu does not listen to her. He continues to glare down at you instead, hand steady. “Speak, then,” he demands. “And do not even dare to try and lie to us.”

Your eyes dart from him, to the man beside him, wondering what you could possibly say to save yourselves from the situation you’ve found yourself in right now.

“We are from the capital. The palace,” you clarify. Hansol watches you with wide, terrified eyes, but you are not telling them anything they do not already know.

“That much is clear,” Mingyu says. He gestures towards the sleeve of your robes, where the silver royal emblem sits. “But you have still not told us why you are here.”

“We were given orders,” you begin shakily. The uncertainty in your voice is making Hansol anxious, and you know it. “To find someone.”

Mingyu frowns, sword faltering slightly. “Who?”

You do not know what to say. That is, until another figure emerges behind Mingyu’s broad shoulders. Sharp, catlike eyes that could rival your deadliest blade bore into yours. You’ve seen those eyes somewhere before, for sure, but you cannot put your finger on exactly where.

A dark night flashes in your mind, tense silence in the foothills. You catch the moment of recognition in his eyes too, chapped lips parting just slightly. Yes, you remember that face now, those hands that had skillfully parried your own. The sound of your veil being sliced open still haunts you to this day.

You do not dare break eye contact, but you lift your chin defiantly and stare right back.

“Him.”

As much as he tries, Wonwoo cannot get the image of you out of his head: bandaged and bruised on the floor, and yet sporting the same fierceness he had first seen a few nights ago.

“It seems they came looking for you and Jeonghan,” Mingyu clarifies later. “Orders from the second prince. You heard her.”

Wonwoo just nods, staring out into the woods where Mingyu and Jeonghan had found you during their morning hunt. His nemesis, brought forth from the forest he’d grown up in.

“What should we do, hyung?”

“Well, they are more useful to us alive than dead. And we cannot let them go.” Wonwoo sighs, cracking his knuckles. “Where is she?”

“Hayun is helping her eat. Some porridge, I think.”

“And the boy?”

“He is with them. Do not worry, we have their weapons. And he cannot move with his limbs tied together,” Mingyu reassures him. “I wrote to Seungcheol hyung, too. He should return from the north within a few days.”

“Okay. Good.” Wonwoo laces his fingers together pensively, wonders how you came to be injured so badly in the first place. If you were after him, then who had been after you?

Mingyu takes another tentative step, then takes a seat on the bench beside him. Wonwoo isn’t sure why all his thoughts are stuck in his throat, refusing to present themselves as coherent sentences. It has always been easier to say what is on his mind to Mingyu – he has never once questioned his feelings, taking them all in stride.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?” He tears his gaze away from the sparrow perched on a tall branch and meets Mingyu’s earnest, concerned eyes. “Yes, Gyu. Do not worry about me.”

“Psh. I always worry about you. What kind of friend would that make me?” Mingyu laughs softly. “How is your shoulder?”

“Much better. I can move it further now. It should be completely healed within a week,” Wonwoo says, experimentally rolling his shoulder back and forth.

“That’s good.”

They fall into that easy silence again. Wonwoo feels the words bubbling up, but they never leave his tongue. There are too many feelings, and speaking feels like a certain kind of blasphemy to the quiet that lets him just be.

“How is your leg now?” he asks instead. Mingyu gives a lopsided smile, the one that exposes his sharp canine teeth.

“I keep telling Hayun I am able to go back out there with you, but she will not hear it,” he admits. Wonwoo sees her point, secretly; but this sentiment he would not say out loud. “I know I have been helping out where I can at home, but I still feel a little useless.”

“You are not–”

“It should have been me,” Mingyu lightly touches Wonwoo’s bandaged shoulder, “that night you were with Jeonghan. And every other night, too. Do not think I have forgotten each time you come home battered up and bleeding.”

“It is my duty too.” Wonwoo says it solemnly, can’t bring himself to look his best friend in the eyes right now. “This is not something you must feel bad about.”

Mingyu says nothing, choosing to blink away the unbidden tears in his eyes. Deep down, Wonwoo wonders if things would have been better today if that fateful injury had never happened. Mingyu had always been stronger – not just physically, but mentally. A born fighter, who would have truly known his place on the battlefield.

But it has been many months since Mingyu has lifted his weapon. Wonwoo, full of regrets and mismatched empathy a warrior should not have, needed to step up in his wake. If it had been Mingyu in the valley with Jeonghan that night, you might not have lived to tell the tale.

Wonwoo does not bring any of this up later, when he encounters Hayun in the kitchen. He just sits on a stool quietly, watching her stir the rice porridge.

“You look like you want to say something,” she begins eventually. He stiffens, not used to openly being called out.

‘No,” he denies. “I was just bored.”

“Now that is something I expect Yoon Jeonghan to say.” Hayun laughs. “It is alright, Wonwoo. You are not obliged to speak if you do not feel like it.”

So he does not, instead watching her tidy things up around the small kitchen. She balances several bowls together, passing him a plate.

“Help me carry the seaweed salad,” she says. “At least the boy will eat it.”

Wonwoo is used to doing as he’s told. He obediently follows her into the small side room, plate precariously in hand. Hansol, still bound by the fraying rope, immediately tenses up at the sight of him, but you do not stir. Well — you are asleep, he realizes, and rightfully so. He knows more than anybody how important rest is for an injury. Still, the sight of your lashes gently brushing the skin under your eyes irks him. He cannot pinpoint why.

Hayun sets the plates and bowls on the ground. The rattling seems to jolt you awake, eyes wide and then narrowing at the sight of Wonwoo.

“I hope you have not come to execute us,” you say sharply. Wonwoo sees straight through your facade, can tell how you’re struggling to speak through the pain. Hayun only purses her lips, setting the bowl of rice porridge beside you.

“I know that we are at odds. But we are not barbarians,” she says gently. “You must eat.”

You lock eyes with Wonwoo once again, gaze unnaturally piercing. He is certain that under different circumstances, you would have your sword at his throat with no hesitation whatsoever.

Hayun brings the spoon up to your lips, but you jerk away slightly, assuring her you can feed yourself. She does not look convinced, but backs away to let you have your space, and glances back at Wonwoo.

“What are you waiting for?” she asks, gesturing towards Hansol. “Untie him.”

Wonwoo gapes at her. “You want me to untie him?”

“How will he be able to eat otherwise? You and Mingyu, really,” she rolls her eyes, “They are hurt and unarmed, and you have got a whole set of knives on you. Do you really see them as a threat right now?”

Wonwoo sighs, reluctantly gets to work on the knots tying Hansol’s wrists together. He is visibly scared; none of the defiance that you hold, and all of the fear you don’t seem to have.

He sits there against the wall as the two of you slowly eat in silence. Hansol eats quickly, and very little, but you take your time. You have to, he supposes, thanks to the lack of mobility in your right arm. Hayun asks for your name, tentatively, and you tell her. Wonwoo lets it ring in the air before deciding that it suits you: sharp and angular but still soft, smooth rolling off your tongue. He doesn’t turn away until you catch him watching you, expression morphing into a glare.

Wonwoo is not as curious as Hayun, for sure. He only needs to know one thing about you.

“Who was following you here?” He tries to sound as commanding as possible, nodding towards your wound. “Did you see who shot you?”

He observes carefully as Hansol immediately looks to you. He knows nothing, that is for sure. But you hesitate, just barely. A troubled look crosses your eyes for just a moment before it’s gone again.

“No,” you say finally. “I do not know.”

Wonwoo holds your stare, almost challenging. You do not break. Still, he senses your lie. He is not sure what exactly it is you are hiding, but there must be something. It does not matter just yet. There will be time to find out later.

He helps Hayun gather the dishes afterwards, almost feels bad binding Hansol’s chafed wrists again. But no measure is too much, and he’d rather be safe than sorry.

“I will keep watch overnight. Just to make sure the boy does not try anything,” he tells her outside. “You should go in and get some sleep.”

Hayun raises an eyebrow at him. “You will stay up all night? Please tell me you are joking, Jeon Wonwoo.”

“Jeonghan and I will keep watch,” he relents, under her stern demeanor. “We will both be adequately rested.”

“You better be. Jeonghan likes to complain when he wakes up with eyebags,” she chuckles, wiping her hands. “I will leave you to it. Goodnight, Wonwoo.”

He mumbles a goodnight in return, trudging back to your room. There is a book lying on a stool, and he brings it with him to read. Why not?

Hansol is as good as asleep when he finally settles in the opposite corner. You are not, but you do not even spare him a glance as he sits down. Whatever, he thinks. At least he has something to bide his time until Jeonghan comes in and he can sleep.

He opens the book eagerly. A romance novel, it seems. Wonwoo wrinkles his nose, and wonders whose it is. He had never been very fond of the genre, but it will have to do. Wonwoo flips to the first page, filled with avid descriptions of a fair maiden and a lush countryside, and wonders exactly how long of a night awaits him.

Sleep is a fickle guest, dipping in and out and toying with your consciousness.

You cannot seem to surrender to any sort of dream for too long. Always your eyes fly open, gasping for breath even though you have not been underwater. The sharp-eyed warrior across from you does not spare you more than a threateningly curious glance.

It is when you wake up next that you notice he is no longer there. This man has rounder, softer eyes, and wilder hair. You remember him, too, from that night in the valley. Subconsciously, you note that he does not look half as vicious as he fights. He seems to sense your eyes on him, looking up suddenly from his paper and ink.

“Oh,” he says, a disarmingly playful smile spreading across his face. He whispers, so as not to wake Hansol. “I see you are healing well. Much better than the wreck you were when I found you, at least.”

This piques your interest, and you sit up straighter. “You found me?”

“She speaks,” he remarks sagely. “Yes, I did.”

His demeanor confuses you, to put it plainly. Everyone else had treated you with such coldness, and rightfully so. But he does not seem to have any qualms about speaking with you at all.

“I am Jeonghan, by the way.” At your bewildered expression he adds, “I know your name, but you do not know mine. Is it not impolite?”

“No,” you say bluntly. “I do not really care about your manners. Or your lack of them.”

He shrugs jovially, returning to his paper. “Just as well.”

A little more time passes in utter silence, before you impulsively break it. “What are you writing?”

Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, setting the brush down and turning the paper towards you. “I draw,” he says simply. “Sometimes.”

His nonchalance does not distract you from the impressive detail of the sketch. It is done with little care, but still executed well, a perfect likeness of a mountain range. You wonder how much this tells you about the kind of person he is.

“You are very different from the other one,” you observe.

“The other one?” Jeonghan tilts his head, before it dawns on him. “Oh. You are talking about Wonwoo? Yes, we are not very similar. But maybe that is why we make great friends.”

So that is the catlike man’s name, after all. You repeat it quietly, letting it coat your tongue and roll off of it. Privately, you decide it suits him — slick and smooth, and prickly where you would not expect.

Friends, Jeonghan had said. A laughable thing – you cannot imagine Wonwoo smiling at all.

“When will we be allowed to leave?” you ask, after some thought. Jeonghan’s hand stills.

“I do not know,” he says. “Mingyu wants you dead. Wonwoo thinks you are more useful to us alive. I, for one, do not particularly care. There is nothing the palace can do to us if we are always one step ahead.”

“How long must we wait, then?”

Jeonghan shrugs without looking up. “I told you. I do not know.”

Your heart sinks a little, but you continue to watch him silently, adding thoughtful strokes here and there to his sketch. Somehow the repeated movement lulls you back to sleep, lids heavy and fluttering closed. Your brother does not show up in your dreams this time. Instead, you are surrounded by nothing. Nothingness is starkly different from darkness. It is simply empty, unsettling.

An oddly familiar symbol flashes underneath your eyelids, burning through your vision. It reflects light from an unknown source, before blood dribbles over it, oozing out of the emptiness. You feel it everywhere, pain buzzing just underneath your skin in unbearable torment.

You wake with a start, breathing heavily. Nothing seems to be out of place – gentle sunlight, the same room you remember, Hansol in the corner. But everything you’ve just seen with your eyes closed continues to haunt you.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. A pang of sympathy strikes you; he has not spoken much since you were brought here.

“I think,” you reply, propping yourself up with your uninjured arm. “Hansol, I must ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to tell me anything you remember from the attack,” you ask, seriously. “Anything. About what happened after we were separated, and about who they were.”

“I did not make it much farther than you,” he says ruefully. “I panicked after you got knocked off of your horse. I think it was sheer luck that they left after assuming we were dead. But one thing was rather odd, actually.”

“What?”

“Some of their robes,” he continues, frowning. “I am sure the royal symbol was on them. But those cannot have been real, right?”

You feel your heart racing, thumping along in your chest. You search Hansol’s eyes for any sign he’s lying, or joking, but there’s none.

“I saw it, too,” you say, hushed. “Just before I fell. I thought I was hallucinating.”

“I do not think you were.” Such a grim expression feels mismatched on Hansol’s face; so much conflict for one so young. “But how? And why?”

Apt questions, both of them. Your deduction seems almost bizarre, if you really think about it. Laughable, almost. Why would the second prince want to thwart his own plan?

But… it is not impossible.

You purse your lips. “I shall be honest with you, Hansol. I do not know why such a thing would happen – but I also know that man is not to be blindly trusted. So there is that, too.”

Before he can respond, someone clears their throat. Calmly, but loud enough to interrupt. Wonwoo enters the room with narrowed eyes, making his presence known.

“What are you two whispering about?” he demands, folding his arms. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him.

“We are plotting out how to kill you and get away with it,” you say dryly. He does not laugh, instead staring at you with a coldness that could rival even the iciest glaciers.

“Very funny,” he replies, full of sarcasm. “Humor will not do you any favors here. Remember that.”

God, you really wish you had actually killed him that day. His smooth voice somehow irks you even more, drawing your cantankerous mood to the surface at record speed. However, you tamp it down, settling the frustration in your chest in preparation for the request you are about to make.

“Can I borrow some ink and paper?”

This gets Wonwoo’s immediate attention. He turns, eyebrows raised. For a moment you think he might just laugh it off and ignore you. And he would not be wrong for it, you realize – you are essentially a hostage in this small village, and neither he nor the others owe you a single thing.

“What for?” he says sharply. “Surely you do not think you will be able to trick us?”

“No, of course not,” you shake your head vehemently, heart sinking. “I would not do that.”

Wonwoo scoffs. “As if I am stupid enough to believe such a thing. What are you trying to do this time, call for reinforcements? Leave the target on my and Jeonghan’s back for somebody else to find?”

“No,” you insist, desperation seeping into your voice. “I must write to my sisters. It has been too long – there are some things I must tell them.”

A matter of life or death, you think silently. If Muyeol truly is after you, then he will certainly not draw the line at harming either of them. For a moment, you think Wonwoo might be considering it. He looks at you with that calculating expression he has, probably weighing the decision in his head.

“You are a fool if you think I am that naive,” he says, finally.

You try not to show it, but your face falls. If there was one thing that provided a sense of normalcy for you in the capital, it was being able to keep in touch with your sisters regularly. They are, after all, the only family you have left. But Wonwoo pays you no mind, shuffling about and searching for something before he leaves again. You deflate a little. Hansol’s sympathetic look is meant to soothe, but it only makes you feel a little bit worse.

The rest of your time passes quite uneventfully. Your days are relatively the same now – not like you are able to do much, anyways, with your injury. Hayun helps you out when she can, occasionally stopping to make small talk, but you are otherwise alone.

Mingyu and Wonwoo have decided that they would rather have Hansol help with the errands than waste away in a dark corner – you watch him lift bundles of firewood with a pang in your chest. At least he is accompanied by someone else, a boy named Chan who does not look a day older than him, and likes to make awkward conversation as they work.

You grow more anxious with every passing day, wondering why Muyeol’s men have not found you yet. Realistically, you should be thankful for each peaceful morning, but it does nothing but stir apprehension in your stomach. He may not be a good man, but he is a smart one. There are not many villages this side of the river, and you don’t think it will take him very long to find you.

Suddenly you think of Hayun, who has looked after you ever since you got here. You wonder if she, too, will soon have to face the aftermath of a razed home and a martyred husband, a family vanishing within minutes – a fate you would not wish upon anybody.

It is late one night, with Hansol away doing something or the other for Mingyu. You are moving your right arm back and forth, newfound strength surging into your muscles. With Hayun’s help, you can even stand now, but she is not here.

It takes you a few moments before you realize Wonwoo is at the doorway. He remains silent even as you raise your eyebrows, prompting him to speak. Instead, he just approaches you and gingerly places two sheets of paper as well as a brush and ink on the floor beside you.

“You may write to your sisters,” he says gruffly. “One of us will read it to ensure you are not communicating with the palace. Hayun will have it delivered tomorrow.”

You stare at the paper, not knowing what to say. He watches you with careful eyes, waiting only a beat or two before turning on his heel to leave.

“Wonwoo,” you call just as he’s about to step out. He looks surprised at the sound of his name; perhaps even offended, but he listens anyway. “Thank you.”

Something strange flashes in his eyes, but only for a moment. He does not reply, only sparing you a curt nod before walking away. You sigh, and wait until he’s gone to pick up the brush and dip it into the inkpot. There are important things to be said, and not enough time.

To Soonhee and Soonja –

How are you both? I am sorry I have not been able to write recently. Unfortunately, things have gotten quite hectic as of late. But never mind that. I have gone to the foothills for some important business – I will tell you all about it later.

Please, do not stray far from home. Above all, do not travel to the capital. Send Jihoon, if absolutely necessary. Nobody will recognize him. But do not go yourself. I cannot tell you why just yet, but please, you must trust me.

Speaking of Jihoon – how are my brother-in-law and my darling nephew, Soonhee? I have not seen little Sangmin since he was a newborn, but I will visit as soon as I am able. Have you picked up any new projects lately? Tell me all about it when I come home. I always love to hear about it

Soonja, I have made a friend who is quite like you. He is gentle but strong, and likes to eat plums in the summer. I find myself missing you very much when I speak with him. And the plums, I will bring some home for you. They seem to grow quite abundantly in these regions.

I find that something odd has been happening to me recently. I did not want to ask, but I feel that I must. Sometimes our brother comes to me in my dreams. He feels almost real. Soonja will not remember – but you must, Soonhee, you had been old enough, too. I never see his face; I cannot remember it. But he speaks to me while I am asleep, and I find myself aching when I wake up again. Does this happen to you, too?

I am not sure. Maybe I am going crazy. I have not been sleeping too well; I suppose that would do it.

Anyhow, I hope this reaches you without any sort of delay. Please do not send any correspondence to the palace – or do not send anything more, for that matter. It should not be very long before I am able to come home again, and then I will tell you everything sitting across from you over dinner.

Be well, and take care of yourselves. Give Sangmin and Jihoon my love.

Yours, Y/N

Wonwoo cannot even make it halfway through your letter before he passes it to Jeonghan, desperately tearing his eyes away from the words on the paper.

“What happened?” the older man questions, unfolding it carefully.

“I cannot,” Wonwoo repeats, shaking his head. “I know it is for our safety. But it feels too personal.”

“Oh, yes. How convenient that I do not have feelings, then,” Jeonghan says dryly, rolling his eyes. Still, he relents, scanning your letter. Satisfied with what he sees, he folds it up again and stands. “I will find Hayun. She should be able to have it delivered when she goes to the market.”

“Thank you,” Wonwoo nods. He likes that Jeonghan never really asks questions, seems to know exactly when to stop digging. It works out for the two of them; neither of them pry, and neither of them answer. And if Jeonghan had asked – what would he have said? Wonwoo does not enjoy feeling most of his emotions, let alone talking about them.

He had not planned on letting you write it in the first place. It was a simple decision, and Mingyu had quite agreed with him when he told him about it later over dinner.

But he had seen Wonjae’s face in the back of his mind, for a brief second. There was not a thing Wonwoo wouldn’t do if it meant he could write to him, or speak to him just once more. In the moment, he had not felt like depriving you of the opportunity he could never have.

Of course, he will not tell Jeonghan any of this. There are things he does not like admitting to himself, much less others.

Seungcheol arrives later that night, after everyone else is asleep. Wonwoo greets him silently, tells him to rest, but he is met with a stern demand to tell him everything. He fetches a bowl of water, sits Seungcheol down, and starts from the beginning.

“This is not good,” Seungcheol frowns. “It is only a matter of time before those same soldiers find their way to us.”

“We can handle them, can we not? We always have.”

“We always have. But that does not mean we always will. It is wise to exercise caution.” Seungcheol casts a wayward glance at the room where you and Hansol sleep. “What of them?”

“I would not worry,” Wonwoo assures him. “They have no weapons, and the girl is injured. I do not believe they are a threat.”

Seungcheol gives him a half smile. “It is good to have faith, Wonwoo. But do not trust blindly. Ever.”

I’m not, he wants to say. Petulant, like a child, and somehow that upsets him even further. Wonwoo wishes he was able to switch this part of him off, just like Jeonghan seems to do, but his mind does not appear to work that way.

“What do you think we should do?” he asks instead.

“Well, we will keep them here for now. There is not much else to be done.” He sighs, glancing up at the sky. “I am tired, Wonwoo. We will speak about this later. Good night.”

“Good night,” Wonwoo echoes, watching Seungcheol and his broad shoulders retreat into the house. He should be heading inside, too. But he does not move just yet, staying out for just a little longer before he sleeps.

When Wonwoo dreams, there are trees everywhere. Larches, like the ones he used to love to climb as a child. What a shame, that he had to grow up so fast. Wonwoo dreams, and there are fireflies. The nostalgic kind, that takes him to another time rather than a place. There is a warm fire, and a meal cooking somewhere off in the distance. If he listens closely, he can hear his brother’s laughter, just loud enough.

Sometimes, Wonwoo dreams of a different universe. Another timeline, perhaps the one in which Jeonghan and Haeun could have been happy together. In this universe, Wonwoo does not fight. He sits in the clearing with his brother on a breezy afternoon, listening to the bush warblers sing.

In this universe, Wonwoo is a fisherman, like his father. He teaches Wonjae how to cast the nets, and which spots along the river are particularly excellent for catching minnows. In his spare time, he reads, collecting books he likes from the market. Soon enough, he cultivates a small library of his own, a personal haven of sorts.

The worst part, however, is that this universe is not real. The river cracks, like glass. Fish scatter everywhere and the water goes dark. Wonwoo reaches out for his brother, but Wonjae has disappeared. The boat rocks wildly, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut out of the nausea it stirs in him.

This moment is when he wakes up. The image of his reflection in the shattering river always haunts him for hours. Like maybe it’s him that’s breaking, instead of the current.

He sits up in his bed, blinking the sleep away. Across from him, Chan rolls over, mumbling something intelligible. He has always been a heavy sleeper, which works out just fine for Wonwoo, who does not make much noise in general. The sky is still quite dark. Wonwoo peers out the window. It will be dawn soon, he realizes, catching the first hints of light at the horizon. No river to dip his feet in, no boat to cross it with.

Just as well. He turns over, pretending none of it matters, and tries to fall asleep again.

It takes you another week and a half, give or take, to be able to walk on your own. Hansol helps, an arm steadying you as you take careful steps.

This development is not welcomed by the majority of the others, particularly Mingyu and Seungcheol. Hayun just gives you a small smile and tells you she is glad you recovered without any complications. Oddly enough, you spend most of your time in the company of Jeonghan, who always drags Wonwoo along with him. It is quite tiring, even though you know it is merely a matter of security to have an eye or two on you at all times.

“Must you always look so surly?” you remark one afternoon. Wonwoo sits across from you in the room, having busied himself with a book, and raises an eyebrow at your question.

“Is that what you think of me?”

“Yes,” you say, emboldened by the challenging look on his face. “I think you choose to present yourself as quite a joyless individual. I did not know it was possible to embody a cantankerous grandfather in a young man’s body.”

“I must say, I have never been so openly affronted by my own hostage before.” His expression does not hold any of the offense that his words portray. Instead, he seems subtly amused, almost – as if this is just child’s play to him. It irks you even more.

“Really?” you scoff. “And how many women have you taken hostage before, exactly?”

Finally, Wonwoo sets his book down. Ha, you think to yourself. I win. He folds his arms, keeps his piercing eyes trained on you. He might have been beautiful, you realize, if you did not despise him so.

“Only those who are bold enough to set a target on my back,” he says, an edge to his deep voice. “You are the first. And I intend you to be the last.”

“How valiant,” you retort.

“How ignorant,” Wonwoo corrects, leaning forward. “You are not invincible. Do yourself a favor and stay off your high horse while you are here.”

You raise your chin, defiantly. “And if I refuse?”

Wonwoo says nothing, only holding your level stare. The heat of his hostility is unmistakable, his sharp eyes burning into yours. You only wish you could reach for your sword and slash the tantalizing column of his neck, the glistening steel against his skin. But your hands remain where they are and you sit in place, jaw clenched and temper boiling over.

“Are you finished attempting to telepathically kill each other?” Jeonghan hesitantly pokes his head through the doorway. “I come bearing news.”

Wonwoo turns his attention to his friend, finally. “What news?”

Jeonghan does not answer him. Instead, he trudges towards you, pulling a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and handing it over. You frown up at him.

“What is this?”

“I think you should read it first.” You don’t like the mildly troubled look on his face, but you follow his advice and open up the folds anyways. Immediately, you recognize the handwriting, and your breath catches in your throat.

Y/N –

I do not have much time to write this. I managed to get away and ride to your village, based on what little you told us. I am taking your sisters to a safe house further away from the capital, as well as Jihoon and the baby. I hope Hansol is still with you.

Those who attacked us had been palace soldiers; Muyeol’s men, every single one of them. This must have been planned – I thought about it every way, but I am not convinced it was an accident. It could not have been. We were never supposed to carry out this mission, Y/N. We were meant to die before even succeeding.

Seungkwan did not make it. He was shot in the neck, and I could do nothing to save him. I buried him near the riverbank with some peonies, just as he would have wanted.

Do not write back, lest it is intercepted. Be safe.

Seokmin

You do not say anything for a few precious moments. It is so much information all at once, on this tiny scrap of paper. How ironic that simple words have such power to change your entire world with one sentence?

Muyeol’s men, every single one of them.

“I knew it,” you mumble to yourself, crumpling the paper beneath your fingers. Dismay gives rise to anger in a volcanic chain reaction that ripples violently through your entire body. “I fucking knew it. Of course. How could I have been so blind?”

“You were unconscious,” Jeonghan interjects, unhelpfully.

The same man who had promised you many things in return for your unwavering loyalty, now targeting you – you are not surprised, and you do not have the right to be, either. The realization is ugly, but it is the truth. You had always known what kind of a person he was, but back then it had only mattered that you and your family were guaranteed safety. It is not like that, anymore.

Jeonghan just sighs. “I am assuming now is not a good time to say ‘I told you so’.”

“I told you so,” Wonwoo says flatly. You glare up at him, blinking the unshed tears away. Suddenly you hate him even more for being able to stand there unflinching, while you slowly lose everything and everyone.

“I wish I had killed you that night,” you tell him with quiet anger. “I never would have had to come here, and Seungkwan would still be alive. I am ashamed I did not have the courage to fulfill my task the first time.”

Wonwoo does not answer, just casts his eyes to the ground with his head slightly bowed. You want more than this absolute silence from him – something, anything in response to everything you throw out. But you get none, just his eyes avoiding yours.

You wait until you are alone to open up the paper again, the words blurring together on the page. Gently, you trace a finger along the characters of Seungkwan’s name, the memories rushing back like a flood. Never in a million years would you have thought you’d be remembering him like this, images flashing in your mind.

Seungkwan, who had liked to lighten things up with a joke or two and a contagious laugh. Seungkwan, who once swore to always have your back, and never broke his promise to the end. You had looked after him with such care, treated him like the little brother you never had. You remember teaching him how to shoot an arrow for the first time ever. It was raining that day, but he had insisted on going out to the grounds regardless. It is a comfort, you suppose, that he had gone down wielding that same beloved weapon.

Hansol does not take the news any better than you had. He does not believe you at first, reads Seokmin’s letter again and again until it finally sinks in that he will never hear one of Seungkwan’s spur-of-the-moment puns again. You want to reassure him, but you do not go to comfort him, recognizing his need for space.

They might not have been very close, but they had always taken well to each other, and they had been the same age. Now Hansol will continue to grow, and Seungkwan will be forever twenty-two.

Neither you or Hansol cry, but both of you come threateningly close.

The letter wears thinner the more you read it, but you cannot help but grasp onto Seokmin’s words – what if you lose him too? You try to soothe yourself with the knowledge that your sisters are safe, but your anxiety does not let your mind rest at all. It is suffocating, to sit in this room with nothing but your and Hansol’s grief and the echoes of a voice you’ll never hear again. With what little strength you have, you wander outside, limping slightly.

The wind is sobering, and you inhale a greedy lungful of the crisp mountain air, letting it linger in your lungs. The treeline is a comforting sight. Seungkwan had always loved nature. At least his soul will rest easy.

“Watch your step there,” Wonwoo’s rough voice comes from behind you. “You will fall.”

You’ve never whipped your head around faster. He stands, a bit awkwardly, hands laced together behind his back. His eyes linger on your injured leg warily.

“Careful,” you retort, “or I might think you actually have a heart deep down in that twisted soul of yours.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Must you make it your absolute mission to constantly antagonize me?”

“You are acting surprised – as if there is any chance on this earth of me tolerating your presence,” you tell him, settling on a wooden bench. To your surprise, he follows suit, perched gingerly on the other end.

“What was he like?”

“Excuse me?”

“Seungkwan,” Wonwoo clarifies. “Your friend.”

Hearing the name sends a pang to your heart, but you cannot help but give him a strange look. “Do you always pretend to have a conscience in front of your hostages?”

Wonwoo scoffs, the first real emotion you have managed to draw from him all night. “You are far too cynical for your own good,” he remarks. “It is truly a wonder how you ever managed to navigate society like that.”

“Do not underestimate me,” you say crossly, “I contain multitudes.”

Both of you fall silent again. The night speaks instead, with the occasional howling of a gust of wind, or an owl hooting in the distance.

“Seungkwan was one of my closest friends,” you murmur, emboldened by the cool breeze. “I would have trusted him with my life. I did, too, on many occasions. There was not a moment where he was not there for me.”

Wonwoo hums, in some sort of agreement. “That is a good friend, indeed.”

“He is. Was,” you amend, attempting to swallow down the lump in your throat.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

“I do not think I believe you,” you let out a mirthless laugh. “But I will pretend so for your esteem, and my own mood.”

He nods sagely. “You have my full permission to take my words purely at face value.”

“I do not need your permission,” comes your quick reply. Wonwoo seems to take it in stride, like that was precisely the sentence he was expecting to leave your mouth. You do not particularly like that he acts as if he has you all figured out. A dangerous thing it is, to be known by essentially a stranger.

“You will keep many heartwarming memories with him,” Wonwoo adds. “Those are forever.”

“I hope so,” you nod, trying to conceal your sniffling. “He loved oranges. God, he was crazy about them,” the words slip from your tongue before you can even think, “He would talk about going to the island for them all the time. And he dearly loved to sing. He was very good at it, too.”

“What kinds of songs?”

“Ballads, mostly. He and Seokmin would burst into song at such random times. I remember being annoyed,” your voice breaks, “I cannot believe I was annoyed. I would give anything to hear him sing again. But I used to scold him so much.”

“Well, it is always a loving heart that chides the most.”

You catch a stray tear on the tip of your finger before casting a wary glance at Wonwoo. He does not meet your eyes, but stares into the woods as if there is something there he longs for. His normally cold gaze shines softly – for the first time, you might even feel a pang of empathy for him.

“Is this another tactic I do not know about?” you ask instead. “Lulling women into a false sense of security, so that you can converse about their dead friends before slashing their throats?”

Wonwoo’s plush lips immediately form a scowl. “I am not so much of a ladies’ man as you might believe.”

“How do I know you are not lying? You certainly look the part!”

He opens his mouth to fire back with his own retort, but he stops short all of a sudden, a small smirk on his face instead. “Did you just call me handsome?”

You give him your most appalled look. “I called you the equivalent of a rake and that is how you understood it?”

He shakes his head, clearly amused. “I hope that was not an insult to my intelligence. I quite know a compliment when I see one.”

“I do not even know why I bother conversing with you,” you say incredulously, standing suddenly out of frustration. There is a half-hidden root before you, but you do not see it – your foot catches, and you stumble forward. On instinct, Wonwoo reaches out, catching your arm before you tumble to the ground.

His touch burns, invisible flames scorching the skin as his fingers encircle your wrist. You lock eyes with him for a mere moment, the surprise in his expression mirroring yours. But the instant passes, and you immediately rip your arm from his grasp.

“Do not touch me,” you say sharply, rubbing your wrist.

“I did not want to,” he defends, “You would have fallen instead.”

You flash him a deep frown. “I would rather faceplant into the ground and lose my two front teeth.”

Guilt flashes in his eyes, and you almost feel bad. Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself, shielding your skin from the cold. The warmth from Wonwoo’s touch is long gone; you find yourself craving the soft burn of his fingertips again. It is all so unexplainably wrong. You really should leave, before you say something you might regret. That sharp tongue has always been your double-edged sword.

But Wonwoo gets to his feet instead, gesturing towards the bench’s smooth wood. “Sit,” he says gruffly.

You arch an eyebrow at him. “I am not interested in taking your place.”

“I insist.”

“Why?”

He hesitates, just a little. “I thought you might want some time with yourself. Alone. Fresh air always helps, too.”

You want to find your most piercing words, fashion them into a venomous retort, and throw it at him – but nothing comes up. He is right, and it does not fail to get under your skin.

“You sound rather confident.”

For the first time, Wonwoo smiles. It is a tragically beautiful thing; the expression does not reach his eyes, and the very corner of his mouth remains slightly downturned. Grief seems to taint him like a shadow that refuses to leave, and for just this moment you forget just how much you loathe his existence.

“You are not the only one who has lost somebody,” he says simply.

“You know, then.”

He shrugs halfheartedly. “It has been quite some time.”

You ponder your next question for a moment before asking it. “Does time truly heal all wounds?”

His mouth opens with an answer, and then it closes again, plush lips forming the beginning of an unsaid word. You watch him consider your query carefully, and wonder just where his thoughts come from. A part of you wants to ask, spurred by curiosity; but at the same time you are not so sure you want to know. Perhaps you are hesitant to see him as he is – not your adversary, but just Wonwoo, carrying his own ghosts on those weary, broad shoulders.

“Only if you want it to,” he says finally.

Softly, a far cry from earlier. All of the bite has disappeared from his voice, replaced by something gentle and raw. His presence is no longer looming; he is simply there, like the sturdy oaks of the village you grew up in. It is a new feeling, and you do not like this strange ease.

But you think more about his answer as the words sink in. Is that why it had been so hard to let go of your brother? It was silly; laughable, even. You had not kept anything to remember him by, but he was always there in your dreams when you truly needed him. Had that subconsciously been your doing? How long would it take for you to let go of Seungkwan, too?

“Maybe I had not willed it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows.

“What?”

You meet his confused eyes. “Oh – nothing.”

“If you did not mumble so much, it might be easier to hear you,” he says, with all the attitude he can muster, and immediately you know that the precious truce-like moment has passed. You paste an equally irritated expression on your face, to match his.

“And I thought you were leaving,” you return sharply. “But you are still here.”

“That I am,” he observes quietly. “Well. Goodnight.”

He lowers his gaze to the ground and turns, footsteps growing farther as he retreats to the house. A conflicting feeling rises in your throat as you watch him walk away, shoulders just a little slumped – the stature of a man with a myriad of stories and no voice to tell them with.

Wonwoo’s eyes, full of misted secrets, flash in your mind once again. Involuntarily, you shiver at the memory. You had never before met a man as calmly infuriating as him. If that does not ultimately spell out danger, then you don’t know what does.

From somewhere between the thick trees, Seungkwan smiles down at you. Reassuring, like a warm hug that you don’t deserve, and it stings. You try to recall his soothing voice, and cry freely into the night’s embrace.

The restless feeling in the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach does not cease.

Instead, it festers, boiling over and into itself by the day. It grows, even when he wills it not to. And worst of all, it seems to heighten inexplicably when you are near, and he is rendered helpless. He is always reminding himself that no matter how familiar your words might feel sometimes, you are everything but – your cynicism and your instantly sharp tongue are just two of the many things he cannot stand about you.

Still, there is that pull. Like a magnet, but only worse. Against his will, a part of him cannot help but be captivated by the enigma that you present yourself to be.

And, of course, there is that other thing.

The thing that, as he sits and watches you tell your story to Seungcheol, becomes more and more difficult to deny. You are no less resplendent in the sun than you are in the night’s glow, he realizes. Perhaps this is what he deems most dangerous about you. In his mind, you are indisputably beautiful – in the way that one might look on in awe as a tsunami’s ominous wave rolls up to the shore, despite being fully aware of the havoc it will wreak.

Wonwoo is sure that if he ever called you a natural disaster to your face, you would attempt to take a knife to his throat. Either way, he keeps the thought to himself, guarded and untouched.

He watches as Seungcheol returns your weapon. Your eyes seem to shine a bit brighter once the sword is in your hands, slender fingers wrapping around the hilt like it is the most familiar thing in the world. Wonwoo cannot help but revisit an old memory as you touch the blade, almost reverently. He had been on the receiving end of that sword once, the cool metal drawing blood from underneath his skin. And he probably should feel a touch of apprehension now that you wield it once again, but strangely enough, there is no such emotion. Only respect, and wonder.

You promise Seungcheol something – he does not hear, too busy in his own loud thoughts – and the older man smiles gently. Belatedly, Wonwoo wonders what it is. Choi Seungcheol does not smile often, especially not with the events that have been happening as of late.

What he does not expect is for you to approach him, sword loose in your grasp. He tries to ascertain something, anything from your expression, but your poker face seems to be quite good. Finally, your lips break into a tiny smirk. Wonwoo’s heartbeat accelerates straight out of nowhere.

“What? Do not tell me you are frightened,” you say, a bit smug. “The blade is still sheathed.”

“That is a bold assumption you are making.”

“You seemed quite worried the last time this sword was pointed at you,” you continue. The wind whips your hair around, and you look viciously wild. It is a sight for sore eyes. “Afraid, even. Was that an assumption, too?”

There is challenge in your eyes. Wonwoo knows that this is effectively the equivalent of playing with fire, but he figures he still has space. It has not burned him yet.

“If it is a duel you wish for, then a duel you will get,” he says, lowly, “but it is in your best interest to wait until you are fully healed. That way you will at least have a fighting chance.”

You scoff, affronted. “Oh, my. These are the words of a man with severely misplaced confidence.”

He returns your inflamed glare. “And the delusion of a woman who stands on her own imbalanced pedestal.”

The air is charged, suddenly. Wonwoo fights the urge to look away and avoid the intensity in your eyes that he just cannot ignore. Eventually, he folds, turning away to clear his throat.

“At least make yourself useful and accompany Jeonghan and Mingyu when they go to hunt,” he retaliates, though it comes out with a little less bite than he originally intended. You only roll your eyes at him before you walk away, loosely braided hair swinging lightly amidst the breeze.

The days pass as they always do, for the most part. Wonwoo is no stranger to routine, and rarely does he find it monotonous. It grounds him, until you come in like a typhoon and leave his brain in a muddled wreck. But he lets it be, for his own sake. Admitting that your aftermath is not as ruinous as it seems feels like a sort of betrayal to the life he has always known. And so he lives with it, warring emotions brewing in his chest. He trains with Jeonghan, teaches Chan how to fight, and the sun keeps on rising.

Good things often arrive with pomp and circumstance, while unfortunate events tend to creep up silently and pounce when you least expect it. It is quite a sunny day, and Wonwoo finds himself feeling more at ease than usual. The tall grass brushes against his knees as he takes his steps, very silently.

And of course, there you are, close behind him. He had not originally intended on bringing you into the forest to hunt with him today, but Mingyu had accompanied his wife to the market, and Jeonghan had insisted on taking an off day. Reluctantly, and upon Seungcheol’s wish, he had asked you to come along.

From his side, you suddenly nock an arrow. Wonwoo pauses for a second to take the sight in – your sword suits you, but you handle the bow so elegantly, the wood smooth beneath your fingers. You close an eye, pulling the string back, and he snaps back to his senses.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, quietly.

“Shh,” comes your reply. “If you end up scaring our lunch away, I will not forgive you.”

Wonwoo searches the foliage for any sign of life, but comes up blank. “What are you even aiming at?” he questions, squinting. “At this rate, we will not have lunch at all.”

You smile then – a sly, knowing thing – and release the arrow. It hits something between the leaves, and the unmistakably distressed crow of a pheasant follows not soon after.

“See?” you tell him, wearing that smirk he detests. “Lunch.”

“Luck,” Wonwoo corrects. Still, he follows along, somewhat astonished. He had not seen anything; not a single movement or flash of color. He wonders if this, too, will remain a mystery.

The way you move through the forest is awfully reminiscent. You slip around the thick bushes and the tall grass, weaving between the trees easily. A part of his heart burns at this. The forest is his realm, not yours, but you have adapted quite seamlessly.

The alarm bells begin to go off in Wonwoo’s head when you are not too far from the house, just skirting the edge of the woods. He tilts his head, listening carefully, before turning to you. To his surprise, you look equally concerned.

“Do you hear that, too?”

“Yes,” you confirm. The sound of hoofbeats on dirt roads grows louder, as does the unease in his chest. He exchanges one troubled glance with you and breaks into a sprint with you following right on his heels.

The very first thing that Wonwoo sees is Seungcheol, standing with his arms folded. A fearsome glower sits on his face, and he is saying something, but Wonwoo cannot quite make the words out. Chan stands behind him, mouth set in a deep frown.

You gasp, suddenly. Wonwoo feels a tug on the edge of his robes, and his eyes trail down to see your fingers clutching the soft fabric.

“Palace soldiers,” you whisper, nodding towards the house. There are at least twenty, if not more. They have not drawn their weapons just yet, but even from this distance the tension in the air is palpable.

“We should go see what this is about,” Wonwoo urges. But you do not move, still crouching beneath the wisps of tall grass.

“I already know what this is about,” you tell him. Your voice is firm, but it’s the look on your face that gives you away. For the first time, Wonwoo sees a sliver of fear in your eyes, and the memories that seem to haunt you by night. “I cannot lose Hansol, too.”

Wonwoo’s heart clenches, and he briefly thinks of Wonjae. “You will not.”

“You do not know that!”

“You will not,” he repeats, insistent this time. “Hansol will be alright. We will go down and see what they want, and hopefully it is something we can reason with them about.”

He almost thinks it won’t work, but you stand finally, still uncertain. You just shake your head, mumbling something under your breath he doesn’t quite catch, but he does not pry any further.

Wonwoo hears your sharp inhale as you approach the scene, and feels a sudden pang of sympathy. He had not thought about how it would feel to be confronted by the very men you had worked alongside with, maybe even the same men who had fought for you, who had ended up turning on you in the very end. You could dissolve into enraged fury here and now, and he would understand.

“What is going on here?” he demands. The others have come out, too, and you make a beeline for the house, presumably trying to find Hansol.

“I do not know,” Seungcheol says quietly. “They have not told us anything.”

Wonwoo does not have any more arrows in his quiver, but he is hyper aware of the daggers he always keeps strapped to his belt. He scans the surroundings; the men have arranged themselves into a half-circle, surrounding them and effectively blocking off any possible escape routes.

From behind him, he hears your panicked voice. “Where is Hansol?!” you ask, desperate, but all Jeonghan can say is that he does not know. The distress in your question is all too familiar, takes him back to a time that had left him desolate and alone.

One of the soldiers shifts, eyebrows raised. He draws his sword, and instinctively, Seungcheol takes a step back.

“You,” he says coldly. It takes Wonwoo a few seconds to realize where exactly the blade is pointing. “It seems we have finally found the traitor.”

“That is bold of you to say. I am not the one who turned my back on those who were loyal to me,” you declare. “By that logic, Lee Muyeol is as much of a traitor as I am.”

One of the foot soldiers steps forward menacingly, and immediately Jeonghan’s hand goes to his sword. The man that had spoken earlier – presumably the captain, due to his robes – just chuckles lazily.

“Do not think we are unaware of who you are. You could be easily thrown into prison,” he says. It is the world’s most diplomatic threat. Wonwoo feels the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “But you are merely country bumpkins, and the second prince has never found much trouble dealing with you lot. Give us the girl, and you live.”

“Only I choose where I go. And I go where I please,” you reply coolly, stepping forward. Wonwoo shoots you a look, wonders if this is another one of those situations where your stubbornness is getting the better of you while he prays that it isn’t.

The captain laughs mirthlessly. “His Highness was certainly right about you. What a foolish decision, indeed, to employ a woman. And one with such a foul mouth as yours, at that.”

Wonwoo isn’t sure what exactly it is that makes him reach for his knives, but his fingers pull at his belt in an attempt to arm himself. The soldier in front of him already has his sword out, though, and before he knows it he’s dodging a well-time slash.

This is the exact moment he will remember as when all hell breaks loose.

Someone charges Seungcheol at full speed – a terrible idea, Wonwoo thinks, to attempt and tackle a man of that stature and build. Jeonghan has already drawn the first blood, deep red splattering all over the light blue robes he had chosen for the day, and Chan quickly follows suit.

You do not have a weapon in hand, but you deliver a strong kick to the gut followed by an elbow to the face that had to have hurt like hell. Wonwoo makes it a point to ask when you were trained in martial arts later.

Both of the soldiers that are on him are significantly taller, and stronger. He feels a sharp sting blossoming at the side of his cheek and doesn’t register the slow trickle of blood down to his jaw until later, instead driving one of his knives deep into a collarbone. The man lets out a pained groan, but he stays on his feet nonetheless.

Wonwoo almost uses his other dagger, almost. But for just a split moment, something stops him, and his hand hesitates. A mistake, for it buys his assailant time to pick up his sword that clattered to the ground sometime earlier.

Thwack!

The man freezes, eyes wide as an arrow pierces his chest. A patch of red blooms on his robes as he slowly falls to the ground. Wonwoo just blinks down at him, breathing heavily at the close call. Where did it come from?

The markings on the arrow look oddly familiar. The fletching is unmistakably Mingyu’s handiwork, recently made. Wonwoo glances behind him, scanning the rocky terrain, and sees a flash of movement, red cloth darting behind a tree. Slowly, he smiles to himself.

Hansol.

Another arrow comes just as quick as the last one, felling the second soldier faster than Wonwoo can retrieve his knife. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jeonghan toss you your sword, and you catch it with a practiced ease, slashing it at another soldier in one fluid motion.

Wonwoo wonders if you should really be out here, considering your bad leg, but he supposes an extra layer of protection in the form of Hansol raining down arrows couldn’t hurt.

Somewhere, something is burning. Wonwoo can smell the crackling at the same time he eats a punch and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He loses his footing and stumbles into a tree, rolling over as he narrowly dodges a stab and the blade lodges itself into the trunk.

In the distance, he can hear someone yelling his name. Faintly, like he’s in a world of his own. That familiar buzzing grows louder again, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop it from rendering him absolutely immobile. This is the part he dreads, more than anything else. Once again, he wonders what Mingyu would do in his place, the kind of man Seungcheol would expect him to fight like. Even worse, the kind of person you might hate him for being.

“Wonwoo!”

Smoke billows into the air, and he barely manages to sidestep another blow. Without hesitating, he throws a dagger with all the precision in the world, and you whirl in out of nowhere, following up at the last second with a single powerful strike.

“Thank you,” he gasps, feeling every molecule of air in his lungs, “I am sorry, I–”

“No apologies,” you say firmly. Your cheek is bruised, lip split – blood is smeared across your face and stains your fingers as you yank his knife from another not yet dead body. Fearless as you are, as Wonwoo wishes he was. He wonders if this is what the goddess of war incarnate looks like.

“Behind you,” he calls out instead. You do not even bother to look as you sink your blade into the soldier’s abdomen, drawing it out as quickly as you had struck.

“Good call,” you tell him. He feels like his stomach might flip.

Wonwoo’s vision clears a little bit, head still spinning. The soldiers seem to be retreating, at least those who are still alive or somewhat injured; the last few are hasty to mount their horses, riding away in a frenzy. Smoke catches in his throat – why is there smoke?

“The house,” he croaks out, coughing violently. “The roof, it’s on fire.”

“I know,” you say, “A part of it caved, but nobody was inside. Chan is putting it out.” Then you frown, a particularly worried expression. “Wonwoo, what happened? Are you alright?”

“Nothing. Yes.” Wonwoo coughs again, clearing his throat, and tries to bring himself to his feet. “Where is Seungcheol? Is everyone okay?”

He lets you pull him up, against his better judgement. Aside from the fact that he can feel every wounded part of his leg, he is suddenly reminded again of the surprising coolness of your touch. True to your words, half of the roof is sunken in, the wood black and burnt – but it is nothing that is not fixable, if he and Mingyu have at it for an hour or two. Otherwise, he is satisfied to see there is no other damage to the house, and thankful that Hayun had not been inside.

He watches as Hansol emerges from his spot, perched on top of a boulder on the hill. You gasp, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Do not ever disappear on me again,” you say, sternly. “I thought they had found you.”

“No, I am sorry,” he shakes his head, bashful. “I should have fought with you. But I did not have any other weapons, and I was not sure what to do. I thought I could be more useful from a hidden spot.”

“You should not be sorry,” Wonwoo cuts in, “I cannot tell you how many times you nearly saved my life down here. You have excellent aim.”

Hansol takes the compliment with slightly red cheeks and a mumbled thanks under his breath. Wonwoo notices how you lean on him for support as you walk, wincing when you put more weight on your injured leg.

In the distance, Jeonghan and Seungcheol sit together, propped up against the fence. No – Wonwoo squints a little – Seungcheol is propping him up, one arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders and his other hand pressed against his torso. Chan stands above him, speaking frantically.

That cannot be right, he thinks, trying to shake off the dire feeling on his shoulders.

It is not until he gets closer that he realizes Jeonghan barely has his eyes open, lashes fluttering as he rests his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder. To Wonwoo’s complete horror, he understands that it is the deep red of blood that soils Seungcheol’s fingers where they rest over Jeonghan’s robes.

He feels you balk slightly beside him, and that is all the confirmation he needs.

The tears that have caught on Seungcheol’s lashes are unmistakable. Jeonghan himself sports a wry smile, and he has never been a better embodiment of the irony of life than in this moment. There is a small cut just below his eye, and it is clear just how much strength it pulls from him to take each precarious breath.

Wonwoo barely feels anything as his knees hit the ground. He does not know what to say, where to put his hands; he had not been given any time to prepare for what to do as he watches a dear friend breathe his last.

“What happened?” he manages, finally.

Seungcheol shakes his head, starts to say something but none of it comes out intelligible. Wonwoo swallows down his next question, sharp and prickly as it goes down his throat, and carefully takes Jeonghan’s outstretched hand in his instead.

“You promised,” Seungcheol says, clearly this time. But his voice still wobbles, thick with despair. “Before we started all this, remember? I made you swear never to take a blade for me. You promised, Jeonghan.”

The latter only smiles. “Do not be so dramatic,” he rasps weakly. “I did what had to be done.”

Jeonghan’s nonchalance never fails to pull a laugh out of everyone, but this one comes out half like an amused snort, and half like a sob. His fingers tighten just a little around Wonwoo’s, and he holds onto him like he’ll slip away if he doesn’t.

Every memory comes rushing back — each morning he had turned down going to hunt together, all the times he went to bed early saying he was too tired to train. Now he’s stuck wringing out all the time he could have had with him, collecting every precious second.

It’s a wrecking thought, the if only I had known.

Wonwoo slips back into the present at the quiet call of his name.

“Hyung,” he answers, softly. He waits for something, anything more — but no words come. Another laborious breath rattles through Jeonghan’s lungs. Seungcheol presses his face into his dear friend’s hair to hide his expression, but he is not fooling anybody.

In this moment, Wonwoo is not sure of anything. He does not even know where his tears end and the blood begins to pool beneath him. But he feels exactly the moment Jeonghan breathes his last, his fingers losing their grasp on his own hand.

Seungcheol knows it, too, lets the sobs finally wrack through his body. He had not wanted Jeonghan’s last moments to be filled with unpleasant memories, but he is left picking up all of the pieces.

A soft thud interrupts the moment. Mingyu is at the gate, Hayun at his side. Shock is written all over their faces and in the basket that rolls onto the ground.

Mingyu’s eyes are questioning. They have always been able to communicate like this, and right now Wonwoo knows exactly what he is asking. Suddenly, and selfishly, he wishes it was not possible.

He has to shake his head. No.

Jeonghan’s hand is still warm in his. A terrible trick by the universe, he thinks, to rip him away from the earth so cruelly. Bring him back, he wants to shout, but he knows it will not change a thing. It is all out of his hands.

Wonwoo lets another heavy tear fall onto his friend’s lifeless skin, and prays that Jeonghan’s final seven minutes are as happy as he deserves.

The weeks that follow are full of solemnity. Everyone carries a particular kind of guilt, balancing it precariously between their shoulders.

Nobody fixes the roof. It is the least of their worries, and you know this. If anything, it is a reminder – a memorial of sorts. You avoid looking at it, so that you are spared from the recollection of that day’s events.

It is a strange thing, grief. You had not known many things about Yoon Jeonghan; and yet you find yourself mourning him in the pockets of stray minutes you find in the day. Your guilt is different from the others – if the soldiers had killed you in the forest that day, he would be alive still. The universe has a cruel way of keeping balance.

Seungcheol, for one, carries himself like a ghost. You cannot get it out of your head, the way he had sat by Jeonghan’s body for hours and hours afterwards, as if his pleas would magically wake him again. He had seemed hollow, even as he placed the magnolia flowers Jeonghan had adored so much on top of his grave.

Wonwoo barely speaks at all. But where Seungcheol is a blank slate, he is a muddled canvas. You had once thought him emotionless, cold – oh, how wrong you had been. Sorrow hangs from every sharp corner of his body where it does not leave his mouth in the form of words, rolling off his shoulders and crashing against his calves. In his eyes lies an anguish you recognize all too well. An identical one rests somewhere, deep in your heart, and has for years.

Where the others fold in on themselves, Hayun unfurls. She tells you stories; of Jeonghan’s antics when he was younger, of Mingyu when they had known each other as children, and many more. It feels like a revival, and you listen intently as you help her with errands, wanting the full picture.

Occasionally, Wonwoo is already there when you walk in, ready to assist. He does not say much while Hayun talks, but the look he has always given you has changed. It is not so coarse now, smoother round the edges, and significantly less malicious.

Observant as ever, as he has always been.

The air is always thick with settled misery, and you find it difficult to fall asleep at night. Your nightmares wake you, and they are the exact same every time. It is always dark, always empty – you reach out, but for what you do not know. There is nothing there, and you always fall deeper into a black hole that seems to extend infinitely all around you.

Every time, you wake with a gasp. Hansol is always peacefully asleep beside you, dead to the world. You never manage to stay in bed through the sunrise. More than anything else, you wonder why your brother does not appear in your dreams any longer. It is your own personal distress, albeit silly. He is not even real anymore, but you take his sudden silence as desertion.

One day, you find a crumpled piece of paper fallen just behind a shelf. You pick it up to toss it out, but your curiosity gets the better of you at the last minute, and you unfold it carefully.

It is a simple sketch. Not one you have seen before, but after hours of observation, you would recognize the hand that drew this anywhere. The frustrated scribbles in a corner and light retracings are a dead giveaway.

There are footsteps behind you. You do not need to look to know that it is Wonwoo. Belatedly, you wonder when you learned what his presence feels like.

He nods, towards the paper. “What is that?”

You pass it to him. Like you, he recognizes it instantly. The first sound of amusement in weeks leaves his throat, a little snort.

“So very Jeonghan,” he says. You know exactly what he means.

Wonwoo’s eyes are subtly red and puffy. This you had seen not so long ago; you will never forget the way he had wept over Jeonghan’s body, tears streaming down his cheeks relentlessly. It was a sight you did not want to witness again, ever. Just being there had put your own heart in serious danger of cracking, if only a little.

Are you alright? The question almost slips from your mouth. But you already know the answer, so you just hold your tongue.

“Did you need something?” you ask instead.

“No.” Wonwoo shakes his head a bit, a habit you’ve noticed he’s developed to toss the hair away from his forehead. “Hansol wanted to spar a little. Thought it would take my mind off of things.”

You smile to yourself. Hansol had always been this way, knowing just the right thing to do. “And did it?”

Wonwoo thinks about it, tongues his cheek before nodding. You take in his figure – this tall, broad man rooted in hesitation in front of you. The cut on his cheek has healed well, you notice, leaving a scab behind. The bruise on his jaw is not yet gone, but the discoloration should dissipate within a few more days.

The moment hangs, suspended in the air. Neither of you move, but nobody says anything either. You watch him weighing his uncertainty, eyes shifting from the wall to the floor and back to the wall again. The awkwardness only grows by the second.

Wonwoo breaks the silence first. “How did you go on?”

“What?”

“After Seungkwan,” he clarifies. You wonder at how he says his name with a particular sort of reverence that has your chest warming at an inhumane level. “After the letter.”

“I did not have a choice,” you tell him, ruefully. “I have always been fighting, always running. It never stops. Seungkwan knew that, too. If I had given up, I am convinced he would have come back as a spirit to haunt me.”

The corner of Wonwoo’s mouth lifts slightly at your attempt at a joke. As the days blur past, you have come to collect those little smiles and pocket them away. Those rare moments have become tiny fragments you choose to cherish in your masked silence.

“There are so many regrets,” he confesses suddenly. “So many things I wish I had not said, or done. So many times we fought over such stupid things. It all comes back now.”

“It always does. But you cannot change the past.”

It had for you, too – but you suppose it must have been infinitely worse for Wonwoo, who had held Jeonghan’s hand as he drew his last breaths. You had, at least, been spared the agony of watching Seungkwan die. The realization sparks a newfound ache in your heart for all that Seokmin had to go through alone.

Wonwoo’s mouth opens again, and you subconsciously hang onto his next words. It is unexplainable how he sparks your curiosity, your intrigue, snagging your attention at every turn. Somehow you had each already begun to unravel yourselves to the other, whether you knew it or not.

“I must tell you something,” he starts. You nod, gesturing for him to go on. “Seungcheol has been planning something. Not just a resistance – a movement, for change. Something this country has not seen for many years.”

“That is good,” you agree, unsure where this is going.

“We are working with allies, small groups all over the country. It is all coordinated; we will reach the soldiers before they find us,” Wonwoo continues, determined. “We must remove Lee Muyeol from power for good. The people cannot continue to live like this. We are fortunate enough to be able to mostly live off the land, but thousands are left starving. It will not do. Even the young prince would be more just, more caring than his puppet ruler of a father.”

It dawns on you, slowly. “Jeon Wonwoo, are you asking me to help you stage a coup?”

He winces slightly. “It sounds horrible when you put it like that.”

“Alright, then. You are trying to oust the king’s brother from power, effectively also putting a dent in the king’s reign itself.”

“Infinitely worse, for sure.” He chuckles, then, a bit of mirth slipping into his eyes before he grows serious again. “I do not expect you to agree. But I want you to know that you have this choice before you, if you choose to take it.”

You fidget with your fingertips, weighing it in your mind, because you know that after all is said and done, Wonwoo is correct. Your own family had fallen victim to the violence that had erupted after food became a scarcity in the north, and it had torn your childhood apart. Suddenly you think of everyone you have lost – Seungkwan, Jeonghan, your brother whose face you cannot recall. A certain indignance rises to your throat at the very thought.

“You do not have to answer now,” Wonwoo repeats, and he turns to go. But you have already made up your mind in the time it takes him to reach the doorway.

“Wait!” you call out. “Wonwoo, wait. I want in.”

“What?”

You raise your eyebrows. “You should not ask questions if you are not prepared to hear the answer.”

“I heard you,” he confirms, voice gravelly. “But… you are sure?”

“Yes.” You fold your arms. “Why? You do not think I can hold my own?”

“What? Of course I do.” Wonwoo’s eyes soften, just a little, though his tone retains some of the attitude he always seems to have on standby while speaking to you. “I have watched you kill a man with no hesitation in one single blow. Do you think I am stupid, blind, or both?”

“I do not believe you would want me to answer that question,” you say sagely. You succeed in drawing an exasperated half-smile out of him again, and a part of you wonders why you enjoy it so much.

Wonwoo catches your gaze mid-chuckle. You cannot look away, and there is that inevitable pull again, the one that always leaves you a confused mess. A voice inside your head is screaming at you to tear your eyes off of his, but you do not, refusing to be the one to break first.

“We will discuss this more with Seungcheol. After dinner,” he says, at last. “Meet us outside. Do not be late.”

Wonwoo has begun to wonder if this is not as good of an idea as he originally thought.

You and Seungcheol frown at each other, clearly in a standoff. Wonwoo has been keeping time; the two of you have been arguing about the best route to the capital for the past twenty-four minutes, and he does not know how much longer he can listen to this.

“Following the river gives us the best chance at survival,” you point out, tapping the map that is spread out on the table. “I do not see what else is up for discussion.”

“It also makes us easier to follow and find. Do you want to get caught before even reaching the city?”

Wonwoo groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. No progress has been made at all – in fact, he thinks you’ve all taken quite a few steps in the opposite direction.

“Alright, hold on. We cannot take a total detour. That will waste too much time, and we will still be at risk of getting caught early. However,” he continues, even though Seungcheol is currently glaring daggers at him, “We cannot risk going along the river the whole way. Remember, we must travel on foot.”

“An amazing idea,” you mutter, arms folded.

Wonwoo ignores you and traces along a separate route with his finger, dragging it up and eastwards. This path dances along the riverbank before sharply moving out, staying concealed while making the most distance in the interest of time.

“This might be better,” he says. “Or if we set off towards the western mountains before swinging back. That could work, too.”

“I will think about it,” Seungcheol grumbles. You just shake your head indignantly. That, in itself, is a peace offering in his book. Wonwoo doesn’t complain and takes what he can get.

Time passes like this; slow, but grueling. Every second seems to weigh on his bones, shackles on his wrists and ankles. He does his best to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach and soldier on.

He visits Jeonghan every day without fail. Never at the same time as Seungcheol, who makes his visits in the morning – he goes at night, armored by the breeze. It is not much work, for they had buried him over the hill, under the magnolia tree he had loved so much. Sometimes when the wind blows through the branches, it is as if Jeonghan’s voice carries through the wind.

Wonwoo sits, knees hitting the dirt. The sun is low over the hill, flickering as it slowly sets.

“Well,” he starts. “At least Y/N and Seungcheol have stopped fighting now.”

He can almost hear Jeonghan’s response in his mind. The man would have had some witty comment ready, a clever response always at the tip of his tongue.

“We leave in a few days. Just the three of us. Mingyu did not speak to me for a week when I told him he was to stay back with Hayun and the others.” He presses his palm against the soil, remembers what it had felt like to hold Jeonghan’s hand for the last time. “But I do not think he is well enough for this journey, still. I know you would have agreed.”

Wonwoo has developed a habit of pausing between sentences. He does not know why. It is no longer a conversation, just a monologue that Jeonghan will never actually get to hear.

“I wish you were here,” he says finally, throat thick with a feeling he does not really want to name.

There are always many things he catalogues during the day, little tidbits of information he would have told Jeonghan immediately. A new family of rabbits up the hill, or a particularly pretty patch of wildflowers in the woods. But none of it ever matters, really, by the time he sits in front of the lonely headstone again. All of those words disappear again.

It all boils down to this. I miss you. I wish you were still here. Come back. Who am I supposed to tell about the birds when you are no longer with me?

It does not matter. The birds keep chirping, and the world goes on. Quietly, in its own way. The trees and the flowers will not remember Yoon Jeonghan the way Wonwoo does, sharp and playful and gently prickly in all of the right places.

Sometimes, you are there too. You always leave as he arrives, and Wonwoo used to wonder bitterly why you even bothered to come, but he thinks he understands now. Rather, he basks in your presence, knowing that under your rough exterior there is a woman who understands how it feels to constantly grieve.

He even asks you to come with him, the morning of your departure. It is still hours to sunrise, and he would be a little surprised that you are awake, if he did not already know that you’ve always had trouble sleeping. You look a little tired, and a little taken aback by his request, but you follow him anyway, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes.

The silence is thick. He can sense that you are waiting for him to speak first, but he does not feel any pressure. Only patience.

“He was everything I had ever hoped to be,” Wonwoo says quietly, when his mind settles. You give him an odd look.

“You do not need to be Jeonghan,” you tell him. “Just you.”

“I looked up to him. I learned from him.” He clenches his fist, dirt crumbling beneath his fingers. “Chan deserves to have somebody like that, too.”

You meet his broken gaze. “And he already does.”

Wonwoo cannot seem to get enough of that look in your eyes. Sharp, but earnest. A rare thing, and so he tries to preserve every last second and archive it away in some safe corner of his mind. He commits the rise and fall of your shoulders to memory, filing away the soft curve of your lips for a later thought.

The goodbyes are quick, though Wonwoo does not like to call them that. He lets Mingyu hug him, warm hand patting his shoulder, and reaches out to ruffle Chan’s messy hair affectionately.

“I still wish you would let me come with you, hyung,” the younger grumbles, leaning into the embrace. “I can fight, too.”

“I know you can,” Seungcheol soothes him. “But that is why we need you here, in case they come again. You are more than capable.”

Hansol sighs to himself, but Wonwoo catches it anyway. He feels the same way as Chan, burned by the guilt of being told to stay back instead of fighting a battle he was complicit in. But you had told him it would be all right, and promised to return safely. Wonwoo himself made no such promises, and nobody had asked it of him. He knows better than to swear things he will not have control over. Your optimism sends a twinge of sadness to his soul.

He turns to Mingyu, who looks on with an unreadable expression, fingers gently intertwined with Hayun’s. “I hope you are not still upset with me,” he says gingerly.

“I could not ever stay upset with you.” Mingyu’s eyes are shiny, threatening to spill the tears. “Not at a time like this.”

Wonwoo knows what he means. This may well be the last time they speak. There is no telling what will happen at the capital, and who will come back alive. He wants to tell Mingyu not to worry, but the words don’t come, just an understanding nod. Between them, nothing more needs to be said.

The first hints of light begin to peek out as the three of you set off. The dawn emboldens Wonwoo, as it always has. He carries the small satchel of food Hayun had meticulously packed over his shoulder, tying the ends across his torso so he can move hands-free. Seungcheol has the map, currently unfolded in his hands, and you follow with a compass, darting between the trees silently.

None of you speak much – a given, for this sort of journey. Wonwoo trudges on quietly, occasionally mumbling a heads up for you when there is a loose rock or a particularly large root. He waits, always, for your quiet thanks to make its way back to his ears.

He does not dare look back. Not when the sunlight filters through the forest canopy at just the right angle and sets you alight. You are already bright, a blazing force. Wonwoo does not believe himself strong enough a man to behold you in all your illuminated glory. His already grieving heart hurts a little more at the sight of your brilliant eyes.

Instead, he keeps his eyes forward, takes in all the green around him. The forest revives him with every step, every gentle brush of his fingers against a tall blade of grass. Just for now, it allows him to forget – the blood, the blade, the battle. In this moment, there is no war; just the creeping vines and sturdy larch trees that have always been there, and will always be.

“Do you hear that?” you murmur softly. Wonwoo tilts his head, listens carefully. He can just barely make out the sound of a lively current, water splashing onto the stony bank. Seungcheol notices it, too, checking the map again.

“We are making good progress,” he says, satisfied. “This should not take us more than three or four days, give or take. We should arrive at the same time as the others.”

Wonwoo nods, knows exactly what others Seungcheol is talking about. People just like them, who had suffered the same things but worse, and decided to do something about it. Young men and women who had lost families and a means to put food on the table, who had not been as fortunate as they had. Those from the southeast, far from the woodland vegetation, would have had it the hardest.

Seungcheol turns, then, saying it is a good time to stop and eat. You make a beeline for the river eagerly, and Wonwoo follows along, light on his feet the whole way through.

The grass becomes sparser the closer he gets, giving way to rocky ground. The river runs fast, the current swirling up and crashing against the boulders studded alongside it. It is a beautiful sight, for sure, but Wonwoo is distracted by you gently dipping your fingers into the water and basking in the coolness.

“What are you standing there for?” you ask without turning. Faintly, he wonders how you knew he was there, but he approaches you still.

“You seem to enjoy the water,” he observes. You smile, lightly reminiscent.

“Well, I am from the north. Very landlocked,” you say. “I only visited the coast once, when I was a child. I barely remember it. But I do know that the current is a wondrous thing, as alluring as it is dangerous.”

Wonwoo has to bite back the words on his tongue, the ones that want to say that that is exactly how he would describe you. His downfall, his double-edged sword. But he would never say it out loud, knowing what he is to you.

Which begs the question – what is he to you? Not a friend just yet, not a captor anymore. Just someone to fight alongside with, just another person. Just Wonwoo.

Just you, you had told him earlier that morning. It warms him, from the inside. He has not forgotten at all.

Instead, he takes a seat on one of the large boulders beside you, rummaging through the satchel for a flask and something to eat. “Are you hungry?”

“Not particularly,” you shake your head. “But I would not say no to some water.”

He passes you the flask, as well as a small package. “You need to eat,” he says. “Seungcheol says we will not stop until sunset.”

Wonwoo watches you drink, sweat trickling down the column of your throat and pooling at the base of your neck, then looks away sharply. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel, to see you like this – so resplendent as you simply just exist in the world around you.

“Will you visit home again soon?” he asks instead. “You know, after…”

He knows you don’t need him to finish the sentence, the latter half left unsaid. You think about it, popping a slice of dried persimmon in your mouth.

“After,” you agree, swallowing. “I must. It has been too long since I have seen my sisters. Too dangerous, to go there again. I do not want to place a target on their backs.” Your eyelashes sweep your skin as you lower your eyes to the ground. “My presence has already caused two casualties. There cannot be more.”

Wonwoo’s heart aches. He had wanted so badly to blame you in the days following Jeonghan’s death, trying to find somewhere to place the anger in his chest. But he could not, in good conscience, hold you accountable for it.

“It was not your fault,” he says quietly.

“You do not need to say that. I openly blamed you for Seungkwan’s death, and this is the same thing.” A singular tear falls from the corner of your eye into the river below. Wonwoo looks away, to give you some semblance of privacy.

“I did not take offense when you said it.”

“You should have.” Your voice is thick with guilt. “I would have, if I were you. I was so cruel.”

“It is alright, ” Wonwoo says. “I understand.”

You look at him ruefully. “I understand, too.”

The two of you sit like that, side by side, basking in the gentle sunlight. Wonwoo looks on as you remove your boots, dipping your legs into the water. A tiny giggle escapes your throat as you watch the colorful fish that dart around, weaving between the reeds. It is a new sound. He tries his best to memorize it, while he can.

The moment does not last. The reverie is interrupted by Seungcheol’s voice calling out for you, and Wonwoo knows that it is time to keep moving. He packs up his satchel again, standing as you dry off your feet, and offers his hand to help you up the rocky slope once your boots are back on. You eye it warily for a few seconds before taking it, careful with your steps.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Wonwoo waits for you to let go of him first, the feeling lingering on his fingers. He turns to go, but you pass him the last dried persimmon slice, stopping him in his tracks.

“I did not poison it, if that is why you were hesitating,” you add, before softening a bit. “You did not eat earlier, either.”

Wonwoo can’t find the words to reply just yet. Instead he huffs a little laugh, accepting it graciously. The fruit is chewy and honeyed, but it sits on his tongue just a touch sweeter than he remembers. Whether that is real or his mind’s own doing, he does not know.

Emptiness, again. But it is warm this time, strangely familiar. You stretch your arms out around you, but there is still nothing.

Ah. There you are.

Immediately you relax, relief rushing through your body. What took you so long?

Patience, little tiger. An affectionate laugh, one you recognize all too well. It simply was not the time.

I thought you had gone. For good.

There is no response. Just that familiar tenderness curling itself around you and lifting you up. To where, you do not know. You cannot see anything above you, nor below. It is dark, everywhere.

Remember this, sister. When the truth shows itself, it will never do you good to hide from it.

What does that even mean? You nearly ask the question, but everything begins to spin relentlessly. Your vision blurs – not that there's anything for you to see – and the sheer pressure of it all forces you to tear your eyes open.

You are met directly with an unobstructed view of Wonwoo’s face. Even in sleep, he is rather beautiful. The soft dawn’s glow rests gentle on the slope of his face, leaving his sharp features illuminated. You sit up slowly, shivering when the cool wind hits your face.

This is not new to you. There had been many nights where you had slept beside Seokmin and Seungkwan, on all of those assignments you carried out over the years. Hell, you had even shared the floor with Hansol for the past month or so.

But this is different. You have to fight the urge to observe him closer, taking in the curl of his lashes and the mole that sits beneath his right eye. It is magnetic, and unsettling.

The dream has left you restless. You get to your feet quietly, to avoid waking the others, and duck out of the tent. Seungcheol had said it would be best to leave at dawn, but you had not felt like waking them just yet. They will be up sooner or later, you think, stretching.

You take the time to walk around a bit, taking note of the plants and flowers that are so different from the ones back home. The newness of it all is scintillating. The northern regions are dry, and unwelcoming to both flora and fauna alike. But here they flourish, reflecting bright colors into the surrounding forest. You think about another timeline where your adolescent years might have been filled with this kind of wonder, instead of the smell of burning wood and blood.

The seconds move on their own. You do not know exactly how much time has passed by, just that the sun is a bit stronger now, and you can feel the heat on your back.

A sudden call of your name has you flinching out of surprise. It is muffled by the thick forest, but it comes again, closer this time. Instinctively your hand goes to your belt, but you realize that you have left all of your weapons inside the tent.

There is a loud rustling behind you. You turn sharply, and a few twigs snap. Wonwoo emerges from the leaves, all wide-eyed and panicked. He just stares at you for a few seconds, chest heaving like he had been running.

You blink at him, confused. “... Good morning?”

“You are alright,” he breathes, fingers gripping one of his knives so tight his knuckles go white. It is more of a confirmation to himself than a question. He scans you, like he is checking for any sign of injury. “You disappeared. We did not know where you had gone.”

You arch a brow at him. “Are you okay?”

Wonwoo lets out a painstaking breath. His shoulders shake with relief, and something else. “I fall asleep with you next to me, and when I wake up, you are nowhere to be seen. Do you see the problem here?”

“No, because I am completely fine,” you explain, suddenly provoked. “I just wanted to walk a bit, stretch my legs.”

“How am I supposed to know that if it looks like you have simply vanished?” He folds his arms, jaw tight. “Did it not strike you to wake one of us up if you were going to stray so far?”

“It was not far,” you shoot back crossly. Your surprise is slowly beginning to morph into a specific frustration that only seems to rear its ugly head in front of Wonwoo. “If you did not think I could last twenty minutes by myself, you should not have asked me to come with you.”

Wonwoo frowns deeply. “That is not what I meant.”

“It sounds exactly like it.” You raise your chin, feeling challenged, and take a bold step forward. The ball has been tossed back to your side of the court, and the burning flame in Wonwoo’s eyes only feeds your temper. “I should have known you were the kind of man who underestimates everyone’s capabilities, except your own.”

The words come out much harsher than you intend, and it surprises even yourself. You see it as the sentence leaves your mouth, the flash of hurt in Wonwoo’s sharp, angled eyes. It’s gone before you can truly register it, replaced by something more intense than vexation that you cannot place.

“We are supposed to look after each other,” Wonwoo says, harshly. Yet there is a strange softness in his expression that you would have almost missed if you weren’t paying such close attention. “Your safety is a part of my responsibility.”

“My safety is my own responsibility,” you retort. When had you gotten so close? The mere inches that lie between you and Wonwoo are charged with an anger that eventually pools out into something else, something much more perilous. Your tone picks up all the sarcasm in the world as you say, “Help me understand, Wonwoo. Why should you care so much?”

It all happens so fast, and yet the seconds feel slowed down. You do not know who moves first – you take another step, he leans into you – but the moment Wonwoo’s mouth meets yours, something clicks. His lips are slightly chapped, a consequence of long travel and the dehydration that follows it. You take the opportunity to swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, biting gently, and the groan that leaves his throat is music to your ears. It delights you, the way he seems to melt into your touch, and you kiss him back with matched fervor.

“Why should I care?” Wonwoo’s head dips to your jaw as he repeats your question. “You are a force of nature. The sun and the moon and the stars, all at once. I know you do not need protection. And still my heart seems to ache, when you are not safe.”

“Wonwoo,” you breathe, unable to form any other thoughts. Your fingers tighten even more around the soft cloth of his robes, tugging him closer.

“You are so strong, so clever – so sharp with the words you use. Infuriating, but equally captivating. And that,” he says, dragging his lips down the column of your throat, “is the most dangerous thing of all.”

It is dizzying, so much so that you barely register the tiny sound of satisfaction that escapes your throat. Embarrassing, in any other scenario.

But it is Wonwoo, holding your face with all the gentleness that had not been there just five minutes ago, and so it does not matter at all. Not even as you tilt your head to the side, his soft hair tickling your skin, allowing him room to press an almost reverent kiss to your collarbone. The feeling burns, but in a way that feels like you are floating.

Wonwoo’s eyes are unreadable when he finally looks up at you. The air is fraught; you open your mouth but nothing comes out. All the words are stuck in your throat as you try to hold onto the sensation of his mouth against yours. You probably look a mess, and so does he – but he is a work of art even now, hair mussed and lips slightly swollen, cheeks flushed under the morning sun.

In the distance, you hear your name again. This voice is different, a bit rougher. As if on instinct, you and Wonwoo separate like repelling magnets, immediately putting a few yards’ space between each other.

“Seungcheol,” he says, not looking away from you.

“We should go,” you add quietly. He nods, but you cannot let go of the comfort you had felt in his arms. A strange, new feeling. Did you want more of it? What do you want?

You do not get to finish that line of thought. Seungcheol stumbles in, nearly tripping on a large root and steadying himself with one hand on a tree trunk.

“There you are,” he says, frowning slightly. “Are you okay? You were not there when we woke up. We were worried.”

“Wonwoo is here. I am alright.” You dare to glance over at him, just for a second. He watches you like you are the moon that rises in his night. “I should have woken you both, I am sorry.”

“All that matters right now is that we are all alive and well.” Seungcheol shifts his eyes between you and Wonwoo. Suddenly you are aware of how close you two are standing, and how it must look. You discreetly shuffle backwards, heat rising to your cheeks.

Wonwoo clears his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “Shall we get going? We should have already left by now.”

Seungcheol nods. “We will need to stop at a safe house right outside the capital to regroup with the others. It should not be too long a journey left, if we make good distance.”

You glance up at the sky. The sun is already quite high, growing brighter with each passing minute. To reach the capital by nightfall, you have no choice but to leave now.

It is with an unsteady heart that you make your way back to the tent, chest heavy with the implications of everything that has just happened. You cannot rid your mind of the memory, Wonwoo’s touch setting your body alight. Somewhere along the line you had begun to find him enchanting rather than irritating, reluctant affection replacing the hatred you had harbored so long ago.

You watch him smile at something Seungcheol says, light hitting his features just right, and wonder at how he had once been the man you were set out to kill.

Between your thoughts, you try to ignore the way Wonwoo’s hands gently brush against yours, knuckles knocking against each other. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the same tension emanating off of his broad shoulders and bowed head. To say something now is to break the precious silence, and so both of you remain quiet.

Seungcheol hoists the supply bag over his shoulder and pulls out the map again. You press your palm against the ground, trying to memorize the sights and sounds, and set off further north.

To say that Wonwoo is losing his mind would be a violent understatement.

He had not known, really, what had possessed him in that moment. All he was thinking was you, you, you, as you had glared up at him fiercely with those eyes. It was a mixture of sheer relief at the sight of you, unharmed, and the utter tenderness that had risen into his chest that had set off his mind.

And you had kissed him back – he cannot forget how your fingers had tangled themselves into his hair, tugging gently. A part of him knew, he thinks, that that would happen. It had been evident in the way you had leaned into him, almost challenging him to do something. But he has never been the type of person to let himself hope on such high stakes; at least, not until now.

Seungcheol eyes him warily. “You look unwell. Did you not sleep enough?”

“I did,” Wonwoo mumbles, for lack of a better answer. He watches Seungcheol accept his response, before glancing back at you. The tension is palpable, and he only hopes the older man remains blissfully unaware of everything that had previously transpired.

“Well, I do hope you both are not at each other’s throats again. We cannot afford to have internal issues right now.”

Oh. That is how he chose to understand it. Wonwoo senses you stiffen behind him, bites back a quick retort about how he technically had been at your throat, and chooses to reply with a quiet hum of agreement. A few beats pass before he speaks again, only filled by the sounds of their quiet footsteps and the occasional songbirds’ chirping.

“What about you, hyung?”

Seungcheol gives a weak half-smile. “I am still walking,” he says. “Still moving, as always. There is no path but forward.”

Wonwoo knows he is not talking about their current journey. He had not spoken to Seungcheol much after they had buried Jeonghan. The older man had often preferred his solitude since then, shutting himself inside his room or throwing himself into busywork. Seungcheol has never been the kind of person to unburden himself unprompted. Wonwoo will never truly know if he does not ask.

“Is it any better?”

Silence. Seungcheol reaches into his pocket, and opens his fist to reveal a small magnolia flower. It is a bit wrinkled and worn, but still beautiful as ever.

“Not really,” he says. “It does not magically happen. Not unless you want it to, and it is stubborn even then.”

The message is somewhat cryptic, but Wonwoo knows just what he means. He senses the lingering grief that swims in the corners of Seungcheol’s eyes and knows that the conversation is over.

He does not get a chance to speak to you again until well past midday. It is hotter now, and with the tree cover slowly growing more and more sparse, there is no shade to seek shelter under. Wonwoo catches you fanning yourself with a hand as you take the new terrain in. He has always enjoyed watching you like this, full of that natural curiosity you like to indulge yourself in away from the life that demands your complete strength. A sparrow takes flight, and you follow its path with your eyes. You are beautiful under the bright sky.

You turn before he can announce his presence somehow, observing him for a moment before gently patting the spot on the rock next to you. Wonwoo does not decline it, settling carefully into the space you’ve designated specifically for him. He almost reaches out for you, almost.

“I can tell you want to say something,” you begin, sounding a tad amused. “Spit it out.”

Wonwoo has a thousand possible questions at the tip of his tongue. Should we talk about it? Do you feel the same? Will I be able to take it if you tell me it was all just a mistake?

“Are you ready?” he asks instead.

You shrug. “No such thing. If this is the last thing I do, I might as well throw myself in headfirst.”

“Do not say that,” Wonwoo murmurs. It is somewhere between a gentle rebuke and a plea. You turn to look at him, eyes brilliant and earnest, and he does not know what to do with himself. If he looks closer, he might see that there is a hint of affection that lies in your gaze.

“Why not?” You laugh dryly. “You know as well as I do that some of us might not make it back home alive. I am not so proud to assume that I might be one of the lucky ones.”

“I wish you would have a little more faith in yourself,” he says.

“Faith will not change a thing. If I am meant to die, it will happen.” You twist a dry blade of grass between your fingers. Wonwoo feels his heart twist in a similar way. “At least that way I might see my brother again.”

Wonwoo turns his head sharply, surprised. “You have never mentioned having a brother.”

You smile, but it does not reach your eyes. For such a usually joyous expression, you look rather despondent, mouth set in a thin line.

“Had,” you correct softly. “Even that is a stretch, I think. He left me with nothing but the sound of his voice and his name. I was so young, I cannot even remember his face. I will never know if we share the same eyes, or nose.”

Wonwoo thinks of Wonjae, briefly. He has always mourned the loss of the years they could have had, but he had never really thought to savor the memories they were able to make instead. He wonders how much more resilient he’d have to be, to honor Wonjae’s life with none of those moments intact.

“Tell me about him,” he says.

“There is not much to tell,” you shake your head, “It will not bring him back.”

“It is the only way you can keep his memory alive,” Wonwoo counters. “You can start with simple things. Like his name.”

A tiny grin curves your mouth upwards. “Kwon Soonyoung,” you say. “If you think I am a force of nature, you would have thought him a storm. A torrent.”

Wonwoo tries to ignore your recollection of his own words and focuses on the newness of the name. Powerful, and smooth as it is strong. “Like brother, like sister, then.”

“Well, of course. He was my twin. We shared a lot of things.” Subconsciously, you lean closer to him as you talk. “But he was older, by several seconds, and he never let me forget it. Little tiger, he used to call me. He was not even that much taller. I always told him to knock it off,” you huff, “but he never did.”

“That is a fitting nickname,” Wonwoo says, just a tad amused.

“He thought so, too.” You smile fondly. “He was obsessed with tigers – I remember this, at least. Very passionate, strong animals. I suppose I can see where the resemblance lies.”

“He sounds like quite the character.”

“He was. Or he might have been; I do not really know. He did not get a chance to grow into the person he wanted to become.”

Wonwoo hesitates just barely before asking his next question. “How did he…?”

You smile gently. “You can say it, Wonwoo. It has been over a decade.”

“Still. There are some wounds that time cannot heal.”

“I suppose that is true.” Wonwoo watches your shoulders tremble just a little, and takes the leap of faith, letting his arm rest around them comfortingly. He is half surprised when you do not reject it, instead melting further into his warm touch. “Soonyoung was always brave, almost to a fault. It cost him his own life, in the end.”

“You do not have to talk about it,” he says gingerly. “I should not have asked.”

“No,” you chuckle through the welling tears. Wonwoo wants so desperately to wipe them aside, to kiss the salty sorrow away from your skin. But he knows that if you do not cry about it now, you never will. “I have kept it to myself far too long. Even Soonhee and Soonja do not know what truly happened in those last moments. The royal guard arrived out of nowhere, and within minutes it was obvious that it was a losing battle. But I stayed back to help him, like a fool. I did not want to leave him behind.”

“I believe you are far more courageous than you think.”

“Not then. At that moment, I was being stupid,” you say, voice shaky. “I think I knew, even then, that he would not survive it. We were so young, and he had hardly been trained with a sword. I remember him yelling at us to leave while we could.”

“And you stayed.”

“I did. I thought there had to be some way we could all escape, for sure. But it became clear that it was not possible.” He watches you shut your eyes tightly, exhaling. “That was the first time I had ever lifted a sword in my entire life. I barely made it out. His sacrifice was almost for nothing.”

“But it was not,” Wonwoo points out gently. “You are still here. Still fighting. I am sure he would be proud of the woman you have become.”

“I hope so,” you whisper. “I try to live fearlessly, as he did. As brave as he was, even when he knew it was the end.”

Wonwoo hums, lets your words sink in. You had comforted him just like this, not so long ago. The memory is not lost on him.

“You do not need to live like your brother,” he says. “Just live for yourself.”

A quiet sob leaves your throat. He had not intended on saying anything that would make you feel even worse, but your head drops to his shoulder as your tears soak the fabric of his clothes. Wonwoo does not say anything, instead opting to rub his thumb in consoling circles over your skin. He feels his heart ache impossibly as you cry, but remains still. Sometimes, silence is the best remedy.

He waits until your breathing slows and your sniffling comes to an end to shift slightly, using the large misshapen rock behind him as support. Your head still lies on his shoulder, and he basks in the feeling of being someone you would let yourself lean on.

“Sorry about that,” you say softly, wiping your eyes.

“No need to apologize.” He rests his chin against the top of your head, doesn’t push any further. The two of you just sit together, taking in the moment before it is time for the inevitable trek to continue yet again. For the moment, the conversation is more or less over.

But Wonwoo grapples with the swirling feelings in his chest for far longer than that. You have him utterly curious, safely storing away each new piece of information he learns about you. Yes, you are one of the strongest people he knows – but when did that begin? What made you have to build up these sturdy walls? If anything, you only prove more and more admirable each time.

The more he learns, the more in love he thinks he is.

It is well past nightfall by the time the dirt path gives way to the paved roads of the capital and the surrounding towns. Seungcheol tells both of you to stay as quiet as possible and follow him discreetly down the bustling roads.

The safe house is tucked away in a more isolated part of town, far from the crowded centers with their night markets and food stalls. It is small and unassuming, with the lights dimmed inside. As they approach, Wonwoo can just barely make out hushed voices from inside.

Seungcheol raises a hand to the door, knocking in a particular rhythm. There is a few seconds of silence before it opens slowly, a shrewd-looking man at the door. He eyes the three of you warily.

“Name?”

“Choi Seungcheol. Fourth southwestern province.”

The man considers it for a moment before swinging the door open. It is warm inside, a sharp contrast from the night’s cool breeze. Wonwoo offers you his hand first, helping you up the steps and into the house.

He can’t quite hear what Seungcheol and the man are talking about. He only catches a name —Myungho, it sounds like. He’s got an interesting accent to his words, but only a light one. Wonwoo would not have caught it if it weren’t for the complexity of the words, consonants rolling over like waves.

“Tomorrow night is when we fight,” Myungho says quietly. “Make yourselves comfortable here, in the meantime.” Then his gaze flickers back to you, somewhat surprised. “You did not mention you were bringing a lady.”

Seungcheol raises his eyebrows. “Is that a problem?”

Wonwoo watches as Myungho’s eyes linger on you. Not judging, but evaluating. There is something in his narrowed eyes that seems like it should sting, but does not.

“Not at all,” he answers simply. “We will adjust sleeping arrangements accordingly. Would the lady prefer a separate area?”

“No need,” you say firmly. “I know space is a bit tight here. Just a corner will do. Thank you, though.”

Myungho bows his head. “Of course.”

Wonwoo follows you and Seungcheol further into the house. It is not so big, but there are not that many men inside in the first place. Just as well. There is a genuine concern for lack of safety in great numbers.

Suddenly, you gasp. “Seokmin?!”

One of the men by the kitchen area looks up at the sudden call of his name. Wonwoo watches as he rushes towards you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders excitedly.

Of course, this is no stranger. He recognizes the sharp nose and the shape of his side profile, has heard about the deep friendship you share with him, but still — a sharp pang of a feeling he doesn’t really like travels straight through his chest.

“I did not know whether you were alive,” Seokmin says, tears already spilling from his eyes. “I only had to hope that after losing Seungkwan, I had not lost you, too.”

You laugh, but Wonwoo knows the sound too well. That specific laugh is reserved for when you are trying not to cry. “You have not, Seokmin. I have been well.”

“And Hansol?”

“Hansol is well, too. He stayed back,” you explain. “I did not want to risk his life, as well.”

Seokmin sighs out of utter relief, then turns his earnest eyes to Wonwoo. There is a flicker of recognition in them.

“Oh, right. This is Seokmin,” you tell Wonwoo. He returns the polite nod, reaching out to shake his hand.

“Wait, I remember you,” Seokmin says, a bit sheepishly. He does not need to explain any further. It is all written in the slightly embarrassed expression on his face. Of course – as one of your most trusted men, he would have fought alongside you at every turn.

“You, too,” Wonwoo returns awkwardly. He glances between you and Seokmin, sensing there is much to be said. “Well, you both should catch up. I will be with Seungcheol if you need anything, okay?”

You grace him with a small, grateful smile. Somehow you glow even brighter, though the lights are dimmed. “Alright. Thank you.”

He bows, bidding Seokmin a good night, before meandering around the house. The smell of cooking stew rises from the kitchen, and he is suddenly aware of the hunger in his stomach. He pokes his head into the kitchen area and finds Myungho speaking in another language with the man chopping up radish on the counter. Seungcheol sits behind them, conversing with an older man with streaks of gray in his hair.

He raises his eyes once he registers Wonwoo’s presence. “All okay?”

“Mm.” Wonwoo takes his seat, perching on another wooden stool. “Y/N seems to be settling in well. She seems comfortable.”

“That is good.” Seungcheol gestures to the man sitting across from him. “This is Kim Minseok. He used to serve in the royal guard. He is retired now, but he has been extremely helpful to us in terms of intelligence and communication.”

Wonwoo bows his head in greeting. Minseok just laughs heartily, watching him with a mix of pride and amusement.

“Well, it is nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Choi here has told me all about you over the years. I had thought you were just a myth until now!”

Wonwoo flushes deeply. “All good things, I hope.”

“Ah, you worry too much. You are too young to be so cautious! Enjoy it while you can, eh?” Minseok takes another long sip of whatever liquid in his cup. “I hope to see this prowess Seungcheol speaks of soon enough, then.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

Wonwoo zones out for the rest of the conversation, just letting in a few words here and there. They discuss strategy, and possible routes – he knows that none of that will truly matter in the end. There are only two ways tomorrow night will go, and out of those only one will prevail. It is already written. No matter how much Minseok or Myungho might want it, it will not change to their whims.

From the corner of his eye, he catches your reclined figure against a wooden chair. You laugh at something Seokmin says, eyes crinkling in that rare joy he so loves to see in your face. Wonwoo has never wanted more for all of this to be over sooner, just so that you might be happier, like this. No more fighting, no more spilt blood. Just you and your smile.

Myungho’s voice pulls Wonwoo out of his swirling thoughts. Seungcheol stands, pushing his stool out, and pats him on the shoulder gently.

“Come,” he says, offering a warm smile. It is one of the first Wonwoo has seen in weeks, and he savors it. “Dinner is ready.”

The stew is comforting, the heat warming your fingers through the ceramic of the bowl. You fold in on yourself even more, pulling your limbs closer to ward off the cold. Beside you, Seokmin is in a similar position as he spoons another piece of eggplant into his mouth.

You savor the taste carefully, mulling over everything he has told you so far. Of utmost importance was any sort of news from your sisters, and hearing that they were doing well brought you the most relief. Sangmin suffered through a fever, he mentioned, but he had recovered within a few days. That, thankfully, had been the worst of it.

Briefly, your eyes wander over to Wonwoo’s broad figure, listening intently as Myungho talks. His hair falls just short of his eyes, veiling his sharp brows and his tanned skin. A sight to see, under the low lights.

“You are distracted,” Seokmin observes, hiding a smile.

You tear your eyes from Wonwoo with a start. “No?”

“Oh, come on. You are not as closed a book as you think. And am I not allowed to be curious?” he asks. “You have told me quite literally everything, except for the man you arrived with. How can I not have questions?”

“I arrived with two men, Seokmin.”

“Yes, and only one of them has bothered to look in your direction twenty-five times in the past ten minutes. I am not blind, you know.”

This makes you sigh deeply, wondering if what he’s said is true. But it might very well be. You are not blind, either, as much as you would like to delude yourself into believing.

You do not tell Seokmin about the incident in the forest. That memory burns too bright to be shared. But you recount the slow evolution of your feelings towards Wonwoo, the slippery slope that had started as resentment and has now brought you to a precarious camaraderie.

You do not tell him about the strange new feeling in your chest, either. Or the fact that the deep-rooted affection in some corner of your heart has begun to sprout too prominent for you to ignore. This, you keep to yourself. If you do not say it, it does not have to sound as real.

Seokmin listens intently while you speak, as he always has. Nods along, as you describe the particularly difficult moments. He laces his fingers together once you finish, ever thoughtful.

“Well, he is quite handsome,” he says. “No complaints from me.”

“Seokmin!”

“Alright, alright,” he soothes, rubbing the spot on his arm where you had just hit him. “You are so violent. What sort of friend would I be if I did not give you my two cents, after all?”

You glare at him playfully. “An uninjured one.”

He holds both his arms up, feigning surrender. It draws another laugh out of you as you take another bite of stew, the flavorful spices dancing on your tongue. It is a sharp reminder for you to enjoy these happy moments while they last.

The house quiets down after most everyone has finished eating. You offer to help with the dishes, but Myungho insists that you sit, so you make yourself useful and towel dry the bowls after he washes them. Another man takes it upon himself to wipe down the counter, and the two of them chatter away in a vaguely familiar language as they work.

“Oh, dear. Forgive my manners,” the newcomer says suddenly. His accent is quite similar to Myungho’s, but a little less noticeable and smoother around the edges. “My name is Junhui. I live across town, actually, but I came over here to help however I can.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say, offering your own name in response. He smiles widely, eyes forming half crescents. “How do you both know each other?”

“Junhui and I are cousins,” Myungho explains. “But my family came here from China many years after his. My father was a paper merchant, and it was easier to find business here at the time than back home.”

You hum in understanding, taking in the new information. “You did not follow in his footsteps?”

“Almost. But I backed out, in the end.” Myungho smiles, his first of the night. “I did not want to sentence myself to something I knew I would detest. Instead, I moved up here to start a new life. I opened a restaurant here four years ago, along with Junhui.”

“That is a sharp pivot,” you remark.

“Perhaps. But you do not truly live until you dare to change.”

You look around the house again. If you squint, you can see it in your mind’s eye– remnants of a lively business, steaming bowls of soup and the chatter that comes with a well-fed crowd. The walls might have been painted red, decorated with small golden flowers. None of it is there now, only the ghosts of happy times.

“What happened?” you ask, quietly.

Myungho’s silence speaks volumes. Junhui sighs heavily, setting his towel down.

“Customers began to dwindle. It was not safe for them to be out so often, so of course it was not good for business.” He frowns as the memory sets in. “Eventually it was not enough to sustain ourselves. So we closed it down.”

“Royal intelligence was not fond of us, either,” Myungho adds. “There were many people who would gather here to discuss the government, and propose political change. Of course, none of it went under the radar. It was all rather frustrating for those in power.”

You watch as Junhui looks down at his hands as if he’s mourning those precious years. Everyone carries their own ghosts, grieving in a different way. But more than that, you feel guilty – you had, after all, fought on the side of those who abused their power and oppressed their people for years. The circumstances are beyond the fact. You are still complicit.

“That is terrible,” you say honestly. “I am sorry it happened that way. Truly.”

“No need.” Myungho smiles again, but it is sadder this time. “Nothing really ever dies, does it? We were not about to let the space go to waste. Now we operate out of here. It was two years ago, I think, that we started to use this house for… what do you call it?”

He fumbles to find the word for several seconds, before Junhui says something in a smooth Chinese dialect.

“Ah,” Myungho says finally. “Resistance.”

You understand, now. The spark in their eyes is one that has been burning for a long time, and it will not go out anytime soon.

“We are very thankful,” you tell him. “Without you both, this would not be possible.”

Junhui waves it off sheepishly, shaking the dark hair away from his forehead. “Alright, alright. That is not so. It has taken the effort and cooperation of many people for the movement to reach where it is right now.”

“Still,” you insist. “You have laid a sturdy foundation. Your work will not go in vain.”

“That is not something you or anyone else can guarantee,” he says sagely, “but I will accept the sentiment in the name of hope.”

You give him a wry smile. “Hope is all we have.”

Junhui mirrors your expression, but there is a particular weariness in his eyes. “I only wonder if it will be enough.”

The three of you finish cleaning up in silence, only broken by the occasional remark or stray joke, and you bid them goodnight when the dishes have been done and the kitchen is spotless. The others seem to be settling down, and you wander around for a bit before finding your spot beside a wall, just as you had requested.

The day weighs down on you, and you are suddenly aware of the soreness in your muscles from the days’ travel you’ve been doing. You lie down and let your body rest against the floor, reveling in the warmth of the heavy blanket. Apprehension pools in your stomach, but you try not to think about the events to come, instead focusing on your own steady breath.

You hear Seungcheol and Wonwoo speaking quietly before they lie down on their mats, too. The light goes out, and you close your eyes to feign sleep until you actually succumb to your dreams. However, you are not fooling anybody. Wonwoo shifts a little beside you, and you are painfully aware of the distance between you and him.

“I know you are awake,” he whispers. You peek out from under your blanket – you can barely see him in the dark, but your eyes adjust to the lack of light rather quickly. “You are quite terrible at pretending.”

“I did not ask for your opinion, Wonwoo.”

“I am giving it regardless.” He is quiet for the next few seconds, then says, “Having trouble sleeping?”

“What do you care?” He laughs dryly, a twinge of melancholy in his voice. “Please do not make me answer that question again. I do not think I can bear it.” Heat rises to your cheeks suddenly as the memory rushes back to you. It replays in your mind like a flashback, and you will your heart to slow itself. And yet, you savor the closeness, aware of the heat radiating from him next to you. “Sleep,” you say instead. “There is a long day ahead of us.” “You cannot say that as you look so deep in thought,” he counters. “Tell me what is going on that intricate brain of yours.”

You try to ignore the deepness of his voice and the rough edge it carries as you sort through your thoughts, attempting to find the words for them. There is no easy way to do it, but it feels a little better when Wonwoo is right beside you.

“I am afraid,” you confess suddenly. “As much as I try not to be. I spend my time wondering, what would Soonyoung do? And after that I wonder if I am capable of being half the person he was.” “You are,” Wonwoo says firmly. “And I know that you know it, too.” How strange a feeling, to have him pinpoint your exact thought so quickly! You peer at him, just barely making out his features, and grip the blanket just a little tighter. The realization that this could well be the last night you ever spend in his company is chilling. “I had a brother, too, once,” he continues softly. “I carry his ghost on my shoulders as I once carried him. But I cannot let that memory hold me back from fighting for what is important. And neither can you. Does that make sense?” You hum in agreement, letting it sink in. “You know, you did not strike me as the older brother type.” He wrinkles his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Well, I thought you were an only child, for sure.” “Now you are just slandering me for the fun of it,” Wonwoo complains. A sudden laugh bubbles from your throat, spilling out into the silence, and you clap a hand over your mouth immediately to stifle the following giggles. He smiles, chuckling softly. “And you will wake everyone in this house, if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, be quiet,” you rebuke, settling back in. The weight of his previous words sits on your mind again. “You understand then, how it feels.”

“Mm.”

The two of you lie there, staring up at the ceiling of what used to be Myungho and Junhui’s livelihood. Silent understanding passes over you, like it always seems to. Your heart beats twice as strong somehow, when it is him that occupies the place at your side, and you fall asleep with that sense of security blanketing your mind.

Morning comes in the form of Myungho’s sharp voice. You quickly learn that as kind as he is, he does not seem to like coming off that way, and much prefers a steady routine. The floor is clear within minutes under his supervision, while Junhui gets to work on breakfast. You offer to help him, but he just waves you off, so you sit on the countertop and chat with him as the porridge cooks.

Wonwoo joins you both a few minutes later. You almost laugh at the sight of him – messy hair and tired eyes – and it warms your heart.

“There you are,” he says, voice still heavy with sleep. “I was wondering where you had gone.”

“Nowhere far. Just keeping Junhui company.”

“I see that.” He sits on the taller wooden stool, wincing as he rolls his shoulder. At your questioning look he says, “Definitely slept wrong last night. I think Seungcheol might have kicked me in his sleep, too. Multiple times.”

“Maybe you deserve it,” you shoot back playfully. Wonwoo’s mouth curves up into a knowing smirk that has your knees just a little weak.

“Anyhow, he seems very stressed,” he says. “I did not want to bring it up unnecessarily.”

“Everyone is on edge today,” Junhui agrees, stirring the porridge. “Even Myungho woke up in a terrible mood, if you could not already tell. Tonight is the night everything could change, for better or worse. Some of the men have already come to terms with the fact that this might be their last day alive.”

“But it might not be,” Wonwoo puts in thoughtfully. “Not necessarily.”

“That is true. But nobody knows.” Junhui sprinkles a pinch of salt into the pot. “Some feel it is better to resign themselves for the worst than to hope for the best. And who am I to tell them how to think?”

His words settle solemnly into the air, and he notices the sudden tension, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.

“Oh, do not be so serious. Would you want to live your last day in such gloom?” You shake your head no. “I thought so! Now get out of your head, and come eat this while it is still hot. I can see the gears in your brain turning already.”

You take the bowl he hands you gratefully, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The first spoon of porridge is almost magical as it goes down your throat, and you savor the different flavors on your tongue.

“This is so good,” you tell him. “What did you even put in this?”

Junhui just winks at you. “Years and years of practice,” is all he will say. “Chef’s secret.”

The afternoon that follows is sweltering, at best. Sweat trickles down your back as you spar with Seokmin, wood knocking against wood as he parries your every strike. Wonwoo watches from the side, letting the last few drops of water fall from the flask into his throat.

“This weapon feels so wrong in my hand,” Seokmin says when you finally take a break, catching his breath. “I fear I am utterly dreadful with a sword.”

“Why did you not bring your bow?”

“I thought about it.” He shakes his head wryly. “It feels so detached. There is only so much you can do with limited arrows and such great distance. It is a great weapon, to be sure, but I feel quite useless at times.”

“Seokmin,” you scold, “you know you are one of the greatest archers I have ever met in my life. You are the opposite of useless.”

“But this is not the time to be passive. I wanted to do more.” Seokmin smiles wistfully, dangling the wooden sword from his fingers. “So I started training with one of Jihoon’s old swords. I am by no means perfect, but it will do.”

You pause for a moment, taking it in. He had never done anything but follow orders, both Muyeol’s and yours. And yet the guilt still hangs over his shoulders, ever present.

“Seokmin.”

“Yes?”

“You are certainly not dreadful.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It is new, that is all. And your skill is quite excellent for someone who has wielded a vastly different weapon for most of his life.”

A bright grin spreads across his face, a bit sheepish. “That is kind of you to say.”

“I mean it. Truly.” You pat his back gently. “Go rest, alright? You did well today.”

He nods and bows his head slightly. You watch his retreating back until he disappears behind the doorway, one hand on your hip as you bear the brunt of the midday sun. I need water, you think, walking back towards the rock Wonwoo’s sitting against.

He seems to know what you want before you have to ask, passing you a filled flask before you sit down beside him. “Good fight?”

“Definitely.” You take a long sip of the cool water. “Seokmin has improved so much. He used to hate it back at the palace. He only ever wanted to shoot arrows all day.”

“He seems very dedicated,” Wonwoo agrees. “That will serve him well in every regard.”

“Certainly.”

There is a heavy pause. Neither of you looks at the other. You can tell there are words at the tip of his tongue that he won’t say. But you do not comment on it; the same is true for you. You sit there beside him, watching the clouds hang in the sky, and savor the moment.

Eventually, you break the silence. “If I do not make it –” “No.” You give him a funny look. “You do not even know what I was going to say!” “I do,” he says quietly. “I feel like you have been meaning to say it for a while. But I was hoping I could delay it.” You soften at his words, intense tenderness squeezing at your heart. Gently you lay your head onto his waiting and ready shoulder, your chest rising and falling in time with his. “It is like Junhui said,” you tell him. “Nobody knows. Neither you, nor I. But I wanted to tell you, just in case.” “Don’t,” Wonwoo pleads. “You can tell me afterwards. We will have all the time then.” “You cannot be sure.” A small smile forms on your face despite yourself, and you tuck yourself further into him. “Listen, Wonwoo. I know you have detested me for a majority of the time we have known each other.” “I–” “I do not fault you for it.” You place a hand on his arm to calm him down. “If I said I did not reciprocate that feeling, it would be a blatant lie.” Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously monologuing about how much you despise me right now?” This pulls a sharp laugh out of you. “You would know if you listened instead of talking!” “Alright, alright,” he concedes, amused. “Please continue.” You huff in acceptance, pulling your legs closer to your body. “If we do not have tomorrow, then you should know I have appreciated every gesture of kindness you have shown me, at every turn. For giving me space, when I needed it. For talking, when I needed that instead. You have always given me room to breathe.” “I would do it over and over,” he whispers, breath tickling the top of your head. “For you.” You sigh deeply, shutting your eyes and willing yourself not to cry. “Please, Wonwoo. It is far too soon to say that.” “It cannot be. I have been thinking it for quite some time.” He brings his hand to your wrist, fingers tracing light circles over your skin. “Only I did not know when to say it. Or how. But if we do not have tomorrow, as you said, then you should know this.” “I think I have known for a while,” you say soberly. Wonwoo lets out a quiet ha!, a half-laugh. “Even better, then.” You are about to vocalize the next witty comeback that materializes in your mind to dissipate the rising tension when a sudden noise breaks out back inside the house. You hear someone yelling for backup, doors slamming, and a pained scream – in that order. You exchange one worried look with Wonwoo, rising to your feet, and break into a sprint. Seungcheol finds you first, a rare panic in his eyes. He heaves a relieved sigh at the sight of you both, taking Wonwoo by the shoulders. “Where is Minseok?” “What?” Seungcheol repeats his question, more frantic this time. You watch Wonwoo shake his head, immensely confused.

“Hyung, what happened?” “Kim Minseok, that bastard,” he fumes. “I should have known. All of the signs were there. That lying son of a bitch handed over every single piece of information he had and ran for his life. He’s been working with them for years!” Shock ripples across Wonwoo’s face. You had not met the man, but you get the idea that even he had not seen it coming at all. “You must go,” Seungcheol urges. “Both of you. Find somewhere safe to stay for now. You cannot let them find you!” “No,” you say firmly, drawing your sword. “This is my battle. I am not going anywhere.” Wonwoo nods, knives already in his hands. “I cannot, hyung. I swore to fight with you. You cannot expect me to break it now.” There is sheer despair written all over Seungcheol’s face – but no time to do anything about it. A soldier steps through the doorway, swinging his axe, and you slash at his torso furiously. Blood splatters all over your clothes and the side of your face, the metallic scent quickly filling your nostrils. You turn and look at Wonwoo. The fierceness in his eyes mimics yours, and you feel a new confidence begin to rise into your chest. “Now or never,” you say. Chaos reigns inside the house. The walls are as red as they may have been four years ago – but with blood this time, instead of paint. Myungho is backed up against a wall, holding off two royal guards with his spear. You lunge, stabbing one of them in the side, and he quickly finishes off the other, returning your gesture with a grim nod. You do not know where Seokmin is. You do not think you could pick him out amidst the mayhem; everything begins to blur together impossibly. Only the metal of your blade remains clear in your vision as you defend yourself with everything you have left. The noise seems to lessen, just a little. You stumble outside, only to be met with a horrific sight. “Junhui!” You rush towards him, and he winces as you approach. He struggles to keep himself on his feet, one hand pressed firmly against a deep gash in his side. “Go,” he says weakly. “I will be fine.” “But –” “Go!” His hand comes away deep red, blood dripping from his fingers onto the ground. “We do not have time. You have to go now!” You stare at him for a few conflicted seconds, before tearing your eyes away from him and swinging wildly at the man behind you. But your footing is unsteady, and you slip on a stray rock. His dagger brushes the corner of your ear, and faintly you register the sharp sting that begins to blossom. When you catch your breath again, you come face to face with a pair of eyes that send chills down your spine. Muyeol’s expression reflects none of the panic that’s in yours. In fact, he seems almost amused at the look on your face, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he cleans off his sword against the tall grass. It has been so long since you’ve seen him, that you’d forgotten how disturbing his presence could be. “I thought my soldiers had finished you at least the second time around,” he says. The cruelty in his voice never fails to make you flinch. “But to see that you have joined these fools? Tch. I am wounded.” Your hand does not tremble, sword still in the air. “Drop the act. I am not so stupid as to be fooled by your words again.” “Oh, my.” He chuckles, an evil sound. “You were not fooled even the first time, my dear. I made no effort to hide my intentions. But you willingly carried out all the dirty work you were told to do.” “You held my family and their lives over my head,” you snap back. “I was not willing, then.” He merely shrugs. “I did what I had to do.” Anger bubbles up into your throat, and you lunge instinctively, bringing your sword down in what would have been a harsh strike. Muyeol parries it lazily, slicing your arm instead. You hiss at the sudden pain and come forward again, unable to stay calm. He clicks his tongue again. “Still the same,” he remarks. “I would have thought you learned how to control that inconvenient temper of yours by now.”

“You do not get to have to say in when I get angry!” You punctuate your last word with a furious slash. This one lands – the sound of blade against skin is satisfying, and you draw blood just shy of his collarbone. He looks a bit surprised. Good, you think. You deserve it. Muyeol seems to have as easily inflamed a temper as yours. He is much older, for sure, but his movements are rather fluid for his age. You are light on your feet, just barely dodging his well-timed strikes. “You should have died that day,” he snarls furiously. He feints with his right – and you fall for it, a short lapse in judgement. One strong kick sends you tumbling to the ground, and before you know it the edge of his sword is flush with the skin of your neck. “What a shame, then. But do not worry. I will be sure you meet your fate today.” “You will do no such thing.” Muyeol laughs, a deep rumbling that comes from his chest. It is a sound that you have learned to detest over the many years. “The words of a woman on her knees,” he muses, pressing the blade into your throat. You wince at the sensation of it piercing skin, feeling the first drop of blood trickle down to your collarbone. “Choose them wisely, would you? They may well be your last.” You open your mouth to give another sarcastic remark. But out of nowhere, a sharp dagger flies through the air just past your head, lodging itself squarely into Muyeol’s shoulder. He roars in pain; you take the short window of opportunity to grab your sword and lunge for his neck. This time, you do not miss. His dark eyes widen in momentary surprise – he loses his grasp on his own weapon, crashing to the ground as he struggles to draw his next breath. He falls with one arm outstretched, clinging to a last hope, and you might have taken it a year or two ago. Things are different, now. You regard him coldly, and you do not move. You wipe the side of your face, catching your breath. And you should have some remorse, but it is hard to find it for the man who had a hand in turning your life into a living hell. All you can feel is the subsiding rage, still coursing through your veins. Wonwoo is beside you before you know it. He does not ask anything. His eyes only shift between you, and Muyeol’s body on the ground. You meet his questioning eyes and nod slowly. “Wait. The knife,” you say, before he can get a word out. You crouch down, fingers closing around the hilt and pulling it from the lifeless shoulder. When you pass it to Wonwoo, your fingers brush ever so subtly, staining his fingertips dark red. “Thank you.” “Always.” His answer comes without hesitation. It bears relief, and something else you don’t dare name. “Are you… are you alright?” “Alive,” you say, huffing out a weak laugh. Wonwoo shakes his head, fingers coming up to swipe a stray drop of blood away from the cut on your face. You startle at the sight of his eyes welling up with tears, face battered and bruised, and it stirs up a whole torrent of emotions in your own chest. “You are so strong,” he says, thumb brushing your jaw reverently. “You did it. You are free now.” Your vision goes blurry as the weight of Wonwoo’s words sink into your soul. Tenderly, with all the care carried in his deep voice. You let yourself crash into him, fingers grasping his robes as his arms wrap around your torso gently, holding you close. For the first time, the weight that has been sitting on your heart for years feels lifted, light. You can even hear Soonyoung’s voice in your head now, quietly under the current. Live now, little tiger. Live the way you always wanted to. The sky bursts, and it begins to pour. The heavy drizzle takes the dried blood on your skin with it, but the open wounds still burn. It is no matter, not anymore. The white cotton of your clothes runs deep red, and your decade long battle is over.

There are quite a few more hurdles to go over, even after Muyeol’s death. None of them are easy to swallow down. The attack had resulted in more lives lost than injuries, a significant dent in everyone’s esteem. You are particularly shocked to see Junhui’s body among them, his cold hand in his cousin’s. It had not been so long ago that you had last spoken to him; it weighs on you still that you may have had a chance to save his life, if only you had listened to your gut. Myungho does not shed a single tear. Perhaps this is his way of mourning a loved one, in powerful silence. “I cannot control the passage of time,” he says quietly, over his dearest friend’s grave. Still he does not cry, but you think he might come awfully close. “We are all victims. Junhui’s fate has only collected him first.” You watch him murmur something softly in muffled Cantonese; some sort of farewell, perhaps. You will never know. It is very likely that you will never see Myungho again, even if he chooses to remain in town. “Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “For everything. Truly.” He waves you off, wearing a faint smile. “No need. It was the least I could do for you all.” You wonder how he will hold up now, whether the little old house meant for two will feel a bit too lonely and large for just him. He might repaint the walls a bright red, but it will never be the same again. It is with a heavy heart that you regroup with Seungcheol and Wonwoo. The latter is tending to a small wound on his arm, wrapping the bandage around it carefully. You stop him and offer to do it instead. He lets you. “When will you leave for home?” Wonwoo swallows thickly. “Soon, I suppose.” “You will travel overnight?” Gently, you finish dressing the cut, but your fingers linger over his skin. “I do not think that is very safe.” “After everything we have done so far, this might be the least dangerous journey we make.” You take him in solemnly, allowing yourself to lean into him a little. Seungcheol takes note, but says nothing — turns away a bit, as if to give you a little space. “This will bring a new dawn to the country,” he continues. “The young prince Jisoo is said to be a fair and just man. He will be twice the ruler his father is. The council members are in overwhelming support of him, so the king will likely be pressured into abdicating.” “It is about time,” you agree. “I have quite high hopes for him.” “Mm.” Wonwoo turns his hand over so that his fingers are laced with yours, warmth seeping into your skin. “Will you go home now? I would imagine you have much to say to your family.” Family. You think of your sisters and Jihoon, and little Sangmin. Of Wonwoo, and how easily he seems to fit into your life, like the final piece of a puzzle. “Come with me,” you say. “Seungcheol, too. Stay the night, at least, and have a warm meal. Seokmin will be able to take us there.” He shakes his head. “Y/N, I cannot impose on your family like that.” “You would not be imposing,” you insist. “I am asking because I want you there with me, Wonwoo. Besides, I might join you both on your journey back. I want to see Hansol, and visit Seungkwan one more time.” Wonwoo’s firm expression softens as the last words sink in, thumb rubbing soft circles into your hand. “All right,” he finally concedes. He glances back at Seungcheol, who gives a willing shrug. “If you say so.” It is not so far to your sisters’ house, once you have bid your sad goodbyes to Myungho and the others. The familiarity of your surroundings slowly comes back to you as you follow Seokmin through the winding stone roads and grassy hills. Every step unlocks childhood memories you had shelved away, years and years ago. You point at a large pine tree nearby. “I used to sneak out and come here with Soonyoung all the time,” you tell Wonwoo. “We would play around, making up stories. He taught me how to read there, too.”

“Sometimes the stories you tell make me wish we knew each other as children,” he muses, chuckling softly. “That might have been nice,” you say, looping your arm in his. “But this is just as precious.” “That it is.” You feel Seokmin’s knowing eyes on you – he will say a range of things later, from ‘I told you so’ to ‘So you did think he was handsome!’, and you will laugh and tell him that sometimes love will find you even when you do not necessarily ask for it. He glances away, amused, and you have to resist the urge to click your tongue at him. The gate is drawn shut as you first approach, but you could not ever forget the familiar slope of the roof, and the tiny patch of flowers to the right of the main doorway. Seokmin calls out brightly for Jihoon, breaking into a jog, and you look back at Seungcheol and Wonwoo with a smile. “Home,” you say. Soonja runs out first, crashing into you with a loud squeal. You let her cling to you. It has been far too long since you have listened to her excited stories and endless chatter, and you hug her tightly. “I missed you,” she says petulantly. “You always take so long!” “I am sorry,” you chuckle, tearing up. “Really. But I will not be away for weeks at a time anymore. My work is done.” She brightens at this. “Promise?” You laugh, intertwining your pinky finger with hers. “Promise.” The sun is softer now, in the sky, and the heat does not burn as much anymore. You make introductions as the air settles into something more comfortable. The ghosts still linger, but they are not heavy anymore. You wear them like a warm scarf now, instead of shackles. It is a new kind of homage. The house is lively, with more people inside. Seungcheol and Jihoon seem to get along perfectly, discussing something between themselves, while Seokmin entertains Soonja’s endless questions. Soonyoung should be here, but his absence does not leave a hollow space quite like it used to. He is in every pillar instead, his life written into every single corner of the room. You sit with Soonhee, helping her here and there in the kitchen, updating her on the events that have occurred while you were away. “You have had quite a life so far,” she says, once you’re finished. “But I admire you for it, you know. You have never once let it stop you from anything. Never said ‘it is what it is’ and sat down. That is a sign of resilience.” “I did not have a choice,” you tell her. “All the same.” She smiles, reaching over to dust a stray piece of straw out of your hair. “You grew up faster than you should have. I always worried it would hold you back.” “And now?” “Now I see I did not have to worry in the first place.” Soonhee glances over her shoulder, back to the main room. Wonwoo sits cross-legged by Sangmin’s cradle, listening to the infant babble endlessly. He nods along as he smiles, pretending to hold the conversation. It is a tender sight. “I am curious about this man you have brought with you, though.” You flush deeply, not sure what to say. Soonhee notices and merely laughs, thinly slicing up a carrot. “I hope you know you are not as hard to read as you might believe,” she adds. “He clearly brings you a lot of joy.” Seokmin had said the exact same thing. You bring your hands to your cheeks, resting your chin in your palm. For as long as you can remember, there was always a torrent in your heart, restless emotions brewing and spilling over. But there is something about Wonwoo that allows you a rare peace, an ease that you had previously thought impossible. “He does,” you say quietly. “He learned to love me as I am, even when I did not want to know myself.” Soonhee gives you a knowing look. “You have found yourself a good man, then.” Everyone gathers on the floor to eat, a feeling you have not experienced in a long time. But you know that the wait was worth it. What better way to spend an evening than in good company, with good food? The soup is warm as it goes down your throat, and so is your heart.

Jihoon laughs at the sight of his son happily blowing raspberries into Wonwoo’s face – a funny sight, for sure. The latter just smiles contentedly, one hand carefully balancing the baby in his lap. “What can I say?” he shrugs, meeting your sparkling eyes. “I must be awfully good with children.” This pulls another round of laughter from everyone else, you included. Wonwoo’s gaze does not leave yours, even from across the room. Impossibly magnetic, but you no longer resist it. Instead, you let it tug at you, reveling in the feeling. It is not until all the dishes are put away later that you finally sidle up to him again, having stepped outside for some fresh air. Wonwoo sits on the front step, eyes turned up to the sky, and you carefully tuck yourself into his side. “Tell me what you are thinking,” you ask of him. He takes your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I am thinking about the nice weather we are having,” he murmurs. “And your sister’s small garden. Junhui would have been quite delighted to see it.” “He would have.” Your heart aches, then. “I pray that his soul rests easy. He was a good man.” “Me, too.” Wonwoo squeezes your hand, a way of comforting you. It will be alright. “But above all, I am thinking about how content I feel right now. My mind is at peace.” “Is that so?” “Mm,” he hums, thumb brushing against yours. “You cannot pretend to believe otherwise, Y/N. Not when you are with me. Not when you are the reason.” Warmth spreads throughout your body. You remain silent, no words coming up – but they do not need to. Even without saying anything, Wonwoo seems to understand your love. Quietly, carefully, as he is. As he always has been. It occurs to you now that perhaps this was what you had been chasing after your entire life. Serenity. From inside the house, Sangmin’s little giggles carry out into the open air, followed by his mother’s cooing and Jihoon’s satisfied laugh. The breeze is cool, but not too chilly – a perfect summer night. Wonwoo brings his head down to rest on top of yours, and you sit there taking in the peaceful quiet by each other’s side. You think you will be alright.

thank you so much for reading dotssotw! have a wonderful rest of your day! much love, hershey xx return to masterlist

#svthub #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo x reader #wonwoo one shot #wonwoo historical au #wonwoo enemies to lovers #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo svt #wonwoo angst #wonwoo fluff #(🖊️) — hershey's writing

365 notes · View notes

blueberrybirdsworld · 2 months ago

Text

Collision 16/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : angst, mention of harassement, not graphic just imply (not from Lando)

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 16 : SMAU

Text messages :

Lando:

I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes I see your face from that night. How hurt you looked. How I did that.

Lando:

I don’t know how to fix it. I just know I want to.

Lando:

I didn’t trust you. And you didn’t deserve that.

You gave me something real and I let fear destroy it.

Lando:

I'm sorry. God, Ari. I’m so sorry.

Lando:

Just… if you never want to see me again, I get it.

But please don’t leave me not knowing where I stand.

Please don’t leave me like this.

Lando:

I keep thinking if I had just held your hand and listened that night… none of this would’ve happened.

Lando:

Do you hate me now?

Lando:

I’d understand if you did.

Lando:

But I really, really hope you don’t.

No Reply

@landonorris

Sometimes you only learn to miss someone once the silence starts to echo.

@f1updatesfan

uhhh is Lando okay? 😟

@softlandoenergy

he’s been posting like a sad playlist in human form lately 💔

@f1gossipqueen

don’t attack me but this feels like an heartbreak

@carbonfiberballet

remember that girl from the ballet posts?? 👀

@tangledupincurls

he posted this and didn’t even caption it with an emoji. something’s wrong wrong

@gridgirldiaries

🕯️manifesting healing for this poor man 🕯️

Texts messages :

Lando:

I will land in Paris in the morning.

I don’t even know if you’ll see this, but… I’ll be there.

I just want to talk. Just five minutes. I’ll wait anywhere you say. You don’t even have to look at me. Just let me say I’m sorry in person.

Lando:

Please, Ari.

Lando:

Can you at least tell me if you’re okay?

Message Not Delivered

Lando:

…no.

Lando:

You blocked me.

Lando:

You actually blocked me.

Lando:

I deserve it.

I’d block me too.

Lando:

But it still fucking hurts.

@landonorris (Instagram Story)

Song:

🎵 “All I Want” – Kodaline

“But if you loved me, why'd you leave me?

Take my body, take my body

All I want is, and all I need is

To find somebody… I’ll find somebody like you…”

@f1softestboy

okay but lando posting "all i want" by kodaline in complete silence...

@gridtearz

he really said: no caption. no context. just pain.

@slowburnlando

sir. who hurt you and why did YOU let them go 😭💔

@landowithluv

I’ve been fine all week but that song choice?? during this phase of his life??

@burntballetflats

this is 100% about the ballerina.

@f1moonenergy

he’s not posting lyrics to be poetic he’s literally screaming for help in sad indie boy dialect

@f1gossipcentral

BREAKING NEWS ✈️ Lando Norris spotted at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris this morning.

The McLaren driver appeared noticeably somber as he made his way across the tarmac, despite being expected to remain in Brazil with friends for another week.

Fans at the terminal described him as “quiet, polite, but distant” and several reported he stayed seated alone for nearly 20 minutes after landing before being picked up.

No official statement from him, but many are speculating why the sudden detour to France… and why he looked like he hadn’t slept in days and if it's not related to a certain ballerina 👀

@lan_donothing:

He looks so cold and small wtf someone hug him 😭

@ballerinaburnbook:

nah this is about the ballerina 100000% he shortened his trip AND dropped that sad story

@maxpowered:

I thought he was living it up in Brazil with the boys?? He just ghosted the vibes.

@slowburnlando:

And the ballerina also came back earlier from her "solo trip" after her injurie

@pastelf1soul:

He’s not even TRYING to hide it 😩 Man is in is heartbreak era.

@gridgirldiaries:

Okay but imagine the girl walking through arrivals and seeing him like THAT 🥹

@f1rumourmill:

allegedly seen near Palais Garnier earlier today 👀Which… we ALL know who that links to.

@cherryribbons:

Hate how this saga has me acting like I’m in a sad indie film

@arianariverria

Back to Paris, back to dancing, back to healing

Comments have been desactivated

@royaloperahouse_official

It is with great gravity that we announce the immediate termination of our lead principal dancer, Marc Bertrand, following multiple internal reports of inappropriate conduct toward several female colleagues within the company.

An internal investigation is currently underway. While we are committed to ensuring privacy and dignity for the individuals involved, we want to make it unequivocally clear that the Royal Opera will no longer employ, endorse, or support Mr. Bertrand in any capacity moving forward.

We remain committed to fostering a safe and respectful environment for all our artists. Updates will be provided when appropriate.

@balletteaaa wait wasn’t he dating Ariana Riverria?? 😧

@dramatica.london they broke up like a year ago but he was still acting like they were together 💀 creepy af

@truthwhispers There’ve been rumors about him cheating and being rough w/ some of the younger dancers… maybe now ppl are finally listening.

@arianaxparis I’m just glad Ariana left the Royal Opera and went back to Paris. She looks so much happier now 💕

@teaandtoeshoes Kinda weird how they’re keeping it internal. If it’s harassment, why not take it to court?

@ballerinaroyal if Ariana was his ex and she saw this behavior up close… no wonder she cut ties and moved on. poor girl 😞

@stagelightshadow So basically they fired him but aren’t saying exactly what he did? Sounds serious if they’re cutting ties completely.

@danseparisienne People have whispered about Marc for years. Arrogant, entitled, always flirting with younger dancers. Glad it’s finally public.

@bravoballetqueen Ohhh so THIS is why Ariana left so suddenly 😮‍💨 I thought it was a career move but now it makes sense…

@londonspotlight Is it true that he kept telling press he and Ariana were just "on a break"? 💀 Dude was delusional.

@truthinspandex If even Royal Opera is letting him go this fast, it has to be serious. They're not known for moving quickly on anything.

@justice4artists Why isn’t there a lawsuit? If he harassed multiple dancers, they deserve justice, not just a quiet “termination.”

@rumeurrouge I heard he tried to get Ariana removed from a role after they broke up bc she didn’t want to go back with him… 😳

Texts messages

Lando I saw the news about Marc. Are you okay?

Lando You probably still have me blocked. That’s fair. I deserve it. But I’m sending this anyway. Just in case.

Lando I can’t stop thinking about how horrible this must be for you. I’m so, so sorry you ever had to deal with him.

Lando And I’m even more sorry that when you were with me, I let my own jealousy get in the way of understanding what you’d really been through.

Lando I thought you were still close to him. I didn’t ask. I didn’t listen. I just assumed. And I acted like a complete idiot in Brazil because of it.

Lando You deserved my trust. Instead, I gave you silence, attitude, and suspicion. I hate that I became someone who made you feel small. You’re the last person who ever deserved that.

Lando I don’t know what happened between you and Marc, and I don’t need to. I just wish I’d known then what I know now, that you weren’t okay. That you were protecting yourself.

Lando And even if you were okay… I should’ve supported you anyway. I didn’t. And I regret that more than I can say.

Lando I’m here, Ariana. Even if I’m not who you want anymore. Even if you never reply. I just want you to be safe. And loved. I hope you know you are.

Lando Always on your side. Even now. Especially now.

Seen by Ariana 2:11 AM

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1

Let me know if you want to be add to the taglist !

244 notes · View notes

chrissv4mp · 7 months ago

Text

videos girlfriend! billie would send you while she's away / fluff , pet names , language , (don't comment on the hair..) ᡣ𐭩

01. bills: if only u woke up n came wit me :[

the first thing you'd be met with is the sound of loud, electronic music, and the silly sight of your girlfriend chowing down on a baby carrot as she hummed along to the lyrics, muffled slightly, "wanna know what i told her?" she mouths, murmuring the next lines as she bounces around finneas and claudia's kitchen.

"so mediocre." she huffs, squinting her eyes at the phone camera, her annoyed expression turning into one of love as she smiles, "not you though, mama." finneas snorts in the background, earning a playful sneer from billie before she runs around the island and pushes his softly, the screen blurring from the motion for a moment or two.

the phone drops to the marble of the island, camera facing upward and catching your girlfriend and her brother's rough-housing on the far right, "o—billie—okay!" finneas calls through uncontrollable laughter, l'amour still playing softly in the background, almost completely drowned out by their banter.

billie grabs her phone before moving back over to her original spot, popping another baby carrot into her mouth as she holds the phone camera a few inches away from her face, her eyes locked onto it as she points with her other hand towards her brother, who's out of frame, "he's crazy...!" she whispers loudly, to which finneas gasps in faux offense.

02. bills: listening to our playlist..... why can't u be here mama :((

"okay, this is not safe." is the first thing to come out of her mouth when the video starts to play. her eyes flicker to the road behind her phone for a moment before she looks back over, "but i'm a pro driver, sooo..." she says with a playful grin, the early morning sun illuminating her face so perfectly and bringing out all of the little features only you could point out.

ivy by frank ocean plays through the speakers of the rental car, her plump lips moving along to the words he sang before she cuts herself off mid-verse, "i miss you." she grumbles, eyes droopy as she sets her phone in the cup-holder, finally resting both hands on the wheel, "dude, denver and la are like a million miles away." her lips tug down into a frown as she glances down at her phone, "but i'll be home soon,"

"only a few more shows, then you're all mine." she giggles, raising her eyebrows suggestively with a stupid grin on her cute face. her fingers tap along to the rhythm of the song on the wheel as her vocals blend in with the original singer. she points with one finger towards the camera as she sings the lyrics, "i thought that i was dreamin' when you said you loved me."

she bites her lip, eyes moving along the road in front of her. a laugh escapes her throat before she sniffles, shaking her head, "okay, well," she mumbles, a bashful smile tugging at her lips as she grabs her phone again, "i'm about to cry, so, bye, love youu!" she exclaims with a shaky voice, looking down at her lap in embarrassment, "and don't forget to call me when you get home."

03. bills: holy moly

"BABY!!!" billie yells, eyes wide just like the cheeky smile that was plastered on her face. blush creeps onto her face, "you can not post something like that without warning me first." she scolds softly, dragging her hands down her face as she groans loudly. her hands fumble with the phone as she switches her position, sitting against the headboard of the hotel bed and holding her phone with one hand. her other hand twirls a strand of her hair in her fingers like a schoolgirl.

"i need the outtakes." she states because she knows you'll show them to her anyway, "like—right after i send you this." she confirms with a nod of her head, pursing her lips as she moves around like she doesn't know how to stay still. she can't help but giggle as the image of your recent instagram post pops into her mind again, blushing furiously as she smiles.

"and i also need you." she whispers with a teasing smirk, biting down on her lip as she brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "if you don't answer this facetime call i—"

04. bills: do u think i'd pull this off?? cus...

billie moves the phone camera up and down, trying to gauge every little angle to see all the different tattoos the filter had to offer. she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she tilts her head to the side, grinning stupidly, "damn, i'm kinda fallin' in looove with myself." she laughs before stretching her arms above her head on the hotel bed.

"you might have some competition with thee billie eilish." she shrugs her shoulders with a playful glint in her eyes. she winks at the camera with her signature smile, running a hand through her hair as she moves to sit up in the middle of the mattress. she sets her phone down, propping it up against the pillows so that you could see her entire body.

her jaw drops as she grabs the sides of her face, seeming surprised as she squeals quietly, "dude!" she exclaims, clenching her hands into fists in front of her and shaking them wildly like she was grabbing at the bars of an enclosure, "3 fucking nights at msg!" billie announces, furrowing her eyebrows in disbelief, "3 whole nights at madison-fucking-square-garden."

she sits in silence for a few moments, looking out at the city of new york through the windows of her hotel room. she smiles, her bubbly side showing as she grabs the phone again and scoots off the bed. she flips the camera, her hand coming into view as she points at what direction she thinks the arena is in, "so fucking insane." the camera flips again, and you're met with the sight of her beautiful face again, this time, without the filter, "anyway, i'll call ya when i'm on my way to sound-check. love ya." she blows a kiss to the camera.

◇ tags: @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @vyntagess @afteraftercare @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @stonerfromlesbos @bilsdillldough @hopelessfawn @zayluvss @47lake @meliciousmel13

704 notes · View notes

orangesaek · 3 months ago

Text

i don't want to be an idol

"As much as I love you, music is so important to me too, I can’t help it. After some time passes, after I become a bit more famous, I will reveal you to the world – I love you."

pairings: (ex-bf) idol!Mark x fem reader genre: mainly angst with a liiiiitle fluff wc: 2.1k

summary: you look back at the once-loving relationship you had with your ex-boyfriend, Mark Lee of NCT.

warnings: aside from angst, I honestly don't think there's anything else... but if you find something that needs a warning, please let me know!

disclaimer: this is an original work of fiction. do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works! not proofread btw, so sorry for any misspellings/errors in grammar (but I will try to edit whatever I find that needs changing)

a/n: IT'S BEEN A LOOONG WHILE omg I've had this writer's block for so long, aside from dealing with life :') I hope everyone's doing well <3 anw, I wonder if anyone here knows VIXX's b-side "I Don't Want To Be An Idol"? lemme know <3 this story is (loosely) based on that song :')

You were mindlessly browsing through videos on Youtube to watch on TV one, lazy Monday, when you came across a suggested live video that made you feel things you thought you have long forgotten.

With some hesitation, you pressed on your remote to watch the said live video.

It was Mark Lee’s showcase for his first ever album, The Firstfruit.

You shifted carefully in your seat on the couch, trying to settle in a more comfortable position, as you watched Mark smile shyly on camera. ‘He must be really nervous’, you thought, noticing how he was sitting so still, unlike when he was with his members.

“So, Mark,” the host started. “Would you be willing to show us your ‘On Repeat’ playlist right now?”

“O-oh, yeah,” Mark laughed awkwardly before fishing out his phone from his pocket and tapping on it. The host smiled excitedly as he waited for Mark to show his phone to the camera.

“Okay… uhm, should I…? Just?” Mark asked the host, gesturing between his phone and the camera.

“Yes, if you’re ready to show your playlist to us.” The host chuckled, most probably because of how nervous Mark looked to him. Mark was looking down at his phone, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck before finally showing his screen to the camera. The cameraman zoomed in, and Mark looked up to check the big LED screens of the venue. It was the first time he ever showed his screen to the public, and he kinda regrets having said ‘yes’ to this.

The host turned in his seat to check the LED screen behind him. He expressed amusement at the list.

“As expected, you listen to many Western artists,” the host remarked. “Oh, and I think this one’s a worship song… wow.”

“Yeah, uhm, most of them are artists I look up to, while some are just songs that I deeply resonated with,” Mark explained, chuckling quite nervously. “But yeah, my ‘On Repeat’ playlist is honestly just random...”

The host hummed, nodding his head lightly, before tilting his head to the side seemingly in wonder. Mark noticed that, and he suddenly felt his hands get sweaty. The host turned back to look at Mark, who had now become slightly fidgety.

“Mark, would you mind showing us the upper half, too? If you don’t mind at all,” the host asked.

Fans watching his live showcase online noticed how Mark looked visibly uncomfortable and started flooding the comment section about it, hoping that whoever was in charge of the show would notice and ask the host to move on to another topic.

Fortunately, the production team read the comments and instructed the host through his in-ear to redirect the conversation. However, before the host could even think of a way to change the topic, Mark had already revealed his screen again to the camera.

“These are my top 10.” He said quietly into the microphone.

Various reactions were seen and heard from the fans at the venue after his screen was shown. A few excited screams were heard, but most of the reactions picked up on audio were gasps and whispers.

‘Is this real?’

‘It can’t be… what is this?’

‘Daebak…’

The host observed the fans’ reactions before looking at Mark, feeling unsure about what was happening. He hesitantly turned back in his seat to look at the LED screen and finally understood why there were mixed reactions in the crowd.

Before the host could turn back to look at Mark again, he heard one of the producers instruct him again through his in-ear to ask Mark one last question about the playlist and move on quickly to the next topic.

The host laughed quite awkwardly before turning back to Mark, clearing his throat in the process.

“So, uh, Mark,” he started, feeling quite unsure what to even ask him that wouldn’t cost him his job that day.

“Uh, we can definitely see how random your playlist is… we know that your mood and your music preferences change as time goes by, and there’s a high chance that you will have a new batch of songs on repeat,” the host paused, obviously trying to find the right words.

He briefly scanned the crowd before looking back at Mark in confusion. The host couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Mark suddenly looked quite relaxed… relieved, even.

“But is there a song in this playlist you know would always be there?” He finally asked.

Mark was quite taken aback by the question but still smiled, albeit shyly. He put his phone back in his pocket and let out a sigh that was picked up by his microphone.

“A song that would always be there, huh?” He whispered into the microphone as he stared at the floor, looking like he was in deep thought.

“I think—no, actually,” he paused. Mark looked at the camera and showed a small smile.

“I choose VIXX-subaenim’s ‘I Don’t Want To Be An Idol’ as the song that would always be on this playlist.”

The host looked visibly confused; he wasn’t sure how he should approach this situation, which was evident in his voice when he asked Mark ‘why’.

Mark brought the microphone back up to his lips.

“Um…” he started, but paused for a moment, his mouth slightly open, like he already had an answer but decided against saying whatever it was, and was now thinking of the right words to say.

“It just resonated so much with me, as an idol in this fast-paced industry,” he answered, voice soft and sounding like he was in deep thought.

“When I first listened to this song, I wasn’t even an idol yet, so the lyrics didn’t even make sense to me… but when I officially entered this industry, I finally understood how deep the lyrics were…” he paused again before continuing, “I obviously can’t speak for every public figure on this planet, but for me, this song perfectly describes the reality of what dating can be like for a celebrity.”

The host’s expressions turned soft, seeing Mark in a new light. Sure, he may not be as popular as Mark, and he may not know what exactly Mark went through, but the host fully understood what he meant.

The host briefly looked at the fans, trying to gauge their reactions. As expected, there were some who looked quite upset, but the majority, based on what the host briefly saw, looked as if they also understood Mark’s words and sympathized. The host felt that it was the right time to move on from the topic and smoothly opened up a new discussion about his album.

Meanwhile, you were crying in front of the TV. You could barely hear what they were even talking about now as you tried to wipe away the tears that just never seemed to stop flowing down your cheeks.

You were confused, not really sure why you were crying in the first place.

Was it because you were happy for Mark to have finally had the chance to release an album he always dreamed of? To have finally had the chance to release the drafts that were long sitting in his laptop?

Or was it because you were reminded of your memories with him? The ones you forcibly kept hidden in the farthest back of your mind?

You were reminded of the day you first met him, and how your unexpected friendship turned into a relationship. A secret one, which you readily accepted.

You were reminded of how his warm hand fit yours perfectly like a puzzle piece, and how he’d always look at you lovingly when he kissed the back of your hand.

You were reminded of those times he would come over to your apartment and insist on cooking something for you. Most of the time, you would both end up having to order food instead because Mark can do anything but cook. But it’s the thought that counts, right?

You were reminded of how he would sigh in content whenever you would run your fingers through his hair when you’re cuddling, and how he actually loved being the small spoon.

You were reminded of how soft his lips were, and how gentle he touched you, like you were going to break if he was any less gentle.

He brought so much happiness to your life.

But you were also reminded of how he would send you flowers and gifts as an apology for not being with you on your birthdays and anniversaries.

How you never had a proper date outside of your apartment, in fear of being seen. Even a quick date at the cafe near your apartment would be too risky.

You were reminded of how you couldn’t rely on him during the times you needed him the most because he’s almost always working. One day, you’re breathing the same air. The next, he’s already overseas. You couldn’t even reach out to him anytime and had to always wait for him to do it first.

You realized how difficult it was for you to keep up with him. He’s Mark Lee afterall, one of the idols with the craziest schedules in the industry for years now.

And that’s why you broke up with him.

You saw how he begged for you to stay, and you could see how deeply hurt he was. He did things he didn’t usually do when you were still together.

He called you daily for weeks. Calls you never answered.

He texted you daily for months, asking how you were, how your day was, and if he could see you even for just 5 minutes. Texts you answered with a few words, but mostly ignored.

You would see random gifts on your doorstep that always came with heartfelt love letters from him.

There were even times when you would receive emails from him with attachments; they were songs he recorded for you, saying that he meant each and every word.

You can’t lie—the thought of getting back with him did cross your mind before. How could you not? His idol status aside, Mark was genuinely a good person. There was not a single bad bone in his body. And you did feel that his love for you was sincere.

But you solidified your resolve to let him go forever after you decided to meet up with him one last time. He got down on his knees and begged for you to take him back. He said that things are looking up for him, and that he would be able to treat you so much better. He said that he was willing to do anything and everything to make you happy, even if that means he will have to give up his career for you.

That was it.

You couldn’t let Mark give up on his career just for you. He worked so hard to get to where he is now, and giving it all up for you was just not worth it. Mark was obviously meant for the stage, and he was meant to inspire and give hope to everyone who looked up to him.

You wanted only the best for him. He deserved all the good things in life, you wanted him to be happy.

And so, with tears brimming your eyes, you told him to forget about you and move on. You left him without turning back, afraid that if you did, your resolve would crumble and you’d take him back right then and there.

It had already been quite some time since your relationship ended, and seeing him on the news, interviews, print ads, TV commercials, magazine features, LED ads in the city, or hearing one of their songs playing in stores while out shopping didn’t affect you that much anymore.

“Honey, I never thought I’d see you cry because of some guy on TV.” a voice behind you asks, chuckling lightheartedly. You sniffled as you hurriedly wiped your tears away.

It was your husband.

“It must be little peanut over here causing all this.” you said as you pointed to your belly. Your husband then plops himself beside you on the couch, gently rubbing circles on your baby bump.

“Aigoo~ is it really because of you, our little peanut?” he coos affectionately before his attention was taken away by the TV as he watched Mark perform one of the songs in his album.

“Who is he?” he asks.

“Mark Lee...” you answered quietly. It has been a while since you said his name out loud, and it felt strange but familiar to you at the same time.

“Mark Lee, huh? He’s pretty good, gotta give him that!” your husband commented, “That must be why you like him?”

‘Actually… I loved him with all my heart’, you thought, but you just nodded quietly. You looked at your husband, who was bobbing his head lightly to the music, and smiled to yourself before engulfing him in a hug. You looked at Mark on the TV.

‘I’m proud of you, Mark Lee. Always.’ you thought, as a final tear for him rolled down your cheek.

#mark lee fanfic #nct #nct fanfic #nct dream #nct u #kpop #mark lee #nct 127 #nct mark #nct angst #vixx #nct scenarios #nct x reader #nct mark lee #mark nct #lee minhyung #nct mark scenarios

270 notes · View notes

izzyy-stuff · 13 days ago

Text

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐃𝐄 - 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐌𝐆𝐘𝐔

IN WHICH after waking up to a song playing outside of your window as if you were in a corny romance movie, you get to meet Choi Beomgyu, a boy so desperately in love that he drove across town to confess his love, just to find out he did so outside of the wrong house.

pairing– Choi Beomgyu x fem!reader

featuring– txt members, original characters, Heeseung and Jake of enhypen

genre– fluff, angst, suggestive — mature talks, topics, but no explicit smut

contains– band member!Beomgyu, nerd!Beomgyu, nerd!reader, school setting BUT EVERYONE IS OF AGE, reader works at a convenience store, Beomgyu has a crush on someone else at first, party + drinking on said party, reader lives with her parents, both parents mentioned, reader is mentioned to be a virgin, reader is able to play basketball, reader wearing a skirt, 10 things I hate about you mentions

word count– 18.2k

↪ izzy speaks... ahh my baby is finally here! I love writing fluff, it's how I was made to be—a girl that writes happy stories. I really think serenade is a cute one, and I'm so glad I decided to do it with Beomgyu, my love <3 I want to say thank you to Mae again for helping me with editing this, you saved my life <3 I also want to thank Adel—for always listening to my yaps about my stories and helping me sort out my thoughts. And everyone reading this. My stories happen because of y'all. :3

playlist | masterlist

It’s been a while since you’ve had a good night’s sleep. However, you knew that the moment your face hit the pillow and the exhaustion from the long week settled in, tonight was going to be the day. There was no need for you to wake up early tomorrow, and you were going to take advantage of that, ready to sleep throughout the entire morning.

But your plans on catching up onto your messed up sleep schedule fail once again when the guitar reaches your ears, stirring you awake. Then, the soft voice follows right after, making you rub your eyes with the back of your hand, glancing at the time on your phone. 8:12. There goes your dream of sleeping in.

You make it out of the bed, searching for where the sound is coming from. It couldn’t be your house, you’d have to own a guitar for that first. Once you reach your window and look outside to see a boy with a guitar, it all starts making sense.

Well actually, it makes even less sense.

You scan his figure, watching his brown hair fall in front of his eyes as he plays the instrument, a bike lying right beside his feet. You blink confusedly, listening to the soft melody you don’t recognize. And even though you can’t seem to wrap your head around why he is standing outside your house and singing a love song, it does sound amazing. His voice combined with the soft chords of the guitar warm your heart, causing you to open the window fully to see and hear better.

As soon as you do, his eyes lock with yours and he freezes. The song stops, his fingers stilled on the guitar strings as he scans your face, quickly looking around as if he was searching for someone. You both blink confusedly when your eyes meet again, trying to see what the hell is happening. He clears his throat first, awkwardly running his hand through his hair. “Is– Uhm, is Yuna here?” You frown, narrowing your eyes at him. “Who?” You question, watching his cheeks turn red, probably from embarrassment. “Kim Yuna? I uhm, isn’t this her house?”

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Of course this poor boy is confessing his love under your window for a different girl. You don’t know him, obviously, but it still manages to hit. “Are you from Haneul Academy?” You scan him all over again, getting your answer in the form of a slight nod. You nod as well, everything falling in pieces together. Kim Yuna, the one person you despise. Yeah, she definitely doesn’t live in your house.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no. She doesn’t even live on this street.” If his cheeks were red before, he doesn’t want to know what his face looks like now. It’s so utterly embarrassing. What was he even thinking about? Riding the bike with a guitar on his back on a Saturday morning to sing a love song for someone he wasn’t dating was already stupid enough, but this? This was terrible.

He moves around busily, grabbing his bike so quickly that his guitar almost breaks as it bumps into it. You open your mouth to say something, anything really, but you can’t find the right words. What are you supposed to say? Hey, it’s all good, at least you didn’t embarrass yourself in front of anyone else? You sigh, watching him get on his bike while mumbling soft, messy apologies without looking you in the eyes. He almost manages to fall off it when he fixes his guitar, but quickly gets himself back together, running away as if he’s just robbed a bank.

You watch him go from your bedroom window, your eyes softening just slightly. You feel bad for him, honestly. You’re sure he feels embarrassed, you would too, but a part of you thinks this might actually be better for him.

You know Yuna briefly. You’ve never talked to her outside of school, and even then, it was just when she wanted to borrow your notes before a test, but you still knew enough. A social butterfly with friends everywhere she looks, always around someone, no matter who it is. Her grades aren’t anything impressive, just average, and still, people seem to love her for a reason unknown to you. She’s pretty, you have to give her that, but you always believed in looking for more in a person, which leaves you confused on how it’s possible she is always dating someone.

Maybe she isn’t a bad person, you can’t know that, but you know she cheats her way through exams every semester, that she’s got a few upper classmates wrapped around her finger enough for them to always get her into the front of the line at the cafeteria, that she has started the ‘pretty contest’ in her first year just so the guys could rate girls at school for their own pleasure, and that much was definitely enough for you to dislike her.

You step away from the window, lingering for just a second before jumping into your bed again, your hands resting on your stomach as you stare at the ceiling, replaying the song in your head with a soft hum of the melody. You close your eyes shortly after, falling back into the dream realm, where you see the unknown boy again, singing a song only you could hear.

You regret signing up for an afternoon shift as soon as you step inside the store, your manager barely greeting you before running off, mumbling something about not being able to wait to get home and watch the football game. You settle behind the cash register, stretching your arms above your head.

It’s shortly after that the real work starts and you see customers walking in. It feels okay until people start asking you for help while you have a line at the cash register, trying your best to explain to them where they can find the product while scanning items of the person in front of you. They’re usually understanding, letting you do what you need and willing to wait a while, but there are also occasions where you get yelled at for being too slow or being a mess, making you clench your jaw. It’s not a hard job and it pays you good money, that’s why you like it so much, but people like that always make you want to quit.

Thankfully, it slows down before you can lose your mind and never come back. You breathe out in relief, sitting down in your chair and unlocking your phone. There’s ten minutes left before you can leave and you just pray no one else comes in. If you’re lucky, the manager gets here earlier and lets you leave even before your shift fully ends.

But of course, it’s not the manager that walks in. You raise your head and place your phone aside, your eyes widening when you see the same black zip up hoodie you did this morning. His hands are in his pockets, his feet leading him to a ramen alley before he can even notice you.

You watch him from your place, debating if it’s better to leave him alone and hope he doesn’t recognize you or approach him. Eventually, when he walks to the cash register to pay, you settle for the latter. “Hi,” you greet him awkwardly, scanning his cup of ramen. His eyes meet yours and his cheeks immediately turn pink, making him avert his eyes again as he greets you back. You smile, hoping to make it somehow less awkward while telling him his total. He places the exact amount in front of you and grabs his food, hesitating for a second. “I’m sorry, again,” he mumbles, raising his head again.

Your eyes soften a bit when you catch the blush hiding behind his glasses and messy hair, obviously still flustered. “I didn’t…did I wake you up?” He wonders when he remembers you standing in the window in your pajamas with your hair slightly ruffled from sleep. You shrug, putting the money away into the register before turning your head back to him. “Yeah but it’s fine, I wanted to wake up early anyway,” you lie so he doesn’t feel even worse, watching him hum in response.

“Can I, uhm, do you want anything from the store? Like coffee or ice cream? I…feel bad,” he admits, his eyes more sincere than you thought possible. You think about it, trying to see what the correct answer is, but when you figure there isn’t one, you just nod. “Coffee would be nice,” you agree, and before he can walk away to find a cup, you extend your hand towards him, your name slipping past your lips. He smiles, still awkward, as he shakes your hand, repeating your name inside his head to memorize it. “Choi Beomgyu.”

Your manager steps inside the store just as you collect the money for your coffee from Beomgyu. You smile at him, stepping out and making space for him at the register so he can lock it. It’s been around a year since you started working here and for some reason, he still doesn’t want you closing. At first, you found it weird, worried about what you did wrong, but then you learnt he is like that with every one of his part timers, no matter how long he’s known them for. His trust issues are bad, but honestly you can’t blame him. He’s just being careful.

Beomgyu stands on the side awkwardly, debating if this was his cue to leave. Your manager seems to catch onto that because his eyes flicker from him to you before sighing. “Yeah, you’re all good for today. Feel free to leave with your little boyfriend.” There were so many things wrong with the sentence, but you didn’t have a chance to correct him before Beomgyu hands you your drink, offering to walk you home since it’s dark outside.

You walk side by side, sipping on your coffee without a single word. You’re not sure if he minds or not. With his hands in his pockets again and his eyes glued to the ground beneath his feet, it’s hard to tell. “You don’t have to walk me home,” you mumble, making him look up. “It’s okay. I know where you live now anyway,” he jokes, but his laugh doesn’t sound entirely convincing, more like regretting.

“How did you end up there?” You wonder, watching the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. You narrow your eyes, trying your best to read him. “I’ve got the address from one of Yuna’s friends—Jia. I asked her for it last week, I doubt she moved out in the last few days and you started living there instead, though.” He kicks a few rocks on the ground and you nod. “Lived there my whole life,” you let him know and he hums. “I was stupid,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it’s something he expected deep down.

You’re not sure what to say or do. People never have a right or wrong answer, but most of the time, you can still tell what they expect from you or what they want to hear by the tone of their voice, by the way they stand, or any other body language. Beomgyu doesn’t give you any clues, though.

“Do you…like her a lot?” You ask instead, the words feeling sour on your lips. He seems to think for a second, weighing his pros and cons. “We’ve spoken twice,” he mumbles, blowing some air on his forehead to get his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t exactly know her, to be honest, but yeah, I do like her.”

“Why?” The question comes out more judging than you’d want it to but either he doesn’t notice, or simply doesn’t care. “I don’t know,” he shrugs. “She was nice when we spoke. It surprised me. I never expected a girl like her to look my way, let alone ask me about music and when our performances are.”

“A girl like what?” You frown, quickly masking it by taking another sip. “A pretty girl,” he says casually, and when he senses you quiet down, his eyes widen, quickly shaking his hands in the air to correct himself. “Which isn’t supposed to mean that the girls that do talk to me normally are ugly. Not that many girls talk to me. I– uhm– I think everyone is pretty, in their own way. She just is kind of out of my league, you know? And that makes me even stupider for thinking there would be a chance but–”

“Calm down,” you interrupt his panicking, a snicker escaping your lips. He’s blushing again and it’s honestly kind of cute. “If you think you’re stupid, then you probably have a chance with her, she likes that kind.” He rolls his eyes at your comment, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, making your lips curl up into a smile. You’re glad he understands a joke and doesn’t attack you immediately—which is something you’re sure all of the boys she keeps around herself would do.

“Sorry for the rambling. I don’t exactly know how you’re supposed to talk to girls,” he admits, making you chuckle. You let the conversation settle into a comfortable silence again, thinking about everything he’s said until now. The longer you spend with him, the less he makes sense to you. He’s nice, calm, quiet, innocent and pure, so why does he look at someone like Yuna? You can’t wrap your head around it. There’s a specific type of guys she’s dated, from what you observed, always the exact opposite of what Beomgyu is.

“The song is really nice by the way,” you proclaim, finishing your drink. “What song?” He asks confusedly, processing your sentence for a second before he connects the dots, his eyes widening. “It’s cringe,” he corrects you, averting his eyes again in embarrassment. “Do you really think that?” — “Yeah,” he nods, but you don’t believe him. To you, it seems more like he’s building up a wall in case you were going to agree, change your mind and say it’s the worst song you’ve ever heard.

“Well, I think it’s really good,” you assure him. “It’s been playing on repeat in my head.”

“Really?” He blinks hopefully, your smile widening as you nod. “Yeah. You wrote it, right?”

“I did,” he agrees, biting back his smile. “It’s stupid, though, isn’t it? Writing a song for a girl that I know will reject me.”

“You keep saying that you’re stupid and that what you do is stupid,” you mumble, shaking your head slightly. “But I don’t think that’s right.” He seems caught off guard by your words, struggling to find the right answer.

“I’m not stupid,” he says finally, tilting his head slightly with a sigh. “But I make decisions like that, sometimes.”

“You think liking her is one of them?” He doesn’t even rethink his answer before nodding, mumbling something about a hierarchy in popularity and the slim chances of her liking him back. When you ask why he decided to confess then, if he’s so sure he doesn’t have any chances with her, he tells you about how his friends boosted his ego the night before and he ended up believing in himself more. You listen closely, thinking about how it’d feel to be in his position.

After learning about Beomgyu’s crush and the way he sees Yuna, you naturally shift the conversation to something lighter, something that you’ve been wondering about and you know he won’t mind talking about—music.

He tells you about his band, the process behind his song writing and how he got into music at first, making you smile as you listen to his story on your way home. Honestly, you could have been home at least ten minutes ago, but for some reason, you didn’t want to leave. You enjoy talking to him, seeing his viewpoint on certain stuff and listening to his soft voice, making you take a longer route just to be with him longer.

You don’t think he minds, his laugh and stories making you think he likes being around you just as much as you do.

Once you do finally reach your house, Beomgyu stops mid step, smiling awkwardly again as he stands in the exact same place he did this morning. You smile back at him, glancing at the house, the soft light in the living room window letting you know your parents are there. “Thank you for the coffee.” He shakes his head slightly, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Thank you for liking my song. Possibly more than the person it was meant for.” Somehow, he doesn’t sound sad. In fact, it’s almost like he’s making fun of the situation now.

“Good night, Beomgyu,” you smile gently, his lips forming the same grin. “Good night.”

You feel exhausted by the time lunch comes around on monday, the lack of sleep from the previous night finally getting to you. Still, it feels worth it when you know it helped you do well on today’s tests. Sometimes, you question if it’s really necessary to do all this for some grades, but after another success, your worries wash off and everything makes sense again.

You walk through the full cafeteria, looking for a table to sit at, when your eyes fall to a familiar face, his lips turning into a soft smile when he notices you. You smile back at him but don’t move, still trying to find a table—preferably one that is empty. You’re not sure what Beomgyu’s smile means, if it’s an invitation to sit with him and his friend, but you don’t want to risk the embarrassment if it’s not.

But no matter how closely you look, you find nothing, your feet slowly bringing you to his table anyway. “Mind if I sit here?” You ask carefully and Beomgyu doesn’t hesitate moving to create space for you. You slide beside him, smiling awkwardly as a form of gratitude. “Sorry for interrupting– Taehyun?” You blink when your eyes land on the boy opposite you, recognizing him from one of the math competitions the school held just a few weeks ago. He greets you warmly, even though the confusion in his voice is obvious.

“Oh, wait,” his eyes widen in realization, flickering between you and Beomgyu. “Are you the girl he ambushed?” — “I didn’t ambush anyone!” Beomgyu argues immediately, his cheeks turning red after realizing how loud he must have been just now. “Of course not,” Taehyun scoffs. “You just sang a love song–”

“Alright, shut up,” Beomgyu interrupts him, glancing at you apologetically. You shake your head with a light chuckle, brushing it off. “I’ve already told you it’s fine.”

“He’s lucky it was you, honestly,” Taehyun comments between bites. You raise an eyebrow, blinking confusedly. He simply shrugs, “There are hundreds of students here, if Jia gave him the address of, like Minseo, a video of him would be trending all over the internet by now, and he’ll never have a chance again.” Beomgyu buries his head in the table, practically hiding under it with a groan as his friend continues embarrassing him. You do think he has a point, though. Meeting you was definitely on the lower side of all the embarrassing scenarios that could have happened.

“You both seriously need to shut up before the whole school finds out,” Beomgyu grumbles, looking around as if to check if anyone was spying on you. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tease him further, but before you can, he kicks you under the table. You hiss, but instead of yelling at him, you confusedly watch his face turn redder and his eyes follow someone behind you. You carefully turn around, watching Yuna walk past to her usual table. You look at Beomgyu again, your eyes softening when you manage to read his eyes—broken, desperate, lost.

A heavy sigh leaves his lips when she disappears from his sight, his eyes focusing on you and Taehyun again. You both give him a knowing look that he doesn’t seem to understand. “What? I’m just… I was looking for Soobin!” He comes up with an excuse quickly, making Taehyun scoff. “I completely forgot he doesn’t have lunch for another hour.”

“Right, as if.” Beomgyu closes his mouth again, knowing arguing with him is pointless. Beomgyu knew he was smart, always on top of the class, but Taehyun was on a different level. It was no use trying to outsmart him.

You hesitate, rethinking the situation again before finally placing down your utensils, turning to face Beomgyu. “I’ll help you,” you state, his eyes scanning your face confusedly. “With?” — “With your crush.”

He doesn’t have time to ask you what you mean before you continue, the confidence in your voice scaring him slightly. “I think there is a chance for you. We just have to work on some things.”

“Like?” Taehyun urges, the tone of his voice giving away that he doesn’t believe in what you’ve planned. “Getting him into things she likes,” you say confidently. “If they have more things in common, it’ll be easier for them to talk, ergo he needs to find out what she likes and then apply it to himself. Think of it like a test. If you prepare well enough, you won’t need to worry about failing.”

When you put it that way, Beomgyu doesn’t think it’s completely impossible. And even though you can see Taehyun doesn’t agree, as long as Beomgyu does, you can be useful. “I have a group project with Minseo,” you inform them, frowning slightly at the thought. Group projects were never something you loved, especially if you were paired with people who didn’t care about their grades. On the very first day it was assigned, you asked Minseo when she was free to research information and she straight up asked you to do it on your own, mumbling something about her head hurting every time she thinks for too long.

You hated being paired up with her, but it could be useful now at least. “I can figure out what Yuna likes through her. It won’t be too hard.” The hard part will be convincing her to meet with you. But once you do, you’re certain to get the information out of her. After all, she’s always been known to be an open book.

“Good luck with that,” Taehyun shakes his head, getting up. “Don’t turn him into a completely different person in the process, I’d hate to be his friend if he turns into one of the football jocks she seems to be dating all the time.” Beomgyu doesn’t seem to be paying him any attention, barely mumbling a bye back as his eyes find Yuna again, watching her laugh with her group of friends a few tables away.

“Let’s do it,” he agrees, turning his head to you again. “Let’s try what we can.”

Getting Minseo to meet up with you was actually easier than you expected. She did have a bunch of excuses at first, but after you told her you would buy her ice coffee and take care of the presentation fully on your own, she agreed.

So now, you were sitting in a campus café, waiting for her arrival with Beomgyu a few tables away. You told him you would handle it alone, but he insisted, saying that he needed to know immediately. You didn’t see a point in arguing with him, letting him tag along if that was what he wanted to do. You could see that he was nervous, fidgeting with his fingers on top of the table. Seeing him like this was what made you want to help. Because even though you couldn’t say you would wish Beomgyu someone like Yuna, you do think he deserves to be loved just like everyone else. Who he chooses to be loved by is not for you to decide.

It is Friday now, almost two weeks since you’ve met him for the first time. You’ve learnt that he isn’t as shy as you thought he was at first when he started greeting you in the hallways as if you were friends for years, inviting you to sit with him, Taehyun, and occasionally Soobin every day for lunch. He was nice, and whenever he talked about his music like it was the love of his life, you found yourself smiling, listening to every word.

You sip on your coffee, eyes locked onto the iced latte opposite you. She was five minutes late already. Taking out your phone to text her and ask her if she is on her way, you notice a different message, from no one else but Beomgyu. You look his way, telling him to shut up with your eyes. He’s telling you to sit still and hold on for a while longer, reminding you that girls like Minseo don’t care about other people enough to be on time but will always show up eventually. You can see that he’s worried you might just get up and leave and this whole plan would go to vain, and you hate that he can read you so well because that’s exactly what you wanted to do.

You sigh, putting your phone face down on the table and staring a hole into the café door, waiting for your project partner to show up.

When she finally turns up, your coffee cup is almost empty. You watch her walk in with a smile on her face, one so fake you want to pretend it’s not directed at you. But she sits down on the chair opposite you and you can’t pretend she’s not there with you anymore. “Hey,” you offer a soft greeting that she brushes off, taking a sip of her latte. “This is good, is that vanilla?” She wonders, watching the glass with amusement. “I– yeah,” you blink. “You asked for vanilla when we talked yesterday.”

“Right,” she nods, narrowing her eyes at you as if she was trying to remember who you were. It was annoying. “Why am I here actually?” Minseo tilts her head slightly, a small gesture that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s weird talking to her like this, even more so knowing that the first real interaction you have with her is being watched by someone who believes in you more than he probably should.

“I wrote the paper and I know your head hurts when you study for too long, but I just need you to read it to have a general idea of what it’s about and sign yourself under it so we can say you contributed to the work,” you explain just like you prepared earlier with the guys at lunch. She hums, not saying anything in protest as you hand her the two pieces of paper. You can see the disgust in her face but as long as she doesn’t say anything, you won’t either. That’s not really why you’re there anyway.

You start the conversation slowly, asking her about a boy from the basketball team you heard she’s been seeing. At first, you were worried it wouldn’t work, that she would think you were weird for asking her about things like this as that’s what you would do if a stranger asked you about your personal life, but she casually starts answering your questions, the excitement in her voice when she has an excuse to stop reading the paper obvious.

You don’t have to do much as she naturally shifts the conversation from herself to the other girls, gossip falling off her lips like it’s her second nature. You must say, you never heard so many disturbing things about people you didn’t know before.

As soon as she mentions Yuna and her obsession with athletes, your ears perk up. “Oh really? I didn’t know her type was that simple,” you comment casually and Minseo takes a sip of her coffee, the paper long out of her hands, laying untouched right beside her cup. “Oh no, athletes aren’t the only thing she is into. You know Jinho from the swimming team? He definitely wouldn’t make the cut,” she shakes her head like it’s the most obvious fact. You frown slightly, trying to remember him. When you realize you can’t put a face to the name, you figure that’s why he doesn’t fall under her type. She doesn’t like people whose names others don’t know.

“It’s someone like Yeonjun that she’d kill for. She’s been trying to get him ever since our first year. Weirdly enough, he isn’t interested.” Yeonjun is a name you do recognize. A star of every party that mattered, someone who was always surrounded by other people, just like Yuna. If it was by choice or not wasn’t your business. He was handsome, you could see why girls would like him, but he wasn’t your type. You’d much rather have someone who could solve a math problem than a guy who could drink a bottle of beer upside down.

“I see,” you hum. “So what would you say her type is?” It’s a simple question, that’s what it’s meant to be, but to your surprise, it’s also a question Minseo could talk about for hours. Hadn’t you known better, you would think she was still talking about herself. “She loves fashion, you know? Like there’s something so hot about a guy that can dress,” she says, looking around the café quickly. “See? That guy right there. It’s so hot,” she points at a guy in his twenties ordering a drink, waving with an innocent smile when he notices her. He looks flustered.

Even though you don’t want to admit it, you must say she is right. The rolled up sleeves of his button up that reveal his forearms are hot. You shake your head to snap out of your thoughts quickly and take a proper look at what he’s wearing. It’s the opposite of what Beomgyu has on himself right now. Yet, it’s not something you think he wouldn’t be able to pull.

“Oh! And him!” She whisper-yells, pointing at another guy who just walked in. When you see the black shirt and gray sweatpants he has on, you roll your eyes slightly. In his case, it’s definitely not the clothes she is attracted to but the muscles beneath them. “What else is there?”

Minseo thinks for a second, finally averting her eyes from the unknown boy and looking back at you. “Someone popular,” she states the obvious. “Who has connections, and like a bunch of followers.” You fight the urge to scoff at the simplicity of the girl. You weren’t exactly expecting her to say someone nice and kind, but a part of you still had hope until now. “He also needs to go to parties with her, you know her,” she laughs. It’s the same laugh she always gives her friends at lunch and it makes you think if she’s always this fast at befriending people. If that’s what you can call whatever this is.

“I was so surprised when she told me this, but apparently she also likes when guys get soft or whatever. She talked about emotions so much it made my head spin. She said a soft but popular guy like in the movies would be the best combination. I don’t necessarily agree though, I like them without all the emotions and shit.” — “What about you?” She tilts her head and you quickly blink in shock to make sure you’ve heard her right. “Is there anyone I could help you with?” Her smile widens at the idea, leaning closer to you. “If you want my recommendation, Minho from the football team might have been the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Your cheeks flush and you quickly shake your head to stop her. “I think– I think I’m good. I don’t really, uhm,” you avert your eyes, glancing over to Beomgyu for a brief second to see if he was still watching. Thankfully, your eyes don’t meet as he is busy texting someone on his phone. “Oh my, are you a virgin?” That question caught you off guard even more, your eyes widening. When your eyes shoot back to hers, it's enough of an answer for her. “Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,” she laughs, but to your surprise it doesn’t sound like she’s laughing at you. “Maybe you should try your luck with Yeonjun then, I’ve heard he likes virgins.”

“I see,” you nod, your voice shaking slightly. It’s embarrassing. This whole conversation, sitting there in front of her and talking about things like these. “But what did you say your type was again? Maybe I know someone better.”

You open your mouth to answer and then close it again. You’re not sure what she wants you to say, if she expects an honest answer, if she wants you to say athletes just so you could fit into her group, or if she simply wants to make fun of you and there’s no right or wrong answer.

After giving it a second thought, you open your mouth again. “I like kind people. Ones you don’t have to worry will judge you or make fun of you. I like when they are able to hold a meaningful conversation and have their own opinions on stuff,” you says, searching her face for any sign of not liking where you were going with this. When you don’t find anything, certain that she’s still listening, you continue. “I also like when guys aren’t scared to show their girl off, I think that’s very cute—when a guy proudly talks about his girlfriend.”

“I see, you’re one of those,” she giggles, leaning back in her chair. “How about looks?” You think about it for a second but then just shake your head. “Someone taller than me, I guess? I don’t know.” She shakes her head as well, but her smile never falls off. “I like you,” she proclaims, your surprise turning into a soft giggle when she messes up your name. Still, it’s something. “It’s bad you never attend any parties, you’re not only smart but also nice to talk to. Do you drink?”

“Sometimes, I guess,” you nod and her smile widens. “You should come to my party then. I haven’t told anyone about it yet but I want to do one next month, make sure you’re free. The girls and I can help you find someone, I’m sure you’ll be able to pick one of the guys there.” You don’t refuse her, you don’t say anything really. You’re not sure what you should say. So you just nod slightly, figuring that she’ll probably forget about this in a few days anyway.

She stretches her arms above her head, her yawn informing you that this was the end of her attention span. “This was really great,” your name is still a mess, but it’s closer this time, making you think that the next time you see her she might actually get it right. “But I should go now. The paper, uh, looks awesome.” You smile, nodding even though you know she hasn’t read a single word of it. It’s fine, you didn’t expect her to in the first place.

Minseo get’s up from her chair, giving you one last smile—one way less fake than the one you received when she came in—before walking off. You sigh, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes. When you open them again, the chair opposite you is occupied again. “God, since when do you walk like a ghost?” You ask, exhaling sharply. Beomgyu chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Looks like you’ve made a new friend. I didn’t know you were into gossip and all,” he teases you, making you roll your eyes. It’s crazy how quickly he got comfortable around you, turning from a mumbling and blushing mess to an annoying smartass.

“Don’t laugh too much, the work starts now. We need to buy you new clothes.”

Your eyes scan the rack of clothing in front of you, searching for what might suit Yuna’s style. If it was up to you, what Beomgyu was wearing now would be ideal. You shake your head at yourself, picking up a dark blue jacket you’re sure you’ve seen Yeonjun wear in a different color.

You turn around to show the piece to Beomgyu, seeing him holding up a pair of jeans himself. You narrow your eyes. “It’s the same one you’re wearing right now,” you point out and he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “I like my jeans, why not buy another pair if I’m comfortable in them?” He’s right, you can’t argue with that. You sigh, brushing it off and handing him the jacket for him to try on. He takes it without another word, looking around and browsing for more. You do the same, leaving him to do his thing while you go look through the other side of the store.

You walk around, trying to figure out what could look good. You’re not sure honestly, and the more time you spend at the store, the more you question if you’re fit to be the person helping him. You had your own style that you liked and didn’t care if others found it stylish or not, barely keeping up with the latest trends unlike Yuna. At the end of the day, you and her were the complete opposites, so how were you supposed to get him to fit her style?

When you meet Beomgyu again near the changing rooms, his hands are full. You smile, glad that he found it so easy picking out something that would fit both his and Yuna’s preferences. It’s only when you sit down and watch him come out in the first outfit that you realize he didn’t even try picking up clothes that weren’t in his usual style.

“This is nice, right?” He asks, doing a small spin so you can see. Baggy, ripped jeans and a comfortable hoodie. You scan his outfit, raising your eyebrow. It did look nice. It was similar to what he wore normally — except for the backwards cap on his head — so you couldn’t say you wouldn’t like it, the opposite actually.

For some reason, he looked different standing in front of you now. It wasn’t the same boy you’ve met outside of your house, it wasn’t the boy that walked you home from work the same night and talked about a girl he likes, it wasn’t even the same boy that you got comfortable around so quickly. The Beomgyu standing in front of you now felt like a boy just for you.

With his soft smile and glasses framing his face, he was just a boy you wanted to get serenaded by.

“It’s totally a boyfriend vibe, you know?” He fixes his hat, looking into the mirror to check himself. “What do you think?” You blink quickly, nodding. “Yeah, it looks great,” you agree, swallowing a lump in your throat as the memory of Beomgyu singing outside of your window comes back to you.

“Right? Taehyun and Soobin need to stop arguing with me about having a better style. I’m the best,” he laughs, disappearing into the changing room before you can say anything else. When he comes out again, he has a new pair of jeans on—black ones this time—a simple white shirt and the jacket you picked up before.

Your eyes widen just slightly, biting the inside of your cheek as he steps closer to you, watching himself in the mirror beside you. “I didn’t think this would suit me too well,” he mumbles, hiding his hands in the jacket pockets, smiling. “But it actually looks amazing. I think I’ll get this.”

“Yeah, you should,” you nod, mentally slapping yourself to snap out of it. You need to focus, not think about how well he looks. “I’m sure Yuna will like it,” the words come out broken but you’re not sure why. You do think she will like it. It’d be stupid of her not to. He looks amazing.

“Okay, I have one more outfit there,” he says, fixing his hair quickly. “Come on.”

“Where?” You blink confusedly, slowly standing up. “I chose an outfit for you as well.” Your eyes widen as you follow him inside one of the cabins and he hands you the clothes. You don’t get the chance to say anything before he closes the door behind you, sliding back into his cabin.

You stand there for a second, not moving an inch while listening to his soft hums of the song playing on the store speakers. As soon as your mind processes what has happened, you take a look at the clothes you’re holding, making a mental note that he likes the color pink.

You step out while fixing your hair, Beomgyu already waiting for you with his back turned to you. You clear your throat and he immediately turns to face you, his eyes widening for a brief second. You feel a bit awkward as he watches you, his eyes scanning your whole body as if he saw you for the first time.

He has a neat, light blue button-up, half of the buttons undone, revealing a white tank top beneath it. His pants are black, formal, something you didn’t think you’d see on him. The more you watch him, the more you question if there’s something he doesn’t look good in.

“I… you look amazing,” he compliments you, finally averting his eyes. His head falls low as he buttons his shirt, focusing on anything but how you look right now. He closes his eyes, trying to snap out of his thoughts, but the only thing he sees when he does is you again, standing right there with your innocent eyes and the clothes he picked up.

While looking for his clothes, he stumbled into the women section, his eyes immediately landing on a pink sweater. He isn’t sure why, but the first thought that popped up in his mind was about how nice it would look on you. He knew he was shopping for his clothes but he couldn’t help it, ending up browsing the women’s section for something to go with the sweater. And he did find something—a white skirt. He thought it would look cute on you, what he didn’t know was that it would look this cute.

The skirt was shorter than he expected, revealing more skin than he was ready for. Just seconds ago, he was thinking about how good he looked in his clothes and now, he was a mess. He shakes his head, avoiding looking at you again as he swallows a lump in his throat, asking you what you think of his outfit.

“You look handsome.”

The words come out before you can stop it, making you avert your eyes as well, your cheeks lightly flushed.

You both stand there, avoiding meeting each other’s eyes from embarrassment as if you’ve just walked in on him naked. It’s irrational if you think about it from a different perspective, but you can’t look him in the eyes, no matter how much you try to.

You’d rather not look at him again if it’d mean getting your heart to calm down and not making you feel like you’re going to get a heart attack any second.

You’d rather not meet his eyes again than admit a part of you wishes he was dressing up like this for you instead of Yuna.

Beomgyu walks out of the store with two plastic bags—one for himself and the other for you. You did like what he picked out, and as soon as you said it out loud, his eyes met yours instantly, putting his embarrassment aside and saying he’ll buy it for you. You tried arguing at first but gave up halfway, letting him do whatever he wanted.

“Is there another thing we could check off the list today?” He wonders, walking through the mall with you by his side.

“Aren’t you tired?”

He hesitates for a second, shrugging. “No, not really,” he mumbles. “I don’t have anything else to do tonight.” It’s a small lie if he’s honest. He could find what to do. He has his guitar, his band that is waiting for him to compose another song they could play at the spring festival the school holds, and there’s the game he’s been promising Soobin to play for the past few weeks. Still, he doesn’t want to go home just yet, doesn’t want to close himself in his room for hours with music when he could hang out with you. It’s the first for him.

Beomgyu was always someone who loved music. No matter what it was—the sound of a guitar, his old music teacher teaching him her favorite songs, the sound of his pencil drumming against the desk when he was bored in class, or even the birds singing in the morning when he woke up.

He wasn’t sure why spending time with you suddenly sounded better than music but he didn’t want to question it.

All he wants to do is enjoy the rest of his day, preferably by your side.

“Sure,” you nod, looking at your phone to see the time. “We can watch a movie together,” you offer, already sending a quick text to your mom to let her know you wouldn’t come home alone. “Yuna likes romance movies.”

He hums, listening to your every word as you talk about all the possible movies that come to mind at the moment, giving a quick commentary to each of them so he could picture them.

“Do you have a favorite?” You think it through, remembering exactly how you felt watching each movie you’ve just mentioned. “10 things I hate about you,” you answer finally, confident in your response. There were so many good ones you could watch, but this one holds a special place in your heart. “Let’s watch that one then.”

The light is on in the living room when you reach your house, Beomgyu awkwardly hanging behind you as you walk inside, a loud “I’m home,” leaving your lips. You peek into the living room, waving at Beomgyu to come closer when you see both of your parents cuddled up on the couch, watching your mom’s favorite reality show.

“Good afternoon,” Beomgyu greets them nervously, pushing his glasses up when they slide down his nose. “I’m Choi Beomgyu, I go to Haneul Academy with your daughter.” Your parents glance up upon hearing the unfamiliar voice, your mom’s smile widening immediately. “Oh my,” she quickly stands up, motioning for your dad to follow as she makes her way over to you.

You shake your head slightly as you watch your mom extend her hand towards him, introducing herself with a smile, your dad mirroring her actions. “You’re handsome,” she comments, nodding as if she was approving. You shoot her a look but she ignores it, offering Beomgyu something to eat.

“I, uhm, thank you,” he smiles, chuckling nervously. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“We’re going to watch a movie,” you inform them, getting their attention back to yourself. You’d rather not scare him away immediately. “Have fun,” your mom beams, glancing at your dad briefly. “I’ll get you something to eat as soon as our show ends.”

“Thank you.”

Beomgyu follows you into your room while you mumble apologies but he just shakes his head, brushing it off over and over again. “Your parents seem really nice.” You nod, closing the door behind you. “They are, but I get it if my mom seems like a lot right now.”

“She’s nice,” he repeats, assuring you it’s okay as he carefully sits on your bed. “Besides, even if she was an evil witch, it wouldn’t be your responsibility to apologize for her behaviour.” You bite back your smile, averting your eyes from him again and grabbing your laptop from the table.

“You’re really nice as well, you know,” you mumble, sitting down and placing the laptop on top of your thighs.

You’re really nice. The words echo in his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again as the movie starts playing, the sentence stuck in his throat. The intro music plays and he has to force himself to take his eyes off you and focus on the movie instead.

You soon learn Beomgyu can’t shut his mouth for longer than a few minutes, not even while watching a movie.

“This makes no sense. He can’t actually be that stupid, can he?” — “As you can see, some guys don’t have more than one brain cell,” you laugh, watching Joey pay Patrick as if it was his idea all along.

“Your eyes have a little green in them.” You smile, a soft giggle leaving your lips when she throws up right after that. Beomgyu beside you chuckles as well, glancing at you. “I’m starting to get it,” he says and your eyes meet. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I mean,” he clears his throat as if he was embarrassed. “They are cute together. It’s nice seeing them,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. “And it’s easy to imagine myself in there.”

“Yeah? Who would you be if you were there?” You question, your eyes flickering between the screen and the boy beside you. “Cameron,” he answers without hesitation and your smile falters for just a second. “I assume I know who Bianca would be.” He shrugs, not meeting your eyes again.

It doesn’t surprise you. You can see him in the position, pining over a girl while she flirts with the popular guy, playing around with him until she realizes what she’s missing out on. It’s funny, how just the thought of Beomgyu and Yuna makes you feel sick in the stomach even though you were the one offering your help with his crush.

The movie playing on your laptop along with a few soft laughs at times is the only thing that fills the room after that. You stay quiet, ignoring the way your shoulder brushes against his, watching in silence as Patrick and Kat get together, as Cameron and Bianca start seeing each other, even as Kat finds out she’s been played and Beomgyu starts asking questions, wondering if they are going to be okay.

“Is it that bad?”

“You mean being lied to and finding out he wasn’t interested from the start?” You raise your eyebrow and he closes his mouth again. “I get that just…you can see it in him that he loves her, right?”

“That’s true,” you nod slightly. “And that’s why they’re not going to stay apart forever.” That seems to quiet him down, eyes focused on the movie again.

As soon as the movie finishes, you shift in your place, Beomgyu’s eyes falling to your figure. “So? What do you think?” You ask to break the awkward silence. At least that’s what it seems like to you. “It’s really good,” he nods, his voice quiet. You want to ask if he’s okay, what is he thinking about and if he wants a glass or water or anything, but before you can do so, he is already on his feet, fixing his pants. “I should go now,” he says and you notice he doesn’t look you in the eyes. “It’s late and my mom is probably waiting for me.”

You nod, unsure of what to do. A part of you wants to stop him, ask him to stay longer and talk with you—about school, your part-time job, anything he wants—but you know you can’t. So instead, you stand up as well, leaving the laptop on your bed as you walk him out, watching him say his goodbye to your parents and them returning it with such a bright smile you’d think they’re talking to your best friend.

You linger at the door as Beomgyu walks out of your house, a plastic bag with his new clothes swinging in one of his hands. He looks back just once, your eyes meeting for a brief second, a spark flickering in them before he gives you one of his soft smiles, waving at you before disappearing into the dark.

You’re not sure what it is that had him running out of your room so quickly, but you know one thing—spending the day with him changed something.

Something you couldn’t quite name yet.

There has to be a logical explanation for the sudden change, and you doubt it’s the different clothes.

Taehyun seems to think the same, his eyes narrowing as he glances between you, Beomgyu, and the girl standing near the table, a smile on her face. Your eyes lock with his and he immediately wonders what’s happening. You shrug, as confused as he is. Soobin besides you doesn’t look as fazed, his eyes focused on his food, completely ignoring the situation happening around.

He wasn’t always eating lunch with the three of you but he knew about the situation. Beomgyu’s crush wasn’t a secret, and because they were best friends, there was no need to hide his plan from him either.

“Thanks for the help with the english homework,” Yuna smiles, making you roll your eyes. When you see Taehyun scoffing opposite you, you smile as well. You’re glad you’re not the only one feeling this way—like her whole presence near you is an irony.

“No problem,” Beomgyu answers with a shy smile. “Anytime.”

“This soup is really good,” Soobin interrupts and you’re not sure if he can’t read the room or just doesn’t care. Either way, Beomgyu glares at him, ignoring his comment completely.

“Okay,” she giggles gently, a sound so perfect you can see why Beomgyu would fall for her. Despite your differences and your disagreement with her actions, you get it. Deep down, you understand. She’s pretty, with long shiny hair and glossy lips. Her skin looks as soft as she sounds when she speaks, and her laugh sounds more beautiful than you expected.

“I’ll see you around then,” Beomgyu smiles at her awkwardly as she walks off to her table of friends, humming instead of answering. You wouldn’t consider this a real conversation or progress but when you see his eyes, you can’t say it out loud. He looks too proud of himself for that. “Did you guys see that?”

“No, not really,” Soobin says, not bothered at all. Beomgyu rolls his eyes at him but his smile doesn’t fall off his lips. “I’ve seen it. It’s weird,” Taehyun frowns.

“It’s not weird.”

“It is.”

“You don’t think it’s weird, do you?” Beomgyu looks at you, making you blink quickly. Your eyes flicker from him to his two friends, searching for help. Because honestly, you’re not sure.

“You like her,” you shrug, brushing the question off. Beomgyu raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else, the topic slowly drifting to something no one minds talking about—their band practice.

Taehyun tells you about a new song they’re working on, complimenting Beomgyu’s work on the music—which makes his neck turn red—and laughing as he remembers how Kai’s legs got tangled with the cables and he knocked down a bunch of instruments. You gasp when you hear the story, worried about him and all the instruments that must have been damaged. Thankfully, Taehyun assures you no one got hurt, not a single guitar or band member.

“Have you prepared for the spring festival yet?” Soobin wonders, munching on his food. “There’s a month left and you’re performing, right?”

“Forty days,” Beomgyu corrects. “And…not really. I’m working on it, I promise. I told the manager we’d be performing three new songs so I need to make that happen,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Inspiration has been avoiding me lately.”

“What normally works for you?” You ask, watching his eyes widen slightly. He thinks about it, his mouth falling open and then closing again multiple times. “I’m not… I’m not sure actually. It usually just appears out of nowhere, I don’t think there’s a pattern or something that would make me write good music.”

“Relaxed mind,” Taehyun speaks up. “And memories. That usually works for me.”

You nod, glancing between the three boys. It’s true that ever since you went shopping with him, he’s been out of it. Sure, he still talks like he is on crack a lot of the time, his brain working faster than yours ever could, but every time you mention his music, his smile seems to falter for a second. And now that you know he hasn’t been able to write anything lately, it starts to make sense.

“Alright. We should do something then. Relaxed mind and memories? I think I know of a way to connect that with our little mission,” you smile gently, ignoring Taehyun narrowing his eyes at you, studying you, and only focusing on Beomgyu, his lips turning into a soft smile you’ve grown to love over the past few days. “Have you ever played basketball?”

Athletes were one of the most obvious things on Yuna’s like-list. Her dating history said enough. It was only natural for the next step of your plan to be something to do with sports—but Beomgyu certainly didn’t expect to be playing on the school court with the captain of the basketball team.

“You’re late,” he comments, looking at a non-existential watch on his hand. “Wasn’t Jake supposed to be here?” You ask instead of answering, walking closer to Heeseung, one of your old friends from middle school, Beomgyu following right after you. “Change of plans,” he shrugs innocently. “He had a chore to run to and I wanted to check out who you were so eager to teach basketball to.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice that makes you roll your eyes because you know exactly what he’s referring to. The last time you asked him and Jake to play basketball with you was when you wanted to introduce your boyfriend to them, but this was a different situation.

A completely different one.

“Heeseung, meet Beomgyu. Beomgyu, Heeseung,” you introduce them briefly. “He wants to impress a girl and needs to be good at sports for that.” Beomgyu shoots you a look immediately, a silent plea not to tell on him completely. It’s enough that he has to listen to Taehyun’s constant ranting about how stupid it is and Kai’s teasing, he doesn’t need it from a stranger as well.

“Nice to meet you,” Beomgyu extends his arm awkwardly, a brief smile on his lips. Heeseung shakes his hand without a second of hesitation, his smile much wider. “Who’s the lucky girl?” He wonders and before Beomgyu can answer, you turn to him. “He always wants to know all the gossip to have a clear picture of others in his head but he doesn’t tell others. You don’t have to worry about anyone finding out.”

Beomgyu nods. “Yuna,” he admits, quickly looking around to check no one else was in. It’s kind of cute. It would be if he wasn’t talking about the one girl you don’t want him to talk about. You think it might feel a lot better if it wasn’t someone so different from you—if it was someone you didn’t compare yourself to so often.

Heeseung whistles, laughing softly. “That’s a tough one.” — “Do you think it’s not worth it?” Heeseung tilts his head slightly, taking a proper look at the boy in front of him. “That’s something you have to decide on your own. I don’t think you’re a bad guy, otherwise she wouldn’t be talking to you,” his eyes fall to you quickly before he looks back at Beomgyu. “And that alone gives you a chance with anyone.”

Beomgyu narrows his eyes at him, glancing at you. “I don’t think that was an encouragement.” Heeseung laughs at him, shaking his head. “If you want my insight, Yuna is not someone everyone can deal with. And I’m not one to tell you if she’s good for you or the other way around.”

You shake your head. “Just tell him it’s all worth it. It better be when we are putting so much effort in for her,” you laugh, the sound bitter. Heeseung raises an eyebrow at you, eyeing you up and down but before he can ask anything, you tell them to start playing already because you don’t have the whole day for them. It’s a lie. Once you knew you’d be spending the afternoon with Beomgyu again, you cancelled your shift and free-upped the rest of your day.

You don’t want to be time limited. Not when you’re with him.

Heeseung throws the ball to Beomgyu, daring him to show off what he is capable of. He hesitates, eyes flickering between you and Heeseung before he starts dribbling, trying to get around the captain. But this is Heeseung’s arena and he doesn’t let him win easily, stealing the ball the first chance he gets and running to the other side of the court, scoring perfectly.

It goes like that for a while, Beomgyu slowly getting used to the pace and learning when to try going through Heeseung and when not. It’s not easy at all but that’s something he expected. Playing with the captain couldn’t be easy.

“You’re good,” Heeseung praises, scoring another point. Beomgyu scoffs, pushing his sweaty hair back. “You learn fast and are confident.”

“I haven’t scored even half as many times as you did.”

“Yeah but I’ve been training my whole life,” he says, running around Beomgyu again before calling out to you. You raise your eyebrows confusedly, your eyes widening when the ball comes to you. You catch it, questioning what that was for. “Let’s play,” he explains simply, wrapping his arm around Beomgyu’s shoulder. “You haven’t gotten out of your form, have you?”

“You play?” Beomgyu asks confusedly, his eyes wide. You smile, dribbling slowly as you walk closer. “It’s impossible not to when you’re surrounded with people that do,” you shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. “But I’m not any good, don’t worry.”

“That’s a lie,” Heeseung leans closer to Beomgyu, chuckling. “I always ask her to play against our newbies to see how good they are. She never loses,” the praises leave his lips as if it’s his second nature, making you roll your eyes. However, when Beomgyu smiles at you, saying he wants to play with you, a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as well. “Let me take my glasses off first, they’re pissing me off.”

You watch him take them off and hide them inside his bag, your eyes never leaving him. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without them and a part of you is grateful for that. It’s really hard to focus on anything when he looks like that—absolutely gorgeous with his big brown eyes sparkling with excitement. Yeah, this wasn’t good for you at all.

Running around the court, sweating your ass off, was never something you enjoyed a lot. It was the main reason why you never wanted to play basketball for a club. But running around with Heeseung and Beomgyu by your side was something completely different. You were laughing, your stomach hurting from how much. Your hair was sticking to your forehead and you were sure it wasn’t a pleasing sight, but you couldn’t care less at the moment. Not when your eyes were focused on the sweat on Beomgyu’s forehead, his laugh addicting.

If it was with him, you could run forever on this court.

“Timeout, timeout,” Beomgyu repeats over and over again, his breathing heavy as he leans forward, his hands resting on his knees. Despite the exhaustion, he is still laughing softly, trying to collect himself again. His whole body feels too heavy all of a sudden. He falls to the floor, laying on his back and closing his eyes. Heeseung beside you laughs while you slowly walk over to him, sitting down beside him.

Your own breathing is unsteady but you’re still doing better than him, resting your hands on the ground beside you and blowing air up to your forehead in a lame attempt to get your hair out of your face.

“I’m not turning into an athlete,” he states, visibly exhausted. You chuckle. “You’d be good at it.” He shakes his head, still not opening his eyes. “Absolutely not. I think I have asthma.”

“Well then, it’s good you’re so smart,” you mumble and he prompts himself up on his eyebrows, watching you curiously. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You panic slightly, shaking your hands in front of your face. “I mean, you don’t have to be sporty! You are, obviously, uhm, I–”

His soft laugh interrupts you, a sigh full of relief escaping your lips. “I’m just teasing you. I’m glad I’m smart as well,” he assures you, glancing at Heeseung who is still standing up, a bottle of water in his hands now. You’re not sure where he got it but you need one as well, extending your arm towards him and asking him to pass it over. “Not that anything would be wrong with being an athlete, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Heeseung laughs, handing you the water. “You’re good,” he shakes his head, joining you on the ground. “That was fun, though. You do have a talent,” he assures him and you smile again, agreeing. Beomgyu grins proudly, mumbling something about always knowing he’d be good. It makes you laugh again. It’s amazing how easy it is for him to make you laugh but you definitely don’t complain.

As you’re collecting your things from the ground and saying your goodbyes to Heeseung, he pulls out his phone, telling you to wait. Both you and Beomgyu look over, questioning what he needs. “Let’s exchange numbers.”

Beomgyu smiles, quickly pulling out his phone and handing it to Heeseung for him to put his number in. “I’ve got a few pictures when you two were playing, let me send it to you.” You frown confusedly but Heeseung only smirks at you, Beomgyu’s phone lighting up with a new message instantly. “I think they are good, you should post them.”

There’s a bunch of photos of the two of you playing and laughing, some solo shots of Beomgyu, and even a picture of him laying on the ground just a few minutes ago. His smile widens, an idea sparkling in his head. Beomgyu quickly turns towards you, showing you a picture of him with the ball, his forehead sweaty, hair falling into his eyes. “Yuna said she likes big followings, right? I should start posting anyway, and this one is good, right?”

You freeze for a second, nodding slightly. “Yeah,” you mumble, biting your bottom lip to make sure you don’t say anything else. The words, “Can’t you do something just for yourself and not her?” hanging dangerously on the tip of your tongue.

“Alright, I see you around,” Heeseung says, sensing the sudden shift in your energy. “Call me later, yeah?” You nod, smiling awkwardly, holding tightly onto your bag. “I will,” you agree, meeting Beomgyu’s eyes again, hoping he can’t see how broken you feel over something so stupid. “Let’s go?”

When you get home you notice Beomgyu’s new post. The same picture he showed you earlier. When you scroll to another picture, he’s laughing with you and it makes you smile. The last picture he posted is of him laying on the ground, exhaustion visible. You think back to the moment and even though it’s only been minutes since you last saw him, you find yourself missing him already.

You want to spend more time with him, create more memories and laugh with him. But as soon as your eyes fall to the like button under his post, the silly wish disappears because you know you can’t ask for that. Not when his eyes are already on someone else.

Liked by yunaluxe and others.

You turn your phone off, throwing it beside you on the bed and burying your face in your pillow, a loud, regretting groan leaving your mouth.

The club room is loud, the electric guitar shaking the walls when Beomgyu walks in. Taehyun doesn’t notice him at first, his eyes closed as he plays, his grimace making Beomgyu wonder what he’s thinking about. It’s been long since he heard him play like that. Taehyun was usually calm, keeping his troubles to himself in order not to bother others.

“Hey,” Beomgyu greets him, Taehyun’s fingers stopping mid move as his eyes flutter open. “Hey. Sorry that was,” he tilts his head and swallows a lump in his throat, his brows furrowed as he thinks about how to explain himself. “I needed to cool off for a second.”

“Everything good?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he shakes his head. “Just a rough day. Math and all,” he brushes it off and even though Beomgyu feels a bit uneasy, he nods, getting his guitar out of the case. “Yeah, math sucks,” he plays into it, smiling as he joins his side. “It completely tired me today as well. Should we play it off together?”

Taehyun’s lips turn into a smile, “Sure.”

Kai laughs awkwardly as he walks into the club room, making both Taehyun and Beomgyu turn his way. The two of them are sitting at a table in the corner of the room now, chatting about nothing in particular while waiting for their third member. He’s late, which isn’t usual for him.

“You got lost or what?” Beomgyu asks with a light laugh, his smile falling off when he notices another figure behind Kai. “Kind of,” he chuckles, a teasing smirk on his face as he steps aside for the two boys to see. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Yuna smiles warmly, fixing her skirt in a way that has Beomgyu thinking she wants him to look. He clears his throat, glancing at Taehyun instead. “I’m going to absolutely embarrass myself,” he whispers, his eyes screaming for any sort of help. Taehyun just rolls his eyes at him, jumping down from the table. “What brings you here?”

“I saw Huening in the hallway and asked him about you,” her eyes briefly flicker to Beomgyu, his neck turning red under her gaze. “And when he said you’ve got practice right now, I asked if it would be possible to join you.”

Beomgyu pulls a chair for her, unsure if he should yell at Kai or be thankful. He feels like a mess, with no idea what to do. There has to be a right and wrong answer but he can’t find them for some reason. So he simply grabs his guitar, squeezing it tightly as he waits for his band mates to prepare as well.

It’s awkward. He avoids meeting her eyes as much as possible while her gaze lingers on his figure in a way he didn’t think was possible. A part of him feels excited, but the other is just tensed, insecure, and intimidated. Sure, they’ve played for others before. The three of them stood together on a podium in front of a bunch of people since middle school, but this was different—intimate.

“Okay, uhm, let’s start with spring,” Beomgyu looks over his shoulder at Kai behind the drums and then back at Yuna, sharing an awkward smile with her before his fingers gently move over the strings, one hand holding the pick and determining the rhythm while the other switches between different chords.

As the soft melody echoes through the room, his eyes close, focusing on his voice as he starts with the first verse. Spring is an old song from four years ago they play to this date to warm up. It was also one of the first songs Beomgyu has written, and even though he knows he has improved a lot since then, he still feels proud.

“Should we do Wake up next?” Kai suggests as soon as the song comes to an end. Beomgyu’s eyes widen, anxiety running through his whole body. “Yeah, let’s do that,” Taehyun agrees without hesitation, ignoring Beomgyu’s panicked look. Wake up is a recent song, one he wrote with Yuna in mind. It’s embarrassing on its own, even more so when he’s supposed to play it in front of her.

“Oh, is that a new song? I haven’t heard of that one,” Yuna asks excitedly, her bright eyes catching him off guard. It feels like he is talking to a completely different person. Just a few weeks ago, he was convinced there wasn’t an universe where she would like him back and now, he felt like he was in a dream. Beomgyu from a month ago would be jealous of him now, absolutely excited to play a song for her.

But now, he doesn’t feel that. He feels lost and confused as his voice fills the room because it’s not Yuna or her pretty smile that his mind drifts to.

It’s you, the girl he’s spent so much of his time with lately he can’t see a reality in which he doesn’t talk to you.

His fingers slip. The chord misses. His heart stutters, faster than the tempo, his head clouded with memories of everything you did together. It’s weird, wrong. He’s supposed to be thrilled, jumping from excitement that he gets to show off his music in front of Yuna and possibly get closer to her, so why is it only you he can think of while playing a love song he wrote?

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Beomgyu shakes his head, stopping before the song ends. Taehyun and Kai stop their movements as well, watching him confusedly. “My head is elsewhere,” he admits, mentally slapping himself to snap out of it. “It’s okay,” Taehyun assures him, his voice giving away that he is confused. This hasn’t happened before. If anyone was out of it during practice, it was Kai. Beomgyu was always focused, relaxing with the music and getting his mind off any unnecessary thoughts. It was weird.

“We can take a break,” Kai suggests, anxious when he looks at Yuna. He brought her in because he wanted to help Beomgyu and make them closer, he’d hate for this little mistake to cause the opposite. Thankfully, she doesn’t look disgusted like he expects her to, the same warm smile on her lips that calms him down a bit. “Sorry,” Beomgyu mumbles again, placing his guitar on the stand.

“It was really great,” Yuna says softly and Beomgyu’s eyes finally meet hers. “Don’t worry about it, the song sounds amazing.” — “Right,” he nods slightly, jumping up on the same table as before, his feet swinging in the air. “It’ll be better at the spring festival.” It’s a light promise that causes Yuna’s smile to widen, nodding happily. “I can’t wait to listen to it. I should go now, Minseo needs my help with getting alcohol for her party,” she giggles, the sound sending a shiver down Beomgyu’s spine. “You’re all coming, right?”

The guys exchange a look, unsure of what to say. Beomgyu only heard of the party when Minseo was talking to you about it in the café and honestly, he completely forgot about it. He didn’t think he was invited anyway, he never was. “You have to, it’ll be fun,” she encourages them, grabbing her hand back from the floor and standing up. “I’ll see you there,” she grins before any of them even answer her, not giving them a choice. And just like that, she walks away, leaving the three boys alone in the room.

Kai blinks confusedly, trying to figure out what just happened. He thought something was up right when Yuna approached him and asked him about their practice, but this was on a completely new level of insane. He turns his head towards Beomgyu who is as lost as he is, his gaze lingering at the door.

But for some reason, he doesn’t miss Yuna, doesn’t look there and imagine her figure. No, all he can think about is how wrong it felt playing the song for her, and how much he wishes it was you sitting on the chair in front of him, laughing with them at the stupid jokes Kai made or the way he messed up the chords.

Because with you he doesn’t feel the same pressure as with Yuna.

With you, it just feels easy.

“You haven’t forgotten, right?” You blink confusedly, looking up to see who’s talking to you. Your confusion only grows when your eyes meet Minseo who you haven’t talked to since the day in the café. “About…?” She gasps, shaking her head in disappointment. “The party, obviously! You have to come.” The fact she’s talking to you doesn’t surprise you as much as the way she finally says your name correctly does.

“I…when is it?” You ask carefully, hoping she doesn’t yell at you. She simply sighs, opening her phone to show you something. “Have you lived under a rock until now? It’s bold on here,” she turns her screen towards you, your eyes quickly scanning her story with the time and address. It is clear and you’re sure everyone knows about it already. It’s your fault for not following her.

“Tell me you don’t have anything today. We talked about this a month ago already.”

“I, no, I’m free,” you nod, a little uncertain. Parties weren’t exactly your thing, but you didn’t know how to tell her no. It was the first time someone out of her circle talked to you about anything other than homework they needed help with, and even though you knew it was pathetic holding onto it so much when you complained about their lack of intellect a lot before, you didn’t want to miss out on your chance to prove to them you weren’t just a nerd who didn’t have any hobbies outside of studying.

“Then it’s settled,” she claps her hands happily. “Bring whoever you want with yourself as long as they’re fun, I don’t care.” You nod, someone popping into your head immediately. She grins, waving at you slightly before walking out of the class, already chatting with someone else.

You brush your hands on your skirt awkwardly, trying to get them to stop sweating as you step out of the car, Beomgyu and his two friends right behind you. Kai’s older sister quickly wishes you to have fun, telling Kai to call her once he needs a ride back before driving off, leaving the four of you at the sidewalk.

“This is so weird,” Taehyun comments, looking at the already full house. Some people are in the garden, laughing around the pool while one of Minseo’s friends stands behind the DJ pult, mixing songs in a way that gives away that she is definitely not supposed to touch the device.

“Tell me about it,” Beomgyu mumbles while Kai just grins, way more excited than the three of you. “Oh, come on. It’s going to be fun!”

“Or extremely embarrassing.” Kai rolls his eyes, wrapping his arm around Taehyun’s shoulder and walking towards the house, yelling how lame you and Beomgyu are. You watch their back in disbelief, glancing at Gyu beside you. He’s wearing one of his ripped jeans with an oversized band shirt, looking as handsome as ever. He also isn’t wearing his glasses, and so when he turns his head towards you, his eyes meeting yours, you feel weak in the knees.

“Let’s go,” he smiles and you avert your eyes, squeezing the bottom of your skirt as you gaze into the ground beneath your feet. He seems to notice your uneasiness, wrapping his hand around your shoulder and pulling you closer into a brief side hug. You raise your head again, surprise written all over your face as you watch him, eyes wide. “You look amazing,” he assures you, thinking that’s what’s bothering you. ��I told you when we were buying the clothes and I’ll tell you all over again until you believe it.”

It’s incredible how easy it is for Beomgyu to have your heart racing. His words echo in your head, his cologne reaching your nose as he slowly walks with you towards the house as well, keeping you close. You look down on your clothes again, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you stare at the white skirt and pink sweater—the same clothes he bought for you a few weeks back.

Beomgyu grabs a drink for you and him as soon as you get inside, finding a space in the corner of the room. He tells you about a new show he’s been watching, how his new song has been going, and even about his failure at cooking dinner last night. You laugh, slowly getting comfortable again and forgetting about everyone else, your world only having two people in it—you and him.

You’re not sure where Kai and Taehyun disappeared or if they were having fun but it’s what bothers you the least at the moment, unable to focus on anything that wasn’t Choi Beomgyu and his soft voice.

But your little bubble is interrupted when your eyes meet Yuna’s behind Beomgyu and she walks over, greeting you with the same annoyingly beautiful smile. You take a sip of your drink and a small step back to make space for her, Beomgyu mimicking your movements. “Hey,” he greets her back, introducing you to her as if you didn’t already know who she was. “Oh, yeah, my bio girl, right?” She asks and you grit your teeth, nodding.

It’s ridiculous. You’ve been in her bio class for two years and she always came to you asking for help or homework answers, often cheating off your tests as well, so how were you still only labeled as her bio girl? It made you feel like a joke.

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” she mumbles. You bite back the insult you want to say and simply smile, letting Beomgyu answer. “Yeah, we’ve been friends for a while,” he nods, glancing at you. There’s a flicker of something you can’t name in his eyes, making you blink confusedly. Haven’t you known better, you think it’s pain, regretted behind those words. Does he not see you as his friend?

“Oh, right, I saw you on Beomgyu’s post when he was playing basketball, right?” You nod again, shaking it off and focusing your attention at Yuna again. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she says, shutting you out of the conversation before you can say anything else. “I don’t have anything to drink, mind grabbing something with me?” Beomgyu opens his mouth and closes it again, his eyes flickering between the two of you before he nods hesitantly, letting her wrap her arm around his and pull him away, leaving you standing there alone with just a cup of vodka in your hands.

You’d be lying if you said you don’t feel like shit but there’s nothing you can do, watching them from your corner while sipping on your drink, looking like someone drained life out of you. Minseo seems to notice when she walks over to you to greet you, her smile turning into a frown as she asks what’s going on. You don’t answer. Can’t. But she figures it out on her own, her eyes following yours and finding Beomgyu and Yuna chatting near the drinks, both laughing over something he said.

“Oh,” she breathes out, standing in front of you to cover the sight. She raises her cup, unsure of what to say to make you feel better. “Yuna is… I didn’t know… I mean,” she clears her throat, feeling the pain in her gaze. You shake your head, raising your cup as well and forcing a smile, drinking with her. Your eyebrows furrow when the bitter taste fully settles in, the grimace you make making Minseo laugh. You’re glad at least one of you is able to laugh at the moment.

“You know, I’m not as stupid as everyone thinks,” she says suddenly, glancing back at them again. “So I really enjoy talking to you because I know you’re not stupid either.” — “Thanks?” You interrupt confusedly and she sighs. “My point is, I wanted to have a friend who was smart and also could talk about stupid boys with me so I wanted to help you get a boy, I told you that, right?” You nod, trying to see where her monologue is going. “But he’s…I can’t really help you when Yuna wants him as well. You understand, right?”

Your eyes widen, your lips shaking a bit as you try to answer her. But what is it that you’re supposed to say? Yeah, no worries, I get that she wins every time? Oh thank you for being such a great friend, Minseo?

Instead, you brush it off, changing the conversation before she can say anything else and make you feel even worse. She seems to prefer it that way as well. Her smile returns and she tells you about the boy she is seeing at the moment, complaining about him not showing up today before she drags you with herself towards the center of the room, introducing you to a few people as if you were really her friend.

You sit down on the couch right beside her, fixing your skirt when it rolls up higher than you’d want. One of the guys offers you his drink but you refuse, saying you’re good. It’s only when you see Yuna holding Beomgyu’s hand and pulling him with herself for a dance that you grab the drink from him, gulping it down in one go. There’s a few whistles around you and cheers but they don’t reach your ears. The only thing you can hear is Minseo telling you to be careful before you receive another cup with who knows what.

You’re not sure how long you’re sitting there, drinking and chatting with Minseo’s friends but it does help make you feel better. You push Beomgyu out of your head for a while, thinking about getting home and watching a movie with your mom instead of the boy that keeps breaking your heart over and over again without knowing about it. It feels nice to be able to focus on something else for once, but with your luck, it doesn’t last long.

“Here you are,” Beomgyu’s voice is a little panicked when he finds you, sounding as if he was looking for you all over the house. His breathing is unsteady as he looks around the group of people surrounding you, frowning. It’s an unusual crowd to say the least, especially when it’s Minseo of all people telling you to stop drinking because you’ve had enough. Your eyes flicker to him, your smile falling off. “Oh, hey.”

“Hi,” he greets you back even though he doesn’t understand, your name gentle on his lips. “Are you okay?” He asks, worried as he comes to stand beside you. You nod, smiling again. “Peachy.”

“She drank quite a lot,” Minseo tells him, making you roll your eyes. They’re acting as if you were wasted, unable to hear them. But you’re sitting right between them, annoyed with both of them. “The last time I checked I was able to drink however much I want,” you mumble, asking for another drink. Yeonjun who’s sitting opposite you reaches over and offers you his cup. You grab it without hesitation.

Beomgyu says your name again in a poor attempt to stop you but it only makes you want it more. You need to drown the pain he causes you. Need to shut his voice out before you start crying in front of everyone without even knowing why.

“Come on, we should go. Your mom will be worried,” he tries again and you shake your head. “I think she’s perfectly fine here,” Yeonjun interrupts him with a teasing smirk, leaning back in his seat. “Right, princess?” You nod, ignoring the nickname. “I’m sure her pretty little head can think for herself. And either way, there’s nothing to be worried about when she’s with us.”

His words make Beomgyu even more uncertain, his blood boiling when he watches Yeonjun’s eyes trail down your body. It’s disgusting, really. He stands between you without hesitation. “Let’s go,” he tries again, watching your cheeks turn red as you look up at him, hoping for the couch to swallow your whole so you could disappear.

His eyes are pleasing and part of you wants nothing more than to leave with him right now, but it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

Beomgyu grabs your hand before you can speak, pulling you up so you’re standing in front of him. You watch him confusedly, opening your mouth to argue with him and tell him you want to stay. However, he interrupts you before you can even do so, his empty hand cupping your cheek as he leans closer, pressing his lips against yours.

Your eyes widen, feeling your heart is about to jump out of your chest when he tilts his head slightly, his eyes closed as he tastes your lips, his other hand moving from your to your waist, keeping you flush against him.

You’re out of breath when he pulls away, the loud cheers around making you snap out of your thoughts and realize what’s going on. Beomgyu holds your hand again, his eyes soft as he looks at you. “Can we go now?” You nod this time, squeezing his hand tightly as he pulls you away from the crowd, getting out of the house without looking back once.

You don’t look back either, your eyes fixed on your intertwined hands, unable to think straight as he pulls you towards Lae’s car, Taehyun and Kai already waiting inside.

He holds your hand throughout the whole ride without a single word, only letting you go when the car stops in front of your house and you step outside, your gaze lingering on him until Lea drives off and you’re finally able to break down, tears slowly rolling down your cheeks.

You don’t want to get out of your bed the next morning, frowning when the light from outside reaches your face. You hide your head under your blanket, groaning. You reach your hand out, trying to find your phone somewhere on the bed. Once you do, you’re left disappointed when you see it’s dead, slowly rolling out of the bed to charge it.

It feels like someone beat your head the whole night but you force yourself to get out of your room and find something to eat, trying your hardest to ignore the sickening feeling in your stomach that reminds you just how poor your decisions were last night.

“You’re awake,” your mom smiles from the kitchen counter, already handing you a glass of water and some scrambled eggs. You smile as you grab them from her, sitting down at the table where your dad is drinking his morning coffee. “Did you throw up last night?” He asks and you shake your head immediately, assuring him it wasn’t that bad.

“Beomgyu came by earlier,” your mom says as she settles into a chair beside you. Your eyes widen. “Asked if he could talk to you but you were asleep so I sent him back home. Did something happen?” You hesitate as you take a bite of your breakfast, remembering the way his lips felt against your last night. There’s a few things from last night that are blurry. You don’t remember how much you drank or what it was, but you remember this clearly.

“No, nothing happened,” you shake your head in the end. “It probably wasn’t that important, don’t worry about it.”

Nothing important. You try to convince yourself of that as well but as soon as you’re done eating, you rush back to your room, grabbing your phone immediately. Your lips curve into a smile when you see new messages from Beomgyu, feeling like for once, maybe life is going your way.

Beomgyu: Are you awake yet? Beomgyu: Can we talk? Beomgyu: I’m on my way to your house Beomgyu: Your mom said you’re still sleeping, just call me when you wake up? Beomgyu: I need to talk to you Beomgyu: And preferably see you as well Beomgyu: I miss you

He’s adorable. You rush to press the call button but freeze when you get a new notification. Yunaluxe shared a new story.

You click on the notification even though a part of you knows you shouldn’t. Your stomach immediately drops when you see a picture of her and Beomgyu from last night, her arm wrapped around his waist while the other holds up a drink. He is smiling, his arm around her waist as well. You feel sick as you read the caption. Love finding future celebrities before they’re famous.

You turn your phone off again and let it charge, jumping back into bed and closing your eyes, Beomgyu’s messages staying there unanswered. You can’t talk to him. Not when you know he thinks last night was a mistake. He likes Yuna, right? There’s no reason for him to talk to you.

Life never goes your way.

It hurts avoiding him, but it hurts even more seeing him. You turn away every time you catch just a glimpse of Beomgyu in the hallways, avoiding all his messages and calls. It’s been four days since you properly looked at your phone, not wanting to see what he texted you. You can’t. You’re sure that if you read his messages you’d cry again, and you’ve had enough of that.

So instead, you buried yourself in work. You took a shift every day of this week and once your classes ended, you ran to the basketball court immediately to be with Heeseung and Jake, making sure there wasn’t a minute you could meet or think about Beomgyu.

It worked.

At least until it didn’t.

You hear your name from behind, squeezing your eyes shut at the familiarity of it. You want to run away and pretend you didn’t hear him but before you can do so, he grabs your hand and your eyes widen. You slowly turn around, pulling your hand away from him. “Hey,” you greet him awkwardly.

He sighs. You expect him to accuse you of avoiding him, be mad, or even yell at you. Instead, he does the complete opposite. “Hi,” he says simply, his voice as soft as you remember it. You meet his eyes hesitantly, your heart shattering into tiny pieces when he smiles at you. “Can we talk?”

He doesn’t give you the chance to refuse, pulling you aside so you don’t stand in the way of other students. You’re both quiet for a while, unsure of what you’re supposed to say. An apology hangs at the tip of your tongue but the words never come out, the nervousness building up more and more the longer you stand there.

Eventually, you break the awkward silence. “It looks like your wish became reality.” His eyes widen, looking at you confusedly. You clear your throat, looking away. “Yuna likes you, it’s super obvious. You’ve been talking to her, right? I’m sure it’s going well for the two of you.”

“What? No– you– are you serious?” Now this is more in the tone of how you expected this conversation to go, the annoyance in his voice clear as day. “This has nothing to do with her. I wanted to talk to you. To you, about you.”

“Did Taehyun get used to her yet? I’m sure she’s also eating lunch with you now, right? I hope he isn’t making it too hard for you,” you say as if you couldn’t hear anything he said.

“Can’t you hear me?” He questions, taking a step forward. “This is not about Yuna or anyone else, I don’t care what Taehyun thinks of her. And no, she is not fucking eating lunch with us, which you would know if you weren’t running away from me. Seriously? Can’t you just talk to me, please.”

His voice breaks at the end and you have to bite the inside of your cheek. No, you can’t talk to him. It’s too hard. Too painful. You need to run away from him, this conversation, everything he makes you feel.

“I can’t,” you admit, focusing everything you have left on making sure your voice doesn’t break. If it did, you’re sure you’d cry. “I can’t, Beomgyu. Please, just go be happy with her and let me get over you in peace. I want to be your friend, I really do, but I need to be alone at first to be able to do that.”

Beomgyu opens his mouth to argue, tell you how stupid it all is and that he doesn’t want you to do that, that he needs you closer than ever now. You walk away before he can do so, breathing heavily as you turn your back to him. It’s not fair.

It’s the only thing both of you can think about. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair he gets to walk around all happy with his dream girl liking him back while you have to watch, every word that comes out of his mouth breaking you in a different way.

It’s not fair you get to walk away and look for closure while he is left standing there alone, unable to do anything but watch you as he regrets everything that happened in the past few weeks. As he regrets everything except for you.

Beomgyu doesn’t need to speak for his friends to know something is wrong. As soon as he walks into the club room and sits down, it’s obvious he isn’t okay. Taehyun and Kai exchange a quick look before walking over to him, sitting beside him without a word.

“Is everything…good?” Taehyun asks awkwardly, immediately shutting his eyes closed and regretting how off he sounds. “Perfect,” Beomgyu mumbles, only confirming their worries. “What happened?”

Beomgyu hesitates, staying quiet for a while and repeating everything inside his head. Yeah, what did happened? When did everything go so fucking wrong? “We kissed,” he admits with a sigh. “Who?” Kai frowns and Taehyun immediately slaps his shoulder, shaking his head. Beomgyu rolls his eyes, your name leaving his lips before he can stop it. “On the party. And as you might have noticed, she’s been ignoring me since.”

“Wait, slow down, you kissed her? I thought you wanted Yuna?” Kai asks confusedly, the surprise in his voice obvious. “Dude, it was so obvious they have feelings for each other,” Taehyun says and Beomgyu immediately turns his head towards him. “You think she has feelings for me?” He wonders, a little too excited.

“I know she does. Have you seen the way she looks at you?”

A smile forms on his lips, but it disappears as quickly as it appeared when he remembers you don’t want to see him right now, even if you do like him. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now. She doesn’t want me around and says I should be with Yuna.”

“Wasn’t that what you always wanted?” Beomgyu glares at Kai and the poor boy raises his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, you can’t blame her when Yuna has been the only thing you’ve been able to talk about for weeks.”

“That’s not true,” he argues even though he doesn’t believe it himself.

“It’s slightly true,” Taehyun nods. “But it’s definitely not lost yet,” he assures him quickly when he sees the pain in his eyes. “I know you and I know her, you two are way too good friends to be able to stay apart for so long. I’ve known you for years, Beomgyu, and as long as I’ve known you, Soobin was always your best friend. But after meeting her? It was so painfully obvious you like her the most out of all of us. I wondered all the time if you only see her as a friend. And she looks at you the same. Like you’re the whole world.”

Beomgyu doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know how. Silence takes over the room again and Taehyun wonders if he said something wrong, nervously glancing at Kai.

“Do you want to cancel practice today? We don’t have to have one. We are basically perfect,” the youngest asks carefully but Beomgyu just shakes his head, standing up slowly. “No, we should practice. The spring festival is in a few days and we can’t mess up. I’ve heard some recording companies will be there.”

They don’t argue with him, following him to their instruments without saying anything else. The silence is weird, uncomfortable, and it makes Taehyun and Kai uneasy. It’s the first time since they started playing together that their practice was this quiet.

Beomgyu grumbles as he keeps messing up the chords, his head too loud compared to the silence in the room. It’s unbearable. But he pushes through anyway, not wanting to bother his friends with something so small as a failed crush he realized he had too late.

It’s only when Taehyun suggests playing a different song that he finally manages to play somewhat stable. The right melody finally echoing through the club room. And as Taehyun starts singing and Beomgyu prepares for his verse, his mind drifts off again. He sees you, standing right in front of him and cheering him on with your big eyes, watching him like he is the star.

And in that moment, it feels like all of his pain vanishes, only the happy memories he has with you remaining.

“I need to go,” he blurts out all of a sudden, quickly packing his guitar. His friends watch him confusedly, blinking as he runs off without another word, unsure of what to do now.

Beomgyu doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that it was he who insisted on having this practice or that he was a complete mess until now. There’s something more important to do at the moment than to drown himself in sadness. He has a song to write.

You’re not sure about this. You stare down at your outfit, thinking if you should change again. You’re wearing a light blue dress that you’d normally love but for some reason can’t seem to feel good in right now.

“You look gorgeous, I promise. Beomgyu is going to fall to his knees when he sees you,” Heeseung assures you, watching you from your bed. But it’s not about whether he’ll like it or not, you don’t even know if you want him to. Jake turns off his phone and looks at you as well, a soft smile playing on his lips as he shakes his head at you. “It’s beautiful. No need to stress it. We’re going there to have fun, not for some dumb dude. What was his name? Beomhuj? Or something like that.” You giggle as Jake playfully winks at you, making you feel better without having to try much.

You’re glad they are going with you. You don’t think you’d be able to go alone. When you met Soobin in the hallway two days ago, he offered to go with you and you doubted he knew anything about what happened with you and Beomgyu so you simply rejected his offer softly. You weren’t going to go anyway. Just last night, you were set on staying home and laying in bed with your comfort movies, but then Heeseung and Jake came over, also set on something—making you go with them.

You weren’t in the mood to argue with them and so you got dressed, letting them convince you.

And now, you’re standing right behind the barricade with each boy on your side, awkwardly looking around the empty podium. You told yourself you weren’t excited, that you were there simply because your friends made you, so why were you searching for a certain boy with your eyes the whole time?

Beomgyu, Taehyun and Kai walk on the podium shortly after, the cheers and whistles loud around you. Even though you’re supposed to feel sad, mad even, all you are at the moment is proud. They are incredible. You know how hard they worked up to this point and seeing the crowd cheering for them makes you giddy. They deserve this, no matter what anyone else says.

You watch Beomgyu introduce their band, his eyes nervously scanning the whole crowd. It might be just your imagination but you swear you catch a glimpse of his smile when his eyes finally land on you, clearing his throat as Kai starts playing the drums and music takes over the place.

You smile as you listen to their music, all the sadness and emptiness you felt before washing off. You can’t help it. Even though a part of you wants to run away and hide so you never have to see him again, your other half heals when you listen to him. It always had.

The song comes to an end and Beomgyu glances at his bandmates quickly before wrapping his hand around the mic, smiling at the crowd.

“This is the first time we’re playing this song and it’s quite fresh, so I’m sorry if we sound a bit off,” he laughs awkwardly. “I wrote it at my worst and best at the same time. This one is for, uhm, a special someone,” he proclaims, avoiding eye contact as he thinks over his words. “It’s for the girl who makes me feel so much at once I’m unable to think straight, someone who has been there with me even when I was so oblivious it hurt her,” you see him glance at you briefly, his eyes saying everything you wanted to hear after accepting the fact you like him. You swallow a lump in your throat, shifting nervously and glancing at the two boys beside you.

“This one is called Because of you. I hope you like it.”

You blink confusedly as the melody surrounds you, the excitement in your eyes obvious as you look at Heeseung to make sure you’re not dreaming. He has a playful smirk on his lips, nodding as if he could read your mind completely.

“You laughed at things I couldn’t say, And made them rhyme inside my chest, I thought I’d lost the words one day, But with you, I found the rest,”

Beomgyu’s voice makes you melt in an instant, your eyes glued to his as he sings his song, a song just for the two of you. You get your serenade, you realize. A song he wrote for you and no one else. Your smile widens, cheering him on with the rest of the crowd, causing his grin to widen as well.

“Because of you, I raise my voice, Not to impress, but to rejoice, You turned the noise into a song, And showed me where my words belong, I used to run, now I stand through, Because of you,”

The words play in your head the same way the first song you’ve heard him play did, the melody already stuck in your head as you hum along, singing with him as if you’ve known the song for years. Maybe it’s because it’s him, maybe because it’s the two of you, but you don’t care. Not when he stares at you throughout the whole song, even though you know Yuna is somewhere in the crowd as well.

As soon as the song ends, Beomgyu glances at Taehyun for reassurance, giggling when he sees the proud nod he gives him. He rolls his eyes playfully when he sees how excited Beomgyu is, shaking his head. “Do I need to tell you everything? Get down there,” he encourages.

Beomgyu turns towards the crowd again, laughing awkwardly. “If you guys excuse me for a moment.” He doesn’t wait for their answer, doesn’t wait for anything really as he puts away his guitar and rushes down the podium to the barricade. You watch him with amusement, giggling softly as Jake claps beside you.

“Hi,” he smiles as soon as he stands in front of you. You giggle again, hiding your face in your hands. “Hey.” Beomgyu holds your hands and brings them away so he can look at you, an annoyingly beautiful smile spread across his lips as he pulls you closer and connects your lips with his again.

It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you wanting more, making you feel absolutely drunk on him. You kiss him back without hesitation, smiling. If every kiss with him feels like butterflies exist in your stomach—you want to kiss him forever.

He pulls back a little breathless, resting his forehead against yours.

“It’s you. Deep down, I knew it’s always been you.”

⋆✶ izzy's tags @beomiracles @seoulzie @adel222 @inkigayocamman @flowzel @love-be0m @virgo-and-libra @hwanghyunjinismybae @liaatiny @minaateez @bamgeutsz @lovingbeomgyudayone @definitelynotherr @hyunj00 @dawngyu @xylatox @thetxtdevil @biteyoubiteme @t-102 @jellyyjn @1-800-jewon @barbielibra @konigyu @demidelulu @i-am-not-dal @vicurious28 @yeonjunnnielover @fancypeacepersona @soohashits @whoisgami @cloverwalker ✶⋆ Want to get notified? Join taglist here !

358 notes · View notes