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astraystayyh · 5 months ago

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The prophecy- I.

ꕥ summary: when an angel becomes enthralled by the prospect of emotions, he falls into your world hoping you’d teach him how to be human. little does he know, there's no safety net awaiting him below.

ꕥ pairing: fallen angel!yongbok x fem human!reader.

ꕥ genre: slow burn. heavy themes relating to the complexity of emotions (insecurities, grief, nostalgia, love and sacrifice). angst. comfort. hope and healing. the members are included in the fic as well.

ꕥ warnings: plot installment. mention of alcohol and drinking, description of scars, self-loathing thoughts.

ꕥ word count: 17.8k.

Next. Series Masterlist.

authors note: this fic is my absolute baby. it is heavily inspired by Black Friday by Tom Odell, or rather my interpretation of its lyrics. angel felix is so so special to me, i got the opportunity to be very vulnerable while writing, so i hope you enjoy reading this first part as much as i enjoyed writing it. feedback is highly appreciated <3 this is for @forlix my angel who birthed this fic with me, and for @catboyanon for being my icon 💞 i love you guys 🫶🏻 thank you for reading!!!!!!

the series taglist is open! comment or send me an ask if you wish to be added— @linosssss @agi-ppangx @hwangism143 @httpdwaekki @booksndpoetry @courtnort455 @tonystenk @felixsbakingbud @oyinii @seungzsmin @kayleefriedchicken @freyjhasdesiredreality @babrieeee @nyasstars @lovefool-lix @velvetmoonlght @hash2013 @caticorn61 @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @minhosbitterriver @dorisnumber1fan @goldenmellow @juskz @chanshyunjin @aslou @hhwangsmoon @shinygubbins @msaddictions @abcdefgiwannasendmycodetou @realrintaro @theuntoldlullaby

Act 1. Everything comes with a price.

“So for once in my life, let me get what I want, Lord knows it would be the first time”- Please, please, please, let me get what I want, The Smiths.

Yongbok's existence has been a steady current of nothingness.

He has known no low, yet simultaneously, no high. Has never stood at the edge of the world nor cradled it within his palm. He is a straight line, knowing no bumps on its road, crafted to stretch forward, and then some more, indefinitely.

That is until you were assigned to him— his human to keep safe, to protect.

That is when Yongbok then realized that, all along, he had felt nothing— that there was a void overtaking his being, an absence of something, rather than what he had always known to be the norm.

Yongbok knew the rules, he knew what his existence entailed— that it was one entwined with yours, that once you’d both turn eighteen he’d sense it when you were in danger, each time you were in physical pain. So, he’d protect you, hover above you like a halo, keep you out of harm's way.

He also knew that it would happen unexpectedly. His one friend Seungmin described it as a minor nuisance, a thorn that needs to be plucked out, a bad weed that has overgrown. “You'll help your human and it’ll be back to normal.”

Yet, for Yongbok it wasn't merely a lone thorn, nor a solitary weed, but rather, a myriad of nuisances falling upon him at once— akin to a deluge of rain pouring as soon as the sky’s gates part. A throbbing so intense it made him falter in his strides, made his golden wings envelop him, as if to cage this unfamiliar feeling, to stop it from seeping from his body and soiling the azure skies.

It was the first time you had called out to him, it was the first time he would see you in. He imagined you’d be in agonizing pain, skirting the edges of death on a final dance with the devils. But, you were on your bed, curled around yourself the way his wings enfolded his body. Sobs rippled from you, an undulating cascade of waves that almost drowned you in sorrow.

You weren’t in danger. You weren’t in physical pain. So why was he here?

Why had he felt it when you simply cried?

Yongbok hovered near your door, unsure of what to do. This wasn’t in the rules he had learned— guardian angels do not deal with emotions, they do not feel the woes of the heart. “Humans are always hurt. Their heart bruises more than their body would ever endure. It is something we cannot control, nor can we help them with it”— those were the words of Christopher, the sovereign of all guardian angels, ones tattooed in the back of Yongbok’s mind.

“They do not affect us,” he had asserted, his voice maintaining its customary tranquility.

So why was Yongbok feeling the bruising of your heart?

He pondered for a fleeting moment before making a soft breeze ripple through your hair. You looked up from your bed, eyes cast outside the window, as a sunbeam delicately landed on your face. To his surprise, that seemed to halt your tears.

In that instant, the weight on Yongbok’s heart suddenly dissipated, like a morning fog chased away by the sun.

“So, this isn’t normal?” he asked Seungmin upon his return, who blinked at him once, then twice.

“No. It must be part of your anomaly.”

His anomaly, what explains Seungmin being his only friend. But his loneliness did not bother him, the perk of never feeling.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Yongbok sighed, circling the rim of his glass with his pointer finger. “Should I tell… you know.”

“Keep it to yourself.” Seungmin’s voice was stern, biting, leaving no room for Yongbok to object.

So he did not.

He kept it to himself, for the past five years, a diligent secret he’s gotten better at hiding. You were surprisingly a good human to guard, you never burned yourself, crossed the road while looking at both sides, and did not frequent shady places at 4 a.m.

But your heart weighed so much on your soul.

You cried an average of one hundred and sixty-five times per year, sixty of which being heart-wrenching sobs that almost paralyzed him, made the feathers of his wings wither down and scatter on the ground like sakura petals.

“Is it normal for her to cry this much?” he had asked Seungmin who had simply shrugged.

“I don’t know. I don’t befriend humans.” he sighed before adding. “Why does she cry?”

“Other people hurt her.”

“Then she’s stupid for repeating the same process.”

“Isn’t it fascinating, though? She knows the outcome might be the same, and yet–”

“Do you wish to befriend her?” Seungmin had cut him off, eyes narrowing down slightly. There was a hint of warning in his tone, a danger ringing somewhere near. You know where this path will lead you.

“No,” he replied quickly. He never brought you up again after that.

But his fascination with you did not die. Though, it wasn’t you, per se, that intrigued him. More so what you were feeling, every emotion that ran freely through your being. It was as if he perched on the precipice of your soul, drinking the droplets of emotions that escaped your being. Feeling through you, an extension of your very existence.

It wasn’t only the throbbing when you hurt, it was also a satisfaction when he made you smile again. Through a sunbeam falling perfectly atop you, a rainbow appearing above your head, a star shining more brightly as your eyes found it. Each time your heart bled dry and you begged for a sign, he was there, conjuring up one of you, smiling as you smiled, inching closer to you as the months went by.

What if the sign was him? What if he showed you he was there all along?

Would you smile at him too?

These were dangerous questions swirling in his head, translating into even more harmful actions. Like getting closer to trespassing the line between your world and his, drawn by that fascination, that thirst to know more, to feel more.

To talk to you.

But it was all but wishful thinking, it is all thoughts he buried within himself, his body becoming the graveyard of his life— through which he breathes and through which he dies.

Until tonight.

Yongbok felt that same familiar throbbing overtaking his being, only this one was much more intense, so much so he couldn’t hide the discomfort on his face, twisted in agony at the pain overriding you. He expected to find the telltales of your sadness draped on your being— teary eyes and shaky hands, pouting lips and the scrunch of your eyebrows that he’s come to memorize.

But to his surprise, he finds you perched upon an abandoned rooftop overlooking Han River, the moon casting its shimmering reflection above its surface. You weren’t frowning, nor blinking rapidly to dispel your tears. Instead, you sat there, gazing at the river below, legs dangling over the edge, your face as placid as the water before you. However, the burden on your heart was unmistakable, a weight he recognized because he, too, bore it.

He stops for a second, making a gentle rain graze your skin, light enough to feel like an embrace rather than a nuisance. He knew you loved these light showers as you always chased them, tilting your head to the sky as if thanking it for allowing the rain to visit, even for a fleeting moment.

But this time, you remain unmoving, eyes still fixated on the water, as if you wished it would rise from its place and carry you with it underneath.

You look like an angel, for you feel nothing, numbness seizing your being and trapping it into its hold, just as it does for him.

“Sometimes the human’s enemy is itself. They inflict harm upon their souls the most, sometimes even death.” He remembers the somber sayings of Christopher and then the question Jeongin asked, echoing the concerns that gripped everyone’s thoughts.

“Can we still save them from themselves?”

“Not always. We can be too late.”

You inch closer to the edge of the building, and Yongbok wonders if you had felt too much there was no other emotion your heart could pump out for you anymore, no life for it to breathe in you.

Can humanity disintegrate once it pains you too much? Can you turn it off in a desperate bid for survival? Would it still be a life if you do not feel in it?

“I’m not going to jump if that’s what you’re worried about.” Your cold voice startles him, and he looks around quizzically, wondering who you are talking to. But it is only the both of you atop the roof, and his wings are gone, the golden light that usually contours his being subdued.

The realization dawns upon him – you can see him, and you are speaking to him. Yongbok feels the stirrings of his heart, a singular beat that resounds in his chest for the very first time.

“I’m not worried,” he replies, after painstakingly long seconds. His voice sounds different, deeper as it floods his ears. I can’t worry, he decides against adding. “Besides,” he clears his throat, walking over to you, his hands resting on the railing. “You can’t die from here. You’ll just break your bones. Get paralyzed, at most.”

“What are you? A death connoisseur?” you snort, a small life seeping through your voice again as you finally look at him.

“Something of the sort.”

“This makes you sound like a serial killer,” you sigh, a heavy breath pulled from the depths of his heart. “But you don’t look like one.”

“I don’t?” he questions.

“No. You look kind.”

Kind. Yongbok has been draped in a myriad of adjectives since his creation, ones that hang above him like a somber cloud, imprinted on his skin with ink visible to everyone but himself. ‘Abomination’ was the one that came back the most. But you described him as kind.

What do you see in me? He wants to ask. Tell me so I can look for it when I see myself.

He’s acutely aware that he’s breaking the rules, his wings itching to fledge out and carry him away. But he forcefully keeps them at bay. Not now. Just a little more.

“Are you looking for hope too?” you ask, your voice much quieter than when you last spoke. Yongbok now sees it— the numbness wearing off and leaving place to an agonizing sadness, its essence is poured in your eyes alone, dull under the marvelous city lights.

“Hope?” he echoes, the word tasting foreign in his mouth.

“Mm,” you hum, drawing one knee to your chest while letting the other dangle, straddling an invisible line between your two worlds. “I come here and imagine as if the moon shines only for me.”

“That's not true.”

“I know,” you giggle quietly, your laugh swiftly morphing into a pout. “Most of the time it feels as if it’s shining for everyone but me.”

“I don’t think the moon cares enough to single you out.”

“That's somewhat comforting to hear.”

Running a hand through your hair, you speak again. “I don’t usually talk to strangers,” you confess, lifting the nearly empty soju bottle in your left hand. “I’m just a bit drunk, and really sad,” you whisper, as if entrusting him with a secret, an admission that the universe can be cruel in the fates it deals out. He knows that more than most.

“I don't mind,” he inches closer to you, his curious eyes casting over your gloomy figure. “So, you come here looking for hope?”

“It's a bit silly, right?” you smile sheepishly, and he shakes his head.

“Silly, no. It’s just unrealistic to look for something that is not tangible.”

“Everything that is good in life cannot be grasped with our hands.”

He knows nothing of all these good things you speak of, so he remains silent.

“You know what’s funny? Each time I ask for a sign I find it.”

Each time you call out for him he is there.

“Is that so?”

You take a big gulp from your drink, setting it down as your tone grows melancholic with each word. “Yeah. I think I've seen more butterflies in the past five years than the average person does in a lifetime.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?” he asks tentatively, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. What if, all along, in his attempts to pull you up he has only been drowning you further?

“It is. It makes me believe that things will turn out better, in the end,” you share, pausing briefly as if attempting to contain your words. It’s only a moment later that you continue, “I guess I'm just tired of believing things will get better instead of feeling better.”

He was a temporary patch-up, a band-aid made of silk threads destined to wear off with time. Guardian angels cannot help with the woes of the heart. For all their immortality, they fall short before the power of emotions, kneel in surrender at the altar of humanity.

But on your darkest night— your black Friday where the sky resembles an abyss in which every star has fizzled out, he does not want to leave you without hope.

“Maybe you just need better signs,” he whispers, as a hoard of butterflies swivels before your eyes, a kaleidoscope of colorful wings fluttering in the hopes of breathing life into you once again.

“Butterflies don’t show up at night…” you marvel in hushed tones, your eyes darting everywhere to take in the magical scenery.

“Did you do this?” you’re breathless as you turn to ask but no one’s near anymore.

The heaviness in your heart has dissolved, not entirely, but enough for Yongbok to dismiss it as a fleeting nuisance, a stubborn weed, a lone thorn that he deftly plucked away.

…

Yongbok has not stopped thinking of your conversation, the steadiness in your voice as you spoke of hope, of good things that elude your gaze but infuse your existence with sweetness. He knew that he broke the rules by speaking to you, that there are but severe cases in which an angel is allowed to address their human. Sadness, no matter how profound, was not one of them. And yet, for all the years he spent abiding by the rules, he had not regretted talking to you, not once.

He had memorized the cadence of your voice, the sheer glaze in your eyes as they held his, the way you drowned yourself in alcohol, nose scrunching at its bitter taste. Everything about you, he learned, committing it to his memory that was once a blank canvas, for he had never lived something worth remembering, for he had never strayed from the straight path, drawn out eons ago for him.

Until you.

It is the following Friday and Yongbok hovers near a bar, his eyes absorbing the sight of the drunk humans mingling in there. Some of them are laughing, clinking half-empty glasses as they cheer loudly, Others, too busy pressing their lips against one another to dare dream of forgetting this moment. And then some sitting alone, their gaze fixated on the liquid within their glass, as if it holds the key to all their unanswered prayers. Foolish behavior, but he is drawn to the mundanity of it, for some odd reason.

He draws in a deep breath, before concealing his celestial wings and venturing into the dimly lit bar. He sits by a stool, curiously eyeing the array of alcohol on display. “What can I get you?” the bartender asks and he responds with a nonchalant shrug. “Strongest thing you have.” After all, inebriation is an experience beyond his grasp.

The abrupt sound of glass meeting the counter startles him, and he turns to his left. There, he discovers a young man, roughly his age, signaling the bartender for another pour. Ebony hair pulled into a small ponytail, a furrowed brow shaping his lips into a frown, the man’s gaze remains fixed on the scattered droplets of Whiskey across the counter. In the faint light, Yongbok spots a mole by his jaw, then another one underneath his eye.

“Bad night?” Yongbok inquires, clearing his throat, a thrill coursing through him at the prospect of talking with another human.

“Kinda,” the stranger sighs, turning around to face him. “I’m Hyunjin,” he says, extending his hand with a lopsided smile.

He firmly shakes it, before introducing himself back, “Yongbok.”

“Yongbok, mm… Feelbok,” Hyunjin slurs, “no, no, Hanbok,”— happiness— Hyunjin giggles at his own words punctuating them with a thumbs-up. “Nice name.”

“Thank you,” Yongbok mirrors his smile, although the gesture happens more naturally than he expected. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, as he watches Hyunjin down yet another glass.

“I should be,” he mumbles, before placing his chin atop his palm, gaze lost somewhere far in the depths of his mind.

Yongbok remains silent as Hyunjin blinks slowly, a sad smile imprinted into his mouth. “I opened my art gallery today. It was acclaimed by all the art critics who visited. They said it was moving, woven with emotions that are translated into every choice I made, from the colors to the blending to the lighting.”

Yongbok frowns, a sudden confusion settling over him as he detects the sorrow dripping from Hyunjin’s tone. He realizes that his expression mirrors the same loneliness he witnessed in you countless times before. Humans, it seems, resemble each other at their most vulnerable.

“But…” he continues, prompted by Yongbok’s silence or the strong alcohol, he doesn’t really know. “All these people came but not the one I painted for.”

Ah, Yongbok now understands what drives Hyunjin’s sadness— love. The irony of humans strikes him; for the one feeling they crave ends up hurting them the most.

“Every painting was about her and she wasn’t there to see it,” Hyunjin confesses as anguished tears suddenly well in his eyes. He cannot conjure hope for Hyunjin, for he is not his human to guard, so Yongbok mimics what he witnessed you do countless times to your friends. He places a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

“It will pass,” Yongbok reassures, not with a misplaced sense of optimism, but because it is an undeniable truth. Humans forget as much as they remember, grieve as much as they love, heal as much as they hurt. In their short life, everything they go through passes. It is how they survive the hurts of the heart.

“I don’t want it to. If the pain passes then I won’t have anything to remember her by,” Hyunjin smiles sadly, patting Yongbok’s hand above his own.

“Don’t you regret loving her?” he asks, perplexed by the breathing contradiction before him.

“I regret losing her, not loving her. Never loving her.”

As he stood on the same rooftop you were on nights ago, Yongbok is left with Hyunjin’s sleek business card held between his fingers, and a dull longing in his heart, many, many hours later.

Can a straight line stray from its path? Can his void be replaced with love?

At what cost can an angel taste humanity?

“Our kind yongbok.” A calm voice speaks and the wings on Yongbok’s back twitch more intensely than they’ve ever done. The danger Seungmin spoke of was here.

At what cost could he not?

“Christopher,” Yongbok bows in respect, eyes refusing to meet those of his senior.

“You had no problem looking at all these humans, no?” Christopher muses and Yongbok takes one step back. Chris knows, he has always known and yet he allowed it.

Why?

“Fascinating creatures, right? I still fail to understand them. But what I do know for certain is that they are weak,” he pauses, Yongbok’s breath hitches in his throat. “Just like you.”

Yongbok’s nails dig forcefully into his palms, it does not soothe his nerves the way it does to you.

“But see, the difference between you and them is that they were crafted to be weak. Then again… everything about you is abnormal, you agree?” Chris speaks assuredly, his tongue telling facts alone. Yongbok remains silent, anticipating his punishment for trespassing into the human realm, for breaking the sacred rule of interacting with them.

Tales of chained angels, of those stripped of their wings, their bloodied feathers plucked out one by one haunt his thoughts. This is the closest Yongbok has gotten to fear.

In a blink, Chris materializes before him, his hand resting on Yongbok’s shoulder, reminiscent of the comforting gesture he extended to Hyunjin. However, this hold is not reassuring; it bears a weight that spells danger with every squeeze.

“Do you want to feel what humans do? Go, Yongbok, I won’t punish you. Roam with them, talk to them, and feel.”

Yongbok’s wings scatter with the wind, feathers falling like a curtain of white upon their heads. He falls to his knees, hand brought up to his chest as he suddenly senses everything surrounding him— the bitter wind brushing against his skin and the rush of hot blood coursing within his veins, the loud ringing of cars that morph into hands choking him, and worse of all, the loss of his wings that his spine seems to be weeping for.

“But remember, everything comes with a price,” Christopher’s polished shoes come into his view— Yongbok does not recognize the distorted reflection staring back. “Even weakness.”

Act two. The heart weighs heavily on those who bear it.

“If brokenness is a form of art, I must be a poster child prodigy” - Neptune, Sleeping At Last.

Delicate snowflakes descend upon the earth, intricate crystals forming a pristine blanket that veils the ground, concealing its flaws to the naked eye. The snow doesn’t discriminate, it falls atop every building in Seoul, from towering skyscrapers adorned with luminous billboards to the humblest abodes, nestled in concealed alleys, all bathed in a bluish glow at the heights of the night.

And in its fall, the snow does not leave Yongbok’s body behind, draping it in a cloak of icy tendrils, ones that seep through bones he did not know were capable of aching before. It mingles with his golden feathers, scattered all over the rooftop, tinged with his spilled blood. The crimson liquid oozes from his back to the ground, and in his first seconds as a human, Yongbok has already tainted the purity of the soil, he is already a nuisance, in this world too.

He is faintly aware of warm hands cradling his cheeks, attempting to infuse life into his pallid face. A kaleidoscope of blurry hues obscures his vision, and he is no longer sure how much time has passed since Christopher abandoned him on the unforgiven ground. It could have been mere minutes or lengthy hours— he is yet to be acquainted with how time passes on humans.

He also cannot recall you coming into the rooftop, does not remember when you pulled his head onto your lap, nor began combing your fingers soothingly through his golden locks. You are worried, he can still feel the pulsing of your heartbeat ringing in his ears, or maybe it is his own, he still cannot distinguish what is yours and what is his.

He’s in a haze, standing on the edge of a window, assaulted by biting winds that cut through him. He didn’t expect humanity to crash onto him this hard, for it to force oxygen onto his lungs only to set them ablaze.

“You’re awake, you’re okay.” Your reassuring words break through the disorienting daze, your hand firmly clasping his, guiding him away from the window’s edge, ushering him back into safety. In the familiarity of your voice, the winds relent, morphing into gentle zephyrs that cool the burning storm within him. He can feel the softness of your hand, your thumb swirling around his palm as if drawing out a soothing spell with your touch.

“H… hurts,” he stammers, the words escaping between breaths that struggle to find passage. He brings your palm atop his heart, where a myriad of stones seem to have found refuge, crushing his lungs and rendering them a cloud of useless dust, scattered away by the wind.

“It’s okay. You’re having a panic attack. It’s okay,” your voice is calm, though it speaks of frightening things. Would what he felt pass now that you put a name to it? Was it supposed to reassure him to hear that panic, like an uninvited intruder, has seized his being and is attacking it relentlessly? A secret ambush, a Trojan horse infiltrating his body under the guise of humanity.

“Help me,” his plea echoes weakly, an awkward sound that clashes with the very air particles, imprinting itself onto the oxygen you inhale. Is this what Christopher meant? Were his weaknesses only going to surge forth more now?

Is the cost of humanity facing the ugliness within you?

The questions swirl in his head like a relentless tornado, drowning out your voice until it becomes a distant murmur in the backburner of his mind. His body rebels against him, ears amplifying the cacophony of his breaths, shaky hands refusing to be still, lungs constricting to the point of near collapse. He’s back before the window, dangling over its edge with one silky thread, worn out from the countless humans who had clung to it in desperation before.

His hand slips. You seize it before he falls.

“Breathe with me, focus on my voice,” you come to him like a calming tide, pulling him into safe shores. You’re so close your nose almost brushes with his own, your hands enveloping his icy fingers to anchor him back to you. He tries to mimic your slow inhales, tuning out all his tumultuous thoughts to focus solely on you.

Under the starry sky and the unyielding snow, and through the panic that captures his being, his gaze seems to fixate on the most mundane of things— the soft moonlight filtering through the strands of your hair, casting a faint halo around your figure. As you draw in deep breaths, encouraging him to follow suit, the thought crosses his mind – perhaps, you are his guardian angel now.

Time passes in this shared rhythm until, finally, you release his face, falling beside him on the snow. His breaths find a more regular cadence, mirroring yours, yet an ache persists in his chest, as if unseen hands continue to press down on his heart, squeezing it dry of its blood.

You run a hand through your face tiredly, eyes looking up at the expanse before you. “Fuck, I thought you were dying.”

An apology lingers at the tip of his tongue, vocal cords itching to free the three syllables into the chilly air. But Yongbok has never apologized before, he doesn’t know how the words might crystallize in the cold. He isn’t sure he could bear witnessing their form now.

“What happened?” he ventures, his voice small and fragile, his face turning slightly toward you. You appear like a crescent moon, soft and gentle even with only half of your face visible to him.

“I came to the rooftop and I found you on the ground, surrounded by bloodied feathers and shaking from the cold,” you begin to explain only to freeze as if a crucial detail has just resurfaced in your memory. He knows what you’ll ask about before you speak.

“What are these feathers?” your inquiry hangs in the air, your gaze still directed ahead. He remains silent, unsure of how to explain the inexplicable.

“Who are you?” you press, and his reply comes in a single word, uttered vulnerably, “Yongbok.”

Please leave it at that.

Your voice is softer, more resigned when you speak again. “What are you?”

He does not need to voice the truth. He could chuckle and say that he’s human, what else do you expect him to be, and his voice might shake from the unrehearsed lie but you would believe him, and then he’ll make sure your paths would never cross again.

But a small part of him feels as if he does owe the truth to you. Because you cared for his well-being when you did not need to, gave up some of your warmth to infuse his being with it, sacrificed minutes of your time to make sure he’ll have sand left in his hourglass.

So, he sucks in a deep breath, gathering the courage to unravel the truth.

“I’m an angel. Your guardian angel. Or maybe was. I still don’t really know, yet.”

An incredulous laugh escapes your lips, gusts of powdery air materializing before him. “An angel?”

“Yes.”

“This is insane,” you shake your head, your face buried in the same palms that had cradled his cheeks tenderly moments ago— his sail amidst the winds.

“Is that how you managed to make all those butterflies appear that night?” you question, and he nods, shutting his eyes and releasing a strained exhale.

“So you’ve been guarding me all this time?”

“Since you turned eighteen.”

He freezes as he wonders what you’ll say next— maybe you’ll ask him to disappear from your life, not one to wish to mingle with angels and their kindred, maybe you’ll leave him be in the snow, lonely as he has always been.

What he doesn’t expect is for your eyes to find his, compassion swimming in your gleaming irises, your voice dripping with concern as you ask him. “What happened to you, Yongbok?”

There was no way for you to feel what he did, and yet you spoke as if you could— as if you peered into his heart and discovered it butchered and bruised, found thorns entangled around his veins instead of vines.

“I don’t know,” he chokes out a sob, as sudden tears stream down his cheeks, salty as they infiltrate his mouth, drowning him from within. The tears refuse to cease even after he wipes them, one after the other, a futile gesture akin to pouring water into sand, an attempt to nurture something not meant to grow.

“It’s okay,” you smile, your eyes shimmering like a million fireflies in the night. He shakes his head, as more tears escape him in the guise of words. In all of the times he has seen you cry, he never fathomed he would have sobs racking his body, too. That tears would cascade like an unyielding waterfall, an earthquake shaking the planes of his body, rattling his bones with an intensity beyond what he believed humans could endure.

“It’s okay,” you repeat, cradling his face against the warmth of your neck, his tears seeping through your clothing. He is weeping, though he does not know what for. For nothing yet everything. For the loss of his wings and the birth of his heart. For the harshness of the ground and the softness of your hold. For the Yongbok who perished and the one who came to life.

…

A fallen angel comes in various forms, some are entirely disgraced while others retain fragments of their celestial countenance. Yongbok, though deprived of his wings, did not lose his powers. He realized this when he instinctively healed the wounds on his back, the torn skin scarring in fleeting seconds. A small mercy bestowed upon him by Christopher, or so it seemed.

He will understand the reasons behind this act much later.

But for now, in his first breaths of humanity, when the echoes of his sobs have at last withdrawn from his being, leaving behind a lingering weariness, he is dealing with less stellar facets of his existence— the more mundane technicalities of it.

“So, not to rub salt on the wound but I assume you also don’t have a place to stay in,” you ponder, waiting until he regains enough composure to grasp your words, ensuring they wouldn't float beyond his reach.

“No, I didn’t exactly prepare for this,” he winces, his gaze briefly meeting the scattered feathers on the ground. But not for too long, looking at them invited a grand sense of loss into his being, a sentiment too weighty for his fragile state to harbor.

“You can stay at mine, and tomorrow we can start looking for a house for you?” you suggest, stretching out your tired limbs.

“You don’t… You don’t need to help me.”

Yongbok does need your help, you are the only human he knows and he is unfamiliar with how your kind acquire housing. And yet he finds himself at the crossroads between what his heart wants and what his tongue speaks of— ready to vehemently refuse your proposal to not inconvenience you, as if he’s a towering mountain poised to shoulder burdens when in reality, his being has never been this frail.

“You guarded me for five years,” you smile softly, effortlessly dispelling away his concerns like meaningless specks of dust. “It’s the least I could do.”

Stepping into your home was as familiar as walking into his own. He, unwittingly, memorized each nook and cranny of your place, a consequence of all the times he had lingered near— hovering, more accurately, above. So much so that he instinctively slips off his shoes and places them in your rack, mirroring the countless times he observed you perform the same task.

“So you really are my guardian angel,” you shudder quietly and he hums in questioning, turning to look at you, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you respond, perking up and adorning your lips with a swift smile. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I’m okay,” he whispers, attempting to shrink as much as possible in the confines of your place. He has never felt this much discomfort in his own body, as though the skin draped on his bones belonged to a stranger.

“Well, I’m hungry so you’ll eat with me,” you say with a warm smile, putting your hair up in a quick bun before walking into the kitchen. You move seamlessly as if you are hosting a long-time friend rather than an angel you saved from possible hypothermia.

“Buldak ramen?” you ask, hands resting on the counter.

“Sure,” he nods, settling atop the stool.

He watches in silence as you bring the water to a boil, before pouring two servings of the instant noodles into it. You pause, thinking it over before adding two more.

“How are you so nonchalant about this?” he blurts out, finally freeing the question that had been swirling and growing in his mind- an insatiable weed that needed to be plucked before it infested his brain completely.

“About having an angel in my house who was apparently cast away from the skies and has guarded me for the past five years without me knowing, and who somehow knows where my shoe closet is without me needing to share?” you ramble in one breath, the tightness in your chest palpable. “Yeah, I’m totally cool about that.”

“You’re totally not cool about that.”

“No, I’m not,” you admit sheepishly, settling on the stool before him. “I mean I am. A friend of mine met his guardian angel two years ago when he saved him from a horrible car accident. So, your existence does not freak me out, it’s common knowledge for us humans.”

You bite your lip, averting your gaze from him to the painting adorning the wall above your couch—a bouquet of red roses where the petals seem dripping scarlet, resounding with passion and love, signed by H.

“It’s just… did you do something bad? For you to be left there alone?”

“Not bad,” he mumbles, clearing his throat awkwardly. It suddenly seemed silly to explain to a human that he envied their humanity, the one thing most of them seem to despise. “I broke the rules by talking to you that night, then to another human, and I was punished for it. I think,” he adds hesitantly.

“Oh,” you gasp softly, redirecting your attention to the pot to turn off the heat. It makes breathing easier for him. “You think?” you echo.

“It’s what I wanted,” he whispers, a bit breathless, now frightened by this newfound reality. He kept his powers and yet he lost his wings— he cannot fly back to his home and yet he can conjure anything his mind wishes for. He is with the one human that sparked his fascination and yet he cannot stop thinking of the price Christopher mentioned. Thinking too much about any of these things brings tears back to his throat— his body yearning to produce a liquid it has never known before.

“So, I assume you’ve never watched Howl’s Moving Castle up there,” you abruptly shift the subject, a radiant smile gracing your face as you pour the ramen into two bowls, generously topping them off with cheese.

“No?” His response carries a hint of uncertainty, and a sudden wave of frustration washes over him for feeling so displaced in his own existence. Yet, you appear oblivious to the awkwardness emanating from him as you gasp enthusiastically, seizing the two bowls and making your way to the couch.

“Oh, I think you’ll like it,” you beam, patting the spot next to you before taking the remote and queuing up the movie.

The meal tastes better than anything Yongbok has ever eaten in his life, each bite igniting his taste buds in a symphony of flavors, akin to the spark of a popping candy in his mouth. He finds himself engrossed in the movie, in the stunning visuals, the gentle hues, and the paradoxical characters, uncovering reflections of his own existence within them.

He has never understood the need humans felt for art, dedicating hours upon hours to creating something not for their personal gain, but for others to watch, to reach, to touch. A craft not to appease one’s soul but to soothe the spirits of others. Yet, as the movie’s credits come to an end, a subtle shift occurs within him. Perhaps, he thinks with his widely beating heart, he now understands a little more.

“I feel terrible like there is a weight on my chest,” you repeat one of Howl’s concluding lines, stealing a glance at him, a tender smile gracing your face. The one dialogue that felt like a mirror was brought up to Yongbok's face.

“A heart’s a heavy burden,” he completes Sophie’s response to Howl.

“That’s true. The heart weighs heavily on those who bear it,” you speak softly, as one would do to a child taking tentative steps into the world, learning that their first breath starts with grieving the only place you've known for nine months, followed by happiness, then sadness again, akin to the moon’s gradual phases. And maybe, in a way, he is a child lost in the overwhelming flood of these emotions, ones yet to be untangled in his mind but that already lay upon him like stones.

“Not everyone knows they have a heart, Yongbok. Some end up dying before ever feeling, without ever truly living.”

“I just didn’t imagine it would be this… soul-crushing to bear it,” he admits softly, the words escaping him like a delicate secret. There's a hint of fear that accompanies his confession, an apprehension that Christopher might materialize before him, speaking in that calm, knowing tone—berating him with a simple “I told you so.”

“It’s a little organ facing a big life. It’s normal for it to be overwhelmed, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement, placing a trembling palm above his heart. Still as heavy.

“You had a long night, get some rest, okay? We can start looking for a house tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he nods, as you rise from your place, only to reach for your wrist before fully thinking it through. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

In the cracks of his heart, one seed of gratitude has been planted, a singular ray of light amid a stretch of darkness.

Finding a house turns out to be a strenuous task, and Yongbok feels remarkably disinterested in the discussions with every real estate agent you encounter. You play the role of his assistant, weaving a tale about an important businessman client who abruptly secured a job transfer to Seoul. However, he couldn't care less for the large windows ushering sunlight or the expansive patio offering picturesque views of Seoul. Instead, he focuses on your reactions to each room—the gasps of delight at spacious storage areas and the vacant rooms you dream of adorning in the future, once you're no longer a broke college student, as you explain.

You envision a room dedicated to your books, with a chair nestled in the middle for the long nights you spend reading, and another room designed as a painting studio. The expansive kitchens you visit are perfect for your baking endeavors, and Yongbok, perplexed by your fascination with fridges sporting two doors, finds amusement in your lively antics. Yet, a void persists within him, unfilled by the prospects of a shiny new home.

“Still not the one?” you ask on your third day of apartment hunting, and he shakes his head.

“It’s okay, we’ll find the perfect one soon,” you reassure, and in that moment, he thinks back to your very first conversation on the rooftop, wonders how you can find hope for everyone surrounding you but yourself.

“I still can’t believe I befriended a nepo angel,” you giggle, before inching closer to him on the couch, peering at him from beneath your eyelashes. “My air fryer is broken by the way, can you replace it?”

He contemplates for a minute before shaking his head, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “No.”

“Aren’t you my guardian angel?”

“Right, a guardian angel. Not a bank.”

“But if my air fryer isn’t replaced soon then I’ll keep using it even though all its electric wires are now exposed and a fire will break out and I’ll end up dying—”

“Fine,” he heaves a resigned sigh, “I’ll replace it.”

“Can you also get me the Le Creuset kitchen set?” you grin, standing in your kitchen a few minutes later, cradling your brand-new air fryer between your arms.

“I'm not your sugar daddy.”

Your gasp is so comical that it coaxes a little giggle from his lips. “So you know about sugar daddies and not Studio Ghibli movies.”

“Gossip travels in our world too,” he shrugs, and you put the air fryer down, leaning closer to his face. From this proximity, he can discern the delicate curve of your eyelashes and the way they frame your glowing eyes—how can your eyes shine so brightly even under the shittiest kitchen lighting he’s ever seen?

"Hello? Did you hear me?" you wave a hand before his face, and he snaps back to reality, your voice flooding his senses again.

“Hm?”

“Never mind,” you shrug your hand dismissively in the air, “should we celebrate your third day of knowing me?”

“That's cause for celebration?” he frowns, and you playfully hit his arm. “I feed you, I clothe you, I put a roof above your head—” Your words are muffled as he clasps a hand over your mouth.

“Can you hear that?” he wonders.

You shake your head no.

“It's quiet, finally.”

His hand, a feeble barrier, does not manage to muffle your offended gasp, and in that moment, Yongbok laughs for the first time in his existence, a sound that ripples from the roots of his being, washing over his sadness and erasing it for a split second.

His eyes are closed as he tips his head back in laughter, and he misses the way your eyes soften, your retort withering at the tip of your tongue.

He’s beautiful when he smiles, you think. You hope for all his powers he cannot hear your thoughts.

…

Yongbok does not know what’s there to celebrate on his third day in this world, for all he had felt so far was excruciating sadness. But he complies with your wishes, rising at dawn to join you on the shore of the nearby ocean. Seated on the sand dampened by morning dewdrops, the remnants of melting snow resemble ink on a page not yet dry.

He watches as the last threads of the night unfold before his eyes, leaving way to a mesmerizing palette of soft pinks and oranges, the sky blushing from a night spent with the moon.

You brought him to witness the sun rising above the ocean, said that it would help calm down the frenzy of his heart. You are quite right, since the rhythmic dance of the waves acts like a spell, unraveling the knot in his tongue and coaxing him to recount everything that has led him up to this moment, to you. You were the main reason for his journey, he did not see it fitting to conceal the truth from you. He did not know yet how to deceive or lie.

“So you wanted to feel?” you conclude softly and Yongbok nods, eyes not peeling away from the sky before him. It looks grander from below, a vast ceiling you never fear might collapse on you.

“That’s why it overwhelmed you a lot, every emotion is heightened because it was the first time, I suppose” you muse.

“Yeah, but does it ever lessen with time? Isn't that why you cry often?” he asks, now free of the bounds that once restricted his curiosity.

“Can you please not bring this up again?” you hide your face, and he tilts his head, a perplexed expression etched on his features.

“Why is that?”

“It's embarrassing that you saw me cry this much,” you mumble, your words nearly drowned out by the crashing waves.

“It's not embarrassing. It's... fascinating,” he asserts. You stare at him incredulously, prompting him to elaborate. “You go down the same path, fully aware of where it leads, and yet, you do it again on the off chance that you'll receive the same kindness you show.”

“I sound stupid,” you giggle, and he mirrors your smile, not to mimic you, but because the corners of his mouth yearn to curve upwards, refusing to leave you alone in your grin.

“No, you sound brave.”

Your eyes soften at his words, the light of the rising sun filtering easily through your irises, causing your pupils to widen with each passing second.

“Thank you.”

A tranquil quiet settles between you, the soothing sound of the waves filling the silence. The sun hovers directly above the water now, perched on the horizon, the sky much bolder in the colors it showcases.

“I come here when my heart feels too heavy to bear. I suppose that looking at the sea calms me,” you murmur, your cheek pressed against your knee.

“Why is that?”

“For these waves to reach the shore, they go through a lot, you know? Storms and tumultuous roads, and rage fills them, anger, sadness too at being away from home for too long. But then, they always reach the shores at last. And they calm down, and they’re at peace.”

You turn to look at him, the hues of the sunrise reflecting off your face, dancing with the shadows that mold your features.

You look beautiful, so much so that he almost misses what you say next.

“So it is comforting to know that no matter how grand my worries are, there will come a time when they too will grow tired and rest.”

“It will pass,” he whispers and you nod cheerfully. “See, you’re already getting the gist of it.”

“No,” he contradicts, “everything I know about humanity is from you.”

The colors of the sky seem to seep through your face at his words, and an unfamiliar warmth spreads through his being at the thought of making you blush.

He licks his lips tentatively, bringing your hand to rest atop his heart, hoping that the pressure will help ease its tension.

It does, ever so slightly.

“It feels like my heart is squeezed between two narrow walls,” he explains and you nod in understanding.

“Like it’s been sucked through a straw that drains you out of life.”

“Yes,” He exhales with contentment at the thought of someone understanding what he means, of what he feels no longer being an anomaly, but the norm for most.

“Will you move in with me?” he suddenly asks, and you startle, your fingers growing limp in his hold.

“What?”

“Your apartment is shitty, you hate your landlord and I’m pretty sure there is mold growing on your walls.”

“Okay, no need to attack me,” you roll your eyes amusedly.

“I’ll buy the apartment you wanted, it technically doesn’t cost me anything and it’s closer to your university too, you no longer have to commute. You can get the library you wanted and the painting space too.”

“But—”

“I’m a fallen angel tasting humanity for the first time, I don’t know what I’m doing or what I’m supposed to do. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet because I don’t know who I’ll find there. And I’m so scared, Y/n, so scared,” he confesses, breathless, his hand still pressing your palm against his erratic heart.

A few seconds of heavy silence pass, Yongbok senses a resolve in you unfold.

“And in return?” you ask tentatively.

“I want to be happy,“ he breathes out, eyes flickering over yours like a swaying candlelight, “Could you show me how it’s done?”

Act 3. What’s an angel to a human?

“I want a better body, I want better skin, I wanna be perfect like all your other friends"- Black Friday, Tom Odell.

“So, happiness.” You stand near a blank whiteboard in the middle of your cramped living room, the one you just asked Yongbok to conjure out of thin air.

You’ve been slightly abusing his ability to make your every wish materialize in a fleeting second, but only for useless things, like a bar of soap that smells specifically of these notes combinations you always thought would pair heavenly together (they did not), or a tube of salted caramel ice cream at 2 a.m. because you were too lazy to walk to the fridge (it was mere two meters away). Or just like now, a huge whiteboard so you’d explain to him, visually, how to achieve happiness.

You told him that you’d only allow him to buy you a new house if he truly felt happy, for the very first time in his life. When he asked you how he’d know, you said he’d simply do, when the time comes. You shook hands on that promise two days ago.

“Was this really necessary?” he questions, cocking an eyebrow at you. In response, you place your palms against your hips, eyes squinting at his dubious figure.

“Do you want to be happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then, shut up.”

“I don’t think violence is the way to go about joy,” he quips and you quickly shut him up with a glare. Yongbok came to find that annoying you brought him a strange sense of satisfaction— he enjoyed seeing you pivot away, trying your best to conceal your amused smirk at his teasing. You always fail, or perhaps his perception of your being is heightened by the bond you share.

“I was saying, happiness is a byproduct of biological reactions.” You draw in a smiley face with utter concentration, and he stifles a giggle at the simplistic representation of the feeling. “There are four main hormones that allow us to feel happiness.” You pause, pointing your pen at him. “Yongbok, do you know which these are?”

“If I did know, why would I be here?”

“True,” you nod vigorously, looking back at the whiteboard before locking eyes with him once more. “Can you please play along? I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” you smile excitedly, speaking in hushed tones as if it was meant to be a shared secret between you both, far from the reach of the angels and peers that must be looking down at you both right now— you in indifference, him in disdain.

He shudders at the thought.

“Fine. No, I do not Miss,” his smile is small, it grows when your eyes soften at him playing along. “Care to explain?”

“So, in theory, we have dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, and oxytocin.” You flip the board, revealing some intricate drawings of what looks like the human brain, different arrows going out of it, filled with many inscriptions that he assumes are definitions of the hormones you just revealed.

“But all of this is…” you play the drums on the board, leaning forth in suspense. “Useless!” you shout, throwing your marker and eraser in the air. Yongbok claps diligently at your dramatics.

“You know for humans with limited amounts of time on this earth, you sure do love wasting your precious minutes,” he taunts and a fire seems to light in your eyes, flames surging higher each time you poke fun at one another.

“You know for an angel who desperately needs my help, you sure do talk a lot.”

“Touché,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Please grace me with your special knowledge.”

“Fine.” You plop down next to him on the couch, your knee bumping against his. A pang of ache flares in his being before disappearing as quickly as it came. It leaves him no time to decipher its cause.

“Happiness is the hardest thing to get in this life. Sometimes you follow all the instructions on how to be happy and yet fail to achieve it.” You speak with a lingering bitterness in your tone as if you’ve spent the best part of your life following defective manuals.

“Happiness won’t come to you, Yongbok. It doesn’t come knocking on our doors. You’ll have to search for it. Especially on days when everything seems grim and dark, you’ll have to squint your eyes and find it in the small things all around you. And when you do, hold on to them with all your might. Even if your hand bleeds, you hold on just as tightly.”

“What small things?” he asks, turning his entire body towards you. He is almost breathless, waiting for you to spell out the secret to tasting life’s sweetest fruit.

“Things that remain gentle no matter what time does to you. Like looking at flowers, sitting underneath the sun, watching the sea, being kind and helping people, enjoying your favorite hobby… “ you enumerate, your eyes never leaving his. “Do you have a hobby?”

“No?” he replies, though it comes off more as a question. You pick up on his uncertainty, waving a hand quickly through the air.

“It’s okay. I’ll help you find one. I promise.”

His response comes as easily as an autumn breeze.

“Okay. I believe you.”

You beam at him, sunlight seemingly pouring into your pores, brightening your face from within. He finds it strange that he suddenly sees the sun in you, a star he has never taken an interest in. But he quickly brushes the thought aside, mirroring your grin.

“I was also thinking,” you add, “you should work with me at my café.”

“Me?” he points at himself and you giggle, nodding. “Yes, you! Do you want to just sit here all day waiting for me to come home from uni?”

“What? Who said I don’t want to be your trophy wife?”

You snort, bewildered. “A what?”

“I did a deep dive into Urban Dictionary yesterday.”

You blink once. Then twice. “Crazy words to hear from an angel. And it’s a no, to being my trophy wife.”

“Please?” he pushes, tugging at the outskirts of your sleeve.

“No,” you sing-song, standing up and heading to the kitchen. “We needed a new barista anyway. And I’ll teach you how to make coffee. Also, I think you’ll enjoy people-watching.”

“That sounds creepy!” he shouts from the couch.

“Says the guy who told me I cry an average of 160 times per year!”

“It’s 165, actually,” he corrects.

You peek your head out of the kitchen, pointing a threatening finger at him. “Die.”

“What happened to live laugh love?”��

“Just how much did you stay on Urban Dictionary?”

“A lot,” he shudders, shaking his head. You burst into uncontainable giggles, and the same satisfaction floods Yongbok’s being. Although this time it is much stronger.

It is a weird thought that suddenly brushes his mind— he thinks that if the sun ever spoke it would be your laugh spilling out of its mouth.

…

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you grin, spreading your arms wide as you open the door to Haven Café. Yongbok follows closely behind, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black jeans.

“It’s nice,” he says absentmindedly, his eyes sweeping across every surface of the interior.

“Nice? This is my baby. Please be more expressive,” you retort, pointing a finger at him threateningly. He shakes his head, amused.

“This is the most beautiful place my fallen angel eyes have ever seen,” he says with mock reverence.

He isn’t lying, though. Resplendent flower vases adorn every corner, and a warm, inviting atmosphere permeates the space, evident in the comfortable auburn chairs and the books scattered on the sage shelves.

“I was actually wondering… What makes something beautiful?” he suddenly asks. You pause in your tracks, then resume opening the blinds.

“How it makes you feel,” you say simply. “Help me?” you add. Yongbok nods, sidling up to your side to open the remaining windows.

“This place is beautiful to me because it makes me feel at ease. I know that whatever happens, I can always escape here. Between the flower vases, the aroma of coffee, and the large windows, I feel good. At home,” you explain.

“But isn’t home your house?” he asks earnestly, tilting his head to the side. Your smile, warm and comforting, brushes over him like a fleeting sunbeam.

“Home is where you feel most like yourself.”

He does when you’re nearby.

Does that make you my home? He wants to ask, but something inside stops him. He thinks it is too big of a confession to be uttered at the rise of dawn.

“When did you start working here?” he asks, watching you refill the ice.

“Seven years ago.”

“Oh,” he gasps softly, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t known you your entire life. He wasn’t there to guard you through your childhood, to watch you stumble off the steps, or swing high to the sky. He realizes how little he knows about you. He suddenly aches to learn more, to know everything.

“The owner was our old neighbor, so when I was sixteen, he got me my first job here. I’m very attached to this place and its memories so I still come here.”

“Memories,” he repeats to himself slowly, as if tentatively tasting the way the word feels on his tongue.

“What was that?” you ask, as you sweep the counter with a purple rug.

“It’s nice to have memories,” he smiles and you scrunch your nose, shaking your head slightly.

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I have no memories. None worth getting attached to anyway because all my life was spent feeling the same way. So, in a way…” he pauses, licking his lips tentatively. “I have never lived anything that shaped me. Except for meeting you.” A few silent beats pass, and you feel as if he has more to say, so you remain quiet.

Yongbok opens his mouth, only to close it again, deciding against speaking. Yet again, too early.

“It’s your first life, in a way,” you finally say, “there are all these unknown feelings that you are experiencing for the first time. It’s unfair to you if you expect yourself to figure it out from the get-go.”

Your palm rests upon his back, swiping gently left and right before you move around the corner to filter the coffee. But Yongbok feels as if the clock orchestrating the universe has halted, the seconds freezing the moment your hand touched his back.

It is a heavy, gruesome knowledge that he bears— knowing that beneath your warm, comforting touch lies a map of butchered skin and scars running down his spine. His powers had fallen short of erasing the remnants of his lost wings, leaving behind clots of skin that starkly highlight all his imperfections in one place.

Yongbok had looked at his back only once, a fleeting glance before he vowed never to set eyes on his abomination again, this grotesque reminder clinging to him like skeletons overflowing from his closet.

He felt ugly, and worthless for carrying such a vivid reminder of who he once was. Who he failed to be. No one should ever see his back.

Especially not you.

“There are twenty minutes left until opening. Shall we discover what your favorite drink is?” you ask, snapping Yongbok out of his haze.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat with an inhuman effort. “That sounds nice.”

Yongbok doesn't like coffee—you could tell from the scrunch of his nose and the squint in his eye after one sip of his iced Americano. “Are you bad at making coffee, or does it always taste like this?” he asks, and you throw a dozen napkins at his head in response.

“People ask for me specifically to make their coffee. Know your place,” you squint threateningly. He raises his hands in surrender, biting his tongue cheekily. Your eyes linger a bit too long on his lips, shaped like a cupid’s bow, their arrow striking straight through your heart.

It sometimes astonishes you how pretty your guardian angel is, and how seemingly unaware he is of the beauty he carries within each one of his features, each worthy of paintings and sculptures to immortalize them for eternity to come.

“This is good,” he grins, sipping his caramel Frappuccino happily.

“Because it’s ninety percent sugar,” you smile just as brightly. He puts down the drink slowly, eyeing you curiously.

“Why do I feel as if this is a secret insult?”

“It’s not a secret insult. I’m doing it to your face,” you smile, and he rolls his eyes so much they almost reach the back of his head. You can’t help but giggle quietly as he grabs the vanilla matcha drink. “Wow I can’t believe the sassy men apocalypse affects angels as well,” you sigh.

“I literally have no idea what half of these words are.”

“What happened to Urban Dictionary?”

“Die.”

“Aww, look at you picking up my slang already,” you coo at him.

It's his turn to fling balled-up napkins at your face. You dodge them perfectly as if in a dance you’ve rehearsed thousands of times before.

“Anyways,” you clap excitedly, “you have five minutes to make me a latte.”

“Me? But I don't know how to.”

You place a recipe book before him, tapping the counter diligently. “I expect the world’s tastiest latte.”

A small smirk draws upon his lips as he shakes his head slightly. The sight of him makes you flustered all of a sudden.

“Anything else, your majesty?”

“No,” you grin. “Have fun!”

You wander through the café, dusting the books on the shelves– your most prized possessions, ones that you bought and others that customers themselves have donated. You return to Yongbok’s side when his voice booms through the place, calling your name.

“Here,” he slings the drink toward you, and your face contorts in shock.

“What the fuck? Since when do you know how to do this?”

“Do what?”

“This intricate latte art?” you point to the foam forming a perfectly drawn white swan.

“Ah, this. One time you were in the kitchen, very frustrated because you couldn’t get this shape right. So, I did it for you.”

“Are all angels as sweet as you?” you grin, taking a sip of the drink and holding his gaze over the rim of the glass. His heart catches in his throat for two reasons—anticipation as he awaits your reaction, and hunger as he aches for you to describe him even more, to dress him in all the adjectives linked to his being so he wouldn’t feel like a stranger, a blank canvas in his own body.

“How is it?” he asks. You remain silent, taking another sip.

“Mm.”

“Mm?” he echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s opening time!” you sing-song, walking away, and he follows behind you. “Why won’t you tell me? Is it that bad?”

“I don’t want to!” you speed up walking, and so does he. You end up running, skirting around the chairs, your laughter coating the room like golden honey. “Leave me alone!”

“You have to tell me!” he shouts, chasing after you in an impromptu game of catch. He suddenly manages to grab your arm, spinning you around until your back is against the table, his arms on either side of your body. His eyes are suddenly drawn to the languid rise and fall of your chest, and then to the way your tongue slowly swipes across your lips, wetting them.

A sudden warmth pools in his lower stomach, and he lets out a shuddered breath, his heart caught in a web of unknown feelings.

“Am I interrupting?” an unknown voice breaks in, and Yongbok quickly takes three hurried steps away from you, his cheeks ablaze as if flames are latching onto them—he doesn’t know if it’s from his embarrassment or from the golden specks he could decipher in your eyes.

“Mr. Kang!” you shout excitedly, skipping over to stand by the man’s side. He’s shorter than you, his back slightly hunched from time’s morphing hands, and his smile is warm as it lands on you. He reaches out to ruffle your hair in greeting before his gaze lands on Yongbok.

“Is this your friend?” he asks, the same smile still etched into his lips. You nod, and Yongbok bows deeply before straightening up.

“Can he make nice coffee?” Mr. Kang asks, and Yongbok stares at you expectantly.

“The best,” you finally grin, and a worried breath dissipates from his chest.

“I think we’ll get more clients too. He’s very handsome!”

“I know, you should see his freckles,” you giggle, pointing to a lightbulb that needs fixing on the other side of the café. Yongbok stays rooted in place, trying his best to steady his breathing. He is sure his face has turned the shade of the sky after a crimson sunset.

…

“This is Chris,” you say, standing by Yongbok’s side two hours later as he diligently wipes the counter. Yongbok follows your gaze to a young man nodding his head to the rhythm of his headphones. He looks serious, eyebrows furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line. His hair is hidden beneath a black cap, but a few strands escape, swooping like a duck’s tail.

“We take a music theory class together. He’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet, a true social butterfly. I think the term was coined for him,” you explain. As if summoned by your words, Chris looks up, his eyes finding the two of you. He tilts his head in greeting, clicks a few keys on his laptop, then rises to join you.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grins, and you roll your eyes. “When are you going to drop the cheesy nicknames?”

“Never,” he smiles, dimples deepening. They remain as his gaze shifts to Yongbok.

Yongbok isn’t used to smiles that don’t falter when they land on him.

“Hey, mate,” Chris says, extending his hand. Yongbok nods, shaking it.

“I’m Chris.”

“Yongbok.”

“Are you new here?”

“No, we just found him outside and forced him to make coffee,” you tease. Chris bumps your shoulder playfully. “Shut up. Good luck having to stand her for so long.”

“As if you aren’t obsessed with me,” you scoff, turning to Yongbok. “He refuses to drink coffee anywhere else.”

“Because you give me free sweets.”

“In this economy?” Mr. Kang appears suddenly, and the two of you burst into laughter at his timing. “Did your daughter teach you that?” you giggle, and he nods, almost desolate as if forced to acquire this knowledge.

“Anyway, we should hang out at one of my parties, Yongbok. Let’s catch up,” Chris grins before winking at you— “My usual, please, baby.”

You send him a playful middle finger. He blows you a kiss as he returns to his seat.

“We’ve known each other for three years now. He’s very annoying,” you smile, shaking your head. “But he’s a good friend.”

Yongbok feels something chip away in his heart, as his eyes land on Chan’s figure yet again. A slow ache swirls in his stomach like thorny vines. Time seems different for humans. He has known his fellow angels for much longer yet he doesn't think anyone would ever speak of him with this fond of a tone.

---

“You did well,” you smile, patting Yongbok’s shoulder at the end of the day, the café as empty as it was at 6 a.m.

“Thank you, it was nice,” he replies with a tired, yet genuine smile. You nod, a slight yawn taking over you.

“Will you help me get some flour from the back? Then we can go home.”

Home. A concept that seems less foreign when you are near.

“Sure.”

“It’s there,” you point to a high shelf in the storage room. “We usually use a staircase, but we broke ours last month. I almost fell on my head— “

“But ended up magically walking away unscathed?” he interrupts. “I know.”

You slam a hand over your mouth, staggering back. “How?”

“Y/n... please don’t be surprised when I tell you this,” Yongbok frowns, placing a hand on his heart.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

“When I told you I was your guardian angel, it meant that I actually guarded you from harm’s way.”

“No,” you shake your head.

“I know,” he nods solemnly. “I’ve saved you from many, many clumsy falls.”

“My savior,” you giggle. “Lift me?” you say, and he nods, squatting down until you climb atop his shoulders before rising again.

“Okay, get a bit closer,” you instruct as you grab a packet of flour. “Shit, okay, this is heavy,” you giggle nervously.

“Why are you shaking? I’m the one carrying you,” Yongbok chuckles.

“When have you ever seen me around the vicinity of a gym?”

“Just hang in there, I’ll squat slowly,” he reassures.

Your feet are almost on the ground when the bag slips from your hands, falling with a resounding bang. Clouds of white envelop you both, shrouding your clothes in powder. You freeze, only to erupt into laughter as Yongbok grabs your waist, pulling you down to him.

“My god,” you manage to utter between chuckles, staring at the flour scattered all over the ground. Your laughter intensifies as Yongbok stares at you blankly, his face completely covered in white.

“What should I do?” you giggle, clutching your stomach. Yongbok can’t hold in his laughter much longer at the sight of the tears rolling down your cheeks. His giggles stream through your veins like a cup of hot tea, making your entire being warm up from within.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, your palms settling atop his cheeks, slightly wiping away the powder.

“It’s okay,” he chuckles still, swiping his knuckles across your cheek to remove the flour, as well. Your hands cease their movements as you take in the fully concentrated look on his face.

“Can I ask you something?” you inquire quietly, and he nods.

“You seemed quiet today,” you note. He stiffens slightly before turning your cheek to the left, wiping the other side of your face. “Or was I wrong?”

“I don’t really know how to talk to other people.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m scared they’ll be able to tell there is something abnormal about me.”

“Yongbok...” you speak his name softly as if it was molded after your voice alone. “That’s nonsense. There is nothing abnormal about you.”

He avoids your gaze, so you place your hand atop his, tilting your face to catch his eyes. “Hm?”

“Just because my wings aren’t here doesn’t mean my past is erased.”

“Who said it should be? No one’s asking you to be perfect. No human is, Yongbok.” He remains silent, so you sigh softly, inching closer to him.

“If a straight line goes on with its path...” your fingertip drags a straight line across his chest, the white shirt he’s wearing suddenly igniting from the warmth of your touch. “It will remain undisturbed for the rest of its life. But what good is that? If a line doesn’t go down,” you trace a curve down his shirt, then one up again, “how will it ever know how sweet a high is, right?” you smile, before bopping your fingertip across the tip of his nose.

“You have pretty freckles, by the way,” you smile, and he clears his throat, nodding furiously. “Thank you.”

“You know, the guy who ordered the matcha latte, he spent his entire time here observing you,” you grin knowingly, and he frowns. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

“Yes, and when you gave him the change, he did the... what was it called again?” you muse for a few seconds before clapping. “Ah, yes, the triangle method.”

“What’s that?”

“He looked into your left eye, then your right one,” you demonstrate with your gaze gliding across his like a skilled ice skater grazing the surface of ice. “Then... his gaze flickered to your lips,” your eyes follow your words, and his breath suddenly catches in his throat, an unknown feeling swelling in the pits of his stomach. Tender and aching all at once.

“Did it work? Did I fluster you?” you giggle, leaning to place your ear atop his heart. Yongbok pushes your head away, grateful for the dim lighting that conceals his blushing face. He doesn’t know what emotion will burst into him if your head rests across his chest.

He doesn’t think his heart could handle it.

“No, you didn’t, um—” he’s flustered. He prays with all his might you can’t tell. “Let’s clean this up, I’m hungry.”

“What should we have for dinner?”

“Sushi?”

“No, let’s have kimbap.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

You shrug happily. “I’m giving you the illusion of choice.”

Your words send a chill running down his spine, his hands freezing in place. Is this what Chris has offered him? An illusion of choice. Of a different ending. Of a fate different from what he has always thought would be his.

No, Christopher can’t be that cruel, right? Yongbok shakes his head, cleaning the entire room with an absentminded swipe of his hand.

A fool made to believe he can change a prophecy.

But Yongbok can’t help the small voice growing in his head, feeding off his worries and anxiety, echoing mindlessly within his mind.

But he can.

He can.

He is.

…

Time passes differently on humans than on angels. It now marks Yongbok in different ways, too.

The hours he spends feeling sad are excruciating, stretching long and long till he starts to question whether the sun does rise at the end of the night. Or if it is a cruel lie recounted by humans to make the sadness less harsh, easier to bear.

But those same hours he spends happily pass within the blink of an eye, their fragments stitching into Yongbok’s memory, a tapestry woven with threads of your silky voice and glimmering eyes. It is those happy moments he lived for the past month that he wishes to remember.

Only those.

He's gotten better at latte art, taking pleasure in drawing different shapes, animals, and even faces into the drinks. It’s less the satisfaction of being good at a task, and more so the smile that blooms on the faces of whichever customer gets their drink. Delighted by something he did, for once.

He’s good at making brownies. And apparently, his brownies are the best you’ve ever had. He’s only ever discovered the joys of baking because you were craving some but were feeling too lazy to make them. It was arguably hard to bake in the dark, as if ashamed of what your reaction would be if you found him struggling with pots and browned butter.

But all of his embarrassment dissipated when you tasted them first thing in the morning, your eyes lingering longer on his figure when you found the plate.

Mr. Kang agrees, too, so much that he’s asked him to put up these brownies for sale. Yongbok spends a lot of time with the kitchen staff, where Mrs. Kang, the head chef, teaches him the intricacies of carrot cake and cinnamon rolls. She calls him “son”, Yongbok doesn’t know why an urge to weep overtakes him each time he hears the nickname.

You took him on picnics across the Han River, bowls of steaming hot ramyeon in your hands as you watched the sunset, sometimes the sunrise too. He reads books lying on the grass field, your shoulder brushing against his own. He doesn’t know why he remembers the swipe of your skin against his, or the specific scent of your perfume as it intermingles with that of the salty river.

Sometimes it is bike rides across the river. You chasing the sun and him chasing something else— was it your smile, your happiness, a glimpse of your face each time you turned back to look at him? He doesn’t know the exact answer, but he knows that when your gaze met his across your shoulder, the wind swaying your hair as if spelling out lullabies for his soul, something excruciatingly tender bloomed within his soul.

Sometimes it is day trips to neighboring cities, where you can see the beach once again. Where he swims and floats atop the water. Where he closes his eyes and feels at peace, where the water chases off images of his pain and leaves only images of you.

He also volunteered at your local food kitchen. The people who eat there have called him kind, too. He feels as if you sat the course of how he would be perceived when you described him as such, the very first night you spoke in. He likes being there. He likes talking to people, he’s gotten better at it, too.

He met Chan, and his two friends, Han and Changbin. He doesn’t remember how he ended up singing ad-libs for their newest mixtape. But they complimented his voice, said it’s perfect for harmonizing. You had simply grinned as if you already knew that from the moment you had first heard him speak. You spent the rest of the night eating grilled meat and playing video games over at their dorm. Yongbok doesn't think he laughed as much as that day.

And each time he thinks the heights of his happiness are attained, that this is as joyful as he can get. That sorrow will undoubtedly follow closely, as it lingers just around the corner, waiting for the cup of his happiness to be filled to the brim. You prove him wrong. You make him laugh harder. You broaden his heart for him to receive even more happiness.

As you are doing now, missing every target to win this pink cat plushie in Lotte World.

“This is embarrassing, how can you miss all of them?” he sighs amusedly and you turn around, pointing a finger at his face.

“Because you are staring at me with your…” you stammer, waving your finger in front of his face, “eyes.”

“How am I supposed to look at you then?”

“Just don't. I don’t do well with scrutinizing.”

“Okay, I’m not looking.” he turns around, closing his eyes for a second, waving his hand discreetly through the air. He knows that your delighted scream will follow.

“Did you get it?” he feigns being surprised as you shake his shoulder, turning him around. “I did!”

Your smile is as wide as an ocean, as beautiful as the sunsets you take him to witness. He’s lost in thought as he takes in your grin.

“You look so pretty, Yn,” he says honestly, earnestly, because it is the only way he has ever known to speak to you. “Pretty like the sun.”

“Oh,” your excitement fizzles out, the plushie growing lump in your hold. “Doesn’t the sun burn the more you look at it?” you giggle nervously, tucking strands of your hair behind your ear. They are rebellious, refusing to stay still, so Yongbok steps forward, gently doing it for you.

“Because the sun shines a bit too brightly to make sure everything else in the universe does.” he pauses, running his tongue across the expanse of his lips. “Just like you, with me and everyone else in your life,” he says. My light is a reflection of yours, is what you hear.

“You are very honest,” you smile softly, bringing a hand to your ablaze cheeks, hoping to cool them down.

“Is it a bad thing?” he asks. Nervous. You quickly shake your head, despising the thought of a negative emotion trapping his heart.

“No, no. It’s a good one. Truly.”

“Okay.”

“Should we go to the ferry wheel?” you suddenly ask, hugging the plushie closely to your body.

“Yeah, sure, let’s go,” he grins.

Yongbok’s limbs are slightly achy from all the rides you went on today, but nothing seems to deter the smile on his face, even as the line stretches for meters ahead. Nothing, except for the discomfort slowly growing on your face, your thumb tearing at the skin near your nails.

“What’s wrong?” he questions, trying his best to catch your fleeting gaze.

“There are too— too many people around, I feel a bit suffocated.”

Yongbok doesn’t think, he simply grabs your hand and you are suddenly on the top of the ferry wheel, humans morphing into tiny ants to you from high above.

“Better?” he asks worriedly, tucking a strand of your hair behind the cuff of your ear.

You’re still slightly dazed, but the wind that slams into your body feels like a gulp of cold water.

“Your hands are shaking,” he notices, entwining your fingers with his, naturally, as if it is second nature for you both. “And they are cold. Are you dying?” he asks and you finally burst into giggles, shaking your head.

“No, I… I sometimes get anxious around people; it usually turns into a panic attack but I think you stopped it.”

“I helped you?” he asks, eyes softening and you nod. “Why are you surprised? you always do.”

Yongbok doesn’t know how to face the gentleness of your tone. It is a much harder opponent than the harshness he was subjected to.

“Do they happen often?”

“It depends. They come and go like the seasons. I actually… I learned how to help you from my mom. Do you remember? back on the rooftop?”

“Really?” he asks, bringing your interlocked hands to his mouth and blowing warm air onto them. His lips almost graze your knuckles in the process.

“Yeah. She got them frequently and she taught me how to ground her. And then I used those techniques on myself. Then on you.” you sigh, closing your eyes and tipping your head back.

“Hers happened because of a past accident. She once got stuck in a mob of people and ended up fainting. it was my dad who pulled her up from the ground, it’s how they met, actually,” you grin slightly, before breathing in slowly.

“You know, I read that you can inherit trauma from your parents, but also from generations past. That it changes the genetic structure of your mind. I wonder if that’s what triggers me.”

“That's fascinating to think about. How emotions and experiences can be inherited.”

“I know,” you smile, “I think it passed.” you gesture to your interlocked hands and he lets go promptly, staring ahead at the twinkling city lights, light pink dusting his cheeks. He’s embarrassed because he enjoyed the feel of your palm against his so much, maybe too much, enough to wish for your line palms to meld into one another. Becoming two indiscernible scriptures to the naked eye.

“Wait. Does this mean we didn't need to wait all day for the rides?” you suddenly ask and he nods.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I don't… I don't like using my powers a lot around you.”

“Why is that?”

“I'm scared that the more I use them the more you'll realize that I'm a fallen angel and that you have no business talking to someone like me.”

“You are very silly, you know that right?” you sigh, placing your cheek atop his shoulder. Yongbok’s world stops spinning right there and then. “I don't feel as lonely anymore now that you’re here. Angel,, human, or something else entirely… None of that matters to me.

To me, you’re just Yongbok.”

the question trickles suddenly into his being, tiptoes inside him gently like a droplet finding its way back to a waterfall— what is the grandest thing the universe has to offer?

To him you’re it.

“I think I'm happy right now.”

“You think?”

“I don't know how to describe it… But it feels like I have a little sun in my chest. It glows and it’s warm.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, a wide smile on your face. He finds his answer in the sunset that filtrates through the strands of your hair, the last sun rays of the day coating your face in a warm glow, as if it was made to make your features shine the most, to make the shadows in your face look like a sculpture.

“Yeah,” he says after a few silent beats, “I really am happy.”

“Does this mean we are moving?” you giggle, spreading your arms wide as if taking in the entire universe into your chest.

“Yeah, wherever you want us to.” His words are soft, resolute, draped with a gentle discovery— he followed you down to earth, he’d follow you everywhere in it.

…

“I don't know how I'll explain to people how I suddenly afforded this apartment,” you smile, hands on your hips, as you take in your new surroundings.

Yongbok moves to stand directly behind you, his chest almost brushing against yours. you feel your heart palpitate at his proximity— so close yet so out of reach, simultaneously.

“Just say you moved in with me”

“Mm, I’ll say we are childhood friends and you just moved to the city.”

“Friends? Is that what we are now?” he grins, the light from the tinted windows bathing his features in a kaleidoscope of colors. He’s so beautiful, You you suddenly wish for a change to what you are. you don’t know by what exactly. But something, anything that will allow you to appreciate, venerate his beauty fully.

“Well, we aren’t strangers anymore.”

“I think you are my first real friend,” he says, a bit shyly, pink filling up the spaces between his tan freckles.

Yongbok always speaks what’s in his mind, with this air of innocence tainting his words as if he doesn’t know that thoughts can be kept to himself.

You never mind it. Though it churns your insides, makes you experience this particular attachment to him. You want to orbit around him, hear what he thinks of everything, of the colors it seems he experiences for the first time, the food he tastes, and the humans he speaks to.

And most importantly, you.

You yearn to know everything he thinks of you. You don’t allow yourself to decipher where this need is coming from. You don’t think you’d be able to handle its consequences.

“You’re lucky I'm like… The best human to ever walk on this earth,” you grin, throwing your hair over your shoulder and onto his face. He squints his eye to chase away strands of your hair.

“The humblest too,” he says, his eyes drifting across the living room. You chose an apartment on the smaller side, as opposed to his unlimited budget. But he likes what you did to the place. He doesn’t quite understand the intricacies of home decor, but he likes the plants everywhere, the flickering candles, and the fragrant flowers bathed in dim lightning.

And he loves your painting room the most, with a neat library on the side. It feels like taking a walk straight into your heart.

“Who painted that, by the way?” he suddenly asks, pointing to the painting in the middle of the room, right above the beige couch.

“Hwang Hyunjin. It took me four paychecks to be able to afford it, three years ago. His pieces are now much more expensive.”

“Hyunjin…” he repeats, tasting the name on his tongue, it is familiar, and the memory suddenly hits him once again. “Oh, I talked to him before.”

“Did you?!” you ask excitedly, grabbing his arm and shaking it slightly. “Where, when, how?”

“At a bar, before I became... half human?” he says, unsure a bit of what he is now. “He actually invited me to his upcoming exposition. When was it again?”

“Today!” you nearly yell and he flinches.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I've been following his news. He's really my favorite artist.”

“Should we go?”

“Actually?”

“Yeah. you seem to really like him.”

“Oh my god, I’m meeting Hwang Hyunjin. oh my god, I need a dress,” you grab his hand, pulling him away. “We need a dress!”

“We?”

“Let’s go shopping, we need to buy…”

Your words fizzle out in his brain, his whole focus on your entwined fingers as you push him through the room. Your palm feels like a soft petal brushing against his bruised skin.

If he freezes time, just for a bit more, to enjoy the feel of your hand in his, would anyone blame him?

The earth would understand surely— the desperate need to appreciate softness when all he has known is thorns pricking his skin.

...

“Yongbok!” Hyunjin's boisterous voice echoes through the art gallery, drawing every eye to you and Yongbok as you stride inside. Yongbok barely has a moment to take in the lavish surroundings before Hyunjin walks toward you, his polished shoes clicking rhythmically against the white marble.

“I knew you’d come!” he grins, grabbing Yongbok’s hand between his two large palms, shaking it warmly.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“Of course I'd remember you,” Hyunjin says, his face darkening for a fleeting second, before his eyes rest on you.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Hyunjin,” he smiles, grabbing your hand and shaking it a bit more softly.

“Yn. I’m a big admirer of your work, truly.”

Yongbok’s eyes soften at your excitement— they don’t leave your figure when he tells Hyunjin that you have a piece of his hanging in the living room.

“Really?” Hyunjin’s face brightens up at the news, “which one?”

“The red roses in the vase. It’s one of my favorites.”

“That was in my beginnings,” Hyunjin muses, a hint of nostalgia tinting his words. “I put a lot of love in it.”

“I can tell, the colors especially scream of passion.”

“Are you one for passionate love?”

“Is love truly love if it is devoid of passion?” you ask, tilting your head. Hyunjin’s eyes linger on Yongbok for a moment before turning back to you.

“Excellent! Please choose whichever artwork you prefer; it will be my gift.”

“Really?” you beam, brighter than Yongbok has ever seen you before. The sun suddenly perishes within him.

“Of course. The prettiest artwork for the prettiest girl,” Hyunjin winks smoothly, before patting Yongbok’s shoulder. “Shall I give you a tour?”

Yongbok’s voice is withered as it floods his ears— “Please.”

…

Yongbok’s eyes are fixated on the red liquid swirling around his glass. He fears that if his gaze deserts the wine he’s drinking then it would inevitably drift to you and Hyunjin, giggling together, like long-time friends. Or is it lovers? The lines blur so easily for humans.

He had feigned an ache in his legs, telling you that he’d sit down while you go on with the tour. You had placed a hand on his arm, a worried crease in your eyebrows. “Okay?” you asked. Comforting, warm. It is the adjectives that always come to his mind when he thinks of you with him.

But you aren’t his to describe. His to be kind with. His.

So, he hummed, a tight smile drawn on his face.

It’s not that he despised Hyunjin’s artwork. On the contrary, Hyunjin is a skilled artist, he can see why he’s reaping the fruits he sowed years ago. And yet, what disturbs him is something silly, stupid, too feeble for an angel, a human even, to care for.

He doesn’t like how your laugh travels around the gallery, how you fell so easily into conversation with Hyunjin, talking about your shared interest in art. He won’t ever have a passion of years to talk to you about. How could he when his existence merely spans over three months?

Yongbok is shrinking more and more, till he becomes a single dot of paint on the painting in the very far end of the gallery. Forgotten, dim before all the others. How can he dream to compare if he doesn’t know who he is? If his memories of life don’t even contain the four seasons, pausing in winter, barely brushing against spring.

When his torn skin doesn’t bear blemishes from falls years ago, while riding the bicycle, while playing with other kids, proof of a childhood well spent. No, his scars are that of one stripped from his roots, cast into an unknown world, punished, ridiculed.

He’s unworthy of being an angel, unworthy of being human, unworthy of being in your company. Why are you wasting time with someone like him, who’d only pull you down, someone who needs instructions to understand how to carry his heart?

The thoughts play out in his head, again and again, on your ride back home. You are happy, radiating even at the thought of a painting delivered by Hyunjin himself, your favorite artist, sitting in your home. His skin ricochets off your happiness, morphs it into anger and bitterness, all directed at himself.

He hates Hyunjin. He doesn't. He hates Hyunjin with you. He wants you to be happy with him alone. Isn’t he horrible for wishing to strip you away from happiness?

Horrible.

Abomination.

“Can you help me take off my necklace?” you knock on his bedroom a few minutes after you arrive, walking in to find him sitting on his bed, deep in thought.

He startles at your presence, backing away even more into the wall. You frown at the tumult you perceive in his eyes.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“I said,” he speaks through gritted teeth. “Please, get out.”

He can’t bear looking at you. He can’t bear you looking at him. What will you see? Someone poisoned by jealousy, whose insides are collapsing on themselves, whose body rejects his bruised soul, over and over again.

Where else is he supposed to flee? If he sheds this skin, which one would finally accept him whole?

“What’s wrong? you’ve been quiet all night, avoiding my gaze. Did something happen that upset you?”

He’s panicking, on the verge of combusting into tears. How would he explain this hatred coursing through his veins at the thought of being perceived? By your kind, beautiful beautiful eyes, nonetheless.

“I really–“ a pause, “ I really don’t want to see you right now.”

You falter, your hand curling tighter against the doorknob.

“Because each time I do, I– I see you with Hyunjin, and I feel as if flames are burning inside my lungs, choking me.”

“What?”

“And I hate- hate how I… look how I exist right now. So please, leave, I don't want you to see me.”

You hesitate for a few seconds, rooted in place.

And then you close the door.

You are inside.

“Talk to me, what is it you’re feeling?” you speak softly, your voice cautious, none of the things he’s used to. It angers him all of the sudden.

“This is exactly what I hate. You are wasting your time helping me decipher my feelings, you are pitying me. Can't you see how burdensome I am?”

You shake your head, taking a step forward.

“I don’t, I like it, I… I love helping you, I love seeing the world through your eyes again. It feels like I'm learning new things every day thanks to you and I—“

“I’m an ABOMINATION,” he yells, the walls seem to shake from the voracity of his voice. “From the moment I was created, I have been nothing but anomalous, I… I don't belong anywhere, who was I kidding by coming here?” he tears at his hair slightly, now pacing back and forth in front of you. “Did I really think that feeling would suddenly fix the void within me? that talking to humans would make me normal–“

“Yongbok!” you cut him off, no longer capable of bearing the sound of his shaky voice. “Please you are not listening to me!”

“No, you are not listening to me! Look! Look at how ugly I am, look!” he turns around, taking off his white shirt, exposing his butchered back to you. “Look at everything that haunts me, please look at it, hate me and leave.”

He pleads, naked and vulnerable before your eyes. He waits for you to deliver the killing blow, to cement the horrible thoughts he bears for his body.

If it is your voice speaking of how worthless he is then he’d believe it more.

A pin-drop silence coats the room. Yongbok believes you somewhat vanished from existence.

And then. Your lips on his back, brushing across the plane of his shoulder in the softest, faintest manner. He almost thinks he’s imagining it, imagining you kissing his scarred skin as if it is a delicate petal, worthy of care. Worthy of admiration. Worthy of love.

“Is this what you hate about yourself?” you whisper, your knuckles grazing his scars. “Why are you so mean to your body, Yongbok?” your voice shakes. Hot tears pool in his eyes at the sound of it. “ Didn’t it scab its best to keep you alive?”

“You are such an idiot,” you breathe out quietly, your warm palms settling atop his waist. “I won't hate you for this. How could I hate you for this?”

Yongbok is dizzy, drunk off your voice and the way your touch makes goosebumps ripple across his skin. “How could I hate you when all I see is resilience?” Your lips brush against his back, the faintest kisses peppered down his spine. “When all I see is what kept you alive?”

Yongbok’s blood has spilled into the first snow of Seoul, what feels like a lifetime ago. But somewhat, it is underneath the caress of your hands that he has felt most exposed.

“So, I am thankful for your scars,” another tender kiss, this time to the nape of his neck. “Otherwise, you would have bled on the snow and I wouldn't have known you. And it’s a horrible horrible thing for me to imagine.”

Your chin nestles across the plane of his shoulder, your hands wrap delicately around his chest. Can you feel his heart beating wildly? Can you hear it spelling out your name?

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Yongbok. Haven't you been through enough, already?”

It isn’t the thoughts in Yongbok’s head that finally make him breakdown. It is rather the feeling of your chest pressed to his back, your cheek resting across his shoulder, you hugging him for the very first time in existence, you enclosing him in a cocoon of safety the way his wings used to.

“I’m here. you can cry all you want,” you reassure, soft and comforting. His grief for his wings suddenly seem too far out of reach, the safety of his feathers paling before the safety of you.

Yongbok doesn’t think as he spins around, as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. You respond swiftly, bringing his body even closer to yours, running your hand comfortingly along his spine.

He doesn’t mind your fingers grazing his scars, he doesn’t chase off your touch. On the contrary, he craves it, his cells calling out your name, thanking you for all the love you’re giving him. He wishes he could glue himself to you, crawl inside your veins, build himself a nest between the web of your nerves. He doesnt think he could ever survive mourning you.

“Please— please don’t leave me,” he begs, lost in waves of uncertainty, he thinks that if he holds you tightly you won’t ever disappear from his hands, trickling between his fingers like grains of sand.

“Don't be silly,” tears fall down your eyes too, landing on his back like dripping wax. You attempt to steady your voice but it still shakes like rattling branches. “Where would I go?”

“What if they take you away from me?”

A flash of white clouds Yongbok’s vision, the cold returns to his body tenfold. He blinks repeatedly, and then he finds himself atop an abandoned rooftop. The blood runs cold in his veins, his heart pausing in his chest as he hears heavy footsteps approaching. Did he place a curse atop himself? Did his worst fear come true as soon as he spoke of it?

Are you gone?

Oh God, are you gone?

“Yongbok,” a familiar voice speaks, and life resumes its course inside his feeble body.

“Seungmin,” he speaks the name in relief, a breathtaking smile blooming on his face. He sees the scrunch in Seungmin’s eyebrows relax ever so slightly, before a placid look drapes across his face again.

“Why did you do it?” Seungmin asks and Yongbok’s grin falters.

“Did they send you?” he asks, a hint of apprehension filling his words.

“No, I came to bring you back.”

“What?”

“I will fly you back and you will kneel before them and apologize. And you will vow to never speak to humans again, and it will be forgotten.”

“I don't want to.”

“Why are you— “Seungmin pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance, “they are humans,” he says the words in disdain, as if looking down at them from atop an unreachable altar.

“I know they are.”

“They are weak. Driven by things they cannot touch or see.”

“And I love them for it.”

Seungmin frowns. “You’re defending them.”

“Seungmin,” he sighs tiredly, “why are you doing this?”

“Because I'm trying to help you. This, emotions, feelings, love. It isn't worth the pain they will end up causing you.”

Yongbok scoffs loudly, angrily. “What do you know about love?”

“You think you are special? You think you’re the first angel to go through this? I loved someone too Yongbok!'' Seungmin yells, taking him completely by surprise. “And they had him get in a car accident to punish me for it. I still hear the screeching tires; I still see his skull fracturing against the ground. I had to beg— beg for them to rewind the seconds and bring him back to life. And all for what?” he scoffs, grabbing Yongbok’s shoulders and shaking them. “You are on cloud nine because this is something new for you, you think that those humans would ever accept you? But you are wrong! Tell me, what’s an angel to a human?”

The shout that leaves Yongbok’s throat is a foreign one to his being. “That doesn't matter to me!” he yells, pushing away his hands. “Look me in the eyes, ask me, what’s a human to an angel? I’ll tell you it’s everything. Everything if it’s her.”

“This will ruin you. They will kill you, Yongbok. She will be your demise.”

“I’d rather die by her hands than live by yours.”

“What if she ends up dying by your hands?” Seungmin speaks calmly, coldly. Yongbok feels the ground give up beneath his feet. “What if in the process of hurting you they end up hurting her, what will you do then?”

“I… they won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I don't love her.”

“Who said anything about love?” Seungmin sighs, shaking his head. He looks almost desolate, somewhat that terrifies Yongbok even more. “You have your answer, I fear they have theirs too.”

Seungmin walks away, pauses, before turning back once more. He hesitates to speak, and in the seconds of silence that ensue, Yongbok discovers how terribly heavy fear is to bear.

“I’m sorry, Yongbok.”

His tongue is heavy as it moves to ask— “what for?”

“For the things yet to come.”

467 notes · View notes

forlix · 1 year ago

Text

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

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prythianpages · 8 months ago

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I Can't Pretend | Eris x Reader

summary: After your sudden disappearance, Eris takes it upon himself to find you. When he does, he breaks down and can no longer hide his feelings for you.

warning: angst, suggestiveness, smut (p in v, loss of virginity); this one is kind of a rollercoaster of emotions and the longest imagine of this series (at 6K words)

a/n: you can find the masterlist to this series here or read this as a stand alone imagine (: all you have to know is that reader is engaged to Eris's brother and in the part right before this one, reader and Sawyer got threatened by Beron. this piece here is brought to you by Tom Odell's Can't Pretend.

“There will be a bedding ceremony at your wedding.”

“You just marked your death sentence.”

Your body grows cold, muscles tensing once again. The tears running down your face feel endless as you stare at the door closing behind the High Lord. When it finally shuts, the sound feels like a sentence in itself, locking you into those promises. Bedding ceremony. Death sentence. The words repeat themselves over and over inside your head like a haunting melody.

You’re going to be watched as you're forced to be intimate with Sawyer. Then, you’re going to die. You want to run…but where to?

A whimper drags you from your thoughts, directing your attention back to the male lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Your fate is sealed and cannot be helped. But you can at least help him.

You hardly recognize him as you kneel beside him and help him sit up. Blood trickles from his face and every exposed inch of his pale skin is littered with open wounds that make bile rise in your throat. You can also sense all the broken bones in his body, something urging you inside to mend them.

“Let me help you,” you whisper, unable to hide the tremor in your voice and your hands. Slowly, you bring your hands to his face, grimacing at the lack of warmth.

A choked, rattled sound escapes from Sawyer. He instinctively leans in to your touch, welcoming the surprising wave of relief that comes with it. It’s as if something deep inside you is calling to him, telling him that you can fix him.

“Did you…did you mean it?” He croaks out.

You don’t have to ask to know what he means. “Yes.”

Sawyer’s pained expression softens for a brief moment. “Sometimes…” he begins and as you blink away your tears, you catch the way he averts his gaze, focusing on the splatters of his own blood that taint the marble floor. “Sometimes, I wish the Cauldron had made me different too...”

“The Cauldron makes no mistakes,” you assure him, your voice steadying with every breath. “It doesn't matter who you love. All that matters is that you love strongly and freely. I sense you have a good heart…which I’m coming to find is a rare thing in a place like this.”

“I thought I was an asshole.” There’s a subtle hint of regret in his tone.

“Yes,” you say with a small exhale. “I’m afraid that you still are… An asshole with a good heart.”

And for the first time since you met him, a faint ghost of a smile graces Sawyer's lips as he looks back at you.

You continue to help heal Sawyer, the same way you’ve done for others in the past. The cuts on his face close as your fingers brush against them, the swelling of his face goes down and the broken bones begin to mend. It’s like a miracle. There’s no trace of any injury left behind other than the blood that has not yet dried.

It’s strange for it to be quiet between you both. You’ve grown accustomed to the insults thrown your way in his presence and even the look of disgust that usually mars his features when looking at you. But all you see is the bewilderment in his face.

As the weight of silence threatens to consume you, you find yourself humming to deter the thoughts lingering in your mind. It’s a familiar melody, one your mother would gently sing whenever your injuries and the sickness that would often befall you begged for relief. Just as it did in those tender moments, the melody you hum washes over you, bringing an immediate sense of comfort.

The warmth returns to your veins and Sawyer, too, senses the soothing energy as it radiates from your touch. His sharp aches dulls into a distant memory. “I didn’t know you were a healer,” he says quietly and then realizes how little he knows about you. He has an inkling that his older brother knows more. “Are you from Dawn Court?”

“My mother was. I think I inherited it from her side,” you reply, helping him to his feet.

As the two of you stand, the door slams open, causing you to involuntary flinch. To your relief, it is Lady Raelynn and not her fearsome husband. Her breaths are quick and shallow and eyes full of concern.

“Oh thank the Cauldron,” she breathes, rushing toward her son. She assesses him for injuries, not caring over the blood that stains her hands as she softly touches his face. “Let’s get you cleaned up. The healer is already waiting in my quarters and I’ve had my maid prepare some tea to soothe your ails.”

The way she speaks leaves an unsettling feeling in your stomach, as it gives away that situations such as this occur with such frequency. Lady Raelynn then turns to you, gaze dipping down toward your hands. They’re stained with Sawyer’s blood. “The both of you,” she adds as emphasis.

Her hand reaches for yours but you take a step back, suddenly feeling sick. She had already included you in the disconcerting routine. The urge to run comes over you again as Beron’s words resurface in your mind. Is this what your life will become? A routine of suffering and torture until death harshly claims you.

“I’m okay,” you say, taking a deep breath. It’s a lie and you all know it but they don’t push you further. They share a glance filled with understanding, deepening your revulsion. You think you’re going to throw up. “I–I think I need to rest.”

“Of course,” Lady Raelynn nods, a deep frown settling upon her face. “Please allow one of my maids to escort you back to your room.”

Eris has grown to know fear over the centuries. It held him in its grip, bringing forth tears and whispering sweet nightmares into his ears until there was no trace of hope left behind. But this feeling surging through his veins and creeping into his heart is much, much worse. Like a fear he’s never known before.

You’re not in your room. You’re not in the gardens. You’re not in the library.

All air has left his lungs and he feels like he can’t breathe until he finds you. There’s one more place within the Forest house he’s yet to check. He’s racing toward it, his pace reflecting the erratic rhythm of his heart. He knows he should tread carefully but you’re flooding him with your emotions through the bond, pushing away all rational thoughts from his mind.

The doors to Lady Raelynn’s quarters slam open. His eyes are drinking in the room like a man deprived of water, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Y/n,” your name is spilling from his lips in a choked breath. “Where is she?”

His gaze lands upon Sawyer, who sits on the couch and then to his mother, who sits right next to him. You’re not here either. His heightened senses take in the bloody cloth in his mother’s hands–not your blood–and then, the somber expression on Sawyer’s face. Across from them, three teacups rest on the small table, the faint scent of chamomile wafting over to him.

Suddenly, Eris is livid. His gaze darkens and he’s rushing toward his younger brother. Hands roughly grasp onto the front of Sawyer’s shirt, forcing the younger male to rise to his feet. Flames tickle around his throat, tightening with every second.

“What did you do?” Eris seethes. It’s more of a demand than a question.

“Eris!”

“Answer me,” Eris nearly growls, his eyes mirroring the flames tightening around Sawyer’s neck. “Or I swear to the Cauldron, I’ll–”

“Eris!” His mother calls out again.

This time, she’s successful. She steps in between her sons, a hand at Eris’s chest and she can feel the frantic beating of his heart. The flames around Sawyer’s throat loosen their grip but only a little.

“Your brother has endured enough blows today.”

“He looks perfectly fine to me,” Eris retorts, amber eyes taking note of the lack of injuries on him. Despite his mother’s words, he’s inclined to give him one. One that will remain and act as a reminder to never cross him. He already knows that whatever happened, was Sawyer’s fault.

“Yes,” Lady Raelynn begins, voice heavy with caution. She knows Eris will find out what happened one way or another and though it fills her with dread to be the harbinger of bad news, she rather her son hear it from her. “Because y/n healed him.”

The sound of your name brings Eris back down and the flames around Sawyer’s throat extinguish. He looks at his mother, silently urging her to go on.

“Your father caught the ear of the rumors circulating in court and well…well, he called for a bedding ceremony.”

Sawyer swallows thickly at the reminder. He casts his head down, overwhelmed by Eris’s heated gaze that is directly solely on him now. A realization hits him then and slowly, he lifts his head. “You care for her, don’t you? All this time…,” his voice trails off.

Eris falters. He shakes his head, a mix of horror and panic tainting his delicate features. “I told you–”

“Then you should know,” Sawyer interrupts him, lips pressing into a tight line before speaking again. “Father plans to kill her after the wedding.”

Flames erupt from Eris’s fingertips, itching to wrap around Sawyer’s throat once more. He warned his brother not to be a fool. To be more careful because this was not just a matter of life or death for Sawyer but for you as well. Eris just needed more time to help you and he fears Sawyer just deprived him of it.

A firm push from Lady Raelynn stops him from raising his hands. “Eris, your brother is not the enemy,” she reminds him, tone pleading with him to hear her. “Y/n is in her room. Go to her. She needs you.”

Eris's fiery temper flickers, dissolving into the familiar grip of anxiety that had driven him to this chamber. He takes a step back and Lady Raelynn’s hand drops back to her side. “She’s not in her room.”

It’s now Lady Raelynn’s turn to panic. “What do you mean she isn’t? My maid personally escorted her there. She even helped draw her a bath.”

“She’s gone.”

Sawyer lets a curse under his breath, a shiver running down his spine. “One more mishap,” he murmurs, fear swirling in his eyes. He falls onto the couch, sinking into the cushion with dread. “One more mishap and father warned…,” his eyebrows furrow, not being able to finish the threat Beron had made to the both of you and Eris feels his heart at his throat.

“She couldn’t have gone far.” Lady Raelynn speaks but it does nothing to reassure Eris.

“When I bring her back,” Eris says, voice steady with determination because he will find you. He takes another step back, toward the doors. One hand grasps for the knob while the other points a finger at Sawyer. “Then, I’ll deal with you.”

Sawyer says nothing but Lady Raelynn nods, urging him to go. “We’ll cover for you,” she assures him. “Please be careful.”

Eris leaves without another word, the doors closing shut behind him.

“He loves her.” Sawyer's words are tinged with sympathy and bitter amusement. A humorless chuckle escapes from him and he looks toward his mother. Her gaze remains fixed on the doors of her room, where Eris had left just moments ago, as she gives a silent prayer to the Cauldron.

“Are we cursed? To love those we cannot have?”

“I’m afraid you all have inherited it from me,” Lady Raelynn confesses softly, her voice carrying the weight of years of unspoken longing, clouding her eyes with regret and sorrow.

Leaves crunch beneath Eris's boots as he makes his way toward the stables, the crisp autumn air biting at his cheeks. His face dons his usual mask but his heart is still racing. He would much rather take his hounds in his quest to find you but the risk of raising suspicion held him back. It’s not uncommon for him to ride during these hours of the day and it’d give him a better vantage on covering as much ground as he can as opposed to winnowing.

The sound of a high-pitched whinny echoes through the air as Eris approaches, drawing his attention. His gaze settles upon the stablemen, their focus fixed upon a solitary stall.

“Lord Eris,” one of them greets, bowing his head in respect. “Do you wish to ride? I can ready your horse. Just give me a moment.”

Eris offers no response as he strides purposefully toward the stablemen, his curiosity piqued by the source of the anxious sounds. The stableman follows his gaze, his expression troubled. It’s your horse, Maximus. The white stallion throws his head back, pawing at the ground with such force that the dirt rises in swirling clouds.

“He’s been restless all morning, my Lord.”

“I’ll take him,” Eris finally speaks, his gaze lingering on the horse. From where he stands,he can sense the tension rippling through Maximus’s powerful frame. It reminds him of the way his hounds act when they sense something is wrong. “Perhaps, a ride will soothe him.”

The stableman’s eyes widen in alarm. “I would advise against it, Lord Eris. This one has a temper that only Lady Y/n can soothe. He’s bitten us before.”

Eris lets out a quiet amused huff, undeterred. “I’ll saddle him myself,” he says and it’s as if your horse understands for it tilts his head to look directly at Eris, a silent exchange passing between them.

The stableman simply nods, reluctantly handing the necessary equipment to prepare your horse. As Eris steps into the stall, Maximus steps back with a deep and heavy exhale. “It’s okay. I’m y/n’s…y/n’s friend,” Eris reassures though the word ‘friend’ rolls off his tongue awkwardly.

As he utters your name, Maximus's body relaxes slightly, mirroring the calm that had settled over Eris earlier in his mother’s quarters. He admires the way Maximus’s eyes soften slightly, betraying his deep love for you. Animals are the true definition of unconditional love, he thinks. However, there’s a flicker of doubt in the horse's eyes at the mention of the word "friend," as if he could sense something more. It makes Eris wonder if your horse can see past the glamor he meticulously placed over himself and you.

Maximus doesn’t move when Eris takes another step forward. He pats his neck softly, running his fingers down the silky white strands of Maximus’s mane. The white stallion’s head lowers and ears relax under the gentle touch.

“Can you take me to her?”

Maximus taps one of his hooves in response and Eris smiles.

Eris can feel your bond growing stronger and stronger as Maximus gallops, taking both of them deeper into Autumn’s forest. Around them, trees adorned with golden leaves blur into a whirl of color. The sound of thundering hooves fills the air. He pulls on the reins and the white stallion immediately obeys, coming to a gradual stop.

“Stay here.” Eris commands as he dismounts.

Maximus lets out a noise in protest but does not fight when Eris secures him to a nearby tree. He looks around the forest, allowing his senses to guide him through the labyrinth of trees. He feels a sharp tug against his ribcage, prompting his head to turn right. How did he not think of it sooner?

Eris quietly makes his way toward the clearing ahead, where the meadow he often frequents is. The canopy of the tall oak trees filter the golden sunlight into a mesmerizing dance of light and shadow. A kaleidoscope of wildflowers blooms along the edges, their petals kissed by the wind. His senses sharpen with anticipation. It’s as if a taut string is pulling him inexorably closer to you.

He’s flooded with relief when he finally spots you but it is short lived as he takes in your appearance. Relief is quickly replaced by a terrible sinking feeling that he feels in his very core.

The river is a distant murmur as you face it, your back to him. The shifting patterns of light and shadow play across your form, casting you in muted hues. You’re dressed in his clothes, the same ones he had given you when the two of you snuck out. The ruffled long sleeves do nothing to protect you from the biting Autumn winds and he frowns as you curl into yourself, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. You seem smaller somehow, more vulnerable. He’s already taking his coat off as he approaches you.

“Angel,” he calls out softly, placing his coat over your shoulders, but you don’t move. You don’t even react…are you even breathing?

Eris steps around you, his eyes pools of amber concern and as he comes to stand in front of you, his heart clenches. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy. Tears stain your rosy cheeks, making his knees weak. Yet it's the emptiness in your gaze and the absence of radiance in your expression that shatters his heart. This court has broken you beyond repair. You, who always shined so bright, who lit up his world, were losing your spark. This is what he had been trying to prevent and he failed.

His hands cup your face in a tender caress, internally wincing at the lack of warmth he feels. Drawing upon his powers, he channels heat into his hands. As the warmth envelops you, he watches as your distant gaze gradually returns to him.

A pained expression clouds his features, tears stinging at his own eyes. He knows the answer, recognizes it the more he looks at you. He knows because you wear the same expression he does after facing Beron’s temper. But he needs to hear it. His brows furrow, barely able to contain the anger that had been left simmering. Anger not directed at you but at his father.

“Did he…did he hurt you?”

“I’m okay.”

There’s a roughness to your voice he’s never heard before that kills him inside. You lean in to his touch, tilting your head slightly to the right. Consequently, the same cheek Beron had struck earlier. Eris frowns. There’s no mark on your pretty features, no trace of harm of any kind. Though, he knows better now.

So he asks again. Differently and more carefully, this time. He’s trying very hard to tame the fire raging through his veins for your sake, worrying that he’d scare you if he allows you even the slightest glimpse of it.

“Did he touch you?”

You shift your head, attempting to escape his hold. But Eris doesn’t allow it and takes your silence as an answer. He swallows thickly. His father had laid his hands on you. Fiery tongues surge from the earth, swirling around you both and painting the air with bright hues of amber and scarlet. How dare he? His father is going to pay for this, Eris will make sure of it. He’s going to return the pain Beron inflicted on you tenfold. He’s going to ki—

“I’m okay.” You try again and it’s as if you’re also trying to convince yourself.

Eris leans his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m so sorry, angel,” he murmurs, voice thick with longing and regret. He had been so careful about leaving Autumn since your arrival and the one time he has to leave it, is when you find yourself in trouble.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“You’re here now.”

He feels the softness of your hand against one of his, prompting his eyes to open. His amber orbs glisten with a haunting luminosity as quiet tears escape them. “I put you in this situation,” he confesses quietly.

Confusion flashes onto your face, your eyes searching for answers and he feels his heart at his throat. “I arranged your marriage, knowing the life I would be damning you to. This is all my fault.”

“You couldn’t have known. You didn’t know me then and my father…this marriage would’ve happened any–”

“Don’t.” He interrupts you, inhaling sharply, voice strained with emotion. He doesn’t think you’d be defending him if you knew what he did to your father just hours ago. “Don’t defend me. I don’t deserve it.”

And then he reluctantly drops his hands, stepping away from you, needing to put some distance between you both.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Eris–” You take a step closer but he holds out a hand, flames erupting from the ground right between the both of you.

“No. You don’t understand, Angel. I’ve tried to fight it but I can’t contend. You’ve pierced through every defense of mine and now… I’m exhausted.I can’t pretend anymore.” Eris bows his head, flames dancing around him with heightened intensity. He collapses to his knees, surrendering to the turmoil within.

“You awaken sensations within me that I’ve never known. Sensations that both exhilarate and terrify me. If you–if you only knew the depths of my capabilities, the lengths I would go for you, the sacrifices I’ve already made...”

He can already imagine the heartbroken look on your face when you find out the truth. That he, your mate, the very being that should bring you nothing but joy and shower you in love brought harm upon your family. You’re one and only remaining family member. It did not matter if your father was a monster because either way, you adored him. Or rather, the idea of him.

Eris should tell you the truths he learned. How your father poisoned you for years, treating you not as his daughter but as a mere experiment instead. He only read snippets here and there from the journal, read just enough to be sickened with the horrors purposely inflicted upon you.

And Eris will tell you. He knows he needs to. But you’re breaking and he can feel you on the verge of shattering apart this very moment. If he tells you now, he fears–

“Eris.”

Your voice pulls him out of his racing thoughts and he winces. As if it physically pains him to hear the sweet way you say his name. “Don’t say my name like that, angel,” he nearly pleads. You don’t know what you do to him.

The flames pulse around him with the rhythm of his heart. He decides at that moment that you can hate him all you want after. As long as you’re alive, as long as your radiance returns to you, that’s all that matters. He just desperately needs you to be you again.

“Just tell me, angel, and I’ll do it,” Eris says, closing his eyes as he tries to steady his breath. “Tell me what to do to make you feel better? I can’t bear the sight of seeing you like this so please tell me.”

His words strike a nerve in you, the devotion in them unfamiliar to you. How cruel, you think, tears pooling at your eyes for an entirely different reason. You’re marrying the wrong Vanserra. You take a step forward, the flames of Eris’s fire threatening to swallow you whole.

“You care for me?”

“Devastatingly so.”

Another step forward. Your heart hammers in your chest. The flames lick at your feet and you should fear them. But you don’t. Because it’s Eris and though you shouldn’t, you want him. Not Sawyer or anyone else. You want Eris. All of him.

“You’d really do anything for me?”

Eris lets out a sound–a mixture of an exhale and laugh. It’s humorless and singed with disbelief as if he can’t believe you’re really asking him that after he just confessed it all to you. But you need to hear it again.

“I would traverse all over Prythian, surmount every obstacle, and brave the fiercest storms just to see the light of your smile. All you have to do is ask.”

And then you’re taking that last step, braving yourself against the searing heat that dances in the air to reach him. Because if you’re going to die, you need him to know. You need him to know the truth that lingers in your heart.

That he’s your golden hour, painting your world in shades of warmth and love, but also your midnight hour, where secret desires and dreams are whispered under a canopy of stars and now…

Now, he’s everything in between. You’re every waking thought and the last before you sleep. You need him to know that you burn for him. Ardently. Your breath catches and Eris’s eyes snap open, widening as his fire reaches out to embrace you.

But it doesn’t burn you.

The two of you look at each other in awe before you’re falling to your knees in front of him, the flames enfolding around you in a tender caress. Neither of you say a word. Your hands reach out to cup his face, coaxing his gaze to you. He doesn’t stop you this time. Not even as you lean in and press your lips against his. He should pull away but he doesn’t. Instead, his lips move against yours, kissing the warmth right back into you, giving a piece of light from him to you.

You pull away, just enough to speak but still close enough to feel the warmth of his mouth. “And if I ask you to take me in a way only a lover could, what then?”

He looks at you with such an intensity it sets you alight but then he’s averting his gaze and there’s an ache in your chest. “Please,” you whisper, eyes glistening with tears.

You always dreamed of what your wedding would be like, who you would marry. A part of you always knew that it would be arranged. Still, you foolishly hoped that in light of the arrangement, love would blossom. That your husband would hold affection toward you and learn to love you. That on your first night together, he’d be gentle and caring.

But your dream was morphing into something darker. Your husband would never love you in the way you desire. He hated the very thought of you and though you caught a mere glimpse of the caring male underneath the harsh exterior earlier, it did nothing to soothe you. It can’t be Sawyer.

The night you dreamed of was becoming a nightmare. The last thread of hope was hanging precariously, threatened by the sharp blade of anxiety and fear. You can’t lose the last part you hold dear to Sawyer. You can’t let Beron win. They don’t deserve to forever hold this over you.

You look at Eris, your last thread of hope. “Your father called for a bedding ceremony and I don’t want that to be my first time. I don’t want Sawyer to…to…”

“I know, angel,” Eris murmurs, not letting you finish your sentence. He wipes at your tears and then places his hands over yours, which remain on his face. He gives a gentle kiss to your lips but his body is tense. The thought of you having to endure the horrors of a forced bedding ceremony. Your body on display for others to see, the emotional and physical pain it will bring upon you, the—

Eris has to force himself out of those dark thoughts, the bond in his chest roaring with a fierce and protective anger. He kisses you again. This time, on your forehead. “It’s not going to happen.”

“But your father–”

The fear in your eyes pains him. He pulls you closer, nose brushing against yours as he forces you to look into his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

“With my whole heart.”

“Then trust me when I say that no one will touch you against your will again.”

“Even though your father, the High Lord, has condemned me to death?”

“No one,” he repeats, voice firm as he pulls you close to him. One arm wraps itself around your waist while the other cradles your head to his chest. He brushes his fingers through your hair, basking in the sweet scent of rose it brings forth.

Silence envelops you both and you allow it to embrace you, the same way Eris does. In his arms, you are safe, you are warm. It is just the two of you…against the world.

“Tell me what you’re thinking of,” Eris speaks softly.

“I’m thinking…” your voice trails off as you shift in his hold to face him. His hands fall to your waist and you make yourself comfortable in his lap, placing a knee on either side of him. “What if it's your touch I will?”

Heat and desire pour through the bond, filling his veins.

“Your eyes I dream of,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his red hair and tilting his head up to look into his eyes. When you lean in to delicately kiss the corners of his eyes, he shudders beneath you.

“Your heart I want.”

Your hand trails down his neck in a tender caress, stopping at his chest. Right over the organ that beats for you. The golden threads stir under your touch and he swallows thickly, eyes locked onto you. He wonders if you can feel it–the way the bond is singing madly like it wants to be heard. With a sudden boldness, he tugs on it.

His eyes widen when your body seems to react, lurching forward slightly. Your movements still, hand lingering on his chest and he watches you with bated breath. You felt it…but your end of the bond remains quiet. Still waiting to unravel, only giving him a glimpse of the emotions stirring within you.

Something that both uneases and relieves him. He wants to know exactly what you’re feeling–if your emotions resonate with the same fervor that consumes him. He wants you to understand the depth of his devotion to you. However, amidst his yearning, your oblivion toward the bond allows him to mask the subtle shift in your scent. A silent sacrifice that weighs heavy upon his heart but a burden he is glad to carry if it means he can safeguard your innocent heart from the cunning foxes at court.

Your hand continues its path downwards, tracing a tantalizing path toward his. His heart stirs with a flutter of anticipation. He can feel the unspoken yearning in your touch. With trembling fingers, he intertwines his hand with yours, each brush of your skin igniting a wildfire in him that grows brighter as you bring his hand to your lips.

“Your hand in marriage I long for.” You press a soft kiss upon the fourth finger of his left hand and his resolve is faltering. Teetering on the edge of surrender…

The flames surrounding you both catch on the ring on your fourth finger, the very one claimed by his brother. A forced and loveless claim. Yet still, regretfully, not him. A stark reminder that you are not his and perhaps, will never be. The simple golden band glistens precariously as if acknowledging his thoughts. He should stop you.

“Y/n–”

“Your touch I crave,” you continue, your longing turning into a desperate need as you kiss him. Harder, with more urgency, sending a delightful sensation down his spine that makes his cock twitch.

As your hips roll against his, Eris abruptly pulls away. The hands at your waist tighten, keeping you still and holding on to that last wall of defense. He wants you but he shouldn’t.

Your brows furrow and Eris hates the hurt that flashes in your eyes. The hope that deflates. “I’m sorry.Have I misinterpreted your—““

“I want you too,” he interrupts, needing to reassure you. He licks his lips, gaze flickering to your own, already missing their taste, before lifting back up. “Gods, do I want you but not like this.”

He gestures to the autumn meadow around you both. The meadow that is painted in hues of crimson and gold and alive with the whisper of falling leaves and dancing flames. It’s beautiful. The epitome of Autumn. But it’s no proper place to have you.

“You deserve better. You deserve for your first time to be special.”

“It does not matter where we are. As long as it’s with you, it is special. Please,” your bottom lip trembles and Eris leans in, gently kissing it steady. “I want you to be my first. I don’t want it to be Sawyer or anyone else. I want it to be you.”

“We don’t have to do this now. There will be another time,” Eris utters but his voice lacks strength. The promise in his words hangs in the air delicately like a wisp of smoke that is already dissipating into uncertainty.

“Time,” you echo quietly, a wistful shadow casting over your features. “What if we don’t have time? What if–what if this moment is all we have left?”

Eris wants to respond but the words catch in his throat. There’s nothing he can say to reassure you there. He knows you’re aware of the impending dangers that wait for you back at court. His father will be watching you closely now, security will be tighter. Eris will have to be more careful, tread lighter and with higher caution.

There’s only a little less than two weeks away from your marriage to Sawyer. The three of you are running out of the time and there is still so much to do. The stolen moments with you will have to cease and he senses you’re aware of this truth as well. This may be the very last one between you both.

If you thought Autumn was a terrible place before, then you’re about to learn that it’s much, much worse. It’s a living hell. And Eris curses the Cauldron for its cruelty.

Angels like you shouldn’t live in hell.

“So much has been taken from me and I fear there is very little choice I have remaining in this world. But this,” you pause, placing his hand over your racing heart, an urgent plea echoing in the rapid rise and fall beneath his touch. “This is mine to give and it wants you. I want to give it to you before it’s too late…”

Eris’s entire body tenses, muscles tightening with restraint.

“And if your heart feels the same, then I need you,” your voice trembles under the weight of your emotions and suddenly, Eris feels like he can’t breathe. “Like fire craves the kiss of air–”

No one has ever looked at him with such devotion, spoken to him with such passion. It’s overwhelming and threatening to drown him in its intensity. While his mind is screaming for him to run away, his heart wills for him to stay.

“–like flowers thirst for the tender caress of rain, like–”

Eris’s lips crash onto yours. His kiss is searing yet gentle and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and he groans into your mouth. He carefully guides you back onto the soft bed of fallen leaves and golden grass, cradling the back of your head with one hand while the other remains over your heart.

He kisses you until you’re both breathless and forced to pull apart. His body hovers over yours, amber eyes drinking you in. He tenderly kisses the remnants of your tears away, reveling in the way you softly sigh and lips begin to curve upwards into a smile.

“I love you, Eris.”

The three words hit Eris so hard there’s a crack in the last wall of defense. He’s terrified to move, not wanting to leave this moment but also in fear that if he does, that last wall will crumble entirely.

“Me? Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more unequivocally sure.”

Eris studies you intently, captivated by every subtle shift in your expression. There’s nothing but unwavering love and desire reflecting back at him with such luminous intensity that it threatens to blind him. He can no longer think properly. Every reservation, every thought telling him to stop is slipping through his fingers.

All he can think about is you and how you love him. You love him! You love him! You love him!

And when he meets your eyes again, it’s too late.

The damage has already been done. That last wall of defense is crumbling at a devastating speed. A soft flush creeps up his cheeks, betraying the vulnerability that seeps through his every pore in surrender.

“Is this what you really want?”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation as his nose brushes softly along your neck. “Even if it’s just for this moment, let me be entirely yours. Every beat of my heart. Every breath. Take it all.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Eris murmurs against your neck, inhaling sharply and when the honeyed scent of your arousal greets him, he whimpers.

Gentle is not a word Eris Vanserra would use to describe himself. That is, until he met you. His mate. The one who dismantled the walls he spent centuries constructing around his heart in months with little effort. In your presence, lies a burning desire to soften the edges of his demeanor. To be the gentle male worthy of your affection.

You wield a power over him unlike any other, leaving him utterly captivated and surrendering to all rationality. He should tell you he feels the same but he is beyond words. How can mere words capture the magnitude of his devotion?

So when you’re asking–begging–to be his, he can’t bring himself to say no. Not when this may be the very last moment shared between you both. Not when you’re giving him the perfect opportunity to show you the depth of his feelings instead.

Everything fades into insignificance. Nothing matters but this moment. With a touch as light as the brush of butterfly wings, his hands explore your body. Tentatively, as if scared to burn you with his burgeoning desire. Always asking for permission–”is this okay?” “yes”–before venturing further, before discarding your clothes–his clothes.

Flames continue to dance around you both, a protective circle and barrier against the cold winds. Each flicker of light casts intricate shadows upon your faces, your bodies. Eris pulls away just enough to admire you. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning down and capturing your lips for what feels like the hundredth time. But it will never be enough. “So, so beautiful.”

You’re melting like wax beneath every touch and then his lips are tracing down the paths his hands have forged. Gentle and somehow still urgent. His mouth lingers on the swell of your breasts, sucking and eliciting the prettiest sounds from you.

“If it’s too much, you tell me,” he utters, holding your gaze as he rests his chin on your stomach. He can sense your nerves. He’s nervous too. He wants this to be perfect for you. As perfect as it can be, given your circumstances.

“We can stop whenever you want.”

You nod but it’s not enough for Eris. “Words, angel,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to your stomach. “I need your words.”

“I’ll tell you,” you breathe, body arching into him. “I promise.”

Eris presses another kiss to your stomach before continuing his path downwards, to where he can feel you aching for him the most. He’s breathing so hard and kissing every inch of your skin, setting you ablaze. His nose brushes against the apex of your thighs and he’s flooded with your arousal. It’s overwhelming all his senses and he’s pulsing with need to have a taste.

Still, he pauses to look up at you through his long eyelashes.

“Please,” is all you manage to say.

Eris moans in anticipation, drinking in your otherworldly beauty, the same way he wishes to devour you. One hand rests on your hip while the other reaches for yours. His fingers intertwine themselves with yours and when you squeeze them, he lowers his mouth and finally has a taste.

You throw your head back with a choked cry. “Eris!”

Eris groans, lapping and working his tongue against you. He’s never loved his name more. “You taste absolutely divine,” he breathes, losing himself in you. If this is how you taste, his cock throbs painfully as he imagines how you’d feel.

You reach your peak soon, crying out his name again. He lifts his head and brings your locked hands to his lips, admiring the look of pure bliss on your face. “Beautiful,” he whispers again, heart swelling with warmth. Overcome with emotion, he dives for your lips and pours them out into his kiss, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

The hand not intertwined with yours, caresses against your core, fingers prodding at your entrance. Your mouth parts in a gasp at the intrusion but he eases you through it until you're clenching around his fingers and begging for more.

“Are you sure you still want this?” He can’t help but ask, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Yes.”

“I’ll go slow,” Eris promises, his amber gaze filled with softness and tenderness. Blush rises to your cheeks and it’s instinctual, the way you look away. He lets out a low sound in disapproval. “Eyes on me, angel.”

When you meet his gaze, his pupils are blown but his gaze remains soft and warm. Your lips curve upwards and he does the same. Both of his hands are locked with yours, resting on either side of your head. He holds your gaze, slowly sinking into your warmth and stilling at the furrow of your brows. He kisses them, allowing you to adjust and wanting to ease any discomfort you may be feeling.

“You’re doing so well for me, angel,” he encourages, voice strained. The bond in his chest is surging with pride at being your first and with a primal fervor to be the only one who gets to have you like this.

He feels like his heart is going to burst into flames and when he finally sheathes himself inside you, everything catches fire. His mind. His body. His soul. Every muscle, every nerve in his body is coming undone with every thrust. His kisses, though still soft, grow intense. So hot yet so sweet.

Fire consumes him, its vibrant flames igniting not destruction but building something new. Something beautiful. Something heavenly. where hopes and dreams, once thought lost, are resuscitated. The wounds of his heart being mended by you.

His body presses further into yours, mouth pressing feverish kisses down your neck, whispering sweet praises and worshipping you for the divine being you are. Your moans grow louder and you’re clenching around him tighter. “I love you,” your voice is a mere whisper but he hears it loud and clearly and you don’t seem to mind his lack of response. Not when he’s following after you, bodies shuddering as release courses through you both.

Eris pulls you close to his chest, arms tight around you. He can feel your heartbeat. Fast but steadying and in tune with the rhythm of his own. The gentle rise and fall of your chest let him know you’ve fallen asleep. Letting out a sigh in content, he closes his eyes, wanting to bask in this moment longer.

His fingers lightly trace along your back, tracing the four words he couldn’t bring himself to say back to you earlier.

I love you, too.

a/n: I've never written soft smut before so I hope it was okay. I also hope I was able to convey the desperation between Eris and reader well. I debated a lot on whether keeping the smut or scrapping it. Huge thank you to @stormhearty for helping me out with this part and giving me her input! ily! ❤️

series tag list: @fabulouslyflamboyant5 @fxckmiup @stormhearty @skyesayshi @sfhsgrad-blog @crazylokonugget @evergreenlark @secretlyhers @mybestfriendmademe @ib525, @96jnie, @glitterypirateduck @thatsassyhufflepuff @acourtofbatboydreams, @mal-adaptive-dreams, @dandelionfairyyy, @queerqueenlynn, @circe143

general tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria

#eris x reader #eris x y/n #eris x you #eris vanserra imagine #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x y/n #acotar imagine #acotar x you #acotar x reader #acotar x y/n #eris angel au #eris vanserra smut #eris smut #acotar smut

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iluvapplesxh · 3 months ago

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Hi I was wonderinng if you could please do a billie x fem!reader where reader was depressed and billie thought she was getting better because she was doing really good at hiding it, but one day something makes billie realize that she is getting better and has only gotten worse and then it ends with billie comforting the reader??

⧽⧽⧽ Talk To Me ⧼⧼⧼

✰ pair: billie eilish x fem!reader

✯ summary: Reality. The word was almost foreign to you again. And you felt like this was the end, like you would slip so far away you wouldn't be able to find it again. But Billie was there. And she'll hold onto you for as long as it takes.

✰ warnings: angst, crying, cursing, !ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE!

✒ a/n: uh so I feel like I fucked this one up but uhm, i'm gonna post it anyway!

The noises were loud. So loud and you felt like you were being crushed by them, but somehow at the same time it just felt like they were farther and farther away from you, echoing in the back of your mind while your eyes were stuck on the apricot coloured tablecloth laid neatly on the wooden table in front of you. Around that very same table were people you knew. Friends, you guessed were the right words but…sometimes they just didn’t feel like friends. No. Lately they’ve been slipping farther and farther away from your grasp, maybe they didn't need you anymore. Maybe they’ve finally had enough of your bullshit.

In all honesty, you wouldn’t be very surprised.

To the right side of your body was your girlfriend, Billie. Oh, Billie. She was the sweetest, most amazing person and girlfriend on this planet earth. But, you’ve lied to her. And you told yourself that it was for the better. That you’d slip out of this numbness soon and she wouldn’t need to know. She had enough problems with her work all the time, which was probably the reason she hadn’t noticed your state yet. And the feeling of her arm around your waist, her hand resting on your thigh made you feel guilty. And her thumb which was gently caressing the soft material of your pants just made your chest tighten and your senses higher than ever.

Your head was pounding, eyes most definitely empty as your eyes pierced into the light coloured tablecloth. It was clear that your mind was elsewhere. In bad places. And it wasn’t like you wanted to be there. No, all you wanted was to have a heartfelt conversation with your friends. So, why the fuck couldn’t you just do that? Why did you have to be like this? So broken? So sad. And miserable.

What the fuck was the reason?

You wouldn't know the answer. You just felt like shit. And did it hurt that nobody seemed to notice it? Maybe. But you were also grateful, because you couldn’t bare that ridiculous question.

‘What’s wrong?’

Because it meant that, without a reason, you had no business being sad. No business feeling this shit.

The problem wasn’t that you felt like drowning every time your thoughts got a little loud. The problem wasn’t that you felt like reality was out of reach. And it wasn't the constant numbness or the seemingly unstoppable tears which would stream down your face every night as you stood in the shower. No. It wasn’t that Billie would constantly look at you with such pride in her eyes whenever you did something for yourself. How she believed you were okay.

The problem was you.

The constant tiredness, it was like you couldn’t ever be fully aware anymore. All you could do was stare off into space with your mind racing and chest buzzing with the racing beating of your heart, only it seemed like every time it contracted it squeezed tighter and tighter until you couldn’t breathe and your head spun.

“Baby”

The feeling of air tickling the skin of your neck partly snapped you out of your daze, then the feeling of a chin resting against your shoulder did the rest and you blinked a couple of times before humming in response.

Billie’s eyes traced over your features and her throat tightened up before she exhaled softly. “You okay?” She murmured, her voice a little raspy and a tinge of worry laced.

You inhaled deeply before plastering a smile on your lips and nodding. “Yeah. I’m fine.” You slowly turned your head to the side to find her gaze, but the look in her eyes made your breath hitch. “Why are you asking?” Your hand found hers which was resting against your thigh and you idly laced your fingers together.

“I don’t know. You’ve been quiet”

A soft sigh left your lips and you nodded. “I know” A breathless, empty laugh came from your mouth. “I just have nothing new to say” You felt her hand squeeze yours gently while her eyes searched your expression.

“Are you sure? We can get going if you want?” She said quietly and pulled you closer to her.

You stayed silent for a couple of beats, thoughts and sentences scattered around in your mind. “No, it’s okay. You can chat a bit longer” You assure her.

Billie narrowed her eyes at you and pressed her lips into a thin line before letting out a long breath. “Okay. Just a little longer.” She smiled softly at you before looking back at the friend she was having a conversation with. Her hand never left yours and it should have made you feel better, but it only left you feeling worse than you already were.

–

The mindless ‘goodbye’s said in a humorous tone by your friends were drowned out as all walked out of the restaurant. Billie’s hand was still holding yours, the cool metal of her rings was a nice feeling against your hot skin and it made your thoughts just a little bit muffled. Billie was talking about one of your friends’ dumb stories as she led you to her car, but let’s be honest, you weren’t listening. Your head felt heavy and your whole jaw was hurting by the way you clenched it so hard.

You wordlessly got into the car’s passenger seat, slumping against the soft material. Billie got in, too, her amused rambling stopping when she looked over at you. The small light on the ceiling of the car illuminated your paling skin and her heart leapt in her throat. Her mind immediately began to race with worry.

You sighed deeply when you felt her intense gaze on you and your head hung low, falling into the palms of your hands while you screwed your eyes shut, the overwhelming feeling of need to cry crawling up your already tightened throat.

“Hey, hey” Billie finally spoke up, hand reaching out and resting on your arm. “What’s wrong?”

The question almost made you laugh if it wasn’t for the gathering tears behind your shut eyelids or the harsh thudding of your beating heart against your chest. You slowly pull your hands away from your face, opening your eyes and leaning your head back against the headrest, swallowing harshly in hopes of getting rid of the lump. Your bottom lip rolled between your teeth and you nibbled bleakley. Your head shook side to side and your gaze cast down on the dashboard in front of you.

“I don’t know”

The three words hung in the gradually thickening air for a couple of moments before the harsh breath intake that came from Billie cut through the silence. Billie’s own chest was tightening and she couldn’t speak. The silence made your heart sink.

“Okay” Her whispered words were tenderly spoken and her hand reluctantly squeezed your arm. “That’s okay.” Her other hand also reached out, cupping the side of your face gently and pulling your head to the side to look at her. “Just tell me what you feel”

Tears burned your eyes again and you bit your lower lip once more. Your expression made Billie feel like she was being choked and she couldn’t scramble fast enough to get the harsh hands off from around her throat. “I just–...” You began and your sentence was cut off by a ragged breath. Your head pulled away from her touch and your hands reached up, fingertips pressing into your closed eyes.

Billie’s heart sank at your actions and she was quick to grasp at both your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. “Don’t.” Her expression was soft and she swallowed thickly. Her hand released its grip on your wrists and both of her palms cupped your face tenderly. “It’s okay. I’m listening.”

You nodded your head hesitantly, teeth releasing your bottom lip while you took a deep breath. “I just feel so…sad. And numb. I’m exhausted. All the time– “ You paused, swallowing back a small sob. “And I wanna be better. For you. But I can’t because I feel so…ragged.”

Billie’s head moved up and down slowly. “I understand.” She said softly before one of her hands pushed a couple strands of hair out of your warm face then settled back down onto your cheek. You knew she did. You knew because she’s been through this, but at the same time you doubted she did. “What I need you to understand is that you don’t need to be better for anyone else other than yourself. Because you can’t be if you’re not ready to feel better.”

Her words confused you at the time. They just felt un-understandable. But you slowly nodded your head nonetheless, tears in your eyes.

“I don’t know how, Billie” You almost cringed at how your voice broke mid sentence. “I want to, but at the same time I just feel so empty when I don’t feel like shit” And although this time it was your words which were really confusing, Billie nodded softly.

“That’s okay.” She could feel her own voice on the verge of breaking. “I’m here, alright? And I’ll make sure you feel everything other than that. And I’m not going anywhere, you understand? I’m here to stay with you” Her thumb moved quickly, swiping on the skin of your cheek when a tear fell.

You inhaled deeply, the air just barely reaching your lungs before it was puffed back out. “Okay”

Her eyes softened and she pulled you close, pressing her lips against your trembling ones gently, tasting the saltiness of your tears when she pulled back. “I’m not going to give up on you that easily.” Her words made more tears flow but her thumbs scrambled to wipe them away. “I love you,” She whispered. “And there is nothing you can do or say to make me not do so”

A sob tore through your chest and your head fell from her hold, resting on her shoulder while one of her hands found a place on the back of your head, the other around you. She leaned down and placed a tender kiss on the top of your head as she held your shaking body, her own tears slipping.

REQUESTS OPEN!

#billie eilish x you #billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish angst

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targaryenluvs · 10 months ago

Text

— 𓆩♡𓆪 YOU LOOK SO PRETTY

pairings; luke castellan x fem!reader

summary; luke’s insecurities over his newly obtained scar mean absolutely nothing to you.

warnings; none, fluff, kisses, self-doubt & insecurities

if there was one thing luke hated the idea of, it was scaring you. and the hideous scar across his cheek seemed to strike fear in his heart at the thought of you seeing it.

he liked you a lot, having gotten used to you. your presence floated around him, giving him a reason to get up in the morning. it was uncommon to see luke without his other half, you. the pair of you were practically parents half of the time, keeping his as well as your own cabin in check, both being counsellors. and you were his second home, a sanctuary against the world, with inviting arms and a warm smile.

but how on earth, and olympus would you look his way again?

you’d been worried sick. whispers of luke’s injury had made their way to your ears, but you were stuck on clean up duty after a few kids had decided to have a party in the woods, right under your nose. by the time you’d made it to luke, it was nighttime. your favourite spot was in the woods, a clearing overlooking the camp. you’d promised to meet eachother there when you needed to talk, and this seemed like an important time.

“luke?” you cautiously approached, hands dug into his hoodie you were wearing. he’d been preparing himself the whole day, for your disgust and refusal of him, but instead he was met with teary eyes and soft hands. “oh luke, it doesn’t hurt too much, does it?”

he was taken aback by your gentle tone, but he’d take it over sadness any day, “not too much, i don’t think it’ll be too big of a deal once fully healed. just a scar.” your eyes were teary as you listened attentively, “i’m just glad you’re okay.” he smiled, “it doesn’t scare you?” the kiss on his lips was everything he’d been waiting for, “never, you could never scare me luke castellan. i think it makes you look strong, you look so pretty, pretty like the sun.”

he grinned as he brought himself closer to you again, soft kisses planted all over you face as you giggled, “it tickles! stop!” eventually he relented, settling for the two of you laying down and staring up at the sky. you listened for hours as luke attempted to woo you with facts and constellations, he admired their beauty as you adored his.

“they’ve got nothing on you castellan.”

#luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan x you #luke castellan fluff #luke castellan x fem!reader #percy jackson x fem!reader #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #percy jackson fic #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #Spotify

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hwaightme · 7 months ago

Text

Panacea

(masterlist)

🌊pairing: poet!seonghwa x doctor!gn!reader 🌊genre: fluff, slice of life, slow burn, healing, strangers to lovers, comfort 🌊summary: what do a poet who lost his inspiration and a cosmetic surgeon who lost their empathy have in common? when you make an escape from the city to a memory-filled cottage on the edge of the world, you meet park seonghwa, a poet who, after growing fatigued of shallow critique and unwanted attention, is on a search for true beauty. you, a surgeon who cannot bear to hear nor assess another patient , abhor its twisted definitions. as the seasons change, storms abate and your paths entangle, you discover a new, unparalleled kind of beauty. 🌊wordcount: 32.8k 🌊warnings/tags: semi-edited, attempts at sijo (forgive me), discussion of beauty standards, mention of surgery/clinics, weather imagery, nightmares, discussion of life and death (jokes relating to death), talk of oc death, urban/rural comparisons, isolation, burnout, philosophy, judgement of media, seaside, cliffs, dialogue + inner thoughts, perspective switching, falling in love, loving another's mind, talk of what is 'real' beauty, food (incl. meat), eating, cooking, implied anxiety, implied impulsive thoughts, sneak into home, lmk if anything else 🌊author's note: happy birthday, seonghwa, wishing for you and for atiny alike to have a cherished panacea and a love brighter than the stars <3 hope you enjoy, all reblogs and notes appreciated~

🌊playlist: 'unreal unearth' and 'unheard' by hozier, 'dark corners and alchemy' + reason to live by mehro, love letter from the sea to the shore by delaney bailey, okinawa by 92914, yeti + village song by paris paloma, exhale inhale by aurora, butterflies by tom odell, house song by searows, cornflower blue by flower face, icarus and apollo by ripto, the view between villages by noah kahan, my love mine all mine + i'm your man by mitski, when i c u by pomme

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

Art. Expression, embodiment, eternity. The world was art. From how the leaves trembled in the wind to how the water rippled, from a heartwarming smile to an earth-shattering glare, everything could be immortalised with an inspired, skilled transition. A perception of the eyes or the heart or the mind could be turned into anything from what might have been virtually nothing. Internal palaces, interpretation, innovation all were crafted and translated through art, onto canvases - trillions of brushstrokes, onto countless pages - trillions of priceless words, onto generations - wisdom and creation passed from one to another, all throughout history, leaving no stone unturned. To study and perceive art was to learn of the beauties of the universe, with beauty being a reflection of both aesthetics and terror. Such was life, and it breathed through the arts. From the beginning of time all the way to the modern era, art was a human’s true loyal companion. And even after the human would pass, art remained, loyal, vigilant, forever telling the tale that was cast onto a medium. One does not create art, one breathes it.

This is exactly why when an artist cannot create, it feels as though air has been knocked out of the lungs, a boulder weighed down on the chest, and the priceless essence of inspiration’s air could not be further away - a lost soul sinking into the hopeless abyss. The world grew darker and darker, until it fell silent. The artist, the art - a relationship of worship and boundless adoration, but also that of treachery and misery. Such was the fate of the one who stepped onto the thorned path of creation. One such humble human who, unlike a myriad of others, stumbled into the realm by accidental interest and longstanding innate passion, and due to the spontaneity and retained connection with the self had achieved relatively impressive success, was none other than Park Seonghwa. The poet. The visionary. The artist. Blessed with the spoken and written word, craftsmanship in rhythm and rhyme, grace in prose, he was a promising rising star in a progressively shallow world. As the consciousness melted into brevity and emotionlessness, he fearlessly dived into what made the soul, picking it apart, analysing it, and pouring the golden threads onto paper. An observer, he loved the colours of nature with all his heart. Every season, every day retained a magnificence for him which he tried to depict and incorporate in his work. Both experimental and traditionally sound, his “studies of daily life miniature wonders”, as he called his poetry, resonated.

But, as known far and wide, resonance brings expectation, and Seonghwa could not escape it either. Invitation after invitation, interviews and talk shows, signings if he was lucky to find a group of those truly interested in his craft; events all came clawing at him, tearing at his energy and soundness of mind until there was barely anything left, and even then, the droplets remaining were only thanks to his suddenly rediscovered harshness, followed by a series of declinations and digital disappearances. He made people feel, and in turn, the people felt like he owed them. The so-called success, or, in other words a nightmarish scrutiny that he could never foresee in the midst of his art, did not come without unrelated commentary either. From his attire to his physique to his facial expressions during public events - and on the occasion someone would recognise him on the street: his neutral, perfectly relaxed face, were all now considered to be public property. He could not breathe. Seonghwa’s hand shuddered whenever he would lift it in an attempt to write, aching, a nervous tremor turning into an earthquake the more he strained himself.

It was an impossible venture. Everywhere Seonghwa looked, everywhere he went, there were eyes and opinions, louder than his mind could ever be. The wind was no longer whistling a melody, returning to an indecipherable cacophony. The strawberries that the poet had purchased in the super store on the way to the edge of nothingness, where he was staying, were no longer sweet, crimson warnings left to rot in a bowl on the windowsill as he scurried from room to room out of fear of being spotted from the outside. There should be no one where he escaped to - an ancient cottage that belonged to a relative whom he had never known, but had spontaneously gotten close to out of necessity - was it a cousin?… leading to a spot where nothing ran, life was but a stillness, obedient to the sun and rain, lifting sorrows with the fog, falling into a slumber with the blanket of the pitch black night. In an effort to avoid the crowds and the rashness of his own potential future actions, Seonghwa had made an escape to what he would call ‘the void’. Forest, barely a hamlet to house civilization in the distance, sea. Infinite expanse of grassland, cliffsides, seagulls ceaselessly patrolling the skies. Within the first few days he had already forgotten where he was, and where he had come from. Such was existence without inspiration and purpose.

Rise and pretend to follow rhythm. One word on a page, floating towards abandonment. Ink drying. Lukewarm tea descending into the mouth of the sink. Swaying tulle, the only reminder that there was movement. Seonghwa collapsed onto the cream-coloured sofa, his dark tresses which had gotten considerably longer over his period of hiding after the astonishing battles with too many opinionated ignoramuses spilling over a throw pillow. He shut his eyes, a dull pressure behind them and of his temples becoming more pronounced. When was the last time he had a truly restful handful of hours of sleep? It would be bold to assume that he could answer that question. He could hear the creaking of the fence gate outside - the construction had a mind of its own, having sagged under its age and the salty air. Now, one of its corners sometimes dragged along the gravel path leading from the cottage out, and to the vistas of a tumultuous seaside. No one in sight except himself, and even then, Seonghwa avoided mirrors, terrified that he, too, would begin to repeat the utterings voiced to him again, and again. Black tar that stuck itself to his brain. He rubbed his temples, pinched the bridge of his nose, massaged his forehead, knowing full well that whatever he was planning to do was futile. There was no cure to this kind of sorrow. Only time. Fatigued from deliberation and heavy dread that plagued him, reducing function to nil, Seonghwa drifted, only the echoes of a suppressed catharsis haunting him.

It was a lulling ripple. Susurration of the shimmering waves, languidly guiding the timid moonlight. As the wind picked up, so did the infinite blanket of deep midnight blue, decorated with threads of pure silver. The whispers soon transformed into a harmony of echoes, filling the air with a chilling premonition. The quietude – the chosen one, to be sacrificed to the orchestration of natural disorder, a cyclical necessity. There was no rule, no need. Only the endless expanse of the living, breathing, turbulent waters. A storm. A roar engulfed the atmosphere, and all that dared oppose the metamorphosis. Imminent destruction of aquatic grace, devolving into a nightmarish, ghoulish madness. Reminiscent of a clamour, the waves crashed against your consciousness, persistently, repeatedly, threatening to tear away at your cranium and pour over into your lungs, taking ownership of your paralysed form.

Seonghwa struggled to catch a single breath, heaving, and yet running on empty, a shallow, superficial hint of oxygen lumped in his oesophagus. An unforgettable burning – his eyes, his nose, his lips, all enslaved by the agonising salt that penetrated their protective membranes and made him shriek as it buried itself in his cooling bloodstream. Seonghwa was losing to the elements, succumbing to the fatigue that was seeping into his aching, overstrained limbs. On the verge of giving up and letting go of the spirit that had driven him to struggle in the first place, he tried to shut his eyes just as he had done to his art, praying he would be let down slowly.

In futility and a sudden moment of clarity, the world went silent once more, only with a soft bubbling to accompany as he descended further and further down into the dark abyss, bidding farewell to the omniscient, looming and cruel sky. He was unsure whether what he was experiencing was a hallucination or a reality, however he distinctly felt gentle arms wrap around him, and pull him close to the body of another being, cradling his drowning form. The young poet allowed himself to relish in the sensation, lest it be the last, ignoring the light that was approaching once more. It was impossible to assume for it to be anything except the path to divinity, and for the trusted guide of the currents to be a guardian angel, carrying him through the sea to his final judgement.

The foreign warmth unwound Seonghwa, and he was in a blissful state of somnolence. Nothing existed except him and the sea that embraced him, sheltered him from the squall above the surface. The state was reminiscent of an embryo, yet to experience the harsh realities, beatific and unaware of what was to come. A mysterious stranger, a figure of grace made of sea foam, erasing his terrors and returning him to the terrestrial realm where he belonged. The sea, bewildered and endeared with his feeble mortality had bestowed mercy upon him - a foreign act, and yet it turned into a saving grace from the treacherous domain. He was not a being of the prejudiced, ravenous ocean. As his back felt the wet sand beneath, and a pressure on his chest, expelling water that was ravaging his lungs grew stronger, he was more confident in his livelihood, despite having lost his breath, his sight, his hearing. Nothing existed except a storm somewhere far from him, and a brutal stinging of salt that consumed the arteries. The liquid trickled from his frozen lips and down his cheeks, absorbed by the grains that were already sneaking into his hair. The pressure was getting more intense, bordering on unbearable. His ribs, subdued by agony, were begging for relief. His mouth opened in a silent scream, a hand shot out into the darkness. A snap. A crashing of a wave.

Seonghwa jolted awake, feeling his chest and looking around. The window, which had previously been left open only a crack, had swung open fully, and the tulle had flown out with what had to be an oncoming gale. A drumming resonated from the inner walls of the house, one which he decisively ignored and let it be consumed by the chaos outside. Leaning over to take a cautious peek, the young man rapidly discovered a downpour that was soaking the thin, white material - a flag begging for forgiveness from nature. He hurried from the sofa, almost stumbling over his feet and the carpet, careful to not slip on the puddle that started to form below the sill, on the aged floorboards. Cursing under his breath, he fought against the creaking wood that was ruthless in wishing to hold the window in place, until, in a final fit of frustration, Seonghwa pulled wildly, nearly tumbling back as the frame slid into its rightful location with a stubborn shake. He hit the curved iron handle back into position, noting how even more of the white paint on the frame had chipped off, and the wood beneath was starting to show signs of potential rot. Since he was merely a guest, though it was nearly approaching half a year that he had been residing in the cottage, he would have to call someone in his family about this, wouldn’t he? A stray finger glided over the damage, and he pondered how long it had been since the wear and tear had started. Who was it that left this cottage to abandon, for people who were virtually strangers to occupy for a temporary retreat?

He placed a hand to his chest, feeling the beating of his erratic heart, not yet calm from the nightmare. Curious, how the sea had crept into his mind so strongly. The guardian and the destroyer of the surrounding grounds. A mirror of the skies with a presentation and strength of its own. Undoubtedly scornful of his hollow presence - an artist who ceased to create. What could be more tragic and distasteful? He pulled at the loosely woven white sweater that hung loosely on his body, pinching the white sleeveless tee underneath when he spotted a speck of dust, or was it a grain of sand? He raised an eyebrow, trying to contain the particle between his fingers but failing to do so as it rolled down until it disappeared against the floor. Right, he had cleaning to do. He shook his head and led himself to the kitchen, where he grabbed rags, a bucket, some supplies to aid him in fixing up the attacked corner of the living room.

With an anxious swiftness, Seonghwa took down the translucent curtain and wiped the floorboards, the wall, the window sill, sighing at the scenery outside. Steely grey skies and thunderous clouds the colour of smoke and ash, diagonal rain rendering it almost impossible to see the rocky cliffs and hills that otherwise highlighted his vista. Waves took on a hue that was reminiscent of a mixture of emerald and onyx, with thick streaks of foam the colour of melancholy. Rocks, eroded and reshaped by the waters, were splotches of black in the landscape, and the tall grass - golden and green from the tedium of perpetual beatdowns by the sun and the storms, brushstrokes that blended with the speeding droplets. He paused. How marvellous it was, to become one with the sky. A connection to the heavens as it weeped, mourning the mortal motion of the earth. He squeezed the rag feeling the clouds’ tears well up between the digits. Surely, if he had been saved in his dream, there was hope? Seonghwa tilted his head, still, ensnared by the scenery outside, not too dissimilar from what had been his unconscious battle. The sea saved him. His beloved nature, void of humanity, of quotidien illness innate to every being. Those graceful hands, sending him in a spinning dance through the grand depths, a soothing drowning. Blind to the temporary, he had the pleasure of consuming eternal presence. Perhaps this was a sign, and not a horror that he had lived through.

After wiping the last of the moisture and taking the items back to the kitchen, he ambled back to the room. There was nothing stopping the waves. Untouched - not by the fishermen who he would see from time to time, not by the adventurers tourists who wanted to take in the views of the rising sun, not by those who, at least on paper, owned the neighbouring lands. Everyone was subordinate to the sea. Including himself. The dream was a call. It had to have been. He put a palm over the centre of his ribcage, the bone whispering what had unfolded a mere few minutes ago. The intensity of what reminded Seonghwa of an exorcism was nothing short of a twisted blessing. A shy smile crept onto his lips as the cottage took the brunt of another gust of wind and spears of rain and a ghost of a plank somewhere in the house groaned. Or perhaps it was the cottage itself, mumbling a greeting to its waking occupant. Swaying of the history contained within the building, time in every chip of paint, in every brick.

There was not much to fear in the sea’s cradle. In the middle of nowhere, with only himself and the coming autumn to keep him company, Seonghwa sensed the ebbs and flows of his soul start up again. He raised his hand to eye level, stretching it out until the fingers were splayed apart and the palm was flat and facing the floor. Much to his unexpected delight, it remained steady, obedient, attuned to his present musings. His legs led the way, guiding him to a door that was located almost under the stairs. With a click of the handle, the room he had made his office and study was revealed. An antique lacquered mahogany table, much too large for the space available, had been a formidable foe for the last few months, and now, was shining a different colour. Seonghwa ran a hand over the intricate detailing of its edges as he pushed the matching chair back. Glanced up, took in the scenery on the other side of the window - much smaller than the one he had fought against, but allowing him to behold the memorable landscape nonetheless.

Gingerly, he pulled at the iron hook of the top drawer, revealing a black, leather bound notebook and a pen - his favourite, from the little shop down the street where he lived in the city. Glossy chrome silver, ergonomic, and made to be a medium for the arts. Seonghwa noted the dryness in his throat, and adjusted the collar of his sweater absent-mindedly. It was easy, right? Just pick up the pen, take out the book and open it, sit down and- and what next? He paused, hand hovering over his tools. What was next, indeed? Flutters of ideas like fragile butterflies suspended in the mind palace, wishing for transition into the world of the living. Could he do it? Upon asking himself the question, he swore he heard the sea roar louder, and the cottage creak in response. With a shake of the head, he decided. Enough was enough. He had to try - it was now or never. He fell into the seat, holding his breath as he clenched the pen, letting it dig into his skin - a lethal blade. A blank page scrutinised him. On instinct, he decorated it with ink, flowing into the barren landscape, introducing himself.

천둥과 회색 바다, 갈매기 울음소리 (the thunder and the grey sea, the crying of seagulls)

폭풍은 심장의 리듬을 만든다 (the storm makes the rhythm of the heart)

입술과 볼에 소금이 행복한 추억이다 (the salt on the lips and cheeks is a happy memory)

The rain was still pouring when Seonghwa woke up again, having resorted to resting his fatigued body on the same sofa rather than carrying it upstairs. It was quieter that way, without the tears pouring directly on the roof above. Having dipped his fingertips back into writing, and dabbling in a more liberal interpretation of sijo, he was spent, as though he had gone through a war, crawled under barbed wire to find his own reflection on the other side. The poet ran a hand through his locks, still messy from the tossing and turning that he had undoubtedly done while asleep - at least this time he had no dreams, even if it was exactly through such a manifestation that he had discovered the urge to try and revive his calling and skill. He checked the time, the antique clock on the other side of the room idly ticking away regardless of what happened around it. Early dawn, and yet the surroundings remained immersed in grey. He stretched, not caring for the wool throw that he had used as his blanket sliding down to pool on his lap. A strain in his neck - he tilted his head to stretch the sleepy, insubordinate muscle, wincing as he seemed to have struck a painful point of tension. It was time to rise with the rainclouds. Seonghwa shuffled into his slippers, the chill creeping across the floor discouraging him from forgoing the action, and grabbed the throw, folding it on reflex.

One foot in front of the other, eyes still half-shut, the walls served as guides towards the staircase, and the wooden handrail was a direct lead that let him doze as he felt for each new elevation. The rain pelted the skylight that shed some light on the stairs, the thrum an intense melody. And to think that it was sunny and warm - the epitome of summer, only a mere few days ago. Well, he said few days, but that was more a liberal interpretation than anything. Stuck on the edge of early spring, the seasons had passed by him at a menacing pace, summer, autumn, winter all blending into one monstrous creature. When he reached the second floor, something prompted him to pause. Seonghwa squinted, focusing on the door at the far end of the corridor, more specifically, the decorative woven carpet that was hanging off a neatly hammered nail right into its centre - ornate, depicting a lighthouse scene that had instantly made the young poet wonder if there was one in the vicinity of the cottage. But it was not the carpet itself that momentarily disturbed him, but rather the angle at which it was hanging. Over the time of Seonghwa being in this property so far, he had already done his fair share of cleaning and adjustments, as one would expect, but not a single time did he see the item move off the centre of the thread that was hooked onto the nail - perhaps only when the door itself was used. Since Seonghwa had selected a room that had windows that looked in the direction of the fence gate and main entrance, rather than to the side and towards the cliffs, he had no need to enter the darkness, only for general upkeep. What had made the item move? Raising an eyebrow, he approached the door, creaking of the floorboards accompanying him. No sound from behind the door. Only the heaving of the house that saw many storms in its day. A chuckle involuntarily escaped him as he adjusted the carpet - he must still be under the impression from the dream, that must be it. Everything was suspicious; but that was how he usually got when he was in the depths of ideation. Sensitive, responsive, one with the world. Patting the rough fabric, he turned, making his way to his quarters.

The decor was simple, minimalist, with echoes of nautical and rustic themes. A tiny model of a sailboat in a bottle, displayed on a slab of wood that must have been cut and taken from the forest nearby. A laundry basket made out of a rope so thick that Seonghwa assumed that it used to be on a ship before settling in the cottage for retirement. White sheets, with a line of pale baby blue chequered fabric running through the very top, marking its direction. Matching chequered pillows - large, soft clouds stuffed to the brim with feathers, perfectly made. The bed had been left untouched by him that night, and remained in suspense. He ran a hand over its edge, feeling the soft fabric. Carefully, he placed the throw at the end of the bed, and turned towards the double wardrobe - well, he was being rather kind to call it that. Not quite a single, not quite a double, the piece which looked to have been made by whoever had been the owner of the land a while back stood proud, without any particular definition. It served its purpose, and was happy to do so. From the carved patterns around the handles to how the doors easily swung open, this piece of furniture was nothing like what he would see in the city. It contained love, care. Was one of a kind. Perhaps that was another issue he would have to take care of, should he return to the metropolis soon - change his interior. There was enough standard decor for him to turn into an automaton. An apartment like everybody else’s. Enough space, but no room to breathe - existing only to live up to or fulfill expectations.

He changed into a pleasant neutrality - in fact, most of the clothing that Seonghwa had brought with him retained a quality of muted bliss. Beige and cream, black, white, shades of grey, a few patterned pieces containing navy, diluted pinks here and there, he wanted to blend into the scenery. Shake with the tall grass. Stretch his arms out and embrace the sky, floating towards it. But for now, a white shirt would have to do. He made a couple of small adjustments while looking at the mirror that hung above the cabinet directly at the end of the bed, flush against the wall, flicking the dangling silver earring that he had left in since yesterday, used to napping with the accessory. A couple of brushes with the comb he kept on said cabinet, and finally, the look was manageable. Knowing he would be careful, Seonghwa decided to wash up before continuing on with his day; more adventuring around the house, down the stairs and off to the side past the kitchen. He stared at his reflection, dismissing the hints of stubble that were beginning to show themselves - as if anyone would care if he scrapped shaving altogether. No one except himself. The rest of the steps he could not skip over, diligence and habit taking back the reins. Routine, but in the house so far removed from places where routine was king, it was reassuring.

Soon enough, there were scrambled eggs on a plate, fork lying to the side, and a steaming cup of black tea in his hand as he flicked through his midnight musings. Not too bad. Certainly not the best. At least not to him. His hand was rash, his thoughts unclear, his rhythm lacking. It had to be better than this; the voice of judgement returned to him and struck him like lightning, only this time, the current of the bubbling waves dampened the effect. Why was it that he began to sound like those he grew up and returned to listening to? So much running, and to return to the same vocalisations? Enough. He set the notebook down, and took a sip of the still hot tea. Clarity, that was what he had to practise. Since he was alone, he had no other opinion to fear, and could work on his reconnection with art to his heart’s content. Seonghwa was lucky enough to not be tied to anything nor anyone in particular, and the continuously rising popularity of the songs he had worked on as a poet and lyricist a little while ago ensured that if need be, he had financial cover.

A stray thought about the outside world passed him. Did he still matter, or was he gradually being forgotten? One wave after another, one artist was bound to surpass another. Such was the harsh reality. His breakfast was cooling as he stared at the pristine table cloth, mulling the notion over. Time ran differently here, that much was certain. Could that mean that out there in the city, centuries had already passed? What was he missing? A mild panic started to rise in his throat, and on instinct he stood up, foregoing the rest of his meal in favour of a stroll within the confines of the walls but not before grabbing the tiny black notebook.

One step, another, and soon he fell into a rhythm, traversing the territories of the kitchen, dining and living room area, ambling into the miniature office space, back out again until he was retracing the same patterns, writing characters on the floor with each footfall. He was ink, combatting resistance to absorption into the primordial canvas, towards artistic immortality. Seonghwa wanted to push himself at first opportunity. He had to write, had to provide the listening curtains and chairs with fresh prose or poetry, whatever came to mind and was reasonable first. He was Park Seonghwa, for goodness sake. It should come easy. The months were just a pause like that when one holds their breath. Each day a microsecond. The shake, starting from deep in his upper arm and trickling lethal poison down to his wrist and fingers, started to give signs of its awakening. No, it could not be! The poet stopped, not dissimilar to how a car would stop at the edge of a cliff. What was happening to him? The book found recluse from his spiritual agony above a fireplace, one of the elements of the house Seonghwa had had no reason to experiment with, not being bothered by the howling cold drafts. Toying with the edge of his sleeve, he succumbed to pensive disorder, eyes locked on the unassuming object.

"Not today then…" the utterance melted into the ambience, "fiendish creature."

Determined creaking of wood and its crash jolted him off the spot, and Seonghwa was almost pulling himself up the stairs. The house was old enough to need repairs, but this could be major, and all the more disastrous if the rain bled in. Heart jumping out of his chest he skipped steps, alarm bells ringing in his ears. He had been submerged in his philosophies for so long that he could have easily missed some more complex deteriorating hazard of the cottage, particularly since he never had to even consider such a thing back in the capital. Maintenance, checks, security… all automatic and managed by someone he would never see, while here, he was the one responsible. He, the pseudo-owner for the coming season, had to see the outcomes, and admonish himself in the mirror should anything go wrong, which was probably one of the reasons why he preferred to not use the object more than necessary. He turned his head side to side, to the skylight, behind him, all for nothing. Only the drizzle, and the decorative carpet, tilted. Like it had been pushed on purpose. He inched towards the door, looking for any shadows that may fall through the crack at the bottom and stretch outwards. Stopping right in front, he put an ear to it, while pretending to adjust the piece of fabric. Nothing, or the house was keeping secrets from him, too. Fed up with the mystery, he yanked the handle, and then gave it a violent twist and push, all to no avail, meeting a secure lock. Did he accidentally lock it the last time he had been in? Seonghwa could not remember, but the curious appearance of this issue was more than inspiring. The storm was playing tricks on the poet again, whispering devious tales in his ears. A late night fog, he descended to the ground floor in search of his weapons to carve the enigma, not hearing the sigh that carelessly escaped through the keyhole.

차가운 강철 바다가 겨울을 삼킨다 (the winter is swallowed by the cold steel sea)

모래는 신성한 행위의 비밀을 간직한다 (the sands hold the secret of the sacred act)

장난꾸러기 봄은 또 무엇을 가져올까 (what else will the mischievous spring bring?)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

It wasn't that you were tired per se, it was just that if you were to spend another day doing what you had been doing, you would make it a personal goal to destroy the world. But you were smarter than acting on the manic rage that lapped at the shoreline of your consciousness, and so you did what any good citizen would do and removed yourself as cleanly as quietly as possible. On paper, there was nothing wrong, and a sabbatical did not seem to be out of order, especially considering the hours you had been putting in for the last few years. Some of your longer-term patients did have to be reshuffled of course, but you did not mind that one bit - they would not be haunting you anymore, at least not for the time period of professionally approved evaporation. There was no greater joy than shoving your identification badge into a drawer and ridding yourself of your scrubs for longer than a few hours.

Bare essentials in a rucksack and a train ticket was all you needed, and once you arrived at your safe haven, it would be piece of cake to hitch a ride from one of the farmers you had befriended - who knows, maybe this time around you could get on one of the fancy new tractors. When the prospect of returning to your favourite place was feeling more real, you could not help yourself but turn back to your tendencies of being a dreamer. It was always more delightful to live in the clouds to the rhythm of the sun’s rays rather than to a beeping of the heart monitor. You could almost imagine the journey, the beauty of it all.

But that turned out to be the farthest from the washed out reality that was possible. Somewhere around two thirds of the way to your sacred destination, right around the time when a toddler - evidently born and raised in the urbanscape, had finally stopped whining about going to some place where "there was nothing", and dozed off, huge storm clouds started to roll in from the direction of the coast. Just peachy, especially when your destination was a cottage that might as well have its address quoted as 'the sea'. But you were not made of sugar and could stand a couple of angry raindrops on your waterproof jacket, and besides these problems were ones you much preferred to deal with, unlike the constant barrage of everything at once back in the concrete cage. Less yammering, and the words that were exchanged in the country were compact, concise, meaningful. No beating around the bush or claiming ownership of other people's business, so long as you didn't interact too closely. But that was what the distance between the beloved cottage and any more major settlements was for - the most secure barrier of them all was time and energy, and very few would want to waste that on an extra trip that would be entirely fruitless.

A couple of droplets was an understatement as your soaked clothes were quick to tell you. Thanks to the unusually strong storm for this time of year there was no way for you to get to your asylum easily either. No one was out, and no good person would let even their work dogs out in such weather. You, however… you could not care less about it, or about anything except getting to the cottage for that matter.. Some sacrifices were worth it. And so after getting to the tiny village thanks to the same family with the toddler since it was on the way - the last remotely reliable collection of society before natural and non-human wilderness, through sludge and torrential downpour you tread, practically having to feel your way forward since the downpour painfully obscured your vision. Your feet knew the right path at least, and after you had donated the last of your social supplies to those metropolitan holidaymakers for your own benefit, with every metre you conquered you ended up striding faster and faster. Until you saw the lights. They could only mean two things. Either Old Man Yang came back to life and was perusing his grounds like Old Hamlet, or there was a guest. As much as you wanted the answer to be the former, it was obvious enough that the occupant was somebody else. Not that you were too bothered. You knew this house like the back of your hand, and were aware of how to get in and out pretty much unnoticed. Plus, it would not be the first time you would be doing so. Most people limited themselves to a couple of rooms, fearing that they would be overstepping should they actually ‘make themselves at home’ - a huge advantage for you when it came to climbing in. Little did they know that they would make Old Man cuss them out for their timidness if he were still around.

The first step was to avoid the front gate - a flimsy construction that had been installed without much skill nor effort, and so performed what you would generously call the bare minimum, only just holding itself together. Slanted and chipped, the fencing was in an abysmal state, off-putting, marking anyone who needed to stay at the cottage as truthfully desperate. You smiled bitterly - what a realisation. You continued on your way to the other side of the plot, barely guarded by a bush fence and the occasional appearance of proper stone fence pieces. This was mainly for show, to mark that the owner, or well, previous owner of the house was aware of what was ‘standard practice’ around these parts. Outward aesthetics was something that you had grown to despise over the years, hence why the tongue in cheek mockery of it in this construction spoke to your soul, and made the haven that much more homely. It was good to be back.

You navigated to the back of the house and ducked to squeeze through the hole on the wall. Much to your fortune, the room that was the speediest to access from a stealthy climb onto the shed located to the side of the building and a couple of shuffles of boxes was empty, though shockingly clean. It was obvious to the naked eye that the bedroom was visited quite regularly, at least to keep things neat and dustless. You nodded to yourself as you took off your shoes and clothes, shoving them in an oversized plastic bag that you had packed, originally for future laundry, now as a way to keep the items from bringing the rain indoors. The cold air hit you in one swoop, sending a series of shivers over your bare body. Hopping to the chest of drawers, you haphazardly went over the contents of each one until you found the towels, wrapping yourself in the largest one and throwing another onto the floorboards, roughly shoving it over to the puddle that still had formed under the bag. Once satisfied with the half-hearted drying, you changed into a fresh and remotely warmer set of clothes and hopped under the covers, drowsy and worn out from the impromptu hike and battering from the violent skies.

Just as your eyes started getting heavier and heavier, and you were losing yourself in the sound of the rain against the roof - a favourite of yours when it came to forgetting the nonsense you had to work towards back in the capital, the creaking of the footsteps jolted you from the somnolent fall and back to high alert. Was the guest brave enough to venture onto the second floor? Really? You concluded that they were comfortable using one of the other bedrooms, and that they were alone - the latter was a commonality among the guests of Old Man’s home, however, so that conclusion did not take much work. The steps ceased to resound across the corridor right behind the door, leaving shadows through the creak below. You froze and inadvertently held your breath, waiting for the guest’s next move. It was not that you were particularly scared of the potential interaction, but you did not want to deal with the terror that they might experience of having a random stranger appear in a house that was in the middle of nowhere. To a person ‘not in the know’, your presence would be more than horrifying. And so to do the other party, and your sleepiness, a favour, you stayed put.

More shuffling, a tug on the decor on the other side of the door - so sensitive that it probably shifted because of your jumping about, and in what must have been a quarter of an hour, maybe even less, the guest disappeared downstairs. The rain had gotten lighter since the time when you had just arrived. Rustling. Pots and pans clinking against one another. Opening of the fridge - so the stranger was making breakfast. You grinned into the bedsheets and snuggled into the warmth. How you missed this place. Its sounds, its welcoming nature, its beauty that defeated all definitions of the word. There were no standards that you needed to abide by while safely by the sea. No roadblocks, no arguments, no regrets or shame on people’s faces. Perhaps this was another reason why you did not want to interact with the guest - that would mean you having to stare at them, and goodness forbid you would be unable to turn off your work brain and end up micro analysing them. No, you needed to sleep that off. At some point while you were drifting in semi-consciousness the pacing that the stranger had commenced had stopped, and a concerning silence washed over the property. Eyebrows furrowed, you lifted your upper body. When no other sound came, you slid out of the bed, too curious to try falling asleep now. One step, another and you were already turning the door knob, cautious to push the door discreetly. You listened. Creak, sigh, so they were still-

That deep and smooth voice? So the guest was likely male, okay stay calm. You tried to reason, but the phrase kept replaying in your head, and you found yourself being ashamed to admit that, at least from this distance, the tone was more than pleasant. Perhaps you should try introducing yourself - at least to have a conversation. What were you thinking? This was someone who you did not know, someone who could be dangerous, who could attack you - no, not today, not ever. At least not until you were to run out of crackers, apples and water in your bag. Rapidly, you reversed into the living room and without a second thought, shut the door like you normally would. Clearly, you could not think straight after lateral human interaction as almost instantly you heard chaotic shuffling from downstairs. In one last strive to protect yourself you remembered the key to the door that was located on a tiny table set right by the wall to the right. One swipe, one twist, and you launched yourself into the bed in an effort to hide and minimise any movement for when the man arrived. And just in time, because just under quarter of a minute later, the stranger was back, and was attempting to enter the room while you were damning your curiosity. It was comical how the only thought that crossed your mind was the hope that if you were to cross paths with him eventually, that you would not have to cut your getaway short and go back to the heartbreaking world of expectations, regrets and erasure. Perhaps it was selfish to say, but here, in the cottage, you could live for yourself and think for yourself for once and not feel as though you were overstepping.

At some point between then and the moment you realised that the rain had stopped, you had fallen asleep, missing the entirety of the morning. You were gazing at the walls, the light from the window, the silhouette that your items strewn about on the floor, with different eyes. A revival. You were finally home. And that was when your own behaviour hit you; indeed, you were home! No matter who that other person was, you knew the ins and outs of this house better than anyone else, and just listening to the man walk around was enough to make the conclusion that he was definitely a newcomer. Probably was here for some weeks, maybe a month at most, but that was not enough to be aware of the creaks in the stairs or where all of the emergency supplies were located - the shed had been left untouched all this time, as you had spotted out of the corner of your eye. He was being cautious. Not quite living. Well, at least he was being respectful.

You patted the bed and slid out from under the covers with a stretch. The hints of sunshine were protruding through the clouds, transforming the views from your window into an infinite stretch of dewy, silvery green and a glistening and bashful blue, protected by the rolling behemoths of cloud up above. For once, you were looking forward to the coming day. You pushed yourself off the bed and stepped closer, now having the fence that you had recently infiltrated the cottage through in your sight and beyond it - the same gorgeous grassland that broke into a shallow, albeit fragile dockside. Technically, it was still part of a long series of cliffs, revealing limestone and chalk and iron from all ages, but that was a two or three hour walk down the coastline. Here, those titans were friendly pets that you could easily scale and hop down from. Nonetheless, they did a brilliant job in separating the marine from the earthly, reminiscent of the mythical division of the mortal and heavenly realms. Upon closer inspection, you noticed a certain someone treading that legendary midpoint, dressed in a simple shirt and wide, skirt-like trousers. You leaned onto the window sill, well aware that it was not going to do much in helping you discern the details that made up the enigmatic figure, but you were going to pretend like you were confident in your assumptions about the aesthetic appeal.

Dark hair, falling to somewhere close to the shoulders, tall in stature, of a thinner build, or at least that was what you guessed when the figure turned to step closer to the edge. They were holding something in either hand, and whatever it was appeared important, but the distance concealed such tiny details from you. You couldn't quite form a complete picture, but it was easy enough to put two and two together from the silence that currently reigned over the house and the stranger out for a stroll, that this was probably your impromptu housemate. Not too bad, a nice blob in the distance that you could appreciate through the horizon's blur. More importantly, this person with dark hair and a deep voice was giving you control over the ground floor for a short while, and you desperately needed to make use of the resources located there. You laid out a high speed itinerary for yourself and made a dash for the door, counting the seconds that each task took you. This behaviour was something you were unlikely to ever get rid of - your studies, and then your job both permitted you too little time to have the luxury of wasting it. How long could an inhale and exhale take?

It was astonishing just how neat the cottage was - you dared to say that it was the neatest that you had ever seen it - major refurbishment and repair requirements aside. So this guy was detail oriented, clean and homely, huh? You ran a hand over the kitchen counter while passing it to rush to the shower raising your eyebrows at the lack of dust. Damn, you might have underestimated what kind of guest this individual was. Your surprise was not limited to the main living area - the bathroom almost reminded you of the scrub room and theatre with how spotless it was. Not a single timescale stain on the glass or mirror, perfectly arranged decorations, laundry basket and towels. Even the bar of soap was turned to the smaller side so that it would be easier to use and not linger in moisture. Inadvertently, you shivered, almost slamming the bar down and moving to ruffle the towels just the slightest bit so there would be a breath of life in them. You kicked the bath mat slightly off centre, disturbed by its impeccable alignment with the tiles. Oh, this man might become your enemy. This was about to become a crisis.

One purposefully careless shower later, you had drawn a smiley face on the mirror and were now unceremoniously raiding the kitchen, claiming that you were famished and urgently needed to make the most chaos-inducing meal of all time, which given the available ingredients just so happened to be a monstrous apple pie. You were not sure what exactly provoked you and caused you to ignite the oven with a fire of rage, and channel a palette of negativity into beating butter and sugar, but this was most certainly the most ‘vigorously’ that you had ever made a pie. Whizzing through the stages of making the pastry and sending it away to cool, you took to making the filling, whispering each one of your actions out loud, narrating as though you were back in the operating room. You needed the knife, you needed the cinnamon, you-

Slamming the utensils onto the cutting board, nearly sending a small ceramic bowl flying in the process as your sleeve slipped over its rim, you groaned in disapproval. This was exactly what you were trying to escape from, and yet anything you did was simply returning you to your daily life. Why did your hands, your mind have to live in just one place, erasing the moments when your body as a whole experienced joy? Why was it so easy to retrace the steps back into personal nightmares? Damn your steady hands, your unbreakable focus. To hell with it all. On the verge of throwing the knife at the neighbouring wall, you toyed with the handle. You were tired. So unbelievably tired of the nonsense that had accumulated over your time back in the city. While anyone else would say that you had been lucky to receive what you had - an education in a prestigious university, renowned across the nation, residency in high ranking hospitals, settlement in a private clinic in an expensive district, a career in the medical field that was deemed ‘not too intense nor too gory’... you could not help but wish to burn it all in favour of the paradise that you ran to.

Your childhood. Carefree, in a small town by the sea. In fact, on a clear day you could see the outlines of it from here - on many occasions you had stood by the fence gate with Old Man, who had taught you how to read the clouds, the forests, spot things no one else could. How he, with his wrinkled, dry hand pointed in the direction of what were your roots. But not your home. You had hugged him tight that day, muttering that it was in the cottage that you were happy. Old Man never forced you to leave. In fact, the room that you were staying in had always been left ready for a guest - you. But of course, in the eyes of everybody else, this was not what was considered successful. Study, take exams, study, do extracurricular activities, fix your pronunciation, change your look, change yourself to be like someone else, for what? To appease others, as you had realised in the middle of your time at medical school. You were a talking piece, a conversation starter. Nothing more. And so, with every opportunity, you stepped farther away from those who had taken your clarity and safe haven.

Old Man died when you were about to graduate university. You found out only two months later. Since then, you were on your own. You clenched your hand into a fist until the knuckles turned white, while tears inadvertently pooled in your eyes before you dabbed at them with the corner of your sweater. Your childhood home did not exist anymore - you checked two summers ago. Deemed too rundown since no one had moved in after your parents made a mad dash for the metropolis, it was now just a bitter memory. At least in the act of honouring the past you were victorious. Your body began to move on its own accord, floating through the instructions, from one step to another, at ease since your thoughts were preoccupied by reminiscence. For a person whose livelihood majorly relied on their hands, you were terrifically remiss about what you subjected them to; some of your colleagues were known to wear gloves almost all hours of the day, others refrained from doing anything physical unless it was lifting a scalpel. To put it simply, this drove you mad. Every single one of them: self-important, unaware, isolated. Let this pie be baked in hellfire for all you-

Mid-spin, just as you were finished with making the filling and were in the process of lining a baking tin with some of the pastry, the front door creaked open, revealing the figure that you had spotted outside of your window, walking alongside the beginnings of what would be a cliff’s edge. You stood still, holding the pie tin, feeling the grooves of its edges, balancing the dough that was still wrapped in clingfilm right in the middle, as though if you were to not move this man would not see you. Heart quickening to a nauseating pace, the intense scrutiny that you were receiving made you want to collapse behind the counter. Before this moment, you had convinced yourself that you had fully adopted a devil may care attitude, and that you were ready for whoever you would encounter, having prepared the humble abode for a you-style reception and to assert who truly was deserving of ownership of this property. But something about this enigmatic persona who, just like you, remained unmoving, echoed the seastorms. A roaring of the waves was contained in his orbs, so dark due to the light being behind the man’s back that you could barely detect the transition from pupil to iris. A nose worthy of being depicted in renaissance paintings, in fact, if you had to pinpoint one way to describe the stranger, is that he reminded you of subjects that graced the walls of art galleries, selected by masters to be immortalised in the artists’ name. Nameless, much like he was to you in this present moment. His lips, ever so slightly parted as if he had been on the verge of saying something to you, only for the aim to fall short of execution, voice drowning in doubt or disgust. The corners of the man’s mouth were gently downturned - not unpleasantly so, but rather giving him an aura of intimidation that intrigued you. Shadows on his face suggested to you that he was unshaven, though, you had to admit that it was not too bad of a look. In fact, an interesting edge of ruggedness that balanced with his longer locks gave the man a new form of allure, and in turn, forced you to keep your eyes on him despite feeling inklings of terror. The scene reminded you of a faceoff between two territorial wolves - whose domain was this? Only time and a match of resolve would tell.

He was the first to break eye contact, sighing and moving to take off his shoes and trench coat. You remained still - a hostile animal that was expecting aggression at any moment. The man was silent, unphased by your ‘out of the blue’ appearance at least outwardly, and you were not certain whether his lack of reaction was something to be taken with gratitude or suspicion. As you inspected his motions, how he stretched out his arm to hang the trench coat on the rack that was hammered to the wall, with the right nail ever so slightly lower than the left, how he ran a hand through his hair, casting shadows over what hinted at months of fatigue. Not quite pallid, but definitely tired skin, holding times of discomfort, sleeplessness. Dark circles under those deep, pensive orbs, cheeks that were somewhere between sunken and youthful. The man stood before you in a white shirt, the colour a last cry to some form of purity and hope. You could guess why he was at the cottage, since it was not too challenging to see your own reflection in the corners of his soul, much like you could sense that he was reading you. He reminded you of an angel who was tired of praying, barely capable of carrying his body. Pressed down by the story that had been written for him, he was likely here for an escape, to drown out the sounds of whatever he was running from. Perhaps you should be friendly, and welcome this lost soul. After all, he could be unaware of where he is nor of what unspoken rules exist around here. The least you could do is make him feel at home-

“You made a mess,” and just like that, all desire to be amiable flew out of the window and into the sea. His curt comment was like a burning cold scalpel, words too familiar to be neutral and well-received.

Before you could respond, the man was well on his way to the bathroom, and judging by the slam of the door, he was not very pleased to see the rearrangements you had made. No comments followed, however, and instead, the pause was filled by the sound of running water, followed by a muffled mumbling when following a couple of rattles, the pressure inevitably dropped and there was barely a trickle. You shook your head, amused by how this man had been living in this property without the basic knowhow. Clearly, he was one of the many cityfolk who wanted to try his luck while on holiday. Exotic stay to talk about with his glamorous friends, you bet. For him to explain how ‘the bucolic was not even as appealing as literature made it out to be’. Standard. Faceless. You would forget him in no time, especially since he would probably leave before it got less fun and more mundane to stay out in the wilderness. That pretty face should not know harshness. With a huff, you set the tin down onto the counter and set the oven to preheat. With swift, irritated movements, you took to lining the metal with the dough, and in no time shifted to ladling the filling inside, halting to watch the last of the fruity cinnamon remnants dribble from the bowl down to join the rest of the sweet and sour promise.

The man returned when you were in the process of lacing strings of dough together to structure a coherent design. With an embarrassing surgical precision, you focused on the patterns - culinary sutures, almost horrified by the technique that you could not prevent from channelling itself through your body, to your very fingertips especially now that there was an audience. If he wanted to give you a stern talking to, it had quickly dissipated and mid-stride, the stranger was observing you as though you were carrying out a sacred ritual. The spotlight was on you as you demonstrated how to put the flesh back together. Piecing the skin bit by bit so as to ensure minimal scarring, careful now, people come to you to make themselves feel beautiful after all. String by string, the pie was looking more like itself, a recipe book photograph, something worthy of immortalising as the model step before baking. A beeping confirmed that the patient was relaxed, steady, with a perfect heart rate - good, all the readings were steady, now all you needed was to make the final - you felt for the tray finding empty space. Did someone misplace the tools? Panic shot into your nervous system and with a jolt you pushed yourself away from the table, only to find yourself gazing, startled, at someone who you had begun to assume was an intern. The guest, or cohabitant? An eyebrow raised, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he took in your state. You clicked your tongue, finally putting two and two together and grabbing the timer behind you, purposefully taking your time so that you would not have to look at your newfound personification of madness for longer than necessary. So much for an introduction; the figure who was still a mystery to you slinked back into the shadows, with only the click of the office door serving as a confirmation that he was real. You rubbed your temples, the distant thrumming of a headache resembling a thunder that crawled over the horizon. Demonstratively, you sprinkled some flour onto a previously clean spot on the wooden countertop, only to automatically reach for the towel and drop the action again. No, it was time to bake. You needed to bake. You needed to make this place feel like home for the next couple of months, even if this peculiar character was going to be sharing it.

When you finally slid the pie into the oven and shut the door, giving it one last look before setting the timer for forty-five minutes, a curiosity crawled from the crevices of your mind and poked at you. Were you really going to avoid that man for your entire stay, assuming he was leaving soon? You had already admitted to yourself that he was objectively… and subjectively attractive. That much you had to give to him. Attitude - you were not quite ready to make judgments about, considering that if it were you in his place, you would have been chasing yourself around the house with a frying pan. It was comical, really; a stranger in a house, baking like they own the place. In spirit you might, to a person not in the know you were the official owner, but to the family who inherited the place you likely were nothing but a pest or an echo of the past that they were trying to forget. At least they did not demolish the cottage yet.

With a side step, you headed in the direction of the couch, but moved on when you noticed more damage than you had been used to on the window off to its side. Running a hand over the edges, it was clear that a certain someone had not shut it properly when nature had played up outside. So you had your tasks being planned out for you; with a grin, you nodded at the prospect. Nothing like good old maintenance of a castle in the sky to do the trick of dissociating you from your own life and responsibilities. All you needed was the right tools, perhaps some wood, and some paint. And then the fence gate could do with some tender love and care… you listed off parts of the house that you wanted to renovate or check on, imagining something greater and better than yourself. You noted the gentle breeze outside, and even though a greyness prevailed, it was far more promising for a brighter day than the performance the clouds had put on yesternight; maybe this autumn would not be too rough, and would show you its beautiful colours.

You did not see the mysterious guest until it was approximately dinner time. The pie was being kept safe and warm in the oven, and you were idly leafing through an ancient magazine - the remnants of days that you had spent at the cottage back when Old Man was still around. Another thing frozen in time, to be forever beautiful until you were to forget it. The shadowy presence commanded your attention almost immediately, and you lifted your head only to peer into a solemn darkness in the shape of a scowl, etched out on exhausted elegance. The man sighed before crossing his arms, and leaned against one of the few segments of the wall that was not bowing under the weight of framed memories, pins and nails.

Just what was this person thinking? As the clock marked your shared awkwardness with every tick, you grew more self-conscious. Was there something so repulsive about your presence, that the guest, or rather… the present resident, could not bear to function without hostility? Letting the pages fall onto one another, forming a yellowed stack, you rose from your position, having been hunched over the combined kitchen and dinner table.

“Some pie?”

The words landed somewhere between your two forms, unusually shy, a request so timid and tentative that it might as well have been the wind outside. One tick of the clock, another, and another. It was easy to wonder if you appeared untrustworthy. It must be the way in which your brows were positioned, or how the corners of your mouth naturally curled ever so slightly downwards if you were not paying attention. Or maybe-

“Sure. Thanks.”

That same tone. Words, curt, unforgiving, but a step towards proper introduction. Who knew such coldness could evoke a wave of joy in anyone? As though on command, you hurried to the kitchen, a childish excitement overtaking you as you imagined the reaction he might have to your baking. It was one of the few things that was your safe haven - although you did not indulge in the activity too often, you had experienced the euphoria that came with it enough times to elevate it above the usual hobby. He had to enjoy the apple pie, surely.

As you grabbed the towel to use as makeshift heat protection, and prepared a mat onto which to set down the perfectly warm pie, you noticed the dark haired man match your movements. Narrowly missing your elbow, he navigated the space with calculated reach, and produced cutlery, plates, and a couple of mugs. Without any consultation, his selection of items was soon on the table, and next, the kettle was obediently bubbling up with excitement for another steaming cup of tea. You raised your eyebrows and huffed, balancing the pie in your hands as you walked around the counters and gently set it down. With a nod you confirmed your own satisfaction and gestured to your partner in table-setting to take a seat. He refused, instead remaining standing stock still by the lonely piece of furniture, pupils gliding along wherever you went.

Those deep eyes, a blended mahogany and sienna, depending on how downcast the lashes appeared to be, remained trained either on you, or were burning holes in the tablecloth as you picked at your respective slices. The wisps of flavour and freshness escaped the filling, an unfathomably lush aroma clinging desperately to the air in the search of a satiated appreciator. But to no avail. No lips uttered a single word of praise, nor did you dare ask for it. It was a habit that you had been forced to break away from come adulthood, not that it had ever given you much satisfaction before the fact. You tried to convince yourself that the culinary feat was as delicious as Old Man had told you it had been, but in the gloom of your company and circumstance, it tasted bland, colourless, miserable. As though you were eating your own forlornness. You rested your fork on the edge of the plate, no longer having the courage to take another bite.

Just when you were about to give into your impulses and storm out, only pausing to consider if you should permanently borrow the rain coat that was hanging by the front door, the man quietly raised a piece of the dessert to his mouth, not minding your not quite discreet gawking. Savouring every bit of texture, the harmony of ingredients that collaborated to produce the bucolic ideal in gastronomic form, he revelled in the taste of home. You noted the subtle changes in his appearance as he roughly sliced away another bitesize piece with his fork, then another, features relaxing into the experience as though finally after many days if not weeks he saw the sun. You melted into a close-mouthed smile, turning away to let your gaze aimlessly wander across the living room.

“It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

There it was. Your first exchange. The beginning of something. Or the end. Perhaps both. When you turned back, no longer did his face appear as dangerous, instead sustaining an almost amiable curiosity.

“Why aren’t you eating?” his question held genuine concern as he paused, darting down to your hands and back upwards.

“I- oh, sorry, didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” settling in what you assumed to be the safest option, your trained clinical professionalism you responded and started to hack away at the pie before you. Your choice of words provoked a chuckle - an unexpected sound that echoed in your ears for a little longer than you would have liked.

“Not at all… I think the two of us are even,” ever so enigmatic, your interlocutor responded. You let a slice of apple melt on your tongue, fructose and syrup clouding your nerves over choosing the right way to respond.

“...In?”

“Two people caught adrift in the middle of a storm, unsure of whether to keep holding on, or to let go. Are we not alike?”

Peculiar expression, unsettling, piercing through you and laying you bear until the pie left a bitter aftertaste. But of course, you could not do anything except pass it off as nothing. It was only natural for your self-acknowledged and accepted self-denial. Moreover, how could you two be similar? Obviously from different places, with different visions, the only thing that brought you together was this little cottage by the sea. At the same time, the words planted a seed of curiosity in your mind. Old Man liked to say there existed no coincidences, only well-hidden strings of fate and twists of certainty. You peered at the man again, gaze inadvertently settling on the freckle that was positioned almost perfectly in the middle of his collarbone - even what some of your clients considered to be an imperfection contained balance and elegance. Like hell would anyone ever be able to replicate that. Out of habit, you measured angles, sized up the man sitting opposite- at least you were not giving him the doctor smile yet - staying at the cottage was already doing you some good.

“So…” you began, but the words died away faster than flowers in early spring before you could deliver them, joining the disappearing wisps of heat from the pie.

“What brings me here? I assume that is the question,” so the delivery was successful. You nodded, attempting to ignore the hint of smugness tugging at the stranger’s lips, “I needed a break. So… I looked for a place. Remembered some relatives, then… ended up here. Yourself?”

“Oh,” you revealed your surprise, the phrases playing back in your head. ‘Relatives’... so Old Man did have someone inherit the property after all?

“Oh?”

“Sorry. You just said, ‘relatives’?”

“Well, yes,” he set his cutlery aside, gracefully picking up the cup of tea to take a sip before continuing, “this cottage is under the name of one of my cousins, however, as you can see… they have no use for it. Hence why I was told I can stay here for as long as I like.”

“Luxurious.”

“Hardly.”

“Limitless time off? A rarity in this day and age,” you sighed, giving a bittersweet smile.

“Everything is measured by time, be it days or bills. Runs out eventually.”

“That-” you paused, “is true,” it was difficult to admit that the smile you received from your fellow dessert buddy was charming, but there was simply no other way to describe it. Except perhaps ‘dazzling’ would do, but you did not wish to get ahead of yourself and swoon over a man whose name you did not even know.

“So, dare I ask the same elaboration? What brings you to the edge of the world?”

The clock ticked loudly in your ears, and you swore you could sense the draft creeping across the floorboards and over your feet. The moment was surreal, and not in a million years you would think you would find yourself in a situation such as this. At least not when considering the gruelling cycle you had subscribed to since you were young enough to give up your dreams in favour of others’. You were here because you were re-tracing your steps back to a time when you still had air in your lungs and a fighting spirit that had not been charred by a bleak reality and troubling conventions that society hammered down on everyone without exception. In some sense, for a little while, you did not wish to be yourself, but a version that you kept hidden away.

“I suppose I needed a break too, so I came back to the one place that I know as a paradise.”

“Intriguing. Did you know great uncle Yang?” he followed, tilting his head just a little.

“Yeah. Quite well, actually,” you were curt. Unwilling to share too much, but the man pressed on.

“How?”

“Came ‘round quite often,” you poked at the remnants of your pie slice.

“I wish I could have,” caught off-guard, you lifted your head, perplexed, “I have only heard about how amazing of a man he was. Distance proved to be unconquerable for me, and excuses far too strong to rebuke. Am I correct in assuming that you were closer?”

“Closer… I guess. I… well. I’m from this area. Grandpa, he- him and Old Man Yang were friends so…”

“Is your grandfather from the village-”

“He was… he had resided in a neighbouring house before it got torn down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for bringing the mood down.”

“The mood is how it is - like the weather, sometimes you need a little rain to appreciate the sunshine.”

“A poet, aren’t you?” you half-joked, trying to turn the situation around. The memories were flooding back at a fast pace, and you were struggling to keep up with them. The guest, however, was instead taken aback, as though your jesting was an accidental truth. You raised an eyebrow.

“How did you… do you know me?”

“I feel like we have been apologising back and forth but, really sorry am I supposed to-”

“Oh no! Not at all! It is just that you are right, I am a poet. Job-wise, I mean,” taking notice of the way in which he started to attack the edge of his shirt sleeve.

“It’s cool.”

“Hm?”

“Your job.”

“Ah, it’s just throwing words on a page and hoping they make sense-”

“If that’s what it is then you’re gifted. Hoping is already an art. Hardly anyone does that anymore,” yourself included. Finally, you were more at ease; whether it was with yourself or with the situation at hand, you could not be bothered to decide.

“Thank you… are you in the arts?”

“Maybe some people would consider what I do a sort of art, but at the end of the day it’s far, far from it. Surgeon. Cosmetic.”

“So the science side of beauty?”

“Science and human opinion collided. Thankfully, there’s plenty of nature here for me to rest my eyes,” you gestured around you, suggesting the quietude of the cottage, and absence of any community in the immediate vicinity. The man nodded in understanding, choosing not to comment further.

“I… I do not think I have introduced myself yet. Park Seonghwa. Though, Seonghwa is absolutely fine seeing as we are friends by circumstance.

“Well, fantastic to meet you, Seonghwa. L/N Y/N. I hope we have great times ahead of us.”

“This time is all ours.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

As Seonghwa watched you redo the fence gate, he could not help but wonder if you really were a surgeon or not. Perhaps he was being a little prejudiced, but the image he had held in his mind of doctors and nurses was vastly different to how you carried yourself. Starting from how lacking in enthusiasm your descriptions of what you did were - without an ounce of pride, you simply listed off a couple of facts about your workplace like address, services and your responsibilities, and then returned to pondering housework and searching for tools. Seonghwa had assumed that any cosmetic surgeon working in a private clinic that was located in one of the most coveted and famous neighbourhoods of the capital would have a lot more of a well-meaning snootiness, or at the very least an eagerness to share their experiences. After all, the years of study and training had to be a mark of lifelong dedication, no?

You were anything but delicate with your hands as they aligned wood against wood. However, these same hands were steady, each movement calculated, deliberate, precise. There was not a single bit of power wasted in how you realigned the gate to not sink at the hinges. Tools arranged on a miniature mat did remind Seonghwa of what he had seen in medical dramas - neat operating chambers, every piece of equipment counted and arranged in a very specific order. So far, your actions and habits had been the most telling, making him choose to believe you. It was highly probable that you were exactly like him, hiding from yourself, from your immediate responsibilities - the weight on your shoulders having gotten increasingly overwhelming. It was not as if he had been fully open, heart on sleeve, with you and you were not returning the honesty; both of you had chosen to remain observers, walking in a circle as though there was an unspoken showdown, suspense in which both of you were waiting for something to go wrong. He did not wish to reveal his weaknesses, and neither did you.

In no time at all, you were done with the gate, marking the success by standing up straight and wiping your hands with a towel you nicked from one of the closets that Seonghwa had never yet dared to open. Catching his eye, you smiled and gave a cheerful thumbs up, one which he instinctively returned from his viewing spot by the front door. You picked up the equipment, roughly shoved it into a bag, and upon a quick adjustment of your jeans swiftly made your way back into the house. As you were kicking off your shoes, using your feet to position them in a reasonable spot that was out of the direct way into the house, Seonghwa spotted a little stain on your sweater. It could have been easily avoided with a rolling of the sleeves, however given your determination, it felt intentional. He bit his lower lip, musing the meaning behind your numerous deliberate actions over the last few days.

It was easy enough to notice that out of the two of you, Seonghwa was far more neat and pedantic about maintaining said ‘clean’ environment, while you were all for a freer living situation, not bothering to readjust the bathroom towels, or straighten the chair after pushing it back. Without a shadow of a doubt, you were very much in control of what you were doing - it was obvious. Sometimes, the young poet was sure that you were reminding yourself to not be organised, and only at critical times, such as the maintenance works on the gate, did training and composure characteristic of a highly skilled medical professional shine through. Without any explicit mission or goal, you appeared to be running from order, an act previously unimaginable to Seonghwa, but one he could understand, having been doing what was essentially the opposite. He resisted further moving your shoes when you walked into the living room, and bit back a comment about how you set the tools off to the side on the floor, instead continuing to watch you float to the kitchen to wash your hands. You were refreshed, a little sun in the departure of the cold season, your pink cheeks and grin that was threatening to take over all of your features returning a bashful youthfulness to you - something that he could not spot in the slightest upon first meeting. He did not know you yet, but he could sense that this was much more like the real you than the exhausted shell of a human who was suspicious of everything and everyone.

Seonghwa ran a hand through his hair before crossing his arms and leaning against the arc that separated the kitchen and living room, studying your approach to the window that he had combatted some days ago. You were in your element, fluid, determined. As much as you probably would have hated to hear him say, you were very much a surgeon before an operation, plan in the eyes and stable hands raised in front of you as you assessed your metaphorical patient. Was this a cosmetic procedure? Or a lot more invasive? Terminology he had picked up from perusals of the news and media plagued Seonghwa’s mind as he watched you carefully unlock the window, click your tongue and get to picking at the rotten frame, a replacement sitting patiently under your feet. How and where from - you were not too inclined to reveal all secrets of the cottage, but he could gather that there was some underlying rhythm or internal network of miscellaneous tools and ‘thingamajigs’ that all harmonised to create the cosy domestic paradise he had come to enjoy in his undetermined stay.

It was enthralling how, out of the two of you, you seemed to be more in harmony with the place. Well, perhaps not so strange, considering you were the one who had practically grown up in these walls. And much like Seonghwa could only guess about the inner workings of the house, the same came to you. Without any particular desire to be welcoming or amiable, you were focused on tending to any impending ruin rather than entertaining a stranger. This, however, made the poet all the more intrigued. You had to be running from something, maybe something similar to his own demons. Maybe something much darker. The nature of your work was a double-edged sword, after all. What were you seeing, or decisively ignoring by making this grand escape to the end of the world?

“Right, this should last a while. Seems the winter was pretty harsh this year, so I’ll have to check the rest of the windows too. You know what, maybe the attic as well,” you explained as you stood up straight, wiping your hands with the cloth you had retrieved from the toolkit.

“There is an attic?”

“Uh, yeah. You can get to it from my room.”

“You mean the guest room that you raided?”

“Hardly a guest room when there are no guests here, don’t you think?” you raised an eyebrow, sauntering past him, clearly searching for a way to set your words in stone with a pointed physical gesture.

“Mm, you’re right,” the last thing Seonghwa wanted was trouble on an already stormy horizon.

“Ah… Seonghwa?” you tentatively uttered his name, as if still testing how it sounded.

“That’s right.”

“What were you planning on doing?”

“Huh?”

“Right now.”

“...Probably returning to the office-”

“-ah, so you are going to hole yourself up. Got you,” without giving as much as a second to process or retaliate, you continued, “could you figure out food? If you don’t mind, that is. When I was getting the kit I saw something I wanted to check out. Shouldn’t be long, though.”

“I’ll see what I can put together.”

For what had to be the first time, Seonghwa noted the hint of a genuine smile ghosting over your lips. As you responded with a quick ‘thank you’ and left the cottage once more, already on another mission, he could not help but pause and tilt his head in confusion.

“Well wasn’t that awfully domestic…” The terrifying part was that he was not entirely opposed to the gesture.

Newfound vigour spread over his body and ignited a gentle flame in his heart. With purpose, he moved across from the living room back to the kitchen, beginning his search and preparations. This could also be a chance to get to know you better - your likes and dislikes, any quirks and habits. In turn, he had an opportunity to tell you wordlessly about himself. Brushing loose hair out of his face as he leaned over to grab a cutting board, he exhaled, amused. Care. Expression of care. Soothing waves of comfort and affection in the form of acting to provide some form of relief for another. This was something he had entirely forgotten in the blur of his day to day, and abandoned the possibility of returning to the notion by making an unplanned escape, only to find the lost memory right here, in this cottage. Doing, without wanting something in return except harmless conversation.

Time went by swiftly when it passed with purpose. Mind left unoccupied by hauntings of rhyme and rhythm thanks to a pleasant sense of urgency, Seonghwa could concentrate on making something out of whatever he had found in the cupboards and fridge. Back in the city, particularly towards the last few months before his sudden departure, he rarely cooked, be it due to lack of time or of energy. Instead he relied on restaurants where he had to survive loud company, or takeaway orders which, eventually, had all come to taste the same. Solitude had woken him up, and your appearance was another jolt to the system. Curious, how the mind worked.

The afternoon crawled towards the evening with certainty, and as the horizon turned to a murky grey with the hints of sunset, you returned, tired, but triumphant. Quietly, as though you were old friends who had exhausted all conversation, you made final preparations and dined. The occasional compliment escaped you, much to Seonghwa’s joy, but other than that, he was left to spin stories about you and leave it all up to overly elaborate guesswork. Asking about the shed did not do much, either. Brushing everything off as though the fixes had been but a mere ‘walk in the park’ was your well-measured defence. They could be, compared to whatever you did back in the city. Eventually, Seonghwa mustered the courage to attempt to satiate his curiosity, and left a question hanging in the air.

“Could you… tell me more about yourself?”

“That’s quite broad. What do you want to know?”

“Mm… cutting straight to the chase, huh.”

“I’m not one to enjoy wasting time,” you emphasised, setting down your fork on a cleared plate and leaning back in your chair, clearly in anticipation of an unpleasant interrogation. Seonghwa had to tread with care, but could not help the stirring of his inquisitive nature.

“Right, I figured. Barely arrived and the cottage is already pristine,”

“Hardly. Much work still left to do.”

“Well, give yourself at least some credit-”

“-So, the question?” you interrupted, putting your elbows on the table and tilting your head. No optimism or kindness in your eyes as you regarded Seonghwa. Just what were you thinking he was going to say?

“Ah, yes. Uh… how do I say this… considering we are both in, hm-”

“In the middle of nowhere, you can say that. I won’t take it personally,” you nodded urging him to get to the point.

“Thanks. So, since we are here, I have been thinking if our reasons for being here are in any way similar. Or, if not, just how different,” when you did not respond, or even acknowledge his thoughts, he persisted, “that’s about it… I mean, if you want to talk about it, that is.”

“Not really-”

“Oh! Okay, I- sorry,”

“No, you’re fine. Just because I don’t really want to doesn’t mean I won’t. It’s all part of getting to know a person, isn’t it?” turning to the side, you stared at the freshly redone window. It was holding up well. Beautifully, even. Seonghwa hated to keep making the comparisons, but he could not rid himself of the image of how you could be like professionally. Perhaps this was because this was the only concrete thing he had found out about you, but you were, in his eyes, every bit a representation of the medical field. Just as he assumed you were going to bestow upon him more discoveries, you shot him a side glance, “besides, it’s not like you are an open book either. For all I know you might be on the run from the police.”

“What?” he exclaimed a little too loudly to consider calm.

“I’m just kidding. Or am I?” you quickly raised your eyebrows, clearly finding amusement in Seonghwa’s discomfort, “Anyways… what brings me here… well, I am on a break. I’d like to think it is a well-deserved one.”

“Annual leave?”

“I guess, though, in medicine… is there ever such a thing? We’re not exactly corporate are we.”

Seonghwa finished the last of his meal and took a quick sip of his tea. While you were not looking directly at him, he could feel your scrutiny nonetheless. Suddenly, he felt the need to redo his hair, check his face in the mirror, adjust his clothes - anything to feel more presentable, even though it would not make much of a difference. Cold, but not hostile. Thinking back to how he had greeted you, he cringed. Was this the impression he had inadvertently given? Maybe. Very likely, actually, considering that for the first while he wanted nothing to do with another individual in the house. And now what was he expecting, an immediate shift into being best friends or at least allies? Biting the inside of his cheek, he mumbled:

“Might be foolish on my part, but I suppose I thought clinics would work differently.”

“Oh they do, that’s correct. But since money has to be made, we have to do a bit more negotiation to have a nice, unbroken holiday.”

“Two weeks?”

“See, that’s what employers want. More like four to six. Paid. I did my time in that place and I would say me being away would benefit all of society.”

“You’re making it sound like torture,” with a bitter laugh, you accepted his joke.

“How much would you like me to tell you about what I do? Until you agree?” your tone was flat, unnerving.

The wind was, once again, picking up outside, and whatever patchy thin wisps of cloud had been hovering around the area already disappeared, to be replaced by thick storm bringers, looming, menacing. An all-consuming darkness was rolling across the horizon and right towards the cottage, and Seonghwa could only hope that you really did know what you were doing when it came to mending. Out of habit, he adjusted the shorter strands that fell over his face, and took another sneaky glance at your features. Drumming out some unknown rhythm on the table, your fingers danced across the tablecloth. You were daring him to agree. And who would he be if he did not accept the challenge? Most certainly not an artist.

“I… I suppose you can tell me anything.”

“Heart to heart with a stranger?”

“Sure. If you are okay with that.”

“Then tell me this, Seonghwa,” you turned towards him again, only this time, you did look angered, “are you here because you are an eccentric, or because celebrity life got too much?”

“So you do know me,”

“While I was outside I remembered seeing your face on top searches or something. You sure know how to build up a following.”

“I call that a fluke.”

“Collaborating with a famous singer to write songs for their album is a fluke?”

“We have a mutual friend. Mutual friend reached out to me, said ‘hey you write poetry, how about you help out’ and so I did- hey, wait, why am I defending something normal-”

“I don’t know, but something is making you antsy, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, it’s probably the fact that you are attacking me out of the blue.”

“I am just asking a question.”

“Sounds like you are judging me,”

“Aren’t you judging me?”

“Aren’t we both judging each other?”

“True.”

With a huff, you crossed your arms and looked at your empty plate. Seonghwa followed suit, agitated. Neither of you had particularly good points, but nonetheless managed to bring to light issues that you and him were denying. Without a single word, both Seonghwa and yourself were going through the skeletons that were in the closets of your minds. He cleared his throat.

“It’s the latter. You hit the nail on the head.”

“I see.”

“People might pretend to know one thing or another about lyrics, but no one ever cares to read past that. I’ve had maybe one, two people ask me about my poetry, and none about my post graduate work.”

“Post graduate?”

“Yes.”

“Linguistics? Literature?”

“Something like that.”

A pause. The first few rain droplets hit the roof of the cottage and splattered against the windows facing the shore. It had to be another downpour coming. The clock continued its dedicated beat, and you were an immovable statue, as if you were storing away all he had told you about himself. Though he had not offered a resume to you, of course he wouldn’t, it was probably easy enough for you to put one experience with another, and paint his whole life.

“A scholar,” Seonghwa sharply exhaled, wondering how you had come to this conclusion.

“Trying to be. Probably more accurate to say that I am a poetry nerd who wants to become an academically accredited poetry nerd.”

“Hey, you’re passionate. That’s commendable,” your eyes softened, reminding Seonghwa of how people regarded something fragile. All because of hope? The same hope and inspiration which he had lost and was trying to discover again?

“I should be saying that to you. I mean medical school, and then launching into active practice right after is no easy feat.”

“That… is true.”

“But something’s off?”

“Bingo.”

“And you are running from it.”

“Hm… probably. Actually, you know what let’s call things like they are. That’s right.”

“And this thing is…?” he trailed off, encouraging you. You stared at the view outside the window, shapes now barely distinguishable as the droplets turned into bucketfuls and the streaks across the glass transformed into an unbroken blur. As your gaze settled back on the man sitting across from you, he saw a resemblance between the weather and your expression, and could not look away out of fear that he could miss the ever-changing emotions, musings, revelations that etched themselves on your face, only to disappear in a split second.

“You know…answer me this. I think you are the perfect person to ask.”

“Ask away.”

“What is ‘beauty’?”

“Beauty.”

“Yes. Beauty. What is it?”

“To me, or-”

“Whatever way you want to answer. What is it?”

“A feeling.”

You tilted your head and squinted in response to him. Truth be told, Seonghwa surprised even himself by the speed of his outburst. Feeling. He could not define beauty, and he did not believe that he was in a position to ever do so, but based on the callings of his heart, based on the changes of nature, of how words flowed from pen to paper or how they felt on the tongue and on the lips, he could sense beauty, and he was sure of it.

“Interesting. An artistic answer, I’ll give you that.”

“Were you looking for something else?”

“Something more clinical, potentially. But I like how you put it better. It’s more alive.”

“Are you running from beauty?”

“More like, I don’t know what it is anymore. And so my feet led me to the place where I think it existed. Or as you say, the feeling existed.”

“But… beauty is everywhere, no?” He knew he was being hypocritical, having cursed his own environment - both animate and inanimate, time and time again, but the mantra of any dreamer was the only thing that crossed his mind in this moment.

“Not in a cosmetic surgeon’s office, it’s not. Everyone either walks in there thinking it doesn’t exist, or walks out thinking that way. Aesthetic beauty, visual beauty is such a lie that I sometimes wonder if I see at all. Don’t get me wrong, I love nothing more than to make someone feel like they really are in their own skin, and countless times I have seen people gaining their happiness and their whole lives back after a visit to our clinic... but... beauty. Beauty itself is so, so strange.”

Your voice wavered. Any previously existing hard exterior was but an illusion, and Seonghwa could see the faint glow of a young spirit who wanted to do better for the world, but was beaten down, deciding that it had enough for a long time. In the effort to save it, you came here. To find your so-called muse, your safe space.

“I want to hear more… about this. If you don’t mind.”

“About people putting themselves down?” you sighed, ready to stand up and take your leave.

“No, no! Goodness, no. More about beauty. And what you think of it. And why do you think you ‘lost’ it, in a sense?”

“I’m starting to think we really are on the same boat in the same storm…” you mumbled, glancing at the time, and then rocking in the chair to finally lift yourself up, “... then I say we need more tea.”

“Consider it done.”

Some shuffling, dishwashing, and side glances later, both of you were settled on the edges of the sofa, preferring to find a reason to not stare at one another rather than adopt a position akin to that at a therapist’s office. Neither of you wanted to pretend you held answers to the mind’s mysteries, and neither of you wanted to come off as some complex character. Instead, you slowly but surely began to lay all your cards down on the table as the barley tea cooled in your cups. Seonghwa silently nodded as you elaborated on your frustration with the perfectly in line plates, the crisp and straightened towels, and the spotless counters. Unsettling, inexplicable, but the sensations you experienced when you stared at the lack of chaos were more than real.

“It’s the uniformity that puts me off.”

“So… things being in order, organised, in their places… annoys you?”

“Well… I cannot say it annoys me, because it doesn’t… this goes away after a while. But for the first little bit of time I will probably freak out whenever I see things that look a little too clean.”

“Got it. I shouldn’t clean up messes. See? You have something you find beautiful,” Seonghwa pointed out, a soft smile gracing his lips. As the conversation took on a more abstract, philosophical tone and your dispositions ceased to be so formal, he felt himself relaxing more and more by the second, and decisively taking the lead in conversation.

“Hm. A little chaos couldn’t hurt anyone. But I am sorry though, it must have been unnerving, considering that you are doing the opposite,” you responded, a genuinely apologetic look on your face. So you did notice. You were quick. Or simply very observant. Seonghwa shook his head to try and dismiss the little positive attention, but to no avail, “no really, it is nice to see you feeling at home here. I mean this.”

“This really is your place, isn’t it?” he narrowed his eyes, appearing rather feline as he tilted his head, hair flattening on the back of the sofa.

“It holds a lot of memories.”

“Tell me, did you come here to look for memories, or to change your present?”

“A bit of both. So, like I mentioned. Beauty. It’s sort of been a sore topic for me since I was a kid. Be it to fit a standard visually, or academically, or whatever else. Success was beauty, beauty was success. But there comes a time where, when you hear about beauty a few too many times, it starts to lose meaning,” you stopped for a moment to gather your thoughts and listen to the howling of the wind outside. With a click of the tongue, you continued, “You know how when you repeat a word again and again, it starts to sound and feel weird?”

“Yes.”

“Same with anything. If there is no variation, if there is no real value behind a given repetition, beauty is just some random ‘thing’ that cannot be achieved.”

“Value behind repetition?”

“Yeah. We breathe right?”

“Right.”

“Heart beats, right?”

“Right…” Seonghwa momentarily shut his eyes, focusing on the sensations you were describing, feeling a little more alive.

“Those are all valuable repetitions. And even then, we feel them so differently. But… what is something ‘beautiful’? It could be like you said, a sense. But saying ‘beauty’ this, or ‘beauty’ that… the concept ends up being void of meaning to me.”

“Hm… could it be that… in that context - the context of your job, the context of your day to day, how beauty is presented to you... is something you disagree with?”

“Ah! That, yes, exactly-” setting your cup down on the coffee table, you clapped your hands, happy with the encapsulation.

It felt easier than it should have been to establish something artists chase after and die for. A diagnosis uttered by a ruthless analyst marking the withering of beauty in another’s life. With the presence of a dulled, uninspired eye came the ability to see past mere feeling, and evaluate the essence of what had been plaguing you, and apparently, Seonghwa as well. He was in muted shock, both delighted and horrified by the conclusion. Loss of beauty because of the world in which he lived - how could a poet survive, if not by translating their works to terror? In the blink of an eye, the discourse was abandoned, and Seonghwa found himself floating in his own mind, the dark ocean waves crawling through his ear canals - a deafening roar marking the coming of his nightmares. Ever since he had become interested in poetry, he was fond of what he could experience with his five senses, and then added a sprinkle of inferences with a mystical sixth. Flowing from line to line he felt, and admired what surrounded him in syllables until the world began to darken, and his wrist and brain transformed to lead. In the absence of what he thought was beautiful, was he truly surrounded by something utterly vile? If extrapolating from your conclusions, it could very well be the case.

“...-hwa, Seonghwa-” startled, his eyes darted side to side and then settled on you. He did not realise he was clenching his cup with a white-fisted rage and, embarrassed, set it down beside yours on the table, “what had you so pensive?”

Your worry was charming, the young poet could not deny. How your lips, slightly parted, were waiting on what to say. How even though you were clearly fighting your own battles, you immediately pushed them away. No wonder you were tired. And no wonder Seonghwa felt a resemblance to you. Feeling. And feeling too much. Even when you were clearly burned out from doing so, you were ready to do it again, and again, until you were nothing but a trembling stalk of grass on the cliffside, swaying with current affairs and mundane happenings everyone had to abide by. Going with the flow was something neither of you could settle for, and that was what ended up bringing you together.

“When we think beauty is gone, does it mean there is not even a likeness to it, or does it mean we are not looking hard enough?”

“Mm… good question,” you traced abstract shapes on the pillow you took into your lap, maybe for comfort, maybe to have at least an illusion of a barrier between you and him. Seonghwa kept quiet, picking up the tea and masking his concern, “Since we both ran as soon as we’ve had enough, I think the former. An optimist would probably say the latter but based on what I have seen… I find it damn hard to believe in a happily ever after.”

“Did something happen?”

“Hm… did it?” you echoed, gaze fixed on the floorboards.

“Cleary. I am all ears.”

“You are doing too much.”

“This is the least I can do,” judging by the way you regarded him, being heard was a rare occasion for you, and sent a strange ache into Seonghwa’s heart. How many of your stories were left untold?

“Where do I even start… let’s just say this holiday was not fully on my own volition.”

“That rebellious, huh?”

“That’s what happens when you convince someone to leave the clinic, I fear.”

“You told someone to leave?” perplexed and fascinated, Seonghwa turned to fully face you.

“I mean… when you have a sixteen year old girl sitting there in front of you telling you she has one thing after another to fix and got a giftcard for eyelid surgery from her family… that’s the best option, in my opinion.”

“W-what?!”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” you dismissed his shock with a melancholic coldness, “we try our best to find compromises, best plans, bring happiness into a patient’s life, but when you can clearly see they are being pressured or are at risk of a plethora of other things both physical and mental… I draw the line.”

“You just have your morals set, and want what you feel is best.”

“And that is bad for business. Maybe I’m missing the plot. Maybe I should actually let people carve themselves up however they wish.”

Resigned, you stood up and walked towards the window, each step heavier than the previous one. Seonghwa observed your motions, seeing in you a tired sun that could barely lug itself across the heavens. Wrapped up in smoky grey, your shine slumbered, and you regarded the dull landscape with a matching passivity. For all you cared, at least in this moment in time, the stormy weather could last an eternity. An angered muse on the verge of giving up; an ancient legend on the verge of extinction; a sacrifice in the midst of the bloodbath that was the strive for perfection. A lost voice. You were not the first, and most certainly not the last to suffer this cruel fate and its many variations. In fact, if Seonghwa were to look in the mirror, he knew he would discover in his inky pupils the same resolution. If he were to look into a million faces, they too, would bear the traces of antithesis to childhood dreams. Disillusionment - the bane of existence, and the band to unite it.

He wished he could memorise this scene with every intricate detail remaining intact. The way the light flickered across your face as raindrops strengthened their barrage was downright haunting, and reminiscent of a television’s unsettling static that could make a room glow white. You delicately hugged yourself, lost in thought. Voice barely above a whisper escaped you, a string of apologies as you appeared to allow yourself to feel regret over being your true self around someone who was barely an acquaintance.

“I’m sorry… I… I talked a lot didn’t I? Complete nonsense too. I mean, what the hell is the point of taking something untouchable apart, as if we could ever understand it?” you bit your lower lip. Seonghwa imagined the sea foam decorating the shore, the ebb and flow of the erratic waves while he studied the patterns in your hair. The odd wave, the styling of stubborn locks all amounting to acceptance of its unruliness. Was that not beautiful?

A tender blossom in the earliest spring, wavering and inching its way upwards, filled with hope. A budding, pale green leaf, only just unfurling, tentatively feeling the first breeze, trembling with anxious delight. Seonghwa remained still as he let the progression of scenes dash past him while he gazed at you. Shyly smiling to himself, he greeted his own sleepy heart. It stirred, intrigued by the unpredictable series of events and serendipitous meeting, recalling words that had turned foreign to him not too long ago. While there were millions of characters, thousands of lines and an infinite number of ideas, the root remained a timid secret, one Seonghwa did not wish to explore quite yet. In the absence of beauty, or the stalling of its perception, remembering beauty was more than enough.

“You’re doing well.”

“Hm? You mean, uh, the window?” confused, you pointed at the frame, earning a chuckle from the wistful poet.

“That too, of course, but I meant in general. You are doing well,” before you could speak, he interrupted your doubt, “you are not failing, you are planning ahead. There is only so much we can do, and sometimes, pausing is the only right decision.”

Seonghwa hoped that by saying this out loud, to you, he could take his own advice. But it was never easy to listen to oneself, when he knew of all the noise that stuck to his brain, knew of the taunts and the mazes. It was more simple to wish that the verbal sword could cut through someone else’s worries, and in turn, shine a light on his own and let them evaporate. You grinned; you could have guessed that this was one of his mantras that he tried to learn how to believe in, or there was a sliver of a chance that you agreed. It was beautiful to wait.

구름을 은빛으로 물들이는 눈물 처럼 (like tears that colour the clouds silver)

바다와 하늘을 잇는 수많은 실이 있다 (there are many threads connecting the sea and the sky)

태양이 보이고 당신의 눈에 반사된다 (the sun is visible and reflects in your eyes)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

An oversharer, a wildfire, taken and enchanted by a glimpse of the silver mystical lining. In every storm there was a fair share of this metaphorical metal - hints of hope that anyone stranded could hold onto. To your dismay and horror, you found solace in a stranger… or could you even call Seonghwa by that title anymore? Having poured more from your life’s cup than you had done at catch ups with your city friends, you were terrified of the amiability you possessed, and the open-armed rush of confidence you had experienced when engaged in deep conversation was quickly replaced by fear. What if you were digging your grave? What if you had signed yourself up for demise? It was so unlike you to share so much… and yet it felt so comfortable. You were alive for once, and the cottage was beginning to warm up to you again, voices of more than one echoing off its walls. But how could you know that Seonghwa had good intentions? You could not remember much of what you had seen online, except some tiny excerpts about the title track on which he had worked, but other than that - nothing. You had over-exaggerated your knowledge of his ways and his work as a silly flex of superiority, but… the more you thought about it, the more guilty you felt. You were a liar. A fiend. Seeking company, but writhing like a snake.

Ever since that first heart to heart, you remained distant, despite Seonghwa’s consistent efforts to get to know you better and better. He was not pushy, kept his jokes lighthearted, but you saw every attempt to learn more about you and your stories as a threat. You were in the same house, but it was as though the walls were closing in just on you. With a violent tug, you forced the towel off the hanger and let it pool on the floor, fleece resembling the perfect sands on faraway islands that you had seen advertised an astonishing number of times, but chose to believe in it being some business-crafted utopia. You could not bear picking the towel up from the ground. No matter how many times you would try to hang it, it would not look conventionally pretty. You tried, you really tried to arrange things how Seonghwa arranged them, be it out of respect or to conform, but your hands would produce something akin to a tremble, and at the last moment, the final product - destruction, was before your eyes. Slowly, you sank to the floor, feeling cold tile. Struggling slightly, you crammed yourself against the wall, and pushed the door a little to leave nothing more than a tiny creak. One last razor cut of light to be a guiding thread back to hollow function.

Leaning against the wall, you found yourself trying to escape your own thoughts, but the more you stared into the darkness, the more futile this race was. Inevitably, you were your own limit. At times, it was a good thing - you could go as far as you could. But other times… it meant falling and falling deep down until you were in the state you were currently in. Hands shaking just enough to send a wave of panic crashing into you, eyelids heavy from questionable and ever-changing sleep. It felt strange, having someone new know of your concerns and information somewhat beyond your day to day. Unlike regular ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’, you had inadvertently let Seonghwa see the root of your worries, and it was astonishingly hard to bear. In the dark looming corners of the bathroom, you could see your reflection. The crumpled towel taunted you, and in a spur of rage, you kicked it, immediately curling back up, arms hugging your legs. What was so hard about sharing your mind? Was it because he looked like he understood? Or was it because you were afraid that he actually did understand, and now you were at his mercy?

Vulnerability - a muse for artists, a disease for those favouring logic and wishing to move through life as an invincible figure. You were in a position where people trusted you, or rather, had to trust you if they wanted a job well done. True, you were not quite senior enough in your career to carry out the more complex procedures, but you had done your fair share of scalpel holding to curse the anxious tremor of your hands at this present moment. The fear was becoming unbearable, and it was all because of some silly conversation about what made things beautiful, and what beauty was. Ridiculous. The words blended with the heavy rainfall outside, and continued to return like the tide, higher and higher each time. It had been quite a number of days since the seemingly simple and friendly talk, and yet it gnawed at you. You wanted out, no, you needed out of this mess. Out of your own head. Old Man would have undoubtedly laughed at you, called you a feral wild and untamed beast, incapable of letting a little sunshine in your life - something of a nickname that you had acquired in the last years of his life, when you were already deep in the river of souls in the capital. But he was not here to reassure you, not here to crack a joke at the right time or to offer you protection. If there was any way you were going to survive your sabbatical, you had to hold tight and keep to yourself for the remainder of the weeks. You were going to pretend you knew his motives, and at any opportunity would tell yourself that you were staring at evil’s beautiful eyes-

Beautiful. No. You shook your head in disapproval. Eyes. Just. Regular. Eyes. In the dim evening lamplight, when you two would silently share the living room, both of you preoccupied with your own version of dawdling, they held little fireflies. Reflections of warm gold and a stunning white on a near onyx sky. Just eyes that you could not read, windows through which you did not want to look in search of a soul. Some part of you hoped that this entrancing vision would remain with you, and you would never have to see him under nauseating fluorescent lights; the scene was a professional instinct, but if there was something which you approached with more aggression than even your own paranoid self-preservation, it was to detach your present, and your continuous. Seonghwa was Seonghwa, and did not need some nobody like you to pretend to know how he should look. You exhaled, a shiver running over your form as the chill from the floor became more noticeable. A poem popped up in your mind, or rather, the few lines that Seonghwa had quoted to you the other night. Something or other about flowers, how they bloomed and wilted. While you could not grasp the exact words, your heart kept the poem safe and whole, with such diligence that it hurt. It was another one of his tries to get you to inch out of your shell. You shut your tired eyes, only to see how the shadows fell across his face as he had turned to you, lips remaining parted when he trailed off, glimmering orbs regarding you so sincerely and gently that you wanted to howl in agony. With a rub of your palm, stopping at your mouth, you wished to wipe the memory physically - your mind was too unwilling to do so. No, Seonghwa had to be some tragic, cruel joke the universe was playing on you. He simultaneously was indescribable and yet so, so simple, but if you were to be tasked to put him into words, you would sooner learn how to fly than to be capable of achieving such a feat. On the tip of your tongue were so many phrases and solutions to mysteries but none clear enough to be whispered into the early dawn. Seonghwa was who he was, and that was what scared you. You could not let him get to you like this.

Reluctantly, only due to the cold starting to become unbearable, you pushed yourself off the floor, and were once again faced with the task of picking up the pitiful puddle of fabric. With an apparent scowl, you bent forward, lifting the item and throwing it over the hook, determining that this just had to do. No one was going to throw a fit over this - and if Seonghwa was, well, you would just be happy enough to have decided to try and maintain distance. The more evidence or actions to support your desires the better. Cautiously you slid out of the bathroom and made your way down the corridor, avoiding creaky floorboards. Seonghwa was probably still asleep, and you were supposed to be. The early dawn was creeping through the lazily drawn curtains, and painting the floor in a hazy blue and grey. Hints of sunshine, tentative, shy, could be spotted on the very edge of the horizon. Maybe, just maybe, the weather would start looking a little more like spring. One step, another, and you were nearly at the dining table, front door ahead of you. Technically, if you so wished, you could spend the day in solitude; a visit to the nearby village was long overdue and it would almost guarantee an entire day outside of the cottage and away from the man who had taken residence in your brain as if out of spite. In addition, you could run some errands, and that definitely needed an early start. Your mind began to craft an itinerary, happy to abandon worries one by one. The market, the bakery, an obligatory visit to the post office to greet Old Man's and grandpa's friend… much to do. So much to do, in fact, that you only narrowly missed a ghostly figure appearing and stopping right in front of you, and had to rely on its sleepy reflexes to prevent you from colliding head on. You yelped as hands grasped your upper arms, and in an effort to escape you stumbled back.

“Hey, careful-”

That honey-sweet, deep voice forced you to glance at the so-called ghost. Perplexed, you saw none other than Seonghwa, who had been on his way out of the cottage office, stopped by the crossing of your somnolent paths. Dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks, it was evident that he had been awake for at least as long as you, if not more. Like a deer caught in the headlights, you could only stare.

“You… you alright? Sorry if I scared you… it’s just… you know…”

“Oh no, I’m fine just… didn’t think you were awake, is all…” you mumbled, eyes starting to dart in all directions.

“Yeah, I get that. I didn’t sleep too well so I decided to get an early start to the day… same for you?”

“Sort of,” you were anxious under his burning observation. The shapeless, oversized hoodie that hung over your figure was your only salvation. Subconsciously, one of your hands reached for the opposing upper arm, forming something akin to a barrier between you and Seonghwa. Your legs protested, and you remained rooted to the same spot, only capable of a barely audible mutter: “I was thinking of heading out today. To the village. Will be out for a while.”

“Village? I have not been there yet. May I come with you?” eager, Seonghwa asked, smiling softly.

“Then how did you keep everything stocked up?”

“I’m organised. And visited that one super store that is on the way.”

“That’s even farther than the village?”

“Like I said. On the way.”

“Resourceful,” you knew you were stalling giving an answer to his request, but Seonghwa persisted.

“So… may I come with you?”

With no rain or violent dancing of the ocean waves to save the awkward quietude, you were in a situation no different to the one you were in a mere few minutes ago. Bathed in darkness, wisps of thoughts about the young poet permeating through restless meditation. He styled his hair differently today, you noted - most of it was brushed back, with a few elegant strands remaining over his face, approximately reaching the length of his nose. No wonder the media had clinged onto him; Seonghwa had undeniable appeal, and that on top of what was a unique form of artistry in the world of popular and quick entertainment, he was a dream for any agent, should he have found the limelight exciting. But clearly, he did not wish to risk going blind, and here he was, the muse and the poet in one form, trying to find peace.

“If I will be a nuisance, then it is okay I can-”

“Why not?” your swift interjection pushed Seonghwa into a long pause.

“Yeah. Why not, indeed. Thank you. Then, hm… may I quickly grab a couple of things? You were planning on leaving now, right?” You nodded, and watched him rush upstairs, revived.

The response, a little boyish, rough and carefree, brought a hint of a grin to your face. Simple pleasures in life were hard to find, and you had persuaded yourself to not acknowledge them, but you could not deny just how endearing it was to see Seonghwa glowing from the inside because of a couple of words and a trip to do some chores as if it was to be an adventure. You spun on your heels and ambled towards the front door. After throwing the hood over your head, you tugged on a puffer coat which you had rediscovered in one of the wardrobes - it had been a hand-me-down from Old Man when you had none of your clothes which were more suitable for rural life left after a strong push from your parents to forget your days on the shoreline. The coat had been one of the many secrets you shared with Old Man, and had been a small but certain happiness. Smelling like rain storms and sea salt, it was comforting, and still much too big for you. But it felt like home.

“Right, so, what exactly are we doing?” Seonghwa’s voice rang out across the room as he approached, having added a wool trench coat and pale scarf of an indistinguishable colour to his ensemble. You chuckled, stepping into your boots and gesturing for him to do the same.

“I was thinking we could hit the shops. Get some fresh produce if it’s been brought in already. That’s essentially the main goal. Oh, if you have anything digital to do, I know a place.”

“Really?”

“You have your phone in your pocket, right?” you pointed at his right hand which was stuffed into the mass of his coat. Seonghwa nodded.

“A standard representative of our generation, aren’t I?”

“I’d do the same if I had something urgent going on,” a flash of pained regret did not go unnoticed by you. Biting his lower lip, he suppressed whatever association he had made.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?”

Seonghwa shifted his footing to reach around you, and turned the door handle. The early morning yawned out a pleasant chill. Pale green leaves of the shrubbery surrounding the house trembled with excitement, and the gate stood proud, awaiting its next command. Your hand hovered above the wood for a couple of seconds. You turned your head towards the poet.

“It might take us an hour or more to get there, are you fine with that?”

“More than fine. I guessed it wouldn’t be a five minute convenience store trip.”

“Alright then.”

As you embarked on your trek to the village, you decided that the landscape had finally started to take on more springlike hues. Previously barren trees which were bent by years of gales and hurricanes were now dotted with adorable buds of white, pink and green, while the grass that survived the winter was giving way to thriving youth. The Earth was turning, waking up and stretching in its celestial bed, starting to peek out from under its star-patterned blanket. You tugged on the hood and stuffed your hands into the pockets of Old Man’s coat, content with your split-second plan-making. While it was not ideal to have Seonghwa as your quest buddy, you could not exactly see him with the hoodie blocking out your peripherals. Only the crunching of gravel under a second pair of shoes marked his presence.

The scene was faintly nostalgic, but you could not put a finger on the reason why. As you wordlessly followed the winding road and veered off onto a trail that cut to the village, you simply accepted the comfort. The cherry blossom season must be coming here soon, and then the sun would surely roll out of its bed and the seas would be tranquil. You made a mental note to try to walk past the more residential outskirts to see if the gardens of the brave few still had the fragile flowers - the only marking of this representation of spring in the near vicinity. Gravel gave way to a sparser smattering of pebbles, and soon enough only rocks pressed deep into dirt from years of steps and bicycles were left for you to scrutinise. Occasionally, you caught a glimpse of Seonghwa’s shoes when he took a slightly longer stride - expensive, without a doubt. But even in a landscape that served as the antithesis to cosmopolitan luxury, you had to admit that Seonghwa wore them well. Gingerly, you peeked out from the side of your hood, eyes darting to a random point up ahead as soon as your walking partner’s head began to turn. Your assumption was right - he was every bit the character of a dark and dramatic novel; dressed in all black, halo of pale light gracing his locks. You hated how easy it was to question your morals in his favour, or rather in favour of your wanting to be more carefree and open around him. What other stories would he tell? What soft prose would dance on his lips and tantalise you?

You gasped, hands clenched into fists, pockets tightening as you pressed against the fabric. A surprisingly cold gust of wind hit your face, and you were too slow to react. The hood flew back, allowing your hair to be tousled by the elements. You should stop getting so lost in your thoughts - you reprimanded yourself, and began to reach upwards. Seonghwa slowed down to match your pace, waited, and voicelessly pinched the edge of your hoodie, halting any further movement until you understood his intentions. Too confused by the sudden affection to care, you brushed your fingers through your hair and held it in place, allowing the hood to slide back on without further resistance.

“Thanks,” you huffed, stuck in an automatic bow.

“Don’t worry about it,” Seonghwa continued to walk, unperturbed, “it seems the wind is picking up again.”

“At least it’s not as cold anymore.”

“Good point. Refreshing. Let’s call it that.”

“Mm. Oh, Seonghwa-”

“Yes?” you paused to breathe, much too affected by the response speed Seonghwa had to his name. After telling yourself that this was his usual self rather than particular attention, you resumed.

“I have a beanie. If you want it.”

“Pardon?” you met the young man’s perplexed look, and patted the many pockets of the coat until you found the right one. After unclasping the metal button, you revealed the tip of a wool hat. His grin made the pang of embarrassment worthwhile - dazzling, sunny, so very Seonghwa that your heart hurt a little.

“Wind. Hair. All that. You know. Ahem. You get me,” you stumbled over your words, much to what appeared to be Seonghwa’s delight.

“I do. Thank you. I am okay for now,” he stopped you before you could close the pocket again, “but, if you don’t mind I’ll take the beanie. I have pockets too.”

“It’s supposed to stay in this coat.”

“Why?”

“Tradition.”

“Ah. Understood.”

You regretted your awkward gesture of friendliness, but you had to cancel out his approaches somehow. It would be strange to owe him. Was there such a thing when it came to emotion? Not wanting to dwell on the thought, you made yourself speed up, steps growing heavier against the uneven ground. Seonghwa followed suit, but you could only imagine his face at this moment, probably holding back a laugh, withholding some snarky comment out of sheer pity. That was normally how it was, so when what had to have been at least a couple of minutes passed, you were frustrated. Where was his voice? Could you simply not hear it over the wind? Was he intentionally being quiet?

“Seonghwa?”

“You are speeding along, Y/N, wow-”

“Sorry-”

“I’m just curious,” you slowed back down, allowing Seonghwa to catch up and join you on your side, “why that specific pocket?”

“That’s just how it has been all this time. This coat was passed down to me, and with it came a set of safekeeping and storage rules.”

“Rules?”

“Yep. From what pocket to keep what in, to where to hang it in what season. Couldn’t really do the latter properly but I think the coat held up well enough,” you inspected whatever part of the coat that you could spot from the safety of your hood, and peered to your right when you heard an approving hum.

“Looks like it could survive anything.”

“It probably could, if I’m honest. In my memory alone it survived being thrashed about on a clothing line in what had to have been some crazy strong cyclone and survived being abandoned on the cliffs.”

“How does this even happen?”

“Sometimes I do think Old Man did some things just for laughs, but he always had a fun story to tell and if he had to make some sacrifices for it… maybe it was worth it in the end,” you sighed and finished your philosophising.

“We all set our worths and prices, don’t we?” gradually, your stride turned into an amble, making Seonghwa get ahead. To your surprise, he halted almost immediately, and turned. When he spotted your unease, he furrowed his brows and stepped closer. He was searching for something in your stance, or in your expression - be it a change or a revelation, but clearly whatever you were doing was not enough. In the blink of an eye, he was a lot closer than arm’s reach. Inadvertently, you held your breath.

“What?” the question slipped from you as Seonghwa stretched out his hand, palm upright.

“I think I’ll have the beanie, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like you are doing me a favour.”

“I am just appreciating an act of kindness,” he gingerly picked the item from your grasp, “and besides, if you are going to be racing how you are now all the way to the village, my ears might freeze.”

You wanted to wipe the dorky smirk from his face, but even then you appreciated his undeniable charm. The ever-changing palette of expressions on his stunning face fascinated you, reminiscent of the metamorphosis of a flame or silver waters. You would hate to use the exact word which you were running from, so you settled to mutely acknowledge Seonghwa as ‘interesting’. Interesting, and all-consuming. You looked at the horizon, his silhouette still dancing in your vision. It was just because he did not question yet another of the many quirks of Old Man that you still honoured. Had to be. You were simply under the influence of a tiny sliver of positive emotion; nothing to worry about.

Soon enough, you were met with the main road - or what could be called a road in a rural no-name settlement, and the ghost-like buildings that marked remnants of local life. As more and more people left the place in the hopes of a better life in a bigger, more modern city, only memories and the past remained, sentenced to erode into the earth with every new season. You could recognise the buildings, of course. The colours faded, and the structures grew weary with time, but they were still standing, just like you. Waving with a tired, invisible hand. You trudged along, cursing under your breath when you saw Old Man’s friend’s house up for sale. In other words, eventually up for demolition. This village was surviving and existing until the countdown to its erasure would be completed, rather than hoping that one day, something or someone would breathe new life into it. Boarded up windows and dull grey fences; withering gardens and exhausted roofs that damned every new rainfall. There was no spring here, nor was there a winter.

“Pretty quiet…” Seonghwa commented, taking in the sorrowful and glum surroundings. You could not offer any counter-argument.

“Indeed it is… Maybe because it is an off season…” you caught your own words and exhaled, bemused, “but when is there ‘a season’ in this place?”

“May? October?”

“Could be the case. But then people prefer to go to the tourist town further south, don’t they?”

“More space for us,” with a shrug, Seonghwa responded. It looked almost as if he was reading the village’s history through the cracks and crumbling stone. Eyes travelling from side to side and sometimes stopping to scrutinise something of interest that you could never spot, he looked like he was trying to find and remember every detail, akin to a pre-op examination.

“The market is down the street.”

“Got it.”

“And then we can stop by the cafe.”

“Can do.”

“You don’t need to?”

“I could, but I don’t have to.”

“Whatever works for you. But I need a nice hot chocolate and the awareness that the world has not exploded yet.”

“Or maybe it did,” Seonghwa added, making you chuckle.

“Or maybe it did. This place certainly has a surreal other-worldly barrenness to it.”

“How appealing.”

“Home sweet home.”

A home you could barely recognise. The deterioration was abhorrent, and truth be told, when you had been on your way to the cottage and managed to catch a ride with a family, you were surprised they had any business in the village. They must have left already. No one in their right mind could survive more than a few days in a place like this, unless this was the lesser of a wide selection of evils.

Seonghwa remained quiet as you stepped into a tiny two-story building that was called ‘the market’, but was just a reminder of what had been in its place before. The stock was good enough, from fresh produce off by the windows to the refrigerated and frozen goods lined up by the walls, and the cashier who was hunched over a crossword puzzle finally showed that there was some life remaining in the village. You picked up a basket which still possessed the logo of the superstore nearby - a permanent souvenir, and with Seonghwa in toe, browsed the shelves. Occasionally Seonghwa would stop you to point at an item, or you would exchange a couple of words to debate the necessity of one thing or other, but progressed through the maze fast enough and ended up at the ancient table converted into a register.

With a vexed huff, the man behind the desk put down his pencil, and began to hammer out the prices on the old cash machine. The buttons creaked in protest, so worn that you could barely see the numbers on their faces. In one swift motion, you produced a canvas bag from another pocket, and signalled to Seonghwa to start packing while you held it open. You tried to avoid brushing your hands against his, and he politely ignored the awkwardness of your movements. Before you could ask for the total, he was already setting a couple of bills down on the counter, shaking his head at you to not argue. You narrowed your eyes, but continued to watch as the cashier counted the money, slammed another few buttons to unlock the register, and produced some change. The door of the shop shook from the wind outside, but he paid it no mind, only caring for the next word that he had to guess for his puzzle. The two of you swiftly departed, Seonghwa striding ahead to stop in front of you and try taking the bag out of your grasp.

“I could have paid, Seonghwa.”

“I could have, too. And I did. What of it?”

“How much do I owe you?”

“We are living together, aren’t we? Consider this to be my household contribution, and this-” using your moment of disorientation he yanked the handles and tightly grabbed the canvas bag, “is just me being nice.”

“You’re making it sound strange.”

“How?” he was jittery, you could tell. The reason was a mystery, but he was awfully chipper compared to even fifteen minutes ago.

“Tell me, are you nervous?” he licked his lips - a habit you had noticed within the first couple of days, and knitted his brows.

“What… what makes you think so?”

“I think I have seen enough of you to catch the gist of how you’re feeling,” you deadpanned, and turned to continue walking towards the cafe, “this village isn’t haunted if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s been ages and as you can see, I’m still alive and kicking.” The joke was not received too well judging by the forlorn tinge to Seonghwa’s disposition, but he did not put up a front or argue. Out of the blue, you heard him grumbling:

“I’m not scared of ghosts…”

“Sure.”

“Hey!”

“What? I believe you!”

“Okay! Fine! Not ghosts but… something like it,” weighing the phrase, Seonghwa wondered how to continue. When you reached the entrance to the cafe you halted, and stood fully facing your partner in existential misery.

“Which is?”

“...Emails.”

“Can’t blame you. Scary buggers. Right, shall we?” you pointed at the door and tried the handle. It gave in easily and, announced by the sound of wind chimes strung up above the door right by the frame, you entered.

If only there was someone to greet you. You tapped the counter a couple of times and reread the message left on a sheet of paper that had been roughly ripped out of a notebook.

“Stepped out, be back later, for internet leave fee in box. We are not getting any warm drinks today, unfortunately. Owner won’t be back in a while.”

“Didn’t they say they will be back later?”

“The definition of later is warped here. It means they’ll be back later to close up shop.”

“Odd.”

“Not when there are no customers for days on end. I mean, there probably are some, but they are more than likely after the internet and not the coffee.”

You dropped the paper and passed by the dozing barista machine towards the table pressed right against a barren, rusted orange or brown coloured wall - unappealing, but it had been this shade for a s long as your memory would allow you to think back, so at least it had the brand of continuity. The table itself was a little more experimental: instead of a traditional approach with legs, the piece of furniture was a thick converted shelf, positioned high enough to be like a bar. On the far end and somewhat masked by the lack of lighting stood a rickety old monitor from a bygone era, with equally ancient wires protruding out of it and escaping into amateurishly drilled holes in the wall. The keyboard: a black-coloured classic with keys thicker than a finger, was tucked under the monitor, along with a matching mouse. After pulling out the bar stool in front of the makeshift computer station but not sitting down, you lifted a foot to rest on one of the many horizontal metal bars that linked the legs together, and scanned the fees which were written with a shaking hand on a piece of paper, stuck on the wall probably while you were still a kid.

“Huh, the prices are higher than I remember.”

“Inflation,” Seonghwa offered. He had set down the groceries on the shelf-table, and stood beside you to watch the screen come to life after a couple of attempts to click the power button.

“Seems the economy reaches these parts of the country too. Is fifteen minutes going to be okay?”

“More than-” Seonghwa began to reach into his coat again, only to be stopped by you.

“Let me take this at least,” you stuffed a couple of bills into the small box that was right next to the computer and detracted your attention back to the almost-complete loading screen.

Finally, the machine went out of its slumber. You looked for a browser engine, chuckling when you saw an outdated logo marking no change from what had to be the last decade, and proceeded to search for the news. After a couple of minutes of navigating from page to page, you concluded that society had not done anything particularly remarkable, nor atrocious. A reassuring kind of ‘boring’, which was more than you could hope for. You stepped away from the stool, gesturing for Seonghwa to take a seat. He hesitated, unwilling to spare as much as a glance to the email login screen.

“Didn’t you say you-”

“Is it strange to say that I am scared?”

“Of?”

“I’m not even sure, to be honest,” he took off the beanie and ran a hand through his hair. Seonghwa was restless, and while he did defeat himself and sit in the chair, a daze took control of him before he could as much as click.

“Are there some things that you hope not to see?”

“Maybe… or… how do I even explain this?”

“How it is. Saying anything is already a start.”

“So you know how- well, of course you know- I appeared on television, and did some other interviews?”

“Uh-huh, and congratulations, by the way,” your earnest commendation was met with a nervous twitch of the lips - not quite reaching joy, but Seonghwa was nonetheless touched.

“Thank you. So, hah- just, after that there have been numerous emails, phone calls, even physical mail, asking the same things and trying to shove the same answers in my mouth. My agent was thrilled initially since it is publicity, and kept on forwarding one opportunity after another but… at some point it hit me that the press do not need me,” he finished typing in his details, but could not bear to click ‘log in’.

“Do not need you?”

“No. What they need is an image that they crafted based on their perception of me. It is true that a person forms their first impression in half a second or something like that, but when representatives of prestigious outlets do not know a single thing about my poetry which, mind you, is my main job, one does begin losing hope.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to see the empty flattery and shallowness, right?”

“Sounds about right.”

You pondered his concern. Everyone deserved sincerity, especially when it came to things that quite literally formed a large part of one’s life. It would not be an overstepping of personal rules to empathise, would it? If there was a person in need, it was another’s duty to help them through difficulties. It was the least you could do. At the same time, you felt like you were falling, and fast, into the grasp of confusing emotions, and the more you studied Seonghwa and thought about his beau- -interesting mind, you wanted to delve into it more. You wished to understand his curves and edges, read the miraculous flame which even in times of difficulty was never extinguished in his dark irises. You stared, and Seonghwa did not mind it. In fact, if anything, he was enjoying your nearly overwhelming concentration on him. Compared to the last few days when you would actively isolate yourself, this was the most time you had spent in such proximity, and toeing the line of a heart to heart. You despised the fact that you understood Seonghwa a little too well, and that, beyond the surface, you two were much the same. For some strange reason, it hurt you to see him distraught or inconvenienced. In this place which bore the traces of both your stories, be it personal or through relatives, you wanted to maintain a safe haven, if not for yourself then for him. There were always bound to be disappointments, and when both of you would inevitably have to return to your humdrum routines and unfounded chaos, they would only amplify. So why not try to cultivate a little happiness here, in the middle of nowhere? You bit the inside of your cheek as a disturbing, but astonishingly serene resolution bloomed in your musings. To hell with your rules and boundaries. Either way your heart was going to ache, but at least like this you could make the cause of it be a little more… poetic.

“Let’s sort through your inbox together, and then we can have a nice and quiet rest of the day,” you leaned over, and clicked the mouse. The screen illuminated both your faces. You tried to ignore just how close yours was to Seonghwa’s.

He let you take the lead on scanning through the items, only sometimes providing whatever guidance he could offer. As the number decreased, so did his worry, and soon enough, you were exchanging jokes as you deleted or archived more and more emails. Neither of you commented on how your hand which you had set down on the table for a little more balance was pressed against his own, nor how you were practically shoulder to shoulder. Beyond an initial awareness both of you wanted to remain quiet in an effort to preserve this safe space. No rumination, no questions, nothing. Only what felt right. And it just so happened that in the moment when Seonghwa turned to gaze into your eyes, relieved and cheerful, it felt natural to put his hand over yours. And who were you to go against the universe?

“Thank you, Y/N. This was so silly, I really should be able to handle this but… I dare say you are my saviour.”

“Not at all. I just want to help as best as I can,” you felt him softly squeeze your hand. You couldn’t look away.

“It’s the little things. I am very grateful,” you wished you could say something grand or quote something in response, but you were afraid that a medical encyclopaedia would not fit the mood.

“No phone checking today, I think we’ve done enough.”

“Sure, Hwa.”

It was the little things. How his eyes caught the rays of light that slipped into the cafe. How he expressed himself so wholeheartedly and openly. How he wanted to be himself even when so many people were against him. In him you saw an inspiring strength; the spring after a freezing winter. Just like you had helped him with emails, he was unknowingly helping you clean up your struggles and doubts, prodding at neurons and metaphorical cobwebs until problems did not seem quite as monstrous as before. For the first time in a while, you wanted to be okay.

“Home?” The only word that fit the cottage, for you and for him. Seonghwa gleamed in response.

“Home.”

⋆✧. seonghwa .✧⋆

“Let’s go to the cliffs.”

“Sounds suspicious, what are you scheming?” you raised an eyebrow, but, nonetheless, closed the book that was neatly positioned on your lap - the aftermath of you two having grown more relaxed around one another, and you venturing into the office and asking for recommendations from Old Man’s library. Seonghwa was more than happy to offer a couple of titles which he could spot hidden on the shelves, and now could discreetly enjoy the sight of you being fully immersed in one of them.

“I just think we could use a good break,” he crossed his arms and nodded to himself. He did not want to reveal all his plans just yet, but it was hard to remain cryptic when anything to do with a location could raise questions.

“Again, suspicious. What are you on about?” Seonghwa watched you look for the old postcard which you had been using as a bookmark, smiling when you finally discovered it had fallen beside you on the sofa.

With each day, Seonghwa was getting a chance to see more and more sides of you, and he would not stop it for the world. He found himself grinning like a fool when you would be even the tiniest bit clumsy, endeared by vulnerability that you did not dare show him before. He lost himself in the sound of your voice as you formulated analogies between art and medicine, explaining concepts in such a way that it felt like poetry. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings when, after a day of chores, the two of you would settle down to simply be in each other’s company. As such, with the newfound lightness in his soul, Seonghwa wanted to help you feel at least a fraction similar.

“Mm… I do want to keep this a surprise, but I get how this sounds like a different type of pact, doesn't it?”

“You can say that again.”

“Okay… hm… if I say, with one hundred percent guarantee we will be getting home safe, in one piece and hopefully feel a lot better, will you agree to satisfy my spontaneous caprice?” You pretended to mull over his request, your pointer finger resting on your chin.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.”

His megawatt grin nearly blinded you as he approached you in a couple of steps and reached out his hands towards you. You glanced up and down, amused by his excitement. Seonghwa swore that all his organs flipped in his body as you clasped his hands, palm pressed to palm, and let him lift you off the sofa. When you nearly collided with his chest, he steadied you, shaking his head when a thank you fluttered from your lips. It was a shame that he had to let go. Patiently, he waited by the door as you changed into an outfit more appropriate for the weather; while the days have seen a pleasant rise in temperature to balmy spring, the occasional seaside gust was quick to remind of the earliness of the season. The cherry blossoms must have already bloomed further south, Seonghwa mused. But for once, he did not feel rushed to see them or take obligatory photographs, content with the beauty he was living on the coast of nowhere. He adjusted his cream coloured hat and matching sweater, reaching to flatten the under shirt that started to peek from under the knit collar.

Whether it was on purpose or not, he noticed how you had matched him with your outfit - flared jeans matching his jeans-skirt combination, and a determined selection of beige boots. Seonghwa was, by nature, something of a hopeless romantic, but it was moments such as this that made him both flustered and proud of his nature. As you stepped out of the cottage, bathed in a rejuvenating sunlight, he squinted and made a visor out of his hand to look more closely and try his best to remember the scene. Your head was held higher, your steps were more confident, and when you looked back to check if Seonghwa was following you, you had a mischievous glint in your eyes. He sped up, softly tapped your arm and beamed.

“Right, mystery boy, lead the way. Something tells me that you have a very particular location in mind.”

“That, I do. Spotted it some time ago. You probably know it, but I want to share it with you nonetheless.”

“Well, it would be my first time seeing it with you, wouldn't it?” Your mouth pressed into a fine line before you burst into a giggle after having considered your words for a fraction longer, “Goodness, sorry-”

“I like that,” Seonghwa smirked, enjoying the subtle flirtation.

“Pardon?”

“First time for everything. Quite the celebration, is it not?” When you did not answer, par a joking eye roll, he pointed to the right, elaborating his planned route, in the direction opposite to the village and right by the sea. After a couple of beats of silence, you turned to him.

“Celebration? Seems like you are thinking of something specific.”

“Mm… maybe.”

“Oh… is it your birthday? Oh no I have nothing to-” your face fell.

“No! No, I'm touched that you care this much though, darling,” half in jest, half testing the waters, Seonghwa let the pet name slip. Though it appeared to have been wasted nerves worrying about your reaction, as you did not bat an eye. He looked ahead, “it's in two days.”

“So you aren't much of a birthday enjoyer? Judging by how you are here… and not in the city.”

“There are different ways to celebrate. And, if you don't mind. This is how I would love to celebrate mine.”

You looked magical in the golden rays. With half the sky a hazy white, the other promising a gloomy grey storm, you were his good and evil, his battle.You came to him like nightfall, and made him learn of shimmering sunrises. The speckles of bright light in your irises were downright enchanting, and only grew more captivating as you tilted your head, inadvertently capturing more sunlight. His April wishes, muted prayers for one moment to turn to another, and another after that. He did not dare voice his true perception of you, knowing that the one word to come to his mind was one you did not favour, and as such, stuck to walking onwards, to the cliffs, in anticipation of what he had been hoping to do with you for a considerable amount of time. You did not answer him, instead choosing to study your shoes and continue to follow his footsteps closely. The wind caressed your hair like a loving relative greeting and doting on their favourite child. You hid your hands in your sleeves, fists closing over their edges, in an effort to protect them from getting cold. No attempts have been made to guess what Seonghwa wanted to do, much to his surprise; considering how hostile you two had acted towards each other in the very beginning, this level of trust was akin to the greatest of honours, and reminded him of the unfurling of a flower that had initially been guarded by thick grey leaves, only to reveal a tender yellow white and reddish heart along with a gorgeous adornment of pastel pink petals. Fragile, vulnerable, far from eternal, but because of how temporary their natural perfection was, they were all the more beautiful. Seonghwa looked in the opposite direction from you and scowled, scolding himself. He should not think of the future, at least not just yet. It was all too soon, all too fast, anything could happen and he should not get his hopes up even when his entire being was burning into an enamoured cloud of ash.

The sea glistened, waves showing off magnificent adornments of regal silver and gold, dolled up with white lush fur-like foam. Playfully, they lapped at the shore and urged the two of you to keep going. Rolling hills soon gave way to the cliffs which with every few minutes of your journey grew taller and taller, revealing stunning white chalk faces and decorations of limestone. A number of weeks ago Seonghwa had made it his mission to explore the expanse, thereby finding what had to be the real end of the world. A terrific, breathtaking drop together with violently shaking grassland and treacherous edges, by far the tallest point on the cliffside was nothing short of freeing. With everything he had lived through being forced to stare at his back, and only the sea in front of him, he need not be concerned, at least for a few breaths, with what battles he was yet to face. After a couple of ventures to the cliffs, he found a new perspective, one that had been solidified when he had destiny bring him to you, or you to him. Had there ever been a muse, or was it simply an excuse for him to not try even when he was certain he could not achieve anything? Now, he knew he could fly freely on the wings of his own inspiration and wanted nothing more than for you to feel the same.

As the two of you approached the peak, Seonghwa became a little agitated, concerned with how you were going to react to his proposition which he had planned to utter only once you had arrived. You were quiet, occasionally looking left and right to study the brightening landscape. The steely horizon engulfed the sea, infinite, invincible, and met two pairs of eyes. Two people, who, with time, came to be undefeated. You had not voiced your concerns often, but he had seen them weighing you down, serpents tightening around your throat until you had nothing left to do but to rush out of the cottage under the pretence of ‘needing to check something’, when in fact all you wanted was air. Time and time again he could see how this, and only this place was home to you and was the soothing balm that could heal all wounds. Now as you stood to his right, occupied by your own ponderings, he saw you combine with your surroundings, making one gorgeous painting. You belonged here. Thanks to you, he felt like he did, too. The beginnings of another plan started to take root in his mind as he recalled familial logistics and the cottage, but pushed the matter for a later time; this needed the city and iron resolve. Seonghwa rubbed his hands together and rocked back and forth a couple of times.

“So,” you began, still observing the waves.

“So,” he mirrored.

“What’s this grand scheme of yours for which we needed to hike up here?”

“Not liking the views?”

“Of course I do. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Okay. Then… how about this,” he took a deep breath, stifling a nervous laugh, and with all he had, yelled at the sea, trying to drown out the sound of the Earth. He screamed with his heart, expelling all its ache and giving it room to mend itself with golden thread. He stretched out his arms and shut his eyes, embracing a better tomorrow.

Taken aback but thrilled, you spontaneously began to laugh. Wholly, without any barriers; your genuine full-body laughter overtook you, and you were half-bent, ecstatic from Seonghwa’s sudden chaos. You cackled until tears started to well up in your eyes and you needed to remind yourself to breathe, and only laughed harder once Seonghwa joined you, him just barely retaining balance and not collapsing on the ground. His shout was still ringing in your ears as you lifted your head and through airy chuckling called out to him.

“Is- is this what- you were- thinking of all- all along?”

“Go on, show me what you’ve got-” he challenged, squeezing the words out between wheezing.

“W-what? Like… right now?”

“No better time than now! Go!” He encouraged you, prayed for you to let your darkness go.

There it was. As the wind picked up and the sea roared, you joined them with your own warrior cry, stretching your arms out much the same as Seonghwa had done. You stared at the sky, squinting only to stop your eyes watering from the laughter and the gusts. He gazed at you with adoration and pride. As soon as he heard your scream start to die down, he recovered and made a beeline towards you, repositioning to face the sea, and poked you.

“On the count of three. One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

Together you let joy into your lives, cursing all that had harmed you before, and bravely took on the challenge to exist. There was always going to be trouble, there were always going to be disagreements and so-called ugliness in the world around you, but in your vision, even if just for a flash, there was guaranteed to be beauty, if not in the representations of small but certain happiness, then in the self. As Seonghwa and you shouted again and again at the skies, you knew your next inhale would be the freshest.

Lightheaded, you searched for his arm, apologising when your own crashed into it. Rapidly, his hand found yours, and Seonghwa, in a moment of what could possibly be foolish courage, intertwined your fingers together. Your eyes widened, and initially he thought he had made a mistake. But doubt evaporated faster than rain on a scalding hot day; you held on tight, lowered your arms, and swung them back and forth, before launching into another cheerful scream. Your hand in his, the perfect match. He had hesitated the last time, back in the cafe, but now he was sure that it was worth the wait. This was his home. His healing.

돌풍과 절벽에 부딪히는 파도 소리 (Gusts of wind and the sound of waves crashing against cliffs)

새로운 시작을 의미하는 수많은 소리 (The many sounds of a new beginning)

당신의 웃음소리가 가장 크게 들린다 (Your laughter is the loudest)

⋆✧. you .✧⋆

You had shooed Seonghwa out of the kitchen as soon as you heard his sleepy, post afternoon nap descent down the stairs. Despite his protests after you had waited until midnight and wished him a happy birthday, which mainly consisted of him worrying over your potential lack of rest and whether anything was necessary, you wanted to try your best. It would have been most certainly easier to follow his advice and treat this day and evening like any other, but that would not have been a representation of you, nor of how you felt towards your friend. Countless times he had given you strength and support that prior to meeting him you could have only imagined. More than that, he never asked for anything in return except your company, and for you to allow yourself to feel happy; such behaviour and way of thinking was rare, so on many occasions you second-guessed or doubted him, but each time you had been proven wrong. Seonghwa was a warm person who left a deep impression on everyone, and most certainly left an everlasting one on you.

As you let meat and seaweed simmer in sesame oil, you laughed at yourself. Had you from a month ago been here with present you, present you would have definitely gotten an earful. Who were you, showing so much kindness to someone who you had not known for a long time? But then again, there were enough people who you had known for a long time who were far from deserving of kindness, and yet you forced yourself to tolerate them anyway. At least in this case, your affection was coming from the heart and not from obligation or some twisted version of filial piety based not on love and respect but on fear and manipulation. Caring for someone was simple when it was the natural thing to do. You twisted your head when you heard more shuffling, and noticed Seonghwa, dressed in loungewear as opposed to the more formal outfit he had chosen to wear on his venture out to the village earlier, speed-sliding across the living room and to his office. You chuckled when he raised his hands in the air and mouthed that ‘he is innocent and does not see anything’. It was easy enough to guess what you were making. Seonghwa could probably guess from the smell alone, but nevertheless he played along and remained patient.

Soon enough, the soup base was in and bubbling away, filling the cottage with mouthwatering fragrance. The home that only you and Seonghwa knew felt complete and was blooming like the gorgeous flora in early April. Threats of a storm had been false alarms and instead a warm sun settled on the magnificent light blue and ultramarine. The occasional white ball of cotton would race across like a tiny woodland rabbit away to wonderland, but nothing could dispel the euphoria that enveloped you. It was simple to imagine the cottage disappearing, but that made every second more precious. For all you knew, in a couple of months the real owners of the property could decide to demolish the priceless history and sell off the land to some magnate for the building of a resort or a private mansion; such an outcome was far too plausible, and you could only clench your teeth and pretend to not be affected. Old Man would have locked himself in this cottage if anyone were to try and destroy it. Now, more than ever, you understood why. The walls had seen decades of history, both of the planet and of the humans who had visited or inhabited the cottage. Tears of sadness and of laughter, bitter love and sweet loss, paradise and purgatory. The cottage, apart from bricks and mortar, was built with memories and the souls of everyone and everything. Wherever you looked, you could recollect something associated with the items in your vision, be it a clock or a creaky floorboard. This, if destroyed, would never be recovered, and would be sacrificed to fading memory. Of course, the human mind was the most powerful when it came to reflecting on the past, but there was only so much it could do when society was as fast paced and as demanding as it was. You did not want to forget, and so wanted to desperately cling to what little you had left of a precious safe haven that had now been fully revived. Wasn't the past always more beautiful when it blended with the present and gained deeper and more vibrant colours?

“Seonghwa! It's ready!”

“Hello I am here-” almost immediately, he rushed out of the office and strode into the kitchen, “did you make seaweed soup? For me?”

“As if you did not guess.”

“Hey, hey, I saw, heard, and said nothing. My goodness, Y/N, I am touched beyond words…”

“It's not too big of a deal, really. I just wanted to make a little something for you and again, wish you a happy birthday,” you attempted to wave him off and stirred the soup once more before turning off the gas and setting the spoon down.

“I hope you don't mind this very forward expression of affection, but may I… hug you?” arms ever so slightly lifted from his sides, Seonghwa waited.

“Woah Seonghwa, so daring,” you teased, “ah come here, birthday boy,” you invited him, heart beating just that little bit faster when he gave you a boxy wide grin and stepped forward to close the space.

Your arms wrapped around his torso, sliding down into a more relaxed position on his waist while his had snaked around you, condoning you from the world. You were careful to not tarnish the impeccable white fabric, but inevitably gave in when you sensed Seonghwa's hand hovering behind your head, as if saying that you could relax into him fully, without any worries. A dazing softness consumed you as your cheek met his shoulder - one last effort to maintain at least a bit of distance between your faces and to hide your quickly blooming blush. He was what you imagined a daydream would be as a person: sweet and comforting, with subtle floral notes and a deep lasting undertone with an indescribable complexity. Honey and the most decadent coffee were the two things that came to mind, but they lacked the original heaviness of the taste and aroma. So heavenly, so surreal, so Seonghwa. Like the setting sun when it hit the waves.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your hair. You suppressed a shiver. Rocking side to side, you stood in the kitchen, neither of you wanting to disturb this bliss.

“Mm, it’s fine.”

“More than fine.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

“Shall we eat?”

“Yes please,” he uttered, but showed no signs of moving. His arms remained where they were; if anything, they were holding onto you with even more determination, as though you were so fragile you had to be protected from even a speck of dust.

“Are we… uhm, we kind of… need to move to get everything set up.”

“Ah, right,” flustered, Seonhwa detangled himself from you, and rushed to open a cupboard, producing a pair of bowls. A hint of red was visible on his cheeks and the tips of his ears; you were not alone in being a tiny bit shy from the obvious reciprocation.

You had learned each other’s patterns, who tended to move in what order, who reached where, who minded what. The two of you moved in perfect synchrony without trying, following newly acquired instinct. How could you ever not adore the cottage and all the events that led up to now? Not all had been sweet, but without the sour and the atrocious, you would not have been able to experience what you were experiencing as you settled down across from Seonghwa. Or rather, in close proximity to him, since almost instantly, he stood up from his seat and gestured for you to rise again only to take your chair and bring it closer to his side. Accepting your adorable fate, you took your bowl and cutlery and repositioned them.

“There. Now I approve.”

“Wait a second!” you searched in your pockets for an item you had discovered in the midst of your cooking frenzy. Seonghwa was patient, albeit confused, and waited until you produced a box of matches and balanced it on your palm, “not a candle, but you can make a wish!”

“My word, this is, hah- I love it.”

“Perfect. Then, here we go!”

You took out a match, and struck it against the side of the box, gasping as it burst into flames - luckily not too intensely or you would be short for time. You started to sing while Seonghwa joined you by mouthing the lyrics and accompanying with rhythmic claps. The fire started to move down the match, the tip of it having already burned out. Saved by the final notes you saw Seonghwa briefly closing his eyes. He reached out his hand and softly rested it on your wrist as he blew out the flame right before it reached your fingers. As suddenly as he had touched you, he let go, not too dissimilar from the dancing red and orange flickers which had just been illuminating the birthday table. For good measure you shook the match and excused yourself to dispose of it after running it under some water. After drying your hands, you straightened out the towel without a second thought. The rest of the meal was quiet aside from a phrase here and there. No longer was there a need to fill the pauses. Companionship was enough. Only when you were almost done did Seonghwa address you, gingerly as though he was scared of breaking the calm.

“Again, thank you so much, this is the best birthday I ever had. I even got to make a wish!” he chuckled.

“I highly doubt it, but I’ll accept your kind words.”

“Humble, so humble,” he paused. When you lowered your spoon to give him your undivided attention, you noticed his miniscule pout.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Ah, nothing. Nothing much.”

“About all the birthday wishes you read, right?” you nudged him.

“Hm, there were some…” he recollected.

“And?” you tried, sensing that he was purposefully leaving some things unsaid.

The question hung in the air, a time bomb. Seonghwa bided the seconds he had to himself before he inevitably had to respond by tasting more of the seaweed soup and nodding in approval. You gave him a brief nod and were about to let the matter go for the sake of a celebratory evening, however it seemed that Seonghwa had other plans. He never could lie, you realised. Or speak in half-truths. He was sincere to a fault, but it was one of the many things you had come to like about him.

“So there is something.”

“Yes.”

‘Say it.”

“I... I don’t know. It might be a little... sad?” he was careful with his words, evidently not wanting to make a big deal out of whatever was plaguing his mind.

“Go on. Say it. It’s okay,’ something told you that you knew what it was going to be anyways. You pursed your lips, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest.

“I’ll... I’ll have to leave. In a couple of days? Yeah... Hm... I- yeah. in a couple of days,” he fumbled his words and could not face you, instead staring at his own reflection in the soup.

It was bound to happen someday. Your time was not eternal, either. If not today, then you would have had to have this conversation at some point either tomorrow, or the day after that... or could you have pushed it until much later? Would have Seonghwa forgiven you if, on the day of your departure, you would have dropped the news that your sabbatical had run out? If not him, then it would have most certainly been you starting the conversation.

“Oh. Okay,” you mumbled, heart and mind in conflict. This was your fault - had he remained a stranger, you would have had an easier time now. How he had suddenly appeared in your life, he would have disappeared, but now? The inevitable parting was like a high risk, invasive operation which no matter what was going to have aftershocks and side effects.

Seonghwa did not look any better. Misty-eyed and regretful, he inadvertently slumped his shoulders and curled into himself, appearing smaller and more feeble. You wished he did not care, so that it would be easier to learn how to hate him, but you could not ignore how the knuckles of the hand with which he was holding the spoon were turning white. Tentatively, you reached out to him and rested a hand on his shoulder, an action that took him somewhat by surprise judging by how quickly his head turned towards you. His dark eyes bore into yours, shimmering with intense emotion, threatening to overspill.

You realised: this was it. The crossroads. You were faced with a choice, and it was up to you to decide what was to be the absolute right. You could hold a pause and then resort to exhibiting an astonishingly unperturbed stance; he had his life and his path to follow, you had yours, so what if you had poured your souls out to each other and he had rekindled something which you thought you had lost forever? Or you could take a risk and potentially condemn yourself to hurting, if not for the rest of your life than at least for a long, long time, after which all you had seen and lived through in these few weeks at the cottage would have been the one memory to stick with you no matter what you were to do. You knew that wherever, be it under fluorescent lights, or while planning a correction surgery or attempting to discourage a patient from following a fad, you would see him. You bit the bullet, and, for what had to be the first time, followed your heart. Because tragedy, too, could be beautiful.

“Let’s make the most of what we have left. And then see what the future holds. We are two people who are very alike. Caught adrift in a storm. That is what you told me when we first started getting to know each other, right?”

Seonghwa's eyes conveyed a delicate balance of tenderness and nervousness. His gaze, though wrestling with melancholy, flickered with a charming intensity that spoke volumes. His free hand that rested on his leg that he had begun to shake out of unchangeable habit betrayed a subtle tremor, a silent testament to the whirlwind in his mind. Fingers danced nervously, tracing invisible patterns or perhaps echoing poetry that floated in his heart. You could only guess what he was grappling with, but, in the end, when you put your hand over his to abate some of his tension, a reciprocation of your determined decision was undeniable. As he stilled, you observed a serene reassurance. A quiet confidence that spoke of an undeniable care for you, of what could happen to the two of you, and of how worth it the risk was in the end. His heart beat in harmony with yours, mutual melodies rang out in time to the day rushing past the cottage. You shared a longing that was born out of the fear of what could be lost if words failed. But were words even necessary, when this bouquet of delicate emotions was so unbelievably easy to read? The truth was unwavering, and it, too, was beautiful.

“How does the storm look like to you?” he whispered, turning his hand palm up to clasp yours. You knew what was on his mind, and he was aware of what you wanted, no, needed to say to defeat a part of yourself that was scared to ever feel.

‘Beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

“Could you tell me more about it?”

“Hmm...” you thought for a moment, before pointing to Seonghwa’s shoulder. He nodded, and in no time, your head was resting on him while your fingers tightly intertwined, “...where should I start?”

“Anywhere.“

“You’re a poet and an academic, for goodness’ sake, I’d like some expert advice,” you retorted, your voice remaining light, bright and playful.

“Hardly the latter.”

“That’s what the future is holding for you, isn’t it?” you felt his cheek brush your crown, and smiled to yourself when you heard a low chuckle.

“I sure hope so. Much better than whatever was happening before.”

“It’s all part of the journey.”

“I see someone’s very optimistic!” Seonghwa’s exclamation was void of any malice. Genuinely cheerful and proud of your metamorphosis from a sardonic and grim misanthrope to a hopeful doctor proud of who they and those they loved were, he considered it to be the greatest gift. Laden with meaning and stemming from unfathomable effort, you allowed yourself to flourish and find reasons to live, rather than reasons to not die.

“Maybe because, while there are certain things we cannot change, I have come to realise that there is something sweet about it. Take leaving the cottage for example. Technically, we could stay. But in the long term, it is only going to result in a far from happy ending. So what does that mean for both you and me? We cannot change the fact that we have to leave. However in this we confirm to ourselves and each other that this is not a dream and that our time here... yeah. Yeah,” you cut yourself off, embarrassed by your own words, earning yourself a tiny shoulder nudge and a squeeze of the hand.

“Yeah, what?” Seonghwa’s curiosity was piqued. Too late. No going back for you. You bit your lower lip and inhaled deeply in an effort to stop yourself from cringing.

“Please forgive me for the insane cheesiness, but-”

“Only the highest quality cheese could come from you, don’t you fret.”

“Seonghwa!”

“What? Accept it. Now, as the people say, ‘spill the tea’.”

“A modern poet, truly.”

“Of course, of course, I try my best.”

“Anyways,” you interjected, returning to your train of thought, “ I just wanted to say that I am happy...”

“With what?” you could catch a note of teasing in his tone, but chose to let it go.

“With... this,” you gestured to him, to yourself and then to the surrounding rooms, “this is by far... the best I have felt. In a long, long time.”

“Oh? Someone made you feel this way before?”

“Shush, you get what I mean,” you glared upwards and twisted to lightly slap Seonghwa on his chest, which turned out to be a mistake in the making since he did not miss the chance to capture you fully. And so you were stuck, semi-suspended and essentially at Seonghwa’s mercy with how he was supporting your balance, blinking in surprise at his coy smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. What are you ready to say?”

“Considering how we keep switching topics, I don’t think I can answer anything.”

“Okay, okay, the storm then. What does it mean?”

“What storm?” you furrowed your brows.

“Y/N we just discussed it-”

“Ah, right. Actually, you know what, everything might be linked,” you tried to shuffle to get a better angle and not feel like you were about to topple at any moment, but Seonghwa was not so eager to stop practically cradling you.

“Hm?”

“I mean, the books you recommended, the things you write, hell, even the cottage and you and I... isn't this all like the weather?”

“Curious observation, but yes, I can see where you are coming from. Do go on,”

“If you let me sit down properly, and maybe... finish your soup?” you pointed your chin at the cooling dish.

“Right, sorry, but hey! You too! I see the-”

“Eat, Hwa, then I promise you I will give you a full rundown of my chaotic analogies.”

You were shocked from how speedily he inhaled the soup and then, with a proud look on his face, flung his arm over the back of your chair and announced that his mission was accomplished. As you chewed on the last of the seaweed and ladled the last spoonful of broth, a tiny voice in your head made you want to return to the cliffs and yell louder than before: this conversation, everything that was happening now was because you had accepted that something was beautiful to you. Or rather, instead of connecting beauty to something concrete, you now were comfortable with beauty being an ever-changing continuum. Thanks to what?

“Okay, I’m done now. So, the storm. We were running from them, weren’t we?”

“Mhm.”

“But now... I don’t know if you think the same but I dare say those storms are not so spooky anymore,” if only you could have taken a picture then and there to keep in your wallet. The precious glimmering joy visible across every feature was contagious, and your doubt was forgotten.

“Not spooky at all,” you could hear the gears moving in his head as he regarded you.

“What?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason,” he sighed and hid his gaze, “...shall we clear the table?”

“Let’s do it.”

He did not miss the chances to brush past you, or to steady himself after reaching across for something by tapping your arm or your waist. Not that you minded, but his amplified affections were dizzying. It was as though he was doing everything in his power to ensure that he would be missed so strongly by you that you would end up snapping and attempting to find him in the big city. That was when it hit you - you did not know where he lived, nor where location-wise he worked, nor his contact details. It had never come up in conversation - neither of you were terribly fond of delving too deep into how life was in the metropolis and had shared what was necessary for the present, and considering that in the weeks you had been here you two were always in close proximity, things like phone numbers or social media details were obsolete. When you finished washing up, dried your hands, and waited for Seonghwa to complete his task of putting the dishes away, you were astonished by your own lack of foresight. You had always been a planner but following your time at the cottage you wanted time to stop.

“Hey may I ask something? Or rather for something?”

“Go on ahead- wow, the sun sure is doing its magic,” you followed Seonghwa’s gaze and stepped after him into the living room.

The window. A little old thing. The frame was holding up impressively well, and the paint had remained pristine even after you had opened the window a couple of times to let the fresh air in. Beyond it, between the shrubs and above the stone wall was a never ending golden steppe, rippling and rolling in heavenly rays. It was rare to have a day as good as this on this part of the coastline. Leaves shimmered like coins, and the clouds took on yellow, orange and lilac hues, waving from up above.

“Truly.”

“Anyways, as you were saying?” he turned, catching some of the sunlight on his regal form.

“Let me borrow the horrendous phrase for a second... ahem, may I get your number?” Much to your delight and amusement, Seonghwa did not bat an eye, and instead dug in his pocket.

“Ahead of you, but thank you for reminding me. Here. I put down my number, my home address, the publisher’s office... and my private social media if you want to connect on there.”

“How-”

“I want to... hm... I didn’t think that, when I come to actually saying what I want to say, that it would be kind of hard,” cryptic, as ever when he was about to shake you to your core with something profound. You took the piece of paper from him, carefully refolding it after checking the written contents and sliding it into the pocket of your cardigan.

“Time for me to inquire. Whatever do you mean?”

“I want to keep this going.”

“Oh?”

“Interesting thing to wish for after we literally lived together, but... I want to see you. Officially see you. What do you say?”

“Ever the gentleman,” his lopsided grin made you wish you could squeeze his cheeks. Perhaps down the line you could have that privilege, “I accept.”

“You do?”

“I too, really want to see you. Often, I hope,” Seonghwa’s vigorous nodding, paired with his undivided attention was like a thousand suns, brilliant and beyond anything you could put into a sentence. He approached you and peered into what had to be your very soul.

“May I spoil a potential gift? And, sort of, the reason why I need to depart?”

“Go on, I am all ears.”

“You know how,” his pointer fingers hooked around yours, and you were subconsciously pulled to him, “my relatives own this cottage, right?”

“Right,” you were aware, and had accepted it. Such was life.

“Well... I may or may not have gotten in contact with them, and am starting a legal process to put the property up for sale.”

“For sale? Excuse me? Are you mad? It will be- no, I cannot let this, no, they will bulldoze this place into the dirt I-” you began to panic, voice rising higher and blood beginning to boil.

“I did not say to whom the property will be sold.”

“Some mogul or billionaire who does real estate for fun.”

“Are you either of the two?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you a mogul or real estate fiend?”

“I? No?”

“The sale is a formality anyways. The cost will be put down as one won, which I’ll just pass to my cousin with a handshake. Your job, should you wish to be the owner of the cottage, is to sign some papers, and attend some meetings.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“This place does sometimes give the surreal sensation of floating in space, but I promise you, you are not. In fact, tomorrow we can go to the cafe again and I can show-”

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you thank you thank you-”

“Glad I can help in some way. This is your cottage, after all-”

“I am on cloud nine... how is this- how did you?” you swung your arms, with Seonghwa’s following.

“Easy. I just mentioned you. That was enough to seal the deal. Old Man talked about you, you know.”

“Oh, I- may I hug you?”

“You do not need to ask me for permission to do that,” you did not need to be told twice.

Your thoughts were racing. This could not be. You shut your eyes until you saw phosphenes. Opened them again. You were still in Seonghwa’s arms, in that sweet-scented paradise, caressed by a tender flame. All emotions that had been slumbering over the years have fully awoken, and were threatening to come to the surface to rejoice in what could only be called the reclaiming of the self. Your history, your identity that was stored in these four walls was now promised to be yours. Was that not to celebrate?

“Seonghwa… it is your birthday and you are giving me the gift of an infinite number of lifetimes...”

“My gift is seeing you so happy,” you inhaled sharply, and peered at his dark chocolate irises.

“Come on, you cannot be serious.”

“I am more serious than you could imagine. And I hope to keep proving it to you. Day by day. Again, if you let me.”

“I don’t know what to say or do right now. I am a tiny bit overwhelmed... this... this is as if I walked into a magical house, met a magician, and he tapped me on the head with a little wand and here we are, wish granted,”

“I knew I was missing something.”

“What?“

“A wand,” you beamed and floated into bliss, focusing on Seonghwa’s heartbeat, endearingly close to your own both physically, and rhythmically. Right here was beautiful, right this moment was beautiful. The promise and plan was beautiful. But one note of misery remained, one that you were determined to vanquish.

“Seonghwa?”

“Yes?”

“I am a little anxious about something...” he hugged you closer, but instead of it being soothing, it made you want to cry despite the euphoria you were experiencing.

“What is it?”

“What if it goes away?”

“What goes?”

“What if beauty disappears when I go back?”

You knew it was a silly question, you knew that it was all in your head and that you sounded like an absolute desperate fool while asking this, but it was sickening, a lump in your throat that you could not swallow. The first light of love and of freedom, so pure and so unconditional, was addictive and sweet. You did not want to consider its falsities or ponder potential disillusionment. You threw away even the inklings of paranoid suspicion that Seonghwa, too, could join the ranks of those who laced their kind words with malice or with judgement, and might have wanted to play with your feelings, both romantic and historic. At least right here, right now, you wanted to believe in there being someone who could love in both the presence and absence of beauty, whatever any given individual desired to define it to be. You wanted to know that he was on your team, and that this place really was a key to real life wish-fulfilment. Seonghwa’s hand slowly glided down your back, disappeared, and slid down again. In this perpetual motion he silently offered some stability.

“You know it won’t.”

“How?”

“Because you are you. Your soul is beautiful. And if you ever think that the world around you is starting to strike you like the cold winter months, remember that, now, I am just one call away. Always.”

“But it- goodness, sorry,” you were choked up and had to pause. Seonghwa did not make you hurry, instead, he brushed away the strand of hair that was about to get in your eye, and looked at you as though you were his future.

“Don’t apologise for feeling, my angel.”

‘Stop, Hwa, you’re going to make me bawl in a moment,” you exclaimed with a groan, trying to laugh your concerns away. Seonghwa chuckled, but kept holding onto you, rocking on his legs, swaying side to side like the eternal, unstoppable clock that governed your entangled lives.

“Oh no, we don’t want that, do we?” his voice vibrated across his chest, and in turn, struck your heart like a dozen healing melodies. ‘We’, it was now ‘we’, rather than everyone being left to scramble for salvation, against everybody else who surrounded them. You repeated the word in your mind once, and again, and again, until it turned into wind chimes twirling in a waltz with a serene breeze.

“I’d like to smile more with you.”

“I’d like that too. I never get tired of smiling with you,” you pushed your upper body away by a fraction to admire Seonghwa more.

“I am afraid, Seonghwa. You make me so happy. I- I am so happy. But so, so afraid that all of this will vanish.”

“Y/N,” his hands clasped around you, relaxing - a gentle salvation from all dark secrets the coming months undoubtedly contained, “Beauty shall never vanish. Because love is beautiful. There were times when I have been shaken even by the weakest of winds, and times when my breathing was unbearably heavy. One single comment or event... anything at all could turn a bright summer day into a biting winter. Storms shall always remain, even if we try to bid them farewell...”

He waited for you to steady your breaths before continuing, and upon your brief nod, pressed his forehead against yours. His hair tickled your skin the tiniest bit, but it only made you more aware of him, more connected to him. More loved and seen.

“Our pasts and our steps through our years brought us towards each other. And... I am... so, so honoured and so happy that a person like me can bring happiness to your life, and can only hope that I can give you as much love. I am stunned by how we do the little things together, how you ask about me, how you, you wonderful angel, give me love for no reason as if it was only natural,” tears welled up in your eyes, only to be caught by Seonghwa’s thumbs and erased before they could form a river, “Maybe my greatest gift is you, and all the little things that make you, you. Because you are here, in my life, and are part of my world, I am learning the feeling of love again. Now,” he noticed your urgency as you were about to interrupt him, and tapped your nose with his own, “Thanks to you, thanks to us, I am finding beauty. I cherish our past, our spectacular present, and pray for our future to exceed eternity.”

“Seonghwa...”

“Spring comes and goes, but I will always ensure that your heart stays warm. If you will let me.”

“If you will let me do the same,” the gap between you grew smaller and smaller, until was a mere memory and you tasted the coffee and honey, the many sunrises and sunsets to come, the sound of the waves and the rustling of the grass on the cliffs.

The cottage, while it was a real place with its many wonders, was more than that. It was a panacea, a safe haven in one’s mind or a world for those whom one loved. The cottage could be anything, could be anyone, could be anywhere.

And that was truly beautiful.

⋆✧.✧⋆

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writersblockiskillingme · 1 year ago

Note

hiiii here’s my request idea 🫶🏽 after getting sent to district 12 coriolanus meets fem!reader (who’s a part of the covey) he thought he was in love with lucy gray but ends up falling for reader way more intensely than he did for lucy gray but reader feels guilty because lucy gray seems to really like him and she doesn’t want to betray her

Another Love | Coriolanus Snow

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x fem!reader (Covey!reader)

Summary: He loved her from a moment he saw her, but she can't love him back.

Warning/s: angst, heartbreak, forbidden love, two or three curse words, tears, possessive Coriolanus, reader's abusive ex, ex touching the reader without permission (nothing graphic, he just grabs reader's arm), no happy ending, grammar and spelling mistakes

Author's note: I used some of the lyrics of Taylor Swift's King of My Heart as a song that "reader wrote for Coryo" and I skipped one part of the main song that I used because I felt like it wouldn't fit the timeline. So, this one's been a long time coming, but I hope you enjoy!

(Y/N) - your name

(Y/H/C) - your hair color

I wanna take you somewhere so you know I care

But it's so cold and I don't know where

I brought you daffodils in a pretty string

But they won't flower like they did last spring

Coriolanus Snow felt his nerves getting the best of him. He felt shivers going down his spine as Lucy Gray and him got closer and closer to their destination.

He was supposed to meet the rest of the Covey, her family, today. Lucy Gray held his hand tightly, squeezing it a bit more as she noticed just how nervous he truly seemed to be.

It didn't comfort him much.

Not her hand in his, it felt too small now. Nor her presence next to him. It didn't excite him as much as it did once. Yet he loved her, right?

Right?

As they finally got to the lake the lake he noticed a group of people sitting by the edge of the lake.

He could practically feel the excitement radiating off of Lucy Gray as he noticed one of them turned around noticing them and taping the ones close to gain their attention to the arrivals, too.

Lucy Gray didn't let go of him as she eagerly introduced him to evey single member of her family, the Covey.

That day Coriolanus met little Maude Ivory, Barb Azure, Tam Amber and Clerk Carmine Clade.

"And finally my big cousin, (Y/N) Baird." Lucy Gray smiled and when you looked up Coriolanus could've sworn that his heart stopped.

Your beauty was truly unmatched, your kind smile so radiant so infection that he was willing to die because of it any day you wished. Your hair was graciously flowing around in the wind just like your light summer dress. Your posture, your face. But once you spoke he knew that he was a gonner.

"Nice to meet you, Coriolanus Snow." Your voice was as kind as your eyes, it matched you perfectly.

Later on, he saw you sitting under the tree, away from the sun, away from the rest of your family.

Coriolanus felt truly, utterly, stupid for a bit as he stood a few feet away from Lucy Gray's, obviously favorite, cousin as he held a young, brightly yellow, daffodil that he found by the edge of the forest, not that far away from the lake where the rest of the Covey were.

He didn't know why did he do it. He didn't know why would he pick a flower and give it to you. He just figured that the flower was pretty (just like you were) and that you will probably like it.

But deep down he knew, but just yet wouldn't admit it to himself.

"For you."

You looked up, your eyes meeting with gorgeous blue ones as he held out a gorgeous daffodil to you. You couldn't help but to laugh out loud at the irony that consumed you.

Coriolanus watched you laugh, he never heard a sound as angelic as this, not even when he heard Lucy Gray sing.

He hated himself for it. He hated himself for wanting to bottle up that angelic laugh and keep it for himself, to protect it, to own it. But he couldn't help but to wonder why are you laughing.

"What's funny if I may ask?" He gently asked, afraid that you were laughing at him, finding his stupidity oh so amazing. He was scared of rejection, but why?

He's with Lucy Gray.

"It's just-" Your laughter turned into a giggle, Coriolanus felt blood suddenly rushing into his cheeks as he heard the sound that you were making, because of him.

"Daffodils are my favorite flowers, it's a little funny that you picked a random flower and guessed this."

Coriolanus couldn't help himself. He found himself laughing too as he sat down and got to know you.

The day passed quickly, probably because he spent it with you. So as he stepped away from you after saying goodbye and as he slipped his hand into Lucy Gray's hand he knew he fucked up.

The way his chest tightened when you laughed, the way his hand accidentally brushed against yours when you talked he realized that it fit his perfectly. Like it was made to be held by him. The way that your hair fell in front of your eyes, shielding them from him... all he wanted was to brush it away, yet he knew he couldn't.

And as Lucy Gray talked about how happy she was that he got along with everyone amazingly, he knew he fucked up because he realized that he fell in love with you even though he knew that he shouldn't have.

And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight

But my hand's been broken one too many times

So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude

Words, they always win, but I know I'll lose

"Nothing you can take from me was ever worth keeping"

Your voice echoed through the bar as you sang your heart out on the stage.

The people around were dancing and singing along with your beautiful, angelic yet strong voice like their life dependent on it.

Coriolanus was standing in the corner, leaned against the weirdly wet wall, smile placed onto his face as he watched you perform. Warm feeling spreaded across his chest as he watched you. A fire that will soon be drowned buy cold icy feeling as he watched someone coming up to you. Talking to you while you clearly didn't want to talk to him.

"Let go of me, now!"

Coriolanus took one step forward so he could see better and try to figure out who is bothering you and clearly making you uncomfortable. He felt himself freeze once he realized who it was.

Thomas Vill. Your abusive ex.

He remembered Lucy Gray talking to him about your ex. He remembered her saying that he made your life a living hell.

Coriolanus instantly saw red the moment he realized that he harshly grabbed your hand, not letting you go. The fear in your eyes was enough to set Coriolanus to move toward the stage as quickly as he could.

He still doesn't remember how that happened, but he grabbed Thomas by his shoulders as he planted his fist directly into his face, blood spraying his fist the moment it locked onto Thomas' face.

He heard you gasp at the sight, but he didn't stop.

Coriolanus pushed Thomas onto the floor as he started to beat the audacity out of him. You never saw him this angry before.

You quickly, somehow, snapped out of the shock and started to try and pull Coriolanus off of him because you realized that if you didn't do something, he will kill him in front of you.

And it's not like Thomas didn't deserve it, but you didn't want Coryo to get into more trouble now that he had finally somewhat gotten his life into control.

Sejanus Plinth saw what happened. He was quick to join you and started to pull Coriolanus off of Thomas. He lucky succeed because he was stronger. He was a Peacekeeper after all.

You felt panic arise into your throat as you looked around and realized that almost everyone was staring at you.

Without spearing Thomas a second glance, you ran after Coriolanus and Sejanus. Your mind racing, what will Lucy Gray think? Why did her love beat up her cousin's ex in front of more than half of District 12.

Once you pushed yourself through the crowd you finally reached the outside where you saw Coriolanus spitting some blood from his mouth, your heart braking at the sight.

"What did you think that you were doing?!" You couldn't help to yell at him as you finally reached him.

"He was lucky I didn't kill him." Coriolanus answered calmly as he rubbed his lips to get rid of the blood.

"You can't do that, Coryo!" You continued, finally spilling your emotions out in front of the man you loved.

"So what?!" Coriolanus raised his voice now, too. "I could've just let that bastard touch you against your will?!"

"No!" You ran your hands through your hair in frustration. "But what would Lucy Gray think if she saw you doing that?"

You were so scared.

Was he not thinking rationally?

"I don't care." He answered, truthfully, you knew that and it scared you.

For a moment you were quiet until he spoke up again.

"You know I love you, right?" He asked you, peeking at you in the night, moonlight reflected the beauty of his deep blue eyes.

"No..." You felt every last bit of air leave your lungs as you spoke, panic raising in your chest. "You can't love me, Coryo."

"Why not?" He asked in frustration, his chest moving up and down in desperate attempt to calm himself, to try and rid himself of this injustice.

"Don't-" your voice broke. "Don't do this to me." You begged.

He gently grabbed your hand and your breath quickened, it was nothing like when Thomas grabbed you earlier. This was soft, caring even as he brought your body closer to his.

"Tell me why." He was begging now, oh God how much did he hate this. "Tell me that you don't love me."

"I-"

"Look me in the eyes, (Y/N), and tell me that you don't love me and I will walk away." Coriolanus spoke, his breath on your cold cheeks as he spoke. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't want me."

"Coryo-"

"Break my heart the way it's supposed to happen." He breathed out. "Go on."

"I-" You took a deep breath, meeting his eyes not realizing that you're crying. "I love you, but I can't."

"(Y/N)-"

"You can want to love me and I can do that too, but I can't do it to my cousin." You spoke separating yourself from him as you left him in the middle of the cold night, tears streaming down your cheeks as you went.

Lucy Gray.

And I'd sing a song that'd be just ours

But I sang 'em all to another heart

And I wanna cry, I wanna learn to love

But all my tears have been used up

"Your love is a secret I'm hoping, dreaming, dying to keep."

Lucy Gray's voice echoed through the bar as she played the guitar and sang the song you wrote.

You told the Covey you weren't really feeling good so you decided to stay backstage as you listened to Lucy Gray and the rest of the Covey, and watched the crowd singing and dancing the the words that you poured out from the depths of your heart.

Your eyes were searching for Coriolanus in the bar and after a while you finally found him.

He was sitting on a par of turned-over buckets with Sejanus. He was wearing simple clothes instead of his Peacekeeper uniform, but he was still wearing his dog tag that initiated that he had probably finished his shift and he decided to show up here.

You couldn't do this.

Lucy Gray's voice was happily singing away at the cords and lyrics that were written by you as she kept her eyes looked onto Coriolanus' blue ones.

His eyes were sparkling, but not as much as they did when he was with you.

Lucy Gray was so happy with him. So full of joy, and you were so happy for her, but fuck... you loved him, too.

You knew that he loved her, but you also knew that perhaps he loved you more. Yet you knew that you couldn't and wouldn't ever break Lucy Gray's heart like that. She was your cousin and you knew that guilt would be eating you alive, it already did.

So with a tear sliding down your cheek you listened to her sing before you turned around and left.

"And all at once, you are the one I have been waiting for,

King of my heart, body and soul"

Coriolanus Snow really tried to keep his eyes on her, but once she sang that his gaze found your (Y/H/C) for a moment before it disappeared behind the curtains. His chest tightened at the sight and at the words that you wrote for him.

You were like a delicate flower, like an angel sent to guide him. You were eveything that he needed, a daffodil in the middle of the winter.

But he couldn't have you and you couldn't have him. It's just the way it had to be, no matter how painful it was.

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

TAGLIST:

@hellonheels-x @especiallythewomenandthechildren @prettyinsatiable @caroline-books @runningfrom2am @10ava01 @thecrowdedstreetin1944

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confused-pyramid · 10 months ago

Text

Tell Me Some Things Last | s3

pairing: aaron hotchner x childhood bsf!reader

summary: Hotch and his childhood best friend working together at the BAU: a slow burn across the seasons.

word count: 23.1k

warnings: canon!typical violence, mentions of abuse, mentions of death, specific episodes mentioned in this part are 3x01, 3x02, 3x03, 3x06, 3x08, 3x09, 3x14, 3x16, 3x17, 3x19, and 3x20

a/n: season 3! The slow burn continues:) This was really fun to write, so I hope you enjoy it! (and I promise the chapters won't keep getting longer, this one just got out of hand LMAO) Title is from Heal by Tom Odell

series masterlist

"Excuse me?"

Section Chief Strauss doesn't falter. "You can't expect me to believe you think Agent Hotchner has done an effective job leading this unit."

"You can't expect me to believe that you think I'd willing spy on my unit chief for you."

She sighs and you want to throttle her. "Agent L/N, I know you two share a history, but this is bigger than that. People have died on his watch."

You have been trying to remain neutral since you were called into her office, but every word that comes out of her mouth makes you see red. Yes, this past year has been tough, but none of it was in his control.

"I think you know my answer," you say coldly, straightening your back in her chair. "I have to go, we have a case in Arizona."

She holds your gaze for a second, before nodding and turning back to her computer. You stand up and leave her office without another word, hastening your pace to a light jog the moment you're out of her line of sight.

You want to talk to Hotch as soon as possible, but by the time you get back to the bullpen, the whole team and their go-bags are gone. Grabbing your own bag, you rush over to the airstrip where everyone is settled inside the jet.

He glances up with a thin smile when you take a seat across from him, and you return it, not wanting to raise his concern when everyone is around.

The Flagstaff police meet you at the airport when you land, and everyone jumps into the awaiting SUVs to get to the crime scene as soon as possible.

The victim is another brunette woman on the college campus, but luckily her body was found after curfew, so students aren't milling around.

You step closer to examine the woman's body as JJ glances down at her hand. "She had her Mace out, but she didn't use it?"

Morgan nods, looking around. "And it's well-lit. He's not afraid of being seen."

A bus stop sign catches your attention and you turn to Detective Griffith. "How often do the shuttles run?"

He answers immediately. "Every 10 minutes."

"Were all the other victims posed like this?" Reid asks, bending over to get a better look. "With their arms crossed."

Griffith frowns. "Yeah. Why?"

"It's a classic sign of remorse," Morgan responds, stepping in to take over the explanation. "The unsub kills the victim then immediately feels bad about it, so he poses them like this, so they'll rest in peace."

"You can tell that just by the arms?"

"It's why you called us here. To build a psychological profile of your killer."

After inspecting the crime scene, Gideon and Morgan leave to talk to the dean of the school, and JJ and Reid go to meet with the students living in the victim's dorm. Hotch is still back at the station, and you haven't gotten a chance to talk to him since meeting with Strauss, but you push it out of your mind as you accompany Emily to the coroner's office.

You're so lost in thought that the drive over is entirely silent, and it's not until you've parked that you realize she didn't say a word either.

When the coroner leads you to the victim's body, you notice how much clearer each of the markings and cuts are. Hotch doesn't assign you to speak with the coroners very often, usually sending Prentiss, because of her incredible attention to detail, but not that you're here, you appreciate the second chance to examine the victim.

"Did the other victims have this much overkill?" she asks, pulling out her camera as you flip open your notebook.

"Death was caused by a single, very forceful stab wound to the heart," the coroner confirms.

You lean in closer to see the insertion point and notice the lumpy discoloring on the victim's chest. "Yeah, it looks like he broke through the breastbone."

"And after that he just lashed out at random," he adds.

Emily hums in agreement before snapping a couple of photos. "Well, no defensive wounds. She didn't even hold her hands up to fight him off."

"The first two victims were the same."

A shudder runs through you as the two of you leave the cold room and emerge into the warm sunlight. "Why is it almost harder to look at the victims when they're cleaned up and no longer covered in blood?"

Emily considers your question for a moment. "Maybe it's because they look less human that way."

You remember Jeff's funeral, how lifeless he seemed in his casket, and how you could barely look at him during the proceedings. It was somehow worse than seeing him at the crime scene, blood everywhere. At least then, you could still see the warmth in his skin. Later, he just looked cold.

"I think you're right," you tell her just as her phone chirps with a call.

She stiffens imperceptibly when she sees the number, but you only notice because of how hyper-vigilant you have been about your own tells since speaking with Strauss. "I need to take this. Give me a second."

She walks away from you and answers the call, her tone hushed so that you can't hear her. You know it could easily just be a personal call about something private in her life, but there's something almost familiar about the look in her eyes when she saw the number.

"Everything okay?" you ask her when she returns, but she just sighs and starts walking to the SUV. "It's nothing."

You haven't known her for as long as the other members of the team, but it's not hard to tell that she's hiding something. She looks distracted as she avoids making eye contact, and when you remember how you did the same with Hotch on the plane, the pieces fall into place.

If Strauss gave her the same assignment she tried to give you, then you need to keep an eye on her. You don't believe that she would sell out the team, but you also know how terrifying you thought Strauss was when you first joined the bureau.

***

The profile leads you to take Nathan Tubbs, one of the campus security guards, into custody, and while Gideon interrogates him, you walk with Reid, JJ, and Emily through the quad to get back to the station.

"Everyone is so much younger than I remember being," JJ says, as you all pass through a crowded part of campus. Word must have spread that the team arrested someone, because you can't imagine why else there would be so many students hanging outside after dark.

"Yeah, it's a weird age," Emily chuckles. "You want to be treated like an adult, but you're still used to someone else solving your problems for you."

"All I remember is trying to figure out who I was."

That makes you laugh. "I had no idea what I wanted to do when I was in college."

"Didn't you go to college with Hotch?" JJ asks, her eyes twinkling. You expect she's hoping for an embarrassing, or at least interesting, story from those years, but your past with him feels almost like sacred territory: something you can't breach when he's not around.

"Not college," you correct, "just everything else before and after."

"What was he like then?" Emily asks, genuine curiosity in her tone. You still can't believe that she would spy for Strauss, but you also can't help your suspicions.

"He was completely different, but also the same." You smile as you think back to the early years of your friendship. "He was kind of a cool kid in high school, but he was just as focused and determined as he is now."

"Hotch was popular?" Reid asks in disbelief.

JJ snorts. "Why can't I imagine that at all."

"He was trustworthy," you shrug, "and kind. Even when people weren't kind to him."

The three of them go silent, and you suddenly feel extremely self-conscious, but you're saved when your phone rings with a call from Derek. "Hey."

"There's been another murder."

***

The case ends in a murder-suicide that a part of you believes Gideon should've seen coming. JJ calls the jet to take off at first light, and everyone looks exhausted when you arrive at the airport. You sleep most of the flight back, but when you step into the field office again, you know you can't ignore the talk you've been avoiding all day.

You go to his office in the hopes of having this conversation privately, but he isn't inside when you look through the open door. You turn back with a frown and are about to head down the stairs again when you see him leaving Strauss's office across the hall.

He spots you immediately, and before you can say anything, he says, "I just got suspended."

Your mouth falls open. "What?"

"Two weeks."

You blanche as you follow him into his office, where he immediately starts packing up his essentials into his briefcase. "Hotch...I have to tell you something. Something I should have mentioned yesterday."

"What is it?" he asks, his voice slightly distracted.

"StraussaskedmetospyonyouandIthinkshealsoaskedEmily!"

He blinks. "Can you say that again?"

You press your lips together, before trying again, slower this time. "Strauss asked me to spy on you, and I think she also asked Emily."

He closes his eyes for a beat, but it feels like years. You can feel the disappointment wafting off of him, but he doesn't say anything, giving you the time to explain in more detail.

"She asked me right before we flew to Arizona," you tell him, your chest aching at the defeated look on his face. "I told her I wouldn't do it, of course, and that you are the perfect leader for this team. But I was watching Emily the whole time we were there, and I think Strauss might have threatened her or made her some kind of offer."

His hands pause their packing and for a moment, you're worried that he's going to be angry you didn't come to him sooner, but then he just sighs, a deeply dejected sound. "I figured she would. It's basically in the FBI playbook."

"You knew?" you say, your voice almost like a gasp.

"I didn't know for sure," he amends, "but I believed so. And I'm usually right about these kinds of things. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. You guys will be fine without me."

You want to shake him; to reach forward and rattle his shoulders until he realizes that this is it. This is exactly why he makes such a great unit chief.

He doesn't get angry, even when he may have cause to be. He trusts his team so wholeheartedly that even under the suspicion of spying to the higher-ups, he still treats everyone the same. He puts the team above himself in almost every aspect, and the intermittent calls you get from Haley when you're in the middle of a long case prove that it may be to his own detriment, but he still does it. Because he cares so deeply, about each of you, and about each victim, and about catching each killer.

"We need you," you say, emphasizing your words as though that will make him understand you better.

"Morgan and Prentiss will be fine," he says pointedly, as though trying to prove a point. "I'm sure they'll even be better off. And Reid and JJ can look to you for guidance. It's practically what they do already."

"Fine," you sigh, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "They'll be okay. But what if I need you?"

He looks at you then, and there's a sadness behind the stern set of his eyes. "You'll be okay."

***

You have to drag yourself out of the house the next morning. The knowledge that Hotch (and most likely Gideon) won't be at the office sucks the motivation out of you, especially because you have no idea what will happen once the team is given another case. Will they assign you a new unit chief? Will they temporarily promote someone on the team?

You push your questions out of your mind as you mindlessly get through security and flop down at your desk. There's a palpable difference with half the team gone, especially since Emily doesn't seem to be anywhere in sight either, and the emptiness of the office somehow feels more claustrophobic.

You finished all of your paperwork the night before, because you couldn't sleep after hearing of Hotch's suspension, so sitting at your desk now, you have nothing to do until a new case arrives.

Reid and Morgan dive into their own paperwork the minute they sit down, and they don't look up except to grab a new pen or refill their mugs.

You can see the tension lining everyone's shoulders, the stress about the future of this team, with its two senior-most members gone.

When you can't take the lack of work anymore, you head over to JJ's office, where she is poring over a stack of case files so tall that you can't see her face until you step in front of her desk. "Hey, JJ."

"Oh, hey," she says, looking up at you. "It's been really quiet out there."

You nod, dropping onto the sofa across from her. "Half the team's gone. It doesn't feel the same."

"I wish I could come out there and sit with you guys, but I have so many new case files to look over."

"Need any help?"

She looks up in surprise. "Actually, that would be great. Can I leave you with a few of them? There's a checklist for what I need you to note down at the top of that stack."

"Of course," you say before she hands you a thick stack of files. "I'll get them back to you soon."

"Take your time," she says, waving you away. "I have like a billion more to go through anyway."

When you're back at your desk, you set down the stack with a small thud and open the first file. You're bombarded with gory images of men who have been brutally stabbed to death, and you read over the case history quickly before opening the next one. This time, the images are of live women, all of whom share a skin tone and hair color, and have been kidnapped in the last week.

You slam the file shut and close your eyes in an effort to keep your head from spinning. You don't understand how anyone could classify these cases. How they could decide that one of these unsubs is worse than another. But there aren't enough teams like yours to cover every case that comes through the door, so someone has to.

You glance up at Hotch's office again, a force of habit, and the darkness in his doorway reminds you of the emptiness in the office. It's the same with Gideon's office, and Emily's desk.

You miss them all.

***

The first week of Hotch's suspension is hell. Gideon still hasn't turned up, and you can see his absence clawing at Spencer, who hasn't gone more than an hour without glancing at his office since he left. Derek doesn't admit it, but you can tell he misses Hotch's leadership over the team.

Strauss has come by periodically to "check in" on your team's work, but with the other units available to take on any new cases, she hasn't assigned you anything. You know she doesn't trust your team, but you're surprised that even with Hotch gone, she's still treating all of you like extensions of him. Not that she's wrong about that.

Without getting called in, you stay at home for the first few days, and even get some use out of your Peloton for once. You've been missing him all week, but it's not until the following Monday that you decide to actually do something about it.

Grabbing the files JJ gave you to look over, you stuff them in your bag and drive up to his house. Both cars are in the driveway when you arrive, and you belatedly realize that you should have called first.

You knock on the door hesitantly, and are surprised to see Jack in Haley's arms when she opens the door. She looks excited to see you, but you still feel bad about just showing up. "I'm sorry, I should have called."

"Not at all," she says, opening the door wider for you to enter. "You know I love seeing you."

"Y/N's here," Haley announces as she leads you into the kitchen and sets Jack back into his high chair. She shoots you a pointed look. "And she's not here to talk about work."

"Of course not," you say with a laugh. "I just wanted to see how the suspension was going. The team really misses you."

He acknowledges you with a small nod, and you take a seat opposite him at the table, where he is feeding Jack his cereal.

"I miss everyone, too," he says, "but it's also been nice to have some extra time at home."

"This suspension has been a blessing in disguise," Haley jumps in, ruffling Jack's hair. You don't miss the way Hotch's jaw twitches.

You aren't sure what to say to that, but Haley just pulls Jack out of his chair and turns to the doorway. "I'm gonna put him down for his nap. It was nice seeing you, Y/N."

"You too, Hales," you say earnestly, before smiling at Jack. "Bye, buddy."

When she's out of the room, you shoot Hotch a look that makes him lean back with a frown. "What?"

"You miss work, don't you."

He huffs, and you take that as an admission. "I've loved being home," he says, his words slightly more emphasized than necessary.

You can hear the candor in his voice. You don't doubt that he loves spending time with his family, you just also know the pull of the job. The fulfillment of saving people from unimaginable horrors, and the desolate ache that comes when you know you aren't doing everything you can.

"You can feel both things," you whisper as he exasperatedly runs his hand through his hair. He got a haircut.

The thought pops into your head against your will, and you glance up at his hair as you realize this is the shortest it's been in a long time. It suits him, but it also emphasizes the hard furrow of his brow.

"Haley doesn't understand that," he says simply, no ill intention in his tone, "but I can't expect her to. I barely understand it, and it's what I'm feeling."

To the outside listener, his words could be construed as complaints, but there's nothing but deep empathy in his voice. He loves her so much, and even though they're having differences about his work life, she loves him too.

You spend the next half hour talking him through each of the cases that JJ left you with, and when Haley returns to the kitchen after putting Jack down for his nap, you pull out a chair for her and tuck the files away.

"We need to have you over for dinner sometime soon," she says as soon as she takes a seat. "I can't believe we haven't done it yet." She looks to Hotch with an earnest sigh. "I guess Jack has been kind of a handful, but I can't believe this is your first time coming to the house since he was born."

"It's been too long," he agrees, draping an arm over the back of her chair. The sight of their casual intimacy is a reminder of what you once had, but the usual mistiness doesn't come when you think about Jeff. Your chest just fills with a liquid-y warmth that feels like melted chocolate and syrup.

"Likewise," you smile, patting Haley's hand. "I don't know if I can handle another night out, even with the mid-evening interruption."

She laughs heartily, and you see Hotch's lips curve up involuntarily. "I think I'm partied out for the year."

His arm slips down to rest against her waist, but she doesn't lean into him like she usually does. You avert your eyes, glancing up at their kitchen wall clock and faking a gasp. "I've taken up too much of your family time. I should go."

"It's okay," Hotch assuages at the same time that Haley says, "I'll walk you out."

They share a small glance, and you suddenly feel intrusive in their home. "I'll see you in a week."

He nods and you follow Haley to the door, where she gives you a quick squeeze and another promise to have you over for dinner soon. The sun starts to set as you drive home, and before you can second guess yourself, you're turning into a local farmer's market that is about to shut down for the night.

You rush through the stalls and stop in front of the flower shop, where you buy a dozen pink carnations. The vendor ties the bouquet with a silky ribbon and you hold the flowers close to your heart as you walk back to your car and start driving.

This time, you're more aware of the direction you're headed. You don't stop your car until you're in the parking lot and you don't stop moving until you're past the front gates and up the grassy hill where Jeff's headstone sits stoically under the waning sunlight.

You take a deep breath as you sink down to your knees, blissfully unaware of the grass stains coloring your slacks. You set the flowers down in front of his headstone, which you haven't seen in months.

Jeff Adler

Beloved Son, Husband, Brother

Until we meet again

The carnations look bright against the gray stone, and you arrange them neatly so that they don't get blown away.

He loved flowers. He knew they were impermanent and likely a waste of money, but he still loved all of the different emotions they symbolized, and how beautiful they could be for as long as they lasted.

He brought you a bouquet of heliotrope almost every week after you got married, and when you asked him what it meant, he insisted that it was something you had to find out in your own time. That time came a quick Google search later, and when the words 'eternal love' flashed on your screen, you knew you had picked the right man.

You brush your finger against the petals of the pink carnations you brought, remembering the rest of what the search yielded. Angelica for inspiration, calla lily for beauty, and pink carnation for gratitude.

You're so grateful you met him. So grateful he loved you as much as you loved him.

"I love you," you whisper, suddenly needing to say the words out loud. There's no one around, and the sun has set far enough that there's barely enough light to see, but your words feel strong as they come out of your mouth. "Thank you for coming into my life. Thank you for giving me 10 beautiful years."

You wipe away the tear that falls from the corner of your eye. "Goodbye."

***

He takes his time as he walks through the halls of the Virginia field office on Monday morning. He hasn't been inside in two weeks, and after he and Haley agreed that he should request a transfer, he likely won't be back again for a very long time.

When he walks past the glass doors of the bullpen, he spots you at your desk, pointing out something to Morgan in a case file. He hastens his pace so you don't see him. He still doesn't know how to tell you that he isn't coming back.

"Good morning, ma'am," he says when Strauss beckons him into her office.

"I was hoping you'd do the right thing," she says, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Have you given any thought to what department you'll request?"

He shakes his head. "I was under the impression that if I left the BAU, I'd have my choice of posts."

"Well, I'll consider it after I fully complete my investigation."

She pauses before looking at him again. "You were a prosecutor. What about heading up a white-collar crime task force? That'll get you home at night at a reasonable hour."

That sounds like exactly what Haley wants for them. They spent hours over the last week discussing what the best path forward would be post-suspension, and after countless late-night arguments, they finally agreed on a transfer. It would be best for the team, and best for his family. So why does he feel so guilty?

"Sorry to interrupt."

Prentiss barges into the office, as though she had an appointment. She glances over at him, and he can't read her expression. "Sir, I've decided to resign from the FBI, effective immediately."

"I don't understand," he frowns, taking in her rigid posture. He remembers your suspicions, as well as his own, but this can't be where it ends.

"I'm taking the foreign service exam. With my connections, I'd stand a good chance of landing in the State Department."

"Prentiss," he urges, trying to convey his understanding in his tone. "I think that's a mistake."

She shakes her head with a sigh. "Well, don't try to talk me out of it. Garcia saw my name on the list, and she already tried."

That makes him pause. "If she can't talk someone out of doing something, no one can."

"Sorry for the interruption, but, sir, it's good to see you back." She turns her gaze to Strauss, even as she continues speaking to him. "The team needs you."

She stalks out of the room after a quick "Ma'am", leaving him alone with Strauss, who looks like she's up to her last nerve. "I'll be overseeing this next case until I can assign your replacement."

"You don't have any field experience, do you?" He doesn't mean for the words to come out so critically, but his emotions are a jumbled mess that he can't decipher well enough to fix his mood right now.

"My job is to protect the Bureau. If I have to hold the team's hand for one case, so be it."

Hold the team's hand. He can't imagine that Strauss will be of much help in the field, but he keeps his mouth shut. He's been around enough authority figures to know when to keep his criticisms to himself.

"Ma'am," he says gently, hoping he can turn his thoughts into useful advice. "In order to function effectively, this team needs stability."

She clasps her hands together on her desk, and he knows it's done. There's nothing he can do to fix this for the team, at least not on this case. "The BAU has some very talented people, and they're Bureau assets, and I believe it's time that they were out from underneath the leadership of you and Jason Gideon."

***

Hotch was supposed to come back today. It's not until you're on the plane that Derek informs the team that he's requesting a transfer.

"What?" you burst out, unable to keep your composure even with Strauss seated a few rows behind you.

"He didn't tell you?"

You shake your head with a forlorn frown, and Derek jumps back in quickly to remediate the situation. "I only found out because I ran into him on the way to the jet. He didn't seem like he was in the mood for talking."

But he tells you everything. At least you thought he did.

"It's okay," you say, forcing your face into a neutral expression. "This isn't about me. I just can't believe he's leaving."

"Yeah," JJ grimaces, "and I can't believe we're stuck with her now. You know, from this angle, she looks almost human."

You all glance behind you, but thankfully, her face is still buried in the case file.

"Emily didn't come in today, either," you point out, turning to the empty seat next to you. "We're down two agents, and Gideon's MIA."

Reid blinks, and you curse yourself for being so cavalier. You know how hard Gideon's absence has been on him.

He recovers quickly and leans in to the center console with a raised eyebrow. "Has Strauss ever even been out of the-"

A chorus of shushes come from Derek and JJ and he shuts up as Strauss walks down the aisle and sits across from you all. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe it's protocol to brief everyone before we arrive at the crime scene?"

JJ turns red and she nods hastily, opening her file. "Yes, ma'am."

Strauss has only been here for ten minutes and you already want to strangle her. JJ explains the case details succinctly, and when the plane lands, you all head over to the crime scene to find Detective Wolynski, who called your team in when the murders got out of hand.

Within minutes of meeting them, Strauss manages to ruin your relationship with the local police by questioning their decision to wait so long to call in the BAU. JJ immediately takes matters into her own hands as she explains that we have to work with them if we want to be included in the investigation at all, but she doesn't seem to care.

You get a call from Penelope as you're heading back to the SUVs, and you step aside to get out of Strauss's earshot. "What's up, Pen?"

"I tried everything I could," she wails. You can hear the distinct clicking of her keyboard in the background. "I tried to convince him to stay, but he's so stubborn."

You sigh, glancing over at the scene, where Strauss looks positively nauseous. You can empathize with her emotions, because you know how hard it was for you to see your first crime scene in person, but this just further proves how unfit she is to understand what being on this team really means. "If he made up his mind, there's gonna be no changing it, unless he changes it himself."

She huffs, before audibly perking up. "I gave him the Milwaukee case file before he went home, and I also, uh, saw that his transfer hasn't passed through the system yet."

You're almost certain she had something to do with that, but your mind immediately starts going through the possibilities of what this could mean. If his transfer isn't in the system, then that means he technically still works on this team...which means him not being here is in dereliction of duty. If there's anything that can convince Hotch to show up, it's duty.

"You've been more help than you know," you tell her, before hanging up and hopping into the SUV.

***

When he arrived at his house with the case file Garcia gave him, he immediately stuffed it in his bag and tossed it onto the floor. He definitely didn't think about reading it the entire time he was changing out of his suit, and making a quick lunch for Haley and himself. When she went upstairs to put Jack down for his nap, he couldn't help himself any longer.

Reaching into his bag, he pulls out the file and flips it open slowly, being careful to angle the gruesome photos away from the stairs in case Haley came down without him noticing. Women taken in the afternoons and killed. Bodies dumped in the morning. Hearts cut out of their chests. The words pop out at him as he skims the page, and he's so engrossed in the material that he doesn't hear her until she's standing over him. "I thought this was over."

"It is," he sighs, closing the file. "I'm just curious." He doesn't know when he started lying to his wife, but he doesn't like it. The bitter taste of it in his mouth.

He can see her gearing up for a fight when their home phone rings. He picks it up and clicks the button to answer, but even after saying 'hello' a couple of times, no one responds. For a split second, his mind flashes back a year to the Fisher King and the secret message left on his home phone, but he pushes the thought away.

He clicks the phone off, looking up at Haley again, but then a shrill ringing sound starts again, this time from her purse across the living room.

An unfamiliar queasiness fills his stomach, and he maintains eye contact with her as her eyes flicker back and forth a couple of times. He promised himself he would never profile his family, but the analyses come before he can shut off that part of his brain. Shifting eyes. Rigid posture. All indications of lying and shame.

"What did the Section Chief say?" she asks, her hands going to her hips. Stance of power to overcompensate for-

He shakes the line of thinking from his head. "She suggested that I transfer to a white-collar-crime task force."

"Would you have to travel?"

"No, I'd have a nine-to-five life."

She nods, and he can see the finality in her stance. "Then, it's a no-brainer."

***

You haven't been able to focus as well as you'd like to with the knowledge that Hotch isn't coming back hanging over your head. When you get a spare moment at the station, you step out of the conference room where all of the evidence has been scattered around and press the first number on your speed dial.

"Hello?" It's Haley.

You stumble over your words as you say 'hello' back. You weren't expecting it to be her who answered. She clearly wasn't expecting you either, because she sighs dramatically when she hears your voice and you hear a quiet "It's Y/N" before the phone is handed over.

You can understand where she's coming from. When Jeff was about to start his undercover assignment, you were so angry at him for choosing to be away from you for so long. But then rationality won over, and you remembered why he was doing it...for the same reason you are.

"Hey."

He sounds guilty. You can imagine.

"Hey," you say simply, waiting for him to fill in the gaps. He owes you at least that much.

"I'm sorry," he says after a long pause, "but you knew this was coming. You know Haley hates what this job turns me into, and you know sometimes I hate it too."

That wasn't really the explanation you were expecting. Not willing to let him off the hook, you turn your face away from the conference room windows to hide your expression and lower your voice. "You should have told me, and you know it. That's why you're hiding behind this false justification...but I guess you know that too."

There's a small rustling sound over the receiver and you can imagine him running his hands through his newly cropped hair. "This doesn't change the fact that I'm leaving."

Sometimes you forget that he was once a young boy with an alarmingly developed moral compass that didn't always point in your direction. It's times like this that remind you.

"Fine." You feel like an irritable teenager again, but you can't contain yourself around him. Even when you want to hide a part of yourself, you can't.

"How's the case going?" he asks finally. His voice has gotten softer and you know he feels bad about how this call has been going, but with neither of you willing to concede, you decide to ignore it for now.

"Well, Strauss just offended the lead detective 45 seconds into her first crime scene."

He chuckles softly. "I'm not surprised."

"This isn't about to get any better, is it?" you ask, huffing out a forlorn sigh.

"I doubt it," he agrees. "I'll keep looking at the file from my end. Any idea how he's getting control of these women? Is he blitzing them or coercing them?"

"So far, we're coming up blank," you admit, glancing back at Morgan and Reid, who appear to be in a productive debate.

"All right. Keep me posted."

***

Another victim turns up and you're not any closer to figuring out who the unsub is. Derek steps away from the group a few minutes after you and you see him pacing the halls of the precinct, his phone pressed to his ear.

A break in the case comes when Garcia identifies school records of children who exhibit signs of perfectionism and co-dependence, leading you to a profile for the unsub. You're all listening to Garcia as she reads off the records when the door opens, with two figures standing in the entrance.

"Look who's here," Morgan grins, shaking Hotch's hand. Emily looks sheepish as she glances over at Strauss, who is downright fuming.

"How fast can you get us up to speed?" Hotch asks without another greeting.

Morgan scoffs. "How fast can you sit down?"

Strauss opens her mouth to say something, but Hotch beats her to it as he takes a seat next to you. You ignore the gesture. "We're only here to help."

She sighs. "We'll deal with this later."

With two more members back on the team, at least for the time being, the SUVs are split more evenly, and you join Emily, JJ, and Strauss in the first one as you head to the crime scene. Strauss is the first one to walk up to the scene, but the moment she sees the mangled body, she breaks down, her face contorting into a sob that she tries and fails to hold in.

You make a move to go and help her, but you're surprised when Hotch is the first to step in. "If you need a second, take a second. This is what it is. Just don't let the public see you break down."

He's so kind to her, even though she's the reason for all of his professional stress. You suppose she's not the only reason, but that isn't something you get to have an opinion on.

The devolution of the dump sites leads to an update of the profile, which gets you an address for a young boy who left school early with the nurse on duty. It doesn't take long to get to the house, and Derek and JJ coordinate some of the local police and SWAT as you strap on your kevlar vests.

After an initial argument about the probable cause of entering a house you don't know is dangerous, Emily pipes up with an idea. "Let me go in alone."

"Wait..." you start but she steamrolls over you, clearly needing to compensate for not being here before. "The boy's in the family room. He's looking for female authority figures. If he lets me in, I can signal as soon as I see anything that gives us cause."

"Technically, you're not even in the FBI," Reid points out.

She nods. "All the better."

Strauss steps in with a frown, to no one's surprise. "She's interfering with a federal investigation."

"Well, if I'm no longer in the FBI, then you have no authority over me." Emily shrugs and turns to Hotch for the approval she actually wants. "I'm just a civilian knocking on a little boy's door."

He nods and she pulls her hair back into a ponytail. Derek hands her his gun, and you suddenly remember that Hotch doesn't have his gun either. Reaching into your other side holster, you pull out your second firearm and hand it to him without a word. He doesn't lift his hand at first, but then he nods at you and takes the gun, his eyes filled with an earnest gratitude, and you know you've forgiven him.

Once she goes inside, you all wait in silence for the signal to breach the home. It takes almost too long, but eventually your earpieces fill with a loud beeping, and Derek yells "Go!"

You find her in a back room, where she's on the floor, her forehead bleeding from a thick gash. You enter just in time to see Hotch leap forward and take Emily's weapon from the little boy, before lifting him up and carrying him out of the house.

"I can't officially approve of how that transpired," Strauss says when you all come outside. You sit next to Emily and squeeze her hand as the paramedics patch up her forehead.

Hotch shakes his head, clearly done with the bureau politics. "The arrest was clean. It would be a mistake to break up this team."

She looks at him pointedly. "None of you will ever move up the chain of command, you know that."

"Why would I ever want to leave the BAU?"

You almost believe him. It's not that you don't think he wants to stay. You know he does. You just also know how much his family means to him, and how thin Haley's patience has worn.

Morgan asks if he means it, and he gives a vague answer that you expect, before turning to look at you.

"Here." He reaches into his waistband and pulls out your gun. "Thanks, I appreciate it."

His hand brushes yours when you take it back, and the warmth of his skin makes you shiver against the slight breeze. "You're welcome."

***

When he gets home, the lights are off.

"Haley?" he calls out into the empty silence. He tries to convince himself that he didn't see this coming, but after her last words to him before he left, it's a futile exercise.

"Make sure to give your son a kiss before you leave."

He left, even when she begged him not to. Now his wife has left, and she took their son with her, and once again, he is utterly alone.

***

Gideon's resignation comes through and you find yourself missing him more than you thought you would. If Hotch is the backbone of the team, he was the stoic foundation. He formed the roots of the BAU as a unit altogether, and you owe your life's work to his intelligence and foresight. But more than that, you can't help but remember the fact that out of all the members on the team, Gideon knew Jeff the best.

He attended countless lectures about past unsubs that Gideon put on at the academy, because he believed understanding why people do things was just as important as knowing how or what they were doing. He even went to Gideon's home for the occasional dinner, and he brought you along once after you got married.

You're not sure what the team will look like without his guiding hand, but you don't have to wait long to find out when JJ calls you with the notice that you're going to Portland.

Spencer is reading a piece of paper over and over again when you get to the office, and when you peek over his shoulder, you see the familiar scrawl of Gideon's handwriting.

Taking a deep breath, you reach forward to put your hand on his shoulder for a moment of comfort, but think better of it and pull back at the last second. Derek sees your indecision and cocks his head towards him.

You walk over to his desk and perch on its edge with a sigh. "I can't believe he would leave just like that."

"I can," Morgan shrugs, his eyes hard with contempt. When you shoot him a look, he softens. "I just mean that he's been showing signs of withdrawal for a while now. It still sucks for the kid, though."

You both look up at Reid across the aisle, where he is still scanning the letter. "At least he got a letter." You try to bring humor into your tone, but it doesn't work.

"It's not about us," Derek says gently, in a show of empathy for the older agent that is unfamiliar coming from him. "He did what he had to do to keep himself sane. We just have to let him."

You nod, just as JJ emerges from the hallway with Hotch on her heels. "We're starting the briefing."

***

"You must be the BAU."

A handsome man with a thick East Coast accent comes forward to introduce himself when you all enter the Portland field office. "Special Agent Bill Calvert."

"Hi, Jennifer Jareau," JJ smiles, extending her hand. "This is SSA Aaron Hotchner. This is Dr. Reid and Agents Morgan, Prentiss and L/N."

He smiles at each of you but his eyes linger on yours for a moment before he takes JJ's hand. "I appreciate your help on this case."

"You're from Boston?" you ask, trying to place his accent after having heard nothing like it since you landed.

"The accent's kind of hard to miss in Oregon, right?" he grins, before reaching his hand out to you. "Agent L/N, was it?"

You shake his hand, shooting him a thin smile. You can already see Emily and JJ's smirks behind your back.

"We'd like to take a look around Jenny Wittman's apartment," Hotch steps in, moving forward to stand beside you.

Calvert nods. "I'd take you myself, but I'm waiting to meet her family, so I'll have another agent drive you."

"Thank you." Hotch rushes off with Reid and Morgan, and you stay back with JJ and Prentiss to work the victimology.

"Can we set up in here?" you ask Calvert as you start moving the boxes of case files and evidence onto the conference room table.

"Of course," he says, before leaving the three of you alone.

The first ten minutes of looking through the evidence is silent, and for a second, you nearly let yourself believe the other women won't bring up the elephant in the room, but then JJ lets out an involuntary giggle and they pounce.

"He's definitely into you," she says, making no effort to hide her gaze as she unabashedly stares at Calvert through the window. You want to retort immediately, but after seeing her check her phone about a dozen more times a day than she usually does, you suspect she may actually know what she's talking about when it comes to love these days.

Emily nods, biting her lip. "He couldn't stop looking at you."

"You're profilers," you argue, tossing the file in your hand onto the table. "You notice all kinds of insignificant stuff."

"So are you," JJ points out. "What do you think, then?"

They have you boxed in, and you can't think of any answer that would sufficiently appease them so you just groan.

"She's into it, too," JJ grins at Emily, who replies with, "I can't believe Y/N's gonna date someone from Portland."

Without thinking, you huff. "He's from Boston." All three pairs of eyes widen as you realize your slip in not denying her statement.

Emily laughs. "Ohh, it's so happening!"

***

When the men return from Jenny Wittman's apartment, Hotch instructs JJ to televise a statement warning possible future victims who fit the unsub's victimology. When Emily and Derek later find an ad hung up in a local laundromat that suggests he's been killing for longer than you'd previously thought, you decide to head back to the trail where the first bodies were found.

When you arrive on the scene, a dozen new bodies have been found further down the trail and near the water.

"How did we miss this before?" you think out loud, not realizing that Calvert has come up behind you.

"The trail's 40 miles long."

You jump when you hear his voice, and he apologizes after a small chuckle. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Special Agent Calvert," you say, your voice slightly airy as you catch your breath. "No need to apologize."

"Okay," he smiles, turning to stand in front of you, "and you can call me Bill."

He's a good looking man, and you don't dislike the feeling of someone showing interest in you, especially as clearly intelligent and qualified as him.

"Sure," you say, returning the smile. "I'm Y/N, btw."

"That's a pretty name," he says, his eyes glinting with mischievousness, before he turns back to the scene before you. "They dug up eight new graves before you got here."

You frown. "So the unsub didn't stick to the pattern."

"Guy had a busy year."

You nod, pondering what this change in M.O. could mean, when Bill interrupts your thoughts. "I'm interested to hear more about how this profiling thing goes."

You give him a quizzical smile, and his lips quirk up. "I took a class in criminal psychology in college, but I don't remember enough to be useful in this area."

"We observe human behavior," you explain, ignoring the subtle smirk Emily is flashing you from behind his back. "Profiling is about making connections and predicting future actions based on history, victimology, and behavior."

He takes a moment to digest your words before huffing out a laugh. "Sounds to me like we called in the right team."

When another agent comes by to ask him about the crime scene procedure, you take your leave and walk up the hill of mulch by the open graves. You are nearly to the SUV when you spot Morgan beelining towards you.

"Not you too," you sigh, rolling your eyes dramatically as you stalk away from him.

He catches up to you easily and throws an arm over your shoulders with a grin. "I'm not gonna give you the giggly girl talk that JJ and Prentiss clearly have covered. I just wanted to say one thing."

You look at him expectantly and he brings you both to a stop by the cars. "You're a catch, L/N." You start to roll your eyes again, but he shakes his head. "You are, so if you want to have a little no-strings-fun, then I'll have your back through and through."

You have no idea what no-strings-fun would look like, but you glance back at Bill, who is speaking animatedly with another agent about the change in digging patterns of the graves.

"I don't know what I want," you admit as Derek drops his arm and turns to face you.

"That's okay," he says, before the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk. "But figuring that out can be just as much fun too."

***

He would be lying if he said he hasn't noticed you talking to the Special Agent on the case. Calvert, he remembers as he thinks back to the capture and subsequent suicide of the unsub from the roof of his old therapist office.

They were able to find the final victim before she died, so even with the unsub's death, the case feels like a victory, and the whole team looks light on the way back to the jet.

He has been trying to keep himself light too, but every time he gets a moment to himself, his mind reverts back to the silent darkness of his home after he returned from the last case. The reminder that he hasn't seen Haley or Jack in days.

When he reaches the tarmac, he spots you talking to Calvert again, but the conversation looks different than before. The special agent looks nervous, and he tries to gauge whether you seem comfortable, before realizing how relaxed you look.

When he gets closer, he catches the end of a question that likely started with "Can I have your number?" You smile at the man, and he turns away, trying not to eavesdrop.

He can't tell what he wants you to say. He knows it's been enough time since Jeff's death that real dating isn't out of the question, but he can't reconcile the protective instinct flickering in his gut.

Regardless of the distance he tried putting between you and himself, your voice carries over the tarmac, and he hears you say, "I'm sorry." before the rest of the sentence gets jumbled in the breeze. Something that feels alarmingly like relief settles in his chest and he frowns at the foreign feeling of it coursing through his veins.

He boards the plane and purposefully chooses a seat with an empty spot next to it, knowing you'll choose to sit beside him after he practically ignored you all day. He really wasn't trying to shut you out, he just doesn't know how to broach the topic of separation with anyone, let alone someone who had as stable a marriage as you did.

When you board the jet and take your seat next to him, he glances over at you sheepishly and murmurs, "I overheard the end."

He's surprised when you laugh lightly. "It's okay. Everyone was going to find out soon enough, especially with how excited Prentiss and JJ were about it."

He nods, glad that you aren't angry about his invasion of your privacy. Then, before he can stop himself, he looks at you and asks, "You didn't want to see him again?"

"I don't think I'm looking to just date for dating's sake anymore," you explain, your eyes flitting around the cabin at the sleeping forms of the rest of the team. "I had a true love...I don't want to settle down again for anything less."

He understands that completely, but he can tell there's something else bothering you, and not just because of the rhythmic bouncing of your knee that you don't seemed to have noticed. "What else?"

You shrug, not meeting his eye. "I used to have my usual excuse, but I can't really say it's too soon anymore, can I?"

He frowns as he notices the visible strain on you that this burden has caused. "You get to decide that for yourself."

"I know," you sigh, rubbing your eye with a loose fist. "I just worry sometimes that I use Jeff as an excuse to keep myself closed off." Your knee stills, and Hotch scoots closer, even with the armrest in the way.

"You don't seem closed off to me."

Your eyes crinkle with laughter. "I'm not sure if that means much coming from you. You're not exactly the picture of openness, Hotch."

He knows you're mostly joking, but your read punches him in the gut in a way he doesn't expect. You must see the shock on his face, because you immediately lean in closer. "What is it?"

He shakes his head, trying to delay for as long as he can. If he doesn't say it out loud, maybe he can pretend that he's still a happily married man. That he didn't fail his wife and son by being as absent as he had wished his father had been, early in his life.

"It's not about Gideon leaving, is it?" You scrutinize him for a moment before shaking your head. "No. Hotch, what's the matter?"

"We agreed not to profile each other," he sighs, gritting his teeth against the pain of having to vocalize one of the lowest moments in his life.

"Aaron," you whisper. Your voice is soft and gentle, and he breaks.

"Haley left."

Your mouth parts in surprise, and he looks down at his lap, taking a deep breath. "And I don't know if she's coming back."

***

You've been waiting in the arrivals lot of the airport for almost an hour. You're assuming his flight got delayed, and you're grateful for the time to get yourself ready to see him, but the wait hasn't made your jitters any better.

You haven't seen Hotch since you left for college last year, and with his pre-law internship that he somehow snagged as a first year, it was a lonely summer.

When he called you last week with profuse apologies for not staying more in touch and a somber tone that had to be about more than his regrettable phone habits, you had told him that you would love to see him, but your winter break doesn't start for another month. After a few hushed breaths and a second of thinking, he told you that he had bought a plane ticket out to California for the following weekend.

That's why it's Friday afternoon, and you're still waiting for his familiar mop of dark hair to appear through the exit doors. A boy walks out right then, with the same raven hair and fit stature, and your heart rate hastens for a split second, before you realize it's not him.

You look down at your car's radio and twist the dial to change the station. It's been playing the same Madonna song nonstop, and you shut off the volume when the other stations are no different. Your shift in focus takes your attention away from the airport exit, so you jump in your seat when a quiet knock sounds at your passenger side window.

He's here. Your lips curve up into a bright smile and you unlock the door, letting him get in.

"Hi," you say, your voice weaker than you'd like.

"Hey, Y//N," he replies, pushing his long hair back from his face. The simple motion sets off butterflies in your stomach and you turn back to your steering wheel to keep your emotions off your face. He could always read you so easily. "It's good to see you."

He grins at you and leans forward to give you a quick, awkward hug over the center console. You involuntarily inhale as he pulls back, and the scent of his natural musk mixed with whatever new cologne he's been wearing smells dreamy on him.

You said you were over it, you tell yourself in your head. He has a girlfriend who he's going to marry, and you are his best friend. At least you were.

You don't really know where things stand between you two now. A year is a long time to go without seeing someone, and you're sure college has changed him in similar ways that it has changed you.

"I have one more class today," you say quickly as you pull your car out of the lot. "It's criminal psychology, so I figured you wouldn't mind coming to the lecture with me."

"Sounds fun," he says, before leaning his cheek against the window to watch the scenery that zips by. "God, the weather here is crazy."

"It's definitely warmer than I'm used to," you agree, struggling not to glance over at him. "We never had 70 degree winters growing up."

"Which do you prefer?"

You grin. "Home, of course."

"Of course."

You look at him then, and his expression is one you don't understand. It's the same look he gets when he's in the library and he finds a book he's been looking for.

The drive doesn't take long, and you bring him to your lecture, where he proceeds to pay more attention to the information being presented than you do. The class usually feels too short for you, but today, the time ticks by, because you can't focus.

It's been so long since you've sat next to him in a class, and the sight of him jotting down notes on a scrap piece of paper takes you back to high school, when he was still the more attentive one.

After the lecture, you both grab a quick dinner in the dining hall and settle back into your double dorm room, which you painstakingly cleaned up before he arrived.

"So, how long have you guys been friends?" your roommate, Katy, asks him as he drops into your desk chair. You've been watching her ogle him since he arrived, and if he's still as perceptive as he was in high school, it hasn't escaped his notice either.

"Forever," he says, looking at you with a grin. "We met when we were eight. When she judged my taste in The Beatles, it was over for me."

You can't help the heat that flames in your cheeks, even though you know this story by heart. Katy keeps glancing over at you as he explains how you guys met, and eventually she gets up and flops down onto your bed next to you. "You're bringing him to the party tonight, right?"

Your eyes widen as you remember that was today. "Oh, I don't know. We might just stay in."

"You have to come!" she squeals, shaking your arm. She turns to him with a pointed look. "We already have outfits picked out."

"I guess we gotta go, then," he smiles at her, before looking at me with a small raise of his eyebrow. You okay with that?

You dip your chin into a nod, and he stands up. "I'll head out for a walk as you guys get ready."

"Sounds good!" Katy says, grabbing your hand and sliding off the bed. "We'll see you in an hour."

Once the door closes behind him, Katy turns to you, her mouth agape. "You never told me how cute he is."

"What?" you sputter, your cheeks turning a bright shade of pink.

"You also didn't tell me you're, like, in love with him."

You scoff involuntarily, your usual diversion technique when someone brings up a topic you want to evade. "What are you talking about?"

"Okay," she shrugs, reaching into your closet and tossing you the dress you were planning to wear. "If that's how you want to play it."

You go into your attached bathroom to change into your outfit, but after seeing Hotch, the mini sundress you picked out feels like too much. You hate how much you're overthinking something as stupid as an outfit for a party.

You turn away from the mirror and go back into your dorm, where Katy is applying her signature shade of red lipstick in her little mirror stand.

"He has a serious girlfriend," you whisper, almost too quiet for her to hear you. But she is more perceptive than you give her credit for. "Like eventual marriage-serious."

"Oh, honey," she coos, patting the bench seat next to her. You scoot in until you're side by side and she wraps an arm around your shoulders. "I'm sorry I brought it up."

"It's okay," you shake your head, leaning on her shoulder. "I just need to get over it. It's a stupid crush that I've had since high school, but it's time. Maybe this party will help."

"Yes, exactly!" she grins, turning her head to look at you. "Nothing that a little music and a few shots can't fix."

"A few shots?" you laugh.

She nods. "Each."

You down another shot of whiskey before tossing your cup onto the table and following Katy onto the dance floor. She grinds against her boyfriend as you dance beside them, moving your hips side to side with the rhythm of the music.

Being in Los Angeles, the temperature outside is already warmer than it should be in November, but inside the house, your dress is sticking to your skin from the sweat and body heat surrounding you.

You're feeling the alcohol enough to have a good time even in the sweaty throng of bodies around you, and you throw your head back as you close your eyes and feel the thump of the music vibrating the floor boards.

Meanwhile, Hotch can't find you anywhere. He's drunk enough already that he knows he won't be able to find you himself, but he doesn't know anyone else here, so he grabs a half empty bottle from the drinks table and makes his way to the dance floor, where the life of the party seems to be centered.

He's usually a lot more fun at parties, but lately he hasn't felt like himself. Ever since you left for school across the country, it has felt like something in his life was wrong, like he was missing a limb. Then, things started looking up with Haley, and he pushed you away in the hopes that he would forget about any of the doubts he had, but it didn't work. The more he missed you, the worse things got in his relationship, and suddenly he wasn't sure what his life was supposed to look like anymore.

He takes another swig from the bottle and leans back against the counter as he watches people dance against each other in the dim light of the house. His eyes flicker over the mess of bodies until they catch on someone he almost doesn't recognize.

Your eyes are closed and your hands are in the air as you move to the beat. It's not exactly graceful music, but you have managed to find some semblance of a rhythm as you slide your hands down your thin dress, which is sticking to your body in a way he can't take his eyes off of.

He doesn't realize he has lifted the bottle to his lips again until the liquid is burning his throat, and he tears his eyes away from you as his head starts to spin. Maybe he's had enough for tonight. He puts the bottle down just as your roommate spots him. Katy, he thinks, or is it Sadie?

"Aaron!" she calls, stumbling over to him as a man holds her up with an arm around her waist. "Where's Y/N?"

"Not sure," he lies easily, barely conscious of the way his words have started to slur together. "I may head out soon."

"Don't leave without her," she instructs, her voice suddenly getting serious. "I'm staying with him tonight." She pats the man's arm. "So I won't be going back with her."

He nods with a resigned sigh, and slumps down on a couch in the next room, leaning his head back to stop the room from spinning.

When you tire of dancing, you push to the back of the crowd and look around to find any familiar face. You can't see Katy or her boyfriend anywhere, but after exiting the room, you spot Hotch asleep on the couch.

You walk forward with a slanted smile and put your hand on his shoulder to shake him awake. "Hotch, get up."

He groans, peeling his eyes open slowly. "I'm awake. Just resting my eyes."

"Yeah, yeah," you tease, looping your arm through his to help him up. "How much did you drink?"

He shrugs and you wrap your arm around his waist to hold him upright as he stumbles forward. "Whoa there. Okay, let's get you back."

You manage to get him out of the house, and once the fresh air hits, he can almost stand up straight on his own. You keep your arm around him just in case, trying to ignore the way his tee shirt is slowly riding up around his waistband.

You make the walk back in silence, and he falls back onto your bed as you lock the door behind you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers when you perch on the edge of the bed next to him.

"It's okay," you say, huffing out a laugh. He looks so young with his hair falling onto his face, and you resist the urge to push it back off his forehead. "Happens to the best of us."

"No, not that." He rolls over with a groan, flopping onto his back and scooting back so he can lay on your pillow. "I'm sorry I stopped calling."

Your heart skips a beat and you tuck your hair behind your ear, needing to occupy your hands somehow as your mind races with a million questions. "It's my fault too."

"No, it's not."

He isn't slurring his words anymore, but you can still hear the earnestness that only comes when one's filter is completely shattered. He was never one to hide things from you, but you also know how truthful people can get when alcohol takes their mask away.

"Haley and I have been having problems for a while," he mutters, making you sigh. So that's why he flew here in the middle of the school year. "We haven't been seeing eye to eye on a lot of things, and we decided to take a break, but I haven't told anyone, because the only person I wanted to tell was you."

You can't look at him. His gaze is too much, his eyes too full of truth and intensity. "Hotch-"

"I miss you so much," he says, cutting you off. "You're the only person I've ever really been able to talk to, but you know that, don't you? It's the same for you, it has to be."

You don't say anything. The air feels thick with tension, and you're afraid that if you say something, the room will explode.

"She's the perfect girlfriend," he says wistfully, his voice tight with an emotion you can't decipher. "I know it's me who's fucking it up, and I hate myself for it, because she's trying so hard to make this work. But every time it feels perfect, and I think I've finally gotten what I wanted, I just remember-"

"Aaron."

You look at him and his eyes are already staring into yours. You have wanted him to love you the way you loved him for years, but not like this. Never like this.

"You can't fuck this up," you whisper, your voice stronger than you expect it to be. "Call Haley tomorrow morning. Tell her you're sorry, and that you love her, because you do. You know you do."

"I love her," he nods as sleep pulls his eyelids down. "Tomorrow..I'll call her."

You watch him as his limbs relax and his breathing evens out, but you don't fall asleep until the sun starts to rise and you physically can't keep your eyes open anymore.

***

"Happy All Hallow's Eve, folks."

Reid pulls his mask off as Derek looks at him with a frightened frown.

"Are you scared of Halloween?" you ask him, trying to keep the grin off your face.

"I didn't say I was scared," he corrects, glancing over at Reid, who drops his mask on his desk and pushes his hair back from his face, "I said I was creeped out."

"What creeps you out about it?" Emily asks, before grinning at you.

"I bet it's the candy," you joke. "Those muscles probably cower at the sight of anything that isn't meat or protein powder."

Emily snorts and Derek frowns at both of you. "It's the masks. I don't like people in disguises."

"That's the best thing about Halloween," Reid chimes in. "You can be anyone you want to be."

Derek grins. "No, I'm pretty good just being me."

You and Emily share a look. "Yeah, why is it that neither of those points of view surprise me?"

"Guys," Reid suddenly calls out, his voice hushed. "He's here."

You turn around to see Hotch walking down the stairs, accompanied by Agent David Rossi, who you've heard a lot about in your years at the bureau. He was one of the founding members of the BAU, and you can't help but wonder what made him want to come back.

JJ introduces him to everyone, before Reid starts spouting off a list of facts from one of the old cases he solved when he was the chief of the unit.

"Reid, slow down," Hotch says with an uncharacteristic smile. "He'll be here for a while. Catch up with him later."

He nods. "Right, sorry."

Agent Rossi doesn't seem fazed. "No problem, Doctor."

This pleasantly surprises you. It's all too often that new people who meet Spencer don't immediately treat him with the respect he deserves.

"Let's start the briefing."

***

The flight back from Texas is hushed. The case went about as well as you could hope, with them catching the unsub and saving the final victim, but the way Rossi went rogue over and over again has rubbed you the wrong way.

You watch him across the cabin as he pores over his little notebook, and you wish you could peek inside his head. You know that the team aspect of the BAU is a newer addition to the unit, but you don't understand how he can keep all of his thoughts to himself.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Gah," you fright, jumping in your seat. "When did you sit next to me?"

Hotch shrugs, his lip quirking up. "A few minutes ago."

"Well, you should really wear a bell or something, god."

"Y/N," he says, giving you a pointed look. He doesn't let you use your evasion tactics anymore. Given your penchant for aimless talking, you suppose that's a good thing.

"I was just thinking about Rossi," you sigh, glancing up at him again. "Lying to the press to get a reaction from the unsub? Taking over that phone call? I don't like how he works, Hotch."

"He's from a different time," he says, even though you can hear the agreement in his voice, "but he worked with Gideon, and if you remember, it took you a while to warm up to him too."

You heave out a breath but it's the only concession you're willing to give in this moment.

"He's used to an older way of doing things, but he's a great agent."

"He clearly has good ideas," you whisper, "but I just worry that you'll have to work over time to keep him under control."

Hotch ponders this, and you think that maybe he knows you're right. Your eyes shift up and you realize his hair has been shorter for a while now, but you're still not used to seeing so much of his forehead. Not that there's anything wrong with his forehead. It's a fine forehead.

"He was the team leader before he retired," Hotch says suddenly. "He may be tough as a subordinate now, but I'm still glad he's back. We needed someone to fill Gideon's spot, we were low on hands."

"Speaking of, why do you think he's back."

He looks at you with a quizzical frown. "Is it really so hard to believe that he may just want to help us out?"

You think for a second, before shrugging. He laughs.

"I don't know," you concede, with a small chuckle. "I think I'm just expecting things from him that aren't fair."

He turns his body to face you. "Like what?"

You press your lips together, trying to formulate your words properly, so you can clearly articulate the tornado of thoughts in your brain. "I know Gideon wasn't a father figure exactly, but he was someone that Reid and Elle latched onto."

Hotch exhales. "I don't know if Gideon is someone I'd want as a father."

You let out a surprised laugh. "Fair enough."

"How is your father doing, by the way?"

You blink in surprise. It's not that he doesn't talk about your family, it's just that the timing is uncanny. You haven't spoken to him in months. After your mom died, you two were almost inseparable, but then you left for school, and you realized how much bigger the world could be when you weren't always bogged down by your grief. "I haven't called him in a while."

"What did he say after Golconda?" he asks, his voice gentle. After Frank, he means.

You close your eyes, guilt flooding your body. "I never told him."

"What?" You don't look at him, but you can see the shock in the stiff line of his posture. "Did something happen between you two?"

You shake your head, your protectiveness over your family flaring up at the concern in his eyes. "Nothing happened. I just didn't want to worry him."

"That's his job," Hotch stresses, scooting his leg over so his knee bumps yours. "If something like that had happened to Jack, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"That's what I'm scared of," you tell him, your eyes flitting over to the window, where the clouds are dancing across the horizon. Sometimes, when you're on the jet, you like to pretend that the time up here isn't real. That as long as the world looks like a series of splotches and blinking lights, nothing can really hurt you. "My mom's death nearly killed him. I learned to cook when I was ten, because he couldn't leave his room for a month." Hotch knows all of this already, but he lets you vocalize your thoughts, obviously knowing how badly you need reassurance for the guilt you're feeling. "Then, when Jeff died, I stayed with him for a few weeks to have some company, but...but.. I was so glad when I left, because then I could finally let myself fall apart."

He reaches under the armrest and clasps your hand in his, extending the comfort you didn't know you needed.

"I've never told anyone that," you whisper, feeling your voice tighten with tears. "I love my dad, I love him so much, but I just needed the chance to recover on my own."

"He loves you too," Hotch says, finally breaking his silence. "You know he loves you. I still remember the themed sandwich baggies that he packed your lunch with all through middle school."

You choke out a laugh. "You would always steal the Spiderman ones."

He smiles, squeezing your hand once. "Maybe you just need to give him another chance to be who you want him to be. He might just surprise you."

You know he's right. Somehow, he's always right.

You nod, flashing him a small smile, and lean your head on his shoulder as the clouds float past your window.

***

He glances at his watch for the tenth time since he sat down in his office. The plane landed just over an hour ago, and he sent you home immediately with the instruction to get some rest. He probably should have gone home too, but ever since he got his new apartment, home hasn't felt the same.

He used to be able to look around any corner and see a memory: the couch where he and Haley made love on their first night at home, the soft carpet where Jack took his first steps, the doorframe where he measured his height on his first birthday as Haley held him up by the arms. He also remembers that he wasn't there to see Jack's first steps; he was in Pittsburgh, working a case and thanking his lucky stars that Haley had had the foresight to take a photo as his son stood upright all by himself.

He lifts the picture frame from the edge of his desk, running his fingers over the cool glass and looking at the blue drawing underneath. Jack had drawn his favorite cartoon character and left it for him on the kitchen table, a few nights before his suspension went into effect.

Putting it back down, he looks at the photograph of him holding onto Haley as she clutches newborn Jack to her chest in the hospital. He still has the photo of just him and her on their wedding, but he pushed it to the back, behind the pictures of Jack, and the one of you and him at law school graduation.

A knock sounds at his door and he looks up to see Dave standing in his doorway. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," he says, waving him in. He doesn't sit down, so Hotch stands up too, unsure of how he feels about the power imbalance in the room. "What can I do for you?"

"You said out there, 'The team shares everything.'"

He nods. "That's right."

"There is no 'I'?"

He nods again, not liking where this may be going.

Dave glances down at his desk, where his phone sits next to the picture frame of his family. "Seems a big thing to withhold. Separating from your wife, your child."

He freezes, unconsciously looking at the door to see if anyone heard. "What are you talking about?"

"You used to call Haley 10 times a day," Dave says, his voice not unkind. "We've been together 48 hours and I haven't seen you call her once. You haven't mentioned her, and you're not going home now."

He frowns, feeling his brow settle into place like it's a uniform he wears whenever he's at the office. "What's your point?"

"I guess you're just not used to sharing."

He doesn't say anything, but Rossi seems to interpret this the wrong way. "Or maybe it's something else." He looks out the window at the empty bullpen, but the implication is still clear. "Was it because of...?"

"What?" He doesn't know where this is coming from, but he can't stop the anger that rumbles through him at the connotation. Unable to help it, he looks down at your desk, and Dave tuts.

"I won't say anything."

"Dave," he shakes his head, trying to remain calm. "You have it all wrong. She's my best friend...since we were children. It isn't like that. It was never-"

It was never like that. That's what he's about to say, but that wouldn't be true. Rossi is a good enough profiler that he would be able to spot a lie from a mile away, so he shuts his mouth and shakes his head again. "It's not like that."

"Okay," he accepts, lifting his hands in surrender. "My mistake."

Hotch nods, and Dave leaves his office, but he can't get their conversation out of his head until later that night when his head hits his pillow and his eyes finally fall shut.

***

"Hey, Dad."

You called him when you got home from work that night, and he answered on the second ring. "Hi, sweetheart."

"How are you?" you ask, clutching the phone to your ear as you sink down onto the couch in your living room.

He doesn't answer for a moment, and you can hear him taking a breath. "I'm good, Y/N, how are you? Is work going well?"

"It's good," you tell him. "Really good. We were able to save a woman today, before the unsub could kill her."

"Unsub?"

"Unknown subject," you explain, quickly realizing just how long it's been since you've spoken to him. "It's what we call the bad guy before we know who he is."

"Right," he says, and you can practically see him rubbing a hand over his face, his nervous tic. "I knew that. Anyway, how is everything in your life? Do you still work with Aaron?"

"Yeah, I do," you say with a laugh. "He was actually asking about you earlier today."

"That's nice of him," your dad says, his voice brightening slightly. "He was always a good friend to you."

You tell him about your most recent case, and about Gideon and Elle leaving the team, but eventually you can't evade the topic you've been trying to avoid all night.

You're okay, you think to yourself. Frank can't hurt you anymore.

"Dad," you whisper, closing your eyes as you take a deep breath. In 1, 2, 3. Out 1, 2, 3. "I have something to tell you."

Then you tell him everything, and he just listens, exactly like you hoped he would.

***

"I met this guy." You didn't even see Penelope approach you, but here she is, looking at you like she's about to say something dirty.

"Hell yeah," you grin, trying to match her energy. "Where?"

"A coffee shop," she smirks. "He was having trouble with his computer, so I fixed it for him, and then he asked for my number."

"Look at you," you joke, giving her a side squeeze, "putting your technical analyst skills to good use."

"Thank you," she huffs, throwing an annoyed glance over her shoulder. "That's more of the response I was looking for."

"What do you mean?"

"Derek," she says simply, and you nod, already knowing where she's going with this. You know they have an uncommon relationship, so you're not surprised that he didn't react exactly how she hoped he would.

"He's an idiot," you tell her, patting her arm.

She laughs. "You don't even know what he did."

"Uh, yeah," you say, turning around to face the bullpen, "I definitely do."

***

The case takes the team to Florida, where an unsub has been feeding women their fingers, killing them, and then carving pentagrams in their skin.

The pentagrams suggest a religious element, so you go with JJ, Morgan, and Rossi to the local church to meet with the priest.

"Rossi, do me a favor," Morgan says just before you walk inside. "You talk to the priest, all right?"

You remember his agitation on the jet when Reid prodded him about his beliefs, and given the cruelty of his childhood, a crisis of faith wouldn't surprise you.

"Hi, Father Marks," JJ greets the priest when you enter the church. She introduces all of you to him, before shaking his hand. "We're sorry we have to be here under these circumstances."

"It's good of you to come," he says, greeting all of you. "Abbey's parents are upstairs in my office."

"We'll go up," Rossi says with a nod, "but Agent Morgan actually has some questions for you."

Your eyes flash to Rossi, but he doesn't return your gaze.

"I have some questions too," you offer, and Derek nods gratefully.

The priest answers the few questions Derek spits out at him, and you watch as his eyes wander around the hall, his shoulders raised with tension. You insert a few of your own questions before heading outside with him to wait for JJ and Rossi to finish up with the victim's parents.

"What happened in there?" you ask when he doesn't meet your eye. "Being rude to Father Marks? That wasn't like you."

"You know what happened to me, L/N," he says angrily, kicking his foot out at a loose stone on the pavement. "I went to church everyday, and I prayed for it to stop, but you know what God did? Nothing."

"I know what a crisis of faith looks like, Derek." You stand in front of him, forcing him to look at you. "But Father Marks doesn't know your story. He's not judging you, he's just showing his faith how he knows best."

His shoulders are still tense as his jaw twitches. "Who does Rossi think he is, throwing me under the bus like that?"

"He's an instigator," you shrug, letting the topic slide for the time being. You'll talk to him again later if he still needs it.

"I didn't love the way Gideon did things either," Derek says, his posture going from agitation to annoyance, "but Rossi might just take the cake. Even if he is better with the victim's families."

"I can't help you there," you almost laugh. "I had the same conversation with Hotch after the case in Texas, and he managed to convince me to give the guy a chance. So...if you can't bring yourself to trust him, just think of it as putting your trust in Hotch."

Derek hums, bumping your shoulder with his. "I guess I can do that."

***

The search party for Tracey Lambert only leads to the unsub taking another woman, and suddenly the ticking clock gets a lot louder. By the time you find his lair and the bodies he has been cannibalizing for years, you're already struggling to keep down even the water you've been drinking. When he reveals where Tracey actually is, you feel so sick, you can't breathe.

When the jet lands back in Virginia, you go home immediately, desperately needing some peace and quiet away from the team for the first time in a while. But that doesn't last long.

You're awoken by the shrill ringing of your home phone. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you check the number and answer the phone. "Is this payback for the last time I called you past midnight?"

"Y/N...it's Garcia."

You shoot up into a sitting position as Hotch explains what happened. "How bad is it?"

"I don't know."

"I'm on my way."

You change into a sweater and a pair of loose jeans before grabbing your keys and flying out the door.

"She's in surgery," JJ tells you when you find them in the waiting room. She pulls you into a hug before returning to her hunched position in an uncomfortable vinyl chair.

"There's no other word," Hotch adds, giving you a quick hug as well. With his cheek pressed against your temple, he whispers, "Police think it may have been a botched robbery."

"Where's Morgan?" Emily asks, standing up from her chair.

"He's not answering his cell."

Reid nods, stepping away. "I'll call him again."

He squeezes your hand before he exits the waiting area, and you glance down at JJ again. Her eyes are red from crying, and her chin is pressed into her palm as she stares at the floor. You watch as Emily sits next to her and pats her hand, before clasping it in hers.

You don't realize you've been staring at the same spot on the floor until Hotch stands next to you and nudges your shoulder. You okay?

"I will be," you say out loud, barely registering that he didn't actually ask you anything. "As soon as she's out of surgery." When you got the call that Penelope was shot, you had been hit by an intense feeling of deja vu. Only this time, the call didn't come from bureau leadership, because she wasn't killed at the scene. Because she's going to make it.

He doesn't seem fazed as he checks his watch again, his frown lines deepening. "It shouldn't take this long to get an update."

"Where have you been?" Reid asks suddenly. You look up to see Derek walking into the waiting room, his eyes wide with panic.

"I was in church. My phone was off."

"There's nothing you could have been doing here," Rossi assures him, before nodding at Hotch and pulling him aside to discuss something with the deputies outside. You use the momentary lull to approach Derek, putting your hand on his arm as an initial test. When he doesn't jerk back, you pull him into a hug that he returns gratefully.

The doctor walks in a few minutes later and explains that Penelope will be fine, but she needs to rest until the morning.

"David and I will go to the scene," Hotch informs, his eyes fixing each of you with an empathetic look. "I think the rest of you should be here when she wakes up. I don't care about protocol. I don't care whether we're working this officially, or not. We don't touch any new cases until we find out who did this."

When they leave, you pull Derek down into the chair next to you and lean your head onto his shoulder. After a beat, he relaxes in his seat, and lets out a long sigh. "She's okay."

***

Early the next morning, the doctor shakes you all awake with the notice that Penelope's up, so you rush into her room, trying not to crowd her as she blinks awake.

"Hi," she says softly, her voice small. She looks so innocent, laying in her hospital bed with her blonde hair a halo around her head. You can't imagine how anyone would want to hurt someone like her.

"No tears," she smiles as you swallow down your anger. "I'm afraid if I start crying, I'll come unstapled."

JJ presses a kiss to her cheek, before Derek and Emily start gently plying her with the usual questions. When it comes out that the man who shot her was the same man who asked her out at the coffee shop, your anger turns to anguish, and you reach forward to squeeze Penelope's hand in an effort to comfort her.

"I just thought he liked me," she whispers, the pain in her voice breaking your heart.

"We need a name," Emily asks abruptly. You can see her mentally kicking herself at how serious her words came out, but you know Penelope understands the gravity of this situation.

"James Colby Baylor."

She asks you and JJ to stay back for a second as the rest of the team leaves to investigate Baylor.

"What's up, honey?" you ask, smiling at her sweetly as she uses her other hand to take JJ's.

"I feel so stupid," she sighs, her breath turning into a gasp as tears fill her eyes. "Maybe Derek was right about all of it."

"No," JJ says sternly, reaching forward to brush some of her hair behind her ear. "None of this is on you."

"What she said," you echo, nodding at JJ, "and don't listen to Morgan. He loves you, and he's very protective over you, but he's also a man."

She sniffles out a laugh, before pressing her lips together. "One last thing."

JJ blinks. "Anything."

"Please don't talk about me like I'm a victim."

***

The case wraps up back at the office, where Baylor, whose real name is Deputy Battle, was shot in the head by JJ, who doesn't seem as plussed by the situation as you would expect. You tried to talk to her afterwards, but after telling you she was fine, she put all of her attention on Penelope, who has spent the last week recovering at home.

Now, you're sitting in the break room stirring your black coffee, just for something to do. Hotch finds you in there and walks inside, shutting the door behind him.

"It's been a long week," he grumbles, looking longingly at the spot next to you on the worn couch.

You lift your cup and nod your head at the full coffee pot. "That's what caffeine's for."

"We really should sleep at some point," he says, filling up a paper cup and carefully dropping into the spot beside you. The couch you chose is small enough that his thigh presses against yours when he spreads his legs even the slightest bit.

You snort. "Sleep's overrated."

You both sip your steaming coffees in silence as you watch the other agents shuffle back and forth across the bullpen, unaware of your watchful eyes. The break room is the one place in the office to go for a little bit of privacy, but the unobstructed view of everyone's desks isn't unpleasant either. You imagine this is how Hotch feels when he looks out his office window.

Your eye catches on the stapled wood planks that are currently replacing the broken glass door that leads into the bullpen. He must be looking at the same thing, because he breaks the silence and says, "I think we may need to get JJ out into the field more."

His tone catches you off guard and you crack a small smile. "She does seem remarkably well-adjusted, given that it was her first time."

He nods, turning his head to look at you. "Do you remember your first time?" Killing someone, is the part he doesn't say out loud.

"Of course." You take a deep breath and gulp back more coffee. "He was a serial rapist in Texas. One shot to the heart. I wasn't trying to kill him, he just ran at the last second."

"Serial killer in Florida," he responds simply. "Headshot. He died instantly."

"That was your first year at the BAU, right?" He nods and you sink back into the cushions. "I wasn't even in the field then."

He hums, a low sound that you feel as vibrations on your skin. "I worry that I brought you in here too early. Jeff had just died, and I assumed that getting you out of the house and in the field would take your mind off of things, but I wonder sometimes if I made the wrong call."

"You didn't," you assure him, turning your body to face his, even as he doesn't meet your eye. "First of all, you brought me in six months after he died, and by then, I definitely needed an excuse to leave my bedroom."

He sighs, a small concession, and you continue. "The first case I went into the field for after he died, I could barely hold my gun. Every time I pulled it on someone, I would imagine his body...with all of those bullet holes...and I would just freeze up. It took me months to pass my firearm certification again, but I still don't regret it."

"You sure?" he asks, his voice almost timid.

"Positive," you smile, nudging your thigh against his. "Besides, I didn't realize it until later, but it wasn't getting out into the field that helped me through my grief...it was meeting the team. These people became my family in the moment that I needed one most."

You turn back to your coffee and sip it again, though it's no longer as hot as you'd like it to be.

"How are you doing, by the way?" he asks suddenly. "With Garcia, I mean."

An involuntary shudder runs through you as you remember her pale face in her hospital bed last week, but the warmth of the coffee cup in your hands makes it pass quickly. "I'll never get used to it. But she's okay now, so hopefully it'll be easier this time."

***

You're jotting down notes in the margins of a new case file JJ asked you to look over when your cell phone rings. Hotch and Reid are at a nearby prison, interviewing a serial killer on death row for the Criminal Personality Research Project, so you're not expecting a call from either of them. The rest of the team, except for Rossi, is scattered around the bullpen, but you don't expect him to call you either.

After finishing the line you were writing, you check your phone and see a name you haven't spoken to in weeks.

"Haley," you answer after clicking open your cell. "Is everything okay?"

"I know you're busy," she sighs, her voice tight with what you can only decipher as irritation, "but I didn't know who else to call. Aaron hasn't been answering my phone calls."

You get up from your desk and step out into the hallway to get some privacy. "He and Dr. Reid are at a prison right now, interviewing a criminal for this research project. There likely isn't any cell service out there."

"It's not just today, Y/N," she says, her tone getting colder as she inadvertently directs her anger towards the only person she can get ahold of. "He hasn't been taking my calls for days."

"I can talk to him," you suggest, trying to keep your tone light in an effort to keep this conversation from derailing. "I'll tell him to give you a call."

"I appreciate that," she sighs, losing her steam. "I'm sorry for involving you, I just really need to speak with him about something."

"Is everything alright with you and Jack?" you ask her quickly, wanting to make sure that you aren't making the wrong assumptions about why she's calling.

"Oh!" she inhales sharply. "Yes, of course, we're doing great. Well, great maybe isn't the right word, I didn't mean- I just-" She sighs. "You know what I mean."

"I do," you assure her as your heart twists at the sound of her shallow breathing. You know how hard the separation has been on Hotch, but you know Haley too, and she has always been better at hiding her pain that she seems. "Where have you been staying?"

"With Jess," she says, her voice brightening considerably at the mention of her sister. "She's been a godsend. I feel terrible taking up so much of her space, but she doesn't seem to mind."

You smile, remembering the few times you met Jessica Brooks while Haley and Hotch were together. "She definitely doesn't mind. She always loved children. I bet she's already scheming on how to steal Jack from you."

Haley laughs, and the sound is like wind chimes twinkling in your ear. "She totally is."

Her laughter slowly fades, and you both stay on the line for a few moments in comfortable silence.

"I'll tell him to call you," you promise.

"I know," she sighs. "Thank you."

***

The prison was a bust, but Reid got a chance to use his intelligence to get them out of a tough spot without anyone getting hurt, so the day wasn't a total loss.

He is sitting in his office, drafting an email to the project coordinator, when you walk inside and take a seat in front of his desk.

"Thanks for knocking," he says sarcastically before finishing up the sentence he was working on. Once it's done, he saves the draft and turns off his computer. "How was Indianapolis?"

"Good," you say, leaning back in the chair. "Great, actually. Rossi got to close up the case that's been haunting him for a decade, and the three kids are finally safe."

"I'm surprised he wasn't more excited when he got back," he notes, watching your body language. You look wired, but not about this. Something else is bothering you.

"The unsub wasn't exactly the most gratifying arrest," you sigh, rubbing a hand over your temple. "We don't even think he committed the murders intentionally."

He frowns, shaking his head. "Those are the worst kind."

You're silent for a moment before you sit up straighter and look at him. "Haley called me this morning. While you were at the prison."

"Oh?" Something that feels like ice slithers down his spine even though he can probably guess exactly how the conversation went.

All week, he has felt an enormous weight on his chest in the form of a stack of divorce papers that Haley served him with. She had called him right after, with the explanation that they both should have seen this coming, but he really hadn't. He was a profiler, whose entire job was to notice and analyze human behavior, and he truly hadn't been able to let himself believe that this could be a possibility. That his marriage could actually be over.

"She said you've been ignoring her calls."

He had been ignoring them. He knew she would just tell him to sign the papers, and he couldn't bear to hear her say it again. Once was enough.

He reaches into his desk and pulls out the manila folder that he hasn't opened since his initial read-through. He suspects you already know what he's about to tell you, but he also knows that it won't feel real until he says it out loud. And it's about time he came to terms with what his life would be from now on. "Haley wants me to sign the divorce papers, uncontested."

"She doesn't want to involve a lawyer?" you ask, your voice delicate as you walk him through the explanation with clarifying questions. It's the technique they use when interviewing the families of victims, to help them feel comfortable as they talk about the hardest thing they've ever gone through. He's surprised at how reassuring it feels coming from you.

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. It has grown out a bit since he last cut it, but he doesn't think he minds. Haley wanted him to cut it short when Jack was in his grabbing and teething phase, but now, he likes how he can push it back when he wants. "I don't want to sign, of course, but she's adamant that we get this done soon."

"You'll be okay," you say, and he looks up in surprise. "You're a good man, Aaron."

"I'm not," he whispers, heaving out a sigh. "I'm not doing anything right. At home, I was an awful husband and an absent father, and at work, Strauss would replace me if she had even the slightest bit more ammunition. I can't focus in either place. Maybe Haley's right, maybe I'm just selfish."

You lean forward and grab his hand, even as he doesn't look at you. "You're not selfish. You're the farthest thing from selfish. You don't want to sign, but you will. You're giving her what she wants, even though it's the last thing you want."

He nods, but his heart isn't in it. He glances down at the folder again and takes a deep breath as you give him a small smile and stand up.

"I'll see you tomorrow, boss?"

He nods again. "See you tomorrow."

When the door shuts behind you, he flips open the folder, faster than he meant to, but he's afraid if he doesn't do this quickly he'll lose his nerve. Grabbing a random pen from the mug on his desk, he uncaps it and scrawls out his initials on all of the earmarked lines throughout the stack.

When he finishes the last page, he shuts the folder and leans back in his chair, letting out a long exhale. He did it. He supposes he should feel some sort of severing away of his old life, maybe an audible snap as the ties to his marriage get cut, but there's just silence.

His office suddenly feels stifling, and he loosens his tie before reaching forward and lifting the picture frame with him and Haley on their wedding day. Her smile still looks beautiful to him, and his content expression as he gazes at her doesn't make him feel anything different. Their marriage may be over, but he still loved her.

He runs his thumb over the smooth edge of the frame, and then opens his desk drawer, before sticking it inside and pushing it closed.

***

"Thank you for watching him," Hotch says, his voice slightly muffled over the phone.

"Of course," you smile, sitting down on your couch with the pasta you made for dinner. "It was my pleasure. Jack's a total sweetheart."

Jess was out of town for a couple of days, so he had asked you to watch Jack while he and Haley met up to finalize the divorce in front of an attorney. She had been adamant about finishing the process over the phone, but he wanted to ensure that she and Jack would be taken care of after the papers went through.

"Did he eat lunch?"

"Kind of," you say, quickly swallowing the bite you took. "He didn't want a full meal, but I got him to eat some fruit and bread with cheese."

"I'll make him a snack soon," he says quietly, but you can tell he's just thinking out loud. "Alright, I'll see you at the office. Thanks again."

"Always," you tell him, genuinely. "See you."

The phone clicks off and you scarf down the rest of your pasta before doing your dirty dishes and cleaning up your kitchen. You're considering whether to change into your workout clothes so you can crank out a few miles on your Peloton, but then you hear a knock on your door.

You're not expecting anyone, and with Hotch watching Jack, it can't be him. You peek around the corner into your foyer to see who's at the door, and relax when you spot a familiar mop of brown hair.

"I'm sorry I didn't call first," Spencer says when you open the door, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his book bag. "I just didn't know how to ask you this over the phone."

"Spence, what is it?" you ask, opening the door further to let him in. He doesn't step forward, and a pinprick of anxiety enters your system.

"If I come inside, I won't be able to do this," he says vaguely, before reaching into his bag and pulling out a flyer. He hands it to you and you read the title, the tension seeping from your body as the words sink in: Narcotics Anonymous for Law Enforcement.

"I know it's a lot to ask," he whispers, "but would you drive me to the meeting tonight?"

Your heart feels like it's about to crack open. Only a boy who was never looked after, never given the love and care he deserved, would think that something like this was too much to ask.

"It's not too much," you tell him, glancing down at the address. "I'll get my keys."

When he's settled in your passenger seat, you pull out of the driveway, not commenting on the fact that his car is parked on the street beside your sidewalk. You understand the need for company more than most people.

The drive to the rec center where the meeting is being held is mostly silent, but you don't press him. He stares down at his hands for most of the ride, and when you stop in front of the entrance, he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to you. "Thank you."

"Of course," you smile. "I can wait, if you'd like."

He gives you a thin-lipped smile. "It's okay."

"You sure?"

He presses his lips together and looks at you, his eyes reflecting the question in yours.

"Go on," you say, patting his arm. "I'll be here."

He nods and steps out of your car, and you pull into a parking space to wait in while he's in the meeting. You turn on the radio and it's the same song they've been playing for the last week, so you turn the volume down low and close your eyes for a few peaceful moments.

You must have fallen asleep, because you're jarred awake by the chirping sound of your cell phone ringing. It's a bureau number, so you clear your throat and answer the call. "L/N."

"Hey, Y/N." It's JJ, and she sounds tired. "We have a case. It's urgent, so we're flying to Texas tonight."

You sigh louder than you meant to. "I can be there in 20."

"See you soon."

The line clicks off and you rub the sleep from your eyes. A quick check of your watch tells you that you were only asleep for about a half hour, but that's just half of the meeting time. You know Spencer will come back when he gets the call, so you turn the radio off and sit up in your seat.

A few minutes later, he returns to the car. You saw him just over 30 minutes ago, but he already looks lighter than he did when he got to your house.

"I'm proud of you, Spence," you tell him as you start the car.

He nods, a quick thanks. "This federal agent gave me his one year medallion after I left the meeting. I've only been clean for 10 months, but he still gave it to me."

"He believes in you," you say simply, glancing over at his confused expression.

"He doesn't even know me."

You shrug. "You don't have to really know someone to care about them, Spencer. You just have to see something of yourself in them."

"Is that what you see in me?" he asks, finally looking at you.

You consider this for a moment. Is that why you feel so protective over him?

"I don't know," you say eventually, not wanting to lie, even by accident. "I definitely wasn't as smart as you were, or as focused. I wasn't all that driven in high school at all, to be honest. I was lucky to have Hotch. He gave me the push I needed to get out there and focus on school."

He's silent for a minute and you worry you may have said something wrong. Then: "I didn't have anyone in school." He pauses for a beat, before speaking again, his voice quieter this time. "I was in the library one day, and this girl comes up to me, and she tells me that Alexa Isben wants to meet me behind the field house. Alexa Isben was, like...easily the prettiest girl in school."

You frown, already not liking where this story is going. "Did she not show up?"

"No, she was there." His voice sounds almost resigned, but there's a note of something darker underneath. Something raw and painful, that likely still hurts after all these years. "But so was the entire football team. They stripped me naked and tied me to a goal post. So many kids were there, you know, just watching."

"No one stopped them?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I begged them to, but they just...they just watched. Then finally they got bored and they left." He clears his throat, and the sound is small, like a little boy's. "It was like midnight when I finally got home. And my mom didn't...Mom was having one of her episodes, so she didn't even realize I was late."

"You never told her what happened?"

He shakes his head. "I never told anybody. I thought it was one of those things that I thought if I didn't talk about it, I'd just forget. But I remember it like it was yesterday."

"You don't need an eidetic memory for that, Spence," you whisper, trying to stay focused on the road even as his words swirl into your memories and create an agonizing hurricane of emotions. "I was only ten years old when my mom was killed, but I can still remember every moment of her funeral."

The field office comes into view and you push forward as you scan your badge and slide into a parking spot below the upper garage. When the car is in park, you undo your seatbelt and turn to him. "I know how hard it can be to push away the painful memories, but there's something more important that I need you to remember."

"Remember what?"

He looks at you then, and you reach forward to squeeze his hand. "You're not alone anymore."

***

"Is it always this hot?" You look up at the beating sun through your shaded sunglasses and fan your face with both of your hands.

"Every day, all day," Emily huffs, running her fingers through her bangs to unstick them from her forehead.

Everyone is sweltering in the Miami heat, but then Derek gets off the plane with a wide grin, his skin glistening in the sun, and you resist the urge to throw your bag at him. "South Beach, baby."

He immediately shuts up when he spots the stunning Miami PD detective who called your team in for the recent string of murders. JJ shoots you a smirk before introducing her to the team. "Detective Lopez. We spoke on the phone."

"Tina," she corrects, before shaking her hand. "Thank you for coming down so quickly."

"Hey," Emily says from beside you, making you turn to see what she's looking at. "Isn't that..."

You spot the person she's referring to, and your face splits into a big smile. "Detective LaMontagne!"

"He's here to ID the cop they pulled from the bay last night," Tina explains.

You don't miss the flush in JJ's cheeks as she shakes his hand. "Detective, good to see you."

"How are you?" you ask, giving him a quick hug that he returns.

"Yeah, Charlie Luvet and I worked together for seven years."

Derek frowns. "Sorry for your loss, man."

Tina looks confused, and you don't blame her. "So, you all know each other?"

"Professionally," JJ is quick to add. Will whips around to look at her, and you turn to Emily with an eyebrow raise, feeling like you're intruding on a private moment. You aren't sure why she won't just admit that they've been together since New Orleans, but that's her business.

***

You join JJ and Will at the IDing of Officer Luvet, and you keep your distance as he glances down at the body and affirms the report.

"Yeah, that's him."

JJ looks like she wants to comfort him, but instead she sticks to the professional approach. "If you need help making arrangements, liaising with families is part of what I do."

Will nods, his voice choking up slightly. "I might just take you up on that. Excuse me, I'll be outside."

When he steps outside of the coroner's office, you can't help but notice the longing look on JJ's face as she watches him go.

"Let's go," she says to you softly, her eyes still on the door. You follow her outside, but by then Will is nowhere to be found.

"It's okay, you know," you blurt out. You weren't really planning on talking to her about this, but sometimes your mouth takes over before your brain can catch up. "I know you worry that being around a band of profilers all the time makes you vulnerable."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," she says simply, not quite meeting your eye.

"JJ," you say seriously, trying to convey your pure intentions. "If you keep trying to hide it, you'll lose him."

She purses her lips, and you squeeze her forearm, hoping you aren't pushing past her boundaries. The whole team is sparing with details about their personal lives, but you like to think that you're someone people feel comfortable sharing things with.

"I know you, hon." You flash her a knowing smile, feeling a shot of satisfaction as her lip twitches. "I know that it's enough for you to know that you care about something, but it's not enough for everyone."

She exhales, tucking her hair behind her ears. "He's upset with me, but I don't know what to do. I'm still scared."

You sigh, understanding her predicament, but still wanting her to push past it. "You can let yourself be happy, JJ. You won't always get hurt."

She nods before glancing around the room again, searching for Will even though he's long gone. It's an instinct you recognize.

Later, when JJ finally acknowledges their relationship by pulling him in for a kiss at the police station, you can't help but take it as a win.

***

Your house feels emptier than usual when you get back from Miami. Seeing JJ and Will find each other again reminded you of how much you miss having someone to share your life with.

Deciding to take a night to yourself, you pop open a bottle of red, and pour yourself a glass, which you swirl around before taking a sip. It's drier than you tend to go for, and when you check the label, you realize that's because you didn't buy it.

How can you drink this stuff?

It makes me feel sophisticated.

Jeff would break out the fancy glassware every chance he got, because he didn't believe in special occasions. He used to say that people waste precious moments of their life waiting for the right occasion to come around.

The memory feels warm in the back of your mind, and you take another sip of wine before walking over to your cupboard and grabbing the fanciest wine glass you can find. You pour the rest of your wine into the new glass and place the other in the sink, before swirling it around again. No time like the present.

You bring the glass to the couch with you, where you turn on the television and skip through the first few channels. As the wine in your glass depletes, the loneliness sets back in. You're about to pour yourself another pity glass when your phone buzzes with a call from Hotch.

"Do your television channels suck as much as mine do?"

You smile, muting the television and pressing the phone to your ear. "Definitely not."

He chuffs. "I guess I'm not used to the new tv controls."

Right, his new apartment. After the papers were finalized, he gave the house to Haley and moved into a new place ten minutes away.

"We can share mine," you say, listening to the sounds of his breath over the receiver. "I also have wine."

That gets a laugh. "I'll be there in 15."

You hear a knock on your door exactly 14 minutes later. When you open it, you're greeted with the sight of Hotch in a tee shirt and jeans. "A little underdressed, aren't we?"

He snorts, taking the wine glasses from your hands and following you into the family room. "What are we watching?"

"You're the one with the broken tv," you grin, flopping down on the couch and taking your glass from him. "What do you want to watch?"

He thinks for a minute, before his eyes sparkle with an idea. You cut him off before he can suggest what you already know he will. "We are not watching Top Gun again, Hotch!"

"You asked," he shrugs, hiding his smile behind a sip of wine. "What do you want to watch, then?"

You can see him watching you over the rim of his glass, so you blurt out the first name that comes to your mind. "Footloose."

He looks at you blankly for a moment, before his brow twitches, and your jaw drops. "You haven't seen Footloose?!"

"It came out when we were in high school," he groans, taking one of the throw pillows off the couch and stuffing it behind his back. "Terminator and Dune came out that same year. I remember because you tried to get me to watch it then too."

"It's an amazing movie!" you exclaim, standing up to go dig through your movie cabinet. "We're watching it right now."

He groans and sinks back into the pillows as you find the DVD and start the movie. You've seen it at least a dozen times, mostly because it makes you nostalgic for your teenage years, but the opening still gets you excited.

As the movie plays, you keep glancing over at Hotch, trying to see if he's enjoying the scenes just as much as you did on your first watch. To his credit, he watches the movie faithfully, without checking his phone or straying from the television screen.

"Enough," he grumbles suddenly, startling you.

"What?" you question, whipping your head around to face the screen.

"I'm watching the movie," he huffs, fixing you with a pointed look. "You don't have to keep checking."

You frown, hugging a pillow to your chest. "I wasn't checking, I just like seeing people's reactions to my favorite movies."

"Either way."

You groan, reaching out to thwack his arm.

"Eyes on the screen," he berates you, pointing at the TV. "The dance scene is starting."

You sip your wine bitterly as you try to resist the urge to glance over at him. Eventually, the movie takes over your attention and soon it's the final town council scene where Kevin Bacon gives a speech to the whole town.

"'There was a time for this law'," you quote along with the movie, "'but not anymore.'"

The movie comes to an end, and you click the remote to turn off the television. When you turn to Hotch with an excited grin, you're surprised to see that he has fallen asleep.

His head has fallen to the side, resting on the armrest, and he looks so peaceful with his expression completely neutral. His characteristic frown is nowhere to be seen as he snores quietly through his nose.

Your lips curve into a smile as you stand up and grab a blanket from a basket beside the couch. You drape it over his body, being careful not to wake him, and take the wine glasses to the sink before heading up for bed.

***

"That's because you pick horses the same way you practice law."

You hold your breath as he glances into the crowd for a brief second.

"...by always taking the long shot."

Emily snickers under her breath, and you see even Reid crack a smile as the lawyer starts floundering. The rest of the day in court goes by quickly and you all wait for Hotch in the hallway of the courthouse as he finishes up inside.

"That was impressive," you grin, nudging his shoulder as he walks alongside you. "I can't believe that was my first time seeing you in full prosecutor mode."

"Hardly," he says, rolling his eyes lightly. "I was called to give testimony, it's very different."

"I'm just surprised that prosecutor is still walking after how hard you hit him." He shoots you a look and you raise your hands in surrender. "Metaphorically, of course."

"That was a straight knock out." Derek comes up behind you and throws an arm around your shoulder as he spins you both to face Hotch. "The crowd practically cheered when you cleaned the floor with him."

"Thank you," he concedes, flashing his eyes at you. "Now let's get back to work. We still have to get more evidence for the rest of the trial."

And just like that, everyone switches back into work mode. Derek drops his arm and jogs forward to catch up to Rossi and Spencer, while Emily calls Garcia to get the latest update.

Using the moment of solitude, you bump his shoulder again. "Do you ever wish you were still a prosecutor? Your life would certainly be a lot simpler."

He shakes his head, the answer coming quickly and firmly. "I couldn't do it then, and I still couldn't now. Seeing the murderers come in after they've finished killing...I needed to know I could stop them before they were done."

His sentiment sounds familiar. Your mind flashes back to the little boy who took matters into his own hands, because no one could stop the pain for him.

You blink and it's present day again. You loved your best friend who fought his own battles without asking for help, and, even though he's vastly different, you love your best friend as he is now.

***

"Five shootings in two weeks."

"It's about time we got the call."

The whole team, plus Garcia, flies up to New York, where an unsub has been shooting people around the city, seemingly at random.

"Kate Joyner heads up the New York field office," Hotch explains, glancing down at his cell phone. "She's running point on the case and called me directly."

You have heard of her, which isn't too surprising, but all you know is that she's British and seems to be very good at her job.

"You know her?" Morgan asks him, echoing your thoughts.

Hotch nods. "We liaised when she was still at Scotland Yard."

They liaised. You don't know what that implies, but you also know that he and Haley didn't take a single break during their relationship after graduating college, so it can't be anything too personal.

JJ and Emily share a look, but you don't engage with them, instead looking back at the case file and trying to focus on any of the words that aren't 'Kate Joyner'.

***

"Kate."

A pretty blonde woman approaches you all with a smile only for Hotch. "Aaron. How have you been?"

He nods. "Well, thank you. This is my team." He introduces each of you to her, but you don't miss how her eyes linger on you when he mentions your name.

"Thanks for being here," she says, before walking you all through the background of the case. Shootings in different precincts, seemingly random, FBI only brought in after the fourth murder.

After explaining the details and introducing you to the local detectives on the case, she pulls Hotch aside for a private word in her office. You turn back to the team, trying not to let your gaze linger on them as they walk away.

The NYPD doesn't seem happy that SSA Joyner has taken over their case, but even though she comes off as a bit brusque, you can tell she cares about catching this unsub just as much as they do.

"What's your partner's problem?" Reid asks Detective Cooper, the only local officer who has made an effort to meet any of you.

"We're glad the FBI was brought in," he explains with a heavy sigh, "but all of a sudden Joyner's taking meetings with the mayor and calling in you all without us knowing anything about it."

You can understand his hesitation, but you also need his cooperation if you're going to get anything done here.

"We're only here to help," Emily tells him as you turn around to find JJ.

"Has Garcia gotten settled in with the New York tech analyst?" you ask once you find her staring at a map of the various boroughs. She doesn't answer immediately, so you nudge her shoulder. "JJ?"

"Huh?" she startles. "Oh, sorry, yeah. She called a few minutes ago, she's all good."

JJ is usually the focused one who brings you back on track, so you're surprised by how distracted she seems. You nod in acknowledgement, scrutinizing her expression for another second, before heading back to the team. Your eyes involuntarily dart over to Kate's office, and you notice how close together she and Hotch are. You're about to avert your eyes when their body language becomes a bit clearer: each time she leans in to say something, he subtly pulls back.

The dynamic of their relationship is suddenly apparent, and you mentally kick yourself for daring to assume the worst when he first mentioned her. You can't say the same for your opinion of her, though. He's still wearing his ring, for God's sake. Based on how little you've heard about her from him (nothing, you mean), you doubt she even knows about the divorce yet.

Derek and JJ head out with the detectives to check out the last crime scene, while you stay back with Emily and Spencer to build the anti-geographical profile. When another victim is shot, you head to the new scene to see if you can build a working profile.

"It's a different borough again," you sigh after getting out of the SUV and joining Hotch, Kate, Derek, and JJ in front of the body. "Prentiss and Reid are back at the office still working the profile from a geographical angle. We're starting to think maybe we should get officers out onto the high-traffic intersections, and maybe even get some of us out there too."

"Uniforms are rounding up witnesses," Kate jumps in, ignoring you. "It doesn't seem like anyone got a clean look."

You see Derek glance at you out of the corner of your eye, but you don't entertain the look. If she has some issue with you that you aren't aware of, you won't give her the satisfaction of letting her get to you. "The unsub's probably gone before anyone even realizes it's happening,"

Hotch nods, turning to face Kate. "Is this what it felt like during the Son of Sam."

She returns his gaze. "First we realized that if the violence was truly random, there was almost no way of stopping it. Seems like these people have figured that out."

You look up, trying to see if there's anything in the vicinity you can use to ID the unsub. Your eyes catch on a security camera outside one of the delis directly behind you. "From the placement of that camera, odds are the only view they're going to get is the back of his head."

She frowns. "Let's not be too quick to decide what we do or don't have."

This time it's both Derek and JJ that glance at you, but you turn to Hotch, who is avoiding meeting your eyes. Kate steps away to speak with the detectives at the scene, so you grab his arm and pull him aside. "What is her problem?"

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. "FBI brass has made it clear to her that if she doesn't bring this case home, she's going to be reassigned. And you are at the top of the list to replace her."

"Replace her?" you echo, trying to process what he's saying. "I haven't even been in the BAU that long."

"It's not about field experience," he says, angling his body so that you're separated from the others. "You've been with the bureau longer than I have, and your work speaks for itself. It's not a surprise that they'd want to promote you."

You still can't wrap your head around the fact that you could be leading a unit yourself, or that you may have to leave the team you love, so you focus on what you do know. "I thought the bureau was proud of the fact that they stole her from Scotland Yard."

"I don't know," he shrugs, glancing back at her. "Politics here are different."

***

After finishing up at the crime scene, the whole team heads to the hotel to get some rest for the night. You feel more alert than you usually do after a long day of building a profile, and you adjust your bag strap on your shoulder as you dig around the side pockets for your room key. You don't plan on going to bed for at least a few more hours, and you might as well use the time to work on the case, but you need your key if you're going to get any sleep at all.

When your fingers finally catch on the thin plastic card, you look up to see a familiar face that you've been seeing more often than not, as of late. "Wait, isn't that..."

JJ looks up with a start, and she doesn't look distracted for the first time all day. "Will."

He gets up from the lobby chair he was lounging in and approaches her. "Hey, I took a shot and flew to D.C., but when it didn't work, I figured a train ride to New York was only a few more hours."

"Detective." Hotch reaches out and shakes his hand, before glancing at you with a frown that says, Did you know he was coming?

You shake your head imperceptibly and turn back to Will as he looks longingly at JJ. "Look, I'm sorry for showing up like this. I know you're working, but I can't stand you being on this case and me not being near." He pauses for a beat. "Not with what's going on."

That makes you frown too.

Hotch echoes your thoughts. "Is there a problem?"

JJ takes a deep breath and turns around to face all of you. "I'm pregnant."

Oh my God.

"Oh, my God," Emily exclaims, pulling her into a hug, the first of you to regain her bearings after hearing the news. "JJ, congratulations."

"That's amazing, JJ," you grin, hugging her next.

You don't miss how stiff Hotch is as Will shakes his hand. "I've asked JJ to marry me."

"Will," JJ says tightly, a warning in her voice.

He chuckles. "Well, we're working out some kinks."

"We'll give you both some privacy." Hotch turns away from them, his face falling the moment she can't see him anymore. You know he's hurt that she didn't trust him with this information, but you're surprised by just how downtrodden he seems.

JJ rushes after him. "Hotch-"

"JJ, you could have told me," he says softly, his voice both confused and stung.

She looks down. "I know."

"Because I understand if you need to take some time."

"No," she shakes her head, without a look back. "I want to be here."

"Okay," he nods, not looking at any of you. "7:00 AM."

You try to catch his arm as he walks off, but he either ignores it, or he doesn't feel you reaching for him. You choose to believe it's the latter.

***

You all deliver the working profile to the police officers first thing the next morning. While you're explaining an alternate possibility, Garcia calls with an update that a possible unsub was caught on camera shooting someone on a subway platform at one of the intersections you suggested that your team patrol yesterday.

"We could have had that guy," you say, your voice fuming with anger as you turn to Kate with a glare you haven't used in ages.

She doesn't falter. "Even if we were on that platform, odds are he would have moved onto someone isolated."

"Maybe, but it was worth taking a shot."

She fixes you with a stare. "I had every available man on the street."

"And I suggested to you that you use this team." You can't believe that her decision to ignore your advice yesterday might have just cost someone else their life. You can see the rest of the team looking at you with some blend of concern or indignation on your behalf, but you don't care. You just need Hotch to back you up.

Instead he just looks at you. "L/N, second-guessing doesn't do us any good right now."

You're so angry, you can barely see straight. Emily reaches for your arm, but you shake her off. "Hotch, how are we supposed to look these cops in the eye and tell them that we're actually here to help them, if she won't let us do our job?"

"We're here to present a profile," he says simply, not quite meeting your eye. "That's what we need to do."

You gape at him, your back straightening as you get ready to stand your ground. You don't disagree on things like this often, but when you do, it's usually a civil conversation that gets resolved quickly. You've never felt this angry about his handling of a case before, but then again, he's never not had your back before. "We've got seven bodies, Hotch."

He looks at you then, and you can't discern anything from his expression. It's a blank slate that sends a shiver down your spine. "It's not your place to have this discussion."

"Screw you."

You spin around, shoving away Derek and Emily as they try to talk you down. You stalk past them and out of the field office, where the cool evening air fills your sinuses and clears your head for a moment of silence. You stand on the sidewalk for a few seconds, waiting, and when he doesn't follow you out, you just manage to convince yourself that you're not disappointed, but relieved.

***

You're sitting at the hotel bar when Rossi finally finds you. You only ordered a lemon water, still feeling like you're on the clock, even if there's a good chance Hotch won't let you back into the investigation.

"I know," you huff when he takes a seat beside you. "I was out of line."

"You got too emotionally involved," he says, turning to face you. "I know you and Hotch are friends, but that doesn't mean you get to be unprofessional."

You sigh, your body deflating as all the fight leaves you. "I just felt like he was taking her side. Like he didn't have my back."

"There are no sides here."

You nod. "I know."

"And he does have your back." You look at him then, and he flashes you a small smile. "That man will always have your back. Right now, he's just worried about how Kate is holding up, with the word on the street."

That surprises you. "You know about the promotion?"

He nods. "People talk. But if she were to get fired, it would be because we didn't solve this case."

You frown, lifting your hand in defense. "Rossi, I hope you're not saying you think I want her to fail."

"Of course not," he shakes his head. "I just hope you know what you're doing."

"I lost my head for a second," you acknowledge, taking a sip of water. "I think I just needed a minute."

"And you got it," he says simply. "But right now, I see someone who wants to get back on the job. Or is there another reason why you ordered a glass of water at a bar?"

You set your glass down, letting out a surprised chuckle. "Where is everyone now?"

You both stand up, and he leads you out of the lobby. "Joyner took your advice. We're spreading out across the city."

***

"Emily, what happened?"

You rush forward to where she is standing over the dead body of a young man. Detective Cooper was taken in an ambulance to a nearby hospital after getting shot, and you only just arrived on the scene.

"He was strangely calm," she whispers as Derek and JJ come up behind her. "It's almost like suicide by cop."

"Why?" JJ thinks out loud. "Why would he do that?"

Derek looks at you. "We need to walk back through this profile."

Hundreds of thoughts are swirling through your brain, but based on the look on everyone's faces, you can tell they're thinking the same thing you are: terrorism.

After the crime scene officials arrive, you head over to your SUV to get back to the field office. Derek heads out to brief Homeland Security, and Reid leaves to talk to the Port Authority police, while Hotch and Kate call with the update that they will be going to speak with the mayor's office.

You start your SUV and pull out into the street when a loud explosion goes off a few streets behind you, the plume of smoke and fire large enough that you catch the high end of it in your rearview mirror.

You screech to a stop, just as your phone starts to ring.

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