#romance = marriage | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

enhaflixer · 2 months ago

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psh - king of tears.

Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC

📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t. now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you. so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?

word count: 20K genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order) content warnings (explicit, minors dni!): a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,

The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.

The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.

You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.

Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.

To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.

To you, it’s just for show.

"Smile."

His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.

"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.

Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.

"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.

Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.

"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.

You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.

Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.

"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."

You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.

"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"

There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.

The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?

You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, he doesn’t.

So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.

"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."

The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"

You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.

Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."

Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"

It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.

You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.

Still, he says nothing.

The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—

A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.

"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."

There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.

The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.

The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.

You and Sunghoon don’t speak.

It isn’t new.

It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.

Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.

To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.

You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.

At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.

"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"

It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.

Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.

She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.

The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.

"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."

You say nothing.

She doesn’t need you to.

"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."

The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.

She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.

You are not the only option.

There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.

Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.

Your grip tightens around your fork.

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.

"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.

Two words. Nothing more.

His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.

The conversation moves forward.

You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.

I’m aware.

A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.

You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.

The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.

You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.

You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.

"You didn’t say anything."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.

Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."

A pause.

Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"

The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.

"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.

His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."

And there it is.

That unbearable indifference.

The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.

It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.

"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.

He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.

His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.

"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"

You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.

Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.

"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."

His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.

He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.

You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together.

He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.

The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips.

Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.

Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.

"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.

And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.

He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then, just as expected, he pulls away.

Rolls onto his back.

Says nothing.

You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.

Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.

The morning is quiet.

You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.

For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.

There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you’d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.

Now, there’s nothing but space.

You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.

When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.

But he didn’t.

He never could.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.

Like nothing happened.

Like last night was just another night.

The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.

Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.

Divorce Agreement.

His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.

"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.

"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.

Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."

"Then sign them."

A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.

"You really want this?"

The words are simple. Too simple.

You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"Yes."

His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.

For a second, your breath catches.

You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.

And then—

He stops.

His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.

The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.

"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.

You blink. "What?"

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."

Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."

His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"

Your breath catches.

Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.

The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.

"You’ll have them back tomorrow."

But you already know—he won’t sign.

Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.

Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.

This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.

This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.

It begins every morning.

6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready. 7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid. 7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.

By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him

[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.

[Riki]: bet.

And then, of course, there’s lunch.

There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?

Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.

By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.

They have to be in the same room.

The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.

The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.

At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.

It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.

The first arrival is you.

You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.

You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.

Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.

Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.

Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.

He doesn’t look at you.

Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.

he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.

For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.

Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.

"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.

You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.

"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."

Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."

Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."

The temperature in the room drops.

Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.

Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."

Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"

His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."

"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."

Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.

"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."

You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."

Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.

Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.

The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.

But that isn’t what catches your attention.

The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.

Untouched.

Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.

"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.

"No."

The single word lands between you like a gunshot.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

"Say it."

His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.

You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"

His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.

"Say you don’t love me anymore."

The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.

It should be easy.

You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.

But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.

Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"

Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."

Something snaps.

Fast. Brutal.

Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.

Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.

His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.

"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.

Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.

"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.

Then, his grip tightens.

Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.

"Tell me to stop."

You should.

Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.

You shake your head.

And then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.

"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.

You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.

He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.

"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.

Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.

Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."

Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.

"Liar."

"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.

He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.

The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.

You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.

"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.

Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."

Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.

"Then break it."

The entire room freezes.

Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.

The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"

You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."

Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.

"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."

You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.

"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."

His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

Because you aren’t.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.

The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.

You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.

Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.

“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.

You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.

He looks off.

Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.

You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”

He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.

"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”

He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.

"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."

Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.

Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.

The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.

Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.

The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.

“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.

“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”

Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”

Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.

It had been late.

Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.

Sunghoon lay beside you.

Awake. Motionless. Silent.

His back was turned to you.

And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.

It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.

But he hadn’t held yours back.

The memory lingers even as you push it away.

You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.

Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.

"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”

"You should get checked out."

He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”

"Not ex yet."

And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.

The Park family never asks for favors.

Not officially, at least.

It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.

Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.

“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.

You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”

His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”

Dear.

You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.

Because this is what you’ve become to them.

Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.

A lawyer first, a liability second.

“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”

Of course. Personally.

They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.

Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon won’t say a word.

You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.

Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.

Just… silent.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”

His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.

“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.

Sunghoon still says nothing.

Not when his mother praises you.

Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.

Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.

It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.

“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”

Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.

You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”

He went back after dropping you off.

His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”

Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.

His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

The room had gone silent.

His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.

His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”

“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”

His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.

Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.

“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”

The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.

For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just… distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.

You’re used to it.

But today, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.

Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.

You stop in your tracks.

"Where is he?"

Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. “Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”

You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”

Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.

You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.

When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.

Collapsed on the floor of his office.

Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.

“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.

Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.

"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.

That’s when panic sinks in.

You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.

"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”

The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.

The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.

It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.

Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.

Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”

Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”

“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been hiding this.

The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”

The word cuts through you like a blade.

You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.

“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”

The hospital room is suffocating.

It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.

He looks wrecked.

His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.

“How long have you known?”

Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.

“Six months.”

The words sink into you like stones.

Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.

“Six fucking months?”

Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.

“Yes.”

Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.

“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”

The air leaves your lungs.

You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.

Just exhaustion.

And pain.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”

His breath catches.

“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Your throat tightens.

“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.

And that’s somehow worse.

“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”

Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.

And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,

“You think I didn’t care?”

Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—

Sunghoon moves too fast.

He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.

His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”

But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.

You barely catch him in time.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.

His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.

And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—

“I named them.”

Your entire world tilts.

You go still.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.

“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.

“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”

Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.

You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”

Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.

“Say their names, Sunghoon.”

His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.

Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—

“Eunha and June.”

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.

“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”

His next breath is ragged, breaking.

“They were my girls.”

Your stomach twists.

His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.

“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”

A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.

Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.

He’s burning up, feverish, barely staying upright.

Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Neither of you speak.

For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.

You wake up feeling… off.

Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.

It takes a second to register where you are.

The hospital.

Sunghoon.

The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.

Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.

And yet, somehow—you didn’t.

Before you can sit up, the door swings open.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.

He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.

You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.

Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”

It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.

“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”

Sunoo nods. “Right.”

You hate how knowing he sounds.

Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.

And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.

“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.

Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”

Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”

Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.

Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”

Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.

And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—

“You’re fired.”

Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”

Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”

“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.

You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”

Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”

“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”

Neither of you remembers a knock.

Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”

Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”

Sunghoon glares.

Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”

“I don’t care.”

Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”

“I still don’t care.”

Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”

For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.

Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”

And with that, he’s gone..

Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.

You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.

It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.

But you see it.

You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.

And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.

You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”

A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”

Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.

“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.

“Then why are you still here?”

The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.

You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.

Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”

The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.

“Wanna bet?”

The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.

“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.

Neither of you say anything after that.

But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.

The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.

Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.

You don’t say anything.

Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.

“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”

You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.

You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.

Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.

“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.

“I will if you keep being difficult.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.

The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—

“You need to take time off.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.

“I already did,” he mutters.

You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.

“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”

His jaw tightens.

You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”

Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.

“…I know my limits.”

The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.

“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”

Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”

“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”

His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.

You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”

Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”

“Then act like you know it.”

Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.

You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.

“Are you staying in my room?”

The words are soft. Careful. Testing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.

You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.

“Just until you’re better.”

A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.

The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.

You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.

And that’s when you feel it.

The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.

Sunghoon.

Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.

Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.

Your mind races, but your body remembers.

For a second—just a second—you don’t move.

Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists.

It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.

Then, suddenly—he shifts.

His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.

Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.

But he doesn’t.

Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.

Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.

Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.

His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.

He’s awake now.

Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.

And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.

His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.

You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.

And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.

It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.

Because it did.

And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.

You knew this was going to happen.

You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.

You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?

Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.

You don’t let it go this time.

“You’re working.”

It’s not a question.

Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.

“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.

“Didn’t we already have this argument?”

Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”

You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.

Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”

“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

Your patience snaps.

You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”

His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.

It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.

Something tense.

His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.

“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”

His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.

Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”

Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.

Your breath comes in shorter now.

And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.

He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.

“Go on, then.”

Your pulse hammers.

Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.

Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.

You hate him.

You hate how good he is at this.

You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.

The tension between you pulls tighter.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.

You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.

For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.

Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—

Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.

You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.

You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.

The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.

You hadn't planned for this.

You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.

But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.

"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.

Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.

"Then do something about it."

He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.

You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.

His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.

"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

"Sunghoon."

His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.

"Say it again."

His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.

"Sunghoon."

That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.

And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."

It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.

Because you missed him too.

The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.

Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.

His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.

But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.

"What?"

Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.

"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."

Your breath catches slightly.

He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.

But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Mhm."

Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

Sunghoon stills immediately.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.

Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.

You smirk, tilting your head.

"I thought you wanted to take things slow."

His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.

"You’re a fucking menace."

You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.

"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.

You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.

"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.

"I changed my mind."

You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.

Your breath catches.

"Sunghoon–"

"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."

His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.

"Wait."

Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.

"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."

His entire body tenses.

Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.

"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.

You hum, tilting your head. "What?"

His jaw flexes.

Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Then work for it."

It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.

He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.

You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.

But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.

Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.

The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.

A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.

Now?

Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.

People are concerned.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees

🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ??? 🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.

(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)

🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right? 🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED. 🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.

📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team

⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?

You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?

⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.

It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.

The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.

Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.

The doors slide shut.

Riki visibly short-circuits.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]

🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN. 🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there. 🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming. 🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN). 🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.

The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.

But he was watching.

And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.

The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because you both know where this is going.

The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.

And then—his hand slides higher.

Your breath catches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.

You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

His hand tightens.

"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."

Your stomach flips.

You don’t respond.

Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.

Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.

And that’s when he loses it.

The car jerks to a sudden stop.

The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”

"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.

Then, he yanks you into his lap.

You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.

"Say it."

You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."

Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.

"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."

His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.

"Sunghoon—"

"Shut up."

His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.

"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"

Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.

But Sunghoon notices.

He always does.

His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.

"Answer me."

You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.

"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.

"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."

His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.

"That desperate already?"

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.

Your head spins.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.

"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.

"Yes—"

But he doesn’t give you time to beg.

Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.

Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.

Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."

You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.

No easing into it. No gentleness.

Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.

"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”

You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.

"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."

The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—

"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."

And you do.

You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.

Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.

The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.

Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.

The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.

He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.

Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.

"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.

You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.

Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.

"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.

You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.

Sunghoon notices.

His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.

"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."

Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"

His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.

"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."

Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."

His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.

"No, you love me."

You take a deep breath “I do.”

He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?”

You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?”

He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”

Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.

You freeze.

Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.

Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"

You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.

Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.

"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."

The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."

And then, just like that, he walks away.

You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."

Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.

"You’ll live, you love me." he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.

"Let me clean you up."

You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.

"You don’t have to—"

His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.

"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."

Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.

Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.

And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’

You don’t ever want to lose this again.

EPILOGUE

It starts the same way it did last time.

The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.

Sunghoon notices before you do.

At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.

And then, one morning, you feel it.

The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.

You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.

"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.

You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.

Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.

"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."

Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.

Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.

Instead, he just looks at you.

"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.

Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."

Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."

A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.

Then, slowly, he reaches for you.

His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.

The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.

Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.

And then, finally, he does.

"I won’t fail you this time."

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.

"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.

A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.

This is what he never let himself say out loud.

"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."

Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.

"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.

"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."

His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.

It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.

When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.

"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."

You smile, pressing your forehead against his.

"I already did."

fin.

Taglist: @vrusha01 @cupiddolle @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @hveanlyanqelic @miuwonis @outroherrr @weyukinluv @riribelle @wonzbear @zhangyi-johee @randomanothercreature @wolfhardbby @httpenhoon @annovaz @seonhoon @lovelycassy @noidnoentry @btsreadss @linlianxin @icrieliterature @aussie-boys-wife @woniefull @ikeuwoniee @en-doll @ambi01 @thinkinboutbin @tobiosbbyghorl @semi-wife @fancypeacepersona @exhaleinhalepowder @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20 @nshmrarki

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enaloi · 2 months ago

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happy valentine's

#valentines day #clare #ena #love #marriage #romance #love wins

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celestie0 · 5 months ago

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in holy matriphony | series masterlist.

gojo satoru x reader [18+] | angst, fluff, smut

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - next door neighbor!gojo x reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency department, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem!reader, fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, some choso x reader, some suguru x reader, some crippling debt x reader; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ status. ongoing

ᰔ word count. 86.7k

ᰔ taglist. closed

☾·̩͙꙳ ao3 link :: header art by @/3aem

chapter index.

ch1. he said yes! congrats!

ch2. you may now kiss the bride

ch3. domestic encounters

ch4. in a mother's eyes

ch5. child's play

ch6. the in-laws

ch7. if you wanna get groceries

ch8. two steps back

ch9. pending…

drabbles.

no1. pending...

headcanons.

official headcanons pt1. fluff & crack | link

a note from the author. hello! my name is ellie, and this is my second long fic series called 'in holy matriphony' which i began posting earlier this year in april! this started off as such a small lil concept idea trashing on the american healthcare system, and now it's a fullblown fic. i have sooo much planned for this series, so admittedly it will be a long one, but i am so grateful to anyone that tags along for the ride :””) please let me know if i missed any tags or warnings! and for those who may want to know before reading, this series will have a happy ending <3

series tags. #in holy matriphony

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mydarlingathena · 6 months ago

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I may lose followers for this but it needs to be said;

Marriage must follow traditional Christian values. I know that back when I was an emo witch, I did not believe this, but times have changed; I am different. I don't even listen to MCR anymore.

What do I mean by traditional Christian values in a marriage? I mean that the marriage must begin in a blood ritual between a lesbian and a gender ambiguous ex-muppet and end in a suprise crucifixion.

If you cannot accept my beliefs please simply unfollow unless you wish to be blocked.

#traditional values #christianity #tradwife #the lord is my shepherd #traditional marriage #my chemical romance

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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 4 months ago

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Of Duty and Desire | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

Extra Long One-Shot

This is my first Ominis fic, I hope I do all you Ominis lovers proud :') The plot was heavily inspired by these (1, 2, 3) artworks by @tamayula-hl !!! (they literally create such gorgeous work, I fuckin swoon every time I see them ;.;)

Summary: After years apart, you are forced into a marriage with Ominis Gaunt, someone you once considered a close friend but who pushed you away after Sebastian's breakdown in fifth year. The rift between you has left years of unresolved tension, and on your wedding night, the two of you are forced to confront the fallout.

Words: ~15,700

Tags: Explicit Smut, Pureblood Politics, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Drama, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House

The Gaunt family estate loomed like a mausoleum under the pale light of the crescent moon. Its dark stone walls seemed to absorb the light, and the air inside carried a suffocating chill that no roaring fire could banish. Ominis sat alone in his room, the only illumination coming from a single flickering candle perched on his desk. The Gaunt family ring, heavy and ornate, turned slowly between his fingers.

Tomorrow, it would sit on your finger.

His chest tightened at the thought of the ceremony, the vows, the look he imagined you’d give him as you forced to say, I do.

He wished you still saw him the way you did all those years ago, back when you’d shared tentative smiles across the library table, before fifth year shattered everything between you. He’d thought you were remarkable then—fierce, clever, and endlessly loyal to the people you cared about. He still thought so, though the years had placed a wall between you.

A wall he had built.

His hands clenched into fists, the metal of the ring biting into his palm. He could still hear the echo of your argument, that fateful day when Sebastian’s descent into darkness had reached its breaking point. You had wanted to help him, to pull him back, while Ominis had been determined to stop him at any cost. The two of you had stood on opposite sides of a chasm, and in his frustration, his fear, Ominis had pushed you away.

But now? Now, you were to be his bride.

The marriage contract had been delivered two months ago, the parchment sealed with the Gaunt crest and bearing the oppressive weight of their expectations. You had no grand family name, no wealth or influence to rival the Gaunts, but you had something far more valuable: ancient magic.

Your family had no power to refuse the offer—not when the Gaunts were known for their ruthlessness. You’d been given no choice, and neither had he.

Ominis exhaled a shaky breath, setting the ring down on the desk with a soft clink.

The bitter irony was that you had been right about Sebastian all along, and Ominis had destroyed what you had years ago for nothing.

Ominis had doubted Sebastian—had believed that his obsession with dark magic would destroy everything and everyone in its path. But eventually, with time and a painful amount of humility, Sebastian had begun to heal. He had come back to them. He had proven himself capable of change, of redemption.

And you’d seen it all along.

Ominis swallowed hard, the guilt twisting his stomach. You’d begged him to give Sebastian a chance, to believe in the person he could be. But Ominis had been too blinded by his own fears to listen. His distrust had cost him Sebastian’s friendship for years. And worse, it had cost him you ever since.

He rested his head in his hands, elbows braced on the desk. The weight of it all was suffocating.

The memory of your expression when you’d arrived at the Gaunt manor two days ago lingered in his mind.

Even without the clarity of sight, he could feel the weight you carried. He’d “seen” the stiffness in your shoulders, the faint tremor in your hands as you’d clasped them in front of you, your head turning ever so slightly toward him as his parents greeted you. For a fleeting second, he’d felt your attention, a thin, aching tether between you.

But you hadn’t spoken to him. Not then, and not since.

What could he possibly say to make this better? “I’m sorry” was laughable at this point. He was sorry, of course—sorry for every cruel word spoken in the heat of fifth year, sorry for not trusting you, sorry for not preventing you from falling into the Gaunt nightmare—but no apology could undo the damage.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He straightened, smoothing his hair as if that would make any difference. “Come in,” he called, his voice steadier than he felt.

The door creaked open, and one of the Gaunt family’s house-elves stepped hesitantly into the room. “Master Ominis,” the elf began, its voice trembling, “your bride-to-be is in the garden, sir.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Why?” he asked, his throat dry.

“She—she is pacing, sir. She looks… upset.“

Ominis nodded, rising from his chair. “Thank you,” he said, though the elf was already retreating, bowing its way out of the room.

You were upset. Of course, you were. Why wouldn’t you be? Tomorrow, you were being forced to marry him and tie yourself to a family that cared only about what they could take from you. And worse, tied to him—a man who had pushed you away when you’d needed him most, who had no right to ask anything of you, least of all forgiveness.

But the thought of you pacing alone in the gardens, trapped in your own swirling emotions, was unbearable. Ominis didn’t know if he could say anything to help, but he couldn’t just sit here and do nothing.

He moved swiftly through the dark corridors, and when he reached the door to the garden, he paused, letting his wand hum faintly to map the space before him. He sensed the vast openness of the ahead, the night air cool against his skin, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and dying roses.

And there you were.

Your silhouette materialized in his mind like a shadow against the darkness. You were pacing, just as the house-elf had said, your movements quick and restless. It was a knife to Ominis’s chest, seeing the person he cared for so deeply reduced to this.

Care.

No, he thought bitterly, that wasn’t the right word. He loved you. He had loved you since before he even understood what love truly was. And that made it all so much worse.

Because you would never love him.

Ominis stood stiffly in the doorway. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too consumed by your thoughts and frantic steps that sent gravel crunching underfoot. But when he shifted his weight, the faint sound of his movement caught your attention. You stopped abruptly, your head turning toward him, your posture instantly stiffening.

“Ominis,” you said, your voice calm but sharp like the edge of a blade. “…Couldn’t sleep?”

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to answer. He recognized the tension in your tone, the way you carefully shielded yourself with polite indifference. It was the same tone you’d used with his parents when you arrived, the one where he’d sensed every ounce of resentment you’d tucked away beneath a mask of cordiality.

“No,” he said softly, stepping further into the garden. “I was told you were out here.”

“Of course,” you replied, your voice carrying a detached sort of humor. "Not allowed a moment of solitude, hm?"

Ominis flinched inwardly, his wand picking up on the subtle tremor in your hands as you folded your arms across your chest.

“I thought… perhaps you might want to talk,” he said carefully, his voice low.

“With you? No,” you replied quickly, brushing off the suggestion as though it didn’t matter. You turned your back to him. “Talking to you won’t help.”

Ominis winced but didn’t respond. The silence stretched between you, the night air growing heavier with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” he said at length, the words feeling inadequate even as they left his mouth.

You laughed, soft and humorless, as you turned back toward the fountain. “Sorry,” you echoed. “Of course. And that makes it all better, does it?”

He took a hesitant step closer, his wand pulsing faintly to track the distance between you. “I mean it,” he said. “I wish things were different.”

“Do you?” you asked, glancing at him over your shoulder. ““Because last time I checked, you’re the one who pushed me away."

Ominis froze, the accusation cutting through him like a blade. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat.

You turned fully to face him now, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Do you think I don’t remember?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of unspoken emotion. “The things you said to me? The way you looked at me, like I was… like I was the problem?”

“That’s not what I—” Ominis started, but you cut him off with a sharp laugh, one that lacked any real humor.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “Nothing either of us says now will change anything. And tomorrow, we’ll stand in front of your family and say the words they want to hear."

You turned abruptly, your footsteps crunching against the gravel as you moved past him. “Goodnight, Ominis,” you said, your tone clipped and distant as you made your way back toward the manor.

He turned slightly, his wand picking up the blur of your retreating figure as you disappeared into the cold, sterile halls of the estate. The faint trace of your magic lingered in the air, turbulent and raw, and he hated himself for not being able to ease it.

~~~

Morning came like a thief, stealing away the fragile moments of sleep Ominis had clung to in the restless hours of the night. The Gaunt manor, usually oppressive in its quiet, was unnaturally alive with activity. House-elves scurried through the halls, their frantic movements punctuated by the clinking of silver trays and hurried whispers. His parents had spared no effort to make the day grand, though their motives were far from sentimental.

Even worse, his extended family had descended like vultures, eager to witness the union that would bind your ancient magic to the Gaunt bloodline. Even Ominis’s older brother, Marvolo, had returned from his work abroad for the occasion, his mere presence enough to sour the air. Ominis had always loathed Marvolo—arrogant, cruel, and every bit the model Gaunt heir their parents had hoped for. The rest of the family wasn’t much better. Aunts, uncles, and distant cousins he resented filled the halls, their haughty laughter echoing off the cold stone walls.

Ominis moved through the chaos like a ghost, his mind as numb as his steps. He had imagined marrying you a hundred—no, a thousand—times, but never like this.

In his dreams, you loved him back. Your smiles were soft and unguarded, your laughter warm, your hand reaching for his not out of duty, but out of choice. But those dreams had always been fragile, built on a shaky foundation of what-ifs and hope he’d never dared voice aloud.

You wedding band weighed heavily in his pocket, a cruel reminder of the vows he would unwittingly force you to take. He told himself he was doing this to protect you—that he was backed into a corner with no way out. It wasn’t a lie. His parents had made their expectations clear: defy them, and Ominis would pay the price. The Gaunts had always been dangerous, even to their own blood. He’d seen it with his older cousins, the ones who had been disowned or “disappeared” for daring to cross the family.

And that didn’t even encompass what they might do to you.

The sharp knock on his door startled him. Ominis straightened instinctively, brushing a hand over his hair as if readying himself for battle.

“It’s me,” Sebastian’s voice called through the heavy wood, rough but familiar.

“Come in,” Ominis replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

The door creaked open, and Sebastian stepped inside, his expression a mix of concern and irritation. He was dressed sharply, though his tie was slightly crooked—a detail Ominis would have pointed out if he’d had the energy to notice.

“You look like hell,” Sebastian said, crossing the room and leaning against the desk.

“I feel worse,” Ominis admitted, lowering himself into the chair by the window.

Sebastian tilted his head, scrutinizing Ominis with a sharpness that felt impossible to ignore.

“…You love her, don’t you?” Sebastian asked suddenly, his voice blunt and cutting straight to the point. He had never been one to dance around difficult questions.

Ominis let out a hollow laugh, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one,” Sebastian said, standing straighter, arms crossed. “Do. You. Love. Her?”

Ominis sighed heavily, his head tilting back as though seeking answers from the cracked ceiling above. “You already know the answer to that, Sebastian,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “You’ve always known.”

“Humor me,” Sebastian pressed.

Ominis’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “Of course I love her. I’ve always loved her. Since before I even understood what that meant. And you know that. So why ask?”

Sebastian scoffed, fixing Ominis with an unrelenting stare. “Because you’re acting like this is the end of the world. You love her. And now you’re marrying her. She’s about to be your wife.”

Ominis turned his head sharply, his sightless gaze narrowing slightly. “My wife?” His voice rose, edged with frustration. “This isn’t a marriage, Sebastian. It’s a transaction. A cage.” He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the distant hum of laughter and footsteps filled the courtyard. “She doesn’t want this. And she certainly doesn’t want me.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch, his calmness almost maddening. “But you love her,” he pointed out again. “That means you can make something of this. You can try.”

Ominis let out a sharp breath, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Try what? To pretend that she doesn’t hate me?” He shook his head, his voice quieter now, but no less filled with anguish. “She does hate me, Sebastian. And why wouldn’t she?”

Sebastian frowned, his expression flickering with guilt. “You were scared. We all were. What happened back then…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t easy for any of us.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ominis snapped. “I made my choices. And now, she thinks I’m no better than my parents.” His voice cracked slightly, the weight of the words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. “She thinks I’m just like them, putting her through this. And maybe she’s right.”

“She doesn’t think that. You’re nothing like your parents,” Sebastian said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And if you’d stop wallowing in self-pity for half a second, you might see that she doesn’t actually hate you.”

Ominis scoffed, shaking his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Sebastian said, beginning to pace the room with his usual restless energy. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Ominis. She’s hurt, sure. Angry. But hate? No.”

Ominis leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “You’re imagining things,” he muttered.

“Am I?” Sebastian challenged, stopping in his tracks to face him. “You’ve spent years convincing yourself she hates you, but did you ever stop to actually talk to her about it? Or did you just decide she hated you because it was easier than dealing with the mess you made?”

The words hit their mark, and Ominis flinched. He couldn’t deny it. He had avoided you for years, too ashamed of his actions to face you properly. He had assumed the worst because it was safer than hoping for anything else.

Sebastian sighed heavily, glancing over at the ornate clock hanging on the wall. The ticking sound, once faint, now seemed to echo in the room like a countdown to inevitability. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze flicking back to Ominis.

“We’re out of time,” he said flatly. “They’re going to be expecting us downstairs.”

Ominis didn’t move at first, his hands still gripping the arms of his chair. He looked like a man on the edge of breaking, and for a moment, Sebastian considered calling the whole thing off himself. But he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. This wasn’t a fight they could win—not here, not now.

“Come on,” Sebastian urged, his voice softer. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ominis exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. He stood, his movements stiff and reluctant, his fingers brushing down the front of his suit as though trying to compose himself. His family had ensured every detail of his appearance was perfect—he looked every bit the polished Gaunt heir, the image they demanded. But inside, he felt hollow.

Sebastian gave him a faint nod, adjusting his own crooked tie. “You’ll survive this,” he said with a slight smile. “Everything will work out.”

Ominis didn’t respond, his throat too tight to form words. Instead, he followed Sebastian out of the room, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the distant hum of activity that filled the manor. Every step felt heavier than the last, the anticipation building in his chest like a storm.

The courtyard garden had been transformed into a grand display of pure-blood prestige. Rows of white chairs lined the manicured lawn, and a narrow aisle flanked by enchanted, softly glowing flowers led to an altar at the far end. Ivy climbed the stone arch that framed the altar, its dark green tendrils twisting delicately around clusters of pale blossoms.

Ominis stood at the altar, his back straight and his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his wand tucked away in his sleeve. The suit he wore was immaculate, tailored perfectly to his tall, lean frame. But even as he stood there, a picture of composure, his mind churned with unease.

Beyond him, countless guests sat in waiting—pure-bloods from every corner of their miserable society, their presence a suffocating reminder of the world he had tried—and failed—to escape.

His extended family dominated the seats closest to the altar, their self-satisfied smirks and sharp whispers grating against his already frayed nerves. The Gaunts had arrived in full force, a parade of arrogance and entitlement, each one more intolerable than the last.

Ominis’s parents sat in the front row, their expressions masks of triumph. His mother, draped in rich emerald, surveyed the scene with quiet pride, while his father sat like a statue, his posture rigid, his face a cold, unyielding mask. And then there was Marvolo, lounging casually in his seat beside them, his smirk a permanent fixture as though the entire event were for his personal amusement.

Across the aisle sat the members of your family, their expressions far less composed. Your mother’s hands were folded tightly in her lap, her face pale and drawn as she avoided meeting anyone’s gaze, eyes flicking nervously between the guests and the altar.

The contrast between them and the Gaunts couldn’t have been starker. Ominis’s family were predators, their confidence unshakable, while yours looked like cornered prey. And you… you were the sacrificial offering, the tether between their worlds.

The low hum of chatter faded as the first notes of music filled the courtyard, soft and lilting yet as heavy as a tolling bell. Ominis stiffened, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. This was it. The beginning of the end. The melody floated through the air, a cruel, elegant herald of what was to come.

He couldn’t breathe.

The sound of footsteps against the stone aisle cut through the music, and Ominis’s wand pulsed faintly in his sleeve, mapping the space before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw them—two figures approaching the altar. Anne and Sebastian. The only two friends he had managed to invite to this sham of a wedding. His parents had objected, of course, but for once, Ominis had refused to yield. If they were going to strip away every ounce of choice from this union, he would at least ensure that two people who truly cared about either of you would stand witness.

Anne walked with quiet grace beside her brother, her head held high and her movements calm, even as the weight of the moment pressed down on her. She had always been your rock, and now, she looked every bit the part.

Sebastian, meanwhile, walked with his usual subtle defiance, his jaw clenched as though he were biting back a dozen remarks that would surely have caused a scene.

As the Sallow twins joined Ominis at the altar, the music softened, a momentary pause that signaled what came next.

And then, you appeared.

The air in the courtyard seemed to shift as the music swelled once more, drawing every gaze to the entrance. Ominis’s wand hummed, and for the first time in his life, he felt as though he could truly see.

Shapes and shadows sharpened in his mind, the lines of the archway and the glow of the enchanted lanterns framing you like a painting. Your figure materialized with unprecedented clarity, every detail irreversibly etching itself into his memory.

You were breathtaking.

The soft glow of the lanterns seemed to chase after you down the aisle, casting a warm, ethereal light as you stepped forward, arm looped through your father’s. Your gown was simple yet striking, its flowing fabric a cascade of soft ivory that hugged your figure just enough to suggest elegance without excess.

Your hair was swept into an elegant updo, soft tendrils framing your face and neck, accentuating the graceful curve of your collarbone. The tasteful touch of makeup enhanced your features without overpowering them, the faint flush of color on your cheeks and lips lending you an almost otherworldly glow. You looked every bit the part of a bride—refined, poised, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Ominis’s heart twisted painfully. Despite everything, despite knowing how wrong this was, he allowed himself a single moment of cruel, fleeting hope. He imagined that this was real. That you had chosen this. That the soft shimmer of your gown, the elegance of your updo, the deliberate grace with which you moved—all of it was for him.

For a heartbeat, he believed it. That you had taken your father’s arm and walked toward him because you loved him. That your choice to stand before this crowd, to become his wife, was born of something true, not forced by the iron will of his family.

But reality was cruel.

He could feel it in the tremor of your hand as you reached the altar, in the absence of warmth in your fleeting glance as your eyes locked with his. There was no joy in your expression, no affection, only quiet resolve and resignation. You weren’t here for him. You were here because you had no other choice.

Your father released your arm hesitantly, his hand lingering for a brief moment as though reluctant to let go. His face was pale and drawn, his jaw tight as he gave you a faint nod. You stepped forward alone, taking your place across from Ominis.

He caught the slight hitch in your breath as the officiant spoke. It was subtle—so subtle that no one else would have noticed—but to him, it felt like a scream. He wanted to reach for you, to close the distance, to bridge the gap he had created all those years ago. But his hands remained at his sides, his palms clammy against the cool fabric of his trousers.

The officiant’s words droned on, his low, measured tone a blur in Ominis’s ears. He could barely hear it over the roaring in his chest, the heavy thud of his heartbeat as he focused entirely on you.

And then the moment came.

“Do you, Ominis Gaunt, take her to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The words cut through the fog in his mind like a knife. For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, his throat tightening painfully. He could feel his parents’ gaze burning into him, his father’s unyielding authority pressing down like a lead weight. The crowd’s silence was deafening, expectant, suffocating.

His lips parted, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them, heavy and hollow.

“I do.”

The officiant turned to you, repeating the same question.

“And do you take Ominis Gaunt to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Ominis held his breath, his entire body tense as he waited for your response. The pause that followed felt endless, each second stretching into an eternity. For a moment, he thought you might refuse.

But when you spoke, your voice was quiet and steady, though devoid of any joy.

“I do.”

The words hung in the air, final and irreversible. The officiant’s voice rose again, completing the ritual with the formal pronouncement that sealed your fates.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Gaunt, you may now kiss your bride.”

Ominis froze.

How had he forgotten about this part? He’d imagined this twisted mockery of a wedding day a thousand times, and yet this moment—the one he had once dreamed of with such hope—had slipped through the cracks of his planning. The girl of his dreams was standing right there, so close he could feel the warmth of you, and now he was meant to kiss you.

His hands twitched at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as he forced himself to move. The crowd was watching, their silence heavy with expectation. His parents’ satisfaction was palpable, his extended family practically giddy at the spectacle. But all Ominis could focus on was you—the tension radiating from your frame, the subtle way your shoulders stiffened as you waited.

He stepped closer, his wand mapping the space between you. His hand hovered near your waist, uncertain, before finally settling there lightly. He could feel the delicate fabric of your gown beneath his palm, the warmth of your body through the material.

Ominis leaned in slowly, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain you could hear it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not like this, not with the weight of obligation hanging between you like a curse.

With his eyes fluttering closed, his lips brushed yours in the faintest, most hesitant of kisses. As he expected, you were still—frozen, unmoving, your lips soft but lifeless against his. The kiss was chaste, obligatory, and for a moment, it felt like a dagger to his heart.

And then something expected happened.

You kissed him back.

Ominis’s mind went blank, his senses overwhelmed. It was subtle at first—a gentle press, a shift in the way your lips moved against his. But then it deepened, and the world seemed to explode around him. Fireworks erupted in his mind, a kaleidoscope of sensation, your warmth spreading through him like wildfire.

The taste of your lips, soft and slightly sweet, was unlike anything he had ever known. It was perfect. You were perfect. In that moment, everything else faded away—the oppressive weight of the crowd’s gaze, the suffocating expectations of his family, the years of distance and resentment between you.

His hands tightened instinctively at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, and he revelled in the curve of you beneath his fingers. It was everything, you were everything, he had ever dreamed of and infinitely more.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

You pulled away slowly, your movements deliberate, as though reminding both of you that the moment had passed. Ominis’s hands lingered at your waist for a fraction of a second before he let them drop to his sides, his fingers curling slightly as though trying to hold on to the ghost of your touch.

His breath was unsteady as he straightened, his mind reeling. You’d kissed him back.

Why?

Had it been part of the performance? A calculated move to play the part of the perfect bride? Or had it been something else entirely?

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The officiant’s voice rose again, announcing the end of the ceremony and you were slipping your hand into his. Swallowing hard, Ominis led you back down the aisle.

The crowd rose to their feet, their clapping a dull roar in his ears as he walked with you at his side. Every step felt surreal, the moment between you still crackling like static in his chest.

He didn’t dare look at you. Not now. He wasn’t sure he could handle whatever answer your expression might hold.

But as the two of you passed beneath the ivy-draped arch, stepping into the unknown future that awaited you both, Ominis couldn’t help but wonder if, just maybe, that kiss had been real after all.

~~~

The reception had been nothing short of torturous for Ominis.

If the kiss at the altar had left him confused, the evening that followed only deepened the storm in his mind. Because from the moment you both entered the grand hall where the reception was held, you played the part of the happy bride.

You’d smile at Ominis, soft and convincing, allow him to hold your hand, to rest his palm lightly against the small of your back as the two of you made the rounds, greeting the guests who had gathered to witness your union.

You spoke to guests with grace and poise, weaving stories of your Hogwarts days into the conversation with ease. Tales of late-night library study sessions, Quidditch matches, and the occasional mischievous escapade were all recounted with a fondness that left Ominis reeling.

You spoke of those moments as though they had been golden—untarnished by the years of bitterness and distance that had followed. And for the guests, it was a perfect performance, a portrait of a couple deeply in love, bound not just by obligation but by shared memories and affection.

The guests were relentless in their attention, each one more insistent than the last in prying into your lives. How you met, what your future plans as a couple might be, when you fell in love, was it love at first sight.

Ominis had been stunned at how quickly you answered the last question. You didn’t miss a beat, your lips curling into a soft, polite smile. “Oh, absolutely not,” you said, your voice light with humor. “Our first meeting was… let’s say, less than ideal.”

His stomach twisted at your words, but you pressed on, the ease in your tone disarming the nosy crowd.

“He found me in his personal study spot,” you continued, glancing briefly at Ominis with a glimmer of something in your eyes that he couldn’t quite place. “I’ll never forget how furious he was.”

There were a few chuckles from the guests, and Ominis forced himself to smile faintly, though his mind was racing. He knew exactly what you were referring to. The Undercroft. But you’d never betray that secret, not even after all he'd done to you.

You went on, your tone growing softer, more reflective. “I thought I’d made a terrible first impression. And, well, I had.” A few more chuckles rippled through the group. “But a few days later, he apologized. He didn’t have to—he could’ve just ignored me forever—but he did. And...we became friends after that. It wasn’t easy at first. We’re both… stubborn.” You laughed lightly, the sound so genuine it felt like a blade cutting through the air. “But we figured it out.”

Ominis felt like the ground beneath him was shifting. These weren’t just pretty words spun to entertain the guests or to appease his family. This memory was real. Every moment you described was real.

In fact, he probably knew these memories better than you did, because he had held onto them as tightly as a drowning man clutches a piece of driftwood. They were the only part of you he’d been allowed to keep, and now, here you were, bringing them to life as though the years of distance and pain hadn’t fractured them beyond recognition.

“The moment I realized it was more than just friendship was not long after, right before Christmas,” you continued, your gaze growing distant as though you were looking back into the past. “We’d spent the day shopping in Hogsmeade. The three of us—Ominis, Sebastian, and me.”

Ominis’s heart twisted at the mention of that day. He remembered it vividly, every detail coming to life in his mind as you spoke.

“It had started snowing that afternoon,” you continued, a soft smile curling at your lips. “We’d bought sweets at Honeydukes, browsed the shop windows, even picked up a few last-minute gifts. By the time we made it to the Three Broomsticks, we were freezing.”

The guests chuckled, and Ominis’s lips quirked into a faint smile despite himself. He could almost feel the icy wind again, the way your cheeks had flushed red from the cold.

“And then,” you said, your smile widening slightly, “Sebastian—being Sebastian—managed to spill an entire mug of butterbeer all over me. It was awful, I was absolutely soaked, sticky, and cold.”

More laughter rippled through the group, and Ominis felt a faint heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered the way you’d looked—your expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement as you tried to wring out your sleeves.

“But then,” you continued, glancing briefly at Ominis, “he gave me his coat.”

That was true. He had. Though Ominis hadn’t thought much of it at the time—he’d just wanted to make sure you were comfortable and warm. But now, hearing you speak of it, he realized maybe it had meant more than he’d ever understood.

“And not just that,” you said, your voice softening. “He left the Three Broomsticks, in the middle of the snowstorm, and went to Gladrags to buy me a clean set of clothes. He didn’t have to, but he did. And when he came back, he handed me the bag like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it wasn’t a big deal at all.”

Ominis’s throat felt tight, his hands clenching at his sides as he remembered the look on your face when he’d handed you that bag. You had been startled at first, your eyes widening as you glanced between him and the neatly wrapped parcel. Then you’d smiled—a small, genuine smile that had left him momentarily speechless.

“That was the moment,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of vulnerability that struck Ominis to his core. “The moment I realized he wasn’t just my friend. That he was… more. That I loved him.”

Your words hung in the air, a quiet confession wrapped in the guise of a story for the guests’ entertainment. Ominis could feel every gaze in the room turn toward him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet any of them. His focus was entirely on you—on the way your voice had softened, the way your smile lingered just a fraction longer than it needed to.

Were you simply using a real memory to bolster your performance? Was this a carefully chosen story to charm the crowd? Or was there a flicker of truth buried beneath the polished delivery?

The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Ominis. The guests continued to press you both with questions, and you answered them all with the same ease and grace. He played his part, too. Smiled when he needed to, laughed when it was expected, but his mind was elsewhere, racing with memories of that day in Hogsmeade so long ago, of the way you’d looked at him then, and the way you’d spoken of it now.

By the time the reception finally came to an end, Ominis was exhausted—not from the physical effort of the evening, but from the mental and emotional toll it had taken.

And now, as the two of you walked through the opulent halls of the hotel where you would be spending your first night as husband and wife, the weight of it all was beginning to crush him.

The sound of your footsteps echoed softly against the marble floors, mingling with the faint hum of distant conversation and the soft rustle of your gown. The hotel was grand, each detail designed to impress, but Ominis barely noticed any of it. His focus was entirely on you—the way you walked beside him, close but not quite touching, your silence stretching between you like a chasm.

Finally, the two of you reached the door to your suite. Ominis hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the ornate handle as he inserted the key.

Exhaling slowly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. The suite beyond was as opulent as the rest of the hotel—richly furnished, with soft, glowing light and an enormous bed draped in luxurious fabrics. A chilled bottle of champagne sat waiting on a nearby table, two crystal flutes beside it.

The two of you stepped inside, and Ominis’s chest tightened as he shut the door behind you, the finality of the moment settling over him like a weight. Here you were. Alone with him, no audience, no expectations—just the two of you and the silence that neither of you seemed to know how to break.

You moved toward the corner of the room where the house-elves had neatly arranged your bags, the contents folded with meticulous care.

Without a word, you pulled a set of pajamas and your toothbrush from the bag, your movements quick and purposeful. Without meeting his gaze, you turned on your heel and headed straight for the bathroom. The soft click of the door closing behind you echoed through the stillness of the suite, louder than it had any right to be, and Ominis exhaled slowly, releasing a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

For a moment, he stood there, motionless, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. Then, with a quiet sigh, he began to loosen his tie, the fabric slipping easily from his collar. He tugged it free and let it drop onto the nearest chair before running a hand through his hair. The day’s events replayed in his mind like a loop he couldn’t escape—your words, your smile, the warmth of your laughter, and the kiss at the altar that had left him reeling.

It was too much.

Ominis moved to the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat heavily on the edge. He toed off his shoes, one after the other, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands came up to his face, fingers pressing lightly against his temples as he tried to push the chaos in his mind into some semblance of order.

But there was no clarity to be found. Only questions he was too afraid to ask and doubts he couldn’t shake.

The sound of water running in the bathroom was faint but constant, a reminder that you were just on the other side of the door. He wondered what you were thinking, whether the evening had left you as drained as it had left him. He wondered if you’d meant the things you’d said during the reception, if there was truth hidden in the warmth of your words, or if it had all been part of the carefully orchestrated performance.

More than anything, he wondered what would happen when you came out of that bathroom—if the silence would continue to stretch between you, or if one of you would finally be brave enough to break it.

With a heavy sigh, he sat up, his movements mechanical as he made his way toward his own bag to prepare for bed. He crouched down, his fingers brushing over the neatly packed contents until he found his sleepwear.

He stood, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against his skin as he worked to unbutton it. His fingers moved methodically, one button at a time, but his mind was elsewhere—on you, still behind the closed door, and the way everything about this night felt wrong.

This wasn’t how a wedding night was supposed to feel.

It wasn’t supposed to feel so strained, so heavy. There should have been laughter, warmth, the giddy sort of nervousness that came with embarking on a new chapter together. Instead, there was unrelenting tension. A chasm of unspoken words and unanswered questions that neither of you seemed ready to bridge.

Ominis shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall to the floor behind him as he reached for the waistband of his dress pants. He unclasped them, the fabric loosening around his waist.

And then the bathroom door opened.

The quiet click of the handle made him freeze, his hands stilling as he turned his head slightly toward the sound.

You stepped out, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Without his wand, Ominis couldn’t sense the details of your expression, couldn’t see the way your eyes might have widened or the way your lips might have parted slightly in surprise. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking, how you were reacting, and it left him feeling unmoored.

The air between you felt charged, the silence stretching out like a thread pulled taut. He was acutely aware of his state—bare-chested, his dress pants undone and hanging low on his hips. He wondered what you thought of him—what you saw when you looked at him now.

He had an idea of his appearance, of course. His wand’s mapping magic had given him a sense of his own features over the years, an understanding of the angles and planes of his face, the height and shape of his frame. He had been told, more than once, that he was conventionally attractive—sharp, aristocratic features that bore the unmistakable stamp of his bloodline.

But those compliments had always left a bitter taste in his mouth. His pale skin, high cheekbones, and long, slicked-back blonde hair—all of it tied him far too clearly to the Gaunt family, to a legacy he resented with every fiber of his being. Even his tall, lithe frame, lean from years of discipline and sparring practice, seemed more like a reminder of his upbringing than something to take pride in.

And now, standing here in this charged silence, he couldn’t help but wonder what you thought when you looked at him. Did you find him attractive? Or did you see only the Gaunt heir—a pawn in the endless, suffocating game of pure-blood politics?

He had no way of knowing. And for a moment, he almost reached for his wand, desperate for the faint hum of its magic to ground him. But he resisted, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Sorry,” you murmured softly, your voice breaking the silence. It wasn’t sharp or cold—just quiet, almost tentative.

“N-no,” Ominis said quickly, his voice low and uneven. He straightened slightly, his hands falling to his sides. “I—I should be the one apologizing.”

You didn’t respond immediately, and he could hear the faint rustle of fabric as you shifted, likely clutching your wedding dress tighter against you. “I’m finished in the bathroom, if you want to change in there,” you offered, your tone polite, carefully neutral. “Or… I can just turn around, if that’s easier.”

Ominis’s fingers twitched at his sides, his throat tightening. The absurdity of the situation struck him. You were married, bound by the vows you’d exchanged earlier that day, and yet you could barely manage to exist in the same space without this unbearable awkwardness.

“No, I’ll—I’ll use the bathroom,” he said, his voice tight. “Thank you.”

His toothbrush and pajamas in hand, Ominis disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He set his things down on the counter and leaned heavily against the sink, exhaling a shaky breath.

The mirror above the sink offered no reflection, but he didn’t need to see his face to know what he’d find there—a pale, drawn expression, tension etched into every line. He let his fingers trail over the cool porcelain of the sink before reaching to splash cold water on his face, hoping it might clear his mind, if only for a moment.

He quickly changed into his sleepwear and brushed his teeth, though the routine didn’t do much to ease the tightness in his chest.

When he finally emerged, his hair slightly damp from the water he’d splashed on his face, he reached for his wand then stopped in his tracks. The bed, massive and draped in luxurious fabrics, was untouched. Instead, you had set up a makeshift bed on the floor using a collection of spare blankets and pillows.

You were kneeling beside it, smoothing out a blanket, and when you noticed him, you straightened, brushing your hands against the fabric of your pajamas.

“I thought…” you began, your voice trailing off as though you were unsure how to explain yourself. “You should take the bed.”

Ominis blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. “You… you don’t have to do that,” he said quietly, his voice laced with something that sounded almost like guilt. “The bed is yours too.”

You shook your head, the motion subtle but certain. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll be more comfortable here.”

Ominis stiffened, watching you adjust the blankets and pillows as though you could somehow make the situation less absurd. It struck him all at once just how wrong this was. It was your wedding night—a night meant for intimacy and closeness—and yet here you were, offering to sleep on the floor.

Did you hate him that much? That the idea of sharing a bed with him, even in the most innocent sense, was so unbearable?

He couldn't keep quiet.

“I’ll take the floor,” Ominis said, his voice quiet but firm. He stepped closer, his fingers tightening around his wand. “You shouldn’t have to.”

You looked up at him, startled for a moment, before shaking your head. “Ominis, it’s fine,” you said, your tone polite but insistent. “I’ll be more comfortable here. Really.”

“It’s not fine,” he replied quickly. “It’s wrong. You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor—especially not tonight.”

“It’s not wrong if I’m choosing to,” you countered, folding your arms across your chest. “The bed is yours. I don’t mind.”

Ominis’s frustration began to bubble beneath the surface, his composure slipping. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine with this,” he insisted, his tone growing sharper despite his efforts to keep it even.

“I’m not pretending,” you shot back. “I said I don’t mind, and I meant it.”

“Why?” Ominis asked, his voice rising slightly. “Why are we doing this? All this… politeness and decorum?”

Your expression shifted, your jaw tightening as you glanced away. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” Ominis said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “The careful words, the pretending that any of this is normal. Why are we bothering? Why are we talking to each other like strangers? There’s no one here to see it. No one to keep up appearances for. It’s just us.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable. “Maybe because we are strangers, Ominis. We have been for years, haven’t we?”

Ominis froze, your words striking him harder than he expected. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. You didn’t look away, your expression steady but tinged with something he couldn’t quite place—resignation, perhaps, or maybe sadness.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” you pressed, your voice quieter now but no less pointed. “After fifth year, you made it perfectly clear how you felt.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening as your words sank in. “I was trying to protect you,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “From Sebastian.”

“Don’t,” you said sharply, cutting him off. “Don’t put this on Sebastian. This isn’t about him. This is about you.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, his throat tightening as the weight of your accusation settled over him. He couldn’t argue with it—not entirely. You were right. It was his choice to push you away, though at the time he’d convinced himself it was the right thing to do.

“So no, you weren’t protecting me,” you continued sharply, your voice rising. “You were punishing me.”

He flinched as though you’d struck him, his sightless eyes widening. “Punishing you?” he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and pain. “Why would I—”

“Because you didn’t trust me,” you cut in, your voice breaking slightly. “You thought I was wrong. You thought I didn’t understand, that I wasn’t on your side. So you pushed me away and you’ve done it ever since.”

“No,” Ominis said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not—”

“Then what is it?” you demanded, taking a step closer, your anger and pain spilling out in equal measure. “Because that’s what it felt like. That’s what it’s always felt like. And now—” Your voice cracked, and you took a shaky breath before continuing. “And now, you’re stuck with me.” You lifted your left hand, the Gaunt family ring reflecting the lamplight. “And trust me, I know this isn’t what you want.”

Ominis froze, the weight of your words taking a moment to settle. And then, he almost laughed. The absurdity of the idea that he wouldn’t want you—you of all people—was almost too much to bear.

He’d imagined it—dreamed of it, hoped for it in the quiet, unguarded moments of his life. For years, he had spent his nights picturing you by his side, your hand in his, your voice soft and full of laughter as you spoke his name. He had clung to the idea of a future with you like a lifeline, even though, due to his own stupidity, it was impossible.

“If anyone doesn’t want this,” Ominis said finally, his voice trembling as he spoke, “it’s you.”

You blinked, your expression shifting from anger to confusion. “What?”

“You’re right,” he said, his grip tightening on his wand as he forced the words out. “You’re right about everything. About what I did, about why I pushed you away.” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Even if I didn’t realize it, I did punish you.”

You stared at him, your anger softening into something more complicated, though you didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve given you every reason to hate me,” Ominis continued, his voice breaking slightly, “For what I did to you then, and for what my family has done to you now.” He gestured vaguely at the room around you, at the bands on your fingers, at everything that bound you to him against your will. “I… I know you hate me, and I accept that. I know you hate this—hate us—and I accept that too. But if you think for one second that I didn’t want this—that I didn’t want you—you’re wrong.”

You rose slowly from where you’d been kneeling, your movements deliberate, your frame tense. Your arms hung loosely at your sides, and your gaze settled on him, unreadable. Ominis didn’t move, didn’t speak. The silence between you stretched taut, heavy and unbearable, his breath shallow as he waited, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest.

Then, finally, you spoke, your voice quiet, almost hesitant. “So… you... don’t hate me?”

“No,” he said immediately, the word escaping before you’d even finished. “Never.”

You blinked at him, as though startled by his vehemence. For a moment, he thought that would be the end of it—that you would leave it at that. But then you took a step closer, your voice trembling slightly as you asked, “Then why did you��?”

You trailed off, but he knew exactly what you meant. Why did you push me away for years?

“Because I’m an idiot,” Ominis said, the words escaping him sharper than he intended. His voice cracked slightly as he exhaled shakily, lowering his head in a mixture of frustration and shame. “Because I let fear and pride cloud my judgment. And Merlin, it’s the biggest regret of my life.”

Ominis's throat tightened painfully, the words he’d held back for years clawing their way up to the surface. They pressed against his chest, demanding release, and for once, he didn’t push them down. What was the point? You were already married, bound by vows neither of you could escape—trapped in this twisted arrangement orchestrated by his family. There was no undoing it, no going back.

“Because... because I’ve always loved you,” he stammered, his voice faltering but steady enough to carry the truth. He lifted his head slightly, his sightless eyes turned toward you as though he could see the effect of his words. “Always.”

The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, and the silence that followed was unbearable. The room felt suffocatingly still, every sound amplified in the oppressive quiet. He could hear the faint rush of blood in his ears, a relentless pounding that seemed to echo his racing thoughts. Even the soft cadence of his own uneven breathing felt deafening, filling the space as though to taunt him with the vulnerability he couldn’t take back.

“I…” you began, your voice unsteady, but you trailed off again, clearly struggling to find the words. “You… loved me?”

“Love,” he corrected softly. “Present tense.”

Your breath hitched, and he could hear the faint tremor in it. “Why... why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He hesitated, his hands tightening at his sides. “Because I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid you didn’t feel the same. Afraid of what it would mean if you did. I didn’t want you getting tied up with my family—with the Gaunts. I didn’t want you dragged into… into this.”

He gestured vaguely around the room, his frustration with himself evident in the sharpness of his movements. “Not that it ended up mattering,” he added bitterly.

You were silent again, and Ominis felt the weight of your hesitation like a physical thing pressing down on his chest. He’d said too much. He’d gone too far. And now—

“I wouldn’t have cared,” you said softly.

"...Pardon?”

“I wouldn’t have cared about your family,” you said again, your voice a little steadier now. “I never cared about any of that.”

Ominis's heart twisted painfully at your words, the faint flicker of hope they ignited almost too much to bear. “You…” He stopped, his voice faltering as he tried to process what you’d said. "You didn't?"

“No. In fact, I don’t care,” you continued, your voice quieter now, almost shy. “Present tense.”

Ominis felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted, his entire world tilting on its axis as his mind scattered, his carefully constructed thoughts unraveling at the edges. Present tense.

The implications swirled in his mind, overwhelming and impossible to fully grasp. If you didn’t care—if you truly didn’t care—then what did that mean? What did it say about the way you felt about him now?

“You mean…” he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to form the question that had lodged itself in his throat. “You mean you still…”

You looked away, a faint blush coloring your cheeks as you clasped your hands in front of you. “What I mean,” you began quietly, your voice barely audible. “Is that I... I love you too.”

Ominis thought he might collapse under the weight of your words. His head swam, his legs trembling as if they could no longer hold him upright. It was too much—too good to be true.

Surely, he’d imagined it.

This had to be some cruel trick of his mind, conjured from the depths of years of longing and guilt. Perhaps he was dreaming, caught in that fragile space between sleep and waking where impossible things felt real. Any moment now, he’d wake in his cold, oppressive bed at the Gaunt manor, the warmth of your voice nothing more than a fleeting echo in the dark.

But the longer he stood there, frozen and breathless, the clearer it became that this was no dream. You were still there, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of your presence, the soft sound of your breathing in the silence.

“You…” His voice cracked, his grip on his wand tightening as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. “You love me?”

“Yes,” you said softly, unable to meet his eyes.

Ominis shook his head slightly, as though trying to shake loose the fog clouding his mind. “You… are you sure?”

“Yes, Ominis,” you said again, this time with a small, amused smile. The warmth in your voice should have soothed him, but instead, it sent his heart racing even faster.

“You’re serious. You… you lo—”

The words caught in his throat as you stepped closer, your movements soft but deliberate. The sudden proximity sent a shockwave through him, and what he was about to say dissolved on his tongue. The world narrowed until there was only you—the warmth of your presence, the faint rustle of fabric as you drew near, the soft sound of your breath mingling with his.

And then you kissed him.

The contact was gentle at first, tentative, as though testing the boundaries of a moment that neither of you could take back. But the moment his mind registered what was happening, something inside him snapped. Ominis dropped his wand, the dull thud barely registering in the haze of sensation that overtook him. His hands found your waist instinctively, trembling as they settled against you, holding you as though you might disappear if he let go.

It was everything—more than he had ever dared to imagine. The taste of you, the softness of your lips against his, the faint sigh you let out as you pressed closer. You were all he could feel, all he could think about, and the overwhelming reality of it, of you, left him breathless.

When you finally pulled away, his chest heaved, his forehead resting against yours as he struggled to find his breath.

“That story…” he murmured, his voice low and uneven. “The one you told at the reception. About Hogsmeade. Was it… was it true?”

You pulled back slightly, just enough for him to sense the shift in your posture. He couldn’t see your expression, but he could feel the heat rising from you, could hear the faint hitch in your breath.

“Yes,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with embarrassment. “It was true.”

Ominis felt his knees nearly give out at the confirmation, his grip on your waist tightening reflexively. “Merlin,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “All this time…”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as the weight of everything settled over him. The years he’d spent aching for you, the nights he’d lain awake tormenting himself with what-ifs—it all seemed so absurd now.

“You really…” He trailed off, shaking his head as though he couldn’t quite believe it. “You realized then?”

“At Hogsmeade?” you asked softly, your voice still tinged with shyness. You hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes... I did."

Ominis let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, his breath hitching as he shook his head slightly. “Because of some clothes?” he asked, the faintest trace of amusement coloring his voice. “Because I gave you my coat and bought you something dry to wear?”

"Sounds a lot less romantic when you say it like that," you mumbled, a hint of embarrassment coloring your voice. You glanced away, fidgeting slightly as though unsure how to explain yourself. “It wasn't just the clothes. I’d been falling you for some time, but I hadn’t really let myself acknowledge it. And then that day, it all just… clicked.”

His grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Clicked,” he repeated.

You swallowed hard as you cast your gaze downward. “You’ve always been… well, you, Ominis,” you began softly, your voice carrying a hesitant edge, as though you weren’t sure how much to say. “You, with your calm, your steadiness. Even when you’re angry, it’s controlled, measured, refined. It’s like you always know exactly what to do, like you were born knowing how to handle everything.”

He swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond to the quiet admiration in your voice. He’d spent so much of his life rejecting the parts of himself tied to his family’s legacy—the refinement, the composure, the quiet dignity that others associated with the Gaunt name. To hear you speak of it now, as though it were a part of him you valued, left him unsteady.

“And me?” you continued, your voice softening. “I’ve... I've never been like that. I’m messy. Emotional. I act too quickly and think too slowly. I’m… I don’t know. Chaotic, I guess.” You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, just a quiet vulnerability that made Ominis’s chest ache.

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his brow furrowing. “You’re—”

“What I’m trying to say is that you’ve always been my perfect opposite,” you continued gently, your voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “My foil. You’re steady, and quiet, and level, and I’ve always felt like… like you even me out.”

Ominis’s heart twisted painfully at your words, the depth of your confession leaving him breathless. “You don’t need evening out,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “You’re brilliant just as you are.”

You gave a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “Well... that doesn’t change how I’ve always felt around you. Like you make me better. Like I can stand still and actually think when you're near.”

He was too overwhelmed to trust his voice, too unsure of how to put everything he felt into words. So instead, Ominis reached for you, his hand settling gently at the nape of your neck. And he held you there, his thumb brushing softly against your skin, his lips pressing a tentative kiss to your forehead.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his voice quiet and raw as he asked, “Well, I’m here now. So… what are you thinking?”

You hesitated for a moment, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “I’m thinking…” You glanced toward the untouched bed before meeting his gaze again. “Maybe we can share the bed after all.”

"Is that so?" He murmured.

You nodded, your smile widening slightly. “Well, it’s a big bed. Plenty of room. And besides…” You reached for his left hand, spinning the wedding band around his finger. “You are my husband, after all.”

The words were light, teasing, but they sent a rush of warmth through Ominis that left him almost dizzy. He’d spent the entire day dreading what being your husband would mean, burdened by the weight of your resentment and his own guilt. But now, standing here with you, knowing you loved him, hearing you call him that—husband—filled him with an overwhelming, almost unbearable mixture of relief, joy, and hope.

Wordlessly, Ominis gently guided you toward the bed, his hand ghosted along your back. When you reached the edge of the mattress, he paused, his fingers brushing yours as he coaxed you to sit.

“Wait here,” he murmured softly, his voice warm and steady, though his chest was still tight with the weight of everything that had just happened.

Retrieving his wand from the floor, Ominis turned toward the small table where the champagne sat waiting, the chilled bottle glinting faintly in the soft lamplight. He reached for it with steady hands, though his heart was anything but calm. He needed the drink—something to take the edge off, to dull the sharp, almost unbearable clarity of this moment—the knowledge that you loved him, that he was about to share a bed with you not as strangers bound by duty, but as something far more significant.

Pouring the champagne into two crystal flutes, he turned back to you, carrying both glasses with a surprising steadiness for someone whose mind was in complete turmoil. Handing you one, he sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, closer than he’d dared to in years.

“To... new beginnings?” he offered softly, his voice carrying a tentative edge as he raised his glass slightly.

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze meeting his, before a small smile curved your lips. “To new beginnings,” you echoed, clinking your glass gently against his.

The crystal chime of the glasses meeting seemed to echo in the quiet room, a sound that felt impossibly delicate in the stillness between you. Ominis brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip as his mind raced, the taste of the champagne crisp and cool against the tension still thrumming in his chest.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before speaking. “You looked…” His voice caught in his throat, hoarse and unsteady, and he cleared it softly before trying again. “You looked beautiful today.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and he could sense the faint blush that rose to your cheeks. “Ominis…” you began, but he shook his head, stopping you.

“I should’ve told you earlier,” he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity. “You were… you are, the most stunning thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I mean, um. Not that I can…” He trailed off, a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “But I didn’t need to see you the way others do. I could feel it."

Your cheeks flushed faintly, and you glanced down at your own glass, swirling the champagne slightly as if to distract yourself. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft but genuine.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You have always been beautiful. And today, seeing you in that dress… it felt like I was dreaming. I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

A deep flush spread across your cheeks, the warmth creeping down your neck as his words lingered in the air. You didn’t respond right away, instead lifting your glass in a swift motion and draining the champagne in one determined gulp. Ominis raised a brow at your boldness, his expression hovering between amusement and surprise. Before he could say anything, you leaned forward, stretching across his lap to place your empty glass on the bedside table.

The unexpected contact sent a jolt through him. His entire body stiffened, his breath catching in his throat as your warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Sorry,” you murmured, glancing at him as you sat back.

“It’s… it’s fine,” he stammered, a rush of warmth crawling up his neck and settling in his cheeks. He gripped his champagne flute more tightly than necessary, the coolness of the glass a poor counterbalance to the fire you’d ignited in his veins.

“You seem… tense,” you remarked, your eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tense?” he repeated, forcing his voice to remain steady even as his grip on the flute tightened. “I’m not tense.”

“You’re holding that glass like it’s about to leap out of your hand,” you pointed out with a soft laugh, leaning in just slightly, your shoulder brushing his. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, though his voice cracked slightly on the word.

You hummed softly in response, your amusement now evident. “If you say so."

Ominis turned his sightless gaze in your direction, his throat tightening as he tried to summon a reply that wouldn’t betray the chaos now swirling inside him. But you spoke again before he could, your tone as casual as if you were discussing the weather.

“By the way,” you said with deliberate slowness, “did I ever tell you that you clean up very well?”

He froze, his pulse thundering in his ears. “I… I’m sorry?”

“You,” you said simply, your gaze flicking over him again in a way that made his skin prickle with awareness. “In your suit earlier. You looked very handsome.”

Ominis’s face burned. He gripped his glass tightly, taking another long sip to buy himself a moment to think. “Th-thank you,” he managed.

“You’re welcome,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips. You leaned back onto your hands, the bed giving under your weight. "You really are very attractive, Ominis," you added softly, the undercurrent of sincerity that making his heart ache.

You’d never complimented him like that before, never indicated whether you found him attractive or not, and the revelation was dizzying.

“Why are you—why are you saying this?” he asked, his throat tight.

“Because it’s true,” you said simply. “And because I can.”

Ominis exhaled shakily. “You’re... you're very bold."

“And you are shy,” you replied, a playful glint in your eye as you tilted your head toward him. “I told you it’s a good thing we balance each other out.”

He wasn’t sure whether to be flustered or comforted by the ease in your voice. The warmth radiating from you, the teasing lilt in your tone, and the sincerity beneath it all—it was overwhelming, intoxicating.

“You’re relentless,” he muttered.

"Because you make it so easy." You explained smoothly.

Ominis cleared his throat, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of composure. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about."

You tilted your head, eyeing him. “Oh, I think you do."

Before he could respond, you leaned forward again, reaching past him toward the small table beside the bed. But this time, your free hand rested on his thigh for balance, the contact sending heat through his veins and a gasp threatening to pass his lips.

“Let’s see…” you murmured thoughtfully, your fingers brushing against a book as you pulled it toward you. “Huh. A bible. Why do hotels always have these?”

Ominis barely heard your question, his attention consumed by the weight of your hand on his leg, the warmth of your palm seeping through the thin fabric of his pants. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he tried—and failed—to focus on anything other than the proximity of your body to his.

“I suppose it’s tradition,” he managed weakly.

“Perhaps you’re right,” you mused, flipping the book closed with an air of exaggerated disappointment. “Though you’d think they’d leave something more interesting. A mystery novel, maybe.”

You shifted slightly to flip open the pages of the book, humming thoughtfully, but your elbow caught Ominis’s arm, sending champagne spilling directly into his lap, the cool liquid soaking through the fabric and clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

“Shit!” you exclaimed, sitting up quickly, your hand flying to your mouth. “I’m so sorry. Let me—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, his voice strained as he tried to wave you off. “Really, I can—”

But you were already on your feet, grabbing a towel from the bathroom. Before he could protest further, you were kneeling in front of him on the floor.

“Let me help,” you insisted, your tone sweet but tinged with a something else that Ominis couldn’t quite place.

He stiffened further, his entire body locking up as your hand brushed dangerously close to the center of his lap.

“I-it’s fine, truly,” he stammered, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “You don’t need to—”

“Nonsense," you said lightly, shaking your head as you continued to blot the fabric. “It’s my fault.”

Ominis held in a groan, fighting to maintain even a shred of composure. Heat had already been pooling in his abdomen, a slow, insistent burn that now threatened to spiral out of control, but with your hands so dangerously close, with you kneeling before him, he felt as though his very sanity was slipping through his fingers.

His mind raced with a flood of thoughts—improper, indecent thoughts that he told himself he was far too much of a gentleman to entertain. And yet, he couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to give in, to let go of the rigid self-control that had defined so much of his life.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Y-you really don’t need to,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he shifted, trying in vain to create some distance between you. “I can handle it.”

“No, no," you murmured, your dabbing movements now turning into wiping motions. "Let me help.”

Help. The irony of the word wasn’t lost on him. If anything, your proximity, your touch, was undoing him entirely. And what was worse—what truly horrified him—was the knowledge that the evidence of his attraction would soon become blatantly, inescapably obvious.

His breath hitched as your hand brushed closer—too close—and he couldn't handle another moment.

Ominis shot to his feet so suddenly that it startled you, his wand clutched tightly in his trembling hand. The movement sent the towel slipping from your fingers as you instinctively leaned back, your wide eyes snapping up to meet his.

The image that his wand painted in his mind was delicious and utterly disastrous: you, on your knees before him, your hair slightly mussed, your lips slightly parted, and those impossibly wide eyes staring up at him.

He clenched his jaw, quickly lowering his wand, but no matter how hard he tried, the image wouldn’t leave him. It was burned into his mind, vivid and unrelenting.

Ominis opened his mouth, but his words came out as a jumble of incoherent stammers. “I—I’m sure the house elves packed… something—uh—extra pants.” His voice cracked slightly as he gestured vaguely toward the corner of the room where their bags were stacked. “I should—probably just—”

He moved to take a step, desperate to escape, but then your hands were on his thighs, stopping him mid-motion.

"Running off on me, are you?"

"I—I just thought—"

You tutted and gave him a gentle push, coaxing Ominis to sit back down on the edge of the bed. He resisted for a moment, but your persistence, combined with his legs trembling beneath him, left him with little choice. Slowly, he sank back down, his hands gripping at the sheets.

“There,” you said softly, your tone soothing yet carrying a playful undercurrent that made his pulse quicken. “That’s better.”

Better? Hardly. Ominis was certain he’d never been in a worse predicament in his life. You were now kneeling right between his legs, your hands still resting on his thighs, the heat of your palms searing through the thin fabric of his sleepwear.

He was painfully, achingly hard now, pressed uncomfortably against the fabric, and he knew—he knew—you must have noticed.

How could you not? You were so close, on your knees before him, your face dangerously near to the source of his torment. He clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists as he tried to will his body into submission, but it was no use. The evidence of his desire was blatant, inescapable.

And then, as if the situation wasn’t unbearable enough, you tilted your head slightly, feigning an expression of concern.

“You can’t be very comfortable like that,” you said softly, your voice laced with innocence. “Your pants, I mean. All damp and cold.” The corners of your mouth tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “Maybe you should just take them off.”

Ominis stiffened. He knew exactly what you were doing—knew you weren’t nearly as innocent as you were pretending to be. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to call you out. Couldn’t bring himself to break the fragile thread of tension strung taut between you. Because some part of him—some reckless, desperate part of him—wanted to see how far you were willing to push him.

“I—I think I’ll just wait until—”

You leaned in slightly, your expression soft and oh-so-kind. “Until what?”

Ominis exhaled shakily, his hands tightening into fists. “Until I’m alone.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Alone?” you repeated, tilting your head as though the concept genuinely puzzled you. “Why? It's just me... and I'm your wife now, aren't I?"

His wife.

He swallowed hard. “You… you are,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t mean what?” you interrupted, trailing your hands further up his thighs. “That you can’t be comfortable around me? That you can’t let me take care of you?”

“Take care of me,” he repeated hoarsely, the word catching in his throat as his mind spiraled. He knew exactly what you were insinuating, and it was driving him to the brink of madness.

“Isn’t that what a good wife does?” you asked softly, your voice lilting as though you were enjoying this far too much.

Ominis swallowed hard, muttering your name. “…This is a dangerous game you're playing."

Your lips curved into a sly smile, your gaze never leaving his. “Is it?”

He forced himself to take a steadying breath. “You know exactly what you’re doing.

Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew wider, teasing and entirely too confident for his fragile composure. “And what happens,” you asked, “if I keep playing?”

Your hands trailed upwards and his entire body went rigid, his fists tightening so hard that his knuckles ached.

And then you did it.

Your fingers hooked under the waistband of his pants, your touch light as you began to tug. And Ominis's composure shattered, the remainder of his control finally giving way.

He reached out, his hands catching your wrists and stilling your movements as he leaned down, his sightless gaze locked on you.

“Enough,” he said, his voice low, dangerous.

You blinked up at him, your playful smile faltering for the first time, though your eyes still held a glint of challenge. “Ominis—”

“Enough,” he repeated, his tone sharper this time. “You wanted to play a game, did you? Let me show you what it feels like to lose."

Ominis stood slowly, bringing your hands with him, guiding them back to the waistband of his pants. His breath was heavy, his voice low and rough when he spoke. “You started this,” he murmured, his tone carrying a dangerous edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “Now finish it.”

Your eyes widened, your earlier confidence faltering as you stared up at him. “Ominis, I—” you began, but he cut you off, his fingers tightening just slightly around your wrists.

“You wanted to see how far you could push me?” he muttered. “Congratulations. You found out. Now take them off."

You hesitated, your playful bravado faltering. This wasn’t the careful, reserved Ominis you were used to. This was someone raw, unguarded, and utterly unyielding.

But you had pushed him to this point, hadn’t you? Teased and taunted, knowing full well what you were doing. And now, you would face the consequences.

Your fingers trembled as they hooked under the waistband of his pants, tugging at the fabric. The damp material clung stubbornly to his skin, and the tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on, but Ominis revelled in it, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

After a moment, the damp fabric finally gave way, sliding down his hips and pooling at his ankles, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his fingers trailing along your jaw. “No teasing comments, hm? Not so bold now, are you?"

“I…” You hesitated, your breath hitching. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” he interrupted smoothly, his fingers ghosting along your skin. “Tease me? Push me? Make me want you until I could barely think straight?”

Your eyes widened, your lips parting in shock at his bluntness. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he took in your reaction.

“Because if that’s the case,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “then you failed. Now... where were you?"

He reached for your hands again, skimming them along his legs before hooking them into the fabric of his underwear. Your lips parted, a soft, unsteady exhale escaping as you gazed up at him.

“Go on,” he urged, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a shaky breath, you complied with his demand, the fabric yielding beneath your touch as you began to tug it down past his hips and over the hard length of him.

Ominis’s breath hitched, his jaw tightening as he fought to maintain his composure. His one hand found your shoulder, the other tangling in your hair as you freed him from the confines of his underwear, the cool air of the room brushing against his heated skin.

He could feel your gaze moving over him, taking in every inch of his body. He didn't need to see her to know exactly what you were looking at. He could feel her hesitation, the quickening pace of your breathing, and it stirred something deep inside him.

"Like what you see?" His voice was low and rough. It wasn't a question so much as a challenge, a dare for her to speak the truth he already knew.

There was a pause, a moment where he could feel her nerves battling with her desire. Then her voice came, soft and trembling, yet unmistakably honest. "Yes. I… Ominis, you're... fuck, you're so big.”

Her words hit him like a spark to dry kindling, igniting a fire he could barely contain. A slow, wicked smile curled his lips as his confidence swelled at the admission. He let his thumb trace the curve of your jaw, the movement gentle even as his grip on your neck tightened slightly, coaxing you closer.

Your hands trembled against his thighs, and he felt you hesitate again. That flicker of uncertainty was intoxicating, drawing out the predator in him that wanted to take his time unraveling you.

"I don't even know if I can..." you whispered,

"Oh, you can," he said, his voice a mix of promise and challenge. "And you will. Open your mouth."

Your lips parted without hesitation, your trust in him making something primal surge within his chest. Ominis let out a low, satisfied chuckle as he guided you toward him with deliberate care. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with approval.

He could feel your breath ghosting over him, the slight tremor in your shoulders betraying her nervousness. But when your lips finally made contact, wrapping around him with warmth and softness, a sharp groan tore from his throat. The wet heat of your mouth was intoxicating, your tongue brushing against the sensitive underside of him sending jolts of pleasure rippling through his core.

He groaned, his voice low and gravelly, unrestrained. "God, you feel so good... yes, just like that."

His grip in your hair tightened, controlling your movements as he adjusted the angle with a firm but gentle tug. Each movement was controlled, his hips rocking forward slightly before pulling back just enough to keep you comfortable.

A low moan escaped him as your tongue flicked against the head of his cock, every slight drag of your lips sending waves of pleasure radiating through him like fire. His head tipped back briefly, a ragged exhale slipping from his lips.

"Relax your throat," he ordered breathlessly, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. "Let me in. Let me feel you take all of me."

You responded instantly, a muffled moan escaping as you took him deeper, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through Ominis that left him teetering on the edge. His control slipped, and his hips jerked forward instinctively, driving himself further into the warmth of your mouth. The way your throat tightened around him, the way you surrendered so completely to his lead—it was undoing him, igniting a raw, primal need he couldn't restrain.

"I’m close," he breathed, his thumb brushing against your chin. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

Your kept pace, and every sensation sharpened, from the slick slide of your lips to the pressure of your tongue and the slight resistance of your throat.

Ominis's body shuddered violently when the tension coiled tight within him finally snapped, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as his hips pressed forward, forcing you to take his release. He groaned your name, his voice raw and broken, the sound laced with unrestrained pleasure as waves of his release surged through him. He felt you swallow, the rhythmic pull of your throat around him drawing out every last bit of his pleasure and leaving him utterly wrecked.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and uneven as he brushed his thumb gently against your chin, a subtle caress full of approval. “So perfect.”

His breaths came in uneven gasps as the intensity began to ebb, though the memory of your mouth on him lingered, searing itself into his mind. The slick warmth of you, your complete submission to him, was something he knew he'd spend his life chasing.

Finally, his grip loosened in your hair, and with a soft, wet pop, he pulled himself from your mouth, the absence of your warmth almost jarring. His legs trembled as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, his body still buzzing. Yet, even in his post-climactic haze, his hands remained steady, tracing the curve of your jaw with a reverence that felt entirely at odds with the raw dominance he'd displayed moments before.

“Are you alright?” he asked breathlessly, tilting your chin up to brush his thumb over your swollen lips.

Your breath was shallow, quick, and he could feel the faint tremor in your body under his hands. When you didn’t immediately answer, his brow furrowed. He withdrew his hand and reached for his wand.

The image of you that materialized made his breath catch—your breathing ragged, your cheeks flushed a deep, fiery red, your lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath, your eyes glassy.

He breathed your name, his voice tinged with worry as he cupped your face again. “I—I didn’t hurt you, did I? Please, tell me I didn’t hurt you.” His fingers brushed your hair back, searching for any sign of discomfort, his unseeing eyes filled with an almost frantic need for reassurance.

You blinked slowly, as if coming out of a haze, and the smallest of smiles tugged at your lips. Your breath hitched, and when you finally spoke, your voice was rough and shaky. “No,” you managed,“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

He let out a shaky exhale. “Are you sure you’re alright? Please tell me the truth.”

You nodded, your unsteady, watery smile sending a wave of relief coursing through Ominis, the tension in his chest easing ever so slightly. But that smile—soft, trembling, and paired with the glassiness in your eyes—made his heart falter for an entirely different reason. He had pushed you close to your limit; that much was undeniable. The sheen in your gaze spoke of intensity, perhaps even moments of overwhelming vulnerability. And yet, the faint curve of your lips said it all—you’d liked it.

You had trusted him so completely, surrendered so fully, giving yourself over to him for his pleasure, even when it stretched the boundaries of your comfort.

It was a realization that hit him hard, an almost overwhelming surge of emotion he wasn’t prepared for.

But Ominis couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it now. There was something far more important to focus on—taking care of you.

Ominis inhaled deeply, centering himself as he rose from the edge of the bed. He pulled back the covers with a smooth motion and turned back to you, his expression softening as he reached for you. “Come here,” he said gently.

Reaching down, his arms slid around you, steady and secure, as he helped you up from where you knelt on the floor. One hand pressed lightly against the small of your back, the other brushing against your arm as he guided you onto the bed.

Once you were settled, he tucked the covers around you, his hands lingering for a moment, brushing along your arm before moving to your face.

“There we are,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair away as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re alright,” he assured, though it felt as much for him as it was for you. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper, cut through the quiet. “Ominis, you can stop fussing. I’m alright.”

He froze for a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile as a soft chuckle escaped him. “You’re alright, are you?” he asked, his tone a blend of teasing and disbelief. “You can barely speak. Forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips. “I mean it,” you said, your voice still raspy. “I’m okay."

He shifted closer to the edge of the bed as he adjusted the covers once more, making sure they were snug around you. “You need water," he decided, his brow furrowing slightly.

Before you could protest, he was already moving, locating a glass and filling it at the bathroom sink. He returned swiftly, slipping one hand beneath the back of your neck to help you sit up just enough. The other hand brought the glass to your lips.

“Drink,” he murmured softly.

You sipped obediently and he smiled softly, chest rising and falling with a quiet steadiness now that he knew you were truly alright.

"You were so good," he murmured, as his fingers trailed down to your jaw, tilting your face slightly upward. "Do you have any idea how amazing you felt?"

He leaned closer, his lips finding the flushed heat of your cheek, pressing soft, lingering kisses there, each one accompanied by a murmured word of praise. “So perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his voice low and reverent. "So well behaved."

His lips trailed to your other cheek, brushing against the soft skin as he continued. “It was overwhelming in the best way possible. The way you felt, the way you took me—it was more than I could have ever imagined.”

You hummed softly, the sound a mixture of contentment and satisfaction as his lips trailed across your flushed skin. A shaky hand lifted from beneath the covers, reaching out to find his cheek, your fingers trembling slightly as you guided his lips to yours.

The kiss was a whisper, soft and delicate, barely more than a brush of your lips against his. Ominis exhaled against your mouth, his breath warm and steady, a low hum of contentment escaping him as he leaned into you. His hand slid from your jaw to the nape of your neck, cradling you as his lips moved against yours.

Your lips barely parted from his as you whispered against them, your voice still raspy but filled with quiet conviction, “I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, Ominis stilled, as though trying to convince himself they were real. Then, his breath hitched, and he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I love you, too,” he murmured in return, his voice trembling with emotion. “Merlin, I love you so much. I always have.” He paused, his unseeing eyes searching for something he couldn’t quite articulate. “After everything, after all this time… I never dared to hope we’d find each other again like this.”

You smiled faintly, your thumb stroking his cheek as you closed the small distance between you for another kiss, your lips speaking what words couldn’t.

Ominis pulled back slowly, his fingers brushing through your hair one last time before he adjusted the covers around you. He slipped into bed beside you, his movements careful, his body naturally finding yours as his arms slid around you, drawing you close. Your head nestled against his chest, your breath warm against his neck, and he felt your heartbeat, steady and sure, beneath his hand.

As he held you, Ominis let his mind wander, reflecting on everything that had brought you both to this moment. The pain, the distance, the longing—it had all been worth it for this, for you. A soft, contented sigh escaped him as he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

As he closed his eyes, his grip on you tightening slightly in an unconscious promise to never let you go again, a single thought echoed in his mind: This is where I’m meant to be. With you. Always.

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suntails · 17 days ago

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ceremony

#ive wanted to draw something like this for forever now. the soft pinks of the lighting at dusk. a quiet scene away from the world #im a sucker for weddings i want MARRIAGE. i want a WEDDING i want a CEREMONY. sighs lovingly. i want romance. its my fav #pretty dresses formal attire rings vows blah blah blah. the WORKS. i think malleus in canon obv needs a formal event w the kingdom etc #but a little private event in addition feels correct. it feels sweet. fuck the kingdom do what u want be happy in ur moment #im not sure how people interpret my work but uh. to be clear. this is mallesil. i am directly stating it here. they are my schmoopsies #i dont rly have much interest in drawing Super Shippy work for twst bc i like conceptual stuff more here but i just want to be clear #hence why i am not a brothers truther. not my vibe. happy for ppl that enjoy it but i dont. peace and love to u all i send my very best <3 #twst #twstファンアート #twisted wonderland #silver vanrouge #malleus draconia #sebek zigvolt #lilia vanrouge #mallesil #suntails

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shaiyasstuff · 1 month ago

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a dance of ice and fire | zayne

synopsis : Betrothed to the Crown Prince for the sake of peace, you are seen as a weapon to be wielded, not a queen to rule. But it is not your arrogant, power-hungry fiancé you fear—it is his brother, Zayne. As alliances shift and tensions rise, one truth becomes clear: he never wanted the crown, but for you, he will take it. content : medieval!au, strategist/advisor!zayne x princess!reader, loads of eye-fucking, savage reader and zayne, political intrigue

parts | one | two | three

The war table stretched long across the chamber, its surface weighed down with silk-draped maps, shifting borders inked with precision, and the quiet hum of consequence. The scent of melted wax and parchment clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken weight of decisions yet to be made.

At the head of it all sat your betrothed.

Not the man your heart was bound to.

Not Zayne.

He stood at his younger brother’s side, arms folded loosely in front of him, the very picture of indifference.

Pft, look at him. Acting like he doesn’t want to be here.

The courtiers droned on, voices blending together in a swirl of politics, war, and of course, predictably, your marriage.

More specifically, the matter of your so-called uncontrollable fire magic.

They spoke of you as though you weren’t in the room.

“Indeed. Fire is unpredictable. Dangerous, if left unchecked,” one noble mused, his voice carrying the same tone one might use when discussing a volatile weapon rather than a person.

Not a princess. Not you.

You resisted the urge to sigh, fingers curling against the edge of the table.

“They think themselves clever, cloaking their insults in diplomacy.”

A slow burn simmered beneath your skin. You cleared your throat, feeling the warmth coil deep in your core.

A subtle glance from across the table, Zayne’s hazel-green eyes meets yours.

He gave you a look as if to say, “Calm down.”

You flicked him a sharp look in return but obeyed, cooling the heat creeping up your spine.

Your betrothed, the crown prince, leaned back in his chair, a smirk barely masking the insecurities you knew festered beneath his skin.

His tone was condescending. That smirk, arrogant.

“You forget that she is to be my wife. Under my guidance, she will serve as an asset to this kingdom.”

The words landed like a slap, an attempt to remind you of your place.

You did not react.

You refused to.

“Heh. Asset, he says?”

“Do they think I’m a tool?”

You met his gaze without flinching.

A moment stretched between you, unspoken but clear, and you watched as his smirk faltered, just slightly.

Tilting your head, you let the silence settle before finally speaking.

“A wife or an asset, Your Highness? You speak as though they are one and the same.” A slow, deliberate smirk of your own curved at the edges of your lips.

The crown prince’s eyes narrowed. “I speak of ensuring stability. It is in everyone’s best interest that your… passions are properly directed.”

You inhaled, the simmering heat rekindling beneath your ribs.

It was always the same.

These men. Weak men, had never known fire. Not truly.

They only wished to harness it, shape it into something convenient.

Something obedient.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, a voice cut through the thick tension like a blade.

Low. Calm. Unhurried.

“You mean contained?”

The air stilled.

Zayne.

For the first time since the discussion began, he stepped forward from the sidelines, his posture casual, but his presence undeniable.

He leaned against the war table, fingers drumming idly against the polished wood, his expression unreadable.

The crown prince stiffened. “Then what would you suggest, brother?”

Zayne tilted his head, his movements slow, deliberate. “That you recognize the difference between ruling with fire and being burned by it.”

You saw it. The flicker of doubt in your betrothed’s eyes. The way his jaw clenched, frustration barely contained. “And you believe I am incapable?”

Zayne exhaled, the sound closer to an actual than a scoff.

“I believe the court is still debating whether you are capable of ruling at all.”

A murmur spread across the room, an uneasy shift in posture from those seated at the table.

Some looked away. Others suddenly found the tapestries on the walls utterly fascinating.

Zayne was not a man to waste words.

So when he spoke, even in the quietest of tones, everyone listened.

Your lips curled into the faintest smirk, hidden behind the rim of your goblet as you lifted it to your lips. “Perhaps the real discussion should not be about my power, but how little faith your court seems to have in yours.”

You could barely conceal the amusement in your voice.

A pointed silence followed.

One of the older lords cleared his throat. “That is not what we meant, Your Highness—”

“Isn’t it?” Zayne’s voice was still calm, still soft. And yet, it carried weight heavier than any decree the crown prince had ever issued.

Your betrothed’s grip on the armrest of his chair tightened. “Enough.”

You set your goblet down with a soft clink against the table, tilting your head slightly.

“On that, we agree. I tire of being spoken about as if I am not in the room.”

The words landed like a challenge, wrapping around the court like a vice. You let your gaze drift, meeting the eyes of every lord and lady present, watching as they struggled to form a response.

Beside the crown prince, Zayne smirked, just barely.

“A mistake they will not make again.”

Your betrothed was barely containing himself now. His pride wounded, his patience wearing thin. “And you speak for her now?”

Zayne shifted, crossing his arms with effortless ease. “No. She speaks for herself. You were simply… thoughtless enough to ignore her.”

Silence.

No one dared to fill it.

And there it was. The opening.

You did not hesitate.

“You assume I need guidance,” you said smoothly, your voice steady as you turned your attention back to the court.

Your fingers traced the rim of your goblet, slow and deliberate. “You speak of control as if it is something I lack.”

The room had fallen so quiet you could hear the faint crackle of the hearth.

“And yet, here I sit. Regal, composed, unmoved.”

The tension in the room was palpable, thick like smoke in the air. You could feel Zayne’s presence beside you, unwavering. No words passed between you, but it didn’t matter.

It never had.

This was how it had always been. Moving in sync without needing to speak.

“I am not a weapon for you to wield,” you continued, voice even, but edged with something unmistakable.

Authority. Power. Fire.

“I am a ruler. And if you cannot understand the difference, then perhaps you are the ones who lack control.”

Silence stretched long.

Zayne smirked, just barely, the glint in his eyes almost approving. “Well played.”

The crown prince’s glare burned with poorly hidden rage, but for the first time tonight, he had no retort.

—•

The court had been left in stunned silence, your words lingering like smoke in the air long after you and Zayne had walked away from the war table.

The heavy doors shut behind you with a dull thud, sealing the courtiers and their feigned diplomacy within.

The corridor was dimly lit, lined with towering stone pillars and torches that flickered against the cold walls.

You exhaled, pressing your fingers against your temples, the weight of the evening pressing against you.

Footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“You handled that well,” Zayne’s voice was laced with amusement, his tone as effortless as ever.

“Though, I think you nearly gave my dear brother an aneurysm.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Pity.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath, then leaned casually against the nearest pillar, his arms crossing over his chest. He was watching you, observing you, as he always did, with that unnerving calm.

It made you shift. You knew what came next.

“You’re fuming,” he observed, though it wasn’t a question.

You sighed, letting the flames of your frustration flicker beneath your skin. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Zayne tilted his head. “I don’t let idiots bother me.”

“And I’m supposed to?” You shot him a look, eyes sharp.

His smirk was slow, almost infuriatingly so. “You’re better at playing this game than they are. You shouldn’t let their pettiness get under your skin.”

You scoffed, stepping toward him. “And you shouldn’t have had to speak for me.”

At that, his expression flickered.

“I didn’t,” Zayne said smoothly. “You did just fine on your own. I only nudged them in the right direction.”

You gave him a dry look. “Oh, of course. And your ‘nudge’ just happened to be a complete dismantling of your brother’s authority?”

Zayne shrugged. “He walked into it.”

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face before glancing up at him again. “It’s dangerous, Zayne.”

His smirk faded, his features turning unreadable. “It’s the truth.”

You studied him, the way the flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows over his face, making him seem even harder to read.

Zayne always had a way of slipping through cracks, of appearing indifferent while moving pieces behind the scenes. But tonight, in the way he had stepped in, the way he had so effortlessly undermined his brother in front of the court, it felt different.

It felt like he wasn’t just playing a game anymore.

“…You enjoyed that,” you realized, narrowing your eyes.

His expression didn’t shift. “What are you implying?”

You took another step forward, voice quieter now. “That you aren’t as disinterested as you pretend to be.”

Something in his gaze flickered. “What I am,” he said, “is someone who knows when to speak.”

You held his gaze.

“And when to stay silent?”

A beat. Then, slow and deliberate, “Yes.”

A shiver ran through you, though you weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the way his voice dipped, the way he looked at you like he was trying to see something beneath the surface.

You swallowed, turning away slightly. “You’ll make an enemy of him, you know.”

Zayne exhaled through his nose. “He was already my enemy. He just didn’t know it yet.”

That should have unsettled you. Should have made you wary.

But it didn’t.

Because the way he said it, the quiet ease of it, the certainty made it sound like a promise.

And that, perhaps, was what made it more dangerous.

—•

The scent of blooming nightshade lingered in the air, blending with the crisp bite of the evening breeze.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, the sky painted in the deep purples and golds of the dying sun.

This had always been your place.

Yours and Zayne’s.

Hidden away behind the hedge-lined paths, far from the ever-watchful eyes of courtiers and expectations, you sat on the low stone wall that framed the fountain, your bare fingers trailing over the cool marble.

He stood before you, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other tucked loosely into his belt. Silent, as always. Watching.

“You’re brooding again,” you teased, kicking your foot out lightly, the tip of your slipper grazing his knee.

Zayne raised a brow. “And you’re distracting me.”

“Good. You could use a distraction.”

His lips curled slightly, but he said nothing.

Instead, he moved closer, standing between your knees, his presence a quiet weight in the space around you.

The air changed, charged with something neither of you dared name.

Your throat felt tight. “You’re leaving soon.”

Zayne sighed, glancing away. “You know I have to.”

You swallowed. You knew it.

Of course you did.

His duties and obligations would always call him elsewhere.

That was the nature of his existence, the shadow to his brother’s gilded throne.

But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I hate this.” The words left you before you could stop them. “I hate that you always go, and I never know when you’ll return.”

His gaze snapped back to you, sharper now. “And you think I enjoy it?”

You looked down, fingers curling against the stone. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, unwilling to be spoken aloud.

Zayne exhaled, then very softly, carefully, he reached for you.

His fingers brushed against your wrist first, hesitant, as if giving you a chance to pull away.

When you didn’t, he traced his touch upward, gliding over your forearm, curling around your hand.

A shiver ran down your spine, though it had nothing to do with the cold.

“I always come back to you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You know that.”

You should have pulled away. Should have scolded him for making promises he had no right to make.

Instead, you curled your fingers into his, holding him there.

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s the problem.”

His grip tightened.

The space between you narrowed, the warmth of his breath brushing your cheek, but neither of you moved further.

Because this was what it had always been.

A breath away.

A step too close.

A love neither of you could afford.

And yet, when he finally let go, his touch lingered like embers beneath your skin, one you knew would never fade.

But that was in the past, a past that no longer existed.

Buried underneath so-called duties and obligations, and your betrothal to his brother.

And yet, standing there in the dim corridor, bathed in the flickering glow of torches, you could still feel it.

The past.

Him.

Zayne.

The memory of his touch ghosted over your skin, as if time itself refused to let you forget.

The walls around you were cold, suffocating in their silence, but the air between you?

Charged.

Stifling.

Dangerous.

“You’re thinking about it again.”

His voice was smooth, quiet, but it curled around you like smoke, and you could not escape.

You swallowed hard before turning to him. “And what exactly am I thinking about?”

He leaned against the archway, arms crossed, his posture lazy, but his gaze?

Unyielding. Searching.

His lips barely curved. “Us.”

Your stomach twisted.

“There is no ‘us’,” you said, keeping your voice even.

Zayne didn’t blink. “And whose fault is that?”

Your breath hitched before you forced out an easy shrug. “Fate’s, I suppose.”

A sharp exhale. “Ah, yes. Blame fate. Much easier than blaming yourself.”

His words struck something deep, something raw, and you hated how effortlessly he could do that.

How he could still see through you, past the composure, past the armor you had so carefully crafted.

Your jaw tightened. “You walked away just as much as I did.”

He pushed off the wall then, his steps slow but certain, closing the space between you too quickly, too easily.

“No,” he murmured, voice impossibly low. “I let you walk away. There’s a difference.”

The air changed.

Your pulse pounded, your breathing shallow as he came closer, his warmth wrapping around you even before his body did. The heat of him was too much, too familiar, too tempting.

You should have stepped back.

Should have stopped him.

But you didn’t.

Because this was Zayne.

The man who had once held your hand beneath the stars, who had whispered your name in the dark, who had been everything before duty and responsibilities had torn it all apart.

He stood before you now, the space between you nonexistent, his voice barely a breath away.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Because how could you?

How could you lie when his gaze was burning through you, when his scent, his heat, his very presence was pulling you under like a tide you had spent years trying to resist?

His fingers brushed your wrist like a whisper of a touch, but it sent fire racing beneath your skin. You shivered, your breath unsteady, and his eyes darkened at the sight of it.

“Say it,” he murmured again, softer this time, but no less demanding.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Say it like you mean it.

Say it like it doesn’t keep you up at night.

Say it like your body doesn’t still crave him in ways it shouldn’t.

Say it like it wasn’t the worst mistake of your life.

You opened your mouth, searching for words, for anything, but Zayne wasn’t patient.

His fingers lifted, grazing along your jaw, his touch soft and gentle, like he was daring you to pull away.

You didn’t.

Because god, you still wanted him.

Zayne’s fingers barely touched your skin, but it was enough.

Enough to set fire to the air between you.

Enough to make your breath catch, your pulse erratic.

His thumb ghosted over the curve of your jaw, his touch deliberate.

Too light to be possessive, too heavy to be innocent.

You should have pulled away.

Should have reminded him of the ring on your finger, of the man waiting beyond these walls.

But when you exhaled, it wasn’t in protest.

It was in surrender.

His eyes flickered to your lips, just for a second.

A heartbeat, a breath, a mistake waiting to happen.

He was close now. Too close.

You could feel the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breath mingling with yours, the weight of his presence.

His cold ice pressing against every inch of restraint you had left.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. Dangerous.

“Say it, and I walk away.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “Zayne—”

“Say it, and this stops.” His forehead nearly brushed yours, his words laced with something unspoken, something almost desperate.

You swallowed, but you didn’t say it.

His fingers slid down, grazing the column of your throat, lingering just below your pulse like a silent challenge, a dare.

Your heart pounded against his touch.

His breath shuddered.

“…that’s what I thought.”

And then ever so slowly, so torturously, he pulled away.

Cold air rushed between you, but the damage was already done.

You were burning, and it was not because of your magic.

—•

The next morning.

The war table, its silk-draped maps spread wide, was marked with careful ink strokes, shifting borders that could just as easily shift again with the wrong decision.

You sat poised, your hands resting lightly against the table’s surface, composed yet unyielding.

Across from you, a noble, Lord Callas straightened in his chair, his gaze sharp, his mouth already forming another shortsighted argument.

Zayne stood near the edge of the room, arms folded, unreadable.

But you felt his presence lingering as if beside you.

Watching.

Waiting.

Just as he always did.

Callas exhaled sharply. “Your Highness, we must establish dominance.”

You tilted your head slightly, fingers grazing the edge of the map.

“Dominance?” Your voice was smooth, measured.

“Tell me, what kind of dominance do you imagine? One built on empty threats? On brute force?”

Callas narrowed his eyes. “A display of strength is necessary.”

A soft hum left your lips as you tapped a finger against the capital city inked onto the map.

“A display of strength, you say.” A pause. Then, you lifted your gaze. “And when has brute force ever earned peace?”

The tension crackled.

Besides the crown prince, Zayne shifted slightly, just enough that his attention became unmistakable.

Callas scoffed, his fingers curling against the table’s edge. “My father served in—”

You leaned forward slightly, voice turning smooth, precise.

“Your father.”

His jaw twitched.

“What about you, Lord Callas ?” Your hand moved across the map, fingertips gliding over contested borders, lingering over cities on the brink of war.

“Have you ever stood on the battlefield?”

Callas hesitated.

Your eyes locked onto his.

“Have you ever seen men bleed for thoughtless orders?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed over his face.

Your voice lowered.

“Have you watched as cities burn under the weight of a war that could have been avoided?”

Silence.

A moment too long. A pause too telling.

And in that hesitation, you struck.

“No?” You leaned back, your fingers leaving the map as your hands folded in your lap.

“Then I suggest you reconsider before you advise me on matters you do not understand.”

The room stilled.

Callas’ face darkened, but his mouth remained shut.

He wouldn’t dare argue.

Across the table, Zayne smirked.

Just barely.

But enough.

Silence settled over the chamber, heavy and sharp, the weight of your words pressing against the gathered nobles like a blade to the throat.

Lord Callas sat rigid in his chair, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

He did not speak.

Because he knew he couldn’t.

But, of course, your betrothed would not allow the silence to linger.

The crown prince leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair in slow, deliberate movements.

His expression remained composed, but you could see it.

The flicker of irritation in his gaze

The faint tightening of his jaw.

“Lord Callas speaks from experience, Princess.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, cold and thin like a knife’s point.

“He has studied warfare extensively, as have many on this council. It would be unwise to dismiss their counsel so easily.”

You inhaled slowly, fingers grazing the edge of the map before you, tracing the ink-stained borders of a world they sought to carve into something that suited their desires.

“Studied warfare?” you echoed, tilting your head.

And then, with a slow blink, you lifted your gaze, your voice turning soft, thoughtful—dangerous.

“Tell me, Your Highness, has Lord Callas ever read about the sound a man makes when his lungs freeze from the inside out?”

Callas stiffened.

You did not stop.

“Or perhaps he studied the way a body turns brittle in the cold, the way flesh cracks apart like shattered glass when left in the dead of winter?”

The temperature in the room seemed to shift.

It wasn’t real, at least not yet, but the weight of your words made the air feel thinner, evident in the firelight flickering against the frost creeping at the edges of the war table.

“There is a difference,” you continued, voice cooling like a blade dipped in ice, “between knowing war and surviving it.”

The crown prince’s fingers stilled against the wood.

His smirk, polished and practiced, barely flickered.

But you saw the tension settle into his frame.

“You forget your place, Princess.”

You tilted your chin slightly, meeting his stare without hesitation.

“No, Your Highness.” A slow smirk curved your lips, one that did not reach your eyes. “I believe you forget mine.”

A sharp inhale, his eyes narrowed.

And the tension stretched.

And then Zayne spoke.

“Careful, brother.”

The words were low, unhurried, amused.

He hadn’t moved from his position, still leaning against the table’s edge, arms crossed, posture effortless.

But there was something different now.

There was a quiet shift in the air, a subtle weight settling across the chamber.

Zayne tilted his head slightly, his smirk lazy, his words laced with mock concern.

“Wouldn’t want to raise your voice at your future wife.”

A beat.

“It would be… unseemly.”

The jab landed clean.

A few courtiers glanced away, shifting in their seats while some others barely concealed their intrigue.

The crown prince’s patience snapped like ice underfoot.

“Enough.”

Zayne arched a brow.

“Oh?” He exhaled, feigning a look, thoughtful.

“Have I offended you? That wasn’t my intention.”

A pause.

“Not entirely, anyway.”

The crown prince stood.

And Zayne, never one to be outdone, stood his ground.

The shift was immediate.

The air turned sharp, the warmth of the torches dimming slightly, the faintest hint of frost licking at the stone beneath their feet.

A subtle show of power.

Silent, but undeniable.

A challenge.

The room stilled as the tension coiled, as cold crept along the edges of the chamber, biting at the air between them.

Zayne’s smirk remained, but his breath misted slightly in the cooling air.

The crown prince’s fingers curled against the wood of the chair, frost cracking along its edges.

The courtiers felt it.

You could see it in the way they hesitated, in the way they darted quick, careful glances between the two brothers, one, the heir to the throne and the other who had no interest in it.

But of course, power did not care for intentions.

Zayne’s voice was softer than it should have been, given the weight behind it.

“Careful, brother.”

A quiet breath.

The frost spread an inch further.

And the crown prince said nothing.

Not yet.

You could feel the frost creeping along the war table, spreading in thin, jagged lines across the polished wood.

The torches flickered, their flames dimming under the weight of the cold pressing into the chamber.

The air was sharp, biting, charged with a tension that no one dared to break.

The prince sat rigid, fingers curled around the armrest of his chair, ice cracking under his grip.

Across from him, Zayne stood with effortless ease, hands resting against the table, expression unreadable.

The cold between them wasn’t just power, it was a warning.

No one in the room moved.

The courtiers watched carefully, caught between fear and fascination, knowing full well what a battle between brothers could mean.

You, however, were already tired of it.

Fingers tapping against your goblet, you let out a slow breath.

“Tell me, are we really going to start a blizzard indoors?”

The frost stopped.

The crown prince’s eyes flicked toward you, irritation flickering behind them.

Across the table, Zayne’s smirk deepened.

“I’d win.”

The prince’s jaw tightened. “Would you?”

The torches wavered and the temperature dropped another degree.

Zayne leaned forward slightly, ice blooming beneath his fingertips, creeping just a little closer to his brother’s.

“Do you really want to find out?”

The courtiers stiffened.

“That’s enough, boys.”

With a calm breath, you placed your palm against the war table, letting your fingers trail through the frost.

The ice melted beneath your touch, fading into nothing.

The shift was immediate.

Not an attack. Not a challenge.

A reminder.

The frost recoiled.

The tension however, did not.

Your gaze slid between them, unimpressed.

“Are we done?”

Silence stretched, heavy and unyielding, before the prince finally exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to relax.

The ice at his hands faded, his expression smoothing back into his normal, unfazed look.

Zayne watched him for a moment longer before leaning back, smirk still present, but the storm in his eyes dimming.

He met your stare briefly, as if to say he understood exactly what you had done.

You pick up your goblet, fingers curling around the metal that was still warm from your touch.

“If the theatrics are over, perhaps we can get back to actual politics.”

Zayne chuckled under his breath.

The prince said nothing, but the irritation in his gaze was clear.

The courtiers hesitated before shifting back into quiet discussion, the meeting resuming as if nothing had happened.

But as Zayne tilted his head slightly, watching you with quiet amusement, you knew the fight wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

—•

The corridors of the palace were empty, save for the two of you. The torches lining the stone walls flickered weakly, casting shifting shadows against the cold marble floors.

The weight of the meeting still clung to the air, lingering like frost long after the ice had faded from the war table.

You walked beside Zayne in silence, steps slow, measured.

You could still feel the tension from earlier, the quiet storm between him and his brother, the unspoken challenge.

But, this felt different.

This wasn’t the casual, detached Zayne who always lingered at the edges of power, just close enough to influence, but never enough to claim it.

No.

This Zayne felt closer. Sharper. Decisive.

“You handled them well,” he said eventually, voice smooth, but lacking its usual amusement.

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “You mean I handled you well.”

That earned you a flicker of something familiar.

A smirk, faint and fleeting. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

You hummed, tilting your head slightly. “You enjoyed that too much.”

Zayne’s smirk didn’t last.

Instead, he slowed, gaze drifting toward the high windows where moonlight stretched across the stone floor.

“He makes it easy.”

He.

You didn’t need to ask who.

The crown prince. His younger brother. The man you were meant to marry.

The man Zayne had once let rule without challenge.

But something had changed. You could feel it.

His fingers twitched at his sides, barely noticeable, but enough for you to see the tension in him.

A tension that hadn’t been there before.

You studied him carefully. “You never wanted the throne.”

His jaw shifted slightly. A slow exhale. “No.”

But there was something else in his voice now. Something new.

“And now?”

Zayne didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned against one of the columns, arms folding across his chest, eyes flickering toward the darkened hallway beyond.

“Now, things are different.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“Because of him?”

A humorless chuckle.

“Because of you.”

You stopped in your tracks.

Zayne tilted his head, gaze settling on you fully now.

Nog lazy, not indifferent, but weighted with intent.

“I spent my whole life letting him have it,” he murmured.

“Because I knew what that crown did to people. What power did.”

His fingers tapped absently against his arm, slow, deliberate.

“You take the throne, and suddenly you don’t own yourself anymore. Every move, every word, every alliance, every sacrifice—”

His voice dipped lower. “You don’t rule it. It rules you.”

His eyes darkened. “And I never wanted to belong to it.”

You swallowed. “But now you do?”

Zayne didn’t move, didn’t break your gaze.

But the shift in him was undeniable.

He wasn’t just watching the game anymore.

He was stepping into it.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t have to.

Because you both knew exactly what he meant.

The air between you was cold, but the tension was sharper.

The corridor stretched long and empty, the torches casting flickering shadows against the stone.

But you weren’t looking at the walls, or the flames.

You were looking at him.

At the weight of his words still hanging between you.

“Now, the prize is worth it.”

Your expression didn’t change, but something in your chest twisted.

Heat curled under your skin, not from anger, but from something close to disappointment.

You stepped forward, closing the space between you, forcing his full attention.

“A prize?” Your voice was soft, feeling offended.

Zayne didn’t move, his expression unreadable, but you caught it.

The flicker of tension, the way he had expected this.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” You didn’t let him look away.

“You talk about power like it’s a game. Like the throne is a war you’ve suddenly decided is worth fighting because of me.”

His jaw tensed. “That’s not—”

“I am not a prize.” Your voice was steady, unwavering. “Not a throne to be claimed. Not a crown to be won.”

His eyes darkened, but he stayed silent.

“I have spent my life being bartered, measured, weighed for my worth. I won’t let you do the same.”

Zayne’s gaze held yours, quiet but relentless.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, but there was something behind it, something deeper than frustration.

You swallowed, but didn’t speak.

“You are not a prize, Princess.” His words were deliberate, calm, unshaken. “But you are worth fighting for.”

The torches crackled in the silence. His expression didn’t soften, but the intensity in his gaze was unmistakable.

“And you deserve someone who will.”

Zayne never wasted words.

That is why they are impossible to ignore.

You know you should have walked away.

Left him standing there in the dim corridor, let his words fade into the silence.

But you didn’t.

Zayne watched you, waiting.

His words hung between you, firm and unshaken. He wasn’t taking them back.

He wasn’t giving you an easy way out.

“And if I don’t want to be fought over at all?” Your voice was quieter now, controlled, but not weak.

His head tilted slightly. “Then I’ll stop.”

The words came too easily.

They should have reassured you, should have given you the control you wanted.

But something about the way he said them, the way his gaze held steady, the way his body remained perfectly still, made you wonder if he was lying.

Or worse, if he was telling the truth.

If you told him to stop, he would.

But that didn’t mean he would ever truly let you go.

You exhaled, fingers curling at your sides. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

Zayne let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t care about simplicity.”

Your lips parted, ready to argue, but before you could speak, he moved.

Not closer, not away, just a shift of weight, a breath of space given and taken in the same moment.

Your breath caught.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze flicked down to your hands, still clenched at your sides.

His fingers twitched at his own, like he might reach out. Like he had the right to.

He didn’t.

But it would be so easy.

Your throat tightened. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?” His voice was smooth, maddeningly calm. “Tell the truth?”

You inhaled sharply. “Act like this is a choice.”

His smirk faded slightly. “It’s always been a choice. The only difference is I’ve finally made mine.”

Your stomach twisted. “Zayne—”

“No.” His voice was steady, firmer than before. “You don’t get to tell me I should have wanted the throne all these years, then be angry when I finally decide to take it.”

Your pulse pounded against your ribs. “You’re only doing this because of me.”

Zayne’s gaze darkened. “Yes.”

The admission was too quick. No hesitation.

Your fingers curled. “That’s not how this works.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Then tell me…how does it work?”

You weren’t sure who moved first.

But suddenly, the space between you disappeared, stolen in an instant.

The cold of the corridor pressed in, but his body was warm.

Too close, too much, too familiar.

Zayne’s breath brushed against your skin.

His voice was low, controlled, edged with something raw.

“If you think I’ll stand by while you’re bound to another man, a man who wants to use you as a bargaining chip, then you never knew me at all.”

Your throat tightened.

Your hands shook.

But still, you didn’t move away.

The space between you disappeared.

Not by hesitation. Not by accident.

By choice.

Zayne’s breath was warm against your skin, his body close enough that you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

The flickering torchlight caught the sharp angles of his face, the shadowed curve of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that had been building for way too long.

Your pulse pounded.

Every rational thought screamed for distance, for restraint, for control.

But control had been slipping since the moment he stepped into this fight.

Since the moment he chose you.

His hand lifted, hovering near your waist, fingers twitching as if caught between restraint and inevitability.

You felt the hesitation, the last fragile thread of self-control fraying at the edges.

You could stop this.

You should.

But you didn’t.

Your fingers curled into the front of his tunic, just barely, just enough that he felt it.

The moment stretched between you, heavy and breathless, before he finally moved.

His lips crashed into yours, fierce and unrelenting, years of tension snapping in an instant.

There was nothing hesitant about the way he kissed you, nothing careful in the way his hands could finally grip your waist, pulling you against him, pressing you into the cold stone wall as if he had been holding back for too long and had finally given in.

Heat surged under your skin, your body igniting in a way that had nothing to do with magic.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tighter when his teeth scraped against your lower lip.

Zayne exhaled sharply, breaking the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His breath was ragged, his grip firm.

Like he was afraid to let go.

“Say it,” he murmured.

Your fingers curled into his sleeves, voice barely steady.

“Say what?”

His lips brushed yours again, teasing, testing the last remnants of your resolve. “That you don’t want this.”

“That you don’t want me.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because it would be a lie.

And you both knew it.

His smirk returned, softer this time, his thumb tracing slow circles along your hip. “That’s what I thought.”

You didn’t stop him when he kissed you again.

Because, you wanted this.

#zayne x non mc #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne x you #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #fantasy #fantasy romance #fanfic #medieval #magical realism #arranged marriage #forbidden love

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floralcavern · 3 months ago

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The difference between male wish fulfillment vs female wish fulfillment in romance anime

There’s kind of a different gaze that can be targeted to in romance anime.

In male wish fulfillment anime romances, there’s usually a much heavier emphasis on the male love interest’s pov than the female’s. Also, women tend to be much more.. objectified and there’s an unnecessary amount of fan service. An example of this is Rent a Girlfriend and Don’t Toy With Me Miss Nagatoro. It’s more about the male lead being hit on by.. really horny women than actual romance.

However, in female wish fulfillment anime, it tends to be more told from the female’s perspective. The way the male love interest tends to be written is to make him emotional and aware and.. kind, rather than objectifying him or even making them horny, because women.. we don’t really want to be lusted after like that, typically. We’re already objectified enough. My favorite example is Kimi Ni Todoke: From Me To You. Kazehaya admits he’s a ‘pervert’ but in a respectful way. The writer doesn’t make him fully pure or naive or anything like that. He’s still a teen boy. But in this series, the male character is written to be sweet, emotional, and aware but he’s not stripped away from his inherent masculinity (nontoxic masculinity!). Not just.. a guy, if that makes any sense. Meanwhile, in male wish fulfillment anime, the women are just women, rather than characters. Again, I hope this makes sense!

Now, I’m not saying all romance anime that’s written from the female’s perspective is the best! I think MY Love Story!! is a good example of this! The main character is a male and he’s a genuine, total sweetheart while still having a sense of masculinity! And the female character isn’t objectified! And I would even say even say that this show could be considered a male wish fulfillment romance, based on how it’s written.

And then there’s shows for both, like Kaguya Sama: Love is War. In this show, the two love interests have complete equal power in focus, making them feel completely balanced and real. Neither are objectified and both get treated like humans. Same with The Apothecary Diaries, if not more so!

Anyways, sorry for this ramble. I just really like (well written) romance anime. And I will leave off with a list of romance anime recommendations!

•Kimi Ni Todoke: From Me To You (adorable, fluffy, amazing character development, doesn’t beat around the bush the entire fucking series. Half of the manga is pining and the other half is the complexities of being in your first ever relationship as you try to navigate it all)

•Snow White With The Red Hair (amazing female lead with cool world building and interesting dynamics)

•MY Love Story!! (SO CUTE! Amazing show about not judging appearances)

•My Happy Marriage (Really wholesome Cinderella type story)

•Kaguya Sama: Love Is War (hilarious. I actually recommend the dub. Genuinely really sweet)

•Sasaki To Miyano (so sweet it’ll give you cavities)

•Tomo Chan Is A Girl (there is sadly quite a bit of fanservice in this. I’ve seen way worse, but ya. If you’re wanting something to watch with your parents, this may not be it. Mostly just close ups on boobs)

•Monthly Girls Nozaki (romcom that leans really heavy on the comedy more than the romance, but I love it too much to not recommend. Watch it in the dub, you won’t regret it)

•Fruits Basket (Really sweet)

•Toilet Bound Hanako (THE MANGA! READ THE MANGA! DON’T LET THE TITLE WEIRD YOU OUT, I SWEAR IT IS INCREDIBLE! READ!)

•Komi Can’t Communicate (I would, however, like to apologize for Yamai ahead of time. The entire fandom hates her, don’t worry. There’s also quite a bit of fan service in this one 😔)

•Toradora (haven’t seen it in a while, but it’s a classic lol)

•Horimiya (Another romance anime that doesn’t beat around the bush!)

•The Ice Guy And His Cool Female Colleague (SO. CUTE. AGHHHH. Despite it being ice themed, it certainly makes me feel warm and fuzzy)

•Love, Chuunibyou, and Other Delusions (so silly, amazing story about maturity while also keeping your inner child alive)

•I Want To Eat Your Pancreas (be sure to bring tissues! You will cry!)

•Kamisama Kiss (I really like the characters and world building in this one. Sadly, we’ll probably never get another season 😔)

•Words Bubble Up Like Soda Pop (SUCH A CUTE MOVIE! Amazing feel good romance that just makes you happy)

•My Little Monster (not my usual first recommendation, but it’s an overall fun watch… still so desperately want another season. False hope lol)

•Ouran High School Host Club (an absolute classic romcom. Another situation where I actually recommend the dub)

•Apothecary Diaries (AGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! …full stop. I love this show.)

•Princess Tutu (I LOVE THIS STORYBOOK SETTING! And Ahiru is so silly. She’s just a duck, she can’t handle all these responsibilities!)

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frontmansdefender · 9 months ago

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He turned “babe I lost my ring” to a whole love poem 😭

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enhaflixer · 2 months ago

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pjs - Signed, Sealed & Undone. - Part 1

A TIME TRAVEL CONTRACT MARRIAGE FIC -PART 2 OUT NOW

Synopsis: Fake marriage proposals are a tired billionaire trope.

But when Jay Park—former golden boy of Park Industries, now chaebol exile—comes back from disgrace (and back in time), he’s got one goal: rewrite the past before it destroys him.

When you, an unassuming journalist with nothing to lose, get an offer of a lifetime, you’re sure it’s a mistake.

A contract, a relocation to Seoul, and one fake wedding later, you’re still trying to convince yourself none of this is real. The only problem? Neither of you seem to remember where the performance ends and something devastatingly real begins.

Release Date: 8th March, Part 2 - Monday 10th March

WC: 13K CW (18+ MDNI) : fake marriage, slow-burn romance, power dynamics, corporate intrigue, arranged marriage trope, emotional angst, unresolved sexual tension, longing glances across boardrooms, contract loopholes, financial manipulation, morally gray billionaire!Jay, forced proximity, family expectations, betrayal, public displays of affection (for the cameras, obviously), enemies-to-allies-to-lovers, suppressed feelings, business politics, one bed trope (but make it corporate), dramatic confessions, late-night whiskey-fueled arguments, high society drama, backhanded compliments as flirting, dramatic departures followed by even more dramatic returns, lingering touches that mean too much, feelings clause not included in the contract, deep intimacy, power dynamics in a romantic context, possessive tendencies (but soft), light dominance/submission themes, clothing being undone at a painfully slow pace, tension so thick it could shatter glass, breathless dialogue, interrupted kisses that lead to frustration, and the inevitable realization that this was never fake at all.

The Original Timeline

Five Years Ago

The first and only time you met Jay Park was at the gallery opening of your college roommate's photography exhibit in New York. You wouldn't have been there at all if Priya hadn't practically begged you to help her make up the numbers.

"Just mingle for an hour," she'd pleaded over coffee that morning, eyes wide with artistic desperation. "Drink free champagne, eat expensive hors d'oeuvres, and pretend to understand modern art. I need this exhibit to succeed. My parents are still convinced I should have become a doctor."

So you'd ventured out into the crisp October evening to a renovated warehouse in Chelsea that now housed the Klein Gallery.

The moment you walked in, you regretted your decision.

The gallery was crowded with Manhattan's elite—people whose casual conversations name-dropped summer homes in the Hamptons and winter getaways in Aspen. You recognized a few faces from glossy magazines—a popular actress, a tech entrepreneur, a fashion designer.

You spotted Priya across the room, surrounded by attentive listeners, looking nothing like the frazzled artist who had practically lived in sweatpants throughout college. Tonight she was transformed—elegant in a silk jumpsuit, her long black hair swept into an artful updo.

Not wanting to interrupt her moment, you moved toward the bar, securing a glass of champagne that definitely wasn't the top-shelf variety promised. Glass in hand, you began the obligatory circuit of the room.

Priya's work had always struck you as technically skilled but emotionally distant. Tonight's collection—titled "Urban Dissolution"—featured black and white images of city landscapes in various states of decay. To your untrained eye, several looked like artistic shots of garbage.

You were examining one such photograph when someone spoke beside you.

"It's quite terrible, isn't it?"

The voice was pleasant—a warm baritone with just the slightest hint of an accent.

You turned to find a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit studying the same photograph with thinly veiled amusement. He was handsome in that polished, untouchable way of the extremely wealthy—perfect hair, perfect posture, everything about him screaming old money.

Under normal circumstances, you might have nodded politely and moved on. Men who looked like him rarely engaged in genuine conversation at events like these.

But something in his expression—a hint of genuine mischief beneath the polished exterior—made you respond honestly.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied diplomatically. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we can still recognize it when we experience it." He gestured toward the photograph with his champagne flute. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you, drawing disapproving glances from a nearby couple examining the same piece with exaggerated intensity.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said, lowering your voice.

"Ah." He didn't look remotely embarrassed. If anything, his smile widened, creating a small dimple in his left cheek. "Then I assume you're here out of obligation rather than appreciation."

You studied him more carefully. There was no malice in his expression, only genuine amusement and refreshing honesty.

"Isn't everyone at these things?" You glanced around the gallery. "Half the people here couldn't distinguish between a masterpiece and a child's finger painting, but they'll all have very strong opinions."

"Touché." His smile reached his eyes, transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely compelling. "I'm Jay."

"Just Jay?" You raised an eyebrow. "No family name? No title or position that should impress me?"

"Tonight, just Jay." He seemed to appreciate that you didn't immediately offer your name in return. "And you are?"

"Just someone who defends her friends' artistic endeavors, no matter how questionable."

"Loyalty," he nodded, as if noting something important. "An underrated quality in rooms like this, where allegiances change with the season's trends."

There was something wistful in his observation, a flash of genuineness beneath the practiced charm. Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew your attention.

A group had arrived, their entrance causing a ripple effect through the crowd—backs straightening, conversations pausing, attention shifting.

"Duty calls," Jay murmured, his expression cooling. The playful stranger who had joked with you was vanishing, replaced by someone more controlled. "It was refreshing to meet you, Just Someone."

And then he was gone, moving toward the new arrivals. You watched as he transformed with each step—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, smile shifting from genuine to practiced.

He bowed respectfully to an older couple at the center of the group, clearly his family. The woman—elegant, with silver-streaked black hair—examined the gallery with the cool assessment of someone accustomed to making judgments that mattered.

It was only when Priya rushed over that you realized who you'd been talking to.

"Do you know who that was?" she hissed, gripping your arm. "The Jay Park. Park Industries! The Korean conglomerate that's expanding into American markets. Did you get his number?"

"We just talked about your photographs," you said, suddenly feeling out of place in your carefully selected but obviously off-the-rack dress. "He called them visual food poisoning."

Priya's expression didn't even flicker. "Jay Park insulted my work? That's practically a career highlight!" She snapped a discreet photo. "Wait until I tell my parents—they'll finally believe this wasn't a waste of my education."

You watched as Jay circulated through the room with practiced ease, his charisma deployed with strategic precision. The man who had stood beside you making irreverent comments might as well have been a different person entirely.

As you left the gallery hours later, you glanced back once to find Jay watching you from across the room. For just a moment, his public mask slipped, and he gave you a small, conspiratorial smile.

You never saw him again. Not in person, anyway.

Three Years Ago

"PARK HEIR ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCED: JAY PARK TO WED ITALIAN HEIRESS"

The headline splashed across your phone screen during your morning subway commute. Normally, you'd have skipped past such celebrity gossip, but the name caught your attention—that brief memory of champagne and honesty in a New York gallery.

Curious, you tapped the article.

"Jay Park, 29, heir to the Park Industries empire, announced his engagement yesterday to Seraphina Visconti, 26, daughter of Italian shipping magnate Giorgio Visconti. The match unites two of the most influential business families across continents after a whirlwind romance of six months.

"'Seraphina represents everything the Parks value—business acumen, family loyalty, and global vision,' said Chairwoman Soo-min Park in a statement.

"The couple met during Park Industries' expansion into European markets. Sources suggest the marriage will cement a strategic partnership potentially worth billions."

Below the text was a photograph of Jay with his arm around a stunning woman with olive skin and a camera-ready smile. He looked exactly as you remembered—handsome, composed, untouchable. But something about his eyes seemed different. Harder, perhaps. The smile that had crinkled their corners in the gallery was nowhere to be seen.

You stared at the image longer than was reasonable for someone who had spoken to the man exactly once. There was something almost theatrical about the pose, the smiles, the carefully framed opulence.

"Good for him," you muttered, closing the article as the subway reached your stop. "Hope they're very happy together."

You found yourself wondering if he'd made that woman laugh genuinely, or if their relationship was built on the kind of performance you'd witnessed when his family arrived at the gallery.

You didn't think about Jay Park again for a long time.

Last Year

"PARK INDUSTRIES HEIR DISGRACED: JAY PARK REMOVED FROM FAMILY COMPANY AMID SCANDAL"

This headline caught your eye during lunch break. The photograph showed Jay leaving a building, face partially obscured, expression hidden behind dark sunglasses. Even in disgrace, he wore an impeccably tailored suit, though his tie was loosened and his normally perfect hair disheveled.

Something tightened in your chest at the image. You tapped on the article, pushing your salad aside.

"Jay Park has been removed from his position following allegations of corporate espionage and fraud. The Seoul Economic Prosecutor's Office confirmed yesterday that Park is under investigation for his role in the controversial merger between Park Industries and Hanjin Global.

"'Evidence suggests Mr. Park orchestrated the theft of proprietary information to facilitate the merger on terms exceptionally favorable to Park Industries,' stated Chief Prosecutor Kim. 'This represents a serious breach of corporate ethics and possibly criminal misconduct.'

"Sources revealed that Chairwoman Soo-min Park, Jay's mother, personally signed the termination papers. 'It was like watching an execution,' said one executive. 'The family cut him off completely. No defense, no second chances.'

"Adding personal tragedy to professional disgrace, Park's engagement to Italian heiress Seraphina Visconti was terminated shortly before the scandal broke."

You frowned at your screen. Something about the story felt wrong—the swiftness of his family's abandonment, the convenient timing of the broken engagement, the way everyone seemed to distance themselves simultaneously, as if following a coordinated script.

But what did you know? You'd met the man once, years ago. That brief interaction hardly qualified you to judge the situation or the complex dynamics of global corporate politics.

Still, you couldn't shake the memory of his genuine smile, so different from the corporate mask he'd worn for his family. The way he'd spoken about loyalty as an underrated quality.

"Rough fall from grace," your coworker commented, noticing the article on your screen. "Guess even the mighty Parks can't escape karma."

"I guess not," you agreed absently. But privately you wondered what karma had to do with it. From what little you knew of chaebol families, they created their own destinies—and occasionally, their own destruction.

Over the following months, you occasionally saw follow-up articles. The investigation seemed to drag on without clear resolution. Some outlets questioned aspects of the evidence. Others suggested political motivations behind the prosecution.

But as the story faded from headlines, you found yourself wondering sometimes what had happened to the man who had once made you laugh in an art gallery—the man who, for a brief moment, had seemed genuinely human beneath the wealth and privilege.

Four Months Ago - Jay's Perspective

Jay Park stood at the window of his empty apartment, watching Seoul's lights glitter below. The city looked exactly the same as it had before his life imploded—indifferent to his disgrace. Photographers still camped outside his building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fallen heir.

The penthouse that had once been featured in architectural magazines now echoed with emptiness. Most of the art and furnishings were gone—some seized in the investigation, others reclaimed by his family when they'd cut him off.

His phone—a new one, with a number known to fewer than five people—vibrated on the counter. He ignored it. The nearly empty bottle of scotch beside it held more appeal. He poured another measure into a glass that didn't match the crystal tumblers he'd once collected.

Jay took a long sip, noting with detached interest that his hand no longer shook. Progress, of a sort. The first few months after his downfall, he could barely hold a glass steady.

The evidence against him had been impeccable. Each document, each testimony, each transaction record forming a perfect constellation of guilt. So perfect that, had he not known with absolute certainty he was innocent, he might have believed it himself.

That was the elegant brutality of it—the case was built not on crude forgeries, but on actual actions he had taken, actual meetings he had attended, all recontextualized to tell a story of corruption rather than innovation.

By the time he understood what was happening, the narrative had solidified. His former fiancée had disappeared back to Italy. His family had closed ranks against him. His so-called friends had vanished overnight.

"You always were too trusting, Jongseong."

His mother's words, delivered as she personally collected his company credentials. Not in private—she had ensured there were witnesses. The perfect chairwoman, putting corporate ethics above family loyalty.

He'd spent his entire life trying to prove himself worthy of the Park name, only to be discarded the moment it became expedient.

His phone vibrated again. A text from his attorney: "Prosecutor offering deal. Meet tomorrow."

Jay didn't bother responding. There would be no deal. Not because he was noble, but because accepting a deal meant accepting guilt. And while the world might believe him guilty, he refused to validate the lie.

He returned to the window, scotch in hand. Somewhere in that landscape were the people who had orchestrated his downfall. Were they celebrating still? Or had they already moved on to their next target, his destruction just another successful transaction?

One photograph lay face-down on the counter—Seraphina smiling beside him at their engagement party, her eyes fixed on the camera with practiced warmth. The perfect couple. The perfect alliance. The perfect lie.

"I never saw it coming," he murmured. "Not from you."

That was the truly unforgivable part—not the betrayal itself, but his blind failure to anticipate it. All the signs had been there: her sudden interest when the Hanjin merger was first discussed, her questions about his meetings, her friendship with his cousin.

But he'd been too enthralled with the idea of her—the perfect partner who fit the plan he'd constructed for his life.

Jay drained his glass. He should sleep. Tomorrow would bring more meetings, more denials, more evidence of his spectacular fall.

He was turning from the window when it happened—a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes, so intense he dropped his glass. It shattered as he clutched his head, the pain expanding outward like a supernova.

The room tilted sideways. His hand passed through the wall as though it were mist. The familiar contours of his apartment seemed to dissolve, replaced by swirling darkness.

His last conscious thought was strangely clear, cutting through the pain:

I would do it all differently.

Jay opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.

No—not unfamiliar. His old curtains, from his suite in the family compound. The heavy navy drapes his mother had replaced three years ago.

He sat up with a jolt, banging his head against the headboard with an undignified thud.

"What the—" he muttered, rubbing his forehead while blinking at his surroundings.

This room had been redecorated after he moved out. The traditional furniture, the blue walls, the precise arrangement of his diplomas—all of it had been erased when his mother decided the space needed to "reflect the modern sensibilities of Park Industries' future."

Jay scrambled out of bed, tangling himself in sheets he hadn't slept in for years—1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton in navy blue, not the minimalist white linens of his apartment.

He stumbled to the bathroom. The face that stared back from the mirror made him grip the countertop until his knuckles went white.

"Impossible," he whispered.

The face was his, but not the one he'd seen yesterday. No dark circles. No stress lines. No gray hairs at his temples. This was him from... before.

"I've lost my mind," he announced to the empty bathroom. "This is what a psychotic break feels like."

He splashed cold water on his face, half expecting the hallucination to dissolve.

Back in the bedroom, his phone chimed. Not the anonymous device he'd been using since his disgrace, but his old phone—the one with the Park Industries logo, the one seized by prosecutors.

He approached it like it might explode, picking it up between two fingers.

The calendar notification made him drop the phone directly onto his foot.

"Son of a—" he yelped, hopping awkwardly.

He snatched up the phone again and stared at the date.

Five years in the past.

Another notification: "Meeting with Chairman Kang's team at 11. Merger exploration talks. Confidential."

Kang. The first domino in what would become his downfall. The meeting that would eventually lead him to Seraphina Visconti.

"This can't be happening," he said, running his hands through his hair until it stood in a manner his perfectly-coiffed future self would find horrifying.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open. Jay yelped and grabbed a decorative pillow to cover his chest.

His mother's executive assistant, Mrs. Joseph, stood in the doorway, her expression somehow even more judgmental as she took in his disheveled state.

"Mr. Park," she said with glacial formality, "your mother wishes to remind you that the board meeting begins in forty-five minutes."

"Mrs. Joseph," Jay managed, clutching the tasseled pillow, "what day is it today?"

One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose a millimeter.

"It is Tuesday, Mr. Park. The 17th of October, 2018."

Five years in the past. Confirmed by the human calendar that was Mrs. Joseph, who had never been wrong about a date in twenty years.

"Thank you. Please tell my mother I'll be there."

Mrs. Joseph nodded and closed the door.

Jay stood frozen before bursting into motion, pacing and gesturing wildly.

"Time travel isn't real," he informed his empty room. "This is a complete psychological break."

He stopped in front of the mirror, pointing an accusatory finger at his reflection.

"You are having a nervous breakdown."

His phone chimed again. A text from his cousin Danny: "You look like hell on the security feed. Board meeting in 44 minutes. Pull yourself together."

Jay glanced at the discreet camera in the corner, then back at his phone.

Other people could see him. Other people were interacting with him. This wasn't just in his head.

"I've gone back in time," he whispered, testing the words. "I've gone back in time!"

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. He had a second chance. A chance to avoid Seraphina. A chance to prevent the merger catastrophe. A chance to protect himself from betrayal before it began.

Then he froze, composing himself. If this was real, he needed to be strategic.

"Park Jongseong," he told his reflection sternly, "pull yourself together. You have a board meeting in forty-three minutes. And then you have a life to completely rebuild."

As he headed for the bathroom, he caught himself whistling. Park Jongseong didn't whistle. Park Jongseong was dignified, serious, and focused at all times.

But then again, Park Jongseong also didn't time travel. So perhaps some new rules were in order.

Forty-two minutes later, Jay found himself seated in the most uncomfortable chair in Seoul—not because of its design, but because of who surrounded it.

The Park Industries boardroom was exactly as he remembered it from before its renovation. Twenty-four seats around a massive mahogany table, each position equipped with a recessed screen and an elegant portfolio. The room smelled of sandalwood and concentrated power.

And around him sat the very people who would one day abandon him without hesitation.

His mother, Chairwoman Soomin Park, presided at the head, her silver-streaked hair in a severe chignon. His father sat opposite, expression fixed in the distant contemplation that had always characterized their relationship. Next to him was Uncle Jiho, whose vote would be first to condemn Jay when the time came. Beside his mother sat Aunt Mina, who would publicly declare his actions "disappointing but not surprising."

They were all watching him. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. Hard to tell which was more reasonable when you'd time-traveled into your younger body.

"The Q3 projections for the semiconductor division," droned CFO Yun. "As you can see, we're exceeding targets by 4.3% despite supply chain challenges..."

Jay nodded mechanically, trying to appear engaged while his mind raced. He kept catching himself staring at people who shouldn't be noteworthy—like Director Kang, who would later introduce him to Seraphina Visconti.

"Jongseong."

He jerked upright, realizing his mother had addressed him directly.

"I—" he began, having no idea what had been asked. "Could you repeat the question?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed his mother's face. "I said, do you have the projections for the European market expansion? The ones you insisted were ready for board review?"

Right. The European expansion. The document that would eventually lead to the Visconti partnership. The first step in his downfall.

"I've been reconsidering those projections," he said, his voice sounding strange in his ears. "I believe we should focus on domestic consolidation before extending into Europe."

A heavy silence fell over the room. In the original timeline, he'd aggressively championed European expansion for months.

"You've been... reconsidering," his mother repeated, each syllable precisely weighted. "Since last night's strategy meeting, where you presented a seventy-page report detailing exactly why European expansion cannot wait?"

Jay cleared his throat, tugging at his suddenly tight collar. "I've had some... insights."

"Insights," she echoed flatly.

"Yes. About... market volatility." Jay caught sight of his reflection in the darkened screen—he looked like someone trying to defuse a bomb while wearing oven mitts. "And geopolitical considerations. Brexit currency fluctuations. You know. Business... things."

Director Kang frowned. "But your analysis specifically addressed Brexit concerns, concluding they presented opportunity rather than obstacle."

"Well, people can change their minds," Jay said, a bit too forcefully.

His mother set down her pen—never a good sign. "Are you feeling well, Jongseong?"

"Perfectly well. Never better."

"You look flushed. And you're sweating."

Jay reached up, mortified to find his forehead damp. Park Jongseong did not sweat in board meetings.

"It's rather warm in here."

"It's sixty-eight degrees, as always," his mother replied. "Your grandfather had similar symptoms before his stroke. The disorientation. The contradictory statements."

"I'm not having a stroke," Jay said, horrified that this conversation was happening in front of the entire board.

"He said the same thing," contributed his aunt helpfully. "Right before he tried to sign a merger agreement with a potted plant."

"I know what day it is," Jay offered as proof of his mental faculties. "It's Tuesday, October 17, 2018."

This did not have the intended effect. If anything, his mother's concern deepened.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Most people with calendars know the date. More relevant is your explanation for this sudden policy reversal."

Jay scrambled for a plausible explanation that wouldn't sound like 'I've seen the future and it ends with all of you betraying me.'

"I received some... intelligence," he said finally. "About certain European partners. It requires verification before we proceed."

This, at least, was the language of business his mother understood. Her expression shifted from concern to calculation.

"What intelligence, and from whom?"

"I'd prefer to discuss that privately," he said, finding his footing. "After I've confirmed some details."

His mother studied him, then gave a slight nod. "Very well. We'll revisit the European strategy next week."

As the presentation resumed, Jay exhaled slowly, only to catch his father watching him with an evaluative expression he couldn't quite interpret.

His phone vibrated. Grateful for the distraction, he discreetly checked the message.

From Jake: Dude, what was THAT? Your mom thinks you're having a stroke, and Danny says you were talking to yourself this morning. Also, Priya's exhibition is Friday, don't forget you promised to come. Her parents are visiting from Mumbai and she's freaking out.

Jay blinked, momentarily confused. Priya? Jake's girlfriend. The photographer. The exhibition.

A distant memory stirred—something about an art gallery in New York, some terrible photographs, and...

He frowned, trying to recall. There had been someone there, hadn't there? Someone he'd spoken to briefly. He couldn't remember a face or name, just a vague impression of a genuine laugh and an honest conversation.

He typed back: Not having a stroke. Just reconsidering some strategies. What time Friday?

Jake's reply came instantly: 8PM, Klein Gallery in Chelsea. Wear something that makes you look less corporate robot, more human person.

Jay tucked his phone away, the half-formed memory already fading as more pressing concerns demanded his attention.

"Jongseong, do you have anything to add to Director Park's assessment?"

Jay looked up to find the entire board staring at him again. He hadn't heard a word of what Director Park had said.

"I think Director Park's assessment is... comprehensive," he managed, having no idea what he was endorsing.

"He asked for your input on canceling the Daewon acquisition."

"Right." Jay straightened. The Daewon acquisition—a company they had purchased and later sold at a significant profit in his original timeline. "I believe we should proceed with the acquisition. Their patent portfolio alone justifies the investment."

Director Park nodded approvingly. "Exactly my point."

Jay relaxed marginally, only to tense again when his mother spoke.

"That's interesting, considering Director Park just recommended we cancel the acquisition due to their overvalued patents."

The room fell silent. Jay felt heat creeping up his neck.

"I was... testing to see if anyone was paying attention?"

His mother's sigh could have withered steel. "We'll take a ten minute recess. Jongseong, my office. Now."

As the board members filed out, his father paused briefly beside him.

"Whatever's going on with you, fix it before your mother decides you need medical intervention. Or worse, reassignment."

With that less-than-comforting advice, Jay followed his mother to what would undoubtedly be the most awkward conversation of his newly-regained past life.

"Close the door," his mother instructed as they entered her office, a minimalist sanctuary of glass and steel.

Jay obeyed, steeling himself for the dissection that was about to occur.

"Sit," she commanded, taking her place behind a desk large enough to land a small aircraft.

He complied, automatically adjusting his posture to the rigid formality expected. Twenty-nine years of conditioning didn't disappear even with temporal displacement.

"What is happening with you?"

"Nothing serious, I assure you. Just a temporary—"

"That was not a board performance worthy of a Park," she interrupted. "You contradicted yourself, failed to pay attention, and gave the impression of someone who is either incompetent or unwell. Neither is acceptable."

"I apologize, Mom. It won't happen again."

The moment the word left his mouth, Jay was surprised at his own casualness. Mom. Not "Mother" or "Chairwoman" as he'd taken to calling her in professional settings.

His mother's expression softened almost imperceptibly—visible only to someone who had spent a lifetime learning to read her minute facial cues.

"It's been a while since you've called me that in this office," she noted, neither disapproving nor sentimental. The Parks might be ruthless in business, but family was family. "Though it doesn't exempt you from explaining your behavior this morning."

"I'm simply... reconsidering certain aspects of my approach."

"Your approach," she echoed skeptically.

"Yes. I've been thinking that perhaps I've been too rigid. Too focused on following a preset path without questioning whether it's the optimal route."

Her expression shifted subtly. "And this revelation came to you when, exactly?"

"Recently," he hedged.

"I see." She tapped one nail against her desk. "And does this 'reconsideration' include your personal life as well?"

Jay tensed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you've spent five years claiming to be too focused on your career for serious relationships, despite my repeated reminders that a suitable marriage is an essential component of your position. If you're reconsidering 'preset paths,' perhaps this is an area you might prioritize."

And there it was. In the original timeline, this conversation had led to his first introduction to the Visconti family.

"I don't believe my focus should be on marriage at this time," he said carefully.

"And yet you're now suggesting we delay European expansion, which leaves you with considerably more bandwidth." She opened a drawer and removed a slim folder. "I've taken the liberty of updating your candidate dossiers."

Of course she had. In his mother's world, suitable marriage partners were assessed with the same due diligence as potential acquisitions.

"I appreciate your thoroughness, but I'll handle this aspect of my life myself."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You've been 'handling it yourself' since graduation, with no results. The Kang family has been quite direct about their interest in an alliance through their daughter."

Jay suppressed a grimace. Se-yeon Kang. The woman who had introduced him to Seraphina at her father's request.

"The Kangs are not a suitable match," he said sharply.

"On what basis?"

On the basis that they were integral to his destruction, he thought bitterly.

"I have concerns about their long-term business ethics," he said instead.

"Interesting." She made a note on her tablet. "I wasn't aware you had investigated the Kang operations."

"I make it my business to be thorough."

"Perhaps you're not as distracted as you appeared in the boardroom, then."

Jay recognized the familiar pattern—his mother testing him, probing for weaknesses. In his first life, he'd been so desperate for her approval that he'd missed the manipulation.

"I should prepare for the Kang meeting," he said, rising. "I'll need to review the materials given my reconsideration of our European strategy."

She nodded, dismissing him with a wave. "Don't embarrass yourself again. The board already thinks you're following in your grandfather's neurological footsteps."

At the door, he paused. In his previous life, he'd walked out of this office and directly into the trap being laid for him.

"One more thing," he said. "Who originally suggested the Visconti Group as a potential European partner?"

If the question surprised her, she didn't show it. "I believe Chairman Kang mentioned them at the economic forum in Davos. Why?"

"Just mapping connections. It helps me visualize the relationship web."

Her eyes narrowed slightly—the look she gave when recalculating her assessment. "Your grandfather used to say something similar. Before the stroke, of course."

With that parting barb, she dismissed him.

As Jay left, his phone vibrated again. Another text from Jake:

Almost forgot—Priya says to bring that friend of yours from the investment firm if he's still in town. She needs all the connections she can get.

Jay frowned. What friend from what investment firm? He didn't recall...

And then it clicked. The half-remembered interaction from the gallery. There had been someone else there that night—not just the person he'd spoken to, but someone he'd been introduced to later.

If he attended this exhibition, he might run into that person again—the one whose laugh he vaguely remembered. Not that it mattered particularly. Just a curious coincidence in his reshuffled timeline.

He pocketed his phone, mind already turning to more immediate concerns. The Kang meeting. The European strategy. The trap he needed to dismantle piece by piece.

A random stranger he'd once met at a gallery was hardly worth dwelling on when he had an entire future to reconstruct.

Autumn in New York welcomed Jay with crisp air and streets still gleaming from an afternoon shower. He stood outside the Klein Gallery in Chelsea, straightening cuffs that needed no adjustment.

The city felt different now—full of possibility rather than the shame and failure it would represent in his original timeline. Here, five years before his downfall, no photographers lurked hoping to catch the disgraced Park heir. He was just another wealthy visitor, anonymous in a city that specialized in ignoring the important.

The past three days had been a calculated offensive against his future ruin. Altered procurement strategies. Reassigned personnel. Extensive documentation that couldn't be manipulated later. He'd even faced down Kang himself, politely declining the European expansion that would eventually lead to his destruction.

All while maintaining the perfect Park Jongseong façade.

This trip to New York offered both strategic cover and unexpected relief. For a few precious hours, he could breathe without the weight of his name.

He checked his watch. He was early, deliberately so. Jake and Priya would arrive in twenty minutes, giving him time to assess the gallery and determine if his half-remembered encounter would repeat itself.

But the vagueness didn't matter. What mattered was the opportunity to alter one small variable in the equation of his life.

Since his mother had mentioned marriage in her office, a strategy had been forming in his mind. In the original timeline, the months following this trip had seen increasing pressure about his relationship status. His mother had begun introducing him to eligible candidates—all with their own agendas, all connected to the world that would eventually close ranks against him.

And then came Seraphina. Perfect, beautiful, accomplished Seraphina. The woman who would eventually help orchestrate his destruction.

But what if he removed that variable entirely? What if he preempted the whole process? Elementary business strategy: block your opponent's best move before they make it.

Inside, the gallery was minimalist—white walls, polished concrete floors, strategic lighting. Jay moved through the space with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a passing server.

Priya's work was exactly as he remembered—technically proficient but emotionally distant. Black and white urban landscapes hinting at decay and renewal. He paused before one he remembered discussing in the original timeline—the one he'd compared to food poisoning.

"Considering an acquisition?" a voice asked. Not yours. The gallery owner—Klein himself.

"Just appreciating the composition," Jay replied smoothly.

He scanned the room peripherally. The space was filling with the expected crowd—moneyed New Yorkers performing interest in emerging artists, critics with studied expressions of judgment.

But no sign of you.

A flicker of concern crossed his mind. Had his earlier manipulations altered the timeline so significantly that you wouldn't attend?

"Mr. Park!" Priya approached with nervous energy

"The exhibition looks excellent," Jay said, offering Priya a polite air-kiss. "Your work has evolved considerably."

A kind lie. Her work was exactly as he remembered it.

"That means so much coming from you," Priya gushed. "Jake said you've been impossibly busy with the European expansion plans."

Jay shot Jake a warning look, but his friend merely shrugged.

"Sorry, forgot it was all very hush-hush and corporate espionage-y." Jake clapped Jay's shoulder. "You look terrible, by the way. In an expensive, tailored way, but still terrible. Are you sleeping these days?"

In his first life, Jay would have bristled at such criticism. Now, after everything, he felt unexpected gratitude for Jake's honesty. He'd forgotten this about their friendship—how Jake treated him as a person, not the Park heir.

"Sleep is for those without quarterly projections," Jay replied dryly.

"You're not fine, you're just good at faking fine. The Park family specialty." Jake surveyed the crowd. "Speaking of fake, look at all these people pretending to understand Priya's art when half couldn't tell profound commentary from pictures of garbage."

Priya elbowed him. "My parents will be here any minute. Please pretend to be cultured."

"Fine. I'll practice my 'this speaks to me spiritually' face." Jake grinned and headed for the bar.

"He's impossible," Priya sighed affectionately. "But he's been amazing with my parents. Even learned Hindi phrases for my father."

Jay nodded, remembering with a pang how Jake and Priya's engagement had been "postponed" after his disgrace. No one wanted ties to a pariah, not even his oldest friend.

"Jay?" Priya studied him. "Are you okay? You seem... different somehow."

Before he could answer, the gallery's atmosphere shifted—the crowd parting for Priya's parents. She excused herself, leaving Jay alone.

His mind returned to his strategy. He needed someone who could occupy the space Seraphina would fill, disrupting the timeline ending in his ruin. Someone far removed from his world.

You—if you showed up—would be perfect. Not for any particular quality, but for what you weren't. You weren't connected to his family's web of alliances. You had no ties to competing conglomerates. You carried no hidden agenda.

Your ignorance of his world wasn't a liability—it was your greatest asset. You couldn't be manipulated by the forces that orchestrated his destruction because you existed outside their sphere.

It wasn't personal. He didn't need a soulmate; he needed a shield. The fact that he remembered your laugh was merely incidental. A convenient connection point for his strategy.

The gallery door opened, admitting a gust of cool air and a latecomer—you.

Recognition hit immediately. How had he forgotten so many details? Your self-conscious movements. Your genuine curiosity instead of affected boredom.

Jay moved toward you before consciously deciding to, drawn by the chance to rewrite this small piece of his past. He intercepted you at the photograph he knew you'd examine—the one you'd defended despite its quality.

He reminded himself: this was strategy, not sentiment. Business, not emotion. This was about survival.

"It's quite terrible, isn't it?" Jay said, repeating his original words.

You turned, and he was struck by your direct gaze—no calculation, just human curiosity.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied, amusement tugging at your mouth. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we recognize it when we experience it." He gestured with his champagne. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you—genuine, unguarded. The sound hit Jay with unexpected force. For a moment, his calculated facade cracked, replaced by a genuine impulse to connect.

He pushed the feeling aside. Focus on the objective.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said quietly.

"Ah. Then you're here from obligation rather than appreciation?"

"Isn't everyone?" You glanced around. "Half these people couldn't distinguish masterpieces from finger paintings, but they'll have strong opinions borrowed from the last opening."

The conversation unfolded exactly as before—eerie yet comforting.

"I'm Jay," he said, memorizing your face.

"Just Jay? No impressive title?"

"Park. Jay Park. But I'd prefer to be just Jay tonight."

You assessed him with refreshing directness. "And what does Just Jay do when not critiquing photography?"

Another deviation from the original timeline. A small ripple that could grow into a wave.

"Corporate strategy," he replied vaguely. "Nothing as interesting as defending questionable art. And you are...?"

The gallery door opened, and Jay felt a cold jolt as his family entered, causing the usual ripple through the crowd. His mother, father, relatives—all unaware they would eventually abandon him when convenient.

This was the moment. Originally, he'd left without your name, swept back into the path leading to Seraphina and his destruction.

Not this time.

"I should warn you," he said conspiratorially, "I'm about to transform into someone less honest and more boring. Corporate obligation." He nodded toward his family. "But before I do—your name? In case our paths cross again."

Behind this casual request lay his entire strategy. Your name would be the first stone in his new foundation.

As he waited, his gaze intensified slightly. To you, it might seem like normal interest. To him, it was the focus of someone placing extraordinary significance on an ordinary exchange.

This wasn't just about a name—it was about architecture. The careful redesign of his future. And you, unknowingly, were about to become a cornerstone.

"Y/N"

The syllables hung in the air between them for a moment. Jay's smile shifted—genuine now, not the practiced expression he deployed at corporate functions.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Y/N." He reached for your hand, a brief, professional clasp. "Unfortunately, duty calls."

He slipped you his card—not the formal Park Industries one, but a sleeker personal version with just his name and private number. A deliberate choice. The first move in his new game.

"Perhaps we'll cross paths again," he said. His tone casual, but his gaze wasn't. It held yours a moment longer than social convention dictated.

Then he was gone, transforming with each step toward his family. Shoulders squaring. Expression cooling. The brief glimpse of honest humanity tucked away beneath the polished exterior of Park Jongseong, corporate heir.

You watched him bow to his mother, exchange handshakes with other family members, fluidly inserting himself into their formal orbit. The man who had made irreverent comments about art seemed to evaporate entirely.

"The exhibition demonstrates impressive technical skill," Jay's mother observed an hour later, champagne flute held at a precise angle. "Though the subject matter is rather... conventional."

This assessment came after a methodical circuit of the gallery, during which the Park family had drawn considerable attention without seeming to notice it.

"Priya has potential," Jay replied diplomatically. "Her composition exhibits strong understanding of negative space."

Art criticism wasn't the point of this conversation, and they both knew it. His mother was watching him carefully, calculating something behind her perfect smile.

"I spotted you speaking with someone earlier," she mentioned with practiced casualness. "Before we arrived."

And there it was. Nothing escaped her notice.

"A friend of the artist," Jay said, matching her casual tone. "We were discussing the merits of contemporary photography."

"I see." His mother's gaze swept the room, locating you within seconds where you stood chatting with Priya near the bar. "Not the usual social circle you frequent."

"Perhaps that's refreshing." Jay sipped his champagne, strategic in his mild defiance. "One tires of the same conversations."

His mother's eyebrow arched slightly—the equivalent of open surprise from anyone else.

"Interesting," she said, recalculating variables in her mental dossier. "Does this relate to your sudden disinterest in the European expansion?"

"Not directly," Jay replied. "Though both reflect a broader reassessment of paths worth pursuing."

She studied him with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated business rivals for decades. "You've changed, Jongseong. Since when, I'm not certain. But something is different."

"Growth isn't change, Mother. It's evolution." He'd never spoken to her this way in his first timeline—confident but not confrontational. "The core remains the same."

His father approached, ending their private exchange. "The Visconti Group's representative just arrived," he informed his wife. "The one you wanted to meet."

Jay's pulse quickened. In the original timeline, this casual introduction had been the first seed planted. The beginning of his eventual destruction.

"Another time, perhaps," Jay interjected smoothly before his mother could respond. "I promised Jake I'd speak with some potential collectors. His girlfriend would be devastated if the night wasn't successful."

His father's expression registered mild surprise at this unusual prioritization of friendship over business.

"Of course," his mother said, analyzing this new data point. "Family supports family's associates. That's the Park way."

The subtle reminder of obligation came with her practiced smile. Not a reprimand, but a note being filed away for future reference.

Jay inclined his head respectfully and moved away, circulating through the crowd with practiced ease. He exchanged pleasantries with critics, complimented the gallery owner, and strategically positioned himself near a group of potential collectors, laying groundwork for a purchase that would help Priya's career.

All while remaining acutely aware of your location in the room.

Two hours later, Jay found himself in a strategic position near the coat check as you prepared to leave. The gallery had begun to empty, the initial excitement of the opening fading into the routine pattern of a Thursday night in Chelsea.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, timing his approach to appear coincidental.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. "Just Jay. I thought you'd be trapped in corporate obligation all night."

"A temporary reprieve." He smiled. "The family business discussions have moved to dinner at Le Bernardin."

"Very fancy," you commented. "I'm headed for much humbler fare—the subway and takeout."

Jay glanced at his watch. "Actually, I find myself with an unexpected hour before I need to join them. Perhaps you'd allow me to buy you a proper dinner? There's an excellent place just around the corner." He kept his tone casual, the invitation seemingly spontaneous.

You hesitated, studying him with that direct gaze he found so refreshing. "Why would you want to have dinner with a complete stranger when you clearly have more important places to be?"

The directness of the question caught him slightly off-guard. In his world, people rarely questioned Park Jongseong's motivations to his face.

"Because you're the only interesting conversation I've had all evening," he replied, allowing a hint of genuine feeling to color his words. "Everyone else is either trying to sell me something, impress me, or secure an introduction to my mother."

You considered this, head tilted slightly. "And what makes you think I'm not doing the same?"

Jay laughed—a real laugh, not his polished social chuckle. "The fact that you just asked that question, for starters."

Something in your expression softened. "One hour. And it had better be good food."

"I never compromise on quality," Jay assured you, suppressing the satisfaction of a well-executed strategic move. "The restaurant is just three blocks from here."

As you walked together into the crisp autumn evening, Jay maintained the perfect balance of professional distance and personal interest. He asked about your work (freelance journalism), your history with Priya (college roommates), your thoughts on New York's cultural scene (overpriced but occasionally transcendent).

Each piece of information carefully filed away. Each response analyzed for potential complications or advantages to his developing strategy.

The restaurant—an upscale Italian place with discreet lighting and well-spaced tables—provided the ideal setting for his purposes. Impressive without being intimidating. Exclusive enough to require his name for a last-minute table, but not so ostentatious that it would make you uncomfortable.

"So," you said once you were seated and had ordered, "are you going to tell me what Park Industries actually does? Or am I supposed to pretend I don't know you're practically royalty in South Korea?"

Again, that directness. Jay found himself genuinely smiling.

"Technically, we do everything from semiconductors to shipping," he replied. "But that's hardly dinner conversation. I'd rather hear more about your work. Journalism must give you a unique perspective."

"Nice deflection," you noted, but allowed the conversation to shift.

For fifty-three minutes, Jay executed a perfect performance of genuine connection. He asked thoughtful questions. Shared carefully selected personal anecdotes. Displayed just enough vulnerability to seem authentic without revealing anything truly significant.

He studied your reactions, adjusting his approach subtly based on what resonated. When you responded to his dry humor, he offered more. When certain topics sparked genuine interest in your eyes, he explored them further.

A strategic seduction—but not a romantic one. He was securing an ally. Establishing a connection outside the corrupted network that had eventually destroyed him.

When his phone vibrated with a text from his mother, he allowed himself a calculated show of reluctance.

"Duty calls," he said, echoing his words from earlier in the gallery. "I've enjoyed this conversation more than you know."

"It was surprisingly pleasant," you agreed with a hint of amusement. "Despite the suspicious circumstances."

He signaled for the check. "Suspicious?"

"Wealthy heir suddenly interested in random gallery-goer? That's either the beginning of a romance novel or a cautionary tale." You smiled to soften the words. "I'm still deciding which."

Jay laughed again, caught between strategic calculation and genuine appreciation of your perception.

"Perhaps neither," he suggested. "Perhaps just two people enjoying conversation without agenda."

"Everyone has an agenda," you replied, gathering your things. "Even if they don't recognize it themselves."

How right you were. If only you knew the elaborate mental chess game he was playing, with you as a central piece.

Outside the restaurant, he made his final move of the evening—perfectly calibrated for maximum effect without seeming too eager.

"I'll be in New York for another two days," he said casually. "If you're free tomorrow evening, perhaps you could show me a part of the city tourists don't usually see. Something authentic."

The invitation was designed to appeal to your evident independence and local knowledge. To position you as the expert rather than the pursued. A subtle flattery that didn't register as manipulation.

"I might be available," you said, considering. "Depends on my deadline."

"Of course." He nodded respectfully. "You have my number. No pressure either way."

As he hailed a taxi for you, he allowed his hand to brush yours briefly—a manufactured moment of connection carefully designed to seem accidental.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said as you stepped into the cab. "I hope to hear from you tomorrow."

You smiled through the window, giving a small wave as the taxi pulled away.

Jay watched until the taillights disappeared into Manhattan traffic, then straightened his tie and hailed his own car. His expression shifted seamlessly from warm interest to cool calculation.

Phase one: complete. You had been introduced into the equation. A new variable with the potential to disrupt the entire sequence leading to his downfall.

As his driver navigated toward Le Bernardin, Jay mentally mapped the next steps. He would need to provide his mother with enough information to satisfy her curiosity without triggering her strategic instincts. Plant seeds with his father about potential advantages of connections outside their usual network. Begin building documentation that would position you as a completely independent connection, not part of any competing corporate interest.

His phone buzzed with a message from his cousin Danny: Mom says you're acting strange. She wants intel on whoever you were talking to at the gallery.

Jay smiled tightly. The family machine was already turning its attention to this unexpected development. Exactly as he'd anticipated.

He typed back: Just making connections. Nothing significant.

Let them underestimate this move. Let them dismiss you as a casual interest, a temporary distraction.

By the time they recognized the strategic importance of what he was building, it would be too late. The timeline would be irreversibly altered.

And Jay Park would never again find himself standing alone in an empty apartment, betrayed by everyone he had trusted.

Another message appeared on his screen—this one from an unknown number.

Tomorrow, 7pm. Wear comfortable shoes and nothing that screams "I'm worth kidnapping for ransom." – Y/N

Jay allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The pieces were moving exactly as he'd calculated.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

The next evening proved Jay's instincts correct. You were indeed the perfect variable to introduce into his equation.

You arrived at the designated meeting spot in Washington Square Park wearing jeans, a well-worn leather jacket, and boots that suggested you actually walked places rather than being chauffeured. Jay had followed your instructions, trading his usual bespoke suit for dark jeans, a cashmere sweater, and shoes that would survive more than a board meeting.

"You clean up nicely," you said, appraising his attempt at casual attire. "Almost pass for a normal person."

"My greatest performance yet," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Where to first?"

"That depends. What's your tolerance for authenticity? Real New York isn't exactly five-star accommodations."

Jay's smile widened. "Test me."

And you did. For the next three hours, you led him through a New York he'd never seen despite countless business trips. Hidden speakeasies accessed through fake phone booths. A Ukrainian diner where the servers scowled and the food defied description but somehow tasted like memory. A rooftop garden secretly maintained by an elderly couple who'd been cultivating it since the 1970s.

Throughout the evening, Jay maintained his careful balance—genuinely enjoying himself while strategically gathering information. Your job prospects (promising but unstable). Your family situation (supportive but financially modest). Your relationship status (refreshingly unattached).

Each piece of data confirmed what he'd hoped: you were the perfect candidate. Independent enough to make your own decisions, stable enough to be reliable, ambitious enough to appreciate opportunity, and disconnected enough from his world to be safe from manipulation.

"Admit it," you said as you sat on rusty chairs atop the secret garden, city lights spread before you. "This is better than whatever fancy restaurant your family's at tonight."

"Infinitely," Jay agreed, and meant it. The evening had been unexpectedly liberating. Here, he wasn't Park Jongseong, heir and corporate prince. He was just Jay, a guy experiencing New York's hidden corners with an interesting woman. "Though my mother would need smelling salts if she saw these chairs."

You laughed, the sound still as honest as he remembered. "Why do I get the feeling you're not often allowed to just... exist? Without expectations or performance metrics?"

The observation was so accurate it momentarily disrupted his careful strategy. For a second, he considered telling you everything—the time travel, his disgrace, his desperate plan to rewrite his future.

But of course, that was impossible. Who would believe such madness?

"The privileges of my position come with corresponding obligations," he said instead, allowing a rare glimpse of genuine feeling. "My path was charted before I was born."

You studied him in the dim rooftop lighting. "And you've never considered drawing your own map?"

Jay looked out over the city, contemplating how to answer. The strategic response would be something vague but intriguing. But something about this night—about you—made him unexpectedly honest.

"I'm attempting to redraw certain sections now," he said quietly. "It's... complicated."

"Family complications or business complications? Or are they the same thing for you?"

"Inextricably intertwined," Jay confirmed. "The Parks don't separate business from family or family from business. It's all one ecosystem."

"Sounds suffocating."

"It can be," he admitted, surprising himself again with his candor. "But it's also... secure. Structured. There's comfort in knowing your role."

"Until the role becomes a cage," you observed.

The conversation was veering dangerously close to truth. Jay redirected gently.

"What about you? No family business directing your path?"

You shook your head. "Just student loans and rent directing my career choices. Not exactly the same scale of problems."

"Different cages," Jay said. "Different gilding."

A comfortable silence fell between you. Below, the city pulsed with energy—millions of lives intersecting, diverging, each on their own trajectory.

"I should probably get you back to civilization," you said eventually. "Before your security detail reports you missing."

Jay checked his watch, surprised to find it was nearly midnight. The evening had passed with unexpected swiftness.

"I've dismissed security for the night," he said, rising from the rusty chair. "But you're right, it's late. Let me walk you home."

You shook your head. "That defeats the purpose of me showing you hidden New York. I'll walk myself home like a proper New Yorker."

"At least let me get you a car."

"The subway is faster this time of night."

Jay smiled at your stubbornness. Another quality that made you ideal for his purposes. "Then I'll accompany you to the subway."

As you descended from the rooftop, Jay made his decision. The evening had confirmed everything he needed to know. You were perfect—self-sufficient, perceptive, and most importantly, unconnected to the web that would eventually try to destroy him.

It was time to set his actual plan in motion. Earlier than he'd originally calculated, but the opportunity was too perfect to ignore.

Outside the subway entrance, you turned to say goodbye. "This was surprisingly enjoyable, Just Jay. You're not at all what I expected."

"Is that a compliment?"

"An observation." Your smile took any sting from the words. "Maybe I'll see you next time you're in New York."

It was the opening he needed. Jay took a calculated breath.

"What if it were sooner than that?" he asked, carefully casual. "What if I had a proposition for you?"

Your eyebrows rose slightly. "A proposition sounds suspiciously like business."

"Perhaps a merger of interests," Jay said, watching your reaction closely.

"I'm not qualified to consult for Park Industries, if that's where this is going."

"Nothing to do with the company. This is personal." Jay paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Would you have dinner with me tomorrow? There's something I'd like to discuss that could be mutually beneficial."

Wariness crept into your expression. "That sounds ominous."

"It's not illegal or immoral," he assured you. "Just... unusual. But I think you might be the perfect person for it."

"Now I'm definitely concerned."

Jay smiled, allowing genuine warmth to show. "Trust me enough for one more dinner? If you hate the proposal, we part as friends with an interesting story about the time a Korean businessman made you a strange offer."

You studied him for a long moment. "Fine. But a public place, and I reserve the right to walk out if things get weird."

"Perfectly reasonable terms," Jay agreed. "I'll text you the details."

After you disappeared down the subway steps, Jay hailed a car back to his hotel. His mind was already composing the proposal, weighing phrases and possibilities. The timing was delicate. Too direct, and you'd be justifiably alarmed. Too vague, and you'd dismiss it as absurd.

But if presented correctly, with the right incentives and assurances...

It could work. It had to work.

The restaurant Jay selected for their final evening was elegant without being ostentatious. Private enough for serious conversation but public enough to meet your safety requirements. He arrived early, ensuring the perfect table—secluded but visible, with clear sightlines to exits.

You arrived precisely on time, wearing a dress that suggested you'd taken this meeting more seriously than yesterday's casual exploration. Good. It indicated you were intrigued enough to make an effort.

"I half-expected to be stood up," Jay said as you sat down.

"I considered it," you admitted. "But curiosity won out. I spent all day trying to imagine what this mysterious proposition could be."

"And your theories?"

"Either you're recruiting me for corporate espionage, or this is an elaborate setup for asking me on a real date."

Jay smiled. "Neither, though the second option is less absurd than the first."

The waiter brought menus and wine recommendations. Jay ordered for both of you—not to control, but to expedite. The sooner pleasantries were addressed, the sooner he could present his case.

Once the preliminary course was served and privacy assured, Jay leaned forward slightly.

"Before I explain, I want to establish context," he began. "My family situation is... complicated. As the heir to Park Industries, certain expectations exist regarding my personal life."

You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"Among these is the expectation that I'll marry strategically. Someone who enhances the company's position, preferably from a compatible business family."

"Arranged marriage in the 21st century?" You raised an eyebrow. "That seems archaic."

"It's framed as 'guided choice,'" Jay explained. "But the outcome is essentially predetermined. The candidates all fit a specific profile, vetted extensively by my mother."

"And you don't want that," you guessed.

"I've seen where that path leads," Jay said carefully. "It's not favorable."

"So what does this have to do with me?"

Here was the critical moment. Jay took a measured breath.

"I'm proposing an alternative arrangement. A marriage of convenience, with clearly defined parameters and mutual benefits."

Your expression froze. "Excuse me?"

"I know how this sounds," Jay said quickly. "But please hear me out before deciding."

You sat back, arms crossed. "I'm listening, but this better be good."

"What I need is someone outside my world. Someone my mother can't manipulate or compromise. Someone with no hidden corporate agenda or family ambitions." Jay held your gaze steadily. "Someone like you."

"And what exactly would I get from this arrangement, besides the obvious headache?"

"Financial security," Jay said simply. "Complete financial independence. A generous settlement that would eliminate your student loans, housing concerns, and career pressures. You'd be free to pursue your writing without worrying about making rent."

He could see the calculation happening behind your eyes. The journalist weighing an unbelievable story.

"This would be a temporary arrangement," he continued. "Two years maximum. After which we would part amicably, with your financial future secured and my family obligations satisfied."

"You're serious," you said, realization dawning.

"Completely."

"But why me? You could find countless women willing to make this deal."

"Because you don't want anything from me except what we explicitly agree to," Jay explained. "You don't care about the Park name or legacy. You have no connection to our business rivals. You're honest, independent, and most importantly, you see me as a person, not a position."

You were silent for a long moment, processing.

"What would this arrangement involve... practically speaking?"

"A legal marriage. A public relationship that appears genuine. Attendance at certain family and business functions. Cohabitation in Seoul, though with separate living spaces." Jay outlined each point precisely. "No romantic or physical obligations whatsoever."

"And after two years?"

"A quiet divorce with a generous settlement. You return to your life with complete financial freedom. I gain time to secure my position without my mother's interference."

You studied him intently. "What aren't you telling me? This seems too... calculated."

Jay hesitated. How much could he safely reveal without sounding deranged?

"My mother is pushing me toward a specific alliance that would be disastrous," he said finally. "I need to block that move decisively. Your presence provides that blockade."

"Corporate chess using marriage pieces," you murmured.

"An apt metaphor."

The waiter arrived with the main course, forcing a pause in the conversation. Jay waited patiently as you considered his proposal.

"I'd have to move to Korea," you said finally. "Learn a new language, navigate a completely foreign business world, pretend to be in love with someone I barely know."

"All significant challenges," Jay acknowledged. "Hence the substantial compensation."

"How substantial?"

He named a figure that made your eyes widen slightly.

"Plus all living expenses, travel, and a housing allowance upon our separation," he added. "Financial security for the foreseeable future."

You took a sip of wine, buying time to think. Jay remained silent, giving you space to process.

"Why should I trust you?" you asked finally. "No offense, but this sounds like the beginning of a thriller where the protagonist never returns from Seoul."

"A valid concern." Jay reached into his jacket and removed a USB drive. "This contains a draft contract outlining everything we've discussed, plus insurance clauses to protect you. Have your own lawyer review it. Make any reasonable amendments."

He placed the drive on the table between you.

"I don't expect an answer tonight," he continued. "Take time to consider. Research me, the company, the arrangement. I'll be in New York three more days."

You didn't touch the drive. "Are you always this prepared?"

"I don't propose convenient marriages on a whim," Jay said with a hint of humor. "This is a strategic decision for both of us."

"And if I say no?"

"Then we enjoy this excellent meal, I thank you for considering it, and we part as friends with an unusual story."

You finally reached for the drive, turning it in your fingers thoughtfully.

"Two years of my life," you mused. "Pretending to be someone I'm not."

"Or two years experiencing a world few ever see from the inside," Jay countered. "With material for the book you mentioned wanting to write. And afterwards, complete freedom to pursue whatever you wish."

He could see the writer in you considering the possibilities. The practical side weighing the financial security. The cautious part still suspicious of his motives.

"I'll think about it," you said finally, slipping the drive into your purse. "That's all I can promise right now."

"That's all I ask." Jay raised his glass slightly. "To unusual propositions and careful consideration."

You hesitantly clinked your glass against his. "To whatever the hell this is."

The rest of dinner passed in lighter conversation, Jay deliberately steering away from the proposal to give you mental space. As they finished dessert, he sensed you had more questions brewing.

"Just ask," he said gently. "Whatever you're thinking."

"Why marriage?" you asked bluntly. "Why not just date someone your mother doesn't approve of until this mysterious alliance threat passes?"

A perceptive question. Jay had prepared for it.

"Because dating is easily dismissed as temporary infatuation. Marriage is definitive. It removes me completely from the candidate pool and blocks the specific alliance my mother is orchestrating."

You nodded slowly. "And there's really no romantic component to this? No hidden agenda where you're hoping for more?"

"None whatsoever," Jay assured you. "This is a business arrangement with clearly defined boundaries. Any personal friendship that develops would be separate from our agreement."

Outside the restaurant, you paused before parting ways.

"This is insane," you said, shaking your head slightly. "Completely insane."

"From a conventional perspective, yes," Jay agreed. "But sometimes unconventional solutions are necessary for unusual problems."

"I'll call you," you said. "After I've thought about it. And possibly had my head examined."

Jay smiled. "I look forward to hearing from you, whatever your decision."

As you walked away, Jay allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism. You hadn't immediately rejected the idea. You'd taken the contract. You were considering it.

Phase two: initiated.

The path to avoiding his destruction was unconventional, certainly. But with each step, each calculated move, he was redrawing the map of his future.

And for the first time since waking up five years in his past, Jay felt something akin to hope.

"He asked you to what?"

Priya's voice carried across the café, drawing glances from nearby tables. You winced, motioning for her to lower her volume. Two days had passed since Jay's proposal, and you'd finally broken down and called Priya. Some things were too bizarre to process alone.

"Keep it down," you hissed. "I haven't decided anything."

"Sorry," Priya whispered dramatically, leaning across the table. "But you can't drop 'Korean billionaire wants me as his contract wife' and expect normal volume control."

You stirred your coffee absently. The USB drive sat heavy in your bag, untouched since the dinner. Every time you considered plugging it in, reality reasserted itself. People didn't just get propositioned for fake marriages by corporate heirs. Not in real life.

"Maybe I imagined it," you said. "Stress-induced hallucination."

"Honey, you don't hallucinate trust fund provisions and prenuptial terms." Priya tapped the table emphatically. "And Park Industries is the real deal. My cousin works in finance and says they're basically royalty in Korea."

You sighed, glancing at your phone. Three missed calls from your editor about a deadline. Two emails from your landlord about the rent increase. A notification about your student loan payment.

Normal life, insistently demanding attention while some alternate universe beckoned from a USB drive.

"What would you do?" you asked.

Priya considered this, stirring her chai thoughtfully. "I'd wonder why me. Of all the women in New York—hell, in the world—why pick someone he met at my mediocre exhibition?"

"He said I don't want anything from him. That I see him as a person, not a position." You shrugged. "And apparently I'm not connected to any rival companies."

"That's... oddly specific." Priya frowned. "Like he's running from something."

A memory flashed—Jay on the rooftop garden, talking about redrawing sections of his path. The wistfulness in his voice when he mentioned roles becoming cages.

"Maybe he is," you murmured.

"Look, Y/N, this is either the strangest fantasy or the most interesting opportunity of your life." Priya grabbed your hand. "But either way, you should at least read the contract. Writer curiosity, if nothing else."

You nodded slowly. She was right. Whatever this was—elaborate joke, midlife crisis, legitimate offer—you couldn't make a decision without information.

"What about Seoul?" you asked, voicing one of the hundred practical concerns cycling through your mind. "My life is here."

"Your life is a studio apartment with questionable plumbing and editor who underpays you," Priya said bluntly. "Seoul has universal healthcare and a subway system that actually works."

"And a language I don't speak."

"And a completely fresh start, financial security, and material for that book you've been talking about writing since college." Priya squeezed your hand. "I'm not saying do it. I'm saying don't dismiss it without considering the insane possibility that this fever dream might actually be real."

Your phone pinged—a text from Jay:

No pressure on your decision. But if you'd like to discuss further, I'll be at the same restaurant tonight at 8. Whether you come or not, I enjoyed our time together.

Priya peered at the message. "Polite. Not pushy. Gives you space." She raised an eyebrow. "For a corporate shark offering a fake marriage, he's surprisingly... decent?"

"That's what makes this so confusing," you admitted. "He seems genuine, even when discussing something completely manufactured."

"Maybe that's why he thinks you'd be good at this. You're both honest about the dishonesty." Priya sat back. "So, are you going tonight?"

You stared at your phone, the mundane world of deadlines and bills momentarily suspended as you considered stepping further into whatever alternate reality Jay Park occupied.

"I guess I'll start by reading the contract," you said finally.

Priya grinned. "That's my practical journalist. Verify, then trust."

"I didn't say I trust him," you protested.

"Honey, you wouldn't have called me if you weren't already halfway to saying yes."

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. She wasn't entirely wrong.

Whatever this was—fever dream or opportunity—you couldn't shake the feeling that Jay Park had seen something in you that even you hadn't recognized. Something valuable enough to upend both your worlds.

And despite every rational objection, part of you wanted to find out what it was.

After accepting Jay's proposal, everything moved quickly, but not without moments that made you question the purely contractual nature of your arrangement.

The first time you caught yourself actually looking at Jay—not as your contractual fiancé but as a man—was during a video call about logistics. He'd just finished a workout, answering your call in a fitted t-shirt damp with sweat, hair disheveled in a way you'd never seen before.

"Sorry for my appearance," he'd said, seemingly unaware of how the thin fabric clung to his chest and shoulders, revealing a physique usually hidden beneath perfect tailoring.

"It's fine," you'd replied, fighting to keep your eyes on his face rather than the defined muscles visible through his shirt. "We were just discussing flight details, right?"

You'd blamed your distraction on the strangeness of the situation. Just a natural reaction to an objectively attractive man. Nothing more.

Your Korean lessons began three weeks after you'd accepted his proposal. The language was challenging, but Jay insisted on joining occasionally, his pronunciation impeccable as he demonstrated sounds your English-trained mouth struggled to form.

"Fuck," you muttered one evening, dropping your head to the table after another failed attempt at a particularly difficult honorific. "I'm never going to get this right."

Jay looked up from his laptop, eyebrows raised. "I've never heard you swear before."

"I'm usually more professional," you admitted. "But this language is kicking my ass."

He closed his computer and moved to the chair beside you. "Try again. It's all in the tongue placement."

You made another attempt, mangling the syllables spectacularly.

"No, like this." Jay demonstrated slowly, exaggerating the mouth movement. You found yourself staring at his lips, noticing their perfect shape, the way the bottom one was slightly fuller than the top.

After your third failure, he sighed. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward your face.

You nodded, not entirely sure what he was asking permission for.

He reached out, placing his thumb gently against your lower lip. "You need to press your tongue here, behind your teeth, not against your palate."

Heat surged through you at the unexpected contact. His thumb lingered, moving slightly against your lip as he demonstrated the position. Your eyes locked, and something shifted in his expression.

"Try again," he said softly, his voice lower than before.

You attempted the word, hyperaware of his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw.

"Better," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "Almost there."

The air between you thickened. His hand should have moved away by now. It hadn't.

"Jay," you said, barely audible. Not a question, just an acknowledgment of whatever was happening.

For a moment, you thought he might lean in. Instead, he blinked and withdrew his hand, clearing his throat.

"That's enough for today," he said briskly, returning to his original seat. "You're making progress."

But that night, alone in your room, you caught yourself touching your own lip where his thumb had been, replaying the moment when his professional demeanor had briefly cracked.

Three weeks in, during dinner at a restaurant in Tribeca, Jay brought up the public aspects of your arrangement.

"We need to discuss how we'll appear as a couple," he said, his tone practical but not cold. "Physical boundaries. Forms of address."

"Like pet names?" you asked, taking a sip of wine.

"Exactly." He seemed relieved you understood. "In Korea, especially in my position, excessive public displays would seem inappropriate. But certain... intimacies are expected between engaged couples."

"So hand-holding, yes. Making out in boardrooms, no." Your joke earned a genuine smile from him.

"Precisely." He hesitated, then added with uncharacteristic uncertainty, "And regarding names..."

"What do people usually call you? Besides Jay or Mr. Park?"

His expression shifted subtly. "My mother calls me Jongseong. Business associates use Mr. Park. No one has ever used anything... affectionate."

The admission felt strangely vulnerable coming from him.

"What would you be comfortable with?" you asked.

His eyes met yours directly. "I've always thought 'babe' or 'baby' seemed... nice. Natural." The words seemed difficult for him to say, as if admitting to a secret preference. "But only if it feels comfortable for you."

The request surprised you – this controlled, strategic man wanting something so ordinary, so human.

"I can try that," you said, watching as relief softened his features. "Might take practice to say it without feeling weird, though."

"We have time to practice," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

Shopping for your new wardrobe didn't happen in a fairy tale montage. Instead, it involved practical discussions of events you'd attend, climate considerations, and cultural norms.

"These social signifiers matter to my family," Jay explained as you examined a designer dress that cost more than your rent. "But your comfort matters to me."

"To our arrangement," you corrected gently.

He paused, meeting your eyes. "Yes. And to me personally."

The statement hung between you, neither acknowledged nor dismissed as you continued through the high-end boutique. The personal shopper brought Jay a selection of suits to try as well, and despite your best intentions, you found yourself watching as he emerged from the fitting room in each new outfit.

The last one—a charcoal gray suit cut to perfection—made you momentarily forget the contract entirely. The tailor knelt, making adjustments to the trousers while Jay stood in front of a three-way mirror. The jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the tailored pants fitting perfectly across his ass.

You didn't realize you were staring until Jay's eyes met yours in the mirror, one eyebrow raising slightly. You quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks at being caught.

When you glanced back, the corner of his mouth had lifted in a small, satisfied smile.

Your parents were understandably shocked by the engagement announcement. The video call with them and Jay could have been disastrous, but he navigated it with surprising warmth.

"I understand this seems sudden," he told them, his formal demeanor softened. "I value your daughter's independence and perspective. Those qualities are rare in my world."

Later, alone, your mother had texted: "He's careful with his words around you. Watches how you react. Not sure if that's good or concerning."

"Still deciding," you'd replied honestly.

Six weeks after your agreement, you found yourself helping Jay pack for Seoul in his hotel suite, the reality of what you'd committed to finally sinking in.

"Second thoughts?" he asked, noticing your silence.

"Seventh or eighth, at least," you admitted.

You expected a strategic reassurance. Instead, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, not touching but close.

"I have them too," he said quietly. "This arrangement... it's unusual for both of us."

"You seem so certain about everything."

"I'm certain about what I'm avoiding," he clarified. "Less certain about what we're building."

The honesty was refreshing. Not romance, but genuine transparency.

"Let's try something," you suggested. "Just to see how it feels."

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You cleared your throat, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Could you pass me that folder... babe?"

The pet name hung awkwardly between you. Jay blinked, then a small, genuine smile formed.

"Here you go," he replied, handing you the folder, then hesitating before adding a tentative, "...babe."

You both laughed at the strangeness of it, the tension breaking.

"That was terrible," you admitted.

"Catastrophic," he agreed, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. "But it will get easier."

It was the first time you'd seen him truly laugh. Something shifted subtly between you – not love or even attraction necessarily, but the foundation of something human and real beneath the contractual arrangement.

Eight weeks after the proposal, you boarded his family's private jet bound for Seoul.

As the plane leveled off, Jay handed you a thin folder. "Key family members and dynamics. Not a test, just preparation."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding that you wanted to succeed at this, whatever "this" was becoming.

"Thank you," you said. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added, "...baby."

It still felt strange, but less forced. Jay's expression softened in response.

"You're welcome," he replied, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been during those first calculated conversations weeks ago.

Neither of you were in love. That wasn't part of the contract. But as the plane carried you toward Seoul, there was a growing sense that whatever performance awaited might be built on something more substantial than just legal terms.

Not romance, not yet. But a partnership forming its own unique shape – part strategy, part genuine connection, and all uncharted territory.

Arriving in Seoul felt like stepping into another dimension. A fleet of black SUVs with tinted windows. Security personnel with earpieces. Photographers kept at a careful distance by a team of efficient PR staff.

"Ready?" Jay asked quietly, his hand finding yours as the plane door opened.

You nodded, though "ready" seemed an absurd concept for what awaited.

The moment you stepped onto Korean soil, Jay transformed—his posture impeccable, his smile exactly the right blend of pride and discretion. His arm slid around your waist, protective but not possessive.

"Perfect," he murmured, his lips close to your ear. "Just like that."

The performance had begun.

to be continued.

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fake-married-my-dead-fiance · 4 months ago

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I'm on my fourth Woman Married a Loser and Tried Her Best but Died for It and Now She's Back drama (Marry My Husband, Blossom, The Double, Perfect Marriage Revenge) and I love it, I love it, I love it. Because you can feel the feminine rage radiating from the screen. These women swallowed the lie that they were the problem in their marriage. They forgave and excused and bent over backwards just like society told them to and it didn't work. It was never going to work. In the end, nothing they did mattered and their precious lives were still seen as disposable. And now they are back and they are furious and it's great.

#No I'm not tired of this trope you can give me more #marry my husband #perfect marriage revenge #blossom #the double #kdramas #Cdramas #I tried for 10 years and you can see where it got me #and yes they all get married again because this is fictional romance #but that's okay #I'll allow it.

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celestie0 · 17 days ago

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gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch8. two steps back

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency department, just got broken up with your boyfriend of 7 years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation with him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw slight age gap bc gojo in this fic is 34 n reader is 29

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 8/x

ᰔ words. 10.2k

a/n. hellooo my ihm loves! i missed you all very much. i don't have much to say here lolol but i'll see you at the end!!! hope you enjoy the first gojo pov chapter!!

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“Now see this? The little bunny ears?” Gojo says from where he’s crouched down towards the freshly-sprinkle-wet pavement of the sidewalk, his fingers pinching sparkly pink shoelace together, his view of the children’s size seven shoe obscured by his tie dangling from his neck. He would flip it over his shoulder and out of the way, but he had not one second to spare when it comes to keeping the attention of a five-year-old.

“Mhm…” Juno mumbles, nodding her head slowly as she tucks her chin to look down at the tutorial.

“Okay,” Gojo says, “just like I taught you last time, you take the bunny ears…and then cross them over like this…” He does it slowly enough to where she can follow along. And then threads one loop through the other to form a knot.

“They’re friends! The bunnies!” Juno chirps, squealing at the possibility.

“Yes, Juno, the bunnies are friends,” Gojo says.

“Are they best friends?”

“They can be whatever you want, kiddo.”

He finishes tying the shoe, and the second that he does, Juno stomps her other foot in front of him, the lining of her sole flashing bright with lights from the contact. Pink sparkly shoelace is now splayed out on the pavement once more.

Gojo levels his gaze with her, resting his elbows on his knees. “No, Juno. That’s why I showed you how to do it. You have to do the other one.”

“But! Uncle Toru! You’re faster at it.”

He sighs, hanging his head a little in defeat, some of his fringe he had slicked back for the purpose of his 12PM house showing falls over his forehead from the movement. He looks back up at Juno and she looks entirely thrilled to be stressing him out like this. “I can’t do this for you every time, kid. Your uncle’s getting old. My back hurts, and my vestibular system is degrading. I’m gonna start looking like Grandpa Lou Pickles real soon.”

She slaps her hands to her mouth, one over the other, to try and stifle that full-of-glee giggle that bubbles from her throat.

There was nothing like making a kid laugh at your own expense.

Gojo smiles at her then pushes up on his knees to stand up straight with a small huff. He smooths down his tie to lay it flat with his grey suit jacket and corrects any creases. “You’ve got it?”

She nods enthusiastically, kneeling down quickly to tie her own shoes. She makes the little bunny loops, gets confused when she crosses them over, her pinky finger somehow getting caught in the knot, but she manages to pull the laces through and makes a very uneven bow. But at least a bow, it was.

She stands up, jumps up and down with happiness, clapping her hands together saying, “yay!! I did it!!”

“Good jooooob, Juno,” Gojo says, ruffling her curly hair until she’s annoyed by it and pushes his hand away to smooth down the frizz he just created. “Now, let’s get going. You’re going to be late.”

Gojo doesn’t need to park ten minutes away from Juno’s elementary school, and force her to walk all the way to the entrance, since in theory, he could wait in the agonizing line of parent drop-offs that’ll get her off right at the gate. But some of his favorite memories when he was a kid was when his dad would walk him to school. They’d count every Volkswagen beetle that would drive by, or slugbugs as his dad used to call them, and he’d get a free pass to punch his old man in the hip every single time he saw one. Either that, or a dollar towards ice cream after school at the end of the week. He outgrew the violence by the time he got to third grade. And curiously, that’s also when he developed a sweet tooth.

The nice thing about being a realtor is that Gojo had a pretty decently flexible schedule. And although he found himself working on most weekends, since that’s when he’s able to book showings for the most part, it at least means that he has the capacity to drop his niece off at school at 10am on a random Tuesday when her parents can’t. Because he has no place he’s expected to clock in or show up to that’s against his will. But, of course, that means he’s basically their go-to contact for moments like this. Where they can’t drop her off at dance practice, pick her up from school, or keep an eye on her when she’s at home. He would never complain about it, though. Not with the way Juno blabbers his ear off during the ten-minute walks to school about all the latest happenings of Sophia the First like there was no other person in the world she’d rather share all the drama too. And also the fact that, instead of punching his hip whenever she sees a slugbug, she opts to hug his leg instead.

“Are those kids still bothering you at school?” Gojo asks her when she hops over a tiny rock.

She glances down at her shoes, the grip of her hand wrapped around Gojo’s finger weakening slightly. “No…”

“Juno, are you lying to me?”

“No!” she yells, loudly, as if she was offended by the assumption.

“You let me know if they are, okay?” Gojo says. He stops walking and pulls his finger from her grip so that she’ll stop kicking rocks and actually pay attention to what he says. She looks up at him and blinks. “I need you to know that no matter what, family will always have your back. Understood?”

Her lip quivers a little. “Yes Uncle Toru.”

Gojo takes Juno’s tiny hand in his again as the two of them continue to walk down the sidewalk and finally pass the noisy cross-section of Juno’s elementary school.

“Uh-oh…” Juno stops in her tracks suddenly once they’ve reached the courtyard in front of the main entrance where there are bustling children making their way inside the gates. She pulls her hand from Gojo’s grip before glancing up at him and twiddles with a coil of her hair. Parents are walking their children up to the walk-in zone, some giving their kids hugs and kisses goodbye. The colors all around are nauseating, with bright neons and blue and pinks and, quite frankly, hues that not a single person in the world has any business meshing together. Like barf green and mustard yellow. But chaos was comfort to the undeveloped brain.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Gojo says as he looks down at a doe-eyed Juno, turning his ear towards her because it was hard to hear her meek voice over the teachers yelling as they try to round the kids up before first period starts.

“Um…” she blinks, “I forgot my lunch moneys.”

“Oh,” Gojo says, his shoulders relaxing, then he reaches into his pocket for his wallet, pulls out a twenty dollar bill, then hands it to her, “here you go. No problem.”

Juno glances down at it, her tiny hand gentle with the paper, careful not to crease it. She looks up again. “Um. Uncle Toru.”

“Uh huh?”

“Lunch is three dollars.”

“I don’t have any ones on me, sweetheart. Just keep it. Buy one of those books from the book fair.”

Her eyes light up at that before the excitement stifles with some realization. “Oh. Um. It’s,” she counts on her fingers, “twenty-six dollars for book and my lunch.”

He fishes out another twenty, but squats down again to level his gaze with her before he hands it to her. “Your mommy didn’t give you money for the book fair?”

Juno gets shy, averting her gaze to the ground as she rubs her ankle with her other foot. “No…I wanted, um, the fairy book.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But mommy said no. That there is no money.”

“No money?”

She nods. “Mhm.”

“Okay…” He frowns. “That’s all she said to you?”

Juno nods.

“Are–” Gojo starts, but then the loud-pitched shrieking of a couple of girls towards the right cuts him off.

“Juno!!! Juno!!!” they yell, skipping up to Juno with excitement before squeezing her into a bear hug, looking like a huddle of pigtails and sparkly backpacks. Gojo stands up straight again and watches the scene unfold.

Juno, her cheeks as red as beet, smiles when they pull away from the hug and jumps up and down with them.

“She’s here! She’s here!” one of her friends exclaims.

“Hey, hey, hey, wanna trade silly bands?” the other one chirps.

Gojo lets out a slow exhale, waving a hand back to Juno when she bashfully glances over her shoulder at him as she walks towards the school entryway with her friends. He makes sure to keep an eye on her all the way until she gets through the gates, into the sea of students. He pushes his hands into his pockets, his gaze set straight ahead at the green paint outside the school, still watching Juno as she approaches the heavy double doors. There is some unsettling feeling at the base of his ribs, as if to warn about unfinished business. The feeling doesn’t pass, even when he’s satisfied at the sight of Juno making it inside school. His brow furrows slightly in concentration, but his train of thought is interrupted by a feminine voice that calls out from behind him.

“Is she yours?” he hears the voice call out, and when he turns his head to the side, he sees a woman dressed in faded mom jeans, a striped long sleeve, and black leather boots approaching him from the side.

“Oh, no,” Gojo pulls a hand out of his pocket to shake his palm in front of him, “she’s my niece.”

“Ahhh,” the woman smiles, “she’s adorable.”

“Right? Super smart, too.”

She lets out a small exhale through her nose, one that’s reminiscent of a laugh, before turning her head to look over her shoulder towards the playground where the preschoolers next door were still preoccupied by their playtime. Gojo trails her gaze to a small group of boys by the monkey bars, and he sees one of them making snow angels face-down in wet dirt. When he glances back at the woman’s face, she looks affectionately disturbed.

“That’s my Timmy,” she says, “and I really can’t say the same about him.”

He laughs. “It’s fine. I was just like that when I was a kid. He’ll grow out of it.”

“Do you have any of your own?” she asks.

“Not that I know of,” he responds.

She laughs at that. He had half expected her to roll her eyes.

“I’m Mari, by the way,” she says with a smile, smoothing her palms down the fabric over her thighs.

“Satoru,” he responds, and he doesn’t pass over the gesture of a handshake, which she seems taken aback by, but still accepts when she squeezes his hand.

“I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before…” she trails off.

He squints his eyes a little to see if he can place her face too. Or maybe come up with places she may have seen him. When he runs a blank, he says, “I’m here often to drop my niece off. My sister and her husband are–” he feels that same sensation in his ribs, “pretty busy these days.” They’ve asked him to drop Juno off at school so many times by now that the moms around the place are starting to recognize him.

“That’s sweet,” she says, crossing her arms and rubbing at her elbow as she glances over at her son again. “I wish I could have help like that. They're so lucky to have you around.”

“Yeah…I should really hold it against them more often.”

She laughs. “Seriously though!” She sighs, and when he remains quiet because he can tell she’s building up to something more vulnerable, she takes the invitation to vent. “Just–...you know, it’s so hard to juggle everything. Work, the kid–”

“Yeahhh.”

“It’s like there’s just never enough hours in a day–”

“Definitely.”

“Some days it just gets so overwhelming to the point where I’m, like…like not even really a person anymore–”

“I can imagine.”

“And–” she stops to look at him, suddenly embarrassed, “I’m sorry, I think I’m just venting.”

He shakes his head at her. “You’re all good.”

She purses her lips together in thought, squinting her eyes slightly at him, before her shoulders relax. “Would you…” she starts, “like to get coffee sometime?”

“Oh, no, sorry, I’m–” he pulls his left hand up out of his pocket to hold it up in the air, but then stiffens entirely when a chill runs down his spine.

Because it wasn’t a reflex of recent events,

It was a reflex from years ago.

“You’re…?” she says, tilting her head to the side curiously as if to feign innocence of the fact that there’s a ring on his finger until she hears the words from him personally. As if the ring would vanish with enough wishful thinking.

His shoulders, tense and rigid, slowly drop back down before he breathes in deep and says, “I’m married.”

. . .

As Gojo makes his way back to the neighborhood where he parked his car, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolls through his recent calls, and is surprised to find that his brother-in-law’s name is a bit higher up on the list than he thought it would be. Or wanted it to be.

He lifts the phone to his ear when he presses dial, and the phone almost rings through four times before someone finally picks it up.

“Yo! The man! The bro-in-law! What’s goin’ on, dude!” he hears Jun’s rather chirpy voice on the other line.

“Hey Jun,” Gojo says into his phone, walking down onto the residential street, “Just calling to let you know Juno’s been dropped off. I found out from one of the teachers that it’s only a half day today, though. So you’ll have to pick her up earlier.”

“Oh shoot…” Jun trails off, and Gojo can already tell what he’s about to ask of him.

Gojo likes Jun. He’s always liked the guy, actually. Although he always thought Sana would end up with someone Gojo didn’t like, as some act of defiance. But Jun was a lot different than the waste-of-space high school boyfriends Sana brought home during her teenage years (sorry if that sounds rude, it’s just that, once upon a time, Gojo used to be a waste-of-space high school boyfriend, as most teenage boys are, so he knows how awful they are and eventually grew into the conscious reasoning of loathing them). But anyway, Jun was a reliable guy. Hard-working, always seemed like he was on the hustle with his business, but he was a little unsettlingly cheerful all the time. The first expression of his that comes to mind whenever one thinks of him is a smile full of pearly white teeth and eyes squinted shut from the curve of his cheeks, but Gojo always figured it was some businessman tactic that eventually integrated into his personality as a whole.

“Do you think you could—” Jun starts.

“No, Jun, I can’t,” Gojo cuts him off, “I’m closing a sale today.”

He knows he said he could never complain about looking after Juno, but in a sense, forcing her dad to ditch a measly hour of work to show up and pick her up from school is in a way looking after her. Kids need their dads, and it’s a little sad that even just showing up is something not a lot of them care to honor.

“Ayyy that’s okay then, I’ll just figure it out,” he says, “but thanks for dropping her off this morning!”

“Sure thing.” Gojo’s phone starts ringing, and he sees he has an incoming call from one of his clients. “Hey, I’ve gotta go. But remember, her school gets out at 1:30.” And he barely hears the acknowledgement from Jun before he switches calls.

By the time Gojo wraps up his afternoon showing, and spends a couple hours putting together all the paperwork for the sale he’s closing later today, he’s starving. And he considers picking up some Thai food on his way home but then he gets a text from you.

|| 1:04PM Neighbor HerbGarden: hey I made chicken parm. would you like me to set aside a plate for you

He can’t help the smile on his face from the message, and how strangely polite it is. He’s usually the type to call someone to respond to a question they ask him through text (the worst kind of person), but instead he finds him typing back.

|| 1:05PM Gojo: Sure although I’d prefer mine without any poison please

He sees the little three dots as you type.

|| 1:06PM Neighbor HerbGarden: unfortunately I cannot make any such accommodations

And there it is again, that amused grin he can’t help. It’s uncannily similar to his days of being a waste-of-space high school boyfriend, except now he’s texting on iOS 18 instead of a Nokia brick. But also, he’s not seventeen anymore. It’s kind of dangerous that you make him feel like he is, though.

He hears his phone ping again.

|| 1:08PM Neighbor HerbGarden: also can you please pick up some orange juice from the store

|| 1:08PM Neighbor HerbGarden: without pulp

He blinks at the screen, before responding with,

|| 1:08PM Gojo: 👍👍👍

He stares at the messages for a few more seconds, then up at the blank grey contact number and your name Neighbor HerbGarden. He has a lot of numbers in his phone, from years and years of building clientele both in one of the biggest Metropolitan cities in the country, and also here in Dayton County within the past year that he’s lived here. Sometimes it was just easier and more efficient to save people in his phone as something that’ll make him remember who they actually are rather than just an arbitrary name. In one of the first times he met you, you brought him two bunches of dried oregano from your herb garden, and so he saved you in his phone as Neighbor HerbGarden to differentiate you from Neighbor BasketballHoop to his right.

Gojo presses his lips into a thin line then glances up to the sky as he stands outside of the vacant home he’s about to make major bank on today, and then clicks edit on your contact name.

He backspaces Neighbor HerbGarden then types,

Wife

He exhales slowly, then adds,

… (?)

To the end of the word.

Then shoves his phone in his pocket.

—

“God, that was delicious,” Gojo sighs as he sets the plates in the dishwasher, “I mean, seriously, you could open a restaurant. Er, actually, on second thought, probably not. Considering the natural disaster level of a mess you’ve left the kitchen in after making just one meal.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you say, and he turns around to see you standing behind him still clad in your marinara-stained apron and your hair that was once pulled taut up into a ponytail now falling loose over your shoulders. The only thing that could make the sight even sexier is if you were topless. “Now sign this,” you say, holding up a sheet of paper to his face and placing a stern fist to your hip.

He blinks at you and slowly turns the faucet off before drying his hands off on the towel while still facing you. His eyes briefly skim the top of the page which says Contract.

“Uh, what’s this?” he asks.

“Our rules.”

He doesn’t even take a second to read another single word before his eyes flit up to yours, his brow quirking. “Rules?”

“Yes,” you say, and blow a puff of air up your cheek to get the hair out of your face, “remember? No touching, no sex, no sneaking into my room, no peeping in on me in the shower, and—” You point a finger up, “New one. No. Flirting.”

His mind fixates on the word sex. “No sex? Didn’t you ask me to fuck you the other day?” he says as he leans back on the counter, an amused look on his face as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“That—” you stiffen then relax your shoulders before pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration of yourself, “I don’t recall such an event occurring.”

“Really? Well thank god I’ve got a ring camera set up in the living room.” He pretends to pull the app up on his phone.

“No!” you yell, reaching out to hold his forearm to stop him, likely through a way of distraction as his eyes flit to the curl of your fingers as you sink your nails into his skin. He quietly sucks a breath in through his teeth. “….stupid ring camera,” you mumble dejectedly, “I hate it.”

He sighs. “Baby. You’re the one that demanded I get it installed.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You and your strange fear of home invasion.”

“Don’t call me baby,” you hiss at him, and it’s rather easy to see the flush to your cheeks, “that counts as flirting.” You slam the paper down onto the counter. “Now sign this.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head, “don’t wanna.”

“Sign. It.”

“Nope, not without my lawyer present.”

“Ouuuuuu that really handsome one with the tight trousers and the sexy Benz?” you swoon cartoonishly.

He glances up at the ceiling in thought, then takes the bait. “Who needs lawyers, anyway.”

“Mhmmmmm exactly,” you hum in satisfactory agreement then wave the paper in front of his face again like he’s a dog. “So sign it.”

He hesitantly takes the sheet from you. “What good is signing a makeshift contract going to do?”

“I’m sick of people pretending like they don’t know that they’ve wronged me. So, with this contract, when you eventually wrong me, I’ll have it in writing that I specifically asked you not to.”

God damn you were kinda crazy. It was simultaneously hot and scary at the same time. I mean, he’s always known that about you; that you’re a bit differently strung than most people he’s ever met, even more so compared to the women he’s met, but there was something oddly charming and redeeming about it all too. It’s hard to explain. In the city, people are nice to your face but then fuck you over behind your back. Like, invite you over for dinner when their family is in town but then tell the principal that your kid shoved their kid at school just so that their kid gets the last spot on the T-ball team. But here in small Dayton County, people care less of the small gesture frivolities and would rather go straight into repairing your flat tire on the side of the road no questions asked, and no thanks needed, but God forbid you expect them to flash you a smile when you pass by them on the street. He kinda liked the latter, preferred the latter, and considering that you were born-and-raised here, you’re a woman who was as close to that Dayton County sentiment as anyone here could get.

He liked it though. Sure, you cuss him out often and act in ways that confuse the ever living hell out of him, but something told him that when it came down to it, and I mean really came down to it, you were someone he could trust. And trust is a feeling that’s hardly given out carelessly in this day and age.

He finally takes a better look at this contract of yours. Just a few lines of size 12pt font of Times New Roman and a numbered list with rules on it. It was a poorly put together contract of contingencies of which he knew he’d have no business following. Sure, he’s exercised self restraint up until this point, perhaps his biggest challenge thus far having been captured in 720p resolution on that Ring camera over in the other room that faces the couch, but if you kept wearing those prudish nightgowns all over the house and asked him to fuck you in the middle of a weekday one more time, he’s ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure he’d have no willpower left at that point.

He sighs and pretends to fully read all the words typed out on your contract, then flips it around so the contents face you as he holds it up. “Cross out the no flirting and we’re good.”

“I am not crossing that out.”

“If you live with me, I’m going to flirt with you. That’s just how it’s going to be.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Baby. This ask of yours is what’s borderline ridiculous.”

“Stop with the ‘baby!!!” you sneer at him and he can’t help but laugh.

He places the paper down on the surface of the island and clicks the pen, crosses out no, writes in occasional and adds is okay after the word flirting so that it reads: occasional flirting is okay. Then scribbles his signature on it.

“Here you go,” he says as he hands it back to you.

“I did not permit any addendums.”

“Look, honey, it’s the best you’re gonna get.”

He sees you scribble something down onto the page and then you hold it up for him to see.

No pet names.

“Do you agree?” you ask in a way that suggests you won’t take no for an answer.

He sighs. “Sure.”

“Good,” you say, satisfied as you stare down at the contract with approval before looking up at him again with a narrow, almost pissed-off gaze. It gets him borderline excited. “Now, are you a man of your word?”

“I hope so.”

“That’s not very reassuring. Try again.”

“It’s hard for me to say.”

“Why?”

“Well, with you, it’s hard for me to say.”

“That makes me self conscious.”

“Don’t be,” he says.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you respond, then shuffle across the hardwood floors of the kitchen into the dining room where you sit down there along with all the hospital bills you’ve had scattered there since you moved in.

He sighs, watching as you grab a stack of all your envelopes and papers and manila folders then dump them all on the kitchen island.

“Sorry,” you say, “I’m running out of space.” You turn on your heel to head back to the dining table but then spin to face him again. “And please don’t look at the bills. I’d rather pretend they don’t exist.” Then you turn the corner back to where you came from.

Gojo sighs to himself, his eyes briefly flitting down to the stack of unsorted papers you’ve left on the table. He sees scribbles of paid and to be paid and ask for itemized bill and has already been sent to collections and repeat charge all over them, wondering how in hell you manage to keep track of all this. He feels stressed on your behalf.

Something catches his eye, among all the paperwork. A tiny corner poking out from under a bill for a thirty-four-hundred dollar chemotherapy infusion. The finely printed black ink on it is hard to read, but Gojo tugs it out and holds it up at eye level.

Carevest Capital est. 2024

Invest in a healthier you!

And when he skims to the bottom, he sees CEO Jun Miller, phone: (851)-334-5555 for the contact.

His brow furrows together. He inhales deeply before shuffling his feet over to the dining hall.

“Hey,” he says, pinching the card between his index and middle finger then holding it up, “what’s this?”

You turn over to look at him, eyes wide and blinking innocently before you squint at the card. “Huh? Oh. That’s your brother-in-law’s business card. For his healthcare cost relief company.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Mhm.”

Gojo frowns. He brings the card down to look at it again. Last time he checked, Jun ran a small local auto parts repair shop. Routine stuff like cracked windshields and tinted windows, with the hopes of expanding business to a couple more places within the zip code. Gojo had never heard of any healthcare cost relief company. And he figured Jun would’ve provided some sort of proof of pay for it when Gojo helped him process the loan for their new house. It doesn’t make sense.

Gojo sighs, and chalks it up to ambition. He knows how businessmen are. A lot of his clients are like that. They always think they’ve caught the next-best-thing and want to chase it before anyone else can.

You’re still blinking at him with a mildly confused face.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I wouldn’t put any money into this if I were you, though.”

You sigh and slump your shoulders. “As if I even could.” But then you turn to look at him again. “Why? You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“What? Entrusting large sums of your money to some company that promises to somehow double it and give it back? Of fucking course not.”

“You don’t trust your own brother-in-law?”

“It—” He’s a little taken aback by the question. “It’s not that I don’t. It’s just that I don’t really trust businessmen at large.”

“Aren’t you…technically a businessman?”

“What?”

You put your elbow up on the chair’s backrest and twist your torso more to look at him. “Last time I checked, you sell houses.”

“That—…that’s different.”

“Is it?”

“I’m a realtor. Not a businessman. Business people, you know, they play dirty to get what they want. I’m just helping people with a task that they don’t always have the time or resources to do.”

“You literally make up contrived skit scenarios so that your clients find houses more memorable, and also pimp yourself out to divorced housewives so they’ll follow through on a return offer. That’s no better than the way a businessman manipulates.”

“Is your opinion of me really that low?”

And he asks it with genuinity. Not laced with mirth, or faux arrogance, or a childlike desire for banter. He genuinely wants to know, after the past few weeks of getting to know each other a little bit better, if you really think of him as someone like that.

As if you felt the way his tone cut through air, setting precedent for what had otherwise felt like a neutral conversation tethering on an edge of hostility, you sit up a little straighter in your chair and your eyes are wide again as you blink at him, and he sees the shallow rise of your chest as you breathe through the movement of your marinara-stained apron.

“No,” you say, your expression softening, “it’s not.”

He’s not sure what exactly your words accomplish in him, or what reward he gained for seeking them out, if any, but he just lets out a huff of an exhale and grabs his suit jacket off the back of the chair at the head of the table, pulling his arms through the sleeves before shrugging it into place. Then he grabs his keys off the wooden surface and glances at his watch. “Alright,” he says, “that’s good to know.” Then heads towards the door.

—

“You know, Satoru, I met my wife on a military excursion to Thailand. It’s precisely why I’m ruined for all American women. The women over there, they just move with this sort of sensual grace that the women here can’t compete with.”

“Uh-huh,” Gojo barely nods in acknowledgment of his client’s words as he sits at the lonesome dining table located in the otherwise chilling vacancy of this house he’s about to hand over. “So, did you two have a chance to take a look at the walkthrough report?”

The wife curls her arm around her husband’s bicep, and from an outsider’s perspective, it would look awfully inappropriate given she looks at least twenty years younger than him, but to Gojo, it’s something he tends to see pretty often when he makes sales up in the neighborhoods of this part of town.

“Yes,” she says, smiling up at her husband, and the action alone ages her ten years from the ripples of botox visible in her cheeks, “Len and I are so ready to call this home our own.”

“What do you think of Thai women, Satoru,” Len asks him, completely ignoring any and all tasks at hand because he’s not satisfied with the low level of interest his realtor is taking to his fruitless words.

“Never been with one,” Gojo comments flatly as he flips through the closing documents and highlights whatever needs to be signed.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, and maybe it’s because he remembers your words from earlier. About pimping himself out or playing dirty like a businessman. Gojo’s brow furrows slightly as he stares a little excessively too long at a simple key release form. But he just feels annoyed. So what if he pretends to get along with guys like Len up until that 6% commission hits his bank account? What’s so wrong about making a living? Not everyone has to be sacred about what they do for work.

“You’re missin’ outtttt, man,” Len comments as Gojo passes all the papers over to the two of them. He only takes a quick glance at the papers before saying. Gojo taps his pen on the table as an annoyed tick, looking at the documents sitting in front of Len and thinking just sign the fuckin’ papers already, but instead, Len sets his pen down to further stall. “Why don’t we head out to lunch after this? To celebrate. I’m craving some Tom Kha Soup,” he says with an exaggerated accent, then points the pen at Gojo. “And we’ll hook you up with a nice Thai lady while we’re there.”

“I already had lunch,” he says, not even bothering to say and I’m also married because he knows the ‘already having had lunch’ excuse would hold more weight to Len than any declaration of lifelong romantic commitment.

“Bummer,” Len says, “you ate at home?”

“Yup.”

“I gotta start doing that, too, you know, eating healthier,” Len says before leaning back into his chair with a grunt. “Doctor said somethin’ to me about my cholesterol gettin’ too high and that even the statins won’t be able to save me.”

His wife looks like she’s just heard the most fantastic news ever, but conceals it with a frown, then swats a playful hand towards Gojo.

“Does your wife cook for you?” she asks cheerfully.

Technically, you’ve only offered to include him in your lunch plans two or three times so far, and coincidentally only on the days he mowed the lawn in the morning like you asked him to, but he says, “yeah, she does.” To keep things simple. But he also comes to the realization that you’re trying to Pavlov him into doing more chores around the house by feeding him ridiculously good food.

“See, Len? Some men actually appreciate their wives’ cooking.” She pretends to appear offended as she playfully smacks at her husband's chest.

“Sweetheart, you know I didn’t marry you for your cooking,” he drawls, saying it near her ear as if it were meant to be said in secret and she bashfully giggles.

For fucks sake he’s not sure how much longer of this he can take. The feeling of awkwardness as he sits on the other end of the most classic stereotypical conversation he would ever have the displeasure of hearing between a boomer and his too-young-for-him foreign wife. He wonders what you’d say if he bitched about this conversation to you. He could picture you yelling in passion about the perpetuation of the patriarchy with the disgraceful existence of predatory men like Len.

In the midst of his borderline cognitive crisis, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

The number looks vaguely familiar, but it’s unsaved.

“Hey, sorry you two,” he says to the couple seated across from him before he gets up out of his chair, “I’ve gotta take this.” Then excuses himself into the hallway and brings his phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, this is Marium calling from Rockwell Elementary, I’m looking for Mr. Gojo Satoru?”

“Yeah, speaking.”

“Oh, wonderful, thank you for taking my call. I’m just reaching out because we’re getting close to closing up the gates for school now.”

Gojo glances at his watch. 2:57PM.

“The kids got out of school about an hour and a half ago but no one has come to pick Juno up yet. She’s the last one here. We tried contacting her parents, but no one answered, so we had to reach out to her emergency contacts. Mrs. Shapiro is waiting with her, but if someone isn’t able to take her home soon, we’ll have to send her to the KinderCare on Ventura Street once the last bus comes by.”

Gojo pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes tightly. “No, I'll come pick her up. I’ll be there in ten.”

Gojo now finds himself back at his niece’s elementary school, waiting at the gate for the teacher to being her around to the courtyard. No major sale closed. His clients are going out of town tomorrow, so they had to sell today, and he’s now obligated to share some portion of his eighty-thousand dollar commission with his colleague who’s doing the favor of wrapping things up for the sale in his absence. All because Jun couldn’t even remember the time he was supposed to pick Juno up from school, even after Gojo told him twice when she’d get off. And it was safe to say he was a bit pissed.

“Uncle Toru!!!” he hears Juno’s voice chirp from a distance, and when he turns his head, he sees her running towards him, her backpack bouncing up and down in her sprint, before she crashes into Gojo’s arms as he kneels down towards the ground and wraps her arms around her.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, then picks her up, “you ready to head home?”

Before Juno can respond, Gojo hears a man shout from the drop-off zone. He turns his head towards that direction, squints his eyes and makes out Jun’s silhouette approaching from a car that has its hazard lights turned on and he’s hastily making his way over.

“Juno!!” he waves his hand up in the air, the sound of his keys that hang from his thumb jingling as he gets closer. Gojo sets Juno down and is surprised that she doesn’t immediately run to her dad, but instead grips onto Gojo’s index finger with her whole hand and itches her ankle with the tip of her other shoe.

“Hi daddy,” she says, peering up at him underneath the roof of her baseball cap.

Jun crouches down to eye-level with her, and holds his arms out. “Hey sweetheart, how was school?”

She’s hesitant before she slowly releases her tight grip on Gojo’s finger and walks towards Jun, and accepts his embrace. “Good,” she says shallowly.

Jun sneaks a glance up at Gojo’s face, and Gojo couldn’t even hide the disappointment if he tried.

“Hey, Juno, why don’t you go sit in the car? I have Frozen playing,” he says to her, placing a kiss on her temple, and that news entirely excites Juno as she squeals with happiness then runs toward the car. Both Gojo and Jun watch her climb into the car and close the door before properly regarding each other.

“Listen, Jun, I’m just going to give it to you straight because I’m not in the mood to bullshit,” Gojo says, “I get that you’re busy, but you can’t just forget your own kid at school and leave her stranded to the point where admin have to call her emergency contacts just to get her home safely.”

“I know, I know, it’s just that—”

“I mean, last weekend you forgot what time her dance recital was and completely missed it. The one she had been practicing towards for weeks. You’ve basically asked me to drop her off at school every day for the past week and a half with no good excuse as to why. And then you do this. Like, what’s gotten into you, man?” He takes a breath to prevent his tone from turning too sharp, but when he thinks about Juno sitting all alone in a classroom with her teacher after watching all her friends get picked up with love and taken home on what was supposed to be a fun half-day for her, he feels pissed off at the negligence. “She’s a smart kid. And as proud of that as you should be, it does mean that she’s smart enough to notice these things. And it’s going to make her feel like her own dad doesn’t care about her.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry,” he says, panic on his face as the mistake settles in, “it’s just, you know, with Sana going back to work, her being occupied with the new job and everything, I dunno, I’m so used to her taking care of Juno but now that more responsibility has fallen on me, it’s really hard to manage with my businesses—” he catches himself, his eyes widening, and Gojo narrows his, “…my business.” He corrects himself.

“What could be more important than your own kid?” Gojo asks.

“Nothing. At least there shouldn’t be. You’re right.”

But even after Jun gave him the answer he expected to hear, the question still lingers in his head. Businesses. Jun is running more than just the auto parts company, at least one other one that he knows of based on what you told him regarding the business card. He just found out right now that Sana is going back to work, after about six years of being out of the workforce.

And then he recalls what Juno said to him this morning.

But mommy said no. That there is no money.

Gojo’s brows furrow, and he blinks at a very guilty-looking Jun in front of him, before his expression relaxes and the stiffness in his shoulders relax.

“Is—” Gojo starts, unsure on how to tread the question, “is everything okay?”

Jun stands up a little straighter. “Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he chirps rather unconvincingly, with that same level of faux cheerfulness he often displays.

Gojo sighs, glances over to the right. He sees the preschool next door, with its playground completely deserted, then he glances back at Jun.

“If you need help,” Gojo starts, “with anything at all,” and he sees the way Jun’s posture dampens slightly, “don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Will do, man,” Jun said, “but I’ll make sure I’ve got Juno’s school schedule in my phone so you won’t have to do this again.” And something tells Gojo that Jun is purposefully pretending as if he didn’t catch onto the fact that Gojo was referring to finances as some preservation of his pride in front of another man.

Gojo gives himself a couple seconds to consider if he should push the subject any further, but just respects the deflection, and says, “alright.”

—

God forbid a man has a drink or two during happy hour at his favorite bar to get over a rather stressful day, just to end up running into his fake wife’s ex boyfriend before he can even catch a little bit of a buzz.

Wait, that’s a lie, the first single malt was starting to flow through his veins.

And he knows you told him that he didn’t need to bother trying to make the guy jealous anymore,

But god, it was just so fun. And he could really use the entertainment right now.

“Oh every position possible, pal. Doggy, prone bone, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl. Anything from the Kama Sutra. You name it, we do it,” Gojo says.

He’s seated at the far end of the high-top, his preferable location as it was away from the bustling tables and gigantic TV on top of all the kegs that’s playing the Seahawks vs 49ers semifinals game, but it’s still close enough to the bartender to make small talk when he wanted it. Up until he was interrupted by the guy to his right who’s standing with fists clenched tightly at his sides from hearing Gojo flaunt of this allegedly stellar sex life he’s got with the guy’s ex girlfriend. Truth be told, Gojo forgot his name. He tries to place it as he looks the man up and down from where he’s seated. Nappy black hair, long enough to curl at the back of his neck, wearing an obnoxiously tight black shirt, along with black leather pants.

“She doesn’t even like cowgirl,” he says defensively, “always used to say it hurts her knees.”

Fuck. Of course you have knee problems. Think, Gojo, think. “Uh, she likes it with me,” he comes up with, “she likes anything with me.”

Gojo glances up at the guy once again when he doesn’t respond back fast enough, seeing the way his jaw clenches and his hands further condense into fists at his side. The amusement of making him get all riled up quickly dissipates, as he imagined it would anyways, and instead, he almost feels sorry for him. Gojo knows exactly what he must be thinking right now. Memories of you naked that he’s preserved like holy water after the end of a seven year relationship, now morphing into visuals of you getting railed by your new husband instead, and that sweet image he has of you in his head will never be the same. Forever being ruined by another guy’s dick. It’s an intrusive thought that every man on the planet has experienced at some point or another, himself included. He’s already fucked you more in this guy’s imagination than he’s even remotely gotten close to doing in real life (well, he was partially to blame for that) but Leather Pants over here isn’t going to know that when he’s losing sleep over it at night. And now Gojo’s got guilt on his conscience. His least favorite feeling.

Ah.

Choso.

Choso Kamo.

That was his name.

Gojo glances down at his glass of scotch, trailing the line of the rim with the pad of his index finger, feeling more heat radiating off of the rage from Choso’s body than the woodfire flame of the heaters behind the high-top counter.

He sighs then glances over at Choso again, eyeing him in dim lighting. “You’ll find someone else, man,” he says, “don’t get hung up on just one person. It’s a useless kind of torture.”

He speaks as if he’s entirely detached from the sentiment.

Choso crosses his arms. “So it’s not just some scam, then? You two really are married?” He grits his teeth. “In good faith?” He mocks the law in his tone as if he doesn’t defend it.

Gojo stares blankly at the surface of wood in front of him, the color charred with black and faded with use, his expression sobering for a moment as he lets out a deep breath. His stare turns shallow, like he’s about to dissociate, and for some reason, the lie doesn’t come as easy to him this time. “You were there in the courtroom. You know the answer to that question.”

Choso huffs, and as if he couldn’t help going against his own oath to secrecy, he declares, “I’m investigating, you know. At least I will be. Collecting evidence.”

Gojo exhales, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass, before bringing the rim to his mouth and tipping some of it back.

He’s familiar with US federal law regarding marital insurance fraud. 8 U.S.C. 1033 and 18 U.S.C. 371 provide for a penalty of up to ten years in prison for it. And under that statute, perpetrators can also be expected to be fined up to $250,000. And although millions of people everyday get away with all sorts of illegal activity, he knows that there’s also millions of people everyday that don’t. That was the problem with the law in an otherwise tumultuous country. You never know how much you need to truly fear it. As if it were up to personal choice rather than any real social stature.

Truthfully, Gojo isn’t really the type to not think things through before going through with them. He’s fiscally responsible (minus his boat), tries not to get attached to places or people a little too easily, and always makes sure he knows the traffic situation ahead of time before going down Interstate 10. On the outside, he lived a rather simple life. Getting tied up into an insurance scam was certainly not the first thing he pictured for himself when he left New York City for little old Dayton County without anything other than a cabin suitcase that was mostly empty anyways. But he got invested in his rather strange neighbor who’s going through a tough time, and suddenly he’s going against everything that’s inherent to him. As previously mentioned, there is a part of him that finds it exciting. Y’know, that part that enjoys a little bit of chaos and uncertainty, that part of him that chases a thrill. That tendency to think first, act later, the one that gets people into a lot of trouble. But it’s almost like he’s been subconsciously itching for it this entire time. And maybe even for his entire life, now that he (and the alcohol) thinks about it.

But going to jail is definitely where he draws the line on adrenaline seeking.

And besides. He doesn’t want to see you fail.

He knows that to people who aren’t American, the whole idea seems so strange.

Why risk time in prison and the potential to be fined upwards of a quarter million dollars just to get healthcare for you and your loved ones?

But it’s only because that risk of consequence hardly rivals the reality of the situation anyways.

He saw your bills. He knows you told him not to look, because he knows the only way you keep your sanity and keep your head above water is by allowing a part of yourself to ignore the existence of your suffering.

But for fucks sake, forty-two-thousand-dollars out of pocket just for your mom’s two-day hospitalization? And that was just one of the outstanding bills? With big bold letters IF YOU DO NOT PAY THIS WITHIN THE NEXT 5-7 BUSINESS DAYS, WE WILL SEND THIS BILL TO COLLECTIONS.

You put any layman in a situation like that, and he couldn’t imagine suicide wouldn’t cross their mind at least once.

Gojo glances over at Choso’s jacket. The Club at Snoqualmie Ridge.

As the saying goes, keep your friends close, and keep cops who threaten to perform a full blown investigation of the legitimacy of your marriage even closer.

“You play golf, Kamo?”

“What–” Choso stutters, a little surprised by the question, but his fists relax slowly, “yeah?”

“We should go for a swing sometime.”

“Huh? But—”

Gojo pushes his empty glass of scotch up the table a few inches then gets up out of the chair, standing in front of Choso, gaze leveling before he pats him on the shoulder, and says, “Just to see who’s the better shot.” Then brushes past him to go close out his tab.

—

It’s late in the evening by the time Gojo finishes running some errands and can finally unwind on the couch. A crisp cold can of diet coke in hand…impractical jokers playing for background noise from his 86 inch OLED smart TV, his legs stretched out in front of him onto the coffee table he made himself, and sunk deep into his favorite corner of the couch. The one he’s broken in over the years into that just perfect amount of give to sink ratio. It truly was the simple things in life.

He picks up the book he had left off reading from the coffee table. A white cover with bolded red letters that read Crucial Conversation: Tools for Talking When Stakes Are High. It was some self-help book one of his partners at the brokerage firm recommended to him that apparently revolutionized the way he sells houses.

“Hm,” Gojo hums to himself, flipping the pages of the book, that freshly-printed-processed-wood smell hitting his senses satisfactorily. He gets to the part he had left off on.

He squints at the pages, hard to read with contacts that are half a step below his prescription, but he at least tries to skim for the buzzwords.

The pool of shared meaning is the birthplace of synergy.

Okay, whatever the fuck that means.

He skims some more.

People don’t get defensive because of what you’re saying; they get defensive because of why they think you’re saying it.

He skims more.

If you don’t talk it out, you’ll act it out through passive aggression.

He skims more.

The key to building safety is to step out of the content and address the conditions.

He doesn’t really know what exactly this all means but he feels like he should be taking notes.

Right when he leans over to open one of the drawers of the coffee table to fish for a pen, he hears keys jingling by the front door, somewhat frantically, before finally pushing into the lock and then the door flies open. He sits back, slightly startled, as he takes in the image of you storming inside the house looking angry as hell when you slam the door behind you.

“Hey,” he scolds, “easy on the doors, please.”

You’re pacing back and forth in front of the foyer table, clenching and unclenching your fists, mumbling what sounds like profanities to yourself over and over again, cheeks flush with rage, face scrunched up like a prune, and huffing and puffing so fast that he’s astonished he can still make out some of the words that you’re spewing.

“That…little…mother…–” You shuffle back and forth on the hardwood floor, “fucker. What a fucking–” You’re borderline hyperventilating, “JERK!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Gojo rests his book splayed open in his lap and blinks at you. “Uh. Is everything alright?”

“No!!!!” You immediately snap at him, turning to face him, and he flinches from where he’s sat. “No, it’s not!”

He’s too scared to move at this point, let alone breathe.

You breathe in deep then let out an exhale. “That–” You close your eyes from pure fury. “That motherfucking Choso Kamo,” you struggle to even say the words without gritting your teeth, “told the entire Dayton County police department that he’s the one that broke up with me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Wow,” Gojo says.

You glare at him. “I don’t need your fake sympathy.”

“All I said was wow?”

“Well, it felt very disingenuine.”

“But–”

He blinks at a fuming you, who has your arms crossed over your chest tightly, tapping your foot on the ground impatiently, expression narrow.

He glances down at the page that was open in his book.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, quickly skimming the words, then glances up at you, “Sorry. I acknowledge that my words, er, word, may have been careless, and I apologize.”

Your expression morphs into one of surprise and barebone confusion. “O-Oh…that’s okay. I guess I was just assuming things.” You glance off towards the left, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’m just pissed off right now.”

“Because of what your ex said?”

“Yes. It’s annoying because now all of our local law enforcement thinks that I’m the one more affected by all of this.”

He watches you pace back and forth again, steam rolling out of your ears, face scrunched up with anger again, looking like you’re about to rip your hair off as you mumble more profanities to yourself.

He looks at you skeptically. “Are you…not?” He knows the second he says it that it was the wrong thing to say.

“I’M NOT!!!” you scream at him defensively.

“Sorry, sorry, I–” He glances down at his book again discreetly, then says rather stiffly, “...I just want you to know that I am here for you.”

You blink at him. “Oh…well, that’s—” You scratch at your elbow gently and then tuck strands of your hair behind your ear, “that’s very sweet of you, thank you.”

Hmmmmmmmm.

He steals another quick glance at the page. “What’s been the hardest part to deal with in this situation?” he asks, crossing his outstretched legs at the ankle and placing his elbow up on the armrest to set his chin down on the knuckles of his fist inquisitively.

You turn to face him again, expression softening pleasantly but there’s still a bit of surprise on your face. “Oh, it–...I don’t know, I think just…it’s a misunderstanding that he’s willingly spreading.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

You let out a hefty exhale, loosely crossing your arms over your chest as you lean back onto the Foyer table. You glance at the floor deep in thought. “Mm…angry. Frustrated. Embarrassed.” You glance up at the high ceiling. “I just hate feeling misunderstood.”

“Mhm…I see,” he nods inquisitively, then glances down at the chart in the book again, “And can you pinpoint when these feelings started?”

You look up at the chandelier, expression curling into one of melancholy. “I think I’ve always just had a hard time expressing myself emotionally, where what I do kind of comes off as different from how I really feel…and so when people take things the wrong way, it just…I don’t know, it makes me upset.”

“I hear you.” He’s running a blank so he haphazardly flips the pages of the book to a whole other chapter and glances down at words that read always gather more information when necessary. Then he looks back up at you. “And what exactly did this guy do to you that’s got you so—” he pauses when you narrow your eyes at him, “…er, that made you,” he watches you nod your head encouragingly as if waiting for him to validate the reality of this situation, “…break up with him.”

You nod, satisfied by his depiction of events, but cross your arms over your chest somewhat stubbornly. When your eyes pass over to him again, your expression softens slightly, as if contemplating something, but then it becomes rigid again.

“It’s…I don’t know. It’s whatever.”

“Did he murder a family member?”

“No.”

“Did he steal money from you?”

“No.”

“Did he cheat on you?”

You avert your gaze towards the kitchen. “…no.”

“Then what?”

You exhale deeply, still avoiding eye contact with him. “The why doesn’t matter. Just know that he failed me and subsequently lost me.”

“Well,” Gojo says, “then he’s an idiot.” And he didn’t need the book to come up with that.

You look back at him with a gentle ease, and your arms drop from their crossed position before you smooth your palms down the fabric of your jeans. You try to maintain eye contact with him but not without blinking your lashes a few more times than usual. “Thanks for, um…letting me vent. I actually feel a lot better after…talking about it.”

“Sure,” he closes the book in his lap, “same time next week?”

“What?”

“—What?”

You squint your eyes at him suspiciously, but then drop it when you let out a hefty sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

He’s not sure if it’s appropriate for a therapist to make a without me? joke in response to one of their clients announcing that they’re going to go take a shower, but he holds back regardless.

He watches you shuffle across the hardwood floors towards the stairs, mumbling a few more remnant profanities as if you still had a couple left in you to spill. And just when he sees you lift one foot up on the first step, he remember that he should probably—

“Oh, uh, sorry, while we’re on the topic of your ex,” he says, “is now a bad time to tell you that I’m going golfing with him on Sunday?”

Your jaw drops.

The argument that ensues after was less of an argument and more you yelling at him for about ten minutes straight while he’s unable to get a single word in and has no choice but to just take it. Which even he’s self aware enough to know he deserves, regardless of whatever scheming good intentions he may seem to have. And when you storm away upstairs, slam the door to your bedroom with a force that would suggest he’ll have to repair it in the morning, he knows that he’s back to square one with you now. And if this was a real marriage, with a couple of kids running around the house, and a lack of spare bedrooms, he knows that he’d have been sleeping on the couch tonight.

One step forward, two steps back.

[end of ch.8, ‘two steps back’]

song(s) of the chapter: woman by harry styles

a/n. hiii loves!! thanks so much for tuning into another chapter of ihm :'') it means a lot to meee. yeah this was the first gojo pov which had me sooooo nervous because like tbh before i wrote this chapter i kinda had no idea who ihm gojo was. because reader's pov chapters are sooo heavily skewed to her pov and she's kind of an unreliable narrator, i never really had to sit down n force myself to confront how ihm gojo feels about things personally. there were lots of times where i was hitting roadblocks in my writing of this chapter because i simply was like "...wait how would he feel about this. i don't even know" hahah idk if that makes sense but yeah i definitely had to search within myself to kinda bring more of his character traits to life and balance his good qualities against his flaws. i hope you enjoyeeddd. once again my classic ihm apology that there's so many random side plots lolol i really am trying to keep the romance at the center of the story but then i get a little carried away xd i promise there will be chapters where there are bigger developments though!! but there may also be some other ones that kinda serve for set-up :''0 i try to make each chapter engaging though at the very least. but speaking of....... i am SOOOOOO excited for chapters 9 & 10 HEHEHEHEHEHEH let's just saaayyyyy we get introduced to a character that many of my readers have been curious about :)))) but yeah chapter 9 is already one of my favorite chapters of ihm so far i've only written like maybe 4.5k words for it and i'm so pumped to finish it and post it!! and then ch10 is...also one of my faves ahhhhh huuuuuuge thank you to my beta reader leni she singlehandedly gave me the confidence to post certain scenes in this chapter that i was planning to cut out but now i'm soooo happy that i kept them in!!! she's a real one fr. and thank you to another one of my beta readers josie who really forced me to think a lot ab ihm gojo's character before i went into writing this chapter lmfaooo she made me realize i didn't know shit about him HAHAH. and ofc thank you to mirl and ayelin too for helping me figure out some of the plot intricacies and providing me w support :'''') i really appreciate it i hope you guys enjoyed!! thank you to everyone who reads and interacts and leaves love for me. i'm so happy to i'm still able to make time for writing and that there are people who look forward to my updates. love you all very much!! hope to see you in the next one <3

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