#ryujin soft hours

[ryuttaeng]

hi! can u write a ryujin x reader in which ryujin introduces the reader to the members :)

ryujin x fem!reader

tags: fluff, ryujin is shy!

yeji nervously drummed her fingers on the table while chaeryeong fidgeted her fingers, staring into nothing. ryujin said in the group chat she needed to tell them something and never replied back to their questions. leaders mind was clouded with various bad feelings and thoughts, wondering what she have done.

the doorknob turns, revealing ryujin, who���s as nervous as the leader but she tries to keep the smile on her face. "so, first of all, i didn’t do anything wrong. i suppose…." ryujin said, making yeji look at her. "you 'suppose'? ryujin, you haven’t replied to our messages in the chat and you don’t specify what have you done."

ryujin rolled her eyes, stepping inside the dorm, she sees like she’s herself again, "unnie, there’s nothing wrong, really! i just wanted to tell you all some news that i can’t keep as a secret, you know? you’re my second family and i don’t want to feel any certain understatement." ryujin explains, her left hand stays behind the door.

yuna moves her body to take a better look, "why are you hiding your hand, unnie?" she asks, making ryujin all nervous again. "okay, so! we- i have a partner." she breathes out, making everyone confused.

"is that all? for real?" lia asks, genuinely confused. ryujin nods in agreement, making older girl sigh. "see, yeji-yah! why would you think something bad about ryujin-"

"is your partner a girl?!" chaeryeong and yuna almost shout out, making oldest girls look at ryujin again. she opens the door a bit wider, revealing you, who been holding ryujin’s hand all that time.

you shyly wave at them, "this is y/n, my girlfriend." ryujin says, nervously.

lia sighs, "see, ryujin got a girlfriend faster than you, yeji-yah."

[ryejifics]

Number 17 owns my heart

Ryujin x reader

Type: fluff

She shoots, and she scores! You sat on the bleachers excitedly to watch your girlfriend play basketball. The night before, you made a poster that said, "Number 17 owns my heart!". You even got to wear her jersey to support her. Before the game, she ran up to you excitedly. "You came!" She pulled you into her arms and smiled with her precious whisker dimples. "Oh? Number 17 owns your heart, huh?" She giggled as she kissed your lips. "Of course I came, and yes, she does!" You giggled and admired your girlfriend. She looked so good in her basketball uniform. Shin 17 was printed on the back, and only you knew how your initial was secretly written on the jersey with a heart. "Oh shoot, I gotta go. It's almost time for the game. I'll see you after the game, my love." She quickly kissed you once more and ran off. Oh, how she made you dizzy.

During the game, you made sure to cheer extra loud for your girl. "That's my girl!" "You got this, Ryu!" "17 is my girlfriend!" You cheered this throughout the game. When she was benched a few times, of course, she would wink at you or blow kisses.

After the game, she ran up to you, her cheeks were red and she was tired from running so much. "You did amazing, Ryu baby!" You kissed her face all over. "Thank you, my love." She smiled and held you. "Wanna grab something to eat? My treat, of course, for you doing so well in your game." She quickly nodded and you both ran to the car.

She picked a nice ramen place nearby to eat at. As the waiter sat you guys down at a table you couldn't help but admire your girlfriend. She always looked so good after her games. Especially with her cute red cheeks and partially messed up hair. She told you all about her day as you held her hand and listened. Pretty soon, your food came. "Ryu, you have some on your lip!" You giggled as you wiped it off with your thumb. This made her blush of embarrassment, and she hid her face quickly. "Noo, baby, I wanna see your face!" You pulled her hands away and gave her a quick kiss. "There's my girl, so precious as always." You smiled and finished up with your food. Afterward, you paid the check and went back to the car. You couldn't wait for the next game to do this all over again with her.

[smutmind]

When It Doesn't Fit ft. Ryujin

Itzy Ryujin X BBC

Seoul gleamed like a circuit board under glass.

You watched from the 38th floor, forehead resting against the cold window. The city didn’t sleep—neon bled into haze, horns echoed off glass. It was almost midnight, and the sky hadn’t gone black yet.

This wasn’t just another road trip. It was a political stunt.

An NBA-KBL goodwill game, they said. Bridge two basketball cultures, they said. You were the poster boy. Six-foot-nine, MVP finalist, America’s most marketable savage in sneakers.

You'd barely stepped off the jet before cameras were in your face. And something had felt… off.

Too many smiles. Too many eyes that lingered.

Coach had warned you. “You’re the prize they wanna claim. You drop 40, they look weak. Don’t expect a warm welcome.”

But it wasn’t the opposing team you noticed watching you. It was their PR staff. Their assistants. One of the security girls at the press conference.

They looked… expectant. Like something was planned.

—

The hotel was too nice.

Private elevator. Champagne in a silver bucket. Suite big enough to shoot a commercial in.

You ate half a protein bar and stared at the untouched king bed. Sleep wouldn't come easy. Not here. Not with your instincts humming.

You checked your phone. No texts. Just a single message from your agent: “Play nice. This is bigger than basketball.”

You tossed it aside.

The air conditioning purred. You sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, rubbing tension out of your thighs. Ten-hour flight. Two-hour media wall. And something else—this low, crawling heat you couldn’t shake.

You poured water. Opened the balcony door.

And just as you turned to kill the lights—

Three quiet knocks at the door.

You pulled the door open, expecting room service.

Instead: five women. Silent. Poised. Beautiful.

ITZY.

Your brain hesitated. You recognized them from the press conference—now dressed in sleek neutrals, like they belonged more in a designer showroom than the hallway of your hotel. No entourage. No cameras.

They walked in without asking.

You stepped back. Blinking.

Yeji moved first, a cool nod like she was used to being first through doors. Ryujin followed, hands in her pockets, casual as hell. Lia glanced at the room, then at you, like she was measuring how much of it you owned. Chaeryeong’s gaze skipped your chest, then dropped fast. Yuna closed the door behind them with a soft click.

No one spoke for a full beat.

You reached for your shirt on instinct. “Uh... can I help you?”

Ryujin smiled, faint. “No need to act surprised. You knew something was coming.”

“I didn’t think it’d be this,” you muttered.

Lia walked to the window. “You’re the game tomorrow.”

Chaeryeong added, “They want you... tired.”

There it was. Clear, shameless. You stared. Not angry. Not scared. Just... stunned.

Yuna leaned on the back of the couch, arms crossed under her chest. “They figured if one of us could... keep you busy tonight, maybe you won’t drop forty.”

You exhaled. “This is a joke, right?”

Yeji stepped forward. “You get to choose,” she said, voice even. “One of us stays. The rest leave.”

Your jaw clenched. “And if I say no?”

Ryujin cocked her head. “You won’t.”

She said it too calm. Like she wasn’t guessing.

Your heart thudded once. Hard.

You looked at each of them. Five stares. Five bodies. Five different types of confidence.

None of them moved.

And you still hadn’t answered.

You crossed your arms. Let the silence stretch.

“I’m not choosing.”

Five pairs of eyes blinked. Subtle shifts. Yeji raised a brow. Lia’s lips parted, surprised. Chaeryeong looked down. Yuna smirked like she expected it.

Ryujin just stared at you. Blank. Focused.

“I don’t need help losing a game,” you said. “And I don’t need someone sent to my room to prove I’m human.”

Nobody moved.

You nodded toward the door. “We’re done here.”

Yeji exhaled and turned first. “Fair enough.”

No drama. No pushback. Just quiet footsteps and the soft snick of the door swinging open. One by one, they walked out.

Except Ryujin.

She didn’t flinch.

You glanced her way. “You forget how doors work?”

She stepped closer. Not enough to threaten. Just enough to be inside your air.

“You’re not scared,” she said. “You’re annoyed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I didn’t want to be part of it,” she added, gaze steady. “Not really. I volunteered because I wanted to see you up close. To see if the hype was real.”

You laughed, dry. “And?”

She looked you over—head to toe, slow and shameless. Then back to your eyes.

“It’s worse than I thought.”

You stared. She didn’t blink.

“I’ll leave if you want,” she said, voice calm. “But I’m not here to seduce you. I’m here because I want to find out what you’re like when nobody’s watching.”

Your heartbeat kicked, sharp.

Still shirtless, you walked to the table, poured water just to have something to do. “You expect me to believe this has nothing to do with the game tomorrow?”

“I don’t care about basketball,” she said.

You turned.

She stood in front of the window now, city lights painting her in neon glow. No makeup tricks. No media smile. Just Ryujin—low voice, loose stance, one corner of her mouth tugged up like she already had your answer.

“I’m not a fan,” she said. “I’m curious.”

You studied her. Long enough that the silence thickened.

Then you nodded once. Just enough.

Ryujin pulled one leg under herself on the couch, fingers laced over her knee. She looked at home. Like this wasn’t the penthouse suite of Seoul’s most expensive hotel. Like she belonged exactly here—with you watching her, trying not to want her.

You sat across from her, water untouched. Every breath a little shallower than the last.

“You really don’t care about the game?” you asked.

She tilted her head. “I care about what happens after.”

That landed heavy between you.

You leaned back. “Why me?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Because you don’t flinch.”

Her eyes dragged across your chest, slow and deliberate.

“Everyone else stares like they’re waiting for you to crack. You stare like you’re already picking out their weak spots.”

You smirked. “You’re analyzing me.”

“Mind if I ask you something?” she said.

You nodded.

“If I hadn’t said anything tonight… if I’d just stayed quiet, sat on this couch—what would you have done?”

You didn’t answer at first. Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I would’ve kept watching you. Trying to decide if I was imagining the tension.”

Ryujin smiled. “You weren’t.”

She stood, slow. Walked toward the minibar. You watched the shape of her move, too aware of how little stood between you and the edge.

She poured herself a drink. One finger trailed along the rim of the glass.

“You want one?” she asked.

You shook your head. “I want you to stop playing with me.”

She didn’t turn around. “Who said I’m playing?”

You rose, crossing the floor with measured steps. She felt you close—your height wrapping around her like heat. Her breath hitched.

You didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“You sure you didn’t come here to seduce me?” you asked, voice low.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I came to see what happens when I get too close.”

You stepped closer. Your chest brushed her back. She didn’t pull away.

But you didn’t push.

You let the tension coil between you, tight and humming.

And then you whispered against her ear:

“Keep going. Let’s both find out.”

Ryujin took a slow sip from her glass and leaned back against the counter. The hem of her sweatshirt rose slightly, showing just a slip of her waist. Her eyes lingered low, then climbed back to your face.

“I’ve never been this close to someone built like you,” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Tall?”

She smirked. “Tall. Big. American. Black.”

There it was—no filter, no apology. Just curiosity sharpened to a fine, gleaming point.

You held her gaze. “You’re wondering about the stereotype.”

She didn’t deny it. Just stared at your mouth like the answer might come from there.

“You think I’m going to confirm it?” you asked.

She stepped closer. “I think you don’t have to.”

Her voice dropped into something breathy. Something confessional.

“I’ve seen photos,” she said, almost like a dare. “Clips. I’ve heard things. But hearing isn’t the same as…”

She trailed off, eyes flicking down again, her lip caught between teeth.

You moved closer. Close enough that her breath hit your chest.

“And you think if I showed you, you’d be able to sleep tonight?”

Her cheeks flushed—just a flicker—but her stare didn’t waver.

“No,” she whispered. “I think it’d fuck with my head.”

You laughed, low and rough.

She stepped back just slightly, like the distance would help her breathe.

“You’re not even touching me,” she said. “Why does it feel like you already are?”

“Because you want me to,” you said. “And because you’re letting yourself wonder what it’d feel like.”

Her thighs shifted. Subtle. Wanting.

“You want to know how I got here?” she asked.

You didn’t answer. Just watched her—shoulders tight, breath measured, like she was about to jump or confess.

“I didn’t win anything by singing,” she said. “Not really. Not enough.”

She walked to the couch, sat like a dancer—back straight, knees tight, chin lifted. “But when you know how to move… how to look at someone like you already own the room…”

Her sweatshirt slipped off one shoulder. Intentional. Every move was.

“You don’t need to beg for deals,” she said. “You make them beg to sign.”

You stood across from her, arms crossed. “You saying you fucked your way to the top?”

She laughed softly. “No. I made them think I would. That’s all it took.”

She lifted her legs onto the couch. Turned sideways. Bent one knee toward her chest. It pulled her loose shorts higher on her thighs. Every inch was choreography.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I’d sit in a director’s lap just long enough to ruin his focus. Whisper things while adjusting my bra. Let fingers slide under a table and stop an inch too soon.”

Her eyes found yours.

“I never had to fuck anyone,” she said. “But I learned exactly how much power a body has—if you know how to use it.”

You stepped forward, slow. Sat across from her, knees nearly touching.

“And you think I’m one of them?” you asked.

She shook her head. “No. You’re not a man who needs tricks. That’s why I want to show you anyway.”

She shifted forward. Placed one hand on your thigh—not bold, not demanding. Just there. A test. Her nails grazed the fabric of your sweats.

“Let me show you what I’ve learned,” she said. “Not for a deal. Not for fame. Just for you.”

You didn’t stop her.

Her fingers slid higher. Her breath hitched.

And then she dropped to her knees between yours, slow as a curtain falling.

Eyes locked to yours.

Mouth parting.

Worship in her posture.

No more teasing.

No more pretending.

You stopped her before she could go further—fingers in her hair, firm.

Ryujin froze on her knees, eyes wide, breath short.

You didn’t speak.

Just leaned down.

And kissed her.

Hard.

It knocked the air from her throat. Her lips opened against yours, soft, then hungry. She melted forward, hands climbing your thighs, fingers curling into your skin like she needed to anchor herself.

You pulled her up by the waist, lifting her into your lap in one smooth motion. Her legs straddled your thighs, sweatshirt rising, skin hot.

She gasped as your hand slid up the inside of her shirt—tracing ribs, the undercurve of one breast. You palmed her through thin fabric, thumb circling her nipple until she moaned.

"You're not ready for this," you murmured into her ear.

"Try me," she whispered.

You slid your sweats down just enough. Her eyes dropped.

And widened.

She swallowed.

"Fuck," she breathed. "It won’t fit—"

"It will," you said, steady. "But only if you stop thinking and start feeling."

You pushed her shorts aside—no panties. She was soaked. She trembled in your lap, breath hitched, hips already shifting.

You lined up. Gripped her hips.

She whimpered as the head pushed against her entrance. Her forehead dropped to your shoulder.

"Too much," she whispered.

You kissed her neck. "Then take it slow."

She lowered herself, one inch at a time.

Her body rolled—slow, unsure, trembling. She gritted her teeth and rocked forward, trying to open wider. You held her still. Guided her hips.

"You want to impress me?" you said against her collarbone. "Then ride me like this is your debut stage."

Her laugh cracked—nervous, breathless. Then she moved.

She slid down further, tight heat dragging every inch.

She cried out—half moan, half disbelief. "I can’t—"

"You’re doing it," you said.

She buried her face in your neck, nails digging into your shoulders. Her hips rolled again, tighter this time. Rhythm building. Skin on skin.

She wasn’t graceful. She was raw. Messy. Desperate.

And it was beautiful.

You held her, lifted into each stroke, let her grind deeper, feel every impossible inch.

“God,” you muttered, voice low. “These are fucking perfect.”

Her mouth twitched into a breathless smile. “You like Asian flavors?”

You grinned. “Didn’t think Korean cuisine would feel this soft.”

She laughed against your mouth—then gasped as you rolled her nipples between your thumbs. Her whole body shivered.

“Oh my god—right there,” she whispered, eyes fluttering.

You leaned forward, mouth brushing the curve of one breast. “You ever let anyone taste you like this?”

She shook her head. "They never… touched them like they mattered."

“They matter now,” you growled.

You sucked one nipple into your mouth—slow, focused, teasing. She cried out, grinding harder on your cock as your tongue circled, teeth grazing gently. You switched to the other, wetter this time, letting her squirm in your lap while her thighs quaked around you.

“You feel everything so deep,” she gasped.

You pressed her down, full length inside her again.

“I want you to feel it in your chest,” you said.

Her lips trembled. Her fingers curled behind your neck.

You moved together—her riding, you thrusting up to meet her, both of you moaning now, louder, breath tangled. The wet sound of your bodies slapping echoed off the walls.

She arched back suddenly, hands braced on your thighs.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Please—I want all of it.”

You gripped her waist. Slammed up into her once. She screamed. Again. Again. Her tits bounced wildly with every stroke, nipples slick and flushed.

“You’re handling me like a fucking champ,” you groaned.

“I’m not done,” she panted. “I want to feel sore. Wrecked.”

You flipped her.

Flat on her back, legs hooked over your arms. You drove in again, deeper now, fucking her slow and hard, watching her face twist—pleasure, disbelief, surrender.

“Never had a black man fuck you like this?” you growled.

She moaned so loud it cracked.

“Never had one, period,” she gasped. “You're ruining me.”

You bent down, kissed her mouth, her neck, her chest—then bit softly over her nipple.

Her body was twitching, lips parted in a moan she couldn’t control, nipples shining from your tongue. Her thighs trembled every time you thrust up into her—deep, thick, stretching her wide enough to leave her gasping.

“Fuck,” she choked, hands pressed flat on your chest. “I—wait—something’s—”

You knew.

You felt it—tight around you, wetter than before, her whole core pulsing.

Then it happened.

Her hips jerked once—twice—and she screamed. Not a polite moan, not a staged gasp. A raw, guttural, high-pitched wail as liquid burst out of her and soaked both of you.

“Oh shit,” you said, eyes wide.

She blinked, dazed, and then looked down.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Did I—? I did—”

You both started laughing.

You wiped your face with your forearm, still buried inside her. “Jesus, Ryujin. I thought you were about to pass out.”

She collapsed onto your chest, giggling. “I might. That was—holy shit. Did I just… squirt?”

“You did,” you said, grinning. “Like a fucking geyser.”

She looked mortified. You kissed her anyway.

“Don’t be shy,” you murmured. “That was beautiful.”

She exhaled, messy and breathless, still smiling. “I’ve never—no one’s ever made me—”

You kissed her again. Softer now. She tasted like sweat and heaven.

Then she shifted in your lap, still breathless, and looked down between your bodies.

“You didn’t finish,” she whispered.

You shook your head. “Didn’t want to yet.”

Her hand curled around your jaw, pulling your face to hers. “Tell me how to do it.”

You blinked. “What?”

She grinned. “Teach me.”

She licked once, from base to tip—slow, deliberate. You exhaled through clenched teeth. Her tongue circled the head, then slipped over it like silk. Her lips followed—soft, warm, swallowing you inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you muttered, head tilting back.

She moaned around you, the sound vibrating through your length. Her pace was slow at first, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked to yours. Every bob of her head was smoother than the last. Deeper. Greedier.

Her spit coated your shaft. She pulled back to stroke it, watching her own hand move with a little awe.

“You feel insane in my mouth,” she said.

“You’re making it hard not to finish.”

She smiled. “That’s the goal.”

She went back down—lips tighter, cheeks hollowed, tongue working every sensitive nerve. You watched her: ponytail swaying, jaw working, throat stretching around you.

You warned her once—voice rough, barely holding back.

“Ryujin, I’m close.”

She pulled off, breathing hard, mouth slick and red.

“No,” she whispered, climbing into your lap. “Not like that.”

You blinked, chest heaving. “What?”

She kissed you hard, then lined you up between her legs again.

“Inside me,” she breathed. “I want to feel it. All of it.”

You grabbed her waist and thrust up—deep. Her mouth fell open. She dropped all the way down with a shuddering moan.

“That’s it,” she panted. “I want to keep it this time.”

You gripped her hips, lifted her up, let her slam down again. Her body clenched around you, tighter now. Hot. Desperate.

You didn’t hold back.

Each thrust shook her. Her tits bounced against your chest. She was babbling now—broken Korean, breathy English, fingers clawing your shoulders.

You warned her again, voice rough. “I’m gonna fill you.”

“Do it.” she gasped. “Please—I want it.”

You came with a growl—hips locked, cock pulsing deep inside her. She cried out as the heat flooded her. Her nails left marks. Her breath staggered.

But she didn’t get off.

Not in the emotional sense.

Not yet.

She stayed straddling your lap, hips resting against yours. You felt her shift—just a little.

You flinched.

“Too much?” she whispered, eyes wide and innocent.

You nodded. “Sensitive.”

She rolled her hips again.

Your whole body jerked.

“Still so full,” she said softly, like it was a compliment. “Still hard enough.”

You groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiled—and started moving.

Slow at first. Lazy. Just the barest grind.

Your cock was softening, but still thick, still inside her. Her warmth kept you there, her slick body teasing you without mercy.

Your thighs trembled.

“Fuck, Ryujin…”

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You shouldn’t have let me stay.”

You blinked.

She kissed the shell of your ear. “You really thought I came here for fun?”

You opened your mouth—but she rolled again, deep. You gasped instead.

“I told you I volunteered,” she whispered. “What I didn’t say… was why.”

You were dizzy. Sensitive. Helpless.

She rode you with soft, deep strokes now, not fast, just steady. Every nerve in your cock lit up. Your whole body was trembling, too wrung out to fight it.

“You’re not playing tomorrow,” she said gently. “You’re not going to move.”

You tried to grab her waist, slow her down. She caught your hands and pinned them to your chest.

“You think you’re still in control?” she teased. “Sweet.”

Your hips twitched. You were barely inside her now—just the head—and she still worked you like she owned you.

“I made you come inside me,” she whispered. “Made you spill every drop. And now I’m keeping you here.”

You groaned. You couldn’t stop her.

“You’re twitching,” she giggled. “Are you gonna cry?”

You laughed—breathless. “You’re fucking evil.”

Her eyes softened. “You loved it.”

You did.

You hated how much you did.

She leaned down, kissed your jaw. “Sleep, starboy. Tomorrow’s game’s canceled.”

She kept moving. You couldn't stop shaking.

And then… you went under.

You woke to warmth. Soft skin. Bare thighs straddling your hips.

And Ryujin’s nipple brushing your lips.

You blinked, disoriented.

She giggled, already grinding slow, teasing, like she hadn’t just ridden you into unconsciousness hours ago.

“Rise and shine,” she whispered. “Literally.”

You groaned. Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. She rolled her hips, and you twitched—half hard, half helpless.

“Ten rounds,” she said softly, tapping her chest. “One for each time you finish today.”

She leaned in, slipped her nipple between your lips.

You sucked.

She moaned, arching against you, hand braced on your chest. “You ditch the game,” she whispered, “you get both tits and the rest of the buffet.”

You looked up, dazed. “You’re serious.”

“Totally.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What if I want just two rounds?”

Her smile turned slow and wicked. “Still worth it.”

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You looked at her. Then at her chest, rising and falling against your mouth.

You grabbed the phone, turned it off.

Then stood up—naked, cock rising, muscles shaking.

She clapped, beaming.

And then—

A second knock at the door.

You froze.

It opened on its own.

Yeji stepped in first, hair loose, wearing nothing but a silk shirt and that same unreadable smile from two nights ago.

“Game’s canceled, huh?” she purred.

Lia followed, in boyshorts and a lace bra. “Good. Now we get to play.”

Chaeryeong peeked in from behind them, blushing, holding a tray of food—actual food—but her eyes said something else.

Yuna walked in last, stretched like a cat, wearing Ryujin’s discarded hoodie. She winked. “We brought dessert.”

You stood there stunned—naked, hard, marked by Ryujin’s bites.

And five idols stood before you, all in various states of undress, all with the same look in their eyes:

Hungry.

Ryujin leaned into your ear. “Full Asian course meal, starboy.”

Yeji blew you a kiss.

And the door clicked shut behind them.

----- m night shyamalan twist ahha

[helioooss]

vi. i need to want something more (the end)

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 10k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: so here it is…was a long time coming; i appreciate all of you who stuck around long enough to see the end it. there will be no fics for awhile as i work on editing my older stuff — figured i need to show those a bit of love and polishing too. this series has so much potential to become more, i’ll keep my ears open in the future. always enjoy reading your takes on this chapter, so please let me know how you feel about it :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the light wakes you first. not the usual pale grey cast of a seoul morning, but something softer, whiter. your breath is visible in the sliver of air between your duvet and your face.

the heater’s still warming up — typical. you stay curled beneath the covers a few seconds longer, blinking toward the window, where the light presses through the glass differently now.

you already know.

when you sit up, you’re met with the season’s first snowfall. it’s not heavy yet, still a delicate sheet of white layered over the pavement and trees outside.

the world is slower; even the wind is holding its breath.

you get up barefoot, stepping around the pile of laundry near your desk, your laptop still open from last night. giselle flew back to japan last week and yunjin left a post-it note on your side table saying she was grabbing coffee with ryujin. they’ll probably be out for hours.

you should make coffee, maybe start reading that case brief you’ve avoided all week. instead, you stare out the window a while.

the trees outside are really bare now, snow clinging to every branch like a second skin. you reach for your phone and snap a quick photo.

your fingers hover for a moment before sending it to your parents.

first snow of the season! ❄️

they had invited you to join them in switzerland for the holidays; some rental cabin overlooking a frozen lake, something out of a postcard. you told them you had too much to finish here; that much was true.

the reply comes quickly.

from: dad 👨

beautiful! mum says bundle up. she’s already trying to book you a plane ticket despite your answer still being a firm no. 😂

you smile, a little and your screen dims again.

and then it buzzes.

from: sana 🩵

you still like watching the snow fall from windows?

something shifts in your chest as you stare at her name for a moment — warm and uncertain. before you can think about it too hard, you hit call.

she answers before the second ring.

“hi,” you greet, still watching the snowfall.

“hi,” she replies, voice soft and all. she sounds like she’s speaking from under a warm blanket. “you’re up early.”

“snow woke me.”

“hmm,” she hums. “me too, actually.”

you don’t say anything for a second, just listen to her breathing through the speaker because there’s something grounding about it.

“do you want to come over?”

she pauses, then says: “only if we get breakfast first.”

you smile, small and real. “our usual?”

“of course.”

you end the call and move slowly through your morning — brushing your teeth, pulling on layers, rubbing moisturiser into your face with hands that still feel half asleep. you stare at your reflection for a beat too long; there’s colour in your cheeks from the cold and your hair’s a little flat, but you look more like yourself lately.

or someone you recognise, anyway.

as you zip up your coat, you think of sana. how she’s never asked you to call this anything…or make you feel like you owe her certainty you don’t have.

and still — she shows up.

you think about how easy it would be to keep building this quiet version of love, one morning at a time. back then, you thought maybe the whole world would bend if you just stayed still beside her long enough.

you could get used to whatever this is again.

eventually, a car horn honks twice. when you step outside, the snow crunches beneath your boots. she’s already out of the car, walking toward you with a knit beanie pulled low over her ears. her breath clouds in the air.

the first thing she does is reach for your scarf.

“you still don’t know how to do this properly?” she mutters, unwrapping it halfway to re-loop it snug around your neck. “every year, it’s the same issue.”

“you’re just controlling,” you mumble, lips chapped and numb.

“you would freeze to death without me,” she shakes her head, focusing on the knot. her fingers are cold when it brushes against your neck.

there’s snow caught in her lashes and her cheeks are pink from the cold.

her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands stuck to her collar. and she’s not looking at you. she’s still focused on that damn scarf. you study her face up close; how her brows knit together in concentration and how beautiful she is when she doesn’t know you’re looking.

“you’re pretty.”

she blinks and looks up; the corners of her mouth twitching. “don’t.”

you grin. “just saying.”

“you’re annoying.” she tugs your scarf tighter and gently shoves your shoulder before turning to the car. you follow, heart warmer than your gloves. “come on.”

the drive to itaewon is short and mostly quiet. the windows fog slightly and she draws a little heart in the glass with her knuckle at a red light. she doesn’t look at you when she does it.

“so,” you begin, glancing at her, “you could be in australia right now; drinking cocktails by a pool. why are you here in seoul?”

she glances over with a smile. “i could be.”

“so why aren’t you?”

she exhales through her nose, barely smiling. “because you’re here.”

“right,” you answer, cheeks flushing with warmth. and it’s enough.

that silences you, looking out the window as the snow settles along rooftops. your chest aches a little and it’s not in the way it used to; not with longing, but just with how much space she still takes up, even now.

grazia is tucked between two boutiques, all brick and wood and fogged-up windows. it’s warm and smells like cardamom and coffee inside. the waiter leads you to a quiet table near the back; you end up ordering pancakes and sana gets eggs on toast with extra mushrooms.

you talk about books — what you’ve been reading, what you haven’t had time to. she tells you about a ridiculous rumour she overheard at a party last week: something about taehyung and a chaebol heir (not jennie this time) who may or may not be fake.

it’s ridiculous.

after a pause, she stirs sugar into her coffee and asks. “so…have you decided?”

you look up at her, then down at your plate. “about the job?”

she nods.

“i think i’m gonna take it,” you answer, running your fingers through your hair. “taehyung’s dad offered me a contract starting next month. i’d be handling mid-scale portfolios. nothing glamorous, but…”

“it’s a start,” she finishes.

“yeah…a really good one.”

she smiles. “i’m glad — you’ll do so well.”

she stirs her drink once more, something milky and sweet. she’s dressed down today; soft turtleneck, old jeans, hair tied back with a velvet scrunchie that doesn’t match.

you rest your cheek on your hand and watch her; she looks comfortable.

“you’re staring again,” she chuckles without looking up and the sound makes your head all warm and fuzzy.

you clear your throat. “you’re always stirring your drink for no reason.

she grins. “i’m thinking.”

“about what?”

“you.”

you scoff into your coffee. “try something harder.”

she reaches across the table to steal a piece of your banana bread, doesn’t bother asking. you let her. then, more softly, she adds: “i’m really proud of you.”

“what for?”

“the job,” she mumbles. “with taehyung’s dad. that’s huge…everyone knows the kim family doesn’t let anyone in so easily.”

“it’s honestly just an entry contract.”

“it’s still a big deal,” she insists. “don’t downplay it. you worked hard and earned it.”

you press your hands around your mug and let the silence linger before asking: “and what about you?”

she lifts her gaze as you watch her carefully.

“when are you taking over your empire?”

sana snorts. “don’t call it that.”

“it is that…your family owns half of tokyo and most of osaka.”

“i mean when you put it like that,” she mutters. “it is…a lot.”

you raise a brow. “so? what’s the plan?”

she laughs, soft and brief — but you keep note of how her shoulders tense.

you don’t press, not yet. you just keep your voice even. “you know it’s coming.”

she leans back slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “i know. my dad’s been…bringing it up more often lately. the board’s already making decisions ten years from now.”

her eyes lift to meet yours.

you try to sound gentle; encouraging. “so why not?”

she shrugs, looking away now. “because i’d have to be in japan…full-time.”

she hasn’t said it so plainly before.

you let the silence sit long enough, watching the way she presses her lips together, like she’s already prepared herself for this to hurt.

perhaps the part of you that’s been too afraid to name this…whatever this is — has been waiting for this conversation all along.

“it’s not that i don’t want to,” she adds, quieter now. “but i can’t leave you. not like this. not when we just…started again.”

she meets your gaze once more. there’s something in her expression that makes your chest ache. it’s not doubt.

it’s love, stretched thin by time and distance and the inevitability of her life pulling her somewhere you can’t follow — not yet.

and maybe this is what it means to be grown. to sit across from someone you love, knowing love might not be enough to keep things from changing.

“i’d never ask you to stay just because of me.”

“i know you wouldn’t.”

“but i also wouldn’t hold it against you if you needed to go.”

she exhales, blinking down at her hands. “i don’t want to go if it means leaving this.”

“we’re not a place,” you tell her gently. “we’re not a time either. we’re just…us. maybe we’ll always be.”

you reach for her hand across the table and she lets you take it. her fingers are cold but steady, thumb rubbing against the inside of your wrist like she’s trying to remember how to hold on without gripping too tightly.

you think: if this is all we have right now, i’ll take it. and across the table, she looks at you like she’s thinking the same thing.

as you walk back to the car, she slips her hand into your coat pocket; not your hand. just your pocket.

you laugh at her, feeling a bit lighter now. “what are you doing?”

she shrugs, looking forward. “just making sure you’re warm.”

you don’t reply, sliding your hand over hers, not lacing your fingers, just covering them because her palm is cold. you press your thumb into the space between her knuckles and feel her lean a little closer as you walk.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the sound of your door clicking open feels louder than it should. your body aches from sitting too long in the same position, neck stiff, legs heavy and your brain mush after hours of reading case law. you drag yourself into the main living area where the scent of cheap popcorn lingers and twilight is somehow playing again — muted blue and green tones flickering across the television screen.

bella is mid-monologue; the sky is always grey in that fuckass town.

yunjin and ryujin are curled up on opposite ends of the couch, each with a throw blanket and a half-empty bowl of snacks between them. yunjin’s legs are draped over ryujin’s lap and they’re blth eating crispy m&ms (because they’re the best) like it’s the end of the world.

you drop onto the armchair beside them.

“how many times do you guys need to watch this a year?” you ask, voice still rough from not speaking all afternoon.

ryujin doesn’t look away from the screen. “you’re uncultured.”

“she just doesn’t get it,” yunjin agrees, nudging you with her socked foot. “she never got the team jacob to team edward pipeline.”

“i was studying contract law while you two watched vampire melodrama,” you grumble.

“that was your mistake,” ryujin shrugs, refusing to look away from the screen. “and so the lion fell in love with the lamb.”

you sit with them a while, with bits of and pieces of them mimicking lines and a type of silence that only happens when people know each other too well to need to fill it. it’s almost dinner time, you realise. you probably haven’t had a proper meal since breakfast.

yunjin turns to you like she’s reading your thoughts. “so, what do you want to do for dinner?”

you hesitate. “uhh, i’m actually going to sana’s soon.”

ryujin raises her brows without comment. yunjin shifts slightly, pulling her knees to her chest.

“movie night?” she asks, a little teasing, but gentle.

you nod, reaching down to adjust your sock. “yeah, she said she found this old japanese film she wants me to watch.”

“what’s going on with you two anyway?” ryujin looks at you. “it’s been a while now.”

you pause because putting it into words makes it feel more solid.

“we’re…good,” you say slowly. “we don’t talk about what it is. but it’s been really good.”

yunjin hums softly. “and…have you heard from karina?”

her name hits like a stone through still water, your shoulders tensing without meaning to. you haven’t thought about her in ages.

not really, anyway. not since early winter, when snow was just beginning to settle and you were still getting used to the way sana folded your blankets and made you tea before you even asked.

after that dinner scene, jimin just simply vanished. no texts or awkward sightings. not even a whisper from giselle, who always managed to mention her in passing before.

and you didn’t chase it. perhaps you were too tired…or maybe you were finally learning how to let silence be what it was.

still, the name makes something flicker inside your chest. it’s no longer pain, not anymore…just something dull and hasn’t fully left.

“no,” you finally answer. “i haven’t heard anything.”

yunjin fiddles with a popcorn kernel. “well, she’s in seoul, i saw her on ningning’s story last week. she was in the background.”

ryujin says nothing for once, she just reaches for the remote and lowers the volume a bit.

your stomach twists. “really?”

“looked like a rooftop thing. not much though, was just a glimpse.”

you nod, mouth dry. “guess she didn’t end up going to europe with jaewook after all.”

“yeah, guess so,” yunjin smiles at you, the way she always does when she wants to comfort you but doesn’t know the words to say.

you push yourself off the chair and stand. “i should get going though.”

ryujin gives you a slight wave. “tell sana we said hi. and look after yourself. and your heart.”

you pull on your coat, scarf still a mess from how it was folded. your bag’s got a change of clothes stuffed at the bottom and a book you haven’t opened. as you walk out into the cold, your breath clouds in the air and the sky has that faint blue cast of early evening.

sana’s apartment is warm, smells faintly of citrus and something boiling on the stove. she answers the door in a navy jumper and fuzzy socks, her hair damp like she just stepped out of the shower. you blink once and feel your chest ease.

“hi,” she grins, already reaching for your scarf, unravelling it to untie it properly now.

you laugh. “seriously?”

“you’ll thank me later.”

you follow her inside, boots off, bag dropped near the shoe rack. she’s already set up her bedroom —blankets stacked and mismatched pyjamas folded on the edge. you change slowly, the clothes a little big on you, the sleeves brushing your knuckles. she doesn’t say anything when she sees you wearing her shirt, but she smiles like something in her has softened.

you settle into the blankets while she brings over miso ramen and sushi on two trays; simple, warm, comforting.

she really insists on playing an old japanese film she watched once with her mum. it’s black and white and slow-moving, all long glances and quiet music. halfway through, your head finds her shoulder and eventually, her chest.

and somewhere near the end, your eyes start to slip closed. you don’t mean to fall asleep. but sana’s warmth is steady, her breathing’s a weird kind of comfort and her hand has found yours under the blanket.

when you stir awake again, the room is darker. the credits are rolling in soft kanji across the screen. she hasn’t moved.

you lift your head slightly and find her staring at you. “were you watching me?”

she smiles, lazy and unbothered. “a little.”

“creep.”

“you’re peaceful when you sleep.”

you groan and bury your face in her arm. “don’t look at me like that.”

she laughs quietly. “and you’re warm, i didn’t want to move.”

you stay there a while longer, the silence easier now. then something tugs at you. “i’m sorry.”

she doesn’t respond right away. “about what?”

“about how we’re still…like this,” your voice is small. “no labels, no real plan — i really need to fix myself.”

she lifts a hand to push your hair back, thumb brushing your temple. “you don’t need fixing, y/n. not for me. i love you the way you are now. and i’ll still love you when that changes.”

you exhale shakily, not sure if it’s relief or fear that floods your chest.

she squeezes your hand to ground you.

“you know when i was a kid,” she adds after a moment, her fingers gently playing with your hair. “i used to imagine running away.

you look up at her. “why?”

“not because i wanted to disappear,” she says softly. “i just wanted to choose who i came back for.”

you don’t say anything.

you just press your face into her neck, grip tightening around her waist while listening to the rhythm of her breathing until you fall asleep again…because maybe that’s what this is. not the end, not even the beginning.

it’s her coming back. and this time, you’re here to open the door for her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the suit bag hangs on the edge of your wardrobe, unzipped and half-open, like it’s waiting to be taken seriously. inside are five options. none of which you picked. sana’s stylist had dropped them off earlier that morning, her usual chirpy self making you try on half of them while sana watched from the bed, cup of coffee balanced on her knee.

now it’s dusk and you’ve been through three shirts, three full outfit changes and a minor crisis about the perfect sock colour. the room smells like sandalwood and setting lotion. your window’s open just slightly, letting in the bite of the air, that particular cold that only ever feels sharp in late december.

sana’s standing behind you, hair already done —glossy, parted perfectly with the ends curling. she’s wearing a black suit, white shirt buttoned down enough to make you look twice. or three times. the fabric clings at her waist and loosens again at her hips.

it’s unfair. criminal, even…to look that good.

you’re standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuff of a white shirt that isn’t yours.

“this one’s too tight,” you complain, tugging at the collar. “i look like i’m going to cry at prom.”

“you always look like that,” she replies, flicking through jackets on hangers. “it’s part of your charm.”

you glare at her through the mirror and she laughs at your own expense without bothering to look up.

you’re staring.

of course you are.

“you’re staring at me again,” she says, not even looking up.

“you look ridiculous,” you reply.

“that’s not what your face is saying.” she lifts the black lapel of a suit jacket and gives you a side glance, smug. “should we match, bub?”

you cross the room before you even decide to. she’s still smiling when you reach her, but it drops slightly — just enough to tell you she knows.

you don’t think.

you’re already up before she can finish her sentence. your hand finds her waist, and then her back, and then her mouth. the kiss lands hard and sure, pulling her in until her spine meets the wall beside your wardrobe. she lets out a surprised sound that turns into a low laugh against your lips when your hands grip her tighter than you mean to.

she tastes like spearmint and skin warmed by sunlight. everything else fades — your open window, the hum of the street below, the muted rustle of ryujin and yunjin bickering in the hallway.

your entire world narrows to the sound of her breathing, quick and uneven, her hands slipping beneath your shirt; not greedy, never, just holding you in place.

when you finally pull away, you’re still gently cupping her face as she blinks slowly, breath catching.

“you’re such an ass,” she starts, voice rough. “you’re really going to do that an hour before i introduce you to my entire bloodline?”

“hmm,” you murmur, forehead pressed to hers. “seemed like the right time.”

she exhales a laugh and shoves your shoulder lightly, but she doesn’t move away. her lips are redder now, eyes much darker. you like how she looks like this — just a little undone.

“you’re the one in a suit,” you continue, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. “this is your fault.”

she kisses you again — just once, before tapping your chest. “grey suit. last one on the rack. wear the white shirt with the pearl buttons.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you sure?”

“you’ll make everyone nervous,” she confirms, unbuttoning the shirt you just complained about. “it’s perfect.”

when you finally walk out of your room — now dressed, hair styled and tie slightly crooked on purpose, ryujin and yunjin are waiting in the living room in matching red dresses that clearly weren’t planned but still managed to look coordinated.

yunjin looks up from her phone. “are you two done making out?”

sana’s behind you, still adjusting your collar from the back. “oh,” she says lightly. “what gave it away?”

they groan in unison, ryujin grabbing a cushion to half-heartedly throw at you. “disgusting.”

“embarrassing,” yunjin adds.

you just roll your eyes, cheeks still warm.

the minatozaki family meet every year in seoul a few days before christmas, no matter how scattered they are across time zones or industries. they are old money, after all, operating like a boardroom with laughter; polite, but rarely without genuine warmth.

it’s all carefully curated holiday cards, biannual art acquisitions and a shared family lawyer who’s probably been with them longer than most cousins have been alive. and they’re big on tradition, binding them like a woven thread across generations.

sana once told you that missing the family holiday party would be a bigger scandal than missing a wedding of the year. no one has ever dared skip it — not even the cousin who got stranded in switzerland one year; he video called in wearing a tux.

the venue this year is a five-star hotel in gangnam; just one of those buildings with glass facades and understated signage. as soon as you walk inside, the ballroom is glowing with golden lights and crystal fixtures, the chandeliers dimmed to a soft glitter. waiters move between clusters of people with trays of champagne and tiny canapés.

she walks beside you, hand in yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear ryujin swear while yunjin nervously fidgets around. her other hand rests lightly on your lower back as she steers you through the room, the guests are all family, more or less: great-uncles and cousins and elders you can’t quite place.

everyone already knows. there’s no guessing involved. they all smile at you politely, a few with surprise but no one dares to question your presence.

her mother hugs you as soon as she sees you, still smelling faintly of lavender and expensive tea.

“finally,” she sighs in relief, smiling. “we were starting to think you were imaginary.”

her father smiles approvingly while eyeing your blazer. “you look very sharp, you wear the colour well.”

you thank him, a little awkwardly, and sana leans in to whisper, “he only says that to people he really likes.”

you laugh, brushing her fingers with yours.

throughout the evening, relatives come and go in waves. they ask what you’re doing after graduation, if you’ve thought about law firms abroad, if you would consider working in japan. you answer each one as politely as you can and they nod like they’re taking mental notes.

sana’s grip never wavers. this is the difference.

with her, there’s no hesitation. she doesn’t shrink you and make you feel like something to be hidden. she says: this is y/n like that means something…it has to.

you think about that as the night goes on. how strange and comforting it is, not to be the shadow in someone else’s story. she’s proud. of you. and the whole room knows it.

then, somewhere between dessert and after-dinner drinks, an uncle announces the annual family photo. the photographer’s already setting up near the grand staircase, light stands flaring against the high ceilings.

you start to step back, figuring this part isn’t for you, when she tugs you gently by the wrist.

“and where do you think you’re going?” she asks, an eyebrow raised in that demanding tone too.

you glance at her. “i figured i’d stay out of the frame.”

“don’t be stupid,” she shakes her head, tone now soft, not scolding.

she brings you forward, weaving through her cousins and uncles, until her mother sees you both and waves you in closer. the photographer arranges everyone once again, gesturing toward the centre of the front row.

sana takes your hand and leads you there — right beside her, between her and her mother like you’ve always belonged.

“this okay?” she murmurs.

you nod slowly.

“good,” she fixes your collar, smooths your jacket, then slips her hand into yours again.

her father smiles at you two and her mother wraps an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

when the photo is taken, sana’s thumb gently brushes against your knuckles. you’ve never felt more seen in your life.

later on, sana excuses herself to the bathroom and you’re suddenly cornered by ryujin and yunjin near the dessert table. they both have shit-eating grins on their faces like they’ve been here before.

“so,” ryujin begins, popping up beside you with a glass of wine, “you’re marrying another heir of a billion-dollar company? what’s this obsession with rich people? when i said ‘eat the rich’, i didn’t mean in a literal sense.”

you nearly choke on a piece of almond tart. “what the hell are you on about this time?”

“we didn’t realise,” yunjin perches in from the other side. “like, you know, she had this vibe of maxed-out platinum card and four overdue bills she refuses to open.”

“i thought that girl was dangerously living beyond her meanest,” ryujin mutters. “like…’it’s crippling, i’m gonna run away eventually’ kind of debt.”

“and giselle used to pray you never had to cover any of her bills,” yunjin laughs. “she was scared for you.”

“you’re all idiots,” you say, but your cheeks are warm. you sip your wine and glance around the room — gold, velvet, soft laughter under chandeliers.

“seriously,” yunjin continues, nudging you. “how does it feel?”

you pause, thinking about it. “honestly? it feels…nice. to belong in the room, be held like this isn’t something anyone’s ashamed of.”

they go quiet.

and then ryujin offers you a mini tart she already bit once. “you earned it.”

you roll your eyes and take it anyway. you’re halfway through your first glass of champagne when nayeon somehow ends up in front of you. ryujin and yunjin shyly greet her before running away to the bar.

“well, well,” she says, appearing at your elbow like a headline. “if it isn’t little top-of-her-class.”

you nearly choke. “hello to you too, nayeon.”

“you didn’t think you’d escape me, did you?” she laughs, pulling you into a hug. she still smells like endless paperwork. “look at you — looking all grown.”

“you’re not still in that securities firm, are you?”

“worse: corporate advisory. mina’s still keeping me sane.”

as if summoned, mina appears beside her, dressed in an ivory pantsuit and the kind of earrings that could probably pay your rent.

“hey,” she smiles, eyes warm. “it’s really good to see you.”

“you too,” you say honestly. “both of you.”

nayeon leans in. “we always knew you and sana were going to find your way back to each other. she was such a mess about you in undergrad.”

they were two of sana’s closest friends at yonsei. both a few years older than you and practically royalty in their own right; effortlessly composed and always surrounded by people who wanted to be close to them — or be them.

you used to see them around often when you and sana were first getting close. they never treated you unkindly…in fact, nayeon always greeted you with a loud “oh, you again?” and mina would smile quietly, handing you a drink like you already belonged. they were your seniors in every way: in age; in experience; in the kinds of heartbreaks and head starts that come with growing up too fast in worlds you barely feel like you belong in.

even now, years later, the sight of them still pulls something warm and nostalgic from your chest. they remind you of a different time — the nights you stood by sana’s side…feeling small but safe, never knowing just how much she would come to mean to you years down the line.

“i was not,” sana says, appearing behind you with two plates of dessert.

“please,” nayeon rolls her eyes. “she used to leave dinners just to call you and then cry about how complicated everything was.”

“used to?” mina murmurs, eyebrow raised. “i think the streak ended, what — last year?”

you give sana a look. “so i’ve heard.”

she hands you a plate and shrugs. “they’re exaggerating.”

“you used to leave parties to sit in stairwells and call her.”

“i was dramatic.”

“you cried.”

she waves them off, then glances at you with a crooked grin. “they’re jealous.”

“of what?”

“that you’re the first person i’ve ever brought here.”

“what?” you blink in disbelief, mouth already full of something sweet and expensive. “no dates before me?”

“not here,” she repeats. “this place is family.”

“so i’m special.”

she rolls her eyes, a teasing smile appearing in the corners of her mouth. “you literally dumped me and i’m still here, so yeah.”

you nudge her, she bumps your shoulder back.

mina watches you both with a quiet smile. “i’m glad you’re here, y/n. you’re both good for each other.”

it takes you a second to absorb that because you do. for the first time in years, maybe ever, you’re in a room full of people who know each other’s names, whose approval isn’t cautious or polite but warm and unconditional — and you’re not being hidden.

it’s late by the time the car rolls through empty streets. the city lights pass like slow waves against the windows. you’re both a little buzzed from wine, shoes kicked off, blazers draped in your laps.

sana’s fingers are still laced with yours, she looks softer now. her voice quieter as she talks to you, like the world is shrinking back to just the two of you.

your hand rests lightly on her thigh, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of her trousers.

“can i ask you something?” you murmur.

“you’re allowed,” she replies, tilting her head toward you.

“so why have you not brought anyone to this party?”

her brow lifts, leaning her head back against the seat. “honestly?”

you nod.

“you’re the first,” she begins to explain. “because you scare me a little, you never asked to be here — you just…showed up and made space without needing to take any.”

you stare at her, a little breathless.

she turns to look at you fully, her expression is open. “it’s always been you, even when it wasn’t.”

you swallow hard.

the car still moves quietly through the city, lights passing over the windows in slow, golden waves. and you think, for the first time in a long time, that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

it’s christmas day and sana’s family home is lit like something from an old winter painting. the snow clings to the trees and lines the edges of the roof like icing. and there’s warmth in every room inside; everything made out of oak in that traditional japanese sense.

you’ve never had a christmas like this.

there are matching slippers at the door, monogrammed napkins and the kind of table setting that makes you hesitate before sitting down. the candles flicker low between you all, flames catching on the wine glasses as her father lifts his to inspect the pour.

he sits at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, wine glass already half full. “not too much,” he chuckles, topping yours off. “don’t want you falling asleep before dessert.”

“no promises,” you reply, and he laughs louder; shoulders shaking and all

it’s just the four of you. no cousins, no extended family or staff pacing in the background. sana sits beside you, ankles crossed under the table, her hand brushing your thigh every now and then like she’s checking that you’re still here.

“your parents must miss you,” her mum says, spooning rice into her own bowl. “have you called them yet?”

you shake your head. “not yet, i was waiting until things quieted down.”

“call them now,” sana says softly, nudging your foot under the table. “you can put it on speaker.”

you hesitate, but her mum is already nodding. “that would be great, we would love to say hello.”

your phone is in your pocket so you fish it out, glancing at the time — still early evening in switzerland. you press call. the dial tone hums once, then twice and then your mum picks up.

“merry christmas, darling!”

“hi, mum,” you greet, smiling. “you’re on speaker.”

“oh?”

“i’m with sana’s parents,” you explain. “they wanted to say hi.”

sana’s dad leans forward. “merry christmas, hope you’re both having the best time,” he waves, warm and clear.

you can hear the delight in your mother’s voice. “oh, how lovely! thank you for hosting our daughter this year. we were sorry she couldn’t come with us.”

“she’s very welcome here,” her mum adds. “we’re happy to have her.”

sana chimes in next, her voice light. “hi, mr and mrs y/l/n. thanks for raising the most stubborn woman alive.”

your father’s voice comes through faintly in the background. “you’ve got your hands full, then.”

they all laugh and you feel your face warm. it feels good.

“we’ll let you go enjoy dinner,” your mum adds after a minute more of cheerful noise and small talk. “we’ll talk properly tomorrow.”

you hang up and sana squeezes your knee gently beneath the table.

her father’s already mid-sip of his wine when he says, “so, this firm you’re joining — under the kim family?”

“yes, taehyung’s dad offered me a placement earlier in the year.”

he snorts. “sounds about right; that man’s sharp. got his claws into you before the others could.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “he was persuasive.”

“a good sign,” he nods, raising his glass. “people chase talent, it means you’re doing something right if you’ve got one of south korea’s richest men to persuade you.”

you hum and it settles over you: the warmth, the acceptance, the easy rhythm of it all. there’s no tension in your shoulders and you don’t feel the need to read between words or brace yourself for correction — it’s a slow meal with people who see you as someone worth being proud of.

not tolerated nor excused, but welcomed with open arms.

dinner finishes with tea and fruits. sana’s mum brings out small velvet boxes and pushes one toward you. you hesitate, glance at sana, who’s smiling gently.

“we said no gifts.”

“and we ignored it,” her mum replies.

you open it carefully.

inside is a watch; silver and elegant, the weight of it immediately grounding as you glance at the name richard mille.

jesus christ, you thought.

beside it, wrapped in a velvet slip, is a gold pen with your initials carved at the top of it.

you’ve seen something like this pen before. on sana’s desk, in her hand, tucked into her notebook. she mentioned she got it at eighteen.

you look up, words forming slowly. “this is too much.”

“nonsense,” her father groans. “you’re part of our lives now; get used to it.”

you don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you nod, fingers curling around the velvet like it’ll anchor you.

they don’t need thanks drawn out and scripted; you know their kindness doesn’t ask for anything in return and that’s the part that stings the most. you never knew you could be carried like this without having to earn it.

and when the table’s been cleared and the kitchen grows quiet and her parents disappear up the stairs with soft goodnights and kind glances, it’s just you and sana again — on the living room floor, legs stretched toward the fireplace, two glasses of wine resting on the table between you.

the fire crackles quietly, the only real sound in the room. you can still hear music faintly from the kitchen; jazz, maybe, but the rest of the world has dimmed.

your head leans slightly against her shoulder. she doesn’t move.

you’re full in every sense of the word. full of food, of warmth, of something else you haven’t named yet. and then your phone buzzes.

you feel the vibration in your pocket before the ring even begins.

it’s faint, easily ignorable, except something in your body registers it before your mind does. you shift slightly, ease your hand into your pocket, still curled up beside her in front of the fire.

the screen lights up and her name flashes once.

karina.

the air feels colder all of a sudden. your stomach twists, a quiet clench that catches you off guard. beside you, sana stirs slightly but she doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t need to. she sees the screen.

you stand up, too quickly.

“i’ll just — be a minute,” you murmur.

you stand without a word and she doesn’t look up.

you step out onto the balcony, sliding the door closed behind you. the air is cold against your neck, your breath blooming white in the dark.

and you answer before you can talk yourself out of it. “hello?”

her voice is exactly how you remember it — low, careful, like it’s measuring the silence between your words before they’re even spoken.

“hi, merry christmas, y/n.”

you close your eyes for a moment, let the wind bite at your face. “merry christmas, jimin.”

there’s a pause. you hear the hum of something in the background and neither of you speak for a second.

“i wasn’t sure if i should call, but you crossed my mind. i guess…you still do,” she continues, her voice is so small it barely carries on top of the breeze. “but i didn’t want to let the day pass without…saying it. i know you were excited for christmas.”

your hand curls around the edge of the railing, feeling the ache before it even takes shape. it’s not a painful, but more like the kind that’s been dulled by time but not erased.

“how are you?” you ask, unsure what to say next.

jimin exhales a shaky breath. “i’ve been better, but my parents are still asking if i’ve managed to win you back,” she lets out something close to a laugh, but it doesn’t reach her chest. “they say it like it’s a job — think they really wanted to know you more.”

you let the silence settle for a moment. it’s familiar, but it doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. you didn’t need to know any of that; no longer have the right to.

“how’s…jaewook?”

she’s quiet for a second too long. “umm, yeah, we broke up the day after that night i saw you. i think i knew i couldn’t keep lying to him and myself after that.”

you chew the inside of your cheek, the words settling slowly, heavy but unsurprising.

“i’m sorry,” you croak out.

“don’t be,” she replies. “i should’ve ended it a long time ago.”

the wind whistles faintly between the railing bars. you adjust your weight, heart beating a little harder than you would like.

“are you happy?” she asks; it’s barely more than a whisper. “with her?”

your breath catches with how much weight the questoon carries. you look through the frosted glass, into the house where sana still sits, curled into the couch, waiting patiently — warm and steady.

“yeah,” you reply after a second. “we’re…taking things slow. but it’s real; she’s real.”

she doesn’t reply right away either. when she does, her voice is rougher than before. “good.”

you believe her, mostly, or at least you want to.

“i’m glad,” she continues, though there’s something behind it…like she’s letting go of something without knowing if it’s the last time.

the silence comes back, thicker this time.

“thank you for calling,” you tell her, meaning it. “it’s really good to hear from you.”

you hear her exhale, something like a smile buried in it. “take care of yourself.”

“you too.”

the call ends.

you watch the snow fall for a few more seconds, then slide the phone back into your pocket, letting the cold seep into your skin just to feel everything clearly.

it was kind, that call. necessary, maybe. but you don’t feel unsteady and you don’t feel torn.

it feels…finished.

sana looks up as you return. she doesn’t move, but her face has changed, ever so slightly — like something pulled rigidly just beneath her eyes.

you feel it settle between you like a window left open just a little too long.

“if you ever want to go back to her,” she suddenly voices out, tone sorrowful: “i won’t hold it against you, i knew what i was getting myself into. and you don’t owe me anything at all.”

your heart drops as you stare at the fire for a second longer before you speak. “sana, baby, i want to keep moving with you.”

the words sit between you, unfurling slowly. she nods. once. but you can see how tightly she’s holding herself together.

under the couch, you pull out the small box you had been keeping for her. it’s not wrapped well and the corners are uneven and you had to tape the bottom twice because you suck at wrapping gifts — but you place it on her lap anyway.

“this is for you.”

she looks at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. she doesn’t reach for the gift right away. instead, she unwraps it slowly, fingers catching at the tape.

inside is a square canvas — the edges still a little rough where the paint dried too fast. it’s the two of you, sitting on a bench in that quiet park from that night. backs facing the viewer, just two figures with shoulders leaning in, hair caught in a breeze. nothing fancy, but it’s unmistakably you and her.

you wait while she stares at it.

then: “you painted this?”

you nod. your voice shakes a little. “a few weeks ago.”

her eyes flicker up. they’re glossy now and it breaks something open in your chest. she doesn’t speak for a long time, just holding the frame in both hands like she’s afraid it’ll slip.

you shift a little closer.

“i know we didn’t take a photo that day, we were both too drunk,” you explain, a smile on your face. “but i remember it. i remember thinking that if anything in my life ever felt like home again, it would be that moment — us under the stars, quietly figuring ourselves out.”

her breath hitches.

“i’m still scared,” you admit. “i still think i might mess this up. i still wake up sometimes not sure if i deserve any of it. but i want to try. you’re so, so, so important to me, sana, i never want to lose you again.”

the tears spill slowly, she doesn’t even bother hiding them.

“you’re such a jerk,” she mumbles through a soft laugh. “you couldn’t have said all that before the wine?”

you smile, a little helpless. “sorry.”

she puts the painting down carefully and reaches for your hand. “you won’t lose me, not this time.”

you pull her in gently and she lets you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, the painting resting carefully against her side.

“you matter to me,” you whisper. “always.”

“i know,” she says. “i just needed to hear you say it.”

and so you do. again and again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you wake to the dull hum of your phone vibrating on the nightstand. you don’t reach for it straight away — your eyes are still adjusting. and sana’s breath is warm against your neck, she shifts slightly, murmuring something in her sleep and her arm curls tighter around your waist.

the screen glows again. this time you blink fully awake and glance over.

but the sound doesn’t stop. it pulses again —persistent. you shift, groggy, reaching toward the nightstand where your phone is lighting up.

karina is calling…

“the fuck?” you let out a quiet sigh through your nose, staring at the screen like maybe, if you’re still enough, it’ll stop ringing.

it doesn’t. the digits blur slightly — 2:31 a.m.

sana stirs behind you. “who is it?” her voice is still caught in sleep, soft and heavy.

“it’s…jimin,” you mumble out in slight disbelief. “she’s calling, should i answer?”

you half expect her to roll away, to go quiet like last time. but instead, she rests her hand against your shoulder and says, gently: “answer it.”

you turn to her. “are you sure?”

she nods; her hair’s messy against the pillow, eyes barely open, but she still offers you a small, understanding smile. “i know what it’s like…to be the one who never gets the call back.”

your heart aches at that, but you nod and slide off the bed quietly, grabbing your hoodie from the chair as you step out into the lounge room.

you swipe to answer. “hello, jimin?”

you’re already halfway down the hallway, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood, heart thumping as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

her voice cracks instantly through the speaker. “you answered…i wasn’t sure.”

it’s messy — slurred, uneven, like her tongue’s too slow to keep up with her mouth. there’s noise in the background. a car maybe, or the wind, it’s nothing solid.

“are you okay?” you ask. “where are you?”

“i don’t know,” she breathes. you can hear her sniffle. “i didn’t want to call, i just — i couldn’t not. fuck, i sound so stupid.”

your brows furrow, concern rising. you drop onto the couch, pressing the phone harder to your ear.

“jimin, what’s going on? are you out?”

“i wanted to see you,” she answers, voice trembling. “i keep wanting to see you. i keep seeing you. it’s like — everything i do reminds me of you and i don’t even know if you care anymore. do you still care?”

you sit down on the couch, rubbing at your temple. “what more do you want from me?”

“you,” she says it so fast like it’s always been waiting behind her teeth. “i want you back.”

you close your eyes. “karina…”

“don’t, don’t say it like that, don’t say it in that tone like you pity me.”

you run a hand through your hair, staring at the dark screen of the tv in front of you. “you’re drunk, can you please send me your location?”

“you still care?” she asks, voice wobbling. “you still care about me, don’t you?”

you don’t answer that. instead, you repeat, firmer this time, “send me your location. please.”

she sniffs, quiet for a moment. then the familiar ping of a map drops into your phone. “you didn’t answer me…”

“stay on the line,” you demand. and she doesn’t argue.

you get up from the couch, walking back toward the bedroom. sana’s sitting up now, pulling her hair back into a bun. the bedside lamp is on, casting soft yellow against the walls. she looks tired, but she’s already pointing at her bag.

“keys are in the front pocket,” she gestures you over with a sleepy, understanding smile.

you lean in, press your mouth to her temple, then her cheek, her skin warm and soft against your lips. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t be,” she cups your jaw gently. “all i want is for you to bring her home safe.”

“i’ll be back soon,” you whisper.

“i know.”

you slip your shoes on at the door, phone still pressed to your ear as you speak quietly to jimin, who’s gone quiet but hasn’t hung up.

“hey,” you say. “i’m coming to get you, okay?”

there’s no response at first. then: “okay.”

the street is cold and quiet, light snow from the previous night still melting in uneven patches along the curb. you get in the car, engine humming to life with your hand tight on the wheel. you glance once at the rearview mirror and try not to think too hard about where this night is headed.

because even now — even with sana asleep in your bed, with your life finally steady, with love that doesn’t hurt — you’re still driving out into the dark when jimin calls and a part of you hates that you always will.

the streets are empty this late. seoul feels softer somehow, the edges dulled by the chill and the quiet. traffic lights flicker through amber and red, casting slow glows against the frost on your windscreen. the heater hums low.

while jimin’s still on the line, she’s quiet now, only the sound of her sniffling breaking through. you don’t say anything. there’s nothing left to say in the silence and yet you stay on the call.

you drive with one hand on the wheel, the other holding the phone to your ear, her breath moving in and out like waves.

the location leads you to a quiet side street near a convenience store. a line of taxis sits idle nearby, lights off, drivers probably asleep. you see her before she sees you — curled up on a bench, knees pulled tight to her chest, hair tousled and damp. her coat’s buttoned wrong and she looks smaller than you remember.

the sight of her like this does something strange to your chest — splits it, gently, like an old wound reopening along its scar line. you hadn’t realised how deeply the memory of her lived in your body.

but you get out anyway.

each step toward her feels like walking underwater. heavy and unreal. it’s not like the movies; there’s no music, no chatter, not even the buzz of the neon bar sign — just the sound of your boots crunching over ice and her small, wracked breaths in the distance.

she looks up; mascara smudged under both eyes, blinking like she’s not sure if you’re really here.

“you came,” she speaks, voice shaking. “you actually came.”

you crouch down beside her. “of course i did.”

it’s not even a sentence, really. her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out except a new wave of tears. she breaks immediately — no hesitation, no pride left to cling to. she just folds into you like muscle memory, like all those months apart didn’t stretch the distance between your bodies.

her arms lock around your neck, shoulders shaking violently, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deeper than sadness.

grief, maybe. or realisation.

“you look so much happier now,” she mumbles into your sleeve, voice muffled in between breaths. “with sana. i see it in your face…you never looked at me like that.”

“that’s not true,” you reassure her. “

she puts a slight distance between you two, wiping her face with the sleeve of her coat instead. her eyes are swollen, cheeks red from the cold. “i ruined it. i ruined everything.

you look at her, really take a good look at her. the way her lips are chapped, she looks so tired. you wonder if she’s eaten today.

if she’s still trying to pretend she’s okay to everyone but you.

“maybe,” you say gently. “but that doesn’t mean i hate you.”

she laughs bitterly through her tears. “you should.”

“i don’t,” you say again. “you loved me in the way you could…it just wasn’t enough.”

the words feel cruel even as you say them, but they’re honest. and maybe she needs that more than kindness right now.

you guide her to the car with gentle hands, barely saying a word. she’s compliant but stumbling, half-apologising through her sobs. her coat slips off one shoulder, and you pull it up, fasten the belt for her. the seatbelt clicks into place and you pass her the water bottle from the centre console.

“drink some of this, you need it.”

she obeys. she always does with you, even now. she’s still crying — softly, into the crook of her elbow. you start the car and pull into the road without asking where to go.

you already know.

the han river’s quiet this time of night. empty car park, the kind of silence you used to share like a secret. back then, it felt like the only place in the city where you could breathe together.

no lights except the scattered halos of streetlamps catching on the water. you pull into the spot she used to love — far left corner, facing the ripples.neither of you speak right away.

the engine hums low on the background.

“i used to take you here every time i ran out of things to say,” she whispers. her voice is hoarse. “and somehow you always found more.”

you turn to her. she’s staring out at the river like it holds every answer she was too scared to look for back then. her hands tremble as she sets the water down to her lap.

“why did i do that?” she asks, voice small. “why did i lie to you every time i told you i was choosing you? why did i make you believe that?”

you don’t know how to answer. you’ve asked yourself the same thing, over and over. back then it felt like she was always reaching for you with one hand and holding something else in the other.

you wanted her to choose, you waited for it. but she never did.

“i was so scared,” she admits, eyes glistening again. “not of you. of what it meant to love you that much and the expectations already set out for me in stone.”

you remain quiet because your throat aches with too much of everything. she reaches for your hand, like she’s checking to see if it’s still real.

you watch the water shimmer through the windshield, her reflection blurring next to yours in the glass. “i tried so hard to let you go, but i think i just…folded you into every part of me instead.”

“i hated myself for how i treated you,” jimin continued, her voice cracking again. “i still do.”

“don’t,” you finally look at her. “you were scared. people make stupid choices when they’re scared.”

“you weren’t,” she lets out a pained sob. “you never were. you always chose me, even when it hurt. even when i couldn’t say your name out loud.”

“and you’re punishing yourself for not being ready, but that’s not love, jimin. it’s guilt. and it’s going to eat you alive if you let it.”

you both sit there for a long time, her head resting against the window and her hand still holding yours.

she folds over again, body racked with sobs, and you do what you’ve always done — you hold her. her head lands onto your shoulder this time and she grips your sleeve like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

at some point, you find tears slipping out of your eyes too. not because you still want her, not in that way. but because once, you really did. and that kind of loss never leaves quietly.

you stroke her hair slowly, the silence stretching around you like a blanket pulled tight. it’s not cold anymore, but you’re both shivering from everything else.

then, your phone buzzes. sana. asking if you’re still there…but it feels like a different question, like it holds another meaning than just there.

“we should go,” you heave out a sigh. “sana’s waiting for me.”

“okay,” she nods quietly. “okay, we can do that.”

she’s quiet when you drive her home. her hand stays in yours the whole ride, resting on the centre console, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

nothing needs to be said now.

when you pull up outside her building, she doesn’t move at first. she just turns to you, eyes full and steady. she hesitates. and then, barely above a whisper: “will you stay with me tonight?”

you pause, heart twisting, then stills. “no,” you say, as gently as you can. “i can’t.”

she nods, like she expected that answer but it still wounds her. “this is goodbye, isn’t it?”

you look over at her. “i…yeah. i think so.”

she reaches out, touches your cheek gently, her fingers cold but still familiar. you shake your head, but she leans in, presses her forehead against yours and keeps going. “if i ever get another chance…i’ll do it right.”

your eyes sting and having her this close again makes your chest ache. “jimin —“

her voice is barely a whisper now, her tears falling on your lap. “if i have to wait a lifetime, i will. if not this one, then the next.”

you don’t promise anything, but you press your forehead to hers for a moment longer and then pull away.

“please go inside,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “goodnight, jimin.”

she nods and steps out of the car — doesn’t look back but you can see the way her shoulders shake. you watch her walk away until she disappears into the building, and only then do you let the tears fall freely.

it’s not love anymore, not quite. but it’s still something. maybe it always will be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you don’t mean to make a big deal of it. not really.

the sky’s that bright blue that means late spring is almost over and it’s warm enough that the breeze coming off the han river barely makes a difference.

sana’s leaning back on her elbows, the grass soft beneath the blanket she insisted on bringing. it’s the same one from the last time — the one you two fell asleep under after sneaking snacks into a campus lawn movie night months ago. you’re both stretched out at yeouido park, iced coffee mostly melted between you, the soft hum of people around blending with the low strum of an acoustic busker in the distance.

you should be focused on your book but you’re not. you’ve been reading the same paragraph three times; she keeps tapping your ankle with hers. she’s got sunglasses on, head tilted back like she’s soaking in the last of the coldness before summer pulls it away.

“you’re staring,” she says, not looking at you, her mouth tugged up into the smallest smirk. “i can feel it.”

“i’m not,” you lie, flipping the page like that’ll save you.

she doesn’t push, just keeps tapping your ankle lazily, her foot warm against yours. you want to tell her to stop because it’s driving you mad, the affection of it.

the way she still treats you like someone precious, even when you’ve made her wait all this time.

you glance sideways at her. her lips are soft and she’s wearing your hoodie. she smells like the inside of your pillow. and when she turns her head to face you — sunglasses sliding down a little — you feel it all at once.

every slow moment you’ve spent together since winter. the little things. the movie nights, the long drives, the way she remembers how you take your coffee. how she’s never made you feel like loving her is a countdown to goodbye.

and god, you love her.

you set your book down. “hey, sana.”

she hums.

“can we —” you falter. clear your throat. “can we make this official?”

that gets her. she pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, blinks at you like she didn’t hear you right. “what?”

you sit up straighter, stomach twisting. “i mean…i want to be with you. like, actually with you. if you still want that.”

she’s silent for a second too long, in the way you know she’s replaying your words, making sure they’re real. her smile starts in her eyes before it reaches her lips.

“you’re asking me to be your girlfriend,” she repeats slowly, softly, like she wants to savour it.

you nod, heart thudding. “yeah.”

“finally,” she lets out a breath, practically laughs, and then leans forward, pulling you in by the front of your hoodie and kissing you, full and slow and warm like sunlight. it’s like she’s known it would happen, eventually, and now it has. her hands cradle your face as she pulls away. “took you long enough.”

you smile against her lips, relief blooming in your chest. “sorry.”

“i forgive you,” she grins. “but only because you’re cute.”

you groan, bury your face in her shoulder. “i should’ve asked you when you brought me coffee every morning for a week. or when you stayed up all night helping me with my thesis draft.”

“or when my parents bought you that fancy watch for christmas.”

“okay, yes, that too.”

she plays with the hem of your sleeve. “i would’ve said yes every time.”

you look down at her fingers brushing yours. “i know.”

and you do. you really do…because that’s the difference with sana. with her, there’s no guessing. just quiet loyalty, kindness that doesn’t make you feel small.

you both lie back again, the moment settling into your bones. she squeezes your hand once and doesn’t let go and the grass rustles beside you.

you don’t say anything more. you don’t need to. she knows.

and somewhere, maybe not too far off, you think of jimin — how some things burn out before they ever have the chance to be steady. how sometimes, it’s not about who makes your heart race, but who makes it feel safe to stay.

today, you chose safety. and maybe that’s what love is now. not the ache of almost, but the warmth of finally.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fuck, you didn’t plan on seeing her.

not today of all days — when you’re feeling light, even content, walking along the street with a brown paper bag in hand, the apricot pastry tucked neatly inside.

sana had texted you earlier, something about being stuck in a last-minute campaign, promising to make it up to you with takeout and terrible reality tv.

but campus is small, specially after graduation. the cafés are familiar and the corners shared.

jimin.

she’s sitting alone outside, cup of americano going cold in front of her, a book she isn’t reading open on her lap. her hair’s even shorter now, blunt around her jaw and she’s dressed in black again, like she’s always bracing for winter, even in the middle of summer.

you think of walking past or turning around, but your feet don’t move fast enough and she looks up like clockwork — and there it is. the recognition and the pause. her eyes soften the second they land on you and she lifts a hand in a small wave.

your feet begin walk over. there’s no ache in your chest now. it’s something softer; nostalgic.

“hey y/n,” she smiles, a bit brighter now.

“jimin!” you sit across from her, slipping the bag onto your lap. your heart isn’t racing like before, now it’s a steady thrum, a quiet reminder of everything you used to feel.

“hey,” she repeats, voice low.

still familiar. still jimin.

“hi, how are you doing?”

“i’m well,” her lips twitch into something like a smile. “you look good.”

you shrug. “so do you. different…i like the short hair, it’s good.”

it’s awkward in a way it always is with exes…or whatever you two were.

she nods slowly, as if she knows. “i feel different.”

you glance at the book on her table — something classic, spine cracked, pages annotated in the way she always used to do when she was trying to understand something deeply. you used to love watching her read like that, as if the words meant everything and they were a map.

“i heard about you and sana,” she adds after a beat. not bitter, just factual. “and graduating top of your class isn’t an easy feat; i’m so proud of you.”

you nod again, it means a lot coming from her. “we’re doing well.”

there’s a pause. then she says: “she’s good to you.”

“she always has been.”

and jimin looks down, eyes on her coffee. her voice is steady when she speaks; “i’ve been thinking a lot. about everything. about how i was with you. with jaewook, with…myself.”

you don’t say anything. just listen.

“after you,” she continues, “i tried to fill the space with noise. with him. with plans that didn’t belong to me. i thought maybe if i pretended hard enough, it’d go away. the guilt and the wanting.”

you watch her hands as she speaks. they’re calmer now. no shaking, no nervous twitching. just open palms, resting on her lap.

“i broke up with jaewook a few weeks after that night at the restaurant. i didn’t tell anyone. i think part of me was still waiting for you to come back.”

your chest tightens — not painfully, but enough to remind you that the past isn’t as far away as you sometimes pretend.

“but you didn’t,” she adds. “and i’m glad you didn’t because it forced me to stop waiting and start…choosing.”

you tilt your head slightly. “choosing?”

“myself. finally,” she lets out a breath. “i’m taking over the family business.”

that makes you blink. “really?”

she nods, chuckling. “yeah, i always thought it was a sentence. something i’d be trapped in. but now it’s…mine. i want to do it right. make something out of it that means something. not because they told me to — but because i want to.”

you can’t help it; you smile. for her; with her, because you can recognise how far she’s come.

“i’m proud of you for deciding on that; jimin, the ceo of yu group — can’t believe i get to say i knew her.”

jimin looks up then, really stares at you. and for a second, you see her as she was when you first fell in love — messy-haired, sharp-tongued, eyes always searching for something to hold onto.

“thank you for loving me the way you did. i was too young to understand it at the time, too scared and stupid.”

you nod slowly, the words settling somewhere deep inside. “i used to wish you’d been braver.”

“i know,” she smiles, a little sad. “i wish i had been too.”

you both sit there for a while, letting the silence do what words can’t. there’s nothing sharp in the air anymore. no what-ifs or if-onlys; just two people who survived each other.

“i miss you,” she admits, finally.

you meet her gaze. “i miss you too, but i don’t miss us.”

it’s gentle, the way you say it, but you can see it hit her — the truth of it. she doesn’t cry and doesn’t reach for you. instead, breathes in then out.

“and thank you for loving me when i didn’t know how to love you back properly.”

you smile, soft at the edges. “you taught me a lot. even in the mess of it.”

she laughs, a little broken, a little healed. “that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me i was a total disaster.”

you smile shyly too, brushing imaginary dust off your jeans. “take care of yourself, jimin.”

“you too,” she says. “and y/n?”

you pause.

“if you ever need someone to have your back — even if it’s from far away — it’ll always be me. what i said that night…i meant it. in every lifetime.”

your throat tightens, offering her a small smile. “i know.”

you walk away, heart strangely light. there’s no heaviness, but you carry the knowledge that some people are lessons. and some are homes.

sana’s probably waiting for you back at the apartment now, with her soft playlists and too-large jumpers and the smell of peppermint tea she always forgets to finish, wondering if you remembered the name of the pastry this time.

you did; and this time, you’re bringing it home.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

[earlysunshines]

L word

kim minji x fem!reader

synopsis: minji gets drunk while she’s away and you’re sent a video of her rambling on about how much she misses u

warnings: sappy sweet lovely ; minji a loser FORREAL i will never let this go. ; alcohol! yummmmmyyy ; anything else not mentioned ; not proofread

a/n: hello WHATS UP im HOME i have a new cat keychain and milk blush HOORAY anyways girlfriend of the year goes to

it’s the last day of minji’s stupid volleyball camp – the camp four hours away from you, her beloved girlfriend – and she’s surrounded by her teammates, a few bottles of soju and wine they somehow managed to sneak in, and the growing haze of too much alcohol. 

leaning her head against the back of the couch, she tries desperately to keep herself from losing her mind.

what’s pushing her to the edge isn’t just the alcohol—it’s the fact that she made the rookie mistake of glancing at her phone’s wallpaper. there you are, hair up, face bare, looking effortlessly beautiful as you make breakfast in the morning. you’re caught in the middle of a candid moment, gazing at the camera with a confused expression, your hand blurred as you try to grab the phone from her. 

(“hey!” you groan, rushing towards her with a spatula in your hand. minji laughs, backing away and pushing your head away with her hand, making you groan again. “delete that!”

“nuh uh.” minji grins at you, then puts her phone in her pocket. you still look annoyed, but minji finds it the best thing to wake up to. “what’s all this?” she asks, moving her head to to the side to eye the stove.

you blush, turning away and walking back to where the stove is. you check up on the four eggs you’re cooking, then mumble, “i figured since it’s your first time staying over at my place… i’d make you breakfast.”

it doesn’t show, other than the slight tint of pink on minji’s cheeks, but she might lose her mind, maybe even get down on one knee.

“aw, thanks.”)

the image is sweet, simple, and yet, to minji, you look absolutely adorable. it’s enough to make her heart ache with longing, the kind that no amount of soju can drown out.

minji tilts her head back and downs another shot, wincing as the burn slides down her throat. she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through her chest. alcohol has never been her strong suit—not like you, who can handle a few drinks without batting an eye. minji’s a lightweight, and by the third shot, she’s already feeling the effects, regretting every dose more than she wants to admit.

around her, her teammates are lost in their own conversations, faces flushed from the alcohol. haewon, the team’s setter, has somehow managed to smuggle in a bottle of wine and is well past her limit, babbling on about some guy she’s been talking to and clinging onto bae defeatedly. 

minji tries to focus, to engage in the chatter, but her mind keeps wandering back to you. your image, your smile, the way you look at her—it all tugs at her heart, pulling her deeper into her thoughts, further away from the room full of laughter and slurred words. she checks her phone again after feeling it vibrate against the floor, immediately checking it and catching another glimpse of another photo of you in her lockscreen rotation; this time, she sees you studying in the background, the time covering apart of your head, and a few texts from you.

[y/n]

hey babe i hope you’re having fun! i’m going to sleep, goodnight! miss you xx see you tomorrow lovely

minji stares at her screen, her frown deepening as if the notifications had just announced the end of the world. she knows it’s the alcohol making her overly emotional, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling the weight in her chest. with a frustrated sigh, she lets her phone slip from her fingers, landing with a soft thud on the ground. the sudden movement draws the attention of her teammates, their chatter quieting as they turn to her.

“what’s wrong miss team captain?” ryujin teases, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

minji, usually the composed and level-headed one, surprises everyone when she lets out a dramatic whine and leans her head against danielle, who’s sitting next to her. the room falls silent as minji wraps her arms tighter around her knees, her voice small and filled with longing.

“i miss my girlfriend,” she confesses with a heavy sigh. she picks up her phone again, staring at the lock screen—another candid moment that you look adorable in. “i miss y/n so much.”

her teammates exchange glances, surprised by the rare display of vulnerability from their usually stoic captain, but they can’t help but smile at how deeply minji cares for you. hanni, the libero, is very entertained by this rare sight of minji. she pulls out her phone and snickers, pressing record and holding it up secretly. 

danielle lets minji sulk into her, she’s the only sober one in the room and is in the right mind to say anything meaningful in this situation. “do you need water?”

“i need y/n.” minji murmurs, rubbing her face in her hands and making her face even more red. “i miss her…”

“it’s been four days minji…”

“i want to be with her all the time… always.” minji confesses, her voice trembling with a vulnerability that takes everyone by surprise. her hand reaches for another shot glass, but danielle quickly intervenes, her concern clear. yet, minji manages to avoid her and downs the drink anyway, the alcohol burning its way down as she wipes her lips with the back of her hand.

“i–i…” minji stammers, squeezing her eyes shut as if trying to hold back a flood of emotions. her fingers fumble for her phone, and when she finally grasps it, a soft smile spreads across her face. she turns the screen to show her teammates a candid picture of you nestled against her, your peaceful expression illuminated by the dim light from your lamp. you had completely passed out against her that day after studying for one of your more important tests, that was also the moment minji realized she loved you. “my beautiful y/n, my lovely…” she murmurs, flipping the screen back to herself as if savoring the sight. “...y/n.”

danielle can’t help but giggle softly, gently helping minji to her feet. “she’s very sweet, but i think it’s time we get this sweet girl’s girlfriend back to her hotel room. you’ve had enough, minji.”

minji shakes her head, her pout deepening as her eyes glisten with unshed tears. the rest of the team watches in stunned silence, taken aback by the raw, unguarded side of minji they’ve never seen before. they knew she adored you—her eyes always sparkled when she mentioned you, and her demeanor softened in your presence—but this...this was something deeper, something that laid her heart bare for all to see.

“i love y/n so much… she’s the only… girl… ever,” minji slurs, her words heavy with emotion as she sways slightly on her feet.

“well!” danielle tilts her head, laughing softly at minji's endearing confession. hanni, meanwhile, can’t resist giggling as she records the entire scene, already planning to send it to you later. danielle carefully helps minji to her feet, steadying her as she turns to the team. “i’m going to get her to bed—someone’s turned into a sappy lovebird.”

“no, please keep her here,” ryujin pleads, clearly relishing in her captain’s rare moment of vulnerability. “this is gold.”

but danielle, the only one with a working moral compass, shakes her head, her gaze shifting to minji, whose blinks are becoming slower, her hair a tousled mess, and her cheeks flushed a deep red. minji clings to danielle, her voice barely above a whisper as she mumbles, “i miss her… i wanna see my y/n… i love my y/n, i love her…”

danielle sighs, gently guiding minji toward the door. “come on, let’s get you to bed. you’ll see her soon enough.” minji nods, though she continues to mumble your name like a mantra, earning giggles from her teammates even after she’s dragged out by danielle.

–

minji feels like she’s been hit by a bus when she wakes up. her head is pounding, her hair is tangled and a chunk is in her mouth, and her body is twisted in an awkward position that leaves her neck sore. 

she groans, blinking a few times as she rubs her eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. blindly, she reaches for her phone on the bedside table, and when her fingers finally graze the cold device, she squints at the screen—nine in the morning. the bus back leaves at ten.

it strikes her with the sharpness of an unexpected breeze. she gasps at the sight of the numbers, shooting up from the bed in a panic. in her rush, she nearly trips over her shoes, cursing under her breath as she fumbles to get herself ready.

her phone ends up on the sink counter as she splashes water over her face, trying to clear the fog in her mind. as the cold water shocks her system awake, another revelation dawns on her—she hasn’t responded to you yet. panic seizes her chest as she reaches for her phone, guilt and worry mixing with the lingering headache.

your texts are still unanswered, and there’s also a text from danielle asking if minji is alright, but you’re her first priority.

minji clicks on your contact, then presses ‘facetime’. water drips down her face and onto her shirt a bit before you pick up. 

“hey babe–”

“sorry i didn’t get to respond.” minji apologizes. you can only see the top half of her face looking down on you before she sets up the phone clumsily. you giggle and catch minji smiling at the sound of it. “the team and i we were…” minji can’t exactly remember much from the night before, she can only recall around seven bottles of soju on the ground, plus those two bottles of wine haewon brought. “... up late.”

“right.” you mumble, trying to contain a smile. “i missed you.”

minji almost misses her toothbrush while putting toothpaste on it. she clenches her jaw and looks at you in the camera, trying to conceal just how flustered you make her.

“me too.”

“how much?”

“a lot.” minji says, then starts brushing. it’s almost inaudible, but you manage to make out the small, “more than you missed me.” she mumbles as she brushes her back teeth.

“you’re so cute.” you murmur, then take a picture her in the moment.

minji groans when she sees the notification that you captured her while she’s a mess, minji is not a morning person. she puts her hand up to cover the camera as she continues brushing, but moves it away when she hears you giggling, wanting to see your face scrunch up cutely and your teeth show slightly when you laugh like that.

your girlfriend rolls her eyes, but smiles nonetheless.

–

minji has always been the reserved, playful type. you've seen glimpses of her more intimate side, but she's still shy about fully expressing her emotions. just like you, she's new to romance, and sometimes it shows in the way she kisses you just because, holds your hand with a gentle smile, or whispers compliments that warm your heart. 

but underneath that playful exterior, there's a lot she keeps hidden. minji’s good at concealing her deeper feelings, partly because she's shy, and partly because she’s still in disbelief that she managed to win your heart.

truthfully, minji is a mess. she’s head over heels when you kiss her cheek before you two part ways on campus. she’s even worse when you light up immediately at the sight of her outside your lecture room, and really anything you do makes her go batshit insane. but minji’s not going to show that, she doesn’t show any of it, so you’ve only seen her ‘cool, calm, and collected’ side–you think it’s cute, but what’s even cuter is the new side of her you’ve just been exposed to.

another truth is that you woke up to a good morning text from hanni before minji had even stirred. the message instantly made you feel all warm and giggly inside. there was a cheerful "good morning sunshine!" followed by a video and a teasing ":P you’ll love this girly." you clicked on the notification, squinting at the screen as you opened the video hanni sent.

the thumbnail showed minji, her cheeks flushed as she leaned against the couch. when you pressed play, hanni’s laughter echoed from behind the camera as she shakily recorded your girlfriend.

you watched as minji, looking like an adorable, sad puppy, leaned against danielle and started confessing how much she missed you. the sight made your heart swell, a huge smile spreading across your face. minji, with her flushed cheeks and vulnerable expression, showed off her lockscreen to the team, getting even sappier as she proudly displayed your photo. 

 “my beautiful y/n, my lovely…” you hear her murmur, she turns the screen back to look at it lovingly. “...y/n.”

you couldn’t help but blush and kick your feet in bed, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. seeing how tipsy she was—four empty shot glasses scattered around her—explained why she was rambling about you, talking about how much she missed you. the whole thing made you giggle, your heart fluttering with affection for your sweet, slightly drunk minji.

what catches you off guard and nearly has you falling off your bed is when you catch minji saying:

“i love y/n so much… she’s the only… girl… ever,” she slurs it out drunkenly, but it’s heartwarming. she says i like a lead in a romance film, and it sounds genuine. then she says it over and over, and even if she’s drunk, drunk words are sober thoughts – that’s what you believe.

minji just said the L word and you weren’t there to witness it in real time. it’s been three months and minji said it first. if you could magically teleport to her in that moment you’d do it in a heartbeat.

–

your girlfriend arrives at your apartment in the afternoon. she knocks at your door and you open it with an eager smile, immediately pulling her in by the wrist and closing the door behind her.

minji giggles before you pull her in for a kiss, wrapping your arms around her neck and pulling away to smile.

“missed you silly.”

“missed you more.”

“i bet.” you mumble before pecking her again, then smiling cheekily against her lips. “hey, i wanted to ask about something – also show you something too.”

your arms are still around her neck, and her hands rest above your waist as she looks at you through her adorable black frames. “okay?” she says, tilting her head.

you grab her by the wrist and lead her over to your couch, both of you flop down on it and you lean against her shoulder. she puts her arm around you as you grab your phone, then kisses your head softly while you pull something up.

“hanni sent me something interesting.” you shrug, fighting the smile that’s trying to form on your face. “i wanted to show you.”

“hm, okay.”

you pull up your messages and minji feels herself stiffening looking at the thumbnail of the video hanni had sent. you press play and she realizes it’s a video from the night before, so she stops you, grabbing your phone and turning it off.

“hey!” you groan, reaching over to grab your phone back. “don’t just–”

“whatever she sent, that’s not–”

“just watch the video!” you poke her side and she loosens her grip, which gives you a moment to snatch your phone back. “just–”

minji’s cheeks are crimson, she’s flustered beyond measure. she sighs, crossing her arms now and turning away from you. “that’s not– look, i was drunk out of my mind…”

“okay well i don’t care, i want you to watch it so i can ask you something.”

“y/n, please baby.”

“don’t baby me.” you say with fake annoyance, pressing play again. “watch,” you order, then mumble a small, “you’re really cute.”

minji shifts uncomfortably as she watches the video, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. she cringes at the sight of herself with flushed cheeks, collapsing onto danielle, and the video captures her in a state of drunken vulnerability–it’s mortifying to minji, but you’re enjoying every second of it.

as the footage plays, minji’s cringing even more. she sees herself leaning into danielle, eyes glassy, as she gushes about how much she misses you. her gaze flits to her lockscreen being proudly displayed, her face a deep shade of red. she bites her lip, feeling every bit of her embarrassment as the video continues.

"i– i just... missed you—" she tries to explain before you cut her off.

“shh, shh. we’re not at the best part yet.” 

hanni pham i’ll kill you. minji thinks to herself, forcing herself to watch the rest of the video. 

minji's face flushes even more at the sound of her own voice confessing her feelings. hanni’s giggles in the background only make the situation worse. minji hears herself repeatedly saying "i love y/n" with a tone of longing, the video ending with hanni's laughter echoing.

“so,” you pull away from her, looking at your thrown off girlfriend in front of you with raised brows. “what did you think.”

“i–” minji pinches the bridge of her nose, then looks at you looking at her with an expectant expression and a teasing smile. “--look.”

“you said the L word.”

she furrows her brows. “what?”

“you said it, the L word.”

“oh my god y/n.” minji can’t help but laugh in the moment, purely from disbelief. she sighs, giving you a crooked smile. “is this about me saying… that?”

“saying what?” you push her buttons successfully, watching her bite the inside of her cheek.

“you know what.”

“say it.”

“what?”

“say it to my face.” you purse your lips, then bite the inside of your bottom lip. 

minji glances away, her face a mixture of vivid red and palpable anxiety. the embarrassment still colors her cheeks, but now there’s an additional hue of nervousness. it’s not that she’s new to romantic things like this with you—far from it. it’s just that her feelings for you are so profound, so overwhelming, that they’ve left her floundering, struggling to match the intensity of her emotions with her actions. sometimes it feels like her heart and brain work independently, or maybe it’s just her heart doing most of the work, it’s a mess, a beating wreck always.

you’ve managed to make her feel like a mess, an idiot, and utterly smitten, all by existing.

she takes a deep breath, forcing herself to look you squarely in the eye. her cheeks remain flushed, and she fidgets with her fingers, betraying her inner turmoil.

“i love you.”

“who?”

“you, y/n.” minji groans, leaning towards you and sliding her hand above your waist again. she presses your skin lightly with her fingertips, before repeating herself, “i love you y/n.” her voice is low and she looks at you through her eyelashes, now you’re all nervous.

you can’t speak or breathe in the moment, so you opt for leaning in and kissing her, but she pushes you away after one peck, looking at you with raised brows.

“you’re not going to say it back?” minji smirks, her gaze unwavering as she watches you avert your eyes. her expression turns playful yet determined as she gently hooks her finger under your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze once more. her thumb rests lightly on your lower jaw, her fingers pressing gently against your cheeks. “what was all that interrogation for if you’re—”

“i love you.” you confess, breath hitching when she looks at you like that. “i love you minji.”

minji smiles, clearly satisfied. “wasn’t that hard, was it?”

“i hate you.”

“but you love me.”

“yeah, but i hate you.”

“uh huh.” minji chuckles, fingers still holding your face and using that to pull you closer and kiss you.

despite the embarrassment she’s feeling, minji somehow remains more composed than you. she pushes her glasses up to sit on the crown of her head before her lips brush against yours with a tender softness, and she hums as she kisses you again. when she pulls away just enough to speak, her breath mingles with yours as she murmurs against your lips,

“i L word you a lot y/n.” she pecks you again, then says one more time before taking your breath away, “i love you so much you loser.”

[faebled-stories]

The Game of Dangerous Desires

Itzy's Shin Yuna and Hwang Yeji x Male reader

Part 2 of A Dragons Deal with the Princess

Previously

Yeji swallowed hard, her mouth dry, heart pounding as she stood there, torn between protecting her relationship and the fear gnawing at her insides. The pill bottle seemed to mock her, a constant reminder of the impossible choice that weighed on her heart.

And then, in the silence of the room, Yeji made her choice. Without another word, she stepped forward and reached for the bottle sealing her fate.

-----

The princess had a smug smile on her face as Yeji angrily took the bottle from her hand. Popping a pill into her mouth, she grabbed a nearby water bottle to wash it down, the bitterness matching the taste of her regret.

“So what’s your plan? Seduce him? He would never cheat on me,” Yeji spat, her voice shaking with anger and fear.

“Oh, unnie.” Yuna's tone dripped with amusement, her confidence unnerving. “Do you really think I haven’t thought it through? I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but just be ready. A week from now.” Yuna winked, adding, “Keep your phone close, I’ll send the details soon.”

“What’s stopping me from telling him everything?” Yeji countered, desperation lacing her words. “If he knows what you’re planning, he’ll avoid you.”

Yuna pulled out her phone, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she hit play on a voice recording. Yeji’s breath caught in her throat as the unmistakable sounds of her own moans filled the air.

"Nnngh... Y/N... It feels strange... I'm stuffed so full of you..."  

"A-Ah! There! Please Y/N, right there—Ffuuuck!"  

"Yeji, you take my cock so well, baby. Your pussy feels incredible. You like this, don’t you?"  

"Yes, yes, I love it! It's so good, don’t stop!"

Yeji’s heart sank. The vivid memory of last night’s passion replayed through the speakers. She could hear every thump, every breathy gasp as if reliving it all over again.

“You... you were here the whole time?” Yeji stammered, horrified.

“I heard it all, every moan… every word...every... single... thrust,” Yuna said slowly, stepping closer with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

Yeji felt trapped, crushed under the weight of her own helplessness as Yuna finally gestured for her to leave. Feeling sick, Yeji stumbled out of the room, her heart twisting painfully. Would Y/N really fall for Yuna? Could he be seduced so easily? Her thoughts raced as she returned to her room, her gaze falling on Y/N’s sleeping form, clutching the pillow where she had lain just hours before.

Her stomach churned at the thought of him in Yuna’s hands, the image of them together too much to bear. What if Yuna was right? What if he did choose her, lured by her confidence and experience? What if she wasn’t enough?

Later, the girls gathered around the dining table, chatting casually as they ate breakfast. Yeji sat in silence, her mind a whirlwind, barely able to stomach the food in front of her. Yuna, sitting beside her, wore a smug grin, the tension thick in the air between the eldest and the youngest..

“Yeji unnie, what did you do yesterday? You never mentioned it,” Chaeryeong asked innocently, mid-slurp of her ramen.

Yuna's eyes sparkled as she leaned in. “Yeah, unnie, what did you get up to?” Her voice was laced with teasing, her power in the situation almost tangible.

Before Yeji could respond, the door to her room opened, and Y/N stepped out, looking fresh from a shower. To the others, it seemed like a regular morning after a sleepover, but the truth hung heavy between Yeji and Yuna.

“Oh, Y/N, you're here! Want to join us?” Lia said cheerfully, ever kind to him because Yeji constantly gushed about happy he makes her.

Y/N smiled politely and took a seat in the empty spot at the table. To his left was Ryujin, and to his right, Chaeryeong. Across from him sat Yeji, with Lia and Yuna sandwiching her. As the conversation swirled around him, Y/N quietly ate his cereal, but something soon caught his attention. He felt something soft brushing against his leg—a light caress. He smirked to himself, recalling the passionate night he’d had with Yeji. 

Is she really still in the mood?

The touch on his leg grew more insistent, sliding higher. He glanced at Yeji, a knowing smile on his lips, assuming she was teasing him. She was good at keeping a straight face—it was almost like she wasn’t doing anything at all. The sensation pressed harder against his crotch, and his heart skipped a beat, his mind flashing back to their intimate moments.

Y/N’s eyes darted downward but something felt… off. Yeji hadn’t painted her toenails that morning, had she? His pulse quickened when he realized the angle of the foot wasn’t right—it wasn’t coming directly from Yeji, but from beside her. His gaze snapped to Yuna, and in that moment, she locked eyes with him. A sly smirk tugged at the corners of her lips, and she winked.

Panic surged through him. He choked on his cereal, coughing and swatting the foot away from him under the table. Yeji immediately looked at him with concern, clueless as to what had just happened, while Yuna leaned back casually, enjoying the chaos she had caused.

Y/N quickly finished his meal, wiping his mouth and muttering a quick thank you to the girls before grabbing Yeji’s hand. “Can you come with me for a second?” he asked, trying to mask his unease with a forced smile. The girls giggled, teasing Yeji about how much Y/N needed her by his side.

But once they were alone in Yeji’s room, the playful atmosphere vanished. “Uh, I don’t know how to say this, but… I think Yuna was flirting with me just now. Like, under the table,” he said, his voice low, trying to make sense of the situation.

Yeji’s stomach dropped. Yuna had promised one week. What is she doing? Her phone buzzed in her hand. Trembling, she opened the message.

Yeji stared at the text from Yuna, her stomach churning. The first of many demands, and Y/N was already sensing something. Panic surged through her, her mind spinning as she read 

Rule 1: Y/N will not know about anything. You have to play the dumb girlfriend card. 

She swallowed hard, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. "Yuna... flirting with you?" she repeated, her voice trembling slightly before she forced herself to laugh, a shaky, hollow sound. "Babe, you’re overthinking it. Yuna would never do that! She’s like a little sister to me, and she adores you—but, like, in a friendly way."

Y/N’s brow furrowed, and the skepticism on his face made Yeji’s chest tighten even more. His eyes searched hers, confused, questioning. He didn’t believe her. She could feel it. And why would he? She was lying to him. The man she loved more than anything, the one she had given everything to last night, and now... now she had to deceive him.

"But her foot—" Y/N began, his voice trailing off.

Yeji’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t let him finish that thought. If he doubted her now, everything would fall apart. "It was probably an accident," she cut in quickly, forcing a smile that felt foreign on her lips. She reached out, grasping his arm, squeezing it as if trying to ground herself. "You know how playful she is. She was probably just stretching or moving around, and it felt weird, that’s all."

Her words sounded hollow to her own ears, but she pushed on, hoping he wouldn’t see through her act. Her heart felt like it was being torn apart with every lie she spoke. This was Y/N—the man who trusted her, the man who held her after making love to her for the first time. And here she was, lying to his face.

Y/N hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly, his confusion deepening. Yeji’s chest constricted painfully. She couldn’t let him keep thinking about it. She had to make him believe.

"Come on," she coaxed, her voice softening as she leaned into him, pressing her forehead against his, trying to hide the tears welling up in her eyes. "You’re just tired from last night, right? I wore you out." She forced a giggle, the sound unnatural, like it didn’t belong to her at all. Her insides were twisting into knots, the guilt nearly choking her, but she had to keep going.

Y/N didn’t respond immediately, his gaze still distant, replaying the events in his mind. Yeji’s heart raced. She hated this. She hated lying to him. It felt like poison in her veins, the weight of Yuna’s control over her crushing her spirit.

"Maybe I’m just being paranoid..." he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, though doubt still lingered in his eyes.

Yeji clung to that small sliver of doubt and seized it. "Exactly!" she chimed, trying to infuse her voice with lightness even though her insides felt like they were crumbling. She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his neck as she fought to keep her hands from trembling. "You’ve got nothing to worry about. I know you. You’d never let something like that happen, and Yuna isn’t that kind of person."

She kissed him then, desperate to erase the lingering suspicion. It was a soft, lingering kiss, but it tasted like betrayal to her. Every second of it filled her with more guilt. "Let’s just forget about it, okay? I trust you, and you trust me, right?" Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, but she prayed he wouldn’t notice.

Y/N paused for a moment longer, the weight of her words settling in. He looked into her eyes, searching for truth. Yeji’s heart pounded, her breath caught in her throat as she waited.

"Yeah…" he finally said, sighing deeply. "I trust you."

Yeji smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Relief washed over her, but it was tinged with a sickening feeling that lodged in her chest like a stone. She had done it—she had successfully gaslit him, just as Yuna had demanded. But as Y/N wrapped his arms around her and held her close, all she could think about was how wrong it felt. How every lie had driven a wedge between them, one she couldn’t undo.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her words were meant for him, but they felt more like an apology, a plea for forgiveness she didn’t deserve.

"I love you," Y/N murmured back, his voice warm, comforting, everything she longed for. He held her tighter, but all Yeji could feel was the guilt gnawing at her, eating away at the foundation of their love.

"I love you too," she whispered, her voice shaking. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she rested her head on his chest, her heart breaking under the weight of her betrayal. Yuna’s game had only just begun, and Yeji was already drowning in it.

-----

Yuna was one step closer to what she had been craving for. Her desires had become an obsession, and she knew exactly how to get what she wanted. Yuna had texted Yeji to make sure Y/N came over more often. Yeji, feeling trapped, reluctantly agreed, mentioning it to Y/N as, of course he agreed, more time with his girlfriend is always better.

At the same time, Yuna's twisted game began to evolve. The ruleset had been finished. She texted Yeji the updates:

Rule 2: "Tell Y/N not to cum until the day. No sex, no masturbation. I need him pent up."

Rule 3: "When D-Day comes, seduce him at his place. Make him agree to wear a blindfold and get tied to the bed. I don't care how you do it"

Rule 4: "Once he's bound, let me in. You can’t interfere, no matter what happens."

Rule 5: "Sit in the corner and watch. Don’t make a sound. You need to suffer like I did, you need to feel what I felt that night when I heard you two.

As the countdown to the dreaded day had started every moment seemed to stretch out painfully for Yeji. The tension in the air was almost tangible as Yuna's subtle advances grew bolder, and Y/N's once-solid relationship with Yeji was slowly being strained. It all began innocently, but by the end of the week, nothing would be the same.

On Day One, everything seemed relatively normal, but Y/N noticed a slight shift in the dynamic. After Yeji’s dance practice, Yuna appeared at the studio, casually walking in like she had every right to be there. At first, it felt natural—after all, Yuna and Yeji were close, and Y/N had hung out with both of them countless times. 

But something felt different that day. Yuna lingered by the mirrors longer than usual, her eyes always seeming to find Y/N when she thought he wasn’t looking. After practice, Y/N was about to leave when Yuna suddenly offered him a hug. He hesitated for a moment—this wasn’t something they did often—but figured it was harmless. When Yuna’s arms wrapped around him, it felt just a little too tight, a little too long. He could feel her breath against his neck, and for a moment, he thought he felt her hand brush lower down his back than it should have.

He pulled away, awkwardly laughing it off. “You’re extra friendly today,” he said, trying to sound casual. Yuna just smiled, a mysterious glint in her eyes, as Yeji approached with her gym bag.

Yeji noticed the interaction but said nothing, offering Y/N a kiss goodbye before he left. That night, as Y/N lay in bed, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that Yuna’s hug hadn’t been as innocent as it seemed. He pushed the thought aside, though, convinced he was reading too much into things.

-----

Day Two started much the same, with Y/N sitting in the corner of the practice room, sipping his water while the girls rehearsed. But again something was different this time. Yuna made more frequent eye contact with him during practice, catching his attention every time she moved. When a break was called, Yuna made her way straight toward him.

“Y/N, what do you think of the choreography? Am I hitting all the beats?” Yuna asked sweetly, standing close enough that her presence felt overbearing.

Y/N shuffled uncomfortably. “Yeah, it looks great. You’re really talented.”

Yuna smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks. I’ve been working hard on it. Maybe I’ll show you the routine up close sometime.”

Later as practice ended, Y/N was getting ready to leave when Yuna popped up beside him, her hand resting on his arm. “Leaving so soon? Why don’t you hang out with us a bit?” she asked, her fingers lingering on his skin. Y/N tensed up, feeling the unease rise within him.

“Nah, I’ve got stuff to do,” he replied, gently pulling away. 

“Come on, don’t be boring,” Yuna teased, her voice lower. She stepped closer, her arm brushing against his. Y/N shifted uncomfortably, glancing around for Yeji, who was deep in conversation with the choreographer. He quickly came up with an excuse and left with a hurry.

That night, Y/N mentioned the encounter to Yeji. “Yuna’s been acting... different lately,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “It’s like she’s always around, and I don’t know—it’s weird.”

Yeji chuckled, waving it off. “Yuna? She’s always been like that. She’s just friendly.” Her smile was reassuring, but Y/N couldn’t shake the discomfort settling in his chest.

-----

Day Three saw Yuna growing bolder. This time, she didn’t just accidently show up to Y/N and Yejis, alone time; she actively inserted herself into Y/N’s space. While Yeji practiced to herself during a break, Yuna stuck to Y/N like glue, sitting close to him on the benches and making playful comments about how hard the girls were working. She laughed easily, leaning into him every chance she got.

When Y/N tried to create some distance, she found subtle ways to close it. If he moved to the other end of the bench, Yuna would “casually” scoot over too, laughing about how cramped the space was. She even brushed her hand over his thigh at one point, and Y/N felt his entire body tense. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the way Yuna’s fingers lingered for just a beat too long.

When practice ended and it was time to leave, Yuna insisted on walking out with him. “I’ll walk you to your car,” she said, almost like it wasn’t a questionable act. Y/N didn’t know how to decline without being rude, so he agreed. As they reached his car, Yuna smiled, her eyes locked on his. “You’re fun to hang out with, Y/N,” she said, her tone soft but laced with something deeper. She stepped closer, leaning in for another hug. This time, Y/N stiffened, feeling her body press against his in a way that Yuna planned to make him feel every inch of her chest.

He mumbled a quick goodbye and got into his car, watching as Yuna waved, her eyes never leaving him. 

That night, Y/N brought it up to Yeji again. “Seriously, I think Yuna’s acting weird. She’s... I don’t know. She’s touchy and not like a touchy friend.”

But once again, Yeji brushed it off, her expression unreadable. “You’re overthinking it, babe. Yuna’s always been like that.”

But Y/N wasn’t so sure anymore.

-----

On Day Four Yuna started texting Y/N throughout the day. It wasn’t unusual for them to message occasionally mainly for updates on Yeji but the frequency of her texts had increased dramatically. She sent a casual “How’s your day?” messages that quickly turned into flirty comments. “You looked really good today 😉,” one text read. Y/N stared at his phone, feeling his stomach drop.

He tried to ignore the texts, replying with short answers and hoping she’d get the hint, but Yuna was persistent. He showed up at the dorms again, and this time Yuna made no effort to hide her intentions. She sat close to Y/N, her body pressed against his as they watched a movie with Yeji. Every time Y/N shifted to create space, Yuna closed the gap, her thigh brushing against his.

Y/N could feel his pulse quickening, the discomfort growing with every passing second. He glanced at Yeji, hoping she’d say something, but she remained quiet, her eyes fixed on the screen.

When Y/N finally got up to leave, Yuna followed him to the door, smiling sweetly. “Leaving already? Stay a little longer,” she said, her voice dripping with false innocence. She leaned in, her hand grazing his arm as she whispered, “We could have fun.”

Y/N’s heart raced. He forced a chuckle, pulling away. “I really have to go,” he muttered, practically bolting out the door.

He couldn’t sleep. The tension between him and Yeji was growing, and Yuna’s actions were getting bolder by the day. Something was seriously wrong, but Y/N felt trapped, unsure of how to handle the situation.

-----

By Day Five, Y/N was on edge. The week had felt like a slow descent into madness, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. Yuna’s behavior had escalated—now she was constantly touching him, finding excuses to stand close, and making suggestive comments that left Y/N feeling more uncomfortable than ever.

He tried talking to Yeji again, hoping for some clarity, but she remained dismissive. “Yuna’s just being Yuna,” she said, her tone flat. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

But Y/N knew it wasn’t nothing. The strain in his relationship with Yeji was palpable, and every time he tried to address it, she deflected, leaving Y/N feeling more isolated than ever.

That afternoon Y/N was once again in the practice room, watching as ITZY rehearsed. His eyes wandered over to Yuna, and he noticed something different—she was wearing revealing clothing, far more daring than her usual practice attire. It was nothing like what she typically wore around the group. As she stood in front of the mirror, she caught sight of Y/N behind her, their eyes meeting through the reflection.

Without breaking eye contact, Yuna began to stretch. She bent over slowly letting get a good look of her plump cheeks then spreading her legs wide doing the splits as she dropped to the floor, her ass recoiling from the impact, all while keeping her gaze locked on Y/N. Her expression was unreadable, but the deliberate nature of her actions was clear. He followed her eyes as she started to survey his body, eventually locking onto his crotch. Y/N’s pulse quickened as he shifted uncomfortably, feeling the tension build in the room.

---

By Day Six, Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. The entire week had been a slow, torturous buildup to something he couldn’t quite put into words. That evening, after another tense interaction with Yuna, Y/N finally snapped. He confronted Yeji, his voice tight with frustration.

“I don’t know what’s going on with Yuna, but this has to stop,” he said, pacing the room. “I’ve tried to ignore it, I’ve tried to talk to you about it, but you keep brushing it off. how could you, my girlfriend be so okay with someone actively trying to steal me away from you.?”

Yeji sighed, rubbing her temples. “Y/N, you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“I’m not!” Y/N’s voice was louder than he intended, his emotions spilling over. “She’s been all over me, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal. What’s going on, Yeji? Why won’t you just talk to me?”

Yeji’s eyes flickered with something—guilt? shame?—but she quickly masked it. “Look, I’ll talk to her, okay? Just... let it go for now.”

But Y/N couldn’t just let it go. The tension between him and Yeji felt like a ticking time bomb, and he had no idea how to defuse it.

-----

Finally, on Day Seven, the dreaded day arrived. The countdown had reached its end, and everything was set in motion. Y/N, exhausted from the emotional toll of the week, hadn’t seen Yuna all day, which gave him a false sense of security. He hoped maybe the worst had passed. When Yeji arrived at his home, the tension between them was palpable, hanging heavy in the air like a storm about to break. 

She kissed him softly, a lingering touch that held more sadness than passion. Y/N could feel her hesitation, as if she were holding something back. 

“I’m so sorry,” Yeji whispered, her voice trembling, filled with remorse and guilt. She looked down, unable to meet his eyes, her hands fidgeting nervously. “I’ve let things get out of control, and I don’t know how to fix it… but I just want us to be okay again.”

Y/N stared at her, his heart aching. He wanted to believe her, to trust that everything could go back to normal, but the unease from the past week was still gnawing at him. He let out a heavy sigh, nodding slowly. 

“Yeah… me too,” he said softly, though doubt flickered in his chest.

Yeji offered a small smile, trying to mask the anxiety she felt. “Let’s try something new tonight, okay?”

Yeji had been unusually insistent throughout the evening, her demeanor shifting between light teasing and something more serious. When she suggested that they use the guest bedroom for the night, her tone carried a weight that caught Y/N off guard. Still, he agreed, hoping that maybe this was her way of trying to bridge the gap between them, to reignite something that had felt distant recently.

As they moved through the hallway toward the room, Y/N couldn’t help but notice the tension in Yeji's posture. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she did her best to play it off as casual curiosity.

"I saw something online the other day..." she said, her voice soft yet steady as she led him inside. “I thought we could try it out.”

Before Y/N could respond, Yeji produced a blindfold and a length of rope from behind her back, her hands trembling slightly as she handed them over. Her eyes flickered with both nervousness and excitement. Y/N raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the gesture, but something in her gaze held him in place, intrigued.

“You want me to tie you up?” Y/N asked with a chuckle, his suspicion softening as he saw it as a playful suggestion.

But Yeji shook her head, “No, I want to try it on you.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment but nodded. “Okay... if that’s what you want, but you know, you don't have to do this for me to accept your apology”

“I know, this is just a little extra”

They started to undress, the atmosphere filled with an odd mix of tension and desire. Yeji, aching for his touch but bound by the rules Yuna had set, felt a pit in her stomach. She tied his limbs to the four corners of the bed, securing each one tightly. Y/N laughed lightly, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of restraint.

“I'm not used to this... But if you’re into it, I’ll give it a shot,” he said, trying to ease the growing tension between them.

Yeji tied the final knot, making sure no one, not even Y/N can get out as Yuna had instructed. She stepped back, looking at Y/N—vulnerable and exposed. Her heart twisted with guilt, but she reminded herself of the plan.playfully leaning to his ear she whispered, “I'll be back”, she then left the bedroom, her footsteps heavy as she walked toward the front door.

There, Yuna stood waiting, her face lit with an eager smile. Everything had fallen into place. The prize she had been craving was just a few steps away.

Yuna entered the house with a confident stride, walking straight into the guest room, her eyes fixed on Y/N, he was blindfolded and restrained on the bed as she wanted, unaware of what was about to unfold. Yuna crept into the room, her eyes greedily drinking in the sight of his vulnerable form. A wicked grin spread across her face as she approached the bed, licking her lips in anticipation.

"Yeji?" Y/N called out, mistaking Yuna's presence for his girlfriend's return. "You're back already? That was quick."

Yuna didn't respond, too focused on her prize. She knelt on the bed, her fingers lightly tracing along his skin, causing Y/N to shiver. Slowly, she lowered her head, taking half him into her mouth, her tongue swirling around him expertly, as her jaw was stretching. Y/N let out a soft groan.

"Oh wow... Yeji, that feels... so good," he murmured, tilting his head back against the pillow. "Where did you learn this?"

Yeji's heart clenched at his words. Of course, he doesn't recognize my touch, she thought bitterly. I've never given him a proper blowjob, and now Yuna is stealing that experience from me. Yuna however, smirked, knowing Y/N was already hooked on the sensation of her mouth on him.

Y/N, sensitive from the week of build-up, felt himself nearing the edge from the veteran moves that his "girlfriend" was doing. "I'm close," he muttered, unaware of the real situation.

Yuna paused, smirking as she denied him release, his limbs tugging at the ropes. She wasn't going to let him waste all that build-up just anywhere. No, she wanted every last drop to stuff her to the brim.

Straddling him, she positioned herself over his hardness, locking eyes with Yeji, who sat paralyzed in the corner. Slowly, Yuna lowered herself onto him, inch by inch, letting out an unexpected squeal as he filled her completely.

The sheer size of him made her body wince, even though she was experienced. Y/N was a different beast, for the first time since she lost her virginity, she could feel some pain in her core. She glanced down, marveling at the way he stretched her to the limit, his outline visible against her stomach. This moment, this conquest, had been all she could think about since that day in the car and now, Y/N was hers.

The maknae locked eyes with her leader, seeing a mixture of rage and heartbreak in Yeji's gaze as she began to move. One of the people Yeji trusted most was now claiming what should have been hers alone. The sounds of their bodies moving together filled the room, while Yeji sat there, helpless, forced to watch the person she loved being taken by someone else.

Yuna couldn't believe it. Finally, she had gotten her chance with this monster and she was determined to make the most of it. Fuck, he's reaching places I never knew was possible, she thought, running her hands along his chest. Yuna stared at Yeji over in the corner, smirking at the sheer agony and betrayal she saw reflected back at her. The knowledge that she was stealing something precious, something that belonged to Yeji alone, for some reason fueled her desire.

Y/N groaned beneath her, his fingers digging into the bed as he bucked up instinctively. "Yeji... you feel so good baby, let me touch you," he murmured, lost in the haze of pleasure.

Yeji felt like she had been punched in the gut. Even now, even as Yuna took him for herself, Y/N's words proved that his heart still belongs entirely to her.

Yuna began to move faster, rolling her hips in a sensual rhythm. The wet sounds of their coupling filled the room, along with Y/N's increasingly desperate moans. Each plunge of his length into her soaked core brought Yuna closer to the edge, but she gritted her teeth, determined not to let go until she had milked him dry.

Yuna gave her all to riding her new toy, she could feel every vein pulsing against her stomach, assuming that was an indication of his upcoming release, she sped up some more needing to take his seed into her.

A sheen of sweat formed on Yuna's forehead as she continued grinding her hips. Unaware that Y/N hadn’t fully entered her yet, two more inches remained unclaimed. Suddenly, he thrust upward, catching her off guard. The unexpected depth sent a shock through her body, causing her to unravel completely. She thought she had taken all of him, but that final plunge pushed her past her limit, making her tremble as she surrendered to the intense wave.

Yeji watched as her group mate quivered on top of her boyfriend, her legs shaking just likes Yeji's during the first night, but he wasn't done yet, Y/N feeling the quivers on his cock and wanted to bring more pleasure to his lover, he kept pushing his hips higher and higher causing Yuna to release his cock from her pussy before screaming and squirting uncontrollably all over his chest and blindfolded face.

She stared at his damp body, completely stunned. The overwhelming pleasure had taken her to an uncharted place, leaving her body trembling. Yet, the princess refused to give up until she reached her goal. Slowly, she grasped his cock again. Once eager, she now gazed at it with a flicker of fear, hesitating before slipping it in once more.

Yuna's heart raced as she rode Y/N with wild abandon, her desperation growing with each passing second. She needed him to fill her, to claim her completely. But no matter how hard she bounced, how tight she clenched around him, he remained frustratingly hard.

"Why...won't...you...cum...already?" she panted, her words broken between thrusts. She was too far gone to care about her voice being heard, too consumed by her own need.

Glancing at Yeji, Yuna's eyes widened as she saw her unnie's calm smile. It was the complete opposite of her own frantic energy. Yeji's eyes never left hers, a knowing glint in their dark depths.

Yuna's mind spun, trying to make sense of Yeji's behavior. Why is she happy? Hadn't they been fighting? Were she and Y/N on the brink of breaking up? How could Yeji be so unbothered?

Before she could unravel the mystery, a hand landed on her shoulder. Yeji's fingers brushed lightly over her skin, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Yuna shivered at the intimate touch, her hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm.

"Keep going, Yuna," Yeji purred, her voice soft but laced with mocking amusement. "You're almost there."

Fear flickered in Yuna's chest as Yeji leaned in close, her breath ghosting over Yuna's ear. "Did you really think you were pulling the strings this whole time?" she whispered, her tone dark and dripping with mirth.

"Uh-I-I" Yuna stammered as her mind raced, trying to process Yeji's words. What? But this was my plan, my carefully laid trap to snare Y/N. He is now mine, wasn't he?

Yeji chuckled, sending a shiver down Yuna's spine as her grip tightened on Yuna's shoulders. "That's your problem, Yuna. You always say you want something, but you can never handle it," she teased, her voice laced with challenge. "How about I give you a chance?"

With her hand firmly gripping Yuna’s shoulders, Yeji used her body weight to slam Yuna down, pressing her flush against Y/N's thighs. Yuna's cries now mirrored the screams she had once recorded on her phone—except while Yeji’s were laced with pleasure, Yuna’s were filled with pain. Y/N hadn’t even moved yet, and already, tears were beginning to form in Yuna’s eyes.

Yuna’s stomach twisted, her confidence faltering as Yeji’s words settled in. She looked down at Y/N, her breath catching when she saw that the ropes that had appeared to bind him were now lying discarded on the bed. His hands weren’t tied. He had never been restrained.

Y/N’s eyes, no longer blindfolded, met hers, dark and unflinching. The realization crashed down on her like a wave. She had been played from the beginning.

“You... you knew?” Yuna whispered, her voice trembling.

Yeji chuckled softly, her lips brushing Yuna’s ear. “Of course he knew, He’s mine Yuna. He’s always been mine.”

Yuna’s body tensed as Y/N’s hands suddenly gripped her hips. His hold was firm but passive, waiting for direction. It wasn’t Y/N who was in control—it was Yeji.

“Let her feel it baby.” Yeji commanded softly, her voice as smooth as silk. “Show her exactly what she thought she wanted.”

Without hesitation, Y/N obeyed, swiftly flipping the youngest onto the bed, positioning her on her hands and knees. A loud slap echoed as Yeji’s hand connected with her cheeks, just as Y/N thrust into Yuna with brutal force. The impact made her gasp, clutching the sheets for support. But Yeji wasn’t satisfied. She commanded Y/N to grab Yuna’s arms and use them as leverage to pull her deeper onto him. Now, with Y/N holding her arms, Yuna's fingers clawed desperately at the air, searching for anything to hold onto. His movements were relentless, and any control she had earlier dissolved completely, leaving her powerless to keep up with the unyielding pace he set.

“No... wait...” Yuna whimpered, her voice strained, but Y/N didn’t stop. His hands gripped her tighter, driving into her relentlessly, his cock filling her over and over, pushing her closer to a breaking point. The soft rhythm she had started was gone, replaced by his harsh, unforgiving pace.

Yeji made her way in front of her maknae, watching with a cold, satisfied gaze. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “You wanted to have him for yourself. Well, now you have him.”

Yuna’s mind spiraled as Y/N’s thrusts grew harder, faster. Her body responded instinctively, the pain pushing away the little pleasure that was mixing in a dizzying blur, her mind was screaming in defeat. This wasn’t what she had wanted. Not like this.

“I can’t—” Yuna tried to speak, her voice cracking as her body trembled with overstimulation.

“You’ll cum again, and again” Yeji interrupted, her tone sharp and commanding. “And you’ll keep cumming until I say you’re done.”

Yuna’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body betraying her as the pleasure built within, fast and uncontrollable. She couldn’t stop it—couldn’t stop herself from reacting. Her muscles tensed, her breath catching in her throat as Y/N’s unrelenting thrusts pushed her closer and closer to the edge.

Consequently, she shattered. Her body convulsed as an orgasm tore through her, her inner walls clenching around Y/N’s cock as she cried out, the sound desperate and ragged.

"ahh ahh UNNIE please it hurts, I cant take it anymore!" tears were starting to fall from the youngest's eyes.

Y/N didn’t stop though, His pace remained steady, thrusting into her even as she shuddered through her release, the pleasure replaced by pain as her overstimulated body struggled to keep up.

Yeji smiled, her hand moving to Yuna’s chin, forcing her to look at her. “Again,” she said simply, her eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “You’re not done.” She then gave a quick hard slap to Yuna's chest. The sound reverberated through the room. Yeji smiled as everything was coming full circle.

Yuna’s body jerked with every thrust, her mind lost in the overwhelming mix of sensations. Another orgasm built within her, even more intense than the last, but this time it was different. This time, it felt like too much—like her body was about to break.

Y/N’s hands tightened on her wrists, his breath growing ragged as his own release neared. Yuna could feel him pulsing inside her, his cock twitching as he struggled to hold back. But just as he was about to spill inside her, Yeji’s hand shot out, pressing firmly against Y/N’s abdomen.

“No,” she said sharply, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Not yet I'm still not done with her.”

Y/N groaned, his entire body trembling as he fought against the urge to finish. His cock remained hard, still thrusting into Yuna with agonizing precision, but he obeyed, holding back despite the unbearable tension and pain building within him.

Yuna whimpered, tears spilling down her cheeks as her body neared the edge again. She couldn’t take any more—couldn’t handle the relentless assault on her senses. But her body refused to listen, and with one particularly brutal thrust to that one spot she had always hoped someone would hit. It was game over, she came again, her body convulsing violently as her vision blurred, white-hot pleasure tearing through her.

Y/N followed soon after with one last deep thrust, but instead of what Yuna had been hoping for, he pulled out at the final moment. A guttural groan escaped him as he climaxed all over her body, his release coating her skin rather than filling her as she had been working towards. Yuna lay there, breathless and trembling, her body aching from the intensity. She was spent, and all she could do was lie there, too far gone to even voice her apology.

Yeji observed with quiet satisfaction, her own emotions stirred by the scene before her. Yuna, gasping for air, her face streaked with tears. But Yeji wasn't finished yet. She leaned down, gently flipping Yuna onto her back, her fingers tracing along Yuna’s cheek with an unsettling, almost mocking tenderness, as if savoring the control she held.

“You’ll remember this, Yuna,” Yeji whispered, her voice soft but icy. “You’ll remember that you mean nothing to him. That no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try… I’m the leader, and I’ll always have control. Over everything. Even you.”

Yuna sobbed weakly, her body trembling uncontrollably as Yeji finally stepped back, her gaze still filled with cruel satisfaction.

"You're done now," Yeji said calmly, brushing her hands off as if discarding Yuna along with the rest of the moment. She took a step back, eyes still trained on Yuna, who lay gasping for air, utterly broken.

Yuna’s chest heaved with exhaustion, her vision blurred with tears. The room seemed to spin, but all she could feel was the dull ache coursing through her body—the result of the punishment she had endured, the humiliation crashing over her in waves. Her hands clutched the bed sheets beneath her as though they were the only solid thing keeping her tethered to reality.

Yeji gave a final glance at Yuna’s trembling form before turning her gaze to Y/N. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice no longer cruel, but flat—emotionless.

Y/N, still reeling from the intensity of his release, nodded silently. He rose from Yuna's limp body and began dressing, his movements slow and methodical, as if trying to shrug off the weight of what had just happened. He didn’t glance back at her—not once.

Together, Yeji and Y/N left the room without another word, leaving Yuna behind—still sprawled out on the bed, her body shuddering with sobs. The door clicked shut behind them, and the oppressive tension that had filled the air inside the room finally dissipated.

The hallway was silent, the faint sounds of Yuna’s sobs muffled through the walls. Yeji and Y/N walked down the corridor, side by side, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet. The moment they turned the corner, and the door was out of sight, Yeji stopped in her tracks. She let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. The strong, composed mask she had worn in front of Yuna crumbled in an instant.

Her shoulders slumped slightly, and her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face. “God, that was harder than I thought it would be…” she whispered, her voice filled with exhaustion and the weight of what had just transpired.

Y/N turned to her, his brow furrowed with concern. He hadn’t spoken much during the entire ordeal, following Yeji’s instructions to the letter, but now that it was over, the guilt in his eyes was palpable.

“I didn’t want to do that,” Y/N muttered, his voice low and filled with regret. “I didn’t want to touch her like that, Yeji. It didn’t feel right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the floor as if ashamed. “I was wishing it was you the whole time.”

Yeji’s eyes softened as she looked up at him. She could see the guilt etched into every line of his face. This wasn’t easy for him, but he had done it for her. She had asked him to, and despite how much it weighed on him, he had agreed because he trusted her.

She stepped closer to him, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his arm. “I know,” she said quietly. “I know you didn’t want to, and I’m sorry I had to ask you to go through with it. But I needed to show her that she can’t just walk in and take what’s ours.”

Her voice wavered slightly, the strength she had shown earlier cracking around the edges. “I needed to protect us. To show her that there are consequences. If we let it happen, she would take you again and again, I know her”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, lifting his hand to cover hers where it rested on his arm. His fingers were warm, and for the first time since they had left the room, some of the tension seemed to ease from his posture. “I get it,” he said, his voice still laced with guilt, “but it still didn’t feel right.”

Yeji swallowed, her own eyes starting to glisten with the weight of what she had done. She hadn’t enjoyed it, even though she had appeared so strong and in control. It had hurt her more than she wanted to admit, but she had felt like there was no other way to protect their relationship from someone like Yuna—someone who had been ready to steal Y/N away.

“It wasn’t easy for me either,” she admitted softly, her hand tightening around his. “I had to act like it didn’t affect me, like it didn’t hurt, but the whole time…” She took a shaky breath. “I hated it.”

Y/N looked at her, the compassion in his eyes breaking through the cold distance that had settled between them during the ordeal. He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly against his chest. Yeji let herself fall into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and for a moment, they stood there in the quiet hallway, clinging to each other as if trying to rid themselves of the lingering shadows of what had just happened.

“I’m sorry I made you go through that,” Yeji whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. “But thank you... thank you for helping me.”

Y/N ran his fingers through her hair, comforting her as her body shook slightly in his arms. “I’d do anything for you, Yeji,” he said softly. “Even that.” He kissed the top of her head gently, letting out a deep breath. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Yeji nodded, pulling back slightly to look up at him, her eyes still wet with unshed tears. “It’s over now,” she whispered. “And we don’t have to deal with her anymore. She won’t come between us again.”

Y/N nodded in agreement, his hand cupping her cheek tenderly. “We’re okay,” he assured her, his voice filled with quiet strength. “We’ve got each other.”

Yeji smiled faintly, leaning into his touch. “We always have,” she whispered, the weight of the ordeal slowly lifting as they stood together, finding comfort in each other’s presence. The strong façade she had worn was gone now, replaced by the vulnerability she only allowed herself to show in front of Y/N.

They stood in the hallway for a few moments longer, just holding each other, breathing in the quiet now that the storm had passed. Finally, Yeji pulled away, wiping her eyes and steadying herself.

“Come on,” she said softly, her voice regaining a bit of its strength. “Let’s get some air.”

Y/N nodded, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they walked away from the room, leaving Yuna behind, broken and defeated. The two of them stepped into the fresh air outside, away from the suffocating atmosphere that had filled the house, and as they walked side by side, they knew they had survived something together—something neither of them had wanted, but something they had needed to go through to protect what they had.

And now, it was just them again.

Epilogue: A New Awakening

The soft twilight spilled into the house as Y/N and Yeji returned from catching some fresh air. Drained from the day’s events, Y/N decided it was time to call it a night.

“I’ll meet you there. I’m a little thirsty, so I’ll just grab some water,” Yeji said, her voice tired. She smiled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before watching him disappear into his room. Once he was gone, Yeji exhaled a deep sigh, taking a long sip of ice-cold water before heading upstairs. But instead of going directly to the bedroom where Y/N was, she found herself pausing outside the guest room just a few doors down.

Standing in the dim light, Yeji felt a rush of unfamiliar emotions. What had always been subtle feelings she could ignore now churned inside her, pulling her in different directions. The playful teasing from Yuna earlier had stirred something in her—a boldness that both excited and confused her. It wasn’t just about mischief anymore; it felt like she was discovering something new about herself, a part she hadn’t fully understood until now.

As she lingered in the hallway, she bit her lip. Should I tell him? The thought nagged at her. Y/N had always been the one she shared everything with, but this was different. Would it even make sense to explain? Would he understand? A quiet sigh left her lips as she weighed the options, torn between wanting to let him in and fearing how he might see her afterward.

After a moment, Yeji shook her head, deciding to leave that conversation for another day—another version of herself to handle later. With that, she quietly slipped into the guest room.

Inside, the atmosphere was charged with a sense of anticipation. Yeji’s earlier hesitation gave way to a feeling of control, something thrilling. The wand vibrator she had swiped earlier rested in her hoodie pocket, ready for what she had planned. A mischievous smile played on her lips as she imagined how the night would unfold. This wasn’t just a playful act of revenge—it was about Yeji stepping into a version of herself she was only beginning to explore.

She approached Yuna, who was still peacefully asleep, her movements slow and deliberate. With calculated precision, Yeji tied Yuna’s wrists and ankles to the bedposts, leaving her spread-eagle and completely at her mercy. Yuna remained blissfully unaware as Yeji secured the vibrator tightly against her, ensuring it was perfectly positioned for what was about to come.

When Yeji flicked the switch, the soft hum filled the room. Almost instantly, Yuna’s body twitched, the unexpected sensation jolting her awake. Her eyes fluttered open in confusion, her gaze slowly registering the restraints holding her in place.

“U-Unnie? I thought we were done…” Yuna mumbled groggily, her voice shaky as she tried to comprehend the situation.

Yeji leaned in close, her voice low and teasing. “You might be... but I’m not.”

Yuna’s confusion quickly turned into panic as she tugged against the restraints, her breathing growing erratic. “Please... Unnie, stop... it hurts,” she whimpered, her voice trembling with fear.

But Yeji simply smiled, savoring the sight of Yuna helpless and pleading beneath her. The power of the moment surged through her, fueling her excitement. She took a step back, watching as Yuna squirmed in vain against her bonds, her soft cries filling the room.

“Unnie... please don’t leave me like this,” Yuna begged, her voice filled with desperation. “I'll be good, just stop… please... Unnie... Unnie....Unnie! ” her plea progressively getting louder and louder.

Yeji paused at the doorway, casting one last look at Yuna, bound and vulnerable. The sight sent a rush of dark satisfaction through her. Without a word, she slipped out of the room, leaving Yuna trapped in her helpless state.

As Yeji walked down the hallway, Yuna’s muffled cries echoed faintly behind her, growing softer with each step. The sound of Yuna’s pleas was like a quiet, haunting melody that clung to Yeji’s mind, sending a shiver of satisfaction down her spine.

She quietly slid into bed beside Y/N, his sleepy form instinctively wrapping around her in a warm embrace. The contrast between his gentle touch and the lingering thrill of what she had just done made her feel more alive, more in control. She nestled into his chest, letting his warmth soothe her as she closed her eyes.

But even as she drifted off to sleep, the faint sound of Yuna’s helpless pleas stayed with her, a soft reminder of the power she had wielded tonight. It was something new, something thrilling, and in that moment, Yeji realized she had truly stepped into a side of herself she hadn’t known before.

she had awakened.

[melanchoire]

I just read your “killer” story with yujin and Karina and omg you’re an amazing writer; the detail and descriptive sting you use makes it so much more immersive!(which I love). I was wondering if I could resist a Ryujin x yeji x reader nsfw fic?

BEHIND THE CAMERA, BESIDE THEM ──── hwang yeji & shin ryujin

── ( 💜 ) from debut until now, the fans have adored your unbreakable connection with yeji and ryujin — little do they know, the true chemistry burns brightest when the cameras are off, and the line between platonic friendship and something intoxicatingly taboo begins to blur with every lingering touch and unspoken desire.

pairing. soft dom!yeji x sub!6th member!fem reader x mean dom!ryujin

warning(s). bitting, cunnilingus, degradation, fingering, making out, pet names, spanking, use of strap—on (and refer to it as a dick like once or twice).

word count. 7,0k

author's note. this took SO LONG but it’s finally here 🙌🏻

the weight of the stage lights always felt heavier than they were, the heat radiating down onto your skin as you took your place. years of training, grueling schedules, and the endless push for perfection had led you here, to the gleaming spotlight of your dream. you were finally part of itzy, a name that echoed with power and precision, a group of six distinct individuals bound together by a shared ambition. and yet, even amidst the rush of adrenaline and the cacophony of cheers, a current of uneasiness would sometimes simmer beneath the surface.

before debut, the connections were different. you’d known the other girls as trainees, shared countless hours in the practice room, but outside those walls, your lives had diverged. you existed in a parallel world outside the company. studies, a part–time job to help your family, those things claimed you when you weren’t under the fluorescent lights of the practice rooms.

you knew the others, yes, but true closeness had been a gradual bloom. it was strange how you gravitated towards yeji and ryujin. yeji, the ever–composed leader, and ryujin, with her effortless cool, were magnets in their own right. you, caught in their orbit, discovered a peculiar resonance. you were the same age as ryujin, and maybe that's why you got along better, but the thing you had with yeji was different. lia and chaeryeong, despite being the same age as yeji and ryujin, respectively, seemed to have their own established dynamic, one that didn’t quite include you.

initially, it hadn’t been romantic at all. you’d just clicked, your conversations flowing easily, a shared understanding forming with each passing day. while you enjoyed the company of all your members, the connection with the other two felt like a shared language, a comfort in the intensity of your demanding schedules. but the fans noticed, and they were very, very good at turning everything into a ship. at first, the pairing of yeji and ryujin seemed normal, the dynamic of the charismatic leader and the playful one playing out naturally on screen. but then, you were pulled into their orbit.

it started small, casual touches, a hand lingering a moment too long on your arm, an extra squeeze during a group hug. soon, it escalated. it was in the moments where you were all on stage, the girls being touchy with you, and you tried to focus on your performance, but the warmth of their skin next to yours kept distracting you.

and that’s how things started to blur, how the fans began to weave stories around the three of you. the others had their established pairings, lia and yuna, and chaeryeong with anyone she decided to joke with. but the dynamic with you, yeji, and ryujin had another flavor. when the fandom’s “two main characters” started to include you in their interactions, your ship quickly became a love triangle. a particularly dramatic one.

the studio choom set was a stark white canvas, the neon purple lights casting long, dramatic shadows. the air crackled with the energy of their performance, a showcase of fierce precision and undeniable chemistry that left you breathless. yeji and ryujin looked like visions, their dark makeup accentuating their sharp features, the black eyeliner and dark lipstick giving them an almost dangerous allure. the grey–blue tank top and pants on yeji clung to her lean frame, while ryujin’s military green outfit mirrored the same edgy aesthetic. even their hair, straight and with blunt bangs, had the same sinister and powerful vibe. the air crackled with their combined energy, the kind that made your stomach flip even if you weren’t the one performing. the staff milled around, capturing the behind–the–scenes moments, the casual banter, the stolen glances.

you watched, a quiet observer, as they posed for photos. their lean figures outlined by the vivid light. the camera zoomed in, capturing their raw, untamed aura. you felt a slight pang of jealousy, a feeling you were trying to understand. then, suddenly, they turned, their eyes locking onto you.

“come here.” ryujin had said, the command half–teasing, half–serious. before you could react, they were flanking you. suddenly, you were the center of their attention, the cool steel of their gazes pressing in on you. you were pulled between them, ryujin’s arm snaking around your waist and yeji’s hand settling heavily on your shoulder.

“like this.” yeji murmured, her voice low. you felt the heat of her body pressed against yours, the ghost of her fingers grazing your shoulder. ryujin’s hand squeezed your arm, a subtle possessiveness that made the hair on the back of your neck tingle. the cameras clicked, capturing the tableau of light and shadow, the intensity of the three of you. it was like being caught between two forces, a dynamic you weren’t entirely sure how to understand. the fans did, of course. they were quick to interpret the images, calling yeji and ryujin your “devil twins”, with you in the middle, like a prized possession.

the red carpet of the awards ceremony was another battlefield. the photographers’ flashes were relentless, a sea of light that highlighted every detail of your carefully curated outfits. lia, chaeryeong, and yuna had created a moment for the cameras, their playful half–hearts a display of their affection. you remember feeling a pang of fondness as you watched them, their laughter a light melody in the chaos. then, yeji and ryujin entered the fray.

then, you felt the familiar tug on your arm, breaking your gaze. you turned to find yeji, her eyes alight with mischief. she moved smoothly, her arm looping around your shoulders from behind, her other hand reaching across your chest to meet the other on your shoulder. her touch was warm, possessive, her fingers brushing against your neck sending a shiver down your spine — at the same time, ryujin mirrored her actions, her arm low on your waist, hands settling on your hips, her fingers pressing into your side. the sudden contact made you catch your breath. and you didn’t know what to do, if you should move away, laugh about it, play along, or keep staring blankly at the camera.

before you could even process their actions, they were both pressing closer, surrounding you in a cage of their affection. you could feel the heat radiating from them, their gazes intense on your face. both girls were like predators marking their territory, each touch a bold statement. you felt caught in the middle, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides, your expression a mixture of confusion and bemusement.

the cameras continued to gleam. you could see the surprised looks from some of the cameramen and paparazzi, but they had gotten used to you and your group’s antics. but you, you felt trapped, almost suffocated by the sudden intimacy. you were always the one to take the back seat, letting others have their time and space, so this was a new experience for you.

you could smell their perfumes, a fragrant mix of floral and musk, and you felt lightheaded. it was a whirlwind of flashing lights, soft touches, and a dizzying sense of being watched. the contrast between your stunned silence and their bold affection was the perfect fodder for fan speculation, the love triangle becoming a headline.

the next thing you knew, yeji and ryujin were turning their heads slightly, puckering their lips towards your cheeks. you could feel the soft touch of their lips against your skin, the briefest of kisses that set your heart racing. your hands moved without you wanting to, rising to your chest, unsure of whether to push them away or just… let it happen. your face, no doubt, was a mirror of your internal turmoil, a mix of confusion and something akin to exhilaration. how could you have gotten here? how had you and your friends gotten to the point where you were the center of a love triangle? you knew their actions were meant to excite the fans, to start new rumors, but was it really like that? or were they playing a game that you weren’t aware of?

the fans were ecstatic by the pictures. they were quick to comment on the interactions, calling you out for being oblivious to the situation, but they didn’t know that you were trying to figure it all out. you were never one for romantic relationships, you never had time for them between school, work and now training to be an idol. snd now, you had these two girls, full of chaos and affection for you, and you didn’t know what to do.

after the event, when you got back to the dorms, you found yeji and ryujin already on the couch, waiting for you. yeji patted the space next to her, while ryujin just looked at you, with those familiar eyes you couldn’t place, the ones that gave you chills and made your heart race.

“you did good out there. you looked pretty on the red carpet. also, you performed amazing on stage, leather suits you well.” yeji said, her voice soft, contrasting with the playfulness she had shown earlier. ryujin hummed in agreement, her gaze never leaving your face.

“you were really cute.” this time it was her, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. you sat in between them, feeling their eyes on your face. you tried your best to not react to them, afraid that you might give the other members some ideas.

“you guys were too.” you replied, your voice a tad shaky. you were always trying to be the mature one, the one to follow the rules, but at this point you found yourself wanting to lose yourself in their games.

they just smiled at you, and you knew, in that moment, that this was not going to end anytime soon…

summer is here and that means vacations finally, but do you know what that also means? having to work during the holidays… the company definitely wouldn’t let any of you have a proper break during the holidays that you have after an exhausting year working in the music industry. of course, what could be better than creating a new show and spending all the time filming your life during the time you have to rest from the exhausting schedule of an idol?

the van hums, a low thrum against the backdrop of los angeles traffic. you hold the selfie stick, the camera lens capturing the three of you in its frame. the bright californian sun streams in, illuminating the happy chaos unfolding around you. you adjust the angle, wanting to make sure everyone is visible. yeji, ever the composed leader, sits to your right, her smile serene and radiant. to your left, ryujin leans close, her chin resting on your shoulder.

“hi, midzy! we’re on our way to the hotel, and we’re so excited to show you all of LA!” you spoke, voice bright and enthusiastic, even though you felt a little self–conscious talking to a lens.

“you look good between the two of us.” ryujin murmurs, she murmured, a smirk playing on her lips as she hummed, her breath warm against your skin. you feel her warm breath on your neck, a ticklish sensation that sends a startled blush rushing to your cheeks. she hums, a low, contented sound, and her face slips further into the crook of your neck, her soft hair brushing against your skin. you could feel your heart pounding a little faster than normal.

your breath catches. this is… a lot. the camera is still rolling, the red light a glaring reminder that thousands of midzy will be watching this later. you steal a glance at yeji, hoping for some kind of intervention, some guidance, but she’s just smiling, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

yeji, noticing your surprised expression and the blush creeping up your neck, chuckled lightly. “ryujin!” yeji exclaims, her voice laced with mock exasperation, “she looks good with us hugging her, not just between us. you’re making it sound like she’s a sandwich.” yeji reaches over, pulling you into a gentle hug. “see? like this.” she says, pressing a soft kiss on the crown of your head. her head rests against yours, a comfortable weight. for a moment, the chaos swirling around you fades away, replaced by the warmth of her presence.

you manage a weak smile, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. you look back to ryujin and she raises an eyebrow at the camera, a subtle arch that speaks volumes. it’s a look that says “i know what i’m doing” and you swear, for a split second, you see a glint of mischief in her eyes. you quickly refocus your attention on the camera. “we’re almost at the hotel! can’t wait to see what surprises LA has in store for us.”

you tried your very best to avoid eye contact with her, but it was impossible, you felt her stare penetrating you. you cleared your throat and shifted the camera slightly to a better angle of all three of you.

“yeah, we’re having a blast already!” you added, forcing a wide smile, hoping the camera wouldn’t pick up on your inner turmoil. ryujin simply snickered.

later, after the whirlwind of unpacking and settling into your rooms, the six of you gather by the hotel pool. the california sun is setting, casting a warm, golden glow over the water. lia and yuna are already engaged in a water fight, their laughter echoing around the pool deck. chaeryeong, perched on the edge of a sun lounger, watches them with amusement, occasionally chiming in with a teasing comment.

you take this opportunity to record a solo segment for the vlog. adjusting the camera to selfie mode, holding the camera up in front of you, you talk directly to the lens. “hey midzy!, as you can see, we’ve arrived at the hotel and everything is so amazing! the pool here is so nice and everyone is already having fun! it’s so warm and the sun feels amazing…” you continued, speaking to the camera as if you were having a one–on–one conversation with each and every one of your fans, sharing your excitement and happiness.

suddenly, you felt warm arms wrap around your torso from behind. yeji, with a mischievous grin, was attempting to lift you up, trying to throw you in the pool. you braced yourself, digging your heels into the ground. “yah! yeji unnie, no!” you exclaimed, giggling as you struggled against her.

“let’s go swimming!” yeji exclaims, her voice full of playful energy.

you put up a resistance, gripping the edge of the pool deck as yeji tries to pull you forward. “yeji, no! i don’t want to get my hair wet!” you laugh, struggling against her surprisingly strong grip.

“just a little dip.” she teased, her voice laced with playful menace. her attempts at picking you up weren’t very successful, to say the least. “ryujin, help me!” yeji yells, desperation creeping into her voice. you’re momentarily distracted by her plea, which gives her the necessary moment to push you.

before you can react, a pair of hands grips your thighs from under the water, pulling you downwards. you gasp, the shock of the cold water stealing your breath. you don’t even remember seeing ryujin go in the water. you saw her go in some moments ago, when yuna started the underwater breath–holding contest, (which yuna lost almost immediately), but how could she have stayed under for so long? it had honestly slipped your mind that she was still in there with how much time passed. you’re certain that she didn’t even come up for air after she went in.

a surprised yelp escaped your lips as you felt yourself being pulled downwards. you could practically hear yeji laughing as she was using this help as an opportunity to push you from behind, pushing herself into the water along with you. you hit the water with a splash, the shock temporarily taking your breath away.

you surfaced coughing lightly, your hair plastered to your face as you grabbed onto ryujin’s shoulders for support. her dark hair clung to her forehead, beads of water glistening against her skin. she offered you a dazzling grin, her hand moving to brush the wet strands of hair away from your face, brushing your sopping wet strands away from your eyes, and you feel her fingers graze your temple, a fleeting touch that sends a shiver down your spine. you found yourself caught in her gaze, the familiar spark in her eyes sending shivers down your spine.

behind you, yeji is laughing, the sound of a melodic chuckle that resonates through the water. “you look like a wet cat!” she teases, her hands resting on your hips, keeping you steady.

ryujin’s hands move to your waist, her fingers gently squeezing your skin. “a very cute wet cat, i must admit.” she shoots you a wink and a playful smirk.

you’re surrounded. yeji’s hands on your hips, ryujin’s hands on your waist, and you find yourself thanking the universe for the fact that you're underwater. the blush that you feel rising in your cheeks would be enough to rival the brightest sunset. you suddenly hope that none of the other cameras are recording this moment, otherwise you would have to invent a new name for the shade of red that will be shown on your face.

“you two are going to be the death of me.” you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from the water, and the adrenaline from your sudden plunge.

“oh, we’re just getting started.” ryujin replies, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

yeji simply smiles, her eyes locking with ryujin’s for a brief moment, before turning her attention back to you. “you know you love it.” she says, her voice a soft murmur that sends another shiver through you. and despite the chaos, the teasing, the unexpected plunge into the pool, you can’t help but smile. maybe, just maybe, you do.

you glanced down at your now slightly wet camera, feeling relieved that the company provided waterproof equipment. trying to keep your voice steady despite your racing heart, you turned the camera back to face you.

“well, i guess i’m in the pool now! this is my punishment for talking too much!” you exclaimed with a forced laugh, your eyes darting between yeji and ryujin. you tried to move your body to get out of their reach and find some space, but you were tightly trapped in the middle of both of them.

“it’s okay, we’ll keep you company.” ryujin said, her voice a low murmur as she moved closer, her arm wrapping around your waist, bringing you closer to herself.

“yeah, it’s not like you can go anywhere now, are you?” yeji added, her voice full of teasing playfulness, tightening her grip around you.

you felt your heart leap into your throat as you looked between them, your voice catching in your throat. “i… i guess not.” you replied, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. you suddenly became very aware of the closeness of their bodies, their warmth radiating and surrounding you. you swallowed thickly, the rapid pace of your heartbeat was almost deafening.

“we’ll make sure you don’t get lonely.” ryujin whispered, her lips dangerously close to your ear. her touch sent a jolt through you, causing your cheeks to flame even more.

“oh we definitely will.” yeji added, her eyes gleaming with pure mischief. “we’ll just need your full attention, is that okay?” she continued, her voice dripping with honey.

you suddenly felt so overwhelmed with emotions. you loved these two, you did, with everything you could give. but you weren’t sure how much more of this you could handle. you had to get out of this situation, and fast. your mind raced as you desperately searched for a way to de–escalate this situation.

“wait, wait!” you said, raising your hands in front of you, turning the camera towards your two bandmates. “i think we need to involve our midzy in this!” you proclaimed, trying to mask the panic in your voice. “what do you guys think? should yeji and ryujin team up to throw me in the pool again? or what else should we do?” you finally finished, taking away the attention from yourself and placing it on the camera, hoping that your fans would find some fun activities to do, and hoping they would forget about the current situation involving you and the two girls.

you could feel their stares on you, their amusement palpable. you didn’t dare to look in their eyes, simply continuing to talk to the camera and pretending that everything was okay, while trying to avoid the two girls’ gazes.

“okay midzy, so let’s see your proposals. i’ll wait for them in the comments!” you announced finally, ending the recording. you looked down at the camera, turning it off. you took a deep breath and turned your attention back to the two girls, unsure if you should laugh or cry at the situation you just put upon yourself. one thing was certain, this LA vacation was going to be very interesting…

the heavy door of your hotel room thuds shut behind you, the sound echoing the exhaustion that reverberates through your very bones. you’d spent the entire day under the relentless california sun, filming content for your vlog, the vibrant blue of the pacific ocean acting as a backdrop to your every move. it had been a dream, a perfect blend of work and vacation, but now, all you craved was the soft embrace of your bed. you’d already called it a day, knowing the footage you had was more than enough for one vlog, and the chaotic brilliance of lia and yuna’s combined efforts would surely be a highlight reel on its own.

you drop onto the bed with a groan, landing on your stomach, your limbs splayed out like a starfish that washed ashore. a loud moan escapes your lips, a testament to the sheer weariness you feel. the mattress dips on either side of you, and you don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. yeji and ryujin, always close by, always a comforting and playful presence.

yeji’s hands find your shoulders immediately, her touch gentle as she begins to knead away the tension. “are you tired, hun?” she asks, her voice soft and concerned, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy she had displayed poolside just hours ago. “you worked really hard today.”

on your other side, ryujin is a whirlwind of mischievous energy, her focus immediately drawn to the discarded camera. she picks it up, tilting it towards herself, her lips curving into a playful smirk as she watches her reflection on the small screen. it’s almost as if she’s flirting with the lens, and with the image she sees staring back at her.

she abandons the camera soon enough, letting it fall onto the bed with a soft thud. her attention is now fixed on you. she shifts onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, her other hand slipping under the short sleeve of your t–shirt, her fingers playing with the thin strap of your bikini top that rests on your shoulder.

“i really like the color.” she murmurs, her voice dropping into a husky purr as she studies the shiny color fabric against your skin. “it looks beautiful on you.” you had on a simple black t–shirt and short shorts for the camera, but underneath, you were already prepared to enjoy the pool with the rest of the girls.

you smile, a genuine, tired smile, turning your head to look at her. “it’s a new one.” you explain, your voice a bit raspy from the day. “my mom picked it out for me, for this trip.”

ryujin raises an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. “your mother makes good things.” she says, a suggestive tone coloring her voice, her gaze lingering a beat too long on the curve of your breasts.

you let out a playful snort, swatting at her shoulder with the back of your hand. yeji lets out a soft giggle from behind you, the sound a comforting melody.

with a sudden groan, you roll onto your back, your eyes widening in mock–horror as you take in the scene around you. yeji and ryujin are perched on either side of you, practically straddling you, their bodies a tantalizing presence.

“you two.” you say, letting out a breathless laugh that's half–exasperated, half–fond.

it’s all the invitation they need. the onslaught of attention is immediate, dizzying. yeji’s hands return to your scalp, her fingers gently combing through your hair, her touch creating a soothing wave that washes over you. she then trails them down to your shoulders, letting her fingertips dance across your skin.

ryujin is equally captivating, her hands finding the curve of your hips, then moving down to your thighs, her touch sending shivers down your spine. it’s a warm, possessive caress. Both of their attention is making the heat rise under your skin.

then, yeji’s face lowers, her lips brushing against yours, a soft, tender kiss that sends warmth flooding through you. you close your eyes, leaning into the touch, wanting more of her.

at the same moment, ryujin brings her lips to your neck, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path, nibbling and kissing at your sensitive skin. a gasp escapes your lips, feeling the wet trail of her kisses heat up your skin. she continues her ministrations, her lips traveling from your jaw to your chest, leaving a trail of wet kisses and a promise of things to come.

the gentle pressure of yeji’s hands on your face is the only thing keeping you grounded, her soft lips allowing you to keep some semblance of sanity. but it’s slipping, fast. it always does when it’s both of them.

ryujin, pulling back for a moment, her eyes dark with desire, tugs at the hem of your wet t–shirt, pulling it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly somewhere across the room; a dismissive move. your bikini top is now in full view, the wet fabric a striking contrast against your skin, the molded cups hugging your curves in a way that makes both their breaths catch. your gaze drifts from ryujin to yeji, your eyes asking a question without uttering a word.

ryujin’s gaze is fixed on your chest, and you can practically feel her gaze on the fabric covering you, her lips pulling into a bite as her fingers begin to trace the edges of your bikini top, her touch sending shivers down your spine.

she then takes your mounds into her hands, her fingers giving them gentle caresses and squeezes. you can’t help the moans that escape your lips at the pleasurable sensation. she continues her descent, leaving kisses and bites across your chest, moving down towards your ribs, then your stomach, her lips leaving a fiery trail in their wake, stopping at your waist and hips, her hands holding you firm.

yeji, noticing your sounds, takes your face into her hands, and silences your moans with her kisses. it is a deep, passionate kiss, her tongue dancing with yours, exploring every corner of your mouth, stealing the sounds that were previously escaping you.

under the combined assault of their ministrations, you feel your resolve crumble. your hands move to their hair, gripping it in a desperate plea for them to continue, to never stop. the world around you dissolves, leaving only the two of them, their touch, their kisses, the intoxicating blend of comfort and desire that only they can evoke. the exhaustion is gone, replaced by a burning need, a primal yearning for more. you’re lost to them, surrendered, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

ryujin’s fingers splayed across your lower back, her thumb brushing tantalizingly just above the curve of your ass. she leaned in, her lips grazing the shell of your ear as she whispered. “we’ve been thinking about this for so long... thinking about having you this alone.” her voice was low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

“mmmh, ryujin was right. taking this opportunity doesn't seem like such a bad idea.” yeji murmured, her hand sliding up your stomach to cup the swell of your breast. your nipple pebbled beneath the lace at her touch, straining against the smooth material.

ryujin chuckled darkly, nipping at your earlobe before soothing the sting with her tongue. “i told you she was a keeper, yeji. i think it’s time we showed our girl here a really good time…”

with that, ryujin captured your lips in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth to claim you thoroughly. behind you, yeji’s hands continued their exploration of your body, sliding over every curve and hollow until you were aching with need.

ryujin’s kiss deepened, her tongue dancing with yours as she explored every inch of your mouth. her fingers tangled in your wet hair, gripping it tightly as she held you in place, dominating the kiss. behind you, yeji’s hands slid around to your back, deftly unhooking your bikini top with practiced ease.

the soft fabric fell away, baring your breasts to the cool air of the room. your nipples hardened instantly, straining towards the warmth of ryujin’s chest pressed against yours. ryujin broke the kiss to trail her lips down the column of your throat, her teeth grazing your collarbone before she sucked hard, no doubt leaving a mark.

yeji’s hands slid down to your hips, hooking her fingers in the waistband of your shorts and panties. with a swift tug, she yanked them down your legs, leaving you bare and exposed. ryujin’s hand slid around to grope your ass, squeezing the supple flesh roughly.

she nipped at your shoulder, her breath hot against your skin as she growled. “i want to taste every inch of you, babe. i want to make you scream my name until you’re hoarse... until you forget every other girl’s name except for mine.”

yeji chuckled darkly behind you, her hand sliding up your inner thigh, her fingers brushing maddeningly close to your aching core. “mmmh, i can’t wait to see you come undone, baby.” yeji purred, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. her fingers found your slick folds, stroking them teasingly, not quite touching where you needed her most.

ryujin’s hand slid up from your ass to your breast, cupping the weight of it in her palm. she rolled your nipple between her fingers, pinching and tugging at the sensitive bud until you gasped. her mouth found yours again, swallowing your cries of pleasure as she kissed you deeply, her tongue plundering your mouth with ruthless intensity.

ryujin smirked against your lips, her eyes glinting wickedly as she pulled back from the kiss. without a word, she reached over to her discarded purse and rummaged inside, pulling out a strap–on dildo and a bottle of lube.

she held them up, grinning at you and yeji with a lascivious smile. “ready to have some real fun, girls?” ryujin asked, her voice dripping with lustful promise.

yeji giggled, biting her plump lower lip as she nodded eagerly. “i thought you’d never ask.” she purred, hooking her fingers into the waistband of her jean shorts, sliding them down her long legs along with her panties. leaning back against the headboard of the bed, she spreads her thighs, exposing her wet folds to your shy gaze.

ryujin licked her lips hungrily at the sight, but she turned her attention to you first. she pushed you down onto your hands and knees, your ass raised high in the air. the position left you vulnerable, exposed, and aching with need. she ran her fingers down the curve of your spine, tracing the dip of your lower back before delivering a sharp smack to your ass. the sting of the slap sent a jolt of pleasure through you.

yeji grinned, her dark eyes sparkling with anticipation as she watched ryujin buckle the harness around her hips, securing the dildo in place. she squirted a generous amount of lube onto the thick, girthy cock, stroking it a few times to ensure it was slick and ready. the toy bobbed obscenely as ryujin moved, the thick head glistening with a bead of moisture. ryujin had clearly prepped it, eager to be inside you.

in front of you, yeji watched with rapt attention, her blue eyes dark with desire. she crooked a finger at you, beckoning you closer. “come here, baby. i want that pretty mouth of yours on my pussy. now.”

with a final glance over your shoulder at ryujin, you turned your attention to yeji, crawling forward until your face was mere inches from her dripping sex. you could smell her arousal, could feel the heat radiating off her skin. your mouth watered at the thought of tasting her.

ryujin, meanwhile, positioned herself behind you, her hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. she rubbed the head of the strap–on against your ass, teasing your crack and your dripping slit before pushing forward, the thick cock spreading you open as she hilted inside you with one hard thrust.

you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure as ryujin entered you in one brutal thrust, her thick strap–on spearing your tight heat open. your back arched, pushing your ass higher in the air as your body struggled to adjust to the sudden intrusion. ryujin groaned, her fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as she held you in place.

the thick strap–on stretched you deliciously, filling you so completely that you could feel every ridge and vein of the silicone cock pulsing inside your tight heat. your inner walls clenched down, fluttering around the intrusion as your body adjusted to the sudden penetration.

“fuck, you’re so tight.” ryujin groaned, her fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as she held you in place, impaled on her thick shaft. she started to move, pulling out until just the tip remained inside you before slamming back in, setting a hard, fast rhythm that had the bed shaking beneath you.

the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with ryujin’s grunts and growls of pleasure. her hips smacked against your ass with each powerful thrust, the lewd sound echoing in your ears.

in front of you, yeji watched the lewd display with hooded eyes, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. she tangled her fingers in your wet hair, gripping it tightly as she pulled your face against her dripping sex.

“put that tongue to good use, baby.” yeji panted, her hips rolling against your face in a silent demand. you could feel her wetness coating your cheeks, smearing across your skin like a perverse paint.

obediently, you leaned in and dragged your tongue along her slit, moaning at the tangy–sweet taste of her arousal. you could feel ryujin’s strap inside you, stretching you deliciously as she continued her relentless pace. your pussy clenched around her, trying to draw her deeper, to hold her inside you.

yeji gasped, her head falling back against the pillows as you explored her most intimate places with your tongue. her fingers tightened in your hair, holding you in place as she ground against your face, riding your mouth with wild abandon.

ryujin leaned over you, her chest pressed against your back as she bit down hard on your shoulder, marking you as her own. her hips never stopped their brutal pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room along with your combined moans and cries of pleasure.

“that’s it, baby.” ryujin panted against your ear, her voice a low, guttural growl. “take my cock like the good little slut you are. fuck, i can feel you squeezing me... you love this, don’t you? love being used like a fuck toy.”

yeji’s moans grew louder and more urgent as your tongue delved deeper, exploring every fold and crevice of her dripping sex. her clit throbbed against your lips, the sensitive nub swollen and aching for your touch. you oblige, flicking your tongue rapidly over the bundle of nerves, feeling yeji’s body quiver and shake in response.

“don’t listen to her, love. she’s just messing with you. just keep what you’re doing, you’re being so good for me…” her thighs clenched around your head, holding you in place as she ground her cunt harder against your mouth, coating your lips and chin with her slick arousal.

ryujin’s thrusts grew more erratic, her hips slamming against your ass with bruising force. the strap–on plunged in and out of your dripping pussy, stretching you wide around its girthy length. you could feel every ridge and vein of the toy as it ravaged your most intimate depths, stoking the fire building low in your belly.

ryujin’s hands slid up your back, her fingers splaying across your shoulder blades before pushing down, forcing your chest to the mattress. this new angle allowed her to drive even deeper into you, the head of the strap–on kissing your cervix with each brutal thrust.

the room filled with the carnal symphony of your combined lust — the slick, obscene sound of ryujin’s hips slapping against your ass, yeji’s wanton moans, and the wet, filthy noises of your mouth working over her weeping cunt. your own cries of pleasure were muffled against yeji’s sex, vibrating deliciously through your throat.

you could feel your climax building, your inner muscles starting to flutter and clench around the thick intrusion stretching you wide. your fingers clenched in the sheets, fisting the fabric as you teetered on the edge of ecstasy, desperate for release.

ryujin could feel your pussy starting to spasm around her cock, your walls clenching and fluttering as your orgasm approached. she groaned, her hips slamming against your ass with renewed vigor, determined to make you come undone.

“that’s it, baby, come on my cock.” ryujin growled, her voice a low, guttural rumble. her fingers dug into the flesh of your ass, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake as she held you in place, fucking you with wild abandon.

yeji’s moans reached a fever pitch, her body tensing and shaking as she teetered on the brink of her own release. “i’m... i’m gonna come, fuck!” yeji screamed, her voice cracking with the force of her impending climax. her pussy clenched, the walls fluttering wildly as a gush of fluid spilled from her core, coating your chin and dripping down onto the sheets below.

ryujin felt your pussy clamp down around her like a vice, your inner muscles rippling and squeezing the strap–on as your orgasm crashed over you. she let out a guttural moan, slamming into you one last time before stilling, buried to the hilt inside your spasming cunt.

wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, your body shaking and trembling as you came harder than you ever had before. your vision went white, stars exploding behind your eyelids as ecstasy consumed you utterly.

behind you, ryujin shuddered, her hips giving a few last, erratic thrusts as she rode out the aftershocks of your mutual climax. she collapsed against your back, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath.

yeji went limp above you, her thighs falling open and her chest rising and falling rapidly as she too tried to regain her composure. she stroked your hair almost tenderly, petting you as you all came down from the high of our shared release.

in the aftermath, the room was filled with the sound of your ragged breathing and the occasional aftershock that still made your bodies jump and twitch. the scent of sex and sweat hung heavy in the air, a testament to the passion and lust that had just been unleashed.

as the initial intensity of your shared orgasms began to subside, a comfortable lassitude settled over the three of you. ryujin rolled off of you, slipping the strap–on out of your sensitive pussy with a soft, wet sound. you winced slightly at the sudden emptiness, your muscles still fluttering and clenching around the space where the toy had been.

ryujin disposed of the strap–on, tossing it carelessly towards the foot of the bed before pulling you into her arms. she curled around you protectively, your back to her front, her arms wrapped around your waist. yeji, not to be left out, rolled to face you both, her hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers.

for a long moment, the three of you simply basked in the afterglow of your lovemaking, the warmth of your naked bodies pressed together a comforting contrast to the cool air of the room. ryujin’s fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach, dipping teasingly into your navel before sliding back up to cup the soft swell of your breast.

yeji leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss. it was a kiss filled with lazy satisfaction and a promise of more to come. when she finally pulled back, her eyes sparkled with mischief and a hint of something deeper and more tender.

“that was incredible.” yeji murmured, her voice low and slightly hoarse from her earlier cries of pleasure. “we’re definitely going to have to do this again sometime…”

ryujin chuckled, nipping playfully at your shoulder before agreeing. “you can count on it, baby. a sexy little thing like you will be seeing a lot more of us... if you play your cards right.”

she punctuated her words with a teasing smack to your ass, making you gasp and squirm in their embrace. yeji giggled, her fingers squeezing yours gently as if to reassure you that you were in good hands... and that those hands would be all over you again very soon.

[chrissssssmut]

TRAPPED IN HER WORLD

Giselle x Male Reader feat. Ryujin

You never wanted to be here.

Clubs weren’t your thing.

Loud music. Sweaty bodies. Flashing lights.

It was a nightmare for an introvert like you.

But your so-called friends had dragged you along.

“Come on, Y/N, you never go out!”

“You need to live a little, man.”

So here you were.

Sitting alone at a booth while they disappeared into the crowd.

You checked your phone. 1:43 AM.

Just a couple more minutes. Then you could fake a stomachache and get the hell out of here.

That was the plan.

Until she appeared.

She slid into the seat across from you like she belonged there.

Long dark hair. Red lips. A Black Sexy Dress that somehow made her presence even bolder.

She smirked.

“You look like you’d rather die than be here.”

You blinked.

She chuckled. “Did I guess right?”

You hesitated. Then nodded.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

“Well, lucky you. I like guys who don’t belong.”

Her eyes gleamed.

“What’s your name?”

“…Y/N.”

She grinned.

“I’m Giselle.”

And that was the moment your life changed forever.

Minutes turned into hours.

Talking with her was easy.

She didn’t ask pointless questions. She didn’t try to fix your introversion.

She just… understood.

And then—

“Let me get you a drink,” she said, standing up.

Before you could respond, another girl appeared.

Shorter. Sharp eyes. Dark blue hair.

“This is my friend, Ryujin,” Giselle introduced.

Ryujin smirked, sliding a glass in front of you.

“On the house.”

You hesitated.

Something felt off.

Giselle tilted her head. “What, scared I spiked it?”

You forced a chuckle. “Of course not.”

You drank.

And then—

The world tilted.

Your vision blurred.

Your heart slowed.

You looked up at them—

Giselle’s lips curled.

Ryujin whispered, “Nighty night.”

And then—

Darkness.

You woke up in a strange bed.

Cold. Expensive sheets. A faint smell of perfume and metal.

Your wrists were tied.

Panic surged.

The room was too quiet.

Then—

A door creaked open.

Giselle walked in.

She was different now.

No teasing smiles. No playful banter.

Just pure control.

She sat on the edge of the bed, running a knife along the mattress.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Your breathing hitched.

“What the hell is this?!”

She sighed. “See, Y/N… I really liked you.”

The knife pressed into the sheets.

“But I don’t waste my time on normal guys.”

She leaned in.

“And you? You’re mine now.”

You fought.

Screamed.

Begged.

Nothing worked.

The windows? Bulletproof.

The door? Locked from the outside.

Your phone? Gone.

And Giselle?

She was everywhere.

Watching. Controlling. Owning.

One night, she sat across from you at dinner.

“I should probably tell you what I do,” she mused.

You didn’t answer.

She smirked.

“I sell things.”

She swirled her wine glass.

“Drugs. Weapons. Sometimes… people.”

Your stomach dropped.

She tilted her head.

“But don’t worry.”

Her fingers brushed your jaw.

“You’re too pretty to sell.”

You shuddered.

.

.

.

.

You waited for the right moment.

The second Giselle left the room—

You ran.

Through the hallway. Down the stairs.

To the front door.

It was unlocked.

Your heart pounded. Was she careless?

You shoved the door open—

And froze.

Because outside?

Nothing.

Not a street. Not a sidewalk.

Just endless forest.

A voice whispered behind you.

“Where are you going, baby?”

You turned.

Giselle.

Smirking. Holding a gun.

Your legs gave out.

She crouched in front of you, pressing the barrel under your chin.

“You really thought I’d let you leave?”

You whimpered.

She smiled.

And whispered the words that sealed your fate.

“There is no escape, Y/N.”

“You belong to me.”

Days blurred into weeks.

You stopped fighting.

Stopped thinking.

Giselle made sure of that.

She controlled your food. Your sleep. Your sanity.

And one night—

She cupped your face.

“You finally understand, don’t you?”

Your lips trembled.

She kissed you. Soft. Slow. Poisonous.

And when she pulled away, she whispered—

“Say it.”

Your voice shook.

“I belong to you.”

Her smirk widened.

“Good boy.”

And as she pulled you into her arms—

You knew, deep down—

You would never leave.

Not because you couldn’t.

But because she wouldn’t let you.

Epilogue – The Final Escape

You had one last chance.

One last, desperate attempt at freedom.

You waited. Watched. Planned.

For months, you played along.

“Yes, Giselle.”

“I love you, Giselle.”

“I belong to you, Giselle.”

And slowly—she trusted you.

Until, one night, she left the door unlocked.

A mistake.

Or maybe… a test.

But you didn’t care.

You ran.

Through the halls. Down the stairs. Out the door.

And this time—

You didn’t stop.

The forest was endless.

Your lungs burned.

Your feet bled.

Branches clawed at your skin, but you didn’t stop.

The moon was your only light.

And for the first time in months—

You felt hope.

Then—

A gunshot.

BANG.

The sound ripped through the trees.

And a voice—

“Baby.”

Your blood ran cold.

Footsteps. Slow. Calculated. Hunting you.

You tried to run faster, but—

BANG.

Pain exploded through your leg.

You collapsed, gasping.

Dirt filled your mouth. Blood soaked your jeans.

And then—

She was there.

Standing over you.

Giselle.

Her silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

She crouched, pressing the barrel to your temple.

“I’m disappointed, Y/N.”

Tears burned your eyes.

“Please—”

She sighed, brushing your cheek.

“I gave you everything.”

You sobbed.

She tilted her head.

“Did you really think I’d ever let you leave?”

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

And the last thing you heard—

Was her whisper.

“Goodbye, love.”

BANG.

But—

You weren’t dead.

Your ears rang. Your body shook.

The pain in your leg burned, but—your head? Untouched.

You gasped, blinking through the blur of tears.

Giselle’s voice was gentle.

“Shhh… it’s okay, baby.”

You barely processed it as she crouched beside you, her hands soft as they cupped your face.

“Did you really think I’d kill you?” she whispered, her tone almost… amused.

Your lips trembled.

“I—I heard the gun—”

She smiled.

And then—

She raised the gun to her own temple.

Click.

Empty.

Your stomach dropped.

She leaned in, her lips brushing your ear.

“I never load the last bullet.”

Your body froze.

She wasn’t planning to kill you.

She never was.

This wasn’t an execution.

This was a lesson.

Her fingers tightened in your hair.

“You’re mine, Y/N.”

She yanked you forward—forcing your gaze to meet hers.

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“No more running.”

You sobbed.

She smirked.

“That’s my good boy.”

And as she pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead—

You realized the truth.

She didn’t need to kill you.

Because she had already won.

[lockefanfic]

Truth

The following can be considered an alternate ending to the Business Trip series - although it can just as easily be read on its own. :)

---

The first few weeks together as an official couple were wonderful. Honeymoon phase and all that. Moving in together, domestic bliss. Fucking like rabbits, of course. But problems arose - became noticeable, and then unavoidable. Two of them, actually.

Problem 1: Your job.

Problem 2: Her job.

---

Problem 1: You’d thought business trips were a thing of the past. They weren’t.

You were happy to put the little adventure you’d had in Seoul and Tokyo behind you. Since then you’d done your best to decline any opportunities to engage in similar trips - feigning illness, sending underlings in your place, handling as many meetings as you could remotely. These days your life consisted of long, sometimes draining days at the office - a far cry from the brushes with danger and law enforcement that characterized your most recent trip overseas. Your days at work were boring and mundane now, but you were at home, and that was what mattered.

Home, after all, was where she was.

Regardless, the allure of another trip still came calling every now and then, tempting you, enticing you into spending a couple of weeks or months overseas where anything could - and sometimes did - happen. 

Sometimes that allure took physical form. Sometimes it came waltzing into your office wearing a tight blouse and a pencil skirt. Sometimes it was named Shin Ryujin. Other days it was named Hwang Yeji, or Lee Chaeryeong. Today, as with most days, it was named Shin Yuna.

“Ryujin and Yeji are on-site in Busan, and Chaeryeong is in Seoul, waiting for her flight to join them. Lia sustained injuries in our last operation and isn’t medically cleared for this one, but she’s recovering well. Ryujin has begin surveillance on our competitors’ teams - codenamed New Jeans and Le Sserafim - and she is ready to proceed with next steps once you arrive,” Yuna says, eagerness evident in the tone of her moderately Korean-accented english. “Shall I make travel arrangements for us to join them?”

For the first time since she walked into your office you look up from the reports on your laptop. You don’t miss the small bite the young woman is giving her lower lip, nor the way she has crossed her legs and begun leaning her wide hips against your desk. It takes more restraint than you were willing to admit not to steal a glance at her long pantyhose-clad legs and the tight charcoal pencil skirt they led to. You find the self-control to keep eye contact with your eager young executive assistant, even if her body language and tone of voice made her intentions clear and easy to read.

“Give me a second to finish reviewing Ryujin’s report,” you answer, returning your full attention to the screen in front of you. “I’ll confirm whether I need to be on-site by end of day, and if so you can make the necessary arrangements then.” 

Despite her best efforts, Yuna can’t hide the small twinge of disappointment that makes its way across her soft features. She’d been looking forward to the thirteen hour flight with you and the opportunities it would present.

“Oh, and…” she begins, her tone a little less upbeat now that you’d at least temporarily dampened her excitement. “You have a visitor. It’s Detective-”

“Let her in,” you interrupt. Yuna frowns, offers a short bow - a lingering habit from her Korean upbringing - and steps back toward the door to your office. She swings it open, and you catch the look of disdain on her features when she waves in your visitor.

Im Nayeon pushes past Yuna and into the office. She gives Yuna a sharp look as she passes the younger woman, and even from your chair you can sense the venom in it. The detective sits down in the chair opposite your desk, legs and arms crossed. She is dressed plainly, in a short denim skirt and a leather jacket, the glimmer of her badge on a chain around her neck the only clue as to her profession. She drops a large paper bag onto your desk.

“Please let me know if you need anything else, sir-”

“That will be all, Yuna,” you answer. 

Before your executive assistant has a chance to close the door, Nayeon turns her head and squeezes in one last shot.

“Cancel his next hour, Miss-” 

“My name is Yuna,” the young woman at the door answers, crossing her arms, scowl painted on her lips.

“Whatever,” Nayeon retorts, flatly. “Clear his schedule for the next hour. Oh, and do be a dear and lock the door.”

Out of the corner of your eye you catch two things - the barely restrained scoff on Yuna’s lips, and the satisfied sneer on Nayeon’s. With one last look of scorn directed at the back of the detective’s head, the younger Korean woman closes the door with a little more force than was necessary. The click of the lock engaging follows shortly after, as does the heavier than usual click-clack of her heels as she stomps away in obvious irritation.

“You have a thing for executive assistants with hips,” Nayeon observes. “Although this one’s much more of a brat than the last one.”

“Be nice,” you say, although you can’t keep the smirk from appearing on your lips as you continue to scroll through the report on your laptop. “She grew up in Korea, so she’s useful whenever I’m in-country. And she’s not a bad person.”

“I know,” Nayeon relents. “But the more of a cunt I am to her, the more she gets off on being a little fucktoy for you. I bet she gets off on thinking that you’re fucking her without me knowing. I bet it makes her so wet.”

Your smirk turns into a slim smile, and it becomes difficult to keep your eyes on the report in front of you.

“Am I wrong?” she contests.

“No,” you admit, finally turning to give her your full attention. “In fact, I’m about to hop on a plane with her to Korea in a couple of days. I expect it will be an… eventful flight.”

“Good,” Nayeon states, satisfied. “I bet she’ll be a good little girl for you, now that she’s received another reminder of how much you need some time away from your queen bitch of a girlfriend.”

She smiles - this one warm, soft - the smile that caught you in its clutches all those years ago and never let go. She turns momentarily to face the door.

“Oh, yeah, baby, fuck, you’re so big in me, fuck me! Fuck, this is the best dick I’ve ever had!” she exclaims in faux-pleasure, ensuring she was loud enough for the exasperated executive assistant sitting just outside your door to hear. You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“We can fuck at home later. I just wanted to piss her off,” Nayeon admits, a sly smile on her lips. “Anyway, pull up House of the Dragon?”

“Already on it,” you answer, swinging your laptop screen around so you can both watch. Nayeon pulls containers of take-out sushi from the paper bag.

She swaps your salmon for her tamago.

She leans over your desk as she passes you your chopsticks. She gives you a warm kiss, and the smile she leaves on your lips stays there for the rest of the day.

---

Even after all these years, she never tired of the collar and its leash.

It was showing signs of wear, of course - the bright fire engine red had faded into a softer, paler shade, the chain was no longer as shiny, and there was more than one set of her teeth marks on it from particularly frisky sessions - but she never missed a chance to put it on when the mood struck, and you never missed a chance to put it on her.

For now you are content to let the chain dangle freely in your left hand, watching the light streaming in from the open window as it plays on its metallic links. The chain glimmers in the morning light against her pale, creamy skin, swaying and occasionally bouncing along with her movements.

The chair you are sitting on protests with the weight and movement the both of you make atop it. Her soft sighs and gasps - a far cry from the loud shouts and moans you knew she was well capable of - happily cancel out the furniture’s squeaking protests as she rides you atop it. Soft, sensual, slow. The perfect fuck for a perfect morning.

You do your best to just sit there and savour the moment, letting Nayeon do all the work as she grinded back and forth on your lap. As much as you enjoyed watching her bounce up and down atop you, taking your full length in and out of her body - taking special delight in the delicious bounce it gave her breasts and thighs - there was something to be said for the intimacy of the way she was riding you now, slowly and softly. It gave her a chance to grind her slick, swollen clit against your crotch, and while it only let a third or so of your cock slip in and out of her hot, slippery cunt with each entry and exit, each movement nonetheless caused a warm spike of pleasure to course up your spine as your cock moves around inside her.

She was so beautiful, so utterly ethereal and intensely erotic all at the same time - clothed simultaneously in perfect golden sunlight and slick sweat, saliva, and other fluids. She was ethereal beauty and dirty sex. She wore both, was utterly enrapturing in both, was equally comfortable in both.

You watch each movement of her body - a body you knew well, knew every peak and curve and valley of - and you never tired of it. You watch as her round, full thighs flex and work, as her tight core drives her lower body back and forth, as her small, perfect breasts sway and bounce. Her face is immaculate, soft features twisted and wracked by pleasure. Sweat glistens over all of it. It makes her perfect skin glisten and glimmer in the sunlight.

You take a moment to look over her shoulder at the dressing mirror behind her, relishing the sight of her back - the beautiful curve of her spine and the sweat dripping down that delicious valley; the round cheeks of her ass and the muscles beneath them as they work to fuck herself on your cock; the short glimpses of your balls as she moves back and forth, takes you in and out of her body. Even her hair, having started the morning pulled into a messy bun, has become disheveled and loose - but in a way that is enticing and alluring, glued to the back of her neck and upper shoulders by perspiration.

Your right hand, resting on her thigh, snakes a path up her body - up her chiselled abs, cupping a soft breast and delighting in the tightness of her nipple as you capture it with your thumb and index finger and give it a pull, a twist, a pinch. Her pussy pulsates in response around you. She is sighing and moaning her pleasure when your hand continues its journey, sliding up a sweaty neck until you reach the side of her face.

Her eyes, shut, drift open at your touch. 

You give the chain a jerk forward.

Her entire upper body crashes against yours at the sudden pull at her neck. Your lips find and capture hers, and for a few moments you share a passionate, heavy kiss. As your tongues duel you give her a slight thrust upward with your hips, timed to meet the apex of her grind - and she sighs into your mouth at the movement, eyes shutting again, nails digging into your shoulders.

Spurred by her reaction, you continue to thrust upward as best you can given your sitting position. Her cunt, already so wet and slick and hot, clenches around you with each thrust, welcoming you, taking you.

“Oh god,” she sighs, the first full words either of you have spoken in a while. “Oh god, I’m close-“

Her sentence breaks into a moan, a soft, wordless cry of pleasure as you continue your thrusts upwards into her body. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, burying your face against her warm, moist chest. You lick the sweat from between her dangling breasts. You savour each moan that leaves her mouth, heavy and hot, directly into your ears.

The chain drops from your left hand, its end falling with a soft clink onto the hardwood floor of your apartment. Forgotten for now, because the faux, pretend-ownership it represented was no longer needed, was perhaps never necessary.

She orgasms around you - pussy clenching, lungs emptying of breath as she cries her pleasure into your bedroom. Your hands find themselves clutching at her moist, sweaty back, hugging her to you, bringing your bodies as close together as possible.

“Your cum, inside me,” she hisses, her voice soft and almost vulnerable in your ear, still at the height of her orgasm. “Please, I want, I need it, please.”

Im Nayeon knew you - knew every part of what made you tick. She knew what you wanted to hear, knew when you wanted to hear it.

You thrust upward into her clenching, creamy cunt one last time. Every part of her body surrounds you, wraps itself around you: she buries your head into her chest, fingers interwoven into your hair, cradling you with her arms and legs as her cunt clenches and tightens around your cock. 

Your shaft spurts warm, thick cum into her. She lets a sigh leave her breathless lips with each pulse of your cock inside her, knowing each one was another rope of cum that would bind your bodies even further together.

Your fluids mix inside her, eventually sliding out between the pussy lips stretched tight around the base of your cock. It drips down your shaft, your balls, and onto the chair. You are sticky everywhere - on your sweaty chests, your slick thighs, but especially where you are joined together, your shaft still embedded hilt deep inside her. You are glued together, made one.

You sigh into her chest, and the nails that had dug furrows into your scalp now stroke it softly. The exhaustion hits you both at once, and for a few wonderful moments the only sound either of you can hear is the sound of heavy breathing.

Her hands eventually slide from your scalp. Her turn now to cradle your face in her hands. Your faces hover in front of each other, noses barely touching, half-lidded, pleasure-ridden eyes locked on one another.

For a moment her left hand moves to her neck, where she undoes and releases the clasp of the red leather collar. It slips from her body and falls to the floor.

“I belong to you,” she says, breathless, not needing some scrap of leather around her neck to convince you of it - not that she ever needed such a thing to begin with. Her hands cradle your face, palms on each cheek, like you are the most delicate thing in the world. Your arms wrap themselves even tighter around her soft, trembling torso. Your foreheads touch, your eyes close.

“I know,” you answer. “I always have.”

Later that morning, when she is snoring peacefully, you slip out of the bed. Your flight to Korea wasn’t until later that afternoon, and so you had some time to spare before you had to leave the house, and her, for god knew how long. Every part of you wanted to lie there in bed with her and savour every moment of it, not knowing when you’d next be able to do so - but you had decided the night before that something needed to be done, and there was no better time to do it.

You fire up the coffee maker - you’d both settled into specific domestic roles since moving in together, and you were almost immediately appointed Minister of Caffeinated Beverages - and take a seat at the kitchen island with your laptop.

A few minutes later, and you’d begun an email to JYP informing him of your intention to resign your position following the end of your next business trip.

Distance had taken her from you once, and it wouldn’t do it again.

---

“Is she being a good girl?”

“Yes, Nayeon,” you say, your answer somewhere between a sigh and a hiss as you press your phone close to your ear, ensuring only you could hear the voice on the other side of the call. You made sure to use her name, as she’d previously suggested, knowing what hearing it would do to the young woman you were currently sharing a hotel room with. 

Between your legs, Yuna gives the tip of your cock a swirl with the end of her tongue. Those large doe eyes glance up at you, the mention of your girlfriend’s name giving the topless young woman a small spike of wicked delight. You watch with a measure of your own satisfaction as she pumps your cock with one hand, the other fondling her own small, round breast and the tight nipple atop it. After a moment her hand drifts down her body, between her legs - and soon after she begins to sigh and moan around a mouthful of your shaft as she begins to pleasure herself.

“Good,” Nayeon continues. “I told you she would be. Did you fuck her on the plane, too?”

“Yes, we’ve started the operation. And yeah, Korea’s hot this time of year,” you say, keeping up the false pretence you both agreed upon.

“Let me guess - she’s on her knees? Are you fucking that pretty little mouth of hers?”

“Not yet,” you answer, “I think I’ll let the team continue to observe before we move.” Your eyes drift closed as the pleasure begins to build. You lean your head back slightly as the young woman between your knees increases her pace. What Yuna lacked in experience and technique, she more than made up for with enthusiasm.

On the line, you hear a soft sigh. A moment later, the sigh turns into a barely audible moan.

“What about you?” you ask. “Are you busy? How’s work?”

“Fine. I’m… alone. In a squad car.”

“On a stakeout?”

“We prefer the term ‘distanced surveillance,’ but yes, a stakeout.”

“You miss me?”

“Fuck,” you hear, followed by a soft hum. “Yes, I miss you,” she admits.

A thousand miles away, you smirk. The image of Nayeon alone, in her car, in an alleyway, a hand down her pants, touching herself to the sound of her boyfriend getting head from another woman - it aroused you more than the young woman between your knees, truth be told.

“Do you… miss me?” she asks.

You reach out with your free hand, cradling the side of Yuna’s head, running your fingertips through the bright red strands. She redoubles her efforts at your touch - she quickens her pace, her hand squeezing tighter around your shaft as her head continues to bob up and down its length.

“Fuck, I want you right now, Nayeon,” you hiss, knowing what repeating her name would do to the younger woman filling her mouth with your shaft. “I wish you were here.”

Between your legs, the moan Yuna lets out around your cock sends a delicious pulse of pleasure up your spine. On the line, Nayeon lets a similar moan escape her lips. 

“Tell me what you would do to me,” Nayeon says, tone low and deep, the way it was when she was desperate, needy. “I bet she’d do it for you.”

You bite your lip for a second - listening to Nayeon’s increasingly breathless sighs and picturing her becoming a writhing, wet little mess in her car, watching Yuna try and fail to wrest your attention away - taking it all in, savouring every second of the two women, a thousand miles apart, each doing their best to pleasure you in their own way.

“I’d pull your mouth off my cock,” you say, gripping the base of Yuna’s ponytail and easing her off your shaft. She looks up with you with those large doe eyes of hers, momentarily confused, temporarily disappointed at the sudden emptiness in her mouth - until she quickly catches on to your intentions.

“Mmm, more,” Nayeon says, on the verge of a plea.

“I’d tell you to strip, and get your cunt on my cock like a good little girl.”

And just as she predicted, Yuna does exactly that - peels off ridiculously short denim shorts she wore, along with the flimsy scrap of string beneath it that passed for a thong. She climbs atop you, straddles your waist, reaches between your bodies, grasps your slick cock and spends just a second rubbing your head against her dripping, slick lips.

And then she takes you inside her. On the line, Nayeon hears that unmistakable gasp you made whenever you entered her own cunt, and it drives her crazy. Her fingers work quickly between her legs. 

A thousand miles away, you watch as Yuna bounces her young, tight little body on your cock - up and down, up and down, up and down. She is rough, fast, impatient, with little technique but plenty of need. 

Your free hand grips a thigh before snaking up her torso, gripping a soft, bouncing breast and pinching the taut nipple between two fingers and giving it a slight slap from the side that elicits a yelp of pleasure from the young woman. Your cock stretches her tight little cunt with each entry, filling her up, making her need more, want more, making her lose her control over her senses - not that she had much to begin with.

She is enthusiastic, needy - but she is clumsy in her movements, inexperienced, drunk on the idea of being used and fucked and not possessing the control to savour the moment, make it anything more memorable than a messy, quick fuck.

She sighs and moans. “Daddy,” she gasps, uncaring now of being heard on the line, forgetting that you were supposed to be fucking her on the down low, under your girlfriend’s nose. “Daddy please, I need… Daddy please, your cum, inside me, I want-”

You remind her of her place by closing your hand around her throat. Not enough to cause pain, but enough to remind her of what she was - a fucktoy. Something to warm your cock while you were apart from the woman you really wanted. A substitute for a woman a thousand miles away.

“Is she… is she good for you?” Nayeon asks, voice betraying the fact that she was bringing herself to the edge. She’s wet and squirming and sighing - but she’s alone, in her car, far away. 

Her fingers aren’t you.

Yuna continues to fuck herself on your cock, recklessly and wildly, her orgasm doing little to slow or stop her. You watch as she bites down hard on her lower lip, enough to draw blood, doing her best to keep herself from vocalizing the pleasure coursing through her body and only partially succeeding. You knew she’d be especially loud once you’d ended the call. You consider pretending to end it but leaving the line open, just to give Nayeon the satisfaction of hearing what Shin Yuna sounded like when she was being bent over the bed and having her tight little pussy pounded full of cum.

Your fingers tighten around Yuna’s neck as she bounces with an increasingly wild pace atop your cock. It forces her to slow down, forces her to submit to you and your needs. It reminds her of her place, reminds her who she was. It was necessary.

A makeshift leash. 

“She’s good, Nayeon,” you admit. “But she’s not you.”

---

“Alright, I have to admit - she’s pretty fucking perfect for you.”

“There’s something I never thought I’d hear you say,” you admit, looking up from your laptop and the report on it to give Shin Yuna a look. The young woman is lounging about on her stomach your hotel room bed, picking away at a plate of room service french fries. She’d taken a shower, but hadn’t bothered to put her clothes back on after you’d bent her over the bed and fucked a load into her.

“She’s a bitch, don’t get me wrong,” she continues, tone casual, as though she weren’t naked on her boss’ hotel room bed with his cum still warm inside her. “But she’s really fucking pretty, and she’s a cop? Man. That’s a dream girl for most guys, you have to admit.”

“I suppose,” you say, flatly. “Where are you going with this, Yuna?”

“Nowhere,” she answers, popping another fry into her mouth. “I was just curious, I guess.”

“About?”

“About why you’re not married yet. About why there aren’t little hellspawn baby versions of her running around in your life.”

The thought is finally enough to wrest your attention from the report for good. You give the young woman atop your bed a look.

“Listen, I think it’s hot as fuck to be some exec’s fucktoy,” Yuna continues. “I just want to make sure I’m not the thing that’s keeping him from marrying the love of his life or some shit.”

“You’re not stopping anything, Yuna,” you state, clearly, ensuring that she didn’t form any wrong impressions. You certainly didn’t want her to overestimate her role in your life. “Trust me,” you add.

“So then what is stopping you? You’re in love, aren’t you?” Yuna continues. “I’ve heard all about your past with her from the company grapevine, and Dahyun filled me in on the rest. College sweethearts finding each other again in a foreign land after so long apart - that’s cute as fuck. So why isn’t there a ring on her finger and a baby in her belly?”

You are struck temporarily wordless by your executive assistant’s forwardness, but the answer comes to you eventually.

“We’re not ready yet,” you state.

Yuna seems satisfied with your answer - or at least, isn’t curious enough to pursue it further. She gives you a shrug before she picks up her phone and begins to scroll on it. “Whatever you say, boss,” she says.

You return your attention to your laptop, and the resignation email to JYP that was sitting in your drafts. Sending it would mean leaving a career that, in many ways, had defined you. Yes, it had played a major role in bringing Nayeon back into your life, but were you really ready to give up the adventures in distant lands, not to mention all the romance and intrigue and excitement said adventures brought with them? 

Your cursor hovers over the send icon.

—

Problem 2: Her job.

As it turned out, JYP was more than happy to do whatever it took to keep you with the company - even if it meant giving you a tidy little promotion along with a promise to make any further business trips entirely optional. That was Problem 1 solved, then - leaving only Problem 2.

For the most part, Nayeon did a good job of keeping her work at work and not taking it home with her. Every now and then she’d vent about a particularly hard case she was on, or tell you about how something an actor did in a movie or tv show was wildly inaccurate compared to standard law enforcement procedures in the real world. By and large you could almost forget that she was a senior detective who regularly found herself in situations the average person might consider dangerous.

This was all to say that you only rarely gave Nayeon’s profession any thought, had you not noticed the breaking news report playing on the large TV screen in the JYP lobby on your way back from lunch one afternoon.

A reporter, apparently on scene, is speaking into the camera - but the TV is muted, and the captions are not turned on. Behind him civilians flee from a building under the guidance of two understandably anxious-looking uniformed police officers with their sidearms drawn. “Active hostage situation underway at downtown bank,” read the ticker. “Multiple hostages and casualties reported.” 

You were ready to give it no further thought aside from a passing sense of disappointment at the general state of crime in your country, had you not caught a fleeting glimpse of her on the screen.

In the background, behind the reporter, Nayeon steps into frame, her back to the camera - but it was unmistakably her. She flashes the badge around her neck to the two uniformed cops nervously holding the bank entrance door.

You watch as she draws her sidearm from the holster at her hip, racks the slide to chamber a round, and rushes into the building.

--

To say the next few hours were absolutely nerve wracking would be an understatement. 

Yes, you’d known that danger and the possibility of being hurt were part and parcel of being a member of active law enforcement. You were in the room when she was quite literally shot at close range in Seoul - a few layers of kevlar being the only thing that kept her from bleeding out on a dirty apartment floor.

You’d done your best to avoid having to deal with the reality that your girlfriend had a relatively dangerous profession. Maybe it was a subconscious thing - maybe your brain knew that living every day in fear of your girlfriend losing her life was not exactly conducive to a healthy relationship - or a healthy mental state.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t really hit home until that day. You’d never been so worried in your life, staying glued to the TV and your phone and news sites, pacing nervously alone in your apartment, grasping for any snippet of an update that would confirm she was okay, that she was safe. Needless to say she wasn’t picking up her phone, and a call to her precinct lieutenant went unanswered. 

You’d learn later that she was never in any actual danger - the gunfire she’d heard turned out to be warning shots fired into the ceiling to intimidate the bank staff. Nayeon, who’d been passing by the building randomly on her lunch break, had decided that civilians were in immediate danger and entered the bank on her own volition, cleared out the remaining customers from the bank lobby, and held down the hallway leading to the safety deposit boxes where the suspects were holed up until SWAT arrived. 

As the first responder to the scene, protocol demanded she remain on-site until it was resolved, explaining the length of her absence. She wasn’t actually in danger for very long, she’d later insist.

But she knew none of that when she rushed into the building, gun in hand. For all she’d known there could have easily been a suspect pointing an assault rifle down the hallway, finger on the trigger, just waiting for an eager young detective to stray into his sights. Moreover, her nine millimetre sidearm and lack of kevlar would’ve put her in a precarious position had they decided to make an escape using force.

Nonetheless, you were more relieved than you’d ever been in your life when she finally called to tell you she was on her way home - eight hours and forty-nine minutes since you’d made your first unanswered call to her cell phone (the first of thirty). 

Your heart let out the breath it had been holding for nine hours.

---

When she finally got home it was a lot, all at once. 

It was relief, mostly, and then reassurance, and comfort, followed shortly by an irresistible, intense lust. Danger never failed to get Im Nayeon going.

Within seconds of bursting through the door she was already on you, arms wrapped around your neck as yours wrapped around hers, lips searching for and quickly pulling yours into a deep, passionate kiss. Her leather jacket quickly leaves her body, her fingers immediately going to work on your button-up. While this hurried undressing was happening, when your lips parted long enough to draw in a breath, she’d tried, in broken sentences, to fill you in on what had happened.

You pieced enough together from her jumbled words to get an idea of how her day went, and how she wasn’t allowed to contact you until the incident was resolved. You wanted to ask her more, wanted to know more about what exactly happened, but she was in no mood for talking. Her lips and tongue stole the words and questions from your mouth before you could give them voice.

You are naked before long, stumbling into the bedroom and leaving behind a trail of haphazardly discarded clothing. She pushes you onto the bed with more force than you were ready for - silencing any objections by quickly climbing atop you, straddling your lap as you sit on its edge. Your mouths find each other and your tongues continue their frantic duel. Before long you slip from her lips to kiss a rough trail down her neck and to her chest.

You capture a breast in your mouth, closing your lips around her taut nipple. “Fuck,” she gasps, her hands quickly burying themselves in your hair, nails digging almost painfully into your scalp as you suckle from her tight bud.

A small part of you wants to slow down - perhaps even stop altogether - and tell her how damn worried you were for her, how the last nine hours were the longest nine hours you’d ever had in your life. But she steals your words again, this time with some of her own.

“Hard,” she hisses between gritted teeth, “I want it hard.”

She reaches between you, points your tip at her dripping entrance, and takes you inside her.

The long, hot sigh that escapes your lips finally rips them from her nipple. For the next few minutes you are powerless to do more than breathe heavily between her breasts as she rides you - those toned, full thighs of her working to throw her body up and down your shaft, taking you in and out of her tight, warm little cunt.

“Nayeon, I-” you begin, finally finding the wherewithal after a few minutes to look up at her.

She silences you with a finger to your lips. Her eyes are half-lidded, but hungry.

“Shut up,” she spits. “Just shut up.”

You were not one to argue, not when you were balls deep inside the most beautiful woman you’d ever known. And so you content yourself with watching as Nayeon took her pleasure from your body, using your cock like a toy, impaling herself with it over and over again until she became a mewling, moaning mess atop your lap.

You grasp her thighs, squeeze her bouncing breasts and tease the nipples atop them, slide your hand up her chest and up her throat and to her jaw before sliding your thumb between her lips for her to suck as you cradle the side of her pleasure-filled face - and throughout it all she rides you, pace relentless, merciless, hard.

Soon she is cumming - and she shows no sign of stopping, fucking herself through her orgasm even as her body is wracked by pleasure. She trembles, shakes, and quivers atop you - but it doesn’t stop her, doesn’t come close to fulfilling her immense need. She wants more. She needs more. 

Even as her orgasm radiates throughout her body and turns her into a wet, writhing mess, you hold her tight to you as you turn her over, putting her on her back atop the bed while you rise to your feet next to it. You wrap her legs around your waist, pull her hips onto yours, and continue to fuck her - hard, fast, rough.

She sighs and moans and cries and you are content to let her, content to let out some of the frustration and worry and fear you’d held inside you for most of the day on her tight, helpless little body. Her breasts bounce deliciously atop her heaving chest. Her fingers are claws, finding purchase wherever she can - on the bedsheets and your forearms, mostly. Eventually she reaches down and fingers her own clit, even as your cock pumps in and out between the lips of her cunt, just beyond her fingertips. Her eyes spur you on - telling you to keep fucking her, keep using her, all without saying a single word.

Your hands leave her hips, pulling on her legs until her calves are atop your shoulders. You continue to pound into her all along, this new position leaving her cunt open and exposed, rendering her helpless to do anything but take each hard, fast thrust you make into her body. It is almost callous, the way you fuck her, as though she were some whore and not the love of your life. You use her cunt. You make it yours, remind her who it belonged to. 

Her moans build, rising in volume and signalling another impending orgasm. You want to join her, and are about to give in, about to fill her-

“My ass,” she gasps. “Fuck my ass.”

She pulls her sweaty, still trembling body off you, denying you the warm slickness of her cunt. Her pussy drips onto the bedsheets as she wastes no time, getting atop the bed on her knees, upper body pressed against the bed. She reaches back with her hands, palming the cheeks of her ass, spreading them apart, showing you what she’d been keeping inside her.

And there it is, red silicone, glistening and slick with lube.

The sight of it takes your breath away. You let an unexpected sigh of pleasure leave your lips as you grasp the toy with your fingers, easing it out of her body slowly. She moans as it leaves her, perhaps in pain or pleasure or both. Soon it’s finally out. Every molecule in her body yearns to replace its absence.

Grasping your cock, slick and wet with her juices, you press the tip against her open, gaping hole - and begin to slide inside her.

You’d had her ass before, but never after she’d had a plug inside her, and it is sublime. Her ass immediately closes and tightens around you, and you think right then and there that you might cum. Your hand clutches her ass and left hip, fingers digging deep into the soft, yielding flesh, relishing the pleasure coursing through your veins but fighting it before it gets too intense, wanting to prolong this moment. She sighs and moans as she adjusts to your size. She trembles at the feeling of her ass being filled.

“Mmmm,” she hisses into the sheets, evidently having lost the ability to form words. She reaches back as far as she can with a free hand, her long fingers clutching your thigh. She pulls you toward her, and you oblige, pressing yourself as deep as you can until you are hilt deep.

“Do it,” she spits from between gritted teeth, “Fuck my ass. Hard.”

And so you begin - fucking Im Nayeon’s ass with hard, long strokes, using her tight, hot hole with the same tempo and speed as you did her cunt just moments earlier. She moans and shrieks and gasps into the sheets, the side of her face pressed against the bed, saliva dripping from a slack mouth. Her fingers are claws, digging into the sheets or your thighs or both, searching for something, anything, to ground herself amidst the constant pounding into the most vulnerable part of her body.

“Fuck, Nayeon,” you say, your brain unable to form much more than a curse and her name. She is so tight, so very hot - and she’d ensured the toy was well lubed before it entered her, so she was slick enough to make every entry and exit so delicious, so utterly sublime; a perfect cocktail of pleasure and pain all mixed into one irresistible sensation.

For the first time in a while Nayeon lifts her head from the bed, sweat pasting dark strands to the side of her face. She opens her mouth to say something-

But you reach forward, grasping her by the back of her neck, and slamming her back down onto the bed. She shrieks - partially in surprise, mostly in pleasure - as you resume pounding her.

“Shut up,” you spit. “Just shut up.”

The thick cotton bedsheets can do little to hide the long, deep moan of pleasure that leaves Nayeon’s lips as you impose yourself on her. She continues, not stopping for a moment, letting a drivel of wordless pleasure leave her mouth with each thrust you make into her body. She reaches a hand down, plays with her wet, slick clit even as you pound relentlessly into her ass - pleasuring her, hurting her - either way, making her yours.

The hand at her neck doesn’t leave her - it merely moves to her upper back, still keeping her pinned to the mattress, making sure she could do nothing more than take you. She lets you. She gives herself to you, lets you do what you want to her, because this - a rough, hard fuck - was what she wanted, what she craved.

It doesn’t take her long to orgasm, with her fingers on her clit and your cock pounding hard into her asshole. She tightens even more around you. She screams her pleasure into the bedsheets.

She clenches around your cock when she cums. It sends you over the edge, and you push yourself as deep as you can into Im Nayeon’s ass before you cum, filling her depths with thick, hot semen. Her moans turn into whimpers and then sobs, and you think for a moment that she might be crying.

You want to stay there, as you often did after you came inside her. You want to relish the moment and the sight of your cock embedded inside her ass and the feeling of her body wrapped around yours. But the accumulated physical and mental exhaustion of the day hit you all at once, and you collapse atop her, your arms only barely keeping you from crashing onto her back as you land on your elbows, still hilt-deep inside her.

You find the strength to bring your mouth to her ear. Filthy sex and dirty fucking aside, she had to know.

“I belong to you,” you say.

“I know,” she answers. Beneath the sweaty, messy hair and heavy breaths, Nayeon smiles.

—

The next morning, while you are still asleep, she wakes up early to make breakfast. She rarely cooked - every food delivery driver within a ten mile radius knew how to get to your apartment by heart - but when she did it was for special occasions. Or, in this case, a form of apology for making you worry so much the day before.

She’s stumbling towards the kitchen - she was understandably more than a little sore in places that made walking difficult - when she catches a glimpse of her old criminology textbooks on the hallway bookshelf. 

She was a fairly sentimental person, and despite your efforts she wouldn’t get rid of the old, heavy texts. She insisted that they were a part of what made her who she was, and wanted to keep them as a reminder of how far she’d come in her career; privately, she kept them to remind herself of those hard months when you’d left to join JYP all those years ago, and how much she missed being away from you. Those months were difficult, and she’d turned to her career as a way of coping. Those months were instrumental in putting her on the path to becoming a detective, but they were also part of what drove her to Seoul to find you.

A thought strikes her as her eyes take in titles of the texts. She reaches out and lets her fingertips graze their worn covers, seeing in them a way to ensure her career would never worry you so much again.

---

And so the problems were solved. All it took was a few uncomfortable emails, a few months of occasionally stressful worrying and intense interviews, and two new job offers. Easy peasy.

You’d taken a job at a branch office of JYP that promised travel would be completely optional. Nayeon had quit the PD and become a professor in criminology at a local college. You’d moved out of the small downtown apartment that had been the home you’d shared for the past five years, and into a slightly more comfortable townhouse in the suburbs.

Time passed. Good days and bad days. She was there for all of them, making the good days sweeter and the bad days more bearable. She was home. Safe harbour and north star for each other.

You are both sitting in a cafe on a lazy Sunday morning - you’re reading a book and nursing a coffee while she’s grading some papers on her laptop. You loved many things about your relationship, but one of the things you appreciated the most was how comfortable you both were in silence. The years had given you both a familiarity that had often transcended the need for speaking. Most of the time, you knew what the other was thinking, even before they spoke.

Your presence was enough, and there was no need to fill the space between you with words for the sake of it.

After awhile you look up to her to find that she’d been watching you, apparently for some time.

“I think we’re ready,” she says, a warm, soft smile on her lips. 

She says no more, returning her attention to her laptop, but you know what she means.

You smile as you return to your book.

---

Im Nayeon could always surprise you.

You’d had her more times than you could count, but this night was different - it was important, special in a way none of the in-shower quickies or weekend-long marathon sessions were. Just when you’d thought sex and lovemaking could hold no more surprises, you are proven wrong.

“It’s you,” she sighs into your ear, her voice soft, still filled with pleasure, but with an undercurrent of emotion that you’d never heard in her before. One of her arms wraps itself around your back, the other buried into the hair at the back of your neck as you thrust in and out of her body. 

“Cum inside me,” she continues, breathless, words spilling from her lips in a long, drawn out hiss. “Fill me up. It has to be you. Breed me, put a baby in my belly. I want it- I want you. It has to be you. It’s only ever been you.”

“Nayeon,” you say into her ear, and when she replies with your own name you think it is the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard in your life. 

She is tight, wet, hot - she feels every bit as good as she did when you were teenagers fumbling awkwardly in an old dorm room, or when you were reunited old flames brought together by fate in Seoul, or when you moved in together and decided to build lives together. But it means more now. It means more now than it ever did.

“Give me a baby,” she says, half-moan, half-sigh. “Breed me, make me yours.”

Words you’d heard before, from the same lips, on many another night. But none like tonight, not when she meant them more than she ever did - this wasn’t pillow talk, an act meant to spice up a risqué encounter; no, this was much more. She meant every word, without pretence or facade. She meant it all.

“Nayeon,” you repeat, unable to say much else. The sound of her name on your lips draws a sigh from hers, sends a quiver up her spine that is pure pleasure and love. 

“It has to be you,” she whispers into your ear, the most intimate words she has ever spoken. “It was always you - I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say, every molecule of your body shouting the words, even if they left your lips as little more than a light gasp.

You thrust between her spread legs, and she wraps her thighs and arms around you, making the two of you into one. 

You fill her. She sighs, moans - and when your cheeks press against each other as you both lie there, breathing heavily - you can feel her cheeks pull her lips into a smile.

---

“It was always going to be you and me, wasn’t it?”

You are caught a little off-guard by her words - truth be told your mind was solely fixated on the humble sign outside your favourite sushi restaurant and the familiar but delicious culinary delights that awaited you. It’s a Friday night, and you were looking forward to a quiet dinner with her following a long, draining week of work. 

The choice of dining establishment was a foregone conclusion, and you had nothing on your mind other than settling into a simple but comforting meal with her. Grand statements of destined love weren't exactly on your mind - not this early in the evening, anyway.

But when you turn to her and find a soft, warm smile on her lips, you couldn’t help but agree. She doesn’t even turn to look at you - her gaze, like yours, is locked on the old, dingy, familiar restaurant sign.

“Yes,” you answer, the word leaving your lips quickly, almost on instinct, almost on reflex, as though your body knew the truth - knew what you felt, in your innermost core. “It was always going to be you, Nayeon.”

She doesn’t turn her head to look at you. There is a slight deepening of the smile on her lips, a slightly deeper blush on her cheeks, but that’s it. She doesn’t need to read your face to verify or discern the truth in your expression. She is confident enough -  in the years you’ve spent together, in the trials and tribulations borne at each others’ side, to know the truth in your words.

She feels it in the way you clutch her hand, the way you hold her close in your most intimate moments, the way you brush stray hairs away from her forehead when you kiss her good morning before heading out the door to work. 

She sees it in the slight swell in her belly, and the family you were building together.

She knows all this. She feels it all, deep inside herself where nothing else exists except you and her and the home you’ve built with shared memories. She knows it is all true, always will be.

When you enter the restaurant you are greeted warmly with a smile and hug by the waiter - he’s become a good friend in the years since your escapades in Tokyo and Seoul. From behind the counter, Jisoo looks up from her prep work to wave and smile widely. She leaves the counter for a moment to greet you both, revealing the full roundness of her belly. She waddles awkwardly over, exchanging hugs, confirming plans for next week’s gender reveal dinner party for their child.

With one hand, Nayeon cradles Jisoo’s full belly. Perhaps unconsciously, her free hand hovers over her own, a warm, thoughtful smile on her lips.

Eventually, Jisoo shuffles adorably back to the counter to finish her vegetable prep, promising to come back later to chat. The waiter shows you to your table, leaving you both two cups of tea. 

He doesn’t leave a menu, because he already knows your order.

You tap the chest pocket of your jacket as you take it off and drape it over the back of your seat, making sure the small box and the engagement ring within were still there.

Nayeon cups her tea in both hands before taking a small sip. She finally locks eyes with you, although she doesn’t say anything. She knows she doesn’t have to. She’s content just to smile, content to reach her hand over the table, palm up, wanting nothing more than to feel your hand in hers.

Maybe she knew what was coming. Maybe she caught a glimpse of the box in your nightstand drawer, or noticed an open tab on your browser for a local jewelry store. Maybe she read it in your face at some point today, in the way you moved or the words you chose. She was a former detective and current professor of criminology, after all. She’d made a living out of reading people, and to her, you were an open book.

But it didn’t matter whether she knew it was coming or not, whether she would be surprised at all when, at the end of your meal, you got down on one knee in this restaurant where your relationship began and asked her to spend the rest of her life with you.

Because you both already knew, on some level had always known. It was always going to be you and her. And every trial and tribulation, every painful relationship with long-gone lovers, every day apart - it had all led to tonight.

Nayeon’s hand finds yours and your fingers intertwine.

Your heart warms at her touch.

---

Author’s Note: Good to be back ^^ Excuse any writing rust that was evident in this fic :( I actually had this alternate ending to BT mostly written awhile ago, but I'd been thinking about coming back to writing again and Nayeon's comeback gave me all the inspiration I needed to finally finish it.

Shoutout to @capslocked, whose work played a part in getting me back into writing. A special shoutout to his Tzuyu fic, which is probably one of my favorite smuts of all time - and I might have borrowed the phone sex idea from it. Love ya bud. Mimosa fic next pls k thx.

Stories and posts will be few and far between, but you’re always welcome to leave an ask. Thank you all for the love and support you've shown me over the past year. <3

[theharrowing]

Collateral 🗡️ 24: I have a proposition for you

Your ex-boyfriend gets in over his head working for the local mafia, and Boss Min has come to collect his payment: You.

But was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or has he always had his sights on you?

🗡️ Yoongi x Female Reader x Namjoon, Jungkook x Female Reader, Taehyung x Jungkook

🗡️ word count: 18.7k

🗡️ mafia au, strangers to lovers, graphic violence, major character injury, poly, smut, angst, fluff, nsfw, explicit 21+ 

🗡️warnings: casually discussing & thinking about previous violent events (involving guns, knives, cars, etc.); use of MDMA & cocaine, as well as a lot of whiskey; explicit smut (sex swing; sex under the influence of drugs & alcohol; voyeurism/exhibitionism; threesome; multiple orgasms & overstimulation; squirting orgasm; going non-verbal; a hint of subspace; crashing from the need of more after care but also from drugs) mc is still spiraling a lot.

🗡️note: hello, hello!!! ngl, it annoys me that Jimin's and Hoseok's hair are the wrong color in the mood board but it's impossible finding a good square pic of those three. also!!!! this is a reminder that mc is bisexual lol. also!!! drug come-ups and come-downs happen unusually fast because this is fiction. and because this was originally at least two chapters that have been condensed into one.

🗡️ also note: i love you. thank you for waiting. 💜

🗡️ beta read by @neoneunnajimin

🗡️ posted Jan. 2025 | read on ao3

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With a jolt, you awaken, gasping and struggling to get your bearings. You blink, squinting against the sun that shines through the small rounded windows, slowly returning to consciousness. The plane bounces slightly as it taxis, and you lean over—or, rather, into—Hwasa as you peer out the window. The unfamiliar scenery reminds you that you are not home in Seoul but in Busan. 

Bright sunlight causes your entire head to ache. You squeeze your eyes closed and bury your face into Hwasa's neck, which is soft and warm and smells like a fresh bouquet. She audibly pouts and raises a hand to shield your eyes, as well as pet your forehead. 

"Rough night," she says sweetly, and you nod. "Don't worry, dove, we'll be home very soon."

The events of last night return in flashes, causing your stomach to roil unpleasantly. Despite Ryujin's insistence that Christian poses no threat, you are not so sure. The way he gripped your hand and stared at you felt pretty fucking threatening. He is not the man you once knew. 

But you find it hard to believe she would put you in danger. After everything her family has done to harm Yoongi and his men, you imagine if anything happened to you, he would not hesitate to burn her home to the ground with everyone inside it. Just his display at the hideout alone speaks to his willingness to kill for you.

A cursory glance at your phone this morning showed Seokjin has managed to import everyone's numbers into your contact list. This assuages your concerns somewhat; at the very least, you are able to reach them should something go sideways. Never mind the fact that Seoul is four, possibly five hours away by car—a detail you choose to ignore for the time being. 

You could text Yoongi right now and inform him of Christian's appearance. But what would that solve, realistically? He would likely appear with guns—or chopsticks—blazing and demand you return to a home that you so desperately felt the need to leave. 

It is possible that Christian behaved the way he did last night because you nearly touched him. It could have been a sore spot for him to come so close to you again. Intoxicated, he may have behaved more strangely than usual. Perhaps bringing up his missing eye was triggering.

The plane finally slows to a stop, and one by one, the women begin to stretch and stand. A long red sedan waits outside, and you watch as staff members begin to move luggage from the plane to the back of the vehicle.  

Your stomach lurches as you make your way to the steps and begin the descent to the tarmac. As tired as you are of questioning whether you are making a mistake, you are desperate to settle in and feel a semblance of peace. You would be happy to never leave your bedroom once you are introduced to one. It is not as if you are expected to work. At least, you don't think so. 

Solar and Moonbyul climb into the far back of the vehicle, then Hwasa gets into the middle row and pats the seat for you to join her. You are about to scoot toward the center to make space for another, but Wheein rounds the vehicle and gets into the passenger seat as Ryujin slides into the driver's seat, making everyone accounted for. 

Once you are buckled in and all the doors are closed, Ryujin is off, driving nauseatingly fast. She drives like she owns these streets—and maybe she does, but it makes you want to barf.  

You close your eyes and lean into Hwasa, glad when she slots her arm around you easily. Now that the two of you will be under the same roof in a manner that feels more official, you wonder whether you should confront the way you feel around her. The butterflies, the dizziness, the urge to reach out and touch, the desire to be held just as you are now, but always. You are certain that it is nothing more than a crush and not worth dwelling on. But you are also aware of the fact that in no time at all your loneliness will shift to something carnal, and that having her in your bubble like this could become dangerously tempting. 

"We're here," Hwasa says softly against the top of your head.

With a light, pleased sigh, you slowly open your eyes and begin to sit up. A large metal gate scrapes open, and you are greeted by the sight of a massive hanok made of beautiful, brightly stained pine wood and earthen bricks. Ridge-end tiles, pine purlins, and decoratively carved rafters and beams showcase traditional Korean craftsmanship. 

The massive double doors are decorated with square metal frames, reminiscent of traditional wood and paper screen doors, and you watch in awe as the door on the right opens and several women come excitedly hopping out. You marvel at how tall and wide the structure is compared to them. 

You recognize one of the women as the person who attempted to chuck a ball at your head the first time you went into Yoongi's pool. Surely, she must know that you have come to stay in the house. Is she likely to cause you more trouble, or have they been forced to come to some understanding that you will be living with them now?

Men in uniform follow behind the women and remain stationed at the door. They are dressed in black tactical gear, with handguns at their hips, and you think you even spot earpieces in their ears. Although you know their presence is meant to make you feel safe, something about their hard, stoic nature is off-putting, and you tear your gaze away.

"They're nice," Hwasa chides, gently pushing an elbow into your side. You must really look afraid for her to have noticed.

With a nod, you open the car door and slowly step out. It is warm, but there is a nice breeze that cools you. The sun, however, is bright and oppressive, and the more you stand directly in its shine, the harder your head pounds. 

Ryujin and the girls gather all the luggage, including yours, and take it inside. You follow behind slowly, inviting Hwasa to link her arm into yours and lead you. The entrance is a small foyer with shoes on either side and two small tables on which keys and other items are stored, including sunglasses and chapsticks. You step out of your shoes and pass through a set of paper and wood screen doors, where the space opens up into what appears to be a massive sitting room that seems at least two stories tall. 

Cushions, couches, and tables are strewn about with a pathway leading through the center and around the sides. The space is dimly lit with lamps interspersed and fairy lights that hang from the tall ceiling and along the walls, creating a dreamy atmosphere. 

Through the space, there are hallways that lead to the left and the right, and a large, open kitchen and dining hall. The walls are white, with pine beams that complement the cabinets and floors, giving a traditional feel, but the counters and appliances are light marble and polished steel. Sinks are deep, wide basins with tall faucets that hang overhead, and the dishware appears to all be handmade ceramic, earthenware, and stainless steel.

On the far wall between the kitchen and a long dining table raised on a wooden platform is a door that Hwasa slides open, revealing a courtyard. She steps out onto a wooden ledge barefoot, and you follow behind. Stone paths snake and converge through a massive grassy space, surrounded by the rectangular shape of the hanok, with doors along the walls leading to what you imagine to be the various bedrooms. 

"Ryujin sleeps in the far room," Hwasa says, pointing straight ahead to the opposite end of the large structure. 

"I'm this way," she says, pointing to what you believe is the third door on the right, "And you will be this way," she says, tugging you to the left. 

Along the length of the building is a wooden ledge, with a wide stone step in front of each room that leads down to the path, and on both sides of the ledge are potted plants. Some are flowers, some are small trees and shrubs; your room appears to be surrounded by bonsai trees. 

Although the doors are traditional screen doors made of paper and wood, they have been enshrined in thick glass with ornate brass handles. As you reach the door to your new room and step up onto the wooden ledge, it slides open, revealing Ryujin's smiling face. 

"Come on in," she says, pointing to a small white floor mat beside two sets of house shoes.  

You step onto the mat, rubbing off any dirt that you may have tracked, then slide into the closest pair of soft white slippers before entering. There is a small entrance room similar to the foyer of the house, with a wooden railing to hang coats on the left and a wooden table and bowl on the right. In the bowl rests two gold keys on a small gold ring, and you reach for them, feeling their weight in your hand, and slide them into a pocket of the oversized hoodie that once belonged to Jeongguk. 

The bedroom is a decent size, with a tall ceiling to accommodate a loft, the ladder for which is to the left as soon as you enter. A bed large enough to accommodate three is on a raised wooden platform on the right, with white pillows, blankets, and sheets. There is a dresser and a large mirror, all made of the same pine and brass as everything in the house, and similar to the doors, all the hinges on the furniture are in the shape of butterflies. 

"This is lovely," you say, taking in the scent of the room. It seems to have been recently dusted, but there is a stuffiness to it that suggests it has been vacant for quite some time. You leave the door open to the courtyard as you sit down on the firm bed and take everything in. 

"There is a small futon up in the loft, as well as a low table and cushions, in case you would prefer to be up there," Ryujin says. "And we can swap out the white bedding for something that feels a little more you."

You nod and crack a smile, saying, "Thank you."

"I might have something that's all black somewhere," she chides with a wink, making your cheeks warm. "In fact, one of my black comforters may have golden dragons embroidered on it. You can have a piece of Yoongi and Namjoon."

You hug your arms tightly around your middle, pulling your gaze away from her as she speaks. Although you are grateful for Ryujin's hospitality, it does feel strange knowing she has had such an intimate relationship with the men you love. Perhaps it is the casual nature with which she brings it up that you find particularly jarring. 

"I will fetch you those items shortly," Ryujin says. "Feel free to look around. There are bathrooms interspersed throughout, but Hyejin and Hyungseo have master suites with their own. Luckily you do not have to work to butter anyone up to bathe in peace." She winks at you, then grins at Hwasa. "I also have a massive suite with a shower room and tub, which you are welcome to use any time."

Ryujin leaves the bedroom through the door that opens up to the hallway, but Hwasa takes your arm and tugs you back toward the courtyard. You step out of your slippers and slide the door closed, then follow her along the path leading to her door. 

"It's faster than walking inside," she says, and you nod, finding it easy to imagine so. "There is also a shortcut from the front of the house, so you don't have to walk through the living room. And if you take a path past mother's door, there is a large outdoor pool and garden. Just don't be alarmed by the guards. They tend to hide in plain sight."

Hwasa pulls out a small ring of keys and slots a golden one into the door, twisting and then retracting it before sliding the door open. You step inside and are immediately hit with a sensation opposite to your bedroom. 

Hwasa's room is much larger than yours, with an open door on the left that leads to a bathroom. She has no loft, only a tall ceiling from which she has hung fairy lights and fluffy clouds. Her bedding is pale pink, clothing and jewelry are strewn about, and the air smells distinctly of her. She sits on the bed and reaches for the drawer of the pine bedside table. From inside, she takes out a small golden key and holds it out for you. 

"What is this?" you ask, dumbfounded. 

"A key to my room, silly," she says through a chuckle. 

You take the key between your fingers and examine it, but you are filled with a torrent of conflicting emotions. 

"I couldn't possibly—" you begin, holding the key out to her, but she pushes your hand away, saying, "Nonsense. Just take it. You might get lonely in this large house, and I don't need you thinking you have to ask for permission each time you want to come see me."

You slide the key into your pocket, hearing it rattle beside your phone and the keys to your room. You do not tell her that you intend to knock or text before coming over and that it is something she is going to need to accept. 

"Are you hungry?" she asks, and you nod. You are more than hungry; you feel absolutely hollowed out.

Hwasa leads you into the house this time, and you take light steps on bare feet, worried about making too much noise; hesitant to draw too much attention. At the end of the hall, you turn right and walk past the raised dining table, at which two women sit on the floor and pick at plates of fruit and bread. 

“We have a chef who comes in the morning to stock the fridge,” Hwasa says as she approaches a large, wide refrigerator. 

The stainless steel doors open from the center and inside are rows and stacks of glass containers filled with food. Hwasa rummages, pulling out a tub of cubed melons. You find a tub of glass noodles with carrot and other finely cut vegetables, and Hwasa retrieves a cold bottle of grapefruit-flavored soju. You expect to be led to the long table, but Hwasa opens the containers on the counter, retrieves bowls and utensils, and serves herself food only to immediately eat it where she stands. You do not object and do the same.

Slowly, the area fills with women, but you keep your head down, eating the food. The noodles are filling and the fruit is refreshing; the soju brings a little warmth to your chest and very slightly assuages your anxiety. 

"Don't worry, you will get to know everyone soon enough," Hwasa mutters. 

You hum, but you are not too certain it is possible. There must be at least twenty bedrooms connected to the long halls of the hanok, and you imagine there are rooms that could contain more than one person. How many women might clamber into Ryujin's bed at night, you wonder. Do they all have rooms of their own?

After eating, Hwasa returns the containers to the fridge while you take the used dishes and utensils to the sink and wash them. A large bamboo rack is on the left side of the sink, already stacked with various items, and you add yours to the pile, too unsure where things go to offer putting dried items away. 

"Come," Hwasa says, tugging at your hands as soon as you are able to dry them on a cloth that hangs above the sink in a large window overlooking the courtyard. "Let's take a bottle to the gardens and lie on the grass."

With a new bottle of soju, you are led down a long hallway, past all the closed doors, to a gate nestled to the right of Ryujin's wide-open bedroom door. You glance into the space to find her room in bright pastels, namely yellow and orange, and as you avert your eyes, you think about the bedroom in Yoongi's mansion that was inherited from her. After seven years, things have been left the same, and you are unsure how to feel about that.

* * *

You are groggy and chilly as you roll over, waking up to the feeling of grass tickling your left cheek. At which point you had fallen asleep, you are unsure, but you are glad when Hwasa stirs and groans beside you. 

Ryujin's garden is so similar to Yoongi's that when you first laid eyes on it, tears prickled, and you felt the overwhelming urge to spiral into an anxiety attack. Statues, shrub walls, fountains…there is even a shrub maze that Hwasa invited you to walk through, but the thought of it conjured memories of Namjoon, and you suggested instead to lie in the grass as was originally planned. The weight of everything must have pressed you down into a brief but deep sleep. The soju bottle was barely touched. 

It is hard not to wonder whether you will ever see Yoongi's garden again. From where you sit, on a slight hill overlooking the labyrinth, you can see the large statue of a minotaur near the center, and you wonder whether Ryujin did it as an homage or a fuck you to Yoongi's garden. You like the addition of the minotaur but dislike how it mirrors the theme of Greek iconography. How much of her former life with Yoongi has Ryujin kept here? How often does she think of him? Are you as safe with her as everyone claims?

The rest of the day feels like a blur. You follow Hwasa around until it is time to retire for the night, at which time the roles reverse and she follows you. She offers to help you unpack your suitcase, but you opt to leave it for tomorrow. There is a finality in unpacking that you are not yet ready to face, despite the suitcase remaining a symbol of your ability to leave at any time. You suppose it is complicated. You do, however, find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt in the depths of your luggage that are not as soft and comfortable as the ones you had been pilfering from Yoongi over the last several months but cozy enough to make you feel slightly more relaxed. Then you hug Hwasa good night, allowing her to place a kiss on your cheek but feeling incapable of returning the gesture. 

Although the walls do a good job of keeping noise out, there is a faint, distant liveliness that can be heard from somewhere inside the hanok. You assume from the living room or possibly the dining room. 

You climb into the cold bed and pull the white comforter up to your ears. You take a deep breath and close your eyes. You consider calling Namjoon but decide against it, worrying you may ask him to come bring you home. After lying still for an indeterminate amount of time, you sigh, get out of bed, and retrieve the golden keys from the wooden bowl beside your door. 

The night is cold as you tiptoe in bare feet out into the courtyard, which is illuminated by string lights, light pollution, and a very bright moon. Although you clench the key to Hwasa's door, as you approach, you gently knock. It only takes a handful of seconds before a light turns on, and another handful until her door slides open. You enter without a word, wipe your feet off, and slide the door closed. Your keys jingle and slide into the basin of the wooden bowl.

Hwasa is barefaced and sleepy, and she smiles lopsided when she climbs into her bed and scoots to one side, facing you as you slip under the warm covers and nestle one arm under the pillow. Once you are settled, she rotates enough to shut off a small bedside lamp, shrouding you in darkness and the scent of flowers. Moments later, you are asleep.

* * *

The hanok is chaotic all day, from the moment you wake to the sounds of voices shouting excitedly, to the moment you stand before Hwasa's mirror wearing borrowed items, giving yourself one last look before setting off into the night. You hardly remember eating food, drinking coffee, and meeting women; your nerves have been alight at the knowledge that you will see your men one more time. One last time, you suppose, for the foreseeable future. It all makes your head spin, and you struggle to focus.

You wear the same asymmetrical little black dress that you wore the first day you met Yoongi—not because you find it amusing, although you do—but because you left behind all the dresses he bought you, and this is the only one you have that seems to fit the vibe of Serendipity. 

Hwasa has draped your neck and wrists in gold chains, and you wear borrowed gold daisies in your ears that don't quite match but that you are fond of. She and Ryujin give you the smoky eye look that Yoongi likes so much and pin your hair back away from your face. Borrowed fishnet tights make you feel a bit self-conscious, but you enjoy the way they look with your black loosely-laced boots. You wonder whether the men will recognize the bits of your outfit that you once wore or if they even noticed your dress at all on that first day.

Everyone else wears black and gold, Hwasa in a tight bodice top and pencil skirt with stiletto heels, and Ryujin in a long-sleeve cropped turtleneck and tight leggings with tall boots. Both women are adored in chains, earrings, bracelets, and rings, shimmering with each movement, with their dark hair pinned from their faces and hanging down their backs, Hwasa's falling in pretty waves and Ryujin's perfectly straight. 

Despite feeling excitement over seeing the men, you are also concerned about letting loose and feeling too comfortable, teetering continuously between wanting to stay and wanting to return to the mansion. As you take your medications followed by deep, slow breaths, you tell yourself to stop spiraling along this familiar train of thought. You know that it does you no good, and yet it loops endlessly. Finally, when everyone is ready and you feel like you have your shit as together as possible, you allow yourself to be ushered out to the long red SUV. 

The drive to Serendipity is so short you could have walked there. Perhaps in another life, you would not need armored vehicles driving you from one destination to another. What had it been like all those months ago to finally have a modicum of freedom? How difficult would it be to run away for real and return to a lifestyle bogged down by working night shift jobs that allow you to be your own person again?

Several security guards are stationed at the door, glowing in the bright red of the familiar sign that reads Serendipity overhead. Ryujin has informed you that only her people, Yoongi's people, and neutral parties to the families will be in attendance, with the exception of bartenders and dancers. So it surprises you when you enter the building and it is already packed. You recognize men from Yoongi's staff but do not see the family men or any of the security staff you have gotten to know. Hwasa veers away immediately with the promise of being right back, so you stick close to Ryujin. 

Last time you were here, Yoongi took you directly through dark hallways into a VIP space. This time, you enter the main floor. There is an open area with tables scattered throughout and a large bar on the left. A dancefloor is ahead in a semi-partitioned area, and the VIP section is raised to the far right, overlooking the dancefloor. Your gaze hangs on the VIP section, wondering whether your men are nestled away in those booths, bending low over piles of cocaine as Yoongi had you do—a memory that feels like an indoctrination of sorts into this lifestyle. But as far as you can tell, nobody is over there. 

Everything is made of unassuming dark wood and shiny silver metal. It is far less flashy than you would expect from someone like Yoongi, considering it was his bar first. Nothing stands out but the bars, dance cages, and open space, as if the only thing that is meant to be experienced here are the people who come to dance. Or, perhaps, the main draw is downstairs…the thought of which makes you shiver.

Throughout the space, there are raised platforms with bars similar to the dance cages at Paradise. Inside, dancers clad in almost nothing sway and twist to the sultry music that plays overhead. It seems that most attendees are in this first room and not yet on the dancefloor. They congregate around the tall tables and in groups. You scan the room over and over for someone who is more than just vaguely familiar from the Hanok or security teams and feel disappointed when you do not find anyone to run off to as Ryujin places a hand on the back of your right arm and ushers you toward the bar.

People step aside as you approach, giving you and Ryujin a wide berth while never breaking from their conversations. Some turn to bow their heads to Ryujin, but most carry on as if she is not there. Once you are at the bar, Ryujin holds up three fingers, and the tender nods and turns to the shelves, producing a bottle that appears to hold whiskey. 

"Your men are running late," she sighs as she glances at her phone before tucking it back into a pocket of her leggings. You feel relieved and disappointed at the same time. 

"MDMA for the ladies?" the bartender offers as they set down three glasses of whiskey. You reach for the center glass and glance around for the owner of the third, happy when you see Hwasa's smiling face approaching. 

"None for me," Ryujin says, but Hwasa chimes, "Yes, please!"  

The bartender produces a small brass decorative box. When they open it, a twinkling song plays, but its tune is lost to the music playing overhead. In the lid of the box is a mirror that reflects your chest, and spinning slowly before the mirror is the figure of a tiny ballerina in a little pink tutu. The box is filled with a white substance that appears to be a mix of powder and crystals, and you turn to watch as Hwasa licks her fingertip and sticks it directly into the substance, then pulls it out, inspecting the powder and small lumps of crystal that coat her fingertip. 

"It's fun," she says to you, eyebrows raised.

You nibble on the inside of your mouth, uncertain. The last time you did a similar drug with Jeongguk, you completely lost control of your emotions. But you were also in a more emotionally tumultuous state at the time, and you wonder whether doing it tonight might be different. 

"I, uh…I actually took some with Jeongguk not too long ago and I think it had an adverse effect."

Hwasa frowns and asks, "Was it exactly like this?"

You examine the dust and shake your head. "It was more of an…"

"Amethyst color?" Ryujin fills in over your shoulder. You nod, turning your head slightly toward her. 

"This stuff is a lot more pure," Hwasa says. "Amethyst was good, but it wasn't quite perfect. Of course, no pressure. But if you want to try a tiny bit, you can always return for more."

"Jeongguk mentioned it may have counteracted my antidepressants. But I was also in a really bad headspace." You feel like you are overexplaining, but truthfully, you are curious to try it again, especially if the women say this version is better than the one he had. 

"How much did you take?" Ryujin asks. 

"A small capsule," you say, turning to face her more fully. 

Ryujin gives a knowing nod. "There are several factors that go into play when taking a drug like this. A capsule could have been too high of a dose, and rather than make you feel euphoric, it overwhelmed you."

You certainly felt overwhelmed that night. And you wonder whether it was the combination of what was in your system that made everything go sour or the aftermath of what Jeongguk had said to you. Do you think you could fall for someone like me? A shutter works its way along your spine.

"I would like to try a little," you say, eager to feel the euphoria and body high that you had the last time before everything went south. 

You turn to Hwasa, whose finger is still coated in the drug. With a grin, she says, "This amount should only last about an hour or two. And the come-up and come-down are a lot smoother than they were with amethyst."

With a nod, you begin to lift a finger to your lips in order to wet the tip, but Hwasa beats you to it, holding her own close to your mouth. She raises an eyebrow, and you part your lips, feeling as self-conscious as you are excited to be given an invitation to suck on her finger. The substance is alarmingly sour, and your face puckers as you suck harder, doing your best to get all of it. Hwasa giggles, and when she removes her finger, you quickly pick up your whiskey and knock a mouthful back. As soon as you do so, you begin to worry that you are once again not in a good place to be doing drugs like this. But then you think of Yoongi and Namjoon, and warmth fills your chest, making it hard to imagine your night could turn sour. 

Perhaps it is the nerves of waiting for the drug to kick in, but you drink your whiskey a little too fast. It makes you feel light on your feet, especially considering you only snacked all day, not having much of an appetite in anticipation for tonight. You ask for water and are relieved when a large, cold glass is set before you. 

Hwasa and Ryujin both lean against the bar facing the main room, and you do the same, clenching the chilled glass as you rest your elbows against the bar top. You look between caged dancers, from glistening pecs and hard abs to soft curves. But your eyes trail to the front door the most, waiting for the men to arrive. It is not like Yoongi to be late, and the longer you wait, the more antsy you become. 

And then, slowly, you begin to feel the tingle. It starts in your fingertips but resonates in your chest, too. You feel a warmth work its way over you, but also a chill—it's hard to fully grasp. More than anything, you have an overwhelming feeling that something is missing. Or, rather, someones. Plural.  

Hwasa and a few of the women from Ryujin's home dance and giggle beside you. You continue to hold tight to the glass in your hands, eyes trailing back to the front entrance over and over. You would like to dance and sway and get to know the other women a little better, especially since they have stolen your pretty friend's attention. But you feel glued in place with a budding, blooming sense of enrapture and intrigue.

You sigh, drain the contents of your glass of water, and spin on your toes to lean against the bar and perceive a different, calmer perspective. As you set the glass down on the wooden bar top and stand taller in order to get the tender's attention, deciding that perhaps you would like more whiskey to take the edge off, two large, warm hands cover your eyes. 

"Guess who," a rich, playful male voice says, and you grin, lifting your hands to cover his long fingers. 

"Taehyung," you say, heart pounding, chest filling with warmth. 

His hands fall away, and you spin around quickly, unable to hold back glee at the sight of Taehyung standing before you. He is dapper in a deep purple suit with a gold brooch of a tiger on his lapel and a caduceus on his breast pocket, connected by two gold chains.

"Finally," you say, slamming forward into a hug that he hesitates to return. Your arms slide around his ribs, and you flay your fingers open against his back, breathing in his earthy, spicy cologne that carries floral notes reminding you of Jeongguk. You squeeze, and he chuckles as his arms engulf you, gently squeezing back. 

"I have a surprise for you," he says as you break the hug, keeping your arms loosely around his waist. 

It feels good to hug—really fucking good—and you do not want to stop. You tilt your head to the side, glancing up into his devious eyes. "A surprise?"

Taehyung's eyes study yours, then he leans close and says, "Your pupils are quite dilated. What are you on?"

"Molly," you admit somewhat sheepishly. "Not too much, though. Didn't want a repeat of last time."

Although you have not spoken with Taehyung about last time, you assume that Jeongguk has. He gives a knowing nod. 

"There are many factors that can cause someone to have a bad high," Taehyung explains, "one of which is allowing oneself to spiral into a negative thought loop. Sometimes even the best uppers struggle to fight against our demons. If you feel yourself going down that path, you can either do your best to reroute your thinking or remove yourself from the situation entirely."

You nod along, in appreciation of Taehyung's advice. However, it is all a bit too much—too stuffy, too serious—and you lose your patience for it. 

Grinning, you ask, "What's my surprise?"

Taehyung chuckles. "I left it somewhere secluded and secretive." He holds out a hand and adds, "Follow me?"

You take Taehyung's hand and allow him to tug you along. Intrigue and excitement simmer through you, pulsing to the beat of the music but also to that of your heart. The path he drags you through is a familiar one: dark curtains, a narrow hallway that leads to a red-lit stairwell snaking deep into the building. The last time you were here, things were so different. You were so new to this world. So inexperienced. 

What are you afraid of? Yoongi had asked, pressuring you into trying cocaine. Don't you trust me?

You shake the thought away, doing your best to remember what Taehyung said about keeping a positive mindset. After all, the visit here wasn't all that bad. The tone of his voice when he proudly proclaimed, that's my girl, made all of the pressure feel better. Things had gotten pretty exciting up until Namjoon called. Warmth snakes up your neck to your cheeks at the memory. Namjoon called, and Yoongi let him sit on the line while he finished eating you out. 

At the bottom of the stairs, all the black doors are closed but one, which is cracked ever so slightly open. A soft purplish glow shines in a sliver from the bottom and right side of the door at the far end of the hall. Your palm prickles with sweat in Taehyung's hand, and you do your best not to wobble, feeling the full force of excitement laced with joy. And then Taehyung halts in place halfway to the door. 

"Ah," he says, releasing your hand, "I nearly forgot."

In a swift movement, Taehyung removes a black piece of cloth from the breast of his jacket and places it over your eyes. Before you can so much as gasp, the cloth is tied tightly and he is taking your hand in his once more. 

"You may commence walking," he says before tugging you along, and you stumble somewhat, legs struggling to keep up. 

You think you hear voices, but then Taehyung snaps his fingers several times, louder than you have ever heard someone snap their fingers before. And then all you hear is the sound of downtempo music, footsteps, and your whooshing pulse. 

A door closes, and you are led further. Then you are stopped.  

"We thought it might be fun to play a game," Taehyung says as he lets go of your hand. You hear and feel him stepping away, possibly behind you, before two warm hands are placed on your shoulders. His voice is close to your right ear as he says, "A guessing game."

You smile widely. "And what do I win?"

There is a pause. Beside your left ear, he says, "Pleasure."

Goosebumps cover you and you let out a long, deep sigh, biting on your lower lip. Although you cannot see who is in the room, you can sense them. Colognes mingle in the air, all familiar, all filling you with desire. 

In your right ear, he asks, "Are you ready, mon chéri?" 

You swoon from the term of endearment, from the accent in which he utters it, from his closeness. Although your relationship with Taehyung differs from the others, you feel a deep sense of longing toward him—a kinship that extends just beyond the boundaries of something platonic.

"Yes," you say, breathy. Eager. 

Taehyung's hands tighten on your shoulders, and then he steps away, leaving you to stand alone, suddenly a bit cold. "Keep your hands at your sides at all times," he tells you.

You nod, smiling sweetly. 

"Yes, sir," he says in a commanding tone, and you let out a surprised gasp. 

You respond, "Yes, sir," but your voice is light and breathy. You expect him to reprimand you and tell you to speak louder, but he does not. 

"You are going to feel a touch," Taehyung says from just to your right, slightly behind you. "Perhaps you will detect a scent. You only have one guess per man. Answer incorrectly and they leave the room. Answer correctly, and they stay."

Leave the room? Anxiety swells knowing the stakes are so high. You swallow the lump that slowly forms in your throat and take a deep breath. You know your men. There is no way you are going to lose this game. 

"How many are there?" you ask, worried Seokjin, Hoseok, or Jimin could be lingering somewhere, ready to throw you off. 

Taehyung sighs, and you smile slightly.

"There are three, as well as myself. But I am not playing."

You nod and lick your lips. You can handle this, you tell yourself. This should be easy. 

"Let us begin," Taehyung says.

You stand up straight, rolling your shoulders back as if good posture will give you any sort of advantage. Something in the room seems to shift, and you hear the rustle of fabric but not shoes. Unfair, you think, determined that you would be able to identify Yoongi's walk, if not the others. 

Before you feel a touch, you detect a scent: spring morning, fresh and bright. You smile, lick your lips, and open your mouth, ready to greet Namjoon. But then you feel the backs of fingertips grazing your cheeks, and there is a musk that follows, which does not match the rest of the cologne. 

The touch is delicate, trailing from your temple to below your ear, down the length of your neck. Your head turns, chasing the touch and the scent before fingers fall away. Silence hangs as you stand and wait, unsure whether you should guess. And then those hands grip you by the hips from behind, large and warm and so familiar. 

As you inhale, thinking about all the times those hands have held you like this—all those times bent over and begging—you exhale and mutter through an aroused sigh, "Yoongi."

The fingers dig, grip tightening, and you picture his sharp, devious smile. And then the touch disappears, and you hear the rustling of more fabric. 

Two hands grip onto your hips from in front of you, and you can feel the heat radiate from him, sensing he has stepped very close. He leans and rests his forehead against yours, and the bouquet of scents is unmistakable. 

"Jeongguk," you declare, and the touch recedes completely. 

In the seconds that pass before you detect the same blend of colognes as before, you begin to worry you may have guessed incorrectly the first time. It seems clear that Yoongi and Namjoon are trying to trick you, and you are certain that Yoongi has touched you the way the first man had. But, as far as you know, Namjoon could have, too. The grip on your hips felt like Yoongi—of that, you are certain. You take a deep breath and do your best to calm your nerves, but the drug has you feeling antsy. 

Fingers cradle your chin, and you part your lips instinctively. Rather than a kiss, you feel the slow press of a thumb before the hand slides down, and the fingers splay across your throat. Typically, it is Yoongi who touches you this way, and you begin to panic, worrying more than ever that you chose the wrong man. 

But then you focus on the feeling of the hand. It is large, warm, soft, and familiar, but it is not Yoongi's hand. It slides away, and then two hands gently grab your ribs as if steadying you or readying you for a hug. You can tell these men are trying to trick you, but it is not going to work because you know these hands. 

"Namjoon," you say, voice broken behind the sudden urge to cry. 

Footsteps approach from behind—Taehyung, undoubtedly—and then the cloth is lifted from your eyes, and you are left blinking to adjust to the red and purple lights cast from various bulbs, focusing on Namjoon's beautiful smile. His muscles strain under a jacket that is too tight for him, and you giggle as you step forward, causing his hands to slide around your back as you lean close for a kiss. But you stop just before meeting his lips as you notice something is different.

"Your hair," you say as you reach a hand up and rub it over a short stubble. He has a buzzcut, even all around with neatly shaven edges. 

Namjoon nods slightly, but seems more interested in that kiss you interrupted than explaining the new look. He presses close, hums with pleasure, and holds you tight, licking firmly into your mouth in a way that nearly makes your knees buckle. You are too high to do anything but allow yourself to be tasted and touched, and as soon as he breaks the kiss, you mutter, "Does this mean I've won?"

Yoongi approaches from the right, stepping behind you and placing his large hands on your hips. You lean into him, smiling at Namjoon as Yoongi says, "You even saw through our parlor trick."

You pout, raising a hand to gently slap it over Namjoon's pec. He holds your hand in place, sandwiching you between their two bodies while two sets of lips claim your shoulders and neck. 

"We had faith in you," Namjoon teases, making you feel all the more petulant. 

You whine, "But what if I guessed wrong?"

Yoongi nips at your neck, forcing you to giggle and close your eyes. His voice is barely above a growl as he says, "Then you would have fucked Jeongguk while Namjoon and I took another room." 

"Not funny," you whimper as hands rove your sides, grazing below your breasts and squeezing at your hips. You feel so good, but you also want to cause as much trouble as possible for these two. "I've missed you."

Fingertips cradle your chin, guiding you to turn your head to the right. 

"What's the matter, doll?" Jeongguk asks, "Didn't you miss me?"

Your eyes blink open to find Jeongguk scowling at you. His satin leopard print shirt is unbuttoned below his pecs, and you allow your eyes to fall, taking in each hint of skin you can see. It is apparent that he is trying to appear angry, but his gaze is soft, almost loving. 

Do you think you could fall for someone like me?

You push the thought away and reach an arm just far enough to hook a finger on Jeongguk's slacks and pull him close. As he stumbles and looms over you, you grin, tilting your chin toward him, wishing you could stretch yourself a little taller. 

Jeongguk chuckles and leans in just close enough to press your lips together. You want more, straining toward him, but then he backs away and begins to fully unbutton his shirt. 

"Our buttercup is high on molly," Taehyung announces, met with a chorus of hums and gasps. You bite your lip and sheepishly nod, eyes on the large swath of Jeongguk's bare stomach and chest. 

"How high are you?" Yoongi groans against your neck.

Your eyes flutter closed from his touch, and you press your ass against him. Although you had somewhat forgotten about the molly, now you feel it absolutely shimmering through you. "Quite high."

Namjoon presses himself close and licks over your lips, then asks, "I bet you're pretty turned on, then, hmm?"

You smile. "How could I not be?"

"I have just the thing," Taehyung says as he walks past you to the center of the room. He disappears behind Namjoon, then reappears with a step stool that he places down and begins to climb. 

Only now do you realize that there is something on the ceiling, which Taehyung unravels with quick movements. You have to heavy-blink several times to realize it is a sex swing. 

"Undress her," Taehyung says.

Namjoon grins wide and devious, then says, "Yes, sir," just loud enough.

Two sets of hands make quick work unzipping your dress and yanking it—pushing it to the floor. You wobble and stumble as you step out of your boots and socks, clinging to Namjoon's shoulders while Yoongi, on his knees, assists you. Standing in only fishnets and panties, you feel simultaneously warm and cold as Yoongi stands, trailing his fingertips up the backs of your legs. He hooks his fingers into the netting of your borrowed stockings right in the crotch and roughly rips a hole in them, making you tremble and gasp. 

"Fuck, I have missed you," Yoongi growls, hands roughly gripping your hips. Namjoon nods, eyes roving your body hungrily. 

"On the swing," Taehyung instructs. "On your back."

Namjoon turns and leads you toward the swing. It looks like nothing more than an amalgamation of straps, and you watch as he clumsily lifts and attempts to sort them. With an exasperated huff, Taehyung steps forward, grabs onto the contraption, and simply presents it in a way that looks like a swing. You are surprised and amused, and you turn, stepping close to it and allowing Taehyung to lift you into it. 

You giggle, and your head spins as your legs are maneuvered through straps and spread. It feels strange to trust these bits of rough fabric to hold you up, and you grip onto two sturdy straps that are connected to the ceiling brace while the swing is adjusted beneath you, and you are gradually convinced that it is safe to lie back. 

"Darling," Yoongi teases through a chuckle as he unbuttons his dress shirt. "You look so worried. Relax."

You watch intently, chest heaving with each breath. Although you are eager for the events that are transpiring, you are also very high, verging on feeling overwhelmed. Not to mention, your heart feels ripped into warring halves—one part wanting to experience Yoongi and Namjoon again, and the other worried that it is a very bad idea. 

Yoongi's black shirt is untucked from his slacks and slid off his broad shoulders by Namjoon, whose eyes are on you. He gently drapes the shirt over the edge of the large bed to your left, then returns, unbuttoning his cufflinks while Yoongi steps forward and gets down on his knees. It is difficult to keep your eyes on him; your eyelids flutter with the urge to close them and become lost to the drugs. But you remain as laser-focused as possible. 

"Fuck," Yoongi says as he roughly spreads your legs, warm, calloused fingers yanking fabric to the side and digging into soft skin. "You have no idea how much I have missed this."

You open your mouth to say me too, but the first syllable is lost to the feeling of Yoongi's tongue against your clit. A loud moan rolls from your lips, chased by an intense wave of pleasure that courses through your limbs, causing your head to fall. Yoongi does not give you a chance to catch your breath, sucking and licking while making the most depraved sounds—groaning like a man who is finally satiated after days of fasting. Pleasure builds quickly, and you can already imagine the deep, pleased laugh he makes before teasing you for cuming too quickly. 

The sound of a zipper causes you to open your eyes, and you find your head, which is hung back in ecstasy, level with Namjoon's crotch. Reluctantly, you reach back, gasping both from pleasure and the feeling of the swing shifting and swaying from the movement. 

Yoongi, either helpful, impatient, or both, grips your thighs tightly, holding you in place. You rub your hands over the sides of Namjoon's legs, licking your dry lips, wishing you had water. Namjoon lets his slacks slide down, and the fabric tumbles to the ground. A particularly slow lap over your cunt causes you to shiver and moan, losing focus on the prize above your semi-upside-down head, and Namjoon chuckles as he palms the tight dark cloth over his growing erection. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you lean back, head fully upside down, sinking into the pleasure that claws at you so fiercely, you are moments away from bursting. Clothing rustles, metal clangs, and you feel hands on your legs and ankles lifting and spreading you while Yoongi continues to suck and lick. It is clear that you are being restrained, with fabric encircling your ankles and keeping them suspended high. When you open your eyes and attempt to take in the scene, you realize you are tilted back too far to see Yoongi's head between your legs. Instead, you see Jeongguk towering over him. 

Fingers breach your entrance, sliding easily despite the tight sting, causing you to whimper. Yoongi's thick knuckles graze deliciously past your walls, and as you relax to his intrusion, his tongue and lips match the steady pace of his hand, bringing you crashing instantly with orgasm. Your head falls back hanging as you squeal and gasp, so overcome with bliss that you feel the urge to crawl out of your skin. You tremble wildly, held tightly in place as your legs yank against their restraints. Yoongi does not slow or stop, and you find yourself gasping for breath and practically screaming from pleasure. 

"That's it, doll," Jeongguk practically growls, voice deep and lust-laced. "Make a fucking mess of him."

Only now do you hear the release squelching wetly from you with the movement of Yoongi's hand. Liquid sprays on your thighs, and you gulp for air, no longer able to moan, simply heaving each breath in and out of your tired lungs. 

Yoongi removes his mouth and slides his fingers free. When he stands, you notice his mouth glistening, and he makes a show of licking you from his fingers with a hum. Namjoon, who is nude, thick cock erect and level with your face, steps around the swing, meeting Yoongi halfway, and licks your cum from his chin and lips. They kiss deeply, hungrily, lapping your taste from one another, and you watch reverently, wishing for one of them to kiss you in that way—too need you in that way. How is it, you wonder, that you can be practically nude, restrained, covered in your own cum, and the center of attention, and still feel such a deep, aching sense of loneliness and dread?

The feeling fades as skin rubs over your cunt, soft yet firm. You turn your head, slowly as if in a dream, and find Jeongguk standing between your legs with his satin leopard shirt unbuttoned and his slacks open, cock standing erect between the parted zipper. He glares down at you like an animal who has caught his prey, and you part your lips to take a deep, eager breath, feeling at a loss for words. 

"May I?" Jeongguk asks, rubbing his cockhead over you once more—undoubtedly the sensation you felt moments ago. 

You nod, head turning once more to watch Yoongi and Namjoon paw at one another, connected at the lips, then return your gaze to Jeongguk. He stares down at you as if in waiting, so you croak out a soft, "Please."

"Please, what?" Jeongguk asks. 

Licking your lips, you notice Taehyung standing over Jeongguk's shoulder, dark eyes on you. You are high enough that you wonder whether he would like to fuck you, as well. And with a lift of one of his eyebrows, you wonder whether he has somehow just read your mind, although it is more likely that he is encouraging you to answer Jeongguk.

"Please fuck me," you finally say to Jeongguk, though you have failed to rip your gaze from Taehyung. His hands are nowhere to be seen, and you can't help but imagine him touching himself to the sight of you. 

"Slowly," Taehyung says, eyes on you. "Make her beg a little more."

Jeongguk grins, responds with a sharp, "Yes, sir," and steps forward. His cock rubs against you again, grazing over your clit before catching on your entrance, and you hold your breath in anticipation. Only he does not press forward. He does not enter you. Instead, he stands watching you with a hint of a grin that spells trouble. And you are not too proud to beg. 

"Jeongguk," you mutter, wiggling in the swing, doing your best to push yourself forward but doing nothing that helps your cause whatsoever. "Please."

"Please, wh—"

"Fuck me!" you practically scream. 

Jeongguk chuckles, as does Taehyung. To your right, where Yoongi and Namjoon had been connected at the lips, the shapes and shadows of them move to stand behind you. 

"Please," you say again, knitting your brow, attempting to hold your head up despite how tired your neck feels. You hold eye contact as well as you can manage, but your eyelids flicker against your will. "Please fuck me. I need you."

Hands reach and grab your breasts—tan, lithe fingers; Namjoon's hands. He squeezes you firmly and rolls your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, causing you to exhale and almost drop your head. You want to feel full so badly, and you wish Jeongguk would cave. 

"I said go slow and make her beg," Taehyung says as his hands snake around Jeongguk's waist and rub over his chest and stomach, "not leave her empty and desperate."

Jeongguk's eyes fall to your cunt, where he rubs himself languidly over you, teasing your parted lips and ghosting over your hole. He appears hypnotized, staring down at you, barely moving. This makes Taehyung snicker and paw a little more aggressively at his chest. 

"If you won't fuck her, I'm sure someone else will," Taehyung says, gaze roving between your pussy and your face. "You don't want to lose your chance, do you, baby?"

You attempt to read his expression, wondering whether he is insinuating that he will be the one to finally fill you the way you need—a thought that you are not sure you should be having but that the drugs will not let you let go of. Neck tired, you drop your head back and shiver, feeling suddenly cold. You begin to become acutely aware of how untouched and naked you are. Even Namjoon's hands have moved away from your chest, leaving you on display. 

"Please, someone," you complain, sounding whinier than you want. You shiver harder, each second seeming to pull you down from your high and cover you in a mist of freezing discomfort. "Touch me."

Warm hands press to your forehead and face, and you look up to see Yoongi leaning over you. His brow is knit, outgrown hair hanging prettily in his face. "Are you coming down?" He asks. 

You nod. You must be; the jittery discomfort is impossible to ignore, and the euphoria feels dull. 

"Hang on, Ggeuk," Yoongi says as he disappears. He rummages through some fabric and reappears. "This is the same as the shit you took upstairs," he says, then, "Open," and you do as you are told, opening your mouth with an exaggerated ahhh sound. The powder that hits your tongue is intensely bitter and antiseptic tasting, causing you to cringe and pucker, desperately gathering all the saliva you can in your mouth and swallowing it down. 

Namjoon, however, takes your mouth and prises it open, then leans close and dribbles cold water from his lips to yours. When and where Namjoon produced water, you are unsure, but you open wide, accepting his offering graciously, allowing it to drip down your throat, taking traces of the unpleasant flavor with it. 

"More?" he asks, and you nod, still feeling the lingering drugs on your tongue. Namjoon lifts a glass to his lips, fills his mouth, and then leans close, allowing it to spittle out and onto your tongue. 

Once Namjoon is finished, he stands and takes a step back. Yoongi steps close and, taking advantage of how wide open your mouth still is, begins to tap the head of his cock against your tongue. You attempt to open wider—attempt to move closer—reaching back in the hopes of grabbing onto him and moving him near enough to allow you to suck his dick. However, even he seems eager to tease, and he keeps himself just out of reach. You whimper and moan, mouth lolled open. Namjoon chuckles and reaches once more to paw at your breasts, keeping his beautifully erect cock too far from reach, as well. 

"You guys are the worst," you pout, closing your mouth to Yoongi's teasing and jutting out your bottom lip instead. 

"Alright," Yoongi chuckles, reaching for your jaw. "No more teasing. Jeonggukah, fuck her right now or Namjoon will take your place."

You miss whatever snarky remark Jeongguk says in favor of loudly saying, "Finally!" 

Hands grip your thighs, and you are speared unceremoniously and somewhat unyieldingly on Jeongguk's thick, hard cock. The sensation makes you squeal, involuntarily bucking your hips, and he grips tightly, forcing you to take his entire length all at once. 

"Fuck," you pant, mouth hung open and attempting to angle your head upward to watch Jeongguk fuck you. But your head is held in place as two fingers press down on your tongue, causing drool to pool before those fingers are replaced with a dick. 

Suddenly, you are too full, worked from both ends—gently on one end and rather roughly on the other. You attempt to breathe and relax as your throat is slowly but eagerly opened and fucked, all the while Jeongguk's thighs slam against you in a rhythm that jostles you and causes you to deepthroat who you presume to be Yoongi.

Had Taehyung's earlier game been testing whether you would be able to tell the difference between their dicks in your mouth with you down on your knees, you think you would have easily won. You think you would know any part of them inside any part of you. But at this angle, unable to even properly see the legs of the man who holds you so tenderly but eagerly, with Jeongguk pounding into you like a ravenous beast, you are stumped. Everyone in the room seems to be moaning and gasping, and you imagine that whoever's dick is not in your mouth is in someone else's hand, judging by the sound of skin rubbing against skin. The hands on either side of your face could be mismatched; in this position you are unable to guess.

As the head of the mystery cock presses even deeper into your throat, however, seemingly stretching and opening you in a new, exciting way, the shattered, blissful sound that rips out belongs to Yoongi, and all at once, you are certain that it must be him. And then he pulls out, trailing long strings of saliva from deep in your throat that turn cold the second they hit the air and fall against your chin and down to the floor, bringing Yoongi's paler thighs into view. You gasp for air but allow fingers to press against your tongue. Only now are you able to fully focus on the way your pussy is stretched and pounded so well, and you moan unabashedly, your body quaking its way toward another orgasm. 

It occurs to you that you must be high again, but this time from cocaine. The powder Yoongi dropped onto your tongue certainly tasted like the molly you had earlier, but also something else—a combination, no doubt.

Yoongi's hand grips your neck and holds your head up at an angle that allows you to fully see Jeongguk. He is naked and covered in sweat, fingers digging into your skin, and he looks stunning as he fucks you as hard as he seems able to. As the hand presses against your throat and another hand belonging to Namjoon snakes through the straps of the swing and begins to rub over your clit, you explode from pleasure. 

Jeongguk's expression widens from alarm and pleasure, and he has to keep from getting pushed out of your cunt as wave after wave crashes over you. When he finally does pull out, he is sprayed with your release, giving you only seconds to scream from the intense orgasm that Namjoon urges out with his swirling fingertips before Jeongguk's cock is back inside you, slamming hard. 

Only when Jeongguk pulls out and takes a step back do you see Taehyung in the shadows down on his knees. He opens his lips, and Jeongguk slides his glistening cock inside, moaning as Taehyung finishes him off, swallowing his cum. You spiral on the thought of Taehyung also tasting you but are distracted by Namjoon stepping in front of the scene, stroking his cock and looking down at the mess that is your spread, dripping pussy. 

You expect him to fuck you, but he falls to his knees to lap over your cunt and thighs. He prods three long fingers inside you, and you sigh against the hand still at your throat, lost to bliss. It is incredible how easily you cum, even as your high begins to build once more and the tingling nearly feels like too much to bear. When Yoongi's hand lifts from your throat, you feel somehow dizzier, watching as he steps around the swing to join Namjoon on his knees. 

Everything is a momentary blur as Namjoon and Yoongi take turns between your legs, using their lips, tongues, and hands to make you unravel past the point of becoming non-verbal. You are vaguely aware of hands on your face, throat, and breasts, feeling the presence of Jeongguk behind you at times and beside you at others. The only constant is Taehyung standing ahead, in shadow, watching. 

You take Jeongguk's cock in your throat and drool shamelessly, making as much of a mess as the men between your legs are. In waves, you feel pleasure acutely, bursting through each inch of you, only for it to dull out while you focus on opening your throat as far as it will go. It feels like a dream the way you are touched and used; the dim red and purple lights seem to streak each time you open your eyes. 

It is only when your legs are released from the restraints and you are forced to sit up that you feel fully in your body once more and aware of the room and its inhabitants. You hum questioningly and wipe drool from your chin as the straps are moved from beneath you, and you are made to place your feet on the floor in a squatting position.

Below you, Namjoon lies back against the carpet, atop what looks like a bedsheet, and he reaches up to take you by the hips and pull you down. You spear easily on his thick, hard cock, gripping onto the straps of the swing that connect to the ceiling high above your head on either side for stability, and use your leverage to lift and lower yourself. Namjoon meets you halfway, thrusting his hips upward, and the sensation pulls a raspy moan from your mouth—the first sound you have made in a while. 

You bounce eagerly on his dick, lost in the movement while your head lols, and you moan unabashedly, so full and at such an incredible angle. Hands paw at your breasts and face, and you open your eyes to find Yoongi to your left, cock leaking and eager. Your lips are sore from stretching around cocks, but you are happy to comply, sucking him only half as deep as you would like but humming and moaning and drooling just for him.

Namjoon holds you in place by the hips and fucks hard and fast, causing you to drop Yoongi from your mouth and scream through an intense, dizzying orgasm. Yoongi gets onto the floor in time to lap over your cunt and make you quake from overwhelming pleasure, and then you feel Namjoon's hips still as he fills you with his hot release.

Your legs shake as you are pulled to your feet and maneuvered. You release the straps of the swing and barely catch sight of the bed before you are bent over the edge of the mattress with one large hand pressing the side of your face firmly against the comforter. 

"Yes, please," you beg, desperate for the way Yoongi holds you down and makes you his. 

"Please, what?" he asks, voice low and close, breath hot against your face. 

"Fuck me, Yoongi. Please."

You feel the tip of his cock graze over your entrance, catching on the stretched and ripped fishnet fabric that once covered you. Your lips open and close, dragging over the soft bedding, unable to fully voice your need and desire. It almost feels unfair that you should get to enjoy him last. 

"You miss my cock this much?" he asks, and you realize you have been grinding your ass against him like a bitch in heat. 

You nod, winning you a smack against the ass that stings enough to make you squeal. Yoongi squeezes the spot where he slapped and says, "Use your words," in a sharp, commanding tone. 

"Yes, sir," you whine. "I've missed your cock. Please. Please, please."

Yoongi lessens the press of your face but keeps his hand on your cheek, holding you in place, showing you that it is he who calls the shots. He rubs his cock over your hole and then presses slow and deep, forcing you to gasp and tremble. You feel sore and used, but you are desperate for more—for him. There is a part of you that is glad it is only the two of you in this moment.

Yoongi starts slowly with one hand on your face and the other on your ass, spreading you. He pulls and pushes in long strokes that you feel each and every inch of, driving you absolutely insane with want. Then he lifts his hand from your face, making you acutely aware of the fact that you had been drooling a cold spot onto the blanket. Both hands find your hips, and you lift your head in time for Yoongi to snap forward, making your back bow with pleasure. 

He fucks you hard and fast, a delicious rhythm that you know by heart. You grip onto the comforter and keep your head lifted, letting out each desperate sound that crawls up your throat, eager for Yoongi to know just how good he makes you feel. He lifts one hand and wraps his fingers around your throat, and you see stars, vision blacking as your eyelids flutter closed and you chase a long, rolling orgasm that seems to build and crash, over and over, until your legs are shaking and your body falls limp.

Yoongi continues to use you, slapping and squeezing your ass. "So fucking perfect for me," he moans, thighs crashing against you in loud slaps that burst loudly in the otherwise quiet room. 

You nearly forget that it is not just the two of you in existence, that there are other bodies in this room, more bodies upstairs, infinite other bodies in the world. The urge to cry builds and breaks, tears wetting your cheeks and the blanket as Yoongi's thrusts slow into deep rolls, filling you so perfectly. Yoongi must have given you more of the drug cocktail than you managed to suck from Hwasa's fingertip the first time because you feel more high than you have all night. Immensely high. High in a way that makes you question whether you have ever loved another person as much as you love Min Yoongi—in this moment, but in the soft, quiet moments, as well. 

Yoongi moans and digs his fingers into your skin, then he cums deep inside you. Rather than pull out, he lies forward, draping his body over yours, panting against you, and pressing you forward. It is awkward the way your bodies are bent, and it makes you giggle. Yoongi chuckles in return, then slowly begins to stand. He presses his lips to your neck and shoulders, then his warmth retreats, leaving behind sweat that turns cold and makes you shiver. 

It occurs to you that you will need to move, and you groan. The thought of standing—of using your legs at all—feels impossible. Luckily, a warm hand presses against your lower back, and Namjoon's deep, sweet voice instructs you to stay where you are. A warm cloth rubs over your sore cunt, and you jolt before relaxing into the touch. He wipes you down, then leans close and kisses your neck and shoulder similar to the way Yoongi had. 

Yoongi and Namjoon—wearing black slacks but no shirts, glistening with a sheen of sweat—assist you with getting fully naked before gathering your clothing. You are given a dry, clean pair of panties, which Yoongi pulls from the pocket of his jacket, flashing a sheepish grin as he tucks the soiled pair in their place. The stockings are ruined and tossed aside, and Yoongi apologizes for not knowing to bring another set.

"You owe Hyejin," you say with a raised eyebrow, attempting to seem upset about the inconvenience to your friend but unable to keep from smiling. 

You realize now that Taehyung and Jeongguk are gone, and you wonder whether they are in another room or have gone back up to the party. You mean to ask, but you are still too floaty to focus on anything but the hands on your body, zipping your dress and stepping each foot into socks and boots. As Yoongi slides his arms into a black satin shirt, you lean half-sitting against the bed, watching him. You have missed those hands, that hair, those muscles. Everything about him. And yet, you are frozen in a limbo of sorts, even now hesitating to reach out and touch him. 

His jacket is draped over the end of the bed to your right, and you watch as he walks past, picks it up, and puts it on. You feel mesmerized by his presence, by the slight ringing in your ears, by your body continuing to fully return to itself. You are unsure whether it is the drugs or the sex, or likely both, but you feel as if you are still somewhat tethered to your corporeal form but not fully inhabiting it. 

Yoongi runs his hands down his front, smoothing down his jacket, then turns to hand Namjoon his. They lean close, smile sweetly, and share a soft, slow kiss. Then Yoongi pulls his phone from his slacks pocket, thumbs around, and smiles. 

"Tae wants the stash," he says. 

Finally, you ask, "Where did they go?"

"Next door," Namjoon replies as he straightens his jacket, which covers a black satin shirt matching the one Yoongi wears. 

Yoongi steps forward and uses his fingertips to tilt your chin upward. You expect a kiss and part your lips, but Yoongi uses his thumbs to rub at what you imagine is very smeared makeup. Once he is satisfied, he hums and places a kiss against the tip of your nose. He attempts to step back, dropping his hands from your face, but you are unsatisfied, and you grab onto the lapels of his jacket, yanking him toward you with a force that makes the two of you stumble.

"Not so fast," you mutter before your lips meet. You sigh into the feeling and continue to grip his jacket, relaxing only as Yoongi's arms encircle your waist and pull you close.

He deepens the kiss, and tears streak down your cheeks, hot and fast. You chase his tongue, licking, tasting him, tasting yourself, drowning in this moment, in him. And then your tears turn into sobs, and you break the kiss and fall into Yoongi's chest. You tell yourself that it is just the drugs, that you are simply overwhelmed, but you know that is not the full truth. You love him. You miss him. As much as all of this has been an incredible reprieve, the thought of letting him go again feels like a nightmare. 

But what could be a greater nightmare than witnessing your friend get shot, than feeling the crushing weight of another vehicle slamming into yours, than the popping crunch of bullets meeting glass and polycarbonates? Your heart feels ripped in two, and you catch your breath, shaking your head as two deep, concerned voices ask whether you are alright, then attempting to nod, knowing that the gesture is unconvincing. 

"This has all been a lot for you," Namjoon says, warm thumbs stroking your cheeks. You open your eyes to find his sad smile shining toward you and collapse into his chest, still partially in Yoongi's hold. 

The two of them softly shush and stroke you, telling you that you are safe and loved, that they are sorry for how intense everything has become, how they should have known you would need more aftercare. 

"Want to go back to the hanok?" Yoongi offers. "A dip in the tub might be good for you."

You think about Yoongi and Namjoon in Ryujin's home, and your stomach roils. Everything has been significantly too strange, and that might make matters worse. And there are still people upstairs who you would like to spend time with. One in particular who you feel like you haven't seen in many lifetimes.

"No," you insist, catching your breath. "You're right, it got too intense. I just needed to come back to earth a little more."

Despite being antsy to leave this room that smells like sweat and cum, they continue to comfort you a little longer. It feels nice, and you tilt your head in a way that urges a soft, sweet kiss from Namjoon. Then the three of you finally bid this room farewell, and you walk into the hallway, hand in hand with Yoongi on your left and Namjoon on your right. 

Only, Yoongi pulls away at the first door on the left and knocks, digging into his pocket and pulling out a silver vial that is similar to the one he wears on a chain around his neck, but larger. You wait a beat, breathing deeply in an attempt to get your bearings. At some point, the high must have plateaued because you can feel yourself coming down again, and this time, you are certain that you do not need more powders floating around in your bloodstream. 

The door swings open, and you are shocked to see Taehyung standing in only a pair of dark briefs. His hair is tousled, body is covered in sweat, and there are deep scratches down his chest and arms that are raised and red. Yoongi hands the vial over, which Taehyung takes, nodding his thanks. You look past Taehyung to see a nude Jeongguk in the middle of the room, restrained to a sex swing but standing—well, swaying—with his body limp and head drooped forward. He, too, has deep welts scratched down his arms and chest, as well as other red marks that suggest impact play of some kind.

"He just needs a little pick-me-up," Taehyung says with a wink before disappearing into the room and shutting the door behind him. You remain standing with your mouth agape until Yoongi takes you by the hand, and you are led back upstairs.

Namjoon excuses himself to the restroom, and you consider following, self-conscious about the way you must look after what has taken place. You trust that Yoongi will not bring you back upstairs with messy hair and makeup, but you imagine you must have cried and rubbed off every last trace of eyeshadow and mascara. Still, you are more eager to have a drink in hand and continue with Yoongi into the main hall. 

Your legs tremble as you make your way to the party, and a jolt of fear rips through you at the sight of the man standing behind the bar who looks suspiciously like Christian, causing your step to falter. Yoongi clocks the movement, turning to you with a hum, and you look over to him, to his curious gaze, then ahead, opening your mouth to tell him what you see. Only, you do not see Christian. The bartender has shaggy dark hair and wears all black, but otherwise looks like every other man in the building. Hell, in a dark enough room, with long enough hair, Jeongguk could look enough like Christian to give you pause. 

You chuckle and smile softly, doing your best to play it off. "Just a little shaky from the come-down."

Yoongi hums again, accepting your answer as the two of you continue your approach to the bar. Seokjin, Hoseok, and Jimin stand along the rightmost edge, drinks in hand. Jimin faces you with his elbows against the bar between Seokjin and Hoseok, who seem to be speaking to and around him. They all wear tan suits—Seokjin's and Hoseok's a darker shade with beige ties and burgundy shirts. Jimin's suit is lighter, fitted tighter, and he wears what appears to be a satin ascot tucked into a white shirt with its top two buttons undone and burgundy  suede loafers. 

As you approach, you notice a glazed-over darkness in Jimin's eyes, and you have to wonder whether he has partaken in the drugs. He smiles lazy and open, pushing off the bar and turning momentarily to shove his glass of clear liquid into Seokjin's free hand. Seokjin scoffs as if Jimin's action inconveniences him, but his eyes are soft and loving as he shakes his head and continues his conversation with Hoseok, double-fisting his and Jimin's drinks

A sexy R&B song plays overhead, and Jimin's hips dip and sway as he approaches. You watch his movements, impressed with how fluid and delicate he can be. He lifts his hands when you are close enough and runs fingertips of both hands gently over your temples, to your cheeks, and along your neck. A shiver works its way down your spine, and you grin through slightly clattering teeth. The ascot around his neck has a pretty floral pattern and you feel the urge to touch it.  

"Need more molly, dove?" Jimin asks.

You shake your head, unsure whether you can handle the come-up and come-down again after all that has transpired downstairs—especially given your emotional state, although your nerves seem to have calmed a bit since your episode downstairs.

"Coke?" he offers, pulling a chain around his neck and revealing a large silver cross with roses inlaid all around it. 

With a chuckle, you nod. You have no evidence to support the claim, but you feel like cocaine might even you out. Or it could make you worse. Still, you accept when Jimin unscrews the top of the cross and produces a small spoon connected to his chain that is already full of white powder. You lean close and lift your hand to delicately hold his hand in place and snort the drug into your right nostril. Jimin retrieves one more spoonful, and you repeat the motion on the left side. All the while, Yoongi holds onto your right hand. 

"So," Jimin says, leaning to rest his forehead against yours and speaking as he snorts two small piles of coke and then replaces the spoon. "Yoongi's scar…he won't tell me how it all went down, and you know I will die if I don't have all the gossip."

Yoongi's hold on your hand loosens and falls away, and you attempt to look his way, but you are stuck in place as Jimin's arms snake around your waist. 

"Whiskey, darling?" Yoongi asks, leaning close. 

You try to nod and mutter, "Yes, please. Thank you."

Once he walks away, you sigh and lift your arms to wrap around Jimin. He sways slightly to the music, and you mirror his movements, unable to resist. 

"Are you sure you want to recount that night?" you ask. 

Jimin hums and nods. You can't see much, but you can see him smile. 

You sigh. "After you were shot, I went into a rage." Emotions build, trembling as they fill your chest. Your voice wavers as you say, "Jimin, I lost my fucking mind."

Jimin's arms tighten, and he pulls you into a hug, resting his chin on your shoulder. You sigh and smile, wrapping him in a tight embrace. It is hard not to lament the fact that he has finally woken up and you are not in Seoul to spend time with him. You miss him dearly, and all the chaos that is Paradise. 

Once the hug loosens, you both stand straight, hands still on each other's hips. Jimin sways and heavy-blinks, and you wonder why he is so content wasting his high on this moment when he could be on the dancefloor or tangled downstairs with someone on one of the beds. When he giggles, his entire face lights up. 

"Doll…I don't know what this has to do with his scar."

At this, you swallow thickly and rapidly blink. The cocaine is hitting, and you have to take in a deep breath.  

"Just listen," you say, then swallow again. Jimin frowns. "After you were…" you trail off, unable to say it again. 

Jimin raises his eyebrows, slowly and clearly saying, "Shot."

You let out a breath that is halfway to laughter and nod, causing him to smile in return. "Yes, well, I emptied my clip in the guy's face." Jimin's eyes widen and he gasps. "I'm sure I looked insane just shooting a dead man in the head over and over and…"

The song switches to something slightly more upbeat and Jimin sways harder. You struggle with the mental image of the man on the ground with six bullets turning his face into a pile of gore. The sound of flesh, blood, and bone becoming pulp with each shot echoes in your mind and you swallow thickly, then look over Jimin's shoulder, nodding to Yoongi. You need that drink. 

Yoongi, who leans against the bar between Namjoon on his left and Seokjin and Hoseok on his right, nods once and steps forward, holding a glass of whiskey in each hand. You wonder whether he has stood there just like that this entire time waiting for your signal. Has he been watching you? What must he think, knowing you feel so deeply for him despite being unwilling to return to his home? Does this, too, open a deep scar on his heart matching the one over his eye?

You stand a bit straighter as Yoongi approaches, and Jimin mirrors you then slowly pulls away, giving you distance. He continues to dance, but there is a faraway look in his eye as you reach past him for the drink in Yoongi's hand. 

"Mind if I cut in?" Yoongi asks.

Jimin steps closer, pulling you tight once more, causing your fingers to slip away from the glass that is thankfully still held tightly in Yoongi's grasp. 

"Yes, I fucking mind," Jimin says in a snarky tone. You continue to reach for the drink. "She was entreating me with the wonderfully harrowing tale of how you got that pretty little battle scar, since you won't tell me."

Yoongi groans and rolls his eyes, attempting a smile. But you can tell that there is something else in that expression. Something he does his best to tamp down and keep out of sight. He hands you his drink and nods a little bow before returning to the bar. 

"Touchy subject?" Jimin teases.

You frown, "Well, I was the one who gave him the scar."

Jimin's hold on you drops at the same time his mouth falls open. Suddenly, you want to curl in on yourself, but you opt to lift the whiskey to your lips and take a nice slow swig, instead. It burns against your tongue, much stronger and more flavorful than what you had been drinking earlier in the evening, and it takes you a moment to gather yourself and continue your story. 

"As I said, you were shot and I lost my mind. First, I emptied my clip into the man's head. Then, out of anger over having no more bullets, I tried to bludgeon him with the butt of the gun. But Namjoon caught me and dragged me away, and my weapon was confiscated."

You pause again to take a sip, doing your best to read the expression on Jimin's face. It seems to be a mix of shock and sadness, but also something akin to admiration.

"I was still in a rage, and so I reached for the switchblade that Jeongguk and Taehyung gifted me, which was in a garter on my thigh." You watch as Jimin's expression deepens, and against your will, tears begin to form in your eyes. You rapidly blink, doing your best not to let them fall, and as you continue, your voice wavers. "I took out the knife and attempted to lunge forward. Namjoon caught my hand and pulled it back, and tip must have—"

You remember the way the blade caught and snagged; the way blood leaked between Yoongi's fingers. With a gulp, you finish your drink. Jimin thumbs at the tears you are unable to prevent from falling, then takes your hand and leads you out of the main room and into the hallway, near the restrooms. It is dark and a bit quieter, and he pulls your empty glass from your hand, then wraps you in a hug.

Although you do not feel the urge to fully cry, you lean into the hug and breathe deeply, allowing the tears that have formed to fall. Jimin's hands—which are free of drinkware, and you are unsure how—rub over your shoulders and neck. After a long moment of breathing in Jimin's cologne and settling your heart, you nod and Jimin breaks the hug. You feel exhausted by this night. 

Jimin takes your hand and pulls you into the restroom, which is too brightly lit for comfort, making you squint. He pulls a tube of mascara from the inner breast pocket of his jacket and tilts your face toward him, making you smile. "I spoke to Ryujin about bringing you to Paradise some time soon, if that's something you want."

Your smile widens and you do your best to hold your face as still as possible as you say, "I would love that."

"It will be good for you and Yoongi to be seen together in public more than once in a blue moon," he explains, then finishes his task while adding, "and, of course, we all miss you."

"I miss you, too," you say barely above a whisper. 

Jimin uses water to fuss with your hair, which you opt not to perceive in the mirror, worried about the weathered, sad person you may find staring back at you. Then he leads you back to the bar for shots of something fruity and strawberry-flavored. He and Hwasa pull you to an empty dance cage, and the three of you lose yourselves to the music while multiple tiny piles of cocaine are introduced to your nose and simmer through your body.

It feels nice to let go and dance, to touch and be touched in friendly and flirtatious ways—to feel like, in this moment, you simply exist outside of the mafia families that surround you. It is only when you are panting and exhausted that the three of you leave the cage and seek out water. 

You are tipsy and stumble a bit toward the bar. Taehyung and Jeongguk have returned—Taehyung appearing perfectly put together and Jeongguk looking like he has been to hell and back, shell-shocked with a wide stare and his hair an absolute mess—and you wink at them on your way to the bar. 

As you wait for a glass of water, Yoongi's cologne tickles your senses and large hands begin to paw at you. "I was watching you dance," he says into your ear, voice low and whiskey-laced. 

"Oh?" you ask, smiling but keeping your gaze ahead. The water is set before you, and you gulp it down, feeling the cold absorb into your body, giving you chills. When you turn to Yoongi, his jaw is set as if he is angry, but you know that it is a horny impatience that he masks.

"Darling," he groans, eyes bloodshot, drunk.

You attempt to bite back a smile, but it is impossible, and the sight of your glee seems to make him all the more impatient. Poor guy looks pained. You lean close, high on your toes to whisper, "Baby, I'm sore."

He groans and nods in pained understanding, making you giggle. "Next time I want you all to myself," he insists, and you nod. You would like that.

Namjoon, whose back had been to the two of you turns, notices Yoongi's expression and cocks his head. You let your eyes trail down and then back up as you say, "He has a problem that needs to be taken care of. Be a dear?"

"Ah," he says in understanding. 

Namjoon leads Yoongi off toward the hallway—to the restroom or back downstairs, you imagine. You chuckle and turn back to the bar for another glass of whiskey as Taehyung sidles up to your right, taking Yoongi's place.

"How do you feel?" he asks, leaning close. 

You scoff, making him cock his head. "Good," you say on a deep exhale, facing him. "And you?"

Taehyung grins, eyes sparkling. "Good."

"Good," you say, turning back to the bar. You manage to order another glass of the whiskey Yoongi has been drinking with your eyes ahead, but you can feel Taehyung's intense gaze on you. 

"What?" you complain when a glass is in your hands. You turn toward him but look at the golden tiger on his lapel.

"Just thinking," he says. Annoying.

You lift your gaze to his, asking, "About what?" 

Taehyung licks his lips and says, "You," giving you chills. 

You find it hard to hold his intense stare and drop your eyes to his chest once more, taking a drink of whiskey. 

"Just making sure you're actually doing well," he clarifies. "The scene in there was pretty intense."

"That it was," you say. You feel antsy, though you are not sure why. Could it be due to the way you were thinking about Taehyung while high? You wonder whether you might feel that way about him while sober. 

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks, quieter.

Suddenly, you feel silly. You were not uncomfortable with Taehyung in the room with you before, and there is no reason you should be now. 

"No," you say, looking him in the eye. "Sorry. You are right that it was intense, and I think I am still spiraling a little from it all."

"My presence there doesn't bother you?"

You open your mouth but hesitate, gaze falling to his mouth as you wonder what he might kiss like. "No," you say, swallowing your pride before continuing. "I like having you there."

"I'm glad," you watch his lips say. You feel silly for staring openly, but it is the first time you ever have. Taehyung really is beautiful, and his soft, semi-rectangular pout intrigues you almost as much as the cold psychopathy you occasionally glimpse in his eyes.

"It is strange?" you ask, looking up into his eyes. The expression you find is just as intense as it was earlier. "Watching, I mean."

Taehyung's eyes trail back and forth between yours. He appears to be gathering his thoughts. When he simply shakes his head and says nothing more, you lift your free hand to smack him on the arm. With a chuckle, he leans close. 

"I like to share and watch, but otherwise not become more involved." You open your mouth and begin to ask why, but he cuts you off, leaning closer. "Nobody can handle my wrath quite like Jeongguk can. I am afraid fucking me is akin to having a near-death experience."

A gasp falls from your lips, in part because you know he is not joking, and because you are so curious to know more. You recall the way Jeongguk looked hanging from his wrists earlier, like a corpse waiting to be butchered. Taehyung chuckles in your ear, presses a soft kiss to your temple, and stands up straight. 

"Trust me, it is an honor to be in audience of you, buttercup. You put on quite the show."

This makes you laugh, pushing all the tension out. You feel silly but relieved and step to the side, away from the bar enough to courtesy and say, "Thank you," winning a deep chuckle from Taehyung. 

Yoongi and Namjoon return—Yoongi looking far better than he had before, and Namjoon with fresh reddened fingerprints around his neck. You lament missing whatever the two of them managed to do so fast but ultimately feel glad to have sorted out whatever it is you were feeling for Taehyung. It is a relief to keep at least some relationships semi-platonic, especially if being fucked by him means putting your safety and well-being at risk. You think that perhaps this revelation explains a lot about Jeongguk. 

You lift your whiskey to your lips, but Yoongi swipes it from your hand, holding stern eye contact as he drinks the entire glass at once. A surge of petulance rises, outmatched only by how much you absolutely adore him with his long, wavy hair and sharp red scar. He makes a dramatic ahh sound as if he had just quenched his thirst with the purest water, then leans into you to set the empty glass onto the bar top. 

"What—" you begin, hoping to ask what his problem is, or perhaps what the fuck he thinks he is doing, but he  mutters, "Come with me," and takes you by the hand, leading you through the hall to the hallway and up into the VIP section, causing you to stumble in haste to keep up. It is vacant in this area, save for a security guard who nods as you pass, and you are pulled to a dark corner that does not look out over the dancefloor or any other space that another living human may be occupying. 

Without saying a word, Yoongi pulls your legitimate engagement ring from his pocket—not the larger one meant for show—and lowers to one knee. Your stomach dips from the movement, and you suddenly feel unstable on your feet. 

"I have a proposition for you," he says, taking your left hand and sliding the cold metal onto your ring finger. You stare at him, not quite ready to perceive the ring on your hand once more. Rather than respond, you simply stare at Yoongi, who licks his lips and glances up at you pleadingly. 

"I could have a house built for you," he says as if it is nothing—as if simply willing a house into existence is as easy to him as loading bullets into a handgun. "Deep on the property, past the gardens and the other homes, where nobody could ever bother you. You can have all the space you desire, but still be close to us."

Tears build, and you feel bile rise to your throat. This offer is enormous and ridiculous, and there is simply no way you would feel wholly safe or comfortable living on the same plot of land as his mansion. You search for what to say, but words fail you. It feels impossible to tell Yoongi to his face that this offer is preposterous, yet you cannot bring yourself to even attempt to consider it. 

He must read the concern on your face, and he sits up a little taller, gripping your hand between his two as if you are suddenly a lifeline that he must not let go of. 

"I can buy you a house in Seoul. Or a penthouse, if you prefer an apartment. You can have a private entrance with my most trusted men guarding, and be a short drive away rather than a long one."

This offer is far more reasonable, but it still worries you. What if news gets out that Yoongi's fiancé is not only living separately from him but that they have managed to spot you coming and going? How difficult would it be for someone like Christian to find you?

"Yoongi, I don't know," you finally say. Your guts roil with uncertainty, and your heart pounds, making you feel nauseated. 

Yoongi nods and smiles, but you can see that he is disappointed. Here before you, down on one knee, is a man who is not used to being told no. This is not how he anticipated this would go, and it is clear that is the case. 

"Alright," he says, standing with your hand still tight between his. He pulls you close for a hug, and you hesitate before lifting your arms to return the embrace. "I am sorry if that was not the right thing to offer. I just thought—"

"No," you say, shaking your head and tilting your face into his neck. You press your lips to his skin. "It was a generous offer, Yoongi. An amazing one, really. I'm just…I don't know. I'm still really afraid."

Yoongi hugs you tighter, and you breathe deeply, eyes closed, silently existing in this moment. It is impossible not to imagine what life with him could be like under any other circumstance, especially now. 

"I understand," he says, pulling back just far enough to rest his forehead against yours. "We can discuss it again if and when you are ready. I am in no rush, darling. Really. I just miss you." Yoongi kisses you softly and says, "I miss you so fucking much."

"I miss you too," you say, doing your best to smile through the tumult of emotion. "It's hell without you, Yoongi. I miss so much about being with you…but there have been so many moments that have had too negative of an impact on my mental health. I don't want this to be forever, though.  And when I'm ready, we can talk about it some more. Really, it is such a kind offer, and I appreciate it more than I could ever say."

Yoongi's expression conveys a deep sadness the likes of which you have never seen. You wish more than anything that you could wave a magic wand and make everything normal. No more drugs, no more guns, no more fires or car crashes. The anxiety that fills you at the thought of watching him return to Seoul without you is similar to the anxiety you feel over staying in a hanok full of strangers in Busan whose intentions you are not completely sure you understand or trust. 

You continue to hold one another for a moment longer, swaying slightly. Whether it is from the alcohol, or the music playing, or the simple enjoyment of the movement, you are uncertain, aware only that it is nice to be here with him like this. 

"I fear we should head back to Seoul soon," Yoongi finally says. 

Of course, the realization is somewhat soul-crushing. Just because you are in no rush to return to his mansion does not mean you want him to hurry back there, either. 

"Tonight?" you ask, leaning back and cocking your head to the side. Yoongi raises his eyebrows, and you shrug. "I just thought maybe you would leave in the morning."

He appears to think it over. "I suppose I could stay for one night."

From one simple sentence, you feel elated. Falling asleep beside Yoongi is something you have come to deeply miss. Except…you frown. 

"I'm not sure how I feel about sleeping under Ryujin's roof with you. Is that weird? Should I not care?"

Yoongi chuckles. He takes your hand and leads you back through the dark VIP area toward the rest of the party. "I have a penthouse nearby, darling."

"Of course, you do," you say with a playful hint of annoyance. Yoongi squeezes your hand, filling you with the same warmth and butterflies that you remember from months past. 

"You can part from your girls for a night?" Yoongi teases as you enter the hallway. 

You scoff. "Meaning, what?"

He leans close and says, "I see the way Hyejin looks at you. Or…what is it you call her…Hwasa? It really rolls off the tongue." Your mouth falls open, and you watch as his smile sharpens into a grin. "Sorry, is the thought of her name on your tongue making you flustered, darling?"

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you have to look away. As the two of you enter the main hall, you glance to the dance cage you were in earlier to find Hwasa and Jimin grinding in the way two platonic queer besties would. She certainly is dressed to impress with her bodice and skirt hugging each of her curves as if the material was cut specifically for her body. Yoongi chuckles darkly and squeezes your hand before letting it go, only to slide it around your waist and tug you close. 

"I wouldn't mind, you know," he says so low that you are not quite sure you heard him. There are no lyrics to the music that plays, but it is loud enough to mask parts of his tone. 

"Hmm?" you ask, turning to look at him. 

"I wouldn't mind," he says, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. "If you wanted to fuck her."

"Oh, my god," you grumble, turning your face away as your cheeks go even hotter. Leave it to Yoongi to be able to have a serious conversation for precisely one brief moment before returning to his natural state of being a feral, horny monster. 

Namjoon spots the two of you and begins to approach, eyes quickly darting down to the ring on your hand as a smile tugs at his lips.

"I am just saying," Yoongi continues, and you wish he would not, "no need to ask permission. The answer is already yes."

Namjoon leans to press a kiss to your lips, then looks between the two of you, asking, "Permission for what?"

You feel antsy and glance around, making sure nobody is around to hear Yoongi say, "For our darling to fuck Hyejin."

"Good god," Namjoon mutters under his breath. You roll your eyes as he adds, "Absolutely, no objections here."

You grumble, "You two are incorrigible," under your breath.

"Ah, Namjoon-ah," Yoongi says as he pulls you closer to his side. His fingertips play with the hem of your dress just below your left breast. "I am afraid I will have to miss tomorrow's activities. Our darling has asked me to stay with her tonight."

Namjoon's smile falters for such a split moment that it is nearly imperceptible. "Ah. No worries, baby. Seokjin and I can handle everything. And, did you ask her about…"

He trails off, but you know what he is hinting at, and a pang of sadness stabs you directly in the gut. 

"I did," Yoongi responds with a sigh, "but she is not quite ready to return to Seoul."

Namjoon nods, taking in a deep breath. You nibble on your bottom lip searching for something to say to him, but nothing feels quite right. Promising for an uncertain future feels disingenuous, even if all you want in this moment is to give sweet Namjoon anything in this world he could want. 

"I'm sorry," is all you can bring yourself to say.

Namjoon shakes his head. His gaze is soft and slightly sad, but so loving. "Will you at least keep the jewelry? And the clothing?" His lips falter, and he glances down at his shoes. "I know they're just material things, but it felt so strange to see it all left behind. You didn't regret receiving any of it, did you?" 

You feel a horrible guilt as Namjoon's gaze lifts to meet yours. How you could have possibly made him think your gifts were not good enough—that you may have regretted them somehow—has you wishing you had never left anything behind. Shaking your head, you step forward, wrap your arms around Namjoon's ribs, and press your face against his chest, listening to his quick, worried heartbeat. 

"Nothing about that night went as planned," you say, squeezing him as tight as you can manage. Namjoon's arms lift and engulf you with warmth. "I'm so sorry I made you feel that way. I absolutely love the gifts, especially the jewelry."

You loosen the hug and take a step back, holding Namjoon's gaze. It is devastating how handsome he is with tears glistening in his eyes. 

"If I'm being honest…" you begin, taking a deep breath. "I left the items because I wasn't sure whether you two would be upset with me. After all, I snuck away. I thought…I suppose I thought I wouldn't be worthy of keeping what had been given to me, and so I left it all behind. I felt guilty at the thought of taking any of it, knowing what I would be doing to you."

Namjoon nods in understanding and then pulls you closer. Yoongi follows, sandwiching you between warm bodies that feel and smell like home. You breathe slow and deep, smiling through the exhaustion that engulfs you; you hate to admit that you will not last much longer on your feet. With the promise of visiting Jimin and the others at Paradise soon, you feel a little lighter; a little more willing to part for now. 

Bodies begin to file out as you and your family men crowd the bar for shots. Ryujin and her core group of girls join in, and you all toast and drink, one after another after another until your body is dizzy and heavy and begging to lie down. You hug the women good night, feeling eyes on you as Hwasa wraps her arms around you with a pout.  She takes a step back and whines that she will miss you tonight. When you turn to face the men, Yoongi, Namjoon, and Jeongguk all wear curiously devious expressions. 

As you hug Jimin goodbye, he takes a step back to speak but then eyes your dress and boots, and his expression brightens. "Hold on," he says, "this is the outfit you were wearing the day we all met."

You smile widely and nod, impressed that someone has recognized the outfit. Yoongi steps forward and hums a questioning sound. 

"This outfit," Jimin says, "she was wearing it the first time we saw our buttercup."

Yoongi cocks his head to the side and frowns. "The first time?" he asks. 

A moment passes that is brief and confusing. The two share a glance, Jimin with his eyebrows raised, and then Yoongi clears his throat, licks his lips, and says, "Of course. Sorry, darling, the alcohol must have gone straight to my head. I remember now. You were so adorably angry in this dress."

You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to be an utter brat. "You forgot what I was wearing the day you spirited me away…not very chauvinistic of you."

Yoongi smiles and chuckles, but there is something in his thoughtful expression that makes you uncomfortable, especially with how Jimin is looking at him as if he has said something unforgivably wrong. That had been the first time they saw you…right? Paranoia rears its ugly head, and you do your best not to allow yourself to travel down roads you have no business visiting. Especially after how emotionally fraught this night has been. After all, Christian had been working for him, so perhaps Yoongi saw you in passing once or twice before. Anything is possible. 

As you continue to wish everyone a good night, it sinks in that you are soon returning to your life free of the men you love, and sadness settles deep within you. But first, you will spend a night with Yoongi in his penthouse on the ocean and you do your best to be in the present moment and not wallow in what is to come. 

Namjoon follows behind in his own car and joins the two of you for a glass of water and a soft, slow makeout session on the couch overlooking the dark sea. He treats you to several blissful orgasms using his skilled lips, teeth, and fingers, and you watch as he and Yoongi take turns cuming in each other's mouths after you regretfully whine that your holes are too sore to accommodate them anymore for the night.

Namjoon slips away with deep promises and soft kisses as you begin to fall fast asleep wrapped around Yoongi's body. You drift off thinking about how warm and solid he is; how your body slots beside his as if the two of you are built for one another. But there is a part of you that also wonders what outfit had been on Yoongi's mind when he was imagining the first time he ever saw you. Were you in that black dress or something else entirely? Had that time at the river been the first time he laid eyes on you, or were there other times? Secret times when you had no idea of his existence. How long might he have been watching you? Of course, you know this line of thinking is ridiculous, and you smile as you bury your nose into his skin and inhale the sweet, musky scent of him. 

You drift deeply, swiftly, remembering what home feels like.

*

i drive fast, wind in my hair i push it to the limit 'cause i just don't care

i've got a burning desire for you, baby

🎵 visit the playlist

❗❗❗ important authors note: as mentioned previously, i am basically condensing everything that was going to be a 20 chapter fic into the last two chapters and the next 6ish chapters. i think you will understand why i chose to do it this way. something to keep in mind: all major warnings are already listed. things in future chapters might seem really, really fucking bad. please trust the author and the tags and don't let me lose you on this ride because i am intentionally going to be vague and non-descript about certain plot points outside of the narrative. i don't like to give things away, which means we might become traumatized together. from this point on, the story is going to shift in a big way. i love you. thank you for reading.

happy new year, my dears! if you observed holidays, i hope they have been good. i hope you have a lovely lunar new year & eat the best foods! if you're on break from class, i hope you get a lot of rest. i got all As last semester, and i bet you also did an amazing job at whatever you got into. i miss you very, very much and i hope to be back soon. 💜

EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU IS THE WIND BENEATH MY WINGS!!! REBLOGS ARE IMPORTANT BLAHBLAHBLAH LIKES ARE ALSO AMAZING AND SO ON. 💜 tags will be coming in reblogs. also, character asks are always active if you have some burning questions or comments (just don't expect me to outright spoil anything hehehe.)

😘😘😘

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Collateral is copyright 2022-2025 theharrowing, all rights reserved. no translations of reposts allowed.

[ryuttaeng]

could you possibly do either hcs or a fic of new itzy member reader who was the each of the girls gay awakening?? i feel like chaeryeong would be panicking and really nervous because she hasnt felt something like this and so strongly too 😭🥹

okay so you were added to the group members lineup at the very last moment, you barely knew any basic info about each members and nearly freaked out when you first actually met them. itzy’s reaction wasn’t so bad, but wasn’t very pleasant either…. at least at first. ever since you performed together, you grew closer to each members. how could they not notice how insanely beautiful you are??? and you were also kind but had a struggle with opening up to new people but anyway, you’re their bff now! or at least for now.

i guess yeji would be so dumbfounded when she realizes that she likes you??? and not in a friendly way??? girlie is so nervous about that fact and she just can’t handle it but to tell to her members but she can’t because they’ve never discussed same-sex relationship before 😭 she always thought she was into guys only, and even if she liked a girl, she would think it was just a friendly sympathy. yeji would also get so smiley around you and will often just smile to her own thoughts. if she will have enough courage to confess to you, she will make her best to do that in private, and also would try to be romantic. but my pookie is just so nervous, she will stutter and almost tripped over when she came 😭🤞🏻🤞🏻 thank goodness you just simply kissed yeji and asked her to be your girlfriend faster than her.

LIA MY BELOVED 😞😞😞 i think she will just simply accept the fact that you’re the first girl she ever liked as not a friend. eventually she’ll ask her gay friends how to confess to you properly and will ask some advices how to give you hints that she likes you lmao 😭 she will always touch your hand, always leaning on your shoulder during breaks on practices and just will rub circles on your arm while holding your hand and you’re just like 🤷🏻‍♀️ you’re okay w it and don’t really pay attention to it. lia would reveal her feelings by getting jealous when one of members were jokingly flirting with you 😭 she would just storm out of the room, making you confused and go after her. asking her what’s wrong and she will kiss you quickly, and after that lia would get so shy 😭😭🤞🏻 but you just chuckle and hug her tightly, kissing her cheek.

ryujin will just go 🧍🏻‍♀️ when she realizes that she have feelings for you. girl would occasionally flirt with you but you just laughed it off, thinking it’s just her personality and she will just be like “oh well yep 🧍🏻‍♀️”. she would complain to other members that it would be easier to have feelings for some guy and not you instead, but you come into the room with “have feelings for who?” and bae will just be “no one 🧍🏻‍♀️” help 😭😭🤞🏻how she would confess? she would get so wistful one day and it made you feel worried for her. “are you okay ryu?” and she will just automatically nod and not pay attention to anyone. at the end of the day you’ll sit down beside ryujin, telling her that you’re worried about her, and she will just go “i think i like you, y/n. no- i don’t think, just- oh well….” 😭😭😭 she’s so nervous but you calm her down by kissing her nose aww

I AGREE W YOU ON CHAERYEONG. she’s my cutie that nearly freaks out when her friend told her that she has feelings for you 🤞🏻😭 i also think that she will distance herself from you to reflect about her feeling towards you and it will also affect you by making you worried about chae. members would notice that something about you two is wrong and would try to do something about it, for example, they would interrogate chaer that is there’s bad blood between her and you? but she would get so nervous that she would just straight say that she has feeling for you 😭😭 other members would support ryeong and tell some advices how to get closer w you and how to confess. one day members would call you to help them out with something but once you’re at the place, you see only chaeryeong in the room, beautifully dressed and nervously fidgeting her fingers 😭 she would confess to you after a few minutes of overthinking, so scared about your reaction but! you took her hands in yours, telling her that her feelings are mutual and she’s just so happy to hear that 😭😭😭🤞🏻

bae yuna would giggle whenever looking at you and leaving you wondering what was that. she would feel so lightheaded about her feelings to you, that she almost forgot to do or take something. i feel like she would have some diary where she writes about you, her feelings for you and overall just you. she would hide it really hard, thinking that you would think she’s some freak 😭 but aye ryujin would’ve find it first and tease younger shin for that 🤞🏻😭😭😭 but i’m sure ryu would’ve helped yuna to confess to you, giving her some advices. yuna would ask you out to the restaurant, and will calmly confess to you after eating. after hearing your ‘yes’ yuna’s face lit up and she just started kissing your face 🤞🏻😞

[leejenowrld]

back to you — eleven (two)

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 117k words… split between two posts 

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — you and jeno have gone through the world and back—torn apart by grief, rebuilt through love, shattered by circumstance, stitched together by choice. from false promises to wedding vows, betrayal to forgiveness, you’ve weathered heartbreak, distance, desire, and the brutal unraveling of who you thought you were, burning through every version of yourselves just to find your way back to you. but with a baby blooming beneath your ribs and everything you once only dreamed of now resting in your hands, the question remains, can the future you built from ashes survive the gravity of the past? or will the path that always led you home begin to blur now that you’ve finally arrived?

chapter warnings — post college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, there’s not much i can include here cos i don’t wanna spoil anything, i will include a contents warning for the second upload though, there are moments in this final chapter that may be difficult. i won’t spoil anything, because everything in this fic is a spoiler. every single twist, every choice, every reunion and rupture has been deliberate. but know this: the weight of love sits thick in the closing. and if you’ve made it this far, i hope you feel it too. i hope you let yourself feel everything. even the ache. especially the ache.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

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

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

previous, 58k words

Light pools against the pale tile, brushing gold up the walls and over your bare knees, as if morning itself wants to bless this hush. A curtain flutters, the breeze pulling salt and jasmine from the world outside, the frangipani petals scattered in a winding trail that Ryujin insisted would keep away bad luck and bad dreams. The bedroom is charged with quiet, with something deeper than anticipation, an almost sacred expectancy, like the minutes before a storm or the space between the inhale and the prayer. Jeno’s hoodie is a weight on your shoulders, the sleeves too long and smelling of cedar and him, a soft anchor against the tremble in your hands. Last night stretched and folded over itself, all shallow sleep and half-dreams, the ache of absence sharp each time you rolled over to find only the echo of him. Tradition, you’d both agreed, no glimpses before vows, no breaking the line between now and forever. You count the hours by his hoodie, by the ache in your ribs, by the number of times you turned your face into the pillow, whispering promises only the moon heard.

The dress waits in the corner, a slip of white and ivory on its form, catching light like a secret too precious to name. Each time you glance at it, your chest tightens; it isn’t just fabric, but memory woven with hope, years and arguments and forgiveness threaded through silk and lace. Everything feels impossibly close to the surface. In the mirror, your own reflection looks back, barefaced, eyes rimmed with sleepless anticipation, every line and scar familiar. You trace the edge of your jaw, remember the way Jeno once did, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t let fall. The silence of the room is a balm and a razor, letting memories flicker: his hand on your door, the low burn of his gaze, the mornings you woke without him, the night he finally came home. Every bruise and every blessing alive beneath your skin.

You find yourself tucked away in a hidden nook of the villa’s gardens, the world hushed and new. Sunlight filters through a lattice of palm leaves, dappling the rough-hewn table where breakfast has been laid out. fresh fruit still dewy, slices of dragon fruit arranged into tiny pink petals, honey pooling beside torn hunks of warm bread, white china catching the glimmer of the day. The air smells of sweet grass and strong coffee; everything else is held at bay, at least for a while.

You’re ringed by softness, every seat filled with a woman who’s carried you here in some way: Karina in cloud-blue linen, her knees tucked up, dark hair twisted loose, grinning at some memory only she could conjure. Areum, already in laughter, camera beside her plate, cheeks smudged with the kind of easy blush that only comes from being exactly where you belong. Ryujin, half awake, sharp-eyed and gentle, refilling everyone’s cup before you notice yours is empty. Ningning, slippers on, hair wild, feet curled under her, launching into a story so outlandish it makes everyone’s shoulders shake with quiet giggles.

There’s a bright, honeyed intimacy to it, your knees brushing under the table, hands reaching to butter each other’s bread, fingers plucking fruit and offering bites. They talk around you, letting you drift, weaving you into the fabric of the morning with every nudge and glance. “You look like a dream,” Areum says, squeezing your hand; Karina teases her for getting sentimental, flicking a grape into her mouth and missing by inches. Ningning demands a preview of the vows, Ryujin insists on a group selfie, and you just smile, half here, half swept up in the enormity of what’s waiting just beyond the garden wall.

You barely eat—nerves fluttering in your stomach, appetite lost to the rise and swell of feeling—but they don’t let you drift too far. Karina presses her shoulder to yours, warmth a quiet shield. Ryujin braids your hair as you sit, her fingers nimble, voice low, whispering, “Don’t worry, your crown’s already waiting.” Areum snaps a photo and holds it up for you to see: four women, sunlight tangled in their lashes, love so visible you almost look away. For a moment, nothing else exists. just you and these women, in a sun-drenched corner of the world, holding the morning close, letting it soften every sharp thing that ever threatened to break you. You don’t say much, just smile and watch and breathe, soaking in the hush before the world tips forward. It’s enough. Here, at this table, you remember what it is to be held.

When you return to your room, you realise it’s already time. The air is already soft and electric with anticipation, the air perfumed with gardenia and the faintest tang of hot curling irons, your skin tingling with nerves and hope. There’s a hum of voices, the gentle clatter of hair pins against crystal trays, laughter spilling low and bright across the room. Yet beneath it all, something sacred vibrates: the sensation that today, you will be entirely, unforgettably seen.

The makeup artist, world-renowned, flown in from Paris for this one morning, stands in the window’s golden halo, palettes and pots arranged in a painter’s careful order, hands moving with the grace of ritual. Her touch is featherlight, her words few and soft; she studies your face as if searching for the spirit beneath your skin, mapping the lines and hollows that belong to you alone. She dusts the faintest shimmer across your lids, luminous but never gaudy, coaxing out the hidden gold in your eyes. The brush tip traces over your cheekbones, sculpting with a tenderness that makes you want to close your eyes and just surrender, let her see you, make you beautiful, reveal the best of yourself.

She asks if you want to wear your signature reddish brown lipstick or something softer. You picture Jeno’s mouth, the way it curves when he teases you, the way his thumb always finds your lower lip in every kiss. You choose a shade a breath deeper than rose, romantic, a little daring, quietly defiant. When she leans back, she hums, pleased with the result: flushed, glowing, ethereal, every color a secret code meant only for the one who loves you best.

Your hair stylist is renowned for transforming simple beauty into spectacle, but this morning, in the hush of your villa suite, her genius feels almost invisible, as if she’s conjuring magic from air. She gathers your hair with careful, reverent hands, smoothing each strand until it glows with a light all its own. There’s no rush, only ritual: a soft cream massaged through the ends, her touch so gentle it feels like a benediction, and then she lifts and parts, weaving the length of your hair into a delicate, half-up style that leaves the rest to tumble in loose, glossy waves down your back.

Pearl pins, small and opaline, are tucked with surgical precision through the crown and along the length, catching the light every time you move. A few wispy strands are left out at your temples and jaw, curling softly to frame your face in that angelic, artless way—nothing forced, everything luminous, as if the Bali sun itself is blessing you. She tucks in a pair of silk butterflies at the back, almost hidden among the dark ripples, each one a nod to Haeun’s favorite hair detail, an intimate touch only the two of you will recognize in photos. Your neck and shoulders are bare, every angle clean, ethereal, designed for the veil that she settles into place last of all, sheer and pale as sea-foam, flowing in a single perfect line from your crown to the small of your back. It’s a style made for metamorphosis: later tonight, she’ll let it all down in gentle, sweeping waves, a transformation for the after party, but for now, every lock is sculpted to cradle your veil, your posture, and the secret gleam in your eyes as you prepare to walk toward the rest of your life.

As your hair settles into its final shape, Karina appears—no longer just your best friend but a legend in her own right, celebrated in every fashion capital for her impossible eye and fearless hands. She glides into the room, swathed in silk and confidence, a small velvet box in her palm. She opens it and you see earrings, real antique diamonds and pearls, no two quite the same, dangling from hooks as delicate as a spider’s web. “These are yours now,” she says quietly, fastening them in your ears herself. “Just for you.”

The dress waits behind a lacquered screen, its silhouette haloed by the morning sun, a vision of grandeur and seduction. When you step out of your robe, the air shifts; even your friends hush as you approach. Three pairs of hands guide you in, the silk and lace folding around your body in a slow embrace, every seam tailored to your form. The bodice is snug, sculpting your waist, every panel pressing perfectly along your ribs, your curves celebrated and defined beneath the intricate embroidery. The dress is luminous, silk overlaid with the most delicate French lace, the color just off-white, kissed by moonlight, each motif glinting as you move. The neckline is a soft sweep, bare at the collarbones, shoulders revealed, the sleeves just a wisp of illusion, enough to make the entire look feel enchanted. The skirt fans out from your hips in gossamer waves, swirling around you as you breathe, the hem rippling in the light, every step promising drama, luxury, and spectacle. There’s nothing simple or shy here, the dress claims you, marks you as the star, every eye destined to follow the curve of your back and the shimmer at your waist. It’s a masterwork, expensive, eccentric, impossible to look away from, and when the last button is fastened, the room falls silent, as if even time must pause to watch you transform.

Areum brings a glass of water to your lips and you take small sips, acutely aware of every moment, every sound, the tick of the clock, the hush that falls as you turn to the mirror for the first time. You see not just a bride, but every version of yourself layered under the silk: the girl who ached, the woman who chose, the lover who came back. Karina stands at your shoulder, one hand gentle on your spine, her eyes shining with pride and something older, deeper, a knowledge of all the battles you’ve fought to stand here, beautiful and beloved.

As the last pins are set and the final touches given, you think of Jeno. You picture him pacing in some distant room, hands restless, jaw tight, heart already running to meet you at the altar. You imagine the way his eyes will widen, the slow, shattered smile when he finally sees you, the way his whole body will tilt toward yours like gravity. You imagine his hands, careful with the lace, reverent with the work of your friend, of your world, the two of you made new together under a sky full of vows.

Someone opens the door and a warm, sweet breeze stirs the hem of your dress. You stand, heart hammering, sunlight woven through every thread, hair gleaming, lips trembling. The women who love you gather close, pressing kisses to your cheeks, blessing every inch of you before you step out of the room and into forever. The day stretches before you, bright and soft and spun from the hands of women who know you, remade for a love that will carry you home.

Jaemin’s knuckles rap softly at the bridal suite, his voice a mix of exhaustion and affection. “Take her—please,” he begs, eyes crinkling with the sleeplessness only a parent can know. “She’s been babbling since dawn. I swear she’s recited your entire guest list by heart. I haven’t slept.” Haeun, still bouncing in his arms, hears the chorus of women and wriggles free, tumbling into the room like a sunbeam let loose. The air itself seems to change when she enters, every woman drawn toward her, a constellation tilting on its axis.

Haeun steps into the room clutching her little hat, eyes wide as moons and cheeks still rosy from sleep. For a heartbeat, she just stands there, frozen, lips parted, the world narrowing to the sight of you in your dress. Her fingers flutter to her mouth, soft and hesitant, as if she can hardly believe what she’s seeing. Those velvet-brown eyes, so round and bright, sweep up and down your dress, taking in every shimmer and detail. You kneel to her level, and for a moment she doesn’t speak, only blinks in wonder, her chest rising with a held breath.

Then, all at once, her voice spills out, high and awestruck: “So pwetty! You a real pwincess!” The words tumble over each other in a squeak, her hands pressing her cheeks as if she might burst from the sheer joy. Her face is alive with pure love, eyes glassy, lashes damp, her mouth trembling with a smile too big for her tiny face. She stumbles forward on tiptoes, arms open, landing in your lap with a breathless sigh, still staring at you like she’s seen something magical.

You can feel her awe in every beat, the heavy, golden weight of being someone’s fairytale come true. The room hushes for a moment, every woman’s heart swelling at the sight, and it’s Areum who sniffles first, voice watery as she whispers, “I can’t, she’s too much.” Karina blinks back tears, Ryujin and Ningning clutching each other as Haeun buries her little face in your neck and whispers, “Love you, you da most pwetty ever.”

You press your lips to her hair, the scent of her all warm milk and sweet sleep, fighting desperately not to cry and ruin Karina’s masterpiece. Your throat aches with it—all that love, all that history, so you squeeze Haeun tighter and manage to whisper, “I love you even more, princess. More than all the stars.” Your voice wobbles with unshed tears, but you hold on, blinking fast, determined to keep every shimmer of mascara in place for the aisle. Haeun, still beaming, cups your cheeks with both hands, utterly convinced, and peppers your face with sticky, balm-scented kisses until you’re both giggling, one heart beating across two generations, woven together by awe, laughter, and the softest, most golden kind of love.

Haeun becomes the epicenter of the morning, a tiny sun orbited by women who have spent their lives learning to be strong and now melt, helpless, at every one of her giggles. The minute Jaemin nudges her into the suite, all sleep-mussed and bright-eyed, a chorus of delighted gasps and coos rises up; Karina abandons a last-minute seam, Areum nearly drops her camera, Ryujin claps her hands, and Ningning actually scoops Haeun up and twirls her, crowning her “the real princess of Bali.” For a moment, it’s impossible to tell who’s more devoted, their laughter spills over each other, every woman desperate to be the first to brush her hair, buckle her shoes, adjust the satin ribbon at her waist.

Ningning, meticulous and gentle, orchestrates the “princess prep” with the gravity of a state event, kneeling in the pool of morning sunlight as she smooths Haeun’s dress over her shoulders and closes each pearl button with reverence. Ryujin gently taps her nose, coaxing a shy, sleepy giggle as she fastens the sandals, daisies shining at each tiny buckle, before letting Haeun twirl for the mirror, ribbons flying. Areum hovers, camera poised, breath held for the moment the dress catches the light.

Haeun pads over to you, her dress swirling around her ankles, cheeks pink and eyes wide with awe. She stands before you, tilting her head up, then raises a chubby hand to point at your hair. “Your butterfwies so pwetty,” she murmurs, the ‘r’ melting away into the purest baby softness. You catch her meaning at once, her wonder, her hope, and smile, scooping her into your lap so she can see herself beside you in the mirror. “Do you want butterflies too, beautiful?” you ask, and she nods so fiercely her hair ribbons wobble.

You rummage in the bridal box, fingers closing over the delicate, pearly butterfly clips you’d saved for just this kind of magic. One by one, you slide them into her glossy curls, careful and slow, arranging each with reverence. Haeun sits as still as a storybook doll, breath held, lips pursed in concentration as you fasten the last wing. When you’re done, she twists around, the butterflies gleaming like tiny stars in her hair, soft waves tumbling down her back, the light catching every detail. She squeals, giddy and proud, turning this way and that, and for a moment, it feels as if all the joy in the world has been distilled into the gentle glow of her reflection and the warmth of your arms around her.

Haeun’s cheeks are already flushed with happiness, her mouth sticky with breakfast jam. Haeun squints up with wide, solemn eyes, as if the world has gone very still. Then she grins, a gap-toothed, sunbeam smile, tilts her chin, and turns to all of you, hands clutching the dress at her chest. “I pwetty?” she breathes, barely above a whisper, shy pride trembling in her voice.

It’s pandemonium, Areum lunges in to snap a hundred photos, Ryujin claps, Ningning squeals and swings her in a circle, all while you struggle not to cry, every instinct wanting to gather her into your lap and promise her she’s magic itself. Haeun, delighted and overwhelmed, hides her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers before dashing into your arms, all warm baby weight and giddy laughter. In your embrace, you kiss her hair, holding back tears, and murmur, “I love you more than anything, princess. More than all the stars.”

She babbles about her “pwitty dwess,” smearing your cheek with lip balm she’s pilfered from your vanity, until you both collapse in a fit of giggles—her innocence and joy a blessing, a bright, pure thread weaving the morning together, tying every heart in the room to hers. Haeun insists on her own “makeup.” She grabs your lip balm, twisting the tube with determined little fingers, and with Ningning’s guidance, smears it across her lips and mostly her chin, proud as a queen. “Like Auntie,” she announces. The girls break into delighted laughter, snapping photos as Haeun beams, chin glistening, eyes shining with accomplishment.

Jaemin reappears just as Haeun, butterflies fluttering in her hair, leans in close to the mirror, pursing her lips and pressing soft kisses onto her own reflection. Her tiny palms squeak against the glass, her face pure adoration, lost in her own world of wonder. The instant Jaemin steps over the threshold, his eyes skip over every grown-up in the room, finding his daughter as if the rest of the world never existed. His whole face changes; something fragile and sunlit cracks open in his expression.

He crouches low, arms outstretched, and calls softly, “There’s my beautiful, pretty princess—look at you, baby, did you grow wings while I was gone?” Haeun’s eyes light up, round as moons, and she spins with a delighted gasp, butterflies bobbing in her hair. She stumbles right into his waiting arms, giggling as he lifts her off the ground and peppers kisses across both her cheeks, his voice melting into the curve of her neck. “How did you get so pwetty, huh?” he whispers, and Haeun, hands bracing each side of his face, presses their noses together.

“I like my butterfwies,” she tells him, lips soft and earnest, “Auntie made me pwetty like her!” Jaemin smiles so wide it’s almost a laugh, closing his eyes to feel her tiny hands cupping his jaw, the two of them tangled together in a slow, private orbit.

He kisses her nose, once, twice, making her squeal, and murmurs, “You’re my most special girl. Daddy’s lucky charm. You know that?” 

She nods, solemn as a saint, then breaks into giggles and kisses his cheeks right back, leaving a sticky little patch of lip balm on his skin. “Love you, Daddy!” she crows, looping her arms around his neck as if she’ll never let go. Areum catches it all, lens raised in reverence, capturing a frame that glows with the hush of a father’s pride and a little girl’s dream—their world pressed close, radiant and untouched, sealed into memory by the miracle of the morning.

Later, as the hush of morning thickens and you’re still drying Haeun’s giggles from your collar, Ryujin appears at the edge of the bridal suite doorway, holding a slip of creamy stationery pinched between her fingers as if it’s some ancient talisman. Her eyes are solemn, lips pursed with the weight of the mission. “Special delivery,” she whispers, pressing the letter into your palm, the envelope is soft, the tiniest gold ribbon tied in a bow, the wax seal bearing the imprint of Jeno’s initial, still faintly warm. Inside, the world narrows to the curve of his handwriting: memories poured out in ink, the script uneven in places where he pressed too hard, each word an invocation of your past—the rain-soaked confessions, the late-night arguments, the way your laugh once cracked his armor, every ordinary day that became holy just because it was shared. He writes about fear, about all the ways he failed and every promise he’s bent himself to keep, lines like, ‘I’ll learn you new every morning. I’ll build a thousand tomorrows and hand you every one.’ It ends with a single vow, written small and sure: See you at the end of the aisle. You always were the finish line. 

Your hands shake as you read, tears stinging the corners of your vision, and you press the page to your lips, breathing in the scent of his cologne that lingers there. And while Haeun twirls in her new dress, you scribble your own letter, smaller, a few lines fierce with hope and forgiveness, a little heart where your signature would be. You tuck it inside the collar of Jeno’s suit, where Mark, steady and silent, finds it while fixing Jeno’s tie and simply smiles, understanding the language of second chances without needing a single word more.

There’s a hush at the door, a little knock, hesitant and sweet. Haeun appears, her curls still glinting with stray butterflies, holding a tiny glass bottle balanced in both careful hands. Her brow is pinched with pure concentration, lips pursed in a mimic of Jaemin’s warning: “Daddy say don’t drop,” she announces, so solemn she almost looks stern. Haeun is the kind of child who only needs to be told a rule once; she guards the bottle like a relic, her arms stiff and determined as she crosses the suite, all the women melting around her, every eye fixed on her tiny, important mission.

She pauses at your knees, lifts her chin, and proclaims, “Uncle Nono say he make this for you, Auntie. Make you smell pwetty for Uncle Nono!” She thrusts the bottle up, pride shining in her eyes, and you reach down to take it, catching the glint of pale gold liquid within. You uncap it, draw in a cautious breath, and gasp, notes of white gardenia, soft musk, sun-warmed bergamot, and something rare and blue-lavender, the scent you wore when Jeno first fell in love with you, the one discontinued the year you left Seoul, gone from every shelf in the world.

It’s impossible, but as you glance up, you see Jaemin at the door, grinning at your wonder. “He tracked down every last bottle, made calls to the perfumer, even sent a sample to a lab in Paris to have it recreated. I think he bought the rights. It’s been in his suitcase for months, waiting.” Haeun watches you breathe it in, her face filled with awe and devotion, and you crush her to your heart, whispering gratitude into her hair. The scent lingers on your wrists, your collarbones, spun around you like armor and prayer, and you know, when you walk down the aisle, every step will trail the story of a love that refused to vanish, even when the world tried to erase it.

Down in the breezy kitchen nook, Shotaro has claimed a whole marble counter for what he solemnly calls his “wedding day spa.” Bottles of polish gleam beside him, pearls, golds, subtle shimmer, one tiny pot labeled “fairy dust” in a looping black marker. Shotaro is still dabbing at his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt, sniffling between every coat of paint, but he soldiers on. Anyone who wanders past gets the full treatment, whether they planned for it or not, Karina gets an iridescent crescent moon on her pinky, Ningning giggles as he paints a pale blue butterfly near her cuticle, and Areum’s thumb is dusted with glitter so fine it catches every beam of Bali light. Even Chenle, smirking and rolling his eyes, gets cornered for one gold-tipped thumb before Jaemin rescues him, muttering about “upholding family dignity.”

It’s Coach Suh, of all people, who garners the most attention. Shotaro snags him during breakfast, brandishing a nail file and a bottle of clear polish with unflinching authority. “Coach, it’s good luck,” Shotaro insists, already buffing his thumbnail, tears streaming all the while. Suh only grunts, but when the first hand is done, he lifts it to the light, nodding with a gravity that says he’s coaching destiny itself. In between applications, Shotaro wipes his nose, sighs, and declares, “I have never seen this many beautiful hands in my life,” and the kitchen fills with laughter, every glint of gold and every glossy nail a memory in the making.

Beneath a sky bruised gold and indigo, the world sharpens—every sense vivid, almost too alive. The altar rises out of the lawn like a memory you might have dreamt: driftwood arches twined with orchids and wild jasmine, woven so thickly with flowers it looks as if the island itself has bent close to listen. Each chair glows in the late sunlight, upholstered in the softest cornflower silk, set in crescent-shaped rows, a tide drawing everyone closer to the heart of what’s about to unfold.

There’s a hush you can taste, electric and heavy, as though the air is threaded with gold wire. Frangipani petals gather in small, deliberate drifts along the path, scattered with the care of an old blessing. You catch the faint glint of bowls set on low tables, water reflecting sky, each one cupping a floating candle, each flame a promise, each reflecting a door into something old, something sacred. The altar table is veiled in ivory silk, the breeze turning its edge into a pale river, while garlands of jasmine and trembling eucalyptus spill from the corners in wild, fragrant abundance.

Your father stands at your side, his hand trembling just once before settling into strength. Haeun waits ahead, flower basket held in both fists, hair shining under a crown of real daisies, every inch of her quivering with the secret energy of children on the verge of magic. The string quartet’s first notes drift through the hush, low and liminal, the melody curling up from the garden’s edge as if the song has always lived in the soil, waiting for this moment. Even the birds seem to hush their wings, the world pausing just long enough for you to feel the axis tilt, every guest’s face turned to the path, every breath drawn in, every heart counting the beat before wonder. 

Hidden in the jasmine garlands, small paper butterflies, each hand-cut and dipped in gold leaf by Karina and Haeun the night before, cling to the branches and flutter in the soft wind, so lifelike they blur the boundary between real and make-believe. Beyond the altar, a trio of Balinese musicians waits in silence, their shadowy instruments glinting in the blue-gold dusk, and somewhere a wind chime sings from the villa’s eaves, the notes strange and sweet and oddly hopeful.

The aisle itself is not a simple path, but a living ribbon of petals, white, soft blue, pale yellow, even a few violet blooms hidden in the mix, a spectrum of every morning you and Jeno ever woke up longing for each other. Lanterns, heavy with cutwork patterns, hang from low boughs and cast delicate constellations onto every guest’s skin. Between the seats, small vases cradle stems of frangipani and wild grass, as if someone plucked the sunrise and left it there for luck.

You glimpse Ryujin adjusting the edge of your veil just beyond the hedge, her voice soft as she reassures Haeun, who bounces on tiptoe, cheeks full of nervous anticipation. Shotaro wipes at his eyes already, pressed flower in his jacket pocket. Irene, behind a row of orchids, leans close to Doyoung, their fingers tangled under the seat. Somewhere further off, Jaemin and baby Haeun’s intern snap photos of everything, capturing this kaleidoscope of fleeting light and trembling beauty.

A butterfly, impossibly white, lands on the edge of your bouquet just as your father squeezes your hand; you can almost believe it’s a sign from every ancestor who ever hoped you’d find joy. The villa windows glitter in the distance, wreathed in vines, and you catch the faintest scent of rain on the wind, promise and benediction in equal measure. Jeno stands at the altar now—hidden, held out of sight by a curve in the path and the lush drift of wisteria, the air trembling between you with the ache of two compass needles about to find true north. You can’t see him, he can’t see you, but you both know: this is the last breath before the world begins again. It’s not reality, not quite. More a fever dream, a crossing from one life into another, the whole island bright with the kind of impossible clarity that only happens once, a threshold suspended in salt air, flower-laced light, and the tremor of your heart just before the beginning.

Haeun doesn’t wait for the cue—she feels it, something in the hush, the subtle tremble of everyone’s hope pressing in around her. She’s luminous at the edge of the aisle, cheeks glistening like halved peaches, eyes so bright they might outshine the gold-flecked petals quivering in her basket. When the music breathes, she inhales with it, then steps out, small and solemn, her shadow stitched perfectly into the ribbons Jeno and Jaemin laid for her the night before, each one a secret handshake, a silent promise that she is seen.

Butterflies spiral in lazy loops above her head, real and not, sunlight painted onto wings and threads, gold, lemon-yellow and cream, dipping low enough for her to reach and wave, a little queen blessing her subjects. Along her path, Jeno’s handiwork gleams: glass jars with dandelion wishes, paper daisies, tiny wind-chimes that barely murmur when she passes. Haeun moves slow, but not hesitant, each step is a ceremony, a careful planting of joy, her lips parted, her nose wrinkling in concentration as she pinches each petal, flicks it into the air, watches it spin down like a secret only she can translate. She grins at every small miracle: a ladybug landing on her sleeve, a butterfly that hovers as if to listen, the delighted gasp from Ryujin who is already half in tears.

Her dress flutters, a cloud around her knees, pale and impossible, her hair glinting in the sunlight, ribbons trembling with each step. But there is no falter in Haeun, not today. She walks as if she’s been practicing for this her whole life, chin lifted, shoulders back, the surety of a tiny queen who knows her power. Each petal she throws is a gift, pinched between careful fingers, scattered with a baby’s precision, her lips parted in a breathless, delighted grin. Every few paces, she remembers to pause and beam at the crowd, dimples carved deep as she soaks in her moment, all eyes drinking her in like the first day of spring.

She doesn’t rush, doesn’t hide, each step is as steady as a promise kept, and when her eyes land on Jaemin at the altar, tears already shining in his lashes, she throws a petal extra high, as if to reach him, then blows him a kiss with both hands. He melts right there, his hand over his heart, pride and awe cracking his composure. Haeun giggles, cheeks round and pink, and with every swing of her basket, you see the memory of her practice, the confidence of a little girl who knows she is loved and shining in her own right. She makes her way forward, confidence and innocence braided together, and when she finally reaches the end of her golden path, she spins once—just for the joy of it—and plants her basket, bowing her head with all the ceremony of a storybook princess on parade, and the garden blooms with applause.

She pauses only once, right at the end, turns in her sandals to wave at you, her voice bubbling out—soft, certain, “I’m doing it, Auntie!”—and the spell she weaves in that moment settles like silk over every heart in the garden. The whole world narrows to her, the smallest star in a constellation spun just for today, walking her own golden road into legend.

Haeun pauses at the front, the garden a hush of sunlight and eyes, her cheeks dimpling with pride. Jeno crouches, arms open, and as she tumbles into him he catches her up with a whisper, his voice pitched so low only she hears it, words soft as spun sugar. “You made the whole world prettier, princess. I’ve never been prouder.” She giggles, eyes sparkling, and he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, smoothing a stray ribbon back from her brow. With gentle hands, he takes the empty petal basket from her, her little fingers reluctant to let go until he promises to keep it safe. Then, with a tilt of his head, Jeno murmurs, “Go on, baby. Uncle Shotaro needs a cuddle more than anyone,” and she beams, skipping down the aisle, hair flying, straight into Shotaro’s lap. He’s already sobbing behind his sunglasses, arms wide, scooping her up as she snuggles close, her laughter and kisses turning the whole front row into a little haven of joy before the vows even begin.

Your father’s palm is weather-worn, sure, thumb mapping slow infinities over your knuckles as if he might press this moment into the grooves of his skin. Heat collects in the soft dip of your collarbones; the silk lining of the dress sluices over your ribs with every shallow breath, whispering its own private litany. Somewhere behind you, sandals scuff the volcanic flagstones, old rock gritting under new shoes, blending with the ghost of his aftershave: cedar, salt wind, and the plumeria that keeps falling from the trees like quiet applause.

The stones underfoot are ancient, volcanic, slick and dark, veined with molten threads that snare and scatter the sunlight in trembling arcs. Haeun’s careful footsteps have left a constellation behind: rose petals and wildflowers scattered thick atop a delicate film of water, every bloom bright as a wish. As you follow, the petals swirl and tremble, floating in glassy ripples, doubling the garden and sky in the mirrored surface, so each step sends color blooming across the liquid light. Plumeria tumble down in slow spirals, their perfume curling over water and skin, collecting in the crook of your arm and catching in your hair, heavy as a blessing.

Above, a tumble of butterflies. some real, some so delicate they could be silk. rides the soft current, their wings flickering in and out of sunlight, trailing after Haeun’s small parade, weaving her innocence into your every stride. The hush of the crowd is absolute, a garden holding its breath; music swells low and distant, almost a memory, as petals and water combine beneath your feet to create the illusion you’re walking on a living river of color, every flower a promise, every reflection a dream. Light threads itself through the veil, turns lace to spun sugar, flickers off your skin and glances down the aisle, making you the bright, impossible answer at the end of a child’s fairytale path, a woman walking, radiant, into forever. Two white butterflies wobble ahead, sketching invisible runes in the air, escorting you as if they know the geography of beginnings.

Your veil tugs lightly at your crown, sheer and endless, a waterfall of tulle and memory, catching the wind and shimmering with each careful movement. The world narrows and expands all at once. Faces flicker on either side, blurred watercolors: Nari’s sunlit grin, Sohee swallowing laughter and tears, your mother radiant and shining, a moon in full. Mark and Areum, their hands woven tight. Karina’s mouth shapes the word “yours”—silent, sure. Farther off, Haeun’s laughter skips along the marble, a golden thread weaving childhood straight into the fabric of this day.

Your father stands solid at your side, his arm a quiet anchor, warm and steady as you both linger at the threshold. His breath stirs the fine hairs near your temple; he doesn’t say a word, but the promise of his love hums in every heartbeat between you. When you step forward together, the hush that falls is total, a held breath, an altar’s hush, every eye in the world fixed on the slip of white lace and devotion unfurling down the aisle. Sunlight pools at your feet, scattering glints along the path as your dress shivers and skims the ancient stone, and the hush grows heavy, textured with awe and the sharp, sweet gasp of a dozen hearts all breaking open at once. You catch fragments, your mother’s trembling hands pressed to her mouth, a stifled sob, the gentle tilt of Mark’s chin as he blinks too fast. The silence is so thick you can hear the smallest things: your father’s thumb tracing comfort against your knuckles, the soft rasp of your gown, the tremble in your own breath. Each step is a note in a song only you and your father remember, your presence moving through the air like a benediction, every eye drawn forward, every whisper stilled, as you move toward everything you ever wanted—waiting, breathless, at the end of the aisle.

Your eyes find Jeno, and the world dissolves, everything blurs at the edges, colors smudged by sunlight and the shimmer of your veil, until there is nothing but the burn of his gaze. He stands at the altar, spine straight but every muscle thrumming with need, his shoulders filling out a bespoke ivory jacket spun with barely-there threads of silver, Karina’s secret nod to the lace at your wrists. The lapels are satin, shaped clean and sharp, accentuating the width of his chest, the dark navy of his shirt open at the throat, just enough to show the delicate chain you once fastened there yourself.

The suit hugs every line of him: trousers tailored to perfection, the fabric catching at his hips, draping over strong thighs. Cufflinks glint at his wrists, small and discreet, carved in the shape of your initials entwined, a secret only you both know. His hands are folded, knuckles pale, the veins on the backs visible, betraying a tension so naked it makes your heart race. His hair is swept back, glossy in the sun, a single strand escaping to brush his forehead, just messy enough to remind you that he is yours, formality slipping beneath the surface of want.

His jaw flexes as you approach, lips parted, chest rising fast. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, eyes locked to you and only you, every breath a silent prayer. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you see the way his gaze drops, hungry, desperate, already undressing you with every slow step you take. His eyes are molten, worshipful, tracking every sway of your body, the way your dress molds to your waist, the rise and fall of your breath beneath the delicate lace.

You watch his pupils dilate, his hands twitch. he wants to touch, to claim, to pull you in and never let you go. When you reach the halfway mark, a shudder travels through his frame, so naked in its devotion that you feel your whole body spark in response. You are his gravity and he is your storm, your souls colliding across a field of light and witness. The music swells, but you don’t hear it. All you hear is the silence between heartbeats, the words he will whisper later in the dark, the promise in the way he looks at you now, like he’s starving, like you’re holy, like there is nothing else left in the world but this aisle and the hunger written across his face.

Your father lets you go slowly, his thumb lingering at your knuckles for a final heartbeat before he steps back, eyes shimmering, mouth gentle with pride and bittersweet love. There’s a shimmer to his smile, equal parts pride, grief, and hope, a look only a father can give a daughter on the day he hands her heart to someone else. The moment your fingers slip free, Jeno’s hand is there, closing over yours with a quiet urgency that says mine, always. You feel it in the soft heat of his palm, the steadiness of his grip, the vow that hums under his skin. Your father meets Jeno’s eyes, giving a small, quiet nod, an unspoken promise passed from one protector to another. Jeno answers with a subtle bow of his head, jaw set with all the devotion he’s carried for you, silent but clear: I’ll keep her safe, I’ll love her for every day to come. Tears slip down your father’s cheeks, glinting in the sunlight, and Jeno holds your gaze, drinking you in as if he’s waited his whole life for this exact moment. You feel seen, claimed, beloved, his thumb stroking softly at your wrist, grounding you, every nerve alight with something sacred. The garden hushes around you, petals stirring in a gentle breeze, and in this quiet, the world feels remade for just the two of you, the future sealed between your joined hands, steady, bright, and unbreakable.

The world melts away, narrowed to the warmth of his palm against yours and the hush of breath between you. Jeno’s thumb skims slow circles over your knuckles, his gaze locked on yours, heavy with disbelief and want. When he says your name it’s more exhale than word, as if he needs to taste it just to ground himself. You lean in, close enough to see the wonder trembling in his eyes, to feel the tremor of nerves and devotion shivering in both your chests.

“Hi,” you breathe, your smile small and wild, the sound spinning out between laughter and tears.

He’s wordless for a moment, caught, lips parting as he just looks at you, hungry, grateful, so soft you feel your knees wobble. “God, you’re beautiful,” he manages at last, voice barely a whisper. “I—there’s no word. I’ve never seen anything like you.”

You laugh, breath shivering, and press your forehead to his for half a heartbeat, letting your eyes close, feeling his lips graze your temple. “You make it so easy to love you,” you murmur, your thumb brushing his jaw. His fingers tighten on yours, reverent, eyes shimmering with that reckless, full-bodied love that only he has for you.

He draws your hand up, slow, eyes never leaving yours as he kisses the inside of your wrist, soft, savoring, a secret promise just for you. You both laugh, nerves colliding with giddiness, and for that suspended moment, there’s no audience, no script, only the echo of his heart racing against your own.

The hush deepens, thick as honey, as you and Jeno stand together in the quiet center of the world. The soft music that swelled when you began your walk now ebbs into the background, its melody a pulse beneath the silence, nothing but the hush of leaves, the faint trickle of water, and the slow, reverent sweep of your breath meeting him. Somewhere between your feet and the altar, butterflies—real ones, their wings pale and flickering as if they were made of light—drift through the sunbeams, spiraling between petals and trailing a trail of quiet awe behind them.

Every seat fades to shadow, all eyes wet or wide, but none as bright as the man before you. For a suspended second, it’s just your heartbeat and his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin, and you both feel the magnitude of now, the years that led to this inhale, the sheer gravity of being seen and chosen. There’s a tremor in the air, gratitude and disbelief, ancient longing finally made real. The officiator’s voice enters gently, careful not to break the spell. He welcomes everyone, his words a soft thread weaving through the hush: “We are gathered here, on this luminous day, to witness not only a wedding, but the return of two souls who have wandered every road back to each other. Today, we celebrate a promise, one written into every heartbeat, every ordinary morning and extraordinary storm that led us here. Let us hold this moment with the reverence it deserves.”

Every seat blurs to watercolor, faces awash with tears, pride, a trembling hush that settles like dust over the crowd, but none of it matters, not when you’re held so completely by the man before you, your hands joined, your breath caught between memory and promise. Jeno’s thumb draws circles into your pulse, a silent vow, and the world condenses to the heat of his gaze, the hope lining his mouth, the hush that blooms between your joined hearts. And then, the officiant’s voice threads through the stillness, gentle but firm: “If there is anyone present who knows a reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.” The words drift, weighty, almost ceremonial, and for a heartbeat time lurches.

You feel it before you see it. the shift in the crowd, the way the breeze catches on the nape of your neck, the subtle drawing of breath to your left. Yangyang’s eyes meet yours for the first time since his arrival, and there is something unreadable in them: old ache, devotion, a storm of feeling that belongs to another life. For a moment, his body tenses, the faintest suggestion that he might stand. a phantom movement, a ripple at the edge of now. Your heart hammers as the garden stills, the moment stretched thin as silk. But then, Yangyang’s lips curve, slow, sad and sweet, and he shakes his head with a softness only you can read. He stays seated, hands folded in his lap, and instead of objection, he gives you a look of unwavering support, a silent blessing, the kind only an old friend could offer. The spell breaks; you exhale, the knot in your chest loosening. Jeno squeezes your hand, sensing the shift, his eyes never leaving yours.

The officiant waits a beat, lets the silence settle, and then, gracefully, moves on, his voice like a current: “Then let us continue, and let this union be sealed by love and witnessed by all.” And just like that, the day carries forward, no shadow left behind, the path clear for every vow and every beginning still to come. The officiant nods, the wind settles, and suddenly it’s only you and him in the hush, standing on the bright seam between everything you have survived and everything you we have yet to claim.

“Jeno, the truth is, I found you insufferable at first. You were the last person I wanted to be around. We spent a lifetime growing up together, mostly ignoring each other, sometimes outright disliking each other. You were loud, cocky, too certain of yourself. Every time you walked into a room, it felt like the whole world had to rearrange itself around you, and I hated that, how easily you belonged, how you made me feel like an outsider in my own story.”

I had every excuse to watch you, I told myself it was just the project, the analysis, the endless hours cataloguing your stats, your routines, your stubborn refusal to lose even when the world stacked itself against you. I convinced myself I was being methodical, objective, nothing more than a scholar’s eye tracing patterns on a screen. But there is a thin, perilous line between observant and obsessed, a line I crossed so quietly I didn’t notice until it was far behind me. Somewhere in the sleepless middle of the term, you became the pulse behind every number, the heat in every page of notes. I started waking with your habits braided into mine, your voice echoing between my ribs, your laugh threading through the days like a secret only I could keep. You slipped into my bloodstream, easy as oxygen, and suddenly I was living for the next fleeting glimpse of you, your hand at the small of my back as we left a lecture hall, the arch of your brow when you made me smile despite myself, the promise in the hush between every word. Wanting you wasn’t a choice; it was a gravity, an ache, a wild, feverish certainty. You became the research and the answer, the constant and the variable, the question I was never meant to solve but could never, ever put down.

It wasn’t one moment, it was a thousand. I fell for you every time you let the world believe you were made of steel, but tucked my cold hands into your jacket pockets when you thought no one was watching. I loved you for your stubbornness, your ridiculous optimism in the face of everything we lost, for the way you held the weight of your own mistakes and never flinched from mine. You listened to my worst fears like they were prayers, you made me laugh when my heart was threadbare and tight. You taught me forgiveness by earning it. You let me unravel in front of you, not just once, but over and over, every fight, every silent night, every goodbye we swore would be the last. And you came back. Always, always, you came back. And even in the years we lost, those long, lonely seasons when our names were only echoes and every sunrise felt further from you, I kept your memory folded in the quietest part of me. Four years apart could have been an ending, but somehow, every day without you became a lesson in waiting, a proof that love can hold its breath and survive, only to come home softer, braver, more certain than before.

There’s a kind of love that’s easy, but that’s not us. I love you because we’ve been broken together, because you made the pieces fit again, different, new and shining in ways I never could have imagined. I love you for the fire, for the quiet, for every time you held me when I was unlovable, for every promise you whispered into my hair, for every silent morning you woke up and still chose me, even when I couldn’t choose myself.

So I stand here, in front of everyone who ever mattered, and promise you this: I will love you in all the ways that count and most of the ones that don’t. I promise to meet you in the hallway with a kiss every morning, to cheer louder than anyone in the stands, to make our home a place where you can lay every burden down. I vow to forgive you quickly, to fight fair, to listen when you’re tired and hold you closer when you’re quiet. I promise to trace every scar, every line, every new chapter you grow into, and to keep choosing you, even when life unravels, even when love feels more like work than wonder. I will raise our child beside you, eyes open and hands steady, and I’ll carry your heart in every secret pocket of mine, faithful, fierce, and unashamed. Whatever storms come, I’ll be your shelter. Whatever years pass, I’ll be your home.

You are every soft landing I never thought I’d get. You’re the reason my future feels like possibility, not punishment. When I look at you, I see home, messy, loud, real, unfinished, but fiercely ours. I love you for the man you are now, for the boy I once couldn’t stand, for the husband you’re about to become. I love you because you taught me that a life can break and heal and still be worth everything. I promise I’ll never run from us. I promise I’ll fight for every day, every quiet hour, every sunrise and argument and child’s laugh we get. I’ll love you through all of it, because there’s no version of this world where I don’t choose you, again and again, until I have no voice left to say it. And you know my heart by now, but you should hear it once more: I choose you. Today, tomorrow, and every impossible, ordinary, perfect day that waits for us after this.”

The vows settle over the garden like a spell, time slows, every face in the crowd flickering with tears, wonder, laughter, disbelief at just how much can be carried in a single promise. Mark’s hand finds Areum’s, knuckles bone-white, both of them grinning wetly, his chest rising on a sigh of pride that only a brother could know. Areum presses her camera to her heart, breathless, lens fogged with emotion. Irene dabs her eyes, mouth trembling at the softness she once wished for her own daughter; Seulgi’s arm is a fortress around her waist, both of them sharing a glance that says: they found it, after all. Doyoung’s jaw is tight, blinking fast, the eternal skeptic undone by the way forgiveness can sound like prayer.

Shotaro, shoulders shaking, holds Haeun in his lap, unable to hide the river of tears that just keep coming. Haeun’s head rests against his shoulder, but her eyes never leave you, she blows a clumsy kiss with both hands, whispering, “I wuv you!” at the top of her lungs, and Jaemin, beside Jeno, laughs through his tears, holding the rings tight. Even Chenle and Ningning are uncharacteristically silent, palms pressed together, as if memorizing a moment they’ll talk about for years.

And then, at the very center, Jeno, chest heaving, eyes glistening, lips parted in disbelief at the magnitude of being loved like this. The crowd dissolves for him; it’s just you, the echo of your voice still buzzing in his ribs, his own vows swelling to meet yours, and the sense that the rest of his life has already begun. In every direction, the world is bright with witness, but for one breathless moment, it’s only the two of you, anchored, undivided, awake.

Jeno’s hands shake faintly as he draws in a breath, the card with his vows trembling between his fingers. He glances out at the crowd, at Mark’s barely disguised sniffling, at his mother’s proud, shining eyes, at the sunlight caught in the petals drifting all the way to his shoes. But when he looks back at you, all that noise goes silent. He presses a palm over his heart as if anchoring himself, lips parted around a breathless smile, gaze fixed on yours with a longing so raw it nearly unravels you both. The world recedes to a hush, a heartbeat, a promise on the verge of being spoken. He closes his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, and when he opens them again, there is nothing but you, every vow gathered on his tongue, every hope shining in his eyes as he begins and then—his voice finds you.

“You’re standing right here in front of me, but for a second, I can’t believe it’s real. I’ve tried a hundred times to imagine this, to picture your face in this light, wearing my ring, saying my name with that look in your eyes, but nothing ever felt this true—this terrifying, this good. It’s funny—if you’d told me when we were kids that we’d end up here, I would have called you crazy. We were always opposites, you and I. You were impossible, too smart for your own good, and just stubborn enough to make sure I never forgot it. Back then, you made everything a competition. Every quiz, every lap around the block, every pick-up game in the street. You drove me insane. All I remember is how much you hated losing to me, how your eyes would narrow across the court, how you’d chase me just to outrun me, how you made it your mission to show me that no trophy, no championship, no stupid victory would matter unless I’d earned your respect first. You never let me coast. You made me better, just by standing on the other side and refusing to be easy.

Somewhere along the line, something shifted. I can’t name the day, only the feeling. It was watching you drag your suitcase down the hallway after a fight, jaw set, eyes red, still refusing to let anyone help you. It was the way you could freeze me out for weeks but never once let me forget you were the only person whose opinion actually mattered. I started waiting for your voice in every room, waiting for your laughter, your love, the way you made even the quiet moments feel like winning. You got under my skin. You became my reason for getting better, every single day. I would have done anything to make you proud, and I still would.

You keep your guard up, but I see the way you carry everyone, how your love turns ordinary rooms into places where people actually want to stay. You remember the smallest things, birthdays, allergies, the dreams no one else would take seriously. You move through life with a kind of warmth that makes other people braver, and you fix things quietly, so the world works a little better wherever you are. No one tries like you, no one forgives like you, no one else gives away pieces of themselves just to make someone else whole. I spent so many years just wanting you to look my way, not realizing how lucky I was to live in a world you colored in. Even when you kept your distance, you made everything brighter, your laughter, your stubbornness, even the way you challenged me made my life fuller. I’m still in awe that I get to love you, that out of everyone, you chose me. There’s never been a day I haven’t known just how lucky I am.

I’ve spent the last few years learning the difference between wanting you and needing you. Wanting you was easy. Needing you scared the hell out of me. I had to lose you to learn what it meant to fight for you, to stand in the wreckage of my own mistakes and choose you, every time, even when I didn’t deserve to. There were days I thought I’d never get the chance. Nights I stared at the ceiling and replayed every word I wished I’d said. Four years of empty trophies, of standing in the spotlight and feeling the echo where you should’ve been. I used to believe love was something I had to win, one more point, one more fight, something earned with effort and grit. But you showed me it’s not about the scoreboard, it’s what happens after, when the stands are empty and it’s just us, sitting in the quiet. You taught me that real love is you in my arms at midnight, both of us exhausted, forgiving the rough edges, holding each other through the losses as much as the wins. With you, love is coming back to the same place every day, messy, unguarded, sometimes hurting, but always together, always choosing to stay. It’s in the soft mornings and the bad nights, in the laughter that fills every empty space, in every time you reach for my hand after I thought I’d lost you for good. You’re the reason I know what forever feels like, because no matter how hard the world gets, you are where I come home.

So here’s what I promise you. I promise to fight for you, even when the world feels too big or too loud or too hard. I promise to come home, always, even if it’s just to hold you through the storm. I swear to choose you, especially on the days when choosing is the hardest thing in the world. I promise to keep learning you: every version, every season, every heartbreak and every joy. I’ll be there when you want to run and when you’re brave enough to stay. I will always cheer you on, whether you’re winning or losing, because you’re my favourite story, my greatest achievement. I’ll be the man our child can look up to, the father who makes you feel safe, the partner who never lets you forget how rare and wanted you are. I’ll spend the rest of my life earning the right to be yours. You taught me what love looks like after the dust settles, what it sounds like in the quiet, what it feels like when it grows back stronger.

So yes, I choose you. In front of everyone who’s ever watched us break, everyone who’s held their breath waiting for us to find our way back to you. I choose you in every summer storm and sleepless night, in the hard silences and the quiet forgiveness, in the hope and the home we are making together, brick by stubborn brick. I choose you in this life and the next, in every universe, in every blink where reaching for your hand feels like coming up for air. Thank you for giving me a second chance to love you right. Thank you for being the finish line, and the reason I’ll keep running, every single day, no matter how far the road bends. You are my turning point, my gravity, the truth I keep circling back to no matter what the world throws at us. I love you more than words could ever carry. I’ll never stop trying to prove it, not with promises but with every day, every small, ordinary act. I am yours, in every way I know how to be, and in all the ways I’m still learning. This is my vow: whatever comes, whatever we face, I will always, always find my way back to you.”

The vows hang in the warm Bali air, bright as windchimes. There’s a hush, then the room ripples, breath drawn in, eyes glassy, hands pressed to lips. Mark is dabbing his face with Areum’s veil, Sohee’s already blotchy with tears, and Shotaro’s openly sobbing, clutching Haeun so tight she wriggles and plants a sleepy kiss on his jaw. Karina squeezes your shoulder, her knuckles white, while even Coach Suh looks away, overcome. But it’s you who feels the world slip, your throat closing around a rush of awe and disbelief, how does love survive like this, so bruised and bright, so new every time you speak it out loud? The words settle into your bones, twine through your ribs, and your hands tremble as you squeeze his, gazing up at Jeno as if you might never let go.

The officiant’s voice is gentle, reverent, soft as a closing prayer. “May we have the rings?” The world sharpens, all color and breath and the slow, holy movement of time. Rings appear, Jaemin presses Jeno’s into his palm with a grin so full of memories it nearly buckles you, while Karina slips yours into your hand, her own shaking, her eyes shining. The world closes in around the two of you: sunlight, water, the scent of sea-salt and gardenia, all threaded together with the silent hope of everyone who ever loved you. “These rings,” the officiant continues, “are circles with no end, just like the promise you make today.”

When the officiant’s words drift into silence, the whole world seems to contract around you, the heat of Bali thick on your skin, every sound sharpened, every color bright. The hush is total; you can feel the eyes of your loved ones, but you only see Jeno as he turns fully to you, holding your left hand in both of his, reverent, steady, like you’re made of glass and gold. He lifts your hand, thumb tracing the inside of your wrist, and you realize you are trembling, not from nerves, but from the certainty that every version of you—every scar, every mistake—is loved at this moment.

Jeno’s hands are gentle but sure as he slides the ring onto your finger, his breath a hush over your knuckles. He looks at you with so much awe and devotion you feel the world tilt, time stretching, every old ache dissolving under the light of now. His vows are whispered, but they reach all the way to your soul. “With this ring, I promise to meet every part of you with open hands and an open heart. I vow to hold space for your dreams, your doubts, your wildest wishes and quietest fears. I will make every day a reason to stay, every night a reason to thank the universe I get to love you. No matter how the years change us, no matter how far we go, I am yours, your champion, your shelter, your home. You are my finish line and my starting point, the reason I’ll never stop running back to you.”

He holds up his own hand for you, but before you slide the ring onto him, he lets his thumb rest in your palm, anchoring himself to this reality. Your voice comes out soft, but sure, each word falling like a petal: “With this ring, I give you my yes, my past, my future, every scar and every hope. I promise to grow alongside you, to let the years make us better, not bitter. I vow to be your home when the world is cold, your laughter when days are thin, your partner in every storm and every sunrise. You are my miracle, my constant, the story I never want to finish writing. I choose you, Jeno—no matter where life takes us, no matter what we face, I will always find my way back to you.”

You slide the ring onto his finger with slow, trembling care, your palm lingering over his, fingers threading between his knuckles until your hands tangle and anchor each other, skin to skin. His hand is warm, steady, callused in all the places you’ve come to know, but it feels suddenly brand new as your thumb strokes the strong line of his. For a moment, you just hold him, breaths mingling, heartbeats doubled, memorizing the shape of his hand in yours, how it fits, how it means belonging. Jeno’s thumb moves in gentle, endless circles at your pulse point, grounding you to the moment, his grip both protective and yielding. You squeeze his hand, feel the press of your rings side by side, a constellation mapped in gold. All around you, petals tumble through shafts of sun, catching in your hair and dusting his shoulders, but the world seems to blur into hush and warmth, all the noise dimming down to just this, your hands joined, vows sealed, the rest of your life held tight in his palm.

Sunlight fractures through the palms overhead, every shaft gilded and warm, weaving golden ribbons along the ancient volcanic stone. Each petal scattered beneath your feet glows with color, blue, ivory, hints of yellow, like blessings tossed by gentle hands, a trail spun from every yesterday that led you here. Your footsteps write new scripture on the path, silk brushing stone, your breath catching in the honeyed air. The world gathers close, time tightening into a single, crystalline instant, as if even the birdsong hushes to bear witness. Jeno’s hand finds yours, his palm cradling, anchoring, as if you are the only truth left in the world. There is a subtle tremor where your fingers meet, anticipation so sweet it vibrates in your bones, steady and reverent, the kind of touch that promises ‘always.’ The officiant’s words float on the morning breeze, threading through the hush that holds the crowd, every syllable softened by the hush of leaves and the shimmering expectancy in the air. There’s no question of readiness; the answer has lived for years in every glance and every reaching moment between you, blooming at last beneath these boughs, where love finds its voice and its vow.

The officiant’s voice glides through the warm hush, each syllable carried like incense on the sun-dappled air. “Do you, Y/N, choose Jeno to be your husband, your shelter, the hand you reach for at daybreak and in darkness, promising to stand with him through every wild season, every gentle morning, to meet him always with the fiercest courage you possess?”

The question floats into you, weaving through your ribs and unspooling in the hollow behind your heart, ancient and new at once. You turn—really turn—to face him, the world narrowing to the breath you share, to the charged devotion blazing out of his eyes. In that space between heartbeats, you see the map of everything you lost and found: all the aches, the nights you learned to hope again, every secret memory that lives only in your joining. Your answer is not just a word but an invocation, a blessing you pour back into his waiting hands, a truth threaded through your marrow. “I do,” you murmur, voice a silk thread spun from the deepest part of you, resonant and quiet as sunrise. The words settle on your tongue like honey, heavy with the gravity of all you’ve endured, sealing themselves into the living architecture of your bones, echoing: always, always, I choose you.

Jeno’s thumb circles your pulse, anchoring you both in the fever-bright hush of now, his hand steady where yours trembles. The officiant’s words bloom in the heavy air. “Jeno, do you take Y/N to be your wife, your home, your anchor and your wildest joy, vowing to love her with everything you have and all you are still learning to be?”

Jeno doesn’t pause or breathe. His gaze burns straight through you, fierce, infinite, soft as thunder. “I do.” The vow pours out of him, no room for doubt, a promise spoken from some place below language. His hand tightens around yours, as if anchoring both your souls to this single, irrevocable moment, his ‘yes’ so sure, it reverberates through the petals underfoot, through your bones, through every future you have yet to claim.

Time flattens into a hush so complete it feels like the garden itself is holding its breath, petals hovering mid-descent, sunlight suspended in molten ribbons across the aisle. Every face blurs into watercolor, every sound folds inward, until there is nothing but the raw, golden silence between you, your hands joined, your lifelines braided together, vows sealed not just in words but in the trembling certainty that this is forever, unrepeatable, entirely yours. The officiant’s voice becomes the pulse of the moment, resonant and gentle, woven with awe. “With every soul bearing witness, and all the threads of fate that brought you to this day, I pronounce you husband and wife. Jeno, you may lift the veil and claim your forever.”

Jeno’s fingers are steady as he reaches for your veil, and the hush of the crowd becomes a heartbeat, a living, trembling thing. He lifts the silk with a slow, trembling care, as if afraid the very air might bruise you. your faces close, breath mingling, and in that instant, it’s as if all the old years, the silence, the hunger and heartbreak, compress to a single point of gravity. Your eyes find each other, and the universe tilts, every color blooming between your lashes. Jeno’s gaze is unguarded and infinite, devotion rippling through him as his thumb sweeps your cheek. For a moment the garden dissolves, the aisle melts, and there is only this: the gravity of being seen, of being chosen, of being held open and holy in the eyes of the one who always finds his way back to you. The veil falls away, and so does the rest of the world.

The world seems to ignite, a flare of gold through leaves and water, the light scattering diamonds in your hair, painting your skin with an impossible glow. His eyes are the only anchor you have, wide and brimming with awe, so much love that you forget how to breathe. You gasp, not out of surprise but the sheer electricity of him seeing you, truly seeing you, no more secrets, nothing between you but promise and history and a thousand silent declarations. You watch his pupils flare, watch him drink you in like he’s waited lifetimes for this unveiling, and something reverent crackles between you, bigger than applause, bigger than all the years you spent getting here.

As Jeno’s hands sweep your veil away, the world blooms into riotous color and sound, fireworks ignite just beyond the treeline, showering the sky with gold and blush and indigo sparks that rain down like wishes. A hundred butterflies, released from their waiting cages, erupt in a living cloud, dancing through shafts of sunlight, their wings brushing your hair and shoulders, lighting the aisle in trembling, iridescent mosaics. The pool flashes with light, petals and confetti spinning on the breeze, catching on water and skin, ribbons unspooling from the arbor in a rush of silk and promise. Every guest rises, the hush breaking in a swell of applause and laughter and tears; Haeun squeals, her tiny hands flinging petals higher, while Mark and Areum cling to each other, overcome. Even the old volcanic stones seem to vibrate with blessing, the villa ringing with music as strings pick up the first notes of your song.

Jeno wastes not a second. His hands cradle your face, big and warm, thumbs stroking your jaw as if to memorize you all over again. He draws you forward, your bodies fitting together in a way that feels fated, inevitable, the silk of your dress bunching beneath his grip as he claims your mouth in a kiss that is nothing like a fairytale, hungry, desperate, unashamed. His lips part yours with a groan, his palm sliding to the nape of your neck, holding you right where he wants you, and you melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, wedding bouquet tumbling forgotten to the stones. He tilts your chin, deepening the kiss until time splinters, every lesson in longing and denial shattering into heat and wonder. You taste salt and sunlight, the rawness of his joy, the vow in every tangled breath. His hold is possessive, anchoring you to this moment, this altar, the fact of now. The guests disappear. There is only Jeno—his mouth and his hands and the wild, breathless certainty that this, at last, is home. When you finally pull apart, the world crashes back in, dizzy and bright, and you see the tremble in his mouth, the pure devotion in his eyes, as if he’s kissed you into forever.

And then, as if the first kiss simply unlocked something inevitable, you find yourself drawn together again—laughter shaking through your lips as Jeno dips you lower, kisses deepening, his hands greedy at your waist, the world blurring out and rushing back with every new brush of your mouth. Each time you surface for air, the crowd roars louder: Mark howling encouragement, Areum shrieking, Karina and Nari clapping, Ryujin and Ningning all but leaping from their seats. Your mother sobs behind her hands, your father finally letting go of his stoic restraint. The music swells, and even the officiant is grinning, dabbing his eyes as he gestures you onward.

But it’s Haeun’s joy that cracks the sky, she claps her hands so hard her flower crown slips sideways, squealing, “Kiss again! Kiss again, Auntie! More, Unca Nono!” Her voice ripples through the garden, and Jaemin scoops her up, twirling her in a ring of confetti and butterflies. Shotaro, already a waterfall, wipes his cheeks with the sleeve of his suit jacket and tries (and fails) to blink back fresh tears. The adults gather into their own little huddles, hands clasped, hearts pounding, every single soul tied to this miracle unfolding at the altar.

Still, at the center of it all, there is only you and Jeno. Loving him, kissing him, here in the wild, golden hush of forever, feels easier than breathing, simpler than memory, more necessary than the heartbeat drumming in your chest. He leans in, whispers something only for you, and you both laugh into each other’s mouths, the rest of your lives crackling at your fingertips. You hold him, and you know it down to your marrow, every journey, every wrong turn, every impossible day, every aching night: it all leads, always, back to you.

You move through the golden hush with Jeno’s hand fastened in yours, each step feathered with applause and laughter and the falling hush of petals that spin in the wake of your bodies. Your dress and veil catch sunlight in wild ripples, trailing promises behind you. The aisle is transformedc no longer just a corridor of stone and bloom, but a living river of joy, memory, and fresh hope, carrying you both forward through a thousand faces that built this day, through the breathless, cascading future. Your lungs ache from smiling; you lean into Jeno’s arm, both of you radiant, fever-bright, unable to stop touching, hearts galloping, skin fizzing with the madness of what you’ve just done.

And Haeun, at the heart of the aisle, waiting, unable to keep still, jumps up and down, sandals clapping, flower crown tumbling sideways, the bows in her braids bouncing as she shouts, “My turn! I wanna get married too! Auntie, Unca Nono, wait for me!” Her baby voice is clear as a bell and twice as contagious, rippling laughter through the crowd. Jaemin, swept up in the blur of it, scoops her in his arms and presses her tight to his chest, the glisten in his eyes betraying every hope and fear he’s ever harbored for this tiny, radiant girl. To everyone watching, he’s just a young father in love with his daughter, but inside, his heart seizes with dread, an old, private fear never fully banished by sun or laughter. He remembers every midnight she coughed so hard she turned blue, every long hour in white hospital corridors, the way doctors whispered around corners and called her strong for surviving, but never promised tomorrow. 

As Haeun giggles, insisting she’ll marry Daddy one day, Jaemin presses a trembling kiss to her crown, panic hollowing him even in the middle of so much beauty. He prays—wordlessly, desperately—that she will outgrow her weakness, that this day will not be a memory he clings to in the face of loss. His arms tighten, fierce and soft, as if to keep her soul stitched to the world a little longer. If he’s honest, he knows, one day, he’ll have to let her go too, if she makes it that far. The darkness presses, a pulse of fear that colors every joy with ache. He closes his eyes, memorizing her heartbeat against him, whispering a promise into her hair: “Not for a long, long time, my angel. Stay, stay, stay, Daddy needs you.” Around them, the world surges with happiness, but that shadow never fully leaves, the knife’s edge that makes every new beginning so precious, so unbearably fragile, because love is always threatened by what might one day be taken away. And so Jaemin holds Haeun tighter, breathes her in, letting hope and dread mingle in his throat, trying—like all parents—to love fiercely enough to keep the darkness at bay, even if it’s only for today.

You glance to the left, where Mark, usually irreverent, always the stronghold. stands unguarded for once, mouth open, eyes overflowing, wiping away tears with the heel of his hand, his other arm slung around Areum’s waist for ballast. He isn’t embarrassed, not even when Karina teases him in a whisper, “Cry harder, Lee,” because he’s too full—too grateful—to care. Areum beams, capturing every second on her camera, framing the moment as if it could ever be contained.

Further back, Chenle leaps into Donghyuck’s arms in an exaggerated parody of romance, both of them nearly tumbling into a decorative urn, shouting, “We’re next!” and “You wish!” Their banter floats over the music, a much-needed flash of mischief that sends Nari and Sohee into fits of laughter, Sohee elbowing Nari with, “Can you believe we’re here?” Nari wipes her cheeks, “You mean the tears or the spectacle?” They cling to each other, childhood echoing in the way their fingers braid together.

Even Yangyang stands near the fringe, hands tucked in his pockets, the smile on his face unwavering but bittersweet, eyes following you with a glimmer of pride and sorrow and something resolute, a silent blessing that hurts in its gentleness. He nods at Jeno, and in that moment, all old rivalry softens into shared history. The sun warms your cheeks; the air tastes of salt, champagne, and coming storms. As you reach the end of the aisle, Jeno squeezes your hand, anchoring you in the din and the silence, and the crowd bends toward you as if pulled by gravity, each face a brushstroke in the painting of your happiness. Somewhere behind you, Haeun, still clutching Jaemin, yells, “Kiss again! When I’m big I marry you, Daddy!” and the garden bursts into fresh laughter, everyone drawn tighter together, love rippling outward, dizzy, endless, unstoppable. The day blooms, overripe and golden, carrying you, carrying all of them, ever forward, always, always back to you.

As the aisle spills into sunlight and the garden erupts in laughter and applause, you and Jeno pause, caught in the golden hush, the hush that follows miracles. He turns, cupping your face with both hands, his eyes glimmering, lashes wet, and presses his forehead to yours, breath mingling, a smile trembling between awe and disbelief. “One more,” he whispers, and then he kisses you, softer than the first, lips reverent and smiling, slow enough to feel the shape of every vow still echoing between your teeth.

Haeun bursts out of Jaemin’s arms before anyone can stop her, his cry caught between a laugh and a sob, he just wants to hold his baby close, the last shred of innocence he can keep in this riotous world, but he lets her go, pride and longing shining through his tears. She scrambles down the aisle, cheeks glowing, hair ribbons askew, gathering the last fistfuls of petals she forgot to scatter earlier, and tosses them in a jubilant arc at your feet. “Again! Again!” she demands, clapping her hands, hopping from foot to foot, a wildflower spirit blessing your way forward.

You and Jeno break apart, grinning, and without hesitation you both turn back in for another kiss. quick, giggly, helpless with joy, letting the crowd’s cheers and Haeun’s applause spin the moment into forever. Every kiss is a promise, a seal, a homecoming; every kiss is the beginning and the return. Your lips part at last, faces radiant and breathless, as you wrap an arm around Jeno’s waist and look up to the sky, your heart thundering with gratitude, because this is the love you get to choose, again and again, for all the days that follow.

She gazes up at you and Jeno, eyes huge with delight, and then looks squarely at Jeno. “My turn!” she pipes, earnest and commanding, so sweet you can’t help but laugh through your tears. Jeno bends, scooping her up in his arms, and she presses her lips to his cheek in a sticky, enthusiastic kiss. He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead, his hand cupping the back of her head, whispering, “Thank you, princess, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

You and Jeno share another kiss, quick, smiling, impossibly full, while Haeun giggles in the crook of his neck, the crowd’s joy swelling, Jaemin pressing a trembling hand to his heart as he watches his whole world glowing in the sun. Every kiss is a promise, a seal, a homecoming; every kiss is the beginning and the return. Your lips part at last, faces radiant and breathless, as you wrap an arm around Jeno’s waist and look up to the sky, your heart thundering with gratitude, because this is the love you get to choose, again and again, for all the days that follow.

This is what it feels like when the future begins.

You slip away to change while the garden blooms with music and laughter, and when you return, the world stops. Your second dress is bolder, skin-bared and shimmering, silk cut on the bias so it clings to every new curve, intricate beadwork scattered like constellations along the low neckline and slit that kisses your thigh. The back plunges to your waist, criss-crossed with delicate silver threads, catching the light with every step, while your hair falls in glossy, tousled waves, brushed loose from its earlier knot, pinned only with a single pearl comb. Your makeup is deeper now, smoky, glossy, the kind that turns every glance from Jeno molten. He’s changed, too, a few buttons undone on his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, tie abandoned, his throat bare and sun-bronzed, eyes tracing the line of your body with open worship. A single necklace gleams at your collarbone, Karina’s earrings catching candlelight, and as you join him on the floor, laughter rippling around you, you feel every inch like the bravest, most beautiful version of yourself, chosen and choosing, daring him to look away—even for a second.

The tables are set beneath strings of golden lanterns, each one casting little halos across glass and silverware, the scene stitched together by candlelight and the distant song of the surf. You and Jeno sit in the middle, your hands laced beneath the tablecloth, his thumb soothing lazy circles into your palm, steadying you both through the evening’s dazzle. To your right, Mark and Areum claim the closest seats, Mark’s arm flung over the back of her chair, laughter brimming even as his eyes stay damp with emotion. Karina, luminous in powder blue, sits with Ningning and Ryujin, her hands folded, always watching, always planning, her smile flickering like a secret. Jaemin is a few seats down, sharing a plate with Haeun, who’s nestled in his lap, her cheeks sticky with mango and the remnants of wedding cake, a little crown of daisies woven into her hair by Areum earlier.

Shotaro hovers between tables, offering bites of food to anyone too busy talking to eat, while Chenle, Donghyuck, and Seulgi are locked in a spirited debate about which dessert is best. Irene drifts from guest to guest, refilling glasses, eyes soft as she takes in the scene she helped create, her hands clasping Doyoung’s beneath the table when she thinks no one is watching. Your sisters, Nari and Sohee, are mid-laughter, teasing each other over the flower arrangements, while Coach Suh sits at the end, stoic and quiet, but with a rare smile, content to simply witness.

The feast is a riot of color and scent, platters of grilled seafood, tender roast duck, bowls of coconut rice and spiced vegetables, tropical fruits heaped in abundance, sweet rolls glossy with honey. Jeno’s fork nudges at your untouched plate and he leans in, voice low and teasing against the shell of your ear. “Baby’s probably hungry, eat,” he murmurs, the words rolling through you like silk. 

You giggle, half-embarrassed, and Mark’s eyes narrow from beside you, his fork pausing mid-air. “Don’t tell me you two are already having secrets,” he jokes, but there’s a thread of tenderness beneath it.

Mark rises slowly, glass trembling between his fingers, the room falling into a hush that always seems to honor him, not for his presence but for the weight of everything he’s witnessed. He clears his throat, eyes flicking first to you, then to Jeno, and for a long, silent beat, you can see every year, the wild ones, the bruised ones, the ones that nearly broke you, etched in the lines around his smile. “You know,” he starts, voice already rough at the edges, “it took me a long time to figure out the two of you. My brother and my best friend, both holding two ends of my heart and, honestly, neither of you ever let me forget it.” His laugh is watery, vulnerable. “At first, I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand what kept you circling back to each other, why you’d always end up back in the same place, no matter how far you’d run. I thought maybe it was just habit—old history, shared memories, the kind of mess that’s hard to untangle. But it was more than that.”

He pauses, breath trembling as his gaze drifts down the table, eyes shining. “I think the moment I understood was one of those quiet nights, after a game, when nobody else was around. I looked over and there you were, Y/N, asleep with your head on Jeno’s shoulder, his hand covering yours like a vow. That was when I knew: it wasn’t about who you were then, but who you’d let each other become. You taught me that love isn’t a victory lap. It’s surviving four years of longing and silence, of ache and near-misses, and still choosing each other every time. I watched you both carry that weight, what you lost, what you nearly let go, and never stop hoping it might come back to you, different but true.”

His voice falters now, the ache surfacing, his smile breaking as he blinks hard. “You don’t get many moments like this in life, where you can honestly say you’ve never seen happiness this clear, this earned. I’ve never known a love like yours. It’s made me better, made all of us believe in something a little wilder, a little braver. I’m grateful, every day, to hold this much of your story. I love you, both of you. More than I can ever say.” He sets his glass down, and bends to kiss your cheek, his whisper barely audible: “Thank you for finding your way back. Thank you for loving him, and letting me love you both.” He straightens, eyes brimmed with tears, and for a moment the world is nothing but his brother, your best friend, your history, his blessing sealing the evening, his heart echoing every longing, every homecoming, every fragile, unbreakable thread that binds you to each other.

Karina stands, a little unsteady from champagne but radiant, the kind of confidence that comes from years of friendship and a hundred shared secrets. She lifts her glass, gaze bouncing between you and Jeno with a pride that feels like sunlight. “Let me just start by saying, Y/N, you’re the best person I know, and Jeno, you’re the other one. Seriously. The rest of us are just lucky to orbit your weird little planet.” She pauses, eyes misty, her voice catching as she leans into memory. “You know, people always say they hope their friends marry someone who deserves them. I don’t think that’s ever been a question with you two. You’re both reckless, brilliant and impossible, and you’ve carried each other through things most people would never survive, let alone forgive.” Her words wobble, and she dabs at her eyes with a linen napkin. “I’ve watched you two become the bravest, softest versions of yourselves, not because you had to, but because you chose to.”

She starts to laugh, shaking her head as if she can’t quite believe what she’s about to say. “I could tell a hundred stories, but oh god, remember that one night? It was just the three of us, a bottle of something very expensive, and,” You catch her eye and shake your head, a silent plea as you see exactly where this is headed, Karina’s cheeks are flushed, the champagne catching up to her, and she’s just tipsy enough for the word “threesome” to hover dangerously on her tongue. She catches your warning and bursts out laughing instead, the whole table following suit as you hide your face in your hands, mortified and delighted all at once. “Anyway, we had a lot of fun. I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations, before someone divorces before the honeymoon.”

Everyone laughs, the room a little lighter, your heart tighter with love. Karina regains herself, lowering her glass a little. “What I really want to say is, you two are proof that real love is wild, raw and messy. It’s friendship, and forgiveness, and making art out of the ordinary. I wish you years and years of it, a lifetime of love that surprises you, forgives you, and keeps coming back, no matter what.” She blows you a kiss, sinking back into her chair as you mouth thank you, cheeks hot, laughter trembling at the edges of your happiness.

Jaemin rises next, his usual composure softened by the golden glow of the evening and the gentle weight of Haeun cradled in his lap. He clears his throat, and you see the shimmer in his eyes before he even speaks. “I never thought I’d be standing here for this. You know, most of my life, I watched you both from a distance, sometimes as the third wheel, sometimes as the only one who could see just how much you two were orbiting each other. I remember every late-night phone call, every secret you made me keep, every fight I had to referee or heal from the sidelines. I’ve watched you lose each other and find each other, and all the while, you taught me, without ever meaning to, how to love bravely, how to forgive, how to wait for a miracle and build one from the pieces of your own broken hearts.”

He pauses, smile growing softer as Haeun shifts in his arms, restless, her little fingers tugging at his sleeve. “You're proof, both of you, that some things are worth all the mess and madness. Y/N, you’re the sister I never had, and Jeno, you’re the brother I chose. Thank you for making me part of your story, for letting my little girl be your flower girl, for giving all of us a place in your home and your future. I hope you find a thousand new ways to love each other, and that no matter what comes, you never stop choosing the ordinary, miraculous life you’ve built.”

He grins as Haeun squirms and bounces in his lap, impossibly eager, her little feet drumming against his thigh. “Such a restless girl tonight, aren’t you, baby?” Jaemin murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Go on, sweetheart, your turn.” Haeun beams at you both, fingers curled in his shirt for courage, and then she stands, clutching his shoulder for balance. Her eyes go wide and earnest. “Congwatulations, Unca Nono and Auntie,” she announces, voice piping clear over the laughter. “You so, so pwetty. I love you lots!” You blow her a kiss across the table, heart swelling, and she claps her hands with glee, her daddy pressing a kiss to the top of her head, pride and joy written all over his face.

Plates clatter and laughter swells as everyone finally dives into the feast, silver cutlery flashing, sauces glistening, the air thick with the scent of lemongrass and toasted coconut and bright, sweet fruit. Chenle, mouth already full, leans over to Donghyuck and declares, “If this is what love tastes like, I’m getting married tomorrow.” 

Donghyuck shoots back, “Bro, you wouldn’t last a day, you can barely commit to breakfast.” 

The table bursts into laughter. Ningning snatches a roll right off Chenle’s plate, and he yelps, “I’m telling your mother!” Areum giggles into her wine, Karina snaps a photo of you feeding Jeno a forkful of cake, and Mark just shakes his head, grinning, eyes wet with happiness.

Meanwhile, Haeun, rosy-cheeked and sleepy, curls deeper against Jaemin’s chest, her eyelashes fluttering as her energy finally runs out. Jaemin strokes her hair, eyes soft, and teases, “My little comet’s burning out. She needs energy for her big dance tonight, she’s been practicing all week.” He presses his lips to her forehead and whispers, “Sweet dreams, starlight,” rocking her gently as the party swirls on around them. You glance at the scene, your family, your friends, every heart that matters, while Jeno’s hand finds yours beneath the table, your fingers tangled, and for a moment, you feel the world tip perfectly into place, as if every joy you ever prayed for is gathered, glowing, right here.

The after-party spills into a hidden pavilion at the edge of the villa grounds, tucked beneath a canopy of banyan branches and glass lanterns, secretive as a wish whispered into midnight. The walls are all open air, no barriers between you and the velvet blue of the Bali night, framed by lush monstera leaves, gold-tipped palms, and bursts of bougainvillea climbing every arch. The floor is hand-polished teak, warm under bare feet, scattered with silken pillows and low tables loaded with platters of honeyed fruit, tiny cakes, chilled wine, and whole coconuts split open for sipping. The ceiling glitters with thousands of suspended fairy lights, each one reflected in a series of mirrored panels arranged to look like a shattered star, turning every movement into a constellation.

On one side, Karina has staged a corner for photographs, gauzy curtains, a nest of wildflowers, and a single vintage loveseat where friends and lovers tumble together, faces flush with happiness. Areum’s camera snaps in a rhythm like a heartbeat, preserving laughter and kisses for a future you can’t imagine yet. There’s a band in the far corner, barefoot and golden, saxophone and bass curling together, and the air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something sweet roasting on a distant fire. In the heart of the room, the dance floor glows, dappled with light, scattered petals, a patchwork of shadows where the two of you disappear and find each other again, over and over, until the sky goes pink and the last song fades. The room isn’t just a room, it’s a memory made manifest, wild and inviting, threaded with intimacy, freedom, and the giddy promise that this night is yours, unrepeatable, stitched together by the hands and hearts that brought you home.

Along the eastern wall, the food is a festival unto itself, a sprawling, candlelit spread that could only exist because Irene and Seulgi spent the night before with their sleeves rolled up and laughter spilling into flour, each dish a love letter to both of your childhoods and every city you’ve ever called home. There are platters of glistening grilled fish and shell-on prawns caught at dawn, spiced rice folded with mango and coriander, thinly sliced wagyu glistening under curls of fried garlic, stacks of lotus-leaf dumplings, bowls of chilled soba tangled with sesame, and bamboo trays of vibrant fruits, dragonfruit, lychee, pineapple, slices of cold watermelon arranged like jewels.

In the center, Irene has assembled a “midnight feast” bar with mini bao buns, edible flowers, fresh spring rolls, and single-serve tiramisu, each served on mismatched blue porcelain, a nod to the first mismatched meal you ever ate together as students. Seulgi’s signature touch: the delicate sugar butterflies scattered across every plate, and a tower of gold-flecked panna cotta glimmering in the candlelight. An entire corner glows with homemade breads and butter, an old family recipe, while next to it, a pyramid of spun sugar domes and mooncakes sparkles like treasure. The space is alive with sound, forks against china, glasses raised, the fizz of prosecco and laughter, the low hum of a song someone’s grandmother always played at weddings. There are handwritten menus tucked under every plate, each one stamped with your initials and a gold wax seal, another Irene detail, and every surface is scattered with wild jasmine, handpicked by Seulgi at dawn.

You catch both of their eyes across the crowd, and your smile is pure gratitude, silent, heavy, joyful. You mouth thank you, hands pressed to your heart, and they grin back, tired and glowing, and for a moment you realize this room isn’t just a party: it’s a tapestry of all the women who love you, every little miracle gathered here, every midnight favor repaid in a language that will outlast even the best music, even this night.

The lights dim, the room pooling with soft gold and slow shadows, every voice lowering to a hush as Shotaro cues the music, a melody woven with longing and promise, delicate as silk thread pulled through memory. Jeno’s hand finds yours, steady and sure, guiding you to the center where the floor gleams with reflections, a shallow pool of starlight and candle flame. The room falls away as you step into him, his palm splayed wide and possessive at your lower back, the heat of him unmistakable even through layers of silk and lace.

He draws you close, your bodies almost flush, and you slip your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing the fine hair at his nape. He leans in, breath warm at your temple, and murmurs, “I’ve been dreaming about this since I first watched you walk to me.” The confession winds through you, hot and electric, sinking low in your belly. He sways you with a quiet authority, hips aligning with yours in a rhythm that is both innocent and laced with private hunger. The dance is barely a dance, more an embrace that drifts, slow and shameless, your chest pressed to his, his lips brushing your ear as you laugh into his collar. The world narrows to the glide of his thumb at your waist, his hand firm on the curve of your ass, bold under the guise of choreography.

Every movement is laden with secret promises, each spin and step a memory of every night you traced your names into each other’s skin. You arch into him, the friction a private game, and he growls so low only you can hear, “You look so fucking good like this, Mrs. Lee.” You bite your lip, eyes glossy, and for a moment your bodies stall, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the hush. He presses a kiss beneath your jaw, his hand possessive at your side, and you shiver, laughing, the dance dissolving into something only the two of you know. Around you, friends and family fade into watercolor; there’s only the music, his hand on your skin, the soft gasp he swallows as he dips you gently, lips ghosting along your throat, every inch of him aching with love and want and the greedy relief of forever. By the time the music slows, you’re clinging to each other, swaying in a world spun just for you—every heartbeat, every step, a vow that you will never, ever let go.

You glance at Jeno, who squeezes your hand and gently lets go, stepping back as your father appears at your side, proud and hesitant, the weight of years in his smile. He offers you his arm. “May I?” he whispers, his voice a blend of strength and surrender. You nod, tears biting the backs of your eyes as you slide into his embrace. The world shrinks, just you and your father, the soft scrape of his shoes against polished stone, his palm wide and sure at your back. The scent of his aftershave, sharp, old-fashioned, settles around you as he leans down, pressing his cheek to your temple. “My girl,” he breathes, and for a moment you’re small again, spinning in circles under kitchen lights, safe and unafraid. He doesn’t say much but his thumb sketches silent I love you’s into your shoulder, the words soaking deeper than any vow.

You let him lead, every step slow and gentle, your head tucked close. When the song changes, you pull back, cheeks damp, and your father wipes at his eyes, laughter breaking through the tears. “Don’t let him take you too far, alright?” he jokes, voice cracking with pride.

The crowd applauds as you step back. Jeno’s mother finds him in the pool of light, eyes shining, arms open. He bows, grinning, and pulls her close, spinning her once for old time’s sake. She laughs, dabbing at her mascara, teasing him about his wild hair, the old jersey she kept folded under her pillow for luck. He lets her lead, just this once, their silhouettes golden against the windows. “Thank you,” she whispers, “for coming home. For making all of this real.” Jeno kisses her cheek, a promise to keep her close even as he builds a new family.

Mark is next. The DJ drops something playful, a thread of jazz, and he pounces, bowing with a flourish, stealing you from your father’s arms. “About time you upgraded,” he says, dramatic as ever. You spin, both of you laughing, the years of rivalry dissolving into old comfort, childhood memories mapped in the way he twirls you. Mark drops his voice, suddenly raw: “You have no idea how happy I am for you. Four years, I watched both of you chase ghosts. Now you finally caught each other.” His hug is fierce, arms wound tight around your shoulders, his cheek pressed to your hair. “You deserve every bit of this joy. Don’t let go, okay?”

Somewhere between toasts and music, Haeun reemerges in her second dress of the day, a miniature masterpiece in sunflower yellow, crafted by Karina from the softest silk and tulle. The bodice is scattered with hand-embroidered blooms, petals so delicately stitched they look like they might flutter off in the breeze, each one kissed by a single glass bead that catches the light when she twirls. The skirt is fuller, a little pouf of layered organza that bounces around her knees with every step, making her look like a sunbeam you could scoop up in your arms. Karina has twisted her hair into two perfect plaits, each woven with ribbons to match the flowers at her waist, and at the crown of her head sits a tiny golden clip shaped like a butterfly, a wink to the aisle she conquered just hours before.

She finds Jaemin by the edge of the dance floor, her little fist reaching for him. “Daddy, dance now?” she asks, hope shining in every syllable, cheeks dimpled and eyes huge beneath the soft ballroom lights. Jaemin kneels, scooping her into his arms. “Always, flower,” he answers, and as the music softens, something lilting, the kind of melody spun for fathers and daughters, they sway together, his hands steady around her tiny waist, her small palms pressed to his cheeks as if she’s holding his whole world together. “You look so pwetty,” she whispers, lips pursed in concentration, and he laughs, soft and teary, “Not as pretty as you, sunshine. Never as pretty as you.”

The DJ clears his throat, announcing, “And now, our youngest star, Haeun, has a very special dance for everyone!” The crowd hushes, curiosity flickering in every eye as Jaemin gently sets her down in the center of the floor. The first notes of “I See the Light” from Tangled float through the air, a song Haeun has clung to since her longest days in the hospital, one she once played on loop from her pillow, dreaming of lanterns and happy endings.

Haeun stands as tall as a two-year-old can dream, hands pressed over her heart, eyes squeezed shut in a moment of pure, quivering concentration. The first notes of “I See the Light” from Tangled shimmer through the speakers, and her lashes flutter open, soaking in every golden lantern and upturned smile around her. Once, Haeun’s lifeless little body lay curled in Jaemin’s lap, her breath shallow, eyelids heavy with sleep she couldn’t quite wake from. The hospital room was washed in silence and dim machine glow, and every night Jaemin would prop up his phone, playing “I See the Light” from Tangled, letting the gentle music fill the air, for her, and eventually for him. Even when she was too weak to open her eyes, he would sit by her side, murmuring every lyric, watching the flicker of lanterns on the screen and believing, somehow, that she could still hear it in the dark. It became their ritual, a stubborn act of hope in a world that had run out of answers.

It’s become their tradition, every week, no matter where they are, Jaemin settles Haeun into his lap and queues up Tangled, the opening chords now stitched into the fabric of their life together. He knows every lyric, every lantern, every silly line by heart, but he never once complains. Even when she’s watched it a hundred times, even when he’s tired and the world feels heavy, he does it for his girl. She climbs into his arms with a squeal, shoves her blanket against his side, and insists on holding his hand as the movie starts, her eyes wide with anticipation, always looking to him at her favorite parts. It’s the price of fatherhood and the purest kind of devotion, a promise he’ll never break, not even on the happiest day of her life. Tonight, as she twirls in her sunflower dress, lanterns drifting above and the crowd holding its breath, it’s clear to everyone that this is what hope looks like when it finally, impossibly, finds its way home.

Now, those same notes bloom across the reception. Her lips move with the music, counting herself in, and then she begins, small feet padding, toes pointed, yellow skirt fluttering like sunlight on water, her whole body lit from within by hope and courage. Her lips move in a soundless count—“one, two, free”—then she opens her eyes wide, soaking up every face, every glimmering lantern, every whisper of excitement in the room. She begins, not with grace, but with faith: the smallest feet padding carefully, her toes pointed in new ballet shoes, the golden skirt a cloud around her knees. With every step, her ribbons dance and her yellow dress flares, bright as hope.

She spins, a little too eagerly, her feet tangle and she topples, landing on the floor with a soft, surprised thud. “Oopsy!” she chirps, voice high and clear, cheeks blooming with a sheepish, unstoppable grin. The whole room gasps, then bursts into laughter and applause, cooing encouragement, “go on, Haeun!” “You’re doing amazing!”—and Haeun beams back, undeterred, scrambling up and dusting off her skirt with all the dignity of a princess. She throws her arms wide, lets out a squeal of laughter, and picks up right where she left off, dancing bigger, braver, sending love back to the room in sunbeams and giggles.

Her joy is contagious, Mark’s tears turn into laughter, Ryujin covers her mouth to keep from shouting, Jaemin is on his knees at the edge of the dance floor, mouthing every lyric right along with her. 

Jeno’s hand finds your waist first, then slips over your stomach, gentle, reverent, his thumb brushing tiny, secret circles through the silk of your dress. You lean into his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder, both of you spellbound by the sight of Haeun spinning in her yellow dress, laughter bubbling up like spring water. He bends to your ear, his breath warm, voice pitched so only you can hear over the hush and music. “We’re going to give our baby everything, every hope, every safe place, every morning like this. I promise, nothing in this world gets to touch you unless it’s joy. I’ll love you both every day I’m alive, every day after, in every lifetime they give me.”

You can barely breathe for the sweetness of it, the certainty. His palm settles just a little more firmly, protective and awed, and you blink away tears as the room dissolves into lantern-light, as your future grows quietly beneath his touch. All around you, love pours itself into every empty space, dancing, laughing, crying, promising. And then, as Haeun spins in her sunflower-yellow dress, ribbons flying and cheeks flushed pink, a single lantern slips loose from the tangled fairy lights above, drifting down like it’s been conjured by her delight, glowing the soft gold of a wish whispered to the stars. She gasps, tiny mouth forming a perfect ‘O,’ and her eyes go so wide it’s as if she’s trying to drink in the whole world at once. Arms stretched high, she toddles forward with that wobbling, determined baby gait, every step sparkling with innocence, hope, and giddy pride, the little daisies on her shoes flashing with each bounce. Her curls gleam under the lantern’s glow, and when she reaches for it, hands open and trembling, everyone holds their breath, because in that instant, she’s not just a child at a wedding, she is the dream you all survived for, the living light at the center of the universe. The music quiets, and every heart in the room feels it: the fragile, dazzling miracle of a little girl catching her own piece of magic, joy blooming so bright it hurts to look at her.

There is something about the way Haeun receives love, open-palmed, bottomless, instinctive, that turns giving it back into her art. She claps at the end, hands smacking together, pink with effort and happiness. Then she runs into Jaemin’s arms, throwing herself at him, cheeks flushed, shrieking, “Daddy, I did it! I did dancing! Look, look!” She turns, waving to you and Jeno, showering the room with the same bright, boundless affection that made every heart in the villa hers from the first step. And in that sun-gold, wild little moment, it’s clear: Haeun’s love is the kind that multiplies with every person she touches. She is laughter, promise, a thousand fireflies in a bottle. The room cannot help but love her back, over and over, again and again.

Applause erupts, as infectious as her smile. Mark stands, whistling. Areum is filming, crying into her hands. Even the waitstaff pause to watch, grins stretched wide. Haeun runs straight to you and Jeno, launching herself into your lap with a squeal, arms out for hugs, cheeks pink from joy. Jaemin wipes his eyes, bending to kiss the crown of her head, whispering, “You did it, moonbeam. You made it real.”

She tugs your sleeve, beaming. “I did dancing! Like princess! You see me?” And there, in that sun-bright, impossibly soft moment, the whole room feels suspended—her yellow dress a promise, her laughter the most beautiful blessing you could ever hope for on this day of all days.

The room glows in low, golden light, couples whirling on polished stone—Mark and Areum lost in each other’s laughter, Karina and Ryujin spinning, hair undone, Donghyuck dipping Ningning too dramatically and nearly dropping her to a chorus of wild cheers. Chenle’s taking shots with Doyoung and Irene, voices raised in drunken song, while Seulgi’s already cradling her heels under the table, her laugh curling above the music. Beyond them, your parents slow-dance, your mother’s head pressed to your father’s chest, and in the center of it all, Haeun’s yellow dress is a beam of sunshine weaving between grown-up legs, trailing sparkles and blessings everywhere she goes.

Jeno’s chin rests at your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck. You turn to him, catching the way his eyes never really left you, something private and shining locked inside them, a thousand promises spoken and unspoken in the hush that falls between heartbeats. And in that moment, with the music swelling and your hearts threaded together, you know: this night, this love, this ordinary miracle, is yours forever. The world is color and movement and laughter, but his gaze tethers you, always, unerringly, back to you. 

The moment the bedroom door snaps shut, the world blurs to heat and muscle and wicked intent—honeymoon white rumpled into shadow, the headboard shuddering with every frantic bounce of your hips. You straddle Jeno, knees caging his thighs, the silk of your new dress bunched at your waist, every inch of you wild with need, skin flushed, nipples aching, sweat pooling in the hollow of your spine. The air is thick with your perfume, sex and salt, your scent painting every gasp he lets out beneath you. His hands are rough, knuckles bone-white where he grips your ass, guiding you down on his cock until he’s buried so deep you can feel him everywhere, spine, stomach, brain, a perfect, filthy ache that makes you arch and whimper, greedy and unashamed.

Your cunt clenches around him, slick and soaked, milking every inch, and you ride him like you want to break him—fucking down hard enough that the slap of your ass on his thighs echoes off marble, his cock kicking inside you, desperate and swollen, throbbing under the relentless press of your cunt. You drag your nails down his chest, scratching lines into muscle, branding him, making him grunt and buck, but you only laugh—wild, hungry, the sound catching in your throat as you pin his wrists overhead and grind your clit against his pelvis, chasing your own orgasm, uncaring who hears. “That’s all you’ve got, husband?” you taunt, voice shredded, rolling your hips in brutal circles, sweat-slick and feverish, your tits bouncing inches from his open mouth. “After all that waiting, you’re gonna let me use you up? Gonna let me ride you until you’re begging?”

You press his wrists above his head, grip iron-tight, your nails dimpling the backs of his hands. The bed frame rattles, the headboard bruising the wall, but you barely notice, your whole world shrinks to the thick heat of his cock inside you, to the whimpers he lets spill out when you grind your hips just right, slow, mean, making him feel every slick inch, every clench and release. “Keep those hands there,” you growl, spitting into his open mouth when he tries to plead, letting the mess drip down his chin. “Take it. Be good for me.”

Jeno’s pupils are blown, his jaw slack, hips stuttering as he begs, voice frayed to ribbons, desperate. “Please, more, fuck, need you to choke me, baby, I can’t, please—” The command is a shiver through you. Your fingers wrap around his throat, pressing just enough to make his eyes roll, to cut off every sound except the choked gasp of your name. You bounce harder, sweat flying, your tits dragging over his lips, and he tries to chase, to thrust up, but you slap his cheek, hard, sharp, a red bloom where your hand lands.

“Pathetic,” you sneer, tightening your grip on his throat, your other hand pinching his nipple, “so fucking needy—look at you, drooling for it, all fucked out and I’m just getting started.” He whimpers, cock twitching, leaking so much pre-come it smears your thighs, and you slap him again, watching the way his whole body bows up, desperate for more. “Say it,” you spit, grinding down harder, smearing your slick all over him, “tell me who you belong to, tell me what you are.”

“Yours,” he gasps, hips trembling, voice gone. “Yours, yours, yours—please, I need it, I can’t—baby, please—”

You lean in, spit pooling on your tongue, and let it drip into his waiting mouth, watching him swallow greedily, lips shining. “Good boy,” you whisper, biting at his ear, “that’s right. You’re my husband, my little fuck toy, my filthy slut, let everyone hear how much you love getting ruined by your wife.” You squeeze his throat tighter, making his cock jerk, his hands clenching into useless fists above his head.

He’s a wreck, tears in his eyes, mouth open, shuddering beneath you as you ride him mercilessly, your clit grinding down, hips snapping in cruel, relentless rhythm. “Can’t believe you waited this long,” you mock, voice wicked, rolling your hips with purpose, “married me just to get fucked dumb—such a good little husband. You gonna come for me again? Let me see it, Jeno. Give it to me—fill me up, now, right now—”

He shudders, babbling broken pleas, hands still pinned, as you slap his cheek again and milk every drop out of him, your cunt clenching so tight it’s obscene. Your dominance has grown, fed by every night he’s spent worshipping you, begging for your touch, learning every filthy thing you love, and now you’re right where you belong—on top, in control, every orgasm wrung out of him by your body and your words. He’s ruined, wild, worshipful, his skin a patchwork of your teeth and hands, his cock aching and red, and you don’t stop, don’t soften, not until your thighs shake and your breath breaks and your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, drowning you both in sweat and noise.

You collapse on his chest, body slick and trembling, his arms coming loose around you, still gasping, still begging for more, but you hush him with a finger to his lips. “You’ll get it again,” you promise, voice thick, hungry. “Every night, every day. You’re mine, my husband, and I’ll never let you forget it.”

You can read forever in the way he looks up at you now, lips parted, lashes wet, sweat shining on his cheeks, the glazed worship in his eyes cracked open by hunger and surrender. His hands tremble where they clutch your thighs, raw from your nails, your ring biting into his skin as you pin his wrists down, your palm pressing his pulse into the mattress. There’s nothing polite left between you, no trace of hesitation or shyness, just need, raw and relentless, stitched through with trust so deep it’s almost violent. You spit in his mouth and he takes it eagerly, eyes fluttering shut, a low sob caught in his throat when you slap his cheek and call him yours, your good boy, your ruined, precious thing. Every time you take him like this, every time he lets you, it’s a homecoming, a ritual, a riot, a silent plea: never stop. Never tame this. Never let the fire go out.

You know why it never dims, because he aches for every unruly part of you, because you’ve both spent years starving and surviving, and now you’re insatiable. Your marriage is riot and sanctuary both, the sheets always wrecked, your voices echoing off the walls, every new bruise a love letter, every broken gasp a prayer. Every time you grind him into the bed, drag a cry from his throat, choke him until his eyes roll and he sobs for permission, it’s another promise: this is forever, this is us, this is how I come back to you—every night, every season, no matter what the world tries to take.

And he never stops looking at you like that, like you’re the only religion he’s ever believed, the only finish line he’ll ever chase. Even when his body’s shaking, even when you ride him raw and ruin him for anyone else, you see him come undone, gasping your name, swearing his soul belongs to you, every muscle taut, every vein singing. It’s in the way you break together, your thighs shaking, his cock swelling inside you, sweat and spit and tears, the room spinning with the memory of every fight, every goodbye, every time you clawed your way back to each other. It never dims, because every single time is the only time, the last time, the first time, a thousand lifetimes folded into one. You ride him until he’s sobbing, choking on your praise, your promises, his own filthy need, and in the haze of climax you watch his eyes—glassy, wild, hungry for everything you are—and you know you’ll spend the rest of your life coming back to him, and he, desperate, aching, already begging, will always come back to you.

Jeno shifts you onto your stomach, one palm splaying low over your back, the other roaming, worshipful, down the length of your spine. You feel his breath hitch as his thumb catches on the curve just above your hip, a patch of ink, the delicate ‘23’ etched forever into your skin. His mouth finds it in the half-light, lips brushing the tattoo with a softness that borders on devotion. He traces the numbers with his tongue, slow and sinuous, as if tasting a memory written just for him, mouthing the digits like a secret, his secret, your surrender.

“Mine,” he murmurs, the word pressed against your flesh, mouth lingering, reverent, and just a little wild. He kisses it again, lips plush and greedy, tongue swirling over the fine lines of ink until the skin tingles and heat pools low in your belly. He licks up the side of the tattoo, sealing the claim with a last, deep kiss, as if imprinting himself there, ink on ink.

You barely have time to gasp before he’s spreading you wider, holding you open with practiced, possessive hands. His mouth is hot and wet as he buries his face between your cheeks, tongue tracing filthy, worshipful circles, licking you open with slow, deliberate strokes. You tremble, clutching the sheets, your body arching, every nerve set alight as he devours you, moaning low as if nothing else in the world could ever satisfy him. Jeno’s fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread, making sure you feel every lick, every graze of his teeth, every desperate, hungry kiss. You sob his name into the pillow, hips rolling helplessly as he eats you out, tongue plunging and swirling, pulling helpless, broken moans from your lips, every sound another proof of how he loves you, how he’ll always come back to you, on his knees, hungry and humbled, worshipping every inch until your legs shake and your mind blanks, nothing left but his name and the ache for more.

As his tongue lingers, worshipping the tattoo and your ass alike, he pulls away only to reach for the glass of champagne left sweating on the bedside table. He dips two fingers inside, fishing out a sliver of ice, and flashes you a devilish, feral grin. “Don’t move,” he warns, voice rough as gravel and honey. The ice traces your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake, first a slow, glacial drag down the vertebrae, then a tap at your lower back, the cold a lightning shock against your flushed skin. You shudder, gasping his name, but he only laughs, low, greedy, delighted by your helplessness. The cube melts in his palm, water slicking your back, and he catches the last drop with his tongue, warm mouth closing over the shivering cold, drawing heat from your skin.

Then he moves lower, ice in his mouth now, pressing it to your clit, letting the shock and chill drive you half-mad, then replacing it with the scorching heat of his tongue, back and forth, sweet torment, until you’re trembling, pleading, writhing for more. “So sensitive,” he praises, voice thick with awe and adoration, “Look at you, can’t decide if you want to melt for me or burn alive.”

He flips you over, kneeling between your thighs, mouth hovering over your chest as he paints melting kisses over your nipples, hardening them further with ice, then soothing with slow, open-mouthed worship. Every moan you make is devoured, every twitch and gasp praised, Jeno muttering, “You’re perfect, you’re everything, I want to see you break for me.” He keeps you on the edge, ice and heat, rough and soft, his mouth never far from your skin, your body his favorite landscape, a map of every pleasure he’ll spend the rest of his life memorizing. The champagne, the sweat, the cool air, the warmth of his tongue, it’s all layered, decadent, dizzying, a night that will linger in your blood like a brand.

You’re spread wide on silk sheets, the soft hush of Bali air curling over your skin, every nerve alive and trembling beneath the shock of melting ice and the furnace of his tongue. Jeno’s hands hold you open, reverent and greedy, as he worships you in slow, aching circles. tongue lapping up the cool water trailing down your thighs, breath warm and eager, drinking every gasp you give him like it’s salvation. His mouth moves with purpose, savoring, teasing, never in a rush, his eyes locked on yours as if daring you to look away, to deny what you’re feeling. Every slow lick, every press of his tongue against your slick heat, turns the world into light and fever. Your body arches, chasing him, desperate and wild, and he groans at the taste of you, at the way you writhe and shudder for him, every edge of pleasure smoothed and sharpened by the ice and his mouth.

Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him impossibly deeper, and when he moans against you. hungry, almost worshipful, you feel the answer in your bones. The world could end outside this room and you would only know the bliss of his devotion, the way his tongue writes worship into your body, the way his hands say mine with every squeeze and every coaxing pull. As the pleasure builds, shattering, swelling, all you know is that you are home, no fear, no ache, just the fierce, overwhelming rightness of being loved, eaten out, adored by the only man who has ever set every star in your sky ablaze. You come undone for him, wave after wave, laughter and tears tangled in your breath, your body luminous with satisfaction. This, this is happiness, this is everything falling into place, this is what it means to want and to be wanted, to give in completely to joy, to love, to the man whose mouth makes you feel infinite.

You step through the apartment door with salt still tangled in your hair and sunburn fading from your shoulders, the world outside suddenly quieter now that it’s just the two of you again. The golden thread of honeymoon days still lingers, every inch of your skin marked by Jeno’s devotion, every muscle in your body remembering what it is to laugh until you cry, to come undone under his hands, to fall asleep tangled and safe. There’s a new gravity inside you now, a tiny universe spinning, and it changes everything: you walk slower, let yourself be gathered into Jeno’s arms more often, find yourself waking up ravenous or crying at a song on the radio. Jeno, who once wore his ease like a jersey, is hyper-attentive, hand drifting to your belly so often it feels like a ritual. Even now, with only the faintest curve beneath your dress, his palm settles there without thinking, tracing lazy circles as if he’s mapping out the rest of your life.

He hovers in the doorway, watching you kick off your shoes, his gaze hungry and soft all at once, every edge of him tuned to the smallest changes in your breath, your smile, the way you press your hand to your abdomen as if checking to make sure this is all still real. You catch him more often these days, standing in the hallway, eyes tracking the curve of your body with something close to awe, or dropping kisses along your bare stomach before you’re even fully awake. He’s become impossibly tender: fixing you midnight snacks, reading ingredient lists on every label, catching you when the world tilts and your balance falters. There’s a new protectiveness in him that never quite leaves, he will cross the street to shield you from a cyclist, insist on holding your bag, cut your food smaller just to tease, but you see it most in the way he talks to the baby when he thinks you’re not listening, his voice low and serious, promising everything from world peace to nightly lullabies.

The wedding rings on your hand catch the sun in the kitchen, throwing flecks of light across the table where your new routines have begun to settle, prenatal vitamins lined up like little promises, fruit washed and sliced, your calendar filled with doctor’s appointments. Even with all the change, there is ease here: Jeno kisses the back of your neck while you pour orange juice, murmurs soft plans for telling your friends and family. The day before, it was just you and him, now, every breath, every heartbeat, every future dinner and shared dawn feels like it belongs to three. You press your palm over the gentle swell of your belly, looking up at Jeno and grinning, there’s so much to say, so many beginnings left, but for now, it’s enough that you have each other, golden and glowing, a secret between your bodies and the world, almost ready to be shared.

Next week comes by like a breeze. The air in your new apartment is thick with anticipation and the faint scent of lemon candles, your way of masking nerves and new paint. The windows are thrown wide, sun pouring in across every surface, catching on stacks of glossy shopping bags and boxes gathered at the edge of the living room rug. Jeno moves around with an easy swagger, arms full of beautifully wrapped parcels, laughter already rising from the kitchen where Mark and Donghyuck argue about who gets the first taste of whatever’s bubbling on the stove. You called everyone here under the guise of a “honeymoon thank you”—the chance to share a slice of paradise with the people who carried you through everything that came before.

You and Jeno hand out the gifts one by one, each box carefully chosen, the sort of attention only new parents and grateful friends can manage. For Mark, there’s a first-edition book, leather-bound, the spine embossed with a city skyline, and a note inside: For every night you stayed up and waited for the text that meant I was safe, and every morning you convinced me to get out of bed anyway. Areum receives a delicate bracelet, tiny charms clinking: a miniature paint palette, a single gold star, a seashell from the honeymoon beach. “You needed more luck, and more reminders to paint outside the lines,” you tell her, squeezing her hand.

Karina’s box is heavier: inside, a silk scarf hand-dyed in your honeymoon colors, and a packet of rare, imported sewing needles—“for your next obsession, and because no one stitches the world together like you.” She beams, eyes shimmering, already looping the fabric around her neck as if it’s armor and wings at once. Jaemin’s gift is tucked into a velvet pouch: a set of glass marbles from a tiny seaside shop, each one swirling with blue and gold. “So you never lose your magic, or your sense of mischief.” He just grins, mouthing ‘I know what’s coming,’ eyes darting to Jeno, who can barely hide his excitement.

You crouch beside Haeun, handing her a plush bunny in a yellow dress, “just like you, my sunshine.” The bunny’s ears are soft as a blessing, and you tuck a tiny seashell into its pocket, whispering, “For your treasure box.” Haeun claps and presses a sticky kiss to your cheek, already dragging Jaemin down to the carpet to play. Shotaro gets a journal bound in handmade paper, embossed with constellations, and a set of colored pens. “To write down your dreams,” you say, “and keep the stars close when you miss home.” He presses it to his heart, eyes suspiciously bright.

For Chenle, there’s a silver keychain, a vintage camera charm, and a stack of postcards you collected from every city, each one with a ridiculous note and a dare scribbled on the back. Ningning receives a tiny glass music box, painted in wildflowers, and Ryujin gets a pair of bold sunglasses and a handwritten playlist. “You both need more brightness, more noise, and a reason to make mischief together,” you tease, watching them exchange a knowing look. Donghyuck’s parcel is the loudest, inside, a silk shirt in garish colors and a bar of imported chocolate, “for the man who needs to outshine every sunset and stay sweet even when he’s raising hell.”

The living room hums with laughter, gifts unwrapped and examined, stories already spinning. Jeno claps his hands, gathering everyone’s attention. “Alright,” he grins, “one last thing.” You pass out the envelopes, dividing them into two neat stacks, one for the girls, one for the boys. “It’s a little something we couldn’t bring home, but wanted to share with you anyway.” Mark’s brow furrows, Karina narrows her eyes, only Jaemin’s face gives him away, biting back a knowing smirk as he watches everyone else.

Inside each envelope lies a glossy, whisper-thin print, your ultrasound, all shadows and impossible geometry, a little constellation curled tight in the dark. Beneath the pale swirl of spine and fist, you’ve written each card by hand, looping the words in a script only family would recognize: For the bravest sisters—promotion is inevitable: Auntie, Class of 2026.

And for the boys: To the brothers who survived us, who laughed with us, who waited with us: time to become Uncles. Prepare accordingly.

Karina is the first to gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes flooding with tears. “No. No way—Y/N, are you—” You nod, already grinning through your own tears, and suddenly she’s across the room, crushing you in a hug, breathless and sobbing and laughing all at once. Areum shrieks and starts to cry too, flinging her arms around both of you, the bracelet clinking, the scarf catching in her hair.

Ryujin’s eyes scan the grainy silhouette on the photo, her lips quivering in a way you’ve never seen. Before the first word even forms, she grabs your hand, hard, fierce, as if she might anchor you both in the surge of this moment. “I knew it,” she breathes, a grin breaking open through tears, her fingers trembling against yours. “You think I don’t notice? You change your order at every dinner, you keep touching your stomach when you think no one’s looking, God, I’ve been waiting for this.” Her voice is thick, but she squeezes your hand again, the pride in her eyes bright and liquid.

Ningning lets out a strangled squeal and launches herself at Jeno, arms around his waist, bouncing up and down until he’s laughing too, his cheeks pink. Donghyuck, never missing a beat, leaps onto the coffee table and starts chanting, “Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!”—his voice echoing down the hall until Chenle whips a pillow at him, missing by a mile and setting off a riot of shrieks and cushions flying, the whole room dissolving into laughter, pure chaos, baby Haeun shrieking gleefully in Jaemin’s arms as the storm unfolds.

Then, over the din, Mark’s voice rises, his tone bright but a little wobbly. “I knew it too, you know!” He holds up his card, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Y/N, you kept handing off your champagne at the wedding, thinking no one noticed but I did. And Jeno, your hands have been glued to her stomach all month. You two aren’t nearly as sneaky as you think.” The tease falls away, though, as he steps forward, eyes suddenly glassy, holding the scan like it’s spun from gold. “I’m really going to be an uncle?” His voice cracks, and he crosses the room, arms wrapping tight around Jeno, then you, pulling you both in. “Thank you,” he whispers, his forehead pressing to yours. “I’ve never wanted anything more.” The embrace lingers, laughter softening into the kind of silence only family can hold, a hush that promises this baby, already, will never know a moment without love.

Haeun doesn’t quite understand the flurry, the laughter, or the reason all the grown-ups are crying and hugging so much, but she knows magic when she feels it. She wriggles free from Jaemin’s lap, her little hands patting across the carpet, curls bouncing with each determined step. She finds you on the sofa, tucked against a mound of pillows, and clambers up with a quiet, “Auntie?” Her eyes are wide and shining, big as lanterns. “Baby?” she asks, voice a shy, dreamy whisper, every syllable wrapped in awe.

You can’t help but laugh, nodding as you lift the hem of your shirt, baring the softest curve of your belly. Haeun’s mouth makes a perfect O of wonder; her fingers flutter in midair before she lets her palms rest, gentle as a prayer, over your skin. She stays still, breath held, then presses her cheek to your stomach, giggling, her happiness feather-light and pure. “Hi, baby!” she whispers, as if she’s afraid to speak too loud and scare away the secret inside you. She leans forward, lips pursed in a sticky, open-mouthed kiss right in the center of your bump, and then hugs you, her arms barely encircling your waist. “I your best fwend, ‘kay?” she promises, cheeks flushed and voice syrup-sweet, as if she’s pledging her heart to this new life before the rest of the world can even understand what’s begun.

The room softens around you; even the adults grow quiet, the moment suspended as Haeun babbles soft encouragements, “love you, baby! See you soon!” before turning her bright, expectant face to yours. She beams, dimples deep, her voice trembling with secret joy: “When baby come out, we share teddy. Pink one, promise!” You laugh, blinking back tears, kissing the top of her head and thinking that, in this quiet hush, the whole future just got a little brighter, threaded through with the innocent, steadfast love only a child can give.

Shotaro wipes his eyes and mutters, “I need to start working out. I’m gonna have to carry two babies soon.”

Jeno’s arm slides around your waist as you’re passed from one embrace to another, cheeks kissed, hair ruffled, everyone talking at once. Areum wipes her tears and beams, “I knew it, you have such a glow glow.” 

Karina fans herself, “You’d better let me design everything for this baby, I swear.” 

Ryujin starts listing baby names, Donghyuck volunteers to DJ the first birthday party, and Mark just shakes his head, still shell-shocked, then stands and hugs you again, longer, softer, his own eyes suspiciously bright.

In the corner, Haeun tries to “read” the scan, frowning at the black-and-white shape, and declares, “It’s a bean!” Jaemin laughs and promises her, “You’ll be the best big cousin in the world, my princess.” The moment stretches, golden and wild, everyone crowding around you and Jeno, love and shock and joy threading through every word, every laugh, every new beginning. This family, you realize, was built one miracle at a time, and today, you just added another.

Telling your families is a storm of joy that nobody bothers to hide, your mother’s hands fly to her mouth the moment she sees the scan, tears spilling over as she hugs you and won’t let go, her laughter a tangled braid of disbelief and happiness. Jeno’s mum sways, pressing a hand to her chest, eyes wild with delight and shock, she nearly sinks into the nearest chair, fanning herself with a wedding invitation before leaping up to cradle your face, kissing your cheeks over and over. Your father pulls Jeno into a bone-crushing embrace, back-slapping and wordless, holding on a fraction too long before shaking his hand and giving him a rough nod, the silent, unspoken blessing only fathers can give. Seulgi and Irene descend on you the next day with a parade of baby relics: boxes of bottles, every beloved crib and swaddle they’d ever hidden in attic corners, their arms full of knitted bonnets and tiny shoes that still smell faintly of old talc. Jeno’s childhood room is ransacked, trophies and broken action figures set aside for a new shelf, baby photos pulled from albums, his old blankets unearthed from cedar chests, threads worn and soft as memory. The house turns chaotic with keepsakes, laughter, and shared stories, everyone tripping over memories, nostalgia pooling in every corner, the air thick with old love spun new. It’s overwhelming, almost too much, but beneath the pile of soft muslin and tangled voices, you feel the weight of all those years, your baby is already cherished, already home.

Areum takes the lead on the next surprise, pulling every string she has to make your gender reveal a tableau of beauty and intimacy, nothing for the internet, everything for you. She chooses a park ringed by silver maples and wild jasmine, dappled in late-afternoon sun, grass soft as silk under bare feet. The whole scene is a quiet dream: a blanket embroidered in cream and gold, low lanterns swaying from the trees, a scattering of wildflowers and little strings of paper butterflies, each one cut by hand, each a different shade of blue or yellow, tucked gently into the grass. She’s thought of everything, right down to the playlist, soft guitar, gentle wind, laughter in the background. It’s only the closest circle: Mark, quiet and shining behind the lens as Areum steadies her camera, her hands trembling with anticipation and happiness. Even her nails are painted a secret code, blue glitter sparkling in the sun.

The cake sits in the center of it all, a masterpiece in itself, Areum’s idea, but Irene’s execution, layers upon layers of pillowy white sponge and vanilla buttercream, the outside dusted with delicate pressed flowers. A crown of violets and yellow rosebuds ring the top, but it’s the icing, rippling in intricate peaks, that makes it look almost too beautiful to touch. At the base, piped in looping script, is a line you once scribbled in Areum’s notebook, the best stories are the ones that surprise you. The cake is nestled among soft linen napkins, crystal plates, blue and gold cups, and a pair of silver cake forks borrowed from Seulgi’s wedding chest. Areum’s made the whole afternoon feel sacred, a tiny festival strung with laughter and sunlight, privacy drawn close as a velvet curtain.

Mark can’t sit still, he’s pacing the edge of the blanket, almost vibrating out of his shoes, one hand raking constantly through his hair, the other fidgeting with the frayed tag on his shirt. There’s a giddy restlessness in him, the kind of joy that’s stitched from years of what-ifs and late-night prayers, his eyes shining with a wonder that refuses to dull. Every few seconds, he circles behind Areum, pausing only to rest his hands on her shoulders, steadying her, steadying himself, leaning down to murmur something that makes her laugh, though her hands shake where she holds the camera ready to record. It’s like he can’t decide whether to cheer, to weep, to run laps around the trees, or just to bottle this second forever. The way he keeps glancing from the cake to you, to Jeno, to the slice of sky overhead, it’s as if he’s waiting for someone to call “action,” for the world to finally hand you the joy he’s always believed you deserved. And beneath the bright anticipation, there’s gratitude, the kind that runs bone-deep, Mark watching the family he’s always rooted for finally gather on a sunlit patch of grass, suspended in the hush just before forever changes shape.

Even Jaemin, irrepressible as ever, quiets in this golden hush, his arms curled protectively around Haeun as she perches in his lap, a daydream in daffodil-yellow, soft ribbons trailing from her dress, her tiny toes curling against another picnic blanket. She’s all wonder and anticipation, the delicate arch of her brows drawn high, lashes fluttering against her cheeks every time her wide, doe-like eyes dart from the cake to you, to Jeno, then back again. Her lips purse, then part in a silent gasp, breath held as if the world’s secret is hidden beneath that icing. Her little fingers twist in the fabric of her skirt, and every so often she leans up to murmur a question into Jaemin’s ear, voice hushed and high, as if afraid to break the magic. She looks at you like you’re made of sunlight, chin tipped and cheeks flushed, her joy so tender and fragile you want to fold her close and never let her go. In this moment, the whole universe is a single breath, a girl in a yellow dress dreaming herself into the story of your family, her own hope and innocence the brightest thing in the garden.

You’re dressed in a billowing white summer dress, crisp and soft as morning clouds, the fabric skimming your sun-warmed skin, falling in quiet, graceful folds. It catches the breeze and floats around your legs as you sit, luminous against the green. Jeno matches you perfectly, linen shirt undone at the throat, sleeves rolled, black trousers that brush the grass, sunshot hair falling over his brow, his whole presence wrapped in a clean, radiant calm. There’s a kind of private language to the way you both chose white, pure, unguarded, a canvas for everything that comes next, a promise of beginning again. When you glance at each other, something electric passes between you: the secret you carry, the love threaded through every fiber, the impossible luck of sharing this day.

You and Jeno sit close on the blanket, knees brushing, hands threaded so tight your rings press little half-moons into each other’s skin. He’s trying to look calm, but you can feel the way his thumb trembles against your palm. Sunlight scatters through the maple leaves overhead, dappling your skin in gold. The air is thick with promise, your bodies still humming from the night before, your hearts full to bursting, every glance a silent litany: we made this. Every so often, you turn and press your mouth to his, stealing a soft, nervous kiss, the kind that lingers, more comfort than show, lips trembling just slightly with the weight of everything about to change. You smile against his mouth, feeling his exhale, the soft, shaky sound he makes when he’s trying to be brave for you and can’t help but show he’s just as overwhelmed.

Every touch feels new and perilous, a thread drawn tight between the fear and the hope. The world outside your little circle disappears. You pull back, noses brushing, and he cups your jaw in his big hand, thumb stroking your cheek as if to anchor you both, like he needs to memorize this, how you look in this light, how it feels to be so close and so scared and so alive. You whisper, “Are you ready?” 

He grins, wild and boyish, his voice rough in your ear: “Only if you’re with me.” You kiss him again, a little deeper, a little hungrier, as if that will keep you safe, as if all the nerves in your body might still be soothed by his warmth.

Areum’s voice shakes as she cues you, “okay, close your eyes. Hands on the cups, both of you.” Her eyes glisten, but she grins, determined to make this memory luminous. “Don’t peek! Mark, you better make sure they don’t look!” Mark salutes, eyes glinting, and even the trees seem to hush. You can hear the wind, the laughter of friends, the distant thump of a football somewhere on the other side of the park. Haeun squeals, clapping her hands, her excitement a bright, endless river.

Your hands tremble in your lap, the ceramic cup almost weightless, cool against your palms. Areum’s voice quivers with laughter and nerves as she reminds everyone to hush, just in case it flies away, she jokes, and the circle of friends draws in closer, all chatter stilled, the hush rippling outward through the grass and over the pond, even the birds pausing in the canopy above. Jeno catches your eye, his smile tight, electric, the gold band on his hand pressed hard against yours, steadying, anchoring.  Blue has been haunting you for days—not just a wish, but a gentle obsession, a superstition that won’t loosen its grip. You’ve caught it in the afterimage of your dreams, in the oddest places: the shadow of Jeno’s t-shirt draped over a chair, the blue hydrangea blooming wild along the path to your apartment, the way your own eyes look washed with stormlight in every mirror. Even now, as you sit in the sun-washed park surrounded by the people you love, the sky itself seems to press down in a color that feels loaded, inevitable.

You close your eyes together, foreheads brushing, and the world narrows to the scrape of the cup along porcelain, the subtle, spongy resistance as you both press in at the center, then, impossibly slow, you dip into the soft belly of the cake. For a split-second, nothing but the scrape of ceramic, the delicate shiver of cake breaking, the entire world holding its breath with you. The anticipation throbs, blue alive in the blood behind your eyelids, swelling until you can hardly bear it, this single, suspended heartbeat, all your futures folded into a secret color.

You open your eyes, and in the stillness that follows, every sound falls away, no laughter, no wind, only the heady rush of your own pulse. The cup lifts, trembling, and the cake parts: a sudden, dazzling burst of blue, bright and sure, ribboning through the white in wild, impossible spirals. The color is everywhere—pooling, blooming, electric as a summer sky after rain—it’s blue, your brain chants, stunned and giddy, the word echoing in every rib. Laughter explodes, cheers scatter, but it’s in this exact instant that a blue butterfly, real, wild, trembling on translucent wings, descends from the bough above, floating in a lazy orbit before coming to rest right on the rim of your cup. Its wings quiver, impossibly delicate, blue as a secret kept safe, blue as the very promise you made in the dark, and all the air in the park feels heavy with joy, with fate, with the wild magic of things turning out just as you dreamed.

Jeno’s jaw goes slack, and for a single, infinite heartbeat, you both just stare at the color blooming in your hands, unable to speak. Blue. It’s real, it’s here, it’s your secret finally given shape, your baby boy, your son, your world changing with the simplest, most extraordinary magic. Areum, with trembling hands and shining eyes, pulls the cord that she’s rigged around the cake stand, and the whole scene erupts in bursts of blue confetti, delicate and electric, swirling through the sunlight like a dream let loose. The air is suddenly wild with it, everyone laughing, clapping, and shouting as blue spirals above your heads, and you’re dizzy with joy, reeling as Jeno turns to you with a look so wide and reverent it almost hurts.

You don’t remember who leans in first; your hands are in his hair, his mouth is on yours, the kiss fierce and breathless and giddy, blue sugar on your lips, Jeno’s grin so big you can barely get air. He pulls you close, hands sliding over your stomach as if to shield the tiny secret growing inside, his touch anchoring you to this moment, this miracle. You both laugh, eyes wet, cheeks aching from smiling, lost in a daze of disbelief and love.

Jeno’s hand clamps tight around yours, his other splayed possessively, protectively across your belly, and the world seems to narrow to the span of that touch, the cradle of his palm, the soft certainty of your future unfolding inside you. His lips part, wonder still breaking across his face, and your laughter spills out as a half-sob, a gasp, a wild, grateful prayer that vibrates through your bones. Blue means boy—your boy, your son, your new world. For a moment, nothing exists but the hush between you, the glow of afternoon, and the wild, bright certainty that from now on, every dream, every hope, every heartbeat will begin and end with this: your family, fierce and whole, built on every miracle you ever dared to want.

Areum is screaming before the confetti even lands, spinning in a circle, her phone pointed wildly between you and the sky. “It was the hardest secret I’ve ever kept!” she cries, grinning through tears, voice sharp with relief and pride. “I planned every detail, the blue confetti, the napkins, the ribbons! Even Irene knew, she made the cake!” Her words spill out, breathless and triumphant, as blue bursts spiral down from every corner of the park: ribbons tucked under the table, petals scattered across the blanket, hidden blue lanterns fluttering open as if your secret had been waiting all along to be set free.

Behind the lens, Mark can’t stop laughing, joy leaking into his every movement as he sweeps Areum into his arms. He kisses her hard, dizzy, as if the secret is a living thing pressing between their mouths, and as you watch, lost in your own daze, you notice his palm slide low and protective over Areum’s belly, possessive, gentle, a silent promise, a secret you barely register but somehow feel is the start of something new.

Haeun is a sunbeam let loose on the grass, her daffodil-yellow dress swirling as she jumps and twirls between grown-up knees, arms thrown wide as if she could catch the confetti before it settles. “Bwoo! Bwoo! My favrit colour!” she squeals, baby voice bubbling up, the word “blue” spun sugar-sweet and thick in her mouth. Her eyes are huge with wonder, cheeks flushed pink, hair flying wild beneath her crooked sun hat as she skips in dizzy circles, blue ribbons streaming from her fists. She chases the bursts, laughter sparkling like bells, spinning so fast she topples into Jaemin’s arms, breathless and giggling. Jaemin scoops her up with practiced ease, twirling her high so her dress flares and her feet kick at the sky, and she beams down at you and Jeno, little hands clapping for the best friend she’s eager to play with, her family, her miracle. “Baby bwoo! I knew it!” she crows, hugging Jaemin’s neck, legs locked tight around his waist. 

Jaemin holds her close, a teasing smile pulling at his lips as he brushes the flyaways from her cheeks. “Oh? Since when, little bean? You never let me put anything on you that’s not yellow. Are you sure blue’s your favourite now?” His tone is playful, gentle, and everyone nearby leans in, enchanted by the exchange.

Haeun looks at him, seriously considering, lips pursed in concentration. Her hands splayed across his shoulders as she leans in, eyelashes trembling with earnestness. “I like bwoo ‘cause baby is bwoo,” she says, nodding with the gravity of a child making a life-altering confession. “Lellow for me. Bwoo for baby.” She beams at him, then looks back to you and Jeno, the approval in her eyes soft and proud, as if she’s made the most important choice in the world and now everyone gets to share it. Jaemin presses a kiss to her soft hair, pride and emotion tangled in his eyes, and for one suspended moment the world feels impossibly gentle, love rising, multiplying, a family built out of secrets, hope, and the laughter of a girl who only knows how to give her heart away, again and again.

Blue becomes the softest weight on your chest at night, settling there as you lie awake, feeling the pulse of new life under your hand. It curls into the folds of your bedsheets, the scent of clean linen, cool and familiar, wound around your body as Jeno’s arm loops across your waist, anchoring you to this moment, to him, to the unspoken promise of tomorrow. Blue is the first light that creeps through your curtains each dawn, catching on the glass of your bedside water, shimmering in halos on the ceiling, reminding you that every day begins with hope. It glints from the wedding ring you twist absently, metal warming to your skin, a secret gleam caught beneath a layer of gold, like the undercurrent of joy beneath your fear.

You find blue in the chipped enamel of your favorite coffee mug, the one Jeno insists on bringing you every morning even when you pretend not to need it, and in the pair of baby socks draped across your dresser, already too small for the world he’ll inherit. It pulses in the faint, sticky fingerprints Haeun leaves on your white silk dress after she hugs you with frosting-stained hands, and in the way Jaemin braids a blue ribbon through her hair, a playful echo of her chant, “Blue! My favowite!” Blue is the laugh you share with Mark when he surprises you with a bouquet of wild cornflowers, and the way Areum’s eyes glisten as she presses the blue-sugar butterfly into your palm for safekeeping, the wings beating in your fist like a tiny, reckless heart.

Blue is the breath you catch when the first ultrasound flickers to life on the screen, gray shadow, black void, but there, a shimmer of cobalt, as if the universe itself is painting your child into being. It’s the color of the night sky you both stand under on the balcony, Jeno’s lips in your hair, murmuring dreams and promises you can almost taste, salt and electric, a future spun in navy, sapphire, indigo, midnight. It is the echo of ocean you both hear in the hush after laughter, and the shade of the secret journal you keep in the bottom drawer, scrawling hopes for a boy you’ve never met but already know by heart.

Blue becomes every silk flower pressed into the nursery walls, every rainstorm that lulls you into sleep, every band-aid Jeno gently peels from your ankle when you catch your foot on the stairs, whispering, “Easy, baby. I’ve got you.” It is the hush of the sonogram room, the flutter of his heart echoing inside yours. It’s the woven blanket your mother brings from her own childhood, worn to a softness that smells of clean water and sky. Blue is the taste of blueberries and cream, the first craving you share late at night, feet tangled with Jeno’s, laughter spilling out between spoonfuls as the baby kicks, as if already in on the secret.

Blue is protection and revelation, lullaby and thunderclap, a tether and a horizon line. It is the strength in Jeno’s hand when he slides it across your stomach, fingers splayed like a shield, his breath warming the place where future and present meet. Blue is the shape of every new beginning, the echo of every old promise, and the silent, shining answer to every wish you’ve ever whispered. It fills the room, it follows you everywhere—it lives in every physical thing you love and hold, and in all the invisible places you’re still learning to trust.

Blue isn’t just a color. It’s the way the world loves you back.

The world shifts the night the secret tries to break you, shadows press in, but inside your walls, you choose to turn the story toward light. It happens the night you taste blue on your tongue for the first time. The park is still warm with laughter and scattered streamers when Jeno’s phone buzzes, once, twice, relentlessly. You don’t think much of it at first, too blissed and spun out on sugar, sunlight, and the secret thrill of your growing boy. But Jeno’s jaw is clenched, eyes dark as stormglass, and you feel the change before you hear his voice, low, deadly, nothing left of the man who spent the afternoon kissing blue frosting from your lips.

He storms into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and shoves the phone across the quilt. Photos. Names. A leak from the clinic itself. The screen is full of your private world made public, grainy ultrasound images, your legal name, a whisper of your due date, a headline drafted and waiting to destroy the tenderness you built one heartbeat at a time. Jeno’s hands flex at his sides, knuckles white. He looks like he did in college, the heat and rage and cold calculation in his gaze. “They think they can do this, they think they can take this from us.” His voice is flat, almost shaking. “We’re not letting them.”

You reach for him, brushing your thumb over the hard line of his jaw, tilting his face to yours until his glare softens, just a breath. “Then let’s give it to the world our way.” Your kiss lands soft and steady—a promise, a dare, the first move in your own war for joy.

The next morning, the world wakes up to your terms: a gallery that is all gold and shadow, silk and skin. The maternity shoot is nothing short of audacious, an answer to every stolen secret, every hungry eye. You wear black silk that clings to every curve, belly round and luminous, your hands splayed low, proud and protective. Behind you, Jeno, bare-chested, tattooed, wedding ring gleaming, presses close, his palm splayed wide over your bump, his other hand gentle beneath your breast, as if holding the weight of your future together. In one frame, you turn, bare back arched, the 23 inked on your spine clear and defiant, Jeno’s mouth at your neck, his hand at your hip, wedding ring bold against the soft curve. It’s intimate, unashamed, desire and legacy, both of you spun into the picture like silk thread through black velvet. Another frame is softer: his head bowed into the hollow of your shoulder, your eyes closed, your hands over his. Love, sex, devotion, all laid bare.

The follow-up is light, breathless, giddy: photos from the park, blue everywhere, your white sundress hitched up, cake smeared on your lips, Jeno laughing into your neck as Haeun twirls just out of frame, yellow skirt bright as butter. The caption is yours: Our son, our joy, our story. You don’t get to steal this. We choose how love begins. And just like that, the power is yours again, the world left awash in your light, your story told in every fierce, loving detail, your son claimed before a single headline ever had the chance.

Behind every post, though, there’s an unshakeable shield. Before the birth, Jeno pours every ounce of his NBA-season ferocity into locking down a fortress around your family, teams of lawyers, privacy experts, NDA’s so ironclad the ink might as well be steel. The contracts are air-tight: no tabloid, no staff, no so-called “source” will ever show your child’s face, share his name, or profit off a single moment unless you or Jeno place it there yourselves. Jeno makes sure the world knows: your baby will never be a headline, never be a clickbait reveal. Only love, never leverage. Only joy, never spectacle. It’s a new chapter, but the boundaries are unmistakable. Your son will be known by the light in your eyes, the strength in Jeno’s arms, and the warmth of chosen family. He’ll grow up safe, hidden from the glare, nurtured and protected and absolutely, unconditionally loved.

By the time your third trimester begins, everything in your world feels heavier, your body, your steps, even your dreams. The bump is no longer a secret, or even a curiosity; it’s the center of your universe, round and high and monumental. Your belly leads every entrance, every turn, every shared look across a crowded room. You wake each morning with the unfamiliar ache of swollen ankles, the hot pulse of nerves pinched and limbs gone numb. Your ribs ache, your pelvis aches, your back spasms and you can’t remember the last time you slept for more than two hours in a row. Sometimes the skin across your stomach itches so much you nearly cry, and other times you swear the baby is stretching his entire body sideways, just to test your patience and the limits of your skin.

Your symptoms multiply in strange, almost comical ways—one night it’s heartburn so fiery you’d believe you swallowed a star; another morning your hands swell and you can’t get your rings on, so Jeno threads them onto a chain and fastens it around your neck, promising that he likes the look even better. Your cravings are mercurial: bowls of shaved ice at midnight, ice-cold peaches, sometimes just the taste of toothpaste. Your feet cramp, your legs twitch, your belly is so tight and sensitive that even the brush of cotton makes you wince. Your mood careens, wild laughter one moment, tears in the cereal aisle the next, sudden storms of fear and longing and dizzy, bone-deep love for a boy you haven’t met. There are times, late at night, when you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling more animal than human, overwhelmed by the ancient, primal thing growing inside you. Your breathing grows shallow, your lungs crowded by the new architecture of your body. Sometimes you talk to your son, hands splayed on your belly, promising him the world, promising him you’ll survive this, even when it feels impossible.

And Jeno, he is everywhere. He’s never more than a breath away, half-laughing, half-worried, always watching. He has turned into the softest shadow at your side, a sentinel in the night. When you wake crying from leg cramps, he’s already there, rubbing warm oil into your calves, whispering, Shhh, baby, just breathe, I’ve got you. He ties your shoes, carries every bag, learns the art of compression socks and weird pregnancy teas. He kisses your stretch marks, traces them with his fingers, calls them love notes left by your son. He times your contractions when they come false and furious in the small hours, holding your hand, never letting his worry become yours. Every day he reads the baby a book, sometimes picture books, sometimes passages from the news, sometimes little notes he writes just for the three of you, his voice low, steady, a home for the boy who already knows him by sound. At night, when you can’t sleep, he sits behind you, arms around your belly, hands pressed to your skin, whispering, “He’s strong, you know. He’s so much like you. He kicks because he’s impatient to meet you.”

When you weep from frustration or fatigue, Jeno just folds you into him, tucking your head under his chin, rocking you with the patience of a water smoothing stone. He learns how to rub your lower back, how to wrap a belly band just so, and how to make a bath that doesn’t feel too hot or too cold. When your body aches, he draws you close, lips on your temple, Let me do it, love. Let me carry you for a while. On days you’re afraid, afraid of labor, afraid of pain, afraid of the storm that waits for you, he kneels in front of you, kisses your hands, looks up with eyes so full of devotion you almost drown in them, and tells you he’s never loved you more than right now, right here, in all your trembling, powerful, messily beautiful newness.

It hits in the blue-lit hush of midnight, your whole body seizes, a tight, twisting pain that wrings a sob from your throat. Braxton Hicks, you hope, but it feels like a storm, every muscle clenched, your hands knotted in the sheets. Jeno is at your side in an instant, panic blazing in his eyes, but he steadies himself for you, ice water, cool cloth, rubbing circles into your lower back, whispering every soothing thing he can remember. When nothing helps, he drops down and presses his cheek to your bare, trembling belly, palms spread wide, anchoring you. “Hey, little man,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with love, “you gotta be gentle with Mommy, okay? You hear me in there? I know you want to come meet us, but you wait just a little longer. We’re right here, always.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, carding through the dark waves as his lashes flutter shut, his breath going soft and even against your skin. He starts to hum, old love songs and lullabies, and somehow, miracle or magic, the kicks slow, your body softens, the pain ebbs into warmth. For a few long, weightless minutes, his whole world is curved over your stomach, murmuring secrets to his son, thumb tracing gentle lines over the bump. “We love you, baby. Daddy’s here, always. I can’t wait to see your face. You’re already so strong, just like your mom.” You feel your baby roll beneath his hands, as if settling in to listen, and your heart thuds with the fierce, tender certainty that your boy already knows his father’s voice, already knows the sound of home.

Your world shifts again when you move into your new dream apartment, more than an apartment, really, a home with wide windows and morning light, ceilings tall enough for your dreams to echo. The front door is massive, heavy oak and iron, the kind you picture slamming in winter storms and opening for a parade of birthday parties, lost shoes, new friends, and—someday—a line of siblings trailing behind your son, every footstep claimed and cherished. There are still boxes everywhere, laundry baskets of baby clothes, the scent of fresh paint lingering in the air, but it feels sacred, full of promise and story. Your shared bedroom is a sanctuary, all linen and pale blue, every detail designed by Jeno’s loving hand, a nest for new beginnings. Sometimes, in the mirror, you catch sight of your reflection, barefoot, belly monumental, Jeno’s arms looped around you from behind, both of you luminous with exhaustion and hope, and you want to remember that image forever.

The nursery is Jeno’s masterpiece. He spends two weeks building it, hardly sleeping, barely eating, his hands splattered with paint and glue and the soft sawdust of small dreams. He sketches out a mural on one wall: an endless blue sky streaked with clouds and swallows, a landscape of hills and rivers that look suspiciously like memories of your childhood summers. The crib is placed exactly where the sunrise will catch your son’s first smiles; the rocking chair, a family heirloom Jeno restored himself, sits beside the window draped in gauzy curtains that glow every afternoon. There are baskets full of toys, a shelf of baby books, a line of tiny onesies snapped and hung like prayer flags. Every detail is touched by Jeno’s devotion, a mobile that spins softly overhead, painted with stars and planets; a handmade night light shaped like a moon. When it’s done, the two of you stand in the doorway, your arms around his waist, the quiet music of your son’s future thrumming in the air. You feel it settle inside you, that soft, almost unbearable certainty: this is home, this is family, this is everything you’ve ever wanted, built one aching, hopeful, glorious day at a time.

And in the hush of that finished nursery, your fingers tangled with Jeno’s, your feet swollen and your heart so full it aches, you lean into him, his lips in your hair, his hands splayed over your belly and the world you’ve built together. You know that whatever pain comes next, whatever fear or chaos or miracle, you’ll meet it with him, shoulder to shoulder, promise to promise, heartbeat to heartbeat. This is what love looks like now: huge and unwieldy, gentle and relentless, a life cracked wide open, ready for every blue morning still to come.

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐍, 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆.

You remember standing in that bone-white exhibition hall all those months ago, the air cold and sharp, everything gleaming and pitiless. You asked the universe for a sign, something, anything, as you watched yourself displayed behind glass, every vulnerability exposed for their satisfaction. Nahyun’s envy and Taeyong’s ambition closed in around you like a noose, their cruelty almost theatrical under the spotlights of that silent, merciless exhibition. You had to present for a dead man who still pulled your strings, a father-in-law who blackmailed you with the most precious pieces of your life, his threats hanging over your every move like the blade of a guillotine. He demanded your brilliance and your suffering both, daring you to flinch, daring you to bleed for his legacy.

And then there was Nahyun, a woman so lost inside her own delusion, so obsessed with wearing your skin, she would have killed you for the chance. She mimicked every word, every gesture, studied the shape of your happiness and tried to split it open. She punched you so hard you tasted blood, she ripped the charms from your wrist as if she could tear your history away by force. She would have grabbed the knife, would have ended you if Jeno hadn’t stood between you and her madness, the air thick with the threat of violence and the wild certainty that love and luck are never promised. You survived the ordeal of a woman engaged to the love of your life, a woman who thought your heart belonged to her, who would have gutted you to prove it. In the end, you stood in the center of all that hunger, all that darkness, performing for their applause, stripped of everything but your will to survive.

For one shattered instant, you believe the universe’s answer is Jeno, his gaze locking with yours across the crowd, all old fire and new hunger, the kind of possession that claims you with a single look. He comes back to you like a fever dream, rough hands at your hips, his mouth staking territory down your neck, every word a silent vow: You’re mine. I’ll ruin every man who tries to take you from me. I’ll build you a home inside my body, if that’s what it takes to keep you safe. He’s not just returned, he’s ravenous, your lips, your scars, your trembling, every part of you worshipped until you’re left boneless in his arms, marked and adored. For one wild heartbeat, you think maybe that’s the miracle, maybe that’s all the universe ever meant to give back.

But in the hush after, the quiet that follows the ache, you discover the universe was gentler, braver than that. It slips you something secret and holy, softer than even Jeno’s love, something you almost missed. Your true calling arrives disguised as a lullaby, as baby blues that look up at you with galaxies inside, as baby powder sweet on the air, as a hush that coats your world in dawn-light. The universe gifts you chubby knuckles and silken lashes, a yawn so wide it swallows every old ache, the scent of milk and new beginnings tangled in your hair. You find tiny fists pressed against your fingers like bouquets of promises, velvet whimpers that sound like forgiveness, and a pulse so new and steady you know you’ll never be lonely again. Your baby is the melody you didn’t know you’d been humming for years, a dream in soft cotton, toes curled around your heart, eyes blinking slow as the moon. In the pale light, you hold him and understand: this is the answer. This is the real return, the reason you were spared, the hush after every storm. The universe gave you back Jeno, wild and wanting, but it gave you your son to save you. In that lull, as you cradle him close, you know your heart’s true work at last: to hold, to shelter, to sing him home.

In that hush, as you cradle him close, his lashes fluttering against your collarbone, his breath a gentle tide rising and falling with yours, you understand with a clarity that makes your bones ache: you were destined to be his mother. Every hurt, every hollow, every brutal miracle that carved you out was only ever preparing you for this tiny, extraordinary life. It was always meant to end like this, your heart, remade in miniature, resting in your arms. All the ways the world tried to break you, every loss, every storm, only cleared the path for this beginning. He is your purpose, your answer, the proof that sometimes love’s truest home is in the quiet after the thunder, in the soft, perfect weight of your son asleep against your skin.

You see it in Jeno’s eyes too: the way he looks at his son, awe and reverence tangled with relief, as if this child has saved him just as surely. Your baby is the silent answer to all the questions you and Jeno never dared ask; he is the balm that closes every rift between you, the living proof that love survives, even when you feared it couldn’t. It is your son who stitches you and Jeno back together, laughter echoing in the rooms that once rang with silence, gentle hands bridging the distance, forgiveness blooming where only grief had grown. All the ways the world tried to break you, every loss, every thunderstorm, have only cleared the way for this: the beginning that saves you both, the love that remakes itself in your son’s eyes. His heartbeat is the thread that sews your family whole, a promise that, even in the quiet after everything, you will always find your way back home.

The world rearranged itself the instant your son crossed the threshold of you, the universe folding into the space between your open palms and the crown of his damp head. He entered as starlight splits the black, a quiet eruption, silence blooming with the force of a thousand lifetimes choosing this exact hour to converge. Every breath around you thickened, oxygen becoming silk, the ceiling curving like the inside of a shell, as if the laws of physics bent for him alone. He arrived, not as a storm, but as a phenomenon: an event horizon you crossed together, no way back, only forward into a new orbit that belonged to the two of you.

Heat gathers in the crook of your arms, seven pounds of gravity—his gravity—spooling the map of your body into new lines, new meaning. His skin, still honeyed and raw from the journey, presses to your chest like a secret the cosmos has whispered just for you. Jeno’s hand anchors yours, a pulse-thread tethering past and future, but your eyes fix on the boy who holds the blueprints to your marrow, every breath a drumbeat, each flutter of his lashes proof that something immortal is now breathing beside you, changing everything

His gaze meets yours, a collision of galaxies, a communion written in the old language of wonder. and everything you have ever survived rewrites itself for him. Your heart stutters, then surrenders, learning his tempo as if this rhythm has always existed, waiting for him to unlock it. He becomes your aurora, your solar flare, the lull between tectonic shifts. His scent, pure, mineral, the hush after lightning, settles in your bones, each inhaling a promise that love can be both weightless and infinite.

In this first hour, time untangles and spins new. The world shrinks to the outline of his body curled into you, the warmth of his mouth rooting him to the earth and to you, the room lit from within by a glow that has no name until now. Every hope you have ever held, every prayer you never spoke aloud, crystallizes in the geometry of his spine, in the way his hand wraps instinctively around your finger as if he has already learned the shape of belonging. He becomes your axis, the new law of your universe, the threshold and the homecoming. Here, with him, the world remakes itself, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath, star by star.

When they lowered him into your arms, time stilled, the axis of your life tipping into a new constellation. Your hands, trembling with exhaustion and awe, curved instinctively around him, feeling the weight of a promise you never knew you were waiting to keep. He was impossibly small, impossibly warm, pressed to your heart as if the two of you had always been searching for the other, destined to meet in this sacred hush. His skin shimmered with newness, impossibly soft, and when you whispered his name it fluttered across his cheek, a spell only you could give.

Your destiny roared to life in that moment. louder than every doubt, every ache, every shadow you’d ever carried. Tears burned down your cheeks, unstoppable, joy and relief and a love so shattering you could barely breathe. You traced the curve of his ear with your fingertip, counted every fragile lash. Then his eyes fluttered open, dark and endless, and the universe poured straight into you, a current you could never outswim. He looked at you—looked—and your soul recognized something it had loved long before you ever spoke his name. All the waiting, all the pain, every hour you spent building a future from scraps and hope, crystallized in that single gaze. You felt yourself breaking and healing in the same breath, rebuilt by the miracle of being seen by him, your son, the story you’d always been meant to tell.

You draw in a stunned breath the moment his eyes find yours, a gasp blooming from somewhere deeper than surprise, because the color shining back at you is unmistakable, rare as meteorite glass, a shade the world only seems to spin for Jeno, and now, impossibly, for your son as well. It’s a hue the earth could never replicate, something alive with light and gravity, neither brown nor gold nor any common tone but an electric, impossible prism that belongs only to your boys. In that instant, you realize the universe has spun its secret twice: no one else alive carries that color in their gaze, no one else will ever make you feel so fiercely that you belong. Both father and son—your miracles—share the same singular glimmer, proof that the most extraordinary things in your life will always come in pairs.

You pressed your lips to his forehead, tasted the salt of your tears in his hair, and the world remade itself, every regret washed away, every wound soothed by the quiet of his breathing and the wild certainty that he belonged here, to you. In his eyes, you see tomorrow opening wide, your future folding into his tiny grasp. For the first time, you understood what it meant to be infinite: to be a mother, to be a universe blooming open for someone else.

Then Jeno came close, silent with awe, his hands hesitant and reverent as he reached for the boy you had made together. You placed your son into his arms, watched as Jeno’s composure splintered in the gentlest way—jaw trembling, eyes shining, breath caught between wonder and terror. He cradled your baby like something sacred, every muscle in his body bending to protect and cherish. For a moment, Jeno’s whole life played out across his face, every hardship, every lost boyhood dream, every fear and hope, gathering in the way he looked at his son.

He spoke nothing, only held him tight, forehead pressed to the downy crown as if memorizing this new gravity, learning the shape of love all over again. Jeno’s tears fell silent and bright, tracing lines down his cheeks, dotting your baby’s blanket like rain on new grass. His thumb brushed over tiny fingers, eyes wide and wet as he watched those perfect hands curl around his own, the same hands he’d once doubted, the same hands now steady with purpose.

You saw Jeno’s heart change in that instant, felt the man he would become blazing through the boy he’d been. He whispered your son’s name like a vow, like a prayer, like a secret only fathers know. There was nothing in the world but this, Jeno, holding his son for the first time, shoulders shaking with a gratitude that reached deeper than words, the two of them woven together, breath to breath, forever. You wept, watching them, a new family forged in the glow of something eternal, every future joy already glimmering in your son’s eyes, every old sorrow redeemed by the simple, impossible wonder of holding him at last.

You’re nearly four weeks in, and the whole world has shrunk to this quiet orbit—just you, Jeno, and your boy drifting through a haze of midnight feedings and warm-lit afternoons. Fatigue threads through your bones, but it feels holy somehow, the kind of exhaustion that roots you to the moment instead of pulling you away. The fabric of your days softens, shirts stained with milk and sweetness, lullabies hummed as softly as prayers against the fragile curve of his ear, the air thick with the hush of the sound machine, your own heartbeat pacing every hour. Every night, when his cries rise sharp and sudden, you and Jeno move like tide and moon—no words, just gentle choreography in the dark, one of you shushing and cradling while the other soothes and strokes his small, restless fists. The sanctuary you build together is made of whispered reassurances and unspoken glances, a refuge where every sacrifice is made lighter by the certainty that you are not alone in this.

Your son rests against your chest, heavier and warmer than you ever expected, his body fitting perfectly into the hollow beneath your collarbone. You whisper to him as if no one else can hear, telling him he is your miracle, your wildest beginning, your heart’s truest answer. Sometimes you thank him, quietly, for choosing you, for trusting you with his first breaths and deepest sleeps. You kiss the downy crown of his head until it feels like a blessing, your lips memorizing the shape of his future and your promise to never let go. His face is a story written in miniature: Jeno’s nose, soft and wide, cheeks flushed and full, his eyes still learning how to open to the world but already flickering with the bright, dreaming light of something ancient. In those bleary hours before dawn, you tell him everything, your fears, your hopes, the prayers you’d never dare to say aloud. You press your palm to his back and feel the way his tiny body settles, how his breathing finds yours and the world falls quiet, just for a little while.

You and Jeno take turns, trading sleep and soft words, hands meeting in the dim light as you pass your son between you, never quite letting go, always holding on together. Sometimes you catch Jeno watching you, eyes full of awe and tenderness, and you know—deep in your bones—that you’ve built something gentle and unbreakable, a home that hums with peace. The three of you wrapped up in a slow, patient love, night after night, morning after morning, learning how to be a family in the spaces between sleep and waking. The ache you carried for so long fades in this sanctuary, replaced by something steadier—hope, healing, a quiet faith in new beginnings. Because every time you hold your son close and breathe him in, you remember what softness feels like, and you let yourself believe that love, when given the chance, can truly remake the world.

The night is impossibly still, as if the whole city has pressed its finger to its lips just for you. Your eyes are heavy and raw from hours without sleep, your body aching in ways you never imagined, but none of that matters when your son begins to stir, his small mouth searching, his fists fluttering against your chest. You draw him into your arms, cradle him to the warmth of your skin, and settle back into the pillowed quiet, milk-warm, heartbeat-steady, the rest of the world falling away until it is only you and him and the silvery hush.

It’s your turn this hour, but Jeno stays close, his presence as constant as breath. He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing the cool floor, eyes gentle and wide with a tenderness that never dims, not even in these bone-tired hours. One arm slips behind your shoulders, the other supporting the soft, fragile weight of your baby’s head as you guide him to nurse. You feel Jeno’s fingers trace your thigh, his palm curving over the silken map of your stretch marks, reverent and loving, each touch wordless devotion.

He leans in and murmurs, voice low and velvet, “You know, I could stay like this forever.” His thumb circles softly, soothing you as much as your son, and for a moment all the fatigue melts beneath the light of his adoration. “I’ve never felt this content. This is all I ever wanted. You. Him. Us.” You watch his gaze linger on your boy’s perfect face, every trace of worry and exhaustion replaced by quiet awe, as if he is drinking in the sight of the life you’ve built together and finding himself new each time. The minutes unravel slowly, your son feeding in peaceful little swallows, Jeno’s hand never leaving you, every gesture a promise that you’re in this together—no matter how many sleepless nights, no matter how much your world has changed. You feel seen, cherished, wrapped in a hush that belongs only to families built by love and midnight patience. When your son finally sighs, milk-drunk and heavy in your arms, you press a kiss to his hair and lean your head on Jeno’s shoulder, the three of you wrapped in the gentle certainty that happiness is real, and it’s here, cradled in the blue-black quiet, in the glow of Jeno’s eyes, in the tiny miracle of your boy asleep between you.

Morning pours through the window, gold and clean, settling softly on the bed where you’re propped up with pillows, your son nestled against you, his cheek warm and damp from another feed. You hold him close, one hand cupping his delicate back, feeling the tiny bones move as he suckles in slow, dreaming pulls, lips parting with little noises that melt the hush. There’s a wrinkle between his brows, even in sleep. an echo of Jeno’s seriousness, a mark of all the life he’s already lived in these few short weeks. Jeno sits at your side, his hand anchoring your thigh, thumb tracing gentle shapes that promise you’re still tethered, still cherished. His voice is a murmur, half for you and half for the baby, the kind of love that doesn’t need an audience.

Then your phone vibrates against the sheetsc a jarring reminder from the world outside, and you flinch at the headline: Nahyun released. A shadow flickers in your chest but you only gather your son closer, press a kiss to the velvet warmth of his forehead, and hum a lullaby straight into his bones, your thumb tracing slow circles on his spine. He will never know pain like that. Not while you’re alive, not while you can sing. Jeno catches your movement and you tilt the phone toward him. He reads, sighs, and his jaw tenses, that protective edge cutting through his tiredness. “I saw this earlier. I didn’t want to tell you, I know how hard this is, especially now, with everything so new. I just wanted you to stay calm, not stressed out, to stay here. Don’t think about her, just focus on him. She’ll never get close, not with me here. All you ever have to worry about is how beautiful he is.” His words are granite, unyielding, the kind of promise that draws a line the world can’t cross.

You know Nahyun could never stay locked away forever; some things slip the leash, no matter how tightly you hope. Still, when you look down and see your son breathing, all lashes and dreams and the faintest milk-drunk smile, you feel the ancient power of protection coil inside you, something raw, electric, sacred. Motherhood blooms in you like a second soul, a force that remakes fear into courage, turns every doubt to clarity. You have never been fiercer, never more sure that this is what you were made for: to hold, to guard, to love so completely that nothing dark can ever find a way in. In your arms, your son feels like destiny made flesh, your missing piece, your redemption, your reason to fight the world and win.

Later, in the quiet hush of another feed, Jeno exhales like something’s been lodged in his chest for years. His fingers tighten gently around yours, and the look in his eyes sets something trembling inside you before he even speaks. He says your name softly. “I need to tell you something.”

You glance up from where your baby’s latched to your breast, his tiny hand fisting your shirt. Your voice stays calm, instinctively protective. “What’s wrong, baby?”

Jeno swallows. His jaw works, muscles twitching, but the words come out hollow. “My dad and Nahyun… they used to fuck.”

Your breath catches like it’s snagged on glass. Eyes widening, you press a protective palm over your son’s tiny ears even though he’s nestled against your chest, oblivious, warm, impossibly safe, his little sighs painting your skin in soft reminders that innocence still exists in this world. You kiss the crown of his head, breathing in that unmistakable, honey-sweet scent of baby skin and milk-warmth, and for a second, you lose yourself in him. Utterly. Your body wraps instinctively around his, your arms cradling him tighter, your heartbeat syncing to his, as if your soul could climb inside his and stay there, untouched by what’s unraveling around you. He coos, soft and trusting, and you try to anchor yourself to that sound, to that small living truth that everything brutal can be held at bay if you hold on tight enough. The room tilts, the floor beneath you slipping sideways with Jeno’s words, but you don’t fall, you just sink deeper into your son, like he’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

Jeno’s voice drops, like saying it any louder will make it worse. “I didn’t know, not when I was with her. Coach Suh’s exposé didn’t reveal everything at the exhibition. He sent me files, hidden files. He didn’t release them publicly, but told me to read and watch them when I was ready.” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “I only opened them a few days ago. I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t. There are things in there that I don’t even want to say out loud but it’s real and it happened, I saw it. They were serious. Secret. Before she ever looked at me, she was with him. My father.”

You nearly choke, your stomach curdling. “She…”

He nods, teeth clenched. “Cheating on my mom, for years. Using company resources, properties, hiding it under the business. I even think he got her to film those videos of us at the bar. They were very  dark and twisted. It’s like I didn’t even know the man.”

His voice cracks. “And Nahyun—she played me, mirrored me, lived in my skin like it was hers to wear. But it started long before me. She wasn’t obsessed with me, she was obsessed with him. I was just an extension and now looking back at our engagement, Lord, I should’ve bolted on the first day, looking back, it’s so obvious that she just imagined me as an extension of my father.”  

Your heart claws its way up your throat. “Oh, Jeno.”

“I want it all erased,” he says, voice cracking with bitterness. “Everything I ever had with her—every memory, every moment, all of it. She was someone else entirely when the doors were closed. I didn’t see it. I didn’t know. And worst of all, I dragged you into her orbit. I put you in danger without meaning to. If I could go back and rip every trace of her out of our lives, I would. I swear, I would do anything to protect you from what she was.”

Jeno lets out a shaky breath, his gaze distant, voice heavy with regret. “Sometimes I wish I could go back, just open my eyes and see it all for what it was—see the signs that everyone else says were obvious. But I couldn’t. Grief was eating me alive, and the NBA schedule was relentless. I barely slept. My head was a mess, I couldn’t see straight, let alone see through her lies. And honestly, it’s not like I spent real time with her. She was my fiancée, but I avoided her every chance I got. I was always on the road, in another city, another hotel. Maybe that was my gut trying to protect me, even when my mind couldn’t. I just wish I could have protected you better.”

You shake your head instantly, tears blurring your vision as you clutch your son tighter to your chest. “No. Don’t you dare think that. She fooled everyone. She was a master at it. No one saw through her so how could you? She wasn’t human, Jeno. She was rotten and dressed in diamonds, a shell pretending to be in love. If anyone was in danger, it was because she made it so. You didn’t bring this on us. She did.” Your voice grows steadier, conviction sharpening every word. “You protected me then, the night of the exhibition, if you weren't there I probably would’ve died. You’re protecting us now. You’re nothing like them, you're the reason I survived.”

Jeno’s face crumples with relief and fierce devotion. He leans over, his hand gentle on your cheek, then dips down to press a series of soft kisses to your son’s head, to your temple, to the curve of your shoulder, like a benediction, a promise in every touch. “You two are everything to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick, brushing your hair back as he kisses you once more. “You’re my whole life. I swear, I’m going to do everything—everything—to keep you both safe. No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m here.”

One year circles past in a blur of gentle chaos, midnight lullabies melting into sunlight mornings, every milestone a bead strung onto the thread of your new life. Today, the house thrums with the bright, golden noise of celebration. Your parents arrive first, arms full of gifts and laughter, their voices brimming with a pride that softens every memory of old worry. Your mother lifts your boy into her arms, his tiny hands clutching her cheeks, and for a heartbeat you glimpse the legacy of love flowing through generations, her tears bright and unashamed as she kisses his head, whispering blessings into the whorl of his hair. Your father crouches on the rug, coaxing your son to giggle with silly faces, offering a toy car that rolls away, always just out of reach.

Seulgi’s presence brings another kind of warmth—a second mother’s love, all gentle guidance and steady, open-hearted support. She sits beside you on the floor, one arm around your shoulders, her gaze fixed on your boy with a tenderness that says family doesn’t always start with blood but sometimes with the pure choice to stay. Jeno hovers nearby, camera in hand, cheeks split with an impossible grin as he tries to record every laugh, every messy handful of cake. The air is sweet with sugar and possibility, banners trailing across the room, the scent of new beginnings alive in every corner.

The moment unfolds so gently you almost miss it, dreamlike in its stillness. Your boy stands at the edge of the living room, tiny hands wrapped around your father’s big thumbs, his brows scrunched in fierce, adorable focus. He wears soft blue dungarees over a cotton shirt. pale and sweet, with tiny clouds embroidered at the collar and his dark hair curling over his forehead in fluffy tufts. Chubby knees peek out above white socks, one of them faintly smudged with frosting. A paper birthday crown sits askew on his head, glinting gold against the shine of his eyes. He looks every bit like a child plucked from a fairytalec dimpled cheeks flushed, lashes impossibly long, lips parted in a careful little ‘o’ as if the world is holding its breath just for him.

You watch his courage gather, one foot pressing down, then another, wobbly and earnest, every bit of determination written into the sweet, clumsy line of his body. The room holds its breath as he lets go, arms wobbling, a giggle caught in his throat as he totters toward you. There’s cake stuck to his chin, a dusting of crumbs across his shirt, but in that instant, with a single candle flickering behind him, he is pure magic, light and newness, the sweetest wish ever granted.

The first step collapses into your arms, your laugh bursting into the hush, tears glimmering as you scoop him up, pressing kisses to his soft hair and syrup-sticky cheeks. Jeno’s arms wrap around you both, spinning you in a circle, his own cheeks shining with pride and wonder, the grin on his face an exact mirror of your boy’s. Your parents clap and cheer, Seulgi snaps photo after photo, and the whole world narrows to the glow of family, to the miracle of your dream-bright baby walking, the home filled with laughter, all the hope you ever carried stitched into this one golden, unforgettable step.

There are nights when you and Jeno lie awake, limbs tangled and the world utterly quiet, whispering to each other about how impossibly good your son is. Sometimes you both watch him sleep, lashes fanned across his cheeks, lips parted in the gentlest sigh, his tiny fist curled beside his head like he’s cradling a secret dream. Even awake, Junseo is pure softness, his eyes wide with wonder at the simplest things, reaching out for dust motes in the sunlight, babbling stories to his stuffed animals in a voice so light it seems spun from clouds. He has a way of curling into you, pressing his ear to your heart as if listening for music only he can hear, trusting you with a whole-bodied innocence that leaves you breathless. He holds Jeno’s pinky with all the seriousness in the world, giggles with his entire soul, and sometimes just stares up at you as if memorizing your face, already knowing, somehow, that love is his birthright. In those quiet hours, the air sweet with baby skin and sleep, you and Jeno can hardly believe you made something so good, so delicate and bright, so gentle and true. Every moment feels like a dream you never want to wake from, your precious boy the living promise that wonder can exist in the smallest, softest form. You never imagined you could love anyone like this.

You hadn’t even made it past the terminal before your throat closed. Jeno’s hand was wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing steady circles into your knuckles like he was keeping rhythm for your heart, but it still felt like something inside you had quietly come undone the moment the house disappeared in the rearview mirror. You kept glancing at your phone, searching for reassurance in the photo you took of your baby that morning, his cheeks flushed, eyes wide and soft, arms already reaching for you even as you tried to convince yourself you deserved this time away.

You’d planned this trip months ago—after the blur of first steps, wobbly birthday candles, and the way Junseo had grinned through his entire smash cake like he knew he was the center of the universe. A week away, just you and Jeno. Time to breathe. Time to be. Time to remember you weren’t only parents, you were lovers too, still capable of kissing until dawn in places where no one knew your name, still able to get lost in each other’s hands and laughter and want.

And it was beautiful. You woke slow in hotel sheets, sunlight spilling across your bare skin, your body tangled with Jeno’s, legs hooked over his hip, his hand sliding low across your stomach, fingers drawing lazy patterns over the curve of your thigh. You pressed sleepy kisses into the hollow of his throat, lips parting to taste the salt and heat of his skin, feeling him harden against your hip as his arms tightened, pulling you closer. Mornings unraveled in a hush of mouths and sighs, the world narrowing to the push and slide of your bodies, Jeno’s voice rough in your ear, telling you how much he missed you, how good you feel, how he can’t get enough. You rode him slow, sunlight warming every inch of your skin, his hands worshipping you, palming your breasts, gripping your hips, guiding you over him until you lost your name in his mouth, coming undone in the same bed where you fell in love all over again.

Despite everything, being parents now, the sleepless nights, the chaos of family life, you and Jeno never lost your edge. You still have sex that’s wild and thrilling, just as filthy and uninhibited as when you first tore into each other in college. At night, it doesn’t take much, a brush of your foot against his calf, the sound of your breath catching as you slip your hand beneath the sheets. He’s on you in a heartbeat, mouth tracing fire along your jaw as he murmurs, “Let me hear it, Mommy.” The name slips from your lips without thinking, sweeter than any confession, and his eyes darken with need. Sometimes he pushes your knees apart, slow and teasing, whispering, “Good girl for Daddy,” until you’re writhing, every touch charged with something hungry and forbidden. Even after all this time, that name still unravels you both, turning every gasp and plea into a secret you’ll carry into morning. Nothing’s off limits; you’ve explored every corner of each other, from the softest whispers to the most decadent cravings, ass eating, rough hands, breathless begging, all the things that make your pulse race and your mind blur. No matter how grown or settled you seem, the passion never dulled; with Jeno, it only got better, richer, messier, more urgent with every year. Even now, you can make him lose his mind with a look, and he never hesitates to ruin you the way only he can.

You wandered new cities, Jeno’s hand always seeking you, curving around your waist in quiet devotion, gently steering you through busy streets, pausing at every shop window as he pressed his lips to your ear and pointed out a wooden giraffe, tiny wool socks with strawberries, a little sweater so comically oversized you both laughed until your eyes blurred. “He’ll grow into it, trust me,” Jeno promised, and for a moment, the world felt impossibly safe, every small joy colored by the thought of Junseo waiting at home, his absence as bright and real as sunlight on your skin.

Even as you surrendered to the adventure, Junseo was everywhere. In the empty highchair at the bustling café, in the three spoons set at the table when only you and Jeno were eating, in the ache that slipped quietly between sips of wine as you reached for your phone, scrolling through a camera roll full of baby smiles, videos of his gummy laughter, photos you’d already memorized. Each night you pressed your cheek to Jeno’s chest and whispered, “I hope he’s not looking for us too hard,” your voice trembling with longing and gratitude all at once.

Still, distance became a game of devotion. You FaceTimed each morning, Junseo’s face squished close to the screen, babbling nonsense and waving his chubby hands, his grandparents laughing in the background. Sometimes he’d press his palm to the camera, smearing it with milk, or show you a new toy with a proud, serious grin. You sent back videos of city lights and silly dances, wishing he could see what you saw. Mark texted hourly updates, flooding your phone with photos, Junseo asleep with his feet propped on a pillow, Junseo clutching a block in each fist, Junseo pointing to the sky with solemn purpose. Even his voice notes became lifelines; you played his giggles over and over, letting the sound of “Mama! Dada!” wash through your longing, a lullaby that held you both together, even from far away. Your boy was magic, a living dream, and no distance could keep his sweetness from threading itself through every moment, every breath, every day apart.

Leaving him with his grandparents had been a choice wrapped in tears and lingering hugs and whispered instructions that went on too long. You kissed his forehead three times, murmured a dozen little nothings into his hair, and watched his small face cloud with confusion as he babbled something that almost sounded like “Bye.” The door finally closed, your legs buckled on the porch, and Jeno had carried you to the car in silence, his own eyes red and tired.

So when the week was over, no matter how much you’d needed the rest and time together, you felt like a live wire, vibrating with urgency as you hurried through baggage claim. Jeno was on the phone, coordinating something with Mark, but you barely heard him. Your mind was already painting the memory of your baby’s hands curled into fists when he giggled, the scrunch of his nose when he yawned, that squeal of pure joy when you returned home from the store like you’d been gone a century.

“He said he’s already parked,” Jeno murmured, tucking his phone into his pocket as he reached for your hand again. “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”

You’re still wiping your eyes when you step into the airport pick-up lane, scanning for Mark’s car. Then you see it, familiar, black, a back window cracked open. You don’t see him right away, but you hear him first. “Mama!” The cry is bright and immediate, slicing through the chaos of taxis and suitcases, and your body stops, utterly, joyfully paralyzed.

Jeno catches you before you can collapse entirely, and then you’re running, yanking open the back door. There he is, your Junseo, your little universe, strapped into his car seat, one sock missing, arms waving with wild abandon. His cheeks are pink, hair a mess, eyes huge and shining as he claps his hands and laughs, shrieking again, “Mamama! Dada!”

“Surprise!” Mark calls from the front seat, already grinning. “You did say you missed him.”

Tears flood your eyes before you can speak. You bend into the car, your hands shaking as you unbuckle Junseo, and the second he’s loose he launches into your arms, his whole body trembling with excitement. Jeno is right there, wrapping his arms around both of you, and together you cradle your boy, your heart, your home, everything you’d ached for in those lonely, beautiful nights away. “Hi, baby. Hi, my baby boy,” you murmur, over and over, pressing your nose against his, kissing every inch of his soft, sweet face. his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his tiny chin. “I missed you so much. So, so much.”

You cover every inch of your baby boy in kisses the moment you have him back in your arms, his laughter bubbling up between each soft press of your lips, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, the tip of his nose, his plump, perfect chin. He squirms and giggles, flapping his arms until you realize with a rush of affection that, once again, one sock is missing, his bare foot kicking air, toes curling, impossibly tiny. The sight nearly undoes you; you cradle his foot in your palm, marveling at how impossibly small and delicate he is, how your whole world can fit in the curve of your hand.

Tears prick your eyes as you fumble in your bag, your fingers find what you always keep there: a spare pair of his socks, folded carefully, white with tiny clouds on the cuffs, a comfort for the times you miss him so badly it aches. At first, it was just for you, a talisman in the bottom of your bag, something to hold onto on long days apart, the faintest trace of his warmth and sweetness. But now, as you slip the fresh sock over his wiggling toes, it becomes ritual, something you’ll do a thousand times, in airport parking lots, in quiet bedrooms, anywhere life scatters you. You smooth the sock over his perfect foot, your hands shaking a little with the tenderness of it, and he coos up at you, content and trusting.

You press one last kiss to his ankle and blink back tears, overwhelmed by the smallness of him, the miracle of having him to lose things, to get messy, to need you in the simplest ways. Jeno watches you, a smile breaking across his face as he helps, his hand cupping the back of your boy’s head. In that moment, you know, no matter how far you travel, how long you’re gone, you’ll always come home to this: his little socks, his soft skin, the sound of his giggles and the way he fits perfectly against your chest. It’s a magic so delicate it aches, a love so bright you feel like you might burst.

Jeno leans in, peppering a thousand kisses across your son’s head and then pressing his lips to your temple, his voice thick with love and awe. “You see that?” he whispers, his hand finding your back. “That’s our boy. He waited for us. He knew.”

Junseo coos, claps again, babbling about “Ba-ba!” and “Cah!”—utterly thrilled, as if the week apart had been nothing but a strange dream. Mark glances back and smiles softly, a rare tenderness on his face as he watches your reunion. As Mark pulls away from the curb, you press your cheek to Junseo’s hair, your heart finally settling in your chest. Jeno’s hand finds your thigh, and the weight of his love, your son’s warm breath, the sound of laughter ringing in the car, everything settles where it belongs. You lean your head on Jeno’s shoulder, Junseo nestled between you, and breathe out softly, a promise and a prayer.

“We’re home.”

Of everyone in his small, golden universe, your son’s favorite person, after you and Jeno, is his uncle, Mark Lee. 

Junseo Minhyung Lee adores his uncle with a wild, wordless joy, the kind that bubbles up in shrieks of laughter and sticky-fingered hugs, a love so pure it seems to shine in the air around them. Mark appears in the doorway, arms open wide, and Junseo launches toward him with a squeal, chubby legs thumping across the wood, curls bouncing. Mark sweeps him up, spinning him in a dizzy, delighted circle, both of them breathless with giggles. “There’s my guy! Miss me, Junbug?” Mark’s voice is all warmth and mischief, nose crinkling as Junseo burrows his face into Mark’s shoulder, fingers clutching at his shirt like he’s holding on to his best secret. Mark presses a loud, smacking kiss to Junseo’s cheek, drawing a peal of laughter that ripples straight through the house.

They settle onto the living room rug, sunlight spilling comet-bright across their little universe. Mark stretches out, propped on his elbows, while Junseo climbs over his back with a fierce sense of purpose, chubby hands planted against Mark’s shoulder blades, babbling a string of nonsense that sounds to you like pure stardust: “Dada, da da, eomma, Mahk, Mahk, vroom-vroom, peep!” Mark listens intently to every syllable, answering back with soft, silly echoes, his own secret dialect just for them.

Mark never arrives empty-handed, and today he presents Junseo with a box wrapped in deep blue foil, tied with a ribbon as golden as your son’s smile. “For you, Junie,” Mark whispers, and Junseo’s eyes go wide, little fingers tearing at the bow, giggles spilling out as he reveals a set of wooden stacking stars, hand-carved, each piece painted in cosmic colors, moons and comets circling over every edge. “Mahk! Mahk!” Junseo cries, holding the smallest star up for Mark’s inspection, the sound vibrating through the house like music.

Mark hands over his keychain, always, always the first treasure Junseo reaches for. Each charm gleams with some story: a tiny blue sneaker, a smooth river stone, a meteorite chip from a market halfway across the world. Junseo presses the buttons, enchanted, his face split in concentration, Mark showing him patiently how to unlock and lock each one, how to jingle them so they sing. “Woooooah, comet keys, Junie,” Mark grins, letting the light catch and scatter rainbow flecks over the rug.

When Junseo tires of the keys, he clambers into Mark’s lap, waving his favorite board book. Mark opens it, but before he can begin, Junseo grabs a lock of his hair, combing it gently with the blue baby brush, babbling “pretty, Mahk, pwetty hair, mahhhn!” Mark tips his head, feigning seriousness, letting Junseo ‘style’ him as long as he wants, pride and love shimmering in his gaze. “You’re an artist, kiddo,” he whispers, voice dusted with awe, “make me shine.”

Some afternoons, Mark brings gifts he’s crafted himself: a hand-sewn felt rocket, painted pebbles shaped like planets, a nightlight in the shape of Saturn that glows softly beside Junseo’s crib. He never forgets a moment, commemorating first steps with silver booties, birthdays with handwritten songs, every milestone honored with something only Mark could dream up. When Junseo’s eyes grow heavy, Mark lays him gently in his crib, smoothing his curls back, whispering, “You’re my best little dude, you know that?” Sometimes, you catch Mark watching Junseo sleep, something unspoken and fierce shining in his gaze, as if he’s memorizing the smallness and the softness, the shape of this precious, fleeting time. He hums a lullaby that sounds a little like yours, a little like something new, and the room feels flooded with peace, Mark’s presence steady as moonlight. This is what family looks like: the quiet reverence in Mark’s hands as he lifts Junseo, the easy laughter, the whispered promises that echo long after the night settles in. You watch them together, your heart swelling at the bond they’re building, knowing in the deepest part of yourself that Junseo will always have Mark’s love, a love as sturdy and gentle as any in the world.

Mark and Areum finally marry on a salt-brushed afternoon by the sea, the ceremony a tapestry of laughter, pale roses, and sunlight that lingers on every vow. Junseo is two now, a little taller, curls wilder, his cheeks forever sweet with the last traces of babyhood, and he has a role as important as any grown-up: the tiny ring bearer, a crown of white blossoms pressed gently into his hair.

When his moment comes, Junseo stands at the aisle’s edge, fists curled tightly around a velvet pillow with the rings tied like tiny stars. His eyes search for Mark, wide with trust, and when he spots his uncle’s smile, all the nerves melt away. He takes one brave step, then another, shoes pattering softly on the path, every guest charmed silent by the sight of him—his small hands trembling, his voice humming a quiet “Samchon!” as he walks. When he finally reaches Mark, Mark kneels and cups Junseo’s face, pressing a kiss to his forehead, eyes shining with that fierce, gentle pride only an uncle can hold. The room blurs with joy, Areum dabbing at tears, your own heart swelling at the way your son clings to Mark, refusing to let go until Mark promises, softly, “You’ll always be my boy, Junie.”

The night creeps in, honey-gold and restless. Junseo grows fidgety in your lap inside the venue, small body squirming, eyes wide and glossy from too much celebration, his whines tugging at the thread of your patience. You sigh, stroking his hair, about to surrender him to Jeno for another circuit of the garden when Mark appears beside you, warm and familiar, his hand outstretched. “Come on,” he murmurs, a gentle grin softening the exhaustion on your face. “Let’s get out of here for a bit.”

Before you slip outside, Junseo grows more and more restless, twisting in your arms, fussing with the buttons on your dress, making little whimpers of protest that only you can hear. You wander through the reception, the warm glow of laughter and glasses clinking all around you, until you spot Jeno at the edge of the terrace, deep in conversation with Doyoung, hands moving as he tells a story. Junseo’s eyes light up the second he sees his father, squirming to reach for him, his chubby hands outstretched, hope shining in his face.

Jeno doesn’t notice at first, too caught up in whatever he’s explaining, his voice low but animated, brows furrowed with focus. You recognize the shape of the conversation even before you reach them. Business. Closure. Future. In the months after everything came to light, Jeno walked away from the empire his father built, the name, the bloodline, the boardroom legacy steeped in control and silence. He handed it all to Doyoung, the only person he trusted to unmake what had hurt him. And Doyoung did what Jeno could not, he didn’t destroy it. He rebuilt it. Repurposed every ugly corner, every soured dollar, until it became something new. Something kinder. Something honest. You see it now, in the way Jeno listens, nodding slowly, his posture relaxed but intent, no longer haunted by the weight of inheritance but finally at peace with having let it go.

Then Junseo calls out, a soft chirp of “Appa,” thick with joy, and Jeno turns instantly, face breaking into the kind of smile that belongs only to him. He closes the distance, arms out, catching your son and pulling both of you in. And just like that, business is over. The past, too. What matters most is here, clinging to your neck with sticky fingers, pressing tiny kisses to Jeno’s jaw, whispering secrets into your collarbone. You lean into your husband’s side as he kisses your hair and wraps an arm around both of you, his eyes soft, voice quiet again as he murmurs to Doyoung, something about second chances, and how good they feel when you choose them for yourself.

You press a kiss to Jeno’s lips, letting Junseo lean into his father’s shoulder, his small hands grabbing at Jeno’s lapel with desperate affection. “We’re going out for a drive with Mark,” you murmur, your lips close to Jeno’s ear. “We’ll be back soon. He needs to get away from the noise for a bit.”

Jeno’s arms curl around Junseo, pressing their foreheads together, eyes closed for a moment of quiet only fathers and sons share. “Be good for your uncle, okay? And listen to your mum.” He kisses Junseo’s temple, voice dipping into something just for the two of them, soft, adoring, the kind of love that never gets spoken loud enough in this world. “Daddy loves you, little man. Come back to me soon, okay?”

You watch as Junseo beams, some of his fussiness dissolving with the comfort of his father’s voice, the small goodbye stitched together with the surety of home. Jeno squeezes your hand before you go, eyes warm, a silent promise passing between you: there is nothing in this world safer than family, nothing more certain than the love you all share. And as you step out with Junseo toward Mark and the waiting car, you feel that promise shimmer around you, a tether holding you safe no matter how far the road unwinds.

You start to unbuckle the baby car seat from Jeno’s car, fumbling with straps and sleepy protests, but Mark leans over the roof of his sleek, black coupe and shakes his head. “Give him to me,” he says, voice flat, eyes gentle but unyielding. You narrow your eyebrows, hesitating, worry prickling at your spine, but Mark’s gaze doesn’t waver. “This road is dead. Haeun could literally drive here and be safe. I won’t speed, I’ll be careful. Just trust me.”

There’s never been anyone you trust like Mark. You hand Junseo over, watching as Mark lifts him with a reverence that softens every line of his body. Junseo melts instantly, letting out a long, contented sigh, settling on his uncle’s lap as if he’s been waiting for this exact sanctuary all day. Mark slips behind the wheel, Junseo cradled close, small hands clutching the hem of Mark’s suit jacket, the two of them pressed together in the glow of the dashboard. You slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool beneath your palm, heart finally loosening as the car pulls away from the curb, the sound of the world growing softer.

Windows down, sea air pours in, ruffling Junseo’s curls, leaving salt on your lips. Mark drives slow, every motion measured and gentle. He guides Junseo’s hands to the steering wheel, whispering, “That’s it, Junie. You’re doing so well. See, we’re just floating.” Junseo looks up, eyes round and sleepy, a small, drowsy smile curling at his mouth as Mark guides the car forward, slow as a lullaby. “You’ll always steer your own life, yeah?” Mark’s voice drops to a hush, more promise than instruction, his thumb stroking Junseo’s knuckles as the world rolls by in blue and silver outside.

Junseo glances up, eyes shining, a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “Markie, vroom?” he babbles, twisting the wheel an inch, proud and bashful all at once. 

Mark’s laughter is soft, golden. “Vroom, that’s right. Slow and steady, Junie. That’s how you take care of the people you love.” He glances in the mirror at you, his gaze a private reassurance. “You know, your mum is the best co-pilot in the world. She always knows where we’re going, even when I don’t.”

You reach over, squeezing Mark’s arm, heart swelling at the sight of them. “I learned from the best,” you say, warmth threading through every word. Mark turns to Junseo, lowering his voice to a secret only a favorite uncle can share. “Hey, do you know what makes a great driver, Junie? It’s not just how fast you go. It’s who you look after on the journey. You look after your mum, you look after yourself, you keep your hands steady. That’s how you steer straight, through anything.”

Junseo nods, the seriousness of the moment reflected in his little face. “I so safe,” he whispers, laying his head against Mark’s arm, content, trust shining from every inch of him. Mark presses a kiss into his curls, pride shimmering through his next words. “That’s right, little man. I’ll always keep you safe and one day, you’ll keep all of us safe, too. That’s what it means to be family. We take care of each other.”

The engine hums beneath you, the sky deepening with every slow mile, and the world outside blurs into blue and silver lines. Mark tells a quiet story about his own childhood, racing along the shore with you, the feel of the wind, the wild freedom of summer. You and Mark trade soft memories, laughter woven through confessions, as Junseo listens, his fingers curled around Mark’s thumb, his eyes fluttering heavier and heavier, anchored by the safety of their love. “You know, Junie, once I was a little boy just like you, restless and wriggly, full of questions, always looking for adventure.” Junseo peeks up at him, wide-eyed, thumb tucked in his mouth.

Mark glances at you, a quiet warmth in his eyes before he turns back to your son. “My mum—your Nana—sat right where your mum is now, holding her breath because I wouldn’t sit still, either. And you know where I was?” He taps Junseo’s tiny hand, curling it tighter over the wheel. “I was on my uncle Doyoung’s lap. He let me drive just like this, windows down, sea in the air, teaching me to steer and to watch the road.”

He slows the car a little more, voice lowering to a memory only a child could understand. “Uncle Doyoung, he never hurried me. He never made me feel small for trying or scared of mistakes. He taught me how to look after everyone in the car, and how to be gentle, even when life felt too fast.” Mark’s eyes glimmer, caught between past and present. “He taught me to keep my heart open and my hands steady, and that’s why I’m soft-hearted and stubborn today,  because I learned from the best.”

You watch as Junseo’s eyelids flutter heavier, comforted by the sound of Mark’s story, the weight of love that shaped him. Mark brushes a strand of hair from Junseo’s forehead and adds softly, “I want you to remember, Junie, that being gentle is the bravest thing you can be and there’s nothing stronger in this world than someone who knows how to love and protect. That’s how my uncle raised me. That’s how I want to help raise you.”

The car drifts on, laughter and nostalgia weaving through the quiet, your little boy tucked in the arms of the gentlest guide you could ever hope for, the legacy of love traveling from one generation to the next, slow and sure as the tide. Here, in the quiet, you watch Mark guide your son not just down the road, but into the heart of what it means to be cherished, to be taught gently, to always know you’re never alone—his guidance a gift you hope Junseo will carry forever. You watch them, Mark, so strong but so heartbreakingly gentle, and your son, moonlit and trusting, every inch the dream Mark never lets himself speak aloud. For a while, nothing exists but the soft hum of the engine, the rhythmic beat of Mark’s hand on the wheel, and the weight of your little boy safe in the arms of the only person you’d ever hand him to without a word.

You lean your head back against the cool leather, the soft whir of the engine a lull beneath the night. For the first time since morning, with Junseo endlessly squirming and demanding your arms, a long sigh of contentment escapes you—pure relief and gratitude stitched through every breath. Your fingers find your son’s, small and warm, and you trace slow circles across his palm, feeling the way he clings to you even as his eyes never leave Mark. There’s a devotion there, something open and guileless, a glow in the way Junseo watches his uncle with unfiltered adoration, as if Mark hung every star in the sky just for him.

You glance across at Mark, the sea sliding past in slow ribbons outside. “The wedding was beautiful, Mark. Areum looked… she looked like something out of a dream. I’ve never seen her so radiant. I’m so endlessly happy for you both.” Your voice softens, full of every ache and joy, the night holding you all in its gentle cradle.

Mark catches your eyes in the rearview mirror, his grin bright even in the blue wash of streetlights. “Thank you,” he says, the words thick with gratitude and something unspoken, a promise as old as childhood itself.

He’s silent for a stretch, the coastal road winding gentle and slow, the world outside dimming to the lull of the sea. Then, almost to himself, he says, “I’m utterly devoted and so in love with my wife. She’s sunlight in a quiet room, she just fills the space. Sometimes I watch her talk to strangers or laugh at something small and I wonder how I ever lived before her. Even after all these years, she still surprises me.” He glances over at you, a shy, sheepish tilt to his smile. “It took us forever to get here, didn’t it? Three years of plans and changing plans, life happening around us but she never complained. She never made me feel like I was failing. She’d just hold my hand, or write me a note and tuck it in my pocket for later, or say, ‘We’ll have our day, Mark. I’d wait a hundred years for you.’”

His thumb strokes the wheel, eyes warm and distant. “Even today, she stopped me before the ceremony and straightened my tie and said, ‘Whatever happens, I’m already yours. We’ve always been enough.’” His words come out in a hush, shining with all the reverence of a prayer. “I still can’t believe I get to call her my wife. I think—no, I know—she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Loving her changed me in every way that matters.” He falls quiet, the corners of his mouth curling up, gaze shining with all the joy and wonder he never quite says out loud. In the hush, you reach across and squeeze his arm, your heart full for him, for her, for the family you’ve built and all the futures still waiting. The night glows softer for it, Mark’s words suspended between you like something sacred, a devotion woven gently into the fabric of now.

As the road unspools before you, memories sift through your thoughts, three years of Mark and Areum circling the word “forever,” their engagement stretched thinner and thinner by life’s demands. There was always some reason to wait: work, commitments, one more chapter of striving before they finally came home to each other. Then the world shifted again, abruptly, when Areum found out she was pregnant. The wedding was put off for a happier reason, preparations paused to make room for hope and all the fragile wonder of firsts.

Their baby boy, Taesun Lee, arrived with a softness that made the world tilt. You remember his dark, wandering eyes, how tiny he looked even in Mark’s strong hands, how Areum cried when she first called herself “eomma.” The wedding was rescheduled, joy humming at the edges, until everything broke open. Taesun was only six months old when the sickness came, silent, impossible to predict. An undetectable fever, something no doctor caught, a thief in the night that stole him away in a handful of hours. The grief was unspeakable, a tidal wave that left everything raw and unfinished, Mark’s arms empty, Areum wandering the house with lullabies still caught in her throat.  The wedding, once just postponed, felt meaningless, almost cruel in its brightness. They were supposed to be married that month, plans all set, her dress waiting in the closet, invitations already sent. Taesun died just a few weeks before, the whole world tilting off its axis, leaving the future they’d built hanging in the air like something fragile and unfinished. The joy that was meant to carry them forward turned hollow overnight, the idea of vows and celebration unbearable under the shadow of loss. Every detail they’d chosen together felt too sharp to touch, the date circled on the calendar transformed from a promise to a wound.

You let yourself remember Taesun, the tiny socks in the laundry, the way Mark’s voice shook when he tried to sing him to sleep, the utter silence that replaced the sound of a baby’s laughter. There is a grief in your bones tonight, a mourning that echoes through every loving gesture, every new beginning, because nothing can ever make up for a future lost so suddenly, so senselessly. Junseo shifts against you, his hand still wrapped in yours, his adoration for Mark proof that hope finds its way back, even when everything inside you feels broken. The car moves slowly, salt and light drifting through the windows, and you realize that love, even when battered by loss, can still gather itself around the living, gentle, unyielding, and impossibly brave.

Junseo remembers Taesun too, in the innocent, sunlit way only a child can. You treasure every photo of them together, Junseo clutching a rattle in his fist while Taesun kicked beside him, the two of them tucked under a quilt, eyes wide with wonder at the newness of each other. You remember Junseo’s laughter when Taesun gripped his finger for the first time, the gentle way he would babble to him, as if telling secrets only babies can understand. The time they shared was so brief, but it glows golden in your memory, a season of soft mornings and shared lullabies you’ll hold forever. 

Even now, every so often, Junseo’s small voice will float through the house, tugging at your heart as he asks, “Where’s my baby friend? Where Taetae go?”—his words sticky and sweet, unable to shape the weight of cousin but still full of love. The ache is sharp every time, but you gather him in your arms, stroking his hair, pressing kisses into his soft crown. You tell him gently, voice trembling with the effort to be both truthful and kind, “Taetae is in heaven now, sweetheart. He’s playing with the stars and waiting for us, and he loves you very, very much.” Junseo nods, sometimes smiling, sometimes quiet, and you hold him a little tighter, letting the memory of both boys wrap around you, a reminder that even the shortest love stories can last forever.

Mark’s fingers drum absently on the steering wheel, eyes flickering toward Junseo, then back to the horizon. He exhales slowly, like he’s letting himself feel the night’s peace for the first time. “Areum, God, somehow I love her more,” he starts, voice so careful and full of longing it makes you ache, “She’s, she’s the bravest person I know. Sometimes I think she kept us breathing when neither of us could talk. There were days I couldn’t move, I just couldn’t move, and she’d sit beside me, not saying much, just letting me fall apart. Then she’d tuck one of Taesun’s little hats under my arm, or hold my hand and whisper, ‘He knew nothing but love. That’s all we gave him. That’s all he ever felt.’”

Mark’s voice comes again, quiet but trembling at the edges, thick with disbelief and memory. “It was the most shocked I’ve ever been,” he admits, eyes fixed on some distant point past the headlights. “We were planning everything, Taesun’s little tux for the wedding arrived that week, still in its box. Three tickets for our honeymoon, one for him, one for Areum, one for me. I remember Areum laughing, saying he’d probably cry all through the ceremony but fall asleep before we made it to the beach. We thought we had forever. We really did.”

He lets out a breath that catches the pain so raw it feels ancient. “And then one night he just went limp in her arms. One moment, he was right there, blinking at us, breathing so soft, and the next he was, he was just gone. Areum kept holding him, begging him to come back, and I—I couldn’t even move. I kept thinking, ‘This can’t be real, this can’t be happening, not to us, not to him.’ I would have done anything, given anything, just to get another minute. I just wanted one more minute, you know? Just to tell him over and over again how loved he was, how he saved us even as he died. I wanted him to hear it in my voice, feel it in my hands, that there wasn’t a single second in his life he didn’t change us for the better.” His hand trembles as he brushes Junseo’s hair again, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Even in his last breath, he gave us so much.”

A tear slips down your cheek, catching the low light as you squeeze Mark’s hand, your voice soft and sure. “He knew, Mark. I promise you, he knew how much you loved him. He left this world the most loved baby anyone could ever be. That kind of love never leaves. It’s everywhere, still. It’s right here.” You press your palm to your heart, letting the silence stretch between you, heavy but bright with everything that remains.

He glances back at Junseo, kisses his forehead again, and you see the way his entire body bends with the memory, love and grief wrapped so tightly together they’re impossible to separate. “I think I’ll always be looking for him in the quiet,” Mark says, voice breaking, “but I’m grateful I still get to love you all. That’s what keeps me going.”

Mark stares out at the sea, his voice barely above a whisper, steady but so thin you can hear it fraying at the edges. “But I miss my baby, I miss him so much,” he says, each word pressed from somewhere deep and aching. “I missed him so much today.” The confession hangs in the quiet car, raw and sacred, echoing against the glass and the hush of the road.

You gulp, throat tight, your heart pounding with the helpless ache of loving someone through an impossible grief. You reach for his hand, sliding your fingers through his, gripping tight as if your touch could bear even a fraction of that weight for him. You want to tell him it gets better, or that love is enough, but there is nothing in your heart or the world big enough to soften this. No pain compares. So you simply hold on, the silence between you thick with every word you cannot say, your hand a quiet promise: I see you, I love him too, and you are not alone.

A quiet smile curves his lips. “We’re finally trying again,” he says, voice soft but sure, each word lit with a tenderness that catches in your chest. He lets the admission hang there, golden and fragile, before he continues, “It took me a long time, honestly. Longer than I thought it would. It took Areum’s patience, her softness, her way of seeing the good in the world, even when I couldn’t. She never rushed me. She just let me hurt, let me grieve, let me come back in my own time.”

He lets out a breath that is almost a laugh, a note of disbelief and gratitude threaded together. “There were nights I’d lie awake thinking, ‘How could I ever bring another baby into this world? Into a place that can be so cruel, so quick to take everything away?’ And she’d just curl up next to me, kiss my shoulder, and remind me that love is always bigger than fear. That the world is worth coming back to, if we build it soft, and gentle, and full of second chances.”

“And selfishly… I didn’t think another baby would fix anything. Would fill the void Taesun left. I thought, I knew, nothing ever could.” His voice drops, quieter than before, like it’s a truth he’s only just finding the courage to speak aloud. “But it doesn’t work like that. Grief doesn’t make space by erasing what came before. It makes space around it. The ache stays, but it softens. It teaches you to love harder, slower, with everything you’ve got, because you know what it means to lose.” He swallows thickly, lips tugging into a smile both broken and whole. “Areum always kisses my shoulders and reminds me that love is always bigger than fear. That the world is worth coming back to, if we build it soft, and gentle, and full of second chances.”

“She reminds me that even the smallest life leaves something permanent in your heart. That you can survive anything if you let love carry what your strength can’t.” His eyes shine, and he blinks quickly, but his next words come out tender, a hush you almost miss over the engine’s low hum. “She’s taught me that loving is worth it, even if it breaks you. I’d do it a thousand times again, just to be his father. Just to see her be his mother.”

His gaze flicks from Junseo to the road, then back again, brimming with something new—light, anticipation, even joy. “I’m scared, but I’m ready. She made me ready. I’m excited, actually. I’m ready for this next chapter, for hope, for a family that’s big enough to hold all our old pain and still make room for new happiness. I think… I think Taesun would want that for us too.”

His devotion wraps around the car, warm and quiet, as precious as a secret only the three of you can keep. Junseo stirs, sleepy, pressing closer to your side, and Mark reaches back to gently squeeze his foot, that same soft smile trembling on his lips. “We carry him with us. Every day. In the way she still sings lullabies, in how you look at Junie, in the way I try to be a better man, even now.”

Mark’s smile lingers as he glances down at Junseo, warmth flickering in his eyes. “Plus, I wanna give this little kiddo a cousin,” he murmurs, his voice lightening as he reaches back to gently tickle Junseo’s tummy. Junseo wriggles and giggles, clutching at Mark’s fingers, eyes alight with sleepy delight. Mark’s laughter is quiet but true, softening the ache in the car.  Mark’s smile lingers as he glances at Junseo, his hand slipping back to tickle his nephew’s tummy, drawing out a cascade of sleepy giggles. There’s a tenderness in the gesture, a lightness that’s only possible after surviving something heavy. The car glows soft with the sound of Junseo’s laughter, and in that moment it’s easy to see how much this little boy means to him, not just as a nephew, but as an anchor in a world that once felt too sharp and cold. 

After losing Taesun, Mark wandered through days half-empty, moving only through the motions of survival. Junseo’s presence, his tiny hands reaching for Mark, his head finding the crook of Mark’s shoulder, the absolute trust in his eyes, became a lifeline Mark never expected to need. There were mornings when Junseo’s giggles were the first thing that made Mark’s chest loosen, the first time in months he remembered what hope felt like. Through every family dinner, every park outing, every night spent reading the same story over and over just to see Junseo’s eyes light up, Mark began to piece himself back together. Junseo didn’t just fill the silence Taesun left behind; he built new music in it. He gave Mark a reason to show up, to try again, to believe in the possibility of new joy, messier, different, but real. Maybe that’s why Mark’s love for Junseo is so fierce and quiet all at once, a bond layered with gratitude and the soft ache of second chances.

You watch them together, the hush of their bond shimmering in the salt-lit dark, and your chest tightens with a love too big for words. You lean forward, voice trembling but sure, “He already has a cousin, Mark, he always will. Taesun is still part of us, he always will be. Every laugh, every birthday, every story we tell, he’s in all of it. The love between Junseo and Taesun will never disappear just because one of them is gone. Me and Jeno will show Junseo photos of Taesun when he’s older, spread them out on the kitchen table, gentle hands turning each glossy square, pointing out the curve of his cousin’s smile, the soft tufts of hair, the way Junseo’s own fist gripped Taesun’s onesie as if he already knew what it meant to hold on tight. He won’t remember those brief months, the hush of their first mornings or the shared blankets and quiet laughter, but we’ll make sure he knows it all: that his first cousin loved him, that their story began together, and that every memory, their tiny fingers, the afternoons they spent sleeping heart to heart, is woven into the foundation of our family. We’ll remind him that love can outlive even memory, living on in the stories we tell and the photographs we cherish, so he always knows he was never alone.”

The silence that follows is golden, heavy with memory and love, a quiet shared between you, Mark, and your little boy. Mark nods, swallowing hard, and squeezes your hand again, eyes shining with tears and something steadier, something healing. In this moment, you feel the beauty and ache of every kind of family, the ones here and the ones just out of sight, all of them woven together in the soft, enduring fabric of love.

Another year folds quietly into itself, and Junseo is three, still round-cheeked, still dreamy, but taller now, limbs stretching out like young branches in spring. The house fills again with that certain sweetness only Haeun brings. She is five, her voice delicate as spun sugar, hair pulled back in a flutter of ribbons, her eyes gentle and careful in ways that make her seem ancient and brand new at once. The moment she arrives, Junseo lights up, toddling across the living room on uncertain feet, his voice a soft, reverent whisper: “Hae-hae,”—the name he gave her as a baby, still shaped by wonder.

Haeun moves quietly around him, always watching, always ready to notice when he wants company or when he needs the world to slow down. She drapes a yellow cape around his shoulders, her fingers gentle as she smooths the collar and says, “You’re my dragon, Junnie. Only the bravest dragons get to wear gold.” Junseo stands very still, blinking solemnly as if the weight of the cape is a crown, his love for her a secret spell. He doesn’t say much, never has, but his trust lives in the way he follows her, tiny hands finding hers in the hallway, steps soft as shadow, lips parting to say “Hae-hae” as if the word itself could keep them safe.

Sometimes, you find them curled together beneath the piano, knees pressed close, the air filled with crumbs and quiet delight. Haeun breaks cookies into tiny halves, passing them to Junseo as if they are sharing treasures, her voice a gentle hush: “Don’t tell, okay? Uncle Nono is scary when he’s mad.” He nods, serious, eyes wide and sparkling, and when she slips a plastic tiara onto his head, he giggles so softly it almost breaks your heart. Haeun straightens it, cupping his cheeks for a second, and Junseo glows under her touch, proud to be chosen, proud to belong to her world. They grow like vines, delicate and strong, reaching for light, twined together in every corner of the house. Their laughter is the hush of morning, their secrets threaded through each quiet afternoon, each promise kept in the smallest, most sacred rituals. You watch them, heart caught in your throat, grateful that such softness is possiblec that two souls can find each other so early, and choose, day after day, to hold tight and grow up gently, together.

Your son is good, so good it stirs something deep and old in you, a tenderness that aches in your chest. Every day, Junseo grows more like Jeno: those steady, thoughtful eyes, the subtle set of his jaw, the way he tilts his head when he’s curious or quietly sizing up a room. There’s a gentle strength in his small frame, a sturdiness that echoes Jeno’s calm, even presence. He absorbs everything, thoughtful and slow to anger, content to listen more than speak, and in that way he’s every inch his father’s boy. Yet beneath that stillness lives your own patience and warmth: Junseo offers up his last cookie, hugs the dog when she’s sad, and sits for long stretches beside you just to rest his head against your arm, happy to love softly and be loved in return.

He is good, through and through, a golden-hearted boy, cherished and protected, never spoiled, only treasured. Yet you know, if not for Haeun’s influence, Junseo would be as spotless as new snow, a little too perfect, a little too careful with the world. Haeun, with her wild sweetness and soft command, is the one who tugs him into mischief and teaches him the beauty of daring. It’s always Haeun who leads the charge, her voice rising with imperious certainty—“Junnie, we’re queens and dragons today! You have to protect the castle, okay?”—and Junseo follows, solemn and eager, trailing her through the house in his yellow cape. Together, they turn the sofa into a fortress, stacking pillows until they nearly topple, Junseo shrieking with laughter when Haeun “banishes” you from the living room, her finger pointed dramatically, “No grown-ups allowed in our kingdom!”

There was the afternoon you caught them standing in the bathroom, Haeun stirring a forbidden bowl of blue toothpaste “potion” while Junseo dropped in cotton swabs, their faces shining with triumph. Or the time Haeun convinced Junseo to sneak extra biscuits from the tin, crumbs dusting their lips as they crouched beneath the table, giggling each time you walked past, sure you’d never find them. Haeun is the mastermind, the queen in every game, and Junseo her loyal dragon, always at her side, always ready to share in her schemes. He’s never quite the instigator, his goodness runs deep, but under Haeun’s tutelage, his halo sometimes tilts. Together, they tumble through childhood with dirty knees and sparkling eyes, learning, loving, and testing the boundaries of your patience, two souls growing up wild and wondrous, safe in each other’s orbit.

But sometimes, the line between mischief and mayhem blurs, and their schemes grow bolder than any parent’s patience can stretch. There’s the time you discover Haeun balancing on a kitchen stool, Junseo clutching her legs for dear life as she tries to reach the hidden cookie jar on the top shelf, glass shattering, sugar scattering across the counter, both of them frozen mid-crime, guilty eyes huge and glistening in the morning light. Or the day they smuggle every bath toy in the house into your ensuite, flooding the floor until water seeps under the door, turning the bathroom into a small sea, Haeun sailing a shampoo bottle, Junseo delightedly splashing, neither seeming to care about the storm they’ve unleashed.

It’s always Haeun with the plan, her voice whispering secrets that promise adventure, her laugh bright as she eggs Junseo on: painting murals on the underside of the dining table, drawing dragons and suns in marker, or sneaking handfuls of flour from the pantry to build a “castle” on the living room rug. Junseo, loyal and adoring, is her eager accomplice, never quite able to resist her pull, the way she makes even the forbidden seem like the only choice.

You never quite have the heart to shout at them, least of all Haeun, who blinks up at you with a wide-eyed innocence, fingers still sticky with the evidence. And with Junseo, your gentle boy, always so sorry, always so quick to hug your legs and whisper “I’m sorry, Mama”—your voice melts before you ever raise it. Despite every good intention and everyone’s assumption, you’re the soft parent, the one who sighs and shakes your head, who can’t help but smile as you clean up the chaos, secretly treasuring the wildness and the memory of your own childhood’s recklessness.

But Jeno is different. He steps into the room, voice low but unyielding, a steady authority that halts even Haeun in her tracks. He crouches to their level, meets their gaze without flinching, and sets clear boundaries. explaining what could have gone wrong, why rules matter, how love sometimes means saying no. Even Haeun, who looks at him with a mix of reverence and wariness, listens when he speaks; to her, Jeno is almost her second father, his approval heavy, his disappointment felt deep.

Sometimes there are tears, sometimes a sulky pout, but always, when the scolding is over, Jeno hugs them close, one arm around each, making sure they know the difference between a mistake and who they are. And as the boundaries hold and the wildness softens, you’re grateful for the balance: Haeun and Junseo’s wild hearts kept safe by firm love, by lessons given gently but not spared, by a family that teaches both freedom and responsibility, one scraped knee, one broken rule at a time.

But sometimes, the wildness in their play feels too sharp, their laughter carrying a frantic edge, a tension beneath the sweetness you can’t quite name. Haeun is a good girl, gentle, polite, always quick to say thank you and listen, always the one to tidy up after the game is over. Yet there are moments, fleeting, easily missed, when you see a restlessness in her, a secret rebellion that flares in her eyes as she leads Junseo into forbidden corners or dares him to cross lines you never set. You wish you’d paid more attention, wish you’d seen the patterns, the way Haeun grew quieter each time the fun ended, how she clung to Junseo a little tighter, how her smile lingered just a moment too long before she let go. You remember her that afternoon, cheeks flushed from running, yellow cape askew, Junseo’s hand in hers as she left, Jaemin smiling, saying he’d take her home, both of them waving, the light so bright it blinds you to anything but the ordinary joy of childhood.

It happens just hours later. The phone rings, its shrill cry cleaving through the dusk, and when you answer, you hear Jaemin’s voice shattered, barely able to form words through his sobs. “She’s back in hospital. It’s bad. Please, you have to come.” The world narrows to a pinpoint, terror blooming through your veins as you drop the phone, grab Jeno’s hand, and run, no jackets, no plan, just running, hearts pounding in your throats, the city spinning past in smears of neon and headlights.

The hospital is all cold corridors and the endless, echoing rush of your own breath. Jaemin stands there, wild-eyed and shaking, hands fisted in his hair, and when he sees you he collapses, choking on apologies and grief. You barely hear the doctors, the words “worse than it’s ever been” ringing in your skull like a curse. You stumble down the sterile hallway, Junseo clinging to your neck, the world inside you tilting off its axis. The lights are too bright, the air too thin, and every step feels like moving through water, haunted by the memory of Haeun’s laughter just hours before, already afraid of the sound of a life beginning to slip away.

Luckily, against every panicked fear that claws at your heart, the doctors work their magic. Hours bleed into a blur of fluorescent lights, urgent footsteps, the hush of tense conversation outside her room. It’s one impeccable intern, a young doctor with sharp, watchful eyes and a gentle touch, who steps in quietly when no one else seems to notice the pattern, who asks the right questions and adjusts something in Haeun’s treatment, a move so subtle and masked in clinical language you almost miss its gravity. Whatever she does, it changes the tide, and for the first time that night, the monitors steady, the alarms hush, hope cracks open in the space between beeps.

But the battle is far from over. Haeun is a wreck, the trauma of it all pouring out with every scream, thrashing against the sheets, trying to rip out IV lines with shaking hands. Her face is red and raw from crying, breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, the wildness in her now all pain and protest. She sobs, her words like broken glass—“I don’t want this! I don’t want to be here! I’d rather die than spend another year in this place!” Her voice shreds at your nerves, shatters every part of you that wants to be strong. She fights everyone, nurses, doctors, even you, arms flailing, pleading to go home, to just be normal, to not be sick anymore.

You and Jeno stand helpless at her bedside, Jaemin pressed against the wall, shaking, his own sobs almost silent compared to hers. You want to scoop her up, erase her terror, but there’s nothing left to do but hold her hands, whisper promises you hope you can keep, and let the pain of her words burrow deep. In those moments, all the sunlight of childhood fades; there is only the sharp, black ache of loving a child who just wants freedom, and the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, will finally save her.

Hours later, when the worst of the chaos has dulled but Haeun’s tears have not, the ward is hushed, dimmed for the night, and her voice, raw, desperate, is still echoing down the hallway. She sobs into the blankets, flinches at every footstep, shies away from even the gentlest nurse. You’re at the edge of exhaustion, unable to do anything but smooth her hair and murmur the same reassurances in circles, your own eyes stinging with helplessness.

Then Jeno slips quietly into the room, moving with the kind of calm that hushes even the wildest storm. He crouches beside her bed, hands warm and steady on the rails, waiting until her sobs slow, until she looks at him through puffy, fever-bright eyes. “Hey, angel,” he whispers, soft as dawn, “want to come with me for a minute? Just you and me?” Haeun hiccups, wipes at her face, and nods, small and trusting, her hand finding his without hesitation.

Jeno lifts her gently, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders, and carries her through the sleeping hospital, past the beeping monitors, the antiseptic light, the distant shouts and the ghosts of fear. They step out onto the rooftop, the world suddenly wide and silent, the air cool and alive with wind and the distant lights of the city glittering below. Jeno sets her down beside him, his arm around her shoulders, and sits quietly for a while, just letting her breathe, the two of them cocooned in a hush that feels a little like freedom.

He doesn’t talk to her like a child, not tonight. His voice is gentle, low, adult, soft as the space between heartbeats. “I know you’re tired, Haeun. I know it’s hard. The doctors, the poking, all the noise. It’s too much, isn’t it?” She nods, face crumpling again, tears shining in the neon. Jeno brushes her hair from her forehead, thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. “You’re the bravest person I know, you know that?” he tells her, “You get to feel scared, even heroes do. It’s okay to say it out loud.”

His voice is gentle but edged with a firmness that means he trusts her heart: “Haeun, angel, I need you to listen to me, okay? You have to try to stop shouting at everyone, at all the doctors and nurses who are trying to help you, and you can’t keep being mean to your daddy. He loves you more than anything, and right now he’s not as strong as he used to be. It’s hard for him, too.” Jeno’s eyes are kind, his thumb catching the last of her tears. “You know how brave you are? Sometimes, being brave means being gentle, even when you feel angry or scared. Your daddy gets scared, too, Haeun. He needs you to help him just as much as you need him to help you.”

He kisses the top of her head, pulling her in even closer, letting her feel the steady, grounding rhythm of his heartbeat. “I know it’s not fair. I know you wish things were different. But you’re both stronger when you’re soft with each other. Let your daddy be your safe place, and try to be his, too.” His words hang warm in the night, hope and honesty mingling in the hush. Haeun nods, sniffling, her anger melting under his calm. 

Haeun curls into his side, her sobs quieter now, voice shaking as she admits, “I’m scared, Nono. I don’t, I don’t want Daddy to lose me.” The words nearly break you, but 

Jeno just pulls her closer, steady and sure, holding her like she’s made of hope. “No one’s losing you, angel,” he murmurs, his own eyes shining, “We’re right here. You’re safe, and you’re loved, every single day, no matter what. And I promise, I’ll always find a way to bring you a little bit of sky, no matter where you are.”

Jeno sits in the garden, the world finally stilled, Haeun soft and small in his arms, her breathing deepening as sleep claims her at last after a night that seemed endless. He stays where he is, unwilling to wake her, letting the gentle hush of morning wrap them both. Around him, the garden comes alive: dew glistening on the fat, ruffled heads of peonies, the delicate blue spires of delphiniums nodding in the breeze, tiny white violets threading the borders beneath a drift of pale climbing roses. The scent is sweet and sharp, and for a moment, Jeno just breathes, cataloguing each color and petal, holding the image close, a memory for another hard night.

He glances up and catches a flicker of light blue at the edge of his vision, scrubs against the riot of flowers. He blinks, surprised. He hadn’t noticed anyone else come up here, but now he sees her: a young woman, maybe early twenties, wide doe eyes and anxious hands, a stethoscope slung over her shoulder. She’s holding a thermos and a folder, but her gaze is fixed on him, startled and suddenly shy as she realizes she’s been caught staring.

“Who are you?” Jeno asks quietly, shifting Haeun so her cheek stays nestled against his chest.

The young woman’s eyes go wide, and she coughs, straightening herself as she fumbles for her ID, lips parting in a breathless rush. She introduces herself, softly, formally, eyes darting from Jeno to Haeun and back, as if she can’t quite believe she’s standing here. Her badge glints in the morning sun. “I’m an intern,” she finally manages, her voice steadying as she finds the words. “Just started my rotations here, actually.”

Jeno’s brows pull together, recognition blooming slowly. “Wait. You’re the intern? The one who saved Haeun’s life?”

She laughs, all nerves, brushing hair from her face. “I mean, not really, there’s a whole team, we all work hard, and Dr. Yoon did the actual consultation, and I just—” She pauses, swallowing. “I guess I did. Yeah. I was the one who caught the… well, I just noticed something everyone missed.” Her humility is so genuine it makes Jeno smile.

He reaches out, ready to offer his hand, but her eyes widen in recognition and she takes a quick step back, something like awe flickering across her face. Before he can speak, she rattles off a string of achievements as if reciting from a page: 

“I know who you are. You’re Lee Jeno, youngest NBA starter in history, four-time consecutive league MVP, broke the all-time assists record before you were twenty-five, youngest player ever inducted into the Hall of Fame, Sportsman of the Year three times. Your stats are still used in university sports analytics. There’s a whole section about you in the orthopedic wing, and even a commemorative plaque downstairs in the lobby with your jersey number on it. Your name is written in record books and sports history articles around the world. You’re a legend.” The words tumble out in perfect order, each detail crisp and exact, revealing a memory far sharper than most. It’s clear in the way her eyes flick upward, cataloguing every fact, that she has the rare gift of recalling everything—an almost photographic recall that seems to surprise even her as she lists it.

She pauses, cheeks flushed, then shakes her head with a sheepish smile, almost apologetic for her recall. “Sorry. I have a bit of a memory for details. I read your profile once in a journal and, well, I tend to remember everything I read.”

Jeno can’t help but laugh, a little startled, a little charmed by the matter-of-fact way she unspools his legacy. Sometimes he forgets, in these quieter moments, that he’s not just a husband, a father, or a worried friend, but the most celebrated basketball player of his generation, etched into the public consciousness, even for those who are too young to remember his first game. For a moment, there’s something almost sweet in the way she delivers it, not with awe or hero worship, but the precision of someone who simply remembers everything she reads.

Her eyes soften, and she tucks her hair behind her ear, shifting awkwardly. “I just did my job. But Haeun is really strong. Dr Na has been at her side all night. He’s… He’s taking it hard, isn’t he?” Her voice lowers, gentle and sincere.

Jeno nods, gaze heavy with tired gratitude. “Yeah. He’s barely left her room. He blames himself for missing the signs, even though none of us could have known. You saved her life, She’s everything to us and she’s everything to Jaemin. Thank you.”

Jeno’s laugh lingers between them, the tension easing as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, eyes shining with the curiosity of someone who genuinely loves learning for its own sake. She settles beside a patch of lavender, shoes scuffing the path, and the questions begin to tumble out in earnest, first about Junseo, but quickly skipping to basketball, to how he balanced his engineering degree with basketball, to what his warm-up rituals actually look like in real life. She’s earnest, fast, sometimes apologetic for her excitement, but her interest is never performative; every question lands like a puzzle she’s dying to solve.

Soon, her attention veers in a new direction—toward you. She mentions your name with a kind of reverence that surprises even her, all breathless enthusiasm and bright, unfiltered sincerity. “I’ve followed her work since I was a teenager, you know? The way she writes about healing, and hope, and everything you lose and find again, sometimes I screenshot her essays just to keep them on my phone. When I started medical school, I wrote out that line from her article about surviving the impossible and taped it inside my locker. My friends all thought I was dramatic, but it helped.” Her laugh is sheepish, but her eyes are shining, her admiration genuine. “You probably think I’m ridiculous, fangirling about your wife, but she makes me believe people can really start over, even when everything hurts.”

Jeno can’t help it, a real, belly-deep laugh escapes him, warm and surprised, the sound rolling easily through the morning air. “Trust me,” he says, shaking his head in gentle disbelief, “I fangirl about my wife too.” 

She barrels on, barely pausing to breathe, launching into stories about reading your interviews late at night before exams, quoting your words in her med school group chat, even sharing your wedding photos with her best friend because “if there’s proof true love is real, it’s in the way she looks at you in every picture.” Jeno can hardly get a word in, but he finds himself enjoying the gentle storm of her excitement. He glances at Haeun, nestled against his chest, still sleeping so peacefully, oblivious to the whirlwind, a small smile curving her lips as if she dreams of nothing but comfort.

The young doctor pivots, seemingly without breath, into asking about your wedding, her curiosity unstoppable. “I mean, everyone in my family watched the videos you posted! My aunt cried at the vows, and I swear even my brother paused his game to see the first dance. There was a whole feature on it in the winter edition of Modern Romance—did you know? They said it was the most iconic ceremony of the decade. And those photos with the lanterns, Haeun was so cute and little, my best friend has one saved for her own mood board.” Her voice drops a little, almost confessional. “Sometimes, when things get really bad on shift, I’ll look at those wedding photos and I just remember that good things last, even if it’s only in a moment.”

She admits she still remembers the exact color of your bouquet. The event, she says, is legendary, hailed as one of the most beautiful and heartfelt weddings in recent years, making countless “best of” lists and even studied in a design seminar she once took. She marvels at the details: the rain of petals during your vows, the garden lights strung through the olive trees, the way people still talk about the warmth and joy that seemed to ripple out from every photo. It wasn’t just famous; it became a kind of symbol for what love could look like when it survived everything.

Jeno just sits back, lips tugged into a patient smile, letting her words spin out like silk in the garden air. He’s long since stopped trying to interject, content to be the audience for someone who, for all her brilliance and knowledge, is still so open-hearted and human. She asks about your favorite flowers, about the speech you gave to the children at the reception, about the tiny, private moments that never made it into the magazine spreads, her voice is relentless, but somehow never tiring, more endearing with each detail. She even tries to guess what music you played as you walked down the aisle, getting it wrong but laughing at herself.

Haeun’s breathing is slow and steady, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, perfectly at peace in Jeno’s arms. The young doctor glances at her, eyes softening as she lowers her voice. “She’s beautiful,” she whispers. “I’m glad you brought her up here. I think everyone deserves a garden like this, just for a little while.”

Jeno finally manages a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You’re something else, you know that?” But he means it kindly, grateful for the strange comfort of her presence—a bright, tireless spirit, reminding him that the world is wide and full of unexpected kindness, even on the hardest days.

Just as laughter fades into the soft buzz of the waking garden, Jeno feels a familiar shift in the air, the gentle patter of little feet on stone, the weight of a gaze even before he turns. There’s something about the quiet anticipation, the slight catch in the breeze, that tells him exactly who’s coming. Before he can look, he’s already smiling, warmth spreading from his chest. Sure enough, Junseo rounds the corner, eyes still heavy with sleep but searching for his father, arms full of a crumpled blanket he’s dragged all the way up. Jeno tips his head, grinning, and calls out gently, “Hey, sleepyhead, couldn’t you sleep without me?”

The intern nearly jumps, startled by the sudden arrival. She spins, blinking in surprise, she hadn’t heard a thing, so wrapped up in her stories and Jeno’s quiet listening. Junseo stands beside his father, blanket trailing, rubbing his eyes with one hand. “Daddy,” he mumbles, voice soft but sure, “I was looking for you.” He gazes up, not shy in the least, curiosity lighting his face.

The intern recovers, pressing a hand to her heart and laughing in disbelief. “You scared me!” she admits, eyes wide as she looks from Junseo to Jeno. “How did you know he was coming?”

Junseo’s lower lip begins to tremble, his small shoulders hitching as he clutches the blanket tighter. Before Jeno can say anything more, tears start streaming down Junseo’s cheeks, silent at first and then growing, raw, shuddering sobs that make his whole body quake. “Appa, I’m scared,” he cries, his voice splintering, “Hae-hae’s so sick. I don’t want her to go away. I don’t want to lose my Hae-hae. Why does she have to be in the hospital? Why can’t she come home with us?”

Jeno’s eyes soften instantly, everything in him drawn to his son’s pain. He shifts Haeun, still sound asleep, breath feather-light, carefully in one arm and opens the other to Junseo, kneeling down so their faces are close. Without a word, he gathers Junseo in, letting the boy sob against his chest, tears soaking through his shirt. Jeno doesn’t rush him, just holds him steady, one hand cupping the back of Junseo’s head, his thumb stroking gentle, soothing circles, while his other arm keeps Haeun cocooned and safe. It’s all muscle and tenderness, the perfect blend of protector and comforter, a father’s grace worn like a second skin.

Junseo hiccups between sobs, words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t cry before, Appa, I tried to be brave. I wanted to show Mummy I’m strong but I’m so scared. I don’t want to be strong anymore. I want Hae-hae to get better. I want us all to go home.”

Jeno’s jaw flexes, emotion flickering across his face, but he stays calm, anchored, radiating reassurance. He presses his cheek to Junseo’s hair, murmuring softly, “You’re allowed to be scared, Junnie. You’re brave even when you cry. I’m here and I’ve got you. We’ll be okay, we’ll all be okay.”

The intern, forgotten for a moment, watches the scene, Jeno holding both children close, his presence a quiet fortress, strong and unshakeable. There’s something undeniably captivating about the way he moves, gentle, attentive, every gesture instinctive and full of care. She lets out a quiet sigh, under her breath, barely aware she’s spoken aloud: “So hot.” Jeno glances over, an eyebrow arched in amused surprise, and she instantly coughs, cheeks flushed, stammering, “—I mean, um, so… heartfelt! That’s just—so sweet.” 

Junseo’s sobs intensify, turning guttural, hiccuping, so desperate and raw that his whole little body trembles with the force of it. He clings to Jeno as if he’s the last safe place in the universe, cheeks streaked with salt, nose running, the grief of a child as honest and total as a storm. “Appa, please, don’t put me down, don’t let anyone else take me, don’t leave, don’t leave,” he babbles, the words tumbling over one another, his need a living thing, clutching, shuddering, utterly consuming. His hands fist into Jeno’s collar, breath hot and broken against his father’s throat, his pain a demand for reassurance, for presence, for the kind of comfort that can only be given with all of yourself.

Jeno, never more beautiful than in this chaos, strong arms gentling, jaw set, eyes fierce with focus, gathers Junseo close and shifts Haeun carefully, pressing his lips to the crown of her head before moving. There’s a soft humility in the way he kneels, the way he lets Junseo collapse fully into his chest, letting the boy’s tears soak through his shirt, not caring about the mess, letting Junseo’s fear become his own. Every so often, he murmurs, “I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere, no matter what,” voice threaded through with devotion that’s bone-deep and indestructible.

He turns to the intern, meeting her eyes, seeing not just her youth, but the steadiness she’s shown, the unspoken trust that’s already grown between them tonight. “Can you take her?” he asks, gentle but urgent. “Please, take her back to Jaemin.” The intern nods, understanding that this isn’t just a request, it’s a transfer of something sacred. She lifts Haeun with a practiced, tender ease, the child limp and deeply asleep, her cheek nestled against the crook of the young doctor’s arm.

As the intern steps away, Haeun stirs faintly, lashes fluttering, her breath catching for a moment. She murmurs “Mummy…” in a voice so thin it’s almost not there, lost in a dream, reaching for something just out of sight. The intern’s arms tighten around her, a gentle promise to carry her safely back to Jaemin, back to her family.

Jeno, completely absorbed in Junseo’s need, misses it all. The garden seems to fold around them, petals brushing his knees, cool grass pressing into his skin, the world shrinking to the hot, shivering body in his arms. Junseo’s fists twist desperately in his shirt, as if the fabric itself might save him. Jeno rocks him slowly, heart beating in time with his son’s pain, whispering fragments of lullabies, snatches of memory, anything that might anchor Junseo back to earth. Above them, the sky is streaked with the first hints of dawn, and the garden holds its breath: Jeno and Junseo, bound in a moment of pure, vulnerable need, father and son with nothing but love between them, love made visible in every tear, every trembling word, every strong, unwavering embrace. For now, there is nothing more important, nothing else in the world but the promise that Jeno will never let go, will always be the place his son can fall apart and be put back together, as many times as it takes.

The sun is barely rising when you finally slip out onto the rooftop, the garden washed in lavender and gold, dew dusting every petal. You find them there: Jeno crouched low, his arms wrapped tight around Junseo, your little boy’s face buried against his father’s neck, small shoulders still shaking with quiet sobs. Jeno holds him close, steady and strong, his hand rubbing slow circles across Junseo’s back, every inch of him radiating warmth and patience, anchoring your son through the storm.

You gasp the moment you see him, his little face crumpled, eyes wet and wide, his whole small body trembling in Jeno’s arms as if the world itself has grown too loud, too big. Tears fill your eyes instantly, the ache in your chest eclipsing everything else. “Oh, sweetheart, what happened? My little moon, my darling boy, what’s wrong?” Your voice shakes as you want nothing but to gather him up and shield him from whatever pain found him in your absence.

He can’t answer, not really, just hiccups, breath stuttering between broken words and desperate gasps, reaching out to grip both you and Jeno at once, needing every part of you, needing home. He tries, “I… I…” but the rest dissolves in a shuddering wail.

He clings to you, burying his face in your neck, his fingers gripping your hair and ear with the desperate strength only a child can muster. You stroke his back, your touch featherlight, whispering soft nothings, “I’m here, my love. Mummy’s here, I promise. It’s all right now. You’re safe, you’re safe.”

He tries so hard to be brave—lips pressed together, little shoulders squared, knuckles whitening as he clings to your sleeve. But as soon as you touch him, smoothing his hair and pulling him close, all that strength crumbles. His lashes are wet against your cheek, his breath catching, voice a tiny, quivering whisper. “I… I try be brave, Mama. I try so much, for you and Hae Hae. I wanna be big boy but… but I’m scared.” He sniffs, clinging to your neck, his words tumbling out broken and raw. “Hae Hae… she my favourite girl and she’s scared too. I don’t want her be alone, Mama.”

Your heart shatters and mends all at once. You cup his damp cheeks in your hands, brushing the tears away with your thumbs, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, his little fists, anything you can reach. “Oh, my precious boy, you were brave. You were so, so brave for me, for Daddy, for yourself and for Haeun. It’s all right to cry. It’s all right to be scared, especially when you love someone so much. I’m here. I’ll keep Hae Hae safe, and I’ll always keep you safe too. You’re not alone.”

He nods into your neck, still gripping your ear for comfort, the rhythm of his tiny breaths catching on every word. Jeno gathers you both close, his strong arms folding around you, voice a low, steady hum, soft and sure, a lullaby spun from hope and memory. Junseo clings to both of you, pressing his cheek against your chest, letting your heartbeat soothe him, little fingers twisting in your hair and ear as if anchoring himself to you, to home. You rock him gently, murmuring promises, pressing endless kisses into his hair, his tears dampening your collar as Jeno rubs his back in slow, grounding circles. The world narrows to this, your boy’s fragile courage, his innocent longing, the miracle of his need. You don’t rush him, letting him sob and sigh and hiccup until finally, his eyelids flutter, his breaths grow heavy, and he gives in to the safety of sleep, trusting you to keep the dark at bay.

Jeno holds him tightly, his arms a fortress, steady and warm, your little boy curled so completely into his father’s chest it’s as if he believes Jeno can keep every monster in the world at bay. Junseo’s small fists clutch at the front of Jeno’s shirt, his cheek pressed to Jeno’s shoulder, breath catching on every tiny sob. His body softens slowly, melting into that safety, the fear unraveling with each gentle coo Jeno whispers, nonsense words, lullabies, promises of light and home and forever. “It’s all right, buddy. Daddy’s got you. Safe, safe, safe.”

You stay close, your hand smoothing Junseo’s hair, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and the three of you form an unbreakable circle, love wrapping around him tighter than any night could ever be. You watch as his lashes flutter, his grip loosening little by little, his breathing turning deep and slow as he finally lets go, trusting Jeno to hold him through every storm. He cries himself softly to sleep, and in the hush that follows, you realize there is nothing in the world except this: your beautiful boy, innocent and beloved, the miracle of being loved enough to fall apart and be held—always, always held—until peace comes.

Jeno leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—steady and full of quiet reassurance. His voice is low, gentle against your mouth as he whispers, “I’ll tell you everything later, I promise.” He lets his forehead rest against yours for a breath, and you feel the unspoken words in the quiet: he’ll tell you everything, every detail, every fear, just not now, not while your son needs both of you so completely. He knows the questions burning in your chest, the worry, the ache, the why of your baby’s trembling and his tears, but for this moment, you are simply here together, hands wrapped around Junseo, hearts tuned to his smallest sigh.

That’s always been the way you parent: nothing hidden, nothing too big or too small to share. You communicate in glances and quiet talks in the kitchen long after bedtime, in whispered confessions and all the little adjustments you make for each other, always striving to be softer, safer, better, for your son, and for yourselves. Even on nights like this, when everything hurts and the world feels impossibly sharp, you know you’ll talk it through, you’ll listen, you’ll learn and grow together. That’s the promise, silent and shining between you: you’re in this as a team, building something new from every heartbreak, determined to give Junseo the gentlest home you never had.

Jeno tucks Junseo closer, holding your little boy as if he’s carrying something sacred. He turns to you, brushing a soft kiss over your hair, and murmurs, “Let’s get my girl and my boy home.” The words are a balm, gentle and sure, wrapping around your heart with a warmth that eases every ache. You slip your arms around Jeno’s waist, leaning into his side, letting his strength and steadiness anchor you—needing him as much as Junseo does in that quiet, drifting moment.

He leads you from the rooftop garden, guiding you through the softly lit halls, his hand finding yours and holding tight, a silent vow in every step. Before you leave, the three of you slip quietly into Haeun’s hospital room, the light dim and soft, everything washed in a hush that feels sacred. Haeun is fast asleep, her cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering, and Jaemin—finally, finally—has let himself rest, curled beside her on the narrow bed, his arm draped protectively around her small form. Their faces are turned toward each other, the lines of worry smoothed away in sleep, and the sight tugs something deep inside you. You tiptoe over and brush a gentle kiss to Haeun’s forehead, whispering goodnight, while Jeno leans in to do the same, his hand steady on your back, both of you sending every ounce of love you have into the hush between them.

You linger a second, watching Jaemin’s fingers twitch in sleep, the tiniest smile on Haeun’s lips as she burrows closer to him, two souls holding each other through the dark, safe for now. It makes you ache, the sweetness of it, the way love and care thread through every shadow of this room. When you leave, you reach for Jeno’s hand, lacing your fingers together as you step into the hallway. The world feels gentler here, quieter, and you cling to the comfort of his touch. As you walk out, Jeno nods and smiles at a young doctor by the nurses’ station, her white coat crisp, eyes bright with recognition. She glances at your little family—Jeno with Junseo in his arms, you at his side—and smiles back, a spark of something familiar in her gaze.

You glance up at Jeno, curiosity tugging at your brow. “Do you know her?” you whisper.

Jeno squeezes your hand, a secret dancing in his eyes, and bends to press a soft kiss to your hair. “I’ll tell you later,” he promises, voice low and full of affection. He chuckles. “You’re gonna like her.” And so you walk on, guided by the quiet, shared mysteries between you, certain that whatever the answers are, you’ll face them together—your family, whole, moving through the night hand in hand.

The night outside is cool and quiet, the city far below, but none of it touches you here; Jeno is your shelter, your certainty. As the doors close behind you, you know you and Junseo are exactly where you belong—in Jeno’s care, safe, loved, and whole, held by the man who never lets you go. Jeno’s hands are steady and gentle as he buckles your son into his car seat, fingers checking every strap twice, pausing to brush a stray curl from Junseo’s damp cheek. There’s an ease in his touch, a tenderness that seems to gather all the broken pieces of the morning and knit them back together, one soft gesture at a time. You watch, biting your lip, something molten and sweet pooling in your chest, a rush of affection so intense it feels almost like falling in love all over again. It’s the flush of gratitude and awe and sheer, physical longing for the partner and father your husband has become.

He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Junseo’s forehead, whispering something only your son can hear, and you see Junseo’s eyelids flutter, his little hand coming up to clutch at Jeno’s sleeve as if anchoring himself there. Then Jeno looks up, eyes finding yours across the backseat, and there’s a quiet understanding there, like he can read every thought, every swell of love and hunger and amazement moving through you.

He moves to you next, still in that careful, unrushed way, and cups your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. His lips brush yours, soft, sure, patient, and suddenly you’re breathless, dizzy with the want of him, the certainty that he’s yours. It’s the kind of kiss that says everything: I love you. I see you. We did this. And in the space between heartbeats, you know he understands just how deeply you desire him, not just as your lover, but as this kind of father, this kind of man.

Jeno as a father is a love story rewritten in gestures so gentle they feel almost mythic. He never had a template, no blueprint for this kind of tenderness, only the long shadow of his own childhood, the rigid boundaries and silent expectations that shaped him once. He lives now in conscious opposition to all that. Where Taeyong was distant and sharp-edged, a man who measured love in performance and sacrifice, Jeno chooses softness every single day. He greets his son’s storms with patience, his triumphs with pride, and his ordinary mornings with the kind of affection that comes without conditions or end. Junseo never flinches when Jeno speaks, never wonders if he’s safe because Jeno has never given him a reason to doubt it. There is no fear between them. Jeno meets his son’s gaze every time, kneels to Junseo’s height so they share the same horizon, and makes every conversation a place of safety, a space where Junseo can grow up unafraid of his own voice.

He never makes his son earn affection; love is given as naturally as breath, instinctively, without tally or reservation. It is the air they move through, the constant in a world that shifts and trembles. Taeyong built a son from expectation, the scaffolding of his own disappointments. Jeno builds a son from attention, from the radical act of seeing. He reads every flicker of emotion on Junseo’s face like scripture, tracking every shift in mood, every tiny habit, learning his son’s language in a thousand silent ways. He anticipates tantrums before they form, recognizes the telltale quiver in Junseo’s lower lip, and intercepts tears before they fall, scooping him up, holding him close, whispering comfort into the space between his heartbeats.

He listens, truly listens, when Junseo talks about the world as only a child can. Dinosaurs and dream planets, the shape of the clouds that morning, why blueberries are blue, the secret reasons why the night-light needs to stay on. Jeno doesn’t dismiss or correct, doesn’t brush aside. He listens as though each word matters, as though every detail is another clue to the mystery of his son. When Junseo colors outside the lines or asks the same question five times, Jeno’s patience is endless. He sees every small act of rebellion or curiosity not as something to be fixed but as something sacred, evidence of a mind and spirit blooming in safety.

In the quiet moments, those long, slow mornings when the house is washed in gold and Junseo is still half-dreaming, Jeno pours himself into presence. He lets his son curl in his lap while he drinks coffee, fingers idly tracing little circles on Junseo’s back, humming softly, waiting for the world to come alive together. He’s present, always, in ways that are rare and profound. When Junseo wants to build towers or crash trucks or line up every book on the shelf, Jeno joins him—completely, as if nothing else could possibly compete for his attention. He makes his son feel chosen, cherished, the center of an entire universe.

There’s never a moment when Junseo wonders if he is loved. Jeno tells him every day, sometimes in words, sometimes in the quiet rituals of care: packing his snack with a note, tucking him in at night with three kisses on the forehead, pausing whatever he’s doing just to sit and watch Junseo breathe. He gives him freedom to choose, never imposing his own childhood wounds, never forcing a basketball into his hands, never asking him to be anyone but himself. If Junseo chooses art or music or chasing bugs in the garden, Jeno is there, kneeling beside him, ready to listen, ready to show him how, if he wants. Only if he wants.

This is what it means to build a son from attention: every day, Jeno rewrites what family is, dismantling the old legacies and gifting Junseo something soft, something indestructible. The patience, the warmth, the devotion, these are the things Junseo will remember, the inheritance Jeno is determined to give. It’s a new language, spoken in hands that never hurt, eyes that never look away, a presence that never falters. It’s the way Jeno anchors Junseo to this world, teaching him that the foundation beneath his feet is built not from fear or expectation, but from the wild, unyielding certainty of being loved.

Jeno draws a sacred line between legacy and love, a promise that begins long before Junseo can even say the word “basketball.” He never leads with it. He doesn’t tuck a ball into his son’s crib or sketch out court markings before Junseo has even chosen his first box of crayons. Instead, Jeno waits—he watches. He builds a world where Junseo can pick his passions from a garden of possibility, where nothing is expected and everything is allowed. There are days when he wonders, sometimes in the hush after a win or the lonely quiet of a hotel room, if Junseo will ever want this world for himself—or if he’ll want to run from it the way Jeno once did.

When Junseo finally toddles out one morning, feet clumsy and proud in a jersey so big it drags across his knees, clutching a plastic hoop in one hand and beaming, “I wanna be like daddy!”—Jeno’s heart doesn’t fill first with pride, but with fear. What if the world eats him alive, the way it almost devoured me? What if he learns too soon about the darkness that can live in stadium lights? Still, he kneels, letting Junseo wrap tiny arms around his neck, and presses a kiss to his son’s temple. Jeno lets him come to basketball in his own time, never once pushing, only opening the door.

To Junseo, basketball is joy, not burden. He watches old highlight reels, Jeno’s golden years flashing across the screen, and shouts to anyone who’ll listen, “That’s my daddy!” He brings a small, squishy basketball to preschool show-and-tell, proudly explaining that his daddy “runs faster than the wind and jumps so high he touches the stars.” Junseo doesn’t know about records or rivalries or injuries or pain—he just knows that his father is magic, and being near him makes everything possible.

Jeno only teaches him when he’s asked. There are no drills in their driveway, no lectures, no “practice makes perfect.” It’s just laughter, the thud of a ball on pavement, soft bouncing under kitchen lights. Sometimes, in the gentle blue dusk, Jeno tells his son, “You can be anything, you know. I’ll love you the same.” And when Junseo, breathless with hope, answers, “I wanna be daddy,” Jeno’s chest aches with a fierce tenderness, but he always says, “Only if you want to, buddy. Only if you want to.”

Their rituals become the threadwork of family: Jeno has a charm bracelet on his keyring, Junseo’s name engraved into the silver, a talisman for every city he visits. Whenever he travels, he brings back a tiny souvenir, sometimes a hotel pen, sometimes a silly figurine from an airport shop. These tokens line Junseo’s windowsill, talismans of love that count down the days until daddy’s home. Before every game, Jeno calls, phone pressed to his ear in the tunnel, and asks, “What play should I try tonight?” Junseo always has a new idea, some impossible trick or imaginary move, and Jeno promises to try, making his son a part of every triumph, every challenge, every dream.

After each game, no matter how late, Jeno finds Junseo in the front row. He lifts him over the barrier, settles him onto his shoulders, and carries him for a slow victory lap around the court. The lights are blinding, the fans deafening, but all that matters are Junseo’s tiny hands gripping his father’s hair and the way he shouts, “My daddy won!” Jeno lets him soak in the roar of the crowd, every cheer a memory he hopes Junseo will carry for a lifetime, not as pressure, but as proof that he was part of something beautiful, not just a spectator.

There are traditions, too, stitched into every season. Jeno never leaves for a game without kneeling so Junseo can kiss both of his sneakers, a ritual that began when Junseo was a drooling toddler, barely speaking, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the tips of Jeno’s shoes. Now, he does it solemnly, with ceremony, knowing that this is his “good luck seal.” Sometimes, in post-game interviews, when Jeno glances down at his shoes and smiles, it’s not about superstition—it’s the memory of those tiny kisses, the blessing he carries into every match.

Your home is dotted with mini basketball hoops, tucked behind doors and over laundry baskets. Not for training, never for drills, but for play. Even brushing teeth can turn into a dunk contest, Jeno lifting Junseo high to let him score, both of them laughing so hard the world shrinks down to a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. “You’re stronger than me already,” Jeno tells him, flexing dramatically, letting Junseo believe for a moment that magic is real and that love has no ceiling. This is legacy transformed: not a weight, but a gift. Jeno gives his son the world, but never asks him to carry it—teaching him, instead, how to play, how to hope, and how to know, with every breath, that he is enough.

Jeno’s love begins in the quiet hours, in the dawn haze when the world is still soft and Junseo’s hair is a tangled halo on the pillow. He never wakes his son with anything less than gentleness—no harsh alarms, no ripped blankets, just the soft sweep of his hand through Junseo’s curls and a kiss pressed to a warm brow. “Good morning, baby,” he murmurs, as if sharing a secret meant only for them. He lets Junseo linger in that space between dreams and daylight, lifts him slowly into his arms, and always whispers, “You’ve got time, baby. There’s no hurry.” Every morning, Jeno repairs a little more of the childhood he once wished for—a place where love means safety, and waking up means being seen.

It’s in the golden mess of Sunday mornings too, when Jeno tiptoes into the kitchen with Junseo still drowsy in his arms, both of them giddy with the promise of their shared ritual. They measure flour wrong and crack eggs into lopsided bowls; Jeno lets Junseo stir until batter coats their fingers, never mind the chaos that follows. He wears the “best dad” apron that Junseo chose, and flips pancakes into hearts and crooked letters that spell “love u mama.” The kitchen hums with laughter and sweetness; by the time you wander in, Jeno’s kissing batter off your cheek, Junseo’s cheeks are streaked with flour, and the whole house smells like vanilla and devotion.

Even in the tougher moments, Jeno’s gentleness never wavers. When Junseo acts out, throws a toy, screams out his frustration, Jeno never raises his voice. Instead, he crouches down, meeting Junseo’s gaze at eye level, resting his hands on those small, restless knees. “Let’s talk,” he says, voice steady and loving. “Do you know why that wasn’t kind?” There’s never shame or intimidation, just the gift of space to understand and grow. Junseo apologises in his own time, sometimes whispering soft “sorrys” to his toys, learning that kindness comes from reflection, not fear.

But there are moments when even the softest love needs to hold its line. While you’re always the first to comfort and to forgive, Jeno knows when to stand his ground. When Junseo’s stubborn streak flares—when he crosses boundaries that matter, when his voice turns sharp or his hands push too hard—Jeno’s presence changes, gentle but unyielding. He doesn’t yell, but there’s a firmness in his tone that makes Junseo pause, a seriousness that fills the room and says: this matters. He stands tall, gaze unwavering, voice steady as stone. “We don’t hurt, and we don’t disrespect,” he’ll say, his hand resting protectively at Junseo’s shoulder. He waits for his son to meet his eyes, makes sure he understands, and sometimes the conversation is long, sometimes there are tears, but Jeno never rushes it, never lets it slide. It’s discipline wrapped in dignity, guidance without threat, and it works; even as Junseo clings to your side, sniffling and regretful, you can see him growing into the kind of person Jeno hopes he’ll become. Jeno is the softest place to land, but also the one who teaches your son where real strength lies, not in control or fear, but in kindness, respect, and learning how to make things right.

And when the darkness creeps in—when nightmares wake Junseo trembling and lost—Jeno never sends him back to bed alone. He lays beside him on the floor, arms wrapped warm around his little boy, making silly shadow puppets until laughter breaks through the fear. “Nothing can get you with me here,” he whispers, and Junseo believes it, falling asleep tucked safely against his father’s steady heart. Sometimes Jeno stays awake long after, just watching the gentle rise and fall of his son’s breath, thinking, You’re the best thing I’ll ever do. Fatherhood didn’t just give Jeno someone to love; it taught him to mend what he thought was forever broken.

Their world is stitched together in these soft routines, but it’s also made of rituals both grand and silly—like campfire nights in the backyard, fairy lights strung through the trees, Junseo’s eyes wide as marshmallows roast and bedtime stories spin from Jeno’s lips. Tales of a brave, wild-hearted prince who is always loved, always chosen. Or the driveway one-on-one games, where sometimes Jeno lets Junseo win, scooping him up and spinning him around as if he’s just clinched the NBA finals—other times making him work for every basket, teaching that loss is just another way to learn, and that love is never tied to performance.

The magic bleeds into the extraordinary, too—like the time Jeno commissions custom sneakers covered in Junseo’s crayon scribbles, flames and declarations like “Go Daddy!” painted on the sides. He wears them in a championship game, kisses them on live television, then places them in Junseo’s hands in a glass case marked: “We win together.” Every triumph is shared, every joy multiplied.

No matter what the day holds, Jeno’s love is a constant presence. He’s there in the early hours and the blue hush of night, listening—truly listening—when Junseo rambles about dinosaurs or the shape of clouds or why blueberries are blue. He doesn’t just hear; he makes every word matter. And through it all—every game, every mess, every apology and every win—he says I love you again and again, in every way he knows how, until it’s the foundation Junseo stands on, sure and unshakable, no matter where life takes him. That’s the kind of father Jeno is: the kind who builds a new legacy from the ground up, one where love isn’t earned, it’s simply there, endlessly, gently, always.

Sometimes, it’s late, the kind of velvet-blue night where every sound seems softened and the house feels smaller, tucked around the three of you like a secret. You find them on the bed, the lamplight golden, Jeno sitting upright with Junseo tucked against his chest, your son’s small arms wound around his father’s neck. Junseo still has the same habit he had when he was a babg, when he’s sleepy or searching for comfort, he grips Jeno’s ear, tiny fingers curling around it as if it’s the anchor that will always keep him safe. He does it now, eyes heavy, lashes brushing flushed cheeks, while Jeno reads aloud from a dog-eared book, his voice slow and soothing, pacing each line to the gentle rhythm of Junseo’s breath.

You stand in the doorway, silent and half in shadow, and watch as your husband tilts the book so Junseo can see the pictures, pausing every so often to explain a word or let Junseo finish a sentence he knows by heart. Jeno’s free hand rests on your son’s back, palm moving in slow, instinctive circles, a motion so familiar it’s almost as if he was born knowing how to do this. He reads with patience and warmth, his tone dipping lower as Junseo’s grip softens, eyelids fluttering, breath growing slower with each page turned.

Just as Junseo’s eyes start to close, he lifts his head, the tiniest crease between his brows, and whispers something only for Jeno, a single word, soft and private, the kind of word that’s become a hush between them, a secret the world doesn’t need to hear. Jeno smiles, wide and proud, his heart so full you can almost see it shining in the lamplight. He sets the book aside and lets Junseo reach for his keys, the heavy ring that always dangles from Jeno’s pocket.

Junseo curls his little hand around the baby blue sneaker charm, the same one Jeno has always kept close, the color worn smooth from years of holding it tight. Jeno leans in, whispering in the dark, “That’s a special one, isn’t it? Did I ever tell you why, Junie?” Junseo nods, sleep heavy in his gaze but still listening, fingers tracing the curve of the tiny shoe, thumb rubbing the spot where the paint has faded. Jeno’s voice drops lower, gentle as a lullaby. “That’s when your mommy told me I was going to be your dad. I kept that charm so I’d never forget that night, how lucky I was. That was the first thing I ever had that meant I’d get to love you.”

Junseo’s lashes flutter, his breath slowing, and he holds the sneaker and Jeno’s ear at the same time, gripping both like talismans against the night. You feel tears prick your eyes, watching the way your little boy nestles into the crook of his father’s arm, surrounded by the objects and memories that mean “home.” Jeno brushes a kiss to his temple, eyes soft and shining. Junseo is nearly asleep now, holding that charm tight, knowing, because his daddy told him again and again, just how cherished he’s always been, and how every gentle ritual between them is a love story, quiet and unbreakable, written one night at a time.

You can’t help the way heat coils through you, the flush climbing up your neck, how tenderness and want blur into something sharper, more urgent, until you’re almost dizzy with it. There’s something primal in the way Jeno sits there, broad-shouldered and gentle, holding your son as if nothing else exists in the universe, reading softly in a voice made for loving and protecting. You watch his arms cradle Junseo, see the way that sleepy grip tugs at Jeno’s ear, and all you can think is mine, your man, your husband, your whole world wrapped in one scene that makes your thighs press together with longing.

He looks up, meets your gaze, and the connection zings hot and hungry between you, possessive and raw. You want him with a kind of ache that’s barely contained, your body remembering every night you’ve spent tangled together, every time he’s touched you with those same hands now holding your son. That small, knowing smile he gives you across the room doesn’t help; if anything, it makes it worse, because he sees it, sees you wanting him, sees how badly you need to remind him that he’s yours. The ache in your chest, the need thrumming low and wicked in your stomach, all of it knots together until you’re one heartbeat away from dragging him away, wanting to claim him, to brand him with your mouth and hands just as surely as he’s branded every part of your life. Family and longing, devotion and hunger, it’s all the same tonight.

The night hush settles like a balm, and you and Jeno move through your son’s room with practiced care, the softness of routine spun into every gentle movement. Junseo is bundled in the sweetest pajamas, pale blue cotton, printed with tiny yellow moons and stars, the cuffs loose around his wrists, feet tucked in warm. He’s already half asleep, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, one hand curled possessively around the corner of his blanket, the other resting open against Jeno’s chest.

Jeno lowers himself to the mattress first, shifting Junseo in his arms until your little boy’s head finds the hollow above his heart. You watch as Jeno brushes a stray curl from Junseo’s forehead, his touch so delicate it makes something ache inside you. He leans in, pressing a kiss to the soft hair at your son’s crown, lingering a moment as if breathing in the very heart of his world. “Goodnight, baby,” he whispers, his voice a thread spun with pride and a devotion so fierce you feel it in your own bones.

You kneel beside them, tucking the edge of the blanket up under Junseo’s chin, smoothing your fingers down his warm, drowsy cheek. “Sleep well, angel,” you murmur, your lips brushing his temple, savoring the familiar scent of milk and soap and sun-warmed skin. Junseo sighs, rolling a little closer into Jeno, his body going boneless with trust, a smile flickering even in his sleep.

For a moment, the room holds all three of you in a soft suspension, the lamplight painting golden halos on the wall, the world outside shrinking to just this: the two of you kneeling over your sleeping boy, breath mingling in the hush. Jeno glances up, meeting your eyes across Junseo’s small, dreaming form, and his smile is slow, full, an unspoken ‘I love you’ passing between you.

You press another kiss to Junseo’s forehead, your hand finding Jeno’s on the blanket, fingers threading together as you both rise, slow and careful, hearts full. Jeno stands, tiptoeing to the light switch, pausing at the door to look back one last time. He blows a final kiss, you follow, and the soft click of the lamp plunges the room into gentle shadow, moonlight slanting over your son’s peaceful face. In the hall, you pause in each other’s arms, soaking in the hush that only comes when your child is safe and dreaming, your boy in blue pajamas, his world quiet and warm, your love for him spilling over into the darkness, unbreakable and bright.

You and Jeno drift together to your own bedroom, feet bare on cool floorboards, hands brushing in the dark until they finally find each other and stay. Inside, the world grows impossibly small, only the two of you and the gentle hush of the night. The sheets are freshly washed, pale and silky against your skin as you settle in. Jeno drops his shirt, left only in a pair of charcoal boxers, skin warm and golden from the glow of the bedside lamp. You slip into bed beside him in your favorite lingerie, just to feel pretty, soft cotton, just barely skimming the tops of your thighs, delicate lace at the shoulders, something you know makes him look at you with that kind of slow, aching hunger you never tire of.

He slides in behind you, long arms curling around your waist, gathering you back against the familiar heat of his chest. You can’t help the giggle that bubbles up, soft, girlish, utterly helpless, when his mouth finds that perfect spot below your ear, pressing a kiss that leaves your skin shivering and your heart tripping like it’s the first time all over again. Even after ten years of loving him, four years of loosing him, and after nearly four years married, you still get shy and giddy with him, breath catching as his palm traces lazy, featherlight circles over your hip. Everything about him still feels new, dangerous and safe at once, the way your bodies fit, the hush of your bedroom, the quiet proof that no matter how much time passes, you are still falling for him.

You press into him, smiling, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his embrace, wanting to lose yourself in the comfort of soft sheets and the sanctuary of Jeno’s touch. But then a memory rises, unbidden, Junseo’s tears on the rooftop, his small body trembling in your arms, the echo of his “I tried to be brave, Mama” caught in your mind.

Suddenly you freeze, and Jeno notices, of course he does, he’s always been attuned to every flicker of your mood, every subtle shift. “What’s wrong, baby?” he whispers, his lips brushing your skin, his voice gentle, coaxing.

You bite your lip, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they shimmer anyway. “Does Junie not feel comfortable around me?” The words break free, so small, so scared. “Did I do something wrong? He cries with you, but he always tries to be strong with me. What if he doesn’t feel safe with me?”

At first Jeno laughs, soft and affectionate, like you’ve just confessed a crush after all these years. But when he sees you’re serious, that the question is real and heavy, the laughter fades, replaced by something fierce and protective. He turns you in his arms, cups your face between his hands, his thumbs catching your tears before they fall.

“Hey, don’t even think that. You’re the best mother a little boy could ever have, our little boy is the luckiest in the world to have you. He’s a mummy’s boy, you know that, right?” Jeno’s eyes shine, earnest and raw. “I see the way he looks at you, the way he lights up when you walk into a room, the way he clings to your shirt when he’s sleepy or scared. He feels so safe with you. It’s just… he wants to be brave for you. He thinks he has to be strong, because you’re strong for him. He wants to protect you, the way you always protect him.” Jeno’s thumb brushes your cheek, his words sweet as a lullaby. “He always wants you to be the one who kisses his knee when he falls, he wants you to hold his hand when we cross the street, he saves his best giggles just for you. He even tries to share his snacks with you—have you noticed that? He loves you so much it spills out of him, all messy and bright and impossible to hide. But… he wants to be brave for you. He thinks he has to be strong, because you’re strong for him. He wants to protect you, the way you always protect him. That’s your boy. That’s our boy.”

You sniffle, laughing through your tears, heart swelling with the weight of it. “He really thinks that?” A part of you knows it’s true—you see it in the little things, the way Junseo squeezes your hand and drags his blanket after you from room to room, the way his eyes search for you in any crowd. But it’s different, softer, when it comes from Jeno’s mouth, the man you trust with every tired, unguarded part of yourself. You’re not afraid to admit you need reassurance too; you’re not always strong, and sometimes the only thing that makes it better is hearing your husband say out loud that you’re doing enough, that you’re loved, that your boy is as wild about you as you are about him. His comfort is an anchor, a gentle place to rest, and you let yourself lean into it, letting him shoulder the weight just for a while.

Jeno nods, tucking your hair gently behind your ear. “Of course he does. He’s smart, and he loves you more than anyone. You’re his whole world, baby. There’s things only you can do for him, stuff I can’t even begin to touch. You’re the one who soothes him when he’s sick, who stays up all night with him when I’m on the road, when I miss bedtime because of games or schedules. You let him crawl into your lap no matter how tired you are, you sing him back to sleep, you know every cry and every silly word before he says it. You have this connection with him, this bond, a depth I don’t think anyone else will ever understand. He came from you. He comes to you for things he can’t even put into words, he just knows his mama will make it right.”

Jeno’s voice softens even more, his thumb brushing slow circles over your cheek. “He sees you being strong, and he wants to be strong too, for you. That’s why sometimes he tries to hold it in, but he does cry to you. He lets it out when he needs to, he just wants to take care of you, the way you take care of him. You’re his home. There’s nothing in this world like the way he loves you, and nothing in this world like the love you give him.”

Jeno smiles, shaking his head in wonder. “You know, sometimes I catch him doing these little things, tiny, serious acts, like standing in front of you at the playground when other kids get too close, or putting his toy cars in a line across the door when you’re napping, like he’s building a wall to keep you safe. Remember how he always brings you his favorite stuffed animal when you’re sad, or pats your hand and says, ‘It’s okay, Mama, I’m here’? Sometimes he tries to help you carry the groceries, even when all he can manage is one apple, just because he wants to make your load lighter. It’s the sweetest thing, the way he tries so hard to be your little protector, even when he’s the one who needs holding.” You laugh softly, brushing a tear from your cheek, heart full at the memory of your boy’s fierce, clumsy devotion. “He sees how his daddy protects his mummy. He learns it all from you, you know.” The words linger between you, soft and certain, woven from the quiet truth of your life together: love multiplied, given, received, again and again.

Jeno runs his fingers through your hair, kissing you again—slow, deep, and full of all the things you both feel. “We’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his forehead pressed to yours. “You and me, and our little boy. We’re more than okay.”

You nod, sinking into Jeno’s arms, letting his certainty fill the quiet ache in your chest. You hold each other in the hush, the world falling away until it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in everything soft and sacred you’ve made together. His hands start to wander, fingertips tracing your spine, palms gliding up beneath your shirt, touch lingering with promise. Your breaths tangle, and the words you whisper, thank you, love you, need you, blur the line between comfort and want. Jeno leans in, his lips brushing the salt from your cheeks, his voice nothing but velvet as he murmurs praise and devotion, each word blooming hot against your skin.

You find yourself pressing closer, chest to chest, your bodies arching and folding into each other, need curling between your thighs. His hand finds your hip, guiding you to rock against him, the friction slow and delicious, clothed but urgent. Your head tips back against the headboard, Jeno’s mouth finding the softest part of your neck as you move together, breaths quickening, hands clutching and sliding, every inch of you burning with how much you love him, how much you want him. Softness turns to heat, every sigh and gasp a prayer for more, your bodies remembering the oldest language, need, tenderness, pleasure, all woven together in the safe, wild dark you call home.

You shift closer in the hush, trailing your fingertips over Jeno’s stomach, feeling anticipation bloom hot and bright in the low light. Your silk lingerie brushes his bare thighs, you feel the way your body fits against his, the way you ache for him even after all these years. Jeno’s hands are everywhere, fingers splayed over your waist, sliding lower, kneading your ass with a hungry reverence that’s never faded. His breath stutters, and then, just like he always has, his impatience gets the better of him. He hooks his fingers beneath the lace and tugs, then rips it, the sound sharp and familiar, the fabric parting like it’s nothing, exposing you for him. He’s always promised to buy you more, his drawers are proof, stuffed with new sets, tags still on, and you never mind, not when he devours you the way he does now.

He groans, voice deep and raw, his lips brushing your ear as he presses you closer. “God, look at you, Mama. You know how crazy you make me in this? But nothing’s better than seeing you naked for me.” His hands skim up your sides, cupping your breasts, thumbing over your nipples with a possessive hunger. “This ass, this body, mine. You look so fucking hot in lace, but you’re even hotter with nothing at all.” He grinds you down onto his cock, letting you feel the thick line of him, and you whimper, shivering as his mouth claims yours, hungry, open, needing you the way he always has.

His mouth finds your ear, voice dropping to that filthy, adoring growl you know too well. “God, Mummy, look at you, always so pretty for me, all this lace just begging to get torn off.” He squeezes your ass, rolling his hips up to meet you, breath hot against your neck. “Bet you love when I ruin you like this, don’t you? My gorgeous Mama, all mine, all wet for me.” He noses along your jaw, licking a stripe up to your cheek, purring low, “Come on, ride Daddy’s cock. Show me how much you missed it.” His hands roam your body like a promise, every touch a reminder that nothing, not years, not parenthood, could ever make him want you less.

Jeno’s mouth is hot and hungry on your breasts, tongue circling your nipple, sucking hard and slow from you like he’s never learned how to stop. His hands pin you in his lap, fingers digging in possessively as you arch into his mouth, every sound you make just fueling his need. He murmurs praise and filth against your skin, teeth grazing, breath coming rough and needy—“Fuck, Mama, you taste so good, always give me everything I want.”

You lose yourself in it, the drag of his tongue, the heat between your thighs, the way your body answers every demand he makes. Then, from the nightstand, your phone starts to buzz, once, then twice, then again, vibrating insistently against the wood. Jeno doesn’t pause, doesn’t care; he just moves to your other breast, lips latching on, making you gasp. But the sound keeps coming. His phone joins yours, lighting up with call after call, messages stacking one after another, relentless, unignorable.

You try to block it out, moaning as he sucks even harder, as his teeth graze sensitive flesh, but the vibration gets louder, harsher, slicing through the haze. Jeno groans in frustration, mouth still latched on, but your hands tangle in his hair, and for one desperate moment, neither of you wants to move, the world outside be damned. Still, the noise won’t stop, pulsing through the dark, demanding attention, until finally you break, breathless, head spinning, pulling away just enough to meet Jeno’s eyes, both of you dazed and still so hungry. You reach over, glaring at the screen, only to see Areum’s name flashing. With a frustrated sigh, you answer, voice sleepy and exasperated. “Do you know how late it is?” you mumble, but Areum is breathless, urgent on the other end.

“Open your email! Just open it, right now!” she insists, barely waiting for your answer before she ends the call in a flurry of static and excitement.

You and Jeno exchange a look, desire briefly replaced with curiosity, and he sits up, grabbing his laptop from the nightstand. The glow of the screen flickers to life, your legs still draped over his lap, as he opens the inbox and clicks the newest message. Together, you lean in, faces close in the glow, anticipation mixing with the last shivers of heat, wondering what on earth Areum has sent you this time. The screen flickers, blue light spilling across tangled sheets and skin. As Jeno opens the attachment, your impatience melts into wonder, the email bursts into three digital photo albums, each one curated with Areum’s loving, obsessive attention to detail. Every album is a chapter: the first three years of Junseo’s life, every milestone, every sleepy smile, every chubby fist wrapped around Jeno’s ear or your thumb. The images scroll past in a mosaic of firsts, newborn yawns, midnight cuddles, first steps, pancake mornings, the clumsy “I love you” written in crayon on your kitchen wall. The intimacy of it all presses in: your family’s whole world, catalogued in color and light, laughter and tears and the soft glow of memory, the years already flying, each one a little miracle you almost can’t believe you get to keep.

The first gallery takes you all the way back to Junseo’s newborn stage, and you see the love story begin, skin to skin, Jeno’s shirt already off, his arms cradling a squalling, impossibly small baby against his chest. You remember how Jeno’s voice, soft and awed, was the first sound your son ever heard: “You’re okay, baby, we’ve got you now.” Even now, your heart twists at the way Junseo’s tiny body curled into Jeno’s warmth, soothed by the constant, low murmur of his father’s devotion. Those first weeks blur into a montage of midnight feeds, Jeno moving like a ghost through the nursery at 3AM, hair a mess, eyelids heavy, humming lullabies in the blue shadows. Sometimes you’d find them both asleep, Jeno tipped back in the rocker, bottle forgotten, your baby’s head nestled against his bare chest, as if there was nowhere else in the universe safe enough.

You laugh at the bathtime photos, the first time Jeno dared to bathe him alone, his face a mix of terror and wonder, talking through every step as if handling something sacred. “Okay, little guy, we’re gonna wash behind your ears now. I swear, if you pee on me again—” The snapshots show tiny fists splashing, water everywhere, Jeno smiling with a look of helpless, fierce joy. There are long walks too, Junseo strapped to Jeno’s chest in a soft wrap, both of them bundled against the wind, Jeno pointing out birds and naming every cloud, teaching your son the world is a place worth loving.

The images shift as you scroll, infant months now, Junseo on a soft mat in the living room, chubby hands gripping Jeno’s fingers, the two of them side by side on the floor at dawn. Every milestone is celebrated with a pride that glows from the screen: the first time Junseo rolls over, the stunned joy in Jeno’s eyes when, during a Zoom call, Junseo suddenly crawls toward him, and Jeno drops everything just to witness it. There’s a courtside photo, Junseo, in giant headphones and a tiny custom jersey, beaming up at Jeno mid-game, his dad waving shamelessly, pointing after every basket as if dedicating each win to him alone. You both laugh, tearing up a little, at the infamous blowout photo, Jeno, gagging dramatically over a diaper disaster, then wrapping Junseo up in a towel and whispering, “You win. You officially own me.” It’s all there: the chaos, the devotion, the realness.

By the time you reach the toddler years, your chest aches with nostalgia. The video of Junseo’s first steps, Jeno kneeling, arms wide, grinning with sunshine, coaxing his boy from you to him. The moment Junseo collapses into his arms, giggling and squealing, Jeno spins him around, shouting, “You did it! You walked to daddy!” There are shots of the backyard, Jeno building a real mini basketball court, painting lines, installing soft mats, timing Junseo’s runs as he clutches a rubber ball, Jeno crouched beside him, showing him how to shoot, but always letting him choose his pace, his game, his joy.

There’s gentle discipline caught on film, too: Jeno crouched at eye-level, holding Junseo’s hands, never harsh, always steady, teaching him to “use your words, baby,” and gathering him into his arms after the storm passes. Sick days: Jeno canceling practice, sleeping on the nursery floor with a damp cloth pressed to Junseo’s forehead, whispering, “Daddy’s here. Just rest. I’ll stay right here.” Airport reunions, Jeno dropping his bags, kneeling, arms open, and Junseo running into them with a scream of “Appa!” The photos are blurry, streaked with the velocity of love.

One of the rarest and most precious images flickers next: Jeno, sweat-soaked and beaming, clutching Junseo on his hip during a post-match interview. Cameras flash, microphones crowd in, but the spotlight never phases your little boy, instead, Junseo presses a kiss to Jeno’s cheek, cheeks glistening, eyes wide as he shyly buries his face in his father’s shoulder, half-hiding from the world. Jeno laughs, pride and love radiating, giving his answer with one arm wrapped around his son, Junseo’s fleeting, golden moment in the public eye, a snapshot that makes the whole arena fall just a little quieter, as if they’re all witnessing something sacred. It’s the only glimpse of him the world gets, but it’s enough: a small, soft boy, safe in his father’s arms, his love shining brighter than any trophy.

Your favorites, though, are always the quiet ones: matching Sunday outfits, both in gray hoodies and rumpled socks, organizing toy cards on the floor, or the midnight cuddles, Junseo tucked under Jeno’s chin, both of them lost in dreams, safe in the world they’ve made together. There are even videos of their secret handshake, a slap-slap-boop-the-nose routine done before bed, before games, before hugs, sealing every moment with laughter and ritual.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice catching just a little as his lips graze the shell of your ear, “for making me a father. For giving me him, for making us parents.” The words are so soft, but you feel them everywhere: in the gentle tremor of his breath, the way his hand cradles your belly, the press of his body against yours as if he could anchor himself in this moment forever.

Every memory on the screen glows with the truth of it, Jeno’s love, his awe, the devotion that threads through every messy morning and midnight hush. You turn to him, pressing your face to the warm skin of his neck, lips dragging up to his jaw, whispering I love you into the quiet space only the two of you share. There’s longing in it, an ache that’s almost overwhelming, and you feel it spark between your thighs, mixing with the tenderness and the knowing: there is no one else in the world you’d ever want to do this life with, no love deeper, no home safer than the one you’ve built with him, memory by memory, touch by touch, forever.

You’re still lying naked in the sheets, warmth tangled between your bodies, the photo gallery forgotten in the hush. Your skin hums with afterglow, but it isn’t enough, watching Jeno as a father, loving him, wanting more, has always left you hungrier than before. You rise slowly, pressing your palm to his chest, climbing onto him, thighs spread wide as you sink down onto his cock, feeling him fill you inch by inch, slow and achingly deep. The stretch knocks the breath from your chest, but you chase it, rolling your hips until you’re grinding, delicate and deliberate, building heat between you as you press kisses to his jaw.

You let your head fall forward, his hands coming up to steady your hips, your breath brushing against his cheek as you whisper, barely above a moan, “Jeno… I want another baby.” The words slip out, naked and true, a confession pressed into the space between your bodies. Jeno’s eyes darken, his grip on your waist tightening, but he’s patient, letting you find your rhythm as you bounce on his cock, soft, slow, savoring the slide, the way every movement leaves you gasping, pleasure mixing with something so much deeper.

You lean into him, bodies sticky with sweat, your voice cracking as you continue, “I mean it. I want our family to grow. I want Junnie to be a big brother. I want to see him holding a little sister or brother, I want him to know how much love we have left to give.” Your words are delicate but certain, each syllable shaped by longing and hope as you ride him, the movement sweet and hungry, your hips rising and falling, the slick sound of him filling you again and again making you both tremble.

Jeno cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as he lifts his hips into yours, meeting every bounce with a desperate, controlled thrust. “You want me to fuck a baby into you?” he breathes, voice wrecked and tender at once. “You want to feel me filling you up, making you a mama again?” His free hand slides to your belly, splaying across the softness there as if already laying claim, as if he can will a new life into existence just by holding you like this.

This isn’t the first time you and Jeno have whispered about trying again, about growing your family, about giving Junseo a little sibling to love. There have been quiet moments in the kitchen, gentle talks after Junseo’s birthday parties, soft laughter under shared blankets, each time, the idea blooming between you with a sweetness that felt both thrilling and inevitable. But it’s never been like this. Never this raw, this urgent, this desperate and open. Tonight, something shifts, need tangled up with memory and hope, your body aching to be filled, claimed, made new. It’s the first time you find yourself riding him with abandon, bouncing on his cock, crying out for him to fuck a baby into you, the word ripped from your chest with every thrust. Wanting it, needing it, not just in theory but right here, right now, your whole being pleading for another life, another heartbeat, another piece of your love made flesh.

You nod, wild with need, your nails digging into his chest. “Yes, yes, I want you to. I want you to cum inside me, fill me up, give me another baby. I want you to make me round and glowing for you again. Please, Jeno—give it to me, all of it. I want our family to get bigger, I want you to see me every day and know that I’m carrying your baby.” You can’t help the neediness trembling in your voice, your whole body aching for him as you roll your hips, grinding down and gasping at the thick stretch of him inside you. “Please, Jeno,” you moan, repeating, letting your nails rake over his chest, your voice dropping to a desperate hush, “want you to fuck me full, want to feel you leaking out of me for days, want you to fuck your baby into me so deep everyone will know I’m yours. Give me another, fill me up, make me your mama again.” Each bounce is a plea, a promise, your need pouring out between moans and kisses, every word making him harder, every grind making you needier, until you’re begging for him to claim you, right here, right now, all over again.

Jeno’s breath shudders, his grip bruising on your hips as he thrusts up into you, lost in the way you plead for him. His eyes are molten, locked on yours, his voice rough and wrecked with want. “God, you’re perfect,” he groans, letting his hands slide up your sides, thumbs stroking under the swell of your breasts. “You want me to fuck a baby so deep inside you you’ll feel it every time you move, yeah? Want to watch you swollen and dripping for me, everyone knowing you’re mine, fuck, you make me crazy.” He pulls you down, hips snapping up to meet every bounce, his words pouring hot against your lips, “Let me give it to you, baby, let me fill you up, make you my mama again, watch you take every drop, watch you carry me all over again. You’re mine, all mine.”

He can barely hold back, breath ragged and desperate, every thrust raw with need. His voice breaks, almost a whimper, “Fuck, look at you, so fucking hungry for it, riding me like you need me to breed you right now, want me leaking out of you for days. Say it again, tell me you want it, tell me you want to be dripping, so fucking full you can’t walk straight. Let everyone see who did this to you, my pretty girl, swollen and messy with my baby, my cum.” He tangles his fingers in your hair, dragging your mouth back to his, sloppy and wet, teeth catching your lower lip as you both gasp for breath, every bounce frantic, greedy, both of you spiraling with the ache of it.

Your thighs shake, you’re crying for it, tears beading in your lashes as your climax builds, your words dissolving into broken, breathless pleas: “Jeno, please, I need you, want you to fill me up, make me your mama, mark me, ruin me, give me your everything.” His hands crush your hips down, holding you there, his cock buried deep as he cums hard inside you, filling you with thick, hot spurts that make you sob with relief and ecstasy. The world splinters, your own orgasm tearing through you, clenching around him, milking every last drop as you collapse against his chest, shaking, wet, entirely his.

After, you collapse against his chest, bodies still shivering, the room thick with sex and heat. You barely have time to catch your breath before Jeno’s hand is sliding down between your thighs, catching the warm spill of his cum as it starts to seep out. “Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction and want, “You’re not losing a drop, pretty.” He slides his fingers through the mess, gathering it up, and then pushes it back inside you, slow, deliberate, almost worshipful, fucking it deeper with his fingers, then the thick head of his cock, making sure every bit stays exactly where he wants it. The sensation makes you squirm and whimper, breath stuttering, your hips lifting off the sheets to take everything he gives.

He keeps you like that, stuffed full and shaking, his hand pressed heavy and possessive on your belly, his lips finding yours in lazy, claiming kisses. “Keep it in,” he whispers, thumb circling where he’s filled you, “That’s it, let me breed you, keep you full, all mine.” The world narrows to this: sweat and seed and his low, hungry praise, the dizzy afterglow of sex mixing with the wild, greedy hope for more. A future blooming inside you, wet and sweet and impossibly his, your body marked and aching for everything you just made together.

You’re still tangled in the sheets, skin flushed and sticky, glowing from the inside out, the air thick with the honeyed heat of what you’ve just done. Jeno traces lazy patterns over your belly, his palm wide and splayed, both of you a little breathless, a little giddy, basking in that raw, intimate ache that always lingers after you’ve had him this deep, this close. You shift onto your side, propping your cheek on his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm, and for a moment, the only sound is your mingled laughter, slow and sleepy and sweeter than anything.

He kisses your forehead, beaming, eyes half-closed. “What do you think it’ll be like?” he whispers, his voice so warm it feels like another blanket. “Another little one. Maybe a little sister for Junseo. You think he’ll share his dinosaurs or stage a protest?”

You giggle, your body still humming with aftershocks, and reach up to play with the hair at his nape. “He’ll be obsessed,” you say, soft and certain. “He’ll want to hold her or him all the time. He’ll be such a loving and caring older brother. He’ll teach them how to dribble before they can even walk. He’ll make up games and rules and try to convince them you’re supposed to color on the walls.”

Jeno’s smile goes slow and lazy, his thumb still stroking the curve of your stomach. “He’ll want to sleep in their bed every night, protect them from shadows, and brag to his friends. He’ll love his little brother or sister so much it’ll hurt.” His voice gets thick for a moment, soft as he adds, “Just like I love you.”

You tilt up to kiss him, lingering and grateful, laughter spilling into his mouth, both of you a little dizzy with hope, a little undone by happiness. You’re never more certain than in this golden, breathless hush, never more sure that you’ve built a life worth everything, that this love will stretch and multiply, spilling into every room, every year, every new beginning. With your bodies spent and tangled, your hearts impossibly full, you know you’ve never been happier.

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

The tradition begins in the honey-drenched lull of late afternoon, sunlight rippling across the courtyard in ribbons of gold, dust motes spinning between bursts of laughter. Your wedding veil is half-loosened, ghosting over your bare shoulder—Jeno’s doing, his kisses tracing a constellation from your ear to your jaw, lips warm with champagne and devotion. Silk and lace hug your skin, the fabric clinging in places where his hands have left their mark, and you can feel the pulse of your own happiness, almost dizzying, as the world blurs at the edges. Jeno’s shirt is too crisp, sleeves rolled, collar open in that careless way that means he’s truly himself, every inch of him relaxed but always, always tethered to you. He can’t seem to stop looking at you, brushing stray curls from your face, eyes bright as if seeing you for the first time and the last all at once.

“Group photo!” It’s Chenle, voice hoarse from too much singing and not enough water, waving his champagne bottle overhead like he’s orchestrating an orchestra of drunks. The call ricochets across the courtyard, stirring up a storm, every chair scrapes, glass teeters, laughter jumps an octave as friends and family surge to their feet. You barely have time to set your own glass down before Jeno’s hand finds yours, warm and sure, pulling you into the tide. There’s no plan, no line-up, just a tangle of limbs and half-sipped drinks and skirts flaring as everyone jostles for a place.

Mark, still flush from the dance floor, wraps both arms around Areum’s hips and pulls her unceremoniously into his lap, her laughter spilling down the front of his suit. Areum bats at him, half-hearted and grinning, hair wild from hours of being passed from hug to hug. Jaemin, caught in the rush, catches Karina around the waist and tips her into a full, movie-worthy dip. Karina shrieks, her head thrown back, her dress swirling, one hand clutching at Jaemin’s shoulder for balance, both of them glowing with that wide-open, reckless kind of happiness only possible on days like this.

At the edge, Donghyuck swoops in late, tossing a crumpled napkin like confetti, nearly bowling over Yangyang, who dodges and shoves him back with a laugh. Donghyuck immediately breaks into song—loud, off-key, and infectious—prompting half the group to groan and the other half to join in. Chenle abandons his efforts to “coordinate the back row” when Karina grabs him by the wrist and drags him into frame, still protesting but grinning, cheeks flushed from too many inside jokes.

Haeun, all sunshine and tulle, twirls into the empty space at the center, her yellow dress spinning in a bright, dizzying circle, her giggles so loud they ripple through every adult. Jaemin, never missing a beat, snatches her up at the waist, spinning her again until her curls become a golden halo in the falling light. Karina stumbles forward and tries to wrangle some of your younger kids into some semblance of order, her efforts only encouraging more chaos as one of the children squirms from Yangyang’s grasp and dashes between legs, almost toppling a stack of wedding gifts.

At the edge, Seulgi reaches for Irene, smoothing a wisp of hair from her cheek, both of them beaming so fiercely you’d think it was their wedding day too. Doyoung tries to count heads, losing track halfway through, his half-serious scolding drowned out by Donghyuck’s running commentary and Chenle’s exasperated “just get in the picture already!” Mark tugs Areum closer, and you catch them trading whispered jokes, the years ahead flickering in their eyes, hopeful, golden, unspoken.

Jeno stands behind you, every inch of him pressed close, his palm spread across your stomach—protective, gentle, unspoken. His fingers slip beneath the lace, not quite hidden but not quite revealed, the secret only you two share blooming quietly under the surface. His other hand curls around your waist, tugging you closer, lips pressed to your hair as if he needs one last proof this is real. He smells like citrus and wedding cake and the heady heat of the afternoon. Every time you try to move away, he pulls you back, laughter shaking through his chest. You can feel the future thrumming between your ribs, alive with possibility, with him.

The moment the camera flashes, you’re caught with your head thrown back in laughter, hair tumbling over Jeno’s arm, his lips ghosting your temple. Areum’s caught mid-squeal, Mark’s face tucked into her shoulder, Jaemin crouched at Haeun’s feet, Donghyuck waving both arms, Chenle nearly toppling into Karina, Seulgi and Irene tucked together at the fringe, Yangyang mid-shrug, Ningning somewhere in the tangle. It’s a mess, no one posed, nothing staged, just chaos and color, raw joy and newness, Jeno’s hand cradling the secret only you two know, a seed of tomorrow.

What you couldn’t possibly fathom in that split-second, spun dizzy in the undertow of laughter, veiled in the warmth of too many arms, was that this one, unruly photograph would become a kind of scripture, a living spell. Not just memory, but prophecy: a secret line stitched through the heart of every person you love, tugging you back through every exile and return. Long after the confetti settled and the flowers withered, that frame would smolder on the mantle, unchanged by distance, immune to forgetting. No matter how many seasons cracked open or how far you were scattered by love, ambition, grief, or time, there would always be this: a single, annual invocation.

It would become your North Star. the pulse you’d follow when the world turned unkind, when cities changed their names and familiar streets blurred into strange skylines. Each photograph, another constellation: points of light mapping out the story of your survival, proof that somewhere, always, you are known, you are needed, you belong. The shutter falling is the spell cast again, every year, another vow, another promise that no storm, no absence, no sorrow can truly sever you from the place you are claimed and cherished. In this ritual, you are immortal: not in marble or myth, but in the warmth of bodies pressed close, in the tangle of laughter and limbs, in the radiant echo of the lives you built. Even lost, you are never alone. The photo is your lighthouse, a beacon blazing through every dark, an anchor sunk into the bedrock of your soul, guiding you, unfailing, back home.

The second photo, a year later, glimmers with the softer, golden light of ordinary magic, late afternoon sun filtering through Areum’s studio, the windows streaked with city gold, canvases stacked knee-high and wildflowers brimming from chipped mugs on every sill. The air smells like turpentine, milk, rain, and fresh bread, chaos and comfort braided so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. There’s a hush of creation everywhere: brushes soaking in jars, the sound of Haeun’s feet padding across paint-splattered floors, the flutter of sketch paper as someone turns a page.

Karina perches on the wide windowsill, her legs swinging in time to music only she and Jaemin can hear, their laughter weaving a private ribbon through the noise. Jaemin, camera slung around his neck, leans closer, his cheek brushing hers, their inside joke flickering between them like light. Haeun, taller, wilder, with yellow paint streaking her cheek, tiptoes beside a half-finished canvas, fingers poised like she might touch the sky if she just stands a little higher. Chenle sits cross-legged on the floor, pretending to read a battered paperback (held upside down), giggling as Yangyang, newly arrived with a gentle partner at his side, drops a handful of sweets into his lap. Yangyang’s arm circles his partner’s waist, both of them luminous with the soft miracle of second chances, their smiles small but certain, a quiet flag of love after the storm.

At the heart of the room, Mark kneels at Areum’s side, the world falling away around them until nothing remains but the quiet orbit of a family learning itself all over again. Their son, impossibly small, only a few weeks into the world, seems to vanish inside the crook of Areum’s arms, bundled in dawn-yellow, eyes wide and clear as a summer moon. Areum curls around him, instinctive and fierce, as if she could shield him from every sharp edge the world might hold. Her touch is a silent incantation: stay, stay, stay. Mark’s hands shake as he traces soft circles over the baby’s cheek, thumb trembling with awe, as if he’s terrified he’ll break the spell just by loving too much. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the baby’s brow, his breath uneven, and in that suspended second his face flickers, gratitude so overwhelming it’s almost agony, reverence as sharp as hunger, a silent promise stitched into the hush between heartbeats. He wants to memorize every detail: the flutter of tiny lashes, the faintest sigh, the miracle of warmth and weight in his palms. It hits him, all at once, how fragile this joy is, how love always risks heartbreak simply by daring to hope for more. A shadow slips through the golden light, just a flicker, but enough to make Mark clutch his son tighter, as if he senses even now that some blessings can’t be held forever. The moment is already vanishing, precious because it is fleeting, their world balanced delicately between wonder and the ache of what they cannot know is coming.

Everything in the room softens. Voices drop, movement slows. For one suspended second, the entire world gathers its breath around the family’s newest miracle: the hush of hope, the ache of possibility, the quiet pulse of everything sacred and new. Areum’s smile is luminous, exhaustion smudged beneath her eyes, awe radiating from her every gesture as if she’s learned a new language in these sleepless nights. You’re wrapped in your own newness too, Junseo tucked to your chest, warm and drowsy, his tiny hand curled in your blouse, his breath a living prayer against your collarbone. The simple weight of him, his trust, his perfect helplessness, grounds you in a way nothing else ever has. Jeno stands behind you, his arm secure at your hip, fingers absently drawing lazy circles just above your waistband. His eyes, tender, fierce, are fixed on you both, a look that holds all the storms you survived and the peace you never thought you’d find. Sometimes he presses his lips to your hair, as if reminding himself (and you) that this is real, that you are safe, that every heartbreak led you here.

Across the room, Doyoung and Irene pass trays of pastries, their bickering the same old love story it’s always been, her teasing, him fussing, both soft with a joy that shows in the easy way their hands find each other. Seulgi leans against the doorway, laughter sharp as a sunbeam, balancing a mug in one hand as she tells a story about old college days, the children listening with round, wide eyes. The whole studio rings with the sound of family: the clatter of cups, the rattle of rain against window glass, the music of voices layered over one another, each note a reminder that this place is built from second chances.

And then there’s Donghyuck, who arrives half an hour late, breathless and beaming, still wearing his on-air badge clipped to his jacket, the flush of live television burning in his cheeks. He’s become a face recognized everywhere: a boundary-pushing sports presenter, helming a company that’s changing the game, redefining how fans and athletes connect. The children light up when he walks in, immediately clamoring for his attention. Junseo crawls right into his lap, babbling into a toy mic as Donghyuck holds an imaginary interview, giving each answer the drama and humor of a post-match final. In every photo, Donghyuck finds his way to the center, narrating the scene like it’s the play-by-play for a championship—“And here, folks, we see the rookie contenders at the snack table, but will they make it to dessert?”

He’s steadier now, his presence an electric current running through the group, lifting every gathering, turning each ordinary day into something that belongs in a highlight reel. He reminds everyone, again and again, that family is the greatest victory, and every year is another win just to be together. This frame glows with the ordinary magic of lives expanding and healing. You see what hope really looks like: arms full, rooms full, futures blooming in the unlikeliest places, proof that family is not just made, but constantly remade, moment by moment, year by shining year.

The third photo explodes with color, Junseo’s birthday in your  the garden, sunlight sifting through a parade of paper lanterns strung overhead, ribbons streaming from every tree branch, the grass littered with confetti and the ghosts of trampled daisy chains. Children tumble across the lawn, cheeks slick with sugar and cake, laughter so wild it shakes the windows. Haeun and Junseo command the center, party hats askew, icing smudged across noses, their grins unstoppable and bright as morning. Haeun, her daffodil dress ruffled and wild, crouches to whisper some secret to Junseo, he erupts in giggles, sticky hands reaching for hers, the two of them spinning in a sunbeam, inseparable, a constellation in the making.

Around them, the air crackles with spectacle: Yangyang and his partner, radiant and patient, have transformed the patio into a makeshift stage, bubbles shimmer through the crowd, vanishing in rainbow bursts, while Nari, quick and clever, conjures magic tricks from scarves and coins, their laughter sparking through the party. Sohee, more reserved but equally adored, is perched on a picnic blanket with the littlest kids, reading stories and threading flower crowns, her calm a tether in the storm of celebration. Even the older children gravitate towards her, drawn to the gentle steadiness in her voice, the wisdom of someone who’s seen and stayed.

Chenle, irrepressible, always in motion, pulls endless ribbons from his sleeves, jaw set in comic seriousness, while the children gasp and shriek with each new trick. Karina, softer now, her beauty luminous rather than sharp, sits at the edge of it all, their intimacy easy and sure. Her legs swing in lazy arcs, toes brushing the grass, head tipped back as Jaemin, always meticulous, gathers strands of Haeun’s hair, weaving in tiny braids laced with glitter and stickers Karina slipped into her palm earlier. She’s become the mentor, the aunt every child runs to for stories or secrets, teaching them how to braid, how to paint tiny nails, how to carry themselves with both strength and softness. When Jaemin leans close to whisper a joke, Karina rolls her eyes but threads their fingers together, a silent promise she lets linger when she thinks nobody’s watching.

At the snack table, Doyoung and Irene reign as orchestrators of chaos, doling out watermelon and cookies with the authority of generals and the tenderness of old lovers. Seulgi moves among the kids, arms overflowing with napkins and fruit, her laughter a low, delighted hum. Sohee and Nari work together at a crafts table, making sure every child leaves with a hand-painted memory, their heads bent together in quiet collaboration. You and Jeno are never far from the center. He keeps a hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the garden with quiet confidence. Every now and then, you catch him watching Junseo, pride written in the way his shoulders soften, his lips curve. Junseo darts back and forth between you both, a blue smudge of movement, always coming home to tug your hand or climb into your lap for a quick hug before racing off again. Jeno pulls you close for a stolen kiss when nobody’s looking, his fingers slipping into yours, the warmth of his palm grounding you in a happiness you never take for granted. Later, as dusk falls and the fairy lights flicker on, he lifts you onto the swing set just to hear you laugh, Junseo and Haeun shrieking as they chase fireflies through the grass.

Haeun, fiercely protective as ever, stays near Junseo, inventing games, smoothing his hair, defending him from the bigger kids’ playful teasing with the stubborn love only children can muster. You watch her sometimes—how she stands between worlds, still small enough to tumble through grass, old enough to sense when someone needs a friend. Coach Suh is in his element, kneeling between the children, teaching Junseo to palm a basketball. His voice is mock-serious as he demonstrates perfect form, but his eyes are shining, wet at the corners with pride. You know this photo will join the others on his office shelf, tucked under a plaque that says “Future Ravens Captain.” The legacy isn’t in trophies, it’s in the way he kneels to meet your son’s gaze, in the weight of his hand guiding those tiny fingers, in the roar of laughter that follows every missed shot.

On the fringes, Mark and Areum stand together, hands knotted so tightly their fingers have gone white, bodies pressed so close it’s as if they’re bracing against a storm only they can feel. The party whirls on, the shrieks and laughter of children slicing through the dusk, but Mark and Areum move through it like ghosts in daylight, present, but only just. Their smiles flicker in the fading sun, brittle and brave, but every line of their faces is etched with grief that never truly softens, only settles deeper with each passing year.

They watch the riot of children, Junseo’s bright grin, Haeun’s wild twirls, and in every flash of small arms, in every shriek of laughter, you can see them flinch, as if each joy is a reminder of the boy they carried once, the boy who should have been here, painted in the same riot of color. Areum’s eyes are glassy, not from the glow of celebration but from the ache of absence, a gaze that searches the crowd and finds her arms empty. Mark never stops tracing circles over her knuckles, the motion as desperate as it is soothing, a silent plea for something the world can never return.

There’s a heaviness to their closeness, a gravity you can feel in your ribs, a defiant refusal to move on, a fierce, wordless courage in how they cling to each other, loving not just through what’s present, but through the wide, echoing emptiness of what’s missing. Every breath they take is an act of remembrance, every smile a brittle miracle. They exist on the edge of celebration, survivors holding tight to the space that grief has carved out, a love shaped, and sharpened, by the hollow left behind. And when the camera flashes, catching them at the border of all this color and noise, you see it: the way sorrow makes a shadow of them, the way love refuses to let that shadow be the end. The courage is in their staying, in the way they refuse to look away from what’s gone, and in the impossible, unspoken vow that they will keep choosing each other—even when the world keeps taking, even when joy feels like something they have to borrow, even when holding on is the hardest thing they do.

By the time the shutter falls, the photo is alive with everything that matters: Junseo and Haeun tumbling in the grass, icing smeared from chin to elbow; Karina gathering the children for one last round of braids and stories, Jaemin pressing a kiss to Haeun’s temple as the sun dips low; Nari with a lapful of sleepy toddlers, Sohee waving a wand that leaves sparks in the evening air; Jeno’s arm heavy around your waist, your own hand resting atop his, both of you holding Junseo close, the three of you threaded together by light and laughter and the quiet awe of family. And beyond, Mark and Areum, side by side at the edge of the frame, their grief an old, faithful shadow, but their love outshining even that. The riot of color, the riot of noise, the riot of living: all of it immortalized, all of it proof. This is what remains. This is what grows. This is what, somehow, always finds its way back home.

The fourth year is a mosaic of motion, triumph, and reunion, a garden pulsing with every color of joy, the air crackling with cheers, the hush of impossible gratitude threading between every burst of laughter. This time, Shotaro and Ryujin are the first to arrive, beaming brighter than ever, fresh from the ribbon-cutting of their seventh dance studio, a number that feels almost mythical now, spoken with reverence and disbelief by every friend who remembers the rented basement where it all began. The new keys dangle from Ryujin’s wrist like a trophy; in her other hand she clutches a battered statuette made by one of their earliest students, the sequins mostly missing but the sentiment gold. Shotaro, eyes shining with pride and nerves, presents the keys to Mark for luck, insisting on their old ritual: a blessing from the friend who cheered every step along the way.

The whole group circles them for a moment, everyone crowding in to see the new studio logo on the keys, someone uncorking champagne with a squeal, glasses raised to the skyline. There’s a phone perched precariously on a folding chair, its screen bright with the Tokyo crew, waving, hollering, their faces glowing with shared victory from half a world away, refusing to miss a single second of the celebration, no matter the distance. You hear their voices through the speakers, crackling but alive: “To the seventh!” “Remember the old mirrorball?” “We’re next, promise!” This isn’t just another milestone. It’s a family legend in the making, a moment everyone feels in their bones, a win that belongs to all of you, proof that impossible dreams do come true if you hold tight, build together, and never let go.

Just as the sun dips low, Chenle and Ningning tumble into the garden in a storm of energy, trailing airport lanyards and the smell of duty-free perfume. Their arms overflow with souvenirs, plastic samurai swords, light-up crowns, bags of strange candy, which they distribute with theatrical flair. Children squeal as Ningning demonstrates a rude phrase in French, Areum groans, scolding them in half a dozen languages, but laughter unravels her seriousness. Junseo and Haeun, already sticky from watermelon and icing, tie their new capes on and become superheroes: red silk and blue felt fluttering behind them as they tear through the grass. Haeun shouts, “To the rescue!” while Junseo stumbles after her, giggling, the crown from Chenle already crooked on his head.

The two are inseparable: Haeun insists on rescuing Junseo from imaginary dragons, stuffing her pockets with wildflowers to “heal” his wounds. Junseo, always trusting, lets her lead, his dimple flashing as he tags her hand, their laughter brighter than the string lights strung across the hedges. When they pause for cake, Haeun smashes a piece into Junseo’s mouth, both of them shrieking as chocolate and cream cover their cheeks, arms thrown around each other, unstoppable. They invent new games on the spot, one minute spies, the next magicians, conjuring joy from the ordinary, forever believing that the other’s superpowers are real. They break away only for hugs, Junseo always sprinting into your arms or Jeno’s lap, Haeun diving for Karina, collecting affection like badges before dashing off again.

In the backyard, Mark and Jeno preside over a fierce basketball shootout. Mark’s whistle is ceremonial, Jeno’s commentary full of mock-serious statistics and made-up rules. The kids line up, some too little to dribble, others taking it far too seriously, while Coach Suh stands by with a clipboard, pretending to take notes. The garden echoes with the sound of shoes scuffing grass, balls thumping backboards, and shouts of victory or protest. Haeun, predictably, is the ringleader, organizing teams, shouting encouragement, making sure Junseo gets an extra turn when he misses. When Junseo finally sinks a basket (with a little help from Mark’s guiding hands), Haeun throws her arms around him, chanting, “MVP! MVP!” until everyone joins in, your heart twisting at the sight.

In the lull between games, families sprawl on blankets and benches, Chenle and Ningning leading the kids in a game of telephone that quickly devolves into nonsense and giggling. Areum leans into Mark at the edge of the garden, her head resting on his shoulder, smile softer than it’s been in months, the weight of old sorrow gentled by the easy glow that radiates from every face. She watches Haeun and Junseo run, her gaze full of something close to peace, while Mark brushes a strand of hair from her face, their fingers still threaded tight.

As evening settles, someone calls for the group photo, Jaemin sets the camera on a timer, then rushes in to scoop up Haeun, balancing her on his knee as she tugs Junseo close. You’re caught in Jeno’s arms, his hand spread across your waist, the children squeezed between you, everyone pressed in so close you can feel the thump of their hearts. Chenle and Ningning photobomb from behind, Yangyang lifts Sohee on his shoulders, and Shotaro and Ryujin grin from the front row, the trophy held up like a beacon. The Tokyo faces wave from the phone screen, impossibly far, impossibly close. When the shutter clicks, the moment freezes: arms tangled, cheeks pressed, sun bleeding gold through hair and over shoulders, everyone illuminated by the simple, stubborn truth—no matter how far they drift, no matter how the world tugs at their seams, this is the place where nothing, and no one, ever really falls apart. Family, always expanding, always circling back. The photograph is riotous and imperfect, just like the love that built it.

The fifth year, your favorite, the most recent, thrums with the weight of memory and the promise of everything still unwritten. The reunion spills through your kitchen, sunlight curling over the windowsill and painting gold across familiar faces. Jeno and Chenle are locked in their annual pancake war, the countertop a battlefield dusted in flour and sticky with laughter. Jeno’s brow furrows in fierce concentration as he flips a perfect circle, grinning when it lands just right, while Chenle throws up his hands in mock despair, syrup already dripping from the edge of his plate. Every move is part performance, part tradition, an ongoing rivalry that everyone delights in fueling.

Jaemin drifts through the fray, camcorder perched on his shoulder, his voice dropping into a solemn, documentary narrator’s hush: “And here, deep in the suburban wild, two apex predators battle for kitchen dominance, neither willing to yield, both hungry for glory.” Karina, perched at the breakfast bar beside Seulgi, nearly chokes on her coffee from laughing, her head tipped onto Seulgi’s shoulder, the two of them already teasing bets on who’ll win this year’s crown. The kitchen hums with the warmth of family, every window bright, every inch of countertop cluttered, the air rich with the smell of butter and sweet nostalgia, the kind of chaos that feels like home.

The living room is less a room than a living archive, a museum of memory and proof of joy, where your upright piano is nearly swallowed by a tide of keepsakes. Framed photos layer the top: you perched on Jeno’s shoulders, confetti tangled in your hair, both of you luminous from the state championship afterglow; another from your wilder nights, mic in hand at the bar, Jihyo’s laughter ringing out beside you, glasses raised mid-song. Everywhere, postcards from half-remembered trips, birthday cards with childish scrawls, faded polaroids, all tumbling into each other in a soft-lit collage of everything you’ve survived and celebrated.

Jihyo’s corkboard, mounted behind the bar, famous now, legendary among your friends, has become a revolving gallery: sun-drenched polaroids, beach-day sketches, every crayon drawing and sticker masterpiece that the kids have gifted over the years. Some photos never leave their place: you and Jihyo laughing with glasses raised, hair wild from the wind on a rooftop night; Jeno holding Junseo on his shoulders, the two of them mid-giggle, cheeks smudged with birthday cake; a candid of you perched at the bar, Jihyo grinning behind the counter as if she owns the world. There are photos of Jihyo and her daughter, Chaewon, arms wrapped around each other, both of them flashing the same unstoppable smile, and the walls are crowded with evidence of every birthday, every victory, every homecoming the years have stitched together. Friends and strangers alike stop to marvel at the gallery, tracing the years through faded ink and glitter glue, each piece telling a story of belonging. One corner is always left empty, a sticky note in Jihyo’s neat hand reading, “For next year’s masterpiece”—a small, constant promise that there’s always more to come.

You find yourself tracing a finger over a photo of littler Junseo, round cheeks, gummy grin, arms lifted to be held. You coo quietly over how impossibly small he was, heart swelling with memory, then glance out the wide window and catch your breath: there he is now, nearly four, so much bigger, holding hands with Chaewon and Haeun as they spin in a circle beneath the sun, voices rising in a chorus of “ring a ring a rosy.” In that moment, nostalgia aches sharp and sweet, a reminder of how quickly time spins forward, and how lucky you are to have kept so much of it here, pressed between glass and laughter, always coming back for more.

Coach Suh comes by every spring, never empty-handed, always carrying a new photograph for the alumni case at the school, a case that has become more than a display; it’s a testament to how far you’ve all come. This year’s addition is luminous: everyone packed around your dinner table, faces aglow, laughter so wild it nearly shakes the plates loose, proof that joy can echo through generations. Each new photo is a marker, a visible thread tying the past to the present, a reminder that memory is something you can hold in your hands and pass on.

The places that shaped you, Jihyo’s bar, with its battered tables and permanent laughter in the floorboards; Areum’s sun-filled studio, every corner layered with paint, hope, and the courage to begin again; the old gym, echoing with the ghosts of victories and defeats, have grown into shrines. They are more than destinations; they are sanctuaries. Here, your children don’t just visit, they belong. Their artwork crowds Jihyo’s corkboard, their shouts reverberate in the studio rafters, their small footprints chase old lines on the gym floor. Every wall, every floorboard, every sunlit window becomes living proof that you are part of something continuous, a story bigger than any single day.

The lesson is simple but stubborn: the places we pour our laughter, our heartbreak, our sweat and hope into, those places become sacred. They teach you that home is not built in solitude, but in the messy, miraculous accumulation of days spent together, in the resilience of a table that always finds room for one more chair, in the certainty that love, real, unyielding, patient love, is what holds the roof up. Even as the children outgrow bedtime stories, the legacy is unbroken. The warmth of coming home is the greatest inheritance of all, and the truest lesson: that no matter how wide the world, or how far you wander, you can always find your way back to the places and people that made you, the ones who loved you into being.

This year, Jaemin is changed, still the camera’s favorite, still quick with a joke or a story, but there’s a gentle gravity in him now, a kind of quiet that only comes from having found home. For the first time, he arrives with someone new, a young woman who moves with easy confidence, eyes gentle, her smile as steady as sunrise. Haeun, wild and golden, is utterly devoted to her, never letting go of her hand for more than a moment. Throughout the afternoon, Haeun is glued to her side: tugging on her sleeve to show off drawings, crawling into her lap between games, clinging to her waist during the garden chaos as if she’s the very center of her world.

When Jaemin calls everyone together for the annual photo, there’s an unspoken hush, the sense that something momentous is about to be marked. As the family jostles and laughs, Haeun wriggles her way right into the crook of Jaemin’s partner’s arm, face nuzzled deep into her side. When the shutter clicks, Haeun’s voice, soft and spell-like, drifts up: “Mummy.” She looks up at her with so much pride and certainty that it anchors the entire room, her tiny fingers still curled tightly around her dress, refusing to let go. There’s a collective pause, a swelling in every chest, as if the universe itself has made space for something holy.

Jaemin watches it all, eyes shining, one hand finding his partner’s, the other gently smoothing Haeun’s hair. For a moment, he just lets himself be still, no need to narrate, no need to orchestrate. He’s simply a man in love, watching his whole world stitched together in the softness of his daughter’s embrace. The rest of you feel it ripple through the room: a family stretching wider, new roots taking hold, the proof that love never runs out, it only multiplies. Later, you’ll remember this moment as the point where your history folded forward, a single, golden second where everything felt full, every voice and story and new beginning layered into the light. Haeun, fiercely loyal, will not leave her mother’s side for the rest of the evening, clutching her hand for the family photo, tugging at her sleeve when the cake is served, whispering secrets into her ear until sleep claims her, safe and held, the whole house a little softer for her love.

But at the very center of the photo, where everything else blurs into color and noise, there is an orbit of hope, spun around you and Jeno. He stands pressed against your back, his arms circling you as if to shelter both your heart and the secret flutter beneath your skin. His hands splay gently across your belly, reverent, a silent vow that every new heartbeat belongs to you both. You’re rounder compared to when you were carrying Junseo, unmistakably pregnant, the fabric stretched soft and bright across your bump, your daughter, Junseo’s little sister, her presence already changing the shape of every room.

Beside you, Areum is trembling, a mix of laughter and tears that makes her eyes glisten like morning dew. She lifts her ultrasound photo, voice cracking, and the joy is so big it almost hurts. Mark’s hand finds hers, steadying her as he wipes his face with the other, his smile wrecked and glorious. You and Areum find each other without words, just a magnetism, a knowing. She reaches for your hand, your fingers lacing together, and you both lean in, bellies brushing, giggling through tears as you let the moment settle. There’s something wild and unguarded in the way you press your foreheads together, twin pulses thudding beneath your joined palms. The world pauses around you, softened by the hush of expectation, the ancient, trembling awe of mothers making space for new life. 

You and Areum fell pregnant within weeks of each other, as if your bodies had been quietly conspiring, weaving your lives even closer. It’s a secret magic, this shared timeline, a comfort and a thrill to know that your daughters will grow up side by side, as entangled as you and Areum have always been, even when you haven’t always seen eye to eye. When you reach for each other now, bellies still brushing, it feels less like coincidence and more like destiny, a silent vow that the next generation will inherit not just your names, but your laughter, your stubbornness, your friendship in all its messy, miraculous forms.

Areum presses her forehead to yours, the two of you holding hands, giggling through your tears, and you can almost see it already: two little girls with wild hair and bright eyes, fingers stained with popsicle juice and sidewalk chalk, secrets traded beneath the kitchen table, best friends before they even have the words for it. The ache of hope is so sharp and sweet that it nearly undoes you. Mark wraps his arms around Areum, his hand caressing her stomach, pressing a kiss to the curve where his daughter grows; Jeno’s hands tighten over your belly from behind, his body warm and solid and full of longing, and for a heartbeat, you know, without question, that you are all building something unbreakable. You squeeze her hand, your other cradling your bump, and she whispers, “They’ll be best friends, you know.” You laugh, breathless, and answer, “They already are.”

Mark’s gaze is softer than you’ve ever seen it, the nerves and pride and lingering ache in his eyes folding into something nearly holy. As Areum lifts her ultrasound photo, Mark draws her gently against him, his hand finding her bump with reverence, brushing his lips over the gentle curve of her belly. He whispers something too quiet to hear, maybe a promise, maybe a prayer, his eyes bright with tears, his smile crumpled and pure, like a boy seeing a miracle for the first time. He looks at you and Areum, and for a moment, everything in him is gratitude; he squeezes your joined hands and nods, as if he can already picture your daughters tangled together in the summer grass.

Meanwhile, Jeno is pressed against you, hands sprawled wide over your belly, his grip possessive and reverent, fingers slipping just a bit lower each time you breathe. His mouth is at your ear, voice gone low and hungry, the kind of rough whisper that makes your thighs clench and your pulse leap. “You know what drives me fucking crazy, babe?” he rasps, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Seeing you like this. So fucking full, all round and soft, carrying my baby, makes me wanna bend you over right here and remind you exactly who put her there.” His thumb traces the curve of your bump, slow and deliberate, sending heat spiraling between your legs. “Red’s my favorite now because you look like sin, and I swear, every time I see you like this, all I can think about is how much I want you. You make being a mama look so fucking hot, you have no idea.”

The room erupts, Karina groans and buries her face in her hands, Chenle chokes on his drink, and Areum, tears streaming down her cheeks, starts laughing so hard she nearly doubles over. You elbow Jeno, cheeks flaming, but you can’t help the shiver that runs down your spine or the grin that breaks through, because no one makes you feel this wanted, this powerful, this alive. Mark just smiles, soft and awestruck, pressing another kiss to Areum’s stomach as the laughter sweeps through the room, warm and wild and endlessly yours.

Mark’s happiness glows, undiluted and tender, as he wraps his arms around Areum, one hand splayed gently over her stomach, pressing a kiss to her temple. His voice is thick with wonder, the kind that comes only to those who have suffered and stayed. “Can you believe it?” he murmurs, eyes shining. Areum just laughs and buries her face in his shoulder, her joy full and weightless, for once untouched by grief.

Jaemin darts across the room to set the timer on his camera, every motion fluid, the easy keeper of tradition. When he swoops in for Haeun, she resists with a gleeful squeal, stubbornly twisting from his arms and reaching instead for her mother, Jaemin’s partner, youthful and glowing, hair tumbling loose, eyes laughing with shared mischief. With a sigh and a smile, she gathers Haeun into her lap, the little girl instantly molding herself against her mother’s chest, arms wound tight around her neck as if she’d never let go.

Haeun buries her face beneath her mother’s chin, inhaling the familiar scent of skin and sunlight, lashes fluttering as her mom presses a long, lingering kiss to her forehead, soft, instinctive, a thousand unspoken promises in that single touch. They sit hip to hip, cheek to cheek, impossibly close, Haeun’s small hands playing with the buttons on her mother’s blouse as if to anchor herself there. No one could pry them apart; the world could go spinning and Haeun would still reach for her, would always belong there, home where her mother’s heart beats steady against her own. Jaemin watches them, grinning through mock protest, and finally drops beside them, wrapping his arms around both of his girls, the perfect picture of gratitude and love, his family impossibly close, impossibly his.

Karina yanks Chenle down onto the couch beside her, her fingers tangling in his hair until he finally cracks a grin, their easy banter a gentle thread through the noise. Ningning slips in at Chenle’s other side, tossing a bright scarf around both their shoulders, pulling everyone closer as she nudges him, her laughter infectious, shimmering in the air. Yangyang, never one for stillness, claims a spot on the carpet at Ningning’s feet, tugging Shotaro down with him, their shoulders pressed together, Ryujin sliding in beside them, her trophy in her lap and her free arm looped through Shotaro’s, the two of them radiant with new victories and old loyalty.

Seulgi and Irene, luminous as always, curl together at the end of the sofa, heads touching, their smiles soft with the memory of a thousand nights just like this. Donghyuck, ever the performer, finds his place sprawled across the armrest, one hand flashing a peace sign, the other linked with Yangyang’s in a tangle of pinkies and jokes. Mark and Areum press close, Mark’s arm wrapped around Areum’s waist, his palm gently splayed over her stomach, Areum’s hand never letting go of yours, the two of you glowing, round and full, carrying the next generation between you.

Jeno sits behind you, impossibly attractive in the late afternoon light, hair tousled, jaw sharp, arms strong and bare where his sleeves are pushed up. His hands splay across your stomach, fingers spread wide and sure, protective and proud, as if nothing could ever shake what you share. You’re round and full in his embrace, the shape of your body a living testament to the new life you carry, your skin aglow with the certainty of being cherished. Junseo, cheeks pink from running wild in the garden, scrambles between you both, his tiny hands searching for purchase on your dress. With a seriousness that only innocent and loved children possess, he leans down, presses his lips softly to your stomach, and begins whispering secrets to his baby sister, promises to play, to protect, to love her as fiercely as he’s been loved. You watch him, heart clenching, then tilt your head sideways, finding Jeno’s mouth with your own. Your lips meet in a quiet, perfect kiss, a silent exchange of joy, gratitude, and all the awe that words could never hold. The moment feels outside of time, just you, Jeno, and Junseo, wrapped up in the warmth of a family that’s grown from hope and held together by choice. When the shutter snaps, it catches everything: Jeno’s hands on your belly, your lips on his, Junseo’s sweet affection, and the wild, expanding center of your beautiful, forever home.

Junseo’s tiny hands reach for yours on instinct, finding you even in a room full of light and laughter, his grip sticky with mango juice and the blue-green smudges of watercolor paint. He latches onto your fingers, wrapping all five of his around two of yours, so earnest and trusting it makes your chest ache. You bring his little hand to your lips, kissing each knuckle, your thumb softly stroking the delicate crescent of his little nails. Jeno, ever watchful, slides one hand from where it rests on your belly to smooth Junseo’s unruly hair, fingertips chasing the curl that always tumbles over your boy’s forehead. He tucks it back, gentle and adoring, and his eyes flicker with pride as he looks at the two of you, his whole world held in a single, fleeting moment, the lines of love drawn with every small, unspoken gesture.

Junseo leans in close, voice solemn but bursting with joy. “Mama, I’m gonna cuddle you so much,” he promises, squeezing your hand even tighter, as if his little body could keep you safe from the world. “And baby too! Gonna cuddle her every day so she never gets lonely.” His eyes are wide with devotion, cheeks flushed with excitement, and Jeno laughs softly, dropping a kiss on the crown of Junseo’s head, his other hand never leaving your stomach. In that moment, you feel completely surrounded, by your son’s warmth, by Jeno’s steady strength, by the miracle growing between you—all of it shimmering with the certainty that you’ll always be held, always be loved.

Junseo lips brushing your belly again and again. “Hi, baby sister,” he whispers, the words half secret, half spell. “I’m here. I’m gonna play with you every day. I’ll show you how to do swings, and if you ever get scared, you just call Junie, ‘kay? I’m gonna be the best big brother.” He looks up, hope and pride lighting his face, and you swallow tears as your heart aches, cheeks hurting from how wide your smile blooms. Junseo squirms between you, giggling, then leans in again to your bump, whispering, “I love you already, baby. You can have all my stickers, even the shiny ones.” Jeno’s hand rests on your belly, fingers splayed like a vow, while the other threads through Junseo’s hair, his eyes going soft and misty. You curl your free arm around Junseo, holding him close, and the three of you sit wrapped together in a perfect, glowing knot, every part of you touching, fingers laced, arms encircling, hearts synced.

Your baby girl kicks, a flutter beneath Jeno’s palm, and Junseo gasps in delight, “She’s saying hi, Mama! She’s saying hi to me!” and you all laugh, dizzy with the warmth of it, the room honeyed with light and love and the ache of so much joy. You feel completely surrounded, by your son’s warmth, by Jeno’s steady strength, by the miracle blooming inside you. Junseo’s tiny hand clings to yours, his other arm draped across your belly as if to hug his sister before she even arrives, and you feel her flutter in answer, kicking softly right beneath Junseo’s palm. Your son can’t stop squealing, “She’s saying hi, Mama! She’s saying hi to me! She loves me so much!” His wonder rings out, connecting you all in a circle of joy.

Jeno gathers the three of you close, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and waist, his hand never leaving your stomach, thumb brushing over the spot where your daughter wriggles in greeting. You realize, with a quiet awe, that every part of you is bound to someone you love, Junseo’s grip in your hand, your daughter’s heartbeat inside you, Jeno’s touch grounding you both, his gaze drinking you all in with the fierce, grateful tenderness of a man who will never stop marveling at his family. All four of you tangled together, breath mingling, hearts beating in time, a living, breathing knot of love, and the certainty that this is what it means to be home.

When the shutter finally clicks, it gathers every glimmer, Jeno’s arms tightening around you in a quiet claim, Junseo’s sticky hand woven through your fingers, the hush of your baby girl turning somersaults for her brother, your lips still pressed to Jeno’s smile. Junseo’s laughter rings out, promising love and a lifetime of games to the sister he’s already dreaming for, while Jeno’s palm anchors you both to the here and now. For one bright instant, the world and the universe itself seem to shrink to this golden knot: the joy of touch, the hush of belonging, the wild sweetness of being known. Later, when you hold that photograph, you see it all, the proof that in this wild, spiraling universe, no matter how many times you’re scattered, every road you take, every hope you dare, every game you play and every small act of love, somehow always finds its way back to you.

It’s almost too much, the happiness, you feel it blooming wild and bright beneath your ribs, a harvest that leaves your cheeks aching with every laugh and your lips tingling from the kiss you keep returning to, again and again, pressed to the mouth of the only man you’ve ever called home. Jeno, all sun-warmed marble and thunder, your anchor and wildfire, the axis your whole world spins around, his gaze drinks you in with that unspoken reverence, a priest at the altar of your every breath. Junseo, your little sun, your storm-tossed sailor, clings to you with that fierce, tender faith that only a child who has known nothing but love can hold, his fingers gripping yours like a promise, his other hand curved protectively over your belly, whispering vows to his unborn sister as if every word is a spell to keep them safe. You feel his heart through his palm, his hope through his laughter, and as your hand finds Jeno’s again, you know you could live in this moment forever.

You tip your face to Jeno’s, your mouth meeting his in a kiss that’s more than a promise, it’s the secret language you’ve built over ten years, every “I love you” threaded into skin and memory, spoken in a dozen ways no one else will ever understand. It’s thank you for surviving, thank you for every bruise, every night you found your way back to each other, for every morning that remade you side by side. He smells like the man of your dreams, sweat and sunlight and something softer, a private scent that only you know, that lingers in your sheets and in the hollow of your throat. You feel the charm bracelet he clasped to your wrist a decade ago, still there, always, each charm a touchstone, a private history of every version of yourselves you’ve loved into being. Your son fits himself into the space between you both, the three of you tangled in warmth and trust, an infinite circle with no beginning and no end. Sunlight splinters across the floor, gilding every edge, and you realize with a sweet, aching certainty that there is nowhere else in the world, no city, no dream, no memory, that could ever outshine this. The camera captures it: hands gripped tight, laughter caught in mouths, promises poured like honey into the womb of tomorrow. For just this frame, you are complete, awash in the intimate, radiant gravity of a love that remakes you again and again, a family spun from gold, your heart stretched wide enough to contain the world.

It’s here, in the hush before the shutter falls, that you realize what photography truly means: it’s more than a frame, more than paper and light. Each photograph is an anchor dropped in the river of years, holding you steady when everything else is rushing away. They are living proof, of laughter, of survival, of a thousand fleeting moments that would have disappeared without a trace if not for the soft click of a camera and the stubborn, loving urge to remember. One day, when you’re old and grey and your hands are slower but your heart is still full, you’ll gather everyone again, your children, your children’s children, and all the faces you’ve loved and lost. You’ll return to this same room, the walls pulsing with the ghosts of past celebrations, and the photos will become bridges, spanning decades, spanning lifetimes, reminding each new soul how belonging feels, how love can echo and ripple through generations.

The true miracle, what undoes you, every single year, is that when you hold these photographs in your trembling hands, the story refuses to settle. It breathes, aches, pulses with everything you have ever loved and lost. It isn’t just a record of faces and light, it’s a summoning, a gentle haunting. It calls you home, even when you’ve been away too long, even when the ache of growing up and growing old feels unbearable. Each image is a tapestry: laughter tangled with heartbreak, new hands reaching for old ones, the echo of voices you’d give anything to hear just once more. Every time you turn the pages, you see the years collapsing, babies becoming parents, lovers growing soft and grey, children who once clung to your legs now carrying little ones of their own. The ache is almost too much: every color a memory, every smile a reminder of time’s terrible mercy.

And still, you keep returning. You keep building, keep loving, keep turning your face toward the light of those you cannot bear to lose. Even when the world bends, when distance or grief threatens to pull you under, these photos are proof, etched with the ache of days you’ll never get back and the miracle of the ones still to come. Because in the end, this is what survives you: a hundred frames where you are seen, known, claimed, and remembered. The certainty that no matter how many seasons pass, no matter how the world breaks or how heavy nostalgia weighs on your chest, there is always Jeno, your compass, your anchor, the voice that calls you home in every storm. In his arms, you remember: no distance, no grief, no ache of memory can ever truly part you from the love you built together. Even as the years blur, the current of every longing and every joy always finds its way, shaken, grateful, whole—

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔

authors note — this is it. the final chapter of back to you. i’m emotional. currently sobbing. and i’ll be honest, this one wasn’t easy to write. not even a little. it’s the culmination of of love, pain, reckoning, reunion. the closure of arcs i held so tightly to my chest. characters who have lived in me so long they feel like real people now. their laughter, their ache, their betrayals and their forgiveness, all of it shaped me as much as i shaped them. writing this ending meant letting go of things i didn’t want to let go of. it meant writing with my entire heart cracked open. it meant looking back at every kiss, every loss, every secret, and trying to find a way to say goodbye while still leaving the light on.

so please—read gently. read with care. take care of yourselves. this chapter is a lot. it’s heavy. i didn’t plan the sad back story of mark and areum’s first baby until i wrote it, so please send me lots of asks and questions about that as i wanna dive into it, and why it was a heartbreaking yet essential plot i had to invoice. this part and this series hurts in places i didn’t expect. it holds life and death and legacy. it’s the ending for so many of these beautiful, complicated characters who i will forever, forever carry in me. they don’t all get easy roads, but they get real ones. full ones. and i’m so proud of them.

this universe grew bigger than i ever imagined, so layered, so tangled, so alive, that at some point, i stopped trying to control it and just let it breathe. what started as one story became a constellation of lives, loves, betrayals, second chances, and everything in between. if this ending didn’t wrap up every thread, if you still have questions—good. that’s what the ask box is for. tell me what you’re wondering. ask about the characters who slipped into the margins near the end: nahyun and her fractured legacy, her father’s cold grip on her future, jihyo’s quiet strength, yangyang’s own reckoning and the mystery of the new lover who holds his gaze a second too long. none of it is too small or too big to ask. this story’s heartbeat doesn’t stop here. so dig deep, ask away, let’s keep exploring every corner of this world together. and even though this is the last chapter… the world doesn’t end here. it doesn’t. this universe has gotten so wide, hasn’t it? so full and so alive. so many babies. so many new families. junnie. haeun. y/n and areum’s baby girls, growing up side by side. there is so much more i want to share. please ask me questions. i want to keep breathing life into this world with you.

you can ask about:

 the relationships between all the kids and all the adults, there’s so many pairings you can ask about here (what kind of big brother is junseo? who does haeun fight with? are the baby girls opposites or twins in crime? what relationship did jeno have with taesun? what relationship does he have with mark’s baby girl?) 

the quiet moments between the married couples, it’s a shame i couldn’t write much about their wedding so send me lots of questions about that🫶.  

ask me lots about how y/n and jeno are as parents. there’s a lot of nuance and depth there. 

ask about baby junnie’s birth, the labour, more moments from him, i deliberately didn’t write his actual birth cos i want to explore it in different posts<3

who babysits the most (hint: it’s shotaro. he comes prepared with glitter crafts and snacks)

the evolution of jihyo’s bar into a living, breathing archive of their history.

what stories the kids grow up hearing (and which ones they definitely shouldn’t)

ask me about y/n and her music !!! where it took her and where she ended up

whatever you want to ask me. i’m open and ready to write. i don’t want this universe to end. no question is off limits.

this world doesn’t stop just because the story ends. so don’t let it. don’t make it. you can tell that i’m not ready to let go of this universe so write to me. message me. tell me how this story made you feel. tell me who broke you. who healed you. tell me which moments you keep coming back to like a bruise you can’t stop touching. because i’m right there with you. i wrote this story because i believe love survives, across time, across silence, across every goddamn thing that tries to rip it apart. writing back to you was more than just telling a story, it was where i went to heal. it was the place i ran to on my hardest days, the one constant that reminded me love can be messy and painful and still so worth choosing. this universe became my favorite thing i’ve ever created, and watching you all fall into it too—feeling the same ache and joy and longing—has meant the absolute world. to everyone who commented, liked, reblogged, screamed in the tags, or sent the most beautiful asks: thank you, truly. i hope you keep finding comfort in this series, in its ending, and in every reread. please follow me and stay with me for whatever comes next, and please don’t stop talking to me. spam my inbox. i’m begging. tell me everything this series gave you, anything it taught you, your favorite quotes or scenes or characters. i want to hear it all. send me your reflections, your love letters to back to you. this may be the final chapter, but the story lives on in you. (and i don’t get annoyed when i receive asks, please don’t think that). 

thank you for reading, for loving this universe endlessly. for staying. i’ll always find my way

back to you. ♡

[queeryu-u]

so, as usual, ryujin has been driving me insane and even more in this cb so !!!! here we go again

ryujin x f! reader. smut

exhibitionism, ryujin ignores reader ???? kind of ??? slightly. and it’s what makes it hotter tho

men and minors dni !!!!!!!

before you and your pretty girlfriend were a couple, you were the closest friends ever, in a group of six. the rest of your friends didn’t care that you got together, instead they were kind of relieved as in it finally happened, and they didn’t need to hear you being crazy for each other but doing nothing more than complain to them, separately.

both of you didn’t want to fuck up the group dynamics and isolate from them, so you keep on making plans repeatedly. it was pretty balanced, just they got to see the two of you being more clingy, but no one bat an eye really. you just didn’t want to always annoy them.

tonight was a lazy hangout, just them coming to see whatever movie seemed appealing, or some dumb shit, just for the giggles. you had a good time before chatting up, and now it was pretty late, it was the last one you were going to watch before everyone left. you also drank alcohol, taking a shot every time you cringed in a scene as a game. every once in a while you and your girlfriend stole glances at each other, and some other short kisses as well. you didn’t sit next to each other during the three movies before, but now changed places as she hugged by your side, and you placed your head on her shoulder.

it was cold now, and everyone had blankets on their laps, chaeryeong even covering up wholly, and you laughed at her. there was still an hour left for the movie to end, and at this point, a little bit drunk, being cozy next to your girlfriend just got you thinking on being just with her, and kissing her passionately. maybe leaving the movie as the background noise of your loving. but you couldn’t, so you started pressing soft kisses into her shoulder. your girlfriend hummed happily at the motions, and acknowledged it by caressing your sides.

you decided to just focus on her, being cautious of her gestures, attentive to her reaction as you licked slowly the skin of her neck, laughing breathily as you saw her jolt a little. she looked at you mischievously as one of her hands went to one of your inner thighs, pinching.

“behave.” she whispered into your ear, a lopsided smile adorning her face, but her demeanor kept calm, and somehow serious. you exhaled heavily at her tone, commanding but still affectionate. you wouldn’t lie, being so close next to her after missing her presence the whole evening was driving you a little bit insane, you wanted to keep her even closer, and now you wished she was on top of you, inside you, or doing whatever she pleased with you.

you bit your lip and straightened in your seat, as she started talking with yeji, who was seated by her side. you weren’t part of the conversation, neither knew what they were talking about, just knew that your girlfriend’s hand started to move in your thigh after gripping it hard, trying to concentrate in calming your breathing. you were already horny, and having her warm hand touching you even so slowly got you dizzy. in some point, one of your hands tried to take the one she was moving in your thigh to move it between your legs, and surprisingly, she did comply, applying pressure into your clothed slit for mere seconds. you felt the air leave your lungs, trying not to whine at the loss of her contact, as she rested once again her hand in your thigh, leaving it there.

you were happy that the room was dark, because you could feel your face burn at being so needy for her, and the thoughts of what she could do to you, when your friends were in the same place as you. the idea of getting caught made you drip into your panties, even before doing anything at all, just thinking of it. you tried to regain your composure, and looked at your girlfriend, but she paid not mind at all, still talking whatever with yeji. not even glancing at you, but she could feel your gaze on her, and you saw her smile because of it.

she was ignoring you. for a moment, it felt like a punch to your gut, but it was also so fucking hot how much you needed her, and she seemed nonchalant. you had to change that, to have her attention. so you went to the bathroom quickly, seeing yourself on the mirror already flustered, and decided to take your panties off, just leaving you in a dress. you hid them in one hand, and went to the living room. once there, behind the sofa and your girlfriend, you kissed her deeply from behind, your arms trapping her figure, and smoothly giving your soaked panties to her, her hands below the blanket. the surprise kiss made her giggle, but once she realized what you did, you felt her grunting into the kiss. everything happened so fast, and you broke the kiss, winking at her and sitting next to her, once again resting your head in her shoulder as if nothing happened.

one of your friends joked that you should get a room, some laughing and the rest paying no mind. but your girlfriend? you couldn’t decipher if she was mad or if finally you got through her, but whatever it was, she looked so hot. you laughed to yourself, and tried to pay attention to the movie, feeling her gaze on you. below the blanket, her hand rested again on your thigh, and compared to before, she wasted no time in groping your inner thighs. she caressed between your legs, but never really touching your slit, it felt like a ghost caress, brushing some fingers in the area slightly, but not doing more than that.

you moved slightly your hips, trying to get some friction, but every time you did, she moved away in her touch. you knew she wanted you to stay still, and it got you even wetter imagining her voice giving you orders. that wasn’t the case right now, as she wasn’t even looking at you, just at the screen, but rested her head in yours. a loving gesture if you only saw what was happening in the upper half of your bodies.

in that exact moment, she finally caressed your soaked slit with her fingers, as if she was being careful to touch you, but deep down you knew she was just being a piece of shit. even so, she was teasing so much, that every touch, no matter how small or slow, it had you holding in your sounds with more difficulty than before. gladly for some time, the movie was loud enough to cover them, but just as it went a moment of silence, ryujin decided it was a good idea to toy with your clit harshly, biting your lip but couldn’t shut the embarrassing wail. your eyes opened wide, and as fast as you could, you fake coughed to cover the sound.

you didn’t dare to look at the rest of your friends as you could feel your whole body basking in shame, but could feel your girlfriend having a blast as she even laughed a bit, how humiliating. you clenched around nothing, and rested your face once again in her neck, leaving bites and marking her skin in vengeance. as she continued with her motions, her fingers spread your wetness to your folds, cupping your pussy and then rubbing it, still attentive to the media. you were in the brink of losing your mind and patience, but this situation made you feel everything more intense. you moaned lowly into her ear as she teased your entrance with the pad of her fingers, and in that moment, lia looked at you.

“are you okay y/n? you seem like you’ve got a fever, are you sick?” she asked with carefulness in her voice, making the rest of the girls take in the sight of you, some of them agreeing. you were about to answer when your girlfriend slid a finger inside you, not moving.

“i- i think, yeah. maybe. uhh.” you spoke ever so softly, your voice coming out a little bit shaky, and for the first time in these past minutes, your girlfriend looked directly into your eyes, feigning worry and touching your fore head with her palm. “it’s just, i think it’s because i don’t have my glasses on, and i’m forcing way too much my eyesight, but not a big deal.”

your girlfriend cooed at you, sliding the hand in your face to caress your cheek. “do you need something?” her eyes held concern in them, but it somehow it got confused with mockery, you clenched around her finger. “i’ll take care of you.” she whispered and kissed you on the forehead, by this time the attention of the group was on the movie again, gladly for you, because as she said those words, she inserted another finger into you, moving them slowly. ryujin held in your reaction and furrowed eyebrows, face conturing in pleasure but trying not to.

she got even closer to you and whispered in your ear before moving apart. “you look pathetic. ride my fingers love, i won’t be moving at all, show me how fucking needy and desperate you are.” your chest started heaving, tears forming in your eyes, but as she had her body turned to face you, she covered your frame for now. then she returned to see the screen, and did as she said: nothing. keeping her fingers still, waiting for you to start moving.

you bit the inside of your cheek, excitement and embarrassment combined rushing through your chest, you were extremely aware of your surroundings and her fingers inside you, clenching constantly on them. you were seated with your legs bent, so they were spread open for her and tried to circle your hips to ride her fingers at a slow pace. you bit your lip harshly to contain any possible sounds, moving calmly but in deviously way to not raise suspicions, savoring the flavor of each turn, and dripping every time more, stopping in your track as you could swear it made squelchy sounds, but your girlfriend noticed you stopped and hit your sweet spot particularly hard, your legs shaking.

your eyes rolled back, and tears were streaming down your face by the intense pleasure but not quite having it all, feeling it wasn’t enough but at the same time, overwhelmed. you decided it was best to pretend to be asleep, so you hid your face into her neck once again, closing your eyes and focusing on grinding against her hand, her thumb now resting on your clit. your lips brushed her neck, giving her open-mouthed kisses, mixing with gasps that were only for her.

when she felt you clenching more around her fingers, and clutching closer to her, she thrusted her fingers steadily, procuring to hit deep into you, and your body jolted but you suppressed it, your thighs trapping her hand inside of you as you couldn’t think on anything else more than reaching your high right now. you moved faster meeting with her ministrations, swearing it wasn’t noticeable at all, and apparently you were right, because you finally came and had the most quiet orgasm ever, sucking her fingers in.

you weren’t aware of what was happening beyond your ecstasy, so now that you kind of regain your senses, you noticed your girlfriend asked yeji to bring a glass of water and a pill for your headache, since she could feel you get hotter next to her, supposedly sleeping. she held the glass for you, helping you drink it and when she moved it away, she spilled a bit into your lap accidentally, at the same time, pulling your dress down to cover you.

“shit, i’m sorry.” she removed her hand from between your legs, looking intensely at you, and taking her soaked fingers with your juices into her mouth, licking them clean. “glad it didn’t reach you, can’t get you sick.”

she was a menace, and now you sure had somehow of a headache because of her.

[douqhnxtss]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ENJOYED BOW-IEFYING ME? ⊹ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚✧˖°.

𝓪 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 (𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸����𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥) 𝓻𝘺𝘶𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖻𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽.

✧ fluff, fluff, FLUFF!!!, drabble, downbad!tired!ryujin, girly!reader, pinterestgirly!reader — idol!ryujin x fem!reader ⋆ wc! 0.64k °° we stan reader being a pinterest gurly just like me fr!!! I also want a soft ryujin for me like me n who ME N WHO?!?!?!?

Cupid's Game — 04

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────

you were sprawled out on the bed, laying on your stomach while scrolling through pinterest as one of your fingers twirled a strand of your hair.

your gaze locked on a image of a bow tied around a woman's neck, it looked so cute you had to look at similar pins, so you clicked and continued scrolling down. in one, a bow is tied around the girl's waist, in another, it's around her biceps.

you looked into the drawer in your bedside table, brushing your fingers against the cool fabric of the wrapped up pastel pink ribbon sitting there just waiting to be used. and oh, did you find a way to use it.

you were too engrossed in the world of pretty bow fantasies to realize the door clicking open and a tired but happy ryujin walking in. it had been a long day for the korean, grueling practice hours and their choreographer being half an hour late only made her more mad.

the happiness was from the fact that she was finally home, and she couldn't wait to have you in her arms and kiss you all over your gorgeous face.

ryujin opened the door to your bedroom to see you using your phone with a smile, wearing one of her oversized t-shirts and shorts underneath that were two sizes too big and she was awestruck. as she always was by you and how you were so pretty even with normal clothes and no makeup.

she slowly made her way to you, getting on the bed. her eyes briefly went to the screen to see what your were so focused on, and she saw an image of a bow around a woman's wrist.

not paying much thought to it, she pulled your phone out of your hands, putting it on the bedside table and flipping you over onto your back.

"missed you, baby." she whispered, gently pressing her lips against yours, both her hands pinned on both sides of your head. you hummed into the slow and love-filled kisses, your hands instinctively going into place around her neck.

the idea resurfaced and before ryujin could react, you pulled away and sat up, making her sit on her knees as well as she stared at you like you stole her favorite thing from her.

"why'd you pull away?" she tilted her head and you only grinned. your hand quickly pulled out the ribbon and you put on your cutest face. "can i tie bows around you, ryu?" you asked, head tilted ever-so-slightly, lips puckered in a pout, shiny eyes looking up at her.

she was a simple woman.

she saw your face and she couldn't say no. with a sigh, she caved in, "alright." the most excited smile instantly formed on your face as you let out a squeal making her chuckle.

you got some scissors and went to work. you tied a bow in every place of her body you could; around her neck, wrist, biceps, waist and even her individual fingers. the baby pink stood out among her dark t-shirt and sweatpants, making you love it more.

she just watched you do whatever you want with the most giddy smile adorning her features. god, she really loved you. so so much.

after you were done, ryujin pulled you by your waist, "enjoyed bow-iefying me, princess?" She asked placing a tender kiss on your cheek. "yep!! loved it so much! love you so much!"

you kissed her all over her face, your giggles mixing with her laugh replacing the quietness in the room prior to when she arrived. she never was one who liked cute, girly things like bows, pinks, ribbons, etc.

ryujin, may have been covered in bows and kisses, but she liked it because you covered her in your bows and kisses, and she loved that because she loves you. she forever will.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡.𖥔 ݁ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚✧˖°.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 — 「cupid's game」

ᯓ✦ 𝓊𝗻𝚒𝘷𝐞𝗋𝓢𝙚 !

[itzyjinnie]

Kinktober Day 4 (🔞🍆)

G!P Ryujin × AFAB!Reader - Better Way

~~~~~~~~~~💖~~~~~~~~~~

You loved spending any time with Ryujin and she felt the same but it was always times like these that were both of your favourites

afternoons spent in her room on the bed, Ryujin on her back ready for round 1 of many,  with you sat on her face as she expertly made love to your pussy, her tongue licking your pink throbbing bud, sucking and biting on you just so she could hear your beautiful moans while you trapped her between your thighs and arched your back leaning over to take her rock hard cock into mouth taking her girthy member as deep as you could giving her immense pleasure,  you could tell she was about to explode from the way her dick was pulsing in you mouth so you prepared yourself taking her out of your mouth to use your hands

moving up and down her shaft until she came, her cum painting your back and splattering her own abs making sure not to stop eating you out as she held your centre closer to her face, tongue working hard on your clit until your legs started to shake and you also came with a moan of Ryujin's name tumbling off your tongue

And that was only the beginning, after breif little cuddle breaks Ryujin spent the next few hours making love to you in every way possible until you were both exhausted and mumbling incoherent sweet nothings to eachother

Then spending the rest of the night cuddled up in eachother with giggles and soft touches, Ryujin's arms protectively around you as she played with your hair before singing you to sleep you couldn't think of a better way to spend your weekend

Come to think of it, you couldn't think of a better way to spend the rest of your life

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Thank You For Reading, Please Leave Any Requests 💖

[melanchoire]

Can I get a Drabble of pussy drunk Kazuha? Like she’ll do it at any time in any place will literally get down on her knees and beg you to let her?

cw: cunnilingus, face–sitting.

i’ve seen too many people write about kazuha as a rough dom but i honestly see her as a complete loser who wants to make you feel good and is sometimes a little silly 😭 yeah she can be on top and be the one who fucks you but i don’t feel like she is 100% mean

and i know she is part of the loser squad (along with minji, ryujin, yujin and minjeong) who’re obsessed with eating pussy and can spend hours doing it without getting tired

you can be doing anything and she will still try to convince you to let her eat you out 😭 it doesn’t matter if you’re cooking, cleaning, watching a movie with her on the couch, etc. she can’t control her needs!!

“c’monnn, love. it will be quick.” with a cute pout ☹️ kazuha would make eyes at you and give you a pleading look that would hurt you to say no to even if she used them accompanied by the most insane and crazy thing possible

BUT you couldn’t focus much on those pretty eyes because she also has her hands on your hips while her palms run up and down your sides… she can see how your eyes open a little more and you’re surprised due to the sudden contact of her hands on your body and it’s a difficult task for her to keep those pleading eyes and suppress her smirk as she sees how her actions were affecting you and she would get what she wants

she uses puppy eyes and touchy hands at the same time because she knows that in a short time (or right now) your brain will short circuit because it has too many things to process at the same time LIKE how can your girlfriend give you pretty eyes and beg you in a soft, cute tone of voice while groping and teasing you?

also kazuha 100% prefers face–sitting. yeah she may be a pussydrunk and loves having you lying on your back while she spends hours between your legs devouring you but she would love for you to sit on her face and use her however you want because she also loves feeling your weight on her 🫠 this way kazuha feels like she is perfectly close to your pussy because you’re almost suffocating her, but she wouldn’t mind at all!

most of all kazuha likes it this way because she can touch your body while doing it 😭 squeezing your ass and pushing you against her face in a way to encourage you to ride her face to your liking or raising her hands until she reaches your chest and can play with your tits while she entertains herself down here

and she gets so mad how much you try to get away from her face after she made you cum countless times?? she would look at you with a frown and eyes wanting to give you a warning, and well, you know that in these cases, you just have to rest your tired body against the headboard of the bed until she is satisfied