#this kind of just reminds me of fallout

[wishchip106]

i’m craving cherik in the apocalypse again….

post nuclear-apocalypse lets go 🫡

lets say Shaw manages to start the cold war and now most of the planet is destroyed and nearly everyone is dead except for a select few (cherik)

it’s been a year since they all started living in the mansion’s bunker and things are not going well 🙁❌❌

food and water are getting low, people are having fights, two people died while going outside and cherik are not talking to eachother because they had a really bad fight or something (idk i need some form of tension for them to overcome)

lets say for story sake, Charles needs to go on a quest to find a missing item for Hank’s new invention that’s probably important and Erik decides to go with him

and then yadda yadda yadda, they traverse through the wastelands, meet new societies, nearly die a few times, get over themselves and makeup/out, find the item they were looking for and somehow make it back to the bunker faster than how they left

uhh happily ever after except you can still barely breath the air

very fun 😁 if anyone wants to write this feel free to do so i will gladly read it 🫡🫡

[draconifay]

I know I don't talk abt it at all but I'm a HUGE Fallout fan

After watching an Oxhorn video I wanted to doodle the moment the Lone wanderer meets Three Dog

Two versions w/ different filters

[vault81]

was gonna make a post about how we can separate our own morals as a writer from our characters to explore factions or ideas that are more evil/immoral and that doesn't mean that we endorse or support that kind of thing

I decided against an entire post lol so I'll just keep my thoughts in the tags? if they even make ANY sense at all lol

[syluses]

ataxia

sylus x fem reader

⤷ sylus wants kids, sweetie. lots of kids.

kind of a part 2 to this piece, but it can still serve as a lil standalone as well ♡ DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS DAD SYLUS

cw ▻ nsfw, dubcon, breeding, pregnancy mentions, daddy kink, im a strong believer in sylus wanting a big family, whipped sylus, characters depicted are 18+, stockholm syndrome, yandere/obsessive tendencies, ~2.5k words

notes ▻ eeee they fr live in my head rent free </3 anyways take this crumb while i work on like other fics. daddy sylus is actually KILLING me like always on the noggin 😵‍💫

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

There’s a certain peace you feel, curled up on the leather couch, in watching your husband sit on his knees as the little ones crawl around the carpet, playing with them no different than a toddler would.

Not exactly a pleasant peace, by any means, but a simple, sort of resigned one. Your muscles seem to lose the tension, shoulders always piked high, ready for attack- or some other (meta)physical blow- slumping into rounded blades. You sigh.

Perhaps it’s the knowing that whatever bad thing that could’ve come- already has. Now, you’re experiencing the sloping aftereffects of it.

And this—

Sylus, with a beaming grin, letting out an almost breathless laugh as he scoops up one of the boys and twirls him overhead, the other kept by a protective hand at his side so he won’t bump on the corner of the coffee table—

Is just the fallout.

Ruby-red eyes flit over (and they always do sooner than later, like you’re a beacon in the middle of a dark sea) and crinkle at the edges. You’ve told him before that you don’t like when he throws the babies up in the sky like that, that if they were to suddenly fall, they can’t take flight like Mephisto. He must remember, because he lets out a little, woeful noise and carefully lowers him.

The smile remains, though, kilowatt and wide, a little starry-gazed like he’s inviting you to slip off the sofa and join him on the fluffy rug with your children.

The fatigue natural to post-pregnancy has already claimed you tonight, though. Truth be told, you’d have hesitated even if it didn’t. It’s fine, tending to your children on your own; his long absences leave you with massive windows of alone time with the little ones, and you actually enjoy it (save for the huge toll it takes on your energy, of course, but Luke and Kieran lend a hand where it counts- where they’re allowed).

That sentiment changes a bit, though, when your husband does get home. With his presence comes the cold reminder of how things really are, how you’re still an unwilling counterpart in all this- frilly gowns and jewels and the private chef he hires for fancy dinners (because he has the money for it) be damned.

You want to go home. That wish, hollow as it is, still stands.

…Even if it’s started staggering, in these last few months.

He’s always been more than content with just the two of you, but in the last several weeks, you compare Sylus’s emotional state to a suitcase packed too full, joy spilling out the sides. Evidently, he doesn’t try to close the zipper; he lets it happen with gladness, with his hands open and lifted, but you’re not sure he entirely knows what to do with himself. With these significant developments that are just as new to him (possibly even more, as much as that flummoxes you) as they are to you.

It’s as weird as it is endearing to see what having two children (twin boys, funnily enough) will do to your husband. But if there’s one thing you learned about Onychinus’s illustrious leader in the past couple years of your marriage—

It’s that he does not settle for less.

And when he draws closer, both little ones secured in his lap- dozing off because it’s already thirty minutes past their bedtime- and lifts your hand to place a chaste kiss there, rubbing your knuckles dotingly…

You can tell there’s something more he’s craving.

✿

“A girl,” he moans.

Sometimes- after you’ve just put down the boys for four consecutive nights in a row before collapsing in bed, your lover hardly having the opportunity to show his affections, all but guilted into letting you catch up on your sleep- it’s almost easy to forget how Sylus feels, your brain willing it away. How good he fucks you.

If you’re being more general- how good he takes care of you.

“Give me a girl this time, sweetie, just-“ a gasp, “one more.”

And vaguely, in the haze of sweat and burning hands, his thick, long cock plunging in and out of you deeply- slowly- your juices and his pre slicking between you, sticky as molasses, you wonder to yourself if he’s even convinced of that himself.

Just having one more, you mean.

The twins were unexpected: that right there is an understatement. You were hardly prepared for one rascal- all the countless evenings he spent buttering you up, so attentive, and then cumming into you with whispered vows to knock you up be damned— but when the xray revealed not one misshapen, little form in your womb, but two?

It was a bombshell.

Sylus, beside you (on the leather couch downstairs with your personal doctor he paid God knows how unreasonable a sum to show), had squeezed your hand in his and tried to mask half of his joy. The priority was in comforting you, helping you to realize that this was a good thing- a beautiful thing- that your life was not officially over and- hey, don’t worry, hasn’t he taken good care of you thus far? Surely, adding a couple little ones into the equation wouldn’t suddenly make it impossible.

You’re both very capable people, honey. Even more so together, with him. (Well, he assures you as much, anyway.)

Whether or not he could take care of you was never exactly the worry, though. The worry was that you’d be under his hand forever— and a baby? (two, you strictly correct. Two babies) You could kiss the last hope you had of ever weaseling out from his grip, or luxurious manor, goodbye.

He must know it, buried deep in the back of his head underneath the genuine layers of desire to simply start a family with you, his beloved girl, and flesh out more of a solid, burgeoning life; the silent promise underlying the pregnancy tests and inpromptu housecalls of your poor, overworked doctor.

That a family ties you to him forever.

A tether that’s damn near impossible to cut yourself loose from, even if you stood a punching chance at it to begin with. Glues you together in a way that even marriage doesn’t quite scratch the surface of. Your bond is perpetuated by blood, now. Flesh and bone. Your DNA, warped with his to create—

Monstrosities—

No, a harsh voice in the corner of your skull surprisingly snips back. They’re not monstrosities, far from it. All previous qualms nudged aside (and you had a lot, to be clear; hours spent sobbing and pushing helplessly at his chest as Sylus crooned and wrapped you in his arms proves that), doubts surrounding parenting and your own self preservation- your children are beautiful, that’s true. Healthy. Perfect.

If you’re being honest with yourself, and choose the high road here (the high road means willfully forgetting how involuntary this whole arrangement was in the first place)- they’re positively adorable. With his white hair spiking on their heads but your eyes and lips- and a shared penchant to land themselves into trouble, places they shouldn’t be before either of you stoops over to lift them out. Albeit, you’ll admit that their noses are still up for debate; it’s hard to pinpoint the resemblance when their faces are endearingly round, too chubby to really tell in this stage, but you secretly hope they’ll take after you in that regard.

You… don’t know how you’ll continue to operate if staring at your children is like staring at a mirror image of their father.

But… I mean, they’re fucking innocent in all this—

Your precious boys aren’t like their father. They… won’t be. You’ll make absolute sure of it.

“One more,” he chants, sucking in a long, thin breath through perfect teeth. And damn it all he feels good. So good. Maybe he had more than just one selfish, substratal reason for populating your otherwise fairly quiet home. Because you’re more obedient lately, wanting for it, almost… It gets him riled up in ways he could not begin to articulate. Hesitant still (sometimes he has this awful, basal fear that it’ll never go away, your trepidation towards him)- but sugar-sweet when you lie on the silken bed and present yourself with bashful cheeks that tell Sylus you hate yourself for it but have no real control in the moment.

You moan so prettily for him when he pries your thighs apart and presses them either side of your head, fashioning you like a butterfly, to slide in and out of you with ease. Melodic. Maybe he’s tone deaf to all songs save for you because he knows you, knows you like the back of his hand, pitch and lilt; he could pick out the voice of you in a crowd full of whooping people, he thinks.

Again, you blame your excitement on what he’s done to you. The twins’ pregnancy, the fluctuating hormones that have you bouncing between hysterical sobs and yanking your wide-eyed husband into impulsive, suffocating kisses before his fingers quickly settle around your middle. All the gentle erosion that he’s guided you through across the span of almost two years has left you worn and vulnerable.

But you suppose if something were to ever encourage a deeper bond- strengthen it- what else would it be than to take a man’s seed inside your womb and gift him with a bunch of unruly but cute kids? That’d gnaw away at just about anybody’s inhibitions, even if it grudges you to admit that. It lessens what remnant you held onto of this idea of ‘autonomy’, makes you fully lean onto him.

Sylus takes that news much, much better than you.

It’s… got to be more than physical between you now, you think distantly as he bullies his cockhead against your smooth walls, stroking a spongey spot in the bulwarks of you that makes your head go kaput. Like something spiritual, perhaps. He’s joined his soul with yours and that’s why you’ve been so obedient lately, so needy, clinging onto him and making his back your own personal scratching post as he plays at the idea of impregnating you again.

Oh, fuck, he’s such a bastard you hate him you hate him you—

You suppose your baby girl, inevitable to come somewhere down the line- whether that means during the next pregnancy or the third- won’t be like him, either.

She’ll be a sweetheart, and soft. Perhaps she’ll inherit her daddy’s crimson eyes or his smooth, sharp tongue, his inclination for success, but she’ll carry her mother’s heart with her. She will be kind.

Until someone like her daddy comes along. Flips her world on its head.

(And you know that having Sylus as her daddy would be the simple fact that staves off all potential men intending to prey on her, but still, the thought remains, niggling and bitter.)

“Take daddy’s cock, sweetie,” he goads, breath shot right from his lungs as he traps you beneath him- not that you’ve much the will to resist anymore- and moans over you. “You’ll take what he has to offer, won’t you? Your pretty belly will take all of it in?”

Tears prickle at your eyes when his flit down to your tummy, pupils swelling wildly as his jaw sets tight. He hisses through clenched teeth, cock giving a hot pulse accordingly.

It’s not difficult to imagine the bump there, the mound that’s not yet formed over a for now slim belly and wrinkled skin (stretch marks that you loathe but he worships on most nights, with your heels over his shoulder and his tongue lapping greedily at your pussy, palms kneading the flesh with reverence). It’s hardly been six months since you had the twins (a home birth, he’d insisted, because it was safer that way, more sterile, less stressful for you), but Sylus finds himself pining for your body to adapt to his seed again, for your breasts to plump and your stomach to round, your skin to glow.

(Your hands to reach for him because your emotions have been sat on one long rollercoaster ride and you can’t help whatever the fuck is going on inside you.)

“Sylus—“ You mewl, panting as he knocks his forehead to yours- with a whit more force than you think he’d meant, but he’s a little dazed right now, and your pussy feels so good, so don’t hold it against him, kitten- and grunts back. “Yes?” He breathes, and you liken the sound to a gust of wind, powerful and shaking.

“I- I don’t know,” you all but wail, desperately trying to tamp down your sounds of pleasure before they can escape. You’re failing.

Your reticence is for a number of reasons. First of all, your boys are just down the hall, swaddled in their respective cradles under their rotating airplane fixtures and sleeping soundly. You don’t have any intentions of changing that- especially for something as stupid and pathetic as essentially whoring yourself out to their father (and you’re not a whore, but you can’t help but feel like one when you start to bask in the attention he gives you- your hormones post-pregnancy compelling you to do all sorts of wild things).

And secondly, Luke and Kieran don’t renown you as stubborn for no reason, or your husband, lovingly, as a drama queen— and there’s a defiant part of you that does not want to see the satisfaction on his face when you start to crumble under his ministrations and open your mouth about it.

But all that, for Sylus, is a wonderful work in progress.

And if we’re to be crystal, for as much as the N109 Zone’s number one magnate prioritizes the end goal, he thoroughly enjoys the process.

“You don’t know what, Sweetie?” He whispers. It’s all he can manage right now, you’re squeezing him so tight. In that moment, the fog parts, and he knows with a hundred percent certainty that you do not want him to leave. Yes, your cunt is saying as much, and he rewards it with a carefully angled thrust right against your g-spot, but your face tells no different a story.

You’re beautiful. Perfection embodied. Makes him lose his breath a little.

“I-If I want a girl,” You heave. “If I want one at all.”

Something like dejection passes across his handsome visage then, or maybe it’s uncertainty that weakens the tight knotch in his brow as he inwardly struggles- between his approaching climax and the single mind he’s got to stuff you full of his release- for an appropriate answer. He doesn’t want to anger you. Doesn’t want to make you hate him, no, especially not when you’re finally starting to dip your toes in his waters after all his painstaking efforts to make you comfortable. Oh, God knows Sylus would kick himself for that.

…But this will be good for you. Having another, he means. It’ll be good for the both of you and if you’d just let him show you—

He’s painted the perfect demonstration of that quite well with the boys, hasn’t he? In this past handful of months, you’ve never looked happier and you’re positively glowing and all Sylus has ever wanted was to see your pretty face light with that dazzling, little smile. The twins he’s given you, unbidden as they initially were through your lens, make you so, so happy.

This will be so, so good.

Perfect.

If you’d just give in.

Oh, you’re so maddening sometimes but he adores you, every part and piece. He stoops over so his damp lips brush the lobe of your ear, the perspiration dotting his temple wetting your flushed cheeks. He croons, “You do. You do want it. I’ll show you, kitten, just how bad you need it. The twins need a sister, don’t you think? They won’t know anything other than playing rough, if not.”

Your fingertips squeeze into the lean planes of muscle of his back. He’s burning up, near feverish what with the heat sweltering between your sandwhiched bodies, but he gives a shiver in response like he’s enduring temperatures below freezing.

Panic, beneath the misty veneer of pleasure that makes your face go slack- and the subtle, inexplicable flash of something that almost convinces you Sylus is right, that you do want it- slips into the forefront of your muddled brain. Reaches a hand through the dirt and revives itself, reminding, no, no, you don’t want this, you don’t want him, you don’t want—

You let out a delicious gasp as he spears into you, the flesh of your thighs dimpling as he presses down the undersides of them. Firm, but gentle. It’s true, you’ve become considerably more flexible since meeting him- since having to accommodate him- but he’ll never give you anything more than you can take.

You’d never admit it, but there’s almost a little bit of comfort in knowing that.

“I-I’ll make sure they know how to play nice,” you force out, taking your lower lip in your mouth and suckling as the telltale rush of your climax draws nigh, hardening in your belly as it builds. “I’ll make sure they know how to be gentle, Sy!” Foreign to your own ears. Your voice is horrid as you belatedly register it, all sniveling and gasping- downright pathetic as you cling onto him for dear life and he ruts into you like a dog in heat.

You’re grasping at straws now, you know, but for as feeble as your excuses are, you hope they hit their mark. That they’ll get him to reconsider-

“But sweetie,” he breathes tenderly, “you’re already making sure I’m gentle,” he reminds in a pleasant voice, edged with the remnants of a self control that unravels at a steady pace. “How will you juggle between the three of us? Hm?”

His cockhead, fat and precise, catches on that spot in you that makes you go positively crazy and your eyes flutter back. You let out a strange, choked sound that he marvels at before he capitalizes on the reaction completely, buffetting away at the final walls you’d erected against him tonight.

All are near crumbled.

“I’ll find a way,” you nearly squeak- high-pitched and unconvincing because his mind’s already made- before he’s lolling your jaw back towards him and smashing his lips to yours in a decadent kiss, silencing your protests- for as weak as they are.

It’s close to visceral, the contact, wet lips melding hungrily with yours, trading groans and mewls as he effectively pistons his hips into you and paints colorful stars across the black span of your eyelids. In a word- invasive. Torpefying, all your limbs unfurling and slipping away from him in favor of curling into the sheets as your release approaches at whirlwind speeds, blunt fingernails clinging onto you so tight there’ll be bruises formed tomorrow- as well as an apologetic, rueful sigh on Sylus’s end, because he swears to God he’s trying to hold back—

Fucking mind-numbing.

And isn’t that just what you need? A quiet conscience? A shot of morphine fed through a needle straight into the veins, an emotional kind of tranquilizer or- or something to moderate the snarled mess your heart’s become all because of him—

It seems he’s cognizant then, pupils dilated madly as he finally blinks, of the hands that clench too tight- withdrawing them immediately from your thighs (regrettably, they remain cleaved open in a willing offer for him, shaking and red with his prints) to loop your wrists either side of your head. Holding your hands. Ever the romantic. You almost laugh, seconds off from that white-hot tidal wave of pleasure, at the irony of it all. Onychinus’s formidable, takes-no-bullshit leader, fucking you with all the grace of a big clumsy dog but all the love of one too— loyal and determined, bleeding heart on his sleeve.

He’s still kissing you, sucking on your tongue filthily, and all you can think of is waking the boys sleeping soundly next door how exquisite it feels, his thick member dragging in and out of your walls like it’s his right. Sylus certainly believes as much.

He’s ruined you too good for anyone else; you’re starting to believe it, too.

“There you go, kitten!” He gasps. “Let go. Just- fuck- let go for daddy. Such a good, good girl. Such a good mommy, you are. Our- oh, fuck, that’s it, that’s it, perfect- Our little girl will be so, so lucky to have you.”

When he comes, you do, too.

[scithemodestmermaid]

in the midst of all the arguing and screaming and freaking out over the starfield leaks, i would like to add my distant voice to the chaos by just pointing out that a general consensus amongst the leakers is that Vasco is great.

that's all i need to know.

[rmview]

they try to win you back, SKZ.

featuring — stray kids members x gn!reader ( masterlist )

summary — a reaction of how the stray kids boys try to win you back after a fight/break up! ( can be read as part 2 of this )

contents — mentions of past fights, reconciliation and fluff.

bang ღ chan

bang chan wasn’t the type to let things slide, especially when it came to you. after the breakup — a fallout caused by his relentless work schedule and lack of communication — he knew he’d messed up. but when you finally agreed to give him another chance, he vowed not to let you go.

bangchan started small. one morning, you woke up to a playlist he had sent you titled “for my love,” filled with songs that reminded him of you. the accompanying message read: “just a little something to start your day. i’m still learning how to do better, but i’ll make it worth it. – chan.”

later that week, he surprised you with a handwritten letter. the envelope smelled faintly of his cologne, and inside, his neatly written words laid bare his heart. he wrote about how he’d never stopped loving you, how the breakup had forced him to reflect on his mistakes, and how he wanted to be the kind of partner you deserved.

“have you been sleeping better?” he asked one evening when he showed up at your door with a basket of your favorite snacks and a plush blanket. “i remember you saying the nights feel colder now. thought this might help.”

you couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtfulness, despite trying to keep your guard up. “thanks, chan,” you said, accepting the basket.

his smile was soft but tinged with nervousness. “i know actions speak louder than words,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “so i’m going to keep showing you how much you mean to me.”

one night, he invited you over to the studio where he spent countless hours. the space felt intimate, with dim lighting and a cozy setup. “i wrote something for you,” he said shyly, gesturing to the microphone.

as the music filled the room, his voice poured out lyrics that spoke of regret, hope, and an unwavering love. when the song ended, he turned to you, his eyes filled with vulnerability. “that’s how i feel,” he said softly. “i hope i can keep showing you, every day, just how much you mean to me.”

felix ღ

felix had always been the sunshine in your life, but after the breakup, you noticed his light dimmed. when you finally agreed to give him another chance, felix made sure he poured his heart into showing how much you meant to him, determined not to make the same mistakes again.

the first sign of his efforts came in the form of baked goods. one evening, after a long day, you came home to a neatly wrapped box on your doorstep. inside were cookies shaped like little hearts, each one perfectly frosted. a note attached to the box read: “i know i hurt you, but i’m not giving up on us. let me make things right. – felix.”

the following weekend, he invited you over to his place. the moment you walked in, you were greeted by the warm aroma of vanilla and butter. felix stood in the kitchen, wearing an apron dusted with flour, a sheepish grin on his face. “i thought we could bake together,” he said, holding up a whisk.

you couldn’t help but laugh at the sight. “you’re really trying, huh?”

“i have to,” he admitted, his voice soft but earnest. “you’re everything to me, and i won’t lose you again.”

as the two of you mixed dough and laughed over his attempts to juggle eggs (which ended in a sticky mess), felix stole small glances at you, his heart swelling at every smile he managed to coax from you and how easily your guard managed to lower.

later that evening, as you sat on the couch sharing a plate of freshly baked cookies, he turned to you, his deep voice filled with sincerity. “i’m not perfect, but i promise to keep trying for you — for us. you’ve always believed in me, and now it’s my turn to prove that i’m worth it.”

the most touching gesture came one rainy afternoon. felix surprised you with a scrapbook he had been working on — a collection of photos, handwritten notes, and little mementos from your time together. on the last page, he had written: “our story isn’t perfect, but it’s ours. i want to keep writing it with you.”

tears welled in your eyes as he took your hand. “i know i hurt you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “but i love you more than anything, and i’ll spend every day proving that to you.”

lee ღ know

lee know had never been one for grand gestures, but when it came to making things right with you, he found himself stepping outside his comfort zone. the breakup had been his fault — his blunt words and tendency to shut down during arguments had driven a wedge between you. when you agreed to give him another chance, he knew he had to approach things differently.

the first sign of his efforts came subtly. one morning, you found a neatly packed lunch waiting for you at work, complete with a note that read: “eat well. i know i didn’t always take care of you like i should have, but i want to do better. – minho.”

later that week, he surprised you by showing up at your favorite caf��. “thought you might like some company,” he said casually, sliding into the seat across from you. but the way his eyes lingered on you betrayed the nonchalance in his tone.

over time, his gestures grew more personal. one evening, he invited you over to his apartment. when you arrived, you found the place meticulously decorated with fairy lights and a small spread of your favorite dishes on the table.

“you cooked?” you asked, surprised by the spread as the warm scent made you smile.

“i wanted to do something for you,” he said simply, pulling out a chair for you. “i know i’m not the best at saying how i feel, but i hope this shows you.”

as the two of you ate, minho watched you closely, his usual sharp demeanor softened considerably. “i’ve been thinking a lot about us,” he said suddenly. “about how i didn’t handle things the way i should have. i’m not good with words, but i need you to know that i’m trying.”

the dinner together was amazing and true to his words, he brought you to the dance studio where he spent most of his time one day, a glint in his eyes. “i have something to show you,” he said, his tone almost shy.

he played a track and began to dance, every movement purposeful and filled with emotion. it was a side of him you hadn’t seen before; raw, vulnerable, and completely open. when the music stopped, he stood before you, slightly out of breath.

“this is how i express myself best,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. “i don’t want to lose you again. i’ll keep trying to be better, for both of us.”

hyun ღ jin

hyunjin had always been passionate, wearing his heart on his sleeve. but that same intensity had been the cause of your breakup. so when you decided to give him another chance, hyunjin knew he couldn’t rely on words alone to win you back.

the first time he saw you again after the breakup, he showed up with a bouquet of your favorite flowers. but these weren’t just ordinary flowers — they were intricately painted on a canvas he had spent hours creating. “i wanted to give you something that lasts,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “like how i hope we will.”

hyunjin’s gestures were deeply personal. one evening, he invited you to his art studio, where a single easel stood in the center of the room. “i’ve been working on something,” he said, motioning for you to sit.

you watched as he unveiled a portrait of you, painted in soft, dreamy hues that captured the way he saw you — radiant and full of warmth. “this is how i see you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “even when we were apart, you were always in my heart.”

you were touched to nearly the point of tears, as his sincerety was making it harder to keep your guard up. another night, hyunjin surprised you with a private dance performance. he led you into a dimly lit studio, where soft music played in the background. “this is for you,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours before the music swelled.

every movement of his dance told a story — of regret, love, and a desperate desire to make things right. as he finished, his chest heaved from exertion, but his gaze never wavered. “i’ve made mistakes,” he admitted, stepping closer to you. “but i’m learning. you’re the one i want to share my life with, and i’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.”

hyunjin also made an effort to handle conflict differently. one evening, when a small disagreement arose, he surprised you by calmly sitting down and saying, “let’s talk about this. i don’t want us to go back to how things were before.”

his growth, combined with his heartfelt gestures, slowly chipped away at the walls you had built around your heart. hyunjin knew it would take time, but he was willing to be patient. after all, loving you was worth every effort.

i.n ღ

i.n had always been mature for his age, but the breakup — caused by his occasional aloofness and failure to recognize how much you needed reassurance — had shaken him to his core. though when you agreed to give him another chance, he knew he couldn’t take it for granted.

the first sign of his determination came when he surprised you with something simple yet meaningful: a framed photo of the two of you from happier times. he handed it to you one evening, his expression both nervous and hopeful. “i wanted to remind you of what we’re working towards,” he said softly. “this is the version of us i want to get back to.”

from that moment on, i.n’s actions spoke louder than any apology he could offer. he started paying closer attention to the little things that made you happy. one afternoon, he showed up at your place with a playlist he had carefully curated. “these songs remind me of you,” he explained, plugging in his headphones to share the music with you. as you listened together, he held your hand, a quiet promise in the way his thumb traced gentle circles on your skin.

his gestures extended to your everyday life. knowing how stressful your days could be, i.n would occasionally leave you handwritten notes in your bag or on your desk, each one filled with words of encouragement and love. “you’re doing amazing, and i’m so lucky to have you in my life,” one note read.

but i.n’s biggest gesture came one weekend when he surprised you with a small picnic at a secluded park. the spread included all your favorite foods, and he had even learned how to make one dish from scratch. “it’s not perfect,” he admitted with a shy laugh as you tasted it, “but i figured you deserved the effort.”

as the evening wore on and the sun set, he turned to you, his eyes earnest. “i know i’ve hurt you,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion behind it. “but i’m learning to be better, and i’ll never stop trying. you mean too much to me.”

his sincerity and consistent efforts slowly began to rebuild the trust between you, showing you that he was willing to do whatever it took to make things right.

han ღ

han wasn’t one to do things halfway, whether it was his music, his humor, or his love for you. the breakup had left him heartbroken, but when you gave him a second chance, he threw himself into proving that he was worthy of your trust.

his first move was to apologize in a way that only han could: through music. late one evening, he sent you a voice note. the melody was soft and heartfelt, and the lyrics spoke of regret, love, and the hope of a new beginning. at the end of the recording, his voice came through, unpolished and raw. “i wrote this for you. it’s not perfect, but neither am i. i just… i want to make you smile again.”

from then on, han made a point to be present in your life in ways that mattered. he started showing up to your favorite café during your lunch breaks, bringing little treats he knew you loved. “thought you might need a pick-me-up,” he’d say with a cheeky grin, placing a pastry and your favorite drink in front of you.

one evening, he invited you to the studio where he worked. “i want to show you something,” he said, leading you inside. on the wall was a collection of sticky notes, each one with a memory, a thought, or something he loved about you. “this is my reminder,” he explained, “of why i can’t mess this up again.”

despite his playful nature, han wasn’t afraid to get serious when it came to making amends. during a quiet moment one night, he looked at you, his usual mischievous expression replaced with a rare vulnerability. “i know i joke around a lot,” he said, his voice soft, “but you’re the most important person in my life. i’ll spend every day proving that i’m worth this second chance.”

han also worked hard to communicate better, often catching himself when he started to get defensive or overwhelmed. “wait,” he’d say during a disagreement, taking a deep breath. “let’s figure this out. i don’t want us to fall apart again.”

with every sweet gesture and heartfelt conversation, han slowly reminded you of why you had fallen for him in the first place, proving that even the most impulsive hearts could learn to love with patience and care.

seung ღ min

seungmin wasn’t the type to let emotions cloud his logic, but the breakup had been a wake-up call. when you decided to give him another chance, seungmin didn’t take it lightly. he knew he couldn’t rely on his usual reserved nature; he had to show you how much you meant to him.

the first sign of his effort came subtly. he started paying attention to the smallest details about you, things you thought he might not have noticed. one morning, you found your favorite drink waiting for you on your desk, a neat note attached: “thought you could use a boost. have a good day. – seungmin.” it was practical, understated, and so very him.

a few days later, he surprised you with something more personal. “i know i’m not great at saying how i feel,” he said one evening, handing you a leather-bound journal. inside were pages filled with his handwriting — entries where he reflected on your time together, what he had learned, and the moments he cherished most. “this is me trying to do better,” he admitted, his voice steady but his eyes vulnerable. “you deserve to know how much i care.”

seungmin also worked on being more emotionally available. during quiet evenings together, he would ask how you were feeling, genuinely listening and responding with thoughtful insight. “i want to understand you better,” he’d say, his tone sincere. “i don’t want to make the same mistakes.”

his biggest gesture came one chilly evening when he invited you to a quiet spot by the river, where a small portable speaker played a playlist he’d curated just for you.

as the two of you sat wrapped in a blanket he’d brought, seungmin turned to you, his expression uncharacteristically tender. “i know i’ve been distant before,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “but i’m here now, and i’ll keep being here — for as long as you’ll let me.”

chang ღ bin

changbin had always been passionate — sometimes to a fault. the breakup, caused by his tendency to act out of frustration and say things he didn’t mean, had left him devastated. when you gave him another chance, he threw himself into showing you how much you meant to him, channeling his fiery energy into thoughtful gestures.

the first thing he did was apologize, not just with words but with actions. one day, you came home to find a handwritten letter on your table, accompanied by a small box of your favorite snacks. the letter read: “i know i’ve hurt you, and i’ll never stop trying to make it up to you. thank you for giving me another chance. – binnie.”

changbin also started showing up for you in ways he hadn’t before. if you mentioned being stressed at work, he’d surprise you with a quick visit, bringing something small to cheer you up. “i figured you might need a break,” he’d say, his boyish grin disarming any tension.

one evening, he invited you to his studio. “i’ve been working on something,” he said, gesturing toward the equipment. as the music played, you realized he had written a song for you — its lyrics raw and honest, capturing both his regret and his deep love for you. “this is how i feel,” he said when the track ended, his voice soft yet firm. “i want to be better, for you and for us.”

despite his big gestures, changbin also made an effort to be more patient and open. during one of your conversations, when emotions ran high, he surprised you by taking a deep breath and saying, “i don’t want to argue. let’s talk about this. i want to understand how you feel.”

his most heartfelt effort came during a casual evening together. as you walked through a park, he suddenly stopped, pulling you close. “i know i’ve been intense at times,” he said, his tone unusually gentle. “but that’s because i love you so much. i’ll keep working on myself because i don’t ever want to lose you again.”

with every gesture, big or small, changbin showed you that his love for you was as unwavering as his determination to make things right.

notes: i’ve never really been in a relationship so i mentioned a lot of things i’d personally want a guy to do for me (T^T) i hope yall enjoyed either way!

[ama3003]

You Caught Me

Character: Bucky Barnes

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: You're Valentina's assistant, and somehow, you manage to fall in love with a certain Congressman.

A.N: DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T WANT THUNDERBOLTS TO BE SEMI SPOILED!!!!!!!!! I have seen Thunderbolts* on Thursday (amazing btw) and have been craving Thunderbolts!Bucky. Also reader is like 25.

Again THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS ARE IN THIS FIC

3...2..1...

You worked your whole life to get here. Straight A’s, a top-tier college, a string of impressive jobs that made your parents brag to their friends.

But that wasn’t the point. You didn’t do all of that just to climb a ladder. You wanted to help people. To actually do good. To give the voiceless a voice, to step in where others wouldn’t. You wanted to make the world better, even if it was just piece by piece.

That’s what led you to OXE. And eventually, to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Or, more accurately, to being her assistant. Though calling it that feels like selling it short.

You’ve been working with her for a few years now. From the very beginning, she seemed to like you. Said you reminded her of herself. You’re still not sure if that was a compliment or a warning.

Valentina can be cold. She’s sharp, calculated, sarcastic to the point of painful. Some of her decisions don’t exactly land on the moral high ground. But she took you in, brought you closer, taught you how to survive in a world most people don't even know exists. And you’ve done things others your age only dream about. You were actually making a difference.

But now everything’s falling apart.

She’s under investigation. Impeachment is on the table. And you’re left trying to put out fires.

You’d been tense the entire hearing. And not the kind of tension that goes away with a few deep breaths. This was chest-tightening, eye-twitching, every-decision-matters tension.

Your job was on the line. Everything you’d worked for — or convinced yourself was worth it — was balancing on Valentina’s ability to lie with a smile.

She was performing. You were managing the fallout.

Your eyes kept drifting — trying to find some kind of anchor. And that’s when you caught a pair of them.

Blue. Cold but curious. Watching.

Congressman Bucky Barnes.

You met his stare, held it a second longer than you should’ve, then forced yourself to look away. Whatever that was — whatever he was trying to read — you didn’t have time to entertain it.

Then Valentina dropped the line you’d been dreading: “By all means, dig as deep as you like. I promise—there’s nothing to find.”

You knew that tone. It meant you had twenty minutes to erase every breadcrumb.

By the time the hearing adjourned, you were already outside, typing fast, juggling secure files and decoy trails on your tablet. You barely noticed the footsteps until—

“Y/N?”

You looked up, and there he was. Again.

That same cool stare, now paired with a too-casual smile.

“Congressman Barnes,” you said smoothly, tucking the tablet under your arm. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve heard...great things.”

“I doubt it. Also, please just Bucky,” he said, offering a hand. “Unless you want to start talking tax policy — then I’ll put the tie back on.”

You cracked a smile and shook his hand. Firm. Warm. Too steady.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing back toward the hearing room. “I mean, what happened in there was... honestly? Kind of worrying. Extremely worrying. Kind of concerning if you ask me...in like a worrying way.”

You tilted your head. “You mean ‘concerning,’ or ‘I’m building a case against your boss’ worrying?”

He blinked. Didn’t expect you to hit back that fast.

You smiled politely. “No need to dance around it. I’m sure you’ve got a folder somewhere with Valentina's name on it.”

His grin crooked slightly. “Maybe. It’s a very organized folder. Color-coded tabs.”

“She always did love being underestimated,” you said with a shrug. “O.X.E. has nothing to hide, of course.”

He didn’t argue, but the look he gave you said he wasn’t buying it.

There was a beat of silence, and then he glanced over your shoulder — where Valentina was watching the two of you, pretending she wasn’t.

“She always stare like that?” he asked casually.

“Only when she thinks someone’s wasting my time.”

“And am I?”

“Depends on why you’re really here.”

He smiled. “Okay, fine. I’m new to D.C. First term, still finding my way. Thought maybe... you could give me a tour. Show me the non-corrupt parts.”

You laughed softly. “That’s a short list.”

“Still. Monuments, museums, a little fresh air — maybe a conversation?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Right. A conversation. Just two people talking. No ulterior motives, no recording devices, no traps.”

He held up his hands. “I left the wire at home.”

You smirked, but you didn’t let it reach your eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying,” he said. “Just... improvising.”

You leaned in just enough for him to know you were done playing. “You’re fishing, Congressman. I’m just not the one you’ll catch.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to flirt again — but you stepped back as Valentina waved you over.

“You're a very good-looking man,” you added, softer now. “And I appreciate the effort. But whatever you’re hoping to dig up from me? You won’t get it over coffee and small talk.”

A beat passed between you.

Then you gave him one last smirk, turned, and walked back toward Valentina — leaving him standing there, watching.

And even though you didn’t look back, you knew those blue eyes hadn’t moved.

*******

You had three things on your mind.

Shut down headquarters.

Erase every trace of Project Sentry.

Clean up Valentina’s reputation before the whole thing implodes.

And somehow, you're doing all of that in a dress and heels at a fundraiser.

“Honestly, Y/N, you have such an amazing brain,” Valentina says, her smile more calculated than warm. “Putting this fundraiser together? Brilliant move. This has to sway at least some of the votes.”

“Thanks,” you reply, quickly scrolling through your tablet. “I’ve categorized the guest list: influencers, allies, and the undecideds. Left off the hard no’s. No point wasting time. I just sent the files to you.”

“Perfect. Do I need you for anything else?”

“No, you should be good. I’ll stay close though. Just in case.”

“Smart. Stay where I can see you. And hear you. Actually, just don’t go far,” she says, already turning to work the room. “Time to network.”

As soon as she walks away, you exhale, realizing you hadn’t even noticed you were holding your breath.

This job is not for the weak. Especially not under someone like her.

You glance around the room, taking in the glittering lights, expensive suits, and fake smiles. Your eyes find Valentina again, instinctively keeping track of her. Then they drift to the large Avengers logo on display at the front of the gala.

You were still a kid the first time you saw the Avengers on screen. They were larger than life. Heroes. They saved people. They made things right.

Now? You’ve seen the world fall apart more times than you can count. And more often than not, no one shows up to fix it.

That’s why you’ve stuck by Valentina. Why you’ve been willing to blur the lines. The world still needs saving. People still need heroes.

They just don’t always look the way you imagined.

“You know,” a voice says beside you, calm but unmistakably familiar, “this whole gala is impressive. The Avengers memorabilia is a nice touch.”

You turn and see him. Congressman Bucky Barnes, standing just a few feet away, his gaze locked on the towering Avengers "A" on display like it still meant something.

“Valentina thought it would help raise awareness,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral, polite. “Tie the past to the present. Nostalgia works.”

You’re careful with your words. You know why he’s here, what game he’s playing. And more importantly, you know where your loyalty lies.

He glances at you now, the full weight of those ice-blue eyes meeting yours. “Awareness for what, exactly?”

You offer a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “The mission has always been simple. Help the people. The world’s been falling apart, and heroes… they’ve disappeared. People need someone to believe in again.”

He nods slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “Again, call me Bucky. Also, that was good. Very rehearsed. Very polished. Bet Valentina was proud of that one.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just here for the hors d'oeuvres,” he says, voice smooth, but you catch the edge underneath it.

You take a step closer. “Look, Congressman Barnes. I know your history. And we both know what happens when evil comes and no one is there to stop it. OXE is trying to prevent that. Everything we do is for the people. Valentina’s impeachment? It won’t go anywhere.”

Even as you say it, there's a flicker of doubt. Small, but there.

He studies you for a moment before pulling a card from inside his jacket and holding it out.

“What’s this?” you ask, accepting it cautiously.

“My direct line. In case you remember something useful.”

You blink at him, caught slightly off guard by how calm he is. How sure.

You move closer, slow and deliberate, then reach up and tuck the card neatly into his chest pocket. “I don’t know what you think you’re implying, but I don’t appreciate it."

The two of you lock eyes, silence stretching between you. Not hostile, exactly. But charged. Neither of you blinks.

Then your phone buzzes.

You glance at your phone. Valentina. Of course.

You slip it back into your pocket and look up at him one more time.

“I have to go,” you say, steady. “Enjoy the rest of the gala, Bucky.”

Your smile is polite, but your eyes stay sharp. You turn and walk off without waiting for a response, the sound of your heels swallowed by the noise of the event.

Behind you, he watches you disappear into the crowd, quiet and thoughtful. Then, without a word, he finds himself slipping the card into your bag later in the night. Not for pressure. Not even for leverage.

Just in case.

And whether you used the card or not—that was your choice. Bucky just hoped he’d planted the seed.

Later that night, you sat beside Valentina in the back of a sleek black car, the city lights flickering across her face as she debriefed the night with a grin.

“I think that went incredibly well,” she said, proud and pleased with herself. “Honestly, I’m so proud of us. Oh—hand me my tablet. I gave it to you earlier when Gary started sniffing around asking too many questions.”

Your fingers found something thin. Smooth edges. Not the tablet.

The card.

Bucky’s card.

Your stomach tightened, just for a second.

He’d slipped it in without you noticing. Of course he had.

You stared at it between your fingers. You should’ve tossed it the second you felt it. Should’ve never looked at it again. But something kept your hand still.

“Y/N?” Valentina’s voice cuts in, sharp and expectant. “Tablet. Me. Now.”

You snap out of it, quickly pushing the card deeper into your bag before pulling out the tablet and handing it over.

She doesn’t notice. She’s already scrolling.

You tried to focus on the night’s success, the way people clapped when Valentina spoke, the headlines you knew would be glowing by morning. But that card was still in your bag. And the worst part? You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About the look in his eyes.

About the weight of what he said.

Maybe—just maybe—he really did get in your head. And maybe that seed he planted was already starting to grow.

*********

You’d made a mistake. A big one.

And you knew it.

Your heart raced as you paced the cramped hallway, mind spiraling. You'd believed you were making a difference—helping Valentina clean up her reputation felt like part of that. She said she needed you. That this was how things got done. So you listened.

Then she told you to burn the loose ends. Literally burn them.

Human beings.

And still, you followed orders. You rationalized. You looked the other way.

But the plan didn’t go as expected. They didn’t go quietly.

They were fighting back.

And Valentina didn’t like that.

Now a SWAT team is going to finish the job.

You couldn't let them die. You knew their names. Their stories. You didn’t believe they deserved this—not like this. Maybe it was too late to save them all, but maybe you could help save others.

Maybe there was still a chance.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You dug into your bag, searching through the chaos until your fingers found it. That damn card.

You stared at it for a beat. Then you called.

It rang once. Then again. And then he picked up.

“This is Y/N,” you said before he could get a word in, your voice low, rushed, almost breathless. “I’ve, uh... been thinking. Remember that tour you wanted? You were right. Since you’re new to D.C., I figured—why not? Let’s hit the monuments. Maybe a museum. Or... I don’t know. Just talk. Just you and me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“A chat?” Bucky’s voice came through, teasingly. You started biting your nails, heart pounding. “Yeah. I’m down for a chat. When and where?”

Before you could answer, Valentina’s voice sliced through the hallway outside.

“I swear to god, Y/N, do I have to spell it out for you? You're coming with us. Get your ass in the car. Who else is going to make my coffee right? I swear, you Gen Zers make me want to throw myself off this damn building.”

You went silent, your jaw clenched. Bucky didn’t say anything either, but you knew he heard it.

Everything inside you was pulling in different directions. Guilt. Fear. Fury. Shame.

You swallowed hard.

“Look…” you whispered, voice shaking a little. “I’m sorry about the last few times. You were right. You were always right. I was so stupid. She doesn’t care about the world. She just wants the glory.”

You were rambling now. You always did when your anxiety started creeping up your throat.

“Whoa, hey—slow down, sweetheart,” he said gently. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just tell me what I need to know.”

But before you could speak again, Valentina shouted your name, louder this time.

You turned slightly, lowered your voice again.

“Do you have an iPhone?”

“No. Samsung.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course. “Do you know how to track a phone?”

“I mean, yeah. But I don’t really do that anymore.”

“Well... start doing it again.”

You paused, then added quietly, “I have to go. Track my location. You'll get your answer.”

Then you hung up.

You let out a long breath, pushed the card deep back into your bag, and ran toward Valentina’s voice.

Hoping Bucky understood.

**********

You were pacing again. Nerves buzzing. Mind racing. You were worried about the others. They escaped when Bob distracted them. Then they couldn't find them. But something told you Bucky had gotten to them first. You could feel it in your gut.

He pulled through. Of course he did.

But now… there was a new problem.

Bob.

The new guy. The unstable one.

He wasn’t like the others. Something about him was off from the start. Too volatile. Too quick to react. And now he had powers — real powers — thanks to Valentina.

She said he was the future. Said he was the key.

But all you saw was a ticking bomb with a name tag.

He didn’t need power or exposure. He needed help. And if no one stepped in soon, he was going to destroy everything — maybe even himself.

You ducked into a quiet hallway, slipped into an empty supply closet, and dialed Bucky’s number with shaking hands.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Y/N,” he said, breathless like he’d been mid-action. “We’re good. I got them. Everyone’s safe. I’m keeping them under wraps as witnesses, so we’re covered. You did the right thing calling me. Thank you.”

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the wall.

“No,” you said softly. “Bucky, there’s more. A lot more.”

There was a pause.

“Talk to me.”

“She did it,” you whispered. “She actually made one. A super soldier. His name’s Bob.”

“Bob?” he repeated, half in disbelief, half already bracing for what was coming next.

You could hear background chatter on his end — voices muttering “Yeah, Bob,”

“Yes. Bob the super soldier. He’s... not stable, Bucky. He’s got powers, strength, speed — but his head isn’t right. He’s spiraling, and Valentina’s using him like he’s a tool.

You were rambling now, the anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

“She’s restarting the entire program, and this guy — he’s the prototype. And if she gets away with this, there will be more. Stronger. You have to stop it before it turns into something we can’t come back from.”

There was silence on the line. Then you heard him moving, footsteps pacing across concrete.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m coming. I’ll handle it.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

“Hey,” his voice softened, “are you okay?”

“I... I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking just slightly. “Everything I worked for is going to be for nothing. I'm freaking out.”

“You don’t have to carry this alone, you know.”

“I can't tell my friends or family.” you said, quieter now. “I already feel guilty and shameful enough. They would just make me feel worse.”

Another pause. Then softer, “Y/N... I meant what I said. You did the right thing. And I’m proud of you. Really.”

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it. “Thanks. That means more than you probably realize.”

“I realize it,” he said. And it was quiet, but it hit you harder than it should’ve.

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “Are they okay? The others?”

“They’re safe. A little roughed up, but they’re going to be fine.”

“Good. That’s good,” you said, exhaling. “I should go. I’ll keep feeding you updates when I can. Just… get here fast, alright?”

“Okay,” He finally whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your pocket before walking out the door. You immediately froze when your boss stared at you with raised eyebrows.

“Well,” she said coolly, “out of everyone, I never thought you would be the one second-guessing your work.”

You didn’t flinch. Not this time. “Giving Bob those powers? It’s reckless. And you know it.”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head like you were some disappointing intern instead of her right hand. “I’m not going to argue with you, kid. I like you. I really do. You’ve done exceptional work—with me. For us. That’s why I’m giving you a little time to get your head on straight.”

Your jaw clenched. You said nothing.

“But,” she added, stepping a little closer, lowering her voice, “don’t let Barnes cloud that beautiful brain of yours. He’s a distraction. A loud, inconvenient one. And he’s getting in the way.”

You met her gaze evenly, letting the silence stretch.

Then, without a word, you grabbed your purse and walked past her—heels clicking, spine straight.

You needed to find Bucky.

*********

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet the New Avengers."

After countless photos and a barrage of questions, you kept your smile steady, doing your job one last time.

“Thank you all for coming,” you said with calm finality. “Photos and questions will stop here. I’ll be in touch about the next press briefing soon. Seriously—thank you again.”

You gave a polite nod as Valentina waved beside you, her signature smirk in place.

As the crowd began to disperse, you turned your attention to the Thunderbolts. With a gentle but firm push, you guided them out of view, away from the cameras. And then—without thinking—you grabbed Bucky and pulled him into a hug.

You couldn’t stop yourself.

You’d been searching for him. Panicking. Lost. The last image you had was of him stepping into the Void. The moment his silhouette became just that—a shadow—you screamed his name. And then… nothing.

You thought you’d lost him.

But now, here he was. Alive. Solid. Real. And all the emotions you’d buried came rushing back.

You knew there was something between you—something electric, something raw and waiting. It had barely started, but it already meant something. And for a bit, you'd been mourning the future that never got a chance to begin.

Now, you didn’t have to mourn anymore.

The moment stretched. Everyone around you went quiet. You barely registered your boss muttering an uneasy, “Oh dear.”

Bucky froze, stiff in your arms. He glanced around, uncertain. John gave him a look before mimicking hugging someone. Alexei flashed a thumbs-up. The girls? They just smirked.

“I saw you,” you whispered, pulling back just slightly. “I saw you walk into the Void. You became a shadow. I—I was trying to find you, and then you pulled that crap. What the hell, Barnes?”

He opened his mouth, but you beat him to it—stepping back before he could even return the embrace.

“I’m okay,” he said gently. “I swear, I’m fine.” He just wanted you back into his arms.

“You still scared the hell out of me,” you said, your voice breaking just a little. “I thought you were gone for good.”

Bucky's expression softened. “I’m not going anywhere. You still owe me that tour, remember?”

You laughed—half out of relief, half because it suddenly felt so easy to breathe again. You stepped closer, pulled him into a kiss, and he kissed you back without hesitation. Sparks. Heat. Home.

When you finally pulled away, smiling, you whispered, “Looks like you caught me.”

He grinned. “Looks like I have.”

Then you kissed again.

A loud groan broke the moment. “I feel like I’m gonna barf,” Val muttered.

“Shut up, Val,” the entire team replied in unison.

[multific]

His Love

Marcus Acacius x Reader

Summary: You were meant to marry him, thinking he is an unkind man, you kept your distance from him, but soon, you learned the truth. 

As the sun cast its golden rays over the bustling streets of ancient Rome, Marcus Acacius, a bold Roman soldier, crossed paths with you, his soon-to-be wife. 

At first, your heart held nothing but hate for this man, seeing him as a brute and unkind soul. 

However, destiny had a different plan in store for both of you.

In an unexpected turn of events, you discovered that he was nothing like your initial judgment had led you to believe. 

Beneath his hardened exterior lay a heart filled with kindness, compassion, and a burning love for you.

You wanted to explore that.

To see where it would lead the two of you. 

And so, you began to spend more time together. 

You ate together and even went on many walks around the city. Seeing him interact with people made you realise just how kind he was.

Watching him smile spread a warmth inside your heart.

Slowly, the walls you had built around your heart began to crumble. 

Marcus's gentle words and thoughtful gestures slowly melted away your worries, allowing love to blossom inside you. 

In the tender moments shared, he revealed his vulnerability and how deeply he had fallen for you.

One evening, Marcus took your hand and whispered to you. 

"My love, I know that our journey together began with animosity, but I promise you, my intentions have always been pure. I am here to protect you, cherish you, and love you with every fibre of my being."

Tears welled up in your eyes at his words. 

"Marcus, I never imagined that behind your cold facade, there would be such a loving heart. I am grateful for the person you have shown me, and I too must confess, I have fallen deeply in love with you."

From that moment forward, your lives intertwined as you embarked on a journey filled with love, trust, and unwavering devotion.

Your wedding was simple. Your family was there, and you had a great time.

But you were just thankful for the journey ahead of you with a husband so loving, kind and handsome. 

In the years that followed, amidst the madness of war and the difficulties of life, Marcus remained your dedicated rock. 

His unwavering support and unwavering love carried you through every storm, reminding you of the depth of his commitment.

Of his Love.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou 

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen 

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[anamina0]

Echoes

Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV , Part V , Part VI, Part VII , Part VIII

Summary: Fleeing the wreckage of your heartbreak, you land in the chaos of Zaun, pouring drinks at a dingy bar. You're still facing unresolved feelings and emotions towards Ellie, but they’re easier to bury when Vi storms into your life—a whirlwind of sharp words and reckless energy. You start off bad, really bad but it's enough for you to think of something else for a bit.

warnings/themes : angst, heartbreak, lots of trauma, kind of enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, a bit of violence, au

word count : 3.8k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back at it again, falling just where you started , completely alone , full of sorrow and regrets. Moving away to a completely unknown place was the best escape plan - literally. You knew nothing about this city, save for a few stories your best friend had told you. Yet, even the thought of staying in the same place as her couldn’t outweigh your choice - you'd rather wander off Zaun's shadowed streets, losing yourself for a lifetime than remain bound to the familiar.

City was close to what you have imagined. The fractures that happened few years ago helped to a great extent , after decades of suffering, the city had finally exhaled, though it had not lost its soul. Cleansed of its grime, its fumes, and its shadowed figures, the streets and the people remained exactly as your friend had described them—a perfect echo of her tales.

Finding a job wasn't hard , from now on you'd serve drinks in one of the city’s dim, suspiciously isolated bars—barely more than a shadow in the corner of a forgotten street. Pay wasn't good but it was enough for an apartment and food, nothing else mattered to you. You were trying your best to take as many shifts as you could, working whole night helped you not think about her , during daytime you would typically crash out , exhausted from your job. And yet, she always found a way to reappear.

At the bar, you distracted yourself by watching customers. Most of them came for a drink and a chance to ease their burdens, but for you, the real game was observing them—piecing together their stories from a glance, a gesture, a half-heard conversation. Sometimes , thought of her would reappear . Something would remind you of her scent, her voice, slipping into your mind without warning. But you had mastered the art of distraction, shifting your focus before the memories could take root.

It was in your dreams where she would visit most frequently, escape from her was almost impossible, as though she determined to remind you of what you wanted to forget: that no change of address, no new life, could erase her. She was etched into you, inescapably, a part of you as much as your own breath. But you had to move on , that's what you were best at, carrying pain and suffering throughout your life, god knows you've been doing that since the day you were born.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone calm but firm, as she stepped closer to you.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “Ellie,” you whispered, bracing yourself for the inevitable fallout. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.” The words spilled out in a shaky breath.

Her green eyes searched yours, unreadable but sharp. “Why is that?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost careful.

“You already know why,” you said, your gaze flickering over her face—her furrowed brow, the tightness in her jaw. Anxiety clawed at your chest, every emotion colliding at once: fear, anger, love, and a desire that burned despite everything. Losing her wasn’t an option, not like this.

“That’s the problem,” she said, stepping even closer, her boots scraping softly against the floor. “I don’t know why. You told me how you felt and then ran off, didn’t even wait for my answer.” Her voice broke slightly, frustration seeping through, though she was clearly trying to hold it together—for your sake. “That’s not fair.”

“I couldn’t take it anym—” you began, but your trembling words cut short as Ellie moved.

Her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady against your skin. “I need you,” she whispered, her voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “More than you could ever need me.”

“Nothing’s going to change that,” she said, her voice unwavering now, as if it was the most certain truth in the world.

* * * * * * * * *

Once again, your own screams tore you from sleep, Ellie had found her way into your dreams.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, the echo of her voice lingered in your ears. You glanced at the clock hanging crookedly on the wall and exhaled in relief—it was almost time for another shift.

You moved through your routine on autopilot: a quick shower, clothes and out the door. The walk to the bar felt like a blur, your thoughts still tangled with fragments of the dream you couldn’t shake.

“Hey there,” you greeted Revek, arguably only person who could be considered as your friend in Zaun , as you stepped behind the counter.

He glanced at you with that signature smirk of his, tossing his apron onto the counter. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. Twenty minutes late, no less.” Leaning against the bar, he crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Alright, what is it this time? Lost your keys? Got cornered by some hooligans? Or let me guess—lost track of time again?” His smirk widened as he tapped the counter, signaling for his usual drink.

“Cut me some slack, you asshole,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like they’re paying me enough to show up on time.” You reached for the shaker, pouring his drink without missing a beat. “I just… had a bad dream, alright?”

The smirk faded slightly as he took the cup from your hand, his gaze softening. “Not again,” he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. He took a long sip before adding, “You know, if you ever want to talk about it… I’m here.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said quickly, brushing him off with a weak smile. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Now scooch—you’re scaring off my customers.”

Revek gave you a knowing look, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he pushed himself off the barstool, raising the cup in a mock toast. “Fine, fine. Just don’t forget—I’ve got a hell of a good ear for this kind of thing.”

You watched him walk away, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine. Fixing your hair in the reflection of a glass, you turned to face the empty bar. The night was long, but at least behind the counter, you could pretend your mind wasn’t a battlefield.

The day had been dragging. The bar was dead slow, with only a few regulars stopping by for a drink and a bit of small talk. You made an effort to keep busy—wiping down the already spotless counter, rearranging bottles, polishing glasses—anything to make the hours pass. Not until she walked in. The air shifted instantly, the tension almost suffocating as the door swung shut behind her. You froze, your hand mid-reach for a glass, and looked up. You’d seen countless faces walk through those doors. From the desperate to the careless, from the downtrodden to the troublemakers, the bar had welcomed them all. Nobody ever stood out—nobody cared about anyone else here. That’s what you liked about this place. People came in, had their drinks, exchanged a few words, maybe played a game or two, and left as if they’d never existed to one another. But her? She shattered that silence like glass. You didn’t know who she was, but everyone else seemed to. Heads turned, conversations halted, and even the usual clamor of the old jukebox seemed to dull in her presence. She strode toward the bar, brushing off the stares that trailed her like shadows. It was obvious she didn’t give a single fuck about anyone in the room. Whatever power she held over the crowd, she didn’t seem interested in wielding it—at least, not tonight. Stopping at the counter, she gave the drinks menu the briefest glance before tapping the laminated surface with her finger.

"Can I have this?” she muttered, her voice low and uninterested, pointing to a drink. Then, without looking at you, she added, “Make it a double.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, watching her as you reached for the bottle. She didn’t meet your gaze, didn’t acknowledge you at all, but that only gave you the chance to study her features: pink hair cut into a sharp mullet, light blue eyes that didn’t seem to care about much, and freckles scattered across her nose like they’d been painted there.

“Here you go,” you said, sliding the drink toward her. She grabbed it without a word, her attention flickering to the room around her. Even now, she seemed utterly uninterested in you—or anyone else, for that matter. She didn’t sip the drink so much as down it, her throat working as the liquid disappeared almost too quickly. You found yourself leaning slightly forward, unable to look away. There was something about her, something impossible to read. You liked puzzles, and she was the hardest one you’d come across in a long time.

Who was she? Some kind of criminal? Or maybe she was the exact opposite? Why was she here? Trying to get drunk, or waiting for someone? Before you could settle on an answer, she tapped the counter sharply, her empty glass sitting in front of her. The message was clear. Another. You poured the drink without hesitation, the silence between you stretching long and tense. As you set the glass down, she didn’t so much as glance your way.

“You’re welcome,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, hoping to at least provoke some kind of reaction.

It worked—but not the way you’d hoped. She turned her head, finally looking at you, and you almost wished she hadn’t. Her glare was sharp, cutting, and filled with barely-contained anger.

“Just do your job,” she said coldly, her voice low and cutting. “I didn’t come here for chitchat.”

She turned back to her drink, dismissing you entirely, but the tension she left behind lingered in the air, coiling around you like smoke. Whatever game you thought you were playing, she wasn’t interested.

“What an asshole,” you thought bitterly, dragging your gaze away from her and down to the bar. The question lingered in your mind—should you say something? Not because you couldn’t stand up for yourself, but because, you weren’t sure if she was even worth it.

She tossed back another drink, her sharp eyes cutting across the room as she motioned lazily for someone to come over.

“Again,” she muttered, her gaze flicking back to you. For a fleeting second, it softened—just barely. But the moment was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual aloofness when a tall man approached her with an appearance that screamed trouble. You busied yourself making another drink, ears pricked to catch their conversation.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Vi,” the man greeted her, his tone carrying an edge of wary excitement.

She chuckled dryly, grabbing her fresh glass without even looking at him.

“What are you playing over there?” she asked, dismissive, like she hadn’t even heard him.

He hesitated, glancing at his buddies like he was searching for backup. It was obvious he didn’t want her involved, but too afraid to say no.

“Just some boring cards,” he replied with a strained grin. “You’re, uh, welcome to join.”

“I’ll be right there.” Her words were ice-cold as she turned back to you. “Another one.”

You stared at her silently, letting your expression say everything your words didn’t. She noticed. Of course, she noticed.

But instead of acknowledging it, she took the drink you handed her and headed over to the table of men, sliding into a seat among the kind who spent their nights gambling away the last shreds of their dignity. Vi. That was her name. At least you had that much now. But she was still a puzzle—a unsolvable one. You watched her, lost in your thoughts, until Revek appeared from the back of the bar, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

“Haven’t seen her in a while,” he muttered, settling onto a stool.

“Who even is she?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Revek leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember I told you abour shit that went down three years ago? Piltover, Zaun, all that Hextech chaos?”

You nodded.

“She was part of it. A big part.”

You squinted, piecing it together. “That explains why everyone knows her down here.” You frowned, the anger bubbling back up. “She’s an asshole.”

Revek chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, you could say that. After everything went to hell, she holed up in some dump around here. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Just drifts between bars, sometimes… worse places, drowning herself in cheap booze.”

“Was she always like this?” you pressed, desperate to understand.

“That’s a long story,” Revek began, but his words were cut off by the sharp sound of glass shattering across the room.

Your head snapped toward the noise. Of course, it was her, standing over some poor bastard, yelling and swearing. Revek shot you a look and stood, ready to step in, but you stopped him with a firm hand.

“I’ll handle it,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“You sure?” he asked, hesitation in his voice.

You nodded, already moving toward the chaos. By the time you got there, she was on top of the guy, fists flying with a fury that could have leveled buildings. The crowd around them was frozen, too shocked—or maybe too entertained—to intervene.

“Hey!” you shouted, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Stop it! Now!” you tried again.

Still nothing. She was too far gone, lost in her rage. Without thinking, you moved in to pull her off—but before you could, pain exploded across your face, and you found yourself on the ground, disoriented.

The room went silent.

When your vision cleared, you realized, she had hit you.

Vi stood over you, her expression flickering with something almost like regret. “Shit,” she muttered, reaching a hand toward you. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Get the fuck out,” you snapped, cutting her off as you staggered to your feet.

She hesitated, her gaze locking with yours. You made sure she saw every ounce of your anger, your disgust.

“Now,” you commanded, stepping closer.

For once, she didn’t fight back. She just turned and walked.

Days passed, and thankfully, she didn’t come back. Still, every time you stood behind the bar, her face crept into your mind—her cockiny, her sharp eyes, her unbearable attitude. It filled you with rage. You already had too much on your plate; the last thing you needed was to waste energy hating some pink-haired asshole. But despite yourself, you couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At least thoughts of her kept you from thinking about Ellie. But replacing heartbreak with anger wasn’t exactly a healthy trade.

It was another calm day, the kind you’d come to appreciate in the wake of the chaos she’d brought. If anything, her outburst had earned you some respect. The regulars gave you a nod, a look, as if standing up to her had proven something. But the peace didn’t last. The bar doors swung open, and the room fell into an all-too-familiar hush. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. The tension in the air told you everything.

Vi.

Revek appeared at your side almost immediately, his eyes darting toward her. “This gonna be trouble?” he asked, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” you replied, keeping your gaze locked on her as she strode toward you. There was something deliberate in her steps, something… different.

Her eyes met yours from across the room, and you stood your ground.

“I think I made myself clear last time,” you said coolly, though your voice carried that simmering edge of anger you couldn’t quite hide. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I know,” she replied, stopping in front of the bar. Her tone was calm, almost subdued. “I’ll leave. But first, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying her. There was no cocky smirk, no sarcastic retort. Just… awkwardness.

“I was drunk,” she continued, her voice low. “That guy said something—something that pissed me off. I lost control.” She hesitated, her eyes searching yours. “It’s not an excuse, but… I didn’t mean to hit you. I would never—”

“But you did,” you cut her off sharply, though you could already feel the fight draining out of you. She was being honest. You hated that you could tell, but you could.

“I know.” Her voice softened even more. “I didn’t see you. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

You exhaled, your shoulders dropping slightly as you leaned against the counter. You weren’t ready to forgive her—not entirely. But you were exhausted from carrying so much anger.

“Fine,” you said at last, pouring her the drink she’d ordered last time. Sliding it across the bar, you added, “I appreciate your honesty. I don’t appreciate assholes, though. And you? You were an asshole.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she accepted the drink. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But instead, she downed it in one quick motion, set the glass back on the counter, and walked out without another word.

She started coming back. At first, you thought it was a fluke—a one-time thing. But no. A few days later, she was there again. And again.

Sometimes she was alone, sometimes with a new girl on her arm, but the pattern stayed the same. She’d order a few drinks, stay for a while, and leave without so much as a word in your direction. She’d read your message loud and clear. But what you couldn’t figure out was why. Zaun was filled with bars—plenty of them even filthier than this one. So why keep coming back to this one? Was it defiance? Did she just not care about the fact that you didn’t want her here? Then there were the moments that left you even more confused. The way her gaze would linger,as she was hanging out with some random girl, her eyes flicking over to you when she thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t often, but it was enough to notice. Enough to keep her lodged firmly in your thoughts.

Vi was a mystery. An infuriating, captivating mystery. And for some reason, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to figure her out. Maybe it was the distraction she provided, pulling you away from the ache of Ellie. Or maybe it was something else. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she owned a room even when she was silent. Whatever it was, she had you hooked—and you hated her for it.

Today was no different. She strolled in like she owned the place, another girl trailing behind her—a new one this time. She made a beeline for the bar and ordered a round of drinks before sliding into a table suspiciously close to where you were working. Maybe you were imagining things, but it felt deliberate. There were plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the room, especially ones better suited for whatever this was supposed to be. An intimate date? That hardly seemed like Vi’s style. The girl with her seemed sweet. Blonde hair with blue highlights that caught the dim lights of the bar, bright eyes, a soft smile. She leaned toward Vi as they talked, her body language screaming interest. But Vi? She sat back, arms draped casually over the chair, her expression distant, detached. It was like she craved the closeness but couldn’t bring herself to let anyone in.

It was… familiar. Too familiar.

You turned back to the counter, your hands working on autopilot as you wiped down the surface. Yet, no matter how much you tried to ignore her, your gaze kept drifting in her direction. And every time it did, you caught her watching you.

You didn’t like it.

Pouring yourself a drink, you told yourself it was just to take the edge off. One drink turned into two, and before long, the alcohol made everything sharper, more noticeable. You were too aware of her—every glance, every quiet laugh, every time her eyes flicked toward you. When it happened again, you decided enough was enough. You locked eyes with her, letting your gaze trail over her features, daring her to look away. She didn’t. At first, she looked confused, but that quickly morphed into something smug—a slow, cocky smirk creeping across her face. She leaned over, whispering something in the blonde’s ear. The girl nodded, and just like that, Vi stood and headed straight for you.

“Hey there,” she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar edge of arrogance. Her eyes bore into yours, steady, confident.

“Well, look at you,” you quipped, leaning casually against the bar. “Turns out you can talk.”

She smirked. “Can you blame me? You called me an asshole and made it pretty clear you didn’t want me to talk to you.”

“Both of those things are true,” you replied with a dismissive shrug, though the faint trace of a grin played on your lips. You blamed the alcohol.

“So let me get this straight,” she teased. “You don’t want to talk to me, but you want me to talk to you? Maybe even acknowledge you?”

“Oh, I’ve noticed you acknowledging me,” you shot back, your tone dry. “Not with words, though.” Your hand idly wiped at the counter with a cloth, pretending nonchalance.

Vi chuckled, brushing off your jab. “Fair enough. Since you’re so insistent, let me drop the ‘asshole behavior’ for a minute.” She leaned in slightly. “I don’t even know your name.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to meet her halfway. “It’s Y/N,” you said, your voice firm. A beat of silence lingered between you, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a small smirk of your own, you added, “Now get back to your date. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You didn’t wait to see her reaction. The sudden surge of emotions made your chest tighten, and you dropped the cloth and glass onto the counter, heading for the backroom.

Intimacy—it wasn’t something you wanted. Not now. Not with her. Even the smallest brush of warmth from someone else felt like an open wound. You were comfortable in the cold, with the pain. Examining Vi had been easy, safe. She was uncertainty and sharp edges, not softness. You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it and exhaling deeply. Maybe one of these days you’d figure out what Vi was really doing to you. But not tonight. Not yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note from author: It's my first time writing something ever please please please let me know if you liked that! I think that this fic will have 6/8 parts , so there's a lot unfold here. I kinda changed finale of Arcane, because Vi and Caitlyn don't end up together. Also, I have included Ellie as reader's ex girlfriend, so she will have more appearances in future. It would mean world to me if you shared my work (if you liked it of course) and please don't hesitate to message me, ask me questions about it or let me know what are your thoughts! Thank you!

[werezmastarbucks]

three hugs

idol!yoongi x f!reader oneshot

oneshot

oneshot!!!!

You will do well to remember that Yoongi is in love with his job first; he is married to his music and is merely cheating with you. There's no space or capacity in his life for commitment to a human; only, the way he cares for you betrays his inconvenient feelings.

warnings/tags: FWB, unreciprocated feelings, jealousy, emotionally cold lovers, dual pov, aerophobia, lovers to exes to ???, drunk sex, cursing, emotionally unavailable Yoongi, hiking in Japan, smut kind of hits you in the face a little, but it's not super graphic?

word count: 12652

music: on the low by justin park, i like it by skz, spring attitude by sunwoojunga

author's note: guys i am stuck in dramatic present. break me out pls

"Shit".

"What?"

You slide the chapstick over your lips.

"It's mint".

Yoongi makes the curious cat-face, raising his eyebrows and pressing his lips together.

"Let me try?"

He found you on the balcony at one of the corporate parties. Those same parties where there was always one particular asshole recording things from under the elbow, in secret, for "reassurance". Thankfully, that evening didn't leak. Yoongi found you on the balcony when you were standing with your hand outstretched, catching rain, and he thought, thank fuck. A normal person. Some piano music was playing, reminding him of Mount Tate. It made him think of low Japanese pines and the fresh morning up above the ground. The droplets were gathering in your palm. You recognized his silhouette although you hadn't spoken before that. You were in too deep from the very beginning.

Now he is kissing you in the corridor of your Hannam-dong apartment, tasting the chapstick and making a face.

"It's freezing".

He's leaving first. You leave fifteen minutes later after his car is half way out of the neighbourhood. You aren't seen together in the street or establishments, unless it's an idol-approved restaurant where mobile phone use is banned altogether, and all the staff is on a massive pile of various NDAs. You do not get to hold hands or speak sweetly to each other, but he gets to watch his dick slide in and out of you, your lips wrap around it, gets to squeeze your breast and twist it, slap your thigh as you bounce on his lap, gets to mess your hair in his fist, yanking your head back, and you get to hear him produce god-fearing moans as he is orgasming under you. You do not date, you are four times removed colleagues and fuck buddies, and for the longest time it works well and boosts productivity tenfold. Stressed? Fuck. Depressed? Fuck. Yoongi can growl at his soundboard, then fall backwards onto his chair and keep falling until he lands head first on your lap. You are careful not to linger with your hand in his hair for too long lest he gives you that look that you don't like. When the tint of pleasure and casuallness slips off his pupil and he starts looking inside of you.

The reason is has been working so well was because you were both too busy and aloof to think about it. Two consenting adults, surviving on coffee shots and IVs, just trying to cum once in a while, and have someone around, who doesn't piss you off. Who doesn't know the people you talk shit about, so they don't side with them.

The fallout happened for you when you noticed him wrinkle his whole face as he squeezed a silicone slime, anatomically correct heart, in a futile attempt to "release the stress". Producer laughed at his snoot. You thought, oh, he's cute.

Oh, shit, he's cute.

Then the whole wagon of romance bullshit started filling your head and it felt like from then on you had about twice as much work. The load that feelings put on you cannot be overestimated. It's the constant thinking, even when you need to be concentrated. It drains the fun out of the sexual arrangement because now, instead of laughing at his jokes, you feel the fire at your ears and awkwardly giggle.

As he brushes his open palm across your hip in a mindless gesture, all of a suden, your whole body jerks, reacts, like a car starting all over again, like you've been zipped.

"Whoa. Haven't had enough?" he asks in the deep, rumbling voice that always gives you one promise. If you want, he can fuck for hours. Ten minutes in between rounds, glass of water, and he's good to go again. Yoongi is never stingy with compliments about your body; he always lets you know when you look breathtaking, and how the angle is to die for, and how nice your curves are, and how he appreciates you.

What he isn't generous with, is the actual connection.

On the day when you simply hang out in the same space, you, with your laptop, getting the documents ready, you decide to annoy him under the guise of being mad at everybody else. You're glad you have established earlier that you're an easily irritable person, because now Yoongi isn't suspicious when you seek his company.

But when you step to him from behind, completely misreading the atmosphere, and put your hands around his shoulders, he flinches. Yoongi never yells, god forbid, or even grunts at you, but instead, he turns around quite coldly, and says,

"Don't make it weird, okay? There was no need for that".

He shows you your place. You are, to each other, instruments. Friends almost, he enjoys your sense of humour when you're cool, and, preferably, naked. He respects your space and expects you to do the same with him. You know he is somebody who needs a lot of alone time. You are the same. The elite type of people who know how to be alone. But you have miscalculated that, after all the sixty-nines, maybe, a hug wouldn't be too out of the line. It is though.

It hurts you because you had already lost. The day when he found you on the balcony catching the rain and made an adorably cautious conversation, you had recognized his frame before he stepped into the pool of light, and you should have known that the cup will overflow and you will fall in love with him.

Like, it's ridiculous, who wouldn't? He constantly makes these funny faces, shaking his oval head, and crunches his nose, and is so quiet that it draws you in. When he comes over for the first time, the fucking doesn't start for thirty minutes because he is fixing a closet door that caught his eye. He is this... an effortlessly lovable, rare person. Emotionally shut, which you interpret as manipulation instead of a fact. His gaze tells you, yes, it only takes two screws. What's the big deal?

You are deeply hurt by his rejection, then a little concerned when he doesn't text for a whole week; it's getting dangerous because you don't know where the line is, that you shouldn't cross. You practice with his brothers: Namjoon seems to like you, and you tend to work with him a lot, sampling his voice and sending him variants. You learn this about yourself: casual touch isn't a norm at all, so it's fair that Yoongi got alarmed at it. You avoid touching people even when you are very drunk: no matter how soft, attractive, squishy they look, you tend to keep your hands to yourself. His suspicion in quenched after a bit, he starts looking you in the eye again as you play annoyance. Yoongi is the type to quietly retreat from an argument, to give up if it takes too much effort to battle; to pretend not to notice rather than confront. When there's a quarrel breaking out, which happens relatively often considering how many different people he is surrounded with, and him, having his authentic, strong opinions; when there's a fight, he visibly shuts off, covers his stomach with his arms and slightly turns around, checks out. Especially when it doesn't concern him or his band. Especially with people he doesn't love.

And he doesn't love you. He likes you, respects you, finds you very attractive for some reason. But he shows love in a completely obvious, unmistakeable way. You know he loves Jimin because he never flinches when Jimin assaults him with hugs. He loves music because he spends all of his waking time with her; he speaks about music; he sees the world through her. He loves mountains, and it's simply easily readable in the way he looks around sometimes. He opens up rarely, and when it's about something that he wants to do, it's usually going to the mountains.

He doesn't love you because it's inconvenient, stressful and isn't booked in his schedule. In his daily life, almost every minute is dedicated to doing something. Even sleep is rationed; he knows what time he eats and what time he showers. There's very little space for improvisation, and at first you felt sorry for him. Because, even though you work in the same place, you are simply an office rat. You walk around the building teaching language models and giving them idol voices. You have days off, evenings off, lunch time and a circle outside work. You can walk the street without covering your head with a hood, a hat, glasses and a mask. You used to feel sorry for him because you thought Yoongi and his other boys were kind of victims to their jobs, but soon learnt that his insane schedule is his own doing. He made it. Training, gym, English, Japanese, guitar, vocals, piano, doctors, meetings, shooting, repeat. Asking him why he lives like that would be stupid. It's because he loves it.

You close up. Losers are left with feeling the sorrow and like the third wheel. That's what you get for catching feelings when you never wanted them in the first place. You're not star-struck: you see him in his least glamourous, in the mornings when he is so groggy that he looks like an old man, dragging his feet around the room, struggling to find his own pants. His hair is all but dead, dry, burnt, occasionally it gets softer when his hairdresser undertakes emergency treatments. You stop thinking of Yoongi as an idol three months into fucking him. That part of his life is constantly present, of course; you even get to see him in his public persona from time to time, but he feels like a different person then. Yoongi is just - surrounded by limits, often a physically unreachable lover, that you happened to get a crush on. You keep on living, having this affair, thinking that the feelings, undeveloped, tend to die sooner or later.

The only thing you can't forget is the look he has given you when he refused your hug. You're not enough to have the right to distract him from work. You aren't loved enough to nag on him or call him without a purpose. You should remember your place. He does good in not invading your space, so what's your excuse?

Otherwise, he's a good guy. Yoongi is generally kind and patient with everybody. If there's a choice, he chooses to do good.

─────────────────────────────────────

Like now.

You click your tongue and swipe the web page closed.

"Hm?"

Your favourite band is touring across Europe without thinking of dropping by your place, or at least somewhere in Asia.

"I can even get the tickets, but flights are too expensive because it's the season".

"Berlin?"

"Yeah", you reply absent-mindedly.

"I can take you. I can go there earlier".

"Don't you have the show in May?"

"They've asked me to choose the date, and I haven't decided yet", Yoongi stretches his arms, then falls on the side like a cat, pressing the top of his head to your ribs as his hand tickles them under your other arm. You shift. He knows you don't like tickling too much and does it when he wants a reaction. You clutch his hand shortly to tell him to stop, and his palm settles.

"But we have to go for three days then".

"I can't get time off work. On Monday I need to be back".

"Tell them you're sick".

You brush it off. It's not a big deal anyway. Yeah you haven't been to concerts in years, but you're not seventeen anymore. Life doesn't make it easy to constantly give in to all you desire. You don't have the power to move events like he does. Your hand instinctively touches his hair, and you manage to swipe through it once, before you catch yourself and let go. Yoongi isn't prickly at all, but that one time was more than enough. You don't need to be told twice.

"You know I can't just clear my schedule like that. They need me".

Even though your brain starts working immediately, weighing options, creating loopholes. Maybe you can say you have an emergency, or even leverage Yoongi himself telling them that since he is taking you out of the kindness of his heart, the management should give you a Friday and Monday off. He sighs without making it too sincere.

"You got time to think until tomorrow afternoon".

"Don't adapt for me".

"It's not a problem".

He leaves as usual, quickly and tidy, and you're thinking about the band. You haven't seen them in such a long time. If you get a free shot at going, you should probably take it. You shove all the other reasons deeper and out of the way because you know when Yoongi is working, he is all but absent.

By midnight, you send him a message saying you have dealt with it. He texts back a thumbs up. Asks if you need a ticket, too. Offers to go with you, and you don't take it as anything because when Yoongi is with you, he is actually nice. He is the kind of person who will offer help and then won't pout when it's accepted. You respond to him that you will go to the pit to thrash your head and slam people around, and he retracts the offer.

Then next time you meet, it's already on the private jet. You're taken to the plane fifteen minutes earlier by a security guy wearing flip-flops, while the airport is buzzing and waiting for Yoongi. You slither right through the crowd and to the gate, leaving them behind expecting the real star.

The star climbs up into the plane clutching his knitted hat in his hand and with a cup of iced coffee. Yoongi's eyes dart to the double seats on the other side where Mr Lee makes himself comfortable. You've chosen a single seat at the window, facing forward, so he crashes across the table from you, recalling vaguely that you are maybe afraid of flying. His memory is proven right when the take off begins, and he sees your face stuck to the window, hands clutching the armrests, mouth a lopsided smile like you're judging the gravity. He is sure there's something very loud going on in the airpods in your ears. He keeps observing, notifying with displeasure, that you're afraid for the most part of the flight, uneasy the whole way as the plane soars up, gaining speed and altitude, and then only mildly bothered for the other thirteen hours, only to get panicked again at the beginning of landing. As the runway approaches, he can see your chest freezing, like you are expecting to crash right into the ground, and he can't take it anymore: nudges your foot with his, pushing lightly, then leans over the table. You are too stressed to take an airpod out, so you just grab the hand that he puts out over the table, without taking your eyes off the land. The hold is so strong that Yoongi unwillingly imagines what it will be like at, say, childbirth. You will probably break his wrist.

"Why don't you drink before flight?" he asks, when the plane is firmly on the rest, as he stands up to get his bag from a nearby seat. Mr Lee leaves the plane with the manager and the stylists, to check if everything is ready.

"I get sick if there's turbulence. Once vomited all over a tiny Ryanair plane, it was horrible", you mumble. You feel positively exhausted after an excrutiatingly long flight. Yoongi had motioned towards the bed in the front segment of the plane, but you can never sleep while in the air: it's like the only thing keeping this thing going without nose diving is your pure terror.

"Jimin is coming, too. He wants to show up at the second performance", he remembers, "so you better fly back with us, too".

"Oh. The two us in one plane?"

He shrugs with a smile. Yoongi likes to note how you are a little similar to Jimin. He never clarifies in what ways; you don't work with his youngster a lot, so you have vague image of the guy. But you hear nice things about him, and like him by extention.

He hums instead of a goodbye, then leaves the plane as per Mr Lee's permission. You leave fifteen minutes later, when the arrivals hall is already clear, and the big SUV circles the terminal to pick you up on the corner. You feel happy after having survived yet another flight.

You attend your show and Yoongi attends his; only, while you're thrashing the life out of yourself in the pit to the favourite music, he is sitting like a good boy in the first row of a game, looking pretty. The next day, you would have left on your own to give everybody a surprise at work by showing up on time, but you weigh everything and realize that, if you were so terrified on a private flight, fifteen hours in commercial will be absolutely unbearable and result in some sticky mess. So you linger around Berlin, wander the city for the day after sleeping in, get cold in April weather, get caught up in the rain, eat some curry wurst and in the evening, go to see Yoongi's private performance for the lack of better things to do.

You hang around the dressing rooms before the performance, watching the stylists doll him up: it's always a pleasant sight. Brushes poking his button nose, he squeezes his eyes shut, moving the phone glued to his palm around. You know people are generally curious what the fuck he is constantly doing on his phone. Watches videos or plays mobile games. At the age of thirty-two, he already has several striking features of an old man, and the forecast doesn't look optimistic. Soon, he will start grumbling about the weather, too. His eyes dart to you as you start fidgeting with the coffee machine.

"Can I have one, too?"

"I am putting star anise in".

His stylist, a short quirky girl, turns around to give you a face full of disgust.

"Why?" Yoongo hoots. Like it's a crime.

"Experiment".

"You shouldn't have coffee now", his manager says.

"It tastes okay".

He is sent off to the tiny stage where he is going to entertain selected European fans and show off his average English. You wander around the place, expecting to see Jimin, who can't go on a week without his genius hyung's company. You heard he has a very packed month, promotions and too many rehearsals, all that while his knee injury isn't healed yet, but Jimin is always in a state of panic so he never wants to pedal back. Now he clawed three days out and darted from Seoul to Berlin to show support because he knows Yoongi doesn't feel too comfortable in Europe on his own. Even though he will never say. It's new information for you, and you have to constantly remind yourself you aren't entitled to it at all.

You find him in the smaller dressing room with monitors, observing Yoongi from a distance. There's a whole crew with the light and cameras swarming around him, while Jimin is hunched up on a chair, not even looking at the screens. His head is down, the lid of the cap hiding his face, hands in his pockets, one knee jerking up and down. You feel something like short-fused anger rise in you and don't think much before stepping in and getting into a shot.

"Hey", you look into the camera, then at the man trying to swerve around you, but you outpace him, making your way towards Jimin in little steps. You've seen this tiny guy at work often. Always running somewhere, his strong legs working. Always a smile on his face. You know much more about him from Yoongi who likes talking about his brothers. You know enough to want to protect him, which means, Yoongi always wants to protect him.

"Do you have to record him when he is like this?"

You can only see the tip of his chin, but then Jimin looks up at you, his eyes timid and glistening.

"He is upset. Is this content, too?"

You tilt your head, meeting their eyes. The crew starts grunting something quietly, cameras rolling.

"I am already in it, so I guess you'll have to delete it".

You sit down in front of him like he's a kid. Frankly, a lot of them look like kids. Most of them are only grown on paper, the age in their passports often doesn't respond to how they are. Many boys, stuck in the tender ages they have been traumatised in, by the company. Yoongi often acts like he is a mature twenty-year old which aligns with his debut age.

You put your hands on his knees and lower your voice.

"Who did this, Jiminie?"

The tone makes him chuckle immediately. He sighs like it's a relief. You're glad you have that sense of humour, coupled with your small size, that makes guys smile.

"I'm alright".

"Yeah? You just tell me who upset you, and I'll beat them up".

The recording crew retreats dissatisfied because you refuse to leave his side. Jimin throws them one cautious look and his face lights up just a little.

"Beat them up?"

"Yeah, I go to gym, bro, I punch the bag all the time".

His left knee shakes with his laughter. He adjusts the cap and takes the second hand out of the pocket of his hoodie.

"Thank you".

"No problem. I am a very angry person, I am always ready to protect pretty boys like you".

Yoongi returns to the dressing room a little sweaty, just a little agitated, his nervous system alarmed but satisfied with yet another linguistic adventure overcome without a catastrophe, and sees Jimin snicker at your words as your hands clutch his knees like he is the little princess and you're his suitor. He sees it from the door the handle of which he clutches, and he notices things instantly. How you smile, bowing to see his eyes, how Jimin's hand flies up to his neck, how his voice rumbles deeply to make him sound more manly. Yoongi also notices the tremor in his injured knee and walks over to join you.

As you see him, you stand up and give space.

Yoongi's hand caresses Jimin's head.

"Don't be upset about it".

"I let you down, hyung".

"You didn't. You're here, aren't you? I am happy you're here".

You step away quietly as Yoongi keeps comforting him, glowing in his white outfit, hair slicked back and with highlighter on his cheeks. Looks too much like a groom.

Back at the hotel, Yoongi keeps waddling in and out of the bathroom with a brush in his mouth, one hand in his hair.

"How was the concert?"

"You asked me yesterday and I told you everything", you reply, without taking your eyes off the phone.

"Right. You caught any confetti?"

"No".

"Why not? People gather them and stuff them in jars, you know. We always try to invent new shapes for confetti so that ours will have different jars with different confetti".

You look up at him. He looks like a guy you could spend the rest of your life with, and it hurts quite frankly. So cosy, handsome with his hair undone, plain white tee, one hand sawing something in his mouth with the toothbrush.

"You had coffee, didn't you?"

He shrugs.

"Why don't you ever babygirl me like you did with Jimin?"

A chuckle rumbles in your chest.

"You never show any weakness".

You see that makes him think, actually. Yoongi is probably too caught up in his life to notice such things, to pay attention to himself. He produces a short pondering hm and disappears back into bathroom. This chitchat pisses you off. He is usually way less talkative. Polite, friendly, but not very open. You don't like it when he acts like you have hope. The old grudge you have festers in you for too long, growing from a little childish sore into a sort of trauma. You avoid touching him for too long, talking to him about personal stuff. He usually doesn't respond anything, at best. Establishing limits in the beginning was kind of humiliating; he would take your hand off his shoulder softly, saying he will vacate you at once if you find someone serious. The same goes for him.

Now he gets into bed and his hand is on the top of your head, patting. His arm wraps around your waist as he pushes himself closer. These two days were too tiring and busy so you didn't have any sex, thus, it's even more intimate when he does this. You don't flinch, but instead tense your body up, bitterness a juice in your brain.

"Don't make it weird", you ask. Yoongi lifts himself up on an elbow to look you in the face.

"Huh?"

"I am uncomfortable when you hug me like this".

In the bluish darkness of the room, you can see his bewildered, surprised expression.

"Are you serious right now?"

And you know, you know his mind wanders back to that one time he flinched. Because you know he remembers.

You nod.

"I can't fall asleep with your arm on me anyway", you lie, "it's too heavy".

With a sigh in between his teeth, he removes his hand but doesn't turn away yet.

"What's gotten into you?" then pause, "is it because I told you to back off once?"

It's spectacular how for both of you, that one occasion is a sharp rock shining painful white of awkwardness and unspoken spite.

"Hey, I don't need you to repeat. But you have to respect the limits, too", you say calmly. You understand his shock, because nothing this evening indicated there were any problems. But the outburst is inevitable from time to time, simply because you react to his touch the way you wish you didn't. When it's not during sex, when it's not possessive, you have to ask yourself what's the reason for touching you at all. Yoongi sniffs through his nose.

"Isn't it a little too dramatic? You're really sore about that?"

"I am not".

"Then what's the problem? We sleep like this all the time".

"After we fuck".

"So let's fuck".

You fall back on your pillow and brush through your hair.

"Fine, Jesus", he closes up, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Yoongi does this very well, removes himself, it's not worth it. It's not worth being straightforward, and because he doesn't push, doesn't try to speak to you, you understand his touch, in fact, didn't mean anything. You're one of those soft, warm breathing pillows that help the sleeping. He simply turns around on the other side and purrs like he always does when relaxing his whole body. He doesn't snore and is quite proud of it.

In the morning things are back to normal. It was a slight glitch; in the dark, you can both bury it and pretend nothing happened. Yoongi is allergic to being direct with you, it's all subtle. You see he avoids brushing hands by accident as he takes your bag and pushes it in the trunk; then by the time you make it to the airport, and you go first, he is casual and light again, happy to go home. He gives you one concerned look then says nothing, pushing the mask up his face even though he stays in the car. You go fifteen minutes before him and pass through the waiting crowd, invisible, efficient, led by the security guy in flip-flops.

Mr Lee enters the plane first, and he motions to you, looking you in the eye with a kind smile:

"Take that seat, by the window".

Yoongi follows him and nods at the double seats as well and you understand he wants to make the flight a little better for you. So you plunge in the wide seat at the window, looking outside at the greyish Berlin sky, unassuming white keeping your night trick hidden away. Yoongi sits down next to you, quite ready to fence if you start acting up again, but you don't. The fear of death is much stronger now. Jimin arrives unexpectedly because you have completely forgotten he flies back with you: he lights up the space, happier than yesterday, ruffles his raspberry-lilac hair and eases the tension. Yoongi's gaze clicks onto him and you are grateful for that. You can suffer in silence and alone. Jimin notices how wide your eyes are, and how you clutch onto Yoongi's hand that reaches out as the plane starts moving. The rain makes it worse: you look at the trees bending in the distance, thinking about how a wind like this can knock a vehicle off the course easily.

"You're scared of flying?"

He also asks this because seeing Yoongi hold someone's hand - a girl's hand - is remarkably unusual for him. He studies this clutch of interlocked fingers with curiousity, like it's an animal he thought was extinct.

"That's to put it lightly", you coo back. The plane gains speed, and you are pressed against the back of your seat. Primal horror snatches your breath.

"You know planes crash very rarely? This one definitely isn't going to. Carrying South Korea's most important producer".

His rambling doesn't help. On the opposite, it exposes how naive Jimin's thinking is. You apprecite the movement of his plump, smiling lips, trying to distract you, but he only makes it worse. The plane doesn't care who it carries; if it crashes, it crashes, killing everyone.

"The only dangerous times of the flight are the take off and the landing", he continues, thinking he is setting your mind at peace. You are well aware of that. And for now, you just so happen to be in the middle of a take off.

"Jimin", Yoongi hoots, "you're not helping".

"Sorry", he smiles sweetly, like a little shit. You chuckle at that nasty grin and look away at the window again. Luckily Yoongi's hand actually helps. If you die, you die holding the person you love. The plane dips slightly as the gear kisses the ground goodbye, and you squeeze it, begging silently. For some reason, he thinks of child labour again, wondering why he gets this specific association. The grip is so strong it hurts his hand, and he gives in to the pain, takes it, without realizing what it means.

─────────────────────────────────────

The sex changes slightly, and it's a sign you're doing worse. You can't help it when he is close to you, with the body you have come to know well and love a lot, you start shoving your face close to his to catch his breathing, and Yoongi seems to enjoy that, feeding into your delusion. He is a needy, universal lover, always down for some tenderness, who likes to be handled with care. Always a giver, a helper in everyday life, he replenishes the affection from you by being caressed and held tightly, without asking. Only, it hurts you when he does this - allows you to pull him closer, share a kiss that's too gentle as you come undone, because for several seconds it feels like you love each other. But it's a position that he comes to like a lot: you on his lap, faces pressed together as he hunches his back a little to be on the same eye level, to then fall on the side like in water, clutching to each other.

"We okay?" he asks out of nowhere. You look at his soft profile. His upper lip trembling a little, the lower part of his stomach contracting. You push his thigh with your knee.

"Yes? Why wouldn't we be?"

He nods like he is getting ready to jump into a well full of sharks, or go on stage. Closing his eyes for a second, then heaves himself off the bed, like he usually does. He doesn't like to linger, sensory overload of your sweaty body pressed against his. He takes a quick shower and then leaves tidying after himself, ready to work. He never has you at his place like it's too sacred, or like he has some secrets there. It's always hotels or your apartment, a car, a locked office with no windows. He says something about his home being too far away, and how inconvenient it is. He knows it's bullshit, and you know it too. You live in the same neighbourhood.

─────────────────────────────────────

Jimin keeps smiling and it suddenly pisses him off. Yoongi folds a napkin and attempts to make a swan out of it, but all that comes out is a plane. He taps Jimin on the shoulder and hands him his little present.

Jungkook's eyes widen at the sight of it.

"And for me? Me, hyung?"

Yoongi rolls his eyes, catching a stare from Taehyung, too.

"Is it his birthday?" the second youngest demands.

"It's not Jimin's birthday", Jungkook confirms.

"What's that for?" Jimin asks, quite pleased.

He wants to jab him playfully, so naturally, it's a bribe: stop staring at my girl. It baffles him. His guts drop. Like when he realizes two meetings clash on his schedule. In that case, after a second of panic, he takes a deep breath and calls his manager. Now, he can't call his manager and say, hey, there's an inconvenience. I don't like the way Jimin can't seem to shut up about Y/N after she touched his leg and smiled at him in Berlin. This glitch is all his. And he closes up. Feelings, undeveloped, tend to die on their own. Whether he needs them is out of question: he doesn't. He's been doing that naturally; of course he'd developed an innocent crush on someone he has sex regularly with. Without it, he wouldn't be able to do that properly. He's a feeling, inspired human, artistic: he can't do it without trust. That's how his head works at least. This kind of light infatuation adds to the sex, it makes it truly relaxing and non-stressful without needing to act on it. Of course he feels something. It's a kind of a driving force in his work, as well.

The real problem arises when there's someone else in the equation.

─────────────────────────────────────

Namjoon is focused like a hawk as you fight for your life. You hate losing; perhaps something from childhood when your cousin constantly beat you and then gloated about it; there was a saying in your family, as a game was over, if you can't work your brains, work your hands. The loser shuffled the deck back in order. You hated being the loser. But against Namjoon it is impossible. He beats you every time, although thankfully, he isn't an asshole about it. But allowing himself to throw hands in the air victoriously. You smile about it, press your jaws together, crunch your nose to laugh it off.

You rarely play cards at all, maybe only in the breaks like these, while the laptop is working and you have to wait; and the foyer is realtively empty, and the disposition is relaxed. You have a coffee at your side on the low table, and the faint music creates a comfortable bubble to lose to your friends at a game of cards. You strike the table with the rest of yours, and Namjoon smiles with dimples, pacifying you.

Yoongi takes his place.

"Rematch".

He is surprisingly bad at it. To the point where his friend is at his side, pushing him with his thigh, so that Yoongi has to scoot over on the small couch to let the giant sit next to him.

"Yoongi hyung, but there's a..."

"Shh. I have a strategy".

You observe his eyes above the cards as he glances at you. The feral looks you give to each other are fun. Namjoon hums something when Yoongi has to scoop the cards and take them to himself, losing more and more.

"The strategy sucks", he muses.

"I know what I'm doing".

It makes you concerned but you beat him in the end with a little bit of wit, and at least it's not too humiliating. Namjoon gives him a look, then turns away, and there are dimples again. The banana palm on your side throws a shade on the table as the sun moves across the sky outside. You look at them both as your nostrils grow in size.

"Oh you let me win, didn't you?"

You lean over the table to get to him and see the cards, but Yoongi moves away, then takes the deck and starts mixing.

"I wish. Maybe I'm just bad at it".

Namjoon stands up with a swing, still with that shit-eating grin on his transparent face. Thing about him, he's not good at three things: acting, keeping secrets and lying. His eyebrows give him away every time.

─────────────────────────────────────

For you, it's like living. The feeling of love is a familiar thing to you, especially with him. He is a warm, unique human and as long as you meet from time to time, it's only half-way bad. You have things to distract you from it, and you postpone doing something about it, like breaking this arrangement. Maybe next month. Maybe next month again.

For Yoongi, it's like falling. Like his house of cards crashing down. Carefully curated existence spinning out of control. Control is very important to him: he likes to have control over his personal affairs. He likes to know what he is doing every minute of the day. He doesn't have obsessions; doesn't have urges that control him instead. Even though he is a feeling human, he isn't a victim to his desires. Now all of a sudden the peace is tilted, and he snaps. It's like a foot catching air instead of a step. He simply doesn't have time for this, it makes no sense. Feeling in love seems to him like someone demanding giving up his work and his freedom, and he will never do that. It actually makes him aggressive, feels like invasion of his space, and he doesn't like that. How dare you clutch the shirt on his chest in your fist, making those eyes he knows he isn't able to resist, saying "let's ruin it?" Will you buy him a new one? How dare you groan at your computer in a way that makes him so hard that he hits his dick on the desk, trying to stand up? How dare you have that laugh that sounds like gripping his hand, giving birht to his babies?

Love is a thing idols cannot afford. It's nonsense for others. He, he has a goal. A point to his existence, he has something to say and something to prove. It's below him to settle like the peak of his life has been reached, and all his ambition satisfied. Far from it. He gets angry with himself when he lets you beat him in a card game because he doesn't understand himself where the impulse came from. It's not that deep.

He breaks it off. Says he doesn't have time anymore. He memorizes your eyes when you size him up and say,

"I figured".

Although there was no indication before, because you were "okay". He lets it slide, the way you let go of him too easily, without questioning it, almost with a sense of relief. He tells himself it's not his burden anymore, and it should clear his head and lighten the load. After all, the affairs like these are often doomed from the start. One of you might fall in love, or meet someone else, or just grow tired. It's not supposed to be for life. He goes back inside his mind and assesses things left after you: memory of your elbow, twice smaller than his; hairs on his hoodie; the feeling of mountains; a new type of coffee: milk, cinnamon and star anise. He's sure there's more, but the feeling of frustration, like he was about to sneeze and never did, floods him and blocks his brains from thinking.

There's also mint. He remembers it when Jimin comes in one day smelling like it. Yoongi gives him a long look as his shoulders go cold.

"Hm?"

He shakes his head nothing.

─────────────────────────────────────

He also gets dreams. They aren't exactly dreams - rather, the lingering visions in his eyelids when on the brink of falling asleep. Pleasant pictures of something he regrets losing; if only there was a way to keep his emotions out of it, he'd watch your stomach contract under his hand forever. Gentle, careful knot of your belly button. The muscles in your sides flexing, soft birthmarks scattered on the skin, the tasty curve of your hip. He dreams again about that one evening when he paid a visit, but was in such a good mood that you ended up cuddling; he couldn't get enough of the sight of your ass in the underwear, squeezing, while you watched funny videos on his phone, and you laughed, thunderously, into his poor ear, snorted with laughter, your body shaking, until he suddenly started noticing the scent of your hair, too.

That's the adult way out: everybody has feelings. The choice is whether to act on them or not; you think, your feelings are only your business and nobody else's. If Yoongi asked, and you feel that at some point he was close to that, you'd tell him to fuck off and mind his affairs. You get to keep what you have inside your head.

Now, as he enters the studio with the hood on, you feel perfectly balanced and calm. Love hasn't hurt you as much as this man; he takes off the hood and you nod to the booth, and he casually follows your instructions. You step after him and hand him a sheet of paper. He's been to a facial recently, you can tell. His nose pores are clear and he's glowing, giving him a slightly pouty look. Smells like star anise. Imagining hugging him in his car as it's raining outside, hiding your face in his clean hoodie, his hair obedient under your palm, is so simple you could draw a picture if you had any talent for it.

"Read from here when you see the green light".

"I know how recording works", he chuckles, a little shy. You smile back and brush him off. He picks on the skin on his thumb and you shake his hands apart out of the habit you haven't smothered yet. However, he complies and puts them in the pockets, looking at the paper. You leave the booth and go to the laptop where you get ready.

"In Japan, women are considered superior divers", he begins reading, his voice unfiltered by his acting. Yoongi has many voices, you've heard most of them you think. The favourite of yours is the purring request he used to send straight into your ear canal, pressing his lips against the side of your head: turn to me, I want to see your face. His speaking voice betrays his origin, and you specifically asked that he drops the Seoul accent when recording. So it's authentic Min Suga, hands in pockets, hair on his eyes, head slightly moving with his own rhythm he weaves easily.

"...due to distribution of fat in their bodies and ability to hold their breaths underwater. Pearl fetching was a dangerous business and required light, swift, nimble women who could at the same time withstand the harsh underwater conditions. Very often they would swim up all blue, but pearls tucked neatly in the pouches on their waists. Gifts of the sea have never been easy to retrieve".

He is done in fifteen minutes, reading overall two pages of text. You can see he's not worried and stressed. Probably sleeps well; he unzips his hoodie and takes it off because it's a bit hot in the studio - you get cold sooner and easier than other people. As he pulls it off himself, the shoulder tugs on the hem of his T-shirt and exposes a bit of his skin, and you see a dark-blue bruise.

"Tsk".

He leaves the booth, turning his head like a mill, a little distracted.

"What?"

"That's such an asshole move".

When there's nothing to lose, as you've lost him already, you actually feel more liberated to speak your mind exactly as it feels. Yoongi is a bit lost, looking at you.

"Huh?"

"So big, as well. You told me you have no time for that business anymore?"

You actually pout, feeling shockingly indifferent. Your feelings have been, so to say, stomped upon, dull under all the cruelty.

His hand reaches for his shoulder as fingers send the impulse back into the brain, and he stretches,

"That- I'm a big boy, alright?"

You cock your eyebrow shortly.

"Could've just said you don't like me personally", you download the file containing his voice and begin renaming it according to the protocol.

"That's not it", he even puts the hoodie back on. "On the opposite, it was getting too personal".

"I agree. I am just surprised you found someone else so soon, that's all", you mutter, your eyes on your work. He hums. Retreats, it's what he does best. Slithers quietly through the door after making sure he is done here.

You tell him he is, hissing the words with a stretch, giving them double meaning.

Yoongi leaves, hands pulling on the sides of his zip-up hoodie, up and down, up and down, thinking about the idiocy of it. He's finished filming a Run BTS episode yesterday, where punishment was cupping. He's lucky he only lost once. Taehyung was roaring with pleasure as he vaccumed the fuck out of his shoulder. What would you say if you saw the back of Namjoon, who lost five times?

─────────────────────────────────────

Yoongi believes in karma and all that shit. Especially when he's drunk; he keeps thinking about that little misunderstanding and how your cheeks pouted as you stared into the laptop, accusing him of getting hickeys a week after he ended the arrangement. He's not feeling guilty or anything, but it's unnatural for him to not keep things straight. Although with you, he thinks, there's already so much shit tangled that he could as well just leave it be. First of all, never talked out that weird rejected hug incident; then again the breakup itself, like walking on the straight road and sudeenly falling into a manhole. He's not in the habit of leaving things piled up, but he just can't seem to learn to be direct with you. It's bad enough you make him horny like he is going through puberty again, you also tie his tongue down. He preferred to keep it deep inside of you to avoid talking at all. After all, that was the deal.

When he starts getting drunk at the Another Billion party, this awkwardness returns to him and he gathers all his might and good will to search you out and tell you what the bruise was about. He is ready to drag the other members with him so that they vouch for it; he finds he doesn't need to do so, because Namjoon and Jimin, of course, are already glued to you. Next to an ugly black-glass sculpture supposed to represent an idol throwing their arms up. Namjoon is swaying, he can't take his alcohol. Jimin is sturdier than him, but is also red in the neck; both listening to you with their mouths slightly ajar. When you talk, people around always listen, and Yoongi hates that, too. That this ability of yours, together with your body, your deafening screeching laughter, your iron grip, your moans, your fears, the mint of your lips, don't belong to him. He doesn't want any of it - but it sucks that other people get to experience it, too. He almost goes blind for a second, slapping his glasses back to his face, as the idea of Jimin knowing what the chapstick tastes like, crosses his mind.

"...that I was a huge black dragon. This is the best dream I've ever had in my life", you enunciate, making sure they are listening to you. Both Joon and Jiminie are so out of it, it makes you shake with the laughter you push down for the sake of the story.

"I was big, I felt big, I remember the feeling of absolute freedom" (Namjoon has exactly one hiccup) "as I was flying above the Aegean sea during black storm. Black dragon, black storm, the waves were gigantic".

"How did you know it was Aegean sea?" Jimin asks.

"I had this dream when I was staying in Greece. It's also my favourite sea".

"Yoongi really likes mountains", Namjoon mutters. You stare at him for a second.

"Okay?"

"Continue".

"And I was flying around, laughing out of happiness, I was so elated I actually laughed, and I was throwing these black pearls into the sea..."

"Sea and mountains", Namjoon continues, funnily, "nuah?"

"Are you sure it wasn't Black sea?" Jimin tries to ignore his hyung, putting his hand on Namjoon's chest as the leader starts to tilt forward.

"I mean you were black, storm was black, the pearls were black..."

You purse your lips because he makes a good point. In between their heads, you see Yoongi adjust his glasses and glaring at you three like you are dismembering a freshly caught deer with your bare hands.

"What's up with the nerd slut?" you nod at him, and the two turn around. The blood rushes back from Jimin's neck as his face lights up in a smile. His imperfect teeth make his smile infectious.

"Yoongi-ah", he coos softly as the cloud approaches.

"I need to talk to you", you can hear he's had a two or six, or sixteen. Yoongi is way too good at drinking, he can take a lot of it and then be drunk for a lot of time, hiding it, and only burst if someone really pushes him. His eyes are glossy behind the lenses of his glasses.

"You tired?" Namjoon becomes perceptive when he drinks. Yoongi nods and extends his hand on the waist level. You do not take it but follow him as he nods in the direction of a quieter corridor. Big hall is booming with music and it irritates you both; everybody reacts differently to alcohol: Taehyung is throwing his ass around on the dancefloor for example. It's his celebration and he is allowed. You, you get more yourself you'd say. All your impulses become sharper. Your loudness becomes louder and quieteness, quieter. Your insecurities shine, but so does your wit. Your laughter becomes irresistible, Yoongi would say, but you never asked him to know about it. His laughter is always irresistible to you, just like his word. So, even though you are sore, hate him a little, feel like aching next to him, insanely jealous, when he calls, you walk with him out of the room, plunging into the lukewarm shade of the corridor.

You sneak away like two schoolchildren trying to act tough. We need to talk. Sounds like giggling to you, and you do. His thick neck turns to you. He's been working out again lately. Of course.

"I need to make something very clear", he begins, harder than you expected him to, and your spine shivers, at the same time with your knees wobbling. You don't know if you're intimidated or upset. You must unintentionally give him a rabbit look, because he stops abruptly, looking you in the face.

"The... that? I was cranky, okay? It was one time".

You struggle to catch what he means exactly, having a moment of complete lack of clarity. All you see is his full lips letting a breath out.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what, why have you been punishing me for that this whole time?"

Your brows go up, brain struggling, because you just keep thinking about that hickey on his shoulder. And it makes you angry that he's irritated, and agitated after drinking. You can bet you have way more beef with him than he with you.

"Big deal, I brushed you off once, you need to get over your pride some time. Like it's cracking me that that's what you've been hung up on. Becasue I told you to back off, you've been refusing to hug me for six months?"

You bang the back of your head on the window glass as you throw it up. The last thing you need right now is lectures and complaints, but it's refreshing that Yoongi would speak in such long sentences.

"You replaced me already", you hum, like it's an unbeatable argument that is made of gold.

You hope he shuts up and decides to douse the tension in one last hookup. You're down for it. Arguments are tiresome and feel unnatural with him, the guy who prefers to tuck everything in and walk away before it spills out. You realize he isn't actually talking anymore, but his eyes are studying the window behind you as if he's considering breaking it.

"And you replaced me?"

It sounds like a half question, like he's not sure. The intonation going up. Suddenly you think of whales and their gentle, lonely calls, but also, about the wind, whistling in between the crooked branches. The 'fuck it' is announced without being uttered, as your hands reach in the half-dark for his pants. He isn't wearing a belt so your fingers crush into the hem of the jeans and go straight to the button. Yoongi's palm covers them, squeezes your fingers almost with rage, stopping you roughly, but he steps closer, and the last thing you see is the frame of his glasses. He kisses you, at the same time as you kiss him, mumbling something about the last time, just to be sure, your mouth opens simultaneously with your legs. Yoongi's hand slides off yours and grabs your side aggressively, hungrily; a month was the longest you'd gone on without jumping each other's bones, so it's not the withdrawal. It's something else. You tug on his jeans, unsure to unbutton them because you've read his gesture clearly. There's people behind the door. He lifts you up with one arm and sits you on the window sill and your arm snakes around him, touching the back, fingers clinging to every inch of his thick, white, moving body. Kisses slurp in bites, his tongue makes you dizzy. He has never kissed you like that before; not when he was needy, not when he was very horny, not when he was vulnerable which didn't happen often. Guess it's one of the bright colours of making out with a human; they surprise you. The love rises from the depths of your guts, making its painful way up, and you bend and lean against him, trying to feel his body pressed to yours. Yoongi's hand clutches on the top you're wearing like he's trying to tear it off you.

"Do they know it was once covered all over in my cum?" he grunts against your cheek, and your spine shakes like he's done a spell on it. Tiny shivers under his fingers. You grab his neck.

"I don't casually go around telling that to people".

His warm, hard hand sneaks under the fabric, fingers count the ribs, then pinch them, and his mouth slides lower, across your cheek and to your throat. You wish you could stay there forever. The blue and green in your inner mind, darkness around, and Yoongi clinging on you like he's turning during the full moon. You hear his glasses click against the plastic as he takes them off, then his hand returns to the small of your back and presses. He smells so familiar already that it feels like it's going to be your doom; you know all his scents, you're afraid. Eros by Versace, white vanilla detergent on his clothes, blueberry chewing gum, the leather of his car, cloudberry conditioner in his hair, and the skin smell, the clean smell that he has, the perfume no one can replicate and you can't explain. Unfortunately you love all of them, really love in the most genuine way, and it makes you sob all of a sudden, but you mask it as a moan. Yoongi hisses, letting go of your neck, and his hand makes its way up to cover your mouth. In the dark you see his eyes as he kisses the back of his palm. Can he even love you the way you have come to love him. Is he capable of that, with his fixation on his work. Constantly caught up in thinking about how to round up the beat, and how a bridge will come out, his head poking out above the chair, is he even capable of loving someone. He pulls you, your legs made of wool, deeper, looking for an empty room with a lock, and, preferably, optionally, without a cctv hidden somewhere in the foot of a desk.

You barely pay attention to the room; the dark eats away at it. You two, connected at the mouths, hands on each other's ribs, in each other's hair, stumble backwards, like a limping monster, trying to find a place to land. The space around spins; there's nothing but Yoongi, and if he pulled you after himself into a chasm, you'd only clutch his hand tightly. He kicks something behind you, and your calves feel the soft of a couch, and it's the signal to turn. Yoongi crashes onto it, making the vision you've had a fraction of a second ago, reality: you fall, fall into the darkness, guided by his well-studied hands, tracing the veins on the backs of his big palms, a little dry. The shape of them holding you tightly is something you want your mind, drunk or sober, to never forget. You might not have him after this, tomorrow, but now you land on his lap, knees spread, his hand on your back under the crop top, scratching lightly with his short-cut nails. His fingertips are the best - slightly rough from guitar, but sensitive; Yoongi has memorized all the spots on your body, dividing it into "yes-no-maybe" zones for scratching. He knows the "yes-yes" zone just around your spine, it makes you arch your back as you grind your hips against him. You like him for not being too chatty during moments like these; his breathing lets you know. The hardening of his cock is obvious through two pairs of jeans. Falling apart, you think about the mess of it all: you don't have any spare clothes, no extra underwear, and this one is already no good, soaked through. Your hands grab the back of his head again and hold on for dear life as Yoongi guides your hips against his, forehead pressed to your collarbone, your gentle mid-sized giant with dry, soft hair and prominent neck muscles. His shoulders, lean, strong, work under your hands, wet mouth grabbing at your breast through the top. He can't see shit without his glasses or lenses, and especially so in the relative dark, where the only light comes through the windows from the nearby buildings; so sensory study is all that's left to him. When Yoongi is ready to undress, he usually produces a sort of a tired sigh-groan, and then his fingers start pinching at your flesh. But now he doesn't. The alcohol is spinning your head, the heat in your core pooling, and you sort of forget where what is. The only thing that matters is to find his puffy lips again, bearing the taste of mint and whiskey. You raise yourself to deepen the kiss, and Yoongi pushes you back hard, lifting his own hips to connect. The breath is caught somewhere in the ribs, shiver crunching the body, but his hand steadies you in comforting strokes. You are trying to breathe, you really do, but it comes out in gushes, sometimes audibly, as your fingers trace his beautiful face. Yoongi is so good at making you come undone; you barely control your own body, he becomes the puppeteer at the thunderous wave of your feeling. The arousal at this point is animalistic, coming up to your throat, making you mumble. Not talk - talking is banned in between you, but the unconnected shreds of words dripping off your lips, that he catches with his teeth, are okay.

"I want you".

"No, I want you more".

You feel his shoulder flex as he lifts your hips, depriving you of the pressure of his groin, and you immediately whine.

"Oh no, I spoiled you", he whispers, Daegu words blurring with each other, his voice a soft purr. He turns you, pushing on the stomach, and you lie down, and his hands start working immediately, mouth at its favourite activitiy: tracing the lines of your shuddering stomach. Yoongi undoes the jeans and pulls them down together with the underwear. His fingers plunge immediately into you, without a warning, and you produce a silent shriek. Hands searching for him, nails digging into the massive of his shoulders. Yoongi likes the way his own words sounded: I spoiled you. Likes the absolute mess that you are, squirming at his touch, he feels appreciated, wanted, needed. He never managed to make anyone like this before; he has made a quiet unspoken promise long time ago to never tell anyone about it. About how you seem to lose your sentience when his lips are below the solar plexus. He is in love with this sensation. He wants to keep it going, but can't; he can't think; he pulls down his jeans because he wants to fuck you senseless, fuck you into amnesia, and himself; so that tomorrow the things are easier and clearer; you're a blurry silhouette for him, moving against the sea of darkness, the buoy he's swimming towards, and the tighter you cling onto him, the better. He feels cradled, he feels loved. It feels hot inside of you, incredibly tight, you always wrap your legs around his waist like a monkey, trying to push him deeper even when it starts hurting the hips. The best thing - you both cannot come easily because you're drunk, so it just goes on and on, the swimming, the touching, your sounds blooming like flowers on fruit trees. He thinks of sampling them, putting them within the underbeat, masking them, but using them; he has been trying to figure out the beat that would describe the way he feels with you: sharp hip bone in his hand, the heel of your foot on his leg, the tasty chemical of your peach fragrance that he licked clean off your throat. It's the frustration of never finding the right melody, because making music requires love, and he is too busy to allow it to himself, so he just fucks like there's no tomorrow, apologizing through his embrace, dripping feelings off the tips of his hair.

─────────────────────────────────────

A whole month away is good. For Yoongi. He gets to travel across all Asia and do some hiking, turn his phone off and just be completely alone. Not to think, he doesn't want to think, he wants to have his brains blank and just see pines, and the slope of the mountain, the birds soaring above, and the flowers fluttering in the wind. But the thoughts come by themselves; he realizes it's a trap that he had set for himself. Because mountains remind him of you, and he finally starts understanding what exactly makes the connection. It's the feeling of freedom, good loneliness and realness that they provide.

Relationships are promises, ruined plans, unplanned arguments, ridiculous commitments and distractions. Yoongi knows himself very well: he is not a multitasking person, and when he is in love, which thankfully doesn't happen often, he is beside himself with the feeling, and it affects work. Sometimes positively, sometimes negatively. It's been so comfortable, so well-organized - living in his independence bubble - that he is pushing the ghost away, because the ghost is whispering scary things to him. Coffee dates; he imagines sitting with you in a place in Yongsan-gu and watching your face and your beaded necklace not matching your band tee. He imagines you in his hoodies; you have stolen none of them, you always abstained from going through his things, touching him too much, and now he realizes it was because he had pushed you away that one time. He imagines you'll be trouble, headache, high maintenance. If you had been sore, had held on that grudge for almost a year, over a thing he had almost forgotten. He imagines these fights will make him feel so alive. You riding in his car, on your phone; cooking; lying in bed with one knee across his belly - all those things have already happened, but from sensual they are now turning warm. Yoongi understands he is losing, he is already taking this weight upon himself, little by little, because in the mountains he refuses to wear his earbuds and listen to music, and the silence is the ghost that follows him around, hammering the truth he's been avoiding into his brain. He imagines your hand gripping his palm, so hard that he yelps in pain, as you turn your face away, and the line of your jaw exposes the little birthmark you have on your neck. He's been kissing that birthmark in secret for months, pleased that you will never guess why he's choosing that very spot specifically.

You brew a coffee. Every time you're bored, the recipes become more and more complex, you keep adding ingredients until the coffee either sends you to heaven or is undrinkable. By now, there's cinnamon, star anise, almond syrup, and now... you're eyeing mint like it's about to jump you. Yolo, you think, and add a little mint, and it's still a success. You're becoming a coffee extraordinaire, you think; even if no one else appreciates your inventive mixing skills.

Jimin is there, of course; cruising around you like an albatross, appreciating every little thing about you. But his presence is breezy, light: he is a natural flirt and it doesn't set off any of your alarms. It seems he simply likes being around you. You see glasses case that he puts in another hand as he takes the coffee from you.

"Never seen you wearing glasses for real?" you're surprised.

"These are not for me, I picked them up from the store for hyung. He doesn't leave his little evil studio these days, got back to the 7AM schedule".

He shrugs. 7AM schedule with Yoongi means he works all night and goes to sleep at 7AM for about three hours, then gets up and goes back to working.

"He never found his glasses?"

"No".

"Somebody must have stolen them", you muse, recalling how they were left lying on the window sill.

"It's weird, normally he only loses things if they cost more than a thousand bucks", he snickers. You're expecting a feedback. Jimin's tastebuds have proven to be professionally sensitive: he is picky with food and always gives an honest opinion of the coffee. He frowns first, his huge eyes focused on the cup, full lips moving like he's chewing. Jimin is charismatic while doing nothing, and he definitely wouldn't have a problem with you, so you wonder why you can't just unlove Yoongi and fall for him instead. Or better, for nobody at all. Even in his brother's face, you're searching for his familiar features, but there aren't any. Jimin looks like a genie who will grant your wishes in the most perverted way so that you'll feel sorry after.

"It's... good?" he is, himself, shocked. "It makes me want to go to Morocco".

"That's an unorthodox review".

"You should get a patent. Name it Faux Morocco Latte and you'll be rich".

"I already have a rich inner world".

He chuckles ironically at that, keeping the cup close to his lips. His phone rings.

"Oh, there he is. I think he needs his glasses", Jimin ignores the call from Yoongi, putting his phone on the desk. "Let him wait a little, right?"

He pats you lightly on the shoulder, like he is siding with you on something. Like that one friend who is ready to smother your ex with her bare hands without needing to know the details. You are slightly bothered by it.

Yoongi lifts his arm and puts his hand into his hair, his eyes fixated on a spot on the desk. The underside of his shoulder is tense, he freezes in this position, thinking, and you can't avoid looking at him even though your eyes move. Your spot is never next to him, it's always a little away, in the back, not at the table. You do not see it as derogatory: without your work, they can't do it, and the hierarchy is there for a reason. When idols are present during the meetings with usual staff like you, everybody feels sorry for them. There go the scapegoats, the puppets, the clowns. Everybody is nice to them because they all have two features: beauty and lack of autono-

"I don't give a shit", Yoongi says calmly.

You doodle in your pad; these meetings are a must, and most often not a word is spoken about your area of work, so you just kill your time looking at Yoongi; at least something. Now everybody is looking at him.

The manager raises his eyebrows. He looks tired all the time.

"Sorry?"

Yoongi leaves his hair alone and places his hand on the desk, wrist caught in a hair tie.

"I said I don't give a shit about the deadline".

Namjoon purses his lips producing dimples. His silence indicates that he agrees with Yoongi. One by one, Bangtan Boys usually stand behind each other, but it always takes a first brave mouth to say something outrageous. Taehyung is rubbing his lower lip absent-mindedly. Yoongi's eyes are puffy, he gives the manager an unaffected shark-like stare that masters openness and simultaneously, stubbornness of a rock.

"It's there for a reason".

"We had discussed the update, and Taehyung hasn't slept in three days".

Taehyung doesn't even hear him.

"What about you?" manager asks softly, trying to lead Yoongi away from his deadly determination.

"I'm working. I'm fine".

His eyes start searching the room, landing everywhere except you. You cross your legs and go back to your pad.

"A week is fine", Namjoon adds, to defuse the tension. After a little back and forth the manager gives up. He always does; he's not the real boss here. Everybody gets up, the important people first: manager leaves the room pacing, hurrying to implement the schedule corrections, J-Hope leaves darker than a storm cloud, which is unusual for him; you gather your things from the floor: you're in a habit of just putting your bag and phone next to the chair since you're sitting at the glass wall. The line at the door gradually disperses and you walk to exit the meeting room but Yoongi turns his head, still sitting, and looks straight at you with a completely different stare. He doesn't say anything, so you just look at him and move on, but Taehyung closes the door in front of you like he didn't notice, and walks away. You see his back through the grey-transparent glass.

"Y/N", Yoongi sounds tired, more tired than he did a minute ago. His back hunched, he is softer, more undone.

"Huh, CEO?"

In spite of himself, he gives out a smile, and his teeth scrape over his lower lip, which makes you wince.

"What do you want?" you say quickly, colder, trying to wrap yourself up, zip up, close up. His hand reaches out but you're too far away, ready at the door, wondering what kind of games he is playing. The fatigue is obvious on his face but thankfully it's not your burden anymore. It does pull on your strings though, so in an attempt to keep up the strength, you frown.

"You win", he says. His words are round, it's the best shape. "I lose".

He stands up, and you want to roll your eyes, not with annoyance, but with an overwhelming feeling of unwillingness. The labour of trying to get over him is draining you like there's a huge gash somewhere that's dripping blood. Every time he is in close vicinity of you, the stream becomes only bigger, it's mentally tiring. Fighting feelings is exhausting. Yoongi is reaching for you, his face an impression of quiet need, and you try to avert his arm, a crusty cut on his elbow, gently. He goes for a timid hug with one hand and you grow stiff, putting up your shoulder. You end up straining your neck, chin up while Yoongi performs the softest forced hug. He needs to press his forehead into you, because he hasn't eaten in twelve hours, and he is so frustrated and a little terrified, and you are the smell of home.

The man of few words. His actions speak much louder.

What's even louder is the music that's on the USB he shoves into your hand. You listen to it at home, sitting away from the laptop like it can see your embarrassed face going through motions. The beats are clean, the rawest you've heard. Yoongi has his own way of polishing music that always makes it crisp like the air in January. They have no words, because it's Yoongi. But the beats, the melodies, talk to you. They sound like the night you met, when you caught rain on your hand to soothe it. Sound like his voice filling the space of his car, and like the hiss of the coffee machine, like the shuffling of your sheets, and like the streets, muffled by the windows, hooting outside. His melodies sound like the wind and the voices of pine trees, their ancient blood singing inside the hard bark. Sound like the sea. The music he has written and named after you sounds like he is diving for pearls and swimming up, panting, like he has given up to something. It's the crack of your hip getting back into place, and the click of his phone, the purr he produces when falling asleep. It's his flowers. The dark circles under his eyes mean he has gotten over the block, and two days after giving the USB to you he calls, and there's an audible strain in his voice, because he is learning to speak:

"I can't give you all those things that are normal, you know".

"Like what?" you are spiteful, although you understand his regret. He doesn't even go grocery shopping. All food is delivered to his house. Last time he got to walk around the city, he got ecstatic and wouldn't stop talking about it for weeks. He was like a child, describing the feeling of the asphalt in Gangseo-gu next to the botanic garden under his foot; you felt deeply sorry for him. Right until the point he mentioned having to borrow the jet again, because he wants to go visit a friend in America.

"Like walking home from a bar at night together, like, holding hands".

"Sounds like it's your fantasies".

"That's all I have".

You tell him you don't want to be the glaring vortex hole in his schedule, sucking in meetings, messing up sleep, putting a strain on the well-spinning parts of the mechanism. He replies it's too late for that. And for once, he actually sounds happy.

─────────────────────────────────────

He points his finger:

"The line where the red roofs end? That's the Osaka Bay".

"If I get a really good start", you muse, "and have like a very big umbrella, can I jump and glide all the way there?"

He thinks about it seriously. Squirms his face in the sun like a sleepy cat. His black eyes blink.

"You'll fly for around seven seconds".

His hand touches the side of your head and then slides down to your shoulder, then moving your closer, pressing you into his side. The air is so fresh that it's putting you to sleep, and the tears in your eyes, provoked by the wind, make everything around seem blurry. Like you're in a cartoon. Like it's a dream. The sea far in the distance shines in separate flashes of sunlight.

"There was no need for that", you mutter, cosying up next to him, clutching on his big arm. His neck smells like aftershave and raspberries. The curse hisses in between his teeth, fingers pinch your cheek lightly. Then go back to your shoulder and start drumming a rhythm; writing music off the closeness of you. You leave the slope of the mountain together, at the same time.

[galsinspace]

A few days ago I stumbled upon Angi, a character I had no idea existed. She lives all by herself in a remote hut on a mountain. She's reclusive and warns you not to try anything stupid, but if you talk to her she'll offer a bit of backstory: she's an outlaw who retreated to the mountains after killing the soldiers who murdered her parents.

She's the only character in the game who will train you by actually having you shoot targets for up to 6 levels in archery. By the end she'll say that she enjoyed your company.

I feel so invested in Angi now! With minimal interactivity, she's already one of the most interesting characters in the game. And she's not even a follower, which would have felt so natural!

There are so many hidden gems in this game. So many little snippets that feel so real and immediately make me care about random NPCs.

Even after so many years, whenever I play Skyrim I encounter something completely new. Random encounters that can even be completely unique depending on the random circumstances you happen to meet them in.

A few days ago I met a bunch of drunkards out in the wilderness, they invited me to drink mead with them. And among them was just a giant! I looked it up, the giant isn't part of the encounter, he just happened to be there I guess and seemed to just be partying with them.

Just now I got out of a dwemer ruin and saw two children being chased by bandits. Killed the bandits, found out the kids are travelling merchants selling dwemer scrap. They had literally no money but I gave them some enchanted daggers and food.

This game is just so fucking excellent at that stuff. Random encounters are my favourite thing. Skyrim is just about wandering the world and feeling that particular Skyrim mood... and every now and then something happens that just feels so damn real, so engaging and organic.

[mononijikayu]

pretty woman — nanami kento.

“You don’t look like you’re here to be fixed either.” he says. “I’m not.” you admit. “Just didn’t feel like being at home. Thought I’d sit somewhere people didn’t expect anything from me. For like, two seconds.” He nods. There’s a silence that settles between you then, but it’s not awkward. It’s rare. Companionable. Like two strangers who’ve walked miles through the same kind of loneliness and just happened to stop at the same bench. After a moment, he asks you, “Are you often this forward with strangers?” You smile faintly, eyes still ahead. “Only the ones who look like they need someone to remind them they’re still here.”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Actor’s AU (AU of the AU);

Warning/s: General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Pretty Woman, Pretty Boy, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Hurt/Comfort, Age Gap Relationship (Reader is 30s, Nanami is late 40s), Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Post–Separation/Divorce, Dating, Feeling, Light–Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Teasing, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Soft Smut, Actor! Nanami, Comedian! Reader;

Words: 17k words.

Note: this was a commission of @nanamin-chan who wanted to see a different perspective of the actor's au!!! please thank them for this!!! this is a few years where nanami kento has become all but single and has been going through a LOT. in some ways, this deserves some happiness too after paying for his mistakes. anyway, i hope you enjoy it as much as we do!!! i love you all so much~

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the good life ― masterlist.

HIS LIFE HAS BEEN QUITE AN ADVENTURE THESE PAST FEW YEARS. It has been a few years since his separation from his wife of nearly thirty years, veteran actor Nanami Kento drifts through life like a man half-remembered by the world he once commanded. 

The silver screen still calls his name, scripts still arrive at his door, and fans still pause with reverence when they see him but deep inside, he is unmoored.

That was the truth of it all. Time, once so precisely accounted for in neat schedules and well-worn routines, has unraveled into empty afternoons and hollow evenings.

Their separation was quiet, dignified by all standards. He expected it, if he was being honest. After he had done to her, he had expected she would have done worse. But his estranged wife was not that sort of person. She was too much of a good person. Too good a person he could never be. 

Instead, they packed up their belongings from the old home, had a settlement, and became distant and amicable friends who sometimes drink together. There were reports about it, true enough. But there were no tabloid scandals, no public fallout. They didn’t allow it. 

Just two people who had loved each other at one point, perhaps fiercely, perhaps too brutally and too horribly, until the love grew too unbearable to even have between them widened into a chasm. The paper may say that the both of them were just separated, that it's a break. 

After all, the law says they are still married. There was an agreement to not divorce just yet. He had your friendship, he has the kids. Yet, it’s not the same.

In every other way that matters, Nanami Kento is alone. His wife does not love him that way anymore. And he doesn’t blame her for that. 

Though, he still wears his ring out of habit. He still checks his phone as if expecting her to call, ask what he wants for dinner, or remind him to pick up tea on his way home.

But there is no home. Only a new elaborate high rise apartment to come home to. It was too clean, a bed too cold, and a calendar marked with dates that now mean nothing.

Kento doesn't know if he believes in second chances. He's not even sure he believes in himself anymore. At least not the way he used to, when he was young and roles came easy, when she’d sit in the front row of his plays with those warm eyes, mouthing his lines as if they were poetry written just for her. 

Now, love feels distant, like a language he once knew but can no longer speak. He wonders, sometimes bitterly, if he squandered all his good years. If he gave all of himself to a life that has already ended and left nothing behind.

He questions whether he’s worthy of being known and revered, not just admired, but truly seen. After all he had done, was he worthy of something more than that?

There are people who flirt, who reach out, who want to know the man behind the quiet melancholy. But Nanami Kento doesn’t know how to let them in. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

They were just flings to him. Little wanderings that would dry up after five months and then a new one comes along. It was rinsed and repeated.

He isn't closed off out of cruelty. He’s just... tired. Tired of starting over. Tired of hoping. Tired of the ache that comes with imagining a future he’s not sure he deserves.

Terrified of disappointing anymore, terrified of becoming someone that would hurt someone again in the way he had hurt his wife.

And so he moves through his days like a shadow of the man he once was. Still searching. Still mourning. Still wondering if, somewhere out there, love might find him again or if he’ll remain adrift, alone in a life too large for one.

Some days are easier. He’ll wake to the sound of birds on the balcony, light pressing in through the curtains like a hesitant promise. He’ll make coffee in the quiet. Always hot black espresso, no sugar, just the way he likes it. 

And for a moment, the ritual feels almost like peace. He’ll go for long walks with his scarf wrapped tight and his thoughts even tighter, passing streets lined with memories he doesn’t quite let himself feel.

The industry still calls. Directors still cast him as the wise elder, the cold father, the heartbroken lover. Many roles that now echo uncomfortably close to the truth. Sometimes, acting feels like the only time he knows what he’s supposed to do. 

On set, there are marks to hit, lines to say, someone to yell “cut” when it all becomes too much. But when the cameras stop rolling, when the lights go out, he returns to a silence that doesn't end on cue.

He doesn’t talk about the separation. Not to his co–stars, not to old friends who tiptoe around the subject, not even to himself, not really. To the world, he’s composed. Controlled.

Still the dependable Nanami Kento. But beneath the surface, he's in a slow freefall, reaching for something, anything that feels like solid ground.

Sometimes, when he catches his reflection, he hardly recognizes himself. The lines on his face have deepened, not just from age but from the weight of unspoken things. Regret lives in the corners of his eyes. He doesn't regret loving her, not ever. 

But he regrets being a bad man who couldn’t love her well. He regrets the ways they stopped talking. The missed chances. The slow, steady drift apart. The final, unceremonious goodbye that wasn't even a goodbye, just a quiet agreement to let the distance win.

He wonders if there’s a version of himself somewhere that he could be proud of. A version of himself who fought harder, who said what needed saying, who reached out instead of retreating. A man who held on. But that man isn’t here. Perhaps he never will be.

Still, there are flickers. A smile from a stranger in a bookstore. The warm brush of hands during a crowded train ride. A soft voice over the phone, a new colleague, perhaps too young, perhaps too curious.

These moments unsettle him. They remind him that he's still alive. That his heart still works, even if it's bruised. That maybe, just maybe, there’s something left to give.

But love? Love feels a far away concept to him to visualize. And he, so far from the man who once believed in it without question, can only take it one quiet, aching day at a time. That was just the sad truth of it all.

The bar is dim, quiet, and mercifully anonymous. It was the kind of place where people come to be forgotten, not found. Kento sits alone at the far end, nursing a glass of whiskey that's long since warmed in his hand. The ice has melted into thin gold, and he hasn’t taken a sip in minutes.

His phone buzzes again. Another message, probably the third tonight, from someone on set. The after party is in full swing. They want him there, say it won’t be the same without him. But Nanami Kento doesn’t even bother to check it. 

The phone stays face–down on the polished wood of the bar, the screen lighting up only to dim again. He came here instead, drawn not by desire but by habit.

The party would be all noise, all smiles too wide and eyes too sharp, people leaning too close, voices too loud. He doesn’t have it in him to pretend tonight.

The bartender offers him a silent nod of recognition. He's been here before. Not often, but enough that they know not to ask questions. He appreciates that. He appreciates that someone just lets him be, even for this moment.

He lifts the glass, finally takes a drink. It burns, but it’s a clean kind of pain. Honest. Simple. Nothing like the ache that sits in his chest, slow and stubborn. He stares into the glass like it might answer something, but it never does.

There are couples tucked into booths around the room, voices low and bodies leaning in. Young love, or new love. Or maybe both. He watches them with a strange mix of envy and detachment. Not bitterness. Just…..distance. Like watching a memory from the outside, blurry at the edges.

Once, that was him. The stolen glances. The laughter into warm shoulders. The feeling that just being near someone made the world feel warmer. It’s strange how long ago it feels, like another life. Like another man entirely.

He takes another sip. His mind drifts to the last conversation they had. It was not loud, not cruel, just final. If anything, it was exhausting.

She had looked at him across their kitchen, her hands clenched into the hem of her sweater, and said quietly, “I wish you the best, for all of your life, Kento.” 

And he, stunned into silence, had said nothing. Not a word of disagreement. Not any plea like please stay left in his mouth. Not even any sort of apology leaving once again. Nothing. It was  just silence, heavy and choking. That silence never left. And neither did he.

Now he wonders if there was still a chance buried somewhere in that moment, a small light he should’ve reached for. Another message buzzes in. Then another. He finally turns the phone over.

A string of emojis, a blurry photo from the party, someone holding up a shot glass in his honor. Come on, Nanami–san. Just one drink with us?

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he finishes the whiskey and signals for another. The bartender pours without a word. As the glass slides toward him, he catches his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Eyes tired. Shoulders slumped. A man trying not to feel too much, and failing. There’s a sadness there he’s stopped trying to hide. Let them see it. Let it sit.

He doesn't know if he's waiting for someone to join him or if he's just punishing himself for still wanting to be wanted. But tonight, he's not an actor. He's not a husband or a father. Not a mentor or a legend or whatever name they pin to his image.

Tonight, he's just a man with a drink and a silence he doesn’t know how to fill.  

For now, he knows that’s all he can be for himself and for the world.

And they have to deal with that until he can find his way back somewhere.

The second drink’s halfway gone when you sit down beside him. It was not too close, not with the easy familiarity of someone who knows him, just enough space to make your presence known.

No loud greeting, no recognition in your eyes. Just a quiet figure sliding onto the barstool with the kind of calm that feels almost intentional.

Nanami Kento notices without reacting. He doesn't turn to look, just flicks his gaze sideways for a moment. You're not drunk. Not looking to be.

Your hands are steady on your glass, and you’re not talking to the bartender like you’re trying to make friends. You just… exist there, beside him, in the same gentle quiet he’s clinging to.

It takes a minute before either of you speaks.

“You always look at your drink like it insulted you, pal.” you say, not facing him, voice soft, like you’re letting the words drift more than deliver them.

He blinks, not sure if you’re talking to him or just thinking aloud. But the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. Almost. “I suppose I expect too much from it.” he replies after a beat, voice low and measured.

You hum, tipping your glass slightly. “Whiskey’s honest, at least. Can’t lie to you. Can’t fix you either. I would say mommy’s favorite.”

That lands a little too close to something in him. He snickers for a moment at your words. He glances at you, properly this time. Your face is unreadable, bright eyes fixed on the amber in your own glass like it holds some kind of answer.

“You don’t look like you’re here to be fixed either.” he says.

“I’m not.” you admit. “Just didn’t feel like being at home. Thought I’d sit somewhere people didn’t expect anything from me. For like, two seconds.”

He nods. There’s a silence that settles between you then, but it’s not awkward. It’s rare. Companionable. Like two strangers who’ve walked miles through the same kind of loneliness and just happened to stop at the same bench.

After a moment, he asks you, “Are you often this forward with strangers?”

You smile faintly, eyes still ahead. “Only the ones who look like they need someone to remind them they’re still here.”

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh. Yet it felt more of an exhale. It's the first real sound he’s made all night that doesn’t sound like it’s been swallowed first. “Maybe I do, pretty woman.” he admits.

You turn your head, finally meeting his gaze. “So… are you going to that party everyone keeps texting you about?”

His eyebrows rise just slightly. “You saw that?”

“I mean, it's too obvious from here. Your phone could lit up like a beacon if I needed to find  something in a dark alley. Couldn’t miss it.” You tilt your head, laughing slightly. “You gonna go? It’s better than this place, no?”

“No. I think I’d rather stay here, really.” Kento whispers, voice low and deliberate, like he’s testing how the words taste in his mouth. “Boring sort of people with boring desires. I don’t want that.”

You turn your head slowly, arch an eyebrow, lips already curving. “Good. Because if you’d said yes, I’d have had to dump this whiskey on your head and declare you dead to me. It would’ve been very dramatic. People would've clapped.”

He smirks. “You always make it sound like I’m missing out on a Broadway show.”

“You are. I’m not kidding.” you say, sipping. “Starring me. Written by me. Directed by—well, let’s be honest, probably also me. But you? You could've had a supporting role, pal. Maybe even a line or two.”

He leans back, glancing at the doorway like the boring people might come clawing in. They don’t. Just shadows and silence. Another moment passes. It settles between you like an old friend. 

It was familiar, a little drunk, not entirely trustworthy. And in that space, something new flickers in him. Not hope. Not yet. But maybe the trailer for hope. The teaser. The grainy preview before the real film.

He lifts his glass slightly, his voice dry enough to be a martini. “To whiskey.”

You clink yours against his, a little spark of mischief in your eyes. “To strangers.”

“And questionable decisions.”

“Oh, those are the best kind. If a decision doesn’t scare your mother and confuse your therapist, is it even worth making?”

He laughs under his breath. Just a huff of air, but it’s honest. “You know… for someone I technically just met, you make it weirdly hard to leave.”

You shrug. “That’s my charm. I weaponize charisma. It’s not even subtle.”

He studies you for a second too long. The kind of look that starts like curiosity and ends like gravity.

You raise your glass again, tipping it slightly toward him. “So? Are you staying for the next act?”

“Only if it’s got better lighting and fewer existential crises.”

You grin. “No promises.”

There's a stillness afterward. It was a breath held between one heartbeat and the next. Nanami  Kento doesn't look away from you this time.

Not out of suspicion, or curiosity, or even caution. Just… presence. Something in the way you look at him is grounding, and in his world of scripts and silence, that's rare.

You both drink. The whiskey goes down smoother now, less like punishment, more like ritual. He sets his glass down with a care that betrays his exhaustion, his thoughts.

His shoulders still carry the weight of someone who’s spent years holding himself together with quiet discipline and the kind of restraint that never made room for collapse.

He takes another sip, then eyes you over the rim of his glass. “Alright,” he says slowly, “I’ll bite.”

You look at him. “That’s a bold offer on a first drink.”

He ignores it, barely smirks. “Why’d you stay?”

You don’t answer right away. Just tilt your head, let your finger trace the rim of your glass like it’s helping you think or stall. Then: “Because I’m next.”

He sets his glass down, leans forward slightly. “Next for what? The electric chair? A bad haircut? Or are we talking something a little more metaphorical here, because I didn’t bring my dictionary.”

You flash a quick, sideways smile. “I’m next in line for boring. For safe. For that quiet little life with the quiet little house and the partner who says things like, ‘Let’s just stay in tonight,’ and means it every night.”

He winces theatrically. “Sounds terminal.”

“Exactly. You see why I had to bail.”

He leans back, eyes flicking to the empty stage across the room, then back to you. “So what, you’re staging a rebellion over a glass of whiskey?”

“No, no.” you say, sipping. “The rebellion started when I didn’t follow them out the door. This”—you gesture between the two of you, between the glasses, the space charged with something both electric and unspoken—“this is the afterparty.”

He lets that hang in the air for a beat. Then: “Hell of an afterparty. You, me, and a bartender who keeps pretending he’s not eavesdropping.”

The bartender, who is definitely eavesdropping, gives a guilty shrug. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Hiroto. You’re still cute.” You smile, slow and crooked. “Not all revolutions start with a bang. Some start with a clink.”

Kento looks at you again, and now that flicker inside him, the maybe-hope, is growing teeth. “You seem to always talk like you’re already in the movie version of your life.”

You nod. “Because I am. Just waiting for the right co–star.”

Another pause. Long enough to make both of you aware of the tension winding quietly around your chairs. Then he says, “You really think you’re next? To be someone’s co–star in life?”

You look him square in the eye, not blinking, not flinching. “I know I am. Question is—what are you?”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if this is a trick or a test. Then he says, “You really don’t recognize me?”

There’s no arrogance in it. It was just a trace of disbelief. Like a guy who’s used to being pointed at in airports, not stared at across bar tables like a curiosity. He’s not used to not being recognized for something, whether it be for hate or for joy.

You squint at him, overly dramatic. “Did we go to high school together? Because unless you were the lunch lady or the janitor, I’m drawing a blank.”

He huffed a laugh, low and wry. “No. I suppose not.”

You sip your drink, then tilt your head. “Well, good. I’m allergic to men who expect applause just for showing up.”

He smirks. “So no parade for me, then.”

“Not unless you’ve got a marching band in your pocket. And even then, I hope they know jazz.”

Something shifts in his expression. It was subtle, like a muscle twitch, like he wants to say something and then thinks better of it. You soften just a little, enough for him to see it, but not enough to make it easy.

“You look like someone I could talk to, you know?” you say, simply. “That’s enough for me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he turns slightly, like he’s trying to get a better angle on the moment. On you. He watches your hands, all steady, relaxed. The way you hold your glass like it’s a ritual, not a crutch.

After a beat, he says, “It’s strange. I used to think the scariest thing was being alone. But now I think… maybe it’s being surrounded by people who know your face, but not your name. Who think they know you, but only ever met your shadow.”

You don’t say anything at first. You let the words settle, breathe a little. Then you nod. “Yeah. That’s why I come here too. It’s easier to fall apart in a place where no one expects you to stay together.”

He glances at you again, and there’s something different in his caramel eyes now. It was something between admiration and recognition. Like he’s just seen the curtain drop and the real act begin.

“Were you ever in love?” he asks suddenly, like he’s tossing the question onto the table with the check—casual, but you know it’s the real reason he showed up.

You blink. “Wow. What a thing to ask a gal on a first date. What’s next, blood type? My mother’s maiden name?”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Well, how am I supposed to get to know you if I don’t ask the good stuff?”

You lean back in your seat, smirk playing at your lips. “You let the lady say it first. It’s etiquette. Like holding the door open or pretending not to notice when she cries at Meet Me in St. Louis.”

He raises a hand, mock-defensive. “Alright, alright. Consider me chastised. Properly scolded. Proceed, oh wise one.”

You take a sip, then glance at the ceiling like the answer might be hiding in the rafters. “Yes,” you say finally. “Once.”

His eyes don’t leave you. The room gets quieter—not really, but it feels like it does. “What was it like?”

“It was soft….gentle. I don’t know how to explain it.” you say, slowly. “Like… worn cotton sheets soft. And loud. God, it was loud. Not the fighting kind of loud. The laughter kind. The slamming–the–door–because–we’re–late–to–everything kind. It ended slowly. Like a song fading out on the radio while you’re still singing the chorus.”

You pause, swirl your drink like it might play back the memory. “I still think of them sometimes, of course.” you add, voice lighter now, conversational. “But not because I want them back. Just… because they existed. And once, that meant something.”

He nods, eyes lowered to his glass like it might offer him a response. “That’s a good way to remember someone.”

You lift one shoulder, a little shrug. “It’s the only way I know how. That, or write an angry jazz ballad and become a legend.”

He looks up, mouth twitching. “Don’t tempt me.”

You tilt your head. “You write?”

“Only on napkins. And only after two drinks and a questionable life choice.”

“So, pretty boy….” you say, lifting your glass. “You must be very prolific.”

He clicks his drink against yours. “You have no idea.”

You grin. “Don’t worry, I’m a fan of tortured geniuses with emotional baggage. I collect them like shot glasses.”

He laughs, but it’s warm, grateful. Like someone who needed to laugh right then and didn’t know it until you gave him the line. “Maybe I’m like that too.”

“You gasped mockingly. “Oh, I’d be honored!”

He laughed once again. All the sudden, the bar grows quieter behind him. Last call hasn’t been shouted yet, but the air has that kind of weight to it. It was the kind that says stay or go, but make peace with the choice. 

And in that moment, Nanami Kento realizes something. That he’s not thinking about the texts anymore. Not about the party or the people waiting for him to show up with that practiced, polished smile. He’s thinking about how long it’s been since someone sat beside him without asking for anything.

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know.” he says after a while. Quiet. 

Almost like he’s said it a thousand times before and never really expected anyone to disagree. You don’t even flinch. Just sip your drink and glance sideways at him. You then smiled at him, almost too kindly.

“I know, I know.” you reply, like you’ve heard that line a thousand times too. “But you look like someone who could use some company that doesn’t charge by the hour.”

He snorts softly. “Therapist or escort?”

“Depends on the night. And whether you start crying or flirting first.”

He gives a tired little smile and turns his glass in his hand, the way people do when they’re stalling, like the liquid left might suddenly refill if they’re patient enough. There’s barely a sip left. There’s barely a whole sentence left in him either.

“Would you stay a little longer?” he asks, finally. 

And this time, it’s not with the polish, not with the charm. It’s not Nanami Kento, the actor man in the fancy suit. It’s Nanami Kento the man. The real one. The one under all that stoic posture. Tired. Worn. Still here. Still trying.

You look at him, not hard, just long enough to mean it and say, soft but with a spark. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

Then you lean in a little, grinning. “But I expect to be compensated. I don’t sit around giving my sparkling presence away for free.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s the going rate for sparkling presence these days?”

“Oh, steep. Minimum one interesting story, half a tragedy, and a compliment that doesn’t mention my eyes.”

He pretends to think. “Tough crowd.”

“You’re the one who invited the crowd.”

He chuckles, and you both fall into that rare kind of silence. It wasn’t awkward, not filler. The good kind. The kind that says: I see you. You can stop pretending now.

And just like that, you both sit there, two people who don’t quite know what they are to each other yet, but know they’re something. And for tonight, that’s enough.

YOU LIVE PRETTY WELL. Nanami Kento did not expect it, you living just a few blocks away from his own apartment building. It wasn’t the grandest of all the places he’d seen. But it was suitable. It surely was expensive to live in Minato–ku. 

Well, he shouldn’t judge. He just met you tonight and became his friend. He didn’t even know what you did for a living. You could be a lawyer or even a modest living CEO.

Kento was sure he was about to get drunk. He’s thinking too much. You unlock your door with one hand, bottle of whiskey in the other, and glance over your beautiful shoulder at him.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” you say, sweeping your arm dramatically. You were playing your bit, he was sure. “Where the heating is inconsistent, the lighting is flattering, and the ghosts all mind their business.”

He steps inside, looking around like someone who’s used to hotel rooms and set trailers, not creaky floorboards and secondhand furniture that’s earned its place. “It’s charming.” he says politely, which is code for small but good enough. “Modest living, huh.”

“Don’t be fooled, really.” you say, tossing your coat on a chair. “This place is one broken appliance away from being a tax write–off.”

He gives a faint smile, the kind that suggests he’s secretly delighted but refuses to admit it. You head to the kitchen, into a more polite nook and grab two mismatched glasses. He hums as he looks around more.

“I’m beginning to think you’re a rich person just living a humble life.” He says to you. “I mean come on, how do you get a Molteni and C Doda armchair?”

“A comedian’s paycheck is hit or miss, you know.” You shouted from your kitchen. “I’m off season right now!”

“You do comedy?”

“For fun, for now.” You say to him, snickering. “I’m a full time make–up artist.”

“Oh wow, for who?” He asks you. “If there’s an NDA, I won’t tell, I promise.” 

“Tsukumo Yuki. She pays me exclusively to just do her make–up.”

“Makes sense. She’s got very rich.”

“I hope you like your whiskey neat and your company chaotic.” you call over your shoulder.

“I was at a five-hour press junket yesterday. Chaos is preferable.”

You return, hand him a glass. He clinks it against yours with the casual resignation of a man who has accepted his fate. “To poor decisions made with excellent people!” you cheered as you raised your glass.

“To late nights that sound better in stories!” he replies to you, a smile on his face. You both drink.

“So…..You’re an actor. Makes sense, you might know Yuki.” you say, settling into the couch like it’s your stage. “What’s it like? Being adored by millions, traveling the world, having your face Photoshopped onto T-shirts?”

He sits across from you, unbuttoning his jacket, the way a man does when he’s trying to pretend he’s not too impressed by the upholstery. “It’s… a lot of pretending.”

You nod. “Ah. Acting.”

“Life.”

You raise a brow. “Look at you, going full existential on my futon. Be careful, the cushions aren’t built for that kind of weight.”

He chuckles. “And you? What’s it like being the most interesting person in a room with no spotlight?”

You pretend to blush. “Flattery this early in the night? I didn’t even put on my emotionally unavailable mascara.”

“It’s a rare shade.” he deadpans.

You sip, eyeing him. “So what now? You drink my whiskey, charm me with philosophical sadness, and then disappear into the night like a Scandinavian myth?”

“Only if you promise to write a sad little poem about me after.”

“Too late. Already working on the second verse. Rhymes with ‘brooding’ and ‘unduly suited.’”

He laughs, actually laughs genuinely this time and leans back, loosening his tie. It feels like a small victory. “Why did you really ask me to go with you here?” he asks, voice lower now. “Very rare to do all of a sudden.”

You shrug. “Because you looked like you needed somewhere to just be a person. And I needed someone to split the last of the good whiskey with.”

He nods slowly. “Fair trade.”

The clock ticks somewhere behind you, the kind of clock you only remember exists when the room goes quiet. Neither of you were talking now, not because you’ve run out of things to say but because the good stuff’s already been said.

Nanami Kento was staring down at his empty glass like it might give him an answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud. You shift, curl deeper into the couch, and let the silence stretch just enough to feel it.

“So…..” you murmur at him, drinking. “When do we get to the part where you tell me I’m too much?”

He looks up, brow creased. “Why would I do that?”

You give him a half–grin, the kind that says you’ve heard it before. “Because I am. Too fast. Too loud. Too everything.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes still locked on you. “I think…..” he says carefully. “You’re exactly enough. For once.”

Your smirk falters. Just a breath. Just a blink. And then you laugh, too quick. “Now you’re just trying to sleep with me.”

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “But not in that way.”

You tilt your head, and this time you don’t mask the weight behind your stare. “So what way are you?”

He’s quiet for a beat. Two. Then: “The kind that just wants to stay. For a minute. In something that doesn’t feel fake.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. The room answers for you. He sits back slowly, his knee brushing against yours. You don’t move away. Neither does he. It’s a soft collision, but it lands like a thunderclap. Something about the way it doesn’t feel accidental at all.

“I’ve had scenes like this, tension building.” he says, almost to himself. “Set lighting. Marks on the floor. Dialogue I didn’t write. And still, this feels more like a movie than any of them ever did.”

“Is this the part where you say you’re bad at real life?” you ask, voice quiet now.

“No…” he says, turning to look at you fully. “This is the part where I say I want to get better at it.”

Your breath catches just slightly. He sees it. He hasn't moved yet. You’re close now, close enough to count the lines near his eyes, the quiet furrow of his brow when he’s thinking too hard. You want to smooth it out with your thumb. You don’t.

“I think….” you say, barely louder than a whisper, finishing your drink. “This might be the moment the audience starts leaning forward in their seats.”

He smiles slowly. “You think they’re rooting for us?”

You nod once, slow. “Only if we don’t screw it up.”

And then finally, he leans in. Not fast. Not certain. Just close enough that you feel the warmth of him. Just close enough that your nose nearly brushes his. One breath shared between two people who’ve spent the whole night circling this exact spot.

His hand lifts slightly, like he’s about to reach for your face but he stops short, waiting. The space between you finally snaps. He leans in that final inch, and you meet him there like you were always going to do so.

It’s not gentle, not at first. More like the tail end of a sentence you’ve both been trying not to say all night. His mouth finds yours and it’s like flipping the switch on everything unspoken: sharp, certain, a little desperate. Like he thought he could wait and just realized he can’t.

Your glass hits the table. It was half–gracefully, half because neither of you’s got the coordination for whiskey anymore. Your hands are already in his hair, pulling him closer like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real. And he is with you….solid, warm, here.

He makes a sound against your mouth, low in his throat, like you surprised him. Everything about your eagerness made him feel everything and anything all at once. You pull back just a fraction, breath shallow, lips still barely brushing his. 

“You kiss like someone who thought about it too much.”

“I did.” he admits, voice rough. “And now I’m trying to stop thinking.”

“Good.” you murmur. “Because I’m tired of being charming.”

“Liar.”

You smirked at him. He kisses you again. Only this time slower. It was like he wants to memorize the way you taste when you're not talking. And god, it works. It shuts you both up in the best possible way.

He shifts, crowding closer, one hand sliding to your waist, the other pressing against the small of your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, tug it loose from his belt. 

Not fast, just enough to feel skin. To feel him. You both break again, panting now, foreheads pressed together, like the couch, the whiskey, the city. All of it’s spinning away from this one moment.

“Are you staying the night?” you ask, breath hitching.

He gives you that half-smile—lazy, crooked, completely undone. “You gonna let me?”

“Depends,” you murmur. “You gonna kiss me like that again?”

He does. And then again. The night folds in around the two of you. Your clothes half–on, hands everywhere, mouths tangled in the kind of silence only earned by people who’ve talked their way right into each other’s arms. No spotlight. No stage. Just you and him. Finally, finally shutting up. But you don’t pull away either.

The space between you pulses like a held note in a song that hasn’t decided whether it’s a ballad or a tragedy. The city hums outside, and somewhere in your chest, something clicks into place. Not love. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, the start of something dangerously close. At least for tonight.

Kento's lips linger on yours, the kiss deepening as he pours all his emotion into it. His hands roam your body, touching you reverently, as if committing every curve and contour to memory. You can feel the racing of his heart against your chest, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours. 

When he finally pulls back, his caramel eyes are dark with a mix of satisfaction and something softer, more tender. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

Almost instantly, his mouth moves into you again. He moves against you with a gentle urgency, as if he's savoring the taste of you. You respond eagerly, parting your lips to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, exploring, teasing, igniting a fire in your belly. 

His hands roam your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of heat in their wake. You arch into his touch, craving more, needing to feel every inch of him. The kiss grows more passionate, more desperate, as if you're both trying to consume each other. When he finally pulls back, you're both breathless, your hearts racing in sync. 

"I could kiss you forever, my pretty woman." Kento murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "You're addictive."

"Kiss me again." you breathe, your voice husky with desire. Kento obliges, his lips crashing against yours in a fiery kiss. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle.

"So demanding, aren’t you?"he murmurs against your mouth, a hint of a smile in his voice. "I like it." 

“There’s a lot of that where it came from.”

He nips at your lower lip, soothing the sting with his tongue. "Tell me what you want, pretty. I'll give you anything." 

His hand trails down your neck, over your collarbone, his touch feather-light and teasing. You shiver, arching into his caress. "You." you whisper, your eyes locked on his."I want you."

Kento's pupils dilate, his gaze darkening with lust. "Say it again, pretty." he demands, his voice low and commanding. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you." you repeat, your voice steady and sure."I want your hands on me, your mouth on me, your body inside mine." 

Kento's breath hitches, his grip on your hair tightening."Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me." he groans, his lips trailing down your neck. “You’re dangerous…..I just met you tonight and it feels like forever.” 

“I’m good at making people fall in love.”

“I know.” He bites down gently, marking you, claiming you."I'm going to take you apart, piece by piece, until you're begging for mercy."

His hands push your shirt up, exposing your skin to the cool air. He palms your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them pebble beneath his touch. You gasp, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you.

"Yes…” you hiss, hips rolling instinctively against his. “Touch me, Kento. Make me yours.”

He groans low in his throat, eyes darkening as he leans in, mouth trailing heat along your collarbone. You feel him hesitate just long enough to meet your gaze.

“You gonna take your shirt off right now?” you murmur, your voice a velvet tease as you curl your fingers into the hem of his. “Or are we doing this the awkward, tangled way?”

He laughs—breathy, wrecked—and yanks the shirt over his head without another word. You drink him in like you’ve been parched for years. All sculpted lines and quiet intensity, like someone carved a poem out of muscle and restraint.

“Good god….” you murmur, tracing your fingers down his chest. “You really are stupidly hot. Who let you get away with that?”

“No one, pretty.” he breathes, leaning in until your mouths nearly touch. “I’m on the run.”

“Okay.” you say, admiring. “Points for presentation.”

“You haven’t even seen the finale, I’m sure of that.” he says, voice low and dry, but there’s a flicker of heat behind it that makes your pulse jump.

You tug him back down to you, your laugh caught somewhere between your teeth and his lips. Clothes start to disappear like they’re being written out of the script. It was quick, purposeful, a little clumsy in the best way. 

There’s something delicious about the mess of it, the way he fumbles with your jeans and mutters a curse when the zipper sticks, the way you kick off your socks with the grace of a cat falling off a windowsill. And still he keeps pausing to touch you.

Fingers trailing along your ribs, over the dip of your waist, the inside of your wrist. Like he’s learning you in parts, not just trying to get to the ending. You pull him on top of you, and he fits like he’s always meant to be there. His hands bracket your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, like he’s grounding himself before he drowns.

“You good?” Kento asks, low, voice hoarse. You nod, lifting your hips to answer the question you don’t want to say out loud yet. “I’ll continue.”

“Make me feel good.” You whispered to him, a smile on his lips.

“Oh, I plan to.”

Kento's hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he thrusts deeper. His lips trail along your neck, leaving a path of hot kisses and gentle bites. You can feel his breath, ragged and uneven, against your skin. 

The room fills with the sound of your mingled moans and the creaking of the bed frame beneath you. Sweat beads on your forehead as the pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Kento's movements become more urgent, more desperate, as if he's trying to merge his body with yours completely.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him. The world narrows down to this moment, to the sensation of him inside you, surrounding you, consuming you.You're lost in the rhythm, in the heat, in the feeling of being utterly and completely his.

Kento's hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that steals your breath. His hands roam your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You arch into his touch, desperate for more, craving the feel of his skin against yours. 

His lips capture yours in a searing kiss, tongues dancing and tangling in a passionate duel. The taste of him, the scent of him, fills your senses, overwhelming you with desire. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, the pleasure building to a crescendo. 

Kento's movements become erratic, his thrusts growing faster, harder, as he chases his own release. You're right there with him, teetering on the edge, ready to fall into the abyss of ecstasy. With a final, powerful thrust, you could feel yourself see stars coming against him.

"Fuck, you feel so good." Kento groans, his voice strained with pleasure. "So tight, so perfect." His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him as he buries himself deep inside you.

"I could stay like this forever." he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. You shiver at the sensation, your nails digging into his back. 

"More, more…." you pant, wrapping your legs tighter around him. 

"Give me more." Kento obliges, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more desperate. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of exertion. 

"Come for me, pretty." he demands, his thumb finding your clit and circling it firmly. "Let me feel you come apart around me."

His words send you hurtling towards the edge, your body tensing as the pleasure reaches its peak."Kento!"

"Yeah, that's it." Kento encourages, his voice husky and low. "Come on my cock, baby. I want to feel you squeeze me tight." 

His thumb presses harder on your clit, the sensation overwhelming as you crest the wave of your orgasm. Your body convulses, your inner walls clamping down on him as you cry out his name. Kento's movements become erratic, his thrusts growing shallow as he chases his own release.

"Fuck, I'm close." he grits out, his grip on your hips tightening. "I'm going to fill you up, make you mine."

With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his body shuddering as he finds his own climax. You can feel the warmth of his release spreading through you, marking you as his. He collapses on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he tries to catch his breath.

A little while later, you both were in the afterglow, still tangled in sheets that are definitely not high thread count, he rolls onto his back beside you, arm slung across your stomach, grounding you like a weight you never knew you needed. You glance over at him, sweaty, flushed, hair all askew, and grin.

“So. That happen in any of your movie scripts?”

“No, not at all.” he mutters, laughing as he was still catching his breath. “But I’m going to request rewrites.”

You laugh, turn into him, and press a kiss to his shoulder. “Next time, pretty boy…..” you whisper. “You’re bringing the pizza.”

He groans. “And you’re picking the music.”

“You’re in luck. My playlist’s 60% seduction, 40% crying in the shower.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you closer to him. And for once, neither of you needs to say anything clever. The silence that settles afterward is thick, but not heavy. Like the kind that follows a good set. Then laughter still echoing in the corners, lights just starting to dim. 

You lie there for a while, skin against skin, heartbeats slowly syncing up like they’re getting used to each other. Nanami’s thumb draws lazy circles on your hip. It’s the kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything. Just says I’m here.

You glance up at him. “Are you always this talkative after sex?”

He exhales a laugh through his nose. “Only when I’m trying to impress.”

You snort. “Wow. Rolling out the big guns, huh? Silence and mild caressing? Be still my heart.”

“I’m pacing myself, pretty woman of mine.” he says, tilting his head to look at you. “You’re clearly a marathon.”

You grin. “I am a special gal. I walk fast, talk fast, and expect orgasms with flair.”

He chuckles again, eyes half-lidded now, and you feel it, how easy it is to settle into this. Like the city can hum and rattle around you and you’d still find your way back here. He takes a moment to watch you as you move slightly from him and into the glow of lamp light.

“I like this.” he says suddenly, voice soft and a little surprised. “You.”

You blink. “Wow. No foreplay with that one, huh?”

“I thought we were past foreplay.”

You laugh out loud again, but there’s something quieter underneath now. Something steady. You move towards him again, letting your fingers curl against his chest and feel the slow beat beneath your palm. 

“You know this doesn’t have to mean anything, hm?” you say, not as a warning, just as fact.

He nods. “I know. But maybe it could mean something good.”

You study him for a second. He was a beautiful man, older than you to be sure, but beautiful. Almost too beautiful to even comprehend. His golden hair rumpled, skin still warm from you, that soft look in his eyes like you’ve disarmed him completely without trying.

“Don’t fall in love with me tonight, pretty boy.”

He smiles at the ceiling. “Tonight’s almost over.”

You hum. “Tomorrow’s a mess.”

“I like messes. I’m made of that. I did all of that.” he says, brushing your hair back from your face. “Yours seems like one I could sit in for a while.”

You raise a brow. “Sit in, huh? You talk dirty to everyone you sleep with?”

“No, not at all.” he says. “Just the ones who offer whiskey and existential crisis in the same evening.”

You grin, tuck your face into the crook of his neck. And you stay there. Long enough for the outside noise to fade. Long enough for the city to sleep. Long enough for whatever this is to feel real. Even if only for tonight.

HE LEFT HIS PHONE NUMBER FOR YOU TO CALL WHEN HE LEFT THAT NIGHT. He ended up scribbling it on the back of a food receipt you had in the kitchen, the ink smudged just a little from how long he’d held it before walking out your door that morning.

“Call me.” he’d said, casual as anything. “I’ll answer it as soon as possible.” 

It was like it wasn’t already something sitting heavy in his chest. Like he wasn’t about to check his phone every damn hour. But you hadn’t called. Not once.  Not yet. And it was driving him absolutely mad.

At first, he told himself it was fine. Cool, even. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you were playing it smart, letting the high of the night fade before reaching for anything real. But now, a week into filming his new project, the irritation had fully set in.

He was brooding more than usual on set. Which, for Nanami Kento, was saying something. His jaw stayed tight between takes. His timing was off. He missed cues, flubbed lines that should’ve come easy. The director called for a break and gave him that ‘Are you okay or are we going to have to name the understudy?’ look.

His co-star tried to make a joke about his method. He did not laugh. Between scenes, he scrolled through his messages like a man possessed. Nothing from you. Not even a sarcastic “Sorry, meant to call, got abducted by aliens.”

Each time his phone lit up and it wasn’t you, something inside him clenched a little tighter. Worse than the silence was the not knowing. Has it meant something to you at all? Did it meant as much to you as it did to him?

Because it sure as hell meant something to him. And no one got that close. Not since his estranged wife. Not physically, emotionally. No one had actually left a mark on him. Not since you had come and shaken his life around.

He’d replayed it all too many times: the laughter, the quiet, the heat. The way you’d curled into him like you’d belonged there. The way you hadn’t said goodbye like it was final. And still it was genuinely a badly received radio silence.

Now he was walking around like a man with an itch he couldn’t scratch and no idea if he’d imagined the whole damn thing. Someone handed him a coffee. He didn’t even taste it. Someone told him to hit his mark. He missed it by a foot.

“Hey, Kento–san?” his co-star finally said, pulling him aside between takes. “Whoever she is? Call her. Yell at her. Write a poem. I don’t care. Just get it out of your system before they start cutting you out of your own film.”

He didn’t respond back to his co–star at all. It’s horrible advice. It’s the same sort of advice that led him to be a bad husband in the first place. He just stared at his phone again. And wondered how long you were going to leave him hanging in the space between maybe and never.

Nanami Kento doesn’t believe in coincidences anymore. Well, in general, not really. Not in the way that makes people bump into each other like fate had nothing better to do. His life has always been calculated. 

Precise. Predictable, even when it hurts. But when he steps out of the quiet, borrowed van onto the main street of a town so small it barely has a name, he sees you standing there outside a tiny coffee shop, a paper cup in your hand and a scarf wrapped lazily around your neck. He suddenly freezes.

That is you. His pretty woman from the bar. The one who sat beside him when he didn’t know he needed company. The one who didn’t ask for anything, who spoke to him like he was a person, not a role. He remembers your voice. Your stillness. The way you didn’t flinch at his silence.

He stands there too long. Enough that one of the crew glances back and nudges him, murmuring, “Everything alright, Nanami–san?”

He nods slowly, distracted. “Yes. Just—” 

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Because how the hell are you here? You don’t look like you belong to this place. Not in any condescending way. Just….you’re the type of person who seemed carved for city nights, bookstore corners, low–lit bars and sharp conversations. Not this quiet countryside with its fading signs and sleepy pace.

And yet here you are. Laughing softly with the barista, hair caught in the wind, bright eyes crinkled with something like real joy. You haven’t seen him yet. And for a moment, he thinks about walking away. About letting this be a memory instead of a moment. But something stops him.

Maybe it’s that same stillness you carried before the kind that made even silence feel like something sacred. He walks across the narrow street, hands buried in his coat pockets. His steps are slow, careful, like he isn’t sure if you’re real.

When he stops in front of you, you finally look up. There's a pause. A blink. And then, it was that recognition. Your lips part, surprised but not startled. Like maybe you were wondering if he was real, too.

“Well….” you say softly, like a secret between old friends. Like you hadn’t slept together that night. You smiled. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Neither did I.” he replies, almost breathless at the sight of you. “Especially not here.”

You glance around, gesturing loosely to the sleepy town behind you. “Yeah, it’s… not where you’d expect to find me.”

He nods. “No offense, but you look like someone who belongs where the sidewalks don’t roll up at 7 p.m.”

You smile, and it’s warmer than he remembers. “None taken. I still can’t believe I’m here either, honestly.”

He waits, tilting his head slightly. “So… why are you?”

You glance down at your coffee, then back at him with a small shrug. “A bit of a reset, I guess. Life got loud in the city, and I needed quiet. Yuki’s taking a break. Thought I’d try letting the countryside teach me how to be still without being lonely.”

He studies you for a moment. The words hit something in him. Something he’s been carrying but hasn’t been able to name. “You always speak like that?” he asks, almost amused.

You grin. “Like what?”

“Like you’re narrating a book no one else gets to read.”

You laugh, genuinely, and for the first time in a long while, Nanami Kento feels something loosen in his chest. “Guess I just like giving things meaning, huh?” you say. “Even if they don’t always deserve it.”

He nods once, quiet. “I think that’s why I remembered you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You remembered me?”

“Of course.” he says, and it’s the most honest thing he’s said all month. “Some people… you don’t forget. Even if you don’t know her name. All I was calling you was pretty girl, pretty woman. I need your name, you know.”

Your smile softens, tugging at the edge of something real. “It’s [last name] [first name], by the way.”

He repeats it under his breath like he’s rehearsing a line in a play—one he wants to get just right. Like tasting a word he’s not ready to let go of.

“[First name],” he says again. Then he offers a small, almost boyish smile. “Kento. Nanami Kento.”

You blink at him, smirking. “Oh, I know. The actor. Brooding, intense, vaguely Scandinavian even though you’re not. You worked with Yuki.”

He lifts a brow. “And you’re her makeup artist, right?”

You slap a finger to your lips, mock-scandalized. “Shhh! Didn’t I say it’s an NDA? You trying to get me sued?”

“Oh dear,” he deadpans, holding his hands up in faux surrender. “My bad. Please don’t report me to the shadowy cabal of publicists.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “They will come for you. And they’re terrifying. They wear black turtlenecks and know how to erase someone’s IMDB credits.”

“That explains my last three indie films disappearing,” he says with a perfectly straight face.

“Don’t joke,” you say, waggling your finger. “I still have trauma from accidentally contouring a producer into looking like an Easter Island statue. They moved me to background actors for a week.”

He laughs—really laughs—and it sounds like something he hasn’t done freely in a while.

You lean in a little closer. “Anyway, we’ve both outed ourselves now. Me, the paint-slinger. You, the tall handsome face that cries beautifully on screen.”

He tilts his head. “And off screen.”

“Oh, wow. Is that your next Oscar campaign slogan?”

“‘Nanami Kento: Crying Beautifully Since 2009.’”

You grin. “Sold. I’ll do your press kit for free.”

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where the humor slows, the silence stretches, and something gentler curls around the edges of the conversation. It’s in the way he looks at you. Like he’s not just watching you talk, but listening.

“I like your name.” he says, softly. “It fits you. Sharp and kind at the same time.”

You tilt your head. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I’ll have to fall in love with you.”

“Too late,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “I already called dibs.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “God, you actors. Always stealing the last word.”

He raises his glass again. “Only when it’s worth stealing.”

He doesn’t sit down right away. Just stand there, taking you in again, the way your hands cradle the coffee cup like it holds more than just warmth. You seem quieter than you were that night at the bar but not withdrawn. More… rooted, maybe. Like the stillness you spoke of found you after all.

“Are you filming something out here?” you ask, nudging him gently back to reality.

He nods. “A small project. Director wanted something slow, intimate. Thought a town like this would feel more… honest.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “You always choose honesty when you can?”

He gives a small, dry laugh. “It’s not always an option. But I think I’ve learned to stop pretending I don’t want it.”

You gesture to the empty chair at your little table, and he hesitates, but only for a moment. Then he takes the seat across from you, folding his coat neatly, as if even now he’s still performing quiet discipline.

“I have to admit.” you said to him, crossing your arms on your chest. “This is the last thing I expected today.”

“Seeing me again?”

“No. Seeing you again here. In this nowhere town where I came to disappear.”

He meets your gaze, steady. “Are you trying to disappear?”

You pause. Then: “I think I was, at first. Now I’m just… trying to be somewhere that doesn’t expect too much of me.”

He understands that more deeply than he can say. The air between you shifts, still light, but layered now. Familiar. It’s not quite like picking up where you left off, because nothing really started that night. But it’s something. A continuation, maybe, of a quiet understanding neither of you asked for, but both recognized.

“Do you want to walk?” you ask suddenly. “This place has a whole six blocks of charm.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A tour?”

You grin. “A detour.”

Nanami Kento doesn’t usually say yes so easily, especially not to detours. But something about you, this strange, steady thread weaving back into his life without asking for permission—it makes him curious enough to get up.

As you walk, you talk about small things. The town’s single bakery with the terrible coffee but perfect melonpan. The inn you’re staying at where the owner talks to the koi fish in the pond like they’re her grandchildren. The stray cat that waits by the bookstore every morning, expecting someone to read to it.

And in return, he offers things he doesn’t tell most people. How strange it is to sleep in hotel rooms that all smell the same. How the silence on set sometimes echoes louder than the noise. How he’s tired, bone–deep tired and he’s not sure who he is when the cameras stop rolling.

You don’t interrupt. You don’t try to solve it. You just walk beside him. As if that’s enough. And somehow, it is. When the wind picks up, you both slow, turning toward the river where the water moves soft and low. He glances at you, unsure of what he’s supposed to say. If this is a moment, or just another quiet breath passing through.

But then you speak. “I’m glad it was you, you know.” 

He turns to you, eyeing you somberly. “What do you mean?”

“At the bar. That night. I didn’t go there to meet anyone. I didn’t want to be found. But… I’m glad it was you.”

Kento swallows hard, a quiet ache rising in his throat. “I’m glad it was you too.” he says, and means it more than anything he’s said in years.

The river hums low. The town breathes slowly. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel quite so lost. You lead him down a narrow path lined with crooked fences and old telephone poles, sunlight slanting through the trees like it’s got nowhere better to be. 

The wind kicks up a little dust once again, rustles the drying laundry on someone’s balcony. It’s quiet, but not empty. There’s life here. Slow, familiar life. Kento listens as you point out things like the soft bark of the old cedar tree, the old woman who sells pickled plums from a box on her porch, the bench by the train station that creaks if you sit too far to the right.

He watches you wave to people like you know them and more surprising, like they know you back. A group of kids pass by and call your name, dragging along a scooter with one busted wheel. You call out a reminder to “watch the pothole by the bridge” and one of them shouts “we know” like you’re someone who’s always been there.

“You said you came here to get away.” Kentosays quietly, almost accusingly, but not unkindly. “But… this doesn’t look like a getaway.”

You smirk, slowing your steps just enough for him to keep walking beside you. “Yeah. That’s because I lied a little.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, pray tell?”

“My grandparents live here. They’re still alive. Happily.” you admit, nodding toward a pale green house with a sun–faded door and a dozen potted plants crowding the porch. “I used to come here every summer when I was a kid. It’s not glamorous, but I guess it always felt like the world slowed down when I got off the train.”

He looks at you, really looks this time. You, standing barefoot in soft sneakers, a coffee long gone cold in your hand, hair caught in the breeze and eyes full of something that feels like home.

“You seem different here.” he says, without thinking.

“Different how?”

He shrugs, eyes forward. “Lighter.”

You smile at that. “That’s what this place does to people. Even the grumpy ones.”

“You think I’m grumpy?”

“I know you’re grumpy.”

He huffs, almost a laugh. You keep walking, leading him past an old bridge with rust on the rails, and he follows, quiet, thoughtful. He watched as you started to hum a song he doesn’t recognize at all.

“Most people don’t stay here long.” you say suddenly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Just travelers passing through. Photographers, artists, singers. Tired people. Very bored people.”

He hums. “Which one do you think I am?”

You tilt your head, pretending to study him. “You don’t strike me as the artsy type, actually. You’re not dramatic enough to be a writer, and you’re too well–dressed to be just a backpacker. So I’d say… tired.”

He pauses. That lands heavier than you probably meant it to. “Well that’s such a thing to say.”

“Bullseye?” you ask softly, and he doesn’t answer. Just walk a little slower.

When you turn up a narrow dirt road, he follows without asking. He’s stopped asking where you’re taking him. There’s something comforting in the way you walk ahead, like you’ve already decided it’s okay for him to be here.

“My grandma’s probably already started cooking.” you say over your shoulder. “She’ll pretend she doesn’t know who you are, even if she does. That’s her thing. Makes people feel comfortable.”

Nanami frowns slightly. “What do you mean, ‘if she does’?”

You glance back at him, confused. “I mean, she has a habit of recognizing people even when she shouldn’t. Like that guy from the noodle commercials. Or the lady who was on that old soap opera. I swear she has a sixth sense for washed–up celebrities.”

He freezes. Just briefly. You stop, noticing his hesitation. “What?”

“…Nothing.”

You squint. “Wait. Do you want people to recognize you?”

There’s a pause. A long one. He looks at you, expression unreadable. Then, with the smallest shrug: “Just your grandma, I hope. She’d give me bigger food portions.”

You laugh, loud and sudden, full of disbelief. “Oh my god. No way. I sat next to you at a bar, poured my heart out to you, and you wanted me to fuss over you like you were famous?”

“I wasn’t famous in that bar,” he says quietly. “Just tired.”

You stare at him for a moment longer. Then shake your head, smiling. “Well, okay.” you say, “You’re still coming to dinner.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“That you’re a little famous? That people could recognize you?” you smirked at him. “Only if it means you expect dessert.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t know what to do with that, like he’s still getting used to someone treating him like a person instead of a profile. But he follows you up the hill anyway. Toward a warm house. Toward kinako mochi and nosy grandmothers. Toward something that might just be peace.

You lead him up the hill, past fields of rice that sway lazily in the late afternoon breeze, the golden light casting everything in a soft glow. As you approach the small house with the overgrown garden and the old wooden gate, Nanami Kento feels the weight of the day’s quiet beginning to settle over him. 

He’s still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that you’re not just some random person he bumped into at a bar but someone whose life is rooted here, in this strange little town, in a way he never would've guessed.

The door creaks open before you even knock, and an elderly woman with silver-streaked hair and a bright smile appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a faded apron and holding a wooden spoon like she’s ready to defend the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re back.” she says with a soft laugh, as if this happens every day.

“Where’s grandpa?”

“He went to play mahjong with his friends.” Your grandma giggled. “It’s been a while since he played, after all. His friend just got back from Sendai!”

“This is Kento, grandma.” you say, nudging Kento forward. “He’s staying in town for a bit.”

The elderly woman studies him for a moment with sharp, discerning bright eyes that seem to see everything. Then, she nods like she’s accepted something only she understands. She turns to Kento with a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Kento.” she says, her voice warm. “I’m her grandma. But that’s enough. You’ve got good timing. Dinner’s just about ready.”

Kento manages a polite smile. “Thank you for having me.”

“Come in, come in.” She steps aside, gesturing for him to enter.

The inside of the house is cozy. Old wooden beams, shelves lined with mismatched cups and plates, the faint smell of something savory simmering in the air. It feels like the kind of home that’s been lived in for generations, the kind where every corner holds a memory.

“Sit, sit!” Grandma insists, leading him to the low table where she’s already placed a few bowls of rice and pickles. There’s a steaming pot in the center, something rich and fragrant. Nanami sits, still a bit surprised at the ease with which he’s been brought into this domestic world.

[name], as though reading his thoughts, gives him a knowing look. “Grandma’s not one for formalities. She’s always fed whoever’s around.”

Your grandma chuckles, sitting beside him. “No point in starving anyone, especially if they’re passing through. I’m sure you’ve had enough fancy meals in your life, Kento–san. This is a proper one.”

Kento laughs softly, though it’s laced with a hint of discomfort. “I don’t usually have meals like this.”

You watched him for a moment, a quiet understanding passing between you. You know that he’s not used to being this comfortable, to being treated as someone ordinary, not an actor, not someone important. Just a man who’s hungry, tired, and seeking a little peace.

“My grandma’s food is the kind that makes you forget about the rest of the world, you know?” you say lightly. “Just sit tight! This is going to blow your mind!”

And as the first bite of warm stew hits his tongue, Nanami Kento finds you’re right. The tenderness of the meat, the earthiness of the vegetables, the way everything melds together in a way that doesn’t feel rushed.

It’s the kind of food that wraps itself around you, takes you by the shoulders, and makes you feel like you’ve come home, even if you’ve never been here before. Kento had only had something such as this only once and it was his estranged wife’s cooking. But this was a different sort of special. Because you were smiling so brightly.

The silence between you all feels comfortable, unhurried. Kento isn’t used to this kind of stillness. Not the kind that doesn’t demand anything from him, not the kind that doesn’t expect him to perform or speak or be something he’s not. Here, in this humble little house, he can just exist.

Your grandma talks about her garden. About the pleasant weather. About how the local cats keep stealing her catnip and hiding it in the neighbor’s yard. There’s no rush to any of it. It was so beautiful. There was no hurry. And he liked that.

And when the meal winds down, you quickly rise, reaching for the plates. Kento stands, too, moving to help, but you shake your head gently at him. You signal him to just keep sitting down and rest.

“Just sit. You’re our guest.” you say, smiling as you start gathering the dishes. “I’m sure My grandma wants to ask you all sorts of questions.”

Your grandma grins knowingly, hands resting on the table. “Oh, I do. But first… tell me, Kento–san, do you like tea?”

He chuckles. “I do.”

“That’s good.” she says, standing up with surprising energy. “Then you’re in for a treat.”

As she prepares the tea, you go on and sit next to Kento. She was tenderly watching him as if she’s still trying to piece together this strange meeting. It was interesting. She had never seen you be like this before. Or bring any one to meet her, let alone a man.

There’s an almost hesitant energy between you now, something that speaks of both curiosity and something more subtle. Something like... connection. Neither of you expected this, but here it is, unfolding in the quiet corners of this small town, in the middle of nowhere.

“You don’t seem like someone who needs to hide.” you say softly, after a while.

Kento hand stills on his cup. “I don’t, really. I just… forget sometimes what it feels like to be seen without expectation.”

You meet his eyes, the soft vulnerability of his words hanging between you. “My grandma doesn’t expect much, you know.” you say, eyes softening. “That’s why this place works. It doesn’t ask for anything more than you’re willing to give.”

He nods slowly, understanding your words. The words settle in him, a truth that feels simpler than anything he’s allowed himself to admit. His life was so fast paced and everyone expected so much of him. And he doesn’t like that. 

In some ways, this is what he would have wanted with his estranged wife. He would have wanted this life with her. Yet he knew that was over now. It was never going to happen. But as he sat here, he knew that there was another door that opened to him. He knew that when he looked at you.

“You’re right.” he says quietly.

And for the first time in what feels like years, Nanami Kento feels like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. The evening stretches on, the light outside fading into a rich indigo, the stars barely visible against the soft glow of a lantern that hangs by the door. The small house feels like it’s wrapped in quiet, a rare kind of peace that Nanami hasn’t known in a long time.

You and your grandma settle back into your seats after the meal, the last of the tea steeping as the conversation shifts into more comfortable territory. Your vibrant grandma is telling stories out loud now, so energetically. 

The small, almost absurd anecdotes from her youth, her sharp memory lighting up with details that surprise even you. She talks about her childhood, how she used to race the boys to the river, how her first job was at a noodle stand on the corner that doesn’t exist anymore.

Kento just listens, entranced. He can’t remember the last time he sat in a room where nothing was expected of him. No script, no camera, no need to perform. Just stories and the kind of laughter that comes with familiarity, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve always belonged in a place.

At some point, your grandmother gets up to fetch a blanket, and you find yourself left alone with Nanami Kento, the air now full of the quiet hum of cicadas outside and the gentle rustle of the wind. 

It’s rare for him to be alone like this with anyone. He’s been alone for so long, even surrounded by people. But with you, he was sure he felt something different. Something lighter, something more like a safe space.

He looks over at you, his gaze soft, a little guarded, but there’s an openness there, like he’s not sure how to read you, but he’s willing to try. 

“Do you come here often?” he asks, the question almost too simple. “To visit your grandmother?”

You smile, settling back into your chair. “When I need to. It’s the only place I can feel like myself, you know?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting your words sink in. He’s not sure what to say next, not sure if he’s ready to voice the quiet questions that have been lingering since that first night at the bar.

Instead, he simply says, “I can see why. It feels… real.”

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “It’s real. Not a lot of places left like this.”

Kento’s fond gaze shifts to the window, the faintest reflection of the moon catching in the glass. He thinks about everything. His life, his career, the years spent chasing something he thought he needed to prove. The constant cycle of applause, of recognition, of being seen but never truly seen.

“You know…..” he says after a moment, his voice quieter than before. “I think I forgot what it felt like to just be... without anything attached to it. To be seen without the need for approval or validation.”

You glance over at him, studying the quiet vulnerability in his expression. “You’re not the only one there.” you say softly. “I think we all forget sometimes. The world pushes us so hard, and we get so used to moving with it that we forget how to stop.”

Kento chuckles lightly, but it’s not an easy laugh. “I don’t even know who I’d be if I stopped.”

“Well, I think it’s just part of that.” you say, standing up to stretch. “Maybe that’s the part you need to find. Who you are when you’re just... Kento.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods slowly, as if he’s finally allowing himself to consider the idea. The simplicity of it all. Just being just Kento, no pretense, no expectations.

Everything about it appealed to him. You move toward the window and look out at the garden, where the last of the fireflies are blinking faintly in the warm night air. 

"I don't know how long you'll be here." you say quietly to him. "But I hope this place helps you find that person."

“I think it already has, if I’m being honest.” he says, and it feels like the truth. He looks at you, and only you. “In ways I didn’t expect.”

You turn back to face him, eyes steady. “Then let it. Let it help. Let it remind you that you don’t always have to be someone else.”

He stands then, slowly, as if the weight of his body is a bit less now, a bit more grounded. “I’d like that.” he says simply.

Your grandma comes back into the room with a blanket, her tired hands resting on her hips. “I’m glad to see you two getting along. I’m sure we’ll be hearing more stories before long.”

Kento smiles, a little more open now. “I’m sure.”

You pull the blanket over your grandmother’s lap, and she pats the empty space beside her. Nanami Kento hesitates but then sits down, the comfortable silence settling back in as the night continues to stretch on. The sound of the wind outside is almost like a lullaby, gentle and soothing.

And for the first time in ages, Kento feels like he’s in a place where he doesn’t need to rush, and doesn't need to be anyone other than who he is at this moment. Maybe that’s all he needs right now. Maybe it’s enough.

HE’S A REGULAR IN THE SPECIAL FAMILY GATHERINGS. The new family winter house in Tokyo was warm, creaky, and filled with the scent of coffee and cinnamon.

Snow layered the trees outside like something out of a painting, and inside—well, inside was a whole different kind of storm.

“Okay, okay.....” Gojo said, dramatically flopping down onto the couch beside Keiko, who gave him a look halfway between amusement and exhausted affection. “So remind me again….do I count as stepdad or fun uncle with unresolved boundary issues?”

“You count as mom’s midlife crisis, Satoru–san.” Kenshin said flatly, not looking up from his book.

Kento snorted into his tea. That’s his son, alright. “Well, those words are honest.”

“You count as her worst life trauma, Dad. I don’t think you should be saying anything.”

“Noted, son.”

“Uh, correction.” Satoru raised his hand. “I am the ongoing, extremely charismatic, painfully handsome midlife crisis. There’s a difference.”

Nanami Kento rolled his caramel eyes from his armchair by the fire, adjusting the blanket that had been thrown over his legs by force. (Nanami Keiko insisted on cozy traditions that suited her tastes and he cannot deny his daughter anything.)

“You’re both ridiculous, aren’t you?” Keiko said, tossing a marshmallow at Satoru, who caught it in his mouth like an overgrown Labrador.

Kento glanced toward his ex–wife, who sat cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, nursing her own mug. “Why did we ever let him in the house?”

“Because he brought wine, and not just any, the good one.” she said to him, as if it was a matter of fact. “It's Marchesi Antonori, Kento. I’m not letting that go to waste.”

“I always bring wine for you, baby.” Satoru said, smiling as he kissed her cheeks, watching her smile against Satoru’s touch. “And good gossip, that everyone enjoys. Don’t act like I haven’t upgraded this family’s drama with better lighting and better cheekbones.”

“You say that this isn’t a setup for a soap opera, you know?” Kenshin muttered. “I mean, maybe Reality TV. I’m sure everyone’s going to enjoy it.”

Keiko leaned into her dad’s side. “A very slow, awkward menage à trois on TV? We’ll make bank! Maybe better than my work at the hospital.”

Kento let out a long sigh. “Please don’t say ‘menage à trois’ in front of your mother and I, sweetie.”

“You’re the one vacationing with your ex–wife and her boyfriend, Dad. We’re past pretending this is normal.” Keiko argued at her dad. “Plus, this is how I’m coping with it. It has to be funny or it’ll be trauma!”

“She has a point there, Kento–kun.” Satoru said as he made a comical face, raising his glass. “To co–parenting with complex emotional boundaries and excellent skincare routines.”

Nanami Kento didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched. He looked down into his cup like it might hold a different answer this time, then looked up and said, almost offhandedly: “I’m seeing someone. Well, at least I think I am.”

The room went still for a second.

“You’re kidding?” His son says, eyes widened. “Dad, are you serious?”

Keiko looked like her world was rocked. “Beyond five months?”

“I met her seven months ago.”

“Holy shit?” Gojo Satoru huffs, almost like he’s surprised. “This is just…..

“I just don’t know….” his ex blinked, tilting her head. “Wait, are you serious or is this one of your deadpan setups that ends with a philosophical burn?”

“No setup, really.” Kento said. “She’s… well. Complicated. Smart. Funny in a way that sneaks up on you. The kind of person who finishes your sentences and then rewrites them to be punchier. Really witty.”

Satoru wiggled his eyebrows. “So you’re saying she finally made you interesting?”

Kento shot him a dry look. “She has a real talent for pulling the rug out from under people. Emotionally and, on at least one occasion, literally.”

“She sounds really cool, Dad!” Keiko said, grinning. “Can we meet her?”

Kenshin didn’t look up. “Does she like chaos?”

Kento took a sip of his tea. “She lives in it. And somehow makes it feel like home.”

There was a beat of silence before Satoru said, “Okay, see, that’s borderline poetic. You’re in trouble.”

Kento allowed himself a small smile. “I might be.”

His ex–wife raised her cup toward him. “Well then. Here’s to your chaos.”

Satoru added, grinning wide. “And here’s to us, still not a ménage à trois, but definitely an award–winning sitcom.”

“Limited series.” Keiko corrected.

“With a strong fanbase.” Kenshin added.

Kento just shook his head and looked out the window, hiding his smile in the rim of his cup. Satoru leaned back, arms behind his head like he owned the place. Which, of course, he didn’t. But no one ever told him that because he wouldn’t believe it anyway.

“Okay, back to the subject. I’m too nosy for my own good.” Satoru said. “What’s her name? Is she famous? Is she dangerous? Does she do her eyeliner in one perfect stroke without blinking?”

“She’s not famous.” Kento said, voice mild. “She’s worse. She’s normal. She’s a make–up artist by trade and a comedian by enjoyment.”

Kenshin looked up at that. “You brought a normal person into this gene pool of emotionally complicated circus animals?”

“She’s not normal.” Keiko said. “He said she was complicated. Big difference. Normal gets scared and leaves. Complicated brings snacks. And she’s a comedian slash make–up artist. She’s very complicated.”

His ex–wife turned toward him, curious now. “How’d you meet her?”

He looked into the fire for a long second, then said, “A bar visit. She was enjoying there. I wasn’t planning on doing anything else. She made me want to. And—”

Satoru mimed wiping a tear, cutting him off. “I swear to god, you’re one poetic monologue away from stealing my brand.”

“She probably thinks I’m too serious.” Kento muttered, sighing.

“Then she’s got taste.” Satoru said brightly.

Keiko grinned. “Is this the same woman who left you looking like a teenager who’d just discovered jazz and heartbreak the last time you came home to visit us?”

“I told you not to read my journal notes.” Kento grumbled at his daughter.

“You left them on the kitchen table under a mug that said 'World's Okayest Dad.'” Kenshin said. “You wanted us to find them.”

His ex-wife gave him that look, the one that peeled you back like a clementine, soft and amused and just slightly sharp. “So?” she asked, casually sipping her tea. “Why haven’t we met her?”

Kento didn’t answer her right away. He sighed as he shifted in his chair, the firelight catching the quiet tension in his shoulders. The massive room, previously loud with banter, went suddenly still as it held its breath.

“I don’t know if there’s anything to introduce right now. I mean, even her. It’s just….I don’t know how to define it yet.” he said finally, voice low but even. “We’ve been… sleeping together.”

Gojo Satoru raised his brows so high they practically hit his hairline. “Sleeping together as in sleeping together? Or metaphorically, like 'emotionally naked while watching sad French films’ kind of thing?”

Kento gave him a look as he sighed, exasperated. “Sleeping together. Literally. Repeatedly. As friends.”

Keiko blinked. “Wait. Friends who…..what?”

“It’s not like that.” Kento said quickly. “Or no, it is like that. I’m….not sure. I haven’t done this in years.”

Kenshin sighed, rubbed his head. “Okay, explain, dad.”

“I mean……We talk. We laugh. We cook sometimes, or she steals my takeout. She edits my texts because apparently, I sound like I’m drafting a cease–and–desist. Then we end up in bed again and we….do things. And then she talks to me and then she….she leaves.”

“I have to say that’s hot.” Satoru muttered, already pouring himself another drink. “I mean, vaguely tragic, but also, still very very hot.”

His ex–wife shakes her head at her partner’s words. She looked at her ex–husband, leaned forward. “And you’re okay with this?”

Kento paused. “I thought I was, I mean, I was sure I was. I’ve done this so many times with other women, for years and years now.” he admitted. “I told myself it was enough. We had an understanding. No expectations. Just… moments.”

Kenshin, who’d been silent up to that point, closed his book slowly. “So what changed, Dad?”

Nanami stared into his tea like it might tell him. “I started wanting in–betweens…..The mornings after. The dumb little texts during the day. I started missing her even when she was still there. That’s when I realized I wasn’t being a good friend anymore. I was pretending not to care because I was scared she’d run if I admitted I did.”

A beat passes. Kento sighs heavily. “She’s not the kind of person you ask to stay.” he said. “She’s the kind you quietly hope chooses to.”

“Sounds familiar, huh” his ex–wife said gently, with a half–smile. Those words hit him hard, painfully even. Kento purses his lips into a flat line. “Well, maybe you could choose better this time, don’t you think?”

Keiko nudged his arm. “You know you can talk to her, right? Like, use words. You’re supposed to be good with those.”

“Yeah, I did the same thing.” Satoru added, grinning. “Start with ‘I like you’ and maybe not with ‘what are we?’ unless you want to spontaneously combust.”

Kento chuckled, despite himself. “You’re all very helpful.”

Satoru raised his glass. “We’re a walking disaster, Kento. But we’re your disaster.”

His ex–wife clinked mugs with him. “Now call her. Or text her. Or send a raven, whatever suits your aesthetic, Kento. Just….don’t let this one slip away.”

Nanami Kento looked down at his phone. Then, slowly, he reached for it. His thumb hovered over your name in his contacts. It’s the one saved with no emojis, no unnecessary punctuation, just your first name. Stark. Honest. Maybe a little terrifying.

Satoru leaned over like an older sibling with zero respect for personal space. Even when the younger of the two. It was funny, but it was how he was with Kento. “Do it already, man. Text her something casual. Like ‘hey’ but brooding. ‘Hey...’ with a heavy pause.”

“Thank you, Satoru, that’s extremely helpful.” Kento said dryly.

“Do you want it to be helpful or emotionally reckless? Because I can do either, but not both.”

“Can we not peer–pressure Dad into confessing his feelings like this is an after–school special?” Keiko muttered from the couch, half-buried under a blanket and her own secondhand embarrassment.

“I’m not confessing, at least….not yet.” Kento said. “I’m just… acknowledging.”

His ex–wife smiled. “Mm. That’s what people say right before they confess.”

Kento sighed like a man about to walk into traffic with his eyes open. Then, after a brief, silent moment, he typed: “Hey….Answer this when you get back…...Actually, are you home right now?”

Satoru’s eyes narrowed as the message peered at the screen. “That’s it? That’s the big opener?”

“It’s a text, not a marriage proposal.”

“Yeah, but come on. Add a winky face or a little something. Give it flair. Give it a mystery.”

Kento locked his screen and dropped the phone onto the coffee table. “If she answers, she answers. If she doesn’t… I’ll wait.”

His ex–wife tilted her head, watching him like a painting she’d seen before, but with new light falling on it now. “You really like her, don’t you?” she asked.

Kento didn’t look away from the fire. “She makes me feel like I haven’t missed my chance yet, to be a better…person.” he said quietly. “Like maybe there’s still time to choose something more than that grief of everything I’ve failed.”

The room fell into that rare kind of silence, where no one needed to say anything clever, because the truth had already landed. And then, like the universe had a flare for timing, his phone buzzed. He didn’t jump. Didn’t snatch it like Gojo Satoru probably would have. He picked it up slowly. Read it once. Then again.

Your reply: “I’ve got whiskey, terrible TV, and your sweater still on my couch. You coming over or what?”

A rare, reluctant smile curled at the edge of his lips.

Keiko noticed first. “She texted back, didn’t she?”

Kento didn’t say anything. He just stood, walked to the hall to grab his coat, and murmured over his shoulder— “Don’t wait up.”

Satoru let out a dramatic gasp. “My god, he’s in love.”

“About damn time, don’t you think?” his ex–wife whispered into her tea, grinning. “He’s waited long enough. I’ve forgiven him already, no?”

“Baby, you forgive too easily.”

“Hm, and you don’t?”

“Oh no, I hold grudges until I die.”

She laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

HE SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT A WARMER COAT. The snow outside hadn’t let up. It spun softly in the air like ash, delicate and slow, and Nanami Kento drove through it with one hand on the wheel, the other resting absently near the passenger seat like muscle memory. It was like he was used to reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Yet.

Your neighborhood was quiet when he pulled up, the kind of stillness that held breath. He could see the faint glow from your window, warm and familiar and messy in that lived–in a way that made his chest ache a little. He felt the chill brim through his bones as he walked towards your door.

He knocked. Once. Then again, softer. The door opened. You were barefoot, wearing that oversized sweater he’d left behind a week ago. The sleeves are too long, collar wide enough to fall off one shoulder. You didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow, one hand braced against the frame.

“Well?” you asked. “Did you bring snacks, or is this strictly a regret and emotional unraveling kind of visit?”

He exhaled a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I thought we already unraveled, pretty woman of mine. Far too much.”

“You’d be surprised how many layers a person can have.”

You stepped aside to let him in. The door clicked shut behind him with a kind of finality that didn’t feel ominous. It felt earned. The apartment smelled like popcorn and your perfume. A mindless old movie murmured from the TV. Two glasses waited on the table. You were prepared for his arrival.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come, but….I prepared anyway.” you said, not quite looking at him as you curled back onto the couch.

He shrugged out of his coat, folded it over the back of a chair. “I wasn’t sure I’d be invited.”

You didn’t smile, but your mouth quirked in that way it always did before you said something too sharp or too honest. “We’re not really good at normal, are we?”

“No, not at all.” he said, sitting beside you, knees brushing. “But we’re excellent at being messy, together.”

You handed him a glass. He took it. Neither of you toasted. Instead, you looked at him, eyes softer than your voice. He looked at the glass for a moment and then to you. He takes a sip of the drink.

“So, tell me, Nanami Kento. Is this situation about friends making poor decisions together, or are we headed for dangerous territory?”

He looked at you like he was memorizing something important—something fleeting. “I don’t know…..and that’s perplexed me for a while.” he said. “But I want to find out. With you, if possible.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then you reached for his hand, laced your fingers through his without ceremony. “Well….” you said, voice light but sure. “That’s a good answer. You should buckle up, pretty boy. You’re in my territory now.”

He didn’t answer. But his fingers tightened slightly. He puts down the glass and leans closer to you. It was like he could breathe again. For the first time in weeks, everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.

The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was comfortable. It was layered. It was like the kind of silence that follows a good piece of music, where no one wants to speak in case it breaks the spell. Where lovers slowly danced to the tenderness of each other’s arms.

Nanami Kento sat there for a long beat, your fingers warm in his. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been wound the past for all this time. Not until you leaned your head lightly against his shoulder like it was the most obvious place for it to be. Like you’d done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t ask him what took him so long. You didn’t press for more. That was the thing with you. When it really mattered, you always knew when to stay quiet. Eventually, you broke it anyway. Because you were you. 

And because you were you, you had given him a chance to feel like the world was going to be alright. You gave him a moment to believe that he was just a human being, not a monster. He was a terrible person and he atoned for it — he still does. But he deserves more than that too. Sinners cannot be morose in misery forever.

“So. You told your ex-wife about us?”

He blinked. “How do you—”

“Gojo Satoru texted me a winking GIF of a champagne bottle popping and the words ‘you devil 😏’ a while ago.” You snickered at him. “He found out my number, it seems.”

Kento groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Of course he did.”

You grinned. “Honestly, I’m flattered. Feels very film noir meets gossip column.”

He tilted his head to look at you, his expression unreadable but softer around the edges. “I didn’t mean to… make it a thing. I just… mentioned you.”

“Mm. And how much of the ‘us’ did you mention?”

He hesitated, then, because you asked, he answered honestly. “I told them we’ve been sleeping together. That it wasn’t just once. That it never felt like ‘just friends’ to me.”

Your smile faded, but not in a bad way. It merely deepened, grounded itself. “And what did they say?”

“Well, my daughter Keiko called me a coward. My son Kenshin didn’t look up from his book as he chastised me. My ex–wife gave me that look she always does when she knows I’m thinking too much and doing too little. And Gojo Satoru… well.”

“He sent the champagne GIF.”

“And started to advise me on how to text you, let me tell you about that.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “God help us all if Gojo Satoru starts producing romantic gestures.”

“I don’t know….it captured my wife’s attention, so…..”

“Well, one time’s a charm!”

Kento laughed for a moment. When he had calmed down, he looked down at your joined hands. He turned his palm slightly, just enough to skim his thumb along your skin. “They said I seemed happier when I talked about you.”

“Were you?”

He met your eyes. “I am.”

You didn’t say anything for a second. Then you shifted, swung a leg over to straddle his lap in one fluid, quiet motion. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your mouth inches from his. The air changed between you. It was warmer, charged, full of that breathless not–quite–yet.

“You didn’t bring flowers for me.” you whispered.

“I brought honesty, pretty girl.” he said. 

“And your very thin coat.”

“And my very thin coat.” Kento starts laughing again.

You couldn’t help but lean in and just kiss him. He was too beautiful. How could you not? Kento recovered from the shock and started kissing you back with just as much passion in his heart as you did. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a clash of longing and impulse. It was deeper. Familiar. Like a conversation you’d both been having in fragments, finally spoken out loud. And when you pulled back, barely, he rested his forehead on yours.

“I don’t know where this is going. But I’m excited.” He whispered.

You smiled. “Good. Because if you tried to define this with a genre, I’d have to throw you out.”

He chuckled, the sound low, private. “What would you call it then?”

“Something between slow burn and absolute chaos.”

“That sounds about right.” You nudge your nose against his, voice warm with the kind of mischief that had always been your sharpest weapon. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“Neither would I.”

“But if you keep this up ….showing up in sweaters and being honest and ruinously kissable, I’m going to start talking about you in all my acts.”

He raised an eyebrow, still close enough that your lips brushed as you spoke. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Oh, it’s both, pretty boy.” you said, smirking. “You’ll be immortalized forever as that guy—the emotionally complex, devastatingly hot, slow-blinking brooder who drinks tea and ruins my comedic timing because I’m too busy thinking about his hands.”

He gave a quiet, amused huff. “And here I thought I’d be the brooding muse type.”

“Oh no.” you teased. “You’re gonna be the punchline. Full bit. A ten–minute tight set on how my life derailed because some overachieving man with cheekbones and literary trauma made me feel feelings.”

He tilted his head, studying you like you were something between a challenge and a blessing. “Then I hope you tell the whole room.”

You blinked, slightly thrown. “What?”

He smiled—not wide, but true, unmistakable. “I hope you talk about me. Joke about me. Make fun of how I fold my socks or how I never eat the last bite. I hope you roast me so well they quote it online.”

You stared, mock–offended. “You want me to destroy your dignity in front of strangers?”

“I want you.” he said simply to you. “And you happen to be at your best when you’re telling stories that make people laugh. If that means I’m the butt of your jokes, so be it. I’m used to that, after all.”

You paused for half a second. “Even if I tell you a bit about apologizing to the lamp when you bumped into it?”

His laugh came quick and honest, his head tipping back for just a second. “I was half–asleep. After back to back schedules.”

You grinned. “I’m putting that in the act.”

“Fine. But then I get the right to heckle.”

“Oh really?”

He leaned in close, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Only during the parts where you make yourself sound like you didn’t fall first.”

You felt that one all the way down. You felt your cheeks turn red at his words, entirely flustered. Your fingers slid through his hair, slow and affectionate, grounding the moment in something a little deeper.

“Well, pretty boy….” you whispered to him warmly. “Looks like we’ve got a pretty solid two–person show.”

Nanami Kento smiled into your kiss this time.

And neither of you needed to rehearse a single word.

You just enjoyed each other’s warmth under the falling snow.

epilogue

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The kind of bright, blindingly domestic Sunday that made you suspicious something had to go wrong. But instead, everything went right. Suspiciously right. Nanami Kento, your boyfriend, had warned you about everything, of course.

“They’re a lot, pretty girl.” he’d said, tugging at his collar like it might hide him from the memory. “They’ll ask questions. My daughter is terrifyingly witful. My son is unamused by everything. And my ex-wife is……” He paused. “Too intelligent and efficient. You already are aware of Gojo Satoru, so the warning is already there.”

“So basically, a reality TV show.” you replied, adjusting your eyeliner in the mirror. “Honestly, they’re a crowd that would love me at a stand-up show.”

Now, standing in the doorway of their family vacation home again, this time not as the whispered–about as the woman, not as the mysterious friend but as you. You took a breath and stepped in.

“Hi, hi.” you said, a hand raised like you were greeting a rowdy class. “I brought pastries and absolutely no emotional stability.”

Keiko blinked at you from across the room. Then she grinned. “I like her already, Dad.”

Kenshin looked up from his tablet, assessed you silently, and finally said, “You’re the one who said Dad folds his socks like origami.”

You smiled. “I did. And I stand by it.”

Their beautiful mother appeared from the kitchen, holding a tray of coffee. She looked at you the way women who’ve lived a lot of life look at other women. She was curious, assessing, and not unkind. If anything, she looked at you kindly and friendly.

“You must be the famous friend my ex–husband was crashing out about.” she said to you, smiling as she took your hand. “Thank you for coming!”

“I’ve been upgraded, finally. Took him long enough!” you replied with a smile, squeezing her hand too. “To ‘person who might have a toothbrush here now.’”

She barked out a laugh. “Well, he finally did something right!”

“Oh, I do not know how you deal with his sock choices.”

“Finally, someone who understands!” She cheered.

Nanami Kento, standing off to the side, looked like a man trying not to smile and failing miserably. His ears had gone a little pink as you two started chatting like you were long life friends, sharing secrets and. As the afternoon unfolded, something strange happened.

Keiko happily and quickly dragged you into a game of charades, where she purposefully gave you the most obscure clues because “you’re quick on your feet, you can handle it.” — and she was right!

Kenshin, who claimed not to laugh at anything, nearly choked on his cider when you got the impression of Kento reacting to a surprise birthday party (“mild confusion and deep disappointment, performed entirely with the eyebrows”).

Even his amazing ex–wife, who was already in love with you as her new best friend, ended up sitting beside you on the porch swing later that evening, sipping tea and saying, “He’s happier. I hadn’t seen that in a long time.”

You looked at her. “He makes it really easy. There’s still a lot of struggle, but with him, it’s easy.”

“You make it just as easy for him.” She nodded, watching her children through the window, talking with their dad and Gojo Satoru. “Just don’t make it temporary. I know he’s rough around the sides and he will make you mad, guaranteed. But he’s the kind of man who doesn’t love lightly.”

“I don’t joke lightly either.” you replied, smiling at you. “So we’re even.”

“Then I’m glad.” She whispered at you, smiling back. “We’re both finally happy and fulfilled. That’s good.”

Inside, Nanami Kento was watching you through the glass, his hand half–raised in a wave he hadn’t even realized he was giving. You winked back at him. Later, after the goodbyes were drawn out and warm and no one pretended they hadn’t enjoyed themselves, Kento took your hand as you both walked to the car.

“Well?” he asked, voice low.

“They love me, I think.” you said smugly. “Actually, no. Obviously. It’s obviously.”

He laughed under his breath. “Yes. Obviously.”

“And for the record, pretty boy….” you added, looking at him sideways. “I love them too. Not that I’ll say that to their faces. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Kento stopped walking. Turned to you. His hand slid from yours to your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “I know, pretty woman.” he said. “But I also know you mean it.”

And that was it with both of you. No fanfare. No punchline. Just the truth. And you, leaning into it. Finally, completely, it was like the best setup of your life. You were always going to be invited to family dinners from now on.

[leejenowrld]

back to you — five

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 43k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers 

synopsis — the fallout from the bar backs you and jeno into a corner, forcing everything to unravel faster than you can control. just when the lines blur and restraint shatters, when old habits become impossible to break, you’re forced to confront a demon—but you can’t let him save you. not when the real threat has finally stepped out of the shadows, pulling the strings tighter, making sure there’s only one way this ends, and it’s not with jeno by your side.

chapter warnings/contents — 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, i want to preface this by saying that this chapter explores heavy, dark, and deeply angsty themes. please read with care. without giving too much away, it delves into blackmail, a sense of entrapment, and the overwhelming weight of hopelessness. but i want to remind you—this is not the end of the story. we still have about four parts left, and what happens here is only a fragment of the whole. don’t take anything as final. if you see y/n break, if you see weakness, if it feels like all is lost—trust me, it’s part of the process. you haven’t seen anything yet, hard angst this chapter, get tissues ready please, this chapter is the embodiment of a roller coaster, a very needed mark and y/n bestie scene, desperate and horny smut as always, y/n riding like always, jaemin is back, descriptions of heavy emotions. please read with care, love you all 🖤. 

authors note — very important note, this was going to be a single part upload but of course i can’t upload 80k worth of words in one post so like part four, it’s going to be uploaded in two separate posts. the next post will continue exactly where this post ends, just remember that as you’re reading! there’s still a lot more to take place. 

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐓𝐖𝐎 | 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 | 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 | 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 | 𝐒𝐈𝐗 | 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

You found the bar on a night when the city felt too sharp, too loud, its edges pressing into you like glass. It wasn’t the kind of place you were searching for, not the sterile cafés or fluorescent-lit study halls where you usually passed the hours, but something about the warm glow spilling onto the pavement made you stop. The hum of conversation didn’t feel intrusive here—it folded into the low strum of a guitar, into the soft clink of glasses, into the air thick with stories left half-told. It was a place that didn’t demand anything from you, didn’t ask who you were or what you carried. It just existed, steady and unchanging, waiting for someone like you to find it.

At first, it was just another stop for a project—some academic exercise in mapping out the significance of local businesses, analyzing spaces that held weight beyond their walls. You went in with observation in mind, your role meant to be distant, analytical, outsider. But then you met Jihyo. She had been a quiet storm behind the counter, all sharp edges and unreadable expressions, eyes like dusk settling over a city. She did not welcome easily. She did not waste time on strangers. And yet, the moment your presence folded into the hum of her bar, she had looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you, as if already dissecting what you would be before you even knew it yourself. You’re a music major, aren’t you? It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. She had asked you to play, not out of kindness, but because she wanted to see if you had something worth offering. 

Her nod, after you played, had been slow, deliberate, something close to approval. Come back next week. And so you did. The bar became yours in the way places can belong to people—not in ownership, not in name, but in the way they hold the softest, most secret parts of you. It wove itself into your skin, into the fabric of who you were when no one else was watching. Here, you were not the version of yourself the world demanded. There were no expectations, no reputations to uphold, no ghosts of the past waiting in the shadows. There was only the music, the dim glow of the lights pooling like liquid amber against the walls, the quiet hum of conversation, and the people who came not because of you, but because of the way you made them feel.

And then, you shared it with Jeno.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to see you like that, lost in the music, stripped bare of the carefully constructed persona you wore everywhere else. But he wandered in one night, an outsider drawn into your orbit, caught in the gravitational pull of something he didn’t fully understand yet. He stood at the back of the room, watching—eyes dark, breath slow, body wound tight with something he wouldn’t name. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was hunger. It was awe. It was the moment before a supernova—when gravity falters, when the universe holds its breath, when all that exists is the unbearable tension of something vast and inescapable teetering on the edge of annihilation. Armageddon woven into stardust, devastation dressed as inevitability, the kind of collapse that doesn’t just destroy but remakes everything in its wake.

The air between you vibrated, charged with something vast and inevitable, the kind of force that shifts planets from their orbits, that drags comets screaming through the dark. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t falter—it only pulled, a gravity well with no escape. And you, reckless and wanting, let yourself be drawn in. It wasn’t curiosity that made you hold his stare; it was recognition, a quiet understanding that whatever existed between you now would either swallow you whole or burn everything you had built to the ground. The bar had been yours—your refuge, your world untouched—but in that moment, you felt its foundation tremble. Because Jeno had never been the kind to stand at the edges of things. He was the kind to step over the threshold, to carve his presence into a place until it could no longer be called whole without him. And somehow, you already knew—you would let him. You would let him ruin this, if only to see what it felt like to be unraveled by him.

And then, he kept coming back. Night after night, slipping into the bar like a shadow, lingering at the edges until he didn’t have to anymore. Until you started looking for him first. Until his presence wasn’t an interruption but an expectation, woven into the rhythm of the room, the silence between notes, the way your pulse stuttered the moment you felt him there. The space stopped being yours alone. He had carved himself into it, into you, a quiet inevitability.

And suddenly, the bar wasn’t just your sanctuary anymore—it was a constellation thrown into chaos, its gravity tilting, its meaning rewritten in the language of him. He was the rogue planet that had torn through your quiet cosmos, shifting your tides, unraveling your axis, pulling everything into a new and dangerous alignment. The space you had once claimed as your own no longer belonged to you alone.

The first time you let him touch you in the bar, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t some carefully orchestrated decision, a moment meant to unfold with purpose. It happened the way gravity does, the way the tide follows the moon, inevitable and ancient and completely beyond your control. He had been sitting in his usual spot—back against the worn wooden booth, eyes dark, following the curve of your spine as you played, the tilt of your throat when you sang, the way your hands moved over the strings like they were something sacred. And when you set the guitar down, when you made your way over, drawn by the pull of something neither of you wanted to name, he had reached for you without thinking, fingers brushing your wrist, your pulse stuttering beneath his touch.

And then you were in his lap. Just like that, as if you’d been there a thousand times before, as if you were made to fit against him like this, your knees bracketing his thighs, your fingers threading into his hair, your breath hitching when his hands finally, finally settled on your waist. The bar was still there—still humming, still moving, still existing in the background—but it felt distant, irrelevant, a different world entirely. This world, the one where you were pressed against him, where his lips were at your throat, his breath warm and uneven, belonged to the two of you alone.

It was yours and now, it’s broken.

You feel it before you see it, a shift in the air so visceral it presses against your skin like an oncoming storm. The static of unwanted attention hums beneath the usual noise, something foreign, something knowing. The bar has always been a refuge, a place that belonged to you in ways no one else understood, but tonight, the edges have been breached. The weight of strangers—of interlopers—sits heavy in the space, their presence poisoning something once untouched.

You scan the crowd, and the sight of them rips through you. The basketball team—every single one of them. They didn’t come here by chance; this was orchestrated. Someone called them, and they answered. Some lean against the bar, arms crossed, postures too casual, too easy, feigning disinterest even as their eyes flick between you and Jeno. Others are scattered at tables, half-engaged in conversation, but watching. Waiting. It’s a spectacle to them, and you are the entertainment.

The cheer team. Karina sits at the center, perched on a high stool, her body angled towards Winter, but neither of them are looking at each other. Karina’s expression is too smooth, too practiced, an intentional absence of reaction. Nahyun tilts her head slightly, lips curling in something not quite a smirk, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against her glass, she’s with Mia, Aisha, and Yiren, who giggle, whispering in hushed voices that carry just enough for you to know it’s about you. They’re poking fun at you, and they want you to know it.

Your classmates—people you’ve shared lectures with, worked on projects with—are here too. People who have never given a damn about your life before now, but suddenly, they’re watching, murmuring, collecting pieces of a story they were never supposed to be part of. Your close friends—they were enjoying themselves at first, oblivious to the shift. But then they see you. And they know.They know something is wrong. Shotaro’s face tightens with concern, and Chenle, normally so relaxed, stiffens beside him. Donghyuck and Yangyang exchange wary glances, not sure what to do, but instinctively closing ranks.

And then there’s Mark. Sitting off to the side, alone—but not really. Areum leans into him, murmuring something in his ear, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t even blink. His gaze is locked onto you, steady, unwavering, and yet so far away it feels like staring into a void. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look disgusted. But there’s something worse in his expression—something hollow, like recognition slipping through his fingers. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and realizing you are nothing like the girl he thought he knew. A stranger in your own skin. A stranger he once loved. The weight of that realization cuts deeper than anything else.

The world you kept separate has collapsed into this one. And now, there’s nowhere left to run. Your fingers tighten around the mic stand. You don’t shake—you refuse to—but your pulse is erratic, hammering against your ribs in a frantic rhythm you can’t ignore. The first chords echo through the bar. Normally, music grounds you. Normally, it pulls you under, drowns everything else out. But tonight, you feel watched in a way that music can’t fix. The melody slips from your lips, the weight in the air is wrong. You don’t make mistakes on stage. You never do. But tonight—tonight, you do. A chord lands a half-second too late, your voice catches on a breath that shouldn’t have been there.

It’s small. So small no one else should notice. But Jeno does. His grip tightens around his drink, jaw tensing, tapping his fingers against his knee in that restless way he does when he’s holding something back. His phone is still out, still recording, but he isn’t watching the screen. He’s watching you. His posture doesn’t shift, but the flicker in his expression does. Something almost like disappointment. Like a realization clicking into place.

Nahyun’s fingers continue their slow, rhythmic tap against her glass. Karina doesn’t move. And then, the whispers start. Soft at first, curling under the music, threading through the melody like a parasite. They grow, multiplying, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Someone laughs. Low. Quick. But sharp enough to slice. Your stomach clenches. You keep going. You have to. But it’s too loud now, not the noise itself, but the knowing. Because they do. They know. Someone told them.

You hear the murmurs slicing through the haze of the music. Is that her? Is that the girl Jeno’s fucking? Mark’s best friend? Accusatory, speculative, invasive. The weight of their stares turns suffocating. You look at Jeno, half-expecting to find an answer, half-hoping for reassurance—but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch at the unraveling of your world. And that’s when you know. The sanctuary is gone.

Jeno doesn’t notice it at first. He’s caught in the undertow of your voice, the way it sinks beneath his skin, pulls him under, leaves no room for anything else. The world outside the song doesn’t exist. Nothing else matters—not the noise, not the people, not the way the air shifts around him like something tangible. He only sees you. Only hears the raw rasp of your voice, the way your fingers move over the strings with effortless precision, the way the dim light bends to you, making it impossible to look anywhere else. You are celestial. You are his.

But something fractures. A hairline crack in the illusion. A shift in the current, imperceptible at first, then all-consuming. He doesn’t know when he feels it, only that suddenly, the bar isn’t warm anymore. It isn’t safe. There are too many eyes in the dark, too many murmurs curling like smoke, thick and suffocating. The air is weighted, carrying something cold and sharp. A secret being pried open, a wound split for everyone to see.

The music stumbles—just for a breath, a note out of place, but it’s enough. The whispers swell, curling through the air like static, thick with something heavy, something knowing. And then, a voice. Low. Meant to be heard. Meant to wound. A careless remark sharpened to cut, dressed as a joke but dripping with cruelty. Jeno sees it happen in real-time. The way your fingers clench the mic stand, knuckles whitening with the force of restraint. You don’t flinch, don’t react, but he knows. He sees the slight tremor in your breath, the way your shoulders lock into place, bracing. The way you blink once—too slow, too deliberate. It’s all the confirmation he needs.

Something inside him uncoils. Not in anger, not in blind rage, but something darker. Something quieter. The feeling creeps in slow, pooling in his chest, seeping into his limbs before he even understands it. He moves without thinking, natural instinct taking over before logic can intervene. The scrape of his chair against the floor is unhurried, controlled, but it silences the murmurs like a blade cutting through air. Heads turn. The weight of his presence settles over the room like a storm rolling in, thick with warning.

No. There’s no way this is happening. No way these people are actually here. No way you just laid yourself bare, let something real slip from between your lips—only for it to be dragged into the light, exposed for anyone to pick apart. No. No. No. The denial loops in your head like a corrupted file, skipping, repeating, refusing to compute. Your mind moves with mechanical precision, scanning, assessing, sorting through names and faces, filtering through every interaction, every whispered confidence, every moment of trust. You test each possibility, examine every variable, trace every thread that led here. And one by one, they all unravel.

Except one. Jeno. The name lands like a system failure, a short-circuit searing through you with the force of a fatal error. Your breath is shallow, pulse erratic, but your steps are steady as you turn, moving without thought, without hesitation. Backstage. Away. You don’t shove past him, don’t even spare him a glance as you walk by—but it’s deliberate. A rejection louder than words, heavier than silence.

Jeno stands frozen, still caught between confusion and something deeper, something heavier. The noise of the bar hums behind him, distant, meaningless, but he doesn’t move. His body should follow you, his mouth should shape words, but nothing happens. Nothing makes sense. One second ago, you were his gravity, pulling him in without resistance, and now—now you’re gone.

But then instinct takes over, something primal, something that doesn’t leave room for hesitation. His feet move before his mind catches up, propelling him forward, past the curious glances, past the whispers still thick in the air. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t stop. He follows the path you carved through the crowd, slipping into the same shadows you disappeared into, chasing after the only thing that matters.

The door swings open, and there you are. The air in the small backstage room is heavy, thick with something he can’t name. You stand there, motionless, as if you expected him to follow, as if you knew he would. But there’s nothing in your expression—not anger, not fury, not even disappointment. Just a vast, hollow silence, carved deep into your features like something irreversible. Your eyes meet his, deadpan, unreadable, except for the sharp undercurrent of something that cuts straight through him. Hurt. Betrayal.

The space between you stretches impossibly wide, though barely a few feet separate you. The bar still buzzes behind him, voices blending into a meaningless static, but in here, there’s nothing but quiet. And in that silence, in the absence of everything you refuse to say, Jeno feels something sink, something cave in, something break. He’s seen you angry before, frustrated, amused, indifferent—but never like this, never stripped of every emotion, never with a silence so absolute it feels like there’s nothing left at all.

Jeno opens his mouth, but before he can even form a thought, you cut through the silence. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me.” The words barely rise above a whisper, but they hit like a blow, quiet and heavy, weighted with something raw, something that makes his breath catch. It’s not anger. Not accusation. It’s worse. It’s realization. Like you’re seeing him for the first time and finding nothing of the person you thought was there.

He falters, blinking, his mind racing to make sense of it, to grasp at the threads slipping through his fingers. He didn’t bring them here. He didn’t tell anyone. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “Do what?” His voice comes out too soft, too careful, a hesitation he doesn’t even notice.

You shake your head, slow, deliberate—not in frustration, not in disbelief, but in something far more final. “You fucking know what.”

A sharp, twisting pang lodges itself in his chest. He doesn’t know. Something about the way you speak, the way you still won’t look at him, the way your breathing is just the slightest bit unsteady—it makes his stomach turn. It makes him feel like he’s already lost. “Y/N, what the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Your voice wavers, just enough to betray you. You inhale sharply, swallowing it down before it can fully break. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

The distance between you stretches wider. Jeno feels it in real-time, the way something unravels between you, slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold on. His frustration coils in his throat, not at you, never at you, but at himself. At this moment. At the way everything is spiraling and he has no idea why. “Baby, I swear to God, I don’t know what—”

You laugh. But it’s not a laugh. It’s a breathless, bitter thing, hollowed out and stripped of warmth, and it makes his skin prickle with something cold. “Don’t call me that.” The way you say it, the way you spit it out like it tastes wrong, like the word itself is poisoned, makes something in him plummet.

“Y/N, please. Just talk to me.”

“Why?” The word is barely there, but when you finally lift your gaze to him, his chest tightens painfully. Your eyes are glassy, but there’s nothing behind them, no warmth, no anger, just empty space where something else used to be. “So you can lie to my face again?”

“I’m not lying to you, what are you talking about—”

"It doesn’t even fucking matter." The words come out too fast, too sharp, burning the air between you. You exhale, blinking fast, but it’s useless. Your vision is already blurred, the sting already settled deep. "Just go. Get out of here."

"No." His voice is steadier now, almost desperate. "Come on, I’ll take you home and then you can sleep on this and we’ll talk tomorrow—"

"No." The word is a wall, solid and immovable. The finality in it feels like it should shake the earth beneath you, crack the foundation of something neither of you want to name. "We’re done."

His breath stutters, chest tightening, a split-second of stillness before his voice comes again, softer now. "What?"

"It’s over, Jeno."

"You were ready to be my girlfriend an hour ago, and now it’s over just like that?" His voice wavers between disbelief and something rawer, something darker, like he’s grasping at air, at something that’s already slipped through his fingers.

You don’t debate. You don’t argue. You don’t give him anything. Every time he tries, every time his voice rises with another plea, another question, another attempt to pull you back, you silence it with nothing but a look, a shake of your head, a single, stony word. "Yes It’s done."

And then you turn. Mid-sentence, mid-conversation, mid-everything. You carve yourself out of the moment like a missing page torn from a book, leaving behind only the hollow shape of where you stood. Your spine locks into something unyielding, your steps crisp, purposeful, final. You don’t look back. Not because you don’t want to—because you refuse to. Because looking back is a trapdoor, a snare waiting to snap around your ribs and drag you under. Because if you see the way he’s watching you, the way his world is actively caving in, you might hesitate. And hesitation is how disasters are made.

Jeno doesn’t chase you. Not because he doesn’t want to—God, every fiber of him is screaming at him to move—but because he can’t. His body betrays him, feet locked to the floor, lungs forgetting how to draw breath, thoughts caught in the violent whiplash of what just happened? He watches you disappear through the haze of low-lit amber, the laughter and chatter around him muffled like he’s underwater. Like the universe has pressed pause on everything except the sound of your retreating footsteps.

And just like that, you’re gone. The absence of you is immediate, a vacuum that swallows sound, air, reason—leaving behind only the weight of everything that just unraveled between you. The realization is settling into his bones like an irreversible event, something written in the fabric of the universe long before this night ever arrived. He just lost you. And not in the way people lose their keys or their tempers—no, this is planetary collapse, tectonic shift, a fundamental change in the orbit of things. This isn’t a fight. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This is the first time Jeno truly understands—you are not his. You never were. And the universe doesn’t care how unprepared he is to exist in that reality.

The campus feels altered, as if reality has warped in your absence, as if the foundations of the world you once moved through so effortlessly have shifted just enough to unsettle your balance. The air is dense, not with fog or windy bite, but with something intangible—something weighty, crawling beneath the skin, slipping into the cracks of every conversation left unfinished, every glance that lingers too long. It clings to the walls, coils through the courtyards, distorts the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times until they feel like something out of a dream you can’t quite wake from. 

It’s been days since that night, since the last time you saw Jeno, since you learned what he did. Days since you skipped class, something you never do, something that would have been unthinkable before. But today, you had to show up. And now, it’s the way the cold sinks deeper, how the shadows stretch longer, how even the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times feel foreign. The isolation clings to you like mist, curling into the spaces between conversations, slipping into the gaps between footfalls. And yet, you’re not alone. Shotaro and Donghyuck flank you on either side, their presence unwavering, their warmth solid against the chill pressing in from all directions. They walk with you, unhurried, as if the world isn’t different now, as if your reality hasn’t just been turned inside out.

You learn today that they defended you that night. All of your friends did—minus Mark, for obvious reasons. They stood up for you, argued for you, drowned out the laughter and the snide remarks with something sharper. It should be a comfort, should be a relief to know that you weren’t abandoned in the moment that mattered most, but it doesn’t feel like victory. It just feels tired. Donghyuck, never one to hold his tongue, fills you in on the gossip, his voice a steady hum in the chaos. It’s all anyone’s been talking about, he says. The incident at the bar, the breakup, you. The rumors shift like waves, changing depending on who’s telling them. Some say you dumped Jeno out of nowhere, blindsided him when he did nothing wrong. Others insist he cheated, that you made a scene, that you lost it. The worst ones are the ones that laugh, the ones who sneer, I guess she finally got what was coming to her.

You press your lips together, feeling the heat creep up your neck, the weight of unseen eyes pressing into your back. You’ve been off campus for three days. Three whole days, the first time in your life you’ve ever willingly skipped class. But you couldn’t bring yourself to face it. Not after everything. But reality was waiting, and it hit the moment you stepped into the hallways.

The whispers are immediate. Students pause mid-conversation as you pass, their voices lowering to hushed tones that somehow still reach your ears. Your name, spat out between half-hidden smirks, paired with mocking giggles and knowing glances. The details of that night have been twisted beyond recognition, warped by the relentless churn of rumor. She lost it on Jeno for talking to another girl. She embarrassed herself. She threw a tantrum. The words burrow under your skin, fester like an open wound. It isn’t just the breakup they dissect—it’s you. Your singing, your lyrics, the rawness you poured into the music. Someone sneers, Avril Lavigne wannabe, and laughter follows. Your jaw clenches.

But worst of all, it’s the disbelief. Jeno was with her? For real? That doesn’t make sense. It’s like they can’t even fathom that you were worth his attention, his time. Like it was a joke, a temporary lapse in judgment on his part.

You don’t lash out—not at first. You keep your head high, shoulders back, posture unshakable. But then someone has the nerve to stop you outright, some guy you’ve shared a class with but never spoken to, his smirk lazy and careless. “Hey, I heard you went crazy on Jeno for talking to a girl. That true?”

Something inside you snaps. “Mind your own fucking business.” Your voice is sharp, precise, carrying enough weight to send him reeling. He stumbles back a step, blinking rapidly before he mutters something under his breath and turns away. The next person who thinks to approach you doesn’t.

And yet, despite the bite in your words, despite your friends at your side, you still feel alone. The isolation isn’t just about the rumors or the humiliation—it’s about what’s missing. The bar was yours, your sanctuary, and now it’s gone. Your secret world, invaded. Your comfort, stolen. And worst of all, the one person who was supposed to keep it safe, the one person who should have protected you, is the reason you lost it.

Shotaro and Donghyuck talk, filling the silence, keeping the weight from settling too heavily. They tell you your performance was amazing, that your voice was otherworldly, that no one who matters is saying otherwise. You force a smile, nod, thank them. Because you’re grateful. Because they care. But deep down, there’s a part of you that’s just relieved.

Relieved that no one was there on the other nights, the ones where you stripped, where you performed without music, where the stage became something else entirely. Because if they had seen that version of you— You don’t think you could have survived it.

You shake your head, clearing the lingering weight of it from your thoughts. “I have to go soon,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “I have a tutoring session with Jaemin.” But before you can leave, there’s one last thing. One final certainty you need to grasp, even if you already know the answer.

In your head, you’re sure it’s Jeno who told. The process of elimination has left you with no other rational explanation. You’ve run through every possibility, every thread leading back to that night, compared every person who knew about the bar, who could have let the secret slip. None of them hold up as strongly as him. Not Karina. Not your friends. Karina is reckless, impulsive in ways that make her dangerous, but she’s also too skilled at hiding the mess she creates. If it had been her, she would’ve played it off, feigned innocence, kept her hands clean—but guilt has a way of slipping through the cracks, and you would have seen it. She isn’t careful, not really, and something would have given her away.

And your friends? There’s no reason to suspect them. They had no motive, no purpose in hurting you like this. If it had been one of them, the weight of it would be too much, too heavy to bury beneath casual conversation and knowing glances. And beyond that—none of them even knew. Not really. They found you sitting at the bar, not performing. They weren’t there the nights you stepped onto that stage, the nights you bared yourself under dim lights and heavy music. So how could they have known? How could they have spread something they never even had the chance to see? But still—you need to ask. You need to be absolutely certain before you let yourself believe it. Before you accept that there is only one possibility left.

You don’t want to make your words accusatory, not yet. You keep your voice even, steady, but there’s a seriousness to it, something raw beneath the surface. “When you guys came to the bar and found me with Karina,” you start, pausing, letting the words settle before lowering your voice to a whisper. “How did you find it?”

Shotaro and Donghyuck exchange a glance. It’s Donghyuck who speaks first. “There were posters. In the student union building,” he explains. “They listed the bar, its promotions. Discounted drinks, food deals. It looked like a vibe. We didn’t think much of it at first, but a lot of people were talking about it. It seemed like the place to go.”

Shotaro nods in agreement. “And there was something else on the poster. It said there’d be a ‘special performer.’ We didn’t realize it was you.”

Jeno wouldn’t go out of his way to print flyers, to scatter them across campus like breadcrumbs leading straight to you. A tightness coils in your chest, slow and insidious, winding itself around your ribs until breathing feels like a conscious effort. A new thread of doubt, a question you don’t want to ask but can’t push away—what if it wasn’t him? The certainty you felt that night, the conviction that made you walk away without hesitation, without looking back, suddenly feels brittle. You’d been so sure. You had laid out every possibility, tested every theory, let your mind operate like a machine, ruthless in its search for the only answer that made sense. And yet—what if you were wrong? What if, in your desperation to blame, to anchor yourself to something solid in the chaos, you had thrown him into the fire without stopping to see if he was even holding the match?

The memory of his face won’t leave you. The way his brows had drawn together, the way his voice had cracked—not defensive, not angry, just… lost. I didn’t— But you hadn’t let him finish. Hadn’t given him the chance to explain, to fight for himself, to fight for you. You had cut him off before he could even gather his footing, sealed the door shut before he could pry it back open. We’re done. And it had felt right in the moment, righteous even. But now, standing in the ruins, with the ashes cooling at your feet, you wonder if you had set fire to something that was never meant to burn.

The guilt is slow and creeping, settling in your stomach like lead. You don’t regret walking away. Not entirely. But maybe—maybe you should have stayed long enough to hear him out. Maybe you should have let him prove whether you were right before you made the choice for both of you. Because if you were wrong, if it wasn’t him, if you ended it with a finality so sharp there was no coming back—then what the fuck have you done?

For now, you have someone else to confront. Jaemin. He’s been gone for a month, away on a pediatric pre-medicine placement, working in a clinical setting with young patients, shadowing specialists, and gaining hands-on experience for his future in medicine. He’s always been meticulous about his career path, determined and methodical, the kind of person who follows through with everything he sets out to do. It makes sense that he’s been absent, buried in something bigger than campus drama, disconnected from the whirlwind of rumors and revelations that have unfolded in his absence.

But he’s back now. And whether he knows it or not, he’s about to walk into the aftermath of something he wasn’t here to witness. You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face, the weight of the morning pressing down on you. Shotaro and Donghyuck linger for a moment longer, their gazes searching, concerned, but you manage a small wave. A silent reassurance that you’ll be fine. They don’t push, just nod in understanding before heading off in the opposite direction.

Your steps feel heavier than they should as you make your way across campus, the cold biting at your skin, whispers trailing behind you like shadows. You ignore them, keep walking, keep moving, because stopping means sinking, and you can’t afford to sink. Not now. The tutoring center smells like coffee and ink, the low hum of whispered conversations weaving through the space like background noise. Usually, the quiet settles you, grounds you. But then you see him.

Jaemin is already there, waiting, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. His gaze lifts as you approach, and then comes the slow stretch of a smile, lazy, knowing. "I missed your performance," he says, casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t carry weight. No greeting, no small talk, just that. "Such a shame, it’s all I’ve been hearing about all over campus."

You don’t hesitate. You roll your eyes, already exhausted. "And you missed your tutoring sessions." You slide into the seat across from him, tone dry but lacking any real bite.

He grins, unfazed. "Touché." But the amusement fades, and something softer settles in its place. "Don’t worry about what people are saying. You know how this place is. The story changes every five minutes."

You exhale, long and slow. You’ve heard this reassurance before, from Shotaro, from Donghyuck, but somehow, it still doesn’t settle right. It should be comforting, knowing that rumors have a shelf life. Instead, all you can think about is how much damage they do before they die out. Jaemin leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table. "How was the placement?" you ask, steering the conversation elsewhere.

His expression shifts, stretching out his limbs like he’s recounting something exhausting but rewarding. "Hospitals, clinics, shadowing doctors, the whole thing," he says, stretching his arms behind his head. "Long hours, a lot of standing around, but I loved it."

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself. "Pediatrics? I didn’t know you were set on that."

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "I like it. I think you would, too."

You scoff. "That’s random."

"Not really. I learned a lot during the placement. Not just from the medical teams but from the psychology specialists, too. You know psychology ties into medicine more than you’d think—developmental stages, trauma responses, all of it. I feel like you’d love it. Your project shows you have the brain for it."

That catches your attention. "It’s always been interesting to me, but it’s way too late to change my major."

Jaemin shakes his head, amused by your sudden interest. "Not really. I feel like the dean would allow it with how much work you do in other departments outside your own. You’d actually love some of the stuff I’ve been reading. Plus, the psychology department’s got some amazing professors. Maybe you should take a class."

Jaemin doesn’t look away. His gaze is steady, thoughtful, peeling back layers you haven’t even begun to process yourself. “I heard about you and Jeno.” He doesn’t preface it, doesn’t soften the words, just lays them down between you like a truth that can’t be avoided. His change in tone and topic is swift, seamless, and you know—you know—he’s been meaning to say this.

Your fingers tense around the edges of your notebook. “Of course you did.” The words are dry, clipped, but the tightness in your shoulders betrays you.

Jaemin doesn’t let you deflect. “I know you think he told.” A pause. “But he didn’t.” Silence stretches between you, taut and fragile. His voice is measured when he continues. “Jeno wouldn’t do that. Not to you.”

You exhale sharply, but it doesn’t feel like release. Just pressure mounting in your chest, twisting into something unspoken. You stare at the pages in front of you, the words blurring into meaninglessness. “Yeah.”

Jaemin tilts his head slightly, watching you with a quiet kind of scrutiny. “You’re being weird.”

Your jaw clenches. “I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Jaemin leans forward, resting his arms against the table, his voice lowering—not conspiratorial, but softer, more deliberate. “That’s bullshit.” His words don’t carry accusation, just quiet disappointment. “You do know. You’ve always known.”

Jaemin exhales, shaking his head, his voice quieter now, like he’s still trying to make sense of it himself. “I can’t believe you really ended it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. No hesitation, no second-guessing. One second, you were ready to be with him, and the next…” He trails off, watching you, searching for something in your face that you’re not sure you can give him.

The weight in your chest sinks deeper. “You weren’t there.”

“No, but I didn’t have to be. I know what he was like after.” His expression shifts, something raw bleeding into his voice. “I’ve never seen him like that. He’s not—he doesn’t break easily, but that night? He shattered.”

You flinch. It’s small, barely noticeable, but Jaemin catches it. “You weren’t just some girl to him,” he continues, quieter now. “You weren’t a phase, or a mistake, or something he could walk away from.” He pauses, searching for the words. “You were it for him. You are it.”

The weight of those words lands somewhere deep inside you, cracking something open, but Jaemin doesn’t give you the space to shut it down. “And I know,” he says, watching you carefully, “that you don’t believe it was him anymore. I can see it in your eyes.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost like a sigh, “You feel guilty.”

Your breath stutters, your hands pressing harder against the edges of your book. You want to look away, but you don’t. You force yourself to hold his gaze, to sit in the reality of it. “I don’t know how to fix it.” The admission slips out before you can stop it, quiet and raw, and it tastes like surrender.

Jaemin exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. His frustration isn’t anger—not at you, not at Jeno. It’s something else. Something close to exhaustion, close to care. “Start by not pretending like you don’t care.” The words are gentle, but they don’t let you escape. “If you regret it, then fucking do something about it.”

You shake your head quickly. “I wish it was that easy.”

Jaemin lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah? Then tell me what’s stopping you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes. No excuse, no justification—just silence, thick and heavy, pressing against your ribs. Because what is stopping you? Your pride? The fear that if you reach for him now, you’ll find nothing but air? That maybe, even after everything, after the way you burned it all down in your desperation to protect yourself, you don’t deserve to put out the fire? That maybe he doesn’t want you to?

The thought latches onto your lungs like smoke, something acrid, something inescapable. You feel it in the way your throat bobs with a swallowed answer, in the way your fingers tense against the paper in front of you like they might keep you from slipping under. You want to say something. You should say something. But the words don’t come.

Jaemin doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t press for an answer you can’t give. He just exhales, slow and steady, watching you with an understanding that sinks its teeth in deep. Like he already knows. Like he’s seen through every layer of hesitation and self-preservation and found the only truth that matters. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, but it lands with the weight of something irreversible.

“You love him.”

Loving Jeno was never the hard part. You’ve been falling for him for what feels like forever—long before you realized it, long before you were ready to name it. It’s in the way your body recognizes his before your mind can catch up, in the way your world tilts imperceptibly toward him, even when you swear you’re standing still. You know you love him. That’s not the terrifying part.

The terrifying part is how much. It’s not a soft, steady thing—not a quiet warmth you can tuck away, not something manageable. It’s all-consuming. It’s something you feel before you think, something that exists in the space between your ribs, in the gaps between your bones, something woven into the very structure of you. It’s the kind of love that rearranges things, that rewrites every rule you had for yourself, that makes you want in a way you’ve never wanted before.

And that’s what scares you. Because it’s not just admitting that you love him—it’s admitting that this is bigger than you, that it’s out of your control. That if you let yourself fall completely, there will be no catching yourself before you hit the ground.

You love him. 

The sentence lands with the force of something irreversible. Something you can’t outrun. You stare at him, pulse hammering, your chest too tight, your skin too hot. The air between you feels suffocating. There’s a second—just a second—where you think about denying it, about shutting it down before it can grow roots. But you don’t. You can’t.

Jaemin doesn’t push further. He just lets the silence settle, lets the weight of the moment wrap around you, lets you sit in the truth of it. And then, with a sigh, he flips open his textbook, breaking the moment before it can crush you completely. “Come on,” he mutters, like the past few minutes didn’t unravel something inside you. “Let’s at least pretend to study.”

You hesitate, fingers still curled too tightly against the pages. Then, slowly, you let out a breath, forcing a small, reluctant laugh past the lump in your throat. “Fine.” And just like that, the tension shifts. Not gone, not even close. But something momentarily easier to carry.

The study session stretches on longer than you expect, the weight of Jaemin’s words pressing into your ribs long after the conversation fades into equations and notes. You try to focus, to let the work ground you, but your mind keeps circling back—back to everything Jaemin said, back to the truth you’ve been trying not to look at too closely. By the time you’re closing your books, Jaemin leans back, stretching lazily. “You need to talk to him,” he says, and you don’t argue, because he’s right. And somehow, the moment you dread comes faster than you expect.

It’s later in the day, the lull of afternoon settling over campus, when your phone vibrates with a message. 

jaemin — meet me by the library? i need help with an assignment, i’m actually struggling this time. 

You sigh but don’t think much of it. Jaemin skipping tutoring sessions was one thing, but he never let himself fall behind. It’s easy to believe he really needs you. So you go. The lounge is empty when you push the door open, thick with the scent of old books and worn-out ambition, only broken by the occasional rustle of paper and the distant hum of the library outside. 

But Jaemin isn’t there. You step inside, scanning the room, about to pull out your phone—when the door creaks again. The air shifts. A presence heavier than silence itself presses against your senses, familiar and suffocating all at once. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. You feel it before you see it, the static charge in the room crackling like an impending storm. But you turn anyway. Jeno.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your ribs, refusing to settle. He’s standing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, presence so effortlessly imposing that it makes the already too-small room feel claustrophobic. His hoodie is loose, hood down, hair tousled in that way that looks unintentional but isn’t. The dim lighting casts shadows along his jawline, sharpening the angles of his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the almost unfair symmetry of his features. His lips are slightly parted, his tongue swiping along the inside of his cheek as his gaze locks onto you, unreadable. And then there’s his posture—relaxed but not. Legs slightly apart, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, the fabric stretching ever so slightly across his chest. You know him well enough to recognize the tension in his stance, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw, the weight in his eyes that tells you he’s bracing himself.

He’s frozen too, staring at you like he wasn’t expecting this, like he’s still processing the fact that you’re actually here. You feel your fingers twitch, instinctively reaching toward the strap of your bag, toward the door—toward an exit. But before you can move, the unmistakable sound of the lock clicks from the other side. And then, laughter. Jaemin. And Chenle.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, already shoving at the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

“Not letting you out until you two talk,” Jaemin’s voice carries through the wood, amused, self-satisfied.

“Or until we hear something else,” Chenle adds, laughter curling at the edges of her words. “Moaning. Begging. You know. Reconciliation.”

Your entire body goes rigid, heat rushing to your face. “You’re both so annoying —”

Jeno doesn’t react to any of it. He just exhales, slow and deep, then moves to one of the couches, dropping onto it with a quiet, controlled weight. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak. Just sits there, legs spread, arms resting against the back, head tilted slightly forward. A storm. The kind that doesn’t come with lightning, doesn’t tear through with fury—just lingers. Dark and unshaken, waiting.

You take a breath. You’re never wrong. It’s something you pride yourself on. But you were wrong about this. And for once, you’re glad you were wrong.

The words pour out before you can stop them, unfiltered, raw, dragging the weight of your guilt and regret to the surface. “I’m sorry.” The confession trembles between you, thick with something fragile, something desperate. “I was irrational,” you force out, voice uneven, splintering at the edges. “I needed someone to blame. I needed a villain, and you were right there, and that night—Jeno, it was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever. And I—” Your breath shudders, throat constricting around the truth. “I panicked. I deflected. I didn’t even stop to think—” Your vision blurs, a single tear slipping free before you can stop it. You shake your head, swipe it away, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing can undo this. “I’m so fucking sorry,” you whisper, barely able to hold his gaze.

Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly—so softly you almost miss it— “Come here.”

Your heart lurches. He leans back further, shifting slightly, arms open, waiting. You don’t hesitate. You cross the space in an instant, slipping into his lap, letting him pull you in, letting his warmth anchor you. You kiss him, slow and trembling, and you feel the way he exhales against your mouth, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time. His arms tighten around you, fingers sliding under the hem of your sweatshirt, skin to skin, grounding.

Your apologies pour from you, whispered into the space between kisses, pressing against his lips like a prayer. He drinks them in without hesitation, swallows them whole, his mouth catching yours again and again, deeper, slower, like he’s memorizing you all over again. His fingers skim up your spine, featherlight, reverent, tilting your chin just so—so he can kiss you deeper, so he can taste every ounce of regret and longing tangled in your breath. His hands roam with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter, sliding over your back, your waist, fingertips dipping beneath the hem of your sweatshirt like he’s relearning every inch of you, like he needs to feel you to believe you’re really here.

Then, softly— “What made you figure out that it wasn’t me?” 

You exhale, slow and uneven, forehead still resting against his, your lips brushing his every time you speak. “The person who told everyone made flyers, Jeno.” Your fingers tighten against the back of his neck, nails pressing lightly into his skin. “They went out of their way to print them, to put them everywhere—that’s what led people to me.” You shift against his lap, the movement subtle, but enough to make his grip on your waist tighten. Your voice softens, something aching beneath it. “That’s how I know it wasn’t you, you wouldn’t use that sort of method and you would never do that to me. If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t waste your time running around campus, designing, printing, distributing flyers.” A quiet, breathless laugh slips from your lips, the sound fragile, edged with regret. “I know you.”

Jeno exhales sharply, the sound somewhere between amusement and disbelief, fingers flexing against your hips, thumbs rubbing slow, absentminded circles into the sliver of bare skin beneath your sweatshirt. “So that’s what made you realize it wasn’t me?” His voice is rough, low, but there’s something almost fond behind it. “Not the fact that I really fucking like you? Not the fact that I would never hurt you?”

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words sinking into your bones. You do know. You knew it the whole time—you just didn’t let yourself believe it. You shift again, slow, deliberate, just to feel the way his breath catches. “You know what I mean,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His hands slide up, dragging heat along your skin, his nod slow, like he’s feeling the truth of it sink in. Because he does know. He knows exactly what you mean. He’s always known. “I was so stupid,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his, the kiss featherlight, teasing, a plea wrapped in something softer. “Of course you’d never do that to me, baby.” The words melt into his mouth, swallowed by another kiss, deeper this time, your hips pressing forward just enough to make his grip tighten, his breath shudder.

Jeno groans softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and when his hands slide back down to your waist, his fingers dig in, guiding you closer, pulling you into him like he needs you closer, like there’s still too much space between you. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice low and strained, his lips trailing along your jaw, hands pressing you down against him. “You were stupid.”

His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, tracing down your spine. His touch is reverent yet desperate, mapping every curve, memorizing every inch. He kisses you like he’s savoring something he never thought he’d have, like he’s been starved for this. The warmth of his breath fans across your skin as he moves to your jaw, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat, tongue flicking out to taste, lips dragging, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

The room is too quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing, the slick, sinful noise of lips meeting, parting, crashing back together. Every kiss leaves you dizzier, head spinning, stomach fluttering. You can’t stop the needy little whimpers spilling from your mouth, and Jeno must like it because he groans against you, deep and guttural, his hands gripping you tighter, pressing you down against the hardness between his legs. His hips roll up instinctively, and you moan into his mouth, the friction sending shivers down your spine.

Then—banging. “Let’s hear some moaning!” Jaemin’s voice rings through the door, followed by Chenle’s cackling laughter. 

You barely register it, still too lost in Jeno’s kiss, too breathless and dizzy from the way he’s kissing you, but then he lets out a quiet chuckle against your lips, forehead pressing to yours as you giggle softly. His fingers tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You wanna scare them?” you whisper, teasing, voice still breathless, still heady with the taste of him.

Jeno nods, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You nod back, lips twitching with mischief, heart pounding with anticipation. And then, without hesitation, you throw your head back and moan. Loud. Obscene and drawn-out, practically screaming it like you’re in the middle of the best fuck of your life, body arching, hands gripping onto Jeno’s shirt like you’re seconds from falling apart. “Ohhh—fuck, Daddy! Right there, yes, yes, yes!”

Jeno bites down on his lip, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter as he watches you put on the most ridiculous show, his hands still firm on your hips like he’s actually holding you steady through it.

From outside the door, there’s a horrified gagging sound.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“I’m gonna be sick—”

Jaemin and Chenle’s voices overlap, their disgusted groans filling the space, and then you hear it—the frantic shuffle of footsteps, the unmistakable sound of them retreating as fast as humanly possible. Jeno buries his face in your neck, laughing, his whole body shaking with amusement. You dissolve into giggles too, barely able to catch your breath, clutching onto him as you both tremble from the effort of holding it together. 

The gym smells like sweat and varnish, the air thick with the residual heat of bodies moving in unison. It’s the final stretch before state championships, the last few practices where every second on this court is meant to sharpen the edges of something already honed to precision. It should feel electric—the weight of preparation, the intensity of competition looming just days away. But it doesn’t. The energy is off, subtle in its wrongness, like a melody just slightly out of tune. No one says it, but everyone feels it.

You stand at the edge of the court, your sneakers pressed against the polished wood, a reminder that you aren’t just watching anymore. You’re inside it now. A part of it. You didn’t realize how seriously Karina took the cheer oath when she first pulled you into this world—how binding it would feel, how absolute. There is no halfway, no tentative belonging. Once you wear the uniform, once you step into formation, you are the team. But standing here now, the fabric clinging to your skin, you aren’t sure what, exactly, you’ve become a part of.

The court has always been a place of discipline. Strategy. Control. It is supposed to be a perfect system, every movement dictated by external authority, every play a calculated effort toward something greater. Personal emotions are meant to be left at the door. There is no room for doubt here, no space for hesitation. And yet, that illusion of order is beginning to crack. The structure is still in place, but it’s hollowed out, weakened. The air hums with something tense, something frayed at the edges. It’s not chaos, not yet, but it’s the kind of stillness before a storm, when the sky holds its breath and the wind shifts just slightly.

Before, this was just a place you observed. You’ve always been good at watching, at standing on the outside and pulling things apart piece by piece. Your role has always been to understand people without being inside it yourself—to categorize emotions into neat little boxes, to study behavior from a safe distance where nothing could touch you. But you are no longer an observer. You are in the experiment now. You are no longer watching the variables—you are one, influencing the outcome in ways you can’t even begin to measure.

Basketball and cheerleading are both supposed to be about precision. They thrive on discipline, on coordination, on people moving as one. But both teams are unraveling, their seams splitting just slightly, just enough to notice. The Ravens aren’t playing like a team anymore. Their chemistry is disjointed, their rhythm offbeat. The cheer team isn’t much better—every movement synchronized in appearance but lacking real cohesion, girls stepping just half a second too late, a second too early. It should be instinct by now. It should be effortless. But it’s not.

No one says it, but it’s there. It lingers in the air like a scent no one can place, in the way passes fall just short, in the way plays fall apart at the last second. You see it in the flicker of hesitation before a shot, in the way trust between teammates is thinning like ice on a lake that’s starting to crack. No one understands what’s wrong, but they feel it. Doubt is creeping in like a slow-moving poison, seeping into every interaction, every glance exchanged in frustration, every loss stacking onto the last.

And Jeno—Jeno looks like he’s carrying all of it.

His shoulders bear an invisible weight, the kind that settles deep into the bones and doesn’t go away. He still moves like Jeno, still plays like Jeno, but something is different. His confidence hasn’t disappeared, but it’s been layered with something heavier, something that dulls his edges just enough for you to notice. You wonder if anyone else sees it, if anyone else knows. Or if they just assume that this, too, is part of the slow breakdown happening around them.

And yet, even in the middle of all of this, you feel warmth. A pulse of heat beneath your skin, a lingering glow inside you from last night—from the way Jeno held you, the way you fucked yourself onto him, the way he touched you like he was memorizing you with his hands. You still feel him everywhere. His lips against your throat, his breath against your skin, the way his fingers dug into your hips like he never wanted to let go. That warmth stays with you, curled in your chest like an ember, like something still burning even after the fire has gone out.

But there is something underneath it. A shadow stretching over it, barely there, just a flicker at the edge of your mind. You don’t know what it is, not yet, but you feel it. Like a drop in pressure before a storm, like a quiet pull in the wrong direction. Something bad is coming. You can’t rationalize it. You can’t categorize it. It’s not a logical conclusion, not something you can break down into a series of steps and predict an outcome from. But it lingers. This moment, this warmth, this fragile sense of happiness—it’s slipping through your fingers even as you hold onto it.

The downfall has already begun. You just don’t know it yet.

It’s Kun’s whistle that breaks through your thoughts, pulling everyone back into the immediate present. The echoes reverberate off the walls, the sound harsh and demanding, dragging the players from their scattered positions on the court. Kun stands at the center, clipboard gripped tightly, his usual composure strained by something he hasn’t yet voiced. The team moves toward him slowly, their exhaustion evident in every heavy step, the tension palpable in the way they glance at each other, searching for reassurance no one can offer.

Your gaze is instinctively drawn to Jeno. He’s standing slightly apart from Mark—noticeably apart—and the distance between them feels deeper than mere physical space. Jeno’s expression is carefully neutral, a mask you’ve rarely seen him wear so perfectly. His jaw is tight, shoulders squared beneath the fabric of his jersey, his entire demeanor one of careful detachment. It’s as if he’s bracing himself, prepared for something he’s long since learned to anticipate but has never fully accepted.

“Alright, listen up,” Kun begins, his voice firm but slightly strained, cutting through the uneasy silence. “You’ve worked hard today, and it shows. But there's something you all need to know.”

A ripple of uncertainty passes through the team. Chenle leans into Jaemin, whispering something urgent and confused. You see Mark stiffen, the muscles in his neck tightening as Kun continues. “I know some of you are wondering where Coach Suh is. He’ll be absent for a while—he’s recovering from surgery.”

A wave of murmurs flows through the group, surprise flickering across their faces. Jeno’s expression doesn't shift, but you notice his fingers twitch subtly at his side, the only visible sign he's affected by the news. You realize, suddenly, you’re witnessing something intimate—something you were never meant to observe. Something you were never prepared for.

“Rest assured,” Kun continues, attempting reassurance, “he’s okay. It’s nothing life-threatening, but he needs time.” The tension lifts slightly, though uncertainty still hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Kun hesitates, his fingers flexing around the clipboard. “But with championships approaching, we’ve had to make a difficult decision about a temporary replacement.”

You see the slight shift in Jeno’s posture—the cautious tilt of his head, the wary tightening around his eyes. He senses something you don’t yet understand.

Kun exhales, a faint apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “Guys, please don’t kill me.”

The double doors swing open, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Taeyong strides into the gym, and the room instantly contracts around him. His presence is immediate, absolute, suffocating. He carries himself like someone used to command, expecting obedience without question. Your gaze instinctively shifts back to Jeno, watching carefully. You realise that you’ve never actually seen the two interact firsthand before—of course, they’ve interacted countless times, behind closed doors or out of your view—but you’ve only ever heard whispers, pieced together assumptions from fragmented stories and unspoken truths. Witnessing it now feels strangely invasive, almost wrong—like stumbling upon something deeply private, a tragedy unfolding quietly in the open.

“Alright, listen up,” Taeyong’s voice slices through the gym, sharp and unyielding. He strides forward, authority radiating from every movement. “Coach Suh is out—recovering from surgery. Until he's back, I'm your coach.”

Instantly, murmurs ripple through the team. Chenle’s eyes widen, surprise breaking through his exhaustion. “Wait—since when?” he blurts out, disbelief coloring his tone.

Taeyong turns, narrowing his gaze with icy precision. “Since now,” he responds, voice cold, allowing no room for challenge. “Anyone else have an issue?”

Jaemin hesitantly lifts a hand, looking far smaller beneath Taeyong’s intense scrutiny. “Why you, though?” he asks quietly, attempting bravery.

“Because I was asked,” Taeyong responds evenly, stepping forward, forcing Jaemin to shrink back visibly. “Problem?”

Jaemin quickly shakes his head, lowering his eyes. “No, sir.”

Taeyong doesn’t hesitate or offer pleasantries. He scans the team sharply, eyes cold and calculating, silently demanding compliance. “I’m not here to babysit,” he begins, his voice hard-edged, emotionless. “I’m here to enforce discipline.”

He dismantles their confidence with surgical precision, attacking each flaw without mercy. “Mark, reckless doesn’t mean effective. Jaemin, hesitation is weakness—figure yourself out, or get off my court.” His eyes finally land on Jeno, lingering a second longer than necessary. “And Jeno, leadership means stepping up. Right now, you’re hardly worth the title.”

Your chest tightens. This is the first time you've ever witnessed Jeno with his father. You'd imagined many scenarios, pictured Jeno’s defiance, expected fire, or even quiet rebellion. But Jeno gives none of it. He remains utterly still, utterly unreadable, as if he's become nothing more than a silhouette in the harsh glare of Taeyong’s presence. Jeno's confidence, the quiet strength you've always known him to carry, dims visibly under his father's shadow.

Something inside you twists uncomfortably. Jeno has always been strong—almost untouchable—and seeing him shrink, even slightly, beneath Taeyong's gaze feels deeply unsettling. Taeyong notices this silence, takes it as submission, unaware of the quiet rebellion stirring deep within his son. Unaware that the seeds of defiance are already beginning to take root beneath Jeno’s passive exterior. You sense it—the inevitability of change hanging thickly between them. Something small, barely noticeable, has begun shifting in this moment. And Taeyong, blinded by his certainty of control, does not see it coming.

“Get in position.” Taeyong’s voice is razor-sharp, slicing through the air like a whip. His glare sweeps over the team, brimming with undisguised contempt. “You want to waste my time? Fine. But if you think I won’t tear each of you apart for slacking, you’re dead wrong.” His tone drips with venom, each word laced with a promise of punishment. “Move. Now.”

The players reluctantly disperse, each movement heavy with silent protest. Mark's intensity is palpable, frustration turning his movements sharp, aggressive. Beside him, Jeno remains deliberately distant, moving with mechanical precision, never letting his eyes stray too close to Mark. Taeyong's voice echoes across the court, cold and cutting. “Jaemin, pick it up! Jeno—is this your idea of leading? Mark, you're dragging your feet!”

Kun’s eyes flick over the exhausted players, growing more concerned by the second. Finally, he raises his whistle and blows sharply, slicing through the chaotic noise. “Alright, let's take a breather. Five minutes—get some water.”

Relief visibly washes over the players, their bodies slumping toward the benches. Taeyong’s head snaps toward Kun, eyes blazing with irritation. “Five minutes? They're barely warmed up.”

“They need recovery,” Kun replies firmly, meeting Taeyong’s challenging stare without flinching. “You won’t get results by running them into the ground.”

Taeyong holds the silence just long enough for discomfort to ripple through the gym before relenting with a curt nod. “Fine. Five minutes.”

The boys collapse onto benches, breaths coming in ragged gasps, sweat glistening on their skin. Jeno sits near Mark, hesitantly, maintaining that careful distance. Yet, as you watch, you catch them exchanging brief glances, quiet smirks passing between them. Something subtle, something secretive, shared silently—a flicker of understanding. It makes your chest tighten slightly, uncertain of what exactly you've just witnessed, but sensing instinctively it's important.

You notice Jeno lean toward Mark, lips moving quietly. The conversation is brief, punctuated by nods and subtle smiles. You're left wondering—did they reconcile? Did something shift? Your pulse quickens, sensing that whatever they've silently agreed upon is significant, that this careful rebellion has only just begun. The two brothers seem to share a silent promise—something deliberately hidden from Taeyong’s watchful gaze, something quietly powerful in its defiance.

And suddenly, you understand: beneath Jeno's careful silence and Mark's open rebellion, they're both choosing to fight back in their own ways. Against the control, the pressure, the suffocating weight of expectation. You just wonder how long their quiet resistance can last before everything snaps.

Their plan clearly unfolds with precision—too precise, too smooth. Every pass lands exactly where it should, each movement seamless, each play executed with practiced ease that feels deliberate. It's muscle memory, instinctive, something ingrained long before Taeyong ever stepped onto this court. It’s everything Taeyong doesn’t want, and yet it’s everything Coach Suh would have praised.

Mark and Jeno move like two parts of the same whole, their chemistry effortless despite everything that’s come between them. Their movements openly defy Taeyong’s rigid commands, directly opposing every demand he's made, every principle he's tried to enforce. And yet their plays are flawless. The ball moves between them in perfect rhythm, a game within the game—a quiet rebellion masked as cooperation. The harder Taeyong tries to impose control, the easier they slip from his grasp.

Jeno nudges Mark with his shoulder, and Mark shoves him back lightly, their laughter echoing across the polished floor. The tension that weighed so heavily between them only hours ago is gone. They stand shoulder to shoulder, no longer divided, no longer opposing forces. Brothers. As if they had never stopped being so.

Your heart clenches at the sight, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a fragile moment, a piece of something temporarily broken now fumbling toward being whole again. You don't know how long it will last—if it will last at all—but for now, it’s enough. For now, it’s everything.

Yet, not everyone shares your sentiment. When your eyes shift to the corner of the gym, they land on Areum. She’s standing rigidly near the bleachers, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her expression is wrong—not her usual composure, nor her usual soft, delicate eyes. Her lips are pressed together, her eyes distant but brimming with something raw. Hurt, betrayal, grief—emotions she’s terribly bad at hiding. She looks heartbroken, as if watching something slip irretrievably through her fingers.

You force yourself to turn away just as the air in the gym shifts. The warmth of the moment vanishes, replaced by a cold, oppressive weight. Under the sharp lights, Taeyong stands silent, his clipboard clutched so tightly his knuckles whiten. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his stillness says more than words ever could.

He is seething. For a moment, he simply observes, the silence stretching painfully. Every breath, every heartbeat seems amplified by the tension. Then his voice splits the hush with lethal precision. “You think this is funny?” The question is quiet, barely more than a growl, but it feels like a physical blow. Mark and Jeno exchange a glance, and though their laughter fades, neither looks away. Neither shows fear. Their faces are neutral, but their postures are ready—as if they've been waiting for this.

Taeyong’s lips press into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “What’s so damn funny?” he demands, voice taut with barely restrained anger. “Is it the part where you ignore every order I give? Or maybe you just love making a mockery out of this practice?”

Jeno’s jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. “We’re just playing basketball.” 

The word lands like a spark to dry tinder. Taeyong’s eyes narrow, darkening with fury. “Oh, basketball,” he echoes, dripping with contempt. “That what you call blatantly disregarding every single command I gave you? That what you call turning my court into a joke?”

Jeno’s response is a slow, deliberate shrug. “We scored, didn’t we?”

Mark exhales a breath that's almost a laugh, and you sense Taeyong fray at the edges. Taeyong shifts his focus to Mark, eyes burning. “And you,” he snaps, “you think this is some game? You’re not here to show off. You’re here to follow my system.”

Mark’s smirk is razor-sharp. “What system?” he challenges. “Barking orders and working us to the bone isn’t a system.That’s just your ego.”

The air turns electric, charged with sudden danger. Taeyong moves closer, clipboard clutched so hard it might crack. “You want to keep laughing? You think you’re above this team? Above me?”

Mark sets his shoulders, refusing to back down. “It’s not that hard to be above you.”

Taeyong’s fury boils over. With a sudden lunge, he shoves Mark’s chest, the impact sharp and punishing. Mark staggers, eyes blazing, and drives both hands into Taeyong’s chest, forcing him back a step with a hollow thud that echoes across the gym.

Everyone freezes. Nobody breathes.

Mark’s voice is low, tight with anger. “You don’t fucking scare me. You’ve been throwing your weight around my whole damn life, acting like everything you say is law, like you can control me from a distance. But guess what? I’m not that scared kid anymore.”

He steps forward, forcing Taeyong back another inch. “This team isn’t about you,” he seethes. “It’s bigger than your fragile ego, and it’s sure as hell bigger than you. I’m done playing by your rules.” 

A hush falls over the court, thickening the air until it feels nearly suffocating. You watch, breath caught in your chest, as the fragile balance of power shifts visibly between Mark’s defiance and Taeyong’s furious disbelief. Each word from Mark is precise, cutting, methodically dismantling the false authority Taeyong has built around himself. You see the strain in the older man’s expression—the cracks in his carefully maintained facade—and you recognize, deep down, that this is a turning point.

But your attention drifts briefly toward Jeno, who stands slightly apart, his expression tight yet carefully blank. His jaw clenched, he watches the confrontation without intervening, his posture stiff as though bracing himself against an invisible storm. You hate this sight—the way tension coils in his body, the muted resignation painted across his features. But then, Jeno’s eyes flicker toward you, catching your gaze with a precision that steals your breath. For a split second, the storm in his eyes breaks, revealing something softer beneath—something reserved only for you. A delicate smile, small and gentle, graces his lips, warmth peeking through the heavy tension. The corners of your mouth curve upward instinctively in response, a silent reassurance passing between you. In that brief moment, nothing else matters but the fragile intimacy of his quiet smile.

The moment shatters as Mia steps closer, her voice carrying an unmistakable edge of condescension. “You and Jeno are still together?” she sneers, her tone dripping with mock incredulity. “Honestly didn’t think you’d last. Didn’t think you were his type.”

Mia’s words grate on your nerves, an annoyance rather than outright anger. You roll your eyes, letting out a slow breath as you look her over with deliberate boredom. “And do you think you’re his type?” you drawl, arching an eyebrow to make it clear just how little you value her unwanted opinion.

Her eyes narrow, her expression sharpening. “Please,” she scoffs, her tone dripping with mockery, “like you’re actually his type.” Her gaze sweeps over you dismissively, lingering just long enough to emphasize the insult. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your rib cage, but you hold her gaze firmly. Before you can respond, Aisha chimes in from beside Mia, voice equally acidic. “Come on, Y/N, we all know you’re just playing pretend. You’re not some innocent angel like you want everyone to think. We’ve all seen who you really are.”

You swallow hard, fighting the urge to lash out. “And what's that supposed to mean?” you bite back, tone sharp and unwavering.

Yiren’s voice cuts in, taunting and smug. “It means that I’m surprised Jeno still wants to be with you as you’ve lied about who you really are. We know about the bar, Y/N. The smoking, the performance—pretending to be innocent isn’t really your thing, is it? ” 

You roll your eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re that interested in me performing at the bar, just ask next time—I’ll get you private tickets.”

Nahyun mutters something under her breath, just loud enough to be heard. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re surprised, girls.” She exhales, arms crossed, voice dripping with patronizing amusement. “Jeno’s just experimenting. Mark finally came to his senses and dumped Areum, now I’m just waiting for Jeno to come to his senses, then both the Lee brothers—”

"I broke up with him, actually.” Areum’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and unflinching. She looks at Nahyun, chin lifted, eyes flashing, daring her to say otherwise. The air in the gym shifts as the girls exchange glances, taken aback by the steel in Areum’s tone. 

You shake your head in frustration, not even bothering to suppress your irritation. “Nahyun, don’t even start,” you cut in, your voice flat with exhaustion. “You literally had to beg your way back onto the cheer team.” It lands exactly as intended—pointed, dismissive, a reminder that her opinions mean nothing when she’s only here out of necessity. 

Nahyun’s face falters for a split second before she schools it back into indifference. She did beg to be let back on. She wanted this, needed it, and Karina, desperate for numbers with the state championships approaching, let her return. It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about necessity.

Something shifts between you and Areum in that moment—a quiet understanding, a shared distaste for the girls standing in front of you. When your eyes meet, there’s a flicker of amusement beneath the irritation, the beginning of a small, almost imperceptible smirk exchanged between the two of you. For once, you’re on the same side.

Karina’s voice suddenly shreds through the tension. “I am so sick of this!” Her scream echoes across the gym, reverberating off the walls, sending a sharp jolt through everyone standing around. “The fighting, the yelling, the constant bullshit—I’ve had enough.” Her eyes snap to Nahyun, venom dripping into her glare. “You are on your last chance. Do you understand me?”

Nahyun swallows but doesn’t respond. Karina doesn’t wait for one. “Formation. Now.” She steps back, tossing a final glare at Mia, Aisha, and Yiren. “And if any of you want to keep running your mouths, don’t bother showing up to the next practice.” Silence. Then, begrudging movement as the girls start to shuffle into formation. But the damage is already done—the tension, the bitterness, the fractures in the team remain.

The cheerleading practice is a mess, just like always. There’s no unity. No real sense of teamwork. None of these girls like each other, and it shows. The routine lacks chemistry, the formations are off, and Karina is practically grinding her teeth in frustration. Mia, unsurprisingly, makes her presence known first. “You need to keep up, Y/N,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest. “This routine isn’t for beginners.”

You scoff, throwing her a sharp look. “I’m keeping up better than you.”

Your words land, sharp and certain, cutting through the noise like a blade. The gym stalls, tension stretching in the silence left behind. You can feel the shift—eyes turning, breaths held, the undercurrent of something shifting beneath the surface.

But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you. Jeno’s gaze is steady, unreadable at first, but there’s something in it, something knowing. He doesn’t react to the murmurs or the way the practice has momentarily unraveled—his focus is only on you. His head tilts, the movement slight, careful, a pull toward the door so small that no one else would catch it. But you do. Because it’s not a question, not really. He’s not asking if you want to leave—he’s waiting for you to decide. Waiting to see if you need him to take you away from this, from them, from the weight pressing against your ribs.

It’s a way out. An answer to something you hadn’t even put into words. Your nod is small, almost imperceptible, but he catches it instantly. The corner of his lips quirks—not a full smile, just the ghost of one, something knowing, something meant just for you. Then he move, Jeno crosses the gym without hesitation, cutting through the tension like it doesn’t exist, like the weight of every lingering stare and unspoken judgment doesn’t matter. His presence alone shifts the air around you, steady and sure, yours.

Jeno’s arm slides around your back, firm and protective, pulling you in just enough that his body shields you from their stares, from them. His voice is low, meant only for you, the steady weight of it sinking beneath your skin like something permanent. “Ignore them” he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. His fingers press lightly against the small of your back, a quiet reminder, a reassurance. “Come here.”

And then, just like that, he kisses you. It’s soft. Dreamy. A moment of quiet in the middle of chaos. His lips press to yours, warm and certain, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re standing in the middle of the gym, by the fact that people are watching. He doesn’t care—he only cares about you. And when you smile against his lips, when his hand curls just slightly at the small of your back, it feels like the both of you are in your own world, untouched by anything else.

His lips part against yours, slow and searching, the warmth of his breath fanning over your skin. He tastes like sweet, brown sugar and something else that’s undeniably him, something you could drown in if you let yourself. His grip at your back tightens, drawing you in until your bodies are flush, the heat of him sinking into you. Your fingers slide deeper into his hair, tugging just enough to earn the faintest, almost inaudible hitch of breath against your mouth. His other hand ghosts over your waist, not demanding, just there, steady and possessive, like he’s reminding you exactly who you belong to. The kiss lingers, deepens—lazy, intoxicating, a slow pull into something heavier. If you weren’t already breathless, the way he tilts his head, deepening it just enough to leave you dizzy, would’ve done it.

But the world is watching. You don’t notice Mark glaring, his jaw set, his expression dark. You don’t see Taeyong’s sharp stare, the unreadable weight in his eyes. You don’t realize that this moment—the way Jeno stands before him, untouchable, unconcerned, unafraid—is a fracture in something far bigger than the two of you. A thread pulled too hard, a balance tipping, a fault line beginning to crack. It does not shatter yet, but the weight of it hangs in the air, waiting.

Jeno pulls away slowly, his forehead still nearly resting against yours, his lips brushing over the ghost of your smile before he finally leans back. There’s warmth in his eyes, something soft and golden that lingers between you. Neither of you speak—you don’t have to. The moment stretches, slow and syrup-thick, wrapping the two of you in something untouched, something safe.

And then—splash.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat as the coldness seeps in first, biting against your skin, drenching through the fabric of your uniform. It’s thick, slow-moving as it clings to you, sinking into the fibers, sticky and sickly sweet. The scent of vanilla, artificial and overpowering, curls in the air around you before you even glance down. Milkshake. A Fucking milkshake.

Nahyun blinks at you, wide-eyed, faux-innocent, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my God,” she gasps, voice pitched just right, so perfectly performative. “I bumped into you.”

Jeno steps back slightly, just enough to register what’s happened, his brows knitting together in confusion before his expression hardens. His body shifts, his hand already moving—instinctive. The cold press of liquid against your skin has the fabric of your uniform clinging to you, the damp material turning sheer, betraying the curve of your body, the way your nipples tighten against it from the chill. His eyes flicker down, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but he says nothing. Just moves. The hoodie—his hoodie, the one you’ve stolen a dozen times before, the one that still carries the faintest trace of his cologne—is yanked from his bag without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. Just drapes it over your shoulders, the motion deliberate, possessive. His hands ghost along the fabric, adjusting it so it shields you fully, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your collarbone. 

The gym hums with murmurs, the weight of stares pressing into you from every angle, but Jeno doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t turn to Nahyun, doesn’t waste a second giving her the reaction she wants. Instead, his grip tightens around your wrist—a silent let’s go—and he begins to lead you toward the doors, his steps purposeful, his intent clear.

Then—“Jeno.”  

His father’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

Jeno doesn’t stop. “Jeno.” Sharper. Colder.

His steps slow, but he doesn’t turn. You see the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch slightly against yours. His father’s presence is an anchor, something suffocating and heavy that drags against him even as he tries to walk away.

“You don’t get to leave practice early.” Jeno stops. The gym is silent. You glance up at him, watching the war play out behind his eyes—anger, resentment, exhaustion, defiance. It’s all there, unraveling and rebuilding in real-time, his grip on your hand tightening as if he’s trying to ground himself, as if he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t the inevitable pull of his father’s control.

You squeeze his hand, tilting your head just slightly to catch his gaze. “Just go, baby.”

Your voice is gentle, meant for him alone, meant to be softer than the weight pressing down on him. His eyes flick to yours, searching, uncertain. He doesn’t want to let go. You say it because you know him. Because you can see the war waging behind his eyes, the way his body tenses like he’s bracing for a fight he doesn’t even want to have. Because if you don’t say it, he’ll stand here forever, caught between what he wants and what he’s been conditioned to obey. You say it because you refuse to be another thing that weighs him down. Because you’d rather be the thing that makes it easier—that reminds him, even in moments like this, that he has a choice.

You nod, a small smile, a quiet promise. I’m okay. I’ll see you later. Jeno hesitates for just a second longer before exhaling, his jaw clenching as he reluctantly loosens his grip. His touch lingers as his fingers slip away from yours, the warmth of them still imprinted against your skin.

So Jeno stays. And you leave.

You step into the girls’ locker room, heart still racing from the chaos outside. The sticky sweetness of the milkshake clings uncomfortably to your skin, and your thoughts spiral between the sharp words exchanged, Jeno's comforting presence, and the soft, reassuring kiss that still tingles on your lips. You peel the damp fabric away, relief briefly washing over you at finally being alone, when the door creaks open. You turn instinctively, expecting—hoping—to see Jeno or even Mark, but instead, your blood runs cold. Lee Taeyong stands in the doorway, utterly unfazed as his eyes sweep over you, dominance and disdain clear in his sharp gaze. Without a word, he shuts the door behind him, and the soft click echoes ominously, sealing you both inside.

Your breath catches violently in your throat, a sharp, involuntary gasp ripping from your lips. Panic lurches through you as you scramble for Jeno’s hoodie, yanking it up to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself. “What the fuck—get out!” Your voice cracks with sheer disbelief, your body moving back instinctively, pressing against the cool metal of the lockers as if you could somehow will yourself away from him. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the reality of the moment sinking in too fast, too suffocating.

Taeyong doesn’t flinch. He barely reacts at all, his expression remaining cold, detached, like your outrage is nothing more than an insignificant detail to him. His gaze flicks over you once—impassive, clinical—before he exhales, slow and deliberate, and shuts the door behind him. The click of the lock sliding into place sends a violent shiver up your spine.

Your stomach twists, nausea rising in your throat. “Are you insane? You can’t just—just walk in here—what the fuck is wrong with you?” Your voice is frantic, shaky, but edged with pure anger. You clutch the fabric tighter against your chest, heat rushing to your face, not just from humiliation but from the absolute audacity of his presence.

But Taeyong? He remains utterly unmoved. If anything, his disinterest in your outrage makes it worse. His suit is pristine, not a thread out of place, as if nothing in the world could possibly unsettle him. His eyes—Jeno’s eyes, but colder, emptier—fix onto you with something bordering on contempt. His lip curls ever so slightly, as if the very sight of you is offensive. “Oh, don’t act modest now,” he muses, voice like ice water down your spine. “You’ve been naked in front of my son plenty of times, haven’t you?”

Taeyong exhales sharply, shaking his head like the mere sight of you is exhausting. “You really thought you could sneak around under my nose?” His voice is sharp, steady, cruelly unimpressed. “That I wouldn’t notice the way you’ve been throwing yourself at my son, crawling into his bed, distracting him, ruining him?” His lips twist, the words dripping with disdain. “You think I don’t see what you are? What you do? You’ve been fucking Jeno, dragging him down with you, pulling him away from everything he’s supposed to be. And you really thought you’d get away with it.”

The words slap into you like a physical force, the air in the locker room thinning, closing in on you. Your fingers clutch tighter around Jeno’s hoodie, but there’s no hiding, no escaping under his scrutiny. He doesn’t look angry—not in the way people do when they lose control. No, Taeyong is composed, every syllable measured, a knife sliding between your ribs with effortless precision.

“I’ve known about you from the beginning,” he continues, voice smooth but cutting, like he’s stating something obvious. “I knew the second Jeno started slipping, the second his focus started waning. He used to be sharp, disciplined. Now?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “He’s careless. Distracted. By you.” His eyes flick down, scanning the hoodie wrapped around your shoulders, and his lip curls. “I should have shut this down the second it started.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you without hurry. “But I waited,” he says, voice dropping just slightly, making the words heavier. “I let him get whatever this is out of his system. I tolerated it. I watched. And what did you do with that time?” He tilts his head, his stare sharp enough to flay skin. “You made it worse. You changed him. And not for the better.”

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, even as his presence suffocates the space between you.

Taeyong lets out a slow, measured sigh, as if it genuinely pains him to acknowledge this. “Jeno has always had potential,” he says, and there’s something cold, final about the way he says it. “He was built for this. Raised for this. Do you even know the level of talent he has? Do you even comprehend what he’s capable of?” His voice sharpens, the edges hardening, the first real crack of irritation slipping through. “He was meant to be exceptional. And now? He’s squandering everything.”

The shift in tone is subtle, but you feel it. The control, the restraint, the absolute certainty he’s carried up until now—there’s something just slightly frayed underneath it. He’s pissed. “He’s fucking around with those morons—Eric, Sunwoo—gambling away his career, throwing himself into something that could ruin not just him, but the entire team.” His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “And the worst part? He doesn’t think. Not the way he should. Not the way I taught him to. He acts on impulse, on whatever stupid, fleeting emotion he’s chasing at any given moment. He believes things will just work out—that no matter what he does, he’ll land on his feet.”

“And whose fault is that?” Your voice is quiet, but sharp, unwavering. “You say Jeno doesn’t think. That he acts on impulse. That he believes everything will work out for him no matter what.” Your head tilts, mirroring his own, a cold smile tugging at your lips. “Who do you think taught him that?”

Something in Taeyong’s gaze flickers. “You didn’t raise him to be careful. You raised him to win. To obey. To be everything you decided he had to be before he ever got the chance to figure it out himself.” Your voice is steady, but the weight behind it is undeniable. “You built him to push through everything, to never stop, never think, never hesitate. And now, when he finally does? When he finally starts making choices that don’t fit into the future you forced on him, you call it a distraction. A mistake.” Your eyes burn into his, unflinching. “You don’t like that Jeno is slipping, Taeyong? Maybe you should ask yourself why he was trying so hard to hold it together in the first place.”

Taeyong doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, his expression shifts, amusement flickering through his cold gaze. “There it is,” he murmurs, almost like it’s an observation. Like he’s studying you. “That little bite. That fire Jeno seems so drawn to.” His head tilts just slightly, and something about it makes your stomach knot. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place.” The words are quiet, unhurried, but they land with the force of something far heavier. “So let me remind you.” He takes a measured step forward, his gaze hard, unforgiving. “You are going to stay away from my son. No contact. No texts. No meetings. Nothing.” His voice remains infuriatingly steady, laced with the kind of authority that doesn’t entertain defiance. “I don’t care what delusions you’ve let yourself believe, what fantasy you’ve built in your head—Jeno is not yours to keep. You will cut him off completely, and you will do it now.”

His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then his head tilts, just slightly, something unreadable shifting behind his expression. “Or should I make you?”

You blink at him, his words hitting you with the force of something designed to break, to sever. A breath catches somewhere in your throat, half disbelief, half something darker. “Seriously? No, what the fuck, I’m not—”

“Yes, you will,” he cuts in, and it isn’t just an interruption—it’s a dismantling. His voice drops, something heavier curling around his words, pressing them into the space between you with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. “It’s not your choice. Either you do exactly as I say, or I will expose you.”

For a second, you can’t move. The words settle into the air like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore, threading through the small, imperceptible cracks in your composure. You hear the threat before you fully understand it, before your mind can wrap around the weight of what he’s saying. And then the realization crashes into you, something cold and sharp locking around your ribs. Expose you. Taeyong is methodical. Calculated. He doesn’t make empty threats, and he wouldn’t be standing here if he didn’t already have something to back it up. Your voice comes out unsteady, barely above a whisper. “Expose me? How?”

The smirk that flickers across his face is small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A cruel little thing that lingers in the corner of his mouth before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He moves with unhurried precision, scrolling through something, murmuring under his breath about the inconvenience of technology, like this is just another chore, another trivial task he needs to check off his list. And then, without fanfare, he turns the screen toward you.

Your breath catches. The image is grainy but unmistakable. You. On stage. The dim neon lights of the bar cast a shifting glow over your body, your movements languid, sultry, designed to seduce an audience you thought would never see beyond those walls. The outfit clings in all the ways you intended, the sway of your hips deliberate, practiced, controlled. It was supposed to be private. A secret life you kept locked away from the version of yourself that existed outside those doors. And yet, here it is, playing out on the screen in Taeyong’s hand like it was never really yours to keep.

He swipes, and the next video is worse. Jeno, pressed against you in the dim glow of the bar’s back corner, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. The air is thick with smoke, the haze curling between your bodies as you exhale, your lips still slick from his kiss. His fingers drag up your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, pushing boundaries without hesitation. Another swipe. You, straddling his lap in a shadowed booth, grinding against him as his hands roam, as your lips ghost along his jaw, your breath warm and laced with the lingering taste of whiskey. Another swipe. His fingers at the waistband of your panties, yours curled around the cigarette he just passed you, the ember glowing between your fingertips as you take another hit, exhaling slow, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The night bleeding into sensation—heat, pressure, the muted pulse of bass-heavy music, the world outside reduced to nothing but this.

It feels like drowning. Your stomach twists violently, the rush of nausea so immediate it nearly knocks you off balance. How? The word beats against the inside of your skull, frantic, insistent. How does he have this? Your voice shakes when you finally manage to speak, the syllables barely holding together. “How—how do you even have this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to. The phone disappears back into his pocket, and the look he levels you with is colder than before, if that’s even possible. “That’s not your concern,” he says simply, dismissing the question as if the answer is irrelevant, as if you are irrelevant. “What matters is that I have it. And trust me, Deloitte wouldn’t appreciate discovering your extracurricular activities. Imagine how quickly your opportunity would vanish once they see this.”

The breath in your lungs turns to stone. You feel it lodge itself there, unmovable, impossible to breathe around. He’s not just threatening you. He’s already won. “Delete those,” you snap, but the bite in your voice is weak, forced. Your fingers curl into fists, trembling despite your best efforts to keep them steady. “Now.”

Taeyong doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react. “Agree to stay away from Jeno.”

The words fall between you like a gavel striking down in a courtroom. Absolute. Unshakable. A sentence that has already been passed. The silence that follows is unbearable, stretching so thin you swear you can hear the pounding of your pulse in your ears. Your body is locked in place, every muscle tensed, waiting for something, for anything, for some miracle that won’t come. And then it happens. The words spill out before you can even process them, slipping from your lips like an instinct, like a reflex, like survival. 

“I agree!” You lunge forward, your hands moving faster than your thoughts, reaching for his phone, needing to erase everything, needing to make sure it’s gone. Your fingers fumble as you unlock it, as you scroll through the videos, your breaths sharp and erratic, your heart slamming against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. It has to be gone. It has to be gone. The panic is suffocating, tightening around your throat, making your vision blur as you force yourself to delete each file, one by one.

“Are they only here?” you demand, your voice barely more than a whisper, your fingers still moving, still erasing, still destroying. You don’t stop until every trace is gone, until the screen is wiped clean of the evidence that he should neverhave had in the first place.

But the question lingers—How does he have them? The question gnaws at you, twisting through the panic, refusing to settle. Did he have someone follow Jeno, track his movements, watch him slip into the bar, wait for him to find you, wait for the moment your guard was down? Or did he buy the footage outright, slip money into the right hands, a transaction so effortless it barely cost him a second thought? Maybe he didn’t need to pay at all—maybe someone handed it over willingly, a nameless bartender or a faceless bouncer, someone who recognized Jeno, who knew exactly who his father was, who saw an opportunity and took it. 

Maybe Taeyong barely had to ask. That’s what makes it worse—not just that he has them, but how easily he must have gotten them, how little effort it took to unravel something you thought was yours. It makes it bigger, impossible to trace, impossible to fight. You thought you were safe in the dark, that your secrets lived in the space between liquor-drenched laughter and neon-lit shadows, in the heat of Jeno’s hands and the haze curling from your lips. But you see it now—the illusion of privacy, the lie of anonymity. You were never hidden. You were never out of reach.

Taeyong nods once to your question, sharp and decisive. And you know. He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t need backups. He doesn’t need a second copy. He doesn’t need to hold onto them at all. Because he already holds you. But he’s not finished. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be. The power shift is too easy, too simple. Because blackmail alone isn’t enough. He can see it—the way you’re still breathing too hard, the way your hands are still trembling, the way your mind is still searching for an escape. You agreed, but it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.

And so, he goes for Jeno. “But understand this—if you defy me, if you even consider staying with my son, it will be Jeno who pays.”

The floor drops out from under you, but it isn’t the sharp kind of fall. It’s slow, measured, the kind that makes you feel every inch of descent, every second of helplessness, every breath that lodges in your throat and refuses to come unstuck. Your body locks up, panic curling in tight, but it isn’t just panic—it’s something worse. Because Taeyong knows. You see it now, the calculation in his eyes, the way he watches you like he’s already predicted every reaction, every desperate counter-move. His first threat was never going to be enough. He knew that. Knew there was a chance you’d find a way around it, that you’d figure out how to survive the fallout, that you’d swallow your own ruin if it meant keeping Jeno.

So he does what he always does—he makes sure there is no way out.

He goes for Jeno. And that’s what makes your breath stutter. Because it’s not just about you anymore. It’s not about your future, your dignity, the life you’ve been clawing your way toward—it’s about him. And Taeyong knows exactly what that means. He knows how you feel it in the pit of your stomach when Jeno so much as frowns, how your heart clenches when exhaustion lines his face, how you would give anything to keep that light in his eyes, to protect the pieces of him that Taeyong has spent years trying to snuff out. He knows that when it comes to Jeno, you would do anything. Everything.That’s why he doesn’t just threaten him—he promises. Promises to unravel the thing Jeno loves most, the only thing that has ever truly been his. And suddenly, it doesn’t matter what happens to you. It never did. The only thing that matters is keeping Jeno safe. And Taeyong knows—of course he knows—that you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure of that.

“It’s already clear he’s ruining his own future with his reckless gambling and impulsive decisions,” Taeyong continues, and the way he says it—so calm, so disappointed—sends a fresh wave of nausea through you. Like Jeno is nothing more than a failed investment. A project gone wrong. “But I’ll make sure he never sets foot on a basketball court again. I’ll destroy every opportunity, every path forward he thinks he has. And it will all be your fault.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. The words are there, caught somewhere between your ribs, but they won’t come out. Fear presses down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to move. Because you know he means it. And you can’t let him do it. You can’t. Jeno loves basketball the way most people love air, the way his heart beats without permission, without pause. It’s the only thing that’s ever been his. His father has stolen everything else—his childhood, his choices, his sense of self—but basketball? That’s the one thing he was never able to take from him. Until now. Until you.

So that’s it? That’s what you have to do? You have to leave? Take the opportunity he’s giving you, walk away, pretend Jeno was never yours to hold? Pretend none of it ever happened? You swallow, your throat so tight it hurts. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to.

“You want me to disappear?” The words taste bitter. “Just like that?”

Taeyong doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t falter. “Yes.”

The finality of it slices through you like a knife. There’s nothing left to argue, no room to bargain. It’s not a request. It never was. “You understand the consequences if you don’t, right?”

You nod. You don’t know if you mean it, but you nod. Taeyong claps his hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that cuts through the suffocating quiet. “Then it’s settled. You’ll break it off with my son immediately.”

You barely move. You barely breathe. Taeyong’s irritation, his frustration, his cruel actions—they’re rooted in his desperation to maintain control. Mark had always challenged him, openly rebellious, and now Jeno is following suit, defying expectations, acting unpredictably. Taeyong’s power is slipping, and he's determined to reclaim it at any cost. You’re merely a casualty caught in the crossfire, powerless against the fury of Lee Taeyong.

The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against your ribs like a weight you can’t shake. Taeyong watches you, his expression unreadable, his presence an unshakable force that demands submission. And then, as if this moment wasn’t already unbearable, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You were always out of your depth,” he says, his voice carrying something between amusement and disappointment. “Did you really think this would last? That someone like you—some ordinary girl with nothing to her name—was ever meant to keep him?”

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Even Areum had more standing than you. A better family, real connections, a name that actually meant something. If anyone had a chance, it would’ve been her.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something. And then his lip curls, eyes flashing with something cruel. “And yet, even she proved worthless in the end. Let herself sink—dragged herself down to Mark, of all people.” He shakes his head again, like the very thought disgusts him. “So tell me, what makes you think you—with no name, no status, nothing—could ever be anything more than a passing distraction?”

The words slice through you, deep and deliberate. You knew, of course, that Jeno came from a world of wealth, of power, of things you’d never had access to. But this? This is different. This is Taeyong laying it out for you in brutal clarity: you were never worthy. Not because of anything you did, not because of any mistake you made, but because you were born beneath him. Because your family isn’t his family. Because you don’t have the name, the wealth, the legacy that he deems acceptable. And to him, that is justification enough. To him, that is reason enough to tear you from Jeno’s life.

Something ugly twists in your stomach—humiliation, rage, something deeper, something that makes your hands curl into fists even as you fight to keep your expression neutral. “You won’t be the first girl he forgets about when he realizes how small you are compared to his future,” Taeyong continues, his voice smooth, effortless, as if he’s not ripping you apart piece by piece.

Your nails dig into your palms. There it is. The future he’s carved out for Jeno—prestigious, untouchable, perfectly curated. One that has no place for you. And yet, something shifts in the back of your mind, something sharp and burning. “You’re risking compromising his future?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice quieter than before but just as sharp. “You know about Eric and Sunwoo, you know what they’re doing, what they’re pulling him into. You could fix it. But you’re not.”

A flicker of something crosses Taeyong’s face—so brief, so controlled, you almost miss it. But you don’t miss it. You see the momentary pause, the measured breath, the barest hint of something just beneath the surface. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deny it. And that tells you everything.

Because he doesn’t want to fix it.

He wants Jeno to fall just enough. Not enough to ruin him completely, not enough to destroy his potential—but enough to make him need his father again. Enough to remind him that Taeyong still holds the reins. Because if Jeno stumbles, if he makes a mess of things just before his future is set in stone, who else can he turn to? 

And suddenly, everything is clearer. This isn’t just about you being a distraction. This is about control. This is about power. Jeno is slipping from his grasp, and Taeyong is tightening his grip in the only way he knows how—by cutting away anything that lets Jeno believe he has a choice.

You exhale slowly, the realization settling like lead in your chest.

Your eyes flick to Taeyong’s, and for the first time, you really look at him. The resemblance is striking—Jeno’s sharp jaw, Jeno’s piercing gaze, the same angular features. But where Jeno’s eyes hold warmth, his are devoid of it. Hollow. Merciless. It makes you wonder how long it’ll be before Jeno starts looking at the world the same way, if Taeyong keeps pushing. If there’s a version of Jeno, years from now, who stands in a room like this, with that same cool detachment, with that same soulless stare.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Not just the threat, not just the cruelty, but the possibility—the idea that Taeyong has already set the pieces in place, that he’s already shaping Jeno into something you won’t recognize. The thought sickens you. Taeyong lets the silence linger, a predator watching its prey. He’s so calm. So in control. He’s already decided this is over, already written you out of the story like you were nothing more than a misplaced footnote.

But you have something now. Something he wasn’t expecting. Desperation. He’s desperate. That’s why he’s acting now, why he’s here instead of watching from a distance like he has for months. He knows he’s losing Jeno, and that’s why he needs you gone. Because if Jeno doesn’t have him, who else does he have? You. And Taeyong can’t allow that.

The realization doesn’t change anything. Not yet. But you hold onto it, tucking it somewhere safe, somewhere deep. Right now, Taeyong has every advantage. He holds every card. But cracks are forming. And cracks always spread.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the slivers of gold slicing through the blinds, casting shadows across Jeno’s bare skin. The sheets are a mess beneath you, bodies tangled in the heat, in the desperation, in the quiet ache of knowing this can’t last. Your thighs are spread over his, knees digging into the mattress as you sink down onto his cock, slow and deep, the stretch pulling a soft, broken moan from your lips.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should’ve ended it hours ago, should’ve walked away before you lost yourself to him again. But you can’t. You won’t. Because you love him too much, because you’re weak for him, because there’s something inside of you that needs to feel him one last time, to take him, to let him have you in the way only he ever has. You don’t know how to say goodbye, but you know how to love him. And so you do.

Jeno groans beneath you, hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you down as you roll your hips, fucking yourself onto him with a slow, devastating rhythm. "Fuck, baby," he rasps, his voice thick with sleep and pleasure, head tipping back against the pillows. "So fucking tight. You always take me so good."

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but feel—the way he fills you, stretches you, the way his cock throbs inside you with every deliberate movement of your hips. You lean forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands smoothing down his arms, tracing over muscle, feeling the way he tenses beneath your touch. You’re too quiet. You know he notices, knows he expects you to tease him, to say something sharp and playful between moans. But there’s no teasing tonight. No games. Just this. Just you and him and the unbearable ache of wanting him, of knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have him like this.

"Baby," you whisper, voice breaking, lips ghosting over his skin, over his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. You kiss him between gasps, between moans, between the slow grind of your hips, swallowing his groans like they belong to you. Your hands roam—grasping, desperate—sliding up his chest, curling around the back of his neck, dragging your nails through the short hairs there. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his scent clinging to you like something you’ll never be able to wash away. "My baby," you breathe again, voice thick with something too raw to name, pressing your lips to his temple, to his eyelids, to the slope of his nose. "My baby. My baby. My baby."

Jeno shudders beneath you, a strangled sound slipping from his throat, his grip tightening—one hand firm on your waist, keeping you down, keeping you flush against him, the other sliding up your spine, spanning your back, dragging you closer, closer, until there’s not an inch of space left between you. His lips part against your shoulder, sucking, biting, marking. He’s not just holding you; he’s grasping at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to feel you everywhere, all at once. His hips roll up, deep, slow, devastating, making you gasp, making you cling to him, fingers curling against his shoulders as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” his voice is wrecked, thick with something deeper than just pleasure, and it makes your whole body throb. His hand slides to your throat, not to choke, just to hold, to tilt your head back so he can see you, so he can watch every little tremor in your expression. “You feel so fucking good, baby. So perfect.” His lips crash into yours, tongue licking into your mouth, kissing you like he wants to drown in you. His other hand skims down, smoothing over the curve of your ass before gripping tight, guiding your rhythm, pushing you down harder, making you take every inch of him.

You whimper against his mouth, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, dragging your nails down his chest, watching the muscles flex under your touch. His cock twitches inside you, sending a sharp pulse of heat down your spine, making your thighs squeeze around his waist. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint it takes not to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress until you’re screaming. But he lets you take him like this, lets you have him, lets you control the pace even as his fingers dig into your skin like he’s barely keeping himself together.

"Jeno," you whisper, dragging your lips along his jaw, his cheek, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over his face, sucking his bottom lip between yours. He groans, deep and guttural, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging slightly, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of this, of how completely you’re wrapped around him. “I love this," you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth, his chin, his throat. "I love the way you fill me up. Love the way you touch me." You lick over the salt of his skin, biting down gently, and he shudders beneath you, his cock throbbing deep inside.

"God, I love this pussy," he grits out, voice rough, strained, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. "Love the way you move on me. You’re so fucking beautiful." His hands slide up your back again, over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your jaw as he pulls you back to his mouth. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth, his breath hot and desperate as he groans into you, like he’s trying to pull you deeper, trying to merge you into him, trying to make sure you never leave.

And you let him. You let him take and take and take, because you’ll never stop giving.

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, trying to fight it, but the moment is too much. Every sensation crashes over you at once—the way he fills you, stretches you, the heat of his breath against your skin, the weight of his hands gripping your waist like he can’t bear to let go. Your chest tightens, breath catching, your heartbeat a frantic, stuttering thing against your ribs.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. You try to blink them away, but the moment is too much, every sensation amplified, every touch searing into you like something permanent, something you’ll never be able to scrub from your skin. You think he doesn’t notice, think you can hide the way your body is trembling, the way you’re falling apart in more ways than one. But then he stills beneath you, breath heavy, fingers flexing where they hold you. Slowly, his grip shifts, one hand trailing up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to brush over the wetness on your cheek. 

His brows knit together as his thumb catches the wetness on your cheek. “Feels that good, huh?” His lips curl into a teasing smile, voice low and raspy, full of satisfaction. He thinks it’s the pleasure overwhelming you, the way he’s fucking you so deep, so slow, pulling sounds from you that you can’t control. He doesn’t realize there’s something else behind it, doesn’t see the weight pressing against your ribs, the ache curling beneath your skin. To him, this is just proof of how good he’s making you feel, how perfectly he has you falling apart in his hands.

You can’t answer. You just nod, swallowing hard, clinging to him as you sink down harder, as you grind yourself against him, as you chase the high that’s building in your stomach, in your chest, in the burning ache of your heart. Because this is all you have left. This is the last time he’ll ever hold you like this, the last time you’ll ever get to drown in the way he makes you feel. And if you think about that too hard, you’ll break completely.

Your hands tremble where they press against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Jeno is still beneath you, his head tipped back against the pillows, his lips swollen from kissing you, his skin hot under your touch. Your hips move in slow, languid rolls, dragging out the moment, making it last, even as the tension builds between you both, curling tight and unrelenting. You don’t want it to end. You don’t want to let him go. So you don’t.

Instead, you lean down, capturing his mouth again, deep and messy, moaning softly into him as he groans into you. He cups the back of your head, tilting into the kiss, his other hand sliding down the damp skin of your back to squeeze your waist, grounding you in the rhythm you’ve both settled into—deliberate, unhurried, devastating. Every inch of him feels too good, too familiar, too much like home, and you let yourself drown in it, in him, just for a little longer.

His fingers tighten at your waist as he tilts his head back slightly, his breath ragged against your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is wrecked, thick with pleasure, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself back, the way his hips twitch up into yours, desperate for more.

You press your forehead against his, gasping softly as you take him deeper, the pleasure mounting unbearably fast. It’s too much, too intense, the pressure in your stomach winding so tight you can barely breathe. "Jen—" His name is barely a whisper, your hands sliding up his arms, your nails digging into the muscles there, clinging to him.

He groans, his head tilting back against the pillow, his eyes squeezing shut. "I got you, baby. Come for me. Let me feel you."

And you do. The orgasm crashes over you, your body seizing up as waves of pleasure roll through you. You shake, breath hitching, moaning into his mouth as you kiss him through it, refusing to let go, to separate, to break the moment. Jeno follows soon after, a sharp, broken groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as his body shudders beneath you. His lips curve against yours, smiling softly through the kiss, breathless and wrecked. His arms wrap around your back, pulling you flush against his chest, as if he can still feel the way you tremble against him.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. "Didn’t know you missed me this much," he murmurs, teasing, his voice drowsy with satisfaction. He runs a lazy hand down your back, tracing soft, mindless shapes against your skin, completely unaware of the weight pressing down on your chest, of the way your throat tightens as fresh tears spill over your cheeks.

You don’t move. You don’t pull away. Not yet. You just rest against him, soaking in his warmth, memorizing the feeling of him beneath you, around you, knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have it. But your mind is racing, spiraling through every possibility, every excuse to stay, every fear about leaving. You tell yourself this is the last time, but your body betrays you—clinging to him, pressing closer, moving like you want it to last forever.

Jeno is too wrapped up in the moment to notice. Too trusting. Too content in the haze of pleasure, in the way your body moves against his, in the warmth of your breath against his skin. He has no idea you’re slipping away. Not yet. Your senses are in overdrive. Every touch is a brand, every shift of muscle beneath your fingertips burns itself into your memory. The heat of his skin, the weight of his hands, the way he grips your waist like you belong to him. It’s overwhelming. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, trying to anchor yourself in him, but the thoughts keep creeping in. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. You’re about to ruin him.

Jeno groans beneath you, his hands tracing over your back, pulling you impossibly closer. He thinks your trembling is from pleasure, that your breathless gasps are for him, because of him. His lips drag along your throat, slow and reverent, pressing soft kisses into your skin as his hands skim down your spine. And then the moment shifts. He feels it before he fully understands it. The stiffness in your body, the way your breathing falters, the quiet sniffle you try to suppress.

Jeno frowns, his hands stilling against your back. "Hey," he murmurs, shifting slightly beneath you. "What’s wrong?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you press closer, pressing your lips against his shoulder, your fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He hums softly, tilting his head back as you mouth along his throat, your tongue tracing over the salt of his skin. His breath shudders, hands tightening at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel the slow drag of his fingers down your spine, the way his warmth engulfs you, but it only makes it worse. It only makes it harder.

You try to shift back, just a little, just enough to create space, but Jeno doesn’t let you. His arms tighten, keeping you right there, flush against him. "Where do you think you’re going?" he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, with something lazy and possessive, his lips brushing against your temple. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you back down, pressing you deeper into him. "Stay with me."

It’s unbearable. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, how he’s making it impossible to leave cleanly. Every kiss, every touch, every pull drags you deeper when you should be pulling away. His hands roam over your skin like he’s memorizing you, like he has no idea he’s holding onto something that’s already slipping away. His warmth seeps into your bones, his breath skates along your jaw, his lips brush against yours again—soft, slow, lingering. Like he’s savoring you. Like there’s time.

But there isn’t.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, hesitation keeping you tethered for one more moment, one more second where you let yourself sink into the illusion of staying. His skin is hot beneath your touch, muscles flexing as he shifts slightly, as he tilts his head to nuzzle against you, sighing like he’s never been more content. And it wrecks you. It undoes you. Because this isn’t contentment—it’s blind faith. He trusts that you’re still here. That you’ll still be here when morning comes.

Your throat tightens, your stomach twists, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You have to go.

You force yourself to pull back, your chest aching as his hands slip from your body, as the air between you turns cold the moment he’s no longer wrapped around you. Your breath stutters, your fingers twitch like they want to reach for him again, but you don’t let them. You stay still for a second too long, caught in the space between leaving and staying, between cowardice and cruelty, but then you move.

You shift to sit beside him, curling your legs up to your chest, your arms wrapping around them like they might hold you together, like they might stop the inevitable. The bed creaks slightly with the loss of your weight against him, but Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything yet. You don’t look at him. You can’t. The silence is thick, suffocating, stretching between you like a chasm you can never close again. You’re still naked, still covered in sweat and cum, but none of it matters. Nothing matters anymore.

For a second, you consider just slipping away. Not saying a word. Not doing this at all. It would be so easy. He’s already spent, body loose and warm against the sheets, his breath deep and even. Soon, he’ll slip into sleep entirely, and that would be your moment. You could gather your things in silence, slip his hoodie over your head because it’s the closest thing in reach, because it smells like him, because even now, you’re weak. You’d take your phone off the charger, shove it into your bag, and leave—just like that. No note. No message. No explanation.

He’d wake up and reach for you, his palm smoothing over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, the warmth of you still tangled beside him. At first, he’d think you just had an early class, that you left in a hurry, that you’d be back later. Maybe he’d text you something lazy and sweet, something about how good last night was, how he’s still hard thinking about it. Maybe he’d fall back asleep, thinking nothing of it.

But then the hours would stretch. You wouldn’t text back. You wouldn’t call. By the time the evening rolled around, he’d start to wonder. He’d send another message—where are you? call me. Then another. He’d check your location, and for the first time in years, it wouldn’t be shared. That’s when it would hit him. That something wasn’t right.

You shake the thought away. You know better. Jeno wouldn’t just let you disappear. He wouldn’t accept silence, wouldn’t just let it be. He’d track you down. He’d demand to know why. And deep down, no matter how much you want to escape this conversation, you know he deserves an answer. You owe him that much.

But god, you wish you didn’t. The regret sinks in faster than you expected. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, twisting deep into your ribs. It starts while you’re still catching your breath, still tangled in the sheets with him. You should never have done this. You should have walked away last night, hours ago, before you gave in to the inevitable pull. But you were weak. You always are with him. You couldn’t resist the way he looked at you, the way his hands moved over your skin, like he knew every part of you by heart.

Jeno watches you, his frown deepening. "Y/N," he says, quieter this time, and it’s the way he says your name—soft, questioning, worried—that nearly makes you lose it completely.

You take a shaky breath, staring down at your hands, at the way they tremble where they rest against your knees. You can feel him watching you, waiting, his concern thick in the air between you. And then, finally, you say it. "Jeno. I have to tell you something."

A silence cuts through the room like a blade. The air shifts. Jeno blinks at you, the crease between his brows deepening. He pushes himself up onto one elbow, his eyes flickering over your face, searching. “Tell me what?”

You finally look at him. You shouldn’t. You should just say it, get it over with. But when you meet his gaze—still softened by sleep, hazy with affection—you hate yourself for what you’re about to do. Your throat tightens. Your stomach turns. “I’m leaving.”

Jeno stares at you. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t change—not at first. Then his brows pull together, his lips part slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together, to make it make sense. “Leaving?” His voice is still thick, hoarse from sleep, like he hasn’t quite shaken it off.

You nod, your fingers twisting in the sheets, gripping them so tightly they might tear. "The opportunity Coach Suh told me about." The words are heavy, unnatural in your mouth, but you force them out. "I’m taking it."

Jeno’s brows furrow slightly, but instead of immediate concern, a soft chuckle leaves his lips. "Why are you being so serious about it?" His voice is light, warm, filled with something you don’t deserve. "Even though you never told me that you’d be taking it until now, I always knew you were. You know I’m so happy and proud of you." He leans in, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your lips, a gentle smile curling against your mouth.

And for a second, you let yourself sink into it. Into the safety of him, the familiarity of his warmth, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. But it only lasts for a moment before you snap yourself out of it, before the reality of why you’re here slams back into your chest. You pull back, forcing space between you. "Jeno, I’m leaving." You say it again, firmer this time, hoping he understands what you mean, hoping he doesn’t make you say it outright.

He blinks, his smile faltering as confusion creeps into his features. His lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then— "Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we have to break up."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, sharp and humorless. It sounds crueler than you intended, but maybe cruelty is necessary. "And how will we stay together? Jeno, I’m going to be halfway across the world."

His expression shifts. The amusement in his eyes flickers and fades, replaced by something heavier, something you can feel settling in the space between you. He moves closer, like proximity alone will make this make sense. "Why are you talking like this?" His voice is quieter now, hesitant, like he’s starting to piece something together. "Like you’ve already made up your mind."

Because you have. Because you don’t have a choice. Because Taeyong made sure there was only one way forward, and it meant walking away from Jeno. But you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him anything. So you keep going, keep twisting the knife deeper, keep making this easier for him in the only way you know how. "Because it’s the truth," you say, voice flat, emotionless. "I’m leaving."

Jeno stares at you, the weight of your words sinking in, settling into his bones like something cold and foreign. You see it hit him, watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. It should make you feel accomplished, should make this easier. It doesn’t. It never does. The moment feels like a rug being pulled out from under him. The contrast makes it worse—the remnants of last night still lingering around you both, his hoodie draped over your frame, his scent clinging to your skin. The intimacy of it all makes the pain sharper, like glass cutting through soft flesh.

Jeno lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of it. "You're joking." It’s not a question. It’s a plea.

You don’t smile. You don’t soften. "I’m not."

He moves closer, something desperate slipping into his voice. "Y/N—"

You cut him off before he can reach for you. Because if he touches you, you’ll break. "It wouldn’t have worked anyway." The words feel like acid on your tongue, burning, scarring. You shrug like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. "This just makes sense."

Jeno’s mouth parts slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His expression twists, frustration creeping in, mixing with something raw. "This makes sense?" He scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his movements sharp, tense. "You’re actually being serious right now? We were fine—we made up, we were fucking fine. What  changed?"

Jeno’s breath stutters, his frustration shifting into something closer to disbelief. “No—seriously, what the fuck changed?” His voice is sharper now, cracking slightly, like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands flex at his sides before he runs a rough hand through his hair, his movements quick, restless. “Because last night, we were fine. You were fine. You looked at me like—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Like you wanted this, wanted me.”

Jeno exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of something impossible. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and unsteady but laced with frustration. “After the shit at the bar—why did you forgive me? Why did you tell me everything was okay? Why did you kiss me, fuck me every night after that, like nothing else matters?” His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides. “And now, when you knew you were gonna end it, you did it again. You kissed me, you fucked me like you were never gonna leave. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, Y/N. You’re supposed to be a smart girl.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a vice. It lodges there, thick and suffocating, but you force yourself to swallow it down. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a relentless, deafening beat, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but this. You try to breathe past it, try to keep your face impassive, your voice steady. But it’s slipping. It’s all slipping. The agony claws up your throat, rips through your chest, fractures something deep inside you. You have to sell this—you have to make him believe it. Even if it kills you. Even if it destroys everything inside you.

“I did,” you force out, the words jagged and strained, like they’re being ripped from your throat. "And now I don’t. I thought I wanted this, but I don’t."

Jeno’s expression shatters for a split second before he shields it, jaw clenching so tight you swear you hear his teeth grind. “Bullshit.” The word is sharp, slicing through the thick silence like a blade. His head shakes, his breath uneven, his eyes darkening as they lock onto yours, searching—desperate for something, anything that makes this make sense. "You don’t just wake up one day and decide you don’t want something anymore. That’s not how this works."

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, nails digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded."Maybe it is," you whisper, but your voice falters at the end, betraying you.

Jeno exhales, a rough, humorless sound. "No. That’s not you." His voice lowers, turns into something rough, something almost pleading. "You don’t just change your mind overnight, Y/N. Tell me the truth."

You hesitate—too long. And he sees it. The flicker of doubt, the war behind your eyes. And it’s that, not your words, that really starts to break him.

His breathing turns uneven, his body tense with restrained frustration, but now there’s something else—an unraveling, a slow, agonizing realization that he can’t yet name. "Y/N," he says again, quieter this time, almost hesitant, like he’s trying to read you, to pick apart what you won’t say. "You don’t just wake up one morning and decide you don’t want someone anymore. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work."

His jaw clenches again, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you in, to shake the truth out of you. "You think I don’t know you by now? You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?"

Your stomach twists. You can’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—he’ll see the way your resolve is crumbling, the way every word out of your mouth tastes like poison. But Jeno doesn’t let up. He moves closer, his voice quieter now, rough with something like desperation. "Tell me why you’re really doing this," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours, waiting for something—anything—that makes sense. "Tell me why you’re looking at me like that, like—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Like you don’t want to do this either."

And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes it unbearable. Because he’s right. Because he knows you. Because no matter how much you fight it, no matter how steady you force your voice to be, he can see you breaking. He sees it in the way your breath stammers in your chest, the way your hands tremble where they grip the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. He sees it in the way your eyes refuse to meet his, darting away too quickly, like the weight of his gaze alone could shatter you.

And yet, you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because the choice was never yours to begin with. Taeyong had been nothing more than a distant figure, a name spoken with reverence and fear, a man who existed in the periphery of your world—but now he’s everywhere. He’s in the air you breathe, thick and poisoned, curling inside your lungs and making every inhale feel like submission. He’s in the walls closing in around you, in the weight crushing down on your chest, in the suffocating certainty that no matter which way you turn, he’s already thought ten steps ahead. His presence is a noose cinching tighter with every second you hesitate, every flicker of doubt in your eyes that Jeno might catch onto. And the worst part? You never even saw it coming. One moment, you were free—untethered, yours—and the next, he had his hands around your fate, stripping you of every last illusion of control, carving out your path before you even had the chance to resist. The ground beneath you is gone, the door to another outcome slammed shut, locked, buried. And Taeyong holds the key like it was always his to begin with.

It’s suffocating. It’s a straightjacket laced so tightly around your ribs that every inhale feels like a punishment. And the worst part? He doesn’t even have to do anything anymore. You know what he’s capable of. You know that if you hesitate for even a second, if you let Jeno see too much, if you let him reach for you one more time, you’ll ruin everything. For him. And that’s what guts you the most. Because if it were just you—if it were only your future on the line, your reputation, your opportunities—maybe you’d be able to claw your way out of this. Maybe you’d fight back. Maybe you’d burn for him if it meant staying. But Taeyong knew that, too. Knew that there was only one way to bind you, to make sure you listened. And he was right. He always is.

And yet, you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because the choice was never yours to begin with. Taeyong had been nothing more than a distant figure, a name spoken with reverence and fear, a man who existed in the periphery of your world—but now he’s everywhere. He’s in the air you breathe, thick and poisoned, curling inside your lungs and making every inhale feel like submission. He’s in the walls closing in around you, in the weight crushing down on your chest, in the suffocating certainty that no matter which way you turn, he’s already thought ten steps ahead. His presence is a noose cinching tighter with every second you hesitate, every flicker of doubt in your eyes that Jeno might catch onto. And the worst part? You never even saw it coming. One moment, you were free—untethered, yours—and the next, he had his hands around your fate, stripping you of every last illusion of control, carving out your path before you even had the chance to resist. The ground beneath you is gone, the door to another outcome slammed shut, locked, buried. And Taeyong holds the key like it was always his to begin with.

So you do the only thing you can do. You twist the knife deeper. Jeno is still waiting, still searching your face, clinging to some last shred of understanding. But there’s nothing left for him to find. Nothing you can give him. Nothing you’re allowed to say. "None of this matters,” you force out, your voice thin, hollow, something barely held together by breath and will alone. "Whatever you say doesn’t change the fact that I was always going to leave."

His lips press into a thin line, his whole body going rigid like the words have physically struck him. His hands twitch at his sides, clenching into fists, releasing, like he doesn’t know where to put the weight of his emotions. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. Waiting. Giving you a chance to take it back. But you don’t. "Whether we were together or not." His voice is quieter this time, but the sharp edge hasn’t dulled—it just cuts differently now, deeper, more controlled.

You nod. "Yes."

Silence stretches, thick and unbearable, swallowing the room whole. Jeno’s breath comes uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady movements like he’s trying to contain something that refuses to be caged. His fingers flex again, curling, uncurling, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not this time. He doesn’t ask you to stay. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg. And that should be a relief. Should make this easier. But it doesn’t.

"So that’s it," he breathes, the words dragging out, drained, like he's losing the strength to even argue." His voice is rough now, frayed at the edges, like he’s barely holding it together. "Just like that? After everything, after every moment together, after this—you’re just walking away? Like none of it meant anything?"

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, trying to force yourself to breathe past the burn in your chest. Because that’s what you have to make him believe. That none of it mattered. That last night was just a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness. That you hadn’t spent every second memorizing him, holding onto him like it was the last time—because it was.

"It doesn’t change anything," you murmur, forcing the words out even as they threaten to choke you. "It never did."

And just like that, you watch it happen. You watch the exact moment the fight drains out of him, watch the light flicker out of his eyes. You’ve hurt him in ways you never thought you’d be capable of. And yet, the worst part is knowing this isn’t even the real betrayal. The real betrayal is that you can’t tell him the truth. That you have to let him believe this was always going to happen. That no matter what, this was inevitable.

The air between you feels scorched, the remnants of something burning out too fast, too violently. It’s like standing at the epicenter of a supernova, watching a star collapse into itself, all that light and warmth turning to ruin in an instant. You can feel it in your chest, a pressure so crushing it threatens to hollow you out from the inside. He blinks at you, slow, disbelieving, like the world has just tilted beneath him, like he’s suddenly weightless in the worst possible way. A breath shudders from his lips, and for the first time, he looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you at all.

And it’s devastating. You thought it would be cleaner than this, thought you could carve yourself out of his life like a knife through flesh, quick, precise, a wound that might scar but wouldn’t fester. But nothing about this is clean. It’s messy and raw and impossible to contain. He doesn’t say anything, but his silence is louder than anything he could have said. It fills the room, thick and suffocating, pressing in from all sides, settling into the spaces where there used to be something else—where there used to be you and him.

There is no you and him anymore.

You feel the shift, the finality of it, the way something fundamental snaps between you, severing what was already frayed beyond recognition. You watch him grapple with it, the slow unraveling of understanding dawning across his features, the realization that this isn’t just an argument, isn’t something that can be fixed with the right words, the right touch. It’s over. You’re over.

And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something. A reason. An explanation. Anything to make this make sense. But you’ve already given him all the answers you’re allowed to. You’ve already destroyed him in every way that matters.

So you do the only thing left to do. You turn away.

The classroom thrums with a dissonant symphony—paper rustling, chair legs scraping against linoleum, the faint, discordant pluck of a guitar string. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a clinical glow, too sharp, too harsh, buzzing faintly like an exposed wire. Somewhere, the metronome ticks steadily, but the rhythm feels off, mismatched with the rapid pulse hammering against your ribs. The professor’s voice rises and falls, something about dissonance resolving into harmony, how tension in music must stretch itself thin before it can finally snap back into place. The lesson should interest you. It doesn’t. The words are little more than static, blending into the low, suffocating hum in your skull.

You try to focus. You try to force your attention onto the sheet music in front of you, onto the pen in your hand, onto the clean, structured lines of notation that should provide some sense of order. But the moment your pen hovers over the staff paper, the voices slip through the cracks.

It started the moment you walked in, a shift in the air so tangible you could taste it. It’s been like this for days. The stares, the murmurs that don’t stop when you look up, the way people avert their gazes just a second too late. Your name has become a low, slithering thing in the mouths of strangers, spoken in hushed tones, followed by sharp laughter, raised eyebrows, knowing smirks. You knew this would happen. You knew how quickly rumors fester and spread, how people carve their entertainment from the bones of someone else’s misery.

Jeno has been fucking around. Relentlessly. He dealt with heartbreak the same way he’s always dealt with anything painful—drowning in excess, losing himself in distraction. There was no hesitation, no moment of pause. One night, he was yours, his hands gripping your waist, his mouth whispering your name like it was the only one he knew. The next, he was on someone else, inside someone else, chasing the kind of numbness you can only find between someone else’s legs.

And maybe that should give you some kind of peace. Maybe you should be grateful that he’s doing exactly what you wanted him to do—moving on, forgetting you. Hating you. But you’re not. Because now you’re stuck here, sitting in the wreckage, while he gets to bury it in someone else’s body. Because while you are unraveling in real time, while your heart aches with every passing second, Jeno is grinning at some girl at a party, pressing her against the wall, dragging his teeth down her neck, whispering things to her he probably once said to you. And you know it’s not personal. It’s not about her. It’s about you. About making sure he never has to think about you again.

You know you have no right to be angry. You know this. You gave him up. You made the choice. You told yourself this was the only way, that you had to let him go, that this was what was best for him. But knowing that doesn’t stop the burn in your stomach, the sharp sting behind your ribs as the words reach you, each syllable carving deeper into something raw and unhealed.

"Apparently they broke up."

"Obviously. Jeno’s already fucked half the campus."

"He doesn’t waste time, does he?"

The words slip out between hushed giggles, between the casual shuffle of papers and the scratch of pens. The voices belong to Yunjin and Chaewon, their heads dipped toward each other, their smiles laced with something cruel and amused. They aren’t being loud. They don’t need to be. The words find you anyway, slicing through the stale classroom air, settling beneath your skin like rot.

But then—

"Can’t believe she actually thought she could keep him."

Your breath catches, a sharp hitch that you swallow down before it can betray you. The world tilts slightly, but you don’t let yourself move. You don’t let yourself look up. The whisper is just loud enough to reach you, threaded with something that feels like pity and scorn all at once. Like you were delusional for thinking you ever stood a chance. Like this was always going to happen, and everyone knew it but you.

Your heart is a violent, stuttering thing against your ribs. You can hear it over everything else—the professor’s voice, the metronome, the slow-building pressure in your skull. Your hands are cold. Your face is hot. The anxiety settles like a second skin, thick and cloying, wrapping itself around your lungs. You tell yourself to breathe. Breathe. But the notes in front of you don’t make sense anymore, their meanings lost to the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision.

Chaewon clicks her tongue, a soft, amused sound. “Wonder who he’s with tonight.”

Laughter follows, light and careless. It’s too much. The walls press in. The lights buzz louder. The classroom feels impossibly small, like it’s shrinking around you, like you need to get out, now, before it drowns you completely. But then there’s a shift next to you, just barely noticeable over the static in your head. Mark is beside you. Where he always sits. He hasn’t moved seats just because you stopped talking. Mark’s not the type to change things just because it might make you more comfortable.

He leans in slightly, voice low, quiet enough that only you can hear. “What are they talking about? Why is Jeno fucking other girls? Thought you guys were together.” His tone is casual, like he’s just asking a simple question, but there’s an edge beneath it. Not curiosity. Not concern. Just something sharp, something unreadable.

You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him. Your fingers tighten around your pen, stiff, unyielding, like they’ve locked into place, like if you loosen your grip even a little, everything will spill out. “Well, we’re not,” you mutter. It’s barely a whisper, barely real, but he hears you. Of course he does. Because Mark doesn’t say anything else. He just leans back in his chair, silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then it starts.

The whispers crawl into the music, curling between the notes, staining the melody, twisting it into something unrecognizable. It seeps into the empty spaces, wraps around the rests, crushing them, filling the silence with static—too much static—just noise—just words—just—

The sheet music in front of you melts. The notes stretch, bend, peeling away from the staff, unraveling, slipping through the page like they’re trying to escape. Your vision flickers. The air is too thick, the room too tight, the fluorescent lights too loud. You blink, but the motion makes it worse. Your stomach plummets, weightless for a moment before the sickening lurch of vertigo grips you.

Your fingers tremble. The pen slips. The world tilts.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and clear, slicing through the noise, through you. His hand moves behind your back, pressing firm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. The contact wrecks you. It doesn’t calm you, doesn’t ground you. It sends you spiraling, makes the crash hit harder, faster, sharper. Your pulse slams against your ribs, every heartbeat a violent knock, knock, knock—

You barely register Yunjin muttering something under her breath, her voice laced with something biting, something sharp. But before the words can land, before they can sink their teeth into you, Mark snaps, “Shut the fuck up.” No hesitation. No room for argument. He doesn’t even look at her. His focus stays on you, locked in place, like he already knows you’re slipping.

Your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound shrieking, slicing through the air. It feels distant. Not yours. Like you’re watching someone else stagger to their feet, someone else’s hands shaking, clumsy, fumbling to grab their things, shoving crumpled papers into a bag that suddenly feels too small, too useless, too fucking much. The tremor in your fingers is uncontrollable now, shaking, shaking, shaking, and you can feel Mark’s eyes on you, that quiet, assessing gaze, like he’s trying to map out what’s happening inside your head, like he can see the walls caving in.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. You don’t wait for the professor to acknowledge you. You don’t breathe. You don’t think. You don’t look at Mark. You don’t look at anyone. You just leave. 

The classroom spins, the air clogged with voices, scraping against your skin like sandpaper. Too bright, too loud, too much. Your legs feel wrong, unsteady, disconnected from the rest of you, but you move anyway. The door shoves open, the hallway air rushing in, but it doesn’t help. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. It’s too much. The noise. The room. The hands reaching out. The concern in his voice. The way his touch felt like something you could have collapsed into, something that would have caught you—

You can’t. You won’t. You just need to get out. You need air. You need—

You don’t know.

The hallway stretches long and endless, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting everything in a sterile, artificial glow. Your breath is ragged, uneven, the walls pressing too close, the floor too unstable beneath your feet. You push forward, past the blur of indistinct voices, past the vague shapes of people you don’t recognize, don’t care to recognize. The world outside is too loud, too sharp, but you don’t stop. You don’t stop until your fingers curl around the handle of a door, until you shove it open and step inside. 

The private studio has always been an escape, a refuge stitched together with quiet and clarity. Even now, its presence is familiar—soft lamplight spilling over polished wood, the faint scent of old sheet music and varnish clinging to the air. The piano stands in the center like an altar, its black lacquer surface gleaming under the dim glow. This room has always been a place where you can exist outside of everything else. A space where nothing reaches you. Where sound bends to your will.

But tonight, it is not safe.

Tonight, it is too still. The quiet is suffocating, pressing against your ribs, filling your lungs with something thick and unbearable. You sink onto the bench, fingers hovering above the keys, but the second you press down, the sound is wrong. Too sharp. Too jarring. It crashes into the silence instead of settling into it, shattering the illusion of control you once had. 

The keys feel foreign under your fingers, cold and stiff, resisting your touch like they know you don’t belong here anymore. The room feels haunted, thick with ghosts you can’t shut out. Jeno, leaning against the piano, arms crossed, watching you with that lazy smirk, tilting his head at a wrong note, teasing you like he had all the time in the world. Try again, baby. But he’s not here, and the warmth in his voice is just an echo, a phantom, fading like the last notes of a song that was never meant to last.

You try again. The notes slip, tripping over each other, breaking apart before they can even form something whole. The melody evades you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You press harder. The frustration curls inside you, thick and choking. Again. Again. But the more you try to force the music out, the worse it sounds, unraveling at the seams, collapsing beneath your touch.

The whispers won’t stop. The image of Jeno—hands on someone else, lips ghosting over someone else’s throat—lodges itself in your mind like a knife between ribs. He moved on so easily. He let go so easily. And you— A strangled noise leaves your throat. You slam your hands down against the keys. A discordant, violent explosion of sound ruptures the stillness, ringing in your ears, rattling through your arms, through your chest. But it isn’t enough.

Nothing is enough.

The music should flow like water—effortless, unbroken, slipping through your fingers and cascading into something whole. But it doesn’t. It staggers, trips over itself, breaking apart before it can even find a rhythm. The notes are jagged, gasping, drowning in the silence that follows. You press harder, desperate to regain control, but the melody resists you, resisting like a current pulling against your limbs, like the rush of a waterfall swallowing everything in its path. And you—you—are caught beneath it, dragged under, crushed by the weight of something that once felt freeing.

You shove away from the piano, the force knocking over a stack of sheet music. The pages scatter like dead leaves, skidding across the floor, twisting and turning before settling into a mess of ink and chaos. Your breath is shallow, too fast. The room is shrinking, the walls pressing inward, the ceiling pressing downward, the air turning thick, heavy, unbreathable. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms, grounding you in the sting, but it doesn’t help.

Glass shatters. The sharp, discordant sound slices through the air, and your gaze snaps to the floor. The metronome lies in ruin, its fractured pieces catching the light, splintering into tiny, fractured reflections. Time. The irony is suffocating—you thought you had time. Thought you could handle this. But everything is unraveling too fast, spinning out of control, slipping through your fingers like the scattered sheets around you.

A blast of air surges into the room. The door slams against the wall, the impact rattling through the floorboards, shaking through your bones. Loose papers lift and spiral into the air before collapsing back to the ground in disarray, the lamplight flickering against their chaotic descent. Cold rushes in, sharp and unyielding, but it’s nothing compared to the presence that fills the space, pressing against your skin like a weight, heavy and inescapable.

Mark stands in the hallway, chest heaving, eyes sweeping over the wreckage—the scattered pages, the shattered metronome, the trembling mess of you in the center of it all. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside, moving toward you with careful, deliberate strides, like he’s already assessed every detail of the room, already knows what’s happening, already knows you. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a second, you can’t breathe. You can’t move. The weight in your chest expands, pressing tighter, heavier, until your knees buckle beneath it.

Before you can hit the ground, his arms are around you. Strong, steady, catching you before the fall can steal you away completely. One hand grips your waist, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing at all. The motion is seamless, like he was expecting it, like he knew your body was going to give out before you did. His hold is firm but careful, his warmth sinking into your skin, and there’s no hesitation—no doubt, no reluctance, just a quiet, undeniable certainty. He’s here. He’s got you.

The world bends in on itself, a house of cards collapsing in slow motion, each breath knocking another piece loose. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore, a weightless thing detached from the frantic pounding in your chest. You know Mark is touching you, feel the press of his arms, the heat of his skin against yours, but it’s distant, like you’re watching from behind a thick pane of glass. The moment fractures, splinters into something unreal, something unsteady. You can’t find the door. You can’t get out.

“Shit. Okay, okay. I got you,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, grounding. His arms tighten around you, adjusting his grip, making sure you’re secure against him. He doesn’t let you slip, doesn’t shift even as your body trembles violently in his hold. His chest rises and falls beneath you, deep and measured, a rhythm to follow, something to anchor yourself to. His fingers press into your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, urging you to breathe, to be here, to stay with him.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Slow. Just like that. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

You can’t. You can’t stop crying. The sobs tear through you, ragged and unrelenting, your whole body shaking with the force of them. Your hands fist into his hoodie, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, just holds you through it, his arms strong and unyielding, like he’s trying to absorb every ounce of your pain into himself.

His chin drops, lips brushing against your temple, barely there, a soft, fleeting press. Then another. And another. Each one a whisper of reassurance, a silent promise. He’s here. He’s not leaving. You’re not alone. His breath warms your skin between each kiss, slow and steady, grounding you in something real, something solid, something safe.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His words melt into your skin, threading through the chaos, pulling you back from the edge. He keeps talking, keeps filling the silence with something warm, something steady, something that doesn’t break. His voice is a tether, something to hold onto, something to follow out of the storm.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers trace slow, soothing lines up and down your spine, mapping out comfort between each breath. “Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re okay.” Your sobs start to slow, breaking into uneven breaths, the tremors still there but softer now, not as consuming. Mark doesn’t let go. His arms stay firm, his touch never faltering. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, thumb stroking lightly against your skin, grounding you. He waits, patient, unwavering, like he’s done this a million times before, like he knows what you need without you having to ask.

“I got you. Just—just breathe, okay?”

You try, but your breath is too fast, too erratic, catching on the edges of every inhale like you can’t find the air. Your body jerks with the force of it, chest stuttering, lungs fighting against you, and Mark feels it, all of it. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, pressing you into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Slow,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounding. “Feel that? Just follow me. In—” He exaggerates the inhale, slow and deep, his hand moving against your back in time with the breath. “Hold it. Just for a second. Now let it go.”

You clutch at him, hands fisting into his hoodie, fingers curling so tightly it almost hurts. The first breath doesn’t work. The second barely makes it through. But Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just keeps murmuring against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his fingers tracing soft, rhythmic circles into your back.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers again. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Little by little, the air starts to come back. It’s shaky, uneven, but it’s there, slipping through the cracks of your ribs, settling in your chest instead of fighting against it. The worst of the spinning ebbs, the grip on your lungs loosening just enough for the exhaustion to sink in, heavy and suffocating in its own way.

Mark feels it, the way your body sags against his, and he adjusts his hold without hesitation, shifting his grip to keep you upright, to keep you close. His chin dips, lips brushing against your forehead, barely there, a fleeting press, a silent reassurance. Then another. And another. Soft, steady, constant.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. You’re alright.”

His voice stays gentle, a low hum threading through the quiet. His hands never stop moving—one rubbing slow circles into your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He’s careful, deliberate, like he knows exactly how fragile this moment is, how easily you could break apart again.

And then, after a long moment, after your breath has steadied just enough, his lips press to your temple one more time, and he exhales, something half a laugh, half a sigh. “Not gonna lie,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, “that was kinda dramatic.”

A choked, breathless noise escapes you, something between a sob and a laugh, and he smiles—you can feel it against your skin, small and warm, familiar.

“There she is,” he whispers. You shake your head against him, fingers still curled into his hoodie, your chest still tight, but the weight pressing down on you doesn’t feel as unbearable anymore. It’s still there, still lingering, but so is he—steady and sure, holding you up, keeping you close, keeping you safe.

Mark unlocks the door without hesitation, the keys turning in the lock with a quiet click, a sound that should feel like permission, like belonging. But as the door swings open, the apartment is unfamiliar. The air inside is stale, untouched, filled with the scent of new paint and sawdust rather than something lived-in, something yours. You haven’t been here in weeks. The space is supposed to be a marker of the future, of a life being built, but instead, it feels like a project abandoned mid-construction. Mark doesn’t say anything as he steps inside, but you see the way his gaze sweeps over the half-painted walls, the unopened furniture boxes stacked against the far corner. He notices the things you’ve neglected, the things you’ve left unfinished.

You follow him in, your footsteps quiet against the bare floors. The apartment is in limbo, caught between being a place and a home, and the weight of its incompleteness settles heavily on your chest. You were supposed to be here more, supposed to have put in the time to turn it into something real, something yours. But you hadn’t. Life had gotten in the way. You had gotten in the way. Mark doesn’t say it, but you know he’s thinking it too. His eyes linger on the makeshift dining table, on the paint cans pushed into the corner, on the shelves that still lean against the wall instead of standing upright. This place was meant to be more than this. You were meant to be more present. And now, standing here, the regret seeps in like a slow tide, inevitable and inescapable.

The couch had arrived in pieces, packed neatly in boxes that promise an easy assembly, though you both know better. You push the coffee table aside, clearing space in the center of the room, and set to work. The process is slow, frustrating, full of missing screws and instructions that barely make sense. There’s a moment when Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair, ready to call it quits, but you shake your head. Not yet. Giving up feels like admitting defeat, like acknowledging how much distance had grown between you both these last few weeks. And so you keep going, pushing through every minor inconvenience, every misplaced bolt, every silent thought that lingers in the air between you. When the final piece clicks into place, it’s not just the couch that stands more solid than before—it’s something else, something unspoken but understood.

Neither of you sit on the couch. Instead, you collapse onto the floor, backs pressed against the fabric that had taken three hours to assemble. Your legs stretch out in front of you, exhaustion settling deep into your muscles, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes with accomplishment. The takeout containers between you are still warm, the scent of food curling into the space between your quiet breaths. You don’t rush to fill the silence. Neither does Mark. This is how it’s always been with him—patience in the stillness, understanding in the unsaid. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand words from you, but you know he’s waiting. You can feel it in the way he sits beside you, steady and unwavering, like an anchor keeping you tethered when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under.

You tip your head onto his shoulder, feeling the tension in your body ease just slightly. The apartment isn’t finished. The walls are still bare, the furniture still sparse, but there’s something in this moment that feels like progress. Maybe not in the way you expected, maybe not in a way that erases the last few weeks, but it’s something. And for now, that’s enough. Sitting here with Mark, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beside you, it’s a reminder that some things can still be pieced back together. That not everything has to remain undone.

Mark nudges your knee lightly, his voice soft when he finally speaks. “We’ll finish it, we have time” He says, and you know he’s not just talking about the apartment. You nod, exhaling slowly, allowing yourself to believe it. It’s not much, but it’s something. And right now, that’s all you can ask for.

You barely touch the food in front of you but Mark eats slowly, methodically, his gaze flicking toward you between bites. He’s waiting. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t push, but the weight of his patience is heavy. You know him too well to mistake his silence for anything else. He’s giving you space, but he’s also waiting for you to speak. And eventually, when the weight in your chest becomes unbearable, when the words press so hard against your ribs that they threaten to spill out, you do.

At first, it’s slow. Stilted. You don’t even know where to begin. You try to keep your voice steady, try to downplay the gravity of what you’re about to say, but Mark isn’t stupid. His brows draw together, his chewing slows, his body tenses almost imperceptibly. He’s listening, absorbing every word, every hesitation, and you can tell the longer you go without getting to the point, the more worried he becomes. When you pause too long, he finally speaks, his voice low, careful, but firm. “Tell me who the fuck I need to kill.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as his jaw clenches. “Do I need to deal with Jeno?” 

The laugh that escapes you is short and hollow, nothing more than a breath between tears. “Mark, he’s your brother.” 

His eyes find yours, dark and steady, the weight of his words settling between you. “And you’re my best friend.” It’s not a reassurance, not a question—just fact, the kind that’s always been unshakable. And despite everything—despite the ache in your chest, despite the mess of it all—you smile, because you know. No matter what, no matter how bad things get, he’s on your side. The silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just you and Mark, like it’s always been, like it always will be. And then, finally, he nods, exhaling like he’s made his decision. He’s listening. He’s not going to fix this. He’s just going to be here for you. He lifts his hand, wordlessly, pinky extended. You hesitate—just for a second—then hook yours around his. A promise. One he won’t break.

For a second, you let yourself exist in that small pocket of reassurance. But then, the weight of reality crashes back down. You tell him everything. About Taeyong. About how it started. About how you didn’t see it coming. How he had been watching you, disapproving of you and Jeno from the start. How he had always held quiet control over Jeno’s life, and when the moment was right, he struck. You try to explain the sheer power he holds, the way he makes you feel small, insignificant, weak. Mark listens, expression darkening with every word. You can feel the shift in him, the quiet rage building beneath his skin, the way his shoulders tighten, the way his fingers curl into fists against his knees. And then, when you tell him about the leverage—when you tell him what Taeyong has—his entire body goes rigid.

You don’t look at him when you say it. Your eyes stay locked on the floor, on the cracks in the wood, on the places where the varnish has worn away, anything but his face. Then you force it out. The videos. The proof. Recordings of you at the bar, on stage, wrapped around Jeno like you had no shame. Videos of you drunk, high, grinding against him in the dim glow of neon, his hands rough and greedy on your body. Footage of you in his lap, skirt pushed up, his fingers buried inside you right there in the open, your mouth slack, eyes glazed over. Your legs hooked around his waist, your body rocking down onto him, your lips parted, moaning for him like you belonged to him. Images of Jeno sucking bruises into your neck, dragging you into the back hallways, pressing you against walls, against doors, fucking you like he couldn’t stand the distance between you. Evidence of every filthy, desperate moment you thought belonged to just the two of you. You swallow the nausea rising in your throat and say the rest like it’s choking you, like it’s bile in your mouth. 

This is what you tell Mark. Every single detail, every threat, every sickening way Taeyong made it clear just how little power you had. You tell him how Taeyong had been watching, waiting, collecting every mistake, every moment he could use against you and Jeno. How he knew exactly when to strike. How he cornered you, laid it all out, and left you with no way out. He made it clear—if you didn’t end things, if you didn’t make Jeno believe you were gone for good, he would use everything against you. He would send the videos to the right people, spin the right narrative, destroy you with one move. He’d ensure your future with Deloitte was down the drain.

Mark doesn’t say anything at first. His breathing shifts, shallow and uneven, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles go white. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his shoulders rise with each inhale, how his entire body tenses like he’s trying to hold himself back from exploding. The silence between you is suffocating, heavier than the weight of the confession itself.

Then, finally, his voice cuts through it. Eerily calm. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t need to. The silence is enough. The way your shoulders sink, the way your eyes dart away. The truth sits between you, heavy and unmoving.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not kidding.”

Mark is still trying to process everything, his mind struggling to catch up with the weight of what you’ve just told him. He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to ground himself, to make sense of something that refuses to settle. “I didn’t even know you had this opportunity,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost distant. His hands are clasped together, knuckles still taut, as if holding onto himself is the only thing keeping him steady. He lifts his gaze to you, searching, trying to understand. “You’re leaving?”

You nod, the guilt pressing down like a vice. “I was always going to take it, Mark.” And it’s the truth. The opportunity with Deloitte would always be a part of your plan, a chance you had worked for, something you had earned on your own. But everything else—leaving Jeno, making him believe you chose this over him—that had never been part of it. “It’s not permanent. It’s a hybrid role. I’ll be between here and New York, working on-site, but I’ll still be around. I’ll still be coming back.” Your voice drops lower, trying to soften the blow. 

He exhales. “So what about the apartment?” His voice is careful now, measured, but you can tell he’s holding something back. “We were supposed to live there. First year on our own. I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration leaking through the cracks. “What’s the point of moving in together if you’re going to be gone half the time?”

The guilt deepens, pooling in your chest like cement. You had thought about this already, had mapped out the logistics, but now, seeing the way Mark’s looking at you, it’s clear you hadn’t fully considered what this would mean for him. “It won’t be like that,” you promise, even as the words taste uncertain in your mouth. “I’ll be back just as much as I’m gone. It’s not like I’m moving out. The place is still ours. Plus, you’ll have Areum, you won’t be alone.” 

Mark lets out a slow breath, nodding once, but his fingers drum anxiously against his knee. He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t look convinced. There’s an unspoken worry in his eyes—one that tells you he knows, just as much as you do, that nothing is going to be the same. Then, almost as an afterthought, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “We broke up.” The words are blunt, clipped, like he’s already resigned himself to them.

You huff out a small laugh, not unkind, just knowing. “You guys will find your way back to each other.” His expression doesn’t shift, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses. “You’ll figure it out. you’re soulmates.” His eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them. Then he nods, barely, and you don’t push it further. Because this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you. And what you still have to say.

Your voice cracks before you even finish the thought, breath shaking on the exhale like your body is rejecting the words before they can fully form. “Me and Jeno aren’t going to find our way back to each other.” It’s not an uncertainty—it’s not a possibility lingering in the air, waiting to be disproven. It’s a death sentence. Cold. Irrevocable. The kind that snuffs out whatever ember of hope you were stupid enough to still be holding onto. You bite down on your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep the emotion at bay, but it’s already spilling over, thick and suffocating, settling in your lungs like smoke after a fire has burned everything to the ground. “I—” You stop, shaking your head, because what else is there to say? That you don’t want it to be true? That it still feels like something in you is being ripped apart at the seams, like you’re losing a limb, like the part of you that belonged to him—belongs to him—will never belong to anyone else? That you still love him? That you probably always will?

Your fingers clench uselessly at the fabric of your sleeves, twisting, pulling, something to hold onto, because there’s nothing left of him to reach for anymore. “I didn’t want to leave him like this.” Your voice is paper-thin, fragile, cracking under the weight of it all. “I didn’t want to end things like this.” But you had to. Had to. That’s what you tell yourself, over and over and over again, like repetition might make it easier to believe. Like it might dull the ache. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because the reality is—it doesn’t matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this was the only way. It doesn’t change the fact that you broke him. That you had to break him. That you had to look into the eyes of the only person who has ever made you feel like home and set him on fire.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift beside you—the way his arm comes around you, grounding, steady, pulling you in before you can fall apart completely. Your breath is uneven, shallow, but you force yourself to keep talking, to push past the ache threatening to consume you whole. “I had to make him hate me.” The confession spills out like a wound being torn open, raw and bleeding. “I had to make him believe I didn’t love him anymore, that he wasn’t enough, that I was already moving on.” Your voice wavers, but you don’t stop, even as your throat burns. “So I lied to him. I told him that even if he begged, even if he asked me to stay, I wouldn’t. That this opportunity meant more to me than he did. That nothing he could say would change my mind.” The words land heavy, final, echoing in the quiet, and for a second, you swear you can still hear the way he said your name when you left. Like it was the last time.

Your breath stutters, breaking, and the silence that follows is unbearable.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before you continue. "I was always going to take the opportunity," you say, voice thick with exhaustion, eyes burning from the weight of it all. "But I was never going to end it with Jeno. That was never the plan." You blink hard, forcing back the sting in your vision. "I had to make him believe I would. I had to make him think I chose this over him."

Mark’s gaze sharpens, confusion flickering beneath the frustration he’s barely holding back. His fingers flex against his knee, fists curling like he’s resisting the urge to do something—anything—to change what’s already been done. "And he just let you go?"

“He let me go,” you nod, the words barely holding together. “And then he did exactly what I knew he would do—he burned himself down completely.” The image of Jeno—reckless, self-destructive, breaking himself apart piece by piece—flashes through your mind, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut against it. “He’s spiraling, Mark. He’s fucking everyone, throwing himself into distractions, trying to erase me from his system. And it’s destroying him.” You force yourself to meet Mark’s gaze, to let him see the devastation in your own. “But there’s nothing I can do. If I go back, if I try to fix it, Taeyong will follow through. He’ll make sure Jeno never steps foot on a professional court.”

Mark’s brows knit together, confusion creeping into the storm of emotions already brewing inside him. “But… the blackmail was against you.” His voice is slower now, cautious, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. His eyes narrow. “How does this affect Jeno?”

You take a breath, your chest tightening, knowing that the next part is going to destroy him. Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them, and you blink furiously, jaw tightening. "Because it wasn’t just me," you whisper. "Taeyong blackmailed Jeno too—just not to him. Jeno has no idea. He doesn’t know any of this."

Mark stills. His expression darkens, breath hitching, body coiling like a live wire about to snap. "What the fuck are you saying?"

You wipe at your face, fingers shaking. "Taeyong knows how much I love him," you choke out. "He knows how much I care, how I’d put him before myself, before anything. So he told me—if I ignored him, if I still tried to be with Jeno, then he’d come for him."

You tell him about the ultimatum. How Taeyong laid it out for you in brutal, clinical detail. How he told you that if you didn’t leave Jeno—if you didn’t make him believe it—he would make sure Jeno never played professional basketball. How it wouldn’t even take much. Just a few well-placed words. A few whispers in the right ears. A few clicks to send out the files he had. You tell him how you tried to find another way, any other way, but there wasn’t one. How you knew, the second Taeyong laid it all out, that you had already lost. “I didn’t have a choice,” you whisper. “I had to break his heart. I had to make it hurt. Because if I didn’t—” Your voice catches, but Mark is already finishing the sentence for you, voice tight, raw, furious. “He’d lose everything.”

Mark braces himself, shoulders tensing, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. "He told me," you continue, voice hollow, "that if I didn’t leave Jeno, he’d make sure his future ended before it even started. He’d spread the videos of us around, spread the rumors to the wrong ears. He’d destroy him. Even though I deleted them from his phone, who am I kidding? He probably has them stored somewhere else."

Mark’s entire body is rigid, but you push forward because you have to. "And it’s not just that," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "He has everything on Jeno. Every fight, every reckless decision, every time his temper got the best of him. He’s been documenting it all, just waiting." You let out a shaky breath. "He has enough to paint him as unstable, uncoachable, a liability to any team."

Mark already knows Jeno’s been fucking up lately. He’s seen the fights with Eric and Sunwoo, the reckless plays on the court, the way he’s been losing himself. But what he doesn’t know—what no one knew—is that Taeyong was watching it all. Waiting. Calculating. And now, he has the power to end Jeno’s dreams with a single move.

Mark is silent, but his breathing is heavy, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. And then he stands up abruptly, running a hand through his hair, pacing the small space between the couch and the half-built coffee table. “We have to tell Jeno.” His voice is resolute, sharp. “He needs to know.”

You shake your head before he even finishes. “No. No, Mark. You can’t.”

He turns to you, eyes blazing. “You think I can just sit here and do nothing?” 

The panic rises in your chest, choking, suffocating. “If you tell him, it’s over,” you say, voice breaking. “Taeyong has everything, Mark. If Jeno knows the truth, if you even hint at it, Taeyong will pull the trigger. He'll make sure Jeno never plays basketball again. Do you understand? Jeno's entire life, his dream—it's hanging by a thread, and this is the only thing keeping it from snapping."

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less firm. “And you think he just gets to win?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, staring down at your hands. “He already has.”

Mark shakes his head, jaw tight, barely containing the anger still thrumming beneath his skin. “No,” he says, voice steady, final. “No, he hasn’t.” 

"I don’t know what to do anymore." Your voice breaks. "I can’t fix this, Mark. I’ve tried. I’ve thought about every possible way out, and there’s nothing. I have no choice. I was supposed to have a future with him, we were going to figure it out together. And now—" A sob lodges itself in your throat, thick and painful. "Now I’m just supposed to disappear? Like none of it ever mattered? Like he doesn’t matter?"

Mark exhales sharply, he looks at you, really looks at you, and what he sees must break him because his voice is soft when he finally speaks. "You’re so in love with him."

You let out a small, broken laugh. "Isn’t it obvious?" The admission nearly shatters you because loving Jeno should have meant fighting for him, staying with him, choosing him. But instead, it meant destroying him so Taeyong wouldn’t do worse.

Your voice trembles, breaking under the weight of everything you can’t change. “It’s cruel,” you whisper, each word dragging itself from your throat like it hurts to say. “That I can’t be with the man I love.” It’s not just cruel—it’s suffocating, unbearable, a slow and deliberate kind of agony that gnaws at the edges of your sanity. Your breath shudders, your fingers curling into your palms like you can hold yourself together, like you can stop the pieces from slipping through the cracks. And then, softer, almost to yourself, “But at least he’ll still have basketball.” The words taste bitter, like something sharp and wrong. Like a lie you’re trying to believe. You let out a breathless, broken laugh, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like resignation. Like the final nail in the coffin of everything you wanted, everything you’ll never have again.

Mark lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the air like a blade. “Will he?” His eyes lock onto yours, unflinching, waiting for the weight of it to settle. “You really think he still has basketball?” His voice is edged with something raw, something almost desperate, like he needs you to see what he sees. He shakes his head, exhaling hard. “He’s fucking up, Y/N. He’s spiraling. He’s still messing around, still point shaving because he has no other choice.” He pauses, letting it sink in, watching the way your expression wavers, the way your breath catches.

“You think he’ll be fine just because you left? You think he’ll be okay?” His laugh this time is even sharper, disbelieving. “He’s not okay. And this—this shit you’re doing, keeping him in the dark—it’s not making it better.” His hands flex, like he’s fighting the urge to grab your shoulders, shake sense into you. “You think walking away saved him? You think this is what’s best for him?” He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair, voice dropping lower, tighter. “Open your fucking eyes. You’re not protecting him. You’re just leaving him to drown.” Mark knows his words are harsh, knows they cut deep, but he doesn’t take them back. He can’t. Because they’re not just cruel—they’re the truth. And maybe it’s brutal, maybe it’s unfair, but it’s necessary.

A lump forms in your throat, heavy and thick. Because he's right. You’ve been telling yourself that as long as Jeno has basketball, as long as he still has his future, then maybe—maybe it’s worth it. But what if he doesn’t? What if you’ve destroyed him for nothing?

Mark leans forward, voice low and firm. "Y/N. I love you. I won’t go against you despite how badly I want to but I don’t agree with this. I know why you’re keeping it a secret. I get it. But Taeyong doesn’t have Jeno’s best interests at heart. Don’t you think it’s worse that you’re not telling him? That he doesn’t even realise just how much his own father is his biggest fucking enemy?"

You nod slowly, hands trembling in your lap. Because you can’t disagree. There’s no good outcome, no real benefit, no silver lining. You’ve been choked by this situation, forced into a corner with no escape. If Jeno doesn’t end up happy, if he doesn’t thrive in his career, then what was the point? What was the fucking point? Taeyong isn’t going to help Jeno deal with Sunwoo and Eric. He could fix everything with a single snap of his fingers, but he won’t. So if Jeno is going to stand a chance, if he’s going to make it out of this in one piece—you have to be the one to do something about it.

Your pulse thrums with a new kind of urgency, something raw and unshakable clawing its way to the surface. You have to fix this. There’s no more waiting, no more hoping that things will settle on their own. Jeno is slipping, spiraling further with every second you waste. You’ve already taken everything from him—his trust, his belief in you, his sense of stability—and if you don’t act now, if you don’t move, then Taeyong will win. He’ll have orchestrated this entire thing, pulled every string, crushed every last piece of Jeno until there’s nothing left of the person he was supposed to be.

You won’t let that happen.

You can’t let that happen.

Your hands clench into fists, fingernails biting into your palms, and you force yourself to breathe, to focus, to think. There has to be a way. A way to fix this, to protect Jeno, to take back control of something—anything. You don’t know how, you don’t know what it’ll cost you, but none of that matters anymore. Because you have to do this. Because there’s no other option. Because if you don’t, then what the hell was all this suffering for? The fear is still there, curling in the pit of your stomach, but it’s different now. It’s fuel. It’s fire. It’s the thing that’s going to push you forward.

You have to move. Fast.

The past few nights have been long, stretching endlessly between exhaustion and restless thoughts that refuse to quiet. You’ve thrown yourself into work, into research, into anything that might make the ache in your chest feel a little less unbearable. It hasn’t helped. Your research sits open in front of you, the screen of your laptop casting a dim glow over the clutter of notes, printouts, and half-empty coffee cups scattered around you. You’ve been here for hours, flipping between tabs, scrolling through pages of information, chasing leads that feel both urgent and impossible. But none of it drowns out the gnawing, ever-present weight of him.

Jeno. You haven’t seen him in days. Not properly. Not in a way that means anything. And it’s obvious why. He’s avoiding you, pulling away, sinking into self-destruction the way he always does when he’s cornered. And you understand. Of course you understand. But it doesn’t stop the selfish part of you from wanting more. From expecting, against all logic, that he’d come back. That he’d want to see you, speak to you, be with you. Because no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you miss him. You miss him in a way that makes your chest feel hollow, in a way that lingers, thick and unbearable, no matter how much you try to bury it.

You don’t know what you expect anymore. Any hope of holding onto something with Jeno—whatever fragile, unspoken thing used to exist between you—has already slipped through your fingers. You tell yourself it’s over, that you can’t have him in any way that matters, but some selfish, hopeless part of you still craves the impossible. Still aches for his presence. Still wants him to come back—to want to come back. Maybe it’s delusional. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, the way your world used to tilt toward his without effort. But the truth is undeniable. he’s carved out a space in your heart that no one else can fill. 

The weight of his absence lingers, stretching across the past few days like an open wound. You try not to dwell on it. Try to push forward, to focus on the work in front of you, to convince yourself that distraction is enough to keep the ache at bay. But nothing changes the fact that something in you has been waiting—bracing—for the moment he’d come back. Even if you know better. Even if you know he won’t.

The air shifts before you even hear the door. The space around you grows heavier, charged with something electric, something visceral, something undeniably him. Your fingers still over the keyboard, your breath catching in your throat, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. And then, finally, you sense movement—the subtle drag of footsteps, the faint creak of the door easing shut, the quiet force of a presence too familiar to ignore.

When you look up, he’s already staring at you. The sight of him nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. He looks good. Unfairly so. Even like this—tense, annoyed, still brimming with that barely-contained frustration he’s been carrying for weeks—he’s still devastating. The sharp angles of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the way his hoodie hangs loose over broad shoulders yet does nothing to hide the sheer strength coiled beneath his skin. He’s every bit as infuriating as he is magnetic, and the moment your eyes lock, the world tilts.

He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, slow and deliberate. And then he moves. It’s not rushed. It’s not aggressive. It’s controlled. Every step forward is measured, precise, his gaze locked onto yours with the kind of quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away. It’s been weeks since you’ve last held eye contact like this, and you’d forgotten—God, you’d forgotten—how it feels. How completely, overwhelmingly consuming it is. How Jeno doesn’t just look at you; he sees you, strips you bare with nothing but the weight of his attention. And under that attention, under the heat of it, everything else—the laptop, the research, the reason you’re even here—vanishes.

You should move. You should close the tabs, shut the screen, do something—anything—before he gets too close, before he notices. But you don’t. You can’t. Because he’s already in front of you, already closing the space between you like it was never there to begin with.

Jeno doesn’t sit across from you. He doesn’t give you distance, doesn’t allow you the space to think, to breathe, to pull yourself together. Instead, he drops into the seat beside you, legs spreading wide, his forearms bracing against his thighs as he leans forward. It’s intentional. Deliberate. He takes up space, forces you to feel him, to acknowledge him. And you do. You do.

His scent crashes into you. A dark, intoxicating mix of cardamom and smoked cedarwood, something that clings to the air between you like an unshakable memory. It smells like the kind of warmth you could sink into, like a quiet storm before impact—subtle, unrelenting, inevitable. There’s something dangerous about it, too, something that lingers on your skin, in your lungs, making it impossible to think about anything but him. It reminds you of nights spent tangled in sheets, of things you shouldn’t be remembering. Of things that are gone now. But the scent is still here, clinging to you, wrapping around you, as inescapable as the man in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face, down to your hands curled tight in your lap, back up again. Waiting. Testing. Searching for a crack, for any sign that you’ll fold first. And then—finally—he speaks. “I need to talk to you.” His voice is low, steady, but edged with something you can’t quite place. A quiet frustration, maybe. Or something heavier. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to swallow, but it barely helps. “Okay,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes. And for a second—for just a fleeting, reckless second—you forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you’ve been doing. Forget everything except the weight of him beside you, the heat of his thigh brushing yours, the way the air feels razor-thin between you. And then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. Just enough. And he sees it. The moment his eyes land on your laptop screen, the energy between you shatters.

Jeno hadn’t meant to come here. Or maybe he had. He wasn’t sure anymore. Avoiding you had been easy enough these past few weeks—easier than he thought it would be. If he didn’t see you, didn’t hear you, didn’t give you the chance to dig your nails into the open wound you’d left behind, then maybe he could convince himself it didn’t exist. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. But the lie had begun to unravel faster than he could stitch it back together. Because something still pulled him toward you, something gnawed at the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes, every time he caught himself checking for you in the places you used to be.

He told himself he just wanted to see how much effort you’d been putting into the project without him. Maybe he’d find some bitter notes, some passive-aggressive remarks about how he was slacking off, something to prove that you were pissed off at him. But instead, he finds this.

Your laptop screen is filled with names. With research. His name. Sunwoo’s. Eric’s. His stomach tightens, his muscles coil, and suddenly he’s moving. “What the fuck are you doing?” The words rip out of him before he can stop them, sharp and cutting, laced with something that isn’t just anger—something worse. It’s panic. Fear. Because he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, doesn’t understand why you—of all people—are digging into things you shouldn’t be touching.

You move on instinct, fingers flying toward the laptop, but it doesn’t matter—he’s faster. His hand clamps around your wrist, stopping you cold, the sudden contact knocking the breath from your lungs. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s there—unshakable, unrelenting, a quiet assertion of control that sets every nerve in your body alight. His fingers press into your skin, warm, steady, possessive in a way that sends something dark and unspoken curling through you. He’s not just stopping you. He’s holding you. Holding you in place, holding you still, like he wants you like this—trapped beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of his gaze pinning you down as effectively as his grip.  And maybe it’s twisted, maybe it’s wrong, but you don’t pull away. You won’t. Because part of you—some reckless, desperate part buried deep in your chest—wants to see what he does next.

Jeno notices. His jaw tightens, his fingers flex against your skin, and something in his expression flickers—something dark, unreadable, something that makes the air in the room shift. He should be yelling. Should be demanding answers. Should be furious. But he doesn’t say anything, not at first. He just looks at you, eyes locked onto yours, his grip tightening ever so slightly, firm but not cruel, possessive but not punishing. Like he’s holding you in place. Like he’s making sure you don’t run.

“Explain.” The word is low, rough, dragged from his throat like it barely made it out at all. There’s no fire behind it, not anymore. Just something heavier, something coiled tight between you, thrumming like a live wire.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You force yourself to breathe, to think, to say something. But you can’t tell him the truth. You can’t let him know what you’ve been doing, what you’re trying to protect him from. And you can’t lie, not fully, not when he’s this close, watching you like he can already see the cracks forming. “It’s for our project,” you say, keeping your voice even, steady, measured—but the way your breath hitches at the end betrays you. “I was looking into the team—into different types of connections. It’s relevant, Jeno. It’s part of what we’re supposed to be doing.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his fingers pressing just a little harder against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow, deliberate, and your stomach tightens because he knows. He can feel the way your pulse betrays you, racing under his touch. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bullshit.” His gaze flickers over your face, searching, testing, reading between the lines, catching every unspoken thing tangled in your words. He just watches you, waiting, waiting, as if daring you to say something else. As if daring you to lie again. And the worst part? You think you might let him.

Instead, he exhales sharply, his grip tightening around your wrist for just a moment—just long enough for you to feel the heat of him searing into your skin—before he lets go. But the space between you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it feels tighter, drawn even closer by something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name. His fingers twitch like they don’t want to leave you, hovering in that impossible in-between, the ghost of his touch still burning against your pulse. His jaw flexes, his throat works around a slow, deliberate swallow, and for a fleeting second, you swear you can feel the weight of his hesitation pressing into you, thick and stifling, like a breath held too long, like a moment stretched to its breaking point.

“You need to stop this.” His voice is a shade rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel, but there’s something underneath it—something more insistent than anger. Not a threat. A warning. A demand wrapped in desperation. “Right now.”

Your stomach twists. You open your mouth, searching for something to say, but your voice betrays you, coming out too soft, too unsure. “Jeno—”

“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut as he moves closer, the space between you vanishing into nothing. His eyes are locked onto yours, intense, unyielding, something almost unbearable brewing beneath the surface. “You don’t get it.” His breath is warm against your lips, the closeness stealing the air from your lungs. “You can’t do this. You can’t dig into this shit, you can’t get involved—they will notice. And when they do, you won’t be safe.”

The fear in his voice unsettles you in a way nothing else has. Because Jeno doesn’t scare easily. He doesn’t break. But this—this is different. The muscle in his jaw ticks, his shoulders are tight with something that looks too much like helplessness, and his fingers flex again at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or let you go. He exhales through his nose, steadying himself, but you don’t miss the way his throat works through a thick swallow.

And then, before you can react, his hands are on your face. Not rough, not demanding—just there. Holding you. Grounding you. Pleading with you in the only way he knows how. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch firm but unbearably careful, and his forehead presses against yours like it’s instinct, like he needs to feel you just to breathe properly. Your lashes flutter, your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. You can’t pull away. Not when he’s looking at you like this, not when his fingers tighten ever so slightly, keeping you anchored to him.

“Is that what you want?” The words are barely a whisper now, his lips just a breath away from yours, his voice threaded with something devastating. “To get yourself hurt?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Your voice is quiet but unwavering, the promise settling between you like something immovable. “That’s all you need to know.”

Jeno exhales sharply, his grip tightening against your skin, like he’s trying to pull something from you—something real, something whole—but you don’t give. You can’t give. His forehead presses against yours, and for a second, his eyes flicker shut. His fingers move, tracing lightly over the side of your face, a barely-there touch, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone before dipping lower, ghosting over your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them. You shudder beneath the contact, your own hands hovering near his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“That’s not good enough,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “That’s not—” He swallows thickly, his breath warm against your lips, and when he speaks again, it’s barely a whisper. “I can’t lose you.”

Your fingers twitch before they move on instinct, sliding up the front of his hoodie, grasping at the fabric like it might hold you together. His own grip shifts, sliding down, his palm pressing flat against your ribs, warm and grounding, fingertips pressing just barely into your skin like he’s trying to anchor you there. Like if he holds on tight enough, he can stop you from slipping through his fingers.

“You won’t,” you whisper back, your voice softer now, edged with something fragile. And it’s not a lie. Not really. But the way his jaw locks, the way his fingers flex against you, tells you he doesn’t believe you. Not yet.

His lips are so close to yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat of them, the ghost of a touch, so close to stealing your breath. You can feel it—the restraint, the breaking point, the way his fingers tighten at your waist like he’s convincing himself to hold back, even as every muscle in his body screams to do the opposite. And you? You don’t move. You should move. You should push him away, turn your head, do something to stop what’s about to happen. But you don’t. Because despite how fucked up, how wrong, how impulsive everything about this is—you still miss him. And he still misses you. And it’s so difficult. Too difficult.

His breath is uneven, lips just barely brushing yours, fingers digging into your ribs like he’s anchoring himself. And then, slowly, slowly, he leans in. His nose nudges yours, a quiet inhale, a moment stretched unbearably thin—he’s about to kiss you. About to close the distance. About to claim your mouth like it’s his to take.

And then the door opens.

“Hey Y/N, I know you’d said you’d meet me outside but—oh—woah.”

Mark stands at the door, eyes wide, blinking like he’s just walked into something he really shouldn’t have seen. His presence slams into you like a cold shock, snapping you back into the moment, into reality, into the undeniable fact that Jeno has you caged against the desk, hands gripping your waist, lips a breath away from yours.

You swallow hard, throat dry. “Mark was gonna drive me home,” you whisper softly to Jeno, voice barely steady, eyes flickering away from his for the first time to glance at Mark.

Jeno doesn’t even hesitate. He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “Don’t look at Mark. Look at me.”

Your breath catches. You gulp, hesitant. “But me and him agreed to meet at this time, he wants to drive me to my apartment, to—”

“I can drive you there,” Jeno cuts in, voice smooth, low, almost dangerous.

You hum, lips parting slightly. His eyes flicker down to your mouth. And that’s it. That’s when he decides fuck it. His hand slides up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, and then he kisses you. Hard. Heavy. Desperate. His mouth slants over yours with a hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long, like he’s been starving for this, for you. Your gasp is swallowed between his lips, your fingers gripping the front of his hoodie without thinking, pulling him closer, needing him closer. He groans softly against your mouth, a low sound of frustration, of relief, of everything he hasn’t said out loud.

Mark makes a confused sound, an incredulous huff. He takes in the scene—the way Jeno is pressed against you, the way your fingers are curled into him, the breathless space between your lips—and then, whether out of respect or just sheer fucking bewilderment, he exhales, shakes his head, and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone.

Jeno doesn’t stop. He doesn’t fucking stop. His lips move over yours feverishly, demanding, parting your mouth with ease. His tongue slides against yours, deepening the kiss, drinking you in like he needs this to breathe. Your back presses against the desk, your body arching into his like second nature, like instinct, like you belong here. His hands, once steady, are now restless—palms dragging down your sides, fingers curling at your waist, tugging, gripping, owning.

You whimper against his lips, and he shudders. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving. His grip on you tightens, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth for just a second before letting go, before he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring you.

"Jeno," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, your lashes fluttering as you meet his gaze—heavy, unrelenting, something unreadable burning behind it. “We can’t do this.” 

His breath is sharp, uneven, forehead pressing against yours, his fingers tightening where they rest against your hips. "Tell me to walk away," he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t want me."

But you don’t. You can’t.

Jeno exhales slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s steadying himself, like he’s been carrying the weight of this moment for too long and doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it in. His eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface, something too raw, too heavy. "I’ve been thinking about this," he starts, voice lower now, rough in the way that makes your stomach twist. "About you. About how you broke up with me. Even when I don’t want to, I’m always thinking about you."

You swallow thickly, pulse skittering at the sheer certainty in his voice. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. He’s not just talking—he’s laying something bare. He shifts, moving in closer, the air between you thinning into something electric, something suffocating. "And the more I think about it, the more I realize… something is wrong. Something about this entire situation is off." His jaw tightens, his breath a slow, measured thing as he exhales through his nose. "I know you. I know you so well, and I just don’t believe you breaking up with me was real.” His voice dips lower, rougher, something fragile threaded beneath it. 

“It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like you.” His fingers flex, like he wants to reach for you, wants to hold you still, “Not after everything—not after how you forgave me. After the way you looked at me, after the way you held onto me like you never wanted to let go.” He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “None of it fucking makes sense. Not after all the moments we spent together, not after everything we went through. Not after how you made me feel like—like I was everything to you.”

You’re silent. Your heart is in your throat, and your fingers are curled too tight into the fabric of your sleeves. He notices. Of course he notices. His gaze flickers over your face, his lips parting like he wants to say something else, like he’s grasping at something he can’t quite reach. And then his hands are on you. Soft but insistent, his palms settling on either side of your face, his thumbs grazing just beneath your cheekbones. He tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze back to his, and the intensity in his stare makes your breath hitch.

"There’s a reason that I liked you so much more than I’ve ever liked any other girl." His voice is softer now, but there’s a weight behind it, something immovable. "Because you never pretended to be something you’re not. You always said what you meant, you always—fuck, you were real in a way that nobody else was. Nothing feels like you." His thumbs brush against your skin, a ghost of a touch, reverent and grounding at the same time. "But the way you’ve been acting… it’s not you. I know you, and you’ve been acting unlike you."

Your chest tightens. Your eyes burn. It’s so hard, so fucking hard, and you feel yourself breaking under the weight of his words, under the way he’s looking at you like he’s willing you to give him something. You shake your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "Jeno, please stop. You don’t want to get into this—"

His grip tenses for just a second, and his brows furrow. "Get into what?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And that’s when it happens—the shift, the realization, the way his breath catches and his fingers tighten against your skin like he’s piecing something together in real time. He thinks about the way you looked at him the last time you saw each other. The way your words said one thing, but your eyes—your eyes—told another story entirely. The way you hesitated, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands clenched like you were bracing for impact.

Jeno steps in closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat, but breath, but the weight of everything unsaid. "Look at me." His voice is steady, careful, deliberate. "Just tell me the truth."

You gulp. Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, uncertain. "Jeno, I’m not understanding what you’re trying to say."

His jaw clenches. He breathes in deeply, searching your face, and then— "What I’m trying to say is… did anything happen to make you break up with me?" His voice is quieter now, but no less firm. "Did Eric and Sunwoo do anything to you?"

Your breath catches, a split-second hesitation that you know—know—he feels. Because Jeno isn’t just reckless, isn’t just driven by emotion. He knows you. Knows you in a way that no one else ever has, in a way that feels almost unfair, because it means he doesn’t need words to read you. He’s always been sharp, always been just a little too good at seeing through you, at catching the cracks before you even realize they’re there. And now, he’s doing exactly that—watching, waiting, cataloging every flicker of movement, every shift in your expression, every little tell that you don’t have the strength to hide. He’s studying you, the way he always does, the way he’s done a thousand times before, but this time, it’s different.

Because you thought you were the one in control. You thought you were the one keeping him at arm’s length, the one dictating how this would play out. But the truth is, Jeno has been doing the same thing to you. This whole time. Reading you just as much as you’ve been trying to read him, peeling back every layer, every carefully constructed defense, until there’s nothing left between you but the unbearable weight of the truth. And this time, he’s piecing you back togetherinstead of just knowing you. Taking the fragments you’ve tried to bury, the pieces you never wanted him to see, and fitting them into something dangerous—something dangerously close to the truth.

Your throat tightens, and you hate the way your body betrays you—how your breath comes out too shallow, how your fingers twitch like they want to hold onto him, how you can’t look away even though you should. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, but it’s weak, unconvincing, a last-ditch attempt to keep yourself together.

Jeno’s grip on you doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t ease either. He stares at you, waiting, his jaw locked, his breath slow and measured, but his fingers flex against your waist like he’s barely holding himself back. “Am I?” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses against your chest, suffocating. “Because I don’t fucking feel wrong. I know you. I know the way you look at me, the way you sound when you’re lying, the way you—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling. “You don’t just wake up one day and decide to leave me. That’s not how this works. That’s not you.”

You shake your head, throat burning. “Jeno, please—”

“Please what?” He’s closer now, and it’s unfair, the way he knows exactly how to crowd you, exactly how to pull you under his weight without even touching you. “You don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to explain why the fuck you’ve been acting like a stranger when I know you still—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You still care about me.”

Your stomach twists violently, your pulse hammering in your ears. “I don’t—”

“You do.” His voice drops lower, something raw bleeding through the words. “You do and it’s fucking killing me.”

Your breath stutters. Your eyes burn. He sees it. You know he does.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Jeno’s voice is quieter now, rough, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I don’t feel it every time I look at you? I don’t care what you say. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t leave me unless—” He exhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, but it’s laced with something unbearable. “Unless someone made you.”

You gasp. You flinch. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s enough. Jeno stills. The air shifts. “Tell me.” His voice is softer now, but it’s not a request. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, a demand, a fucking lifeline he’s throwing at you, desperate for you to take it. “Tell me if someone did something. Tell me if they—” He swallows thickly, like the words are hard to say. “If he did something.”

Your breath catches. Eric. Sunwoo. That’s where his mind goes first. That’s what he assumes. That’s what makes sense to him, because he knows what they’re like, knows what they’re capable of. And of course, of course, he wouldn’t ever think of the real reason because it would never cross his mind that his own father is the one who orchestrated this.

Jeno is close. So fucking close. But he doesn’t know it yet. He doesn’t want to know it. Because that would mean confronting something that he’s buried so deep, something he’s spent years forcing himself not to look at too closely. He knows his father. Knows how ruthless he can be, how much control he likes to wield. But that control has always been directed at him, at shaping him into something stronger, something more, never at you. His father never had a reason to see you as a threat. Never had a reason to interfere. And if Jeno lets himself think about it, really think about it—about all the times his father has made decisions for him, about all the times he’s spoken in absolutes, about all the times Jeno has let him because it was easier than fighting back—then he might have to accept that this is just another move in a game he never agreed to play.

And he’s not ready for that. So instead, his mind goes where it can go. To the obvious answer. To the people who have hurt him before and would hurt the one person he cares about the most in this world. To the people he already hates. He takes a step closer, voice low but firm, as if softening it will make you more likely to tell him the truth. He asks again. “Did they do something to you?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Because for once, you have no idea what to say. Every excuse, every carefully crafted lie, every way out you’d prepared—it all crumbles under the weight of his voice, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. You inhale sharply, your throat tight, your fingers curling into fists at your sides like you can anchor yourself to something, anything. “Jeno, you’re—” You hesitate, swallowing hard, searching for words that won’t come. “You’re reaching.” It’s weak. It’s unconvincing. And you both know it. You shake your head, eyes darting away like you can physically pull yourself from the noose tightening around your lies. “This isn’t—there’s nothing for you to dig into. I don’t know why you keep—” Your breath stutters when you finally meet his gaze again, because the look in his eyes is devastating. He’s searching, reaching for something, anything, and you know, deep down, that if you don’t end this now, if you don’t cut him off, he’s going to find exactly what he’s looking for.

“Do not lie.” This time, he’s not just asking—he’s pleading. It’s in the way his hands find your arms again, the way his fingers press into your skin, firm but not forceful, like he needs to feel you, needs to know you’re still here. His touch is warm, searing through the fabric of your clothes, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist, tracing over your pulse like he wants to memorize the rhythm. His grip tightens slightly, his body leaning in, closer than before, close enough that his breath fans over your cheek, over your lips, as he exhales, slow and uneven. It’s not just desperation anymore—it’s something else, something heavier, something electric, thrumming between you, thickening the air until every inhale is just him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t let you go, and for a fleeting second, you forget why you ever wanted him to.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the sharp edges dulled by something painfully raw. His chest rises and falls too fast, his composure splintering, and when he tilts his head, his nose just barely brushes yours. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it’s enough to steal your breath, to leave you frozen in place. “Please.” His grip shifts, his hands sliding lower, curling around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him like he needs the contact to steady himself. “You can tell me anything.” His lips part, like he’s about to say more, like he’s about to close the last inch of space between you, but then he exhales sharply through his nose, brows furrowing, something breaking inside of him. “I’ll fix it. I’ll take care of it.” He swallows, his fingers flexing where they hold you, voice dropping into something lower, something that barely makes it past his lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

Jeno doesn’t just promise things lightly. When he says something, he means it. And you know, without a single shred of doubt, that if you let him, he would go to any length for you. He would burn everything down, he would tear through anyone who hurt you, he would give up pieces of himself if it meant keeping you safe.

But you can’t let him protect you. You refuse to let him try.

And in your silence, he gets desperate. You can feel it in the way his fingers tense, in the way his breath stutters, in the way his body leans in just a little more, like he’s trying to physically bridge the distance you keep forcing between you. He knows he’s close to something—so close—but you’re being silent, unresponsive, unhelpful, and it’s driving him insane.

So he says what’s been bleeding on his mind, what’s been clawing at his chest every second he’s been apart from you. “I still want you. I miss you.” His words are raw, stripped bare of pride, of anger. Just vulnerable. Just desperate. He thinks he’s fixing things and it fucking breaks you. Because the moment you hear it, the moment those words leave his lips, something inside you snaps. Your vision blurs, a tear slipping down before you can stop it, before you can bite down the words you swore you wouldn’t say.

“If you still want me, then why have you been going around and fucking other girls?”

It’s a confession in disguise, a wound torn open right in front of him. Because it’s not just anger, not just jealousy—it’s heartbreak. It’s love. It’s everything you told yourself you wouldn’t say. But it slips out before you can stop it, before you can shove it back down. You’ve given yourself away. You’ve shown him exactly what you didn’t want him to see. That no matter what you say, no matter how hard you try to push him away—he still has you. He’s always had you.

He laughs, but it’s choked, disbelieving, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His fingers flex at his sides, his breath coming harder now. “What? What? That is not what I’ve been doing. That is so far from the truth. Who have you heard that from?”

“I’ve heard it around campus.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “People are lying for no fucking reason. You know how it is on this campus.” His jaw clenches, his hands twitching like he wants to grab you, shake the thought out of your head. “I tried to fuck around, but I couldn’t.” His voice drops lower, rougher, like the words taste bitter on his tongue. “I couldn’t take it further because I realised it’s not what I want, you’re the one I fucking want. Isn’t that clear enough?”

You swallow hard, trying to process his words, trying to catch the tell—the flicker in his expression, the shift in his stance, the way his lips might curl slightly when he lies. You know Jeno. You know when he’s bullshitting. But there’s nothing now. No hesitation, no falter in his voice. Nothing but raw, painful honesty.

He shakes his head again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I’d just move on? That I’d just fuck someone else and forget about you?” He steps closer, gaze dark and unwavering. “I can’t. I haven’t even tried these last few fucking days because all I can see is you. You are in my fucking head, in my hands, in my fucking mouth every time I try to do anything.”

His breathing is uneven now, his chest rising and falling too fast, frustration bleeding through every word. “So if you think I’ve been sleeping with other girls, then you don’t fucking know me at all.” Jeno’s eyes darken as he steps in closer, his breath coming harder, controlled, but barely. “And have you fucked anyone since me?”

His voice drops lower, rougher, curling around you like something physical, something impossible to escape. He steps closer—so close you feel the warmth radiating off of him, the scent of him filling your lungs, drowning you in something you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want. His fingers graze the underside of your jaw, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine, enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. His touch is teasing, taunting, like he wants to see you react, needs you to.

Your stomach twists. Your throat feels impossibly tight, but you manage to force the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course I haven’t.”

His jaw tightens, and you see the flicker of something almost amused in his expression—except it’s not amusement. It’s something colder, something sharper. He exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head, his tongue running over his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something worse. “You’re good at changing the subject, aren’t you?” His voice drops lower, curling around you like smoke, slow, taunting. “You bring up who I’ve fucked, knowing damn well I haven’t fucked anyone, hoping I’ll focus on that instead. Hoping I’ll forget about the real problem. About you. About how you’ve been acting recently.” 

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips, the heat of him pressing against every inch of your resolve. His fingers brush over your jaw, not quite holding you, but close enough to make you ache for it. His next words are softer, more dangerous. “Don’t deflect. I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you anymore.” It’s a weak attempt, and you both know it. Your voice doesn’t carry the weight it should, doesn’t hold the finality you need it to. It just sounds tired, forced, like you’re running out of ways to push him away.

Jeno exhales sharply through his nose, and then, in a blink, his fingers are at your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to make you meet his gaze. “Answer my question.” His voice is low, firm, but there’s something else laced beneath it—something dangerous, something desperate. “You’re not stupid. You know exactly what I’m asking. Do I need to deal with Eric and Sunwoo?”

You’ve needed to deal with Eric and Sunwoo since day one, but you haven’t. You swallow the words down, pressing them deep into the pit of your stomach, forcing yourself to stay quiet. So now I am.

You shake your head, but your hands betray you, curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him in instead of pushing him away. Your breath is unsteady, words barely forming as you whisper, “You don’t need to do anything for me, Jeno.” Your fingers tremble where they grip him, but you force the rest out, even as it rips through you. “All you can do is just go. Just—just leave me alone.”

His gaze drops, zeroing in on the way your fingers clutch at his hoodie, trembling, desperate, as if letting go would mean collapsing entirely. A slow exhale escapes him, deliberate, measured, his breath rolling over your skin like heat before a storm. He tilts his head, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, voice a rasped whisper soaked in something dark, something unrelenting. “You’re telling me to go,” he murmurs, his lips dragging just enough to make your breath hitch, “but you’re the one who’s pulling me closer and closer.”

You are. God, you are. Even though you shouldn’t be. Even though every rational thought in your head is screaming at you to push him away, to stop this before it unravels completely. But it’s already too late. His scent is in your lungs, thick and heady, his heat pressing into you like a slow burn, consuming, inescapable. And then he’s touching you, his hands gliding over your sides, memorizing, owning, his palms dragging down the curve of your waist before gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes you shiver.

His thigh nudges between yours, pressing up, solid, unyielding, the friction sending a sharp pulse of heat through your body. You inhale sharply, but your hips betray you, rolling against him, instinctual, desperate. Jeno hums, low and satisfied, his hands tightening their grip as he pulls you closer, until there’s not a breath of space left between you. Until you’re trembling against him, overwhelmed, drowning in him.

"That’s it, baby," he whispers, his voice dark, dripping with something dangerous, something that coils hot and tight in your stomach. One hand skims lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging up over bare skin, up the delicate lines of your stomach, before dipping beneath the band of your panties. "I knew you’d let me touch you like this again. I knew you’d still be mine."

A broken moan spills from your lips as he cups you, fingers pressing against the slick heat between your thighs, teasing, coaxing. "Fuck," he exhales, his breath hot against your cheek, his lips brushing, featherlight. "You’re soaked for me. You always get so fucking wet for me, don’t you?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just dips his fingers lower, dragging through your folds, spreading the wetness before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that make you whimper. His pace quickens, fingers fucking into you, pushing you higher, his thumb circling your clit in tight, devastating strokes. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your head tipping back as a strangled moan escapes your throat. 

And then he does it—his lips brush against yours, featherlight, barely there. A tease. A question. He pulls back, his breath heavy, eyes flickering over your face before he does it again, pressing another soft, aching kiss to your lips, then pulling away just as quickly. Then again. And again. Slow, fleeting, like he’s relearning the shape of your mouth, like he’s savoring every stolen moment before you disappear again.

“God, I missed this,” he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, wrecked. “Missed the way you taste.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his tongue flickering just barely against your bottom lip before he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and ragged. “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

“You think you’re the only one?” The words slip out, broken, barely above a whisper. “You think I don’t—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, your lips grazing his with the movement. “I don’t know how to stop either.” It’s not a confession. It’s a curse. A wound torn open between you, raw and festering, because you shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be letting him hear it, shouldn’t be giving him even the smallest piece of the truth. But it’s too late. His breath stutters, his fingers digging into your waist, and the look in his eyes—God, the look in his eyes—tells you that you’ve just made everything worse.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you, eyes drinking you in, memorizing every flicker of hesitation, every breath you take. And then—then he smiles. Soft. Just barely there. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten the way it does, shouldn’t make something fragile and aching unravel inside of you, but it does. Because it’s the first thing he’s been able to get out of you. The first crack in the walls you’ve built between you. And it makes his heart overflow with that tight feeling he always gets around you—the one that makes his ribs feel too small, his breath feel too shallow, like loving you has always been too big for him to contain.

Jeno hums low in his throat when he sees the tear slip down your cheek, his fingers twitching where they still frame your waist, like he’s holding himself back from reaching up to brush it away. And then, slowly, he lifts his hand, the movement reverent, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His thumb drags gently across your cheek, catching the tear, warmth lingering where he touches, burning something deep into your skin. His palm lingers against the side of your face, his fingers curling around the curve of your jaw, holding you there—not forcing, just grounding. And God, you feel it, feel the quiet desperation woven into his touch, the way he’s still reaching for you even when you keep trying to slip through his fingers.

His other hand moves next, shifting from where it rests at your waist, slow, deliberate, until it finds yours. His fingers brush over your knuckles before curling between them, a silent question, an unspoken plea. He wants to go. He wants to take you with him. He wants to hold you all night long, wants to tangle himself into every inch of you, wants to make love to you until neither of you remember where your bodies end and where they begin. Until you forget the world outside of his arms. Until you remember that you belong there—that you have always belonged there.

But you hesitate.

His breath hitches just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push, doesn’t beg. He just holds your hand in his, his grip steady, unwavering, like he’s waiting for you to come back to him on your own. Like no matter how long it takes, no matter how far you try to run, he’ll always be right here. He swallows hard, jaw tensing, something flickering behind his eyes—something softer than longing, heavier than love.

His voice is quieter when he finally speaks, but it’s steady, solid, like a promise carved into the earth itself. “I will always be there for you.” He shifts just slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath fanning against your lips. “I will always protect you.” And you know—you know—that he means it. That there is no ocean too deep, no storm too violent, no darkness too consuming that he wouldn’t wade through for you. He would follow you anywhere. He would burn the world down for you. He would bleed for you, again and again and again, if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you his.

But you can’t let him. You can’t let yourself reach for him, can’t let yourself take his hand and let him pull you back into the place you want more than anything. So you stay still. You don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. Because the moment you do, you know you’ll be his again. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be strong enough to leave twice. You shake your head. “I’m not going with you, Jeno.”

His jaw tightens. “Y/N.” It’s a warning, low and frayed at the edges, but there’s desperation threaded through it, too—desperation he can’t quite swallow down.

You exhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep the distance between you even as every part of you aches to close it. “You don’t get it. You can’t fix this, okay? This isn’t something you can fight your way through.” Your voice shakes, but you push forward. “You’ve let Eric and Sunwoo play you like a fool this whole time, and now you suddenly think you can handle them? You think any of this changes if I’m involved or not?”

His lips part, but he doesn’t immediately respond. He just watches you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, something deep, something determined. And then, softer, steadier, he says, “It does change. If you’re involved, it changes everything.”

Your breath stalls, fingers twitching at your sides. Because he believes it. He’s looking at you like this is all he needs to make sense of things, like this is what he’s been searching for—this explanation, this false puzzle piece that fits well enough to make him stop looking elsewhere. You can feel the calculation threading through your thoughts, trying to assess whether this is good, whether it benefits you that Jeno believes Eric and Sunwoo are the ones behind your behavior. If he stays focused on them, he won’t turn his suspicion elsewhere. He won’t suspect the truth. He won’t suspect his father. And you don’t know what kind of chaos would unravel if he ever did. All you know is that you need to protect him. You need to keep his future from falling apart. You need to make sure Jeno wanting you doesn’t cloud his judgment—doesn’t pull him down with you.

Jeno exhales, a slow, measured breath that barely masks the weight pressing on his chest. His fingers twitch where they hold you, like he’s trying to convince himself he still has some kind of grip on you—on whatever this is, whatever’s left. “Let’s just… let’s rest on this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, quieter, careful. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight, alright? Just come with me. We’ll sleep on it. That’s all I want.” His gaze softens, something unbearably raw in the way he looks at you, the way his thumb brushes lightly over your wrist. “I just want you in my bed, that’s it. Nothing else matters right now.”

The tenderness in his voice wrecks you. It twists something sharp in your chest, something fragile, something you’ve spent weeks trying to keep buried. You try to shake your head, try to tell him no, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat, lost in the sob that chokes its way out instead. Your body betrays you—shaking, crumbling against him, unable to hold itself together any longer. And Jeno feels it. Feels you slipping through his fingers, slipping away, and it kills him. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he doesn’t know how to hold you without hurting you, without making things worse.

“Come with me,” he whispers again, softer this time, almost afraid of the answer. “Please.” His voice trembles, just barely, but you hear it. You feel it. And it shatters you completely. You shake your head again, squeezing your eyes shut as another sob escapes, as you force yourself to breathe, force yourself to rebuild the walls that keep breaking every time he looks at you like this.

“I miss you,” he confesses, and it’s not just words—it’s everything. It’s sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, haunted by the shape of you beside him that no longer exists. It’s the hollow ache in his chest that never quiets, the phantom weight of your hand in his, the way every room feels colder without you in it. It’s the cruel tricks his mind plays, catching glimpses of you in crowded hallways, in places you’ll never be again. He’s pleading now, voice shaking, unraveling at the seams, because you were never supposed to be someone he had to beg for. You were supposed to be his. But not anymore. And maybe that’s the worst part—you still feel like his, still fit against him like you belong there, but the moment you step away, the moment you say no, he’ll have to face the truth. That you were never his to lose, because you were already gone.

You force yourself to stand still, to breathe, to act like his presence doesn’t unravel you. Your pulse is a vicious, unsteady thing, beating against the walls of your throat, but you refuse to let it show. You can’t let it show. “You need to listen to me.” The words are sharp, cut from something jagged, something desperate, and you force them through your lips like they’re the only thing keeping you alive. “Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a pair of hands. Jeno watches you, eyes dark, waiting, searching, hoping. His breath is uneven, his body taut, and you can see the battle inside him—the part of him that still thinks he can fix this, the part of him that still believes in you. That’s the part you need to crush.

So you do. “I left you because I wanted to.”

It feels like swallowing glass. Like choking on a scream that will never come out. The lie slashes through you as it leaves your tongue, violent and unforgiving, poisoning the air between you. But you hold your ground, even as you feel the weight of it settle in your chest like something rotting, something unholy.

Jeno’s body goes rigid. His breath catches in his throat, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it, wasn’t expecting you to be able to force it out. His hands twitch at his sides, curling into fists like he wants to grab you, like he wants to shake you out of whatever fucking daze he thinks you’re in. But he doesn’t move.

And you can feel it—the shift. The moment something inside him breaks. “You’re lying,” he murmurs, but the confidence in his voice is cracking, splintering under the weight of what you’ve just done. His jaw clenches, his eyes burn into yours, searching for something, anything, that will tell him this isn’t real. That the way your body still reacts to him, the way your hands still tremble when you touch him, wasn’t just muscle memory. But you don’t give him that. You can’t.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before forcing the words out, each syllable like dragging barbed wire through your throat. “You need to stop this,” you whisper, voice cold, detached—a cruel echo of the person you used to be with him. “You keep looking for something that isn’t there. You need to let me go, Jeno.” 

His breath hitches, sharp and shallow. The words hit their mark, sinking into him like blades, and for the first time, you see something flicker in his expression—something you never wanted to see. Acceptance. And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes your stomach lurch, makes your nails dig into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood. Because Jeno has always fought for you. Always. He has never given up on you.

When he speaks, his voice is stripped bare, scraped raw like something vital has been carved out of him. “You didn’t even look me in the eyes when you left.” It isn’t an accusation, nor is it a plea—it’s something quieter, something fractured, something irreparable. His breath shudders as he steps closer, the space between you vanishing, his presence wrapping around you like a weight, like a tether that refuses to break. His voice dips lower, threading through the silence like a final thread unraveling. “Do it now, then.” The words are softer, but they carry the force of a knife pressing against a bruise, searching for pain. His gaze holds yours, steady despite the storm raging behind it. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

“Because I fucking love you.” His voice is a wound torn open, raw and gaping, spilling everything he’s tried to hold back. “I love you so much it fucking hurts. It’s in my bones, in my blood, in every second of my goddamn day. I can’t turn it off, can’t shut it down—I don’t even fucking want to. You’re in my head, under my skin, in the way I breathe, in the way my body aches for something it can’t have anymore.” He drags a shaky hand down his face, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to steady himself, but it’s useless. “I love you so much I don’t know how to stop. You’re in me. Inside me. Like a fucking sickness, like something I can’t cure—I wake up with you in my lungs, go to sleep with you in my blood. I can’t escape it. I don’t want to escape it.”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he can anymore. “I’m ready,” he chokes out, barely above a whisper, raw and desperate. “I’m ready to give you everything. All of me. My heart, my fucking name, everything. Just say the word. Just say you want me and I’m yours. I always have been.”

His voice wavers, thick with something too heavy to name. “But if you look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t love me—if you really fucking mean it—I’ll walk away. I’ll leave, and I won’t come back.” He steps closer, just enough that you can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the flicker of something breaking apart behind his eyes. His breath shudders, uneven, like he’s fighting against something that’s already overtaken him. His whole body is tense, like a wire pulled too tight, like if you so much as breathe wrong, he’ll snap. “Just say it.” His voice is quieter now, but no less desperate. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you go.”

The lights are blinding, the heat of the stage burning against your skin. You can hear the audience holding their breath, feel the weight of their stares, the anticipation thick in the air like smoke curling against your ribs. The final act is here, the moment you have to deliver your most convincing performance yet. And Jeno—Jeno is your scene partner, but he doesn’t know the script. He doesn’t know how this ends.

You step into your role, slip the mask over your face, paint your expression with precision. A detached calm, a forced indifference, a woman who is not breaking apart at the seams. A woman who is not in love with him. Because if you falter, if you let even the smallest sliver of truth bleed through the cracks, he’ll never believe it.

But he’s looking at you like he already knows. Like he’s reading between the lines, like he’s memorized every inflection, every pause, every unspoken confession you’ve ever had the misfortune of slipping. His jaw tightens, his breath shudders, but he waits. For you. For your answer.

And of course you love him. You love him like oxygen, like gravity, like something embedded into the marrow of your bones. It’s a love that has unraveled you, stripped you raw, built and broken you in equal measure. It is the kind of love that rewrites destinies, that turns men into myths, that should have been yours to keep. But this story was never meant to end in a happy ever after. The villain in your play has made sure of that.

The looming, ever-present shadow that has followed you since the beginning, orchestrating your downfall before you ever even knew you were falling. Taeyong was always there, waiting in the wings, watching. He let you believe you had control, let you believe you were safe, let you believe that loving Jeno could ever be something you were allowed to have. But now the final act has come, and if Jeno still believes you love him, it won’t end here. It won’t end at all.

So you do what you must. You prepare yourself for the lie that will end all lies.

Except—it isn’t a lie, not really.

Your hands tremble at your sides as you force yourself to meet his gaze, as you force yourself to stand tall, to deliver the line that will cut him from you forever. The words rise up in your throat like bile, sharp, acidic, burning as they take shape on your tongue. You inhale, steady yourself. And then you say it.

"I can't love you."

His face goes still, like the world has just cracked beneath his feet, like the foundation of everything he’s ever known has been torn out from under him. You watch it happen in real time—the way his breath catches, the way his eyes darken, the way something inside him fractures so violently you swear you hear the sound of it breaking.

And you should stop there. You should let the curtain fall, let the weight of the tragedy settle, let the story end in silence, in a fate already sealed. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer, reckless in your own destruction, reckless in the way you give him one last thing to hold on to, only to rip it away. Close enough for him to feel it, the finality thick in the air between you. Close enough for him to see it—the death of something sacred, something neither of you were ready to lay to rest.

I can’t love you.

It’s a breath, barely a whisper, but it shatters like glass between you, cutting through whatever fragile thread was left holding this together. You see the moment it sinks in, the way his chest rises, the way his jaw locks. It’s perfect, this lie. A masterpiece of deception. Not a denial, not a rejection—just a slow, merciless killing. Because can’t is worse than don’t. Can’t is an inevitability, a cruel truth written into the script before either of you ever had a chance. And yet, it’s not even a lie, not really. You can’t love him, not like this, not when the love you carry for him is a weight too heavy to hold, a blade too sharp to keep grasping. Not when loving him means condemning him to a battle he doesn’t know he’s already losing.

The silence that follows is not just silence. It’s a graveyard. It’s a warzone after the dust has settled, a battlefield littered with things unsaid, with love left to rot in the ruins. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just watch as it sinks into him, as he absorbs it like a fatal wound, as the light in his eyes dims in a way that makes you want to take it back, take all of it back, until you remember why you can’t.

Jeno doesn’t fight. Not this time. Not anymore. But he wants to. God, he wants to. You can see it in the way his chest rises too sharply, in the way his lips part like he’s about to say something, then close again, like the words can’t find a way out. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, his breath coming uneven, and when his fingers twitch at his sides, you think—maybe. Maybe he’ll try one last time. Maybe he’ll see through you, push past the lies, break through the walls you’ve built just to keep him out.

But he doesn’t. He exhales, slow and shaky, and his eyes burn as he searches your face—one last time, one last desperate attempt to find something, anything, that proves this isn’t real. But all he finds is your silence. And when the first tear slips down his cheek, when his brows pinch together like something inside him is cracking wide open, your breath catches, because you’ve never seen Jeno cry before.

He blinks, another tear spilling, and then he shakes his head. “Fine.” His voice is wrecked, hoarse like it’s been torn straight from the rawest part of him. His jaw tightens, his lips barely moving as he forces the words out. “Fine. You fucking win.” You don’t know what he thinks he’s losing. Maybe he believes you’ve been playing a game all along. Maybe he truly thinks that this is what you wanted—to break him, to make him small, to watch him walk away like every moment between you was something disposable.

But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He takes a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving yours. But they’re different now. There’s no warmth, no fire, no fight left in them. Just something empty. Something hollow. He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you anymore.

And then, without another word, he turns. And then, for the last time, he walks away.

And the moment he’s gone, something inside you gives out. The strength you clung to, the carefully constructed facade, it all shatters in an instant. Your legs give way, and you fall, knees hitting the floor before you even register the pain. A strangled sob tears from your throat, and then another, and then another, each one ripping through you with the force of a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. Your hands clutch at nothing, nails digging into your skin, your clothes, the floor—desperate for something, anything to hold onto. But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the emptiness he left behind.

Tears spill freely, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision, soaking into your skin. Your breath hitches, broken and uneven, gasping through the sobs that refuse to stop. You can’t stop. You don’t know how. It feels like you’re drowning, like you’re suffocating in the wreckage of what you just did. Your own voice sounds foreign to you—raw, desperate, cracked open beyond repair. You whisper his name once, twice, like a prayer, like a plea, but there is no answer. No arms wrapping around you, no voice murmuring reassurances against your temple. Just silence. Just the weight of your own grief pressing down on you, smothering, unbearable.

You did this. You were forced to do this.

The realization is a knife to your ribs, twisting deep, splitting you apart. The lie you forced past your lips echoes in your head, over and over, until you can’t hear anything else. Until it drowns out every other sound, until it becomes the only truth you know.

He’s gone. And he’s not coming back.

Your body shakes violently, the sobs tearing through you without mercy. You curl into yourself, arms wrapping around your torso like you can hold yourself together, but you can’t. You are unraveling, thread by thread, falling apart into something unrecognizable. The pain is too much, too vast, swallowing you whole. It claws at your chest, burns through your veins, crushes you under its weight.

And yet, the world moves on. The night stretches on beyond the walls of this room, indifferent to the devastation inside it. Outside, cars still pass, people still laugh, lights still glow in the distance. But in here, inside you, everything has ended.

There is no applause. No curtain call. No second act. Only silence. Only the wreckage. Only you—standing there, staring at the space he used to fill, at the ghost of him lingering in the air, at the imprint of his warmth fading from your skin. The weight of it crashes into you all at once, an avalanche, a tidal wave, something vast and merciless that steals the breath from your lungs.

The stage is empty, the script unwritten—only the echo of his absence remains, carving its name into the ruins of you.

authors note — please don’t kill me guys. remember you have 40-50k more words to read to finish this part!! but please don’t send me an ask or message to ask when it will come up, it’s currently unwritten, i will work on it as soon as i can. also if you haven’t read my authors note at the start of the fic read it now please, it’s important. 

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin  @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note — 

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

[covenofagatha]

The Psychology of Love (Part 8)

The Library

You deal with the fallout of your mishap with Morgan

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: semi-public masturbation (kind of?)

Morgan’s fingers freeze against your throbbing cunt and then she slowly withdraws her hand from between your legs. You brace yourself, expecting her to slap you, but she just takes a step back. 

“Morgan, I—” But you stop, because what do you say? I’m really sorry I moaned my professor’s name, I promise it won’t happen again? You settle on lamely apologizing. “Fuck, I’m really sorry.” 

She regards you for a second, a steely calm look in her green eyes now, and you almost rather her hit you or scream at you or tell you to get out. The lack of reaction from her is startling, to say the least. 

“It’s fine,” Morgan says simply and your mouth drops open. 

“You’re not mad, or—” 

She runs a hand through her hair and laughs bitterly. “Well, I’m not exactly thrilled that you’re moaning some other woman’s name when I’m trying to fuck you.” 

You take a sudden interest in your socks and you scuff your toes against her floor. “She’s—the woman—it’s not—” 

“I don’t want to know,” Morgan cuts you off and you look up in surprise. She shrugs helplessly and guilt starts gnawing at your insides. “I don’t really care if she’s an ex or someone you like right now or whatever. The point is, you weren’t thinking about me and I’m not foolish enough to think I can change that.” 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. 

Morgan purses her lips and shrugs. “You could’ve just told me you didn’t want to be with me. You didn’t have to put us into places we both didn’t want to be in.” 

Your head hangs low again. “I know. I should’ve. I’m not really good at…that.” 

A part of you is filled with regret and remorse for how it happened—Morgan deserves a lot better than this, than you. But, and you feel awful for it, there’s a sense of relief that’s spreading through you. She won’t be led on anymore and you don’t have to feel guilty over leading her on. 

It’s a hollow, selfish victory, you know that. But Agatha’s triumphant smirk flashes in your head and it makes the way you’re feeling just the slightest bit better. 

Morgan walks to her bedroom door and opens it, clearly telling you to get out. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” she says, but her tone is flat. 

“I really am sorry,” you parrot for the third time, as if you say it enough times, it will erase what you did. 

She holds your gaze and in this light, she’s never looked more different from your professor. “I know.” 

The addicting scent of her perfume doesn’t even faze you as you walk out of her room, down the hallway, and to the front door of her apartment. You could call an Uber back to your dorm, but it’s only about half a mile away, so you decide a walk will be good to clear your head. 

You’re finally able to breathe since you ran into Agatha at the bar. Ever since then, you’ve been on high alert, aware of everything, and turned on beyond words. You had been so close to getting relief but then you had fucked it up. Your only hope is that your dorm room is empty. 

The memory of Agatha is still fresh and hot in your mind. The way she hesitated for a moment when you reminded her that she said you had to wait, the way she cut you off from finishing your sentence like it was too much to bear.

The way her face changed when you said her name. Agatha. Like you had gotten through to her, through her mask of self-control. 

Tell me you think about me when you’re with her.

Was she unsure? 

Or did she just want the power of making you say it outloud? 

And why had she simply walked away from you? 

There were a million different reasons, you scold yourself. Even though you were in the alleyway, you were still outside in a public place. Anyone could’ve walked by—including her colleagues. Two of them knew who you were too, so there was no pretending you were just a random girl if they had seen. 

Maybe, and you hope it isn’t true, it was just an ego-boost for her. Make you admit the truth and then leave you? You don’t think she would do that though but there was no denying the cocky expression on her face. She certainly got some sort of rush out of it. 

But maybe the most important reason is that you are still her student. Toying with you might be all that she feels that she can do without really crossing a line and breaking that university rule. 

It just seems like she’s trying to get you to break, trying to see how obedient you can be. 

And while you do want to be a good girl for her—you see the flash of Agatha murmuring good girl after you took a sip of her drink and it sends tingles down your spine—you’re not sure how long you’ll really be able to wait. 

But you know that she at least somewhat likes you back. She lost control for a second seeing you and Morgan dance and kiss…it makes your clit throb. The chilly air does little to cool you off, the fire inside you still blazing. 

If you called Agatha right now, would she come pick you up? You imagine getting into her car, as you’ve done a few times before now, but then her pulling you over the center console into her lap. Her lips finding yours in the dark, her hands stroking up and down your bare thighs. You can almost feel her touch right now. 

The smell of her perfume—only Agatha's now—still floats in your mind, mingling with the dark scent of her whiskey from her breath when she leaned in to whisper in your ear. If you close your eyes, it’s like she’s right in front of you. 

But you don’t call her because you wouldn’t know what to say if you did. 

So you just keep trudging back to your dorm, the exhaustion of the last few days suddenly hitting you like a train. Adrenaline has been coursing through your veins since Agatha put her phone number in her email signoff last Friday and you feel like your brain has been moving a hundred miles a second to figure out the signals she was sending. 

And you do really feel bad for what happened with Morgan. You shouldn’t have been leading her on, but moaning Agatha’s name while Morgan was fucking you? 

Your professor is really messing with your mind. 

All you want to do is collapse into your bed and sleep for the next twelve hours. You’ve gotten insight into Agatha’s feelings and closure with Morgan so you finally feel like you can let some of your anxiety go. 

The hallway on your floor in the dorm building is thankfully empty, but your room isn’t. 

Illuminated by just the glow of a laptop screen, Wanda and Natasha are cuddling in your roommate’s bed, dozing off but they jolt up when they hear you open the door. They’re watching a movie, by the sound of it. Your heart longs for a relationship like theirs—will you and Agatha ever cuddle and watch a movie? 

“There’s our Casanova,” Wanda says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. They had both known you were going out with Morgan tonight but you’re really hoping you can escape questioning. 

“Back so soon?” Nat asks slyly, sitting up. 

It would appear not. 

You kick off your shoes, cross the room, and jump up on your bed. Wanda leans over to turn on her bedside lamp and you wince at the bright light. They both move to sit criss-cross facing you now and you already know how this is going to go. 

Kicking your feet back and forth, you look at them sheepishly. “It didn’t really go well. Um, we’re done.” 

Wanda gasps dramatically and you bite your thumbnail, refusing to meet their eyes. 

“Well, what happened?” Nat demands and you shrug. “Did she meet someone at the bar? Oh—did you meet someone?” 

Your cheeks heat up but you shake your head. 

Wanda hums thoughtfully. “Did you…spill your drink on her?” Nat gives her a questioning look and Wanda raises her hands up in defense. 

“Was the sex bad?” Nat asks and you grimace. 

Because it’s clear they’re not going to drop it, you tell them. “I may have moaned someone else’s name.” 

Their synchronous “What!” makes you drop your head into your hands with a groan. Nat breaks into hysterical giggles and Wanda raps her on the arm. 

“Whose name?” Wanda asks in a hushed voice. 

After you don’t answer—because how can you?—Nat nods solemnly. “Was it my name?” 

You give her a deadpan stare. “Yeah, Nat. I moaned your name.” She tsks and Wanda rolls her eyes. “No, it was, um, just some other woman.” They both raise an eyebrow at your lame answer.  

“Do you like someone else?” Wanda probes and you chew on your nails. My professor, who sort of confirmed that she wants me back tonight doesn’t seem like an answer that would go over well. 

So you lie: “No, it was just an old hook-up. I think I got caught up in the moment.” And it makes you seem even more like a jerk than you already are, which is confirmed by Nat’s low whistle. 

“That’s fucked up,” she says and you purse your lips in agreement. Regardless of whose name it was, it is fucked up. You make a mental note to apologize to Morgan again. 

“Are you okay?” Wanda’s gentle tone almost makes you break. There has been so much going on, you’ve been in a complete whirlwind of emotions, and it’s finally catching up to you. 

You nod. “Yeah, I’m just really fucking exhausted.”

“All right, well we’ll let you get some sleep. Try not to moan anyone else’s name while you’re dreaming,” Nat snickers and you glare at her. She blows a kiss and you fondly roll your eyes before grabbing a change of clothes and your bag of toiletries and going to the bathroom. 

Your movements are dazed and slow but eventually you get changed into sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt and brush your teeth before making your way back to your room. Wanda and Nat have turned off the light and resumed their movie, but the volume is way lower. 

They murmur a good night to you and you return it as you plug your charger into your phone. It lights up with no notifications and the thought of texting Agatha crosses your mind. 

In the end, you decide to leave her be. The last thing you want to do is appear clingy or desperate, even though you are very much both at the moment. Pretending to be unbothered might be the best thing for you, and it might even drive her a little crazy. 

You expect to fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow, but instead you lie awake for what seems like hours, just replaying your encounter with Agatha over and over. 

Eventually, the quiet noise of the movie drowns out your thoughts and you drift off, only to dream about your professor too. 

——

The next night, the campus library is almost empty when you get there. You have two discussion posts and a quiz for Physiological Psych the next day and you’re determined to crank out the homework and study. Wanda and Nat are in your room and you do not want a repeat of last night. Plus you’re always more productive when you’re in a public place like this, even if there’s no one here. 

For a second, you wonder if Agatha will just magically appear and find you, because she seems to have a knack for doing just that. 

You really hope she does. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about her and you wonder if she’s obsessing over you in the same way. 

A heavy heat pools in your core at just the thought of her. You never got relief from last night with Wanda and Nat interrogating you once you got home, and today you had classes and no time to go back to your dorm to take care of yourself. 

It wouldn’t take very long at all, just reminiscing about your professor last night, the dark, jealous look in her eye, and a few presses to your clit. Maybe a whiff of her perfume. 

Hopefully you can get some privacy when you get to your dorm tonight. You desperately need it, especially because you have to see Agatha tomorrow in class. You’re not exactly sure how you’re going to make eye contact with her, especially after what happened with Morgan. Agatha might be able to tell from just looking at you, you think. 

Will she act any differently? A line was crossed last night, there’s no denying that. She could pretend it didn’t happen or—

You won’t let yourself get carried away with imagining her asking you to stay after class before kissing you senseless because she just can’t stop thinking about you. 

There’s a secluded nook with a table for two on the third floor and you sit down on the uncomfortable wooden chair before pulling out your laptop and your notebook. You pull the directions for the discussion posts and groan when you see you have to reply to three classmates after making your initial post about a video. 

The worst sentence for any college kid to read on an assignment. 

You plug your headphones into your computer and press play, getting ready to take notes. Physiological Psych is probably your least favorite class—you’ve never been good at anatomy or biology or memorizing that kind of stuff, so you really need to pay attention. 

It also doesn’t bode well for the Biological approach in Agatha’s class. Once she starts talking about axons and dendrites and the hypothalamus, you’re completely lost. But at least there’s some overlap in these two classes at the moment, which might make it a little easier on you. 

You do, however, miss talking about Trait theory. It seemed like she was able to slip in a lot of hidden meanings specifically toward you, which you feel comfortable saying was on purpose after last night, but it’s a lot harder to make an innuendo out of neurotransmitters. 

Although you certainly won’t put it past her. 

Right as you’re scribbling down something from the video onto your paper, your phone buzzes. You ignore it until you finish the sentence, assuming it’s just Wanda asking when you’re coming back to the room. 

But when you finally look at it, your heart stops. It’s from Agatha. 

Did you get home okay last night? 

You almost laugh. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you saw her and she’s just thinking to check now. A lot of good it’d do if you hadn’t. 

Smirking, you pick up your phone. 

I did. How about you? You left pretty quickly. 

You picture her delighted expression when the read receipt pops up immediately. She seems to like it when you go toe-to-toe with her. Will she bring up the conversation you had outside the bar?

The bubble pops up and then disappears and you chew on your lip, video forgotten. She starts typing again. 

Couldn’t have you thinking your little stunt worked. 

Heat flashes through your body and you feel a slickness growing between your thighs. 

Your fingers hover over the keys while you figure out how to respond.

Didn’t it? 

It’s bold, dangerous, and venturing into the same territory you were last night when you said yes. But you’re feeling particularly brave now, knowing that she wants you back. 

Agatha doesn’t read it right away and after a few minutes without a response, you turn back to your homework. It’s only about seven-thirty at night, she’s probably eating dinner or grading or something, even if you want her attention all on you. 

Your phone vibrates but you don’t look at it yet, telling yourself it’ll be a reward for getting through the video because if you stop now, you’re never going to finish your work. 

It’s the longest eight minutes of your life but you finally finish jotting down the rest of your thoughts on your paper. Heart pounding, you tap on the screen. 

Looking to cause trouble again? 

When you squeeze your legs together, the pressure on your clit has you gasping. You’re already sensitive. 

There’s a few different ways you could reply to this and you feel your heartbeat in your throat as you type one out. It might be pushing it a little, but you want to. 

Me? Of course not. I’m just in the library studying and being a good girl. 

Your cunt clenches when you hit send and then you write something else. 

What about you, Professor? 

Your mouth waters while you eagerly await her response. You picture her tongue pressed against her cheek while she chuckles to herself at your boldness. Does she like you like this? 

Maybe. Although you definitely know she likes to be in control, if last night was any indication. You can still see the way her face morphed back to normal as she regained her composure after snapping. 

Meanwhile, you moaned her name while Morgan’s fingers were inside you. 

Two days ago, you were so sure that you’d be able to wait until the end of the semester to finally have her. You could be patient, obedient, and most of all, her good girl. 

But now? 

Temptation dances in your head and does funny things to your thoughts. Even though you know that she would be risking her job and could get in serious trouble, there’s a part of you that doesn’t care. 

It would just have to be a secret. 

But you know that’s wrong—you can’t ask her to do that for you. You won’t, no matter how much you want to. Even if the temptation burns you alive first. 

Your phone buzzes and your breath catches. 

Oh, not much. Just laying in bed. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

A callback to last night? It’s almost eight now. 

And then you wonder if she waited until now to start this conversation with you just so she could make that reference and let you know exactly what she’s doing. You’re suddenly so certain that’s what she did. 

Fire ignites in your stomach and you’re suddenly breaking out in a sweat and cautiously looking around to make sure no one is watching, even if you’re not doing anything wrong. 

You’re all alone. 

Shifting forward in your chair to ponder how to respond, you accidentally rock your clit against the seat and a small gasp escapes you. You chew on your fingernail while you stare holes into your phone screen. The words blur together after a while and your chest heaves rapidly. 

Reading the newspaper? 

You hit send before you can think about it and can almost hear her laughing. Your stomach twists and turns and you feel like you’re floating above your body while you wait. 

It doesn’t take long. 

Not exactly. 

And then there’s a picture and your heart stops. Her face isn’t in it, nothing identifying is, but it’s obvious that it’s still her. She’s laying down, like she said, with the camera pointed at her body. She’s wearing a loose gray t-shirt and a pair of olive green shorts that end midway down her thighs. Her pale skin against the lavender bedspread makes your clit pulse. 

But what really makes your breath catch is her hand. 

Her left hand is splayed out on her stomach, skin tight over blue veins, and the tips of her pinkie and ring finger are tucked beneath the hem of her shorts. 

Like she didn’t just make your mind go blank, another notification from her pops up and you barely register it because you’re too busy ogling her. Which you know was fully intended.  

How’s your friend from last night? 

The absurdity of the question makes you laugh. Agatha doesn’t know anything about what happened with you and Morgan and yet she still worms her way into your brain and knows exactly what to ask to get to you. 

You chew on your lip. You could be coy about it and try to make her jealous. But that didn’t work as well as you were hoping for outside the bar, even if it has led to some developments between you and her. 

Maybe she’ll reward you for being honest. 

So you lay your cards on the table. 

We ended things last night. 

Agatha reads it immediately and quickly sends an:

Oh? 

You picture her sitting up in bed now, suddenly intrigued to find out more. You wonder if her hand has delved any further into her shorts. 

Adrenaline rushes through your veins and you rock forward again on the chair as you consider what to send next. Heat floods through your body and there’s sparks in your clit. 

There’s a dizzying sensation in your head as you type out your next message. You’re scared to send it, scared of how she’ll react. The boundaries are already being pushed—she’s already risking a lot just by texting you like this. 

You scroll back up to the picture. 

Agatha wouldn’t have sent it if she didn’t like you. 

Agatha wouldn’t have stormed out of the bar last night if she didn’t like you. 

Agatha wouldn’t have done any of the stuff she has if she didn’t like you. 

You send the message. You’ve already admitted that you think about her when you’re with Morgan, why not go even further?

Yeah, something about me moaning another woman’s name didn’t sit well with her. 

The read receipt appears and you feel like you’re about to throw up. You wonder how she’s reacting to that, if she’s given in and started touching herself. You slowly roll your hips against the chair and feel the delicious pressure on your clit. 

A quick glance around confirms that you’re still alone. Your table is tucked away and rows of bookshelves line your vision. 

Accepting the fact that you’re going to come in the library like that is actually pretty easy, especially when Agatha writes back: 

Someone in particular on your mind? 

Like she doesn’t fucking know. 

It would almost be annoying how she keeps drawing it out like this, how she makes you spell it out like she isn’t fully aware of how she’s driving you crazy, if you weren’t so turned on by it. 

Because it seems like Agatha needs you to say it. Like she gets off on you admitting it. 

Is she rubbing her clit right now, watching her phone with bated breath to see how you’ll reply? Is she getting as much out of this as you are? 

Is the power in your hands right now?

Maybe. 

You send it with trembling hands. She reads it immediately and you feel yourself get even hotter. 

Are there cameras in the library? If you sneak a hand between your legs, even over your pants, will anyone know? You tilt forward so you’re sitting straight, your clit pressed right against the hard surface of the wooden chair. It throbs and you feel your heartbeat in your core. Your underwear is sticking uncomfortably to you because of how wet you are and god—you wish you had the vial of Black Opium with you. 

Although you can smell it even without it, the coffee and vanilla and spice, and you let out a small gasp again. Tension builds in your lower back and core and your clit is so sensitive, too sensitive. 

You can almost see Agatha right now, head thrown back on her pillows, dark hair strewn under her. Her back arched off the lavender duvet as her left hand works furiously in her shorts. The muscles in her neck taut and tight. Her nipples poking through her shirt.

As she touches herself because of you. 

Agatha finally texts back and you swallow to get moisture back into your dry throat. It seems like all of it has rushed south and is pooling in your underwear. 

Be a good girl and tell me. 

Your cunt clenches around nothing and you sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stop a strangled moan from escaping. You can hear her saying it in that delicious, husky voice of hers. 

The bubble pops back up, the three dots staring right back at you, but they quickly disappear. 

What was she going to say? 

Was she going to ask again? 

The image of her right on the edge flashes in your mind and stays there, uprooting any sanity you have left. She’s working herself closer and closer and she just needs this final thing… 

You give it to her. 

You. 

The confession is read instantaneously and you wish you could see her right now. You picture her face contorted in pleasure, mouth agape, eyes closed and a dangerous heat flushes through you. 

You scroll back up to the picture and imagine her hand—those fingers, god—on your body, teasing you, finally giving you what you want. 

But the image of her overtakes you again. 

You rut against the chair without even realizing it, movements becoming more and more stuttered as you think about her falling apart for you. 

Because of you. 

It’s a few minutes later before she texts back while you’re now in a state of frenzy, clit pulsing and throbbing, walls clenching around nothing, absolutely soaked—absolutely ruined. 

But when she does respond, that’s all it takes to have you writhing on the chair in pleasure. 

That’s my good girl. 

One hand grips the table and you sink your teeth into a finger on your other hand to muffle your sounds as your orgasm tears through your body right there in the campus library. 

Her good girl. 

Hers. 

The words echo around in your vision, a permanent tattoo now in your brain, and you’d give anything for her to say that out loud. 

How are you supposed to wait until December? Is Agatha just going to keep toying with you like this until then? Because you might actually go crazy. 

Is it hard for her, too? She seems like the kind of person who gets what she wants, so is she taking little morsels until she can have all of you? 

You don’t know what to think, but all you know is that waiting might be the death of you. 

She texts you again and you frantically grab your phone to read it. 

I’ll see you in class tomorrow, hon ;)

Your clit pulses against the chair again as you stare blankly at your screen. Leave it to Agatha to make you into a complete and utter mess—in the library, nonetheless—and then brush it off like that.

One thing is for certain, though. She has you wrapped around her fingers in an irrevocable way. 

Not that you mind one bit.

You pull your forgotten computer and notebook back over to you and wake your laptop up. It comes to life on the discussion post. 

Swallowing roughly, you get back to work and try to keep your thoughts from straying to your professor. 

It doesn’t work well, but you finally get everything done. You’re not expecting too high of a grade on this quiz, but you don’t care at this point because you get to see Agatha tomorrow. 

The dynamic between you has certainly changed and you’re excited and nervous to see what that brings. 

Your underwear sticks to your swollen cunt the whole back to your dorm, just a constant reminder of the intoxicating effect she has on you.

As if you really needed it to be spelled out. 

Part Nine

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @m1vfs @agathascoven1 @filmedbyharkness @autbot @claramelooo @dandelions4us @agathaallalongg @jujuu23 @21cannibal @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @jeridandridge @hannibalcanniballz @chloeelou02x @hapuchika

[foldingfittedsheets]

My brain has two common nightmare settings. The first is zombies. Can’t explain it, but I am utterly unable to consume zombie media of any kind lest I have some extremely vivid night terrors.

And it doesn’t have to be exclusively zombie media to kick off zombie dreams. Anything scary will do. Or even something not scary.

Like The Mummy. It’s all goofy jokes and the glory of Rachel Weiss but it kicked off a round of nightmares for me cause the plot may be silly but some of the visuals are horrifying enough that my brain went, “Hey what if that were real?” I woke up drenched in sweat, clutching my cats for safety. It is a great tragedy I don’t get to rewatch it or see subsequent titles.

For the same reason I avoid any zombie-adjacent games. It’s a bummer, cause things like Fallout and Bioshock seem cool but it’s not worth night terrors. Also the amount of people who go “wELl tHeY’Re not TeChNiCaLLy zOmBieS” when I say why I can’t play those games fills me with rage, you deal with night terrors and tell me those aren’t zombies.

(I often spend zombie dreams looking for Leeloo. Surviving is important but not as important as saving my little cat from the apocalypse.)

But on a completely different side of the spectrum the other type of horror dream I have is a 180 pivot from zombies and doesn’t have a specific trigger. It’s just a random theme that happens on occasion and it’s not recurring because the circumstances are always different but yeah anyway I have nightmares about being pregnant.

Literally one of the worst things I can imagine is growing a thing inside me.

To all the people with a uterus who are full of joy and power in that act of creation, more power to you, but to me it is the stuff of my worst imaginings to have a parasite sucking the nutrients from my teeth and clawing its way free from me.

A common theme to these nightmares is that the pregnancy is spontaneous immaculate conception but no one believes me. My beloved leaves me, thinking I cheated on them. It got to the point that my beloved promised they would believe that I hadn’t cheated on them if it ever happened in real life because it came up so frequently. This actually helped to reduce that plot line.

These dreams just pop up sometimes, usually for unknown reasons, and I always start the dream pretty heavily pregnant and past when I can really abort the fucker inside and I spend the dream in a desperate panic to know how I let it go this far and dreading the imminent pain and horror of child birth.

I always announce to my beloved the morning, “Had another pregnancy nightmare,” and they always kiss my cheek and remind me that they’ll believe me. I guess it’s still slightly better than the zombie dreams. But only barely.

[kaces-graham-crackers]

Trick or Treat, Kiss or Keep - Halloween Special

Astrid Deetz x Reader

Warning: The following themes appear in this story: Bullying, Slight Swearing, Lots of Emotional Stress, and themes leaning towards psychological horror (Please be wary if you read any further!)

Summary: You and Astrid Deetz were once close, but everything fell apart. Now on Halloween night, both are left vulnerable, forced to confront the past. Old feelings resurface, secrets are revealed, and you must navigate the emotional fallout. Be careful what you wish for—everything can change in an instant.

Word Count: 7.4k

Miss Shannon’s School for Girls was buzzing with excitement as Halloween approached. The grand halls were filled with the usual chatter. You were at the center of it all—popular, outgoing, and well-liked. People gravitated toward you, and it wasn’t something you thought too much about. It was just how things were.

But in the midst of all the noise, there was one person who barely seemed to exist in the social sphere. 

Astrid Deetz.

You glanced over at her as you walked down the hall, noticing her sitting quietly by herself at the far end of the courtyard, scrolling through her phone, her headphones on. She was always in her own world, a stark contrast to the person she used to be. Once upon a time, she was your best friend. You used to share everything—laughs, secrets, and the occasional mischievous prank. But that was before everything fell apart.

Before her father died.

You sighed and turned away, focusing on your friends as they talked about the big Halloween party that everyone was buzzing about. But no matter how much you tried to stay engaged, your mind kept drifting back to her—to the person Astrid used to be, and the person she had become.

She pulled away, you reminded yourself. I tried to be there, but she didn’t want me around.

At first, you hadn’t understood why she distanced herself. You had offered her comfort, a shoulder to lean on, but she walked away. And after a while, you gave up. What was the point of trying when it seemed like she didn’t want you in her life?

But what hurt more than the loss of friendship was the realization that your feelings for her had shifted. That the crush you had ignored for so long had always been there, lingering beneath the surface. You were so used to pushing it aside that when the distance grew, it felt like you had lost more than just a friend.

Now, as you climbed the stairs toward your next class, you saw Astrid again, walking toward you, head down, focused on her phone. She wasn’t paying attention, her mind clearly elsewhere, and before you could step aside—

Crash!

The two of you collided, sending her books and papers scattering across the floor. You stumbled back, barely catching yourself as you looked up, your heart racing.

“Sorry!” you blurted out, immediately crouching down to help her pick up the things she had dropped.

Astrid didn’t even look at you, her dark hair falling over her face as she mumbled something into her phone. She seemed annoyed, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

The girls nearby—your friends—began to laugh, thinking it was all some kind of joke. Julia Ripley, ever the instigator, smirked and leaned in closer. “Nice move, Y/N. Didn’t know you were so eager to knock her down.”

You shot Julia a look, feeling the embarrassment creep up your neck. “It wasn’t on purpose,” you muttered, picking up Astrid’s phone and handing it back to her. “Sorry, Astrid.”

Astrid finally looked up, her gaze hard and distant. She grabbed the phone from your hand, barely acknowledging your apology. “Watch where you’re going,” she said, her voice sharp.

Her words cut deeper than you expected. It wasn’t like you meant to bump into her, but the coldness in her tone stung, bringing back the old wounds you thought you had buried.

“I wasn’t the one on my phone,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Astrid’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it looked like she might say something, but instead, she just shoved her things into her bag and stood up, her body tense. The girls around you snickered again, feeding off the tension.

You felt something inside you crack. It wasn’t fair—you had always been there for her. You had been the one to stand by her when her world fell apart, but she had pushed you away, and now she acted like you were nothing.

“You know,” you said, your voice louder than you intended, “I was always there for you. You’re the one who didn’t seem to want me around.”

Astrid’s face hardened, her eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something else—something you couldn’t quite place. “I don’t need you,” she spat, her voice dripping with bitterness. “I never did.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You could feel the hurt bubbling up inside you, but you refused to let it show. Not in front of her. Not in front of everyone else.

Your heart shattered, but you didn’t let it show as you muttered, “I was always there for you, Astrid. Always.”

She turned to leave, her head held high, but before she could take more than a few steps, you noticed something taped to her back.

Kick Me.

Your stomach dropped as you realized what had happened. The girls—the same ones laughing at you now—had probably put it there without Astrid noticing.

You pulled the sign off her back and crumpled it in your hand. “Well, I’ll keep that noted,” you said quietly, holding back the anger that was building inside you. You pulled out a small box from your bag—the one you had been holding onto for years, unsure if you’d ever give it to her. “I promise I won’t bother you again.”

Astrid stopped, turning slightly, her expression confused as she glanced at the box you were offering. You handed it off to her and for a moment, it looked like she might say something, but she stayed silent, watching as you walked away, leaving her standing there, the crumpled sign still in your hand.

Without you there to shield her from the worst of it, the bullying came back with full force, creeping into every corner of Astrid's life. It started slowly at first—a whisper in the hallway, a subtle snicker behind her back. The same girls who had once stuck close to her, laughing with her at lunch, had turned on her, mocking her with cruel smiles. They no longer treated her like one of them. Instead, she became their favorite target

"Bad friend." "Such a freak." "Dick."

The names came faster, louder, no longer just murmurs. They trailed behind her as she walked to class, a never-ending barrage of taunts and jeers. Each one stung, each word a reminder of how quickly she had fallen from whatever thin pedestal she had once stood on. The girls would throw fake smiles her way in passing, only to tear her down the second she was out of earshot. 

In gym class, they’d intentionally leave her out, pretending not to see her as they picked teams. At lunch, the spot they had once saved for her at their table was gone, replaced by smug looks and snide comments.

"Guess you're sitting alone again," Julia Ripley sneered one day, loud enough for everyone in the cafeteria to hear. The rest of the group erupted into laughter, their eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Astrid clenched her fists, her stomach turning as she moved to the far corner of the room, sitting at a table by herself. It wasn’t like she was ever one to seek attention, but the isolation stung in a way she hadn’t expected. It reminded her of everything she had lost. Of you.

You were the one who had kept the worst of this away from her. You had stood between her and their cruelty, even when she didn’t notice it. Even when she had been too blinded by her grief and her anger to see that you were protecting her all along.

The realization hit her hard one evening, as she walked through the hallways after class. She overheard one of the girls laughing with her friends. "God, remember when Y/N used to hang around with her? I swear that's the only reason people didn't mess with her back then."

Another voice chimed in, "Yeah, totally. Y/N was the only one keeping her from being a total loser."

Astrid’s heart sank. It wasn’t just their words—it was the truth behind them. You had been her shield, the one person who had protected her from the relentless bullying that was now pouring in from every direction. And she had pushed you away, thinking she didn’t need anyone. Thinking she didn’t need you.

But now? She was alone.

The girls who once stood by her side had turned into her tormentors, and the rest of the school followed suit, treating her like an outsider. The isolation weighed on her more than she ever thought it could. She found herself dreading every moment at Miss Shannon's, wondering when the next sneer, the next insult, would come. She had no one to turn to now—no one to sit with at lunch, no one to talk to during class. The people she once thought were her friends had abandoned her the moment it became convenient.

And you? You were the only one who had ever been real. The only one who had cared, even when she didn’t deserve it. Even when she had lashed out, pushing you away with cruel words. The memory of the argument echoed in her mind, the way you had looked at her with hurt in your eyes, the way she had said things she could never take back.

"I don’t need you. I never did."

The words tasted bitter now, and the weight of what she had done gnawed at her. How wrong she had been. She didneed you—she always had. But she had thrown that away, and now she was facing the consequences.

Every cruel word, every mocking glance, every laugh behind her back—it all felt like punishment. And she wasn’t sure how much more of it she could take.

One evening, as Astrid sat at her desk, the weight of the last few weeks pressing down on her, she noticed the small box you had given her earlier that week. She had shoved it aside after your argument, not even considering opening it at the time. But now, with everything swirling around her—guilt, regret, and the growing realization of her mistakes—her curiosity got the better of her.

With trembling hands, she reached for the box, her fingers brushing against the lid. A part of her didn’t want to open it, knowing that whatever was inside would only remind her of what she had lost. But another part of her—a part that missed you more than she cared to admit—couldn’t ignore it any longer.

Slowly, she lifted the lid.

Inside was something she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just any piece of jewelry or a token of the past—it was a small animal tooth, crafted into a pendant. The sight of it hit her like a wave, memories flooding back instantly.

She remembered the day you had found it, the two of you exploring the woods near the school, laughing as you pretended to be on some grand adventure. You had stumbled upon the tooth—an old keepsake of the forest, worn and weathered—and immediately decided to keep it. She hadn’t thought much of it back then, but you had been adamant, saying it would bring you both good luck.

And now, etched into the bone, were the letters “Y/I/H x AD 4Ever.” A promise, a bond that had once seemed unbreakable.

Astrid’s fingers traced the engraving, her heart sinking as the weight of the memory settled over her. The late-night conversations, the shared laughter, the sense of belonging she had only ever felt with you—it all came rushing back, tinged with the bitter sting of regret.

Why did I push you away? she thought bitterly, gripping the bone tightly in her hand. Why did I let this all fall apart?

She clenched her jaw, trying to hold back the wave of emotions crashing through her. She had been so angry, so hurt after her father’s death, that she had pushed you away without a second thought. She had convinced herself that she didn’t need you—that she didn’t need anyone. But now, looking at this simple, meaningful piece from a time when things had been so much easier, so much better, she realized how wrong she had been.

You were always there, she thought. And I threw it all away.

Astrid’s grip tightened on the pendant as her guilt deepened. She didn’t deserve your friendship. Not after everything she had said, everything she had done. 

Later that night, as Astrid sat at her desk, her thoughts clouded with memories and guilt, she heard a faint rustling at her door. The soft sound barely registered over the hum of her own mind, but when she glanced down, she saw an envelope—plain, black, and unmarked—slipped under the doorframe.

Curious, she picked it up, turning it over in her hands. There was no name, no sign of who it was from. She opened it slowly, pulling out a glossy, printed invitation:

Halloween Party at Julia Ripley’s House This Saturday—Be there or be forgotten.

Astrid scoffed under her breath. Of course, it was from Julia. It was always her, throwing lavish parties and acting like she owned the school. The thought of going made her stomach turn. The idea of being surrounded by people who whispered about her behind her back, who made her feel like an outsider in every room she entered—people like Julia and her friends—it was the last thing she wanted.

She tossed the invitation aside, rolling her eyes at the pretentiousness of it all. What’s the point of showing up to something where you’re only going to be mocked?

Astrid hadn’t been to a party in ages, and she had no interest in the social scene anymore. Not after everything that had happened. The halls of Miss Shannon’s were already hard enough to navigate, and the idea of facing the crowd outside of school, where the insults weren’t whispered but spat directly in her face, was exhausting.

But then, a stray comment floated through her memory—something she had overheard in the hall earlier that day.

"Yeah, Y/N’s definitely going to Julia’s party," one of the girls had said, laughing about how they couldn’t wait to see what costume you would wear.

Astrid’s heart had lurched at the mention of your name, and now, it did again. You were going.

She bit her lip, glancing at the small black box still open on her desk. The pendant inside—the one with the animal tooth and your initials intertwined with hers—sat there, a reminder of what she had thrown away. The realization that you had never really given up on her, even when she had given up on herself, had shaken her to her core.

The guilt had been gnawing at her for days now, ever since you had walked away from her after your argument in the hallway. She hadn’t wanted to admit it then, but it hurt, knowing how badly she had hurt you. She had pushed you away in her darkest moments, convinced she didn’t need anyone, least of all you. But now, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she had lost.

You were always there for me, and I was the one who left you. The thought kept repeating itself in her mind, over and over again, a painful truth she could no longer ignore.

And now…you were going to be at that party. The chance to see you, to explain, to finally apologize for everything she had done, made her heart race. Maybe—just maybe—this could be her chance to make things right.

She stood up from her desk, pacing her small dorm room as she debated what to do. Part of her wanted to forget about it, to hide away in her room like she always did these days, to avoid the crowd and the stares and the inevitable whispers. But another part of her—a deeper, more desperate part—wanted to see you. She needed to see you.

What if this was her only chance? What if you never spoke to her again? What if the door she had slammed shut so long ago could finally be cracked open, even if just a little?

The thought of you, of the friendship—and maybe more—that she had ruined weighed heavily on her chest.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair, her heart heavy with indecision. Could she really face you after everything?

The memory of your face, hurt and betrayed during your last confrontation, flashed in her mind. She had been so cruel, so blinded by her own grief and anger, that she hadn’t realized how much she was hurting you in return. But you had never stopped trying. You had never given up on her, even when she had been at her worst.

And that necklace—the pendant—it was proof. Proof that, even now, you still cared.

Astrid looked at the invitation again, staring at it for a long moment. She had no idea what she would say if she saw you, no idea if you’d even want to hear her out. But she couldn’t hide forever. She couldn’t keep running from the mistakes she had made.

Her fingers tightened around the invitation, determination creeping into her chest. She would go to that party. She would see you. She would find a way to apologize, to make things right, no matter how difficult it might be.

But what she didn’t know—what she couldn’t have known—was that the party wouldn’t be what she expected. Nothing could have prepared her for what was waiting for her when she walked through the doors of Julia’s house.

The night of the Halloween party arrived, and Astrid found herself standing at the bottom of the grand, sloping driveway of Julia’s house. She looked up at the looming structure, her heart pounding with a mix of anxiety and dread. The house, which always had an air of old-world elegance, had been transformed for the occasion. Black and orange streamers lined the walkway, fake cobwebs clung to the trees, and glowing jack-o’-lanterns grinned wickedly from every corner.

The house itself was a strange sight—a looming, gothic-style mansion with towering spires and a stone façade that seemed to absorb the moonlight. It looked like it had been plucked straight from a haunted movie set, with vines creeping up its walls and the shadow of bare, twisted branches looming overhead. The front porch had been decorated with fake tombstones and skeletal figures, and the grand windows glowed brightly from the lights inside, cutting through the eerie atmosphere.

Despite the elaborate decorations, it was the sheer size of the house that made it unsettling. It felt as though the windows watched her, almost as if the house itself had its own pulse—one that beat in time with the heavy, thumping bass of the music coming from inside.

Astrid hesitated, lingering at the edge of the driveway. She could hear laughter and chatter filtering out through the open windows, the muffled sound of party-goers enjoying themselves. Everyone was probably in some over-the-top costume, laughing and taking pictures, oblivious to the person standing outside, contemplating whether she should go in.

Her grip tightened around her phone, the weight of the invitation pulling at her again. You’ll be there, she reminded herself. Maybe this is my chance.

Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and made her way up the steps. The porch creaked beneath her feet as she approached the door. A skeleton animatronic on the porch swung its bony arm, a hollow, mechanical laugh escaping its jaws as it greeted her arrival. She forced herself to ignore the knot of unease forming in her stomach and pushed open the door.

Inside, the party was in full swing. The interior of the house was just as elaborately decorated as the outside—blood-red lighting washed over the grand foyer, casting long, eerie shadows against the walls. A giant chandelier hung overhead, draped in fake cobwebs, while ghostly figures dangled from the ceiling. The air smelled like a mix of too-sweet candy and perfume, and the sound of people talking and laughing filled the space, almost drowning out the pulsing music that seemed to shake the floor beneath her feet.

She stood just inside the doorway, scanning the room for a familiar face. But she didn’t see you. Instead, all she saw were people dressed in elaborate costumes—vampires, witches, zombies—mingling in groups, none of them even noticing she had arrived. A part of her wanted to turn around and leave, but she stayed, rooted in place, determined to find you.

Astrid kept to the shadows, moving along the walls to avoid drawing attention to herself. She wasn’t here to socialize or make small talk—she was here for one reason, and that was to find you and apologize. The weight of everything she had done, everything she had said, hung heavy on her chest. She didn’t know if you would forgive her, but she needed to try.

Suddenly, the music cut off.

Astrid froze, her heart skipping a beat as the house plunged into silence. The chatter of the guests grew quieter, murmurs of confusion rippling through the crowd. For a moment, all that could be heard was the soft rustle of costumes and the shuffling of feet. Then, the lights went out, plunging the entire room into complete darkness.

Gasps echoed around her, followed by the sound of people shifting uncomfortably. There was an eerie stillness in the air, as if the entire house was holding its breath. Astrid felt her pulse quicken, her hand instinctively reaching into her pocket for her phone.

Suddenly, the sound of a recorded voice crackled through the speakers, filling the dark space. It wasn’t the music that had been playing before. Instead, it was the sound of people gasping and whispering, their voices faint but filled with an edge of fear. It was as if the very walls of the house had come alive, replaying the reactions of the party guests as they stood in the dark.

Astrid’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t like this—not one bit.

She stood in the corner, frozen, unsure of what to do as the whispers and gasps continued to play on repeat. For a moment, she wondered if it was just part of the Halloween decor—some kind of haunted house effect Julia had set up to scare the guests. But something about it felt off.

She pulled out her phone, turning on the flashlight to cut through the darkness. The bright beam of light flickered as it swept across the room, illuminating the faces of mannequins—twisted, grotesque mannequins—that had been scattered throughout the house. They stood motionless, positioned in strange, unnatural poses, their faces twisted into eerie, silent screams. Some had limbs missing, others had blood-red paint dripping down their plastic faces. Each one had a sign hung around its neck, scrawled in dripping red letters.

Bad Friend. Liar. Asshole.

The words stared back at her, harsh and biting, like cruel accusations carved into the very mannequins themselves. Astrid’s stomach twisted with unease. The mannequins hadn’t been there before, had they? She would have noticed. Right?

As she swept her phone’s light across the room, her breath quickened. More mannequins lined the walls, their distorted figures positioned in grotesque mockery of real people. It was as if they were watching her, judging her. And the worst part? Every single mannequin bore a name—her name.

Astrid Deetz.

It was written on every sign, alongside the cruel words: Bad Friend. Asshole. Dick.

Astrid felt a lump form in her throat, her heart racing as panic began to settle in. This wasn’t just part of the Halloween decor. This was something more. Something meant to get under her skin, to humiliate her in front of everyone.

Her hands trembled as she turned in place, the light from her phone casting long shadows on the floor. She could hear the recorded voices growing louder now—mocking whispers, cruel laughter, as if the house itself was laughing at her. The walls seemed to close in around her, the once festive atmosphere now twisted into something sinister.

Astrid’s breath came in ragged gasps as the reality of the situation sank in. This was a prank. A cruel, calculated prank, meant to make her feel like she was nothing. And it was working.

She stumbled backward, her legs shaky as she tried to move away from the mannequins, her light flickering as it caught more of the red-painted words.

BAD FRIEND. ASSHOLE. YOU DESERVE THIS.

The whispers in the recording grew louder, harsher, until they were ringing in her ears, drowning out her thoughts. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block out the noise, but it only seemed to get louder.

And then—right in front of her, projected on the wall—was the worst thing of all.

A photo of you, standing with Julia Ripley, her arms draped over you, leaning in as if to kiss you. You were blurred, but the image was clear enough. It was meant to look like you and Julia were together—meant to hurt her, to break her down even more.

Astrid’s knees buckled as she collapsed to the floor, her heart shattering at the sight. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath, tears stinging her eyes. She wanted to scream, to tear down the image, to run. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

She could only sit there, frozen in place, as the world around her fell apart.

The party had dragged on, and you were on the verge of giving up. Astrid hadn’t shown, and as the hours passed, the hope you’d been clinging to slowly dissolved. You were about to grab a drink, resigned to the idea that maybe tonight wasn’t the night to fix things, when something strange caught your eye.

A crowd had gathered around the large TV in the corner of the room. It wasn’t the usual video games or party antics playing on the screen—it was something different. Something wrong. The air in the room felt heavier, the laughter quieting into hushed whispers, and you pushed your way through the crowd, anxiety creeping up your spine as you tried to get a better view.

And then, you saw it.

On the screen was a live feed of Astrid, kneeling in the middle of some dark, abandoned room. Her body was shaking, her hands covering her face as she sobbed uncontrollably. In front of her, projected on the wall, was a cruel, photoshopped image—you with Julia Ripley, standing too close, her lips almost touching yours. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the chest, the knot of horror tightening in your stomach. This wasn’t some innocent prank. This was deliberate. This was cruel.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and the reality of what was happening crashed down on you all at once. They had set her up. This wasn’t a party invitation—this was a trap, designed to humiliate Astrid, to break her down in front of everyone. Julia Ripley was behind this.

You whirled around, scanning the room, your blood boiling as you spotted Julia, sitting comfortably in a lavish chair she had dragged out—her "prom queen" chair, a symbol of her self-obsessed reign over the social scene. She was sitting at the front, watching Astrid’s breakdown on the screen with a smug expression plastered on her face, completely unaware of the rage building inside you.

Without thinking, you stormed toward her, anger boiling over with every step. Julia saw you coming, and before you could even speak, she reached out, her arm moving to wrap itself around you in a flirtatious, almost possessive way. She looked at you with a sly grin, as if she expected you to join her in her twisted satisfaction.

But you were beyond furious.

“You went too far,” you said, your voice low and sharp, your hands clenched into fists as you shoved her hand off you, disgusted. “When you said you invited her, you meant to a prank party, didn’t you?”

Julia’s smirk faltered. Her hand recoiled, but she tried to play it off, huffing in annoyance as she leaned back in her chair. “She deserved it,” she snapped, her voice dripping with condescension. “After the way she treated you, how can you still defend her? You deserve better.”

You couldn’t believe the audacity, and the rage inside you boiled over.

You clenched your fists tighter, every muscle in your body trembling with anger. “Deserve better?” you echoed, your voice shaking with barely controlled fury. “I could never be your girlfriend—I’m in love with Astrid! I always have been, and I always will be.”

Julia’s eyes widened in shock, and a hush fell over the room. The words left your mouth before you could stop them, but you didn’t care. You had held it in for too long, and now it was out, ringing in the air for everyone to hear.

“I’ve always been in love with Astrid Deetz,” you repeated, your voice firm, filled with emotion. “Because unlike everyone else in this room, she’s real. She’s the realest fucking person I’ve ever met. Yeah, she can be a dick sometimes, but she’s mourning. She’s going through life with a mother who is too busy to acknowledge her and a father who was the only person who ever truly understood her, now gone forever.”

The room was dead silent now. You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but all you could think about was Astrid—how broken she had looked, sobbing on her knees in that abandoned house.

“At least Astrid’s dad loved her for who she was, not for what she could do for him,” you continued, your voice growing louder, more passionate with every word. “He didn’t need her to win some meaningless trophies to impress other middle-aged women going through their midlife crises.”

Julia’s smug expression melted away as your words hit her like a sledgehammer, her face paling as tears welled up in her eyes. The entire crowd stood frozen, the weight of your words settling over them like a heavy cloud.

Everyone was silent. The only sound that remained was the faint, echoing sobs from the live feed of Astrid on the TV.

You turned back to the screen, the tears now welling up in your own eyes as you heard the sound of Astrid’s broken confessions playing over the speakers. Her voice, fragile and filled with regret, crackled through the room, cutting through the silence like a blade.

“Where is she?” you demanded, your voice shaking. You turned back to Julia, who had nothing left to say. She stared at you, tears streaming down her face, but you had no sympathy for her. You didn’t care about her tears.

All that mattered was Astrid.

Julia stammered, trying to pull herself together, but she was too flustered to form words. You couldn’t wait any longer. You needed to find Astrid, and you needed to find her now.

Without another word, you rushed toward the door, your heart racing as you prepared yourself for what came next. Astrid was out there, alone, broken, and you weren’t going to let her suffer any longer. You had to save her.

As you sprinted through the streets, your heart racing, you couldn’t stop thinking about Astrid—how broken she looked, how badly you needed to find her. You heard snippets of her confession playing on the live feed, her voice choked with emotion as she admitted her guilt and sorrow.

“I was a terrible friend,” she sobbed. “I didn’t deserve her… She was always there, but I pushed her away. I didn’t know how to handle it… And now, it’s too late. I’m so sorry.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as you heard her words. You had to get to her. Now.

Miraculously, You had found the abandoned building. This was the second option for the Halloween party if Julia’s dad wasn’t leaving for a yacht trip. You vaguely remember the room Astrid was in and raced through the abandoned house, your heart pounding. The air was thick with the smell of decay, and the dimly lit hallways were littered with mannequin limbs and scattered decorations. The floor creaked beneath your feet as you pushed open a cracked door, your chest tightening with fear.

“I don’t deserve her… I pushed her away because I didn’t know how to deal with it…,” Astrid’s voice, thick with emotion, echoed through the room as you sprinted through the dark hallways of the abandoned house. Her confession played on the live feed, each word pulling at your heart. Tears pricked your eyes as you heard the depth of her regret, and with every step, the urgency to find her grew.

You finally pushed through the door, in the center of the room, under the faint flickering red lighting of the chandelier, Astrid was kneeling. Her face was buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed uncontrollably in front of the photoshopped image of you and Julia. You could feel the anger bubbling inside you, wanting to scream at Julia for orchestrating this awful setup, for making Astrid feel so broken. But as soon as you saw Astrid, all that mattered was getting to her.

You knelt beside her, gently placing a trembling hand on her shoulder. Astrid flinched at the touch, her body tensing, but when she looked up and saw it was you, her devastated expression deepened.

“Why are you here?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You shouldn’t have come… You don’t need to see me like this.”

Your throat tightened as you fought to keep your voice steady. “I’m here because I care, Astrid. I’ve always cared.”

She shook her head, her eyes filled with regret and self-loathing. “I don’t deserve your care. I don’t deserve you.” She let out a broken laugh, her voice raw with guilt. “I’ve been horrible to you. I said… I said I didn’t need you, but I didn’t mean it. I was just so angry at everything—at the world, at myself.”

Her words cut deep, but you could see the pain behind them. The guilt had been gnawing at her, consuming her from the inside, and now, as you knelt beside her, you realized just how much she had been carrying alone.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “ I know you didn’t mean those things. You were grieving, and I should have understood that. But I never stopped caring, Astrid. I never gave up on you.”

Astrid looked at you, wide-eyed and tearful, her breath catching in her throat. “But I was so awful to you…” she choked out, her hands shaking.

“You were hurting,” you said, gently wiping the tears from her cheek. “And I know that now. But I’m here, Astrid. I’m still here.”

Her sobs began to quiet against your shoulder, her body trembling as the weight of everything she’d carried finally seemed to lift, if only slightly. For so long, she had been drowning in her pain, and you could feel the relief in the way she clung to you, her fingers gripping your shirt like you were her lifeline, afraid to let go in case she sank back into the darkness.

You stayed like that for what felt like forever, letting her sobs subside into quiet, steady breaths. Your hand moved gently through her hair, offering her the comfort she had denied herself for so long.

“I’ve been so stupid,” she whispered eventually, her voice hoarse and heavy with regret. “I pushed you away because I didn’t know how to handle anything anymore. I was angry. I was scared… and instead of asking for help, I turned into someone I hate.”

Your heart ached at her words, hearing how much she had struggled, all the while shutting you out. But now, here she was, vulnerable, her walls crumbling around her as she finally let you in.

“You were hurting, Astrid,” you said softly, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. And I forgive you. We can fix this.”

Her eyes searched yours, wide and tear-filled, as if trying to grasp the truth of your words. “But how can you forgive me after everything? I treated you like you didn’t matter. I threw away our friendship, pushed you out of my life… How do we come back from that?”

You smiled gently, brushing away another tear that escaped down her cheek. “We come back from it by starting right here, right now. You’re not alone anymore. I’m not going anywhere.”

Astrid’s lip quivered, and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against yours, her breath shaky as she let out a soft sigh. “I don’t deserve you,” she murmured, her voice breaking with emotion. “But I’m so grateful you’re here.”

You smiled, tightening your embrace around her. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be, Astrid. With you.”

She closed her eyes, resting her head against your shoulder again, her grip on your shirt loosening as she let herself relax for the first time in what felt like forever. The tension between you faded, replaced by the quiet comfort of being together—finally, after so much time and distance.

As the sound of her steady breaths filled the room, you realized that it wasn’t just the apology or the confession that mattered. It was the fact that you were still here, together, ready to rebuild what had been broken.

“We’ll figure it out,” you whispered, your voice gentle but firm. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Astrid nodded against your shoulder, her body calming as the weight of her guilt began to lift. “I don’t know what I did to deserve a second chance with you,” she said, her voice raw but grateful. “But I’ll do whatever it takes to make things right.”

You pulled her even closer, holding her tight as your heart swelled with love and relief. “You don’t have to do it alone,” you whispered softly. “We’ll do it together.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Astrid let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—things could be okay again.

After a long, tear-filled confession, you and Astrid left the abandoned house. The chilly night air hit your skin, the weight of the tension left behind in that eerie place still hanging in the air. The house itself, with its broken windows and crumbling walls, seemed to watch you both as you walked away. Its dim, flickering lights and twisted mannequins were now just a distant memory, but their haunting presence clung to you. The cracked door creaked one last time before closing behind you.

The air felt heavier, but for the first time in a long while, there was also something new between you—hope.

You guided Astrid back to your place, her hand tucked into yours. She was silent most of the way, her fingers tightening around yours every so often, as if she was afraid you might disappear. The long walk through the dark, empty streets felt almost comforting after the night’s emotional chaos, the streetlights flickering softly, casting long shadows on the ground as you both walked side by side.

When you finally arrived at your house, the warmth of the familiar environment enveloped you. Your parents were already asleep, the quiet hum of the house wrapping around you like a protective blanket. You led Astrid to your room, offering her a soft smile as you turned on the small lamp by your bed.

“Come on, let’s get you settled,” you said gently, watching as Astrid glanced around the room with an almost shy expression. She looked so different now—vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before. But there was also a kind of peace in her eyes, like she was finally letting herself breathe again.

You both climbed into your bed, wrapping yourselves in the warm blankets, and for the first time in what felt like forever, things felt... okay. You lay next to each other, sharing quiet conversation as the weight of the night slowly faded away.

At one point, you admitted, “I heard most of your confession, you know.”

Astrid stiffened beside you, her eyes widening as she turned to face you, clearly embarrassed. “You did?”

You nodded, your gaze soft. “I did. And I’m glad I heard it, Astrid. I needed to know how much you’ve been hurting.”

Astrid’s face twisted in regret, but before she could speak, you gently wrapped an arm around her. “It’s okay,” you whispered. “You don’t have to say anything else. I’m just glad you’re here.”

She held onto you tightly after that, her body relaxing against yours as the tension melted away. But then, as you shifted slightly to make room, Astrid’s hand gripped your shirt, stopping you from moving any further. You blinked, confused for a moment, until she pulled you back toward her.

And before you could even react, she crashed her lips against yours.

The kiss was soft at first—gentle, almost hesitant as if she was testing the waters. But soon, it deepened, growing more heated and passionate. Her hands tangled in your shirt, pulling you closer as her lips moved against yours, and you responded in kind, matching her intensity.

The kiss turned sloppy, her fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt, tugging you closer. The heat between you both was palpable, the passion years in the making, but just as things started to intensify, there was a sudden creak at the door.

Your mother.

The door opened slightly, and Astrid, in a panic, shoved you so hard you fell right off the bed with a soft thud.

“Oh my goodness!” your mom squealed from the doorway, her eyes bright with surprise. “Astrid, honey, is that you?” She didn���t seem to notice you, sprawled out on the floor, as she focused entirely on Astrid. “Are you staying over tonight? I’m so glad to see you back!”

Astrid, flustered and embarrassed, stammered, “Uh, no—no, ma’am. I’m not staying.”

Your mom beamed, already half out the door. “Well, you must stay for dinner. You’re looking a bit thin! I’ll go tell your father to break out the good china tonight! It’s so good to see you again, sweetie!” With that, she closed the door, leaving the two of you in stunned silence.

Astrid peered over the edge of the bed, looking down at you with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

You, still dazed from the sudden shove and your mother’s enthusiastic surprise, could only mutter, “You kissed me…”

Astrid burst out laughing, rolling onto her back as she covered her face with her hands. Her laughter was light and mischievous, her embarrassment melting away into something playful. “Duh,” she said between laughs. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

You stared up at her, feeling a mix of disbelief and affection swirl in your chest.

“Now,” Astrid said, her laughter still bubbling in her voice, “come on back up here so I can ruin your dinner with some more sweets.”

Grinning, you scrambled back into bed, leaning in to kiss her again, the warmth of her lips meeting yours once more. This time, the kiss was slow, sweet, and filled with everything you hadn’t been able to say before. It was perfect.

The next day at school, the change was obvious. People stared as you and Astrid walked through the halls hand-in-hand. The whispers didn’t bother you. They couldn’t. Not when Astrid was right there beside you, holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You walked her to class, stealing a quick kiss before she disappeared inside. She blushed slightly but smiled at you as she waved you off.

As Astrid made her way through the day, she started to notice something—the bullying had stopped. There were no cruel whispers, no mocking looks. Instead, people seemed wary, like they knew something had shifted but couldn’t quite place it.

Later, after classes, Astrid found you waiting for her by the lockers. She was curious, the confusion evident on her face as she asked, “What happened today? Did you… do something?”

You shrugged casually, pulling out your phone and showing her a video. It was of you, roasting Julia Ripley in front of everyone at the Halloween party the night before. You had confronted her, tearing into her with the same fiery passion that had always defined you.

Astrid’s mouth dropped open, completely gobsmacked as she watched the video. “You did this?”

You smiled, shrugging nonchalantly. “I just kept it real. Like you would.”

Astrid’s shocked expression slowly morphed into a smirk. She leaned in and kissed you on the cheek, whispering, "Guess I’m rubbing off on you...knew I would eventually." leaving you blushing as she walked ahead, as you followed suit.