#walk softly stranger

[schlock-luster-video]

On January 10, 1951, Walk Softly, Stranger debuted in London, England.

[septemberlikeastorm]

this man said "i need a drink" & proceeded to craft the the most sex & the city-coded poison cocktail ever, so from cascade ocean wave blues come i give you:

Osha ducks her head to deposit the straw back in her glass, and he very carefully stores away the image of the pink flash of her tongue. “I suppose you should show off a little, just to salvage your supposedly fearsome reputation, since you’re a coward who refuses to do shots with me.”

He’d gotten a scant pour of liquor, and nurses it like a grudge. “I’ve learned better,” he tells her while wiping his hands off, “than to let my guard down around others.”

She regards him in silence, clearly trying to gauge whether his even tone is one of mild reproach.

It’s not—she is perfectly safe to let her guard down precisely because he is there to guard her—and so he adds gently, “I also don’t like straight liquor, but the only mixers they have are dishwater and cooking oil, and I figure I’m consuming enough oil as it is.” To punctuate his point, he offers her a lump of unidentifiable fried food.

 “I told you, no way am I eating that, it’s as greasy as you were back in that apothecary on Olega.”

“Greasy is a strong word. I was going for more of a windswept, ruggedly handsome look.” He fights not to smile at the face she makes, and allows, “I may have overemphasized the rugged aspect.”

“You were gross,” she informs him with what he feels is entirely too much glee, kicking her dangling feet and taking another long sip of her drink, slurping when she gets down to the dregs. It shouldn’t be endearing.

It is.

[enhaflixer]

Kiss Me, He’s Watching

fake bf!Heeseung x being stalked!reader - You kissed Heeseung to escape your stalker’s gaze—but the danger didn’t end there. One fake kiss, and suddenly everything is terrifyingly real.

Warnings: stalking, fear, explicit smut, possessive dynamics

-

The fluorescent lights of the subway car flicker overhead, casting an unflattering glow across the half-empty train. It's later than you'd usually be out on a weeknight, but your coworker's birthday drinks ran longer than expected. You check your phone: 11:43 PM. Only three more stops until home.

That's when you feel it—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

You glance up from your phone, trying to appear casual as your eyes scan the car. And there he is. Third seat from the door. A man in his thirties, wearing a dark jacket despite the warm spring evening, staring directly at you. When your eyes meet, he doesn't look away. Instead, his lips curl into what might be considered a smile, if it weren't so utterly devoid of warmth.

You quickly look back down at your phone, heart rate accelerating. It's nothing, you tell yourself. Just another weird encounter in the city.

The train slows to a stop, doors sliding open. You remain seated, two more stops to go. From your peripheral vision, you see the man stand up. Relief washes over you—he's leaving. But instead of exiting, he simply moves to a seat closer to you. Your stomach drops.

When the doors close and the train lurches forward, you decide you're not waiting two more stops. You'll get off at the next station, find a busier platform, maybe even grab a taxi the rest of the way home. Anything to shake this feeling.

The next stop arrives. You stand quickly, moving toward the doors. As they open, you glance back—he's standing too. Following you.

Panic rises in your throat as you step onto the platform. It's nearly deserted at this hour, just a few late-night commuters waiting for trains going the opposite direction. You walk briskly toward the exit, the sound of footsteps behind you matching your pace.

That's when you see him—a young man leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone. He's striking even under the harsh station lights, with delicate features contrasted by sharp eyes and broad shoulders. Something about him radiates both gentleness and strength. You make a split-second decision.

You approach him quickly, heart pounding in your ears.

"Excuse me," you say softly, your voice shakier than you'd like. "Can you please pretend to be my boyfriend for a minute? There's someone following me."

He looks up from his phone, confusion crossing his face for only a moment before his eyes flick past you, assessing the situation with remarkable speed. His expression shifts to understanding, then determination.

"Of course, babe," he says loudly enough to be overheard, smoothly slipping his phone into his pocket. "I was wondering when you'd get here."

In one fluid motion, he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. The warmth of his body against yours is startling but comforting.

"He's still watching," the stranger whispers against your hair. "Is that the guy? Black jacket, about five-nine?"

You nod almost imperceptibly.

"I'm Heeseung, by the way," he murmurs, maintaining the charade by playing with a strand of your hair.

"I'm Y/N," you whisper back.

You both stand there for a moment, locked in an embrace that feels both foreign and strangely safe. But you can still feel the stalker's eyes boring into your back.

"He's not buying it," Heeseung says quietly, his breath warm against your ear. Then, even softer: "Want me to kiss you? Might be more convincing."

Your eyes widen slightly, but the footsteps behind you seem to be getting closer. You nod again, bracing yourself.

Heeseung's hand gently tilts your chin upward. His eyes meet yours, silently asking one more time if this is okay. There's something unexpectedly tender in his gaze that makes your breath catch. Then he leans down, pressing his lips against yours.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant—the kiss of strangers playing a part. But as his arms tighten around you, something shifts. His lips move more confidently against yours, and you find yourself responding, your hands instinctively moving to his shoulders. For a brief moment, you forget about the man watching you, forget that this is all pretend. There is only the softness of Heeseung's lips and the steadiness of his hands at your waist.

When you finally break apart, you're both slightly breathless. Heeseung's eyes search yours for a moment before he looks past you, his expression hardening.

"He's still there," he says, voice lower now, a protective edge creeping in. "What's this guy's problem?"

The stalker stands several feet away, his stare unrelenting, suspicious. Clearly, your performance hasn't convinced him.

Something in Heeseung snaps. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you with his body.

"What are you looking at?" he calls out, his voice echoing in the nearly empty station. "You need something?"

The man doesn't respond, just continues staring.

"What?" Heeseung's voice rises, anger evident. "You need more proof? Want me to fuck her in front of you too?"

You grab Heeseung's arm, both shocked and grateful for his protective fury. The few remaining commuters on the platform turn to stare.

The stalker finally breaks his gaze, muttering something under his breath before walking toward the exit. But the look he gives you before he turns away sends ice through your veins—this isn't over.

"Hey, are you okay?" Heeseung asks, turning back to you, his expression immediately softening. "Sorry if I went too far. I just couldn't stand the way he was looking at you."

"Thank you," you manage, suddenly aware that you're trembling. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here."

"Which way are you headed?" he asks, concern etched across his features.

"I'm two stops down, but I think I'll just get a taxi now."

"I'll wait with you," he says firmly. "Or I can ride with you the rest of the way, if you want."

As you both head toward the exit, you feel Heeseung's hand gently rest against the small of your back—a protective gesture that makes you feel safer than you have all night.

Neither of you notice the stalker watching from the shadows as you leave the station together, his eyes narrowed with suspicion and something more dangerous simmering beneath.

-

The taxi ride is quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional direction you give the driver. Heeseung sits beside you, a respectful distance between you now, but his presence remains solid and reassuring. The adrenaline from earlier is beginning to wear off, leaving you feeling drained and slightly embarrassed.

"I'm really sorry about all of this," you finally say, glancing over at him. In the dim light of the passing streetlamps, his profile looks almost ethereal. "I can't believe I dragged a complete stranger into my problems."

Heeseung turns to you, his expression earnest. "Don't apologize. That guy was seriously creepy. Anyone would have needed help."

"Not everyone would have helped the way you did," you point out. "Most people would have just walked away."

He shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "Well, I'm not most people."

The taxi pulls up to your apartment building, and you reach for your wallet, but Heeseung already has his card out.

"Please, let me," he insists, paying the driver before you can protest.

"You really don't have to—"

"Consider it my good deed for the day," he says with a gentle smile that makes something flutter in your chest.

You both step out onto the sidewalk, and suddenly you're not sure how to end this strange encounter. A handshake seems too formal after what you've shared, but anything more feels presumptuous.

"I'd feel better if I saw you safely to your door," Heeseung says, breaking the awkward moment. "If that's okay with you."

You nod, grateful for his consideration, and lead him into the building. The elevator ride to the fifth floor is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Standing next to him, you notice he smells faintly of sandalwood and something uniquely his own.

When you reach your apartment door, you turn to face him. "Thank you again. Seriously. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there."

"I'm just glad I could help," he says, and there's a sincerity in his voice that's rare these days.

An idea strikes you. "Wait here for a second?" You unlock your door and rush inside, grabbing a pen and scrap of paper from the entryway table. You quickly scribble your number on it, then return to the hallway where Heeseung waits patiently.

"Here," you say, offering him the paper. "In case you ever need someone to pretend to be your girlfriend." You attempt a joke to lighten the moment, though your heart beats a little faster as he takes the paper.

Heeseung looks at your number, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. He pulls out his phone, inputs your number, and then you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.

"Now you have mine too," he says. "If you ever feel unsafe again or if that guy shows up, call me. Doesn't matter what time."

"I couldn't possibly—"

"I mean it," he interrupts, his expression turning serious. "Promise me you'll call if anything happens."

Something about the intensity in his eyes makes you nod. "I promise."

"Good." His expression softens again. "Get some rest, Y/N. It's been a long night."

"You too, Heeseung."

He waits until you're safely inside with the door locked before you hear his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

-

The next morning, the whole encounter feels almost like a dream. You might have convinced yourself it was, if not for the new contact in your phone: "Heeseung (Subway Hero)."

Life returns to normal surprisingly fast. You're more cautious on your commute, taking earlier trains and staying in crowded cars, but there's no sign of the creepy man. After a week passes without incident, you begin to relax.

You think about texting Heeseung several times. Your finger hovers over his contact information, but what would you say? "Thanks again for pretending to be my boyfriend and kissing me"? "Want to grab coffee sometime when I'm not being stalked"? Everything sounds awkward or presumptuous. He was just being kind to a stranger in trouble. You don't want to mistaken his kindness for interest.

So you don't text him, and the days pass.

Almost two weeks after the subway incident, you're working late at the office. The design project you've been assigned has a tight deadline, and you've lost track of time staring at your computer screen. When you finally look up, it's past 10 PM, and you're the only one left on your floor.

You pack up quickly, suddenly aware of how quiet and empty the building feels. In the elevator down to the lobby, you check your phone and see a notification for an email from an address you don't recognize.

The subject line reads: "I SAW YOU WITH HIM."

A chill runs down your spine. You should delete it without opening it, but morbid curiosity gets the better of you. The message contains just one line:

"I know he's not really your boyfriend."

Your hands start to shake. Below the text is a photo—of you and Heeseung leaving the subway station together that night. The angle suggests it was taken from a distance, from someone following behind.

As you step out of the elevator into the dimly lit lobby, another email notification appears. Same sender.

"You're alone now. Look up."

Your heart nearly stops. Slowly, you raise your head from your phone screen and scan the lobby. At first, you see nothing unusual—just the security desk (empty at this hour), the entrance doors, the row of potted plants along the wall.

Then a shadow moves near the entrance, and you see him. The man from the subway, watching you through the glass doors, that same cold smile on his face.

Without thinking, you step back into the elevator and frantically press the button for your floor. As the doors close, you see him moving toward the building entrance.

Your fingers tremble as you pull up Heeseung's contact. It's been two weeks. He probably doesn't even remember you. But you promised.

He answers on the second ring.

"Y/N?" His voice is alert, not groggy despite the hour. "Is everything okay?"

"He found me," you whisper, watching the elevator numbers climb. "The guy from the subway. He's here at my office building. He has pictures of us. He knows—he knows you're not really my boyfriend."

There's a brief silence, then Heeseung's voice comes through, calm but urgent. "Where exactly are you now?"

"In the elevator, going back up to my office. I don't think he can get past building security without a keycard, but he was right outside."

"Okay, listen to me. Go back to your office, lock the door if you can. What's the address?"

You tell him, surprised at how clearly you remember his address despite your panic.

"I'm leaving now. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay on the phone with me, okay?"

"Okay," you manage, stepping out of the elevator and hurrying down the hallway to your office. You lock the door behind you, then turn off the lights and move away from the windows. "I'm sorry to drag you into this again."

"Don't apologize," he says, and you can hear rustling in the background, the jingle of keys. "I told you to call if anything happened."

"I know, but—"

"Y/N," he interrupts gently. "I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about you anyway."

Despite everything, a small flutter of warmth spreads through your chest at his words.

"He thinks I'm your boyfriend?" Heeseung continues, and you hear a door slam shut on his end. "What are you going to do about this guy?"

"I don't know," you admit, sinking down beneath your desk, phone clutched to your ear like a lifeline. "I guess I should file a police report, but—"

Your sentence is cut short by another email notification. With dread, you open it to find another picture—this one of your office building, with a simple message: "I'll wait."

"Heeseung," you whisper, fear making your voice crack. "Please hurry."

-

"I'm five minutes away," Heeseung reassures you, his voice steady despite the sound of rapid footsteps on his end. "Stay where you are and keep talking to me."

You curl up tighter beneath your desk, eyes fixed on the locked office door. The building is eerily quiet at this hour—every distant sound making your heart race. Is that the elevator? Footsteps in the stairwell? Your imagination is turning every creak and hum of the building into a threat.

"Tell me about your day," Heeseung says suddenly.

"What?"

"Your day. What were you working on that kept you at the office so late?" His tone is deliberately casual, trying to distract you from the panic.

You take a shaky breath. "A design project for a new client. They're launching a sustainable clothing line and needed the branding finalized by tomorrow morning." Speaking helps—focusing on normal things makes the situation feel slightly less terrifying.

"You're a designer?" There's genuine interest in his voice.

"Graphic designer, yeah. What about you? What do you do when you're not rescuing strangers on the subway?" You attempt a weak joke.

There's a soft chuckle on the other end. "Music production, mostly. I work at a studio downtown."

"That sounds amazing," you say, briefly forgetting your fear. "Do you work with anyone I might know?"

"Maybe. I've worked with—" He cuts himself off. "I'm at your building now. Is there a security guard?"

"There should be, but I didn't see anyone when I was in the lobby."

"There's no one here now either," Heeseung says, his voice lower. "How do I get up to your floor?"

"You need a keycard for the elevator after hours," you explain, anxiety flooding back. "But wait—if there's no security guard, where did he go? And how would the stalker get in without a card?"

There's a moment of silence before Heeseung responds, his voice tight. "I don't know, but I don't like it. Is there another way up? A stairwell?"

"Yes, but it needs a keycard too—" You stop as another email notification appears. With trembling fingers, you open it.

The message contains just three words: "I'M INSIDE NOW."

"Heeseung," you whisper, terror making your voice almost inaudible. "He says he's inside the building."

"Shit," he mutters. Then, more decisively: "I'm going to try something. What floor are you on?"

"Seventh."

"Give me two minutes."

The line goes quiet except for the sound of Heeseung's breathing and occasional grunts of effort. You're about to ask what he's doing when you hear a distant alarm begin to wail.

"What's happening?" you ask.

"Fire alarm," Heeseung explains, slightly out of breath. "Building security will unlock automatically. I'm coming up the stairs now."

Relief washes over you—until you realize that if the security systems are overridden, there's nothing keeping the stalker from accessing your floor either.

As if reading your thoughts, Heeseung speaks again. "Stay hidden. I'll be there soon. Which office number?"

"705. It's at the end of the hallway on the right when you come out of the stairwell."

"Got it. Almost there."

You hear the sound of a door banging open through the phone, then rapid footsteps. A moment later, there's a gentle knock at your office door.

"Y/N? It's me."

You scramble out from under the desk and rush to the door, pressing your ear against it. "Heeseung?"

"It's me," he confirms. "Open the door."

Your hands shake as you unlock the door. The moment it opens, Heeseung slips inside, immediately locking it behind him. In the dim emergency lighting, you can see he's breathing hard, hair slightly damp with sweat—he must have run the entire way.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around him, the relief of seeing a friendly face overwhelming in your state of fear. He stiffens in surprise for just a moment before his arms wrap around you, holding you securely.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs against your hair.

You nod against his chest, embarrassed but unable to pull away just yet. His heartbeat is rapid beneath your ear, his body warm and solid—an anchor in the storm of your fear.

When you finally step back, you notice he's scanning the room, eyes alert and wary. "We should go. The fire department will be here soon because of the alarm, but I don't want to risk running into this guy."

"Okay," you agree, quickly gathering your belongings.

Heeseung peers out the office door, checking the hallway. "Clear. Let's go to the stairs—they're closer than the elevator."

He takes your hand as you hurry down the corridor, his grip firm and reassuring. At the stairwell door, he pauses, listening intently before pushing it open.

"Stay close," he instructs as you begin descending.

You're halfway between the fifth and fourth floors when a door slams somewhere below you. Heeseung freezes, pushing you gently against the wall, his body shielding yours. You both listen, hardly breathing.

Footsteps on the stairs—coming up.

Heeseung's eyes meet yours, his expression tense but determined. Silently, he gestures upward. You nod in understanding.

As quietly as possible, you both backtrack, climbing up instead of down. When you reach the eighth floor, Heeseung carefully opens the door, checking that the hallway is clear before pulling you through.

"We'll try the elevator on this floor," he whispers. "The alarm should have reset the security lockdowns."

The eighth floor is darker than yours, with only emergency exit signs providing dim red illumination. Heeseung keeps your hand firmly in his as you navigate to the elevator bank. He presses the call button, and you both watch anxiously as the numbers climb from the lobby.

The distant sound of a door opening makes you both tense. Heeseung positions himself slightly in front of you, his stance protective.

The elevator seems to take forever. Three... Four... Five...

"If something happens," Heeseung says quietly, "run. Don't wait for me."

You're about to protest when the elevator finally arrives with a soft chime. The doors slide open, and you both quickly step inside. Heeseung jabs the lobby button repeatedly, then the door close button.

As the doors begin to shut, you catch a glimpse of a figure at the end of the hallway—a man in a dark jacket. Your breath catches.

The doors close fully, and the elevator begins its descent.

"That was him," you whisper, leaning against the wall for support. "That was definitely him."

Heeseung's jaw tightens, a mixture of anger and concern crossing his features. "When we get to the lobby, we're going straight to my car. No stopping, okay?"

You nod, trying to calm your racing heart.

The elevator reaches the lobby, doors opening to reveal chaos. The fire alarm has drawn several security personnel and what looks like the beginning of a fire department response. In the confusion, you and Heeseung slip out relatively unnoticed, his arm around your waist guiding you swiftly through the crowd and out to the street.

"This way," he says, leading you to a sleek black car parked half on the curb—he must have been in a hurry when he arrived.

Once inside with the doors locked, you finally allow yourself to take a deep breath. Heeseung starts the engine but doesn't immediately drive away.

"Are you hurt at all?" he asks, turning to examine you with concern.

"No, I'm fine," you assure him, though your hands are still trembling. "Just scared."

He nods, reaching out to briefly squeeze your hand before putting the car in drive. "I'm taking you to my place," he says, pulling away from the curb. "I don't think it's safe for you to go home tonight."

Under normal circumstances, going to a near-stranger's apartment would set off all kinds of alarm bells. But nothing about this situation is normal, and the safety Heeseung represents outweighs any reservation you might have.

"Thank you," you say simply.

He glances in the rearview mirror frequently as he drives, checking that you're not being followed. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving you feeling drained and slightly nauseous.

"I should call the police," you say after a few minutes of silence.

"Definitely," Heeseung agrees. "But let's get somewhere safe first."

His apartment turns out to be in a secure building with underground parking and a doorman—facts that provide immediate relief. Inside, the space is surprisingly homey: a modern open-concept layout with warm lighting and comfortable furnishings. A keyboard and small recording setup occupies one corner of the living area, confirming his earlier mention of music production.

"Make yourself at home," he says, gesturing to the couch. "I'll get you some water."

As he moves to the kitchen, you sink onto the sofa, the events of the night finally catching up to you. Your phone chimes with another email notification, and you nearly drop it in fear.

Heeseung notices your reaction, returning quickly with a glass of water. "Another message from him?"

You nod, unable to open it.

"May I?" he asks, holding out his hand for your phone.

You pass it to him, watching as he opens the email, his expression darkening as he reads.

"What does it say?" you ask, not sure you want to know.

Heeseung looks up, his eyes filled with protective anger. "He says he knows you're with me now. That you've 'chosen your side.' And that he'll be watching both of us." He sets your phone down. "We're definitely calling the police. This is serious stalking."

While Heeseung contacts the authorities, you sip your water, trying to make sense of this nightmare. How did this happen? One random encounter on the subway has spiraled into a genuine threat to your safety. And Heeseung—a complete stranger two weeks ago—is now putting himself at risk to keep you safe.

When he finishes the call, he sits beside you on the couch, close enough that you can feel his warmth but not touching. "They're sending someone over to take your statement. They also advised documenting everything—all the messages, photos, any evidence of him following you."

You nod, staring down at your hands. "I'm so sorry for involving you in this."

"Hey," he says gently, waiting until you look up at him. "None of this is your fault. And I'm not sorry I helped you that night, even if it means being involved now."

"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "Why would you do all this for someone you barely know?"

Heeseung is quiet for a moment, seemingly considering the question carefully. "I've seen what happens when people look the other way," he finally says. "My sister had a stalker in college. Not as extreme as this, but scary enough. People knew—her friends, her roommates—but no one really did anything. They thought it wasn't their problem." His voice hardens slightly. "I won't be that person. Not ever."

The personal revelation surprises you. "I'm sorry about your sister. Is she okay now?"

He nods. "She's fine. It eventually stopped, but it affected her for a long time. Made it hard for her to trust people." He meets your eyes. "That's why I want to help you end this now, before it gets worse."

His words wrap around you like a shield, and for the first time since you saw that man on the subway, you feel truly protected.

"Thank you," you say again, the words inadequate but sincere.

The police arrive about twenty minutes later—a female officer who takes your statement professionally and thoroughly. She confirms what Heeseung already said: document everything, file for a restraining order as soon as possible, and take precautions with your personal security.

"What about tonight?" you ask as she's preparing to leave. "Is it safe for me to go home?"

The officer hesitates. "We can have a patrol car drive by your residence periodically, but we don't have the resources for constant surveillance. Do you have someone who can stay with you? A friend or family member?"

Before you can answer, Heeseung speaks up. "She can stay here. I have a spare room, security building, doorman. She'll be safe."

The officer looks between the two of you. "That would certainly be safer than being alone," she agrees. "And it might be good to have someone with you for the next few days at least, until we can locate this individual."

After she leaves, a quiet falls over the apartment. You're exhausted but too wired to sleep, and the thought of imposing on Heeseung even more makes you uncomfortable.

"I can take you home if you'd prefer," he offers, reading your hesitation. "Or to a friend's place, or a hotel."

You consider the options, but the thought of being alone—or explaining this bizarre situation to a friend in the middle of the night—seems overwhelming. And a hotel doesn't offer the same security as Heeseung's building.

"If you really don't mind, staying here would make me feel safer," you admit. "Just for tonight. I can figure something else out tomorrow."

"I don't mind at all," he says, and there's such sincerity in his voice that you believe him. "Let me show you the guest room and find you something to sleep in."

The spare room is simple but comfortable, with a queen-sized bed and attached bathroom. Heeseung lends you a soft t-shirt and sweatpants that dwarf your frame but are clean and comfortable.

"Try to get some rest," he says, lingering in the doorway. "I'm right across the hall if you need anything. Anything at all."

"Thank you, Heeseung," you say, the words becoming something of a mantra between you. "For everything."

He smiles—a small, tired smile that still manages to reach his eyes. "Good night, Y/N."

After he leaves, you sit on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed by the events of the day. You should be terrified—and you are—but there's also a strange sense of security that comes from knowing Heeseung is just across the hall. A man who was a stranger two weeks ago has become your shield against a nightmare you never saw coming.

When you finally lay down, exhaustion quickly overtakes your racing thoughts. You fall asleep to the distant sound of Heeseung moving around the apartment, the knowledge of his presence a comfort in the darkness.

-

You wake to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the smell of coffee. For a moment, disorientation grips you—until memories of the previous night come flooding back. The stalker, the chase through your office building, Heeseung's rescue, and now... his guest bedroom.

After using the bathroom and attempting to make yourself somewhat presentable, you venture out to the main living area. Heeseung is in the kitchen, back turned to you as he works at the counter. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair slightly rumpled from sleep.

He turns at the sound of your approach, offering a gentle smile. "Morning. How did you sleep?"

"Better than I expected," you admit. "Something smells amazing."

"Coffee and breakfast," he says, gesturing to the stove where eggs are cooking. "I figured you might be hungry."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture catches you off guard. "Thank you. Again."

He waves it off. "Sit. Eat. Then we can figure out what to do next."

Over breakfast, you both discuss the situation more calmly than was possible the night before. You need clothes and personal items from your apartment, but the thought of going there alone makes your stomach clench.

"I'll go with you," Heeseung offers immediately. "And I still think you should stay here for a few days, at least until the police locate this guy."

"I can't impose on you like that," you protest.

"You're not imposing if I'm offering," he counters. "Look, this guy has clearly fixated on both of us now. It makes sense to stick together." His expression softens. "Plus, I'd worry about you being alone."

The admission brings unexpected comfort. "Okay," you agree. "Just until they find him."

After breakfast, Heeseung insists on driving you to your apartment to collect some essentials. The daylight makes the situation feel less threatening, but you're still jumpy, constantly checking over your shoulder. Heeseung stays close, his presence a constant reassurance.

At your apartment, everything looks normal—no signs of disturbance or intrusion. You quickly pack a bag with clothes and necessities for a few days, while Heeseung checks each room, making sure the space is secure.

"All clear," he reports when you finish packing. "But we should let your building manager know what's happening. And you might want to consider getting your locks changed, just in case."

The practicality of his advice grounds you. This isn't just a nightmare to be endured; there are concrete steps you can take to protect yourself.

Back at Heeseung's apartment, you call your boss to explain the situation (leaving out some of the more frightening details) and arrange to work remotely for a few days. Heeseung does the same, rescheduling his studio sessions to work from home instead.

"You don't have to do that," you tell him. "I'll be fine here alone."

"I know," he says. "But I'd rather be here. Just in case."

The rest of the day passes in a strange bubble of temporary safety. You work on your laptop from his dining table while he tinkers with music tracks at his home studio setup. Occasionally, one of you will make coffee or suggest ordering food, and you find yourself settling into an easy rhythm despite the bizarre circumstances.

In the evening, after dinner (takeout from a nearby Thai place), you sit together on the couch, the TV playing a movie neither of you is really watching. Your mind keeps returning to the danger lurking outside—and to the stranger who has become your protector.

"Can I ask you something?" you finally say.

Heeseung turns to you, giving you his full attention. "Of course."

"That night on the subway platform... when you helped me..." You hesitate, searching for the right words. "Why did you believe me right away? Most people would have thought I was crazy."

He's quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "The fear in your eyes was real," he finally says. "I've seen that kind of fear before. It's not something people fake." His gaze is steady, sincere. "And honestly, what did I have to lose by helping? If you were making it up, the worst that happens is I feel a little awkward for a few minutes. But if you weren't..." He shrugs. "Then maybe I could help keep someone safe."

His simple explanation touches something deep inside you. In a world where so many people turn away from others' problems, Heeseung's instinct was to step forward, to protect.

"Well," you say softly, "you definitely did that. Twice now."

A small smile tugs at his lips. "And I'll keep doing it until this is over."

Your phones sit side by side on the coffee table, both silent for now. But you know the stalker will contact you again. And when he does, you won't be facing him alone.

In this moment of quiet, with the city lights twinkling beyond the windows and Heeseung's steady presence beside you, you allow yourself to breathe. The danger hasn't passed, but for now, in this space, you're safe. And that's enough.

-

The following day, a detective calls to update you on the case. Heeseung sits next to you on the couch as you put the call on speaker, his presence steady and reassuring.

"We've identified the individual from the security footage," the detective explains, her voice professional but tinged with concern. "His name is Lee Minhyuk. He has a history of stalking behavior."

You feel Heeseung tense beside you. "What kind of history?" he asks.

There's a brief pause on the line. "I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but you should both be aware that this isn't his first fixation. He's been linked to at least two similar cases in the past three years."

"And?" you prompt, sensing there's more she isn't saying.

"And in the most recent case, the situation escalated to physical violence." The detective's voice becomes more serious. "The victim had a restraining order in place, but Minhyuk violated it. She was hospitalized with non-life-threatening injuries. He served eight months before being released on good behavior."

Your blood runs cold. Beside you, Heeseung's jaw clenches, his eyes darkening with anger and concern.

"So what happens now?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fear churning in your stomach.

"We're actively looking for him," the detective assures you. "We have units checking his known addresses and places of employment. But until we locate him, you need to take every possible precaution."

"What about police protection?" Heeseung asks.

Another pause. "Unfortunately, we don't have the resources to provide continuous protection at this time. We can increase patrols in both your neighborhoods, but—"

"That's not good enough," Heeseung interrupts, frustration evident in his voice. "If this guy is violent—"

"I understand your concern," the detective says. "Believe me, I do. But the best advice I can give you right now is to stay together, maintain awareness of your surroundings, continue documenting any contact he makes, and call 911 immediately if you believe you're in danger."

After hanging up, you sit in stunned silence. The abstract threat has suddenly become terrifyingly concrete—a real person with a name and a violent history.

"Y/N?" Heeseung says softly, concern etched across his features. "Talk to me."

"I didn't think it would be this serious," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "A violent stalker? How is this happening to me?"

Heeseung reaches for your hand, his warm fingers wrapping around yours. "We'll get through this," he says firmly. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. We just need to be careful until they find him."

You nod, but the detective's words echo in your mind: escalated to physical violence... hospitalized... released on good behavior.

That night, despite Heeseung's reassurances and the security of his apartment, sleep eludes you. You toss and turn in the guest bed, startling at every small noise in the building. When exhaustion finally pulls you under, your dreams are plagued by shadows and footsteps and cold, unblinking eyes watching you from dark corners.

You wake screaming sometime after 3 AM, drenched in sweat, the nightmare still vivid in your mind. In it, the stalker—Minhyuk—had broken into the apartment and was standing over the bed, watching you sleep, something glinting in his hand.

Before you can fully register what's happening, the bedroom door bursts open and Heeseung is there, hair disheveled from sleep but eyes alert and searching for danger.

"Y/N? What's wrong?" he asks urgently, scanning the room before rushing to your side.

"Nightmare," you manage, still trembling. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you."

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, but concern remains etched across his features. "Don't apologize," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head, embarrassed by your reaction despite the lingering terror. "It was just a bad dream."

Heeseung studies your face for a moment, clearly unconvinced. "Would it help if I stayed? Just until you fall back asleep?"

The offer is so sincere, so free of judgment, that tears spring to your eyes. You nod, unable to voice how desperately you don't want to be alone right now.

Without another word, Heeseung moves to sit with his back against the headboard. After a moment's hesitation, you lay back down, surprised by how much safer you feel with him there. He doesn't touch you, but the sound of his steady breathing eventually lulls you back to sleep.

The pattern repeats the next night, and the next. Each time, the nightmares grow more vivid, more terrifying. Each time, you wake calling Heeseung's name, and each time he's there within moments, a solid presence against the fear.

The third morning after another disrupted night, you find Heeseung already in the kitchen when you emerge from the guest room. Dark circles shadow his eyes—clear evidence of his own interrupted sleep—but he smiles warmly when he sees you.

"Morning," he says, sliding a mug of coffee across the counter. "Just how you like it. Two sugars, splash of milk."

You're touched that he's noticed this detail about you in such a short time. "Thank you. I'm really sorry about last night. Again."

He waves away your apology. "Stop apologizing. It's not your fault."

"But you're exhausted too," you point out, gesturing to the faint shadows under his eyes.

Instead of denying it, Heeseung reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a colorful box. "Nothing that sugar can't fix," he declares with a mischievous grin, presenting the box of Frosted Flakes with a flourish. "Breakfast of champions."

The childish delight on his face as he pours two bowls is so incongruous with the somber situation that you can't help but laugh. "Seriously? Frosted Flakes?"

"Don't judge," he says, defending his choice with mock seriousness. "Tony the Tiger has gotten me through some tough times."

You accept the bowl he offers, taking a bite and exaggerating your enjoyment. "Mmm, you're right. They're grrrreat!"

Your tiger impression is terrible, and it makes Heeseung burst into laughter, nearly choking on his cereal. The sound is bright and genuine, lightening the heaviness that's hung between you for days. For a moment, it's easy to forget why you're here—that somewhere out there, someone is looking for you.

"So," Heeseung says when you've both calmed down, "I was thinking we could watch a movie tonight. Something completely mindless and happy. No suspense, no thriller elements, nothing remotely scary."

"That sounds perfect," you admit.

That evening, after you both finish work, Heeseung makes good on his promise. He builds what can only be described as a pillow fortress on the couch, complete with every cushion and throw blanket in the apartment. He microwaves popcorn and pulls out an assortment of candy that would make a dentist cry.

"What are you, twelve?" you tease, but you're smiling as you say it.

"Sometimes," he admits with a shrug. "Being an adult is overrated."

You settle into the nest of pillows as he scrolls through options on the TV. He ends up selecting an animated film about dragons that's clearly meant for children but is visually stunning enough for adults to enjoy. As the movie plays, you find yourself relaxing more than you have in days, occasionally stealing glances at Heeseung as he laughs unreservedly at the funny parts.

When the movie ends, neither of you makes a move to get up right away. The comfortable silence stretches between you, broken only when Heeseung reaches for his phone.

"Oh God," he says suddenly, covering his mouth to suppress his laughter. "Have you seen this?"

He passes you his phone, showing a ridiculous viral video of a cat walking dramatically to music. It's silly and inconsequential, but soon you're both laughing uncontrollably, sharing more videos and memes back and forth, your shoulders pressed together as you huddle over the small screen.

For the first time since this nightmare began, you feel normal. Just two people enjoying each other's company, finding joy in the absurd corners of the internet. The shared laughter creates a bubble around you both, keeping the fear at bay, if only temporarily.

Eventually, the hour grows late, and you can't suppress a yawn.

"Time for bed," Heeseung says, noticing immediately. Something flickers across his face—concern, perhaps, knowing what sleep has meant for you these past few nights.

On the fourth night, after a particularly brutal nightmare where you couldn't scream, couldn't move as Minhyuk approached, Heeseung makes a gentle suggestion over breakfast.

"Maybe it would help if I just stayed in the room from the start," he offers, his voice careful, non-presumptuous. "The guest bed is plenty big enough. I can sleep on top of the covers if that makes you more comfortable."

The idea of not being alone with your fears is so appealing that you agree without hesitation. "Are you sure you don't mind? I feel like I'm completely disrupting your life."

"You're not," he says simply. "I'd rather be here than listen to you suffer alone."

That evening, a new kind of awkwardness creeps in as bedtime approaches. You've never prepared for sleep knowing Heeseung would be there from the beginning. The nighttime routine you've developed over the past few days—brushing teeth side by side at the dual bathroom sinks, moving around each other with careful politeness—suddenly feels different, charged with awareness.

"I'll give you privacy to change," Heeseung says, retreating from the guest room after retrieving what he needs for the night.

When he returns fifteen minutes later, hair damp from a shower and wearing a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, you've already changed into the pajamas you borrowed from him (a t-shirt so large it reaches mid-thigh and a pair of shorts with a drawstring pulled tight). You're sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through your phone, trying to appear casual though your heart beats a little faster at the sight of him.

"I found something," he says, holding up a small bottle. "Lavender spray for the pillows. My sister swears by it for better sleep." He looks suddenly self-conscious. "It's probably silly—"

"No, it's... that's really thoughtful," you interrupt, genuinely touched by the gesture.

He approaches the bed hesitantly. "May I?"

You nod, and he lightly mists the pillows with the fragrant spray. The gentle scent fills the air, surprisingly comforting.

"And I have one more thing," he adds, reaching into his pocket and producing a small portable speaker. He places it on the nightstand and connects his phone. Soft piano music begins to play, quiet enough to not be distracting. "I use this when I can't turn my brain off after a long day in the studio."

The care he's putting into making you comfortable brings a lump to your throat. "Heeseung, you didn't have to do all this."

He shrugs, a shy smile playing at his lips. "I want you to actually sleep tonight."

You both settle into the bed, Heeseung on top of the covers as promised, you underneath them. Despite the physical barrier of the duvet between you, there's an intimacy to sharing this space intentionally, rather than him rushing in after a nightmare has already claimed you.

"Good night, Y/N," he says softly, reaching to turn off the lamp.

"Good night, Heeseung," you reply, the lavender scent and gentle music already making your eyelids heavy.

You sleep better that night—not perfectly, but the nightmares, when they come, are less intense. Heeseung's presence seems to anchor you, giving your subconscious something to hold onto when the fear threatens to drag you under.

The next morning, you wake to find Heeseung already gone, the side of the bed where he slept neatly made. For a moment, disappointment washes over you until the smell of coffee draws you to the kitchen.

"Perfect timing," he says when he sees you, sliding a plate of toast and scrambled eggs across the counter. "I was just about to come wake you."

"You didn't have to cook," you say, though your stomach growls appreciatively at the sight of the food.

"I didn't mind. Besides, you slept past nine. I was starting to worry you were hibernating." His teasing smile makes the kitchen feel warmer somehow.

Over the next few days, a new rhythm emerges. During daylight hours, you share the apartment comfortably, each working on your respective projects but coming together for meals and breaks. You learn that Heeseung is meticulous about some things (the organization of his music equipment) and charmingly chaotic about others (the state of his sock drawer). He learns that you're grumpy before coffee but surprisingly cheerful during thunderstorms.

Small rituals develop without discussion. Morning coffee prepared just the way you like it waiting for you when you wake up. Evening walks around the secure courtyard of his building, his hand finding yours whenever you pass through a shadowy area. Movie nights where neither of you watches the screen as much as you share childhood stories or debate the merits of different ice cream flavors.

At night, you continue to share the bed, the arrangement becoming less awkward with each passing evening. Your bedtime routine evolves into something almost domestic—Heeseung reading a book while you finish an email, you applying lotion to your hands while he sets the alarm, both of you gravitating to your respective sides of the bed with increasing comfort.

One night, as you're both getting ready for sleep, Heeseung emerges from the bathroom wearing a ridiculous sheet mask that makes him look like a cartoon character.

"What on earth is that?" you ask, unable to contain your laughter.

"Skin care is important," he says with exaggerated seriousness, his voice slightly muffled by the mask. "This one makes me look like a panda. There's a tiger one too if you want to join me."

"Absolutely not," you declare, still giggling.

"Your loss," he shrugs, before lifting his phone. "Wait, this requires documentation."

He sits beside you on the bed, holding up his phone to take a selfie. You try to duck away, but his arm catches you around the shoulders, pulling you into the frame. "Say cheese!"

"I am not posing with you looking like that!" you protest, but you're laughing too hard to resist properly.

He snaps several photos in quick succession, capturing your failed attempts to escape and your helpless laughter. When he shows you the results, you have to admit they're hilarious—Heeseung looking serene in his panda mask while you're caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, joy written across your features.

"Delete those," you demand without any real heat.

"No way," he replies, holding the phone out of your reach. "These are artistic masterpieces."

You make a grab for the phone, but he's quicker, holding it high above his head. What follows is a playful tussle that ends with you both breathless with laughter, the momentary physical contact feeling natural rather than forced or awkward.

Later, when you're both settled in bed, lights off and the now-familiar lavender scent surrounding you, Heeseung speaks softly in the darkness.

"It was good to hear you laugh like that," he says.

You turn toward his voice, though you can only make out his silhouette in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "It felt good to laugh," you admit. "Thank you for... all of this. For making this situation somehow bearable."

"You don't have to thank me," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Besides, now I have blackmail material with those photos."

You swat blindly in his direction, your hand connecting with what feels like his shoulder. He chuckles, the sound warming you from the inside.

By the sixth day of your stay, with no word from the police about Minhyuk's whereabouts, your new routine has solidified. During the day, you both work from the apartment, occasionally sharing meals or brief conversations. In the evenings, you watch movies or talk, carefully avoiding discussion of the situation unless there are new developments. And at night, you sleep in the same bed, the space between you a boundary neither has crossed.

Until tonight.

Something wakes you—not a nightmare this time, but some small sound or shift in the atmosphere. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:17 AM. The room is dark except for the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains.

That's when you feel it. The sensation of being watched.

Your eyes dart to the window, heart hammering in your chest. The logical part of your brain knows it's impossible—you're on the twelfth floor, the windows don't open more than a few inches, and there's no balcony or fire escape. But in the shadows cast by the streetlights, every flutter of the curtain looks like movement, every reflection like eyes staring back.

You close your eyes tightly, telling yourself it's just paranoia, just your mind playing tricks in the aftermath of so much stress and fear. But when you open them again, the feeling intensifies. You swear you can see a figure in the darkest corner of the room, watching, waiting.

A sob builds in your throat, but you suppress it, not wanting to wake Heeseung again, not wanting to be more of a burden than you already are. Silent tears slide down your cheeks as you stare at the ceiling, trying to control your breathing, trying to convince yourself you're safe.

But your body betrays you. A small tremor runs through you, then another, until you're shaking with the effort of containing your fear.

Beside you, Heeseung stirs. You feel him turn toward you, hear the soft intake of breath as he realizes you're awake and crying.

"Y/N?" His voice emerges from the darkness, heavy with sleep and barely above a whisper. "What's happening?"

You can hear how deeply he'd been sleeping in the thickness of his words, the way he has to clear his throat softly after speaking. The digital clock reads 2:17 AM.

"I'm sorry," you whisper back, voice breaking. "I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

There's a rustling of sheets as he shifts beside you. Even in the darkness, you can sense him fighting against the pull of sleep, forcing his eyes to stay open for your sake.

"No, s'okay," he mumbles, words slightly slurred. You feel his hand fumbling across the covers, searching until his fingers find yours. His touch is warm, clumsy with drowsiness. "You're shaking," he observes, concern gradually replacing the grogginess in his voice. "Another nightmare?"

You shake your head, though you're not sure if he can see the gesture in the darkness. "Not exactly. I just... I can't stop feeling like someone's watching me. Like he's here, somehow."

Heeseung makes a soft sound of understanding. You hear him yawn, then feel the mattress dip as he pushes himself up to sitting position. He reaches for the bedside lamp, missing it the first time, his movements slow and uncoordinated. On the second attempt, he manages to switch it on.

The warm glow reveals his face, softened with sleep. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking up at odd angles. One cheek bears the imprint of his pillow, and his eyes are heavy-lidded, struggling to stay fully open. Despite his obvious exhaustion, there's nothing but patient concern in his expression as he blinks slowly, trying to focus on you.

"It's just us," he says softly, his voice a comforting rumble in the quiet room. "Just you 'n me here. You're safe."

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, clearly fighting the heaviness of sleep still clinging to him. The gesture is so innocent, so childlike, that it momentarily distracts you from your fear.

"I know it's irrational," you say, wiping at your tears. "But my brain won't stop. I can't turn it off."

Heeseung's eyes drift closed for a moment before he catches himself, snapping them back open with visible effort. He studies your face, his own expression thoughtful despite the sleep that keeps trying to reclaim him. His eyelids flutter, heavy, but he persists, present with you even as his body begs for rest.

"Can I..." he begins, then pauses to stifle another yawn. "Can I try something? To help distract your mind?"

There's such sincerity in his sleepy determination to help you that you find yourself nodding, willing to try anything to escape the endless loop of fear—and to allow him to go back to sleep.

"Close your eyes," he says, his voice a gentle murmur.

You comply, though a small part of you tenses at the thought of not being able to see any potential threats.

"Focus on my voice," Heeseung continues, his tone soothing despite the drowsiness that makes his words flow together like honey, slow and sweet. "Nothing else matters right now. Just this room..." He yawns again, soft and unguarded. "Just this moment."

The bed shifts as he moves closer, his movements languid with fatigue. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, sense his protective presence drawing nearer despite how desperately his body must be yearning to return to sleep.

You try to follow his instructions, concentrating on the low timbre of his voice, the warmth of his hand still holding yours.

"Y/N," he says, his voice closer now. "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

Your eyes fly open in surprise, meeting his serious gaze. There's concern there, and something else—a softness that makes your breath catch.

"To distract your mind," he explains quietly. "Give it something else to focus on besides fear."

The idea is so unexpected, so far from anything you'd anticipated, that it cuts through the panic clouding your thoughts. You find yourself nodding before you've fully processed the request.

Heeseung moves closer, the space between you disappearing as he gently cups your cheek with his free hand. "Tell me to stop if it doesn't help," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

Then his lips meet yours, soft and questioning at first, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But instead of retreating, you find yourself responding, your body instinctively leaning into the contact, seeking comfort and connection.

When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, a soft "mmm" vibrates from his chest—a sound so quietly pleased it makes your stomach flip. You part your lips instinctively, and the moment his tongue slides against yours, a low, satisfied hum rumbles from his throat.

"Is this—" you try to speak, but his tongue sweeps deeper, stealing your words, your thoughts, your very ability to form sentences.

His kiss grows bolder, more insistent, and your brain begins to short-circuit with each stroke of his tongue. The fear that had been cycling through your mind evaporates under the wet heat of his mouth. He tastes faintly of toothpaste and something uniquely him, and when he gently sucks on your bottom lip, he makes another sound—a soft "hmm" that shoots straight down your spine.

You pull back slightly, trying to gather your thoughts. "I—" But that's all you manage before he chases your lips, recapturing them with gentle insistence, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into nothing.

"Shh," he whispers against your mouth, his breath hot against your sensitized lips. "Don't think."

And then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding alongside yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. The hand in your hair tightens just enough to send a shiver through you, and a soft groan—"Mmh"—escapes him when you respond by pressing closer.

His teeth graze your lower lip, and suddenly your mind is completely empty, wiped clean of everything except the sensation of his mouth on yours, his hand in your hair, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating from him.

The kiss breaks for a moment, both of you breathing hard. You open your mouth to speak, to try to articulate how effectively he's scattered your thoughts, but all that comes out is a breathy "I—you—" before words fail you completely.

Heeseung's lips curl into a small smile, understanding in his eyes. "Not thinking anymore?" he asks softly.

You shake your head, unable to string together a coherent sentence. Your brain has turned to absolute mush, every thought process suspended in the warm haze he's created.

"Good," he whispers, and then his lips are on yours again, the gentle scrape of his teeth followed by the soothing slide of his tongue making you gasp. He makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan—"Aahh"—when your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

Time loses all meaning as he kisses you again and again, each one melting into the next until you're not sure where one ends and another begins. Sometimes gentle and exploring, sometimes deeper and more intense, but always with that same effect—emptying your mind until there's nothing but sensation.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing uneven, pupils dilated in the dim light, you try once more to speak. "That was—" But the words won't come, your brain still offline, thoughts scattered like confetti.

"Did it help?" he asks, his voice rougher now, lower.

You nod, surprised to find that forming words feels like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. "My—" you start, then swallow and try again. "Brain... empty," is all you manage to articulate, gesturing vaguely at your head.

A smile touches his lips, genuine and slightly pleased. "Good," he says simply, his thumb brushing your lower lip, still sensitive from his attention. The small touch sends another wave of blankness washing through your mind.

He starts to move back to his side of the bed, and you make a small sound of protest, hand reaching out to stop him. Again, you try to speak, to ask him to stay close, but all that comes out is a breathy "Don't—" before words fail you once more.

Understanding flickers in his eyes. He settles beside you, closer this time, one arm wrapping around your waist as you turn toward him. The position brings your faces close together, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much better," you admit.

He kisses you again, slower this time, more deliberate. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, then his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. Each kiss blurs the edges of your thoughts more, until your mind is blissfully, wonderfully blank—no fear, no stalker, no danger. Just Heeseung, his lips on yours, his arms around you, making you feel safer than locked doors or security systems ever could.

When exhaustion finally begins to reclaim you, Heeseung presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead. "Sleep," he murmurs. "I'm right here."

And for the first time in days, you drift off without fear, your head tucked against his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm in your ear—a constant reminder that you're not alone.

The nightmares don't come again that night.

-

Sunlight filters through the curtains when you wake the next morning. For the first time in days, you've slept through the night without nightmares. The space beside you is empty, but the sheets still hold the faint warmth of Heeseung's body. You stretch, a strange mixture of embarrassment and comfort washing over you as memories of the previous night return—his lips on yours, the way your mind had emptied of everything but sensation, how easily you'd fallen asleep afterwards.

The sound of movement in the kitchen draws you from the bed. You brush your teeth and attempt to tame your sleep-rumpled hair before venturing out, unsure what to expect after crossing such an intimate boundary with someone who was a stranger just a week ago.

Heeseung stands at the counter, back to you, humming softly as he measures coffee grounds. He's wearing a faded t-shirt and sweatpants that hang low on his hips, his hair still mussed from sleep. The scene is so domestic, so normal, that for a moment you forget why you're here—that somewhere out there, someone is looking for you with dangerous intent.

He turns at the sound of your approach, a soft smile spreading across his face. No awkwardness, no regret, just warmth.

"Morning," he says. "Sleep okay?"

You nod, relief washing over you at his easy manner. "Better than I have in days."

He pushes a mug of coffee across the counter—already prepared the way you like it. The simple gesture of remembrance makes your chest tighten with something you're not ready to name.

"Thanks," you say, taking a sip to hide whatever might be showing on your face. "For the coffee. And for... last night."

Heeseung's expression softens, understanding in his eyes. "You don't have to thank me for that."

An almost comfortable silence settles between you as you both drink your coffee, the events of last night hanging in the air—acknowledged but not discussed.

"I thought I'd make us a real breakfast," you finally say, needing to do something, to contribute somehow to this strange partnership that's formed. "Since you've been cooking for me all week."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," you interrupt, already moving toward the refrigerator. "It's the least I can do."

Heeseung watches with amusement as you examine the contents of his fridge. "What did you have in mind?"

"How do you feel about omelets? You have vegetables that need to be used."

"Omelets sound perfect," he says, leaning against the counter as you gather ingredients.

The simple task of cooking is grounding. You wash and chop bell peppers, onions, and mushrooms, concentrating on the steady rhythm of the knife against the cutting board. Heeseung moves around you, setting the table, occasionally brushing against you in the small kitchen. Each brief contact sends a small jolt through you—not unpleasant, just heightened awareness.

You're halfway through dicing an onion when a notification sound from your phone breaks the peaceful bubble. Your hand falters, the knife slipping slightly. It's probably nothing—an email from work, a news alert, anything—but your heart instantly accelerates, your mind immediately jumping to the worst possibility.

Heeseung notices the change immediately. "Hey," he says gently. "Want me to check it?"

You nod, hating how easily your calm has been shattered, how quickly fear reclaims its hold. Heeseung picks up your phone from the counter, checks the screen, and his shoulders relax.

"It's just an email from someone named Sarah. Subject line says 'Project Updates.'"

Relief weakens your knees. Just work. Not him.

But the damage is done. Your hands have begun to tremble, and the vegetables in front of you blur slightly as your mind slips back into the spiral of fear. What if he figures out where Heeseung lives? What if he's watching the building right now? What if—

"Y/N." Heeseung's voice, closer now. You didn't notice him move, but suddenly he's right behind you, his chest nearly touching your back. "You're shaking."

"I'm fine," you lie, but the knife trembles visibly in your grip.

Heeseung gently removes the knife from your hand, setting it safely on the cutting board. Then his hands are on your shoulders, warm and steadying, turning you to face him. You expect to see pity in his eyes, but there's only warmth and understanding.

"You're not fine," he says softly. "And that's okay."

"I hate this," you whisper, frustration bleeding through the fear. "I hate that one notification can do this to me. I hate that he has this power."

Heeseung's hands slide from your shoulders to cup your face, his touch so gentle it makes your breath catch. "He doesn't have power over you," he says firmly. "This reaction—it's just your brain trying to protect you. It's not weakness."

You close your eyes, trying to believe him, trying to slow the racing of your heart. When you feel his breath against your cheek, your eyes flutter open to find his face much closer, his gaze questioning.

"Let me help you think about something else," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that immediately sends warmth spreading through your chest.

You nod, barely perceptible, and then his lips are at your jawline, not quite kissing, just brushing against the skin there. Your hands find his waist, needing something to anchor you as he traces a path down to your neck. When his mouth settles against the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, a small sigh escapes you.

The first gentle scrape of his teeth against your skin makes your thoughts scatter like startled birds. He follows it with the soothing warmth of his tongue, and your grip on his t-shirt tightens involuntarily.

"Is this okay?" he whispers against your skin.

"Yes," you breathe, tilting your head to give him better access. "Don't stop."

His lips curve into a smile against your neck, and then he's kissing the spot again, more purposefully this time. One hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other rests at the small of your back, drawing you closer until you're fully pressed against him.

The fear that had been building melts away with each press of his lips, each gentle scrape of teeth. Your mind empties of everything but the sensation of his mouth on your skin, the solid warmth of his body against yours, the faint scent of sleep and coffee that clings to him.

When he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear, your knees actually weaken. Heeseung notices, his arm tightening around your waist to support you.

"Still thinking about the notification?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.

You try to respond, but your brain feels deliciously fuzzy, unable to form words. Instead, you shake your head, managing only a soft "Mmm" that makes him chuckle.

"Good," he says, pulling back slightly to look at your face. His pupils are dilated, lips slightly parted, and the sight sends another wave of warmth through you. "Because the eggs are getting warm and the vegetables are only half-chopped."

It takes a moment for his words to register through the pleasant haze in your mind. When they do, you glance back at the abandoned breakfast preparations on the counter and can't help but laugh. "Oh god, I forgot all about breakfast."

Heeseung's answering smile is bright enough to chase away the last lingering shadows of your fear. "Mission accomplished then."

You reluctantly step out of his embrace, turning back to the cutting board. "Let me finish this before I get distracted again."

"Distracted? By what?" he teases, but he keeps a respectful distance as you resume chopping, though his eyes never leave you.

The rest of the morning passes in a comfortable rhythm. You finish making breakfast together, moving around each other in the kitchen with growing ease. The omelets turn out perfect, and the simple accomplishment of creating a meal feels significant somehow—a small island of normalcy in the storm of the past week.

After breakfast, you settle in to work on your design project, which your boss has been understanding enough to let you complete remotely. Heeseung works on his music in the corner of the living room, occasionally humming or playing soft melodies on his keyboard. The peaceful coexistence reminds you of how it might feel to share a space with someone by choice, not necessity.

But reality intrudes every time you check your email or glance at your phone. Each notification makes your heart stutter, each unknown number that calls either of your phones sends a spike of adrenaline through your system. The stalker hasn't contacted you today, but his absence feels more like the calm before a storm than any true reprieve.

By late afternoon, your eyes are burning from staring at your laptop screen, and the tension in your shoulders has returned despite your best efforts to focus on work. You save your design file and stretch, rolling your neck to release the stiffness.

Heeseung glances up from his keyboard, noting your discomfort. "Break time," he announces decisively. "You've been hunched over that laptop for hours."

"I need to finish this project," you protest weakly, but your body betrays you with another stretch.

"The project will still be there after a proper break," he counters, standing and moving toward the kitchen. "I'm making tea. Then we're going to do something completely unproductive for at least an hour."

You find yourself smiling at his determined tone. "Is that so? What did you have in mind?"

"I'm thinking..." he pauses dramatically, filling the kettle with water, "a heated battle of Mario Kart."

The suggestion is so unexpected, so delightfully normal, that you laugh. "Mario Kart? Really?"

"Don't tell me you're scared of a little competition," he challenges, raising an eyebrow as he sets the kettle on the stove. "Unless you don't think you can beat me."

"Oh, it's on," you declare, grateful for the distraction. "I'll have you know I was the reigning champion among my college roommates."

"We'll see about that," he grins, the playful light in his eyes making him look younger, carefree—a glimpse of who he might be outside the strange circumstances that have thrown you together.

The promised hour turns into two as you both get increasingly competitive, shouting good-natured insults at each other when one pulls ahead or drops a particularly well-timed shell. You haven't laughed this much in days—maybe weeks—and the release of endorphins leaves you feeling lighter, the constant undercurrent of fear temporarily pushed to the background.

"That's it, I'm cutting you off," Heeseung declares after you beat him for the fifth time in a row. "You're too good at this. It's embarrassing for me."

You raise your controller in victory. "Told you I was the champion."

"Yeah, yeah," he concedes with a mock scowl that quickly melts into a genuine smile. "Hungry yet? I was thinking we could order in. Maybe that Thai place again?"

"Sounds perfect," you agree.

As Heeseung pulls up the restaurant's menu on his phone, you find yourself studying him—the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration, the gentle slope of his nose, the fullness of his lips. The lips that were on your neck this morning, that were on your mouth last night, emptying your mind of everything but sensation. Something warm unfurls in your chest at the memory.

He looks up suddenly, catching you watching him. Instead of looking away, embarrassed, you hold his gaze. A moment of silent understanding passes between you—an acknowledgment that whatever is happening between you isn't just about distraction or safety anymore.

Heeseung breaks the moment first, clearing his throat slightly. "The usual? Or did you want to try something different?"

"The usual is fine," you say, grateful for his tact in not drawing attention to the charged moment.

After placing the order, you both gravitate back to the couch, but with a new awareness of each other. You sit closer than necessary, your thigh just barely touching his. When he reaches for the remote to turn on the TV, his arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves away from the contact.

He finds a cooking competition show that requires minimal attention, and you settle in to watch, the domestic scene surreal in its normalcy. At some point, his arm drapes over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his warmth.

"This is nice," you say after a while, the words slipping out without conscious thought.

Heeseung glances at you, his expression softening. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

His fingers begin to play absently with a strand of your hair that falls over the couch. The gentle tugging sensation sends pleasant shivers down your spine, and you find yourself leaning subtly into the touch. Each brush of his fingers against your neck seems to short-circuit a different part of your brain until you're barely processing the show at all, focused instead on the points of contact between you.

The doorbell rings, startling you both. Heeseung's hand withdraws from your hair as he stands to answer it.

"That'll be the food," he says, but you notice he checks the peephole carefully before opening the door.

The reminder of the danger lurking outside your temporary sanctuary dampens your mood slightly. As you set up dinner on the coffee table, your phone buzzes with an incoming email. You freeze, fork halfway to your mouth, that familiar dread pooling in your stomach.

Heeseung notices your reaction and reaches for your phone. "Want me to check it?"

You nod, setting your food down, no longer hungry.

He scans the screen, relief washing over his features. "It's just a receipt from the Thai place." He hands the phone back to you. "We're okay."

But the moment has been tainted. The fear is back, hovering at the edges of your consciousness, threatening to overwhelm the fragile peace you've built throughout the day. You push your food around on your plate, appetite gone.

Heeseung watches you for a moment, then sets his own plate down. Without a word, he shifts closer to you on the couch, his thigh pressing firmly against yours now. When his hand comes up to tilt your chin toward him, you meet his eyes without resistance.

"He's not here," Heeseung says softly. "Right now, in this moment, it's just us. Okay?"

"Okay," you whisper, trying to believe him.

His thumb traces your lower lip gently, and your body responds instantly to the touch, a pleasant haziness beginning to cloud the edges of your fear. When he leans in, you meet him halfway, your lips finding his with growing familiarity.

This kiss is different from the others—not desperate or distracting, but slow and deliberate. His tongue slides against yours with unhurried confidence, and your mind begins to empty in that now-familiar way, thoughts evaporating like morning dew under the sun.

By the time he pulls back, you've forgotten what triggered your fear in the first place. Your food sits cooling on the coffee table, entirely unimportant compared to the warmth spreading through your body.

"Better?" he asks, his voice lower than usual.

You nod, offering a small smile. "You're getting good at that."

"At what?" There's a playful glint in his eye that makes your heart skip.

"Turning my brain off."

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his expression growing more serious. "For as long as you need it," he promises.

The rest of the evening passes in comfortable closeness. You eventually return to your food, eating while leaning against each other on the couch. When you finally head to bed, the routine feels both new and familiar at once—brushing teeth side by side, Heeseung waiting in the hallway while you change, the brief moment of adjustment as you both settle into the bed.

But tonight, there's less space between you than before. He still stays on top of the covers while you slip underneath, but when you turn off the lamp, his hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining naturally.

"Good night, Y/N," he murmurs, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep.

"Good night, Heeseung," you reply, squeezing his hand gently.

You fall asleep with his fingers still linked with yours, the weight of his hand an anchor against the night terrors that might come. Your last thought before drifting off is that you've never felt safer than in this strange limbo—trapped by circumstances beyond your control, yet somehow freer than you've been in a long time.

The morning comes too quickly, sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains and painting a stripe of gold across the bed. You wake to find yourself curled toward Heeseung, who's still asleep on his side facing you. In sleep, his face is completely relaxed, all traces of vigilance gone, making him look younger and impossibly vulnerable.

You allow yourself a moment to simply look at him, to memorize the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the slight part of his lips, the way his hair falls across his forehead. There's a strange ache in your chest at the sight—gratitude mixed with something deeper that you're not ready to name.

As if sensing your gaze, his eyes flutter open, landing immediately on your face. A slow, sleepy smile spreads across his features, unguarded and genuine.

"Morning," he mumbles, voice husky with sleep.

"Morning," you whisper back, strangely reluctant to break the peaceful bubble around you.

Neither of you moves for a long moment, content to exist in this quiet space between night and day, between danger and safety, between strangers and something more. Then reality intrudes in the form of his buzzing phone on the nightstand.

Heeseung rolls over with a groan, reaching for the device. As he checks the screen, his body goes rigid, sleep vanishing in an instant.

"What is it?" you ask, dread already pooling in your stomach.

He sits up, running a hand through his hair as he reads whatever message has appeared. When he turns back to you, his expression is carefully controlled, but you can see the tension around his eyes.

"It's from the detective," he says carefully. "Minhyuk was spotted near my building yesterday."

The fragile peace of the morning shatters completely. Fear rushes back in with a vengeance, your heart rate spiking so quickly you feel light-headed.

"He knows I'm here?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, panic rising like a tide.

Heeseung's hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. "We don't know that for sure. But the detective thinks we should consider relocating, just to be safe."

"Where would we even go?" The thought of leaving this apartment—the only place you've felt secure in days—sends another wave of anxiety through you.

"I might have an idea," Heeseung says, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand. "But first, breakfast. And coffee. Lots of coffee."

You nod, clinging to his steady presence as your mind races with terrifying possibilities. The tiny window of normalcy you'd carved out for yourselves is closing, and the world with all its dangers is forcing its way back in.

But as Heeseung helps you to your feet, his hand never leaving yours, you realize something important: whatever comes next, you're no longer facing it alone. And for now, that will have to be enough.

-

The detective's news about Minhyuk being spotted near Heeseung's building leaves you both on edge. Despite Heeseung's attempts at normalcy—breakfast, coffee, casual conversation—there's a new tension in the air, a heightened vigilance in the way he frequently checks his phone and glances at the door.

You try to work on your design project, but concentration is impossible. Your mind keeps conjuring images of Minhyuk watching the building, waiting, planning. By mid-afternoon, you've accomplished almost nothing, your anxiety a living thing crawling beneath your skin.

That's when your phone chimes with a new email notification.

You freeze, looking up to find Heeseung already watching you from across the room, his expression tense. Without a word, he crosses to where you sit, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder as you open the message.

The subject line is blank. The sender's address is unfamiliar—a string of random numbers and letters.

Your trembling finger taps the message open.

There's no text, just an image: a photograph of you and Heeseung standing in his kitchen from earlier that morning, clearly taken through the window of his apartment. The angle suggests it was shot from the building across the street. Below the photo is a single line of text:

"Glass won't protect you forever."

A strangled sound escapes your throat as the phone slips from your fingers, clattering to the floor. Heeseung snatches it up, his face darkening as he views the message.

"That's not possible," he mutters, moving quickly to the windows. "We're twelve floors up."

But as he pulls back the curtain to scan the building opposite, you feel it start—the tightening in your chest, the sudden inability to pull in enough air, the roaring in your ears. The room seems to tilt and spin around you.

"He can see us," you gasp, each breath becoming more difficult than the last. "He's watching us right now. He can see us right now."

Heeseung is at your side instantly, closing the curtains and guiding you away from the windows. "Y/N, breathe. You need to breathe."

But you can't. Your lungs refuse to cooperate, each shallow gasp more painful than the last. Dark spots dance at the edges of your vision, and your hands have gone numb, fingers tingling.

"He's going to—he's going to—" You can't even finish the thought, terror consuming every rational part of your mind.

"Y/N, look at me," Heeseung says firmly, his hands framing your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Focus on me. Just me."

He tries all the techniques that have worked before—deep breathing instructions, gentle reassurances, even pressing his lips to yours in that way that usually empties your mind. But the panic is too overwhelming, the fear too visceral. Even his kiss, which normally blanks your thoughts completely, barely makes a dent in the terror.

When he pulls back, your breathing is still erratic, tears streaming down your face. "It's not working," you choke out. "I can't—I can't turn it off. My mind won't stop."

The helplessness in Heeseung's eyes is devastating. "Tell me what you need. Anything."

"Make it stop," you beg, clutching at his shirt. "Please, I don't care what you have to do. Make me go dumb. Turn my brain off. I can't take it anymore."

His eyes darken at your words, understanding dawning in his expression. "Y/N..."

"Please," you whisper, desperation making your voice crack. "Fuck me until I can't think anymore. Until I can't remember my own name. I need to not be in my head right now. I need everything to just stop."

Heeseung's breath catches, his pupils dilating until there's just a thin ring of brown around the black. You watch the struggle play out on his face—desire warring with concern, restraint battling with the need to help you.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice lower than you've ever heard it. "Because if we do this... I want to help you, Y/N, more than anything. But I don't know if I'll be able to hold back once we start."

A sob escapes you, your hands fisting in his shirt. "I don't want you to hold back. I want you to make me forget everything but you." You're openly crying now, beyond shame or hesitation. "Please, Heeseung. Please make it all go away."

Something snaps in his expression. His hand slides into your hair, gripping firmly as he searches your eyes one last time. Whatever he sees there must convince him, because in the next moment, his mouth crashes against yours with none of the gentleness from before.

This kiss is different—hungry, almost desperate. His tongue pushes past your lips immediately, demanding rather than asking. One arm locks around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.

When his teeth sink into your lower lip, pain mingling with pleasure, your thoughts begin to splinter. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs, and your mind fragments further.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he says against your mouth, his breathing ragged. "At any point."

"Don't stop," you gasp. "Don't you dare stop."

His eyes meet yours, something primal and protective darkening his gaze. "I'm going to help you forget everything," he promises, his voice a rough whisper. "Everything but this."

Heeseung's eyes lock onto yours, dark with a raw intensity that makes your heart pound violently in your chest. His fingers twist harshly into your hair, pulling your head back sharply, fully exposing your vulnerable throat. His lips crash against your skin roughly, teeth biting deeply, marking you as his own with bruising kisses that send sparks of pain and pleasure shooting through your veins.

Your breathing is ragged, erratic, your entire body trembling beneath him. His other hand moves urgently down your body, gripping your waist tightly, fingertips pressing deep enough into your flesh to leave bruises, marking you unmistakably as his. You arch your body against his, desperate for more contact, craving the harsh intensity that only he can provide.

"Harder," you plead breathlessly, voice quivering with desperation. "Heeseung, please—use me, ruin me. Make me forget everything else."

A dark, feral growl tears from his throat, his eyes blazing dangerously as he claims your mouth roughly, tongue pushing aggressively past your lips. You moan helplessly into the kiss, surrendering completely to his dominating embrace, your nails scratching feverishly down his back, urging him to take you harder, deeper, to erase every lingering thought from your mind.

Heeseung breaks away, his breath hot and ragged as he trails searing kisses down your trembling body, biting roughly at your collarbone, chest, and stomach, each sharp nip igniting fiery jolts of pain and pleasure that tear gasps from your lips. You writhe helplessly beneath him, mind unraveling with each aggressive touch.

"Please," you beg desperately, voice nearly incoherent, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. "Heeseung, I’ll do anything. Anything you want, just—just make me forget."

A fierce, primal growl resonates from deep in his chest. "Anything?" he rasps darkly, his eyes blazing with barely controlled hunger. "You're going to regret saying that, sweetheart."

He pushes your thighs apart roughly, fully exposing you to his hungry gaze. His mouth descends aggressively, tongue plunging deep and fast, consuming you without mercy. You scream out sharply, hips bucking uncontrollably against him, your hands clutching desperately at his hair, pulling him even closer. Every intense, relentless movement of his tongue drives you closer to a devastating climax.

But before you reach that peak, he stops abruptly, leaving you sobbing in frustration. Your eyes plead desperately for release as you gasp, "Please—don't stop."

Heeseung positions himself swiftly over you, gripping your hips with bruising intensity, plunging deep and brutally into your aching core without warning, tearing a raw scream from your throat. He sets an unforgiving pace, each powerful thrust ruthlessly tearing apart your remaining thoughts, overwhelming you completely.

"Feel that?" he snarls roughly, hips pounding mercilessly against yours. "That's me claiming you. I'm going to fuck every last thought out of your head until you're nothing but mine."

His filthy, possessive words make your entire body shake uncontrollably, tears streaming down your cheeks as you cry out shamelessly for more. His grip tightens painfully on your wrists, pinning them roughly above your head as his hips drive harder, deeper, faster, each brutal thrust sending shockwaves through your body.

"You're mine," he growls harshly into your ear, teeth scraping your sensitive skin. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you choke out weakly, mind fracturing under the relentless assault of sensation.

"Louder," he demands fiercely, slamming even harder into you, movements ruthless and unyielding.

"I'm yours!" you scream, voice cracking from the intensity.

"Good girl," he snarls, rewarding you with deeper, fiercer thrusts, pushing your body to its absolute limits. His hand wraps around your throat firmly, just enough to make your vision blur, enhancing every overwhelming sensation tenfold.

Your body writhes violently beneath him, unable to form coherent words anymore, reduced to sobbing gasps and broken pleas. Heeseung continues relentlessly, his body driving into yours mercilessly until you're utterly consumed, your mind blanking entirely, eyes glazing over, unable to do anything but feel him, hear him, lose yourself completely to him.

"Cum for me," he commands roughly, his voice low and dangerously seductive. "Show me exactly how completely you belong to me."

Your body reacts instantly, violently, shattering beneath him into waves of devastating pleasure that tear through you, obliterating any remaining thought. You collapse, trembling uncontrollably, completely and utterly surrendered to him, mind blissfully empty, lost entirely in the overwhelming force of his claim.

Then his hands and mouth begin their relentless campaign to empty your mind completely, and thinking becomes impossible.

-

Hours later, you lie boneless and spent in Heeseung's arms, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank. No fear, no anxiety, no thoughts of Minhyuk or danger or what comes next. Just the pleasant hum of your body and the steady rhythm of Heeseung's heartbeat beneath your ear.

He's been silent for a while, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare shoulder. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft with something that might be concern.

"Are you okay?"

You have to concentrate to form words, your brain still deliciously fuzzy around the edges. "Mmm. Better than okay."

His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "I didn't hurt you?"

You shake your head against his chest. "You did exactly what I needed."

His arms tighten around you, and you feel his lips press against the top of your head. "Your mind quiet now?"

"Completely empty," you murmur, surprised to find yourself smiling. "Mission accomplished."

You feel rather than see his answering smile, his whole body relaxing beneath yours. For several long moments, you both drift in comfortable silence, the world beyond this bed temporarily forgotten.

Until Heeseung's phone buzzes on the nightstand.

The tension returns to his body immediately, but he doesn't move to check it, unwilling to disturb the peace you've found. The phone buzzes again, more insistent this time.

"You should get that," you say softly. "It might be important."

Reluctantly, he reaches for the phone, keeping you tucked against him with his other arm. You watch his face as he reads the message, preparing yourself for bad news.

"It's the detective," he says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "She thinks we should consider temporary relocation—somewhere Minhyuk wouldn't think to look."

The fear starts to creep back in at the edges of your consciousness, but you fight it, focusing on the warmth of Heeseung's body against yours, the lingering pleasant numbness in your limbs.

"She says they can arrange a safe house, but it would take a few days." He scrolls through more of the message. "Or... we could go somewhere on our own. Somewhere only we know about."

You push yourself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "Like where?"

A thoughtful expression crosses his face. "My family has a cabin in the mountains. It's remote, secure. Only a handful of people even know it exists."

"How far?"

"About three hours' drive. Completely isolated." His eyes search yours. "We'd be alone out there."

The thought should be terrifying after everything that's happened, but instead it brings an unexpected sense of relief. Somewhere Minhyuk can't find you. Somewhere you could breathe again.

"When can we leave?" you ask.

Heeseung studies your face, perhaps looking for signs of fear or hesitation. "Tomorrow morning, first light. We'll need to be careful, make sure we're not followed."

You nod, settling back against his chest. "Tomorrow then."

His arm wraps around you again, protective and warm. "Get some rest," he murmurs, his lips brushing your forehead. "I'll be right here."

As sleep begins to claim you, one last coherent thought floats through your mind: whatever happens next, whatever Minhyuk tries, you're not alone. You have Heeseung—your protector, your sanctuary.

Your mind emptier.

-

You wake before dawn, the sky outside still ink-dark. For a moment, you forget why you're rising so early—then memories of yesterday's message flood back. Minhyuk knows where you are. You're no longer safe here.

Heeseung is already up, moving quietly around the apartment, packing essentials into a duffel bag. He pauses when he notices you watching him, a small smile crossing his face despite the tension in his shoulders.

"Morning," he says softly. "I was trying not to wake you."

"I don't think I was really sleeping," you admit, sitting up. "Too much on my mind."

He crosses to sit beside you on the bed, his hand finding yours. "We'll be okay," he promises. "The cabin is safe. My family's owned it for generations, and it's not listed under my name. There's no way he could trace it."

You nod, drawing strength from his certainty. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just pack whatever you need for a week or so. Clothes, toiletries. I've got everything else covered—food, first aid supplies." He squeezes your hand. "And we should get moving soon. I want to be on the road before the city wakes up."

Thirty minutes later, you're both ready. The apartment is locked down—lights on timers to simulate occupancy, mail delivery paused. Heeseung has even arranged for a neighbor to occasionally move his car in the garage to maintain the illusion that you're both still here.

The detective has been notified of your plans, though not your specific destination. "Just tell her we're heading north," Heeseung had instructed during your call. "The fewer people who know exactly where we are, the better."

Dawn is just breaking as you slip into Heeseung's car in the underground parking garage. He drives cautiously, taking a circuitous route through the awakening city, frequently checking the rearview mirror for any signs of being followed.

"You really think he could track us?" you ask, watching Heeseung's vigilant eyes scanning the traffic behind you.

"I'm not taking any chances," he says simply. "Not with your safety."

The city gradually gives way to suburbs, then to open countryside. With each mile that passes, you feel the vise-grip of fear around your chest loosening slightly. By the time you're an hour into the journey, the weight of constant vigilance has lightened enough that you notice your surroundings—the spectacular autumn colors painting the landscape, the mountains rising in the distance, shrouded in morning mist.

Heeseung must notice your gaze, because he reaches across the console to take your hand. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

You nod, surprised to find yourself capable of appreciating beauty after days of seeing only danger. "I didn't realize how much I needed to get out of the city."

His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. "We both did."

The drive continues, winding steadily upward into the mountains. Cell service becomes increasingly spotty, then disappears altogether. The isolation that would have terrified you days ago now feels like a blessing—a barrier between you and the danger you've left behind.

"Almost there," Heeseung says as he turns onto a narrow dirt road that seems to disappear into the forest. "It's a bit hidden."

'A bit hidden' proves to be an understatement. The road—little more than a trail—winds through dense trees for nearly a mile before suddenly opening into a small clearing. And there, nestled against a backdrop of pines with a breathtaking view of the valley below, stands the cabin.

It's not what you expected—not the rustic, primitive structure the word "cabin" had conjured in your mind. This is a beautifully crafted home of stone and timber, with large windows facing the valley and a wide porch wrapping around two sides.

"Heeseung," you breathe, taking in the scene. "This is..."

"Home," he says simply, a soft smile playing at his lips as he watches your reaction. "At least, it always has been for me."

He parks beside the cabin and comes around to open your door, offering his hand to help you out. The mountain air hits you immediately—crisp, pine-scented, revitalizing. You take a deep breath, feeling something tight in your chest unfurl.

"Come on," Heeseung says, retrieving your bags from the trunk. "Let's get inside before it gets cold."

The interior of the cabin is even more beautiful than the exterior—an open-concept living area with soaring ceilings, the far wall dominated by a stone fireplace. The furnishings are simple but high-quality, clearly chosen to complement the natural surroundings. Large windows frame the valley view like living paintings.

"This is incredible," you say, turning slowly to take it all in. "Your family built this?"

"My grandfather," Heeseung confirms, setting the bags down. "He wanted a place where the family could escape, reconnect with nature. I spent every summer here as a kid." A wistful smile crosses his face. "Haven't been back in a couple of years though. Work always seemed more important somehow."

You move to the windows, gazing out at the panoramic view. The valley stretches below you, a patchwork of golds and reds and deep greens in the autumn sunlight. In the distance, more mountains rise, their peaks ghostly in the afternoon haze.

"I've never seen anything like this," you admit, momentarily forgetting why you're here—not a vacation, but an escape from danger.

Heeseung comes to stand behind you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. "Good," he says softly. "I wanted you to see something beautiful after everything you've been through."

The simple statement, so earnest and thoughtful, brings unexpected tears to your eyes. You turn to face him, finding his gaze already on you, warm and steady.

"Thank you," you whisper. "For all of this. For keeping me safe."

His expression softens further. "You don't have to thank me."

"I do," you insist. "Most people wouldn't have done half of what you have for someone they barely know."

Something shifts in his eyes at that. "I think we're well past 'barely know,' don't you?"

Heat rises to your cheeks as memories of yesterday flood back—his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, the way he'd made you forget everything but him. "Yes," you agree quietly. "I guess we are."

The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken things. Then Heeseung clears his throat, stepping back slightly. "I should get the generator going and check the water. Make yourself at home."

As he busies himself with the practical aspects of opening the cabin, you explore the space that will be your sanctuary for the foreseeable future. Besides the main living area, there's a well-equipped kitchen, a bathroom with a surprisingly modern shower, and two bedrooms—one large, one small. You peek into the larger one, noting the king-sized bed with its blue-and-white quilt, the bedside tables with reading lamps, the large window offering the same spectacular view as the living room.

Your exploration is interrupted by Heeseung's return. "Everything's working," he announces. "Water's running, generator's humming along. We're all set." He glances at his watch. "I should try to call the detective while we still have daylight. The satellite phone works better outside."

You nod, suddenly remembering the reason for this idyllic retreat. "I'll unpack some of the food supplies."

While Heeseung steps onto the porch with the satellite phone, you busy yourself in the kitchen, organizing the groceries you picked up on the drive. The domesticity of the task is soothing—arranging canned goods in cupboards, filling the refrigerator with fresh produce, setting out cooking utensils. For a few minutes, it's possible to pretend this is just a vacation, a romantic getaway rather than a desperate flight from danger.

When Heeseung returns, his expression is more relaxed than before. "Good news," he says, setting the satellite phone on the counter. "They've got leads on Minhyuk. Apparently he's been spotted in the city, which means he doesn't know we've left."

Relief floods through you. "So we're safe here?"

"For now, at least," he confirms. "The detective says to stay put. They'll contact us as soon as they have him in custody."

You lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted as the tension of the day catches up with you. "So what do we do now?"

Heeseung steps closer, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with gentle fingers. "Now," he says softly, "we rest. We breathe. We let ourselves feel safe for a while."

"I'm not sure I remember what that feels like," you admit.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. "Then I'll help you remember," he promises.

The first evening in the cabin passes in a peaceful haze. Heeseung builds a fire in the massive stone hearth while you prepare a simple dinner from the supplies you brought. The routine feels surprisingly natural—him pausing to taste the sauce you're making, you passing him logs for the fire, both of you moving around each other with an ease that belies how new this closeness really is.

After dinner, you settle on the comfortable sofa facing the fireplace, a blanket draped over both of you. Outside, night has fallen completely, the darkness absolute in a way it never is in the city. Inside, the fire casts dancing shadows on the walls, bathing everything in warm golden light.

"What are you thinking?" Heeseung asks, noticing your contemplative expression.

You consider the question, surprised by your answer. "That I can't remember the last time I felt this calm."

His arm around your shoulders tightens slightly. "Good. That's what I wanted for you here."

You turn to look at him, studying his face in the firelight—the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the warmth in his eyes as he returns your gaze. Something swells in your chest, a feeling too new and fragile to name.

"What about you?" you ask. "What were you thinking?"

A small smile plays at his lips. "That I've never brought anyone here before. Not like this."

The admission sends a pleasant warmth spreading through you. "Not even your...?"

"No," he says simply. "No one. This place has always been just for family." He pauses, his eyes never leaving yours. "But having you here feels right somehow."

The words hang in the air between you, weighted with meaning. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, you both lean in, lips meeting in a kiss that's different from any you've shared before—not desperate or distracting, but slow and deliberate, a question and an answer all at once.

When you break apart, something has shifted between you yet again. The pretense that this is merely about safety, about distraction from fear, has fallen away completely. What remains is something new and uncharted, fragile but intensely real.

"It's getting late," Heeseung murmurs, though he makes no move to pull away. "We should probably get some sleep."

The practical concern brings a sudden awkwardness. There are two bedrooms in the cabin, but after everything that's happened between you, the thought of sleeping apart feels strange, almost wrong.

As if reading your thoughts, Heeseung adds hesitantly, "I can take the small room if you want space, or..."

"No," you say quickly—too quickly perhaps. "I mean, I'd rather not be alone. If that's okay."

The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise. "More than okay," he assures you.

The nighttime routine you establish feels like an extension of the easy domesticity you've been building—brushing teeth side by side at the single bathroom sink, taking turns changing in the bedroom, pulling back the covers together. When you finally settle into bed, Heeseung's arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against his chest as naturally as if you've been falling asleep this way for years.

"Good night, Y/N," he murmurs, lips brushing the nape of your neck.

"Good night, Heeseung," you whisper back, marveling at how quickly terror has given way to tranquility.

As you drift toward sleep, one last coherent thought forms in your mind: here, miles from civilization, cut off from the world, entirely alone with a man who was a stranger just days ago, you've never felt safer in your life.

-

Heeseung's eyes soften, his gaze lingering warmly on yours as sunlight filters through the window, bathing your tangled bodies in golden warmth. His thumb brushes gently over your lower lip, sending a shiver down your spine.

Over the next few days, your intimacy deepens, boundaries dissolving entirely as your desire grows increasingly insatiable. Mornings find you waking to his warm body pressed firmly against yours, his hands already exploring your skin, teasing sensitive spots until you're fully awake, panting and desperate for him.

Afternoons turn into hours spent in relentless pursuit of pleasure—Heeseung pressing you against cabin walls, your bodies colliding roughly, passionately. His hands gripping your hips tightly, thrusting deep and mercilessly, leaving you screaming his name, your thoughts scattering as he repeatedly takes you over the edge. His mouth is everywhere, biting, sucking, and marking you until your body feels entirely claimed.

Late nights, he has you bent over the couch, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you firmly in place as he drives into you with powerful, possessive strokes, whispering filthy praise into your ear. He loves seeing how quickly he can make your eyes glaze over, leaving you utterly mindless and completely his, each climax more intense, more consuming than the last.

One rainy afternoon, your bodies slam together against the window overlooking the forest, your cries blending with the sound of raindrops hitting the glass. Heeseung lifts you effortlessly, pinning you hard against the cold surface, entering you sharply and deeply, pushing you to the edge with a brutal, relentless rhythm. You cling desperately to him, sobbing from pleasure, your vision blurring as you lose yourself entirely to the sensations he's inflicting upon your body.

In quieter moments, he lays you out on the bed, spreading your legs wide, taking his time teasing you mercilessly with slow, torturous strokes of his tongue and fingers, pushing you to the brink repeatedly until you're begging him shamelessly for release. He enjoys reducing you to pleading incoherence, knowing that only he can unravel you so completely.

One evening, under the flickering glow of candlelight, you ride him slowly at first, then harder, more desperately as your need overtakes you. His fingers dig painfully into your hips, urging you on, thrusting up into you roughly until your body shatters, leaving you trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overwhelming pleasure.

"How did we ever survive without this?" you whisper afterward, your voice soft, your body warm and languid against his.

Heeseung smiles darkly, pressing a possessive kiss to your temple. "I don't know," he murmurs, pulling you impossibly closer. "But I plan to make sure you never forget exactly who makes you feel this good."

This time, there's no fear driving you together, no desperate need to escape your thoughts. There's only want—pure and simple and mutual. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss intentional. And when you come together, it's with a sweetness that brings tears to your eyes, your mind emptying not from desperate distraction but from sheer overwhelming pleasure.

"That was..." you begin afterward, struggling to find words as you lie tangled together in the sunlit bed.

"I know," Heeseung says, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "For me too."

The admission brings a smile to your lips. "How is this real?" you wonder aloud. "two weeks ago, you were a stranger."

He traces patterns on your bare shoulder, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe sometimes life compresses. A week feels like months because we've experienced so much together."

You consider this, watching sunlight play across his features. "I like that explanation."

His fingers continue their gentle exploration of your skin. "Or maybe," he adds more softly, "this was always going to happen, somehow. Maybe we were meant to find each other, even if the circumstances were..."

"Completely terrifying?" you supply with a small laugh.

He smiles, but his eyes remain serious. "I would never wish what you've been through on anyone," he says. "But I can't regret that it brought you into my life."

The simple honesty of his words makes your chest tighten with emotion. You lean up to kiss him, trying to convey without words what you're not yet ready to say aloud.

The satellite phone rings that afternoon—the detective with an update. They've narrowed down Minhyuk's location but haven't apprehended him yet. The news casts a brief shadow over your idyllic retreat, a reminder that the danger hasn't passed. But somehow, it doesn't hold the same power to terrify you anymore.

"We're safe here," Heeseung reassures you after the call. "And they're getting closer to finding him."

You nod, surprised to realize you truly believe him. The panic that has been your constant companion for days has receded to a dull concern, manageable rather than overwhelming.

That evening, a storm moves in, bringing wind and rain that lash at the windows. You build the fire higher, creating a cocoon of warmth against the elements. The electricity flickers once, twice, then goes out completely, leaving you in firelight and shadows.

"Generator must have cut out," Heeseung says, already reaching for a flashlight. "I'll go check it."

"Be careful," you call as he heads for the door, suddenly anxious about him leaving, even briefly.

He pauses, returning to press a quick kiss to your lips. "Always am," he promises. "Keep the fire going—I'll be back in ten minutes."

While he's gone, you add logs to the fire, then gather candles from the kitchen cupboards, placing them strategically around the living area. The storm seems to intensify, rain drumming against the roof, wind howling through the trees outside. For the first time since arriving at the cabin, you feel a prickle of unease, attuned to every sound.

When the door finally opens, admitting a rain-soaked Heeseung, relief rushes through you so strongly that you cross the room in seconds, throwing your arms around him despite his wet clothes.

"Hey," he says, clearly surprised by the reaction. "It's okay. Just a blown fuse—I fixed it, but the power company's out anyway. We'll have to wait out the storm."

"I don't care about the power," you murmur against his chest. "I just... I didn't like you being out there alone."

He pulls back slightly to look at you, rainwater dripping from his hair onto his face. "I'm right here," he says softly. "Not going anywhere."

You help him out of his wet jacket, insisting he change into dry clothes while you make hot chocolate on the gas stove. By the time he returns, you've created a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor in front of the fireplace, the closest source of warmth.

"What's all this?" he asks, a smile playing at his lips.

"Camping," you declare with mock seriousness. "Indoor version."

He laughs, the sound warming you more than the fire. "I like the way you think."

You settle into your makeshift camp, sipping hot chocolate, listening to the storm rage outside while remaining perfectly safe and warm within. The contrast isn't lost on you—how something that would have terrified you a week ago now feels almost romantic.

"Thank you," you say suddenly, looking up at Heeseung.

"For what?" he asks, brow furrowing slightly.

"For this," you gesture around you. "For keeping me safe. For... everything."

His expression softens. "You don't have to thank me."

"I know," you admit. "But I want to. Not just for the practical things—the protection, the cabin. But for making me feel..." You search for the right word. "Normal again. Like myself, not just someone who's afraid all the time."

Heeseung sets down his mug, turning to face you fully. "You're extraordinary," he says, his voice low and sincere. "The way you've handled everything that's happened—most people would have broken down completely. But you're still here, still fighting."

The earnestness in his eyes makes your breath catch. "Only because of you."

He shakes his head. "No. I may have helped, but the strength was yours all along." He takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours. "Do you know what I thought when you first grabbed me that night on the subway?"

You shake your head, curious.

"I thought, 'This person is brave.' Not just because you asked a stranger for help, but because I could see in your eyes that you were scared but refusing to be paralyzed by it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "I still think that. Every day."

Emotion swells in your chest, too big to contain. You lean forward, closing the distance between you, your lips finding his in a kiss that tries to convey everything you're feeling—gratitude, yes, but also something deeper, something that's been growing quietly in the shadow of fear.

The kiss deepens, hands beginning to wander, the storm outside forgotten entirely as you create your own tempest within the circle of firelight. Heeseung's lips trace a path down your neck, finding the spot that makes your mind go blissfully blank, and you surrender to the sensation, to him, to the unexpected gift of feeling safe in a world that had become nothing but danger.

The warmth of the fire bathes the room in soft golden light, shadows dancing gently across your intertwined bodies. Heeseung's fingers glide slowly over your skin, tracing sensual, languid patterns that ignite a slow-burning fire within you. His eyes meet yours, heavy-lidded and filled with desire, making your heart race with anticipation.

He gently guides you to move above him, hands firmly gripping your hips, positioning you carefully until you're comfortably settled with your thighs on either side of his face. A thrill of excitement courses through your body, and you tremble slightly at the intimate vulnerability of the position. Heeseung's gaze reassures you entirely, filled with warmth, adoration, and undeniable lust.

"Take your time," he whispers huskily, warm breath teasing your sensitive skin. "I want to savor you."

His hands slowly stroke your thighs, fingertips pressing lightly into your skin as he draws you closer. Your breath hitches when his lips press softly, sensually along your inner thighs, lingering kisses growing hotter, more intense, making your muscles relax as desire pools deep within your core.

You release a soft, breathless moan as his tongue finally makes contact, moving slowly and deliberately, dragging in slow, teasing strokes, sending waves of languid pleasure cascading through you. Your fingers thread into his hair, guiding his movements gently, hips beginning to rock instinctively, chasing the irresistible sensations he creates.

"Heeseung," you sigh, voice thick with desire, body melting under the slow, sinful movements of his tongue. He hums appreciatively against you, the vibrations rippling pleasure deeper into your body, making you gasp softly.

His touch remains unhurried, deliberately teasing, each slow, tantalizing swipe of his tongue pulling you further into a blissful haze of sensation. He explores every inch of you thoroughly, lips and tongue moving expertly, alternating between slow, gentle strokes and firm, demanding pressure, making you whimper and moan his name repeatedly.

"You taste so good," he murmurs, voice deep and rough, eyes blazing with passion as he briefly pulls away to gaze up at you. "I could do this all night."

Your hips move more insistently now, grinding slowly against his mouth, savoring the deep, languid rhythm you've fallen into. Pleasure coils tighter within you, slow-building yet powerful, as he continues to worship you expertly, driving you steadily toward the edge.

Your breathing becomes ragged, body trembling with need, fingers tightening in his hair as the exquisite sensations push you gently yet inexorably toward release. Heeseung senses your closeness, intensifying his efforts, tongue moving deeply, urgently, drawing you over the edge into a languid, shuddering climax that leaves you breathless and softly trembling above him.

When you finally sink back beside him, his arms wrap around you possessively, pulling you flush against his chest, your bodies tangled intimately as he presses slow, sensual kisses along your skin. The firelight flickers warmly around you, creating a perfect cocoon of warmth, sensuality, and unspoken promises.

Heeseung's fingers trace lazy patterns on your bare skin, his breathing slow and even against your hair.

"What happens when this is over?" you ask softly, the question that's been lingering in the back of your mind finally finding voice. "When they catch him and we go back to the city?"

Heeseung is quiet for a long moment, his hand stilling against your shoulder. Then he props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression so serious it makes your heart stutter.

"Whatever you want to happen," he says simply. "But I hope... I hope we don't go back to being strangers."

The vulnerability in his voice melts something inside you. "I don't think we could if we tried," you confess. "Not after everything."

Relief softens his features. "Good," he says. "Because I've gotten used to this. To you."

"Me too," you admit, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "I can't imagine waking up and you not being there."

His smile is so tender it makes your chest ache. "Then don't," he says, leaning down to brush his lips against yours. "Don't imagine it."

As you drift toward sleep in his arms, the rain pattering gently against the roof, you realize something profound: in running from danger, in seeking refuge, you've somehow found something you weren't even looking for—a connection that transcends the circumstances of your meeting, a sanctuary not just in this remote cabin but in each other.

Whatever comes next—whether Minhyuk is caught tomorrow or weeks from now—that connection remains. And for the first time since this nightmare began, you find yourself looking toward the future with something like hope.

-

The storm rages through the night, wind howling around the cabin and rain lashing against the windows. Despite the exhaustion weighing on your limbs, sleep comes in fitful bursts, each crack of thunder or creak of the cabin jolting you awake. Beside you, Heeseung maintains his vigil, dozing occasionally but never fully surrendering to sleep. The baseball bat remains within reach, a grim reminder of the danger lurking beyond the walls.

Just before dawn, the storm begins to subside, rain softening to a gentle patter against the roof. Through a small gap in the blanket covering the bedroom window, you can see the sky lightening from black to deep blue, the first hint of morning approaching.

"We should start packing," Heeseung says, his voice low and tense. "I want to be ready to leave as soon as it's fully light."

You nod, slipping from the warmth of the bed into the chill morning air. The satellite phone still shows no signal—the storm's aftermath continuing to block transmission. You move through the cabin with careful efficiency, gathering only the essentials, keeping away from windows despite the coverings.

"Do you think he's still out there?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper despite the unlikelihood of being overheard.

Heeseung pauses in his methodical packing, his expression grave. "I don't know. But I'm not taking any chances. We leave in twenty minutes, head straight for the car, and don't stop for anything."

The gravity of his words settles heavily between you. For all your planning, there's still the most dangerous moment to navigate—the brief exposure between cabin and car, when you'll be completely vulnerable.

As the minutes tick by, tension builds in your chest, a familiar tightness that signals the approach of panic. You focus on your breathing, on the practical tasks at hand, on Heeseung's steady presence beside you. When everything is packed and ready, you stand together in the kitchen, the duffle bags at your feet, steeling yourselves for departure.

"Ready?" Heeseung asks, the baseball bat in one hand, car keys in the other.

You nod, swallowing hard against the fear. "Ready."

He moves to the door, checking through the peephole before unlocking the deadbolt with deliberate quietness. The metallic click of the lock releasing seems unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn stillness. Heeseung turns the knob slowly, easing the door open just enough to scan the porch and clearing beyond.

"Clear," he whispers, opening the door wider. "Let's go."

You step onto the porch, the wooden boards still slick with rain, the air cool and misty after the storm. The clearing surrounding the cabin is eerily still, trees dripping quietly, no wildlife sounds yet greeting the dawn. Everything appears peaceful, normal—and that, somehow, makes your nerves stretch tighter.

Heeseung goes first, bags slung over his shoulder, bat held ready. You follow closely, your footsteps seeming thunderous despite your attempts at stealth. The car is only thirty feet away, but the distance feels vast, exposed, each step taking too long.

You're halfway to the car when you see it—movement at the forest edge, a dark shape detaching from the deeper shadows beneath the trees. Heeseung notices in the same moment, his body tensing, placing himself between you and the approaching figure.

"Get in the car," he says, voice low and urgent. "Now."

You fumble with the bag, trying to move faster, but your limbs feel heavy with dread. The figure steps fully into the clearing, and even in the dim pre-dawn light, there's no mistaking who it is. Minhyuk—his face gaunt, clothes dirty and wet from the storm, eyes fixed on you with a terrible intensity.

"Go," Heeseung urges again, pressing the car keys into your hand. "Get inside and lock the doors."

But before you can reach the car, Minhyuk calls out, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing. "Don't bother. I cut the fuel line."

Heeseung freezes, a curse escaping under his breath. You can see his mind racing, calculating options, weighing the truth of Minhyuk's claim against the risk of finding out too late.

"What do you want?" Heeseung calls back, his voice steady despite the tension evident in every line of his body.

Minhyuk takes another step forward, and now you can see what he's holding—the metallic glint of a knife catching the growing light. "I just want to talk to Y/N. To explain things." His voice is eerily calm, almost reasonable, which somehow makes it more terrifying. "You've turned her against me. I just need a chance to make her understand."

"She understands perfectly," Heeseung responds, his grip tightening on the bat. "You need to leave. Now."

A strange smile crosses Minhyuk's face. "Always the hero, aren't you? Playing the protector." His eyes shift to you, somehow both pleading and menacing. "He's not really your boyfriend, Y/N. We both know that. This is all an act."

Fear roots you to the spot, but anger rises alongside it—anger at this man who has terrorized you, forced you from your home, hunted you across counties. "It doesn't matter," you find yourself saying, your voice stronger than expected. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you. Leave us alone."

Something shifts in Minhyuk's expression—the calm facade cracking to reveal something darker, more volatile. "You don't mean that," he says, his voice hardening. "He's manipulating you. Making you say these things."

"No one's manipulating anyone," Heeseung says, taking a half-step forward. "Y/N has made herself clear. You need to go."

Minhyuk's gaze snaps back to Heeseung, hatred twisting his features. "This is between me and her. You're the intruder here."

"Heeseung," you whisper, terror clawing at your throat as you watch Minhyuk's grip tighten on the knife. "Please."

The tension stretches between the three of you, the clearing silent except for the dripping trees and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Then Minhyuk moves—a sudden lunge forward that sends panic surging through your veins.

Heeseung reacts instantly, pushing you toward the cabin. "Run!" he shouts, raising the bat as Minhyuk charges.

Time seems to slow and accelerate simultaneously—Minhyuk closing the distance with terrifying speed, Heeseung bracing to meet him, the sound of your own ragged breathing as you stumble backward. You want to run as instructed, but can't bear to leave Heeseung alone, your feet refusing to carry you to safety while he faces danger.

The two men collide with violent force. Heeseung swings the bat, forcing Minhyuk to dodge, buying precious seconds. But Minhyuk is fueled by obsession, by a deranged determination that makes him reckless and unpredictable. He feints left, then strikes right, the knife slashing through the air.

Heeseung avoids the worst of it, but the blade catches his arm, tearing through his jacket. He doesn't cry out, doesn't falter, swinging the bat again with controlled precision. This time it connects, striking Minhyuk's shoulder with a sickening thud.

Minhyuk staggers back, but doesn't fall. The injury seems to fuel his rage rather than slow him down. "You think you can protect her?" he snarls. "You think you deserve her?"

"This isn't about deserving," Heeseung responds, voice steady despite the blood now visible on his sleeve. "This is about her choice. And she didn't choose you."

The words seem to strike Minhyuk more powerfully than the physical blow. His face contorts with fury, and he charges again, knife held high.

You're still rooted to the spot, terror paralyzing your limbs. But as Minhyuk rushes toward Heeseung again, survival instinct finally kicks in. Not for yourself—for Heeseung. Without conscious thought, you grab the nearest object—a large rock dislodged during the storm—and throw it with all your strength.

It strikes Minhyuk's back, not hard enough to injure seriously, but enough to distract him, to disrupt his attack. He whirls toward you, eyes wild with betrayal and rage.

"You," he hisses, changing direction, now advancing on you. "After everything I've done to find you..."

Heeseung doesn't hesitate. He lunges forward, tackling Minhyuk from behind before he can reach you. Both men go down hard, grappling in the mud and wet grass. The knife glints in the growing light as they struggle for control, a deadly variable in the chaotic fight.

You search desperately for another weapon, anything to help, when a new sound cuts through the terrible sounds of combat—sirens, distant but approaching. Relief floods through you, followed immediately by renewed fear. Will help arrive in time?

The sound reaches the fighting men as well. Minhyuk freezes for just an instant, his head turning toward the road—and in that moment of distraction, Heeseung strikes. His fist connects with Minhyuk's jaw, a powerful blow that sends the stalker sprawling backward. The knife falls from his grip, landing on the wet ground between them.

Both men lunge for it simultaneously. Your heart seems to stop as they grapple again, the knife now the focal point of the struggle. Then Heeseung shouts in pain, and you see a flash of red—blood, his blood—and terror unlike anything you've ever known seizes your heart.

But Heeseung doesn't falter. Despite the wound, he manages to knock the knife away, sending it skittering across the clearing. Then, with a final surge of strength, he pins Minhyuk to the ground, his knee on the stalker's chest, one hand gripping his throat.

"It's over," Heeseung says, his voice ragged with exertion and pain. "Do you hear those sirens? It's over."

Minhyuk struggles for a few more seconds, then goes still, the fight seeming to drain from him as the sound of approaching vehicles grows louder. Heeseung maintains his grip, not trusting the sudden compliance.

The sirens grow louder, then headlights appear through the trees, illuminating the clearing with harsh white light. Police cars—three of them—bumping down the rough access road, followed by what looks like an ambulance.

"Here!" you shout, waving frantically. "Over here!"

Everything moves quickly after that. Officers pour from the vehicles, guns drawn, shouting commands. Heeseung carefully backs away from Minhyuk, hands raised to show he's not a threat. Minhyuk is immediately handcuffed, his expression eerily vacant now, the manic energy gone.

You rush to Heeseung, heart pounding violently in your chest as you see the blood staining his sleeve, another patch rapidly spreading across his side. His jacket is torn open, revealing a deep gash that makes your stomach lurch.

"You're hurt," you cry out, your voice breaking as tears immediately flood your eyes. Your hands hover over his wounds, afraid to touch and cause more pain but desperate to help. "Oh my god, you're hurt. You're bleeding so much."

"I'm okay," he assures you, though his face is alarmingly pale, his breathing shallow with pain. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Don't say that!" Your voice rises with panic, tears now streaming freely down your face. "Look at you! This is all my fault. You're hurt because of me."

Your hands tremble as they finally settle on his face, cradling his cheeks as if he might shatter. "You're my baby and you're hurt," you whisper, the words tumbling out without thought, raw with emotion. "Please, you need help right now."

His eyes widen slightly at your words, a softness passing through them despite his pain. He tries to lift his hand to wipe your tears but winces with the movement.

"Don't move," you plead, becoming more frantic as you notice how the blood continues to seep through his clothes. You turn toward the approaching paramedics, desperation in your voice. "Please hurry! He's losing too much blood!"

You turn back to Heeseung, pressing your forehead gently against his, uncaring about the mud and blood. "Stay with me," you whisper fiercely. "I can't lose you. Not now. Not after everything."

Paramedics approach, guiding Heeseung to sit on the steps of the cabin while they examine his wounds. You hover anxiously nearby, unable to tear your eyes from him even as a female officer gently questions you about what happened.

Across the clearing, Minhyuk is being loaded into a police car, his vacant expression finally shifting as his eyes find yours one last time. There's something in his gaze—not remorse, not exactly, but perhaps the first glimmer of understanding that his obsession has led him to ruin.

"He'll be going away for a long time," the detective says, appearing at your side. She looks tired but satisfied. "Attempted murder, stalking, violation of restraining orders—the list goes on. He won't hurt anyone else."

Relief makes your knees weak. You look to where Heeseung sits, enduring the ministrations of the paramedics with stoic patience. When he catches your eye, he manages a small, reassuring smile despite everything.

"You should go to him," the detective says, following your gaze. "We can finish the statements later."

You don't need to be told twice. You cross to Heeseung, carefully sitting beside him on the cabin steps. The paramedics have cut away his sleeve to reveal a long gash on his forearm, already partially bandaged. Another wound at his side has been dressed, though blood still seeps through the white gauze.

"How bad is it?" you ask one of the paramedics.

"He'll need stitches," she replies. "But no major arteries were hit. He was lucky."

Lucky isn't the word you'd use. Brave. Selfless. Incredible. Those come closer.

"We need to transport him to the hospital," the paramedic continues. "Would you like to ride along?"

"Yes," you say immediately, your hand finding Heeseung's uninjured one. "I'm not leaving him."

Heeseung's fingers tighten around yours. "It's over," he says softly, just for you. "Really over."

As they help him onto a stretcher, you remain by his side, your hand never leaving his. Behind you, the cabin stands silent in the growing daylight, its brief role as both sanctuary and battleground now complete. Around you, police officers document the scene, take photographs, collect evidence. Minhyuk is driven away, the police car disappearing down the access road toward a future of concrete and steel bars.

In the ambulance, as paramedics hook Heeseung to monitoring equipment and start an IV for pain medication, he keeps his eyes on you, as if afraid you might disappear if he looks away.

"You saved me," he says, his voice slightly slurred as the pain medication begins to take effect. "With that rock. You saved me."

Tears fill your eyes as you shake your head. "No. You saved me. From the very beginning, you saved me."

His lips curve into a tired smile. "Maybe we saved each other."

As the ambulance begins its journey down the mountain, you hold tight to his hand, to that simple truth. Whatever comes next—hospital rooms, police statements, the eventual return to normal life—you'll face it together. The nightmare is over. Minhyuk can no longer reach you, no longer control your life with fear.

For the first time since that night on the subway platform, you feel truly, completely free. And despite the trauma of the morning, despite Heeseung's injuries and the lingering shock, there's something else growing beneath the relief—hope. Hope for what comes after fear. Hope for a future neither of you expected to find in the midst of danger.

A future together.

-

Three months later

The afternoon sunlight filters through the café window, painting golden patterns across the table between you. Heeseung sits across from you, absently tracing the faint scar on his forearm—a permanent reminder of that morning in the mountains. You reach across the table, your fingers covering his, interrupting the unconscious movement.

"You're doing it again," you say softly.

He smiles, turning his hand to intertwine his fingers with yours. "Sorry. Habit."

It's been exactly twelve weeks since Minhyuk was arrested. Twelve weeks of healing—both physical and emotional. Twelve weeks of rebuilding what had been so violently disrupted. Twelve weeks of discovering who you are together when fear isn't the foundation of your connection.

The legal proceedings had moved swiftly. Minhyuk pleaded guilty to all charges, perhaps finally recognizing the gravity of his actions. His psychiatric evaluation revealed a disturbing pattern of obsessive behavior dating back years before he ever saw you on the subway. The judge had been uncompromising in his sentencing: fifteen years with mandatory psychiatric treatment. You'd attended the sentencing hearing, Heeseung's hand tight around yours as you faced your stalker one final time.

"Whatever made him fixate on you wasn't your fault," the detective had told you afterward. "Some people just break in ways we can't understand."

Those words had helped, as had the therapy sessions you began shortly after returning to the city. But what helped most was Heeseung—his unwavering presence, his patience as you worked through lingering fears, his understanding on the nights when you still woke gasping from nightmares.

"What time is your appointment?" Heeseung asks now, bringing you back to the present.

"Four o'clock," you reply, glancing at your watch. "Dr. Kim says this might be our last weekly session. She thinks we can move to bi-weekly."

Pride flickers across Heeseung's face. "That's great. You've come so far."

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I have a good support system."

His thumb traces circles on your palm, his eyes warm with an emotion neither of you has put into words yet, though you both feel it. "Are you still okay with dinner at my parents' place tonight? We can reschedule if you're tired after therapy."

"I want to go," you assure him. Meeting his family had been a major step—acknowledging that what began in crisis had evolved into something lasting. His parents had welcomed you with genuine warmth, never asking too many questions about how you met, somehow understanding that those details weren't what mattered.

"They like you, you know," Heeseung says, as if reading your thoughts. "My mother keeps asking when you're coming back."

You laugh, the sound still feeling like a small victory each time. "She just wants someone to appreciate her cooking more than you do."

"True," he concedes with a grin.

The waiter arrives with your check, and Heeseung reaches for it automatically. You let him, having learned to pick your battles. Some protective instincts run too deep to challenge—and if you're honest, his devotion is something you've come to cherish rather than resist.

Outside the café, the early autumn air carries just a hint of the coming cold. Heeseung's arm slips around your waist, a gesture that has become as natural as breathing. You lean into him briefly, savoring the solid warmth of him.

"I'll walk you to Dr. Kim's office," he says. "Then I need to stop by the studio for an hour before dinner."

Your paths have settled into a comfortable rhythm over the past months. You returned to your design firm, picking up old projects and beginning new ones. Heeseung resumed his work at the music studio, though he now keeps more regular hours, prioritizing evenings with you. You still have separate apartments, but most nights are spent together, switching between your spaces with easy familiarity.

The walk to your therapist's office takes you past the subway station where it all began—a route you initially avoided but now traverse without the surge of anxiety it once triggered. Progress, Dr. Kim calls it. Reclaiming your city, your life.

"I'll see you at my place around seven?" Heeseung confirms as you reach the office building.

"I'll be there," you promise. "Should I bring anything?"

"Just yourself." He pauses, then adds, "And maybe pack an overnight bag. My parents usually insist we stay late, and I don't want you taking the subway alone after dark."

Once, you might have chafed at the protectiveness in those words. Now, you recognize it as care rather than control. "Already packed," you admit. "It's in my work bag."

He smiles, leaning down to kiss you briefly. "That's my girl."

As he turns to go, you catch his hand, pulling him back for a moment. "Hey," you say softly. "I've been thinking."

"Dangerous," he teases gently. "About what?"

You hesitate, then take the plunge. "My lease is up next month."

His expression shifts, a cautious hope lighting his eyes. "Is it?"

"I was thinking maybe I shouldn't renew it."

The implication hangs between you, clear but unspoken. Heeseung's hand tightens around yours, his voice dropping to match your quieter tone. "Any particular alternative in mind?"

You hold his gaze, your heart beating faster but not with fear—with anticipation, with certainty. "Your place is bigger. And you have that spare room you're using as storage that would make a perfect home office for me."

A smile slowly spreads across his face, transforming his features with such joy that it takes your breath away. "I think that could be arranged."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely." He pulls you closer, public setting forgotten as he kisses you properly this time, his hands cradling your face with the same tender care he's shown since that very first night.

When he pulls back, you're both slightly breathless. "Go talk to Dr. Kim," he says, reluctantly releasing you. "I'll see you tonight."

You watch him walk away, struck by how far you've come from that terrified person who grabbed a stranger on a subway platform. The journey hasn't been easy—there are still moments when fear creeps in, still days when you check over your shoulder more often than necessary. But those moments are becoming rarer, overshadowed by new memories, better ones.

As you turn to enter the building, your phone buzzes with a text. Heeseung, already missing you:

"Just realized we never used the small bedroom at the cabin. Maybe we should go back someday. Make some better memories there."

You smile, typing your reply:

"I'd like that. As long as you're with me."

His response comes instantly:

"Always."

A promise that began in crisis, tested by danger, and now—finally—has the chance to unfold in peace. You pocket your phone and head into your appointment, ready to talk about the future rather than the past.

A future with Heeseung. A future without fear.

A future that began with two strangers on a subway platform, and against all odds, became home.

fin.

-

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo

[lymtw]

Deceiving Dreams

(Toji and His Shy Girl)

Toji woke up sweating, a foul feeling in his chest after what he just dreamt. You were the star and your co-star was not him, but some random dude who was way too comfortable with touching you. His hands would brush over your shoulders and your thighs like he was familiar with your body, but what was absolutely stomach churning, was the way he kissed you softly and slowly. You didn't even push him away, instead you reciprocated the gesture. You did the sweet things that you only do with him, like smiling at this man in that way that makes wonder brim your eyes. You kissed the corner of this stranger's lips, on the same side that Toji's scar is on, coincidentally, and you wrapped your arms around this stranger with that same amount of hesitance you show Toji, as if this person you've known for mere minutes summed up the butterflies and electric feelings your lover makes you feel in that short span of time.

Toji hasn't been this unsettled by something regarding you since the time you cried during an argument that spiraled out of his jealousy. Things got out of hand, but since then, he's learned that he can't do things that way with you. He can't shut you out, and he can't snap at you or you will crumble to the ground.

Patience is a hard thing to learn, and though being with you has taught Toji how to be more careful with his words and to be understanding of your struggles to communicate certain things, at the end of the day, he's still learning. How does anyone deal with this kind of thing in a gentle and unassuming manner? He can't just spring such a question on you without it rubbing you wrong. "Are you cheating on me?" No. That is a recipe for disaster and just asking for unwanted distance. You wouldn't do that to him. He knows it, but that dream... It just seemed so real.

Hey, ma. You awake?

It's two in the morning, and you probably won't answer, but as Toji lies there in his bed, waiting for a response from you, he realizes he can't wait to hear from you, so he does the next best thing—he calls you.

The line rings a couple times, and by the third time, he's ready to end the call before he gets sent to voicemail, deeming his reason for pulling you out of sleep so early in the morning to be ridiculous. It was a dream. You're not cheating on him. You wouldn't do that to him. He knows this, yet, here he is, trying to sleep in your bed with you, like a child who woke up from a nightmare, tiptoeing over to their parents' bedroom.

"Hi, Toji," you answer, your voice quiet and slightly raspy with sleep. "Toji?" You call, again, when you get nothing from him. "Are you okay?"

He feels somewhat embarrassed for having woken you up for this, but if the deed has already been done, then he needs to make the most of it.

"Hey, sweetheart. I'm doing just fine. Everything's fine. Listen, would it be alright if I came over?" He asks, already sitting up and getting out of bed.

"It's a little late, isn't it? It's..." you hum as you quickly check your phone, "...two seventeen," you respond, trying your hardest not to nod off as you lie comfortably on your side, your phone placed between your ear and your pillow, again.

"I know. I'm sorry. You don't have to wait up for me, though. I can let myself in. You gave me your spare, remember?"

You blink, tiredly, and remain silent for a few seconds until Toji calls for you. "Yeah, okay, then. Drive safe. It's raining really hard."

"Will do, mama. I'll see you soon. Love you."

"Love you," you mumble, before hanging up the phone. You went right back to sleep, afterwards. The sound of the rain pouring outside was soothing and the coldness that came with the weather made the perfect contrast to the warmth of the blanket you bundled yourself in.

Toji got to your place twenty-something minutes later. His hoodie was heavily spotted with the raindrops it caught during the walk to your front door from his car. He fishes out his keys from his pocket and looks for a shiny, bronze key on his keyring. Once he has it, getting into your warm home goes smoothly. From taking off his shoes and setting them beside yours, to removing his hoodie so that the wetness doesn't touch you, he moves quickly. He doesn't stray from his path to finding you, not even to grab a snack from your kitchen cabinets like he normally does, no matter the time—he just goes straight to your room.

When he opens the door, Toji is met with nothing more than the adorable sight of you curled up in bed, like a puppy sleeping peacefully under a heap of toasty blankets. He shuts the door behind him, quietly, and moves swiftly, but carefully, so that he doesn't wake you up before he even starts crawling into bed with you. He gently lifts the blanket off the vacant side of your bed, and slides into his place beside you. Instantly greeted by the warmth you generated, he feels the urge to pull you into his arms and just hold you all night.

"Sorry, baby. I know i'm cold," he says, softly, when you stir at the iciness of his fingers dragging up and down the side of your neck.

You blink your heavy eyes open and take in the sight of Toji right in front of you. Him calling you wasn't part of a hyper realistic dream, he's actually in bed with you.

"What's wrong?" You ask, concerned for his reason for wanting to be there in the early hours of the morning, rather than just waiting until later on in the day. You had plans to meet, anyway. What is so important that he couldn't wait until then?

"It's nothing to worry about. Just wanted to be here with you," he responds, not totally lying, but also not telling the whole truth.

"Remember what I told you when we first met?" You mumble, not satisfied with the vagueness of his response. There seems to be more that he isn't telling you.

"You said a lot of things to me that day," he responds, with a low chuckle.

"I did," you agree, smiling softly at the memory. "I also told you something important that day, didn't I?"

You watch the contemplative expression on his face, the outward appearance of his brain whirring. It's cute, even in his handsomeness. "Do you want a hint?" You ask, though when you see his eyes widen a little, you know he won't need it.

"You're better at listening than you are at talking," he recites, with a smirk, like he's patting himself on the back for being able to remember.

"Right. So, if there's something wrong, I want to know about it. I know i'm not the best conversationalist, but you know that I always try for you."

Now that you're more awake, Toji doesn't feel so heartless for handling you like you're merely a teddy bear, so that you're lying on top of him. He wants you close to him all the time, but when you say things like that, he instantly feels the need to bring you closer. It's pure instinct by now.

"You ever get tired of me just scooping you up out of nowhere?" He asks, lips curled in amusement as he watches and feels you wiggling around, trying to make yourself comfortable. Finally, you rest your head on the upper part of his chest and let your arms go limp beside him.

"Never," you respond, simply, smiling when a low chuckle rumbles out of Toji's chest.

His arms tighten around you a little more when the room goes silent, and then he remembers why he's here. He can't lose this. Your warmth, your careful affection, the way you constantly look at him like he's the reason the moon and the stars shine at night. He never wants you to look at him another way. There's absolutely nothing hard about loving you, and if you can't believe it on your own, he'll prove it to you.

"You know how much I love you, don't you, doll?" He asks, his palms finally warm enough to work as heating pads for your back.

"I do," you assure. Maybe this is his concern—that he's not showing you enough love. No, that can't be it. If that was it, he would've waited until later on in the day to see you and talk about it.

"And how much I need you? Do you know that, too?" To that, he doesn't get a response from you. He knows you aren't sleeping, because he can feel your legs shifting against his every once in a while.

"Doll?" He calls.

You let out a soft breath, before responding with your truth.

"I don't know if you need me, Toji. When you tell me you love me, I believe it, because I feel it and I know it, but I don't think you need me."

"Don't..." he sighs, not expecting this as a response from you. "...don't say that. Don't you dare say that. What does that even mean? Because I don't fucking get it. I really don't, ma."

Your heart rate picks up a little, but you try to keep yourself as calm as possible. You understand that this isn't something he wants to hear, as the one who's helped you through so much, but you can't help but share how things feel on your end.

"Don't you ever think about how much better it would be for you to love someone who makes things easier on you rather than overcomplicating them? Someone who tells you what they want straight up, instead of having you basically pry the words from them?"

Toji stays quiet this time, not because he agrees, but because he's figuring out how to say things without it being explosive. He knows that those few seconds of relief will be followed up by a tidal wave of regret. It's not worth it. You're his little sunshine and he would never forgive himself if he was the reason for why your light died out.

"I love you, Toji, but I think about that a lot. I want you to know that if you ever get tired of me-"

"Don't finish that sentence," he cuts. "I don't wanna hear it."

There's no playfulness or warmth to his tone. Nothing but the weight of his words. Your heart feels a little heavier, but you brush it off and utter a phrase that you're all too familiar with.

"Sorry."

You feel nervous, and not in the "good" way. Not in the way that makes your cheeks heat up and your stomach swarm with butterflies, but instead the way that makes your chest feel strange, and like there's a knot forming in your throat.

"I don't wanna hear that either, doll," Toji says in response, his tone softer, now, his thoughts collected. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have talked to you like that. You know I love you." He presses a kiss to the top of your head and rubs the center of your back in soothing motions. The silence that returns makes your heart beat even faster. You wonder if Toji can hear it through the lack of sound in the room.

"I had a really stupid dream," Toji finally confesses, a low, humorless chuckle vibrating against his chest. "I mean, really stupid. Can I tell you about it?"

"You don't have to ask, baby," you respond. Your cheeks go warm at your use of the pet name, but it felt right in the moment. Maybe this is what's been lodged in his mind this whole time. You want him to feel as comfortable as possible as he recounts it to you.

Toji smiles softly at the term of endearment you used for him. Somehow, the way you said the word made it sound softer and even more cushioned than it already is.

His arms readjust around you, tightening the perfect amount so that you're secure against him and he can feel more of your body's warmth on his. He peppers a few more kisses on the top of your head before going on to tell you about his dream.

"So, I kind of just spawned into a room where you and some random guy were sitting on a bench, and he was getting really touchy with you. His hands were rubbing your thighs and your shoulders and..." He pauses. This is his least favorite part. He didn't like any part of it, but this part took the cake, because no one kisses your lips but him.

"It's okay," you say, encouragingly. You rub his side a few times and endure a squeeze of his arms—the equivalence of a rush of emotional support in a gesture.

"Well, you and him started locking lips, and it looked like you were really enjoying it. Your eyes were sparkly and you were smiling at him all pretty." He sighs, bothered anew, the same way he was when he first woke up. "See, I told you it was stupid," he grumbles, mildly embarrassed. "Obviously not stupid enough for me to sleep in my own bed for the night. It's fucking ridiculous. Sorry, doll."

You utter another phrase you're all too familiar with—not one you say often, but one you hear from Toji plenty.

"Don't apologize," you murmur. A few seconds pass, and you know just what to say. "Toji?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

You say it like it's as easy as breathing, because it is. There's nothing hard about loving Toji. He's good to you. It's a love you've never experienced with another, and you do your damn best for him, which is why him showing up at two a.m. isn't a problem. Him crawling into your bed, and reaching for you with hands that are cold as ice isn't a problem. He needs comfort this time, and all you can do is hope that the way you console him is enough.

"Only you, and that's how it'll always be. Your brain thought it would be funny to trick you, but it grayed on the fact that I suck at talking to people."

That made him snicker. It wasn't a reaction meant to ridicule you, rather one of immediate relief, due to the confirmation you gave him about his place as your only love.

"Not that i'm interested in pursuing others, but how am I gonna go for someone else, when I can barely talk to you?"

Now that made him full on chuckle, and you just lay there on him, withstanding the crushing sensation of his arms squeezing you impossibly tighter. You fear he might break you, but you would endure that momentary loss of breath any day if it means his heart remains whole.

"God, I love you so damn much," he murmurs, low against the top of your head. "I love you," he says, pressing yet another affectionate kiss to the area. "And I need you. I want you to understand that by... now. I need you to understand it, right now, baby."

"I don't think that's how it works," you say, humming out a soft laugh.

"Well, we're gonna make it work. Alright? You're gonna understand how much I need you."

"Okay," you say, resigned to his perseverance.

"Okay?" He repeats.

"Yeah," you confirm, lips curling, amusedly.

"Yeah?" He copies once more, knowing it'll grant him one of his favorite little sounds from you.

You giggle. "Yes, Toji."

With that, he's flipping you over, his position expressively dominant, now. It's dark in your room, so you can't really see much, but you can make out most of his handsome features, and you can feel his body heat embracing you, just as much as it did a few seconds ago. His hands are planted right beside your head and he's peering down at you, smirking at the way you look at him, like you haven't caught up with how he handled you so delicately yet efficiently to switch positions.

"You always look so pretty under me," he murmurs, leaning in closer. You in so that you see nothing but him. His hands ball up the sheets beneath them, carelessly wrinkling them as he remains merely inches above you. You slowly release the breath you've been holding in. "You mad at me, baby?"

"No," you answer, trying to remain calm, despite the heat that is beginning to seep into your face. "You've done nothing for me to be mad about, so why would I be mad at you?"

His lips press against the lower part of your cheek—a deep kiss right above your jaw. "'Cause i'm kinda dumb and do shit like this. I woke you up, and now you're losing sleep," he murmurs, against your skin.

"It's okay, Toji," you gently reassure. "I understand and I'm not mad at you." Your hands come up to his back, tentatively, feeling the body warmth that seeps through his shirt.

"No?" He asks, pressing a soft kiss closer to the corner of your lips. "You promise?"

As if trying to further comfort the giant hovering over you, you rub his back in gentle motions.

"There's nothing to be mad about. You've done nothing wrong and you're always welcome here, love." You smile when he continues planting little kisses on your cheek while you keep talking. "You have my spare key, because I trust you and I have nothing to hide from you. If giving you that key means you show up here in the early hours of the morning, because you don't want to be alone, that's okay, too. So, yes, I promise i'm not mad."

A low hum comes from Toji as his kisses inch towards your lips. A few land on the corner of your lips, then he's just a little bit off, and then finally, his lips center on yours. You feel butterflies begin to flutter around your stomach as he collects kiss after kiss from you.

"You tired, pretty baby?" He asks, his voice only audible between you and him. Not even the thin walls of your room can take away the intimacy.

"I wanna be awake with you," you respond, your voice matching the low volume of his.

"You sure?" He asks, and you do your best to convince him that you are. Your hands pull away from where they once rested on his back and you raise them to cup his cheeks with slightly shaky hands. Your touch is gentle, maybe even a little hesitant, as you begin to slowly stroke the softness of his skin. This is one of the very rare times when Toji accepts your actions in place of your words.

Your thumb brushes over the scar on his lips, and before you can even process it, his lips are on yours, again. You can feel the flourishing warmth of his face beneath your palms as he kisses you with an unexpected amount of fervor. You hear soft panting from him, as a result of him hungrily chasing kiss after kiss from you. He challenges your lungs, letting them feel a slight burn when he doesn't pull away after you've reached your limit. It's not until you're breathing heavily that he lets you go, and begins to scatter soft kisses along the side of your neck.

"Baby," he hums against your neck, leaving another kiss behind. "My sweet, pretty baby. How do you do it?"

"Do what?" You ask, smiling as he continues to let his lips feed off the warmth and softness of your skin.

"How do always manage to keep things so peaceful?" He responds. His heart beats slightly faster when you release a precious laugh at the question. "Things are just... so damn simple with you," he says, softly, as he goes lower down your body. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and begin to slowly roll it above your stomach. He instantly takes note of the goosebumps that rise when his palms graze your bare skin.

"I know how much you try for me, and fuck, i'm not dismissing your effort, but I also want you to understand that it's not hard to treat you right." His hands grip your waist, loosely, and he leans in to place a kiss on your stomach.

"There's nothing hard about being with you..." he murmurs beneath your ribs, "...and waiting for you. You aren't difficult like you think you are, sweet girl."

"You promise, Toji?" You ask, glancing down at him as he continues leaving kisses on your skin.

"I promise," he assures, meeting your gaze as he presses another kiss right beneath your chest. "You want me to stop?" He asks, aware of the lack of coverage for your chest under your shirt.

"You can keep going," you respond, willing yourself to relax under his touch. He doesn't waste any time, and immediately buries his face in your bare chest. For a moment, there's no major movement coming from him, just his breathing. You think maybe he's just savoring the warmth that you've accumulated after spending hours under your blanket, but he full on melts into your body. His arms go beneath you, allowing him to wrap around you tightly once more, and he releases an audibly heavy sigh.

"It's okay," you say, softly. You keep one hand on his upper back, while the other gently plays with his hair.

He's not sure if he deserves the tenderness your touch holds for him. He tries to be as gentle and careful with you as he can, but he's so scared that one day you'll shatter and it'll be his fault. You'll walk away from him with no intention of ever coming back and something that was so good to him will be gone. You deserve to be happy—always. He knows this, but he doesn't want to picture somebody else making you happy like he does. He can't accept that. You're his girl.

"Toji?" You call. You know your little place isn't the most high end of them all, but you also know that it's not falling apart. There's no way for the rain to reach your skin if there's no hole in your roof.

"Toji?" You call once more when he doesn't answer. Your hands still on him when you feel his shoulders stutter. You have your own glum cloud resting on top of you. You feel something wet land on your chest—it's starting to rain a little.

"It's okay," you whisper, resuming the gentle motions on his back and the back of his head. "It's okay." You feel him begin to leave languid, spaced out, featherlight kisses on your chest, and you want to freeze. You want to express how impactful the gestures are, and how they animate the butterflies that reside in your stomach, but you can't. You can't and you won't do it, because it's your turn to prove that you'll take care of him when he's not at one hundred percent.

"It's... it's gonna be okay. I have you," you assure, feeling the softness of his hair between your fingers as you repeatedly thread them through, and the movement of his back beneath your other hand as he breathes. "And you will always have me, and I love you with all my heart, Toji. I need you to understand that, right now," you tease, lightheartedly, echoing his earlier words back to him in an attempt to make him feel better. You hear a congested sound, something between a laugh and a hitch in his breathing.

Not another sound is made for the next few minutes, no words spoken. Your skin catches a few more of Toji's tears as he continues to brush his lips against the entirety of your chest, reveling in the warmth of your skin. Toji can hear your heart beating rapidly in your chest—the way it always is whenever he's around you. Normally, he teases you about it. 'Your heart's gonna explode if you don't calm down.' 'We don't even have to do cardio to get your heart going.' Sometimes, he just holds his fingers against the pulse point on your neck and laughs at the rapid thrumming against his fingertips. He finds it endearing, but right now, it's a comfort.

You don't mind the occasional slight pinch of his lips—the more physical proof of his appreciative affection. You simply remain focused on soothing him and reassuring him of how strong your love for him is and will always be.

"Don't know what I'd do without you, ma," he mumbles, his cheek resting on your chest. He could fall asleep so easily to the sound of your heartbeat in his ears, the feeling of you playing with his hair, and the way you slowly rub his back, but he's torn between staying where he is and coming back up to hold you close through the rest of the early morning.

"I promise I'm not going anywhere," you assure, wholeheartedly.

With that response, Toji makes his choice. He pulls his arms out from beneath you and sits on his knees, between your legs for the quick second it takes him to fix your shirt. After, he lifts the blanket and reclaims his rightful spot beside you.

"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you into his arms without an ounce of struggle. He waits for you to settle, back against his chest, before fully enveloping you in his warm embrace.

"It sounds like pebbles hitting the roof instead of raindrops."

"Mhm," he hums, into your neck, letting his hand slide beneath the front of your shirt to caress the soft skin of your abdomen. "If your roof starts leaking, you're coming to stay with me." It's not a question or an offer.

You laugh. "The rain isn't that bad."

"Mm..." His lips home to your shoulder, a gentle peck placed on the concealed area. "Love seeing your pretty face first thing in the morning. You stay with me if your ceiling ever caves. Okay? Okay."

"Okay," you respond, through a giggle. "You'll be my first call."

"Good," he murmurs.

"I'll make you breakfast later, when we wake up."

And though Toji responds with, "Sounds good, ma," all he can think about is how you're going to struggle so hard to get out of bed because he's going to make it nearly impossible for you to do so. The gears are already turning in his head. He'll pin you down, he'll strengthen his hold around you, he'll roll on top of you "in his sleep". You're too polite for your own good, you most likely won't try to wake him up. He'll swaddle you in the blanket, he'll tie your shirts together in a tight knot-

"Goodnight, Toji," you mumble, feeling your tiredness return as he continues drawing little lines and shapes on your stomach.

"'Night, baby," he murmurs, feeling much more content and at peace with the idea of sleeping knowing that you're in his arms, not in anyone else's.

[differenteagletragedy]

To me, Simon has the dumbest hair 90% of the time because he just buzzes it himself (I cannot believe that man pays money to one, do something he could theoretically do himself, and two, spend time with a stranger). The other 10% it's good -- when he first cuts it, an eighth of an inch of pale fuzz left behind, and when it just starts growing out, that's fine. But a lot of the time, especially when he's at home, he just lets it go.

And you, his next door neighbor, will never not give him shit about it.

"You look so goofy," you tell him when you see him in the hallway, one arm holding your groceries and the other fiddling with your keys. "Just cut it, Jesus Christ."

He rolls his eyes or tells you to fuck off, because you've known each other long enough for that kind of thing. He's lived in the building for years, never having seen a reason to leave, and you've been there for a few yourself. You're friends in the way that you may not call or text or schedule time to hang out, but you can scarcely think of anyone you see more often.

"Seriously," you go on, unlocking your door and speaking louder so he can hear you when you go inside. "It's just like two inches sticking straight off your head, why are you walking around like that?"

"Doesn't bother me," Simon answers, moving to lean against your doorframe and watch you as you put up your things. "Seems to bother you an awful lot though."

Your back is to him while you move around your kitchen, but you can tell he's smirking, and you scoff.

"Yeah, it bothers me. You get a face like that and you go and screw it up with the dumbest excuse for a haircut I've ever seen."

It's not the first time you've flirted with him, or even the most direct time, but it still gives him pause. He doesn't wear his mask when he's not working, most of the time anyway, because he thinks it draws too much attention and he'd prefer to just slip into the shadows wherever he goes. But you seeing him, and you letting him know that you like what you see, it does something to him, every time.

"You cut it then," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're the one so torn up about it, you fix it."

You snort, finally turning back to him, saying, "I'm not a barber, stupid."

"No, you sure seem like a coward though."

A few minutes later, you're both in Simon's bathroom. He's got his shirt off, straddling the toilet so you can reach his head, and you're behind him with clippers in your hand, looking down at him. You've never seen this much of him, never even seen the place where his tattoos stop on his arm, and it's a lot to take in.

You want to take your time, commit every scar, every freckle to memory, but he turns his head, smirking again.

"Told you you were a coward."

Without a word, you turn on the clippers and get to work.

It's not hard, it's just a buzzcut. The hard part is in touching his ears, gently pushing the lobes down to trim around them. It's in sneaking glances over his shoulder to watch his chest as it rises and falls while you work. In trying not to notice the tiniest little hitch in his breath when you lean in closer and rest your hand on his back while you get the hairs on the back of his neck.

The worst part though, is the beauty mark that sits perfectly in the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Specifically, the worst part is the strong, almost uncontrollable urge to bite it.

When you're done, you turn off the clippers and set them on his bathroom counter, then dust off his shoulders for him. Just before he stands, you can't deny yourself any longer -- you won't be able to reach it when he's not sitting so perfectly like this -- and give a quick, soft kiss to the mark.

During all the time you've known Simon, he's barely responded to your flirting. To you, he doesn't seem interested, and to him, you don't seem serious. But a kiss, faint as it may have been, is different, and before you can register it, he's on his feet, turned and standing over you.

"Hair looks better," you say softly.

He grunts in response, and before you know it, his mouth is covering yours, hot and insistent. It's a heady feeling, having him so close, and before you can get used to it, his hands are on you, first on your waist, then on your hips, then on the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up and holds you against him.

He maneuvers you both out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom, where he unceremoniously tosses you on his bed. You look up at him, letting your eyes trail freely over his body now, going down when you see him place his hands on his belt.

"Not so mouthy now, are you?"

[ja3yun]

On the Roof || S.JY

stranger!jake x fem!reader warnings: smut (mdni), unprotected sex, oral (f.rec), cream pie, fingering, marking and biting, sex with a stranger, weirdly fluffy, petnames (princess, baby), mentions of bad relationships with parents, alcohol, comforting, do not have sex with strangers you meet on a roof, not proofread, anything else lmk! w.c: 9.7k synopsis: when you stumble across a boy on your apartment rooftop, you can't help but invite him to stay. a/n: hi! it's me. this is my first work back and honestly, it's not great but i just needed to get back in the swing of things so please be kind. I missed you guys a lot and the time away was exactly what i needed. thank you all for understanding, and i love you unconditionally!

The winter air tickles your senses as you push open the large, unfairly heavy door to your complex’s rooftop. It might be bitter, but it’s welcomed - your body creating unnecessary heat from both the walk up the three flights of stairs and the discomfort of your day. 

Your shift was hard, too hard. Considering it’s a brand new year, you had stupidly thought that people would be a lot nicer to public service workers, yet you were proven wrong. With countless patients’ loved ones screaming down the phone to you, doctors barking demands at you because they see you as lesser than them, and not to mention the one man who decided that spitting in your face was a rational reaction to you politely telling him that he can’t see his grandmother who was in the middle of an operation.

Safe to say, you’ve had better shifts as a hospital receptionist. 

But there was always one place you could count on to take a deep breath and reset. The rooftop. It’s quiet, overlooks the city, and helps you put into perspective that murder is not the answer to your life problems. But sometimes, God, you wish it was…

Gravel crunches beneath your feet as you make your way to the chairs you so perfectly placed underneath the solar-charged fairy lights, which hang half-arsed off the unused 1990 aerials. It’s not really how you would like to decorate the place, if you had it your way, you would have it looking reminiscent of the rooftop from Wish You, the same one you committed to memory as Lee Sang kissed In Soo for the first time. But since you’re not even supposed to have access to this part of the building, you’ll count the pathetic attempt at creating sanctuary as a win. 

The lights guide you to your seat when you see a figure hunched over, one hand holding a beer and the other holding his head. This is not what you were expecting to see. No one comes up here, not past 10pm anyway. There is one neighbour who occupies the premises when he needs a smoke without his wife knowing, but he works the night shift. So this person is new.

“Um,” you begin, clearing your throat ever so softly to alert them of your presence without giving them an acute heart attack. “Hi?”

Their head jolts up from their hand, eyes wide and face shocked. Clearly, they didn’t expect to have company tonight either. 

You focus on the figure in front of you – a boy, no older than yourself – scrutinising his features with a careful eye. As a woman, being vigilant around unfamiliar men has become second nature, an unfortunately ingrained habit of self-preservation you have mastered since before you can remember. So, your mind ticks through the usual checklist: is there a need to run? Are your shoulders getting that deep tingle that crawls up to your jaw? Is your gut making you want to vomit? None of those alarm bells ring. Instead, you’re met with something else entirely - uncertainty, maybe even sympathy.

The boy seems…fine, at least on the surface. No initial gut-wrenching unease claws at your insides. Emboldened by the absence of any red flags, you take another ginger step closer, studying him in detail.

His large, tired brown eyes peer out from behind thick-rimmed glasses, the weight of exhaustion evident. The glasses sit securely on his pretty thick nose. His lips, naturally full and a muted pink, are set in a neutral line, though the light could be softening their actual colour - it’s hard to tell beneath the hood’s shadow. Greasy, near-black hair clings to his forehead, unkempt but thick. 

His outfit doesn’t fare much better to be honest; a mishmash of layers that hints at desperation more than deliberation. Faded grey jeans hang loose and crinkled, clearly worn more than once without a wash. Over a white t-shirt sits a black hoodie, topped off with a jacket far too big for him, the kind of size that suggests it doesn’t belong to him at all. The entire image strikes you in a way that leaves concern pricking all over your chest.

Steeling yourself, you step closer again, your voice soft but firm. “Are you okay?” The question is sincere, meant to come across as a kind gesture - like when you let a cat sniff around your hand before you just go in for the pet. Your eyes meet his, offering as much warmth as you can muster. There’s something about the way he sits, cold and crumpled, that pulls at your humanity.

At first, his expression flickers, betraying something fragile beneath the surface. But it doesn’t last. In an instant, his jaw sets, and his shoulders square in a defensive shift. His cheeks hollow as his tongue presses against them, words unspoken but clearly brewing. The moment hangs in the air, heavy and awkward. 

It’s as if your simple question has poked at a bruise, tender and raw. You’ve touched something buried, and for reasons you can’t yet work out, his reaction irks you. Of all things to take issue with, why this? What on earth had he expected - for you not to ask a very valid question? Perhaps it’s the day you’ve had that’s caused the unnecessary offence on your behalf.

He averts his gaze, the connection between you severed. Instead, he tips back the beer bottle in his hand, his focus shifting to the cityscape below. The quiet glug of liquid slipping down his throat is the only response you get, and it grates against the care you offered.

A flicker of irritation sparks within you. Perhaps it’s the brush-off, or maybe it’s the contradiction in his actions. He’s sitting here in your space, looking like the embodiment of a cry for help, yet recoils at the smallest act of kindness. Still, you don’t back down. Instead, you shift your weight and tilt your head, keeping your tone neutral but unwavering.

“Fine, If you don’t want to talk, that’s sound,” you say, folding your arms against the cold. “But sitting out here, looking like the world’s chewed you up and spat you out…people are going to ask questions like ‘are you okay’ or ‘what’s the matter’. Just saying.” You huff out and follow his gaze to the city. People are having a much better day than you out there, and envy jabs at you.

For a moment, you think he’ll continue ignoring you; his shoulders remain tense, his grip on the bottle firm. But then he sighs, the sound long and weary, like air escaping a deflating balloon, one being pinched and controlled. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, a surprising Australian accent whistling through the wind.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, though the words lack conviction. His eyes remain fixed on the horizon, steadfastly avoiding yours.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you counter, letting a small, dry smile tug at your lips. “And you’re also not allowed up here.”

A tense silence follows, broken only by the chug of a train in the far distance. It’s not exactly comfortable, but neither is it unbearable. You find yourself wondering who he is and what’s brought him to this specific rooftop. 

“You can’t get up here unless you’re a tenant,” you blurt out, trying to get any morsel of information from him. You figure the quicker you find out what he’s doing here, the quicker you can find a solution for him to leave and then have your safe space back to yourself. You might have sympathy for him, clearly having a hard time of life, but so are you - and your comfort outweighs a total stranger who can’t even bother to look your way.

“Okay,” he says bored, sipping his beer again. 

“That’s your invitation to either tell me that you moved in recently, or, your queue to leave because you’re trespassing.” 

“Invitation declined.”

He is so rude, you think to yourself, though you wonder whether you should just call him out for it and at least gain some reaction for him. 

Instead, you park yourself in the seat next to him, huffing as you drop down. “Well I’m not leaving until you do,” you state matter-of-factly, attempting to not let his presence ruin your mood even further. You suppose, if he sits and shuts up, you can at least pretend he isn’t here invading your space.

Though technically, you’re invading his, but you get the idea.

The boy side-eyes you, a small, angry smirk etching onto his cold rosey face. “Yeah? Well, you’re gonna be here for a long fucking time.” He spits his words out, frustration laced within each syllable, though you can tell it’s not directed towards you. The boy is so far in his own head that you begin to realise that any discontentment he might have has less to do with you and your presence, and more to do with the reason he’s hibernating on your rooftop.

So, you sit back, and leave him be. To be honest, you’ve dealt with far worse and crabbier people today, in comparison, this boy is like rainbows and kittens.

Closing your eyes, you let the white noise of the night take over you, infiltrating all your tension and disdain towards the day, and settling you into a comfortable silence. The fairy lights above add a serene atmosphere that you crave after work, the faint lights providing some fake warmth. They were not easy to get up there, but a few falls and tangles later, you realised that all the scrapes and twirls were worth it.

The hooded boy beside you peaks over, finally taking you in as more than an inconvenience. He notices how you breathe in deep, exhaling with a sigh of relief and a cloud of warmth that combats the freezing air. 

It doesn’t take him a minute to realise that you’ve had a bad day too, and a pang of guilt hits him. He’s being unfair to you when you probably just want to relax under the night sky and here he is taking up space. 

He takes up too much space.

Reaching down at his feet, he picks up a bottle of beer from his case, the clinking not even disturbing your quest for serenity. He pokes your thigh with the bottom of the bottle, gaining your attention. When your eyes meet once again, there’s a sorrowful look on his face, the alcohol a form of apology for being an arsehole. It’s an apology you’ll gladly accept. 

“You look like you could use it,” he murmurs, offering a tight smile as he waits for you to take the brown glass bottle.

You wrap your hand around the base and lift it up in thanks. “I could use ten sambucas and a pint of tequila to wash them down,” you snort out a sarcastic chuckle, beginning to unscrew the cap. You need to thank whatever genius decided that bottle openers were too much hassle and gave people a much easier and more practical way to open a bottle of beer. You hope they’re having a good night.

The boy lets out a laugh, short but genuine, raising his own bottle to his lips. “That bad, huh?” he asks, voice muffled slightly by the glass.

“It gets like that,” you shrug, taking a long pull from the bottle, barely savouring the taste, routing around for the effects of calmness that it will bring rather than its pallet. “Comes with working in a hospital.”

He raises an eyebrow, curiosity momentarily overriding his gloom “Nurse?”

“Receptionist.” You correct him, hissing out as you absorb the alcohol. Beer is not your favourite taste, a Sex on the Beach is much more appealing, but you would down a tank of gasoline if it meant you could get rid of this stress.

He sucks in an empathetic breath, whistling low as he leans back against the seat. “Yeah, you need a gun, not alcohol.”

The comment catches you off guard, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, you laugh - really laugh. It bursts out of you, raw and unrestrained, carrying away the weight of the day. Life isn’t inherently awful, but it’s lonely sometimes. Working back shift in the hospital makes it hard to keep friends or any semblance of a social life. The most interaction you get that isn’t disgruntled patients or angry phone calls is on twitter with your online friends, but even then, it’s a rise-and-repeat conversation cycle of ‘for real’ and ‘same’ replies to posts you make about Jang Kyungho when no one is looking. 

Not exactly the deep human connection that people need.

So this, being able to laugh and have a bit of understanding for even a second, is comforting. It almost makes you feel bad for cursing the boy out in your head.

Smiling, you extend a hand to him, “Y/N.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it. “Jaeyun,” he replies, offering you a smile in return. It’s faint but sincere, a crack in the armour he’s wearing so tightly.

As he grips your hand in his, you feel the ice-coldness on his skin, a clear indicator that he has been up here for quite some time. Or at least out in the open air. It only makes you more intrigued - and with him being a little slither more open with you, you decide to take the nugget and run with it.

So you talk, and talk, and talk. It feels like forever but it’s actually only two hours. Not a lot is said, but you learn some things about him; hobbies, interests, friends, his favourite TV shows and Films. All surface-level stuff, yet it feels like you’re speaking to an old friend. He learns about you too - the same stuff, with added anecdotes about working in a hospital.

But there is one thing that you are dying to know.

“So,” you begin, twisting your patio chair to face him fully, the legs scraping along the asphalt of the roof. “You can guess I’m here after a bad shift…why are you here?” Your face is expectant, waiting for an answer while you drink your beer.

But Jaeyun’s face is overcome with a flash of rage, partly due to your question, but more the fact that your question made him think about the reason he is here. Though, as quickly as his face shows agitation, it dissipates just as fast. Instead, he opts for an obtuse response. “Just wanted to enjoy the view. That’s all.”

“Couldn’t do that from your own building, no?” you tease lightly, humour softening the prodding tone. But your persistence nudges too close to something real. “Oh... did your girlfriend kick you out?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, too sharp and intrusive.

Unfortunately, it’s a habit of yours to be so nosey that it comes off inconsiderate or produces ill-timed questions. In this instance, it’s both.

His grip tightens on the neck of the bottle. The knuckles whiten, the tension visible. For a moment, he studies the label, reading the same ingredients over and over as if they hold the secret to life's greatest mystery - what happened on that fishing trip in Gavin and Stacey.

“My parents did. Yeah.” His confession is sharp, devoid of emotion

Your stomach drops. “Oh...” It’s all you manage, guilt prickling at the edges of your thoughts. You’re so stupid for poking Y/N! You inwardly scold yourself. Obviously, this issue is so much bigger than you can process. Still, your mouth will continue to flap around. 

“Yep.” He pops the p with bitter precision, his tone teetering on the edge of sarcasm. “Apparently, I need to ‘get my act together.’” He says with accompanying quotation marks from his fingers.

“As in?”

“As in I need to be their perfect little boy and follow in my brother’s footsteps - be a lawyer.” The words fall flat, heavy with resentment.

Nodding along, the pieces form enough for you to make your own solid conclusions. “And I guess you don’t want that?”

“Fuck no.” Jaeyun scoffs out a bitter laugh. “I’m more likely to need a lawyer than be one.”

“Ohhh a bad boy huh?” you wiggle your brows, trying to interject some semblance of humour into the moment while sussing him out, to lighten his load even just a smidge. You can’t begin to imagine what his parents said or did to him once he rejected their concept of a perfect life, and you don’t really want him to dwell on it right now either.

He laughs despite himself, a quiet sound that momentarily lightens his expression. “Maybe.” It’s a noncommittal answer, but he seems content to let you spin your own version of events.

Honestly, he is not bad in any shape or form. But when he says he would need a lawyer rather than being one, he means that that career is so absurd that even a goody too shoes like him is more likely to get in trouble before he stands in a suit.

He just wants to live his life without this great expectation, without people demanding he ‘do better’ when he knows he is doing just fine; he’s in a great University, studying music and production, and has a decent part-time job at the record store, which isn’t loads of money, but enough for him to pay his mum and dad digs and still have a life outside their constraints. He’s doing fine, or so he believes.

But fine isn’t enough for his parents. Their love towards their own son is tied to the weight of their expectations, ones he can’t - or won’t - carry.

“So they just…kicked you out?” you ask carefully, noting the sorrow in his features as he turns the events of the past few months in his head. Sympathy creeps back into your chest, any lingering annoyance dissipating along with the last sips of your beer.

“Yeah,” he confirms, sighing and shrugging. “It’s fine.”

“Are you staying with friends or…” You don’t finish the question because you’re scared of the answer; the dishevelled clothes and hair are enough to semi-confirm.

Jaeyun looks up, his gaze catching the glimmer of the fairy lights, their soft glow reflected in his dark irises. “I was, until a few days ago. You can only couch-hop for so long before people start to feel like you’re intruding.”

He holds no malice towards his friends, no bitterness in his tone, and honestly, his best friend Sunghoon said he could stay for as long as it took him to save up for an apartment of his own. But he doesn’t want to take advantage of his kindness, the boy already doing more for him than most would have. Even Jay, his other friend, offered to loan him the money for the first month's rent on a flat uptown. 

But Jaeyun’s pride wouldn’t allow him to take advantage of their kindness. He would manage on his own, no matter how hard it got.

Seeing the pity in your eyes, he waves his hand to brush off your concern. “It’s fine, I’ve scraped up enough money to get rent now. I just need to find a place,” he smiles softly, appreciative of your sympathy even if he doesn’t want it. “I’ll be fine. I’m going looking tomorrow.”

There’s a sense of relief that his words bring you. Although his predicament isn’t ideal right now, it looks like it could be on the turnaround, and for that, you’re thankful.

“If it’s only for one night, do you want my couch?” The offer spills out before you can stop it, surprising even yourself.

Jaeyun laughs heartedly, eyebrows knitting in disbelief and amusement. “You’re fucking stupid.”

“Huh?!” you exclaim in shock. It’s not really the response you were expecting. A yes? Sure. A no? Absolutely. But an insult to punctuate your act of kindness was a curveball.

Sitting up straight, he places his beer on the ground, an amused smile softening his features. “I’m a random man you’ve known for a couple of hours. I could do anything to you in your own home, and you don’t seem the slightest bit worried about that.”

Okay, maybe he has a massive point. You don’t know him and he could literally attack you at any moment. And considering earlier you had to assess him before approaching, it shows that you do have the common sense not to let him stay with you.

But he poses no threat, none whatsoever. He’s just a boy in a fucked up situation, and your kind heart can’t see him freeze; god knows how many nights he’s been out. He’s already reminiscent of Jack Dawson turning into a block of iced body parts.

“Well, you won’t right?” You throw the question back to him. “I mean, to be honest, I’ve let men in my bed for a lot less than a tiny conversation and a beer.” 

As soon as the words tumble out of your mouth, your cheeks flush to match his cold ones, neck tingling in embarrassment. You’ve just confessed that your standards are abysmally low - you’ve slept with men who didn’t even have the decency to buy you a drink nevermind learn your name.

Jaeyun stifles a laugh, rubbing at his eye. “For your pride, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” The smile on his face is so beautiful that you’re caught off guard a little. Now you wish he was one of the men you let roll around on top of you for a compliment and a ride home.

His expression shifts, returning to a more serious note, though the smile lingers. “Seriously, Y/N. Thank you for the offer, but I only have” - he glances at his watch - “six hours before sunrise anyway.”

“Seriously, it’s no trouble-”

“I’m serious too,” he interrupts gently, slouching back into his seat. “You should go in. It’s cold, and after the day you’ve had, you need sleep.”

“I-”

“Y/N.” His tone is firm but not unkind. “I’m fine. Go. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

His refusal stings in a strange way, the rejection of your kindness more personal than it should feel. But you know better than to argue with someone so resolute. It never ends well. So, with a resigned nod, you down the last of your beer and stand.

“Okay,” you reply, setting the empty bottle aside. “I’m in 4A if you change your mind. I can grab some blankets? Pillows?”

Jaeyun places a hand over his heart, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Thank you, Y/N. Truly. But I promise I’ll survive.”

And so, you leave him there, your heart tugging at you to insist, to argue, to make him take shelter in your tiny flat. But your feet keep moving, respecting his wishes.

As you reach the door, you glance back one last time, the words caught in your throat. You just hope he’ll be okay.

_____

The rain lashes, jolting you awake. It’s not the pretty white noise rain that you enjoy, it sounds like hundreds of tiny little pebbles being pelted at your window. Strange. It was forecast as clear skies until at least Tuesday. 

You blink groggily, groaning at the interruption. You can’t have been asleep for more than two hours - if that. Begrudged, you turn your back to the outside, shielding yourself from the rain that cannot attack you. Yet, an unsettling feeling stews in the bottom of your stomach, the kind that makes your heart beat faster and your mouth gain moisture.

It’s not uncommon for you to have random spouts of anxiety, all your life you’ve suffered from it, but this isn’t your typical ‘my brain is going to bring up that one time I peed myself in primary 2 and had to be sent home’ anxiety. This is something more.

Fuck.

Jaeyun.

The thought hits you like a bolt of lightning and your body moves before your mind can catch up. You fling off your pastel pink duvet, slide your feet into your beloved fuzzy slippers, and throw on a housecoat to cover your half-naked form. If you had the right mindset and not half asleep and half in panic, you would have grabbed a rain jacket and some trainers instead.

Thought, without thinking about your own state, the chilly air cuts at your skin as you make your way to the roof. The rain, now mixed with hail, pelts down hard, each sting enhancing your concern. Your eyes roam around near the seated area, one of your hands shielding your eyes from the brutal hailstones, each one nipping your hand in anger. 

"Jaeyun?" you shout, your voice cutting through the storm, only to be drowned out by the constant rain. You get closer to the seats and see nothing. Panic overwhelms you, hot and stifling. "Are you still here?"

As you spin around, your eyes finally land on him. He’s slumped up against the rooftop enclosure which acts as a headboard to an uncomfortable concrete bed. His jacket and hoodie are doing as much to protect him as a candyfloss blanket, each soaked through and clinging to his skin. How can he sleep like this? It makes you wonder if he lied about just how long he had stopped couch-crashing and living out in the open.

Quickly, you drop to your knees beside him, ignoring the puddle that entrenchs your legs, and place your hand on his shoulder as you shake him awake. “Jaeyun?” you bellow, loud enough for him to startle awake and instantly put a guard up.

“Huh?” he mumbles, voice thick with confusion.

“Come on, I’m not leaving you up here,” you inform. This time, it isn’t a question but a demand. You have too much compassion to willingly leave him up here any longer.

Jaeyun’s eyes squint through his water-splattered glasses as he takes in your figure. “Y/N? What the fuck are you doing? You’re soaked,” he states the obvious, yet oblivious to his own state. “Go back inside.”

“Not without you,” you fire back. “Grab your things.”

“But-”

“Either that or I stay up here with you,” you cut him off, voice firm though only kindness shines through.

You can see the conflict in his face, his concern for your drenched state outweighing his stubbornness. He sighs, defeated, and finally nods. “Fine.”

If there is one thing Jaeyun hates to be is a burden, but it seems no matter what happens, he will inconvenience you in some way - might as well choose the drier option.

Standing upright, you extend a hand, offering him some help up, but he refuses. Instead, he grabs the duffle beside him and clumsily gets up, following you down and into your apartment.

As soon as he walks into the warmth, his bones leap with excitement and his shoulders relax in contentment. You flick on the lights which allows him a better view of your personal space. And it is exactly how he imagined it.

Your walls are covered in art and photos of you and your friends, lyric posters from bands he has never even heard of, and a shrine to TO1 in the corner. It’s cosy, lived in, and he feels a massive pang of envy. 

“You can use my shower,” you say while subconsciously tidying up, removing the cups and wine glasses that have piled on the coffee table. “Luckily for you, I like wearing guy’s clothes on my period so I’ll see what I can find to fit you.”

“Seriously, Y/N. I’ll just, dry off with a towel or something, No Stress.” He doesn’t like the fuss but he can’t deny he doesn’t feel a little fuzzy as you make space for him. 

Scoffing, you turn around with a perplexed look on your face. “A towel? Jaeyun, you’re soaked to the bone. You need a shower and then you can have a towel, okay?” 

A grateful grin adorns the boy’s face as he takes his shoes off. “Okay. Thank you, Y/N. Seriously.” Jaeyun nods, clutching his damp duffle as he trudges towards the bathroom. 

You point out the way, adding a quick, “Towels are on the rack, and there’s shampoo, soap, and more in there. Just use whatever you need, okay?” 

With another muttered thank you, he waddles to your bathroom, suddenly enthralled with how the night has panned out. It’s been a while since he had a decent shower, and the ones in the Uni’s lockeroom are made more for a quick wash down than a deep cleanse.

As he disappears into the bathroom, you let out a sigh, glancing around your apartment. It isn’t a mess by your standards, but you suddenly feel self-conscious about the clutter. Usually, when people are up, it’s those who are either only making their way to your bedroom or those who do not care and have known you long enough to understand that you like a bit of mess.

A messy home is a home loved.

The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom, and you take the moment to rummage through your wardrobe. You pull out a pair of joggies and an oversized hoodie that has seen you coming every cycle for the past three years. You can’t get much more comfort than these. They’ll be a bit loose on his slim frame, but they’re warm and dry.

Speaking of which, you glance down at your own rain-soaked state, grimacing. The slippers squelch faintly with each step, and the damp housecoat clings unpleasantly to your skin. Without hesitation, you pull out a baggy t-shirt and some old pyjama shorts, slipping into them after quickly drying off your hair with a towel that’s close by. It’s not inherently clean, but it serves its purpose, so that’s good for now.

Satisfied, you place the clothes Jaeyun will borrow on the sofa before heading to the kitchen. The kettle hums to life as the storm outside continues its symphony, the hail getting more dangerous and cutthroat. A hot cup of tea feels like just the thing to chase away the chill, after all, there’s little problems in life that a good cuppa can’t fix.

Just as you reach for the tea bags, the creak of the bathroom door pulls your attention.

Jaeyun steps out, his damp hair falling messily over his forehead, droplets of water glistening on his skin. A towel sits promiscuously low on his hips, and despite yourself, your gaze trails downward. The delicate silver chain around his neck catches the light, the cross pendant resting at eye level with his pretty brown nipples. Your eyes wander further, taking in the faint definition of his toned abs, the subtle dip hinting at a v-line. And his cock is outlined perfectly to give you an idea of his size and width but you can tell it still doesn’t do him justice. 

You realise with a jolt that your mouth is slightly open, and the train of your thoughts is taking a decidedly inappropriate detour. Heat rushes to your cheeks as your mind conjures up scenarios you’d never admit aloud. A pang of guilt follows swiftly - this boy has been through hell, and he’s come to you for solace, not to be gawked at.

“Sorry,” Jaeyun says, breaking the spell. His voice is soft, a mix of embarrassment and strange pride, as he catches your lingering stare. “I’ll get dressed. I just…didn’t know where the clothes were.”

“Oh!” You clear your throat and nod toward the sofa, purposefully keeping your gaze above his shoulders. “Yep, just there. Help yourself. I think they’ll fit.”

As he moves to retrieve the clothes, you busy yourself with literally anything else - studying the ceiling, adjusting the kettle, anything to avoid the moment and stop trying to catch glimpses of his cock. 

You don’t hear the rustling of clothes though, instead, you just hear yourself breathing, which piques your interest. Why isn’t he changing?

Subtly, your eyes glance over to him and then you see it, the look on his face as he stares at the clothes. You’ve had that look before too, the one that comes with the mixed feelings of disbelief, shame, sadness, hope, and every other conflicting emotion that arises when you’re down and out.

“Thanks,” he whispers, “For all of this.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, taking a few small steps forward. But Jaeyun shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“No, really,” he insists. “I…I don’t think I’ve met someone as kind as you in a long time.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he quickly looks away, ashamed of the vulnerability slipping through. 

He has his friends, they are kind and generous much like yourself, but being kicked out of his own family has also shown him the darkest parts of humanity, the ones that he doesn’t let others know that he’s experienced. Truthfully, he’s just a scared boy who needs his family. 

The admission punches through your chest, leaving no room for hesitation. You glide over to him as your arms wrap gently around his shoulders. 

If a cuppa can fix most things, a hug can fix them all.

At first, he stiffens, unsure how to respond, but then he relaxes, his head lowering slightly against you.

“It’s okay,” you murmur softly. “You’re going to be okay. Maybe not right now, but soon.”

Jaeyun’s arms tentatively come up to return the embrace, and for a moment, the storm outside fades into irrelevance. His eyes close and for a change, he believes that it will be fine. This moment isn’t going to last forever, once the morning blooms, he’ll be out of your life and trying to get back on his feet, but he’s thankful for the reassurance and hope right now.

Pulling back slightly, his arms still lingering around you. His eyes, uncertain and yearning, flicker between your face and your lips. Then, without a second thought, he leans in and presses his lips to yours - a fleeting, hesitant kiss that seems to catch even him off guard. 

His lips retract from yours as he draws back, his face flushed with embarrassment and horror. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. Why the fuck would he kiss you without consent when you’ve been so kind towards him? He thinks. His hand twitches at his side, as though unsure whether to retreat or reach out again. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Would it make you feel better?” you interrupt gently, your voice soft but steady.

His brows furrow, confusion flickering across his features. “What?”

“Would it make you feel better?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly. There’s no judgment in your tone, no hesitation. “To kiss me?”

“Really, no, it’s okay-”

This time, you close the distance, your lips capturing his before he can finish the sentence. It’s slow, deliberate, a kiss that tells him you’re here for him despite still being strangers. His initial surprise melts into something deeper, something warmer, as he responds cautiously at first, then with more certainty.

It actually is making him feel better, the human connection, it’s nature's balm.

So he follows your lead, his arms tightening around your waist, holding you impossibly close as his hands splay over your back, covering most of the surface. The way his plump lips move against yours is magnetic, sucking and pulling you into his world. You’ve been kissed more times than you can count - shamelessly to say - but his mouth feels a little different; a little less icky than the others and a lot more like they’re meant to be on yours.

With that feeling charging your bloodstream, your hands fly up to his damp hair, craving to have him on each of your senses. You can’t get enough of him, his taste of beer from the numerous bottles he downed on the roof, the touch of his silky locks that are in need of a haircut, his scent of your strawberry milk body wash mixing in with his own musk, how he sounds when he growls into your mouth, showcasing that he’s just as desperate as you are for this. 

You need him…

Swiftly, your hands trail from his head, down his neck, your nails lightly scratching down his collarbones until you reach the veins just above where you were unabashedly looking not 10 minutes ago. 

Jaeyun pushes your ass against the sofa, bucking up into you, hips deliciously working to place your hand on his cock. God, it feels beautiful, even with the fluffy barrier. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he moans deeply into your mouth, passing the need from himself into you. Your hand grips his covered shaft as you palm him teasingly. “Don’t do this if you don’t want to.” 

Honestly, he doesn’t want to say anything that will make this stop, his body pulsing with the desire to have you wrapped around him. But he also believes in consent, and while you both might be horny-induced 22-year-olds, you’re also strangers. 

Shaking your head adamantly, you grip his dick harder, smiling at the whimper it draws from him. “I want this, Jaeyun.”

“I suppose, men have been in your bed for a lot less, right?” he chuckles into your mouth. And while it could come across as an insult to some -  that he’s essentially throwing back your own slut-shaming dialogue from earlier -  you feel no degradation or malice behind his words. You can tell he’s playful, under all the dreary circumstances. He’s a boy who has light and laughter built into his DNA. 

Maybe it’s delusion, maybe it’s a soul connection, or maybe it’s the fact that you need to bounce on his cock within the next five minutes or you’ll perish that’s clouding your judgment. 

Either one, you let it slide.

So, playfully, you slap his chest and break the kiss. “Keep talking and you won’t get the chance to see my bedroom.”

“That’s okay, I can fuck you here,” he replies quick-witted, suddenly hoisting you up on the back of the couch, the wood and material digging into your ass not uncomfortably. 

You laugh and so does he, looking into each other’s eyes, and it all feels so right. 

Bringing your hand up to his face, you push his hair off of his forehead and reveal his eyes - the light from your living room dancing in his pupils, much like how they had been on the rooftop, but this time, there is an abundance of happiness that adds to the shine. 

“You’re so pretty,” you confess, that no-filter brain coming into full effect once again. Granted, a much better consequence of it. 

A faint, rose blush crawls across the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose, a bashful grin on his mouth. “Thank you. Personally, I think you’re prettier so…”

“Guess we can be pretty together, huh?”

“Pretty good together you mean?” 

Another laugh jumps out of you and you cup both his cheeks, the warmth of them comforting and worth cherishing. You peck his nose. “I should have known a pretty boy like you would be a charmer.”

He shrugs, kissing your nose back, not bothering to rebut. Instead, his hands guide your legs to wrap around him, hands finding your ass, and he lifts you up. You can’t ignore his cock now semi-hard pressing into you as he bounces you into a comfortable position.

Securing yourself, you circle your arms across his shoulders and kiss him once again, letting him lead you down your hallway, anticipation and greed passing through your breaths and tongues. 

“Which one?” he pants out, squeezing your ass as he does so.

“This one on the right,” you point half-arsed, too lost in the moment to give it a full thought. 

Awkwardly due to your wriggling body, Jaeyun opens the door, trying to view a path to which he can reach your bed without falling over your clutter. Shoes and more lay abandoned over your carpet, creating an obstacle, but one he refuses to lose. 

Jaeyun finally reaches your queen-sized bed and gently places you down, his cock pressing into you even more. 

It’s only then that he realises that along the way from your living room to your bedroom, his towel has fallen down, leaving his exposed cock rubbing against the fabric of shorts. “Jesus fucking christ.”

You look at him and see the pleasure on his face, biting his lips as his eyebrows knit together, rubbing against you again. It makes you giggle, you don’t know why, but he just brings it out of you.

The sound from your lips draws his attention back. “What?” he breathes out heavily, cock thumping with need as he humps you again.

“Maybe you should be inside of me while you thrust - kinda how this whole sex thing works,” you playfully jab, biting your lips together to stop from laughing. But he laughs for you, resting his forehead on your chest and shaking his head in amusement.

“Shut up, I’m just excited.”

“I can see that, yeah.”

It’s easy with him, you’re noticing, like you’ve somehow been in a relationship for years and you’ve just come home from a couples date with your married friends, two bottles of red wine consumed, and adoration palpable in the air. You have two dogs, maybe three if you can get your way, and you are the annoying pair that people hate to hang out with because your love for one another never dwindled, not even after all those years.

Maybe you shouldn’t be fantasising about a life with this random man you met on a roof, but that’s where your brain immediately goes each time you banter or giggle with one another.

He’s different.

Jaeyun stands up, letting you see his cock as he pumps it gently, getting it to full mass. The fact that it’s standing at 5 inches already and still growing causes an ache in your stomach. Fuck, it’s going to feel so good inside of you, your walls are already leaking out for it, staining your pyjama shorts. 

His hands grip your shorts and peel them off, hurriedly throwing them on the floor, only adding to the chaos. Your legs instinctively spread and the juices from your excitement gleam in the moonlight, looking like a ripe fruit just ready to be devoured.

And devoured it will be.

Hoisting you down, Jaeyun positions you at the end of the bed until your ass is almost hanging off, kneeling down between your thighs. Not exactly how you thought the turn of events was going, but you are the furthest from mad at it.

“You look so fucking delicious, Y/N.” Jaeyun’s comment makes you feel exposed but not in a bad way, yet, you still want to hide from him. As your legs try to close, he places his large hands on your thighs, shaking his head. “No, princess, the only way you're shutting your legs right now is if you’re clamping my head between them.”

“Jaeyun…” you whine, both at the petname and his breath ghosting over your hardened clit, making it weep again - much to Jaeyun’s delight.

“I know, princess. You need it, huh?” Jaeyun whispers, kissing up your inner thigh and around the area you crave him most. 

The heat in the room is electric, any cold you both felt from the rain now disappeared from your bones and replaced with scorching intensity. Your hips follow the blow of his breath in search of connection but he simply places a chaste kiss on your clit before pulling away, a smirk on his face as he sees you whimper and squeak.

“You make the prettiest noises when you’re desperate, Y/N,” he gloats, though it’s prideful and not arrogant. He means it, and that’s why he keeps teasing you softly, puckering at your folds and giving you just enough to have you humping the air and arching into him.

“I’m never letting you use my shower again,” you laugh in discontentment, your arm flying across your face as you hide in the comfort of your bicep. 

Jaeyun huffs a laugh, echoing your own amusement before he speaks. “I know, I’m being so mean considering you’ve been so kind, huh? You’re just so cute when you’re like this.”

“I’m about to become a bitch if you don’t do something,” you warn lightly, peaking down to look at him under your arm.

“Well, I better get to it then right?”

And with that, his thick tongue stripes up your folds, gathering and savouring your wetness. Your back arches off the bed and pushes just enough onto him that his nose catches your clit. “Fuck!” you bellow. 

The tip of his tongue searches for your nub, and once it hits the spot and your hands fly to his hair, his lips suction around it, almost making out with it. 

He’s not real you think to yourself. You can’t help the jealousy that rises inside of you as your brain works overtime to imagine just how many girls he has had to go down on for him to be this good at eating you out. If there was ever such a thing as a pussy eating contest, you know he would win hands down because he’s already got you chanting his name, punctuated by profanities. 

“Right there, Jaeyun…fuck…” 

His pride swells and he grows more confident, tongue flicking quickly over your button as he drools over your cunt. It’s safe to say that Jaeyun loves pussy. If he could have it morning, noon, and night, and elevensies, he would without hesitation. Especially yours. The taste of your tang and sweetness is enough to put him in a frenzy, long forgetting about his aching cock and focusing solely on drinking you up.  

He humps the air though, as he always does, resembling a dog in heat as he slabbers and grunts into your cunt. He nibbles at your clit and soothes it with his wet muscle, a smile plastered on his face with each movement - your noises urging him on.

He brings his middle and ring finger to your pulsating hole as it clenches around nothing, deciding to give you some more relief. As he plunges in, you scream out in joy, an open-mouthed smile on your face as coherent words get lost in your throat. You clearly don’t get eaten out as often as you deserve, and that just spurs Jaeyun on more to be the best you’ve ever had.

“So wet for me, princess. Taste so fucking good I want to be here for hours.”

And while that sounds nice in theory, you need him inside of you now. His fingers, thick and beautiful, are nice for now, but that 6-inch, throbbing cock is calling your name. So, you pull him away much to your pussy’s weeping plea for him to keep going, his mouth covered in your slick which is perhaps the most beautiful sight you have ever seen -  and you’ve seen the Northern Lights on a crisp autumn morning. 

His fingers never stop though, just curling inside of you slowly, beckoning your climax still. “What’s wrong?” he asks, concern weaving in his tone.

Sitting up on your elbows, you smile and pant, trying to maintain a steady voice while the tip of his fingers presses against your soft spot inside, jaw slacking each time he holds it for a little longer. “I need your cock so back, Jaeyun. I’m so serious.” The words are desperate and real, shamelessly desperate. 

“You sure you don’t want to cum right now? I can do it.” It’s not like he can’t make you cum over and over again anyway. 

Shaking your head, you sit up, hunching over to cup his face. “Please. I really need you to fuck me.”

A primal desire flickers past Jaeyun’s eyes and a quick nod tells you that he needs it too. His cock jumping for joy at the thought of being enveloped in your tight cunt. So, he withdraws his fingers and licks them clean, pulling on a show as his tongue weaves through his digits, wide eyes looking up at you with sheer longing. It stirs something inside of you, something that suddenly makes you want to grow a cock and have him choke on it. 

But you quickly shake those thoughts, pulling him up by his hair and kissing him deeply. His tongue now tastes of you and you are so glad you love sweet juices and decided that for the past three weeks, cranberry spritz has been your favourite. 

Jaeyun makes quick hands of stripping you of your t-shirt, leaving you both naked and clawing at one another. 

“You got condoms?” he asks between kisses, trailing down your neck as his hands grip your hips so tightly that the skin turns white. 

But you don’t want that. You want to feel him. Raw and unfiltered. Is it stupid? Of course, it is. But some would say letting him inside your home never mind inside your body is already wreckless, so, what’s another reckless abandonment on your list tonight?

“No. No condom, please,” you mumble against his hair as you kiss the top of his head, your conditioner filling your senses.

Jaeyun freezes his mouth and darts up, eyes seeking yours to make sure he heard you right. “Huh?”

“No condom. I’m on the pill,” you stroke his cheek tenderly, “Please, Jaeyun. Do this with me just once, yeah?”

For some reason, that ‘just once’ pangs in the boy’s chest and he hates the feeling more than anything. He doesn’t want this to be once, he wants this to be again, and again, and then some more. Jaeyun isn’t one to believe in fate but considering he chose your flat complex rooftop out of all the others in the city, and it decided to pour down - even though it’s been dry for the past two weeks - which led to you coming to get him and practically drag him into your home; he would say that doesn’t happen by chance. 

Although, instead of getting in his head, he agrees, lust overpowering his responsibility to be safe. “I want it too, so fucking badly,” he leans down, rubbing his leaking cock on your slit, mouth moving to your ear. “I can’t wait to cum inside you, fill you up and make you suck me in.”

Does he know where this confidence came from? Perhaps it was the way you whispered into the air his name over and over again how good you felt while he ate your pretty little cunt, or maybe it's the fact that if this is your only time under him, he will damn make sure you’re thinking about him for the rest of your life.

The heels of your feet move with his ass as he gyrates his hips, allowing his cock to snag on your clit and elicit a hiss from both of you. Your lips messily leave open-mouth kisses over any skin that you can reach; his neck, cheek, lips, forehead, all of it, the feeling of his glistening skin on your lips addicting.

“Please, Jaeyun. Fuck me. Right. Now.”

Your pleading snaps him into full throttle, his hand guiding his cock to your entrance, his bell expanding and contracting as he slips inside of you. Your groans of pleasure harmonise in the winter night, both your bodies connecting fully as he bottoms out slowly, balls meeting your ass as he pushes in to the hilt.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck, and you lock him in there, fisting his hair and bucking your hips for friction. He fills you up so good you wonder why humans are born empty and not with a permanent cock up their pussy. 

You never want him to leave.

“Move, Yunnie, please.” The tone of your voice doesn’t carry much conviction but portrays your desperation for him. The nickname falling off your cock-drunk tongue much to his happiness. If anyone ever calls him Yunnie again, and it overtakes the way you whimper it out, he will commit murder. Only you can call him that, call him whatever you want, call him by his name, ever again.

Obeying your wishes, he begins to pull back his hips and move them painfully slow back into you, feeling each bump of your walls and how they meld perfectly with the veins of his fat cock. 

While he loves savouring the moment of you taking him in, feeling how your hole adapts to his girth and length, creating way just for him. “Faster, Yunnie. God, please.”

“Asking God to help get what you want is crazy considering it’s me you should be begging,” he chuckles, never increasing his pace. 

“Shut up, please,” you whine out, grabbing his ass and trying to physically move him to speed up.  

“You can ask me to shut up but not beg me to move faster?” he tuts, going even slower, “C’mon, princess. Ask me nicely.”

You want to slap him, a dry laugh coming from your throat as you fight between your pride - telling you never to do as a man says - and your need for him to start jackhammering into you. 

Well, you suppose you can let your pride have a night off for a chance.

“Jaeyun, please, move faster. I’m begging you. Fuck me faster and harder.”

Those sweet yet filthy words send Jaeyun into orbit, and he grants your prayers. With his hands pushing down your hips, he begins to thrust with ferocity, the tip of his cock not punching into your cervix. It’s much more delicious than you ever could have imagined, the way he snaps into your cunt with no restraint, your pussy taking a beating in the best way possible. 

This is heaven.

“Yes, Jaeyun! Yes! Don’t fucking stop, please.” 

And stop he does not. In fact, he lifts your legs over his shoulders and folds you in half, the new angle somehow reaching so deep you can feel him poking your stomach. You have never felt this good in your life. A cock has never made your brain turn to mush or made your hands literally peel the skin from your partner’s back before, yet here you are, chanting incoherent words into his ear and clawing up his shoulder blades.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good, princess. Taking my cock so well.” Jaeyun breathes into your neck, nipping at your skin and he marks you right back. His praise makes you smile, kissing all over his face in appreciation for the pleasure he is giving you right now. “Such a good girl, Y/N.”

You could cum that minute, and he feels how you clench around him, sucking him in further, making him tip his head back and move even faster. He wants you to cum together, and with how good your pussy feels, he isn’t far from it.

“You sure you want me to cum inside?” he asks again, trying to gauge whether you could have changed your mind. But you grip his hair and stare into his eyes. 

“If you don’t, I’ll kick you out back into the rain.”

Jaeyun laughs. Hard. Your threat is meaningless because you clearly would never leave him out there again to drown in the winter hail, but it does get your point across. You don’t just want his cum, you need it. And luckily for you, he is happy to oblige. 

So, with your consent, he works on getting you both to the edge, his right hand coming down to your clit and rubbing it in smooth circles, a juxtaposition to his harsh thrusts. And you begin to see stars, constellations, as you arch your back and wriggle under him. The coil in your tummy burns with the insatiable pull. 

“I’m cumming! Yunnie, I’m cumming,” you warn, happiness filtering the air as you buck your hips and match the rhythm of his shaft penetrating you. “Cum with me. Please, baby.”

Baby

His balls tighten at the petname and groans loudly. “Call me that again.”

“Baby, cum inside me,” you repeat within a moan, forcing your eyes open to lock onto his. “Cum with me.”

And just like that, with the final clench of your walls around him, he spurts his white seed inside of you, a primal roar escaping his lips as each rope coats your canal. You cum with him, his name falling from your lips over and over again as you chant out in hymn. 

“Squeeze it, princess. Take it all like you want.” He validates you without ridicule, a grin of glee etching onto his face as his body shakes with the euphoria he feels. You were right, cumming inside of you is much better than a condom.

After a while, both your hearts begin to slow down and his body collapses onto yours. His lips lazily kiss your sweaty skin on the top of your breast, your fingers threading through his now dry hair, the only wetness coming from persperation. Its intimate, despite the newness of the situation, and you can’t help but plaster a smile on your face.

It feels so right.

And you’re not the only one who believes so.

Jaeyun gathers some strength to lean on his arm, cupping your face as he strokes your cheek. “Can I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” His voice is wavering due to exhaustion, but it’s overshadowed by sincerity. 

Placing your hand over his, you titter slightly, the sound making Jaeyun’s stomach knot and cock pulse inside you once again. “You mean having sex or staying in my house and abusing my shower privileges?”

“Both.” He murmurs earnestly, pinching your cheek. “I also want you to abuse my shower…when I get one.” The last part of that sentence falters slightly, his voice dipping as if suddenly comping back into his reality.

But you won’t let him dwell in it. Instead, you reach up to kiss him gently, lips expressing the reassurance you worry your words might not. And it seems to do the trick because, in an instant, he’s kissing you back with passion, taking each swipe of your tongue against his as confirmation that you want to have this again and see where it goes. 

It could lead to nothing but it could lead to everything.

And he needs to find out.

[galaxy-stardust]

Simon Ghost Riley x you

Shopping grocerys with Simon 🛒

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store buzzed softly as you pushed the cart down the aisle, Simon trailing just behind you. Dressed in his usual black hoodie and jeans, with his mask firmly in place, he blended into the crowd effortlessly. But his piercing eyes tracked your every move, never straying too far.

You reached for a jar on the top shelf, and before you could grab it, a man nearby stepped forward, a charming grin on his face. “Let me get that for you,” he said, plucking the jar down with ease and handing it to you.

“Oh, thanks,” you said, smiling politely.

The man lingered a moment too long, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that made your skin crawl. “You know, you’re way too pretty to be doing your own grocery shopping.”

Before you could respond, Simon was there, his large frame cutting between you and the stranger like a wall of granite. He loomed over the man, his dark eyes cold and dangerous. “She’s not alone,” Simon growled, his voice low and edged with menace.

The man blinked, suddenly aware of the danger radiating from Simon. He muttered a quick apology and disappeared down the aisle, leaving you alone with your simmering husband.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly, placing the jar in the cart.

Simon’s gaze was still locked on the empty aisle, his jaw clenched tight. “He was looking at you like you were on the damn menu.”

You touched his arm, drawing his attention back to you. “It doesn’t matter. I only care about how you look at me.”

The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, but the possessiveness in his eyes remained. Without a word, he reached for your hand, pulling you down a quieter aisle.

“Simon, what—”

Before you could finish, he pressed you against the shelf, his hands braced on either side of you. His eyes burned into yours, the intensity stealing your breath. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver through you. “And I don’t like anyone forgetting that.”

Your pulse raced as he leaned in, his mask brushing against your cheek. His lips found the curve of your jaw, trailing heated kisses down to your neck. You clung to his hoodie, the world around you fading away.

“Simon,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Say it,” he demanded, his lips hovering over yours.

“I’m yours,” you said, your voice barely audible.

His mouth crashed into yours, his kiss searing and possessive, leaving no room for doubt. When he finally pulled back, his eyes softened slightly, though the fire remained.

“Good,” he said, his voice rough. “Now, let’s finish this and get home. I’m not done with you yet.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you nodded, letting him take control of the cart. Even as you walked beside him, you could feel the heat of his gaze, a silent reminder that you belonged to him and only him.

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

“vickie!” eddie practically screams from his kitchen, rage coursing through him as he stares down at the tabloids spread out in front of him on the counter. “get in here! now!”

eddie’s had an issue with his rage lately. well. he’s had an issue with a lot of things, since he got famous, really. but that’s not his problem right now.

his problem is he’s looking down at image after image of himself on the covers of people and us weekly and entertainment tonight being dragged out of last night’s night club by his own security team with blood pouring from his nose. he looks angry. he looks crazed.

just then, a stranger walks into his kitchen.

“who the fuck are you?” he blurts out at the man, who’s wearing a dark green sweater vest over a white t-shirt and tortoise-shell glasses.

“i’m steve,” the weirdo stalker says, smiling brightly. he has surprisingly swoopy hair for an insane fan. “i’m your new assistant.”

“where’s vickie?” eddie asks, rubbing at the sore spot on his nose. thank god it’s not broken.

“you fired her,” steve tells him. “two days ago.”

“i fire her all the time.”

“ok, well… i guess this time it stuck,” steve shrugs. “chrissy hired me.”

“fucking chrissy,” eddie says under his breath, rolling his eyes. he pulls out his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and speed dials chrissy. “chris, what the fuck?” he doesn’t even give her the chance to say hello.

“good morning, eddie. i’m doing really well, how are you?”

“not fucking well, that’s how i am!” eddie practically yells into the receiver. “what the fuck? did you see the pictures? and who the fuck is this guy in my house?”

“yes, eddie, i saw the pictures.” eddie can hear the eye roll in her voice. “we’re handling it. nancy’s already on it with the team. what was the other thing?”

eddie knows she’s fucking with him and that pisses him off even more. “who is this freak in my house wearing a goddamn sweater vest?!” he feels like a blood vessel in his eye is about to pop.

“hey,” steve protests softly from across the kitchen where he’s started to pull shit out of eddie’s fridge. he didn’t even know there was anything in that fridge.

“that’s not a very nice way to talk about your new assistant,” chrissy’s voice comes loud and clear through the phone.

“christina fucking cunningham, you know i have final say on all hiring decisions when it comes to my assistants.” he rubs at his sore nose again.

“you had final say on all hiring decisions until you fired vickie for the thirteenth time and she refused to come back, even with a three hundred percent raise. we’re going in a different direction now.” chrissy sounds entirely too pleased with herself.

“well, i fucking hate him,” eddie grumbles and watches steve to make sure he’s heard him. steve doesn’t even react, just continues doing whatever the fuck he’s doing with the frying pan he’d found in the cabinet.

“you don’t even know him, eddie. give him a chance. anyway, i have to go, i have brunch plans with my very beautiful, very intelligent, perfect fiancée,” chrissy tells him, gloating, before hanging up on him.

eddie wants desperately to throw his phone across the kitchen, but if he breaks this one that would be his fourth phone in three weeks and he couldn’t bear to have to ask this steve person to go buy him a new one. he settles for squeezing it in his hand until it creaks while taking several deep breaths through his nose.

“what are you doing?” he grits out.

“are you always this rude?” steve asks, ignoring his question.

“to weirdo freak strangers showing up in my house unannounced? yes.”

“it’s not unannounced, chrissy wrote it on your calendar.” steve gestures toward the paper calendar hanging on the side of the fridge where chrissy writes his major life events and which eddie mostly just ignores before sliding a plate full of food toward eddie.

“what is this?” eddie sneers.

“it’s an omelette with cheese and mushrooms,” steve replies, smiling. he’s always fucking smiling.

“i’m allergic to… omelettes,” eddie says, just to be a dick.

“no you’re not. you’re allergic to blueberries and dust.” steve doesn’t stop smiling pleasantly.

“did you get access to my medical records? that’s a violation of my… whatever rights.” eddie waves a hand through the air.

“no, i didn’t go look at your medical records, jesus. i’m not a stalker. chrissy told me when she hired me.”

“whatever. i still fucking hate you.”

“okay,” steve shrugs again. “eat your breakfast.”

eddie has every intention of leaving the kitchen, full plate of food and all, but. he is hungry.

so he eats.

and he’s pissed that it’s actually good.

~*~

eddie spends the rest of the day being a general nuisance to steve any time he tries to do his job. when steve answers the phone before handing it to eddie, eddie “accidentally” hangs up on whoever it is on the hand off & makes sure to blame his new assistant when the person finally calls back. when steve has to drive him to his meeting with nancy and the pr team, eddie tries to give him the wrong directions, but steve’s too smart for that. when steve has to do the grocery shopping, he makes steve go to the erewhon all the way across town during rush hour because the one down the street “just doesn’t have the same vibe, steve.”

and all the while, steve just does his job, still smiling, not getting angry at all even though it’s beyond obvious eddie’s being a little shit to him.

which honestly just pisses eddie off more than anything else today.

“here’s some aspirin,” steve says, placing two white pills on the coffee table in front of eddie, along with a mason jar of water. eddie, lounging on his big squishy couch, pulls the ice pack away from his nose, which has started throbbing again. “you didn’t have any glasses.” steve shrugs when he sees eddie’s arched eyebrow looking skeptically at the jar of water. “if you don’t need anything else, i’ll take off for the day.”

it’s past 8pm already, long after steve should have left for the day except that eddie had made him stay to organize his extensive tshirt collection by color, shade, and design before he could even think about going home. it was an emergency, after all.

“i’ll have to check the t-shirt closet first,” eddie replies, before swallowing the aspirin dry. steve shrugs again and rolls his eyes. eddie would say something about his blatant rudeness, but he’s too exhausted.

eddie pulls himself off the couch and makes his way down the hallway to his “t-shirt room.” it’s so stupid, but he has all this space and he’d started collecting the tshirts so long ago. they’re not worth anything, they’re just his wardrobe but… they remind him of wayne and the thrifting they used to do every saturday morning.

the organization eddie had been having steve do was entirely arbitrary. it’s not like eddie plans his outfits. he mostly just pulls whatever out of wherever, unless it’s an event and then he pays someone to do the deciding and dressing for him anyway.

but. steve’s organized the t-shirts by genre and subgenre and then by band alphabetically and finally color. more than eddie had even asked him to do.

eddie had come in here fully prepared to rip steve a new one, but even he can be shocked into appreciation.

steve notices eddie’s silence and grins.

“can i tell you something?” steve says pleasantly and then continues without even letting eddie respond to the question. “i know i look like a nice polite guy next door that moms totally love—it’s the sweater vests, i think.” steve plucks at his top. “and that’s true. i am a nice polite guy and moms do love me. i’m awesome.” his grin widens. “but i got kicked out of my parents house when i was 18 and i lived in my car for a while. i’ve been on my own for seven years. i made a life in LA out of nothing. so you can throw your little temper tantrums and tell me how much you hate me. you can make me go to the erewhon all the way across town and you can make me look incompetent to my colleagues. but i need this job. i’ve worked hard for this job. this job pays more than any other job i’ve ever had combined. and you’re hardly the biggest asshole i’ve ever met. so you can continue trying to make my life miserable—hell, i’ll even give you my dad’s number, you guys can swap ideas!” steve laughs at his own joke before turning serious for the first time all day. “but i’m not vickie. you won’t make me cry. you can’t fire me. i’m not going anywhere.” he claps his hands together. “anyway, i’m gonna take off, since i have plans with my actual friends. but hey, i’ll see you tomorrow, huh?” and he smiles again, giving eddie a small waggle of his fingers, before heading out through the door.

eddie’s still just standing there in the middle of his tshirt room when he hears the front door slam shut.

part two

[leaderwonim]

❀﹐𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

synopsis: in which married couple park sunghoon and park y/n are on their way to court to divorce when they suddenly get into a car crash, losing their memories entirely. over time, they start to fall inlove with each other all over again.

genre: angst, exes to lovers + strangers to lovers (ynhoon are soulmates your honor!!) fluff

“You are the most immature person I have ever met!” You shout, “I should’ve never married you in the first place!”

“Finally, something we can both agree on.” Sunghoon seethes, and you just know the taxi driver is uncomfortable by the way he’s awkwardly looking in the car mirror.

The both of you crossed your arms stubbornly, huffing like little children who just threw a tantrum.

The only reason why you and Sunghoon were getting a divorce in the first place was because he was so busy at his office, inheriting the CEO position from his father just months earlier.

You felt lonely, and it really didn’t help that Sunghoon didn’t give you any reassurance because he was too tired.

“Aish, why is this red light taking so long?” Sunghoon angrily mumbles underneath his breath.

“Well maybe it’s your negative energy.”

“Can you be mature once in your life?” Sunghoon snaps back.

The taxi driver, very annoyed with the both of you, continues driving when the light turns green.

Then all of a sudden, a car rams through the intersection, crashing directly into the taxi.

You scream, and Sunghoon instantly puts his arms around your frame, shielding you.

Then, all goes black.

For a second, you could see the day that you and Sunghoon got married.

It was a Sunday, at the beautiful church nearby Sunghoon’s parents house, and you were wearing what Sunghoon called the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen. It was plain white, but long and so beautifully designed that it didn’t need any other colors.

When you arrived at the altar, Sunghoon had bursted into tears. Some of his friends, Jake, who had traveled all the way from Australia to attend, patted the boy on back as comfort.

That day was nonetheless the happiest day of your life. You don’t know if Sunghoon feels the same, and looking back, it feels like such a shame that you’re throwing it all down the drain.

❀﹐

BLEEP. BLEEP.

Your body jolts awake, head practically killing you with the amount of ache it produced as you tried to sit up.

“Patient is up!” The nurse says before walking into your room with a tray. “Good morning, are you feeling okay?”

You raise your hands to touch your head, which was bandaged by some soft tissue material.

“Where am I?” You say, looking around the room. You spot a unknown man groggily getting up, and for a second, you can’t help but notice how handsome he was.

That was besides the point, though.

“You’re in the hospital.” The nurse says, smiling softly. “Do you remember the events leading up to this?”

“I.. I don’t remember anything, actually.”

The nurse still smiles at you reassuringly. “It’s alright lovebug, it seems as though you two have lost your memories.”

“Us two?” You question.

“Yes.” She points to the guy on the other bed right next to you who just looked like he woke up from death. He too looked badly injured like you, having a broken hand and bandage around his head. “Park Sunghoon-ssi was in the same car as you and got injured as well.”

Park Sunghoon. Why did that name sound so familiar?

“Well since you're both awake," she said, relief evident in her voice. "You've been in an accident. Do you remember anything Sunghoon-ssi?”

Sunghoon shook his head slowly. "No... I don't remember anything."

The nurse nodded, sympathy in her eyes. “It's not uncommon for victims to lose their memories after a traumatic accident. Memory loss can be temporary. Just focus on resting for now.”

The nurse leaves the room, leaving you and Sunghoon alone.

“She said we were in the same car together,” you say slowly. “But I really can’t remember what you are to me.”

Sunghoon shrugs. “Me either. All I remember vividly is my parents. You must’ve been an acquaintance of mine, then.”

You nod, stretching your limbs. “You got more injured than me.”

He lets out an airy chuckle, lifting his broken arm which was in a cast into the air. “Yep, broken arm.”

You want to remember so badly what had happened leading up to all of this. What were you doing? Where were you going, and why were you with this Park Sunghoon guy in the first place?

“What did you get for breakfast?”

Sunghoon breaks the silence between the two of you, and you slowly look down at the tray in front of your bed.

“Uh, the nurse got me tiramisu and oatmeal.”

“Tiramisu?” Sunghoon’s mood automatically brightens up. “Can we please switch sweets? I really love tiramisu.”

You laugh at his childlike behavior, but nod anyway. “I’ll bring it to you Sunghoon, wait.”

You don’t know why, but it feels so right saying his name. Sunghoon must’ve felt the same way, because he swore his mouth went dry at you calling out his name.

You carefully make your way out your hospital bed, making sure not to accidentally detach any monitors that were attached to you. Grabbing the tiramisu cup, you make your way over to Sunghoon, who’s already shaking in excitement.

Then you make your way back, opening the lid of your oatmeal bowl.

“I may not know what happened in the accident,” Sunghoon says. “But I know this tiramisu is so fucking good.”

You shake your head, laughing at his words. “Yah Sunghoon, you think we were best friends before all of this?”

“Maybe.” He mutters, the mascarpone cheese of the tiramisu leaving a mark on the side of his lips.

“Well our humor is alike.” You say. “Would explain why we were in the same car together. Maybe we were going out to lunch.”

The rest of the day was spent with Sunghoon and you cracking jokes then and there, the awkwardness of the two of you being strangers quickly faded.

❀﹐

The next day, you were given tiramisu once again while Sunghoon was given cookies.

You descended from your bed, once again, and gave the tiramisu cup to Sunghoon while you grabbed his bag of cookies.

“You know what’s funny?” You say, biting into the warm chocolate chip cookie.

“What?” He says, although it’s muffled from the amount of tiramisu he’s stuffed into his mouth.

“Yah, you gotta stop doing that, it’s gross.”

Sunghoon sticks his tongue out at you, which makes you giggle.

“We’re both Parks, isn’t that funny?”

“Huh,” Sunghoon looks up at the ceiling, thinking for a brief second. “Park Sunghoon and Park Y/N. That is funny.”

Maybe both of your humors are broken because you hit your head too hard during the crash, but even though you were at the hospital, you’re glad you have someone like Sunghoon to keep you company.

“Do you want to watch the stars with me tonight at the balcony?” You ask the boy, who nods softly.

“I’d love to, actually.”

And that’s what the two of you did. By the time it hit 10pm, you two tiptoed out to the balcony, making sure to not let any of the night nurses see you.

“Whoaaa, it’s beautiful.” Sunghoon says, letting his broken arm lean against the railing. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

You smile, leaning your head on Sunghoon’s shoulder.

“Sunghoon.” You say, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not sure what we were before the accident,” you stop for a second. “But I’m glad we knew each other.”

Sunghoon turns his head to look down at your face, his expression morphed into a genuine smile. “I’m glad we knew each other too Y/N.”

That night, you slept the most compared to the other nights at the hospital. In your dreams, you see Sunghoon—only instead of being at the hospital bed right beside you, he’s in the kitchen, wearing a black suit.

“You look nice today.”

“Thank you baby.” Sunghoon leans down to give you a kiss on the lips. “Is that tiramisu?”

You nod, your eyes full of love. “Of course, you’ve been working so hard so I decided to make your favorite.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, letting the two of you swing back and forth slowly. “Thank you my love, I seriously don’t know what I would do without you.”

You woke up in a cold sweat, the dream feeling all too real.

“What’s wrong?” Sunghoon says, and you swore your heart almost leaped out of your chest, not expecting the brunette boy to be awake.

“It’s 2am, why are you even awake?” You say croakily, hands coming to rub your tired eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugs. “Hey, I had a really weird dream just now.”

“Me too.” You say, “you were in it.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t further question it. “You were a lawyer in my dream, you just graduated from Seoul University. We bought a house, and you told me you wanted to continue with your career.”

At least his dream was somewhat normal, you think. I can’t just tell him I dreamt of us being together and being all lovey dovey. He’d be thrown into a coma!

“Ah, mine was similar.”

Nice save Y/N.

Sunghoon suddenly gets up from his bed, deciding to sit at the dining table the nurses had brought out for the two of you yesterday night.

“Come sit with me.”

You slowly creep out of your bed, sitting on the empty seat next to Sunghoon.

Suddenly, you’re hit with a sudden pounding headache.

“You’re the worst, Sunghoon!” You scream on the top of your lungs, “I hate you! I hate you!”

“Stop screaming!” He grabs your arms gently, eyes directly looking into yours. “Y/N-ah, stop it.”

“So I’m Y/N to you now?” Your voice breaks. “No more baby or love? Am I just another person to you Sunghoon?”

“Of course not, why would you say that?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking in a deep inhale. “Let’s just talk about this calmly, okay?”

“What’s there to talk about? You are never home, you’re always cooped up in your office! We might as well get a divorce!”

Sunghoon’s hold on your shoulder makes you snap out of your daze.

“Hey, you okay?” He says concernedly, “you were breathing heavily.”

“What?” You gasp. “Yeah—yeah, I’m okay. I just think I had a flashback.”

“Really? What was it?”

You don’t want to tell Sunghoon that it was the two of you fighting. Why did you even mention divorcing in the flashback? Were you and Sunghoon something more than just friends?

“Just the crash.” You say. You want to tell him the truth, you really do, but you’re not sure if these were hallucinations from how hard your head was hit during the trauma or if they were actual flashbacks.

“Well, I’m here.” Sunghoon whispers reassuringly. “I’ll always be here. We survived a car crash together anyway, we’re kinda bonded to each other.”

You laugh, smacking him on his shoulder softly. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.”

❀﹐

“Do you remember what your passion was before all of this?” Sunghoon asks, peeling his orange with his injured hand.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” you say, “l think I really would’ve liked becoming a mother. I love kids, the thought of them makes me happy.”

“I think you would be a great mother.” Sunghoon says quietly. “Even though we don’t know each other much, I can tell you’re loving.”

You look down at your lap, trying to suppress the bright smile forming at the corner of your lips.

“Thanks Hoonie.”

“Hoonie?”

Your eyes widened. “I’m sorry! Did I make you uncomfortable? I should’ve not—”

“It’s okay Y/N,” he chuckles. “It’s fine. I like it.”

You can’t help but laugh along with him. “Okay.”

The next few days go by quickly, with you and Sunghoon already warming up to each other.

You were both comfortable enough to speak your thoughts freely around one another, no matter how silly or ridiculous some of them seemed.

When the nurses brought you two breakfast, Sunghoon almost dropped his fork in shock.

“They gave me tiramisu.” He says, eyes glistening with joy. “They finally gave me tiramisu.”

“I don’t know why you’re so excited.” You snicker jokingly. “You’ve been eating my tiramisu this entire week.”

He turns around to look at your tray, which had a bag of snickerdoodle cookies on it.

With shaking limbs, he makes his way over, handing the tiramisu cup to you and swapping it with your cookies.

“I thought you hated snickerdoodle cookies, Hoon?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

“I do.” He admits. “But you’ve given me your tiramisu all week, I wanted you to have mine this time.”

Your heart swells at that, and you point your spoon at him accusingly.

“Yah, is this because you want my chocolate pudding at dinner?” You joke.

“Pffft, what? Nooo.” He quickly defends himself. “But if you’re willing to share—”

“Shut up Park Sunghoon!”

“Yes ma’am!”

❀﹐

You don’t know why, but you’re starting to feel giddy whenever you talk with Sunghoon.

Your palms does this thing where it sweats profusely, and your tongue feels like dried sandpaper.

There’s no way you like Park Sunghoon, right? You’ve barely known the guy for two weeks, so why was the heart racing at the thought of him?

“I’ve convinced the nurses to get us two bottles of coca cola,” Sunghoon says, practically jumping up and down as he entered the room.

“Really? Out of all the drinks you could’ve persuaded them to get us, you got us coke.”

“Don’t diss Coca Cola like that!” Sunghoon says, crossing his arms.

Just like Sunghoon had said, the nurse approaches the two of you an hour later, 2 bottles of coca cola in her hands. She hands one to Sunghoon, then to you.

"Enjoy." She says, smile reaching her eyes.

Sunghoon's eyes light up when he opens the bottle and takes a sip. "Ah, for some reason, this feels so nostalgic."

A little memory pops up in his head, one of him playing at the park with his mom and younger sister.

"Sunghoon-oppa! Mom says she brought us coca cola!" The young girl, Yeji, says. "C'mon! Come with me!"

The young Park Sunghoon lets his younger sister take his hand, running towards their mom who was on the other side of the park.

"What's wrong Sunghoon-ssi?" You ask, noticing how his thick eyebrows were furrowed and his grip on the bottle had tightened.

"Huh?"

"You zoned out for a bit."

He chuckles nervously, glancing around the room. "Sorry, I think I just had a flashback." He says. "Park Yeji."

"Who?"

"My younger sister." He explains. "I could see her clearly. I wonder where she is right now."

You too wondered where your family was. Maybe they were too busy to come visit you. You could briefly remember having a younger brother. Jungwon. Yang Jungwon.

"Cheers." He says, mood changing quickly. His canines shined brightly as he smiled, making him look all too gorgeous in your eyes. "To the car crash, for bringing me and Park Y/N together."

You giggle, raising your bottle in the air. "Cheers to the car crash, for bonding me with this weird guy named Sunghoon."

"Yah!"

❀﹐

"Is it weird?"

"Hm?"

It's 11pm, and you and Sunghoon face each other as you're both laying on opposite ends of the room.

"That we've known each other for only a few weeks and I already feel like I've known you for an entire lifetime?"

You smile at his words, shaking your head. "No, I feel the same way Hoonie."

"Would it be stupid to say out loud how much I want to kiss you right now?"

Your mouth almost drops at his boldness, but you quickly shake your head.

Sunghoon takes your silence as approval, sitting up to come over to your side.

He brushes the hair away from your face, leaning in to close the gap between your lips.

When the both of you pull away, you automatically lean in again, the feel of his lips on yours felt so right.

"I love you Sunghoon." You say as you cup his cheeks. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"I know," he whispers. "I love you. Cause even though we were both going down, we were going down together."

"I hate you." You say, a smile playing on your face. "I hate you for being the only person who I can't stay mad at."

"And I love you," he says. "For being there for me, always."

"Sunghoon."

"Hm?"

"I love you."

He smiles down at you, uninjured hand coming to hold yours. "I love you too."

❀﹐

"What?" You say flabbergasted.

The next morning was the date of both yours and Sunghoon's discharge, and both your families decided to come visit.

"You two were married." Your father explains, a bewildered expression on his face. "How could you not know? Was the Park Y/N not obvious?"

"I thought that was just my last name!" You say, defending yourself.

"Your last name is Yang, noona." Your little brother speaks up. It was Jungwon, the same boy you kept seeing in your flashbacks, only this time, his face looks more clear and matured. "It was before you married Sunghoon-hyung."

"You're telling me we got married and divorced?" Sunghoon says, stuttering over his own words.

"Yes son," Sunghoon's mother explains. "Well, not quite exactly. We don't know why you guys wanted to divorce, you kind of shut yourselves out when you were arguing. You didn't officially divorce yet, you got into an accident on the way to court."

That made so much sense now. The flashbacks of arguments between you and Sunghoon, the makeups after the arguments, the cute moments, everything. It started to all click in your head.

"You still share houses and everything, the lawyers had to put your case on hold because you were both hospitalized." Jungwon says. "We were here to pick you up separately, in case you weren't comfortable staying with each other."

"It's fine." You and Sunghoon both say at the same time.

"Are you sure honey?" Sunghoon's mom asks concernedly.

"Yes mom, I'm sure."

The drive home was awkward, you both drove in different cars but to the home you had bought before the accident happened.

"Noona," Jungwon calls out to you. Your parents are still in the car, looking at the scene in front of them.

"Yes Jungwon?"

"Listen, I may not know a lot about love," he says, "but I know what you and Sunghoon-hyung have is real. I could still see somewhere in his eyes that he remembers parts of you and he still loves you whether or not his memories came back or not. I could tell you love him too. I don't know why the two of you decided to divorce but I know you called me crying hysterically because of it. I just think you two needed to talk it out, without the lawyers, without the paperwork. You two are the two most stubborn people I know, but also the two most loving people I know, you wouldn't just leave each other like that."

You want to cry at your younger brother's words, tears already leaking from your eyes. "Thank you Won."

You reach your arms out to hug him, a hug that he instantly melts into. "I love you noona."

"I love you too."

❀﹐

"This isn't what we expected, huh?" Sunghoon says, leaning his head on the marble island in the middle of your kitchen. "This whole time I thought you were my best friend, turns out you were my soon to be ex-wife."

You laugh quietly at the irony of the whole situation. "Whatever we were in the past is in the past Hoon."

He nods. "I can't believe we were going to divorce."

"I can't believe it either."

"You know what my mom told me in the car?" Sunghoon sits up straight to look at you. "The reason I have a broken arm and you don't was because during the crash, I put my arms around yours to protect you. Isn't that funny? Even though we hated each other at that moment, my first instinct was to protect you."

You stay still at that, his words sinking into your brain.

"It's like the universe wanted us to be together." You say quietly.

"Hey Y/N?"

You turn around to face Sunghoon. "Yeah?"

"I'm glad I married you."

Even though you and Sunghoon aren't sure where you stand in terms of relationship, all you know is that you love him, and that is enough for the both of you.

[theskywithin]

💫 The Natal Vertex in the Houses: Where Fate Finds You

The Vertex isn’t loud. It doesn’t arrive with sirens or spotlights. It arrives like a shift in the wind, like a glance that lingers, like a door you didn’t know you were meant to walk through. In the birth chart, the Vertex is a portal. To people. To lessons. To moments that reroute your life. It’s where the universe takes the wheel, even if you thought you knew where you were going.

Each house placement reveals where fate waits for you, softly, silently, but without fail.

Vertex in the 1st House

Fate arrives through moments that force you to meet yourself. You’ll be nudged, no, thrown, into situations that strip away the versions of you that were never truly yours. You’re here to become someone you haven’t yet met. Someone stronger, bolder, realer. The universe will place you in front of mirrors, disguised as challenges, lovers, strangers, until you finally say: “This is who I am. And I’m not hiding anymore.”

Vertex in the 2nd House

You will think you know your worth. And then life will test it. Over and over. You are destined to redefine what has value, not just in the world, but in yourself. Through losses, gains, and the aching in-between, you’ll learn that your value isn’t in what you offer, but in what you are. Fate will show up in the form of what you think you need, only to teach you what you truly deserve.

Vertex in the 3rd House

Your turning points come not through chaos, but through conversations, questions, and words that stay with you. Someone says something you weren’t ready to hear. You stumble upon a book, a phrase, a memory, and suddenly everything shifts. Fated moments come disguised as everyday ones. A message missed the first time. A voice that cracks something open in you. You’re here to rewrite the story you were told, and learn how to speak your own into existence.

Vertex in the 4th House

Fate doesn’t knock on your front door. It knocks on the door inside your chest. This placement ties your destiny to the roots you never chose and the healing you must choose. Family, ancestry, home, these will feel like mazes at first. But fate will push you into rooms that demand forgiveness, softness, reclamation. You’re here to come home to yourself, even if you had to leave everything familiar to do so.

Vertex in the 5th House

You’re not here to live safely. You’re here to feel everything deeply, to love without apology, to create without asking for permission. Fate will place you in front of people or passions that awaken the version of you that dances in the flames. Children, art, romance, risk. They may break your heart open, but only so you’ll finally use it fully. This is the house of remembering joy, and daring to keep it.

Vertex in the 6th House

You don’t find your destiny in grand moments. You find it in the mundane. In the habits that heal you, the routines that ground you, the tasks that secretly build you. Fate asks you to serve, not to shrink, but to rise with purpose. Your turning points may come through work, health, sacrifice, or service, but they will always come with meaning. You’re here to learn that healing is holy, and purpose is found in the details.

Vertex in the 7th House

You were never meant to walk this path alone. Fate arrives wearing the face of another. Not just lovers, teachers, soul mirrors, adversaries. People who crack you open, rearrange you, and leave fingerprints on your becoming. This is the house of union, but not comfort. It is through connection that you unearth your edges, and choose to soften them. You’re here to meet the one who reveals you to yourself.

Vertex in the 8th House

Fate doesn’t arrive quietly here. It arrives in loss, rebirth, seduction, secrets, surrender. You’re not here to live on the surface. You’re here to dive, to the depths of intimacy, trauma, transformation. Fated events will force you to shed skin after skin, learning what power really means. It is in your most unraveling moments that you will become someone unshakable.

Vertex in the 9th House

Destiny takes the long way with you. Across oceans, languages, ideologies. You will be changed by what you don’t yet understand. Fate whispers through the unfamiliar, the beliefs that unsettle you, the truths that demand expansion. You’re here to chase meaning. And life will place you in foreign places, literal or spiritual, until you realize: home was never a location. It was freedom.

Vertex in the 10th House

This is the house of becoming. Fate will not let you hide. Public identity, career, legacy, these are not just ambitions, they are soul contracts. You are meant to leave a mark, but first life will strip away everything you thought success meant. Then, it will give you something real to rise with. You’re here to take up space, not for the applause, but because you finally believe you belong.

Vertex in the 11th House

Fate shows up in friendships, visions, revolutions. You are here to connect, to tribe, to truth, to the future. You may feel like an outsider until you find your soul circle, the ones who recognize the fire in your chest and say “me too.” Your path involves something bigger than just you. Movements. Causes. Ideas that will outlive you. You're here to belong, not just anywhere, but somewhere that sets you free.

Vertex in the 12th House

Destiny is not loud here, it’s intuitive, invisible, soaked in déjà vu. You are guided by something you can’t quite name. Fated experiences will feel spiritual, strange, deeply karmic. Loss, solitude, dreams, and secrets will shape your path. But this is also the house of transcendence. You’re here to release what isn’t yours, forgive what never apologized, and surrender to something higher. Fate doesn’t just find you, it flows through you.

[schlock-luster-video]

On November 4, 1950, Walk Softly Stranger debuted in the United States.

[entitled-fangirl]

Mind and Body.

Cregan Stark x chronic illness Targaryen!reader

Summary: Cregan visits King's Landing, spotting a princess who'd been hidden away due to her constant illness. He's enamored.

A/n: based on an ask!

Masterlist

...........................................

"Lord Stark," Alicent greeted. "How wonderful for you to journey so far."

There was an agreement for the Warden to visit every five years to ensure his loyalty to the Realm and vice versa. Not that King Viserys was ever worried about Cregan. But the North was far and it was important to each side to check on the development of the other.

"'Tis only my duty to the North," he answered. 

The two walked quietly to the council room. Viserys had quickly grown ill, so most business would be conducted there. When he was well enough to go.

Which meant Alicent and Otto were in charge of their meetings when the king was absent.

…

The initial greeting was pleasant, even if the king was slowly decaying in front of him.

But Cregan had been free to wander around the castle as their guest. The next talk of business would not be until the morning, so he decided to take advantage of that.

The sun was beginning to set, just a hint of the dark creeping onto King's Landing. Cregan stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Even their cold nights here were hotter than the chill of a warm Northern day.

"Princess, surely you should rest!"

His head snapped back towards the open doors behind him. His curiosity was beyond peaked. Princess Helaena was fine. He'd given her a brief nod and a polite acknowledgement hours ago.

And soon enough, a ghostly presence passed by the doorway. Cregan felt his breath catch.

Silver hair. Grey complexion. And a gown and cloak that dragged with every step.

He was struck.

Her guard followed behind, a resigned look in his eyes.

"I feel fine," her voice softly commented. It was weak, like she never used it.

As they journeyed down the corridor, the voices faded and Cregan found himself following them.

"You've still yet to regain your strength from your scare last week. You'll catch a chill," her guard reprimanded. His armor clunked together with each step, a reminder of the life he abided by.

She was like a gust of wind that chilled you from the bottom to top of your spine. And Cregan quite enjoyed the cold.

"I only wish to leave my chambers for a moment." Her movements were slow and lethargic, yet graceful and calculated. 

"You should have waited for me to gather your boots. I have no doubt the stone is freezing over. Please."

Cregan noted just how comfortable this guard was with telling the Princess off. They'd obviously gotten to know one another well.

She released a ragged sigh, pausing in her steps to look over her shoulder. "I-" She froze completely at the sight of Cregan behind them. She hadn't even heard him following, and he didn't make himself known.

Her guard followed her line of sight with ease, immediately moving into a defensive position at the sight of the large stranger.

"Forgive me," Cregan immediately covered, holding his hands out to show he wasn't a threat. He took cautious steps forward more into the light of the nearest window so he could be more seen. "My curiosity got the better of me."

Her guard turned, relying on the princess for her answer to the situation. It was up to her, after all.

Her head tilted to the side and she stepped past him to close in on Cregan.

As she neared, he noticed just how shallow her cheeks were sunken in. The grey in her complexion was an unwelcome one. Her eyes held a dullness to them, despite the intensity of their gaze. 

"Cregan Stark, my princess," he greeted, tipping his head down and holding out a hand. He only hoped she'd accept it.

She stared for a while before remembrance ran through her. "Stark of the North. Right." She took his invitation, a shaky hand falling on his.

He noted how cold they were. But he stashed that fact away and kissed her knuckles gently as any gentleman should.

He also noted the ready look in the guard's eyes. Like he'd pummel him just for stepping a toe out of line.

"I can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting you," Cregan continued, letting her hand fall back to her side. "How the Crown has hidden a pretty girl away, I cannot understand."

For once, her lips quirked up on the ends, a soft breath escaping her nose. She finds his comment humorous. "You mustn't lie."

True, she's a bit worse for wear, but she still holds the Targaryen beauty that's so coveted. 

"I have not yet," he insists. "Nor do I intend to."

She gets antsy, unsure what to say. Her guard catches on and steps up to the pair. "Excuse us, Lord Stark. Princess Y/n much needs her rest."

"Of course. Excuse my ignorance. Please." His last word is directed right at her as if assuring she'd understand that he meant no harm in his actions before.

She still doesn't speak, only staring as her guard gently turns her back to where they were coming from. "Please start moving back to your room. I will catch up with you in a moment."

She doesn't fight, beginning the willowy trek back to her room. Slow steps once again.

Both watched until she turned the corner, and her guard's worried face switched immediately to questioning. "Ser Criston Cole, Commander of the City Guard," he introduced himself. "Might I ask your reason for following the princess?"

"I only saw her pass through the doorway. Curiosity truly got the better of me. I've not seen her around-"

"-and you won't," Criston finished. "Between you and I, it would be better if you forgot her entirely."

The Stark was thrown off by Criston's sudden aggression. And so he got defensive. "The Crown cannot simply hide away a vital member of its lineage!"

Criston grabbed Cregan's collar with both fists. "I'd warn you to walk away from this now." He was older than him, clearly trying to use that as an intimidation tactic.

Too bad nothing intimidated the Wolf of the North.

"And if I do not?"

"The Crown doesn't take it lightly when its weakest member is targeted."

"What is wrong with her?"

Criston, realizing his intimidation is doing nothing, lets go of him. He gives a glare that clearly says 'none of your fucking business' and begins to walk off in the direction of the princess. "Stick to snow and barbarianism, Cregan Stark!" He calls over his shoulder.

If anything, the guard's gall encourages Cregan. He loves a challenge.

…

The next time he spotted her was while sparring. The training courtyard of King's Landing was very different from that of Winterfell, but he took the opportunity to train with gratitude. 

It was quite amusing to see Cregan sweating profusely in a thin tunic while the others wore multiple layers.

Not that he would brag about his adherence to the cold. Out loud, anyway. In his head was different.

And when his eyes wandered up the castle walls, there she was. 

Seated in a comfortable chair on her tiny balcony that was clearly drug in and out every night she sat. She was covered in a thick fur, but there she was. Maybe the outdoor air brought her comfort. Her handmaiden brushed through the woman's overly shiny locks.

It was hard to tell exactly what she was looking at, but it was clearly in his direction, so he did his best to avoid staring.

Easier said than done.

Every few hits, he'd find himself looking up to make sure she was still there. She truly felt like a ghost, potentially disappearing now that he'd spotted her.

But she didn't. She only watched from above.

…

By the fifth day of meeting with Alicent and Otto, he brought it up.

"I also couldn't help but notice the princess you keep hidden from sight. I want to ask about her."

Alicent had been waiting for this. Criston had tattled on the man that first night. 

Otto was more amused. "Ah yes. I believe it's time we spoke of her. For once."

The queen gripped the chair tightly, earning a small 'tsk' from her father. "What is there to say? She's sickly."

Cregan leaned forward in his chair. "Why keep her locked away from the people?"

"She is not-" Alicent calmed herself and began again. "She is not 'locked away.' She is too ill to attend matters. That is all I wish to say of it."

"Humor the boy," Otto reprimanded. "Once you've spotted her, she's hard to forget."

"Forgive me for my bluntness," Cregan continued. "What illness does she carry?"

Alicent forced herself to keep speaking. "The maesters don't know. We've brought in every kind of maester and septon we could find. It just… comes and goes like the tide. You've not seen her at her healthy side, and for that, I am sorry. She can be a joy when she feels alive."

"She looks like death, no doubt," Otto asked Cregan.

"Like she's seen through its eyes," he agreed. "But not completely dead. There's still a small flame."

Otto liked that answer, smiling. "I like that. Now, back to the North…"

Cregan couldn't wait for the next sighting.

…

Had he stayed up late in the library, just hoping to see a glimpse of her during the dark hours? Yes. But he wouldn't admit that to anyone.

But it paid off. 

Like clockwork, she journeyed through the open doorway to the library, pausing when she spotted Cregan.

And she changed her course, moving into the room.

He felt that gust up his spine again, though it eased within moments.

She looked a little better. There was just a tiny increase of color to her cheeks than the last encounter.

Perhaps she was getting better.

"Do you always watch the men train from your balcony?" He braved to ask. He wanted the answer. He needed to hear if it was a special occurrence for him.

"No," her soft answer came.

He felt thrill warm his face. "Then why do it now?"

"I had to… cool myself. I was feverish."

Well, now he feels like a dick for trying to flirt with a woman close to death.

"Forgive me. I meant no offense."

"'S alright." Her attention turned to the vast shelves aligning the walls. 

He looked around too, though not in that direction. "Where's Ser Criston?"

She manages a smile and gazes back at him. "Think I can't outrun my guard dog?"

He exhales with a guilty look. "I truly don't believe you can, Princess."

"Good. You're right." She moves past him. "He was excused for the night. I snuck out during guard change."

"Quick," he remarked, watching her journey one of the large wooden tables there and sit. "I want to know more about you."

"There is not much to know." She rested her head in her hand. "Though, I can entertain your questions enough."

"Alright. Your age."

"Eight and ten."

He nodded. That was only a two years difference. "Have you always been sick?"

"No. I developed a horrid fever when I was four. No one thought that I'd make it. And I never really recovered. I've been stuck in this… state."

"And the kingdom just… forgot?"

She shrugs. "When the King never announced the recovery of his daughter… they make assumptions."

"Do they believe you to be dead?"

"I don't know what they believe. I don't talk to them."

A sadness filled Cregan at her declaration. He was beginning to realize just how much he takes his health for granted. He couldn't imagine a day without greeting his people. It felt like a stake in his heart. "Then I apologize for disrupting that when I spotted you in the hall that night. I should have kept to myself."

"No," she mused. "I'm grateful that you did not."

His head tilts. "Truly?"

She grows a tired smile. "I've never met a Northerner."

"And now that you have?"

Her eyes lazily travel over his body, taking her time to appreciate every part. When her eyes met his again, her smile only grew.

…

Cregan's three week stay was now entering its final week. He had found himself over and over again running into the silver-haired princess.

He tried to keep their meetings stashed away in his mind, but the look Otto gave him over dinner had told him he'd done a poor job of it.

So, there they all sat. Cregan Stark and the Targaryen dynasty- Otto and Alicent, Aegon II, and Aemond. Helaena found herself often staying within her chamber, eating with her young children. Sometimes eating with her ill sister when the two grew lonely.

Cregan was never good at small talk. He was a man that always got straight to the point. And the arrangements between the Crown and the North were at a standstill. It caused a light tension over the food.

They just couldn't agree. With the death of Viserys nearing, Cregan wished for reassurance that the next King or Queen would hold the North's arrangements. Alicent's word wasn't enough to reassure him. He needed more.

But that argument was hours ago, and now they all sat awkwardly over their plates.

Cregan had managed to bond with Aemond briefly over discussions of blacksmiths and longswords. It was something he knew well, and the prince clearly had an interest in it. It was better than sitting in silence.

Aegon had no interest whatsoever. He drank away his worries, no doubt planning his next trip out into the night.

"We all heard the rumor," Aemond mused through his quirked lips.

"Rumor?" Stark asked, sipping from his cup.

At the sudden question, each of the royals heads tipped up. They needed to know the truth.

Aemond smirked and leaned forward. His voice lowered. "That you killed a bear with nothing but a club and your hands."

He looked around the table, seeing everyone's eyes on him. He cleared his throat and set his goblet down with a light thud. 

A nod.

A collective intimidated breath fell across the table.

Aemond was impressed. He tipped his cup to the Northman and took a swig.

"Your Grace," a guard interrupted, bowing his head. "Princess Y/n," he announced.

Cregan didn't catch the others reactions, instead turning as much as he could in the direction of the door.

He'd feasted with them for over two weeks and only now did the ill princess join them.

She had color to her cheeks now, the light pink standing out beautifully. Lively. 

She was finally in a gown fit for a princess, deciding to uphold her appearance. 

She clearly wanted to be there.

It was quiet as each step echoed until she reached the seat next to Aegon. The prince reached out, tugging her chair back to encourage her to sit.

Now seated across from Cregan, her eyes met his.

And she smiled.

"It's good to see you up," Otto announced. "I didn't dare to think you'd recovered this well."

She watched the servants tend to her. "Neither did I, but Criston was nearing the idea of simply locking me in my room to get me to rest."

They all found that relatively amusing. Except for Alicent, who only stared with a guilty look. They all knew the queen was sleeping with the Commander of the Guard. She ordered him around like a dog, having him watch her ill daughter like a hawk.

"It is," Cregan spoke, clearing his throat again, "It is good to see you." His voice was softer, clearly meant for her. His eyes took her in a way the gods would scorn. Like she was something to worship.

When healthy, he thought she was a version of the earth itself. Like the warmest day in Winterfell when the wind was just cool enough to remind you to be awake. Or the beauty of falling snow. It bites when you get too close, but he wouldn't be frightened of death in its embrace. She was not sunshine or light, but she was beautiful in her own way, dragging death alongside her wherever she went.

His eyes only left hers when he heard Aegon clear his throat obnoxiously. 

"Sister, I thought you were dining with Helaena tonight?"

"The twins were… rather tiring today and she wished to rest instead."

He nodded, accepting that answer, but his eyes were trained on Cregan now, squinting as if he could read him. His fingers picked the meat off of a bone on his plate absentmindedly.

Alicent was about the same, recognizing the longing look in the Wolf's eyes.

…

The princess had excused herself early from dinner, still not entirely up to the usual standard of supping like the others.

That gave Cregan no excuse when Alicent dismissed everyone except for him.

So here he is, stuck sitting at the large table and Alicent paces around it like a lion and its prey.

"I don't like the way you look at her," she started. "She is ill. Have you no morals?"

"Like what?" Cregan challenged. "Look at her in what way?"

"Like you want her."

Her bluntness is not something he expected. He's a bit thrown off. But the queen isn't entirely wrong. "Your Grace-"

"-Do not give her false hope," Alicent says in a lower tone. A pleading one. "She cannot take a heartbreak. She cannot take any outside occurrences tormenting her. She'd surely die."

In truthfulness, Cregan had not considered what would happen if she did grow attached, only for him to leave. The thought hurts. "I mean no harm to her. She is magnificent."

Alicent pauses like the words were poison. "Do not lie to me." Her anger grows. "She is ill. She will always be ill. She'll spent her life in her chamber, in her bed. Do not act like that is not the case."

"Meaning what, my queen?"

"That she could never be a wife."

…

The queen's words had haunted Cregan more than he cared to admit. He mostly hated that she might be right.

When he saw the princess again the next day, she was more chipper than he'd ever seen her before. 

"Lord Stark!" She greeted, her steps a bit quicker than before, though still not he'd consider fast.

He gave a brief smile, continuing his walk down the corridor.

Her face fell a bit. "I-Is something wrong?"

"No. I'm only rushing to meet with your mother."

She sighed, trying to keep up with him. "I thought you did not meet again until the morrow."

"You'd be correct in that."

His tone was matter of fact, no room for the gentle pronunciations he'd used before. It was clearly hurting her. It hurt him, too. But he was on a mission.

So she stopped, watching the Northerner walk away with heavy footsteps.

…

He threw the doors open, not waiting for the guards to do it. "I've decided you're wrong."

It was a bold move, causing the Queen to stand and frown. Not many challenged her, especially in this way. To arrange a meeting midday and then enter in this fashion? Suicide.

Otto was amused, not moving from his seat. He gestured to a chair in encouragement.

But Cregan stood, his hands flat on the tabletop. "You've promised the agreement will continue to the next ruler in line, and I said I could not take your word. That I needed more proof of your insistence. Well, I know what I want."

"I appreciate a man who is bold, Lord Stark, but I implore you not to make demands of the Crown," Otto tried to ease.

"No," Cregan began again, his anger turning to Otto. "Though I doubt there will be much fight to this demand. After all, it seems you will not notice its absence."

"And what is that?"

He paused. "The princess. The one hidden away from prying eyes. I will make her my wife. If she'll have me."

Otto was genuinely not expecting that. Alicent grew angry. "That is my daughter! You will not take her away like a bartered cow!"

"That was not my intention. But fine. Let me rephrase." The Wolf rolled his shoulders back, standing tall before the two. " I wish to court your daughter. No alliance involved. No quill to parchment. No deals. This is not part of our agreement."

"How is it not?"

"If you let me court her, it means you have faith in the North. In me. I don't need a parchment to say that."

Otto sighed. "Let me get this clear. You wish to marry a princess of whom will spend her life half dead?"

Cregan shrugged. "Half dead is half alive. And I like the odds. I like her."

"Surely she won't last in the North," Alicent reasoned. "The second the air seeps through your window, she'll die."

"The same way she's dying here?"

That shut Alicent up.

"There are great maesters in the North. They know the effects of the cold on the body. I have no fear of that. I'll tend to the fires in her chamber myself if I must- even collect the wood myself if you're so frightened. I am no idiot. I can keep her alive and happy."

The two considered the man's proposal. It was a strange one. But they recalled the look between him and her at dinner the night before.

"She'll never give you children," Alicent said with remorse.

He nodded. "I'm prepared to deal with that."

Otto look to the Queen, giving a tilt of his head.

She sighed. "If she wants you, she's yours."

…

Three days left in his stay, and he had spent two days without seeing her.

He didn't wish to go to her chamber. She deserved the privacy. That and… he didn't know where it was. 

So instead, he resorted to staying up late, hoping she'd appear. 

She didn't.

…

Criston Cole passed Cregan, a glare in his eyes.

Cregan followed, grabbing the guard from behind and pinning him against the wall. "Where is she?"

Criston hissed through his teeth. "Why do you assume I've hidden her?"

"Tell me."

He spit in the Wolf's face.

Cregan only blinked, the rest of his face unflinching. "Where is she?"

"In her room. Where she always is," he seethed.

Cregan's head tilted menacingly.

Criston continued. "West wing. Up the stairs, the door at the end."

He slammed the guard against the wall one more time for good measure, then stormed off.

…

He knocked on the door, and her handmaiden answered. "Oh. You're not the maester."

He frowned. "The maester?"

A soft voice came from inside the room, catching the handmaiden's attention. She nodded and opened the door for him.

He stepped in.

The princess laid on her bed, looking quite literally like death. It was worse than the first time he'd sighted her.

She was thinner, her cheeks sunken in again, her skin the dull grey he hated. Her hair was greased with sweat. Yet at the sight of him, she tried to give a weak smile.

Nearing her side, he sighed. "I had… I had no idea, Princess."

Her handmaiden moved to the other side of the bed, going back to dabbing the princess's forehead with a wet cloth. 

Y/n hummed at the chill. "'S alright."

"So, these are the ill spells you were speaking of." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"Yes," she sighed. "'S so sudden."

"I see that." He reached out to her hand, brushing his fingers over hers. He didn't want to overstep. But she was the one to intertwine their fingers. 

He spent the rest of the day in there, leaving when the maester entered. He stopped him, leaning in to speak lowly to the doctor. "I want you to feed her meat. Lamb, pig, I do not care. But have it brought to her."

…

The maester did as he commanded. And the next day when Cregan visited, she was chipper.

Was she entirely well? No. But the protein had her sitting up in bed, speaking to her handmaiden as her hair was being braided.

It warmed Cregan.

He grinned when he entered, sitting at her side comfortably now. "You look much better."

"I feel better," she smiled. "The maester said you helped."

"That's ridiculous. What do I know about health?"

But they both knew. They all knew.

"Mother told me something odd."

He froze. "Oh?"

"That you wish to marry me."

He took a deep breath, trying desperately to calm his nerves. Perhaps she's rejecting him.

"Is that true?"

He nodded, his fingers playing with hers. "It is. If you'll have me."

She smiled, gently waving her handmaiden off now that her hair was done. The girl left with a knowing grin.

"I'll have you, Cregan Stark."

He cupped her face, brushing his thumb over the light pink in her cheeks. "Then I am a lucky man."

…

And in the North, she blossomed. 

He kept a steady diet of red meat for her, watching as she no longer spent every day in their chamber, even getting to journey out to the courtyards and sit through petitions. 

The two spent every night cuddled under the furs of their bed. The fire always burned, he made sure of it. 

Her mind loved Cregan, and now her body could too.

................................................

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[lay-z]

cotton candy clouds | 5

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

The match is still on after dinner and Simon only objects a little before he lets you usher him out of the kitchen to clean and fill up the dishwasher—the one he’s barely used since moving into this flat once he’d reached the rank of Lieutenant. It’s only ever been him, after all, and his diet mostly consists of MRE’s on and off duty or the occasional takeout treat—and those plastic dishes he simply throws away when he’s done. 

Simon doesn’t question it this time when you ask him if you can take a shower, at least you’ve already stopped asking for permission to use the guest bathroom to relief yourself, but knowing the only shower is in the en-suite bathroom to his bedroom, makes him bristle. 

It’s not like has anything physical to hide from anyone, quite the contrary. There are no old family pictures to study, nothing to snoop for between his sparse wardrobe. He’s already taken off his mask in front of you, deciding it doesn’t matter if someone as simple-hearted as you sees his mug or not. 

So, he lets you use his bathroom, because he has no other choice and he’s not going to send you to the communal showers at the base gym, knowing he’d have to at least take you there as your… handler; making sure no one bothers you and all that shite. 

The grip around the bottle tightens as he thinks about the soldiers coming and going to that gym, thinks about the ones who would definitely attempt to chat you up, charm you. A vein in his temple throbs and Simon takes a drink of beer to soothe the sudden churning in his stomach. 

Some time passes. His beer bottle, now emptied, rests on the coffee table along with his socked feet crossed at his ankles. His team, Man United, is winning 3:0 against Newcastle, the faint smell of food is still lingering in the flat comfortingly, his belly is full, and his head is pleasantly—and surprisingly—quiet, so Simon allows himself to sink further into the couch cushions, his arms crossed in front of his chest self-soothingly while his head tips back against the headrest. 

It feels oddly relaxing, this whole new atmosphere, no matter how mundane it might be, it's big to someone as awkward as him, and even the knowledge about having another person inside his flat, albeit demi-human, isn’t too terrible. A strange comfort lies there—knowing he isn’t alone right now. Perhaps this isn’t going to be so bad, perhaps he can work with it all, with you. He’s managed worse before. 

There’s some faint commotion eventually; the shower turning off, doors opening and closing softly, followed by the pussyfooting of you walking down the hallway towards the living room. 

Simon is too distracted by the added match time and too relaxed on top of that, when you finally flop down on the couch next to him; flooding his nose with a pleasant whiff of warm shower steam and some fruity body wash or shampoo which you definitely didn’t find in his shower but brought along with you instead, and only when something is suddenly gently placed on his thigh, he realizes the state of undress you’re in, and he does a double-take while his heart drops into his stomach at once. 

With your back slightly angled towards him, you’re towelling off your hair, only draped in one of his larger towels that clings to your body—casual as ever while his eyes widen and his first instinct kicks in to scoot over to the other end of the couch. His eyes flicker down to the floor as the object drops onto the carpet—a rather fancy looking hairbrush with black bristles and a polished, wooden handle. 

Peeking over your shoulder, you shoot him a puzzled yet amused look. “Are you alright, Simon?” 

That question alone pisses him off for some reason, makes him even more flustered, and you have the audacity to giggle at his reaction. His eyes drink you in briefly—involuntarily—and he catches the way your tail rucks up the towel, sopping wet white fur lightly dripping on the leather while the curve of your bare ass cheek peeks out; all supple and plump and—fucking hell—is that a birthmark? 

He swallows thickly; his heart begins thudding so hard, he can feel it in his throat while a sudden jolt of arousal, a sensation he long thought dormant, goes straight to his groin, causing him to jump into action. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask delicately, brows furrowing in a way of genuine concern for him that makes his chest feel tight. “You don’t… want to brush my hair? Groom my fur?” 

His breath rushes out of his lungs with a humourless laugh. “Whot? N-No! ‘course not! Why the bloody hell would I want to do that?” He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to regain composure and will away the pulsing warmth continuously gathering in his lower belly. 

“Oh.” Your dog ears droop as you clutch the towel around your chest, shifting in your seat to face him directly, gazing up at him with those bright doe-eyes that can probably disarm any other man while Simon has taken a few measured steps backwards to create some distance as if you’re a king cobra about to strike. 

Still trying to get a grip on himself, Simon takes a deep breath before inquiring: “Seriously, lass, why–why would you even ask me that?” And as soon as the question is out, he can practically see the invisible question mark appear above your head in the way you tut, fiddle with the hem of the towel just above your knees, blinking slowly as you process his words. 

“I mean–” you give a small shrug, “I just… assumed you’d want to do it like–” 

Like the previous wankers who owned you, Simon fills in the gap in his head, jaw clenching and fists balling tightly in anger. 

Then you flash him a sugary smile, which only makes it all worse. “They wanted to brush my hair and fur for me. Ryan always said it calms him down.” 

“And I assume they dressed ya, too? Bought ya all this shite they wanted you to wear?” Simon brings forward through clenched teeth, knowing the answer to that already. His arousal is replaced by a hot ball of fury that coils in his guts and simmers through his veins. If he could only get his hands on them, he’d break them in half in a heartbeat. 

Your lips part with a silent gasp, damp furry ears twitching atop your head nervously. “Simon, are you… Are you mad at me?” 

His face twists into a grimace at that. Of course not! How could he ever be mad at you for something you clearly had no control over? He shakes his head, swallows the angry bile rising in his throat. 

“No, ‘m not mad at you,” he rumbles, dragging his rough palm over his face to keep his eyes from wandering along the curve of your bare shoulders as you continue to sit on his couch in a simple towel. “I’m gonna take a shower. You stay here,” he adds gruffly, keeping his darkened eyes averted as he gazes down the hallway towards his bedroom, “–and get dressed.” 

The bathroom door shuts with force, causing the glass shower cabin to rattle and the remaining steam from your previous shower to swirl around him. His hand is trembling with adrenaline as he locks the door swiftly; his breathing choppier now that he’s alone. 

Fucking hell, why is his heart beating so fast? 

It’s nothing and it certainly means nothing, Simon keeps telling himself as he turns on the shower and twists the handle until the temperature turns cold. Nothing he can’t handle. He’s Ghost—he has defeated death more times than he can count. 

He can handle a bloody hard-on, but—oh god—it smells like you in here, like you’ve marked your territory, the dog that you are, and force him to deal with it now. 

Stuck in his paranoia, Simon checks the lock on the door again before he begins shedding his clothes and dropping them half-heartedly on the tiled bathroom floor. His breathing becomes more ragged the more skin he reveals and by the time he pulls his boxer briefs down, he almost feels dizzy now that all the blood has rushed to his groin. 

His chest heaves as he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when his throbbing cock is freed; bobbing with its hefty weight and stiffness, making his stomach churn hotly with pleasurable sensations with every step when he moves to enter the shower cabin. 

The icy shower spray hits his flushed skin, and he bites back and swallows a low groan. A violent shudder wrecks through his body, pebbling his skin with gooseflesh and making him all too aware of all his scars littering and criss-crossing his body as the raised flesh tightens and tingles with phantom pain. 

Resting his head on the cold shower wall, Simon lets his eyes squeeze shut and exhales a shuddering breath while the water rains down on him mercilessly, cooling down the heat in his veins and the urge simmering in his loins; his hands clench and unclench at his side, struggling not to reach out and touch himself—struggling not to cave and submit to his most primal urges. 

He feels like he’s losing it—this precarious yet perfected control he’s been leaning on since everything has fallen apart around him for the first time—and he cannot let that happen. 

His eyes flutter open when the image of you sneaks into his eye, torturing him. “Fuckin’ h–hell,” he mutters under his breath as he watches his cock twitch tauntingly. 

The cold shower helps, but Simon can still feel himself reeling internally; his mind a disastrous frenzy while he gets dressed in a hurry, eager to cover himself up as he fears the slightest gust of wind over his skin might tip him over the edge this time. He goes as far and holds his breath in his bedroom before deeming it useless—you’ve already left your scent everywhere, and he can’t escape. 

When emerges from his bedroom, dressed in a black hoodie and an old pair of sweats, he finds you sitting on the couch, wearing the shirt he’d given you in a fit of generosity, grooming your damp tail with the brush he’d previously dropped like a landmine. 

“You’re sleepin’ in m’bed tonight,” Simon announces like giving an order, though he’s scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m takin’ the couch.” And before you can open your mouth to speak, he already interjects: “Don’t ask, jus’… do as I say, lass.” 

It’s easier than he expected it to be until he remembers that’s what you do—following your nature. Following orders, obeying, and submitting. He can’t say he hates it that much right now, though his own thoughts disgust him. In the back of his mind, Simon even hopes you would ask him why, perhaps even argue with him about his sudden change of mind, but you don’t, and he is grateful for your blind obedience in this moment. 

And there it is again, that look you’ve already shot him once last night and a second time when he left you at Price’s office; jutting your bottom lip out like that, literally giving him puppy eyes while your ears droop along with your bloody tail. The picture of vulnerable and sadness, as if he’d just kicked you out onto the streets. 

“We can share the bed,” you remark softly, though it sounds more like half a question. “I don’t mind.” 

“Aye, but I do.” Simon objects swiftly, then clears his throat awkwardly. 

It doesn’t take too long for Simon’s self-control to snap at last once you retire to his bedroom. 

As soon as he settles down on the couch for one of those restless nights when the TV must keep running and sleep won’t come to him until the first rays of dawn peek through the cracks of these old curtains. 

And now, he is keeping his eyes trained on the telly, the ceiling, the fucking dust collecting on the drapes covering the window—anywhere but the pathetic sight of his weeping prick currently grasped in his hand; pre-cum drooling from his ruddy tip and mixing with his spit while he squeezes his shaft harshly, pulling back his foreskin until his back arches with something like a choked whine, and tiny electroshocks of pleasure running up and down his spine, making his toes feel numb and his chest feel tight like he has been put in a straitjacket. 

Always so rough with himself, though he can’t even mind the callouses on his hand as he fists his cock faster, feeling his heavy balls draw up tight already, almost painfully. “Fuck–oh fuck–” he huffs through clenched teeth, nostrils flaring and jaw locking up with the effort to keep his ugly gob shut; not wanting anyone to hear him engaging in his wretched urges. 

The volume of the TV, currently playing some random old spaghetti western, is turned low enough to keep his trained ears aware of his surroundings, though loud enough to drown out any compromising noises escaping him that you could potentially hear. 

He pumps his cock from root to tip, twisting his wrist and swiping his thumb over his piss slit, eyes rolling at the sensation while his mind goes to war again—torn between slowing down and drawing this guilty pleasure out or simply giving up and getting it over with. 

The decision is taken from him when he slips up. 

And he thinks about the curve of your rear, the suppleness of your flesh; imagines himself licking those renegade droplets of shower water off your ass cheek while groping the other, feeling your skin under his starved tongue, hearing you squeak then purr his name, glancing at him with those pretty doe-eyes of yours— “Simon.” 

“Oh, fu–mmpf–!” He shoves his other fist between his teeth right when he comes, muffles his deep groan of pleasure while he bites down hard on his knuckles, eyes rolling back into his skull as the pleasure seizes his body violently, too intensely, pulling him right under the surface as his cum shoots from his tip in thick, white ropes, spilling so far up his torso that it lands on his black hoodie obscenely. 

His massive body shudders, his chest is heaving as he keeps fucking his fist, hips bucking off the couch cushion, muscles twitching and quaking to a point of discomfort—a point he feels too vulnerable, where shame and guilt can kick in quickly; sweep him away into the darkest corners of his mind—the ones he feels weakest at, powerless. 

[differenteagletragedy]

Part Two of Simon Riley meeting a single mom at the park and going "that one, I want that one."

As much as Simon feels the persistent gnaw of want, he can’t pinpoint exactly why it’s there, and as the days since he met you drag on, he can’t figure out which is more frustrating — the wanting itself, or the fact that the reason behind it keeps eluding him.

Maybe it’s some biological impulse, that’s one thing he considers. Maybe it’s just a primal impulse drudged up by the sight of your belly and the helpless fear he’d heard in your voice that day. His rotten genes kicking around inside him, whispering to him that they want out.

Or it could be that you look like exactly the type he tends to go for when he allows himself the little indulgence of a pretty woman’s company. Present state aside, that is.

Regardless, he finds himself walking by the park nearly every day, scanning the area just in case he sees you or your little boy there again. He doubts he'd approach you again even if he did cross your path a second time, but even so, his aimless walks don't seem quite so aimless anymore.

It's not until one day, a few weeks after that first time, that he sees your somehow familiar form standing by one of the picnic tables. He'd thought you looked fit to burst the first time he saw you, but now you were somehow bigger still. Even from a distance, he can make out the sweat on your face, the wet bits of hair sticking to your forehead that show your overexertion, as if your rundown expression doesn't give it away.

You look absolutely miserable, and Simon pushes down whatever odd little instinct it is that makes him think about how much he'd like to kiss it all better.

Close by, safe on the ground this time, is your son, Charlie. He darts around the grass by the table while you unload a bag with snacks and drinks, your eyes firmly trained on him while you do it.

Simon walks slowly, trying to decide if it would be better to turn and go back the other way or to walk by as if he doesn't notice you -- he shouldn't notice you. If he did recognize you, it should only be in passing, a brief flicker of recognition that quickly passes, not ... whatever this is.

A small part of him, one that he'd never let see the light of day, considers the idea of approaching you.

The choice is taken away from him when Charlie spots him while doing spins in the grass. The little boy lets out a squeal, pointing directly at him, and begins bounding over.

"Charlie, for the love of --"

Then you look up and see him, and he can't be sure from the distance, but he thinks he sees the flicker of a smile.

He notices how you let yourself take your time a bit as you amble towards him, a small rush of pride going through him that you're not panicking over your child's safety as he runs in his direction. Charlie reaches him first, and he has to tilt his head nearly to his shoulders to look up at him.

"You were on the slide before."

"I was."

"You're too big for the slide."

"Wasn't there to slide."

By that point, you'd manage to waddle your way over, your hand going to rest on Charlie's shoulder as you look to Simon. You greet him, a quick "Hi," then look back down to your son.

"Let's not bother strangers, ok? Come on, we have a picnic."

"He's not a stranger," Charlie argues. "He was on the slide."

If Simon wasn't trying to keep his eyes off the drop of sweat that was trailing down by your collarbone, he would have taken a moment to properly appreciate the simplicity of the argument.

"Sorry," you say softly, glancing up at Simon again. "He's a friendly little thing."

"Quite all right."

"You want juice?"

He can't help but let out a chuckle at the kid's question -- he's never been much of a talker, and it seems like you might not be much of one either, but someone's putting in some effort.

"Mum made crackers too," Charlie adds. "You want some crackers?"

"I'm sure this man has more important things to do than have crackers and juice with us, don't you think?" you say.

But he doesn't. At this moment, he feels like he's never had anything more important to do.

There are a few more precocious little invites, along with some puppy dog eyes, and before he knows it, Simon is being led through a stretch of grass to a picnic table with you and your son.

The conversation is ... not great, honestly. You're either shy or guarded, maybe both, and Charlie isn't quite old enough to spark any kind of intelligent discussion. But he does enjoy the juice box the boy insists he takes, and he likes the strange warmth that spreads through his chest at the sight of you across from him at the table even more.

"Come watch me swing," Charlie demands after a bit. You shrug, apparently content with letting the child run the show at this point, and Simon lets out another deep chuckle, standing and hesitantly following you both to the swingset.

"Thanks for humoring him," you tell him quietly as you push your son on the swing.

"Not at all," he replies. "He's ..."

He trails off, not sure what he was even planning on saying. Sweet? Funny? They don't feel like words he'd use, but this doesn't even feel like an interaction he'd have. It's all new territory for him.

Thankfully, you don't seem miffed by his short responses, or by the silence that follows. You just stand there, one hand pushing Charlie while the other rests low on your belly, while he stands further back, watching.

And there it is again. The wanting. Brutal and undeniable.

“When’s the little one due?”

The question comes out low and gruff, as if it clawed its way out of his throat on his own, which it may have, because he rarely willingly engages in small talk like this.

"Couple of weeks," you answer.

Charlie breaks the next stretch of silence by instructing Simon to watch him kick his legs to swing even higher, which he does. After he gives him what he hopes sounds like a hum of approval, his eyes move back to you, watching the way your hand moves to rest on your hip, your fingers pressing towards the small of your back as if you're trying to keep yourself propped up.

"Kid seems like a bit of a handful to keep up with all by yourself," he murmurs. "Presently, anyway."

It's not his business, but you don't seem to mind because you reply again, eyes still on Charlie.

"He's been ... well, I think he's a little nervous, about the new baby," you explain. "So I've been trying to make these last few weeks of just us special."

You don't talk much, he's coming to understand that, but he doesn't either, so he knows how much can be said in the spaces between. He stays quiet for a moment, taking a pause to watch another one of Charlie's tricks.

"'Just us'?" he asks. "And what about that husband who was supposed to come to the rescue last time?"

"I lied so you'd think twice about kidnapping us."

Simon chuckles at the blunt response, and says, "Decided you're not in danger now, have you?"

"More like I've decided that if you kidnap us after we gave you juice and crackers, you're a monster and we never stood a chance anyway."

You glance up at him then, the first time you've looked at him since the party moved to the swings, and you smile. It's more playful than flirty, but it's for him, and he finds himself smiling back.

Simon doesn't do this. When he's home, he doesn't really talk to people. There's a quick exchange with a cashier or a bartender, or the occasional mutually distant transaction with a woman who wants the same quick release that he does. Some days are so bad that he'll spend more time than he cares to admit considering whether he wants to wear a mask out -- if he wants to just blend in as much as he can like he usually does, all dark clothing and hunched shoulders, or if he wants to risk attracting a bit more attention by wearing the mask since even so, it'll ensure that no one can see his face.

But here he is, for a reason that he still can't quite pinpoint, smiling at a pregnant lady in a park and watching her little boy play.

It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't feel bad either. So he doesn't stop.

It was late afternoon when Charlie first approached him, and now the sun is getting lower in the sky. You reach a hand up to pull on the chain of the swing, slowing the boy down, and tell him it’s time to go.

He whines for just a moment before obediently dragging his feet to stop the swing, standing up. Before Simon can process it, he comes up to him and wraps his arms around his legs.

“Thanks for playing,” he says before running back off towards the table where you’d left your things.

He helps you gather everything, walking the empty juice boxes over to the trash can so you don’t have to move any more than necessary. When you’re all ready to go, he watches you take Charlie’s hand and offer him another smile.

“See you around,” you tell him before turning and walking off towards the sidewalk.

He tries to think of something clever to say, then he kicks himself for wanting to say something clever, and before he can get out of his own head, you’re already halfway down the sidewalk. And, he notices, you happen to be headed in the direction of his own apartment.

Something in him wants to catch up with you, to say that he’s headed the same way, which wouldn’t be a lie. It’s the same part of him that made him a good soldier — the part that sees an opportunity to go in for the kill.

But the part of him that makes him a good leader stays put. The timing isn't right, and he doesn't want to take a chance on a half-cocked impulse, especially when he still hasn't even figured out what it is that's pulling him to you.

So he walks. He goes the opposite way, away from home, away from you, deeper into town. He walks past the shops as they start closing for the night, the pubs as they get more lively. He walks until he's sure that you and Charlie made your way to wherever you were headed, and only then does he make his way back to his apartment.

It's as dull there as ever, the overhead light flickering when he turns it on and walks inside. He hears the familiar creaking of his cheap old couch as it sinks under his weight when he sits, sees the white expanse of the walls, no pictures or paintings or whatever else people put up to make a house feel warmer than this.

But tonight, it's not quite so bleak. There's the faintest taste of apple juice lingering on his tongue, a sweetness he's not accustomed to, and he can still feel a bit of warmth on his face from being in the sun so long.

He wants more of it. He still doesn't know the ins and outs of it all, but he's ready to accept that it exists. And he's ready to start strategizing on how exactly he can get it.

PART THREE and PART FOUR and PART FIVE and PART SIX and PART SEVEN

[littlepeach-world]

Safety Call

Pairing: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Reader

Summary: When an unwelcome stranger disrupts your night out with friends, you call In-ho for help. 

Warnings: Angst, Alcohol, physical altercation, harassment, Protective!Inho, Soft!Inho.

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: I love protective Inho, so I decided to write this. I hope you like it!

You stand near the doorway, noticing the stern yet concerned look in In-ho's eyes as you finish getting ready. His presence is a mixture of authority and a hidden worry that only you can see through.

"In-ho, I'll be fine," you say, turning to face him with a reassuring smile. You know how to ease his fears, how to comfort him. "It's just a few drinks with friends."

"I know," he replies, his voice steady but low. "But be careful. Call me if anything happens."

You chuckle softly, walking up to him and placing a tender hand on his cheek. His skin is warm under your touch, and you let your thumb gently caress his cheekbone. His eyes soften slightly at your intimate gesture. "I promise I will. Besides, you don't have to worry too much. You have my location and are always tracking me when I go out." Your eyes sparkle mischievously as you say this, and you can see his lips twitch, almost forming a smile.

His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space between you. "Just be careful, Y/N," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, tender moment.

Before you can respond, In-ho leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. The kiss deepens slightly, filled with the tenderness and concern he holds for you. He then begins to pepper kisses over your face—your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose—eliciting a soft giggle from you.

"I love you," you whisper, your heart swelling with emotion.

"I love you more," In-ho replies softly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that takes your breath away.

You feel his breath on your lips, and for a heartbeat, you’re lost in the depth of his gaze. You give him a playful salute before stepping out of the apartment, aware of the mix of anxiety and love swirling within him. As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you, a silent promise of his unwavering protection and affection.

—

The bar is bustling with life, filled with laughter and music. You navigate through the crowd until you spot your friends—Eunji, Yuna, and Jian—already seated at a cozy corner booth. There's a celebratory air as you greet them warmly and enthusiastically wish Jian a happy birthday, wrapping her in a tight hug.

"Happy birthday, Jian! How does it feel to reach this milestone?" you tease, causing the group to laugh.

The night is filled with dancing, laughter, and sharing stories—moments you know you'll cherish. The hours slip by effortlessly, the energy of the bar feeding your spirits. You take turns on the dance floor, twirling and swaying to the beat, losing yourself in the music.

However, the joyous atmosphere is suddenly interrupted. A man, clearly intoxicated and insistent, stumbles over to your group. His persistence in trying to join in your celebration is neither welcomed nor appreciated.

"Come on, ladies, let me buy you all a drink," he slurs, leaning too close for comfort.

"Come on, you know you want to hang out with me," he mumbles repeatedly, his words barely coherent. Despite Jian and the others insisting that he leave, he continues to bother you all.

"Seriously, we're not interested," Eunji says firmly, trying to wave him off.

Your warm demeanor turns serious. You step forward, positioning yourself between the man and your friends. "Okay, that's enough. You need to back off now," you state clearly, your tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

He doesn't seem to get the hint, remaining obstinate. Your heart quickens, a mix of annoyance and unease settling in, but you maintain your composure. Excusing yourself for a moment, you pull out your phone and quickly text In-ho, explaining what's happening:

Hey. There's a drunk guy at the bar who won't leave us alone. I'm handling it, but just wanted you to know.

As you hit send, you look back at your friends, their faces showing a mixture of worry and solidarity. You know they'll have your back, but it's reassuring to have In-ho in the loop.

Not long after, you hear your phone ping with a response: On my way. Stay safe.

You take a deep breath, feeling a bit more at ease knowing In-ho will be there soon. For now, you tighten the circle with your friends, each of you drawing strength from one another as you continue to ward off the unwelcome intrusion.

—

Receiving your text, In-ho's face hardens, his normally calm expression tightening with a mixture of concern and anger. His initial worry morphs swiftly into a cold, determined resolve. He doesn’t hesitate; there’s no time to waste. Grabbing his jacket, he quickly notifies his guards about the situation, ensuring they are prepared for any potential dangers. With thoughts of your safety driving every step he takes, he heads out the door.

The journey to the bar feels longer than ever, each second ticking by painfully slow. His mind races with possibilities of what could be happening, each scenario pushing him to move faster. When he finally arrives, there's a palpable shift in the atmosphere. In-ho's presence is commanding, a figure of undeniable authority and strength stepping through the threshold. The dim, chaotic ambiance of the bar quivers under his scrutiny. Conversations pause, patrons instinctively stepping aside as if drawn by an unspoken rule of respect and fear.

As he weaves through the crowd with purpose, his eyes scan the room until they lock onto you. Instantly, a wave of relief washes over you. You see him, your guardian, your firm anchor in the tempest. The storm in your heart subsides, if only for a moment, at the sight of him.

"Is there a problem here?" In-ho’s voice is icy, cutting through the noise of the bar like a blade. The man bothering you turns to face him, eyes filled with a mix of anger and fear. The authority in In-ho's demeanor is unmistakable, and it quickly becomes clear to the harasser that he's made a mistake.

The man's bravado falters for a moment, but then he straightens his shoulders and narrows his eyes at In-ho. "Mind your own business," he sneers, attempting to regain some semblance of control over the situation.

In-ho's expression remains unchanged, his gaze unwavering. "I'm warning you. Leave now."

The man hesitates, but his foolish pride gets the better of him. He clenches his fists, his jaw tightening. "I said, mind your own business!" he shouts, attracting the attention of nearby patrons.

In-ho sighs, a glint of anger flickering in his eyes. Normally, he would have laid the guy out without a second thought—no questions asked. But he remembered how much you had voiced that fighting scares you. He's trying his best to honor that. "This is your last warning. Walk away."

Instead of heeding the warning, the man foolishly tries to swing at In-ho in a last-ditch effort to save face. In one fluid motion, In-ho dodges the punch and delivers a swift, powerful jab to the man's jaw. The impact sends the man stumbling backwards.

Before the harasser can recover, In-ho steps forward, his movements precise and controlled. He catches the man's arm, twists it behind his back, and restrains him with an ease that speaks volumes of his training and strength.

"That was a mistake," In-ho says, his voice low and dangerous.

Within seconds, two of In-ho's guards appear at either side of him. They take the man away, their grip unyielding as they escort him out of the bar.

In-ho turns to you, his earlier concern evident in the way he carefully scans you for any signs of harm. His eyes trace over your form, checking for bruises or cuts, and only when he's reassured that you're physically unscathed does his expression soften into one of gentle protectiveness. "Are you alright?" he asks, his voice tender and filled with genuine concern.

Satisfied that you’re not hurt, he meets your eyes, offering a comforting presence amidst the chaos that has unfolded.

You hug him with gratitude. "Thanks for being here, It means a lot to me."

He holds you close, his grip reassuring, and kisses your head softly. "Don't thank me. It's my job to protect you."

As you leave the bar together, a small smile tugs at your lips. Despite the challenges in his life, In-ho’s presence brings a sense of warmth and stability to your world. Together, you find balance and understanding in each other's company.

In-ho gently takes your hand, his grip firm and protective. "You're never leaving my side again," he says, his voice filled with unwavering determination.

[sunflowerwinds]

sugar, sugar | v.a

summary: on a slow day at your grandmother’s bakery, a customer captures your attention. as the weeks pass, you see her pop up more and more. a gentle friendship ignites between the two of you. the only issue was the undeniable attraction to her and it didn’t help now having to do her a kind favor. it would go away…. right?

pairing: fem!reader x vi arcane

contains: modern!au, kick-boxer!vi, reader is described to have long enough hair to tie up, reader has a sister named mila, we love gram, vander, isha and jinx mentions <3, nothing but fluff, strangers to friends to lovers:)

word count: 3.5K

a/n: i seriously had so much fun writing this and i am excited to dig into a mini-series with vi. i hope everyone enjoys this as much as i do </3

— ONE

Running your grandmother’s bakery wasn’t easy but it was a light in your life. She taught you tips and tricks of working the large industrial oven, every single one of her recipes, and wiping down the chalkboard to write the specials for the delicious treats.

She was charm personified; somehow able to convince pretty much every person that walked to the pastry shop to try at least one item. You were on the more quiet side, not insanely secluded but you weren’t extroverted. Nice people cracked you open and next thing you knew it, you were shoving a donut into their palms to take home.

It was a bad habit.

It was a slow Thursday in November. You were sweeping the small area of seating, softly asking one of the usual college students that came if they needed anything else. You were just a few streets down from the community college so many people your age would come in for coffee and furiously type on their laptops.

Once you were told they were good for now, you excuse yourself back to behind the counter to adjust the display desserts. You were bent over when you heard the bell over the door echo within the space, shouting ‘welcome in’.

“If you have any questions, just let me know. We have a daily special which is on the blackboard,” you stood back up with a slight grunt from the rush, brushing a few flyaways to kindly smile at the new customer. “Today we have buy one, get one donut free.”

Your eyes slightly widen at the… attractiveness of the customer. You adjust the neckline of your soft brown cable knit sweater to tug out your necklaces, plastering on a friendly smile.

“I actually came in because I was curious about the sign,” she trails off, tilting her head as she shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Do you actually just let people smell the food?”

You let out a soft chuckle as you nod. Your grandfather, one of the only men who had ever tolerated, made the sign for your grandmother the second she mentioned it to him. Now, in all its carved glory ‘Free Smells!’ is hanging underneath the shop's main sign: Sweet Tooth Bakery + Cafe.

“Yeah, my grandma thought it’d be a funny sign to draw people in. Obviously, we don’t let them shove their nose into it or anything,” you shake your head, holding your hand out to the stranger. “Because that’s… unsanitary.”

The pink haired stranger nods with a soft chuckle, stepping back to check out the arrangement of treats in the display case. In that moment of silence, you, as discreetly as possible, check her out. She had on a navy blue cut off sleeve zip-up, a soft white tank top underneath and a pair of grey sweatpants hugging her lower half. Very simplistic outfit but she made it look good.

You think she just naturally looked good. If you stared for long enough, which you embarrassingly did so, you could see markings of ink on the side of her neck and following down the backs of her arms and the smallest etching on her cheek.

“Any suggestions on what to smell first?” She questions, curious eyes bouncing back up to you.

You hum to yourself as you, too, stagger your eyes from pastry to pastry to carefully choose which one you could have her smell.

“Are you a fan of blueberries?” You question with a beaming grin.

“Uh, sure, yeah. Blueberries are good.”

“Then you have to take a whiff of the blueberry danish. It’s one of my favorites.” You offer, pointing to the sweet treat.

The pink haired stranger leans forward, folding her bare arms across her chest. You, again, can’t help your stares as you try to figure out what was exactly dotted into her pale skin. She nods with a shrug, looking at you with a kind smile.

“I’ll give it a whiff, yeah,” she stepped forward so that the glass of the display case was the only obstacle between the two of you.

You can feel your face getting hot as you mutter a bright ‘okay’ to yourself. You bend over once again grab the metal tongs to pick out the danish to place on a ceramic plate. You place it on top of the display case, motioning for the stranger to give it a smell.

Still seeming a bit hesitant that you were playing a joke on her, she leans her face forward so that she is mere centimeters away from the pastry. She inhales a bit, letting out a long sigh as she leans back to look at you.

“Shit, that smells amazing,” she praises the sweet aroma, nodding in satisfaction. “I’ll take it.”

You blink at her before chuckling awkwardly.

“You don’t have to buy the ones you smell. I promise.” You reassure her as you attempt to put the danish back so that you can shove the cranberry-orange muffin in her face.

She’s quick to hold a palm out to stop you, shaking her head. A beautiful smile spreads on her lips, temporarily forgetting how eager you were to show her every single pastry on display.

“I want that one. I swear. Plus, my sister’s going to rush me out of here if I take too long.”

A part of you was disappointed that she was so quick to purchase the first, yet incredibly delicious, treat. You selfishly wanted her to stay for as long as possible. Your grandmother would be on your ass for being so distracted by an attractive customer.

She would give you a clap on the back for making a sale, though.

“Oh, okay. Did your sister want anything?” You offer, itching to find any way possible for her to stay just a bit longer.

The stranger hums to herself for a moment as she examines the rest of the delicious treats. You tilt your head as you grab a small brown paper bag to place the danish into, waiting patiently to see if she was going to pick another item.

To your delighted surprise, she nods as she points to a more simplistic pastry.

“I think this pink donut should be good,” she nods to show certainty.

You grasp onto the sweet treat to slide it into the bag with her danish, trying not to spill a lot of the sprinkles. You seal it closed with a custom sticker with the logo of the shop, typing up her total into the register. The stranger reaches into her sweatpants pocket to pull out her wallet.

“Your total is gonna be $7.89. Cash or card?” You question.

“Card.”

You watch her hand you a simple light blue credit card, grinning as you not-so-discreetly check out her full name on it. Her first name caught your attention. Violet. As you swipe her card, you clear your throat to work up the courage to give her a compliment.

“I love your name. It’s pretty,” you say as you hand her back the card.

The stranger, now known as Violet, smiles small at your words. Her long fingers take the card from you as she slides it back into her wallet.

“Thank you. My, uh, dad named me,” she grins at you.

“Well, he made a very good choice,” you hand her the bag as well, nodding as you try not to appear awkward. “Anything else I can get for you?”

Were you being weird?

“No, no, I’m good,” she chuckles as she crinkles the bag in her palms. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

You nod as you hand her own copy of the receipt, holding onto the half second of the tip of her fingers brushing against yours. You watch her turn her back and leave the shop, eyes never leaving her sculpted back profile. You huff at your behavior once the bell from above the door snaps you out of your small trance, shoving your copy of the receipt into its designated spot.

“She’s cute,” you hear from behind you, causing you to jump and whip your head around.

You’re met with your grandma grinning evilly at you, a little bit of flour smudged on her cheek from her baking in the back.

“Gram,” you sigh as you shake your head, brushing away your loose hairs.

“I’m just saying, bug,” she walks up next to you to rub up and down your arm.

You blush at what she was insinuating. As much as you love your grandmother, she attempted to be your match maker like you were an introverted middle schooler. You were 22 for God's sake. You would make moves and flirt when you felt like it.

“Don’t you have something in the oven?” You raise your eyebrows at her, hoping she’d leave it alone.

“Hey. I could fire you, you know,” your grandma pointed a finger in your face accusingly but her tone was light and a cheeky grin was on her face.

You roll your eyes playfully as you softly bump your hip with hers.

Everyday since Violet came in, you perk at the sound of the bell hoping to see that head of pink hair waltzing in again. Two excruciatingly long weeks pass before you see Violet again.

What was disappointing about seeing her today of all days was that you were working this shift with your 17 year old sister who was… less than thrilled to be working now; especially with you being her superior in a workplace. She, like most teenagers, was yearning to be more independent which meant constantly disregarding your instructions on what to do at work.

You were irritated beyond belief with her constantly arguing with you. You couldn’t even really fully pay attention as Mila smacked your arm with the rag. When you saw her from outside the shop, this time around she came with company. You were in the midst of a bicker with her because she didn’t wipe down a table like you had told her to when you saw Violet coming in with a little girl walking beside her.

You gasp at her childish antics, pinching her arm but then shushing her as you tight-lipped smile at Violet as she approaches the familiar display case. You try not to frown at the sight of her bandaged nose and small bruise sitting right on the apple of her cheek. Her outfit is similar from the last time you saw her except a simple oil-black hoodie with those same joggers. You even saw a bit of wrapped bandages on her hands peeking out from the sleeves.

Was she jumped or something?

“There are only, like, two people here and they’re sitting outside,” your sister whisper-shouts at you, plastering on a fake smile at the new customers. “Hi! Welcome in.”

Violet glances at Mila when she straightens her back, placing a gentle hand on the back of the child’s back to guide her to the display of new and fresh treats for the day. She places her little hands on the glass as she very eagerly bounces on the soles of her worn in dark blue tennis shoes.

“Hi! Violet, you’re back.” You turn to your sister and sneer quietly. “Clean the tables. Now, please.”

Mila gives Violet a once-over and you a narrow glare as she grumbles a ‘fine’ as she rounds the corner to go and wipe down the crumb and dust filled tables.

“Hey. You can call me Vi, by the way. I, uh, was with my sister for the day and she wanted to try this place. I gave her some of my danish and she went crazy.” Violet motioned to the child just a few feet below her, chuckling at her gazing hungrily at the sweets.

“Well, Vi, I’m glad to hear,” you lean your head to the side to get a good look at her sister.

She had a wild head of short waves, a small gap in between her two front teeth. Her outfit made her ten times more adorable; a plain white Henley long sleeve with a pair of overalls. Her big hazel eyes stared at you patiently.

“Hi, cutie. Do you see one that you like?” You question her with a friendly smile.

Her adorable face scrunches up in thought, stepping back to look at her choices. She turns her head to her older sister before pointing at a strawberry muffin and raising her hands to sign what you believe is ASL. You curse yourself for not knowing what she was telling the pink haired stranger.

“She wants to smell the strawberry muffin,” Vi chuckles. “I told her about how you let me smell my danish first before buying it.”

“Okay, I can do that for you. What’s her name?” You question, hoping it didn’t come off as offensive.

“Isha. She doesn’t talk much,” Vi raised a bandaged hand to settle on her light brown waves on her head, ruffling the strands.

“Well, Miss Isha,” you focus your attention on her once again, watching her bounce on the balls on her feet with excitement. You grab your trusty metal tongs to grab the muffin and place it on a soft blue ceramic plate to set it down on the counter area of your register set-up for her to smell. “Here you go. Let me know if you want to smell anything else.”

Your heart grows tenfold as Vi quietly tells Isha to not shove her nose into the muffin, smiling at her sister as she hovers close to the pastry.

“Is she the one who ate the pink donut?” You turn your attention to Vi, raising your brows as you adjust your flyaways from your bubble braid.

Pretty blue eyes flickering to yours, her brows twitch as if she was shocked that you remembered such a minuscule detail.

“No, that was my other sister,” she shakes her head. “Isha was actually very angry with me when I came home with no cupcakes or muffins for her so I’m making it up to her.”

You watch her scrunch up her bruised bridge of her nose for a second as Isha signs something else to her. Vi playfully rolls her eyes with a sigh as she turns to you with another wince.

“Can she eat this now? She has an impatient appetite.”

You chuckle with a nod as you hand the plate to her, muttering a ‘careful, sweetie’ to Isha who beams up at you. She scurries over to a small round table to hop up on the seat to divulge. Now that it was just you and Vi standing in front of each other.

“Hey, are you okay?” You ask softly, eyes flicking to each injury on her gorgeous face.

Confused about your concern for her, her brows furrow for a moment. You watch her turn around to make sure Isha was all good, hounding down the muffin with crumbs falling from her mouth to the ground.

“Oh, yeah,” Vi shook her head, waving at you off as she grins sweetly. “I work at a kick-boxing studio and some of the kids can get aggressive. I’m okay, though, trust me. I’ve taken more than a few hits to the head.”

That explains the injuries and the bandaged hands. Of course, she was a kick-boxer. Her physique gave that away but what did you know? Isha was distracted with her muffin so you were able to converse with her, get to know her a little more so your gram would stop asking you if that cute pink haired girl came in again.

“Really? Where at?” You hum.

“It’s like fifteen minutes from here. Why? You want to come see kids beat me up?” She teases, folding her arms over her chest.

You hum with a nod, walking around the counter to place a napkin on the table so Isha could wipe her face to be rid of the sticky crumbs on her face. “Yeah, that’s exactly why. Because I’m a masochist.”

An actual laugh left her plush lips as she shook her head, eyes following you as you face her now. If Gram could see you now. Well, she was probably watching you from the security cameras in the back room with an evil smile.

“You know, I meant to ask. Do you make custom cakes?” Vi leans back to rest her lower back on the countertop where your register was, crossing her legs and shoving her hands into the pocket of her hoodie.

She really just looks like that, you thought to yourself.

“We do, yeah. Is your birthday coming up?” You look at her with raised brows.

Vi shakes her head, pointing to the little girl behind you. “No. Her birthday is next week and my family is throwing her a zoo themed birthday party.”

You awe out loud at the thought.

“That’s so cute. Yeah, I can— I mean, we can do that,” you shake your head as you correct yourself, hoping she didn’t catch your desperate slip-up.

Isha stands up from her table, dusting off the crumbs from her overalls. She walks over to you to hand you the plate, signing ‘thank you’ to you. You pause for a moment before hesitantly signing back ‘you’re welcome’ slowly, not sure if you were doing it right. You knew the basics but weren’t extremely educated on ASL. After today, though, you were determined to brush up on it.

Isha eyes brighten at you signing back to her. She turns to Vi with a smile so wide, you swore her cheeks would split open. She nods down at Isha, ruffling her hair once again as she reaches for her pocket to retrieve her wallet.

“Shit, sorry, how much do I owe you for the muffin?” Vi shuffles through the bills in her wallet.

“No, no. You’re… good. Don’t worry about it.” You wave her off, shaking your head.

Vi pauses before scoffing, attempting to shove the money into your palms. “I’m paying for the muffin.”

“Seriously. It’s one muffin, Vi. Plus, a little early birthday present for Isha.” You shove the bills into her hands once again, gripping onto her hands to make sure she doesn’t try to give them back.

Vi glances down at your gentle hands around hers. Reluctantly taking the money back, she takes the bills before shoving them back into the crease of her wallet. You try not to focus on how slightly bigger her hands were from yours; how surprisingly soft her knuckles were.

Isha seems to become impatient now with her elder sister, reaching up to tug on two of her fingers. Vi nods down to her, muttering a soft ‘okay, okay’.

“Thank you for that, by the way. And if it's not too much trouble for you, cupcake, can I get your number?” Vi questions as she takes Isha’s hand in hers. “You know, for any questions about what the cake should look like and what flavor it could be.”

Your brows furrow at her words before nodding, pursing your lips to repress the smile creeping onto your face. Cupcake. You like that nickname coming from her lips.

“Right! Yes, um,” you walk over to the counter to grab a sticky note and a pen to scribble down your personal number. “Here. Call or text me with all the information.”

You place the small yellow piece of paper into her palm that wasn’t holding Isha’s. She takes it in between her pointer and middle fingers, nodding with a confident smile.

“I will. See you, cupcake.”

“See you, Vi. Bye, sweetheart,” you bend down ever so slightly to wave at Isha.

The adorable girl waves her free hand at you with a just as cute toothy smile on her face. You excused it as a sugar rush as they walk away from you, hand in hand as they leave the store. Vi turns her head to give you one more glance before Isha is tugging her down the sidewalk.

Mila angrily stormed up to you the second they left and raised her hand with the rag to smack you on the forearm. You gasp and snatch the weapon away from her, pointing a finger in her face.

“What the hell? Stop hitting me with this,” you sneer.

“I’m wiping down tables and you’re flirting? How the hell is that fair?” Mila quips back as she folds her arms in front of her chest.

“I wasn’t flirting. I was taking a cake order, by the way, so you can stop whining.” You roll your eyes as you walk back around to the counter.

Mila sucks in a deep breath before shaking her head.

“Really? So what was that whole,” your sister cleared her throat, sucking in a deep breath. “Giving her your personal number when you could’ve just given her the store's number?”

You pause your movements of wiping down the counter from behind the register, thinking about it for a moment. You knew why. You just hated your sister being all in your business.

“Okay, what is it to you?” You get defensive. “I can’t… make new friends?”

Mila merely snorts before rolling her eyes.

“Sure. You definitely only want to be friends with her.”

next part

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