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wosospacegirl · 1 month ago

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Stuck with you - part 8

Summary: Y/n’s used to Alexia’s overprotectiveness and the pressure of her career—but Kika? The shy, socially awkward teammate who’s starting to make her feel things she didn’t expect.

Warnings: Jana and Vicky are too obvious, and Salma's sick. Kika and Y/n’s book club meeting doesn’t go as planned. Y/n's upset, and Kika doesn't know how to fix it. Plus Olga’s knitting Alexia a truly terrible sweater.

Word count: 6.3k

Masterlist here

Y/n had hoped-foolishly-that her twenty-something-year-old best friends would act like proper adults after dragging the truth about her feelings for Kika out of her a ffew days ago.

But of course, that didn’t happen.

She was finally back at training.

Her ankle was healed enough to run drills, even if playing a full ninety was still a little way off. Still, it was something–and she was itching to be back.

The moment her boots touched the pitch, she nodded goodbye to Alexia, who peeled off toward the older players.

And just as she turned to head toward warm-ups, she felt a sharp nudge against her shoulder.

She turned. Vicky was at her side, grinning suspiciously..

“What?” Y/n asked, already scowling.

Vicky just wiggled her eyebrows and shrugged. “Nothing.”

Y/n rolled her eyes and made her way toward Jana, ready to pretend the entire morning didn’t already feel like a setup.

And then, of course, Kika appeared.

“Hi,” the Portuguese girl said softly, her dark eyes sparkling.

Y/n felt her soul briefly leave her body. Why did a ‘hi’ make her want to kiss her?

That wasn’t normal. That was dangerous.

Before she could fully short-circuit, Romeu blew the whistle. “Pairs!”

Y/n turned toward Jana automatically, but before she could say a word, Kika’s arm brushed against Jana’s sleeve.

“Oh no, Kika!!” Jana practically leapt back. “I forgot to tell you–I’m pairing with Salma today!”

Y/n blinked.

“Salma?” Kika asked, confused. “I thought she stayed home? The flu, não?”

Jana faltered for half a second, just enough to give herself away. “Oh… right. Yeah. That’s true. Hm. I mean—I’m with Vicky! Yep. Vicky!!!”

And then she grabbed Y/n’s arms–both of them–and physically shoved her toward Kika like a kid pushing two dolls together and yelling kiss!

“Anyway, bye you two!” Jana called out, as if she weren’t standing literally five steps away from them.

Y/n didn’t even turn around. She could feel Vicky and Jana watching her like two vultures hovering over a potential kiss.

She was going to kill them both.

But not now. Because Kika was standing beside her. Blushing.

And smiling..

“She’s acting a bit weird, don’t you think?” Kika asked, glancing over at Jana, who was now very pointedly not looking in their direction.

“She is weird,” Y/n replied flatly. “She was just trying to be super nice to you because you were the new girl. Now you’re seeing her true colours.”

Kika laughed, a soft sound that made Y/n’s stomach flip in the worst and best way.

“Anyways,” Kika said, smiling. “I still think something’s going on with Jana.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Why?”

“Well…” Kika toyed with the hem of her jersey, her voice dropping slightly.

“I found her in the locker room yesterday and asked if she wanted to go see Parc de l’Espanya Industrial with me. Just, you know…hang out. And she said we should go as a team. Like, everyone.”

Y/n frowned. “That’s... a lot of people. For one park.”

“Right?” Kika nodded. “I mean, the park isn’t even that big! I thought it was a bit much. But–um–would you like to go?”

Y/n blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. I mean, not necessarily that park. It could be any park. Or anywhere. For our book club…yeah?” Kika said quickly, almost tripping over her words. “I’m almost done with A Sibila. We should gather to talk about it soon.”

Y/n blinked. “Oh yeah. Definitely.”

“You’re nearly finished too, right?”

Y/n’s soul momentarily left her body.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” she lied smoothly. “It’s a… great story. With… incredible characters…”

Kika beamed. “Right?! I know! So many layers. We should meet tomorrow, then? Since you’re almost finished and I am too.”

Y/n felt the blood drain from her face. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Kika said cheerfully. “It’s our day off.”

Y/n nodded slowly, her brain buffering. “Of course. Our day off. Yeah. We should definitely… talk about the book. That we both… definitely read.”

Kika grinned. “Perfect. I’ll bring snacks.”

Y/n smiled awkwardly while Kika began to stretch.

Fuck.

She was already planning how many Wikipedia tabs she could open and memorise before tomorrow.

Turns out there wasn’t a Wikipedia page on A Sibila, or any good summaries. Or even a decent Goodreads review that didn’t sound like it came from a literature professor with a superiority complex.

Y/n was already spiralling into self-hatred.

She lay face-down on the living room sofa, limbs limp, soul leaving her body, while Olga made Alexia stand awkwardly in front of her.

“Stay still,” Olga muttered, frowning in concentration. “I need to see if I should make the sleeve longer.”

Alexia stood frozen, arms slightly lifted, wearing what could only be described as a brownish, lumpy, vaguely-sweater-shaped… thing.

“You should just undo that horrific thing,” Y/n mumbled into the cushion, voice muffled.

“Horrific?” Olga turned, her eyes wide and wounded. “This–this isn’t horrific. Right, Ale?”

Alexia opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Looked at Olga’s big brown eyes.

And folded instantly.

“Of course not, mi amor,” she said sweetly, shooting a murderous glare at Y/n. “Y/n’s just sulking about her date tomorrow. This sweater is beautiful.”

Olga lit up immediately, hugging the cursed thing to her chest. “I love you.”

Alexia kissed her cheek. “I love you, too. And I love how…authentic your fashion sense is.”

Olga turned back to the sweater, starting to knit what could only look like an A right in front of it.

Y/n let out a groan and flipped onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“I’m to die.”

Alexia didn’t even look at her.

“Start reading the book, nena.”

“I can’t now,” Y/n whined. “It’s too late. I need to… vibe with the theme. Analyse the metaphors. Get emotionally attached to the protagonist–know the historical content behind it.”

“You haven’t even opened the book.”

“Exactly.” Y/n groaned dramatically into the sofa cushion. “I tried to read the summary on the cover, but there were too many words and they got all jumbled, and I can’t read because I’m dyslexic!”

Olga reached over and patted her calf gently. “Cariño… why did you agree to a book club if you’re dyslexic? Or, more importantly, if you hate reading?”

“Because Kika said she wanted to start a book club.”

Olga blinked. “If Kika asked you to jump off a bridge--”

“Yes.”

“You’re pathetic,” Alexia said flatly.

Y/n lifted her head and pointed at Olga’s half-finished creation.

“Look who’s talking. Your wife is knitting A + O on the sweater you have to wear.”

Alexia froze, eyes darting down to the cursed garment. “You didn’t.”

Olga beamed. “I did.”

Alexia stared at the sweater like it had personally betrayed her.

“Why not just write ‘I’m whipped’ on the front too?”

Y/n let out a low, guttural groan.

“You’re both so embarrassing. I’m gonna die alone in a failed book club and neither of you will even notice.”

Alexia blinked.

“Okay, now you’re scaring me. I preferred your usual grumpy, emotionally constipated version over… whatever this is.”

“I don’t like this version of me either,” Y/n muttered, her voice muffled by the cushion again. “She’s soft and possibly in love. I want her gone.”

A silence stretched over the room.

Then Olga perked up. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I can knit you a sweater too.”

Y/n bolted upright. “No thanks. I’ll just… try to read this book again.”

She snatched La Sibila from the coffee table and stomped off dramatically.

Olga watched her go, then shrugged.

“I’ll knit her one anyway,” she said. “I’ll even write ‘Little Putellas’ on it.”

Alexia turned slowly. “You know I didn’t actually adopt her, right? She has her own last name.”

Olga smiled innocently. “She’s a simp like you. Might as well be blood related.”

Alexia opened her mouth to argue. And then thought better of it.

“…Fair enough.”

Y/n paced around her room like she was getting ready for an El clásico, clutching the book to her chest. She had run out of options.

She had no choice.

She called for backup.

Fifteen minutes later, her bedroom was full with Vicky sprawled across the beanbag chair, Jana leaning against the desk, and Salma–wearing a hoodie, two blankets, and a surgical mask—sitting weakly on the edge of Y/n’s bed like she might faint at any given minute.

“Okay,” Y/n began, clutching a stack of identical books. “I need help.”

“What kind of help?” Vicky asked, eyeing her warily.

Wordlessly, Y/n held up A Sibila.

And then… three more copies.

The room fell silent.

“You bought four copies of the same book?” Jana finally said, eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Y/n said. “I’m freaking out if you haven’t noticed that already.”

She slapped the books down onto the bed dramatically. “You guys are going to read this book. With me. Technically, for me.”

Vicky stared at her. “I’m sorry?”

“It has 252 pages,” Y/n continued, ignoring the look of utter betrayal forming on their faces. “I’ll read as much as I can. Which is, like, five pages. Seven if there are pictures.”

“There aren’t,” Salma wheezed.

“Then five,” Y/n confirmed. “The rest of the pages will be divided equally among you three. I did the math. Also, you need to give me opinions, not just summaries. Smart ones. Just to be clear.”

The silence was deafening.

Vicky slowly pointed toward Salma, who was curled up against Y/n’s pillows, looking very, very sick.

“You called Salma, who has pneumonia, to read a book for you?”

“I have tissues she can use,” Y/n offered, gesturing vaguely toward the half-used box on her nightstand.

“I can’t breathe,” Salma muttered, voice muffled through her mask.

“Exactly,” Y/n nodded. “You can’t breathe, but you can read. Let’s do this.”

Jana groaned and covered her face with both hands.

“You’re torturing Salma. And us. We didn’t sign up for book club or, or yout literary meltdown.”

“Jana,” Y/n said, deadly serious. “You made me confess I have feelings for Kika. I did. I came to terms with it. And now….” She shoved a copy of A Sibila into Jana’s hands, “You’re going to help me not look like a complete idiot in front of her.”

Vicky crossed her arms.

“So just to recap… you’re exploiting your flu-ridden teammate, your actual best friends… because you panic-lied to a girl you’re in love with about reading a Portuguese modernist novel.”

“Wait, what?” Y/n said, suddenly alert. “Say that again, Vicky.”

“Say what?”

“What you just said!”

“About you lying?”

“No–about the book!”

Vicky blinked. “That it’s… modernist?”

“Yes!” Y/n scrambled for a crumpled sheet of paper on her desk, grabbed a pen, and scribbled furiously. “Modernist. Perfect. I have something real I can throw in if Kika starts talking… themes or whatever.”

Jana leaned over and peeked at the paper.

“…You wrote mopernist.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes at her. “Jana, next time you open your mouth, I expect to hear something about the emotional depth of the characters. Or–or the role of the nationalist narrative in Portuguese history. Step it up.”

Jana blinked slowly. “I haven’t even opened the book.”

“Then do better,” Yn said dead serious, squinting her eyes.

Y/n stood in front of them like Alexia usually did before a big game.

“Okay,” she said, pacing. “We’re doing a drill. One by one. Tell me something, anything, about the book. Impress me.”

Vicky straightened up, cleared her throat, and delivered in a confident tone.

“It’s set in a rural environment in the first half of the 20th century. The characters are portrayed in multiple dimensions, with both strengths and flaws. It’s… realistic.”

Y/n blinked. “Did you just read that off the back cover?”

Vicky shrugged. “Yes.”

Y/n turned to Jana. “You. Go.”

Jana looked at her, a bit dazed, then clutched the book to her chest.

“The rural life, the customs, the use of certain terms… are all substantiation parts of Quina’s personality, as if she is the place she was born.”

“Good, Jana!” Y/n said, smiling. “Anything more?”

“Hm… Quina’s mother kinda reminded me of my grandmothers. It brought me back to my childhood in my parents’ village–very touching.”

There was a long pause.

“…Jana, you grew up in central Barcelona.”

“Yeah,” Jana said, unbothered. “But emotionally? It resonated.”

Y/n opened her mouth to argue–then caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

Salma.

The girl was curled up on her side with the book open on her chest, completely asleep, mouth slightly open, the mask hanging from one ear.

“She took her antibiotics and passed out mid-sentence,” Vicky whispered. “A lost soldier.”

Y/n stared at Salma in silence. “She died doing what she loved.”

“Which was?” Vicky asked.

“Helping a friend in need.”

The next morning, Y/n woke to the sharp buzz of her alarm.

The book was still clutched in her hand.

She had fallen asleep holding it, her logic being that maybe –maybe –if she kept it close enough, she would dream about it.

It didn’t work.

Still, the girls had helped.

She knew a bit now, enough, maybe.

The story, the historical context, and why it mattered for Portuguese literature. Quina, the main character. The rural imagery.

She had scribbled down a few talking points on a scrap of paper last night, just in case.

But as she sat on the edge of her bed, anxiety started clawing at her again.

What if she blanked? What if Kika started quoting the book, and Y/n forgot what' modernist' even meant?

With a sigh, she grabbed a pen from her nightstand.

Very, very carefully, she started writing tiny keywords on the inside of her hands. Barely visible. Just enough to help. Just in case.

“Quina – complexity/she represents rural life”

“Rural Portugal – 20th c.”

“Modernism = introspection? self-awareness”

“National identity – mother figure? Quina’s mom”

She examined her palms.

Discreet enough. Kika wouldn’t notice… probably.

Y/n got dressed slowly, carefully–but not so that it looked careful.

Nothing too fancy, because they were just going to a park. But nothing too slack, either, so Kika wouldn’t think she hadn’t put any thought into it.

She settled on baggy jeans and an oversized t-shirt –the kind of outfit that said, I didn’t stress about this, even though she absolutely had.

After a long, silent moment in front of the mirror, she gave herself a curt nod.

“You’ve got this,” she muttered. “Just talk about goats and nationalism and maybe cry about female repression in bucolic environments or whatever.”

One last breath.

Then she headed downstairs for breakfast, already dreading the knowing looks waiting for her from Alexia and Olga.

Y/n trudged down the stairs like she was heading to her execution.

Her oversized t-shirt hung awkwardly over her jeans, hair still a little messy from sleep, and A Sibila was tucked under her arm.

She was going for casual. Unbothered. Effortless.

She knew she looked like she had tried way too hard not to look like she tried.

As soon as she hit the bottom step, she spotted them–Alexia and Olga, sitting at the kitchen table, both sipping their morning coffees.

Both grinning.

Like hyenas.

Y/n didn’t say a word. Just walked past them and went straight for the toaster, trying to pretend she didn’t feel their eyes boring into the back of her head.

She managed to spread butter on her toast twice before Olga cleared her throat with fake gentleness.

“So…” she said, far too cheerfully, “how are we feeling about your little date today?”

Y/n didn’t even blink.

“I hope she cancels so I don’t have to go and make a complete fool of myself.”

Alexia snorted. “Stop. It’s not an interrogation or a test. It’s just a casual hangout.”

“With the girl I’ve been hopelessly in love with for two months,” Y/n muttered, stabbing her toast with the butter knife. “Super casual.”

Alexia raised a brow, unimpressed.

“It is casual. You’re not walking into a courtroom. You’re meeting Kika at a park. Probably to sit on the grass and talk about books. Calm down.”

“I can’t calm down!” Y/n snapped. “I want her to think I’m smart!”

Alexia shrugged. “You should want her to see the real you.”

Y/n whipped her head around, eyes narrowing. “So what, being smart isn’t part of the real me?”

Alexia blinked. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you implied,” Y/n shot back. “You’re a terrible emotional support person.”

Alexia leaned on her elbow, unfazed. “I’m just saying, you did have to repeat kindergarten.”

Y/n dropped her toast dramatically onto the plate. “I hate that I told you that. I’m not stupid, you know!”

Olga sighed, setting her coffee cup down and gently resting a hand on the kitchen counter between them like she was mediating a debate.

“Okay. That’s enough,” she said, looking from one to the other. “Alexia, be nice. Y/n, you are smart. No one here thinks otherwise.”

Y/n huffed and crossed her arms, lips pressed in a tight line.

Olga continued softly.

“You’ve got more heart and grit than most people we know. You care. You learn. You’re clever in ways that matter. Alexia’s just trying to say you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not. Kika will see that–if you let her.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

It was warm. Settling.

Y/n looked down at her plate.

“She could’ve just said that without bringing kindergarten.”

Alexia grinned over the rim of her mug. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Olga reached out and ruffled Y/n’s hair affectionately. “Eat your toast, cariño. Then go knock her off her feet.”

Y/n didn’t say anything, but a little smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

She was still terrified.

Still kind of hoping Kika would text her ‘hiii sorry plans changed :( ‘ , but maybe, maybe she would survive it after all.

Y/n spotted Kika the moment she turned the corner into the park.

A quiet, tucked-away stretch of green in the middle of the city–Parc del Guinardó, if she remembered the text right. Y/n had never come here, not after years living in central Barcelona.

In some ways, she was discovering Barcelona alongside Kika.

Parc del Guinardó was shaded, full of trees, peaceful, and for now, mostly empty except for the girl sitting under a tree near the edge of the path.

For a split second, panic flared in her chest.

Wait, am I late?

She reached for her phone, thumb hovering above the screen, only to see the time.

Nope. She was actually thirty minutes early.

Kika had just… beat her here.

Way too early. And judging by the checkered blanket already spread across the grass, the small cooler bag beside it, and the two paper-wrapped sandwiches laid out with almost painful neatness–it wasn’t by accident.

Kika looked nervous. Not full-on pacing or twitching, but her fingers were tugging gently at a loose thread on the edge of the blanket, her gaze flicking between her phone screen and the path like she was waiting for a call.

Y/n stood there for a second longer, watching.

And for the briefest moment–just a breath–she liked it. That she wasn’t the only one whose stomach had been in knots all morning.

That maybe, just maybe, Kika was nervous too.

Kika looked up, like she had sensed her. Her eyes lit up, not dramatically, but softly, like she was genuinely relieved to see her.

“Hey!” she called out, standing quickly and brushing her hands on her jeans.

“Hi,” Y/n replied, crossing the grass toward her.

“You’re early,” Kika said, laughing awkwardly.

Y/n tilted her head. “You’re earlier.”

“Touché.”

There was a pause.

“Come sit?” Kika offered, gesturing toward the blanket.

Y/n sat down carefully, legs crossed. Kika followed, sitting a little stiffly, knees pulled up like she hadn’t figured out where to put her legs yet.

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. The city hummed softly in the background–distant cars, the occasional bark of a dog, a kid yelling somewhere deeper in the park, running after a ball.

“I brought us sandwiches,” Kika blurted suddenly, breaking the silence.

Y/n turned to her, lips twitching. “Oh? Really?”

“I, um–” Kika opened the cooler and pulled out two wrapped halves. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got two kinds. Ham and cheese, and… mozzarella and tomato.”

Y/n blinked at the effort. Her chest did that weird fluttery thing again.

“That’s very prepared of you,” she said, trying to sound casual.

Kika shrugged, eyes fixed on the sandwiches. “I asked Jana what your favourite was and she said ‘don’t ask me, I’m not her girlfriend,’ so…”

Y/n let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds like Jana.”

“Yeah…so I kinda of panicked,” Kika admitted. “Went to the café near my place and just pointed at the only two options they had and just hoped you would like one of them.”

Y/n smiled. “That’s very kinda, you didn’t need to.”

They sat there in that soft, awkward quiet again, but this time it was a little lighter.

A little less tight in the chest.

Y/n reached out and grabbed the mozzarella one.

“I like this one,” she said.

Kika looked over at her, something soft and a little stunned in her eyes.

“Oh,” she said. “Good.”

Kika took a small bite of her sandwich, then set it down and reached into her bag. “But okay,” she said, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Let’s talk about what we came here for.”

Y/n blinked. “What we–oh.”

She watched as Kika pulled out her well-worn, sticky-note-littered copy of A Sibila, pages slightly bent and loved.

It was the Portuguese edition that Y/n had bought for her

Somehow, the book looked elegant and intimidating. Just like Kika..

Y/n slowly opened her own copy–the Spanish translation–and immediately spotted it: a dark crescent of sweat right in the middle of the page she had been clutching all morning.

She flipped to a random spot instead, trying to look casual as she held it just barely open, pretending she was an academic and not a total imposter.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’ve never, uh, been in a book club before. Do we… just talk?”

Kika smiled, earnest and bright. “Exactly! We talk. I can go first, if you want?”

Y/n nodded so fast her neck cracked. “Yes. Please. Go ahead. Take it away. All yours.”

Kika’s smile grew as she settled into cross-legged comfort and opened her book.

“Okay, so,” she began, “what really struck me was how Quina’s personal conflicts reflect the social shifts of 20th-century Portugal. Especially the way her stubborn independence clashes with both the rural family structure and the political repression under Salazar. The book doesn’t just explore her as a woman, but as a kind of symbol for the modernist movement–her resistance, her contradictions…”

Y/n was nodding. Or pretending to. Probably both.

Words like Salazar, symbolic resistance, and narrative fragmentation swirled around her like smoke.

Her brain tried desperately to catch a single thread, but mostly she was just focused on not passing out.

Kika was radiant. Passionate. So smart.

And Y/n was sitting there with smudged keywords on her palm and only a vague idea that Quina was, in fact, the main character.

But the worst part?

The worst part was that she wasn’t even mad.

She was enamoured.

Her heart did that pathetic fluttery thing again, because Kika was talking about fascism and gender dynamics like it was the most fascinating thing in the world–and somehow, Y/n agreed.

Not because she understood it. But because Kika did. And that made it beautiful.

“Sorry,” Kika said suddenly, closing her book with a soft thud. “I talked too much. Tagarela, as we say in Portuguese.”

“Oh no–no, no, no,” Y/n said quickly, shaking her head. “It was totally fine. You can… talk more. If you want. Like, I wouldn’t mind. At all. Keep going.”

Kika laughed, warm and easy. “Better not. Or I’ll take your spot in the book club.”

She nudged Y/n gently with her knee. “

Your turn. I really want to hear what you thought. I feel like you would really get along with Custódio.”

Y/n’s entire brain screeched to a halt.

Custódio???

Her eye twitched.

The girls had gone over Quina. Her mother.

Maybe a cousin? Definitely the rural priest.

But Custódio? No one had said a single word about anyone named Custódio.

She forced a smile. Her palms were starting to sweat again, which was unfortunate because her cheat-sheet notes were written on them.

“Oh yeah,” she said, voice slightly higher than normal. “Custódio. Yeah, he was… something.”

Kika looked intrigued.

“Right? I feel like you’d get his energy. He’s got this whole quiet, loyal thing, but also he’s super observant. Like, even when he’s not the focus, he sees everything.”

Y/n nodded slowly, internally begging for the earth to swallow her whole. Or for a minor, non-lethal lightning strike. Something fast.

“Totally,” she said. “So observant. That was definitely… a choice the author made. Very...modernist.”

Kika tilted her head. “What did you think of his relationship with Quina?”

Y/n paused. Blinked.

Sweat.

“…Complex,” she said finally. “Really… emotionally… charged. You know?”

Kika lit up. “Yes! Oh my god, that’s exactly it.”

Y/n breathed again.

Barely.

Kika turned to grab her water bottle from the side of the blanket, uncapping it and taking a quick sip.

Y/n saw her chance.

In one swift, silent motion, she yanked up the sleeve of her oversized t-shirt and glanced at the faded notes she had scribbled across her palm and wrist–the last lifeline to whatever credibility she still had left.

But the sweat had smudged most of the words into illegible ink.

‘Quina = comp. wna?' was barely readable.

Everything else looked like a puzzle.

She squinted, desperately trying to decipher “natl ident mom fig” when…

“Are you okay?” Kika asked, suddenly facing her again.

Y/n froze.

She was sitting way too straight, arms locked at her sides like a robot.

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Totally. Why wouldn’t I be? Haha.”

Kika’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You're rubbing your hand. Did you hurt it?”

Y/n looked down, realising she was now anxiously scrubbing her palm like she could erase the evidence.

“Ah,” she said, thinking fast. “An ant. Bit me. Stupid ant.”

“Oh no,” Kika said, instantly sympathetic. “Wait, I think I have some cream in my bag somewhere…”

“No!” Y/n said, way too loud and fast. “No need. I’m fine. It’s–I’m fine. Just a minor ant.”

But Kika was already reaching for her bag, rustling through it. “It’s no big deal. Let me help you.”

Y/n flinched as Kika reached gently for her hand. “No! uh, I mean–You can give me the cream. I’ll do it. Myself.”

Kika’s movement slowed.

Her expression flickered, just a little. Like something felt off. Her fingers brushed Y/n’s wrist lightly anyway, and then she paused.

“…What’s that?”

Y/n followed her gaze, down to the smudged ink, the barely-there letters.

“Oh,” Kika said softly, realisation dawning.

Y/n wanted to disappear.

Y/n let out a breath. It wasn’t sharp or dramatic–more like something deflating quietly, giving up the last of her pride.

She was going to do it. She couldn’t keep the lie any longer.

“I didn’t read it,” she mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Kika blinked, hand still hovering near hers.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “We don’t have to read the whole book to have a book club–”

“No,” Y/n said, shaking her head, her voice cracking a little. “I haven’t read any of it.”

There was a pause.

Kika’s brows drew together slightly, but not in judgment, just surprise. “Oh. You don’t like historical fiction?”

Y/n laughed once, short and embarrassed. Her cheeks were already burning. “I don’t really… like books.”

Another pause.

“I’m dyslexic,” she added, voice quieter now. “I have a hard time reading. I don’t really tell a lot of people that…I don’t like to.”

Kika didn’t say anything at first, but then she looked down, then back up, her voice soft.

“…Then why would you agree to it? The book club, I mean?”

Y/n rubbed at her neck, still nervous.

“Because,” she said, almost like she was annoyed at herself. “You seemed excited.”

Kika’s face shifted–not with pity, but something warmer.

Something careful.

She let the moment breathe for a second longer, then sat back beside Y/n again, their shoulders brushing.

“I was,” Kika said quietly. “But not about the book.”

Y/n glanced at her.

Kika smiled, soft and small.

“I just wanted an excuse to hang out with you.”

Y/n blinked. “Oh.”

Kika’s heart skipped. Her face flushed, her mind scrambling for an explanation.

“I mean... You know, as teammates. Of course. I hang out with everyone, really.” She laughed awkwardly, trying to brush it off. “Everyone’s always together, and I just... didn’t want you to be left out…”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, unsure if she was buying it.

“Everyone?”

Kika’s eyes darted around, looking for anything to latch onto, anything to make this sound less like she was lying.

“Yeah! I mean, you know, we’re all in this together, right? Just thought it would be nice to have you spending some time with me, too.”

Y/n’s lips curled down in a slight frown.

“So... you didn’t want me to feel left out... and that’s why you invited me?”

Kika’s stomach tightened as she realised the hole she had dug herself into.

She quickly tried to recover, but her voice was shaky.

“Yeah, exactly! I mean... yeah. I didn’t want you to feel excluded, but... It’s not that I wouldn’t want you there. I just didn’t want you to... feel like you didn’t belong or something.”

Y/n didn’t respond right away.

She just stared at Kika for a few beats, a thin line forming at the corner of her mouth.

“Well,” Y/n said, standing up suddenly, voice a little tight, “I should go now.”

Kika blinked, surprised by the shift. “Oh, uh... okay. See you at training, yeah?”

Y/n nodded, not looking at her. “Yeah... training.”

There was an awkward pause. Kika pressed her lips together, watching her leave.

Y/n didn’t look back, her steps quick and purposeful.

Kika sat there for a long moment, the weight of what had just been said settling in her chest. She couldn’t help but feel the coldness in the air, something unspoken lingering between them.

Y/n arrived home, still feeling the tension of the conversation with Kika pressing on her chest.

She pushed open the door to the living room, where Alexia and Olga were in the middle of a discussion about sweaters, again.

“Oh, nena!” Olga called, her voice light and warm. “How was the book club? You two have fun?”

Y/n didn’t stop, just waved a distracted hand in their direction. “Yeah, fine,” she muttered, not even meeting their eyes as she quickly made her way up the stairs.

Alexia and Olga exchanged a look, both raising an eyebrow at the sudden shift in Y/n’s mood.

“Uh-oh,” Olga said quietly, watching Y/n disappear upstairs. “I think it didn’t go well.”

Alexia frowned, tapping her fingers on the back of the sofa. “Maybe she just couldn’t even read the book title... or something?”

Olga turned her head, giving Alexia the kind of look that could stop anyone in their tracks.

“Alexia,” Olga said, disappointed.

“Ok, sorry, went too far.”

Y/n lay on her bed, one arm flung over her eyes, the other clenched loosely at her side.

The room was dark except for the faint orange glow slipping in from the hallway. It should’ve been quiet, peaceful, even, but her mind wouldn’t shut up.

She groaned, turning over and pulling her pillow over her head. As if that could muffle the echo of her own thoughts.

“I didn’t want you to feel left out.”

Seriously?

She kicked her heel against the mattress.

That didn’t even make sense. Left out? From what?

She sat up suddenly, hair a mess, breath uneven.

“I’ve been in this team since I was sixteen,” she muttered to herself, voice thick with disbelief. “What do you mean, left out?”

There was an edge of anger now, coiled under the embarrassment still burning in her chest.

She invited me out of pity? Out of some weird sense of obligation? Not because she actually wanted to?

And she had told her. She had told Kika about the dyslexia, the thing she didn’t like to talk about. Instead of it feeling like a relief, like being seen, it just made her feel small.

Her eyes drifted to the stack on her desk. The book.

One of four copies of La Sibila.

She reached out, shoved the top one off the desk with the back of her hand. It thudded on the floor with a soft slap of pages and cover, landing awkwardly.

She stared at it for a moment, then flopped back onto the bed with a heavy exhale.

Stupid book club.

Stupid conversation.

Stupid feelings.

She closed her eyes. Tried not to picture Kika’s face when she said everyone. Tried not to remember how fast her chest had dropped at those words.

She was tired. And still too awake.

There was a knock at the door, light but insistent.

Y/n didn’t answer.

A beat passed. Then the door creaked open anyway, slowly and carefully.

Jana peeked her head in.

“Alexia called,” she said gently, not quite stepping in yet. “Said things were bad.”

Y/n didn’t move at first.

She was curled up on her bed, hood pulled halfway over her head, one of Alexia’s older Barça hoodies, oversized and threadbare at the sleeves.

The room looked like a bookshop had been ransacked. Copies of La Sibila lay scattered across the floor, some still open, some face down, spines bent awkwardly.

Jana blinked, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“…how bad was it?” she asked, finally stepping inside and shutting the door behind her.

“Very bad,” Y/n muttered, voice muffled by the fabric of the hoodie.

Jana sat down at the edge of the bed, careful not to step on the fallen books.

“But like,” she asked, tilting her head toward Y/n, “how bad?”

Y/n turned her head just enough for Jana to see one red-rimmed eye peeking out from under the hoodie.

“She told me…” Y/n started. “That she asked me to hang out so I wouldn’t feel excluded.”

Jana winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Y/n said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Excluded, Jana! As if I haven't known this whole team since I was like…a kid! How can I be excluded, right?!!”

“Well, you did skip the last three girls' nights,” Jana started. “And you also said no to that restaurant we all went to last week, and you're always the first to leave training and–”

“Jana,” Y/n said. “You are not helping.”

Jana let out a breath through her nose, then lay back on the bed beside her, arms folded behind her head, looking up at the ceiling.

“She didn’t mean it like that… probably,” she offered eventually.

Y/n shrugged without moving. “Still said it.”

They both stared at nothing for a while. Y/n pulled the hoodie tighter around herself.

“I think I hate books,” she muttered eventually.

Jana snorted. “You've always hated books.”

“I hate feelings.”

“You also hated them, too”

They didn’t say much after that.

Kika stared at the wall.

It was white.

Just white.

“I think I ruined everything,” she said quietly.

Esmee, lounging on the other end of the sofa in her usual half-curled pose, looked up from her phone. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Kika didn’t move. “Esmee. I basically said I only hang out with her out of pity.”

There was a long pause.

“…Yeah,” Esmee finally said, setting her phone down. “You could have worded that better.”

Kika groaned, dragging both hands down her face.

“She just looked so hurt. And then she left so fast. Like--like I had slapped her.”

Esmee raised an eyebrow. “Emotionally, you kind of did.”

Kika dropped back onto the cushions, arms flung out, staring up at the ceiling now like it might offer an escape hatch.

“I like her,” she muttered. “I really like Y/n.”

“Wow, some huge revelations are happening today,” Esmee said, looking bored out of her mind.

Kika shot her a look. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” Esmee said matter-of-factly, picking up her phone again. “I’m just here for moral support.

“You're not giving any support,” Kika said.

“I did! I came to your house on a Saturday night and i'm sitting here watching you drowning in sadness.”

Kika groaned. “Ugh, what do I even do now?”

Esmee didn’t even glance up. “You apologise. And maybe next time, don’t say things that sound like you adopted her out of loneliness.”

Kika buried her face in her hands again.

“God, I’m an idiot.”

Esmee hummed. “Yes, but she’ll come around.”

Kika didn’t look convinced.

She stared back at the wall.

It was still white.

Still awful.

Still exactly how she felt.

a/n: Please let me know what u guys think! Of course, I couldn't give them too much happiness hehe. Also omg my passion in to write platonic relantionships, love it so much <3.

Tag list: @edensbreeze @silentwolfsstuff, @goodloe-e @mccabeskcc @blaugranafairy @footy-lover264 @the-fandom-ness @wosofavfanfics

#woso x reader #woso #woso fanfic #kika nazareth x yn #kika nazareth #kika nazareth x reader #alexia puttelas x platonic reader #stuck with you #wlw writing #wlw fanfic

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rosierin · 3 months ago

Text

a hair toning intervention | atsumu, osamu, suna

synopsis; osamu comes home with brown hair and atsumu feels left out. his solution? a hair transformation of his own

a/n; this was super fun to write bahaha. i've seen a few versions of this historical miya event in other fics before and thought i'd do my own version hehe

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

(Y/n) was midway through opening a bag of crisps when the front door swung open.

She looked up—only to freeze completely. Her lips parted. The crisp in her hand never made it to her mouth.

Beside her, Suna and Atsumu both gasped in unison, equal parts stunned and horrified.

In strolled Osamu, tossing his keys onto the counter like nothing was different. Except something was different.

Very different.

(Y/n) blinked like she was perhaps imagining things. “Wait. What.”

Atsumu gawked, staring at his twin like he’d grown a second head.

Suna tilted his head with a frown. He made vague gestures with his hands, holding them up and forming an imaginary camera lens around Osamu's face. “There’s something… wrong with this picture.”

Osamu rose his brows. But he must be playing dumb because there's no way he couldn't know what they were talking about. “What?”

(Y/n) stared, stared and stared some more. She turned to Suna, then to Atsumu, silently asking for some kind of confirmation. They were all seeing the same thing, right?

But just to make things extra clear...

“Your hair!” She pointed.

She couldn't believe it. His silver was gone!

That iconic shade of silver (or grandpa grey according to Atsumu), was no more. Not just dyed over, either. It was chopped off, by the looks of it—meaning this was all his natural hair. (Y/n) hadn't realised he'd grown it out long enough to do so.

She eyed the deep shade of chestnut atop his head in awe, taking in the full picture. She'd never seen him with his natural hair colour before. Ever since high school, it has always been silver.

"You're a brunette again!" She said merrily.

Osamu blinked, and she saw the moment it eventually clicked. She spluttered a laugh.

So he really had forgotten to mention it. “Oh, yeah!"

“Oh yeah?!" Atsumu finally snapped out of his daze, rising from the couch. "Since when, scrub?!"

Osamu shrugged. Clearly, one twin was finding it harder to adjust. “Since this mornin’.”

Suna let out a low whistle. Not much fazed the latter, but even he looked surprised. “You look like a different person."

(Y/n) grinned and hopped off the couch. She'd never seen him like this before. Naturally, she wanted to take a closer look. “No way,” she breathed. “This is so weird—but in a good way! This is your natural colour, right?”

Osamu nodded and—bless his soul—he had every right to look embarrassed. (Y/n) was practically circling him like a vulture, truly fascinated. He looked good. Better, even! The cool tone brown made his complexion look brighter, and his deep grey eyes look even more striking.

She clasped her hands together, practically bouncing on her feet. “You're so handsome! It suits you so much!”

Atsumu physically recoiled at her outburst. “No, it don’t! He looks like a teenager again!"

(Y/n) immediately whipped her head toward him and glared. “You shut your mouth,” she scolded. “He looks great. And, personally, I think this makes him look more mature."

She turned back to Osamu, whose lips were parted in a way that made him look as though he'd been caught off guard. He probably didn't expect this much enthusiasm, but he should've known better. Nothing about this household was nonchalant. Even the mundane could be made dramatic depending on the mood. And a full-on hair transformation was far from mundane, anyway.

“Uh. Thanks," he smiled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Ya can’t be encouragin’ this," Atsumu groused. "He looks like he's cosplayin' as a responsible adult. It don't feel right."

“Maybe cause I am a responsible adult," Osamu shot back. "Unlike some."

“No, yer Osamu, ya ain’t supposed to change!”

Osamu rolled his eyes. “Yer bein’ dramatic.”

(Y/n) nodded in agreement. She didn't really understand why Atsumu was kicking up such a fuss. Maybe he just didn't like feeling left out. Or maybe it ran deeper than that and he felt as though Osamu had left part of their childhood behind. But that was just speculation.

Either way, he was being dramatic. “I agree with Osamu."

Atsumu pulled a face. “Hearin' ya say that sounds plain wrong."

Osamu shrugged before sauntering into the kitchen. “Should be used to it by now, blondie," he called over his shoulder.

(Y/n) saw the exact moment it hit him. Probably triggered by the nickname—a glaring reminder that Atsumu had in some shape or form been left behind.

It looked as though the gears in his head were turning. Like a creeping realization was dawning on him. He was now the only twin with dyed hair. The only one with unnatural colour. Osamu was now the twin with the “normal” hair.

His face fell.

Atsumu looked at Osamu. Pulled out his phone. Opened his camera. Looked at himself. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"Well, now I have to do somethin’ to mine."

Suna sighed. (Y/n) rolled her eyes. Osamu barked a laugh.

And just like that—Atsumu’s hair crisis began.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next day, Atsumu dragged (y/n) aside like he had breaking news.

Serious. Grave. The end-of-the-world kind of serious.

“Alright.” He exhaled. “I’ve thought about it.”

(Y/n) couldn't believe she'd been dragged out of bed for this. Well—not literally, but it might as well have been. If he hadn't brought her a steaming cup of tea in bed this morning—after waking her up by practically banging on her door—she might have refused his request for a hair brainstorming.

"Go on," she said, trying to muster at least some from of enthusiasm. Because, Atsumu—despite his eagerness—looked genuinely excited.

“I’m changin’ my hair," he declared.

(Y/n) closed her eyes briefly with a sigh, already picturing the drama. Osamu cutting off his hair was definitely not worth all the theatrics, but this was Atsumu. He was the theatrics. There's a reason he still did the hand thing before every serve, even at his grand age.

“God, give me strength," she muttered.

Atsumu ignored her.

At that exact moment, Suna and Osamu strolled into the room. It didn't take long for Atsumu to rope them into this too.

“Oi, you two,” he called, waving them over. “We’re talkin’ hair.”

Suna paused, glanced at Osamu, then back at Atsumu. “…No thanks.”

Osamu snorted. “Yeah, I’m good. I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.”

Atsumu ignored them too.

“I’m thinkin’… platinum. Ya’know—white.”

Suna let out a long, suffering sigh.

Osamu rubbed his face. “….No.”

Somehow, (y/n) didn't think white was quite his colour... He was lucky he could even get away with blonde, to be honest. She supposed his personality made it work. He had that typical, jock heartthrob air about him.

She rested her chin in her palm, deciding to humour him nonetheless. “Here we go. Tell us more, Lady Gaga.”

Atsumu continued, undeterred. “Or—pastel pink.”

Suna wrinkled his nose. “You’d look like a rejected K-pop star.”

Atsumu frowned.

"Or an anime protagonist," Osamu added with a snicker.

"True," (y/n) chimed in. "Neither are a cute look."

Atsumu seemed to take their comments into consideration, albeit with visible disappointment. “What about black?”

Suna arched a brow. “You think you can handle the responsibility of dark hair?”

Atsumu looked every bit confused. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you wouldn't suit the mysterious bad boy look," (y/n) clarified.

Suna nodded. “Yeah, you’re too loud. Blonde is better."

Atsumu didn't look one bit amused. Apparently, he really was serious about having a full hair makeover. She still wasn't sure why, but perhaps it was that important to him, after all.

But then, the more she thought about it, the more the image of Atsumu with any other hair colour unsettled her. Blonde was just his colour. It was perfect already.

Of course, she wasn't about to phrase it just like that. “You know... you don’t have to change your hair. Like Rin said, blonde suits you.”

“Plus, you know what they say about blondes…” Suna started.

Osamu snorted. (Y/n) bit back a laugh.

Atsumu clicked his tongue. “I ain't dumb!"

At that, they exchanged a few looks. Nothing was said, and yet everything was said at the same time.

Atsumu’s eye twitched. “You guys are NO help. Gimme actual suggestions instead of bein' smartasses!"

"We did!" (y/n) argued. "We already told you: stick with blonde!"

"No, 'cause that's borin'!" Atsumu parried.

He looked genuinely exasperated, jaw tight as he kept scrolling through hair Pinterest boards for inspiration.

Osamu and Suna seemingly had enough of his nonsense and simply went back to making breakfast, the clinking of plates serving as a backdrop for (y/n)'s thinking. She wracked her brain for ideas. Then, in a moment of clarity, perked up.

"Why don’t you tone it?”

Atsumu looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Toner,” she repeated. “It keeps your blonde, but it takes out all the brassiness so it looks cleaner. It won't look drastically different, but I think you'd be surprised what a difference it'd make."

Atsumu stared as if she had just started speaking another language. “…What the hell is toner?”

Osamu whipped his head around in what looked to be disbelief. Suna did the same. Then, they both look at each other as if to confirm what had just been said.

"You don't know what a toner is?" Suna asked, voice wavering as a grin crept onto his face.

"No??"

(Y/n) bit her lip as she watched the two of them. Seconds later and Osamu and Suna began sniggering amongst themselves. Seeing them like this made (y/n) think of two schoolyard bullies picking on a more oblivious pupil.

“What’s so funny?!” Atsumu demanded.

"There's no way," Osamu said mockingly.

Suna looked equally mischievous. “You’ve been blonde for years and you’ve never used a toner?”

"That explains so much," Osamu added with a laugh.

"What do you mean?!" Atsumu groaned. The poor guy looked as defeated as he was embarrassed. "And o 'course I never used one! How could I use one if I didn't even know it was a thing 'til now!"

Clearly, his brother and Suna were too busy mocking him to actually he helpful. And (y/n), being the nice person that she was, decided to take pity on him. For now, at least.

“Listen,” she started, talking slow like she was explaining something to a child, “you know how your hair sometimes looks a little… yellow?”

Atsumu’s eyes narrowed. “What do ya mean, a little yellow?”

“She means it looks like piss," Suna clarified.

Atsumu looked at a loss for words. He dragged his gaze to his brother, as if seeking validation.

“Hear them out," he said somewhat amicably. Atsumu looked ten times more concerned.

(Y/n) bit back a laugh. “The toner will fix that.”

“My hair ain’t piss-yellow," Atsumu griped stubbornly.

"It is," Suna argued.

Osamu did nothing more but nod.

(Y/n) simpered, not wanting to sound too mean. “Yeah, a little bit.”

She felt guilty, yes. But in retrospect they were doing him a favour. How he had gone years and years with a shade of chick yellow on his head was beyond her. It needed to be done sooner or later.

Osamu clapped a hand on his gawking brother's shoulder. “Come on, ‘Tsumu, it’s time."

“We’re helping you," Suna solemnly offered.

“For the greater good," (y/n) declared.

Atsumu rolled his eyes, but the seed was planted.

“…Fine. Let’s do it.”

And just like that—the Hair-Toning Mission was officially set in motion.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Two hours and a trip to the shopping centre later, (y/n) stood at the sink, reading the instructions on the toner bottle, while Atsumu sat on the toilet seat, fidgeting like a restless child.

Through the bathroom mirror, she could see Osamu and Suna loitering behind them in the doorway, watching like they were witnessing history in the making.

Atsumu's leg was bouncing restlessly.

(Y/n) shook her head fondly. "Relax, Tsumu." She rested a hand on his shoulder, hoping it was somewhat reassuring. He eventually went still. "Remember, this morning you were begging us to help you, so here we are."

Osamu crossed his arms. "Yup. No turnin' back now, Tsum. Ya gotta commit to it."

Atsumu whipped his head around. "Don't you talk to me about commitment. You abandoned the twin hair pact first!"

(Y/n) raised her brows at that. Twin pact, huh?

Osamu huffed a laugh. "That pact existed when we were ten."

"It was fifteen, actually," Atsumu grumbled. "Yer a traitor."

Suna piped up behind them. "Hate to break it to you, but (y/n) is actually doing you a favour. Your hair’s been looking… rough."

Atsumu frowned at him through the bathroom mirror. "My hair is fine."

(Y/n) sighed. "Atsumu, honey, do me a favour and look at yourself in the mirror."

Reluctantly, he turned.

There, under the bright, unforgiving bathroom lights, his unnatural yellow-blonde hair looked even more tragic than usual.

He blinked. “…Oh.”

Suna stifled a laugh.

Osamu clapped a hand on his shoulder, mock sympathy written all over his face. “Happens to the best of us."

"But that's why we're helping you!" (Y/n) beamed, clasping her hands on his shoulders. She offered him a grin through the mirror, one even he couldn't seem to return. She softened her voice. "Don't worry, Tsumu. I'll make you look good. Trust me."

Atsumu grumbled but sat still as she gloved up, mixing the toner with developer. (Y/n) was no hairdresse, but the instructions and Youtube tutorials she watched earlier seemed straightforward enough. She felt confident enough. Confident that she wouldn't royally fuck up, that is.

"You ready?" She asked, dipping the brush in the gloopy product.

Atsumu nodded but the moment she lifted the brush to his hair, he flinched and jerked away. "Yer sure this ain't bleach?"

(Y/n) refrained from rolling her eyes. "Oh shit, you're right. This is actually hair remover. Hang on, lemme just—"

Atsumu's eyes bulged.

Osamu and Suna cackled from the doorway.

"I'm kidding, dumbass."

Finally, and with Atsumu eventual cooperation and trust, (y/n) started applying the toner, brushing it through his roots while trying not to laugh at the look on Atsumu's face. He usually never let his nerves show, so seeing him like this was an interesting experience. Especially over something as minor as a bit of toner.

The application was easy enough. Quite therapeutic, actually. The only thing unpleasant about it was the smell. Too strong, too close to sewage water for her liking.

Also, it wasn't supposed to sting, but Atsumu sure acted like it did.

"It fuckin' reeks," Atsumu gagged. "Is it meant to smell like that? Did ya mix it properly?"

(Y/n) hummed in means of a yes. "Chill, ya big baby. Some hair products just smell like that. It's normal." She dipped her brush into more of the toner. "You should know—you've bleached your hair for years, and that's way worse."

"But it feels weird too—"

She gave Osamu and Suna's reflection a withering look.

"Wait—is my scalp tinglin'? What if I'm allergic?"

(Y/n) paused mid-brush stroke. "You literally bleach your hair every few months. You're fine. Now stop fretting!"

Atsumu gasped, so loudly it made (y/n) almost drop her brush. "I can feel it seepin' into my brain!" he fake cried.

"That's unlikely," Osamu snickered.

Atsumu pointedly ignored his brother.

Meanwhile, Suna swiped open his phone, thumb hovering over the "record" button like he was itching for a disaster. "If it turns out bad, I'm sending pictures to everyone we know."

(Y/n) sighed, fighting the urge to smack all three of them. "Can you clowns hush up for five seconds?"

Atsumu huffed. "Fine. But hurry up. I can't deal with the suspense."

"Fine." Despite herself, (y/n) tried to do so, coating every strand with precision, her hands swiftly weaving through his hair. She was getting the hang of the motions. And Atsumu, for once, was actually sitting still.

"Look at you, actually being patient," (y/n) cooed, pleasantly surprised.

Atsumu smirked, leaning back into her touch. "What can I say? I like the feel of yer hands in my hair."

Osamu physically recoiled.

Suna made a quiet retching noise. "Get a grip."

(Y/n) would've dropped the brush in his lap and told him to do it himself, had it not been for the fact she was pretty much done. His hair was fully coated in toner. She gave him a once over, making sure she hadn't missed any areas. Once satisfied, she took a step back to fully admire her work.

"Done," she announced, feeling proud of herself.

And so, the waiting game began.

Suna leaned back against the counter, the image of calm. "So, worst case scenario, his hair turns purple, right?"

(Y/n) nodded. "Or green."

Atsumu tensed despite their blatant teasing. "Fuck off, guys. That ain't funny."

Osamu shrugged. "Relax. It probably won't happen."

"Don't say 'probably.' Yer freakin' me out!"

Suna snapped a picture of his panicked face and toner-coated hair. "One for the memories."

Atsumu groaned, leaning his head back against (y/n). "Do something," he pleased.

She smoothed her gloved hands through his hair in guise of distributing some of the toner. Atsumu closed his eyes at the touch, looking like a cat being petted.

"Just a bit more waiting, Tsum. And you'll look like a new man."

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Twenty minute later, and the deed was done.

(Y/n) washed out his hair, blow-dried it, styled it, and applied some of her expensive hair oil.

Needless to say, she was ecstatic about the results. They were exactly as she'd hoped, if not better.

Now Atsumu was leaning over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. And for once—he was speechless.

His blonde was still there, but softer, cleaner—less like an overripe banana and more like an expensive shade of gold straight out of a TV commercial.

Slowly, he ran a hand through his brand-new hair, tilting his head to admire it from every angle. He whistled like he was seeing himself for the first time. “Damn, I look good."

Osamu snorted. “Here we go.”

Suna winced. “What have we done…"

Atsumu ignored them both. He obviously couldn't care less. The man was too busy falling in love with himself.

He fluffed his hair. Styled it. Messed it up, then slicked it back. Different angles. Different expressions.

He leaned in closer to the mirror, squinting like he couldn’t believe his own reflection. “Damn. Who’s that fine piece of—”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and reached forward to physically yank him away by the shoulders. “Alright, enough.”

But honestly? She couldn’t really blame him. Even she was surprised by how well it turned out. How such a small change made such a big difference. Osamu looked a little stunned. Suna gave a slow, reluctant nod like it pained him to admit it.

“I hate to say it,” he muttered, “but it’s actually really good.”

“Yeah,” Osamu added with a hum. “It’s definitely an improvement.”

(Y/n) grinned, stepping up to Atsumu, still holding onto a towel with streaks of hair toner on it. She tilted her head, taking in the finished product. The shade was perfect, his skin somehow looked clearer, and yeah—they were right. He looked good. Like, really good.

A strange little urge bubbled up in her chest—probably a mix of pride and mischief. She reached up and pinched his cheeks.

“You look lovely!” she cooed.

She meant it playfully, of course. Mocking, even. But she really did mean it. Atsumu had always been handsome. But now? Even more so. Too handsome, maybe. She had a hard time taking her eyes off him.

Atsumu’s entire expression fell flat.

She giggled, giving his face another playful squeeze. “What? You don’t think so? You look adorbs, ’Tsum ’Tsum.”

He gawked at her, thoroughly betrayed. “‘Aborbs’?! ‘Tsum ’Tsum’?! Are ya kiddin’ me?” He spun around toward his brother like he was looking for backup. “How come he gets normal compliments and I get treated like a toddler? Gimme a redo."

(Y/n) huffed a laugh, still grinning. “Fine.”

She released his cheeks, stepped back, and crossed her arms. For a moment, she pretended to size him up seriously, as if she were seeing him again for the first time.

Then, with the most perfectly smooth smile she could muster, she said simply:

“You look hot, Atsumu.”

She didn't think her words would have that much of an impact, but by the look on his face, they definitely did. She saw the blush creep up his neck in real time, dusting his cheeks pink.

For the second time that day, he was speechless.

(Y/n) fought the urge to laugh and just raised an eyebrow instead, feeling smug. "What? You wanted a redo."

“God, he’s whipped," muttered Suna.

“Kinda embarrassing," echoed Osamu.

Their words seemed to snap Atsumu back to reality. "No, I just didn't expect 'er to be so forward about it," he explained weakly. "S'no big deal. S'whatever—I'm hot, I know."

"Listen to him ramblin'" Osamu teased one last time as he stepped out of the bathroom.

Suna pushed off the wall himself, taking that as his cue to leave as well. “Looking a bit hot under the collar, there.”

Atsumu countered Suna’s smirk with a warning glare—one that lacked any true heat, given his ears were still pink. Just like that, Suna drifted out the bathroom.

The room didn’t feel smaller, per se. But without Osamu and Suna acting as buffers, (y/n) felt a small spike of nerves bubble up in her chest at the prospect of being all alone with Atsumu.

She wondered if he felt the same. That would explain his silence. How he turned back toward the mirror, fiddling with his hair more than necessary. She met his gaze once, and bit back a smile as he promptly looked away.

Perhaps a little more tormenting wouldn’t hurt.

With that thought in mind, (y/n) leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. Atsumu side-eyed her curiously, but said nothing as she slowly cocked her head to one side. “He was right y’know. You did look like you were sweating a bit earlier.”

“Must be the steam,” he muttered. “From the shower.”

If Atsumu was still embarrassed, he didn’t let it show. Gone was his defiant scowl, replaced with a perfectly practiced air of nonchalance—not one meant to convince, clearly. Not when he chose such an obvious lie.

“Mmhm. I bet it was.” She rearranged her expression so that she was looking at him with just enough interest to catch his attention. As expected, his eyes snagged on her display of a flirtatious smile. “Thought you'd be immune to compliments,” she teased, resting her elbow on the sink beside him.

His smirk turned knowing. Echoes of giggling high schoolers and love letters left in lockers flashed in her mind. "What makes ya say that?" His tone was full of mirth.

She levelled him a bored look. “I’ve seen your admirers.”

"Were you one of them?" He asked cheekily.

Look who’s got their swagger back, (y/n) almost said. Instead, she shook her head innocently. "No, I was more team Osamu."

He gaped at her and she threw her head back with a laugh. “Kidding,” she sang. She then felt the need to deflect when his expression turned almost hopeful. “I was team Rinnie.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. "'Course you were."

The deadpan delivery made her laugh harder. He looked like he was trying to stay unimpressed, but she caught the tiniest twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Her eyes flicked back to his hair.

“Seriously though,” she started, her voice light with merriment, “it really does suit you.”

He gave a casual shrug, but his smirk was too suggestive. “So I’ve been told.”

(Y/n) shook her head fondly with a huff, brushing past him to start tidying up. As she passed, she reached up and gave his hair a quick ruffle. “You’re welcome,” she chirped.

He tutted, already fixing it in the mirror. “Oi. Watch the new do.”

They moved around the bathroom in sync, falling into the easy rhythm of cleaning up. Bottles were capped, towels tossed into a worn laundry basket, surfaces cleaned. And despite all the drama, things turned mundane again.

Atsumu’s hair transformation day was a great success.

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lidiasloca · 6 months ago

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hello!! I was wondering if you could write an azriel x reader fic where they've been best friends for centuries and one day the bond snapped for her. And she starts to avoid him because she thinks he doesn't love her so she doesn't show up to things they usually do together and whatnot (or however you want to put it!) but meanwhile Azriel is going crazy because he misses her and has been in love with her for years and then he confronts her and the bond snaps for him as well!! sorry if it's too long hahah but thanks

is it chill that you are in my head?

azriel x reader

friends to lovers

It was curious to think that no matter the strength you applied, no hit you made would ever hurt Azriel.

Yet, the Illyrian seemed intensely determined not to let you get to even touch him.

“Where’s your mind?” he asked as he dodged yet another hit. You took, at least, a bit of pride in his breathless voice.

You also took pride in how much you had made him sweat already, but you didn’t let your thoughts linger there too much—your eyes, neither.

“In trying to hit you.”

“Well, isn’t it frustrating you won’t satisfy your mind?”

“You get cocky—I’ll hit you down there,” you threatened, taking in his amused grin.

“There you can get?” he questioned as he circled you.

You held your fists up, following his eyes as he eyed you like a vulture. “You don’t want to find out.”

“I don’t,” he replied, just as you went to hit him.

He dodged it effortlessly.

And even had time, as you retracted your arm, to take it and pull you toward him, unbalancing you until you fell onto his torso.

As he prevented you from the fall he himself had caused, you found yourself close enough to his body to make out the intention written on his face.

A threat for a threat, you realized as you stared at those deep hazel eyes.

His face lacked any sympathy as he spoke, his voice death and sensuality all in the same honeyed spoon. “Don’t make threats you cannot back up, love.”

Your breath caught at the darkness that surrounded you. The darkness that you faced when you had his lips so close to yours, his eyes so focused on you.

Azriel was that: darkness. Both the dark that scared you as a child and the dark that now let you dream of him without guilt in the depths of the night.

“You’re right. No more threats,” you breathed as you drove your knee upward—

His hand was steel against the futile force of your movement. And a mocking grin on his lips was all you could think about due to the roaring in your ears.

Bastard.

The knee you were going to use to teach him a lesson was held in place with his right hand, which now moved down, and down until it found a place on the back of your thigh. He urged you nearer him.

Close enough. Until your surroundings vanished and you could only see his face, his never-faltering smirk when you made it so easy for him to mock you.

This was the Azriel you had only for yourself.

Not polite shyness, or quiet kindness.

But darkness.

All of it—all of him. Darkness.

Everything, but his eyes.

While you liked to have this flirtatious, dangerous Azriel—which you both called friendship—you still found yourself fantasizing about the light in his eyes and how soft they were, how romantic and intimate, and everything that he shouldn’t feel like.

Where all of him was dark, his eyes were golden.

Lightness.

Like a thread that led you through deeper parts of him, of his soul.

Too intimate.

You let out a long exhale. “I’m not in the mood,” you mumbled.

And it broke your heart the way he immediately released you. How gently he let go of you as a flash of… pain painted his eyes.

Then it was gone in a blink. And that smirk found its way to his face again. “I make you exhausted quite fast.”

“Mhmm,” was all you could mutter as you watched him—those eyes.

That thread.

What was that?

He held your stare with a bit of confused amusement. “What do you find so interesting?” he smiled.

You took all your bravery… and a step, and another, until you were back where you started: looking deep into his eyes, close enough to feel his breath on your face.

He didn’t dodge this time. And neither did he smirk as you placed both of your hands on his face to make him meet your eyes.

Those golden eyes.

There was something in them.

That lightness that guided you through the darkness—his darkness.

As a thread.

A gasp broke through you at the realization, at the feeling in your heart—your soul.

You took a step back, your hands sliding away from his face as gently as a wind’s whisper.

He eyed you worriedly, taking a step toward you as you kept walking away.

“What?” he asked, finally that mask off his face.

But you couldn’t bear the sight of his eyes again. The feel of that thread.

M-

“What is it?” he asked, desperation lacing his words.

Ma…

“Y/N?” he pleaded.

Mate.

You winnowed away before he could pronounce another word.

…

You knew hiding was not the solution. You knew you would have to face him eventually—he was one of your closest friends after all, yet…

“I cannot do it. I cannot see him.”

Another of your closest friends was there to make you think logically.

“Y/N,” Nesta said, taking a seat on the couch in your bedroom. “You’ve been hiding here for almost a month. You can’t hide from him forever. He’s your—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, despite how stupidly childish it made you sound.

Nesta exhaled as if indeed, you were acting stupidly childish. “Mate? You cannot hear the word mate?”

There was a tinge of mocking in her tone that made you meet her eyes with fury in yours. “It’s very easy to look at me and judge me when you don’t know what this feels like.”

“What? Having an Illyrian as my mate?” she asked with a soft smile on her lips, and you knew your friend well—you knew it wasn’t mocking anymore.

Nesta, as if to prove you right, walked toward where you sat on the bed and made herself a place next to you, moving her hand to caress yours like a mother would.

She didn’t say anything, though, so you replied, emotion running your words slowly—unsteady. “You don’t know what it’s like to know your mate… doesn’t want you back.”

“You don’t know if Azriel doesn’t want you back.”

“Yes, I do. I know Azriel.”

“Well, I know him as well. And I know—actually—all the house, and probably all Velaris, knows he likes you. A lot.”

You shook your head.

Nesta went on, “He flirts with you all the time, Y/N. In all honesty, it was about damned time that bond snapped for one of you. It was clear you had something.”

“Exactly: something,” you rectified. “That something, Nesta, is flirting. Flir-ting. Nothing more, nothing else. That’s all he wants from me. Taunting and touching and provoking and friendship. But not love. And most certainly, not a damn mating bond.” You took a staggered breath, not able to meet her eyes anymore. “Not with me.”

Nesta watched you silently, then said, “You don’t know that.”

You shook your head, wiping a tear that slid down your face. “You don’t know either.”

“That’s true,” she replied, handing you a tissue with her free hand as the other drew circles on your wrist. “We won’t know until you ask him.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “So, I just ask him if he wants the mating bond with me? That simple? Thanks, Nesta.”

Her eyes narrowed at you in warning to watch your tone, yet her faint smirk provoked one to bloom on your face. “Yes. It’s that simple.”

“And when he says no?”

She shook her head. “What if he says no,” she corrected you.

Your smile grew just a bit. “What if he says no?” you echoed.

“Then I’ll beat his ass on the training ground. And have Cassian beat him afterward.”

You chuckled lightly, imagining the scene.

But the question appeared in your mind, and you took the courage to ask her.

“And what if he says yes?”

By the warm look in her eyes, you knew she had understood. “It’s a long way to go. But one finally learns to let herself be loved, Y/N.”

And by one, you knew who she meant.

You were grateful that afterward, Nesta and you had a more lighthearted conversation. And when it turned dark outside, Nesta gave you a hug and left your bedroom.

You knew you had to also leave your bedroom at some point and face what awaited outside that comfort.

But love seemed to find you just where you thought you were safe.

“Can I come in?”

It certainly wasn’t Nesta’s voice.

Your hand trembled as you went for the knob and opened the door.

“Can I come in?” Azriel repeated, and you realized long seconds had passed of just you staring, unmoving.

“Yes,” you whispered, letting him through and closing the door.

You had prayed he stayed like that—backward to you, staring outside your window. Anything but have his eyes meet yours.

But he turned to you.

He was even more beautiful than ever, even if you couldn’t help but notice the dark circles around his eyes, his pale lips, or his eyes… almost lifeless.

Like the light had deserted him.

Like the bond had abandoned him… because he didn’t want it.

“It’s been weeks,” he eventually said, and his voice carried enough emotion you had to lean on the door, afraid to crumble to the ground. “I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.”

He took a step closer to you, making you meet his eyes again. “With what?” he demanded.

You weren’t fast enough to make up a lie before he said, “You’ve been avoiding me.” It wasn’t quite a question. “You are mad at me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he muttered, taking another step.

“I’m not, Azriel.”

He stopped his following step at the sound of his name. He looked like he had been slapped, and his face morphed into something unreadable.

“I’m sorry," he murmured.

“What?” you asked, walking towards him when he looked down.

You had to see his face, you had to understand him.

“Whatever I have done. I’m sorry. Forgive me and… be my friend again.”

You stopped in your tracks, not having quite reached him. Friends.

His words both broke and healed your heart. The desperation in them, the vulnerability.

You stared at the selfless male who cherished your friendship in front of you. Maybe you could take that and give up dreaming. Maybe you could convince yourself that friendship was better than nothing, even if it killed you.

“I miss you,” he said, and you decided that was the final blow.

A sob broke through you, raw and desperate, and his expression shifted instantly. He closed the distanced and his hands found your face, those scarred palms trembling as they cupped your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “Don’t cry, please. I’m sorry.”

Friends.

Mates.

“What are you even sorry for?” you mumbled, shaking your head faintly.

“The last time I saw you - when you got… mad at me, we were doing what we always do. Well, what I always do. That stupid flirting, that… you know. And I know that bothered you. And I’m sorry. I never knew it made you uncomfortable before and… I’m sorry,” he said again.

You quietly stared at him, at the sadness and guilt in his eyes. “It’s not that it bothers me...” you said because it never had, but maybe now—maybe now it hurt your feelings - but that was because of you. It was not his fault.

Yet you couldn’t speak your thoughts before he went on. “It does. I saw it in your eyes… like you were disgusted.” His voice cracked. “And it broke my heart, because… I don’t want it either.”

There it was.

The truth you’d been bracing yourself for.

Friends.

That’s all he wanted you to be—a friend.

He took a deep breath, his hands falling away from your face as he stepped back, as if retreating from his own vulnerability. “It’s all a lie, Y/N.”

Your breath hitched.

“I thought that’s what you wanted—the only thing you wanted from me—and I tried to convince myself that I could settle with that. That it would be enough. But…” His gaze locked on yours, piercing and raw. “I can’t.”

“What?” you breathed, your voice barely audible.

“I love you, Y/N.”

The world stopped turning.

“I love you,” he repeated. “And I don’t want to keep pretending I’m okay with only being your friend. I don’t want to keep pretending. I just… I just want you to know that I’ve loved you for so long, I can’t remember what life was before you.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think.

Mate.

“You love me?” you whispered.

He nodded as a tear ran down his face.

Another sob tore from you and his hands were on your face again in an instant, pulling you close. “I love you, too,” you murmured, the words spilling out.

And at last, the color returned to his eyes again, hazel-golden shining in the dark room.

And that was it; the light that you needed, the strength that guided you—that encouraged you to tell him.

“I am… I am your mate.”

A beat later you realized you weren’t the one who had spoken.

-Charcaters by Sarah J Maas

azriel masterlist

a/n: thanks for requesting, i hope the fic is of your liking, though i took some liberties in the writing. thanks for your request, love!!

#azriel x reader #azriel angst #azriel #azriel x female!reader #azriel x you #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x y/n #acotar fic #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #az imagine #azriel imagine #azriel fluff #azriel spymaster

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lemon-russ · 10 months ago

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-proudly holds up half baked, self-indulgent vulture marines like simba-

You gotta make your own chapter, it's so fun, even if no one but you and like 2 people care about them! You got lil guys! You can build their lil world! If you have time and money you can make a working tabletop army for them! Then force other people to see them when you fight them!

Am I delulu for making my own 40k faction? Like they're their own xeno race, have their own cultures, have their own ethic groups, have their own religion and their own overcomplicated lore. I genuinely feel so embarrassed for creating a literal faction in my own head 😭 idk

my dude GW created blank spots in the lore FOR homebrew factions/chapters. The 2 missing primarchs? So people can make homebrew space marines either chaos or loyal. The Astartes short is a made up IF successor chapter.

There's plenty of other examples I'm sure those are just the two I remember. But GW has purposely keep things vague because half the market for buying their minis is people who want to make their own OCs and factions. So don't feel embarrassed lol, you're doing exactly what you should be

#vultures homebrew chapter #it heals the soul #mine are ugly balding men :DD #they love bones and dirt!#and no one can be mean about them because theyre my lil babygirl nightmares ✨️#beloved mutuals

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furioussheepluminary · 2 months ago

Text

𝐈𝐧 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐞

Pairing: manager!jisung x intern!afab!reader, enemies to lovers, law firm, the slow burn

synopsis: in mind and law. You tackle the new momentum of your job, something you've mentally and physically prepared for. But emotionally? It's not what you had in mind

warnings: suggestive, angst, law, lots of law, jisung is sarcastic, tension, mention of Changbin, plot, one Korean word (translations), time skips

a/n: 16k+ words, fellas. if you dare to have extra eyes for errors no you motherfucking dont. I loved this a lot.

You were born on the wrong side of the skyline. A place where ambition was considered arrogance, and dreams were just things people couldn’t afford. Your father was a mechanic—soft-spoken, hands always coated in grease, and eyes full of pride when you read under the streetlamp because the power went out again. Your mother, a former literature teacher turned night shift waitress, fed you stories instead of lullabies. They taught you that intellect was armor. That silence wasn’t submission, but strategy. That being underestimated was a weapon.

You weren’t the loudest girl in school—but you were dangerous on paper. Top of every class. Knew how to smile at teachers just enough to get what you needed, but never too much to owe them anything. You worked part-time at a bookstore just to read for free. When other kids were partying, you were drafting essays for scholarship competitions at 2AM with shaking hands and coffee-stained sleeves. You didn’t get into university by luck. You got in because you bled for it.

It was Riversley Law University, one of the most prestigious and soul-crushing programs in the country. Everyone whispered about the competition. The gatekeeping. The legacy students who’d never even touched a student loan form. You applied anyway. With one glowing recommendation from a retired judge, you’d once tutored on legal tech for free. With an application essay so raw it made the admissions board cry. With test scores so perfect they thought they were fake until you walked into the interview and quoted obscure 14th-century civil codes like they were bedtime stories.

You got in. Full ride. No one knew how. They thought you were connected. Rich. Sponsored.

You let them think what they wanted.

The top firms came recruiting like vultures during your final year. But Daejin & Grey? They didn’t do job fairs. They didn’t post openings. They hand-picked. And one day, a letter arrived. Real envelope. Black wax seal. No email. No call.

“You’re invited to an exclusive selection round. No details will be repeated. Bring your brain, your backbone, and black ink.”

Turns out, you were one of six students in the entire nation selected to compete for one internship spot. The selection process was insane—contracts in languages you barely knew, impossible moral dilemmas, interrogation-style interviews. People dropped out. Cried. Snapped. You didn’t. You passed. And you became the girl no one saw coming. The intern with fire in her veins and no family name behind her just you. Alone. Hungry. Unshakable.

Jisung was born into brilliance… and burden.

His mother was a top criminal defense lawyer known as “The Viper” in the courtroom—sharp heels, sharper tongue. His father, an occult historian and philosopher who lectured on forbidden languages and secret societies. He grew up in a glass penthouse where success was oxygen and weakness were punishable by silence. Jisung was 17 when Daejin & Grey found him. He had just won an underground student legal warfare competition (an invite-only thing where prodigies go to destroy each other’s arguments in mock trials that felt more like mind combat). He didn’t even enter; someone forged his application. He just showed up… and obliterated future politicians, heirs, and scholars. A week later, a man in an obsidian coat approached his mother during one of her high-profile court cases. Whispered something in her ear. She signed a contract on the back of a napkin. Jisung was summoned. They didn’t interview him. They tested him. Gave him an unsolvable case and watched him create a loophole in 24 hours.

They mentored him in secret. Fed him real cases under the table. Made him sign a blood clause at 19. By 24, he was the youngest partner in the firm’s history. He was the youngest to ever win a national law debate. A certified genius with a smirk that could convince CEOs to sign away their souls and maybe they did. People admired him. Feared him. Worshipped him. But they didn’t know him.

Because Jisung? Jisung was never taught love. He was taught leverage.

Daejin & Grey Law Firm wasn’t founded. It was forged out of war, silence, and unspeakable deals.

The firm traces back over 80 years, born during the post-war reconstruction era. Two men, Ha Daejin—a radical, silver-tongued lawyer who defended war criminals—and Theodore Grey, a disgraced British solicitor exiled for running a covert empire of offshore finance and blackmail, met in Seoul under unusual circumstances. Both were brilliant, both had nothing left to lose, and both were addicted to power. Together, they built Daejin & Grey as more than a firm. It became a sanctuary for those too cunning for politics, too dangerous for the courts, too ambitious for morality. It handles clients that other firms fear from criminal syndicates, foreign diplomats, to weaponized corporations. It's not just law, it’s chess. And they always win.

Rumor has it: The firm has a vault with contracts that could collapse governments. There's a floor you can only access if your name is etched in obsidian. No one leaves Daejin & Grey. You’re either promoted… or erased.

---

You stood in the towering glass lobby of Daejin & Grey, your heels echoing on the polished marble like tiny declarations of war. The receptionist didn’t even look up. Her access badge was silver. Everyone else’s was black. You felt the heat of judgment from passing associates, the subtle way people scanned your thrifted yet sharply styled outfit. You knew you didn’t look like money. But your mind? That was priceless.

An older woman with tightly coiled hair and stilettos sharp enough to stab came striding toward you.

“Intern. Y/N. You’re late,” she said. You weren’t.

“Follow. No questions.”

You moved through what felt like a museum of silence and danger—glass-walled rooms, people whispering in three languages, floors that required fingerprint scans. And then the library.

My God, the library.

Blackwood shelves. Ancient tomes. One door labeled RESTRICTED: Contractual Souls Only.

You swallowed. This wasn’t law school anymore. This was the underworld in heels.

Han Jisung entered from the rooftop.

The chopper dropped him five minutes behind schedule, and he hated being late—especially today, when a new batch of interns were supposed to arrive. He hated interns. Eager. Sweaty. Trying to impress him with quotes from Nietzsche.

He adjusted his ring, black obsidian with a serpent curling up his middle finger and rolled his neck before descending. His assistant, Jinhee, tried to brief him. He waved her off.

“Did they assign me one of the interns?”

“Not officially, but the chairman requested one observe your methods—”

“No.”

“But sir—”

“I said no.”

He walked into his office. 47th floor. The air smelled like power and espresso. His desk was cluttered with folders, red-stamped files, and one curious black envelope marked:

“Observe her. She doesn’t belong—but she might change everything.”

He frowned. Tossed it aside. He didn’t believe in fate.

---

Jisung and Y/N walked the same hall that morning. Opposite directions. Didn’t notice each other—yet. Y/N was being led through the Hall of Legal Legends, where portraits of past partners hung like silent judges. She paused in front of one particularly cold-looking man.

“That’s Ha Daejin,” the tour guide said. “He once freed a serial killer because he didn’t believe in prison. Said the law should be feared, not followed.” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a villain.” The guide smirked. “You’ll hear more of that.”

Meanwhile, Jisung turned a corner, passed a group of interns. Didn’t look at them—except for a second. One girl. Silver badge. Holding a leather-bound notebook like it was a weapon. Unfazed by the architecture. Sharp eyes. He paused for half a second. Blinked. Then walked on.

She felt it. That glance. That storm. They didn’t know each other yet.

---

The conference room at Daejin & Grey was less a meeting space and more a statement. A massive oval table of obsidian-black glass stretched across the room like the eye of some mythic beast. The lighting was deliberately dim—soft golden strips along the ceiling—making everyone’s expressions unreadable, dangerous. It smelled of polished leather, old money, and cold ambition. Interns filed in one by one silent, shoulders squared, eyes darting. You were among them, notebook pressed to your side, trying not to flinch at the weight of legacy pressing on you. All of you were being watched. Every step, every breath, being measured.

You took a seat at the far end, instinctively positioning yourself with your back to the wall. Never the center. Always the observer. The doors opened again and this time, the room actually paused.

In came Mr. Grey.

No one knows his first name. Not really. Just Grey. He walked with a cane not because he needed to, but because he liked the sound of it on marble. A silver three-piece suit, perfectly tailored, skin pale like stone, and a face so unreadable it could’ve been carved.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Sharks in training,” he said, his voice laced with silk and venom. “Welcome to Daejin & Grey.”

“You are not here to learn. You’re here to prove you can survive. We will not teach you to be great. We will simply see if you already are. If you are not—” he gestured lazily toward the wide floor-to-ceiling windows, “—there is the door, and down there is your future. Bleak. Insignificant.”

Someone gulped. You did not. “From now on,” Grey continued, “you do not breathe without purpose. You do not blink without calculation. And if you ever speak in this room without reason…”

He smiled. Sharp and slow. “I will end your career before it begins.” He stepped back. “Now, allow me to introduce one of our youngest and most... unorthodox partners.”

The doors slammed open again.

Han Jisung strode in with the kind of lazy confidence that screamed I own this room. No tie. Shirt collar undone just enough. A black ring catching the dim light. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just walked out of a midnight negotiation and won. He didn’t look at anyone. He just leaned against the edge of the table, one hand in his pocket.

“Interns,” he said. His voice was casual, disinterested. “Congrats on making it this far. I assume most of you will disappoint me.” Some people chuckled nervously.

He scanned the room—quick sweep. And then, their eyes met.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

It wasn’t recognition. It wasn’t fate. It was challenge. His gaze said, Don’t try me.

Yours said, I already am.

Something shifted. Jisung turned back to Grey. “Can I go?”

Grey raised an amused brow. “You just got here.” Jisung shrugged, pushing off the table. “I’ve seen enough.” But he paused by the door. Tilted his head. Glanced over his shoulder not at the group. Just at her.

One second.

Two.

Then he left.

And you? You smelled the war before it began.

After Jisung made his dramatic exit, Mr. Grey waved a gloved hand, summoning the woman standing beside the projection screen. That was Ms. Park, the Head of Public Relations a woman whose smile was sharper than her Louboutins.

She took the lead. “Here at Daejin & Grey,” she began, “we operate on six principles. Discipline. Foresight. Loyalty. Discretion. Precision. And finally—ruthlessness.”

A nervous laugh rippled across the room. She didn’t smile. “That wasn’t a joke.”

The next forty-five minutes were a blur of corporate philosophies and non-negotiable ethics. Every new intern had to memorize the internal PR structure, the crisis protocols, and the company’s “zero tolerance” policy for emotional decisions. Everything had a script. Even your heartbeat.

You took notes like your life depended on it. Because it did. But the more the PowerPoint clicked forward, the more you felt the weight of your blouse clinging to her skin not from nerves, but from expectation. From the knowing glance Grey had shot her earlier. He knew.

The interns were finally dismissed for a break, filing out toward the executive café like a herd of wolves pretending to be sheep. The space was insane, sleek glass, gold accents, and meals plated like art. Even the salad looked like it had a stock portfolio.

You picked at a caprese toast, more out of habit than hunger.

Jisung wasn’t there. Of course not. He probably had his meals flown in, signed with blood, and served with jazz. You sipped your drink, but your mind wandered. Back to that look. The unreadable glance between you and Jisung. Like a challenge had been accepted without a single word exchanged.

Just as you were returning your tray, a shadow passed over you.

“Miss Y/L/N.”

That voice. Smooth as obsidian. You turned. Mr. Grey. He didn’t beckon. He just turned, and you followed. You stepped into a smaller conference lounge less intimidating, more personal. Warm-toned wood, a velvet chaise. Only the elite got invited here, you were sure of it.

Grey didn’t sit. He stood by the window, cane in hand, observing the city skyline.

“Well?” he said without turning. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated. “I… I think I’m scared. But I’m also excited.”

He glanced at you now. Just slightly. “Good. Fear without eagerness is cowardice. Eagerness without fear is arrogance. We don’t need either.”

You nodded slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.” Grey turned to face you fully now. His expression softened—barely—but it was there. A flicker. Almost paternal. “I know where you came from,” he said.

You froze. He continued, “Not everyone here was raised on champagne and legacy. Some of us crawled into this place with blood on our hands and fire in our eyes. You belong here, Y/N. But you’ll need armor.”

“I’ll build it,” you whispered, voice steady.

Grey nodded, satisfied. But then he tilted his head, curious. “You looked at Han Jisung today.” A pause. You raised a brow, unashamed. “He looked first.” That earned the ghost of a chuckle.

“You want to know about him?” Grey asked.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Grey tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Han Jisung is a prodigy. Recruited after flipping the legal department of a rival firm upside down as a client. Took the bar just to prove he could. Now he leads special projects and high-risk negotiations. Untouchable. Brilliant. Reckless.”

You absorbed the information like wine. Grey’s tone turned sharp again. “He does not play well with others. And he doesn’t train interns.”

You met his gaze. “Noted.” Grey smirked. “Good girl.”

---

The door clicked shut behind you.

Your apartment was quiet. Small, but personal. Walls filled with original sketches, abstract prints, pinned timelines, articles with handwritten notes in the margins. A vision board sat in the corner with the word “Grey-level” in capital gold foil across the top. You kicked off your heels and unpinned your hair, letting the curls fall as you moved like clockwork—smooth, efficient, methodical. Laptop open. Lights dimmed. Jazz humming low in the background.

Search: Han Jisung | Daejin & Grey

The results? Not much. Of course not. Grey’s people erased footprints before they were even made. But you was raised to dig deeper than the surface. And you did.

You found mentions of his name in trade journals, coded phrases like “unexpected turnaround,” “miracle negotiation,” and “the golden ghost.” Not a single photo. But a whisper here, a quote there.

Then, an old university blog.

“The Boy Who Sued a Corporation and Won.”

You clicked. A grainy screenshot showed a boy with a snapback on backwards, standing outside a courthouse. Young. Angry. Smirking like he knew too much for someone his age.

Summary:

Age 19. Filed a class action suit against a powerful music label for contract exploitation. Represented himself in preliminary hearings. Won the case and took a settlement. Disappeared from public eye for three years. Resurfaced… at Daejin & Grey.

You sat back, the gears in your mind turning. “So he’s that type,” you murmured.

Anger-driven. Genius-fed. Doesn't like to lose. Hides behind sarcasm because it's safer than vulnerability. You bookmarked the article. Then looked out the window at the glowing city. A little smile curved on your lips.

“This’ll be fun.”

And with that, you shut your laptop and poured yourself a glass of red a silent toast to a storm you knew was coming.

---

The routine had set in fast.

Early mornings. Sharp tailoring. Neutral tones and cool metal accents. You walked the marble floors like you’d owned them in another life, heels tapping like a metronome against the low murmurs of ambition. Daejin & Grey was a world built on precision and aesthetics—every glass panel, every steel fixture, every whisper of silk or leather had its place. You adapted like water in a crystal decanter.

You learned fast, spoke clearly, and listened sharper. You made yourself invaluable to your department, your reports were always early, always clean, always with that extra insight that made supervisors raise their brows and take notes. You didn’t speak unnecessarily in meetings, but when you did, the room always turned.

But Jisung?

Ghosted in and out. Rarely at your floor. Always with his tie loose, mouth set in a line of amusement or disapproval, never in between.

You caught glimpses. Like shadows in polished windows. And every single time your eyes met; it was electric. Subtle, but raw. Sometimes it was across the coffee machine, him leaning against the wall with a smirk as you stirred your drink without sugar. Sometimes in passing through the 8th floor where the high-stakes clients had rooms like hotel lobbies and meetings that reeked of old money and moral grey zones. And sometimes, just a glance across the conference table, where he sat sideways, his leg crossed, chewing the tip of a pen like he knew you were looking.

And she always was.

The blinds were half-drawn, letting in only slanted light that painted the dark wood floor in broken stripes. Mr. Grey sat behind his massive obsidian desk, signature cup of jet-black coffee steaming near his right hand, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed a tablet. His navy tie was undone, a telltale sign he’d been in meetings since dawn. Jisung stood by the window, posture casual, arms crossed, dressed in a soft black turtleneck and slacks that looked far too expensive for how uninterested he seemed. His hair was slightly tousled—he’d run his hand through it a few too many times. Typical.

“I told you, Grey. I don’t like babysitting,” he said, eyes fixed on the skyline. “There’s enough on my plate. Lee’s merger alone is—”

“This isn’t babysitting.” Grey didn’t even look up. “It’s exposure. Real-world pressure. She needs to be in the field, and you…” He finally glanced up, eyes sharp. “You need to get out of that damn ivory tower you’ve built around yourself.”

Jisung scoffed. “Nice motivational speech. You should sell it with the company’s scented candle line.”

“I’m serious, Han.” Grey slid a file folder across the desk. “Y/N. She’s sharp. Observant. A little quiet. Good instincts, but not molded yet. Reminds me of someone else I hired years ago.”

“Oh, please don’t say—”

“You,” Grey cut him off dryly.

Jisung rolled his eyes and walked over, taking the file with reluctance. He cracked it open, the name Y/N typed neatly on the top corner. There was a small square photo paperclipped to the first page. His eyes flicked over it briefly. She looked poised. Quietly powerful. The kind of face that looked like it’d seen a lot, but wouldn’t tell you unless you earned it.

He didn’t say anything.

“You’ll meet her at the conference,” Grey added, sipping his coffee. “I told her she’d be perfect for this. Don’t make me a liar.”

Jisung closed the folder with a snap and ran a hand through his hair. “What time?”

“Eleven. Don’t be late.”

“I’m always late.”

“I’ll dock your paycheck.”

“Charming,” he muttered, tucking the folder under his arm. “She better be worth the hassle.”

“She is,” Grey said, finality in his tone. “And maybe… just maybe, she’s the type to make you think again, Jisung.” Han Jisung didn’t answer. He just walked out, file in hand, wondering why the hell this girl was already starting to live in the back of his mind.

It was a Thursday.

You remembered because you wore the wide-legged gray slacks you saved for “power move” days. A quarterly strategy conference was underway, where junior analysts, interns, and mid-level associates were gathered to observe the department leads speak on major upcoming cases. Mr. Grey sat at the head of the room, calm, in control, sleek in that navy suit with no tie.

Then came the part no one expected: live assignments.

“Some of you will be handling case shadows,” Grey said, clasping his hands. “And some of you will be leading minor client packages. Let’s make things interesting.”

Papers were passed.

Your folder landed with a soft thunk. You opened it. A name. A file. A logo. A red tab labeled

Priority Confidential.

Below it:

Supervisor – Han Jisung

Your blood stilled. Just as you looked up, you saw him lean on the doorframe at the back of the room, arms crossed, sleeves rolled, silver watch catching the light. He tilted his head slightly as your eyes met, mouth tugging in that slow, you ready for this? smirk.

“Y/N,” Mr. Grey called from the head of the table. “You’ll be reporting directly to Jisung. He’ll catch you up on the brief by end of day. Congratulations.” You swallowed, spine straight. “Understood, sir.” Jisung gave you a two-finger salute. The room kept moving.

But you? You were already calculating. Preparing. Bracing for impact. Because something told you this assignment was going to be everything you wanted… and everything you weren’t ready for.

You stood outside the glass wall of Jisung’s office, heels clicking softly against the polished concrete floor. Your reflection blinked back at you, sharp, composed, lips pressed into a line so thin it could cut glass. The folder in your hand had bite marks on the corner where you’d chewed it while overthinking. Not that you’d ever admit it.

You exhaled once. Twice. Then knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice was casual, distracted. You entered.

Jisung was leaning back in his chair, black sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pen lazily twirling between his fingers. His office smelled like cedar and fresh ink, the lighting warm but sterile like someone had tried to make it welcoming but gave up halfway through. Like him, maybe.

His eyes flicked up briefly. Then back down to the paper on his desk. “Y/N, right?”

“Yes.” You shut the door softly behind her. “You’re my supervisor on the K-Tech acquisition case.”

“Mmh,” Jisung hummed, still reading. “That’s what Grey says.” You didn’t sit until he gestured vaguely toward the chair in front of him barely looking up. His posture was everything you’d expect from someone with way too much power and too little patience: cocky, distant, infuriatingly relaxed.

You hated it.

“I’ve already gone through the case summary,” you said, placing the folder neatly on his desk. “I’ve highlighted the inconsistencies in the subsidiary’s financials. There’s—”

“—a shell company in Taipei laundering R&D funds,” he finished without missing a beat, still not looking at you. “Yeah. Noted that three weeks ago.”

You paused. Tilted your head. “Then why is it still unresolved?” That made him look up.

Slowly. Like a cat flicking its tail, unbothered but aware. His gaze was sharp, dark, and laced with something unreadable. Maybe amusement. Maybe boredom. Maybe both.

“Grey told me to loop you in,” he said, leaning back, fingers steepled. “Not give you the steering wheel.”

“I’m not here to steer,” you shot back, tone cool. “I’m here to work. But if you’d rather I sit in the corner and watch you twirl pens, I can pencil that in too.” There was a beat of silence.

Then,

“Cute,” Jisung said, a slow smirk curling at his lips. “You’ve got teeth.” You sat back in her chair, arms crossing. “And you’ve got ego. Big one. I’m surprised it fits in here with all the air you take up.” He actually laughed. A quiet, surprised sound, like you’d caught him off-guard and he didn’t hate it.

“Most interns are too scared to say half that.”

“I’m not most interns,” she said simply.

His gaze lingered. Too long.

You didn’t flinch. Didn't blink. You was dangerous, he realized. Not in the way of lawsuits or incompetence—but in the way your eyes cut right through his performance, the way your presence didn’t flinch under pressure. He’d seen plenty of people fold under his disinterest. But not you.

And the thing was, he liked it. God, he liked it way too much.

“Fine,” he said, voice dropping a note lower. “Let’s get this straight. You bring me something smart, I’ll listen. You waste my time; I’ll make you regret it.”

Your lips twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “You won’t scare me off, Han.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Good. Wouldn’t be fun if I did.” The room felt smaller. Warmer. Something thick and charged buzzed in the silence between you. Then he grabbed your folder and opened it, eyes scanning fast. You watched him, arms still folded, legs crossed, a flicker of fire in her gaze.

“I need full employee logs for the Taipei branch,” Jisung said, tapping his pen against the folder. “Also, see if you can get internal memos from the last quarter. Anything involving the budget committee.”

“Got it,” You replied, standing smoothly.

You reached for the folder, fingers brushing the edge of his desk like it owed you something. Confident. Effortless. And just as she turned on her heel to leave—

—he looked.

He hadn’t meant to. Not really. It just—happened.

The way your skirt hugged your hips, the subtle sway as you walked like every step was calculated, fluid, commanding the air around her. Jisung blinked, his jaw clenching a little too tightly.

Fuck.

He looked away fast. Sat back. Ran a hand down his face like it’d erase the ten seconds of weakness he just experienced.

“She’s your intern, man,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head, already annoyed with himself. “Get a grip.” But the image lingered. Along with the snarky little grin you gave him earlier the fire in your voice, the nerve.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to argue with you or—

Nope.

He shut the thought down. Immediately. He grabbed a random paper off his desk and stared at it like it was the holy gospel.

It wasn’t. It was a receipt for pens. Still, anything to distract himself. Because damn it, you were going to be a problem. And a hot one at that.

---

You leaned your head against the window, the cool glass pressing gently into your temple as your car hummed along the road, lights of the city beginning to dim behind you. Your phone was plugged into the AUX, and the low, rhythmic voice of RM filled the car like an ocean tide.

His voice always settled her nerves. Heavy thoughts dissolved into gentle weightlessness as you watched neighborhoods blur past concrete melting into trees, the air growing less polluted, the traffic thinning. Your week had already been a blur: Daejin’s pressure cooker energy, the barbed words exchanged with Jisung, the way he looked at you today like you were both a problem and a puzzle—

And still, he stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to fight you or fold.

You scoffed softly to yourself and turned up the volume. You weren’t going to think about him right now. Not when your heart softened the closer you got to home.

The car crunched against the gravel driveway, your headlights sweeping over the familiar brick front and small white porch your dad had painted a decade ago. The house stood modest, cozy—just big enough to hold love and struggle in equal measure. You stepped out, heels in hand, dress blazer folded over your arm. The night air smelled like coming rain and hibiscus soap, your mom’s favorite. You climbed the steps two at a time and opened the door.

Inside, your father was seated by the small living room window, a blanket over his lap, the TV on low. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself and peeling fruit, and Mr. Tae—her parents’ long-time caregiver—stood nearby folding laundry.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mr. Tae greeted first, smiling warmly as he turned around.

“Hi,” you whispered, setting your bag down. Your voice dropped into something gentle, reverent. “How’ve they been today?”

“Good. Your mom’s been on her feet most of the day—she’s stubborn as always. Your dad’s been quieter. Tired. But good.” You smiled softly and nodded. You walked over to your dad first, knelt beside him, and gently placed a kiss on his cheek. He didn’t say much—just smiled at you with kind, weary eyes and touched your hair the way he used to when she was little.

Your mom came over next, wrapping you in a warm hug that still somehow smelled like love and cornbread.

“How’s the new job?” her mom asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. You gave a half-laugh. “Complicated. Intense. Full of egos and deadlines. But I’m hanging in.”

“You always do,” your mom replied, patting your hand. “You’re our miracle, remember?” You sat with them for a while. Ate some fruit. Let yourself be their daughter instead of a rising corporate intern or legal assistant. Let yourself exhale.

Because when you walked back into Daejin the next morning…you’d need that fire again.

---

The door clicked shut behind him.

Jisung leaned against it for a moment, keys still in his hand, the silence of the apartment washing over him like warm static. No city horns here. No coworkers. No Grey. No you. He exhaled slowly, dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes with mechanical grace. The space was minimal, sleek—clean lines and dark accents. Black couch, polished concrete floor, deep green plants that he tried not to forget to water.

It looked like someone with taste lived here. It felt like a hotel room someone never fully unpacked in. He peeled off his blazer, draped it over the bar stool, and walked straight to the kitchen—grabbing a water bottle and a leftover half sandwich from the fridge. Gourmet. Chef Han at it again.

The light of his laptop blinked softly from the corner of the living room.

He ignored it. Instead, he wandered to the window, bottle in hand, and stared down at the city glowing like an artificial galaxy beneath him.

Another day of everything and nothing. He’d barely slept this week. Work had been brutal. Interns had been annoying.

Well…one intern.

His jaw twitched slightly at the memory of you walking out of his office, confident as hell, throwing shade and facts like you was born in a courtroom. That mouth on you—sharp. Quick.

Too damn smart for her own good. Too damn hot for his peace of mind.

He took a long sip of water, then grabbed his phone. Your file was still open in his emails. He didn’t mean to reread it. He did anyway. Background: modest. Grades: impressive. Demeanor: biting. Expression? Always looked like she was two seconds from either kissing you or ending your entire bloodline.

And that skirt?

Jesus.

He dropped the phone face down on the kitchen island.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t ideal. He hated supervising for a reason—he didn’t like people clinging to him, watching him, depending on him. Especially not people who stirred up whatever this was. But you were different. Not in some romanticized, poetic way. No, more like…threateningly competent with legs for days and an attitude that gave him a headache and a half-chub at the same time. He groaned, running both hands through his hair before sinking onto the couch.

“God, Grey, why her?” he muttered aloud, throwing his head back dramatically.

No answer, of course. Just the sound of Seoul vibrating behind his window.

The weight of your stare still burned behind his eyes.

He knew this was going to get messy. He just didn’t know how soon.

But one thing was for sure, you were going to ruin him if he wasn’t careful. And part of him?

Didn’t want to be.

The food he had ordered just arrived, a warm burst of garlic and spice filling the cool silence of the apartment. Jisung set the cartons down on the island, unwrapping the napkins with the kind of robotic precision you pick up when you’ve eaten alone too many nights in a row. Spicy pork bulgogi, kimchi, rice, a small bottle of soju he didn’t ask for but the restaurant always tossed it in when they recognized his name on the order.

Perks of being Han Jisung.

He had just opened the chopsticks when his phone buzzed.

Dad

Incoming call.

Jisung stared at the screen for a second too long, jaw tightening. His thumb hovered, not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he already knew how this conversation would go. Still, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

A deep voice crackled through the line, rough and low like worn leather.

“You sound tired.”

“I am,” Jisung replied simply, stabbing into his rice. “Been a long week.”

“Hm. You’re still working with Grey?”

“Still am.”

A pause. The silence between them said more than words could. His father had always had this way of making small talk feel like an interrogation.

“He’s using you.”

Jisung scoffed, mouth full. “Grey doesn’t use people. He recruits weapons.”

“Exactly.”

He didn’t answer. He chewed slowly, staring at the television that wasn’t even on.

“You still think you’re doing something different than me?” his father asked.

“Yeah,” Jisung said flatly. “Because I don’t destroy people for sport.”

Another pause. This time heavier.

“You sound just like your mother when you say shit like that.”

Jisung’s stomach twisted. He took another bite, mostly to shut himself up.

“You supervising someone?” his dad continued, like nothing had just happened.

Jisung rolled his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Because I know what that means. You don’t let people close. If Grey’s making you, it’s not for nothing.”

Jisung hesitated, his mind flickering to you, the fire-eyed intern with the mouth that didn’t quit and the brain to match. The way you stood her ground, talked back, made his blood rush like he was seventeen again.

“She’s…interesting,” he finally muttered.

“She hot?”

“Jesus, Dad.”

“What? You said interesting. That’s code.” Jisung pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s smart. Loud. Got a mouth on her.”

“So, you hate her.”

“…Something like that.”

There was a hum of amusement through the phone. For once, not a scoff or scold. Just understanding. A scary kind. “Watch yourself,” his father warned. “Grey doesn’t push you unless he’s trying to teach you something. Or test you. Or both.”

“I’m not new to this.”

“You’re new to her.” Jisung froze for a second, chopsticks suspended in the air.

“I gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat. “Food’s getting cold.”

“Call your mother.”

“I will.”

“Jisung.”

“What.”

“Don’t ruin it before it starts.”

Click.

The line went dead. Jisung sat there for a second, staring at the phone like it might say more. Then he set it down, picked up his food again, and muttered under his breath,

“…She’s still just an intern.”

But for some reason, he didn’t believe it.

Jisung was never the golden boy. Not in the traditional sense.

He wasn’t the loudest, or the most obedient, or the one who stayed out of trouble. But he was the sharpest. Razor-witted, eyes always ten steps ahead, and a tongue that could cut through hypocrisy like glass. From a young age, he was used to watching people argue from the staircase—his father, tall and thunderous, always in some perfectly pressed suit, barking down at his mother like she was one of the many subordinates who feared him.

His father, Han Joon-won, was a underground kingpin. Notorious in South Korea’s legal underworld for getting even the dirtiest white-collar criminals off scot-free. even though he was just a professor, he made his name not by defending the innocent, but by twisting narratives so well, the guilty walked out smiling.

His mother, on the other hand, Min So-ra, had been a viper in her work but the soul of the house. Jisung had grown up watching them clash. Not over love—they hadn’t had that in years—but over principles. Over Jisung.

“He’s not going to be your legacy, Joon-won.”

“No. He’s going to be my evolution.”

When Jisung was 16, his mother left. Just packed her bags one night, kissed his forehead, and disappeared into a train station fog with nothing but her passport and a spine of steel.

She didn’t fight for custody. She didn’t drag him through courts. She just said, “I trust you to choose who you want to become.” And that ruined him more than any custody battle ever could.

When he was 20 and fresh out of university—with the kind of transcripts people framed—Jisung had offers lined up. Corporate firms, legal think tanks, political gigs. But none of it felt… earned. It felt like a train his father had put him on long ago, and the tracks were already built for him.

Daejin wasn’t a regular firm. It wasn’t even fully public. It was a private legal-intelligence consulting group, used by billionaires and politicians when the government couldn’t be trusted. Rumors said they helped broker backdoor treaties and helped dismantle crime rings from the inside. Jisung had accepted. Not because he trusted Grey, not because his mother signed behind his back, but because it felt like the first decision that was his.

He’d finished the bulgogi, the soju still cold beside his elbow, untouched. A silence lingered too long in the space around him—the kind that scratched at his ears. So, he picked up his phone again and scrolled to “엄마”. mom

He hadn’t called in weeks. She picked up on the second ring.

“Sung-ah.”

His chest clenched. Her voice hadn’t changed. Soft, calm, always like the air after a thunderstorm.

“Hey,” he said, a little hoarse. “You free?”

“For you? Always.”

He smiled softly, letting his head fall back against the couch.

“I got assigned someone today.”

“At work?”

“Yeah. Intern. I’m her supervisor.”

“And how do you feel about that?” He paused. How did he feel?

“She’s… interesting,” he muttered.

“That’s not a feeling, baby.”

He chuckled, rubbing his forehead. “She’s annoying. And smart. And looks at me like she’s trying to read my blood type.”

“So, she’s not scared of you.”

“No. And that’s the problem.”

“Or the point.”

Silence passed between them again, but this time it felt full. Safe. “Don’t let your father live in your mirror,” she said softly. “Not when there’s still light in your eyes.”

He closed his eyes. Let her words sink in.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Call more often. I like hearing you wrestle with your own stubbornness.”

He smiled, biting back the wave of emotion building in his chest.

“I will.”

Click.

The line ended, and Jisung sat there for a long time phone on his chest, soju uncapped. Thinking about you, about the case, about whether this internship of yours was the beginning of your legacy...

…or the unraveling of his.

---

The lights in War Room A were low but moody designed that way to make people feel like the truth mattered more in the dark. Glass boards lined the walls, already filled with cryptic arrows and pin-dotted strings from other ongoing cases. The table was long, cold steel, with matte black folders laid out like they were handling national security instead of corporate lawsuits. Y/N walked in clutching her notepad, lips set in a calm line, her heels tapping softly against the grey tile. Her nerves simmered under the surface, but her expression stayed focused, professional. The room had a tension to it like the oxygen had been filtered for people who played chess with lives.

Jisung was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearms, silver watch glinting under the ceiling light. His jaw looked sharper this morning tighter. He didn’t look up when she entered.

Just said, “You’re late.”

“I’m early,” she replied smoothly, glancing at the wall clock—9:02.

He looked up then. Eyes dragging from her face to the file in her hand, then back. “Right. Two minutes early. Congratulations, you want a cookie?”

“Only if it’s got sarcasm chips in it.”

A ghost of a smirk flicked at the corner of his lips. But it vanished before it could get comfortable. “Sit,” he muttered, motioning to the seat beside him. As she sat, more of the upper-tier team began filing in. Analysts. Consultants. A lead from the surveillance branch. Everyone looked polished and exhausted, like they hadn’t slept more than three hours in days. The weight of high-profile work wore heavy on everyone here and Y/N felt it. Like iron in her bones.

Grey entered last. Of course.

Wearing an all-black turtleneck and long grey coat, he looked more like a grieving poet than the head of a high-level legal-intelligence firm. But the room straightened when he walked in. His presence commanded without barking.

He didn’t speak until he’d set his black coffee down.

“This is the KraneTech litigation,” he began. “Thirty-two million dollars’ worth of hush money misfiled as marketing budget. A whistleblower’s coming forward. We’re handling the internal case, prepping for external liability.”

He glanced around the table, then locked eyes with Y/N.

“This will be Y/N’s first live case. She’s under Han.” Jisung sighed through his nose. Loud enough for her to hear it. Not loud enough to get called out.

“Everyone, give her the floor.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait—”

“You have 90 seconds,” Grey added casually. “What’s your understanding of the case from the file you read yesterday?”

Shit.

She straightened. “KraneTech misappropriated marketing funds to pay off silence regarding potential internal abuse and fraudulent operations. The whistleblower is anonymous for now but has indicated they have documentation and digital logs.”

The room watched her like hawks. She continued. “There’s a timeline gap between February and April 2023 where no financial statements match the campaign budgets. That’s likely when the payouts happened. There’s also a legal scrub done during April that feels… strategic. Like they were anticipating investigation.”

Grey leaned back, considering. “Interesting.”

She held her breath. Then, he nodded once. “You’ll shadow Han. You have two days to prove you can handle the next phase of the audit alone.”

He turned to Jisung. “She’s yours. Try not to murder each other.”

Jisung’s jaw ticked.

Grey left with most of the others. The moment the room was half empty, Jisung stood and walked toward the glass board at the front of the room. Y/N followed, silent, watching him as he clicked a button and the case projection flickered to life.

He didn’t look at her as he said, “You’re not bad.”

“Was that… a compliment?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m writing it down anyway.”

“You do that.”

They stood side by side now, looking at the digital board—emails, blurred invoices, personnel profiles. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

She crossed her arms. “Trace the digital logins. Identify the cleaner who did the scrub in April. Follow the emails that were archived after the fact. There’s always metadata.”

“Metadata and luck.” He paused. “You might actually survive here.”

“I don’t need to survive,” she muttered. “I plan to win.” He turned his head just slightly, watching her profile as her eyes stayed on the board. It annoyed him. How pretty she looked when she was focused. How cocky she sounded when she didn’t even know the half of what Daejin really did behind closed doors.

“You’re stubborn,” he said.

“I adapt.”

“That’s worse.”

She smirked without turning to him. “Maybe you’re just slow.” He blinked. God, she was insufferable. And kinda hot.

He cleared his throat. “Meeting’s over. Get what you need. I’ll send you internal files by noon.” She nodded, then turned to leave the room.

His eyes dropped instinctively—for a second—to the sway of her hips, her skirt hugging just enough.

He looked away instantly, jaw clenched.

“Fucking hell…” he whispered under his breath.

The office they used was colder than necessary. The kind of cold that kept you awake and working, courtesy of Daejin’s air conditioning set to “keep them alert or kill them trying.” The space was sleek, functional, and minimal: two large desks facing opposite walls, a shared table in the center stacked with files, highlighters, redacted papers, and two half-drunk cups of espresso.

Y/N had shed her blazer somewhere around 9AM. Now in a simple white shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows, her fingers flew over her keyboard, the blue glow of her screen reflecting off her glasses. She was in full problem-solver mode, lip caught between her teeth, brows furrowed in that way Jisung had, unfortunately, noticed more than once.

Jisung sat across from her, slightly reclined, eyes darting between an evidence board and the KraneTech whistleblower’s anonymized file. He was chewing the tip of a pen, annoyed that it was yielding nothing new. His own desk was chaos with purpose: files, sticky notes, USB drives, all organized in his uniquely ‘smart but unhinged’ way.

Silence passed between them—not uncomfortable. Just focused.

“You notice this?” Y/N asked suddenly, flipping her laptop to face him.

Jisung stood and leaned over, arms braced on either side of her chair as he scanned her screen. Her perfume—something light and sweet—hit him too quickly. He pulled back a little.

She pointed. “The logs from the scrub session in April? Someone tried to delete twice. Different time stamps. But only one was executed.” His eyes scanned fast. Sharp. “Good catch. That means they weren’t working alone. One initiated. One canceled. Which means—”

“Which means the second person might’ve backed out,” she finished. Their eyes met. A beat of satisfaction passed between them.

She looked smug. He hated that he liked it. He straightened and returned to his desk without comment. “Cross-check the list of digital IDs with those on the financial audits,” he added, already typing again. “There’s a chance the person who canceled left a trail out of guilt. I’ll trace the IP from the meta headers.”

“On it,” she replied.

Hours passed. Coffee refilled. Notes scribbled. The room thickened with brainpower and caffeine fumes. By 12:17 PM, her stomach growled audibly. She froze. Jisung glanced up, cocked a brow. “You gonna eat or let your stomach file a complaint to HR?”

“I’ll grab something later—”

“You’ve been saying that for four hours,” he cut in, pulling out his phone. A few taps. “Lunch will be here in ten.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I chose to. Which means now you’re going to eat, intern.” His tone was teasing but firm. “Take a break. Let your frontal lobe reset before it fries.” She gave him a look, soft but stubborn. “You didn’t have to—”

“If you say that one more time, I’m ordering dinner too and making you eat it in front of the entire board.”

She blinked. He smirked.

“And that’s not an empty threat.”

Ten minutes later, lunch arrived—grilled chicken wraps, sweet potato fries, and iced black tea. Jisung slid one over to her, then turned back to his desk like it meant nothing. Y/N stared at the food. Then him.

“You’re not eating?”

“Later,” he muttered. “I want to finish this trace.”

“You sure? I can share.” He shot her a sideways look. “Don’t tempt me.” Her cheeks flushed, but she masked it with a sarcastic chuckle, “Relax, Han. It’s not a marriage proposal. It’s just fries.” He smirked, but didn’t respond, back to his files, eyes scanning deep.

Y/N finally took a bite.

And—damn it—it was really good.

For the next half hour, they worked in silence again. Separate desks. Separate minds. But the same rhythm. The same obsession. The same unspoken energy. Enemies? No. Allies with fire in the air? Absolutely.

And neither of them realized it yet…

…but this was how chemistry always began at Daejin.

The city outside had long gone quiet. Seoul’s skyline twinkled through the window, streetlights casting streaks of orange and silver across the tiled floor. The office was quieter now—no whirring printers or urgent footsteps. Just two exhausted minds submerged in data, theories, and the kind of mental endurance that only legal warfare demanded.

Y/N sat cross-legged in her chair, one earbud in, hair messily pinned up with a pen poking through it. Her screen was a swirl of digital records, duplicated entries, firewall logs, she was squinting now, moving files around like puzzle pieces in her mind. A cold cup of coffee sat beside her, untouched for the last hour. Her knee bounced unconsciously, the adrenaline refusing to die down even though her body begged for sleep.

Then—she paused.

Froze.

Brows lifted slowly, lips parting. Her fingers darted over the keys, pulling up the original access logs from April’s double-deletion. She’d been chasing a ghost for hours, but there it was, plain as day: a duplicated ID signature tied to two different employee databases. The same person had registered under two different teams. Fake alias.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, breathless.

She snatched the file from the table where Jisung had left it earlier—his own scribbled notes, dots connected, theories half-built. The answer had been under both their noses the whole time.

“Jisung!” she called out instinctively, spinning her chair around, face bright with excitement and a little disbelief.

But when she turned—

He wasn’t responding.

Slouched in his chair, arms draped lazily across the desk, Jisung’s head had dropped sideways. His laptop screen still flickered, casting soft light over his peaceful expression. One hand was still holding onto the same file she now clutched, his notes stopped mid-sentence.

She blinked, then smiled. The moment softened her. There was something intimate about seeing someone brilliant in their most unguarded state. She stepped closer, voice low. “Guess we cracked it… both of us. Not bad for an overachiever and a half-asleep grump.”

No reply. Just a soft rise and fall of his chest. A slight twitch of his lips, like he was dreaming—maybe about work, maybe something far less exhausting. She shook her head fondly, knelt beside him, and tapped his arm gently.

“Hey, genius. Sleeping on the job now?”

Jisung stirred. Eyes slowly opened, bleary and unfocused at first. His lashes fluttered and his brows knitted as he squinted.

“Shit—did I pass out?” he muttered, sitting up too fast.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. “Right in the middle of your future law firm commercial. ‘Han Jisung: brilliant, relentless, occasionally unconscious.’”

He ran a hand down his face, groaning. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly, voice firmer now. “Don’t apologize.” He looked at her, confused, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “You need to go home,” she said softly, but there was command in it. “You look like you’ve been tired for years, not just tonight.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t argue.” She reached for his laptop and closed it. “I’ll clean up here, write up a preliminary. I’ll shoot you a copy before morning.”

He hesitated, still groggy, but caught in her unwavering gaze. Her voice was gentle, but it left no room for negotiation.

“…You always like bossing people around?” he mumbled, standing slowly.

“Only when they’re being stupidly self-destructive. Karma, really.”

That earned a small smirk. He slung his bag over his shoulder, but before he left, he paused at the doorway. She was already turning back to her laptop, immersed again.

“Thanks,” he said, voice quieter. She didn’t look up.

“Go home, Han.” He lingered for one more second, eyes tracing her silhouette under the cool light of the monitor.

And then he was gone.

---

Han Jisung’s apartment was all clean lines and controlled chaos. A half-folded hoodie hung off a kitchen chair, vinyl records were stacked by the turntable in no real order, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the hallway like a memory too stubborn to leave. He was buttoning up his dress shirt, sleeves still rolled to the elbow, his hair damp and messy from a rushed shower.

He grabbed his phone from the counter just as it buzzed.

New Email: Preliminary Draft — Case #1782

Sender: Y/N [[email protected]]

He blinked, brows furrowing.

Already?

He opened it, skimming fast at first—but then slowing.

Thorough. Organized. Insightful. She hadn’t just pieced together the data. She’d cross-referenced employee signatures, restructured their timeline, and even color-coded the suspects in the margin.

“…Damn,” he muttered, under his breath.

Then another ping.

Text from Y/N:

Morning. I might come in a little late today—just wanted to give a heads-up. Will join as soon as I’m done. Thanks again for last night. Hope you got decent sleep.

He stared at the message a moment longer than necessary, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but definitely wasn’t neutral. His fingers hovered above the keyboard—he started to type, paused, erased, then just tossed the phone on the bed.

“Tch,” he muttered, grabbing his blazer. “Why is she so annoyingly good at this…”

And still, as he grabbed his bag and locked the door behind him, the corner of his mouth wouldn’t stop lifting.

He walked into the morning rush of Seoul, suit crisp, heart slightly off-beat, and thoughts already spiraling back to the girl who’d made him a little more tired… and a lot more intrigued.

—

The room hummed with pre-trial tension. A long, oval table dominated the center—sleek, black wood polished to a mirror shine. Screens displayed the case name, stacks of legal documents fanned out in front of each assigned seat, water bottles untouched beside stiff black folders. Jisung sat near the end, one ankle lazily crossed over the other, arms folded, eyes flicking between the time on his watch and the door.

9:05. You was five minutes late. Not a big deal.

But it made his left eye twitch.

He was about to tap his pen against the desk when the door finally swung open.

You stepped in—hair pulled back in a high, slick ponytail, glasses perched delicately on your nose. That outfit? Deadly. A gray pinstriped shirt peeking from beneath a black cropped cardigan, slacks hugging your hips in a way that made Jisung’s train of thought flatline for two full seconds. He sat up straighter unconsciously.

You looked... put-together. Smart. Sharp. And not trying too hard. Your eyes met his and—there it was again—that same flicker of tension. Familiar, unspoken. But you walked over calmly, confidence in your steps, setting down your laptop and notes beside his before leaning in slightly and whispering, “Did you read the preliminary?”

He gave you a slow blink.

“Yeah.”

“Did I mess anything up? I—I rushed the tail end and didn’t double check that section with the warehouse codes.”

Jisung’s brows rose. You were nervous.

He leaned in slightly, voice low and smooth. “No, you didn’t mess up. It’s tight. You caught things even I didn’t at first glance.” You narrowed your eyes at him skeptically, biting back a smile. “You’re being sarcastic.”

Jisung tilted his head. “I’m actually not. Don’t get used to it though.”

You chuckled softly and straightened your back, trying to hide the little breath of pride you exhaled. The compliment, sarcastic or not, buzzed in your chest. Just then, the door opened again and Grey strolled in, black suit, no tie, coffee in hand, and that ever-serious gleam in his eyes.

“Alright,” he called out. “Let’s get this started. We’ve got five days before trial and no time to fumble.”

The room fell silent instantly, shuffling to attention. Jisung caught your glance from the corner of his eye as you both turned to face the screen. You were in this. Present. Awake. Ready. And damn if he wasn’t a little impressed. And a little more in trouble than he thought. Grey stood at the head of the table, setting down his coffee and clapping his hands once to get everyone locked in.

“Let’s keep it clean, focused, and brutal,” he said, eyes sweeping over the team. “We’ve got motive, but the jury’s going to need a narrative they can eat with a spoon. What’s the angle?”

There was a beat of silence before you cleared her throat gently.

“We start with the financial discrepancies in the subsidiary accounts,” you said, clicking your laptop and flipping the screen to show a clean graph. “Every quarter leading up to the embezzlement charge, there’s a small spike in activity—same offshore account, different shell companies.”

Grey raised a brow, mildly impressed. “And the evidence chain?”

“Verified. We have authenticated statements, plus a testimony lined up from the former assistant—she’s agreed to testify under condition of anonymity.”

Jisung leaned back in his chair, clicking his pen against his thigh. “It’s a good start. But it’s not enough to prove intent. The defense will call it mismanagement or incompetence. We need to tie the money trail to motive.” Grey nodded slowly and gestured. “Han?”

Jisung leaned forward, fingers steepled. “So, we hit them where it hurts—optics. The accused transferred funds under the guise of ‘consultancy fees’ to a company owned by his college roommate. We subpoenaed his travel history—it matches up with four ‘retreats’ that happen to line up with the largest deposits. Add in emails recovered from the IT sweep…”

He tapped his file. “There’s one that says—and I quote—‘just make sure they don’t notice until Q3.’ That’s intent, with a side of cocky.” Your eyes flicked over to him. “And we link that to the board vote he forced through last September? That’s when he got majority control.”

Jisung glanced sideways at you and gave a little nod. “Exactly.” Grey folded his arms. “So, what’s the sequence of presentation?”

You raised a hand slightly, already halfway flipping pages. “We open with the paper trail—the clean, technical breakdown. It builds credibility. Then Jisung drives the intent point home with the emails and personal ties. By the time we present the witness, the jury already suspects him. Her testimony just confirms it.”

Jisung looked at you. Really looked. “We build the wall first, then drop the hammer.”

You didn’t smile, but your lips twitched in mutual understanding. “Exactly.” Grey looked between them for a moment before nodding, pleased. “Good. Tag team it. Han, you handle cross. YN, you prep the witness and the opening presentation. You’ve got three days. I want a mock run-through by Thursday.”

Everyone else began gathering their things and filtering out, but YN and Jisung lingered, documents still splayed across the table like a living crime scene. You gathered your notes silently, then paused.

“You’re not bad at this,” you said lightly, not looking at him.

Jisung let out a soft scoff. “You’re pretty decent yourself. For someone who doesn’t shut up.”

“Maybe if you weren’t always so smug, I’d have less to say.” He shot you a lazy smirk, grabbing his folder. “Nah. You’d still talk. It’s the only way you function.” You raised a brow, grabbing her coffee as she stood. “Just be ready Thursday, counselor.”

“Oh, I will be,” he murmured, half to himself as you walked off ahead of him. His eyes dropped to the sway of-

Focus, Han. Not now.

The case was a web. But with you, he realized it wasn’t just untangling it. It was figuring out who was pulling the strings alongside him. And for once, it didn’t feel like he was doing it alone.

Prep for the Mock Trial

The fluorescent lights in your shared office buzzed quietly as papers rustled and two cups of coffee sat cooling, forgotten. The clock ticked past 9:00 PM, but neither of you had noticed the time. You were seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, balancing your laptop on your knees, voice low but focused as you ran through your opening statement draft. Jisung was pacing slowly with a pen in his mouth and a highlighter tucked behind one ear, eyes darting from paper to whiteboard. Every now and then, he’d mumble something or make a noise of disapproval under his breath.

“You skipped over the offshore transfer in August,” he said suddenly, cutting into her flow like a scalpel. “What?” you blinked, scrolling up. “No, I didn’t—”

“You did. You jumped from July to September like August didn’t exist. That transfer ties into the witness’ credibility. If you miss that in court, we lose the entire momentum.”

“I said August,” you insisted, your tone sharp now. “You must’ve zoned out again.” Jisung rolled his eyes, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t zone out; I just actually pay attention.” That landed a little harder than he expected.

Your fingers froze on the trackpad. “Are you seriously implying I don’t pay attention to my own case?”

“I’m implying,” he said coolly, “that maybe if you stopped treating this like a performance and started treating it like law, you wouldn’t miss simple stuff.” Your mouth parted, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You’re great at talking, Y/N, no doubt. But law isn’t about sounding smart. It’s about being right. And sometimes, you skip details because you’re so busy trying to be the smartest person in the room.”

The air went ice cold.

“Wow,” you said, standing up slowly, voice lower than before. “You know, I get it. You’re used to being the genius. The golden boy. So, God forbid someone comes in and actually keeps up.” Jisung’s mouth opened, then shut. His jaw flexed.

“I didn’t say that—”

“But you think it. And maybe you’re right. Maybe I do care about how I come across—because I have to. Because unlike you, I don’t have a safety net. I don’t have parents who could afford law school. I don’t have a family name. I earned my place here.”

“You think I didn’t?”

“No,” you snapped, “I think you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail just to be seen. I think you have no idea what it’s like to have people doubt your intelligence the second you walk in because you don’t come from the right background.”

He looked like he wanted to fight that but then he muttered it, barely audible:

“Maybe if you weren’t so defensive all the damn time, people wouldn’t doubt you.” Your eyes widened slowly. That one hit like a punch to the ribs.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “Screw this.”

You grabbed your laptop and shoved it into your bag with trembling hands. He stepped forward instinctively, guilt rushing in like a wave, but you cut him off with just one glance, eyes glassy and betrayed.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Y/N, I—”

“You don’t get to apologize.” The door clicked behind you as you walked out, leaving only silence and the buzzing light.

Jisung stood there for a long time, the weight of his words pressing down hard. He knew he messed up. And he knew sorry wasn’t going to cut it.

---

The atmosphere in the trial room was different.

Tense. Unspoken.

The team sat behind the long table facing the mock jury box. Grey was seated like a hawk, sharp-eyed and still. Jisung was at the end of the table, posture impeccable, face unreadable. His tie was perfect, hair neat, but his fingers tapped nervously under the desk. You walked in five minutes before the session started.

You were pristine with pressed slacks, a sleek ponytail, silver-rimmed glasses. The same woman from the steps that morning. Cool, composed, unreadable.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t even hesitate. Grey gave a curt nod as the session began. “Let’s run it like it’s real. Y/N, opening.” You stood, the room holding its breath.

And as you spoke—calm, clear, devastatingly precise—Jisung could feel the growing tension in his chest. You were flawless. Unshakable.

And she wasn’t looking at him.

The mock courtroom buzzed with a synthetic energy, the kind that stemmed from performance but mimicked the high-stakes atmosphere of a real trial. Every step, every statement was under scrutiny. Professors and legal consultants sat with clipboards, eyes flickering between the two leads of the case.

You hadn't glanced at Jisung once. Not during his opening statement, which was admittedly impressive but a touch rushed. Not when they passed each other the exhibit binder. Not even when he tapped your arm to hand over his notes on the cross. You took them without a word.

Your expression remained neutral, every movement calculated.

Jisung was unraveling. Internally. On the outside, he maintained the illusion of calm, jotting things down, nodding here and there, but underneath, it was pure chaos. He’d stolen a few glances. Your eyes were deadset on the witness, your jaw sharp, mouth pursed in thought. And each time you succeeded, each time the jury murmured in appreciation, he should’ve felt pride.

Instead, he felt the hollow throb of regret.

You stood for cross-examination, heels clacking against the floor with commanding rhythm.

“Mr. Wexler, you mentioned that the email correspondence between you and the defendant occurred ‘frequently’ throughout Q3, correct?”

“Yes.”

You tilted her head, sharp. “Can you define ‘frequently’?”

“Uh… maybe twice a week?”

“Twice a week,” you echoed, eyes flicking to the projector. “Then can you explain why there are only four emails logged between July and September?”

The room shifted. The witness stammered. Jisung smiled. Instinctively, he turned to share that moment with you.

You didn’t even twitch. Didn’t acknowledge the success. Didn’t give him the usual side-smirk you shared when a point landed. Nothing.

You sat, fingers interlaced calmly. Cold. Professional. Grey leaned in slightly toward Jisung, whispering just loud enough: “She’s sharper today.”

Jisung forced a grin. “Yeah. She is.”

What Grey didn’t know was why she was sharper. Pain had a funny way of refining focus. And you were in no mood to forgive and forget. Especially not mid-trial.

As everyone gathered near the board, unpacking the session, you contributed where necessary, objective and direct. When Jisung asked you if you needed his notes for the rebuttal? You turned to Grey and said, “Could you pass me the updated printout?”

When he brought up a shared strategy they’d discussed last night?

“Actually, I revised that this morning. I’ll use mine.”

Every time he tried to breach the space between you — professional or personal — you slid past him like smoke. Unbothered. It was killing him.

---

Jisung finally caught you at the vending machine, alone. No audience. No Grey.

“Y/N—”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Your tone was low but heavy. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You didn’t even turn. Just grabbed your drink and walked away, leaving him standing there with his apology still stuck in his throat.

The Actual Courtroom Trial – Day One

Location: Seoul District Court, 9:15 AM.

The courtroom was charged. Polished wood gleamed under harsh lighting, papers rustled like whispers, and every cough, click, and sigh echoed like it mattered. The gallery was half-filled with press, executives, and sharp-eyed legal interns hungry for drama. Y/N sat at the plaintiff’s table, expression blank, body composed like a trained performer. Her braids were pinned in a clean updo, her suit crisply tailored, gray with a deep navy undershirt that matched the cold glint in her eyes. Jisung, sitting beside her, looked the part too, fitted black suit, no tie, top button undone. Hands loosely folded over his notes; brows furrowed. He’d barely said a word to her since the mock trial.

She hadn’t said a word back. And now wasn’t the time to fix anything. Because the judge walked in.

“All rise.”

Everyone stood.

“Court is now in session in the matter of Daejin Tech vs. KraneTech and Min Hyunsoo.”

The judge, an older man with sharp eyes behind square glasses, glanced down at his docket. “Opening statements?”

Grey stood first. “Your Honor, we intend to prove that not only did the defendant willfully breach contract, but in doing so, they manipulated internal reporting systems to inflate data and secure funding under false pretenses.” He glanced down at Jisung, who gave the most subtle nod. Grey continued: “We will show you emails, witness statements, and system logs that confirm deliberate falsification, with direct involvement from Mr. Min.”

It was clean. Sharp. Confident.

The defense countered with a calm but vague approach — denying nothing directly, playing the ‘miscommunication between departments’ angle.

Classic. But weak.

Witness Examination — Day Two

By now, the courtroom had warmed up. The crowd had grown. Legal press had started posting snippets, curious about the two Daejin lawyers making waves. Jisung took the floor this time. His steps were slow, measured. The court reporter’s keys tapped steadily as he approached the witness: a former financial analyst who’d been fired six months prior.

“You mentioned seeing irregularities in the data, correct?”

“Yes.”

Jisung leaned against the podium, casual but precise. “And you reported it?”

“I tried. But the internal review team—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Withdrawn,” Jisung said easily, before shifting pace. “So you saw something. And you did…nothing?” The witness shifted. “I was told it wasn’t my place.”

“By whom?”

The man hesitated. “Let the record show the witness is taking a long pause,” Jisung added calmly, then looked to the jury. “Sometimes silence tells us more than words.”

The gallery buzzed. Y/N didn’t look at him. But her pen stopped moving for half a second. Just a twitch. Their next witness was the IT manager. Now it was Y/N’s turn. She stood tall, calm, with a file in hand as she stepped to the center. Her voice? Smooth and precise.

“You were in charge of all server logs for KraneTech?”

“Yes.”

“You have access to login timestamps, message histories, cloud storage?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She clicked a remote. The screen lit up behind her. “Can you explain this file name?” she asked, pointing to a suspicious folder — ’dev_recalibrationsQ3_v2’.

“It’s not one I authorized.”

“Yet it came from your department.”

“It did.”

“Then who accessed it?”

The man hesitated. Y/N didn’t blink. “I’ll save you the trouble,” she said, clicking again. “The IP address matches the defendant’s personal office system. And the login code was hardwired to his biometric key.”

Gasps.

“Would you still say you weren’t aware of any tampering?” she asked quietly. He swallowed. “No, ma’am.” Her face was emotionless as she turned back to the judge. “No further questions.”

Recess

Grey gave both Y/N and Jisung subtle nods of approval, but neither of them smiled. They weren’t talking. Not outside the courtroom. Not even in the prep room. They passed each other case files like strangers forced to cooperate. They presented united fronts like seasoned partners. But underneath?

It was a cold war.

Final Courtroom Verdict — Seoul District Court

Day Six, 3:45 PM

The courtroom was still. Not the kind of silence that came from boredom or fatigue, no, this one crackled. Anticipation hung heavy like fog, wrapping around every person in the room. Phones had been tucked away. The press wasn’t even live-tweeting anymore. Everyone was waiting. Jisung sat tall, his hands resting loosely on his lap. He didn’t look at Y/N. Not once. She looked straight ahead, lips barely parted, a pen clutched tightly in her right hand not writing, not fidgeting. Just holding. Her back was straight. Her jaw was steel.

The judge cleared his throat. “I have reviewed the evidence, testimonies, and expert analysis provided throughout this trial.”

A pause. “And while the defense attempted to establish a chain of miscommunication, this court finds that the fraud was deliberate, premeditated, and tied directly to Mr. Min Hyunsoo.”

A murmur swept through the gallery.

“I hereby rule in favor of the plaintiff, Daejin Tech.”

Boom. Just like that. Case closed. Grey let out the smallest exhale. A pleased smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “Well done,” he said under his breath. But his gaze wasn’t on Jisung. It was on Y/N.

They stood. They bowed. The courtroom emptied slowly, reluctantly — like no one really wanted to miss what came next.

But Y/N didn’t stay. She packed up her documents methodically, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone. The moment the courtroom cleared, she slipped into the hallway, heels echoing sharply against the marble floor. Her suit jacket clung perfectly, hair neat, gaze fixed forward.

Until,

“Y/N,” Jisung called from behind her.

She didn’t stop. Not until he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path just outside the conference room doors. The hall was mostly empty, voices muffled behind glass and oak.

“I just—” He paused, jaw clenching. “I need to apologize. What I said that night, I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t.” Her voice was quiet but cutting. She looked up at him, not angry just… disappointed. Like she'd seen a side of him she wished she hadn’t.

“I shouldn’t have let myself get comfortable with you,” she said, slowly. “That was my mistake.”

Jisung’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

“And I’m sorry for assuming I could be safe around you and still… be myself.” Her eyes dropped for just a second, then came back up, colder. “Won’t happen again.”

“YN/…” His brows furrowed, the guilt in his expression unmistakable. “Don’t do that.”

But she was already pulling herself back together. Tightening the line in her shoulders. Drawing the wall back up, brick by goddamn brick. “I’ll see you at work, sir,” she said, stepping past him.

That one word — sir — sliced clean and cruel. Not professional. Not respectful. Just distant.

And then she was gone. Leaving Jisung standing in the hall, stunned silent, holding onto an apology that had come too late.

---

The house smelled like warm rice and thyme-simmered chicken, that comforting kind of scent that wrapped around your bones and said you’re safe here. You sat at the edge of the couch, curled up under your mom’s old woven blanket. Your mother had already bombarded you with a second helping of food you didn’t ask for, and your dad had just settled beside her with a cold glass of malt.

“So,” her mom said gently, “how’d the case go?”

You exhaled slowly, letting your body sink into the soft curve of the couch. “We won,” you murmured, voice small but proud. Your mom grinned and reached out to squeeze her hand. “I’m so proud of you, baby. All those sleepless nights, hm?”

“Barely slept at all,” You chuckled softly. Your dad leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “And this Jisung guy? Your supervisor?” Your lips tightened slightly. “He was… fine.”

“You say that like he set your desk on fire,” your mom said with a teasing smirk. You smiled faintly but didn’t elaborate. Just twisted the edge of the blanket between your fingers. Your dad raised a brow, the way he always did when he was scanning for more beneath the surface. “Something happen?”

There was a long pause before you gave a small nod. “He said something… personal. During a fight. It just… I don’t know. Hit too close.” Your mom’s eyes darkened slightly. “What did he say?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” you muttered.

Your dad studied you for a moment longer, then sat back with a deep sigh, that thoughtful dad sigh that only ever came before life advice that could level you. “You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes we say stupid things when we care too much and don’t know how to say it.”

You blinked. “He doesn’t care—”

“He does. That’s why he pissed you off so easily. And why you’re still hurt.” You looked at him then, eyes tired. He met your gaze with a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve said some cruel things to your mother before. Words that hurt deep, even if I didn’t mean them. Sometimes men get scared, or flustered, and instead of admitting it… we shoot. And the first thing in the line of fire is usually the person closest.”

Your mom nodded softly from beside you. “Forgiveness doesn’t make you weak, darling. It means you’re strong enough to love past someone’s worst day.” You exhaled through your nose, leaning your head on your dad’s shoulder. You didn’t say anything but the weight in your chest loosened just a little.

—

The office lights were dimmed to a low glow, but Jisung hadn’t moved. His suit jacket lay draped over the couch, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone. He stared at the report on his desk, not really reading it. His fingers tapped mindlessly against the table.

There was no music. No celebration. Just silence and a gnawing ache behind his eyes.

He couldn’t stop replaying the way she said sir.

He’d earned that. He deserved that. But it still stung like hell. The door creaked open, and Grey strolled in with two takeaway cups in hand. “You’re still here?” he asked, incredulous. “Jesus, Sungie — we just won our most high-profile case this quarter.”

Jisung didn’t look up. Grey set one cup on his desk. “Why aren’t you home getting drunk and screaming into a karaoke mic with Changbin?”

Silence.

Grey’s gaze narrowed as he pulled up a chair. “This is about her, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. “I shouldn’t’ve made you supervise her,” Grey said eventually. “You hate team-ups. I knew that.” Jisung finally shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not it.” Grey’s brow lifted. “Then what is?”

Silence again but heavier this time. More telling.

Grey leaned back, mouth twitching. “You fought, didn’t you?”

Jisung didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t have to. Grey sighed, shaking his head. “She’s smart. And she keeps you on your toes. And she makes you care when you’re trying not to.”

“Grey…” Jisung muttered, tone low and warning.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna lecture you. I’m just saying, maybe don’t be a dumbass.” He stood, finishing his coffee. “Go home, Jisung. This office doesn’t need your brooding. And she sure as hell doesn’t need more silence from you.”

He clapped him on the shoulder once not hard, not playful. Just grounding. Then he walked out.

And Jisung sat alone again.

But this time… he picked up his phone. And he stared at her name. For a very, very long time.

…One Week Later…

The clack of heels against marble, the hum of printers, the sharp scent of espresso drifting from the break room work carried on like the world hadn’t cracked open just days ago.

Y/N walked in every morning exactly at 8:50. Not too early. Not too late. Her hair pinned neatly, makeup clean and sharp. Professional. Untouchable.

Jisung noticed. He always did. But he kept his eyes on his screen when she passed his office. He pretended not to glance up when her laugh rang out from across the hall quieter now, but still there.

They only spoke when absolutely necessary.

And those conversations?

Clinical. Precise.

Like cutting stitches with cold hands.

Jisung stepped in to the meeting room with a file in hand, the tie he forgot to tighten swinging slightly as he moved. Y/N was already seated at the end of the table, flipping through a document.

“Update on the Barlow merger,” she said without looking up.

He slid into the seat across from her. “I… yeah. I got your notes.” A pause. “They were good. Really… good.” She nodded, still not looking at him.

The silence stretched like plastic wrap thin and suffocating. Jisung tapped the corner of his folder. “YN, I—”

She turned a page.

He swallowed. “About last week—”

“Jisung,” she said gently but firmly, still not lifting her eyes. “Let’s keep it about work.”

He nodded. Slowly. The tightness in his chest returned like a tide. “Right. Just work.” He left first.

---

The doors slid open. She was already inside.

He hesitated just for a second. But it was enough. She saw it.

“Getting in?” she asked quietly.

He stepped in. They stood in opposite corners, the silence buzzing with everything unsaid. As the doors closed, he risked a glance. Her arms were crossed. Eyes forward.

“I didn’t mean it,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

“That night,” he said, a little louder now. “What I said. I didn’t mean it. Any of it.”

Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “I know.” That should’ve been comforting.

But it wasn’t. “Then why won’t you look at me?” She exhaled. “Because I’m trying to keep my distance.”

The elevator dinged. She stepped out without turning back.

---

Grey glanced up from his desk when Jisung walked in looking like a man who’d just been hit with a lawsuit and a love confession at the same time.

“She talked to me,” Jisung said, tossing himself into a chair.

“Progress?”

“I think it was worse than silence.”

Grey hummed, closing his laptop. “You wanna know the worst kind of heartbreak?” Jisung rubbed his temple. “I already feel it, so go ahead.”

“When you realize they don’t hate you,” Grey said, “they just don’t trust you anymore.”

Jisung didn’t respond. Grey leaned back. “So, you’ve got two options. One — give up. Let her slip away because it’s easier than fighting. Or two — work your ass off to prove her heart’s safe with you again.”

Jisung looked up slowly. “And if she never gives me that chance?”

Grey cracked a small smile. “Then you better make damn sure she knows you would’ve taken it.”

---

The knock was soft, but firm.

Grey didn’t even look up from his screen. “Come in, Y/N.”

She pushed the door open, the crisp scent of bergamot tea and wood polish instantly familiar. The blinds were cracked just enough for the golden evening light to spill in, catching the silver in Grey’s cufflinks. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, stepping in and shutting the door behind her.

He finally looked up tired eyes, lips pursed, tie slightly loosened like he’d been too busy to care today. Or maybe, too weighed down.

“I hate doing this,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Truly, passionately, hate it. But apparently, I’ve become the damn emotional chaperone in this firm.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry… for what, exactly?”

Grey rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You and Han Jisung. You haven’t spoken more than four sentences unless it’s about legal briefs or witness statements in two weeks. And that boy—” he paused, exhaling deeply, “—he’s not okay.” Her throat tightened just slightly, but she kept her face still. “We’re being professional.”

“You’re being frosty,” Grey deadpanned. “And he’s being distant because he thinks he deserves it. But the truth is, Y/N…” He paused. “He’s breaking. Quietly. Slowly. And I’ve only seen him like this once — first year. He tried so hard to prove himself and failed a case that cost an innocent man jail time. I walked into the office and he was just… sitting there in the dark.”

YN swallowed. She hated the visual of that, Jisung, the firecracker of their courtroom, looking that dim. That alone hurt.

“He hasn’t said anything,” she said carefully.

“Because he doesn’t know how to,” Grey said. “Because people like Jisung? They weren’t taught love like you were.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Grey leaned forward. “His parents didn’t raise him with softness. His father only calls to scold or guilt-trip, and his mother left him to fight those battles alone. Every emotion he’s got, every ounce of passion or fear or pride, he channels into work because it’s the one place he can control. He doesn’t fall for people easily, YN. But when he does, it’s… heavy. Terrifying.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, heart twisting.

“Of course you didn’t,” Grey said gently. “He doesn’t let people know. But I do. I’ve seen it. I see it now. He’s in love with you, Y/N. Has been for a while.”

Her breath caught. She blinked. “No… he’s not. He’s just… regretful.”

“Regret doesn’t make someone stare at your desk like it’s a missing limb,” Grey said sharply. “Regret doesn’t make him pause at your office door and walk away ten times in a day. That’s love. Unsaid. Unshaped. But it’s there.”

She sat back in the chair, the leather cool against her skin as her mind tried to wrap around the weight of Grey’s words. The idea that Jisung — chaotic, brilliant, frustrating Jisung — loved her was something she hadn’t let herself entertain. Not really.

“You’re scared too,” Grey said quietly, watching her expression change. “But I’m telling you now… either talk to him, or you both keep walking around like ghosts. And you’ll regret it far more than that night.”

Y/N didn’t speak for a long time.

But when she left his office, her fingers hovered near her phone.

---

The quiet of your apartment felt louder than usual. No music. No background show running just for noise. Just the low hum of the fridge, and her pacing footsteps against the hardwood floor.

You stood by the window, your phone in hand, thumb hovering over Jisung’s contact like it weighed ten pounds. Grey’s words were still spinning in your head, colliding with the memory of Jisung’s tired eyes, his hands pausing at her office door, the things he never said.

You pressed Call before she could overthink it again. The phone didn’t even get to the second ring.

“Hello?” His voice came fast, sharp, almost breathless. “Y/N? Hey. Hi—are you okay? Did something happen? I—I was just—Are you okay?”

You blinked at the window, lips twitching despite herself. “Hey, Jisung.”

“Hey,” he breathed, like your voice hit him like air after drowning. There was a pause. Then he continued, voice softer, still a little shaky:

“Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d… I mean, I hoped you would. I just—God, it’s good to hear you.”

Your chest squeezed at that. “I just wanted to check on you,” you said gently. “How are you?”

Another pause. A breath.

“I’m okay. I mean—work’s fine. Everything’s… fine. I’m just—” He stopped himself, then laughed under his breath, awkward and raw. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah,” you whispered, heart aching. “Me too.”

You could hear his breath slow just slightly, like the ice between them cracked not broken yet, but thinned. “I wanted to ask,” she continued, voice steady now, “if I could see you. Tomorrow. In your office. Just us. If that’s okay.”

Jisung didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said immediately. Then softer. “Yeah. Please. Anytime. I’ll be there.”

“Okay,” she said, a tiny smile ghosting her lips. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

There was another silence, but this one was warm. Almost comforting. And when they hung up, both of them stared at their ceilings for a long, long time. Waiting. Ready to try again.

---

The sun had barely settled into the sky when you stood at the threshold of Jisung’s office, your heart thudding harder with every breath. You weren’t nervous at least, you told yourself you weren’t. You were just… bracing yourself. For a conversation overdue. For feelings neither of you had signed up for. Your hand hovered over the handle, fingers curling in, then releasing. The hallway was quiet at this hour. No distractions. No excuses. Just you, a closed door, and the man you hadn’t stopped thinking about.

You finally knocked, three soft taps. Polite. Almost unsure.

“Come in,” his voice called through almost instantly, like he’d been sitting there waiting.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was how he looked up fast, like he’d been facing the door the whole time. His hair was a little messy, eyes tired but alert, like he hadn’t really slept even though it was a new day. His tie was loose. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just enough to show his forearms.

Your heart did a little tumble you didn’t appreciate.

“Hey,” you said quietly, stepping in. He stood up halfway. “Hey.”

And for a second, neither of you knew what to say. It was like the air between you was stitched together with tension and apologies that couldn’t be said in passing. Jisung cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit?” he asked, nodding to the two chairs by the coffee table near his desk. The sunlight was spilling in through the blinds, casting soft stripes of light over everything. You nodded and took a seat, smoothing down your skirt. He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, like he was ready to leap forward—or run.

“I wanted to talk,” you started, eyes locked on him.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I mean—I’m glad you did. I’ve been trying to figure out how to…” He trailed off, sighed, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I’ve messed things up, haven’t I?”

“Not entirely,” you said softly. He looked up at you like that single sentence kept him from drowning. You licked your lips. “I talked to Grey.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Oh.”

“He told me things. About you. About how you grew up. About how… hard it is for you to get close to people.” Jisung shifted. The slight flinch in his posture wasn’t lost on you. “I didn’t come here to push you,” you said gently. “I came here because I needed to hear you. Not your file. Not Grey. You.”

He exhaled, almost crumbling.

“You scare me,” he muttered suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You do. You walk in like you’re on fire and you don’t even notice the way the room bends around you. You don’t flinch when I’m cold. You challenge me. You see through me like no one ever has and I—I hate it because it’s terrifying and I love it because it’s you.”

You sat frozen for a breath. Then another. Your lips parted, stunned. “I didn’t mean what I said that night,” he said, voice lower now. “I knew I crossed the line the second I saw your face fall. I’ve been trying to figure out how to say I’m sorry ever since.”

You nodded once. “You did hurt me.”

“I know.”

“But I also didn’t let you explain.” Jisung stared at you for a long time, then whispered, “You didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” she said back. Another moment passed. And then you reached for the coffee cup sitting cold on the table between them, lifted it to your lips, and made a face. “Jesus. How long has this been sitting here?”

He huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t drink that.”

“So, we agree it’s toxic waste?”

He nodded. “100%.” A beat. Then she smiled barely. But it was there. And Jisung? He smiled too, but his was full, slow, blooming like it had been dying to stretch across his face again.

“I still owe you lunch,” he said.

“And I still owe you a win,” youreplied.

They weren’t fixed. But they were trying.

Han Jisung’s hands have never felt so useless. He’d just begun to feel like the ground beneath them was leveling out, like he could speak to you again without hating himself. And then you had to look at him like that, half-curious, half-devilish. Like you were planning something dangerous, and he was helpless to stop it.

You sat forward, your eyes locked on him, voice honeyed but sharp.

“So… why didn’t you tell me?” you asked casually, like you weren’t about to unravel him.

Jisung blinked. “Tell you what?”

“That you have feelings for me.” His brain blue-screened. Full-on system failure. “I—uh—w-what? Feelings? Me?” You tilted your head, clearly amused. “Grey sort of told me yesterday.”

“Grey told—?!” he choked. “That—traitor—”

“Why didn’t you just say something?” you asked again, eyes twinkling. He fidgeted in his seat like it was suddenly too small for him. “Because! You’re—you. And I’m me. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m your—supervisor,” he stressed, as if that helped.

“That never stopped you from bossing me around in meetings,” you teased.

He groaned. “Don’t say it like that, I already feel like I’ve committed emotional HR violations.” You leaned back, lips pressing together to hide your laugh. And then, slowly, you stood. Jisung watched you, wary. “What are you doing?”

You circled his desk like a cat, stopping behind his chair. “Wait,” you said, a grin tugging at your lips, “are you flustered right now?”

“I’m not—!” he squeaked, voice cracking slightly. “I am composed, thank you.”

“Flustered. About me,” you sang, enjoying this far too much. “Han Jisung has a crush on his intern…”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered under his breath, cheeks flushing even deeper.

“As if you aren’t too,” he shot back suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. And it hit you like a slap of heat. Your smile faltered for half a second. You blinked. “What did you just say?”

Jisung’s lips parted, like he wanted to take it back but he didn’t. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and honest.

“Don’t act like it’s just me.”

A silence fell between them, heavy and buzzing. And then—God help them both—you leaned forward, bracing your hands on the arms of his chair. Close enough to see the stubble on his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath hitch.

You tilted your head. “You talk too much.”

Then, without warning, you kissed him.

Soft. Bold. Quick. But the second your lips pressed to his, your brain short-circuited with a thousand alarms. What did I just do? Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic bubbling up before you even pulled back.

“I—” you breathed, stepping back fast, “I shouldn’t have—”

But you didn’t get the chance to finish. Jisung was already out of his chair. And then his hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and his lips were back on yours, urgent this time. Messy. Real. Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the first time you argued with him.

You melted into it until you were both breathless and laughing against each other’s mouths.

“You totally overstepped,” he whispered, grinning. You rolled her eyes. “You literally chased me.” He smirked, still breathless. “And I’d do it again.”

One kiss turned into two. Then three. Then neither of you could remember who started what anymore. Jisung’s hands were frantic, like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. Your waist? Your jaw? Your hips? He settled for all of them, one after the other, pulling you impossibly closer between kisses that left you both gasping.

You weren’t helping—at all. You were smirking against his lips, fingers sliding under the collar of his shirt as you murmured, “You know, for someone so professional in meetings… you’re kinda desperate right now.” Jisung pulled back just enough to look at you, mouth parted in shock. “Wh—” His voice cracked. “That’s not fair—!”

“Awww,” you teased, dragging your finger down the center of his chest, “did I hurt your feelings?”

“Yes!” he whined, genuinely, breath stuttering. “Why are you bullying me right now?”

“Because you’re easy,” you grinned, grabbing the end of his tie and giving it a little tug. “And cute when you pout.” Jisung muttered something incoherent—probably a curse—before he gave up entirely and kissed you again, this time deeper, one hand firm at the small of your back while the other traveled down, fingers skimming the edge of her thighs. You let out a sharp inhale when he hoisted you up onto his desk like you weighed nothing. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen went clattering to the floor, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care because his hands God, his hands were trailing up your legs with reverence and want all rolled into one shaky exhale.

He was looking at you like he didn’t know whether to worship you or unravel you.

“You’re trouble,” he whispered against her skin.

“I learned from the best,” you shot back, already popping open the first button of his shirt. “Mr. Han.”

“Oh my God—” He was dizzy. Fully, utterly gone for you. His tie was undone, shirt halfway open, and your lips were ghosting along the edge of his collarbone like you wanted to memorize the taste of him.

And then—

RIIINGGGG—!!

The desk phone blared.

The two of you froze.

Jisung groaned. “No. No, no, no.” You snorted, forehead falling to his shoulder in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m about to unplug that thing for life,” he mumbled into your neck. “Shouldn’t you pick it up?” you teased.

“I should sue it for emotional damage.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You kissed me and now I’m ruined—of course I’m dramatic!”

The phone kept ringing. Reluctantly, breath still uneven, Jisung reached around you for the receiver, muttering a soft, “Don’t move,” like you were going to evaporate if he looked away for too long. He cleared his throat before answering voice still wrecked, like he’d just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Y-Yeah, Han speaking…”

There was a pause. You watched his expression shift from annoyed to concerned, his brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

“Mhm. Okay—okay. Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and sighed like he just aged ten years in thirty seconds. You tilted your head. “That didn’t sound like a lunch reservation.” Jisung winced. “It’s not. That was about the Parker brief—something blew up with the client and I need to help clean it before it spirals. They’re asking for me personally.”

He stepped closer, brushing your hair back gently. “I swear to God, if I didn’t have to go—”

“You’d what?” you teased, lips quirking. He grinned, leaning in to kiss you one more time, slow and deliberate. “I’d definitely get fired.”

You laughed against his mouth and pulled back. “So dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere. “But I am going to make it up to you tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Dinner. Just you and me. No work. No Grey. No emergencies. Just us.” Your brows raised. “Is this a bribe, Mr. Han?”

“This is me asking you on a date, finally,” he said, smirking. “And lowkey bribing you.”

“You’re lucky I like food,” you said, hopping off the desk as he helped her down. “Lucky you like me,” he mumbled under his breath.

You caught that. You both smiled. As you adjusted your blouse and smoothed your skirt, you stepped over to him and fixed his tie with practiced ease, eyes focused on the knot like it was the most delicate task in the world. Then you slid a finger down the center of his shirt, giving one button an extra pat.

“There,” you murmured. “Ready for war.”

“I was gonna say court,” he chuckled, “but same energy.” You turned to leave, heels clicking against the polished floor. And of course, his eyes dropped immediately to your hips. And stayed there. Shamelessly. You didn’t even have to look back to know. You paused at the door, turned slowly, and caught him red-handed, gaze glued to you like he was trying to memorize every step you took.

“So, you were staring,” you said, one brow arched in challenge.

Jisung blinked, caught like a guilty puppy. “I—I was just—I mean, technically, you’re walking in my office so it’s my job to supervise…”

“Supervise my ass?” He grinned. “Exactly.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still showing up for dinner.”

“Only because I want dessert.”

“Ohhh my God.”

You winked and walked out, leaving Jisung running a hand through his hair, muttering, “She’s gonna destroy me,” with the biggest lovestruck smile on his face.

Waw....our flustered boy always comes out in the end huh? 🥰

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apoemaday · 27 days ago

Text

Apolitical Intellectuals

by Otto René Castillo tr. Sean Keenan

One day, the apolitical intellectuals of my country will be interrogated by the simplest of our people.

They will be asked about what they did when their fatherland was being slowly extinguished like a sweet fire, small and alone.

They will not be interrogated about their dress, nor about their long siestas after lunch, neither about their sterile struggles with the void, nor about their ontological ways of arriving at money. Nor will they be interrogated about Greek mythology, nor about the self-disgust they felt when someone, deep down, got ready to die like a coward.

Nothing will asked of them about their absurd justifications that find their shadowy origins in the round lie.

On that day the simple men will come those who never had a place in the books and verses of the apolitical intellectuals, but who arrived every day with bread and milk for them, and eggs and tortillas, those who sewed their clothes, drove their cars, tended their gardens and dogs, and worked for them, and they'll ask: "What did you do when the poor were suffering, and tenderness and life were being burned out in them?"

Apolitical intellectuals of my sweet country, you will not be able to answer.

A vulture of silence will devour your insides. Your misery will gnaw at your souls, and you will fall silent, ashamed of yourselves.

#poetry #otto rene castillo #apolitical intellectuals #tr. sean keenan

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buldakcorn · 8 months ago

Text

Money Talks

LOONA/ARTMS Heejin x Male Characters

Genre : (TW) Non-con, Humiliation, Prostitution, Ass-slapping, Fingering, Spitroasting, Forced Creampie

4041 words

Heejin's heart raced as she stepped out of the car, the sound of her heels echoing through the dimly lit alley. Her manager had assured her this was necessary, that it would secure their group's future. She took a deep breath and climbed the narrow staircase to the secret location, the cold metal railing feeling like a prison bars leading to an unknown fate. The door at the top of the stairs opened to reveal a stark contrast: a luxurious hallway adorned with gold and velvet. She followed the muffled sounds of hushed voices and clinking glasses until she reached a heavy wooden door marked "Suite 103." With a trembling hand, she pushed it open, revealing an opulent bedroom where two men in sharp suits awaited her, their eyes gleaming with a hunger she couldn't ignore.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Heejin said with a forced smile, her voice a tinkling bell of sweetness she reserved for her public persona. She stepped into the suite, the weight of the situation pressing down on her like an invisible hand. "I'm Heejin from ARTMS. I've been told you're interested in helping support our group?" The two men looked her over, one stroking his chin as if sizing up a piece of art at an auction, the other's gaze lingering on her legs. She tried to ignore the discomfort, focusing instead on the hope that this sacrifice would be worth it. They offered her a seat on a plush velvet sofa, and she perched on the edge, her posture a careful balance between poise and vulnerability. The room was thick with unspoken expectations, the air heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and the faint hint of something darker, something she didn't want to acknowledge. As they began discussing terms, Heejin's mind raced with thoughts of her bandmates, the music they'd make, the fans they'd touch with their performances. This was for them, she told herself, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. For their dreams. And so, she sat, and she listened, and she pretended that the price of success didn't feel like it was tearing her soul apart.

The men's gazes grew more predatory as they instructed Heejin to stand. They began to circle her like vultures, their eyes devouring every inch of her body. The one with the greedy smile reached out and groped her firmly on the ass, his fingertips digging into her flesh as he murmured his approval. She flinched, fighting the urge to slap his hand away. Instead, she forced a smile and nodded, silently enduring his vulgar praise. The other investor stepped closer, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered into her ear, his words a sly mix of compliment and threat. "You're just what we've been looking for," he said, his hand brushing the side of her breast. "A true investment." Heejin felt a shiver run down her spine, but she remained still, her eyes fixed on a spot over their heads, focusing on the chandelier that twinkled mockingly above. The conversation grew more heated, the terms of their deal more explicit, as the men discussed her as if she were nothing more than a commodity to be bought and sold. Yet she knew that the power lay in her hands, twisted as the situation may be. She would do what she had to, for her group, for their music, for their dreams. But as the reality of her predicament sank in, she couldn't help but wonder if the cost of fame was a price she was willing to pay forever.

The two investors leaned back in their chairs, their smiles widening as Heejin began to slowly remove her dress, her movements mechanical and devoid of any seductive flair. The fabric fell to the floor in a pool of black, revealing her trembling body. She tried to keep her composure, her hands reflexively moving to cover her breasts and the vulnerable expanse of her clean-shaved pussy. The men's eyes grew darker, their pupils dilating as they took in the sight of her bare flesh. Despite her efforts to hide, she felt their gazes like hot brands searing into her skin, stripping away any last vestige of dignity she had managed to cling to. She stood there, a sculpture of vulnerability in the center of the plush suite, the chill of the room's air making her nipples tighten painfully. The silence was deafening, filled only with the sound of their ravenous stares and her own ragged breaths. Her heart hammered against her ribcage like a caged bird desperately seeking escape, but she knew there was no way out of this gilded cage except to play along with their twisted game.

Heejin's arms, toned from countless hours at the gym, were bared to the men's greedy eyes, the muscles flexing slightly as she maintained her poise. Her abs, a testament to her dedication and discipline, rippled with each shaky inhale and exhale. The investors couldn't help but trace the contours of her body with their eyes, appreciating the fruit of her labor. The man with the greedy smile was the first to act, his pudgy hand reaching out to grasp her bicep, giving it a squeeze as if testing the firmness of a melon. "Impressive," he leered, his voice thick with lust. His partner's gaze lingered on her muscular thighs, the kind of strength that could only come from years of dance training and relentless exercise. He couldn't resist running his fingers along the defined muscles, feeling the power beneath the smooth, warm skin. Heejin's jaw clenched, but she didn't pull away, enduring their touch with the stoicism of a statue. The men's eyes gleamed with excitement as they took turns exploring her body, their hands growing bolder with each passing second. They caressed her abs, her thighs, and the firm globes of her ass, their touches feeling like a violation of the very essence of who she was. Yet, she remained still, her mind detached from the scene playing out before her, focusing instead on the future her group could have.

The men's hands grew bolder, each taking one of Heejin's arms and pulling them away from her chest, exposing her small but perky breasts to their leering gazes. The man with the greedy smile was the first to pounce, his fat fingers digging into the soft flesh as he squeezed her roughly, his eyes never leaving hers as he bent down to capture a nipple in his mouth. He sucked hard, flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak, eliciting a gasp from the girl. The other investor followed suit, his teeth grazing the other nipple before taking it between his lips to give it a similar treatment. Heejin's cheeks flushed, her eyes squeezed shut, as she felt the men's hot breath against her skin, their greedy mouths worshipping her body in a way that made her feel both used and powerful. Their rough hands continued to knead and maul her breasts, sending waves of unwanted arousal through her. Despite her discomfort, her nipples hardened under their attention, betraying the mix of fear and revulsion she felt deep within. She bit her lower lip, silently begging for the ordeal to end, even as she knew she had to give them what they wanted.

Heejin's body stiffened as one of the men's hands trailed down her stomach and slipped between her legs, his thick fingers probing her sensitive folds. Despite herself, she couldn't suppress the involuntary gasp that escaped her as he began to rub her clit with a cruel expertise, his eyes locked on hers to savor her reaction. The other investor chuckled darkly, reaching over to cup her face and turn it towards him. "Look at you," he sneered, his voice a mix of disgust and excitement. "Already acting like the little whore we know you are." His companion joined in the taunts, their words a toxic blend of praise and degradation that filled her ears like a cacophony of hate. "We're going to pay you so much money," the second man said, his eyes shining with a greed that made her skin crawl. "Just like the slut you are." Heejin's eyes searched the room desperately, trying to find something, anything, to anchor herself to the reality that she wasn't this object of their twisted desires. But the opulent suite with its velvet and gold offered no escape, only a reflection of the cold, hard truth that this was the path she had chosen to walk. With a resigned sigh, she closed her eyes and focused on the sound of her own ragged breathing, the only thing she had left that was truly hers.

"Kneel down and pull down our pants," Swallowing hard, Heejin obeyed the order, her knees hitting the plush carpet with a muffled thud. She took a moment to compose herself before reaching for the waistbands of the men's pants. Her hands trembled as she unhooked the buttons and zipped down their flys, revealing the hardened lengths of their erections. She could feel their anticipation, the heat of their lust as it washed over her. The men leaned back, watching her with hungry eyes as she took hold of their cocks, feeling the weight of their expectations in the palms of her hands. She tried to think of the money, the opportunities, the future of her group, but all she could focus on was the revulsion that roiled in her stomach. With a deep breath, she forced herself to begin, her lips parting to take the first one in her mouth, the salty taste of his skin almost making her gag. The men's groans of pleasure filled the air, a symphony of degradation that drowned out the silent screams in her mind. She knew she had to play her part, to satisfy them in every way possible, if she wanted the funds to flow. And so, she knelt, a reluctant servant to their desires, her mouth and hands working in tandem to bring them to the brink of ecstasy. Each stroke, each suckle, brought her closer to the end of this nightmare, but also deeper into the dark world she had unwillingly embraced. The room spun around her, a blur of velvet and gold, as she prayed for the strength to endure this transaction, and the hope that her sacrifice would not be in vain.

Their grip on her head grew firm, as the two investors took turns thrusting their cocks into her mouth, their hips bucking with each rough facefuck. Heejin's eyes watered and she gagged on the salty intrusion, her cheeks hollowing with each forced inhalation around the thick lengths. She could feel their hands tightening in her hair, guiding her movements, using her as nothing more than a vessel for their pleasure. The men's grunts and moans grew louder, their breathing ragged as they approached climax. Despite her distress, Heejin's own arousal grew, a confusing and unwelcome sensation that she desperately tried to ignore. Her tongue worked overtime, trying to keep up with their relentless pace, as drool spilled down her chin and her jaw began to ache from the constant abuse. The sound of their zippers filled the air as they released her head, their cocks glistening with her saliva. They smirked down at her, panting and disheveled, the power dynamic in the room starker than ever. Heejin wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her gaze never leaving the floor, her thoughts a whirlwind of fear, anger, and a strange, detached curiosity about what would happen next in this twisted masquerade of survival.

Heejin felt the firm grip of the men's hands on her arms, hauling her to her feet. They positioned her at the edge of the sumptuous bed, her knees bending slightly to keep her balance. The coolness of the satin sheets brushed against her heated skin as she was bent over, her face buried in the soft fabric. The sound of belts unbuckling echoed in the room, a sinister symphony that made her stomach twist in knots. The first slap of leather against her ass took her by surprise, a sharp sting that made her yelp. The second investor stepped up, his belt in hand, and delivered his own blow, the force sending a shockwave through her body. They alternated, one slapping her firmly on the left cheek, the other on the right, creating a rhythm of pain that she tried to anticipate. Yet, with each stinging impact, she felt their hands come to soothe, rubbing her reddening flesh with surprising gentleness, the contrast making her skin tingle with a confusing mix of agony and relief. The men took their time, enjoying the sight of her writhing body, their smirks deepening with every muffled cry she emitted into the bed. She bit the pillow, muffling her cries as the belts fell in a steady rhythm, painting her ass a deep shade of red that mirrored the fury in her heart. Yet she remained in place, her eyes squeezed shut, enduring the assault for the sake of her group's future.

With a rough tug, the men spun her around on the bed, her legs splayed wide in an undignified display. The suddenness of their actions made Heejin's breath hitch, her eyes flying open in shock. They leaned over her, their faces twisted with lust as they licked their fingers with an obscene enthusiasm. Before she could react, they plunged their wet digits into her pussy, invading her most intimate space without warning. Heejin's eyes rolled back into her head, a mix of surprise and unwanted pleasure coursing through her veins. The sensation was foreign, almost painful, but she felt the beginnings of a wetness that she had not expected, not wanted. Her body was responding to their touch despite her mind's fierce rejection, the slickness coating their fingers as they pumped in and out of her. She could feel her muscles clenching around them, betraying the turmoil within her. The men's chuckles were a symphony of triumph as they watched her body react, their eyes gleaming with victory. They worked her in unison, their fingers curling and stroking with a practiced skill that had her back arching off the bed. Heejin bit her lip hard, tasting the metallic tang of blood as she struggled not to give in to the rising tide of pleasure. This wasn't supposed to happen, she wasn't supposed to enjoy this, but her body was a traitor to her resolve. The room swam around her, the opulent suite a prison of velvet and gold that she had willingly entered for the sake of her dreams. And now, as the men's fingers worked their magic, she wondered if the price of success was one she could ever truly pay in full.

"Please, slow down!" Heejin gasped out, her voice filled by urgency. Her body was a taut bowstring, ready to snap under the tension of their relentless ministrations. Despite her mental turmoil, the sensations building within her were undeniable, a crescendo of pleasure that she hadn't anticipated. The investors took her words as encouragement, their fingers moving with renewed vigor as they brought her closer to the edge. She could feel the heat pooling in her core, the coil of desire tightening with each intrusive stroke. Her hips began to buck, her body moving of its own accord, seeking the release that hovered just out of reach. "I'm going to cum!" she choked out, the confession torn from her in a desperate whisper. The men's eyes lit up like predatory animals that had spotted their prey, and they quickened their pace, eager to claim their prize. Heejin's eyes squeezed shut even tighter as she fought the wave that threatened to overtake her, the sound of their grunts and the slick sounds of her own arousal a cacophony in her ears. With a final, brutal thrust, she shattered, her body convulsing on the bed as an orgasm ripped through her.

"Taste yourself," Heejin felt the slick, wet fingers at her mouth and knew what was expected of her. With a sense of defeat that weighed heavier than the gold that adorned the suite, she parted her lips and took the proffered digits, tasting the blend of her own arousal and the faint tang of her fear. The man's eyes bore into hers as she sucked, his smile a twisted mirror of triumph that made her stomach lurch. She knew this was the final act of submission before the main event, the ultimate proof of her willingness to play their twisted game.

With a sense of inevitability, Heejin felt her body being repositioned with her head at the edge of the bed, her legs spread wide by one of the investors as the other man stands near the foot of the bed, his erection bobbing in anticipation. The coldness of the man's cock pressed against her lips, the taste of her own arousal still lingering in her mouth from their previous act. She took a deep breath, trying to focus on anything but the impending violation. The man at her pussy took hold of his shaft and began to rub the tip against her slick opening, her body taut with fear and a reluctant excitement that she couldn't entirely suppress. His grip was firm, his intent clear as he began to push into her, stretching her open with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a shiver down her spine. Heejin's eyes watered as she felt herself being filled, the discomfort of his entry stark against the backdrop of her recent orgasm. Meanwhile, the second man leaned in, his cock nudging her cheek as he urged her to take him into her mouth once more. She complied, her eyes never leaving the first man's as she felt herself being claimed, the reality of her situation crashing down upon her like a dark, heavy wave. She swallowed around his girth, her throat tightening with each thrust, as the man at her pussy began to pump in and out with increasing fervor. The room was a blur of gold and velvet, the scents of cologne and sex mingling in the air as the men used her body for their own twisted satisfaction.

As Heejin felt the man's cock hit a particularly sensitive spot, her mouth couldn't help but pull away from the second investor's erection, her moan muffled by the thickness of his shaft. "P-Please, take it s-slow. It's too big," she whimpered, her voice barely audible around the girth in her mouth. Her eyes pleaded with the man at her pussy, her makeup-smeared face a portrait of desperation. He chuckled darkly, the sound a grating contrast to the gentle stroking of her cheek that accompanied his thrusts. "You'll take it," he said, his voice a promise wrapped in a threat. His eyes bore into hers as he pushed deeper, her body stretching to accommodate his size. Heejin's eyes watered again, her throat constricting around the cock filling her mouth as she tried to stifle the sounds of her distress. She could feel her pussy clench around the intrusion, the pressure building with each thrust. Despite her pleas, the men's rhythm didn't falter, their lust driving them forward as they used her body without mercy. She felt so small, so powerless beneath them, their weight pressing down on her as if she were nothing more than a doll to be played with and discarded.

The man at Heejin's mouth grew more demanding, his grip on her neck tightening as he neared his climax. She could feel the pulsing of his cock as he held her in a vice-like grip, his eyes never leaving hers as he fucked her mouth with an intensity that left her gasping for air. The second investor took the cue, his own strokes growing more frantic as he watched the scene unfold before him. Heejin's eyes watered uncontrollably, her throat constricting around the intrusion. The man's cock grew thicker, his grip tightening even further, his hips pumping faster. Heejin's hands slapped against his thighs in a desperate attempt to get him to stop, her muffled cries for air muffled by his girth. But the man was lost in his own pleasure, oblivious to her plight.

"Fuck, take all of my cum, bitch!" his hand tightened, his movements grew erratic, and with a final, brutal thrust, he came, his hot seed filling her mouth and spilling down her chin. She gagged, her eyes watering uncontrollably, as she struggled to swallow his release, the taste of him coating her tongue.

Heejin wasn't given the time to recover as the second investor wrecks her tight pussy with a pace that quickens each second. "Ahhhhh, please, it's t-too much!" the man's grip on Heejin's hips grew even more punishing as he ignored her pleas, his thrusts growing more erratic as he approached his own climax. "You're going to take it all, slut," he grunted, his eyes narrowed with determination. "I'm going to fill your tight little cunt with my cum." Heejin's eyes widened in panic, her voice strained as she begged, "P-please, not inside me! Pull out, please, I don't want to get pregnant!" The investor's only response was a cruel chuckle as he dug his nails into her skin, holding her in place as his hips pistoned between her legs. Heejin's body tensed, her heart racing as she felt his cock swell within her. She knew she had no power here, no control over her own body as it was used for their depraved amusement. But as his movements grew more frantic, she clung to the hope that her voice, her humanity, could somehow break through the fog of their lust. "Pull out, pull out, pull out!" she begged again, her voice a hoarse whisper. "Please, don't cum inside me." The man's only response was a grunt of pleasure, his pace never wavering as he neared the edge of his own release. Her body was a battleground, torn between the need to satisfy these monsters and the primal urge to protect herself. But as the pressure built within her, she knew there was no escape from the fate they had chosen for her, the price she had agreed to pay for the elusive promise of stardom. With a final, savage thrust, the investor's cock erupted, flooding her with his hot, sticky cum. Heejin's eyes squeezed shut as she felt the warmth fill her, the reality of her situation crashing down upon her like a ton of bricks.

Heejin lay there, her body limp and used, cum trickling out of her ravaged pussy and onto the bed beneath her. Her eyes were unfocused, glazed over with a mix of shock and pain. The men, now sated, stepped back, their gazes lingering on her form as if they were contemplating their next move. Her chest heaved with each ragged breath she took, her heart racing as the gravity of what she had just endured settled heavily upon her. The suite's opulence now felt like a mockery of the depraved act that had just occurred within its walls. The men wiped themselves off with a carelessness that was almost as painful as their touch, their business-like demeanor a stark contrast to the raw, exposed state of her soul. They exchanged knowing smirks, their suits immaculate despite the scene they had just indulged in. Heejin felt a tear slip down her cheek, the salty taste of her own pain mixing with the bitter residue of their pleasure in her mouth. This wasn't how she had envisioned her path to stardom, but she had made her choice and now she had to live with the consequences, no matter how much it felt like her soul was being torn apart. Her mind drifted to her bandmates, the music they shared, and the hope that this dark transaction would be the key to unlocking their collective dreams. As she gathered her strength to rise, she vowed that she would never let them know the price she had paid, burying the memory deep within the recesses of her being, a secret she'd carry like a heavy burden for the rest of her days.

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Happy Heejin Day!

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