thetidesthatturn

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, a loooot of hurt, angry Wooyoung, soft Mingi, self deprecating thoughts, mentions of death and injury - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

A/N: this is the penultimate chapter, and I’m apologising in advance for the last 😅 I’ll explain further next week

Tag list: @ninjakitty15 @autieofthevalley @idknunsadly @fallendebil

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER TWELVE | CHAPTER FOURTEEN >>

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - REBORN FROM LIGHT

You don’t sleep much after that night.

Not because you’re afraid—but because something within you has changed.

When the rest of the palace settles into silence, when even the tides grow still and no moonlight cuts through the clouds, you rise. Always alone. Always silent.

You slip through the empty halls of the palace with bare feet, navigating by instinct. Your fire might be gone, but this new force—the Sunborn power that pulses just beneath your skin—responds to your will like it’s been waiting for you.

You find a clearing in the high courtyard, where columns of ivory marble stretch like fingers into the night sky. No one follows. No one knows.

Here, you begin to test it.

At first, the light only flickers—small, hesitant beams that pulse through your fingertips or hum in your palms. But over time, it grows. It warms the air around you. It listens.

You don’t try to command it the way you did your flame. It isn’t like fire—it doesn’t rage or lash out. It expands. It reveals. It feels like truth itself, turned into light.

You begin to move with it, pushing your body to its limits. Each motion more deliberate than the last—strikes, pivots, footwork honed through memory and pain. But now, the sun answers your movements. It crowns your limbs, arcs behind your motions like golden halos.

And when you focus—when you breathe—the light doesn’t just follow. It shields. It cuts. It bends to you.

Night after night, you grow stronger. More precise. You train until your muscles burn and your legs shake beneath you. Until your hands tremble from the weight of your own power.

You scream sometimes—into the wind, into the dark. Letting the grief pour out. Letting the guilt crack and shatter in the stone around you.

But always, you rise. Always, you stand. Because now, there is no fire to cradle you. Only light. Only you.

But for days now, Wooyoung has been keeping watch.

Not in the way he used to, hovering around you with spiced biscuits or teasing smiles. No, this watchfulness is different—quieter, more careful. Ever since the night Hongjoong opened his eyes again, you’ve been… changing.

At first, it was relief. He saw it in your eyes—saw the way your shoulders dropped, like you could finally breathe again. But that only lasted a few days.

Then came the silence.

You stopped attending the morning check-ins. Ate in your quarters. Smiled less. Spoke even less than that. You drifted through the palace like a phantom.

But most telling of all?

You started waking up at the exact same time each morning. Not with the sun, but a little before. Before the kitchens stirred. Before the dew even dried from the stone paths of the Isle.

And you slipped away. Every time.

He noticed it first when he passed your chamber in the early hours and found your bed empty. Then the next day. And the next.

So he began to count the steps between his room and yours. The time it took you to reach the door. The way your shadow moved through the corridor. The direction you headed—always northeast.

And this morning, he can’t take it anymore.

When your door creaks open, Wooyoung is already laced into his boots, his dark coat thrown over his shoulders. He doesn’t hesitate. He waits just long enough for you to pass, and then follows.

You move swiftly, but not like someone who’s afraid of being seen. There’s purpose in your steps. Familiarity.

You’re leading him somewhere you’ve already been.

The path carves through the trees, winding higher, until it opens to a clearing shrouded in mist. And there, bathed in quiet dawnlight, you stop.

Wooyoung ducks low behind the brush, breath caught. You don’t know he’s there.

And then you begin.

Light hums beneath your skin, golden and delicate. It bleeds outward from your chest, along your arms, threading through your veins like living sunlight. Your feet lift an inch from the ground, barely noticeable, but he sees it.

Your hands rise. A single breath escapes your lips. And the world blooms around you. Golden arcs of solar energy spiral outward, forming patterns in the air like sunfire dancing across invisible strings. It is silent. Controlled. Beautiful.

But it’s not just power. It’s pain.

Wooyoung can see it now—in your jaw, in the tension in your shoulders, in the way your eyes close too long between each movement. You’re holding something in. Or trying to.

You’re breaking.

He forgets to breathe.

And in that moment, he knows this isn’t just training. This is survival. This is you trying to keep from coming undone.

His chest aches, but he stays hidden. You need this, he knows. But he also knows the time will come soon—maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day—when he’ll step out from behind that tree and finally ask.

Why didn’t you tell me?

But not yet. Not today.

Today, he lets you believe you’re alone, and he memorises the way the morning light bends around you. Like it remembers you were born of the sun.

The next morning, the sun is still low on the horizon—casting long, golden slats through the trees by the time you return from the clearing.

Your tunic clings to your skin with sweat. Your hair is a mess, sticking to your brow. You ache—everywhere. Muscles trembling from overuse, your fingertips still tingling with light.

You barely notice the scent of fresh bread until you round the final corner to your quarters.

He’s there. Leaning casually against your doorway, a plate in one hand, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t startle when he sees you.

He’s been waiting.

“Rough morning?” Wooyoung asks, lifting a brow, as if you’ve only been out for a stroll and not dragging the weight of a godless legacy behind you.

You pause, startled by his presence, wiping a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

He doesn’t let you answer before holding up the plate—steamed rice, salted fish, a sliced peach. “Brought you breakfast. Thought maybe you’d want to eat with someone who doesn’t talk like a scholar or walk around like they’re floating.”

A tightness crawls up your throat. You try to play it cool.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching for the plate, but he doesn’t give it up right away.

He’s watching you now, closer. Eyes trailing over your sweat-soaked collar, the dirt smudged across your arm, the wild look still haunting the edges of your gaze.

Then comes his smile. Small. Crooked. Not the one he wears when he’s causing trouble, but the one reserved for when he wants to make you feel safe. Seen.

“So,” he says, casually, “what’ve you been up to this morning? You know… before you came crashing in like you wrestled the sun?”

Your grip tightens around the plate.

“I just went for a walk,” you say lightly. Too lightly.

Wooyoung’s smile falters—but only for a second. He nods, looks down at his boots, then back up.

“Right. Walks do that to people. Leaves them looking like they just came out of a sparring ring with a wildfire.”

You force a chuckle. “Maybe I tripped over a few branches.”

“Mmm. Sure. Happens to the best of us.” He pushes away from the doorway.

You step past him, your back tense, waiting for him to say something more.

He doesn’t.

He just walks a few paces behind you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. And when he hands you the plate again, this time he lets go. But something in him sags, and you feel it.

You don’t look back until you’ve reached the door. “Thank you. For breakfast.”

He gives you a short nod. “Anytime.”

And that’s it. He walks away without asking further. Without pushing. But behind his easy smile and slow steps, his chest is tight.

Because he knows you’re lying. And he just doesn’t know how to help… if you won’t let him try.

~

You can’t face the council today.

Not with Wooyoung’s voice still lingering in your head. Not with the hollow ache growing behind your sternum like rot.

Instead, you end up in the one place that doesn’t feel like it’s watching you.

The library.

It’s massive—cathedral-like in size and stillness. The air smells of aged paper and sandalwood. Golden light streams in through tall arched windows, glancing off shelves that stretch higher than you can see, stacked edge to edge with volumes too old to name.

You run your fingers across the spines. Some books look untouched, others worn at the corners like they’ve been passed from hand to hand for generations. A world written in ink and ideas—stories you never had the luxury to know.

You hadn’t thought about books during your time on the Fang. There were no stories there, only commands. Only cages. And now, when you could have everything, your heart still feels starved.

A soft knock pulls you from your thoughts.

Yunho’s head peeks through the carved doorway, his smile tentative but warm. “Hope I’m not interrupting your… literary awakening?”

You force a breath through your nose—close to a laugh, but not quite.

He steps in carefully, towering even in his soft-footed gait, carrying a wrapped bundle under his arm. “Brought some tea,” he offers, setting it down on a nearby table. “Thought you might want company. Or, at the very least, hydration.”

You don’t know how to say thank you. Not without breaking. Instead, you nod and glance back toward the shelves.

“I’m not great at reading ancient god texts either,” he says. “Yeosang tried to explain one to me and I think I aged five years.”

Your chest tightens again.

Yeosang.

You haven’t seen him. Not once since the day he was brought in, barely holding onto life.

Yunho clears his throat, softer now. “He’s still recovering. Healing slowly. He’s… missed you.”

Your fingers curl around the edge of the bookshelf.

“I know it’s been a lot,” he continues gently. “But just seeing you for a moment might help him.”

You blink hard, throat aching. “I can’t.”

Yunho tilts his head. “Can’t… or won’t?”

Something cracks inside you.

You whirl on him, harsher than you mean to be. “You don’t understand, Yunho. None of you do. You think this is something I can just… step back into? That I can look them in the eyes and pretend I didn’t destroy everything trying to fix it?”

His expression falters. Not because he’s angry, but because you’ve hurt him.

“You didn’t destroy anything,” he says softly.

“You weren’t there,” you snap. “You didn’t see what I became. What I gave up.”

His jaw shifts—just slightly. “No, I didn’t. But I am here now. We all are. We’ve all been trying to be.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” he agrees quietly, “but you needed it anyway.”

You go still. And then, you say the words you wish you could claw back the second they’re out.

“You should’ve stayed in the hospital wing. Maybe then I’d have five minutes of peace.”

It’s cruel. Unfair. You know it even as it falls from your lips. Yunho blinks once. And then his gaze drops, all that warmth retracting like the tide.

“Right,” he murmurs, nodding to himself. “Of course.”

He doesn’t say anything more. He just turns and walks away—shoulders heavy, hands tucked deep into his coat. And when the door closes behind him, the silence left in his wake is deafening.

You sink down against the wall, a book clutched tight to your chest. You’ve never felt more like a stranger in your own skin.

Hours pass, or at least it feels like they do. The light shifts in golden slants across the marble floor, catching on the gilded spines of books you can’t read—books you don’t even have the will to try and understand.

Your thoughts are louder than anything now. Louder than reason. Louder than breath.

You think about visiting Yeosang. About stepping into that sterile room, about seeing the remnants of the crew you once knew. The family you abandoned in the name of love, only to lose both.

But your limbs stay locked in place. Because what if you see Yunho again? Or Wooyoung? Or worse—Hongjoong.

His name cuts through your mind like broken glass.

Hongjoong. The man who changed everything. The man you gave your fire for. The man who now… surely hates you.

You try not to cry, but the weight in your chest presses heavier, like something ancient has settled inside you. You’re not sure what hurts more—his silence, or the idea that he might never forgive you. That he might be alive now, but only because you destroyed every piece of yourself to bring him back.

And even that… might not be enough.

Your fingers twitch. The sunlight hums softly beneath your skin. You glance down, and it’s there again—light threading across your palms, dancing across your fingertips in pulsing gold. But it’s brighter now. Sharper. It’s growing.

You try to steady yourself, to breathe through it, but your thoughts are spiralling. Too loud, too fast.

He hates me.

They all do.

I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong anywhere. I should have died instead.

The light answers. It flares. Blinding. It floods the chamber—washing over walls, books, the ceiling. Everything turns white. Too much. Too bright.

You hear your name. Once. Twice. A dozen times. Echoing. You want to respond, but your throat won’t work. You’re locked in place as the light bursts like a supernova around you.

And then, silence. Darkness.

Nothing.

The world extinguishes.

You collapse, unconscious against the marble floor. You don’t know it yet—but somewhere beyond the veil of time and death, he is watching.

Your father. The man of sunlight and softness. The one whose blood you carry. Whose love for your mother was powerful enough to defy the heavens, even if the world called it forbidden. Even in death, he guards you. Even without form, he reaches for you.

Because your light is his light, and he will never let it go out. Not while he still has even a sliver of power left to give.

~

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Heavy and sure, but picking up speed.

Mingi had only been heading to the mess hall, grumbling something about needing a late-night snack, when the light stopped him cold. It poured like molten gold beneath the doorframe of the library—a blinding burst, unnatural in every way.

He doesn’t hesitate. His boots thunder down the corridor, sword drawn before the door even finishes creaking open.

“Y/N?”

His voice rumbles with urgency as he scans the room, heart hammering against his ribs.

There you are. Crumpled on the floor, barely breathing, skin glowing faintly as if touched by something not of this world.

He drops to his knees beside you.

“Y/N? What happened, are you ok?”

But your eyes are distant. Glazed. You don’t respond, not really. You’re caught somewhere between here and somewhere far, far away. Gently, he scoops you into his arms. You don’t resist—too light, too quiet.

His sword clangs softly against the marble floor as he stands, carrying you with careful, protective strength through the halls and into your bedchambers.

He lowers you slowly onto the bed.

“I’ll call for help,” he mutters. “Just give me a few minutes—”

“No.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but your hand clutches at the sleeve of his shirt.

He stills.

“Please… no.”

His throat tightens at the sound of you breaking. A single tear escapes your eye, trailing down your cheek.

“Y/N, I need to go and get someone… I—”

“Min… just stay.” The name trembles on your lips. “Please… don’t leave. I can’t—”

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s faced monsters. Fought hand-to-hand in the bloodiest battles. He’s carried cannon fire and seen death at sea more times than he can count. But this? This cracks him open.

You look so small. So unlike yourself. So fragile, where once you burned. Not the Fireborn girl he met. Not the god-touched force of nature he followed into battle. it’s something else now. Something deeply, achingly human.

Slowly, Mingi sits on the edge of the bed. Your body folds into him instantly, desperate, trembling. Your sobs are guttural—raw grief spilling from you in shudders.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, unsure but trying, his voice low and soothing. “It’s ok. I won’t go. I’ll stay.”

He presses a hand gently to your arm, and you cling to him like he’s the only thing tethering you to the world. And in that moment, maybe he is.

And Mingi, for all his bluster, just sits there quietly. Holds you. Anchors you.

As the night drapes itself around the Isle, and the fireless girl lets her grief take shape in the arms of someone who’s never seen her fall.

You wake to the sound of your own breath; shallow, tight. And the unfamiliar weight of an arm across your shoulders. Your heart jumps—but it settles almost immediately.

Mingi.

He’s fast asleep, his broad chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. His arm draped around you in a way that’s protective, not possessive. His lips part with every slow, steady exhale, soft puffs of air ghosting across your brow.

There’s nothing intimate about this. No romantic undertone, just comfort. A friend who saw you break—and held the pieces without question. But still… You know how it would look, should anyone open the door.

You shift carefully, easing his arm off you with slow, deliberate movements. He stirs, once, a low hum in the back of his throat, but doesn’t wake.

You slip from the bed. The floor is cool beneath your bare feet as you move, quiet as a shadow. The door clicks shut behind you, and the corridor greets you with soft silence.

Your body moves on instinct now. Guided not by thought, but by feeling. That feeling leads you to the hospital wing.

The hour is painfully early—still draped in that ghostly grey before sunrise, when the world feels paused, waiting to exhale.

You pause at a door. Familiar. Unbearably so. You pull in a breath, then—click. The handle turns under your hand.

The room is dim, aglow with candlelight and the faint flicker of the oil lamp resting on the table beside the bed.

Yeosang looks up from the book in his hands, eyes catching yours in the quiet. He’s propped up by a wall of pillows, bandages still peeking beneath the collar of his nightshirt. His skin is pale, but his gaze is sharp as ever.

One brow arches. “Why are you up at this hour, sneaking in here?”

You almost smile. Almost.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to come and see you.”

There’s a quiet pause. Then, he closes the book gently, resting it on the quilt beside him. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“You’re here now,” he says simply. “That’s what matters.”

But it doesn’t feel like enough.

You cross the room slowly, your voice smaller than you mean it to be. “You almost died.”

“Yes,” he replies, like it’s just a fact. “But I didn’t. We didn’t.”

He pats the edge of the mattress beside him. You hesitate—then sit. For a moment, neither of you speak. The candle crackles faintly. The light throws golden shadows on the walls.

Yeosang watches you with that same unreadable stillness. Like he already knows what you’re about to say, but is giving you the space to say it anyway.

“Everything feels wrong,” you whisper. “Like I’m here… but not really.”

His voice is soft. “You’ve been carrying too much on your own.”

You don’t deny it. Your shoulders sag under the weight of truths unspoken, regrets unvoiced. He reaches out—just slightly—and places a hand over yours.

“Let me help,” he says quietly. “Let us help.”

“I don’t know how to let you anymore.”

~

Hongjoong winces as he fastens the last of the clasps on his coat, fingers trembling slightly against the worn leather.

Every step without aid feels like hell, his muscles screaming, ribs still not quite settled. But he’s done hiding behind bandages and candlelight.

If he’s going to fight for you, it has to start now.

The corridor stretches ahead of him like a gauntlet—endless, echoing, lined with polished walls that feel more like a mausoleum than a sanctuary. His boots thud with each step, uneven but steady. Determined. He doesn’t bother to disguise the limp. He’s earned it.

When he reaches your door, he hesitates only briefly. A breath to settle the chaos twisting in his chest. Then he raises his hand. Three soft knocks.

No answer.

He frowns. Waits. Still, no sound. His fingers curl around the handle, and it opens easily. The door swings in with a soft creak, and he stills.

Mingi. Fully dressed. Boots laced. Laid horizontally across your bed, fast asleep.

It’s like a gut punch. Sharp. Deep. Unexpected.

Hongjoong stares, the world narrowing in on this one, impossible frame. His first instinct is to feel—rage, betrayal, confusion. But none of it comes. Just… silence. Numb and absolute.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. There’s no confrontation. No accusations. Just a long moment, stretched tight as a wire.

Then, without a word, he steps back. Quiet as he came. He closes the door behind him with a gentle click, the sound final in a way that cleaves through bone.

And then he walks away.

Alone. Again.

~

You part ways with Yeosang just as the faintest blush of dawn spills over the horizon, the corridors of the palace quiet as the world begins to stir.

Your thoughts are heavier now—guilt mixing with exhaustion, and something else. Something like… clarity.

When you reach your quarters, it’s empty. The room is still warm from Mingi’s presence, his scent still clinging faintly to the pillows. But he’s gone. Left before first light.

You freshen up quickly, ignoring the pull of fatigue in your limbs. You need to move. To train. To push the ache down before it swallows you whole.

So you slip out silently, dressed in linen and leather, your boots whispering against the marble as you disappear into the lower halls toward your usual training space, tucked away where no one goes.

Elsewhere in the palace, Mingi is pacing.

He retraces his steps from your quarters, his mind an unsettled mess of fractured sleep and the image of you—shaking, tear-stained, fragile in a way that still unsettles him.

He doesn’t know what he’s searching for exactly. Just that something shifted last night. And he can’t shake it.

Rounding a corner too quickly, he nearly collides with Wooyoung.

“Woah—easy,” Wooyoung mutters, catching Mingi by the arms. “What’s the rush?”

Mingi’s jaw tightens. “Have you seen her?”

“No,” Wooyoung says, but his eyes narrow, already knowing who he means.

Mingi hesitates. “Something weird happened last night. She asked me not to tell anyone but… she was completely out of it. Like something drained the life from her.”

Wooyoung stiffens.

“Did she say anything?”

“She just wanted me to stay. Begged me not to leave. I’ve never seen her like that before.”

Wooyoung chews the inside of his cheek, then nods once. “I haven’t seen her yet, but I’ll look.”

Mingi watches him go, not entirely convinced. Because Wooyoung walks off with too much purpose. Like he already knows exactly where you’ll be.

~

The weight of last night comes crashing down on you like a landslide.

Every movement—every strike, every pivot, every burst of light summoned to your palms—carries the ache in your chest, the sharp twist of shame in your gut. You don’t hold back. You can’t. You lean into the fury, let it drive each motion until your muscles burn, until your lungs scream.

Until you do.

A raw, feral sound tears from your throat—something between anguish and rage, a scream that feels like it might shatter the sky.

And then—

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound cuts through the stillness. Mocking. Slow. Unmistakable.

You whirl.

Wooyoung stands a few hundred yards away, arms crossed loosely, a crooked smile twisting his lips. His hair is windswept, lips still pressed into the remnants of amusement—but his eyes… his eyes are unreadable.

“Very impressive,” he drawls, letting the silence stretch between each word. “I see the training is working.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, sweat clinging to your skin. You don’t speak—because what could you say?

He starts toward you, deliberate, steady. And with every step he takes, your heart tightens. Not from fear. From something worse.

Shame.

“Is this what you’ve been hiding?” he says, softer now. “Secret sunrise sparring sessions while the rest of us are trying to figure out how to save the world?”

You swallow, jaw clenching. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“That’s the problem,” he replies quietly. “You never do.”

The silence between you crackles—tense, charged like a storm about to break. Wooyoung’s usual half-smirk falters. His arms fall to his sides.

Then he snaps. Not piece by piece. All at once.

“No, Y/N. No more.” His voice lashes out, sharp and sudden, striking through the training field like a whip. “I’m sick of this. Of you shutting us out like we’re strangers. Like we haven’t fought beside you. Bled beside you. Loved you.”

Your lips part, but no words come out.

His hands ball into fists at his sides. “You think you’re the only one hurting? The only one who lost something?” He gestures wildly, stepping closer. “Every single one of us would’ve died that night if it wasn’t for you—and you think that means we didn’t feel it? That we don’t still feel it?”

You flinch at his words, but he doesn’t let up.

“I watched Seonghwa fight with one arm. I watched Yeosang nearly bleed out in front of me. I watched Hongjoong die, Y/N.” His voice breaks, throat tight with emotion. “And when he came back, he asked for you. Not himself. Not the crew. You. And you weren’t there.”

The sting is brutal.

His breathing’s ragged now, his chest rising and falling. “You’re falling right back into the hole you crawled out of—and I can’t watch it again. I won’t.” His voice lowers to a bitter murmur. “You’re not on the Serpent Fang anymore. You have people now. A family. And you’re pushing all of us away again.”

The ache in his chest is visible, etched into every line of his face. You freeze, limbs locked in place. He starts walking toward you, each step measured.

“You really thought we wouldn’t notice?” His tone tightens, something sharp and unfamiliar lacing his words. “The way you vanish at dawn, how you’re quieter than a shadow, the way you come back with your clothes wrinkled and your hands trembling?”

You look away.

“I thought—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply. “You didn’t tell anyone, Y/N. Not even me. Especially not me.”

The silence hangs heavy. You say nothing. Can’t say anything.

“I’m your best friend. Or I thought I was.” His voice wavers. “You didn’t think we’d want to help carry the weight? Did you think we’d just… stand by, again, and watch you break yourself?”

You keep your eyes on the ground, the burn of shame rising up your throat like bile.

“Say something. Please, just say something!”

His voice cracks, and when you finally dare to glance up, his expression is raw—more wounded than angry.

“I see you,” he whispers. “And I miss you. I miss her. The real you. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that it doesn’t hurt watching you tear yourself apart.”

Still, you say nothing. Your throat is tight. Your heart is heavier than ever.

Wooyoung blinks, and the unshed tears finally crest the edge of his lashes. He breathes in sharply, stepping back.

“I see how it is.”

He turns, shoulders squared, starting to walk away. But your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You sprint, grabbing him and throwing your arms around him from behind, pulling him into you like it’s the last thing tethering you to the world.

“I’m sorry.”

It breaks out of you like a sob, fractured and frantic. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Sunlight spills around you both; radiating from your skin, from your fingertips, from your very soul. It glows warm against his back, wrapping the two of you in golden light, gentle and all-consuming. It’s more than heat. It’s grief, and love, and everything you’ve held back crashing into the open.

Wooyoung stiffens, but only for a moment. Then he turns in your arms, and holds you tight.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice catching. “It’s okay. You’re here. I’ve got you.”

Your face buries into his chest, the tears falling harder now. He presses your head into his shoulder, resting his cheek against your hair as the golden light pulses softly around you.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I thought I lost my best friend.”

You shake your head against him, clinging tighter. “You didn’t. I’m still here. I just—forgot how to let you in.”

And for a long while, neither of you speak. You just hold each other, bathed in the warmth of everything unsaid finally being felt.

[thetidesthatturn]

Oversteer

Pairing: OT8 F1 Ateez x FIA Mental & Performance Strategist freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, alcohol use, hate fucking, implied unprotected sex, trauma, tense arguments, mentions of cheating, spiralling Hongjoong - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER THREE >>

CHAPTER TWO - DIRTY AIR

It’s almost 2 a.m. when you finally make it back to your apartment.

The laughter from the bar still hums somewhere in your bones, like the ghost of a melody you don’t want to forget. Wooyoung’s ridiculous falsetto, Yunho’s wheezing cackles, the way Seonghwa deadpanned a Spice Girls lyric like it was Shakespeare.

You should feel lighter. But as the door clicks shut behind you and the quiet swallows the room, everything sharpens again.

You drop your bag on the armchair, kick off your shoes, and let yourself collapse backward onto the bed—limbs aching, brain buzzing, heart an open wound that never quite scabbed over.

The city outside hums faintly through the cracked window. Neon bleeds across the ceiling. You stare at it like it might give you answers. But all it gives you is them.

Mingi. That look in his eyes. The softness. The guilt. The ache. How easily he said your name. How hard it was not to fall back into the gravity of it.

You turn over, bury your face into the pillow. But it doesn’t help.

Because then comes Hongjoong. His voice, cold. Precise. Wounded. He said you didn’t say goodbye. But he’s the one who never gave you a chance to stay. Who looked at you like a traitor long before you ever kissed Mingi.

The memory tightens in your chest like a seatbelt in a crash.

You sit up, rubbing your palms against your face. You’re not eighteen anymore. You’re not the girl they fought over. Not the girl who ran.

You’re someone new. Someone rebuilt. Someone trying.

But still—in this moment, alone and exhausted and wrung out, you wonder if the pieces you stitched back together were ever really yours to begin with.

You lie back down, curling onto your side, heart thudding slow and deep against the mattress. And in the dark, with no one watching, you whisper it like a confession.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

The ceiling doesn’t answer. The city hums on. And sleep, when it finally comes, tastes like salt and smoke and regret.

The paddock is already pulsing by the time you arrive.

Sunlight bounces off carbon fibre and freshly waxed paint. Tyres hiss as they’re rolled into position. Voices crackle across radios. The world is moving—fast, loud, relentless.

And you’re still a few paces behind it.

Sleep barely touched you. You showered in silence, dressed by routine, and walked through the team gates with a tablet under your arm and a weight on your shoulders that hasn’t eased in days. Not since that first meeting. Not since Mingi.

Your head is low as you round the corner near the Haas garage, focused on your schedule for the day. You almost don’t see him.

“Watch your step,” comes a calm voice. Steady, warm.

You look up, and see Jongho.

He’s leaning against a flight case just outside the garage, arms crossed, headset resting around his neck. His race suit is partially unzipped, revealing the Haas undershirt clinging to his frame. He’s bulkier now; not just physically, but in presence. Still quiet. Still unreadable. But solid. Like the only unshifting piece of a chaotic machine.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says simply. Not sharp. Not surprised. Just honest.

You blink. “Jongho.”

He inclines his head in greeting. No smile, but there’s no coldness either. Just a kind of… curiosity. Like he’s seeing what time has done to you.

“You look well,” he adds after a moment.

“Not sure that’s true,” you reply, a little laugh catching in your throat.

“Still,” he says, “it’s good to see you again.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward, not tense. Just… still. You search his face for something. Pity. Judgment. Memory.

But there’s none of it. Not even the flicker of curiosity about the past. No mention of Mingi. No sideways dig about Hongjoong. No question about where you went or why you left.

Just this.

“How’ve you been?” he asks.

You shrug, suddenly unsure what version of the truth to give. “Trying to remember how to breathe in a place that used to feel like home.”

He nods. Like he understands. “It hasn’t changed much.”

“That’s the problem.”

Another pause. Then, softly, “You don’t have to pretend with me. You never did.”

You blink.

He’s the last piece. The final thread of your past. The one who never screamed, never chose sides, never raised his voice even when everyone else was on fire. He was just there. Always.

You exhale slowly. “Thank you. For not making this weird.”

Jongho lets the faintest ghost of a smile touch his lips. “Not really my style.”

He steps aside as a group of mechanics passes, then glances back at you.

“If you ever need a break from the circus,” he says, nodding toward the chaos behind him, “we keep snacks in the Haas lounge. No karaoke. No tequila. Just silence.”

You smile—the first real one in what feels like days.

“I might take you up on that.”

“I hope you do.”

And just like that, he turns and heads back into the garage, the calm swallowed by the storm again.

But you stay there a moment longer, something inside you just a little lighter than before.

You don’t even make it to your desk.

A message pings on your tablet before you can set down your coffee—urgent, flagged in red, labeled with the unmistakable stamp of the FIA Competitive Strategy Council.

Mandatory. Immediate. Inter-team candidate briefing.

Location: FIA Conference Wing.

All lead strategists and drivers present.

You stare at it like it might rewrite itself. Like maybe, if you blink hard enough, it’ll vanish.

It doesn’t.

And twenty minutes later, you’re walking down a corridor that feels more like a tunnel to execution, heels clicking too loud against polished tiles, pulse tapping against your collar like it’s trying to escape.

When the doors slide open, your breath catches.

Eight.

They’re all here.

Hongjoong, seated at the far end of the table, jaw set like granite, crimson Ferrari jacket zipped to the throat.

Mingi, off to the side with his AlphaTauri team, leaning forward slightly like he might spring from his chair if he sees a way out.

San, sprawled without a care in Red Bull navy, spinning a pen through his fingers with chaotic energy just under the surface.

Yeosang, already watching you, expression unreadable but eyes soft.

Jongho, seated straight-backed at the Haas side, nodding once as your gaze meets his.

Yunho, giving you the smallest, warmest smile from across the table.

Wooyoung, perched like a predator on the armrest of his Williams seat, smirking the moment he sees your face.

Seonghwa, standing behind the Mercedes team lead, composed, a quiet storm in fitted black.

Every man from your past. Every memory. Every kiss, every betrayal, every silence.

In one room. Waiting.

You feel the room shift the moment you step inside. It’s subtle—a glance here, a breath held there. Tension folds into the air like a fault line beneath the floor.

A few heads turn. Some team execs glance between you and their drivers, whispers passing behind tablets and lanyards. But you straighten your spine, bite down the knot in your throat, and cross the threshold.

The FIA Director clears her throat from the head of the table.

“Let’s begin. As you’re aware, this season marks the expansion of the All-Star Integration Program. Each of your drivers will be undergoing joint-team simulation drills, public engagements, and paired performance assessments. We’ve seen… mixed results.”

A few chuckles. San snorts. Hongjoong says nothing.

The Director continues. “As such, we are requiring all current candidates to remain in close, active strategic alignment. That includes shared debriefings and paired coaching under our performance specialists.”

You feel every eye slowly turn toward you.

The Director gestures.

“This is Y/N Y/L/N. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, she is one of our top mental resilience and strategy analysts. She will be overseeing these pairings for the remainder of the program.”

No one says anything.

You clear your throat. “I’ll be working with each team individually to create cohesion across race strategies and track behaviour. That means communication, data interpretation, and driver synchronisation. Yes—even when you hate each other.”

A faint ripple of laughter. You don’t look at Hongjoong. Or Mingi.

You don’t dare.

You run through the session assignment—pairing rotations, upcoming events, sim schedules. You speak clearly. Directly. But your hands tremble slightly where they’re tucked into your sleeves.

By the time you finish, your throat is dry, and the room has turned heavy again.

The Director closes the meeting with a sharp nod.

“Make no mistake. You are not here to play favourites or settle old scores. You are here to race, and to win. Do not let history sabotage your future.”

The room begins to stir, chairs scraping, conversations buzzing.

And then a voice cuts through it all.

“Funny,” Hongjoong says, standing slowly. “History seems to be the only thing holding this team together.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his words burn. You stiffen. Someone behind you—maybe Yunho—shifts like they might speak, but you shake your head once.

You won’t give him the satisfaction. Not today.

You don’t storm out of the meeting after the meeting.

You walk. Slow, measured. Because the last thing you want is for any of them to know how badly you’re shaking inside. You keep your gaze forward, your steps even, your face unreadable.

But when the door closes behind you, and the noise of the conference room fades into a muffled blur, you stop walking. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

You’re tucked in the side corridor now, next to a row of closed briefing rooms and abandoned water coolers. The hum of fluorescent lights above buzzes like static. You let your back hit the wall, the tablet sagging in your grip. Your pulse hasn’t steadied since Hongjoong opened his mouth.

History’s the only thing holding this team together.

He’s wrong. But it still hurt.

You close your eyes. Just a second. Just to be alone—

“Do you want company?”

The voice is smooth. Low. Controlled.

You open your eyes.

Seonghwa stands a few feet away, hands folded loosely in front of him, his dark blazer unbuttoned, his expression calm but watchful. You don’t know how long he’s been there. Somehow, he doesn’t feel like an interruption.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he adds, softer now. “You looked… like you could use a pause.”

You nod slowly. “I’m fine.”

He cocks his head just slightly—not in disbelief, but as if weighing the statement on a scale only he can see.

“You’re very good at that,” he says.

“At what?”

“Pretending you’re fine.”

The words land gently, but they still knock something loose in your chest.

You push off the wall and cross your arms. “Is this your thing? Brooding insight and flawless manners?”

A flicker of a smile. “Only when necessary.”

You let out a breath. “You didn’t have to check on me.”

“I know.” A breath. “But I wanted to.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just… observant. He watches you in that way you’re starting to realise is just him. Patient, unassuming, intentional.

“You don’t remember much about me, do you?” he asks softly.

Your eyes flick to his. You don’t lie. “No. Not really.”

He nods, unsurprised. “We only crossed paths once or twice back then. Yeosang introduced us during a karting expo. You were eating an entire bag of sour candy and talking about front grip like it was a religion.”

You laugh—startled, involuntary.

“I remember thinking,” he continues, “you didn’t care if anyone was listening. You just needed to say it. Loudly. Passionately. Unapologetically.”

You go quiet. Something warm flickers under your skin. “Why tell me that now?”

Seonghwa shrugs lightly. “You seemed like you needed to remember who you were before all of this started hurting.”

And there it is, the subtle, disarming kindness of someone who’s been watching you longer than you realised.

You meet his gaze. “You’re not what I expected.”

He tilts his head. “What did you expect?”

You smile faintly. “Polished. Detached. Bored.”

He chuckles—low, warm. “Most people do.”

You glance toward the conference room door behind you, then back at him. “Thanks for the interruption.”

He dips his head. “Anytime.”

And just before he turns to go, he adds, “Oh—and for the record… I don’t think history’s holding us together. I think you are.”

Then he walks away, quiet as ever, leaving you staring after him with your pulse doing something you can’t quite name.

You’re holed up in one of the smaller debrief rooms, tablet open, telemetry scrolling, a half-drunk coffee slowly going cold beside your elbow. You’ve been staring at the same lap sector for ten minutes, and it still doesn’t make sense—not because the data is wrong, but because your brain won’t stop replaying the meeting. Hongjoong’s voice. Mingi’s silence. Seonghwa’s eyes.

You rub your temples, sighing.

The door creaks open.

You glance up and feel your chest loosen the moment you see him.

Yeosang leans against the frame like he’s done it a hundred times before, arms crossed, expression unreadable but knowing.

“You working or hiding?”

You gesture to the screen. “Little of both.”

He steps inside, his tone lighter. “Good. Then you’re perfectly positioned to be kidnapped.”

You raise a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Lunch,” he says, tossing a glance behind him. “There’s a place near the paddock. Cheap dumplings. Terrible chairs. But Wooyoung swears they have the best chilli oil in Europe.”

“Tempting,” you murmur.

“And it’s me, Seonghwa, Yunho, and Woo,” he adds. “No pressure. Just… break time. You could use one.”

You hesitate—just long enough for him to notice. You always forget how observant Yeosang really is.

“I won’t let them talk about the past,” he says softly. “Not unless you want to. And if it gets weird, I’ll pretend to choke on my noodles.”

You snort. “Heroic.”

“Tragically underappreciated,” he says, extending a hand.

You look at it, then at him. “You’re not going to stop asking, are you?”

“Not unless you tell me to go to hell.”

You smile. “Fine. But I get to judge Wooyoung’s spice tolerance.”

“Deal.”

You gather your things slowly, pulse already beginning to settle. You’re not sure what you’re walking into. You’re not even sure if you’re ready for what’s unfolding between you and all of them.

But you do know this, when Yeosang offers you peace, you take it.

The dumpling place is exactly what Yeosang promised — cramped, loud, half-falling apart.

You love it instantly.

The tables are scratched laminate, the ceiling flickers in one corner, and the air is thick with steam, spice, and the kind of comfort food scent that makes you forget what decade it is. Wooyoung has already taken over the booth, legs kicked up, two plates in front of him and chopsticks in motion like he’s been starved since sunrise.

“There’s the princess herself!” he calls, mouth full, waving a chopstick in your direction like it’s a magic wand. “Took you long enough. Seonghwa’s been pretending to be polite this whole time and it’s killing him.”

Seonghwa doesn’t even blink. “I’m perfectly capable of being polite indefinitely.”

Wooyoung gestures wildly at him. “See? Painful.”

Yunho laughs, sliding over to make room for you beside him. “Ignore him. He’s on his second refill and sixth dumpling. You know what he gets like when he’s had too much sugar.”

You slip into the booth, the cushion sagging beneath you. Across the table, Yeosang sets your plate down for you, then leans back with a satisfied nod.

You’re hemmed in on either side now—Yunho to your left, broad-shouldered and warm, thigh brushing yours lightly, and Wooyoung to your right, already scooting closer, grinning like he’s waiting to cause trouble.

“Alright, tell us,” Wooyoung says. “On a scale of one to therapy, how traumatised are you from this morning’s meeting?”

You roll your eyes. “A solid nine.”

“Excellent. That means you’re still functioning. At a ten, you’d be catatonic.”

“Medical science,” Yeosang mutters, chewing thoughtfully.

Seonghwa passes you a water bottle without asking. “Eat first. Talk after.”

He’s seated across from you, poised even in the most chaotic space, like he belongs in a museum—or maybe in your peripheral vision a little more than you’d like. You nod a quiet thanks, and he tips his head once in reply.

Yunho nudges your shoulder gently. “You okay, though? Really?”

You glance at him, caught slightly off guard by the tenderness in his tone. He was always kind, even back then. The boy who’d bring snacks to test days, who knew how to make everyone laugh just when the nerves kicked in. But the man sitting beside you now? He’s taller. Stronger. More confident in the quiet way.

And somehow, the same softness lingers.

You offer him a smile. “Better now.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges. “Good. We’ve got your back now. No matter what.”

And for a second, your heart stutters. Because this Yunho… this grown, gentle version of the boy you used to adore—he feels like a slow sunrise you didn’t realise you’d been waiting for.

“I’m going to puke,” Wooyoung announces, stabbing a dumpling. “This is way too wholesome. Can someone seduce someone already?”

Seonghwa doesn’t look up from his food. “You first.”

“Say less,” Wooyoung grins, turning to you. “So. When are we running away together? I know a guy who can get us fake passports and a Vespa.”

You sip your water. “Let me check my trauma schedule.”

“That’s a yes in my language.”

Yeosang kicks him under the table. Wooyoung yelps.

You laugh, and this time, it’s real. Full. Unexpected. For a moment, the weight lifts. The mess of your return, the tangled web of feelings, the looming race weekend. It all fades into the background.

There’s just this. Chopsticks clinking, soft laughter, Seonghwa refilling your water without a word, Yunho’s shoulder brushing yours every time he leans to grab a plate.

You’re halfway through a story about an ill-fated go-kart race in Belgium—the one where Wooyoung drove straight into a mud ditch while trying to wink at a spectator—when your phone vibrates sharply on the table.

You glance down.

[New Email: FIA / URGENT Schedule Change]

Your smile fades a little.

You set the phone down with a sigh, already tucking your hair behind your ear like muscle memory. “Sorry, guys. I need to head back. They’ve reshuffled the sim schedule and want a last-minute review before the next pairings go out.”

Yeosang glances at your screen. “That looks like a headache.”

You nod, draining the last of your water. “A big one. Thank you for this, though. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Yunho says sincerely, already nudging your plate toward the edge so it can be cleared. “We’ll save you a seat next time.”

Seonghwa straightens beside him. “I’ll walk with you.”

You blink. “Oh—you don’t have to—”

“I’m headed back anyway.”

You can’t find a reason to object. Not one you want to say out loud.

He stands, as composed as ever, slipping into his jacket with smooth precision. But before you can take a step away from the booth—

“I was also planning on making an excuse to leave with you,” Wooyoung announces, rising with flair and nearly knocking over his soy sauce. “Mine was going to be gastrointestinal distress, but I see I’ve been beaten to the punch.”

Yeosang groans. “Please don’t use the word ‘gastrointestinal’ around food.”

Seonghwa turns slowly toward Wooyoung. His expression is unreadable, but the look says everything.

Wooyoung holds up both hands. “Kidding. Joking. I’ll just cry into my dumplings. Alone.”

You smile, despite yourself.

“Bye, Wooyoung,” you say, deadpan.

“Don’t forget me.”

“I’m trying.”

You hear Yeosang snort behind you as you and Seonghwa step out into the light.

Outside, the sun has shifted, casting long shadows over the walkway. You fall into step beside Seonghwa, neither of you speaking at first. The silence is… easy. Familiar. The kind that only certain people are capable of holding without making it awkward.

After a moment, you glance up at him. “Thanks for walking with me.”

He nods. “It’s no trouble.”

You expect that to be the end of it. But then he adds—

“You looked like you needed an out.”

Your brow lifts. “I did?”

He shrugs, just slightly. “Sometimes… even good things can feel overwhelming.”

The words settle between you, like dust catching in sunlight.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t probe. Just knows. The same way he always seems to know exactly how much to say, and how much to hold back.

And maybe that’s why you don’t rush to fill the silence. Because for the first time in a long time, someone sees you unraveling and doesn’t ask you to hold it together.

The paddock glows golden in the late afternoon light, everything sun-drenched and humming with that in-between energy. Not quite post-race chaos, not quite calm. You and Seonghwa walk side by side, your steps naturally syncing without effort.

You glance at him once. Then again. And then you really look.

He’s so quiet. Not guarded, just… still. Like someone who doesn’t need to perform, who lets silence do half the talking. His hands are tucked neatly in his jacket pockets. His expression is unreadable, but not distant. He listens to the sound of your steps like they’re part of a rhythm he already understands.

And you start to realise; he isn’t like the others. Not like Mingi, all fire and flash and contradictions. Not like San, electric and unpredictable. Not like Hongjoong, who burns with old pain and can’t look at you without seeing ghosts.

No. Seonghwa is different.

He doesn’t try to charm. Doesn’t try to break you open. He just walks beside you like you’re two people simply existing in the same space, and that’s enough.

And somehow, that’s what unravels you most.

Because you’ve worked with drivers for years. Men with sharp smiles and sharper egos. Men who flirt to manipulate. Men who lie as naturally as they breathe. Men who look at you and see power or threat or distraction.

But Seonghwa… sees.

He asks nothing of you. Not validation. Not attention, not loyalty. Just presence. Just now. And it makes you feel something you weren’t prepared for.

Safe.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you say at last, hoping the words will settle the shift in your chest.

“I speak when I have something worth saying,” he replies, his tone gentle. “And I’ve found that most people don’t actually want to hear the truth. They want comfort. Or silence. Or permission.”

You look over. “And what do you want?”

He considers for a moment.

“Clarity.”

It’s such a simple word. But it slices through you. Because God, wouldn’t that be nice? Clarity, in a world where you feel like you’re constantly treading water between the wreckage of your past and the pressure of your present.

He glances at you then—just a flick of his eyes—and for a moment you wonder if he can see the very thought forming in your skull.

You look away first.

“It’s not what I expected, you know,” you murmur.

“What’s not?”

“You. You’re… not like the rest.”

That earns the faintest tilt of his lips. Not smug. Not self-satisfied. Just soft.

“I’ve never needed to be.”

And for a fleeting, ridiculous, impossible second, you wonder what it would feel like to kiss him.

But the thought is gone as quickly as it came. Because you don’t have the space to want anyone right now. You barely have space to breathe.

Still… You tuck the image away. Just in case.

The building’s fluorescent lights hit hard after the golden calm outside. You blink as they buzz overhead. Sharp, clinical, humming with the kind of energy that always comes just before something breaks.

And you hear it before you see it. Raised voices. Fast, furious footsteps. The unmistakable edge of control fraying.

You round the corner, Seonghwa a step behind you, and everything shifts.

Hongjoong and San. Centre of the hallway. Shoulders squared. Eyes wild.

Too close.

“You think this is a game?” Hongjoong’s voice slices through the space—low, lethal. “You think nearly running me off the track is some kind of joke?”

San, grinning like a lit fuse, fires back. “Oh, come on, you were fine. Don’t act like you’ve never thrown a move to prove a point.”

“I wasn’t proving a point. I was trying to survive.”

“Oh,” San says, feigning mock sympathy. “Poor Joong. First your pride takes a hit, now your telemetry. What’s next? Public tears?”

And that’s when Hongjoong moves—fast, reckless. He doesn’t swing, but it’s close. A step forward, chest to chest, fury radiating off him in waves.

“Say that again.”

“Boys,” you say, voice sharp, firm, cutting through the tension like a whip.

They don’t move. Don’t even blink.

“Hongjoong,” you repeat, louder now. “Enough.”

His eyes snap to you—not softened by your voice, not soothed. Burning.

“Stay out of it,” he snaps.

You square your shoulders, stepping between them now. “Not when you’re two seconds away from making headlines for all the wrong reasons.”

Behind you, Seonghwa steps forward; silent but present, a quiet weight of authority backing you up without a word.

San’s still smirking, but it’s thinner now. Brittle around the edges.

“You know,” Seonghwa says, voice low, almost like he’s talking to himself, “it’s funny. I thought we were supposed to be learning how to work together.”

“Some of us are trying,” Hongjoong bites.

You shoot a glance at Seonghwa. His jaw is tight, his eyes unreadable.

“I’m reporting both of you to FIA coordination,” you say flatly. “This is strike two. One more and I pull you both from the next sim rotation.”

Hongjoong’s stare is ice. “You don’t have that kind of authority.”

“I do when you act like children in front of half the paddock.”

Silence.

San steps back first—hands raised, grin half-faded. “Whatever you say, boss.”

Hongjoong doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the way his eyes flicker, just for a second, to Seonghwa standing beside you. That says everything.

He turns, walking off without another word, boots hitting tile like war drums.

San lingers.

“Tell your boyfriend to watch his tone next time,” he mutters, nodding toward where Hongjoong disappeared.

You blink. “My what?”

He just winks and walks off, hands in his pockets, whistling like this didn’t just set half your week on fire.

And suddenly, that feeling of peace from five minutes ago? Gone. Just like that.

Seonghwa looks over, voice quiet. “You okay?”

You nod, lying through your teeth. “Yeah.”

But inside, your pulse is already racing again. Because whatever this is, whatever game they’re playing with each other, and with you. It’s only just begun.

You don’t even get a breather before the next pairing lands in your inbox.

[Subject: Joint Driver Sim Rotation — Williams x Haas]

Candidates: Jung Wooyoung | Choi Jongho

Session Commencing: 15:00

Location: FIA Track Simulation Bay 2

You read the names once, then again.

You sigh. Out of the frying pan…

But at least this time, one of them won’t try to start a fistfight in front of his engineers.

By the time you arrive at the sim bay, the lights are already low, monitors blinking, test laps loading. Two seats at opposite ends of the virtual track cockpit hum with power. And just beside the control console is Wooyoung, perched like a cat on the edge of the simulator rig, his jumpsuit unzipped and hanging around his waist, tank top clinging to his frame, sunglasses indoors.

“Ah, there she is,” he croons, sliding off his perch to greet you. “My favourite emotionally unavailable authority figure.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s 3 p.m. Why are you like this?”

“Because the other option is therapy, and frankly, that sounds expensive.”

He winks, just as Jongho enters the room behind you.

“Wooyoung,” Jongho says calmly. “We said no flirting with her before the briefing starts.”

“I said no creepy flirting,” Wooyoung corrects, offering you a water bottle. “She deserves hydration and appreciation.”

You take it with a resigned huff, nodding a quiet thanks to Jongho.

Jongho is already moving to his simulator, checking the wiring, speaking softly to one of the techs. He’s as you remember—precise, focused, controlled. He’s always been like that. Quiet excellence. Never needed the spotlight, never wanted it.

You clear your throat, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Today’s focus is formation stability and pace matching. It’s a two-lap hot sim, no overtakes, no blocking, just clean synchronisation. Your telemetry will be monitored on shared bandwidth.”

Wooyoung raises his hand. “And if Jongho starts showing off?”

Jongho doesn’t even glance up. “You won’t notice.”

You stifle a laugh and launch the session.

The lights dim. The hum of the simulators grows. Both cockpits begin to move in perfect tandem—a synthetic ballet of speed and response. You watch the screens carefully, marking reaction times, tire management, drift angle.

And… it’s good. Better than you expected.

Wooyoung is uncharacteristically focused, eyes trained on his digital mirrors, hands steady. Jongho, of course, is flawless. His lines sharp, his braking perfect, his pace adaptable.

They’re working. Together.

You smile. It’s subtle. But it’s real.

When the session ends, Wooyoung pulls off his headset and lets out a breathless “God, that was hot.”

Jongho raises a brow. “It was data.”

“I stand by what I said.”

You let them banter, walking over to the console to compile the data, but before you can export the logs, Jongho crosses the room to you.

“Good session,” he says, voice low.

You nod. “You two were surprisingly in sync.”

“That’s what happens when you put one hurricane and one mountain on the same track.”

You glance at him, amused. “Which are you?”

He shrugs. “Depends on the day.”

You start to respond, but Wooyoung cuts in, towel over his shoulders, still catching his breath.

“I think we deserve a prize,” he says.

“Oh?” you ask, one brow raised.

He leans in just a bit too close. “Dinner. You. Me. Maybe Jongho, if he promises not to third wheel too hard.”

Jongho deadpans, “I’d be the first wheel. You’re the one tagging along.”

You snort, and Wooyoung gasps. “You like him more than me.”

“I trust him not to make a karaoke playlist before dessert.”

Jongho smiles—the smallest curve of his mouth—and Wooyoung sighs in defeat, turning toward the locker room with a dramatic wave.

“Fine. I’ll go cry into my protein bar.”

You watch him disappear, the teasing warmth still lingering.

Beside you, Jongho offers a glance. “He means well. He just… deflects everything.”

“I know,” you say quietly.

Jongho nods once. Then, just as he turns to leave, he adds, “You’re doing a good job. Even when it feels like you’re not.”

You blink, surprised. “Thank you.”

“It’s good to have you back.”

And then he’s gone.

You stand there for a moment, alone in the quiet hum of cooling systems and fading adrenaline, and wonder when everything started feeling so complicated—and yet, strangely, right.

~

The apartment is dark when you finally step inside.

You toe off your shoes, drop your bag without ceremony, and move through the quiet like a ghost. Lights off, blinds drawn, the hum of the city outside muffled by the insulated glass. Your shoulders ache. Your brain buzzes. Your phone is already on Do Not Disturb.

You eat something quick and simple. You barely taste it. Then you take a long, hot shower, letting the steam melt the knots from your spine and wash the day down the drain. Hongjoong’s rage, San’s chaos, Jongho’s steadiness, Wooyoung’s teasing—all of it slipping off your skin like sweat and ash.

You crawl into bed in clean clothes and damp hair, tugging the blankets around you like armour. You stare at the ceiling, the city blinking outside your window, and replay the day.

There were so many moments. So many faces. But the one that keeps circling back, the one that lingers—Seonghwa.

That quiet walk. The way he looked at you, not with heat, not with judgment, but with that infuriating, beautiful clarity. And worse, the thought you’d let slip behind your teeth, just for a second.

I wonder what it would feel like to kiss him.

You sigh, flipping onto your side, scolding yourself for even entertaining it. But your brain has already made its choice.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep. But when you do, it’s him that makes an appearance.

The hallway is bathed in soft amber light, empty and endless. You’re not wearing shoes. You don’t know why. You’re standing with your back against a wall, and he’s there, just inches away. Seonghwa, in black, no jacket, collarbone exposed beneath a soft shirt you don’t remember seeing him in. His eyes aren’t unreadable now. They’re focused. On you.

Neither of you speak.

He leans in slowly, like he’s giving you a hundred chances to stop him. You don’t take a single one.

His hand cups the side of your face. His lips brush yours. Soft. Sure. Not demanding, just… deliberate.

Your breath catches.

The world around you fades to white.

You wake with a gasp. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your chest is heaving. Your skin is damp with sweat. You shove the blankets off and sit up straight, heart pounding like you just sprinted three laps of Spa.

“Jesus Christ.”

You rake a hand through your hair, pulse still spiking, heat crawling over your skin like an echo of his touch.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

You press the heels of your palms to your eyes and mutter under your breath, “You’re losing it.”

Out of all the chaos from today—all the men, all the tension—your brain decided that was the one to latch onto.

You collapse back onto the mattress, face buried in a pillow, and groan.

You’ve officially crossed into dangerous territory. And it’s only day three.

You’re halfway through your second coffee when the message drops into your inbox.

{Subject: Strategy Request — Simulation Reschedule}

Rotation: Mercedes x AlphaTauri

Candidates: Park Seonghwa | Song Mingi

Request: Immediate Coordination Oversight

You read it again, and your stomach drops.

Seonghwa. Mingi.

The two men you’ve spent the morning trying very hard not to think about—one because your subconscious apparently wants to kiss him into oblivion, and the other because he once did exactly that and still hasn’t said the things you needed to hear.

You scroll further. The session is in less than an hour.

You stare at the screen, debating the ethics of quitting your job, fleeing the country, and starting a new life in a remote mountain village with no internet connection.

Yeosang walks past your desk, glances once at your expression, and offers a single, knowing, “Yikes.”

You arrive at the sim bay fifteen minutes early, just to compose yourself.

The tech team is already running diagnostics. You check the lap overlays, review the side-by-side handling data, and busy your hands to distract your brain. It doesn’t work.

Because a few minutes later, the door opens.

Mingi. Then Seonghwa.

They don’t arrive together. Of course they don’t.

Mingi’s in AlphaTauri black and white, hoodie slung low, sleeves pushed up, hair messy from the wind. He’s trying not to look at you. You can feel it.

Seonghwa enters more deliberately. Calm. Focused. He nods to the crew, then to you, offering that same measured composure he always wears like armour.

But your skin still remembers the dream. The heat of his lips. The way he’d looked at you.

You’re screwed.

“Alright,” you say, clipboard in hand, voice steadier than you feel. “Formation sim, two sectors only. The focus is handoff timing and positional awareness. You’ll take turns holding lead.”

Mingi finally meets your eyes. It’s brief. But enough.

“Copy,” Seonghwa says simply, already moving to his cockpit.

Mingi follows without a word.

You cue the simulation. The lights dim. Engines hum in the rig. On the monitors, Mercedes, and AlphaTauri light up on the grid.

The tension in the room is unbearable.

They don’t speak to each other. They don’t look at each other. But their lines are too sharp, their manoeuvres too tight, as if each one is trying to prove something to you.

You watch their telemetry spike in the corners.

Mingi pushes the throttle too hard. Seonghwa brakes too late. Neither yields.

You glance at the data tech beside you. He frowns. “They’re fighting. Quietly.”

You nod, eyes narrowing. “I know.”

The second lap is cleaner, but the discomfort is still there—not in the driving, but in the distance between them. And worse, in the way both of them keep drifting too close to the edge.

Not physically. Emotionally.

By the end of the session, your shoulders are tight, your head pounding, and you’ve bitten the inside of your cheek raw just trying to stay composed.

The rigs power down. The lights rise. Mingi pulls off his headset and stands without looking your way.

“Data looked fine,” he mutters to no one in particular. “I’m done, yeah?”

Before you can respond, he’s already walking toward the exit.

“Thank you, Mingi,” Seonghwa says, courteous but cool.

Mingi doesn’t reply.

You let out a slow breath.

“Not ideal,” Seonghwa says, approaching you. “But functional.”

You look at him—at the man who kissed you in your dreams, and is now standing two feet away, calm, and unreadable. Your heart races. Your lips still feel like they’re remembering something that never happened.

“Thank you for holding it together,” you say.

He tilts his head slightly. “You didn’t think I would?”

“No,” you admit. “I thought you’d be professional.”

A pause. Then, quietly. “And I was.”

But something flickers in his eyes—just for a second before he turns and follows Mingi out the door.

You’re left in the empty room with nothing but cooling tech, a mess of data logs, and a truth you’re not ready to face. You are in trouble.

You step out of the sim bay with your jaw clenched so tight it might crack.

Your fingers are still curled around your tablet, the screen dimmed, unreadable, because your brain can’t process numbers right now. Not when everything else is burning beneath the surface. Seonghwa’s voice still echoes in your ears. Mingi’s silence cuts deeper than it should.

You round the corner toward the stairwell and stop.

Because he’s there.

Leaning against the wall just past the lockers, arms folded, one boot pressed flat to the tile, eyes already locked on you like he’s been waiting.

“Please,” Mingi says, voice low. Rough. “Y/N. Can we just talk?”

You freeze.

He straightens when you don’t immediately respond, stepping forward but not too close. His posture is open. Careful. Like he knows he’s a breath away from being pushed back into silence again.

You exhale. Slow. Controlled. Then nod once. “Fine. Follow me.”

You pass him without another word, leading the way down a narrow hall and into the nearest unused meeting room—small, quiet, glass walls half-frosted for privacy. You shut the door gently, not slamming it. You’re not angry. You’re tired.

He stands in the centre of the room, not sitting, just watching you.

You place your tablet on the table, cross your arms, then look up.

“Talk.”

Mingi lets out a breath like he’s been holding it all day.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he begins.

“Say what?”

“That I—” he hesitates, hands flexing at his sides, “—that I’m sorry. For not saying anything. For not chasing you when I should have. For letting you think I didn’t care.”

Your heart thuds once. Then again.

“I waited,” you say, voice quieter than you expected. “You didn’t text. You didn’t call. You knew what they were saying about me, and you said nothing.”

“I know,” he breathes. “I know. And I hate myself for it.”

You blink, emotion creeping too close to the surface.

“You kissed me,” you whisper. “Then you let me disappear.”

“I was scared.”

The words hang there, too soft, too raw.

“I didn’t mean for that kiss to happen the way it did,” he continues. “But I’m not sorry it did. I never was. What scared me wasn’t the fallout. It was how I felt afterward. Like I’d finally done something I wanted—and I ruined everything because of it.”

You stay silent, unsure which part of you he’s speaking to—the girl who fell, or the woman who had to get back up alone.

He steps closer. Not too close, just enough.

“I’ve seen you in this paddock for three days, and I feel like I can’t breathe when you’re near me. I wanted to say something yesterday. I wanted to say it years ago. But I always froze.”

“Mingi…” You shake your head, but you don’t back away. “You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“I know.”

“But part of me…” You stop. Swallow the rest.

He leans in, voice barely above a whisper now. “Part of you what?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

The silence weighs thickly, becoming uncomfortable.

“I should… get back to my desk,” you murmur, the air between you and Mingi charged enough to short-circuit the entire FIA grid.

He nods quickly, lips parting like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He just falls into step behind you as you turn toward the door and push it open.

You barely make it two paces into the corridor before you hear boots.

Fast. Sharp. Familiar. You know that gait.

Hongjoong.

Already storming down the hallway like the building did something unforgivable. His eyes are locked ahead, shoulders tense, jaw sharp enough to cut steel.

And then he sees you.

You. And Mingi. Leaving a room.

Together.

He stops cold. It’s not the stumble-stop of someone surprised; it’s the kind that happens when rage slams into your chest so fast you forget how to breathe.

“Oh,” he says, a bitter laugh bubbling up. “Oh, this is just perfect.”

His voice is acid. Venom laced in velvet. It slides down your spine like ice.

“Hongjoong—” you start, but he raises a hand.

“Save it,” he snaps. “Really. I’d hate to interrupt whatever kind of romantic reunion tour this is.”

Mingi steps forward, already bristling. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what, Mingi?” Hongjoong whirls on him. “Speak the truth? Call it what it is? That you two disappear into a meeting room and I’m supposed to believe it’s about strategy?”

Your blood runs hot. “That’s exactly what it was.”

He turns to you now, eyes dark, voice low. “Was it?”

You flinch, just slightly. But he sees it. Of course he does.

And it kills him.

“I’m not doing this in a hallway,” you say tightly, trying to push past him.

But he moves with you. Not blocking. Just hovering. Like proximity will hurt more than words.

“I just didn’t expect you to fall back into old habits so fast.”

That lands. Sharp. Cheap.

Mingi squares up. “You’re out of line.”

“You are a mistake,” Hongjoong hisses. “And you always have been.”

Something in Mingi’s eyes shifts—not rage, not pain—but devastation. Like he expected Hongjoong’s hate, but not the depth of it.

You shove between them before it escalates.

“Stop it,” you bark. “Both of you.”

They both freeze. But the damage is already done.

You stare at Hongjoong, heart racing. “You think I wanted to be in that room with him? You think I planned for this? You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He stares back at you like he wants to scream, but doesn’t know where to aim it.

Then, with a bitter shake of his head. “Maybe I don’t.”

And just like that, he’s gone. Storming down the corridor, boots echoing like thunder.

Mingi doesn’t speak. Neither do you. Because nothing either of you say right now will make it better.

So you do the only thing you can.

You walk away.

~

The next morning arrives wrapped in grey skies and merciful quiet.

Your schedule, still tight and relentless, offers one small mercy—the final sim pairing before the weekend begins.

You scan the docket over breakfast, and feel your shoulders relax for the first time in days.

Rotation: McLaren x Aston Martin

Candidates: Jeong Yunho | Kang Yeosang

Session: 09:00, FIA Simulation Bay 1

Objective: Lap Consistency + Track Awareness

You let out a sigh that’s nearly a laugh.

“Finally,” you murmur.

No history. No heartbreak. No emotional landmines to tiptoe around.

Just Yunho and Yeosang.

Two of the best drivers on the circuit. Two of the only people in the building who don’t make your pulse spike for the wrong reasons.

In truth, you’d suggested this pairing to be given the actual track days ago, instead of the sim bay. But the FIA nixed it after Hongjoong and San nearly detonated on day one. No actual driving until test weekend, they said. Sim only. Risk mitigation.

Cowards.

The simulation bay is already alive when you arrive. Soft light, clean equipment, telemetry team in good spirits. A few techs nod as you enter—one even offers you a real smile. Apparently, word got out this sim won’t end in emotional bloodshed.

“Morning, boss lady.”

Yunho. Dressed in McLaren black and orange, hair tucked under a cap, that same sunny grin painted across his face like nothing ever changed.

He hands you a coffee. “I remembered how you take it.”

You blink. “You remember that?”

“Of course,” he says easily. “You once bit my head off for forgetting the sugar.”

You snort. “I was eighteen and dramatic.”

“You’re still dramatic.”

You swat his arm. He just laughs.

Behind him, Yeosang appears in full Aston Martin gear, serene and precise as ever, tapping something into his tablet.

He glances up and nods. “Good morning.”

You nod back. “Glad to have you two.”

He pauses. “I would say ‘happy to be here,’ but that feels… unwise.”

“Fair.”

Yunho flashes a grin. “We’re the cleanup crew. The emotional janitors. The hot peacekeepers.”

Yeosang doesn’t even blink. “Do not say that in front of the press.”

They slide into their rigs with ease. No ego. No edge. The sim hums to life, and within seconds, the screen displays two perfectly synchronised lap lines—tight, fluid, seamless.

You monitor their feed, watching throttle balance and brake bias. It’s perfect. Textbook. Unproblematic.

Your chest loosens, just a little.

Yunho’s voice crackles through the comms.

“Hey, Yeosang?”

“Yes?”

“You ever think about how we’re the only normal ones left?”

“Frequently.”

“Should we unionise?”

“I will draft the paperwork.”

You laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. They’re so easy. Like breathing. Like home.

Twenty minutes later, they’re out of the rigs, sweaty but relaxed, handing off their gear and chatting quietly with the tech team.

Yunho claps you gently on the back. “Good session?”

“Perfect,” you say honestly.

He leans in, voice softer now. “You okay?”

You nod. But he studies you a second longer—mocha eyes sharp beneath the sunshine.

“If anyone gives you trouble again,” he murmurs, “just tell me. I still lift.”

“I remember,” you say with a small smile.

He winks.

Yeosang approaches, holding your clipboard.

“Sim data’s clean. Lap thirty-six was particularly strong.”

You glance down, then up at him. “Thanks.”

He hesitates. Then, “You did well this week.”

“I barely kept the room from burning down.”

“That is doing well,” he says.

You chuckle.

As they pack up, you lean against the console and watch them walk out side by side—quiet, steady, uncomplicated. And part of you wishes the whole week had looked like this.

But that would’ve been too easy.

And this story? Was never meant to be easy.

Hours later, you’re typing something you don’t care about when a shadow falls across your desk.

Not the kind that comes and goes. The kind that lingers.

You look up.

San. He’s in full Red Bull gear, sleeves rolled, smirk cocked slightly to one side. His hair is still damp from training, the strands falling just enough over his brow to make him look like trouble.

You blink.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. Long. Slow. Measured.

“Can I help you?” you ask, tone clipped.

He leans one elbow against the edge of your desk. “I don’t know,” he says. “Can you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m working.”

“So serious,” he pouts. “Shame, really.”

You shut your tablet with a loud snap.

“Do you need something, San?”

“Just a moment of your time,” he hums. “And maybe a little fun.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He grins wider. “It’s a tragedy, really. All that time we spent around each other years ago, and I never got to have any fun with you.”

You pause. It’s not what he says—it’s the way he says it. Like it’s harmless. Like he doesn’t know exactly what that kind of sentence does to a person.

You stiffen. “That’s wildly unprofessional.”

He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Woah, sorry. My bad. Forgot I was talking to a suit now.”

“San—”

He winks. “Relax. I’m just messing around.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t flinch.

And that’s what gets you.

Because part of you wants to bite back. And part of you—the traitorous, exhausted part—wants to bite something else.

You grit your teeth. “Maybe you should mess around somewhere else.”

He tilts his head, tongue poking against the inside of his cheek. “Careful. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that almost sounded like an invitation.”

You don’t respond. Because your mouth is dry. And your pulse just skipped.

He clocks it, of course he does, and backs away slowly, hands tucked in his pockets like he hasn’t just thrown your entire internal compass off by three degrees.

“See you around, Y/N,” he purrs.

And then he’s gone.

You don’t exhale until you’re sure he’s out of earshot. And when you do, you hate yourself a little. Because now your brain has something else to fixate on.

As if it didn’t already have enough.

~

At the end of the day, you don’t say goodbye. You just leave.

The corridor feels too narrow. The building, too loud. Your skin itches with the weight of too many conversations, too many looks, too many ghosts pulled into flesh.

Mingi in the meeting room. Hongjoong in the hallway. San—God, San—with his voice like a dare and eyes that knew too much.

You need out before another pair of them crosses your path and undoes you all over again.

By the time the door clicks shut behind you, the air outside feels sharp, almost cleansing.

You don’t go anywhere special. You just go home.

Later, the apartment is cloaked in low lamplight, the streetlights casting pale gold lines across the floor.

You run a bath. Hot. Steaming. Almost too much. You welcome the sting.

Candles flicker across the counter. Scented, though you can’t remember which—maybe sandalwood, maybe something floral. You’re too tired to care. You sink down into the water until only your nose and eyes are above the surface, the silence rushing in like a tide.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

They’re putting all eight of them on the track.

One session. No holds barred. Full simulation under real-world conditions.

You tried to talk them out of it. Tried to reason that tensions are still too high.

That Hongjoong and San nearly drew blood. That Mingi and Seonghwa won’t speak. That you are still navigating every unspoken fracture between you and eight different men who’ve all left marks you can’t scrub clean.

But they insisted.

A test day. A chance to trial the new equipment. New sensors. New data mod integrations. New tactics. A chance to prove they can work together.

And you—of course—will be at the centre of it all.

You let your head fall back, water sloshing gently around you. Your muscles ache. Your chest is tight. Your mind won’t stop running race lines through the possibilities. Not for the strategy, but for them.

What if Mingi and Hongjoong won’t speak on radio?

What if San starts a fight?

What if Wooyoung says too much?

What if Yunho says too little?

And what if… What if you fall apart?

You exhale, eyes fluttering shut. The heat is starting to numb your limbs, but not your thoughts.

This isn’t just about a job anymore. It never was. It’s about all of them. And all the versions of you they remember.

And the version you’re still trying to become.

You slide further under, the water cradling your ears, the world going muffled. Just a little longer. Just a few more hours of peace.

Because tomorrow? Tomorrow is war.

The paddock hums with anticipation—radios chirping, engineers shouting over the sound of hydraulic lifts, and the distinct, rising pitch of engines testing their vocal cords.

You should be pacing. Coordinating. Running final checks on telemetry and signal frequencies. But you’re not. Instead, you’re facing down a red firestorm in a Ferrari jacket who is currently not letting you leave the side of the garage.

“You couldn’t have waited,” Hongjoong snaps, voice low but lethal. “You couldn’t have given it a few days?”

You fold your arms, grounding yourself against the storm. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even want it to happen this way.”

“But it did, didn’t it?” he spits. “You and Mingi. Back together like nothing ever happened.”

Your jaw tightens. “You don’t get to be the moral compass here. Not after how you treated me. Not after you walked away from all of us.”

He flinches. A half-step back, like your words physically hit.

“I didn’t walk away,” he mutters. “I was pushed.”

“No,” you say. “You ran. From me. From him. From the crew that would’ve bled for you.”

His breath catches, but he says nothing.

“Grow up, Hongjoong,” you add, stepping past him. “Or get the hell out of the way.”

And then you’re gone.

The lineup begins fifteen minutes later.

All eight men on the grid. The energy is electric. Every team crowded around their terminals, analysts scrambling, comms lighting up.

But Hongjoong? Hongjoong isn’t there. Not really.

He’s in the cockpit, helmet on, gloves secured—but he may as well be a ghost inside that car.

Your words still echo, louder than the roar of his engine.

“Grow up, Hongjoong.”

“You ran.”

“From me.”

The light sequence begins. Red. Red. Red—

Green.

They launch.

Jongho takes an early lead in the Haas, clean and confident. San and Yunho are fighting for second, elbows out. Yeosang hangs back, calm and calculating. Wooyoung pushes his Williams harder than anyone expects. Mingi locks in tight behind Seonghwa, trying to outmanoeuvre him in Sector 2.

And Hongjoong is already falling behind.

The Ferrari doesn’t scream with dominance today—it just screams. He misses a breaking point in Turn 3. Overshoots in Turn 6. His cornering’s late. His reactions, slow.

But it’s not the track he’s seeing. It’s you. That night. That kiss.

The shatter of glass against his apartment wall when he got home and realised what it meant. The hours spent driving empty roads at midnight, hoping to outrun a memory. The silences that grew too loud between him and the people he used to call his brothers.

The lies he told himself. The lies he told you.

Lap 12. Sector 3. He places last.

Dead last.

No traffic. No technical failures. Just Hongjoong, off his line. Slower than he’s ever been.

He pulls into the pit after the cooldown lap and rips off his helmet. His hands are shaking. Silence from the team radio, no one knows what to say. Because Kim Hongjoong doesn’t come last.

Not ever.

The test ends in a blur of noise and light.

Engine cool-downs, fanfare from the press booths, team radios lighting up with congratulations and relief. The crew chiefs exchange grins. Officials nod approvingly at their tablets.

It went well. Better than anyone expected.

No one crashed. No one fought. Lap data came back clean. Every system ticked the right boxes.

Yunho placed third overall. Yeosang fourth. San and Jongho fought hard to the end—tied for fastest sector times. Seonghwa was clinical. Wooyoung, surprisingly precise.

Even Mingi held it together. He didn’t talk much—not that he ever does—but he listened. Followed orders. Drove like he had something to prove.

They’re gathered now in the lounge beside the FIA garage. Flushed. Sweaty. Laughing.

San tosses his cap onto your head. “Official track mascot,” he grins.

Wooyoung presses a drink into your hand. “I ordered tequila just for you.”

You blink. “You don’t even know if I like tequila.”

He winks. “Then we’ll find out together.”

Yeosang leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed but comfortable, observing with the small smile he only ever gives you. Jongho’s seated beside you, nursing an energy drink, watching the chaos unfold with quiet amusement.

Yunho throws his arm around your shoulders without warning. “Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

“I bet it’s the tequila,” he laughs.

Somewhere near the back, Mingi stands half in shadow. He hasn’t said a word since the race, but his eyes haven’t left you once.

And yet—even with all of them here… someone’s missing.

You know it the same way you know how to brace before a crash. The way you know a tire’s about to blow, even before the telemetry confirms it.

Hongjoong is gone. Not just missing.

Gone.

No one’s seen him since he pulled into the pit. He wasn’t in the debrief. Didn’t show for media. Didn’t answer his radio.

And no one mentions it. No one wants to.

Because it’s easier to focus on the six men still standing here. Still laughing. Still looking at you like you haven’t just watched the most unshakable driver on the grid fall apart.

You sip the tequila. It burns.

The conversation around you swells—stories from the race, banter about turn six, a mock argument about who’ll get pole next weekend.

But all you can think about is red. Ferrari red. And the ghost that slipped out of the circuit without a trace.

You lean back into the leather seat, smile thin, laughter quiet. Let them celebrate.

~

The water went cold hours ago, but Hongjoong doesn’t feel it.

He braces himself against the sink in the Ferrari locker room, knuckles white against porcelain, eyes hollow in the mirror. His face is slick with water. He splashes himself—again, and again, and again—until the sensation means nothing.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here.

He remembers the race. Remembers the silence in his headset. Remembers placing last.

The last time that happened, he was fourteen and driving a kart made of borrowed parts and duct tape.

Not now. Not this version of him. Not the legend.

And yet. Dead last.

His reflection stares back, trembling with too much noise.

He grabs his jacket. Slams the locker. Walks out.

The halls are empty now, just the hum of overhead lights and the scuff of his boots against concrete. Every part of him wants to disappear, to vanish into the night and pretend none of this ever happened.

But then he sees it. A light. Still on.

Of course it’s you.

You’re at your desk, surrounded by open tabs, notes, data you’re too tired to care about—when the door swings open so hard it rattles on its hinges.

You don’t even have to look up. You feel him.

He steps inside like a storm. A fury in Ferrari red. His hair’s a mess, jaw tight, eyes already burning.

“You’re still here,” he says. Like it’s an accusation.

“I work here.”

He scoffs. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”

You finally look up, meet his stare head-on. “What do you want, Hongjoong?”

He stalks toward you; words laced with venom. “I lost my family because of you.”

You rise to your feet, fists curling. “No. You lost your family because you pushed them all away.”

“You were the reason.”

“I was the excuse.”

He laughs bitterly. “You think you know everything.”

“I know you,” you hiss. “I know you ran the second things got hard. That’s what you do, Joong. You disappear when people need you.”

“I needed you!”

The words explode from him. Ragged. Broken. The silence that follows is thunderous.

Your breath catches.

He’s shaking now—from anger, from exhaustion, from whatever the hell still burns in his chest after all these years.

And then, he kisses you. Slams his mouth against yours like it’s the only way to shut you up, like it’s the only thing that can stop the pain clawing out of his throat.

You shove him back. Hard. Eyes wide.

“What the fuck—”

But you don’t finish. Because he’s just standing there, chest heaving, lips parted, looking at you like you’re both the wound and the cure. And suddenly—you crash back into him. Fists curling into his shirt. Mouth finding his. No finesse. No rhythm. Just teeth and tongues and years of repressed fury.

He lifts you, shoves you back into the wall like it’s instinct, like he’s dreamed of this a hundred times and hated himself for every single one. His hands are everywhere—your jaw, your hips, your spine—dragging you closer, anchoring you to the only thing that’s ever felt this real.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, punishing. He groans into your mouth, biting your bottom lip, and you gasp, fire licking up your spine.

His mouth drags hot along your jaw, down your throat, teeth grazing skin like he wants to mark you, claim you, punish you for being here. For haunting him.

“God, I fucking hate you,” he hisses between kisses, breath ragged.

His voice is a rasp, cracked and low.

“I hate the way that even now, I can’t stay away from you.”

Your body jerks at the words, but not in protest.

You try to speak, to fire something back, but your mouth won’t form words. Your breath stutters, shallow and sharp, as his hands slide under the hem of your dress, calloused fingers mapping over bare skin.

Your sundress. The one you wore to feel confident. Soft yellow, sleeveless, delicate. You told yourself today was the day—the weather too warm to hide, too bright not to shine a little.

But now? Now it’s bunched around your waist as Hongjoong lifts you again, his hands firm on your hips.

With a wild sweep of his arm, he clears the desk behind you—files, cables, pens, a half-full water bottle all go crashing to the floor in a chaotic clatter. And then you’re on the desk, the cold laminate sharp against your thighs, his body between your knees.

You tug at his jumpsuit, and he fumbles with the zipper. It’s urgent, messy, not enough time to care about grace. Just the need to have you. To ruin you, the way you’ve ruined him.

Your hands find his chest, the smooth black t-shirt beneath the suit, the muscles taut and shaking.

His mouth is back on yours—desperate, consuming. He groans into you like you’re oxygen. Like he’s been holding his breath for years. Your head spins, the heat of him searing through you, the anger still simmering beneath every kiss, every grab, every frantic motion.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls. “How fucking long I’ve hated wanting you.”

You moan at that, biting your lip, legs wrapping around his waist.

“Then stop,” you breathe.

His eyes lock on yours, wild and glassy.

“You first.”

His grip on your hips tightens—bruising, possessive. He pulls you to the edge of the desk, the hard edge biting into your thighs. His mouth crashes against yours again, all teeth and tongue, swallowing your gasp as he rips the last shred of distance away.

You don’t want tenderness. You want ruin. And Hongjoong gives it to you.

He yanks your panties down with one sharp tug, discards them somewhere behind him, and you swear under your breath as the cold air hits your skin, followed instantly by the blazing heat of him.

“You want this?” he growls against your neck, already lining himself up.

You glare at him, defiant. “Shut up and—”

He thrusts into you so hard you lose the end of your sentence entirely.

You cry out, nails clawing into his shoulders, but he’s already moving—fast, brutal, relentless. The desk creaks beneath you, and the rhythm is dizzying, nothing held back.

His hands dig into your hips, guiding you into every sharp snap of his. The sound of your skin meeting his echoes obscenely in the small room, layered with the ragged, snarling breaths he pours into your ear.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he bites. “Always have. Always will.”

You arch against him, fingers fisting in the front of his jumpsuit, dragging him closer like you want to fuse into him and rip yourself away all at once.

“Harder,” you gasp.

He slams into you with a guttural moan, pace unrelenting. “Say it again.”

“Harder, Joong.”

The nickname hits him like a gut punch—his hips stutter, breath hitching, and then he obeys.

Every thrust is punishment. Every kiss, a dare. Every gasp from your throat fuels the fire in his. His forehead presses to yours, sweat-slick and burning, and for one wild second you feel his heart pounding through his chest like it might rip out entirely.

You reach your peak fast. The anger, the adrenaline, the history—it coils and explodes inside you, pulling him over the edge seconds later.

He groans into your mouth as he spills inside you, his hips stuttering, your name a curse on his tongue. And then…

Silence.

Only the sound of your breathing, heavy and unsteady.

You shove him back a moment later. He stumbles slightly, zipping up without a word, and watches you slide off the desk with your dress still bunched at your hips. You smooth it down, tug your hair back into place, bend to pick up the files and items he sent flying earlier.

He says nothing. Just watches.

You turn to face him, chin high.

“That didn’t mean anything.”

His eyes flicker. Just once. “Don’t lie to yourself.”

You smile—not kindly.

“You think I’m still that girl you dated at eighteen? The one who cried when you left?”

Your voice cuts. Precise. Measured.

“She’s gone. Long gone.”

He flinches. Only a little. But you see it. You walk to the door, heels clicking across the floor.

And just before you leave—

“Don’t follow me.”

You don’t look back. You close the door behind you, and with it, leave Hongjoong standing in the wreckage.

He exhales like it hurts. And then he laughs. A hollow, broken sound.

Because you were right. And it still fucking kills him.

[thetidesthatturn]

I don’t know why I do the things I do… I told myself I’d focus on writing the sequel to Tides of Fire and Gold whilst doing one shots here and there. Now I’ve committed to Oversteer, so I’m writing two series’ at the same time, whilst also thinking of new one shots to work on (I still gotta get one out for my Jongho babies, he’s the last on the list!!) 😴

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, revival of main character, attempted suicide - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

A/N: surpriseee, you get this chapter a day early as I’m busy tomorrow! 😘

Tag list: @ninjakitty15 @autieofthevalley @idknunsadly @fallendebil

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER ELEVEN | CHAPTER THIRTEEN >>

CHAPTER TWELVE - DIVIDED WE FALL

The room had been still for hours. Machines whirring. Monitors blinking. The soft hiss of breath that wasn’t really his.

Seonghwa sat straight-backed beside the bed, eyes rimmed red but steady. He hadn’t left in two days. Not since they’d asked you to rest.

Wooyoung had taken up post on the floor, cross-legged, knees hugged to his chest, chin tilted toward the cot like if he looked away for even a second, Hongjoong might slip through their fingers again.

Neither of them were speaking. Not anymore.

And then—

A cough.

A wet, choking gag.

Seonghwa’s head snaps up just as Hongjoong lurches forward, his body convulsing, hands weakly clawing at the tangle of tubes down his throat and across his skin.

“Hongjoong!” Seonghwa surges to his feet. “Stay still—you are—no, do not—”

“Shit—shit!” Wooyoung skids across the floor, reaching for the emergency bell. “He’s awake! He’s awake!”

Hongjoong is still gagging, eyes wide and terrified, every part of him fighting the foreign things keeping him alive. Seonghwa grabs his wrists, careful not to hurt him, but firm.

“Captain, you must breathe—breathe slowly—”

But he isn’t listening. He can’t. His gaze is panicked, rolling in his skull until—

“Y/N—” he chokes. The sound mangled. Raw. “Where—where is she—”

The medics burst through the door then, flooding the space with hands and orders. They work quickly to stabilise him, removing the tubes, forcing oxygen into his lungs, checking monitors, stopping him from dying a second time.

But all Hongjoong can do is thrash and rasp your name, again and again, like it is the only thing keeping his shattered heart tethered to this world.

“Where is she?” he whispers quieter now as the sedatives begin to kick in. “She was here—I felt her…”

Hongjoong’s eyes dart, wild and unblinking, the room around him too bright, too real.

Seonghwa hesitates—he’s seen many versions of their Captain, but never this one. Never this frightened. He tries to speak calmly, gently, like one would to a man who’d been dragged back from the brink of oblivion.

“She would not leave your side. She is back in her room. The healers ordered her to rest.”

But Hongjoong’s expression only twists further, the panic returning in waves.

“No.” He shakes his head, fists bunching into the blanket. “No, no—something’s wrong. I’m not supposed to be here.”

Wooyoung’s hand tightens around the edge of the bed, face pale.

“What do you mean?”

“I was dead.” Hongjoong’s voice breaks on the word, chest heaving. “I remember it. I felt it. The blade. The blood. Then—nothing. And then her. I heard her screaming. I felt the fire.”

He clutches his temple, as if trying to claw through the memory.

“She did something. Something that shouldn’t be possible. I shouldn’t be here.”

Seonghwa glances at Wooyoung, his jaw tightening. There’s something unspoken in that look—concern, fear, and a truth they both don’t want to admit.

“You are alive,” Seonghwa says quietly. “And she would burn the world ten times over if it meant keeping you that way.”

But Hongjoong isn’t soothed. His gaze is pinned to the ceiling now, as if searching the rafters for an answer only the dead are meant to know. He jolts upright, ignoring the wires and the weak protests of his body. His voice—cracked, ragged, alive—cuts through the room like a whip.

“Someone find her. Find her NOW!”

Seonghwa stands immediately, eyes flicking toward Wooyoung. No one questions the order. Not when Hongjoong looks like this—wild, furious, terrified. Not when his voice carries the weight of something none of them can explain.

Wooyoung bolts from the room, his legs moving before his thoughts catch up. Panic claws at his throat. You’re not in your chambers, not in the library, not in the mess hall.

He calls for Jongho. Then Yunho. Then Mingi.

One by one, the crew fans out across the palace—every corridor, every chamber. Desperation mounting with each second you aren’t found.

Back in the infirmary, Hongjoong swings his legs over the edge of the bed, teeth gritted against the searing pain in his muscles. Seonghwa moves to stop him.

“Captain.”

Hongjoong’s voice is a blade now, low and lethal.

“If something’s happened to her, if I’ve come back at her expense—”

His words stop short, the thought too unbearable to speak aloud.

“Find her,” he repeats, a ghost of himself now. “Please.”

~

The floor beneath you is ice-cold stone.

When your eyes blink open, you are not in your room. You are not in your bed. You are lying on the floor of the mausoleum—the place where you first learned of your family, of your legacy. Where the tombs once whispered and the ground cracked open at your touch. Now, there is only silence.

You sit up slowly, the air heavy on your skin. Something is wrong. Terribly, irreversibly wrong.

Your heart beats, but your fire does not stir. No warmth. No ember. Not even a flicker. You reach for it instinctively, but there’s nothing. Like grasping at smoke. Gone.

You stumble upright, clutching the cold wall for balance. That thing, that creature, it brought you here. Disposed of you like refuse.

As if to say, remember this. This is where it began. This is what you’ve given up.

You are no longer God-born. You are mortal. But none of it matters. Not if he’s breathing. Not if Hongjoong has another chance.

You run.

Through the winding paths, the towering halls, the shimmering archways. Faster than your weakened body should allow, your legs burning with effort. You pass figures who call your name, but you don’t stop. You won’t stop.

Then, in the courtyard—

“Y/N!”

Two figures round the corner so fast they nearly crash into you. Wooyoung grabs your arms as if to keep you from vanishing again, his eyes frantic, red-rimmed, still wet with tears. Mingi just stares, wide-eyed, as if seeing a ghost.

“Where the hell have you been?” Wooyoung demands, voice cracking.

“We’ve been looking everywhere. Do you know what’s happened? He—he woke up, Y/N. He’s alive.”

You try to speak, but the words fall apart on your tongue. All you can do is nod.

Then you whisper, barely audible, “Take me to him.”

The moment you step through the door, the world stills.

Hongjoong is sitting up, surrounded by monitors and tangled sheets, the dull hum of magic and medicine blending into the silence. His skin is pale, his lips cracked—but his eyes… his eyes are wild with pain. Not physical. Something far deeper.

His gaze locks with yours, and for a heartbeat, you think maybe he’ll reach for you. Maybe he’ll smile through the pain and whisper your name.

But instead—

“Y/N,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “What did you do?”

The question hits like a slap.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. His fingers curl tightly into the sheets, knuckles white, his shoulders shaking under the weight of something too heavy to hold.

“Why am I here?” he chokes out, his voice cracking.

And then, the unthinkable.

Tears. Actual tears. Sliding down the face of the most stoic, most composed man you’ve ever known.

Captain Kim Hongjoong does not cry, but he’s crying now.

You stand frozen, the space between you aching, the words caught in your throat. Because how can you tell him? How do you say ‘I gave up everything for you’? That you offered the very fire in your bones to keep his heart beating.

You don’t know if the tears are for what he’s lost… or for what you have.

Seonghwa turns slowly, his eyes meeting yours. There’s no anger in his face—just quiet devastation. Understanding laced with dread. Mingi and Wooyoung hover behind you, still catching their breath from the frantic run through the palace, but they don’t speak. They can’t.

You open your mouth, the truth clawing at your throat.

But then the door bursts open behind you, and her presence floods the room like a crashing wave.

Your mother. Usually composed. Regal, divine. Now… she’s disheveled. Her golden robes trail behind her like smoke, and her bare feet slap against the polished stone as if she ran here without pause.

Her gaze darts to you first—searching, pleading—and then lands on Hongjoong, who is still shaking, eyes glassy, lips parted in disbelief.

She stops, and the silence is deafening.

Then—her voice comes low and broken.

“What have you done?”

It isn’t a scolding. It’s not cruel. It’s horrified. As if she already knows. As if she can feel the void within you. Your fire is gone. The divine thread that tethered you to the heavens… severed.

The moment hangs, suspended in grief and awe.

And then your mother stumbles forward, grabbing your face in her hands, staring at you as if seeing you for the first time.

“No… no, my sweet girl. Tell me you didn’t.”

But the tears in your eyes say everything.

Your lips part, but no sound comes.

You don’t even know how to explain it—what you saw, what it was. Only that it spoke, and you answered. That it offered, and you accepted. That your fire is gone, and Hongjoong is alive.

The weight of every eye in the room is on you. You open your mouth again, but your mother’s gasp cuts through the silence like a blade. Her eyes are wide, stricken, locked on you as if you’ve sprouted death itself from your skin.

“No,” she breathes. Her voice quivers. “Tell me you did not make a deal.”

“I—” You falter, throat tight. “He was gone. I did what I had to do.”

She staggers back a step, her expression warping into terror. “Did it name itself?”

Your breath hitches. “No… but—”

“Describe it,” she demands.

And so, shakily, you do. The shadow. The decay. The voice that cracked like shattered bone. The way it moved without moving. The way the world dimmed around it.

Your mother clutches her chest. Her voice drops to a whisper, but the name carries like thunder.

“Ezkirion.”

It lands in the room like a curse, curling around the corners like smoke. Hongjoong flinches. Mingi swears under his breath. Wooyoung’s brows furrow, confusion dawning into fear.

You blink. “Who?”

Your mother looks as though she’s aged ten years in a second. “Ezkirion,” she repeats, dread saturating every syllable. “It is not a god. It is the end of them. An ancient thing born from the first death—long before our kind ever breathed fire. No one has spoken that name in an age. We buried it in ruin. We were meant to forget.”

You reel back, dizzy. “I—I didn’t know.”

Her voice sharpens. “That is the nature of the trap. You were desperate, and it was listening.”

And behind her, Hongjoong finally speaks—his voice barely a breath.

“…What did it take?”

You blink, your lips parting—but the words feel like ash on your tongue. Still, you force them out.

“It took my fire.”

Gasps ripple through the room. Wooyoung’s hand flies to his mouth. Mingi’s entire body stills. Seonghwa staggers a step backward, pain flashing across his face. And Hongjoong… he looks like he’s been gutted all over again.

“What?” he breathes, his voice cracking. “What do you mean, it took your fire?”

You can’t meet his eyes. “I gave it away.”

Your voice trembles now. “To bring you back. It wanted my fire. So I gave it everything. All of it.”

The pain in his face is unbearable. He steps toward you, staggering slightly.

“You—no—Y/N, you are your fire. That was you. It’s not just what you do, it’s—” He chokes. “You’ve killed yourself to save me.”

Tears burn down your cheeks as you shake your head. “You’re alive. That’s all I care about.”

“But you…” His voice drops to a whisper. “You’re not.”

“Do you have any idea what this means? What you’ve done?”

Your mother’s voice wavers, but it isn’t anger that colours her tone—it’s terror. Raw and unfiltered. Her eyes fix on you, unblinking. “It won’t only be Hongjoong who dies. The very planet we live on is now in grave danger.”

Her hands tremble at her sides, and for the first time since you’ve known her, she looks small. Ghostly white. As though her veins are made of milk-glass and fear has replaced her breath.

“The fire of our line was never meant to be bartered with,” she whispers. “It was forged from the breath of the Gods. From the heartbeat of this world. You think you traded your power, your magic—but you traded the balance of nature itself.”

Silence devours the room.

Hongjoong stares, struggling to find footing in the chaos now unraveling at his feet. Wooyoung, who had moments ago been too stunned to speak, suddenly blurts, “What do you mean, the planet is in danger? It’s just fire—right? That’s all it was. Right?”

Your mother’s gaze slowly turns to him. “The flame is not simply heat or light. It is life. It is the tether that keeps decay at bay. That which she gave away is not hers alone—it was the barrier.”

She steps closer to you now, eyes brimming with horror.

“Ezkirion is not just a demon. It is the devourer of worlds. The more power it feeds on, the more it grows. And without your flame to hold it back…”

She swallows hard.

“It will rise.”

You feel your knees weaken beneath you. The weight of what you’ve done crashes into your chest like a storm surge.

“I just wanted him back,” you murmur. “I didn’t know—”

“No one knows what Ezkirion really is,” your mother cuts in gently now, hands finding yours. “Not until it’s too late.”

She grips you harder.

“But we have to find a way to stop it. Before it consumes everything.”

You stand at the head of a long, marble table within the Hall of Echoes—the heart of the Isle’s ruling sanctum. Stained glass windows pour fractured sunlight across the gathered, casting halos of gold and crimson over familiar and foreign faces.

At your right, your mother—regal, unshaken, but the tightness around her eyes betrays her dread. To your left, Seonghwa—face gaunt, eyes shadowed, but posture unwavering. Behind him sit the rest of the crew. All present, bar Hongjoong and Yeosang. All alive, but weathered by pain.

Across from you, the High Elders of the Isle. Five of them. Timeless, austere. They say little, but their presence is felt like a shifting tide.

You clear your throat. “We all know why we are here. The being I made a bargain with—it is not bound by our laws, our gods, or our realm. It is something older. Something other. Its name is Ezkirion.”

A murmur shivers through the chamber like a gust of wind through flame.

Your mother leans forward. “We believe Ezkirion feeds on elemental balance. With your fire, Y/N… it has begun to tip the scales. Already, the volcanoes on the western edge of the world rumble, yet produce no smoke. The tides in the north freeze mid-rise. Time fractures. If we do not act, it will not simply unmake you—it will unmake all of this.”

Mingi’s voice cuts in, hoarse but direct. “Then how do we stop it? Do we kill it?”

“No,” one of the Elders rasps. Their voice sounds like stone being ground into dust. “You cannot kill what is not alive. It must be bound.”

Yunho, ever the calm centre, tilts his head. “Bound to what?”

The eldest of the Elders speaks now, slow and deliberate. “To the one who made the bargain. Only the soul who relinquished power can draw it back. But not without a price.”

Silence. Even Wooyoung doesn’t joke.

You take a breath. “Then we bind it. Whatever it takes.”

Your mother rises. “You won’t do it alone.”

Seonghwa stands too. “Nor will you without us.”

The Halcyon crew follow, one by one, until all seven stand behind you.

Jongho, his shoulder still braced, meets your gaze. “We follow our Watcher. Always.”

~

The days move slowly, like honey through a cracked jar. But they move.

Hongjoong’s recovery is hard-won. The strongest captain the Crimson Expanse had ever known, reduced to tentative steps with Seonghwa at his side, one arm bracing the wall, the other curled at his ribs. The wound at his throat still aches when he speaks for too long. But he is alive. And growing stronger by the day.

You watch from the balcony, unseen. You ache to help him. But he hasn’t asked. And you’re not sure if he would accept it, even if you offered.

In the Council Chambers, voices fill the ancient stone as elders—cloaked in fire-gold, moon-silver, and ocean blue—speak of bindings and banishments.

“It is not enough to contain it,” one says. “Ezkirion was never meant to survive the first purging. If it has clawed its way back, we must bury it beneath the bones of creation itself.”

“That takes divine convergence,” another interjects. “The Flame alone cannot hold it. We must awaken the old unity.”

And so, the Halcyon crew find themselves immersed in ancient truths they were never meant to know.

Mingi, arm still in a sling, is drawn to the stone archives deep beneath the temple. He learns of the Earthborn, deities carved from mountains and soil, whose magic lies dormant in caverns beneath the sea. San spars with a high priestess of the Windborn, her strikes faster than arrows. He learns how to move with the air, not against it. Yunho studies tidal charts hand-drawn by the Waterborn, gods of current and swell. He learns that the ocean does not follow maps. It listens to those who understand it.

Jongho and Yeosang dive deep into the lore of Lunari and Solari—the gods of moon and sun. Twin forces. One silent as silver, the other loud as gold. Yeosang, especially, becomes absorbed in these texts—drawn to the stillness of moonlight, the quiet strength it holds. Wooyoung, ever restless, drifts between disciplines—but eventually finds himself with the children of the Flame, sparring, laughing. He doesn’t say it aloud, but something in him is trying to find joy again. For her. For all of them.

And Seonghwa, despite his amputated arm, trains still. He leads where others falter. He is the voice of reason in every meeting, the link between divine and mortal, between crew and court.

And you… you sit beside the Fireborn, your kin, and feel like a stranger. But you listen. You learn.

You begin to see that the world was once whole, not fractured into fragments of belief and force. Flame, Earth, Tide, Wind, Sun, and Moon—they were never meant to war. They were born of the same breath. It was only when death crept in… when something unnatural—something like Ezkirion—found its way through the veil, that the unity fractured.

“To bind it,” says one elder, “we must return to that unity. The same way it was banished before.”

“But we do not have gods of every domain present,” another argues. “And one of ours—” they look to you “—has already given up her fire.”

The silence after that burns deeper than flame ever could.

Still, they begin planning. Sketches, symbols, lines in salt across marble. Binding rituals. Lure sigils. Trap runes. The knowledge is overwhelming. But the Halcyon crew do not falter. They train beside deities now—side by side. Not as pirates. As warriors of something far greater.

But not all is calm. Because the sea, even when still, is only ever waiting to rise again. And in the shadows of this sanctuary—beneath the soil and the stone—something watches. Something remembers the tether it placed. The debt that must be paid.

And in one small item, the size of a fist, that debt is waiting to be collected.

~ 

Twilight falls outside The Hall of Echoes, which resides deep beneath the Isle, her stone walls lined with golden glyphs. Elders of the Flame sit at the long, oval table beside you, your mother, and the seven remaining Halcyon crew. Hongjoong, who has slowly begun to regain his strength, is seated on your other side, pale but alert.

A flickering candle catches the edge of metal—an object resting loosely in Hongjoong’s gloved palm.

Elder Ithis, one of the oldest in the chamber, leans forward with eyes that suddenly sharpen like a blade honed too long.

“How on earth did you come by that?”

Hongjoong blinks. “This?” He holds the object up slightly. “It’s just my compass. It has been with me since I can remember.”

The elder’s face loses colour. “No. That is not just a compass.”

The other elders still. Even your mother draws a slow, careful breath. A stillness creeps into the room like fog.

“How long have you been in possession of this compass?” Ithis asks again, more urgently now.

Hongjoong tenses. “It was given to me when I was a child. My parents told me never to let it out of my sight, said it was a family heirloom. They didn’t explain any further, and I didn’t ask. I was young. They were killed not long after.”

A hush falls—before the elder slowly rises.

“Those markings…” he whispers, brushing the compass with the edge of his sleeve, careful not to touch it directly, “they are not from this realm. They are written in the First Tongue.”

Your heart stutters. “The First Tongue?” she echoes.

Your mother answers quietly. “The language of Ezkirion.”

Silence. Then, the atmosphere shifts

Hongjoong stares at the compass like it’s turned to ash in his hands. “What are you saying?”

Ithis turns, voice trembling but firm. “I am saying that your bloodline is not wholly human, Captain. That compass was never meant to be a gift. It was a brand. A safeguard.”

She continues, pacing now.

“Long ago, when the war between flame and shadow threatened to unravel the veil of the mortal world, Ezkirion made a pact with a desperate soul. In exchange for forbidden power, a promise was made; that their bloodline would bear a vessel. A contingency. If ever the entity was weakened, it could rise again through that line.”

Ithis stops and looks you.

“It did not expect you to give up your flame. But when you did… the seal broke. And Hongjoong… was it’s collateral.”

The room explodes with stunned silence. Wooyoung’s jaw slackens. Seonghwa lowers his gaze. Jongho grips the arm of his chair until his knuckles turn white.

“No…” It tumbles from your lips like shattered glass. Exasperated, raspy.

You turn to Hongjoong—who has gone utterly still.

“You… you knew nothing of this?”

He shakes his head, jaw slack. “No. Never. I—” He stands from his seat, staggering back a step, the compass falling from his hands and clattering to the table like thunder. “I’m not… I’m not one of them. I would never—”

You move to him, your own heart fracturing in your chest. “You’re not. You’re not, Joong. I know you.”

“Then what am I, Y/N?” he croaks. “What did I bring back with me when you gave up your fire?”

His voice splinters at the edges.

Your mother cuts in gently, though her expression is grim. “You’re still you. But you may be more than you ever knew. And now, Ezkirion has a way back into this world—through you, or through her sacrifice. Either path leads to ruin if we do not stop it.”

“So what do we do?” Mingi asks from the far end of the table. “We fight, right? We always fight.”

But Seonghwa answers first, voice low. “We must understand exactly what Ezkirion wants. Because it is not just power. It is possession.”

The compass lies between them, pulsing faintly now—its sigils glowing a deep, infernal red. You look down at it and for the first time, fear seeps in.

“Then we sever the tether. We rewrite the fate it’s tried to brand us with. It used my sacrifice, it used his blood, but we’re not done yet.”

~

The words still echo in your mind.

“It is of the highest importance that we figure out how your family came to be in the possession of something baring the oldest language of the land. The language of Ezkirion.”

That language. That name. That thing.

You should have known. You should have asked more questions. Instead, you trusted fate, trusted hope—and made a bargain that traded your flame for Hongjoong’s life. But now… now you wonder if it was the greatest mistake of all.

Without your fire, you are nothing. You cannot spar. You cannot heal. You cannot shield them.

Not even from yourself.

You watch as the others train—Yeosang returning to his maps, San back on his feet, Seonghwa mastering strategy with one arm, Wooyoung cracking jokes even when his smile is hollow—and you feel like a ghost wandering between gods.

Every plan they make is one you cannot contribute to

And Hongjoong… he won’t even look at you the same way. You feel it. Or maybe you’re imagining it. The silence hurts more than shouting ever could.

You walk out of a meeting before it ends. You stop joining them for evening meals. You spend more and more time in your chambers, your hands clenched into fists so tight your knuckles bruise.

And Ezkirion knows.

It waits for these moments. It creeps in on the breath between sobs. A whisper that slides beneath the skin like venom.

“They do not want you.”

“You’ve endangered them all.”

“They will never trust you again.”

“Hongjoong pities you. He would have chosen death.”

“You are a mistake.”

You cover your ears, but the voice coils around your thoughts like smoke. You press your palms to your eyes. The tears come too fast to stop.

One night, the walls are too small. The air is too thin. And the pain in your chest is too loud. You find your dagger, the one still engraved with your insignia from the Halcyon. You hold it with trembling fingers, the weight familiar. The steel bites cold against your throat.

“It would be better this way.”

“Quieter.”

“Peaceful.”

“Let them be free of you.”

Your breathing is ragged now. You press just enough to sting. Just enough to break the skin.

And then—white. A blinding wave of it, like sunlight crashing through your eyes, through your very soul.

You stumble back—but there is no floor. Only softness. Warmth. The sound of birds. The scent of something… golden. You’re floating, yet grounded.

You’re surrounded by light. Not harsh. Not searing. But gentle. Radiant.

A man steps forward from the brilliance, cloaked in robes woven from pure sunlight. He is tall, broad-shouldered, his skin sun-kissed, his presence kind. His eyes—your eyes—are molten gold. And they brim with emotion the second they meet yours.

His voice is calm. Deep. Holy.

“My darling girl.”

You freeze.

“You… You’re—”

He smiles. There’s grief in it. But more than that—there’s love.

“Yes. I am your father.”

You cannot breathe. The tears flow anew.

“My sweet baby girl, it is time you knew a piece of your past. You are not just born of fire, Y/N. You were never only flame. Your mother—she is a Child of the Flame. But I am Sunborn. And therefore, so are you.”

You stare at him, shaking your head. “I don’t understand. Why now? Why didn’t anyone—”

“Because they feared you. Because the union between Fire and Sun was forbidden. I cloaked myself in flame, for her sake. For yours. But you are not broken, my daughter. You are becoming.”

He steps forward and places his palm just above your heart.

“Your fire may be gone. But your light—our light—remains. Ezkirion cannot touch that.”

A soft glow pulses through your chest, flickering gold and white. It feels like home.

“Let me show you,” he whispers. “Let me show you who you truly are.”

You jolt awake with a gasp, your body snapping upright in bed as if torn from drowning. Sweat slicks your skin, your nightgown clinging to you like a second, suffocating skin. Your hand flies to your chest—no wound. Just breath. Just the thunder of your own heart, beating wild and frantic like a war drum.

The dagger lies on the floor, forgotten, its blade gleaming with a single smear of blood. You stare at it, the weight of what almost was anchoring you to the bed.

You are alive.

You breathe in—once, twice—and on the third, light floods the room. Not fire. Not heat. But something calmer. Golden. Healing.

You blink into the glow, vision shimmering.

Then you hear it.

“I may not be here in flesh, but I am here in spirit. I will guide you, my sweet girl. Always.”

Your throat tightens. Tears pool again—not from pain, but from something else. A warmth you thought you’d lost. A tether you never knew you had.

You whisper to the light, “Thank you, father.”

And as the glow recedes, a small bloom of sun-gold light stays nestled in your chest, a flickering seed of something new.

Not flame, but light.

[thetidesthatturn]

Oversteer

Pairing: OT8 F1 Ateez x FIA Mental & Performance Strategist freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, angst, heartbreak, betrayal, cheating, near miss crash, tension, use of cigarettes, alcohol consumption - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

A/N: I am by no means an expert on racing or F1, I’ve done my research but please don’t expect this to be accurate 😭

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Masterlist

CHAPTER TWO >>

CHAPTER ONE - LIGHTS OUT

You step onto the tarmac like it’s sacred ground—because once, it was.

The buzz of the paddock hits you in waves. The scent of scorched rubber, over-oiled machinery, and adrenaline is just as you remember. Maybe worse. Maybe better. It’s hard to tell with your chest caving in like this, your pulse thrumming faster than any engine around you.

Your badge weighs heavy around your neck.

FIA Elite Performance Division – Y/N Y/L/N

Strategist. Mental resilience specialist.

Not: the daughter of a disgraced engineer.

Not: the girl they used to know.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

You move through the paddock with practiced ease, but every few steps feels like a landmine. Laughter cracks from the Williams tent. A Red Bull technician walks past whistling something familiar. McLaren’s orange banners ripple in the breeze like a warning.

And then you see him.

Ferrari red. Black gloves. Jaw set like stone.

Hongjoong.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just leans against the side of his car, talking to his race engineer. But you know he’s seen you. You know by the way he straightens just slightly, chin lifting, tension spiderwebbing across his shoulders. He always stood like that when he was angry. Or nervous. Or both.

You’re halfway to the team compound when a new figure steps into your path.

“Y/N?”

The voice is warm. Surprised. A little breathless—like he wasn’t expecting to say your name aloud.

Yunho.

Of course it’s Yunho. He’s taller now, broader too, but the smile that breaks across his face is still all boyish light. The same one that used to flash across pit lanes between you. He’s in full McLaren gear, helmet under his arm, but all you see is the kindness. The part of your past that didn’t burn down.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he says, laughing softly. “Not here.”

You force a smile, but your eyes betray you. “Neither did I.”

He looks behind you then, and his smile fades slightly.

“They didn’t tell you, did they.”

Your stomach turns. “Tell me what?”

A breath. Then two. The breeze shifts.

“You’ve been assigned to manage the All-Star test pairings.”

You nod. That part, you knew.

“But specifically… you’ve got Red Bull and Ferrari.”

Your heart skips.

San. Hongjoong.

Two men with different tempers. One who wants to burn the world. One who once made you think you could fly. Both dangerously talented. Both impossibly volatile.

“You’re kidding,” you whisper.

“I wish I was.”

There’s a sudden crack of noise from the pit lane—laughter, too loud and too close. You turn, and San is there, swaggering toward the compound like he owns the circuit. His Red Bull jacket is half-zipped, fire in his eyes, hair windblown and wild. He’s already spotted you.

And he’s already smirking.

Hongjoong’s still behind him, watching you both now.

The wind picks up. The tension tightens. You feel the oversteer coming—that split-second shift where everything slips out of control.

And just like that… you’re back in the race.

It started with a kiss.

Not the kind written about in storybooks or whispered about in locker rooms. No, this one was messy. Wrong. It tasted like champagne, and gasoline, and guilt. And it happened in the dark corner of a tent after the Monaco junior finals—when the night smelled like glory and someone else’s heartbreak.

You didn’t mean to kiss Mingi.

But you didn’t stop it either.

His hand was still wrapped in the team flag; his cheeks streaked with engine soot and sweat. He’d pulled you aside, told you he just needed a minute to breathe, and then it happened. Heat, hunger, history. Months of stolen glances, quiet tension, things you never said out loud because of him.

Hongjoong. Your boyfriend. Mingi’s best friend. The unspoken captain of your little circle—the one who always set the tone, who pushed everyone harder, faster, further. When he raced, you could feel it in your bones. When he looked at you, it felt like the world slowed just to give you both time.

But that night, the world sped up. And something slipped.

You tried to leave the tent before anyone could see. You didn’t know Wooyoung had already seen everything.

He caught your wrist on the way out; eyes wide and mouth open like he couldn’t believe what he’d just walked in on.

“Wooyoung, please—”

He shook his head once. Not angry. Just… disappointed.

“You need to fix this before he finds out.”

But you were too late. Hongjoong found out before the sun even rose. Mingi never denied it. And you? You barely had time to explain.

The paddock the next morning was quiet. Tense. Like the air itself was holding its breath. Wooyoung refused to look at either of you. Jongho kept his headphones in the entire day. Yunho tried to talk to Hongjoong—tried to de-escalate—but Hongjoong wouldn’t hear it.

“You kissed him,” he said flatly. “And you stood there. You let him.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t stop him.”

It wasn’t the betrayal that broke him.

It was the silence. The hesitation in your voice. The look on Mingi’s face that said it wasn’t a mistake to him.

Yeosang pulled you aside later that day. Always calm. Always composed. He didn’t judge you. But he didn’t comfort you either.

“You need to go,” he said quietly. “This isn’t going to settle down. Not with the press sniffing around. Not with how much he still—” He cut himself off. “It’s not safe here for you anymore. Not right now.”

He was right. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach. Even San, who usually thrived on conflict, had stopped cracking jokes. He didn’t pick a side at first, but that made it worse somehow. Like the fire had gone out of everyone all at once.

Then came the scandal.

Your father. The telemetry breach. Ferrari’s junior team thrown under the bus. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t touched a single file. It didn’t matter that he swore he was framed. The whispers stuck like oil. And none of them—not even Mingi—said your name aloud again.

You disappeared.

Deleted your accounts. Burned your bridge to the track. Vanished before the season’s end like a caution flag no one saw coming.

But they never stopped racing. And they never really forgot.

Not the kiss. Not the fracture it caused. Not the way you made them all feel like they belonged—until the moment you didn’t.

And now? Now you’re back. Older. Sharper. Wearing a badge that puts you right back in the centre of their world.

You’re no longer the girl in their rearview mirror. You’re the one standing at the next corner.

And none of them are ready for what that means.

~

The briefing room is five doors down.

You’ve been standing outside it for seven minutes.

Your hand hovers near the console, fingertips grazing the touchscreen that reads:

Joint Strategy Session — Red Bull x Ferrari: San | Hongjoong

It glows like a warning light.

You inhale slowly through your nose, count to four, hold, release. You’ve coached drivers through this very exercise before. Performance psychology 101. Regulate the breath. Slow the heart. Stay in control.

But your hands are still shaking.

You pivot before you can lose your nerve, moving back into the spine of the paddock. It’s not panic, not exactly. You just need a minute. A buffer. Something to pull you out of your own head.

The corridor smells like vinyl flooring and burnt rubber. A Red Bull intern brushes past you, muttering apologies. Somewhere down the hall, a group of McLaren staff laugh too loudly. You follow the sound like it might lead you to clarity, but—

“Is that—?”

The words come from behind. Familiar voice. Too familiar.

You turn, and there he is.

Wooyoung.

His dark eyes widen. He’s still in soft Williams navy, arms crossed lazily over his chest, but the posture snaps as soon as he sees you.

“Holy shit.”

He crosses the space in three long strides, scooping you into a hug before you can say a word. His body is warm, solid. The scent of cologne and tire compound clings to his jacket.

“You’re actually here,” he says into your hair. “I thought Yunho was messing with me.”

Your throat tightens. “I wasn’t sure I’d—”

“You look good.”

You pull back enough to see his face. He’s smiling, but there’s tension under it—old questions left unsaid, memories held like live wires. For once, he doesn’t try to fill the silence with a joke. Doesn’t wink or smirk or nudge you. Just… looks.

“You came back,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

You nod, and he squeezes your hand once before slipping past you with a quick wink. “Strategy room’s that way. Don’t let them eat you alive.”

You exhale, half-laughing, half-terrified.

Two hallways later, you nearly collide with someone rounding the corner.

A gentle grip steadies your elbow.

“Apologies,” a voice says—smooth, low, unfamiliar.

Seonghwa. You’ve seen him in the paddock before, in highlights, press videos. The Mercedes poster boy. Precision in human form.

He studies you for a moment, polite recognition dawning. “You are Y/N Y/L/N, correct?”

“I am.”

“I have heard… quite a bit about you.”

You tilt your head. “All bad, I assume.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Not all. But much of it is rather… passionate.”

You snort—before realising who might’ve been speaking.

“Yeosang, Yunho, Wooyoung. They have mentioned you before,” he continues. “I believe Yeosang is—”

And suddenly, as if summoned—

“Y/N?”

Your chest caves. You turn, and the hallway narrows around you.

Yeosang.

Not a photo. Not a memory. Not a profile on a screen. Him. Real and standing ten feet away, like the last five years were only seconds ago.

His eyes are the same. Maybe softer. Maybe not. His hair is longer, lighter. But it’s the way he looks at you—like seeing something he wasn’t sure still existed—that undoes you.

Neither of you move.

You hear Seonghwa quietly step away. You hear a locker hiss open somewhere down the corridor. But all you see is him.

“I didn’t think…” he starts, but the words break off.

You swallow hard. “Hi, Yeosang.”

And that’s all it takes. He’s in front of you in an instant, arms wrapping around you so tightly it steals the air from your lungs. You stand frozen, then melt. Your forehead presses to his shoulder. His hand cups the back of your neck. Neither of you speak.

There’s nothing to say yet. Only breath. Only the space that had been left empty for years. Only the ache of having lost your best friend—and the tremor of finding him again.

Finally, he whispers into your hair. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come after you.”

You clutch his jacket tighter, and for the first time since you stepped back into this world, you let yourself cry.

The bathroom mirror doesn’t lie.

Your cheeks are flushed; lashes clumped from tears you didn’t mean to shed. There’s a tiny patch of mascara on your cheekbone, and your lipstick is long gone. You lean over the sink, palms pressed against the cold ceramic, and exhale like you’re trying to push everything back down. The memories, the guilt, the quiet desperation that came with Yeosang’s hug.

You hadn’t realised how much you needed it.

He hadn’t hesitated. Not for a second. Not like the others.

You dab beneath your eyes with the back of your hand, then reach for the emergency cosmetics pouch in your blazer. Tinted balm. Travel concealer. A brush. You’ve gotten good at this—painting over the wreckage.

You apply just enough to look like someone who has it together. Not perfect. Not polished. Just… composed. A woman who is about to walk into a room with San and Hongjoong and act like they don’t hold each hold very different pieces of your heart you never meant to give away.

You give yourself one final glance in the mirror, then whisper under your breath, “Pull yourself together.”

The badge around your neck glints as you walk out.

The strategy room is unassuming. Neutral tones. Holographic screens. The scent of burnt coffee and old rubber.

San’s already there, slouched in a chair with his legs spread like the room belongs to him. He spins a pen between his fingers and watches the projection screen, though his attention snaps to the door the moment you enter.

“Look who finally decided to rejoin the circus.”

You blink. “Nice to see you too, San.”

His grin is dangerous—all wolfish charm and electric impulse. “If I’d known this test came with a free psychological evaluation, I might’ve crashed harder last race just to get here faster.”

“Tempting as that is,” you reply coolly, pulling out your tablet, “I’m not here to babysit your impulse control.”

“Shame,” he says, eyes dragging over you like he’s measuring more than your stress tolerance. “I was really looking forward to a disciplinary session.”

You don’t rise to it. That’s the game with San. He wants you off balance. You know this dance. You danced it five years ago when he was still grinning through the storm you set off. You wonder how much of that smirk is a mask now, or if it’s all still just a game to him.

The door clicks again. And this time… it’s not San who steals the oxygen from the room.

It’s Hongjoong.

He enters without looking at either of you, face unreadable, jaw tight. His Ferrari suit is tailored within an inch of its life; the collar slightly unfastened in that way that always made him look untouchable. He drops into the seat furthest from San and places his gloves on the table with precision. Like everything in his life has an exact place.

He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t even flick his eyes in your direction.

San whistles under his breath. “Wow. This energy is thick. Did someone forget to bring the mediation crystals?”

You clear your throat. “Let’s begin.”

You flick your tablet on and start the strategy projection, your voice steady even though your pulse is screaming.

“This joint test sim is focused on split-sector performance and cross-team coordination under pressure. The goal is to refine multi-driver synchronisation at close range—drafting, blocking, and pit-cycle transitions. You’ll be driving as a unit.”

San leans back, skeptical. “So, you want me and Ferrari’s crown prince to play nice on track?”

You nod. “Or at least fake it well enough not to crash.”

Hongjoong finally looks up.

His voice is calm. Cold. “And if one of us isn’t interested in pretending?”

You meet his gaze—steel against steel. The first look in five years, and it hits like a slap.

“I suggest you pretend anyway,” you say quietly. “The data doesn’t care about your pride.”

The silence that follows is nuclear. Even San doesn’t speak.

You take a breath and move to the next screen. Because this is your job now. Your past may be sitting across from you in flameproof suits and scorched memories, but your future? That’s still yours to control.

Oversteer or not, you’re driving this now.

Hongjoong’s still staring at you—no, through you—with that glacial composure he’s perfected over the years. But you see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way his knuckles flex over the gloves resting on the table.

He’s not unaffected. Not by the assignment. Not by you.

San, meanwhile, kicks his feet up onto the chair beside him like he’s at a beach resort instead of a high-stakes team strategy briefing. He glances between the two of you, a low chuckle rising in his throat.

“God, this is delicious.”

You don’t look at him. “San.”

“I mean, really—” he twirls the pen again, flashing a grin “—they couldn’t have planned this better. Put you in a room with your ex and one of his least favourite people. Someone up there has got a sense of humour.”

Hongjoong’s voice slices the air. “You think this is a joke?”

San drops his feet slowly, the grin not quite fading.

“I think you take yourself way too seriously, Joong.”

You shoot San a warning glance, but he only shrugs.

“What? It’s not my fault Mingi still gets under your skin. You’ve had years to get over it.”

That does it.

Hongjoong stands—not violently, but with precision. Like a move in chess.

“Say his name again,” he says quietly, “and I’ll walk.”

You stand too, quickly. “Both of you, enough.”

San leans back, arms raised like a mock surrender. “Relax. I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

“No,” you snap. “You’re throwing a match into a fuel tank. If you’re not going to take this session seriously, you can leave.”

Something shifts in his expression then. Just briefly. The smirk falters. The mask slips, and underneath, you see it. The real San. The one who watched the people around him implode five years ago and has been running from that wreckage ever since.

But before he can respond, Hongjoong cuts in. “He’s not the one who should leave.”

Your breath catches.

Your fingers clench around your tablet as heat surges up your spine. You could slap him. You could cry. You do neither. Instead, you straighten your shoulders.

“Right,” you say, cool and professional. “Let’s go again.”

You lay out the rest of the test scenario. Simulated pit strategies, defensive formations, and emergency override protocols. You run through their telemetry from previous sessions. You even praise San’s precision in Turns 7–10, though the smirk it earns almost makes you regret it.

Hongjoong says little. But when he does speak, it’s surgical. He questions the data, challenges the plan, demands more. It’s all business, all ice. But not once does he call you by name.

Not even when you ask him directly, “Can you handle trailing in Sector Two?”

A pause. A breath.

“I’ve done harder things,” he says. “Like trusting the wrong people.”

San makes a low noise in the back of his throat. “Christ. Do you ever stop?”

“I will,” Hongjoong says, standing again, “when they stop putting failures in charge of my safety.”

That one lands. You blink, once. Twice. You feel it—the sharp, cold blade of it. But you don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. You’ve bled for this sport. For this comeback. For this second chance.

“I’ll see you both on track,” you say, gathering your things. “Try not to kill each other.”

You walk out without waiting for a response.

Behind you, San lets out a low whistle. “Yup,” he mutters, “this is gonna be fun.”

You don’t remember leaving the strategy room.

You just remember the feel of your pulse slamming against your ribs, the edge of the tablet digging into your hand, the hiss of San’s voice still echoing in your ears, and the way Hongjoong wouldn’t say your name, but still knew exactly where to stab.

You take the long route out of the compound, ducking around the side of the garage where the press don’t follow, where the asphalt is cracked and the air smells of oil and sweat and heat.

And cigarettes.

You’ve only got one left.

You fumble the packet open with shaking hands, thumb dragging over the foil like it might bite back. Your lighter is scratched, temperamental—it takes three tries before it sparks, and when it finally catches, you inhale like it’s the only oxygen left on earth.

The burn steadies you. Just enough.

It’s a habit you hate. A habit that followed you through sleepless nights, bitter winters, and the long, quiet years away from the track. But right now, it’s the only thing anchoring you.

You close your eyes, tipping your head back as the smoke curls past your lips.

And that’s when you hear the voice.

“Y/N?”

Your spine stiffens.

You turn—and you nearly drop the cigarette.

Because there he is. Mingi.

Tall, tousled, still in his AlphaTauri race suit, the top half tied around his waist. There’s a glint of sweat at his temple and that same impossible softness behind his eyes. The one that used to undo you. The one you haven’t seen in years.

He freezes mid-step, like he wasn’t expecting to see you either.

Around him, two engineers chatter to each other, oblivious. One of them hands him a hydration bottle. He doesn’t take it.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

You feel suddenly, violently exposed—smoke curling between your fingers, makeup smudged just enough to betray the tears you barely let fall.

You blink, once. Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

He breathes your name again, quieter this time.

“…Y/N.”

You take a slow step back. But the years don’t budge. The look on his face—the one caught somewhere between relief and regret—says it all.

This wasn’t how you wanted to see him again. Not like this. Not when you still dream of what it felt like to kiss him. Not when your chest still aches with the memory of how fast he let you go.

And not when Hongjoong’s voice is still ringing in your head like an aftershock.

You drop the cigarette. Crush it under your boot. Then you turn to leave, but his voice catches you.

“Wait.”

You freeze, knuckles white around the lighter still in your hand.

“I didn’t know you were back,” he says, a little breathless.

You don’t look at him. “Clearly.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks, and you hate that it does.

A long pause.

Then, quieter, “You look… tired.”

You laugh—sharp, humourless. “That’s what betrayal does to a person.”

He flinches like you struck him.

And suddenly, the engineers around him realise what’s unfolding. One nudges the other, and within seconds they’re gone, slipping out with awkward half-glances, leaving the two of you in the heat and the silence and the unbearable closeness of everything that used to be.

The cigarette still smoulders on the concrete between you. And all you can think is, why now? Why here? Why does seeing him still hurt?

He takes a hesitant step closer.

“Y/N,” he says again, softer this time. “Please.”

You swallow hard, eyes locked on the ground between you. On the scorched mark where the cigarette smoulders. You don’t dare meet his gaze—because if you do, you might see it.

The ache. The sincerity. The thing that always made it so damn hard to stay angry at him.

And you need to stay angry. At least for now.

“I can’t do this with you right now, Mingi.”

The words leave your mouth like a slap, and the stillness that follows is worse than yelling. Worse than crying.

Mingi doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just looks at you like he’s trying to rewind time with his eyes alone. Like if he stares hard enough, you’ll soften. You’ll fold. You’ll say it was fine.

But it wasn’t. It isn’t.

You take a shaky breath, then square your shoulders.

“I’ve got a test run to oversee. Some of us still have to work for our place here.”

That one hits. You see it in the way he flinches—barely, but it’s there.

You walk past him without another word. The gravel crunches beneath your boots. Your pulse thunders louder than the roar of a nearby engine test. You don’t look back.

Not even when he calls after you. It’s not loud, not desperate, but real.

“Y/N…”

You disappear around the corner like smoke caught in a crosswind.

And Mingi stays behind, staring at the empty space you left behind, wondering how many more chances he’ll be given, and how many he’s already wasted.

~

The pit wall is louder than you remember.

Headsets crackle. Crew members shout over telemetry data. Screens flash sector times in rapid bursts of red and green. The air smells like burnt carbon and nerves, and somewhere beneath all of it is the sound of your heart, pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

You adjust your headset and focus on the monitor in front of you.

Two cars. One red. One navy.

Ferrari. Red Bull. Hongjoong. San.

Both pulling out of pit lane. Both refusing to be the first to yield.

“Jesus,” one of the engineers beside you mutters. “You’d think we told them only one of them gets to live.”

San takes the lead first—barely. His lines through the first chicane are wild, aggressive, testing the limits of grip. Hongjoong follows. Surgical. Exact. But tight. Too tight.

Your brow furrows as you watch their sector data start to deviate.

“They’re not following the plan,” you say, voice tight over comms.

“San’s cutting Turn 4 wide,” someone confirms. “Hongjoong’s closing the gap.”

Too fast.

You grip the railing in front of you, fingers curling into the metal.

“San, you’re supposed to maintain lead for the first half-lap. Hongjoong is set to draft. Stick to formation,” you instruct over comms.

A pause.

Then static — followed by San’s voice.

“Yeah, well, Ferrari’s getting a little intimate with my gearbox back here.”

“Maintain. The. Line,” you bite out.

He doesn’t respond.

Hongjoong’s car edges closer on the straight, closing the distance between them by fractions of a second. You know that move. You’ve seen that move before. It’s not about strategy. It’s a message.

“I don’t like this,” you murmur.

Onscreen, the two cars approach the sweeping right-hander of Sector Two. It’s meant to be a clean handoff—Hongjoong to slingshot ahead, San to hold back, then switch again after the next chicane. The manoeuvre’s designed for trust. Precision.

They have neither.

“They’re not communicating,” your engineer says. “If one of them commits too early—”

“I know,” you snap.

The cars dive into the turn. You hold your breath. Hongjoong goes early. San doesn’t yield.

Tires screech. Telemetry pings red.

The feed jerks as the camera loses visual for half a second—

Then both cars emerge, miraculously upright, but separated now by less than a car length.

You curse under your breath.

“They’re not partners,” someone mutters. “They’re a powder keg.”

You switch channels on the headset. “Hongjoong. Status.”

There’s a breath before you hear the static crackle on the other side.

Then— “Functioning. Barely.”

His voice is calm. Bitter.

“San?”

Static. Then laughter.

“Still here. Thought that might wake him up.”

You close your eyes, drag a hand down your face.

They’ll finish the lap. They’ll give you data. They’ll play the game—but only because they’re too proud not to.

And you? You’ll have to stand here and pretend like you’re not watching a car crash in slow motion—not on the track, but between all three of you.

You wait until the test run ends.

Until both cars are back in the garage, still ticking with heat. Until the crew scatters, laughing nervously at the near-miss like it was just bad data and not a spark waiting to catch. Until San disappears into the Red Bull lounge, towel slung over his neck, whistling like he didn’t just play chicken with death at 200mph.

And then you find Hongjoong.

He’s stripped off the top half of his race suit, arms glistening with sweat, hair flattened beneath the weight of his helmet. He’s standing near the cooling fans, shoulders tight, jaw sharper than you remember.

You don’t give him a chance to walk away.

“We need to talk.”

His gaze flicks to you once—just once—and then away again. “Not interested.”

“Tough.”

You follow him as he turns toward the data bay, cornering him just out of earshot of the other engineers. The door clicks shut behind you. The room smells like engine heat, and ozone, and restraint, like something volatile barely contained.

“You want to tell me what that was out there?” you ask, voice low, tight.

“A test run,” he replies, without turning.

“That’s what you’re calling it? Because from where I was standing, it looked a hell of a lot like sabotage.”

He finally faces you.

“Do not lecture me on sabotage.”

There it is. The edge. The venom. Still coiled behind his eyes like a live wire.

“I’m not here to fight you, Hongjoong. I’m here to keep you alive.”

His laugh is quiet. Bitter. “Funny. I could say the same thing to you five years ago.”

You flinch. It’s small, but he sees it.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” he continues. “Playing the professional. Barking orders from behind the pit wall like you’re some authority. Like you didn’t—” He cuts off, but the words hang there, heavy, and unfinished. “Like you didn’t betray me.”

You inhale sharply. “I made a mistake.”

“You made a choice.”

His voice cracks with it—not loud, not cruel, just honest in a way that guts you.

You step closer, forcing your voice to stay even. “Whatever happened between us—whatever he meant—it has nothing to do with what’s happening on this track now. You’re a driver. I’m a strategist. You don’t have to like me, but you do have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” he repeats, like it’s the punchline to a cruel joke.

“I’m not asking you to forget anything,” you say. “I’m asking you to be professional. For a few weeks. That’s it.”

“And what happens after that?” he asks, stepping into your space now, eyes dark. “You disappear again? Run off the second things get hard?”

Your breath hitches.

“You think I ran?” you snap. “You think I wanted to leave? You all left me first.”

He goes quiet. The air stretches. And then, softer, almost unwillingly, “You never said goodbye.”

“Would you have listened if I had?”

He doesn’t answer.

You can’t tell if he’s furious or breaking. Maybe both. Maybe that’s the only way Hongjoong’s ever been, fury and fracture held together with just enough steel to keep from falling apart.

“I’m not your enemy,” you whisper.

He looks at you like that might be true, but just doesn’t know how to believe it. And then, just as quickly, the walls go back up.

“Fine,” he says, turning away. “Let’s be professionals.”

He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t look back. And as the door hisses shut behind him, you feel like you’ve just lost a race that never even began.

You’re still bracing against the wall when you hear the door click open behind you.

You don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Only one person moves like that—quiet but not unsure, presence soft as shadow, as if he’s always been meant to stand beside you, not in front of or behind.

“Hey.”

Yeosang. His voice is gentle, a salve against the raw edge of your thoughts.

You nod, but don’t speak. Not yet. You’re afraid that if you open your mouth, the tears will start again, and this time you might not be able to stop them.

He leans beside you against the wall, keeping a careful distance.

“I heard about the test run,” he says eventually. “San called it ‘spicy.’ That’s how you know it was hell.”

You huff out something like a laugh. “He tried to kill Hongjoong.”

“Again?”

You glance over. He’s smiling. Barely, but it’s there. You shake your head, and the tension in your chest finally gives a little.

“We’re heading out,” he says, nodding toward the paddock entrance. “Me, Seonghwa, Yunho, Woo. There’s a place just off circuit. Kind of a glorified shed with cheap beer and terrible music. Perfect for pretending today never happened.”

You raise a brow. “And you want me to come?”

“Of course I do.”

He says it so simply. No pause. No hesitation.

Your throat tightens. “What if the others—”

“They don’t get a say,” he interrupts, voice firmer now. “You’re here. You belong. If they have a problem with that, they’ll deal with me.”

You study him for a moment—really look. There’s no judgment in his eyes. No expectation. Just a familiar warmth you forgot how much you missed. The same boy who used to sit beside you on karting bleachers with engine grease on his jeans, pointing out constellations like they meant something.

You nod once, slowly. “Okay. Yeah. I could use a drink.”

Yeosang’s smile deepens. “Knew you’d say yes.”

He pushes off the wall, then glances over his shoulder as you both start walking.

“Oh,” he adds with a faint grin, “fair warning. Wooyoung’s already two drinks in and trying to start karaoke.”

You groan. “God help us.”

He nudges your shoulder. “It’s just like old times.”

And for the first time all day… it feels like it.

~

The dive bar is tucked between a neon-lit pharmacy and a shuttered arcade, barely more than a corrugated metal box with chipped signage and the faint hum of bad ’90s rock bleeding through the walls.

It smells like bad decisions, wet wood, and ambition long since given up.

You hesitate at the entrance—just long enough for Yeosang to catch the flicker in your eyes before he nudges the door open for you.

“THERE SHE IS!”

Wooyoung. He barrels toward you like a heat-seeking missile, arms wide, grin wider, the unmistakable scent of trouble wafting off him in waves. Tequila. Lime. And the wild energy of a man three drinks past logic.

Before you can even greet him properly, he wraps you in a hug and kisses your cheek—dramatically, sloppily, noisily.

You stagger back, laughing despite yourself.

“You smell like a crime scene,” you say, wiping the kiss mark from your skin.

He clutches his heart. “So do you. But, like, a hot one.”

Behind him, Yunho’s laughter echoes from the pool table, followed by the gentle thunk of a sunk ball. You look up and catch his eye—and just like that, something in your chest unwinds.

He’s leaning on his cue stick, wearing that signature smile; all soft eyes and sun-warmed sincerity. The kind of smile that makes you feel seen in the kindest way possible.

He nods toward the bar. ��We saved you a stool.”

Beside him, Seonghwa stands poised, elegant even with a cue in hand. He dips his head in polite greeting, a faint but genuine smile gracing his lips.

“Good evening,” he says. “You arrived just in time to watch Yunho miss the easiest shot on the table.”

“Lies,” Yunho mutters. “Slander.”

You laugh, shrugging off your jacket as Yeosang reappears with a cold beer already cracked open.

“I told them you’d come,” he says, handing it to you. “Told them you just needed space.”

“Space, tequila… What’s the difference?” Wooyoung grins, throwing himself across the booth. “Anyway, sit. Drink. Forget your tragic love quadrangle or whatever this season’s soap opera is.”

You arch a brow. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever forgotten anything?”

He gestures broadly. “Sweetheart, I forget everything except drama and debt.”

You slide into the booth, beer in hand, and for the first time all day, the heaviness in your limbs fades. Not completely. But enough.

The room is hazy with warm lighting and the low drone of conversation. Behind the bar, someone puts on a new track. It’s an old beat that makes Yunho sway as he lines up his next shot. Seonghwa glances over and catches your eye.

“You really are back,” he says simply.

You nod. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

There’s a moment of comfortable silence that sinks over the group.

And then Wooyoung throws his arm around your shoulder and shouts, “BAR GIRL, PUT ON SOMETHING TRAGICALLY ROMANTIC, SHE’S BEEN THROUGH IT!”

You nearly spit out your drink. Yunho doubles over in laughter. Seonghwa sighs, but you swear you see him smirk.

Yeosang just watches you—steady and silent—and for a moment, all the fractures in your world hold still.

The others are mid-commotion.

Wooyoung is attempting to coerce Seonghwa into a karaoke duet—something absurd involving a leather jacket and interpretive dance. Yunho’s doubled over in tears of laughter, wheezing “Please, hyung, just say no!” while Seonghwa stares murderously at the touchscreen song list like it insulted his family.

And somehow, amid the absurdity, you and Yeosang slip away.

You’re leaning against the bar, the music softer back here, your drink half-empty and warm in your hand. Yeosang takes the seat beside you, elbow on the bar, shoulder brushing yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low. Measured.

You nod. Then shake your head.

You exhale, fingers pressing to your brow like you can physically push the memory out.

“I saw Mingi,” you whisper.

Yeosang stills beside you.

“In the smoking area. After the meeting with Hongjoong and San. He turned the corner and…” You trail off, staring down into the amber liquid in your glass. “I almost evaporated. Just—gone. Right there. Poof.”

Yeosang doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look surprised either. Just… patient.

You look up at him. “Why is it always him that undoes me?”

His voice is soft, but sure. “Because he mattered. Because he still does.”

You nod, throat tight. “He tried to talk to me.”

“Did you let him?”

“No.” You chew your lip. “I couldn’t. I—he looked at me like he missed me. And I hated it. I hated how easy it was for him to just be there, like no time had passed, like he didn’t help shatter everything and then walk away like it wasn’t his to hold.”

Yeosang nods slowly.

“And what about Hongjoong?” he asks gently.

You blink. “What about him?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head, watching you like he’s waiting for you to hear yourself.

You swallow. Hard.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admit. “I came back thinking I was over all of it. The drama, the tension, the heartbreak. But I’m not. Not even close.”

“You’re not supposed to be,” Yeosang says. “Closure doesn’t happen in exile. It happens here. In the mess.”

Your laugh is bitter. “Well, I’m drowning in it.”

He bumps his knee against yours. “Then you’re doing it right.”

You look at him, at the boy who used to know every version of you, who held your hand through every engine failure, every broken curfew, every podium win, and heartbreak. He’s still here. And it feels like maybe… you can be too.

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, death of main character, violence, brutal wounds, amputation of limb (I’M SORRRYYYYYY)

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @ninjakitty15 @autieofthevalley @idknunsadly @fallendebil

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER TWELVE >>

CHAPTER ELEVEN - NOTHING LEFT BUT ASH

The Halcyon drifts, not from any purposeful course, but by the slow pull of the tide—as though the sea itself mourns with them.

Time has become a cruel illusion. Hours bleed into days, and days into a haze of silence. No one speaks of you.

Because to speak of you would make it real.

Wooyoung roams the deck like a ghost, lingering near the places he once found you—curled up with a book by the stern, perched on the crow’s nest with Yeosang, or simply standing at the railing, face lifted to the wind. He talks less now, his laugh lost somewhere in the hollows of his chest. His fingers trail absently along the grooves in the wood where you used to rest your palms, as if expecting to find warmth still lingering there.

Mingi has become quieter too. He grips the rigging like a lifeline, throwing himself into work with a restlessness that frays him at the edges. He doesn’t say it aloud, but the way he pauses sometimes—gaze lingering out over the sea—says enough. You meant something to him. More than he ever admitted.

Jongho hasn’t left the helm, even when the ship sails nowhere. He’s sharper with the newer crew, stricter, as if discipline might patch the hole your absence left.

Yunho is always watching the horizon, his eyes tracking for sails that never come.

Yeosang and San barely speak.

And Hongjoong?

Hongjoong hasn’t left his quarters. Not once.

The door remains shut, his shadow never cast across the deck. The Captain, once a force of unstoppable will, now silent—crushed beneath the weight of words unsaid, of a goodbye he never got to rewrite.

One morning, while the sky still hangs in an early shade of grief, Seonghwa calls them all to the quarterdeck. His tone is even, but behind his eyes is the same exhaustion they all carry. The same pain.

The tide is pushing them slowly, steadily, away from the Isle.

He breaks the silence.

“We have lost someone we loved,” he says, voice calm and commanding, “but she is not lost.”

The crew shift, their eyes lifting, if only slightly.

“She made a choice,” he continues, gaze sweeping over them. “One she believed was right. And though it may break us now, we must honour what she stood for.”

He pauses—lets the stillness settle before piercing through it again.

“We are the Halcyon. We are not just pirates. We are defenders of the voiceless. Shields for the broken. That was the mission she gave us.”

His eyes sharpen.

“We will dismantle every root of the slave trade. We will burn every ship that cages the innocent. We will honour her by doing what we do best—raising hell for the ones who deserve it.”

A hush falls, heavy and deferential.

It is Wooyoung who finally speaks, voice hoarse.

“She wouldn’t want us to fall apart.”

“No,” Seonghwa nods. “She would want us to fight.”

And so, piece by piece, they begin to move again.

The tides shift.

Where once the Halcyon was feared in the shadows, spoken of only in hushed warnings and drunken curses, she is now a name praised in marketplaces and alleyways alike. In secret circles and open ports, the story spreads—of the ship that hunts slavers, that tears chains from wrists, that burns gilded cruelty to ash.

No longer just pirates.

Now they are legends.

But legends make enemies. And the slave traders have had enough.

What was once a scattered, ungoverned network of cruelty has begun to unite. Across the Crimson Expanse, alliances are forming—old rivals shaking hands, captains offering coin for vengeance. The Halcyon has cost them too much.

They want her stopped.

They want her sunk.

And worst of all… they want to make an example.

The Halcyon sails proud, but the price of fame is painted across the crew’s eyes. Supplies are harder to secure. Allies grow nervous. Bounties are rising. Ports that once offered safe haven now close their gates.

They are being hunted. Worse still, they are being watched.

A ship has been sighted more than once—always on the edge of the horizon, always gone before they can approach. Not Serpent Fang. Something else. Sleek. Silent. Organised. Deliberate.

And though the crew is sharp, though San drills them harder than ever, though Mingi has the gunners working double shifts… you are not there. And in every clash, every boarded vessel, every ship they torch, your absence is a wound they carry into battle.

One night, the Halcyon is anchored off a jagged reef, the crew exhausted from a fight that left three injured and a fire barely kept at bay.

Seonghwa stands at the helm, eyes locked on the dark water.

“It is not enough anymore,” he says quietly to Yeosang beside him. “We are too exposed. Too bold. They will not stop now.”

Yeosang’s expression is unreadable, but his jaw tightens.

“She would have known what to do,” he admits. “She always knew.”

And somewhere below deck, Hongjoong sits at his map-strewn desk, eyes scanning a piece of intercepted intelligence that makes his blood run cold.

A plan. A trap.

They are being herded.

~

You walk the marble halls in silence.

Everything about this place gleams—polished stone beneath your feet, gold-veined columns stretching endlessly into the sky, the brush of silk garments that never seem to crease. It is beautiful, celestial, the realm of gods…

But it feels hollow.

You have met them all now—your bloodline, your kin. Faces that reflect your own in subtle ways; the curve of a brow, the flicker of fire behind their eyes. They embrace you with reverence, call you flameborn, daughter of the Isle, and treat you like a symbol rather than a person.

They are kind, yes. Gracious. But they are not family.

Not like the crew. Not like your crew.

You try to play the part—listen to the advisors, nod at the council meetings, sit still while your robes are refitted and your hair twisted into divine designs. You learn the history of your lineage, the role you were meant to play in restoring balance across the seas. You even give speeches, ones that are praised by the elders.

But at night, when the palace quiets, and the torches dim to soft embers, you curl beneath the velvet canopy of your bed…

And the ache returns.

You see Jongho laughing as he teaches you to throw a punch properly. You hear Mingi swearing when he burns his hand on a cannon. You picture Yeosang passing you notes during intel meetings, each one signed with an exaggerated flourish. San polishing his blades while sneaking you food he “definitely didn’t steal.” Yunho throwing his coat over your shoulders when you didn’t ask him to. Seonghwa adjusting your stance before a mission, quiet pride in his voice. Wooyoung dragging you into his chaos, swearing you’re no fun and lighting up when you smile.

And then there’s him.

You remember how Hongjoong looked at you like you were the storm and the calm after it. How he made you feel seen. How he loved you.

How you—

You clutch the sheets, breath tight.

That part of you is missing here. Gutted. Hollowed out. You walk through your days like a shadow of yourself, speaking the words they want to hear, accepting the role they believe you were born to play.

But every step forward feels like a betrayal.

The more they call you goddess, the more you forget what it meant to be free.

To be Y/N.

But still, each day, you rise.

You let them dress you, crown your hair in braids threaded with gold, speak words of duty and devotion. You attend councils, pass judgments, offer wisdom as if it flows from you like flame. You nod. You smile. You carry yourself like a daughter of the gods.

But something inside you is slipping.

At first, it’s just a heaviness behind your eyes when you wake. Then, the ache spreads—through your chest, your ribs, into the very bones of you. You go through the motions, but the fire that once danced in your eyes now barely flickers.

And still, no one speaks of it. No one dares.

Except her.

Your mother watches in silence for days, trying not to name it, as if denying the grief will keep it from growing. But eventually, she breaks.

“You are drifting,” she says one evening, as you sit alone in the palace garden, untouched fruit on a silver tray beside you. “This is not the daughter I brought home.”

You don’t reply.

She kneels beside you, places a hand on yours. “Tell me what weighs you so.”

You turn your gaze away. “Do you think they miss me?”

It’s a whisper. A wound.

“I think,” she says carefully, “that if they loved you even a fraction as deeply as you love them… they are hurting just the same.”

Your breath catches. You thought you had buried those feelings.

But now—now, they are suffocating you.

Elsewhere across the horizon, the sea is quiet.

Too quiet.

The Halcyon glides across the expanse, unaware of what waits for them ahead.

Four vessels, bearing no flags—only sails dipped in red. Hidden just beyond a veil of mist, anchored in silence. Ready. Waiting. A battalion built of vengeance.

The bounty on the Halcyon crew is steep. More than gold. It’s about principle now. Reputation. Retribution.

For the burning ships. For the stolen slaves. For the whispers of a fire-born girl who razed entire fleets.

But she’s not with them now, and they are vulnerable. If they strike now… The Halcyon may not rise from it.

It’s Jongho who sees them first.

Perched high in the rigging, eyes narrowed against the sun, his voice cuts through the quiet like a blade.

“Ships. Four. Dead ahead.”

The call sends a ripple across the Halcyon’s deck.

Seonghwa immediately turns, barking orders with a rare sharpness. “All hands on alert. Mingi—”

“Already priming the cannons,” Mingi shouts from below.

San pulls his blade from his side, twirling it once with ease before strapping it tighter across his back. Yunho moves to the helm, calm but alert, hands flexing over the wheel.

Yeosang and Wooyoung are on the quarterdeck in seconds, spyglasses drawn.

“Red sails,” Wooyoung mutters. “But no flags. That’s not a trade convoy.”

“It’s a message,” Yeosang replies darkly. “They’re hunting us.”

Hongjoong hasn’t spoken yet.

He stands still at the bow, the wind catching his coat, eyes fixed on the horizon where the first hull breaks through the mist. Another follows. Then another.

Four in total. Bigger than most. Heavily armed.

He doesn’t flinch.

“They’re not looking to threaten,” Seonghwa says, coming to stand beside him. “They mean to end us.”

A long silence.

Then, at last, the Captain speaks.

“Let them try.”

He turns to face the crew, voice steady, gaze sharp.

“You all know what we’ve done. Who we’ve saved. The systems we’ve burned.”

The deck is still. Every crew member listening.

“We are marked now. Not as villains—but as the ones who stood between monsters and the innocent. They will come for us. Again and again. And still—we do not back down.”

His jaw tenses, the fury simmering beneath his skin like a rising tide.

“We may no longer have our flame…” His voice falters for just a breath.

Then it hardens. “But we are still the Halcyon.”

And the Halcyon does not fall.

Seonghwa draws his sword.

“Positions.”

The crew scatters.

Cannons roll into place. Blades are sharpened. Gunpowder is packed tight. Boots thunder against the deck. The sails snap with sudden purpose.

The ocean tightens. The ships approach.

War is imminent.

The vessels surround the Halcyon, but there’s no cannon fire. No war cries from afar. Instead—grappling hooks.

They’re being boarded.

The enemy descends with terrifying precision, seasoned and silent, like shadows in human form. This isn’t a brawl. It’s an execution.

And the Halcyon is outnumbered.

Steel meets steel with a savage clang. Jongho’s fists slam into one man’s jaw, but three more follow. Mingi lets out a roar, swinging his axe and carving a path across the deck. Yunho and San fight back-to-back, blood already soaking through San’s shirt, but he doesn’t slow.

Rain begins to fall.

Not a storm, not yet—just a light drizzle, soaking into the bloodied wood of the Halcyon’s deck, washing the crimson from wounds that will not heal.

The crew had fought. Gods, they had fought.

San’s blade is slick with blood, hands shaking as he braces himself against the mainmast, a gash across his brow pouring into one eye. Mingi is still moving—barely—his breath ragged, his shoulder dislocated but his axe still clenched in one hand. Yunho, bruised and panting, stumbles toward a fallen crewmate, shouting something that’s swallowed by the sound of steel on flesh.

Wooyoung is down. He’s on his back, blood seeping from a deep gash in his ribs, his lips curled in defiance even as pain twists his face. “I’m fine,” he breathes, though his voice is barely audible.

Jongho screams Yeosang’s name as he sees him fall.

Yeosang doesn’t respond. He just grips the blade still lodged in his gut, forcing himself to stay upright, teeth clenched, blood painting the deck beneath his boots.

And Hongjoong—

Their Captain, their leader, the man who never faltered—is on his knees, bound and broken, his once-pristine coat soaked in rain and blood. A dozen men had taken him down, and even then, he fought tooth and nail.

He spits blood onto the deck as he’s dragged forward by his hair.

One of them presses a blade to his throat.

The Halcyon crew roars—injured, staggering, they try to rise—but it’s too late.

They’re too weak.

The man with the blade sneers. “This is the price you pay for making enemies of gods and gold. You should’ve stayed in your place, pirate.”

Hongjoong doesn’t speak. He can’t. But his glare is pure fury—no fear, no surrender, just the heat of a soul who’s lost everything, and still refuses to die quietly.

The blade presses harder, breaking the skin—

Pain.

Not the kind you can scream through. Not the kind that claws and tears and leaves bruises behind.

This is worse.

This is soul-deep.

It seizes you in the middle of the grand marble hall, silencing the quiet clinking of silver goblets and hushed divine murmurs around the table. A scream rings out—not through the air, but in your blood.

Your body stills, breath faltering.

Something’s wrong.

Your hands tremble as you grip the edge of the table, white-knuckled, eyes staring ahead but seeing nothing.

“My dear?” Your mother’s voice is laced with concern. The serene mask she always wears falters as she watches your face go pale. “What is it?”

Your lips barely move.

“Hongjoong.”

The name cracks like a lightning strike in a stormless sky.

A ragged breath escapes you, and then another, sharp and desperate. Your heart twists violently in your chest—like something is being ripped away.

“No—no, something’s wrong.”

You clutch your chest, then your throat—gasping. It’s as if a thread inside you has just snapped.

A thread you didn’t know was there until it tore.

Then, a phantom pain slices across your skin—your throat searing as if a blade has carved through it. You lurch forward.

“TAKE ME THERE!” you shriek. “Take me there now!”

Your voice echoes like thunder crashing through the heavens.

And then—

Wind. Cold. The sting of salt.

You land hard on the Halcyon’s blood-soaked deck.

Your lungs seize at the sight.

Smoke. Screams. Fire still eating at the sails. Your crew—your family—strewn across the planks like discarded dolls.

The sky ignites.

Your scream cracks the clouds, and in its wake, fire erupts. The four enemy ships detonate in mid-air, consumed by divine flame. Men scream. Burn. Vanish. Their bones turn to ash before they can even hit the ocean below. The deck is purged of their presence, chewed up and spat out by your blazing fury.

Immediately, you scour your surroundings.

Yeosang—bleeding out, his hands weakly holding the blade buried in his abdomen. Jongho shouting his name over and over, trying to stem the flow.

Seonghwa’s arm—shattered, hanging limply as he shields a wounded San.

Mingi, face slick with blood, wielding his axe with his last ounce of strength to keep attackers at bay before they turned to ash.

Wooyoung—curled over a child, one of the freed slaves—protecting them even in agony.

And then you see him.

Hongjoong.

Your breath dies.

He’s crumpled near the mainmast, barely recognisable, body battered. His wrists are bound. His face bloodied and broken. His throat—

No.

You stagger toward him, knees buckling, eyes wide with disbelief.

You fall.

“H-Hongjoong?” Your voice is a whisper, broken and hoarse. “No. No, no, no…”

You crawl to him, hands shaking as you touch his face. His skin is cold. Too cold.

“Mother!” you cry out, your scream shattering through the quiet aftermath like a blade through glass. “Mother, HELP ME!”

There’s no response. Only wind and smoke. And the thunderous roar inside your chest.

“PLEASE!” You sob, your cries animalistic, primal. “Please, don’t take him from me!”

Your grief rips through the air, through the world itself.

You clutch Hongjoong’s body to your chest, rocking slightly, your tears splashing onto his cheeks. His blood smears across your white robes, the golden threads burning away in your embrace.

“Please…” you whisper again, mouth pressed to his temple. “Don’t leave me.”

For the first time in your God-born life, you pray. Not to the heavens. Not to your ancestors. But to the man in your arms.

To wake up.

To stay.

To survive.

But someone, or something, hears.

~

You come to.

It hits you like a tidal wave—consciousness, grief, terror—everything all at once. You gasp, choking on air like it’s your first breath after drowning. Your limbs flail, scrambling against marble floors as you lurch upright.

Your heart is a war drum in your chest.

Your vision blurs.

You’re not on the Halcyon.

“Where are they?” you demand, your voice ragged, eyes searching wildly. “Where are they!”

Your mother is beside you in an instant, serene as ever but paler now, her expression strained with something close to sorrow. Her hand finds your shoulder, grounding.

“My darling… come with me.”

You want to scream. You want to demand, to run. But you let her guide you.

She leads you through a corridor you don’t recognise—gleaming white walls that hum faintly beneath your fingers. The air here is different. Too clean. Too quiet. A place that doesn’t feel like it belongs to the divine halls above—it feels borrowed. Artificial.

Clinical.

A single golden door slides open before you with a whisper. You’ve never seen it before. You aren’t even sure it existed before today.

And then—

The scent hits you. Antiseptic. Blood. Smoke. Salt.

The battlefield lingers even here.

The first room holds five beds.

San lies still, jaw clenched even in unconsciousness. A wrap encases his torso. Machines monitor the sluggish rhythm of his heart.

Mingi is barely awake, arm in a sling, bruises peppering his face. He turns when he senses you, forcing a smile that falters when he sees the look in your eyes.

Yunho sits upright, his hand bandaged, eyes hollow. He doesn’t speak—just nods slowly, silently telling you he’s here.

Jongho is awake too, propped up against pillows, one leg elevated and splinted. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Then he sees your tears and lowers his gaze.

Wooyoung lies curled on his side, half of his ribs wrapped tightly. But his eyes search for you the moment you enter. When he sees you, his lip quivers.

“Y/N…” he whispers. “You came back.”

You cross to him, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes it weakly, tears already slipping free.

The next room hurts even more.

Seonghwa.

He’s sitting upright—dignified, composed, but changed.

His left arm ends just below the elbow, wrapped in gold-threaded gauze. The skin around it looks raw, still healing. He sees your expression and speaks before you can crumble.

“I would rather lose a limb a thousand times,” he says softly, “than lose you.”

You’re shaking when you’re led into the third room.

Yeosang.

Your breath catches.

He lies motionless—so pale it hurts. The blade wound is stitched, his chest rising only faintly. Machines surround him, beeping rhythmically, each sound proof of a miracle that he is still breathing.

You approach slowly. As if too loud a breath might shatter him entirely.

When your fingers graze his, a jolt of pain flashes through you—guilt, unbearable and suffocating. Silent tears fall, dotting the blanket that covers him.

And then—

The last door.

You hesitate. Your legs won’t move.

“I don’t—” your voice cracks. “I don’t want to see—”

“You must,” your mother says gently. “You need to.”

The door opens, and it takes your breath away.

Hongjoong.

He’s not the man you knew—not the fire-eyed, sharp-tongued, steady-handed Captain. This man is broken.

Laid out in a hospital bed surrounded by monitors blinking in steady succession. Tubes thread in and out of him. His face is swollen, bruised beyond recognition. A massive dressing covers his throat, and you know. You know the wound beneath it.

A healer stands by your side, voice solemn.

“He’s in a medically-induced coma. His injuries were… incompatible with life. We’ve done what we can to keep his systems stabilised, but the odds—”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

You fall to your knees.

Your hand finds his, trembling. There’s no squeeze. No movement. No sign.

You press your forehead to his arm, sobbing silently, tears staining the thin sheet. The weight of it all finally crushes you.

If you hadn’t left—

If you had stayed—

If you had never put a wall between you and the people who gave you everything—

He wouldn’t be here. Not like this.

Not dying.

Not lost.

You are a God-born, a creature of power and purpose. But all you’ve ever wanted… is him.

And now, you may never hear his voice again.

~

Days slip through your fingers like water.

The sun rises. The sun sets. You don’t see it.

You do not eat. You do not sleep.

You do not speak—unless it’s to the unconscious man in the bed beside you.

You hold his hand. You brush his hair back from his brow. You press trembling lips to his knuckles and whisper things you never got to say when he could hear them.

The healers come in shifts, quiet and efficient, each one more hesitant than the last. They speak in hushed tones just outside the door, voices full of pity.

Still you do not leave.

You ignore their warnings. Ignore the repeated “We’ve done all we can.”

You refuse to let them switch off the machines. They call it prolonging the inevitable. You call it hope.

The crew is healing.

Wooyoung’s ribs are still wrapped, but he’s walking now—slow, but upright. Jongho and Mingi help each other to the mess hall, limping but smiling faintly. Yunho paces the corridors more than he rests, checking on everyone with soft, watchful eyes. San barely speaks, but he sits by Yeosang’s bedside every day.

Yeosang has opened his eyes. He hasn’t spoken yet, but he’s awake. A miracle in itself.

And Seonghwa… he’s pushing through his own pain quietly. His arm is gone, but he doesn’t let anyone pity him. The weight of loss clings to his shoulders, but he wears it with grace.

Still, the emptiness is everywhere.

The halls feel haunted.

You feel haunted.

You hear the door creak open, slow and gentle. You expect another healer.

Instead—Seonghwa.

He steps inside with careful grace, a faint limp in his stride. The sleeve where his arm once was has been neatly tailored and pinned back. He wears a robe now, dark and formal, but not stiff. His expression is unreadable at first.

He doesn’t speak right away. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

You just keep holding Hongjoong’s hand.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. Unshaken. But not cold.

“Y/N,” he says softly, “none of us want to lose him. You know that.”

He stops just behind you, watching the rise and fall of Hongjoong’s chest beneath the machines.

“But…” His tone deepens—gentle, but honest. “Do you not think he deserves peace? A proper burial. With the stars watching over him. We cannot keep him like this.”

That’s when you break.

A soft sound tears from your chest—barely human—and your body curls inward, folding into yourself as if the grief is hollowing you out.

Seonghwa steps forward without hesitation.

His arm wraps around you—carefully, protectively—even though you know every movement must hurt. He sinks down beside you, and you collapse into him fully, burying your face into his shoulder.

“He can’t be gone, Hwa,” you sob, voice cracking open like glass. “How are we all still here, and he’s gone?”

You clutch at the fabric of the gown they put him in, your fists trembling against it.

Seonghwa’s own pain must be a roaring ache—but he holds you tighter.

“As long as you still feel him, he is not gone,” he murmurs. “And I know he feels you. I know he does.”

You shake your head, sobs wrecking your chest, but Seonghwa doesn’t let go.

He stays there, silent but steady, anchoring you to the world you don’t know how to survive without Hongjoong.

~

The walls of your chamber are too quiet.

Too still.

Too cold.

The firelit sconce flickers. You sit motionless in its dull amber glow, knees pulled to your chest on the edge of the too-soft bed.

You haven’t moved for hours.

They forced you here. Not out of cruelty, but necessity.

You needed rest, they said. Just one night. The crew would take shifts at Hongjoong’s side, watching over him like sentinels. They promised.

But how are you supposed to rest when it feels like your very soul is cleaving in half?

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t fill. Try to still your hands, but they keep shaking. Try to think of anything else—but all you see is him.

You fold your arms around your ribs, holding yourself together as if you’ll splinter apart. The tears have stopped falling, not because you’ve stopped crying—but because you’ve cried yourself dry. And still, it aches. A never-ending, soul-shattering ache.

You pray, to anyone and everything. You plead, you scream, your voice raw and broken.

“Please.”

You fall to your knees, trembling hands gripping the stone beside your bed as if the coolness can ground you.

“Please, anyone. I don’t care who you are—I’ll do anything. Just bring him back to me.”

You bow your head, lips pressed to your fists.

One breath.

Two.

And then—a third breath catches. Because the air shifts. Like a sudden chill, a crack in the warmth, a shiver crawling across your spine.

Then—

“Anything, hmm?”

The voice slithers from the shadows like oil—slick, unholy, vile. High and low all at once, echoing and yet quiet enough to brush your neck.

It is wrong—so utterly wrong it makes your teeth ache.

You jerk upright, heart hammering, head snapping toward the corner of the room now draped in an impossible darkness.

You know—instinctively—that this is no god. No healer. No guardian.

This is something else.

“Who’s there?” you rasp, standing, trying to summon flame—but nothing comes. Your fingers only twitch.

The voice purrs again, closer now, sickeningly sweet beneath the rot.

“Dear child,” it coos, mockingly tender. “You called. And I… can help you.”

The firelight sputters. Shadows ripple. Your mouth goes dry. And from the depths of the corner, something begins to take form. The shadow writhes—twisting, peeling away from the stone walls as if the room itself is rotting at the seams.

And then… it stands.

No footsteps. No breath. Just presence.

A creature not of flesh nor bone, but something far more ancient—far more wrong. It does not blink. It does not breathe. It merely is. A being forged not from firelight, like your mother, but from everything that firelight fears.

Its limbs are too long. Its shape never fully stays still—one moment a figure in a cloak of ash, the next a smouldering heap of sinew and cinder. You look at it directly and feel your vision blur, your stomach twist. It’s not meant to be seen. It’s the void behind your eyelids, the whisper behind the door, the scream swallowed by silence.

You can’t even tell where its voice comes from, only that it echoes in the marrow of your bones.

“If such things as gods exist,” you whisper, your own voice trembling, “and I am proof that they do—then you… you must be their opposite.”

And the creature smiles. Or, at least, it tries to. The gesture splits its face in the wrong direction.

“Indeed,” it hisses, bowing ever so slightly, “a pleasure to be seen by one so radiant. You shine, little flame. Even in this grief.”

Its head tilts—too far.

“If you truly mean it… if you would do anything… then I may be of some assistance.”

It steps closer. Or perhaps the room grows smaller.

“There is a cost, of course. All things powerful come at a price. But you already know that, don’t you? He is not beyond saving, not yet. But time is not your ally.”

The flicker of your flame tries to ignite again—your grief trying to shield itself. But the air snuffs it out before it can spark.

And still, the creature watches.

“Do you accept my help, little God-born? Will you bleed for the boy you love?”

The question hangs there, thick and dripping like tar.

“Whatever it is you want, it’s yours. So long as it doesn’t harm my crew, my family. Take it.”

The laugh curdles the air. It scrapes down your spine like rusted nails, feral and delighted, the sound of something long buried in the earth finally being fed. It echoes far too long, bouncing off the walls, rattling the very foundation of the room.

“I want your fire.”

The words slam into you like a weight, like a sentence being passed. You reel, the breath knocked from your lungs, a terrible stillness crawling into your bones.

“My… fire?”

The creature doesn’t blink—just nods, once, slowly, its form shimmering with decay. Shadows slither behind it, coiling and grinning.

“The gift in your blood. The warmth in your bones. That which they fear… and that which you call love. It will be mine.”

You clutch your chest instinctively, as though you can protect it—that divine spark that makes you, you. The flame that brought down empires. That saved your crew. That erupted the night Hongjoong nearly died the first time.

The very thing that connects you to the Isle… to your ancestors… to him.

And the thing that could save him now.

“You said I could bring him back.”

“You can.”

“And he’ll live?”

“Yes. Unharmed. Whole. The same boy whose name clings to your every heartbeat.”

You swallow hard, voice barely a whisper now.

“And my crew? They stay safe?”

“I will not touch a hair on their heads.” A smile that curdles milk. “I only want you, little flame.”

There’s no room left to bargain. No space for hesitation. Your knees shake. Your hands tremble. But your voice—when it comes—is steady.

“Then take it.”

The creature doesn’t move. Instead, its form begins to unfurl. A grotesque bloom, its arms lifting like dark petals.

“So brave,” it rasps, “so full of love… A God-born willing to become nothing.”

And then it strikes.

Not with violence, but with a pull—a suction so deep and vile it rips straight through your soul.

You scream, falling to your knees as the warmth inside you begins to evaporate, sucked into the mouth of the void. Your skin glows, just for a moment, like the last ember in a dying fire.

And then—

Darkness.

Your fire is gone. The warmth… gone. The tether to your ancestors… severed.

But—

Far away, in a sterile room filled with impossible machines, Hongjoong gasps back to life.

[thetidesthatturn]

Oversteer Masterlist

Pairing: OT8 F1 Ateez x FIA Mental & Performance Strategist freader

Warnings: ANGSTTTTT, heartbreak, use of Y/N, eventual explicit sexual content, violence, alcohol use, tobacco use - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Synopsis:

In the world of Formula 1, where legacy is everything and loyalty is rare, eight rival drivers find themselves forced into deeper entanglements—both professional and personal—when a new cross-team initiative threatens to reshape the racing world.

Each man races for a different constructor, but when the FIA introduces a controversial “All-Star Development Program” pairing top drivers from rival teams for joint performance trials and PR campaigns, it sets off a domino effect of shifting alliances, bitter rivalry, and unexpected connections.

As the season spirals into scandal, crashes, and sabotages, old secrets resurface. But the real race isn’t just to the podium. It’s to figure out who they are off the track… and what they’re willing to risk for the people who’ve always been just out of reach.

New chapters every Sunday

CHAPTER ONE - LIGHTS OUT

CHAPTER TWO - DIRTY AIR

[thetidesthatturn]

*slow clapping*

Scotty doesn’t know | JWY

🎸⋆⭒˚ genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships. this chapter starts with woo’s pov and shifts to readers pov.

🎸⋆⭒˚ pairings: drummer!wooyoung x guitarist! reader x vocalist! seonghwa

wc: 1k

🎸⋆⭒˚ summary: seonghwa doesn’t know wooyoung screws you in the van whenever he fucks up and wooyoung doesn’t mind cleaning up after his messes so long as you end the night with him. inspired by the song “scotty doesn’t know” by lustra. (wooyoung poster made by DVN on pinterest)

🎸⋆⭒˚ warnings: car sex, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, slight hitting, spit, degrading language, squirting, crying, fingering, and everyone’s a piece of shit. this might be ass but i tried lol

masterlist

next: [deftones be quiet and drive, seonghwa’s pov.]

Wooyoung’s all knowing, deadpan gaze greets you the moment you step into the van. He’s positively relaxed and patient, leaning back on the car seat headrest against the palms of his hands. Seonghwa, as always, finds a way to fuck up every Sunday without fail. He wonders who you found him with this time.

Which is exactly why he made sure to park in the back alley of the bar after the show. Security caught wind of the rather foggy windows and heavy rocking of the car last Sunday, and Wooyoung would rather not get caught by Seonghwa—knowing he’d get his teeth kicked in.

Hypocritical? Yeah, probably.

Did you guys ever break up? No.

Will you break the cycle? Most likely not.

He kind of likes the secrecy of it all and doesn’t waste his time contemplating guilt or if he had any feelings for you—there was no room for that. The entire situation was grimy and grimy was Wooyoung’s specialty as the perfect boytoy.

The moment you slam the van’s door shut and crawl your way to him, fueled by muscle memory and frustration, he greets you with a tongue in your mouth.

It’s heated, wet, and the clacking of teeth accompany the sounds of your labored breaths. Yeah, there was no room for love in this—not when you’re kissing him with the exhaust fumes of your feelings for Hwa.

So he does what he does best and slides himself between your slick after sliding your panties off and tucking it into his pocket.

He shoves your back onto the frigid rubber floor and pushes your thighs up flat against your stomach before spreading your pussy open with his fingers to look inside with a small giggle.

“Someone’s pissed, what’d he do this time?” He liked riling you up. It made the sex euphoric.

“The bartender.” You flatly replied before grabbing his hair and shoving him head first against you, grinding against his nose without restraint.

A loud moan leaves your mouth the moment Wooyoung complies excitedly, enjoying the way he feels your throbbing and contracting against his tongue, and noisily indulges in his favorite weekend snack.

God, your taste. He thinks about what a fucking idiot Hwa is passively but thanks him for fucking up so often as he unbuckles his jeans, laughing at your fucked out form.

He barrels into you, balls slapping against your ass, and fucks you dumb. You claw onto his thighs when he spits on your face and moans when you slap him before gripping onto his cheeks with a single hand to pull him in to kiss you.

“Fucking hell, why are you so tight?” His eyebrows scrunch together, trying not to cum in you again since you already took a plan b last week. Does Hwa not fuck you enough or is he just not packing his skinny jeans enough as much as he likes acting like he’s got a big dick?

You’re still moaning loudly, breathing growing heavier when you reach an arm to grip the small railings inside of the car to stop yourself from sliding up from Woo’s rabid fucking, but It doesn’t help stop the rhythmic banging of your head against the wall.

Your babydoll bangs are matted with sweat, molding itself in little spikes against your forehead. Fuck, why did it always feel so good with him? Of all the people you could’ve chosen, you chose his best friend who he’d treated like his little brother?

To be fair, you think Hwa’s fucked your cousin at a family gathering you were forced to attend, and the guilt immediately leaves you with a frustrated roll of your eyes.

Wooyoung’s hand slaps your tit roughly before grabbing your throat and propelling his veiny cock deeper into your already raw pussy.

“My cock’s inside of you—don’t think about someone else when I’m the one fucking you dumb, stupid bitch.” He hisses against your lips and pushes your thighs up higher so your knees practically hang above your neck, and your shoulders carry your weight.

The sex’s always wild with Wooyoung in a particular way—bordering on animalistic rage and reprieve. It’s rude and cunning, and taking advantage of weaknesses and immoral hedonistic appetites. 

Wooyoung pulls out to spread you open, fascinated by the sight of your gaping rawness before sliding three fingers in and curling his fingers against that particular spongy spot he’s committed to memory. A small, choked up scream leaves you and you crane your neck up to see his arm pistoling itself into you, palm smacking against your clit.

Loud whines build up and out of your throat when you finally squirt against his hand, crying the eyeliner out of your waterline when he groans and rubs his fingers against you to get more out of you.

“Fucking hell, Woo.” You breathe out before he turns your body to fuck you from the back, immediately breaking you open and you hiss at the bruising burn.

You feel like your vagina’s been hit with a cleaver and don’t know if you could walk out of this one normally.

Wooyoung, however, pulls out again and you turn your neck to gaze at him questioningly.

“So you’re not going to get your nut or?”

Sometimes he hates your dry crassness.

Wooyoung ignores you and turns the stereo on full blast, laughing at the irony of the song that starts playing.

“Scotty doesn’t know that Fiona and me do it in my van every Sunday—“

He’s positively ecstatic and runs on immoral adrenaline when shoves himself back inside, pummeling into you with a loud groan. Your damp cheek pressed against the floor, strands of wet hair fall into your mouth when you yelp—meeting his thrusts by driving your ass back to push it flat against his pelvic bone.

The sound of Woo’s chain slapping against his chest stimulates you without much reason and you climax for the second time again, your screams slightly muffled by the rubber on the floor.

The feeling of your pulsing pussy sends him off the edge and Wooyoung cums inside of you with a whine.

“Holy shit.” He laughs breathily and spanks you a little.

Wooyoung can’t wait for Seonghwa to fuck up again, because he’ll gladly clean up after his messes.

author’s note: LMAOOOO i should be editing everything else but couldn’t avoid writing this after listening to scotty doesn’t know. i’ve been on a woo kick lately so hopefully any woo lovers can profit off of this.

[thetidesthatturn]

The Way You Ride It

Pairing: Choi San x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, explicit sexual content (basically porn with a plot lmao, dom San, thigh riding, head freceiving, teasing, slapping, biting, choking, implied unprotected sex), use of NDAs, San calls Y/N “princess” a lot - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Masterlist

San knows his image as an idol teeters on a fine line. One wrong move, and the illusion shatters—splintering into a thousand irreparable pieces under the weight of public scrutiny. He’s seen it happen to others for far less. Cancelled over a glance, a breath, a momentary lapse in performance. He’s endured years of media training, polished every response, memorised every angle that flatters best.

But all of that—every carefully rehearsed instinct—vanishes the moment his eyes find you.

He’s right at the climax of his new solo, Creep, the spotlight cutting across the stage in a sharp blade of white as the crowd surges with anticipation. It’s the same adrenaline every night. The same choreo, the same screams, the same sea of faces blurred into one.

Until yours.

You’re standing at the barrier in one of the sections close to the main stage, pressed between eager fans. A cropped leather waistcoat hugging your figure, a matching mini skirt framing your legs, and thigh-high boots that lace up with intention. He knows that outfit. It’s a nod to his Towards the Light era—black leather, attitude, edge. And if that wasn’t enough to make his pulse hitch, you’re holding a banner, bold and teasing:

San, you can creep to me any time

He falters. Just slightly.

His gaze locks with yours like a live wire snapping taut. You freeze, eyes wide, a deer in headlights, caught and cornered by the weight of his stare. One heartbeat. Two. Then he lifts his chin in acknowledgment, gives a slow, deliberate nod, and winks before forcing himself to continue scanning the crowd like nothing happened.

But everything has.

From that moment on, he can’t stop looking back.

Every pass of his gaze finds its way to you again, as if your presence has magnetised the stage itself. Your posture shifts, trying to shrink into yourself, to play it cool, but San can see the tremor in your fingers as you grip the banner. Can feel the tug in his chest every time you look up at him.

The girl next to you nudges your side, leaning in with wide eyes and a conspiratorial grin. “Ummm, girl… have you seen the way San’s been staring at you all night?”

You let out a huff of laughter, brushing it off, even though your skin is prickling with awareness. “It’s probably just in my head.”

But it’s not. You have noticed. Every stolen glance, every moment where his choreography pulls him in your direction, every smile that seems a fraction too real.

It’s not your delusion coming for you.

San has been staring. And the part that makes your heart thunder harder than the bass shaking the floor?

He’s still looking.

San bolts off stage the moment the lights dim, sweat clinging to his skin as he tears through the backstage corridor toward the dressing rooms. His breathing is ragged, not from the choreography—but from the chaos of you still spinning through his mind.

The crew moves around him like clockwork, prepping for his quick change into the next outfit. But he isn’t thinking about stage clothes or hydration packs. He’s thinking about you, and how your eyes never left his once he locked on.

He catches sight of one of the floor managers—clipboard in hand, headset snug behind their ear—and without hesitation, grabs their arm.

“Hey—how much of an issue would it be to get someone backstage?”

The manager blinks. “Backstage… please don’t tell me you mean a fan.”

San hesitates for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah. I know, I know—it’s risky as hell. But I’m just… I don’t know, I’m intrigued. By her.”

The manager exhales sharply through their nose, crossing their arms. “God damn it, San. I’d expect this kind of stunt from Wooyoung, but you?”

San just shrugs, an unapologetic half-smile tugging at his lips.

“She’s in section B, first row at barrier. Leather outfit, ‘Creep’ banner—kind of hard to miss.”

They mutter something under their breath, but they’re already pulling out their radio. “Fine. We’ll have someone approach. But she doesn’t come anywhere near this section of the building without signing an NDA. You know how KQ gets.”

“More than fine by me.” San flashes a grateful grin and turns, disappearing into the wardrobe bay just as stylists begin swarming him with towels and fresh clothes.

Out in the stadium, the dancer’s performance is wrapping up. The stage lights flash in soft hues of blue and silver as they take centre for their spotlight moment. You’re clapping along, trying to keep your composure, but your brain is a static blur. You haven’t stopped thinking about San’s stares. About that wink. About him.

Then, suddenly, a staff member appears by the barricade, scanning faces until their eyes land on you. They lean in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of their breath over the roar of the crowd.

“You’ve been requested by one of the artists,” they say calmly. “If you’d like to accept this request, please remain in the venue after send-off. Someone will come collect you. Please do not discuss this with anyone.”

Before you can even ask a question, they’re gone. Like a ghost in a headset.

Your mind goes blank.

“What was that about?” the girl beside you asks again, suspicious now.

You force a shaky laugh, trying not to look like your internal organs have just liquefied. “Oh, um… they thought I was someone who needed medical attention.”

She buys it. Shrugs, turns back toward the stage with the rest of the crowd. But your pulse is rioting in your throat.

An artist has requested you.

Not a staff member. Not security. Not someone from production.

An artist.

The rest of the show passes in a haze—flashing lights, echoing vocals, ocean waves of lightsticks. But you barely register any of it.

Your veins thrum with anticipation, nerves crawling under your skin like static. It’s like your body is running on autopilot, every move guided by something deeper than thought. When the house lights finally begin to dim for the last time, you find yourself drifting toward the area for send-off, barely aware of your own feet moving.

You grip your phone in one hand and your photo cards in the other, fumbling with them like they’re the only things anchoring you to reality. Your fingers won’t stay still. You keep shifting your weight from foot to foot, trying to breathe evenly, to look normal. Whatever that means.

“Did you want me to sign one of those?”

You blink, startled, the words barely registering at first. But then you look up.

Seonghwa is standing in front of you, dark eyes warm beneath the soft sheen of post-performance sweat, his smile gentle and disarming. He’s already reaching for a pen, gaze flicking down to your hand.

Your jaw opens and closes uselessly for a second before your voice finally stumbles out. “Oh—God. Yes, please. Thank you.”

He takes his photo card delicately from your hand, handling it with a care far greater than needed. “You enjoyed the show?”

“I did,” you manage, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You were amazing. I loved your solo stage… the atmosphere was insane.”

He chuckles, low and modest, as he signs his name with practiced ease. “Thank you. I’m glad you could make it.”

Your eyes flick over to the line of members making their way along the barricade behind him. You spot Wooyoung joking with a fan two people down, Yeosang waving politely, and San—

Your breath catches.

San is lingering near the end, casually signing a lightstick. But his eyes aren’t on the merch.

They’re on you.

The moment you meet his gaze, his expression shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. The teasing glint he wore on stage softens into something more deliberate. Something more… real.

He doesn’t smile. Not yet. He just nods once. Like he’s acknowledging something the rest of the world isn’t supposed to see.

And you feel it. Right down to your bones.

Seonghwa finishes signing and passes your card back, his fingers brushing yours. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”

You nod, lips parting to thank him, but your voice is already lost again.

The rest of the members begin making their way down the barrier, stopping to greet fans, sign things, offer small words of thanks. You do your best to stay grounded, to remember how surreal this moment truly is—how lucky you are to even be here—but your mind is only half present. The other half? Spiralling toward what might come next.

You offer soft compliments to each member as they pass.

Yeosang gives you a shy but dazzling smile, nodding graciously at your praise.

Jongho grins when you tell him his vocals made your chest ache, and he bashfully says, “Thank you, that means a lot.”

Then Wooyoung saunters up, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re the one with that sign, right?” he teases, wagging his brows. “Ballsy. I like it.”

You laugh, cheeks burning. “Thanks. You were incredible tonight.”

He places a hand over his heart dramatically. “I know. But it’s nice to hear it anyway.” He signs your album sleeve with a wink before moving on.

Mingi follows, towering and bright, scanning your outfit with an appreciative once-over.

“Well, damn,” he mutters under his breath. “Sexy lady, much?”

You nearly choke on your own breath, laughing in disbelief.

“You did so well tonight,” you manage to say, your voice shaky from the compliment.

He shoots you a wide grin, signs your card, and gives you a gentle fist bump before striding down the line.

But none of it truly lands. Not the flattery, not the jokes. Because the entire time, your heartbeat is thrumming to the rhythm of one name only.

And then he’s there.

San.

Standing right in front of you.

Your lungs seize for a second as his eyes meet yours—up close, under the artificial lighting, it’s like the rest of the crowd dissolves into mist. He’s more intense in person, somehow. Like the weight of his gaze could pin you in place.

“I like your sign,” he says casually, voice lower than you expected, smooth like velvet with a dangerous undertone.

His smirk is lazy, practiced—but his eyes flicker. Just for a second. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

You swallow hard. “Thanks,” you breathe. “You were… amazing tonight.”

“I try.” He shrugs, modest, but the gleam in his eyes is anything but.

He doesn’t draw attention to your shared moment. Doesn’t drop any hints, or give you any secret codes to latch onto. He just takes your photocard, signs it in a fluid motion, then signs your banner—right beneath the cheeky slogan—and hands it back without breaking eye contact.

Then he moves on. No lingering. No theatrics. Just a single glance over his shoulder once he’s a few paces away.

And somehow, that’s worse than anything else.

Because you know now. You’ve been chosen.

~

The last member disappears through the curtain, and just like that—it’s over.

The crowd begins to thin out, a steady current of chattering fans making their way toward the exits, still high on adrenaline and confetti. But you stay rooted in place, still clutching your signed banner, your heart a frantic metronome behind your ribs.

Minutes tick by.

First two. Then five.

By the ten-minute mark, doubt begins to creep in like a chill draft.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe they changed their minds. Maybe it wasn’t even real to begin with.

You take a shaky breath and glance toward the doors. You could still leave. Go home, take a shower, pretend tonight was nothing more than an incredibly vivid fever dream.

But then a figure approaches.

A staff member, dressed in all black, earpiece nestled neatly in place.

“Hi,” they say, clipboard in hand. “What’s the name, please?”

You straighten slightly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Y/N.”

They scan the clipboard, nod once. “Alright, Y/N. If you’ll follow me.”

You don’t speak. You just move—legs numb, brain detached from body—as they lead you through a side entrance and into a quiet corridor. The sounds of the stadium are muffled now, distant echoes through concrete.

They open the door to a small side room and gesture toward a simple plastic chair in the corner. You sit.

Another staff member joins, holding a thin folder and a sleek tablet.

“This is a Non-Disclosure Agreement,” they explain, tone clipped but polite. “It’s standard protocol. You’re under no obligation to sign it, and if you choose not to, we’ll escort you out of the venue immediately, no questions asked. But without a signature, we can’t grant you access to the backstage area or allow any interaction beyond this point.”

You open your mouth to speak—to ask who requested you again, why this is happening—but the words never come.

Instead, you just nod.

They hand you the tablet. You skim the document, though none of it really registers. Your signature shakes slightly as you sign your name at the bottom.

Once it’s done, they take it back, offer a small nod, then extend a hand.

“Your phone, please.”

You hesitate.

“We’ll keep it safe,” they reassure. “It will be returned to you upon sign-out from the building.”

Your fingers tighten around the device for a second too long before you force yourself to hand it over. The moment it leaves your grasp, the full weight of the situation crashes over you.

No lifeline. No camera. No contact with the outside world.

Just you, and the unknown.

Two staff members flank you now as you’re escorted down the hallway. The floors are polished and sterile. The lighting hums faintly above.

Your palms are clammy. Your stomach turns.

You feel sick. Not the flu kind of sick. Not the nerves-before-an-exam kind either. No—this is something deeper.

This is what-am-I-walking-into sick.

But still… you keep walking.

You’re led down one of the long corridors—each hallway looking like the last, like a maze designed to disorient. Your footsteps echo beneath the flickering fluorescent lights, the sound sharp against the hush of the backstage compound.

Eventually, you reach a door. Plain. Unmarked. One of the staff members raises their hand and knocks—three sharp raps against the wood.

A pause.

Then, from inside— “Come in.”

The staff member pushes the door open and gestures for you to enter. “We’ll be back later to escort you out.”

You nod, throat too tight to form words, and step inside. The door shuts behind you with a soft click.

You’re alone.

Well—not quite.

San is there, seated on a black leather couch, elbows resting on his knees, hair still slightly damp from the performance. He looks casual—intentionally so—but there’s something electric about the way he’s sitting. Coiled tension, barely disguised beneath a cool exterior.

His eyes find yours instantly, roaming over your figure in that same deliberate way he did on stage. Not leering—curious. Attentive. Like he’s taking in every breath, every shift in your posture, every piece of you that might tell him who you are and why you’ve stayed.

“You look scared,” he says softly, the corner of his mouth curling up into a half-smile. “I don’t bite. Not unless you ask.”

Your lips part, stunned into silence by the casual teasing tone in his voice. It’s almost too much—the surreal shift from watching him on stage, unreachable and idolised, to standing here in a quiet room with only a few feet between you.

“I…” You hesitate. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

He nods, leaning back, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. “Fair enough. This is a new situation for me too.”

“Why me?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

His smile deepens—not cocky now, but something more thoughtful. “Because you caught my eye. And I don’t mean just the sign. Or the outfit—though damn, you did go hard with that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, and he leans forward again, elbows on knees once more, more serious now.

“I don’t know what it is,” he continues. “Maybe I’m just chasing a feeling. But I couldn’t leave tonight without finding out if it meant something.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

He shifts to the side, patting the empty space next to him on the couch.

“Sit?”

You hesitate for a moment before stepping closer, and San pats the space beside him again, gentler this time.

“Come on,” he says. “I promise I’m not as intimidating when I’m not covered in sweat and surrounded by pyro.”

You crack a small smile and finally lower yourself onto the couch, keeping a polite distance at first. He doesn’t push it. He just watches you, his gaze softer now, something more curious flickering behind his eyes.

“So,” he starts, voice warm and low, “what’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

He nods. “Pretty name. How long have you been a fan?”

You smile, relaxing a little as the question grounds you. “Since Inception era, actually.”

His brows raise in genuine surprise. “No way. That long?”

You nod; hands folded in your lap. “Yeah. That comeback was the first time I saw you all perform live—on YouTube, I mean. It just… stuck.”

He leans back slightly, still watching you. “That’s wild. I always wonder what it is that makes someone stay. Like, we do all this performing and training, but it’s just… weirdly personal knowing someone chooses you.”

You glance at him, your nerves easing bit by bit. “I guess it was the performance, the storylines… the emotion. You made everything feel like it mattered.”

San smiles—really smiles—and you swear it lights the entire room.

“So…” he says after a moment, tilting his head, “have I always been your bias?”

You laugh, the tension in your chest finally breaking apart. “Oh, God. No. Sorry.”

He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart like you’ve stabbed him through it. “That hurts. Deeply. Who was it?”

You cover your face, giggling. “I really don’t think I should say.”

He shifts on the couch, closing the distance between you. His thigh brushes yours—barely—but the contact sends a sharp jolt up your spine.

He leans in slightly, tone playful but edged with something else.

“No, go on. Tell me.”

Your breath hitches. Your eyes flick to his lips, then back to his eyes. You’re melting again, composure slipping right through your fingers.

“It was…” you hesitate, voice trembling, “uh. Mingi.”

San’s brows lift, a devilish smirk curling his lips.

“Oof.” He exhales slowly. “That’s some tough competition.”

His hand shifts subtly, and now his fingers are ghosting over your knee—light, tentative, but very much intentional. You gulp, audibly.

He leans in just a fraction closer, his voice a whisper now.

“Why don’t I go ahead and set your bias in stone?”

His fingers are still resting on your knee, barely moving, but they might as well be fire. The weight of his touch, the heat in his stare—it’s all asking the same question. Testing the waters without a single word.

You meet his gaze, breath shallow, and time stretches thin between you.

Do you want this?

Your heart pounds as if in answer. And then—softly, but with conviction—you nod.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

A flash of something dark and satisfied passes through his eyes. He chuckles, low and raspy, voice roughened with want.

“Good.”

And then he’s on you.

There’s no hesitation when his mouth captures yours—hot and hungry, lips slanting over yours like he’s been waiting all night for this. His hands thread into your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp. The sound only seems to spur him on.

You fall back against the couch cushions, the world tipping with you, and he follows without pause—his body pressing against yours, strong arms bracing on either side as he cages you beneath him.

But even in his urgency, he’s careful. Grounded. Present.

His kiss deepens, slow but insistent, lips moving with a rhythm that feels like music in itself—something only you two can hear. You taste the remnants of stage sweat, peppermint, and something uniquely him.

Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in lightly as you arch beneath him, and he groans into your mouth, hips settling more fully between yours.

“God, you’re…” he murmurs against your lips, breaking away just enough to speak, “… even more addictive up close.”

You can’t respond—not properly—not when your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. His breath is warm, his pace deliberate. Still testing. Still making sure.

And you? You’re unraveling beneath him, pulse pounding, fingers lost in the hem of his shirt.

His mouth trails lower, grazing the delicate curve of your neck, just above your pulse point. You feel the faintest scrape of his teeth—teasing, testing—and then his lips hover there, not quite kissing, just breathing you in.

“How far can I go?” he whispers, voice like smoke and honey, each word curling against your skin.

You gasp, your back arching instinctively beneath him. The question settles into your bloodstream like wildfire, but your answer is immediate—raw and trembling.

“Whatever you want.”

It comes out half between a choke and a moan, and you can feel the shift in him the second the words leave your lips.

He exhales, low and slow, like he’s savouring the promise hidden inside your voice. Then he lifts his head just enough for your eyes to lock—his gaze burning, intense, yet somehow still soft.

“Oh, princess,” he murmurs, a dangerous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is going to be fun.”

His hands are already moving—one trailing up your thigh with deliberate slowness, the other tangling deeper into your hair as his lips descend on yours again, more forceful this time. No hesitation now. No pulling back.

Just fire.

He kisses you like he has all the time in the world. Like you’re not backstage in a borrowed room with staff just down the hall.

Like this moment has always been inevitable.

His hands slide beneath the hem of your top, fingers skating up your sides, not rushing, just learning you. Every shiver, every stuttered breath, every place your body arches into his touch—he commits it to memory.

“Still with me?” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, his mouth ghosting over yours.

You nod, dazed, lips parting with a soft gasp as his thumb brushes just beneath your ribs.

“I need to hear it, princess.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’m with you. Completely.”

That smile—the one that makes your knees weak and your thoughts scatter—spreads across his face again. “Good. Because I plan to take my time.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Want to make sure you never forget who your bias is.

Your pulse stutters violently. Then his hands are exploring again—more confident now, tracing every inch of you like he’s mapping something sacred. His touch is both a question and an answer. Demanding and delicate. Reverent and relentless.

His lips drag across your collarbone, down the slope of your shoulder, tasting every inch he can reach, worshipping you with his mouth. He hums in approval as your hands clutch at his back, your nails leaving soft trails across the skin beneath his shirt.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, his voice thick with control, with heat. “The way your body reacts to mine?”

You can’t speak. You can only nod, your head falling back as his thigh presses between yours, coaxing a whimper from your throat.

San chuckles darkly, one hand tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “That’s it. Let go. You don’t need to think tonight. I’ve got you.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, and everything else fades—your nerves, your doubts, the world outside that door.

There’s only him.

The way he moves with purpose, the way his hands never leave you, the way he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world who’s ever touched him like this.

And the way you believe it.

He undresses you slowly, teasing, claiming. He takes his time, leaving no space on your body untouched.

“I’d be ripping these off you under normal circumstances.” He sighs as he peels your skirt off, discarding it onto the floor.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down until you’re bare beneath him. His hands are everywhere except where you need them most. He moves back up your body, licking a stripe from your collarbone to the shell of your ear. You whimper, your bones turning to jelly underneath your skin.

His thigh settles back between your legs, and his lips ghost over the shell of your ear. “You’re being so patient. Go ahead and ride my thigh, you’ve earned it.”

You peer up at him, your chest heaving.

“Don’t be shy, princess. I know you want to.”

He nudges against you and your hips buck on impact. Your eyes flutter shut as you begin to roll your hips against him, slowly at first, but becoming more desperate as he latches back onto your neck.

“San.” You choke out. “San, please.”

“So polite,” He chuckles. “Please, what?”

“P-please. Please, touch me.”

He runs his hands up your waist, until he reaches your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples and you almost let out a screech. Your brow furrows, lip catching on your teeth as your eyes find his.

“Ah. Not that kind of touch, right?”

Before you can plead further, his fingers replace his thigh. You gasp as they circle your clit, steadily, painfully slow.

You can only let out a strangled noise, and he arches his brow. He pulls back for a moment, then lands a soft, open-palmed blow straight to your core. You jolt on impact, not able to hold back the moan that tumbles from your lips.

“Greedy little thing.”

He inches down your body, settling in between your legs. He places soft kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, until he reaches the apex. Another light kiss has you squeezing your legs around his head. He exhales sharply through his nose, then loops his arms around your legs, pulling them tighter against him.

Your brain short circuits as he begins to lap at you, taking his time at first, but building the pace until you’re unable to breathe.

“Shit, San.” You manage in the smallest voice known to man.

But he just keeps going, flicking his tongue with expert precision. Then, a thick finger enters you, curling up at just the right angle. Your body shudders, hands now grasping tightly into his hair.

“That’s it. You gunna come for me, pretty princess?”

You don’t speak. Can’t. All you can do is feel. The overwhelming pressure building within you, his hands gripping into your flesh so tightly you’re sure it’ll bruise, the feeling of his tongue lapping against you, his fingers pumping in and out.

“I’m—I’m.” Is all you can choke out as you find your release. It pulses over you in burning waves, your thighs tightening impossibly against San’s head.

Your body goes limp, your legs collapsing to your sides.

“Think you can take more?” He smirks, standing from his position between your legs.

“Yes.” You breathe, chest still stuttering.

But once he’s unbuckled his belt, revealing what was hidden underneath, you’re not sure you made the right decision. Your eyes widen as he steps back in front of you, now fully bare.

“Fucking hell.” You squeak.

He laughs, short, sharp. “I know you can take it, look how wet you are. And all for me.”

He sits on the couch beside you, and gestures for you to move to him. Your body shakes as you sit up.

“Over here, on my lap.” He pats his thighs, gaze dark and all-consuming.

You hover over him, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. One of his hands finds your waist as he guides you down onto him. He groans as he sinks in further, until his tip is brushing against your cervix.

“Jesus.” He hisses.

His palms move to your ass, and he grips it, pushing you upwards and then thrusting up into you.

“Yeah, just like that. Eyes on me.”

You build a steady rhythm, rolling your hips. Your body twinges as his eyes flutter with each movement. Before you can register it, your head dips forward and into the crook of his neck.

“Ah, ah. What did I say, princess?” He scolds, his hand wrapping around your throat, forcing you back upright.

You tighten around him, and his eyes darken. Then he’s pivoting, pushing you backwards onto the couch. He looms over you, lifting one of your legs up onto his shoulder, then winding his hand back around your neck.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

All you can do is attempt to nod, tears now forming along your lash line. You’re completely falling apart underneath him, and he’s loving every second.

He thrusts deep into you, knocking the wind from your lungs. He bites into the skin of your thigh, and you cry out, eyes rolling back into your head. Everything is so fuzzy and warm now, each thought turning into mush inside your brain.

“You gunna give me another?”

He slams in and out of you, removing his fingers from your throat and using them to circle your clit. The noises that are leaving your lips now are inhuman, the sounds of wet skin slapping together bouncing off the walls of the small room.

“San.” His name comes out in a shriek as your body shudders violently. He loses composure for a split second, brows knitting together, lips parting. His hips stutter, but he keeps fucking you through it.

By the time he’s spilling into you, there’s not a single part of you untouched, unclaimed, or unchanged. And when you finally lie there—breathless, dazed, heart hammering against his chest—he brushes a thumb along your cheek and whispers,

“Think that cemented it, huh?”

You stifle a laugh. “Oh. Yeah. Mingi who?”

San chuckles, then exhales deeply, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline finally starts to fade. He reaches over to the side table, picking up his phone and squinting at the time.

“Damn,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve been here for a while. Someone’s probably gonna come knocking soon.”

You’re still catching your breath, floating somewhere between bliss and disbelief. Your limbs are heavy, warm, and your brain hasn’t fully returned to earth. So you just nod, managing a quiet, contented hum in response.

San stands and reaches for a small bottle of water resting nearby. He cracks it open, takes a sip, then passes it to you.

You accept it gratefully, the coolness instantly soothing your parched throat. “Thanks,” you mumble.

“Hydration is key,” he says with a faint grin, teasing but gentle.

You both start to redress—silent at first, but not awkward. There’s a comfort in it now, in the closeness that no longer needs to prove itself. You tug your skirt back into place while he pulls a plush black hoodie over his head, the hem falling just past his hips. He runs a hand through his messy hair, trying to tame it, but then gives up with a shrug.

When he looks over at you again, there’s a glimmer in his eyes that hasn’t dimmed—not even after everything.

“Hey…” he says, a little more casual now. “Can I get your Instagram?”

You blink at him, surprised. “You want my Instagram?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Might be nice to stay in touch. Maybe I’ll see you next time we’re in the area.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, but you play it cool. You smile, slipping your phone number and handle into his notes app after he hands you the device. “Maybe you will.”

San pockets his phone, then glances at the door. “We’ve probably got about ninety seconds before someone kicks that in.”

You both laugh, and the tension finally breaks into something easy. Something real.

Before you can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door—three short raps, just like earlier.

He glances toward it, then back to you. “Guess that’s our cue.”

But before he opens it, he leans in and brushes his lips against your cheek, soft and deliberate.

“Be safe, princess.”

And just like that—he’s gone.

[thetidesthatturn]

I’m writing the most delusional San one shot in the world hehehehe

[thetidesthatturn]

STRAY KIDS MASTERLIST

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

fluff 🧸 smut 🔥 heartbreak 🥀 angst 🗯️

DRABBLES

Seven Minutes - Hyunjin 🧸

[thetidesthatturn]

Seven Minutes

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x freader

Warnings: alcohol use, use of Y/N - think that’s it!

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

A/N: my first time writing for skz! this is just a short little drabble but someone gave me the idea and I hadddd to write it immediately

The apartment buzzes with laughter and music, the kind of comfortable chaos that only comes when everyone knows each other just a little too well. You’re tucked between Jeongin and Felix on the couch, clutching your drink, cheeks already flushed from the heat and whatever they poured into that last punch bowl.

“Your turn,” Chan grins, gesturing across the circle.

You glance around, heart starting to race. All eyes are on you—including his.

Hyunjin.

He’s leaning back against the arm of the couch, hair tucked behind one ear, that annoying little smirk playing on his lips. You tear your gaze away too quickly.

“Truth or dare?” Jeongin asks.

You hesitate, just a moment too long. “Dare.”

A chorus of “ooooh” rises, and you’re regretting it already. Then Han claps his hands together like a devil struck with inspiration.

“I dare you and Hyunjin,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “to play seven minutes in heaven.”

Your stomach drops. Someone whistles. Your pulse skyrockets.

You glance at Hyunjin, expecting him to wave it off or laugh it away, but he just raises an eyebrow at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“She’s game,” Seungmin teases. “She’s definitely game.”

“I—” you start, voice cracking a little.

Hyunjin stands, extending a hand toward you. “Let’s go.”

You take it.

The closet is small and smells faintly of detergent and something sweet—like vanilla and rain. He leans against the back wall, arms crossed, eyes on you. You do everything to avoid his gaze, staring at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere else.

“So,” he says finally. “Seven minutes.”

You nod. Your throat is dry. “Mhm.”

“You’re shy.”

You laugh, breathless. “I’m not usually like this.”

“Just with me?”

Silence.

His tone isn’t teasing. It’s soft. Curious.

You nod.

The minutes pass in a quiet hum. Slowly, he steps closer. Your heart’s thudding like it’s trying to escape your chest. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, eyes flicking down to your lips. You freeze, barely breathing.

Then—the door bursts open.

“AYYYYYY,” Han shouts.

Minho and Changbin are behind him, cackling, one with a phone in hand, the other with wide, teasing eyes. You hadn’t noticed how puckered your lips were until the air hits them. Mortified, you scramble back, cheeks burning.

“Real smooth,” Minho snorts.

Hyunjin turns, frowning. “Guys, seriously—”

But you’re already bolting past them. Out the room. Out the apartment. Down the stairs.

The night hits you with a wet slap of rain as you shove open the building door. It pours around you like punishment, soaking into your clothes, your hair, your bones. You don’t know if you’re crying from embarrassment or heartbreak.

Maybe both.

“Y/N!” His voice cuts through the rain.

You stop. Turn.

Hyunjin is there, breathless, soaked to the skin. His eyes scan your face, and he sees it. The red cheeks. The shaking hands.

“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “They didn’t know. That it would hurt you.”

You shake your head, blinking fast. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

Your voice trembles. “I’ve liked you. For years. And I thought, maybe, in there… maybe you felt something too. But they laughed, and it just—it made it feel like a joke. Like I was a joke.”

Hyunjin crosses the space in a heartbeat. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm against the cold. The other slides around the back of your head, pulling you in.

“I do,” he says softly. “I do feel something.”

And then he kisses you—deep and aching and real—like maybe he’s been waiting just as long.

The rain doesn’t stop.

But somehow, it feels a little warmer now.

[thetidesthatturn]

Tides of Fire and Gold

Pairing: Pirate OT8, Captain Kim Hongjoong x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, graphic descriptions, brokenhearted Hongjoong — I’m sooo sorry this one is a heartbreaker 🥲

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @ninjakitty15 @autieofthevalley @idknunsadly @fallendebil

Masterlist

<< CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER ELEVEN >>

CHAPTER TEN - A NEW FOUND PURPOSE

The Halcyon drops anchor just off the coast of a quiet island port—a modest place, sun-drenched and humming with life. A place where slavers do not tread, where officials still believe in honour, and where stolen souls might begin again.

From the main deck, the women and children gather, hesitant, eyes squinting toward the shore as if it might vanish if they look too long. You stand with them, silent, watching as the longboats are prepared. Some of the children cling to their mothers. Others cling to you.

One of the youngest keeps her hand tightly wrapped around two of your fingers. She hasn’t spoken since she was found curled in a corner below deck. She only looks; wide-eyed and full of questions she’s too afraid to ask.

Hongjoong approaches, still bandaged beneath his shirt but walking tall, his eyes scanning the group with a commander’s care. Then, he speaks—not as a captain, but as something softer. “We’ve spoken to the harbourmaster. You’ll be received, fed, housed, and given coin to begin again. We’ve arranged for guardianship for the children with those we trust.”

He pauses, reaching into his coat. One by one, he begins to hand small pouches of gold to the women. “It isn’t enough to repay what was stolen from you. But it’s a start.”

Some weep openly. Others bow their heads. A few collapse into each other’s arms, too stunned to move.

You crouch by the girl still holding your hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “This is yours now,” you murmur. “The sea took, but it’s giving back. Step into it.”

She looks up at you, a flicker of something blooming in her expression—hope. She nods.

The longboats are loaded, rowed gently toward the dock. The rest of the crew watches from the Halcyon in respectful silence. No fanfare. Just the creak of oars and the hush of the waves.

You stay at the rail, watching until every last one has stepped onto solid ground.

They turn back only once. And some, including the girl, raise their hands in farewell. You lift your hand in return, the wind pulling at your coat.

This is what freedom looks like. And for once, the sea is part of the saving, not the stealing.

Back aboard the Halcyon, the crew is already at work—maps unfurled, fingers tracing lines of trade routes, merchant ships marked in sharp ink. The war cabin hums with plans and whispered strategies. Wooyoung leans over a chart, eyes bright with mischief as he plots potential routes. Yeosang circles key ports with a practiced hand, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“This one,” Yeosang mutters, tapping the page, “is a known stop for private traders. Unregulated. Easy to hide a slave ship in the chaos.”

You nod, eyes scanning the notes you’ve gathered. “We’ll need to be quick. Word travels fast in places like that.”

Wooyoung grins. “Lucky for us, I’ve got friends in low places.”

Even Seonghwa, ever the calm voice of reason, looks up from his lists of needed supplies. “We should coordinate with the local authorities where we can. Not every port master is corrupt.”

Hongjoong stands at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. “We’ll take them all down, one by one. And we’ll free every soul we can find.”

His words are the spark that lights the room. The crew moves with purpose, scribbling notes, exchanging intelligence, refining their plans. The Halcyon is alive again, humming with the fire of righteous anger.

But amid the planning, something tugs at your heart.

The dove.

She’s perched on the mainmast now, eyes fixed on you. She doesn’t sing anymore. No soft notes of greeting, no gentle flutters. Just stillness. Watching.

Waiting.

Every morning, you used to hear her call—a song of the island you once called home. Now, that song is gone. And you know why.

Your mother’s letter. Her words. The quiet but relentless pull of duty.

You’ve given everything you can to this crew. To these people. You’ve built something here, a purpose, a new life. But the dove’s eyes say what her song no longer can. You are being summoned.

And no matter how many chains you’ve broken—some are forged of blood and destiny.

You step away from the table, the crew’s voices fading into the background as you approach the dove. She shifts on her perch, feathers ruffling, but she doesn’t fly away.

Your hand rests lightly on the railing, the wind teasing strands of hair across your face. “Not yet,” you whisper to her. “Just a little longer.”

She watches. Waiting. Unyielding.

Because no matter how many fights you choose, there’s one waiting for you—a fight that started the day you were born.

And eventually, you know, you’ll have to answer.

~

The weeks that follow become a blur of salt and fire, of mercy and justice delivered at the edge of a blade. The Halcyon sails not for treasure now, but for something rarer, freedom. Word spreads across the sea—a ship with a blazing woman aboard, burning slave ships to cinders and leaving no tyrant alive. Some call it legend, others know better. They’ve seen your fire with their own eyes.

One night, you and the crew board a slave vessel under cover of fog. Your footfalls are silent, your blade deadly. With San at your back and Wooyoung scaling the opposite rail, the enemy stands no chance. By the time the alarm is raised, it’s too late. Men scream, but you hear only the pounding of blood in your ears as you move—unflinching, merciless. You set the lower deck ablaze and break the locks on the cages yourself. A small girl stares up at you with wide, soot-streaked eyes. You crouch low, extend your hand, and whisper, “You’re safe now.” Her fingers wrap around yours like a lifeline.

The rescued are given food, dry clothes, shelter—everything they’ve been denied. Some choose to disembark at the next port, their pockets lined with coin gifted by Hongjoong himself. Others ask to stay, to fight. Their pain has nowhere to go but forward.

In another port, Yunho carries a boy no older than five, curled into his chest like he’s forgotten what it means to be held. Yeosang breaks the last of the shackles with a grim expression, nodding as Jongho tosses the twisted metal into the sea. You cradle a wounded woman as Hongjoong steps up behind you. He looks between the two of you, the kindness in his expression fleeting but deep.

One night, you arrive too late.

The ship is already burning. The scent of scorched wood and blood hits you before the wreckage comes into view. There are no survivors. Floating bodies drift in the tide, faces still twisted in fear. Mingi curses as he finds what remains of the mast—a burned black banner, nailed and split down the middle. Wooyoung turns it over. Someone has scrawled words across it in blood and ash.

NO MORE CHAINS

It’s not your message. Someone else is fighting this war too.

And yet, it still feels like you’re chasing shadows.

Back aboard the Halcyon, the mood is heavier. Nights that once brought laughter now fall quiet. You sit at the stern alone more often, your fire flickering in your palms without being summoned. It’s harder to sleep. Easier to burn.

Hongjoong finds you there sometimes, the soft hush of his boots giving him away. He’ll stand near, say nothing. Sometimes his hand finds your shoulder. Sometimes he just watches, as if waiting for you to let him in again. You want to. But part of you is starting to fracture under the weight of your power—the growing belief that it will consume you, or worse, make you forget who you are.

And then the dove changes.

At first, it simply grows quiet. It no longer greets you at dawn with soft trills. No longer circles above you in the morning sun. You find it instead perched inside your quarters, unmoving, eyes fixed. It doesn’t blink.

Days pass. Then it begins pacing—fluttering up to the beams of your ceiling and back down again, talons clicking softly against the wood. You wake to find it sitting on your chest, watching.

You try to ignore it. But Wooyoung notices. “That thing’s giving me the creeps,” he says one morning, stuffing bread into his mouth between smirks. “It used to sing like spring. Now it looks like it wants to eat your soul.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

That night, you bolt upright in bed at the sound of a screech. The dove is no longer white. Its feathers shimmer faintly, iridescent gold threaded through its wings. It stands on your desk, wings outstretched, eyes burning with something unrecognisable.

Clutched in its beak is a scroll. One you’ve never seen before. Gold-tied, sealed in wax that bears the same symbol etched into the stone you once carried.

It drops it with a soft thud. Then it waits.

Watching.

Silent.

Waiting for your next move.

~

The stars are thick above the Halcyon that night, scattered like salt across velvet. Laughter from earlier still lingers faintly in the air, a ghost of better days, but the deck is mostly quiet now—save for the quiet scrape of Seonghwa’s whetstone and the low murmur of voices near the stern.

“She’s changing again,” San says softly, his elbows propped on the railing, chin in hand. “She was laughing just a few weeks ago. Dancing. Pulling Wooyoung around like a rag doll.”

“She even drank with us,” Jongho adds from where he leans against a barrel. “She was… happy.”

Wooyoung is silent for once, unusually still. He rubs the back of his neck, looking out into the waves. “I don’t think she knows how to stay there. In the joy. Not really.”

“She has every reason not to,” Yeosang murmurs, arms folded tightly. “But she tried. That counts for something.”

Hongjoong emerges quietly from below deck, pausing at the edge of their circle. They all glance up, but no one says his name aloud. He’s not in uniform—just a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, an unease behind his eyes that none of them miss.

“Is she still not sleeping?” Seonghwa asks gently, already knowing the answer.

Hongjoong shakes his head. “Not well. She’s quiet again. Distant.” He leans against the mast beside them. “I think it’s the dove. It’s changed.”

“Yeah, no shit it’s changed,” Wooyoung mutters. “Thing’s possessed. I swear it tried to peck me yesterday when I walked past her quarters.”

“That dove’s been with us since we left the Isle,” Yunho says carefully. “It’s not just a bird, is it?”

“No,” Hongjoong answers. “It’s not.”

There’s a long silence, only broken by the creak of the sails above.

“I hate seeing her like this,” Jongho says eventually. “Like she’s slipping back into that version of herself from before.”

Wooyoung nods slowly, his voice softer now. “She’s scared. Not of fighting. Not of dying. But of being caged again. Of being told who she is.”

“She already knows who she is,” Hongjoong says quietly. “She’s just afraid the rest of the world is going to decide for her anyway.”

Yeosang tilts his head slightly. “Then we remind her. Not with words. With how we follow her, trust her, fight with her.”

Seonghwa slides his blade back into its sheath. “And if it comes to it—if that dove brings something she does not want to face?”

Hongjoong meets his eyes with quiet steel. “Then we stand with her anyway. Until the end.”

The group nods one by one, a silent agreement passed like an oath between them. And somewhere below, in your quarters where the dove still waits, you sit alone—scroll unopened, fire flickering weakly in your palm.

Unaware of the eight pairs of eyes watching the stars above you, quietly promising that they won’t let you fall.

Not again.

You sit alone in your quarters; the dove perched silently by the window. She watches you, not with affection, not with warmth, but with expectation. For days now, she has not sung. Her stillness weighs heavy on your shoulders, as does the unopened scroll tied gently to her leg.

You stare at it. Your fingers hover above the seal.

A sharp breath.

Then you tear it open.

The parchment crackles as you unfurl it, the familiar, elegant handwriting blooming across the page like a poison.

My precious daughter,

You have been away too long. You were born of the Isle, made of its gold and fire. Your path was written before you took your first breath, and it is not yours to rewrite. You belong here, where you are needed. Return to us. This rebellion of yours must end. We cannot let you drift away again.

It is time to come home.

You read it once. Twice. The words blur at the edges, trembling with the fury now burning through your body.

Needed.

Belong.

Obedience cloaked in affection.

You crumple the scroll in your fist, the edges digging into your palm as you stand too quickly, knocking over the chair.

You pace like a caged thing. No—you are a caged thing. The same fire that lit the sea to unveil the Isle now threatens to devour everything around you.

They think they can call you back with guilt. That duty will break you into submission. That love can be used as a leash. But you’ve tasted freedom now—true freedom. You’ve felt wind in your hair and laughter rising in your throat. You’ve chosen love, chosen war, chosen your crew. You chose yourself.

And now they would ask you to give that up?

Never again.

Not even for a crown.

The scroll still burns in your hand, and with a flick of your wrist, your flame ignites it. The ash falls slowly to the floor, nothing but smoke and control turned to dust.

But the dove does not fly away. She simply watches.

Waiting.

~

The sun begins to dip into the sea, casting molten light across the Halcyon’s deck. You stand at the quarterdeck railing, eyes distant, flame humming low beneath your skin. The dove perches silently beside you, her head tilted. Still watching. Still waiting.

The crew has learned to leave you be when you’re like this.

Except Wooyoung.

He makes his way toward you slowly, hands in his coat pockets, voice light as he sidles up beside you. “You’re gonna burn a hole straight through the horizon if you stare at it much longer.”

You don’t reply.

He tries again. “Been a while since you let me drag you into trouble. Thought we made a pretty good pair, you know? Crime and chaos. Fire and finesse.”

Still nothing. But a flicker of heat dances across your knuckles.

His tone softens. “It’s me, remember? Your best friend.”

That breaks the silence.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you rasp, jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask to carry this… this curse.”

“I know,” he says gently.

“No, you don’t.” You snap your head toward him. “None of you do.”

The flame cracks higher—arching over your shoulder, hissing at the salt in the air. Across the deck, the others begin to take notice. Seonghwa lifts his gaze. Jongho rises slowly from his place. Even Yeosang lowers his map.

And Hongjoong is already moving, crossing the deck toward you.

“Y/N,” he says, careful. “Look at me.”

You do. And something inside you shatters.

He’s the one you can’t lie to. The one who saw behind the mask.

“You think this is love?” you spit. “You think because I gave you a piece of me that you get to keep all of me? You don’t own me, Hongjoong. Who are you to me?”

The words hang in the air, sharp as shattered glass.

Hongjoong doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak.

But his face—his face—crumples in a way you’ve never seen before. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t mask it with Captain’s composure. It’s just… heartbreak. Raw and open.

And then the flame consumes you.

It bursts from your skin, rolling over the deck in a wave. The wood blackens beneath your boots. The dove screeches and takes off. Crew members stumble back, dodging the spreading fire.

Still, Hongjoong doesn’t move. He watches you burn—just stands there, stunned, like you’ve stolen the breath from his lungs.

It’s Seonghwa who steps in.

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t flinch. He walks toward you through the fire, calm as moonlight, hands lifted in peace.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice like a lifeline. “You must stop.”

And you do.

The flames stutter, then vanish, smoke curling from your skin as you fall to your knees. Trembling. Gutted. You don’t see who rushes forward first—you only hear the pounding of blood in your ears.

You don’t even notice Hongjoong is gone. But when you finally look up, he’s not there.

He’s nowhere.

He watched you break… and then he disappeared.

Hongjoong doesn’t speak a word as he leaves the deck.

Doesn’t acknowledge the looks cast his way, doesn’t register Seonghwa’s steady gaze following him through the smoke. He walks like he’s possessed, like if he stops moving, everything will crash down on him. So he keeps walking—down the steps, past the crew quarters, through the narrow corridor that leads to his door.

Then he’s inside.

And the door slams shut behind him with a force that rattles the lanterns.

The cabin is quiet. Too quiet. His breath is the only sound, jagged and shallow.

Captain Kim Hongjoong—calculated, composed, unshakable—stands alone in the room he’s ruled with iron focus. And then, all at once, the dam breaks.

His hand sweeps across the shelf—crash. Glass bottles, navigation tools, a silver goblet all smash to the floor. He storms to the desk and throws the chair back with a snarl, pacing like a man possessed.

“You don’t own me, Hongjoong.”

The words replay in his head like cannon fire, sharper than any blade he’s ever taken to the gut. He’s done everything right. He’s protected you. Given you space. Stood beside you in silence, in battle, in the dark. He’s given you everything he didn’t know he had left. And still, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

With a roar, he brings his fists down hard on the surface of the desk. Once. Twice. Again. Again. The wood cracks beneath his knuckles, blood rising to the surface in hot streaks. He doesn’t care. He wants it to hurt.

He presses his fists in deeper, splinters jutting from his skin, chest heaving. His breath shakes as he stares down at the damage—at the blood, the mess, the cost.

For a long moment, he just sits there, the room still except for the sound of his breath and the faint crackle of a lantern.

Then, his voice breaks the silence.

Soft. Barely there.

“Who am I to you…?”

He slumps forward, forehead pressed to his battered hands. And for the first time since he was a boy, Hongjoong does not feel like a Captain. He just feels… broken.

When he finally rises, shards of glass crunch beneath his boots as he stalks across the room, his breath shallow, vision blurred by a storm he can’t control. His desk—his sanctuary—is now splintered, stained with blood from his own fists. He stares at them, red running in thin trails down his fingers, but he doesn’t feel the pain.

Because nothing hurts more than the words you spat at him hours ago.

“You don’t own me. Who are you to me?”

They play on loop in his head. And each time, they feel sharper, crueler, more final. A knife twisted deeper. He had stood there, frozen, unable to speak, unable to stop you—because he knew that flame in your eyes, that fury in your voice. It wasn’t aimed at him alone. It was aimed at everything.

Still… he can’t shake it.

He slumps back down into his chair, head in his hands, blood smearing the wood. And when he closes his eyes, the memory returns—not a vague recollection, but vivid, searing, as if the moment were happening all over again.

Your voice, so small and so sure all at once.

“You’ve never looked at me like I was a monster.”

His hand clenches.

“You made me feel seen… not for what I can do. But for who I am.”

His breath catches, eyes burning.

And then he hears it again. Soft, but absolute.

“I love you.”

His head drops. He remembers the way you’d said it—like you’d ripped it from the deepest part of yourself and laid it at his feet with no defence. No shield. And he had accepted it. He had matched it.

The memory is a dagger now, buried beneath his ribs. Because if that was real, if it was, then why did tonight feel like goodbye? Why did you look at him like a stranger?

He’s drowning in the weight of it all. In the look on your face as you turned away from him, flames licking at the deck. In the silence that followed. In the fact that for all the control he fights so hard to maintain, he couldn’t stop you from unraveling.

And he couldn’t stop himself from breaking when you did.

He stays there, in the dark, the lantern flickering low. One hand bloodied. The other fisted against his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together. Because how do you survive when the only person who’s ever truly seen you suddenly looks at you like you’re no one?

Time passes by in a blur. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sat there, crumpled over his desk. Doesn’t care.

The knock is soft. Almost tentative.

Hongjoong doesn’t answer.

The door creaks open anyway, hinges groaning as Seonghwa steps inside. He closes it gently behind him, eyes sweeping the chaos of the captain’s quarters.

The broken glass. The overturned chair. The smeared blood across the desk. And Hongjoong—head bowed, shoulders tense, still as stone.

Seonghwa says nothing at first. He crosses the room quietly, each step calculated. Respectful. He’s never needed words to read his Captain. And right now, the silence says more than any report ever could.

After a moment, he stops beside him.

“It is done,” he says softly, his voice low, formal as always. “The flames are out. No one was harmed.”

Hongjoong’s gaze stays fixed on the floor. His knuckles are raw and split, and blood still seeps slowly from the cracks.

Seonghwa waits. Gives him time. Until—

“She meant it,” Hongjoong mutters, barely above a whisper. “When she said she loved me… I know she meant it.”

Seonghwa doesn’t interrupt.

“But tonight, she looked at me like I was just another hand pulling the strings,” he continues, voice fraying. “Like I was one more cage she had to break out of.”

Seonghwa lowers himself to the edge of the desk, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “You must know that was not truth. It was pain. And pain speaks in cruel tongues.”

“I know that,” Hongjoong bites, though his voice is too cracked to carry true anger. “But it still cut like truth.”

A long silence hangs between them.

Seonghwa studies him, the captain he’s followed for years. The man who’s built his strength on strategy, fire, and control. But in this moment, Hongjoong looks hollowed—like someone has carved out the pieces of him that kept him upright.

“I do not pretend to understand what burns between the two of you,” Seonghwa finally says, carefully. “But I have seen it change her. And I have seen it change you. You love fiercely, both of you, but she is drowning in her power, and no one taught her how to breathe.”

Hongjoong lets out a sharp breath, eyes closing. “I thought I could be her anchor.”

“You are,” Seonghwa says. “But even anchors cannot hold steady if the storm is inside.”

The words settle like weight into the room.

He reaches into his coat, pulls out a cloth, and presses it into Hongjoong’s palm. “Clean your wounds, Joong.”

Hongjoong swallows hard, staring down at the rag. “You’re calling me by name.”

“I believe tonight… you are more man than Captain.” Seonghwa rises. “But we still need both. And so does she.”

He moves to the door, pausing once more.

“She has not gone far,” he says gently. “But if she does… I suspect she will not stay gone for long.”

And then he’s gone, the door shutting softly behind him, leaving Hongjoong alone once again—but with a cloth in his hand, and a flicker of hope just faintly beating beneath the weight of it all.

~

The days slip by like water through trembling hands. You don’t leave your quarters.

Not for breakfast. Not for Wooyoung’s jokes. Not even for Hongjoong, but he never comes anyway.

There’s a knock sometimes—gentle, then firmer. Voices muffled behind the wood, concern veiled in humour, in frustration, in longing. But you do not answer. You can’t.

Wooyoung comes every morning now, like clockwork. You hear the soft clatter of ceramic and the rustle of fabric as he lays the tray down just outside your door. “Brought the good biscuits today,” he says once, voice forced into brightness. “You know… the ones with cinnamon sugar on top, not just through.”

No reply.

Another day, “Okay, so, listen… I didn’t mean to burn the galley bread. It was Mingi’s fault. He looked at me weird. You get it.”

But still—you remain silent, the weight inside you heavier than flame, heavier than duty.

Eventually, he stops talking. But the trays keep coming. Tea, still warm. Spiced biscuits, always in threes.

You never touch them while he’s there.

But once his footsteps have faded… you curl up by the door, eyes full of unshed tears, and take a sip. One bite. Two. You hate the way it comforts you.

The dove doesn’t leave, either.

She perches on the high beam near your bed, watching you day and night. Once, she sings. A soft, mournful sound. The kind of song that trembles through bone and memory alike.

But today… she stirs.

You look up, and for the first time since the fire licked the Halcyon’s deck, you feel something. A whisper you cannot quite grasp. Not from the crew. Not from the world outside. But from her—your mother.

The dove flutters down, landing on the table beside you. She tilts her head. Then again.

And somehow… you understand.

You rise slowly, body heavy with grief, guilt, rage—love. The kind of tangled knot that can’t be unraveled by waiting. The dove hops once more, then flies to your door, perching on the top edge like a sentinel.

You move toward it, cautious, but as you get closer the door glimmers. Light catches on the handle like sunlight off the sea. Your breath catches. You hesitate—but only for a moment.

You reach forward.

Turn the handle.

And as the door creaks open, you do not see the corridor of the Halcyon.

You see the Isle.

The gold mist curling at the edges of stone paths. The warm winds scented with something ancient. Familiar. The sound of birds you remember only from dreams.

The dove glides to your shoulder as you step forward, heart hammering.

You do not look back. You take a deep breath—and walk.

The door closes behind you with a soft click, then disappears into the air like smoke.

~

Wooyoung stares at your door, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat. He’s been here for five full minutes already, pacing back and forth like a rabid animal.

Today.

Today’s the day.

He’s going in.

It’s been over a week since you last stepped foot out of your quarters. You haven’t been seen on deck, haven’t shown up to meals, haven’t even left your room to snatch the tray of tea and spiced biscuits he’s been delivering like clockwork every morning. The crew has started whispering. Seonghwa wears that pinched, tight-lipped look whenever anyone mentions your name. Hongjoong… well, no one’s seen much of him either.

And Wooyoung is done waiting.

He draws a breath, presses a palm flat against your door, and leans in.

“Okay, Y/N. I hope you’re decent, because I’m coming in. And please—seriously—don’t scorch me. I really like this jacket.”

There’s no answer. Not that he expected one.

He huffs, straightens up, and flings the door open with all the dramatic flair of someone used to making an entrance.

But what greets him on the other side stops him cold.

Silence. Stillness.

You’re not there.

The room is immaculate, undisturbed. The tea from this morning still rests on the tray, untouched and cold. The sheets on your bed haven’t shifted. No flickers of flame rise to greet him.

No sign of a struggle. No sign of a message. Just… gone.

His breath catches. He steps further inside, checking behind the divider, behind the trunk, the armoire. Even the damn closet.

Still nothing.

“She’s not here,” he mutters, voice dry with disbelief. “She’s not—she’s not here.”

And then panic truly sets in. The kind that hits like a cannon blast straight to the chest.

He spins on his heel and bolts, boots slamming against the wood, each step a frantic echo through the narrow corridors. Up the stairs, past the galley, lungs burning.

When he bursts through the doors to the quarterdeck, the morning light blinds him for a heartbeat. But he doesn’t stop.

“She’s gone!” he yells, voice slicing through the air like a shot.

The crew freezes.

“She’s not in her quarters!” he cries again, louder now, near breathless. “Y/N is gone!”

Every head whips around.

San is first to move, already halfway across the deck before anyone else catches up. Yeosang drops the papers in his hands without even glancing down. Jongho mutters something sharp under his breath and heads straight for the stern, eyes scanning the sea.

Hongjoong appears at the helm, his gaze sweeping across the ship, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks as if it might crack.

“Search every inch of the Halcyon,” he orders, low and deadly calm.

The Halcyon erupts into chaos, springing to life with an intensity that hasn’t been felt since the day Hongjoong was taken.

San barks orders over his shoulder as he barrels below deck.

“Check the cargo hold. The galley. Every bunk and passage.”

Yunho rushes toward the stern while Jongho moves with purpose toward the lower quarters, calling your name like it might echo back from the shadows. Yeosang heads straight to the crow’s nest, scanning for even the faintest shape on the horizon.

Wooyoung stands frozen on the deck for just a moment too long, watching them all disperse in frantic unity. His voice finally breaks free, and he bolts toward the war cabin.

Hongjoong doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

He just watches.

He watches as Seonghwa descends into the brig, as Mingi and Wooyoung tear through every locked compartment in the weapons stores, as the rest of his men flip the Halcyon inside out like a page of a book turned too quickly.

And still—no sign.

Not a single flicker of flame, not a single trace of you.

The dread only deepens when San bursts out from below deck, panting.

“She’s not here,” he growls. “She’s not on this ship.”

Seonghwa emerges behind him, face paler than usual.

“And neither is the dove.”

That’s when Hongjoong falters.

He sways, just slightly. Enough that Seonghwa’s brow furrows.

But no one dares move toward him. Not even Wooyoung, who now grips the mast like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“She didn’t even tell us,” Mingi says, voice low, stunned. “She just… left.”

“She didn’t tell him,” San mutters darkly, casting a glance toward the helm.

And that—that—is what breaks something in Hongjoong’s chest.

She left. Without a word. To anyone.

Not even him.

A silent beat passes between them all, heavy and thick with disbelief.

Then Hongjoong turns—slowly, mechanically—and descends the stairs from the helm, his boots hitting each step like a drumbeat echoing through the bones of his crew.

No orders.

No fury.

Just silence.

Like the calm before a storm so devastating, even the wind forgets how to breathe.

~

The air here feels unreal. Warm, perfumed, weighted like velvet and yet impossibly still.

You don’t know when the door to the Isle closed behind you—but it doesn’t matter. Not now.

The halls are wide and gleaming, walls etched with ancient carvings of fire and light. Golden sconces flicker with dancing flames that do not burn, that cast no shadow. A woman waits for you at the threshold. Not your mother—but someone else.

Tall, ethereal.

Her movements are fluid, like smoke gliding through air. Her skin is luminous, her hair cascading down her back in pale silken waves, adorned with thin gold chains that jingle softly as she walks.

She does not speak. Only gestures with one delicate hand, beckoning you to follow.

You do.

You move through the winding corridors, eyes drinking in every detail as if trying to convince yourself this is real. That you are here. That you left.

The guide leads you to a towering double door carved from ivory and obsidian, etched in flame-like script you do not recognise, yet somehow understand.

Purification.

It opens without a sound.

Inside, pure warmth. A still, fragrant air that smells of sweet fig and myrrh. A bathing chamber fit for a deity. The tub in the centre is large enough to hold three people easily, its legs curved like golden talons. The water begins to pour from unseen spouts—silvery, near silent.

You begin to undress, but slender hands stop you.

The guide—gentle, graceful—removes your garments with reverence. No shame touches her expression, no judgment. Only purpose. With careful grace, she helps you into the water.

Your body sinks slowly into the heat, and you expect to feel something. Relief, sorrow, rage. But there is nothing.

Just silence.

She moves behind you, hands working slowly into your scalp. Her fingers massage oils into your hair, combing away salt and dirt with delicate precision. She hums a soft melody you don’t recognise. Perhaps it’s not from this world.

You stare at the still water. You can’t remember the last time you felt clean.

Once bathed and rinsed, you rise. She wraps you in silken cloth and dries you with the same reverence she used to undress you. Then—robes. White, flowing, impossibly soft. Threaded in fine gold patterns that glimmer faintly in the light. Your wrists, your waist, your throat, all adorned with light clasps of matching gold.

She leads you again, hair now being twisted and pinned delicately into a braided crown. You are seated before a vanity with a mirror so flawless it looks like a pool of silver. You almost don’t recognise yourself. She paints a faint glow onto your lips, lines your eyes in gold.

You are being made into something holy.

You want to ask why. You want to scream. To run. But you stay silent. Numb.

The final destination is a room unlike any you’ve ever seen. Walls carved from white stone, the floor littered with cushions and soft rugs. Plush couches with golden trim. Canopies of gauze that sway with a breeze you cannot feel. A harp plays softly from nowhere.

It’s heavenly.

But you don’t feel like you belong here.

Then—

A voice.

“My darling.”

You turn, and there she is. Your mother. Radiant, strong, graceful.

Her arms open for you, and you fall into them without hesitation.

The sob rips out of you before you can catch it—silent, sharp, breaking the dam that’s been cracking since you stepped through that glowing door.

Her arms wrap around you like a sanctuary. Steady. Warm. Familiar in a way nothing else has ever been. Her hands move gently, rubbing slow, calming circles into your back as you bury your face into her shoulder, unable to speak.

She does not hush you; she simply holds you. As if she has all the time in the world.

“You needed to return,” she whispers into your hair, her voice honey-soft but edged in something ancient, something absolute. “The lost flames were consuming you. I felt it. You were unraveling.”

You tremble in her grasp.

Her hand comes to rest at the nape of your neck, her thumb tracing slow patterns, grounding you.

“Now that you know your place… where you truly belong…” she continues, her tone gentler now, though no less firm, “you cannot stay away for long, my dear. You are of this place. Of its fire. Of its blood. You always have been.”

You close your eyes, the truth pressing down on you from every angle. This place. This power. This name.

All yours.

And yet—what of them? Of him?

“What of my crew?” you ask, voice cracking under the weight of guilt and truth. “My family. I’ve pushed them away.”

Your mother stills for a moment. Her arms don’t leave you, but they loosen slightly, enough for her to pull back and look into your face. Her eyes—so like yours, and yet far wiser—search every inch of you with aching tenderness.

“I know they mean a great deal to you,” she says softly. “And I know the bonds you’ve formed aboard that ship run deep. You’ve lived among mortals. Bled beside them. Loved one of them.” Her voice falters only briefly. “That does not go unnoticed.”

You look away, shame tightening in your chest. Her fingers gently cup your chin, turning your gaze back to hers.

“But my dear… you are not like them.”

Her voice is calm, but final.

“You are God-born. Flame-touched. You were never meant to sail beneath pirate flags, no matter how noble their intentions may seem. Their cause may be just, but it is not your calling.”

You blink, stunned by the calm certainty in her tone. She isn’t angry, not like you feared, but her conviction is unmoving. She speaks of the crew, the Halcyon, your home… as something you’ve outgrown.

“Their path is one they can walk without you. And they must.”

She brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. “You have a destiny far greater than raiding ships and rescuing the broken. You are a light that was never meant to be dimmed by the sea.”

Your hands fall into your lap, limp, and cold.

“They’re not broken,” you murmur. “They saved me.”

Her eyes flicker, but she says nothing.

Your mother watches the turmoil flicker behind your eyes—the stubborn glow of loyalty, the grief already swelling in your throat, the pieces of your heart still tethered to a ship far from here.

“You do not yet see the full picture,” she murmurs, brushing your cheek with a tenderness that makes it all the worse. “But you will.”

She rises from the couch, gliding toward one of the towering windows overlooking the white-gold horizon of the Isle. “They are human, my love. Flesh and bone. Brave, yes. Good, even. But still bound by time.”

You don’t move. Can’t. Every word slices into you with precision.

“You will watch them fall. One by one. In battle, perhaps. Or illness. Or simply to the cruelty of years.” She turns her gaze back to you, solemn and calm. “That is the curse of our kind. To love what we cannot keep.”

The silence that follows is unbearable.

You swallow, but your throat is dry. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Her expression softens. “Of course not. How could you? You were raised without knowing what you are.”

You’re staring at the floor now, hands shaking in your lap.

“I always thought I would fight beside them. Die with them, if I had to.”

“And now?” she asks gently.

You look up, your voice barely a whisper.

“Now I know I’ll have to live without them.”

And there it is—raw and unrelenting. The heartbreak that no blade could deliver. The realisation that one day, every laugh around the Halcyon’s table, every stolen kiss beneath the stars, every fight, every bruise, every inside joke… will only belong to you.

They will be gone. You will remain.

And in that moment, you understand. You will have to let them go.

A tear slips down your cheek. Your mother doesn’t wipe it away. Instead, she lets you grieve. Because this—this pain—is your rite of passage.

Your choice still remains… but the cost is now clear.

~

The Halcyon cuts through the water like a blade, but the hearts aboard it are in chaos.

Wooyoung paces the deck, his voice hoarse from calling your name into the sky. “Y/N!” he cries again, the wind tearing the syllables from his throat. “Y/N, where the hell are you?!”

No answer. Not from the sea, not from the heavens, not from the girl who became his best friend.

Jongho grips the rigging so hard his knuckles go white. San’s fists are clenched, eyes scanning the horizon as if your silhouette might emerge at any moment. Yunho mutters under his breath, curses caught between disbelief and fear. Yeosang perches on a crate, whittling idly at a small piece of driftwood. Mingi hasn’t spoken once, jaw tight, pacing the length of the deck like a caged animal. Even Seonghwa—ever the voice of reason—is silent, standing at the helm with an expression carved from stone.

And Hongjoong.

The captain has not uttered a single word since Wooyoung burst onto the quarterdeck, shouting that you were gone. But now, he moves. Slow. Measured. Controlled on the outside. But the fury in his steps is unmistakable.

He stalks to the bow, coat catching the wind, and gazes toward the horizon. He knows.

“She’s gone to the Isle,” he says, finally breaking the silence. His voice is low, but firm. “I saw it in her eyes, before all this.”

Seonghwa steps forward, brow furrowed. “The tides may not guide us as they once did. She is God-born. The Isle responds only to her.”

“Then we make it respond again,” Hongjoong growls. “She might think this is goodbye, but I’m not finished.”

“Captain,” Yeosang says gently, “even if we find it, even if we reach her… she may not come back.”

Hongjoong turns, fire in his eyes. “Then I’ll drag her home myself.”

His crew straightens—every last one of them. There’s no need for a command. They’re going after her.

Because she is not just God-born. Not just flame. She is theirs.

And they are hers.

The Halcyon turns, its bow slicing a path through the water, following the faint thread of magic only the captain seems able to sense now.

Because you may have tried to disappear, but they’ll burn the world down to bring you back.

Three days and three nights pass, with not a single whisper of you. The Halcyon cuts through mist and shadow like a lost ghost, sails groaning against the windless air. It’s as though the sea itself has gone silent, withholding its secrets.

They’ve charted every coordinate from memory, from gut instinct. But the path is fractured, like chasing a memory that won’t stay still. The Isle—once hidden, then revealed—has vanished again. As if ashamed. As if wounded.

And then, that familiar hum in the bones.

The dread that settles low in the stomach. The way the sea stills beyond possibility.

That feeling.

You do not belong here.

The crew feel it too. Each man pauses, glancing over his shoulder, toward the still horizon that pulses with something ancient and unseen.

And then—they come.

Sirens.

Dozens of them, their forms gliding up from the depths in eerie silence. They do not sing this time. They do not lure. They guard. Their hair slick with saltwater, eyes glowing silver, they swarm the Halcyon like a shield. Their hissing rises in waves, teeth bared, as if to warn.

You are trespassing.

The crew scrambles to ready themselves, but they do not attack. The sirens hover, circling, surrounding.

It’s not a battle. It’s a warning.

Hongjoong storms to the bow, fury blazing in his eyes. His coat whips behind him as he leans over the railing, hands clenched. “Let us in!” he roars, voice raw. “I know you can hear me!”

The sirens hiss louder, writhing just beneath the surface. One cocks her head as if she does hear—but does not care.

“You can’t just disappear without a trace like this!” His voice breaks, the strain finally catching. “Not after everything we’ve been through.”

His fist slams down onto the wood with a crack, splinters flying. The crew holds their breath.

“Let us in, damn it!”

Nothing.

Only the still sea, and the circling guardians of the Isle.

And then—

A single siren rises. Different. Taller. Drenched in starlight. She speaks—not aloud, but into their minds.

She has chosen.

And with that, the swarm descends back into the depths, leaving the Halcyon adrift in silence once more.

“Y/N!”

Hongjoong’s voice breaks the air like thunder—hoarse, aching, raw with desperation.

And you feel it.

Not with your ears, but deep within your chest. A pulse. A tremor.

Him.

Your breath catches mid-sentence. The meeting you are attending to learn the history and purpose of the Isle falls to silence around you, the other figures at the table watching as something shifts behind your eyes.

“They’re here.”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s enough.

Your mother’s spine straightens. She closes her eyes for a moment, and when she opens them again, there’s both fury and fear hidden behind their golden hue. “They have come for you, it would seem.”

You rise slowly from your seat, the sheer fabric of your white robe whispering against the marble floor. “Let them in,” you say. “They deserve to hear it from me.”

“My dear—” Her tone is sharp now, but your eyes are unwavering.

“They crossed the sea,” you say, voice thick with guilt. “They followed me. They’re not meant to be here. Not because they’re pirates, not because they’re human—because of me.” You swallow hard. “I owe them more than silence.”

For a long moment, your mother looks at you as if seeing something she doesn’t quite understand. Her shoulders rise in quiet resistance… but then, she exhales. “Very well.”

Back aboard the Halcyon, the crew stands in stunned silence, the air unnaturally still.

A low rumble rises from beneath the hull, then another. The deck shivers.

Jongho grips the wheel tighter. San draws his sword on instinct. Yeosang steps forward, a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, grounding him.

“What now…” Mingi murmurs.

And then—light.

A golden shimmer appears dead centre on the quarterdeck. It dances across the boards, swirls of molten brilliance weaving together in delicate strands. The air thickens. The scent of citrus and smoke lingers.

And from that radiant glow, an archway forms.

Not wood, not stone—something otherworldly.

It gleams like sunlight on water, like starlight woven into silk. A beckoning opening framed in divine gold.

Wooyoung stares, breath caught in his throat. “Is that…?”

Seonghwa steps forward first, calm but resolute. “It is a summons.”

Hongjoong doesn’t hesitate. He moves toward the archway, eyes locked on it as if it holds everything he’s ever lost. And perhaps, it does.

“Let’s go get her,” he says quietly.

They emerge from the archway in a burst of warmth and golden light. One by one, the crew of the Halcyon steps into a world that seems stitched together from the heavens themselves.

The chamber is vast, ceilings domed in marble and gilded gold. Sunlight pours in from skylights etched with divine markings, reflecting off the floors polished smooth as glass. The air hums with a strange stillness, a silence too complete to be natural.

And then they see you.

You’re perched on a silken couch, half in shadow, half bathed in golden light. Draped in the same white and gold robes you were given upon your return. Your hair is braided intricately, coiled like a crown around your head. Your skin glows, not with the fire they’ve come to know—but something softer, something ancient. Immaculate. Untouchable.

It breaks their hearts. Because you don’t look like you.

You look like a god.

And you look like you don’t belong to them anymore.

You rise slowly, every movement deliberate, composed.

“I’m sorry,” you say at last, and your voice trembles despite how hard you try to hold it steady. “I shouldn’t have done that to any of you. You didn’t deserve it. You don’t deserve anything I’ve done to you.”

The words carve themselves into the silence like blades. You swallow hard, forcing the lump in your throat down with all the strength you can muster.

“I am staying here. This is my home. I cannot remain as part of your crew. It is not my duty. So this…” your voice falters for just a moment, “is goodbye.”

The stillness is shattered by the sound of breath catching—Wooyoung, stunned silent for once. Jongho’s jaw clenches, his arms folded so tightly across his chest it looks painful. Mingi shifts, blinking rapidly as if unsure he heard you right. San is frozen. Yunho’s brow furrows in disbelief. Yeosang’s mouth parts slightly, but no words come.

And then Hongjoong steps forward.

“No,” he says, quietly at first. Then louder, firmer. “No.”

His eyes are shining, but not with awe. With something like betrayal. With heartbreak.

“This isn’t your fate,” he says, taking another step toward you. “This isn’t your destiny. You can’t just… leave us. Not after everything. Not after everything we’ve survived together.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and you flinch—so slight, so fast, only Seonghwa seems to catch it. But the ache in Hongjoong’s chest deepens. His hands clench at his sides.

“You said you loved me.”

It’s not an accusation. It’s a lifeline thrown out into the divine.

“I do,” you whisper. “And that’s why I have to stay.”

“Please, Y/N. Please. Don’t do this.” Hongjoong’s voice is ragged—barely more than breath and splintered hope.

“You gave me something I never thought I’d get to call mine,” he says, stepping closer now, like every inch toward you might hold him together. “You showed me what it felt like to open up. To become more than a Captain. To let someone see me.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t dare look away.

“I’ve lived a life behind walls, Y/N. I don’t show myself to anyone. You know that. You know what it means that I did with you. And now you expect me to just…” His voice falters. “…let you go?”

Behind him, Wooyoung’s face crumples. His heart fractures into a thousand pieces, and the weight of the truth hits him like a stone to the chest.

“I can’t lose my best friend,” he says quietly, barely able to look at you. “Not like this.”

The room is filled with the sound of heartbreak—eight men standing in silence, trying not to shatter.

You rise slowly from the couch, spine straight, chin lifted. But your hands are shaking. They curl at your sides as your voice sharpens like a blade unsheathed.

“Enough.”

They still instantly, every breath caught in their throats.

“I am God-born,” you say. “I am not like you. I am not mortal. I will not live to see the people I love grow old, fall ill, and die, while I remain unchanged.”

Your voice shakes. You hate that it shakes.

“Don’t you see?” The words are strained, dragged from the deepest part of you. “It is I that has to let you go.”

And there it is.

The truth you’ve been running from. The grief you’ve been carrying in silence. The pain of what it means to love them.

Your face twists, despite your best efforts to hold it together. You’re hurting—and now it’s visible. The tears shimmer in your eyes, the fire gone from your voice. All that’s left is you, standing in the ruin of your own heart.

You bite back the sob clawing its way from your throat, your voice a ghost of itself when you whisper, “You are dismissed.”

Hongjoong’s eyes widen. “Y/N—”

But it’s too late.

Before any of them can protest, speak, breathe—they’re gone.

In a blink, the radiant white walls vanish. The plush floor beneath their boots becomes the worn, weathered deck of the Halcyon. The ocean air rushes in like a slap to the face.

And you are not with them.

“No. No.”

Hongjoong stumbles forward as if he could still catch you, still stop it.

“No, no, no—!”

He slams his fists into the deck with a sound that cracks through the air like thunder. The wood groans beneath his knuckles, blood rising fast, but he doesn’t stop. His breath is ragged, drawn in gasps that ache too deep.

“Damn it, Y/N!”

He howls it into the wind, like it might carry the words back to wherever you are.

The rest of the crew is frozen behind him, struggling to process what just happened—how quickly it all slipped through their fingers.

Wooyoung stares numbly at the empty spot where you once stood. “She… she really meant it,” he whispers.

Seonghwa lowers his gaze. Even he has no words of comfort.

Jongho turns away, jaw locked, hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles are white.

Yeosang presses a hand to the rail, grounding himself. “She thinks she’s doing the right thing.”

“But it isn’t,” Mingi mutters. “It’s not.”

No one dares speak louder than a whisper.

Only the creak of the Halcyon and the sound of Hongjoong’s laboured breathing fills the silence.

[thetidesthatturn]

Just Pretend

Pairing: non-idol best friend Wooyoung x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, and they were roommates, sexual content (head freceiving , unprotected sex), alcohol use, mentions of cheating (not by Woo), heartbreak - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

You’re halfway through a tedious report when the door to your room flies open with a dramatic thud.

“I hope you weren’t planning on doing something tragic like staying in tonight,” Wooyoung announces, already halfway across the room like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

You glance up from your laptop, brow furrowed. “I am doing something. It’s called surviving my fourth Teams call of the day and recovering with a tub of cookie dough and a full-bodied relationship with your couch.”

Wooyoung scoffs, unapologetically flopping onto your bed. “You’re not eighty, Y/N. You need to rejoin the land of the living.”

“I got cheated on by a man who unironically calls himself a ‘sapiosexual,’ Woo.”

“All the more reason to come with me,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s not even my usual crowd. No club bunnies, no glow-in-the-dark cocktails, I promise. Just a chilled party, a few people from the studio, decent music.”

You narrow your eyes. “Studio?”

“Dance studio,” he clarifies, wiggling his brows. “Don’t worry, I already told them I’d be bringing a hot, emotionally unavailable plus one, who bites.”

You groan. “I’m not—ugh. No. No thank you.”

And that’s all the invitation he needs. With a wicked grin, he launches himself across the room, pinning you down on your bed in a blur of limbs and laughter.

“WOOYOUNG—get off—”

“Nope. Not until you agree.”

“Get—ugh—stop it!” You writhe underneath him, trying to push his weight off as he smothers you with a pillow and the infuriating sound of his laughter.

“Say you’ll come.”

“I hate you.”

“Say it.”

“Fine!” you gasp, kicking your legs in defeat. “I’ll come, you menace.”

He rolls off you dramatically, lying on his back like he’s just won an Olympic event. “God, I’m such a good influence.”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re the worst. You owe me ice cream.”

Wooyoung grins, already scrolling through his phone. “Only if you wear that dress that makes you look like heartbreak in heels.”

You chuck a pillow at his face.

You end up lying side by side on your bed, legs dangling off the edge, both of you catching your breath from the struggle.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been living here for almost five months,” he says suddenly, voice softer now. “Time’s weird.”

You hum in agreement, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah. Feels like it’s been five years and five minutes all at once.”

There’s a pause, the kind that only settles between people who’ve known each other longer than they’ve known themselves.

“You remember that time in Year One,” he starts, a mischievous grin already tugging at his lips, “when you bit that kid for stealing my crayons?”

You groan. “I didn’t bite him—”

“You absolutely did,” he says, laughing. “Left a mark too. You were feral. Tiny, violent, and terrifying. I knew right then we were going to be best friends.”

You smile despite yourself. “I was defending your honour.”

“You were defending glitter gel pens, let’s not romanticise it.”

“Same thing,” you mutter.

The nostalgia settles over you like a blanket. You’ve been by each other’s side since pre-school, through scraped knees, detention slips, teenage heartbreaks, and drunken post-exam rants on rooftops. You’ve seen each other through it all—his chaotic flings, your catastrophically bad taste in men, the ugly crying, the bad hair phases, the nights when neither of you could sleep and just lay on the floor, talking about everything and nothing.

This… this version of living together was never planned. You were supposed to be engaged by now—maybe not happy, but at least not living in your best friend’s spare room, wondering what the hell went wrong.

But Wooyoung never hesitated. The moment things blew up, he was there. No questions. Just “bring your stuff,” and a key pressed into your palm like it was always meant to be yours.

You glance at him now, his arm draped over his eyes, dark lashes fanned out across his cheeks, his mouth curved into that smug little smile he wears like armour.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” you say quietly.

He peeks at you through one eye. “Obviously. Where else would you go, huh? Some sad little Airbnb with weird lighting and sadder wallpaper?”

You snort. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He nudges your arm with his elbow. “You’re not just staying here, Y/N. You’re home. You’ve always been.”

Something flickers in your chest at that. Something warm, something scary.

Before you can reply, he rolls to his feet and claps his hands. “Right! You’ve got approximately one hour to look disgustingly hot and emotionally unavailable. I’m gonna shower. Try not to overthink your entire life while I’m gone.”

You throw another pillow at his back as he disappears down the hall, still grinning.

You’re halfway through curling your hair when Wooyoung appears in your doorway again, this time freshly showered, dressed in his signature party fit—loose black button-down, rings on his fingers, and just enough cologne to make you consider poor life choices.

He whistles low. “Damn. You’re gonna make someone fall in love with you tonight.”

You smirk into the mirror. “Hopefully it’s the delivery driver bringing my pizza after I bail halfway through.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re coming. You look hot. I look hot. We’re gonna be the hottest duo there.”

You snort, grabbing your lip gloss. “We always are.”

The party’s already buzzing when you arrive. Warm lights spill onto the street from the open windows, bass thrumming faintly through the walls. Wooyoung nudges you with his elbow as you both step inside.

“You good?” he asks.

You nod, tugging at the sleeves of your jacket. “Yeah. Just… new people.”

He throws an arm around your shoulders and leans in. “Lucky for you, I’m incredibly charming and will carry every conversation while you vibe silently with your drink.”

He guides you through the crowd until a girl with honey-blonde hair and a cropped corset top spots him and throws her arms open.

“Woooyoung!” she sings, grabbing him into a hug.

You blink. She’s gorgeous in the intimidating, social-media-famous kind of way. The type you’d normally assume he hooked up with at least once—but the way he’s smiling is completely platonic.

“Y/N, this is Sienna,” he says, arm still slung around you casually. “Sienna, this is my best friend and live-in gremlin.”

You elbow him sharply, but Sienna just laughs. “So this is the famous Y/N,” she says, offering you a hand. “He never shuts up about you.”

You manage a polite smile. “Hopefully only the good things.”

Sienna winks. “That depends on how many drinks he’s had.”

Before you can respond, another voice calls from behind her.

“Babe—who are you talking to?”

Sienna lights up. “Oh! Come meet Wooyoung and his friend!”

Your heart drops. You know that voice. You know that casual tone, the slight arrogance that always bled into everything he said. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

He steps into view, and your world tilts sideways.

Him. Your ex. The one who shattered you and left you picking up the pieces in Wooyoung’s spare room.

Time freezes. He doesn’t see you at first, not until he’s standing right in front of you—and then his eyes widen, recognition blooming behind his smug expression.

“Y/N?” he says, startled.

Wooyoung’s arm tenses around your waist. Subtle, but you feel it.

You swallow, trying to keep your face neutral, your spine straight. “Hi.”

Sienna blinks, confused. “Wait… you two know each other?”

He recovers fast, too fast. “Yeah. We… used to date.”

Sienna smile falters. “Oh.”

The silence hums.

Wooyoung clears his throat, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. “Didn’t realise you were the infamous ‘other friend,’” he mutters low, just enough for you to catch it. He steps forward with a practiced smile. “Anyway, we were just going to grab drinks. Nice to meet you… whatever your name was.”

Your ex flinches at that, and you nearly choke on a laugh.

You let Wooyoung steer you away from them and deeper into the party. But your hands are trembling, your chest tight, and everything inside you screams that you need to leave—until Wooyoung pulls you to a stop in a quiet corner.

His face softens as he turns to you. “Hey. You alright?”

You hesitate, eyes wide, breath uneven. “I can’t do this, Woo. I can’t let him see me like this. Like I’m still… not over it.”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leans in just close enough that your breath catches.

“Then let’s give him something to look at.”

You blink. “What?”

His voice is calm. Assured. “Pretend I’m your boyfriend. Just for tonight.”

You try to move your mouth, to form words, but you just gape at him blankly instead.

“Pretend I’m your boyfriend,” he says again, eyes locked on yours. Calm. Unflinching. Like this is just another harmless game.

You stare at him. “No. Wooyoung, no—absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if that’s not even a real answer. “Why not?”

“Because,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder toward the crowd, “Sienna already knows I’m your best friend. You literally introduced me as your best friend. She’s not going to believe we’ve suddenly decided to start playing house.”

Wooyoung shrugs, the picture of ease. “So? Best friend. Partner. Girlfriend. All the same thing to me.”

You gape at him. “That’s not how words work.”

He grins. “That’s exactly how I work.”

Your jaw clenches. “It won’t be convincing.”

He steps closer, voice dropping low. “Y/N, if I wanted to, I could convince them you were my wife. Trust me.”

You’re about to argue again—but his expression shifts, just enough to make your breath catch.

It’s the way he’s looking at you now. Like you already belong to him. Like there’s no one else in the room, no one who could possibly take his attention away. You know it’s an act. You know it’s Wooyoung playing a part, but damn if he isn’t good at it.

Still, you hesitate. “It just feels… messy.”

He softens. “Look, if it’s too much, we’ll leave. I mean that. But if you’re worried about what he thinks? Let me handle it. Let me give you the upper hand for once.”

You swallow hard. “You really think you can sell it?”

Wooyoung leans in again, so close your noses almost brush. His voice is nothing but smoke and honey. “Babe,” he murmurs, “I am the product.”

You blink. “Did you just—”

“Too much?” He flashes a devilish grin. “Too much.”

You let a moment of silence stretch just slightly. Then, slowly, you exhale. “Okay. Fine. But don’t make it weird.”

He smirks, already sliding his hand into yours. “Never. Now follow my lead—and maybe hold on tight.”

And just like that, Wooyoung flips the switch.

As you re-enter the crowd, his hand wraps firmly around your waist, fingers brushing the exposed skin above your hip. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second guess. When Sienna spots you again, her eyes flit from your intertwined hands to the way he’s looking at you now—with a quiet kind of possessiveness, like you’re the most captivating person in the room.

“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Wait, are you guys…?”

Wooyoung doesn’t miss a beat.

“It’s new,” he says smoothly, eyes still on you. “Not that new. But… y’know. We didn’t feel like explaining it to everyone. Best friend, girlfriend—lines blur.”

Sienna glances between you, and for a second, you’re certain she’s going to call your bluff.

But Wooyoung tilts his head, presses a kiss to your temple, and flashes her that award-winning, heart-stealing smile.

She softens instantly. “Wow. Okay, I guess I totally misread the vibe before. You two are… actually kind of adorable.”

He winks. “Kind of? We’re nauseating, babe.”

You almost choke, but play along, fingers tightening in his. The way he’s guiding this—light on his feet, totally in control—you can’t help but marvel at it.

Your ex, still lingering nearby, catches it all. And his expression hardens.

You don’t relax right away.

Even after Sienna’s moved on, even after Wooyoung leads you into the kitchen and hands you a drink like it’s a peace offering, your shoulders are still rigid, your smile tight. His hand rests on the curve of your back like it belongs there, and you try not to flinch every time someone glances your way.

Wooyoung notices, of course. He always notices.

He leans in, murmuring low, “You’re doing great, babe. Really convincing. So natural.”

You elbow him lightly. “Shut up.”

He grins. “See? That’s the spirit.”

You take a sip of your drink. It’s something fruity and dangerous, the kind that goes down too easily. The first burn of alcohol cuts through your nerves just enough for you to breathe again.

He guides you through the party like a well-rehearsed duet—introducing you to his dance crew, cracking jokes that make everyone laugh, throwing in little things like “Y/N actually saw me practice that routine at 2am” or “She keeps me humble… which is exhausting, by the way.”

At first, you struggle to find your rhythm. You keep your hand wrapped around your glass like a shield, your responses clipped, a little too quiet. The words “my boyfriend” catch in your throat when one of his friends casually asks how long you two have been together.

“Uh… a couple of months,” you manage, eyes flicking to Wooyoung.

He jumps in immediately, nodding. “Yeah. We kept it lowkey. Didn’t want to ruin the vibe, y’know? But it’s been a long time coming.”

He shoots you a look then—quick, conspiratorial, like you’re in on some grand joke together. And you don’t know what it is about that look, but it loosens something in you.

The second drink goes down faster than the first. You start to smile more easily, even laugh when he throws an arm around you and announces to a group of strangers that “Y/N’s the reason I’m still somewhat emotionally stable. Don’t know what kind of spells she’s using, but it’s working.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm, and not just from the alcohol.

By the time you’re finishing your third drink—something blue and fizzy and far too strong—you’re leaning into him more than you mean to, your arm hooked lazily around his waist. He doesn’t comment on it. Just leans down to say something against your ear, voice low enough to make your stomach flip.

“I told you this would work.”

You glance up at him, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I’m starting to get it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Get what?”

You shrug. “Why people fall for you.”

He pauses—just for a moment—but it’s long enough to notice. Then he smirks, but there’s something else in it now. Something unreadable. “Is that what’s happening to you, sweetheart?”

You open your mouth to retort, but it comes out more breath than sound. He’s looking at you with that same infuriating confidence, but there’s a softness beneath it now. Less performance. More… something else.

You down the rest of your drink instead of answering.

He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Smart girl.”

You’re mid-conversation with Sienna, half-listening while she rambles about some yoga retreat she and your ex are considering when she hits you with it.

“I mean, he’s just such a gentleman. Always so respectful, y’know? He’s still kept it up, almost six months later. It’s so rare to keep that spark, don’t you think?”

Your blood runs cold. Six months. You broke up with your ex five months ago. You blink at her, but she doesn’t even realise what she’s said. Just keeps sipping her drink like she didn’t crack your world open with a single sentence.

You force a smile—tight, fake. “Excuse me for a sec.”

You don’t wait for her to answer.

You push through the crowd, tunnel vision blurring everything around you until you’re in the kitchen. You spot a half-empty vodka bottle on the counter and immediately pour a generous amount into a red cup. No mixer. Just burn.

The first sip stings. The second numbs. You’re gulping down a third when you feel a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey,” Wooyoung says gently.

You don’t look at him.

“I saw your face,” he murmurs. “What happened?”

You shake your head, the liquor sloshing slightly in the cup. “Nothing. Just Sienna being accidentally honest.”

He steps closer, hands now resting on both of your shoulders. Grounding. “Talk to me.”

You finally meet his eyes—and whatever he sees there makes his jaw tighten. “Do I need to kill someone?”

You almost laugh. Almost. “No murder. Just vodka.”

He nods. “Fair. But I’m here, yeah?”

“I know.”

He rubs his thumb along the slope of your shoulder, and it’s so achingly familiar, so safe—and yet, it does nothing to steady the storm inside you.

And then you see it. Over his shoulder, through the open arch of the kitchen doorway—the silhouette of him.

Your ex. Walking toward the kitchen. Toward you.

Your heart skips. Panic blooms. The air feels sharp in your lungs. And without thinking, without planning, you act. Your hand snakes around Wooyoung’s neck, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape.

You pull him towards you, your lips crashing into his.

He stiffens at first—just a heartbeat of surprise. But then he melts.

His hands find your waist, gripping tight like he’s been holding back all night. Your mouth moves against his, hungry, desperate. His lips part, and your tongue slips against his, tasting the faint bitterness of rum and something sweeter. His fingers dig into your hips, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him like you’re something precious, something claimed. The kiss deepens, grows hot and messy and all-consuming—every unspoken word, every buried feeling surfacing in the crash of lips and tongue and breath.

Your ex clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the fog like a blade, and you jerk back instinctively, lips still tingling, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Wooyoung’s hands remain on your waist a second too long before he slowly pulls them away, blinking like he’s just been snapped out of a dream.

His head turns sharply toward the door.

Your ex stands there, arms crossed, an unreadable look on his face—but there’s something simmering behind his eyes. Something smug. Or maybe threatened. You can’t tell.

“Anything I can help you with, bro?” Wooyoung asks coolly, voice sharp enough to draw blood.

“I’d just like a moment with Y/N,” your ex replies, gaze flicking briefly between the two of you.

You stiffen.

“No, thank you,” Wooyoung says immediately, stepping slightly in front of you.

“I think she can answer for herself,” your ex says, eyes settling on you now.

You hate the way your stomach twists, the way your throat tightens like you owe him something—an explanation, an apology, space—when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place, vodka burning in your chest, Wooyoung’s taste still clinging to your lips.

Your voice is quiet but steady. “What do you want?”

“Just to talk,” he says. “Privately.”

Wooyoung doesn’t move. “She’s not interested.”

You lay a hand gently on Wooyoung’s arm. “It’s okay.”

He turns to you, eyes searching. “You sure?”

No. Not even remotely. But some part of you needs to hear whatever bullshit excuse your ex is about to spin—just to finally shut the door yourself. Not for him. For you.

“Yeah,” you say, nodding once. “I’ll be fine.”

Wooyoung doesn’t look convinced, but he steps aside, jaw clenched. Before leaving, he leans in close, voice low and firm against your ear.

“I’ll be right outside. You say the word, and I’m back in.”

Your heart twists. “Thank you.”

You turn back to your ex, jaw tightening.

“Make it quick.”

He scoffs, arms folding tighter across his chest as he glares past Wooyoung’s lingering presence. “When did you start fucking your best friend, then?”

The words hit like a slap, but not because they’re true—because they’re so predictable. So typical.

You laugh. Short. Bitter. “I don’t think you’re in the position to ask me when I started fucking someone, Leo.”

He bristles. “Don’t make this about me.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Are you actually serious right now?”

He steps closer. “I just—” He sighs, frustrated. “I needed something, Y/N. Some kind of excitement. You were always working. You didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to party with me. We barely even had sex anymore. What was I supposed to do?”

The breath leaves your lungs. Rage bubbles just under your skin.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you spit. “Was I supposed to perform for you? Keep the house clean, cook dinner, work full-time, and make sure you didn’t get bored?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the floor.

“Yes, you did,” you snap. “You meant every word. You wanted someone shiny and new, someone to stroke your ego and party with your idiot friends. And you found her. So why the hell are you even here?”

He looks up again, softer now. “Because I miss you.”

You freeze.

“I miss the way things were. I miss you.”

He tries to step closer, reaching toward you, but you move fast.

You shove his hand away, fury tightening your every muscle. “Back off.”

He blinks. “Y/N—”

“I’m happy now,” you say, louder than you meant to. Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. “I’m with someone who doesn’t make me feel small. Someone who remembers how I take my coffee and listens when I talk about things that matter to me—even the dumb stuff.”

You don’t even notice that Wooyoung is still within earshot.

“He walks me home when it’s late, makes me laugh when I’ve had the worst day, and lets me cry without acting like it’s some inconvenience. He tells me when I look good, even when I don’t feel it. He knows me.”

Leo’s face twists. “He’s just your friend.”

You stare him down. “No, he’s not.”

His mouth opens, but whatever retort he had dies in his throat. You wait. He doesn’t say anything.

He just exhales sharply, scoffing as he turns. “Whatever. You’ve changed.”

You watch as he stalks off through the hallway and disappears into the party.

Silence falls like a weight in the kitchen.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your palms to the counter to steady yourself. It takes a second to notice him again—Wooyoung, standing in the doorway, where he’s clearly been the whole time.

You turn toward him, heart in your throat. “How much did you hear?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. Just walks toward you slowly.

“All of it.”

“Convincing, huh?”

You glance up at him, trying to ignore the way your heart is still racing from earlier.

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a comment that’s too dangerous to say out loud. Instead, he reaches out, links his pinky with yours, and pulls you back toward the party.

You’re immediately swept into a small circle of people on the floor, laughter bubbling from a group settled around a beanbag throne. Someone suggests a game of Never Have I Ever, and you barely have time to protest before you’re being tugged into the centre and dropped—unceremoniously—into Wooyoung’s lap.

“Claiming what’s mine,” he whispers in your ear.

You roll your eyes, but don’t move.

The game starts innocent enough. Never have I ever been skinny-dipping. Never have I ever called in sick just to sleep all day. You drink more than you mean to. Warmth blooms in your chest. And in your thighs. And, quite possibly, lower.

Wooyoung’s arms wrap lazily around your waist, holding his drink in one hand and resting the other casually on your leg. Too casual.

You lean back against his chest, your head finding a spot just below his collarbone. The bass of his laugh thrums through you when someone makes a dumb joke. He smells like cologne, spiked fruit punch, and something that’s just him.

The questions keep coming, getting more daring, and so do the drinks.

Then someone—one of the dancers, with glossy lips and a wicked smile—grins as she says, “Never have I ever had more than three orgasms in one night.”

You don’t even hesitate.

You knock back your drink.

There’s a moment of silence. A few gasps. One or two high-pitched “damn!”s. Your ex, still lingering with Sienna on the far edge of the circle, gapes like you just punched him in the soul.

You feel the corner of your mouth lift, slow and smug. You shrug one shoulder, utterly unapologetic. “What? Wooyoung is just that good.”

The room erupts into laughter and scandalised giggles.

“Damn girl,” one of the dancers whistles, shaking her head in admiration. “You’re so lucky.”

“Tell me about it,” you reply, knocking your knee against Wooyoung’s teasingly.

He chuckles into your ear, voice low and unreasonably hot.

“Careful,” he murmurs, the pads of his fingers brushing slow circles on your inner thigh. “You keep talking like that and people are gonna start thinking it’s true.”

You feel his breath warm on your skin. His hand creeps higher, just slightly, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You turn your head to glance at him, eyes half-lidded, your own pulse betraying you. “It’s your fault. You’re the one who wanted to be convincing.”

His fingers press into the soft flesh of your thigh, just once—firm enough to leave a message.

“That good, am I?” he whispers, his voice almost smug.

You bite your lip, daring yourself not to moan in front of everyone. “Apparently... Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

The game spirals after that.

Every “never have I ever” seems designed to push the limits—of shame, desire, memory. And Wooyoung’s hands, always somewhere on you, are the one constant through it all. A palm on your thigh, a finger brushing the underside of your knee, the heat of his breath whenever he leans in to whisper something cheeky in your ear.

You can’t think straight anymore. You’re melting into him. Every touch, every glance, every teasing word is sending you tumbling further. You laugh too loud at something someone says. Your head lolls back against his shoulder. His fingers slide a little higher. No one notices. But you do. God, you do.

You can’t stay like this.

You mutter something about needing to use the bathroom, rising quickly and slipping away before anyone can stop you.

The hallway feels too bright. Too loud. Your heart is hammering in your chest like it’s trying to break free. You find the bathroom and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the cool porcelain of the sink basin.

Get a grip, you tell yourself.

You stare at your reflection. Your lips are a little swollen. Your pupils blown wide. You look like someone on the edge of something dangerous. And maybe you are.

This was just a game. A cover. A night of pretending. But the way his hands felt on you? The way you leaned into him without thinking? That kiss in the kitchen?

That wasn’t pretend.

Wooyoung is your best friend.

You’ve known him since the sandbox. Since he used to trade his juice box for your crackers at lunch and draw on your arm with scented markers. He’s the one who patched you up after scraped knees, who held you when you cried over every failed relationship, who made you feel safe when the world didn’t.

He’s not supposed to make you feel like this.

You exhale sharply and grip the edges of the sink harder. Then—just as you start to regain some control—

The doorknob turns.

Your breath catches. “Occupied,” you say quickly, voice too tight.

The door creaks open anyway.

It’s Wooyoung.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him, locking it with a soft click. His eyes find yours instantly. You don’t say anything. You can’t. He moves slowly at first, like he’s making sure you won’t bolt. But when you don’t move—when you just stand there, still breathless, still unraveling—he crosses the room in two strides.

He doesn’t touch you. Just stands close, his chest nearly brushing yours, the air charged between you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. Lie. “Fine.”

He raises a brow. “You ran off like you were about to combust.”

“I just… needed a minute.”

“To breathe?”

“To think.”

“About?”

You swallow. Your gaze drops to his mouth, then back up to his eyes. “Us.”

His eyes darken. “There is no us.”

“Exactly.”

The word hangs between you—biting, bitter, scared.

Then, softly, he says, “But that didn’t feel fake.”

You don’t respond. Can’t. Because it didn’t. And he knows it.

And now he’s here. In front of you. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to shatter whatever line you’ve been clinging to.

He leans in, lips barely grazing your cheek. “You gonna tell me to leave?”

You should. You should.

So you do.

“I think the party’s over, Woo,” you say softly, stepping back just enough to put space between you.

His eyes don’t leave yours. But he nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I think it is.”

You both stare at each other for a moment—too long, not long enough—before you turn and unlock the bathroom door. The moment it opens, he’s back in character.

“Think someone’s overdone it a bit,” he calls out with a cheeky grin, wrapping an arm around your waist like you’re a tipsy girlfriend who just needs a little help walking. “Gonna get her back into bed.”

Sienna giggles, completely buying it. “Aw, well thanks for coming! Hope she’s okay!”

“She’s in the best hands,” he says smoothly, already guiding you toward the door.

You manage a smile, nodding to the room. “Thanks for having us.”

As soon as the door closes behind you and the cool night air hits your face, his arm drops. The performance is over.

Neither of you say a word.

The cab ride back is silent. Not the comfortable kind you’ve shared a thousand times, but sharp and heavy—like everything that wasn’t said in that bathroom is now pressing into the space between you. The only sound is the quiet hum of the engine and the distant city lights passing by.

You glance at him once—just once. He’s staring out the window, jaw tight, thumb rubbing absently along his palm. Like he’s thinking too much. Or trying not to.

When you step inside the apartment, it’s all muscle memory. You toe off your shoes in the entryway. He walks straight to the fridge, a soft click as the door opens.

He pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to you, eyes unreadable.

“Here.”

You take it without thinking. “Thanks.”

He stands there a moment longer, like he wants to say something.

Instead, he just nods once. “Goodnight.”

You try for a smile, but it doesn’t quite make it to your eyes. “Goodnight.”

He turns and disappears into his room, the door shutting quietly behind him.

And for the first time since moving in… You feel alone.

You toss and turn, your sheets tangled around your legs, your pillow flipped a dozen times for some phantom “cool” side that never seems to stay that way.

Sleep won’t come.

The events of the night circle your mind like a swarm of hornets—buzzing with a venomous edge. That kiss in the kitchen. The way your body responded to every single touch. The heat in his voice. His fingers on your thigh. The silence in the cab. You keep telling yourself it was just for show. Just a stupid performance to get back at your ex. A way to take control.

But if that were true… why are you still thinking about the way Wooyoung looked at you? Like you were more than just a role to play?

You flip onto your back, stare at the ceiling.

This is ridiculous.

You throw back the covers with a sigh, deciding that maybe a shower will help. Something to ground you. To make your skin feel like your own again.

You pad toward the door, rubbing at your eyes, still trying to shake the weight sitting in your chest.

When you open it—

He’s there.

Wooyoung stands in the hallway; shirtless, his chest rising and falling steadily in the soft glow from the kitchen light. A pair of grey sweatpants hangs low on his hips, the waistband slung in that careless way that makes your mouth go dry. His arm is raised, fist suspended in midair like he’d been about to knock.

He freezes. So do you.

Neither of you moves. The silence between you sharpens, cuts deeper than anything spoken could.

“I—” he starts, then drops his hand slowly, eyes flicking to your face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

His eyes search yours, quiet, cautious. “I was gonna check if you were okay.”

You glance down, suddenly very aware that you’re standing in an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. “I was just gonna shower.”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

Another pause. It stretches too long. Too tight.

You should say goodnight again. You should step back and shut the door. Let him go. Let this go. But neither of you move, because neither of you want to.

You don’t breathe. Not when his gaze drifts down your body and back up again, slower this time—lingering on bare thighs, the curve of your hip beneath the hem of your shirt.

Not even when he takes a step closer. He doesn’t speak, he just moves.

One heartbeat. Two.

Then he closes the gap between you in a single breath, one hand rising to cup the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist. And before you can think, before you can second guess any of this—

His mouth is on yours.

It’s not soft, or careful. It’s nothing like the kiss at the party. This is urgent. All heat and hunger and barely-restrained need. You gasp into it, but he doesn’t slow down. His lips part yours like he already knows the answer, tongue sliding against yours with a groan that vibrates through your whole body.

Your back hits the doorframe as he presses into you, and you melt, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the feel of him. His hands roam—down your sides, over the backs of your thighs, gripping like he can’t bear to let go.

It’s overwhelming, and it’s real. There’s no pretending now. No performance. No party to act for. It’s just him, you, and the months—no, years—of something simmering beneath the surface finally boiling over.

He kisses you like he’s starving, and you kiss him like you’ve been starving, too.

Wooyoung’s hands slip under the backs of your thighs, fingers digging into your skin like he’s been waiting to do it forever. Then, without warning, he lifts you. A small gasp escapes you as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your arms clinging to his shoulders. He carries you into your room with ease, his mouth never leaving yours for long. Just enough to trail kisses along your jaw, to breathe your name like a secret only he’s allowed to know.

When he reaches your bed, he pauses for just a moment—enough to look at you, really look at you—and then he lowers you gently onto the mattress.

The softness of the drop contrasts the heat burning between you.

His body follows, settling over yours, warm and solid and real. His lips find your neck, kissing down slowly—pausing, tasting, breathing. Your fingers grip at the fabric of his sweats, tugging him closer, needing more.

But then he stops.

His weight still pressed into you, his mouth hovering at your collarbone, he lifts his head and meets your eyes. There’s heat in them—but also something gentler. Something uncertain.

“This is a line,” he murmurs, voice rough. “We don’t come back from this.”

You stare at him, breathless.

You know he’s right. You know this changes everything. But you don’t care.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re everything. Like he wants this, not just tonight—but always has. And you want to know how it ends. What it feels like to finally be wanted by the person who’s always seen you.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I need this.”

His jaw tightens, like he’s holding back a thousand things he’s never let himself say.

His mouth finds yours again, but this time it’s slower. Deliberate. Like he’s savouring every second. His tongue slips past your lips, coaxing a soft moan from your throat that he swallows greedily. You arch beneath him, needing more—needing him. His hands slide beneath your shirt, fingertips skating over the curve of your waist, your ribs, until he reaches the swell of your breasts. He pauses there, like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

Instead, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head. You’re bare underneath—no bra, just skin, and vulnerability—and the look on his face when he sees you sends a fresh pulse of heat between your legs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes darkening as they roam over you. “You’re beautiful.”

You flush, even now, but before you can hide from it, he leans down and presses a kiss between your breasts, then lower, worshipping you with lips and tongue until you’re gasping, clutching at his shoulders.

His hands are everywhere. Stroking, kneading, learning your body like it’s familiar and new all at once. When he finally peels your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, watching you the entire time, like this is some sacred thing he’s unwrapping. You reach for the waistband of his sweats in return, and he lets you. He kicks them off, revealing skin and heat and the kind of want that’s impossible to fake.

When he sinks down between your thighs, his mouth tracing a path along your inner thigh, you forget how to breathe.

“Wooyoung—” you gasp.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, just before his tongue replaces his words.

Your hips jerk, a cry slipping from your lips before you can muffle it. He eats you out like a man possessed—like this is his only purpose. Tongue curling, lips sucking, fingers pressing in deep. He builds you up fast, merciless and precise, until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, your fingers tangled in his hair, mouth open in a silent scream as you ride the waves, one after another, until you’re limp and breathless beneath him.

But he’s not done.

He kisses his way up your body again, his skin sliding against yours, and you feel the hard press of him between your legs.

“Still want this?” he whispers, voice rough and trembling.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He slides into you slowly, carefully, stretching you inch by inch until he’s fully buried inside. The breath he exhales is ragged, like he’s holding himself together by a thread. You both still for a moment, foreheads pressed together, hearts thundering.

And then he moves.

The rhythm starts slow—deep, unhurried thrusts that leave you gasping, clinging to him. His name slips from your lips like a prayer, over and over, each syllable tangled in pleasure and disbelief.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

You do. And what you see in his eyes unravels you more than anything else ever could. This isn’t just sex.

It never was.

He leans down and kisses you again—slow, sweet, lingering—and then picks up the pace, hips snapping harder, deeper. You wrap your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, and it’s everything. Raw. Real. Years of tension poured into every breath, every moan, every kiss.

You come again with a cry, body shaking beneath his, and that’s all it takes. He follows you over the edge with a groan, spilling into you as his arms wrap tight around your body, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

The silence after is soft and heavy. His weight stays on top of you, grounding. His lips brush your shoulder, your cheek, your forehead.

His breathing slows against your skin, chest rising and falling in time with yours. The weight of him—both physical and emotional—grounds you, anchoring you to the moment. His forehead is still pressed lightly to yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours every few seconds like he’s not ready to move away just yet.

The room is quiet except for the hum of the city outside the window and the soft thrum of your shared heartbeats still catching up. His fingers, which had gripped you so tightly minutes ago, now trace slow, absentminded circles on your hip. Gentle. As if your skin might break if he presses too hard.

You stare up at the ceiling, skin warm and flushed, but your mind is racing. It wasn’t supposed to happen. But God, it felt inevitable. It felt like the only thing in the world that made sense.

You shift slightly, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft now, stripped of performance and charm. There’s no smirk. No teasing. Just Wooyoung. The boy you’ve known forever. The man who just touched you like he’s been waiting his whole life to.

His thumb brushes the side of your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and hoarse from the things he moaned into your skin not long ago.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Are you?”

He holds your gaze a moment longer, then gives the barest smile. “Yeah. Just… making sure.”

You bite your lip. Your hand reaches for his on instinct, fingers lacing together. It fits too easily. Always has.

“I don’t know what happens now,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

He exhales, resting his forehead against yours again. “Me neither.”

There’s no panic in his voice, no regret. Just truth.

“I wasn’t acting,” you say suddenly. The words tumble out before you can stop them. “Back there. At the party. I know it started that way but… when I said those things to Leo, they were all real. I didn’t have to fake any of it.”

His fingers squeeze yours, but he doesn’t say anything. So you go on.

“You really do remember how I take my coffee. You do walk me home. You always look at me like… like I matter.”

You finally meet his eyes again, your voice smaller now. “That wasn’t pretend for you either, was it?”

He hesitates, only for a moment.

Then, softly—quietly, but with no room for doubt—he says, “It never was.”

You stay like that for a while—limbs tangled, bodies bare, hearts still beating faster than they should. Time feels suspended. Like the universe is holding its breath just for you.

Eventually, he shifts. Carefully, reluctantly.

“I should… uh…” Wooyoung murmurs, starting to rise, muscles tensing like he’s bracing for something.

“No.”

Your voice is soft, but it cuts through the silence like glass. You reach out and grab his wrist, fingers wrapping around him, anchoring him in place.

“Stay,” you whisper. “Please. Only if you want to.”

He pauses.

Then he laughs—barely, breathily—like the idea of wanting you could ever be a question.

“Of course I do.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes locked on where your hand still grips his.

“Y/N,” he says, voice cracking slightly, “I’ve loved you since we were five years old.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He lifts his eyes to meet yours, and there’s no shield left. No act. Just Wooyoung, heart in his hands, offering it like he doesn’t even care if it breaks.

“I—” you start, but the words vanish as emotion floods your chest. “Stay,” you repeat softly instead.

That’s enough. It always has been.

He exhales, the tension bleeding from his body, and sinks back down beside you. You turn into him, your hand lifting to cradle his face, thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed at the touch, like it’s the first time he’s been held like this. Like he’s home.

You lean in, pressing your lips to his—slow and tender and real. The kiss is nothing like the others. It’s love, laid bare. When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

He smiles softly, and this time, you smile back.

Because there’s nothing to hide from anymore.

The light filters in slowly.

Soft and golden, it spills through the half-open blinds, casting long stripes across the sheets and the curve of his back where it rises and falls beside you.

For a while, you don’t move.

You just lie there, watching the steady rhythm of his breathing, his hair a mess against the pillow, lips slightly parted in sleep. One arm is curled under your waist, still holding you like his body doesn’t quite know how to let go yet. And maybe it never will.

Last night lingers in every part of you. In the soft ache between your legs, the warmth still curled low in your stomach, the ghost of his mouth on your skin. But more than that—it lives in the stillness. In the weight of what didn’t need to be said. In the safety.

You shift slightly, and his eyes flutter open.

He blinks against the light, then turns his head toward you, smile lazy and half-asleep. “Morning.”

Your heart flips.

“Morning.”

For a few seconds, you just stare at each other. No tension. No roles to play. Just you and him and the echo of everything that changed.

Then, softly, he says, “Are you okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.” He reaches up, brushing your hair out of your face. “You didn’t run away in the middle of the night, so I’m counting that as a win.”

You laugh quietly. “Did you think I would?”

He shrugs one bare shoulder. “Wasn’t sure. Thought maybe you’d pretend last night didn’t happen.”

“I couldn’t,” you say. “Even if I tried.”

His expression softens. “Me neither.”

Another pause. But this one feels different. Anticipatory.

Then he sits up, resting against the headboard, eyes suddenly more serious. “Y/N.”

You push yourself up beside him, drawing the blanket around your chest. “Yeah?”

He hesitates. And you know this is the moment—the one where everything shifts for good.

“I don’t want to go back,” he says finally. “To pretending. To calling you my best friend and pretending that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Your breath hitches.

“Because it’s not,” he continues, voice low but certain. “I want more. I am more. And so are you.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.”

Your heart swells. This should feel terrifying—but it doesn’t. It feels like home.

You shift onto your knees and lean over, cupping his face in your hands. “Okay.”

His brow furrows, just a little. “Okay?”

You nod, tears threatening. “Let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop calling it friendship. Let’s just… be.”

He exhales, the kind of breath that sounds like relief, and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap.

“I’ve wanted to call you mine for years,” he whispers.

You kiss him, slow and sure.

“You have,” you say. “You always have.”

And this time, there’s no going back.

[thetidesthatturn]

against all odds is so good! i hope u make a part 2! one with the rest of the members like maybe they meet her after yunho suddenly dissapeared hehe

Against All Odds - Part Two

Pairing: ex-boyfriend Yunho x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, think that’s it ???

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

A/N: WOOOAH you guys!! I’ve had so many requests for a part two! I’m so glad y’all enjoyed the first part so much 🫶🏻

Part One

You wake to the sound of Yunho’s phone vibrating on the nightstand.

He’s already halfway out of the bed, hair a mess, hoodie halfway pulled over his head as he tries to silence the noise before it fully wakes you.

“Sorry,” he whispers, catching your sleepy gaze. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

The sheets are warm where he was. You curl into them instinctively, watching as he scrolls through the screen. Even from this distance, you can see the flood of messages. A few from Mingi. One from Wooyoung in all caps. Three missed calls from Hongjoong.

He sighs.

“I should go.”

You nod, even though every part of you wishes he’d stay. That the world outside this room didn’t exist yet.

You sit up, the covers falling from your shoulders. “What time’s rehearsal?”

“Was supposed to be twenty minutes ago.” He grimaces. “I think they were being nice by not sending security to drag me out.”

You both laugh, quietly.

He leans over and presses a kiss to your temple—soft, lingering. Like he doesn’t want to leave, either.

“I’ll text you,” he says, fingers brushing your arm as he steps back.

You smile at him. “You better.”

He pauses at the door, glancing back at you one last time. Hoodie half-zipped, cap tucked under his arm. The boy you used to love, and the man he’s become, standing in the same place.

And then he’s gone.

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Shower. Hair. Clothes. Emails you barely register. Your first meeting starts before you’ve even finished your first coffee. You’re trying to focus on KPIs and launch assets while the ghost of Yunho’s hands is still imprinted on your skin.

There’s a text around noon.

Yunho

Made it. Just barely.

Yunho

Everyone’s mad but also impressed I didn’t fall down 14 flights.

You smile at your phone like a fool in the middle of a marketing roundtable.

You

Glad you survived.

You

If anyone asks, I kidnapped you.

Yunho

…please don’t give Wooyoung ideas.

And just like that, you fall into a rhythm.

He texts when he can. The occasional voice note. The odd, late-night FaceTime—Yunho calling from hotel rooms, and buses, and green rooms that all start to blur together. He tells you about the crowds, the heat of the stage, the chaos of moving city to city. You tell him about clients and coffee-fueled brainstorms and how proud you are of him.

He still asks about your day, even when he’s running on two hours of sleep.

And every time his name lights up your phone, it feels like home.

But then—

You go back. Back to Seoul. Back to your own bed. Your own routine. And time changes everything.

The messages slow. The calls get shorter. The time difference widens the space between you. Some nights you wake to a notification. Some days it doesn’t come at all.

You tell yourself it’s normal. That this was always going to happen. But still, when your phone is silent, it’s impossible not to wonder—

Is this the part where it ends again?

~

Yunho is half-listening to the crew briefing, bouncing his leg restlessly beneath the table.

They’re going over set adjustments for the next city—minor changes to transitions, a few lighting cues that got misfired in Denver. He nods when someone looks at him, smiles politely, but his eyes keep drifting to the corner of the table where his phone lies face-down, silent.

No new messages. No updates from her.

And it shouldn’t bother him. He told himself this was inevitable—time zones, work schedules, life. But something about the quiet is starting to feel heavier than it should.

“Yunho.”

He blinks, startled, and turns to see Hongjoong watching him from across the room, arms crossed, eyebrows slightly raised.

“Got a second?”

Yunho nods and stands, brushing invisible lint from his hoodie. He follows Hongjoong down the hall and into one of the quieter side rooms—just the two of them now, the door clicking shut behind them.

Hongjoong doesn’t speak right away. He leans against the edge of the table, arms still folded.

“I’m happy for you,” he says simply.

Yunho tilts his head, confused. “What do you mean?”

Hongjoong gives him a look. “Come on. You’ve been floating since LA. You think we haven’t noticed?”

Yunho scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Was I that obvious?”

“You’re not exactly subtle,” Hongjoong says with a wry smile. “I’m not trying to call you out. It’s good to see you smiling like that. Really.”

“But…” Yunho offers quietly.

“But,” Hongjoong echoes, softer now, “this tour has taken us years to build. You know that. And I just want to make sure your head stays in it. You’ve been a little… distracted.”

Yunho looks down, shame creeping into his chest like cold water.

“It’s not that I don’t care,” he says. “About the tour, the fans. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“I know,” Hongjoong says immediately. “And I trust you. That’s why I’m talking to you like this.”

Yunho nods slowly. Then looks up.

“I’ll focus. I promise. But I need something from you.”

That catches Hongjoong off guard. “What?”

Yunho’s expression changes—calms, sharpens. That quiet, serious look he only gets when something really matters.

“I have a plan,” he says carefully. “I’m not ready to say what it is yet. But if you help me… I can stay present. I can finish this tour right.”

Hongjoong stares at him for a moment, gaze narrowing with curiosity. “What kind of plan?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Yunho says, offering a small, secretive smile. “Just trust me?”

Hongjoong exhales, rubbing his jaw. Then finally nods.

“Alright. But if this turns into something reckless, I’ll set Wooyoung loose on you..”

Yunho laughs. “Deal.”

And for the first time since he left LA, something inside him settles.

He doesn’t know when the right time will be, but he knows what he wants. And this time, he’s not letting her slip away again.

The rest of the tour goes off without a hitch.

Every night, the lights go up, the crowd screams, and Yunho comes alive.

On stage, he’s not overthinking. Not worried about texts that come late or calls that don’t. On stage, he’s surrounded by his brothers—his second family—and together they’re the loudest, brightest versions of themselves.

And fans love it.

They love it when Mingi throws a jacket into the crowd like he’s filming a drama. They love it when San lifts Wooyoung over his shoulder like he weighs nothing. They especially love it when Seonghwa breaks character during “Deja Vu” and blushes so hard he nearly misses his cue.

But tonight—tonight Yunho nearly falls off the stage.

He’s mid-dance when his eyes catch something in the crowd. A bright pink banner held high in the third row.

It’s a screenshot.

Of him and Wooyoung.

From the Pepero game.

Their faces are millimetres apart, and someone’s edited hearts all around it. The banner reads in sparkly block letters:

“YUNWOO ENDGAME 💘”

He screeches with laughter, actually losing count of the beat, and doubles over.

The fans lose it.

Wooyoung, noticing the sign, blows a dramatic kiss toward the crowd, then turns to Yunho and winks exaggeratedly.

“Hyung,” he whispers behind his mic as they jog offstage, “you’re mine now. The banner says so.”

Yunho’s still laughing, breathless as they collapse onto the water station. “We need to start checking those before they come in.”

But as the laughter dies down and the adrenaline fades, something always creeps back in.

Quiet. Unshakeable.

You.

No matter how loud the cheers, no matter how many cities blur past the windows, he always ends the night thinking of you. He doesn’t say anything to the others. Not even when Wooyoung teases him about zoning out or when San catches him rereading a text for the fifth time. He just holds it quietly, tucked behind the smiles and the spotlight.

And then, just like that—

It’s over.

The final show ends in a flurry of confetti and crowd chants and all eight of them bowing so hard their backs ache. There are hugs backstage. Tears. Laughter. Promises to rest—until comeback season kicks in again.

And then they’re at the airport.

Everyone’s bundled in hoodies and caps, half-asleep, earbuds in, eyes puffy from saying goodbye to the cities that lit them up. The plane home hums with quiet conversations and the crinkle of snack wrappers. Hongjoong’s flipping through a notebook. Jongho’s passed out against the window.

Yunho stares out at the clouds and smiles.

Because now? Now the plan is in motion.

~

You’re in the zone.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard as you scroll through campaign reports, half a sandwich abandoned beside your laptop. The office buzzes around you—muffled phone calls, the low hum of the AC, a colleague cursing softly at their locked spreadsheet. But you barely notice. You’re locked into your workflow, knocking off one task after another like a machine.

When your calendar pings, reminding you it’s technically your lunch break, you sit back and stretch, rolling your neck with a quiet sigh. You finally pick up your sandwich and grab your phone, tapping through the usual spiral of notifications.

A few messages in the work group chat. An ad for sneakers you only thought about buying.

And then—

Tour photos.

Fans posting their favourite clips. Encore stages, final speeches, selfies from barricade.

ATEEZ, smiling and sweaty, arms around each other. Yunho, beaming.

You pause, thumb hovering over the screen. It would be so easy to send something. Just a little message.

Congratulations.

You did it.

I’m proud of you.

But you don’t.

He’s just finished months on the road. He deserves rest, privacy, space. So instead, you lock your phone, toss it face down, and finish your lunch in silence.

By the time you get home, the moon is hanging in the sky like a delicate silver pendant. Your eyes are burning from screen fatigue and you’re too tired to even think about real food. You toss your bag near the door, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the couch, turning on the first thing Netflix suggests—a chaotic, overacted K-drama with ridiculous romantic tension and way too many slow-motion stares.

You don’t make it past the second episode.

You’re out like a light, curled into a throw blanket, half-slumped against the armrest. The TV chatters on in the background as your breathing evens out and the weight of the day drags you under.

Knock knock.

You stir, face pressed into a cushion.

Knock.

You sit up, heart racing, vision still blurry from sleep. It’s pitch black outside the window. The K-drama is still playing, the lead couple arguing in subtitles as you fumble for the remote.

You check your phone.

10:34 PM.

Your chest tightens. Who the hell is knocking at your door at this hour?

Your mind races through scenarios. Neighbour? Package? Psychopath?

You glance at the umbrella leaning in the corner—useless, but maybe enough to swing.

Knock knock.

This one is softer. Hesitant. But still urgent.

You move slowly, cautiously toward the door, your hand hovering near the lock. Your breath catches as you peer through the peephole.

And then you freeze.

Because there, standing under the porch light in a black hoodie and jeans, is Yunho. Hair still a little windblown. A bouquet of soft pink and cream flowers in one hand.

And the most hopeful, nervous smile on his face.

You open the door slowly, like you still don’t believe your eyes.

He speaks first.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Surprise.”

Your throat tightens. “Yunho…?”

He lifts the bouquet a little, awkwardly. “These are for you. I had to Google ‘flowers that say I might still be hopelessly in love with you but don’t want to scare you.’ These were close.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You’re still in an oversized sweatshirt, your hair a mess, your heart somewhere in your throat.

You don’t even think. You just move.

One second, you’re staring at him, breath caught and disbelieving—and the next, your arms are thrown around his neck, pulling him into you like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

The flowers get crushed somewhere between you, forgotten entirely.

He melts into you instantly.

His arms lock around your waist, holding you just as tightly, burying his face in your shoulder like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long. Your fingers fist into the back of his hoodie. You’re shaking.

The tears come before you even feel them. Hot and fast, soaking into the soft fabric at his collar.

“Hey, hey—” Yunho breathes, his voice rough, hands rubbing up and down your back in slow, soothing lines. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You press your face harder into his chest, choking back a sob. “How did you even know where I live?”

He lets out a soft laugh against your hair. “Pulled in a few favours. Got in touch with some old friends.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes glassy and disbelieving. “That sounds illegal.”

“Nothing that would get me arrested,” he promises, a lopsided grin forming on his lips. “Barely.”

You laugh through the tears, pressing your forehead to his chest again, the tension in your body finally cracking and falling away like ice.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you whisper.

“I told you I would,” he murmurs, one hand sliding to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with impossible gentleness. “I meant it.”

You look up at him again. His eyes are shining.

You don’t need flowers, or speeches, or perfect timing. You just need this.

Him. Here. Choosing you.

You step back just enough to open the door wider.

“Come in,” you say softly, wiping at your cheeks with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “Before the neighbours think I’m harbouring a celebrity fugitive.”

Yunho chuckles under his breath and ducks inside, cradling the crumpled bouquet like a newborn. He glances around your place with quiet curiosity—taking it in, cataloguing it like it means something to him. Because it does.

“It’s nice,” he says. “It feels like you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Messy and half-lit?”

He smirks. “Warm. And a little chaotic.”

You both kick off your shoes and move into the living room. The drama is still playing on the TV in the background, a dramatic slow-motion slap frozen mid-air on the screen. You grab the remote and switch it off, the silence that follows far more comfortable than it should be.

“Have you eaten?” you ask, already heading to the kitchen.

“Only airplane food,” he calls after you. “So… no.”

You scroll through your phone and glance back at him. “Still like tteokbokki and fried chicken?”

“Obviously.”

You order without asking what he wants, because you already know. He flops onto the couch while you’re typing, his long frame draped over the cushions like it’s his second home. And when you sit back beside him, something shifts in the air.

It’s so easy. Too easy. Like no time has passed at all.

The takeout arrives twenty minutes later, and soon you’re both cross-legged on the floor, eating straight from the boxes with wooden chopsticks, sauce on your sleeves and laughter in your throats. Yunho tells you about the fan signs, the weird hotel pillows, the one city where the fire effects nearly singed Wooyoung’s eyebrows off.

You tell him about a client presentation that almost tanked until you saved it with a terrible pun.

He laughs like he used to—wide and honest, mouth open, eyes disappearing into crescents.

You’d forgotten what that felt like. No cameras. No rehearsals. No pressure.

Just you and him.

And it’s not just fun. It’s familiar. Like two puzzle pieces finally clicked back into place after years of trying to force themselves into other corners of the world.

After a while, you’re sitting side by side on the couch again, the empty containers stacked on the table. The city hums softly outside your window. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t pull away.

You glance over at him, but he’s already looking at you. Not with the heat from before, or with nerves or uncertainty. Just quiet, steady affection.

“I missed this,” he says softly.

You nod, voice caught in your throat.

“Me too.”

~

Yunho spends most of his free time at your place now.

It’s safer that way. Simpler.

You stay off the radar, tucked away from cameras and curious eyes. He still gets recognised the second he steps outside, even with a mask and hat. But here, in your apartment; he’s just Yunho. The one who laughs at your terrible cooking, hogs the blanket, and tries to sing over the K-drama intros with alarming enthusiasm.

He never pushes to bring you to the dorms. You both know better. All it would take is one fan catching on, one comment online, and suddenly everything he’s worked for is under fire.

But that doesn’t stop the members from asking.

They want to meet you.

They tease him about you constantly—about the girl he ran down fourteen floors for. About how he still smiles at his phone like he’s in high school. About how he disappears for days at a time and comes back humming love songs under his breath.

So one night, over instant ramen in your kitchen, Yunho sets his chopsticks down like a man with a plan.

“I’ve got an idea.”

You blink at him mid-slurp. “That sentence never ends well.”

He grins. “We could dress you up like staff.”

You stare.

“Lanyard. Fake ID. Walk in like you belong. You get to meet the guys, and no one will even blink. Fans are used to seeing people come and go at KQ. If you play it right, it’ll be totally inconspicuous.”

You blink again. “You want me to cosplay as a KQ employee?”

“Technically,” he says with a shrug, “you’d just be… an unofficial one.”

You can’t help it. You start to laugh.

And yet—you agree.

A few days later, you’re pulling up outside KQ Entertainment in a sleek black car with tinted windows, heart pounding in your chest like you’ve just broken into a museum.

You’re wearing a plain black hoodie, black jeans, your hair tied back. Minimal makeup. No perfume. Lanyard around your neck that reads ‘Digital Projects Support – VISITOR’.

Yunho helped you put it together the night before. He even colour-coded your fake credentials.

“Keep your head down,” he said, handing it to you with a wink. “Walk like you’ve been here a hundred times.”

Now, seated in the back of the car, you fidget with the plastic badge as you watch trainees slip through the front doors.

Your phone vibrates.

Yunho

I’m waiting in the elevator bay. You’ve got this. You look hot and intimidating. Just like staff.

You snort.

You

If I get arrested for trespassing, I’m making you put it in the next album credits.

Yunho

Deal. Under “creative consultant and emotional support.”

You inhale deeply, then open the door and step into his world.

The lobby of KQ Entertainment is sleek and professional, all glass and metal and quiet efficiency. You keep your head down, lanyard swinging gently as you stride past the front desk like you’ve got a meeting in five minutes and no time for pleasantries.

Your heart is racing.

No one stops you. No one even looks twice.

You follow the path Yunho mapped out for you the night before—up the corridor, past the wall of trainee headshots, to the corner elevator bay where he said he’d be waiting.

And there he is.

Leaning against the wall in a plain black tee, mask around his chin, cap low over his eyes. Even dressed down like this, somehow he glows. Or maybe that’s just the way he looks at you when you approach.

Like no one else exists.

You step into the elevator beside him, and the second the doors slide closed, the air shifts. Without a word, you reach up and pull your hair tie out.

Your hair falls around your shoulders, loose and soft, and you feel the way his eyes linger. His hand finds yours and squeezes.

Then he leans in and presses a quick, secret kiss to your lips—nothing wild, nothing risky. Just a hello. A reminder. A you’re really here.

“Hi,” he murmurs, voice low and fond.

“Hi,” you whisper back, smiling despite yourself.

The elevator begins to rise. He doesn’t let go of your hand.

“You ready?” he asks.

You glance up at him, heart still fluttering, nerves twisting in your gut—but all of it drowned out by the warmth in his eyes.

You nod.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The elevator dings softly, and Yunho gives your hand one last squeeze before letting it go. You both step out into the quiet hallway, your sneakers making no sound against the polished floors.

He leads you a few doors down, stopping outside one of the meeting rooms.

“They’re just excited,” he murmurs, as if sensing your nerves. “But I promise—they already love you.”

You roll your eyes. “They haven’t even met me yet.”

He grins. “Doesn’t matter. You’re you.”

And before you can say another word, he pushes the door open.

Six pairs of eyes turn toward you immediately.

The room falls silent for half a second—until Wooyoung, sprawled in a chair with his feet on the table, lets out a low, theatrical whistle.

“There she isssss!”

You blink.

Then laugh—because of course he’s the first to say something.

He practically leaps from his seat, striding over like you’re old friends. “The legend herself,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “I can’t believe you’re real.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t know I was a cryptid.”

“Not a cryptid,” San chimes in from the corner. “A ghost. Of the girl Yunho wouldn’t stop sighing about for years.”

Yunho groans behind you. “I hate all of you.”

Seonghwa stands with a soft smile and offers a polite nod. “It’s very nice to finally meet you. You are… braver than I imagined.”

Yeosang snorts. “She’s willingly dating Yunho. That alone proves it.”

You glance back at Yunho, who’s flushed red, hiding a smile behind his hand.

Jongho gives you a small wave from the end of the table, his cheeks pink but his eyes kind. “Hi, no pressure, but we’ve heard a lot about you.”

Mingi leans forward, chin resting on his folded arms, blinking up at you. “Yunho ran down fourteen floors.”

“I know,” you say, smiling.

“We timed it,” Mingi adds solemnly. “San said if he had been just a second faster, he would’ve caught the elevator.”

“Tragic,” Wooyoung says. “Like a drama. Season one finale energy.”

The room breaks into easy laughter, and you feel it then—that click. That warmth. That sense that you’re not an outsider looking in, but someone being pulled gently into a world that’s been waiting for you to arrive.

Yunho slides up beside you and wraps an arm loosely around your waist, his thumb brushing your side.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. More than okay.

You’re barely seated before San slides a snack basket across the table toward you like it’s some sort of ceremonial offering.

“Take something,” he says. “It’s the only way we’ll know you’re not here to spy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Spy for who?”

Yeosang deadpans. “SM.”

Laughter erupts across the room. You pick a sweet potato snack from the basket, holding it up like a peace treaty.

“Okay,” you say, “but if I were a spy, you’ve just failed your first security test.”

Wooyoung points dramatically. “She’s perfect. I like her. Keep her.”

“She isn’t a lost puppy, Woo,” Yunho mutters beside you.

“Debatable,” Mingi says with a mouthful of choco pie. “You basically dragged her in here like a prize.”

You glance at Mingi and smile. “It’s nice to meet you, by the way.”

His grin stretches wide. “Nice to meet you, too. You’re very brave for putting up with this man.”

“You have to tell us everything about him before debut,” Wooyoung adds, already pulling out his phone like he’s taking notes. “Was he already a softie? Did he cry at rom-coms? Did he own body pillows?”

You glance at Yunho.

Yunho stares at you, warning in his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

Your lips twitch. “He once cried at the ending of a ramen commercial.”

San chokes.

“Hey!” Yunho protests, red to the ears.

“She looked like his halmeoni!” you defend with a laugh. “It was heartwarming!”

Everyone’s laughing now, even Jongho, who gives you a thumbs-up from across the table. “I like you.”

You point back. “I like you too, muscle man.”

That earns a rare bark of laughter from Seonghwa, who leans forward, expression softer now.

“Do you… plan to keep seeing each other?” he asks gently, eyes flicking between you and Yunho.

The question silences the table for a moment—not awkward, just heavier. Sincere.

Yunho’s fingers find yours beneath the table. He laces them together.

“If she’ll have me,” he says quietly.

You squeeze his hand.

“Always.”

A small smile tugs at Seonghwa’s lips. He nods once, approving.

Yeosang leans back in his chair with a low sigh. “Fine. I guess we can accept her.”

Wooyoung smirks. “Yeah, but only if she beats me at Mario Kart later.”

“She’ll crush you,” San says. “She has main character energy. I can tell.”

“I do not,” you protest.

“You walked in here with a fake lanyard like a movie scene,” Mingi adds. “Main character.”

“Yunho ran down a building for you,” Jongho offers. “Main character squared.”

You shake your head, cheeks hurting from smiling.

This—this strange, ridiculous, beautiful group of people—this family that Yunho chose, that now seems to be choosing you too… it feels surreal.

But it also feels right.

You’re still catching your breath from Wooyoung’s latest attempt at dramatically re-enacting Yunho’s fourteen-flight descent when the door opens behind you.

Hongjoong steps inside, a tablet tucked under one arm, looking every bit the leader—black turtleneck, silver chain, unreadable expression.

The chaos quiets immediately.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, nodding once toward the group. Then his gaze settles on you. “And you must be… the reason Yunho nearly broke both legs last month.”

The room breaks into laughter again—Wooyoung clapping loudly, Mingi practically wheezing.

You raise your hand, mock solemn. “Guilty as charged.”

Hongjoong crosses the room slowly, not unkind, just observant. Assessing. Not in a way that makes you feel small—but like he’s taking his time to really see you.

He offers you a hand. “Hongjoong. Welcome.”

You shake it. “Thank you.”

He glances briefly at Yunho, who’s still beside you, hand brushing yours beneath the table.

“You doing okay?” Hongjoong asks him, tone quiet but not private.

Yunho nods, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

Something flickers across Hongjoong’s expression then—relief, maybe. Or just acceptance.

He looks back at you. “You make him calm. That’s not easy to do.”

You blink at the sincerity in his voice.

“Is that… a compliment?” Yunho teases, nudging him lightly.

Hongjoong rolls his eyes but the smile breaks through. “It’s an observation. But yeah. It’s a compliment too.”

You smile, and suddenly it feels like a seal of approval’s been quietly stamped. Not flashy. Not loud. Just earned.

Hongjoong settles into a chair, glancing toward the snack pile. “Is that the last honey butter chip?”

Mingi instantly slides the bag toward him. “Take it, hyung. You’ve earned it.”

“You’re all ridiculous,” Hongjoong mutters, but his smile lingers.

And just like that, everything resumes—Wooyoung tossing a balled-up napkin across the table, San trying to teach you the “Say My Name” dance using chopsticks as props, Yeosang casually revealing embarrassing pre-debut facts about Yunho.

But every so often, you catch Hongjoong watching—just for a second. Not with suspicion. But with something close to quiet approval.

As if, maybe, you’ve already started to fit into this loud, loyal, utterly chaotic puzzle.

[thetidesthatturn]

i wasnt feeling well and was in need of a good angst with a good ending to maybe release some emotions and stuff and i have to say that YOU DELIVERED! i am literally SOBBING at 2am bc of how good it is and i wanna thank u bc now i feel better and also satisfied with how great it is! :D u wrote it so well!

AAAAA thank you sm!!!! This makes my heart so happy!! So glad you enjoyed it 🥹🤍🤍

If you like angst, I’m sure you’d love my ongoing series Tides of Gold 😌🫶🏻

[thetidesthatturn]

Against All Odds - Part One

Pairing: ex-boyfriend Yunho x freader

Warnings: use of Y/N, explicit sexual content (head freceiving, implied unprotected sex ig, biting) soft dom Yunho, heartbreak - list is not exhaustive, read at own risk

18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to represent any similarities to real events/people

Tag list: @idknunsadly

Part Two

Eight years prior

The sun is setting when he pulls up outside your house.

It’s golden in that soft, syrupy way you always loved—the kind of light that makes everything feel suspended. Like maybe time could hold its breath a little longer, just for the two of you.

But it doesn’t.

Yunho steps out of the car, hands stuffed in the pockets of his grey hoodie—your hoodie, technically. You let him keep it months ago, but now it feels like you should’ve asked for it back. Maybe that would’ve made this feel less final.

You’re already waiting by the mailbox, pretending to scroll through your phone, pretending you haven’t been crying on and off for the last hour.

He walks over. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands in front of you, tall and awkward in the way he gets when he’s hurting.

You look up at him, and your chest caves in.

“I got the call,” he says softly, eyes flickering to yours.

You nod. “I figured.”

“I leave in two days.”

You nod again. Too much and not enough all at once.

You both know what this means. You’ve known it for weeks—ever since the final audition round, ever since the scouts started talking contracts and relocation and “no distractions.”

You’re the distraction. The one thing he can’t take with him.

“Say it,” you whisper, even though it feels like dragging glass through your throat. “Say we’re breaking up.”

Yunho’s jaw clenches. “I don’t want to.”

“But we are.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Instead, he pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your shoulders like it’s the last time. You bury your face in his chest. It still smells like laundry powder and warmth. Like home.

“I’m so proud of you,” you choke out. “You’re going to be incredible.”

“I don’t want to let go,” he whispers into your hair.

“But you will.”

He swallows hard. “I’ll miss everything. You. Us.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are shining, and there’s a tremble in his bottom lip that makes your heart shatter all over again.

“Promise me something,” you say, voice shaking. “When you debut—when the world knows your name—don’t look back for me. Not if it’ll hurt. Just… go live your dream.”

A long silence passes between you.

Then, quietly, “But what if I already know the best part of it was you?”

You can’t breathe. Can’t speak. So instead, you kiss him—slow, sad, and final. And when it’s over, he presses your forehead to his, eyes closed, pain radiating off him in waves.

“I’ll never stop thinking about you,” he whispers.

And then he lets go.

Eight years later

You’re already halfway through your second coffee by the time the morning briefing starts.

The boardroom is too bright, the air conditioning too cold, and your inbox too full. But you sit tall in your chair, blazer buttoned, eyes sharp, nodding at the right times while your manager runs through the itinerary. This is what you’re good at now—keeping things professional. Efficient. Polished.

“Y/N,” your manager says, tapping the screen to bring up the slide with your name, “you’ll be heading up the client engagement for the LA sector. They’re hosting a launch event midweek, but you’ll need to be there two days earlier to prep the brand assets with the US team.”

You nod, pen already scratching notes into your planner.

“You’ll be staying at the Faye Grand downtown. They’ve got a long-standing corporate arrangement with the client.”

The Faye Grand. You recognise the name—it’s one of those bougie hotels influencers love to tag in their thirst traps. More luxury than you need, but it’s not your budget to argue with.

“When do I fly?”

“Monday morning. It’s all booked and confirmed. Your brief is already in the shared drive.”

You close your notebook. “Understood.”

By the time the meeting ends, you’ve got three follow-up emails and two Slack pings waiting for you. It’s just another day. Another trip. Another campaign. Except… you feel it this time. A shift in the air. The tiniest pull in your chest, like something old has stirred.

You brush it off.

Later that evening, you toss your suitcase onto the bed and unzip it, beginning the familiar routine of travel prep. Blouses rolled neatly, chargers coiled, toiletries double-checked. You work with the kind of practiced rhythm that comes from flying for business more than for fun. Your passport sits on your desk, a neat itinerary tucked beside it.

Once your packing is mostly done, you drop onto the edge of the bed and open your phone. TikTok launches before you even realise your thumb’s moved. You scroll through a few campaign hashtags first—#SustainWithUs is performing well. The eco-themed filters are getting traction, and the influencer you paid way too much for actually posted on time for once. That’s a win.

You scroll again. And again.

And then—

There it is.

A stage. Lights sweeping across a stadium. Screams loud even through the tinny speakers of your phone.

ATEEZ.

The caption reads: “Yunho in New York last night. THIS MAN IS UNREAL???”

It’s shaky, fan-filmed, zoomed in on his face as he laughs into the mic. Hair pushed back. Sweat glinting on his temple. His grin is wide and unfiltered. A happiness you haven’t seen in years.

Your finger hovers over the screen. You don’t press like. You just… watch.

It’s surreal, seeing him like this. Not in a grainy old photo, or your memories, or the quiet ache in your chest. But real. Here. Alive in the glow of something you always knew he was destined for.

You smile. But it hurts. Because the boy on your screen isn’t yours anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.

You lock your phone and place it screen-down on the nightstand.

The silence after feels louder than the screams ever were.

~

The weekend moves past in a blur.

There’s laundry to finish, final edits to send, and a dozen tiny errands that keep you moving from one end of the city to the other. You barely register the passage of time—just task after task, coffee after coffee, until Monday is staring you down.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, you make time for a few last-minute catchups. Lunch with Seoyeon at the new rooftop spot. Coffee with Eunji in the sun-soaked window of your favourite bakery. You’re trying to squeeze in little bits of normal before a week of business formal, time zones, and client-side niceties.

It’s Sunday when it happens. A late lunch with Junhee and two of her friends—people you’ve only met a handful of times. It’s easy conversation at first. Weekend plans. Skincare. The best place to get shoes repaired.

And then someone says, “Oh my god, did you see ATEEZ are in the States right now?”

You freeze for a second. Just a blink. Just enough to take a breath.

“Yeah,” another chimes in, flipping her phone around. “They’re doing a full U.S. leg again. My cousin saw them when they played Seoul last year—said it was insane.”

The screen flashes images of the group—eight members mid-performance, lights and fire and raw energy. You don’t look too closely.

Junhee leans in. “I swear the tall one—what’s his name? Yunho?—he doesn’t even look real.”

You sip your iced tea and give a noncommittal shrug. “Haven’t heard of them.”

A white lie. Polished and neutral.

Junhee doesn’t press. None of them do. And the conversation shifts just as quickly—back to someone’s new job, then to a disastrous Hinge date. You laugh where you should. Smile where it matters.

But inside, there’s a quiet throb you can’t quite shake. Because you have heard of them. Of course you have. You’ve watched every milestone from the shadows—saw the trainee showcase poster go viral, the debut announcement take over your timeline, the steady rise from underdogs to sold-out arenas.

And through it all, you said nothing.

Only a handful of people from school ever knew about you and Yunho. And none of them are in this café. So you keep the truth folded neatly in the corners of your memory. A story you don’t owe anyone.

After lunch, you walk home alone. The sky is overcast, your suitcase still waiting half-packed by the front door.

But something inside you stirs.

Like the past is waking up.

~

The flight is uneventful.

You sleep through most of it, half-curled against the window in a position your neck definitely won’t thank you for later. You wake up only for lukewarm food and weak coffee, then drift again, lulled by the hum of the engine and the vague nerves of what the next few days might hold.

By the time you land, the sun is bright and unrelenting, glaring off the terminal glass as you haul your suitcase into a waiting cab.

The driver doesn’t talk much. Just polite small talk, clipped and easy. Where you’re from, how long you’re in town, whether it’s your first time in LA. You answer with the same friendly detachment you always do, grateful for the silence that follows. You watch palm trees flash by the window like a slideshow, distant and unreal.

Eventually, the car pulls up in front of the Faye Grand.

It’s just as extravagant as the photos suggested—marble, gold trim, towering glass. You step out, thank the driver, and accept help with your bags. The concierge greets you with a rehearsed smile and hands over your keycard. Everything is smooth. Efficient. Normal.

You take the elevator to the 14th floor, wheel your suitcase into your room, and stop for a beat.

The room is sleek and quiet, full of muted neutrals and soft linens. You toss your bag to the side, peel off your travel clothes, and make a beeline for the shower. The water is hot, the pressure perfect, and for a few minutes, you just let yourself breathe.

When you step out, skin warm and towel wrapped tightly, everything feels slightly more manageable.

You check the time. Late afternoon. Your stomach growls—loudly.

You dress quickly in something casual. Not business-formal, not dinner-out fancy. Just… simple. Comfortable. You grab your bag and head for the elevator, checking your phone for any food spots nearby.

You’re still reading reviews when you hear footsteps and voices coming down the hallway.

You glance up briefly.

Eight men pass you in a cluster, chatting and laughing amongst themselves. Most of them wear caps or hoodies, faces half-obscured, but something about them tugs at your memory.

You frown.

You’ve seen them somewhere. Recently.

The elevator dings. You step inside, turn, and press the button for the ground floor.

That’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

Your name. Soft. Uncertain. But unmistakable. You look up from the panel of buttons, and there he is.

Standing just outside the elevator doors, chest rising slightly faster than before, eyes locked on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Yunho.

He looks different. Bigger somehow. Sharper jaw. Broader frame. But the expression—wide-eyed, disbelieving, full of something too raw to name—that’s exactly the same.

You freeze. The doors close between you. A breath. A split second. The elevator begins to descend.

And you’re left alone, heart thundering in your chest, Yunho’s voice still echoing in your ears.

~

Yunho doesn’t believe in fate.

Or at least, he didn’t—until about ten seconds ago.

The elevator dings just ahead of them as he walks with the others down the hall. He’s laughing at something San said, the familiar chaos of tour life buzzing around him—jokes, music, talk of food and sleep and what time they’re due at the arena the next day.

Then he sees you, and the world tilts.

He almost doesn’t recognise you at first. The years have changed you—refined, confident, graceful in a way he didn’t know how to expect. But your eyes… your eyes are the same.

And they meet his.

Time shatters.

He stops walking, the air caught in his lungs like it doesn’t know how to move anymore.

“Y/N?”

Your name comes out in a whisper, the softest prayer. He takes a step forward just as the elevator doors close between you. Gone. Just like that.

The hallway spins for a second, and it’s only Wooyoung’s hand clapping his shoulder that jolts him back.

“Hyung? What’s up with you? You look like you saw a ghost.”

San glances at him too, brows furrowed. “Who was that?”

Yunho swallows hard, eyes fixed on the silver elevator doors.

“Someone… very important to me.”

There’s a pause. Silence stretches around him. And then he moves. Without a word, Yunho spins on his heel and bolts down the hallway.

“Hyung?” Yeosang calls after him.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think. Just pushes open the stairwell door and takes the first step like it might save his life.

Behind him, Wooyoung’s voice echoes.

“Yah! We’re on the fourteenth floor! You gonna run all the way down those stairs?!”

Yunho doesn’t stop.

Because for the first time in years, something has cracked open in him—something he tried to bury with rehearsals and world tours and platinum plaques.

~

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. You step out like you’re in a daze.

There’s no way. No way that just happened.

You walk blindly through the marble lobby, past the velvet armchairs and sleek check-in desks, eyes unfocused. The glass doors ahead blur with your reflection.

Yunho. Not in a dream. Not through a screen. Here.

Your heart is still hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. What are the odds? What are the actual, statistical chances that you’d be put in the same hotel, in the same city, at the same time that your ex—your first love, now a world-famous idol—is staying?

You push through the glass doors and step outside, into the thick, hot air of a late LA afternoon. The sky is a soft haze of gold, traffic rumbling in the distance, but all of it feels muffled. Like you’re underwater. You stumble toward the edge of the sidewalk, gripping the cool metal railing just beyond the hotel’s front steps.

Deep breath. Another. Your lungs won’t listen. You press your hand against your chest.

This can’t be real.

You haven’t seen him in eight years. Eight years of silence. Of wondering where he was in the world. Of telling yourself not to look him up again. Of swiping past his name in headlines and playlists and fan posts because it hurt too much. And then he was there. Just outside that elevator. Saying your name like it still meant something.

You close your eyes, head tipped toward the sky, trying to breathe. Trying to slow the chaos rising in your chest.

You’re just beginning to steady yourself when the door behind you slams open. There’s a thud of rapid footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

“Y/N?”

You turn just in time to see him. Yunho, running toward you like his life depends on it.

He skids to a stop a few feet away, breath ragged, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his temple. He looks like he just sprinted a marathon. Hair slightly disheveled under his cap, expression wrecked and hopeful and completely, utterly undone.

He stares at you like you’re something holy.

“Is it really you?”

You don’t move. Because suddenly, the world feels very, very still.

“Yunho,” you breathe.

The name tastes like memory. Like the past crashing back into the present before you’re ready.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. Hesitates. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake up if he gets too close. But your face—your face gives you away.

The sharp inhale. The tremble in your lips. The way your eyes shimmer like you’ve just remembered what it feels like to be eighteen and in love with a boy who promised he’d never forget you. Emotion takes you by the throat. It surges up too fast to hide, and suddenly you’re unraveling, breath hitching, hands shaking at your sides.

He moves.

In a few long strides, Yunho is in front of you. And then—just like that—you’re in his arms. They wrap around you. Tight, warm, familiar. One slides up your back, the other curves around your shoulders, and you melt into him like you never left. Like no time has passed. Like this was always waiting.

Your face presses against his chest, right where it used to rest on quiet nights in his room, long before the world knew his name. His heartbeat thunders under your cheek. Too fast. Too real.

He exhales, voice soft against your hair. “How are you here?”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. You’re clinging to the fabric of his hoodie like if you let go, he’ll vanish all over again.

“I’m here on business,” you manage, your voice cracking at the edges. “Marketing campaign. I didn’t know—I didn’t know you were here.”

He laughs, but it’s a breath of disbelief more than humour. “Of all the hotels. All the cities…”

You pull back just enough to look up at him.

His eyes search yours like they’re memorising something precious.

“You look…” he starts, but trails off. “You look like you.”

“So do you.”

There’s silence. A thousand unsaid things hang between you. But neither of you moves.

“Where are you headed?” Yunho asks gently, like he’s trying not to shatter the fragile magic of the moment.

You wipe at the corners of your eyes and manage a quiet laugh. “I was just going to get some food… I’ve only been in the country for a few hours.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile but doesn’t want to assume too much. “Do you… Can I—”

He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. That nervous habit he always had when he wasn’t sure if he was overstepping.

You tilt your head, already softening. “Are you joking? Yeah. Of course.”

His brows lift. “Really?”

“Really. But can you even do that? I mean like, is it safe for you to just be walking around?”

Yunho’s grin finally breaks through. It’s shy, boyish, achingly familiar. He reaches up and pulls his hood—which had fallen down sometime during his dramatic descent—back over his cap. It casts a shadow across his face, disguising the unmistakable features you’ve seen on screens for years.

“If I’m careful,” he says, eyes twinkling, “yes.”

You shake your head, lips twitching. “You literally sprinted down here. That wasn’t careful.”

“It was worth it.”

That silences you for a beat. The weight of it. The way his voice drops just enough to make it feel real.

He steps back, gestures toward the street like a gentleman. “Lead the way?”

You nod, finally allowing your feet to move. And as the two of you fall into step, shoulders brushing, you wonder if the universe might still have a few stories left to write for the both of you.

You end up at a small, tucked-away restaurant a few blocks from the hotel. It’s nothing fancy—no reservations, no wine lists, no influencer bait lighting. Just good food and the kind of quiet that feels like a secret.

The smell hits you the moment you step inside—rich broth, slow-cooked pork, garlic and sesame and something warm that lives in your memory like home. There are only a few other tables occupied, and the woman who greets you—short, grey-haired, and wearing an apron printed with tiny cranes—smiles like she’s known you forever.

“Sit wherever you like,” she says, voice soft and warm.

You slide into a booth by the window, and Yunho sits across from you, pulling his hood down now that the coast is clear. His hair’s slightly damp from the run, his cheeks still a little flushed. It makes him look younger somehow.

The waitress hands you each a menu, but it’s almost a formality. You already know what you want.

When she returns to take your order, you both speak at once.

“Pork belly ramen,” you say.

“Pork belly ramen,” he echoes.

Your eyes meet over the menus, and you can’t help the little laugh that escapes.

“Some things don’t change,” you murmur.

He smiles. “Guess not.”

“I’ll bring two,” the woman says with a knowing look, scribbling it down. “And I’ll let this one pick the extras.”

Yunho’s face lights up. “Can we get kimchi mandu, takoyaki, and—oh, gyoza, please. Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” She winks at you before turning away.

The moment she disappears, your eyes flick to the table—and that’s when you notice it. Yunho’s phone, buzzing against the wood like it’s vibrating with urgency.

You glance at him, teasing. “Someone’s very popular.”

He sighs, flips it over. “I probably should’ve texted someone.”

Curious, you lean in slightly.

The screen is lit up with notifications. A missed call from Hongjoong. Two messages from Wooyoung. Three from San—one just says “DUDE” in all caps. Mingi’s sent a selfie of him and Jongho looking somewhere between impressed and concerned.

You raise your eyebrows. “Let me guess. You bolted and left them to figure it out?”

“I may have… exited without much context,” he admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blink. “You mean you actually ran away?”

“Down the fire escape.”

You stare.

“From the fourteenth floor.”

“Oh my god.” You burst into laughter, covering your mouth. “That is so dramatic.”

He grins, ducking his head. “I panicked!”

“They probably think you were kidnapped.”

“San did say he’d file a missing person report if I didn’t answer in the next ten minutes.”

Your laughter fades into something softer, warmer. Your gaze lingers on him for a second longer than it should.

You say it before you can stop yourself. “You didn’t have to run.”

He looks up.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I couldn’t just let the elevator doors close and pretend it didn’t happen.”

Something in your chest twists. And for a second, the air between you shifts. But before either of you can say anything more, the waitress returns with a tray full of food. She sets it down with the kind of care only someone who loves what they do can offer.

“Here you go,” she says, sliding your bowls in front of you. “Two pork belly ramen. Just like it’s meant to be.”

You both begin to eat.

There’s a peaceful rhythm to it—soft clinks of chopsticks, quiet sips of broth, the occasional hum of satisfaction as the flavours settle into your bones. It’s the kind of silence that feels safe. Not awkward. Not filled with pressure. Just… present.

You sneak a glance at him between bites.

He’s still Yunho.

Even after everything—the fame, the years, the distance—he holds his bowl the same way. Tilts his head when he chews like he’s thinking about something else. Like his mind is always a little too full.

You go for another bite of gyoza when he draws in a breath.

“I, uh—” he starts, then pauses, glancing down at his food. “I kept thinking about reaching out.”

Your chopsticks still for just a second. Your eyes lift to meet his. He doesn’t look up, he just stares into his ramen like it might hide him.

“But every time I remembered how painful it was to say goodbye to you,” he says softly, “I never ended up pressing send.”

You swallow—food, emotion, the sudden rush in your throat. It takes a second too long.

“I wanted to,” he continues, his voice gentler now. “So many times. Debut night. Our first win. When we did the world tour and stopped in Seoul again. Every time something big happened, you were the person I wanted to tell.”

You set your chopsticks down carefully.

“But I kept thinking… maybe it would hurt you. Maybe it would drag you back into something you didn’t ask for. So I convinced myself it was better to leave it alone.”

You’re quiet for a moment. The words sit between you like steam rising off the bowls. Not angry. Just honest. The kind of truth you didn’t expect to hear tonight.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, voice soft. “I thought about reaching out too.”

That makes him look up.

You offer a sad smile. “But I figured you were too far away. Not just in distance, but in… everything. You were living your dream. What right did I have to interrupt that?”

Yunho stares at you like he’s seeing something he lost a long time ago.

“I would’ve answered,” he says.

You nod. “And I would’ve read every word.”

Another silence. But this one feels warmer. Less fragile.

“I guess we were both trying to protect each other,” you whisper.

He exhales. “And still ended up hurting.”

You smile, barely. “Some things never change.”

He mirrors it. “Some things do.”

You shift in your seat, hands wrapping around the warm ceramic of your ramen bowl. “So… tell me. What’s it been like?”

Yunho tilts his head, smiling softly. “What, being in ATEEZ?”

You nod. “The world tours, the fans, the lights… all of it.”

He leans back slightly, arms folding over his chest as he considers the question. “It’s everything I dreamed of. And nothing like I imagined.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“It’s… amazing,” he says slowly. “And exhausting. We’re always moving. New countries, new stages, no sleep, no privacy. But then you’re onstage and thousands of people are screaming your name, singing every word of a song you helped create—and in that moment, it feels worth it. Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

You smile, genuinely. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

He looks up at you, eyes soft. “I wondered if you ever were.”

“Always.”

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable now. It’s full. Like there’s too much to say and not enough time.

He nods toward you. “What about you? What’s life been like for you all this time?”

You laugh under your breath. “Less glamorous. Lots of spreadsheets. I started as an intern, worked my way up, changed companies a few times. Eventually landed where I am now—marketing manager for a global brand.”

His eyes widen. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

“It’s stable,” you say, swirling your spoon in the broth. “Challenging. Some days I love it. Some days I think about quitting and opening a bookstore-slash-café in Busan.”

He grins. “That actually sounds perfect for you.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Don’t romanticise my mid-life crisis at twenty-five.”

“You always talked about that, though,” he says, voice quieter now. “Books. Writing. Something yours.”

You pause, surprised. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

“I remember everything.”

There’s a weight to those words. A depth you don’t know how to touch yet. So you change the subject before it swallows you both whole.

“Dating?” you ask lightly, raising your brows. “You been with anyone?”

He huffs a short laugh. “Nothing serious. It’s… complicated. You’re not exactly encouraged to settle down when the whole world’s watching. And even if you try to, it’s never really private.”

You nod slowly. “Makes sense.”

He watches you. “What about you?”

You shake your head. “No one worth mentioning.”

The truth is, no one ever fit the way he did. You stopped trying to force it after a while.

Neither of you says that part out loud.

Instead, you both return to your food for a moment, eating slowly, the silence between you warm with the weight of everything you’ve shared—and everything you haven’t yet.

~

The last of the ramen disappears between soft conversation and even softer silences. The gyoza’s long gone, the mandu barely touched. Neither of you were ever really here for the food.

You reach for your purse the moment the waitress begins to clear the table.

“I’ve got it,” you say casually, pulling out your card. “Company’s covering everything. Business trip perks.”

Yunho straightens in his seat. “Wait, no—let me.”

You shake your head. “Seriously, it’s fine. This is the one time I get to use corporate money for something enjoyable.”

“I want to,” he says, a little firmer this time.

You glance at him, brows raised.

“It’s not about who should pay,” he adds. “It’s about me wanting to do this. For you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can say another word, he’s already standing. Already handing his card to the waitress with a sheepish smile.

“I tried,” you mutter under your breath.

Yunho grins. “You’ll just have to owe me next time.”

Next time. Your heart stumbles over those words.

The waitress brings back the receipt, nodding at both of you with a knowing little smile. You thank her, bow slightly, and walk outside together.

The air has shifted since earlier—still warm, but cooler now, the sun long set. A balmy breeze drifts through the palm trees lining the quiet street. The city hums around you, alive but not overwhelming. It’s one of those rare moments of peace that only seem to exist when you’re walking slowly through a place that doesn’t know your name.

Yunho slips his hood back over his cap, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie. You fall into step beside him.

For a few quiet blocks, you don’t say much. The world feels quieter at night. Softer. It lets you listen to things like the rhythm of his footsteps, the swish of your coat, the steady sound of your breathing slowly falling in sync again.

“How long are you in town?” he asks eventually, voice low.

“Just the week,” you reply. “Unless they extend the campaign.”

He nods, eyes still on the sidewalk ahead. “Do you think… we’ll see each other again while you’re here?”

You glance over at him.

He’s still walking, but there’s something in his posture that’s changed—just slightly. Like he’s bracing himself for the answer.

You stop. So does he.

You turn to face him, a smile tugging at your lips. “I hope so.”

Relief flickers across his features like light.

“Me too,” he says.

You’re standing just outside the hotel now, lobby lights glowing behind the glass. Neither of you moves to go in. Not yet.

Because now that the space between you has closed, it’s so much harder to open it again.

“Will you let me walk you to your room?” he asks, sheepishly, as if he’s not sure it’s still allowed after all this time.

You nod. “Of course.”

The elevator ride up is silent, but not empty. It crackles with something neither of you dare name. You stand side by side, not touching, but you swear you can feel the heat of him just inches away. The floor numbers blink upward in slow, steady increments, far too loud in the hush between you.

Neither of you look at the other.

When the doors slide open, you step into the hallway and lead the way, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. You stop in front of your room, hand dipping into your bag for the key card.

“This is me,” you say softly, turning back to him.

He offers you a smile—gentle, honest. “Thanks for letting me tag along. It was… really nice. Seeing you again. After all this time.”

You smile back, but it’s the kind of smile that trembles just slightly around the edges. Like part of you is already mourning the moment ending.

You both linger.

The hallway is quiet. The kind of quiet where you can hear your own heart in your ears. You glance down at your hand on the key card. Then up at him.

And before you can stop yourself—before you can second guess it—you say it.

“Did you… want to come in?”

His eyes widen, just slightly. You see the surprise flash across his face, but it softens almost immediately.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low.

You nod once. “Yeah. I am.”

He doesn’t move right away. But then he takes a breath and steps forward.

You swipe the key card, the lock clicks open, and you push the door wide to let him in.

The room is dim and quiet, lit only by the soft ambient glow from the city outside. Your suitcase is still half-open near the closet. The bed is made. Everything feels untouched, suspended. Like time’s been waiting for you to come back to it.

You close the door behind you, and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Yunho stands by the window, looking out over the skyline, hands still buried in the front pocket of his hoodie. His silhouette outlined by city lights.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what this is. What it’s about to become.

So you sit down at the edge of the bed, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “Kind of weird, huh?” you murmur.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. A little.”

The silence stretches again. Not heavy. Just uncertain. Two people tiptoeing through the ghost of something that was once everything.

“I’ve missed you,” he says suddenly.

Your eyes lift to him.

He’s still facing the window, but you can see the tension in his shoulders. Like saying it out loud cost him something. Like the truth has been sitting in his chest for too long, and now it’s clawed its way free.

He turns to face you.

“I used to think about this all the time,” he says. “What I’d say to you, if I saw you again. How it would feel. But now that you’re here, I… I still can’t believe it. You’re actually here.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I never really left.”

The air shifts.

It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Just a breath, a pull, the gravity of something real.

He steps closer, slow, cautious, gaze locked on yours. And then he leans down, lips brushing against yours in a kiss so hesitant, so unsure, it feels like a question.

You kiss him back.

But he pulls away too quickly, eyes searching yours, already apologising. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

You reach up and grab the front of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

You pull him back in.

And this time, when your lips meet, it’s no longer a question. It’s an answer.

He kisses you like he remembers. Like he’s been carrying the echo of your mouth in his memory all this time. His hands find your waist, tentative but desperate, holding you like you might vanish if he lets go.

And you let yourself fall into him—slowly, quietly, completely.

His mouth moves against yours with growing urgency, each kiss a little deeper, a little more desperate. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, like he can’t stand the idea of even an inch between you.

You shift, rising up slightly on your knees to meet him, and your fingers reach up, brushing the edge of his hood. He stills for a second—not stopping you, but waiting.

You slide the hood back gently.

Then your hands lift to the brim of his cap, and with careful fingers, you remove it, setting it aside on the bed. His hair is slightly tousled from the chase, soft and warm beneath your palms.

You run your hands through it—slowly, deliberately—letting your fingers glide from the crown to the nape of his neck.

He shudders.

A full-body kind of shiver, like your touch short-circuits something in him.

His grip on you tightens instantly, one arm wrapping fully around your back, the other sliding up to cradle your jaw as the kiss deepens. His tongue grazes yours, slow and intentional, coaxing, remembering. And you gasp against his mouth, your hands gripping tighter in his hair, anchoring him to you.

The sound makes him groan—low and muffled—like he’s been starving for this and didn’t realise just how badly.

You fall back together, your bodies angling closer. It’s all heavy breathing and hands grasping, fingers digging into fabric and flesh, trying to relearn what used to be instinct.

His hand finds the curve of your waist, your hip, then slides up, tracing the shape of you like a map he used to know by heart.

“God,” he breathes against your lips, voice raw, “you feel exactly the same.”

You kiss him again, harder this time, like it’s the only answer you have. And maybe it is. Because there are no more words in this moment. No room for the past, or the years lost, or the what-ifs.

Just this.

The press of his body against yours. The heat blooming between you, slow and steady and unstoppable.

His lips leave yours only to trail across your cheek, down your jaw, breath hot against your skin. His hand cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious, even as the rest of him presses into you with growing urgency.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs, voice low and rough at the edges.

You shake your head, breath hitching. “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes. Something in him shifts.

The soft edges melt away, replaced by something deeper—hungrier. His hand tightens on your waist, and he pushes you gently backward onto the mattress.

He hovers above you, gaze locked to yours, jaw clenched as though barely holding back. And then he leans down and kisses you again—harder this time. His body settles between your legs, one arm braced beside your head, the other dragging slowly down your side.

When he pulls away to look at you, his pupils are blown wide, his chest rising in uneven waves.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, the words pulled straight from his gut.

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, and he helps you tug it off, revealing the sculpted lines of his torso beneath. He’s stronger now. Broader. Every inch of him matured and carved with years of discipline and devotion. But the way he looks at you—that’s the same. Like you’re the centre of his world.

You drag your fingertips down his chest, slow and reverent.

That’s all it takes.

He growls—actually growls—and leans back in, catching your lips with his again. His hands are everywhere now—under your shirt, skimming your ribs, thumbs brushing your skin like he’s trying to memorise every inch. But it’s not frantic. It’s focused. Intentional. Controlled chaos.

You tug his mouth back to yours just as he moves to speak again. “Yunho—”

He cuts you off with a kiss so deep it leaves you breathless.

“No more talking,” he mutters, voice low and firm. “You’ve said enough. I’ve waited long enough.”

His hands glide up your sides, slow and reverent, pushing your shirt higher until you lift your arms and let him pull it over your head. Now there’s nothing separating skin from skin except breath and tension.

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember.” He whispers, more to himself than to you,

Your fingers skim across his stomach, feeling the tight lines of muscle, the way his breath catches at your touch. You let your palms roam upward, brushing his chest, his collarbones, threading into the soft hair at the back of his neck.

His tongue slides against yours with practiced control, like he’s savouring you, coaxing you open inch by inch. His hand cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until your hips shift beneath him. He’s not moving fast. He’s measuring you—finding the exact pressure that makes you gasp, the precise rhythm that makes you arch.

When he breaks the kiss, his lips trail down your neck, then across your chest, tongue flicking teasingly over your skin. “Still so responsive,” he murmurs, lips brushing your sternum. “You always were.”

“Yunho,” you breathe, voice trembling.

He hums against your skin. “Say it again.”

“Yunho.”

That does something to him.

His teeth graze lightly, then he kisses the spot he bit, soothing it. One hand slips beneath the waistband of your pants, testing the waters. You give him all the permission he needs with the soft gasp that escapes your lips.

Your remaining clothes fall away, slow but desperate. Each layer revealing more heat, more skin, more need. When you’re finally bare beneath him, his eyes drag down the length of you like he’s memorising a painting that belongs only to him.

He kneels back between your legs, fingers pressing into your thighs to open you wider. His mouth parts slightly as he exhales. “You’re perfect.”

Then he leans down, and his mouth replaces his fingers. You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, one hand flying to his hair, gripping.

He moans into you, like the taste of you ruins him. And then he devours you.

There’s nothing tentative now. He’s steady, confident, relentless in the way his tongue flicks and circles and drags, like he’s determined to wring every sound out of you, to make up for all the years he couldn’t touch you. His arms lock around your thighs to keep you exactly where he wants you, his grip possessive, dominant.

“Yunho—” your voice breaks, “please—”

He pulls back, lips slick, breath ragged. “Tell me what you need.”

“You.”

He climbs back up over you, settles between your legs, and presses his forehead to yours.

“Look at me.”

You do.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and your breath catches in your throat at the way he fills you—completely. His eyes never leave yours, and for a moment, it’s just you and him, two bodies finally finding their way back to the same rhythm.

He moves inside you with devastating rhythm, slow at first, then building—every thrust deeper, every breath heavier. His hands are gripping your hips now, grounding you to the mattress, and all you can do is hold on.

The feeling is overwhelming—his weight, his warmth, the stretch, the pressure. Your body arches beneath him, your voice caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea. Your hands slide up his back, desperate to anchor yourself to something.

And then it gets too much.

The eye contact. The intensity. The way he’s staring down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense. You try to turn your head, to bury your face in his chest—to hide, to catch your breath.

But he’s faster.

His hand catches your jaw, firm but careful, and suddenly your face is cradled between his palms.

“I told you to look at me,” he growls, breath hot against your lips. “Eyes on me.”

The command makes your breath catch, your core clench around him, and he feels it.

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. “Yeah. That’s it.”

He rocks into you again, deep and hard, and this time you don’t look away. You can’t. His gaze holds you there—utterly, completely—while your body falls apart beneath him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks like contrast to the force of his thrusts, and everything about him feels like fire and worship all at once.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice rough, eyes locked to yours. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp.

He kisses you then, hard and claiming, and you don’t look away again.

He purrs against your neck, voice low and guttural. “You feel so fucking good. I forgot—I forgot what this was like. How good you are. How good you sound.”

You can’t speak. You just cling to him, body arching, breaths stuttering, eyes wet with everything this moment means.

And he takes you there—again and again—until you forget the years, forget the silence, forget everything but the feeling of him inside you, around you, with you.

Until all that’s left is heat, skin, and the sound of your name on his lips like it still belongs there.

The air is thick with shared breath and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Yunho stills inside you, his chest heaving, forehead resting gently against yours. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Your bodies are tangled, slick with sweat, your fingers still curled into his back like you’re afraid he’ll slip away again.

But he doesn’t move, he just holds you.

And then, with the gentlest sigh, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one just beneath your eye, like he’s apologising for everything he missed.

He eases out of you carefully, and the emptiness makes you whimper before you can stop yourself. He hushes you, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

His voice is different now—softer, quieter. Like the storm inside him has passed, and now all that’s left is the boy you knew, cradling you in the afterglow with trembling hands.

You roll toward him instinctively, letting your body melt into his. He opens his arms and pulls you close, wrapping you up like something breakable. You bury your face in his bare chest, your breath syncing to his.

For a moment, neither of you say anything.

Then he speaks, voice barely a whisper.

“I didn’t mean to be so… intense,” he says, suddenly sheepish. “I just—I’ve wanted that for so long. You. Like that. And I guess something in me snapped the second you said yes.”

You smile against his skin. “You think I didn’t want that too?”

He laughs softly, the sound warm and disbelieving. His hand traces slow, soothing circles on your back. “I didn’t expect you to still feel that way about me.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His cheeks are pink now, his gaze shy despite everything he just did to you.

“I never stopped feeling that way,” you whisper.

His eyes soften.

He leans down, kisses your nose. Then your lips—slow and sweet and far too tender for someone who had you trembling minutes ago.

He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucking it gently around your shoulders before gathering you into his chest again, your legs tangled, his thumb brushing lazily against your arm.

“Stay,” you whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Not this time.”

And in the quiet that follows, for the first time in years, you both sleep easy.