When a life-threatening virus pushes a powerless Jay and a trauma-triggered Y/N to their emotional breaking points, it is Jake's brilliant intellect and unwavering devotion that ultimately saves their daughter's life and holds their family together.
Drabble #2: The Ultimate Firewall (Luna is 3 years old in this)
Pairings: Jay x fem!reader x Jake
Wordcount: 4,000
Warnings: Severe Child Illness/Medical Emergency, Trauma & Emotional Distress, Explicit mentions of parents dying from a drug overdose, Mentions of ventilators, high fevers, intensive medical intervention, Jay and Yn argues, jay is just a soft baby.
A/N:This was a Drabble request from @love4choso , I loved writing this Drabble! It was nice for me to explore more in this kind of tense setting and writing Jay more transparent and Jake the one to hold the family together. Thank you again so much luv for this request! I hope I wrote it well!🥰🫶🏽🍒
Rust & Gold
The penthouse at the top of the Spire was designed to be untouchable. It was a fortress of smart-glass, reinforced titanium, and biometric security that could withstand a localized war. The air was scrubbed by triple-HEPA molecular filters, ensuring that the pollution, the grit, and the despair of the lower sectors never touched the lungs of its inhabitants. It was a monument to absolute, unyielding control.
But a fortress is only as strong as its smallest breach.
It started with a cough. A small, dry sound that barely registered over the hum of the climate control. Within twelve hours, Luna was burning. Her temperature had spiked to a terrifying 104 degrees. Her breathing became shallow and ragged, a wet, rattling sound that filled the massive, sterile room and sucked the oxygen from the air.
They had brought the hospital to the penthouse. Dr. Vance had arrived with a team of six specialists, three diagnostic androids, and a portable synthetic-blood filtration unit. The room was blindingly white, filled with the terrifying, rhythmic hiss-click of a pediatric ventilator and the chaotic flashing of holographic telemetry screens.
And it wasn’t working.
You stood in the corner of the room, your back pressed so hard against the cold slate wall that the chill seeped deep into your bones. You were shivering, your arms wrapped tightly around your own waist, your fingernails digging into your sides.
You were looking at the massive, specialized medical bed, but you weren't seeing the multi-million-credit array hovering over your three-year-old daughter.
You were seeing a stained linoleum floor in Sector 7.
You were smelling the sharp, chemical tang of cooked synthetic narcotics.
It found me, you thought, a hysterical, paralyzing dread wrapping around your throat like a vice. I climbed to the top of the world. I dressed in silk. I ate off porcelain. But the 7th Sector always finds its way back.
Death didn't care about your bank account. It was the Great Equalizer. It had slipped past the orbital defense grid, bypassed the billionaire's security, and settled right into your daughter’s chest.
"I need a genome sequence, Vance! Now!"
The roar shook the sterile room.
Jay was pacing at the foot of the bed. He looked feral. The Warlord of Sector 1, a man who dismantled corporate empires before breakfast, was unraveling in real-time. He was wearing the same suit trousers from yesterday, his dress shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned, his dark hair wild.
"Sir, we have sequenced it," Dr. Vance said, his voice trembling slightly. The doctor routinely operated on the most powerful people in the world, but facing a terrified Jay Park was a different level of occupational hazard. "It’s a highly adaptive mutated pathogen. Every time we introduce a synthetic antibody, the virus alters its protein shell. It’s actively fighting the cure."
"Then build a better antibody!" Jay snarled, closing the distance between them. He grabbed the lapels of Dr. Vance’s pristine white coat, hauling the older man onto his toes. "I don't care what it costs! Buy out the entire pharmacology division! Put every supercomputer we own on the synthesis algorithms! Fix her!"
"Jay, let him go."
The voice cut through the room, steady and unyielding.
Jake was sitting in a chair by the window. He hadn't slept either. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his digitop open on his knees. He was tapped directly into the medical array’s raw data feed, his eyes tracking lines of code faster than humanly possible.
Jay threw Vance back. The doctor stumbled, smoothing his coat with shaking hands.
"Get out," Jay barked at the medical team, pointing a shaking finger at the door. "Get out of my wing and don't come back until you have a synthesized cure that actually works.Go!"
The doctors scrambled, eager to escape the immediate blast radius of Jay’s wrath. The heavy doors hissed shut behind them, leaving the three of you alone with the terrifying, mechanical breathing of your daughter.
Jay turned on his heel. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the roots tight enough to tear them out. He looked at the medical readouts—the flashing red numbers that meant nothing but failure.
"They're incompetent," Jay hissed, pacing again, his chest heaving. "I pay them billions of credits, and they're completely incompetent."
"They're doing everything they can," you whispered. Your voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from a ghost.
Jay stopped pacing. He snapped his head toward you, his eyes blazing with a frantic, cornered energy.
"Everything they can isn't enough!" Jay shouted, his voice cracking. "She's dying, Y/N! My daughter is lying there, and they're telling me to wait!"
"Don't yell at me!" you snapped. The paralysis suddenly broke, replaced by a violent, defensive surge of adrenaline. You pushed off the wall, your hands balling into fists. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I can't see her fading?"
"Then act like it!" Jay roared, throwing his hands up in a gesture of absolute desperation. "You're just standing there! You look like you've already given up! You look like you're waiting for her to stop breathing!"
"Because I know what this is!" you screamed back, tears finally spilling hot and fast down your cheeks. "You think you can just buy a cure? You think you can bully biology? This isn't a hostile takeover, Jay! You can't threaten a virus into submission!"
"I can buy the best minds on the planet!" Jay stepped toward you, his massive frame imposing, his fear masking itself completely as rage. It was the only way he knew how to cope with powerlessness. "I am Jay Park! I own this sector! I will not let some microscopic piece of trash take my daughter from me!"
"It doesn't care who you are!" you cried, your voice breaking into a sob. You hit him in the chest, a weak, desperate shove. "It doesn't care about your money! This is what happens, Jay. This is the real world. You can't outrun it!"
You pointed a shaking finger at the bed. "I have seen that look before! I have seen the color drain out of someone's skin until they're just a shell! People I knew died, Jay. They died because of a bad batch of 'Neon-Dust' or from eating things not considered edible because they had nothing! I watched the sickness stop their hearts, and no amount of screaming brought them back!"
You were hyperventilating now, the trauma of your past bleeding seamlessly into the terror of the present.
"I couldn't save them then, and we can't save her now!" you wailed, the fatalism of Sector 7 dragging you under. "We're cursed. I brought the rot of the lower sectors up here with me, and now it's taking my baby!"
"Don't you dare say that!" Jay grabbed your wrists, his grip tight, his face twisted in a terrifying mix of agony and fury. "Don't you put this on some superstitious lower-sector bullshit! My money built this fortress! We are going to fix this. I am going to fix this!"
"You can't!" you sobbed, struggling against his grip, collapsing against his chest as your legs gave out. "You can't control everything! For once in your life, Jay, admit that you are completely powerless!"
"ENOUGH!"
The word cracked like a gunshot.
You both froze.
Jake stood up from his chair. He slammed his digitop shut. The sound was deafening in the tense, sterile room.
Jake Sim was the wildcard of the family. He was the chaotic energy, the brat, the golden retriever, the one who made inappropriate jokes at wrong times and pushed boundaries just to see what would break. But right now, standing at the foot of the bed, his face was carved from stone. There was no humor in his brown eyes. There was an absolute, terrifying clarity.
He walked over to where Jay was holding your wrists.
Jake reached out and shoved Jay backward. It was a hard, two-handed push to the center of Jay's chest that sent the Warlord stumbling back a step.
"Get off her," Jake ordered, his voice dangerously low.
Jay’s eyes flared, his chest puffing out. "Jake, stay out of this—"
"No, you stay out of it!" Jake stepped directly into Jay’s space, not intimidated in the slightest by Jay’s size or his rage. "Look at yourselves! Luna is lying there fighting for her life, and you two are screaming at each other over her bed like feral animals!"
"Jake, I am trying to save her—" Jay started, his voice thick with unshed tears.
"You're throwing a tantrum because your money isn't working for the first time in your life!" Jake cut him off ruthlessly. "And you," Jake turned to you, his eyes softening slightly, but his tone remaining firm. "You're spiraling into the past. You're letting your trauma drown you. Your parents' overdose was a tragedy, people you knew known diseases, but this is a virus in our daughter. You are living in a flashback when your daughter needs you here, in the present."
You let out a broken sob, covering your face with your hands, the truth of his words cutting through the panic.
"I'm terrified," Jay whispered. The anger suddenly drained out of him, leaving only the raw, bleeding truth of a terrified father. He looked at the polished floor, his shoulders slumping. "Jake, I don't know what to do."
"I know," Jake said, his voice dropping to a gentler, steadying cadence. He put a hand on Jay’s shoulder, squeezing firmly. "I know you are. We all are."
Jake looked between the two of you. The broken King and the traumatized Queen.
"But this room?" Jake gestured around them, his eyes sweeping over the flashing monitors. "This energy is toxic. She can feel it. Even in a fever dream, she knows her parents are falling apart. You're making the environment worse."
Jake pointed toward the heavy glass doors that led to the medical wing’s private terrace.
"Get out," Jake commanded.
"What?" Jay snapped his head up, panic flaring again. "I'm not leaving my daughter."
"You are no use to her right now," Jake said firmly, standing his ground. "You're a live wire, Jay. And Y/N, you look like you're going to pass out. Go out to the terrace. Breathe the freezing air. Scream at the sky. Cry. Figure your shit out together. I will watch the telemetry. I am actively writing a patch for the oxygen saturator because Vance's team missed a micro-fluctuation in her breathing rhythm."
You looked at the bed. Luna looked so small under the massive canopy of medical equipment.
"Jake..." you whispered, terrified to step away.
"I've got her," Jake promised. He stepped forward and pulled you into a quick, fiercely tight hug. "I am not going to let anything happen. I am the system admin here. Now go. Both of you. Come back when you can be parents, not victims."
Jay looked at Jake. He saw the unwavering resolve, the sharp, clever intellect operating at maximum capacity. The Warlord nodded once—a slow, jerky motion of submission. He reached out, grabbed your trembling hand, and pulled you toward the terrace doors.
The glass slid shut behind you, sealing the noise of the city out, and sealing Jake in.
Jake exhaled a long, shaky breath the moment the doors clicked shut.
His stoic facade cracked immediately. His hands began to tremble so violently he had to clench them into fists. He walked over to the bed and sank to his knees beside it.
He looked at the holographic displays hovering above Luna.
Heart rate: 142 bpm.
Core Temp: 104.5°F.
Oxygen saturation: 88%.
Jake was a genius. He understood the code of the universe better than anyone in Sector 1. He understood algorithms, predictive modeling, and system architecture. But looking at the biological data of his daughter, he felt a profound, horrifying ignorance.
Death.
It was the ultimate firewall. The one system he couldn't hack. The elite of Sector 1 spent trillions trying to delay it—uploading consciousnesses, replacing organs with cybernetics, taking anti-aging serums—but eventually, the code always degraded. The system always crashed. Death came for the Warlords just as surely as it came for the junkies in Sector 7.
And now, it was trying to crash the most precious piece of hardware in his life.
Jake reached through the opening in the environmental tent covering the top half of the bed. He took Luna’s tiny, burning hand in his. Her skin was dry and paper-thin, radiating a terrifying heat.
"Hey, Moonbug," Jake whispered, his voice catching in his throat.
Luna shifted. Her eyelashes, dark and long like Jay’s, fluttered against her flushed cheeks. She let out a small, whimpering sound, turning her head toward his voice.
Her eyes opened halfway. They were glassy, unfocused from the searing fever.
"Papa Jake?" she rasped. Her voice was barely a squeak, wrecked by the coughing.
"Yeah, baby," Jake smiled. He forced the tears back with sheer willpower, forcing his face to be a mask of utter safety, warmth, and calm. "I'm right here. Papa's holding your hand."
"Hot," Luna mumbled, her brow furrowing in confusion and pain. "Inside is hot."
"I know, sweetie," Jake reached up with his free hand, gently stroking her hair, pushing the damp strands away from her forehead. "Your internal servers are just running a little hot right now. It means the system is working."
Luna blinked slowly. She was used to Jake’s tech metaphors; he had used them to explain the world to her since she could talk.
"Virus?" she asked softly.
"Yeah," Jake nodded, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on her knuckles. "A bad line of code got into your system. But Dr. Vance gave you a really strong antivirus program. It's fighting the bad code right now. That's why you feel so hot. Your firewall is working overtime."
Luna squeezed his finger. Her grip was terrifyingly weak.
"Papa Jake?"
"Yes, my love?"
"Am I going to sleep?" she asked.
But the way she said sleep carried a weight that made Jake’s heart stop cold in his chest. Children understood more than adults gave them credit for. She felt the gravity pulling at her. She felt the weakness in her own bones.
Jake swallowed the lump of pure terror in his throat. He leaned closer, resting his forehead against the plastic edge of the tent so he was perfectly eye-level with her.
"You're going to sleep," Jake said steadily. "But just a normal sleep. A reboot."
"What if... what if I go away?" Luna whispered, a single tear leaking from the corner of her eye, cutting a path through the fever-sweat. "Like the stars when the sun comes up?"
Jake’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes for a microsecond, gathering every ounce of strength he possessed. He couldn't be chaotic Jake right now. He had to be the anchor. He had to be the cleverest man in the room.
"You're not a star that fades, Luna," Jake whispered, opening his eyes and looking directly into hers with fierce intensity. "You're the whole sky. You hold the stars."
He kissed her knuckles.
"Do you know how much we love you?" Jake asked.
Luna nodded a tiny fraction of an inch.
"Your Dada Jay," Jake pointed toward the terrace doors. "He loves you so much he's trying to buy the moon right now just to make you a nightlight. He's scared because he can't fight this virus with his fists. But he's standing guard out there. He's making sure nothing else gets in."
He stroked her cheek.
"And your Mama," Jake continued, his voice thick with emotion. "She loves you so fiercely. She's scared because she knows how fragile things can be. She wants to protect you from everything bad in the world."
"And you?" Luna asked, her eyes drooping as exhaustion pulled at her again.
"Me?" Jake smiled—a genuine, heartbreakingly tender smile. "I'm just the guy who makes sure the network works. I'm the guy who keeps the connection strong. And my connection to you? It has infinite bandwidth, Moonbug. It doesn't drop. It doesn't buffer. You can't go anywhere I won't find you. You hear me? Even if you tried to log off, I'd hack the mainframe and drag you right back."
A tiny, ghost of a smile touched Luna’s chapped lips.
"Hack the mainframe," she mumbled, the familiarity of the phrase comforting her.
"Exactly," Jake whispered. "So you don't need to be scared. The system is fighting. I'm watching the code. You just close your eyes and let the antivirus do its job. I'm right here. I'm not letting go."
"Okay, Papa," Luna sighed.
Her eyes fluttered shut. Her breathing remained ragged, but the panic that had been tensing her small body seemed to ease. She sank deeper into the mattress, finding a fraction of peace in his presence.
Jake sat there on the floor. He didn't move. He kept his eyes locked on the holographic readout.
With his free hand, he pulled his digitop back onto his knees. He began to type one-handed, rewriting the oxygen delivery algorithm to match the micro-stutters in her lungs—a detail the androids had missed.
He prayed to the code of the universe. He prayed to the cold, glittering stars outside the window.
Take me, Jake thought, a rogue tear finally spilling over his lashes, dripping onto the sterile white sheets. Take my heart. Take my brain. Take my life. Just leave her.
Out on the terrace, the wind was freezing, cutting through your silk nightgown and Jay's unbuttoned shirt.
You stood by the glass railing, looking down at the sky of Sector 1. Miles below that, shrouded in an eternal layer of smog, were the lower sectors.
Jay stood ten feet away. He had his hands braced on the railing, his head bowed, his broad shoulders shaking.
You watched him.
The Warlord. The man who had slaughtered board members, manipulated economies, and built an empire of blood and steel. He was completely, utterly broken.
The freezing air hit your face, snapping you out of the trauma-loop that had been suffocating you. Jake's words echoed in your mind. Your parents' overdose was a tragedy, but this is a virus. You are living in a flashback.
Jake was right.
You had let the ghost of your mother and father, the ghost of that neon-lit, drug-riddled apartment in Sector 7, convince you that you were doomed. The smell of the medical equipment had triggered a sensory memory so powerful it had blinded you.
But you weren't a young girl watching her parents fade away in dirty apartment anymore. You had options. You had a family.
You walked over to Jay.
You didn't say anything. You just wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his broad, trembling back.
Jay let out a choked sob. He turned around and pulled you into his chest, burying his face in your hair. He crushed you against him, holding on like you were the edge of a cliff.
"I can't lose her," Jay wept. The sound of his crying was terrible—a deep, chest-tearing sound that he had never made before. "Y/N, I can't. If she dies... I have nothing. All of this wealth, all of this power... it means absolutely nothing."
"I know," you whispered, holding him back just as fiercely, your own tears soaking his shirt. "I know, Jay."
"I was so angry," Jay confessed, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "I was screaming at you because I couldn't scream at the virus. I felt so utterly useless. I have all the power in the world, and I can't protect my own baby."
"You did protect her," you pulled back slightly to look at his face. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet with tears. "You got Dr. Vance here in ten minutes. You bought the equipment. You gave her a fighting chance. If we were in Sector 7, she would have been gone yesterday, Jay. You gave her the weapons to fight."
Jay looked at you, searching your eyes for forgiveness.
"I'm sorry I yelled," you whispered, reaching up to wipe his tears with your thumb. "I was terrified. I saw her lying there, and all I could see was my parents. I saw the empty vials of Neon-Dust on the floor. I felt like the universe was punishing me for leaving them behind. I felt like the lower sectors had reached up to drag me back down."
"It's not a punishment," Jay said, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "It's just life. And Jake is right. Death is the great equalizer. It doesn't care about our money."
"Jake," you let out a wet, watery laugh. "He really stepped up, didn't he?"
"He saved us," Jay admitted, a profound, humbling gratitude softening his rigid features. "He stopped us from tearing each other apart. He's the smartest man I know."
Jay leaned his forehead against yours. The cold wind whipped around you, but the warmth between you had returned.
"We go back in there," Jay promised, his voice steadying, the panic replaced by a grim, unified resolve. "We don't yell. We don't throw money at the doctors. We sit with her. And whatever happens... we face it together."
"Together," you agreed.
When you and Jay walked back through the glass doors, the medical wing was quiet. The harsh overhead lights had been dimmed to a soft, ambient blue.
Jake was still sitting on the floor by the bed. His head was resting on his arm, which was draped over the mattress. He had fallen asleep, his breathing slow and even, his digiptop resting closed beside him.
But his hand was still firmly holding Luna’s.
You walked over quietly, Jay right behind you.
You looked at the holographic readout above the bed.
Heart rate: 98 bpm.
Core Temp: 99.5°F.
Oxygen saturation: 99%.
The flashing red numbers were gone. They had been replaced by a calming, steady green.
You gasped, your hand flying to your mouth.
Jay let out a long, shuddering breath, his knees actually buckling slightly. He had to grab the edge of the medical bed to steady himself.
Dr. Vance stepped quietly out of the adjoining sterilization room, a datapad in his hand. He looked exhausted, bags under his eyes, but a genuine smile touched his lips.
"The fever broke twenty minutes ago," Dr. Vance whispered, walking over to you. "The fourth synthetic antibody iteration... it worked. The virus’s protein shell collapsed. Her immune system is sweeping up the rest as we speak. She’s going to be perfectly fine."
You let out a sob of pure relief, leaning into Jay, who wrapped a heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight against his side.
"Thank you," Jay whispered to Dr. Vance. It was the first time Jay Park had ever thanked a subordinate with true humility. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything."
"Don't thank me," Vance smiled gently, gesturing toward the floor. "Thank Jake. When her oxygen saturation started to stutter an hour ago, he bypassed our androids and recalibrated the delivery algorithm manually. He optimized her breathing before the machines even registered the drop. And he talked to her until her vitals stabilized. He was her medicine tonight."
You looked down at Jake.
Jay knelt down. He didn't wake Jake. Instead, Jay reached out and placed his large, scarred hand over Jake’s, right where Jake was holding Luna’s tiny fingers.
You knelt down on the other side. You rested your hand on Jake’s shoulder, leaning your head against his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The three of you, arrayed around the bed of your sleeping, healing child.
The Apex of Sector 1 could buy the smartest doctors, the most advanced tech, and the cleanest air. It could buy a fortress of glass and steel to keep the grim reality of the world at bay.
But as the morning sun began to break over the horizon, casting a warm, golden light through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Jay and you realized a profound truth.
Money hadn't saved the family tonight.
Love had.
Jake had.
He had held the line when the Warlord broke. He had anchored the ship when you were drowning in the traumatic memories of your past. He had faced the great equalizer with nothing but intellect and a fierce, unyielding devotion.
Luna stirred, letting out a soft, normal sigh as she slept deeply, her chest rising and falling with easy, healthy rhythm.
Jake shifted in his sleep, mumbling something about "upgrading the firewall" before settling back down, his grip on Luna’s hand never loosening.
Jay looked at you over Jake’s sleeping form. The mask of the Warlord was entirely gone, leaving only the husband and the father. He smiled—a small, exhausted, infinitely grateful smile.
Death had come to the door, a cold reminder of the fragility of life. But they had turned it away. Not with credits, not with threats, but together.
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the red satin ribbon feels so soft and cool against your wrists as jay ties them together above your head, securing them to the headboard with a bow. you tug at it experimentally and fuck, you can't move at all, completely at his mercy.
"look at my pretty baby," he groans, his eyes eating up every inch of your bare body laid out beneath him. "all tied up with this cute little ribbon, looking like a fucking present just for me." he leans down to press soft kisses along your jaw and down your neck. "my perfect little gift. you know what you deserve, baby? you deserve everything."
you shake your head, already breathless from just the close proximity between the both of you.
"gonna give you everything, baby" he murmurs against your skin, his hand sliding down to press gently against your lower tummy. "gonna fill this pretty pussy up so full, gonna make her feel so loved." his voice drops lower, turning more possessive. "i wanna breed this perfect cunt, i wanna see you round and pretty with my baby."
you whimper at his words, your pussy already dripping and clenching around nothing. the way he's staring at you like he wants to devour you whole has your thighs squirming, trying to get any kind of friction.
"jay please," you whine, not even caring how desperate you sound.
"please what?" he smirks, running his hands down your body slowly, teasingly. "tell me what you want, baby."
"need you so bad," you breathe out, spreading your legs wider for him. "been thinking about your cock all day, i want you to breed me."
"fuck," he groans again, settling between your thighs and spreading them even wider. his eyes lock onto your soaking cunt and he licks his lips. "look at this messy little pussy, already dripping for me and i haven't even touched her yet. she's so ready to be filled up, hm?"
he runs two fingers through your folds, collecting the slick that's been leaking out of you. you gasp at the contact, your hips bucking up desperately for more. he circles your swollen clit with light touches that have you whimpering and tugging at the ribbons.
"so fucking wet," he grunts, pushing two fingers inside your tight hole. you gasp at the stretch, your walls clenching around the intrusion. "that's it baby, doing so good for me," he murmurs sweetly. "this pretty cunt really missed me huh?"
"yes, fuck yes," you moan as he curls his fingers just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your mind go blank. his thumb finds your clit and rubs harsh circles that have you seeing stars.
"that's it, make a mess on my fingers," he growls, pumping them faster, harder. the wet sounds of your pussy squelching around his digits fills the room and it's so fucking filthy. "listen to how sloppy this cunt is for me baby, so fucking loud."
you're already so close, the pressure building in your core embarrassingly fast. your thighs are shaking and you're tugging uselessly at the satin binding your wrists, wanting to touch him but you can't and fuck it makes everything so much more intense.
"gonna cum already?" he teases, feeling the way your walls are fluttering around his fingers. "such a needy little slut, getting this worked up from just my fingers."
"please please please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for anymore. your pussy is clenching so tight around his fingers and his thumb is rubbing your clit in just the right way and it isn’t long begore you finish.
you cum with a cry, your whole body tensing as your orgasm crashes through you. your cunt spasms around his fingers, gushing and making an absolute mess on his hand and the sheets beneath you. he works you through it, curling his fingers and pressing on that sweet spot until you're whimpering from oversensitivity.
"good fucking girl," he murmurs, pulling his fingers out. they're absolutely coated in your cream, dripping with it. he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, groaning at your taste. "taste so fucking good baby, could eat this pussy all day."
he strips out of his clothes quickly and your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, thick and hard and leaking precum from the tip. it's so big you know it's gonna stretch you out so good, fill you up so deep.
"please," you beg, trying to push your hips up to get him inside. "please fuck me, i need your cock stuffing my pussy so bad, i want you to fill me up."
"yeah?" he groans softly, rubbing his tip against your entrance. "want me to knock you up baby? want me to fuck you full of my cum until it takes?"
"yes yes please," you whimper, tears pricking at your eyes from how badly you need him. "wan' it so bad, wanna carry your baby, wanna be yours."
"gonna take such good care of you baby," he breathes, and his voice is so soft and loving despite how filthy the current situation you are in is. "gonna make you feel so good, my perfect girl. i'll breed you so good."
he pushes in slowly and you both groan at the stretch. even after his fingers and even with how wet you are, his thick cock still feels huge, splitting your cunt open and stretching your walls to accommodate his size.
"holy fuck," he grunts, watching his cock disappear into your hole inch by inch. "this pussy's so tight baby, squeezing my dick so fucking good. she's so perfect for me, she's taking me so well. gonna look so pretty when you're swollen with my baby."
you whimper at his praise, your pussy clenching around him. "feels so good," you breathe out. "so full, i love you so much."
"i love you more baby," he murmurs, finally bottoming out inside you. he leans down to kiss you softly, sweetly, his lips gentle against yours even with his cock buried so deep in your cunt. "my perfect girl, so good for me always."
his hips are now flush against yours, and you can feel him so deep inside you think you might cum jusy from the thought alone. the tip of his cock is kissing your cervix and it's so much, so full, that you can barely breathe.
he doesn't give you much time to adjust before he's pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in. you cry out at the brutal pace he sets, each thrust hitting so deep inside you that your eyes roll back.
"fuck yes, take that cock," he groans, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "such a good little cocksleeve for me, letting me use this cunt however i want. gonna fuck a baby into you, gonna breed you so good."
the sounds filling the room are absolutely obscene — the wet slapping of his balls against your ass, the squelching of your drenched pussy taking his cock over and over, your high pitched moans mixing with his deep grunts. you tug desperately at the ribbons binding your wrists, wanting to claw at his back but you can't move.
"look at you," jay pants, his eyes locked on where his cock is pounding into your cunt. "taking my dick so well, this sloppy pussy was made for my cock wasn't she baby? she was made to be bred and carry my babies."
"yes yes yes," you babble, your mind going blank from the pleasure. your tits are bouncing with each brutal thrust and he leans down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, biting down on the sensitive bud. "gonna be so pretty when these fill up with milk."
"harder," you gasp out, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even deeper. "fuck me harder, use me, please, breed me."
"my needy girl," he murmurs, and there's so much affection in his voice mixed with the desire. "always so perfect for me, taking everything i give you." he fucks into you deeper, his cock hitting that spot that makes you see stars. "gonna fill this cunt up so good baby, gonna pump her full until she's dripping, i'll give you everyhting you deserve."
"please please please," you sob, tears streaming down your face from how good it feels, from how much you love him, from how badly you need him.
"m'so close," you whimper, feeling that familiar tension building in your core again. your pussy is clenching around his cock desperately, your walls fluttering and trying to milk him. "jay please, need to cum so bad."
he reaches between your bodies to rub harsh circles on your swollen clit and you nearly scream at the added stimulation. "come on baby, cum all over this cock," he grunts. "wanna feel this tight cunt squeezing me, and making a fucking mess."
it only takes a few more thrusts before you're falling apart. your orgasm hits you like a fucking truck, your whole body convulsing as pleasure crashes through you in waves. your pussy clamps down on his cock so tight it's almost painful, gushing and creaming all over his length.
"fuck fuck fuck," jay groans, his rhythm getting messier as your walls milk his cock. "gonna give you everything baby, gonna fill you up so good, gonna breed this perfect pussy." his thrusts are getting desperate, needy. "take it all princess, gonna pump you so full of my cum and knock you up."
he buries himself as deep as he can go, grinding against your cervix as his cock starts pulsing inside you. "i love you," he breathes out, and you can feel the first hot spurt of his release flooding your cunt, painting your walls white. "i love you so much baby, you're everything to me. gonna give you my baby."
you whimper as he empties himself inside you, rope after rope of thick cum filling you up so warm and full. he keeps grinding into you slowly, gently, making sure every drop stays deep inside where it belongs, right against your womb.
"so full," you whimper, your pussy still clenching around him weakly. "can feel it so much, feels so good."
"that's my girl," he murmurs, pressing soft kisses all over your face — your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips.
his touch is so gentle and loving. "you did so good for me baby, always so perfect."
you sniffle, completely overwhelmed with how much you love him and how safe you feel with him. "love you," you whisper, voice shaky with emotion.
he carefully reaches up to untie the ribbon from your wrists, his movements slow and gentle. once you're free, he brings your wrists to his lips, pressing the softest kisses to the faint pink marks left behind by the satin.
"love you more than anything," he says quietly, rubbing your skin tenderly. "my pretty girl, my everything. you're gonna be such a beautiful mama."
he shifts you both carefully, keeping his softening cock nestled inside you as he pulls you close to his chest. one hand comes up to play with your hair while the other rubs soothing circles on your lower back. you can hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and comforting.
"you okay baby?" he asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "wasn't too much?"
"perfect," you mumble sleepily against his skin, feeling so warm and safe and loved. "you're always so perfect with me."
"gonna keep you just like this," he murmurs, wrapping the blanket around both of you. outside the snow is still falling, blanketing everything in white, but inside you're wrapped up in his arms where you belong. "my precious gift, all mine to take care of."
you hum contentedly, already drifting off as he continues to whisper sweet nothings into your ear and presses gentle kisses to your hair. his cum is still buried deep inside you, keeping you full and warm, and his arms are holding you close with no plans of letting go.
𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗎~~~~☆، thank you sm for reading & happy holidays 🩷
My heart is melting at the thought of my partner with our baby girl. Holding her, rubbing her back, bouncing her in their arms.
Having little tea parties with her and her stuffed animals, wearing a tiara and tutu to follow her strict dress code. Chasing her around the house, throwing her on their shoulders and sneaking up behind me to take me by surprise, blowing raspberries on her soft little tummy.
Taking her to the park, helping her use the swings, pouting at her uncontrollable laughter when they get stuck going down the slide to chase after her.
Pushing her around in her stroller at the mall, wheeling her wherever she points, getting her another Build-a-Bear even though Mama said ‘we’ve already got too many furry friends at home!’
Them crying even more than me on her first day of preschool.
“Does she really have to go today? Can’t wait one more day?”
“She’s gotta go. She’s a little social butterfly. Gonna be just fine.”
“I know, I know. Just didn’t realize how hard this would be. That’s my whole world walking in there.”
Falling asleep with her cradled to their chest on our fluffy sectional, the faded sounds of the football game humming in the background, both snoring with the exact same rhythm. Definitely their little girl.
And when we find out our second child is also a girl, the first thing on their mind is
“Another little lady who I won’t be able to say no to.”
Heyy! Here's an idea ~ how about a Jay smut... (scenario: reader doing smth purposely to seduce him, like cooking in his shirt (with a underwear underneath) or doing smth very basic that kinda makes Jay hard, cuz he has been too busy with work and they hadn't had the freaky in awhile so she wants some action from him)... And like could u do spanking + breeding kink??
jay make me weak🤤
Mine Again
Jay hadn’t fucked you in twenty-three days.
You’d counted. Every single one.
At first it was fine: comeback season, endless schedules, dawn-to-midnight practices. You brought him meals at the studio, kissed his sweaty temple when he could barely keep his eyes open, tucked him into bed when he stumbled through the door at 4 a.m. You were proud of him. You were supportive.
But pride doesn’t fill the ache between your legs when you wake up wet and reaching for a body that isn’t there. Support doesn’t stop the way your stomach flips every time he walks past you in those low-slung sweatpants, happy trail flashing when he stretches, completely oblivious to the way you have to press your thighs together.
So tonight, you stopped being the perfect, patient girlfriend.
He texted at 9:12 p.m.:
Jay ❤️: leaving now. home by 10. miss u baby
You stared at the message, bit your lip, and walked straight to his closet.
His favorite black button-up, the one that smells like cedar and his skin even after a wash, slid over your shoulders like liquid. You left the top four buttons undone so it gaped open whenever you moved. The hem hit mid-thigh, barely covering the red lace thong you’d bought months ago and never had the chance to wear. You rolled the sleeves to your elbows, tousled your hair, and padded barefoot to the kitchen.
9:37 p.m. You started the jjajangmyeon, humming low, hips swaying to the slow R&B pouring from the speaker. Every time you reached for something high, the shirt rode up just enough to flash the curve where thigh meets ass. Every time you bent over, the lace peeked out like a secret.
You weren’t subtle. You didn’t want to be.
10:06 p.m. The door opened.
Keys clattered. Bag hit the floor with a heavy thud. Silence stretched so long you almost turned around.
Then his voice, low and rough: “What the fuck are you doing?”
You glanced over your shoulder, innocent. “Cooking. You said you were hungry.”
Jay hadn’t moved from the doorway. His hair was messy from the beanie he’d yanked off, jacket half-zipped, eyes black. He looked like he’d been running on fumes for weeks and had just been handed oxygen.
You turned back to the stove, stirring slowly. “Sit down, baby. It’s almost ready.”
He didn’t sit.
You heard his footsteps, deliberate, predatory, and then his heat was behind you. Not touching yet. Just close enough that you felt him in every nerve.
“That my shirt?” His voice had dropped an octave.
“Mm-hmm.” You leaned forward to taste the sauce, arching your back just enough. “It was on the chair. Smells like you.”
A low growl rumbled in his throat. “You’re not wearing anything under it.”
You smiled into the pot. “Panties count?”
His hands slammed down on the counter, caging you. You felt his breath against your ear, hot and shaky. “Three weeks,” he rasped. “Three weeks I’ve been trying to be good. Coming home quiet. Jerking off in the shower so I don’t wake you up. And you do this?”
You pushed your ass back, slow, deliberate, grinding against the bulge already straining his jeans. “I missed you,” you whispered. “Missed you inside me. Missed the way you sound when you lose control.”
He snapped.
One second you were standing, the next you were spun and lifted onto the counter, cold marble shocking your bare thighs. Jay’s mouth crashed into yours, no finesse, just raw hunger. Teeth scraped your lip, tongue licking deep like he wanted to devour every moan you’d been holding in for weeks.
His hands shoved the shirt up to your waist, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. When he pulled back, eyes wild, you saw the moment restraint shattered.
“Look at you,” he growled, spreading your thighs wide. The red lace was soaked through, clinging to you. He dragged one finger up the center and you jolored, hips jerking. “Fucking drenched. All this because you wanted to be a little brat in my kitchen?”
You nodded, breathless. “Wanted you to remember what you have waiting at home.”
He laughed, dark and filthy, and then his palm cracked across your ass, sharp and perfect. The sting made you cry out, thighs clenching.
“Remember?” Smack. “Baby, I never forgot.” Smack. “I dreamed about this pussy every single night.” Smack. “Count.”
“Three—” you gasped.
He soothed the burn with his palm, then spanked again, harder. “Louder.”
“Four!”
By eight, you were trembling, tears pricking your eyes, dripping onto the counter. He kissed each red mark, tongue tracing the heat, murmuring filthy praise against your skin.
“Good girl. So pretty when you take it.”
Then he yanked the lace down your legs, letting it dangle off one ankle like a trophy. Two fingers slid inside you without warning, curling, and you screamed, walls fluttering around him.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned, pumping slow and deep. “Been neglecting this cunt, haven’t I? Gonna make it up to you.”
He dropped to his knees.
The first lick was flat and broad, dragging up your slit like he was starving. You sobbed, hands flying to his hair. He pinned your thighs open, tongue fucking into you, nose grinding against your clit until your legs shook. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, you came hard, back arching off the counter, his name a broken prayer.
He didn’t stop.
Stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and spun you around. Bent you over the counter, shirt shoved up to your shoulders, ass in the air. You heard his belt, the zipper, and then he was dragging the head of his cock through your folds, teasing.
“Jay, please—”
“Please what?” He leaned over you, chest to your back, lips at your ear. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
“Want you to fuck me,” you whimpered. “Want you to breed me. Want you to fill me up until I’m dripping for days—”
He slammed in to the hilt.
No warning, no mercy. Just one brutal thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He was thick, stretching you open, and you felt every inch like you’d been empty for years.
“Fuck,” he hissed, pulling out just to drive back in. “This pussy was made for me. So wet, so greedy.”
He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, the wet sound obscene in the quiet kitchen. Every thrust shoved you against the counter, nipples dragging against the cold marble. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could bite down on your shoulder.
“Gonna fuck you full,” he snarled, voice wrecked. “Gonna pump you so deep you’ll feel me for weeks. Want my cum leaking out of you every time you move tomorrow. Want you to remember who you belong to every time you sit down and feel how sore you are.”
You came again, clenching hard around him, vision whiting out. He growled, pace stuttering, and then he was grinding deep, cock pulsing as he spilled inside you, hot and endless.
But he wasn’t done.
Pulled out just enough to flip you again, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Carried you to the couch, still buried inside, every step making you gasp. Laid you down and hooked your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half.
“Again,” he demanded, sliding back in slow and filthy. “Not stopping until you’re so full it’s dripping down your thighs when I’m still inside you.”
He fucked you through two more orgasms, each one harder than the last, whispering absolute filth the entire time.
“Gonna keep you like this all weekend. Tied to the bed. Legs spread. Gonna breed this cunt every few hours until you’re pregnant with me.”
You sobbed, nodding, completely gone.
When he finally came the last time, he stayed deep, grinding slow, making sure nothing spilled out. Collapsed on top of you, both of you shaking, sweat-slick and wrecked.
After a long time, he pressed soft kisses to your throat, your jaw, your lips. Gentle now, like he was scared he’d broken you.
“You okay, baby?” he whispered, voice hoarse.
You laughed, breathless and ruined. “I’m perfect.”
He smiled against your neck, nuzzling. “Next time you want me to fuck you senseless, just say it. Don’t make me almost have a heart attack in my own kitchen.”
You threaded your fingers through his hair. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He groaned, biting your shoulder in retaliation, and you felt him already getting hard again inside you.
tysm for enjoying them <3 i haven’t been back to writing publicly for a long while so it feels good to be back and for people to be enjoying that i’m back!
cw: pregnancy loss late in pregnancy, hospitals, medical terminology, grief, sadness and there’s no real happy conclusion.
also, as with all my fics, i sprinkle korean into it in romanised form as i think that heightens the immersive aspect for me as someone who is learning korean and would like to be realistic in my writing. i try to use these terms with care and in the right context as well as include a glossary at the end of my fics so you can follow along with my thought process. so if you think that’s cringe you can just scroll too.
a/n: this fic explores a theme of grief that i’ve had so many drafts for in my years of a writer but have never finished until now as i felt the need to keep my pen to the paper until 4 am last night. it is without a doubt a labour of my love and i’m kinda scared to let this out in the world but i thought in the spirit of doing wtv the hell i want. sure why not. please take the warnings seriously, this fic is sad and it doesn’t exactly end off happy either, just 2 people existing in this world trying to do good by each other. also, i was inspired by my favourite skit series that also dared to take such a turn in the story which all but forced me to pick up my pen and start writing again. title is from the taylor swift song of the same name that i rediscovered in my writing haze.
“i’m sorry, come again?”
you’d never seen the life drain out of jongseong’s eyes so fast in your life after hearing what the doctor had said. your heart was pounding out of your chest, your ears were ringing and vision fuzzy, nothing was feeling real and yet, everything felt like it was happening at once. what was that, what did she just say. jongseong squeezed the hand of yours that was in his, as the doctor once again tried to explain the situation to you. the saliva that was pooling in your mouth got stuck in your throat as you attempted to swallow it down. your free hand moved to the rounded swell of your bump as you gazed down at it.
come on, baby. please move. do anything. let mama know you’re okay. please.
please.
you thought of every god out there. anyone who’d be out there. pleading, begging to be heard, for this nightmarish reality to be nothing but a dream. nothing but a bad dream. that you would wake up in the morning, in your soft sheets, jongseong’s palm already on your belly, feeling as your daughter kicks against him with all her strength. this, instead of the radio silence you’ve had all day, no movements, no kicks, no nothing.
“jay-yah,” you called out into the hallways of your apartment. it was the evening and the baby you were carrying that always was active at this time of day, was seemingly docile.
“yes, love.” your husband peeked around the corner from where he was laying out dinner on the kitchen island counter top. brows furrowed impossibly at his pregnant wife waddling her way towards him, when he strictly told her to rest until he was done.
“can you talk to your daughter a little bit? i can’t seem to get her to move and she always responds to you.” you requested, smiling tiredly. he paused everything he was doing to walk closer to you, cupping his hands to support your bump.
“she hasn’t moved once all day?”
you shook your head.
“doctor said we should go in if we can’t get her to move within the next hour.” at that point, you were nibbling your lips a little, hinting at your anxieties. knowing this, jongseong gently rubbed at your shoulder.
“probably just routine protocol.” he murmured, kissing you on the top of your head. after a few moments, he added. “aigu, our daughter already likes taking long naps just like her appa. c’mon let’s get some food in your mama, so you both can get some good energy to be moving around again.”
you snapped out of it once the hinges of the door squeaked close and you realised that you and your husband were alone in the examination room once again. during the entire discussion jongseong had with your doctor, you had zoned out so severely that besides a few instinctive nods, you don’t fully even recall what you were affirming or agreeing to.
“jjong-ah” you breathed out in a trembling breath. “is this really happening?”
there was a cold and clammy hand on your knee and as you felt your cheeks wet with tears, you looked up to see cat-like brown eyes glistening with tears unshed behind the pair of glasses that he was wearing. his hair was in a tangled mess pushed out of his face from the countless times he had presumably run his hand through it and his cheeks were flushed red from holding back his emotions.
“i’m so sorry, my love” were the only words that escaped his lips.
your heart, like a glass sculpture, hit the floor and shattered into a billion pieces.
-
“are you ready?” jongseong whispered, his arms curled around you as you leaned into his chest. the hospital was kind enough to grant you a few hours of privacy after briefing you on the procedure of getting you induced to deliver your daughter stillborn. after forms were signed and bureaucracy was satisfied, your husband climbed into your tiny hospital bed and held you as tight as he could. the rest of the world could wait, but right now, in this moment, he just wanted you.
“no. but i have to be.” your eyes were puffy and you’d run out of the capacity to cry any longer as your heart lurched at the idea of everything you were going to have to do thereafter. as much as you wanted to hold on to this moment as long as you can - hold on to your daughter as if keeping her within you could save her from harm that’s already been done - before you have to let go, there’s also a part of you which just wanted to get this over and done with so you can stop feeling so helpless in this situation.
“i’m not.” his voice cracked as he played with the loose strands of your hair that framed your face. there was a sharp intake of breath as you could feel his heart rate rising.
“i- oh god- every day for the past 7 months i so desperately wished it was me instead of you, but today especially i-” you reach up to brush away the tears rolling down his face and his hand swiftly shifted to the small of your back to bring you even closer. he gasped audibly feeling the curve of your bump press again his abdomen, burying his head in your shoulder. “if my heart feels like it’s irreparably damaged, i can’t imagine what state yours would be in. i’ll never get to hold her, never truly know what she felt like. baby, i’m so so sorry.”
“you are her appa too, you know.” you reminded him softly, ruffling the top of his scalp. the use of present tense made him whimper at your statement. “she is as much from you as she was from me. and she could feel your love from day 1, because i did.”
“i’m just not ready to say goodbye.” he looked back at you again, eyes red rimmed and glossy. jongseong brought your palm to his lips and kissed it, before intertwining your fingers together once again, tethering your souls together. “you’re the bravest woman i know.”
“i’m gonna tell eomeonim you said that.” you chuckled wetly in response. he kissed you on your lips to shut you up.
-
the induction goes routinely as routinely should. the buzz is quiet and the nurses are treating you as if you are made of glass. everyone who comes in knows, by the colour coded notice on your door, of the situation at hand and everyone had tried to be professional enough not to be overly pitying but no one can help but to feel for anyone in a situation like yours, so you try your best not to implode when you’re acutely aware of the eggshells everyone is walking around.
not that it is easy to notice when you have to go through the pains of labour knowing there will be no results to show for it. jongseong’s by your side with every contraction that passes and as they start getting more frequent he lends his hands for any kind of destruction as long as it focuses you away from the pain.
it’s around when you’re 80% there, that they bring in the special cot into the room, you’ve known about it but never thought you would be in a position to be a beneficiary of and that’s when the tears come again. your husband that was patting your forehead with a cool damp cloth, pulled the hair from your face and comforted you quietly.
“you’re doing well, baby. we’re almost there.”
the nurse who wheeled in the cot, glanced over and greeted you warmly. slowly explaining the use of the cot and what it does, but not treating you with the kid gloves you had basically expected at this point.
“you’ve been so strong, mama” and the look in her eyes was all you needed to know, that you had solidarity in that moment from someone who had gone through it before.
because it was premature and your baby was still small, you felt the need to push at 9 centimetres and they allowed you to, the minute your doctor was present. and in 3 pushes your daughter was out in the world, lifeless, with no heartbeat but she was perfect as you held her in your arms, like a porcelain doll, frozen in time.
“she looks a lot like you.” jongseong dared to break the silence as he looked over your shoulder at your daughter’s face. he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear carefully, sniffling at the whole ordeal.
“hmm really? i think she has your nose actually.” your finger traced lightly over her miniscule features that had a striking resemblance to the man you loved.
“do you want to hold her, appa?”
overly cautiously, you transfer her over to your doting husband who you knew was waiting for his chance but didn’t want to interrupt your limited time. as jongseong instinctively cradled his arms around her, you could see as his expression softened and a complicated emotion tremoured within his face.
“she’s just as beautiful as her eomma, i reckon.” jongseong uttered as he got a closer look at his baby in his arms.
“we should give her a name.”
“yeah, we should.”
you agreed on one almost immediately. it was perfect.
-
a whole 48 hours was given to you, before bureaucracy left no room for grieving mothers
-
the wails came in waves, usually at night, starting a few days later. once family was informed and the dust had settled into the cracks and you were home with no baby, just footprints and pictures as a memorial.
“it’s not fair!” you screamed into jongseong’s chest, covered in the duvet of the bed you had not left for days. your heart ached. your skin was crawling. every day reminders of your daughter who never got to open her eyes, plagued you like a haunting ghost. she should be here in your arms. the one crying instead because she needed to be fed, needed to be changed, needed to be loved on. instead, it’s just you.
“i wanted her, so badly, i wanted her.” you sobbed, overwhelmed with the grief of it all.
all jongseong could do was embrace you until the wave subsided and you exhausted yourself back into slumber.
-
the heavy downpour splatters on the pavement as the night skyline of seoul city is reflected in the puddles present there. there is just something so comforting in what will always be, july and its endless rain upon the republic of korea. sights from the windowsill of your high rise apartment will never fail to amaze you, even through the darkest of storms and depth into the night. despite the humidity that usually mugs the city this time of year, the breeze appeared to be cool, seeping under the gap in your main door and swirling around the marbled apartment floor.
you nearly jolted as you hear the mechanical flip of the switch and light suddenly flooded the open living area. caught up in your head, you had missed the shuffling of your loving husband out of bed and into the space you were in, clearly realising you had disappeared some time during the night. his sleep mask messily shoving his hair back like a makeshift hairband and eyes squinting at the sudden brightness. he moved to where you were perched, wrapping his muscly arms around you from behind, narrowly avoiding the still tender skin around your stomach.
“come back to bed, my love.” he slurred almost incoherently. there was a pause before he continued curiously. “what are you doing out here?”
“just…” you trailed off, not knowing how to respond to that question when even you didn’t know. you settled on. “it’s pretty out there.”
“well it’s prettier in the bedroom when my wife is in there with me.” jongseong quipped as he snuggled up next to you on the windowsill. scoffing at his words, you leaned back against him, basking in his embrace for just a little while longer. after playing with his fingers in your lap, you sighed at the words that were on the tip of your tongue but not quite mature enough to be brought into the world yet.
jongseong sensing your hesitation, pulled you so that you would be facing him instead of the scenery outside. he was more awake now, well, as awake as someone could be in the middle of the night that is. hand cupping your cheek with the gentleness of the soft summer wind, he kissed you with the love of a thousand suns to coax you into speaking your mind.
“do you know what day it is today?” you asked under your breath. quiet enough for you to pass off as nothing under normal circumstances but not to the ever attentive jongseong sitting across from you. he looked confused, he has these special dates deeply ingrained in his memory, it’s not likely he would forget any - oh.
“it’s your due date, isn’t it?” the words sort of clumsily tumble out of his mouth. it’s his time to hesitate, like maybe he shouldn’t be talking about it at all, maybe it’s too soon for it to be breached but maybe talking is all you can have too. he stared at your stomach for a split second too long before meeting your eyes again.
“she could’ve been born today, healthy. alive.” you bit your tongue before more words fall out. you know better than to blame yourself, you’re trying to work through it but it’s difficult. so. so. difficult.
“i always wonder what she would’ve been like.” jongseong admitted after a beat, taking your hand in his, grounding the both of you. “it’s not hard to see her in everything. how the sun rises so surely from the east. how the morning birds chirp without fail. how seashells always make it to shore. how she was so desperate to be born and i was so desperate to love her.”
you wonder how those words can so easily fall from his lips. how he can say them so matter-of-factly like they’re not ripping a giant hole in his chest. you smiled like it didn’t pain you to do so.
“she would’ve loved you.”
“and she loved you.”
seconds later, you make eye contact with the pile of boxes of baby stuff, that you had never got to opening and organising - a cot, a pram, car seat, mobiles and tons of toys, wondering if they would ever be used or will they remain stuck in limbo, a snapshot of what should have been.
“i don’t know how to move on.” you confessed, plainly, simply.
“we don’t.” jongseong looked at you, eyes wide but not unsettled. it was comforting to look into his eyes and see nothing but him in earnest, trying to find ways to make things better. “i can’t promise that it will hurt any less. but i do know that we will carry her with us. just like you did for 7 months and just like you will for the rest of your life.”
at a loss on how to respond to that, with the turmoil stirred up inside you and yet the hope that comes with having the man you love beside you. you just said.
“i love you.” in that moment, you truly did.
“i love you, too. now let’s go back to bed.”
korean glossary for this fic:
아이구 aigu - cooing onomatopoeia, often said when something cute/endearing or silly happens
아빠 appa - dad
엄마 eomma - mum
어머님 eomeonim - more formal way of saying mum, often used to address someone else’s mother, in this case jay’s mum
thinking about this engene asking jay (jjongbeoji aka jjong + 아버지 ahbeoji dad in korean) to nag at them because they have to wake up early the next morning and he fully committed to the role. but i just think that his tone is so sweet :((((
“appa is not trying to nag at you, this is about the fact that you’re going to be tired and have difficulties [tomorrow]”
“if you keep being like this we’ll have to start turning off the wifi at night… appa loves you a lot but I can’t make a concession when it comes to your health, you know?”
“eomma said for us to do that right away but first let appa to explain it to you well… so listen to what appa has to say and go to sleep quickly, got it? let appa try to smooth out eomma’s mood this one time…”
“tomorrow appa is gonna leave [the house] earlier than you so eat well before leaving! i love you, sleep well ~”
anyway you guys know how much i love dad!jay and i can’t believe this is single handedly reviving my drabble writing but i can just imagine how sweet, patient and thoughtful jongseong would be to his kids and even though his patience runs thin easily he will have an infinite amount when it comes to them.
i can’t imagine jay being anything but a girl dad in this scenario but just when your eldest daughter is a little older maybe 8/9 years old and she’s giving you trouble before sleep and you kinda get pissed cause your youngest who’s only 2 years younger than her was already knocked out like a light and the eldest is the one with an early morning and she just snuck her ipad (only 2 hours max screen time a day) into her bed to use at night. and you’re about to blow up when jay gently pulls you out of your daughter’s bedroom, steps in and says all that.
you’re leaning on the wall in the hallway next to the door just thinking how lucky you are to have jay as not only your husband but a doting father to your two daughters and it makes you tingle all over at how much he’s softened up over the years because of them and almost immediately how there was a difference to him since the first time he held your first daughter in his arms. his hair is peppered with grey now more than it used to but he still looks at your family with the same loving gaze that he had in that moment when you welcomed a baby into the world for the first time. also he’s aged like the finest wine the vineyard has to offer.
you almost don’t even notice when he says goodnight and your daughter albeit feeling guilty replies back with a goodnight and a promise to make it up to you tomorrow. and there’s a hand on your shoulder as if to smooth your frazzled mood. and the first thing you want to do when you make eye contact with him is to jump him. it’s a primal urge, okay, you can’t help it.
“what’s this all for?” he’ll laugh incredulously in between kisses.
“just ‘cause.” you reply, pushing him into the bedroom “now take off your pants, appa.”
you literally waste no time because it’s hard to get alone time when you have two girls under 10 running around the house at all times. you’d end up riding him and endlessly praising him cos clearly something about him being a good, responsible and dependable father flipped a switch in you.
“you’re such a good appa to our babies, hmm?”
“always knowing how to calm eomma down too”
“appa wants to let everyone know how well he takes care of our family, doesn’t he?”
“appa wouldn’t mind putting another baby in eomma, would he? show the whole world that he keeps her safe and satisfied, right?”
anyway. if in the next month you start to feel fatigued and nauseous and bloated all the time and your period is late. let’s just say jay is very amused to have to explain a surprise sibling to your two daughters and smiles just thinking of the tired late nights from having a baby in the house again.
💌 Synopsis: Jongseong is a prince—refined, disciplined, and expected to marry a woman of his father’s choosing.
You, on the other hand, are just a college student struggling to keep up with rent—until a team of royal advisors shows up on your doorstep and tells you that you’re the lost princess of Genovia.
But royal life isn’t a fairytale, and duty doesn’t care about love.
Because when the clock strikes midnight on the constitutional deadline, you’ll have to choose: your country or your heart.
“If I were just Jay, not a prince, would you still choose me?”
cw: SMUT but lots of fluff, smut on a piano, smut in a library, smut on a chaise, lots of fluff barely any angst the reader is in distress cuz of this whole princess thing.
-
Your alarm blares for the third time, and you finally surrender to consciousness, throwing your arm out to silence the offending device. Another Monday. Another week of classes, part-time work, and trying to stretch your student budget until the next paycheck. Nothing special.
The apartment you share with your roommate isn't much—a cramped two-bedroom with perpetually spotty WiFi and a temperamental shower—but it's home. At least for now.
"Late night?" Your roommate smirks over her coffee mug as you stumble into the kitchen, hair still wrapped in a towel.
"Research paper," you groan, reaching for the coffee pot. "Professor Kim is trying to kill us all before midterms."
You're pouring cereal when a sharp knock at the door makes you jump, spilling Cheerios across the counter.
"You expecting someone?" your roommate asks, already heading to answer it.
You aren't. It's 8:37 AM on a Monday. Nobody visits at 8:37 AM on a Monday.
When your roommate opens the door, the hallway seems suddenly filled with people. Men in dark suits. A woman with an impossibly tight bun. All of them standing with perfect posture, like they've collectively swallowed broomsticks.
"May we come in?" It's not really a question. The woman steps forward, eyes scanning your apartment with barely concealed judgment. "We're looking for Y/N L/N."
Your roommate points at you wordlessly, backing away as the entourage enters.
"Ms. L/N," the woman says, her accent crisp and foreign. "I am Charlotte Martell, private secretary to Her Majesty Queen Clarisse Renaldi of Genovia."
You nearly choke on your coffee. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Genovia," she repeats, as if that clarifies everything. "A small sovereign principality between France and Spain."
"I know what Genovia is," you lie. You absolutely do not know what Genovia is. "But what does that have to do with me?"
The woman—Charlotte—gestures to one of the men, who produces an official-looking folder stamped with a crest you don't recognize.
"Queen Clarisse is your grandmother," Charlotte states, watching your face for a reaction. "And following the tragic death of your father, Crown Prince Philippe, you are now the sole heir to the Genovian throne."
Your roommate gasps dramatically. You burst out laughing.
"Okay, who put you up to this? Was it Kyle? This has his film project written all over it." You look around for hidden cameras.
Charlotte's expression doesn't change. "This is not a prank, Ms. L/N."
"Right. Sure. I'm secretly a princess." You roll your eyes. "And I suppose I've got a glass slipper and fairy godmother too?"
"Your Highness—"
"Nope. Stop right there." You hold up your hand. "I don't know who you people are, but my dad's name was Michael. He was an artist from Cleveland. He died when I was six. My mom raised me alone."
Charlotte and her companions exchange glances.
"Perhaps we should speak with your mother," Charlotte suggests delicately.
"Great idea," you agree, reaching for your phone. "She'll clear this right up."
But when your mom answers, her voice sounds strange. Strained.
"Mom, there are people here saying I'm some kind of princess and you've been hiding it from me my whole life. Tell them they've got the wrong apartment."
The silence on the other end stretches too long.
"Mom?"
"Honey," she finally says, her voice small. "Maybe you should sit down."
Your stomach drops. "No. No way."
"I never thought this would happen," she continues, words rushing now. "The agreement was that they'd never contact you. That you could live a normal life."
The room starts to spin. You grip the counter for support.
"This isn't funny anymore."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. Philippe—your father—wanted to acknowledge you, but I couldn't bear the thought of raising you in that world."
"Philippe?" Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. "My father's name was Michael."
Your mother's sigh crackles through the phone. "Michael was my brother. After Philippe died, Michael helped us... create a story that would protect you."
"Protect me from what? The truth?" The betrayal cuts deep, making your voice sharp.
"From a life that would never be your own," your mother says softly. "I wanted you to have choices."
You look at Charlotte and her entourage, still standing stiffly in your kitchen. This can't be happening.
"I think I'm hallucinating," you announce to no one in particular. "I haven't slept in thirty-six hours. This is just sleep deprivation."
Your roommate pinches your arm. Hard.
"Ow! What the hell?"
"Not dreaming," she says helpfully.
Your mother is still speaking through the phone. "These people—the Genovian royal staff—they'll bring you to the consulate. I'll meet you there, and we can talk properly."
"Mom, I can't just—"
"Please, sweetheart. Let me explain in person."
The phone call ends, and you stare at the device in your hand like it's suddenly turned into a live snake.
"This isn't real," you mutter. "This can't be real."
But three hours later, you're sitting in the Genovian consulate—a building you've passed a hundred times without noticing—watching your mother cry as she explains how she met the Crown Prince of Genovia during a semester abroad, how they fell in love, how she discovered she was pregnant after he returned home, how he died in a car accident before they could marry.
"The Queen wanted to acknowledge you officially," your mother explains, wiping her eyes. "But I refused. I didn't want that life for you."
"That life being...?"
"Being royal," she says, as if it's a disease. "Living in a gilded cage. Every move scrutinized. Never making your own choices."
Charlotte, who has been standing silently against the wall, clears her throat. "If I may, the situation has changed substantially. Without a direct heir, Genovia faces a constitutional crisis. Parliament may vote to dissolve the monarchy entirely."
"And that's... bad?" you ask, still struggling to process any of this.
"The monarchy has protected Genovia's independence for centuries," Charlotte explains. "Without it, larger neighboring countries would likely absorb our territory."
Your mother squeezes your hand. "I never wanted this burden for you. But it's your decision now."
"What decision? I don't even know what's happening!"
"The Queen requests that you come to Genovia," Charlotte says. "Learn about your heritage. Meet your grandmother. After that, you're free to make your choice."
"My choice to... what? Become a princess?"
Charlotte nods solemnly. "To accept your birthright, yes."
You look at your mother, this woman you've trusted your entire life, who has apparently been lying about your identity since before you could speak.
"I have exams next week," you say weakly. It sounds ridiculous even to your own ears.
"All arrangements have been made with your university," Charlotte assures you. "This is, after all, a diplomatic matter."
You laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "Right. Diplomatic."
Your mother takes your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "You don't have to do this. You can walk away right now, and we'll figure something out."
But you can see in her eyes what she's not saying—that this moment was always coming, that the lie was never sustainable, that a door has opened that can't be closed again.
"I just want to know the truth," you tell her. "All of it."
She nods, tears streaming now. "Then you should go. Meet her. Learn who you are."
-
Twenty-four hours later, you're on a private jet somewhere over the Atlantic, still half-convinced you're having an elaborate mental breakdown. Your mother came home with you to help pack, both of you moving through the motions like sleepwalkers.
"The Queen is eager to meet you," Charlotte says from across the aisle, breaking the silence that's stretched between you since takeoff.
"My grandmother," you say, testing the word. "My grandmother the Queen."
Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "This must be overwhelming."
You laugh, the sound hollow. "I keep thinking I'll wake up."
"I assure you, this is quite real," Charlotte says, missing the point entirely.
You stare out the window at endless darkness, trying to reconcile the person you were yesterday with whoever you're supposed to be now.
"What's she like?" you ask suddenly. "The Queen."
Charlotte considers this carefully. "Her Majesty is... formidable. Dignified. Dedicated to Genovia above all else."
"Sounds warm and fuzzy," you mutter.
"The Queen has experienced great loss," Charlotte adds quietly. "Her husband. Her son—your father. She has sacrificed personal happiness for duty."
That silences you. What do you say to a grandmother who's spent decades thinking her bloodline ended with her son, only to discover an heir she never knew existed?
"I don't know how to be a princess," you admit after another long silence.
"No one expects you to know already," Charlotte replies. "There will be extensive training, of course."
"Of course," you echo faintly. "Princess training."
The palace is like something from a fairy tale—all soaring spires and perfect gardens. Dawn is breaking as your motorcade passes through massive iron gates, and you catch your first glimpse of your apparent new home.
"This is insane," you whisper, pressing your face to the window like a child. "People actually live here?"
"The palace has been the royal residence for over three centuries," Charlotte informs you. "The east wing houses government offices, while the royal family occupies the north wing."
Your suite is bigger than your entire apartment. The bathroom alone is the size of your bedroom at home. You're staring at the claw-foot tub, wondering if you're allowed to actually use it or if it's just for show, when there's a knock at the door.
A young woman in a uniform curtsies—actually curtsies—when you open it.
"Your Highness," she says, eyes downcast. "I'm Olivia, your lady's maid."
"My... what now?"
"I'm here to help you prepare to meet Her Majesty."
Your laugh has a slightly manic edge. "I've been wearing the same clothes for twenty-four hours and haven't slept. I don't think 'preparation' is going to help much."
Olivia smiles sympathetically. "Perhaps a bath first?"
You pace back and forth in your suite after your mother's confession at the consulate, hands pressed against your temples. The weight of everything—your father's true identity, your grandmother the Queen, this entire hidden heritage—crashes over you in waves.
"This can't be happening," you mutter. "This doesn't happen to normal people."
Olivia, your newly assigned lady's maid, watches anxiously from the doorway. "Your Highness, perhaps some tea would help calm your nerves?"
"Stop calling me that!" you snap, whirling around. "I'm not a 'Highness.' I'm just—" You break off, unable to even finish the sentence. Who are you now?
Charlotte enters with a stack of leather-bound books. "These are Genovian history texts. Your lessons begin tomorrow. Also, the royal portrait artist would like to schedule a sitting, and we'll need to discuss your public introduction to the Genovian people."
Something inside you finally snaps.
"EVERYBODY JUST STOP!" you shout, throwing your hands up. Charlotte freezes mid-sentence, Olivia nearly drops the tea tray, and even the security guard outside your door peeks in with alarm.
"I need—" your voice cracks, "I need everyone to just stop for a second. Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my student loans and my biology midterm. And now you're talking about royal portraits and—and—"
You grab the nearest pillow from a velvet settee and scream into it, a muffled sound of pure frustration. When you pull it away, you're laughing hysterically.
"Holy shit," you gasp through semi-maniacal laughter, "I'm a princess. I'm actually a princess!"
You collapse onto the nearest chair, still clutching the pillow to your chest. Your laughter shifts to something closer to hyperventilation.
"This is completely insane," you continue, gesturing wildly. "I've never even been to Europe before, and suddenly I'm supposed to rule a country? I don't even know where Genovia is on a map! I can barely keep my succulents alive!"
Charlotte approaches cautiously, as though you might explode again. "Perhaps a moment alone would be beneficial—"
"No!" You jump to your feet again, pacing frenetically. "No more alone time to 'process.' I need answers. Real answers. Like, what happens if I just walk out right now? Get on a plane and go home? Will there be, I don't know, international incidents? Diplomatic immunity revoked? Does Genovia have an extradition treaty with the United States?"
Charlotte and Olivia exchange alarmed glances.
"I mean, what's stopping me from just saying 'thanks but no thanks' to this whole princess gig? I didn't sign up for this! My mother lied to me my entire life, and now I'm supposed to just—what? Put on a tiara and wave to crowds? Marry some prince I just met? Rule a country I know nothing about?"
You stop suddenly, a thought occurring to you. You turn to Charlotte, eyes wide.
"Wait. Do I get a tiara?"
Charlotte blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. "Several, actually. The Genovian royal collection includes—"
"Several tiaras," you repeat, dazed. "I get several tiaras."
You start laughing again, but this time with a hint of wonder breaking through the hysteria.
"I have a grandmother who's a Queen," you say, testing the words. "My father was a Crown Prince. I live in a palace now." You spin in a slow circle, taking in the ornate room with new eyes. "I'm a princess."
The reality of it finally, truly hits you—not as an abstract concept but as your new life. Your knees go weak, and you sink back onto the settee.
"I'm Princess Y/N Renaldi of Genovia," you whisper, the name strange on your tongue. "Holy shit."
The bath, it turns out, is heavenly. The exhaustion and tension of the past day seep out of your muscles as you soak in water scattered with actual rose petals. It's so ridiculous that you find yourself laughing alone in the massive bathroom.
"Is everything alright, Your Highness?" Olivia calls through the door.
"Fine! Just having an existential crisis in a bathtub fit for Marie Antoinette!"
After the bath comes what can only be described as a full-scale makeover. Olivia is joined by a team that includes a hairstylist, makeup artist, and someone called a "royal wardrobe consultant" who tuts disapprovingly at the clothes you packed.
"These won't do at all," she announces, holding up your favorite jeans like they're contaminated.
"What's wrong with them?" you demand.
"Her Majesty has certain... expectations regarding royal appearance," the woman explains delicately.
"I'm not actually a princess yet," you point out. "Technically, I haven't agreed to anything."
But your protests fall on deaf ears. Two hours later, you're staring at a stranger in the mirror. Your hair has been styled into something elegant and smooth. Your face has been transformed with makeup that somehow looks natural despite taking forty-five minutes to apply. And you're wearing a dress that probably costs more than your entire wardrobe at home.
"There," the hairstylist says proudly. "Now you look like a princess."
You don't feel like a princess. You feel like a fraud in costume.
The "Blue Salon" turns out to be a formal sitting room where an elegant older woman waits, standing by a window. She turns as you enter, and you see your own eyes staring back at you from her face.
"Your Majesty," Charlotte announces, "Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N Renaldi."
The Queen—your grandmother—studies you silently for a long moment. You resist the urge to fidget under her gaze.
"The resemblance is remarkable," she says finally, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. "You have his eyes. My son's eyes."
You don't know what to say. This woman is a stranger who is somehow your closest living relative.
"You must have questions," she continues when you remain silent.
"About a million," you admit. "Starting with why my entire life has been a lie."
If your directness offends her, she doesn't show it. "Your mother made her choice. I respected it, though I disagreed with it. But circumstances have changed."
"So I've heard. Constitutional crisis. End of the monarchy. Very dramatic."
A hint of a smile touches her lips. "You have spirit. Good. You'll need it." She gestures to a chair. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."
The next hour is a crash course in your own heritage. The Queen—your grandmother—explains the history of Genovia, the role of the monarchy, and the crisis created by the King's death without a recognized heir.
"Parliament has granted a grace period of three months," she explains. "In that time, you must decide whether to accept your title and begin preparation for eventual rule, or to renounce your claim permanently."
"And if I renounce?"
"Then the monarchy ends with me," she says simply. "And Genovia's future becomes uncertain."
No pressure or anything.
"There's another complication," your grandmother adds, and something in her tone makes you brace yourself. "The Genovian constitution requires the heir to be married before taking the throne."
You choke on the tea you've been sipping. "Married? I'm twenty-one!"
"Which is why, should you accept your title, suitable candidates would be presented immediately."
"Suitable candidates," you repeat incredulously. "You mean arranged marriage?"
"Think of it as... pre-screened dating," your grandmother suggests with a straight face.
"This is insane," you mutter, setting down your cup before you drop it. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about my midterms. Now I'm discussing arranged marriages and constitutional crises."
Your grandmother regards you thoughtfully. "I understand this is overwhelming. You need not decide everything today. Take time to adjust. Learn about Genovia. Meet some of the young men Parliament considers suitable."
"And if I hate them all?"
"Then we face that challenge when it arises," she says diplomatically. "For now, perhaps we can start with dinner. I've invited one potential candidate to join us this evening."
"Seriously? I just got here!"
"Time is a luxury we don't have," your grandmother reminds you. "Prince Jongseong of Astoria is already in Genovia for diplomatic meetings. It's an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."
Your head is spinning. "Prince who of where now?"
Your grandmother hands you a folder. "Astoria is a key ally. A marriage alliance would be most beneficial."
You flip open the folder to find a dossier—an actual dossier—on someone named Prince Jongseong of Astoria. The photograph shows a young man about your age with perfect features and an expression of cool dignity. He's handsome in an intimidating way, like a sculpture you're not allowed to touch.
"Great," you say weakly. "Blind date with a prince. No problem."
The day passes in a blur of instructions, protocol lessons, and people telling you how to walk, talk, sit, and breathe like a princess. By evening, your exhaustion has been replaced by a surreal, floating feeling, as if none of this is actually happening to you.
"Remember," Charlotte reminds you for the hundredth time as you're escorted to the State Dining Room, "curtsy when he's introduced, address him as 'Your Highness' initially, then 'Prince Jongseong' after that. The Queen will lead the conversation."
"What if I just hide under the table?" you suggest. "Blame it on jet lag?"
Charlotte doesn't even acknowledge your joke. "The Prince is known for his diplomatic skill and decorum. Please try to match his level of dignity."
"No pressure there."
The dining room is intimidating—all crystal chandeliers and gold trim. Footmen stand at attention along the walls. Your grandmother already waits at the head of a table that could seat thirty, though only four places are set.
"You look lovely," she tells you, and you resist the urge to tug at the formal dress that feels like a costume.
"I look like someone else," you reply honestly.
"Sometimes appearing royal is the first step to feeling royal," she says, which doesn't make you feel any better.
The doors open, and a court official announces: "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of the House of Park, Crown Prince of Astoria, and Lord High Commissioner of the Eastern Provinces."
Your first thought as he enters: people shouldn't be that perfect-looking in real life. It seems unfair somehow.
Prince Jongseong is tall and moves with unconscious grace. His formal attire—some kind of military dress uniform with medals and sashes—accentuates broad shoulders. His features are even more striking in person—sharp jawline, intense eyes that miss nothing.
You remember to curtsy, wobbling slightly in your heels. When you straighten, his eyes meet yours directly. No smile, just assessment.
"Wait," you blurt out before anyone can speak. "Are we related?"
The room goes absolutely still. Charlotte makes a small choking sound behind you. Your grandmother's expression doesn't change, but her eyes widen slightly.
Prince Jongseong blinks, the only indication that your question has caught him off guard.
"I beg your pardon?" he asks, his voice deeper than you expected, his accent subtle but distinctive.
"Sorry, I just—I'm new to this whole royal thing, and apparently everyone's connected somehow, so I wanted to check if we're like, third cousins or something before this gets weird."
Your grandmother clears her throat. "Prince Jongseong's lineage and the Renaldi family have no direct connection for at least seven generations."
"Oh. Good." You feel your face heating up. "That's... good to know."
Prince Jongseong's expression remains absolutely neutral, but something that might be amusement flickers in his eyes briefly.
"Your Majesty," he addresses your grandmother first, bowing formally. "Thank you for your invitation."
When he turns back to you, you feel suddenly, intensely scrutinized.
"Your Highness," he says, bowing again. "It is an honor to meet the Princess of Genovia."
You're supposed to say something regal in response, but what comes out is: "I only found out I was a princess yesterday, so we're kind of in the same boat there."
Prince Jongseong does something unexpected. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost, but not quite, a smile.
"An unusual circumstance," he acknowledges, his tone carefully neutral but his eyes suddenly more interested. "Though I assure you, the honor remains."
Dinner is a masterclass in awkwardness. Your grandmother and an Astorian diplomat discuss trade agreements while you try to remember which fork to use for each course. Prince Jongseong watches you with those observant eyes but says little.
It's during dessert that he finally addresses you directly.
"I understand you were a university student before this... revelation."
You look up, surprised he's bothered to learn anything about you. "Yes. Political science, ironically enough."
"A useful background for your new role," he comments.
"I was planning to work for a non-profit," you admit. "Not rule a country."
"Few of us choose our destinies," he says, and something in his tone makes you wonder if he's speaking from experience.
After dinner, your grandmother suggests a "stroll through the East Garden" which is apparently royal code for "leaving you alone with your potential suitor while still maintaining proper supervision," as Charlotte and two guards follow at a discreet distance.
The garden is beautiful under the moonlight, with flowering trees and perfectly manicured hedges. You walk in uncomfortable silence until Prince Jongseong speaks.
"You seem overwhelmed."
You laugh, the sound sharper than intended. "What gave it away? The identity crisis or the third cousin question?"
"Both were... illuminating," he replies, and you think you detect a hint of humor beneath his formal tone.
"Sorry about that," you sigh. "This is all just... a lot."
"I can imagine," he says, though you doubt he can. He's probably been a prince his whole life, never wondering who he really is or where he belongs.
"No offense, but this isn't exactly how I planned to spend my week," you tell him honestly. "Twenty-four hours ago, I was a normal college student with student loans and a part-time job. Now I'm having dinner with princes and learning how to curtsy."
"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges, which feels like the understatement of the century.
"Can I ask you something?" you say suddenly.
He inclines his head slightly. "Of course."
"Is it always this weird? Being royal, I mean. Does it ever feel... normal?"
The question seems to surprise him. He considers it seriously before answering.
"I cannot speak to your experience," he says carefully. "I was born into my role, prepared for it from childhood. But even so, there are moments when the weight of responsibility feels... alienating."
It's the most human thing he's said all evening.
"What do you do in those moments?" you ask, genuinely curious.
Something shifts in his expression—a momentary glimpse of a different person behind the perfect princely mask.
"I remember that even a gilded cage is still a cage," he says quietly. "But with the right mindset, it can also be a platform for meaningful change."
You study him more carefully. Maybe there's more to Prince Perfect than you initially thought.
"That's... surprisingly profound," you admit.
The hint of a smile touches his lips again. "You expected shallow platitudes?"
"I don't know what I expected," you say honestly. "Everything about today has been surreal."
"Including meeting a potential husband selected by parliament?" he suggests, and there's definitely a note of dry humor in his voice now.
You can't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's pretty high on the surreal list."
"If it helps," he offers, "I find the situation equally unusual, though perhaps less distressing as I've had longer to adjust to the concept."
"How generous of you," you say sarcastically before you can stop yourself.
To your surprise, a genuine smile briefly transforms his face, making him look younger, more approachable.
"You're very direct," he observes.
"Sorry. New to the royal filter thing."
"It's... refreshing," he admits. "Most people I meet have agendas carefully hidden beneath pleasantries."
"My only agenda is surviving this day without having a complete breakdown," you tell him truthfully.
He stops walking, turning to face you. The moonlight catches the sharp angles of his face, and for a moment, he looks like a real person rather than a perfect royal specimen.
"You're doing better than you think," he says, and it feels like the first completely genuine thing he's said all evening.
The moment stretches between you—something unnamed passing in the silence—before Charlotte clears her throat, reminding you of her presence.
"The Queen will be expecting us to return," she prompts.
Prince Jongseong straightens immediately, mask back in place. "Of course."
As you walk back toward the palace, your hand accidentally brushes his. A small touch, barely nothing, but something unexpected flutters in your stomach. His eyes meet yours briefly, and you wonder if he felt it too.
Back in the formal reception room, he bows over your hand. "It has been a pleasure, Your Highness."
"Likewise, Prince Jongseong," you manage, this time remembering the proper response.
As he prepares to leave, he hesitates, then adds quietly, "Perhaps when we meet again, you might be more accustomed to your title."
-
You wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, momentarily disoriented. The canopied bed, the ornate furniture, the distant sound of voices speaking a language you don't understand—where are you?
Then it hits you like a freight train. Genovia. Palace. Princess.
You groan and pull a pillow over your face. Maybe if you smother yourself with Egyptian cotton, you'll wake up in your cramped apartment with your psychology paper still due and your normal life intact.
A gentle knock at the door shatters that fantasy.
"Your Highness?" Olivia's voice calls. "Her Majesty requests your presence for breakfast in thirty minutes."
You remove the pillow with another groan. "Tell her I've fled the country."
There's a pause. "I... don't think I can say that to the Queen, Your Highness."
Despite everything, you laugh. Poor Olivia, stuck with an unwilling princess who doesn't know the first thing about royal protocol.
"I'll be ready," you call back, dragging yourself out of bed.
The "breakfast room" (because apparently regular dining rooms are insufficient for morning meals) is sunshine-bright and intimidatingly elegant. Your grandmother already sits at the table, reading documents while sipping tea.
"Good morning," she says without looking up. "I trust you slept well?"
"Not really," you admit, slouching into a chair before remembering Charlotte's lecture about posture. You straighten awkwardly, feeling like you're balancing a book on your head.
Your grandmother finally looks at you, one eyebrow arched. "Honesty before coffee. How refreshing."
A servant appears instantly with a cup of steaming coffee prepared exactly how you like it. You stare at it suspiciously.
"How did they know...?"
"Part of the job," your grandmother answers simply. "Knowing what people need before they ask for it."
You take a grateful sip. "At least that's one perk of this princess gig."
Your grandmother sets down her papers. "Your schedule today is quite full. We have much work to do."
"Schedule?" You didn't know you had a schedule.
"Charlotte will brief you after breakfast. But first," she slides a leather portfolio across the table, "Your Genovian citizenship papers, passport, and diplomatic credentials. You'll need to sign where indicated."
You flip open the folder. The first document declares you Princess Y/N Mignonette Renaldi of Genovia, Crown Princess and Royal Heir.
"Mignonette?" You look up, confused. "That's not my middle name."
"It is now," your grandmother says with finality. "A royal name."
You sign where indicated, feeling like you're signing away your old identity with each stroke of the pen.
"There's something else we need to discuss," your grandmother says once you've finished. "Your... public introduction."
"My what now?"
"The people of Genovia must meet their princess. There will be a press conference tomorrow, followed by a formal ball next week."
You choke on your coffee. "Tomorrow? A press conference? I can't—I don't—I'm not ready for that!"
"Which is why today is devoted to preparation," she says calmly. "Diplomatic protocol, Genovian history, public speaking..."
Your appetite vanishes. People—actual citizens of an actual country—are going to be judging whether you're fit to rule them. The thought is paralyzing.
"What if I mess up?" you ask quietly. "What if I embarrass Genovia? Or you?"
Something softens in your grandmother's expression. "You are more capable than you realize." She hesitates, then adds, "Your father was much the same way. Doubting himself, yet exceeding every expectation."
It's the first time she's voluntarily mentioned your father, and the comparison catches you off guard.
"I wish I'd known him," you say before you can stop yourself.
"As do I," she replies softly. "As do I."
The moment of vulnerability passes as quickly as it appeared. She's all business again, consulting her watch.
"Charlotte will meet you in the library in fifteen minutes. And this evening, Prince Jongseong will be joining us for the diplomatic reception."
Your stomach does a weird flip at the mention of his name. "Already? I just met him yesterday."
"He's requested to assist with certain aspects of your diplomatic training," your grandmother explains, a hint of something—amusement? satisfaction?—in her eyes. "The prince has excellent connections throughout Europe. His guidance will be valuable."
"I'm sure," you mutter, wondering what his real agenda is. Nobody volunteers for tutoring duty without an ulterior motive.
-
The dress fitting is endless torture. The royal stylist, Madame Aubert, fusses over fabrics and colors while treating you like a mannequin rather than a person.
"Perhaps the blue? It brings out Her Highness's eyes," she suggests to Charlotte, who nods seriously.
"I like the green one," you interject.
Both women look at you with surprise, as if they'd forgotten you could speak.
"The green is... less traditional," Madame Aubert says diplomatically.
"I'm not exactly a traditional princess," you point out. "Raised in America. Didn't know I was royal until two days ago. Let's embrace the unconventional, shall we?"
Charlotte's lips thin with disapproval, but she doesn't argue. "The green then. With appropriate accessories."
The "appropriate accessories" turn out to be your first tiara—a delicate silver creation with small diamonds that makes your heart skip despite your determination to remain unimpressed by royal trappings.
"This is from the royal collection," Charlotte explains as Madame Aubert carefully places it on your styled hair. "Traditionally worn by princesses at their first official appearance."
You stare at your reflection, this stranger with perfect hair and makeup wearing a genuine tiara. The disconnect between who you were days ago and who you're supposed to be now has never felt more stark.
"What if I can't do this?" you whisper, fear finally breaking through the sarcasm you've been hiding behind.
Charlotte's expression softens slightly. "Everyone feels unprepared for significant change, Your Highness. Even those born to royal life."
"Even Prince Perfect?" you ask before you can stop yourself.
"Prince Jongseong?" Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "Especially him, I suspect. The burdens of Astoria's crown prince are considerable."
You turn to her, surprised by this insight. "What do you mean?"
"Astoria has undergone significant modernization in recent years," Charlotte explains. "Prince Jongseong has been at the forefront of many reforms, often against traditional factions. His reputation for perfectionism is... protective."
This new perspective on the prince is unexpected. You think back to his comment about gilded cages during your garden conversation.
"I misjudged him," you realize aloud.
"First impressions in royal circles are rarely accurate," Charlotte says with surprising gentleness. "We all wear masks of one kind or another."
The conversation is interrupted when your grandmother sweeps in to inspect the dress selection. She surveys you critically, then nods approval.
"The green is unexpected," she notes. "But it suits you. Bold without being inappropriate."
"Thank you," you say, genuinely pleased by her approval.
"Now," she continues briskly, "for this evening's diplomatic reception. There will be approximately fifty guests, primarily ambassadors and foreign dignitaries. You will be introduced formally, then circulate with me for the first hour."
Your momentary confidence evaporates. "Fifty people? Tonight? I barely know how to address half the titles Charlotte's been drilling me on!"
"Consider it practice for tomorrow's press conference," your grandmother replies calmly. "Prince Jongseong has offered to assist you. He knows most of the attendees personally."
Of course he does. Prince Perfect probably emerged from the womb networking with international dignitaries.
-
The diplomatic reception is held in yet another ornate room you haven't seen before. You're beginning to wonder just how many formal spaces one palace needs.
You stand beside your grandmother as Charlotte announces each arrival, desperately trying to remember their titles and countries while maintaining what you hope is a regal posture.
"His Excellency Antoine Dubois, Ambassador of France," Charlotte intones.
A distinguished older man approaches, bowing over your grandmother's hand. "Your Majesty, always a pleasure."
He turns to you with obvious curiosity. "And Your Highness, welcome to Genovia. France looks forward to a long and prosperous relationship with the future Queen."
You manage a decent curtsy. "Thank you, Your Excellency. I look forward to learning more about the historic ties between our nations."
The diplomatic phrase Charlotte drilled into you comes out smoothly, and you feel a small surge of triumph. Maybe you can do this after all.
As more guests arrive, you fall into a rhythm of greetings and basic pleasantries. Your nerves gradually settle—until Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."
He enters looking even more striking than yesterday, dressed in formal evening attire with a subtle military influence. A row of medals decorates his chest, and a blue sash crosses his torso. The effect is both regal and undeniably attractive.
He bows to your grandmother first, then to you, eyes meeting yours with unexpected warmth.
"Your Highness," he says, and there's something almost like approval in his gaze. "You look magnificent."
The compliment catches you off guard. "Thank you. You look... very princelike yourself."
A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. "I try my best."
Your grandmother watches this exchange with interest. "Prince Jongseong, perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce Princess Y/N to some of our Eastern European allies? I believe the Latvian ambassador was hoping to meet her."
"It would be my honor," he replies smoothly.
Your grandmother leans closer to you. "Remember, diplomatic relations are built on personal connections as much as formal agreements," she murmurs. "Use this opportunity to establish yourself."
Great. More pressure.
Prince Jongseong offers his arm, and you take it, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at the contact.
"Nervous?" he asks quietly as he leads you through the crowd.
"Terrified," you admit. "I keep waiting for someone to realize I have no idea what I'm doing."
"A secret of royal life," he replies, his voice low near your ear. "Most of us feel that way. We're just better at hiding it."
You look at him in surprise. "Even you?"
"Especially me," he says, and for a brief moment, his perfect façade slips, revealing something vulnerable beneath. Then it's gone, replaced by his usual composed expression as you approach a group of diplomats.
"Ambassador Petrov," Prince Jongseong greets an imposing man with a silver beard. "May I present Her Royal Highness, Princess Y/N of Genovia?"
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions and carefully navigated conversations. Prince Jongseong remains at your side, smoothly guiding interactions and occasionally rescuing you with well-timed interventions when you falter.
During a brief moment alone while getting drinks, you turn to him. "Thank you. For... all this." You gesture vaguely at the room.
"You're doing remarkably well," he says. "Most people would have fled the country by now."
"Don't think I haven't considered it," you mutter, making him smile.
"What's stopping you?"
You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. Maybe... responsibility? My grandmother needs me. Genovia needs me. Running away seems selfish."
He studies you thoughtfully. "That sense of duty will make you an excellent ruler someday."
"If I survive princess lessons," you joke weakly.
"You will," he says with surprising conviction. "And perhaps along the way, you might even find aspects of royal life to enjoy."
"Like what? The constant scrutiny? The lack of privacy? The arranged marriages?"
His expression shifts at that last point. "Not all royal marriages are purely political these days. There can be... compatibility considerations."
"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly, gesturing between you. "A 'compatibility assessment'?"
He doesn't answer immediately, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would prefer to think of it as... getting to know each other without predetermined expectations."
"Except for the fact that my grandmother and your government clearly have expectations," you point out.
"True," he acknowledges. "But perhaps we could set those aside, temporarily. See if there's more between us than diplomatic advantage."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "And if there isn't?"
"Then we remain allies with mutual respect," he says simply. "No one can force a marriage in the modern era, regardless of constitutional requirements."
Before you can respond, Charlotte approaches. "Your Highness, the Prime Minister has arrived and wishes to pay his respects."
Prince Jongseong steps back slightly. "We should continue this conversation another time."
"I'd like that," you admit, surprised by your own honesty.
He bows formally, but his eyes hold something warmer. "Until tomorrow, Princess Y/N."
-
The press conference is a blur of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Despite your fears of public humiliation, you somehow manage to survive it—stumbling only twice over Genovian pronunciations and making just one awkward joke that, thankfully, the press seems to find charming rather than offensive.
"You were marvelous," your grandmother tells you afterward, her approval warming you despite your exhaustion.
"Really? Because I think I just agreed to visit a children's hospital tomorrow and I have no idea what a royal visit actually entails."
"Charlotte will brief you," she says dismissively. "The important thing is that you appeared genuine. The people responded to that."
You think back to Prince Jongseong's advice about authenticity over perfection. Maybe he was right after all.
"Speaking of Prince Jongseong," your grandmother continues, with that same hint of calculation in her eyes, "he's arranged for a tour of Genovia's historical districts tomorrow evening. The royal council believes it would be beneficial for you to be seen engaging with our cultural heritage."
"The royal council believes," you repeat skeptically. "Or you believe?"
Your grandmother's lips twitch. "Let's say our interests align in this particular matter."
You roll your eyes. "You're not exactly subtle about this matchmaking attempt."
"Subtlety is a luxury afforded to those with time," she replies. "We have precious little of that."
She's not wrong. The constitutional deadline looms over every decision, every interaction. Sometimes you forget that your grandmother faces the end of her life's work—the dissolution of a monarchy that has stood for centuries—if you don't step up to the challenge.
"Fine," you concede. "I'll go on the royal field trip. But don't expect me to fall madly in love just because he knows his way around old buildings."
"I expect nothing," your grandmother says innocently. "Though I would point out that an appreciation for history is an admirable quality in a potential consort."
That night, sleep remains elusive despite your exhaustion. Your mind keeps cycling through the day's events, replaying moments of triumph and embarrassment in equal measure. After tossing and turning for hours, you finally give up and slip out of bed.
The palace is different at night—quieter, less intimidating without the constant hustle of staff and royal obligations. You wrap a robe around your pajamas and venture into the hallway, nodding to the security guard who pretends not to notice your disheveled state.
Without any real destination in mind, you wander through dimly lit corridors, enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Somehow, you find yourself at a set of glass doors leading to the garden where you walked with Prince Jongseong that first night.
The garden is silvered with moonlight, the formal hedges casting complex shadows across manicured lawns. You step outside, breathing in the scent of night-blooming flowers, and follow a stone path deeper into the grounds.
You've just discovered a charming fountain featuring a mermaid when a voice behind you says, "You couldn't sleep either?"
You whirl around, startled, to find Prince Jongseong standing a few feet away. He's dressed casually—at least by his standards—in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the collar. With his hair slightly mussed and his perfect posture somewhat relaxed, he looks younger, more approachable.
"You scared me," you accuse, pressing a hand to your racing heart.
"My apologies," he says, taking a step closer. "I didn't expect anyone else to be out here at this hour."
"That makes two of us," you reply, suddenly conscious of your own appearance—hair hastily tied back, face bare of makeup, wearing palace-issued silk pajamas under a matching robe. Not exactly how you'd choose to encounter the frustratingly perfect prince.
"I watched the press conference," he says, changing the subject. "You did well."
"I stumbled over 'agricultural initiatives' and called the Finance Minister 'sir' instead of 'minister,'" you point out.
His mouth quirks in that almost-smile that's becoming familiar. "And yet, you were authentic. The people responded to that."
"That's almost exactly what my grandmother said."
"The Queen is a perceptive woman."
You study him in the moonlight, curious about this less formal version of the prince. "Do you always wander palace gardens at midnight?"
"Only when sleep proves elusive," he admits. He hesitates, then adds, "The demands of royal life can be... difficult to quiet."
"Tell me about it," you sigh, sitting on the edge of the fountain. After a moment's hesitation, he joins you, maintaining a respectful distance. "Two days ago, my biggest worry was my political theory midterm. Now I'm worried about constitutional crises and diplomatic incidents."
"It's a significant adjustment," he acknowledges.
"That's the understatement of the century," you laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "Everyone keeps acting like I should just accept all this—the title, the responsibility, the arranged marriage—like it's perfectly normal."
He's quiet for a moment, then asks, "May I speak candidly, Your Highness?"
"Please. And maybe drop the 'Your Highness' when we're alone? It's weird enough without the constant reminders."
He nods, then says, "Y/N, then." Your name in his voice, without the royal title, sends an unexpected shiver down your spine. "The truth is, none of this is normal. Not even for those of us raised in it. We're just better at pretending."
"You're saying you hate it too?" you ask skeptically.
"Not hate," he corrects. "But there are... challenges. Expectations. Sacrifices."
"Like what?"
He stares at the fountain, watching moonlight play across the water. "Privacy. Freedom to choose one's own path. The luxury of mistakes."
You study his profile, seeing something vulnerable in his expression that's never visible during daylight hours. "So why do it?"
"Duty," he says simply. "Family. The knowledge that privilege comes with responsibility."
"That sounds rehearsed," you observe.
To your surprise, he laughs—a genuine sound that transforms his face. "Perhaps because I've been repeating it to myself since childhood."
Your curiosity grows. "What would you have chosen? If you weren't born a prince?"
The question seems to catch him off guard. He considers it seriously. "I've never allowed myself to think about it. But perhaps... music."
"Music?" That wasn't what you expected.
"I play piano," he admits, sounding almost embarrassed. "Classically trained, of course, as all proper princes must be. But I find myself drawn to composing. It's... freeing."
You try to imagine Prince Perfect hunched over a piano, lost in music of his own creation, and the image is strangely compelling.
"Will you play for me sometime?" you ask impulsively.
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, certainly, but something else too. Something warmer. "If you wish."
"I do," you say, surprised by your own sincerity.
A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the gentle splashing of the fountain. Without the pressure of formal events and watchful eyes, you find yourself relaxing in his presence.
"What about you?" he asks eventually. "If you weren't suddenly thrust into royal life, what would you have chosen?"
"I was studying political science," you remind him. "I wanted to work in international development. Help people who are overlooked by traditional power structures."
"Noble aims," he observes.
"Now I sound like the one with rehearsed answers," you laugh.
"No," he says softly. "You sound like someone with genuine conviction." He pauses, then adds, "Someone who would make an excellent queen."
The compliment catches you off guard. "You barely know me."
"I'm a good judge of character," he replies. "It's a necessary skill in diplomatic circles."
"Is that what this is?" you ask boldly. "Diplomacy?"
His eyes meet yours, and something electric passes between you. "Not entirely," he admits.
"This is something unexpected," he says finally, his voice lower than before.
The air between you feels charged with possibility. You're acutely aware of his proximity, of the slight gap in his collar revealing a glimpse of collarbone, of the way moonlight catches in his eyes.
"Jongseong," you say, testing his name without the princely title. It feels intimate somehow, crossing an invisible boundary. "Why did you volunteer to help with my training?"
He doesn't answer immediately. When he does, his honesty surprises you. "Initially, for diplomatic reasons. An alliance between Genovia and Astoria would benefit both nations." He hesitates, then adds, "But after meeting you... my motivations became more personal."
"How personal?" you press, heart racing.
Instead of answering, he reaches out slowly, giving you time to pull away, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. His fingertips graze your cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
"Personal enough that I find myself in gardens at midnight, hoping for a chance encounter," he admits quietly.
You don't realize you've been holding your breath until you exhale shakily. "That's... quite personal."
His gaze drops to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. "May I..." he begins, then hesitates.
"Yes," you whisper, not needing him to finish the question.
He leans in slowly, deliberately, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is gentle, questioning, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You don't. Instead, you find yourself leaning into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest where you can feel his heart beating as rapidly as your own. The kiss deepens, becoming something more urgent, more honest than any interaction you've had since arriving in Genovia.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing unevenly. Jongseong rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment.
"That was..." he begins.
"Unexpected?" you suggest, echoing his earlier word.
He laughs softly. "Yes. Though perhaps inevitable."
"Is this going to cause an international incident?" you ask, only half-joking.
"Only if we let it," he replies, drawing back slightly to meet your eyes. "This... whatever is developing between us... it needs to be separate from politics. At least for now."
"Can it be?" you wonder aloud. "Everything about our lives is political."
"Not everything," he says firmly. "Not this." He takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "When we're alone, I'd like to just be Jongseong. Not Prince Jongseong of Astoria with all its attendant expectations."
The vulnerability in his request touches something in you. "I'd like that."
"My friends at school used to call me Jay," he admits, sounding almost shy. "No one here uses that name."
The nickname humanizes him instantly, creating a contrast with the formal prince everyone else sees.
"Jay," you repeat, testing it on your tongue. His eyes darken at the sound of his nickname in your voice. "I like it."
"May I kiss you again... Y/N?" he asks, your name without titles sounding intimate in his accented voice.
In answer, you close the distance between you, kissing him with more confidence this time. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands that are usually so perfectly styled.
You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his mouth against yours, his hands tracing patterns on your back through the thin silk of your robe. There's an urgency building between you, a heat that makes you forget your surroundings, your circumstances, everything but the feeling of being in his arms.
It's the distant sound of a guard's footsteps that finally brings you back to reality. You pull apart quickly, both breathing heavily. Jongseong's hair is mussed from your fingers, his lips slightly swollen, and there's a flush across his cheekbones that you've never seen before.
"We should probably go back inside," you say reluctantly, glancing toward the sound. "Before someone finds us."
He nods, though he looks as unwilling as you feel. "You're right." He stands, offering you his hand to help you up. "Though I find myself wishing for more midnight encounters."
"Is that a royal request?" you tease, accepting his help.
"A personal one," he corrects, bringing your joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.
-
The historical districts of Genovia are charming beyond your expectations—cobblestone streets, centuries-old architecture, and views of both mountains and sea that take your breath away. But if you're being honest, you're far more aware of your tour guide than the sights.
Jongseong—or Jay, as you've begun to think of him in your private thoughts—appears perfectly princely today, back in formal attire with his public mask firmly in place. If not for the occasional heated glance when no one is watching, you might think you dreamed last night's encounter.
"This cathedral dates back to the 14th century," he explains as you enter a soaring space of stained glass and ancient stone. "The Renaldi family has traditionally been crowned here since 1523."
"Where I'll be crowned," you murmur, the reality of your future suddenly pressing in.
His expression softens briefly. "Yes. Though not for many years, one hopes."
The palace security detail keeps a discreet distance, but they're ever-present, along with several photographers approved to document your cultural education for the Genovian press. Every movement, every interaction is observed, recorded, analyzed.
"How do you stand it?" you ask quietly as you move between exhibits in a historical museum. "The constant scrutiny."
"You develop a public self," he explains, maintaining a proper distance as he guides you through a display of royal artifacts. "A version that can withstand examination."
"And the real self?"
His eyes meet yours briefly, intensely. "That remains private. Shared only with those who have earned trust."
The implication isn't lost on you. Last night, he showed you something real—something beyond the perfect prince facade. The knowledge feels like a precious secret.
The tour concludes with dinner at a historical restaurant overlooking the harbor. Security has cleared the establishment of other patrons, creating an illusion of privacy that you both know is false. Still, sitting across from him as sunset paints the water gold, you find moments of genuine connection between the formal conversation about Genovian history and culture.
"You've memorized a remarkable amount about Genovia," you observe as he explains the significance of an ancient trading route.
"I studied your country extensively after learning of your existence," he admits. "I wanted to be prepared."
"For what?"
"To meet you," he says simply.
Something warm unfurls in your chest. "That's... thorough."
"I prefer to be informed," he replies, but there's a hint of self-deprecating humor in his tone. "Though I confess, no amount of research prepared me for the reality."
"Disappointed?" you ask, only half-joking.
"Quite the opposite." His gaze is steady, sincere. "You continually surprise me, Y/N. It's... refreshing."
The way he says your name, without titles or pretense, sends a thrill through you despite the public setting.
After dinner, as you're escorted back to the palace, the car's privacy partition offers a brief moment of seclusion from watchful eyes. Jongseong's hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining.
"I wish we could have a normal evening," he says quietly. "Without guards and photographers. Just the two of us."
"Is anything about our lives ever going to be normal?" you wonder aloud.
He squeezes your hand gently. "Probably not. But we might find moments of normalcy in the chaos."
The car slows as you approach the palace gates, and reluctantly, he releases your hand. The mask of royal propriety falls back into place with practiced ease.
"Thank you for the tour, Prince Jongseong," you say formally as the car stops at the palace entrance. "It was most educational."
"The pleasure was mine, Your Highness," he replies with equal formality, though his eyes convey a very different message.
Later that night, you find yourself drawn once again to the garden, hoping for a repeat of the previous evening's encounter. The fountain beckons with memories of his kiss, but the garden remains empty save for the ever-present palace guards.
Disappointed, you turn to head back inside when you notice something on the bench by the fountain—a folded piece of paper tucked partially beneath a small stone. Looking around to ensure no one is watching, you retrieve it, unfolding it quickly.
Inside, in elegant handwriting: Piano room, east wing, midnight. —J
Your pulse quickens. The east wing houses several music rooms, according to Charlotte's exhaustive palace tour. It would be simple enough to find your way there.
It would also be reckless, improper, and potentially scandalous if discovered.
You fold the note carefully, tucking it into your pocket, and head back inside, decision already made.
The palace at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows and silence. You've changed from your formal evening attire into something more comfortable—dark jeans and a simple blouse that feels like armor after days of princess couture. With your hair loose and face scrubbed of makeup, you almost recognize yourself again.
You navigate the corridors carefully, grateful for Charlotte's detailed palace tour. The east wing is older, with fewer guards patrolling its halls. The music room isn't difficult to find—soft piano notes guide you to a partially open door.
Inside, lit only by a single lamp, Jongseong sits at a grand piano. He's shed his formal attire for dark pants and a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hair falls loose across his forehead as he plays, eyes closed in concentration.
The melody is hauntingly beautiful—melancholy yet hopeful, complex yet accessible. You stand in the doorway, transfixed by this version of him you've never seen before—completely unguarded, lost in his music.
When the piece ends, his eyes open and find you immediately, as if he sensed your presence all along.
"You came," he says simply.
"I came," you confirm, stepping fully into the room and closing the door quietly behind you.
He remains seated at the piano, watching as you approach. "Did anyone see you?"
"Just the guard outside my room. I told him I was going to the library."
He nods, satisfied. "That was beautiful," you add, gesturing to the piano. "What was it?"
"Something I've been working on," he admits, looking almost shy. "It's not finished yet."
"You composed that?" You're genuinely impressed.
"Music has always been... an escape," he explains. "Somewhere I can express things I can't say aloud."
"What was that piece saying?" you ask, perching on the edge of the piano bench beside him.
He considers this, fingers ghosting over the keys without pressing them. "It's about living between worlds. Belonging fully to neither." His eyes meet yours. "I started it the night we met."
The admission sends warmth flooding through you. "Play more?" you request softly.
Instead, he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I'd rather talk. Without titles or expectations or diplomatic considerations."
"What should we talk about... Jay?" His nickname feels intimate on your tongue.
His eyes darken at your use of the name. "Anything. Everything. Who you were before Genovia. Who you hope to become."
So you talk—really talk—in a way you haven't been able to since arriving in Genovia. You tell him about college, your friends, your dreams of working in international development. He shares stories of his childhood in Astoria, the weight of expectation, the moments of rebellion carefully hidden from public view.
"I crashed a motorcycle when I was seventeen," he admits, and you try to reconcile this image with the perfect prince you first met. "Snuck out of the palace, borrowed a security guard's bike, ended up with three broken ribs and a lecture from my father I still haven't forgotten."
"I can't imagine you being that reckless," you laugh.
"I'm not, usually," he acknowledges. "But sometimes the pressure builds until something has to give."
You understand that feeling all too well. "What happened after?"
"I was sent to military academy to 'channel my energies appropriately,'" he says with a wry smile. "It actually helped. Gave me structure, purpose beyond simply being the crown prince."
As you talk, the distance between you gradually diminishes. His hand finds yours again, thumb tracing patterns on your palm that send shivers up your arm. Your shoulders touch, then your knees. The air between you grows charged with possibility.
"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," he admits, voice dropping lower. "About kissing you."
"Neither have I," you confess.
This time, there's no hesitation. He leans in, capturing your lips with his, one hand coming up to cup your face. The kiss deepens immediately, as if you're both making up for lost time. You shift closer on the bench, your hand finding its way to his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palm.
His kisses are more confident than the night before, exploring rather than questioning. Your fingers thread through his hair, marveling at its softness. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you open to him without hesitation, a small sound of pleasure escaping you.
The bench is awkward, limiting movement, so when he pulls back slightly, breathing heavily, you stand, tugging him with you. He follows willingly, but instead of returning to your kiss, he guides you to a small sofa in the corner of the room.
"More comfortable," he explains, settling beside you.
This new position allows for closer contact. When his lips find yours again, his arm wraps around your waist, drawing you against him. Your bodies align perfectly, and heat builds between you with each passing moment. His kisses move from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, discovering sensitive spots that make you gasp.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your skin.
"More than okay," you assure him, tilting your head to give him better access.
Your hands explore hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence—the broad expanse of his shoulders, the firm muscles of his chest, the surprising warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His own explorations become bolder, one hand sliding up your side, thumb brushing the outer curve of your breast.
Even this innocent touch sends electricity through you. You arch into his hand, silently encouraging more. He obeys your wordless request, cupping you fully through your blouse, thumb circling in a way that makes you bite your lip to stay quiet.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, eyes dark with desire. "From the moment I saw you..."
You silence him with another kiss, not trusting yourself with words. Your body is taking control, wants overwhelming rational thought. When his hand slips beneath the hem of your blouse, warm against your bare skin, you shiver with anticipation.
His fingers trace patterns up your ribcage, hesitating at the edge of your bra. "May I?" he asks, ever the gentleman even in this moment.
"Yes," you breathe, beyond caring about propriety or consequences.
The first touch of his hand against your bare breast draws a soft moan from you that he captures with his mouth. His thumb circles your nipple through the thin lace, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You press closer, wanting more, needing more.
Your own hands grow bolder, tugging his shirt from his waistband, slipping beneath to explore the warm skin of his back. You feel the subtle ridge of a scar near his shoulder blade, a humanizing imperfection that makes him even more attractive somehow.
"What's this from?" you ask, fingertips tracing the mark.
"Fencing accident," he murmurs against your neck. "Age twelve. Opponent didn't pull his strike."
You press your lips to his jaw, then his neck, enjoying the way his breath catches. "Any other scars I should know about?"
His laugh is low, slightly uneven. "Several. But discovering them might require more privacy than a music room allows."
The reminder of your surroundings is like a splash of cold water. Anyone could walk in—a guard, a staff member, your grandmother. The scandal would be immediate and irreparable.
Reluctantly, you pull back slightly, though your body protests the loss of contact. "You're right. This isn't the place."
His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily. "I got carried away," he admits. "You have a... significant effect on me."
"Likewise," you assure him, pressing one more quick kiss to his lips before putting slight distance between you. "But you're right. We should be careful."
He helps you straighten your clothes, then adjusts his own, running a hand through his disheveled hair in a futile attempt to tame it. The sight of him—rumpled, flushed, looking nothing like the perfect prince the world knows—fills you with a secret satisfaction.
"When can I see you again?" he asks, taking your hand. "Like this, I mean. Just us."
"I don't know," you admit. "My schedule is packed for the next few days. Royal duties and all that."
"I have to return to Astoria briefly," he tells you, disappointment evident in his voice. "Diplomatic matters requiring the crown prince's attention. But I'll be back for the royal ball."
The royal ball—your official introduction to Genovian society. The thought fills you with anxiety, but now also anticipation at the prospect of seeing him again.
"Dance with me at the ball?" you request.
"Every dance they'll allow," he promises. He hesitates, then adds, "Though propriety will demand you dance with other suitable candidates as well."
"Other suitors, you mean," you clarify, the political reality of your situation reasserting itself.
His expression tightens slightly, but he nods. "Yes. The royal council will expect you to consider all options."
"And what do you expect?" you challenge softly.
His answer is immediate and sincere. "Only that you follow your heart, wherever it leads." He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Even if it's not to me."
The selflessness of this statement catches you off guard. "That's... not what I expected you to say."
"What did you expect?"
"Something more possessive, maybe," you admit. "More princelike."
He smiles, that real smile that transforms his face. "I'm trying very hard not to be the prince with you, remember? Just Jay."
"Well, Just Jay," you say, returning his smile, "I can't make any promises about where my heart will lead. But right now, it seems rather fixated on a certain piano-playing prince with surprisingly skilled hands."
-
The next few days pass in a blur of preparations. There are fittings for your ball gown (a process that involves no fewer than seven people and countless discussions of hemlines and necklines and something called "appropriate royal décolletage"). There are dance lessons with Monsieur Laurent, who seems personally offended that Prince Jongseong isn't there to partner you. There are briefings about every guest who will attend, complete with flash cards for memorizing names and titles.
"The Duchess of Wellington prefers to discuss her charitable foundation, not her recent divorce," Charlotte instructs as you review the guest list. "And under no circumstances ask the Spanish ambassador about Gibraltar."
"This is worse than finals week," you grumble, flipping through the stack of cards. "At least then I was only tested on one subject at a time."
"Society is judging you on everything simultaneously," Charlotte confirms cheerfully. "Appearance, knowledge, grace, diplomacy..."
"Thanks. That's very reassuring."
The night before the ball, you find yourself restless, missing both Jay's presence and the calming effect of your midnight conversations. Over the past month, you've grown accustomed to his company, to having someone who understands both your old world and your new one. This week without him has left you feeling strangely adrift.
You wander down to the music room, hoping to recapture some of that peace, but the room feels empty without him. You sit at the piano, pressing random keys, creating nothing like the beautiful melodies he coaxed from the instrument. On impulse, you check under the bench, then inside the piano itself, hoping for another note, but find nothing.
It's silly to feel disappointed. He's a crown prince with actual responsibilities, not a lovestruck teenager leaving notes for his crush. Still, you can't help wishing for some connection, some indication that he's thinking of you too.
Back in your room, you're about to climb into bed when there's a soft knock at your door. Olivia enters with a small silver tray.
"This just arrived for you, Your Highness," she says, presenting what appears to be a letter sealed with dark blue wax.
Your heart skips as you recognize the crest pressed into the seal—the royal emblem of Astoria. You wait until Olivia leaves before breaking it open with trembling fingers.
Inside, written in that now-familiar elegant handwriting:
Y/N,
Diplomatic obligations keep me in Astoria longer than anticipated, but I'll return tomorrow in time for the ball. Save a dance for me—preferably more than one.
This week has felt like an eternity. I've missed our conversations, our moments away from public scrutiny. I find myself at my piano each night, working on the piece I started after we met. It's nearly complete now. Perhaps I'll play it for you soon.
The past month has been unexpected in every way. When I first agreed to my father's request to help with your royal transition, I never imagined...
Some things are better said in person. Until tomorrow, J
P.S. I still feel your touch on my skin.
-
The day of the royal ball arrives with military precision. Your schedule is planned down to the minute—when you'll bathe (9:15 AM), when your hair will be styled (11:30 AM), when makeup will be applied (2:45 PM). It's as if you're a product being assembled rather than a person preparing for an event.
"I can bathe myself, you know," you inform Charlotte when she reviews the schedule over breakfast. "I've been doing it successfully for two decades."
"Today is not about efficiency, Your Highness," Charlotte replies. "It's about tradition. The royal ball has marked the formal introduction of new members of the royal family for generations."
You think about Jay's letter, tucked safely under your pillow. Tonight isn't just about tradition for you. After a month in the palace, you've reached a turning point—not just in your royal journey, but in whatever is developing between you and Jay.
The day progresses according to schedule, each hour bringing you closer to the evening's festivities. By the time you're finally dressed, you hardly recognize yourself in the mirror.
Your ball gown is a masterpiece of midnight blue silk that seems to change colors as you move—now sapphire, now indigo, now almost black. The bodice is fitted, adorned with subtle crystal beading that catches the light like stars, while the skirt flows outward in graceful folds. Your hair has been swept up in an elegant style that manages to look both regal and youthful, and atop it all sits a delicate tiara—platinum vines intertwined with small diamonds.
"You look every inch a princess," your grandmother declares when she sees you, genuine approval warming her voice.
"I feel like I'm wearing someone else's life," you admit.
She approaches, adjusting your tiara slightly. "It is your life now. You've taken to it more naturally than anyone expected—including yourself, I suspect."
There's a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder how much she's guessed about your feelings for Jay. Your grandmother misses little, and your increasingly frequent "diplomatic discussions" with Prince Jongseong over the past month have hardly been subtle.
"Remember," she continues, "tonight you represent not just yourself, but Genovia. Every interaction matters."
"No pressure," you mutter.
"Considerable pressure," she corrects, but with a hint of a smile. "That's the nature of our position."
The ball is being held in the palace's Grand Ballroom, a space so opulent it makes even the other royal rooms seem understated in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Massive floral arrangements perfume the air. A full orchestra plays softly as guests begin to arrive.
You stand with your grandmother at the entrance, greeting each person as Charlotte announces them. Your hand is kissed so many times it begins to feel like a separate entity from your body. You cycle through the diplomatic phrases you've memorized, trying to match names to faces to countries to appropriate topics of conversation.
You continue greeting guests, anxiety gradually giving way to a strange confidence. After a month of intensive training, you're actually doing this—being a princess, representing Genovia, handling diplomatic small talk without major incident. The realization is both surprising and empowering.
And then finally, after what feels like hours, Charlotte announces, "His Royal Highness, Prince Jongseong of Astoria."
Your heart stutters as he appears, resplendent in formal attire—a midnight blue military-style jacket with silver accents that perfectly complements your gown, as if coordinated. (Knowing your grandmother's attention to detail, it probably was.) He looks every inch the crown prince, and yet all you can see is Jay—your Jay—hidden beneath the formal facade.
His eyes find yours immediately, warming in a way that feels intimate despite the crowded room. He bows formally to your grandmother, exchanging pleasantries, before turning to you.
"Your Highness," he says, taking your hand. Instead of the customary kiss to your knuckles, he turns your hand gently and presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, just above your pulse point.
The gesture is technically within the bounds of protocol but charged with meaning only you understand. You feel your heartbeat quicken beneath his lips, and know he can feel it too.
"Prince Jongseong," you manage, your voice steadier than you expected. "Welcome back to Genovia."
"I understand congratulations are in order," he says smoothly. "The press has been most favorable regarding your public appearances this week."
"The princess has exceeded expectations," your grandmother agrees, watching this interaction with interest.
His eyes never leave yours. "I'm not surprised."
The moment stretches between you, full of unspoken feelings built over these past weeks, before Charlotte's announcement of the next guest breaks the spell. Jay bows again and moves into the ballroom, but not before one last glance that promises more to come.
Once all guests have arrived, the formal dancing begins. Your grandmother opens the ball with the Prime Minister, and then it's your turn. Tradition dictates that your first dance be with the highest-ranking unmarried nobleman present—which happens to be Jay.
He approaches as the orchestra begins a stately waltz, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Your Highness?"
You place your hand in his, grateful for all those practice sessions over the past month. "You may."
His hand settles at your waist, familiar yet different in this public setting. You move together perfectly, your earlier clumsiness long gone, replaced by a confidence born of compatibility and practice.
"You look breathtaking," he says quietly as he guides you through a turn. "That color suits you."
"Thank you. You look..." You search for a word that encompasses how he affects you without being inappropriate for public consumption. "Regal."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Is that a compliment or a complaint?"
"Both," you admit. "I miss Jay. Prince Jongseong is very impressive, but..."
"But not who you want to be with," he finishes, understanding immediately. His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "He's still here. Just... constrained by circumstance."
"Can he break free later?" you ask boldly. "Perhaps after the ball?"
His eyes darken. "He'll find a way."
The orchestra's final notes signal the end of your dance, forcing you to separate. Jay bows formally, though his eyes convey much more intimate thoughts.
"Until later, Princess," he says, voice low with promise.
The rest of the evening becomes an exercise in diplomatic multitasking. You dance with Prince Nikolai, finding his conversation refreshingly direct. You dance with the French ambassador's son, the Duke of Wellington, and several other names from your grandmother's list of suitable candidates.
Each dance, each conversation, feels like a performance—you playing the role of princess, potential bride, future queen. Only your brief interactions with Jay feel real, though these are limited to passing glances and the occasional comment as you move in the same diplomatic circles.
During a momentary respite, you find yourself near a set of French doors leading to a terrace. Needing air and solitude, you slip outside, grateful for the cool night breeze after the stuffiness of the ballroom.
You've only enjoyed the peace for a moment when a familiar voice says, "Escaping your own ball?"
You turn to find Jay stepping through the doors, looking concerned.
"Just taking a short break," you assure him. "It's a lot to process."
He glances back at the ballroom, then joins you at the stone balustrade. "We shouldn't be alone together," he says, though he makes no move to leave. "Not where anyone might see."
"Yet here you are," you point out.
"Here I am," he agrees. "Unable to stay away despite knowing better."
You study his profile in the moonlight, drinking in the details you've missed during his week away. The strong line of his jaw, the perfect posture that somehow looks less rigid tonight, the subtle way his eyes soften when they meet yours.
"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.
His expression gentles. "And I you. Far more than I anticipated."
You glance back at the ballroom, where hundreds of guests dance and mingle, all potential witnesses to this private moment. "A week felt longer than I expected."
"I composed three new pieces," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Music seems to flow more easily when I'm... feeling something intensely."
"Is that your princely way of saying you thought about me?" you tease.
He turns to face you fully, close enough that you can see the subtle variations of color in his eyes, even in the dim light. "I thought about little else."
Your heart skips at the naked honesty in his voice. Over the past month, you've learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression, to understand what lies beneath his carefully controlled exterior. Tonight, he's making no effort to hide his feelings.
"The ball is beautiful," you say, changing the subject before you do something reckless like kiss him where anyone might see. "I'm surprised I haven't completely embarrassed Genovia yet."
"You could never," he assures you. "You've taken to royal life with remarkable grace."
"I've had a good teacher," you reply, holding his gaze meaningfully.
He steps closer, close enough that the skirt of your gown brushes against his legs. "There's a small courtyard beyond this terrace," he says, his voice low. "More private than here. Would you walk with me? Just for a moment?"
You know you shouldn't. You're the guest of honor at a ball being held in your honor. People will notice your absence. And yet...
"Lead the way," you decide, throwing caution aside.
He offers his arm with perfect formal correctness, as if you're simply taking a proper turn around the terrace. But once you're beyond the sight of the French doors, his hand covers yours where it rests on his arm, a much more intimate touch.
The courtyard is small and enclosed, lit only by the moonlight and a few distant lanterns. A fountain burbles quietly at its center, surrounded by hedges that provide welcome privacy. The music from the ballroom is muffled here, creating the illusion that you've stepped into another world.
The moment you're properly hidden from view, Jay turns to you, one hand coming up to cup your cheek.
"I've been waiting to do this all evening," he murmurs, before his lips find yours.
The kiss is gentle at first, a reacquaintance after a week apart. But it quickly deepens, a month of growing desire making you both less cautious than you should be. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer. His hands settle at your waist, respectful even in passion.
"I missed this," you breathe against his mouth. "Missed you. The real you."
"I'm most real when I'm with you," he confesses, forehead resting against yours. "Everywhere else, I'm playing a role."
"Even in Astoria?"
"Especially there," he sighs. "My father has... specific expectations about how the crown prince should behave."
You pull back slightly to study his face. "You never talk about your father."
A shadow crosses his expression. "There's little to say. He is a traditional ruler with traditional views."
"About Astoria? Or about who you should marry?" you ask, cutting to what you suspect is the heart of the matter.
Jay's silence answers your question.
"He doesn't approve of me," you realize. "Of us."
"He doesn't know you," Jay corrects gently. "He sees only the diplomatic equation—a princess with an uncertain claim versus more established alliances."
The reality of your situation crashes back. No matter how genuine your feelings, how perfect this stolen moment, politics surrounds you both like the walls of this courtyard.
"And what do you see?" you ask, steeling yourself for his answer.
His hands frame your face, his gaze unwavering. "I see you. Not the princess, not the diplomatic opportunity. Just you—stubborn, honest, intelligent, beautiful you."
The sincerity in his voice melts your defenses. You reach up to touch his face, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone with your fingertips.
"When did this happen?" you wonder aloud. "When did you become so important to me?"
He turns his head to kiss your palm. "I don't know. Somewhere between your first disastrous curtsy and the moment you called me Jay instead of Prince Jongseong."
"It was the piano playing," you decide with a small smile. "I'm a sucker for musicians."
He laughs softly, the sound warming you from within. "I'll compose symphonies for you, if that's what it takes."
"Takes for what?" you challenge gently.
His expression grows serious. "To convince you that what's between us is worth fighting for, regardless of politics or convenience or royal expectations."
The weight of his words settles over you. A month ago, you were a college student worrying about midterms. Now you're a princess with constitutional responsibilities, standing in a moonlit courtyard with a prince who's looking at you like you're the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
"Jay," you start, not sure what you're going to say.
"Don't answer now," he interrupts softly. "There's still time. Still much we both need to consider."
He's right, of course. The constitutional deadline looms, but it's still weeks away. Tonight isn't the time for final decisions.
"We should return," he says reluctantly. "Your absence will be noticed."
"Yours too," you point out. "The dashing Crown Prince of Astoria is quite popular, I've noticed."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "Jealous?"
"Should I be?"
His answer is another kiss, deeper than before, his arms pulling you flush against him. When he finally releases you, you're both breathing heavily.
His eyes darken. "Meet me in the music room. One hour after the ball ends."
Your breath catches. "That's... quite direct."
"You asked," he reminds you, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Will you come?"
The music is drawing to a close, your time together nearly over. "Yes,"
-
Once alone, you change from your nightgown into something less formal but still respectable—dark pants and a simple blouse. You check the clock. Forty minutes until you're supposed to meet Jay in the music room. Enough time to let the palace settle, for guards to assume their night positions, for suspicion to fade.
The music room is dark when you arrive, only a single lamp burning low near the piano. For a moment, you think you've arrived first—then you spot him, standing by the window, looking out at the gardens below.
"Jay," you say softly.
He turns, and the expression on his face makes your heart skip. He crosses the room in a few long strides, and then his arms are around you, his lips on yours, and all pretense of formality evaporates.
This kiss is different from those that came before—less hesitant, more certain. A month of growing feelings, a week of separation, an evening of pretending indifference—all of it culminates in this moment of honesty between you.
When you finally part, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all night."
"Even during our dances?" you tease.
"Especially then," he admits. "Having you so close, yet having to maintain proper distance... it was excruciating."
You laugh softly. "Poor prince. Such diplomatic hardship."
"You have no idea," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "The things I wanted to say to you..."
"Say them now," you encourage, pulling back slightly to see his face.
He studies you in the dim light, his expression serious. "I don't want to overwhelm you."
"Try me," you challenge.
He takes a breath, then leads you to the small sofa where you've sat during previous late-night conversations. Once you're settled side by side, he takes your hand, his thumb tracing patterns on your palm.
"When my father first suggested I assist with your royal transition, I saw it as a diplomatic assignment," he begins. "Astoria helping Genovia, building goodwill, assessing a potential alliance. Very... political."
You nod, encouraging him to continue.
"Then I met you," he says with a small smile. "This defiant, overwhelmed, utterly genuine person who didn't fit any diplomatic template I'd prepared for."
"I was a mess," you remind him.
"You were authentic," he corrects. "Do you know how rare that is in royal circles? How precious?"
His sincerity catches you off guard. "I just didn't know how to be anything else."
"Exactly," he says, squeezing your hand. "And over these past weeks, watching you navigate this new world while somehow maintaining that authenticity... it's been remarkable."
"I find myself thinking about you constantly," he continues. "Looking forward to our conversations. Composing music inspired by your laugh. Wondering what you're doing when we're apart."
"I know it's fast," he acknowledges. "Barely a month since we met. But I also know that when I'm with you, I feel more myself than I ever have. Like I don't have to choose between the crown prince and the person beneath it."
He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. Not the princess. You."
The confession hangs in the air between you, honest and terrifying and beautiful all at once.
"Say something," he urges when you remain silent, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him, trying to convey through touch what you're not sure how to express aloud. Your feelings for him have grown so gradually yet so intensely that putting them into language feels impossible.
When you finally break the kiss, you keep your face close to his. "I don't know what this is," you admit. "Everything in my life has changed so completely in the past month. But the one thing that feels real, that feels right, is you."
His eyes search yours. "But?"
"But I'm scared," you confess. "Of feeling this much. Of making decisions based on emotions when the stakes are so high. Of disappointing my grandmother, Genovia, everyone counting on me to make the right choice."
"What if the right diplomatic choice and the right personal choice are the same?" he asks quietly.
"Are they?" you challenge. "Your father doesn't seem to think so."
His expression tightens slightly. "My father sees alliances in terms of historical connections and military strategy. But a union between Astoria and Genovia makes sense on multiple levels—economic, cultural, geographic."
"Very romantic," you tease, trying to lighten the mood.
He smiles, recognizing your deflection. "I'm trying to address your concerns about duty. The personal reasons are..." His voice drops lower. "Well, I think I've made those clear."
Heat blooms in your cheeks at his implication. "Crystal clear."
"We don't have to decide anything tonight," he assures you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "The constitutional deadline is still weeks away."
"And until then?" you ask.
"Until then," he says, shifting closer, "we continue getting to know each other. Without pressure from our families or royal councils or diplomatic expectations."
"Can we really separate those things from who we are?"
"Perhaps not entirely," he admits. "But we can try. Starting with this."
He kisses you again, and for a while, the complications of royal life fade into the background. There's only this moment, this connection, this growing certainty that whatever path you choose, you want him beside you.
Much later, as you reluctantly prepare to return to your separate rooms before the palace awakens, Jay pulls you into one last embrace.
"We should go," he murmurs against your hair, though his arms tighten around you instead of letting go.
"Not yet," you whisper, unwilling to break the spell between you.
Jay studies your face in the dim light, something shifting in his expression. "Come with me," he says suddenly, taking your hand.
"Where?"
"Somewhere more private," he answers, leading you toward the door. "The guards change rotation in five minutes. We'll have a window."
Heart racing with equal parts excitement and nervousness, you follow him through the shadowed corridors. He moves with practiced ease, clearly familiar with the palace's nocturnal rhythms. After several turns, he stops before an ornate door you don't recognize.
"The royal library," he explains, producing a small key. "It's never guarded at night. No one will look for us here."
The library is vast and silent, moonlight streaming through tall windows, illuminating shelves that stretch toward the ceiling. A small fireplace holds the remnants of embers, casting a faint glow across a single chaise longue and a smaller, more intimate piano than the grand one in the music room.
Jay locks the door behind you, then crosses to stoke the dying fire. The flames leap higher, casting dancing shadows across the room. When he turns to face you, something has changed in his expression—something darker, hungrier.
He approaches slowly, giving you every chance to step away, to maintain the careful boundaries you've observed until now. But you don't move, don't want to move, transfixed by the intensity in his gaze.
Now, his breath is warm against your lips, fingers brushing your cheek with a reverence that makes your chest ache. The only light comes from the dying fire in the hearth, flickering shadows across the lone chaise and the grand piano beside it. The rest of the palace sleeps, unaware of the two figures standing too close in the quiet of the library, the air between them thick with something forbidden.
"Tell me to leave," he murmurs, voice wrecked with restraint.
"I won't," you whisper.
And then he kisses you.
It's slow at first, a gentle press of lips meant to savor, to test, to give you one last chance to stop this before it spirals beyond control. But when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, something breaks.
Jay groans softly, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping you like he's afraid you'll disappear. He backs you up until you collide with the piano, your hips pressing against the polished wood, a soft creak echoing through the empty library.
"God," he breathes against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"Then show me," you whisper, tilting your chin up to capture his lips again.
That's all it takes.
Jay's hands slip beneath the fabric of your blouse, fingers finding bare skin, warm and wanting. He lifts you onto the edge of the piano in one smooth motion, the wood cool against your thighs as he steps between them, fitting his body between yours like you were carved for each other.
His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, trailing down your throat, slow, deliberate. Your breath hitches when he reaches the curve of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, leaving heat in his wake.
He pulls back slightly, dark eyes locking with yours as his fingers skim higher up your thigh. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, voice strained.
Instead, your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath unsteady as you part your legs just a little wider, inviting him in.
His chest rises and falls sharply as his hand slides higher, fingertips brushing over the heat of your core, teasing through the thin lace.
"Fuck," he exhales, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his fingers press against you, feeling just how wet you already are.
You tremble beneath his touch, hips shifting forward, seeking more friction, more of him.
Jay lets out a soft, desperate laugh against your skin. "So eager," he teases, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Do you even realize what you do to me?"
"Shut up and do something about it," you whisper, voice wrecked.
His control snaps.
His fingers slide beneath the lace, parting you with a slow, torturous stroke that has your head falling back, mouth parting on a silent gasp.
"Jay," you whimper, your hands clenching his shoulders as his fingers dip lower, circling, teasing, never quite giving you enough.
"Patience," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. He's just as wrecked as you are.
Then, finally, he sinks a finger inside you.
Your body clenches around him, a sharp inhale breaking the silence of the library.
"That's it," Jay murmurs, lips brushing your temple, his free hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. "Let me hear you, my love."
His fingers work you open slowly, curling, pressing, stroking in time with the shallow thrusts of his hips against your thigh. His mouth never stops—kissing, biting, sucking at your skin, leaving marks that will be hidden beneath your clothes come morning but burn with the memory of him.
Your nails dig into his shoulders as he adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you, his thumb circling exactly where you need him most.
"Fuck," he groans when you roll your hips into his touch, chasing the friction. "You're so wet for me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
"Jay—" Your voice catches as he strokes deeper, his fingers curling just right, white-hot pleasure spreading from your core outward.
He presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, swallowing every moan, every gasp, his pace slow and purposeful, like he wants to memorize the way you fall apart beneath him.
"Say my name," he whispers against your mouth, his voice shaking.
"Jay—"
"Louder."
"Jay," you gasp, body trembling as the pleasure coils tighter, too much and not enough all at once.
"Good girl," he breathes, curling his fingers one last time, pressing his lips against yours just as you shatter around him, your back arching against the piano, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.
He keeps working you through it, slow, lazy strokes that make you shudder, pressing kisses to your throat, your jaw, everywhere he can reach.
And when your breathing slows, his forehead rests against yours, his fingers still buried inside you, the taste of your pleasure still on his lips.
"I should let you go," he murmurs, but his hands don't move, his body still pressed against yours, hard and wanting.
You cup his face, pulling him back down for another kiss, deep and slow and full of everything you can't say.
"Not yet," you whisper.
And just like that, Jay groans, dragging you down from the piano and onto the chaise, his mouth and hands promising you're nowhere near done.
-
The palace is quiet as you slip through the corridors, heart still racing from the evening's events. You pause at a window overlooking the gardens, watching moonlight silver the paths where you first kissed Jay weeks ago. How much has changed since then—how much you have changed.
You're so lost in thought that you don't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.
"Your Highness?"
You turn, startled, to find your grandmother standing a few feet away, wrapped in a dressing gown that somehow manages to look regal despite the hour.
"Grandmother," you manage, hoping the dim lighting hides your flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips. "I was just... getting some air."
Her expression remains neutral, but her eyes miss nothing. "A common need after such an eventful evening."
You wait for questions or accusations, but instead, she joins you at the window, both of you staring out at the moonlit garden.
"I couldn't sleep on the night of my first royal ball either," she says unexpectedly. "Too much excitement. Too many decisions looming."
You glance at her, surprised by this rare personal revelation. "Was your ball also for... matchmaking purposes?"
A small smile touches her lips. "Of course. Royal balls have rarely been simply for dancing."
"Did it work?" you ask, genuinely curious. "Did you find someone suitable?"
"I did." Her voice softens with memory. "Though not whom my parents expected."
"Grandfather?"
She nods. "He was considered politically inconvenient. The third son of a minor royal house with more titles than fortune. My parents had their sights set on a neighbor with stronger military forces."
You absorb this information, struggling to reconcile it with the pragmatic queen you've come to know. "But you chose him anyway."
"Love is not a luxury afforded to royalty," she says, her tone measured. "But sometimes, if one is very fortunate, duty and affection may align."
The implication hangs between you. She knows. Perhaps not the details, but enough.
"Is that what happened with you and Grandfather?" you ask.
Her smile deepens. "We built something real from an arrangement that began as political. Not love at first sight, perhaps, but a deep and abiding partnership that grew into something... essential."
You think of Jay—of the way he looks at you when no one else is watching, of his hands on your skin just hours ago, of his confession in the music room.
"I'm not sure what to do," you admit quietly.
Your grandmother turns to face you fully. "You've grown quite... fond of Prince Jongseong."
It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "Yes."
"And he of you," she observes. "That much has been evident for weeks."
Your head snaps up. "You've known?"
"I have eyes, my dear. And considerably more experience with clandestine palace romances than you might imagine."
For a moment, you glimpse a different woman beneath the queenly facade—younger, perhaps, with her own secrets and desires.
"I don't want to choose wrong," you confess. "For myself or for Genovia."
"The choice is rarely wrong or right," she replies. "Merely different paths, each with its own challenges and rewards."
"That's not very helpful," you point out.
To your surprise, she laughs—a genuine sound rarely heard in palace corridors. "I'm afraid that's the most honest counsel I can offer. But I will add this: I have been watching you these past weeks, Y/N. You have taken to royal life with remarkable adaptability. You have won the respect of the council, the diplomatic corps, and, most importantly, the people of Genovia."
"Have I?" You find this hard to believe.
"Indeed. Which means you have earned the right to make this choice for yourself, with Genovia's interests in mind but not at the expense of your own happiness."
Her hand touches your cheek briefly—a rare gesture of affection. "Besides, I have not spent thirty years preserving this monarchy only to see its next ruler miserable in a politically expedient marriage."
With that cryptic statement, she turns to leave. At the end of the corridor, she pauses.
"One more thing, Y/N."
"Yes, Grandmother?"
"The southeast wing has far fewer night patrols than the east wing." Her eyes twinkle momentarily. "For future reference."
She disappears around the corner, leaving you speechless in the moonlight.
The next morning, a note arrives with your breakfast tray.
Meet me in the rose garden at noon. There are matters we must discuss before the council meeting tomorrow. —J
The formality of the message concerns you, so different from his usual warmth. You spend the morning distracted during your language lesson, earning several pointed looks from your Genovian tutor as you massacre conjugations.
By noon, you're a bundle of nerves as you make your way to the garden. You find Jay seated on a stone bench, his posture rigid, his expression guarded. He stands when he sees you, bowing formally.
"Your Highness."
The title and distance hurt more than you expected. "Are we back to that now?"
His expression softens momentarily before the mask returns. "I've received a summons from my father. I'm to return to Astoria immediately."
Your stomach drops. "For how long?"
"That's what we need to discuss." He gestures to the bench, and you sit, carefully maintaining space between you. "My father has learned of... our connection."
"How?" You've been so careful.
"It seems Prince Nikolai mentioned to his father how taken you and I seemed with each other. The Danish king mentioned it to the Austrian ambassador, who informed my father's adviser."
"That's..."
"Royal gossip," Jay supplies with a grim smile. "It travels faster than light."
You process this information, anxiety building. "What does your father want?"
"He believes our association has progressed beyond diplomatic utility," Jay says carefully, clearly choosing each word. "He reminds me that Astoria's interests lie in stronger alliances with certain Eastern European powers, not with a... 'newly discovered princess of questionable legitimacy.'"
The words sting, though you know they're not his. "I see."
"No, you don't," he says firmly, his composed facade cracking. "Those are his words, not mine. Never mine."
"But you're still leaving."
He runs a hand through his hair, a rare display of frustration. "He's the king. I cannot simply ignore a direct summons."
"And when you return to Astoria?" you press. "What then?"
Jay's eyes meet yours, conflict evident in their depths. "He expects me to begin formal courtship proceedings with Princess Elena of Belgravia."
The name hits you like a physical blow. Princess Elena—beautiful, accomplished, born and raised royal, and the daughter of one of the wealthiest monarchs in Eastern Europe.
"I see," you say again, because what else is there to say?
"I've requested a private audience with my father before any announcements are made," Jay continues. "I intend to make my case for... an alternative arrangement."
Hope flickers faintly. "What kind of alternative?"
"My own choice," he says simply.
You both know what that means. Who that means.
"When do you leave?" you ask.
"Tomorrow morning."
So soon. Too soon.
"The council meets tomorrow afternoon," you tell him. "To discuss my... suitors. To begin formalizing the process."
"I know." His hand twitches as if to reach for yours, but he restrains himself. You're in plain view of the palace windows. "My timing could not be worse."
You laugh, though there's no humor in it. "When has timing ever been on our side?"
He smiles sadly. "Perhaps just once, when a certain princess couldn't sleep and wandered into a garden at midnight."
The memory warms you despite everything. "What should I do about the council?"
"Stall," he suggests. "Ask for more time to consider. The constitutional deadline is still three weeks away."
"And if you don't return by then? If your father refuses your 'alternative arrangement'?"
The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. Jay's jaw tightens.
"Then you must do what's best for Genovia," he says finally. "As I must do what's best for Astoria."
"Even if that means..."
"Even then," he confirms, though the words clearly pain him.
You sit in silence, the carefully tended roses blooming around you in vibrant contrast to your darkening mood.
"Tonight," Jay says suddenly. "Meet me in the library. Midnight."
Your heartbeat quickens at the memory of your last library encounter. "The guards—"
"Will be occupied with a minor disturbance in the north wing," he finishes. "I've arranged it."
You raise an eyebrow. "How very un-princely of you."
A hint of his real smile appears. "I thought you preferred me un-princely."
"I prefer you," you correct softly.
His eyes darken, and for a moment you think he might forget propriety entirely and kiss you right there in the sunlight. Instead, he stands, straightening his jacket with a deliberate motion that reestablishes distance.
"Until tonight, Your Highness," he says formally, loud enough for any listening ears.
The library is bathed in moonlight when you slip inside at midnight. Jay is already there, pacing between the tall shelves.
The moment the door closes behind you, he crosses the room in swift strides, gathering you into his arms. His mouth finds yours with desperate intensity, and you respond in kind, clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you can reach.
"I can't bear the thought of leaving you," he murmurs against your lips.
"Then don't," you reply, knowing it's impossible even as you say it.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands framing your face. "If there was any other way..."
"I know," you assure him. "I understand duty. Better than I did a month ago, anyway."
He smiles at that, though sadness lingers in his eyes. "You've become quite the princess."
"A reluctant one," you remind him.
"The best kind," he counters, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "The kind who questions, who challenges, who sees beyond tradition to possibility."
His faith in you is staggering. "What if I can't do this without you?"
"You can," he says with certainty. "You already have been. I've just been fortunate enough to witness it."
He leads you to the chaise where you lost yourself in him just nights ago. This time, though, he simply sits, pulling you close against his side.
"I've been thinking," he begins, his fingers tracing patterns on your arm. "About us. About what happens after I speak with my father."
"And?"
"There are several possibilities," he says, the diplomat in him emerging. "He may agree to consider an alliance with Genovia through... us. It's not without precedent or merit, despite his current reservations."
"But you don't think he will," you observe.
Jay sighs. "He is... traditional. Set in his views. Convinced of certain alliances' superiority."
"So what happens if he refuses?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "Then I have a decision to make. One I've been contemplating for some time."
Your heart quickens. "What decision?"
"Whether my duty to Astoria's future must follow the exact path my father envisions," he says carefully. "Or whether I might serve my country better by following my own judgment."
The implications of this statement hang between you.
"You would defy him?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
"I would reason with him first," Jay clarifies. "With every diplomatic skill I possess. But if he remains unmoved..." He takes a deep breath. "Then yes, I would consider... alternatives."
"What kind of alternatives?"
He turns to face you fully. "I will be king one day, regardless of whom I marry. My father's insistence on certain alliances reflects old thinking—military might and territorial advantage. But Astoria's future lies in economic partnership, cultural exchange, technological advancement. Areas where Genovia has much to offer."
"That sounds very rational," you observe. "Very diplomatic."
A smile touches his lips. "I'm trying to frame my personal desires in terms my father might respect."
"And what are your personal desires?" you ask boldly.
His eyes darken. "I think I've made those quite clear." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "But if you need me to be more explicit..."
His kiss leaves no doubt, deep and claiming and full of promise. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily.
"I love you," he says simply. "I want a future with you. As Prince of Astoria, as future king, but most importantly, as Jay—the man I can only truly be when I'm with you."
Tears spring to your eyes at the raw honesty in his voice. "I love you too," you whisper, the words feel both terrifying and inevitable. "I don't want to lose this. Lose you."
"Then trust me," he urges. "Trust that I will find a way back to you. Trust that what we've found is worth fighting for."
"What should I tell the council tomorrow?"
"The truth," he says. "That you're still considering your options. That you need the full three weeks to make your decision."
"And if they press me?"
"Then you might mention that one option includes a harmonious union between Genovia and Astoria that would benefit both nations for generations to come." A hint of mischief enters his expression. "Be vague on the details."
You laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. "Very diplomatic."
"I've had excellent training," he reminds you.
You lean your head against his shoulder, savoring the solid warmth of him. "How long will you be gone?"
"A week. Perhaps two. I'll send word when I can, but communications may be... monitored."
The reminder of your precarious situation sobers you. "And if you don't return before the deadline?"
He's quiet for a moment. "Then you must do what you believe is right. For yourself and for Genovia."
"That's not the answer I wanted," you admit.
"It's the honest one," he replies. "I will do everything in my power to return to you with a path forward for us. But I would never ask you to risk Genovia's stability on my promise alone."
It's painful, but you understand. The weight of nations rests on both your shoulders. Your wants cannot be the only consideration.
"How did we get here?" you wonder aloud. "Two months ago I was worried about midterms and student loans."
"And I was dutifully attending diplomatic functions, playing the perfect prince," he adds. "Never imagining that a reluctant American princess would upend everything I thought I knew about duty and desire."
You smile at his characterization. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"
"Indeed we are," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your temple. "And I intend to keep it that way, regardless of what my father or your council might prefer."
The conviction in his voice bolsters your courage. "So what now?"
"Now," he says, pulling you closer, "we have approximately five hours before dawn. I can think of several ways to spend them that don't involve diplomatic strategy."
"How scandalous, Your Highness," you tease, though heat pools in your core at his implication.
"You bring out my rebellious side," he murmurs, lips finding the sensitive spot below your ear that makes you shiver. "Among other things."
Words give way to touch as you lose yourselves in each other one last time before duty calls you back to separate worlds. Every kiss, every caress feels weighted with significance—a promise, a memory to sustain you through the uncertainty ahead.
Hours later, as dawn threatens the eastern sky, you lie tangled together on the chaise, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
"I should go," he whispers, though his arms tighten around you. "I'm expected at the airfield in three hours."
"Five more minutes," you plead, not ready to relinquish this moment.
He presses a kiss to your hair. "Five more minutes," he agrees.
-
The council chamber feels cavernous and oppressive as thirteen pairs of eyes study you with varying degrees of interest, skepticism, and calculation. Your grandmother sits at the head of the long table, her expression carefully neutral as the Prime Minister outlines the constitutional requirements yet again.
"The deadline approaches, Your Highness," he concludes, peering at you over his spectacles. "The council requires your decision regarding a suitable match so that proper arrangements can be made within the constitutional timeframe."
You take a deep breath, remembering Jay's advice and your grandmother's unexpected counsel.
"I understand the urgency," you begin, your voice steadier than you expected. "And I appreciate the council's diligence in presenting suitable candidates for consideration. However, I believe the constitution allows me the full three weeks to make my decision, and I intend to use that time."
Murmurs circulate around the table. The Minister of State leans forward, his bushy eyebrows drawing together.
"Your Highness, while technically correct, it would be prudent to announce your intentions sooner. Diplomatic arrangements require time, wedding preparations must be made, public announcements coordinated..."
"And all of that will happen," you assure him, "once my decision is final. But this is not merely a diplomatic arrangement—it is a marriage. One that will affect not only my life but the future of Genovia. I believe such a decision deserves careful consideration."
Your grandmother's lips twitch—almost a smile—before her expression returns to regal impassivity.
"Perhaps," offers Lady Rothschild, the only female council member besides your grandmother, "Her Highness might share which candidates she is most seriously considering? To allow for preliminary preparations?"
All eyes return to you, expectant. You think of Jay, likely in the air now, flying back to face his father and an uncertain future.
"I am considering several options," you say carefully. "Including the possibility of a union that would align Genovia's interests with Astoria, combining our complementary strengths in trade, technology, and cultural influence."
The Foreign Minister straightens in his chair. "Astoria? Has Prince Jongseong made an official overture?"
"Prince Jongseong and I have discussed the potential benefits of such an alliance," you reply, technically truthful while omitting the nature of those discussions. "While nothing is formalized, I believe the possibility warrants serious consideration."
This sets off another round of murmurs, more animated than before. You catch your grandmother watching you with something like approval in her eyes.
"Astoria has historically sought alliances eastward," the Defense Minister points out. "King Min-hyuk is known for his traditional leanings."
"Traditions evolve," you counter. "And wise rulers adapt to changing circumstances."
The Prime Minister clears his throat. "While an Astorian alliance would indeed offer significant advantages, we must be prepared for all outcomes. I suggest the council continue preparation for multiple possibilities while Her Highness completes her... deliberations."
It's a reasonable compromise, and you nod agreement. "I appreciate the council's patience and wisdom in this matter. I assure you that my decision will prioritize Genovia's interests while honoring the constitutional requirements."
The meeting concludes with formal pleasantries, though you feel the weight of speculation following you as you exit the chamber. Your grandmother falls into step beside you in the corridor.
"Well played," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Though I believe you've given Lord Pallimore indigestion with the suggestion of Astorian negotiations he knew nothing about."
You can't help but smile. "I merely stated facts. Prince Jongseong and I have indeed discussed the potential benefits of such an arrangement."
"I imagine you have," she replies dryly. "Quite thoroughly."
Heat rises to your cheeks. "Grandmother!"
"I may be old, my dear, but I'm not oblivious." She pats your arm. "Now we wait. And prepare for all possible outcomes, as the Prime Minister so diplomatically suggested."
"Do you think there's a chance?" you ask, unable to keep the vulnerability from your voice. "For Jay and me?"
Your grandmother considers this carefully. "I think Prince Jongseong is more resourceful than his father realizes. And I think King Min-hyuk, for all his traditional bluster, is a pragmatist at heart." She glances at you with unexpected gentleness. "But most importantly, I think you have discovered something genuine in each other. Such connections are rare in royal circles, and not easily broken—even by kings."
Her words offer comfort as the days stretch into a week, then ten days, with no word from Jay. You go through the motions of royal duties—charity visits, diplomatic receptions, cultural events—while your thoughts remain fixed on Astoria and the man fighting for your shared future.
On the eleventh day, when hope begins to falter, a small package arrives. No return address, no accompanying note, just a small box wrapped in simple brown paper.
Inside, nestled in velvet, lies an antique key on a delicate silver chain. You recognize it immediately—the library key Jay used on your last night together. Attached is a small card bearing only a date: three days hence, exactly one day before the constitutional deadline.
The message is clear: He's coming back. He's found a way.
For the first time in eleven days, you breathe fully.
-
The palace gardens are awash in golden late afternoon light as you pace the gravel path. You've changed outfits three times, settled on a simple blue dress that Jay once said brought out your eyes, then second-guessed that choice a dozen times since.
The sound of approaching footsteps has you turning, heart in your throat.
Jay stands at the garden entrance, still in traveling clothes, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He looks exhausted but determined, his eyes finding yours with an intensity that steals your breath.
For a moment, neither of you moves, the weight of eleven days' separation and uncertainty holding you in place. Then you're running, propriety forgotten, and he meets you halfway, catching you in an embrace that lifts you off your feet.
"You're here," you breathe against his neck, inhaling his familiar scent. "You came back."
"I promised I would," he reminds you, setting you down but keeping you close. "Nothing could have prevented it."
You pull back just far enough to see his face, searching for clues about his meeting with his father. "What happened? What did he say?"
Jay glances around—you're in plain view of several palace windows. "Not here. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"
You think for a moment, then smile. "Follow me."
You lead him through the palace to a small sitting room in the southeast wing—the area your grandmother so casually mentioned has fewer night patrols. It's a cozy space with comfortable furnishings and, most importantly, a lock on the door.
Once inside, Jay pulls you into his arms again, his kiss desperate and relieved and full of eleven days' worth of longing. You respond with equal fervor, hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, reassuring yourself that he's really here.
When you finally separate, both breathing heavily, he presses his forehead to yours. "I missed you. Every minute of every day."
"I missed you too," you whisper. "The waiting was... unbearable."
He leads you to a small sofa, sitting close, your hands still intertwined. "I have much to tell you."
"Your father?" you prompt.
Jay takes a deep breath. "It was... complicated. Initially, he was immovable. He had already drafted an announcement of intentions between Astoria and Belgravia."
Your heart sinks. "Oh."
"However," he continues, "I convinced him to hear me out before making anything official. I presented a detailed analysis of Genovia's strategic value as an ally—our complementary economies, technological innovations, cultural significance."
"Very diplomatic," you observe with a small smile.
"I was extraordinarily diplomatic," he agrees, a hint of humor in his eyes. "For five days straight. I enlisted support from progressive council members, provided economic projections, cultural impact studies..."
"And he remained unmoved," Jay admits. "Until I played my final card."
"Which was?"
His eyes lock with yours, unwavering. "I informed him that I would pursue this alliance with or without his blessing. That while I respect his wisdom and experience, my future reign would be guided by my own judgment. And that judgment sees clearly that you—both as princess and as yourself—represent the future Astoria needs."
You absorb this, staggered by the implied defiance. "You threatened to go against his wishes?"
"I made clear that my commitment to Astoria's prosperity is unwavering, but my choice of partner is non-negotiable." His fingers tighten around yours. "I also reminded him that he married for love, against his own father's wishes, and that Astoria has thrived under his reign nonetheless."
"And?" you press, heart pounding.
A smile breaks across Jay's face, transforming his features. "And three days of hostile silence later, he conceded that perhaps Genovia deserves 'further consideration' as a potential ally."
"That's... good?"
"From my father, it's the equivalent of enthusiastic approval," Jay assures you. "Especially with this."
He reaches into his jacket, withdrawing a small velvet box. Your breath catches.
"My grandmother's ring," he explains, opening it to reveal an exquisite sapphire surrounded by diamonds. "Given to her by my grandfather when they formalized their engagement after months of diplomatic negotiation. My father presented it to me this morning before I left."
"Jay," you whisper, staring at the ring. "Does this mean...?"
"It means that I have my father's grudging consent to pursue an alliance with Genovia through marriage," he confirms. "Assuming, of course, that Genovia's princess finds such an arrangement acceptable."
Despite the formal wording, the vulnerability in his eyes is unmistakable. This is not merely a diplomatic proposition.
"The council meets tomorrow for my final decision," you tell him. "The constitutional deadline is the day after."
"Convenient timing," he observes with a small smile.
"Almost as if someone planned it that way," you agree, returning his smile.
He shifts from the sofa to one knee before you, the ring box open in his palm. All traces of the diplomatic prince fade away, leaving only Jay—your Jay—looking up at you with naked hope and love.
"Y/N," he begins, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "These past weeks have transformed my understanding of duty, of purpose, of love. You've challenged me, surprised me, and shown me a version of myself I never knew existed. I cannot imagine a future—royal or otherwise—without you in it."
Tears blur your vision as he continues.
"I know our beginning was unconventional. I know our path forward will have challenges. But I also know, with absolute certainty, that what we've found together is worth fighting for—worth building a life, a partnership, and two kingdoms around."
He takes your hand, his touch steadying your trembling fingers.
"Will you marry me? Not just as princes and princesses fulfilling constitutional requirements, but as Jay and Y/N, building something real within the framework of our royal duties?"
The question hangs in the air, though your heart already knows the answer. You think of your journey—from reluctant princess to woman standing in her power, from diplomatic arrangement to genuine love, from fear of losing yourself to finding a partner who sees and values all of you.
"Yes," you say simply, your voice thick with emotion. "Yes to all of it—the duty, the challenge, the love. Everything."
He rises, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. "I love you," he murmurs against your lips. "The princess, the diplomat, the woman who still occasionally trips over her formal gowns... all of you."
You laugh through your tears. "And I love you—the perfect prince, the midnight pianist, the man who sees me clearly when I'm still learning to see myself."
His kiss is a pledge, a promise of the future you'll build together—one that honors duty while making space for love.
Tomorrow will bring announcements and celebrations, diplomatic strategies and constitutional requirements fulfilled. But tonight belongs to the two people who found each other beneath the crowns and titles—a connection neither of you expected but both now recognize as the most precious of diplomatic achievements.
A love powerful enough to bridge kingdoms while remaining, at its heart, deeply, uniquely your own.
Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC
📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t.
now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you.
so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?
word count: 20K
genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order)
content warnings (explicit, minors dni!): a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,
The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.
The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.
You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.
Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.
To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.
To you, it’s just for show.
"Smile."
His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.
Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.
"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.
Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.
"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.
Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.
"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.
You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.
Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.
"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."
You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.
"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"
There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.
The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?
You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.
Of course, he doesn’t.
So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.
"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."
The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"
You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.
Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."
Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"
It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.
You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.
Still, he says nothing.
The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—
A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.
Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.
"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."
There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.
The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.
Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.
The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.
The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.
You and Sunghoon don’t speak.
It isn’t new.
It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.
Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.
To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.
You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.
At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.
"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"
It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.
Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.
She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.
The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.
"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."
You say nothing.
She doesn’t need you to.
"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."
The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.
She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.
You are not the only option.
There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.
Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.
Your grip tightens around your fork.
You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.
"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.
Two words. Nothing more.
His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.
The conversation moves forward.
You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.
I’m aware.
A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.
You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.
-
The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.
You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.
You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.
"You didn’t say anything."
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.
Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"
You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."
A pause.
Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"
The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.
"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.
His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."
And there it is.
That unbearable indifference.
The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.
It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.
"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.
He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.
It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.
His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.
"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."
You don’t answer.
You don’t need to.
His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.
"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"
You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.
Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.
Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.
"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."
His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.
"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.
He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.
You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.
"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together.
He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.
The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.
"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips.
Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.
Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.
"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.
And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.
He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.
For a moment, there is only silence.
Then, just as expected, he pulls away.
Rolls onto his back.
Says nothing.
You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.
But you don’t.
Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.
Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.
-
The morning is quiet.
You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.
For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.
There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you’d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.
Now, there’s nothing but space.
You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.
When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.
Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.
But he didn’t.
He never could.
By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.
Like nothing happened.
Like last night was just another night.
The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.
Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.
Divorce Agreement.
His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.
"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.
"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.
Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."
"Then sign them."
A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.
"You really want this?"
The words are simple. Too simple.
You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.
"Yes."
His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.
For a second, your breath catches.
You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.
But he doesn’t.
Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.
And then—
He stops.
His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.
The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.
"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.
You blink. "What?"
He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."
Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."
His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"
Your breath catches.
Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.
The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.
"You’ll have them back tomorrow."
But you already know—he won’t sign.
Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.
-
Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.
This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.
This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.
It begins every morning.
6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready.
7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid.
7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.
By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.
Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.
Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.
Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him
[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.
[Riki]: bet.
And then, of course, there’s lunch.
There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?
Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.
Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.
Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.
By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.
They have to be in the same room.
-
The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.
The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.
At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.
It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.
The first arrival is you.
You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.
You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.
Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.
Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.
📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.
Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.
He doesn’t look at you.
Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.
he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.
For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.
Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.
"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.
You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.
"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."
Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."
Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."
The temperature in the room drops.
Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.
Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.
Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."
Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"
His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."
"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."
Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."
Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.
"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."
You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."
Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.
📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.
📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.
-
Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.
The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.
But that isn’t what catches your attention.
The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.
Untouched.
Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.
"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.
Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.
"No."
The single word lands between you like a gunshot.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"
"Say it."
His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.
You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"
His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.
"Say you don’t love me anymore."
The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.
It should be easy.
You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.
But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.
Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.
Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"
Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."
Something snaps.
Fast. Brutal.
Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.
Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.
His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.
"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.
Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.
"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.
Then, his grip tightens.
Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.
"Tell me to stop."
You should.
Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.
"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.
You shake your head.
And then his lips crash into yours.
The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.
Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.
"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.
You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.
"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.
He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.
"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.
Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.
Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."
Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.
"Liar."
-
"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.
He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.
The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.
You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.
"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.
Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."
Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.
"Then break it."
The entire room freezes.
Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.
The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.
"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"
You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."
Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.
"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."
You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.
"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."
His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.
Because you aren’t.
📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO
ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.
📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.
📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.
-
The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.
You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.
Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.
“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.
Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.
You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.
He looks off.
Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.
You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”
He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.
"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.
Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”
He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.
"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."
Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.
You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.
Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.
The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.
Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.
The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.
“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.
Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.
“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”
Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”
Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.
“I’m fine.”
You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.
It had been late.
Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.
Sunghoon lay beside you.
Awake. Motionless. Silent.
His back was turned to you.
And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.
It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.
But he hadn’t held yours back.
The memory lingers even as you push it away.
You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.
Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.
"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.
Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”
"You should get checked out."
He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”
"Not ex yet."
And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.
-
The Park family never asks for favors.
Not officially, at least.
It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.
Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.
“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.
You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”
His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”
Dear.
You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.
Because this is what you’ve become to them.
Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.
A lawyer first, a liability second.
“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”
Of course. Personally.
They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.
Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.
And Sunghoon?
Sunghoon won’t say a word.
You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.
Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.
Just… silent.
Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.
“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”
His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.
“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.
Sunghoon still says nothing.
Not when his mother praises you.
Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.
Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.
It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.
“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”
Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”
His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.
You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”
-
He went back after dropping you off.
His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”
Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.
His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
The room had gone silent.
His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”
Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”
His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.
His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”
“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”
His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.
Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.
“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”
-
The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.
For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just… distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.
You’re used to it.
But today, something feels different.
Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.
Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.
You stop in your tracks.
"Where is he?"
Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. “Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”
You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”
Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”
Your stomach twists.
He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.
You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.
When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.
Collapsed on the floor of his office.
Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.
The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.
"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.
“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.
Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.
"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.
That’s when panic sinks in.
You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.
"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”
His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.
“Bossy,” he mutters.
Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”
-
The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.
The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.
It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.
Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.
Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”
Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”
“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”
Your stomach twists.
He’s been hiding this.
The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”
The word cuts through you like a blade.
You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.
“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.
The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”
-
The hospital room is suffocating.
It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.
He looks wrecked.
His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.
And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.
“How long have you known?”
Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.
Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.
“Six months.”
The words sink into you like stones.
Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.
“Six fucking months?”
Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.
“Would it have changed anything?”
Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.
You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.
“Yes.”
Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.
“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”
The air leaves your lungs.
You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.
Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.
Just exhaustion.
And pain.
Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”
His breath catches.
“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.
Your throat tightens.
“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”
Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.
And that’s somehow worse.
“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”
Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.
And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,
“You think I didn’t care?”
Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—
Sunghoon moves too fast.
He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.
His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.
“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”
But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.
You barely catch him in time.
“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.
His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.
And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—
“I named them.”
Your entire world tilts.
You go still.
Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.
“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.
“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”
Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.
You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”
Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.
“Say their names, Sunghoon.”
His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.
Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—
“Eunha and June.”
Your stomach drops.
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.
“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”
His next breath is ragged, breaking.
“They were my girls.”
Your stomach twists.
His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.
“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”
A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.
Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.
Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.
Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.
Neither of you speak.
For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.
-
You wake up feeling… off.
Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.
It takes a second to register where you are.
The hospital.
Sunghoon.
The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.
Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.
And yet, somehow—you didn’t.
Before you can sit up, the door swings open.
“Well, this is unexpected.”
You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.
He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.
You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”
Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.
Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”
It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.
“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”
Sunoo nods. “Right.”
You hate how knowing he sounds.
Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.
And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.
“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.
Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”
Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”
Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.
Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”
You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”
Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.
And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—
“You’re fired.”
Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”
Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”
“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.
Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.
You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”
Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”
Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”
“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”
Neither of you remembers a knock.
Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”
Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”
Sunghoon glares.
Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”
“I don’t care.”
Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”
“I still don’t care.”
Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”
For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.
Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”
And with that, he’s gone..
-
Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.
You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.
It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.
For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.
But you see it.
You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.
And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.
“You don’t have to babysit me.”
It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.
You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”
A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”
Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.
“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.
Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.
“Then why are you still here?”
The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.
You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.
Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”
Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”
The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.
“Wanna bet?”
The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.
“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.
Neither of you say anything after that.
But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.
-
The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.
Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.
You don’t say anything.
Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.
“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.
Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”
You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.
You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.
Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.
“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.
“I will if you keep being difficult.”
Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.
The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.
For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—
“You need to take time off.”
Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.
“I already did,” he mutters.
You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”
He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.
“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.
You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”
His jaw tightens.
You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”
Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.
“…I know my limits.”
The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.
“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”
Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”
“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”
His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.
You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”
Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”
“Then act like you know it.”
Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.
You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.
“Are you staying in my room?”
The words are soft. Careful. Testing.
Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.
You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.
“Just until you’re better.”
A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.
-
The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.
You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.
And that’s when you feel it.
The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.
Sunghoon.
Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.
Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.
Your mind races, but your body remembers.
For a second—just a second—you don’t move.
Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists.
It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.
Then, suddenly—he shifts.
His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.
Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.
But he doesn’t.
Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.
Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.
Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.
His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.
He’s awake now.
Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.
And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.
His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.
You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.
But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.
And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.
Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.
It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.
Because it did.
And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.
-
You knew this was going to happen.
You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.
You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?
Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.
You don’t let it go this time.
“You’re working.”
It’s not a question.
Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.
“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.
You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.
“Didn’t we already have this argument?”
Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”
You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.
Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”
“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.
Your patience snaps.
You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”
His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.
It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.
Something tense.
His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.
“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”
His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.
“And yet, you’re still here.”
Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.
Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”
Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.
Your breath comes in shorter now.
And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.
He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.
“Go on, then.”
Your pulse hammers.
Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.
Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.
You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.
You hate him.
You hate how good he is at this.
You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.
“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”
Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.
The tension between you pulls tighter.
He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.
You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.
For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.
Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—
Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.
You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.
You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.
You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.
The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.
-
You hadn't planned for this.
You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.
But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.
"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.
Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.
The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.
"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.
"Then do something about it."
He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.
You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.
His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.
"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.
You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.
"Sunghoon."
His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.
"Say it again."
His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.
"Sunghoon."
That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.
He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.
And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."
It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.
Because you missed him too.
-
The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.
Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.
His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.
You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.
But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”
Your brows pull together slightly.
Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.
"What?"
Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.
"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."
Your breath catches slightly.
He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.
But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."
Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"
"Mhm."
Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.
Sunghoon stills immediately.
"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.
Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.
You smirk, tilting your head.
"I thought you wanted to take things slow."
His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.
"You’re a fucking menace."
You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.
"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.
You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.
"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.
"I changed my mind."
You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.
Your breath catches.
"Sunghoon–"
"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."
His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.
"Wait."
Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.
"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."
His entire body tenses.
Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.
"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.
You hum, tilting your head. "What?"
His jaw flexes.
Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.
"Then work for it."
-
It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.
He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.
You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.
But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.
Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.
The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.
A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.
Now?
Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.
People are concerned.
📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees
🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ???
🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.
(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)
🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right?
🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED.
🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.
📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team
⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?
You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.
📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?
⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.
📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.
It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.
The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.
Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.
The doors slide shut.
Riki visibly short-circuits.
📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]
🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN.
🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there.
🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming.
🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN).
🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.
-
The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.
But he was watching.
And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.
The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.
He doesn’t speak.
You don’t either.
Because you both know where this is going.
The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.
And then—his hand slides higher.
Your breath catches.
"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.
You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
His hand tightens.
"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."
Your stomach flips.
You don’t respond.
Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.
Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.
And that’s when he loses it.
The car jerks to a sudden stop.
The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”
"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.
Then, he yanks you into his lap.
You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.
"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.
"Say it."
You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."
Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.
"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."
His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.
"Sunghoon—"
"Shut up."
His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.
"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"
Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.
But Sunghoon notices.
He always does.
His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.
"Answer me."
You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.
"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.
"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."
His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.
"That desperate already?"
You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.
Your head spins.
His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.
"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.
"Yes—"
But he doesn’t give you time to beg.
Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.
Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.
Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."
You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.
No easing into it. No gentleness.
Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.
"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”
You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.
"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."
The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—
"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."
And you do.
You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.
Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.
The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.
Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.
The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.
He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.
Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.
"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.
You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.
Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.
"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.
You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.
Sunghoon notices.
His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.
"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.
Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."
Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.
"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"
His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.
"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."
Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."
His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.
"No, you love me."
You take a deep breath “I do.”
He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?”
You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?”
He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”
Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.
You freeze.
Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.
Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.
"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"
You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.
Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.
"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."
The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."
And then, just like that, he walks away.
You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."
Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.
"You’ll live, you love me." he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.
"Let me clean you up."
You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.
"You don’t have to—"
His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.
"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."
Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.
Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.
And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’
You don’t ever want to lose this again.
EPILOGUE
It starts the same way it did last time.
The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.
Sunghoon notices before you do.
At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.
And then, one morning, you feel it.
The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.
You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.
"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.
You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.
Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.
"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."
Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.
And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.
Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.
Instead, he just looks at you.
"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.
Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."
Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.
"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."
A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.
Then, slowly, he reaches for you.
His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.
The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.
Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.
And then, finally, he does.
"I won’t fail you this time."
His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.
Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.
"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.
A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.
This is what he never let himself say out loud.
"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."
Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.
"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.
"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.
"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."
His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.
It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.
When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.
"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."
synopsis: A Marriage Law was the last thing you expected to dictate your future, let alone shackle you to Park Jongseong. A pureblood heir, painfully composed, infuriatingly good at everything, and—unfortunately—now your husband.
What starts as reluctant cohabitation, filled with awkward silences and sharp words, slowly unravels into something neither of you can ignore. Stolen glances, fleeting touches, and the illusion of normalcy turn into a dangerous game neither of you meant to play. Is it all for show? Or has the line between pretend and real already disappeared?
But love alone isn’t enough to erase the past—or the law that forced you together. As the Ministry looms over your every move, and whispers of rebellion grow louder, you and Jay must decide: fight the law, or fight for each other.
wc: around 20.5K
warnings: Marriage Law AU, Harry Potter AU, forced marriage, government control, slow burn, forced proximity, awkward domesticity, enemies to lovers, bickering, rivalry, mutual annoyance, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, doubt, insecurities, fear of the future, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, sexual tension, intense intimacy, fear of love, conflicted feelings, vulnerability, mentions of pregnancy, future parenthood, domesticity, soft Jay, pining, repressed feelings, denial, yearning, lingering touches, stolen glances, smut, sexual content, F! receiving.
A/N: PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU GUYS THINK I'D REALLY APPRECIATE THE FEEDBACK!!!!!
You woke to the sharp tap, tap, tap against your window, the early morning light bleeding through the tattered curtains of your London flat. Sleep still clung to your body, but the incessant tapping forced you upright, rubbing the remnants of last night’s exhaustion from your eyes. You recognized the Ministry’s wax seal before your fingers even touched the envelope. Your stomach dropped.
It was here.
The letter you had been dreading for months. The whispers of the Marriage Law had been circulating for nearly a year, rumors passed between hushed conversations at pubs, in hidden corners of Diagon Alley, and among former classmates who refused to believe that the government could enforce such a thing. But deep down, you had known it was only a matter of time. The Ministry had already been heading in this direction for years, pushing for more control under the guise of restoration.
With a deep breath, you slid your nail under the seal, breaking it with a snap. The parchment unfurled in your hands, the ink dark against the crisp paper.
Dear Miss Y/N,
By decree of the Magical Unity Act, you have been assigned a partner as part of the Ministry’s initiative to preserve and strengthen magical bloodlines.
Your assigned match: Park Jongseong. Pureblood.
You are required to present yourself at the Ministry within 48 hours for the formalization of your union. Failure to comply will result in consequences deemed necessary by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We trust you will uphold your duty to preserve our magical world.
Sincerely,
Matilda Greengrass
Head of the Magical Unity Office
Park Jongseong. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him.
You weren’t sure what to think. You had never hated Jongseong—not really. He had always been there in the background, a constant presence in your classes, a name that lingered on the top of exam scores just above yours. He was the type of person who excelled quietly, never rubbing his victories in your face, but still managing to be infuriating simply by existing. You had no idea what he thought of you. If he had any feelings about your academic rivalry, he had never shown it.
And now, he was going to be your husband.
You hadn’t even processed the letter properly before you found yourself in a booth at The Leaky Cauldron, sitting across from Riki. You had sent an urgent owl the moment you had read the letter, needing to talk to someone—anyone—who might understand.
Riki was younger than you by only a couple of years, but you had always seen him as something of a younger brother—mischievous, quick-witted, and annoyingly perceptive when it came to your emotions. He was the kind of friend who teased you relentlessly but would hex anyone who dared to cross you. If there was anyone you could turn to in a moment like this, it was him.
“You got him?” Riki’s eyebrows shot up when you showed him the parchment. “That’s...sure, yeah.”
You groaned, letting your head fall into your hands. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Well, I mean—it could be worse, " Riki shrugged, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, “He’s not, like, awful. He’s just...Jongseong. A bit awkward, not much of a talker, but not the worst person to be tied to for life.”
You groaned again. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
He grinned. “A little,”
You shook your head, trying to focus. “I don’t even know how I’m going to tell my parents. They’re barely involved in my life as it is, and now I have to explain to them that I’ve been legally bound to someone they don’t even know?”
Riki’s face softened. He knew how complicated your relationship with your parents was—how they had never truly accepted the magical world, even after you got your Hogwarts letter. “You don’t have to tell them right away,” he said gently. “Focus on getting through this first.”
The Ministry of Magic smelled like ink, parchment, and old magic. The weight of history pressed down upon you as you walked through its grand halls, flanked by Aurors ensuring that every witch and wizard assigned under the Magical Unity Act appeared for their mandated marriage registrations. The building was colder than you remembered, or maybe it was the weight of what was about to happen that made you shiver.
Jongseong was already waiting when you arrived, standing stiffly in the corridor outside the registration chamber. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, his hands buried in the pockets of his finely tailored robes. The deep green fabric complimented his sharp features, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the dark intensity of his eyes. There was always something enigmatic about Jongseong—he was the type of person who carried an air of quiet authority, a man who never wasted unnecessary words. He rarely let his emotions show, but now, even beneath his composed expression, you could see the subtle signs of tension—the way his fingers tapped idly against the parchment he held, the way his lips pressed together a little too firmly.
You swallowed hard, gripping your own letter tightly. His eyes flickered toward you, assessing.
“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but there was something unreadable beneath it. He gave you a small nod, nothing overly familiar, yet not entirely cold.
The Ministry official cleared his throat, pulling you both out of the awkward moment.
”Park Jongseong and Y/N L/N,” he announced, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He motioned toward the chamber doors. “Step inside. We will begin the legal binding process.”
Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, feeling the heat of Jongseong’s presence beside you.
The chamber was larger than you had expected, with high ceilings adorned with ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. At the center of the room stood a grand mahogany desk, where stacks of parchment were neatly arranged. Hovering above it was a blood-binding quill, pulsing faintly, attuned to the magic that would soon seal your fates.
“Please, be seated.”
You and Jongseong sat across from each other, the tension between you thick, though neither of you acknowledged it. The official took his place behind the desk, flipping open a massive leather-bound ledger.
“Before we proceed, it is my duty to inform you of the terms and expectations set forth by the Ministry under the Magical Unity Act. This marriage is legally binding under magical law, and both parties are required to uphold their roles as husband and wife.”
Your stomach twisted. You knew this was coming, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it harder to ignore.
“First, you will be required to cohabitate within the next twenty-four hours. The Ministry has provided accommodations, though should you choose to relocate, you must inform the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within seven days.”
Jongseong’s fingers drummed lightly against the desk, his gaze unreadable. He was listening carefully, though he gave nothing away.
“Second,” the official continued, flipping to another section of the document, “you will be required to consummate the marriage within one year. This will be monitored magically, and failure to do so may result in penalties.”
Your breath caught. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers curled slightly against your lap.
Jongseong’s face remained calm, though you thought you saw the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.
“Third,” the official continued, “as part of the act’s goal to maintain the magical bloodline, you are expected to conceive a child within two years. Failure to comply will result in further legal interventions. Exceptions will only be granted under rare circumstances, such as medically confirmed infertility.”
You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. This was the part that had haunted you the most. It wasn’t just about being forced into marriage—it was about being forced to give up control over the future you had always imagined for yourself.
You had wanted children, eventually. You had imagined raising them in a world where they could make choices freely, where they could love and marry without being told when and how. But now, that dream had been reduced to a cold deadline set by the Ministry.
Jongseong finally spoke. “What are our rights in terms of autonomy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.
The official barely looked up. “You are granted limited autonomy. While you may maintain employment and personal activities, your primary duty remains fulfilling the obligations of the act. Any attempt to break the contract is considered an act of defiance against the Ministry.”
Jongseong gave a slow nod, as if he had expected that answer but wanted it spoken aloud regardless. The official placed two scrolls of parchment in front of you, followed by the hovering blood-binding quill.
“By signing this document, you are agreeing to all conditions and responsibilities dictated by the Magical Unity Act. Once signed, the bond is sealed permanently under wizarding law. Any attempts to nullify it without Ministry approval will result in severe consequences.”
Jongseong’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, there was something there—a quiet understanding, a shared reluctance. Neither of you wanted this. But there was no choice.
With a deep breath, you reached for the quill. The moment your fingers touched it, a sharp, warm sensation prickled against your skin, and the magic within it stirred in response. You watched as your name etched itself onto the parchment in deep crimson ink.
Across from you, Jongseong did the same.
The moment his signature was completed, the parchment glowed gold, sealing the contract. A faint hum of magic filled the air as the binding took effect.
It was done. You were married.
The official gave a brisk nod, gathering the signed documents. “The bond is sealed. You are now husband and wife under magical law.” He closed the ledger with a dull thud before standing. “Congratulations.”
The word felt hollow.
The moment you stepped into the apartment the Ministry had assigned, the full weight of your situation slammed into you. This wasn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare anymore. It was real. It was your life.
The space was larger than you expected, a sleek, magically expanded flat that felt caught between two worlds—modern and traditional, functional and intimate, impersonal yet unsettlingly designed for romance. It was clear that whoever had designed these living quarters had done so with the idea of a happily married couple in mind.
The open-concept living space had softly enchanted lighting, walls painted in neutral, calming tones that could be adjusted to fit the residents' “mood.” A fireplace sat in the center of the lounge, with a plush sofa curved just enough to suggest cozy nights spent tangled together. The kitchen was fully stocked, fitted with both Muggle and magical appliances, making it impossible to avoid the domestic intimacy the Ministry seemed so determined to impose.
Two bedrooms were set at opposite ends of the flat, though one was clearly meant to be temporary. The master bedroom, which you tried to ignore, was the worst of it. The king-sized bed was too large, too luxurious, the silk sheets far too inviting. The enchanted wardrobes had already been merged, both your belongings stored together, blending lives you hadn’t chosen to entwine.
Even the bathroom was designed for two people meant to share everything. The tub was massive, the type built for indulgent baths, fitted with potion-infused oils meant to relax muscles—meant to encourage closeness. The sinks, the mirrors, the counter space—everything was structured with a life of intimacy in mind.
Jongseong was standing stiffly just inside the doorway, his hands still shoved into the pockets of his dark robes. He looked as out of place as you felt. His eyes flickered over the surroundings, lingering on the details, his expression betraying nothing.
“Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “This is… something.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah.”
An awkward pause stretched between you. Neither of you moved.
You cleared your throat. “So… Do you want to set some ground rules?”
Jongseong finally looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Ground rules?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “For… coexisting.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Fair enough.” He nodded toward the hallway. “You can take the bedroom on the left.”
You hesitated. “The Ministry expects us to share one eventually.”
His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “We don’t have to rush into that.”
You let out a breath of relief. “Good.”
Another silence settled. This was going to be excruciating.
You thought the first night would be easier because you had separate rooms. It wasn’t.
The walls were too thin. Every tiny shift, every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the bed linens as one of you turned over—it was impossible to forget that you weren’t alone. That there was someone else here, just a few steps away, existing in the same space, adjusting to the same forced reality.
You lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling every inch of the strangeness that had settled into your life. The silence of the apartment was deafening. Somewhere beyond your door, Jongseong was doing the same. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just existing in this same, uncomfortable limbo.
You weren’t sure how long you lay there before you heard it—
A soft, almost hesitant knock on your door.
You sat up immediately, heart stammering in your chest. “…Yeah?”
You moved toward the coffee pot, pretending not to notice how he was gripping his quill a little too tightly. The sight of him already reading the regulations booklet made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what new absurdities the Ministry had included.
“What’s that?” you asked warily.
Jongseong turned the booklet toward you so you could see the bold title stamped on the front.
A Guide to Magical Marital Expectations: Understanding the Unity Act.
You stared at him. “You’re actually reading that?”
He shrugged, flipping to the next page. “Figured it might be useful to know what we’re legally bound to.”
You sighed, sinking into the chair across from him. “And? What’s in it?”
Jongseong skimmed a few lines before speaking. “Mostly just reinforcing what we were already told. Cohabitation, marital duties, legal ramifications if we break the contract.” He hesitated, his fingers pausing on the page. His jaw tensed slightly, and that was when you knew whatever he had just read wasn’t going to be pleasant.
A beat of silence.
Bravely, you cleared your throat. “What else are you working on?”
Jongseong’s eyes flickered up briefly before he tapped the page with his quill. “Just organizing my work schedule. Trying to figure out how to balance—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “All of this.”
Right. Work. You hadn’t even thought about how this new life would affect your schedules. You needed to figure out yours, his, how to exist in this space without stepping on each other’s toes.
“I have a morning shift at Flourish and Blotts starting tomorrow,” you said after a pause. “And I have an evening class twice a week.”
Jongseong nodded slowly. “I start work at the Ministry at eight every morning. Sometimes later, depending on meetings. But I’m usually back by seven.”
You absorbed that. That meant you’d have the mornings mostly to yourself, but the evenings… “So we’ll see each other mostly at night.”
“Yeah.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Maybe he was just as wary of that realization as you were.
You stirred your coffee absentmindedly. “And, uh… weekends?”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually work on weekends, but I study. And sometimes I meet up with friends.”
Right. Friends. You almost forgot that, despite everything, he had a life outside of this.
That thought stuck with you longer than it should have. Maybe because you were realizing that your life, your freedom, had been traded in for something else. For something you didn’t get to choose.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Also.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes unreadable. “The shared bed rule.”
You grimaced. “I was hoping they’d forgotten about that part.”
Jongseong sighed, setting the booklet down with more force than necessary. “Unfortunately, the Ministry doesn’t forget anything.”
The booklet sat between you on the table, the pages filled with carefully worded regulations, all designed to ensure that the couples formed under the Magical Unity Act fulfilled their “duties.” The words seemed too sharp, too final, as if they carried an unspoken command beneath them.
Your fingers curled around the edge of your mug as you read the clause for yourself.
Clause 7.3 - Marital CohabitationIn order to promote a natural and successful union, married partners must reside within a shared living space and engage in consistent physical proximity.
It is required that both parties sleep within the same quarters by the third month of marriage.
Noncompliance will result in Ministry intervention.
You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a moment. “They’re really monitoring everything.”
Jongseong tapped his fingers against the table, his expression carefully neutral. “We have three months to figure that part out.”
You rubbed your temples. “Three months is… not a lot of time.”
He looked at you for a long moment before setting the booklet aside. “We’ll deal with it when we have to.”
And for some reason, that stuck with you.
Jongseong—or Jay, as his closest friends called him—was totally unamused by his morning conversation.
He sat at his desk in the Ministry, flipping through paperwork as Jake lounged against the opposite desk, watching him with a knowing look. The blond Auror had a casual ease about him, one leg stretched out, a quill spinning between his fingers as he regarded Jay with mild amusement.
“So,” Jake finally said, dragging out the word. “How’s married life?”
Jay didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”
His friend snorted, adjusting his robes as he leaned in. “Oh, come on. I know you better than that.”
Jay set his quill down with a sigh. “What do you want me to say?”
Jake tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know. That she’s unbearable? That she’s the love of your life? That you’ve realized you actually have a thing for arranged marriages?”
Unamused, Jay shot him a flat look. “None of the above.”
But the blond was relentless, he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “So, what? You guys are just awkwardly existing in the same space?”
Jay hesitated, fingers tapping against the parchment in front of him. “…Something like that.”
“Is she at least decent company?”
Jay exhaled, stretching his arms before finally looking up. “She’s normal. It’s awkward. We’re trying to figure out how to coexist without making it worse.”
“Makes sense. I mean, you didn’t exactly get a say in this. Neither of you did.”
Jay appreciated that Jake wasn’t trying to force humor into the situation, not like their other friends probably would. Jake had a way of knowing when to joke and when to actually listen, which was why he was one of the few people Jay actually talked to about things that mattered.
the Australian smirked. “Alright, I’ll leave it alone. But tell me one thing.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “What?”
The blond's grin was slow and knowing. “Do you find her attractive?”
Jay’s hand froze mid-page turn.
Jake caught it immediately. “Ohhh. That’s interesting.”
rolling his eyes, setting the file aside a little too forcefully, the married man in question responds. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
Jake laughed, standing up and stretching. “Well, I’d say welcome to married life, but…” He gave his friend a mockingly sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out it’s a mess.”
Jay shoved his hand away. “Get out of my office.”
“See you at lunch, hubby.”
Jay groaned as Jake walked away, already regretting every life decision that had led to this conversation.
Jongseong was a morning person. You learned that quickly.
He was always the first to wake up, moving around the apartment with an effortless ease that was frankly annoying to someone like you, who preferred to cling to sleep for as long as possible. You often woke to the sound of the shower running, the smell of coffee brewing, and the faint rustling of parchment as he read through Ministry documents while waiting for breakfast.
This morning was no different a few weeks later.
By the time you groggily dragged yourself out of bed, Jongseong was already fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel slung low around his waist. His toned chest and broad shoulders glowed slightly in the morning light, water droplets still clinging to his skin as he casually walked toward his dresser, seemingly unaware—or unbothered—by your presence.
You immediately averted your eyes, heart stammering in your chest. But you could still feel him, still sense the heat radiating off his skin, and the way the air seemed thicker in his presence.
“Morning,” he greeted smoothly, voice still slightly hoarse from sleep.
Your throat felt impossibly dry. “Yeah. Morning.”
He smirked slightly, as if noticing your discomfort, and continued dressing—slowly. The deliberate way he pulled his shirt over his head before taking it off again, deciding he wanted a different one, the flex of his muscles, the way he pushed his damp hair back… it was infuriatingly distracting.
You turned toward the kitchen in desperation, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady yourself. You were not going to be affected by this.
But then he walked past you, his bare arm brushing against yours, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric of your sleeve. You felt the breath hitch in your throat, a sudden rush of awareness sparking along your spine.
You had just taken your first sip of coffee, finally feeling somewhat human, when a loud knock echoed through the apartment. You and Jongseong exchanged a glance.
“Expecting someone?” you asked.
He sighed, setting his mug down. “No. But I have a bad feeling about it.”
The moment Jongseong opened the door, a tall, severe-looking woman in a charcoal robe strode in without invitation. She introduced herself as Ms. Alderton, her expression a mixture of polite authority and thinly veiled scrutiny.
“We’re conducting routine compliance inspections under the Magical Unity Act,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “It’s a simple process, really. Just verifying that the two of you are… adjusting well to married life.”
Your stomach dropped.
Jongseong had not finished dressing.
He was still only wearing a towel around his waist.
You saw the exact moment Ms. Alderton’s eyes flickered downward—not in a scandalized way, but in a very obvious assessment of the situation.
“Oh.” She blinked, arching an eyebrow. “I see I’ve caught you at a… private moment.”
Jongseong’s entire body tensed. You scrambled to grab his shirt off the chair and shove it at him.
“Right, um, we weren’t expecting company,” you said quickly, willing your face not to burn.
Jongseong took the shirt, clearing his throat as he pulled it on, but not before you saw the way his abs tightened under the scrutiny, the way his fingers twitched as he buttoned his shirt with forced composure.
Ms. Alderton hummed, clearly unimpressed. She began the inspection, moving through the apartment with cold efficiency.
She examined your living quarters, asked too many questions about how often you and Jay were together in the same space, and, of course, dropped the expected question:
“And how are you finding the transition into… intimacy?”
You nearly choked on your tea.
Jongseong, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “We’re taking our time with that,” he said evenly. “As I’m sure the Ministry is aware, not all couples move at the same pace.”
Ms. Alderton gave him a knowing look, scribbling something onto her parchment. “Well, as you both know, there are expectations to be met. We’ll check in again soon.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving the weight of her unspoken warnings hanging in the air.
You let out a long breath, still feeling the residual heat of the morning’s tension clinging to your skin.
At work, Jongseong barely had time to sit at his desk before Jake was on him.
“Alright, listen, I’ve been patient, but you’re dodging, man,” the blond Auror said, plopping down in the chair across from Jay’s desk. “We need to meet her.”
Jay sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”
Jake gave him a pointed look. “You’ve been married for weeks and we haven’t even met your wife. Sunghoon’s convinced you made her up.”
“We’re fine. We’re adjusting. That’s all you need to know.”
Jake smirked. “See, the more you say it’s fine, the less I believe it.”
“You’re impossible.”
Jake shrugged. “That’s why you love me. So, what do you say? A small get-together. Nothing crazy.”
Jay sighed again, but this time, he hesitated. He knew the Blond wouldn’t let this go.
“I’ll… think about it.”
When Jay got home that evening, you could immediately tell something was on his mind.
“What is it?” you asked, watching as he loosened his tie.
“Jake keeps pushing for us to meet up with him and the guys,” Jay admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I told him we were fine, but he wasn’t buying it.”
You thought about it for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe we should.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
You nodded. “I mean, we’re supposed to be building a life together, right? It might help to actually know the people in it. And… if something ever happens, it’d be good to have them as a support system.”
Jay studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. But there’s an issue,” You arched your brow in response, “ They think we’re like them, you know, more settled into our married life”
“Ah, I see.”
He chuckled dryly, “And I haven’t had the chance to correct them.”
And that was how you found yourself getting ready to put on a show.
You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge. It was just a night out with his friends—people who, by all accounts, had no real expectations of you beyond existing at Jongseong’s side. But still, as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the tenth time, something in your chest felt tight.
Jongseong passed by behind you, fastening the cuff of his crisp, navy button-up. The color complemented his complexion unfairly well, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, just casual enough to look effortless.
His reflection met yours in the mirror. “Are you ready yet?” he asked, smoothing a hand through his hair.
You exhaled through your nose. “You act like getting ready is as simple as putting on a shirt.”
He smirked. “It is, actually.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. Instead, you turned slightly, watching as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing just the faintest sliver of his collarbone. It wasn’t intentional, but it made something stir deep in your stomach.
The silence stretched between you as you turned back toward the mirror. He lingered behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body made the air feel heavier.
His voice came softer this time. “You look fine.”
Fine. Not breathtaking, not beautiful—just fine.
You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
Jongseong’s gaze flickered over you, his brows drawing together slightly like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he just let out a short exhale and reached for his wand. “Let’s go before Jake tracks me down and drags us there himself.”
As he stepped closer, brushing past you to grab his jacket, your breath caught in your throat. The scent of his cologne—clean, warm, just faintly spiced—wrapped around you before you could react. Your skin prickled as he leaned past you, his fingers grazing the dresser beside you.
You didn’t move until he pulled back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease. Jongseong glanced at you once more, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, before he disappeared into the Floo Network.
You stepped into the Floo Network, watching as Jongseong disappeared in a swirl of green flames before following suit. The familiar tug of magic sent you tumbling through the space between, and in the next moment, you landed just behind him in the bustling pub.
The scent of warm ale, roasted meat, and burning firewood wrapped around you, the low murmur of conversation filling the air. The pub was lively but not overly packed—just busy enough to feel comfortably distracting.
Jongseong placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. His touch was light, but it lingered, a silent reminder that this was part of the act.
Jake spotted you first, grinning. “There they are!” He leaned back in his chair, tilting his glass toward you both. “The happy couple.”
You tried not to stiffen at the word. Happy. That was the goal, right?
Jongseong slipped into the role easily, his arm around your waist a little firmer now. “You make it sound like we’ve been in hiding.”
Jake clapped him on the back as everyone scooted over to make space. “Well, you have! We needed proof you didn’t just run away.”
The conversation flowed smoothly, the group’s laughter blending into the warm, buzzing atmosphere. But you couldn’t help noticing the way Jongseong’s hand lingered on your waist, the way his thumb traced lazy circles over the fabric of your dress. It was subtle—just enough to be convincing, just enough to make your pulse jump.
Sunghoon smirked, raising a brow. “So, how’s married life? Are you two still in the honeymoon phase?”
Jake chuckled. “Yeah, Jay keeps insisting they’re doing just great.”
You felt Jongseong’s hand tighten slightly on your hip as he hummed in agreement. “We are.”
And then, before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.
It was brief, chaste, and yet… oddly intimate. His lips lingered just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.
The table burst into cheers.
As the night went on, the conversation shifted from teasing to storytelling. Jake leaned back in his seat, shaking his head fondly. “You know, I still don’t know how the hell Jay managed to get through Hogwarts without completely embarrassing himself.”
Sunghoon chuckled. “That’s because he had us covering for him.”
Jongseong scoffed. “You mean causing more problems than helping?”
Jake smirked. “Call it whatever you want, mate. But let’s not forget that one time you tried to impress a girl by showing off on the Quidditch pitch and almost broke your arm.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Now this sounds like a story I need to hear.”
Jake grinned. “See, back in school, Jay was all business, all the time. But one day, some girl in Ravenclaw was watching him practice, and he got it in his head that he should show off—flew higher than necessary, tried a fancy dive, and nearly knocked himself unconscious.”
Heeseung chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, young love.”
Sunghoon leaned in. “Speaking of, we should all introduce our wives one day. Maybe have a proper dinner.”
Jongseong stiffened slightly, and you felt it. But before he could say anything, you jumped in.
“That would be nice,” you said, smiling. “Though, I’ll admit, I’d probably be terrible at hosting.”
Jake waved a hand. “Nah, don’t worry about that. Besides, I heard you’re friends with Riki?”
Your brows lifted. “Yeah, I basically treat him like my little brother.”
Jake laughed. “Figures. We were both in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He was a Seeker, I was a Chaser—best duo ever.”
Sunghoon snorted. “And yet, somehow, Jay was the one always getting all the attention.”
Jake groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
The banter continued, light and warm, and despite yourself, you found that you were enjoying it. The illusion of normalcy was beginning to feel real.
Jongseong wasn’t just your forced husband tonight—he was someone who had a past, who had friends that truly cared about him. And maybe, you were starting to see why people cared about him, too.
The moment the Floo Network spit you both out into the apartment, the spell of the night started to break. Gone was the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the pub. Now, there was only quiet, filled with nothing but the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall and the soft rustle of Jongseong adjusting his sleeves.
You expected him to make some dry remark about the night, maybe joke about Jake’s relentless teasing. But instead, he just stood there, staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
You blinked, taken aback. “I—yeah. Why?”
He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “You were… different tonight.”
Your throat felt dry. “We were both acting.”
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, unreadable. “I know.”
Neither of you moved. Neither of you quite knew what to do now.
The next few days were… different. Not drastic, not obvious, but something had changed. You noticed it in the way Jongseong lingered in rooms a little longer than before, the way his gaze flickered to you more often, the way silence between you no longer felt so hostile—just heavy.
Even the small moments carried weight. The way he passed you a cup of coffee in the mornings without needing to ask how you took it. The way he let his hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary when handing you something. The way your name sounded softer when he spoke it.
It was nothing. It was everything.
And then came the first real break in the routine.
You hadn’t expected to see Jongseong standing outside your workplace that evening. His presence was striking against the backdrop of hurried Ministry employees, his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a lamppost.
For a moment, you just stared, thrown by the sight of him waiting for you.
It felt unnatural—this wasn’t part of your unspoken agreement. You met in shared spaces at home, interacted when necessary, but waiting for each other? That was… different.
You hesitated before approaching. “What are you doing here?”
Jongseong glanced up, his dark eyes flickering over you before he straightened. “Picking you up.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Since when do we do that?”
Jongseong exhaled, shifting his weight. “Since now.”
You studied him, waiting for an explanation that never came. Instead, he pushed off the lamppost and nodded toward the street. “Come on.”
A flicker of uncertainty settled in your stomach as you fell into step beside him. You weren’t used to this—him reaching out first.
As you walked, the sounds of Diagon Alley surrounded you—shopkeepers closing up for the night, the faint hum of distant chatter, the flickering glow of enchanted street lamps. But the quiet between you was louder.
At some point, he spoke again. “You get along with them.”
You glanced at him. “With who?”
“My friends.”
You hummed. “They’re easy to like.”
Jongseong nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets. His steps were measured, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“They like you too.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your bag strap. Was that what this was about?
“You fit in well,” he added, his voice lower.
Something warm unfurled in your stomach. “Would it have been a problem if I didn’t?”
Jongseong smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Jake would’ve grilled you until you caved.”
You laughed, and for a moment, things felt effortless.
But as you reached the entrance of your shared home, a thought lingered at the back of your mind.
Why did he come to get you in the first place?
It was well past midnight when you shuffled into the kitchen, craving nothing more than a glass of water. You weren’t expecting to see Jongseong standing there, already by the counter, a mug in his hands.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his gaze flickering down your figure.
It wasn’t until you followed his line of sight that you realized exactly what you were wearing.
A nightshirt. Just a nightshirt. One that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.
You hadn’t thought about it before leaving your room, but now, under his scrutiny, it suddenly felt like the single most scandalous thing you could’ve worn.
Jongseong cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You nodded, stepping closer, reaching for a glass. His presence felt larger in the quiet, like it filled the room in ways you weren’t prepared for. Like he was waiting for something neither of you had the words for.
After a moment, you sighed, staring into your mug as if the swirling liquid inside had all the answers. “I texted my parents about… this,” you finally admitted, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Two weeks ago.”
Jongseong’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt.
“They never replied,” you continued, voice carefully even. “Not that I was expecting them to.”
Jongseongs fingers tapped lightly against the table, a thoughtful rhythm. “They’re Muggles, right?”
You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly have the best relationship with them before this. But I thought—” You paused, exhaling sharply. “I thought they’d at least say something.”
He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice softer than before. “Maybe they just… don’t know how to respond.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Or maybe they just don’t care.”
Jongseong shifted in his seat, glancing down at his hands. He looked like he wanted to say something, to reach for the right words, but he hesitated. Instead, he settled for a careful, almost reluctant, “I’m sorry.”
You lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s fine.”
The silence stretched. The air felt thick. Too thick.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering up to yours. And for the first time, you didn’t look away.
His fingers twitched. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened, just slightly. And then, he took a step back. A deliberate one.
You swallowed. “I should—”
“Yeah.” His voice was lower than before. Rougher. “Me too.”
Neither of you moved for a long moment. And then you did.
The next morning, the reminder came. A letter, crisp and official, waiting for both of you on the breakfast table.
Jongseong opened it first, scanning the words, his jaw tightening. You peered over.
Ministry of Magic Directive 492-B: Cohabitation Progress Assessment
As part of your continued marital integration, you are required to submit a Cohabitation Progress Report detailing shared living arrangements and physical proximity. As per Clause 7.3 of the Unity Act, proof of continued cohabitation will be assessed in the next Ministry visit.
Failure to comply with expectations may result in reassessment and intervention.
You let out a slow breath. “They’re watching us closer now.”
Jongseong scoffed, tossing the letter aside. “Of course they are.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something about the wording unsettled you.
“Physical proximity,” you murmured. “They’re pushing for more.”
Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah.”
Silence.
The weight of the words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.
“We need to practice.”
You looked up from your book, momentarily caught off guard. “Practice what?”
He closed his own book, exhaling like he had already anticipated your reaction. “Being more… natural with each other. The Ministry is expecting real signs of a relationship, not just two people coexisting in the same space.”
You swallowed, shifting slightly. “You mean touching, kissing, all of that?”
He nodded, meeting your gaze with a calmness that only made your stomach tighten further. He wasn’t wrong, of course. If anything, you should have expected this conversation to happen sooner. But something about the way he said it—so practical, so unaffected—sent a nervous flicker through your chest.
“How do you want to start?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.
Jongseong hesitated for only a moment before he pushed himself off the couch and extended a hand. “Come here.”
You stared at his outstretched fingers, debating, before finally placing your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, and as he gently pulled you up, you felt your breath catch slightly at how close he was now.
“Hugging first,” he murmured, like he was giving instructions.
You exhaled softly before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. It felt awkward at first—stiff, calculated—but then, as his arms circled around you in response, something shifted. He was warm, solid, and despite the tension in your shoulders, there was a comfort in the closeness. You felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers rested lightly against your back.
“This isn’t terrible,” he muttered, voice lower than usual.
You huffed a small laugh, eyes still pressed against his chest. “High praise.”
He chuckled, a small vibration against your body. The silence stretched between you, no longer heavy with hesitation but something else—something unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood like that before he finally murmured, “Next.”
You swallowed, stepping back slightly. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before dropping away.
“Kissing?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
Jongseong nodded, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “We should get used to it.”
You inhaled, forcing yourself to meet his gaze head-on. “Alright.”
His fingers reached for your chin, tilting it up slightly, and the air in the room seemed to shift. He didn’t move immediately, as if gauging your reaction, waiting for the tension to settle before he finally leaned in.
The first brush of his lips was light, cautious. Testing.
Your breath caught. It was such a simple touch, barely there, and yet it sent a strange warmth curling in your stomach. His lips were soft, warm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pressed in again—this time firmer, deeper.
A slow, deliberate slide of lips.
Your fingers curled involuntarily into his shirt, as if steadying yourself, as his lips moved against yours with a patience that sent your pulse hammering in your ears. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t merely going through the motions. He was learning you.
There was something unbearably intimate about it, something in the way he lingered, in the way his fingers flexed slightly against your waist. Like he wasn’t sure where to place his hands, but he knew he didn’t want to let go.
Your own breath had turned uneven, the warmth between you making your skin prickle. You weren’t supposed to feel this. It was just practice. Just a test.
And yet, your heart betrayed you with every second he refused to pull away.
Just when you thought he was done, his lips barely parted from yours, he hesitated—and then he pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of your lips, softer than the first, but somehow infinitely more dangerous.
Your eyes snapped open, breath stalling in your throat.
Jongseong didn’t move for a second, his gaze locked on yours as if waiting for a reaction. Then, he took a small step back, clearing his throat. “See? Not so hard.”
You exhaled shakily, forcing a smirk. “Speak for yourself.”
He smiled slightly, but there was something else there now. Something neither of you were quite ready to address.
That night, long after you had gone to bed, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The feel of his lips hadn’t left you. The warmth of his touch still clung to your skin, lingering in a way that made sleep impossible.
The first morning after the kiss, you had been unsure what to expect. Would he pretend it hadn’t happened? Would the air be awkward between you?
You walked into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and saw him standing by the stove, making coffee like he always did. The difference was how he looked at you.
"Morning," he said, and before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with an ease that made your stomach turn over. The touch was fleeting, barely there, yet entirely intentional.
By the second day, it was a hand at your waist when he passed by you in the hallway, fingers lingering as if testing his boundaries. You weren’t sure when it started feeling natural, but you knew that by the third day, when Jongseong pressed a small peck to your temple as he handed you your morning coffee, you didn’t freeze.
You accepted it.
Maybe even welcomed it.
By then, you had decided that if he could do it so easily, so could you. That morning, before leaving for work, you turned back to him just as you reached the door.
"See you later," you murmured, before pressing a quick peck to his cheek.
It was supposed to be casual, unthinking, but as soon as you stepped back, you caught the slight widening of his eyes before he composed himself. You had caught him off guard.
You swallowed, feigning nonchalance, before leaving quickly. You were the one initiating now.
It was the second evening when Jongseong offered to pick you up from work again.
"If people see us together more often, it might help with the whole convincing thing," he had reasoned.
Logical. Sensible. Everything Jongseong was.
Except when he showed up outside your building, leaning against the stone wall with his hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely unbothered while your coworkers noticed.
"Your husband’s here again," one of them teased as they nudged you.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the heat crawling up your neck as you stepped outside. He looked good under the streetlights, the cool air turning his skin slightly pink. His gaze met yours, and something flickered in his eyes before he pushed off the wall and walked toward you.
"Long day?" he asked as he fell into step beside you.
"Exhausting," you murmured. "Thanks for picking me up."
He glanced at you, then, as if on impulse, reached for your hand. Not a performance. Just instinct. His fingers laced through yours with the same steadiness he always carried, and even though you told yourself it was just for show, your pulse didn’t get the memo.
Halfway down the street, you spotted a familiar figure across the road—Jake. He caught sight of you at the same time, waving enthusiastically.
Without thinking, you smiled and waved back. "Jake!"
Jongseong’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, just barely noticeable, but he didn’t say anything.
Jake grinned, giving a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. You cleared your throat, hoping Jongseong didn’t read into anything. But of course, he had noticed.
The morning of the visit felt different. Heavier.
You woke up to the quiet sounds of Jongseong moving around the flat, the faint scent of coffee drifting through the air. The weight of the upcoming meeting sat in your chest like a stone—there was no ignoring the fact that today, the Ministry would scrutinize everything you and Jongseong had been working toward.
You lingered in bed for a moment longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat of your own overactive thoughts. Had you practiced enough? Would they believe you? Would they catch on that some of these moments had started feeling far too real?
You sighed, forcing yourself up, and padded into the kitchen. Jongseong was leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he sipped from his mug. His hair was still damp from his shower, sticking to his forehead slightly, and—
You blinked. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Again.
Jongseong barely acknowledged you as he took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down with an exhale. “We should go over a few things before they get here.”
You were still staring at his bare chest, lips slightly parted. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this—Merlin, you lived together now—but something about it felt different today.
“Uh,” you said eloquently. “You’re—”
“I know,” he replied, completely unbothered. “I forgot to grab my shirt from the other room.”
Before you could respond, a loud knock at the door shattered the moment.
Panic seized your chest.
“They’re early?” you hissed.
Jongseong swore under his breath, grabbing for the nearest thing—your cardigan, which had been draped over a chair. He threw it at you before sprinting toward the bedroom, leaving you standing there, gripping the fabric uselessly as another knock sounded.
Forcing down your nerves, you rushed to the door, opening it just enough to see the official standing there, a clipboard in hand.
“Mrs. Park?” the man asked in a clipped tone.
“Yes,” you said, trying to sound composed.
“We’re here for the cohabitation assessment,” he continued, adjusting his glasses as he glanced down at his paperwork. “May we come in?”
You stepped aside, letting them in, just as Jongseong reappeared—this time fully dressed, but slightly breathless. The Ministry official’s gaze flickered between you both, already taking notes.
The official took a seat at the dining table, motioning for both of you to do the same. His assistant, a younger witch with keen eyes, remained standing near the bookshelf, observing.
“We’ll start with some basic questions,” the man said, clicking his quill against the parchment. “How has married life been treating you both?”
Jongseong leaned back slightly, arm draping over the back of your chair in a practiced motion. “It’s been an adjustment,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with what looked like amusement. “But we’re settling in well.”
The official hummed, eyes narrowing. “What would you say has been the biggest change since getting married?”
You hesitated, heart pounding. What was a normal answer?
Jongseong, of course, had no problem answering. “Waking up to each other in the house.”
You nearly choked on air.
The official scribbled something down. “And how do you usually spend your evenings together?”
Your mind raced. Jongseong was the first to respond, again, far too at ease with all of this. “Dinner, talking about our days, sometimes reading together on the couch.”
That was true. But the way he was selling it so smoothly made heat creep up your neck.
The assistant tilted her head. “And your sleeping arrangements?”
The air in the room thickened.
Jongseong barely hesitated. “We have separate rooms for now, but we’re adjusting.”
The official’s quill paused. A bad sign.
“That will need to change,” he said briskly. “As you know, starting next week, it will be mandatory for all married couples under this law to share a bedroom. The Ministry will have enchantments in place to verify compliance. Any deviation from this could result in a reevaluation of your union.”
Your stomach twisted. They were going to monitor your sleeping arrangements?
The assistant added, “It’s a common concern among couples who haven’t previously lived together, but physical closeness is a necessary step toward a successful marriage.”
Your hands clenched beneath the table. Necessary? Successful? What did that even mean in a marriage you hadn’t chosen?
The official leaned forward slightly. “Are you prepared for that transition?”
Jongseong’s grip on the back of your chair tightened just slightly before he nodded. “Of course.”
The official’s gaze flickered between you two, scrutinizing every reaction, every hesitation. “Then we will expect that adjustment to be complete by the next check-in.”
The assistant cleared her throat. “One last thing. We need to verify your comfort with one another.”
You barely had time to process before Jongseong’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him.
You should’ve seen it coming.
His lips brushed against yours softly, gently at first. But the moment your breath caught, the moment he felt your fingers instinctively tighten around his, he pressed in just a little more—lingering, deepening, turning what should have been just for show into something you didn’t know how to categorize.
By the time he pulled away, your pulse was hammering.
The official seemed satisfied. “That will do.”
Jongseong didn’t let go of your hand.
The Ministry left shortly after, having seen enough. The moment the door shut behind them, you turned to Jongseong, heart still racing.
“That was—”
“Convincing?” he supplied, arching an eyebrow. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”
He cut you off, voice lower. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”
You had no answer to that.
Because the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.
And, worse still, in just a few days, you wouldn’t be able to avoid the reality of what the Ministry expected from you.
You weren’t just playing house anymore. You were about to start living in it.
You remained standing by the door, arms crossed, still feeling the weight of their scrutiny on your skin. The words lingered between you and Jongseong like an unspoken curse.
You must share a bedroom. You must be physically close. The Ministry will verify.
You turned slowly, eyes meeting Jongseong’s. He was still standing near the table, fingers drumming against the wood. He looked composed—too composed, like he hadn’t just promised the officials something neither of you had fully prepared for.
“You said it so easily,” you muttered.
Jongseong raised a brow. “Would you rather I had hesitated?”
Your arms tightened around yourself. “I don’t know.”
His expression remained impassive, but something in the air shifted—thick, charged with something unspoken.
You swallowed. “We have a week.”
“Six days.”
Your gaze snapped up. “You’re counting?”
He shrugged. “It’s important.”
You exhaled sharply and turned toward the hallway. The flat wasn’t huge, but it had two bedrooms. Your bedroom and his. The safe distance you had clung to was suddenly about to vanish.
You crossed your arms tighter over your chest. “We need to figure out how to do this.”
Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, considering. “We should start by deciding how to—”
“Who’s moving?” you interrupted. “You or me?”
He blinked. You hadn’t even let him finish.
For some reason, the question flustered him more than he expected. He looked toward his room, then toward yours, then back at you. “I… I guess it makes sense for one of us to move into the other’s space.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s obvious.”
His jaw tensed. “Then why do you sound upset?”
You inhaled sharply. “Because this isn’t normal. None of this is normal.”
Silence. The tension was razor-thin, tight enough to snap, but just as the air felt like it might crack open with unspoken frustration, Jongseong suddenly stepped forward.
Your breath hitched as he reached up, fingers brushing lightly against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. His touch was barely there—soft, lingering, as if grounding you before the moment could spiral too far.
Your stomach flipped. The anger, the frustration—it melted in an instant, leaving something quieter in its place.
“I know,” he murmured. “But we don’t have a choice.”
He hesitated for a beat before his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his fingers barely ghosting your jawline.
“Baby,” he murmured softly, testing the word, letting it hang between you. His eyes searched yours. “Is that okay?”
Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the nickname, or the fact that you didn’t mind it.
You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest, but eventually, you nodded.
Jongseong held your gaze for a second longer before his hand dropped, tension breaking just enough for you to exhale again.
You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“It matters,” he murmured again. His gaze flickered with something unreadable before he turned and walked toward his room. He pushed the door open, revealing a clean and modern space—a bed that somehow seemed too big, a desk neatly arranged, shelves lined with things you hadn’t paid attention to before.
“This will work,” he said simply, like it was nothing. Like moving you into his space wasn’t going to alter everything.
You stepped into the room cautiously, running your fingers along the edge of his desk. This was real now.
Jongseong moved beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’ll take the bed, obviously.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“The couch.”
“No.” The word left you before you could think about it. Because that would be too obvious. Too much space. Too much defiance against what they were expecting.
Jongseong tilted his head. “No?”
You swallowed. “If they’re monitoring, we can’t make it look fake.”
His expression was unreadable. Then, after a long silence, he said, “We’ll take sides.”
You nodded slowly. “Sides.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Neither of you moved.
The weight of the agreement pressed in around you. You would share a bed. You would be inches apart at night. The pretense of distance was officially gone.
Jongseong finally sighed. “I’ll move your things in tomorrow.”
You nodded. Then, after a pause, you took a small step toward him. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
He smirked faintly. “Nothing about this has been.”
You exhaled slowly. “Then we should make it look real.”
Jongseong’s smirk faded slightly. He tilted his head, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. That look. That tension.
Without thinking, you reached for his wrist, fingers curling around it just briefly before pulling away. Something about touching him first felt necessary.
Jongseong didn’t pull back. Instead, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he murmured, “We’ll figure it out.”
You nodded, stepping back. “We have six days.”
His lips quirked. “Five and a half.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. Then, before you could change your mind, you turned and left the room, your pulse still unsteady in your chest.
The first night in the same room felt heavier than you had expected. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as the reality of the situation fully settled over you.
Jay was in the bathroom, the faint sound of running water filling the silence of the bedroom. Your bedroom now. Your bed, which was suddenly meant for two.
When he stepped out, towel drying his hair, you didn’t look up immediately. Instead, you focused on the shifting space around you—the way your books now lined part of his shelf, your blanket was folded at the foot of the bed beside his, your perfume lingered in the air now.
The room was no longer just his. It was becoming yours, too.
Jay let out a slow exhale as he tossed his towel over a chair. When you finally looked up, your gaze caught on the fact that he was shirtless. He had no intention of sleeping in one, it seemed.
“I don’t sleep with a shirt on,” he said casually, noticing your stare.
You swallowed and cleared your throat. “Can you—just for tonight?”
Jay’s brows lifted slightly before he let out a quiet chuckle. “You really think a shirt’s gonna make a difference, baby?”
Your stomach flipped at the nickname, the casual way it rolled off his tongue. The second time tonight.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Just for tonight.”
He sighed, but didn’t argue, grabbing a t-shirt from the dresser and slipping it on before climbing into bed. “Happy?”
You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck and nodded.
“You okay?” he asked after a beat, watching you.
You blinked. That was the first time he’d asked you that all night.
“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than intended. “Just… adjusting.”
He hummed, turning onto his back. “You’ll get used to it.”
Would you?
You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “We should set some ground rules.”
He nodded, shifting to get comfortable. “Okay. Like what?”
You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip. “No unnecessary touching while sleeping.”
Jay smirked. “You think I’m gonna be all over you in my sleep?”
Your stomach flipped at the teasing edge in his voice. “I think accidents happen,” you countered, narrowing your eyes.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. No unnecessary touching.”
You nodded, though the warmth in your cheeks refused to fade.
“Anything else?” he asked, glancing toward you as he adjusted the pillows.
You hesitated again. “What if, what if one of us wakes up first?”
Jay raised a brow. “Then the other keeps sleeping? That’s usually how waking up works.”
You glared. “I mean, do we pretend to still be asleep? Do we—do we greet each other? What’s the etiquette here?”
Jay let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused. “I dunno. Do you want me to say good morning all soft and sweet? Maybe kiss your forehead while I’m at it?”
You shot him a look, but the mental image sent something warm curling in your stomach.
He grinned. “I’ll just say ‘morning’ and get out of bed. Sound good?”
You nodded. “Okay. That works.”
Jay leaned back against the headboard, watching you for a moment before tilting his head. "By the way," he murmured, "you don’t have to keep calling me Jongseong. Jay is fine."
You hesitated. "Are you sure?"
He smirked slightly. "Yeah. Sounds better when you say it."
Your stomach did an odd little flip at that, but you masked it with a nod. "Alright. Jay."
“You sure you’re comfortable?”
You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”
He hummed again, like he didn’t fully believe you, but didn’t push.
Then, just as you were about to shift under the covers, he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.
Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected softness of the gesture. It was casual, like something natural, something instinctive.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost drowsy. “It’s just me.”
Just him.
The realization settled somewhere deep in your chest as you nodded slowly. You lay back, facing the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of the room. Eventually, Jay flicked the bedside lamp off, and darkness swallowed the space between you both.
After a long stretch of silence, you swallowed and, almost in a whisper, asked, "Are you already used to it?"
There was a pause before Jay shifted slightly beside you. His voice was softer than before when he finally answered. "Not yet."
Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. You had spilled coffee on your only clean work shirt, and barely made it to your job on time. Meetings ran over, projects piled up, and no matter how much you tried to get ahead, the day kept dragging you down.
Then, to top it all off, the train home was delayed, and your wand flickered weakly when you tried to summon your keys at the door. By the time you finally stepped inside the apartment, exhaustion clung to your bones, irritation simmering beneath your skin.
You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary, throwing your bag onto the chair with a frustrated huff. Everything sucked. Absolutely everything.
Then you looked toward the bed.
Jay was already there, half-asleep, his head turned toward the door as if he had been waiting for you. His hair was messy, his bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the covers. The dim lighting made his features softer, relaxed in a way that nearly made you forget how awful your day had been.
“Took you long enough,” he mumbled sleepily.
Your frustration flickered, the sharp edges of it dulling almost instantly. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “Yeah. Today was hell.”
Jay hummed, eyes barely open as he shifted, making just enough space for you. “C’mere, baby.”
Your heart clenched at the way he said it, voice thick with sleep, laced with a quiet warmth that had no right making you feel better.
You sighed again, but this time it wasn’t frustration—it was something softer, something that melted under the weight of his tired gaze.
You moved toward the closet to change, but Jay groaned softly, burying his face in the pillow. “No, just talk to me. I wanna hear about your day.”
You shook your head, exhaling as you unbuttoned your shirt. “You’re barely awake.”
“So?” he muttered, voice muffled. “Still wanna hear you.”
His insistence chipped away at whatever was left of your bad mood. As you moved through your night routine, you found yourself telling him everything—the stupid meetings, the unbearable commute, the way your boss kept mispronouncing your name even after working together for months.
Jay hummed occasionally, nodding in half-conscious agreement, eyes drifting shut between your sentences. But every time you stopped, thinking he had finally fallen asleep, his voice would break the silence.
“What happened after that?”
“Did you tell them off?”
“Bet you rolled your eyes at least five times.”
By the time you finally crawled into bed, most of the weight from the day had lifted, replaced by a quiet comfort that settled deep in your bones. As you exhaled, sinking into the sheets, Jay shifted beside you. His eyes were barely open, sleep pressing heavy against him, but he still reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek.
Without thinking, he murmured, "C’mere," and before you could register what was happening, he pulled you in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. It was warm, slow, edged with sleep and something softer, something that made your chest tighten.
By the time he pulled away, his lips barely ghosting against yours, he was already halfway asleep again. "Better?" he mumbled, his voice slurred.
You swallowed, your pulse unsteady. "Yeah," you whispered. Jay’s fingers brushed against your arm as he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
You huffed, shaking your head. “Me talking about my day was more for your entertainment than comfort, wasn’t it?”
Jay’s lips curled lazily. “Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes, shifting under the covers. But then Jay mumbled, “No shirt, no pants? I know you don’t like to wear your pants to sleep.”
You exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion tug at your limbs. “Fine.”
His fingers flexed against the sheets, satisfied. “Good. Together, we make one whole pajama set.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jay hummed in agreement, already drifting off. Only when you settled beside him, feeling the shared warmth beneath the blankets, did he finally stop fighting sleep. But before he did, his hand found your cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.
Without thinking, he leaned in again, this time pressing a softer, lingering kiss against your jaw. You exhaled slowly, your hands hesitating for only a moment before one of them lifted, fingers grazing the bare skin of his chest, feeling the warmth beneath your touch. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his lips trailing down to brush a barely-there kiss against the curve of your neck, his hand moving up to cradle the side of your face.
"Sleep," he mumbled against your skin, voice fading into exhaustion, before finally letting go.
You woke up to warmth. A slow, steady heat radiating from beside you, the blankets feeling heavier than usual.
Your eyes blinked open to see him still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other stretched out lazily, fingers grazing your side. His breathing was even, his face completely relaxed in sleep.
You hesitated, watching him for just a moment longer than necessary, before attempting to shift away.
The second you moved, Jay groaned low in his throat. “Stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His fingers flexed against your hip before retracting as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you yet.
You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at his drowsy tone. “I need coffee.”
Jay cracked one eye open. “You always need coffee.”
You huffed. “And you always wake up in a good mood. How?”
He smirked sleepily, rolling onto his back with a slow stretch, his toned stomach peeking out from under the sheets. “It’s a gift, baby.”
The nickname sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you pushed the covers off before he could catch your expression. “I’m making coffee.”
Jay hummed, still blinking away sleep. “You’re really just gonna get up and leave me like this?”
You paused, turning to glance at him. “Like what?”
He grinned lazily. “Cold and abandoned.”
You scoffed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”
Jay only smirked as you made your way to the kitchen, the comfortable ease between you lingering even as you started your morning routine.
Moments later, he joined you, still shirtless, hair a mess, moving to grab a mug from the cupboard. As you handed him his coffee, he leaned in absentmindedly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder before taking the cup. The motion was so casual, so natural, that it took you a second to process.
You blinked, turning to face him. "Aren’t you kissing me too much?"
Jay stiffened slightly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. But then his lips quirked, and he leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee.
You watched him for a beat before setting your mug down. "Fine."
Before he could ask what you meant, you leaned in, arms lifting to loosely wrap around his neck as you pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw, your lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. You felt the slight shudder run through him, the way his grip on his coffee mug tightened just a fraction. Jay's breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug.
When you pulled back, you smirked at the way his ears had turned red. "Happy now?"
"You should kiss me more," he teased.
You shot him a look, passing him a cup of coffee. “You’re lucky I made extra.”
Jay took a sip, sighing in content. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, baby.”
You pretended not to react to the name, but the warmth stayed with you longer than your coffee did.
As you took another sip of your coffee, the quiet hum of the morning was interrupted by the sound of fluttering wings. An owl swooped in through the open kitchen window, landing gracefully on the counter, a neatly tied envelope clutched in its beak.
Jay sighed, setting his mug down as he reached for the letter. "That'll be from my parents."
You watched as he untied the parchment, unfolding it with a slight frown. The owl hooted softly, waiting for a response.
Jay's eyes scanned the page, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a small exhale, he muttered, "They want to see us."
Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. Us.
“You’re staring at it like it’s gonna bite,” he mused, taking a sip of his coffee.
You huffed. “I just don’t know what to expect.”
Jay exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down. “My parents… they’re not bad. Just… traditional. They’ll expect things to look a certain way.”
Your fingers curled around your cup. “And what if they don’t?”
He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Then we make sure they do.”
There was something unreadable in his expression, something both reassuring and unsettling all at once. He was taking this seriously—not just the Ministry part, but the part where you both had to convince his family, too.
You bit your lip. “One thing at a time?”
Jay smirked slightly, tapping his fingers against the counter. “One thing at a time.”
You weren’t sure why the thought made your stomach twist, but something about meeting Jay’s parents, about having to present this marriage as real to them, felt heavier than anything you had prepared for.
Jay looked at you then, tilting his head slightly. "I can write back later. No rush. Honestly, let’s just get through the last Ministry visit for a while first—then we can deal with my parents."
You swallowed, nodding. "Right. No rush."
The owl flapped its wings, as if impatient, but Jay simply placed the letter aside, returning his focus to his coffee. The weight of the letter lingered in the air between you, unspoken but present.
The morning had started normally enough. Work had been relatively uneventful, save for your coworker Mina pulling you aside as you both sorted through some files in the break room. She leaned against the counter, stirring sugar into her tea with a knowing look in her eyes.
"So," she drawled, "how's married life treating you?"
You blinked. "It’s… an adjustment."
Mina scoffed, taking a sip of her tea. "Adjustment? That’s a diplomatic way of putting it. You barely look married. No ring marks on your fingers, no swooning over your husband’s lunch visits."
You huffed. "He doesn’t visit me at work, but he does pick me up after. And we do kiss and stuff."
Mina’s brows shot up, interest piqued. "Kiss and stuff? So, what, like a peck on the lips? A lingering moment? You making out against the nearest wall?"
Your face burned. "Not making out. Just… normal kissing."
Mina gave you a deadpan look before taking another sip of her tea. "Okay, listen. Make out. Suck his dick. Get laid. In that order."
You nearly choked. "Mina!"
She smirked, unbothered. "What? Jongseong is a total hottie, you’re stressed, and all this weird tension you’re feeling will go away the moment you two start properly acting like husband and wife."
You groaned, rubbing your temples. "You are actually the worst."
Mina shrugged, grinning. "I’m just saying, sweetheart, at some point, you’re gonna have to stop pretending this is a polite roommate situation. Might as well enjoy yourself in the process."
She only laughed, patting your shoulder. "I’m just saying, if you’re already forced to live together, might as well enjoy the perks, right? Bet he’s not bad in bed either."
Mina shrugged, clearly unfazed. "I’m the realist. You’re the one making this more complicated than it needs to be."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't fully shake her words from your mind as the day went on.
Jay had suggested going out for lunch—something about fresh air being good for you, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was trying to get you out of your own head. The tension of the upcoming dinner with his parents had been lingering between you both, and he was trying to shift the focus.
The café was cozy, tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that blurred the line between magical and Muggle. Small, levitating candles hovered above each table, but there was also a very prominent espresso machine steaming in the background, giving the place a strange but warm blend of both worlds.
Jay was different today. More touchy.
The first time he reached for your hand, it caught you off guard. You had been gesturing while explaining something, only to have his fingers wrap around yours mid-sentence, lacing them together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You blinked down at your joined hands, but he only smirked, continuing to listen as if nothing had changed.
Jay tilted his head slightly. "By the way, you always talk about Niki, but what about your other friends? Jungwon, right?"
You blinked. "Yeah. Jungwon and I have been friends for a while now."
Jay hummed. "Funny. I actually tutored him for like a week back in school."
Your eyes widened. "You? Tutoring Jungwon?"
He smirked. "Yeah. He was struggling with Charms. Thought he could figure everything out by himself, but he kept botching the spellwork."
You laughed. "That does sound like him. How did it go?"
Jay shrugged. "He quit after a week. Said he learned better by messing up on his own."
You snorted. "That sounds even more like him."
Jay smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Guess we’ve had more overlapping connections than I thought."
It wasn’t until later that evening, back at the apartment, that you realized just how much more comfortable Jay had gotten with you.
You were sitting on the couch, legs curled up beneath you as you skimmed through a book, when Jay walked in, plopping down beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. Without hesitation, he reached for your arm and tugged gently, signaling for you to shift.
You raised a brow. “What?”
Jay smirked. “Come here.”
You scoffed. “Why?”
He sighed, as if you were exhausting, before simply pulling you toward him. You barely had time to react before you were settled against his chest, your back pressed against him as he stretched his legs out comfortably. His arms caged you in, warm and steady.
“Jay,” you muttered, stiffening slightly. “What are you doing?”
“Relaxing.” His voice was easy, like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just settled directly into his lap.
You swallowed, unsure of what to do with yourself. “I—”
“You’re warm,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
The worst part was that he was warm too.
After a few seconds, you exhaled, finally allowing yourself to relax into him. Jay hummed in approval, his lips grazing against the shell of your ear as he shifted slightly, adjusting his grip around you. The touch was fleeting but intentional.
“You really don’t mind all this?” you asked quietly.
Jay chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Mind it? I’m starting to think I like it too much.”
You sucked in a breath, but before you could respond, he nuzzled against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your ear before closing lightly around it in a teasing nibble. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively gripped his arm.
"Jay—"
He didn't pull back. Instead, his arms tightened around you, and his lips moved lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the curve of your neck. The warmth of it sent a sharp jolt through your spine, and before you could second-guess yourself, you turned slightly in his lap, tilting your head toward him.
It happened naturally—his mouth met yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than either of you had intended. The shift in energy was unmistakable, tension curling between you like an unspoken understanding neither of you wanted to break.
Jay's hands splayed against your back, pulling you closer as your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself. When he bit at your bottom lip, a quiet noise escaped you, and he responded by deepening the kiss, tilting his head as if he couldn't get enough.
By the time you finally pulled away, breath uneven, his forehead rested against yours, his lips just barely brushing over yours again in a lingering tease. Your heart was still racing, your hands still lightly curled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Jay's breath was still uneven against your skin, his hands resting against your lower back, keeping you close. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, the lingering tension settling between you both like an unspoken acknowledgment.
His arms tightened slightly, and he nuzzled against your cheek, pressing a barely-there kiss against your temple. "You feel safe," he murmured, his voice lower, softer.
Your breath hitched. "What?"
Jay exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in your presence. "With you. I feel safe with you."
The confession sent a warmth through your chest that you weren’t prepared for. Your fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, caught between the instinct to pull away and the need to stay exactly where you were.
Jay tilted his head, his nose brushing against your cheek. "You like taking care of me, don’t you?" he mused, teasing but sincere.
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "You’re impossible."
His smirk returned, albeit softer this time. "Maybe. But I think you like me this way."
You huffed, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself sink just a little further into his embrace, knowing—deep down—you weren’t quite ready to let go yet.
"Told you you'd get used to it," he murmured, his voice husky.
“Jay,” you warned, though your voice came out softer than intended.
He only smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder like he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “You’re overthinking again, baby.”
And you hated that he was right.
You had been dreading the Ministry’s visit from the moment the letter arrived, confirming the final scheduled check-in before a long evaluation period. It was supposed to be a relief—this was the last time, for a while at least, that an official would come snooping around, dissecting your marriage like it was an experiment instead of your actual life.
But relief was the last thing you felt.
There was something suffocating about the expectation of passing. You and Jay had gotten good at playing your roles, good at the casual touches, the familiarity, the easy, teasing back-and-forth that had started feeling more real than pretend. But today, something felt… off.
Maybe it was because the words still echoed in your mind.
You should kiss me more.
You feel safe.
Jay had said it so easily, as if it was second nature to him now, to be comfortable around you. But comfort didn’t mean security, and today, everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.
The Ministry official, a stern-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sat across from you both in the living room. A notepad in her hands, quill poised. Watching. Always watching.
“So,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “We’ve received positive reports so far on your integration as a married couple. How has the transition been?”
Jay, as always, was calm, composed, charming. “It’s been good. We’ve built a routine, settled into daily life together.”
Her eyes flickered to you. “And you?”
You swallowed. “It’s… an adjustment, but I think we’re getting there.”
The Ministry woman nodded, making a note. “Good, good. And the cohabitation aspect? Shared space, sleeping arrangements?”
Jay didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”
You nodded, feeling the walls close in around you. You wondered if she could sense the strange weight in the air, the tension neither of you had fully addressed.
She glanced down at the file in her lap. “As you know, by the next evaluation period, the Ministry will be monitoring this aspect through magical verification. We must ensure that your union progresses naturally.”
Naturally. As if any of this had been natural from the start.
Her gaze sharpened. “And, of course, I must remind you that by the second year of marriage, procreation is expected. The Ministry understands that adjustments take time, but ultimately, your union is meant to strengthen the magical bloodlines.”
Your stomach clenched. Jay’s jaw tensed.
“Understood,” Jay finally said, his tone even.
You managed a nod, even though your heart was pounding in your ears. The official studied you both for a moment longer before standing, closing her folder.
“I believe that will be all for now,” she said, giving a tight smile. “We will check in again at the next scheduled period. Until then, I suggest you continue settling into your roles as husband and wife.”
And just like that, she was gone. But her words lingered, thick like smoke in the room.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
Then, Jay let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that was fun.”
Your jaw clenched. “Fun.”
He glanced at you, sensing the shift in your tone. “What?”
You stood abruptly, pacing toward the kitchen, needing space. “Nothing.”
Jay sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Come on, baby, just say it.”
And maybe it was the way he said it—so effortlessly, so casually, as if nothing had just happened—that made something in you snap.
“Say what, Jay?” You whirled around, frustration bubbling over. “That I hate this? That I hate how the Ministry talks about children like we’re required to breed for them? That I hate how we have to act like our lives are some scripted performance?”
Jay exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You think I don’t hate it too?”
“Do you?” The words were out before you could stop them, sharp, biting. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re perfectly fine pretending.”
Jay’s expression darkened. "I’m trying to make the best of this, but you act like I’m the enemy. We’re in this together, or have you forgotten that?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Together? Jay, sometimes it feels like you don't even care. Like you're just rolling with this because it's easier for you."
Jay’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his posture stiffening. "What do you mean I don't care? Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wake up every morning thrilled about the fact that my life got rewritten by some Ministry law?"
You exhaled sharply. "I never said that."
"No, but you sure as hell act like I’m the one who forced you into this." His voice was sharper now, frustration laced into every word. "I’ve been trying, okay? Trying to make this livable, trying to make it easier for both of us. But every time I do, you push back like you’d rather pretend I don’t exist."
You crossed your arms, hating the way his words stung. "I don’t pretend you don’t exist, Jay. I just—" You swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to balance what’s real and what’s not," Your heart pounded, "I haven’t forgotten that we're in this together. But maybe I wish we weren’t."
Jay’s entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less sharp. "What do you mean, you wish we weren’t?"
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. "Jay—"
"No, say it," he pressed, his voice laced with something raw. "Has this all just been an inconvenience to you? Have I just been another part of the mess?"
You inhaled shakily. "That’s not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His eyes bore into yours, frustration and something else—something closer to hurt—bleeding into his gaze.
You hesitated. "I just meant… I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore."
Jay’s expression darkened further, his frustration spilling over. "It’s all real, because this is our life now! This isn’t some fantasy, or some nightmare you can wake up from. This is it. We’re here, together, and no amount of wishing it away is going to change that."
Jay let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe it isn’t normal, but it’s ours. And if we keep tearing it apart every time something doesn’t go the way we want, then what the hell are we even doing?"
Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Neither of you willing to be the first to break it.
The silence that followed was deafening. Jay’s face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. A flicker of something that looked like hurt.
And then, just like that, the moment passed.
His jaw clenched, his voice measured. “We have dinner with my parents tonight.”
You inhaled sharply, your stomach twisting. You had completely forgotten in the middle of the chaos.
“Great,” you muttered. “Can’t wait.”
Jay exhaled, stepping back. “Just… get ready. We’ll deal with this later.”
The carriage ride to Jay’s family estate was quiet, tense. You barely spoke, both still reeling from the heated argument earlier. Jay’s gaze was fixed outside the window, jaw tight, and though you knew this dinner was important, you couldn’t shake the unease crawling under your skin.
By the time you arrived, the grandeur of the Park estate was impossible to ignore. The house—no, the manor—was a striking example of old magic, the kind of wealth that had been passed down for generations.
Tall wrought-iron gates opened with a soft creak, revealing sprawling courtyards lined with lantern-lit pathways, their glow flickering in the cool evening air. The mansion itself was regal, its high stone walls blanketed in ivy, windows aglow with warm golden light.
Jay straightened the moment the carriage stopped, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something practiced. Reserved. This was his world, and you were only stepping into it.
A house-elf opened the massive front doors before either of you could knock, ushering you into a vast foyer lined with polished marble floors and an intricately carved staircase leading to the upper levels. The walls were adorned with enchanted portraits, all featuring past generations of the Park family—stoic figures in rich robes watching you with unsettling scrutiny.
Jay’s mother was waiting in the grand entrance hall, regal as ever. Her dark hair was elegantly styled, her robes immaculate, her presence exuding the effortless grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Jongseong," she greeted, her voice smooth but edged with expectation. "It’s been too long."
Jay nodded, a polite smile barely reaching his eyes. "You know how it is."
His father stood just behind her, taller than Jay, his presence commanding even in silence. His features were sharp, his stare assessing, but there was a flicker of curiosity when he glanced at you.
His mother’s gaze shifted toward you, scanning with the precision of someone accustomed to weighing worth. "And you must be my daughter-in-law."
The title landed heavily. Daughter-in-law. It sounded more binding coming from her than it ever had from a Ministry official.
You dipped your head slightly. "It’s lovely to meet you."
She studied you for a long moment before giving a small nod. "Come in. Dinner is ready."
The dining room was ornate and intimidating, the kind of place where silence held weight. A long, polished table stretched across the room, set with fine china and gleaming silverware. Floating candles hovered overhead, casting a warm but almost oppressive glow on the deep mahogany walls lined with more ancestral portraits.
Dinner was served in meticulously timed courses, each plate appearing at the perfect moment as house-elves moved soundlessly through the space. The food was exquisite, but you barely tasted it—your mind too occupied with the undercurrent of tension between you and Jay.
His parents, though polite, were assessing you, their questions carefully crafted to evaluate rather than genuinely get to know you.
"Tell me," his mother finally said, dabbing her lips with a pristine napkin, "how have you been adjusting to married life?"
You forced a smile. "It’s been an adjustment, but we’re finding our way."
Jay’s father hummed, swirling his wine glass. "Finding your way?" His sharp eyes flickered between the two of you. "That’s an interesting choice of words."
You felt Jay tense beside you. "We’re managing just fine."
His mother tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharper than before. "Did you two have a fight?"
Your breath caught in your throat. The room felt smaller. Had they already noticed?
Jay let out a measured sigh, fingers tightening slightly around his fork. "It’s nothing. Just—" he exhaled, sparing you a quick glance, "a disagreement."
His mother hummed thoughtfully, setting her napkin down beside her plate. "Marriage isn’t about never fighting. It’s about how you handle the fights."
His father nodded, his deep voice breaking the tense silence. "A marriage built on avoidance will always crumble. Disagreements are inevitable, but how you choose to move forward from them is what matters."
The weight of their words settled heavily between you and Jay, a third presence at the table. It wasn’t accusatory, nor was it particularly comforting—it was simply fact. And it left you feeling exposed.
His mother’s gaze lingered on Jay for a moment longer before softening just a fraction as she turned back to you. "It will take time, but if you are both willing to build something real from this, then you must learn to meet each other halfway."
You swallowed, nodding slowly. Halfway.
After dinner, as the plates vanished and the dining room emptied, Jay’s mother turned to you with a calm, knowing expression. "Come," she said, rising gracefully from her seat. "Let’s wash our hands before dessert."
You hesitated for only a moment before following her, feeling Jay’s gaze linger on you as you exited the room. The air in the corridor was cool, laced with the scent of fresh linen and aged parchment. You expected her to lead you directly to the washroom, but instead, after you rinsed your hands, she gestured toward a side door that opened into a moonlit garden.
"A walk will do us both some good," she murmured, stepping outside.
The estate grounds were vast, illuminated by the soft glow of floating lanterns. The paths were lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and arching trellises of enchanted flowers that bloomed faintly in the evening air. It was quiet, serene, the opposite of the tension you had felt all night.
She walked beside you in silence for a few moments before speaking. "I can see the weight you’re carrying, dear. You don’t need to hide it from me."
You exhaled slowly. "It’s just… a lot. Adjusting, trying to understand what all of this means, what’s expected of me… and Jay."
Her lips curled slightly, not unkindly. "My son is… difficult at times. But I know him well."
You glanced at her, uncertain. "You seem to know a lot about us already."
She chuckled. "I know marriage is not easy, especially one like yours. But I also know that my son is not as indifferent as he pretends to be. He may act as though he’s handling everything well, but I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you look at him, even when you don’t realize it."
You swallowed. "I don’t know how to make this work."
She stopped walking, turning to you. In the dim light, her gaze was softer than before. "Then start by meeting him where he is. And let him meet you there, too."
You nodded slowly, her words settling deep within you.
Then, as if sensing your next question, she offered a small smile. "If I know my son—and I do—he’s waiting for you upstairs. In his old bedroom. He may be stubborn, but he won’t go to sleep without trying to fix things."
The warmth in her voice was unexpected, and when she placed a gentle hand on your arm, she added, "Call me Mom. Family is built over time, but you’re part of ours now."
Something in your chest tightened, but you found yourself nodding, feeling the smallest bit lighter.
"Go to him," she murmured, stepping back toward the house. "The night is long, but love is patient."
The hallways of the Park estate were quiet, dimly lit by sconces casting soft, flickering light. The house smelled like old parchment, polished mahogany, and something herbal—like a potion left brewing long enough to become part of the walls. The weight of history pressed in on you as you followed the familiar path to Jay’s childhood bedroom.
Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you stood outside his door, slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling onto the dark floorboards. Your heart was a riot in your chest, each beat slamming against your ribs.
You pushed the door open.
Jay was there. Waiting.
He sat on the edge of his bed, one elbow propped on his knee, fingers pressed to his temple like he had the beginnings of a headache. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his shirt hung loosely over his frame, collar slightly undone like he’d been tugging at it in frustration. His hair was tousled—from his hands, or maybe from the weight of the night.
He looked up as you entered. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders tensed.
The room was suffocatingly personal. The bed, bigger than you expected, was covered in dark gray sheets that had long lost their crispness. The walls, lined with old Quidditch posters and bookshelves crammed with textbooks and novels, spoke of a younger, more ambitious Jay—one you had never known.
Your throat tightened. This was his space. His past. And now you were stepping into it.
You shut the door behind you, your breath unsteady.
“Your mom told me you’d be here,” you said softly.
Jay scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Of course, she did."
The silence that stretched between you was thick with unspoken things. You shifted on your feet, nerves crawling up your spine. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to him.
You exhaled. "She also told me to call her Mom."
That got his attention. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flickering over you like he was trying to decide if you were serious. "Yeah?"
You nodded. "She gave me some advice, too. About meeting halfway."
Jay inhaled deeply, rubbing at his temple before looking at you fully. "Sounds like her."
More silence. It wasn’t cold anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Just hesitant. Fragile.
Finally, he sighed. "I don’t like fighting with you."
The words hit you harder than they should have. A lump formed in your throat. "Me neither."
Jay’s eyes softened just slightly, his posture relaxing the smallest bit. "I meant what I said earlier. This… us. It’s real, whether we wanted it to be or not."
You swallowed against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Real. That word lodged itself deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You took a slow step forward. Then another. And another, until you were standing between his knees.
Jay’s hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.
"I don’t know how to do this," you whispered, voice tight.
Jay’s throat bobbed as he exhaled, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hands slid up your hips, fingers digging into your waist just enough to make you feel it.
“Then let’s figure it out together,” he murmured.
A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it. His grip tightened.
Tears slipped past your lashes, and Jay’s entire expression shifted. His fingers brushed up, cradling your face, wiping them away.
"Baby, hey—" his voice dropped lower, raw. "Why are you crying?"
You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. I just—" You sucked in a breath. "You call me baby like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re normal. And I don’t know what to do with that."
Jay studied you for a long moment, then tilted his head forward, pressing his forehead to yours.
His warmth seeped into your skin, anchoring you. He smelled like home.
"You don’t have to do anything with it," he murmured. "Just let me hold you."
You let out another shaky breath before you did something you hadn’t done before.
You settled into his lap.
Jay’s entire body stiffened, but he didn’t stop you. His arms came up instinctively, wrapping around your waist, holding you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Your fingers toyed with the edges of his collar, trailing along the warm skin just beneath it. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, fast but steady.
Then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first, hesitant—a brush of lips meant to test the waters. But when Jay sighed against your mouth and pulled you flush against him, the hesitation melted away.
He kissed you deeper.
You could feel everything in the way he held you—his hands sliding up your spine, his fingers tracing your ribs, the weight of every moment leading up to this one.
By the time you pulled away, you were breathless. Your forehead rested against his, lips still tingling.
Then, in a hushed, teasing voice, you whispered, "I love it when you smother me with yourself. It makes me feel beautiful."
Jay froze.
Then—a deep, rich laugh rumbled in his chest. He tipped his head back, grinning. "What?"
Your cheeks burned. "It sounded better in my head."
Jay’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing over your temple as he chuckled. "God, you’re ridiculous."
You hummed, tracing absent patterns over his chest. "But you love it."
Jay exhaled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if he belonged there. "Yeah, baby," he murmured against your skin. "I do."
For the first time that night, everything felt right.
The morning sun poured through the windows the next morning, casting golden streaks across the bedroom floor. You stirred slightly, feeling warmth wrapped around you—solid, firm, undeniably Jay.
His arm was draped over your waist, his breath hot against the back of your neck, slow and steady. His entire body was flush against yours, the weight of his leg thrown over yours, as if he had unconsciously tangled himself around you in the night.
You froze, hyper-aware of every point of contact. His hand splayed low on your stomach, fingers curled just barely under the hem of your shirt. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.
Then, he tightened his grip.
You sucked in a breath as his fingers flexed against your skin, pulling you back against him. A low hum rumbled in his chest, deep and sleepy.
"Mmm. Stay," he muttered, voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that made your stomach flip.
You should move. You should pull away. But you don’t.
Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a second. The feel of him—his bare skin against yours, the solid press of his body—had your mind spiraling into dangerous places. He was so warm, so strong, so impossibly close.
Your breath stuttered as you felt his fingers slide just a little lower, his palm pressing just a little firmer.
And then, realization hit.
You jerked away, heart hammering, but Jay barely reacted. He let out a tired groan, stretching his arm over his head before blinking at you through half-lidded eyes.
"What’s wrong?" His voice was hoarse, his gaze still heavy with sleep.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to stay even. "Nothing. Just… we should get up."
Jay smirked, lazy and knowing.
"If you say so, baby."
The walk home was silent, but thick. Every brush of your arms, every accidental glance, every moment of quiet between you carried an unbearable weight.
You weren’t sure when it had started—this undercurrent of something more, something dangerous. But you could feel it burning beneath the surface.
When you stepped inside the apartment, the air changed.
Jay lingered near the kitchen, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. He watched you, gaze heavy, unreadable. You could feel it—the tension crackling between you like a live wire.
Finally, he broke the silence. "You’re different."
You glanced at him. "So are you."
His lips quirked. "That a bad thing?"
You didn’t answer. Because no, it wasn’t. And that was the problem.
It started small. A test. A game.
You began pushing his buttons—on purpose.
Brushing past him with too much force. Leaning in just a little too close when speaking. Letting your fingers trail over his wrist absentmindedly, just to see if he’d react.
And Jay? He played back.
His palm ghosting over the small of your back when he passed behind you. His lips brushing your ear as he murmured something teasing. His fingers trailing down your spine for just a second too long.
Then came the moment when he finally called you out.
One night, as you passed him in the hallway, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
He turned to face you, his eyes dark, smirk sharp.
"What’s this, baby? Trying to get my attention?"
Your breath caught in your throat. You had been. But you weren’t about to admit it.
You scoffed. "In your dreams."
Jay chuckled, but there was something dangerous in his expression now.
"Oh, I think you’ve been in my dreams, too."
Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was winning. And you couldn’t have that.
So, you did something reckless.
As you moved past him, you let your fingers drag over his stomach, just barely skimming the skin exposed by his loose shirt.
Jay stiffened.
For the first time, he looked affected. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.
Then, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You keep playing with fire, baby."
You turned, eyes locking onto his. "And what if I am?"
His lips parted. His fingers curled into fists.
He was so, so close to losing it.
It happened in the smallest, most ridiculous way.
You were reaching for something on the top shelf in the kitchen when Jay stepped behind you, his body pressing up against yours, his hand effortlessly grabbing it before you could.
"Let me," he murmured, his voice low and deep in your ear.
You froze. Every inch of him was against you. His chest, his hips, his hands.
Then, you pressed back against him.
Jay let out a quiet, shaky breath. His fingers dug into your waist.
"You don’t know what you’re doing to me," he whispered. His lips brushed your ear, his breath warm.
You turned slightly, your lips just barely grazing his.
"Then show me."
And that was it. That was the moment. Jay grabbed you, spun you, backed you against the counter.
His mouth crashed against yours—needy, desperate, hungry. A gasp escaped you, swallowed instantly by his lips. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with ease.
You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, so, so close.
Jay broke the kiss, panting, pressing his forehead against yours. His hands shook as they held onto you. "Tell me to stop."
You shook your head. "Don’t you dare.".
The air between you and Jay was electric, charged with unspoken desire that had been simmering for far too long. It was too much now, a weight pressing down on you both, demanding to be released. When his lips finally claimed yours, it was with urgency, with hunger, as if he had been holding back for months.
The kitchen—such a normal, mundane setting—was suddenly transformed into something far more intimate, more dangerous. The cool granite countertop pressed into your back as Jay’s lips crushed against yours, sending shockwaves through your body.
At first, your lips parted in surprise, but the moment you surrendered, it was over. His kiss was hungry, his mouth moving fervently against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His tongue swept inside, demanding, possessive, like he was marking you as his own.
A soft moan escaped you, a sound of surrender, of need.
It seemed to unleash something in him.
His hands, which had been resting gently on your thighs, tightened with fierce intensity. His long fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving imprints as he pushed you further into the counter, molding you against him. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your body closer, craving more of the heat between you.
The kiss deepened, turning hotter, messier. A whimper slipped from your lips, and Jay responded with a deep, primal growl, his mouth leaving yours to trail fire along your jaw, your neck.
“God, baby,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, curling in your stomach. “You drive me fucking crazy.”
Your thoughts were incoherent, lost in the sheer intensity of him.
Your hands, which had been resting against his broad shoulders, now tangled in his dark hair, tugging, pulling him closer. You needed more, needed to be consumed by him, needed to drown in the way he was touching, kissing, ruining you.
"Do something about it," you whispered, your voice thick with want, raw with need.
It was a challenge, a dare—one that Jay was more than willing to accept.
With a feral grin, he pulled back, his eyes dark with pure desire. “Oh, I will.” His voice was low, dripping with promise.
In a swift motion, his hands gripped your waist, strong fingers spanning your sides as he lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his hips on instinct, as if you had done this dance with him a thousand times before.
And then, you felt it.
His hardness pressing against you, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to send a delicious thrill racing down your spine.
Jay devoured your mouth as he carried you out of the kitchen, his footsteps unsteady, his grip unrelenting. You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, matching his fervor with your own.
The urgency between you both was palpable, nearly unbearable.
By the time Jay kicked open the bedroom door, his lips never leaving yours, his hands never loosening their grip on you, your entire body felt like it was burning from the inside out.
He stumbled inside, kicked the door shut with his foot, and suddenly, everything blurred.
You barely had time to register the bed before you were falling onto it, your body sinking into the mattress as he followed, covering you, pressing you down, making sure you felt every inch of him.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growled, his voice thick, rough with need. “Every fucking day, I’ve fantasized about having you, about claiming you like this.”
Your fingers traced the strong lines of his jaw, relishing the roughness of his unshaven skin.
"Then take me," you whispered, a boldness you didn’t even know you possessed. “Make me yours.”
Jay’s response was immediate.
His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his grip firm but careful. His free hand roamed, tracing your curves, exploring, memorizing.
His thumb brushed over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from you, your body arching instinctively.
“I want to see you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel, heavy with restraint. “All of you.”
Your heart pounded as you sat up, pulling your shirt over your head, revealing the delicate black lace beneath.
Jay’s eyes darkened. His breath hitched.
Releasing your wrists, his hands moved to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing the hardened peaks, rolling, stroking, watching you squirm beneath him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips finding yours again, a searing, devastating kiss.
His mouth trailed down, down, down, leaving a path of kisses, nipping, sucking, making you tremble beneath him.
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, and you arched into him, desperate.
"Please, Jay," you begged, your voice a breathless plea. "I need you."
He let out a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Oh, you’ll have me, baby. But first… I want to taste you."
And then, he did.
His lips, his tongue, his fingers—all of him, taking his time, taking you apart.
You were a trembling, gasping mess beneath him, gripping the sheets, crying out his name.
And when you finally shattered, when he pulled every last moan from your lips, he moved back over you, watching you, waiting, drinking in the sight of you undone beneath him.
You reached for him, pulling him down, wrapping yourself around him, whispering his name.
And when he finally slid into you, deep and slow, filling you in one smooth stroke, you knew. This wasn’t just need. This wasn’t just hunger.
This was everything.
Jay buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning as your body clenched around him, gripping him perfectly. He moved slow, deep, deliberate. Like he wanted to make sure you felt everything. Like he wanted to ruin you.
And he did. He whispered your name against your skin.
And when you both tumbled over the edge together, it wasn’t just ecstasy. It was something more.
Something terrifying, something dangerous, something neither of you were ready to name. Afterward, Jay didn’t move.
He just held you, his lips pressing absentminded kisses against your temple, your jaw.
The sheets were a tangled mess beneath you, the room still thick with the remnants of last night—the heat, the whispered names, the overwhelming need.
But morning had arrived, and with it, clarity.
You lay still, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, stomach twisting. You could feel him beside you, the warmth of his body still clinging to yours, the weight of his arm draped lazily over your waist.
You should move. You should get up.
Instead, you stayed still, afraid to break the moment. Afraid of what came next.
Then, Jay stirred.
A slow inhale. A shift of weight. Then, his hold on you tightened.
“Baby, you know I'm in love with you right?” he murmured, his voice thick, raspy from sleep.
Your stomach flipped, heat rising to your cheeks at the way the word slipped so effortlessly from his lips.
Then, he pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder.
Something inside you clenched at the tenderness of it. The way his lips lingered, soft and warm, like he was memorizing you, grounding himself in the feel of you.
It was so different from last night. Last night had been fire, hunger, pure desire. But this? This was something else entirely.
Something terrifying.
You swallowed hard, your body going stiff beneath his touch. He noticed.
Jay let out a quiet exhale, his fingers tracing soothing circles over your hip. Then, finally, he spoke.
“I meant what I said.”
Your breath caught in your throat. His words. The confession you hadn’t acknowledged.
“I know,” you whispered.
He shifted, his grip tightening just slightly, as if afraid you’d slip away. His lips found your bare shoulder again, pressing another slow, lingering kiss.
“My Doll,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, but still weighted with emotion. “You don’t have to say anything. Not yet.”
You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his for the first time that morning. He looked different.
Softer. More open. But just as intense. Your lips parted, but no words came. Because what could you say? You weren’t ready. You weren’t sure what this was.
But Jay just smiled, small and knowing, like he understood anyway.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just… let me be here with you.”
Your chest tightened. That was the problem. He was already here. Closer than he had ever been. You didn’t know if you had it in you to push him away.
It took days. Maybe longer. But it was always there, lingering between you.
Jay never said it again, but you could feel it in everything he did.
The way he pulled you close when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he touched you—not just with heat, but with reverence. The way he whispered "Baby" like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But the moment it finally hit you, it was almost embarrassing how obvious it had been all along.
It wasn’t in the quiet nights, or the way he held you in his sleep.
It was something as simple as Jay waiting for you outside of work.
It had been a rough day. One of those days where everything felt heavy. And when you stepped outside, seeing him leaning against the lamppost, hands in his pockets, waiting for you like it was the most natural thing in the world—
It hit you like a train.
He smiled the second he saw you, pushing off the post and walking over like he couldn’t get to you fast enough. “Hey, babe. You okay?”
And instead of answering, you just stood there, staring at him—this man who had somehow become everything.
Jay frowned slightly, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
You let out a breath, and before you could stop yourself, the words just slipped out “I love you.”
Jay stilled. His fingers twitched against your cheek, his expression unreadable.
Then, his lips parted. “Y/N…”
You panicked. “I—I mean it too I-”
But before you could take it back, Jay was already moving, already kissing you like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear you say those words.
And when he finally pulled back, breathless, a little dazed, he just grinned.
“You can say it again, you know.”
You rolled your eyes, but when he leaned in and whispered, “Say it again, baby,” you did.
Because you meant it.
Months later, the apartment felt different. Warmer. More like a home than a place you had been forced into.
The nursery had been Jay’s latest obsession. He had spent the entire day painting the walls, rearranging furniture, making sure everything was perfect. And now, he was sprawled across your bed, half-asleep, waiting for you.
You stood in the doorway, hand resting on your six-months-pregnant belly, watching him with amusement. His shirtless form was stretched across the mattress, hair still messy from the day’s work, an arm thrown over his eyes.
“Babe,” you called softly.
He groaned. “Mmm.”
You stepped forward, nudging his foot with yours. “You’re hogging the bed.”
Jay cracked one eye open, a slow, sleepy grin spreading across his lips. “And you’re glowing, mama.”
You rolled your eyes, crawling into bed beside him, letting out a relieved sigh as you sank into his warmth. Jay turned onto his side, one large hand coming to rest on your belly, thumb rubbing slow circles over the fabric of your shirt.
“Tired?” you asked.
“Exhausted,” he muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “But you’re worth it.”
You smiled, letting your fingers trace the ridges of his forearm. “You’ve been working too hard.”
Jay hummed, shifting closer, his lips grazing your jaw, your cheek. “You’re carrying my kid. I’d build a whole damn castle if you wanted one.”
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
He nuzzled against your cheek, voice growing drowsy. “Only for you, my Doll”
You turned your head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.
Jay smiled into it, whispering, “Can’t wait to meet them.”
Your heart squeezed, warmth flooding through you.
“Me too,” you whispered, letting yourself sink into him. “Me too.”
Then, in his half-asleep state, he muttered, “But if they have your stubborn streak, we’re doomed.”
You snorted. “Then you better start preparing now.”
He pulled you in tighter, his lips brushing your forehead. “I already have everything I need.”
You yawned, stretching your fingers along his bare chest before whispering, “Come here, baby.”
Jay let out a pleased hum, shifting fully into your arms, resting his head against your shoulder. His strong arms wrapped around you, careful yet firm, his warmth seeping into your skin as he melted into you.
“Mm, I like it when you call me that,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.
You smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. “Good. Because I’m not stopping.”
As sleep began to claim you both, Jay murmured, “You know, I hated every second of that damn law.”
You sighed, your fingers tightening against his chest. “Me too.”
“But…” he continued, his voice soft and full of something deep, something real, “I’ve loved every second with you.”
You smiled, pressing a final kiss to his skin. “Me too, Jay. Me too."
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