PAIRING:Â Ares!Soonyoung x Priestess!Reader
SUMMARY:Â Â For years, youâve been the lone mortal tending to the forsaken altar of Ares. When war befalls your city and the Temple of the Gods, you refuse to flee, blade in hand, and your defiance in the face of death summons the very god others were too afraid to serve.
WC: 15,776
AU:Â Mythological
GENRE:Â Smut, Romance
RATING:Â 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Some angst, reader is an outcast at her temple, people being mean/indifferent to her, some violence when a temple is attacked by soldiers, depictions of blood and murder, a single scene where the murder is a bit graphic but not overly so, depictions of terror and soldiers making references to making reader their war prize, lots of things on fire idk they're being attacked, some ambiguous belief in the gods on reader's part, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, virgin reader implications, unprotected sex, I think thats it.
A/N: This is a piece for the 13 Gods of Olympus collab hosted by @aeristudios and @wooahaeproductions! Special thanks to Aeris for reaching out to see if I would be interested in doing this for our shared husband.
A/N 2: This is not beta read :/ sorry!
MAIN MASTERLISTÂ |Â ASKÂ |Â 13 GODS OF OLYMPUS COLLAB
THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS IS ALWAYS QUIETEST IN THE MORNING. The temple breathes around you, vast and ancient. Stone sweats beneath your palms, the lower levels of the temple always a little cooler, a little wetter. Oil lamps burn low along the corridors, their flames casting flickering light against the marble columns. Incense hangs heavy in the air, smoky and sweet.
Your tunic is damp at the hem, darkened with water and ash. The cloth in your hand catches on the grooves carved into the altar, the stone worn smooth under your hands. The stains never really fade, the rust-colored shadows lingering after years of neglect. It doesnât matter how many times you scrub or how many times you return with fresh water and salt - the stone does not budge.
You scrub anyway. Itâs all you know how to do.
Murmurs of worship reach you at a distance. The sound of voices is never heavy around you - never around you. Here, the air is different. Quieter. Heavier. No one likes to come to this part of the hall with wine to leave or flower petals to place at the foot of the altar. Itâs just you and the soft scratch of your scrubbing, day in and day out.
You kneel before the altar of Ares, knees pressed to marble that never warms, even in the summer. Your tunic clings to your thighs, making you shiver. You canât remember the last time you felt warm while tending to Ares altar, but youâre used to it now.
No one else bothers with the altar. You are its single caretaker, its single worshiper, the only person brave enough to tend to a God of War during a time of peace. Most people think itâs bad luck, an invitation for violence, a foolish temptation of fate.
So they leave his altar to you, an orphan with no patron god, no family name to throw around to get better assignments. Itâs you and the cold altar, as it has been for three years.
Candles burn down to the wick. You scrape away at their wax. Itâs your own fault - youâre the only one who lights candles for Ares. It feels wrong not to, the lonely altar a little sadder without the flickering flame. Itâs also practical, the small flames giving you better light to work with than the oil lamps that are farther down the row.
Standing, you knock your head on the hilt of a sword. You curse, rubbing the back of your hand as you move away from it. The sword is the only part of the altar that's not stone. Itâs laid perfectly straight across the upturned palms of Ares, the edges dulled by disuse but free from rust. It is the only thing on the altar not damaged. The statue is cracked and chipped and worn with time, but the sword is eternal. Unchanging.
âSorry,â you mutter, pausing to adjust it, nudging the hilt back into perfect line on Ares hands. âDidnât mean to do that.â
Your voice feels small in this space, swallowed by stone and shadow. You donât typically speak to the god - youâre not sure if he ever listens. But sometimes you do, making quiet observations or muttering small complaints about your day - things youâd never say aloud anywhere else but the silence of solitude.
You finish adjusting the sword, fingertips lingering for a moment on the cool metal. The blade seems to drink in the candlelight rather than reflect it, the edges holding shadows. A faint vibration hums beneath your palm, and an eerie sensation that you've felt before. You remove your hand, the thrum leaving a strange, static sensation on your hand. It never frightens you when it happens, but the lingering feeling makes you uneasy.
Exhaling, you step back, looking at the altar. It looks almost the same as when you arrived this morning. It's still stained and lonely, but the candles burn a little brighter now, the wax pooling neatly instead of spilling over the edges. You gather the damp cloth, the bucket of gray water, the small brush worn down to bristles, and turn away. The corridor swallows your footsteps. Behind you, the hum fades gradually until it is only the memory of pressure against your skin.
The stairs to the upper levels are narrow and steep, worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet. You climb carefully, bucket sloshing against your hip. The air changes as you ascend, the cool dampness giving way to warmer drafts and the faint sweetness of myrrh.
You emerge into the great colonnade, afternoon light slicing through the eastern windows. Priestesses in white move like ghosts between the upstairs altars, arranging fresh laurels on Apollo's shrine, replenishing oil in Demeter's lamps, spreading petals around Aphrodite's feet. A young visitor kneels before Hermes, lips moving in rapid, fervent prayer.
No one pays you any mind as you walk.
A cluster of three priestesses near Athenaâs statue pauses mid-conversation when your shadow falls across their path. Their eyes flick toward you, brief and dismissive. They resume speaking, voices dropping half an octave, words too soft to catch. You keep walking.
Further along, an older priest with a grey beard steps aside as you pass. Not quickly, not rudely, just enough that your elbow does not brush his robe. He nods once, the barest dip of his chin, then continues toward the inner sanctum without a word. You have long since stopped expecting more.
Outside, the sky has turned to molten bronze. You toss the bucket of water outside on the rocky outcrop that the temple stands on, pausing to look down from the mountainside. Below, the city unspools in winding streets of stone and blue-tiled buildings. The sea breathes beyond, blue and churning, the salt heavy in the air with a mix of fig.
Once you've returned your cleaning supplies to their proper place, you head toward the central courtyard. A massive fig tree stands dark against the growing twilight sky, its branches turning from silver to gold as Apollo drags the sun down so his sister can drag the moon upward.
Tables scatter the courtyard, full of priestesses and a handful of priests that sit in loose circles, breaking bread and passing claw bowls of olives and yogurt thinned with honey, speaking in soft murmurs. You ignore them in favor of sitting at your usual place at the end of the furthest bench, right against the cool bark of the fig tree.
Carefully, you lean over to pluck flatbread, cheese and a handful of figs from the center of the table. No one pays you much mind as you do. It's better that way. When you'd first come here, an orphan looking for anything to do in exchange for shelter, they hadn't been so nice. Pretending you're not there is a better alternative to the scathing comments and looks you'd used to receive.
Murmurs drift around you like smoke. You listen as the fig in your hand bleeds red juice down your fingers, frowning at what you hear. Mentions of raiders sighted along the northern pass, border temples burning. Ares walking the streets.
His name lands like a stone dropped in silver water. You glance up to see people casting sidelong looks your way, frowning. As if it was you who had mentioned the God of War. You look back down at the table, biting into the fig, the juice filling your mouth.
When your plate is empty you rise without hurry, stack the clay dish neatly, and walk past the tables. Conversation stutters, then resumes behind you. It is the way of things here when you're the only person foolish enough to tend to a cruel god. An unneeded god.
Your quarters are tucked behind the grain stores on the lowest level of the temples, down a side passage that few people ever use. The Temple of the Gods is complex, built onto the top of the hill and winding deep into it, the hallways and subterranean rooms serving as its roots. Not everyone lives in the temple like you do - most people have homes.
You don't.
The inside of your room is small. It's barely wider than your outstretched arms and smells faintly of cypress and lemon. A narrow pallet rests against one wall, covered with a single wool blanket dyed the color of rust. A low table holds the few possessions you have: a comb that's missing two teeth, a single extra tunic that's folded, and balm for burns when you knock over candles or when your fingers dip into wax.
Every day is the same routine. Chores in the morning that go through until early afternoon, followed by tending to Ares altar, followed by dinner and bed. You follow that routine now, peeling off the wet tunic and putting it aside to dry. Your shift underneath does nothing to keep the chill of the room out, goosebumps rising on your arms until you climb under the woolen blanket.
You draw your knees up, curl onto your side, and stare at the faint crack of moonlight beneath the door. Somewhere above you, the temple settles into its night rhythm. You listen until the sounds blur into silence, eyes heavy, limbs sore.
Tomorrow you will rise before dawn, go about your chores, and kneel before the altar. Always the same labor, always the same silence.
You breathe in, breathe out, and let the darkness take you.
-
Oil lamps flicker as you descend the narrow stairs, same as every day before you. Your palm stings where the rope of the bucket digs into your palms, water sloshing over as you walk. Dawn always feels heaviest in the temple, as though it's just you and the gods. You feel the press of something around you as you get closer to Ares' altar, something you can't see but you can feel, always just out of sight when you turn your head.
You've noticed that over the years, the way something seems to buzz when you're near the God of War's statue, just beyond your reach. It's one of those small observations you keep to yourself. No one would care what you had to say anyway. They have their own gods to whisper to, ones that promise harvest and safe travels or wisdom, not the bloody blade of conflict.
You set the bucket down with a soft thunk, the water inside rippling faintly. The altar of Ares waits in its alcove, unchanged and unchanging, the statue's broad shoulders casting a long shadow. You kneel, dipping the cloth into the cool water, and begin the ritual scrubbing. The stains are stubborn today, rust-brown flecks that flake under your nails but never fully yield. It's been this way since you first took the task years ago.
That time feels distant, nearly impossible to reach. You'd arrived at the temple an orphan with dirt-streaked clothes and a hollow ache in your stomach that no amount of rotten bread could fill. The high priestess had looked you over and simply told you it was Ares' altar or nothing. You'd taken it in stride. And why wouldn't you? You had no family to warn you of bad omens, no village tales to fill your head with dread. It was just a job, a way to earn your keep in a world that had already shown you its teeth.
The cloth rasps against the stone, a steady rhythm that echoes your thoughts. You've watched the others over the years, clustering around Zeus' grand pedestal upstairs, leaving offerings of wind and cheese. Watched them leave bowls of rosewater and ripe figs for Aphrodite, whispering to find them love and passion, to bless them with a fulfilling marriage.
Fear shapes their world. You learned it long ago - fear of failure, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of not being brave enough, fear of not climbing high enough. Fear is the lens through which they experience Ares, a monstrous god that threatens to ruin everything they've ever worked for, a name only prayed to when the world is on fire and the air choked in smoke.
There hasn't been war for a long time. The priestesses believe it's because no one prays to Ares anymore, so he has no power here, no way to keep a foothold in this world. But there's you. Tending to him as you always have, his sole patron, the only one who occasionally murmurs about your day to a stone face who cannot hear you, a pleasant buzz at the back of your neck when you do.
Footsteps echo down the corridor, light and hurried. You pause, glancing up to see two priestesses coming your way. You recognize them both - they're sisters. Elara is the taller of the two and older, her tan skin golden in the lamplight. Thalia trails behind her, shorter and rounder in the face, but beautiful enough to have the lords of the city asking for her at the temple gates.
They've never spoken to you directly before, especially not in the dim underbelly of the temple. It makes you straighten slightly, water dripping from your cloth onto the stone, pooling at your knees.
"Why are you doing that?" Elara asks, stopping a few yards away near the closest lantern. You can tell she doesn't want to come any closer to Ares gloom, her grey eyes flickering toward the statue looming over you.
"Tending the altar," you answer slowly. "As I always have."
"Look around, fool," Elara hisses. "The scouts bring word of armies marching, raiders at the border. War's breath is down our necks, and you have the gall to come polish the sword of our would be destroyer?"
Thalia peers around her sister, face like thunder. "You should leave his statue. You're inviting him in."
"Maybe that's what she wants," Elara notes. "She came here scavenging for a place like a rat in the granary - perhaps she clings to him because he's the only one she can have. But we know the truth. Your devotion has called him down."
You say nothing at first, your gaze drifting back to the statue. The sword lies still in his palms, eternal. You've thought about how strange the people of this world think sometimes. Thought it odd, how people carve meaning from chaos by blaming others, how they assign treachery because fear prods at them, a spear to the back of the neck.
An orphan is easy to blame in a place like this. You don't command armies, you don't know how to hold a shield, or burn down a village, and yet only you could be the root of war. The fire starter. There is no logic here, no rhyme or reason. Only fear nipping at their heels like hellhounds.
"War comes from the greed of men," you mutter, turning away from them to resume your scrubbing. "Not from scrubbed stone."
"Selfish," Thalia mutters. "You should abandon this place. Walk away. Then he will sleep again."
"I command no armies, nor do I command the God of War." You scrub at the stains that never move. "Perhaps you should pray to your gods to stop him."
Elara spits at your feet, the glob landing wet on the marble. "When the fires come, I hope they come for you first."
Thalia laughs and they turn as one, footsteps retreading up the stairs to leave you in the dim. You sit back on your heels, cloth in your hand, watching them leave you alone at the foot of the altar. The stone presses cold against your skin, unyielding. The hum returns faintly, a pulse under your knees.
You sit there for a long time after their footsteps fade, the spit drying slowly on the marble in a small, darkening spot near your knee. The lamps have burned lower, the shadows extending farther. Your cloth lies forgotten in your lap, water soaking through the fabric in cold patches. The hum beneath your knees has quieted to almost nothing, a faint tremor you might mistake for exhaustion if you didn't know better.
Slowly, you lift your head to peer at the statue looming above you. The marble is cracked in places, fine spiderwebs spreading from the left cheekbone. There's a deep fissure running down the right forearm where time or some earthquake long ago tried to claim it, but the face remains mostly untouched. You've studied the face of Ares thousands of times, and yet with Elara's threat hanging in the air, the lamplight finds new angles.
The statue of Areas has high cheekbones that catch the flicker of the flame, casting hollows beneath them that make his expression both stern and almost wear. His jaw is strong, and his mouth is full and set in a firm, unreadable line. The eyes have always captured you, fierce in stone, the sculptor leaving the pupils as bare pockets of shadows instead of inlaid with lapis lazuli like Zeus.
Hair falls in carved waves from beneath a crested helm long since broken away at the edges, strands curling against his broad forehead and brushing the strong column of his neck. Thereâs a faint scar etched across one brow, though you're unsure if it's accidental or deliberate.
Youâve never thought of the statue as beautiful before. Not in the soft, inviting way Aphroditeâs likeness is beautiful, or the serene way Apolloâs is. Ares is different - arresting in a way that is almost uncomfortable, like looking at someone who sees you and immediately knows every fear, every secret.
Tonight, with the accusations still ringing in your ears and the temple settling into uneasy quiet above you, the face feels less like cold stone and more like a witness.
âI donât know if youâre listening,â you whisper, feeling a little silly as you pick up the cloth to begin scrubbing again. "But I never really believed you were. Not the way the others believe in their gods. Sorry if that offends you."
You pause, fingers aching. "They're stupid. I know I shouldn't say so, but they are. To think that I alone could be the reason border temples burn or call down war like ringing a bell is insanity." A small, dry laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. "If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here. I would be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere warm, and near the ocean. Somewhere there's a lot of fruit and I could have as much as I want. Somewhere I could learn to read, maybe. To have purpose. If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here."
The statue doesnât answer. Of course it doesnât. But the lamplight shifts, and for a heartbeat the carved eyes seem to sharpen, as though the shadows themselves are paying attention. Your heart spikes and you lean forward, pressing your forehead down until it nearly brushes the base of the plinth.
"Sorry." You murmur. "That was rude. If you're listening, anyway."
No one answers, but as you resume your scrubbing, the lamps behind you gutter once, the hum under your knees steady as ever.
-
The warning bells wrench you from your sleep with jagged nails. At first, they blend with the remnants of your dreams, the distant roll of thunder blurring to deep, tolling bells of the city guard. You realize with sharp terror that you're not dreaming and you bolt upright on the narrow pallet, your blanket tangling around your tangles as you kick it free. Your night shift clings to your skin, damp with sweat as your heart begins to hammer.
Screams tear through the silence. Panic floods your veins like ice water, sharp and breathtaking. You scramble, forgetting all about your tunic as you fumble with the bronze latch on the door, handles shaking. The door sticks for a single, agonizing moment before it swings free and opens into the Underworld.
At least, you think it's the Underworld for a moment. Chaos reigns supreme in the hall, smoke rolling down from the upper levels in thick waves, stinging your eyes. An orange glow beckons at the end of the hall and screams echo from above, frantic under the heavy thunder of boots. Someone's voice cuts off mid-plea and your heart lurches as you plunge into the smoke, covering your mouth, eyes watering.
You climb the stairs two at a time until you're spilling into the main landing of the temple, sliding to a halt. Heat slams into you, the air turning to ash and fire. Flames devour the eastern wing, roaring up the tall wooden beams, eating at the roof that has sheltered you from rain and wind for years. The fig tree in the courtyard is aflame, bark peeling in curling sheets as it burns.
Priests and priestesses scatter in every direction, white tunics covered in blood and soot, face streaked in tears and ash. One of them stumbles toward you, clutching a bleeding arm, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. A soldier in leather armor and dented bronze grabs her before she can reach you, yanking her hair backward. She screams only once before his sword flashes down. You flinch as blood sprays in a bright arch, spattering the marble floors.
Your breath comes in shallow, panicked bursts. This is the end of everything youâve known - the altar, the scrubbing, the cold water and heavy bucket - all of it burned to whatever war this is, whoever's army has come here to pillage and burn and slaughter. Burning.
A soldier spots you standing frozen in the chaos. His eyes light with interest and he shouts something at you, pointing with a bloodied sword. Two other soldiers turn, grins splitting their face as they start toward you, boots crunching over broken pottery stained with blood.
Terror surges inside of you, more primal and absolute than you have ever known. You spin and bolt toward the inner corridors, your body taking you to the only path you can think of in the fiery hell scape of the temple. The lower levels call to you, cool and dark and comforting - but what calls to you more is the sword upon Ares alter, the only weapon you can think of to fight back, to save yourself.
Laughter chases you and the soldiers jeer as they start to run after you. You're quick on the steps, flying down them as their boots pound down the corridor behind you. Your lungs scream as you dive into the dark halls of the lower temple, the oil lamps burning low, the altars here untouched as you fly by them, running for the last halo of gold light where Ares stands.
You burst into the alcove, skidding on marble now warm from rising heat. The statue of Ares looms in the flickering gloom, larger and more imposing than ever as shadows dance across its cracked features. The sword rests in those upturned marble hands, eternal and waiting.
Your hands shake violently as you reach up on tiptoe and wrap your fingers around the hilt of the sword. It's heavier than you expected, but as you pull it free the weight adjusts, turning from heavy to perfect, like the grip was shaped for you and you alone. The leather grip is cool against your skin and the dull metal of the blade catches the low lamplight in a dull gleam.
The hum you've felt for years surges through you, stronger now than ever, a roaring vibration that travels from the sword up your arm and into your chest, syncing with the frantic pounding of your heartbeat until it feels like your pulse is a living thing connected to the sword.
You spin to face the corridor, raising the sword in both hands. Your stance is all wrong and the weapon feels awkward in your grip, but the weapon steadies you as the soldiers round the corner. It's just the three of them, faces flushed with violence and glee as they look at you, stalking down the hallway.
"Look at the little mouse," the one at the lead says, grin spreading. "Drop it, little mouse, before you poke yourself. I can give you a sword to play with."
One of the men behind him licks his lips, eyes raking over you. âSheâll make a fine prize after we finish here.â
Your arms tremble, but you donât lower the blade. The hum thrums louder, almost deafening in your ears, drowning out the distant roar of flames. Sweat stings your eyes. The temple groans overhead, beams cracking and shifting as it gives way in sections to the raging inferno.
"Come here, little mouse," the leader coos. He steps into the lamp light of Ares alter, eyes shining. "Let me have a taste."
No sooner than he steps into the ring of light, the world shatters around you.
A deafening crack splits the air, like thunder ripping through the temple. You scream, nearly dropping the sword as you cower, ears ringing. The stone floor shudders beneath your feet and a blinding white-gold flare erupts in the air, like a seam in reality shredding open. You throw one arm over your eyes to hide from it, the sword shaking in your other hand as you step back.
Heat washes over you as the light vanishes and you're left blinking, fading streaks of light fading as your vision adjusts, spots swimming in your peripheral vision.
A figure stands between you and the three men.
He's taller than any mortal you've ever seen, armored in blackened bronze that seems to drink the light from the oil lamps. A crested helm of horsehair and iron shadows his face, his armor shoulders broad, stance lethal. In his right hand is a long spear, its haft made of dark wood bounded with glowing gold, the tip of the weapon gleaming with a sharpness that seems to cut the air itself. In his left hand is a sword that looks exactly like the one in your hand, runes pulsing faintly along the metal.
Ares.
You realize it at the same time as the soldiers do. They stumble backward from him, murmuring his name in awe as they stare, wide-eyed and terrified.
The God of War says nothing. He simply moves - faster than you thought possible, faster than any mortal has the right to. His spear juts forward in a flash of movement, piercing the leader's chest with a wet, crunching sound. The man is lifted off his feet, skewered like a boar before the god tosses him aside. The body crashes against the wall, blood spraying as Ares advances.
Screams of terror rip through the hall from the remaining two men. They lift their swords but they can do nothing against a god. You watch in mute terror as Ares parries without looking and drives his own blade upward in a single, brutal stroke. You hear a gurgle before you realize Ares has cut the man open throat to ear, the crimson surging as the man buckles.
The third turns to flee, but Ares hurls the spear, arm snapping forward like an adder. The weapon punches through the man's armor, sending him forward to the ground as he collapses. He jerks once - twice - then goes still, hanging on the weapon like a trophy of war.
Silence crashes in, broken only by the crackle of distant flames and your own ragged breathing.
Ares turns toward you and your knees nearly give out.
The face underneath the helm is the statue you've tended to for years made flesh. His high cheekbones are hollowed by shadow and the growing firelight at the end of the hall, his jaw clenched in fury that terrifies you. His eyes burn red, the ancient weight of them pressing against you and pinning you in place. Dark hair spills against his forehead, one of his brows interrupted by the same crack on his statue.
He sheaths his sword and lowers himself to a knee before you. You blink, watching as he removes his helm. His hair is dark, the sides and underneath cropped shorter in an undercut. He is devastatingly beautiful in a way that terrifies you, the anger in his face softening to something you can't read.
"You," he murmurs. "Are the one who came to me in darkness. Who scrubbed the stains that time could not remove when others refused. Who lit candles for a god no one else would name. For years I have felt your hands at my altar, and heard your words in what otherwise would have been silence. In a temple that feared me, only you showed me kindness."
Awe crashes over you, mingling with terror and grief until you can barely breathe. Your fingers tighten on the sword - his sword. So he had been listening. All that time - all those years, spent on your knees at the foot of his altar, tending to him and muttering about your day. About your little complaints or observations. The hum you'd felt then hadn't been an illusion or madness. It had been him - real and present.
âLord Ares,â you manage, voice cracking. You drop to your knees, ducking your head. "Please don't let us burn."
"You do not bow to me." He rises and takes a step toward you. You look up, chest heaving as he approaches you slowly, as though he's afraid to startle you. "I cannot save this place. War is not a hound I call to heel. To halt it here would only shift the slaughter elsewhere - war is inevitable and a wheel that is always turning. I simply honor the wheel - I cannot bend fate for mercy alone."
The ceiling groans overhead, a deep, ominous crack splitting the stone. Embers rain down from the ceiling, red and glowing. You see smoke curling behind him, the fire crawling closer and closer. The heat is relentless now, pressing in.
"But you," Ares murmurs. "You who asked nothing, who gave when others only took. You will not die here."
He reaches out toward you. You let him, his callused palm cupping your chin, thumb brushing feather light over your jaw. You shiver, eyes fluttering as he looks down at you, expression soft, almost reverent. More embers fall, haloing him in firelight as his eyes drink you in.
"Sleep," he whispers. "When you wake, you will know peace."
The world tilts, and darkness swallows you whole.
-
The sound of crackling flames has been replaced by the sound of water. You groan, rolling over. It's not just the sound of water, you realize - it's the sound waves, the rhythmic hush of them retreating and returning. You inhale and you don't smell smoke. Rather, you smell the clean and cool scent of growing things, of salt and brine, of driftwood.
Your eyes flutter open slowly to see light filtering through palm fronds overhead, soft and golden. You lie on a soft bed with a thin blanket of undyed linen that feels softer than anything you've ever known. A low ceiling of thatch stretches above you, open at the sides so the breeze can drift through.
You try to sit up and a gentle ache rolls through you. You glance down and realize you're free from soot and sweat, a new and proper tunic of white and red replacing the night shift you'd been in at the temple.
A shadow shifts nearby, snagging your attention. Ares sits cross-legged on the sand just outside the small shelter's open wall, his back to the endless sea of blue behind him, facing you. The armor is replaced by a simple tunic of deep crimson linen belted at the waist. His helm is absent, dark hair shining in the sunlight, damp like he's just come up from the water.
Swallowing, you sit up fully. The sword from the altar rests beside you. You remember the temple in flashes, the burning ceiling, the fire eating the fig tree, the blood of the priestess as she ran toward you - him, slaughtering the men who chased you to his altar, the sudden violence of it.
"Lord Ares," you whisper.
He tilts his head and a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. "I've had many names across centuries and places. Ares. Enyalios. Resheph. Montu. Men have called me destroyer, protector, madness, courage. But here, please call me Soonyoung."
The name settles over you like warm sand. Simple. Human. "Soonyoung."
"I like the sound of the name on your tongue."
A flush crawls up your neck. You look around again, taking in the details you missed at first. There's a small fire pit nearby, the embers still glowing beneath a flat stone. There's a basket holding figs and pomegranates, and a few pots with lids on them. You turn, and in the distance of the island, you see a small building, nondescript and built from driftwood, nestled in lush greenery.
"How long has it been?" You ask him, glancing at him nervously. "Since the temple?"
"Two days. You slept rather deeply. The journey here took a lot from you."
"You saved me."
"I would not leave you to the fire." His gaze drops briefly to the sand between his knees, his fingers tracing idle patterns. "Not you."
"The temple?"
"Gone," he says quietly. "The raiders burned what they could not carry. Some survived. Many did not. War took what it always takes."
You nod once, the grief sharp but distant. You had known, somewhere beneath the panic, that there would be no saving it. Still, hearing it aloud makes your chest ache. Even if the people there had not been kind to you, it had been your home.
Soonyoung rises smoothly, brushing sand from his palms. He grabs a pomegranate and splits it open with his thumbs, the red juice running over his fingers. He offers you half, the seeds gleaming like rubies inside.
"Eat," he says. "Your strength needs rebuilding."
You take it, the fruit cool against your palm. The first seed bursts between your teeth, tart and sweet, juice spilling down your chin. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, suddenly self-conscious under his steady regard. He seems amused as he sits again, this time a little closer. You feel the heat of him as you eat in silence, both of you watching the water of the beach below and the wind through the palms.
As you chew, you glance toward the building in the distance again, the walls catching the slanting sunlight.
"It's mine," he says, noticing you looking. "Built long ago when this island was a sanctuary for me after long periods of war. I find the peace of this place a necessity for myself."
"Is this place real?"
He hums and nods. "Yes, but no mortal could stumble upon it - save perhaps someone particularly unlucky like Odysseus." He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. âTell me about yourself.â
You blink, startled. No one has ever asked before. He smirks like he knows this, but he says nothing, chewing on seeds as he watches you with dark eyes. His eyes are no longer red - they're dark and fathomless, warm in a way you don't expect.
"There isn't much to tell," you admit. "I found the temple when I was small. No name, no family. The high priestess took me in because there were chores to be done and an unattended altar that needed scrubbing. Everyone was afraid of you. I wasn't."
A faint smile flickers across his face again. "I know. I listened to you."
"You did?"
"Every word. Every muttered curse when the wax spilled. Every quiet breath when you knelt and thought no one was listening.â He sets the pomegranate rind aside, wipes his hands on his chiton. âYou were the only voice in three years that did not ask me for victory, or vengeance, or protection from enemies. You simply existed. I thought it was nice."
âI didnât know what else to do. It was my place to ask for anything."
"And now? You would still ask nothing of me?"
You look out at the sea, the depth bluer than anything you've ever known. You don't know what you would ask for - can't think of anything, really. Though you know Ares has no connection to the sea, you think he's rather similar - endless, beautiful, stormy.
"I would ask nothing of you," you say eventually.
He hums thoughtfully. "This island is mine. Far from mortal shores and far from the path of armies. No war reaches here unless I will it, and I do not will it. I offer you this place, though you don't ask for it. I don't offer it to you as a worshiper or a servant, but as a guardian. Tend the fire if you wish, watch the horizon. Keep the silence for me. Sleep inside or beneath the stars out there."
The offer hangs in the air between you, his words making your heart skip a beat. You've never had someone offer you to stay somewhere without an obligation, to exist without the weight of survival pressing down on you.
For a moment, you stare at him, the pomegranate half forgotten in your hands, the juice sticky on your fingers. You wonder what it would be like not to exist in the shadowed hallways of the temples, whispers following you as you pass. To live without averted eyes or people treating you like a curse made flesh.
Here, on this island, there would be no one to tell you what to do. No one to chastise you. No one to force you to eat alone in a courtyard of people. A refuge, not a rejection. But beneath the relief simmers doubt, a familiar shadow that has dogged you since childhood. Who are you to accept such a gift? An orphan with no name, no lineage, no skills beyond scrubbing stains that never truly fade. What if this is pity, disguised as kindness? A god's whim, fleeting as the sea foam that dissolves on the shore?
"War isn't always battle," Soonyoung murmurs, watching you mull it over. "Sometimes war is with oneself. Or with others, mental and years long. Sometimes war is survival to a life you were born to, but perhaps don't deserve. It is rest and respite I'm offering. Not pity or amusement."
"Can you read my thoughts?"
"No, but I can read your face." You flush and he grins. "You've tended to me for years and I've listened to you. Perhaps you don't know me, but I know you."
Gratitude sparks in your chest, overwhelming and raw. He saved you - not the temple or the others, but you. Knelt before you in blood and fire, the person who gave him company when no one else did. And now he sees right to the heart of you, to the very wound you knew was there but never had a name for.
You draw a breath, steadying yourself and you meet his gaze. "I accept."
Something brightens in his eyes - relief, you think. His shoulders ease, a tension you hadn't realized was there fading, and he smiles at you, eyes crinkling. He rises and offers you a hand. You set the rind of the pomegranate aside and take it, letting him help you to your feet.
"Come," he tells you. "Let me give you a tour."
You follow Soonyoung, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. It's soft and fine beneath your soles, shifting with each step. The beach curves downward gently to a crescent of white edged by turquoise shallows that foam as the waves meet the shore. The air feels alive as you step onto damp sand, charged with an undercurrent of energy that feels like static on your skin.
Soonyoung walks beside you, his stride confident and unhurried, but there's an energy to him that crackles like lightning on the verge of striking. He doesn't touch you again, but his presence is a tangible force, goosebumps lining your arms that you tell yourself is from the cool ocean breeze.
"This beach is the heart of the island," Soonyoung tells you, spreading his arms. "The sand here never erodes, and the waves bring shells and driftwood as gifts from my uncle when he sees fit."
He gestures ahead where the tide laps lazily, depositing a cluster of iridescent conch shells that gleam in the sunlight. You grin and stop to pick one up. Its surface is cool to the touch, humming faintly under your fingers.
"Bring it to your ear," he urges gently, grinning.
You press it to your ear, and instead of the ocean's roar, you hear a soft melody, like distant flutes weaving through whispers of wind. You turn to him, delighted and he laughs. The sound is so rich you forget all about the shell, watching him as he closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the sky, sun-kissed and happy.
He seems so different from the god who appeared the night in the temple, reigning fury down on your attackers. You wonder if this is the version of Ares only the island gets, the hidden side of war that needs rest, that needs respite and happiness to fuel the rage and the violence.
As you walk, the sand gives way to low dunes tufted with sea grasses that sway, their blades tipped with dew. Wildflowers bloom in random clusters, vibrant explosions of gold and red. Soonyoung bends down to pluck a bloom and tuck it behind your ear casually with no regard for the way it makes your heart slam in your chest, startled.
"These grow year-round," he explains. "There are no seasons here to wither them. The island provides - fruits ripen eternally, herbs grow, and animals thrive. You'll never hunger or want for anything." His tone is happy, almost boyish in its excitement. "I shaped this place with the help of some of my siblings. I desired a place where life persists, defiant against decay."
"It's beautiful," you admit. "Not what I expected."
He nods. "It cannot be war all the time. Even I need peace."
The path curves inland, away from the beach's gentle slope, into a grove of olive and fig trees that form a natural canopy overhead. Sunlight filters through in golden shafts, illuminating leaves. The ground underfoot turns to mossy earth, cool and springy, dotted with fallen figs that split open. Birds flit between branches, their feathers flashing jewel tones you've never seen.
Deeper into the grove, a narrow stream emerges, its waters crystal-clear and bubbling over smooth pebbles. He crouches to cup water in his hand and drinks. You do the same, dipping your hands into the cool water. When you bring it to your lips, the crispness of it startles you. It's the cleanest water you've ever tasted, cool and clear, a shiver rippling down your spine. He grins and splashes a bit of water toward you, the droplets landing cool and tingling on your skin.
The grove opens to a gentle rise, leading toward the house you glimpsed earlier. It's a driftwood house, sun bleached and reflecting the sun's glow. Terracotta tiles crown the flat roof, with vines of blooming wisteria cascading down one side in waves swaying in the breeze. A columned portico faces the sea, supported by pillars carved with small shields. Wooden shutters frame wide windows, open now to let in the breeze, revealing glimpses of the interior.
Soonyoung pushes open the heavy oak door and ushers you inside with a sweep of his arm, his grin eager. The main room is open and spacious, the floor covered in woven rugs of deep crimsons and earth tones. A hearth dominates one wall, a small fire crackling inside.
On another side, a kitchen alcove gleams with copper pots and shelves laden with jars of fruits and spices. A low table nearby is set with clay bowls and ewers of water. He leads you to a short hall into a room, pushing open the door to reveal a room with a wide bed draped in linens and pillows. The windows in the room overlook a small herb garden, bees humming lazily among blooms of lavender.
He leads you to a back terrace, shaded by a pergola overgrown with grapevines heavy with clusters of ripe fruit. You're amazed at how lush everything here, every fruit swelling with ripeness, every ounce of water clear and cool. From here, the view sweeps across the island. You can see the beach below and the grove's verdant sprawl, distant cliffs rising with goats.
Soonyoung leans against a pillar of the pergola, crossing his arms over his chest to turn his eyes on you. He seems nervous, almost, chewing the corner of his lips as he watches you take in the view.
"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," you admit. "I still feel like I'm dreaming."
"I assure you, Wonwoo - Hypnos - is not here." Soonyoung grins when you look at him, wide-eyed. "Do you think I don't know the others?"
"You just talk about them so casually."
"They're my family. We might spite one another and occasionally fight, but they're family nonetheless."
"I've never had a family."
Soonyoung softens, pushing off the column to drift toward you. He lifts his hand as though to brush it against you, but thinks better of it, dropping it at his side. Instead, he tells you, "Rest. Eat. Drink. I'll leave you to it."
"You're not staying?" You hate the instant panic, the way your heart flares. His smile is fond. "I'll be here as often as you wish. Occasionally I've got some things to address, like now. But I won't abandon you here, so long as you want my company."
Soonyoung lingers for a moment longer on the terrace, the late-afternoon light catching the edges of his dark hair and turning the crimson of his tunic to something almost molten. He watches you with that same quiet intensity heâs carried since the temple, sending a shiver down your spine. The wind moves through the grapevines overhead, rustling leaves and sending a few loose tendrils curling toward the floor.
âIâll leave you to settle,â he says at last, voice low but carrying the same easy confidence heâs shown all afternoon. âThe house knows what you need. If youâre hungry, the kitchen will have what you want. If youâre tired, the bed will be warm. If you want the stars tonight, the mats where you woke up remain there, a sort of bed under the stars. Iâll be nearby. Not far. Call if you need me."
You nod, throat tight. The words feel inadequate, but theyâre all you have. âThank you.â
He smiles, small and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes the scar on his brow lift slightly. âNo thanks necessary. Youâre home now.â
Home.
He turns then, stepping off the terrace with that same fluid grace, bare feet silent on the warm stone path. You watch his back until he disappears around the curve of the grove, swallowed by olive branches and golden light. You stand there a long time after he leaves, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, the borrowed tunic soft against your skin. The fabric smells faintly of sun-dried linen and something like myrrh.
You step back inside the house, moving slowly, half-expecting the walls to shift or the floor to vanish beneath you like a dream. But the floor stays firm beneath you as you re-enter the sleeping chamber and head toward the wide bed. You sink onto its edge, palms pressing into the mattress. IT gives beneath you, softer than anything you've ever slept on. The constant tension that lived between your shoulder blades finally bleeds out, the ache of release blooming across your back.
Tears come then, sudden and quiet. Not sobs - not grief, because you don't grieve the temple, not exactly. But relief, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. There's a hint of sorrow for the life you lost, even if it was never truly kind, but the utter relief of realizing where you sit now, in a house built by a god, surrounded by things that never stain, that never corrode, is overwhelming.
You're home now.
Soonyoung's words echo. The phrase feels foreign. Home has always been temporary until the temple, and even then, a storage closet in a corner of a world that you'd carved out for yourself or a spot at the farthest bed during meals never really felt like home. You had duty and silence, and you had the hum of an altar no one else but you would touch, but never a home.
Your fingers curl into the linens. Gratitude swells again, so large it hurts. Not just for the rescue, not just for the island, but for the way he saw the war inside of you. The silence battle, not bloody or gory but just as violent. He'd heard your complaints for years, your mindless commentary, and kept watch. Saved you when you needed it.
Lying back slowly, you stare up at the beamed ceiling. Late sunlight slants across the room in long golden bars, painting stripes of warmth across your body. Outside, the waves keep their steady rhythm. Somewhere distant, a bird calls, a clear note that echoes over the water.
For the first time in years, you don't feel watched, but you don't feel invisible either. You just⊠feel present.
You breathe in, breathe out. And for once, drift into a comfortable sleep.
-
Waking up on the island is unlike most days. Instead of opening your eyes to dim, cool darkness, you're greeted by warm air, the blankets around you soft and scented slightly with something woody. Sunlight filters through the open window, panting the bed in warm shafts. You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, peering around the room to find the sound that pulled you from sleep.
Soft footsteps pad across the floor somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Your heart quickens, a remnant of the temple's chaos flashing through your mind: boots thundering down corridors, screams echoing off marble. But there's no smoke here, no heat of flames pressing in. Only the distant hush of waves and the nearer hum of bees in the herb garden.
Sitting up carefully, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet warm against the rug. You pad toward the door, curiosity driving you out into the main room, which is bathed in morning light. You pause when you see Soonyoung, his back to you as he stands at the low table in the kitchen. He's dressed simply again, in a loose tunic of undyed linen that hangs open at the neck, revealing the strong lines of his collarbone and the faint scar that traces across it. His hair is tousled, still damp from what might have been an early swim, and he moves with that same coiled grace.
He turns at the sound of your approach, his dark eyes lighting with that boyish excitement you saw yesterday while he gave you a tour of the small island. "You're awake! Good, I thought you might sleep longer."
You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling against the frame. The sight of him here, domestic and unarmored, stirs something unfamiliar in your chest, a flutter that you dismiss. You can't help but stare at him, hypnotized by the way the light catches the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp jaw and the faint scare on his brow. You immediately chide yourself - he's a god, not something for you to stare at like a starstruck priestess.
"I didn't mean to intrude," you murmur, voice rough from sleep."
He waves a hand dismissively. "No intrusion. I was gathering breakfast. The fruits are at their best in the morning. Join me on the terrace? The view is unmatched at this hour."
You nod, following him as he lifts a platter laden with fruit in one hand as he leads the way through the back door. The stone underfoot is warm from the sun, and beyond the low wall, the island unfolds in a tapestry of green and blue. The seat glitters under the climbing sun. No smoke on the horizon. No distant bells tolling alarm. Just the island and the cool breeze.
Soonyoung sets the platter on the low table between two cushioned benches, then settles onto one with a fluid motion, stretching his legs out as if the world bends to his comfort. You take the opposite bench, looking at the platter of fruit. Figs bleed red juice onto the clay, grapes swollen and deep purple. Honey gleams golden in a small jar, and Soonyoung tears a piece of flatbread and dips it into the honey, offering it to you.
"Eat," he murmurs, voice soft but insistent. "The food here will mend the spirit."
You take the bread, the honey sticky and sweet on your tongue, mingling with the warm, yeasty flavor. It's richer than anything from the temple, and you sigh, letting it melt in your mouth. Soonyoung watches you as you chew, like he's gauging your reaction. His eyes meet yours, dark and warm, and a spark jumps in your chest, unbidden. You look away quickly, focusing on a grape you pluck from the bunch, a nervous flush warming your neck.
"How did you sleep?" he asks, breaking the silence as he selects a fig, splitting it open with his thumbs. Juice runs over his fingers, and he licks it away absently, the gesture distracting you.
"Deeply," you answer after a beat too long. "Better than I have in years, honestly."
"The island attunes to you. If you prefer the stars, the shelter by the beach is yours too. Sometimes I like to sleep there." He pauses, popping a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Did dreams come? Or just peace?"
"Peace. Honestly, it was strange to wake without the immediate sense of monotony."
"Mhm."
"Better than the dread I felt waking up that night."
"Dread is war's shadow." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Speaking of that night - you picked up my sword and faced those men with no training and without fear."
"I was plenty afraid."
"Perhaps, but you were brave enough to defeat the fear. That's no small thing. I rarely see that even in battle-hardened warriors. You don't know how challenging it is to look certain death in the face and decide to fight it anyway, even if it's inevitable."
You think for a second, nibbling on a piece of cheese. "I just did what felt right. I knew the way to the altar - knew the sword was there. It was just instinct."
He tilts his head, studying you with that penetrating gaze. "Have you ever thought of learning? Properly, I mean. Not because you'll need to - war doesn't touch this place. But it could be something for you to do, to embrace that strength."
The question hangs between you, laced with possibility. Your pulse quickens. Learning to use a sword never occurred to you - why would it? Women didn't wield swords to begin with, but certainly not those who served a temple of the gods. The idea, however absurd, makes you grin, looking up at him. He smiles like he knows your answer already, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.
"I think I'd like that," you say.
"Excellent!" He shoots to his feet, startling you. Energy crackles around him, making you lean back. He offers you a hand, a grin splitting his face. "Let's start now. Basics first. Come with me, the beach has good footing."
You can't help but laugh. He pulls you up to your feet and drops your hand, leading you down the path to the beach from the terrace. Birds trill in the trees as you pass, the air full of scents of blooming fruit and salt spray. You reach the beach easily, the sand firm and damp near the water's edge, waves lapping gently.
Soonyoung turns to you and holds out a hand. You blink in surprise as the air ripples for a second, like heat waves disrupting reality in the distance, and the sword from the altar appears. Your mouth pops open a little, shocked. You shouldn't be, you suppose. He's a god with powers beyond your understanding at his finger tips, the ability to command armies and summon weapons barely scratching the surface with what he's able to do.
He holds the sword out to you and you stare at it, unsure. He smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Take it. It's yours."
Similar to the first time you picked it up, the sword is heavy for a single moment before it balances itself. You marvel at it in the sunlight, watching the way the sun glints off the edge, now sharped and polished to perfection. It's the perfect size and weight in your hand, and when you give it a gentle test swing, Soonyoung's smile is so warm that you feel yourself grin back.
"First lesson," Soonyoung says, voice shifting from playful to commanding. "Discipline. War isn't mindless fury. It's control over your body, your breath, you fear. Control over your enemy, their goals."
He strides toward you and gently reaches out, tapping you on the wrist to lift your sword hand. His touch is electric and you stare at his hands as they adjust your grip on the handle of the sword, fingers callused and precise as he squeezes your fist briefly.
"Looser here," he murmurs, thumb pressing lightly on your knuckle. "Yes, like that."
The sun highlights the muscles rippling in Soonyoung's forearm as he steps to the side, dropping your hand in favor of showing you how to take your stance, bent at the knees, legs firmly planted, not too far apart. You stare at him, watching the way the sun catches the lighter threads of his hair, haloing him in gold.
You swallow, focusing on the sword in your hand as you try to ignore the way your heart races, reminding yourself that Soonyoung is a god - Ares specifically, the God of War - Miaephonus, Thouros - to many. Soonyoung had said he wears hundreds of names, and you know it to be true as he leads you through basic forms, his tone steady, the command threading through his voice though he never raises it.
Soonyoung is a patient teacher, each correction gentle but direct. Sweat beads on your brow but you find the work exhilarating. Never before did you imagine you could hold a sword, never before did you think you might find yourself on the beach with the sun reaching its zenith, learning from the god who makes art of the sword and spear.
As he drills you, you realize Soonyoung is right. There is a discipline to the way he teaches you, a logic to the moves and the steps that is less rage and chaos and more control. More purpose. You think it reminds you of him, fierce but contained, like that night in the temple when his rage had been a controlled vehicle for violence.
Soonyoung laughs and stops you after a particularly clumsy swing on your part, the sword tipping too far forward. He grins, eyes twinkling as he strides forward and summons another weapon. You watch as he holds it loosely, turning his hand to display the grip.
"You're still gripping it too hard," he tells you. He demonstrates again before twirling the blade in a showy arc, winking at you. His grin grows when you glower. "Fighting has a flow to it. If you're too rigid, you'll break. If you're too loose, you'll fall. You need to be the perfect combination of both to flow."
You try to mimic the motion, but your arm wobbles, the sword dipping awkwardly. Laughter bubbles up unbidden. It surprises you to hear yourself laugh. His grin is fierce and he steps toward you, steadying your elbow gently.
"You have a beautiful laugh," he tells you before stepping away again before saying, "Again."
You nod, breathing deeply as he instructed, inhaling the salt air to center yourself. The sand shifts under your feet, forcing you to adjust, to find balance in the unpredictability. You swing again, this time with more intent, the hum in the sword vibrating in harmony with your movements. Soonyoung claps in delight, nodding as he has you do it again and again.
You keep going until your arms tremble and the sun sits high overhead. Sweat slicks your skin, your tunic clinging in damp patches, but the ache in your muscles feels good. Soonyoung watches every movement with that blend of fierce focus and boyish delight, correcting your stance with quick taps of his blade or a murmured instruction.
"Alright, that's enough for now," he declares as the sun dips into the afternoon. "Not bad, honestly."
You lower the blade, chest heaving, and wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The hum in the sword has settled to a gentle thrum against your palm. "Why does the sword hum?"
"It hums?"
"Yes. Like a vibration."
"Ha!" He claps his hands, delighted. "It's my energy. Didn't expect a mortal to feel it. I should have known you'd sense it."
"I sensed it at your altar too."
"Is that so?" Soonyoung cocks his head and his grin sharpens. "Virago."
"Virago?"
"A woman of great strength and tenacity, a warrior, even if only in spirit and not practice. Athena would like you."
The compliment makes you avert your eyes. You don't know what to make of his words. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for you to respond, summoning you to lunch as he charges up the path that leads toward the little refuge you woke up in yesterday.
You follow him in the white stand, the tide higher now as it laps closer to the dunes. The simple thatch roof comes into view, mat still spread where you slept. The fire pit smolders low, embers glowing under a flat cooking stone. A fresh basket waits beside it, overflowing with more fruit, a round loaf of bread steaming slightly, and a clay jug beaded with condensation.
Soonyoung drops to one knee beside the pit, coaxing the embers back to life with a few dry twigs and a breath that carries the faint scent of smoke and myrrh. Flames lick upward almost eagerly, as though the fire recognizes him.
He glances at you over his shoulder, playful glint returning. âSit. The islandâs hospitality is better than any feast hall in Olympus.â
You settle onto one of the thin mats, legs tucked beneath you. You watch as he slices the bread with a small knife before passing you a thick piece that he slathers with honey. You accept it, biting into the bread. It's warm and sweet, melting on your tongue and you sigh contentedly, earning a grin from him as he slices another piece for himself.
For a while you eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hush of waves, and the occasional cry of a seabird wheeling overhead. Every bite of bread and fruit is sweet, and when he passes you water from the clay jar, it's cold and refreshing, chasing away the day's heat immediately.
"Will you tell me about Troy?" You ask, sucking juice from your fingers.
Soonyoung pauses mid-bite, brows lifting in surprise. Then he leans back on one elbow, stretching his legs toward the fire, and grins. "You want war stories? Most people beg me to stop once I start."
"I want your stories," you correct. "I've never left the mountain the temple sits on. Never seen a city larger than the one that burned. Your world is bigger than mine could ever be. I want to experience it through you."
Something shifts in his expression. You think it's pleasure, unguarded and bright as he sits a little straighter, dark eyes gleaming. "Alright. Troy, then."
He tells you about the walls first - tall as mountains, white stone gleaming under the sun, built by gods and men together. He describes the sound, the metallic ring of bronze on bronze, the way the ground shook as thousands of Greek chariots charged across the plains of Troy.
Soonyoung tells you about the silent parts, too. About the moment he watched Hector laugh with his son on the ramparts, the way Paris sometimes played the lyre at dusk to chase away the sorrow of the sentries, to make them less afraid.
You listen as he mentions Achilles, the best of the Greeks - not with hatred, like you might have thought, but with a kind of reluctant respect. You listen with rapt attention, leaning forward as he tells you of the battle, of the chaos of war.
"Did you really walk among them?" You murmur. "During the battle?"
"Of course, though oftentimes mortals don't recognize us. We seem to them a great warrior or a brother in arms, perhaps. But we are there, fighting alongside those who honor us at altars and whisper our names."
"Is that why you came for me? Because I tended your altar?"
"I would not know you otherwise."
You nod. It makes sense. "I suppose if war never came to me, you'd have no reason to appear?" He nods, watching you with a careful expression, like the topic of war makes him nervous, somehow. You think of the way the others in your temple feared him, the way they were so worried that tending to his statue would summon him. "I didn't summon you, right?"
He cocks his head. "How do you mean?"
"By tending to your altar did I⊠did I invite war in?"
"No. War is necessary." He sighs and leans back, looking up at the blue sky. He closes his eyes, basking in the sun like a cat. "It's not right nor is it wrong⊠it's simply the balance to peace. War has its own logic. I don't choose the winners, though I try to make the fight fair."
"And after? When war is over?"
"I come here. Sometimes for short periods of time, sometimes for long times. But men always create war and I am summoned often." He opens his eyes, glancing your direction. "You're the first person I've ever brought here, though."
You meet his gaze, heart doing that unsteady flutter again. He holds your eyes a beat longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering between you. Then he clears his throat and stands, brushing sand from his tunic.
âKeep practicing while Iâm gone,â he says, voice brisk again, though the warmth lingers in his eyes. âForms one through four, slow and deliberate. Feel the purpose in each one. Iâll be back for dinner.â
Before you can answer, he steps back, the air around him shimmering like heat over stone. One moment heâs standing there, sunlit and solid. In the next, he's gone, leaving only the faint scent of wood and salt in his wake.
You sit for a long minute staring at the place where he vanished. The fire pops softly. Waves sigh against the shore. You rise, pick up the sword where it rests against the shelter pole, and walk back down to the firm sand near the water. The sun is past zenith now, light slanting golden across the beach. You take your stance, and you practice as he says, each movement deliberate.
You practice until your arms burn and sweat drips from your brow. Until the light turns amber and the first stars prick the deepening blue overhead.
-
Days on the island begin to fold into one another like the gentle turn of waves against the shore. The first week feels like a dream youâre afraid to wake from, but the second week you realize this is your new reality, something that won't be taken away from you. It's not borrowed or temporary, it's yours.
Mornings arrive with light spilling through the open window of the bedroom, always warm. You wake without the jolt of bells or dread, body unfolding slowly from the soft linens. Some days you linger in bed, listening to the island breathe. Other mornings you rise earlier, drawn outside by the soft pink light that precedes sunrise. You walk the beach barefoot, sand still cool from the night, collecting shells that hum faintly when you hold them to your ear like Soonyoung taught you.
Breakfast is always abundant. It isn't just Soonyoung who seems to serve you - it's the kitchen, too. Fresh bread and figs appear even when Soonyoung isn't there, yogurt and honey cakes waiting for you when you stumble in. On days Soonyoung is absent, you eat alone on the terrace, legs dangling over the low wall, watching the sea change color from steel to turquoise as the sun climbs.
On the days Soonyoung is there, the routine shifts to include him. He arrives without announcement, footsteps soft on the path toward the house or simply appearing at the edge of the grove with that faint shimmer of his. Breakfast is always shared side by side on the terrace on those days, legs brushing occasionally.
Soonyoung likes to talk, and you like to listen. He tells you stories of distant wars, of siblings who bicker like mortals, of the first time he tasted honey and decided mortals weren't so bad after all. He answers every question that spills out of you, that same fond patience of his bleeding through when he smiles at you no matter how ridiculous the question feels.
âYouâre relentless,â he says once, laughing, but thereâs pride in it, not mockery. âNo oneâs asked me that since the fall of Mycenae.â
When he's gone, you practice the sword forms he taught you. The blade feels more familiar each day, less like a foreign object and more like an extension of your arm. You move through the sequences slowly and deliberately, breathing with each strike.
On the afternoons you don't practice, you wander. You trace the grove's paths until you know every twist and turn. You sit at the spring sometimes too, hands in the cool water, letting it soothe the stinging calluses forming on your palms.
Evenings depend on whether he returns. When he does, you eat dinner on the terrace underneath the torchlight and the stares, biting into grilled fish and olives stuffed with feta. You both like to look up at the sky after dinner, Soonyoung telling you about the constellations while you listen. you tell him the smaller details of your life, and though they feel insignificant, he listens like they matter, like your small life is worth the same attention of the sack of Troy.
When heâs absent, you eat alone. You take the platter to the beach shelter, lie back on the mats under the open sky, and watch the stars emerge one by one.
You miss him when he's gone, though. Not because you feel lonely - you've been alone your entire life, even in crowded rooms of people. You miss him because your affection for him has taken root in your heart and grown in increments, like the vines creeping up the columns of the house.
It's hard not to feel something for him, but you can't help the way your chest tightens when he appears after a long absence, your relief so sharp it startles you. You can't help it when your gaze lingers when he laughs, warm and unguarded, head thrown back as though the sky itself amuses him.
You know it's foolish. He's Ares - a god. He is ancient and vast, a concept that is only occasionally made flesh, someone you could never truly hope to understand. So many mortals have loved gods and fallen to tragedy because of it, but now that you've felt the warmth of his palm and heard the depth of his laughter, you cannot blame them for falling.
The gap between you is not bridgeable. You tell yourself this daily, sternly, whenever your fingers brush his while passing a cup, whenever he smiles at you like youâve said something clever, whenever he watches you practice forms with quiet pride.
And yet.
And yet and yet and yet.
The comfort of him settles deep. When he is near, the world feels steadier. When he is gone, you miss the steadiness. You don't dare name it, though. You barely acknowledge it. It feels like a dangerous thing, whatever it is, so you keep it buried. Knowing him is enough.
It has to be enough.
On nights like tonight, it's more than enough. The air carries the smell of salt and sweet smoke from the small fire crackling on the beach, embers popping and drifting toward the sky. The small shelter stands behind you, but you've dragged the mat out onto the sand near the waterline, close enough that the occasional wave licks at your feet before retreating.
Above, the sky is a vast blanket strewn with stars, brighter than anything you've ever seen. Soonyoung lies on his back next to you, hands tucked behind his head, the gold light from the fire flickering over the faint scar in his eyebrow and the curve of his smile.
"I think I envy the stars," Soonyoung murmurs, staring up at the sky.
You turn toward him, perplexed. "Envy?"
"They're never alone. Even when the world tears itself apart, they have each other. I've had centuries of company. Siblings who tolerate me. Mortals who loved me and shared my bed." He blows out a slow sigh. "But most eventually curse my name when war comes. Company is rarely the same as understanding."
"People are afraid of war."
"War is duty," he murmurs. "Always has been. I am the swing of the blade that protects the hearth and the fury that defends the weak. They thank Athena for wisdom in battle and yet fear the fury that shields them. When they thank me, it's with averted eyes, as though saying my name will summon conflict."
Soonyoung's words sink in. You think about the others in the temple, how the sisters - probably dead, now - told you they believed as much. They had believed that tending to Soonyoung's - Ares' - altar would summon him, that being kind to him would call him down and destroy everything.
You watch him, his profile sharp against the night. His gaze seems distant, like he's lost in thought. You don't know how to comfort a god, but you try anyway.
"People are often afraid of the things and people they don't understand," you murmur. "Logic fails in the presence of fear."
"Well said." His mouth twitches a little. "Even among the gods it's the same. The gods hate to be compared to mortals, and yet we're so similar. They crave peace yet fear the one who makes it possible. Peace is only beautiful because it follows wrath."
"That sounds lonely."
He finally turns his head to meet your eyes. The firelight turns his irises molten, soft in a way that steals your breath.
âYou never asked me to be anything other than what I am," Soonyoung notes. "You lit candles no one else would touch, and spoke to me like I was listening even if you weren't sure. It brought me comfort."
You sit up slowly, drawing your knees toward your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes follow the movement, impossibly dark. Your heart stutters as he looks up at you, face softer and more vulnerable than you ever thought a god of war could look.
"I was never afraid of you," you tell him softly. "Not even when the temple burned and you appeared and killed those men. Only for a moment I was afraid - but not of you. Most of all, I was just relieved."
He smiles. "Still not afraid?"
"No. You've given me what others couldn't - time and attention. A life. Something to do. You're kind and you teach me how to fight though most would find it improper. You listen when I tell you about nothing important. You ask questions even if you know the answers just to make me feel heard. It brings me comfort."
His smile deepens, soft and aching, eyes shining in the firelight. For a moment the space between you feels alive, humming with the same vibration youâve felt from the sword, from his altar, from him. The air thickens. Your breath catches as his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts again, searching.
You feel your heart rate spike as you avert your eyes, the panic that he'll see the affection just simmering beneath the surface of your skin. You cannot love him - he's a god. He's vast and ancient, and you're a mortal. Whatever feelings you have for him is too fragile and impossible, and if you name it, you know it'll break.
"Anyway," you say, throat tight. "I envy the stars too. They are far more beautiful than anything us mortals have managed to conjure up."
Soonyoung blinks, surprised at your change of topic. Your heart pounds as you silently beg him not to press the issue, to not keep the conversation so close to the feeling stuck in your chest. Then he exhales, something that's almost a laugh. He leans back on his hands, gazing upward again.
"You've never been more wrong, Virago."
-
The sun is a merciless coin of heat and light in the sky, turning the beach into a sheet of pale fire. Sweat slicks down your spine, your tunic clinging in damp patches that dark against your back. The sword in your hand feels alive, less of an object and more of an extension of your arm. You no longer think about how to move - you just do.
Soonyoung circles you barefoot, sand dusting the tops of his feet. His own linen tunic is sleeveless today, the fabric gathered at the shoulders with glinting bronze pins. His sculpted arms flex as he moves, beads of sweat tracing down each curve of muscle. He holds his sword loosely in his right hand, tip lowered, watching you with that predatory patience you've come to know.
"Again," he says. "Don't hint at the move."
You nod once, breath steady despite the burn in your shoulders and arms. You step forward, the blade rising in a clean arc. Steel meets steel with a bright clang that startles the gulls from the dunes. Soonyoung parries without effort, guiding your momentum past him so you stumble a half step.
"Too much shoulder," he murmurs near your ear, stepping close to catch your wrist in his hand to correct you. "Use the hips. Let the turn carry the force."
He doesnât release you immediately. Instead he rotates your wrist a fraction, showing the angle, then slides his palm up to cup your elbow, lifting and adjusting until your form feels perfect. His fingers linger there, calluses rasping lightly against your skin. You can feel the heat radiating from his chest, inches away.
You swallow. âLike this?â
âExactly like that.â
He steps back, but the space between you feels smaller than before, your breath shakier as you try to shove down the awareness of him.
The next hour passes in a blur of controlled violence. Disarming lessons are your least favorite - they draw him too close, his forearm brushing yours, his knee nudging the inside of your thigh to correct your stance. When you overextend, he catches you around the waist with one arm to steady you, palm flat against your ribs until your balance returns.
It's utterly maddening. He's gentle, despite the coiled strength in every single one of his movements. You know his hands have killed thousands - you've seen him throw a spear that skewered a man through. And yet he handles you with gentle confidence, like handling glass.
"You're not hesitating anymore," Soonyoung notes after you parry his strike in earnest. He grins. "Not even when I come at you fast. Most men would cower."
"I trust you won't hurt me."
"Good," he says quietly. "Come at me. Full intent, no holding back. Try to take my weapon."
You hesitate only a heartbeat. Then you lunge.
Steel rings as your swords meet. Soonyoung lets you drive him back two steps, giving ground deliberately. You feel the shift in his balance - the tiny tell in his leading shoulder - and you act on instinct, driving your blade high as you slide your weapon against his and twist hard.
Soonyoung's sword flies free as you spin into his grasp. Your balance is off again, the momentum carrying you into him as he pulls you toward him, both of you toppling. You yelp and let your sword fall, afraid to hurt him as the two of you land in the sand, your palms barely catching your weight in the sand.
Laughter bursts from him, bright and unrestrained. The sound vibrates through where you're pressed chest to chest, and you can't help but laugh too for a second, surprised and a little embarrassed.
Your noses are an inch apart, his eyes molten brown with lighter flecks of almost gold. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath against you. Sweat has darkened the hair at his temples, sand dusting him as he looks up at you. His hand at your back hasn't moved as his laughter quiets, eyes sharpening.
Licking your lips, you start to pull away, heart slamming so hard against your ribs you're sure he can feel it. His grip tightens though, just enough to hold you still.
"Why do you always pull back?" He asks, voice so low it's almost a whisper.
For a second, the ocean is the only sound. You can feel your pulse thundering in your ears, your breath shaky. Terror grips at you - not of him, but of the lingering feeling you've been hiding from him for months now.
"Tell me," he murmurs.
You nod, swallowing thickly. "Because I'm afraid. Not of you, but what I feel for you. Of what it means. You're ancient and endless and I'mâŠ" Your throat closes for a second. "I don't want to fall and shatter. I'm only mortal."
For a long moment he says nothing. You close your eyes, feeling the heat of shame and sting of tears, realizing that you shouldn't have said anything. Then he rolls you over and you suck in a gasp, world spinning as he pins you to the sand.
Soonyoung looms over you, weight braced on his forearms. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark as he drinks you in, pupils expanding. He's close enough that when he speaks, his lips almost brush yours.
"Then fall. I've been waiting to catch you, you know?" His eyes drop down to your mouth. "Since the first time you lit my candle. Since the first time you spoke to stone because no one else would listen."
Soonyoung leans down and your breath catches. His nose brushes against yours and his eyelids flutter shut as he breathes you in, salt and sweat.
"I am war," he admits. "I am rage and ruin, but I'm still Soonyoung. I can be still and gentle. I can want things I haven't in centuries. So fall, my Virago. I will never let you break."
Trembling, your hands come up to slide into his hair, fingers threading through damp strands at the nape of his neck. You feel the tremor that moves through him at the touch, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. When he doesn't move, you tug him down to close the last fraction of distance between you.
The kiss is hungry. It's years of silence and candlelight, the hum of his sword that has lived in you since the moment you honored his altar. It's the relief of finally naming the ache that has lived beneath your ribs since the first time he smiled at you, the relief of being heard.
He kisses you like a man who has waited lifetimes, tongue sweeping in to press against yours, warm and wet. The kiss deepens, a slow unraveling that pulls you under. He tastes like salt and honeyed figs, a faint sweetness lingering from breakfast. He lefts a hand to cradle the back of your neck, tilting you to deepen the kiss.
You melt into him and he lowers himself a fraction, his hips pressing against yours. The want is sharp and sweet, making your breath hitch as his teeth graze your lower lip gently, tugging just enough to draw a soft whimper from you.
Soonyoung draws back a little, his eyes blown as he looks down at you. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, voice rough. "We only go as far as you want."
You shake your head, fingers tightening in his hair. "I want you. All of you."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, somewhere between a groan and a growl. He kisses you again, slower this time. His weight pins you down, his hand roaming to trace the lines of your body - the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips - until you're arching into his touch.
"Beautiful," he mutters, brushing his lips against your throat. His tongue darts out to press against your pulse point and you moan, head pressing back into the sand, lashes fluttering. "Wanted you for so long."
His mouth trails lower, nipping softly at your collarbone as his fingers gather the hem of your tunic, inching it upward. Cool sea air kisses your newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps that he soothes away with warm palms. You lift your hips instinctively, helping him slide the fabric higher, until it's bunched at your waist, leaving your lower body bare to him as he pushes up to his knees.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Perfect for me."
He shifts downward, broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart as he settles between them. The first kiss he presses to your inner thigh is feather-light, a tease that makes you gasp. His hands hold your legs open gently but firmly, thumbs stroking the soft flesh of your thighs. Heat pools between your legs, a slick ache building as anticipation coils tight in your core.
"Soonyoung," you whisper, voice breaking.
"I've got you," he soothes, meeting your eyes from below. "Let me make you feel good, my Virago."
His mouth descends then, warm and deliberate, lips parting to taste you. The first swipe of his tongue is slow and flat against your folds. A jolt of pleasure makes you arch your back off the sand. His mouth is wet and hot, tongue tracing upward to circle your clit gently. A shaky moan escapes you as your fingers dig into the sand.
He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. A shiver ripples through you and he groans again, tongue sweeping in broad strokes.
"That's it," he murmurs, words muffled against your skin. "So sweet for me. Let me hear you."
You melt. Soonyoung alternates between long, languid licks that make your thighs tremble and gentle sucks against your clit until stars explode behind your eyes. You shiver, a warm flush spreading from your core outward, each stroke of his tongue coaxing you higher.
Your hips buck instinctively seeking more, and he hums in delight. A hand slides under your ass to lift you toward his mouth, encouraging you to grind against his face as he sucks at you noisily, tongue circling your entrance.
When his fingers join his mouth, you nearly die. One digit circles your entrance, gathering your arousal before pressing in slowly, just the tip at first. You tense at the unfamiliar stretch, gasping. He pauses immediately, lifting his head to watch your face.
"Breathe for me," he murmurs. "You're doing so well. Relax, yeah?"
You nod, exhaling shakily, and he rewards you as his finger slides deeper, inch by inch, the intrusion turning from strange to exquisite as he curls it upward, brushing a spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
Soonyoung works you slowly like that, his tongue rolling in lazy circles around your clit. Your thighs close around his head and he doesn't care, happily tonguing you half to madness as another finger presses in. He scissors them gently, stretching you open as he sucks on your clit in time with each stroke of his fingers.
"So tight," he whispers against you, mouth hot against you. "So fucking wet."
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and suddenly it's too much. The tension snaps, orgasm crashing into you without warning. You arch against him, pussy clenching on his fingers as he groans. His tongue keeps moving, flicking over you until you're trembling and oversensitive.
Only then does he ease his fingers out, pressing wet kisses to your thighs as you pant, sagging against the sand. He laughs, nipping your thighs and making your legs twitch as you glance at him where he's grinning up at you.
"I could do that all day," he admits.
"I think I might let you."
You reach for him, tugging at his tunic, and he understands, shedding it swiftly. His body is a masterpiece of muscled under sun-kissed skin, scars faint and silver. He shivers underneath your touch, kicking away at his tunic. His cock is heavy and long, flushed and beading with precum and want.
A flicker of nerves returns, but he chases it away as he leans down to kiss you, his mouth still tasting like you.
"We'll go slow," he promises, settling between your thighs. "You're in control. Tell me if you need to stop."
He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick pussy. The first press stretches you wide and you gasp, clutching at his shoulder. It feels like heaven and hell, both too much and not enough. You can barely breath as he ducks his head to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.
"Breathe," he whispers. "Let yourself open up."
You nod and he presses his mouth to yours as he presses in inch by inch, the slide eased by the mess he's already made. The fullness is staggering as he fills you completely, hips flush to yours. He stills, giving you time to adjust, peppering your face with kisses.
"Doing okay?" He asks, one hand stroking your hand.
"Don't stop," you gasp. "Please move."
"You're doing so good, my Virago," he praises, starting a slow rock of his hips.
The motion is gentle at first, his thrusts shallow that let you feel every inch of his cock, the friction addicting. The initial burn fades and is replaced by a liquid heat that spreads through your veins, each drag of him against your walls stoking the fire burning in your gut.
He keeps the pace unhurried, a soft rhythm that makes your eyes roll back and press your hips closer to him, seeking more. One of his hands gathers yours and pins them above your head, fingers laced as his eyes darken, watching your face for every reaction.
"Feel so good," he murmurs, rolling his hips. You whimper and he grins, nodding. "I know. So tight around me, like you were made for me."
You clench around him and he groans, pace picking up as he drives his cock harder into you. It punches the air from your lungs and you squirm under him, feeling the need to orgasm again, toes curling, that coil tightening all over again. You roll your hips to meet his, seeking more friction, hungry for it.
"That's it," he encourages. "Move with me. My hungry Virago."
You do, hips rising to meet his, the new angle deepening his thrusts. He catches your mouth again, more tongue and teeth as your second orgasm breaks, your cunt pulsing around him as you cry out against his mouth.
Soonyoung fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping until you're breathless. The hunger for him isn't gone though, and you surge forward, rolling the two of you until you have him pinned beneath you.
The shift makes you gasp, his cock hitting deeper. Your hands brace on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers. He grips your hips and guides you with gentle hands, a slow grind that makes you dizzy.
"Yeah?" He asks. "Gonna take what you want? Come on, baby. Ride me."
Your moves are tentative at first, finding a rhythm. The slide up and down his length is intoxicating and you chase it, hips rolling as your head tilts back. His hands roam, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples and earning a broken sound from you.
"Just like that," he growls. "So fucking good."
Fatigue burns in your thighs, but the building orgasm drives you on, faster now, breaths mingling as you lean down to kiss him. When it hits, you collapse forward, trembling, walls clenching in waves that pull a guttural moan from him. He thrusts up gently through your aftershocks, then stills, holding you close as his own release follows.
Both of you lay like that, panting in the heat and clinging to one another. The sun dips lower, spilling molten gold across the two of you. He cradles your head, pressing your cheek to his chest, the steady hammering of his heart comforting.
Neither of you move, his arms wrapped around you, fingers tracing idly against your bag. Your legs are tangled with his, and every so often, a small tremor runs through you and he smirks.
Behind you, the sea breathes in and out. You feel the slow rise and fall of his breaths, the warmth of his skin against yours, the faint salt-and-myrrh scent that seems to belong only to him. For the first time in your life, your body knows complete quiet instead of the tense silence of temple corridors.
âIâve spent lifetimes watching people run from me,â Soonyoung says, breaking the silence. "Thank you for not running, Virago."
You turn your face into his skin, pressing a kiss to the place above his heart. He exhales and pulls you tighter, tucking your head beneath his chin. His legs shift, drawing yours more securely between his until there is no space left where you are not touching.
"Sleep, woman of strength," he chuckles, voice soft. "Woman of fire. Woman of my heart. My Virago."
Themes:Â Smut | Angst | Dark Romance | Serial killer AU | Dinner of Death | Jealousy | Toxic Love | Morally Grey Characters | T.W.: mentions of blood, domestic violence (choking and confinement), panic attacks, physical and psychological violence and death (major character death)
Wordcount: 30.2K
Playlist:Â 'Red' - Delaney Jane | 'Easy to Love' - Bryce Savage | 'Killer' - Valerie Broussard | 'Demise' - NOT A TOY | 'Deadly Valentine' - Charlotte Gainsbourg | 'Heaven' - Julia Michaels | 'Sirens' - Fleurie | 'APHRODITE' - Ethan Gander
Smut Warnings:Â Explicit sexual acts - Oral (F. Receiving) - Semi-public Intercourse - Use of petnames - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Slight Breeding Kink - Mentions of pregnancy and removal of IUD
This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact. This is a dark romance with morally grey, psychotic characters. I do not romanticise or condone this type of love or behaviour. This is purely a work of fiction and does not portray the members in any way.
Amuse-Bouche: citrus-cured scallop on black sea salt.
The restaurant looks closed.
From the outside, the wide glass front is dark, the usual soft glow behind the curtains gone, the sign above the door lit but strangely hollow. No silhouettes move behind the frosted panels, no murmur of conversation spills into the street. For a moment, you think you have misread the time, misread the day, misread the man who asked you to meet him here.
You press your palm to the cool brass handle. The door gives under your fingers. Inside, the quiet hits you.
The lobby is dimmer than you remember; the chandelier above you is turned down low, so the crystals barely catch the light. The air is still. A faint piano track hums from somewhere in the building, but it sounds far away, like it belongs to another room, another night. Too quiet, your mind notes automatically. The wrong kind of quiet. Not restful; emptied.
There are no couples waiting at the bar. No suits at the high tables, talking into their phones. No tangle of staff behind the host stand. Just one man in a crisp black suit, standing very straight, hands folded.
The maĂźtre dâ looks up as the door clicks shut behind you, and you see the moment recognition hits. His eyes flicker with a complicated mix of relief and something like dread, and then his face smooths over. He dips his head. âGood evening, Mrs. Choi.â
âGood evening,â you answer, shrugging your coat from your shoulders. âI thought you were closed for a second.â
The maĂźtre dâ takes your coat with both hands, movements careful and measured. He doesnât quite meet your eyes when he says, âWe are open for a private service tonight.â His smile is perfectly symmetrical and utterly lifeless. âYour party has arrived. May I show you to the room?â
Your pulse gives an odd little jump. A private service. On a night that should be booked for weeks. In a place you know is usually full, loud, alive. For a heartbeat, instinct risesâsharp, familiar, coiling low in your gut. You feel it, acknowledge it, file it away. You smooth your features into something pleasant, something soft. âOf course.â
The maĂźtre dâ gestures, but when you move to follow, you realise he isnât coming with you. Heâs already hanging up your coat, fingers fumbling slightly on the hanger. A young waiter appears instead, as if he has stepped through the wall. He looks barely older than a college student, jaw tight, eyes too wide. His uniform is flawless, but his hands arenât; you can see the tremor in them where they clutch his notepad.
âMrs. Choi,â he says, voice just a touch too high. âRight this way, please.â
You look at him for a second longer than necessary. He tries to hold your gaze and fails. Yes. Definitely wrong. But you smile, because this is what you do: you slide into the role you expect for yourself, play it convincingly. âLead the way.â
He turns down the main hallway. As you walk, you glance into the dining room through the open archway. The generous rows of tables where youâve spent so many warm, late nights are empty. No coats draped over chairs, no half-finished wine glasses catching candlelight. The linen is starched, untouched. The candles are unlit. The whole room feels like a stage after the show has ended and the audience has gone home, everything left in place, waiting for someone to decide whether to strike the set or start again.
Your footsteps sink into the plush carpet of the corridor. Soft wall lights cast pools of amber on the dark wood panelling. You know this path. Youâve walked it while laughing against Seungcheolâs shoulder, tipsy on wine and dessert, while he pressed his mouth to your hair and called a cab.
You thank him lightly, as if none of this feels off, and watch in steady, detached detail as he opens the door and steps aside. The room beyond is warm, glowing. Light spills out over his sleeve and onto the corridor carpet. You lift your chin and walk in. It takes less than a second for your eyes to adjust, and in that second, your world tilts.
There he is. Seungcheol sits at a round table draped in white linen, directly opposite the door. The chair heâs chosen is the one with the clearest view of the entrance, his shoulders squared, posture relaxed, hands folded neatly on the table. He isnât overdressedâjust a simple dark suit, the same one he wore when he took you to meet his parents for the first time. The soft lamplight catches the line of his jaw, the slight curl of his hair over his forehead. To anyone else, he would look exactly as he always does: handsome, reassuring, a man who could anchor you in any storm. But something in his gaze tonight is sharper. Thereâs a stillness about him that doesnât match the way he usually springs up the moment he hears your voice. An undercurrent, subtle but unmistakable, like a wire drawn tight beneath the skin.
You barely have time to register that before you see the others. Three men share the table with him. Your heart stutters. You know these men. You have lain with all of them.
Wonwoo sits to Seungcheolâs right, leaning back in his chair as if this were any ordinary dinner, long legs crossed at the ankle, one arm resting lazily along the back of the seat. In the soft light, he looks gentle: dark hair falling over his forehead, round glasses catching the chandelierâs reflection, features smooth and open. Heâs dressed in black from head to toe, turtleneck and blazer, the fabric hugging a broad-shouldered frame.
His eyes meet yours across the room, and in that brief contact, the façade drops. What peers out at you from behind the glass is nothing soft at all. It is calculation, cold and precise, and the faintest glimmer of amusement.
To Seungcheolâs left, Minghao sits straighter, a slim, composed line. His hair is a muted ash that falls softly over his brow, his suit a lighter shade, something almost silvery that makes his skin glow. A narrow ring flashes on one long finger where his hand curls around the stem of an empty wine glass. He looks like he could be ripped from an art galleryâdelicate, inscrutable, a study in restraint. But his knuckles are white around the glass, and when he looks at you, there is a flicker of something like guiltâor maybe just old hurt.
Next to him, Mingyu takes up more space than the others, broad shoulders stretching the lines of his jacket. The top buttons of his shirt are undone as if this were a casual reunion instead of whatever this actually is. His hair is dark, brushed back, a few rebellious strands falling forward. His mouth curves as he sees you, a familiar, cocky little grin that never used to fail in pulling a laugh from you.
You stand there in the doorway, taking them all in, your past arranged around your future like some kind of carefully curated exhibit, and every nerve in your body sings. They should never all be in the same room. Not for any good reason. Why are they here tonight?
The waiter clears his throat quietly behind you, a sound like a reminder that youâre meant to move. You smooth your expression again, take one careful step forward, and then another. Seungcheol rises.
The movement is smooth, practised; he pushes his chair back and stands as if heâs been waiting for this exact moment, for you to cross that threshold. For the briefest fraction of time, his eyes flick over your face, cataloguing everythingâyour lipstick, the tension in your jaw, the way your hand catches on your clutch. Then he smiles. Itâs almost right. Warmth curves his mouth, dimples showing, the familiar softness in the set of his brows. The strange sharpness you saw a moment ago sinks below the surface, buried but not gone.
He steps toward you, closing the distance with long, easy strides. His hand finds the small of your back, fingers spreading over the fabric of your dress, heat seeping through to your skin. âSweetheart,â he murmurs, and the word is a low exhale, fond and intimate. âYouâre here.â
You tip your head back to look at him, your lips already tilting into a smile, because whatever is happening, whatever this is, he is still the man who holds you when you canât sleep, who tucks your hair behind your ear when youâre reading, who kisses your palm before you leave for work. âOf course Iâm here,â you reply softly. âYou asked me to come, amour.â
His eyes soften at the familiar nickname, something in his chest seeming to unwind, even as his hand at your back feels just a shade more insistent than usual. He leans down and kisses you, a brief press of his mouth to yours, warm and familiar, the kind of kiss youâve shared a thousand times.
For a heartbeat, the rest of the room disappears. There is only the slide of his lips, the faint smell of his cologne, the steady weight of his palm. He pulls back too soon. âYou look beautiful,â he says quietly, thumb brushing a line no one else can see along your spine. Then his voice lifts, too smooth, just loud enough for the others to hear. âCome sit. Weâve been waiting.â We.
Your eyes flick instinctively back to the table. Three pairs of eyes are on you: curious, amused, wary. Like theyâre watching a show. You draw in a slow breath and let him guide you forward. He leads you to the empty chair at his right, opposite Wonwoo and beside Mingyu. The placement is deliberate; you can feel it in your bones. You wonder how long he took to decide who would sit where, what it means that youâre here and not there.
The chair scrapes softly as he pulls it out for you. His hand never leaves you, steady at your waist as you lower yourself. The gesture is courtly, attentive, exactly the kind of thing that made your friends sigh when they met him. He pushes the chair in gently until the table presses lightly against your ribs. He bends, kisses the side of your head, a tender little brush of lips just above your ear. âComfortable?â he murmurs. âPerfect,â you answer, letting your fingers brush his wrist as he straightens. You pretend not to feel the faint tension in the tendons beneath your touch. He returns to his seat, the circle complete. For a moment, nobody says anything.
The silence stretches, thin and taut, and you can almost see it running from person to person, connecting you all in an invisible web. Wonwoo is the one who breaks it. He tips his head to the side, gaze running over you with a slow, clinical appreciation that makes the skin at the back of your neck prickle. Then he smiles, that small, unbothered curve of his lips that used to make you feel like you were the only person in the room. âLong time no see,â he says lightly, voice smooth as glass. âYou look⊠settled.â
You meet his eyes and hold them, your own smile bland. âLife happens,â you reply. âYou look the same.â His eyes glint. âDo I?â
Mingyu chuckles under his breath, low and amused. He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, clasping his large hands together. âNo hello for me?â he asks, grin widening. âIâm hurt.â You allow yourself a small laugh, though it feels strange in your throat. âHello, Mingyu.â You tilt your head, as if youâre just meeting an old friend by accident. âI didnât know you two knew each other.â You say it lightly, even as your mind catalogues the glances, the invisible threads between them.
âWe run in similar circles,â Mingyu answers, shrugging one shoulder. âThe world is smaller than you think.â Too small, you think.
Across the table, Minghao shifts as if heâs been caught in a spotlight. He straightens his already straight posture, eyes dropping briefly to the tablecloth before he lifts them to you again. Thereâs something vulnerable there, quickly concealed. âItâs nice to see you,â he says, softer than the other two. âYou look well.â
âYou too,â you reply, and you mean it more than youâd like to. Thereâs a piece of you that remembers Berlin nights and quiet mornings, the way he used to watch you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your soul.
Seungcheolâs gaze moves from face to face, taking in each interaction with quiet attention. He doesnât interrupt. He doesnât rush to explain. He simply watches, as if this is exactly what he expected to happen.
You pick up the napkin folded in front of you and spread it over your lap, more for the distraction than anything else. The linen is crisp beneath your fingers. The table is set perfectly: three sets of cutlery on each side, three different glasses, a small votive candle flickering in the centre. There are no menus.
You open your mouthâto ask, to joke, to say something that might tug this evening back toward the usualâbut the door opens again. A different waiter steps in, older and steadier than the first. He carries a large, curved tray balanced on one hand, the other pressed lightly along its bottom for support. He moves around the table with quiet efficiency, setting down small, black ceramic plates in front of each of you. On each plate rests a shallow bed of black sea salt, sparkling under the light like volcanic sand. At its centre, a single translucent scallop is curled upon itself, glossy and pale, kissed with citrus, topped with a whisper of herbs and something that looks like the finest threads of chilli. It is beautiful and almost absurdly small. âCitrus-cured scallop on black sea salt,â the waiter recites. His voice is calm, professional. âTo wake the palate.â
He finishes, bows slightly, and retreats with his tray, leaving all of you staring down at the tiny, perfect bites in front of you. Seungcheol reaches for his fork, breaking the silence with the simple clink of silver on ceramic. âI thought weâd do the tasting menu tonight,â he says casually, loading the words with an ease that doesnât quite reach his eyes. âSomething special.â
Your gaze drifts from the scallop to him. âFifteen courses is a lot for a weeknight,â you tease gently, falling into the old rhythm because you donât know what else to do. âTrying to spoil me, amour?â
He smiles, and this time the warmth looks real. âAlways.â His gaze holds yours a moment longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering between you, and then he looks back down at his plate. âBesides, itâs not every day I get all the important people in your life in one place.â
The words are light. The implication is anything but. Your grip on the fork tightens. Mingyu huffs a little laugh. âIs that what we are?â he asks, sounding entertained. âImportant?â
âAt the very least,â Wonwoo drawls, picking up his own fork, âmemorable.â
Minghao says nothing, but his throat works as he swallows. You look at Seungcheol, searching his face for somethingâreassurance, explanation, a hint that this is a joke, a prank, some elaborate surprise you havenât pieced together yet. He simply waits, fork poised, watching you.
You force your hand to unclench and lift the scallop, bringing the tiny bite to your mouth. The citrus hits first, bright and sharp, followed by the delicate sweetness of the mollusc and the brine of the salt. It is perfect. It is exquisite. Around the table, the others take their bites as well. The clink of cutlery against plates is almost synchronised. You swallow, the taste lingering on your tongue. âSo,â you say, setting your fork down just so, letting your gaze circle the table as if you are perfectly, absolutely at ease. âWhatâs the occasion?â A beat of silence. Mingyu glances at Seungcheol. Minghao looks down. Wonwoo smiles.
Seungcheol dabs his mouth gently with his napkin, then lays it back across his lap with meticulous care. When he lifts his head, his eyes are calm, his expression tender and proud, the way it looks when he tells people about the wedding. âI just wanted to have dinner,â he says softly. âWith the woman I love.â The words slide over you, familiar and sincere enough to make your chest ache. He doesnât answer your question.
Whatever this is, the first bite has been taken. Tiny, precise, unforgettable.
First Bread Service: Warm rye roll with smoked butter.
The bread arrives.
A small procession of waiters slips into the room, moving in a quiet choreography that almost distracts you from the tangle of eyes around the table. Each of you receives a small wooden board, the grain dark and glossy with oil. On it sits a single warm rye roll, crust matte and dusted with flour, steam still rising from the split along the top. Beside it, in a shallow stone dish, a curl of smoked mushroom butter waits, pale and soft, flecked with something dark. It is simple, humble. Comfort disguised as luxury.
You curl your fingers around the little bread knife, grateful for something to do with your hands, and feel the warmth of the roll as you cut it open. The crackle of the crust is somehow too loud in the room, the sound sharply amplified in the spaces where conversation should be. No one speaks until the last board is laid down and the last waiter disappears.
Then Seungcheol clears his throat softly, as if the silence has finally reached a point even he canât tolerate. His eyes find yours immediately, anchoring to you, and stay there. âYouâre happy we picked this place tonight, right?â he asks. The question is casual, but he says it like the answer matters more than anything else. âI know you like the bread here almost more than the actual food.â
You let out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh. âI do not,â you protest lightly, tearing off a piece of rye. âI just appreciate their priorities.â You dip the bread into the butter, watch it melt at the edges. âThey know whatâs important.â His mouth curves. âCarbs?â
âExactly.â Seungcheol doesnât look away when he speaks; he never does. Every word he directs at you is delivered like a promise. âAs long as youâre happy, sweetheart.â He says it lightly, but the intensity in his gaze contradicts the ease in his voice. It feels like heâs memorising you, taking inventory of every micro-expression, every twitch of your mouth. You smile back, because you love him, because thatâs the truest thing in this room. âI am,â you say. âYouâre here. I have bread. What else do I need?â
âIâll pretend not to be offended you listed the bread first,â he jokes.
Across the table, Mingyu snorts quietly. âSheâs always been like that,â he says, rolling his own rye between his palms before ripping it open. âFood first, everything else second.â He dips his bread and takes a bite, talking around it. âI once took her to a place inââ
He stops himself a fraction of a second before the city leaves his tongue, but you see it in his eyes anyway: bright neon splashes against wet cobblestones, the heavy Cuban air pressing against your skin, his laughter drowned in music as he leaned over you at the bar, rum still on his breath. You see the way his hand once slid under your dress in a dark alley smelling of salt and gasoline. He swallows, the moment smoothing over. ââin the middle of nowhere,â he finishes, grin easy. âShe spent the whole night talking about the grilled fish and not about how good I looked in my shirt.â You lift a brow, playing your part without missing a beat. âYou were very proud of that shirt,â you say dryly, tasting the memory and the butter at once. âIt was hard to compete.â Mingyu laughs, loud and good-natured. To anyone else, youâre fairly sure they would read nothing in it but affection.
âWhat do you do, Mingyu?â Seungcheol asks then, turning toward him but not breaking eye contact with you. The question is framed as curiosity, but itâs also the kind of thing a gracious host says to a stranger at his table. Mingyu wipes his fingers on his napkin, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, slipping easily into a version of himself designed for polite company. âIâm a photographer,â he replies. âFreelance, mostly. Travel, documentary, some fashion work when I get bullied into it.â His eyes flick to you for a heartbeat, just enough to let you know he remembers the photos he took of you on that rooftop in Havana, sweat beading at your hairline under the heat. âWorkâs scattered, but it keeps me on planes.â
Planes, hotels, border crossings, new identities, your mind adds automatically, supplying layers the others canât see. Seungcheol nods, reaching for his wine glass. âThat sounds⊠free,â he says. âA little chaotic, maybe, but free.â
âChaotic is one word for it,â Mingyu offers, flashing his teeth. âBut yeah. I like not being tied down.â He picks up his bread again, letting the words hang, the double meaning dangling between the four of you. You take a sip of your own wine to wash down the sudden dryness in your mouth.
âAnd you?â Mingyu adds, tipping his chin toward Seungcheol. âI know what she does, but I realise I know almost nothing about you beyond what Iâve seen on her social media.â His grin turns teasing. âLots of shoulders. Not a lot of context.â
âHeâs good at it,â you add, letting your hand slide under the table to rest on your knee. âHe has an eye for problems before they happen.â
Seungcheolâs hand liftsâbrief, subtleâand he taps his fingertips once against the tabletop, right beside his glass. A small gesture. Possessive in a way that could only be correctly interpreted by you. A reminder: Iâm here. Iâm watching.
Wonwooâs voice cuts lazily through your thoughts. âThat must be how he ended up with you,â he remarks, tearing his roll into precise halves. His tone is light, the kind that could be interpreted as a joke at any normal dinner party. âGood risk assessment.â
You turn your head slightly toward him. His gaze is inscrutable behind the lenses of his glasses, but the corner of his mouth lifts in the way you know means heâs entertaining himself. âOr terrible,â you counter, ignoring the way your chest tightens with the flood his voice brings back: a dark room, the shape of his silhouette in a doorway, his hand closing around your throat as he whispered in your ear, the way your body had responded even when youâd known you shouldnât. âYou tell me, amour.â
Across from you, Minghaoâs lips twitch, like heâs suppressing a smile at the familiar back-and-forth.
âAnd you, Wonwoo?â Seungcheol asks. He angles his head a fraction, eyes still fixed on you as though heâs watching the way your mouth stiffens ever so slightly at the name. Wonwoo shrugs. âIâm in consulting,â he says. âI help companies restructure.â He spreads his hands as if to say What can you do? âMostly strategy. Numbers, projections, that kind of thing.â
Itâs close enough to the truth to sound innocent. You can almost see the spreadsheets and PowerPoint decks he could produce if pressed. Behind your eyes, though, you see another kind of restructuring entirely: blueprints spread out under low light, the outline of support beams, a finger tracing the path of a detonator wire, his low murmur in your ear as he talked you through radius and timing like some twisted bedtime story.
âHeâs very good with numbers,â you say, careful to keep your voice steady. You place your hand back on the table and reach for your glass. âAlways planning three steps ahead.â Wonwooâs gaze sharpens for a moment, as if surprised youâve granted him the compliment. Then it softens. âYou remember,â he murmurs.
I remember everything, you think, and take a long sip of wine instead of answering. Minghao clears his throat gently, drawing some of the attention away from the two of you. âYouâre still at the hospital?â he asks you, tone gentle. âYou were doing insane hours last time we talked.â
This, at least, is a safer topic. The life youâve built is real, even if it is layered over something you donât let anyone see. You nod, swallowing. âYes,â you say. âI cut back a little after the engagement, but I like it there. It keeps me busy.â Your lips curve wryly. âHelps me sleep at night.â
Minghaoâs eyes soften. âStill in the emergency department?â
You nod again, and for a brief moment, your mind shuffles away from this table and toward fluorescent lights and blood, the hum of monitors, the way the world narrows down to a pulse under your fingers and the rhythm of compressions. Youâve always been good in chaos. That thought makes you strangely aware of the quiet here.
âMinghao is in art restoration,â you add, offering his cover for him almost without thinking. âHe could repair the Sistine Chapel ceiling if you asked nicely enough.â You glance at him, and his cheeks flush just slightly at the exaggeration. âOr at least thatâs what he told me once.â He huffs a little laugh, ducking his head. âIt was one fresco,â he protests softly. âAnd it was in Berlin.â
The city slides through the air, and suddenly your chest feels tight again. Berlin. Snow flurries caught in the halo of streetlights, the sharp bite of winter air on your face, the glow of a gallery opening behind fogged-up glass. Minghao, in a black wool coat, scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, his hands cupping your jaw just before he kissed you in the shadow of the museum, all gentle warmth and quiet intensity. The way his fingers trembled the first time he traced the curve of your spine under your shirt.
You blink, returning to the present, to his careful, contained body at this table.
Seungcheol lifts his brows, interest genuine. âArt restoration sounds precise,â he remarks. âA lot of responsibility, huh? One wrong move and youâve ruined years of history.â Minghao nods, eyes flickering away. âYou learn to have a steady hand,â he says softly. âAnd to take your time.â He glances at you, just briefly. âRushing gets people hurt.â
Thereâs a weight to the words that only the two of you seem to feel. You look down at your plate, at the crumbs of rye scattered across the board. Your fingers smooth one small fragment of bread into the butter, more for something to do than because youâre hungry.
âSo you travel a lot then,â Seungcheol says, shifting his focus back to Mingyu. His tone stays light. His eyes stay on you. âFor work.â
Mingyu nods, pinching another piece of bread between his fingers. âYeah,â he says. âIâm out of the country more often than Iâm in it.â He leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, comfortable and sprawling. âSouth America, Europe⊠wherever the jobs are. I like the heat, though.â His gaze slides over you, heat of a different kind in it. âCuba was a good time.â You shift in your seat, crossing your legs under the table, the fabric of your dress whispering against your skin.
âIâm sure,â Seungcheol replies. His thumb sweeps once over his own wine glass stem, slow and thoughtful. âSheâs always had good stories from when she went on trips.â You wonder how many of those stories you actually told him, and how many heâs filled in on his own.
âAnd you?â Mingyu asks in turn, looking between the two of you. âYou travel much? For work, or justâŠâ He makes a little circling gesture with his fingers. âFor fun?â
âWe try to take a trip when we can,â he says. âWork gets busy, but we went to Jeju last year. And Iâm stealing her away for a few weeks after the wedding.â His mouth tilts. âEven if she complains about leaving her patients behind.â You feel your cheeks warm, part from the attention, part from the way his words wrap you both in a bubble of shared future. âSomeone has to make sure you donât work through the honeymoon,â you counter, amused. âYouâll be checking your email between courses.â
âNot with you there,â he says simply, and thereâs such naked sincerity in his eyes that for a second, everything else around the table fades.
The love he has for you is not a performance. You know that with the same bone-deep certainty with which you know how to spot a lie. It radiates off him in waves, visible even in the way he sits slightly angled toward you, in the way his hand rests on the edge of the table as if heâs resisting the urge to reach for you, in the way his gaze softens every time it lands on your face. The others feel it too; you can see it in the way their expressions shift.
Minghaoâs shoulders droop, a kind of resigned acceptance smoothing over his features. Mingyuâs grin dims at the edges, something like nostalgia flickering in his eyes. Wonwoo watches, expression unreadable, fingers idly rolling a crumb between thumb and forefinger until it disintegrates. âSo,â Wonwoo says eventually, tone mild. âThe wedding. Big event?â You make yourself breathe evenly, reaching for your water. âNot too big,â you answer. âFamily, close friends.â You gesture vaguely around the table. âPeople who matter.â
Itâs dangerous, including them in that category, even hypothetically, but the words slip out before you can stop them. Once, they did matter. In different ways, for different lengths of time. They still matter now, just not in ways youâve fully named.
âSheâs doing most of the planning,â Seungcheol adds, pride evident. âIâm just there to nod at the right times and taste cake.â
âYouâre exaggerating,â you say, but your lips twitch. âHeâs actually very opinionated about flowers.â He gives a mock-affronted gasp. âI just said I didnât want something that looked like a funeral.â
Wonwooâs gaze flicks between you, slow and assessing. âI never pictured you as the type to settle down,â he muses. âYou always seemedâŠâ His eyes linger on you for a beat too long, and your skin prickles. âRestless.â
You take a measured sip of water to buy a heartbeat. âPeople change,â you say. âOr they make different choices.â
âDo they?â His tone is light, but the question sinks deep. Minghao shifts in his chair, the movement small but enough to redirect the current. âSometimes they just find the right person,â he says quietly, eyes on the butter dish. âThat can make a difference.â
You look at him and see him as he was, standing in a cramped Berlin kitchen in a T-shirt, barefoot, hair mussed, the morning light catching his profile as he poured coffee into a chipped mug and told you that he didnât care where youâd been, only that youâd come back. You also see the way heâd watched the door the night you didnât.
âHeâs the right person,â you say, flexing your fingers once, letting the light catch on the engagement ring as it rests against the white linen. The diamond throws back a sharp, clean glint. âThat much Iâm sure of.â
Seungcheolâs gaze drops to your hand. His expression shiftsâpride, possession, reliefâso quick you might have imagined it. He may have orchestrated this nightâwhatever it isâfor reasons you donât yet understand, but your devotion to him is not staged.
The bread is mostly gone now. Only crumbs litter the boards, the butter dishes smeared with streaks of what once was. The conversation never quite dips below that safe, polished surface. They talk about work, about flights, about the state of the traffic in the city, about how hard it is to find decent coffee on the road. They ask about your apartment, about whether youâre moving after the wedding, about his parents, your dress, the venue. All the topics people are supposed to discuss when theyâre playing at being grown-ups with stable lives.
You have built a life on reading rooms faster than anyone else, on becoming whatever the situation demanded of youâlover, confidante, stranger, threat. You know how to smile through the tightening of your gut, how to let your eyes glow with warmth even when your heart is pounding against your ribs like itâs trying to escape. So you let your shoulders relax, let your laughter come easier, let your thumb stroke slow circles against your knee. If this is a play, you will not be the first one to break character.
Across the table, Wonwoo lifts his wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid thoughtfully. âTo new beginnings,â he says, raising it slightly. His eyes are on you, but his words are shared with the whole table. âAnd to old acquaintances.â Mingyu smirks and lifts his own glass. Minghao hesitates, then follows. Seungcheolâs gaze returns to your face as he reaches for his wine. There is something unreadable in it now, a shadow beneath the love.
âTo us,â he murmurs, almost too softly for the others to hear, and you feel the weight of the words settle over your skin. âTo everything that brought us here.â You touch your glass to his, the faint chime of crystal ringing in the stillness like the smallest of bells. You drink.
The warm rye sits heavy and comforting in your stomach, a mundane anchor in a night that feels anything but. The smoked mushroom lingers at the back of your tongue, woody and rich, reminding you that not everything sharp has to taste of metal.
On the surface, nothing is wrong. Underneath, something has already begun.
It simply appears, as if it has been waiting in the wings for the exact moment the room grows quiet enough. A waiter steps in, expression composed, and places a plate before you.
White porcelain this timeâcool, matte, almost stark beneath the warm light. Thin slices of pear are pressed into a translucent fan, their edges gleaming faintly like cut glass. At the centre sits a pale quenelle of goat cheese mousse, soft and airy, crowned with a dusting of fennel pollen so fine it looks like gold caught mid-fall. Clean. Delicate. Deceptively harmless. You know better.
Seungcheol waits until the server is gone before he speaks again. He does not reach for his fork immediately. Instead, he leans back in his chair just enough to look relaxed, his forearms resting loosely against the tableâs edge. His eyes stay on you.
âThis is one of your favourites,â he says lightly. âYou always like the balance. Sweet and sharp.â You manage a smile, though it feels a touch stiff around the edges. âI do,â you reply. âItâs⊠nice.â He tilts his head, the smallest shift. âNice,â he echoes, amused. âThatâs not the word you usually use.â
Thereâs something almost tender in the observation, like he knows your habits so well he can tell when youâre lying by omission. Like he is still, in some part of himself, the man who remembers how you take your coffee and which songs you skip on your playlist. But his eyes remain unblinking.
Across the table, Mingyu breaks the tension by reaching for his fork first. He spears a slice of pear with exaggerated ease. He chews slowly, pointedly, like heâs trying to prove he can enjoy himself under a spotlight. Wonwoo watches him as if heâs studying a specimen. Minghao lifts his fork more slowly, gaze lowered to the plate, his movements careful, restrained. You pick up your own fork because doing nothing feels like surrender. The pear gives under the tines, crisp but yielding. You bring it to your mouth, taste the clean sweetness and the faint bite of fennel.
And then Seungcheol shifts the entire conversation with a single word. âCuba,â he says. Casual, like the word has simply wandered into his mouth. âYou mentioned it earlier?â Mingyu looks up, startled for just a fraction of a second. Then his grin slides back into place, bright and cocky, a smile built for cameras and strangers. âYeah,â he says. âGood weather. Cheap rum. Bad decisions.â Seungcheol hums softly, thoughtful. âSounds memorable.â
âIt was,â Mingyu agrees easily, glancing at you. âShe was there for work. I was there for⊠inspiration.â  Your grip on your fork tightens enough that your knuckles pale. The words are harmless. The way he says them isnât.
You swallow, your mind scrambling for the right line, the polite interruption, the laugh that will turn this into nothing. You donât get the chance. Seungcheol rests his napkin on his knee with meticulous care, then lays one hand on the table. His fingers spread slightly, possessing space. âHow long?â he asks. Mingyu blinks. âWhat?â
It doesnât fall. You catch itâbarelyâbefore it clatters against the plate, but the sound it makes is sharp enough to feel like a gunshot in the silence. Heat floods your face so fast itâs dizzying. A flush that starts at your throat and crawls upward, humiliating in its honesty. You stare at Seungcheol as if youâre waiting for him to smile, to wink, to reveal a punchline. He doesnât. Your mouth opens. âSeungcheolââ you start, because surely he doesnât meanâ
He doesnât even glance at you. He keeps his eyes on Mingyu like you arenât speaking. The dismissal is so subtle it almost makes it worse. Mingyuâs grin disappears for the first time. His gaze flickers toward you. Something passes through it that you canât name. Surprise, maybe. Or regret. Or the quick mental math of someone deciding whether to fight or retreat. He chooses to fight.
He lets the grin return, sharper now, meaner around the edges. He leans forward, forearms on the table, hands loosely clasped. âYouâre asking like you donât know,â he says. Seungcheolâs mouth curves slightly, a nearly-there smile that doesnât touch his eyes. âIâm asking because I want to hear you say it.â
The man who kisses your forehead when you fall asleep on the couch. The man whose hands have always been gentle with you. The man whose love has been the one thing you have trusted without checking beneath it. And he is asking another manâyour pastâhow long he had you. Publicly. Casually. Like itâs nothing.
Minghaoâs fork is paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes are lifted, startled. Wonwooâs lips are parted in the faintest hint of a smile, as if heâs been waiting for the evening to show its true teeth. Mingyu exhales a laugh. âFine,â he says. âYou want a number?â Seungcheolâs voice is temperate. âI do.â Mingyuâs gaze locks onto Seungcheol, challenge sparking. âA few months,â he says. âOn and off.â
Your stomach drops. Because the number isnât the point. The point is that it is being spoken at all. Seungcheol nods slowly. âMonths,â he repeats. âIn Cuba?â Mingyu lifts his brows. âAmong other places.â Seungcheolâs eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. âWhere.â It isnât phrased as a question.
Mingyu smiles wider, teeth showing. âHotels,â he says, shrugging. âA rented apartment once. A rooftop. A car, if you want to get technical.â Your skin prickles.
Your mind betrays you with a flash you didnât ask for: heat clinging to your skin, the city sprawled below in a glittering mess of lights, Mingyuâs hands gripping your hips as he bent you over a low concrete ledge. His mouth on your neck, insistent and laughing. The rough scrape of his stubble against your cheek. The way heâd murmured your name like it was something he could claim. You blink hard. The memory does not fade politely. It lingers in the edges of your vision.
Across the table, Seungcheol listens without reacting, face unreadable. You waitâalmost desperatelyâfor something. A flare of jealousy. Anger. A crack. Anything human. He gives nothing. Instead, he asks, âWas it just sex?â Mingyu lets out a low laugh, as if delighted by the question. âWhat else would it be?â Seungcheolâs gaze flicks over Mingyuâs face like heâs scanning for a lie. âI asked you a question.â
Mingyuâs smile shifts, turning sly. He glances at you again, the look hitting. âIt was sex,â he says, slower now, savouring the syllables. âA lot of it. Sometimes it started as soon as she walked in the door.â
Seungcheol still doesnât look at you. He lifts his fork and finally takes a bite of pear, chewing slowly, eyes never leaving Mingyu. Itâs an intimacy of its ownâhow utterly he ignores your presence, how he keeps control of the table without raising his voice. Seungcheol swallows the bite and points the fork toward Mingyu. âPositions,â he says, still calm. âTell me what you did to her.â
Minghao makes a small sound of protest, sharp in his throat. His eyes flick to youâapologetic, outragedâthen back to Seungcheol. âIs this necessary?â he asks, voice tight. âWhat is the point of humiliating her?â
Seungcheol finally glances at Minghao, but the look is brief. Flat. It doesnât invite debate. âIâm not asking you,â he says. Then his eyes return to Mingyu.
Mingyu laughsâactually laughs. âYou sure you want to hear it?â he asks Seungcheol, voice dropping slightly. âBecause I can get very specific.â Seungcheolâs eyes harden. âYes.â
âFine.â Mingyu leans in, voice rich with deliberate provocation. âShe liked being on top. Like she was in control. Sheâd ride me until her thighs shook, then sheâd lean down and suck me off.â Mingyu continues, dragging your memories into the light. âSometimes sheâd have me pin her down, so she couldnât move and had to take it. Sheâd ask me to take her from behind. We did it in front of a mirror onceâher dress hiked up to her hips, my hands around her throat.â  Your breath catches.
Wonwooâs voice slips in, quietlyâso quiet Seungcheol doesnât catch it. âYouâre blushing,â he murmurs, eyes on you. âStill so easy to provoke.â Your fingers curl around your knife, the handle cool against your palm. Do not look at him, you tell yourself. Do not reward him.
Seungcheol takes another bite. He chews, then lifts his glass and takes a measured sip of wine. He sets his fork down neatly beside his plate. âDid you ever tell her no?â he asks. Mingyu pauses. Then he snorts. âNo,â he says. âWhat would be the point?â Seungcheol hums. âSo you wanted her.â Mingyuâs grin turns smug. âObviously.â Seungcheol doesnât react. He simply says, âAnd she wanted you?â
Mingyuâs confidence falters just slightly at that, a crack in the façade so thin you could pretend it isnât there. He glances at you again, as if checking whether youâll save him from this question, whether youâll soften it. You donât. Because you donât know what Seungcheol is doing, and you canât risk stepping wrong. Mingyuâs smile returns, but itâs forced now. âShe wanted me,â he says. âShe kept coming back.â Seungcheol leans forward a fraction. His voice stays quiet. âWho stopped it?â
Mingyuâs mouth opens, then closes. His eyes flick to you again, and for the first time, the bravado in them is gone. âShe did,â he says finally, the words coming out rougher than before. âShe stopped it.â
The room shifts. A small, invisible pivot of gravity. Because you realise Seungcheol isnât looking for the sex. Heâs looking for the ending. He nods once, as if confirming your suspicion. âSo you didnât leave her,â he says. âShe left you.â
Mingyuâs jaw tightens. His pride is wounded. The truth exposed. âShe got bored,â he snaps, but the bitterness in it betrays him. Seungcheolâs voice stays infuriatingly gentle. âDid she?â
Mingyuâs eyes flare. âWhat are you trying to prove?â
Seungcheolâs gaze finally flickersâjust brieflyâto you âNothing,â he says softly. âIâm just listening.â Mingyu laughs without humour. âYeah. Sure.â He drags a hand through his hair, agitation bleeding through his posture despite his best efforts. âFine. You want the ugly truth?â
Seungcheol doesnât answer. He doesnât have to. Mingyuâs throat works again. His eyes drop to the table for a second, then lift, meeting Seungcheolâs head-on. âI wanted her more than she wanted me,â he says, and the admission seems to scrape his pride raw as it leaves his mouth. âHappy?â
Mingyu continues, voice low, no longer performative. âI tried,â he adds. âI tried to keep her. I tried to make it⊠more than it was.â He lets out a harsh exhale. âBut sheâs not the kind of woman you keep. You donât put a leash on her. You donât lock her down. You either run with her or you get left behind.â
At last, Seungcheol shifts his attention away from Mingyu and looks at you fully. The focus is sudden, intense. Like a spotlight turning. You brace instinctively, lifting your chin, meeting his gaze. He doesnât look angry. He doesnât look hurt. He looks thoughtful. âIs that true?â he asks you, voice quiet.
For a second, you canât tell which part he means. That you canât be kept? That you left? That you are restless? That you areâsomething else entirely, something heâs been circling around? You choose the only safe answer. âI donât belong to anyone,â you say evenly. Itâs a truth youâve lived by long before him. You soften it deliberately, because you do belong to him in the ways that matter now, even if youâd never say it like that in front of these men. âBut I chose you, amour.â
Seungcheolâs gaze holds yours, and in it you see the flicker of something like satisfaction. Possessive. Certain. Mingyu lets out a quiet, bitter laugh. âThere it is,â he mutters.
Mingyuâs voice hasnât quite finished echoing when Seungcheol speaks again. âDid you love her?â
Mingyu lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as if Seungcheol has finally crossed into absurdity. âLove?â he scoffs. âCome on.â Seungcheol doesnât move.
Mingyu looks at himâreally looks at himâand for a long moment the two of them hold each otherâs gaze. Itâs a silent standoff, all pride and certainty and unspoken threat, and for a moment, you can almost believe Mingyu will keep his swagger intact out of sheer stubbornness. Then something shifts. In Seungcheol.
Itâs subtleâso subtle you wouldnât have caught it if you werenât watching tooâbut his eyes sharpen. Like he already knows the answer and is only waiting for Mingyu to admit heâs been seen through. Mingyuâs throat bobs. His jaw tightens. The bravado drains out of him completely in one slow exhale, leaving nothing but the truth he canât dress up fast enough.
When he speaks, thereâs no pretence left to hide behind. âI did,â he says quietly. Your heart dips.
Not because of any lingering feelingsâbut because you understand what it costs him to say that. To admit it at all. To admit it here. Under pressure. Under the eyes of the man who did what Mingyu couldnât: keep you, claim you, build a future with you. It is not romantic. Itâs not sweet. Itâs raw. And something about it makes your chest ache in a way you donât expect.
Seungcheol doesnât gloat. He doesnât soften. He simply holds the moment in place like a pin through a butterfly wing, preserving it. Then he nods once. âThank you,â he says softly.
And somehow that kindness feels worse than any anger would haveâbecause it makes Mingyuâs admission sound like evidence, not an exposed wound. Your gaze flicks to Seungcheol, and for the first time tonight, the sight of him doesnât settle you the way it always has. The man you love is still sitting there, still composed, still beautiful in that maddening wayâbut thereâs a new shape to him now, a sharper outline you didnât know existed.
Seungcheol turns his head toward him, slow, almost bored. âWeâre having dinner,â he replies evenly. âConversation happens.â
âSheâs embarrassed,â Minghao says quietly, and the words hit harder than any boast or confession. âCanât you see that?â
Minghao cuts himself off, lips pressing together as if heâs said too much already. He looks down at his plate, breath uneven, shame flickering across his features. And Seungcheolâ
Seungcheol watches Minghao. Then his eyes return to you. âIs that how it feels?â he asks softly. You force a breath through your nose and let a faint, controlled laugh escape, smoothing your expression. âItâs fine,â you say lightly. âWeâre all adults. Minghao just⊠worries too much.â
Minghao doesnât look up. The tension in his shoulders doesnât ease. Seungcheolâs gaze lingers on your face, searchingâfor confirmation of something only he seems to be tracking. When he finally looks away, itâs with the calm decisiveness of a man who has reached a conclusion.
âAmour,â you say, firmer this time. âCanât we justââ
Seungcheol lifts one hand. You stop speaking mid-sentence. The obedience shocks you more than anything else. Your body responding before your mind has time to argue. Seungcheol lowers his hand and turns back to Mingyu, as if the matter has been settled. âThatâs all,â he says calmly.
Mingyu exhales, tension bleeding through his posture now that the performance has cracked. He leans back, forcing a grin that doesnât quite hold, like a man who has lost something and doesnât yet know what it cost him.
Seungcheolâs eyes dip briefly to your plate, to the dish youâve barely touched.âSweetheart. You love this course.â His voice warms on the endearment. âDonât let it go to waste.â
For a second, the absurdity of his mood swings nearly makes you laugh. But you understand what heâs doing. He is giving you something to do. Something small and normal. A way to swallow down the moment without splintering. Or maybeâanother way to control you. You take another bite because the alternative is to sit there with an empty mouth and a full expression, and you refuse to give them that.
Minghao opens his mouth, hesitation written plainly across his features, the protest forming before he can stop it.
Seungcheol doesnât even turn his head fully. His gaze driftsânot to Minghaoâs face, but to the space in front of him, dismissive by omission. âYouâll have your turn, Minghao,â he says. âBe patient.â
It stops Minghao mid-word. Whatever he hears in Seungcheolâs words drains the fight out of him. His shoulders sink a fraction. His mouth closes. He nods once, small and defeated, gaze dropping to his own plate.
You finish the dish, set your utensils down, and smooth your expression.
Whatever this is, it isnât chaos. Itâs a plan. And the man you love is guiding itâcourse by courseâwhile you sit here doing the only thing you can think to do. You eat.
Hot Starter: Charred octopus with smoked paprika oil.
The clearing of the course feels like a reset.
Hands enter the room and remove evidence: the porcelain, the softened pear, the faint smear of goat cheese mousse where forks have dragged through it. A waiter lifts your plate as if it weighs nothing. Silverware is adjusted. Wine is topped up. The candle in the centre is steadied with a practised touch. It is all so normal that it makes the wrongness sharper.
You watch the staff move with attentiveness, like youâre studying the mechanics of an illusion. You catch the faint tremor in the younger waiterâs wrist when he reaches toward Minghao. You notice the way he pauses before collecting the plate, as if asking permission without words.
Minghao barely seems to register any of it.
He has grown quieter with every passing minute. His gaze stays down. His shoulders are set too tightly. His hands have remained folded in his lap as if heâs afraid to let them touch the table again. It isnât shame alone. Itâs something more unsettled than thatâsomething like panic trying to wear a calm face.
The last server steps back, murmurs a final courtesy, and disappears through the door. The click of it closing behind him is gentle, almost tender. That softness is exactly what makes Minghao move.
The moment the room is fully yours againâno witnesses, no staff, no polite bufferâhis chair shifts back with a soft scrape. He rises like he canât breathe seated.
Minghaoâs throat works once, twice. When he speaks, his voice is carefully controlled, but the control sounds borrowed. âIâm going to step out,â he says. He nods, a polite gesture that doesnât match the tension in his jaw. âI need some air. Iâm sorry.â
You glance at Seungcheol out of instinct, seeking the familiar reflex: a softening, a de-escalation, the gentle social grace he wears so naturally. He doesnât offer it. He remains seated, hands resting near the edge of the table.
Minghao steps around his chair. He keeps his hands visible, open. He moves with that careful deliberation of someone trying not to trigger something they canât fully understand. He passes behind Mingyuâs chair and angles toward the door. His gaze flickers to youâquick, pained, apologeticâbefore he looks away again, as if he canât risk lingering. Minghaoâs fingertips brush the door handle. Seungcheol moves then.
The shift is so composed itâs almost like the motion has been practised enough to be effortless. His hand disappears into his suit jacket, and you register the glide of fabric and the precise angle of his elbow before your mind catches up to what heâs reaching for. When his hand reappears, it holds a gun.
The weapon looks wrong in this room. Matte-black, compact, solid. The kind of thing that belongs in shadows, not on linen and under chandeliers. He lifts it without flourish and aims it at Minghaoâs back. The world compresses.
Your lungs forget what theyâre supposed to do. Your fingers go cold where they rest in your lap. The candle flame seems suddenly too bright, too fragile, trembling in the centre like it knows. Seungcheolâs voice is steady, almost quiet. âCome back.â It is not a request.
Minghao doesnât turn around. His shoulders lift on a tight inhale and remain lifted, caught there. You can see the tremor moving through him in small waves, restrained but undeniable. Your mouth opens with the intention to speakâanything, a name, a question, a demandâbut sound stalls behind your teeth. Seungcheol speaks again, tone unchanged. âSit.â The single syllable is enough.
Minghao swallows. His hand hovers uncertainly over the handle, then he slowly steps back from the door. He returns to his seat the way someone returns to a chair in a courtroom, the sense of inevitability heavy in every step. You track the gun. Seungcheol tracks Minghao. The angle stays steady the entire time.
When Minghao reaches his seat, his fingers fumble against the chair back. He lowers himself as if his legs have gone unreliable, shoulders caving inward the moment he is down, his face drained of colour.
Only then does Seungcheol lower the gun. He doesnât tuck it away. He doesnât hide it. He sets it on the table beside his place setting. A silent statement.
Mingyuâs posture shifts subtlyâinterest sharpening into alertness. Wonwooâs gaze narrows as he studies Seungcheol anew, assessing, recalculating, his expression composed but his attention suddenly focused in a way that makes your skin tighten. You stare at the weapon on the linen, your mind struggling to reconcile it with the man you kissed earlier in greeting, the man who called you by the subtle nickname that makes your chest warm, the man whose hands have always felt safe. This manâs hands look steady around a gun.
The door opens, and a waiter enters, carrying the next course on a tray. The plates he sets down are warm. The aroma rises immediately: smoke, spice, something scorched and rich.
Charred octopus, arranged in elegant curls, edges crisped to a perfect caramelised bite. Smoked paprika oil glows in glossy pools against black porcelain. There are bright accentsâgreens, pickled elements, a wedge of lemonâlittle flashes of colour meant to cut through the heat. The dish looks bold. Confident. Unapologetic.
The waiter speaks the description softly, a rehearsed cadence meant to soothe. He keeps his gaze down, never straying to the gun, never reacting. As he places the last plate, Seungcheol reaches for his napkin.
Not hurried. Not concealed. He lifts the cloth and drapes it over the gun in a neat fold. The weapon disappears under the linen. The waiter bows and exits without a flicker of acknowledgement. You watch the door close.
Seungcheol picks up his fork and tests the octopus. The knife slices clean. He chews thoughtfully. The contrast between the actâeatingâand the realityâholding the room hostageâcreates a nauseating kind of dissonance. You lift your own fork because you need an anchor.
The octopus is tender beneath the char. The paprika oil blooms warm across your tongue. The heat travels down and settles low in your stomach.
Across from you, Minghao does not touch his food. Mingyu takes a bite with performative ease. He doesnât glance at the napkin-covered shape, but you notice the way his attention keeps snagging on it. Wonwoo eats slowly and deliberately, savouring the tension more than the dish. Seungcheol sets his fork down and looks at Minghao. âYou tried to leave,â he says. Minghaoâs throat bobs. âI donât want to be part of this,â he replies, barely above a whisper. He keeps his eyes down. âWhatever this is.â Seungcheol tilts his head slightly, considering. âYou came anyway.â
Mingyu gives a low, restrained chuckle, the sound edged. âThatâs the problem, isnât it?â
Wonwooâs mouth curves with faint amusement, but his eyes remain sharp. âHeâs always been the type to feel too much,â Wonwoo says, and his gaze drifts to you with deliberate ease. âEven when it wasnât wise.â
Your fork pauses over your plate. You lower it again without looking up. Seungcheol doesnât interrupt him. He doesnât redirect. He allows the comment to hang there, smooth and cutting. Why?
Your mind searches for the familiar Seungcheolâprotective, attentive, the man who notices when youâre tired and adjusts the world around you quietly to make it easier. The man across from you tonight is doing something else. He looks at Minghao again. âBerlin.â
Minghaoâs shoulders tighten. When he speaks, the words come out strained. âDonât,â he says. Seungcheolâs brows lift a fraction. âDonât what.â Minghaoâs fingers curl tighter in his lap. âDonât make me say it likeâŠâ He stops, breath catching. ââŠlike itâs entertainment.â
Seungcheol watches him in silence for a long moment. Then he speaks with that same quiet certainty. âTell me how long.â Minghao flinches as if struck.
You want to intervene, but you donât know howânot without making it worse. You canât tell if Seungcheol would listen. You canât tell if your voice matters in this particular kind of room. Minghaoâs lips open, then close again. His jaw tightens. Finally, he forces the words out. âA year,â he says.
The admission falls heavily into the space between you. Seungcheol nods slowly, absorbing it. âAnd what was it?â Minghaoâs head jerks up, confusion sharpening into alarm. âWhat do you mean?â Seungcheolâs tone stays even. âWhat did you think you were to her?â Minghao goes very still.
He swallows, eyes flicking toward you again. Thereâs a pleading edge to it, as if heâs hoping youâll edit it the moment, hoping youâll spare him. You keep your face composed and your gaze on your plate. Not out of crueltyâout of survival.
Seungcheol waits. He doesnât fill the silence. He doesnât push with volume. He simply holds the question in place until it becomes unavoidable. Minghaoâs voice comes out thinly. âI thoughtâŠâ he starts. He stops, breath hitching. Then he tries again, quieter. âI thought it meant something.â
Wonwooâs attention sharpens at that, his expression smoothing into something almost sympathetic. He speaks as if heâs reminiscing fondly, but his words are a slow blade. âYou always wanted meaning,â he murmurs, eyes drifting to you again. âShe never promised you that.â
Minghaoâs shoulders shake once, barely contained. He doesnât look at Wonwoo. He doesnât give him the satisfaction.
Seungcheolâs gaze stays on Minghao, unrelenting. âWas it only sex?â Minghaoâs cheeks flush, the colour faint but unmistakable. His eyes squeeze shut briefly, like the question hurts more than it should. He answers without looking up. âNo,â he says. Seungcheolâs voice remains calm. âThen what?â Minghaoâs hands loosen and tighten in his lap, a small cycle of control.
âIt wasâquiet,â he says. âIt was soft.â He shakes his head, a small, helpless motion. âIt wasnât likeââ He cuts himself off, refusing to say Mingyuâs name, refusing to compare. His eyes flick up at last, meeting Seungcheolâs. Thereâs anger there now, fragile but real. âShe didnât need me to be anything,â Minghao says, voice steadier as the truth gathers. âShe didnât need⊠pretending. She decided everything. She always decided.â
The memory comes without permission: Minghao sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, eyes on you, not moving until you nodded. His hands steadying on your waist as you stood close, your forehead pressed to his collarbone. The way he used to watch you undress with patience that felt like worship. His gentleness that was always deliberate, as if he believed the slightest wrong move would scare you off. You blink the image away. The present is too sharp for softness.
âSometimes,â Minghao continues, âshe would guide my hands between her legs like I didnât know how to touch her. And sheâd look at me likeâlike she was daring me to keep up.â Mingyuâs mouth twitches with a hint of something like contempt, but he doesnât speak.
Minghao continues, and the softness in his voice makes the confession feel too intimate. âSheâd fall asleep,â he admits, almost reluctantly. âOn my chest. And Iâd just stay there because I didnât want to move and wake her.â
Seungcheolâs expression doesnât change. He doesnât react with jealousy. He doesnât lash out. âDid you love her?â The question lands with quiet brutality. Minghaoâs breath catches hard. His eyes close again. When he opens them, the shine there looks like it has always been there, waiting. âYes,â he says. No performance. No bravado. Just truth. Seungcheol nods once, as if expecting that answer. âDid you tell her?â Minghaoâs voice goes almost inaudible. âI did.â
You feel the words in your own body like a familiar bruise. You had heard them then, in that other life, in that other city. You had accepted them the way you accept many things: with a smile, with a touch, with a retreat you disguised as departure. You hadnât expected to hear them again, spoken like this.
Seungcheolâs gaze flicks toward you for the briefest moment. Then he looks back at Minghao. âAnd she didnât stay.â It isnât phrased as a question. Minghaoâs face tightens. He exhales shakily through his nose. âNo,â he says.
Seungcheolâs voice remains even. âSay it.â Minghao looks down, jaw clenched, and the words come out like they cost him. âShe left.â
The room shifts againâanother click, another piece sliding into place.
Across from you, Mingyuâs gaze flickers briefly toward your hands, as if remembering the way you also left him without looking back. Wonwoo watches your face with quiet satisfaction, as if he can see the tightening at the edges, the strain of holding your composure. Wonwoo speaks, still smiling faintly. âYou ran,â he says, as if the idea amuses him. âAs usual.â
You lift your fork and take another bite of octopus. The paprika oil burns pleasantly, a controlled heat you can understand. It does not match the heat coiling under your skin. You donât give Wonwoo a reaction. You refuse to let him pull you into whatever heâs trying to start. But you feel him thereâhis attention like pressure on the side of your face. Seungcheol doesnât stop him. Again.
Minghao finally looks at you fully, and the look is a quiet kind of devastation. No accusation, no demand. Just a simple, aching truth.
âI didnât want you to go,â he says, and his voice is not loud enough to be dramatic. Itâs intimate enough to feel almost private, even with three men listening. You hold his gaze for one heartbeatâjust oneâbecause ignoring it entirely would be a crack, too obvious. Then you look away.
Seungcheolâs voice cuts in, gentle and merciless at once. âAnd yet,â he says, âyou couldnât keep her.â
You shift your focus back to Seungcheol, trying to find your footing.
From the outside, he could be any man presiding over a carefully chosen dinner, attentive and controlled, perfectly at home in the quiet luxury of the room. Nothing in his posture betrays the fact that moments ago his hand was steady around a gun, that danger was introduced and concealed with the same unremarkable grace. He is unmistakably the man you are meant to marry. And at the same time, he is not.
Your thoughts reach automatically for the version of him you know bestâthe warmth he carries so naturally, the way his attention has always felt like shelter, the devotion he offers without bargaining. You think of how he looks at you as if you are not something he acquired, but something he chose, over and over. How loving him has felt grounding, like a weight that keeps you from drifting too far from yourself. That love is still thereâyes. You can sense it, low and constant, like a heartbeat beneath everything.
But it now shares space with something else. Something you canât name yet. Something that makes you realise you have been loving him from one angle only, and tonight you are being forced to see the other side of him.
The napkin over the gun sits perfectly still. It shouldnât feel like a symbol. It does.
On the inside, something has shifted so quietly you almost canât believe it. For the first time, a thought you have never allowed yourself rises and settles in your chest: You donât fully trust the man across from you. Not because you think he doesnât love you. But because love, suddenly, doesnât feel like enough to explain what he is doing.
You look at Seungcheol again. He meets your gazeâbrief, but direct. There is no apology there. There is no softness meant to soothe. There is only certainty, and the faintest suggestion that he is asking you to endure this with him. As if this is a test. As if the night is built to see what breaks first.
You lower your eyes back to your plate and take another bite, letting the heat ground you, letting the rhythm of eating keep you steady.
Outside this room, the restaurant remains silent. The city continues. The world behaves as if this is just another dinner. Inside, the air tightens around the table, and the napkin-covered shape feels like a presence you canât ignore.
And you know, with a cold clarity that settles behind your eyes, that the next course wonât simply be food. It will be another piece taken from the past and placed in front of you. Another truth lifted carefully into the light. Whether youâre ready for it or not.
Fish Course: Sea bass in beurre blanc, shaved truffle.
There is a point where you stop tasting the food.
Not because the dishes arenât exquisiteâthis place never missesâbut because the room begins to demand a different kind of attention, one that makes flavour irrelevant. The heat of paprika still lingers faintly at the back of your tongue from the octopus, yet your mouth feels dry, as if your body has decided it would rather be ready to run than ready to swallow.
Minghao is still too pale. He is trying to pretend he can breathe normally, but every few seconds his chest rises a little too sharply, as if his lungs are remembering the humiliation Seungcheol submitted him to. He touches his water glass but doesnât drink. Mingyu keeps eating, but not with the performative ease from before. His focus is sharp and deliberate now, eyes fixed on his plate as if the act of cutting and lifting a fork requires his full attention. Each bite feels pointed, like heâs refusing to engage, refusing to be pulled back into the humiliation of having been stripped bare earlier.
Wonwoo is the only one who looks truly comfortable. Thatâs what chills you. Not the gun. Not the staff continuing to behave as if this is just another private dinner. Wonwooâs comfort.
He sits with his shoulders loose, gaze steady, utensils moving with unhurried precision. He doesnât look at the napkin-covered gun. He doesnât need to. He understands the language of threat. He has always understood it. He has spoken it more fluently than anyone youâve ever met. And nowânow that the night has dragged secrets into the open, now that fear and indignation cling visibly to youâhe seems almost at ease. Each revelation appears to settle him further into himself, as if the humiliation around the table is nourishment.
Seungcheol sets his glass of wine down with a careful click.
The sound pulls your attention to him before he even speaks. The way he moves tonight has started to feel curated. Like every gesture is chosen. Like he knows exactly how much silence to let the room swallow before he offers another sentence to keep everyone choking at the same pace.
He looks at Wonwoo. âYouâve been quiet,â Seungcheol says. âFor someone who seems to enjoy talking.â Wonwooâs mouth curves, as if he has been invited to speak on a stage. âIâm listening,â he replies.
âYouâve been watching.â
Wonwoo tips his head, acknowledging it without denying it. âIâm always watching.â You feel your shoulders tighten. The words are too casual for what they mean.
Seungcheol shifts, resting one forearm on the edge of the table. Something has changed in his posture: thereâs a sharper line to his attention now, like the edge of a blade turned toward a new target. âTell me about her,â he says.
Wonwooâs gaze slides to you. He doesnât smile widelyâWonwoo never does when he wants to cut. He smiles just enough to show heâs pleased. âWhat would you like to know?â he asks.
Seungcheol doesnât answer immediately. He glances down at his plateânot to eat, but as if heâs deciding where to place the first incision. Then he looks up again. âWhat was the first time you realised you could make her do something she didnât want to do?â
Your stomach drops so hard you feel it in your teeth. Minghaoâs head lifts sharply. Mingyuâs glass pauses mid-air. Even he goes still at the phrasing, as if he recognises the shift from humiliating nostalgia to something darker. Wonwooâs eyes glint behind his glasses. For a beat, he looks almost thoughtful. Then he lets out a quiet laugh. âThatâs a strange question,â he says. Seungcheolâs voice stays even. âAnswer it.â
âShe always wanted control,â Wonwoo begins. Gentle. Like heâs about to tell a charming story about a woman he knew once, in a distant past. âShe didnât like being told what to do. Not by anyone.â A tiny pause. âThat was the appeal,â he adds.
You force your breathing to remain quiet. You refuse to let your body expose you. That is a rule youâve lived by too long to break now. Not for him. Seungcheol doesnât interrupt. Wonwoo continues, voice measured, almost reluctantâperforming restraint like itâs virtue.
âWe had an argument once,â he says. âEarly. She was⊠younger. Hot-headed. She said something she shouldnât have.â
Your throat constricts. You remember an argument early. You remember the room. The lighting. The way the air had felt too thin.
Wonwooâs memory is never the same as yours. His stories always sound cleaner when he tells them, like he is smoothing the rough edges so the listener hears romance instead of warning. âShe tried to walk away,â Wonwoo says, and the corner of his mouth lifts. âI stopped her.â
Seungcheolâs expression remains unreadable. âHow.â Wonwoo shrugs as if the answer is obvious. âI put my hand on her.â
The words are simple. Affectionate.
Your mind flashes to the truth with a violence that makes your vision blur. You remember the shock of your back hitting the wall, the impact sharp enough to knock the breath out of you. You remember how quickly his palm found your throat, not a touch but placementâclaimâand how the pressure arrived with frightening precision the harder he squeezed, as if heâd done it a hundred times in his head before he ever did it to you. The room had narrowed instantly, the air thinning, your own heartbeat turning loud and panicked in your ears.
âShe likes to pretend she isnât afraid,â Wonwoo continues. âEven when she is.â
Mingyu shifts in his chair, uncomfortable in a way he hasnât been yet. Minghaoâs face tightens, his eyes dropping to the tablecloth as if he canât bear the shape of this new conversation. Seungcheolâs gaze narrows slightly. âWas she afraid?â Wonwooâs smirk deepens. âShe was angry,â he says. âWhich is worse. Anger makes her reckless.â
Your fingers tighten around your knife. For a flicker of a second, the weight in your hand becomes something else entirelyâan image too fast, too sharp to fully form, just the suggestion of motion, of red against linen, of how easily a wrist could turn. Then you force it back, drag yourself under control, easing your grip until your knuckles fade from white to pink.
Wonwoo glances at you, slow and deliberate, like heâs checking whether his words are landing. Then he looks back at Seungcheol. âI told her to calm down,â he says. âShe didnât.â
The truth rises under his words like a second voice. You remember his face close to yours, his eyes bright with satisfaction, and the way his voice had sounded almost amused, as if your panic was proof that heâd found the right lever to pull. You remember your hands flying up instinctively, nails scraping at his wrist, the humiliation of that helpless reflexâyour body trying to fight while your mind screamed not to. Then your muscles began to fail, not from surrender, but from need; you stopped because your lungs demanded air, because your body chose survival over pride. In Wonwooâs retelling, it becomes something else.
âIt wasnât meant to hurt her,â he says mildly. âIt was meant to remind her she wasnât alone in the room.â Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts.
Seungcheolâs gaze is fixed on Wonwoo, intent and coldly curious. He doesnât look at you. Not even to check if youâre okay. Not even to soften the blow. You hate that the absence of his attention stings almost more than Wonwooâs words. Wonwoo continues, enjoying himself. âShe stopped fighting after a moment,â he says. âShe realised it was pointless.â
Your memory screams back: you didnât stop because it was pointless. You stopped because you blacked out. Seungcheolâs voice cuts through, calm and sharp. âWhat did you say to her?â
Wonwooâs eyes flicker. He takes his time, as if savouring the line before delivering it. âI told her,â he says, âthat if she wanted to stay near me, she needed to learn obedience.â  Your pulse pounds in your ears. The wordâobedienceâlands like a hand on your throat all over again.
Seungcheol leans back slightly. When he speaks, his voice is still measured, still controlled, but the carefully curated warmth that once softened his words has thinned. âAnd did she learn?â
Wonwooâs smirk turns almost triumphant. âShe learned what I wanted her to learn,â he says. âShe was talented. She just needed direction.â Your stomach tightens at the phrasing, because you know that voice. You know that type of ownership dressed up as praise.
âIâm your proudest creation,â you say before you can stop yourself. The words slip out, quiet but edged. For the first time in minutes, Seungcheol looks at youâbriefly. The glance is quick. It doesnât feel like comfort. It feels like measurement. Wonwooâs eyes brighten with delight, because he has succeeded in pulling your voice into the conversation. âIs that what you think?â he asks you softly.
You donât answer. Your fingers release the knife handle and rest flat on your lap to hide the sudden tremor taking hold of your extremities. Seungcheol doesnât linger on your interruption. He turns back to Wonwoo as if you are a detail, not the centre of this. âThatâs one,â he says quietly. âNow tell me the other.â Wonwoo raises his brows. âThe other?â
Seungcheolâs expression remains calm. âThe one she wonât talk about.â
Wonwooâs gaze slides to you again, and there is a sudden, sickening pleasure in the way he looks at you, as if heâs been waiting for someone else to ask him to tell this story. âThere are many,â he says. Seungcheol doesnât push. âPick the one that made her leave.â
Your lungs catch. Mingyuâs posture tightens. Minghao looks up, eyes wide, as if he wants to stop this but knows he canât. Wonwooâs smirk deepens. âAh,â he murmurs, as if he understands. âThat one.â
You shake your head once, very small, almost imperceptible. A warning. A plea. A refusal. Wonwoo ignores it. He always ignored it. âWe were travelling,â he begins. âWork was⊠busy. We needed privacy.â
Your stomach turns. Privacy. Thatâs what he called it when he isolated you. Wonwooâs fingers tap idly against the tablecloth. âShe was restless,â he says, and the words are sweet on his tongue. âShe kept testing me. Trying to see where the line was.â
Another memory comes up like a tide you canât hold back. A room you didnât choose. Windows covered. A door that locked with a sound too final. Your phone taken from your hand as if it was nothing, as if your connection to the outside world was a privilege he could revoke. His voice had been calm when he told you there would be no distractions, no interruptions, no escape.
Wonwooâs voice breaks through the images. âShe was stressed,â he says. âI wanted to help her settle.â  his gaze is unreadable. âSo I gave her boundaries,â Wonwoo adds. âA place to breathe.â
Your vision blurs at the edges. A place to breathe. It is almost funny, the lie of it, except your body remembers the exact opposite. You taste bile at the back of your throat, faint and sour. Wonwoo tilts his head as he shrugs. âShe didnât like it at first,â he says. âShe fought.â
You remember fighting. You remember the sound your nails made against metalâsharp, useless. You remember the moment your fingers slid along the bars and found nothing that could open. No latch. No mercy. The realisation had been immediate and humiliating: this wasnât a game; this was him deciding what you were allowed to be. Your fingers twitch once in your lap. Seungcheolâs voice is quiet. âSay it.â
âA cage,â Wonwoo says.
The word doesnât belong in a restaurant. It doesnât belong under a chandelier. It doesnât belong next to truffle and beurre blanc. But it lands anyway. Wonwoo continues. âIt wasnât cruel,â he says. âIt was structured. Safe.â
Safe, in his mouth, had always meant: I decide what happens to you. You remember the cage being smaller than it had any right to be, designed to keep you compact, folded inward, diminished. You remember the cold of the metal under your palms and the way the bars stole warmth from your skin. You remember a chain you hadnât noticed at first because he had wrapped it in something soft, as if that softness could disguise the fact that you were tethered. You remember the humiliation of realising the setup was meant to make you beg, meant to wear you down until you offered him the right words. You remember his footsteps circling you, unhurried, the sound of them the only constant, as if he enjoyed the way your world had been reduced to bars and his shadow.
You remember panic as a physical thing, clawing up your throat, tightening your chestânot because there was no oxygen, but because confinement makes your body think it is dying even when it isnât. You remember how still you were forced to become, how your own breathing sounded too loud in your ears, fragile and betraying.
Wonwooâs voice keeps flowing, smooth as oil. âShe needed to learn stillness,â he says. âShe was always running. Always slipping away the moment things got real.â
You canât hide the tremor anymore. It moves through you in small, involuntary waves. You try to pin it down by focusing on the plate in front of you, on the clean white porcelain, on the golden sheen of butter sauce. Your eyes keep catching on the napkin-covered shape at Seungcheolâs place setting.
âI didnât lock her there for long,â Wonwoo recounts. âJust enough to prove a point.â Your recollection screams: Too fucking long.
Time had warped inside that space. Minutes became unrecognisable. You remember your knees pulled tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around yourself, trying to become smaller as if smallness could make you invisible. You remember counting your breaths because the alternative was shaking apart. You remember the awful clarity that you werenât in control of your body anymoreânot when the walls were metal and his eyes were the only horizon you had.
âShe cried,â Wonwoo mutters. âNot loudly. Sheâs too proud for that. But she did.â
You feel something snap very quietly inside you. Not a dramatic break. Not a shatter. A thread pulled too hard until it finally unravels. You did cry. You remember it. Not because you were weak. Because the world had narrowed to bars and his voice and the terrifying realisation that he could do anything he wanted and call it love.
Wonwooâs tone sounds almost tender if you didnât know any better. âI told her Iâd let her out if she promised to stop running.â
He told you youâd come out when you learned your place. He told you you were lucky he was the one teaching you. He told you nobody else would tolerate you the way he did. He told you you belonged to him.
Seungcheolâs voice comes out low and even. âAnd did she promise?â Wonwooâs eyes gleam. âShe did,â he says. âEventually.â
The waiter returns. Itâs a strange interruption, almost surreal. His quiet figure steps into the room carrying a broad plate, the centrepiece of the fish course. He moves with calm precision, placing the dish down in the middle of the tableâsea bass resting in a pale beurre blanc, shaved truffle scattered like dark petals over the top. He begins to serve each of you a portion with the same steady hands, eyes down, expression neutral.
When the last plate lands in front of you, the smell of truffle risesâearthy and rich, completely at odds with the way your stomach is twisting.
The waiter withdraws. You stare at the fish. The white flesh flakes delicately beneath the sauce. It is beautiful. You canât imagine swallowing it.
Wonwooâs voice continues like the delivery of food had happened in the background. âAfter that,â he says, âshe was calmer. More focused. More⊠obedient.â Seungcheolâs jaw shifts once. It is small, almost invisible. But it is the first crack youâve seen in himâsomething tense, something tightening. Wonwoo notices it too. His smirk deepens. âIt worked,â Wonwoo adds. âShe became extraordinary.â
Creation. Ownership. Pride. A dog on a leash. Â
You feel the room closing in.
The chandelier light seems suddenly too low, the walls too close. Your chest tightens, and you try to draw in a steady breath, but it catches halfway, snagging on the memory as if the bars are still there. You press your fingertips lightly to the table edge, grounding yourself in the polished wood beneath the linen. You focus on the sensation, on the coolness of the table, on the weight of your own body in the chair.
It doesnât help. Because your mind is replaying itâhis voice, his smile, the cage, the chain, the slow, inevitable degradation.
Wonwooâs eyes slide to you again. He doesnât need to say much now. He has already placed the image in the room. He watches you like heâs watching a fuse burn. âLook at you,â he murmurs, quiet enough that it might not carry far. âStill trying not to show it.â
Your hands shake. You curl them into fists. Seungcheol still doesnât intervene. He just sits there, as if he is letting you be tested. As if this is something you must endure. Your throat tightens with something that is not only panic but betrayalâthe sudden, vivid sense that you are being observed from angles you never agreed to. That the man you love is watching you suffer and not stopping it.
You try to speak. Your voice doesnât come out at first. When it does, itâs thin. âEnough.â
Wonwooâs brows lift, amused. âEnough?â he echoes softly, like the word is cute. Seungcheol doesnât tell him to stop. Instead he says, quietly, âIs he lying?â The question is directed at you. It lands like a slap to the face. You stare at him.
For a moment, you canât form an answer because there are too many answers at once: yes, heâs lyingâabout the tenderness, about the safety, about the romance. No, he isnât lyingâabout the cage existing, about the control, about the fact that you once stayed too long. Your lips part. Nothing follows. That silence is your undoing.
Your lungs seize. Panic claws up your throat with blunt insistence. The restaurant room tilts, edges blurring, the air suddenly scarce. You press your tongue against the roof of your mouth as if that will keep you from making a sound you canât take back. You canât breathe.
Your body remembers the cage. It remembers stillness forced upon you. It remembers the helplessness, the humiliation, the way the bars had turned your own breathing into a loud, fragile thing. You push your chair back. The scrape is harsh against the floor, loud enough to make you flinch. Everyone looks at you.
Wonwoo watches with satisfaction. Mingyuâs eyes are sharp, startled. Minghaoâs face is tightened with something akin to pity. Seungcheol looks up at you, expression composed. You donât say excuse me. You donât apologise. You stand, hands braced briefly on the table because your legs feel like they belong to someone else, and then you turn and walkâfast, not quite running, but close.
The door to the private room opens under your hand. The hallway beyond is colder. Emptier. The silence out here is differentâless controlled, more hollow. Your heels strike the carpeted corridor in quick, uneven beats, and your breathing is harsh, loud in your own ears, as if youâve been sprinting instead of walking. Inhaleâtoo shallow. Exhaleâtoo fast. You try to pull air in deeper and it catches, snagging on the remembered confinement, as if your body still believes there is no room for your lungs to expand.
You press your palm to the wall as you move, needing something solid, something present, something that isnât metal bars. Your fingers drag along the surface, grounding and useless at once, because your mind keeps replaying it on a loop. You reach the end of the corridor and stop, shoulders rising and falling too sharply, throat burning, eyes stinging with the effort of not breaking apart.
Behind you, the private room remains closed. The table remains set. The sea bass waits. But for the first time since you walked into the restaurant tonight, you realise you might not be able to swallow another course.
Palate Cleanser: Lemon ice, champagne foam.
The restaurant is not merely empty anymore. Itâs erased.
Before, there were at least the small comforts of illusionâthe low amber table lamps, the faint ribbon of music, the suggestion of staff somewhere nearby, the polished calm of a place that still pretended to be open. Now, even that pretence has been stripped away. The lamps are dark. The music is gone. Only your breathing remains. Too loud. Too rough. Too fast.
You stand at the edge of the room and let your eyes adjust. The bar is dark. The open kitchen pass is shadowed. Even the entryway feels further away than it should, a distant rectangle that promises escape but doesnât quite look real.
There is no maĂźtre dâ at his station now. No familiar silhouette behind the host stand, no polite clipboard, no pen poised to check you in the way he always doesâlike your presence is expected, like your reservation is a certainty. The little brass bell on the counter sits untouched. The glass doors at the front reflect the streetlight in thin, cold streaks, and beyond them, the city moves without noticing you at all. Cars glide past. Neon signage hums. People exist out there, laughing into phones, tugging scarves tighter against the night, heading home to lives that havenât been split open by a private dinner.
You try to listen for anythingâany small proof that the place still contains staff, that you didnât hallucinate the waiters, the plates, the courses arriving like clockwork. But the silence in here is clean, absolute, as if the building has been emptied on purpose. Even the hum of the refrigeration behind the bar sounds distant.
There is a part of you that recognises this kind of emptiness. Not the literal kindârestaurants close all the timeâbut the deliberate kind. The kind that isnât an accident. The kind thatâs made.
Your palms sweat. You wipe one hand against your skirt without thinking and immediately hate that your body keeps doing human things when you are trying so hard not to be.
You turn your head slowly toward the entrance, toward the coats and the doors and the street beyond. You could leave. You should leave.
Your body is already angled that way, instinct guiding you like a hand at the small of your back. Your legs know the distance between you and the exit. Your eyes trace it automatically: between two tables, past the dark bar, straight to the glass doors. No obstacles. No witnesses. Nothing to stop you if you move fast enough.
Except for the fact that you donât know what youâre leaving behind.
And the most dangerous thought of all: itâs the realisation that someone planned this long before you walked in. And then you hear footsteps behind you. Measured. Unhurried. Certain. They donât rush to catch you. They donât stumble. They donât hesitate. Seungcheolâs footsteps. Your spine tightens as your body recognises him before your mind can decide what to do about it.
He appears at the end of the corridor, stepping into the main hall, the dim light from the street outlining him. The same man youâve kissed goodnight a thousand times. The same man who has held your face gently in his hands when you were exhausted and told you to rest. He looks the same. But his auraâhis presenceâhas changed. He stops a few steps away.
Not close enough to touch. Close enough to control the space. His gaze finds you immediately. It hits you in a strange placeâthis calm of his. It would be easier if he looked angry. Easier if he looked guilty. Easier if he looked like heâd made a mistake. He looks like he is exactly where he meant to be. âStay,â he says.
The word lands with the same calm authority as the gun earlier. No explanation. No softening. No attempt to make it sound like a request. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, then relax again. âNo,â you say, voice rougher than you expected it to be. âIâm leaving.â
Seungcheolâs expression doesnât change. He takes one step closer, like heâs giving you time to decide whether youâre going to make this difficult. âYouâre not,â he says simply. Thatâs when something in you catches fireânot fear, not panic, but anger. A sharp, clean anger that cuts through the residue of the memory and gives you something solid to stand on. You straighten, lifting your chin. âWhat is this?â you demand. âWhy them? Why are they here?â
The sound of your voice in this space is unsettling. It bounces off dark wood, off glass, off empty chairs. It comes back to you thinly, like the building is repeating you just to prove it can. Seungcheol watches you for a beat too long, taking in the way youâre holding yourselfâhow youâve recovered enough to fight. He doesnât apologise. He doesnât step forward with soft hands and murmured reassurance the way he would have before tonight. Instead, he answers like a man addressing a fact. âBecause you needed to see them,â he says.
Your laugh is sharp and humourless. âI didnât need to see anyone. I needed you toââ You stop yourself, breath catching. Needed you to protect me. Needed you to choose me. Needed you to be the man youâve been in every quiet corner of your life. You stare at him, heart pounding. âYou let him talk about me like that,â you say, voice shaking despite your effort. âYou sat there and listened.â
Thereâs an urge to go back through the corridor and slam the private room door just so you can feel it shut behind you, like control returned to your hands. But you canât even imagine walking back into that space right nowânot with Wonwoo sitting there like a king, not with Mingyu watching for cracks, not with Minghao looking like heâs drowning in his own guilt, not with the napkin hiding the weapon like a polite secret.
Seungcheolâs gaze doesnât falter. âI listened because I wanted to hear what he would say,â he replies. âAnd I watched because I wanted to see what you would do.â The bluntness hits you like cold water. You take a step back without meaning to. The soles of your shoes whisper against the carpet. âWhat I would do,â you repeat, tasting the words like venom. âLike Iâmâlike Iâm a test?â
He takes another slow step forward, keeping the distance from widening. âLike youâre the person Iâm marrying,â he says, and thereâs finally some warmth in it, only inevitability. âAnd I donât marry someone I donât fully understand.â
âFully understand,â you echo, because the phrasing is wrong in his mouth. Too clinical. Too controlled. Not the way lovers talk. Not the way he has spoken to you when youâve been wrapped up in blankets on the couch, his palm warm on your thigh, murmuring about wedding venues and what kind of dog youâll get one day. The domestic memories feel like someone elseâs life nowâbright snapshots behind a pane of glass.
You whisper his name without meaning to. âSeungcheolâŠâ
âThatâs what you are to me,â he agrees. âBut itâs not all you are.â
Your pulse climbs again, fast and hard, and you can feel it in your fingertips. âWhat are you talking about?â you ask, though part of you already knows heâs about to say something you canât unhear.
âI know what you were,â he continues. âI know what you used to do. I know what kind of work you took. I know the names youâve used when you didnât want to be found. I know the pattern.â
The dining hall tilts again, but this time itâs not memoryâitâs shock.
There are too many pieces in his statementânames, patterns, workâthings you never shared, things you never let slip. You think of all the times you were careful. All the times you used half-truths, softened histories, vague explanations. You think of how you presented yourself to him: a woman with a complicated past, yes, but not a woman with a past that has its own vocabulary. Seungcheolâs gaze stays locked on your face. âI know what they call you,â he says quietly. âThe Black Widow.â
Your body goes very still. You donât deny it. Denial is a reflex meant for normal lives, for normal people who can lie and be believed. In this moment, denial would be an insult. Instead, you hold his gaze, and feel something inside you split openâbecause itâs one thing to carry a past like a sealed box, and another to realise the person you love has been holding the key the entire time. Your engagement ring feels suddenly heavy around your finger, like metal that has remembered it can also be a shackle. âHow,â you manage, voice barely above a whisper. âHow do you know that?â
He doesnât answer the question directly. âI know you met Mingyu in Cuba,â he says. âHe was the sniper before he ever pretended to be a photographer.â
That detail is too accurate. Not just that you met Mingyu somewhere warm and reckless, he confirmed as much during Seungcheolâs questions, but the mask Mingyu wears when he wants to seem harmless. A man who smiles easily and lets people believe his charm is the most dangerous thing about him. And now, Seungcheol knows what hides behind the mask.
âI know Wonwoo was the bomber,â Seungcheol says, and the name feels sharper in his mouth. âThe one who didnât just touch your lifeâhe shaped it. He pulled you into the network and taught you how to become what you became.â
You canât stop the recoil this time. Itâs small, but itâs there. Seungcheol notices. Of course, he notices. He takes another step forward. The distance between you is narrowing with deliberate inevitability. âAnd I know what they were to you,â he says. âNot just what they did. What you did with them.â Your body reacts the way it reacted in the private room: the instinct to clamp down, to keep your face smooth, to keep your breathing quiet, to keep your shame contained. But itâs harder now because this isnât an ex turning a knife on you. This is Seungcheol. âStop,â you whisper. He doesnât stop. âI know how long you stayed,â he says. âAnd I know why you left.â
Your voice cracks around the edges. âYouâve been⊠what? Stalking me?â A pause follows that, and it stretches in the vast emptiness of the dining hall until it feels like the entire building is waiting for his answer. âIâve been watching,â he corrects. âBecause I needed to know whether you were safe.â
That one word shifts everythingâsafe. Not a threat. Not an enemy. Not a target. Something fiercely personal that he refuses to dress up. A laugh escapes you, raw. âSafe from who? From you?â
âFrom them,â he says, and for the first time you hear the edge of his anger show itself properlyâsharp, controlled, cutting like a knife. âFrom the life theyâd drag you back into if they could.â
You think of the life youâve pictured with him: mornings, sunlight, grocery bags in one hand, his hand in the other. You think of his laugh when you make him roll his eyes. You think of the way he kisses you absentmindedly when he walks past you in your apartment, as if touching you is as natural as breathing. And you wonder how much of it was realâand how much of it was him preparing for this. âYouâre acting like youâre above it,â you say, voice sharp with disbelief. âLike youâre judgingââ
Seungcheol cuts you off. âIâm not above it.â
He steps closer again. Now heâs near enough that you can see the tiny tension at his jaw, the stillness in his shoulders, the way his body remains ready even when he looks composed. And then, like pulling a thread from a sweater, he reveals it. âIâm a cleaner,â he says. âI kill people like you.â
For a second, you canât process them in order. Cleaner. Kill people like you. Your mouth goes dry. Your voice is barely there. âWhat?â
Seungcheol doesnât look away. âThe network has rules,â he says, tone flat. âUnspoken ones. The code. You know it. Youâve lived by it.â
Your pulse is a drumbeat inside your ears. You think of rules you never said out loud but always obeyed. You think of the way certain lines were never crossed, not because you were good, but because the network survived on a certain kind of restraint. A certain kind of logic. A certain kind of control.
âWhen people break it,â he continues, âwhen they get sloppy, when they start doing it for the wrong reasons, when they hurt the wrong people, when they draw attention, when they become a liabilityâsomeone has to remove them.â
You stare at him, mind racing, assembling pieces of him you never questioned until now: the way he moves through crowds, the way he always seems to know where exits are, the way his calm tonight looks practised. You whisper, disbelieving. âSo youâreâŠâ
He answers without hesitation. âA killer of killers,â he says. âThatâs what I am.â
The emptiness of the restaurant presses in from all sides, amplifying every word. You take a step back again, and your heel bumps lightly into a chair. The small contact jars you, reminding you how close you are to the edge of something. âThisâthis is insane,â you breathe. âYouââ
Your throat aches with the words you canât get out fast enough. You let me love you. You let me plan a wedding. You let me believe you were safe. Seungcheolâs gaze remains unwavering. âA contract came in,â he says.
Contracts. Targets. Assignments. Language you thought youâd left behind. You remember the feel of messages that werenât really messages. The cold efficiency of requests. The way money can turn someoneâs grief into a purchase.
âA target was assigned,â he continues. You feel your body brace before he says it, your instinct recognising the impact seconds ahead of time. âIt was you.â Your body floods with adrenaline so fast it feels like your skin tightens. You stare at him, mind snapping into a harsh clarity. âSo thatâs what this is,â you say, voice low and trembling with fury. âYou brought them to dinner toâwhat? To kill us? To kill me?â
Your breath turns sharper. âYou put a gun on the table,â you hiss. âYou held a room hostage. You let meââ your voice catches on the memory, on the way you ran into the hall like prey. âYou knew the whole time. You knew who I was and you stillââ
Seungcheol takes another step closer, deliberately. âI knew,â he says. âAnd I still chose you.â The words should feel like love. They donât. They feel like possession. Because choosing you while knowing what you are is not the same as choosing you while understanding you. It turns your relationship into something else: a decision he made with full awareness of the darkness, while you loved him, believing he was light.
âThen why are they here?â you demand again, voice louder now, echoing off the empty space. âWhy drag them into it?â
Seungcheolâs gaze sharpens. âBecause one of them ordered the contract,â he says. You freeze. Your mind tries to reject the idea, not because itâs impossible, but because itâs too obvious. Too poetic. Too cruel. Your past, sitting neatly around a table, and one of them paying to erase you before you can build a new life. âWhat?â You whisper.
Seungcheol replies. âSomeone put a hit out on you.â
Your mind races, flicking through faces and memories with brutal speed. Mingyuâs grin. Minghaoâs softness. Wonwooâs eyes. You shove it down. You canât afford to spiral now. You canât afford to let your body betray you with fear the way it did in the corridor. Not in front of Seungcheol.
âI brought them because I needed to see who would flinch,â he declares. âWho would overplay their hand. Who would push too hard. Who would try to leave.â Cold understanding creeps in. The dinner isnât romance. Itâs an interrogation. And you were the centrepiece. You feel your teeth grit. âSo I was bait,â you say. Seungcheolâs eyes flash. âYou were never bait,â he says, and the intensity in the correction rings with something possessive. âYouâre the point.â
You exhale a harsh laugh. âThatâs supposed to make me feel better?â
âI invited them for two reasons,â he says, stripping away any pretence. âOneâso I could confirm who put the contract in.â He raises one finger, matter-of-fact. âTwoâso you could end it.â He raises a second finger. Your voice comes out sharp. âEnd it how?â
âYou kill them,â he says, matter-of-fact. You stare at him as if you misheard.
Thereâs a part of you that wants to laugh again, not because itâs funny, but because itâs so absurd that laughter is the only thing your body can produce instead of screaming. Kill them. As if youâre still that woman. As if youâve been waiting for an excuse. âNo,â you say, instantly, the refusal tearing out of you. âNo. Absolutely not.â
Seungcheol watches your face, and in his eyes you see something shiftâconfusion at first, then something harsher. Anger. Frustration. Jealousy. âTheyâre your ghosts,â he says. âYour history. Your loose ends.â His voice stays level, but the underlying force grows, taut as wire. âYou cut them off, and we walk away.â
âYou think I want revenge?â you spit. âYou think I want to sit at a table andâwhat? Revisit old sins like itâs entertainment?â
Seungcheolâs jaw tightens. âI think you need to be free,â he says.
You feel something twist inside you, equal parts fury and heartbreak. âFree,â you repeat, voice breaking around the edges. âYou donât get to decide what freedom looks like for me.â He steps closer again. Now heâs close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his presence. âIâm not deciding,â he says. âIâm offering.â
You laugh again. âWith a gun on the table.â His gaze flickers briefly, as if annoyed by the detail. âThat was for control,â he says. âNever for you.â
The words scrape something rawâand something devastatingly intimate. Like a line he believes in, like a boundary he refuses to cross, even while everything else collapses. âSo you brought my past to dinner,â you say, voice shaking, âto watch them confess, to watch me react, to figure out which one wants me dead, and then you planned to hand me a knife and tell me to carve my way into your perfect, clean life?â
Seungcheolâs expression doesnât soften. It hardens against the idea of those men remaining attached to you in any way. âYes,â he says.
Seungcheolâs gaze holds yours. âBecause you kept it from me,â he says quietly. âAnd I couldnât risk asking and getting another half-truth.â
The difference is small, but it matters. It doesnât sound like contempt. It sounds like a man who has lived too long in a world where lies get you killedâand who cannot afford to misunderstand you, not when you are the one thing he refuses to lose.
Your mind flashes back to the beginningâhow quickly you recognised him as an exit, how you decided in one heartbeat that you could build a new self around him. You hadnât planned to trap him. You hadnât planned to hurt him. Youâd simply⊠chosen, the way you always chose. You took the life you wanted with the same decisiveness you used to take lives. And you never told him what you were, because if you told him, you risked him looking at you the way heâs looking at you now. âSo have you,â you shoot back, and the accusation rings through the empty dining hall. Â
He doesnât. He takes a breath, slow, controlled. When he speaks again, itâs almost painfully straightforward. âI could never kill you,â he says. You blink, thrown. He continues. âI took the contract because it came to me,â he says. âBut I will not carry it out. Not on you.â
âThen whatâwhat happens? You just⊠ignore it?â
âI donât ignore contracts,â he says. âNot if I want to live.â A pause. âSomeone wants you dead,â he says. âAnd the network will expect it to be done.â
Itâs not only about you, then. Itâs about him, too. About the consequences of refusal. About the way the system punishes disobedience. Seungcheol crowds you, and his voice drops, steady but intense. âIâm giving you a way to close it,â he says. âYou end the men who could drag you back. You end the one who ordered it. You walk away from all of it.â His gaze burns into yours. âAnd then I marry you without shadows following you into our home.â
âYou think this is a gift,â you whisper, disbelief dripping from every word. âIt is,â Seungcheol confirms. âVengeance. Closure. Freedom.â
You stare at him, and the horror that blooms in your chest isnât about danger. Youâve lived with danger. Youâve breathed it. Youâve worn it like perfume for years. The horror is about what he thinks love means. You shake your head slowly. âYou donât understand,â you say, voice trembling. âYou donâtââ
He cuts in. âI understand the rules,â he says. âI understand the code. I understand what those men are.â His jaw tightens. âAnd I know what you were forced to become around them.â
âWhat I was,â you correct, voice rising. âWhat you think I still am.â
âDonât play with words.â
You step forward now, closing the remaining distance on your own terms, anger blazing hot enough to keep you upright. âIâm not playing,â you snap. âI havenât killed since I met you.â The sentence lands in the silence. Seungcheol goes very still. âWhat?â he says, and his voice is low enough to be dangerousânot directed at you, but at the idea that he misread the woman he loves so badly.
âI stopped,â you say, trembling with the force of your own confession. âWhen I met you, I stopped. I was done.â
Seungcheolâs gaze searches your face like heâs trying to find the lie hidden in your expression. âYou expect me to believe that?â he asks. âItâs the truth,â you bite out. His voice turns incredulous, almost wounded under the anger. âThen why didnât you tell me?â
Because you wanted normal. Because you wanted sunlight. Because you wanted a life that wasnât coded messages and dead drops and people who spoke about murder like it was a hobby. Because you loved him. âBecause I wanted to be someone else with you,â you say. âBecause I wanted a life outside of it.â
Seungcheolâs gaze darkens. âAnd those men?â he asks. âYou refuse to end them becauseâwhat? Because you still feel something?â
You stare at him, stunned. âYou think Iâm protecting them?â you whisper, incredulous. His eyes flash. âThen why wonât you do it?â he demands, frustration spiking. Because he cannot reconcile your refusal with the image heâs had of you: decisive, lethal, unflinching. The woman he believed could cut any tie and walk away clean. Your chest heaves.
You can feel the argument sharpening into something that isnât just words anymore. Two predators circling each other in the open, no crowd to soften the edges, no staff to pretend this is normal. Your voice trembles with barely contained fury. âBecause Iâm tired,â you say. âBecause Iâm done. Because I donât want blood on my hands anymore.â You jab a finger toward him, eyes burning. âBecause I wanted you. Not them. Not the network. Not any of it.â
âThat doesnât make sense,â he says, and it sounds like he needs it not to. As if a part of him is terrified your refusal isnât about morality at all, but about attachment he canât compete with. Like he needs the world to stay in the shape he prepared for. âNot with what you are.â
You let out a harsh, breathless laugh. âI built my whole exit around you,â you spit. âDo you know that?â
Seungcheolâs eyes narrow. âWhat are you saying?â
You look at himâreally lookâat the man you love, the man who has just revealed he hunts people like you, the man who has orchestrated a dinner as an execution and called it devotion. And you decide youâre done being careful. âI took out my IUD,â you scream, voice loud and explosive. âBecause I wanted a future with you!â
For a heartbeat, the entire restaurant seems to stop existing. Seungcheolâs eyes lock onto yours, wide with something you canât immediately nameâshock, fury, disbelief, longing, all tangled in the same split second. The silence between you is so complete it feels like the seconds before a bomb goes off. You swallow, throat tight, eyes burning, and add the final spark with brutal clarity: âI wanted a family.â
The air detonates.
Meat Course: Dry-aged duck breast with blackberry glaze.
You can see the exact moment your confession rewrites him.
Because you didnât say you wanted a wedding. You didnât say you wanted the ring, the dress, the pictures, the performance of normal. You said family. You said future. You said something permanentâsomething that doesnât wash off, doesnât burn away, doesnât disappear with a passport change and a new name.
For one terrible second, you think heâs going to laugh. Or that heâs going to look at you with the same cold measure he used at the table, as if assessing whether this is another lie. He doesnât. His jaw tightens so hard you see the muscle jump. His nostrils flare with a slow inhale that looks almost like heâs trying to pull the idea into his lungs. Then, very quietly, he says, âSay it again.â
You stare at him. Anger is still boiling in your ribs, hot and messy. The fear is still there, too, coiled tight. The betrayal. The disbelief. But under all of itâdangerouslyâthere is that other thing. The thing that has always existed between you, even when you tried to deny it. The tether. The pull.
You swallow. âAmourââ Your voice scrapes. You hate that your throat betrays you now, of all times. His gaze doesnât flicker at the endearment. If anything, it sharpens, as if the sound of it confirms something heâs been starving for all night. âDonât soften it,â he says. Not unkind. Not mocking. Just⊠urgent. âSay what you said.â
You lift your chin, stubborn, furious. âI said I wanted a family.â The words land again, heavier the second time.
Seungcheol crosses the distance in two strides. It isnât controlled. Itâs a collision. One second, the space between you existsâand the next, heâs against you, hands framing your face like he canât stand not to touch you for another breath. His mouth finds yours. Itâs not the kiss of a man asking permission with a smile. Itâs the kiss of a man who has just realised you were his long before he tried to make you prove it. His lips are warm and demanding, and for one treacherous second, your body answers before your anger can. Then the anger snaps back. You shove him hard in the chest. âNoââ the word breaks against your lips as you push again. Seungcheol staggers half a stepânot because heâs weak, but because he lets you. He lets you make room, lets you draw breath.
You slap him. The sound cracks through the room. His head turns slightly with the force, hair shifting across his forehead. He doesnât blink. He doesnât snarl. He doesnât grab you to punish you for it. You slap him again.
This time, you hit his shoulder, his chest, anywhere you can reach. Itâs messy. Itâs not graceful. Itâs not the controlled violence you know how to perform. Itâs human. Itâs angry. Itâs grief with fists. âYouââ Your voice shakes. âYou did this to me.â
Seungcheol catches your wristsâfirm, not brutal. He holds you just long enough to stop you from spiralling into something reckless. âLet me go,â you snarl, trying to wrench free. He doesnât tighten. He doesnât squeeze until it hurts. He loosens just enough that you can feel youâre not trappedâjust held. âNo,â he says, low. âNot until you stop shaking.â
âIâm notââ Your lie falls apart on your tongue because you are shaking. Because your body is still full of the private room. Full of Wonwoo. Full of Seungcheolâs calm crueltyâno, not cruelty, you correct yourself savagelyâhis calm certainty. You twist, furious, and manage to yank one hand free. You hit him againâopen palm against his chest. He takes it with a grunt, breath leaving him in a hard exhale. Then he dips his head, close enough that his breath brushes your lips, and his voice drops into something rawer. âLet it out,â he says.âHit me,â he adds, quieter. âIf you need to.â  Your chest tightens. âYou stillââ your voice cracks. âYou still sat there andââ
His frustration flashes at the mismatch between his plan and your reality. âI thought youâd want to cut them off yourself. I thought it would feel like freedom.â You laugh once, sharp and wet. âIt doesn't.â
Seungcheol inhales slowly. His hands slide from your wrists to your hips, keeping you close without pinning you. He lets you move. He lets you push. He lets you breathe. You try to step back anyway, instinct screaming for distance. He follows, not crowding, but refusing to let the space become a wall. âYou already chose me,â he says, voice rougher now. âBefore I ever set this table.â He whispers, almost to himself. âBefore I ever tried toââ
âI did,â you spit, like he doesnât deserve it after tonight. His eyes flare.
The emotion in them is violent, but itâs not violent toward you. Itâs violent in the way devotion can be when itâs threatened. Like the concept of losing you makes him feral.
Your palms itch to hit him again. But the rage has changed shape. Itâs no longer only fury. Itâs also reliefâugly, unwanted reliefâthat he isnât aiming his weapon at you. That he isnât here to end you. That the love youâve trusted isnât entirely a lie, even if itâs twisted beyond recognition.
Seungcheolâs gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts again. âSweetheart,â he says, and the word is so familiar it nearly breaks you. âLook at me.â
You hate that you do it. Hate that your eyes obey him when your heart is still trying to claw its way out of your chest. He leans inâbut he doesnât kiss you. He presses his forehead to yours, just barely touching. His breath is warm. âI choose you,â he says, voice low and absolute. âOver the contract. Over the network. Over all of them.â Your lashes flutter. Your throat tightens so hard it stings. Seungcheol continues, each word like a nail hammered into place. âOver the world,â he adds. âIf I have to.â
The hall feels suddenly too small to hold the sentence.
The anger in you tries to flare againâtries to protect you from softnessâtries to keep you from handing him another part of yourself. But your body is betraying you: the way youâre leaning into him without realising, the way your fingers curl into his lapel like itâs a lifeline. You lift your hand. For a second, he braces like you're going to hit him again. Instead, you grab the back of his neck and yank him down. You kiss him. Hard.
Seungcheol makes a sound like pain and relief collided in his chest, and then he kisses you back like heâs been dying for it. The kiss turns hungry in an instantâmouth opening, breath tangling, the world narrowing to the press of his lips and the brutal comfort of his body against yours.
You bite his lip. Not like you did before. You sink your teeth so hard into the flesh that the skin gives, and the sharp tang of blood blooms on your tongue. Seungcheol groans into your mouth, shuddering, but it doesnât stop him. It turns him on. It turns you on.
Because thereâs something obscene and honest about it: proof that youâre both dangerous, both capable of harm, both choosing each other anyway.
His hands slide up your back, pulling you in, and the friction of your clothes suddenly feels like an insult. He breaks the kiss only to drag breath into his lungs. His forehead stays close to yours. âSay it again,â he whispers, voice wrecked.
âI want a family,â you breathe. âWith you.â
Seungcheol moves.
He steps into you, closing every inch of space until your chest feels the pressure of his presence and your feet start giving ground. His hands settle on your hips as he walks you backwards. You back up because thereâs nowhere else to go. One step. Then another. Your breath hitches when you bump into a table. The contact is small, but the sound of glasses rattles, a delicate clink of crystal. The table edge presses into the back of your thighs, cool through the fabric.
Seungcheol leans closer, his mouth hovering at your lips, and you can smell the blood you put there earlier, faint and metallic, mixed with the heat of him. âSweetheart,â he murmurs, voice shredded. âYouâre shaking.â
âIâm angry,â you breathe back. His hands tighten just slightly on your hips. His gaze dropsâjust onceâto your mouth, then returns. âThen take it out on me, sweetheart,â he whispers. âI can take it.â It makes something reckless flare in you.
You reach up and smash your mouth to hiss, kissing him like youâre punishing him for every secret and every calculated breath he took tonight. Your teeth catch the cut on his lip. You feel him hiss, and feel the answering tremor that runs through him. Seungcheolâs hands slide up your sides, under your blouse, palms flattening against your skin with a possessive reverence. His thumbs sweep along your ribs before they catch on the underside of your bra. You make a sound against his mouthâhalf a curse, half a gasp. He kisses you harder.
Then, without taking his eyes off you, he reaches behind you. His arm sweeps across the table in one clean motion. Plates skid. Cutlery scatters in a harsh metallic rain. Glasses tumble and roll, one of them catching the edge and dropping with a sharp crack that splinters the silence. The sound is obscene in the dead hush of the restaurant. Seungcheol doesnât even look at the mess. His grip shifts, and he lifts you onto the cleared table like you weigh nothing. The tablecloth wrinkles beneath you, the cool linen kissing the backs of your thighs.
Seungcheol steps in between your knees immediately, crowding you with his body, suit lightly rumpled, composure stripped down to pure intent. He slides his hands along your thighs, firm and anchoring, spreading your knees just enough to fit himself between them. Your pulse flutters wildly. Your anger tries to reassert itselfâtries to remind you this is wrong. But your body answers him in betrayal-soft ways: the way you arch toward his touch, the way your mouth parts, the way your fingers dig into the tablecloth like you need something to hold. Seungcheol notices everything.
His mouth finds your throat, kisses turning hot and possessive, then softerâone, two, threeâlike heâs trying to unwrite the memory of any other mouth that ever grazed that skin. You grab his hair and tug, forcing his face up. âDonât you dare make this sweet,â you whisper. His eyes darken. âYou think this is sweet?â he murmurs, almost a challenge, and his hands tighten on your thighsâjust enough to remind you how strong he is. You swallow. âNo.â Seungcheolâs mouth curves, almost a smile. âGood,â he says again, and then he kisses you like heâs done pretending restraint is a virtue. Itâs deep. Messy. Breathless. The kind of kiss that erases thought.
You slide your hands down his chest, shoving his jacket open, needing skin under your palms. Your fingers find the warmth at his throat, the hard line of his collarbone beneath his shirt. He shudders. A low sound breaks out of himâruined, approving. âLook at me,â he breathes, and when your eyes snap to his, his gaze is so bright with devotion it makes your heart clench almost painfully. He kisses your cheekâone quick pressâthen your jaw, then your mouth again, as if he canât decide where to put his love, as if every part of you is equally urgent.
Your skirt rides up as you shift, exposing skin to cold air. The contrast makes you shiver. Seungcheolâs hands flatten against your stomach.
For a second, his touch slows. His eyes dip to the spot where his palm rests, and something in his expression goes quiet, as if the thought of you carrying something of him is both a blessing and a threat. âA family,â he murmurs. âYou said it like you were certain.â You swallow, breath coming quick. âI am.â His jaw flexes. His gaze lifts back to yours. âThen Iâm not letting anyone take you from me,â he says, and the sentence sounds like it was carved out of stone. You try to speakâtry to remind him youâre still furiousâ
But Seungcheolâs mouth drops to your stomach, kissing your skin through the bunched fabric of your shirt, then pushing it higher with his knuckles until cool air hits your bare skin properly. The gesture is intimate enough to steal your words. He kisses you againâslow, deliberateâand you gasp. Your hands find his shoulders, fingers curling hard. Seungcheolâs breath warms your skin as he drags his mouth down, kissing along your navel, then the inside of your thighâone kiss, then anotherâeach one unhurried, each one devout. You tremble.
âSeungcheolâŠâ You plead softly.
He looks up at you from between your knees, eyes dark, mouth still stained faintly with your bite. The blood at the corner of his lip makes him look wicked and honest. It makes him look like a man who belongs to you in the same way you belong to himâdangerously, irrevocably. âIf you want me to stop, tell me,â he says quietly.
Your throat works around a swallow. âDonât stop,â you whisper.
Seungcheol exhales like thatâs the permission he was bracing for.
His hands slide up your thighs, under the fabric of your skirt, his fingers gripping the lace with care, and then you feel fabric giveâyour underwear tugged, torn, ruined in one clean, decisive motion. You suck in a breath and laugh once, wild and breathless, because of course he does it like that. âYouâre insane,â you breathe. âFor you,â he answers, low.
And then his mouth is on your coreâhot and relentless. Your head tips back as his tongue circles around your clit. Your hands fist in his hair as his tongue drags down and prods at your entrance. Seungcheolâs hands hold you steady at the thighs, keeping you from sliding, keeping you from losing yourself completely. Your breath breaks into helpless sounds that echo faintly in the empty hall as his lips wrap around your throbbing nub.
You hear the obscene squelch of his sucking, and it makes you flush, but thereâs no one here to witness. No one but him.
Seungcheol hums softly in approval, and the vibration makes you jolt, a sharp gasp tearing out of you. You curse under your breath, shaking.
He slows for a moment, then pushes his face even closer, his nose changing your clit as he licks up the pooling wetness with cruel intelligence until youâre gripping the table linen like itâs the only thing keeping you from floating off the edge of yourself. Your eyes blur. Your mouth opens, and it comes out broken. âAmourââ
He doesnât stop. He kisses your folds, tastes your juices and lingers like heâs memorising you. When you start to come apartâwhen your breath catches, when your thighs tremble, when your spine archesâhe does something right in the middle of the ruin: he pulls away and presses a kiss to your inner thigh like an apology and a promise in one. Then he stands and drags you upright into his arms. The sudden loss of contact with your core steals your breath. Before you can complain, protest or whine, his lips land back onto yours, and you taste yourself on his tongue. You clutch his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you pull him closer with the same ferocity heâs using on you. And then you shove at his chestânot to push him away, but to turn the tables. You slide off the table, feet hitting the floor, and for a second youâre face to face, breathing hard, eyes locked, both of you looking half-mad. Seungcheolâs hands stay at your waist like he doesnât trust you not to run away the second he lets go.
âStill angry?â he murmurs. You laugh, breathless. âYes.â His mouth curves. âGood.â
You turn. You bend over the edge of the table, pulling up your skirt until your bare ass is exposed. Your hair falls forward as you brace your palms on the linen. Itâs not submissive. Itâs not surrender. Itâs a demand. You feel Seungcheolâs breath catch behind youâone sharp inhale. He steps in close, hands sliding along your asscheeks and hips so slowly it makes your spine quiver. He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade through your shirt, and then another to the back of your neck, right where your pulse races. âSweetheart,â he whispers, voice broken. âYouâre killing me.â You look back over your shoulder, eyes bright, mouth swollen from kissing. âGood,â you say, voice shaking. âNow prove youâre choosing me.â
Seungcheol makes a soundâhalf laugh, half groanâand one hand skims up your spine while the other unfastens his belt with practised, trembling urgency. A metallic clink, a low hiss through his teeth, and then the subtle sound of fabric shifting. You donât look back, but you hear it â the quiet, slick rhythm of his palm, working over the length of his hard cock, chasing focus, holding back the edge.
Then the wet heat of his tip nudges against your entrance. Not entering. Just teasing â the thick, flushed head gliding through your folds, dragging slick over every nerve, every tender part already aching for more. Back and forth. You shudder, gasping, nails clutching the linen.
Then he sinks in with one brutal motion â swift, unrelenting, all at once â and your whole body jolts forward with the force of it, a sound torn from your throat that isnât a word, just pure reaction.
You feel the stretch as your walls accommodate his girth, the fullness, the obscene pressure of him inside you. It makes your knees buckle. Makes you burn. He groans behind you, low and sharp, when he feels your core tighten around him as he pushes back in. âTalk to me,â he rasps, low enough that it doesnât break the moment. âYou okay?â You swallow, breath shaking. âYes.â
Seungcheol exhales and kisses your neck, open-mouthed, hot. Each thrust that follows rocks through you â deliberate, punishing, as if heâs trying to drive something into you deeper than flesh. Like he wants to stay inside you. Like he wants to leave something behind. Your body rocks with every slap of his hips against your ass, the table groaning beneath you. âSay it,â he rasps, and thereâs that feral need again, that hunger to anchor the world in words. âSay youâre here. With me.â You laugh wildly. âYou donât own me.â Seungcheolâs hands tighten around your hips, and his mouth finds your ear. âNo,â he breathes. âI donât.â A stuttered inhale. âI worship you.â
You go still, and Seungcheol immediately slowsâattention snapping, checking you, making sure youâre not falling back into the wrong kind of emotion. But even when he eases his pace, heâs still inside you, still pressing deep. âSweetheart,â he murmurs, softer. âLook at me.â
You look back. His eyes are dark and shining. His mouth is bruised from your teeth. He looks ruined. He looks in love. And somehow thatâs what breaks you. You reach back, grab his hair, and pull him down into another kissâmessy, awkward, desperate. He groans, undone. You break the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead resting against his.
âIâm here,â you whisper. âDonât stop.â
Seungcheol exhales, then moves againâharder, fasterâuntil you canât tell where your anger ends and your devotion begins. The sound of his cock moving inside you fills the space between every word and gasp â wet and rhythmic and endless.
Each stroke lands heavier than the last, paced not with frenzy but with intentâdeep, deliberate, maddening. You feel it in the way your legs shake, in the tight coil inside you that draws tighter with every pass of his cock through your slick, every sound that tears from your throat. Your hips meet him halfway, hungry, unthinking. The pleasure builds sharp and fastâtoo fastâand itâs not just from the rhythm anymore. His hand slips between your thighs. Two fingers find your clit without hesitation, and he works you there with the same focused pressure he gives everything elseâcircular, coaxing, merciless. You cry out.
âShit,â Seungcheol groans, forehead pressing to your shoulder, his pace faltering only for a second before he slams back inâdeeper, almost shaking. âYouâre soâfuck, sweetheartââ
You canât answer. Can barely hold yourself up. His fingers donât stop moving. His cock keeps driving into you, and your orgasm starts to crest. Your body clamps down around him, wet and pulsing, and your knees nearly give out. âOh my godââ you gasp, the climax hitting so violently it knocks the air from your lungs. You feel yourself contract around himâagain, againâand thatâs what does it. Seungcheolâs hips stutter, a broken sound tearing from his throat. Through gritted teeth, his voice begs ragged and low: âCan Iâfuck, can I come inside you?â
âYes,â you whisperâthen stronger, hotter, pantingââGod, yes, Seungcheolâpleaseââ Thatâs all it takes.
He lets go with a guttural cry, forehead pressing hard into your shoulder, his hands gripping your hips to steady himself. He spills inside you, every pulse of his seed dragging another thrust from his hipsâgrinding, anchoring, like he needs to deliver his come as deep as youâll take it.
His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you upright against his chest. âA family,â he whispers again, voice trembling. âWith you.â
You turn in his arms, fingers sliding up his jaw, thumb brushing the dried blood at the corner of his mouth. You kiss himâslow this time, deep and steady, sealing it. âYes,â you breathe into his lips. âWith me.â
âThen we survive this,â he murmurs. âTogether.â
The word together settles between you like a vow. Youâre still breathing hard. Your clothes are dishevelled. The tablecloth is wrinkled, the table cleared like a crime scene. Your legs still tremble when you shift your weight and Seungcheol slips out. It should make you ashamed. It doesnât.
Seungcheolâs hand cups your face, thumb sweeping gently under your eye, wiping away an invisible lash. âStay with me,â he pleads. You nod once, because you canât trust your voice.
And then the silence changes. A faint sound travels from the corridor. Like a chair moving. Like a door shifting. Like the world remembering your guests are still waiting. Seungcheolâs head lifts instantly, predatory instinct snapping back into place in a heartbeat. But his hand doesnât leave your face. His eyes hold yours one last time, fierce and steady. âWe go back,â he murmurs. âAnd we finish this.â
The words should terrify you. Instead, they feel like a promise. And somewhere behind the closed door, the next course is already cooling.
You donât walk back to the private room like the same woman who fled it. Your steps are steadier nowânot because youâve forgiven anything, not because anything has been resolved, but because the chaos has finally found a shape. Because you and Seungcheol have collided hard enough in the empty hall to melt into something singular. A unit. A blade with two edges.
You feel it in your posture. In the way your shoulders sit back instead of curling inward. In the way your breath no longer catches on the thought of Wonwooâs voice. In the way Seungcheolâs presence at your side doesnât feel like a threat anymoreâit feels like a promise heâs willing to bleed for.
His hand is resting at the small of your back, firm and warm, guiding you with quiet privilege. When you reach the door to the private room, Seungcheol pauses. Not because he hesitates. Because he listens.
He turns his head slightly, eyes meeting yours. He doesnât ask if youâre ready. He doesnât need to. He leans in and brushes his mouth against your templeâquick, intimate, steadying. âStay close,â he murmurs. And you do. He opens the door.
The private room is exactly as you left itâexcept it isnât. The table is still round and set too beautifully for the violence sitting around it, but the atmosphere has shifted in the time you were gone. Three pairs of eyes snap up the moment you step in.
Mingyuâs gaze finds your mouthâclocking the swelling, the bruised edges of your lipsâthen flicks immediately to Seungcheolâs, and something tightens in his expression before he forces it into a grin that doesnât reach his eyes. Minghao looks at your hands, at your posture, at the way youâre standing closer to Seungcheol than before. His throat moves on a swallow, and his brows draw together in worry.
Wonwoo doesnât scan you. He only studies Seungcheol. Takes him in the way he always takes men in: like a puzzle he intends to solve and then dismantle. His expression barely changes, but you see the smallest lift at the corner of his mouthâinterest sharpening into something that looks too much like fulfilment. Like heâs been waiting for this exact shift.
You stay in the doorway. You let the room look at you. You let them wonder. You let the quiet stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. Seungcheol steps in first. But he doesnât return to his seat.
Instead, he walks around the table to the chair you were sitting in beforeâyour place across from him, the one that made you feel pinned beneath his gazeâand he grips the backrest with one hand and drags it away from its original spot. The legs scrape lightly against the floor. It isnât loud, but it is deliberate.
Seungcheol brings the chair to his side of the table and places it there, snug beside his own, in the space that forces proximity. No option to angle away. No polite distance. Just adjacency that reads as ownership without a single word spoken. Then he turns back toward you. He doesnât beckon with his fingers like youâre a pet. He simply holds your gaze and says, âCome here.â
You step forward, the click of your heels controlled. Seungcheol reaches you and places his hand lightly at your waist, guiding you to the chair.
You sit. He pushes the chair in for you, closer to the table than before. Close enough that the edge nearly touches your stomach. Close enough that you canât retreat without making a scene. Then he sits down in his own chair beside you. His hand slides to your thigh under the table, fingers splayed around your flesh. Not groping. Not teasing. Claiming in the simplest way. Your breath catches, and Seungcheolâs thumb presses onceâsubtle reassurance, subtle command.
The door clicks shut behind the last trace of hallway light, and a waiter enters almost immediately. He carries a long slate board with careful hands. The Cheese Course has arrived. A thick, whipped mound of goat cheese sits at the centreâpale and creamy, dotted with flecks of pepper. Beside it, a glossy fig compote, studded with seeds that catch the light. A small spill of spiced nuts fans out to one sideâwarm brown, toasted edges, a dusting of something fragrant clinging to them.
The waiterâs smile is stretched too wide. His eyes are too fixed on the tablecloth, never rising to anyoneâs face. âEnjoy,â he murmurs in a voice that trembles just slightly. Then he leaves as fast as he can without running. Silence settles again.
Seungcheol is the first to move. He picks up the small cheese knife, turns it once between his fingers, and the gesture is almost obscene in its calm. He draws a slow line through the goat cheese, gathers a portion, and spreads it onto a crisp without hurry. âYouâve all been very polite,â he says. âVery civil. And very careful.â
Seungcheol eats the crisp slowly, then sets it down. âLetâs give tonight a name,â he continues. âA meeting. An audit. A funeral. Pick whatever helps you swallow.â The words are almost casual, and thatâs what makes them dangerous. âYouâve been wondering what this is,â he says, eyes moving across the three men. âIâll make it simple.â A pin drops. âI know who you are.â Then he looks directly at Mingyu.
âKim Mingyu,â Seungcheol addresses. âYou didnât join the network because you were bored. You didnât join because you wanted money. You joined because the war taught you something most men never learn.â
Seungcheol doesnât pause. âTwo tours in Iraq,â he continues. âLong enough to stop flinching. Long enough that your hands stayed steady when other men started shaking. Long enough that you came home and realised peace didnât fit you anymore.â
âThatâs a hell of a claim,â Mingyu says lowly. âYouâve got the wrong guy.â
Seungcheol leans back slightly in his chair, still close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. âYou like distance,â he says. âYou like your work clean. You like to pretend that distance makes you less guilty.â His gaze slides to Mingyuâs hands. âIt doesnât,â Seungcheol says simply. âIt just makes you harder to catch.â
Then the number comes, delivered without flourish, because numbers donât need drama to be violent. âOne hundred and twelve,â Seungcheol says. Mingyuâs throat works on a swallow. The brittle grin tries to return, fails, and for the first time tonight, he looks like what he really isâ
âYouâre the sniper,â Seungcheol declares. âAnd the only reason youâre still breathing is because you donât make scenes. You do your job. Then, you disappear.â
Seungcheolâs attention moves on before Mingyu can build a comeback.
Minghao is sitting very straight, like his posture alone can protect him. His hands are clasped too tightly, fingers white at the knuckles, and his eyes flick once to you before he forces them back to Seungcheol.
âXu Minghao,â Seungcheol calls out. âYou joined the network the way some people join universities. Quietly. Naturally. Like it was always going to happen.â Minghaoâs lips part, then close again. Seungcheol continues.
âYou always had a knack for chemistry,â he says. âNot the kind they teach with colourful textbooks and safe labs. The kind that makes you curious about what happens when you add one drop too many.â
Seungcheolâs gaze flicks to the fig compote, then back to Minghao.
âYou learned early that people will swallow anything if it tastes sweet enough,â Seungcheol says. âYou learned patience. You learned subtlety. You learned how to kill without looking like you killed at all.â
âStop,â Minghao says softly, but thereâs a tremor under it. Not fear of violenceâfear of being exposed. âYouâre the poisoner,â Seungcheol continues anyway. âAnd you hide behind your gentleness like itâs innocence.â
Seungcheol lays down Minghaoâs number with the same quiet certainty he did Mingyuâs. âOne hundred and five.â Minghaoâs face pales.
âYouâre careful,â he says. âAnd thatâs why youâve lasted. But donât mistake careful for clean. Youâve taken lives the same way you take sugar in teaâquietly, thoughtfully, convinced youâre doing it gently.â Minghaoâs gaze drops to the slate board. He looks like he might be sick.
Seungcheol doesnât let the room remain in its discomfort for long.
âJeon Wonwoo,â the third man is called to the proverbial stand. âYou joined young,â Seungcheol continues. âYoungest of the three. Not because you were forced. Because you were built wrong from the start.â Wonwooâs mouth curves faintly, but it doesnât reach his eyes.
âYour parents saw it,â he says. âWhatever it was in you. They tried to lock it up. Tried to conform you. Tried to press you into something normal.â His gaze sharpens. âThey didnât realise they were feeding the monster they were afraid of.â A flicker crosses Wonwooâs faceâtoo quick to name, too controlled to trust. Seungcheol continues as if he can see right through it. âYouâre not just a bomber,â he says. âThatâs the tool you chose. But the truth is youâre a criminal mastermind who likes to pretend heâs just good with wires and timing.â Seungcheol leans back slightly. âYou like systems,â he says. âYou like levers. You like cages. You like making people move exactly where you want them to move.â Â
Then he drops the number, and the shock of it detonates across the table. âThree hundred and thirty-eight.â
âThatâs an impressive imagination,â Wonwoo says softly. Seungcheol doesnât blink. âItâs an impressive appetite,â he replies. And then his gaze slidesâbriefly, deliberatelyâto you.
Seungcheolâs voice lowers by a fraction, and there is no more malice in it. Only an intimacy the others donât get to touch. âAnd you. You joined because of him,â he says, nodding once toward Wonwoo without looking away from you. âNot because you woke up one day craving blood. Because you were taught cruelty until it felt normal.â The words strike a place in you that still aches. But you know better now.
âYou were a woman who became a monster because of the cruelty of men,â he says. âAnd then you did something terrifyingly intelligent.â
His thumb strokes once along your thighâsubtle reassurance.
âYou decided you would use your power to take men like that. Men who think they can shape women into property and then act surprised when the property grows teeth.â Wonwooâs gaze sharpens as Seungcheolâs eyes flicker to himâcold enough to warn him without words.
âThey called you the Black Widow,â Seungcheol voices, âbecause you made it look like seduction. You made it look like romance. You made it look like a choice.â Your pulse thunders. âBut it was always strategy. Always survival. Always control taken back.â
Then your number comes, too, and it is higher than any man in the room wants to admit out loud. âTwo hundred and sixty-one.â
There is a brief pause where you feel all three men across from you register it in different ways. Seungcheolâs hand leaves your thigh and finds your fingers instead, threading his own through them. He lifts your clasped hands as his mouth lowers to your knuckles, then to the ringâhis ringâpressing a kiss to the metal with a reverence that doesnât read as tender so much as possessive, almost feral. Like a vow that bites. He doesnât look away from you when he speaks. âAnd none of it,â he says, voice low, âmakes me love you less.â
It isnât a line pulled from a cheesy romance novel. Thereâs nothing pretty about the way he says it. It lands like devotion that would ruin anyone who tried to take you from him. You see it in his eyes: the sincerity, the madness, the certainty. And despite everythingâdespite the night, despite the monsters around this table, despite the blood in the air that hasnât even been spilt yetâyou feel your mouth curve. A small smile. Real. Almost reckless.
Minghaoâs voice slips out, strained, incredulous. âWhat are you implying?â
Mingyuâs chair shifts a fraction, not retreating, not advancingâbracing. âYouâre sayingâwhat, that someone here wouldââ
Seungcheol doesnât let the sentence finish. He doesnât raise his voice. He doesnât need to. He settles his palm against your stomach. âSomeone broke the rules,â he says. âNot by missing a shot. Not by leaving evidence. Not by making a mess.â He leans slightly forward, more into the monologue, voice sharpening into the verdict being writtenâink dragging slowly across paper, irreversible. âThey broke them by making it personal. By creating a contract that should never exist, and pushing it through anyway. By turning the network into a playground for obsession.â
You envelop the hand on your stomach with yours. âJust tell them amour,â you murmur. âStop circling.â
âA cleaner doesnât usually sit down at dinner with the people heâs meant to erase,â he says. âNot unless heâs trying to learn something.â
Wonwoo finally gives the room somethingâthe slightest lift of his brows, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. A kind of dark satisfaction, as if heâs been waiting for the mask to come off and is pleased by what he finds underneath. Seungcheol doesnât reveal his role like a boast. He says it like a fact. âThatâs who I am,â he continues. âNot because Iâm better. Because Iâm necessary. I enforce what the network wonât keep.â
Minghaoâs face morphs in a way that isnât worry so much as disbeliefâlike his mind refuses to accept the word pregnant in the same sentence as you. His gaze flicks to your stomach, to your hand over Seungcheolâs, and his eyes go glassy with something he doesnât let fall.
Mingyuâs lips part as if heâs about to say your name and remembers he canât. His jaw locks instead, and his eyes slideâbrief, involuntaryâdown to the place Seungcheol is holding you, as if confirming the claim with his own sight. He scans youâand finds the same thing heâs been trying not to see all night: the end.
Wonwoo speaks, voice softâworse than any anger ever could be. âCongratulations,â he says. Itâs a knife wrapped in velvet.
Seungcheol doesnât smile. He doesnât blink. His thumb presses into your navel once while your fingers remain laced, sealing the lie into something that looks like truth. âThat contract didnât come from outside the network. It came from inside,â he continues, âfrom someone who knows the rules well enough to break them on purpose.â
âSo tell me,â Seungcheol murmurs, eyes locking on each man across the table, voice deadly calm, âwhich one of you paid for my knife?â
Dessert: Dark chocolate sphere with molten center.
The waiter returns before anyone can answer, and the timing is so wrong it almost feels intentional.
He carries five dark chocolate spheres on a long white plate, glossy and perfectly round, so polished they reflect the chandelierâs dim light like black mirrors. Beside each sphere is a shallow pool of something darkerâchocolate sauceâheld in a small silver pitcher.
The plate is set down with care, and the waiter begins distributing the spheres one by one, placing them in front of each of you. Itâs almost obscene, how beautiful they are. How perfect. A dessert designed to be broken open. A shell meant to crack.
Your sphere is placed last, as if youâre the guest of honour, even while youâre the knifeâs edge of the night. The waiter sets down the pitcher near your place, and you catch the faintest shake in his breath when he does.
âDessert,â he says softly. âDark chocolate sphere. Molten centre. Please enjoy.â
No one reaches for a spoon. Seungcheol doesnât acknowledge the waiter beyond a small incline of his head. The man leaves quickly, the door closing with a muted click. And when you are alone againâwhen the last trace of service and theatre disappearsâthe room becomes what it has been trying not to become all night. A powder keg.
Mingyu breaks first. âIt wasnât me.â
Thatâs it. No explanation. No story. No attempt to soften the denial. Seungcheolâs gaze strays to him, unreadable. Mingyu holds it anyway. Sniper-still, refusing to look away from this.
Minghaoâs voice is quiet when it comes, threaded with something raw that he canât quite swallow down. âI wouldnât,â he says, as if the idea offends him on a spiritual level. âI didnât.â Seungcheol doesnât rush to contradict him. He lets his gaze drift, slow and deliberate, to Wonwoo.
Wonwoo has been quiet for too long. His gaze lifts to meet Seungcheolâs, and in that look there is something bold enough to be stupid. Or confident enough to be dangerous. âPaid,â Wonwoo repeats softly, as if tasting the word. âThatâs such an ugly way to phrase it. You make it sound transactional. As if this is just business.â
Seungcheolâs gaze stays on him. âIt is,â he replies.
Wonwooâs smile widens a fraction. Not happy. Not friendly. Possessive. âIs it?â Wonwoo murmurs, eyes flicking briefly toward you. âBecause some things stop being business the second someone decides they can walk away.â
Minghaoâs breath catches, small and involuntary. Mingyuâs eyes sharpen, shifting to Wonwoo with a sudden, focused stillness. You feel Seungcheolâs hand on your stomach go very still beneath your palm.
Wonwooâs gaze stays on you now, and there is no pretence left in it. No polite mask. No careful distance. Just the quiet entitlement he always kept hidden behind charm and control. âYou know what I hate most?â Wonwoo goes on. âItâs not rejection. Itâs not loss.â He leans back in his chair. âItâs waste. Taking something rare and letting it rot in a different manâs hands.â Wonwooâs jaw tightens. The faint amusement on his face falters into something sharper. And then he makes his mistake. âIf I canât have her,â he says, and his voice is deathly quiet, âwhy should anyone else?â
Silence grips the room in a chokehold.
For a split second, even Wonwoo seems to realise what heâs done. The words werenât meant to be that honest. The slip wasnât meant to show the shape of the obsession. Itâs the kind of sentence that belongs in a private room with no witnesses, not in a room full of men who understand what ownership really means.
Seungcheolâs hand on your stomach tightens, not in warning to youâmore like a reflex he canât control, something primal and protective. Your own hand closes over his. A small squeeze. A quiet message: Iâm here. Donât lose control.
Wonwooâs eyes widen just slightly, realising too late that his secret is out. His gaze darts, searching the table. The gun. The one Seungcheol had earlier hidden beneath a napkin, the one he carried like it belonged to him. Wonwooâs hand moves. Fast. He reaches for the gunâ
And the lights go out. Complete darkness swallows the room.
Itâs so sudden your body reacts before thought can. You drop. Instinctively. Your chair scrapes as you slide down, shoulders folding inward as you duck beneath the tablecloth. Your hand finds the edge of the table, then the cool gleam of cutlery, then the weight of a knife. You grab it. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is loud in your ears, but your breathing stays controlledâshallow, silentâbecause you have learned how to be still when the world goes black.
Under the table, you feel Seungcheol shift beside you, chair moving, fabric brushing. You canât see him, but you can sense himâhis body positioning without panic, his weight changing as he reaches for something. Across the table, thereâs a sudden scuffleâsomeoneâs chair scraping, a hard intake of breath, the faint clink of a spoon knocked against porcelain. Thenâ
A gunshot cracks the darkness. Itâs deafening. It steals your breath. A second shot rings out almost immediately after, sharp and final.
For a heartbeat, everything is silent again except for the ringing in your ears. Then the lights snap back on.
The first thing you see is white linen. The second is red. Wonwoo is sprawled forward over the table, his body twisted at an awkward angle, as if he tried to stand and never finished the motion. Blood pours across the tablecloth in thick, dark streaks, spreading like spilt wine, ruining the pristine setup that survived everything else tonight. His face is turned slightly, mouth open as if mid-word. His eyes are blank.
The room smells faintly of gunpowder, sharp and metallic, cutting through the sweetness of chocolate.
For one strange, suspended second, you donât move. Then you lift the tablecloth just enough to rise. Your head clears the edge of the table, and you see them. Seungcheol is standing, arm extended, his gun pointed across the table at Wonwooâs collapsed body.
Mingyu is standing too. His gun is in his hand, raised, aimed at the same target, his expression stripped down. Two guns. Two shots. Two men who moved on instinct.
Minghao sits frozen in his chair, hands hovering above the table as if he doesnât know where to put them. His eyes are wide, fixed on Wonwooâs body, his mouth parted in silent shock. The chocolate sphere in front of him remains untouched, glossy and whole. Your own sphere sits in front of your place beside Seungcheol. A perfect shell. Unbroken. The contrast almost makes you laugh.
Seungcheolâs gaze flicks to you immediatelyâfast, checking. Protective. When his eyes meet yours, something in his expression shifts. Relief. Pride. A quiet acknowledgement that you did exactly what you were supposed to do. You went down. You grabbed a weapon. You survived.
Mingyuâs gun doesnât lower, but his voice comes, rough and controlled. âI had him,â he says. Not bragging. Not claiming credit. Seungcheolâs gun remains trained on Wonwoo even though the man is already dead. âI know,â Seungcheol says.
Mingyuâs jaw works. He swallows once, eyes still on Wonwoo. âHe shouldnât have said that,â Mingyu adds softly. âNot about you.â His gaze flicks briefly to youâquick, almost apologeticâthen back to the body.
âHe was always going to,â Seungcheol replies, calm as stone. Mingyu lets out a breath that sounds like something breaking loose from his chest.
âI suspected him,â he confirms. âNot because of the contract. Because of the way he looked at you. Like you were⊠unfinished business.â
Minghao makes a sound then, something barely audible, like heâs trying to breathe and forgetting how. His eyes flick to Mingyuâs gun, then to Seungcheolâs, then back to Wonwooâs blood spreading across the linen. You expect to feel something at the sight of Wonwooâs body. You expectârage, satisfaction, grief, nausea. You feel nothing.
Your fingers loosen slightly on the knife in your hand. You set it down on the table in front of you, blade angled away, still ready but no longer desperate.
Mingyuâs gaze stays on Wonwoo as he speaks again. âI donât want anything from you,â he says, and itâs unclear for a moment who heâs speaking to. âIâm not here to win.â
His eyes rest thenâon you. There is something honest in his expression that you havenât seen from him in years. No flirtation. No bravado. Just acceptance. âYou donât come back once youâve chosen,â Mingyu whispers. âI know that.â
Seungcheol finally lowers his gun a fraction, not because heâs letting his guard down, but because the threat is done. Finished. His gaze shifts from Wonwooâs body to Mingyuâs gun. Then back to Mingyuâs face.
âYou surprised me,â Seungcheol says. Mingyu gives a small, humourless huff. âYeah. I guess I did.â
Seungcheolâs hand finds your hip and pulls you in. It isnât rough. Itâs groundingâan anchor tugging you back into him, into the fact that youâre not unravelling. Then he kisses you.
Not a hurried, frantic thing. A quiet force that steals the air from your lungs for a second, his mouth firm against yours. Your lips part on instinctârelief and devotion tangled in your throatâand he takes the smallest sound you make like it belongs to him. When he pulls back, he stays close, breath warm at the corner of your mouth. His thumb presses once into the dip of your hipâan unspoken check-in. You give him the answer youâve been giving him all night. You stay.
Seungcheolâs gaze falls on the two men again, still holding you, when he declares the final truth. âI already knew.â
Mingyuâs eyes narrow slightly, not offendedâmore like impressed despite himself. Minghaoâs gaze sharpens, too. Wounded, maybe, but still present.
Seungcheol continues. âFrom the beginning, I knew it was him who ordered the contract.â  Mingyu exhales through his nose. âThen why bring us?â Seungcheolâs gaze holds him. âBecause I wanted him to say it,â he answers. âOut loud. In front of witnesses.â His hand tightens gently at your hip, pulling you the smallest fraction closer. âAnd because I wanted her to see it clearly. With me beside her.â
âSo thatâs it,â Mingyu says, eyes flicking to the untouched desserts and the ruined linen and the slow, obscene spread of Wonwooâs blood. âHe dies and we justâŠkeep eating?â
âYou donât have to do anything except leave,â he says, then corrects himself with a quieter finality. âBut youâre going to stay and eat.â
Minghaoâs voice comes out steadier than before. âAnd youâre letting us walk after this.â
Seungcheolâs mouth curves faintly. âIâm sparing you.â He lets the correction hang. âThereâs a difference.â
Mingyuâs gaze softens a fraction, the smallest flicker of respect moving through. âIâll take it,â he says.
Minghao nods once, not grateful exactlyâmore like accepting the terms because survival is still survival.
âYou walk out of here,â Seungcheol confirms, âand you donât look back. You donât reach for her. You donât speak her name. You donât test whether the door is really closed.â His hand squeezes your hip lightly. âBecause it is.â
Seungcheol moves thenâsitting down in his seat before he pulls you with himâby the hip again, guiding you down until you end up in his lap. His arm settles around your waist, caging you. The other remains free, resting lightly on the tableâs edge.
âSit,â he says softly. Mingyu hesitates for a fraction. Then he drags his chair back in and sits. âEat.â Another gentle command. âAnd then go.â
Minghao remains where he is, hand now resting near his spoon. Seungcheol picks up the silver pitcher. He tilts it over his own sphere.
Warm chocolate sauce spills over the glossy shell in a slow stream, dark and glowing. The heat kisses the surface, and the perfect shell begins to weaken, surrendering inch by inch. A fine crack appears, then another, until the sphere collapses inward. The molten centre pours outâthick, dark, aliveâspreading into the sauce. The metaphor for tonight doesnât go unnoticed by you. You watch it happen, and something about it steadies you.
Seungcheol dips the spoon into the dessert, scooping a portion that steams faintly, and brings it to your lips. âOpen,â he murmurs. You do.
Warm bitterness and sweetness flood your tongue, velvet-dark, and you swallow with his arm still around your waist, his breath brushing your cheek. His mouth finds your temple againâquick, intimateâthen his lips hover near your ear. âStay,â he whispers. Not an order. A promise.
Across the table, Mingyu and Minghao eat the broken dessert and stare at the dead man and the couple who survived the night. And maybe each other. The masks are gone now. The room has chosen what it is. And nothing in it will ever be clean again.
Digestif: Vintage cognac and mignardises.
The chocolate has cooled into a thick, glossy pool at the bottom of your plate.
Whatâs left of the sphere looks like a collapsed crownâbroken shell, jagged edges, the molten centre smeared into something that could be art if you didnât know what it took to get here. Your spoon rests in the dark, stained with sweetness that tastes too much like endings.
No one offers cognac. No one offers any mignardises.
The table remains set as if the night is still performing for someone, but the room has stopped pretending. Somewhere beyond the walls, there should be movementâstaff, footsteps, the next ritual. Instead, thereâs only this stillness.
Across from you, Mingyu eats the last of his dessert. He doesnât rush. He doesnât savour. He simply finishes, because Seungcheol told him to, and because sometimes obedience is the cleanest way out of a room. Minghaoâs spoon moves more slowly. He tastes the chocolate, and something in his face tightensâlike heâs registering how absurd it is that his mouth can still accept sweetness after what happened. He swallows anyway. Wonwoo remains folded over the table, a final, ugly centrepiece.
None of you look at him. The silence isnât peaceful. Itâs simply done.
Seungcheolâs hand tightens around your waistâjust enough to tell you heâs about to moveâthen loosens, gently, as he shifts. âUp,â he murmurs in your ear. You slide off his lap. Your feet find the carpet. The moment your weight leaves him, he stands too, chair barely whispering as it scrapes against the floor. Mingyu rises immediately. Minghao follows a breath later.
No one speaks about whatâs on the table. No one says we should call someone. No one asks what now. Seungcheol reaches into his inner pocket and pulls out cashâthick, obscene, folded tight with a rubber band. He doesnât count it. He doesnât check it. He drops it onto the table beside the ruined dessert. The stack lands with a dull, heavy sound. A bribe. A tip. A burial offering.
Then Seungcheol places his hand at the small of your back, firm and warm, and turns you toward the exit. Mingyu and Minghao fall in beside you without being asked. When Seungcheol opens the door, the hallway beyond looks exactly as you remember itâsoft carpet, dim light. You step through first, his hand still at your back. Mingyu and Minghao follow.
The door clicks shut behind you, and the private room is sealed againâwith its blood and its money and its broken shell of chocolate. You do not look back. You hear it, though. The faint stir of motion somewhere behind youâthe soft scuff of shoes, the murmur of staff that waited until the right moment to return, the sound of the restaurant shifting into cleanup mode as if this was nothing more than an unpleasant spill. It is strange how quickly the world wants to tidy things. It is stranger how easily you let it.
Seungcheol guides you down the corridor without speaking, his palm steady on your back. Your posture stays straight. Your breathing stays even. Beside you, Mingyuâs shoulders are loose, but his eyes are sharp, flicking ahead and then away, scanning his surroundings without making it obvious. Old habits that donât die just because the night is ending.
Minghao keeps his gaze forward. His face is composed, but thereâs a faint tightness at the corners of his mouth, like heâs holding something down.
Something quiet. Something that doesnât have anywhere to go.
The cloak room is warm, softly lit, lined with hooks and neatly hung coats that look too ordinary for the people standing beneath them. The smell of wool and leather and expensive cologne hangs in the air.
Seungcheol takes your coat from its hanging spot. He lifts it, helps you slip your arms through, and draws the fabric gently over your shoulders. His fingers brush your collarbone once as he settles it into place. Then he takes his own coat, shrugs it on, and turns.
Mingyu reaches for his coat, movements easy but careful. Minghao does the same. When all the coats are on, when the last button is done, and the last sleeve is straightened, a second of silence envelopes you.
Mingyu breaks it first. âTake care,â he says simply.
It isnât a plea. It isnât a promise. Itâs what you say when youâve accepted the loss and decided fighting isnât worth the trouble. You meet his eyes. âYou too,â you reply. The words feel thin, but they are all you have to offer.
Mingyuâs mouth twitchesâhis familiar cocky smileâand he nods once.
Then he turns to Seungcheol, and for a moment, the air tightens again. The recognition of two men who understand exactly what the other is capable of. Mingyu dips his chin. âLucky,â he says.
Seungcheolâs expression doesnât change much. But his eyes soften in a way only you would notice, âSmart,â Seungcheol replies. Itâs the closest thing to a compliment either of them would ever admit to giving.
Minghao steps closer next. He looks at you with a quiet intensity that doesnât ask for anything, and that somehow hurts more than if he did.
âI hope,â Minghao begins, then stops, as if the rest of the sentence is too intimate to speak aloud in a cloak room. He swallows. âI hope you get what you wanted,â he finishes. The words arenât romantic. They arenât dramatic. They are honest. Your throat tightens, and you hate that it does.
You give him a small nod. âIâm trying,â you say.
Minghaoâs gaze flicks to Seungcheolâs hand at your back. Then he nods once too. He doesnât look at Seungcheol as long as Mingyu did. He simply says, âDonât break her.â Seungcheolâs hand firms against your back. âI wonât,â he answers. Minghao breathes out slowly, then steps back.
For a moment, the four of you stand together like the last survivors of something no one else will ever know existed. Then Mingyu and Minghao move toward the front door. No lingering glances. No dramatic farewells.
Just a quiet separation, the way professionals leave after a job is doneâeven when the job was not supposed to be this. Seungcheol guides you out behind them, palm still at your back. The front doors open, and the night rushes in.
The city is alive outsideâcar headlights, distant voices, the hum of a city that never stops moving. For a heartbeat, it feels like stepping out of a dream into reality. There are people on the street. A couple walking past, laughing, unaware. A man smoking near the curb. A taxi rolling by slowly, its driver looking for a fare. They glance at you and then look away, because to them, you are just four well-dressed people leaving an expensive restaurant. Thatâs the strangest part. How easily you can pass for ordinary.
Mingyu and Minghao head down the sidewalk together for a few steps, then split offâseparate directions, separate exits, the way the world demands you do if you want to keep living. You and Seungcheol follow at a slower pace. Your hand finds his without thinking. His fingers close around yours immediately. The distance between you and the restaurant growsâten meters, twentyâand you feel the air shift behind you.
Then the explosion comes. Not a pop. Not a crack. A roar that slams into your spine and turns the world white for half a second. Heat surges against your back. Glass shatters. The sound rolls through the street. People scream. Heads snap up. Someone drops somethingâkeys, a phone, you donât knowâand the clatter is swallowed by panic.
You stop dead, your hand tightening around Seungcheolâs.
Mingyu and Minghao stop too, farther ahead, both of them turning sharply toward the restaurant. Their bodies go still, instinctive, the way men go still when their brains are calculating whether thereâs a second blast coming.
The restaurant is burning. Flames bloom behind the front windows, bright and hungry. Smoke begins to spill upward, thick and black, swallowing the night. An alarm starts wailing. Somewhere in the distance, sirens answerâfaint at first, then growing louder, converging.
You stare, breath caught, shock punching through you so hard it feels like your ribs crack under the pressure. Mingyu swears under his breath, then shakes his head once, almost incredulous, as if the audacity of it offends him. Minghaoâs expression doesnât crumble. His eyes track the building, the fire, the pattern of it, like heâs reading an equation that suddenly makes sense.
Seungcheol doesnât move. He watches the flames the way he watched the chocolate shell crackâlike he expected it, like it was inevitable, like it is simply another part of the nightâs design. Your gaze snaps to him, searching his face for surprise and finding none. âSeungcheol,â you breathe, the name torn out of you. He turns his head slightly, eyes meeting yours. âContingency,â he explains. âHis.â
Your stomach twists. âYou knew?â
âI found it when I arrived,â he whispers, pitched so only you can hear over the growing chaos. âUnder the floor. Wired to the back.â
Your blood runs cold. âAnd you left it?â
Seungcheolâs gaze flicks back to the burning building, then returns to you. âIf it disappeared, heâd know,â he says simply. âAnd he wouldnât sit at that table.â A pause. âI needed him comfortable.â
The sirens grow louder. People are running now, some toward the restaurant, phones raised, others away from it, hands over their mouths.
Mingyu and Minghao glance back once, not at the fireâat you and Seungcheol. They understand. The job is finished. The night is yours.
Mingyu turns and melts into the moving crowd, disappearing down a side street like heâs done it a hundred times. Minghao lingers for half a beat longer, eyes on the flames, then he exhales once and turns the other way, vanishing into the night. You watch them go, and the finality of it settles. Closure. At last.
Seungcheolâs hand tightens around yours. âWeâre leaving,â he announces. You donât argue. You let him guide you away from the sirens, away from the shouting, away from the burning restaurant that was supposed to be an ending and became a spectacle. You walk in the opposite direction of the crowd. In the opposite direction of your ghosts.
The city swallows the sound as you go, the chaos receding behind you. Your steps are even. Your breath steadies. The night air is cold enough to feel honest. After a block, after two, you glance back onceânot to look at the fire, but to look at the sky. Smoke rises in a dark column, visible even from here, a stain against the city lights. Seungcheol doesnât look back. His grip on your hand is unwavering.
You donât know what youâll be after this. You donât know whether normal was ever real, or whether it was always a costume you both wore until it stopped fitting. You donât know how you forgive him for what he did tonight, or how he forgives you for the life you hid. But your fingers are still intertwined. Your steps are still matched.
And when Seungcheol tilts his head slightly toward you, his voice comes, not asking, not pleadingâsimply stating the only truth that matters. âWe go forward.â You answer with the only thing you can offer that feels like a vow. âTogether,â you say.
Behind you, the sirens wail. The restaurant burns. And you walk on, hand in hand, into the night that doesnât belong to anyoneâexcept the two of you.
A/N: Soooo, this is experimental at best. I have no idea if itâs any good, but I know itâs different from anything Iâve written so far. I took inspiration from two specific things: âThe Dinnerâ by Herman Koch, and that one Criminal Minds episode where we meet Cat Adams for the first time. If you hate it, keep your comments to yourself because Iâm sensitive (pls thanks). If you love it, feel free to let me know! đ
Taglist: @igetcarriedawaywithyou - @amazinggraxia
Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome. Want to be tagged in future works? Let me know.
(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest.)
warnings: angst: heartbreak, heavy implications of cheating. some mentions of readerâs expectations as the heiress to company both as a woman + as the adoptive daughter taking on the role. mingyuâs one-sided pining for his best friend.
daisyâs notes: can i get a mingyu. also sorry to seungkwan for the role he has in this fic. no promise of when iâll post the rest, but i thought iâd go ahead and post the angsty first part haha
summary: As the adopted daughter of the Kim family and current heir to the company, you have it all. An arranged marriage with your soon-to-be fiance who you truly fell in love with, respect from your workers for being good at your job, a good relationship with both your family and your good friends⊠What more could you want out of life? And yet all it takes is one night for everything to fall down, and one man to help pick up the pieces.
characters: hansol x female reader (but also hansol x oc)
genre/warnings: idol au, best friends to strangers, a little fluff but itâs mostly angst, this part is all hansol x oc and from hansolâs pov but reader is mentioned a lot
word count:Â 1,127
summary:Â if i could find you now things would get better
tag list: @anissanightyoung @aceofvernons @mythicalamphitrite @caratluvie @juliettechokilo @liemwantstosleep @rubyreduji @ohchangyu @mingyublues @kamalymaly @ru-lin (if youâd like to be added to the tag list, please fill out this form!!!)
[SVT Imprinted] Soonyoung: Two Is Better Than One (Part 2)
Anonymous asked: honestly I just want more soonie & kaito content its the cutest relationship im begging u
Characters: Soonyoung x female reader
Genre/warnings: werewolf au, fluff, a lil humor, reader isnât from korea and speaks another language, this is mostly just soonyoung with readerâs younger brother rather than soonyoung and reader lmao
Word count:Â 1,574
Summary: Since Kaito is attached to Soonyoung at the hip (or more like his back like a koala) he sometimes has to take on the task of explaining important milestones and life lessons to him, including where babies come from, and how to become an alpha.
Tag list: @psshwa @uglyratlmao @brokenbutchocolate @shra-vasti @killcomet @brattybunfornct @henloiamaweirdobye @anissanightyoung @babyminghao @mythicalamphitrite @caratluvie @minluvly @honeyylin @miki-chi @heemingyu @noraehey @awkwardnesshabitat @floweryjessy @woozarts @anothershorthuman @shuabby1994 @vernxnsfool @tiâred @etaerealboy @plants-w0rldâ (if youâd like to be added to the tag list, please fill out this form!!!)
Unable to tag: @junuoyi @1-800-multistan @thepencilkorner @futuristiccomputerkitten
Anonymous asked: Maybe a jihoon imprinted where after he marked you he has like super nostalgia for some reason and heâs being extra fluffy with his mate and canât stop thinking about her and just wants to cuddle forever?
Characters: Jihoon x female reader
Genre/warnings: werewolf au, college au, fluff, hints of angst but itâs barely even noticeable
Word count: 1,632
Summary: After what happened with the werewolf hunters, Jihoon canât seem to stop thinking about you. The troubling experience has made him extra clingy toward you, and he just canât help himself from dragging you away from everything just to spend a moment alone â not that youâre complaining.
Tags: @psshwa @uglyratlmao @brokenbutchocolate @shra-vasti @killcomet @brattybunfornctâ @shuabby1994 @henloiamaweirdobye @anissanightyoung @babyminghaoâ @mythicalamphitriteâ @caratluvieâ @minluvlyâ @honeyylinâ @miki-chiâ @heemingyuâ @noraeheyâ @awkwardnesshabitatâ @floweryjessyâ @woozartsâ @anothershorthumanâ @vernxnsfoolâ @tiâredâ @etaerealboyâ @plants-w0rldâ (if youâd like to be added to the tag list, please fill out this form!!!)
a/n: with the warnings mentioned, please remember this is only fiction. I don't condone such actions and I don't believe anyone from svt would be able to do this. To put it simple, if you don't like it, don't read.
Also, I can't decide which format I like lol
masterlist here.
The eerie silence is killing you. And you canât stand looking at him any longer.
You feel nothing but disgust.
âMingyu.â
He turned around, shocked at first but rushed to hug you. âY/n! I didnât know youâd be home early,â he said, looking at you with so much love and adoration, âIâm sorry for the mess, and I know I promised I wouldnât do it again, but I -â
âYou what?â He sensed the hostile tone in your voice, and he knows better but to either keep shut or give you a good answer. It doesnât matter though, he reached way past the end of your patience.
âYou call my best friend a mess? You said Vernon would be the last.â He held your hands in his squeezing them to calm you down, and you canât help but cry at the scene in front of you. It reminds you of what he did to Vernon; how he saw you catching up with your college classmate, how happy you looked that day, and he got low thinking he never saw you that happy with him. âI had to do it, you understand right? I did it because I love you and I got scared Iâd lose you,â he said, as an excuse.
Youâre not even sure why you did it, but you turned a blind eye, believing Mingyu wouldnât do it again. You dangerously gave him too much trust.
âPlease y/n, I saw Chan, okay? I saw him -â
You exploded. He was about to give you another bullshit excuse and this time, youâre not having it. âWhat, Mingyu? You saw him what? You saw him do something that he shouldnât or you saw him do something you just donât approve of?â
Mingyu is crying. Great, even if he did something unforgiving, it still aches your heart to see him cry. He hugged you again, sobbing like a child on your shoulders. But you have had enough.
âThis is not normal, Mingyu. Get treated and if you get better, maybe I'll come back.â
âWhat?â you were stunned by the sudden tone of his voice at what you said. You can sense the panic, fear, and anger. He released you from the hug and shook you by the shoulders. âWhat does that mean? Are you leaving me?â
âI specifically told you to get treated.â
âBut you werenât sure if youâd come back!â His hold on your shoulders is getting tighter and tighter and itâs hurting you, so you pushed him off of you. You ran towards the front door but he quickly caught up to you, spun you around, and locked the door. He pushed you roughly towards the nearest wall, locking you in between his arms. He slowly looked up to you; for a minute, you got scared at the threat in his eyes. This was no longer your Mingyu; in fact, he was no longer your Mingyu the moment he did that to Vernon.
âYouâre not going anywhere, sweetheart,â he smirked at your shocked expression. He grabbed you by the hair and dragged you towards the bedroom. You couldnât fight him well because of his painful grip. Once you reached the room, he tossed you on the bed violently. You were about to slap him when he beat you to it, the palm of his hands stinging your cheeks.
âIâve always loved you being feisty, but you,â pointing a finger at you, a smug look plastered in his face, âyou need to be taught a lesson.â
He grabbed your hair again and forced you to look at him. "You're mine, y/n."
genre/warnings: idol au, best friends to strangers, getting over a âbreakupâ, slight angst but itâs not too bad ig, slight comfort???
word count:Â 1,083
summary:Â put me on the shelf, discipline myself to let the sparks die out; shattering anything that has reflections of you
tag list: @anissanightyoung @aceofvernons @mythicalamphitrite @caratluvie @juliettechokilo @liemwantstosleep @rubyreduji @ohchangyu @minluvly @honeyylin @miki-chi @heemingyu @noraehey @awkwardnesshabitat @floweryjessy @woozarts @anothershorthuman @shuabby1994 @vernxnsfoolâ (if youâd like to be added to the tag list, please fill out this form!!!)
a/n: things in bold italics are song lyrics and things in italics are texts
Hello friends!!! I hope you guys are well and healthy. And if youâre not, I hope that you get there. :) Iâve finished the first drafts of the demon story and prince story I had posted about a while back. They both require a lot of heavy editing, so not quite ready to show for. But I wrote this little one-shot a few days ago and managed to edit this one pretty quickly. So Iâm very sorry for the mistakes in this.Â
Wanted to do something a little different. If you want to know a little about my process of writing this piece, I wrote a tiny post about it: here. :)
BIPOC rec: Red Table Talk with Jada Pinkett Smith, Willow Smith, and Adrienne Banfield Norris. Got obsessed with this when I saw Constance Wuâs episode. Tales from the Cafe by Toshikazu Kawaguchi. This book is so beautiful. Itâs a sequel to before the coffee gets cold about a cafe that allows you to time travel. So beautiful.
w.c. 3.5k (fluff, angst)
She rolls over in the bed. Jihoon is already awake and scrolling through his phone. When he feels her eyes on him, he puts his phone on the bedside table to roll towards her. His hand finds the divot of her spine; his fingers trace lightly up and down her back.
Theyâd somehow fallen into his bed after a night of talking. She can hear movement out in the hallway, but Jihoon had told her that heâs going to take a day off from the studio. She has him all to herself today. The thought makes her smile a little.
âYou love him,â her best friend had insisted. âYouâve been seeing him for like a month and youâre already in love.â
âDonât say that,â she groaned. âIâm going to screw it up.â
Sejeong shrugged. âYou know, you could just ask him.â
âAsk him what?â
âHow to love him.â
She stares at Jihoon now. He seems content just staring back.
âHow do you want me to love you?â she finally asks.
Anonymous asked: Can I request a part two for jisungs imprinted ? I find it so funny and cute. And as someone who is allergic to dogs Iâve always wondered what it be like to date a werewolf. Love you and your writing â€ïžâ€ïž
Characters: Jisung x female reader
Genre/warnings: werewolf au, college au, kinda humor, sorta fluff, fake angst but also some real angst toward the end, fake breakup, mentions of death but nobody dies, reader is allergic to dogs
Word count: 4,260
Summary: As the packâs âmost boring coupleâ, you and Jisung decide to spice things up to get your friends off your back.
Tag list: @honeyylin @brattybunfornct @henloiamaweirdobye @anissanightyoung @mythicalamphitrite @minluvly @awkwardnesshabitat @woozarts @septicrebelâ (if youâd like to be added to the tag list, please fill out this form!!!)
a/n: iâll be honest, i had no idea how to resolve this, so iâm just gonna leave it on a semi-cliff hanger and if anyone has ideas for pt 3 pls lmk <3
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