Peter Solarz
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^^ (coming soon)
Hii guyss
So.... uh
The fics..
It MIGHT take a while 😭😭
My exams start soon amd I just dont have it in me to complete it. Both the fics are half done so please bear with me 😭😭
I'm so sorry for the wait guys! I literally planned ro post both the fics the day the poll ended itself but I had procrastinated and elongated it till now.
I promise I will post it eventually.
I will tell you guys this though.
I did the wheel picker and guess what! I'll be doing Hybrid au for EJ and Werewolf au for Jo! Everything was decided by the random wheel picker so don't worry, I did it fairly. So look forward to it!
Byee
yayy 😩✨️ I haven't done this in so long!
Prince au
Werewolf au
Boxer au
Hybrid au
Time Travel au
Hogwarts au
I know 😭
I put in a lot but I couldn't help it 😢
If you haven't chosen the poll to choose which &team members you want a fic on then go to my page and choose now! ✨️
I'm curious to see who will be chosen and which aus I'll be doing! 😭⭐️
STREAM WE ON FIREE 🔥
I used the picker wheel again!🍀
Yuma
K
EJ
Jo
I really dont have any idea who to write for so lets see. I'll do fics for the two members with the most votes 😳‼️
And maybe I'll post one more poll for the au and the two aus wuth the most votes will be chosen and I'll choose the wheel picker to chose which genre for which member!
So, do tune in! 🐺
STREAM WE ON FIRE!!
Crying, Screaming, and Capitalism Ft. Werewolf!Taki
A/n: Hellooo! I realized it haven't done much fics for Taki (its just one 😭) amd I love Taki so I got to work real quick! It's shorter than I would have liked it to be though 😭
Genre: Fantasy au, Werewolf au, Supernatural au, fluff, humor
Pairings: Werewolf!Taki x Mermaid!Mizue (fem oc/ named reader)
Warnings: none
Taki barely noticed how long he had been staring at them.
Three pearls rested in his palm, smooth and glowing, while the fourth sat delicately between his fingers. Sunlight slipped through the dorm window and caught their surface, making them shimmer in a way that did not feel natural. Not like anything from a jewelry store. Not like anything from the human world at all.
They felt warm.
Alive, almost.
“Did you steal them?”
Taki jolted so hard he nearly fell off his chair.
“CAN YOU NOT CREEP UP AT ME LIKE THAT?!” he barked, clutching his chest as his ears twitched in reflex.
Standing at the doorway, completely unbothered, was Harua.
“I knocked,” Harua said flatly, stepping inside. “You didn’t hear. That's not my fault.”
Taki grumbled under his breath, still recovering, while Harua’s gaze dropped to his hand.
“…Where did you get those?”
Taki hesitated, then looked back at the pearls.
“I found them,” he said slowly. “On four different occasions.”
Harua raised a brow.
“And somehow… Mizue was always there. Right before I found them.” Taki frowned, thinking. “She would leave suddenly. Then I would notice one of these.”
Harua stepped closer and picked one up before Taki could protest.
It glowed faintly against his fingers.
“...This isn’t normal,” Harua murmured.
“Right?” Taki leaned in. “They feel… special.”
“Expensive,” Harua corrected instantly. His eyes sharpened. “Can I take it? I want to sell it.”
Taki’s wolf instincts snapped awake. He snatched the pearl back immediately.
“NO. I FOUND THEM.”
Harua scoffed, already reaching for a snack from Maki’s stash like he owned the place.
“You are so possessive. It is annoying.”
“They’re mine,” Taki insisted, clutching them tighter.
Harua crunched loudly, then shrugged.
“If you are so curious, go ask Fuma. He studies marine biology. He might know what weird shiny ocean thing that is.”
Taki froze.
“Oh.”
That… actually made sense.
“Oh yeah!”
And just like that, he bolted out of the room.
“Fumaa! Fuma!!”
He pounded on the door down the hall like his life depended on it.
Inside, something shuffled.
The door opened slowly, revealing Fuma, half-awake and very unimpressed.
“…Why are you yelling like the building is on fire?”
Taki shoved his hand forward.
“Look at these!”
Fuma blinked, then leaned in slightly.
“…Pearls?”
“Not just pearls,” Taki insisted. “Weird pearls. Special pearls. Mizue-related pearls.”
That caught his attention.
Fuma’s expression shifted as he took one, turning it under the light. His brows knit together.
“…Where did you say you found these?”
Taki repeated everything, from the first encounter to the fourth, each time mentioning Mizue appearing and disappearing.
Fuma went quiet.
Too quiet.
“…These are not regular pearls,” he said finally.
“I KNEW IT,” Taki said instantly.
Fuma ignored him, still examining it.
“They’re too pure. Too uniform. And the glow…” He glanced up. “…Taki, these resemble something from deep-sea folklore.”
Taki blinked.
“…Folklore?”
Fuma nodded slowly.
“There are stories,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “about pearls formed naturally.”
Taki’s ears twitched again.
“By what?”
Fuma hesitated.
“…Mermaids.”
Silence.
Taki stared at him.
Then laughed.
“Okay, funny joke.”
“I am not joking.”
Taki stopped laughing.
Fuma reached behind him and pulled a worn book from his shelf, flipping through pages that looked like they had been referenced far too many times.
Fuma turned the book toward him.
On the page was an illustration of a pearl. Not dull. Not ordinary. It had that same faint glow, that same almost-living sheen.
“These,” Fuma said, pointing, “are called mermaid tears.”
Taki frowned.
“…Mermaid tears?”
“Yeah…” Fuma nodded. “You do not know?”
Taki shook his head slowly.
“When mermaids cry,” Fuma continued, “their tears transform into pearls.”
Taki’s breath caught.
His eyes dropped instantly to the ones in his hand.
“…That means she cried?” he asked, voice quieter now.
Fuma nodded once.
“Probably.”
The room fell silent again.
Fuma flipped the book closer to him so Taki could compare.
“The structure, the glow… they match exactly,” he said. “These are the same kind.”
But Taki barely heard him anymore.
His mind had already started connecting everything.
Four pearls.
Four different days.
Mizue there each time.
Leaving suddenly.
“…I wonder what made her cry,” Taki murmured.
He stared at them, his grip tightening slightly.
“Four pearls… I found them on four different days, so she cried four times…” His brows furrowed, worry creeping in. “Why?”
Fuma leaned back against his desk, thinking.
“…Homesick, maybe.”
Taki looked up.
“She is not from land,” Fuma continued. “And she lives in the dorms too. That cannot be easy.”
Taki’s ears drooped slightly.
“…Yeah…”
“There was a guy in my class in high school,” Fuma added. “He was from the sea as well. He used to cry pearls often because he missed his home.”
Taki swallowed.
Fuma crossed his arms.
“So Mizue probably misses home a lot.”
Taki’s chest tightened.
“…Jo told me she did not even go home for summer vacation.”
That hit harder than anything else.
Taki looked back at the pearls in his hand.
They did not just feel special anymore.
They felt… heavy.
Like each one held something he had completely missed.
And now all he could think about was her.
Alone.
Crying somewhere he never noticed.
Taki barely remembered thanking Fuma.
“Thanks!” he blurted, already halfway out the door, clutching the pearls tightly.
“Wait, Taki—” Fuma started, but he was gone.
By the time he reached the hallway, he was already pulling out his phone, dialing her number with shaky fingers.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then—
“Taki?”
“Mizue!” he said immediately, pacing. “Where are you? Can we hang out?”
There was a small pause on the other end.
“…Sure,” she said. “I was just heading out anyway.”
—
They met up at a small ice cream shop just off campus.
It was quiet, the soft hum of a freezer and distant chatter filling the space. Mizue stood there with a pastel-colored soft serve, looking completely normal. Calm. Smiling.
Like nothing had happened.
Like she had not been crying at all.
Taki sat across from her, staring.
Thinking.
Overthinking.
“…Do you miss home?” he asked suddenly.
Mizue blinked, mid-lick.
“Home?” she tilted her head. “Like… my home?”
Taki nodded quickly.
She hummed, thinking, then shrugged lightly.
“I guess?”
Taki leaned forward.
“A lot?” he pressed.
She paused this time, eyeing him carefully.
“…What is this about, Taki?”
He hesitated.
Then sighed, unable to hold it in anymore.
“…This.”
He reached into his pocket and placed the four pearls on the table between them.
They caught the light instantly.
Mizue’s eyes flickered.
Recognition.
Taki pointed at them, his voice soft but urgent.
“Your tears,” he said. “You cried because you miss home.”
She opened her mouth—
“It’s okay,” he rushed. “You don’t have to hide it! I want to help you. Don’t be sad. We’re all here, okay?”
Mizue stared at him.
Then at the pearls.
Then back at him.
“…Oh.”
A small, almost amused smile tugged at her lips.
“Taki… you misunderstood.”
He shook his head immediately.
“No, really! It’s okay! It’s normal to miss home, I get it, you don’t have to pretend—”
“No, Taki.”
She gently pushed the pearls back toward him.
“I was crying because I’ve been watching that tragic romance series I told you about.”
Silence.
Taki froze.
“…What?”
She nodded, completely serious.
“It’s devastating. Like actually unfair. Episode twelve destroyed me.”
He blinked.
Slowly.
“…Oh.”
She tilted her head, watching his expression shift from intense concern… to confusion… to something close to embarrassment.
“Also…” she added, leaning slightly forward. “Where do you think my home is?”
Taki stiffened.
“…Uh…”
His brain short-circuited.
“…The sea?”
Mizue stared at him.
Then burst out laughing.
Like, genuinely laughing.
“Taki—” she tried to speak between laughs, “my parents are literally fifth-generation mermaids who settled on land!”
He stared.
“They live in the next city,” she continued, wiping a tear from her eye, still giggling. “I go home all the time during holidays.”
Taki’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“…Next city?”
“Next city,” she confirmed.
“…Not… underwater kingdom?”
She laughed again.
“No.”
Taki slowly sank back into his seat, processing.
All that panic.
All that worry.
All that emotional buildup.
“…So you were crying over a drama.”
“Yes.”
“…Four times.”
“It gets worse every episode.”
He covered his face with his hands.
“…I was so serious.”
“I could tell,” she grinned.
A pause.
Then she gently nudged one of the pearls.
“…But,” she added softly, “it’s kind of nice you cared that much.”
Taki peeked through his fingers.
“…Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He exhaled, finally relaxing.
“…Still,” he muttered, glancing at the pearls. “You cry expensive tears.”
Mizue smirked.
“I know."
Then, after a beat—
“…Is the series really that sad?” he asked.
Mizue’s expression shifted instantly.
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh, you have no idea.”
—
An hour later, they were crammed into Mizue’s dorm room, lights off, laptop open, snacks completely abandoned.
Episode twelve played.
Silence.
Tension.
Then—
“I HATE HIM!” Taki wailed, clutching a pillow like it had personally betrayed him. “WHY IS HE SO INSENSITIVE TOWARDS HARUKA’S FEELINGS?!”
“I KNOW!” Mizue sobbed right back, already halfway into a breakdown as she threw herself at him.
They clung to each other dramatically, crying like their lives depended on it.
On screen, Haruka turned away, heartbroken.
Taki let out an actual howl.
“This is so unfair!”
Mizue buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing harder.
“I CAN’T DO THIS AGAIN—”
plink
plink
plink
Neither of them noticed.
But small, glowing pearls began to fall.
Hitting the floor one by one.
plink
plink
“WHY DID HE SAY THAT?!” Taki cried.
“HE DOESN’T DESERVE HER!” Mizue choked out.
More pearls.
Scattering across the floor.
The door creaked open.
Standing there was Harua.
He took in the scene.
Two absolute disasters on the bed.
Crying.
Clinging to each other.
And then—
His eyes slowly dropped to the floor.
“…Oh.” Harua's eyes sparkled and without a word, he stepped inside.
Crouched down.
And started collecting the pearls.
One.
By one.
By one.
plink
Taki sobbed louder in the background.
Mizue clutched him tighter.
Harua calmly filled his pocket.
“…This is profitable,” he muttered under his breath.
Neither of them heard him.
Too busy mourning Haruka’s fictional heartbreak.
Taki’s sobs slowly died down into quiet sniffles.
“…This is so unfair…” he muttered weakly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.
He took a shaky breath.
Another.
Then finally looked up—
…and froze.
“…Harua?”
Across the room, crouched on the floor like he had always belonged there, was Harua, calmly picking up pearls and dropping them into his bag.
“…What are you doing here?” Taki asked, still sniffling.
Harua did not even look up.
“In the process of making a living,” he replied flatly, stuffing another handful into his bag.
Taki blinked.
“…What?”
Beside him, Mizue sniffled and wiped her cheeks, equally confused.
“…When did you even come?” she asked, her voice still thick from crying.
Harua finally stood, casually walking over and handing her a box of tissues.
“After talking with Taki this morning,” he said.
Mizue took the tissues with a soft thanks, dabbing at her eyes.
“I searched how much mermaid tear pearls go for in the market,” Harua continued, completely serious. “It was… a lot.”
Taki slowly sat up straighter.
“…A lot?”
Harua nodded once.
“So I came to discuss business with you,” he said, glancing at Mizue.
A beat.
Then, completely unfazed—
“But you were already crying, so I got to work.”
Silence.
Taki stared at him.
Mizue stared at him.
Then both of them looked down at the floor.
…Which was now completely empty.
“…You took all of them?” Taki asked.
“Yes.”
“…Without asking?”
“Yes.”
Mizue blinked.
“…Those are my tears.”
Harua shrugged lightly.
“And now they are my inventory.”
Taki’s eye twitched.
“YOU CAN’T JUST CALL THEM INVENTORY—”
“They were on the floor,” Harua cut in calmly. “That makes them unclaimed assets.”
Mizue let out a small, incredulous laugh.
“That is not how that works.”
Harua adjusted his bag strap.
“It is now.”
Taki pointed at him, still emotional from the drama and now this.
“Give them back!”
Harua looked at him.
“No.”
Mizue covered her mouth, trying not to laugh again.
“Taki, you were literally crying two seconds ago—”
“I STILL AM!” he snapped, voice cracking again. “AND NOW HE’S STEALING YOUR TEARS!”
“They are high-value items,” Harua replied. “I am simply being efficient.”
Mizue shook her head, amused despite herself.
“You could have just asked.”
Harua paused.
Considered it.
“…No.”
Taki lunged off the bed.
“GET BACK HERE—”
Harua stepped back effortlessly.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“You STOLE them!”
“I collected them.”
“THAT’S THE SAME THING—”
Mizue watched the two of them, laughter bubbling up again as Taki chased Harua around the room.
Her gaze flickered briefly to the empty floor.
Then to Taki.
Still teary-eyed.
Still worked up.
Still caring way too much.
Her expression softened.
“…You can keep some,” she said suddenly.
Both boys paused.
Taki blinked.
“…What?”
Harua tilted his head slightly.
“…Define ‘some.’”
Mizue smiled faintly.
“They’re not just valuables,” she said. “They’re memories too.”
Taki looked at her.
Harua looked at the bag.
A beat passed.
Then—
“…Fine,” Harua said.
He reached into his bag, pulled out a few pearls, and tossed them toward Taki.
Taki caught them instinctively.
“…That is your share.”
Taki stared at them.
“…Share?”
“You cried too,” Harua pointed out.
Taki froze.
“…I—”
Mizue burst out laughing again.
“You did!” she said. “You were worse than me!”
“I WAS EMOTIONALLY INVESTED—”
“And now you have emotional profit,” Harua added.
Taki looked between the pearls in his hand…
…and the two of them.
Then groaned loudly.
“…This is ridiculous.”
Mizue leaned back against the bed, still smiling.
“Maybe.”
Harua slung his bag over his shoulder.
“But it is profitable.”
Taki clutched the pearls anyway.
Taki stared at the two pearls in his hand.
He blinked.
Counted again.
“…One. Two.”
A beat.
Then—
“HEY, IT’S JUST TWO!!”
Across the room, Harua didn’t even turn around.
“You already have four,” he said calmly. “And with two, you have six now. I am being generous.”
Taki’s jaw dropped.
He pointed at him, outraged.
“YOU HAVE THE WHOLE BAG FILLED WITH PEARLS! EVEN YOUR POCKETS!!”
Harua finally glanced back, completely unfazed.
“So?” he said. “It is for business.”
Taki sputtered.
“You guys just want to keep them for memory purposes,” Harua continued, adjusting his bag. “Which, in the business world, would be termed as waste.”
Taki gasped like he had just been personally attacked.
“I am not wasting it,” Harua added. “I am building an empire with these. At least I am making something out of it.”
He started walking toward the door.
“You are being greedy.”
“GREEDY?!” Taki echoed, scandalized.
The door slid open.
And Harua walked out.
Taki turned sharply to Mizue, still clutching the two pearls.
“…You’re gonna let him go with your pearls?!”
Mizue blinked at him.
Then shrugged lightly, still sitting on the bed.
“What? It’s not like I needed them anyway.”
Taki stared at her.
“We have two,” she added, gesturing to his hand. “Besides, they’re kind of a falling hazard.”
Taki looked down at the floor.
Then back at her.
“…A hazard?”
“Yeah,” she nodded casually. “I usually just dump them into the sea.”
Taki froze.
“…You WHAT?”
Before he could process that absolute tragedy—
the door suddenly slid open again.
Harua reappeared.
Both of them jumped.
He pointed directly at Mizue.
“No more.”
She blinked.
“…What?”
“From now on,” he said seriously, “when you want to cry, cry into garbage bags and hand them to me.”
Silence.
Taki stared at him.
Mizue stared at him.
“I am going to make the best out of this opportunity,” Harua finished.
And just like that—
he turned and ran.
Actually ran.
Down the hallway.
Mizue blinked once.
Then burst into laughter.
Taki stood there, still holding two pearls, completely stunned.
“…He’s insane.”
Mizue wiped a tear from her eye, still giggling.
“…He’s motivated.”
Taki looked down at the pearls again.
Then toward the door.
Then back at her.
“…We’re not actually giving him garbage bags full of your tears.”
Mizue grinned.
“…Let’s see how the next episode goes.”
Taki paused.
Looked at the laptop.
Looked at her.
Then slowly sat back down.
“…He’s about to get rich, isn’t he.”
Mizue was still smiling when she leaned a little closer.
Taki barely had time to register it.
Then—
kiss
One cheek.
kiss
The other.
She pulled back like it was nothing, completely casual.
“Thanks for worrying about me though,” she said softly. “It was cute.”
Taki froze.
Entirely.
His brain shut down.
Ears stiff.
Eyes wide.
Posture locked.
“…I…”
Nothing came out.
Not a single functioning thought.
Mizue tilted her head, amused.
“Taki?”
He made a small, glitching noise.
“…you…”
Still nothing.
His face slowly turned red.
Then redder.
Then very red.
Mizue had to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing.
“…Did you break?” she asked.
Taki finally moved.
Barely.
He lifted a hand.
Pointed at her.
Then at his cheeks.
Then just… stopped again.
“…system error…” he muttered under his breath.
That was it.
Mizue lost it.
She burst out laughing, falling back onto the bed.
“Taki—” she tried to speak through her laughter, “it was just a thank you!”
He turned away immediately, covering his face.
“…that’s not a normal thank you…”
His tail puffed slightly behind him, completely giving him away.
Mizue peeked at him, grin softening just a little.
“…You’re cute too, you know.”
That did not help.
At all.
“…please stop talking,” he mumbled, voice muffled behind his hands.
Mizue only laughed again, nudging his shoulder.
“Come on,” she said, reaching for the laptop again. “Episode thirteen.”
Taki did not move.
“…I need five minutes,” he said faintly.
Mizue grinned.
“You don’t have five minutes.”
She hit play.
On screen, dramatic music swelled again.
Taki groaned quietly into his hands.
“…I’m not emotionally stable enough for this…”
Mizue giggled and just leaned against him and wrapped her arms around him anyway.
And he did not move away.
That's it for this one! 🍀
This was is so precious to me 😭 I did not expect it to turn out the way it did. Its definetly one of those fics that sounded good in my mind and came out way better. Im happy with it!
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
Handle With Chaos Ft. Gangster!Jisung
A/n: So hello! I'm back! I had a departmental event today but they were literally sucking money out of us unnecessarily for this event so I decided I am not about to waste my Sunday on that mediocre shit show so here I am!
Genre: Gang au, romance, fluff, comfort, humor
Pairings: Gangster!Jisung x Lia (named reader/ fem oc)
Warnings: mentions of gang activity, some annoying girls, people backbiting etc.
The warehouse always smelled like rust, smoke, and something faintly metallic, like danger had seeped into the walls and decided to stay.
Lia didn’t belong there.
And yet, she stood right in the middle of it.
Boots polished, heels sharp enough to hurt someone, a cropped jacket layered over something far too expensive for a place like this. Rings on almost every finger. Hair styled like she had somewhere better to be but chose not to go.
A few gang members snickered under their breath.
“Crazy freak’s here again.”
“She looks like she’s going to a fashion show, not a deal.”
“She always does.”
Lia heard them.
Of course she did.
She just smiled wider.
Not the soft kind. The kind that made people uncomfortable like she knew something they didn’t.
“Keep talking,” she chimed lightly, tilting her head. “I love free entertainment.”
They shut up.
Not because they respected her.
But because she was the boss’s daughter.
From the far corner, Park Jisung watched quietly.
Leaning against a crate, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
He didn’t laugh.
Never did.
He had seen her before anyone else ever really noticed her.
Not the loud version.
Not the glitter, the attitude, the unpredictable bursts of energy.
But the little things.
The way her fingers trembled slightly when she thought no one was looking.
The way she got too quiet when someone mentioned families.
The way her laughter sometimes came half a second too late—like she had to remember how to react.
To everyone else, she was chaos.
To Jisung?
She was… surviving.
“Jisung.”
Her voice cut through the noise like it always did.
He didn’t look surprised when she suddenly appeared right in front of him, way too close, like she had teleported.
“You look bored,” she said, squinting at him like she was studying a painting. “That’s ugly on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re always ‘fine.’” She mimicked him in a low voice, then rolled her eyes dramatically. “Say something interesting for once.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
That was normal.
Lia didn’t mind silence, but only his.
She leaned against the crate beside him, bumping her shoulder into his.
“Did you know,” she started casually, “that one of the guys said I look like I escaped from a circus?”
Jisung glanced at her.
“And?”
“And I told him circuses are expensive. Which means I’m out of his league.” She grinned.
A pause.
Then—
A faint exhale from him.
Not quite a laugh.
But close.
She noticed.
She always noticed.
Her grin softened just a little.
“There it is,” she whispered. “You do have emotions.”
“Barely.”
“Rude.”
Across the room, a few members were watching.
Again.
Always.
“Why does he even talk to her?”
“She’s insane.”
“She’ll get him in trouble one day.”
Jisung heard them.
He always did.
But he never cared.
Because they didn’t know what he knew.
They didn’t see the seven year old girl standing in blood, screaming for a mother who wasn’t coming back.
They didn’t see how silence had almost swallowed her whole before she decided to become loud instead.
Too loud.
Too bright.
Too much.
“Hey.”
Her voice dropped suddenly.
Not playful anymore.
Jisung turned slightly.
She was looking straight ahead now, not at him.
“They’re going on another run tonight,” she muttered. “Dangerous one.”
“I know.”
“You’re going.”
It wasn’t a question.
“…Yeah.”
A beat.
Then she laughed again—but it was thinner this time.
“Don’t die.”
Jisung frowned slightly.
“I won’t.”
“You better not,” she added quickly, turning to face him now, eyes sharp. “Because if you do, I’ll kill you myself.”
He blinked.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Shut up, it does in my head.”
Silence settled between them.
Not awkward.
Never awkward.
Just… quiet.
Rare, for her.
“You’re the only one who talks to me normally,” Lia said suddenly.
Jisung didn’t react much, but his gaze shifted.
“I talk to everyone the same.”
“No, you don’t.” She shook her head. “You tolerate them. You talk to me.”
Another pause.
He turned to look at her.
“…You’re not crazy.”
The words came out simple.
Flat.
But they hit harder than anything else.
Lia froze.
Just for a second.
Then she scoffed, turning away quickly.
“Wow,” she said, forcing a laugh. “That’s the worst judgment call you’ve ever made.”
Jisung didn’t argue.
He just said quietly,
“You just had no choice.”
For once, Lia didn’t have a comeback.
Didn’t joke.
Didn’t deflect.
She just stood there.
Then, he took a step closer.
Close enough that the noise of the warehouse faded into something distant, like it didn’t belong in the same space as them anymore.
Lia tilted her head slightly, eyes fixed on him, not playful this time, not teasing. Just… looking.
Studying.
Like she was trying to memorize him.
“Just don’t die, alright?” she said, voice quieter than he had ever heard it. “If you die, I’ll have no one to pester.”
For a second, Jisung didn’t respond.
Then, a soft, airy chuckle slipped past his lips.
It was small.
Barely there.
But real.
Lia’s lips twitched at the sound, something almost relieved flickering across her face.
“Wow,” she murmured. “I should threaten you more often.”
“Don’t,” he replied simply.
She huffed, but didn’t step away.
Didn’t break eye contact.
And for once, she wasn’t filling the silence.
“You’re scared,” Jisung said after a moment.
Not accusing.
Just… stating it.
Lia’s expression shifted instantly.
“Please,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I don’t get scared.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
Her jaw tightened.
For a second, it looked like she might snap back — say something sharp, something loud, something her.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping just a little.
“…I hate it,” she admitted, almost under her breath.
Jisung didn’t interrupt.
“I hate waiting,” she continued, voice quieter now. “Hate not knowing if someone’s coming back or not.”
A pause.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides.
“It’s annoying.”
He knew better than to call it that.
Annoying didn’t make your voice shake like that.
“I’ll come back,” he said.
Lia looked at him immediately.
“You don’t get to promise that.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t say it like you’re sure.”
Another pause.
Jisung held her gaze.
“I’ll try.”
And that.
That she believed.
More than any promise.
She nodded once, sharp and quick, like she needed to end the moment before it got heavier.
“Good,” she said, forcing a bit of her usual tone back in. “Because I have a reputation to maintain. Can’t be seen mourning someone.”
“Of course.”
“People will think I’ve gone soft.”
“You haven’t.”
She smirked faintly.
“Exactly.”
But she still didn’t move away.
And neither did he.
For a few seconds longer, they just stood there, too close.
Too quiet.
Too honest for a place like this.
Then Lia stepped back suddenly, like she remembered where they were.
“Go do your dangerous gang things,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “Try not to be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Debatable.”
Another small exhale of amusement from him.
And just like that, the moment slipped back into something lighter.
Familiar.
Safer.
But as Jisung turned to leave—
He felt it.
The way her gaze lingered on him.
Heavy.
Unspoken.
—
Two weeks later
The estate gates creaked open under the weight of familiarity.
Dust clung to boots, dried blood to knuckles, and faint scabs traced along his jaw and hands, but he walked in one piece.
Alive.
Just like he said he’d try to be.
Jisung barely made it past the main driveway when a loud crash split through the air.
Branches snapped.
Leaves scattered.
And a very expensive car disappeared halfway into a bush.
He stopped.
Slowly turned his head.
And there she was.
Lia.
Standing beside the wreck like it was part of a photoshoot.
A long, airy red dress flowed around her legs, feather embellishments catching in the light like something straight out of a runway. A matching red scarf trailed behind her dramatically, tangled slightly in a broken branch. Red heels, completely impractical for driving, dug into the gravel.
For a second, she just stared at him.
Eyes wide.
Like she’d seen a ghost.
“I can explain?” she said, voice unusually unsure.
Jisung’s gaze shifted from her
To the car.
Half inside a bush.
Branches sticking out at odd angles.
Leaves still falling off the hood.
Then back to her.
“The scene is explaining itself.”
She winced.
Then immediately rushed forward, planting herself right in front of him like she could block his view of the disaster behind her.
“I swear!” she started, hands flying up dramatically. “I did not do it on purpose. Okay maybe at some point I kind of did but I promise I had good intentions.”
Jisung blinked.
“You drove into a bush.”
“Technically, the bush attacked me.”
“It didn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can see it.”
She huffed, crossing her arms, then immediately uncrossing them to gesture wildly again.
“Okay, listen. There was this stray cat”
“There is no cat.”
“There was a cat,” she insisted. “It had vibes. Suspicious vibes. I was saving it.”
“By driving into a bush.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense in my head,” she shot back instantly, then froze.
Because she realized.
That was exactly what she said two weeks ago.
Her expression shifted.
Just slightly.
And then she looked at him properly.
Really looked.
At the scabs.
The scratches.
The faint bruising still visible under his collar.
Her voice dropped.
“You’re back.”
Jisung didn’t say anything at first.
Just gave a small nod.
“I said I’d try.”
Something in her face flickered again, that same fragile thing she never let stay for long.
Relief.
Real, unfiltered relief.
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
“Good,” she muttered, quickly turning her head like she needed to hide it. “Because that would’ve been really inconvenient for me.”
“Of course.”
“You’re very annoying to replace.”
“I’m not replaceable.”
That made her look back at him.
A slow grin spreading across her lips.
“There it is,” she said. “Confidence. I like it.”
A beat.
Then
Without warning
She stepped forward and grabbed his wrist.
Not rough.
But firm.
Like she needed to make sure he was actually there.
Jisung stilled slightly, eyes flicking down to where her fingers wrapped around him.
“You’re actually okay,” she said, quieter now.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she corrected immediately, eyes narrowing at the scratches. “You look like you fought a tree and lost.”
“I didn’t fight a tree.”
“Well, something fought you,” she muttered.
Another pause.
Her grip didn’t loosen.
Didn’t leave.
Behind them, Haechan screamed.
“LIA WHAT DID YOU DO TO THE CAR”
“IT WAS A BUSH RELATED INCIDENT,” she yelled back without even turning around.
Silence.
“That’s not a real thing,” Haechan shouted again.
“It is now”
Jisung exhaled softly.
That same almost laugh.
Lia looked back at him.
Still holding his wrist.
Still too close.
“You kept your promise,” she said.
“You said not to promise.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “But you did anyway.”
For a second
She didn’t joke.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t look away.
Then, just as quickly
She let go.
Stepped back.
Flipped her hair over her shoulder like nothing happened.
“Anyway,” she said brightly, gesturing toward the bush. “Since you’re alive, you can help me get my car out.”
Jisung glanced at the disaster.
“No.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Excuse me?”
“I just got back.”
“And?”
“I’m not fixing your bush problem.”
She gasped like he’d personally betrayed her.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You drove into a bush.” Jisung said simply.
“Stop bringing that up." She said while fixing her hair like it would make the situation more better.
He looked at her.
Eyes dragging slowly from the wrecked bush to her outfit.
Then back to her face.
“New dress?”
Lia lit up instantly.
“Yes. Doesn’t it look pretty?” she said, flipping her hair back and striking a dramatic pose like she was on a runway instead of next to a half-crashed car.
Jisung tilted his head slightly.
“You look like a virus.”
A beat.
Then
A loud, offended gasp ripped out of her.
“NO I DO NOT. THIS IS COUTURE,” she exclaimed, hands flying up in disbelief.
Jisung let out a quiet chuckle.
Actually chuckled.
And just walked past her.
Lia stood there for half a second, betrayed, before spinning on her heel and following him.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered. “I dress like art and you call me a disease.”
He didn’t respond.
Just reached the car, opened the door, and got in like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Lia paused.
“…What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
The engine started.
Then, carefully, he reversed the car out of the bush.
Branches scraped lightly, leaves falling away as the car pulled free.
A few seconds later
It was out.
Mostly fine.
Just a couple of scratches along the side.
Jisung stepped out, shutting the door.
He looked at her.
She groaned immediately, already knowing.
“Okay, maybe,” she started, dragging it out, “I was reapplying my gloss and I happened to not put the brakes and it crashed into the bush.”
Silence.
“And that is why I told you to learn how to drive from me or Jeno, not Haechan,” he said.
Lia groaned louder this time, throwing her head back dramatically.
“Jeno is too strict and boring and you’re always too busy to help little old me learn how to drive properly,” she said, placing a hand over her chest like she was deeply wronged.
Jisung just looked at her.
Flat.
Unimpressed.
“So you learned how to drive from someone who got his license suspended multiple times?”
That
Shut her up.
Immediately.
Her lips pressed together as she turned her head away, suddenly very interested in absolutely nothing.
“Oh wow,” she murmured, squinting into the distance. “Is that a bird struggling to fly?”
There was no bird.
“Lia.”
She groaned.
Dragging her hands down her face.
“Okay, listen,” she said, turning back to him with exaggerated frustration. “Haechan is like one of the only people who is open and loud about the fact that I’m not crazy. Jeno… he sees me as some crazy bitch drowning in my dad’s money. And you…” she paused, then waved a hand vaguely at him, “I don’t think you’d want to even spend more time with me since I already stick around you a lot as it is.”
Jisung didn’t react immediately.
Just watched her.
“True.”
A second of silence.
Then
She gasped.
Actually gasped.
“HEY”
Her eyes widened in betrayal as she smacked his arm lightly.
“That was rude. That was so rude. You’re supposed to deny it.”
He didn’t even flinch.
“You do stick around a lot.”
“I stick around because you’re tolerable,” she shot back quickly. “Everyone else is irritating.”
“You just said Haechan—”
“Exception,” she cut him off. “He’s annoying but entertaining. There’s a difference.”
Jisung almost smiled.
Almost.
Lia narrowed her eyes at him.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally just insulted me and fixed my car. That’s suspicious behavior.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
A pause.
Then she crossed her arms, staring at him like she was trying to solve something.
“…You came back,” she said, quieter this time.
Jisung’s gaze softened just slightly.
“I did.”
She held his gaze for a second longer.
Then scoffed, looking away.
“Yeah, well,” she muttered, “good. Because if you didn’t, I’d have to find someone else to bully and honestly that sounds exhausting.”
“Of course.”
“But don’t get used to it,” she added quickly. “I’m still mad at you.”
“For what?”
“For calling me a virus.”
“That was accurate.”
“IT WAS NOT”
Her voice echoed through the estate again.
—
That night
The club was loud.
Too loud.
Lights flashing, bass vibrating through the floor, bodies moving like one chaotic wave under neon and smoke.
Jisung didn’t want to be there.
He said it at least five times on the way.
“I’m not going.”
“You are,” Chenle replied.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re already inside.”
And just like that
He was dragged in.
“Come on bro, this is so much fun,” Chenle grinned, already getting pulled into the crowd.
Jisung exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“Nope.”
And immediately retreated.
Straight to the bar.
Safe.
Away from the chaos.
And then he saw her.
Lia.
Right in the middle of the dance floor.
Like she belonged there more than anyone else.
Dressed like a dream that didn’t make sense but still worked anyway. Something glittering, something flowing, something bold enough that no one else could pull it off but her.
She was laughing.
Spinning.
Jumping to the beat like the music was built around her.
For a second, Jisung just stood there.
Still.
Watching.
Lia spotted him.
Of course she did.
Her eyes lit up instantly as she waved both hands dramatically from the dance floor.
“JISUNG”
Even over the music, he could see it.
The way she gestured wildly.
Telling him to come over.
Chenle turned, saw her, and immediately lit up.
“Oh, she’s here. Let’s go.”
“Nope.”
Chenle grabbed his arm.
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Don’t be boring.”
“I’m not going.”
Chenle groaned, throwing his hands up.
“Fine. Stay here and be sad.”
“I’m not sad.”
“You look sad.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay,” Chenle smirked, already backing away. “I’m going to have fun.”
And just like that
He disappeared into the crowd.
Straight to Lia.
From across the room
Jisung watched her expression shift.
From excitement
To disbelief
To full offense.
She pointed at him.
You’re not coming?
He shook his head once.
Firm.
No.
Her jaw dropped.
Then she rolled her eyes dramatically, flipping her hair like she didn’t care at all.
And immediately turned to Chenle.
Seconds later
She was laughing again.
Dancing with him like nothing happened.
Like she hadn’t just been offended two seconds ago.
Like she didn’t care.
Jisung leaned against the bar, a glass in his hand he barely touched.
Watching.
Just watching.
Time slowed.
Or maybe everything else just faded.
Because all he could see was her.
The way she moved without thinking.
The way her laughter came easy here.
Real.
Unfiltered.
Her hair bouncing with every movement, catching the light.
The way her dress flowed around her like it was part of the music itself.
Bright.
Too bright.
Too much.
And somehow
Perfect.
She threw her head back, laughing at something Chenle said.
Jumped to the beat.
Spun once, arms in the air like she didn’t care who was watching.
And people were watching.
Of course they were.
She was impossible not to look at.
Jisung found himself smiling.
Softly.
Without realizing.
Because for once
She didn’t look like she was trying.
Didn’t look like she was forcing anything.
No cracks.
No pauses.
No pretending.
Just…
Free.
And he wondered
If this was the version of her
She wished she could be all the time.
From the dance floor
Lia glanced toward the bar again.
Just for a second.
Checking.
And she caught it.
That small smile on his face.
She stilled.
Just slightly.
Then
A slow grin spread across her lips.
Brighter than before.
Like she won something.
And this time
When she started dancing again
It was just a little more dramatic.
A little more exaggerated.
Like she knew
Exactly who was watching.
At some point, he started regretting it.
Not going.
Not stepping into the noise, into the lights, into that moment where she looked… alive.
But Jisung wasn’t the type.
Crowds weren’t his thing.
Dancing definitely wasn’t.
So he stayed where he was.
Leaning against the bar, drink in hand, eyes fixed on the dance floor like it was enough.
Like watching was enough.
“Enjoying your night?”
He turned.
And immediately regretted it.
Dahee.
And her group.
All smiles, all perfume, all too loud in a way that felt different from Lia.
Not real.
Not easy.
He internally groaned.
But it didn’t show on his face.
It never did.
He turned back to the dance floor, lifting his drink and taking a slow sip.
“Whattt?” Dahee drawled, sliding onto the stool beside him. “Not happy to see us?”
The other girls crowded around him, giggling, leaning in a little too close.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Dahee blinked.
Then laughed, pouting playfully.
“Jisung, don’t say that,” she whined. “That’s mean.”
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t look at her.
His gaze stayed where it had been the whole time.
On Lia.
She was still dancing.
Still laughing.
Still glowing under the lights.
Chenle beside her, matching her energy, both of them completely in sync with the music.
“Let’s dance,” Dahee said, nudging his arm lightly. “You’ll feel better.”
The other girls chimed in immediately.
“Yeah, come on.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“You’re just standing here.”
Jisung exhaled quietly.
“I don’t want to.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
“Not even for me?” Dahee leaned closer, voice softening, almost coaxing.
He didn’t look at her.
Didn’t answer immediately.
Because across the room
Lia spun again.
Laughing.
Carefree.
And for a second
He imagined it.
Walking over.
Letting himself get dragged into that chaos.
Into her chaos.
Then the thought passed.
Just as quickly as it came.
“No,” he said.
Simple.
Final.
Dahee’s smile faltered for a split second.
Then she laughed it off.
“Wow, you’re harsh tonight.”
He didn’t react.
Didn’t soften it.
Didn’t take it back.
Because he wasn’t looking at her.
Hadn’t been.
Not once.
His attention never left the dance floor.
Never left Lia.
Dahee followed his gaze.
And it didn’t take long.
Right there.
Center of the dance floor.
Lia.
Bright. Loud. Impossible to ignore.
Dahee’s lips curved.
She leaned closer to him, voice dipping just enough to sound casual.
“Isn’t she such a poser?” she murmured. “Look at her, acting like she’s the main character. I could never—”
“Yeah,” Jisung cut in, taking a slow sip of his drink. “You could never.”
She smiled, thinking he agreed.
Then—
“Because she’s real,” he added calmly, eyes still on the dance floor. “And you’re fake.”
The words landed.
Flat.
Sharp.
Dahee’s smile froze.
Around them, the girls went quiet for a second.
Just a second.
Then one of them laughed awkwardly, trying to ease it.
Dahee blinked, recovering quickly, though her eyes flickered.
“She’s crazy, Jisung,” she said, a little more edge in her tone now. “She’s mentally gone. Someone like you shouldn’t waste your time on her. Lia is messed up and she’s definitely not sane.”
A few of the girls giggled along with her.
Jisung let out a soft chuckle.
Low.
Quiet.
Dahee’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
She thought he was joining in.
Then he set his glass down.
Finally turned his head.
And looked at her.
“And what?” he asked, voice calm, gaze steady. “Like you’re any better?”
The laughter around them died.
Completely.
Dahee’s expression tightened.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“No,” he cut in, not raising his voice, not changing his tone. “That’s exactly what you meant.”
A beat.
His eyes didn’t leave hers.
“You don’t like her,” he continued. “Fine.”
Another pause.
“But don’t pretend it’s because you’re better than her.”
Dahee laughed.
Light.
Awkward.
Trying to smooth over something that had already gone too far.
“Come on, Jisung,” she said, nudging his arm like this was all just playful. “Don’t get defensive. We’re just saying you’re a great person and shouldn’t have to deal with Lia.”
Jisung let out a quiet huff of a chuckle.
Not amused.
Not impressed.
Just… done.
He turned his head slowly.
Looked at her.
Really looked this time.
“You’re really performative,” he said, voice calm, almost bored. “It’s annoying.”
Dahee’s smile faltered.
Just a little.
“She has her reasons for being different,” he continued. “What’s your excuse?”
A pause.
His gaze didn’t soften.
“Or are you just an insecure bitch with a dirty mouth?”
Silence.
Heavy.
Immediate.
The girls around her stiffened, eyes darting between them.
No one laughed this time.
No one tried to fix it.
Dahee’s face flushed, shock flashing across her features before something sharper replaced it.
“You’re unbelievable,” she snapped, voice dropping. “You’re really choosing her over—”
“I’m not choosing anything,” Jisung cut in.
Still calm.
Still steady.
“I just don’t like people who talk like that.”
Silence lingered.
Thick.
Uncomfortable.
Dahee opened her mouth, like she was about to say something else—
Anything to regain control of the moment.
But Jisung didn’t give her the chance.
He tilted his head slightly.
Humming under his breath.
Like he was actually thinking it over.
Reconsidering.
For a second, Dahee’s expression shifted.
Hopeful.
Like maybe he’d take it back.
Like maybe he’d soften it.
Then he looked at her again.
Calm.
Unbothered.
“Scratch that,” he said and smirked as he looked at her.
“I don’t like people who talk like that,” he continued evenly, “and I am most definitely choosing her over you.”
The words landed harder this time.
Because they were deliberate.
Because he thought about it.
And still said it.
Dahee stared at him.
Stunned.
The girls around her went completely still.
No giggles.
No whispers.
Nothing.
Jisung didn’t wait.
Didn’t care for a reaction.
He picked up his glass again, taking a slow sip like the conversation meant nothing.
Like she meant nothing.
At just the right moment, Lia appeared.
Out of nowhere, like she always did.
Before Jisung could even react, she reached over, took the glass straight from his hand, and drank it in one go without hesitation. The empty glass hit the counter with a sharp clink as she let out a satisfied chuckle, like she had just done him a favor.
“You’re taking too long,” she said, like that explained everything.
Then, without giving him a second to argue, she grabbed his hands.
“Sorry ladies, I’m borrowing him for the rest of the night~” she added, voice light and almost playful, but there was something deliberate in it too.
And just like that, she pulled him away.
Jisung didn’t resist.
Didn’t even look back.
Behind them, Dahee stood frozen, her expression tightening as they disappeared into the crowd.
Lia wove through people easily, still holding onto him, dragging him straight into the center of the dance floor like she had planned this all along.
Only when they stopped did she turn to him.
Close.
Too close.
Her arms slipped around his neck naturally, like it was the most normal thing in the world—
And almost instantly, his hands settled at her waist.
Like it was just as natural.
Like they had done this before.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
Her fingers rested lightly against the back of his neck as she looked at him with that familiar, bright smile.
“Won’t thank me?” she teased, tilting her head. “You looked like you were gonna die.”
Jisung looked down at her for a second, the noise around them fading into something distant again.
“You drank my drink,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” she replied instantly.
“That wasn’t helping.”
“It was,” she insisted, swaying slightly to the music, still holding onto him. “I saved you from social torture. You should be grateful.”
He exhaled softly, something close to a laugh slipping out.
“You just wanted to drag me here.”
“Obviously,” she said without shame. “Do you think I’d let you stand there all night looking miserable?”
“I wasn’t miserable.”
“You were,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes. “You had that face.”
“I always have this face.”
“Exactly. It’s worse in a club.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Lia noticed anyway.
Her grin widened, satisfied, like she’d accomplished something.
“See,” she said, leaning in just slightly. “Already better.”
Jisung glanced around briefly at the crowd, the lights, the movement, then back at her.
“I don’t dance.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does in my head,” she replied easily.
He shook his head faintly, but he didn’t move away.
Didn’t take his hands off her.
Didn’t leave.
And Lia, still smiling, started moving to the music again, slower this time, closer, like she was guiding him into it without making it obvious.
Like she always did.
Making things feel natural, even when they weren’t.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Letting her move.
Letting her pull him into something he never really allowed himself to be part of.
The music was loud, the lights were too much, the crowd pressed in from all sides.
But none of it felt as overwhelming as it should have.
Not when she was right there.
Looking at him like she expected him to stay.
Jisung exhaled softly.
Then gave in.
A quiet chuckle slipping out of him as his grip on her waist tightened just slightly, pulling her closer.
And this time
He moved.
Not much.
Just enough.
A slow sway to the music.
Simple.
But intentional.
Lia froze for half a second.
Then her eyes lit up instantly.
Bright.
Wide.
Like something just clicked into place.
“You’re dancing,” she said, way too happy for something so small, her voice almost getting lost in the music.
Jisung huffed out another quiet laugh.
“Barely.”
“I’ll take it,” she grinned, and he swore for a second he saw something unreal in that smile.
Like light.
Like something soft and warm that didn’t belong in a place like this.
Her smile was… pretty.
No.
More than that.
It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Like a dream he didn’t realize he had until it was right in front of him.
And somehow
The fact that it wasn’t a dream
That this was real
That she was real
Right here
In his arms
It made his heart jump.
Sharp.
Unexpected.
But not unpleasant.
Lia laughed, the sound bright as she adjusted to his rhythm, still holding onto him, still way too close.
“See? It's fun,” she teased, but there was something softer underneath it now.
Something a little more genuine.
Jisung didn’t respond.
He just watched her.
Then, without thinking too much about it
He shifted his hand and intertwined their fingers.
She blinked.
Just once.
Like she hadn’t expected that.
And before she could say anything
He lifted their joined hands slightly
And spun her.
Her dress flared out as she twirled, hair catching the light, laughter spilling out of her like it couldn’t be contained.
When she faced him again
Still smiling
Still glowing
Still her
Jisung felt it again.
That same feeling.
Stronger this time.
And for once
He didn’t try to ignore it.
She steadied after the twirl, laughter still lingering on her lips as she stepped back into him without hesitation, like that small distance had never existed in the first place.
Her arms slipped around his neck again.
Easy.
Natural.
And his hands found her waist just as easily, like they belonged there.
Like they had learned her already.
Lia looked up at him, eyes still bright from the spin, cheeks slightly flushed, smile softer now but no less dangerous.
“Be careful,” she teased, tilting her head just a little. “I might get used to this.”
Jisung looked down at her.
Really looked.
At the way she was still a little breathless.
At the way her fingers rested against his neck, absentminded, like she didn’t even realize how close she was.
At the way she didn’t pull away.
Didn’t pretend.
Didn’t overthink it.
His grip on her waist tightened just slightly.
Not enough to be obvious.
But enough.
“Then don’t,” he said quietly.
Lia blinked.
Just once.
“Don’t?” she echoed, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips again. “That’s your solution?”
“You don’t get used to things that don’t last,” he replied, tone calm, but something in it felt heavier than usual.
For a second
She didn’t joke.
Didn’t deflect.
Her eyes searched his face like she was trying to understand what he meant.
Or maybe why he said it like that.
Then she smiled again.
But softer this time.
A little quieter.
“Bold of you to assume I don’t make things last,” she murmured.
Jisung didn’t answer.
Didn’t argue.
Just kept looking at her like he was weighing something.
Around them, the music kept going.
People moved.
Lights flashed.
But somehow
They felt still.
Lia swayed slightly, pulling him along with her again, her grip around his neck loosening just enough to relax into the moment instead of holding onto it.
“You’re thinking too much,” she said, nudging him lightly. “Just dance.”
“I am dancing.”
“You’re standing and moving slightly.”
“That counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
He almost smiled again.
And this time
He didn’t let it fade as quickly.
That's it for this one! 🌱
I hope y'all liked it! 🍀💚
Its so good to be back. I have literally been crying all the time since Mark left and college has been really horrible (specifically my department teachers) so writing again felt really relieving and nice! 😭
This is not the end for this trope!
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
Hii
I haven't been active in here in a hot minute.
What do you mean Mark isn't in NCT anymore? 😭
(How are my Mark girlies doing? 😭🫂)
So, 😭 I still cant come to terms with the fact that Mark Lee is no longer Mark Lee of NCT.
I posted a message prior to him leaving but the connection sucks so it didn't post. And I didn't want to rewrite it cause I have been sobbing like hell (I'm sobbing even as I'm writing this message).
To a lot of people, me crying might be dramatic but I literally owe my happiness to NCT. I was a loner, I couldn't make friemds and I was always the kid who everyone left behind. So it was hard to fit in with other kids my age. But then I was introduced to SmRookies. And thats where I first saw the nct members. Mark was a recurring member of SmRookies and I really liked him alot.
He was my first bias in nct and he was the person who locked the gates to me becoming an nctzen. He is such a foundational pillar of nct. If you ask someone about nct they'll all probably know Mark. The last time I cried this much was when I lost my childhood cat. I know, sounds concerning but because of nct (nct dream in particular) and Mark, I can confidently say 'Wow! I had a beautiful Youth!'
I was always lonely so I'd spend my time watching and listening to their content and Mark was such a main figure in contributing to my happiness and growth cause, well, he was everywhere (welp-). I was able to make more friends knowing nct then not knowing nct. And because of them I have such amazing support systems. Stanning Mark had also made me grow and learn so much things. I'm still the quiet angsty girl I was but I feel I have become more open and welcome to change because of liking nct and Mark.
Believe it or not, I actually made my first real friend after quoting Mark's 'I feel like the possibility of all those possibilities being possible is just another possibility that can possibly happen'. I owe so much of my happiness and growth to him as NCT's Mark Lee and even though he isn't anymore, he will forever ever be Mark Lee, the funny, sweet, talented and kind Canadian from NCT.
It is bittersweet for him to be leaving but he had been an active idol under SM for 10 whole years and in those long years he has had thousands and thousands of schedules but till date, he had only missed two. Overworking is an understatement. That man has not had a chance to catch his breath since he was a child so although I'm sad, I am grateful that he close to focus on himself. And I think that him leaving was long overdue. He deserves to finally relax and breathe, not having to worry about schedules.
It still is very weird and nct is definetly going to feel different without him. But I'm happy he chose himself. Yesterday, Haechan’s live wrecked the hell out of me. I sobbed so hard. To think that Haechan is going to be the only one juggling 127 and Dream's schedule hurts me.
Mark Lee, you have given me the most beautiful memories that I will forever cherish. Even though I will never heal from this heartbreak, I will forever keep supporting you in every journey you embark on. Thank you for being the Mark Lee of NCT who gave me happy memories and helped me grow and learn and make real and true friends.
You will always be NCT's Mark to me 💛
It's gonna take me a while to get my emotions in check but I look at jisung's message and his words:
"I think the feeling of not wanting to let go, yet wanting them to go, is also love."
Really makes me feel lighter cause he wasn't kicked out. He thought and decided it himself and if that was the choice he wanted then I won't ponder further cause I love him amd I want him to be happy.
I just hope he won't regret it 😭
It will take me a while to post content again but I will return, until then, I will remain offline amd just try to somehow get by.
(My sentence construction and placing is so off but I can't even think straight right now 😭)
I love you now and forever Mark Lee 💛
You are my most precious memory 😭💛
(When I first saw the news, this was the Mark Lee I saw 😭😭😭)
Thank you to everyone who got me to 10000 likes!
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
I haven't been as active here for a while and I come back to see this 😭😭 guysss thank you so muchhhh 😭😭 10k is such a big number frfr 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
Like... wdym my blog achieved 10k likes??? 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
I am so thankful to everyone for your support!!
I'll try to put out new works!! 😭😭😭
I love y'all!! 😭💛💐✨️⭐️
The way you use AI to write your fics is extremely disrespectful to the writer community on here who work hard to put out the best fics for people to enjoy
???
What?
I don't know if I should be flattered or offended (i feel offended).
Don't even know what to say atp.
I've always loved writing stories and fanfictions for as long as I've known how to read and write. It is like an escape from reality for me. I'm just a literature major who loves creating and writing stories for my favourite groups ☹️
I have a feeling this is coming from my use of em dashes since I do use it way more than I would like to admit (and I've noticed that em dashes = ai).
I've been obsessed with using em dashes since I found out about em dashes in second year when we studied about Emily Dickinson's works so I kind of took inspiration from that but I'm sorry if it seemed as though I use ai.
Although I admit I did use ai at the beginning to proofread my works but it didn't last for long.
I have never used ai to create my works and I never will. I study literature and dream to become a writer or a screenwriter. I am honestly sick of ai myself.
In my college a lot of students use ai for assignments (copy pasting the whole thing) so professors have also been accusing me and a lot of my classmates of using ai even though we don't and it has been eating my brain. And on top of that my professors tell us that its ai cause they checked it on chatgpt or an ai detector, which is stupid? Cause they're literally asking ai if the work is ai.
And to think that these accusations have arisen even in tumblr is just kind of sad cause I love writing, especially in tumblr. I don't even know what to do at this point. I am a writer and I write everything I put out with my own ideas but now just about everything is considered ai. It makes me really sad that it has come to this.
A Little Closer to the Clouds Ft. Oni!Jisung
A/n: Happy Jisung Dayyy! I have loved jisung forever 😭 In the name of his birthday here's a fic dedicated to him 🥹 Omg my jisungie is 24 😭
An Oni is a yokai from Japanese mythology. Its kind of like an orc or an ogre.
Genre: Fantasy au, Royal au, Knight au, Romance, Fluff, Angst
Pairings: Oni!Jisung x Fairy Princess!Lia (fem oc/ named reader)
Warnings: none
The window was always open.
Not wide enough to invite the wind in, not narrow enough to keep the sky out—just enough to remind her of everything she could not have.
Lia rested her elbow against the marble sill, chin propped on her palm, eyes fixed on the courtyard below with a tightness she never allowed anyone to see. Outside, sunlight spilled like honey across pale stone, catching on drifting petals and—most painfully—on wings.
Maids moved from tower to garden in gentle arcs, skirts floating, laughter light as they carried baskets of flowers and folded linens through the air. Their wings fluttered easily, naturally, the way breathing should be. Effortless. Thoughtless.
She despised it.
Her own wings shifted behind her at the thought—soft, instinctive, useless.
They were beautiful. Everyone said so.
Gossamer-thin and dusted with shimmer like crushed starlight, each vein glowing faintly whenever sunlight touched them. Court artists had painted them. Poets had written about them. Foreign envoys had bowed in awe of them.
And yet…
Since the day she was born, they had never lifted her even an inch from the ground.
At most, they could flutter. A faint trembling. A whisper of movement that meant nothing.
Lia exhaled sharply, the sound closer to a huff than a sigh, and turned her face away from the courtyard as if that might free her from the sight.
It never did.
Her eyes drifted back on their own, drawn by something smaller—lower.
Near the fountain, the maids’ children were playing. Tiny wings, still clumsy, still learning. They weren’t flying high, not truly. Just little jumps that became little glides, laughter bursting out each time their feet left the stone for even a heartbeat.
Up.
Down.
Up again.
They laughed like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Her fingers curled slightly against the marble.
Once, she had stood among children like that.
She could still remember the feeling of grass beneath her shoes, the way her friends would count down before leaping into the air together—one, two, three—gone in a scatter of glittering wings and delighted screams.
And she…
She had stayed.
Always on the ground.
Always watching their shadows pass over her.
Always pretending she didn’t mind.
The memory pressed quietly against her ribs, familiar as breathing and just as painful.
Outside, another child managed a slightly higher glide and shrieked in triumph. The sound rang bright and clear, echoing against the palace walls.
Something sharp twisted in her chest.
Lia looked away again, more quickly this time, as if the laughter itself might burn her.
But even with her gaze fixed on the empty room behind her, she could still hear it.
Still see it.
Still feel the ghost of a sky that had never once belonged to her.
Lia let out a slow breath that felt heavier than it should have.
The sound faded into the quiet of her chamber, swallowed by silk curtains and polished stone that had heard too many of her sighs already. After a moment, she pushed herself upright from the window ledge, smoothing the folds of her dress with practiced care.
If she stayed any longer, she would only keep looking.
And she was tired of looking.
She reached for the parasol resting against the wall—lace-trimmed, pale as moonlight—and twirled it once between her fingers before stepping out into the corridor. Guards bowed. Maids curtsied. No one stopped her. No one ever did.
There was very little expected of a princess who could not fly.
She had two sisters and two brothers, all blessed with strong, radiant wings. All graceful in the air. All far more suitable for crowns, councils, and futures that required strength she did not possess.
So Lia walked.
Through sunlit halls.
Across quiet courtyards.
Around a palace that was beautiful enough to feel like a cage.
Her parasol tilted gently as she stepped into the garden, warm light filtering through the lace and scattering soft patterns across her face.
Near the drying lines, Mrs. Park was hanging freshly washed clothes, white fabric fluttering like small clouds in the breeze. The older woman’s single oni horn, polished smooth, caught the sunlight with a quiet shine.
The sight softened something inside Lia almost instantly.
Mrs. Park had been there for as long as she could remember—steady hands, warm voice, the closest thing to comfort in a palace that rarely slowed down enough to notice loneliness.
And with that thought came another.
Jisung.
Mrs. Park’s son.
The boy with two small horns on either side of his forehead.
The only child who had ever stayed on the ground with her instead of flying away with the others. Mainly because he didn't have wings to begin with.
They used to play for hours in the gardens, making kingdoms out of fallen petals and pretending the sky didn’t matter.
She hadn’t seen him in years.
Not since he left for the knight academy on the far edge of the kingdom… chasing a future that had slowly carried him farther and farther away from her.
“Your Highness,” Mrs. Park called gently, noticing her. “How are you feeling now? You gave us quite a fright when you fell ill.”
“I’m better,” Lia replied, the words soft but honest.
Then, with a quiet lack of ceremony unbecoming of royalty, she sighed and simply plopped down onto the grass beside her.
Mrs. Park’s lips curved into a knowing smile as she lowered herself down too, the movement careful but familiar.
“Boredom poking you again?” she asked.
Lia groaned, tipping her head back dramatically.
“Extremely.”
A warm chuckle left the older woman as she patted Lia’s back, gentle and fond.
For a moment, only the breeze spoke—rustling leaves, fluttering cloth, distant laughter.
Then Mrs. Park said, almost casually,
“Jisung graduated. The battalion should return tomorrow morning.”
Lia straightened at once, parasol tilting forgotten in her lap.
“So… he’s a knight now?”
A nod.
“After many long years of training, yes.”
Mrs. Park studied her face with quiet amusement.
“Are you excited?”
Lia huffed, turning her gaze away as if the flowers had suddenly become fascinating.
“Why would I be? It’s been years. He’s practically a stranger. I don’t even know what he looks like now.”
Mrs. Park laughed softly.
“That’s because you always ran off or refused to meet him when he visited during holidays.”
Lia choked slightly, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Because it was true.
What was she supposed to do?
The boy who used to belong beside her had disappeared one day, chasing swords and armor and a world she couldn’t follow.
And somewhere deep inside, she had felt… left behind.
After all, he had been the only one who stayed.
The only one who talked to her like she wasn’t broken.
“No…” she murmured weakly, though the protest had no strength.
Mrs. Park’s fingers moved gently through Lia’s hair, smoothing wind-tangled strands the way she had done when Lia was small.
“I know you’ve been lonely,” she said quietly. “But perhaps… when he returns, you might have company again.”
The words settled softly in Lia’s chest.
Because it was true.
Most days she was either rotting in her bedroom, wandering the silent library, or trailing after Mrs. Park just to have someone to talk to. Her siblings were scattered across kingdoms or drowning in royal duties.
And her parents—
Her parents were the king and queen.
Too busy ruling to notice the daughter who never left the ground.
She was still lost in that thought when Mrs. Park rose with a small sigh.
“I’d love to sit longer, but work won’t finish itself. Stay here and bask in the sun a little.”
Lia only nodded, dress rumpling awkwardly where she sat in the grass.
Soon, she was alone.
The garden felt larger without the quiet warmth beside her.
Her gaze drifted upward, following a pair of guards gliding between towers.
If she could fly…
She wouldn’t be bored.
She wouldn’t be lonely.
She wouldn’t feel like half a person in a world built for wings.
And, uninvited, her thoughts returned to Jisung.
Years ago—just once—she had seen him from behind when he came back on leave. Taller. Shoulders broader. No longer the small boy who used to chase butterflies with her.
She hadn’t seen his face.
And now, sitting alone beneath the open sky, Lia found herself wondering quietly—
What did he look like now?
The breeze shifted through the garden, warm and expectant, as if carrying tomorrow a little closer.
—
The palace was still wrapped in night when the sound came.
Low.
Resonant.
Familiar in a way that pulled her from sleep before her mind could understand why.
Lia sat upright in bed, heart already racing.
The knights’ horn.
For a moment she only listened, breath shallow in the dark. Then curiosity—sharp and impossible to ignore—pushed her to her feet. She crossed the cold floor and hurried to the window, not even bothering with slippers.
Below, the gates were open.
A long line of knights rode in beneath swaying lantern light, armor catching faint glimmers of gold as horses stepped across stone. The early dawn hadn’t yet broken; everything looked softer, quieter… like a dream she wasn’t meant to see.
Her pulse quickened.
He was somewhere down there.
Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest shawl—far too thin for the morning chill—and rushed out of her chamber. Down corridors, past startled servants, down staircases she normally descended with royal grace but now took two at a time.
She stopped only when she reached the lower walls overlooking the courtyard, pressing herself just enough into the shadows to peek.
Maybe to see the battalion.
Maybe to see him.
Rows of armored figures dismounted in perfect order.
Her excitement lasted exactly three seconds.
“…Helmets,” she muttered under her breath, deflating with a quiet huff.
Every single face concealed. Every identity hidden behind polished steel.
She should have gone back upstairs.
She didn’t.
Instead, she waited—arms folded, pretending she wasn’t waiting—until the knights were dismissed toward the barracks and the courtyard slowly emptied into silence again.
Only then did she turn away.
By afternoon, the sky had brightened into pale blue streaked with drifting clouds.
Lia sat atop a small hill in the palace meadows, parasol open above her to filter the sunlight into soft lace shadows across her dress. The grass swayed gently, whispering with the early hints of seasonal wind.
Her thoughts wandered where they shouldn’t.
Was he already settled in the barracks?
Had he changed a lot?
Would she even recognize him if she saw him?
She was so lost in wondering that she didn’t notice the wind shift.
Not until it hit.
A sudden, powerful gust tore across the hill, snapping her ribbons and tugging violently at the parasol in her hand.
She shrieked, gripping the handle tighter.
Strong winds had become common lately with the changing season—but this one felt different. Wilder.
The pull grew stronger.
“W-wait—!”
The parasol yanked forward, dragging her toward the edge of the hill.
Her heart lurched.
And then—
The ground vanished.
A scream ripped from her throat as the wind lifted her into the sky, parasol catching the current like a sail. The world dropped away beneath her in a dizzying rush of green and gold.
She screamed again—louder, sharper—pure panic echoing across the meadows.
Below, maids shouted helplessly.
Mrs. Park gasped, calling her name in terror—
—but a shadow had already sprinted past her.
High above, Lia’s terror slowly tangled with something else.
The view.
The palace looked small.
The gardens like painted patterns.
The sky… endless.
Her scream faltered.
“Oh…?”
Her eyes widened.
“Oooh…”
Wonder slipped in where fear had been.
She stared, breath catching—not in panic now, but awe—marveling at the feeling of being in the sky at last.
For one fragile moment…
She was flying.
Then another violent gust slammed into her, spinning the parasol wildly.
She screamed again, body caught helplessly in the roaring wind—
Until suddenly—
Warmth.
Solid.
Steady.
Unmoving against the chaos.
The wind stopped thrashing her.
Confused, she slowly opened her eyes.
A chest.
Dark armor.
A heartbeat—calm and strong—beneath her cheek.
Her gaze lifted.
And her breath caught.
Jisung.
She knew instantly.
From the familiar curve of his face…
From the horns at his forehead—
Except…
One of them was broken.
The sight struck something quiet and aching inside her.
Only then did she realize—
He was holding her.
One arm secure around her waist.
The other gripping the runaway parasol as they drifted gently downward, carried by a controlled current of air.
“…Oooh,” she breathed softly, arms sliding around his neck without thinking as she looked out at the sky again.
Below them, the world felt distant. Peaceful.
Jisung noticed.
And a quiet thought passed through him like a shadow:
She still longs to fly.
They touched down at last in the meadow.
The moment her feet met the ground, Mrs. Park and the maids rushed forward, voices overlapping with worry as hands checked her arms, her shoulders, her face for injury.
“Are you hurt?”
“Your Highness, speak to us—”
“Does anything pain you—”
“Stop!” Lia protested, half laughing, half breathless. “I’m fine!”
They continued fussing anyway.
Only after several long moments did the panic settle.
Mrs. Park exhaled shakily, relief softening her features.
“I was worried sick…”
Then her gaze shifted—to the young knight standing quietly nearby.
Recognition warmed her eyes.
“…Good timing,” she said gently.
And beside her, Lia—still catching her breath, still feeling the ghost of sky around her—slowly looked at Jisung again.
Mrs. Park was still fussing.
Her hands moved from Lia’s shoulders to her cheeks to her arms again, as if checking twice might somehow erase the fright of what had just happened. In between, she had already turned to Jisung—voice warm, proud, worried, relieved all at once.
“My goodness, you’ve grown so much… Are you hurt? Did the wind catch you too? You should have waited for the other knights—”
It was pure mother mode, unstoppable as ever.
Lia stood a small distance away, suddenly… unnecessary.
And painfully aware.
Her gaze drifted back to him despite herself.
He really had grown.
Taller—much taller than she remembered.
Shoulders broad beneath dark armor.
Features sharper, older… steadier.
And—
Her stomach did a strange, unfamiliar flip.
Handsome.
The realization hit so abruptly she almost recoiled from it.
Really handsome.
As if sensing her stare, Jisung looked up.
Their eyes met.
Heat rushed straight to her face.
Mortified, Lia spun around and started running before her mind could form a single sensible thought.
“Princess—”
His voice followed her.
She froze mid-step, back still turned, then slowly looked over her shoulder.
Jisung was holding something out.
Her parasol.
“Oh—”
She hurried back, grabbed it a little too quickly. “Th-thank you.”
His expression stayed calm, gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar after so many years.
“It might be better not to open it for a while,” he said quietly. “The winds are unstable today.”
She nodded too fast.
“Right. Yes. Of course.”
And then she ran off again.
It was—
Deeply, horribly—
awkward.
The days that followed settled into a quiet rhythm.
Jisung finished moving into the barracks, reported to commanders, relearned palace routes that felt smaller than memory. Training resumed. Duties filled the hours.
But in the spaces between—
He noticed her.
Always alone.
Or standing by that same window, looking outward with an expression too quiet for someone so young.
One evening, he mentioned it to his mother without meaning to.
Mrs. Park’s smile faded into something softer.
“After you left,” she said gently, “she didn’t really have friends anymore. These days she mostly wanders alone… or follows me around just to talk.”
Guilt settled heavy in his chest.
A memory surfaced—clear as yesterday.
A small girl in the garden.
Grass on her shoes.
Looking at him with complete trust.
“Play with me tomorrow too?”
“I promise.”
And the next day—
He had been gone.
That afternoon, Lia was lying plopped in the grass beneath a tree’s shade, dress slightly wrinkled, parasol closed beside her. She wasn’t reading. Wasn’t sleeping.
Just… existing.
With nothing to do.
A quiet clearing of a throat sounded nearby.
She flinched upright.
Jisung.
Her heart jumped straight into panic.
She scrambled to stand—ready to flee on instinct alone—
“Wait.”
His voice stopped her.
She hesitated.
When she turned back, he was standing a few steps away, posture straight… but one hand hidden behind his back like a nervous child.
“I—”
He paused, searching for words that felt far too small.
“I’m sorry.”
Silence spread between them.
“For breaking my promise,” he finished softly. “Back then.”
Lia’s gaze dropped to the grass.
For a moment she said nothing.
Then she swallowed… and slowly sat back down.
After a beat, she looked up at him again.
“I felt abandoned,” she admitted with a small, breathy chuckle that didn’t quite hide the truth. “No one really wanted to stay with me anyway… so I became lonely.”
Her fingers twisted in her skirt.
“I hated you a lot,” she added honestly.
Then, quieter—
“But… I forgive you. You had a duty. It’s fine.”
A pause.
“…I was still lonely though.”
Even softer:
“I still am.”
Jisung lowered himself to sit beside her—not too close, leaving a careful distance of respect.
“I noticed,” he said.
She blinked slightly.
“I might not always be able to stay,” he continued, voice steady. “But… when I can… I will. If you want me to.”
Her eyes widened just a little.
“…Really?”
He nodded once.
The change in her expression was small—
but unmistakable.
“…Okay,” she said, a fragile brightness returning.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Then he brought his hidden hand forward.
Something tiny and warm rested in his palms.
She leaned closer, eyes widening.
“…Is this a puppy?”
“Sorry to burst your bubble,” he said calmly, “but it’s a kitten.”
Silence.
She huffed, cheeks pink.
“Of course I know it’s a cat!”
His smile grew, just barely.
“I found it in town this morning,” he explained. “An abandoned stray. No mother.”
He hesitated.
“…I thought maybe… having a companion might help with the loneliness.”
Something soft flickered across her face.
She reached out to take it—
Then stopped.
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the tiny creature.
The kitten tilted its head back at her.
“…Do you fly?” she asked it very seriously.
The kitten looked down at itself…
then shook its head.
A slow smile bloomed across her face.
She gathered it gently into her arms, rubbing her cheek against its soft fur, eyes closing for just a second.
Warm.
Alive.
Staying.
“Then I’ll keep you,” she whispered.
And beside her, Jisung smiled at her innocence and blooming happiness.
Jisung watched her cradle the kitten like something fragile and precious, her earlier sadness softened into quiet warmth.
For the first time since he’d returned, she didn’t look quite so lonely.
“It’s a boy,” he said gently.
Lia blinked, glancing down at the tiny bundle in her arms as if this were very important information.
“A boy…?” she repeated thoughtfully, lips pursing in deep concentration.
The kitten blinked back at her with slow, sleepy eyes.
“Hm.”
She lifted him slightly, inspecting his soft orange fur from every angle like a scholar studying an ancient text.
“Then I’ll name you…” she began with great seriousness.
A pause.
“…Uhhh…”
Another pause—longer this time.
Jisung waited, expression carefully neutral, though something warm tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Her face suddenly brightened.
“Pumpkin!!” she declared triumphantly. “Because you’re orange!”
The kitten—now apparently Pumpkin—gave a tiny, unimpressed meow.
Jisung let out the smallest breath of laughter, barely audible.
She looked up at him instantly, suspicious.
“Why are you laughing? It’s a perfectly good name.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he replied, far too calm.
“You thought something.”
“…Maybe.”
She huffed, pulling Pumpkin closer protectively.
“Well, Pumpkin likes it. Don’t you?”
Pumpkin answered by curling into her arms and beginning to purr.
Her expression softened into something bright and quiet all at once.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Wind moved gently through the grass.
Leaves whispered overhead.
The palace felt… still.
Lia scratched lightly under Pumpkin’s chin, voice turning small without her noticing.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Jisung’s gaze shifted to her, surprised by the softness of it.
She didn’t look at him—only at the kitten.
But the words were clearly meant for him.
Jisung’s smile was small, but real.
“You’re welcome,” he said quietly.
Lia didn’t answer right away. She was too busy holding Pumpkin up under his tiny front legs, making soft nonsense sounds as the kitten blinked at her with patient confusion. His paws batted weakly at the air, and she giggled—light, unguarded, the sound drifting easily through the shade.
For a moment, it felt almost like childhood again.
Then her gaze flicked back to Jisung.
She studied him—really studied him this time. The lines of his armor. The steadiness in his posture. And then—
Her eyes caught on it.
“…So,” she said slowly, tilting her head, “what happened to your horn?”
He stiffened.
“It’s broken.”
The words were simple. Direct. Too direct.
Heat crept up the back of his neck before he could stop it. Almost instinctively, he turned slightly and lifted a hand, trying to hide the damaged horn from view.
“It broke,” he said, voice flattening into something careful.
“In a fight.”
Silence sat between them for half a breath.
Then—
She scooted closer.
Close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of her sleeve near his arm.
He froze.
Lia leaned in, eyes focused not with pity… but curiosity. Gentle, open curiosity, like she used to have when they were small.
“…Can I touch it?” she asked softly.
He hesitated.
Every instinct told him to refuse. To turn away. To keep that broken piece of himself hidden where it belonged.
But this was Lia.
“…Okay,” he said at last, barely audible.
Her fingers were light. Careful.
They brushed the edge of the broken horn as if it were something delicate instead of ruined.
She hummed thoughtfully.
“Well… no harm in that.”
He blinked, caught off guard.
“It’s a battle scar,” she continued matter-of-factly. “Knights are cooler when they have battle scars. It makes you a cooler person.”
Jisung stared at her.
Because there was no pity in her voice.
No discomfort.
No quiet revulsion like he’d learned to expect.
Just simple, earnest belief.
Something in his chest shifted—slow and unfamiliar.
And for the first time since the horn had broken…
It didn’t feel entirely like shame.
A few days later, the palace transformed.
Lanterns bloomed across balconies. Music threaded through marble halls. Silk and laughter and perfume filled the air as nobles gathered for the queen’s birthday masquerade.
Color was everywhere.
Masks shaped like swans, moons, roses.
Gowns that shimmered like water.
Feathers, jewels, gold.
Jisung stood near the edge of the grand hall in a simple leather mask and dark formal attire, far plainer than the nobility around him—yet the quiet strength in his posture drew glances anyway.
He wasn’t looking at the crowd.
He was searching.
And then—
He saw her.
Lia stood beneath a spill of golden light in an extravagant peacock ensemble. Layers of deep blue and green shimmered with every movement, and behind her trailed a delicate flutter of peacock feathers like a false pair of wings. A matching mask framed her eyes; long gloves traced her arms in elegance.
She looked—
His breath caught.
Utterly breathtaking.
As if sensing him, she turned.
Their eyes met through masks.
And she waved him over.
He moved before thinking.
Up close, the details were even more striking—the glow of her skin beneath colored silk, the quiet confidence in how she held herself tonight, so different from the lonely girl by the window.
Near her feet—
Pumpkin sat in a tiny costume, complete with a miniature collar and ridiculous little peacock feathers. The kitten looked deeply offended by the entire situation.
Despite himself, Jisung’s mouth softened.
He glanced back up at her.
“…What are you dressed as?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious.
She held his gaze for a moment.
Then her lips curved—not quite a smile. Something quieter.
“A fairy who can’t fly,” she said.
The music swelled softly around them.
Lia watched him watch her.
The stillness in his shoulders.
The careful way he stood, like he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands, or his gaze, or himself among all the silk and laughter and shining nobility.
Awkward.
The realization made something warm bubble in her chest.
She let out a soft chuckle, the sound gentler than the music drifting through the hall, and gave a small sigh.
“I’m kidding,” she said. “But really… I am dressed as a fairy who can’t fly. Peacocks basically can’t fly much if you think about it.”
His eyes lifted back to hers.
For a heartbeat, he just looked at her—like he was trying to memorize the way the lantern light caught in the blue-green shimmer of her feathers.
Then a quiet chuckle escaped him.
The sound was low. Rare.
And it made her stomach flutter in a way she chose not to examine too closely.
Silence settled again, softer this time. Comfortable.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her expression.
“…Do you want to fly?” he asked.
Her breath paused.
“Why do you ask?” she replied, voice quieter now.
Instead of answering, he stepped a fraction closer and brought his hand forward, palm open toward her.
The gesture was steady—formal, almost ceremonial—but there was something gentle beneath it. Something meant only for her.
“Because,” he said softly,
“I might just be able to make you fly a little.”
The music swelled, strings rising like a held breath.
He bent slightly at the waist, the movement respectful despite the simple mask hiding half his face.
“Care for a dance, Your Majesty?”
For a moment, Lia could only stare at his outstretched hand.
At the boy who once stayed on the ground with her.
At the knight who now stood before her, offering, not the sky,
but something close enough to hurt.
Her heart beat once.
Twice.
Slowly, carefully, as if the moment might shatter if she moved too fast…
She placed her gloved hand in his.
His hand was warm around hers.
Steady.
The kind of steady that made the noise of the ballroom fade just a little, until it felt like the two of them were standing inside a quieter world shaped only by music and breath and the space between their fingers.
Jisung guided her gently toward the dance floor, careful—always careful—not to pull too fast, not to assume too much. But Lia followed without resistance, peacock feathers whispering behind her like the echo of wings she’d never truly had.
Around them, couples were already moving in smooth, practiced patterns. Silk turning. Shoes gliding. Laughter soft beneath the orchestra’s swell.
She barely had time to grow nervous before the dance carried them with it.
One step.
Another.
A slow turn beneath lantern light.
His movements were precise, disciplined from years of training—but softened for her, shaped to match her rhythm instead of forcing his own. Every shift of his hand asked permission without words.
And then—
The music lifted.
So did he.
Lia gasped as his hands found her waist and, in one seamless motion shared by the other dancers across the floor, he lifted her off the ground.
For a heartbeat, panic flickered—
—but it vanished just as quickly.
Because she wasn’t falling.
She was held.
The world dipped and spun in a slow, shining circle. Feathers trailed through golden light. The orchestra swelled like wind beneath invisible wings.
A sound escaped her—small at first.
Then brighter.
A laugh.
Another.
Soft giggles she couldn’t hold back even if she tried.
It wasn’t really flying.
Not truly.
But the twirls, the lifts, the gentle moments where her feet left the floor just long enough for her stomach to flutter—
It felt like floating.
Like the sky had bent down, just a little, to meet her halfway.
Her laughter grew warmer, freer, spilling out into the music as something inside her chest—tight for so many years—finally loosened.
She felt—
happy.
And Jisung felt it too.
Not in the steps.
Not in the rhythm.
But in the way her fingers tightened slightly around his shoulder,
like she was afraid the feeling might disappear
if she let go too soon.
Lia didn’t realize how hard she was breathing until the music faded completely.
A soft gasp left her lips, followed by quiet, uneven pants as laughter kept slipping out between breaths. Her cheeks were warm beneath the mask, eyes bright in a way that felt unfamiliar—like something long asleep inside her had just woken up.
Somehow, in the blur after the final bow and the swell of applause, they had drifted away from the grand hall.
Now they sat together on the garden stairs, the night air cool and gentle against flushed skin. Lantern light shimmered across the palace grounds, gold and amber reflecting in the fountains and along marble paths.
Beside them, Pumpkin had completely abandoned dignity and was busy gnawing on a poor, defenseless plant.
Lia laughed under her breath, still catching it in pieces.
“That…” she said softly, voice full of wonder,
“was flying.”
Jisung’s smile deepened—quiet, proud in a way he tried not to show too openly.
“Told you,” he replied.
She turned to him, feathers rustling faintly behind her.
“I had fun,” she admitted, the words simple but glowing.
Then, more quietly—almost like a secret:
“I feel like ever since you’ve returned… I’ve flown more than I ever did in my life.”
Something warm moved through his chest at that.
He looked at her for a moment, really looked—at the light in her eyes, the looseness in her shoulders, the happiness that used to feel so rare on her face.
“Well,” he said gently,
“I can make you really feel like you’re flying.”
Her brows lifted in surprise.
“How?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he suddenly scooped her up bridal-style.
She shrieked, grabbing onto his shoulders in pure shock as feathers trembled and her mask nearly slipped.
“Jisung—?!”
But he was already beaming at her, a boyish brightness breaking through the composed knight.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
She inhaled, heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
Then she chuckled softly… and nodded.
“I do.”
And in the very next moment—
He bent his knees and leapt.
High.
Higher than any normal jump should carry.
Lia screamed, fingers tightening in his clothes as the ground dropped away—
—but he didn’t fall.
They were floating.
Suspended in the open night as if the air itself had chosen to hold them.
Her scream dissolved into a breathless gasp.
Below them, the entire kingdom glowed—
lanterns strung like fallen stars,
golden lights tracing rooftops and streets,
celebration shining in every direction for the queen’s birthday.
The sky felt endless.
The wind soft instead of cruel.
Her voice came out in awe, barely louder than a whisper.
“…How?”
Jisung only smiled, eyes reflecting the lantern light.
“It’s a secret.”
Then, more gently:
“Just enjoy it.”
She did.
Completely. Quietly. Wonder filling every empty space inside her chest.
After a moment, he added—
“I can do this anytime you want to fly.”
Her gaze shifted from the glowing kingdom… back to him.
And something in her heart lifted even higher than the sky around them.
They drifted in gentle stillness above the glowing kingdom, the sounds of celebration softened into distant music and scattered laughter far below.
For a long moment, Lia could only stare.
At the lanterns.
At the endless dark sky.
At the impossible fact that she was still in the air.
Her fingers tightened slightly in his collar as another realization struck.
“…So you can just stay suspended like this,” she breathed, awe spilling into her voice,
“for as long as you like?”
Jisung glanced down at her, the wind moving softly through strands of her hair.
“Something like that,” he said.
Simple. Casual.
As if holding someone between earth and sky were the most ordinary thing in the world.
A quiet gasp left her.
Because for the first time in her life, she could truly feel it—
The night air slipping through her hair, cool and alive.
The open space around her with nothing holding her down.
The gentle sway of height instead of the still weight of ground.
Her wings fluttered faintly behind her, catching the breeze in small, useless tremors—
But it didn’t matter.
Not anymore.
Her heart thumped fast and bright inside her chest, each beat filled with something she had never quite touched before.
Not jealousy.
Not longing.
Just amazement.
She laughed softly under her breath, the sound carried away by the wind as her eyes shimmered with reflected lantern light.
For once…
The sky didn’t feel cruel.
It felt like it was welcoming her.
After that night, the sky became theirs.
Only at night.
When the palace quieted…
when lanterns dimmed…
when no watchful eyes could turn wonder into suspicion—
Jisung would find her.
And they would fly.
Not always high.
Not always far.
Sometimes only above the gardens, drifting slow enough for her to trail her fingers through cool air and pretend the world had finally softened for her.
By day, things were different.
Her father had noticed.
Not the flights—those remained secret—but the closeness. The way the lonely princess no longer wandered quite so aimlessly. The way the young knight’s attention never strayed far from her.
So the king, practical as ever, had simply assigned Jisung as her personal guard.
Now no one questioned why he was always nearby.
And Lia…
Lia tried very hard not to look too pleased about it.
That afternoon, they sat beneath a flowering tree in the quieter edge of the gardens. Pumpkin sprawled across Lia’s lap like a small, orange ruler of the universe, accepting gentle head pats as his due.
For a while they just talked—about nothing important.
Cloud shapes.
Strange nobles.
How Pumpkin had attempted to attack a ribbon and lost.
Easy things.
Safe things.
But curiosity had been sitting in Lia’s chest for days now, growing louder each time the night wind carried her upward.
She turned toward him suddenly.
“…How do you do it?”
Jisung glanced at her.
“Do what?”
“The floating,” she said, as if the word itself might break if spoken too loudly. “How can you stay in the air like that?”
A small pause.
“…It’s oni magic,” he answered simply.
Her eyes widened.
A soft gasp slipped out.
“Then what are the side effects?”
“There aren’t any.”
Smack.
Her hand hit his arm—not hard, but sharp enough to make the lie impossible to maintain.
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying,” he said, far too calmly.
She gave him a look.
The very specific one that meant she would sit there forever until the truth surrendered.
He lasted three seconds.
Jisung sighed.
“…Okay. Maybe I do feel a little weak sometimes.”
Her expression fell instantly.
A horrified breath caught in her throat, guilt flooding in so fast it almost hurt.
“I—”
“It’s fine—”
“DON’T.” she snapped, cutting him off. “Don’t tell me it’s fine. I get to feel horrible!”
Another indignant slap to his arm.
He couldn’t help it—he chuckled softly, the sound warm with something dangerously close to fondness.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For not telling you.”
Then, gentler:
“But really… it’s fine.”
She kept glaring, stubborn and soft all at once, fingers resuming slow strokes over Pumpkin’s head as if the kitten might help her think.
“Your happiness,” Jisung added quietly,
“…is kind of my energy booster.”
Her hand stilled.
Color rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it.
“It isn’t funny,” she muttered, very focused on Pumpkin’s ears.
Something bold—unusually bold—rose in his chest then.
Careful.
Slow.
He lifted an arm and drew her into a side hug, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted.
She didn’t.
Her shoulder fit against him like it had always known the place.
Very gently, almost hesitantly, he pressed a kiss to her hair.
“It’s true,” he murmured.
And in the quiet shade, with a kitten purring between them and spring wind moving softly through blossoms—
Lia’s heart began to race in a way
that had nothing to do with flying.
Lia stayed very still after the kiss.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning closer.
Just… looking at him.
There was something searching in her gaze, something soft but sharp enough to make his heartbeat stumble over itself.
“What was that about?” she asked quietly.
The question landed far heavier than it sounded.
Heat rushed instantly to Jisung’s face and ears, bright and impossible to hide. His composure—usually so steady—fractured in the smallest, most obvious way.
“Uh…”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Don’t uh me!” she protested, sitting up straighter in his arm. “You can’t just— just—”
She gestured vaguely near her hair, cheeks pink. “—and then say uh.”
Despite himself, a smile tugged at his mouth.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said softly.
But the warmth in his expression didn’t fade.
“If I told you…” he continued, voice dropping just a little,
“…it would be the end of me.”
She blinked.
“Why?”
He shook his head once, small but firm.
“I’d get in trouble.”
“With who?”
Another shake.
No answer.
Silence stretched between them—thin, fragile, buzzing with something neither of them quite knew how to name.
Then Lia tilted her head, eyes glinting with sudden mischief meant to hide the strange flutter in her chest.
“…Do you like me?” she asked lightly, almost teasing.
The world stopped.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet, suspended pause—
like the moment before wings decide whether to lift or fall.
Jisung didn’t laugh.
Didn’t deflect.
Didn’t answer right away.
Her teasing smile began to falter under his silence.
Because he still wasn’t laughing.
Still wasn’t brushing it off.
Still wasn’t looking away.
The air between them grew tight—thin with something fragile and frightening and too real.
“…What?” she said, a small nervous laugh slipping out.
Then, softer but more urgent:
“Tell me. Do you?”
Her heart was beating too fast now.
Loud enough she was sure he could hear it.
For a moment, Jisung said nothing.
His gaze stayed on her—steady, warm, and terrifyingly honest in a way she had never seen before. Like he was standing at the edge of something with no armor, no title, no place to hide.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
“…If I say yes,” he asked gently,
“will you run away again?”
The question caught her off guard.
Because she had run.
In the meadow.
In the hallway.
Every time something felt too close to her heart.
Her fingers tightened slightly in Pumpkin’s fur.
“…I don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper.
Truth for truth.
Something softened in his expression—sad, but understanding.
He looked down for a brief second, gathering courage like it was something physical he had to hold onto.
Then he looked back at her.
And this time… he didn’t hide.
“…Yes,” Jisung said quietly.
“I do.”
The words were simple.
But they landed like a stone dropped into still water—
ripples spreading through every quiet place inside her chest.
Silence followed.
Not empty.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Too full for either of them to move right away.
Even Pumpkin seemed to sense it, going still in her lap.
Lia’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
For a single, suspended heartbeat, Lia could only stare at him.
The words echoed in her head—
Yes. I do.
And then—
It hit her.
All at once.
Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and a sound burst out of her before she could stop it—
“AAH—!”
She shrieked and immediately slapped his arm in pure, overwhelmed panic, cheeks blazing hot as she folded forward and covered her face with both hands.
Her legs kicked helplessly against the grass like her body didn’t know what to do with all the sudden, fluttering energy rushing through her chest.
Jisung blinked, completely caught off guard.
“…Lia?”
She dared a tiny peek through her fingers—
Only to see his confused face staring back at her.
Another squeal escaped her.
She snapped her hands back over her face and started giggling, the sound high and breathless and utterly uncontrollable.
“Oh my gosh—!” she gasped between laughs, shoving his shoulder again in flustered disbelief. “Don’t just say that so suddenly!”
She shoved him once more, softer this time, still half hiding behind her hands as her heart fluttered wildly like it might actually take flight on its own.
Her cheeks burned.
Her thoughts tangled.
Everything felt too bright, too loud, too much—
And yet…
She couldn’t stop smiling behind her hands.
Not even a little.
Beside her, Jisung watched in stunned silence for a moment—
Then, slowly…
A soft, helpless smile spread across his face too.
Jisung hadn’t expected that reaction.
Not the shriek.
Not the kicking legs.
Definitely not the uncontrollable giggling.
And certainly not the way she was smiling behind her hands like something precious had just been placed inside her chest.
Now he was the one feeling unsteady.
Heat crept slowly across his face, up to the tips of his ears, impossible to hide no matter how calmly he tried to breathe. When Lia finally lowered her hands, their eyes met—
And both of them looked away at the exact same time.
Silence settled, soft and glowing and unbearably aware.
He could hear the faint rustle of leaves.
The quiet purring of Pumpkin.
And somewhere beneath it all—
His own heartbeat, far too loud.
Another glance.
Another quick look away.
Both of them blushing like children who had stumbled into something too big for words.
Seconds passed.
Maybe more.
Then, slowly… something in Lia shifted.
The embarrassment didn’t disappear—but it melted into something warmer. Softer. A quiet happiness spreading through her like sunlight after rain.
When she looked back at him this time, her eyes were bright.
Shy.
But beaming.
Carefully—almost hesitantly—she reached out and wrapped her hands around his arm, as if testing whether this new closeness was real… and allowed.
He went very still.
Her head leaned gently against his shoulder, feathers brushing his sleeve, the movement small but filled with trust.
She let out the tiniest satisfied breath.
Happy.
Content.
Like she had finally found a place that didn’t feel lonely.
Jisung’s breath caught quietly in his chest.
For a moment, Jisung didn’t move at all.
As if the smallest shift might break whatever quiet miracle had just settled beside him.
Lia’s hands were still wrapped around his arm.
Her head rested against his shoulder, light and trusting.
Her breathing had softened into something calm… content… no longer lonely.
The feeling spread slowly through his chest—warm, steady, almost unfamiliar.
Then, little by little…
He began to smile.
Not the small, careful smile he wore as a knight.
Not the polite one meant for courts and commanders.
But something softer.
Brighter.
Unhidden.
A quiet beam that reached his eyes without permission.
Carefully—so carefully it was almost a question—he tilted his head and let it come to rest gently on top of hers.
Her hair was warm from the sun.
Soft beneath his cheek.
He felt her still for half a heartbeat in surprise…
…but she didn’t pull away.
Instead, she relaxed even more, like she had been waiting for that small closeness without realizing it.
The garden stayed quiet around them.
Leaves whispering.
Pumpkin purring.
Afternoon light drifting lazily through branches.
Thats it for this one!
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️✨️
Oops, That’s Him ft. Knight!Jisung
A/n: Forgive the title 😭 2026 and I still suck at titles.
Genre: Royal au, Knight au, Romance, Angst, Comfort, Fluff
Pairings: Knight!Jisung x Princess!Lia (fem oc/ named reader)
Warnings: none
Princess Lia hated mornings.
Not because of the sun, or the birds, or the way the palace smelled faintly of roses and expectations—but because mornings were when the matchmaker arrived.
Jisung knew this because the moment the bells rang, Lia was already pacing her chambers like a trapped cat, skirts swishing, book tucked dangerously under her arm like a weapon.
“She’s early,” Lia hissed.
Jisung, standing stiffly by the door in full armor, sighed in a way that was technically not knightly. “Your Highness, perhaps if you just met him this once—”
Bonk.
The book collided with the side of his helmet.
“I said,” Lia snapped, “no more men.”
“It was a suggestion,” he muttered, rubbing his head. “A very reasonable one.”
She spun to face him, eyes sharp. “He’s from the northern duchy, isn’t he?”
“…Yes.”
“And you failed to stall the matchmaker.”
“…Also yes.”
Bonk.
Harder this time.
Jisung winced. “I tried! I told her you were indisposed.”
“And?”
“She asked with what.”
Lia’s glare was lethal. “And you said?”
“…Indigestion.”
She stared at him.
“…Royal indigestion,” he added weakly.
Another smack—this time to his arm.
“You are terrible at this,” she scolded. “Honestly, what is the point of having the third-highest-ranked knight if he can’t even invent a proper scandal?”
Jisung opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. Because she was already moving—grabbing her cloak, tugging her hair into a braid, eyes alight with that familiar dangerous excitement.
“No,” he said immediately. “No, absolutely not.”
She froze, then slowly turned.
“Jisung.”
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“Who do you serve?”
He swallowed.
The correct answer echoed in his head. The king. The crown. The realm.
But she stepped closer, poking his chest with one finger.
“Who,” she repeated sweetly, “do you serve?”
“…You,” he said, barely audible.
Her grin was victorious. “Then serve your princess by helping her run!”
“I trained my entire life for combat, strategy, and honor,” he groaned as he followed her to the window. “Not for sneaking a royal out of her own bedroom.”
“And yet,” Lia said, already halfway onto the ledge, “here you are.”
Below them, the gardens stretched wide and suspiciously jumpable.
Jisung peered down. “You’ll break your ankle.”
“You’ll catch me.”
“That is not reassuring.”
She glanced back at him, softer now—just for a moment. “You always do.”
His heart did something profoundly unhelpful.
With a resigned sigh, he climbed after her. “One day,” he muttered, “the king is going to ask me what I’ve been doing as your guard.”
“And what will you say?”
He caught her as she leapt, arms steady despite himself.
“…Protecting you from marriage.”
Jisung went first.
With a resigned breath and a whispered prayer to every knightly vow he was about to bend, he climbed over the window ledge and dropped into the garden below. He landed with a soft thud, knees bending perfectly—of course he landed perfectly. He looked up immediately.
“All clear,” he stage-whispered. “Your Highness, you can still reconsider—”
Lia leaned out the window, cloak fluttering dramatically.
“I’m going to jump now.”
“Wait,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to jump. We could walk. Calmly. Like—”
“I am jumping.”
“Princess—”
Her foot slipped onto the ledge just as a sharp voice cut through the morning air.
“Princess Lia!”
Jisung stiffened.
The matchmaker stood at the edge of the garden path, hands folded, expression tight and triumphant. She looked down at him first—then up at Lia—and smiled like she’d won.
“Sir Knight,” she said coolly, “you will be punished for this.”
Lia bristled. “Hey! Don’t listen to her!! You’re my guard!” she shouted, panic creeping into her voice. “Jisung, you’re my knight!”
He looked up at her, torn—helmet tucked under his arm, hands clenched into fists.
“Your Highness, please,” he tried one last time, voice low. “Just come down. We can talk about this—”
“In the name of the royal court,” the matchmaker interrupted sharply, “Park Jisung, if you disobey me and assist the princess, you will be going directly against the king’s will.”
The name hit him like a blade.
Lia saw it instantly—the way his face drained of color, the way his jaw tightened. She felt her chest drop.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”
Jisung swallowed hard.
Whenever the king’s name was spoken like that, there was no room for mischief. No bending. No helping her run.
He looked up at Lia, guilt written all over his face.
“I–I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he said, barely louder than the wind. “I can’t.”
Her breath caught.
“Jisung… Park Jisung!” she exclaimed, disbelief turning into horror as he turned away and ran.
“JISUNG!”
He didn’t look back.
Panic surged through her. She scrambled away from the window, skirts gathered in her hands.
“I can still make it,” she muttered frantically, racing toward the door. “I can still—”
The door flew open.
Maids.
Too many of them.
Lia shrieked.
“No! No, absolutely not—LET GO OF ME—”
Later.
Much, much later.
Lia stood stiffly in the grand hall, hands folded in front of her like a perfect princess she absolutely was not. Across from her droned the Duke of Somewhere Entirely Unimportant, smiling far too much and gesturing far too broadly.
“And of course,” the duke was saying, “our lands are rich in grain and—”
She didn’t hear a word.
Because standing beside her—one step behind, as always—was Jisung.
Helmet on. Armor polished. Face guilty.
He looked… miserable.
His shoulders slumped just slightly, eyes fixed on the floor, mouth set in a thin line like he was being personally punished by every word the duke spoke. If sulking were an Olympic sport, he’d medal.
Lia glanced sideways at him.
He didn’t look back.
Good.
She leaned in just enough for only him to hear.
“You ran.”
His jaw clenched.
“You abandoned me.”
A flinch.
“You left me to the maids.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” he whispered, voice tight.
She smiled sweetly.
“Oh, you had choices,” she murmured. “And you chose wrong.”
The duke laughed loudly at something no one else found funny.
Lia turned her gaze forward again, smile polite, eyes sharp.
Jisung suddenly had the awful feeling that whatever punishment awaited him…
was going to be far worse than the royal court.
The duke was still talking.
Something about vineyards. Or horses. Or taxes. Lia wasn’t sure. She lifted one perfectly manicured hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said calmly.
The duke blinked. “Pardon?”
She tilted her head, nose wrinkling just slightly. “You reek of alcohol. I don’t like that.”
The hall went dead silent.
The duke laughed awkwardly. “Ah—well, you see—”
“So unfortunately,” Lia continued sweetly, already turning away, “this arrangement is a failure.”
The matchmaker stiffened. “Princess—”
Lia looked at her.
Not sharply. Not angrily.
Worse.
She leaned in just enough to whisper, voice silk-smooth.
“You can say anything you want,” Lia murmured. “You and I both know my reasons are perfectly acceptable.”
The matchmaker’s mouth snapped shut.
A moment later, the duke was being politely ushered out, still confused, still smiling like a man who had no idea his pride had just been publicly buried.
Jisung stared straight ahead, ears burning.
He didn’t dare look at her.
The courtyard was quiet.
Too quiet.
Jisung walked a careful step behind Lia, every muscle tight. He knew that silence. He had escorted her through enough corridors to recognize it.
This was not forgiveness silence.
This was punishment pending silence.
He swallowed.
“Your Highness,” he began cautiously, “about earlier—”
She stopped.
He nearly walked into her.
Before he could apologize again, a servant approached, bowing low. In his arms—
Two corgis.
Polly and Molly.
Jisung’s soul left his body.
No.
No, no, no, no.
The dogs wriggled happily, little legs kicking, tails wagging like weapons of mass destruction.
Jisung froze.
If there was one thing he feared more than royal displeasure… it was dogs.
Small dogs were worse.
Small dogs that liked him were his worst nightmare.
Lia turned slowly, a sweet, dangerous smile blooming on her face.
“Jisung~” she sing-songed.
He flinched.
“How about you play with Polly and Molly?” she asked brightly. “They missed you.”
The corgis barked in agreement, paws flailing.
“I—Your Highness—I think perhaps another guard would be more suitable—”
“Oh?” Lia tilted her head and looked down at the dogs. “You want me to remove the leashes, you say?”
Jisung’s eyes widened in horror.
“No—wait—Princess—please—”
She beamed.
“How could I possibly say no to such angels?” she cooed.
Click.
The leashes came off.
“YOUR HIGHNESS—”
The corgis bolted.
“AAAAAA—”
Jisung shrieked and ran.
Across the courtyard.
Armor clanking. Dignity gone. Knightly composure in shambles.
Polly and Molly chased him joyfully, barking like they were winning a war.
Lia watched, hands clasped behind her back, perfectly satisfied.
“Run faster, Sir Knight!” she called cheerfully. “Consider this your punishment for abandoning your princess!”
Jisung vaulted a fountain.
The corgis followed.
Somewhere in the distance, guards stared in stunned silence.
Lia smiled to herself.
Serves you right.
Lia laughed.
Not a polite laugh. Not a princess-appropriate one.
She laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the stone railing, shoulders shaking as she watched Jisung sprint across the courtyard with absolutely zero knightly dignity left.
“NO—PLEASE—WHY ARE THEY SO FAST—”
Polly barked triumphantly.
Molly went for his ankle.
“YOUR HIGHNESS, CALL THEM OFF—”
“I can’t hear you!” Lia called back, laughter bubbling over. “You’re very far away!”
He tripped.
Recovered.
Ran faster.
Armor clanged, guards stared, a maid gasped, and Lia—Lia felt something warm bloom in her chest.
Her laughter slowly faded.
She straightened, watching him—not as a knight, not as her guard, but as him. Panicked, loyal, ridiculous Jisung. The same man who had helped her escape a dozen times. The same man who always tried to talk her out of it first. The same man who looked like he’d rather face a dragon than disappoint her.
The same man who had run away…
because he was terrified of disobeying the king.
Her smile softened.
“…Idiot,” she murmured fondly.
She thought of every man the matchmaker had paraded before her. Smiling princes. Polished nobles. Men who spoke of alliances and heirs and obedience.
She hated them all.
But Jisung?
Jisung scolded her. Let her hit him with books. Risked punishment to help her run. Looked devastated when he couldn’t choose her.
And now—was being chased by her dogs because she’d decided he deserved it.
The realization hit her suddenly.
Clear. Undeniable.
Jisung was easily the only man she didn’t hate.
Her laughter faded completely.
Polly and Molly finally tackled him, licking his face enthusiastically as he screamed in despair.
Lia raised two fingers to her lips and whistled sharply.
“Polly! Molly!”
The dogs skidded to a stop and immediately trotted back to her, tails wagging proudly.
Jisung collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving.
“…I survived,” he panted.
Lia approached him slowly, skirts brushing the ground.
She stopped in front of him.
He looked up at her warily. “Your Highness… am I forgiven?”
She considered him for a long moment.
Then she smiled—not teasing, not cruel.
Soft.
“…Get up, Sir Knight,” she said quietly.
He obeyed instantly.
As he stood there, muddy, flustered, eyes still full of guilt, Lia realized something else too—
If marriage was a cage…
Then Jisung had never once tried to lock her inside it.
And that scared her more than any matchmaker ever could.
Lia opened her mouth to speak.
“Jisung, I—”
“He’s the one!”
The sharp voice cut through the courtyard like a blade.
Lia turned just in time to see her elder sister, Rose, storming toward them, finger raised and shaking as she pointed straight at Jisung.
“He’s the one who peeped!” Rose declared. “Him!”
Jisung froze.
The General—who had arrived moments earlier, drawn by the chaos—stared at Jisung in open shock.
Lia blinked. “Wait—what’s going on here?!”
Rose rounded on her, eyes blazing. “Your stupid knight peeped at me while I was changing!”
Silence.
Jisung’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“What? No!” he blurted out, panic overtaking him. “I would never! I swear on my honor—on my life—I didn’t!”
Voices erupted around them. Guards murmured. A maid gasped. The General’s expression hardened instantly, posture rigid with authority.
Jisung’s breath hitched.
He looked at Lia.
Not pleading.
Not demanding.
Just terrified—his head shaking slightly, eyes wide, silently begging her to believe him.
And she didn’t even hesitate.
“No,” Lia said firmly. “He wouldn’t.”
Everyone turned to her.
“It must’ve been someone else,” she continued, stepping forward. “Jisung would never do such a thing.”
Rose scoffed loudly. “Of course you’d say that. He’s your minion.” She sneered. “He’s a man after all—a knight who enjoys peeping at royal maidens. Pervert.”
Jisung shook his head frantically. “I don’t—I barely even go near the other princesses’ chambers! I avoid them on purpose!”
The General raised a stern hand, voice cold. “Enough. Sir Knight, you will stand still while this is—”
Jisung’s lips trembled.
For the first time, he truly looked like he might cry.
That did it.
Lia snapped.
She shoved Rose back—hard enough to make her stumble.
“Don’t touch him,” Lia warned, eyes blazing. “You’re just trying to get him in trouble to sabotage me.”
“Lia!” Rose gasped.
But Lia wasn’t done.
“Jisung is scared of puppies,” she snapped. “Especially the friendliest ones! What makes you think he takes enjoyment in perverted acts?!”
Jisung stared at her in shock.
She pointed at Rose, voice sharp and unwavering.
“He would never do such a thing. He can’t even go against the king’s wishes even when I tell him to!” she continued. “And you think this is the man who would dare peek at a royal princess?”
The courtyard fell silent.
The General hesitated, doubt flickering across his stern face.
Lia stepped in front of Jisung completely now—blocking him from every accusing gaze.
“If you want to accuse someone,” she said coldly, “bring proof.”
Jisung swallowed hard behind her.
For the first time in his life…
someone had chosen him over rank, rumor, and royal blood.
And that terrified him more than any punishment ever could.
Rose reeled back, scandalized.
“You dare speak to me like that?!” she exclaimed, hand flying to her chest. “To me?!”
“Yes, I dare!” Lia shot back without missing a beat. “You’re the one who stormed in here and falsely accused my guard!”
Gasps rippled through the courtyard.
Rose stared at her like she’d been slapped. “Lia, have you lost your mind?”
Lia stepped closer, chin lifted, eyes sharp. “I bet you’re just jealous.”
“Jealous?” Rose echoed incredulously.
“Yes,” Lia said sweetly—dangerously. “Jealous that I have the most handsome knight in this entire palace who actually listens to me.”
Jisung’s brain short-circuited.
Handsome—
Rose gasped in pure offence. “That is inappropriate.”
“What’s inappropriate,” Lia snapped, “is accusing an innocent man just because you’re bitter.”
The General cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Princess Lia—”
“You stay out of this,” Lia said sharply, never taking her eyes off Rose. “You know him. Everyone does. Jisung barely lifts his gaze from the floor when he’s nervous.”
Jisung, currently staring very hard at the ground, felt personally called out.
“He’s terrified of puppies,” Lia continued. “He apologizes when chairs bump into him. And you expect us to believe he’d boldly trespass into your chambers?”
Rose’s face flushed crimson. “You’re blinded because he’s yours.”
“Yes,” Lia said simply. “And that’s exactly why I know he didn’t do it.”
She turned slightly, just enough to glance back at Jisung.
Her voice softened—only for him.
“I trust you.”
His throat closed.
Rose clenched her fists. “This is outrageous. Father will hear of this.”
“Good,” Lia said calmly. “Let him.”
She faced Rose fully again, expression cold and unwavering.
“Until you have proof,” she added, “keep my knight’s name out of your mouth.”
Silence fell heavy and absolute.
Rose left in a flurry of silk and outrage, the General following close behind. The matchmaker trailed after them, muttering furiously under her breath. Guards dispersed. Servants scattered.
The courtyard emptied.
The moment they were alone, Lia groaned.
“Oh my gods,” she muttered, lifting both hands to her head. She dragged her fingers through her hair, fixing strands that had come loose, smoothing it back into something resembling royal composure.
She exhaled long and slow.
“That was exhausting.”
Behind her, Jisung stood frozen.
For several heartbeats, he said nothing.
Then—
“Your Highness.”
She turned.
He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even panicking anymore.
He looked… shaken.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.
Lia blinked. “Done what?”
“Defended me like that.” His hands clenched at his sides. “You challenged your sister. The General. You even dared them to tell the king.”
She tilted her head. “And?”
“And I’m just a knight,” he said, voice tight. “If this reaches His Majesty, it could ruin you.”
Her expression softened. “Jisung—”
“I don’t matter enough for you to risk that,” he interrupted, finally meeting her eyes. “You shouldn’t put yourself in danger for me.”
That did it.
She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth,” he insisted, shoulders stiff. “I was terrified. I thought I was going to be arrested—stripped of my rank—”
“But you weren’t,” she said firmly.
“Because you intervened.”
“Because you were innocent.”
“That doesn’t always matter,” he said bitterly.
Lia reached out and grabbed the front of his armor, yanking him down just enough so he had no choice but to look at her.
“It matters to me,” she said sharply. “You didn’t do it. So I defended you.”
He stared at her, stunned.
“You stood there shaking,” she continued, voice lower now. “You looked at me like you thought I wouldn’t believe you.”
His lips parted. “…I didn’t know if you would.”
Her grip tightened.
“Jisung,” she said softly, “I don’t hate men because they exist. I hate men who think they can do whatever they want.”
She released him.
“And you,” she added, turning away, “are the least dangerous man I know.”
He laughed weakly. “That’s not very flattering.”
She glanced back over her shoulder, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“It is when it means I trust you.”
Silence settled between them—heavy, warm, terrifying.
Jisung swallowed.
“…You called me handsome.”
She froze.
Slowly, she turned back to him.
“I was angry,” she said quickly. “It doesn’t count.”
His ears burned. “It sounded very intentional.”
She folded her arms. “Don’t push your luck, Sir Knight.”
But her cheeks were warm.
She didn’t argue with him.
She didn’t tease him.
She didn’t scold him.
She just stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Jisung froze.
Completely. Entirely.
“Y-Your Highness—” he stammered, hands hovering uselessly in the air, afraid to touch, afraid to breathe.
Lia pressed her forehead lightly against his chest armor, voice muffled but steady.
“Stop worrying,” she said quietly.
He swallowed.
“And start standing up for yourself,” she continued. “If you didn’t do it, then you didn’t do it. You understand?”
Her grip tightened just a little.
“You don’t need permission to be innocent.”
His chest ached.
Slowly—hesitantly—he lowered his arms and rested them around her, barely touching at first, like she might disappear if he held her too firmly.
“…Yes, Your Highness,” he whispered.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes serious.
“I mean it, Jisung. I won’t always be there to speak for you.”
He nodded, throat tight. “I’ll try.”
She smiled softly. “Good.”
A while later, they stood before the throne.
The great doors had barely finished closing when Lia felt it—Jisung’s tension beside her. His back was straight, hands clenched, jaw tight. Every instinct in him screamed danger.
Lia, on the other hand, wasn’t scared in the slightest.
Rose stood beside their father, chin lifted, lips curved in a smug little smile that said I won. The sight of it made Lia smile too—slow, knowing, almost amused.
The king’s gaze swept over them, heavy and assessing.
“I have heard there was a disturbance in the courtyard,” he said at last. “Accusations. Shouting. Explain yourselves.”
Lia didn’t hesitate.
She took one step forward, skirts whispering against the marble, and calmly turned her head toward Rose.
“My dearest elder sister,” Lia said sweetly, “blindly accused my knight of peeping at her while she was changing.”
Rose stiffened.
“I simply defended him,” Lia continued, unfazed. “Because I know Jisung. He would never do such a thing.”
Jisung’s breath caught.
She went on, voice steady, clear—unafraid.
“Furthermore,” she added, “he is one of the most decorated knights in this kingdom. Loyal to a fault. Obedient even when it pains him.” Her eyes flicked briefly to Jisung before returning to the king. “I don’t understand why everyone was so quick to turn against him.”
The hall was silent.
“Father,” Lia said, meeting the king’s gaze directly, “you know how he is. You’ve seen him grow. Are you truly going to believe Rose’s words without a shred of proof?”
Rose scoffed. “Lia, you’re being naïve—”
The king raised a hand.
Rose fell silent instantly.
His eyes moved from Lia… to Jisung.
The knight dropped to one knee at once, head bowed.
“I swear on my honor and my life,” Jisung said, voice tight but unwavering, “I did not commit the act I am accused of.”
The king studied him for a long moment.
Too long.
Lia lifted her gaze to her father.
Not defiant.
Not pleading.
Just… steady.
It was the look that had always undone him—the one she’d inherited from her mother. Calm, clear, unyielding. The look that said I am not lying.
The king felt his stern resolve waver.
He had watched Park Jisung grow from a boy barely tall enough to hold a sword into one of the most disciplined knights in the realm. Loyal. Honest. Almost painfully so.
If there was one thing Jisung lacked, it was deceit.
“Father,” Rose burst out sharply, breaking the silence, “you aren’t possibly believing Lia, are you? I am the victim here!”
The name echoed in the hall.
Lia didn’t flinch.
Instead, she spoke—measured and composed.
“Instead of creating a scene,” Lia said coolly, “I suggest the guards accompany Rose and search for the actual peeping pervert.”
Rose’s glare could have shattered glass.
“You—”
The king raised his hand again.
“Enough.”
His voice was low, final.
He looked at Lia for a long moment before speaking again.
“You speak with confidence,” he said quietly. “And you always have.”
Lia met his eyes. “Because I speak the truth.”
The king exhaled slowly.
“Rose,” he said, turning to his elder daughter, “if you are certain of your accusation, then you will have no objection to finding the true culprit.”
Rose’s lips parted in protest.
“I will not condemn a knight of this realm without proof,” the king continued. “Especially not one whose loyalty has never once been questioned.”
Jisung’s shoulders sagged in relief he hadn’t dared to hope for.
The king’s gaze shifted to him.
“Rise, Sir Jisung.”
Jisung obeyed instantly, eyes burning, chest tight.
The king looked back at Rose. “Guards. Escort the princess. Search the corridors and chambers. Thoroughly.”
Rose clenched her fists. “Father—”
“Now,” the king said sharply.
The guards moved.
As Rose was ushered away, she shot Lia one last venomous look.
Lia merely smiled.
When the hall finally emptied, the king turned fully to his youngest daughter.
“…Azalea,” he said softly.
Something in his tone had changed.
“Yes, Father?” Lia said calmly.
The king studied her for a long moment before speaking.
“You escaped again today,” he said evenly. “The matchmaker had quite a lot to complain about.”
Lia groaned instantly, tipping her head back. “Father—”
“Azalea.”
The single word stopped her cold.
He lowered his voice. “I want you to be happy.”
She blinked, surprised by the softness.
“I am happy,” Lia said quickly. “Just as I am.”
He smiled faintly. “I want you to be happy with a husband.”
She groaned again, louder this time. “Father, please—”
“Then tell the matchmaker exactly what kind of suitor you want,” he interrupted gently. “If there is a specific kind of man you desire, do not hesitate. Give her a list, and she will find him.”
Lia stared at him.
“…A list?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “Be honest.”
She sighed, rubbing her temples.
“Fine,” she said at last. “But I have a condition.”
His brow lifted. “Go on.”
“If the suitor doesn’t meet my expectations,” Lia said firmly, “I can say no.”
The king smiled.
“Of course. I only want my daughter to have the best—certainly the one she wants.”
He waved a hand. “You are dismissed.”
Lia bowed and turned sharply, skirts swishing as she left the hall.
The moment they were out of sight—
Her smile turned wicked.
Jisung noticed immediately.
“…Your Highness,” he said cautiously, “why do you look like that?”
She clasped her hands together, eyes gleaming. “Because I’ve just been handed the perfect weapon.”
His stomach dropped. “What are you planning?”
“I’m going to make a list,” she said sweetly. “A list of requirements so impossible—so absurd—that the matchmaker will never find me a suitor.”
Jisung swallowed hard.
“…Impossible how?”
She leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially.
“So impossible,” she said with a grin, “that no man alive could ever meet them.”
He laughed nervously. “…That sounds dangerous.”
She patted his arm. “Relax, Sir Knight. There’s no such man.”
—
The matchmaker sat across from Lia with parchment, quill poised, eyes sharp and calculating.
“Very well, Your Highness,” she said stiffly. “You were instructed to provide a list of your desired qualities in a suitor.”
Lia smiled politely.
“This is a condition,” she corrected. “Not a desire.”
The matchmaker sniffed. “Of course.”
Lia cleared her throat and began pacing the room slowly, hands folded behind her back.
“First,” she said thoughtfully, “he must be loyal. Painfully loyal. The kind of loyal where even when he disagrees, he still obeys.”
The quill scratched.
Loyal. Excessively.
“He must be respectful,” Lia continued. “Never raises his voice at me. Never touches me without permission. Always keeps an appropriate distance unless invited.”
The matchmaker nodded approvingly.
Respectful. Disciplined.
“He should be brave,” Lia went on, “but not arrogant. Someone who doesn’t boast about his strength. In fact—someone who’s slightly embarrassed by praise.”
The matchmaker paused briefly, then resumed writing.
Brave. Humble.
“He must be patient,” Lia added. “I talk a lot. I complain. I run away. He cannot get angry about these things.”
“Understandable,” the matchmaker murmured.
“He should listen,” Lia said firmly. “Really listen. Even when I’m unreasonable.”
Attentive. Enduring.
Lia stopped pacing.
“Oh—and he must be honest,” she said. “Terribly honest. The sort who can’t lie even if it would save him trouble.”
The matchmaker clicked her tongue. “Rare, but not impossible.”
Lia hummed. “It is.”
She resumed.
“He must be physically capable,” Lia said casually. “Trained. Strong enough to protect me if necessary. Preferably skilled with a sword.”
The quill scratched faster.
“But,” Lia added quickly, “he must never intimidate me with that strength.”
Martial skill. Gentle demeanor.
“He should be quiet,” Lia said. “Not cold—just… calm. Someone who doesn’t dominate a room but still commands respect.”
The matchmaker paused again. “That is… a delicate balance.”
“Exactly,” Lia said cheerfully.
She tilted her head, thinking harder now.
“He must not drink excessively. Or at all, preferably. I don’t like the smell.”
Abstinent.
“He should rise early,” Lia continued, “be disciplined, keep routines. But also drop everything the moment I need him.”
The matchmaker blinked. “…Drop everything?”
“Yes. Immediately.”
Utterly devoted.
Lia smiled to herself.
“He must not enjoy the company of other women,” she added. “Not in that way. He should be uncomfortable around them, actually.”
The quill hesitated.
“…Uncomfortable?”
“Very.”
Socially reserved.
“And,” Lia said thoughtfully, “he must adore animals.”
She paused.
“…Even if he’s afraid of them.”
The matchmaker frowned. “That seems contradictory.”
“Life is full of contradictions,” Lia said serenely.
She clasped her hands.
“He must respect my freedom. Never cage me. Never force me. Never make me feel owned.”
The room was very quiet now.
“He must be willing to walk behind me,” Lia added softly, “but strong enough to stand in front of me when it matters.”
The matchmaker slowly set the quill down.
“…Your Highness,” she said carefully, “this is a very… specific man.”
Lia smiled brightly. “Exactly.”
The matchmaker glanced down at the parchment—now filled edge to edge with writing—and nodded.
“Yes,” she said at last. “Finding such a man will be… challenging.”
“Impossible,” Lia corrected pleasantly.
She stood, smoothing her skirts.
“Well,” she said, “that’s everything.”
Lia had already reached the door when she stopped.
Turned.
Stuck her head back in like she’d forgotten something utterly trivial.
“Oh!” she said brightly.
The matchmaker looked up, quill poised. “Yes, Your Highness?”
Lia clasped her hands together. “Looks.”
The matchmaker straightened. “Of course. Physical preferences?”
“Very important,” Lia nodded seriously. “Extremely.”
She stepped back into the room, pacing again.
“He must be tall,” Lia said immediately. “Noticeably tall. The kind of tall where you have to tilt your head up just a little to look at him.”
The quill scratched.
Above average height.
“And broad shoulders,” Lia added, gesturing vaguely with her hands. “Not exaggerated, but… sturdy. Like he could carry someone without effort.”
Broad-shouldered. Strong build.
“He should look strong,” Lia continued, “but not intimidating. Soft strength. The kind you only notice when he moves.”
The matchmaker hummed. “Mm. Understated power.”
“Yes, exactly,” Lia said, pleased. “And his eyes—”
She paused, thinking.
“They should be soft,” she decided. “Kind. But also strong. Like he’s always paying attention. The kind of eyes that make you feel safe.”
The matchmaker wrote slowly now.
Gentle yet steady gaze.
“Oh—and dark hair,” Lia added quickly. “Definitely dark. Not too long. Something practical. Like he doesn’t spend hours worrying about it.”
Dark hair. Neatly kept.
She tilted her head, frowning slightly. “He should look better when he’s serious,” she said thoughtfully. “And… strangely handsome when he’s flustered.”
The quill stopped for half a second.
Then resumed.
“His hands,” Lia said suddenly. “Important.”
“…His hands?”
“Yes,” Lia said firmly. “Calloused. From training. But careful. Like he knows his own strength.”
The matchmaker cleared her throat.
Hands indicative of combat training.
Lia smiled, satisfied.
“Oh! And he should look good in armor,” she added cheerfully. “Very good.”
The matchmaker nodded automatically. “Naturally.”
Lia stepped back, glancing over the parchment. “That’s all.”
She paused.
Then added innocently—
“Oh, and he must be an A++++++++++ when it comes to looks.”
The matchmaker blinked. “A… plus?”
“Many pluses,” Lia confirmed seriously.
The matchmaker sighed and wrote it down anyway.
Lia beamed. “Perfect.”
She swept out of the room, utterly pleased with herself.
The matchmaker stared at the list.
She frowned.
“…Oddly consistent,” she murmured.
Outside the chamber, Jisung stood at attention, armor gleaming, dark hair slightly tousled, broad shoulders squared as he guarded the door.
Lia walked past him without a second glance.
Jisung glanced down at her. “Your Highness?”
She smiled. “Nothing.”
—
The matchmaker stared at the parchment.
Then stared some more.
Then pinched the bridge of her nose.
Tall—but not too tall.
Broad shoulders—but not intimidating.
Gentle eyes—but strong.
Dark hair—but practical.
Handsome—but flustered.
Brave—but humble.
Devoted—but not possessive.
She sent for the first candidate.
Perfect height.
Wrong face.
She sent him away.
The next had the gentle look Lia demanded—soft eyes, calm presence—
—but the personality was unbearable. Smug. Self-satisfied. Gone.
Another had the eyes. Truly beautiful eyes.
But his hair was too light.
Dismissed.
One was handsome beyond reason, built like a statue—
—but arrogant. He spoke too loudly. He smiled too much.
Rejected.
The matchmaker’s shoulders slumped.
Hour by hour, day by day, she felt herself visibly ageing. A new line appeared between her brows. Her sighs grew heavier. Her tea went cold untouched.
It was like hell.
A perfectly tailored, maddeningly specific hell.
Because the worst part—
The king himself had said it.
Exactly what Lia wants. No exceptions.
She groaned and pressed her forehead to the desk.
“Children will be the death of me,” she muttered.
Meanwhile—
Lia lounged comfortably in the palace gardens, basking in the warm afternoon sun like a cat with no responsibilities whatsoever.
Jisung stood beside her, holding a parasol perfectly angled so not a single ray touched her skin.
She smiled lazily, eyes half-lidded.
“What if she actually finds someone?” Lia said suddenly, amused. “Imagine that.”
She laughed.
“I’d be done for!”
She turned her head to look at him, expecting at least a small smile.
But Jisung wasn’t laughing.
He wasn’t smiling at all.
His grip on the parasol tightened just slightly, jaw stiff, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the garden walls.
“…It won’t happen,” he said quietly.
Lia blinked, surprised. “You sound awfully sure.”
He swallowed.
“There aren’t many men like that,” he said carefully.
She grinned. “Exactly.”
But he didn’t relax.
Didn’t tease her back.
And for the first time, Lia wondered—
Whether he was afraid the matchmaker would fail…
Or afraid she wouldn’t.
She studied his profile—serious, loyal, painfully earnest—and felt that familiar warmth in her chest stir again.
Lia tilted her head, studying him.
“You sound like you don’t want the matchmaker to find me a suitor.”
The words were light. Almost teasing.
But her eyes weren’t.
Jisung’s breath hitched.
He stared straight ahead, knuckles whitening around the parasol handle. “That’s not—” He stopped. Tried again. “Your happiness is what matters.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s not what I said.”
Silence stretched between them, warm and charged.
He finally looked down at her, dark eyes troubled. “If she finds someone,” he said slowly, “then you’ll have to marry him.”
“And?” Lia prompted gently.
“And you’ll leave,” he finished. “I’ll be reassigned. That’s how it works.”
Her smile faded.
“Oh,” she said softly.
She hadn’t thought about that part. About not having him at her side. About mornings without his quiet presence, afternoons without his scolding, escapes without his reluctant help.
She leaned back into the bench, gaze drifting to the sky.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “I’ve never once imagined what my husband would be like.”
Jisung swallowed.
“I’ve only ever imagined what I don’t want.”
He nodded. “That makes sense.”
“But,” she added, glancing at him sideways, “I imagine you staying.”
His heart thudded painfully.
“Your Highness—”
She sat up suddenly, closer now. Close enough that he could see the little crease between her brows when she was thinking too hard.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Lia said quickly. “I don’t want to marry. At all. That hasn’t changed.”
“I know,” he said.
“But,” she continued, voice softer, “if I had to…”
She trailed off.
Jisung’s chest felt tight. “Then I’d want you to be safe,” he said quietly. “With someone worthy.”
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
“Someone like…?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
The parasol dipped just slightly, casting a shadow over both of them now.
Lia watched him—his serious face, his soft eyes, the way he looked like he was holding back a thousand unspoken things—and something in her chest settled.
“I don’t want the matchmaker to find me a suitor either,” she admitted softly.
His head snapped toward her.
She met his gaze without fear.
Lia smiled.
Not mischievous.
Not teasing.
Soft.
She leaned a little closer to him, close enough that the edge of the parasol barely covered them both.
“If I had to marry,” she said gently, “I’d want someone…”
Jisung’s breath caught.
“Someone loyal,” Lia continued, eyes on his. “So loyal it’s almost a fault.”
His grip on the parasol tightened.
“Someone who listens,” she said, voice warm. “Even when I’m difficult. Especially then.”
His eyes widened just slightly.
“Someone strong,” she went on, “but careful. Someone who never makes me feel small.”
His heart began to pound.
“I’d want someone honest,” Lia said, quieter now. “Someone who can’t lie—even when he’s scared.”
The parasol tilted.
Jisung stared at her.
“And I think,” she added, smiling faintly, “I’d want someone with dark hair, broad shoulders, and eyes that look soft even when he’s trying to be serious.”
Oh.
Oh no.
His eyes went wide.
Lia tilted her head, studying his expression, noticing the way color crept up his neck.
“Someone who stands beside me,” she finished, voice barely above a whisper, “not in front of me… not behind me.”
Silence.
Jisung swallowed hard.
“…Your Highness,” he whispered, “that’s—”
She leaned back slightly, watching him with gentle curiosity.
“What?” she asked innocently. “Does that sound unreasonable?”
He shook his head quickly. “No. It’s just… very specific.”
She smiled, sunlight catching in her eyes.
The matchmaker had been walking the garden path, parchment tucked under her arm, when she stopped.
Voices.
Soft. Intimate.
She hesitated—then stepped back behind a marble pillar, peering just enough to see.
The princess sat bathed in sunlight.
Her knight stood beside her, holding the parasol with practiced care.
And then—
She heard it.
Lia’s voice. Low. Gentle. Describing him.
The matchmaker’s eyes slowly widened.
Loyal.
Quiet.
Honest.
Strong but gentle.
Dark-haired.
Broad-shouldered.
Eyes soft even when serious.
Her gaze dropped to the knight.
Park Jisung.
The list flashed through her mind like a curse.
Her mouth fell open.
“…Oh,” she whispered.
Not a man.
The man.
She stepped back slowly, heart pounding—not with triumph, but with dread.
Because for the first time since taking this cursed assignment, the matchmaker realized something terrifying.
She hadn’t been searching for a suitor.
She had been circling the same man the entire time.
The next morning—
“Princess!”
Lia bolted upright in bed.
Maids crowded the room, breathless, eyes bright with excitement.
“The matchmaker has found you a suitor!”
The world ended.
“WHAT?!”
Lia shrieked, throwing the blankets off herself. “NO! No, no, no—that’s impossible!”
She stumbled to her feet, panic setting in fast.
“That—she can’t have—there’s no way—”
Her thoughts spiraled.
Run.
She had to run.
She grabbed her cloak—then froze.
Where was Jisung?
He should have been here by now. He always was.
Her chest tightened.
What if he was kept away?
What if they separated him so he couldn’t help me escape?
“No,” she whispered. “No, this is bad.”
She paced the room, breath shallow, until she caught her reflection in the vanity mirror.
Wild hair. Wide eyes. A hand pressed to her chest like her heart might leap out.
She sank onto the stool.
And then it hit her.
Clear. Terrifying. Unavoidable.
She didn’t want a suitor.
She wanted him.
Not a king.
Not a duke.
Not a wealthy noble with polished words and empty promises.
Jisung.
The only man who had ever listened.
The only one who had never tried to cage her.
The only one whose presence made her feel safe instead of trapped.
Her eyes burned.
“…I love Jisung,” she whispered.
A maid froze mid-step.
“Your Highness?”
Lia looked up at her, shaking her head, tears threatening.
“I don’t want a suitor,” she said desperately. “I love Jisung.”
The maid’s eyes softened, but she hesitated. “Princess… you must get ready.”
“No,” Lia said, standing abruptly. “Where is he?”
“I—I don’t know,” the maid admitted.
Panic surged.
“No, no, no,” Lia muttered, clutching her head. “Where is he?!”
No answer.
Her heart pounded.
I have to run.
If she stayed—even one more moment—she would lose him.
And that—
That was something she could never survive.
Lia was alone, pacing the length of her chamber, mind racing.
Run through the east corridor. Climb the wall. Find Jisung. Escape.
She had just reached the window when the door opened.
She spun around—
“Jisung!”
Her eyes widened in pure relief.
“Oh gods, thank goodness you’re here,” she rushed out, crossing the room in quick steps. “The matchmaker has found me a suitor and I need to escape. Now. Like—immediately.”
His eyes widened too.
“She… found one?” he asked, stunned.
“Yes! And I don’t want to meet him, I don’t want to hear his name, I don’t—”
“But,” Jisung interrupted softly, confusion bleeding into his voice, “the list was exactly what you wanted.”
She shook her head hard. “No. No, I didn’t realize— I mean I did but—Jisung, listen—”
She took a breath, heart pounding.
“I don’t want—”
The door opened again.
A guard stepped in and bowed. “Sir Knight. The matchmaker requests your presence.”
Lia’s stomach dropped.
“No,” she said instantly, grabbing Jisung’s arm. “No, please don’t go.”
He looked at her hand on his sleeve, then at her face—panicked, afraid.
“I’ll be back,” he promised quickly. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll ask her not to bring the suitor.”
“Jisung—”
“I’ll fix it,” he said gently, squeezing her hand. “I promise.”
She nodded shakily, letting go.
He lingered just a second longer. “I’ll be right back.”
Then he was gone.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The maids came.
They dressed her despite her protests. Smoothed her hair. Adjusted her gown. Sat her in the drawing room with careful smiles and whispered reassurances.
She felt sick.
Why isn’t he back?
Did they keep him away?
Did the matchmaker succeed?
She stared at the door, hands clenched in her lap.
If it’s not him, she thought desperately, I’ll say no. I’ll tell Father everything. I’ll tell him I’m in love with my knight.
Her heart thudded.
She heard footsteps.
The door cracked open.
Lia stood abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, voice shaking, “but I can’t accept this—”
She stopped.
Her breath caught.
Because standing in the doorway was not Jisung in armor.
It was Jisung—nervous, unsure, hair neatly done, dressed in a formal suit instead of steel. Broad shoulders still unmistakable. Dark eyes wide and terrified.
Very much not a knight.
Very much a suitor.
“Lia,” he said softly.
Her heart stopped.
“…Jisung?” she whispered.
She stared at him like the world had tilted off its axis.
“…What are you doing here?” Lia whispered. “And why are you dressed like that?”
Jisung blinked—once, twice—then words spilled out of him in a rush.
“I—I don’t know how this happened,” he said quickly. “The matchmaker called me in and she just—she kept talking, she wouldn’t stop, she said something about criteria and perfect match and then suddenly I was being measured and dressed and someone touched my hair and I swear I tried to leave but she said the king had approved and that I was—”
He swallowed, eyes darting nervously.
“She kept saying I was exactly what you wanted,” he continued, voice dropping. “And I don’t understand how that’s possible, and I know this must be uncomfortable for you, and if you want me to leave I will, I can go right now, I don’t want to force you into anything, Your Highness, I—”
Lia didn’t let him finish.
She stepped forward and crashed into him.
Arms wrapped around his waist. Face buried in his chest. Holding him like if she let go, he’d vanish.
Jisung froze in absolute shock.
“L-Lia—?”
Her grip tightened.
“You idiot,” she muffled into his suit, voice trembling. “You scared me.”
Slowly—carefully—his arms came up, unsure, hovering before finally settling around her.
“I thought they took you away,” she whispered. “I thought I lost you.”
His heart pounded so loud he was sure she could hear it.
“I’m here,” he said softly, still stunned. “I’m right here.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes shining.
“I don’t want a suitor,” Lia said firmly. “I want you.”
His breath hitched.
“Lia…”
“I don’t want a prince,” she continued. “Or a duke. Or anyone else they could ever find.”
She pressed her forehead to his chest again.
“I just want you.”
Jisung’s hands trembled slightly where they rested on her back.
“…I’ve always wanted to stay,” he admitted quietly. “With you.”
And for the first time, neither of them felt trapped by duty—
Only held by choice.
She tightened her arms around him, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
Her voice came out muffled against his chest.
“Please tell me you won’t leave,” she whispered. “Please.”
Jisung’s breath hitched.
For a second, he didn’t move—like the weight of her words had stunned him completely. Then his arms wrapped around her properly this time, firm and certain, pulling her closer until there was no space left at all.
“I won’t,” he said quietly.
She shook her head against him. “Don’t just say it. I need to hear it.”
He swallowed, heart pounding painfully in his throat.
“I won’t leave you,” he said again, stronger now. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not because of a crown or a command or a list.” His voice softened. “I don’t want to go anywhere that isn’t with you.”
Her breath shuddered.
“Good,” she murmured. “Because I don’t know how to do this without you.”
He rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head, eyes closing.
“I’ve always been here,” he admitted. “I just didn’t think I was allowed to stay.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes wet but steady.
“You are,” she said firmly. “I choose you.”
Something in him finally broke—not fear, not duty, but relief. Deep, aching relief.
“…Then I choose you too,” he whispered.
And for the first time, holding her like this didn’t feel like crossing a line.
It felt like coming home.
She pulled back just a little, still holding onto him, hands fisted in the front of his suit like she might steal him away if she had to.
She looked up at him—really looked at him.
“So… you’re the suitor she chose?” Lia asked softly.
Jisung let out a breath that was halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
“I think,” he said carefully, “I am.”
Her brows knit together. “You think?”
“She never actually said the word,” he admitted. “She just kept nodding at me like she’d solved a riddle that had haunted her for years.”
Despite everything, Lia let out a small, shaky laugh.
“She’s terrifying when she’s confident,” Lia muttered.
He nodded immediately. “Absolutely.”
She studied him again—this version of him, dressed neatly, hair done, eyes still the same soft, steady ones she trusted more than anything.
The realization settled fully now.
All those impossible requirements.
All those rejected men.
It had always been him.
“…You know,” Lia said slowly, “I made that list to make sure no one could ever meet it.”
His lips twitched. “I had a feeling.”
“And yet,” she continued, faint smile returning, “you walked right into it.”
He met her gaze, earnest as ever. “I never meant to.”
Silence fell—gentle, charged.
“Does this… bother you?” he asked quietly. “Me being the suitor?”
She shook her head immediately. “No.”
Then, softer—
“It scares me. But in a good way.”
His eyes softened.
“I was afraid you’d hate it,” he admitted. “I was ready to ask the matchmaker to release me.”
Her grip tightened again.
“I don’t hate it,” Lia said firmly. “I hate the idea of being forced. But this—” she gestured between them, “—this is choice.”
He nodded slowly.
“Then,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “may I stay?”
She smiled—warm, sure, and full of something that looked a lot like hope.
“Yes,” she said. “Stay.”
And for the first time, the word suitor didn’t feel like a cage.
She looked up at him with glassy eyes and the softest, most fragile smile he’d ever seen on her.
“Kiss me,” she said quietly, voice wobbling just a little, “before I start bawling my eyes out because you won’t give me affection.”
Jisung froze.
“…What?”
“I’m serious,” she added, blinking fast. “I’ve had a very emotional morning.”
His heart thudded painfully in his chest. “Lia, I—are you sure?”
She nodded, stepping closer until there was barely any space between them. “Yes. I don’t want to think anymore. I just want you.”
That did it.
Jisung lifted a hand, hesitating for half a second near her cheek—giving her every chance to pull away.
She didn’t.
So he leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. It was soft and careful and a little shaky, like he was afraid she might disappear if he pressed too hard.
Her breath caught—and then she melted into him, hands curling into his suit as if she’d been waiting forever.
When he pulled back, just barely, her eyes were wet.
“…Oh,” she whispered. “That helped.”
A breathless laugh slipped out of him. “Good.”
She leaned her forehead against his, smiling through tears. “You’re really terrible at withholding affection.”
He smiled back, shy and warm. “I don’t think I want to ever do that again.”
She laughed softly, wrapping her arms around him once more.
And this time—
he held her like he meant it.
That's it for this one!
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
Back To You ft. Roommate!Jaemin
A/n: Hell yeah! Jaemin has been bias wrecking me so hard lately so you guys probably know what happened next lol 😭
Genre: Roommates-to-lovers, angst, fluff, comfort, romance
Pairings: Roommate!Jaemin x Haeyi (fem oc/ named reader)
Warning: Makeout around the beginning (ikik), angsty, scared lil mfs
They’d been roommates for almost five years—long enough that their lives blurred into one quiet routine. Jaemin made her coffee in the mornings without asking. Haeyi folded his laundry when she did hers. They knew each other’s bad days by the way doors closed, by the silence that lingered too long.
Jaemin had always been affectionate. Casual touches. An arm around her shoulders when she was tired. His chin resting on her head while she cooked. It was normal. It was them.
So when he changed, she noticed immediately.
It started after she mentioned the guy at work. Just once. A throwaway comment about someone who flirted too much and smiled like he knew he was charming. Jaemin had laughed it off—too easily. Since then, his smiles didn’t reach his eyes. His touch lingered a second less. His voice stayed careful, measured.
Weird.
The breaking point came on a random evening.
Haeyi was laughing outside the building, bag slung over her shoulder, when Jaemin pulled up. He froze in the driver’s seat.
The guy from work stood too close. His hand brushed her arm. He leaned in, said something that made her smile—polite, harmless.
Jaemin’s jaw tightened.
The ride home was silent.
Inside the apartment, Jaemin moved like a stranger. Shoes off. Keys down. Tie loosened but not removed. His face was blank, unreadable.
“Jaemin?” Haeyi asked softly. “Are you okay?”
He turned slowly, eyes cold in a way she’d never seen aimed at her.
“Is he,” he asked, voice low, “better than me?”
Her breath caught.
“What—?” Her ears burned instantly. “N-No— I mean— you’re better. Obviously.”
He took a step closer.
“Then why the fuck do you keep talking to him,” he snapped, “and about him?”
Her heart started pounding. “He’s just— I don’t— Jaemin—”
He reached up, yanked his tie loose, and tossed it aside like it meant nothing. His glasses followed, clattering onto the table. He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps.
“Who am I to you, Haeyi?”
She backed up without meaning to until the wall met her spine.
“Y-You’re my roommate,” she said weakly. “And my best friend.”
Something dark flickered in his eyes.
He shrugged off his blazer, unbuttoned his shirt as he closed the remaining distance, one hand bracing beside her head, trapping her there without touching her anywhere else.
“I’m yours,” he said, voice rough. “I’m fucking yours.”
Her breath hitched.
“You better say that I’m yours,” he continued, forehead resting against hers, “before I make you say it myself.”
She barely had time to gasp before his mouth found hers—heated, desperate, nothing like his usual gentle kisses. It was jealousy, pure and unfiltered, pouring into the way he kissed her like he’d been holding back for years.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead stayed against hers, breath uneven.
He was definitely jealous.
He cups her cheek then—slow, deliberate, like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go.
His thumb brushes over her skin, warm, grounding, and his other hand slides to her waist, pulling her closer until there’s no space left to misunderstand. Haeyi’s breath stutters, fingers curling into his half-unbuttoned shirt.
“Jaemin…” she whispers, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea.
He kisses her again.
This time it’s deeper—desperate in a way that feels like longing that’s been sitting in his chest for years. There’s no anger in it now, just need. Just mine, written into every press of his lips against hers. He kisses her like he’s been holding himself back, like he’s been watching from the sidelines of his own life.
Her hands come up on their own, gripping his shoulders as he leans in, forehead brushing hers between kisses, breath uneven.
“I hate the way he looks at you,” he murmurs against her lips. “Like he thinks he has a chance.”
She exhales shakily. “You always did.”
That makes him pause—just for a second.
Then his hand tightens at her waist, grounding her, anchoring himself.
“Say it,” he says quietly now, no threat in his voice anymore. Just vulnerability.
“Say I’m yours.”
Her heart feels like it might burst out of her chest. She swallows, nerves and warmth flooding her all at once.
“Y-You’re mine,” she says, barely above a whisper.
That’s all it takes.
Something in him snaps—softens—and he kisses her again, slower this time but just as intense, like he’s savoring the words, like he’s claiming the truth of them. His hand stays on her cheek, protective now instead of demanding.
When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against hers, breathing hard.
“…Good,” he murmurs quietly.
He was definitely jealous.
But more than that—he wanted to belong to her just as badly as he wanted her to belong to him.
They didn’t really talk about it the next morning.
Jaemin was quieter than usual, but he was everywhere at once—moving around the kitchen, making breakfast like it was muscle memory. He slid a plate toward her without a word, brushed past her to grab a mug, then paused just long enough to reach up and fix a strand of hair that had fallen into her face. It was absentminded. Intimate. Like he’d done it a thousand times before and only now realized what it meant.
He stood a little too close whenever she moved. Not touching—just there.
Haeyi barely tasted her food. Her mind kept replaying the night before. The way he’d looked at her. The way his voice had dropped when he’d told her to say he was hers. The words echoed in her chest all day, warm and terrifying all at once.
Neither of them knew how to cross the line from roommates to whatever this had become.
So they didn’t.
Not with words.
After that day, nothing was labeled—but everything shifted.
It started in the middle of the night.
She’d been half asleep when her door creaked open. Jaemin stood there, hair messy, eyes dark and unfocused, hoodie hanging off him like he hadn’t bothered fixing it.
“I can’t sleep,” he’d said quietly. After a beat, softer, “I had a nightmare.”
She’d sat up immediately.
He hesitated in the doorway, shoulders tense in a way she rarely saw. “Can I… sleep here?”
She said yes before he could finish the sentence.
He climbed into bed beside her, turning his back to her almost instantly, curling in on himself. For once, he didn’t try to play it cool.
“Can you…?” he murmured, barely audible. “Big spoon?”
Her heart had clenched.
She wrapped herself around him, her arm slipping under his shirt, palm settling against his bare torso and chest. His breathing slowed as she patted him gently, rubbed slow, soothing circles into his skin until the tension eased out of him completely.
He fell asleep like that.
After that, it became natural.
Shared showers after long, exhausting days—no rush, no heat, just standing together under the water. Sometimes they didn’t even speak. Sometimes they hugged, foreheads touching, letting the sound of the shower drown everything else out.
And the kisses.
Jaemin kissed her forehead all the time.
Before work. Before sleep. As a quiet thank you. When she handed him something. When she laughed. When he passed her in the hallway and couldn’t help himself.
They were gentle, careful kisses—like he was afraid of pushing too far, like he was trying to say I’m here without forcing her to say anything back.
It wasn’t a relationship.
But it wasn’t nothing.
And eventually, the space between those two truths started to hurt.
—
The joke shouldn’t have mattered.
It was said lightly, tossed into the air like nothing.
One of Haeyi’s coworkers had laughed and nudged her.
“Five years as roommates and you’re still not sick of each other? That’s impressive.”
Haeyi had smiled. Laughed it off easily.
“Yeah. We’re good roommates.”
Jaemin had been standing right there.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Just smiled faintly and nodded like the word didn’t sink straight into his chest. The rest of the evening, he was quieter than usual—still polite, still gentle—but distant. Like he’d taken a step back she hadn’t noticed.
Later, when they were alone, she finally asked.
“Did I do something wrong?”
He hadn’t looked at her when he answered.
“No,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “I’m just your roommate.”
The word landed harder than anything else could have.
The next day was the weekend.
Movie night—something they’d done a hundred times before. Same couch. Same blanket. Same comfort that suddenly felt unfamiliar.
Jaemin apologized first.
“For yesterday,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
She smiled, a little too quickly. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
They sat closer than usual, shoulders brushing. The movie played, forgotten. The room was quiet except for the low hum of sound and the space between them tightening.
Jaemin turned to look at her.
She was already looking at him.
They held eye contact longer than necessary. Long enough that her breath caught. Long enough that he leaned in slowly, carefully—giving her time to pull away if she wanted to.
His lips were so close she could feel his breath.
And she hesitated.
Just for a second.
Not because she didn’t want it.
But because five years of friendship flashed through her mind all at once—late nights, shared meals, laughter, comfort. The fear that one wrong move could shatter everything they’d built.
She leaned back slightly. Barely.
Jaemin noticed immediately.
He stilled.
To him, it looked like rejection.
He pulled away completely, jaw tightening, eyes clouding over as he leaned back against the couch.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
The room felt colder instantly.
“That’s not—” she started, panic rising. “Jaemin, I just—”
He stood up.
“I get it,” he said, voice controlled but brittle. “I shouldn’t have tried. I forgot what I am to you.”
Her chest hurt.
“What are you talking about?”
He turned back to her then, frustration finally cracking through the calm.
“I’m your roommate,” he said again. “Right?”
The silence that followed felt heavier than shouting ever could have.
“You don’t get to be mad,” Haeyi said, her voice shaking despite her effort to keep it steady. “We never said we were anything.”
Jaemin stiffened.
What he heard wasn’t the logic behind her words—it was something else entirely. You don’t matter enough to claim.
“Then what are we doing?” he asked quietly, disbelief threading through his voice. “Because I can’t keep doing this if it doesn’t mean anything.”
Her chest tightened painfully.
To her, it sounded like something crueler. You’re a problem. You’re too much.
“So I’m just supposed to pretend this is normal?” she snapped. “That you can come into my bed, hold me,-—and then act like it’s nothing?”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re the one who pulled away.”
“Because I was scared,” she shot back. “Not because I didn’t want you.”
“But you did,” he said, frustration finally slipping through. “You always do.”
The words hung between them, sharp and cutting.
Her breath hitched, eyes burning. “Maybe… maybe this was a mistake.”
Jaemin froze.
Something in his expression collapsed, like the last support giving out.
“Yeah,” he said softly, too softly. “Maybe I was stupid for thinking you felt the same.”
That was it.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue back. He just looked away, jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides before he turned and walked down the hallway.
The bedroom door closed quietly.
The sound was deafening.
Haeyi stood there, breathing unevenly, tears finally spilling over as she stared at the door he’d disappeared behind. Her chest ached with every breath, the apartment suddenly feeling too small, too empty.
She wiped her cheeks roughly, angry at herself for crying, for hesitating, for everything.
Without looking back, she grabbed her jacket and her phone, hands shaking as she shoved her feet into her shoes.
Then she stormed out, the door slamming behind her—leaving five years of friendship and unspoken love, and everything unsaid echoing in the silence.
Jaemin slid down the door the moment it closed.
He sat there on the floor, back pressed to the wood, knees drawn up as he tried—and failed—to steady his breathing. One hand came up to cover his eyes, fingers digging into his hair like he could physically hold himself together.
He hadn’t meant to say that.
He hadn’t meant to let it get that far.
His chest felt tight, lungs burning as he dragged in uneven breaths. The apartment was painfully quiet without her—no footsteps, no soft humming, no presence on the other side of the wall. Just the echo of her words and the sound of the front door slamming shut.
Maybe this was a mistake.
He squeezed his eyes shut harder, jaw trembling.
—
Haeyi barely remembered getting there.
She wiped at her eyes as she walked, but it was useless—tears kept spilling, blurring the streetlights, soaking into her sleeves. Her chest hurt like she’d been running for miles, breaths coming out shaky and broken.
She went to the only place she knew she wouldn’t have to explain herself right away.
She knocked on the door of her cousin’s apartment, hands shaking so badly she almost missed the second knock.
There was shuffling inside. Voices. A muffled laugh cut off abruptly.
The door swung open.
“Who the fu—”
She didn’t let him finish.
Haeyi stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Haechan tightly, burying her face into his shoulder as a fresh wave of tears broke free. Her body shook as she clung to him, like if she let go she’d fall apart completely.
Haechan stiffened in surprise for half a second—then his arms came up around her instinctively, pulling her in.
“Hey,” he said immediately, tone softening. “Hey, hey… what happened?”
Her voice cracked as she tried to speak, words tumbling out between sobs.
“We fought,” she managed, gripping his hoodie like it was the only solid thing left. “We— we fought.”
Haechan’s jaw tightened as he held her closer, shooting a look over her head toward his friend inside the apartment—don’t ask written clearly in his eyes.
“Okay,” he murmured, rubbing her back slowly. “You’re here now. You’re okay.”
But even as she stood there in her cousin’s arms, crying until her chest ached, Haeyi couldn’t stop thinking about Jaemin—alone on the other side of a closed door, hurting just as badly.
And that thought hurt the most.
By the time her sobs finally slowed, her chest felt raw and exhausted.
Haeyi sat curled up on the couch, knees pulled close, eyes swollen and red as she sniffled quietly. Renjun sat beside her and gently held out a tissue. She took it with a shaky “thanks,” dabbing at her cheeks and nose.
Haechan returned from the kitchen a moment later and handed her a mug of warm green tea. “Careful,” he said softly. “It’s hot.”
She nodded, wrapping both hands around it like she needed the warmth to keep herself together.
For a while, no one pushed her to talk.
Then she broke the silence herself.
“It was my fault,” she said hoarsely.
Haechan frowned immediately. “Hey—”
“No,” she insisted, voice trembling. “It really was. I was scared and I handled it so badly.” She swallowed hard, eyes dropping to the mug in her hands. “I said things I shouldn’t have. I was mean to him.”
Renjun stayed quiet, just listening, his expression gentle but serious.
“He looked so hurt,” Haeyi continued, her voice cracking. “I can’t stop seeing his face. The way he just… shut down.” Her grip tightened around the mug. “I didn’t mean any of it. I was just afraid of ruining everything and I ended up doing exactly that.”
Her eyes burned again, tears gathering despite her trying to blink them away.
“I think it’s already too late,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have said that. And now I don’t know how to fix it.”
Haechan crouched in front of her, resting his arms on his knees. “Then go back and talk to him.”
She shook her head quickly, fresh tears spilling over.
“I can’t,” she said, voice small. “I’m scared to go back.”
Renjun leaned forward slightly. “Scared of what?”
“Of seeing him,” she admitted. “Of realizing I really broke something we can’t fix. Of him looking at me like I’m just… someone who hurt him.”
Her shoulders trembled as she wiped at her eyes again.
“I love him,” she said quietly, like confessing it out loud made it heavier. “And I think that’s what scares me the most.”
The room fell silent again—heavy, but safe—as Haechan and Renjun exchanged a look.
This wasn’t just a fight.
This was something that mattered.
Haechan let out a quiet breath and stood up.
“You can stay here,” he said simply, like it wasn’t even a question. “However long you need.”
She looked up at him, eyes glassy. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” he replied immediately. “Renjun and I will room together for now. You take my bed—or the couch. Whatever makes you feel safer.”
Renjun nodded in agreement. “You don’t have to rush anything.”
Haeyi swallowed hard and nodded, sniffing as she wiped at her cheeks again. “Okay… thank you.”
That night, she barely slept.
The bed was unfamiliar. The apartment smelled different. Every little sound made her think of Jaemin—of his quiet presence, of the way he used to tuck the blanket around her without waking her. She stared at the ceiling until her eyes burned, phone heavy in her hand, unread messages sitting there like unanswered questions.
One night became two.
Two nights became a week.
A week became two.
She stopped checking the time before bed. Stopped reaching for her phone automatically when something funny happened. She learned the rhythm of Haechan and Renjun’s place instead—Renjun’s quiet mornings, Haechan’s late-night snacks, the low hum of a space that wasn’t hers.
And still… she didn’t feel like going back.
Every time she thought about it, her chest tightened. The memory of Jaemin sitting there, hurt written all over his face, made her stomach twist. She told herself she needed more time. That space was good. That maybe this was better for both of them.
But some nights, when the apartment was quiet and the lights were off, she hugged a pillow to her chest and wondered if Jaemin was still sleeping alone in that room—if he’d stopped waiting for her footsteps outside his door.
A few days after she left, everything else seemed to fall apart too.
Haeyi had already been fired—something she hadn’t even had the energy to process properly. It made the days blur together. She stayed mostly in bed, curled up under blankets in Haechan’s room, the space slowly starting to feel like it belonged to her. The room smelled faintly like his detergent and her shampoo now, a strange mix of comfort and safety.
She only got up when she had to—for food, for showers, or when Haechan dragged her out to sit with him and Renjun for a while. Sometimes they watched movies. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. Most days, she just existed.
And no one pushed her.
Haechan didn’t mind. He never had. They’d been close their entire lives—closer than most cousins—because she’d grown up an only child. Every summer, she’d practically lived at his place, stealing his hoodies, sleeping in his room while he complained but never actually made her leave. This felt like that again, just heavier.
So he didn’t force her to get up. Didn’t tell her to be productive. Didn’t tell her to call Jaemin.
He just let her be.
Jaemin, on the other hand, coped the opposite way.
He worked.
Too much.
He stayed late at the office, volunteered for extra projects, filled every quiet moment with noise so he wouldn’t have to think about how empty the apartment felt without her. At night, he came home exhausted, hoping sleep would take him before the thoughts did.
It rarely worked.
He’d been worried when she hadn’t come back the first night—terrified, really—but he hadn’t gone after her. He didn’t want to make things worse. A few days later, he ran into Renjun by chance.
Renjun had told him gently that Haeyi was staying with them for a while.
“She needed somewhere safe,” he’d said.
Then, after a pause, he added, “She didn’t stop crying the first night she came.”
That sentence stayed with Jaemin.
That night, he broke.
He lay down on her bed, the side she used to sleep on still untouched, and pulled her pillow into his arms. It smelled like her—faint, familiar, devastating. He pressed his face into it and cried harder than he had in years, shoulders shaking as all the regret finally caught up to him.
He replayed every word. Every look. Every moment he could’ve chosen better.
He wanted to see her. God, he wanted to talk to her—to tell her he was sorry, to tell her he never meant to hurt her, to tell her he loved her without fear this time.
But he didn’t want to force her.
Didn’t want to corner her.
So he waited.
And carried the weight of every stupid thing he wished he could take back.
It was the weekend.
A full month had passed since the fight.
Haechan and Renjun had come by the apartment a few times already to pick up clothes and things she needed—nothing dramatic, nothing tense. Jaemin let them in every time. They talked like normal. About work. About random things. About nothing that mattered and everything that did.
Haechan didn’t glare at him.
Didn’t accuse him.
Didn’t demand answers.
Neither did Renjun.
Today was supposed to be the same.
They were about to leave when Haechan paused by the door.
“Jaemin.”
Jaemin looked up.
Haechan turned fully toward him, expression calm but serious. “It’s not your fault.”
Jaemin shook his head immediately. “It is.”
Haechan sighed quietly. “You and Haeyi are exactly the same when it comes to the self blame game. You take everything on yourselves.” He crossed his arms loosely. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. You both panicked. There was too much tension, too much pressure, and you both reacted badly in the moment.”
Jaemin’s jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the floor.
“She loves you,” Haechan said gently. “And I know you love her just as much.”
Jaemin swallowed hard.
“You’re both torturing yourselves by staying apart like this,” Haechan continued. “End it. Just talk it out.”
“I don’t want to corner her,” Jaemin said quietly. “I don’t want to force her into anything.”
Haechan shook his head. “That’s not cornering. That’s wanting. That’s longing.” His voice softened. “And I know you both miss each other.”
He stepped closer, hand briefly squeezing Jaemin’s shoulder. “So talk. No running away this time.”
Renjun, who had been quiet until then, spoke up. “She said she was going to the convenience store near our apartment. To get snacks.”
Jaemin looked up sharply.
Renjun met his gaze, calm but encouraging. “Just so you know.”
Jaemin’s eyes glistened.
He didn’t say a word. He just grabbed his keys and was out the door before either of them could add anything else.
Haeyi was walking back slowly, plastic bags rustling softly in her hands. Her thoughts were somewhere else—always somewhere else—when her foot caught on a small rock.
“Ah—” she muttered.
One of the soda cans slipped free, rolling down the pavement. She cursed under her breath and hurried after it, reaching out—
It stopped.
Hit a shoe.
A shoe she knew.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
A hand reached down and picked up the can.
She froze.
Slowly, she looked up.
Jaemin stood there.
He held the can loosely, staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Like if he blinked, she might disappear.
Fear and guilt rushed through her all at once.
She turned around instinctively.
“Haeyi.”
Her name stopped her cold.
She stood there with her back to him, bags clenched in her hands, chest tight, breath shallow.
She didn’t turn around.
But she didn’t walk away either.
Jaemin gulped hard.
For a second, he just stood there, frozen—like if he moved too fast, she’d disappear again. Then he took a step forward. And another. Until he was right behind her, close enough to feel her warmth, close enough that his hands trembled when he lifted them.
He placed them gently on her shoulders.
“Haeyi…” His voice broke.
Before she could pull away, he drew her back against his chest, slow and careful, like he was giving her time to stop him. When she didn’t, his arms slid fully around her, wrapping tight around her shoulders, holding her like he’d been afraid to for an entire month.
She stiffened for half a second.
Then she melted.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the words tumbling out rough and desperate. “I’m so, so sorry. I never should’ve let it get this bad.” His grip tightened slightly, like he was afraid she’d slip through his fingers. He bowed his head into the crook of her neck, breath uneven. “God… I miss you. I miss you so much. I’m sorry for everything.”
Her eyes burned instantly.
She reached up slowly, hands shaking as they came to rest over his arms—grounding him, grounding herself.
“I’m sorry too,” she said softly, voice cracking. “I said things that were uncalled for.” She swallowed hard, tears slipping free. “I swear… I didn’t mean any of the things I said.”
Jaemin shook his head against her neck. “I should’ve known. I should’ve listened. I shouldn’t have walked away.”
“I shouldn’t have left,” she whispered back. “I was scared… and I hurt you instead.”
They stood there like that in the middle of the pavement, holding each other as if the past month hadn’t happened, as if the space and silence hadn’t nearly broken them. Her breathing slowly matched his. His arms loosened just enough to feel safe instead of desperate.
For the first time in weeks, neither of them ran.
They just stayed.
She shook her head slowly, still pressed back against him, like she needed to make him understand—really understand.
“I swear,” she whispered again, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean any of it. Not a single word.”
Her hands came up fully now, gripping his arms as she held him tighter, anchoring herself to him. Like if she let go, all the fear would rush back in.
“I was scared,” she continued softly. “I thought if I crossed that line, I’d lose you completely. I thought… if I didn’t stop myself, everything would change and I wouldn’t get you back.” Her breath hitched. “So I said the worst things instead.”
Jaemin’s hold tightened in response, arms firm and protective around her.
“I never meant that you didn’t matter,” she whispered. “You matter more than anyone. You always have.”
He let out a shaky breath against her neck, fingers curling into her sleeves.
“I know,” he murmured, though his voice still sounded fragile. “I just—hearing it then… it hurt.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “I know it did. And I hate myself for it.” She pressed her forehead briefly against his arm before settling back into his chest again. “I swear, Jaemin. I didn’t mean it.”
They stood there wrapped around each other, her words sinking in slowly, the apology repeating not because it wasn’t heard—but because it needed to be felt.
And this time, he stayed long enough to feel it.
Jaemin nodded slowly, still holding her, like the movement itself took effort.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean it.”
He shifted just enough to rest his forehead against the side of her head, his breath finally steadying. One hand slid up her arm, thumb brushing gently, grounding.
“I believe you,” he added, firmer this time. “So don’t worry. And don’t blame yourself anymore.”
She felt him exhale, long and heavy, like he’d been carrying the weight of those words for weeks and could finally set them down.
“We were both scared,” he murmured. “We both messed up. That doesn’t make you a bad person. It doesn’t mean you hurt me on purpose.”
His arms tightened just slightly, reassuring instead of desperate now.
“I don’t want you carrying this alone,” he said. “Not anymore.”
For the first time in a month, his voice didn’t sound broken.
It sounded certain.
Her sobs came out louder then—almost ridiculous, hiccupping and messy as she clutched his jacket like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
“I thought I was gonna die,” she cried, words tumbling over each other. “They once put sugar instead of salt in the stew.”
Jaemin stiffened for half a second. “They—what?”
“We had to eat everything,” she went on, voice breaking as she sniffled hard. “Because we didn’t want to waste it—and Haechan made a lot. Like—a lot a lot.”
She buried her face into his chest, shoulders shaking, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “I swear it tasted like dessert soup. I’ve never been so betrayed in my life.”
For a moment, Jaemin just stared ahead—then a soft, broken laugh slipped out of him. The kind he hadn’t made in weeks.
“Yeah,” he murmured, tightening his arms around her. “That checks out. He once burned water.”
She let out a wet, breathless sound that might’ve been a laugh.
Jaemin pressed a gentle kiss into her hair, holding her while she cried like the world had finally tipped too far to keep everything in anymore.
“You’re safe now,” he said quietly. “No more sugar stew. I promise.”
And for the first time in a long time, even through tears and ridiculous complaints, she believed him.
—
After that night, everything slowly—quietly—went back to how it was.
And somehow… better.
Haeyi came back to the apartment she shared with Jaemin. Back to familiar walls, familiar smells, familiar comfort. Back to good food—actual food—Jaemin’s cooking fixing something in her she hadn’t realized was so broken. Back to waking up and hearing him move around in the kitchen, humming softly like nothing had ever gone wrong.
Back to him.
Happiness didn’t return all at once. It slipped in gently. In small moments. In shared smiles. In the way neither of them avoided each other anymore.
Jaemin stopped sitting across from her at meals.
At first, he’d tried—setting his plate down like usual. Then he frowned, moved it, and sat beside her instead.
“It’s too far,” he’d said simply.
She’d raised an eyebrow. “Across the table?”
“Yeah,” he replied, dead serious. “Too far.”
So beside her it stayed.
Their shoulders brushed. Knees bumped. Sometimes his thigh pressed into hers and never moved away. He’d lean over to steal food from her plate like he’d always done, but now he lingered—too close, too warm, too intentional.
Suddenly, personal space didn’t exist.
Especially not with Jaemin.
He hovered when she cooked. Wrapped an arm around her waist when she brushed her teeth. Rested his chin on her shoulder while she scrolled through her phone. Sat so close on the couch that she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began.
And this time—she didn’t pull away.
If anything, she leaned in.
It felt easy again. Natural. Like coming home after being lost for too long.
They were walking home together when it happened.
The sky was painted in soft oranges and pinks, the sun slowly dipping toward the horizon. The grocery bags rustled gently in Jaemin’s hands, and Haeyi’s fingers were laced through his like they belonged there—easy, natural, unquestioned.
They moved at an unhurried pace, steps in sync, shoulders brushing every now and then.
Jaemin glanced down at her, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Without breaking stride, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
She slowed, turning to look up at him, brows knitting together in mild confusion. “What was that for?”
He stopped walking.
Still holding her hand, he looked at her with those soft, adoring eyes—the kind that made her chest warm instantly. The city noise faded around them, the moment narrowing until it was just the two of them standing under the sunset.
“I love you,” he said simply.
She blinked at him, heart racing, the world suddenly feeling too quiet and too loud all at once.
“Say… say it again,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.
Jaemin’s smile softened instantly.
“Haeyi,” he said gently, squeezing her hand, “I love you.”
Her eyes sparkled in the fading light, tears threatening but happy this time. She nodded, a breathless laugh slipping out as the words finally found their way out of her too.
“I love you too,” she said, voice glowing, eyes shining under the sunset.
Jaemin let out a quiet, relieved laugh and pulled her into his arms, grocery bags forgotten as he wrapped her up tight. She chuckled through the rush of emotions, burying her face into his chest as she hugged him back just as tightly.
Thats it for this one!
How was it?
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
Speeding Towards You Ft. Cop!Jisung
A/n: Ever since OneorEight released Tokyo Drift, I've been craving to write a street racer au!
Don't know how to feel about how it turned out though 😭
Genre: Cop au, Street racing au, fluff, romance, Angst
Pairings: Cop!Jisung x Street racer!Lia (named reader/ fem oc)
Warning: Swearing, mentions of drugs, blood, crime
The city at night was a different beast.
By day, Jisung was a junior cop—rookie badge, clean record, eyes too honest for the job.
By night, he stood beneath flickering neon lights in a borrowed hoodie, trying to look like just another face in the crowd.
Undercover.
Secret drug cartel.
Underground street racing scene.
His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he arrived.
Then the crowd shifted.
Pink headlights sliced through the dark.
A pink Honda S2000 rolled in slow and smooth, glossy paint catching every neon reflection like it wanted attention. Conversations dropped. People turned. The car stopped.
The door opened.
She stepped out—and suddenly, nothing else mattered.
Lia wore pink low-rise denim shorts, a bedazzled belt glittering at her hips. Pink denim leg warmers hugged her calves, tucked into matching boots that looked cute but lethal. A purple camisole clung softly to her frame. Her hair was down, loose and shiny, framing her face like she hadn’t bothered trying—and still won.
She smiled at the crowd.
Then her eyes landed on him.
Locked.
She didn’t hesitate. She walked straight toward Jisung, confidence rolling off her in waves. Before he could even think to step back, she closed the distance.
And then—
Her arms slid around his neck.
Just like that.
Jisung stiffened, eyes wide, breath catching as she leaned into him casually, like they were old friends—or something far more dangerous. He could feel her warmth, smell her sweet perfume mixed with gasoline, feel the light weight of her forearms resting against his shoulders.
She tilted her head, studying his face up close.
Oh.
Definitely her type.
Cute. Tall. Nervous eyes. Broad shoulders trying very hard not to tense.
“Hey,” she said softly, lips curling. Then, right by his ear, she added,
“Officer.”
His entire body short-circuited.
“W—what?” he blurted, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides because where do you put your hands when a girl like this is holding you?
She laughed, low and delighted, clearly enjoying every second of it. Feeling his heartbeat go wild beneath her palms, she pulled back just enough to look at him.
“I’m kidding,” she said, still smiling. “Relax. You’re cute when you panic.”
She finally let go—slowly—hands sliding from his neck like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
He swallowed. Hard. “You scared me.”
“I know.” She leaned back against her pink car, eyes still on him, unmistakably pleased. “But I’m not wrong, am I?”
“…How did you know?” he asked carefully.
She shrugged, casual. “I’ve seen you around here in the daytime. Same streets. Same café. Same ‘I swear I belong here’ face.”
His ears burned. “I don’t look that obvious.”
She grinned. “You do. But don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me.”
That somehow felt worse.
Engines revved louder. Someone called her name from the starting line.
She stepped close again—this time not touching, just close enough to make his breath hitch.
“So,” she murmured, eyes glittering, “what brings a junior officer into my world tonight?”
“I’m looking for something dangerous,” he admitted quietly.
Her smile softened—but something sharp flickered behind it.
“Careful,” she said. “You might end up liking it.”
“Stick close, officer,” she said with a wink.
“I think we’re going to have fun.”
The engines were getting louder now—impatient, hungry.
Lia took a step back toward her car, then paused, like she felt his eyes still on her. She turned, walking back just close enough to steal his attention again.
Up close, she lifted a finger and gently tapped his chest. Right over his racing heartbeat.
“Cheer for me,” she said softly, like it was a secret meant only for him.
Jisung blinked. “W–what?”
She winked.
A slow, devastating wink that sent his brain offline.
“We’ll talk after the race.”
Then, as if remembering something important, she leaned in one last time and added brightly,
“I’m Lia.”
Before he could even respond, she spun on her heel, hair swaying freely down her back as she slid into the driver’s seat. The door shut. The engine roared to life.
Pink lights flared.
She pulled up to the starting line, glancing back just once—right at him—grinning like she already knew he’d be watching.
The light flashed green.
And Lia was gone.
The pink Honda S2000 tore down the street, neon reflections chasing her as the crowd erupted. Jisung stood frozen for half a second… then realized his hands were clenched, his chest tight, eyes locked on the disappearing streak of pink.
“…Lia,” he murmured under his breath.
This was bad.
Very bad.
He was undercover. Focused. Supposed to be thinking about the cartel, the drops, the names, the evidence.
Instead, he found himself cheering without even realizing it.
And somewhere between the engine screams and flashing lights, Jisung knew—
Whatever happened after this race
was going to change everything.
The race ended in chaos.
Engines screamed, tires smoked, the crowd exploded into cheers—and the moment the pink Honda S2000 crossed the line first, it was over. No debate. No contest.
She won.
Jisung barely had time to process it before the car was already pulling in, the door swinging open, and Lia stepping out like she’d planned this exact moment.
Her eyes found him instantly.
A smirk curved her lips.
She walked straight toward him, confident, glowing, adrenaline still buzzing under her skin. Before he could even think to brace himself, her arms slid back around his neck—familiar now, intentional.
Jisung’s brain fully short-circuited.
“Well?” she said, amused. “Do I keep calling you officer… or are you finally gonna tell me your name?”
He swallowed. Hard.
“I—uh—Jisung,” he said, ears burning the second the name left his mouth. The fact that a girl like her was standing this close, looking at him like that, felt unreal.
“Jisung,” she repeated slowly, testing it out. Her smile softened just a little. “Cute.”
His face went nuclear.
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly, eyes sparkling with mischief. “So,” she said lightly, gesturing back toward the track, “I won the race.”
He nodded dumbly. “Y–yeah. You were— you were amazing.”
She leaned closer.
“No congratulatory kiss?” she teased.
And watched him absolutely combust.
Jisung choked on air, hands flying up in pure panic. “W–what— I— I can’t— I mean—”
He was gone. Fully crashed out. Red from ears to cheeks, eyes wide like a deer caught in neon headlights.
Lia burst out laughing.
“Oh my god,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “You’re adorable.”
She sighed dramatically, still smiling. “I’m messing with you, Jisung. Relax.”
Before he could respond, she grabbed his wrist and tugged him along. “Come on.”
“W–wait— where are we going?”
She didn’t answer.
He barely had time to realize she was pulling him into the passenger seat before the engine was already roaring again. The city lights blurred as she drove, leaving the noise, the crowds, the illegal chaos behind.
The road climbed higher. Quieter.
Finally, she slowed and parked at a viewpoint overlooking the city—neon far below them now, distant and harmless.
Silence settled.
She turned in her seat to face him.
Up close again.
“So,” she said softly, eyes searching his face, confidence still there but gentler now. She leaned closer, close enough that he could feel her warmth, her hair brushing his shoulder.
“Jisung,” she murmured.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
The city glowed quietly beneath them, distant and blurred, like a memory instead of a threat.
Lia studied him for a moment—really studied him this time. The teasing smirk faded into something more thoughtful. Real.
Then she spoke.
“…I might have some info on what you’re looking for.”
Jisung stiffened instantly, posture shifting without him realizing it. She noticed. Of course she did.
Her lips curved, soft and amused. “Relax,” she said gently. “I’m not setting you up.”
She leaned back against the hood of the car, arms folding loosely as she looked out over the city. “I’ll help you, Jisung. Gladly.”
He blinked. “You— you will?”
She glanced back at him, eyes bright. “Yeah. If nothing else, it means I get to see your cute face more.”
His ears burned again. Instantly. Predictably.
“I— I’m not—” he started, then stopped when she laughed quietly.
“I usually don’t help anyone,” she continued, tone shifting—lighter on the surface, heavier underneath. “Not cops. Not racers. Not anyone who can’t handle themselves.”
She kicked at a loose pebble near her boot. “But there’s been… shit going on lately. Stuff I don’t like.”
That got his full attention.
“Street racing’s always been a thing in Little Japan,” she said. “Always. It’s tradition. It’s family. It’s about skill, respect, pride. You race for the neighborhood, not for money. Not for power.”
Her jaw tightened.
“But recently?” She shook her head. “I’ve been seeing drugs moving in and out. Different faces. Different cars. Guys who don’t race, don’t care about the rules—just using the scene as cover.”
Jisung’s stomach dropped. This was exactly what his unit had been tracking.
“I hate it,” she said flatly. “It corrupts everything. Turns something we love into something ugly.”
She turned back to him then, stepping closer. Her voice lowered.
“So yeah,” she said. “I despise it. And if you’re here to shut that down…”
Her eyes softened as they met his.
“…then I’m on your side.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The night air felt heavier now—not with danger, but with trust.
Jisung swallowed. “Helping me could put you at risk.”
She smiled—slow, confident, fearless. “I race at two hundred kilometers an hour for fun, officer.”
Then, gently, teasing creeping back into her tone, “You think I’m scared?”
She leaned in just a little, close enough that his breath hitched again.
“Besides,” she murmured, “I’ve already decided I like you.”
And standing there under the city lights, with a street racer who hated corruption and smiled like trouble—
Jisung realized this wasn’t just an investigation anymore.
It was a partnership.
And maybe… something else entirely.
Lia reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
The shift in her energy was subtle—but Jisung felt it immediately. This wasn’t flirting anymore. This was business.
She unlocked the screen, scrolled with practiced speed, then turned the phone toward him.
“Lee Jeno,” she said.
Jisung’s gaze dropped to the photo. A man leaning against a dark car, half his face shadowed, eyes sharp even through the grainy image.
“Look out for him when you’re in the neighborhood,” Lia continued. “He’s the main ringleader of this whole shit show.”
She zoomed in with two fingers, tapping the screen. “Dragon tattoo. Left side of the neck.”
Jisung’s chest tightened.
“All his minions have it,” she added flatly. “Same placement. Same design. Don’t trust anyone with one.”
He took the phone from her carefully, studying the image like it might burn itself into his memory. “How sure are you?”
“Sure enough to say his name out loud,” she replied. “And I don’t do that unless I’m certain.”
She leaned against the hood beside him, arms crossed, eyes on the city below. “He wasn’t part of the scene before. Just… showed up one day. Money, influence, protection offers. Suddenly racers who never cared about cash were driving cars they couldn’t afford.”
Her voice hardened. “That’s when the drugs followed.”
Jisung nodded slowly. Everything she was saying lined up—routes, times, sudden shifts in activity. Intel his unit had been chasing for months.
“You shouldn’t be this close to him,” he said quietly.
She glanced at him sideways, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Too late for that.”
He looked up. “Lia—”
“I know,” she interrupted gently. “Risk. Danger. All the cop words.”
Then she reached out and lightly tapped his arm. “But this is my neighborhood. My people. If someone’s poisoning it, I’m not standing back.”
She met his eyes, serious now. “I’ll help you. Names, nights, routes. But you listen to me too. This isn’t your world—you survive it by trusting the right people.”
A beat.
“And by not trusting anyone with a dragon on their neck.”
Jisung handed the phone back, resolve settling in his chest.
“Thank you,” he said. “For trusting me.”
Her smile returned—soft, warm, unmistakably Lia. “Don’t make me regret it, officer.”
Then she tilted her head, teasing creeping back in just a little. “Or Jisung. Guess I’m allowed to call you that now.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, tension easing just a fraction.
Under the city lights, with secrets shared and lines crossed, they stood a little closer than before—
Two people from opposite sides of the law, bound by the same enemy.
And neither of them was walking away now.
The ride back was quieter.
Jisung watched the city lights fade, the roads narrowing, the buildings lowering. This wasn’t the way they’d come.
He frowned slightly. “Uh… Lia?”
She didn’t even glance at him, hands steady on the wheel. “Don’t worry. I’m not kidnapping you.”
He relaxed—just a little—until she added cheerfully,
“Well. I am. But it’s intentional.”
His head snapped toward her. “What—?”
She grinned. “I want you to meet my crew. You might as well get acquainted with the people you can trust.”
Before he could argue, the car turned into a small, quiet neighborhood.
Jisung’s eyes widened.
Race cars were everywhere.
Lined neatly outside houses. Tucked into driveways. Parked like family vehicles—but lower, louder, modified to hell and back. It was like every house had a racer. Like this entire neighborhood breathed engines and oil.
“This is…,” he started.
“Home,” she finished simply.
She slowed near one house in particular—bigger than the rest, with multiple cars parked out front and a wide garage attached that clearly doubled as a full-on modification shop. Tools hung on the walls. Engines rested on stands. Light spilled out into the night.
She pulled in and shut off the engine.
The moment she stepped out, her voice carried easily through the open garage.
“Johnny!”
Footsteps. Metal clanked.
A tall, broad man stepped out, wearing nothing but a tank top and jeans, skin slick with sweat, arms and face smeared with grease. He wiped his hands on a rag and looked between them.
“You’re back early,” he said. Then his eyes flicked to Jisung and his mouth curved into a grin.
“Ohhh. And you brought a boy home.”
“Johnny,” Lia sighed, rolling her eyes.
Before Jisung could even react, another voice echoed from inside the garage.
“Who brought home a boy?!”
A guy rushed out, curiosity written all over his face.
Lia turned, perfectly calm. “Chenle. Johnny.”
She gestured to Jisung.
“Meet Jisung,” she said casually.
“He’s a cop.”
Silence.
Johnny blinked once. Twice.
Chenle froze mid-step.
“…A what,” Johnny said slowly.
Jisung straightened instinctively, nerves flaring. “I— I’m undercover—”
Chenle stared at him, then at Lia. “You brought a cop here?”
Lia crossed her arms, unbothered. “Yeah.”
Johnny snorted. “You got bold, huh?”
She smirked. “He’s clean. And he’s on our side.”
Johnny studied Jisung for a long moment, eyes sharp beneath the teasing. Then he glanced at Lia. “You trust him?”
Her answer was instant. “I do.”
Another pause.
Then Johnny shrugged. “Alright then.”
Chenle tilted his head, still suspicious—but curious. “He looks harmless.”
“I am not,” Jisung protested weakly.
Lia laughed, stepping closer to him. “See? Cute.”
Johnny chuckled. “Welcome to the neighborhood, officer.”
They barely had time to settle in.
Jisung followed Lia into the garage, the smell of oil and metal thick in the air. Old couches circled a low table littered with energy drinks and tools. It felt lived-in. Comfortable. Loud in a way that meant safety.
Then—
The deep, unmistakable growl of a black Hellcat cut through the quiet street outside.
Everyone looked up.
The car slid into the driveway like it owned the place. Door flew open. A guy with messy hair jumped out, laughing loudly, waving a thick stack of cash over his head like a trophy.
“LOOK at how much I got!!” he cheered, practically bouncing on his feet. “Told you all I’d clean them out tonight!”
Lia sighed fondly.
She leaned toward Jisung and murmured, “That’s Haechan.”
Haechan finally noticed him.
He squinted. Took a step closer. Pointed.
“…Am I tripping,” he said slowly, “or is there someone new here tonight?”
Jisung stiffened.
Lia beat him to it. “You’re not tripping.”
Haechan’s grin widened. “Ohhh. New friend?”
“He’s a cop,” she added casually.
Silence.
Then—
“A WHAT?!”
Haechan nearly dropped the cash.
“A COP?!” he yelped, spinning toward her. “Lia, I literally just escaped some!! Like—ten minutes ago!!”
Jisung panicked immediately. “I—I wasn’t chasing you! I swear—”
Johnny laughed loudly from across the garage. Chenle groaned, rubbing his temples.
Haechan stared at Jisung like he’d grown a second head. “Why is he here?”
“Because I brought him,” Lia said flatly.
Haechan looked between them. “You brought a cop… to the garage… where we modify illegal race cars.”
“Yes.”
“…On purpose?”
“Yes.”
He stared a second longer—then suddenly burst out laughing. “Okay. That’s kinda iconic.”
Jisung blinked. “It is?”
Haechan slung an arm around his shoulders without warning. “Relax, man. You don’t look like the kind of cop who ruins lives.”
“I—thank you?”
Lia watched the interaction with a small smile, arms crossed. “He’s cool. And he’s here because he’s helping with the drug problem.”
That wiped the grin off Haechan’s face instantly.
“Oh,” he said, tone dropping. “That shit.”
Johnny nodded. “Yeah.”
Haechan’s jaw tightened. “Then yeah. He can stay.”
He looked back at Jisung, serious now. “Anyone moving drugs through our scene deserves whatever’s coming to them.”
Then, just like that, his grin returned. “Still wild though. A cop. In our house.”
Jisung let out a nervous laugh. “Trust me. I’m just as stressed.”
Lia glanced at him, amused. “You’ll get used to it.”
Haechan dropped onto the arm of the couch, still buzzing from the win, when his expression shifted—just slightly.
“Oh,” he said, tapping the stack of cash against his palm. “By the way. Jaemin dropped by the race tonight.”
The garage went quiet.
Jisung felt it instantly—the tension, the way shoulders stiffened.
“Jaemin?” he repeated, brows knitting together.
Haechan looked at him, realization dawning. “Right. You don’t know him.”
He straightened, tone serious now. “Jaemin’s Jeno’s right-hand man. Best friend. Wherever that guy goes, trouble follows.”
Lia exhaled slowly, arms crossing tighter over her chest. “He used to run with us,” she added. “Back before everything went to shit.”
Jisung turned to her. “Used to?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Same streets. Same races. Same rules.”
Her jaw clenched. “Then Jeno showed up. And Jaemin switched sides almost immediately. Didn’t hesitate. Stuck with him from the very beginning.”
Haechan scoffed. “If I had to pick a second guy not to trust in these streets—after Jeno—it’s Jaemin. Every time.”
Chenle nodded firmly. “Facts.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Jeno just… appeared one day. No background. No history. And suddenly racers who only cared about having fun were driving cars way out of their budget.”
Jisung’s pulse quickened. This was it. The missing piece.
Chenle continued, voice low. “They’ve been smuggling drugs. And other illegal shit. Out of this neighborhood. To other cities. Other countries.”
Johnny muttered, “Using races as cover.”
“Jeno and his minions,” Chenle finished, “reek of trouble and evil. Always have.”
Jisung took a breath, mind racing. “How?” he asked. “How are they moving everything without getting caught?”
Haechan tilted his head. “You asking as a cop… or as Lia’s guest?”
“As someone trying to shut this down,” Jisung said honestly.
Lia studied him for a beat—then nodded once.
“They hide drops inside modified parts,” she said. “Engines. Panels. Custom builds shipped overseas. Nobody questions it because racing parts move all the time.”
Jisung’s eyes widened. “And Jaemin?”
“He handles the connections,” Haechan said. “Meetups. Escorts. Making sure nothing leaks.”
“And the dragon tattoos?” Jisung asked.
Johnny snorted. “Branding. Loyalty test. You wear it, you’re owned.”
Jisung looked around the room, absorbing everything. “If I wanted to trace a shipment… where would I start?”
Silence again.
Then Lia stepped closer to him, voice calm but firm. “You start by staying alive.”
She met his eyes. “And by listening to us.”
Something in her gaze told him this wasn’t just information anymore—it was a warning.
—
Two weeks later, Jisung barely recognized himself.
Johnny had been the first to decide it was time.
One afternoon, without warning, Johnny tossed a set of keys at him. Jisung fumbled them instinctively.
“You need a sweet ride if you’re gonna blend in,” Johnny said casually. “Can’t have you looking like you Ubered here.”
Jisung stared at the keys. “Johnny, I—”
Haechan popped up instantly. “AND,” he added, pointing at Jisung’s hair, “we’re fixing that.”
“What’s wrong with my hair?” Jisung protested.
“Everything,” Haechan replied kindly.
Chenle took one look at him later that day and shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said, dragging him toward a rack of clothes. “You’re not walking around our streets dressed like a college TA.”
Somewhere between the haircut, the new clothes, and the low growl of an engine that actually belonged to him, something shifted.
He looked like he belonged.
Moved like it too.
And over those two weeks, he saw them.
Lee Jeno—twice.
Haechan had been right. The guy looked like trouble. Cold eyes. Dragon ink creeping up the left side of his neck. The kind of presence that made conversations die the second he entered a space.
And Jaemin?
Jaemin didn’t bother with subtlety.
He talked to Jisung. Smirked at him. Leaned too close. Teased him like he was already bored of winning whatever game he thought they were playing.
All arrogance. All confidence.
Jisung never spoke to Jeno directly. Didn’t need to.
Because Jaemin alone had already secured the top spot on Jisung’s internal list of people he despised.
That feeling was crawling up his spine even now.
The sun was dipping low, sky washed in orange and violet. Johnny was half-buried in an engine, grease on his arms. Haechan and Chenle were arguing over music. Lia sat nearby, watching Jisung with that knowing look she always had lately.
Then—
The sound.
A sharp, expensive snarl of an engine that did not belong here.
Everyone stilled.
A dark red Pagani swerved into the driveway like it had every right to be there. The engine cut. The door opened.
Jaemin stepped out.
Smiling.
Like he owned the place.
“Well,” he drawled as he walked in, clapping his hands once. “Heard something interesting today.”
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Jaemin’s eyes swept the garage—then landed on Jisung. Lingered. Smirked wider.
“I got news,” he continued lightly.
“Someone’s been hiding a cop.”
The air went cold.
Johnny straightened slowly. Haechan’s grin vanished. Chenle tensed.
Lia stood up.
Jaemin tilted his head, amused. “So,” he said, eyes locked on Jisung, “who wants to tell me if that’s true?”
Jisung’s heart pounded—but his face stayed calm. Street calm. Learned calm.
Lia didn’t hesitate.
She stepped forward and planted herself right in front of Jisung, back straight, chin lifted—protective without even trying to be. Close enough that he could feel the heat of her, solid and unshaking.
“No one,” she said coolly. “Because it isn’t true.”
Jaemin’s brows lifted, amused.
Lia crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Now how about you go drive your imported toy back to your little boyfriend?”
A beat.
Then Jaemin laughed—low, entertained. He clapped once, slow.
“Oh, I missed you,” he said, eyes never leaving her face. “I always did love how feisty you were, Lia.”
She smirked right back, sharp and fearless.
“Well, if you know how feisty I am,” she said sweetly, “then I bet you know what comes after this if you don’t leave when I tell you to.”
The garage was dead silent.
Jaemin’s gaze flicked past her—to Jisung. Measured him. Took in the stance, the calm, the way he didn’t shrink back.
Interesting.
Then Jaemin looked back at Lia and took a step closer—just one. Testing.
“Relax,” he said lightly. “I’m just asking questions.”
Johnny shifted behind them. Haechan cracked his neck. Chenle’s jaw tightened.
Lia didn’t move an inch.
“You’ve asked enough,” she replied. “You got your answer. Now get off my street.”
For a long second, it looked like Jaemin might push it.
Then he smiled again—slow, calculating.
“Alright,” he said, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Another time, then.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping so only she could hear.
“Careful who you protect, Lia. Secrets have a way of bleeding.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “And snakes have a way of getting crushed.”
Jaemin chuckled, clearly delighted.
He turned, strolling back toward the Pagani like this had all been a game. As the door shut, he looked over his shoulder once more—right at Jisung.
That smirk again.
The engine roared. The car peeled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road.
Only when the sound faded did Lia finally step back.
Jisung let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
She glanced at him. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
A pause.
“…Thank you.”
She shrugged lightly, but her eyes softened. “Told you. You’re with us.”
Behind them, Johnny muttered, “Yeah. And Jaemin just confirmed something.”
Haechan nodded. “He knows.”
Lia looked back down the road where the Pagani vanished, jaw set.
“Then we move faster,” she said.
And standing there, shoulder to shoulder, Jisung knew—
There was no going back now.
The tension didn’t disappear after Jaemin left that night.
If anything, it settled in deeper.
Lia noticed it first in the quiet moments—the way Jisung watched entrances instead of sunsets, the way his jaw tightened when unfamiliar cars passed too slowly, the way his phone never left his pocket anymore. He was still gentle with her, still listened when she spoke, still laughed when Haechan said something stupid—but there was something closed off now. Like a door she hadn’t been invited behind.
She didn’t push. Not at first.
Instead, the romance crept in sideways.
They started sharing late dinners after everyone else left, sitting on overturned crates with takeout balanced between them. She’d tease him about how careful he was, how he still flinched at sudden noises. He’d counter by telling her she drove like she had a death wish. She’d roll her eyes and steal his drink anyway.
Sometimes their knees touched.
Sometimes neither of them moved away.
One night, she caught him staring at her while she worked on her car, grease on her hands, hair tied up messily. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he looked away too fast.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, ears burning.
She smiled to herself.
Another night, after a close call at a race—nothing serious, just too many unfamiliar faces—she found him outside alone, sitting on the curb, head in his hands. She sat beside him without asking.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
She leaned her shoulder into his. “You don’t always have to carry it alone.”
He went still at that. Slowly, carefully, he let himself lean back.
That was the night it crossed the line.
No confession. No dramatic moment.
Just his hand finding hers, tentative at first—then holding on like he’d been waiting to do it.
From then on, it was obvious.
The crew noticed before either of them said anything.
Johnny stopped teasing and started watching Jisung more closely. Haechan smirked every time Lia leaned too close. Chenle pretended not to see anything and saw everything anyway.
Jisung started staying later. Leaving later. Walking her to her car every time, even when she insisted she didn’t need it.
He cared.
Too much.
And that scared him.
Because the truth he was hiding wasn’t small.
It wasn’t harmless.
It was a ticking clock.
The betrayal came quietly.
Lia found out not through shouting or confrontation—but through absence.
She noticed routes being avoided. Names not spoken anymore. Conversations stopping the second she entered a room. She noticed Johnny watching her with a strange kind of guilt, and Jisung flinching every time she asked what was wrong.
One night, she followed him.
Not because she didn’t trust him—but because she did, and something felt wrong.
She didn’t hear everything. Just enough.
Enough to know there was a final move coming. Enough to know Jisung was planning something big. Enough to realize he had made decisions for her without her.
When she confronted him, it was raw.
“You knew,” she said, voice tight. “And you didn’t tell me.”
He didn’t deny it.
“I was trying to keep you safe.”
“By cutting me out?”
“By making sure you weren’t in the crossfire.”
She laughed once, sharp and broken. “You don’t get to choose that for me.”
He reached for her, instinctive. She stepped back.
“You stood next to me,” she said, eyes shining. “You touched me. You let me believe we were honest with each other.”
“I didn’t lie about how I feel.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You just lied about everything else.”
That was the worst part.
She left without another word.
Drove until the city lights blurred.
And that was when she noticed the cars.
Black. Clean. Too controlled.
Dragons catching the light.
Her stomach dropped.
She tried to lose them.
They followed.
Her phone was already in her hand before she admitted what this meant.
She called him.
He answered immediately.
“I messed up,” she said, voice shaking. “They’re following me.”
His breath hitched. “Where are you?”
She sent the location.
“I’m coming,” he said. “I’m not letting you do this alone.”
The confrontation was chaos.
Engines. Shouting. Bodies moving too fast to track. She barely registered Jisung pulling her behind cover, Johnny slamming into someone else, Haechan swearing like he meant it.
Then the world narrowed.
Jeno stepped forward.
Calm. Controlled.
Gun in hand.
“Should’ve stayed out of it,” he said.
The shot rang out before anyone could stop him.
For a second, Lia didn’t realize it was her.
Then the pain hit.
White-hot. Stealing her breath.
Standing.
Then swaying.
Her hand pressed to her side.
Blood.
“Lia,” Jisung breathed, rushing forward.
She looked at him like she was trying to focus—eyes glassy, unfocused. “Jisung,” she whispered, coughing—and red bloomed on her lips.
“No,” he said, panic ripping through him as he caught her just before she collapsed. “No, no, no—stay with me.”
Her hands trembled. Blood soaked through her fingers.
“Guess… you were right,” she whispered weakly. “Crossfire sucks.”
He was crying. She could feel it.
“I’m here,” he said desperately. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go.”
Sirens closed in. Jeno was dragged away screaming. The world fractured into red and blue and noise.
The last thing she saw before everything went dark was Jisung’s face—terrified, ruined, real.
The first thing Lia noticed was the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind—more like the kind that pressed in on her ears, broken only by the steady beep of a monitor. Her body felt heavy, distant, like she was sinking into the mattress instead of lying on it.
Then footsteps.
Fast. Uneven.
The door flew open.
“—where is she—?”
Jisung.
He looked wrecked.
Hair damp with sweat, chest heaving like he’d run the entire way there. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, frantic as they scanned the room until they landed on her.
He froze.
For half a second, he just stared—like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
Then she blinked slowly and croaked, “Hey?”
That was it.
He was at her side in an instant, hands hovering uselessly over her like he didn’t know where it was safe to touch.
“Hey—hey—don’t talk too much,” he blurted out. “How do you feel? Does it hurt? They said the surgery went well but you lost a lot of blood and I—God, I thought—”
He swallowed hard, words tumbling over each other.
“I should’ve been faster. I should’ve told you everything sooner. I was so scared, Lia, I didn’t—I didn’t know if—”
His voice broke.
“I was so worried.”
She watched him quietly.
Really watched him.
This boy who tried to be controlled, tried to be careful, now completely undone at her bedside. The fear in his eyes wasn’t guarded or professional or strategic.
It was raw.
Real.
Her hand lifted weakly from the sheets.
“Jisung,” she murmured.
He immediately stilled. “Yeah? I’m here.”
She grabbed his collar.
He barely had time to gasp before she pulled him down and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t careful.
It was clumsy and desperate and full of everything they hadn’t said—the fear, the anger, the relief, the don’t you ever scare me like that again. His breath hitched in pure shock before instinct took over, one hand bracing on the bed, the other coming up to cradle her jaw like she might disappear if he didn’t hold her.
When she finally pulled back, breath shallow, she rested her forehead against his.
“You talk too much,” she whispered.
A broken laugh left his chest. “You just got shot.”
“Still true,” she said softly.
His eyes shone. “I thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t,” she replied. “I’m right here.”
He nodded, pressing his forehead to hers, shoulders finally sagging as the adrenaline drained out of him.
“I love you,” he said before he could stop himself.
The words hung there—unplanned, honest, terrifying.
Her lips curved into a faint smile.
“That's great,” she whispered. “Because I love you too.”
He smiles first.
It’s small and shaky and full of relief, like it hurts to do but he doesn’t care. He leans in again without thinking this time, careful of the wires and the ache and everything fragile between them, and kisses her—slow, warm, real. Like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s proving she’s here.
She hums softly against his lips.
When they part, she lifts both hands and cups his cheeks, thumbs brushing under his eyes. He’s still breathing hard, still a little wrecked, and she looks at him like she’s memorizing this version of him too.
Her smile spreads—bright, genuine, unmistakably Lia.
“So,” she says lightly, eyes shining, “does that mean you’re mine now?”
His ears burn immediately. Of course they do.
But he doesn’t look away.
He nods once, firm. Certain.
“I’m yours.”
The words settle between them, quiet and sure.
Her smile softens into something almost tender, and she leans forward just enough to rest her forehead against his again.
He doesn’t even think about it.
He leans in and wraps his arms around her carefully, like she’s made of glass and steel all at once. One arm slides behind her shoulders, the other resting lightly at her waist, pulling her just close enough to feel her warmth without hurting her.
She melts into it immediately.
Her arms slip around his neck, slower than usual, a little weak but determined, and she presses her face into his shoulder. He can feel her breathe there—steady, real—and something in his chest finally unclenches.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and earnest.
She exhales, a soft sound of relief. “I know.”
They stay like that for a long moment, not rushing, not talking. Just holding each other while the machines hum quietly around them and the world finally feels less sharp.
His hand moves gently up and down her back, grounding, reassuring. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket like she’s anchoring herself to him.
That's it for this one!
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
Oblivious, Your Honour Ft. Detective!Wonwoo
A/n: I'm alivee! I've been missing Wonwoo a little too much recently. Ugh, sometimes I wish he joined the marines like Taeyong fr 😭😭. Doesn't help that my crush looks like Wonwoo 😢
Genre: Police au, Fluff, Romance, Humor
Pairings: Detective!Wonwoo x Detective!Hyemi (named reader/ fem oc)
Warnings: She's oblivious and he's frustrated.
The precinct was too loud.
Phones ringing. Officers laughing somewhere down the hall. Coffee machine screaming like it was being tortured.
Wonwoo stared at the ceiling like it personally owed him an apology.
“How,” he thought, jaw tightening, “is she this oblivious.”
Across the room, Hyemi sat cross-legged on her chair, case files spread out like chaos incarnate. She had one pen in her mouth, another tucked behind her ear, and she was muttering theories to herself like a mad scientist.
Wonwoo had been watching her for five minutes straight.
Five. Full. Minutes.
He’d brought her coffee that morning. The exact way she liked it. No sugar, extra milk, cinnamon stirred in because she once mentioned—once—that it reminded her of home.
She’d smiled brightly.
“Wow, you’re really good at remembering details. You’d make a great husband one day.”
Then she’d walked away.
He had nearly short-circuited.
Wonwoo exhaled slowly through his nose and pushed his glasses up, knuckles cracking as he stood. Tall, broad-shouldered, quiet—people usually described him as intimidating. Calm. Sharp. The kind of man criminals feared and coworkers respected.
Yet here he was, being emotionally destroyed by one woman who couldn’t read a sign if it was neon and blinking.
He walked over to her desk.
“Hyemi.”
She looked up, eyes bright. “Yeah?”
“You’re using the wrong file,” he said, voice low.
She glanced down. “Oh. Huh. You’re right.”
He reached over her shoulder, leaning in to swap the folders. His arm caged her in without even trying. Anyone else would’ve noticed—his closeness, the way his voice dropped, the fact that he smelled faintly like soap and gun oil and something warm.
Hyemi just scooted her chair back so he’d have more space.
“Thanks,” she said cheerfully. “You’re always so helpful.”
Always. So. Helpful.
He straightened, jaw tight. “You don’t find it… strange?”
She blinked. “What?”
“That I always partner with you. That I cover your blind spots. That I stay late when you stay late. That I—”
He stopped himself, fists clenching.
She tilted her head, thinking hard. “I just thought you were… really professional.”
Professional.
Wonwoo stared at her.
This woman solved homicide cases. She read crime scenes like books. She noticed the smallest inconsistencies in witness statements.
But this?
He looked up at the ceiling again, hands on his hips, breathing like a man on the edge of a breakdown.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
Hyemi frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”
He looked back down at her—really looked. The way her brows knit when she was worried. The way she trusted him completely. The way she smiled at him like he was safe.
His anger melted into something helpless.
“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”
She relaxed instantly. “Good. Because I really value you, Wonwoo.”
That was it.
Something snapped.
He leaned down, bracing one hand on her desk, eyes locked onto hers. His voice was calm—but dangerously so.
“Hyemi,” he said slowly, “if I asked you to dinner tonight, just the two of us, not work-related, what would you think that means?”
She stared at him.
“Oh!” Her face lit up. “That you’re hungry?”
Silence.
Actual, painful silence.
Wonwoo closed his eyes.
Somewhere in the precinct, a coffee machine screamed again.
When he opened them, he looked exhausted—like a man who had faced serial killers, armed robberies, and internal affairs complaints, yet nothing had prepared him for this.
“…I’m asking you on a date,” he said flatly.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
“Oh.”
Oh.
She stared at him, realization crashing in all at once. Her ears turned red. Then her cheeks. Then her entire face.
“…Oh.”
He straightened, adjusting his glasses, voice deliberately even. “For the record, I’ve been doing that for months.”
“Months?” she squeaked.
“Yes.”
“The coffee?”
“Yes.”
“The late nights?”
“Yes.”
“The way you glare at anyone who flirts with me—”
“Yes.”
She covered her face with both hands. “I thought you were just… very serious about workplace safety.”
Wonwoo huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “I’m serious about you.”
Her hands dropped.
The room felt suddenly very small.
“Oh,” she said again, but this time softer. Warmer. “Well… you could’ve just said so.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I tried.”
She smiled, sheepish. “I’m not great at… personal clues.”
He looked at her, frustration finally replaced by something fond. “Clearly.”
She hesitated, then reached out and tugged lightly on his sleeve. “So… dinner?”
Wonwoo’s lips curved, just barely.
“Yeah,” he said. “Dinner.”
He was happy.
Genuinely, quietly happy—one of those rare, internal victories he didn’t show on his face. As he packed his things earlier, slipping his gun into its lockbox, he’d thought:
Ah. I finally told her. And she understood.
Progress. Actual progress. For someone emotionally constipated enough to treat feelings like classified evidence, this was huge.
So he waited by her desk after shift, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed for once.
That’s when he heard her laugh.
“—sooo,” Naeun’s voice carried easily through the bullpen, “where you off to?”
Wonwoo paused. Not on purpose. His feet just… stopped working.
Hyemi chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Wonwoo asked me out to dinner.”
His lips twitched despite himself.
Naeun gasped dramatically. “Oooh~ I mean, of course he did. He always admires your work ethic.”
Wonwoo frowned slightly.
Work ethic?
Hyemi hummed in agreement. “I know, right? He’s really respectable like that.”
Something felt… off.
Then—
“His wife will be super lucky.”
The words hit him like a gunshot.
Wonwoo’s entire body froze.
His jaw actually dropped. Glasses slightly slipping down his nose, brain buffering like an old computer.
…wife?
He stood there, tall, built, deadly calm on the outside—internally experiencing an emotional car crash.
All this time.
All the coffees.
The late nights.
The deliberate proximity.
The dates-that-were-not-work-related-dinners.
She thought he admired her.
Professionally.
Not romantically.
Not even a little bit.
Naeun laughed. “You’re seriously telling me you don’t see it?”
Hyemi scoffed. “See what?”
“That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Wonwoo swallowed.
Hyemi waved it off. “That’s just how Wonwoo is. Quiet. Intense. Probably respects me a lot.”
Probably respects me a lot.
He closed his eyes.
This was worse than rejection. This was misinterpretation on a criminal level.
They talked a bit more—about food, about schedules, about nothing that mattered anymore—and then Naeun waved goodbye and left.
Hyemi turned, spotted Wonwoo, and smiled.
That smile.
It always disarmed him.
“Ready?” she asked, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“…Yeah,” he said, voice steady through sheer force of will.
They walked out together, shoulder to shoulder. He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. His brain was too busy replaying his wife will be super lucky on loop.
She didn’t notice his silence. Of course she didn’t.
In the car, he drove. Streetlights passed in slow streaks of white and amber. The city hummed around them. Hyemi looked out the window, smiling softly at something only she could see.
He glanced at her at a red light.
The curve of her lips.
The way her eyes softened when she was relaxed.
If only she looked at me like that, he thought.
When had she ever really looked at him?
“So,” she said brightly, turning toward him at last. “Where are we headed for dinner?”
The light was still red.
Wonwoo stared at her.
Really stared this time.
“…Hyemi,” he said slowly, carefully, “what do you think this dinner is?”
She blinked. “A… date?”
His heart lifted—then sank immediately when she added, cheerfully:
“Like—coworker bonding. Getting to know each other better. You know. Before you meet someone and settle down.”
Silence.
The light turned green.
Cars behind them honked.
Wonwoo exhaled, long and controlled, then pulled the car forward.
“…I see,” he said.
She smiled at him again. Warm. Trusting. Completely unaware.
And he realized, with a mix of disbelief and grim resolve—
He was going to have to confess.
Again.
But this time?
He was going to be very clear.
The restaurant was quiet in the comfortable way—low music, warm lights, cutlery clinking softly around them. Their food arrived steaming, perfectly plated, smelling incredible.
Wonwoo barely tasted it.
He pushed the food around his plate, chewing slowly, shoulders a little too stiff. If anyone else were watching closely, they’d notice it immediately.
Coworker… bonding.
The words echoed in his head like an unsolved case that refused to close.
Ever since his first day at the precinct—rookie badge still shiny, suit slightly too stiff—she’d been there. Showing him where things were. Explaining procedures patiently. Smiling at him like he wasn’t invisible.
He’d fallen quietly. Deeply. The kind of liking that settled into your bones and stayed.
And now she was sitting across from him, happily eating, convinced this was just… professional admiration with dinner.
He swallowed, throat tight.
“Wonwoo?”
Her voice snapped him out of it.
He looked up.
She was smiling at him, cheeks a little full as she ate, eyes soft and concerned.
“You okay?” she asked. “You’re really quiet. More than usual.”
He stared at her for a moment too long.
“…Yeah,” he lied.
She tilted her head. “You sure? You look kind of… sulky.”
Sulky.
He almost laughed at that. Almost.
“I’m fine,” he said again, quieter.
She hummed, unconvinced, then reached for her drink. “If this place isn’t good, we can go somewhere else.”
Something in his chest twisted.
She was thoughtful. Always had been. Just… not in the way he wanted.
“It’s good,” he said quickly. “I like it.”
She smiled, relieved. “Good.”
They ate in silence for a few seconds.
He tried. He really did. Tried to just enjoy the moment. To pretend this wasn’t the closest he’d ever been to her in a setting that wasn’t crime scenes and paperwork.
But then she spoke again, casually—
“You know,” she said, “I really appreciate you asking me out like this. It’s nice to have a partner who values teamwork so much.”
That did it.
His fork paused mid-air.
“…Teamwork,” he repeated.
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Not everyone takes time to build bonds outside of work. It’s really mature of you.”
Mature.
Professional.
Respectable.
He set his fork down carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter whatever restraint he had left.
“Hyemi,” he said, voice low.
“Yeah?”
He looked at her—really looked. The woman he admired. Wanted. Loved in that quiet, terrifying way that didn’t ask permission.
“When I asked you out,” he said slowly, “did you ever think I meant… more?”
She blinked.
“More?” she echoed.
His jaw clenched.
“Romantically,” he clarified.
Her expression froze.
Just for a second.
Then—
“Oh.”
There it was again.
Oh.
She laughed softly, awkward. “Wonwoo, you’re funny.”
He didn’t smile.
She noticed that immediately.
“…Wait,” she said, laughter fading. “You’re serious?”
He nodded once.
The table felt suddenly too small. The air heavier.
“I didn’t ask you out because I admire your work ethic,” he said quietly. “I mean—I do. But that’s not why.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“I asked you out because I like you,” he continued. “Have for a long time.”
Silence.
Her chopsticks slipped from her fingers and clinked against the plate.
“…A long time?” she whispered.
“Since I was a rookie,” he admitted.
Her mouth opened. Closed.
She stared at him like he’d just revealed a crucial piece of evidence she’d somehow missed all along.
“Oh,” she said again—but this time it wasn’t cheerful.
It was stunned.
“I thought—” She stopped, pressing her lips together, embarrassed. “I thought you were just… being you.”
He let out a small, breathy huff. “Apparently that was my mistake.”
Her face heated instantly. “No—no, I didn’t mean—”
She paused, really looking at him now. Not as her partner. Not as her dependable coworker.
But as a man sitting across from her, shoulders tense, eyes dark behind his glasses, quietly vulnerable in a way she’d never seen before.
“…You liked me,” she said slowly, “and I just… didn’t see it at all.”
He shrugged, a little helpless. “You’re good at a lot of things.”
She winced. “Wow. That hurt. Fair—but still.”
Then she went quiet.
Really quiet.
Wonwoo watched her carefully, heart pounding, bracing himself.
Finally, she looked up.
And this time—
She was looking at him.
Not the view. Not the food.
Him.
“…I think,” she said softly, “I owe you a better look.”
His breath caught.
Just a little.
They paid and stepped out into the cool night air, the city humming softly around them. Streetlights reflected off the pavement, casting long shadows as they walked side by side.
Wonwoo’s hands were in his coat pockets, shoulders squared like always—but if you looked closely, really closely, there was a faint pout to his lips. Not dramatic. Just… wounded. Soft around the edges.
Hyemi noticed.
This time, she didn’t look away.
She slowed, then turned toward him, studying his face with a small smile. Despite the cool, stoic vibe, the broad frame, the quiet confidence—he looked almost boyish like this. Hurt. Trying not to show it.
Her smile softened.
Without warning, she reached out and took his hand.
Wonwoo startled so hard he actually stopped walking.
Her fingers slid between his, warm and sure, intertwining like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He looked down at their hands, then at her, eyes wide behind his glasses.
“Hyemi—”
“Can I be honest?” she asked gently.
His ears turned red instantly.
“…Yeah,” he said, voice a little rough.
She squeezed his hand, grounding herself as much as him.
“I did notice,” she admitted quietly. “The coffee. The way you stayed late. The way you always put yourself between me and danger.”
He froze.
“But,” she continued, gaze dropping to the pavement, “no one’s ever liked me like that before. Not… romantically.”
He frowned slightly. “What?”
She let out a small, self-conscious laugh. “I know. Hard to believe. But it’s true.”
She looked back up at him. “I was scared I’d read it wrong. That I’d assume something and ruin our partnership. Or worse—make things awkward when it wasn’t even real.”
His grip tightened unconsciously.
“So I told myself you were just… admirable. Respectful. Professional.” She smiled weakly. “It felt safer that way.”
They stopped walking completely now.
“And honestly,” she added, voice softer, “I got into this field really early. I grew up around cases, evidence, procedures. I learned how to read crime scenes before I learned how to read people.”
Wonwoo’s chest ached.
“I don’t always understand normal human signs,” she said, tapping her temple lightly. “Feelings. Intentions. I’m bad at expressing my own, and even worse at believing someone could feel that way about me.”
She took a breath.
“So when you asked me out, part of me thought… if I call it coworker bonding, I won’t get hurt.”
Silence settled between them.
Wonwoo lifted their joined hands slightly, thumb brushing over her knuckles without thinking.
“…You’re not bad at it,” he said quietly. “You’re just careful.”
She smiled at that. “That sounds nicer.”
He looked at her—really looked this time—and something in his expression shifted. The pout faded. The hurt softened into something warm and steady.
“You don’t have to guess anymore,” he said. “I’ll be clear.”
Her eyes flicked to his lips, then back up.
“Good,” she said softly. “Because I want to learn. With you.”
His heart skipped—actually skipped.
She squeezed his hand again. “And for the record? I don’t think I’ve ever been looked at the way you look at me.”
His ears turned even redder.
“…Is that bad?” he asked.
She smiled, bright and certain.
“No,” she said. “It’s kind of perfect.”
And this time, when she looked at him—
She didn’t look away.
She looked at him for a moment longer, like she was memorizing his face—then she let out a small, almost nervous laugh.
“So…” she said, swinging their joined hands slightly, “what’s next?”
Wonwoo blinked. “Next?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged, genuinely curious. “I don’t really know what happens after this part.”
He stared at her.
This woman faced down armed suspects without blinking. She reconstructed timelines from scraps of evidence. And yet here she was, asking him—soft, open, honest—how dating worked.
Something in his chest melted completely.
“…You mean,” he said carefully, “after we admit we like each other?”
She nodded. “Mm-hm. Is there a protocol? Because if there is, I definitely missed that class.”
A quiet chuckle slipped out of him before he could stop it. Low, surprised, real.
“No protocol,” he said. “Just… spending time together. On purpose.”
“On purpose,” she repeated, testing the words.
He nodded. “Dates. Talking. Learning what you like. What makes you uncomfortable. What makes you smile.”
She looked down at their hands. “I already like this part.”
His thumb brushed her skin again, a little braver now. “Me too.”
She hesitated, then looked back up at him, eyes earnest. “Do I have to be good at it?”
“No,” he said immediately. “You just have to be honest.”
Her shoulders relaxed at that.
“Okay,” she said. “Then I’ll start with this—” She paused, cheeks warming. “I like you. I’m just… slow.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve noticed.”
She bumped his shoulder lightly. “Rude.”
“But,” he added, stopping her gently, “I’m patient.”
That made her smile—wide, genuine, a little shy.
“So,” she said again, voice softer now, “first official… not-coworker-bonding date?”
He squeezed her hand, grounding and certain.
“Yeah,” he said. “First one.”
She nodded like she was accepting a case.
“Okay,” she said. “Lead the way, Detective.”
And for the first time, when they started walking again, she leaned just a little closer to him—
Like she knew exactly where she belonged.
They were halfway to the car when he finally spoke again, the words slipping out quieter than he meant them to.
“So… you actually noticed me,” he said, eyes forward, grip on her hand still steady. “Being all… lovesick and stuff.”
She glanced at him. “Mhm.”
“And you didn’t,” he continued, brows knitting, “do anything. Or think anything about it.”
She stopped walking.
Wonwoo took one more step before realizing she wasn’t beside him anymore. He turned, confused.
“I did,” she said quickly. “I really did. I swear.”
Her free hand lifted like she was testifying in court. “I noticed everything.”
He searched her face, clearly unconvinced.
She let out a breath. “You bring me coffee without asking. You memorize my habits. You get tense when someone flirts with me. You stand closer than necessary. You look at me when you think I’m not watching.”
His ears turned pink again.
“…You look at me,” she added softly, “like I matter.”
He swallowed.
“Then why—” he started.
She cut in, flustered now. “Because you’re—” She gestured vaguely at him. “You.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re hot,” she blurted. “And cool. And tall. And buff. And intimidating in a very unfair way.”
“…Unfair?” he echoed.
She nodded emphatically. “Yes. Unfair.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed. “And I’m just… me. I genuinely thought I was way out of your league. Or that you’d never mean it like that.”
He stared at her like she’d just said the sky was green.
“Hyemi,” he said slowly, “do you know how many people are intimidated by you?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You walk into a room and people straighten up,” he continued. “You’re smart. Sharp. You notice things no one else does. You’re… impressive.”
Her mouth parted slightly.
“I thought I was out of your league,” he admitted.
Silence.
Then she laughed—soft, disbelieving. “That’s ridiculous.”
He shrugged. “Seems we’re both bad at estimating.”
She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her warmth through his coat.
“…So we both noticed,” she said. “We just didn’t believe it.”
“Yeah,” he agreed.
She smiled up at him, eyes warm, no doubt left now.
“Well,” she said, squeezing his hand again, “maybe next time we should just ask.”
A rare smile curved his lips—slow, genuine.
“Next time,” he said, “I won’t wait years.”
Her heart skipped.
He looked at her.
Really looked this time—like he wasn’t scared of seeing too much anymore.
And he was… happy. Not the quiet, contained kind he usually kept locked behind professionalism and control, but the kind that softened his shoulders, loosened his breath, made his eyes warm behind his glasses.
A smile spread across his face—slow, genuine, unmistakably real.
Hyemi felt it before she even saw it.
“What?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he lifted their joined hands, stepped closer, and gently leaned down. One hand came up to steady her, fingers warm at her wrist, and then—
He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.
Careful. Tender. Like he was afraid of rushing something precious.
Hyemi froze for half a second.
Then her shoulders relaxed, and she laughed quietly, forehead resting against his chest.
“…You look really happy,” she murmured.
“I am,” he said simply, voice low and honest against her hair.
She tilted her head just enough to look up at him. “I'm happy too.”
His thumb brushed over her knuckles again, habitually now.
They stood there for a moment beside the car, city noises fading into the background, like the world had politely given them space.
She stayed tucked against him for a second longer, enjoying the warmth, the calm—then she pulled back just enough to look up at his face.
Her expression was serious.
Almost too serious.
“Sorry to ruin the mood,” she said, clearing her throat, “but I have another question.”
He blinked. “Okay.”
She hesitated, then asked carefully, like she was stepping onto unfamiliar ground.
“…Does this mean you’re my boyfriend?”
The question hit him square in the chest.
His eyes widened just a little. Then his lips twitched—once—before breaking into the softest smile she’d ever seen on him.
“…If you want me to be,” he said.
Her brows knit. “Is that how it works?”
“That’s how I want it to work.”
She considered this, gaze flicking between his eyes like she was processing evidence.
“…Then yes,” she said decisively. “I want that.”
Something in him visibly relaxed.
“Then,” he said, voice warm, “yeah. I’m your boyfriend.”
Her eyes lit up—surprised, delighted, almost shy. “Oh.”
He chuckled under his breath. “You say that a lot.”
She laughed. “I’m new at this.”
He lifted their joined hands again, brushing his thumb across her skin. “You’re doing fine.”
She squeezed his hand, smiling up at him like the answer had settled perfectly into place.
“Okay,” she said, pleased. "I just wanted to be sure.”
She stared at him for a second—like the words were still settling—then suddenly she giggled, bright and breathless, happiness bubbling right out of her.
Without warning, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a full, enthusiastic hug.
“You’re my boyfriend,” she said, delighted. Almost amazed. Like she was trying the word out for the first time.
Boyfriend.
The word hit him harder than any confession ever had.
His heart slammed against his ribs—loud, wild, undeniable. For a split second, he was sure she could hear it.
He froze… then slowly, carefully, his arms came up around her, strong and warm, pulling her just a little closer like he needed to ground himself.
“…Yeah,” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “I am.”
Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she laughed softly. “That sounds really nice when I say it.”
He closed his eyes.
It did more than sound nice. It felt unreal.
His chin rested lightly on the top of her head, fingers curling at the back of her coat, protective without trying to be.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, heart still racing, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes sparkling. “Really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
She smiled wide, radiant, unmistakably happy—and hugged him again, tighter this time.She stared at him for a second—like the words were still settling—then suddenly she giggled, bright and breathless, happiness bubbling right out of her.
Without warning, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a full, enthusiastic hug.
“You’re my boyfriend,” she said, delighted. Almost amazed. Like she was trying the word out for the first time.
Boyfriend.
The word hit him harder than any confession ever had.
His heart slammed against his ribs—loud, wild, undeniable. For a split second, he was sure she could hear it.
He froze… then slowly, carefully, his arms came up around her, strong and warm, pulling her just a little closer like he needed to ground himself.
“…Yeah,” he breathed out, voice barely above a whisper. “I am.”
Her cheek pressed against his chest, and she laughed softly. “That sounds really nice when I say it.”
He closed his eyes.
It did more than sound nice. It felt unreal.
His chin rested lightly on the top of her head, fingers curling at the back of her coat, protective without trying to be.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, heart still racing, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes sparkling. “Really?”
He nodded. “Really.”
She smiled wide, radiant, unmistakably happy and hugged him again, tighter this time.
And Wonwoo thought, with absolute certainty that this was worth every second of waiting.
That's it for this one!
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
The Universe Has Whiskers Ft. Vet!Jaemin
A/n: I'm back! Classes started yesterday and I got the worst blisters of my life! I wore white socks so it bled through it and it was red 😭 felt like knives. This story was really emotional to write cause I had a black cat too 😭
Genre: Vet au, romance, angst, fluff, comfort
Pairings: Vet!Jaemin x Animal Shelter owner!Haeyi (fem oc/ named reader)
Warnings: Kinda emotional 😢
Jaemin sighed, sinking back into the chair in his office like his spine had been holding its breath all day.
The clinic had finally quieted—no more frantic paw-steps skittering across tile, no more muffled barks from the waiting area, no more owners clutching their pets like lifelines. The last patient had gone home an hour ago, the lights in the treatment room dimmed, the faint smell of disinfectant clinging to his sleeves.
He let his head rest against the back of the chair and exhaled, long and slow.
Relief loosened the tight knot between his shoulders. His back—finally—was at ease.
For a few seconds, he just sat there. Listening to the hum of the air conditioner. The soft tick of the wall clock. The kind of quiet he only earned after a day spent being everyone else’s calm.
Then his gaze drifted to the corner of his monitor.
An unread email sat there like a sticky note he’d been pretending not to see.
[Kwangya High School Alumni Association]
Subject: Reunion Invitation — Class of 20XX
Jaemin had opened it a few days ago, skimmed the time and place, and closed it with the same reflex he used on emotional videos: too much, too fast, not now.
But now was all he had.
He sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders once. The chair creaked softly as he leaned forward and clicked the email.
The invitation was cheerful—bright banners, nostalgic wording, smiley faces that tried too hard.
It’s time to reconnect.
Celebrate old memories.
See familiar faces.
Jaemin’s thumb hovered over the trackpad.
He checked the date again.
He was free that day.
He stared at the screen, waiting for the obvious feelings to arrive—curiosity, excitement, anything.
Instead, his mind slipped backward, like it had been waiting for this excuse.
High school. He’d been… easy then. The kind of person who could fall into conversation with anyone, who got along with everyone without trying. A boy who smiled often, laughed easily, and didn’t think too hard about the future.
But when he tried to remember specific moments—classrooms, exams, group projects—it was all fog. Faces without names. Hallways without sound.
There was only one memory that always came into focus the moment he thought of those years.
A girl.
Walking through the neighborhood streets in her uniform long after the sun had set, hair messy, cheeks wet, voice cracking from repeating the same name again and again.
“Gom… Gom-ah… where are you?”
Jaemin’s hand stilled on the mouse.
It was so clear it hurt.
He could still see her from his bedroom window, the curtains barely parted. The streetlights casting pale gold over the asphalt. The quiet of late night—too late for a high schooler to be outside, too late for her to still be in uniform.
And there she was, moving like she didn’t even feel the cold. Like she didn’t feel anything except loss.
She’d pause at alleyways, calling softly. She’d crouch beside parked cars, peering underneath as if her hope could fit in places her body couldn’t. She’d knock on neighbors’ gates with trembling hands. Sometimes she’d just stand in the middle of the road and look around with wide, exhausted eyes, as if the world had to give Gom back if she stared hard enough.
And Jaemin—fifteen, sixteen, whatever age he’d been—watched from the window and did nothing brave enough.
Not at first.
He remembered the sound of his own heartbeat, louder than the quiet street. The way his chest felt too tight, like he was the one missing something important.
He remembered thinking, She should be asleep. She should be safe.
He remembered thinking, Someone should help her.
But the neighborhood had rules. And pride. And the unspoken fear of making things worse.
Still, that image stayed with him.
Not her laughter at school. Not her face under bright classroom lights. Just Haeyi—because it had been Haeyi, hadn’t it?—outside in the dark, uniform wrinkled, eyes red, searching until her voice went hoarse.
It lodged itself in his mind and never left.
Years later, he could barely recall his grades. Couldn’t remember the names of half his classmates.
But he remembered that.
He remembered Gom.
Jaemin blinked and realized he’d been staring at the reunion email without reading a single new word.
He dragged a hand down his face and let out a quiet laugh that didn’t sound amused.
“Seriously,” he murmured to the empty office. “That’s what you remember?”
The room didn’t answer.
The clock ticked.
His gaze drifted to the framed photo on the shelf—him in his early twenties, holding a scruffy rescue dog that looked like it had been built out of tangled yarn and stubbornness. He’d been volunteering at a shelter back then, fresh out of high school, unsure of what he wanted, only certain of one thing:
He didn’t want to feel helpless again.
He hadn’t planned it, not in a dramatic way. It started small. One volunteer shift. Then another. Cleaning cages, refilling water bowls, learning how to approach animals who didn’t trust hands anymore.
He learned how to read fear without words.
He learned how to soothe it.
And somewhere between scrubbing a kennel floor at midnight and cradling a trembling kitten against his chest, something in him had settled into place—like a piece of his life finally clicked.
He’d fallen in love with the work.
With the quiet victories. The healed wounds. The moment an animal stopped flinching and started leaning in.
So he became a vet.
Because he couldn’t go back and find Gom.
Because he couldn’t reach through time and stop a customer from spooking a black cat into the street.
Because he couldn’t erase the image of Haeyi searching, searching, searching.
But he could do this.
He could help the next one. And the next. And the next.
Jaemin looked back at the email.
Reunion.
Familiar faces.
Old memories.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Would she be there?
The thought came uninvited, sharp and quiet.
He hadn’t seen Haeyi since graduation. Not really. Not properly. Life had moved like a fast river and he’d let it carry him away from the street they grew up on, away from the restaurant smells and the laundry steam, away from the window he watched from.
But the memory of her hadn’t faded.
He read the date again.
He was free.
Jaemin’s finger hovered over the RSVP button.
For a moment, his office felt too still.
Then he exhaled—steady this time, like he was bracing himself.
And clicked.
RSVP: Yes.
—
The day of the reunion arrived faster than he expected.
Jaemin stood in front of his mirror longer than he’d admit to anyone, adjusting the collar of his shirt until it sat exactly right. Sleek, simple, nice—clean lines, dark tones, the kind of outfit that made him look like he had his life neatly folded and stacked.
Which was funny, considering his stomach had been doing gymnastics since noon.
When he arrived, the venue was already warm with noise—laughter spilling into the hallway, someone yelling a name across the room like they were still seventeen, the clink of glasses and the bright, overeager music trying to force nostalgia on everyone.
Jaemin stepped in and immediately slipped into the version of himself that had always been easy.
“Jaemin!”
He smiled, bright and effortless, and lifted a hand. “Hey. Wow, you look the same.”
Someone slapped his shoulder, someone else dragged him into a half-hug. Names and faces clicked together with a second of delay, but he made it look natural. He always had. The whole I’m fine, I remember you, of course I do act—well-rehearsed without ever being practiced.
He greeted old friends, traded jokes that tasted like cafeteria lunches and gym uniforms. He talked to old teachers, listened to them marvel at adulthood like it was a magic trick.
“So you became a veterinarian?” an older teacher said, eyes crinkling with genuine pride. “That suits you, Jaemin. You always had a gentle way.”
Jaemin chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know about gentle, but… yeah. It fits.”
He went around.
He ate some—tiny canapés that looked expensive and tasted like effort. He laughed some—real laughs, too, when someone imitated their old homeroom teacher perfectly. He scoffed some—at the guy who was still bragging like high school never ended.
And he dreaded some.
The inevitable conversations that slid into comparisons. The subtle measuring. The “so are you seeing anyone?” delivered like it was a casual question when it was really a test.
Jaemin smiled through it, a professional at letting things roll off his shoulders.
Still, somewhere under the noise, he kept listening for a name.
Kept scanning without meaning to.
Then it happened so quietly he almost missed it.
He was mid-conversation with an old teacher near the edge of the room—Mr. Han, who had somehow become even more talkative with age—when Jaemin’s eyes drifted past him.
And stopped.
At first it was just the back of a head.
Black hair, smooth and straight, falling neatly down her back. A black dress that fit her like she’d stepped out of a different world than the one they’d grown up in. One hand lifted absently, fingers tucking her hair behind her right ear with a familiar, practiced motion.
Jaemin’s breath caught in a place that didn’t hurt but didn’t feel good either.
His pulse did something stupid—quick, startled, like it recognized her before his mind allowed it.
Mr. Han was still talking. “—and I remember you used to sit near the window, always looking outside—”
Jaemin’s mouth answered on autopilot. “Yes, sir.”
But his attention wasn’t there anymore.
Because the girl shifted slightly, leaning toward the friend she was speaking to, her shoulders relaxing with laughter. And then she turned, just enough for the light to catch her face.
A smile—soft, real. The kind that made her eyes curve.
And Jaemin suddenly wasn’t in a reunion hall.
He was back on that street, in the dark, watching a girl in uniform search until her voice broke.
Gom… Gom-ah… where are you?
Now she was here, alive and grown, smiling like the world had never taken anything from her.
The contrast hit him like a shove.
His throat went tight.
Mr. Han followed his gaze, paused, and smiled knowingly. “Ah.”
Jaemin barely heard him.
Because someone across the room said it—bright, clear, affectionate.
“Haeyi! Over here!”
The girl looked up.
Her smile widened as she waved.
Song Haeyi.
Jaemin’s fingers curled slightly at his side, like he needed to hold onto something.
He hadn’t planned what he’d say if he saw her.
He’d barely admitted to himself that he’d hoped.
Mr. Han nudged him lightly with an elbow, amused. “Go on,” the teacher said, voice warm. “Say hello. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
Jaemin’s feet didn’t move right away.
For a second he just watched her—how she stood, how she laughed, how she tucked her hair behind her right ear again without thinking.
The same habit.
The same street, across the years.
And then, as if she felt his stare, Haeyi’s gaze drifted—casual, unhurried—across the room.
And landed on him.
Her smile faltered.
Not disappearing—just pausing, like her brain needed a moment to match the face to the memory.
Jaemin’s heart thudded once, hard.
He lifted a hand slowly, almost uncertain.
And gave her the smallest wave.
Mr. Han’s eyes flicked between them—Jaemin frozen mid-breath and Haeyi standing there like she’d stepped out of a memory—and then the teacher did the kindest, most infuriating thing possible.
He quietly stepped back.
Then another step.
Then he turned, already halfway gone, wearing a mischievous little smile like he’d just arranged a pop quiz for fate.
Haeyi watched Jaemin for a beat, her lashes lowering as if she was gathering courage. When she looked back up, her smile was shy… but warm. The kind of warmth that didn’t ask for permission before spreading through a person.
“Jaemin… it’s been a while.”
His name on her tongue sounded too real.
Jaemin’s brain stalled.
Because she was right there, and she still looked like the sweetest dream one could be trapped in—soft edges, steady eyes, that familiar tilt of her head like she listened with her whole face.
And her smile—gosh, her smile—added ten years into his life just by existing.
He managed a smile back, a little dazed.
“Haeyi… uh—how is life? How are you?” he asked, and then, because he was suddenly terrified of silence, he added, “I haven’t seen you since high school.”
Haeyi chuckled, a sound that threaded straight through the noise of the reunion and landed in his chest.
“I’ve been going around,” she said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Here and there. Just… living.”
Jaemin nodded too fast. “Yeah. Same. Lots of… living.”
She laughed again, bigger this time, and it eased the tightness in his shoulders. The world sharpened back into place.
Jaemin started to think of things to say, but the question he’d carried for years slipped out first.
“What do you do now?”
Haeyi’s expression shifted—pride, tenderness, a little exhaustion tucked into the corners like she’d earned it.
“I run an animal shelter,” she said. “And we also help find lost pets. Or—if someone brings in a lost pet, we keep them safe and cared for until their owners find them.”
Jaemin’s heart did a slow, aching flip.
In his mind, a voice went, Of course she is.
Of course she’d turned a wound into a doorway for others. Of course she’d made a place where missing didn’t have to mean gone.
It was the most perfect thing she could do. Not because it was pretty—because it was brave.
His face broke into a real beam before he could stop it.
“Haeyi,” he said, and his tone softened like he couldn’t help it, “that’s… that’s amazing. You’re doing an amazing job.”
Haeyi blinked, slightly flustered by the sincerity. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Really.”
Jaemin’s hand moved before his nerves could talk him out of it. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek card case, and slid one out, offering it to her.
“I want to help too,” he said, and then the words came out with a firm kind of hope. “Please. I’m a vet.”
Haeyi’s eyes widened. “You are?” Her hand flew to her mouth in reflex, like she couldn’t contain the surprise. “Oh my gosh—Jaemin!”
He laughed softly, a little embarrassed and ridiculously pleased at the same time. “Yeah.”
Her surprise melted into urgency so fast it startled him.
“Wait—there’s this little pup we saved the other day,” she said, words tumbling. “Severe allergies. Like, really bad. His skin is a mess and he keeps scratching until he bleeds, and we’ve been trying everything but almost all the vet hospitals and clinics are busy. We’ve been—”
“Hey,” Jaemin interrupted gently, not to stop her but to slow her breathing. “Okay. Breathe. Tell me where he is.”
Haeyi paused, inhaled, then exhaled. “He’s at the center.”
Jaemin stared at her for half a second, something bright and impulsive sparking behind his ribs.
“I’m gonna say something crazy right now,” he said.
Haeyi’s brows lifted. “Okay?”
He swallowed. His palms felt warm. His heart felt too awake.
“I didn’t really feel like coming,” he admitted, voice dropping, honest in a way that surprised even him. “But I came… in hopes of meeting you.”
Haeyi froze, eyes widening again—this time not with surprise, but something softer. Something that made the air between them go still.
“And now,” he continued quickly before he lost the nerve, “you’re telling me you run an animal center and there’s a puppy who needs care. So… can you, like…” He gave a helpless little laugh at himself. “Can you take me right now? I wanna help you. And also—” his gaze flicked to her, warm and steady— “I wanna see the place.”
He held up a hand immediately, backtracking just in case. “It’s totally fine if you wanna stay longer. I’m not trying to—”
Haeyi’s eyes sparkled.
Like someone had switched on a light behind them.
“Definitely,” she said without hesitation. “Yes. Let’s go.”
Jaemin felt his chest loosen. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she repeated, grinning. “Come on, Dr. Na.”
He laughed—real laughter, startled and delighted—and followed her as she moved through the crowd toward the exit.
The moment they stepped outside, the cold hit them.
The air was sharp and clean, the kind that made their breath visible. The noise from the reunion dulled behind the closed doors, replaced by the quiet hush of night and the distant sound of traffic.
They walked toward the parking lot, their footsteps crunching lightly on gravel.
Haeyi hugged her arms around herself, shoulders tightening.
Jaemin glanced at her, then away—thinking, hesitating, overthinking for exactly two seconds.
Then he moved fast, like ripping off a bandage.
He shrugged out of his coat and stepped close, draping it over her shoulders snugly before she could protest. He adjusted it with gentle hands, tucking it around her like it belonged there.
Haeyi looked up at him, startled.
Jaemin cleared his throat, pretending he wasn’t suddenly aware of every inch of space between them.
“Cold,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
Haeyi’s fingers curled into the fabric at her collarbone, holding it in place. Her voice came out softer than before.
“…Thank you.”
Jaemin nodded, eyes lingering on her for a heartbeat too long.
“Show me the way,” he said.
And as they reached her car under the glow of the parking lot lights, Jaemin realized something, quietly and undeniably:
He hadn’t just come to a reunion.
He’d come back to her.
That night became a hinge in Jaemin’s life.
He told himself it was just the puppy. Just one emergency case, just one stop at Haeyi’s place after the reunion. He’d treat the allergies, give a plan, maybe donate some meds if he could, and then go back to his neatly scheduled clinic days.
But the second he stepped into her shelter—into the organized chaos of barking, whimpering, volunteers moving with practiced urgency—something in him settled like it had been waiting years for the right room.
The puppy had been small, ribs a little too visible, skin angry with inflammation. He’d flinched at touch, then melted when Haeyi whispered to him, gentle and steady like a lullaby.
Jaemin treated him carefully, explaining each step as he worked. Haeyi hovered close, eyes sharp, absorbing everything like she didn’t allow herself the luxury of not knowing.
When the puppy finally stopped scratching long enough to sleep, Haeyi’s shoulders sagged with relief so deep it looked like exhaustion.
She’d turned to Jaemin then, voice quiet. “Thank you. Really.”
Jaemin had meant to say, Anytime.
Instead, he said, “Call me whenever. Even if it’s late.”
And she did.
At first it was emergencies—an injured paw, a fever that wouldn’t break, a stray with a limp that worried her. Then it became routine: vaccination days, checkups, deworming schedules, basic wound care.
He began stopping by “just for a minute” and staying for hours.
Sometimes he’d show up in his clinic scrubs, hair still slightly damp, carrying a box of donated supplies in one arm. Sometimes he’d come after closing, sleeves rolled up, and sit on the shelter floor to coax a terrified cat out from behind a shelf.
He got to know the animals the way he got to know people—quietly, patiently, by paying attention.
And somewhere along the way, the volunteers started calling him like it was obvious.
“Dr. Na’s here!”
“Wait for Jaemin, he’ll know what to do.”
“Should we put this in the log for Jaemin to check?”
Haeyi didn’t correct them.
Jaemin didn’t correct them either.
It got to the point where the shelter’s front desk had his name on a sticky note under Emergency Contacts, and the staff would just grin and say, “Our vet is coming,” like he was part of the building.
Like he belonged.
And maybe… he did.
He and Haeyi fell into a rhythm that didn’t need labels.
A shared glance across the room when a puppy finally ate on its own. A silent teamwork when an anxious adopter needed reassurance. The way she always handed him water without asking if he was thirsty, because she noticed when he forgot to drink.
The way he always waited until she sat down to sit down himself, as if her exhaustion mattered more.
Weeks slid into months.
And then one day, after a whole morning of routine checkups—vaccinations, heartworm tests, parasite prevention, weight checks on the newly rescued—Haeyi finally declared, “Lunch break. No arguing. We’re humans too.”
So they sat together in the small back office, squeezed between stacked folders and a box of donated blankets. Their lunches were simple—takeout rice bowls, bottled drinks sweating onto the table.
The shelter was quieter than usual. The animals had settled into midday naps. The kind of calm that felt earned.
Jaemin ate slowly, listening to the distant hum of fans and the occasional soft bark, feeling something dangerously close to peace.
Across from him, Haeyi poked at her food for a while without really eating. Jaemin noticed, of course he did, but he didn’t push. He just let the silence be gentle.
Then Haeyi looked up at him.
Her smile appeared first—small, awkward at the edges, like she didn’t know how to bring up what she was about to say without cracking something open.
“Jaemin,” she began.
He immediately set his chopsticks down. “Yeah?”
Haeyi’s fingers tightened around her drink bottle, then relaxed. She breathed in as if bracing.
“To be honest…” she started, and her voice softened. “I haven’t ever been able to get over Gom.”
Jaemin’s chest tightened so fast it was almost painful.
Haeyi kept going, eyes fixed on a spot on the table like it was safer than looking directly at him.
“It still feels like yesterday,” she admitted. “I can’t forget him. And sometimes I still walk around…” Her laugh was quiet and shaky, not amused at all. “Searching for him.”
The words hung between them like a confession she’d carried alone for years.
Jaemin didn’t speak right away.
He watched her face—the way she was trying to make it sound casual, the way her mouth trembled just slightly when she smiled.
His mind flashed with that old image again: Haeyi in her uniform under streetlights, calling into the dark until her voice frayed.
He hadn’t forgotten either.
He reached across the table slowly, giving her time to pull back if she wanted.
But she didn’t.
His fingertips brushed her hand, warm and steady, and he let his palm rest there—gentle pressure, an anchor.
“Haeyi,” he said softly, careful with her name like it was something breakable. “You don’t have to say it like it’s embarrassing.”
Her eyes flicked up, glossy with something she was trying hard to keep under control.
Jaemin swallowed.
“I remember,” he admitted quietly. “I remember you searching. I remember the way you kept going even when it was late. Even when it was cold. Even when… anyone else would’ve stopped.”
Haeyi’s throat bobbed as she swallowed.
Jaemin’s thumb made a small, soothing stroke over the back of her hand, almost without thinking.
“And I’m sorry,” he added, voice lower now. “I’m sorry you had to carry that by yourself.”
Haeyi let out a breath like she’d been holding it for years. Her shoulders shook once, then steadied.
“I tried to be okay,” she whispered. “I told myself… he’s just a cat. People lose pets all the time. But he wasn’t—he was—” Her voice broke. “He was my baby.”
Jaemin’s grip tightened just a little, not trapping her—holding her.
“I know,” he said simply.
Because he did.
Because he’d watched.
Because some losses didn’t shrink with time—they just learned how to live inside you.
Haeyi blinked quickly, wiping at the corner of one eye with the back of her free hand, like she was annoyed at herself for leaking.
Jaemin’s gaze softened.
“Do you want to look for him?” he asked quietly.
Haeyi froze. “What?”
“I mean it,” Jaemin said, heart thudding. “Not… not in a way that hurts you. But—” He drew in a breath, choosing his words. “If you still walk around searching sometimes… let me search with you.”
Haeyi stared at him like she couldn’t decide if it was too much or not enough.
Jaemin held her gaze, steady.
“I became a vet because of moments like that,” he confessed, voice barely above the hum of the room. “Because I hated feeling helpless. Because I wanted to be someone who could do something.”
He paused, then added, gentler—
“And because I never forgot Gom either.”
For a second Haeyi just looked at him, lips parted, eyes wide like the world had tilted.
Then she let out a breath that sounded like both a laugh and a sob.
“…You remember him,” she whispered, almost disbelieving.
Jaemin nodded. “Yeah.”
He gave her a small, earnest smile.
“How could I not?”
Jaemin’s throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.
“I… I knew Gom,” he said quietly, almost like he was admitting something he’d kept tucked behind his ribs for too long.
Haeyi’s eyes softened. “You did?”
Jaemin nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting with a tenderness that surprised even him.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Because I always heard you.”
She blinked.
He gave a small, sheepish exhale. “I mean—our houses were literally across from each other. And you called him for everything.”
Haeyi let out a breathy laugh, embarrassed. “I did not.”
“You did,” he insisted gently, amused now. “For meals. For treats. When he climbed somewhere he wasn’t supposed to. When he knocked something over. When he—” Jaemin’s eyes crinkled. “When he did literally anything, you’d go, ‘Gom-ah!’ like it was his full government name.”
Haeyi pressed her lips together, failing to hide her smile.
Jaemin’s expression softened again, the warmth settling deeper.
“And… there was this one time,” he continued, voice lowering, “I came home from school and I had a really bad day.”
Haeyi stayed still, listening. The room felt quieter, like even the shelter knew to hush.
“I don’t even remember what it was now,” Jaemin admitted. “I just remember I was sitting outside for a minute, trying not to go inside with that face, you know? And I guess I looked… bad.”
He swallowed, a laugh flickering and disappearing.
“And Gom,” he said, almost smiling fully now, “he just walked up like he owned the whole street… and rubbed his head on my leg.”
Haeyi’s eyes widened, the grief in them shifting into something softer.
Jaemin’s voice turned gentler, almost reverent. “Like he was soothing me. Like he was saying, ‘Okay, okay. Stop it. You’re fine.’”
He breathed out, a little shaky. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I actually cried a bit. It was stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Haeyi whispered.
Jaemin’s gaze dropped to their hands on the table, his thumb still resting on hers.
“After that,” he said, “every time I saw him, I’d smile at him. Or pat him. Sometimes I’d bring out a little snack if I had one.”
Haeyi stared at him like she was seeing a whole hidden side of her own memory.
Jaemin’s voice dipped, honest.
“And when he went missing…” He paused, jaw tightening. “I looked too.”
Haeyi’s breath caught.
“I didn’t want to get in your way,” he said softly. “And you were… you were hurting so much. But sometimes, late at night, I’d go around the block. Check the alleys. The little corners. Call his name once or twice, quiet.”
He met her eyes.
“I know it probably didn’t help. But I—” His voice went rough. “I couldn’t not look.”
For a moment, Haeyi didn’t speak. She just watched him, like she was trying to fit this new truth into an old, aching space.
Then, without warning, her shoulders relaxed.
She leaned forward and gently rested her head on his shoulder.
Jaemin went still, like his body needed a second to believe it.
Haeyi let out a soft laugh, warm and watery.
“Gom did rub his head on people’s legs when they cried,” she murmured, voice fond with pain. “He did that to my mom once too. Like he was… comforting her.”
Jaemin’s chest squeezed.
Slowly, carefully, he tilted his head and rested it against the top of hers. A quiet, steady weight. A promise without words.
They stayed like that, the shelter’s hum filling the silence around them.
Then Haeyi’s voice came again, smaller.
“Thanks,” she whispered. “For searching.”
Jaemin closed his eyes for a second. “Always,” he murmured.
Haeyi’s fingers curled into his sleeve lightly, like she needed something solid.
“Sometimes,” she said, voice trembling with the softness of a child’s hope, “I just imagine that Gom will suddenly appear in my life again… as if he never left.”
Jaemin didn’t move. He listened like every word mattered.
“Like he’ll just walk into the house,” Haeyi continued, a weak laugh escaping, “demanding food like he pays rent… and turning the whole place upside down with his meows.”
Jaemin smiled into her hair, the image painfully vivid—black fur, golden eyes, an attitude bigger than his body.
He murmured, almost to himself, “That sounds exactly like him.”
Haeyi’s head shifted slightly, like she nodded against his shoulder.
Jaemin’s hand lifted, hesitating for half a heartbeat before he gently smoothed it over her hair—one slow stroke, careful, grounding.
“If he does,” Jaemin said quietly, “I want to be there.”
Haeyi’s breath hitched.
Jaemin’s voice stayed steady, warm.
“Not just for him,” he added. “For you."
Haeyi’s laugh faded into something quieter.
Her head stayed on his shoulder, but her voice changed—thinner, like she was trying not to let it shake.
“If… he did pass,” she whispered, “I just hope it was peacefully.”
Jaemin felt her fingers tighten in his sleeve.
“The thought of something bad happening…” Her breath caught, and she forced it out as if it burned. “It haunts me.”
Jaemin’s chest went heavy. He didn’t answer too fast. Didn’t fill the space with easy comfort that wouldn’t reach where she hurt.
Instead, he shifted just enough to wrap an arm around her shoulders—firm, protective, not smothering—and let his hand rest there like a steady weight.
“I get that,” he said softly.
Haeyi’s voice went smaller. “Sometimes I imagine the worst without even trying. Like my brain wants to punish me for not finding him.”
Jaemin’s jaw tightened at the thought. He lowered his head slightly, his cheek brushing her hair.
“Hey,” he murmured, “listen to me.”
Haeyi didn’t move, but she quieted, like she was letting him.
“As a vet… and as someone who’s seen a lot,” he said carefully, “cats are… survivors. Especially street-smart ones. They find places. Warm corners. People. Food. They’re good at it in a way that makes you angry, because you want them to need you.”
Haeyi gave a tiny, broken laugh. “He always acted like he didn’t need me.”
“But he did,” Jaemin said immediately, gentle but sure. “He just liked pretending he didn’t.”
Haeyi’s breath trembled.
Jaemin’s thumb made a slow circle against her shoulder, grounding.
“And the thing that haunts you—those images?” he continued, voice low. “They’re not memories. They’re fears.”
He paused, choosing each word like it mattered.
“Your love is trying to fill in an answer where you don’t have one,” he said. “So it invents the worst, because at least the worst is… something. At least it feels like certainty.”
Haeyi was quiet for a long moment.
Then she whispered, “I hate that you’re right.”
Jaemin let out a soft breath, a hint of a smile in it. “Yeah. I know.”
She shifted slightly, her head pressing more firmly into his shoulder, like she needed him closer.
“I just—” Her voice cracked. “I want to believe he didn’t suffer.”
Jaemin’s throat tightened again.
He leaned down, resting his lips briefly against the top of her head—not a kiss meant to be romantic, more like instinctive comfort, a promise of presence.
“If I could give you proof, I would,” he murmured. “If I could go back and change it, I would. But since I can’t…”
He swallowed.
“I’m going to give you something else,” he said quietly. “I’m going to help you carry it. Because you’ve been carrying it alone for too long.”
Haeyi inhaled sharply, like the words hit somewhere tender.
Jaemin tilted his head so he could catch her eyes, even if she didn’t lift her face fully.
“And… if it helps,” he added, voice even softer, “the most common thing I’ve seen—especially with cats who end up separated—is that they find a routine again. They attach to someone else. Not because they forgot you. But because they needed to live.”
Haeyi blinked hard.
“That doesn’t replace you,” Jaemin said quickly, as if he could already see the guilt forming. “It doesn’t erase you. It just means… there are more good endings out there than our brains let us imagine.”
A tear slipped from the corner of Haeyi’s eye and disappeared into his sleeve.
She tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a small, trembling breath.
“I hate how much I needed to hear that,” she whispered.
Jaemin’s hand tightened gently around her shoulder. “Then I’ll say it as many times as you need.”
Haeyi stayed quiet, then her voice came again—barely there.
“Sometimes I feel stupid,” she confessed. “Because I run a shelter. I see animals come in hurt all the time. I tell people to have hope. I tell them not to blame themselves. And then…”
“And then it’s your own,” Jaemin finished softly.
Haeyi nodded against him.
Jaemin looked down at the table—at their forgotten lunches, at the small mess of receipts and clipboards—and felt something settle in him, calm and fierce.
“Haeyi,” he said, steady now, “you’re not stupid. You’re human. And you loved him.”
He paused, then added in a voice that made it sound like a vow:
“And if you ever decide you want to search again—not just with your feet, but with… real leads—microchip databases, found-pet networks, rescues—then tell me.”
Haeyi lifted her face a fraction, eyes wet, searching his.
Jaemin met her gaze.
“I’ll do it with you,” he said. “Properly. Carefully. Until you feel like you can breathe.”
Haeyi’s lips parted, trembling.
Then, very softly, like she was afraid the hope would break if she said it too loud, she whispered:
“…Okay.”
Jaemin kept showing up.
At first it was practical—because the shelter needed him, because Haeyi called with that careful voice that tried not to sound desperate. Then it became habit. Then it became something he looked forward to the way people look forward to home.
With every week, his love for Haeyi grew in ways that surprised him.
Back in high school, he’d noticed she was pretty. He’d probably even liked her a little—quietly, from across the street, in the way teenage feelings lived like shy secrets.
But it hadn’t been anything like this.
Now, spending time with her—treating animals side by side, rescuing them from alleyways and under cars, celebrating tiny victories like a cat finally eating or a dog finally wagging its tail—Jaemin’s heart had started doing these embarrassing, breathless flips.
Every time she laughed.
Every time she smiled like she meant it.
Every time she looked happy—especially when her happiness was because of him.
It was ridiculous. Beautiful. Terrifying.
And it made him feel like a teenager again, standing at the edge of something he wanted so badly he didn’t know how to hold it without crushing it.
Then Jeju happened.
A veterinary program—short-term, intensive, good for his career. He told himself it was perfect timing, that it would be fine, that he’d be back before the shelter’s next big intake season.
Haeyi had waved him off with a brave smile. “Go,” she’d said. “Be brilliant. I’ll survive.”
He’d promised to call.
He did.
Every night, sometimes with Jeju’s night wind in his hair, sometimes with exhaustion heavy on his eyelids, just to hear her voice.
And somewhere between lectures and practice sessions, he made a promise to himself:
When I get back… I’ll confess.
Okay—maybe confess.
Because even though he was an adult, he felt like a teen with a love letter in his pocket and no courage to hand it over.
The thought of it made him jittery in the stupidest way. His hands would literally fidget when he imagined her expression. Would she laugh? Would she be shocked? Would she step back?
Would she… say yes?
He told himself not to spiral.
So he did what he always did when his brain got too loud.
He went out.
That afternoon, Jeju was breezy, the air salty and bright. The street near the program site had little stalls lined up, the kind with sizzling oil and sweet sauces and the comforting smell of fried snacks that made the world feel softer.
Jaemin stood at one of them, pointing at what he wanted.
“Two, please,” he said, smiling at the stall owner.
The owner nodded, dropping batter into oil. It crackled, loud and satisfying.
Jaemin dug for his wallet—
And then a black blur crossed the edge of his vision.
He froze.
It was fast. Low to the ground. A flick of fur.
A fluffy tail.
Black as ink.
His head whipped to the side so quickly his neck twinged. For a split second he saw it again, disappearing between people—just the tail, just the shape.
Exactly like the one in his memory.
Jaemin’s breath caught.
No. That was… that was impossible.
He forced himself to blink once, hard, like it would reset his eyes.
But his heart was already pounding.
The stall owner held out the bag, calling him back into reality. “Here you go!”
Jaemin fumbled the money into the man’s hand, barely counting.
“Th-thank you,” he said, then gave a quick, distracted smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Before the owner could respond, Jaemin shoved his bag carefully onto the stall’s counter. “Can you—just—please keep that for me. I’ll come back!”
The owner blinked, then nodded, confused.
Jaemin didn’t wait.
He sprinted.
His shoes hit pavement too hard, too fast, as he cut between people with hurried apologies. His eyes scanned—left, right—searching for black fur, searching for that tail.
But when he reached the spot where he’d seen it, it was gone.
Gone.
Jeju’s street carried on like nothing had happened.
Jaemin stood there, chest heaving, a thin thread of panic tightening around his ribs.
I swear I saw it.
He turned, walked quickly, then broke into a run again—peering down side paths, glancing under parked scooters, searching the edges of fences and bushes.
“Hey—cat,” he muttered under his breath, ridiculous. “Come here.”
Nothing.
His heart sank—then jumped—
Because there, near the corner of a small alley, he saw it again.
A black cat.
Young.
Small enough that it didn’t have the heavier, older look of a street cat who’d spent years surviving. Its fur was fluffy, almost too neat for a stray. It moved with that arrogant ease cats had when they knew the world belonged to them.
Jaemin stopped so abruptly he nearly stumbled.
For one heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t Gom.
He knew it wasn’t.
But it looked like Gom the way Gom had looked before disappearing—same darkness of fur, same confident tail, same way it turned its head as if it was used to being admired.
Jaemin took one careful step forward. “Hey…”
The cat flicked its ears.
Jaemin’s throat went tight.
He glanced around, desperate to ground himself, and spotted an old lady standing nearby with a small shopping bag and a smile like she already knew what he was thinking.
Jaemin swallowed and approached her, gesturing with his chin toward the cat.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice slightly breathless. “Is that… is that your cat?”
The old lady chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Oh, him?”
She watched the cat like it was a familiar nuisance.
“Gom?” she said brightly, like it was obvious. “No, no. He’s a stray. Just walks around the neighborhood.”
Jaemin’s entire body went cold.
His heart stopped so hard it felt like it forgot how to start again.
“Gom…?” he repeated, barely audible.
The lady nodded, amused. “Yes, Gom. That’s what we call him. He comes by when he’s hungry, and he yells like he owns the street.”
Jaemin’s mouth opened, then closed.
His palms went damp.
His mind was screaming No, no, no while something deeper, quieter was whispering What if?
The old lady kept talking, unaware she’d just tipped his whole world.
“He was left behind,” she said, her expression turning a little disapproving. “Owners moved away—Daegu, I heard. Poor thing. After they left, he stayed around. He’s been living here ever since. Stubborn cat. Doesn’t like anyone trying to take him in.”
Jaemin stared at the cat.
Gom was grooming its paw now, utterly unbothered by the emotional hurricane he’d caused.
The old lady looked at Jaemin more closely, curious. “Why do you ask, young man? Do you like cats?”
Jaemin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.
He tried to speak, but his voice came out in fragments.
“The—uh…” He laughed once, breathless, because if he didn’t laugh he might actually break. “My… uh…”
The old lady waited patiently.
Jaemin’s eyes stayed fixed on the black cat like it might vanish if he blinked.
“The love of my life,” he heard himself say.
The words tumbled out too honestly to take back.
“Back when we were in high school,” he continued, voice turning rough, “she had a cat exactly like him. Black, fluffy. His name was Gom too.”
The old lady’s expression softened.
“One day,” Jaemin said, and his chest tightened like someone was squeezing his heart, “a guest spooked him and he ran away and got lost.”
He inhaled sharply.
“It’s been nine years since…” His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. “And she never stopped looking for him.”
The old lady went quiet, her face changing—sympathy blooming like a slow, gentle thing.
Jaemin finally tore his gaze from the cat and looked at her, eyes pleading without him meaning to.
“What… what did you say the owners’ names were?” he asked, desperate. “Or—do you know where exactly they moved from? Anything. Please.”
The old lady hesitated, thinking, then shook her head. “I don’t know names,” she admitted. “Just rumors. People talk. But… I do know this.”
She pointed with her chin.
“He has a little mark,” she said. “A tiny scar by his ear. Like he got into trouble when he was younger.”
Jaemin’s breath hitched.
Because Gom—Haeyi’s Gom—had had a tiny mark near his ear too. A little nick from when he’d tried to fight a stray tomcat once and had come home proud like he’d won a war.
Jaemin’s vision blurred for half a second.
He blinked hard, swallowing down the sudden sting behind his eyes.
The cat lifted its head.
And for a moment, its gaze met Jaemin’s.
Golden eyes.
Unapologetic.
Familiar in a way that made Jaemin’s hands tremble.
The cat’s tail flicked once.
As if to say: What are you staring at?
Jaemin took one slow step closer, heart beating so loud it drowned out the street.
“Gom…” he whispered, the name tasting like a prayer.
The cat didn’t run.
It just watched him, head tilted slightly.
And Jaemin realized, with a shock that made his knees feel weak—
Whether this was him or not…
He couldn’t walk away from this.
Not now.
Not when Haeyi was waiting back home with nine years of unanswered hope.
Not when the universe had just placed a black tail in the corner of his eye and turned his entire life toward one word again:
Gom.
Jaemin moved like he was approaching something sacred.
Slow steps. Soft breath. No sudden motions.
The street sounds faded into a dull blur—the chatter of people, the sizzle of oil from somewhere behind him, the wind tugging at banners overhead. All Jaemin could hear was his own heartbeat, loud and insistent, like it was trying to climb out of his chest.
The black cat sat near the edge of the alley, calm in a way that didn’t belong to strays who were used to being chased or shooed.
Its tail curled neatly around its paws.
It watched Jaemin with a steady, unimpressed gaze.
Jaemin stopped a few feet away and crouched, keeping himself low. Non-threatening. Like he did with frightened rescues.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice gentle. “It’s okay.”
The cat’s ears flicked once.
Jaemin offered the back of his hand, palm down, letting the cat decide. He didn’t reach to grab. Didn’t lean in too fast. He just waited, patient, the way he’d learned to be.
It’s not Haeyi’s Gom, he reminded himself, grounding his hope before it ran wild.
It couldn’t be.
The timeline didn’t make sense. The age didn’t match. This cat was too young—maybe a year old. Two at most.
Still…
It was Gom.
Not hers. But a Gom, living under the same name like the universe was playing cruel games with his heart.
The cat stood slowly, stretching its front legs with lazy confidence. Then it took a few steps closer, sniffing the air, sniffing Jaemin’s hand.
Jaemin held completely still.
The cat leaned in and sniffed his knuckles, whiskers brushing his skin.
Jaemin’s breath hitched.
“Hi,” he whispered again, softer, like he didn’t want to startle the moment.
The cat’s eyes narrowed just a little—not angry. Evaluating.
Then, without warning, it stepped closer and rubbed the side of its face against Jaemin’s fingers.
Jaemin’s chest tightened so fast he almost forgot to breathe.
He swallowed, blinking hard.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, you’re… friendly.”
He let his fingers move—just a little—scratching gently under the cat’s chin.
The black fur was warm. Real.
The cat lifted its head, leaning into the touch like it belonged there.
Jaemin’s lips parted. His voice came out in a shaky exhale.
“Gom…”
The cat flicked its tail again, as if answering, Yes?
Jaemin’s hands trembled. He steadied them against his knee, then reached slowly—carefully—to check what the old lady had said.
“Can I…?” he whispered, ridiculous, asking permission from a cat.
He angled his hand toward the cat’s ear.
Up close, he could see it.
A tiny mark, a faint little scar near the edge.
Jaemin’s mind flashed with another image—Haeyi, high school uniform sleeves pushed up, scolding an equally arrogant black cat while he sat grooming himself like her words were compliments.
You’re going to get hurt one day, Gom-ah.
Jaemin’s throat tightened.
He leaned back slightly, forcing himself to breathe again.
This wasn’t her Gom.
But it was close enough to make his heart ache.
Close enough to make him think—
What if this is a sign?
The cat took another step forward, pressing its body against Jaemin’s shin like it had decided he was safe.
Jaemin gave a soft, breathless laugh, disbelief mixing with emotion.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Alright, Gom.”
He glanced up at the old lady, who was watching with a pleased smile.
“He likes you,” she said. “He usually acts like he hates everyone.”
Jaemin nodded slowly, still crouched beside the cat, his fingers absentmindedly stroking the soft fur.
“He’s… he’s young,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. “One… maybe two?”
“Ah,” the old lady hummed. “Maybe. Not more than three, I think.”
Jaemin’s heart sank and lifted at the same time.
Not Haeyi’s Gom.
But still a Gom. Still a black cat under the same name. Still rubbing his head against Jaemin’s leg like—
Like the memory.
Jaemin stared down at the cat, his mind racing ahead, already imagining Haeyi’s face if he told her, if he showed her, if he brought her here.
Her hope.
Her fear.
Her heartbreak if it wasn’t him.
He swallowed hard, the decision forming like a knot in his chest.
He couldn’t drag her into this without care.
But he also couldn’t ignore it.
Not when the universe had placed Gom—a Gom—right in front of him.
Jaemin’s hand stilled as the cat looked up at him again, golden eyes steady.
And Jaemin, voice low and trembling, said like a vow—
“Let me do this right.”
Over the next two days in Jeju, Jaemin didn’t just “happen” to pass that alley.
He orbit-ed it like a man with a mission.
He went back the same evening after his program ended, breath still smelling faintly of coffee and clinic sterilizer, a small packet of cat treats crinkling in his pocket like contraband. He told himself he was being ridiculous.
Then he pictured Haeyi’s face—nine years of searching etched behind her smile—and he stopped caring about looking ridiculous.
Gom wasn’t always there.
Sometimes Jaemin waited ten minutes. Sometimes forty. Sometimes he’d catch only the last flick of a black tail vanishing behind a wall like the cat had better things to do than entertain human emotions.
And when Gom did appear, he made sure Jaemin understood one thing immediately:
He was not impressed.
Jaemin crouched down at a safe distance, offered his hand again, spoke softly, did everything right.
Gom stared at him, slow-blinked once as if considering, then walked up like he owned the world—
…and smacked Jaemin’s fingers with a paw.
Not claws-out, not cruel.
Just a sharp little whap that said, Don’t get comfortable.
Jaemin hissed in surprise. “Ow—okay, okay. I deserved that.”
The cat’s tail flicked smugly.
The old lady—who Jaemin learned was called Mrs. Kang—laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach.
“He does that!” she wheezed, delighted. “Little brat.”
Jaemin stared at the cat, half offended, half charmed. “He’s… really confident.”
Mrs. Kang nodded proudly like she’d raised him herself. “Sassy. But not bad. He’s a nice little fella when he wants to be.”
That first night, Jaemin got scratched once too—just a light rake across his knuckle when he moved too fast. He didn’t even blame the cat. He apologized like it was his fault.
“Sorry, sorry,” he murmured, holding still again. “I’m not grabbing you. I’m not taking you. I’m just… here.”
Gom sat down and began grooming himself, pointedly ignoring him.
Jaemin waited anyway.
The second day, Jaemin brought better offerings—proper food from a pet store and a tiny toy on a string he bought impulsively like a man who had lost all dignity.
Gom watched the toy, ears twitching.
Jaemin wiggled it gently.
Gom’s eyes narrowed.
Jaemin wiggled it again.
Gom pounced—fast, clean, absolutely lethal.
Then, as if realizing he’d shown enthusiasm, Gom immediately stopped and walked away like the whole thing had bored him.
Jaemin stared after him, stunned.
Mrs. Kang cackled. “He thinks he’s a tiger.”
Jaemin couldn’t stop smiling. “He is a tiger.”
Later that evening, when Jaemin sat on the curb with his hands tucked into his knees, Gom actually approached without being called. He rubbed his head—quick, brisk—against Jaemin’s shin.
Jaemin froze, breath catching.
Just like that.
His heart did a strange, painful little flip.
He didn’t touch the cat right away. He didn’t want to ruin it.
But Gom pressed again, insistent this time, as if saying, Hello. Pet me. Obviously.
Jaemin let out a soft laugh and reached down slowly.
Gom allowed it—for about five seconds.
Then smacked his hand again, offended by something only cats understood.
“Okay!” Jaemin said, surrendering with both palms up. “Your rules. Got it.”
By the last day, it changed.
Jaemin walked into the neighborhood with his bag slung over his shoulder, tired from the program, mind already half on the flight home—and there, sitting right at the mouth of the alley like he’d been waiting, was Gom.
The cat lifted his head.
Looked directly at Jaemin.
And didn’t run.
Instead, he stood and trotted over with that swaggering, shameless confidence, tail held high like a flag.
Jaemin’s chest warmed.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice stupidly tender. “You remember me.”
Gom stopped right in front of him and let out a loud, demanding meow.
Mrs. Kang appeared behind them, smiling like she’d been waiting for this moment too.
“He knows you,” she said, her voice gentler than before. “He doesn’t do this for everyone.”
Jaemin swallowed. “He’s… he’s something.”
Mrs. Kang nodded. “He is.”
Jaemin crouched down, offering his hand. Gom sniffed it once, then leaned his whole cheek into it, pushing hard like he was stamping ownership.
Jaemin’s eyes stung unexpectedly.
He stroked the cat’s head, feeling the soft fur under his fingers, the faint little scar by the ear.
And then Mrs. Kang sighed, the kind of sigh that sounded like a decision being made.
“You should take him,” she said.
Jaemin’s head snapped up. “What?”
Mrs. Kang waved a hand. “I’m old. I feed him, I scold him, I watch him. But he’s still a stray.” Her eyes softened. “And you… you look at him like he’s a miracle.”
Jaemin opened his mouth, but no words came.
Mrs. Kang looked down at Gom—who was now pressing his body against Jaemin’s leg like it was already settled.
“Maybe,” she continued, voice quiet but sure, “Gom can be the other half of your girl’s broken heart.”
Jaemin’s throat tightened.
“And maybe your girl,” she said, smiling now, “can be the other half of Gom’s.”
Jaemin stared at her, stunned, heart thudding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.
Mrs. Kang nodded toward him, as if giving permission.
“You said… love of your life,” she reminded softly.
Jaemin’s eyes burned. He blinked hard.
“I did,” he whispered.
Mrs. Kang’s smile turned mischievous again. “Then go be brave.”
Gom chose that moment to meow loudly, as if seconding the motion.
Jaemin laughed—breathless, disbelieving—and gently scooped the cat up before Gom could change his mind.
Gom squirmed for half a second, offended at being handled, then settled against Jaemin’s chest with a dramatic sigh like, Fine. Carry me, then.
Jaemin held him carefully, cradling him like something precious.
And as the black fur warmed against his arms, Jaemin’s mind raced ahead—not with doubt, but with something bright and terrifying and hopeful.
Haeyi.
Her hands, the way they trembled when she talked about Gom.
Her voice, when she said she still walked around searching.
Jaemin swallowed, pressing his forehead briefly to Gom’s head.
“Okay,” he whispered, almost a prayer. “Okay. Let’s go home.”
—
Jaemin stood at the shelter entrance with a pet crate in both hands, the handle biting lightly into his fingers.
He’d rehearsed this in his head a hundred times on the ride back. Different versions. Different words. Every time, his heart still pounded like he was about to do something irreversible.
Haeyi opened the door, surprise flickering across her face first—then confusion when she saw the crate.
“Jaemin…?” she asked softly. “What’s that?”
He swallowed, forcing his voice to stay steady.
“When I was in Jeju,” he began, and immediately hated how nervous he sounded, “I met this stray cat.”
Haeyi’s brows knit, her gaze dropping to the crate, then back to his face.
“There was an old lady,” Jaemin continued, “she said he’d been abandoned. Like… his owners moved and left him behind.” His grip tightened around the handle. “He was completely alone, just walking around the neighborhood.”
Haeyi’s expression softened—she couldn’t help it. That was who she was.
Jaemin took a careful breath.
“So I brought him back,” he said. “And I was wondering if you can take care of him.”
Haeyi blinked. “Me?”
“He doesn’t have anyone,” Jaemin said quietly. “And I thought… you’d be the perfect person for him.”
Haeyi’s lips parted like she wanted to answer, but the uncertainty hit her next—sharp and immediate. Her shoulders rose slightly, defensive.
“Jaemin, I—” she started, voice wavering. “You know I’m not really… adopting right now.”
“I know,” Jaemin said quickly, nodding. “I know. I’m not trying to push you into anything.”
He shifted the crate gently, like he didn’t want the cat inside to feel his nerves.
“I just…” He let out a small, breathless laugh. “I think you’ll love him.”
Haeyi’s eyes flicked away, and the air between them tightened with the name that wasn’t being said.
Jaemin hurried on before fear could swallow his courage.
“And Haeyi—listen,” he said, voice softer. “I didn’t bring him as a replacement. I would never—” He shook his head, earnest. “I know nothing replaces Gom.”
Haeyi’s throat moved as she swallowed.
Jaemin’s gaze held hers.
“I just thought…” he said gently, “maybe you and this cat… could be good for each other. Not because he’s him.” His voice dipped. “But because you have so much love, and he has nowhere to put his.”
Haeyi stared at him, torn. Her eyes were cautious, like she was afraid kindness would trick her again.
Jaemin shifted closer and, carefully, placed his arm around her shoulder—light pressure, warm reassurance.
“It’s okay if you say no,” he promised. “I’ll figure it out. I just… wanted to try.”
Haeyi’s breathing was shallow. Her gaze dropped again—this time lingering on the crate like it was a door to something she didn’t trust herself to open.
Slowly, she bent down.
Jaemin held his breath.
Haeyi reached for the little metal latch, fingers hesitant, and tilted her head to peek through the grate—
And froze.
Inside the crate, a black cat was grooming himself with lazy confidence, paw raised, tongue rasping like he had all the time in the world.
Black fur.
Fluffy.
The exact way he held his head, the arrogant calm, the tail flicking once like he was already bored.
Haeyi didn’t move.
Her whole body went still like someone had paused her mid-breath.
Jaemin watched her face—watched her eyes widen, watched the color drain slightly, watched something sharp and old and impossible bloom in them.
She lifted her head slowly.
And looked at Jaemin like he’d brought the past to her doorstep.
Jaemin gave her the smallest nod, like: Go ahead. It’s okay.
Haeyi’s fingers trembled as she reached for the door latch.
Click.
The door swung open.
For a beat, nothing happened.
Then the black cat stepped out.
Unhurried. Elegant. Like the floor belonged to him.
He stretched with theatrical grace, then walked forward in all his fabulousness, tail up, whiskers twitching.
Haeyi’s hand flew to her mouth.
Her eyes went glassy instantly.
Because in her eyes—overlaid on the present—she saw a kitten again.
A tiny black fluffball tilting his head at her for the first time. The first day she’d met him. The first day she’d fallen in love.
It was the same.
Every bit the Gom she lost.
Haeyi sank slowly to her knees like her legs forgot how to hold her.
The cat stopped in front of her and looked up.
Head tilted slightly.
As if asking, Why are you crying?
Haeyi made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a sob.
Jaemin crouched beside her, his hand rubbing her shoulder in slow, grounding circles.
He spoke gently, as if loud words might shatter her.
“His name is Gom,” he said.
Haeyi stared at the cat like she didn’t trust her eyes.
Her voice came out broken and tiny.
“Gom…?”
The cat meowed.
Not a polite little sound.
A demanding, familiar, impatient meow—like: Yes. Obviously. Now feed me.
Haeyi’s breath hitched violently.
Then her hand reached out—slowly, trembling—like she was afraid she’d pass straight through him.
The cat leaned forward.
And rubbed his head against her fingers.
Haeyi’s shoulders shook.
She let out a strangled sound and gathered the cat into her arms as if she’d been holding empty space for nine years and it finally filled.
“Gom-ah…” she whispered, voice cracking. “Gom…?”
The cat squirmed just enough to complain—then settled against her chest, purring like it had always belonged there.
Jaemin watched them, his own eyes stinging, his chest so tight it hurt.
Haeyi cried like her body had been waiting years for permission.
She hugged the black cat tight, cheek pressed to his fur, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs that turned louder when she tried to speak and couldn’t.
And Gom—this Gom—didn’t smack her like he’d smacked Jaemin.
Not once.
He didn’t act offended. Didn’t play hard to get.
He just looked at her.
Directly.
Staring like he was memorizing her face.
Haeyi sniffled, pulling back a little, eyes red as she tried to see him through tears. “Gom…” she whispered again, almost afraid of how real he felt.
The cat held her gaze.
Then—suddenly—his pupils dilated.
Like something clicked.
He let out a loud, dramatic meow that echoed in the entryway like an announcement to the universe.
And before Haeyi could even react, he leaned forward and nuzzled into the crook of her neck, pushing his head there with shameless insistence.
As if to say:
I like you. Now love me.
Haeyi made a broken sound that turned into another sob, her arms tightening around him.
Jaemin stood there and watched, chest warm and aching all at once.
He watched Haeyi bury her face against the cat’s fur like she was trying to stitch herself back together.
He watched Gom’s tail flick once, satisfied, purring like he’d always belonged there.
Haeyi’s voice cracked.
“Gom-ah,” she sobbed, holding him like she’d never let go again. “I promise… I’ll never let anything happen to you again.”
Jaemin’s throat tightened.
He could see it—could feel it—the way her heart was grabbing onto this second chance with both hands, trembling but fierce.
And Gom… Gom looked just as in love as Haeyi was.
As if this cat had been waiting for her too.
Jaemin smiled, small and stunned, and realized—with a quiet certainty that settled into his bones—
This was the best decision he had ever made.
Gom had instantly fallen in love with Haeyi.
Like the Gom they’d lost had sent this Gom to them—not as a replacement, but as a bandage. A bridge. A miracle with whiskers.
Time passed in soft fragments.
Haeyi’s breathing slowed. Her sobs quieted to shaky little inhales. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and laughed weakly, as if embarrassed to be this undone.
Gom stayed in her arms, purring like an engine.
When she finally stood, legs a little unsteady, she turned to Jaemin.
Her eyes were still glassy. Her cheeks still wet.
And then, without warning, she stepped forward and hugged him.
Jaemin’s arms wrapped around her automatically, careful and firm.
Between them, Gom was cradled like the most important centerpiece in existence—his face squished slightly, expression utterly unamused.
But his purring didn’t stop.
Not impressed, but enjoying it nonetheless.
Haeyi’s voice was muffled against Jaemin’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and it sounded like it carried nine years in it.
Jaemin swallowed, smiling as he held her tighter. “Of course.”
Haeyi pulled back just enough to look up at him, still holding Gom.
“I’ll take care of him,” she said, voice thick. “I swear.”
Jaemin nodded, eyes soft. “I know you will.”
Haeyi shook her head like she couldn’t contain her disbelief.
“I don’t even know how to put it into words,” she breathed. “How did you even do this? And why?”
Jaemin’s heart thudded.
This was it.
The moment he’d promised himself in Jeju.
And suddenly he felt eighteen again—palms sweaty, nerves buzzing, the world narrowing down to one girl and one sentence.
He took her free hand gently in his, threading their fingers together like it was the most natural thing.
His smile was shaky around the edges.
“I love you, Haeyi.”
Haeyi froze.
The air seemed to stop moving.
Jaemin’s voice stayed steady anyway, even if his heart was sprinting.
“And I’d like to think…” he glanced down at Gom, who blinked slowly like he already knew, “…that Gom sent this Gom here to take care of you.”
He swallowed, thumb stroking her knuckles.
“And also,” he added softly, “to push me to actually tell you how I feel.”
Haeyi’s lips parted, stunned.
Jaemin’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Meeting you back then made me want to become a vet,” he confessed. “I didn’t know how to say it at the time. I just… saw you hurting, and I hated feeling useless.”
His voice lowered, honest and warm.
“And meeting you again after so many years…” he continued, “made me want to be there for you. Not as the boy across the street. Not as just a friend who helps sometimes.”
He squeezed her hand gently.
“As someone who stays,” he said. “As someone who loves you.”
Haeyi stared at him, eyes wide.
For a heartbeat, Jaemin thought he’d said too much. Too fast. Too—
Then Haeyi’s expression cracked into the softest smile—shaky, watery, real.
Her eyes glistened even more.
And with a voice that trembled like a promise, she said:
“I love you too.”
Jaemin’s eyes went glassy instantly.
A breathy chuckle escaped him, like he couldn’t believe he’d survived that sentence.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead—gentle, reverent.
Then he looked down at Gom, the little traitor miracle.
Gom stared back, as if saying, Yes? This is my doing.
Jaemin laughed under his breath, then cupped Gom’s fluffy head and kissed it—aggressively, repeatedly, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Mwah. Mwah. Mwah,” he muttered into fur. “You—little—legend—”
Gom’s ears flattened in offended resignation.
Haeyi laughed through tears, the sound bright and trembling.
Jaemin smiled and kissed her forehead again—softer this time—then pulled both of them into his arms, hugging them tight.
Haeyi’s fingers curled into his shirt.
Gom remained wedged between them like a royal hostage, purring anyway.
And for the first time in a long time, it felt like something lost had come back—not perfectly, not the same, but enough to heal.
Enough to begin again.
That's it for this one!
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
The Arrow Meant For Her Ft. Prince!K
A/n: The Prince!K fic is long overdue 😭 I kept rewriting this fic. Idk how to explain but its more Asian royalty vibes and I guess K would be considered like a king but I promised a Prince au so 🙏 (Kaori is basically an Empress but it was only after so I kept it as Princess)
Genre: Prince au, Romance, Angst, Fluff
Pairings: Prince!K x Princess!Kaori (fem oc/named reader)
Warnings: Angst, Mentions of war, death, assasination
K sat upright upon the throne of Seiran, draped in silk and ceremony, the carved arms beneath his hands cold as stone. Below the dais, his ministers stood in orderly lines—dark robes, measured voices, faces trained to reveal nothing.
“The northern ports report a dip in shipments,” one said, bowing. “Merchants petition for reduced tariffs.”
“The border villages request additional guards,” another added. “Hiougi’s patrols have been sighted closer than usual. No engagement, but… presence.”
K’s expression did not change. Only a slow blink, the slightest lift of his chin, granted permission for the next report.
“The treasury remains stable,” the Chancellor continued, “but the noble houses grow restless. They ask for reassurance, Your Highness. They ask for certainty.”
Certainty. As if it could be summoned by decree.
K’s fingers tightened once against the throne’s armrest before loosening again, a habit he kept under control. He listened as they spoke of grain and roads and names of men who would die without ever meeting him. He nodded when protocol demanded it. He made decisions that would look clean on paper and feel like blood in the earth.
A hush spread through the chamber.
Footsteps—quick, less rehearsed—crossed the polished floor. A minister entered without waiting for the full announcement, breath faintly uneven. He dropped to one knee, head bowed.
“Your Highness.”
K’s gaze sharpened. “Speak.”
The minister swallowed. “Your Highness, the Emperor of Hiougi has passed.”
The words landed like a bell in a quiet room—clear, ringing, impossible to ignore.
Around K, Seiran’s court shifted in tiny ways: sleeves stilled, eyes lowered, someone drew in a careful breath. Hiougi was not a friendly neighbor. Hiougi was steel and banners and a long memory. Hiougi was the kingdom that tested Seiran’s borders and called it honor.
K kept his face calm. He had worn calm like armor for so long it sometimes felt like skin.
“When?” he asked.
“Last night, Your Highness,” the minister said. “By dawn, their war drums were already sounding in the capital.”
K’s gaze lifted, distant for a heartbeat, as if he could see past mountains and smoke to the enemy palace itself.
“And the succession?”
The minister hesitated—just long enough to be noticed. “They have crowned the heir.”
K’s jaw set, almost imperceptibly. “Name.”
The minister took a breath, as though saying it aloud could change the shape of the room.
“Princess Murata Kaori of Hiougi,” he said softly. “She is Empress now.”
For a moment, the chamber blurred at the edges.
A flicker of memory—sunlight on stone, the sharp brightness of laughter that didn’t belong to court halls. Her laughter. Warm and quick, like it had never learned fear. It echoed in his mind as if the past had teeth, as if it meant to drag him back by the collar.
K blinked once.
The sound faded. The throne room came into focus again: bowed heads, quiet breaths, the weight of Seiran’s gaze resting on him like an oath.
He cleared his thoughts and let out a low hum, neither approval nor alarm—only control.
“Not Fuma?” he asked.
The minister shook his head. “No, Your Highness.”
K’s eyes narrowed slightly. Fuma had always been the obvious choice to inherit—powerful bloodline, celebrated name, the kind of man Hiougi’s empire could rally behind without hesitation.
“And yet,” K said, voice even, “they crowned Kaori.”
“Yes,” the minister answered, careful. “Fuma has taken command instead. He accepted the position of Supreme General—head of the imperial military.”
A murmur tried to rise in the court and was strangled by etiquette before it could breathe.
K’s fingers rested still on the throne’s armrest, but his pulse had a new rhythm.
Kaori on the throne.
Fuma at the head of an army.
It was a blade and a sheath swapped at the last moment—political, deliberate.
K tilted his head. “Why would Hiougi split crown and command?”
The minister hesitated, then spoke quietly, as if the words themselves were dangerous. “Some say it is to calm the factions, Your Highness. The nobles wanted the blood of the imperial line on the throne. The generals wanted a soldier they trusted at the front.”
K’s hum returned, softer this time, thoughtful.
Or they wanted a woman to wear the crown so a man could wield the sword.
His gaze drifted over his ministers, over the polished floor, over the banners of Seiran hanging high and immaculate. He could feel the room waiting for him to declare what this meant—peace, war, advantage, threat.
He gave them none of his real thoughts.
“Send condolences,” K said at last, voice smooth as lacquer. “Formal. Correct. And empty enough that no one can twist it.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And the border?”
“Hiougi’s patrols have doubled,” another minister said quickly. “They have not crossed, but—”
“But they want us to notice,” K finished, tone mild.
The minister bowed deeper. “Yes, Your Highness.”
K’s eyes lowered, just for a heartbeat, to the steps of his own throne—so many steps between him and the floor, between him and anything honest.
Kaori.
Empress now.
He wondered, with a cold kind of clarity, whether she wore her new crown like armor… or like a chain.
Then he lifted his gaze again, expression composed.
“Summon the Council of War,” he said. “And prepare an envoy.”
A pause.
The Chancellor’s voice was cautious. “To Hiougi, Your Highness?”
K’s hum returned, quiet and unreadable.
“To the Empress,” he corrected. “Addressed to Kaori.”
K let the last report settle into the polished air of the chamber. The ministers waited, perfectly still, as if movement itself might be mistaken for dissent.
Slowly, K lifted his right hand from the armrest.
For a heartbeat, he only stared at it—at the pale line of an old scar across his knuckle, at how easy it would be to clench it into a fist and how impossible it was to do so in front of them.
He breathed in once. Quiet. Controlled.
Then he lowered his hand, gaze sharpening as it returned to the room.
“Summon Taki,” he said.
The Chancellor’s eyes flickered up, cautious. “At once, Your Highness.”
A servant moved quickly, head bowed, slipping from the hall.
K remained seated, posture unbroken, but his thoughts had already shifted—away from grain and tariffs, away from the neat comfort of numbers, toward the name that had just been spoken in his court like a blade drawn in silk.
Kaori.
Empress now.
When the doors opened again, it was with a different kind of quiet.
Taki entered without hesitation, steps measured, expression unreadable. Not a minister. Not a court ornament. Someone used to being sent where answers were sharp and consequences sharper. He stopped at the base of the dais and bowed.
“You called, Your Highness.”
K looked down at him, voice even. “You will go to Hiougi.”
A ripple tried to move through the ministers and died under etiquette.
Taki did not react beyond the smallest narrowing of his eyes. “As what?”
“As my envoy,” K said. “You will carry Seiran’s formal condolences for the late Emperor and Seiran’s recognition of the new Empress. You will request an audience.”
Taki’s gaze held steady. “With Empress Kaori.”
K did not flinch at the name. He simply nodded once.
“Yes,” he said. “With Empress Kaori.”
The Chancellor stepped forward, careful. “Your Highness, the border is tense. Sending—”
“I am sending a message,” K cut in smoothly, not raising his voice, yet leaving no room for argument. “Not a challenge.”
He looked back to Taki. “You will listen more than you speak. You will watch who speaks for Hiougi. You will return with what you learn.”
Taki bowed again, deeper this time. “Understood.”
K’s fingers settled against the throne’s armrest, still as carved stone.
“Leave before nightfall,” he said.
Taki’s reply was immediate. “Yes, Your Highness.”
As Taki turned to go, K’s gaze drifted—briefly, dangerously—to his right hand again, as if feeling the ghost of something that had once been held there.
Then he lifted his eyes, composed.
“Next report,” he said, and the court obeyed.
—
Hiougi’s throne hall breathed like a living thing—warm with bodies, thick with incense and iron, loud with the soft clatter of ornament. Drapes hung heavy along the pillars, and the Empress sat above them all in attire that turned her into a moving constellation: layered shawls and sweeping fabric, beads framing her face like a curtain of stars, each shift of her head making them whisper together.
At the foot of the dais, Jo spoke carefully.
“An envoy… you say?”
Kaori’s voice rang across the hall, clear enough to silence a few lingering murmurs. Her gaze stayed forward, but her thoughts slid somewhere else—past banners, past guards, past the present itself.
“What on earth would he want to say or ask?” she wondered aloud, settling back into her throne. The beads at her temples chimed with the motion.
“Condolences,” Jo offered.
Kaori hummed, unimpressed.
She didn’t care. Not truly. It wasn’t as if the former Emperor had succumbed to age or illness, slipping away gently in a bed surrounded by prayers. He had died because she had reached the end of her patience—because his selfishness had rotted the empire from the inside and he had called it strength. Because she had looked at his conduct and felt, at last, only cold disgust.
“Condolences for the Emperor who attacked them and killed their ruler?” Kaori said, lips curling. “Seiran is quite humorous.”
A soft chuckle escaped her, light and sharp. She lifted her hand in a gesture that dismissed the entire matter.
“Thank him,” she said. “And send him away.”
Jo bowed. “As you command, Your Majesty.”
He turned to leave, but Kaori’s eyes narrowed as a thought caught—quick as a hook.
“Wait.” Her voice stopped him mid-step.
Jo froze and turned back.
Kaori’s beads stirred as she leaned forward slightly, gaze hardening into decision. “You will go yourself. Bring the envoy in properly. I want to see who Seiran thought fit to send across my border.”
Jo’s surprise flashed and vanished beneath obedience. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
He bowed and withdrew, leaving the hall to its murmurs and its watching eyes.
Kaori sat back again, expression composed. Only the beads betrayed her—whispering when she breathed, chiming when her fingers tightened against the armrest.
Seiran’s envoy.
K.
Even his name felt like a spark against old ash.
The border air tasted different—colder, cleaner, edged with distance. Hiougi’s soldiers stood like carved figures among wind-tossed standards, their armor decorated with cords and beadwork that clicked softly as they shifted.
Jo waited where the road narrowed, where kingdoms became lines people bled over.
A carriage approached—Seiran make, refined and restrained, its wheels quiet against the ground. It stopped with practiced precision.
The door opened.
And out stepped—
Jo’s eyes widened before he could stop himself.
“Taki?”
Across from him, Taki’s expression broke for half a heartbeat—recognition, disbelief—then smoothed back into something neutral. He straightened, shoulders squaring, as if the moment hadn’t happened at all.
Jo forced his own face into composure. “You—”
Taki bowed once, formal. “Her Majesty has sent you?”
Jo recovered enough to nod. “Her Majesty sent me to bring Seiran’s envoy.”
Taki lifted his gaze and, without a hint of humor, pointed at himself.
“I am the envoy,” he said.
Jo stared, then exhaled through his nose like he didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. “Of course you are.”
Taki’s mouth did not move. “We should proceed.”
Jo gestured stiffly toward the carriage. “After you.”
They climbed inside. The door shut. The carriage began to roll, and the moment they were enclosed—away from soldiers, away from ears—Jo turned on him.
“What are you doing here?” Jo hissed. “I was sent to pick up the envoy.”
Taki’s gaze stayed forward. “You did.”
Jo blinked. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” Taki replied. His tone didn’t change. “His Highness chose me to carry condolences for the late Emperor and wishes to the new ruler. Officially.” A pause. Then, quieter, more honest: “Unofficially, he wanted me to see how Her Majesty was.”
Jo’s brows lifted. “So he does worry.”
Taki’s eyes flicked, a fraction. “He won’t say it. But yes.”
Jo leaned back, absorbing that with a slow breath. “Guess they still care for each other.”
Jo’s gaze remained steady. “She seemed… surprised when I told her Seiran had sent an envoy.”
The carriage rocked gently over the road. Beads on Jo’s clothing clicked faintly with the movement. For a few seconds, there was only the sound of wheels and the distant call of birds.
Then Taki spoke again, voice lower.
“How is she?” he asked. “With the Emperor dead and all.”
Jo’s throat worked. He looked at Taki, and for the first time, his confidence slipped.
“If you’re going to tell this to your King,” Jo said carefully, “make sure it doesn’t go to anyone else.”
Taki turned his head a fraction. “Speak.”
Jo swallowed, the motion tight.
“The Empress,” he said, forcing the words out cleanly, “and the Supreme General… assassinated the Emperor.”
The carriage seemed to lurch, though the road hadn’t changed.
Taki went very still.
Jo’s eyes stayed on him, unblinking. “Her highness had enough of her father's unjust and selfish way of rule so she and the Supreme General took care of it. That is the truth. And if it spreads the wrong way—if Seiran’s court hears it before your King decides what to do with it—Hiougi won’t just be unstable.”
He let out a breath.
“It will be at war with itself.”
Taki was announced with the bare minimum of ceremony.
No music, no flourish—just the steady sound of boots on stone and the soft clink of Hiougi’s beads as guards shifted aside. He entered the throne hall with Seiran’s calm written into every line of his posture, stopping at the marked point before the dais.
He knelt. Bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” he said, voice clear. “I am Taki of Seiran, appointed envoy of His Highness.”
Kaori sat unmoving above him, draped in layered cloth and beadwork that framed her face like a curtain. Her expression was composed—too composed.
“Speak,” she said.
Taki lifted his head just enough to be heard, not enough to presume.
“His Highness of Seiran offers formal condolences for the passing of the Emperor of Hiougi,” he recited, each word measured. “He acknowledges the succession and extends recognition of the new ruler. He offers wishes for stability and strength under Your reign.”
A pause—quiet, respectful.
“He requests that proper channels remain open between Seiran and Hiougi,” Taki continued. “To prevent misunderstandings at the border and to ensure restraint on both sides during this transition.”
It was diplomacy shaped like a blade: polite, careful, sharp at the edges.
Kaori’s gaze did not soften. “And is that all?” she asked, voice light.
Taki’s eyes stayed steady. “That is the message I was ordered to deliver, Your Majesty.”
Silence stretched, filled only by the faint whisper of beads when Kaori breathed.
Then she gave a small, dismissive motion. “Leave us.”
Her attendants hesitated—only because leaving an Empress alone was never done without question—but her expression did not change. One by one, the hall emptied. Footsteps retreated. Doors shut. The space became suddenly vast, as if the throne room had been built for echoes rather than people.
Only Kaori and Taki remained.
Taki stayed where he was, still bowing, gaze lowered in respect.
Kaori watched him for a long moment.
Then she rose.
The beads framing her face chimed softly as she stepped down from the dais—each step deliberate, unhurried, the drape of her shawls trailing like smoke. She crossed the distance between them until she stood close enough that Taki could feel the warmth of her presence.
He lifted his eyes instinctively—and stopped himself, holding still.
Kaori’s expression shifted, the hard edge easing into something quieter. Not weak. Just… human.
She reached out.
Her hands were warm as she cupped his face, thumbs resting lightly near his cheekbones, her touch careful in a way that made the gesture feel more dangerous than any threat.
Taki went rigid for a heartbeat, startled by tenderness in a room meant for power.
Kaori smiled softly, as if she was seeing something that wasn’t an envoy in formal robes—something older, something familiar.
“You’ve grown,” she murmured.
Taki’s breath caught, just slightly, betrayed by the way her hands framed his face as if he belonged to a memory instead of a court.
He didn’t move. He didn’t lean into it. He only stared, caught between duty and something softer that had no place in a throne hall.
Then, carefully, as if each word had to be tested before it was allowed out—
“You look…” he began, voice low.
Kaori’s smile flickered, the beads at her temples whispering when she tilted her head. She didn’t let go.
Taki swallowed. His eyes traced the changes he wasn’t supposed to notice—sharper lines, heavier shadows, the kind of stillness that came from making decisions no one else wanted to carry.
“…different,” he finished.
For a moment, her gaze searched his face, waiting for the bite that usually followed that word.
Taki’s throat worked again. He forced himself to breathe.
“But…” he added, quieter now, the honesty slipping through before he could stop it, “you’re still the same.”
Kaori’s fingers stilled against his cheek.
“The same?” she echoed, almost amused, almost wounded.
Taki held her gaze. “In the way you look at me,” he said, and the confession landed too close to the heart of things. “Like you’re deciding whether I’m a blade or a friend.”
A soft sound left her—half a laugh, half a sigh. Her hands lowered, but she didn’t step away. The space between them stayed intimate, charged.
“You shouldn’t speak like that to an Empress,” Kaori murmured.
Taki’s mouth tightened faintly. “Then you shouldn’t touch an envoy like he’s—” He stopped himself, jaw flexing, eyes dropping for the briefest moment. “Like he’s someone from before.”
Kaori’s gaze sharpened at that, then softened again, as if the shift hurt.
“Before,” she repeated.
The word hung between them, heavy with things neither of them were supposed to say.
Kaori turned slightly, letting her shawls settle, beads chiming as she moved. “Tell me,” she said, tone light enough to be safe. “Did he really send condolences…”
Her eyes lifted back to Taki, and for the first time the question sounded like what it was.
“…or did he send you to see if I’m still alive?”
—
Taki returned to Seiran under a sky the color of steel, riding through the palace gates with dust on his boots and his expression carefully unreadable.
Inside the audience hall, he approached the throne the same way he always did—measured steps, spine straight, duty first. In his hands, balanced on a tray lined with pale silk, sat two doves made of gold. Their wings were spread mid-flight, delicate and exact, as if they’d been caught in the moment between leaving and returning.
He stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed.
“Your Highness,” Taki said. “I have returned.”
A ripple moved through the ministers—curiosity, calculation, relief. K sat high above them, Seiran’s ruler carved into stillness, his face calm enough to belong to a statue.
“Report,” K said.
Taki held the tray steady. “The Empress received your message. Hiougi acknowledges Seiran’s condolences and recognition.”
Nothing else. Nothing that could be used against him in a room full of ears.
K’s gaze lingered on the gold doves for a fraction of a second longer than it should have.
“Leave us,” he said.
The hall hesitated—then obeyed. One by one, ministers withdrew. Doors closed. Footsteps faded until the silence became its own presence.
Only then did K move.
He descended the steps with quiet control, but the moment his feet touched the floor, something in him shifted. The distance between ruler and man shortened with every step he took toward Taki.
When he stopped in front of him, his voice was lower, stripped of performance.
“How did it go?” K asked at once, too quick, too honest. “How was everything—how was the border, the court, their reception—”
He cut himself off, breath tightening, then tried again like he could reorganize the question into something acceptable.
“How was she?”
The name didn’t leave his mouth, but it lived in the space between them.
Taki’s eyes lifted. He didn’t answer immediately.
K’s gaze flicked down—back to the tray, to the two gold doves resting on silk. “And what is that?” he added, as if he could anchor himself in objects instead of feelings. “Why are you holding—”
His hand hovered for a moment, then lowered as if he’d remembered he was still an Emperor’s son in an empty hall that could still have listening walls.
Taki’s expression softened just slightly. “A gift from Hiougi,” he said.
K’s eyes narrowed. “From…?”
Taki hesitated the way he only did when the truth was sharp.
“From the Empress,” he answered.
K went still.
For a heartbeat, he looked like he’d been struck—quietly, cleanly—right through the center of his carefully built facade.
“She gave you this,” K said, voice rougher than it should have been. “For me.”
Taki nodded once.
K’s throat worked. He forced himself to breathe, forced his face back into something controlled, but it kept slipping—like silk pulled over a wound that hadn’t healed.
“And her,” K tried again, softer now, “how was she?”
Taki’s grip on the tray remained steady. “She is… different,” he said carefully.
K’s jaw tensed.
“But,” Taki added, meeting K’s eyes, “she’s still the same.”
K’s composure cracked at the edges. He looked away for half a second—just long enough for the truth to show in the way his shoulders sagged, the way his hand curled and uncurled.
“Tell me everything,” K said, and this time there was no mask at all. “Don’t leave anything out.”
—
It was the kind of wedding that existed to be seen.
A neutral kingdom—one Seiran and Hiougi both claimed as ally—had draped its capital in lanterns and silk banners, turning every street into a promise of peace. Musicians filled courtyards with bright strings and measured drums. Nobles laughed too loudly. Guards stood too still. Every smile had a watcher behind it.
K arrived first, as Seiran always did—precise, on time, immaculate.
He stepped into the grand hall with the weight of his title settled neatly on his shoulders. His attendants flanked him. His ministers trailed like shadows. He took his seat among the dignitaries, posture straight, gaze calm, as if this was just another ceremony.
It wasn’t.
Not when he saw the placement chart. Not when he realized where Hiougi’s delegation would sit.
Not when his palm brushed the inside of his sleeve and felt, for the briefest second, the memory of gold—two doves on pale silk—like a warning.
Across the hall, the doors opened again.
The sound wasn’t loud, but the room reacted as if it was—like wind pushing through a field. Conversations softened. Heads turned. Even the musicians faltered for half a beat before steadying their tempo.
Hiougi had arrived.
They came in layers: guards in bead-detailed armor and heavy draping, banners stitched with bold symbols, footsteps that didn’t apologize for space. And at the center—
Kaori.
She wore Hiougi like a crown. Drapes swept from her shoulders, rich fabric falling in controlled waves. Beads framed her face like a shimmering veil, chiming softly with each step. The effect was both elegant and warlike, as if she could bless you or break you with the same hand.
She looked older than the girl he remembered. Not aged—hardened. Like a blade that had been sharpened against grief.
K didn’t move.
He didn’t rise. He didn’t lean forward. He didn’t let his eyes widen.
He simply watched.
Kaori’s gaze drifted across the hall—over the neutral royals, over foreign nobles, over Seiran’s banners—until it landed on him.
For a breath, everything went quiet inside his chest.
Then her eyes narrowed slightly, not with surprise, but with the cold recognition of a person you never truly stop expecting to see in nightmares.
K held her stare.
He gave her what court required: a small, respectful incline of the head.
Not an apology.
Not a greeting.
Acknowledgment.
Kaori’s lips curved—barely. Not a smile. Something sharper.
She turned away and walked to Hiougi’s seats as if she hadn’t just cut the room in half with a glance.
The ceremony began.
Vows were spoken. Blessings were offered. Someone cried prettily. Someone laughed. The bride and groom looked like they believed the world was kind.
K heard none of it properly.
He could feel Kaori’s presence across the hall like heat from a fire you swear you don’t need.
When the couple was pronounced, the hall erupted into applause. Servants poured drinks. Curtains were drawn back to reveal the feast. People stood and mingled with rehearsed joy.
K remained seated for a moment longer than necessary, letting the noise cover the sudden tightness in his throat.
Then he rose.
“Your Highness,” one of his ministers murmured quickly, “the Empress of Hiougi is present. Protocol—”
“I know,” K said, and his voice was smooth.
His feet carried him forward anyway.
He moved through the hall like he belonged to it—because he did—and because Seiran’s ruler could not hesitate. Diplomacy demanded a greeting. The allied kingdom demanded courtesy. A hundred eyes demanded performance.
Kaori stood near a lacquered pillar, a cup in hand she hadn’t drunk from. Her attendants hovered a respectful distance behind her, beadwork and draped fabric whispering in the air.
K stopped at the precise distance etiquette required.
“Your Majesty,” he said, and his voice didn’t break. “Congratulations on your ascension.”
Kaori’s gaze slid over him, slow and assessing, like she was measuring how much of him was real and how much was throne.
“Your Highness,” she replied, and the title was correct, polite—yet it felt like being pushed away with two fingers. “Seiran looks well-fed.”
A few nearby nobles pretended not to hear and failed.
K’s mouth tightened faintly. “And Hiougi looks armed.”
Kaori’s beads chimed as she tilted her head. “It always has.”
The air between them was painfully thin.
K held her gaze, steady. “It has been a long time.”
Kaori’s expression didn’t soften. “It has.”
A pause.
Then, so quietly only he could hear it, she added, “You still speak like you’re reading from a script.”
K’s pulse jumped—anger, grief, something worse.
“And you still speak like you’re holding a knife behind your teeth,” he murmured back.
Her eyes flashed, and for a heartbeat he saw the girl beneath the crown—the one who used to laugh too brightly in sunlight, the one who once believed love could rewrite history.
Then it vanished.
Kaori lifted her cup in a mock-toast, the beads at her face whispering like rain. “Careful,” she said softly. “People might start thinking we know each other.”
K’s voice lowered. “We do.”
Her smile returned—small, sharp. “Did,” she corrected.
She didn’t leave. She stayed where she was, shoulder almost brushing the lacquered pillar, cup held at her waist like an anchor. The noise of the wedding swelled around them—laughter, music, the scrape of chairs—but it felt distant, muffled by the space they refused to close.
K watched the bride and groom step into their dance, surrounded by clapping hands and bright fabric. He cleared his throat, as if the sound could steady him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The words fell simply at first, almost too small for what they carried.
His gaze stayed on the couple, as though it was safer to speak into the light of someone else’s happiness than into Kaori’s face.
“I was too quick to blame you for the assassination,” he continued, voice low. “I was in such a state of shock that my mind just accepted anything—everything. I confess I found out too late, but that wasn’t a plausible reason for how I turned on you.” His jaw tightened once. “I should have believed you. Given our circumstances, that should’ve been my first instinct.”
He paused, breath careful.
“I’m sorry for everything.”
He didn’t look at her. Not yet. He watched the bride’s hand on the groom’s shoulder, the easy way their fingers interlaced, the soft smiles that didn’t have to be guarded.
Beside him, Kaori’s gaze dropped to her cup.
Her grip tightened. The metal rim creaked faintly beneath her fingers. The beads at her temples chimed once with the smallest tilt of her head, like they were reacting to the tension she refused to show.
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then, quietly—so quietly it almost vanished under the music—Kaori spoke.
“Your father was murdered in front of your own eyes,” she said, voice steady, controlled. “So I understand why you acted the way you did. Anyone would’ve done that.”
She swallowed, the motion minimal but visible if you knew where to look.
“That’s how my father was,” she added, and something in her tone sharpened, not at K but at the memory. “I should’ve known he would do that.” Her fingers tightened again around the cup. “But I didn’t.”
Her gaze stayed on the drink as if it might give her an answer.
“And then,” she murmured, almost to herself, “he made me wear it.”
She lifted her eyes at last—meeting K’s, and there was no softness in her expression, but there was something raw beneath it.
“I lost you the same day you lost him,” Kaori said. “And everyone acted like that was the cost of a war they’d been waiting for.”
The dance continued in the center of the hall, slow and beautiful, the bride laughing into her groom’s shoulder.
Kaori’s mouth curved faintly, not in amusement—more like disbelief.
“How fitting,” she said. “A wedding between allies. While we stand here pretending we don’t have history.”
Her eyes flicked over his face, quick as a blade-testing glance.
“So,” she asked softly, “did you come here to apologize… or to ask me to forgive you?”
K held her gaze, and for once he didn’t reach for a polished answer.
“I came to apologize,” he said.
The music swelled, bright and careless, and he let it cover the small crack in his voice.
“Asking for forgiveness would be too much,” he added, quieter. “I didn’t come expecting it.”
His eyes drifted—briefly—to the bride’s veil, to the groom’s hands steady at her waist, to the way the room celebrated something simple.
Then back to Kaori.
“I came because I owed you the truth,” he said. “And because the way I left things… the way I turned on you… I never gave you a proper apology. Not as a prince, not as—” His throat tightened, and he chose the safer word. “Not as someone who knew you.”
He exhaled, slow.
“I can’t undo what happened,” K continued. “I can’t return the years. I can’t bring back what was taken from you.” His jaw flexed once. “But I can stop hiding behind silence.”
His gaze dropped to her cup, to the whiteness of her knuckles around it.
“So no,” he said, shaking his head faintly. “I didn’t come to ask you to make me feel better. I came to say it properly, where you can hear it, and where I can’t run from the weight of it.”
A pause.
His voice softened further, almost raw.
“I’m sorry, Kaori.”
It was the first time he’d said her name without a title in years.
Around them, applause rose as the dance ended, the bride and groom laughing as they spun apart. The hall brightened again, full of noise and celebration.
But between K and Kaori, the air stayed still—waiting to see whether the apology would be accepted… or whether it would simply become another wound, spoken aloud at last.
Kaori looked away.
Not dramatically—just enough to break the line between them, just enough to keep the heat of his words from settling too deep. Her gaze found the center of the hall again, where the bride and groom were being pulled into congratulations, where laughter was bright and uncomplicated.
Why did he always have to be such a gentleman?
The thought came sharp, almost bitter, because it made it harder to stay angry. It made it harder to treat him like an enemy when he stood there offering her an apology he didn’t even try to dress up as a request.
She cleared her throat, the beads at her temples chiming softly with the motion.
“That is…” she began, and the words nearly failed her. Kaori tightened her grip on the cup once more, then forced her fingers to loosen. “That is the first honest thing you’ve said to me in years.”
Her eyes flicked back to him—quick, guarded.
“You’re right,” she added, voice steadier now. “Forgiveness would be too much.”
A pause.
“But,” Kaori said, and the single word hung like a thread pulled taut, “I didn’t realize you were capable of saying sorry without turning it into a treaty.”
The corner of her mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite anything that could be used against her.
Then her expression flattened again, protective.
“You apologized,” she said. “Properly. Congratulations. Do you feel lighter?”
It sounded like a challenge, but there was something underneath it—an attempt to understand, to translate him into something she could hold without getting cut.
Her gaze drifted past him to Seiran’s delegation, then back to his face.
“And now what?” she asked softly. “We go back to our seats and pretend this never happened?”
K’s eyes stayed on her for a breath, then dropped to the cup in his own hand as if it were safer to answer while looking at something that couldn’t judge him.
“I do,” he admitted quietly. “I feel lighter.”
He let out a slow breath, the kind he never allowed himself in court.
“Not because it fixes anything,” he added, voice gentle, “but because I finally said it properly.”
His thumb traced the rim of the cup once, a small motion that betrayed how careful he was being with every word.
“And what happens now…” K lifted his gaze back to her, expression calm but open. “That’s up to you.”
He nodded faintly toward the hall—the noise, the dancers, the watching nobles.
“If you want us to go back to our seats and pretend this never happened,” he said, “we can.”
His voice softened, almost a murmur between the music.
“I can’t force you to act like it’s okay,” K continued. “I don’t want that.”
He swallowed, throat tightening just once.
“You don’t owe me comfort,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Kaori’s eyes drifted down before she could stop herself.
Not to his cup. Not to his hands.
To his chest.
Pinned neatly against Seiran’s formal layers, half-hidden by the fall of fabric, was a small piece of gold—two doves caught mid-flight. So fine it almost looked like it belonged to the light rather than metal.
Her grip on her cup tightened. Then loosened. Then tightened again.
He kept it.
The thought landed harder than his apology had. Harder, maybe, because it wasn’t words. It was proof. Quiet and stubborn, worn where it could be felt.
Kaori lifted her gaze back to his face, and for once the sharpness in her expression dulled—just a fraction.
“K,” she said.
His eyes flicked up at the sound of his name on her tongue. No title. No distance. Just—him.
Kaori cleared her throat, as if annoyed at herself for it. “Don’t—” she started, then stopped, jaw setting like she was choosing something and hating that she had to choose at all.
“Don’t apologize again.” she said softly.
K’s breath hitched, almost soundless. He gave the smallest nod, like he was afraid anything more would shatter the moment.
Around them, the wedding swelled—music lifting, laughter brightening, servants weaving between guests. A fresh dance began, skirts and sleeves turning like petals in a breeze.
And then—
A thin whistle cut through the air.
K moved before thought became decision.
His body shifted between Kaori and the hall with a speed that wasn’t court-trained—it was instinct. His arm shot up—
Metal flashed.
The arrow was a dark line aimed straight for her face.
K caught it.
Not cleanly.
Not without cost.
The impact drove him back a step, the shaft biting deep, the force shuddering through his frame. The room seemed to blink, as if the world itself didn’t understand what had just happened.
For half a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then chaos detonated.
Guards surged. Guests screamed. The musicians stopped mid-note. Tables jolted as people scrambled back, goblets spilling like blood across linen.
“Protect the bride!” someone shouted.
“Close the doors!”
“Find the shooter!”
Kaori froze, breath trapped in her chest, staring at the arrow in K’s hand like her mind refused to accept the shape of it.
K’s face tightened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek.
Then his shoulders buckled.
Another arrow—no, the same attack, the same motion—had found him in the confusion, a second strike buried into his abdomen, hidden by his robes until he moved. His expression scrunched, pained and furious, as if he could command his body not to fall by sheer will.
He staggered.
Kaori’s instincts snapped into place.
She caught him before he hit the floor, hands gripping him hard—one at his side, one bracing his back. His weight was heavier than she expected, and warmer, and terrifyingly real.
“K—”
The hall was a blur of bodies and steel. Guards formed a wall around them. The allied royals were whisked away. Someone shouted orders in a language Kaori barely heard.
Time narrowed to K’s breath, ragged against her ear.
To the blood blooming dark beneath his layers.
To the arrow he’d intercepted—still clutched like he’d refused to let it touch her.
For a moment she didn’t breathe.
Then the pressure in her lungs broke and she sucked in air like she’d been drowning.
Only then did she look at him properly.
His face was pinched, eyes narrowed, teeth set. He tried to straighten—still trying to be Seiran’s ruler even while his body betrayed him.
Kaori’s eyes widened.
“K… are you okay?” Her voice cracked on the name, small and raw in the storm of noise.
He didn’t answer fast enough.
His knees hit the floor.
Kaori sank with him, keeping him upright, dragging him back against the pillar so he wouldn’t collapse fully. Her hands pressed instinctively over the wound at his abdomen, warmth spilling between her fingers.
“No—no, stay with me,” she hissed, more command than plea.
She lifted her head, fury slicing through fear.
“Help!” she called, voice ringing sharp enough to cut the panic. “Get a physician—now!”
Hiougi guards hesitated, glancing toward their own people. Seiran’s guards surged forward at the sound of her voice, startled that the Empress herself was calling for aid like this.
Kaori didn’t care who listened.
Her hands stayed on him, steadying, pressing, refusing to let the world take him while she held him.
“K,” she said again, quieter now, almost furious with him for falling, for bleeding, for making her feel anything at all. “Look at me.”
And for one brief, shaking heartbeat, his eyes met hers—still stubborn, still there—while the wedding hall that had been pretending at peace turned into a battlefield in silk.
K’s breath came shallow, clipped like he was biting it off before it could turn into a sound. His fingers tightened around the arrow shaft still in his hand, knuckles pale, jaw locked so hard it looked like it ached.
Then, in a voice dragged through pain, he managed, “It… might be poisoned.”
Kaori went very still.
Her eyes snapped to the arrow he’d caught—the one meant for her—and her hand shot out. She took it from him carefully, almost reverently, as if it could still bite.
She turned it in the light.
Then touched the edge with the pad of her finger.
A slick sheen met her skin—too thick to be oil, too unnatural to be rain.
Purple.
Her stomach dropped.
“It’s…” Her voice faltered, and she shook her head once, sharply, like denial could unmake it. “No.”
She wiped her finger against the inside of her sleeve and looked back at him, panic trying to claw its way up her throat.
“Hey—no,” Kaori said, forcing her tone steady as she leaned closer, hands firm at his side. “Try to stay awake.”
K’s face twisted. A pained sound escaped him anyway, low and involuntary.
“The pain,” he rasped, breath catching, “it’s… spreading.”
Kaori’s heart kicked hard against her ribs.
Footsteps pounded. Orders snapped. A gap opened in the ring of guards as a man pushed through—EJ, Hiougi’s physician, his expression already grim as his eyes swept over the blood and the angle of the wound.
He dropped to his knees beside them without waiting for permission and pressed his fingers to K’s abdomen, checking, assessing. His gaze flicked to the arrow, to Kaori’s purple-stained finger.
Kaori thrust it toward him. “EJ—poison.” Her voice sharpened, fear turning into command. “What could it be? He’s in pain—”
K let out another strangled sound, body tensing as if it wanted to curl around the wound and couldn’t.
EJ’s face changed the moment he saw the color.
“Bleeding thistle,” he said, quick and clipped. “We need to remove the arrow now.”
Kaori’s breath caught. “Now?”
EJ nodded, already shifting his hands. “It will keep spreading. If it reaches his heart—” He didn’t soften the words. “He could die.”
Kaori’s eyes widened, glossy in a way she hated. She tightened her hold on K as if her arms could keep poison from traveling.
EJ leaned close to K, voice firm. “Your Highness. It’s going to hurt.”
K’s lips pressed together. He gave the smallest nod—more pride than consent.
EJ braced one hand, gripped the shaft with the other, and began to pull.
K’s whole body seized.
A raw sound tore from him, nothing like the controlled ruler from Seiran—pain breaking through every restraint. His head tipped back, teeth clenched, breath ragged, and Kaori felt the tremor run through him like a shock.
Her own vision blurred. She blinked hard and it didn’t help.
“I’ve got you,” she said fiercely, voice shaking despite herself as she held him tighter, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other pressing near the wound to steady him. “I’ve got you—don’t you dare—”
EJ pulled again, slower, careful, and K’s fingers dug into Kaori’s sleeve with desperate strength.
Kaori swallowed, throat burning, and lowered her forehead briefly toward his temple like she could lend him steadiness through skin and breath.
“Stay with me,” she whispered, the plea hidden inside an order. “Stay awake. Please.”
Time passed in strange pieces after that—measured not by music or ceremony, but by muffled orders, hurried footsteps, and the scrape of canvas in the wind.
They had moved K into a guarded medical tent beyond the banquet hall, where the scent of incense was replaced by sharp herbs and heated water. Outside, the situation had been contained. Doors sealed. Guests redirected. The allied kingdom’s guards doubled. Hiougi and Seiran soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder with careful, hostile cooperation.
Kaori waited.
She stood just beyond the tent flap, hands held in front of her like she didn’t know what to do with them. When she looked down, she saw dried blood darkening the lines of her palms.
K’s blood.
Her stomach tightened.
She should have hated him. After everything. After the way the world had turned and he’d turned with it—fast and brutal, like trust was something that could be dropped and never picked up again.
She should have hated him.
But she never fully did.
She had mostly pretended.
Because even when her mouth shaped his name like an insult, her heart still called for K as if it didn’t understand war, as if it hadn’t been trained to.
Kaori stared at her hands and let the truth press in, quiet and relentless.
As she grew into her crown, she had told herself their kingdoms would drown forever in old hate. That love was a foolish story told by young people who hadn’t yet seen what power did.
And yet—
As she grew, the thought had returned at odd times, unwanted and stubborn: What if peace could still prosper? What if love could still survive it?
Now, with the echo of an arrow still in her bones, she couldn’t push the thought away.
Because he had apologized. Properly. Without asking for forgiveness.
Because he had stepped in front of death like it was nothing.
Because when she held him, bleeding and shaking, it had felt horrifyingly natural.
And it made her realize what she had been avoiding for years—
She still cared.
Immensely.
And from the way his eyes had held hers, from the way his voice had softened when he spoke of regret… it felt like he did too.
Kaori remained there, breathing carefully, listening for anything from inside the tent that might mean he was slipping away.
Then the flap rustled.
EJ stepped out, wiping his hands, face tired but steady. He bowed immediately.
Kaori shot to her feet so fast her beads chimed sharply.
“How is he?” she demanded, voice breaking through every layer of Empress she tried to wear. “Is he still in pain? Is he awake? Tell me now!”
EJ didn’t flinch at her urgency. “Your Majesty,” he said calmly, “I’ve administered the antidote and stitched the wound. He’ll still feel pain, but he should be fine.”
Kaori’s breath hitched, relief arriving too sharply to be dignified.
“And—” she pressed, because she couldn’t stop herself. “Is he—”
“He’s awake,” EJ said. “If you wish to see him.”
Kaori swallowed, throat tight.
For a second, she looked down at her bloodstained hands again, like she didn’t know if she was allowed to walk into that tent carrying what she felt.
Then she lifted her chin, steadying.
“I do,” she said softly, and stepped toward the flap.
Kaori pushed through the tent flap, and the air changed the moment she stepped inside—thicker, heavy with herbs and warm cloth, with the faint metallic bite that never fully left after blood.
The lantern flickered over a low bed.
K lay there with his top discarded, abdomen wrapped tight in fresh bandages that climbed his waist like a pale grip. Sweat glistened along his throat and collarbone, dampening strands of hair at his temple. Even at rest he looked tense, like his body was still bracing for pain that came in waves.
For a second, Kaori didn’t move.
The sight hit her in a place she hadn’t prepared for—too intimate, too human, too far from the polished distance of thrones and titles.
She forced herself forward, quiet steps on packed earth, beads at her face whispering with each breath she tried to keep steady.
K’s lashes fluttered.
His eyes opened lazily, unfocused at first, as if he was waking from something deep and burning. They shifted, searching, then landed on her.
Recognition didn’t come all at once. It softened in slowly—like dawn creeping over a battlefield.
His brow pinched faintly, a small pained line, and he inhaled with care.
“…Kaori,” he murmured, voice rough and thin, like it hurt to shape the sound.
The name, spoken without title, made her chest tighten.
“You’re awake,” she said, and tried to make it sound like an observation instead of relief.
K’s mouth moved like he might try to smile and decided against it. His gaze drifted—down, briefly, to the edge of her sleeves, to her hands.
“You’re…” he started, then stopped, swallowing as if the words were caught on the ache. “Are you hurt?”
Kaori huffed softly, a breath that was almost a laugh and almost not. She stepped closer until she stood beside the bed, then looked down at him with an expression she couldn’t fully control.
“No,” she said. “Because you—”
Her voice failed for half a beat. She pressed her lips together, then continued, quieter.
“Because you caught it.”
K’s eyes stayed on her, heavier now, clearer. He blinked slowly, as if each blink cost him something.
“It… was close,” he whispered.
Kaori’s fingers curled at her sides, fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the damp hair from his forehead, fighting the urge to do anything that would admit how shaken she still was.
Instead she said, carefully, “EJ said you’ll be fine.”
K exhaled, a strained sound. “He’s… competent.”
Kaori’s gaze flicked to his bandages. “And stubborn,” she replied, because it was safer than saying I thought you were going to die in my arms.
Silence settled again, warm and tense.
Outside the tent, faint voices and distant footsteps reminded her the world still existed.
Inside, it felt like only the two of them did.
“Are you… still in pain?” Kaori asked.
The question came out softer than she intended, worry slipping through before she could cage it. Her eyes stayed on the bandages, then lifted to his face—searching, helplessly, for signs she could understand.
K watched her expression change—worried, sad—like it surprised him to see it there at all.
For a moment he didn’t answer. His throat moved with a careful swallow, and his brows drew together as another wave rolled through him.
“Yes,” he admitted at last, voice low. Honest. “But it’s… not as sharp as before.”
He tried to breathe through it, slow and controlled, the way a ruler handled pain in public. Only this wasn’t public, and his control kept slipping at the edges.
“It burns,” he added, almost reluctantly. “Like it’s still… moving.”
Kaori’s fingers twitched at her sides, and she stepped closer without meaning to. “EJ said the antidote—”
“I know,” K murmured, cutting her off gently, not dismissing her—just trying to calm her. “It’s working. I can feel the difference.”
His gaze lifted again, steadying on her face. “You don’t have to look like that.”
Kaori’s jaw tightened. “Like what?”
“Like you’re blaming yourself,” he said quietly.
She scoffed, but it was thin, unconvincing. “I’m not.”
K didn’t argue. He just watched her, and somehow that was worse—like he could see straight through her armor the way he used to.
Kaori’s voice dropped. “You stepped in front of it.”
A beat.
K’s mouth tightened, like the movement hurt. “I didn’t think,” he said. “I just—moved.”
Kaori’s eyes flashed. “That’s not a comfort.”
His gaze softened, a fraction. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
Another silence.
K shifted, as if the conversation had become too heavy to hold while lying there. His hand pressed into the bedding for leverage.
The moment he tried to sit up, his face tightened.
A groan tore out of him—raw, involuntary—and his breath hitched as pain dragged through his abdomen like a hook.
“Don’t,” Kaori said sharply, stepping closer. Her hands hovered, not sure where to touch without hurting him. “Don’t move.”
K did anyway.
He pushed himself upright inch by inch, shoulders trembling, breath coming in harsh heaves. Sweat gathered at his brow again, and his jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack.
“Lay down,” Kaori ordered, voice low and furious with fear. “You’ll tear the stitches.”
K shook his head once, stubborn even in agony.
“No.”
Kaori stared at him. “Why?” The word came out smaller than she meant, edged with confusion. “Why are you doing this?”
K swallowed, eyes squeezed shut for a heartbeat as another wave hit. When he opened them again, he looked at her as if the pain was simpler than what he saw on her face.
“Because,” he rasped, breath uneven, “I can’t bear to see you like that.”
Kaori blinked. “Like—”
“Sad,” he said, and the honesty in it made her chest tighten. “Worried.”
She froze, thrown off balance by the gentleness of it, by how absurd it sounded from someone who had once been her enemy. “That doesn’t— K, that doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” he murmured, and before she could step back or argue, his arm reached for her—careful, despite everything. He tugged her forward, not roughly, just enough that she stumbled a half-step into him.
Then he pulled her in.
The movement made him wince—his breath shuddered—but he held her anyway, arms wrapping around her with a firmness that felt like a decision.
Kaori stiffened at first, caught between shock and instinct. She could feel the heat of him, the dampness of sweat, the tremor running through his body as he fought pain just to keep her close.
“K—” she started, voice catching.
His chin dipped near her shoulder, and his exhale brushed her hair.
“Just,” he murmured, voice strained, “for a moment.”
The tent’s lantern flickered. Outside, the world kept moving.
His arms stayed around her, careful but firm, like letting go would cost him more than the pain already carving through him. Kaori could feel the way he trembled—not just from the injury, but from holding back words that had been trapped for years.
He drew a breath, shaky.
“I tried,” K said against the quiet, voice low and rough. “I tried to forget you.”
Kaori’s body went still.
K’s hold loosened just enough for him to look at her. His eyes lifted, glossy with sweat and something worse, searching her face like he needed to see that she was real and not another memory punishing him.
“But I never could,” he confessed, each word sounding like it hurt to say. “Not once. Not for a day.”
Kaori’s throat tightened. “K—”
He shook his head faintly, as if he couldn’t let her stop him now that he’d started.
“I told myself it was duty,” he continued. “I told myself it was anger. I told myself it was survival.” His jaw flexed, and his breath hitched from pain, yet he kept going anyway. “But every time I looked at the borders, every time I heard Hiougi’s name, every time someone spoke of you like you were only an enemy—”
His eyes narrowed, not in hostility, but in strain. In truth.
“I hated it,” he said. “Because it meant I had to keep pretending you were nothing to me.”
He swallowed, throat working as if the next words might break him.
Then he looked straight at her.
“I’ve always loved you,” K said, voice steady despite the tremor in it. “And I will continue to do so.”
Kaori’s breath caught, sharp and silent.
K’s expression tightened—pain flaring, but he didn’t look away. He held her gaze like it was the only thing anchoring him.
“Even if it means injuring myself,” he finished hoarsely, as if the confession was a vow he’d already been living by.
Kaori stared at him, stunned—heart pounding, mind scrambling for armor that suddenly didn’t fit.
“That’s—” she whispered, barely audible. “That’s not love. That’s—”
Her eyes dropped to the bandages at his abdomen, to the proof of what he’d done, and the words tangled in her throat.
Because part of her wanted to shove him back onto the bed and scold him until she stopped shaking.
And part of her wanted to hold him so tightly he could never step in front of an arrow again.
K’s breath shuddered as another spike of pain cut through him, but he didn’t break eye contact. If anything, it made him more stubborn—like he’d decided he would bleed before he lied again.
“If you want,” he said, voice strained but gentle, “you can hit me.”
Kaori blinked, thrown. “What?”
“You can,” he repeated, a faint, pained exhale passing for a laugh. “As much as you want. For all of it. For every year. Every word. Every time I didn’t stand by you.”
His hand lifted—slow, careful—and hovered near her arm, not touching unless she let him. “But it doesn’t change the truth.”
K swallowed, throat tight. “My heart has always been yours,” he said quietly. “It’s been yours to keep. Even when I was too cowardly to say it.”
Kaori’s vision blurred so fast it startled her.
She looked down, as if she could hide the shine gathering in her eyes, but it spilled anyway—hot tears she hated, tears she hadn’t allowed herself in court, tears she hadn’t allowed herself even in solitude because they made the love too real.
Her lips trembled. She tried to speak and failed.
Then she moved.
Kaori surged forward and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him with a desperation that didn’t care about pride or titles or the thousand watching ghosts of their kingdoms.
K hissed softly as it tugged at his injury—pain flashing across his face—but his arms came around her anyway, holding her like he’d been starving for it.
Kaori pressed her face into his shoulder, shaking.
“I love you so much,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I can’t forget you—my heart refuses to.”
Her grip tightened, as if she could anchor him there, alive, in her arms.
“I tried,” she choked out, tears soaking into his skin. “I tried to bury it under hate and duty and a crown that never fit right—”
She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wet and furious with feeling.
“But it’s still you,” she breathed. “It’s always been you.”
K’s eyes fluttered shut as if her words had finally unclenched something inside him. His arms tightened around her—careful of the bandages, but firm enough that she felt the answer in his hold.
“Kaori…” he whispered, the name a fracture and a prayer.
She stayed close, forehead pressed to his, breath shaking against his mouth. For a moment neither of them spoke. The lantern trembled on the canvas walls. Outside, distant voices rose and fell—guards, officials, the allied kingdom trying to stitch dignity back onto panic.
Inside, it was only them and the truth they’d both been starving.
Kaori drew back slightly, just enough to see his face. His skin was pale under the sheen of sweat, jaw clenched against pain. Her gaze snapped to his abdomen instinctively.
“You’re hurt,” she said, voice turning sharp with fear again. “You shouldn’t be sitting up.”
K attempted a faint smile and failed. “I’m—” he exhaled, pained. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” she shot back, blinking hard. “Don’t lie.”
His hand lifted slowly, brushing the back of her fingers—gentle, grounding. “Then… stay,” he murmured. “Until the pain passes.”
Kaori’s throat tightened. “I’m not leaving.”
A beat.
K’s eyes searched hers, more serious now. “They’ll talk,” he said quietly. “If anyone knows you were here. If Hiougi finds out you—”
“I don’t care,” she cut in, but her voice wavered. “Not about that.”
K’s brows drew together. “You have an empire.”
“And you have one too,” she snapped, then softened, swallowing. “And yet you still caught an arrow meant for me.”
K’s gaze dropped. “I couldn’t watch it happen.”
Kaori’s fingers curled around his. “Then don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t watch me die. Don’t watch me fall. Don’t watch me become something you can’t recognize.”
His eyes lifted again, dark and aching.
“I already did,” he said, voice rough. “For years.”
Kaori’s lips parted, and for a second she couldn’t breathe.
Then she forced herself to straighten, wiping at her cheeks with the heel of her hand like she was angry at the tears. “EJ said you’ll live,” she said, more to herself than him. “So you’re going to lay down, and you’re going to rest, and you’re going to stop trying to be noble for five minutes.”
K’s mouth twitched faintly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t,” Kaori warned immediately, and he gave a soft, breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh.
She guided him down with both hands—slow, controlled—until his back met the bedding. He hissed through his teeth at the movement, fingers gripping her wrist for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured automatically.
K shook his head, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t,” he returned, echoing her earlier words. “Just… stay.”
Kaori sat at the edge of the bed, not quite daring to relax, one hand still holding his like she needed the proof of his pulse. She watched his breathing, watched the way his eyes struggled to stay open.
K looked at her for a long moment, and then—against the sweat, the bandages, the chaos outside—his mouth curved into a small, stubborn smile.
“You still look pretty,” he murmured, voice rough but warm, “despite what happened.”
Kaori let out a sharp huff, half offended, half shaken. “Don’t say stuff like that,” she scolded, wiping at the last of the dampness on her cheeks. “Now isn’t the time.”
K’s smile widened just a fraction. A quiet chuckle slipped out—
—and he immediately winced, face tightening as pain caught him. His hand twitched toward his abdomen.
Kaori panicked instantly, leaning down over him, beads chiming in a quick, frantic flutter.
“Does it hurt?” she demanded, scanning him like she could see the ache. “Where does it hurt? Tell me—where?”
K stared up at her, eyes softening in a way that made her chest ache. Fond. Almost amused, like he couldn’t believe she was hovering over him like this.
Slowly, he lifted a hand.
Not to the bandages.
Not to the wound.
He pointed at his lips.
“Here,” he said, voice faintly teasing, and then he pouted—actually pouted. “I need a kiss to cure it.”
Kaori froze, caught between disbelief and the sudden heat rushing to her face.
“K,” she hissed, scandalized and relieved and furious all at once. “You’re—”
His eyes flicked over her expression, and his pout softened into that same gentle smile. “It worked,” he murmured.
“What worked?”
“Making you stop looking like the world is ending,” he said, quietly.
Kaori’s mouth opened, then closed. Her glare wavered.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered.
K’s gaze stayed steady. “And you’re here.”
For a beat, Kaori hovered, breathing close enough that he could feel it. Her eyes dropped to his lips, then to his eyes again, as if checking whether this was real or another trick of memory.
Then she leaned in—slow, careful, mindful of his injuries—and pressed the lightest kiss to his mouth.
It was brief. Gentle. Almost hesitant.
But K exhaled like it was medicine anyway.
Kaori pulled back just enough to scowl at him. “Better?”
K’s smile returned, soft and satisfied. “Much.”
Kaori tried to stay stern, but her fingers curled around his again, betraying her.
“Rest,” she ordered, voice quieter now. “No more jokes. No more moving.”
K’s eyes half-lidded, still smiling. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
That's it for this one!
I hope y'all liked it 💖
Idk what this was but I'm not too satisfied, I'll make up for it!!
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️ ✨️
On the Dangers of Unlabeled Confections Ft. Prince!Nicholas
A/n: Sorry it took me a while! I had some things to do before college begins 😭🤣 so without realising it ended up slipping my mind. I had an idea for Nicholas first so I decided to write his first. I'll post K's ff soon! Sorry!
Genre: Prince au, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Pairings: Prince!Nicholas x Sorceress!Nami (named reader/ fem oc)
Warnings: none
The kingdom of Lunéria was famous for many things: its floating gardens, its jewel-bright towers, and most of all—its magic.
At the heart of that magic stood the Sorcerers’ Wing, a tall stone structure tucked neatly behind the palace. It was where spells were brewed, charms were tested, and accidents happened far more often than the royal council would ever admit.
Nami knew that better than anyone.
She stood in the hallway from the other side of the palace, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, watching smoke billow lazily out of an open window.
“…Taki,” she muttered. “I swear, if you blew something up again—”
Taki was her younger brother. Annoyingly talented. Painfully reckless. And, despite Nami being older, more experienced, and objectively better—
He was the royal sorcerer.
Because he was a boy.
Male preference, duh.
Nami herself was one of the resident sorceresses—highly respected, often consulted, and constantly overlooked for the title she should’ve had. She could already guess what Taki was doing inside.
Experimenting.
Again.
Inside the Wing, Taki stood over a small table cluttered with spellbooks, potion bottles, and crumbs. At the center of it all sat a perfectly baked lemon blueberry tart, golden and fragrant.
Taki leaned back, hands on his hips, staring at it proudly.
“Heh.”
Earlier that morning, Jo—another sorcerer—had shrunk him during a spell gone wrong.
And then had the audacity to laugh.
Worse, Jo had picked him up between two fingers and shaken him around like a toy.
Taki shuddered at the memory.
“I’ll get him back,” he declared, pointing at the tart. “He’ll never deny this. He loves blueberries!”
He grinned victoriously—then gasped.
“Garnish!”
He looked around frantically.
“No no no… I can’t forget garnish!” he said, panicking slightly. “It’s all about presentation!”
His eyes landed on the door.
“I’ll just run to the palace kitchen really quick.”
He turned back to the tart, wagging a finger at it.
“Don’t you run away, my beautiful tart,” he said seriously, before giggling to himself and dashing out of the room.
The moment the door closed, the Wing fell quiet.
Only for footsteps to echo from the opposite corridor.
Prince Nicholas strolled in, hands clasped behind his back, crown slightly crooked, humming to himself.
“Taki?” he called out. “Taki. Taki. Taki. Taki—where are you?”
He stopped in the center of the room and cleared his throat dramatically.
“Your crown prince commands you to appear before him and change his hair colour.”
Silence.
Nicholas tilted his head.
“…I was thinking pink.”
Nothing.
“No?” he continued thoughtfully. “What about blonde? (Silence) I thought so too. I've had blonde for too long.”
He sighed, wandering around the room.
“Okay, fine. I admit it. I wanna go back to red. I know I said no more red, but honestly? Red was so… me.”
He smiled to himself, satisfied with that conclusion.
"I guess he went out." He said and looked around and then froze.
On the table.
A tart.
Nicholas blinked.
He glanced around suspiciously before slowly walking over. He picked it up, sniffed it—and groaned softly.
“Lemon and blueberry,” he murmured. “My favourite combination.”
He stared at it, eyes lighting up.
“…Maybe he knew I was coming and left it for me.”
Nicholas sighed fondly.
“Oh, Taki. You sweet little boy.”
He examined it again.
“I am the prince,” he reasoned. “I’m sure Taki made it for me. I mean, it’s a well-known fact that I, the prince, loves blueberry and lemon anything!”
He looked around once more.
“Taki won’t mind if I eat it, right?” he asked the empty room, chuckling.
Then, shrugging—
“Who am I kidding? I’m the prince. He can’t say or do anything to me even if he didn’t want me to have it.”
He popped the tart into his mouth.
“Mmm—!”
Nicholas’ eyes widened.
“This is so good!” he said happily. “Taki’s gonna have to make me this again later. Yum!”
He swallowed.
And then—
The world lurched.
“—Huh?”
A strange dizziness washed over him. The floor seemed to rise. Or… no—
He seemed to be falling.
“Wait. Wait wait wait—!”
With a soft poof, the crown prince of Lunéria vanished from the table.
And reappeared on it.
Barely the size of the spoon.
—
The gardens around the Sorcerers’ Wing were unusually calm.
Sunlight filtered through hanging vines and glassy leaves, dew clinging to petals that shimmered faintly with magic. Nami knelt among the herbs, carefully snipping moonmint while murmuring a stabilizing charm under her breath. Beside her, Jo crouched obediently, basket in hand, watching her every move.
“Cut above the third node,” Nami said gently. “Otherwise it wilts.”
Jo nodded quickly. “Yes, Master— I mean—Nami.”
She sighed. “You don’t have to call me that.”
They worked in comfortable silence for a few moments—until it shattered.
A scream tore through the air.
High. Panicked. Wrong.
Nami froze mid-motion.
That wasn’t Taki’s usual scream—the dramatic, exaggerated one he used when he burned his fingers or spilled potion on himself.
No.
This one was horrified.
Her head snapped up. “Jo.”
Jo had already stood, eyes wide. “I heard it.”
They dropped everything and ran.
Their footsteps echoed as they tore through the corridor leading to the Sorcerers’ Wing. The door at the end was slightly ajar—and from inside came frantic muttering and another strangled cry.
Jo shoved the door open.
“Taki! What’s wrong?!”
“Nami?” Taki’s voice cracked. “NAMI—”
Nami rushed in—
And stopped dead.
On the central table…
“…Why,” she said faintly, “is there a small human on the table?”
The tiny figure turned toward them, hands on his hips, red hair unmistakable even at that size.
“…Excuse me,” the tiny human snapped indignantly. “I am not small, the table is simply—”
Nami screamed.
Pure reflex.
She grabbed the nearest thing—Taki’s thickest spellbook—and swung.
SMACK.
“OW—NAMI—!”
SMACK.
“WAIT—!”
SMACK.
“Taki!” Jo yelled, horrified. “What did you DO?!”
Taki scrambled forward, hands up, barely managing to catch the book mid-swing.
“NAMI!!! STOP!!!”
She struggled, furious and panicked. “THERE IS A TINY MAN—”
“That’s the CROWN PRINCE!!!!!!!!!!!”
Silence.
Absolute, crushing silence.
Nami froze.
Slowly… she looked down.
The tiny man on the table crossed his arms, glaring up at her with the full, undiluted fury of royalty.
“…You hit me,” he said. “With a spellbook.”
Her soul left her body.
“…Oh.”
Jo fainted on the spot.
Nami dropped the book like it had burned her and immediately fell to her knees.
“Nicholas, Nicholas,” she said, voice tight with horror. “I— I thought— I didn’t— I am so, so sorry—”
The tiny prince stomped his foot.
“I ate a tart,” he said bitterly. “And now I am this.”
Taki whimpered quietly in the background.
Nami closed her eyes.
“…Taki.”
“Yes?”
“What did you make.”
“…A lemon blueberry tart.”
Her eye twitched.
“And what,” she asked very calmly, “did that tart do?”
“…It shrinks people.”
The prince scoffed. “For the record, it was delicious.”
Nami exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her temples.
She was going to murder her brother.
Later.
First—she had to un-shrink the crown prince.
Taki rubbed the back of his head, still half-hiding behind Nami as if she could shield him from royal execution.
“I—I made it lemon blueberry on purpose,” he admitted. “It was supposed to be revenge on Jo. To shrink him.”
Jo’s eye twitched.
Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head.
“…You’re mean.”
Taki bristled immediately. “Hey! You started it first!” he protested. “You shrunk me and then shook me around like a stress toy!”
Jo scoffed. “That was an accident.”
“A very enthusiastic accident,” Taki muttered.
Jo crossed his arms. “And for your information, I would never take revenge on you like that. Also—I hate lemon and blueberry.”
Nami sighed deeply and smacked the back of Taki’s head.
Thwack.
“Ow!”
“Nicholas likes lemon and blueberry,” she said flatly. “Not Jo.”
From the table, the tiny prince huffed, chin lifting proudly.
“You got that right!” Nicholas said. “Now turn me back into my old self. Immediately.”
Nami turned to him.
He stiffened.
She stared.
He… shrank back slightly. Literally and emotionally.
“First of all,” she said calmly, “why did you eat the tart without permission?”
Nicholas blinked.
“Well— I—”
“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to eat things that aren’t yours?” she continued pointedly.
The words landed.
Hard.
Nicholas flinched, ears burning. “…I mean— I guess—”
“Oh!” Taki suddenly exclaimed, eyes widening in realization. “Yeah! You always nag me about not eating other people’s stuff!”
Nicholas groaned, covering his face with both tiny hands.
“…I didn’t think about that.”
Nami raised a brow. “Clearly.”
Jo, still lying on the floor from having fainted earlier, groaned softly. “So… just to be clear… this is your fault?”
Nicholas peeked through his fingers.
“…Technically.”
Taki gulped. “So—uh—good news is, the spell works perfectly.”
“And the bad news?” Nami asked.
Taki smiled weakly.
“…I haven’t figured out how to reverse it yet.”
Nicholas froze.
“…What.”
The room went dead silent.
Nami closed her eyes.
Nicholas’ panic finally set in.
He scrambled across the table and grabbed the edge of Nami’s sleeve with both hands, tugging desperately.
“Y–Yah, Nami, save me!” he cried. “I can’t stay tiny forever!!!”
She yelped and immediately swatted him away with the back of her hand.
“Don’t just come at me like that!” she snapped. “It’s creepy! You’re tiny!”
Nicholas stumbled back, offended.
Taki leaned over and stage-whispered, “She finds the concept of tiny humans really creepy.”
Nicholas clutched his head dramatically.
“NAMI!”
She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose before pulling her wand from her sleeve.
“Fine. Let me try,” she said.
She flicked her wrist, murmuring a clean, precise incantation. A soft glow shot from the wand and wrapped around Nicholas in a shimmer of light.
They waited.
Nothing happened.
The glow fizzled out like a dying spark.
Nami frowned. “…That should’ve worked.”
Behind her, Taki let out a small, nervous laugh.
“Heh.”
She turned slowly. “Taki.”
“I may or may not have added a very small amount of moon-lock leaf,” he admitted. “It blocks reversal spells. I didn’t want Jo to just undo it himself.”
Jo’s head snapped up instantly.
“…So,” he said very quietly, “I could’ve been in the prince’s place.”
Taki winced.
“Taki,” Jo continued, voice rising, “you’re so mean. This is too much. You’re actually evil.”
“I didn’t mean to!” Taki wailed. “I’m sorry!”
Nami stepped between them, hands raised. “Hey—hey. Calm down. Don’t argue.”
Too late.
Jo pointed accusingly at Taki. “You’re unbelievable,” he snapped, before storming out of the room.
“JO—WAIT—!” Taki cried, immediately bursting into exaggerated sobs. “I’M SORRYYYY!”
He ran after Jo, dramatically wailing down the hallway.
The door slammed shut.
Silence.
Nami exhaled slowly.
Then she looked down.
Nicholas stood alone on the table, arms wrapped around himself, crown askew, suddenly very quiet.
“…So,” he said softly, “…it’s just you and me now.”
Nami stared at him.
He stared back up at her.
She sighed.
“…This is going to be a long day.”
Nami watched him for a long second.
Then she sighed, reached out, and gently straightened his tiny, crooked crown with two careful fingers.
“We’ll find a way,” she said. “This is creepy and I don’t like it, but—ugh, come on.”
She held out her palm.
Nicholas hesitated only a second before climbing onto it, settling carefully as she turned and started walking toward her own wing.
“I am never eating something without asking first,” he muttered, shivering slightly. “Especially if it’s in a sorcerer’s place.”
She let out a quiet chuckle. “You’re stupid sometimes… but you’re not too bad.”
He gasped, offended. “Excuse you? I am not stupid—okay, maybe I’m a little stupid, but hey, I’m also very clever. I was the one who went out and searched for merry berry seeds for your herb inventory.”
She stopped.
Completely.
Nicholas froze.
“…Fuck,” he whispered.
Silently, in his head, he screamed: Why did I say that? Why did I say that?! Being tiny makes it way harder to escape this—
She slowly turned her head.
“You…” she said carefully. “You got the merry berry seeds?”
His ears went red instantly. He looked away, cheeks burning.
She lifted her hand closer to her face until he was right in front of her eyes.
“Nicholas.”
“What?!” he blurted. “It’s nothing! Did I say something? I said nothing!”
Her eyes narrowed just a bit.
“Nicholas.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face before standing up straight on her palm.
“Okay! Fine!” he burst out. “Yes, I got you the merry berry seeds! Happy?”
He gestured wildly, words tumbling out faster and faster.
“You really wanted them, and I really wanted you to get what you want, so I went around searching and hoping I’d find them so you’d be happy—and I did find them, and then you got them, and you were really happy, and I was really happy watching you be happy, and—yeah. You know now.”
He stopped.
Embarrassed. Flustered. Red as a ripe berry himself.
“…There,” he muttered. “I said it.”
Nami stared at him, utterly silent.
Nami looked at him for a long moment.
Long enough that Nicholas started to panic again.
“…You’re not going to yell, right?” he asked cautiously.
Then she laughed—soft, quiet, almost fond.
“That explains the rashes you got,” she said, amusement warming her voice. “I always had doubts… but I never had the evidence to prove it.”
His head snapped up. “You knew?”
“I suspected,” she admitted. “Merry berry causes allergic reactions if you handle it without proper wards.”
She looked at him again—really looked at him this time—standing there on her palm, embarrassed, tiny, sincere.
“Thank you, Nicholas,” she said softly, smiling.
His breath hitched.
“Oh,” he said dumbly.
Then, quieter, “…You’re welcome.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke as she continued walking, her steps steady, careful not to jostle him.
Nicholas sat down on her palm, legs dangling over the edge, ears still pink.
“…Don’t tell anyone about this,” he muttered.
She hummed thoughtfully. “About the seeds? Or about you being tiny and emotionally vulnerable?”
He groaned. “Both.”
Her smile lingered as she pushed open the door to her wing.
“We’ll fix this,” she said again, more certain now. “I promise.”
Nami set him down gently on her worktable, making sure he was well away from any bubbling potions or sharp tools, before turning toward her shelves.
Nicholas looked around.
Her wing was… different.
Where Taki’s space was chaotic—scrolls half-burned, bottles stacked haphazardly, crumbs inexplicably everywhere—Nami’s was clean, warm, and alive. Dried herbs hung in neat bundles from the ceiling. Spellbooks were organized by discipline. Soft light filtered through tall windows, catching on glass jars filled with glowing seeds and petals.
“…Wow,” he muttered. “This place actually looks like someone competent lives here.”
“I heard that,” she said absently, already pulling a thick tome from the shelf.
He grinned and hopped down from where she’d placed him, wandering carefully along the table’s edge, peering into jars that were now taller than him.
As she searched, Nicholas found himself glancing back at her again and again.
Nami stood by the shelves, one arm wrapped around a stack of books, the other flipping pages with practiced ease. Sunlight streamed through the window behind her, catching in her hair and softening her features, painting her in gold.
Not that she wasn’t always beautiful.
She was always beautiful—utterly, unfairly gorgeous.
But right now…
She looked ethereal.
Focused. Determined.
Trying to save him.
Something warm twisted in his chest.
Despite being creeped out by tiny humans—despite how uncomfortable this whole situation clearly made her—she was here, searching through spell after spell, just to find a cure for him.
Nicholas sat down, resting his chin in his hands, watching her quietly.
“…You know,” he said after a moment, “if I stay tiny forever, I’m suing Taki.”
She snorted before she could stop herself.
He smiled at that.
Yeah.
He was definitely in trouble.
Because watching her like this—calm, brilliant, and kind—made him think he might be falling a little harder than he already had.
After a while, Nami closed one of the thicker spellbooks with a soft thump and set it down on the table—right in front of Nicholas.
He looked up.
She tapped the page. “I’m not sure if this will work. But if it does… it should turn you back to normal.”
Nicholas straightened immediately. “We’ll have to try.”
She studied him for a second. “…You’re not scared?”
He shook his head. “I trust you, boss!”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
But she smiled anyway.
“Alright,” she said. “Read the ingredients for me.”
She climbed onto her enchanted ladder, which shifted smoothly into place against the shelves, rising as she stepped on it. Nicholas squinted at the page, tracing the list with his finger.
“Uh… silver dew, phoenix ash—” he paused. “Okay, normal, dramatic, expected…”
Then he frowned.
“…Merry berry?”
She reached for a jar higher up. “Yes.”
“What does it do?” he asked. “Because last time someone touched those, they broke out in rashes and risked their life.”
She glanced down at him. “Merry berries amplify magic powered by intent. More specifically—true affection.”
He blinked. “True… what?”
She hummed. “They react strongly when the spell is fueled by genuine emotional attachment. Care, devotion, love.”
Nicholas stared at the page.
“…So what you’re saying is,” he said slowly, “this spell needs… feelings?”
She hopped down a rung on the ladder and looked at him.
“We’ll have to find you a lover.”
Silence.
Nicholas choked. “A—A WHAT?”
She shrugged lightly. “That’s how the spell works.”
His face went bright red. “You can’t just say that so casually!”
She tilted her head, amused. “Why not? You’re a prince. Surely you have options.”
He sputtered. “This is highly inappropriate, extremely unfair, and—”
She raised a brow.
“…Wait,” he said slowly. “Does that mean the berry won’t work if there’s no real feeling involved?”
“Correct.”
Nicholas stared at her.
Then, very quietly—
“…Oh.”
She turned back to the shelves, completely missing the way his ears burned red as he whispered to himself:
“I am so doomed.”
Nami scanned the page again, her expression turning thoughtful—then faintly annoyed.
“…There aren’t any other options,” she said at last. “Moon-lock leaf is stubborn. No potion can weaken or break its magic except one activated by merry berry.”
Nicholas slumped a little. “So… I’m stuck like this unless—”
“Unless we find someone who can activate it for you,” she finished. “Someone you genuinely care about.”
He straightened abruptly. “I only like one person!”
She blinked, then brightened. “Great! Who is it?”
He opened his mouth—
Closed it.
“…Here’s the funny thing,” he said carefully. “I can’t tell you.”
Her smile vanished.
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“What’s there to be scared of?” she demanded. “Just say it. I won’t judge.”
“No!” he blurted. “I can’t tell you!”
She crossed her arms. “Nicholas.”
He backed up a step on the table. “Nope. Not happening.”
She leaned closer. “You’re telling me the fate of your body depends on this person, and you refuse to name them?”
“Yes!”
“…Why?”
He groaned, flopping onto his back dramatically. “Because it’s complicated!”
“Complicated how?”
“Emotionally,” he said, muffled. “And socially. And politically. And—ugh—personally.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she sighed. “You’re impossible.”
He peeked up at her. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
She shook her head, lips twitching despite herself. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, we’ll… figure something else out.”
Nicholas relaxed a fraction.
“…But,” she added calmly, “if you stay tiny for too long, the magic could stabilize.”
He shot upright. “WHAT.”
She smiled sweetly.
“You might be like this for a very long time.”
“…I hate moon-lock leaf,” he whispered.
Nami turned back to the spellbook.
And somehow, despite everything—
She was smiling too.
Nami closed the book slowly.
Then she looked at him.
“Unless,” she said evenly, “you want me to summon every eligible maiden in the land and have them kiss you one by one until the merry berry reacts… you’d better tell me who it is.”
Nicholas froze.
“…Wait,” he said carefully. “So I need to be kissed?”
She nodded once.
“You’re joking.”
She smirked and pointed at the spellbook. “I’m not.”
He stared at the page. And then groaned before stopping and thinking. Then he looked at her. Then leaned back, thinking again.
Slowly… a smirk spread across his face.
“Well,” he said, suddenly far too pleased, “when you put it that waaaay—”
She raised a brow.
He straightened, hands on his hips, looking smug despite being palm-sized.
“Okay, fine. I’ll tell you,” he said. “But you have to make the potion first.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
He smiled sweetly. “Because if something goes wrong, I’d like to already be holding my miracle cure.”
She huffed. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But charming,” he added.
“…Debatable.”
Still, she turned back to the shelves, pulling down ingredients.
As she worked, Nicholas watched her, grin lingering.
Nami began preparing the potion, movements smooth and practiced as she crushed herbs and measured drops into a clear glass bottle.
“What made you so excited all of a sudden?” she asked lightly. “You want to kiss her that badly?”
Nicholas smiled, a soft hum leaving him.
“Yeah~,” he said.
He didn’t say the rest out loud.
That even if she didn’t like him back, he wanted to try.
That even if the spell failed, at least he’d get to kiss the jewel of his eye once.
That alone would be worth it.
Nami swirled the potion gently, watching the liquid shimmer as it reacted with the merry berry essence. As she worked, faint noise drifted in through the open window.
“JO—WAIT—PLEASE—!”
She glanced over.
Outside, Jo was walking briskly across the courtyard while Taki followed him, sobbing dramatically, hands clasped together in apology.
“I’M SORRY—PLEASE DON’T HATE ME—!”
Jo didn’t stop—but his pace slowed just a bit.
Nami sighed, rolling her eyes… then smiled.
Jo never did have the heart to stay mad at Taki for long. She could already tell—this was teasing more than anything else.
She turned back to her work, corking the bottle carefully.
“Alright,” she said. “The potion’s nearly ready.”
Nicholas looked up at her, excitement bubbling in his chest.
“Then,” she added casually, “I guess we just need to find the girl you’re so eager to kiss.”
He smiled wider.
Yeah.
He was ready.
When she was finally done, Nami poured the potion into a vial.
A small one.
She turned and handed it to Nicholas.
“Now tell me who it is so I can take you to her.”
Nicholas stared at the vial.
“…I’m supposed to drink all of this?” he asked, eyeing the liquid suspiciously.
She nodded. “Yep. The whole thing.”
He swallowed, then stepped onto her palm, squaring his shoulders like he was about to march into battle.
“I’ll lead the way!” he declared confidently.
She took one step forward—
And then froze.
“Nicholas—wait—!”
He popped the cork and drank everything in one go.
“NICHOLAS—!”
She gasped and rushed to bring him closer, panic flaring as she tried to stop him—
Too late.
He finished the vial, tossed it aside, and before she could even process what was happening—
He cupped her chin.
“Nicho—?!”
And kissed her.
Her eyes widened in pure shock just as the room erupted.
Smoke burst outward in a swirl of silver and gold. Glittering light spiraled through the air, the shelves rattling, the magic roaring to life as the merry berry reacted—fully, completely, undeniably.
The enchanted ladder clanged softly to the floor.
Then—
Silence.
The smoke cleared.
Nami’s breath caught.
Nicholas stood in front of her—full-sized, solid, warm. One hand cupped her cheek, thumb resting just below her eye. The other rested securely at her waist. His crown was slightly tilted, red hair a little messy, eyes bright and very, very pleased.
She was still frozen.
“…Oh,” she breathed.
He smiled—charming, soft, unmistakably real—and slowly pulled back, just enough to look at her properly.
“Told you,” he said lightly. “I’d lead the way.”
Her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
“…You,” she said faintly, “…are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he replied, grin widening, “you kissed me back.”
She stared at him.
Then, flustered and furious and flustered because she was furious—
She shoved him in the chest.
“You absolute menace.”
He laughed.
Nicholas chuckled softly—but this time, there was nothing teasing about it.
He relaxed, the mischief easing from his posture as he took her hand in his. Carefully, reverently, he lifted it and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“I really do love you though,” he said. “Truthfully and sincerely. No lie.”
He raised his other hand, palm open, like a vow.
Nami’s brain short-circuited.
“…What?” she blurted. “Oh gosh—what is happening?”
She looked around the room as if answers might be hiding between the shelves. Smoke residue still glittered faintly in the air. Her heart was racing. Her face was warm. Her hand was still very much in his.
“The potion worked,” Nicholas said gently, still holding her gaze. “I’m back to normal… so I suppose the feelings are the same?”
Her breath hitched.
“You—” she stopped, tried again. “You planned that.”
He winced. “…A little.”
“Nicholas!”
“But not the way it happened,” he rushed to add. “I just— I knew the spell needed truth. And I knew how I felt.”
She stared at him, torn between disbelief and something dangerously soft blooming in her chest.
“I didn’t want to force anything,” he continued quietly. “If you’d pushed me away, if it didn’t work—I’d have accepted it. I just wanted you to know.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then she laughed—small, breathless, overwhelmed.
“You turned yourself tiny,” she said. “Ate an unmarked tart. Let yourself be cursed. All for a confession.”
He smiled sheepishly. “In hindsight, not my smartest plan.”
She looked down at their hands. At how naturally they fit.
“…You’re impossible,” she murmured.
“And yet,” he said softly, “here you are. Still holding my hand.”
She didn’t let go.
“…I need a moment,” she admitted.
He nodded immediately. “Take all the time you want.”
But hope flickered in his eyes.
Nami let out a long, exhausted groan, tilting her head back toward the ceiling.
“Today is single-handedly the craziest day of my life,” she muttered.
Nicholas laughed—warm, relieved, utterly fond—and without hesitation, he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close.
“Funny,” he said, “I was thinking the same thing.”
She looked up at him, eyes still wide, heart still racing.
Then, with a sharp tug, she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down to her level.
His breath hitched.
“Don’t laugh,” she said, voice low, flustered, real. “You just confessed, kissed me, blew up my wing, and rewrote my entire emotional stability in under ten minutes.”
He smiled softly, forehead nearly touching hers. “I’m very efficient.”
She huffed despite herself.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re holding onto me like you don’t want me to go anywhere.”
Her grip tightened just a bit.
“…I don’t,” she admitted quietly.
His expression softened completely then—no teasing, no prince’s charm, just Nicholas.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.
Outside, somewhere far too close, Taki’s distant wailing echoed again.
Nami groaned. “If he walks in right now, I’m hexing him.”
Nicholas chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to her temple.
“Worth it,” he whispered.
She stared at him for a second longer.
Then she smiled.
Not the careful, composed smile she wore in court or during councils—but a real one, soft and unguarded.
Nicholas saw it and smiled back, just as softly.
Her fingers curled into his collar again, this time deliberate, certain.
And she pulled him in.
Their lips met—slow, warm, unmistakably mutual.
No magic exploded this time. No smoke, no glitter, no chaos.
Just them.
Nicholas’ hand slid to her waist instinctively, holding her like she belonged there, like he’d always known she would. She leaned into him without hesitation, the last of her disbelief melting away in the quiet certainty of the moment.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, he laughed under his breath.
“…So,” he murmured, “does this mean I don’t have to kiss every maiden in the land?”
She smiled against his lips.
“Don’t push your luck, Your Highness.”
He kissed her again anyway.
That's it for this one!
I'll post K's fic soon!!
I hope y'all liked it 💖 ✨️
Likes and rebloggs are appreciated ⭐️✨️