these are a compilation of my reblogs and works from amazing people that made me swoon, cry, kick, scream, in the span of my years as a carat!
I hope you enjoy these masterpieces as much as I did and please check out each writer and their works!
to the writers: you are a wonderful human being. I hope the world is sending you love everyday! your works helps me get through everyday and I always come back to these!
~~ this list will be continuously updated with new works hehe
disclaimer: these fics are not listed in any ranking
DIRECTORY
OT13/units
𝘚.𝘊𝘖𝘜𝘗𝘚 𝘱𝘵. 1 | 𝘱𝘵. 2
𝘑𝘌𝘖𝘕𝘎𝘏𝘈𝘕
𝘑𝘖𝘚𝘏𝘜𝘈
𝘑𝘜𝘕
𝘏𝘖𝘚𝘏𝘐
𝘞𝘖𝘕𝘞𝘖𝘖
𝘞𝘖𝘖𝘡𝘐
𝘋𝘒
𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘎𝘠𝘜
𝘛𝘏𝘌8
𝘚𝘌𝘜𝘕𝘎𝘒𝘞𝘈𝘕
𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘕𝘖𝘕
𝘋𝘐𝘕𝘖
p.s. please please tell me if I made a mistake on the tags and authors tysm!
casualties of chemistry - choi seungcheol imagine finale
and here we are🤍 thank you so much for loving this fic. truly it's been a rollercoaster. I had so much writing it, seeing the response it got made me sooooo happy🥺tbh every time i post a fic, that's exactly how i feel. To have something I only imagined, something that only existed in my mind, and have it loved by others it always make my hear feel warm.
see you on the next fic🤍😊🌻
PART ONE | PART TWO
alsoooo i have a kofi acc, if anyone wants to send some coffee thank u in advance😊🌻🤍
Like neither of you say the words fully because speaking them too clearly might make everything too real. The last day before he went the atmosphere was heavy despite trying to find the light.
Even when the both of you try to not show the fear, the worry was obvious behind your eyes.
The last night, while you help him pack his stuff he takes a simple gold chain from his drawer and put the ring there before clasping it around your neck. He tucks the chain with the ring carefully beneath your shirt himself.
Neither of you says What if this is the last time because neither of you can survive hearing it out loud.
Then he was gone.
The first few weeks aren’t too bad. You get three updates total. Short. Obviously screened for safety but still it was enough to ease your heart and mind even for a bit. Enough to know he’s alive. Enough to keep breathing easier for another few days.
Cheol: Don’t forget to eat.
Cheol: Don’t drink too much coffee, take a cab if you’re too sleepy to take the bus
Cheol: I miss you
After that, it was silence.
Your own messages stop delivering entirely. Calls unreachable. No updates. Nothing. And logically, you know what that means. Operational security. Dangerous mission.
He told you enough information to know when this happens it means he’s in the middle of it all. The most dangerous part.
Eight weeks pass then nine. Ten. Then suddenly it’s been twenty six weeks total. One Hundred Eighty Two days.
Too long. Far too long.
Your shifts become harder somehow during this stretch.
You’re still Dr. Y/L/N in the ER. Still terrifyingly composed during trauma calls but now exhaustion follows you home differently because there’s no one waiting outside the hospital with coffee.
Just silence.
The ring stays around your neck every single day. Simple chain. Simple promise.
Sometimes during particularly bad shifts, your fingers curl around it instinctively beneath your scrubs. Like touching it grounds you.
Nurse Yang notices once while you’re scrubbing in for surgery.
“No news?”
You shake your head once but you repeat his words to yourself constantly now.
No news is good news.
Meaning somewhere out there… He’s alive. Somewhere out there Captain Choi Seungcheol is still fighting his way back to you.
That thought becomes enough to survive on. But logic becomes a fragile thing at 2 a.m. when you’re staring at your phone rereading old messages like they might suddenly update themselves.
Some nights are worse. You’ll sit alone in his apartment curled into the couch wearing one of his sweatshirts while rain taps softly against the windows.
The city glowing outside. That’s when your mind drifts too easily to possibilities, to worst-case scenarios, to all the things trauma surgeons know too well about fragile human bodies.
Those are the nights you force yourself toward the shelf with his medals instead.
Toward proof that he survived before, that he came back before.
Proof that Captain Choi Seungcheol is too stubborn to lose.
One particularly brutal night after losing a patient in surgery, you come home shaking with exhaustion. You barely make it through the apartment door before sinking onto his couch still in scrubs.
And for the first time since he left, you break. Exhausted tears hidden behind your hands because you miss him so much it physically hurts.
And eventually your hand slips beneath your shirt automatically until your fingers curl around the ring resting against your chest.
You close your eyes tightly and whisper into the empty apartment “You better come home, Captain.”
The silence afterward feels endless but somehow somewhere deep down beneath all the fear you still believe he will.
=
Thursday starts like every other impossible hospital day. Too bright fluorescent lights. Too much blood. Too little sleep.
You’ve been awake for almost twenty hours when you finally finish a trauma surgery that nearly went sideways twice.
By the time you step out of the OR, your scrubs are sticking to your skin and your shoulders ache from tension.
Still you saved them. So you scrub your hands slowly at the sink afterward trying to steady your breathing again.
Another life dragged back from the edge. Another day survived.
You’re already mentally preparing for charting when you push through the ER doors.
And then you see him, an officer standing near the nurses’ station.
Military uniform. Formal posture waiting by the main lobby. At first your brain doesn’t process it. Hospitals get officers sometimes. Paperwork. Routine check-ups.
You glance around briefly assuming he’s here for someone else.
Then he looks directly at you.
And suddenly every cell in your body goes cold.
No.
No no no.
The world narrows instantly.
You stop walking. The officer takes one careful step forward.
“Dr. Y/L/N?”
Your heartbeat becomes deafening.
Somewhere far away monitors keep beeping. Nurses move past. Someone calls for transport but all you can hear is blood roaring in your ears.
The officer’s expression shifts subtly.
Gentler.
Prepared.
And you know. You know before he even speaks.
The floor beneath your feet feels like it physically gives out
“Captain Choi Seungcheol was injured during deployment—”
No.
“—he was airlifted immediately—”
No.
“—he’s currently being transferred to the base hospital—”
No.
“—doctors are already operating—”
Operating.
“—the injuries were severe—”
Your breathing stutters violently.
“—he’s unconscious—”
The word slams into you hardest.
Unconscious.
Everything after that blurs.
Too close. Critical. Heavy blood loss.
None of it makes sense because this morning you were literally thinking about him while making coffee, because his hoodie you wore last night is still hanging over the couch.
Because he promised.
You stare at the officer but suddenly can’t feel your hands properly. Your fingers curl instinctively around the ring beneath your scrubs.
Cold metal against shaking skin.
No.
No no no.
Not him.
Not Seungcheol. Not your Seungcheol.
Your vision blurs instantly. The hallway tilts sickeningly.
Then somewhere nearby “Doctor Y/N?” Nurse Yang spots you talking to the officer, walking slowly towards you.
Bless Nurse Yang. She takes one look at your face from down the hall and immediately knows something is wrong.
“Y/N?”
Your knees buckle before you even realize it. The floor rushes up terrifyingly fast. Then suddenly arms catch you halfway down.
Voices erupt around you.
“Get a chair—”
“She’s pale—”
“Doctor, breathe—”
But all you can hear is:
Unconscious.
Severe.
Operating.
You start crying before you even realize you are. Terrified broken sobs that rip out of your chest uncontrollably while Nurse Yang kneels in front of you holding your face steady.
“Hey hey hey—look at me”
Your breathing turns sharp and uneven
“I can’t—” you choke out “I can’t—”
“Yes you can” her hands wipe your tears quickly like she’s done this your entire life, purely maternal. Grounding. Steady.
You grip desperately at her sleeves
“Where is he?” you choke out in between sobs
The officer answers carefully, “He arrived at the military hospital approximately twenty minutes ago.”
“Is he alive?” The question comes out broken. Barely audible.
The officer pauses just long enough to destroy you further
“Yes.”
You inhale shakily. Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
You cling to the word immediately.
Nurse Yang smooths your hair back gently while you struggle to breathe through the panic crushing your chest.
“You need to go” she says softly
Your eyes snap to hers immediately “But—”
“He needs you more right now.” That nearly breaks you all over again.
You shake violently while trying to stand. Doctor instincts and terrified girlfriend instincts colliding painfully together.
Your brain keeps supplying possibilities automatically.
Internal bleeding. Head trauma. Ventilator. Emergency thoracotomy.
You know too much. Far too much.
“Hey.” Nurse Yang grips your shoulders firmly before you spiral further “Don’t do that to yourself yet.”
Your eyes fill again instantly “What if I’m too late?”
Her expression softens painfully “This is the same man who waited for you for seven hours. I’m betting everything that even now he’s fighting his way back to you”
Neither of you can promise that and you both know it but she still says it to you.
The officer offers to escort you immediately. Someone brings your bag. Someone else presses water into your shaking hands.
The ER around you keeps moving. Life continuing cruelly normal while yours cracks apart in real time.
As you walk out of the hospital, your fingers clutch the ring beneath your scrubs so tightly it hurts.
Your engagement ring.
Your promise.
Your Seungcheol.
Please. Please come back to me.
Because suddenly the thought of a world without Captain Choi Seungcheol in it feels impossible to survive.
The drive to the base feels unreal, it felt like you’re watching someone else’s life happen through thick glass.
The officer beside you speaks occasionally.
You think. Maybe. The words barely register. Everything sounds distorted underwater.
Your hands won’t stop shaking. You keep rubbing your thumb against the ring hanging beneath your shirt until the skin feels raw.
Outside the car window, the city passes in blurred streaks of light. Entire worlds continuing normally while yours feels suspended somewhere between hope and catastrophe.
By the time you reach the military base hospital, your body is running purely on adrenaline and terror.
Everything there feels colder somehow. Security escorts you through corridors too clean and too quiet.
You catch glimpses of uniforms. Doctors moving quickly. Restricted doors.
No one tells you much. Only fragments.
“He’s still in surgery.” “There was significant blood loss.” “Multiple shrapnel injuries.” “Close-range impact.”
Each sentence lands like another crack splitting through your chest. And because you’re a doctor that makes this infinitely worse. You know what significant blood loss means. You know how dangerous shrapnel is, how unpredictable.
How one tiny fragment can tear through organs and arteries like paper.
Your brain fills in every possibility automatically no matter how hard you try stopping it.
You imagine ventilators. Chest tubes. Open abdomen. Internal hemorrhage.
You hate yourself for knowing too much.
They settle you in a waiting area eventually.
Someone offers water, coffee, food but you refuse all of it. You can’t swallow properly anyway.
Hours pass strangely after that. Time becomes measured in footsteps outside the OR and every time the doors swing open your heart nearly stops.
At some point an officer quietly approaches you again.
Older. Gentler expression. The kind reserved for terrible conversations.
Your stomach drops instantly.
“Dr. Y/L/N,” he says carefully “may we speak privately for a moment?”
No.
You already know what kind of conversation this is before he even finishes.
You stand. Your legs feel numb walking into the quieter office nearby.
The officer gestures toward a chair.
“Captain Choi updated his records before deployment.”
Your chest tightens violently. The forms, the ones at the dining table. The ones you cried over.
The officer continues carefully
“In the event of worst-case outcomes, you were designated primary next of kin regarding medical authorization and personal directives.”
Worst-case outcomes. Your vision blurs immediately again.
The officer slides a folder carefully across the desk. Inside are signatures you recognize instantly.
Seungcheol’s handwriting.
Steady. Certain. Prepared.
Prepared for things he never prepared you for.
Your breath catches painfully.
“There are protocols we may need to discuss if his condition worsens—”
“No.” The word leaves you instantly. Sharp.
The officer pauses gently “Doctor—”
“No.” You back away slightly from the desk
Because if you let this become real. if you let yourself imagine life support decisions and emergency directives and memorial procedures. You’ll shatter completely.
“He’s alive,” you whisper desperately
“Yes”
“So don’t talk to me like he’s not coming back”
Then it was just silence again. Not the comforting kind, heavy. Too loud.
The officer’s expression softens further. Not pity. Something sadder. Understanding.
“Captain Choi spoke very highly of you” he says quietly instead
You look away quickly before another sob escapes. The officer thankfully doesn’t push further.
Eventually he guides you back toward the surgical floor where the waiting becomes unbearable again.
Hour four.
Hour five.
Hour six.
You don’t move.
Not really.
You sit curled slightly forward in the chair outside surgery with your hands clasped so tightly together your knuckles ache.
Every doctor who walks past makes your head snap up instantly. Every time it’s not his surgeon, disappointment crashes into you again. Someone drapes a blanket over your shoulders at some point.
You don’t notice who.
Your eyes burn continuously from exhaustion and crying.
Still you stay.
Because what if he wakes up? What if he asks for you?
What if—
You can’t not be there.
By hour seven you’ve started bargaining silently with every higher power you’ve never properly believed in.
Please. Take anything. Take sleep. Take years off your life.
Just let him survive this.
Just let him come home.
Please.
Then finally by hour eight the surgery doors open again. This time a doctor steps out removing his surgical cap slowly. And immediately you know this is it.
Your body jerks upright so fast the chair nearly tips over behind you.
Your heartbeat becomes violent.
The surgeon looks exhausted. Blood still staining part of his scrub sleeve.
You cross the distance toward him before he even fully reaches you.
“How is he?” Your voice breaks halfway through the question
The doctor studies your face for one terrible endless second “He survived the surgery.”
The air leaves your lungs so sharply it hurts.You physically stagger with relief.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
But the doctor’s expression stays serious.
“He lost a dangerous amount of blood,” he continues carefully “There was significant internal damage. We removed the shrapnel we could safely access”
Your chest tightens again instantly.
“He’s critical right now,” the surgeon says honestly “The next twenty-four hours are extremely important.”
Not safe yet. Not stable. But alive. You understand fully what he’s talking about but still it’s like the words are not sinking in.
You nod shakily while tears spill again despite yourself.
“Can I see him?”
“…Yes.”
And suddenly your legs almost give out from relief and terror all over again.
Because Captain Choi Seungcheol survived.
Barely but he’s still here.
Still yours to hold onto.
The first twelve hours pass with your heart lodged permanently in your throat. You didn’t even dare to sleep even when your eyes hurt and every fibre of your being was beyond exhausted.
The fear is still flowing stronger in your system that every time you so much close your eyes for 5 seconds, every ugly outcome plays in your head.
So you stay awake through the night, until the day breaks again and the world continues turning while yours stay suspended.
Every monitor beep becomes life or death.
Every slight shift in his vitals sends adrenaline through your bloodstream instantly.
You barely sleep. Barely eat. Barely move from the chair beside his bed.
But he makes it through the night.
Then another and another.
By the second day, the doctors cautiously stop using the word critical every other sentence.
By then you finally breathe slightly easier. Not fully but enough to stop feeling like the world might end every time a nurse walks toward his room.
As a doctor, you know exactly what his body is doing right now. Healing takes time especially after trauma like this. You know waking him too early would only strain recovery further.
So instead you wait.
That becomes your entire existence. Waiting, watching, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through machines.
Sometimes talking quietly to him when the room gets too silent.
Telling him about your shifts.
About Nurse Yang threatening to physically drag you home if you didn’t shower soon.
About how Minho nearly cried seeing him in surgery recovery.
Anything. Everything.
Because the idea of him waking up alone feels unbearable somehow.
By day three, nearly everyone on the floor knows you.
The exhausted ER doctor who refuses to leave Captain Choi’s bedside.
The nurses start bringing you coffee without asking, one older nurse even gently scolds you for sleeping bent over his bed like you’re trying to become part of the furniture.
Nurse Yang arrives that afternoon carrying an overnight bag and enough judgment in her face to rival a disappointed mother.
“You look horrible” she says immediately
You nearly cry from affection alone “You came.”
“Obviously.” She hands you the bag then hugs you tightly. Exactly what you needed after all these days.
“Fresh clothes. Toothbrush. Skin care because frankly this situation is tragic.”
You laugh weakly for the first time in days. Then immediately start crying afterward anyway because exhaustion makes emotions ridiculous.
Nurse Yang hugs you tightly again “He’s alive,” she reminds softly
You nod shakily against her shoulder “I know.”
Still you don’t leave. Even after showering in the hospital facilities and changing clothes, you return right back to his bedside.
Because this is where you belong right now. Beside him. Waiting for him to come back fully.
And finally on the third night Seungcheol wakes up.
At first, it’s pain.
Everywhere.
Heavy. Blunt. Like his entire body’s been shattered apart and stitched back together wrong.
His chest burns. Hiis ribs ache sharply every time he breathes. Something pulls unpleasantly at his arm. Machines beep steadily nearby.
Then memory crashes back all at once.
The mission. The explosion. Blood. Darkness.
And instantly his eyes force themselves open harder.
Disoriented.
The room swims briefly before focusing slowly.
Hospital. Recovery room.
Alive.
Then—
You.
That wakes him fully despite the pain screaming through his body.
His head turns sharply enough to make dizziness hit immediately but he barely notices because there you are curled awkwardly in the chair beside his bed.
Asleep.
Your body slumped at an angle that absolutely cannot be comfortable. Eyes obviously swollen even during sleep. One hand loosely gripping the edge of his blanket even in sleep.
And his hand—
His hand is resting against your cheek like at some point you must’ve taken it carefully and placed it there yourself.
Seungcheol stares at you silently. His chest hurts worse for entirely different reasons now.
You look exhausted.
No—destroyed.
Dark circles heavy beneath your eyes, like the light that was there before he left also went away with him. Cheeks thinner somehow like life drained everything from you the past months he wasn’t present.
His throat tightens painfully.
How long have you been here? The thought alone nearly wrecks him immediately.
Slowly, carefully, he shifts his fingers slightly against your cheek.
Tiny movement but enough to stir you awake. As if even in your sleep, your body is in tune to his movements.
Your brows twitch faintly then your eyes slowly open. Disoriented at first, heavy with exhaustion. You blink once.
Twice.
Then freeze completely.
Your gaze locks onto his and suddenly you’re awake.
“Cheol?” Your voice cracks instantly
Seungcheol tries speaking but his throat feels wrecked
“…Hey pretty girl.”
The moment you hear his voice awake and real, it took you a second to let it all sink in. And then… you break.
A sob leaves you immediately before you can stop it. You stand so fast the chair nearly crashes backward.
“Hey—”
“Don’t,” you choke out instantly while tears spill down your face “Don’t even start.”
Seungcheol looks at you like he’s seeing sunlight for the first time. Then suddenly you’re gripping his hand carefully with both of yours like you’re terrified he’ll disappear if you let go.
“You idiot,” you whisper through tears “You absolute idiot.”
His lips twitch weakly “There she is.”
“You almost died!”
“I know”
“You promised me!” the words come out broken.
Small, breaking with each syllable and somehow that hurts him more than the explosion ever did.
Seungcheol’s gaze softens painfully while watching you cry beside him. His thumb brushes weakly across your cheek.
“I’m sorry”
“You scared me so bad” your voice shakes violently now “I thought—”
You can’t even finish it because saying it out loud feels impossible. It’s a version of reality you don’t even want to speak out to the universe.
Seungcheol watches you silently for a second before gathering enough strength to squeeze your hand back.
“But I came back.”
That absolutely ruins you. You lean forward carefully immediately, forehead pressing shakily against the back of his hand while you cry silently.
And Seungcheol… even half destroyed. even barely conscious, even in pain looks at you and realizes one terrifying undeniable truth:
Coming back to you was the only thing he thought about while dying.
You cry, you let out all the tears you didn’t know you still had in you even after the past 4 days you’ve cried by his bedside. And Seungcheol, even with the stabbing pain on his side, every bone aching in his body, he holds you close.
He soothes you as you cry, until it quiets down and you’re sniffling softly still glued to his side.
You look at him, thankful you get to see those eyes again staring back at you.
“Don’t you ever, and I mean ever scare me like that again. I swear I will revive you myself just so I can scold you some more” you mumble jokingly, earning a small smile from him.
Despite the bruises, cuts, and wires still attached to him, you see that dimpled smile. He’s still him. Still your Seungcheol.
Still the same man who promised he’ll come back to you every single time.
=
The following weeks settle into something quieter. Like the universe finally decided you both suffered enough for a while.
Seungcheol gets discharged with strict instructions and an even stricter girlfriend.
His doctors barely finish explaining the recovery guidelines before you’re already nodding seriously beside the bed.
“No strenuous activity.”
You nod.
“Limited movement.”
Another nod.
“Absolutely no returning to active duty until cleared.”
You point directly at Seungcheol “You hear that?”
Seungcheol, still pale and sore in the wheelchair, looks entirely unbothered.
“Yes ma’am.”
One doctor snorts into his coffee, another outright laughs but you ignore them.
“This man,” you continue firmly “thinks almost dying means light stretching.”
“It was one time,” Seungcheol mutters
“One time too many” you glare at him
The nurses adore you instantly. Mostly because Captain Choi Seungcheol—terrifying decorated military officer—apparently becomes suspiciously obedient around you.
Back at his apartment, you immediately take over. You of course still refused to leave his side. Not that he minded, he loved it even. Seeing his apartment slowly turn into a shared space with you.
He sees a plant by the windowsil. He knows you’re definitely the one who put it there. He never stayed home long enough before to bother taking care of anything.
But that small plant, that was a simple reminder of all the months you waited for him. All the weeks you both were standing opposite sides of the world, under the same sky, different timezones.
The following days it has become clear you run the house now. You move his medications into neat schedules. Adjust pillows behind his back before he can complain. Hover whenever he walks too quickly.
And god forbid he tries lifting anything heavier than a water bottle.
On day three post-discharge, you walk into the kitchen to find him reaching for a pan. Your expression hardens immediately.
“Choi Seungcheol.”
He freezes mid-reach, slowly glances over “…Yes?”
“Put it down.”
“It’s one pan”
“You have internal stitches.”
“I was making breakfast”
“You were making bad decisions.”
He laughs while obediently setting the pan down anyway.
Honestly, the near death experience somehow made him worse because now he looks at you with this soft, unbearably fond expression every single time you fuss over him.
Like almost dying only made him love you harder. Which is deeply unfair.
A week after discharge, reality unfortunately catches up again.
You have to go back to work.
You stand near the front door in scrubs fixing your ID badge while glaring suspiciously toward the couch.
Seungcheol lounges there comfortably in grey sweats and a black shirt, watching obiediently before he gets scolded yet again.
Still healing. Still slower moving. Still the prettiest man you’ve ever seen apparently.
“I will know,” you warn seriously, pointing at him “And I mean it, Choi Seungcheol. I will know if you don’t rest today.”
He raises both hands immediately in surrender
“Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t yes ma’am me”
“Yes doctor.”
“That’s worse.”
His laugh rumbles warmly through the apartment.
God you missed that sound so much.
You grab your bag dramatically “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“No lifting.”
“Mhm.”
“No training.”
“Mhm.”
“No pretending you’re fine.”
That makes his expression soften slightly “…Okay.”
You hesitate then.
Because even after weeks beside him in hospital beds and recovery rooms, leaving him still feels wrong somehow. Like your body hasn’t fully recovered from almost losing him.
Seungcheol notices instantly.
Of course he does.
His voice gentles “Come here.”
Immediately your eyes widen
“What?” You rush toward him instantly “What hurts? Your stitches? Let me see.”
You’re already kneeling beside the couch trying to inspect him before he starts laughing softly.
“Pretty girl”
“What happened? What hurts?”
“Nothing.”
“You said come here in the serious voice!”
“There’s a serious voice?”
“Yes!”
He chuckles helplessly before catching your wrist gently. Then with surprising ease despite the healing injuries, he pulls you closer until you tumble onto the couch beside him.
“Cheol—careful—”
“I’m okay.”
You immediately check his expression anyway.
So instead of teasing further, Seungcheol reaches slowly beneath your scrub top.
You blink “What are you—”
His fingers find the chain around your neck. The one you’ve worn every single day.
Carefully, gently, he pulls it free. The ring catches softly in the morning light.
Your breath stills immediately.
Seungcheol’s expression changes then. Softer than you’ve ever seen it.
No captain.
No soldier.
Just him.
Just the man who came back to you.
His fingers carefully unclasp the chain while you stare silently.
“You kept wearing it,” he murmurs quietly
Your throat tightens “Of course I did.”
His gaze lifts to yours slowly. Then with infinite care he slides the ring onto your finger.
Exactly where it belongs.
Your breath catches sharply the moment it settles there. Seungcheol’s thumb brushes gently over your knuckles afterward. Staring back down to your finger where now the rings sits beautifully.
“Told you I’d ask when I came back.”
The tears hit instantly. Again.
You let out a watery laugh while covering your face briefly.
“Oh my god.”
Seungcheol smiles softly. Not teasing, almost nervous somehow. Which feels insane considering this is Captain Choi Seungcheol.
“You’re crying already,” he murmurs
“You almost died!”
“And?”
“And now you’re proposing on a random Tuesday morning!”
“It’s Wednesday.”
You stare at him in disbelief “That’s your defense?”
His dimples appear immediately and despite yourself, despite the tears and fear and everything you’ve both survived—
You laugh.
The kind he was terrified he might never hear again.
Seungcheol watches you like the sound itself keeps him alive.
“I was serious, you know.”
Your laughter fades slowly “I know.”
“When I said I want a life with you.”
Your chest aches painfully because you believe him completely, because you can’t imagine if you didn’t get to live this moment. Because you know you can’t see any other version of you and him but this.
Together.
Seungcheol reaches up carefully, fingers brushing stray damp hair away from your face.
“I know my life is…” He exhales softly “Complicated.”
“You got blown up.”
“A little dramatic, yeah.”
You glare instantly “Choi Seungcheol.”
“Sorry” but he’s smiling faintly now. Then serious again
“I can’t promise easy,” he says honestly “Or normal.”
You shake your head immediately “I don’t need normal.”
His eyes search yours carefully.
“I can promise I’ll love you properly though.”
That destroys whatever composure you had left. Your mouth trembles before you lean forward suddenly and kiss him hard enough he nearly forgets every injury in his body.
Seungcheol makes a startled sound against your lips before immediately kissing you back.
One hand cradling your jaw carefully while the other settles against your waist.
When you finally pull back, both of you breathing unevenly, your forehead drops against his.
And finally, finally he asks
“I used to think coming home meant a place. I used to tell myself I can’t want that, a future, a normal life. That I wouldn’t llve long enough to long for it. And then came you” he breathes out, the most vulnerable he’s ever been in his entire life.
This is all him, Captain Choi, your Seungcheol, all versions of him you’ve come to love, completely surrendering to you.
“If I get a second chance at life, I want to spend every second of it with you. Will you marry me?”
You’re crying, laughing, smiling, grabbing at his face as you mumble yes over and over again.
He laughs, holding you close.
“You know,” you whisper shakily, “you’re really lucky I’m obsessed with you.”
“Obsessed?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Good,” he murmurs “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since the convenience store.”
You freeze then slowly pull back.
“…What.”
Seungcheol immediately realizes his mistake but it’s too late. Your eyes widen dramatically.
“The convenience store?!”
His ears redden faintly.
You gasp loudly. “Oh my god you fell first”
“I’m recovering, be kind.”
“No absolutely not.”
You grab his face immediately “You were gone for the convenience store girl?”
He groans while you laugh helplessly. Sitting here in his apartment wrapped in morning light, your engagement ring warm on your hand while the man you love looks at you like surviving was worth it—
You realize something quietly wonderful.
You made it.
Against every terrifying possibility.
You made it back to each other.
=
One year later, somehow, the world still hasn’t slowed down for either of you.
Your schedules are still terrible. Your sleep schedules even worse.
There are still nights you come home with blood on your shoes and mornings Seungcheol leaves before sunrise without being able to tell you where he’s going.
Some things never change.
But now, now there’s always someone waiting at the end of it.
And that changes everything.
It’s been one year since the hospital room.
One year since the ring slid onto your finger in his apartment while he looked at you like surviving was the only option.
One year of learning each other’s rhythms completely.
Your toothbrush permanently beside his. His clothes somehow invading every corner of your shared apartment. Your coffee order already waiting before shifts.
His hand automatically finding yours whenever you walk beside each other.
Home becoming less a place and more a person.
Tonight you’re exhausted enough to hallucinate.
The ER was chaos from the second your shift started. You barely sat down once.
By the time you finally clock out close to midnight, your shoulders ache and your brain feels fried.
You’re half listening to one of the nurses complaining about a resident while walking toward the hospital exit when suddenly you stop.
Then immediately bolt “OH MY GOD—”
The nurse behind you yelps in shock as you sprint full speed across the parking lot “Doctor?!”
But you’re already gone. Because leaning casually against a black SUV under the parking lights is Seungcheol.
Freshly back from deployment.
Four weeks gone this time, dhorter than before. Still too long.
The second he sees you running toward him, his entire face softens and then you crash into him hard enough that he actually stumbles backward laughing.
“Hey—” “YOU’RE HOME.”
Your arms lock around his neck instantly while his wrap tight around your waist. Lifting you fully off the ground without effort.
You don’t even care that several nurses and staff definitely witnessed you abandoning professionalism entirely.
Let them.
Your fiancé is home.
Seungcheol buries his face briefly against your neck while holding you impossibly close.
God you missed him.
“You almost tackled me,” he murmurs against your skin
You finally pull back enough to look at him properly. Healthier this time. No visible injuries. No bandages hidden beneath clothes.
Just slightly longer hair, tired eyes, and the familiar warmth that settles in your chest every single time you see him.
Your hands immediately grab his face anyway
“You’re okay?”
Seungcheol smiles softly “I’m okay.”
You inspect him suspiciously “Any scratches?”
“Pretty girl—” “Answer carefully.”
He laughs quietly “No scratches.”
“Good”
Then you kiss him. Right there in the parking lot.
Like you physically cannot help yourself.
Seungcheol kisses you back instantly, one hand warm against your jaw while the other stays firm at your waist.
Somewhere nearby someone whistles loudly.
You break apart immediately glaring toward the hospital doors.
“Mind your business!”
The ER nurse cackles while disappearing back inside. Seungcheol laughs helplessly against your temple.
God, he missed this life.
Later, he drives you somewhere unexpected. A convenience store.
Specifically the convenience store. The one where this entire disaster started.
You stare at him as he parks “…Seriously?”
He shrugs innocently “You said you were hungry.”
“You’re sentimental.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“Correct.”
Now you both sit outside on the little plastic convenience store chairs under bright fluorescent lights.
If someone told either of you that that night was going to change both you’re lives, you wouldn’t believe it. But here you are now.
You’re wearing his hoodie over your scrubs while inhaling instant ramen like you haven’t eaten in years.
Seungcheol watches you with narrowing eyes
“How much ramen did you eat while I was gone?”
You freeze mid-slurp “…Normal amount.”
“Define normal.”
Silence. Seungcheol already looks unconvinced.
“Babe.”
You avoid eye contact aggressively
“Y/N.”
“…Enough.”
“How enough?”
You point your chopsticks at him accusingly
“First of all, your fault.”
“My fault you committed sodium crimes?”
“You stocked the pantry with ramen!”
“Emergency ramen.”
“Every ramen is emergency ramen when you work trauma.”
Seungcheol groans while rubbing his forehead
“Pretty girl, that cannot be healthy. You’re literally a doctor.”
You immediately defend yourself “I barely slept!”
“That’s not helping your argument.”
“You think after twenty hours I’m cooking vegetables?”
“Yes?”
“I could barely identify my own reflection.”
He stares at you in disbelief “So you just lived off ramen?”
You mutter into the cup quietly “…Maybe.”
“Yah.”
“What?!”
“Three weeks!”
“I added eggs sometimes!”
He shoots a fond but disappointed look “That’s not nutrition!”
“It’s garnish.”
Seungcheol looks genuinely distressed now meanwhile you continue eating shamelessly. Then suddenly his hand reaches over and wipes broth from the corner of your mouth with his thumb automatically.
The movement is so practiced now neither of you even pauses.
You look at him while chewing slowly
“…I missed you.”
His expression softens immediately “I know.”
“No, like seriously.” You slump dramatically against his shoulder afterward “I almost started talking to your plants.”
That makes him laugh, the sound still feels like home to you.
“It was dark times.”
You lean more comfortably against him while the cool night air settles around you. Cars pass occasionally. The convenience store doors slide open and shut every few minutes.
Nothing extraordinary and somehow that’s what makes it precious.
Because your lives are anything but ordinary.
Tomorrow you’ll both go back to chaos again. He’ll return to military briefings and dangerous assignments. You’ll return to trauma calls and impossible surgeries.
There will always be risk.
Always uncertainty.
But now there’s this too.
Plastic convenience store chairs at midnight. His hand resting warm on your thigh absentmindedly. Arguing over ramen like an old married couple.
Love woven quietly into ordinary moments between disasters.
Seungcheol suddenly glances at you.
“What?”
He studies your face for a second.
“Still ran toward me.”
Your brows lift slightly.
“Huh?”
“In the parking lot.” His thumb brushes lightly against your knee. “Every time I come back, you still look at me like that.”
Your chest squeezes immediately.
Because he says it like he’s still surprised, like some part of him still can’t fully believe someone waits for him this way.
You set your ramen down quietl before you lean over and kiss him once.
When you pull back, your forehead rests briefly against his.
“Captain, I would run through wars for you,” you whisper, giggling against his lips.
He chuckles, not doubting for a second you would. Just like he would, and always will.
Seungcheol looks at you silently afterward and even after everything he’s survived but nothing has ever hit him harder than that simple promise.
His hand lifts slowly, thumb brushing over your engagement ring glinting beneath the convenience store lights.
Then he smiles softly.
And sitting there beside him one year after everything almost ended, you realize this is what makes all the chaos survivable.
PAIRING: Vampire!Jeonghan x human!Reader
SUMMARY: Disappearing from your fiancé should have been easy. Instead, you stumble into Jeonghan’s empire of blood and alcohol - and he becomes the only thing standing between you and death.
TOTAL FIC WC: 19,138
AU: 1920s Era, Supernatural, Mild Horror
GENRE: Strangers to Lovers, Mild Angst, Smut, Romance
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: References to the mob, past physical abuse (not in great detail) and a lot of sexism/using a wife as a placeholder and pretty thing to look at, depictions of blood and gore (vampires feeding), depictions of anxiety and fear, reader doing a lot of thinking about her past life and how much she hated/feared her former fiance, mild power dynamics but not explicitly used or mention (Jeonghan is a powerful vampire and reader is vulnerable so I feel like mentioning this), illegal activities like bootlegging alcohol and blood, ambiguous vampire lore, mentions/references to murder, single fight scene where a vampire is decapitated but not in great detail, romance is a little fast-paced/seems a little too quick but we ride, sexual tension/flirting, Wonwoo tries to eat reader a total of One Time, Soonyoung is a feral baby and loses control a little but he's doing his best, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving), praise, use of 'good girl', vaginal fingering... I think that's everything!
A/N: This is my second piece for the Puttin’ on the Ritz collab by @studiosvt and I could not be more excited to bring you 1920s vampire Jeonghan! Honestly this story turned out entirely different than when I first set out to write it. My original intention was to make it darker and similar to the Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe but what I actually ended up with is sweetie vampire Jeonghan giving reader a ton of agency and making the world her oyster!!!!
AN 2: This is not beta read so I'm sorry - there will definitely be mistakes! I did proof read/spelling and grammar check but I often miss a lot!
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ COLLAB
YOU LEAVE WITHOUT PACKING A THING.
The house is still asleep when you slide the window open and slide out, the winter air biting at your hands. Your fingers feel raw as you climb out the window onto the fire escape, the metal stinging to the touch. Your breath fogs despite the fact you're barely breathing, too afraid to make a sound.
With frozen fingers, you push the window shut, heart hammering as it squeezes. You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. The cold nips at you, wind pulling at your clothes that aren't thick enough for winter and scraping against the back of your neck.
Sucking in a breath, you force yourself to shut the window the rest of the way. Turning, you creep further onto the fire escape, desperate not to make a sound. In the distance, New York is awake. She never sleeps, but she's loud tonight, the sound of sirens carried on the wind, the roar of a Model T somewhere a few blocks over.
The fire escape is blessedly quiet as you navigate down, too cold, too alert, too nervous. You nearly miss the last step on the way down, stumbling onto the frozen street. As soon as you're on level ground you're moving as fast as you can, pulling the thin jacket around you as you go.
Your fiance always said you'd never make it three blocks without him knowing.
You make it eight.
The train yard is loud, though you can barely hear it over your chattering teeth. You're so cold you can barely think, driven only by fear. You become a passenger to the fear, letting it drive you through a tangle of metal train cars and clanking metal, the night sky twinkling above you as you find a freight train, near ready to leave.
You don't think. You swing up into a car, uncaring where it's going or what's inside. You don't care. Anywhere is better than here, and any direction that's away from your rotten fiance and his violent hands is good enough for you.
Heavy wooden barrels fill the train car. They're unmarked but rotund, hammered bands of steel keeping the frame intact. You weave between them, looking for a nook dark enough for you to hide - warm enough to not freeze to death. For a brief moment, you think that might not be so bad. Better than dying at the hands of your fiance or his family. Better than letting him put marks on you were you can't see them, better than-
Voices startle you. From a distance, you hear the rolling slam of train car doors and metal locks sliding into place. You panic, diving for the corner of the train car behind two barrels, tucking yourself into the shadows. It isn't warm, but you can no longer feel the icy teeth of the wind scraping across your skin, threatening to bite.
Tucking your hands between your thighs, you hold your breath. Male voices approach the car and you listen as they jump in and walk around briefly, taking stock. You can't see them, but you make yourself smaller. You've always been good at that, and it works now. They don't see you tucked in the corner, jumping back out before rolling the door shut with a clang that makes you flinch.
You don't breathe until the train starts moving, the sound of the whistle and the lurch forward startling you. You shiver violently, relaxing a fraction as you lean back into the cold metal of the wall, pressing your hands between your thighs to keep them warm. It only works a little, but it's the best you can do, eyes fluttering as you breathe in the smell of wood and something dark and rich.
The train rocks back and forth, the sound of the clicking tracks and liquid sloshing in the barrel. You feel yourself relax for the first time in weeks - shoulders sagging, breathing leveling out. There's no way for Vin to catch up to you now, and it makes you smile tiredly, a sliver of pride leaking through your exhaustion.
Your fiance always said you'd never make it three blocks without him knowing.
You've now made it eight and some change, train chugging to somewhere far off away from him and those who would force you to marry him for the sake of power and a name.
-
The train coming to an abrupt halt startles you awake. You groan, neck stiff, muscles locked and cold. Everything hurts from sleeping in the cramped corner of the train car, bones popping as you sit up straight, alert to the sudden halt. You don't know how long you've been asleep, but it's still dark in the train and you feel exhausted.
Curling in the shadow, you wait for the sound of voices, the opening of doors. Your intention is to get off in whatever city you've landed in and start a new life. Pick up a job waitressing, maybe. Or at one of those exclusive places they sell bootleg alcohol and don't ask questions. Anything to get you a little bit of cash and get you somewhere warm.
You smile, thinking about this new life. You imagine yourself in a smoky lounge, tucking cash in your pocket after giving strangers smiles and-
The screaming rips your illusion in half.
You sit up straight, hand flying over your mouth to suppress the startled sound that slips through. A man screams somewhere in the distance, the sound wounded and terrified. It's cut off abruptly, the silence so heavy that your ears start to ring, goosebumps rising on your skin from more than the cold.
The silence doesn't last. Another scream pierces the night, this one closer, raw and guttural like an animal being torn apart. You press yourself deeper into the shadows behind the barrels, knees drawn up to your chest, heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. The cold has seeped into your bones, making every shiver feel worse. You bite down on your lip to keep from whimpering, tasting the metallic tang of blood where your teeth break the skin.
Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate, crunching on the gravel outside the train car. Your breath hitches, fogging the air in front of you. The door to the car rattles, metal groaning as it's shoved open with a force that makes the whole car shudder. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself invisible. The footsteps enter now, soft but unmistakable, padding across the wooden floor between the barrels.
There's a pause. You don't dare breathe, hoping they can't see you. You hear a soft inhale and then the scuff of feet.
"Well, well," a voice says, velvet soft. "You are most certainly not the Amontillado I was looking for."
Your eyes snap open, and there he is, standing just beyond the barrels, silhouetted against the faint moonlight spilling through the open door. He's beautiful in a way that doesn't make sense to your brain, short circuiting. Medium length dark hair falls around his face in waves, framing sharp features that look ethereal enough to be in a painting. His eyes are dark, flashing silver briefly as he crosses through a shaft of moonlight toward you, his gait impossibly smooth.
He tilts his head, studying you, and another scream rips through the distance. You flinch, cowering in your corner, stomach churning. You hear a man begging, screaming no - a wet gurgle cuts him off.
The man in front of you doesn't flinch. He doesn't even glance toward the noise, just continues studying you, something close to amusement on his face. Then he sighs, looking up at the dark ceiling of the train car.
"You," he says, sounding tired as he looks back down at you. "Are a most unfortunate stowaway. What in the world are you doing here, little mouse?"
You stare at him, frozen. Your mind races as the screaming picks back up again, fainter this time but no less horrifying. You stare at this man and realize he expects an answer, his brows raised, watching you and waiting.
Licking your lips, you murmur, "I just…" You think about what to say but you don't know what. So you're honest. "I just didn't want him to hurt me anymore."
The words hang in the frozen air between you. You don't elaborate, don't say anything else. You stare at him, the fear mounting, your fingers numb either from the terror or the cold, you're not sure.
He stares at you then sighs, seeming to make a decision. He comes toward you and you press further into the wall as he moves the barrels out of his way with no problem. You blanche - the barrels must weigh far more than he can lift, but you watch as he picks them up with no effort.
"Don't scream," he murmurs as he reaches you, crouching down. As he does, you catch the faintest whiff of him - sweet, like jasmine. He shrugs his coat off, offering it to you. "You are a very unlucky woman, but I'm feeling empathetic tonight. Put this on before you freeze to death."
With a shaking hand, you reach for the jacket. He becomes unnaturally still as you take it, his pupils dilating slightly in the dark. You look away, his eyes unnerving and predator-large in the dim of the train.
His jacket is thick and woolen, the smell of jasmine intensifying. You pull it around you, warmth making you melt a little. It cures the worst of your shiver and you clutch at it instinctively, clinging to the lifeline.
"Listen to me." His voice is barely above a whisper and you look back up at him. "I'm not going to hurt you. I need you to stay close. Don't look at anything or anyone. Let me guide you. Can you do that?" You nod and his mouth twitches. "Good girl. Let's stand, yeah?"
His hands wrap around your arms and he pulls you to your feet. Your legs wobbled, cramped from the cold and the cramped position. He steadies you with ease, his touch surprisingly gentle. You let out a shaky breath and he makes a sound - something almost fond - and brushes the hair from your forehead.
"Stay close," he reminds you, fingers lingering on your forehead. "I'm Jeonghan, by the way." You give him your name, breath fogging around the shape of it. "Pretty. Tasteful. Like Amontillado."
Jeonghan slides an arm around your waist, pressing you close to his side. His body is solid and warmer than it should be in the freezing night. You don't pull away, too stunned and too terrified to do more than follow as he leads you toward the open door of the train car.
It becomes immediately clear why he told you not to look at anything.
Outside the train car is a slaughterhouse. You freeze in the doorway but he tsks and jumps to the ground, turning to pick you up by the hips and swiftly puts you down. You suck in a sharp air at how easily he does it, movements quick and effortless.
Bodies are everywhere. Train workers lie scattered across the yard, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles, throats torn open, blood pooling in the dark. The metallic scent hits you, thick and coppery and your stomach turns over. You duck into his arm as he hushes you gently, hiding your face.
"Come on," he murmurs, arm tightening. "We have to walk, Amontillado."
You can't help but look, stomach lurching. There are figures - people - bent over the fallen men of the train yard, their mouths pressed to necks and wrists. The scene confuses you, bloody faces pressed into the flesh of the fallen, blood running down chins and necks as their throats gulp-
The word slams into you, impossible and yet you don't know how else to describe what you're seeing. You've read Dracula before, but what you see here is worse, the ravenous hunger displayed in red carnage too real, too vivid to process.
Another scream makes you startle. You see a worker pinned under two of the creatures, his legs kicking futilely as they rip into him. Blood sprays and you clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your gasp.
Jeonghan doesn't react. He leads you through the carnage, his steps sure and unhurried. Casual. Like he does this all the time.
One of the vampires turns toward you, a burly man with wild eyes and blood matting his beard. He straightens when he sees you, his eyes flashing unnatural silver as he steps into the moonlight, grinning, mouth a gash of red and teeth.
"Ah-ah," Jeonghan warns, his words hissed. "Mine. Please finish and load the casks in the middle car. They're what we were looking for."
The vampire dips his head slightly. "Understood, boss."
Jeonghan keeps you moving , guiding you past the worst of the bodies, stepping carefully over pooling blood that steams in the cold. The yard is vast, tracks stretching into darkness like black rivers, and the vampires are finishing their work - dragging corpses into neat piles, licking crimson from their fingers, wiping mouths on sleeves. The silence is heavier now, the screams gone, replaced by the occasional wet smack of lips or the crunch of bone under boots.
Your teeth chatter despite the jacket, and he notices, pulling you even closer so your side is flush against his. His body radiates heat in a way that feels wrong for the season, wrong for anything human, but you lean into it anyway, desperate for anything that isn't the biting wind or the copper reek of blood.
"Why did he call you boss?" You murmur, eyeing the car he leads you toward. It is eerily empty in the train yard. You realize they have - the vampires - have killed everyone else. "Are you a gangster or something?"
"Hardly."
Despite the violence, it relieves you. You hadn't run from the mafia into another. Though you think this might be worse.
"I'm in charge of a rather complex operation," Jeonghan tells you, opening the car door. You let him usher you inside, the interior cool. "One of which, you have just stumbled upon."
You swallow. "Why save me, then?"
He glances down, that faint smile returning, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Empathy, as I said. And perhaps curiosity. A little mouse who ran from one wolf only to stumble into a den of them. I think it would be a shame to let all that effort go to waste, Amontillado."
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Amontillado is complex. Fresh. Lingering." He grins. "And it's my favorite."
Your fiance always said you'd never make it three blocks without him knowing.
You make it to Long Island, the moonlight shining through the car window as a vampire slides into the cab of the car next to you, looking down at you with a glint in his eye that you can't tell if it's curiosity or hunger. Or both.
-
The Hamptons are like nothing you've ever seen. Not that you've seen much outside of your tiny life in Manhattan. Snow dusts the ground in patches, glittering under the moonlight like sugar scattered over the extravagant lawns. Grand houses line the sides of the roads, their stone walls covered with overgrown ivy.
Winter is quiet in the Hamptons. You wonder what it looks like during the summer, full of life and light and parties that only exist in myth to you. It's beautiful in a lonely way, the empty fields stretching toward a dark horizon broken only by the occasional barn or silo. No crowds, no push of bodies on sidewalks, no blare of horn.
Most importantly, no Vin.
While the Hamptons isn't as far as you wanted to get from him, you think it's far enough. For now. You glance at the vampire next to you and think that Vin wouldn't be able to get to you here anyway. Not with the strange creature sitting next to you, his eyes flashing silver occasionally when the moon catches them just right.
Jeonghan feels you looking at him. He flicks his eyes to you, tilting his head as he drinks you in. Once again you're put off by the way his eyes dilate, pupils larger than they should be. They're beautiful in an unnerving way, a tingle starting at the base of your spine under his stare.
"First time out of the city?" He asks, voice quiet.
You nod, not trusting your voice yet. The car turns onto a smoother drive, the road narrowing as it curves toward the coast. Lights flicker ahead, gas lamps lining a long driveway. An estate emerges from the night, massive and made of all stone. The windows glint warmly against the dark, towers rising at the corners covered in winding ivory.
Your breath catches. It looks more like a palace than a house, a fantasy capture on pressed magazines and where people whispered about bootleggers and oil barons throwing parties until dawn in the summer. The car pulls up to the grand entrance, gravel crunching under tires, and the driver kills the engine.
Jeonghan exits first, offering a hand to help you out. You take it, stepping out on legs that feel like jelly. The air smells like salt and pine, sharp and cleaner than anything you've ever breathed in. You take a few gulps of air, the cool burning your lungs. He makes a sound like he's amused before he tugs you forward toward the steps that lead up to the mansion.
It's even more imposing up close, the double doors carved of heavy oak. You hesitate a little at the carved gargoyles, a strange piece of architecture in a place like this. Jeonghan brisks past them, opening the door with a gentle push, like the house answers to him.
"Welcome," he teases, ushering you inside.
Warmth hits you immediately, such a relief that you can't help but make a small noise in the back of your throat. The air carries a faint scent of wood polish and cigar smoke, warm and inviting. The grand foyer is made up of marble floors veined in gold, a staircase sweeping up toward the shadowed upper levels. Paintings line the walls, dark depictions of stormy seas and dark florals. A grandfather clock ticks in the corner, the pendulum swinging slow and steady like your pulse.
You stand there, dripping melted snow onto the pristine floor, feeling small and out of place in your thin clothes and borrowed jacket. The amount of wealth in front of you is something you've never seen before. Your family had money - not you - and your fiance had money too, but not like this. Not the old money that keeps these houses heated even when they're empty in winter, and full of life in the summer.
"What now?" You ask, voice small in such a vast space.
Jeonghan turns to you, dark eyes searching. "Unless you have somewhere else to go, I'd presume you're stuck here."
Stuck. The word twists inside of you. You'd been stuck in Manhattan, too. Until you finally ran, knowing it was better to die of the cold than it was to die at the hands of a violent man who wanted only your family's name and money. Not you. Never you.
"Stuck." You repeat the word, voice hollow. "I've been stuck my entire life."
"The world out there isn't kind to strays. Especially the kind like you, who have seen something they shouldn't have. My kind don't leave witnesses."
Nervousness coils tight in your chest, your hands fidgeting with the jacket's hem. "But you said you wouldn't hurt me."
"I won't." There is an unspoken yet that lingers between you. But he softens anyway, sympathy - either fake or real you can't tell - crosses his face. "I give you my word. But being with me does have consequences. There are rules and dangers, others who won't hesitate like I did. You have to trust me, and I have to trust you."
Trust. The word tastes bitter, after Vin's lies and the crack of his hand. You look at the closed door behind you, knowing that outside lies nothing but the cool winter of the Hamptons, empty until summer. Here though, it's warm. Here, there is a roof. A creature that could kill you, but perhaps would stand between you and Vin - and Vin's family.
"You're free to leave, if you wish," he murmurs. "You will be safe from whatever cruelty you've run from, if you're lucky. If you stay though, you will find a different sort of cruelty here. Never to you, but you will see things you're not used to."
You look up at him. "But you won't hurt me?"
"I won't hurt you."
It shouldn't be enough. But in a world like yours, filled with mob bosses and men who rule the city and every block of your home, you think that the promise of not hurting you is good enough. It's the only one you've ever received.
"It's enough," you whisper.
He hums. "I wonder what is so bad that you'd choose me over what you're running from, Amontillado."
"The mob."
"Indeed?" You nod. "You are unlucky. Come. You need rest."
He offers his arm, and after a beat, you take it. He leads you up the staircase, steps creaking faintly under your weight but silent under his. The banister is smooth mahogany, carved with intricate vines that twist like veins. You're suddenly reminded of blood, of the people in the train yard, the sounds.
Your stomach flips. There's no turning back now. So you let him lead you up, tired and sore and still a little cold.
The upper hallway stretches long and dim, gas lamps flickering in sconces, casting shadows that dance on wallpaper patterned with subtle florals. Doors line the walls, heavy wood with brass handles, every detail intentional and rich with an artistry that is beyond you.
Jeonghan pauses at a door near the end, turning the handle with a soft click. The room beyond is a dream. A four-poster bed dominates the center of the room, draped in velvet curtains the color of midnight. A fireplace sits cold, but Jeonghan drifts toward it, immediately setting himself to the task of lighting it. You follow him, eager for warmth.
Windows overlook the dark grounds, heavy curtains - to block out the dawn, you realize - covering the glass. A vanity sits in the corner, mirror framed in twisting gold filigree. A wardrobe looms opposite, closed tight.
Flames lick to life. You hold out your hands, thankful for the heat as Jeonghan rises in one fluid motion. He looks like the devil, the orange light from the fire turning his face from angel to demon. Despite the heat, you shiver, staring at him as he cocks his head, looking at you like he doesn't know what to do with you.
"This room is yours," he says. He gestures toward a door. "There's a bath through that door. I can send for a tailor for clothes in the morning. You look dreadful and unless humans have rapidly adapted in a way I'm unfamiliar with, you're going to freeze dressed like that."
"I…" You hesitate. "You don't have to do that."
"I don't have to, you're right." He walks toward the door, steps silent. "Like I said, I was feeling empathetic, Amontillado. And perhaps I'm loath to see such a pretty thing snuffed out after fighting so hard to keep burning."
His words make your stomach flutter. You watch him go, unsure how to thank him. Unsure if you should thank him. Unsure if this is all a mistake and if he's going to kill you and drain you when you let your guard down, a liar to the end, just like Vin.
Jeonghan pauses at the door and levels you with a look that feels like he can sense your fear again. "Sleep. We'll talk more tomorrow night."
Tomorrow night.
Because you won't see him during the day. You swallow thickly, nodding. "Thank you, Jeonghan."
"Lock the door if it makes you feel safer. Though nothing here will harm you without my say."
Then he's gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving you alone. You stand there, heart pounding, the jacket still wrapped around you smelling like jasmine. The fire pops, and you move finally, shedding the coat and sinking onto the bed's edge.
For the first time all night, you lay down on a bed, sinking in. It's softer than anything you've ever known, and you wonder what it would be like to live like this, surrounded by softness. By richness.
Sleep drags at you, and just as you begin to fall asleep, it occurs to you that perhaps you've just traded one cage for another.
-
You wake with a start, sucking in a warm breath of air as you sit upright. The room spins, unfamiliar and confusing as the last dregs of your nightmare start to melt away, flashes of images sticking to you: Vin's snarling face, your mother's iron cold hand on your wrist, blood pooling in your mouth, cheek stinging as your father yells.
The room is dim, fire refused to glowing coals that cast a faint orange glow across the velvet curtains. Your heart begins to slow as you remember where you are. You're not in that tenement apartment with thin walls and shouting neighbors, with Vin's heavy footsteps and angry shouting.
You draw your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. The memories of last night settle around you like sediment in water: the fire escape's icy bite, the train yard with pools of blood, Jeonghan's voice cutting through the wet sound of flesh parting and blood spilling.
Shaking it off, you get up and pad to the curtains, peeking between them. Late afternoon slips through the velvet, pale gold light turning the snow outside sugary. The grounds of the estate stretch wide and white, oaks stripped bare from the winter, icicles hanging like crystals from their branches. A frozen fountain sits sentinel in the drive, a detail you'd missed the night before.
Beyond the estate, you see the Atlantic. It rolls grey and restless, the horizon swallowed by clouds. No people. No movement except the wind. It seems that this lonely house is smack in the middle of the extravagance of the Hamptons, but the winter has chased everyone else away.
Everyone else except the man who'd brought you here last night.
Turning away from the window, you look at the door to the bedroom. You'd taken his advice and locked it last night to feel better, still small and a little afraid in this strange house. Now, you wonder if it's safe to explore. Jeonghan had said he would see you the next night and he hadn't forbad you from exploring during the daylight hours.
Curiosity overrides the lingering tremor in your hands. You need to move, to map out this place in your mind, to find exits in the event you need them again, to prove to yourself that you're not trapped.
The hallway outside is hushed, gas sconces turned low, their flames steady behind etched glass. Doors line both sides, dark wood gleaming, brass handles cold under your fingertips as you test one. It's locked so you don't push further, drifting toward the staircase. The bannister is smooth under your palm, dingers trailing along the carved vines, half expecting them to twitch and come to life in this strange place.
Downstairs, the foyer is empty, afternoon light slanting in through the tall windows, dust motes floating in the air. The grandfather clock ticks slowly in the corner, the only sound to accompany you as you turn left toward an archway that leads to a parlor. Velvet settees in burgundy and marble-topped tables fill the room. Empty crystal decanters glinter in the sunlight, tossing rainbow prisms around the room.
A beautiful grand piano sits in the corner. You drift toward it, noting that there's no dust, despite the lid being closed. The sheet music is yellowed at the edges - Mozart, you realize. Your lips twitched, tapping the top as you wonder if it's Jeonghan who plays.
You pass from the parlor, drifting room to room. Each one unfolds, richer and more marvelous than the last. There's a dining hall with a table stretched long enough for banquets, a conservatory with walls of fogged glass and full of ferns and orchids that are sleeping under the frosty panes, a billiard room with scarred felt and perfectly racked cues.
Paintings watch your exploration from every wall. The gilded frames are filled with stern men in high collars and ladies with keen eyes. You shiver as you pass them, wandering until you find a set of ancient double doors cracked open, the smell of paper and wax luring you in.
You step inside, the warm lamplight spilling over you. Your breath catches - it's a library. It's massive inside, shelves climbing three stories high with ladders on brass rails. Leather spines in every color line the shelves, some with gold lettering, some in lettering you can't read at all. It smells like paper and ink, drawing you in.
It's dark inside as you drift toward a shelf, your fingers tracing titles. Poe. Shelley. Things in Latin and French you don't know how to read. You smirk when you see Stoker, pulling the tome from the shelf and drifting toward the lamplight as you finger through the thin pages.
You settle on a rug on the floor, closest to the single floor lamp that's on. Even with the lamp, it's a challenge to read, the darkness of the library pressing in as you squint at the opening lines of the story - though now real, perhaps - interested in what truths you might find.
A needle-thin awareness prickles at the back of your neck. You look up, turning over your shoulder, heart skipping as a chill settles in. You see nothing at first, eyes struggling to adjust in the dim light. You nearly write it off as paranoia from the subject material in your lap when you see it, the outline of a shadow near the stacks, just at the wavering edge of lamplight.
Panic locks you in place. There's a man standing in total shadow, tall and broad-shoulder. You can barely make out his face, but you see him cock his head, the lamplight reflecting off glasses. Your heart begins to race when you see the unnatural silver flash of his eyes - vampire.
He drifts forward and yet he hardly seems to move at all. One second he's in total darkness, the next he's in the orange glow, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your instincts scream predator. His lips part, revealing the barest flash of fang, and a low growl vibrates from his chest - quiet and gentle, but it vibrates through you, terror unlike anything you've ever known thrumming through you.
"Wonwoo."
Jeonghan's voice slices through the tension like a blade. You flinch, looking at where Jeonghan has appeared in the doorway. He's in a white shirt that's open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He steps forward and appears between you and the vampire - Wonwoo - in the blink of an eye, impossibly fast.
"We have a guest," Jeonghan says. "I apologize - I haven't had a moment to tell you and I didn't think our little Amontillado would go wandering." Jeonghan glances at you, eyes glittering. "She's braver than I thought she is. Let's leave her be, please."
Wonwoo's jaw tightens, a muscle ticking. His gaze flicks from Jeonghan to you, hunger warring with something colder - resentment, maybe. He exhales through his nose then turns, vanishing into the shadow again. You blink. One moment he's there, the next he's gone, a phantom among the stacks.
Jeonghan drifts toward you and crouches, sighing. "Breathe. You're safe."
It isn't until he says something that you realize you're shaking. You swallow and nod, snapping the book shut in your lap.
"I didn't mean to tresspass. I was just looking."
"I know. It's alright. You did nothing wrong."
You look up at him and he gives you a lazy smile before leaning forward to pluck the book out of your lap. He huffs when he sees it, holding it up, cover toward you, as he arches a brow in question. You flush, looking at your hands in your lap.
"Thought I could learn a thing or two."
"Stoker doesn't get much right," Jeonghan chuckles. He offers you a hand and you take it, letting him pull you up. His touch is warm and steady, thumb brushing over your knuckles briefly before he releases you. "I should have warned you not to wander at first. You're not a prisoner here, you are certainly free to treat the house as your own. But a gentle reminder that this house has teeth."
"How many teeth, then? Besides you."
"Three. Wonwoo, who you just met. He's particular about territory and he doesn't like people in his library without warning, so please ask for permission next time. Junhui you don't have to worry about, he is incredibly kind and is fond of humanity. Soonyoung…" Jeonghan pauses, expression darkening. "Soonyoung struggles. He is a gentle soul, but blood calls to him louder than the rest of us. Stay away from the east wing unless you're with me, yes?"
You nod. "No east wing. Understood."
Jeonghan studies you a moment longer, then offers his arm. "Let me show you properly. No more surprises."
You slip your hand through the crook of his elbow, fabric of his shirt soft against your palm. Your heart races and you wonder if he can tell, the twitch of his mouth something between smug and genuine. You let Jeonghan lead you back through all of the rooms you toured yourself, but now with his soft voice pointing out things you never noticed before.
In the parlor, he sits at the piano, lifting the cover. You grin, drifting toward him as his hair falls forward in his eyes while his fingers run over the keys. It's not the sheet music in front of him, but it's something darker and more melodic, the sound swirling around you.
Your eyes fixate on his hands, watching the way he plays. They're delicate and fluid, moving over each key intimately, like stroking a lover. It makes you flush as you listen to him until he finishes, the last note dying in the warm air.
"It's beautiful," you murmur.
He glances up, dark eyes wide. "The piece or the player?"
Heat creeps up your neck. You look away, but not before catching the spark in his gaze, something warm and teasing. It tugs at your heartstrings. You don't know what to do with warm and teasing, so used to Vin's vitriol and cool dismissal.
Jeonghan picks the tour back up, leading you down into the wet cold of the cellars. You shiver, following him down the stone steps. Lanterns glitter to life as he passes, the soft yellow glow throwing light and shadows.
At the bottom, you step into a room with vaulted ceiling overhead and crates lining the walls, each labeled with something innocuous. He drifts toward one, prying the top with that same inhuman strength he'd used the night before to reveal dark bottles inside.
Your breath catches at the sight. There are dozens of bottles of amber liquor and dark crimson, vicious in the low light.
"Bootlegging is popular among us," he says, voice low. "It's made it easier for us to run blood. We run both blood and liquor across the East Coast - New York, Boston, Phildelphia." He taps a bottle of red. "The real cargo is the blood. It makes it easier for us to live in the open when we have a supply."
"The train last night - was it carrying both?"
"It was." He drifts closer, eyes darkening. "So imagine my surprise to find you among my well-paid for Amontillado, hmm?"
"Do all your… endeavors go that way?"
He sharpens. "No. Those men last night were trying to steal from me."
"Oh."
Jeonghan closes the crate and leads you back up the stairs. His hand brushes against the small of your back when you stumble, leading you carefully out of the dark and back to the top. Your skin tingles despite the separation of fabric, and when he steps away, you realize you wish he wouldn't.
"Tell me about you," he says, crossing his arms behind his back as you stroll toward the conservatory. "Not the escape. But before. Why you were running."
You chew your lip, suddenly embarrassed to recount your life to him. How to tell him that you could have had an okay life if you were good at being seen, not heard, if you could just say the right thing at the right time. If you could just accept Vin's apologies and flowers that always followed harsh words and a smack.
"My family business was…" You start, looking for words.
"The mob." You nod. "So you said."
"My family wasn't very high up but the son of a powerful man thought I was pretty. My father paid for his seat at the table and promised me to him." You look at your hands, hating the way your voice constricts. "Like I was property."
"You're not property." You glance up at him. His eyes are dark, something you can't read in them. "And I need you to know when I say mine - it is different among my kind. It is only true in protection, not ownership. I told you you were not a prisoner here. I meant it."
"Thank you, Jeonghan."
Jeonghan’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind those dark eyes. Then he offers the smallest nod. "Come, there's still more to see."
He guides you through the rest of the ground floor with the same patient cadence he’s used all evening, never rushing or crowding you. You pass a smoking room lined with leather-bound books of poetry and shelves of crystal decanters, a conservatory annex where orchids sleep under frost-laced glass, a solarium whose leaded windows overlook the frozen sea beyond.
Every room feels both lived-in and impossibly untouched, as though the house has been waiting decades for someone living to walk its halls again. Jeonghan moves through it all with casual ownership, fingers occasionally brushing a carved chair rail or trailing along the edge of a marble mantle. You notice how he never quite touches anything for long, as though the textures of the human world are both familiar and faintly foreign to him now.
You wonder what it must be like to be a vampire. You don't know much about them beyond the violence of the trainyard and the pages of Bram Stoker's Dracula. You have no idea how much of Stoker's recount of them is myth or fact, but Jeonghan seems human enough, once you look past his stillness and the silent way he moves. He smiles earnestly, eyes crinkling. He has secret smiles when he seems to remember something.
Still. There is a hint of melancholy about him, a touch of sadness that you can't really understand as he shows you the pieces of his home like he's introducing you to relatives he hasn't seen in a long while.
Eventually the tour curves back toward the center of the house. He pauses at an arched doorway you hadn’t noticed earlier, half-hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain. Warm light spills from the other side, carrying the faint scent of coffee and something buttery.
“The kitchen,” he announces, drawing the curtain aside. “I thought you might be hungry.”
You hesitate on the threshold. The kitchen is far larger than anything you've ever stepped foot in. Copper pots hang from iron racks overhead, gleaming softly under pendant lights. A long island of black marble runs down the center, flanked by high stools. Windows line one wall, snow drifting being frosted glass.
Jeonghan glances back at you. “You’re allowed in here, Amontillado. In fact-" He pats the countertop beside him. "Up you go."
You blink. “On the counter?”
“Yes. It’s the best seat in the house when I’m cooking.”
There’s a playful lilt to his voice that makes your stomach do an uncertain flip. You climb up carefully, the marble cold through the borrowed clothes. Jeonghan doesn’t comment on your bare legs or the way you tug the hem down self-consciously - he simply starts pulling out materials for breakfast.
You watch as he gathers eggs, butter, a small wheel of cheese in wrapped paper, a bundle of chives. He unwraps a loaf of bread that looks as though it was delivered today, the crust still dark and crisp. He sets a cast-iron skillet on the burner and lights the gas with a quick twist of the knob, every move efficient and practiced.
“I don’t usually keep food in the house,” he says conversationally. "When it's just me and the others, the pantry is mostly empty. When we have large parties, I simply cater. But after last night, I had several things delivered at dawn. Figured you needed more than survival instinct to live on."
You let out a surprised laugh. “You ordered food? For me?”
“Unless you’d prefer I let you starve. Which would be terribly inconvenient, considering I’ve already decided I like having you around.”
Heat crawls up your throat. Instead of acknowledging his comment, you say, "I didn't imagine vampires cooked."
“We don’t need to eat.” He cracks eggs into a bowl with one hand, the motion practiced, elegant in its refinement. "But some of us remember how. I enjoy it. The rhythm of it. The way heat changes things. The small alchemy of salt and time. I used to like feeding people."
The admission is quiet, almost offhand, but it lands somewhere deep in your chest. You watch the way his forearms flex beneath rolled sleeves, the careful way he folds chopped chives into the eggs. There’s something intimate about witnessing it. He's entirely different from the man who led you through blood and gore just the night prior.
Jeonghan slides the omelet onto a plate and adds two thick slices of break slicked with butter into the pan, toasting them briefly before removing them and adding them to the plate. He turns to face you, setting the plate next to you with a small flourish, followed by freshly squeezed orange juice.
"Eat," he says softly, leaning one hip against the counter as he crosses his arms. "I know it's technically evening, but breakfast should be enjoyed at any time."
You pick up the fork. The first bite is impossibly good and you make a small, involuntary sound of pleasure and he grins. "Good?"
"Better than good. I haven't eaten anything since… I left."
His expression softens. He reaches over and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You freeze briefly, but if he's put out by your reaction, he doesn't show it. He simply watches you, those dark eyes uncanny and incredibly open. And kind.
It sends a shiver down your spine. You don't know the last time someone looked at you with kindness, and yet the creature in front of you has made you feel more cared for in the last twelve hours than most of your family have your entire life.
"If you want more, I'll make more."
You smile, soft and small. "You said you like feeding people."
"I do."
"Why?"
He considers the question, gaze drifting toward the window where snow has begun to fall again in slow, fat flakes. “Because once I was human. And once I was hungry in ways that had nothing to do with blood. I remember what it felt like to be taken care of. To matter enough that someone would stand at a stove and make something warm for you. I suppose I'm selfish and I like the reminder."
It reminds you of what he said last night: I was feeling empathetic.
You think it might be more than that, that perhaps that under the sharp, playful exterior of the vampire is something that longs for kindness in an overly cruel world. You don't say so, but Jeonghan's actions speak louder than the casual cruelty you saw last night.
Jeonghan watches you finish the last bite of toast, the way your tongue darts out to catch a stray crumb from your lower lip. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead he reaches past you to collect the empty plate, his sleeve brushing your bare forearm.
He sets the plate in the deep porcelain sink, runs water over it for a moment, then turns the tap off and dries his hands on a linen towel. When he faces you again, he seems inquisitive. He leans against the counter, arms crossed as his eyes drink you in. You feel a little exposed under that heavy gaze, fidgeting as he assesses something.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About last night. About the train. About how easily you could have died in half a dozen different ways before I ever found you behind those barrels.”
"I know. My fiance said I wouldn't make it three blocks without him."
"Is that so?"
You nod. "But I made it all the way here."
“So you did.” One corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “Alive. Warm. Resilient as I've ever seen in a human.” His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then returns to your eyes. “It occurred to me that I might have use for someone like you.”
Your heart stutters. "Use?"
"My business requires a certain kind of performance. We move products through human channels. Speakeasies and backroom deals, deliveries that need to look legitimate to anyone wearing a badge or asking questions. The humans we employ are useful, but they're not one of us. They don't know what we are. They know that we're something, but it's a risk for us."
You straighten, realizing where this was going. You wipe the crumbs from your fingers, nervous but interested. You've never had a job before, and you don't dare to hope that Jeonghan is giving you one now, but you listen eagerly.
"You've already proven your worth to me," he continues. "You ran from a man who would have killed you for less than what you saw last night, and you didn't scream once. Didn't run away in the night. I need someone I can trust with the daylight side of things. Someone who can walk into a club at noon to check inventory and smile at the suppliers or charm the cops. I'd like that someone to be you, if you're up for it."
You blink, stunned. No one has ever asked you to do anything that mattered. Not like this. Your father wanted you silent and ornamental. Vin wanted you to be compliant and decorative. Even your mother’s rare moments of attention came with instructions on how to sit, how to speak, how to disappear into the background of powerful men’s lives.
What Jeonhan is offering you is the opposite. He's not offering marriage or to be a decoration. He's asking if you want a role. A purpose. Agency to do something on his behalf. He must see the realization cross your face because his expression softens, just a fraction.
“There’s no obligation,” he adds quickly. “If you say no, nothing changes. You stay here as long as you want. You read in the library. You eat whatever ridiculous quantity of food I have delivered."
"And if I say yes?"
"I’ll teach you. Everything. How the liquor routes work. Which speakeasies are ours and which ones we tolerate. How to spot a fed before he opens his mouth. How to move money without anyone noticing the blood on it.”
"Really?"
He smiles. "Yes. And I’ll keep you safe while you learn. No one will touch you. Not Vin. Not his people. Not mine.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears. Were this Vin asking, you'd feel like it was a trap. Some sort of trick question to get you to give him a reason to hurt you. But Jeonghan stares at you earnestly, no threat hanging above your head, no punishment for saying no.
A choice.
It's a choice, which you have little experience with. Jeonghan gives it to you freely, leaving it up to you whether you want to learn something new, to have a job - an important one, one that requires trust. Respect. The very thought of getting to be important to someone - of getting to help - makes your heart race.
A few hours ago, you were ready to risk freezing on a train to go somewhere far away. You'd had no plan other than to pick up whatever job you could, to scrap something together from nothing. You'd been desperate and ready to risk your life to get away from Vin and your family, willing to do anything.
"I've never…" You pause, taking a breath. "No one has ever asked me to help with anything important before."
"I don't want you to be quiet or invisible." He takes a step toward you, then hesitates. He seems to want to move closer, but he thinks better of it, leaning against the counter again. "A woman willing to do what you did last night deserves a chance at being something, Amontillado. I want to give you the chance to be sharp. To be seen."
You think of your father’s study, the way he’d talk business over cigars while you were sent to the parlor to embroider or pour tea. You think of Vin’s apartment, the way he’d lay out your days like a schedule. How he'd tell you when to smile, when to look away, when to pretend the bruises were accidents. You think of every time you were told your worth was in your face, your name, your ability to be handed from one man to another like a signed contract.
Jeonghan's gaze rests on you. You look at him - this creature who could kill you with a flick of his wrist - and feel heat in his gaze. Vin looked at you like something to be shown off. Jeonghan looks at you like you might be the missing piece in his carefully constructed world. Someone who could walk into rooms where people lie and cheat and kill, and walk out with information, with leverage, with power.
You've never had power before. The allure of it is hypnotic, a pull to something you've only dreamed about having. You know that helping him means stepping deeper into this world, that last night's trainyard of blood and violence will become commonplace. If you say yes, you’re choosing to stand closer to the monsters. You’re choosing to become complicit. Useful. Necessary.
But you'd be protected in a way you'd never had before, and important enough to make your own decisions. Defend yourself, even. Maybe.
The option to say no is there too. To live a life hidden here, under Jeonghan's care. But you want more than safety. You want purpose and you want to know what it feels like to be the one making choices instead of having them made for you, even if the choices are dangerous.
You lift your chin, leveling your gaze with his. "I would like that."
His pupils flare, black swallowing the silver flash for a heartbeat. Then he exhales softly, almost laughing as the tension thrumming through him eases. You realize he thought you were going to say no, and you delight in having surprised him.
“Tomorrow night, then,” he says. “After dark. I’ll take you to our flagship in Manhattan. You’ll meet the staff, see how the front room operates, learn the signals we use when something’s wrong. You’ll wear something that makes you look untouchable.” His gaze travels down the length of you, lingering on bare legs, then back to your face. “I’ll have clothes sent up. Something black. Something sleek. Something that says you're protected.”
The possessive edge to the words should frighten you. It doesn’t. Not when he says it like a vow instead of a chain. Not when you’ve just chosen to walk into his world with your eyes open.
Jeonghan grins and steps forward, offering you a hand to help you down from the counter. You slide your palm into his and he helps you down, but doesn't let go of your hand right away. His thumb strokes over your knuckles once, slow and deliberate.
"Rest," he murmurs. "Read. Bathe. Eat again if you're hungry, ask for me to make you a meal. Whatever you want. Explore, so long as you stay away from the east wing, yes? You remember?"
"Yes. That's where Soonyoung is."
He releases your hand but stays close. “And Amontillado?” You look up at him. “When we step outside these walls tomorrow night, you walk like you belong there. Because you will."
With a small grin, he leaves you there, drifting from the kitchen and through the curtain, a silent wraith. You sit there a moment longer, replaying the decision in your head. Fear and exhilaration twist together until you can’t separate them. You’ve just agreed to work for a vampire. To lie to people. To handle money that’s been laundered through blood. To step into rooms where danger is as ordinary as the sky is blue.
But for the first time in your life, the choice was yours. Three blocks and some change away - further than Vin said you'd ever get - you feel lighter than you have in years.
-
Dracula sits in your lap as you curl into the deepest armchair you can find in the salon downstairs. Your legs are tucked beneath you, the fire in the grate burning down to embers. It's quiet, night turning late as you flip through the pages of your book, engrossed with the way the letters in the novel unfold, feeding you pieces of information that you're sure aren't fact, but rather embellished mysticism.
The door to the salon opens and you look up to see Jeonghan step inside. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled to the elbows, his hair slightly mused. He pauses in the doorway, eyes finding you immediately.
"Good," he grins. "This is a good place to do it."
You close the book slowly. "Do what?"
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he turns back toward the hall and makes a small gesture with his hand. Two men in dark suits enter behind him, each carrying leather cases and several garment bags folded carefully over their arms. Another man follows them, noticeably taller than Jeonghan with a lean, elongated frame.
His face is arresting, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair that frames dark, cat-like eyes. He's handsome, drifting gracefully into the room to perch on the settee, elegant as ever, dark eyes looking at you with interest.
Jeonghan closes the door behind him, drifting to lean on the bookshelf closest to you. The two men begin popping open their suitcases, revealing measuring tape, samples of fabric, and more. Your interest piques as you glance at Jeonghan, who smirks.
"Measurements," he tells you. "Can't keep wearing borrowed things forever, Amontillado."
You set the book aside and stand, the ill-fitting trousers and shirts a little baggy in some places and tight in others. Jeonghan watches you, his eyes missing nothing, gaze lingering a little. There's nothing overt in the way he looks at you, but you feel something in his gaze anyway, your face warming as you turn toward the tailors, heart pounding.
The man on the settee lifts his hands in a small wave when your eyes settle on him, curious. "Junhui," he says. "Jeonghan said he'd appreciate my opinion. I like clothes." He tilts his head, studying you. "It's nice to meet you."
"You too," you murmur, turning as the lead tailor steps forward.
"We will begin with measurements, Miss." He gestures to the open space between settees where the younger of the two men - his apprentice, you think - sets a small step. "Please stand on this small platform."
You hesitate only a second before stepping onto the makeshift platform. Jeonghan doesn’t sit. He leans one shoulder against the bookshelf nearest you, arms folded, watching with that same unhurried focus. Junhui shifts closer, perching on the edge of the settee so he can see both you and the tailors clearly.
The tailors begin to take your measurements, encircling tape around your bust, your waist, your arms. Junhui and Jeonghan watch in silence. Junhui's gaze is clinical and precise, while Jeonghan's makes the side of your face heat. You swallow past a knot in your throat, turning this way and that as the tailors work efficiently.
"She has a bit of a delicate build," Junhui notes. "Perhaps we can play that up without making her look fragile. Let's go with high necklaces but cut to show the line of her throat. Nothing that says look at me but rather says you should be looking."
Jeonghan makes a small sound, his fingers tightening briefly against his biceps. His eyes don't leave you for a second.
Junhui gestures to his own body for reference along the waist. "Create cinches here for her. Can I see the fabric? I'd like dark options - emerald, sapphire, burgundy. Nothing pastel. She isn't a debutante, though she is untouchable."
He glances at Jeonghan on the last word, smirking. Jeonghan doesn’t react outwardly, but there's a subtle shift in his posture, his gaze darkening just enough that his eyes flash that unusual predator silver when he tilts his head. He’s still leaning against the shelf, still casual, but there’s a tension in him now, coiled and quiet. Like he’s imagining you in every garment they’re describing. Like he’s already seeing the way the fabric will lie against your skin, the way it will shift when you turn, the way it will look under speakeasy lights when you’re standing beside him.
The thought sends heat crawling up your neck. You look away, focusing on the measuring tape as the apprentice moves to your inseam. The apprentice kneels, fingers delicate on the inside of your thigh, and Jeonghan makes a sound. Everyone goes rigid, your eyes flicking to his.
"Careful with your hands," he murmurs. "That's all."
When your eyes meet his again, he doesn’t look away. There’s no smirk, no teasing lift of his brow. Just that steady, intimate stare. You hold his gaze for longer than you mean to. Something shifts in the air between you that you don't understand, but you feel goosebumps spread down your arms as the tailors finish their measurements.
"We have what we need," the lead tailor says, bowing his head toward Jeonghan. "The first pieces will be ready by tomorrow evening."
Junhui stands, stretching like a cat. “You’re going to look devastating. Come find me in the north wing if you're ever looking to play cards."
You manage a small smile. “Thank you for your help."
He winks, then glances at Jeonghan. “I’ll leave you to it. See you tomorrow night.”
Junhui slips out, followed by the tailors, who murmur polite goodbyes and promise delivery. The door closes behind them with a soft click. Jeonghan pushes off the bookshelf and crosses to you in three silent steps. He stops just a step away, close enough that you smell the jasmine and faint cedar of his shirt.
"You can go back to reading. Dracula, was it?" You flush and he grins. "It's okay. Tell me what you think when you're finished."
You nod, throat tight. "Thank you, by the way. For the clothes but… also everything."
“You’re welcome, Amontillado.”
He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to. The air between you hums as he dips his head, eyes lingering for only a moment before he drifts out of the room, soundless as ever. When the door clicks shut behind him, you drop into the chair again, heart pounding, head reeling.
-
Winter dusk settles over the Hamptons. You stand in your room - because it is your room now - turning in the full length mirror as you examine one of the dresses the tailor dropped off for you just an hour ago. It's a black dress made of crepe de chine, clinging to you like a second skin. The neckline is high like Junhui recommended, but frames the hollow of your throat, a subtle invitation of vulnerability in a room full of vampires that you think is meant to lure them in.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you smooth the fabric over your hips. This isn't the threadbare cotton dresses of your old life, nor the gaudy silks Vin paraded you in at mob dinners. This feels like armor, sleek and sensual, designed to make you move through the world with purpose. Untouchable, but not invisible. There is a difference in the two, and knowing that leaves a new hum resonating in you as the grandfather clock downstairs chimes.
Taking a deep breath, you remove a coat from the wardrobe, also newly delivered. It's heavy, and furlined, the collar thick to keep the wind off of you. You throw it over your arm and head downstairs, hurrying to not leave Jeonghan and Wonwoo waiting. Jeonghan had instructed you to meet them in the foyer at seven sharp, and you don't want to disappoint him from the start.
At the base of the stairs, Jeonghan leans against the banister, one hand in his pocket, the other idly tracing the vines carved into the wood. His suit is midnight wool, cut sharp and flawless, a white shirt open at the collar to reveal the pale column of his throat. Wonwoo stands just behind him, his black suit more severe, his hands clasped behind his back like a sentinel.
Jeonghan glances up as you approach, lips parting slightly. For a heartbeat, he is utterly still, a predator frozen in the act of spotting prey. His gaze sharpens and then softens immediately, like he's controlling an instinctual hunger as his gaze travels the length of you.
Heat blooms under your skin everywhere Jeonghan's eyes linger. You've seen desire before - Vine's was crude and greedy, a claim staked with bruises. This is different, a sort of awe that makes your heart beat faster as you reach him. Jeonghan's pupils dilate, and you feel a ripple of something go through him, a palpable change.
"Amontialldo," he murmurs. "You look utterly devastating."
"Thank you."
Wonwoo clears his throat politely, drawing your attention. His expression is stiff, jaw tight beneath his glasses, but there's no hostility, just a guarded politeness. "Sorry for the other night."
"It's alright. I won't intrude again."
His mouth twitches. "The library is open to you. Perhaps just… knock."
Outside, the car is waiting. Jeonghan offers you his arm and you take it, the wool of his sleeve warm against your bare fingers. His touch is light, but the proximity is intoxicating - the faint jasmine scent of him, the solid warmth. Wonwoo falls behind you as Jeonghan pauses at the front to help you shrug on your coat before leading you outside into the cold night, snow crunching under your boots.
The car idles for you, and the same driver from the other night opens the door. You slide in across the leather seat, Jeonghan's hand helps you before he follows, settling beside you. Wonwoo takes the other side, bracketing you between them.
Sitting between two vampires is odd. Wonwoo is stiff, leaning into the door. You think it's to offer you a little comfort, which you're grateful for. Jeonghan's presence is the opposite. His knee knocks into yours occasionally as the car drives through the frozen Hamptons, sometimes lingering. You glance at him to find him watching you already, tension thrumming through him like a plucked string. He doesn't speak, but his gaze flicks to your mouth briefly before he turns to watch the world pass by out the window.
You wonder if he feels it too, a single magnetic thread between you. You shake off the thought. If there's any desire there, you think it might be the instinctual one to bite you, the one that he clearly makes an effort to retrain as he watches the world pass by. Wonwoo stares straight ahead, stiff as a statue, but you catch the subtle flare of his nostrils, as though scenting the shift in the air.
It must be difficult for them, you realize. You're pressed between them, your blood probably a temptation. You try to make yourself smaller, shrinking in on yourself to make it easier on them, to-
"Don't do that," Jeonghan murmurs. You glance at him, eyes wide. "We're perfectly comfortable. Aren't we, Wonwoo?"
"Quite."
You nod, relaxing a little as Jeonghan's mouth quirks before he looks out the window.
The drive to Manhattan stretches long and silent at first. Bare trees claw at the starless sky, their branches like shadows against the night. The car's heater hums, warming the cabin until it's nearly stifling. It isn't until the city is blooming on the horizon, a spill of lights against the oil slick of night that Jeonghan breaks the silence.
"The first place we're visiting tonight is simply called The Red." His voice is soft, barely above a murmur. "It's our flagship, essentially. It fronts as a high-end jazz club, but the real business is below. Liquor for the humans, blood for us. Tonight you'll meet the staff and learn the signals. It's just about learning. No tests."
"Stay close," Wonwoo adds curtly. "The Red is our highest concentration of vampire customers. You won't be able to tell them apart from humans for the most part."
You nod. "I will."
The car weaves through the traffic as it plunges into the city's heart. Manhattan is alive and roaring, streets gleaming wetly from melty snow, reflecting the lights from neon advertisements for Coca-Cola and the newest Broadway show. Pedestrians huddle in fur coats, breath fogging the air, small areas lit by alleyway warming fires and the flash of police lights.
Your car arrives at a nondescript brick building in Greenwich Village, its facade unassuming and a single sign that denotes the building as a laundry service. Jeonghan helps you out of the car, the winter air biting as he leads you up the steps behind Wonwoo. Wonwoo raps three times on the door and waits until it opens.
"Evening, boss," a burly man greets.
Wonwoo claps the man on the shoulder and steps in, you and Jeonghan after him. The store is a dry cleaners. There are racks and racks of clothes in wrapped plastic and garment bags, a small counter ready to take orders with a till. A hallway leads back toward additional storage closets and offices, but it's otherwise entirely normal.
You glance at Jeonghan who grins, and nudges you to follow Wonwoo down the hallway, his fingers lingering at the small of your back. Wonwoo opens a door that leads to an office with a wardrobe, to which he then opens to reveal a false door and a set of stairs. You startle as he walks down the steps, vanishing into the dark.
"Careful," Jeonghan murmurs, breath against your ear as he guides you. "Don't miss a step."
As you go down, music swalls. The air grows heavier, scented with rose perfume, whiskey, and something metallic. The speakeasy unfolds before you like a living dream, all low ceilings and gas lamps that cast golden pools of light amid velvet shadows, illuminating booths upholstered in red leather. Couples lean close, lips brushing ears amidst laughter, the air heavy with cigar smoke.
Tables scatter the floor, covered in white linen stained with rings of spilled drinks, crystal ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. The bar dominates one wall with bottles of amber and crimson liquids glinting behind it like jewels in the dim light. Bartenders in crisp white shirts move with practiced grace, pouring from unmarked decanters, their eyes sharp, missing nothing.
Someone offers to take your coat and you let them. You're unsure where to look, the entire speakeasy a kaleidoscope of sound and color - flappers in beaded fringe dresses that shimmer under the lights, en in pinstripe suits and fedoras cluster in groups, cigars clamped between teeth.
Jeonghan steers you through the throng, his presence a shield as he leads you to a large, empty booth in the corner. "This is ours. Always."
You slide in first, the leather cool and yielding against your thighs through the dress, sticking slightly to your skin in the humid warmth. Jeonghan follows, his thigh pressing against yours as he settles with his arms stretched either way across the back of the seat, not touching you, but close. Wonwoo takes the outer edge, his stiff posture a contrast to Jeonghan's relaxed elegance, eyes darting around.
A waitress approaches immediately. She's pretty, a young woman with pretty emerald earrings and a tight dress. "Gentleman and…" Her eyes flick to you, surprised. "New face?"
"She's with us," Jeonghan says over the noisy din. "You'll adjust to her. The usual for Wonwoo and I." Jeonghan looks at you. "What are you having?"
"Old fashion," you answer haltingly, looking from Jeonghan to the waitress. You've never had one, but you'd watched your father drink them, always wanting to try. "Rye, not bourbon. Extra bitters, if you have them."
Vin never let you order, always deciding for you like you were a child. Here, Jeonghan's lips curve in genuine pleasure, his fingers grazing your shoulder in approval. The waitress nods before slinking off, melting into the crowd.
"That's Ella," he tells you. "Very sweet, sharp. Probably the most loyal person we have, for a human. She knows we're something but not what. She handles the front bar, spots trouble before it brews."
Wonwoo shifts. "The signals are key here. See the bartender over there?" You lean, looking at the tall man behind the bar. He's broad shouldered and taller than anyone else in the bar, his hair slicked back and shining under the light as he flashes a smile at someone. "That's Mingyu. Note the pocket square in his jacket. What color is it?"
"Green."
"Good. Ella acts as a spotter. She'll tell Mingyu code words and the colors of his pocket square changes to alert the workers. Red means problem - feds or a rival, really anything that means one of us needs to address it to assess whether we need to clear out. Blue means someone is asking too many questions. Green is good. Yellow means shipment of liquor has arrived, orange means blood. You only need to handle yellow."
You nod, absorbing it, questions forming. "How do you hide the specialties?"
Jeonghan's eyes sparkle with that delight again, leaning closer so his shoulder presses yours. "Clever question. The liquor comes in marked as laundry detergent. Blood crates will be marked as ammonia."
Before you can respond, Ella returns with drinks. Two of the glasses are wine with a hint of something metallic - blood. The other is your old fashioned, the orange peel making the air tangy. You thank her and take the drink, sipping. It's strong enough to make your eyes water, scrunching up your face as it burns all the way down.
As Ella leaves, another man walks over, slender and elegant as a knife. "This is Minghao," Jeonghan says, gesturing to the man who bows his head a little. He's one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen, dark eyes shadowed in the dim bar. "He's our manager, but he can only work the night shift." You nod, understanding - vampire. "I'd like him to show you some things so you can handle the day shift."
"Really?"
He grins. "I meant what I said. Go, learn some things. I'll be watching." His eyes flicker to Minghao. "Take care of her, please."
His hand squeezes your knee under the table. It makes your heart lurch and you grin as Minghao steps to the side for you to slide out of the booth. You follow him to a small office behind the bar. It's cramped and lit by a single desk lamp, walls lined with shelves of leather-bound books.
Looking at Minghao, you know there's no way you would have been able to mistake him as a vampire after seeing Jeonghan and the others. His movements are too fluid, steps too silent. There's an eeriness about him in the dark that wars with his hypnotic beauty, voice soft as he introduces himself.
Minghao pulls a ledger out of a desk, pages filled with coded entries, dates and quantities with cryptic notes squeezed into margins. He taps to a line and glances at you as you allow yourself a single step closer, trying not to get into his personal space.
"See here," he says, tracing a line. "This is where we track inventory and payments including payoffs to cops and others. This book being accurate is paramount. What do you notice on this section of the page here at the bottom?"
You lean, licking your lips nervously. The faint citrus bite from your orange twist is still there as you look at the bottom of the page in question, trying to make sense of it. The numbers are easy, though you don't know what the items are - not yet. You can do math though.
You point to a line. "Here. This delivery is for ten items, but the payout equals that of twelve." You drag your finger up the pay. "Here is the same product at ten items for the right price. It should match but it doesn't."
"Meaning?"
"Whoever managed the delivery either overpaid on accident, or skimmed money off the top and disguised it as a price increase."
Minghao grins. "Smart. Yeah, caught someone saying there was a tax increase but Jeonghan talked to our supplier and confirmed there wasn't." He snaps the book shut and replaces it the drawer. "You're good at math?"
"I try. Never did anything with it, but I used to watch my fiance count money." Minghao raises his brows. "Ex," you tack on. "I'm not with him anymore."
You can tell he has questions, but he doesn't ask them. He simply nods and passes you a piece of paper. You unfold it to see it's a key for all of the product in the book, a code for each line item and what type of alcohol it is.
"You'll need to learn all our suppliers and who to trust," he says, leading you out of the office and into the hall. "If you start shadowing me, I can walk you through it. How good is your memory?"
"I'm not sure."
"Was Ella wearing jewelry?"
That makes you pull up short, thinking back to the waitress. "Yes. Emerald earrings."
His mouth quirks. "Good. You remember random details."
Minghao leads you back through the haze, turning to you. "We'll start you on daylight deliveries in about two weeks. Shadow me a few nights first. Learn the faces and the codes." He nods toward the booth as he heads to the bars. "Go on. Boss is waiting. Tomorrow, we start in full."
Giving a grateful smile, you slip back toward Jeonghan, sliding into the booth next to him. His thigh brushes yours as you settle and he gives you a little grin. Wonwoo acknowledges you for only a second before he goes back to scanning the crowd, watching closely.
"Well?" Jeonghan murmurs, breath fanning against your ear as he tilts toward you a little. "How'd it go?"
"Good, I think. He was pleased I remembered what kind of earrings Ella had on. He wants me to shadow him before I start daylight shifts."
"Emeralds. Matches her eyes when the light hits right." He tilts his head, dark hair falling forward as his cool fingers brush your shoulder briefly. "Good. Minghao wouldn't waste time with you if he thought you were unfit. I assure you."
The evening unspools like a glitterying thread around you. Jeonghan's murmur is a constant in your ear, pointing out the subtle tells of the patrons with a casual grace. You listen to each word and when you're brave enough, point out the things you see, the shifts in the room. The way a woman looks at her husband fearfully, the way another wears gloves too long to hide what you suspect are bruises.
Jeonghan's eyes darken when he realizes what type of observations you make. His jaw ticks and his gaze lingers on the male partners you point out, men who aren't regulars exactly, but frequent his bar enough that Jeonghan knows of them.
He knows of everyone. He seems to have some sort of knowledge about every person in the bar, even if it's their first time. You're unsure if it's a vampire thing, or if he can just overhear the dozens of conversations happening under the shield of jazz music and noise.
As your gaze sweeps across the bar, your eyes land on Mingyu. He's shaking a brass shaker, arms flexing. When he lowers his arms, you note the red square in his pocket and you stiffen.
"There's a red square in Mingyu's pocket," you breathe.
Jeonghan nods, humming as his finger idly traces the rim of his glass. He nods toward a man in a corner both to a wiry fellow in a rumpled suit, fingers tapping a staccato on his table. "Fed. Ella already let Mingyu know, which is why the red. Wonwoo will take care of it momentarily. No mess."
Wonwoo shifts minutely, his knee a solid barrier against yours on the other side, a silent counterweight to Jeonghan's fluid warmth. He doesn't speak much, but when a group of rowdy patrons edges too close to your booth, his eyes flash silver, and the air thickens just enough to send them stumbling back.
"You're probably wondering how to tell the vampires from the humans," Jeonghan notes.
You nod as Wonwoo slides out of the booth, drifting toward the man in the corner. You watch him change dramatically, shifting from stoic and cold to warm and friendly, shaking the man's hand.
"Minghao feels obvious," you note. "Once I knew that vampires existed, I mean. He's beautiful in a way that feels… wrong."
"Mhmm. It happens that way sometimes. Anything else?"
"Your eyes. They flash silver in some light."
"Good. Predators eyes. Without that, though? Can you pick the vampires out?"
Turning your eyes to the crowd, you try. But the crowd blurs together under the warm gaslight. Flappers laugh with their heads thrown back, men in pinstripes lean close over drinks, a couple sways on the small dance floor. Everyone moves, breathes, blinks. No one stands out as obviously other.
"I… can't," you admit, cheeks warming. "They all look the same."
"Good. That's the point."
"It is?"
He nods. "The differences are subtle. Deliberate. We spend centuries learning to mimic. But once you know what to look for, you can't unsee it." His finger traces an invisible line along the back of the booth, pointing without moving. "The woman in the silver dress at the bar - look how still her shoulders are, even when she laughs. Vampires lack natural movement and we sometimes struggle to replicate the fullness of life."
He nods toward a man in a charcoal suit near the piano. "Him. Breathing is shallower. Almost performative. We only do it when we remember we should."
Before you can ask more, movement catches your eye. The wiry man in the rumpled suit walks with Wonwoo, who is gesturing wildly with a smile on his face as they walk toward the back of the bar. Minghao is near the door, a blend of silver eyes and shadow as Wonwoo leads the man - the fed - down the hallway. Minghao shuts the door behind them and stands in front of it under the guise of smoking a cigar.
Minutes stretch. The music swells, then dips. Then Wonwoo reappears at the edge of the crowd - not back through the door at all. You raise your brows, watching as he walks to the booth smoothly and retakes his seat. He's still the same measured calm, but there's a flush to his necks and cheeks that wasn't there before.
Jeonghan leans in again, voice velvet-soft. "See that? The flush. Fresh from feeding. It's the only time we look truly warm. The blood brings the illusion of life back to the surface."
You nod, swallowing thickly. "Got it."
"That's how you'll know, eventually. When one of us has just fed. The color doesn't last long, but it'll be a warning for you. Freshly fed vampires are stronger, though a little less alert from the blood lust. Vampires who haven't fed are more unpredictable and sharper."
You nod, filing the detail away like a key. Wonwoo settles back into place without comment, though his posture seems fractionally looser, the tension in his jaw eased. He meets your eyes for half a second before returning his attention to the room. You think of him that night in the library, the way he had drifted forward, ready to end you there.
It unsettles you a little.
The night wears on. Jeonghan continues his quiet lessons, pointing out alliances and rivalries, naming the vampires among the humans with a tilt of his chin. Wonwoo interjects once or twice, voice clipped but polite. By the time the gas lamps dim and the crowd begins to thin, Jeonghan signals Minghao with a subtle raise of his glass to shut down.
Together, the three of you slide into the car. The drive back to the Hamptons is quiet, the city's roar fading to the hush of empty roads, snowflakes scattering like ash against the windows. You lean into Jeonghan's side without thinking, exhaustion pulling at your bones, his arm a loose curve around your shoulders. Wonwoo stares out at the dark, silent as ever, but you catch the faint softening of his jaw when you stifle a yawn.
It's cold when you get out, pre-dawn light tinting the sky. Jeonghan walks you up the wide front steps, his hand still wrapped loosely around yours. Wonwoo lingers a beat longer in the car before sliding out, coat collar turned up against the wind. He gives Jeonghan a single, unreadable look, then nods once at you with the barest twitch of a smile on his face. He drifts off, fading into the shadows of the home, leaving you with Jeonghan.
Jeonghan leads you up the stairs, the grandfather clock in the foyer ticking with each step. At the top of the stairwell, you pause. He hesitates, turning to face you. He doesn't rush or ask what's wrong. He simply waits, dark eyes patient.
"Thank you, Jeonghan."
He raises his brows. "What for?"
"For tonight. For giving me something more than just a place to hide. For giving me a choice. It's nice."
Jeonghan studies you for a long moment. You can barely make out his eyes in this light, but they're dark, pupils large, predator black. He lifts a shoulder, a barely-there shrug. "It isn't much."
"It's everything to me."
Something shifts behind his expression, soft and unguarded that he doesn’t bother to hide. His mouth curves, not the usual teasing tilt, but a slow, genuine grin that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. He reaches for you, gently tugging you by the hand until he's kissing your knuckles gently.
"You deserve more, Amontillado. But I will give you what I can." Your heart stutters as he tugs you down the hall gently. "Dawn is coming. Sleep, you deserve it."
You nod, throat too full to speak again. He releases your hand reluctantly, stepping back just enough to give you space to slip into your room. He winks at you before you shut the door with a soft click. You lean against it for a moment, still wearing the black dress, still carrying the faint scent of whiskey smoke and jasmine on your skin, heart pounding.
Outside, the first pale spill of dawn floods the yard, and for the first time in years, sleep finds you easily.
-
The weeks slip by like snow melting under the first weak spring sun. You settle into a rhythm at the Red, shadowing Minghao turning into running the books yourself most afternoons. It's mostly checking crates against manifest, spotting the occasional discrepancy before it can grow into a problem, and letting Minghao know.
You’ve learned the suppliers’ names, their tells, the way certain delivery boys linger too long at the back door when they think no one’s watching. You’ve learned which cops take envelopes without looking inside and which ones need a smile and a quiet word first. You’ve even started recognizing the regulars who come in during the day pretending to pick up dry cleaning, and you’ve gotten good at keeping your face neutral when you catch the faint metallic glint in their eyes.
Jeonghan is constant. Not in a way that feels suffocating like it had with Vin, but in the way the cold tide of the Hamptons is constant, always there, pulling gently, retreating just enough to let you breathe. He appears most evenings when you're finishing up, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you with a smirk that you've come to think is something equal to fondness.
He always teases, light and playful banter, velvet words that make your stomach flip. But never pushes or crowds, never lingers too long. It's maddening the way he looms near you but not as close as you'd like him to, frustrating when he murmurs clever girl, Amontillado, before drifting away again.
It's always the same with him. The touches last long enough to spark heat under your skin, then vanish. Jeonghan keeps an entirely respectable distance. You tell yourself it's nothing - he's charming that way, like the moon. Distant. Beautiful. Constant.
You chalk it up to instant. To blood. Not to you. It only makes you like him more - more than you should, even. More than is safe. You keep that bit tucked away like a secret coin, something you only let yourself turn over in the dark when the house is quiet and you can't sleep, wanting to stay up and talk to him but knowing your schedule is flipped.
You belong in the sun, he'd told you. Only problem was that you wanted the moon.
Today the office smells of old paper, ink, and the faint citrus of the orange you peeled earlier. The bar is empty, lights off save for the desk lamp. Minghao shuffles in, readying for the nightshift. He ruffles your hair affectionately as he kicks snow off of his boots and hangs his coat on the back of a chair.
"How was today?" He asks.
"Fine. There's an entire load of red that Mingyu said smelled weird, though."
"Hm, I'll check it out. You're good up here?"
"Mhmm."
You keep working, the scratch of your pen the only sound until the buzzer on the desk rings. It's from the door upstairs. You frown, setting the ledger aside to let yourself out of the office and walk upstairs to the laundry front. A man is standing at the front desk and your frown increases. Minghao typically locks the front door when he comes in, especially if Tony isn't working the front to let people in.
"Hi," you greet, something your skirt down. "Can I be of any assistance?"
The man turns to you. His hands are in the pockets of his charcoal overcoat. He's tall and lean, his dark hair swept back, suit immaculate. Your gaze sweeps across his shoulders - they're too square, too pushed back. His head is cocked at an odd angle, and as you count his breath, you note that he breathes too slowly. Practiced.
There's a flush to the man's cheeks and as he peers at you, his pupils dilate. Vampire. You know the signs now. A vampire who has fed recently. You put yourself behind the desk, a deliberate choice to separate the two of you as he watches you. His nostrils flare and you watch as a shiver goes through him.
"I was told this was the place to get detergent."
Code. He wants blood - more of it. Your smile is pinched. "I'm afraid we're closed for book keeping. If you come back during our open hours-"
"I just need a little."
"You'll need to come back when we're open, sir."
He doesn’t answer. Just takes one slow step forward. Then another. The floorboards don’t creak. Your hand slides toward the small electronic alarm under the counter, but before your fingers can press it, he moves.
He's blinding fast, vaulting over the counter in a single fluid motion. You don't scream - you've learned better than that - but you do grab the heavy brass statue from the shelf behind you and swing it at him. It catches him across the temple with a sickening crack. He staggers, surprised, but he doesn't go down, hand snapping out as claws rake down your arm.
Pain blooms white hot, blood welling fast. You stumble away from him and slam into the wall. He lungs again, fangs clashing and you kick out hard, screaming this time. Your foot connects with his knee, making him stumble. He still comes at you though, hissing, eyes silver and furious.
A blur crashes through the doorway from downstairs. You barely register the vampire that drags your attacker backwards. You make out blonde hair and a white shirt as the newcomer hauls your attack to his feet and drives him into the wall hard enough to crack plaster and send an explosion of dust forward.
They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and snarls, an arch of blood splitting the air as you hear a wet rip. The blonde tears and tears and tears, the sound wet and violent until your assailant stops moving. You look upward, realizing as the blonde rises that the vampire's head is no longer attacked.
Your savior is heaving, standing and backing away from you rapidly. Blood covers his face and the front of his shirt, bright red, his eyes flashing molten silver in the low light. His pupils are blown so wide there's almost no iris left. He's trembling violently, every muscle coiled tight.
You press yourself flat against the wall, blood dripping steadily from your arm onto the floorboards. The copper scent fills the small space, thick and cloying. His eyes drop down to your arm. A ripple goes through him and he presses himself against the far wall, sliding toward the shop door.
"Don't move," he murmurs, voice low. "Please don't move." His hands flex. "Minghao!" His shout is raw, terrified. "Minghao!"
He takes a single, jerky step back, then another, putting distance between you even as his body visibly fights to close it. His nostrils flare again, pupils dilating impossibly wider at the scent of your blood.
“I’m sorry,” he rasps, voice cracking. "I was carrying something in for Minghao and heard the commotion and came upstairs. I'm not supposed to come upstairs when you're here. I'm not good with people. Not yet. I'm sorry-" He cuts off, shivering as he squeezes his eyes shut. "Minghao, please!"
You realize, with a cold jolt, who he is. Soonyoung. The east wing. The gentle soul who struggles. The one whose blood calls louder than the rest. He’s trying so hard not to look at you, trying not to breathe. His entire body is vibrating with restraint, the shivers violent.
Footsteps pound up the stairs, and in a moment, Minghao is there. "Soonyoung, don't."
A low, animal sound rips from Soonyoung's throat. His control snaps like a taut wire and he launches toward you. Minghao is on him, catching Soonyoung around the waist and hauling him backward as he screams for Mingyu.
Mingyu appears in the doorway a second later, broad shoulders filling the frame. He doesn't hesitate, grabbing Soonyoung's arms to help Minghao haul him backward down the stairs. Soonyoung thrashes, snarling rattling up the hall as they get him to the bottom where you hear his voice break into desperate apologies that fade as a door slams shut somewhere.
Silence.
You’re still against the wall, breath ragged, arm burning. Blood has soaked your sleeve to the elbow, dripping in slow, steady drops on the floor. You slide down until you’re sitting, knees drawn up, pressing your good hand over the worst of the gashes. The pressure hurts, but it slows the bleeding. You focus on breathing. Ignoring the dead vampire, you tear a strip of cloth from the bottom of your skirt with shaking handles and wrap it tight around your forearm.
A few minutes later, the door to the front slams open. You freeze, looking up fearfully, but it's Jeonghan who rounds the counter. He freezes for half a heartbeat when he sees you, then he's across the room in a blink, crouching in front of you. His hands over, not quite touching, his eyes dark and storming.
"Amontialldo," he says softly. "Please look at me." You do. His pupils are normal, no silver. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
You shake your head. “Just the arm. Deep scratches. I fought back. Hit him with the ledger. Kicked him. It slowed him down a little."
"You did good."
He reaches for your arm, carefully and slowly. He peels back your makeshift bandage just enough to see the damage. His expression doesn't change, but his fingers tighten fractionally.
“These will need stitches,” he says quietly. “And cleaning. Come on.”
Jeonghan helps you stand, one arm around your waist. You lean into him, legs unsteady. He lets you, guiding you toward one of the back offices that only serve the purpose of making the front look legit. He opens one of them and sits you down at a desk, fumbling around until he finds a first aid kid. It's old, but there's gauze and antiseptic.
His hands are cool and steady as he works, crouching as he cleans the blood from your arm. You watch him. He doesn't shy away from the blood or lean in too close, his movements entirely methodical. Careful. You wonder what kind of control it takes for him to do this, to touch the blood and not take.
You think of Soonyoung.
"Soonyoung was here." Jeonghan looks up sharply, hands pausing. "He helped. I guess he heard the noise and he came upstairs. He… apologized too. said he wishes he was better with people."
"He's been trying for years. For some of us, the blood never quiets. Not really. He stays in the east wing because it's enough for him. Coming up here today to help you was a risk for him. Not a small one."
"If me living at the house is too much-"
"It's not. It helps him practice control. He's good at a distance. It's when exposed to blood that he… struggles."
Jeonghan finishes the bandage, taping it securely. Then he stays crouched in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees. You meet his gaze. For once there’s no desire there. No teasing, no playing. Just him, steady and present.
"You're allowed to be afraid," he says after a moment. "You're not going to get demoted for it."
"Thank you," you whisper.
He smiles and it warms you. "Always, Amontillado. How about we get you home, hmm?"
Jeonghan doesn’t let go of you the entire walk to the car. His arm stays firm around your waist, supporting most of your weight. The driver is already waiting, engine idling. Jeonghan helps you into the back seat, careful of your arm, then slides in beside you. The door closes with a soft, final thud. The car pulls away from the curb, tires crunching over slush, and Manhattan begins to recede behind tinted windows.
You lean your head against the seat, eyes half-closed. The pain in your arm has dulled to a deep, throbbing ache under the makeshift bandage, but every bump in the road sends fresh sparks up your nerves. Jeonghan doesn’t speak. He just keeps his hand on your knee, thumb tracing slow, absent circles over the fabric of your skirt.
The drive to the Hamptons stretches long and quiet. Snow has begun falling again, fat flakes catching in the headlights. You watch them drift past, letting the rhythm of the road lull the worst of the adrenaline crash. Jeonghan’s presence beside you is steady heat against the winter chill seeping through the glass. When you shiver once, he shrugs out of his coat without a word and drapes it over your shoulders. It smells like jasmine and cedar - smells like him.
By the time the estate gates swing open, the sky is totally black. . Jeonghan helps you out of the car, arm around you again, and guides you up the wide front steps. The foyer is warm, lit low by gas sconces, the grandfather clock ticking its slow, familiar heartbeat. He leads you up the staircase, past your usual room, to one at the end he's never shown you before.
His room. You know it immediately by the smell of jasmine and cedar.
It’s darker than yours, walls paneled in deep walnut, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the windows. A fire is already burning low in the grate, casting long orange tongues across the floor. The bed is massive, draped in charcoal linens, but he doesn’t take you there. Instead he guides you to a low leather armchair beside the hearth and eases you down.
“Stay,” he murmurs, voice rougher than usual.
He disappears into the adjoining bath and returns with a medical kit that's larger and far more comprehensive than the one upstairs at the Red. He kneels in front of you again, but this time he's closer, the heat of him intoxicating.
He unwraps his work from earlier, careful not to tug. The fabric peels away with a wet sound that makes your stomach turn. The gashes are ugly and jagged now that you look. His jaw clenches so hard his teeth click together, and you look up at him. It isn't hunger that you see. It's rage, pure and black in his eyes, so violent you freeze.
Without speaking, he threads a curved needle with suture silk. You watch his hands, steady and elegant. He distracts you from the pain in your arm until he murmurs, "This will hurt."
"I know."
The first stitch pulls a sharp gasp from you. The needle bites, the thread pulling through an eerie feeling. You focus on breathing while he works, watching him with a fluttering heart. By the time he ties off the last knot and snips the thread, sweat beads on your forehead and your good hand is squeezing the arm rest.
Jeonghan sits back on his heels, studying his work. Fresh gauze, taped securely. He exhales through his nose, long and slow. When he looks up at you, his eyes are still that same unfathomable black, so full of rage that it pins you to the spot.
"If Soonyoung hadn't killed him, I would." Jeonghan's voice is so soft you almost don't hear him. "I know you getting hurt is sometimes an inevitability, but seeing it enrages me. More than I thought possible. I wasn't.. I didn't know I would be this angry."
You swallow. The fire pops behind him, throwing shadows across his face. He's beautiful. You're reminded of the first night you'd met him, his face half shadowed in the dark of the night. You'd thought he looked like an avenging angel then, beautiful but terrifying. He does now too, only this time, you're not afraid of him.
Not in the slightest.
“When I found you in that train car,” continues, voice like velvet, "curled between those barrels, half-frozen and heart hammering so loud I could nearly taste it… I saw myself. A small, stubborn thing that refused to die. That would claw and scrape and run until there was nowhere left to run. I liked that. Still do. More than I ought to, probably. More than what is wise."
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, close enough that you can see the faint silver rim around his irises - not hunger, but something deeper. Something raw.
“The idea of anyone putting hands on you makes me see red. Especially him. Especially Vin." He swallows. “I’ve spent decades learning control. Decades pretending nothing touches me. And then you climb out of a window in the middle of winter and stumble into my world, and suddenly everything I thought I’d buried feels so close to the surface, Amontialldo. Closer than ever before. And I love it. Love that I feel again."
Your heart is loud in your ears. You study him, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair falls forward to shadow his eyes, the careful way he holds himself even now, like he’s afraid one wrong move will shatter something fragile between you.
All these weeks you’ve told yourself his touches were casual, his smiles habitual, his gaze only instinct. You’ve watched the silver flash in his eyes and labeled it hunger for blood, not for you. You’ve kept your own feelings folded small and secret, afraid that naming them would be a mistake.
You think of the first night in the cold metal train car, the jasmine scent hanging on his coat, the way he'd called you Amontillado like it was a private joke. The realization isn’t sudden. It’s slow, like ink spreading through water. You’ve been falling for him in pieces, like listening to him play piano right before you inevitably go to bed, like the way he likes to cook meals because it makes him think of being human. Of being alive.
“I like that you feel that way,” you admit, voice small. “I like that I matter to you. No one has ever cared before."
Jeonghan stills. The firelight catches in his eyes, turning them molten. For a long moment neither of you moves. Then, he reaches up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don't, and he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. When you don't pull away still, he leans in.
The kiss is careful at first, almost tentative. His lips are cool, soft, tasting faintly of copper and winter air. You exhale against his mouth, surprised by how gentle he is, how restrained. Then you tilt your head, just a fraction, and something in him gives.
He deepens the kiss, slow and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with blood. His hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like if he lets go, you'll slip from his fingers. You reach for him with your good hand, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, feeling the steady, unnecessary beat of a heart that serves as nothing more than to pump blood that isn't his through his body.
When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath is cool against your lips. "I've wanted to do that for weeks. Since you started looking at me like I might be salvation instead of the damnation I have often felt like."
You laugh. "I still think you're both."
"Probably." His mouth twitches. "Are you alright? I don't want to push."
"I want you to."
A slow smile curves his mouth. It isn't the teasing that you're used to, but instead something softer. His eyes darken, the silver rim flaring briefly before he reins it in, that eternal hunger subdued for now. He leans in to brush his lips against your forehead, then your temple, trailing kisses down your jaw, tongue darting out to taste you. It feels so good, a shiver crawling up your spine.
"Good," he whispers, breath tickling your ear. "Because I've been patient for weeks, Amontillado. I've been watching you bloom in my world and it's been divine torture not having you."
You let out a quiet laugh, the sound breathy and a little shaky from the adrenaline still simmering in your veins. "Torture? For a vampire? I thought you were all about eternal suffering."
"I'm not Wonwoo."
He stands slowly, offering his hand to help you up. You take it, letting him guide you toward the bed. The room feels warmer now, the fire's glow casting long shadows that dance across the walls. He eases you down onto the edge of the mattress, then kneels again, this time between your knees. His hands rest on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles through your skirt. He looks up at you, eyes round, questioning.
"Go ahead," you breathe.
You lift your hips slightly as he slides the fabric up, exposing your legs inch by inch. The cool air hits your skin, contrasting with the heat building under your skin like a furnace. He drags his mouth across your knees, your thighs, pushing the fabric as he goes. When he reaches your panties, he hooks his fingers under the waistband, glancing up for confirmation. You nod, and he slides them down slowly, discarding them gently.
Your breath hitches as he parts your thighs wider, settling between them. He leans in to press a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up. His lips are cool, but the sensation ignites fire wherever they touch.
Carefully, he eases you to lay back on the bed. You're careful about your injured arm, letting it lay out to the side as the other twists in the sheets while his fingers come up to trace your folds, wet and warm. He finds your clit, circling it slowly as he watches your face, lips parted.
"Like that?" He asks when you make a little sound.
"God, yes."
The pressure is light at first, building gradually as he learns your rhythm. He dips lower, one finger sliding inside you with ease, the cool intrusion making you arch. He's so gentle, curling it just right to brush that spot that sends sparks behind your eyes.
It feels maddenly good, your lids fluttering as you writhe under the feeling. He pumps his finger slowly, fixing his mouth on your inner thigh, sucking your skin gently. You feel the scrape of his fangs, the heat of his mouth, the press of his fingers against your front wall and it makes you fall apart.
"Good girl," he praises as your hips cant toward his hand. "Take what you need."
Jeonghan adds a second finger, stretching you slowly. It feels good, your head pressing into the mattress as you arch into him. Your skirt bunches around your waist, shirt sticking to your sweaty skin as he works you, mouthing at the inside of your knee, whispering against your skin.
"Good girl," he whispers, letting out a little moan.
He pumps his fingers in and out at a languid pace, thumb still circling your clit, building the tension. You feel the tightening in your gut, toes curling, eyes squeezing shut as bursts of color pop behind your eyelids. You shiver again, muscles twitching.
"Jeonghan, I'm-"
"Let go. I've got you. Come for me, Amontillado."
His fingers curl deeper, and you shatter, clenching around him hard as you come. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until you're trembling, oversensitive and breathless.When you come down, he withdraws slowly, pressing a kiss to your thigh before he crawls up to hover over you, bracing on his elbows.
"Hi," he breathes.
"Hi.
He grins, dipping to kiss you deeply, hands active as he peels you out of your skirt, your top, your bra. He's so delicate with you, handling you like something precious, treasured. Not rough and impersonal like Vin - never like Vin.
Jeonghan leans up to peel his shirt off, his body sculpted and narrow. He deserves to be painted, captured in some half-shadowed light on canvas. An angel. A demon. You run your good hand over his chest and he shivers, capturing your hand in his to bring it up to his mouth, kissing the pads of your fingers.
"You're beautiful," you murmur.
"Not as much as you.
He lowers himself to kiss you again, trailing them from your lips down your neck, across your collarbone, to your breasts. His mouth closes over one nipple, sucking gently while his hand teases the other. It makes you arch, his name dripping from your mouth.
Jeonghan kisses lower, down your stomach, until he's settled between your thighs once more. His eyes meet yours as he leans in, tongue flicking out to trace your folds. The wet slide of his tongue parting you makes you moan, the sound broken and fractured. He grins and does it again, pupils blown out, never leaving yours.
He takes his time, lapping slowly, savoring every reaction. When he focuses on your clit, sucking gently, you thread your fingers into his hair, holding him close. He hums, pleased at the feeling of your fingers tightening, nails scraping against his sensitive scalp. His tongue circles your puffy clit until you're climbing again, hips coming off the bed.
It makes him growl a little. He doubles down, sucking harder, mouth greedy and reverent, the sound of his mouth unholy against you. You come undone a second time, crying out sharply as he pins your thighs open, licking you through it with broad, lazy strokes of his tongue until you're spent.
Climbing back up, he kisses you softly, sharing the taste of you. His hands roam your body, soothing, worshipping. He sheds the rest of his clothes, and you take in the sight of him, hard and swollen and leaking. You reach for him but he shakes his head, lowering himself until he's nose to nose with you, eye lashes fluttering against yours.
"You sure?" He asks.
A choice. Again. Always a choice - your choice.
"Please," you murmur, pulling him closer.
Jeonghan nods, rolling his hips to slide his cock through your messy folds, both of you breathing hard. He slides a hand between you, pressing on the head of his cock until it presses against your entrance. You let out a strangled sound and he grins, sliding into you slow and torturous. He groans, burying his face in your neck.
"Fuck," he rasps. "Feels so good. Smell so good." His tongue darts out to lick at your pulse and you roll your head to the side, giving him access. "Not tonight. Maybe one day."
Jeonghan starts to move then, slow and deep, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. You can barely breath, the feeling of him sliding home so good that you scratch at his lower back with your good hand, pressing him closer, breaths shaky.
"That's it," he pants. "You take me so well. So beautiful like this." His hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts. One more for me. Let me feel you come around me."
His thrusts deepen, slow and grinding, hitting that spot relentlessly. He's pressed close to you, chest sliding against chest, your legs wrapping around his hips. It drives you mad, having him this close to you. His mouth catches yours, a tangle of tongue and teeth as he works you to another high, the slide of your tongues broken only by desperate sounds.
Jeonghan nods when he hears your sounds, spurred on. He rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate glide that drags the length of his cock through your cunt, your walls fluttering around him. His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, tongues tangling in time with the slow roll of his hips. You taste salt and yourself and something faintly metallic.
He shifts his angle just enough that the head of his cock drags perfectly over that spot inside you with every pass. Your back arches off the mattress, a broken cry muffled against his lips. He drinks it down, swallowing every sound you make.
“Feel that?” he whispers when he pulls back just enough to speak. “Right there. That’s where you need me, isn’t it?” He punctuates the question with another deep, grinding thrust that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
When you come again, it's with Jeonghan's name on your tongue. He drinks it down, mouth pressed to yourself, breathing in time. He follows moments later, thrusting deep one last time and stilling, a low groan escaping as he spills inside you. He stays there for a moment, your chests pressed together, your heart pounding.
Jeonghan shifts carefully, easing out of you gently. He doesn’t pull away far - only enough to reach for the discarded blanket at the foot of the bed and draw it up over both of you. The heavy wool settles, trapping the shared warmth of your skin together.
He gathers you against him without a word, turning so you’re tucked into the curve of his chest, your bandaged arm resting carefully across his waist. His chin settles atop your head, one hand splaying wide over the small of your back while the other threads lazily through your hair. The motion is slow, meditative, each pass of his fingers grounding you.
For a long moment neither of you speaks. Outside, the snow continues to fall in thick, silent sheets, hissing against the window as it melts. You trace idle patterns on his chest with your fingertips, following the faint ridge of a scar.
"How'd you get this?" You ask.
"Before I was turned," he murmurs. "Turning heals the body, but it also freezes you. I like it, though. Makes me feel more alive."
You press your lips to the scar in silent acknowledgment. “I like it."
He stills for a heartbeat, then tilts your chin up so he can look at you properly. In the dim light his eyes are dark velvet. “I’ve lived a very long time,” he says quietly. “Seen empires rise and fall, watched people I cared for age and die while I stayed the same. I thought I’d forgotten how to want anything beyond survival and control. Thank you for reminding me what it's like to want something."
You grin. "I made it a lot farther than three blocks, didn't I?"
"You did," he sighs. "My brave little Amontillado."
synopsis: it's been a few years since you've been home for your birthday, and wonwoo can't wait to see you...right?
genre: estranged childhood friends to lovers au. fluff, angst, suggestive themes.
pairing: photographer!jeon wonwoo x fem!baker!reader | side pairing: kim mingyu x chou tzuyu
word count: 15.8k
rating: 18+. minors please do not interact.
warnings: swearing, alcohol. food mentions. mentions of jealousy, breakups. wonwoo is a little bitter. pet names (sweetheart, honey, etc.) kissing.
what to listen to: here is gone - the goo goo dolls ; over you - daughtry ; broken - lifehouse ; hanging by a moment - lifehouse ; long way home - 5 seconds of summer ; say yes - seventeen
author's note: happiest birthday to my baby @wqnwoos ♡ i hope your birthday was full of wonderful memories and you had lots of good food, please continue staying healthy and i love you. [star dividers by @/cafekitsune here on tumblr!]
– LAST YEAR: GOYANGI SWEETS, HARLEM, NEW YORK.
"Since when do you celebrate Valentine's Day, Y/N?"
Jeon Wonwoo's voice was staticky on the other end, and you rolled your eyes as you kept swiping icing on the red velvet cupcakes you'd been agonizing over for six days. Trying and dumping mixes, failed taste tests, a few burnt practice rounds all led up to this: you, up at two in the morning on FaceTime with Wonwoo, who was just now starting to finish up his work day.
You hadn't meant to move so far away, truly – or at least, not for this long. Your best friends were all back home, and the drastic time difference did work for some of them – but you rarely managed to catch Wonwoo. He would usually spend his time holed away in his bedroom or out with Kim Mingyu. However, since Mingyu moved in with his fiancée, Chou Tzuyu, three years ago – Wonwoo had the apartment to himself and you were his only company.
"Since when don't you, Jeon? No hot date for Desperation Day?"
"You watch too many movies, there's no such thing. Anyway, shouldn't you be sleeping? You open in, like, two hours."
He was right, you did open in two hours.
There was just something comforting about hearing Wonwoo's voice so late in the night. It makes you feel warm, less alone.
And it's not like Wonwoo knew about your recent fight with your boyfriend.
It wasn't anything serious – just you telling him to get a fucking job, and him insisting that his job was rubbing your feet after a long day at work. It annoyed you so bad that you asked him to leave the apartment for the weekend.
It's not that Wonwoo doesn't like Euijoo, but he certainly isn't his number one fan. You argue that you can't dislike someone you don't even know, but Wonwoo has made it clear that Euijoo is simply never going to be a part of his life if you're not present to make it happen.
It's always been that way with Wonwoo, though. He quietly disapproved of most of the men you dated, even when you were back home – but he never made you feel bad about his perspective. He simply shared when you asked, and he didn't sugar coat it.
Before Euijoo, there was his clubmate, Hansol Chwe. Before Hansol, there was his teammate, Choi Seungcheol. Before Seungcheol, there was Mingyu.
And every single one got a side-eyed glance, even his best friend.
Slowly, you stopped talking to Wonwoo about guys, because he always seemed to be right about you deserving more. To be frank, you weren’t too keen on not doing what you wanted to do, much less who.
You and Wonwoo never breached that friendship line, and while you found solace in his irrevocable appreciation for you as a friend, you found it odd that around the time you began preparing for your relocation across the world, he floated away.
So much so that he hadn't even gone to the airport to say goodbye, or give you a hug. You hadn't seen Wonwoo in the weeks leading up to it after you told him you'd be leaving, and he always had an excuse as to why he couldn't call or hang out. You tried time and time again, only for him to eventually say he just didn't have time.
He did. You knew he did, because you saw him all over Mingyu and Tzuyu's Instagram stories. You saw him playing chess with Yoon Jeonghan. You saw him at the art museum with Xu Minghao.
You saw him soft launch a girl on his Instagram story the moment you boarded your plane. His story had been posted twenty minutes before, while you were getting your heart ripped out. You’d gone to New York with eyes full of tears, and not just because you were leaving behind everything you knew.
Wonwoo was home, and you wouldn’t have him with you.
Nevertheless, Wonwoo was never…directly the reason behind your breakups – at least, to your understanding. You never toed the line of flirting with him and vice versa, you never made your friendship out to be something it wasn't.
You and Mingyu broke up because of school but stayed extremely close. You met his then-girlfriend,Tzuyu, six months into freshman year, and you were the first person Mingyu ever told that he wanted to marry her. You even helped Mingyu build a Pinterest wedding board when he would visit you and Wonwoo.
The others? Seungcheol made the mature decision and broke up with you because of jealousy issues on his part. Hansol broke up with you with an apology and nothing more, and you tried your best to take it in stride.
However, taking things in stride is not your forte – which is how you ended up with Euijoo.
Hansol broke up with you at the airport the day you left for New York, the guilt taking over his features as your eyes widened and filled with tears. You had muttered that you understood, that it was fine – but the fourteen-hour flight from Seoul to New York was full of tears and sniffling. You're sure the woman next to you had been wondering if you were okay, but you're also almost positive that the fourteen-hour loop of 5SOS' Close As Strangers through your headphones spoke for itself.
You had met Euijoo at a bar a week after you landed in New York. Your apartment had long been ready and furnished, waiting for your arrival. You sullied it that same night by bringing him home, the aura of the apartment darkening the longer he stayed.
And stayed, he did. It's like he had nowhere else to go, and you were far too nice about it, too.
Hence, how he became your 'boyfriend' and how he 'moved in with you.'
Bullshit; he went home to his mother's one-bedroom condo and picked up a dusty Playstation and a pillow he liked – that was his 'moving in.'
As for why Wonwoo doesn't like him, it's obvious – Euijoo is a loser. He has no goals, no sense of urgency, no whimsical nature – nothing like you. At least, that was what Wonwoo told you the first time you called him from New York…which was over six months since you left Seoul.
You wanted to believe there was a twinge of jealousy in Wonwoo’s voice when you told him about Euijoo. His brows furrowed, he sucked his teeth more times than you could count, and he refused to meet him when you offered to have him say hello.
You couldn't lie to yourself, you knew your relationship with Wonwoo was dwindling. Your calls were growing sparse, he didn’t tell you anything about his personal life, and you still hadn’t gone back home. To him, to your friends, to your parents.
The two of you had grown up together, just slightly out of each other's circles. There were two or three people who were your 'friends of friends' that connected you, before Mingyu was the first official bridge between the two of you in the seventh grade. You went on to date Mingyu for three years during high school, before you wound up going to a different university than he did – but attended with Wonwoo, instead.
You hated to admit it, but you knew that you clung to Wonwoo like gum did a shoe. You hid behind his broadening frame at fraternity parties, you would ask him over to your dorm (and later, your apartment) for game nights. You eventually started baking for him – cookies, cupcakes, the like.
And then you met Seungcheol, on your way to Wonwoo's apartment. You slammed into him, painting his white t-shirt and shorts in pink icing – and you remembered stuttering over your words as you watched his brows furrow while he wiped icing off his stomach. He ended up clicking his tongue, nodding his head and shrugging.
"I guess you can call it avant garde, right?"
The two of you exchanged numbers, and you wound up being late to Wonwoo's place – but at that time, it didn't matter. Not when you scored a date with an older boy that had pouty lips and the thickest thighs you'd ever had the pleasure of seeing. Wonwoo had noticed you were giggly that night, but chose to brush it off when he walked behind you and saw you typing away to an unsaved number.
You and Seungcheol ended up dating for about a year, but the jealousy issues began before your relationship even started. He knew Wonwoo, and they were on the same soccer team – but something about the way Wonwoo spoke about you seemed to tick him off. No matter how often your lips were on his, your hands on his body, your body in his bed – Seungcheol's eyes always narrowed at the sight of Wonwoo floating around you for whatever reason, even if you initiated contact.
You cheered at all his games, but Wonwoo was also there even if you wore one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You invited him to your bake sales, yet Wonwoo was always the one taste testing your recipes. You invited Seungcheol to your birthday dinner, and Wonwoo was naturally there.
Wonwoo recounting memories of you as a kid at dinner was what made Seungcheol make the decision to break up with you the following week. He paced around his apartment while you sat on his couch, rattling off all the ways that Wonwoo spoke about you that meant so much more than just a platonic love.
And you didn't comfort Seungcheol, or refute his thoughts.
In fact, you denied them. You said there was no way Wonwoo saw you as anything more than his friend, you insisted that Wonwoo seeing you in the worst moments of your life was enough to make him feel icky about dating you.
It wasn't until Seungcheol crouched in front of you, holding your hands in his that you understood that he wasn't kidding. He told you that part of growing old together and being in love is seeing each other in those situations and still choosing to care and stay. He told you that Wonwoo holding your hair back as you threw up, Wonwoo knowing all your siblings' names and their favorite things, Wonwoo seeing you riddled with the flu and gross stomach bugs…
Wonwoo cared about you far more than he let on.
You left Seungcheol's apartment that night with a heavy heart and holding the stained white shirt from the first day you met him in your hand. It was still soaked in his cologne, and you remember crying yourself to sleep for two weeks straight.
Wonwoo had been there, and when you told him everything Seungcheol had said – he'd apologized.
He didn't deny anything. He didn't refute any of Seungcheol's feelings.
He apologized, for both making Seungcheol feel that way as well as being the straw that broke the camel's back. You hadn't known what to say, so you just offered to let him stay over and bake cookies with you.
He did, and the two of you gorged yourselves on white chocolate chip cookies while watching White Chicks. You cried again while he was there, and he wiped your tears and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. He held you close as you pouted into his shirt, the soft scent of patchouli from his cologne settling into your skin as a blanket of comfort.
You also remember peering up at him through teary eyes, and his lips instinctively pressing to your hairline. His mumbled words never left your mind, either.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay.”
You didn't date again for a bit after that, and Wonwoo made it a point to introduce you as his friend any time the two of you hung out. It made you feel odd, the way he forced the agenda that you were his friend and nothing more when you had no issue just going with the flow. You understood he didn't want a repeat of your relationship with Seungcheol, but it felt like he was forcing something more than just the label of your friendship.
People often asked if something had happened between the two of you — of which you always denied casually. If they asked Wonwoo, he would scoff, as if he were offended anyone would ever think you were more than just his friend. As if it was gross, or repulsive, to see you as a woman and not just the girl he grew up with.
You met Hansol the next school year, a cheeky cinematography freshman that frequented your bake sales. Wonwoo met him there as well, and was the reason you and Hansol met formally. Apparently, Wonwoo and Hansol were both in the AV Club, where Wonwoo also met his first girlfriend: Lee Jaehee.
Lee Jaehee...
She had also been quite the frequenter of your bake sales. She enjoyed your slutty brownies and the strawberry blondies you made, and the two of you had been so close to becoming friends when Wonwoo asked her out. He'd even asked you to bake something for her and you did it happily, free of charge.
However, Wonwoo asking her out meant her finding out that you and him went back over two decades, and the same look that settled in Seungcheol's brows, settled in hers. It was painful, to see how she would tense at your presence at Wonwoo's soccer games, ones you'd always attended. It hurt your feelings to see her give you a quick smile before passing by your booths at the bake sales, not bothering to stop by for a nibble or a chat.
It pained you to know that Wonwoo missed your birthday dinner that year to spend the weekend with her, instead. You wound up going over to Seungcheol's apartment that night, and he comforted you as best as he could – by offering a drink and inviting his friends Jeonghan and Joshua over to entertain you. Despite it all, Seungcheol never really held any resentment towards you – but he did have zero problem telling you how blind you were.
You ignored it, too.
You didn’t like the odd feeling you got in your chest thinking about Wonwoo in any way that wasn’t platonic. You weren't stupid – Wonwoo was incredibly profound with a hint of goofy humor. He was smart, and tall…and handsome…God, he was so handsome, it made you want to bite your fist.
So the idea of his hands on you? His lips on yours, his bed being more than just a drunken sanctuary…
It was too much for you to handle.
You started dating Hansol during the first semester of your senior year of college. He'd just become a sophomore, and everyone around him had been incredibly surprised that the senior sweetheart at the bake sales stopped making her incredibly soft peanut butter cookies. The reason? Hansol, and his allergy to peanuts.
No one said shit after that, only cooing at your boyfriend's blushy cheeks from your attention.
Your relationship with Hansol also came as a surprise to Wonwoo, and he found out in the strangest way – by walking into your apartment using his spare key and seeing the two of you getting frisky in the kitchen and covered in flour. You hadn't heard him come in, and didn't seem to sense his presence in the threshold of your kitchen.
You don't know it, but Wonwoo has the image of you burned in his mind. The slope of your neck as Hansol kissed down it, the way your shirt was pushed up to reveal flour-covered handprints on your bare chest, the way your thighs were flexing around your boyfriend's waist…
The sound of your whimper into Hansol's mouth.
He then made his presence known by coughing exaggeratedly, and you and Hansol almost slipped. Wonwoo rolled his eyes as Hansol yanked your shirt back into place, clearing his throat and greeting Wonwoo.
"How long have you been there?"
"Long enough to know that there is no way eating flour out of each other's mouths is sexy."
Wonwoo had come over to tell you that he and Jaehee broke up, and he did tell you – but on his way out of your apartment. You could barely hear him as the door closed, but you were also trying to finish what you and your boyfriend started in the kitchen — so you filed it to the back of your mind as you invited Hansol to join you in the shower.
It wasn't until after graduation that you decided to open a pastry shop. However, you were unsure that your at-home learning was enough to satisfy a gaggle of clientele – and decided to start applying to pastry schools. You’d already obtained a business degree, which made the idea only cement further in your head. Hansol had been incredibly supportive, even going as far as sending you applications and fee waivers while he was in class and you were driving around Seoul with Wonwoo looking for work for the time being.
Then you got a letter back from a pastry school in New York City, and Hansol was ecstatic. He paid for your flight and even took a week off school to go visit it with you. He wound up setting up meetings with realtors so you could get an apartment, and the two of you even went as far as looking at empty lease spaces where you could open a business.
You accepted the offer, and the school covered your flight back to Seoul and then back to New York City. Your parents covered your first year of rent at an apartment in SoHo, after you sent back videos of you spinning in the SeaGlass Carousel and having dinner at Shuka.
However, something changed when you went back to Seoul to pack your things. You also realized you had done all of this without even mentioning it to Wonwoo, who seemed slightly distant when you finally met him for dinner at his place after packing up your apartment. Mingyu and Tzuyu had also been there.
Hansol also seemed distant for a few days, not bothering to answer your messages or calls. You showed up at his apartment, only for Seungkwan to answer the door with a knowing look and tell you he wasn't home. You remember scowling, and pushing past Seungkwan to see Hansol asleep in his bedroom, tucked away with a Star Wars blanket you'd bought him for his birthday.
You picked a fight, and Hansol wasn’t having it — said he wasn’t in the right headspace to have this conversation, and asked to rain check it for a better time. You argued there was no better time than the present, and his swollen face (whether from tears or sleep, you were unsure) was enough to make you back off for the time being. He quietly asked you to join him in his bed, and you reluctantly kicked your shoes off and did just that.
He promised he still cared, and promised he still loved you, but it felt different, the way he held you. Like a last hurrah, like a ‘goodbye’ and not a ‘see you later.’ Like things were going to end and there was nothing you could do to change his mind.
You couldn't say you were surprised that Hansol broke up with you a month later, but you were certainly hurt. Wonwoo was also nowhere to be reached at this point, your calls going straight to voicemail and your texts going unread. You assumed he'd finally landed a gig, but it was still unlike him to not respond to you, of all people.
At least, you thought that was what had happened, until you saw his Instagram story.
You stopped wondering where he'd been after that.
It had been four years since then. You hadn't gone back to Seoul once, not even for Christmas or when your parents begged you back. You called for birthdays, you sent gifts out two months in advance. You sent photos of your shop, of your apartment, of you and Euijoo.
Your parents didn't really care about the ones Euijoo was in.
You finally opened your pastry shop in the middle of Harlem – two years after arriving in New York, tweaking your recipes to cater to the local clientele. Your shop was always full of customers and you loved what you did – but most of all, the people loved you. They loved seeing how easily you won people over, how you celebrated your accomplishments by putting even more effort into your business, how your employees cared about you and your shop.
You truly became an essential part of some people's lives – Ms. Julianna who came in every morning for a chocolate éclair; Mr. Cortéz came in every Saturday morning for a box of mixed empanadas and one butterscotch cupcake for his granddaughter, Elisa; Mrs. Stegenga sliding in every Tuesday for a strawberry tart and a cup of unsweetened whipped cream for her dog, Harley.
Euijoo came in everyday as well, but not for a pastry – but to bug you. You'd kicked him out a few times, shoving a warm cinnamon twist into his mouth or an iced matcha with cheese foam into his hand – but he always floated back.
Which was odd, since he didn't have a car and it took thirty minutes to get from your apartment in SoHo to your shop in Harlem. Where he was getting the money for the taxi, or to load his Metrocard was beyond you – the son of a bitch didn't lift a finger.
Now, you're here. You're still at your shop, while Euijoo is likely sprawled out on your king-sized bed, with his outside clothes still on. You're grimacing to yourself as you smooth icing out on one of the cupcakes, your brow furrowed as you hear Wonwoo sigh.
"I miss you."
And just as fast as it was said, he moved on.
"Since you're not going to sleep, how was your birthday? I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to call, I've been slammed with projects. Tzuyu booked me for engagement photos, isn't that crazy?"
Much like your friends missed out on your life, you missed out on theirs.
Mingyu and Tzuyu opened a restaurant in the middle of Seoul, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu had their first daughter, and you missed it. Mingyu and Tzuyu got engaged, and you missed it. You wouldn't be surprised if you missed their wedding, too.
Wonwoo?
He opened a photography studio. He did weddings, all sorts of parties, maternity shoots. He did boudoir shoots for a bit, before handing them over to his business partner, Saerom. She had been introduced to Wonwoo through a few contacts at your old university, and he took her on as an apprentice. She now accompanies him to many shoots and gigs, usually taking the reins if Wonwoo loses his patience or gets too overwhelmed.
You'd seen his photos displayed at a few galleries after you left for New York. Your mother went and took pictures of his exhibits, his shy smile hidden behind flutes of champagne. You congratulated him via text, only to receive a thumbs up in response and nothing more.
"Yeah, that's crazy. Listen, Woo, I'm gonna try and focus on this. I'll call you later, yeah?" You sighed, frustration evident in your voice. You watched as Wonwoo struggled not to roll his eyes as he tongued his cheek, before nodding.
"Sure thing. Get some rest."
He hung up before you could respond, and you looked at the FaceTime log. Eight missed calls from Wonwoo over the last few days, three missed calls from Tzuyu and two from Mingyu.
Your friends missed you, across the world. You were missing every precious moment of theirs.
And instead, you were here. Frosting cupcakes at almost three in the morning, while your do-nothing boyfriend enjoyed the warmth of your apartment. Frosting cupcakes, while your parents begged you to come home for a few days at the very least.
The money here was good. It always had been, and you'd built such a good connection with your clientele and you couldn't imagine abandoning it all because you were homesick.
But you missed home. You missed your mother's hearty soups, you missed your father serving you dinner instead of you serving Euijoo after a long day of doing that for strangers. You missed Tzuyu's light laughter, Mingyu's warm embraces…
Wonwoo.
God, you missed Wonwoo.
You remember sending him a photo of your storefront as the sign was finalized, the baby blue calling to the eyes amongst the red brick.
Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡
[11/09] look at it! goyangi sweets is officially in business! (read: 1:09PM)
Msg From: Jeon Wonwoo ♡
[11/09] goyangi?
Msg To: Jeon Wonwoo ♡
[11/09] what the fuck are you doing awake? it's 3am in seoul
[11/09] yeah, goyangi. i miss you (read: 1:10PM)
He hadn't answered after that.
Sighing, you clicked your tongue and leaned against your stainless steel counter. You grabbed a cupcake off the cooling rack, prying the warm dessert in half and smearing a bit of frosting on the inside, shoving it into your mouth. You closed your eyes as you chewed, letting your shoulders sag at the sweet treat that made all the stress worth it.
It was worth it, right? The money and the love from the locals, the feeling of physical success…it was enough. It was worth the lonely nights you yearned for
You wiped your hands, moving to the front of the shop and dragging the metal divider down to block the view of outsiders. You weren't opening the shop today, no. You're going to go home, and kick Euijoo out of your bed and sleep.
That's all you need. Some sleep.
– SOPHOMORE YEAR: SEOUL HAWKS VS YONSEI EAGLES, SEMIFINALS.
"We have No. 08, Choi Seungcheol approaching the goal area for the freekick. Choi is the team captain for the SNU Hawks, and the only PreMed student on the team. He has also scored fifty-six percent of all game-winning goals this season, and we're hoping this kick gets them into the Championship bracket."
You were on the edge of your seat, your frame being swallowed by one of Seungcheol's jerseys. You were alone in the stands for the first time – Mingyu and Tzuyu were stuck at the concessions stand. Unfortunately, you were also the only person on this side of the field wearing an SNU jersey, and trying not to tweak out as you listened to Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin talk about your boyfriend over the PA.
"Oh, oh, looks like Choi is not taking the freekick after all?" Jimin's voice was clear, and the crowd collectively sighed as Seungcheol analyzed the players and shook his head.
You were barely able to sit down as you watched him jog over to his referee, making motions with his hands and arms when you saw Wonwoo crossing the field in a sprint. He slid next to Seungcheol, who pulled him closer into the circle and kept talking. Wonwoo's brows were furrowed as he nodded, breathing heavily before wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt.
"It seems Choi has nominated No.17, Jeon Wonwoo, to take the freekick instead. Jeon is the second in command, dedicating two years of his college career to this team. He's scored sixteen percent of the game-winning goals this season, opting to stay in the shadows."
You didn't like that.
"Alright, alright…it seems we're lining up…Eagles are looking fine this year, aren't they?"
"Jeon, that's inappropriate."
"What, man? You're going to look at Kim Yugyeom and say I'm wrong?"
"Jungkook, they can hear you."
"Hey, shit. Here's your soda." Tzuyu slides in next to you, and you don't unglue your eyes from the field as you reach and fumble for your drink. The straw poked your hand as Mingyu slid past you, making you scowl as you swatted his leg for him to sit down.
"Wonwoo's taking the kick? I thought it was going to be Cheol." Mingyu muttered, taking a bite from his hot dog. You nodded, watching as Wonwoo shook his head while still talking to Seungcheol. His hands were moving rapidly, likely explaining why Wonwoo didn't want to make the kick. Your boyfriend only gave Wonwoo a stern look, and you could make out the words falling from his lips.
"I believe in you. Kick the fucking ball."
You watched as the Eagles made their wall, their goalie shaking his legs out. Kwon Soonyoung, you remembered – you'd met him at a frat party at Yonsei a few weeks back. Seungcheol had gone with you, making friends with the enemy (more like scoping out his competition. Sneaky bitch.)
"C'mon, Woo." You mumbled to yourself, grabbing Tzuyu's hand for support as she shoved a nacho into her mouth. You were too amped up to eat, this kick was the one that would settle the score – and it was all on Wonwoo.
You knew Seungcheol wouldn't put anyone he didn't trust on this sort of line. Yeah, he had an issue with how close you and Wonwoo were, but his team was important to him – he'd built this one on his own, handpicked, the best of the best. You trusted Seungcheol knew what he was doing, and that he wouldn't set up Wonwoo for failure…
…And he didn't, as you watched Wonwoo's kick bounce off the goalpost and straight into the net – just barely missing Soonyoung's fingertips.
"THE HAWKS ARE GOING TO THE CHAMPIONSHIPS!"
You cheered happily, the only one besides Mingyu and Tzuyu – and earned the nastiest of glares from Yonsei students as you ran down the steps of the bleachers. Seungcheol was jumping with his arms around Wonwoo and another player, Wen Junhui, when you pushed past them to get to your friend.
"Wonwoo! That was fucking amazing!"
He just shook his head, aiming the water bottle into his mouth as he gestured towards Seungcheol.
"That's all Cheol's idea. Mastermind behind it all."
You whipped around to see your grinning boyfriend being shaken by Mingyu, trying to pry himself from your friend's embrace as you felt the cold splash of the water cooler being poured on Wonwoo. It went down your back as well, making you squeal as you jumped out of the way. Seungcheol reached his arm out to you, and you grabbed his hand as his teammates picked a soaked Wonwoo up and onto their shoulders.
"We'll meet you at the parking lot!" Mingyu yelled as he and Tzuyu trailed after them, and Seungcheol only gave a thumbs up. It was customary that the entire team went to dinner together, usually still in their stinky and sweaty jerseys but Seungcheol had long refused to let the team be represented that way. Everyone went home to get themselves together, then he footed the bill.
"Cheol, that was great! You're going to the championships!" Your smile was hurting your cheeks as he nodded, pulling you into his chest. He was sweaty and overwhelmingly warm, but you didn't care as he plucked the fabric of your wet shirt off your back in greeting.
"You know…you could've greeted me first."
"Oh, not this again! Seungcheol, Wonwoo is just my friend."
"I know he is, Y/N." Seungcheol said pointedly, but you felt scrutinized under his arched brow. You felt your lip jut out into a pout, and he sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"C'mon, you can come over to mine and change." He swept your hair back over your shoulders, his fingers brushing your neck. You frowned, your hands floating to his wrists as he shook his head.
"Tell me you love me, Cheol."
"I love you, honey. Come on."
It wasn't a lie. Seungcheol did love you, but it'd slightly become less of a romantic love as the months pressed on. He couldn't get over the odd feeling in his stomach when he saw Wonwoo's soft gestures towards you, the way Wonwoo served your drinks at the parties you went to, the way Wonwoo behind a camera made you smile easily – far easier than necessary for someone that was just your friend.
He hated how you didn't see it, the way Wonwoo was in love with you. He could see it, and he knew it was the truth: Wonwoo would visibly tense at the sound of your name. Seungcheol remembers when Junhui asked him his plans last week, and how Wonwoo grimaced when Seungcheol said he was taking you on a date night.
He didn't like feeling this way. He didn't like feeling like his jealousy was festering in the pit of his stomach while you saw it as nothing more than just friendly banter. Granted – Wonwoo never flirted with you, never touched you inappropriately, he never crossed the line.
But the soft compliments he gave you? The gentle swipe of your hair off your face and the adjustment of your necklaces?
The way he calmly called your name, or sweetheart from across the room…
And you listened.
It wasn't your fault. Seungcheol knew it wasn't, and he felt like a fool to keep feeling so much resentment towards Wonwoo – especially when Wonwoo also made it strictly known that everything he felt was platonic.
It just didn't feel that way.
"I love you, Cheol."
"I know, honey. Now…let's get dinner?"
– FIVE YEARS AGO: INCHEON AIRPORT TO LAGUARDIA, NEW YORK.
"I'm sorry."
You were standing in the middle of Incheon Airport, your duffle bag tucked over your shoulder when Hansol dropped the bomb.
"Sorry?" You whispered, your voice shaky as the reality of his words sank in.
It'd been a few days since you packed your last box and dropped it off at your parents' house. Hansol had gone with you, warmly greeting your parents and sitting in your living room, your mother showing him baby photos. You remember feeling your heart race at how Hansol traced your face in the pictures, before glancing up at you.
The wild beating in your chest hadn't been positive, and there was a glint of knowing in Hansol's eyes. The relationship was over, it was just a matter of who pulled the plug, and when.
It had been a month or so since you settled everything in New York, and a month since either of you spoke about it. You had gone to his apartment and looked to pick a fight – but the fight never happened. He pulled you into him, and you had snuggled in his bed. You kissed, you watched movies…
But it was a goodbye and you denied it. In your heart, in your mind, you wanted to deny it.
It was a good thing, wasn't it? To be in New York and know that Hansol had connections there?
His sister lived there. If he wanted…if he wanted, he could come with you. Transfer to a university in New York, and it would be worth it. To study in a place he once called home, to breathe in the inspiration of the city that has been the background of hundreds of films, the breeding ground of insane creativity?
And if not…what about you? Were you enough to want to move in with? Did he see a future with you where things were more than just college sweethearts who stayed over at each other's apartments more than four times a week? Did he understand who you were, to the depths – the need to love, because you were overflowing with it?
Did he see a future where you were more than just attached at the hip with Wonwoo?
The truth was, he did. He saw it all with you – the apartment, the marriage, hell, even a kid or two. He saw all of it, a ring and a career alongside you and to see all your hopes and aspirations grow into something tangible. He saw it.
You didn't.
"I know it's shitty of m-me to do this, especially n-now." He held back his tears, but his voice shook with bitten back sobs anyway. "But I can't. I c-can't do long distance."
Somehow, he knew you knew that wasn't the real reason. He knew, from the way the back of your eyes filled with hurt and betrayal, the grip on your duffle making the strap burrow into your hand. The way you bounced on your toes, once, twice – before nodding. A singular tear rolled down your face.
"It's okay. I understand." Your voice had been surprisingly steady as he hesitated, before reaching his arms out. You stepped into them, and somehow felt the weight off your shoulders as he hugged you tightly. "I'll miss you, Sol."
"I miss you already, babe. Please call me when you land, okay? I'll be up, I swear."
You had called him when you landed. He'd arranged to have a car pick you up and take you to your new apartment. He finally cried on the phone, and you sobbed with him as you made your bed and settled in.
After six hours of reminiscing and crying on the phone, you hung up for what you thought would be the last time. He wished you good luck, and to call him whenever you wanted. And God, you wanted to.
But just like Wonwoo, you left it alone. Six months, not a single word.
– PRESENT: LAGUARDIA AIRPORT TO JEON WONWOO, HOME.
You looked into the empty space you used to call your second home. Gone were the calming periwinkle walls, the gold-detailed pastry cases. Gone were your cherry wood bar stools, the wicker recliners in the corner, the play areas for children.
Your shop was gone, and you held the keys in your hand one last time.
"End of an era, huh? Where are you going to go now?" Mr. Cortéz was next to you, holding his granddaughter on his hip as you sighed.
"I'm not sure. I'm going to miss Harlem, but I know that…this isn't home." You said sheepishly, running a hand through your hair. He nodded, patting your shoulder with a sympathetic smile.
"We're going to miss you here, mija. You will always have a place in Harlem with us."
To say you wanted to cry was an understatement, but you just blinked the tears back as you allowed him and his granddaughter to envelope you into an embrace. "I left my cupcake recipe with your wife, so you can always make them for Elisa. I'm going to miss you."
"Be safe, okay? Don't give up on your dreams." He patted your back softly, and you held back a sniffle as your leasing agent gave you a soft smile.
Goodbyes were never something you were good at, but you couldn't say anything more as you handed your keys back to the leasing agent and turned to your packed car. You grimaced at the sight of Euijoo's neck pillow still in your passenger seat, and you reached in through the window to grab it and shoved it in the trash.
You sighed, glancing up at your empty shop once more before slipping into the driver's seat, gripping the glittery wheel cover. You blinked once, twice, before shoving your key in the ignition and pulling out of your parking spot.
You truly had no idea if this was the right decision. In your mind, you weren't sure.
But your heart?
You broke up with Euijoo a few months ago, and kicked him out of your apartment. You slowly started selling everything in the apartment, only packing your essentials and finding a wholesale thrift to take all your furniture from the pastry shop. You closed the shop officially a week ago, and did a mass bake sale to finish all your products.
You went back and forth to Seoul without telling anyone, finding a cozy apartment in Gangnam and meeting with a leasing agent there to open a shop. Your parents long stopped asking you to come home, but you couldn't help and feel giddy as you walked around the city – gorging yourself on hot street food and buying furniture for your new apartment without interference.
Now?
You just had to board your plane. You'd sold your car to Euijoo's brother, Hyunjin, and he was waiting at the airport to take it once you left.
You had zero plans of telling anyone anything, and you'd be landing in Seoul the day before your birthday. You could catch up on any sleep, and then visit Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant. Maybe get dinner there, maybe catch up with the couple…
Maybe surprise Wonwoo.
Yeah, that sounds like the plan.
"Nice change of scenery, finally took a vacation?"
Wonwoo's voice is once more staticky through FaceTime, and you've got him propped up in your new bathroom. You hadn't said anything about leaving New York yet, but you shrugged as you carefully lined your lips.
"Mhm, could say that. Finally get to do shit without Euijoo weighing me down. What are your plans tonight? Going to Gyu's?" You ask nonchalantly, but you can feel your hands trembling as you put down your lipliner. If Wonwoo notices, he doesn't say anything.
"Actually, I'm going to swing by the restaurant in a bit. We always call you for your birthday, you know, so it's funny you called me first." He nods lightly, but you know Wonwoo too well to think he's not even slightly suspicious.
"Wanted to beat you to it, I guess. I feel alone here a bit, the resort is super nice but I'm so…ugh, I don't know. I might go out for a beer, see what kind of trouble I can get myself into." You wiggle your brows in the camera, and Wonwoo snorts. He swings his keys in front of him, shaking his head as he speaks.
"Not too much trouble, I hope. Have you talked to your parents yet? I know your mom misses you, you've been even more MIA since you and Euijoo broke up. I commend it, don't get me wrong, but still. Where the hell have you been?"
"Healing." You shrug, smushing your cheek with the palm of your hand. Wonwoo doesn't look like he believes you, but you only give him a soft smile. He tries to bite his back, tonguing his cheek as he huffs.
"You look happier. I like that."
"I feel happier, Woo."
It's not a lie. You feel so much lighter being back in Seoul, knowing that your family and friends are no more than a train ride away.
You pretend to check your watch, sucking your teeth.
"Shit, I'm going to miss my dinner reservation. Will you still call me when you get to the restaurant? I miss you guys." You pout, tucking your hair behind your ears as Wonwoo nods.
"Yeah, no worries. Be safe, and don't get too tipsy. I can't hold your hair when you throw up from all the way over here, you know." He scolds, making you giggle.
"Got it. I'll see you, yeah?" You nod, and he does the same.
"See you, sweetheart."
The call goes dead as your heart registers the pet name, but you immediately rustle out of the bathroom to catch a taxi. You're wearing a black crew neck over a nice pair of jeans, paired with your favorite dirty Chucks in forest green. You grab your winter coat off the hook by the door, tugging it on and shoving your phone in your pocket. Checking the coat pockets for your wallet and keys, you find both in the left pocket and practically slam out of your apartment.
Not having been to Mingyu and Tzuyu's restaurant definitely proved navigating there to be difficult. You got out a block away from the actual spot, tugging a face mask over your face and pulling the hood of your coat over your hair. You take a deep breath, taking a step forward when you see a tall man step out of a taxi, a black coat covering broad shoulders. Thick frames sit on his nose, the lower half of his face covered by a black mask. You squint your eyes to see closer as he hands the driver a wad of cash, and the crinkle of his nose proves it's exactly who you're looking for.
Jeon Wonwoo.
You stay rooted in your spot as he walks coolly into the restaurant, holding the door open for a woman and her daughter to slip out. The daughter's eyes widen as he moves past them, her cheeks flushing as her mother rushes her off the sidewalk. What a funny thing, to see someone else experience the same things you do.
Over the year that you decided to leave New York, you spoke to Hansol and Seungcheol a lot – even after promising 'this is the last call,' you called them again and again.
As it turns out, he too felt that Wonwoo was a bigger part of your life than he could ever be, but it didn't hit him until he found out Wonwoo had missed every single AV Club meeting in the two weeks following him finding out that the two of you were dating. Wonwoo didn't speak to Hansol directly for over a month, until Hansol confronted him and got the answers he was looking for.
Wonwoo had long been in love with you, and had gone over to your apartment initially to, yes, tell you he'd broken up with Jaehee; but he also went over there to confess to you. He'd brought over a bouquet of pink camellias, but left them on the porch in case he caught you at a bad time – and Hansol later found out he threw them away on his way out of your apartment complex.
At first, Hansol had nothing to say on the matter. You were his girlfriend — but he couldn’t lie to himself, the guilt of knowing Wonwoo had been in love with you for so long was starting to eat away at him. With a reluctant heart, he ended things; only for Wonwoo’s dumbass to not make a move and let you slip away to New York.
You'd also heard from Seungcheol and Hansol that he hadn't kept a girlfriend around for too long since – nothing to write home about. He didn't introduce any of them to anyone, just soft launched here and there on social media but mostly kept the "situationships" to himself.
The only hope you had in your belly was that your plan would go, well, according to plan. You'd ordered a bouquet of flowers, pink camellias, to be delivered to Wonwoo at the restaurant after you arrived. After that…okay you didn't plan anything after that, but spontaneity is cool, right?
You wipe your palms on your coat, taking a deep breath as you walk towards the door. Yanking it open, you hear the doorbell alert the people inside – only to see a few people scattered around. Mingyu is wiping a glass down behind the bar and Tzuyu is sitting on a barstool next to Wonwoo, her left hand sitting atop her belly.
With a huge rock on her ring finger.
"Welcome to Hana's! Have a seat anywhere, we'll be right with you!"
Her voice is just as warm as ever, and you find yourself forcing your feet to move, ducking your head as you head towards the back of the restaurant. You see Mingyu lean over to grab a bottle off the wall, and you slide into one of the booths where you're out of sight but they're not.
You can hear them start to talk about you, Mingyu pouring Wonwoo a beer and sliding it across the bar.
"Has Y/N spoken to either of you?" Tzuyu asks, and Wonwoo clicks his tongue.
"Yeah, she called me earlier. It was a little odd, considering we always call her. But it's her birthday, I'm not going to badger her for answers. Plus, she's on vacation for once. Can't complain." He shrugs, and Mingyu laughs softly.
"Vacation? Where? Did she say?"
"I didn't ask." Wonwoo replies, and Tzuyu snorts.
"You'd be a horrible spy, Jeon. Here, I'm going to call her. She's gotten better at answering." You watch Tzuyu grab her phone off the table, and quickly lower your ringer as far as it will go. She faces the phone towards all of them, and Wonwoo looks unamused as you feel your phone start vibrating in your hand.
You deny the call, quickly texting her that you're driving to dinner and will call her when you get to the restaurant. A lie, and you can see her frown sadly next to Wonwoo. She puts her phone down, sliding off the bar stool – likely on her way to you.
"Gonna take this order, I'll be right back." She grabs the notepad off the bar, but the ringing of the doorbell grabs her attention. A delivery man with a huge bouquet of flowers slips in, holding the baby blue gift card in his hand.
"For Jeon Wonwoo? Is there a Jeon Wonwoo here?"
Wonwoo's eyes go wide, before he clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. That's me, thank you. Does it say who they're from?"
The delivery man hands him the card, bidding everyone a good night.
"Well?" Mingyu leans over as Wonwoo puts the flowers down on the bar and flips the card open. His eyes dart back and forth as he reads it, before handing it to Mingyu, who reads it out loud while Wonwoo thumbs the petals.
To Wonwoo,
Thank you for always being someone I can count on, even when I'm halfway across the world. Thank you for looking out for me, and for loving me more than you let on.
Always yours,
Y/N.
P.S. Don't forget to call me back!
"Huh." Mingyu clicks his tongue, and Tzuyu grabs the card and scans it. She sighs, holding it to her chest.
"Camellias…" Wonwoo pouts, before his eyes narrow. "They're her favorite. It's like she's trying to tell me something."
"Okay, mind reader. What could she possibly have to say that isn't already in the card?" Tzuyu waves it around, and you take it as your chance to slide out of the booth, hands in your pockets. You walk towards them quietly as Mingyu and Tzuyu begin to theorize, and neither of them look your way as you slide into the barstool diagonal to Wonwoo's.
"She probably wants to know what a girl's gotta do to get some service around here." You mumble, and Tzuyu flushes, about to apologize when you carefully slip your mask off.
"But I guess you can treat me, since it is my birthday." You shrug, Mingyu's eyes widening before he covers his face and sinks to the ground behind the bar. Tzuyu scoffs out a laugh, her eyes filling with tears as she pulls your hood off your head, her hands smoothing your hair down gently.
"You're home." She whispers, her belly getting in the way as she pulls you into her. You feel your eyes burn with tears as she buries her face in your hair, your hand moving to pat her back.
"I am, I missed you guys." You murmur, and Mingyu hops over the bar to also crush you in his embrace. You can barely see out of your teary eyes, but you can see Wonwoo's cheeks flushed almost as pink as the flowers, the shock in his demeanor evident but he just clears his throat and looks away.
"How long are you here for? A week? A month? Please say a month, you have to meet our kids." Mingyu begs into your hair, and you can barely conjure words as Wonwoo stays silent. "Shit, I'll even buy you a new ticket back to New York if you stay for two months."
You don't respond, waiting for the couple to pull away. You wiggle lightly, making them both move back as you wipe your eyes. "I'm here for good. I have a new place in Gangnam, and I'm opening a shop a few blocks from here. I'm…I'm sorry I didn't tell any of you guys."
You gesture towards Wonwoo as well, who only tongues his cheek before running the tips of his fingers around the rim of his beer. He nods, "Yeah. Welcome home, sweetheart."
"You're not even going to hug me? Some friend you are." You try to joke, and Wonwoo scoffs,before reluctantly sliding off his stool. Tzuyu says something about getting you dinner, skirting out of the way. It seems Mingyu also gets the hint, moving away with the promise of a nice beer.
You're overwhelmed by the same patchouli scent on Wonwoo’s clothes, sweetened with notes of peach as he wraps his arms around your waist. Your own wrap around his shoulders, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest as he breathes you in softly. He nestles his head next to yours, and his breath is warm against your ear as he speaks.
"I've missed you so much, Y/N." He mumbles, and you feel his arms tighten slightly, as if you're going to slip away. "We need to have a serious conversation, though, because I am mad at you."
You scoff slightly, trying to hide your tears as you bury your face in his neck. He rubs your back gently, before pulling away and wiping your eyes carefully. "Later."
You only nod, watching Tzuyu carefully walk over with a bowl of hot tofu stew, and Mingyu slides a pint glass across the bar for you.
You spend the next three hours consoling an emotional Tzuyu, and telling Mingyu all about the delicious dishes you tried in New York. He jests that the restaurant would love a pastry chef if you're willing to share your recipes, and you only snort and turn him down softly. You tell them all about Euijoo, only earning scoffs and huffs from the couple as Wonwoo nurses his beer silently.
You tell them about your shop in Harlem, and how it was actually a call with Wonwoo last year that made you realize that you were unhappy – which made his cheeks flush, but he remained quiet, only nodding along. Tzuyu squeezes his shoulder, and he just nibbles on his lip as you keep talking about all the regulars you had. You tell them about your SoHo apartment and how you often visited the Seaglass Carousel if you were feeling stressed. You promised to take them there someday, if they ever wanted to see what your life was like when you were gone.
They fill you in about their own lives – planning their wedding, having their second daughter in a few weeks. They talk about their oldest, Eunha, and how she's growing up to be just like Mingyu. You hold back tears as they eagerly talk about their budding family and their beautiful relationship, often sharing looks full of adoration and admiration for one another as they spoke. You listen carefully, and Tzuyu even asks if, since you're back, you'd like to be a bridesmaid.
You agree, when Mingyu finally brings out a thick slice of his infamous chocolate cake – one that actually got you into baking but you'd never admit it. At least, not to him.
"Happy Birthday, Y/N! We're so glad you're home, seriously. It's been so dull without you." Tzuyu cheers, allowing Mingyu to light the pink candle in the middle of the slice. You smile softly, tucking your hair behind your ears as they sing to you softly – Wonwoo mouthing along from his stool.
"Make a wish." Mingyu holds it up to you, and you can't help but realize that he's a father now. Tzuyu is a mother, and they have their whole lives figured out. They're so gentle, loving, passionate…and you're still trying to figure yourself out.
Ah, but comparison is the thief of joy.
You close your eyes, sighing before conjuring your wish in your mind.
You don't notice when Wonwoo takes a quick photo, the flash hidden by Tzuyu's shoulder.
You blow out the candle quietly, opening your eyes to see the couple clapping softly. Tapping the plate, you clear your throat.
"Can I get this in a box? I have some things I need to sort out before the night ends."
Mingyu and Tzuyu share a look, before she glances over her shoulder. You nod as she looks back at you, and she smiles.
"Well, we'll see you more often, right? You have to meet Eunha, and the baby."
"Absolutely."
And you mean it. You mean it as Mingyu boxes up your slice of cake, sealing it into a brown paper bag for you. You inch closer and closer to Wonwoo as the goodbyes become extensive, before splaying your hand across his back. He glances over his shoulder, a jump in his brows as if to say, ready to go?
You bid Mingyu and Tzuyu a good night, and you promise them you'll even try to come by in the morning for Mingyu's mother's oxtail soup. Mingyu says he can't promise there will be any up by the time you come by, but you make Tzuyu promise to save you a bowl. She does.
"When did you sell the shop?" Wonwoo asks as the two of you step out into the street, the cold air making his breath visible as he speaks. "And why didn't you tell me?"
You look at the flowers in his arms, how he holds them like a baby.
"I was worried you'd be upset that I gave up." You murmur as the two of you begin to walk seemingly with no direction, earning a sigh from Wonwoo.
“I’m upset that you didn’t even think to tell me anything. I’m supposed to be your friend. One of your best friends, if I’m not mistaken. You move across the world and suddenly that doesn’t matter anymore?”
“Wonwoo, it’s not like that. I just…I should know what I want out of life. I should know where my heart calls home, but it’s only been a person. I’m not sure if the place matters.” You sigh, running a hand through your hair as Wonwoo flags down a taxi.
“Your place or mine?” He mutters, opening the door for you to slide in.
“Yours.” You mumble back, giving the driver a quick smile as Wonwoo shuts the door. He rattles off his address — and it’s the same building as yours.
“…I live there, too.” You whisper, and he clicks his tongue.
“Good to know.” He shrugs, before reaching over and tugging your seat belt on. He clicks in place, choosing to stay silent as the taxi weaves through the busy roads. You want to say something, and you attempt to several times — but he just shakes his head, pressing a finger to his lips as if to say wait.
And wait, you did.
You let him pay the taxi driver and help you out of the taxi. You let him lead you into the lobby, the security guard giving the both of you a curt nod as you duck into the elevator.
Wonwoo only lives a few doors down from you.
“Interesting.” You murmur to yourself. It’s like I’ll always find my way back to you.
He unlocked his door, holding it open for you to slip through. You did, silently toeing your shoes off in his foyer before stepping into his living room. Shrugging your coat off, you watch him flick the lights on.
Everything is so him. From stacked consoles on the side of his television, to a bookcase full of acoustic guitar records and a few thick books. A few of his cameras are strewn on his kitchen table, popped open and film exposed. His record player sits in front of his window, the blinds and curtains pushed open and the window slightly ajar to circulate the air. There is a mug on his coffee table, half full of what you assume to be green tea.
It smells like patchouli, peaches, and home.
His hand takes the bag from you, and he walks past you to place the flowers and the cake on his kitchen counter. He closes his eyes as he tugs his coat off, and you avert your eyes from his form-fitting shirt — opting to turn around and hang your coat on the rack by the door.
“Are you actually here for good? Or was that just something you said to appease Mingyu and Tzuyu?” He mutters, thumbing at the petals of the flowers once more. You sigh, crossing your arms as you sidle up next to him. Your hip bumps his as you lean on the counter, and his eyes avoid yours as you look up at him.
His shoulders are tense.
“I’m here for good, Wonwoo. I missed it here, I missed Mingyu and Tzuyu and I missed my parents.”
“What about me? Did you miss me?”
His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear it, and you purposely bump your hip to his to garner his attention.
“Of course I missed you.” You whisper, a smile twitching at your lips as he nibbles on his lip.
“Then why didn’t you visit? Why did it take you six months to call me when you first moved? Why…Why did you date Euijoo?”
You feel your chest ache at his questions, the furrow in his brows making you push off the counter, straightening. Sighing, you rest your head on his bicep, the muscle tensing beneath your cheek.
“Sometimes we do things to fill a void, you know? Sometimes we hide from the things we know could be good for us, and look for something we think could be enough, so we won’t ruin or sully what we have already.” You shrug, and he looks down at you again.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I wish I would’ve realized how you felt about me before I left. I mean, I would’ve still gone but I would’ve visited more. I would’ve come back often, tried to make it work. I’m sorry.”
You peer up at him through your lashes, and he just shakes his head.
“My feelings here don’t matter, I’m talking about you.”
“You are a huge part of me, of my life.” You remind him, your hand ghosting over the small of his back as he huffs.
“So you abandoned your life in New York, your dream, for me?” Wonwoo sounds almost offended, and you scoff.
“I abandoned my life in New York because I missed home. I missed my parents, my friends. I miss talking to my friends when we’re all staying up late, not just when I am and I have to go to bed when the gab gets good. I…I missed walking around in the middle of the night with you, and getting heartburn from eating spicy noodles at two in the morning. Can’t I miss home, Wonwoo?”
He clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers on the counter. “I guess you can. But you said home for you is not a place, but a person.”
“I did say that.”
He doesn’t say anything, picking at his nails silently before sighing.
“Did Hansol tell you about the flowers?” He murmurs, and you nod.
“You could’ve talked to me, especially between boyfriends. You had lots of chances, Seungcheol literally aired you out.” You say pointedly, and he rolls his eyes.
“You didn’t believe him, and I wasn’t going to ruin our friendship because I was feeling something you weren't.”
“And how do you know that I wasn’t?” You raise a brow, and he scoffs. He shoves his hands in his pockets, moving out of the kitchen to go sit on his couch. He leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes as you make your way over and perch on the edge of his mahogany coffee table.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday dinner that one year. I thought if I missed one, it’d be easier to start getting used to not seeing you. I was fully committed to getting over you, to moving on, even if I wasn’t happy with…fuck, I forgot her name.”
“Jaehee.”
“With Jaehee.” He ran his hand over his face, and you sigh.
“That was ages ago, Wonwoo. We move on.” You pat his knee, and he lifts his head to face you. His cheeks are slightly flushed as he takes a breath.
“I don’t want to move on, that’s the problem. You think I haven’t tried? Do you know how many relationships I’ve been in since you’ve left?”
“Mmh, I don’t. Do tell.” You nod, inching slightly closer, resting your elbows on your knees and clasping your hands together. He doesn’t look amused, running an exasperated hand through his hair and closing his eyes.
“I look for you everywhere, and I’ve never even had you. I can’t help but compare every single woman I’ve ever been with to you, Y/N. It’s driving me fucking insane, being in love with you.”
He’s hiding his face in his hands, and you feel your chest grow hot as you hum in response. You shift slightly, your knees bumping his and making him sigh.
“I mean, for years it's been like we're in this odd mesh of limerence and denial. You do something that makes me think, oh, maybe she's into me? You'd seek me out for comfort, for help, for whatever, and I was there. I am there, like an idiot, hoping you'll just get it. Then you date people who are in proximity to me – my best friend, my team captain, the secretary of my AV club. Then you leave. You left, Y/N."
"I know." You can't recognize the thickness in the back of your throat, the way you swallow around it as he fiddles with one of his rings. "You didn't even come say goodbye, Wonwoo. Hansol ripped my heart out and handed it to me, because of you, and you weren't even there."
"I didn't want to see you cry." He mumbles, and you only shake your head.
"You've seen me cry, you've seen me laugh. You've been the reason behind the tears and the laughter. You've seen me in all these weird spots in my life, you watched me date all these men. You were most of the reason as to why these men broke up with me. Yet, you never once thought that I was looking for you?"
"Why would I ever give myself that much importance?" He scoffs, and you shrug.
"Maybe because I give you that much importance, Wonwoo."
He sighs shakily, leaning back on the couch cushions and swallowing hard. "Did you know I got a few collections displayed in a museum after you left? Your parents went, did they send you photos?"
"Some. I liked the one of Tzuyu and Mingyu in the flower fields."
He got up, skirting around your knees and walking up to the bookcase next to his TV. He scours the leather bound books, before a soft aha! falls from his lips, pulling out a green one. He flips it, and you realize it's a photo album.
He hands it to you, sitting back down on the couch.
You open it tentatively, your fingers trembling as the photos come into view. They have that digital camera feel to them, a bit grainy and dated. The first photo was old, you could tell just from the image: it was you and Mingyu, sitting around a bonfire at a waterfall you would hang out at during the warmer months, one that went into a lake lined with boulders. You were dating here, and your nose had melted marshmallow swiped across it while Mingyu grinned in the corner of the photo.
"This is an old photo, Wonwoo."
"They're all old, you haven't been around." He retorts, before flipping the page.
Another photo of you smiling as you laid out on the flat boulder by the edge of the lake, another of you on the handlebars of Mingyu's bike – you remember that one, it was Mingyu's seventeenth birthday. Another of you with Tzuyu solving a puzzle during one of Mingyu's visits, you and Hansol sharing a cup of lemonade during a snack run after one of Wonwoo's soccer games, you and Seungcheol swinging on a hammock in the park – where you often bumped into Wonwoo taking photos of birds, flowers, life.
There was photo after photo of you, in every moment of your life. There was a photo of the pink camellias he'd gotten for you, there was a photo of his student apartment packed up but one of your cardigans, bright red, stark against the cardboard boxes. This album, full of memories of you through his eyes – without a singular glimpse of Wonwoo, until the last photo.
It wasn't like the other photos – this was high definition, and you remember this photo being taken. You were wearing a pink t-shirt that had belonged to Wonwoo, and a necklace that Wonwoo had given to you for one of your birthdays. You were sitting on his couch, surrounded by Mingyu and Tzuyu. You had a bag of honey mustard pretzels that Wonwoo bought you in your lap, your smile shy and your fingers holding a napkin.
It was the day you finally told them you'd be leaving, just moments before.
And you remember how quietly he'd put his camera away after that, and your friends had settled uneasily around you. Wonwoo sat on his coffee table, eyes worried but masked with a soft smile – just like you were, now.
The album was empty after that, with only two or three pages left to complete it.
"This was an exhibit I arranged for the museum, but I never submitted it. I called it Hanging By A Moment, because that's what…" He takes a deep breath. "That's what this feels like. I feel like I'm just waiting for the moment to end, and I'm not sure in which direction I would prefer it to happen. Sometimes I would stay awake and wonder why I didn't go visit you, but I knew exactly why."
You set the photo album on your lap, giving him a gentle look.
"You didn't want to see something that would break your heart."
"I didn't want to see you happy with someone else, somewhere else." His voice is thick, and you move to speak but he shakes his head.
"I didn't want to go somewhere and see you living so well without me, when I'm in shambles without you. I couldn't sleep most nights the first year that you were gone. I found myself still walking towards your apartment with Hansol. Hell, I've even hung out with Seungcheol, routinely, just to feel the influence of you. The essence of what you are, imprinted in the people you've graced with your presence."
He's looking down at his hands, a singular tear rolling down his cheek. You feel like you can't breathe around the lump in your throat, as he glances up.
"I don't think I can handle this anymore. I need you to say nothing is ever going to happen between us, that the moment is over. I need you to end this, because if you don't, I never will."
You can't speak, but it doesn't matter – because he keeps going.
"I'd be perfectly content having you within arm's reach for the rest of my life, as long as you're happy. You could be across the world, hell, across the fucking universe and I'd never stop missing you, or yearning for you, or loving you. Befriending you all those years ago has got to be one of the biggest mistakes I have ever made, because I can't imagine a life without you. But loving you, being in love with you? Y/N, that has got to be the biggest grace I've ever been given by whatever God is out there. Nothing has ever been easier than loving you has been, but it is the most painful thing I've ever experienced. So, please. End this, I'm begging you."
Your throat hurts from holding back your tears, a soft sob escaping your lips as you turn away. You let the tears run down your cheeks, using your hand to muffle your cries as he just lets his tears drip onto his jeans. You can see, through blurry eyes, the way he wants to reach for you, the way his hands clenched into fists before he shoves them under his thighs.
It's silent for a moment, aside from shaky breathing and a few sniffles from Wonwoo. You wipe your eyes carefully, trembling hands gripping the edges of the album as you slide it onto the coffee table next to you. He grabs it, using it as an excuse to stand up and move around – Wonwoo always needed to do that after talking. Like he felt the need to exert all his feelings physically.
You also stand, his rug soft under your socked feet as he slides the album back in place. He doesn't turn back around, his hand lingering on the spine of the album as you round the coffee table. You're right behind him, seeing the buried tension in his back and shoulders as he feels your presence. You clear your throat as best as you can.
"I don't want the moment to end."
He doesn't move, and you find yourself stepping in front of him, between the bookcase and his chest. He doesn't look at you, but allows your hands to find home on his chest. You smooth his shirt cautiously, before patting him gently.
He glances down.
"You're my home, Wonwoo." You say softly, feeling his breath hitch in his throat. Your hand moves to his jaw, your thumb gently tracing circles into his cheek. He has a bit of stubble, despite the cool scent of his aftershave. You can't help but let the sacred words slip from your lips as his eyes bore into yours.
"I love you."
He looks away, a shaky sob from his lips making your heart ache as you rest your head on his chest. He instinctively wraps his arms around you, so used to your physical affection in years past that it's just muscle memory at this point – despite his own reserved affections. You're surrounded by his scent, his warmth, him.
"I know it won't be easy. I've been gone for five years, and I've missed so much of your life. I know my apologies count for near nothing at this point, but you can't sincerely believe that I haven't yearned for you every step of my journey away."
You're slightly muffled, feeling the metal of his necklace under his shirt as he holds you closer, tighter. He doesn't reply, so you keep going.
"I love you, Wonwoo. I'm sorry I didn't allow myself to feel it before, and I'm sorry that I've made you wait so long. I'll wait, as long as you need me to. As long as you want me to wait, even if I die waiting–"
"I'd wait an eternity for you." He murmurs into your hair, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
"You shouldn't say that, Wonwoo."
"But I did, and I will. I'd die waiting for you, if that's what it takes."
You sigh, pressing your forehead to his chest. "Are you still mad at me?"
For the first time in years, you hear him laugh softly. Your arms tighten around his waist reflexively, a pout on your lips as you peer up at him.
"I missed your laugh."
He huffs, cheeks tinging pink as he avoids your gaze, carding his fingers through your hair. "I'm still mad at you. I bet you paid a shit load of money for a cab from the airport, didn't you? You could've just told me to come pick you up. I would've done it."
"I wanted to surprise you."
"Well…what about your apartment? I didn't even get to recommend this place, you probably went through some real estate guy–"
"You're just grappling at things to be mad about, aren't you?"
"No. I am mad." He grumbles, his lip jutted out in a pout as you smile up at him.
"You sure? Can't I change your mind, my good sir?" You wiggle your brows, and he scoffs, but you see the twitch of a smile on the corner of his lips. He tongues his cheek as your hands move to his face, making him look down at you. "I'm sorry, Wonwoo."
He rolls his eyes, your hands squishing his cheeks together.
"Prove it."
You quirk a brow, "Prove…what?"
"That you love me. Prove it." He shrugs, moving your hands off his face and letting them go at your sides. You scoff, gesturing to the air.
"I'm here, aren't I? Isn't that enough?" You cross your arms, a defiant look crossing your features as he sighs. His fingers are warm as they tuck a stray curl behind your ear, your skin prickling as he thumbs at your earlobe.
"Of course it's enough." He mumbles, "You'll always be enough. More, even. More than enough for me."
You think he mumbles I love you.
Your face grows hot as he scans it, eyes heavy with purpose and love. For the first time, you allow yourself to realize how nervous Wonwoo makes you – your heart racing in your chest as you lean closer to him. He doesn't back away, his hand now gently holding your jaw. His thumb rests on the corner of your lip, the weight so comforting.
"Kiss me."
You do just that, your lips crashing into his as he steadies your body. Your hands fist his shirt as he kisses you slowly, walking you back into the bookshelf. Your back hits it gently, his hands cupping your face softly as he pulls away. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as your fingers circled his wrists.
"I missed you so much, sweetheart."
"I missed you too, Wonwoo."
He struggles to bite back his smile, your lips pressing a chaste kiss to his before peppering them all over his face. "You can't stay mad at me forever, you know." You speak through kisses, his nose scrunching as you press your lips to it.
"I can certainly try. You know I can hold a mean grudge."
"Mingyu ate your leftovers once, Wonwoo. He literally cooked for you everyday of college, you need to let it go."
"You're taking his side? Some friend you are." He scoffs, his hands pushing your hair off your shoulders. You wrap your arms around his waist, your chin in the center of his chest as you pout up at him.
"I flew all this way, I confessed my love…and I'm your friend?"
He tongues his cheek, swallowing his laughter as he shakes his head.
"Well, no. A friend wouldn't leave me for five years and then suddenly show back up–"
"Wonwoo."
" –And expect me to just forgive her. You could at least try and get in my good graces."
You huff, "So you hate me."
"No, no. I'm very much in love with you, actually. However, though love is merciful…I am not as much. You said you'd wait."
"Wonwoo–"
"Ah, ah. You said you'd wait. So you will." He shrugs, running his hand through your hair. He twirls a piece around his finger, "I know that you know how I feel about you, from other people's minds and mouths. I think it's best if I get to show you, truthfully and openly. Don't you?"
You say nothing just yet, choosing to stare up at him with a hint of worry in your eyes. He glances down, the hand in your hair coming to gently hold your jaw.
"What if you realize you don't want me?"
"Oh, sweetheart. I'd be a fool not to want you. Let the sky fall the day I make that stupid decision."
You sigh, moving to rest your cheek on his chest. He hums, running his fingertips across your scalp.
"It's not everyday you find a muse in someone the moment you meet them. Don't worry about me ever not wanting you, me ever not needing you."
You don't reply, feeling your nose burn as your eyes fill with tears. He pats the back of your head, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"Come, I need to take your picture. You need to fill the last few pages of that album."
And, you comply.
You let him wipe your tears, pressing kisses to your eyelids as he sits you at his kitchen counter. He pulls out a gold candle from his kitchen drawer, sticking it in the cake slice from the restaurant and lighting it carefully. He pushes your hair back, and pulls the pendant of your necklace out to rest in the middle of your chest.
"Smile, sweetheart." He murmurs behind the camera, and you do. You smile, glossed lips swollen from the kisses, eyes full of stars as you stare at Wonwoo behind the flash. "Make a wish, quickly."
You lean forward, closing your eyes when you see another flash behind your lids. Smiling to yourself, you blow the candle out, quickly taking it out of the cake slice. He offers a fork, and you lean on your elbows as he takes out a few bottles of soju.
"What'd you wish for?" He asks, unscrewing one of the lids off the bottles. You smirk around a bite of cake, shaking your head as he turns away to rummage for shot glasses.
"I'm not telling you, it won't come true."
He scoffs, pulling out a set of shot glasses you'd given him during college. They have Snoopy and Woodstock doodled on the sides – he was always Woodstock, you were Snoopy.
"Oh, come on. Tell me, I'll make it come true."
"What are you, a magician? Tell me what else I missed while I was gone."
He rolls his eyes, running his tongue over his lower lip as he slides the Snoopy glass over, filled to the brim with fresh soju. You take it carefully, and he raises a brow.
"Tell me your wish, Y/N."
You huff, before reaching over to cheers your glass with his. You both knock back the liquor, and you scrunch your nose as you slide it back over to him. He fills it again, and you shift in your chair.
"If I tell you, you'll have to do it."
"Stop being so ominous, I hate it when you do that."
He slides the glass back over, only half full as he sidles up next to you. Your hand instinctively wraps around his bicep, and you rest your cheek on his shoulder.
"Promise me you'll make it come true, Wonwoo."
"I promise. It's your birthday, sweetheart. I'd bring down the stars if you asked."
– SIX WEEKS LATER: GOYANGI'S HOME, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA.
Wonwoo had done exactly as you asked on your birthday – he kept his word, and tried his best to make your birthday wishes come true. Granted, you underestimated him: he would get both done within the six weeks it took to get your shop open.
After the two of you finished off the thick slice of chocolate cake, Wonwoo asked you to spend the night. You did, and a part of you held back tears as he held you in his arms – mumbling in his sleep. Mumbling about how he loved you, how long he'd waited…
How scared he was you'd slip away, like sand in an hourglass timer.
You'd spent the last month and a half glued at the hip. He took you to visit your parents early in the mornings, who bawled uncontrollably and demanded you'd stay all day. Wonwoo hadn't minded, and he stayed with you for dinner several times – and took many odd photos. He never showed you any of them, but he couldn't let you out of his sight, either.
He accompanied you to all your furniture shopping for the shop, he helped choose the paint, he even went as far as taking your website photos. Which, of course, included photos of you – in the kitchen, in your uniform, making a mess of flour and powdered sugar.
Powdered sugar that he kissed off your lips.
Because neither of you could go more than an hour without seeing each other, you practically moved into his apartment. You were spending almost every night there despite your own bed calling your name like a child does its mother.
Wonwoo hadn't been kidding about making you wait, either. He let you kiss him, he told you he loved you, yes – but the dates were casual outings. Dinner, picnics, movies. You had a few game nights, and even went over to Hana's for drinks. You'd decided you were each other's plus ones for Mingyu and Tzuyu's wedding, and submitted such information on your RSVP placards.
You spent time together in copious amounts, something you couldn't ever find a fill of. You made him pastry after pastry, coffee cup after coffee cup, back massage after back massage to ease the tension in his shoulders. He gave you a silver necklace, a small letter W hanging from the center.
You wore it with pride.
He didn't ask you to be his girlfriend, and he didn't let you ask any questions about it, either.
Instead, he made your birthday wishes come true – he asked the Museum of Arts if they still needed an exhibit for the season. When they said yes, he submitted his Hanging by a Moment gallery – with a few new additions. You'd loved it, and had proudly gone to the museum at least twice a week to see it.
Now?
You're both standing in your unopened shop, showing your parents everything. The walls are a muted terracotta with a few tangerine accents, to match the feel of the digital photos of your life through Wonwoo's eyes. You asked him to make copies of the photos for you as well, framing them in thick, gold frames.
All but one, that sat in the middle of them all on the wall.
"And this is the final installment." He spoke to your parents softly, before gesturing to a photo split in the middle. One half was you, dressed in all black with the silver necklace he'd given you three weeks ago, and holding Wonwoo's digital camera up to your face. Your smile was peeking out from behind your hand, directed right at him.
And the other half was him. The only photo of him in the entire exhibit – of him holding his digital camera vertically against his face, slightly messy hair and a beige t-shirt that was two sizes too big for him but you loved anyway. You'd taken this photo at a street food stand, and he remembers how softly you kissed his cheek right after.
You stood next to him with a soft smile on your face as your father perused the photos, his eyes watery as he looked at the ones of you in college. Your smile, so young and carefree. Your eyes, full of the same shimmer and light you have now – but now, it's brighter. You seem lighter.
Happier.
You seem like you're home.
"What do you think?" You ask gently, wrapping your hand around Wonwoo's arm. He instinctively covers your hand with his, and your father nods.
"I think you're in love." He shrugs, and Wonwoo's cheeks flush almost instantly. You chuckle, squeezing your hand around Wonwoo's arm before patting his chest.
"I've got some new pastries in the oven, shall we? I'm trying a new recipe." You wiggle your brows at your parents, who both smile as you extend your hands to them. They take them gingerly, letting you guide them into the kitchen. You look over your shoulder, sending Wonwoo a quick wink as you slip inside with them.
And, Wonwoo knows.
He knows you love him, as he stands in this shop – named for him, by you. Walls covered in you, by him. He knows you love him as you smile warmly at him, your eyes sparkling in a way he'd only ever seen with him – never with Seungcheol, or Hansol, or Mingyu.
Just him.
So, what does it matter? The moment, why does it matter?
Why not hang onto it, as long as he can? Why not take in every ounce of your light so long as you allow it, and reflect it right back to you? Why not be a mirror of your love, a beacon of the same hope you hold, a star in the sky that also tells you there is something to wish upon?
Why waste it, when he can savor it – the way you look at him, the way you kiss him, touch him, the way you make him feel? How he's gone absolutely mad just looking at you in the mornings, slowly waking up by his side, burying your face into his bare chest? Why waste the moment when he can capture it – your smiles, your tears, the way you cover your face shyly when he compliments you.
Why not live in the moment – the feeling of your lips against his, the way you claw his shirt off, the way you whimper beneath him while fully clothed and untouched? Why not live in the moment, where he gets to hear you laugh like no one's listening, watch you dance like there is no tomorrow? Why not, when you ask him to take the long way home and roll the windows down, singing along to his playlist and feeling the air whip your hair around until your face is frosty from the wind.
Why not live in this moment – when you're so irrevocably in love with him, and he doesn't have to ever question it because you don't even need to tell him? Where you've related him to a cat that always finds its way back home, where you're supposedly the home and you are – but you are also the cat that finds her way home all on her own?
Why not?
"Wonwoo? Are you listening?"
"Huh? Sorry." He rubs his neck sheepishly, before noticing he's sitting at the bar of your shop, a dulce de leche éclair sitting on a plate in front of him. Your parents are in the corner, holding their own pastries and analyzing the photos once more. You're leaning your back on the bar next to him, your elbows holding you up as you reach over and gently carding your fingers through his hair.
"I said, I love you."
"Now, why does it sound like you're scheming? Tell me what you really said."
"It is, promise." You chuckle, your hand coming to pinch his cheek softly. He frowns, only making you coo up at him as you brush your lips to his. He glances up quickly, seeing your parents still enthralled by the photo of you and Mingyu at the waterfalls all those years ago. He looks back down, seeing you absently scanning his face as your thumb continues to rub circles into his face.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, before your father turns around and clears his throat. You look over your shoulder lazily, and your father has the pastry plates in his hand. "Your mother and I are going to start heading out now, honey. We've got a long drive back, and I'm sure you want to clean up a bit around here before your big opening tomorrow."
"You're right, Dad. Thank you for coming, I'm glad you two could be the first to see it." Your voice is so warm, he can feel all the stress from his days just melting right off him as you walk your parents to the front. He follows suit, lingering behind as you and your parents say your goodbyes. He interjects his own, enveloping both of your parents in a hug before pulling away. You both wave as they get into their car, your mother waving back as they pull into the street and all the way down the road, before their car turns out of sight.
You turn around, your arms crossed as you look up.
"Goyangi's Home. What a name, isn't it?" You sigh, before glancing over at Wonwoo. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes as he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his chest. Your giggle is like music to his ears as your hands rest on his chest, your lip tucked beneath your teeth as you look up at him.
He feels his chest ache in the best way possible, his heart beating twice as fast as you wrinkle your nose at him.
"I know. I love you, honey."
So it's fine. It's fine, as Wonwoo lets you kiss his lips once, twice, three times before you slip back into the shop. It's fine, as Wonwoo walks in behind you, his fingers locking the front door so no one mistakes the shop as open. It's fine, as you hand him a broom and make him sweep the shop while you roll out the dough in the back, your hands coated in flour when he comes to steal a kiss.
Or two, or three – until you're pushed against the industrial fridge, his hands wrapped around your thighs as yours tangle in his hair. He doesn't care about the flour. He doesn't care that you'll both be here late to roll out the stupid dough, he doesn't care as long as you're with him.
He doesn't care about the time differences anymore. The kilometers of distance, the aches of missing you. He doesn't care, and he'd do it ten times over just to be worthy of you.
He doesn't care about how pathetic he might sound as he kisses down your neck, begging you to be his girlfriend, begging you to never, ever leave him again.
He doesn't care about all the painful moments he used to hang onto, because you are the best moment to ever capture.
He cares when you promise that you'll never leave him again, your lips soft against the shell of his ear. He cares when you say yes, you'll be his girlfriend. You'll be anything he wants, for as long as he wants it.
So yeah, he'll live in this moment. He'll keep it, hold it, cherish it forever as more whispers float off your lips to one another.
I love you.
— synopsis: you and mingyu have been broken up for a year, and yes, it was over something as stupid and trivial as you'd imagine - something where nuance is important. will you thrown caution to the wind when he's calling you drunk from halfway across the world to beg for you back?
– genre: exes to lovers, angst, fluff. slightly suggestive.
— pairing: ex-boyfriend!kim mingyu x fem!reader
– word count: 8k
— rating: 18+. minors do not interact.
– warnings: swearing, alcohol, food mentions/eating. reader is very stupid. they have a semi-nasty breakup. they fight a bit. but they're lovers who gives a shit. i also don't know how airports work so whatever!
— what to listen to: who knew - p!nk ; i don't know - notd, astrid s ; please don't leave me - p!nk ; fast car - luke combs ; so beautiful - dpr ian.
– author's note: mingyu brainrot is so bad that i wrote this overnight and i'm running on no sleep, so i don't care about typos. thank you to @/saradika here on tumblr for these cutie beaded star dividers. as always, dedicated to thee gyuldaengie ever @gyuswhore (i hope you get some rest soon, emberly ♡. read this whenever!)
VOICEMAILS ARE THE BANE OF YOUR EXISTENCE.
He’d been there when you set yours up. New phone after he’d accidentally dropped yours in a lake after your date, and there’s a stupid laugh at the end of your message that makes your teeth clench with embarrassment.
He loves that laugh.
Or he did.
Hey, it’s Y/N. Sorry I missed your call, leave a message and I’ll get right back to ya!
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 11:09AM, SEOUL.
(1) Missed Call – Kim Mingyu.
(1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu.
Hey, it’s me.
Well, you know it’s me...right? [LAUGHTER.] God, I miss your voice. Even if it’s just your outgoing message...and your laugh. I miss that laugh. I miss you, baby.
I’m getting drunk in Chicago with Seungcheol, but I’m thinking about you and I know I shouldn’t. I know I should have some shame, but I’ve never done this. The...breaking up over something small. Well, it’s not small, because it means something to you. It meant something to you, the reason you dumped me, and it means something to me because I love you and everything that matters to you matters to me. I just don’t know how to function without being able to talk to you everyday, and that’s selfish of me. It’s selfish of me to even leave this voicemail...but I can’t help it. I know my job kept me so busy, and I know you’re still probably so pissed at me but I still love you – even when I’m in Chicago and you’re all the way back home, getting pretty for work. Even when I’m back home, I love you and I think about you. I’m not drunk, before you say that. I’ve only had one beer and it was straight ass, but I think I’ll have just a few more so I can excuse the fact that your name is all over my call log in the morning.
I love you.
I miss you.
I’ll see you whenever you want me back.
When you think about it: not-drunk, not-sober Mingyu has a point.
You did break up over something very small, but in the moment...it meant something to you. It meant so much to you – and it was only by a few minutes. He was late, again – only by a handful of minutes but you will always stick to your guns and say it’s serious, and he knows it is. You’d told him at the start of your relationship that you hate being late and you hate it when people are late to any event they may have planned with you; and Mingyu had been understanding for the most part. He was rarely late and if he was, he had a good excuse prepared the moment he got in your face for his kiss in greeting.
You tried to settle your own stomach about it – he'd been in Chicago for work the week before your breakup, and you were convincing youreslf that he was just adjusting to the time difference. The whites of his eyes were pink with fatigue, and you felt the urge to run your fingers through his hair as he rested his head in your lap just for five minutes before he fell asleep.
But this had been the third time in one week. He’d been late by twenty minutes to dinner on Monday, arriving with nothing but a breathless sorry falling off his lips as he pressed them to your hairline. He’d been sweaty, like he ran to your apartment – but you let it go, because you also told him that your building elevator was under maintenance.
You still expected him to plan accordingly and arrive punctually – you'd told him that at nine in the morning, and dinner was at six in the evening. He should have planned ahead.
The second time was on Wednesday. Your friends had hosted a quick game night, one you’d invited Mingyu to with their permission and they asked you to stop for a bottle of wine. You’d gotten the wine on your way home from work to save time, and texted Mingyu three times within your arrival at your apartment – reminding him that he was driving, reminding him at the game night started at eight, reminding him that you do not like to be late.
He arrived at your apartment five minutes to eight, and your friend that was hosting the game night lived thirty minutes south. You couldn’t even dream of getting there by the start of it, and you got two text messages letting you know that they were starting a game of Monopoly and they’d start over when you got there. Mingyu’s jaw was as tight as yours was as he drove you both in silence, only for you to shoot a text off in the group (that had Mingyu in it) that you wouldn’t be making it. You made Mingyu pull over five minutes away from your friend’s apartment and handed him the bottle of wine, telling him you’d get a rideshare home.
It was the first real fight the two of you got into, and in the middle of a gas station parking lot. You were embarrassed as people peered through his crystal clear windshield at your frustrated attempt to make him understand, only for him to tell you he tried. That you knew he was busy, that he was doing the best he could to show up for you and you weren’t cutting him any slack. You’d scoffed, asking him if he’d ever cut you slack when you attended his work events with him, when you’d go to dinners with him and his friends.
“You don’t have to, and that’s because I plan accordingly! I tell you everything down to the minute and you can’t even give me a tapback reaction so I at least know you saw the message? Why are you acting like I’m being irrational for asking you to communicate with me?”
Mingyu turned his read receipts on after that fight. The drive to your apartment was silent, and you held in your frustrated tears until he pulled into his visitor parking spot in the garage of your complex. You pushed your own door open and slammed it shut, your heels clicking against the asphalt of the garage – but you didn’t get very far as Mingyu rounded the side of the car and grabbed your arm gently, pulling you into him with a very soft whisper against the shell of your ear.
“I’m sorry.”
You ignored it, turning your face away as he held you close to his chest – the soft smell of his cologne filling your nose and making your knees stupidly weak.
You don’t remember much about that night, but you do remember the way he’d hoisted you over one shoulder and carried you to your apartment. You remember the way he apologized on his knees inside your apartment, before pinning you under him on the couch and kissing you fervently. You remember how easily your anger melted away as he pulled your dress off, as he kissed down your body, as he sank his teeth into the flesh of your soft thighs before he made you forget why you were even mad to begin with.
The bottle of wine was empty by the end of the night, and you had a horrible hangover that made you call in sick to work – only to lift up your blanket and see your legs littered with nips of your boyfriend’s teeth.
Then, Saturday came.
Date night. Starting at four in the afternoon and ending at eight in the morning on Sunday.
Mingyu loved date night and he was never late to date night. He brought flowers, he’d kiss you stupid on your couch for a good hour before your plans took effect. Sometimes it was dinner, a walk, a movie. Other times it was staying in and snuggling together after a long week of being apart and bitching about your work schedules.
Other times, though rare...Mingyu was all over you the entire night. From the moment he stepped foot into your apartment, his lips were on yours and his hands roamed any and every part of your body you allowed. It was, admittedly, one of your favorite types of date nights – and you always made it a point to wear a cute little set under your outfit just in case he was feeling froggy.
Four came and went.
Five in the afternoon, six in the evening.
Seven rolled around and you stared at the new bottle of wine you’d gotten to share with him on your way home from work on Friday. A nice Merlot, bitter on the back of your tongue as you finished your second glass. You took the pretty clips out of your hair, tossing them onto the coffee table and doing the same with all your jewelry before grabbing the bottle by the neck. You tucked your legs beneath you as you grabbed your television remote, clicking around the screen before some boring news segment crossed the screen and you tossed it into the couch cushions.
You drank from the bottle for a total of fifteen minutes – the news segment ending and a broadcasted dating show taking over before your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It buzzed twice, before it started ringing. It rang, and rang, and rang – and you felt tears prick at your eyes as you glanced down at your dress. Picked by Mingyu ages ago at a department store, one that he’d practically manhandled you into the dressing room over.
You turned the television off at ten to nine – just as Mingyu pulled your apartment door open. You could see the lines of sleep against his cheek, his eyes bloodshot as an apologetic look coated them. You’d pressed your lips together, before a laugh of disbelief fell from your mouth as you sighed. You shook your head as he toed his shoes off, guilt crossing his features as you slid the bottle onto the coffee table and grabbed your accessories in one hand. You didn’t care if your necklaces tangled – they had all been gifts from him anyway.
You stood on wobbly legs, kicking the heels you’d planned to wear that day out of the way as you moved to stand in front of him. His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to touch you as you gave him a wavering smile.
“Slept well?” You tilted your head, before holding your hand out and dropping the accessories in his hand, “you can have those back.”
“Baby.”
“That’s not my name.”
You shrugged, smiling wider still as you skipped to your bedroom. You pulled the dress over your head, tossing it onto the floor before pulling open all your dresser drawers and pulling out every article of clothing he’d ever given you and dropping it on top of the very same dress. Shirts, skirts, even a couple pairs of his sweatpants and a pair of his socks you’d stolen at the beginning of your relationship because you’d worn open-toed heels in winter.
He stood in the doorway of your bedroom as you tugged on a pair of pajama pants, his lower lip trembling as you pulled a shirt that wasn’t his over your head. You beelined back out of your bedroom, grabbing a garbage bag from your kitchen and prying it open before shoving everything inside it.
“Drive safe, Mingyu.”
“Baby, let me explain—”
“I waited like an idiot for five hours. I don’t do late. You know I don’t. You knew my one rule, and this week has just been a shitshow. Go home, get some rest and I’ll pick up my stuff next week.” You were fighting tears the entire time, covering your face with a trembling hand as he knelt in front of you, “stop! Go home, Mingyu!”
“Please. Please, baby, don’t do this—”
“Go! Get out!”
You were crying by the time Mingyu’s arms wrapped around your hips, burying his face in your shirt as he begged you to let him explain. You couldn’t hear him over your tears and the frustration festering in your belly, and you managed to twist yourself out of his hold despite wanting to melt right into him.
He left reluctantly – his face blotchy with tears and his shoulders heavy with fatigue. You knew he was tired. You knew he had this trip to Chicago every year and it was hard on him.
You had one rule. Don’t be late.
However...as you laid in your bed that night, barely able to breathe through your tears – you came to the conclusion that you had been a jerk. You knew you had been a jerk, but you had pride and you weren’t going to beg him to come back.
And now you’re sitting in your cubicle, a year later – wiping silent tears from your cheeks as you play his voicemail over and over.
I miss you.
I love you.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 12:19 PM, SEOUL.
(4) Missed Calls – Kim Mingyu.
(1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu.
Hi, baby. It’s me again! I miss you.
Just realized I said I was drunk in that last message and then said I wasn’t, but it doesn’t matter anyay because I’d tell you all of this sober. Did you know I got a promotion? I didn’t get to tell you, but I had meant for it to be news that night we broke up. I was going to tell you but everything just crumbled and I should’ve said more. I should’ve fought you on it, I think.
You didn’t really look like you were ready to let me go.
Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t. But, I’m still here. Kind of like an anchor, I guess, and you’re the ship. I guess that’s why they call boats she, right?
I’m just waiting for you to pull me out of the water again and say you love me like you used to. Maybe kiss me, too. I miss your voice. I miss your lips, too, and your cherry lip balm. God, I miss you. I can’t sleep without you, and Chicago fucking sucks. I hate Chicago because all I can think about it you when I’m here. Three years strong, thinking about you when I see the damn Bean and eat deep dish at Lou Malnati’s.
[MUFFLED NOISES] Anyway, Seungcheol wants to take off. I’ll talk to you later. This is call number...four? I think, yeah. Oof, bad luck, huh? [SOFT LAUGHTER]
I’m six beers in, baby. Still in Chicago, still missing you, still loving you and still yours. I’ll see ya, sweets.
Again, he was right.
God, you hate when he’s right.
He’s so smug about it sometimes, Kim Mingyu. He’s insufferable when he’s right – when he guesses something correctly, when he figures something out before you can, when he beats you at a damn game of Scrabble. You’d learned to roll your eyes at him, and really – it was endearing. Kim Mingyu was a champion, a master of all trades – and he’d won your heart over and over again.
You hadn’t wanted to let him go.
Your swollen eyes had been hidden behind a clunky pair of sunglasses and glued to the ground as you dropped off his last box of things on his stoop the following Monday, but he didn’t answer the door. You knew he was home – his car was parked in front of his apartment and the Ring camera clicked on and off. You knocked on the door for five minutes before groaning.
“Give me my stuff, Mingyu!”
He didn’t open the door, opting to talk to you through his camera like a coward.
“You’re insane if you think we’re breaking up.”
“We are breaking up! Give me my shit before I break your door down.”
He’d laughed through the camera, clicking it off before you heard the locks on his front door coming undone. He barely cracked the door open, holding a singular purse out to you and something about it made your gut churn.
“Mingyu, let me in.”
“No, you said give you your shit. This is all you’ve got here. I know, I looked.”
You shoved the door open further, only to see a mess of boxes in the living room piled up. Everything was labeled with your name, clothing of yours folded neatly on his couch – books you left there carefully wrapped in newspaper and pairs of your shoes neatly held together by black zipties. Your stomach hurt as you let your eyes scan over it, the room far too dark with your sunglasses on but you had too much pride to take them off and let him see that you knew you were making a mistake.
“...You don’t have to be so nice about it.”
“Stop being a douche and take your sunglasses off, then. You’re indoors, it’s bad manners.”
You hadn’t looked at him yet, but the thickness of his voice told you everything you needed to know. He was near tears and your shoulders tensed as your heart clenched in your chest, and you peered over your shoulder to see him thumbing at the strap of your purse in his hand. You pried it from his hands swiftly, your fist tight around it as he sniffled, blinking back tears as he shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants.
“Are you gonna help me load this in my car or what?” You muttered, shoving the purse over your shoulder as he chuckled dryly.
“I’ll just drop it off. It’s too much for you to carry back alone and I can’t let you do that.” He shook his head, and your ears picked up on the music playing in his living room. You looked around, before spotting his television on YouTube – playing I Don’t Know Why by NOTD and Astrid S. You trilled your lips them, shoving your hand under your sunglasses as hot tears spilled over. Your shoulders shook as you cried inwardly, and he tentatively slid his hands over them, making you jolt against him.
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Y/N. Please.”
“Stop! Stop telling me you’re sorry, Mingyu!” You exclaimed, stomping your foot as you shoved yourself away from him then. You pulled the sunglasses off your face, haphazardly wiping your hand across your face as more tears spilled down your cheeks. You heard a crack in the plastic of the glasses from how tight your grip was, and you simply shoved them in one of the open boxes before facing him and blinking rapidly. He was blurry in your vision, but he was a mirror of you – splotchy eyes, pleading, begging...
Don’t leave me.
Fight for me.
For us.
“Please, Y/N.”
“I don’t even know what you’re asking for, Mingyu. Just...drop my things off with the doorman. And leave your key with him, too.”
You sighed, running your hands over your face and feeling the warmth of your swollen eyelids beneath your fingers as you tried to walk past him. Your fingers urged to touch him, to feel him close and breathe in his scent – but he caved first, grabbing your hand and pulling you into him. He kissed you then, too – his lips chapped but you cared nothing of it as you melted into him like a fool. Your hands clutched at his sweatshirt like you needed him to stay grounded as he held you against the front door, his own hands gripping your waist like you were going to disappear.
“Stop, stop.” You pulled back, your eyes staring into his. So full of love, adoration and hurt – a perfect image of you engrained in those molten brown irises. His pupils were dialated as he peered at you, but he blinked and let you go, pushing himself away as he cleared his throat with a mumbled apology.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Mingyu.”
Those had been your last words to him as you slammed out of his apartment – booking it to your car with tears in your eyes and the taste you missed on your tongue.
Him, him, always him.
You’re still sitting in your cubicle as you listen to this voicemail – your eyes probably just as swollen as you poke around a bowl of oxtail soup you’d packed for lunch from your leftovers the night before.
It doesn’t taste as good as when he used to make it.
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 2:11 PM, SEOUL.
(9) Missed Calls – Kim Mingyu.
(1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu.
Caller number nine! Claim your prize, me!
Hi, babe. I’m still in Chicago, but I’m in a different bar. Cheol is sick of me talking about you but I can’t bring myself to give a shit. This bar has a really nice plum blossom syrup they put in their lemon drops, you’d love it.
Do you remember our first kiss, actually? In Japan?
It was under all those plum blossoms and I put one in your hair, and you were so nervous that you didn’t kiss me back for a good three seconds. I know that’s probably a bit embarrassing for you but it’s one of my favorite memories of us...of you. God, I miss you.
I made you dinner that night, too, and we had that nice gin that I can’t remember the name of. But, I do remember that you told me you’d never been in love and I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t think I had ever been in love, either. Looking back, though, I think I was in love with you, even then.
Pft, wait. No. I know. I know I was in love with you. I know because your perfume was still lingering on my pillowcase, and I remember begging you not to go back to your room because we weren’t together yet. Do you remember that? Mingyu, don’t book one room! We’re not together yet!
Ugh, but that ‘yet’ hit me so hard. It was such a huge risk for us to go on that trip together when we weren’t together, and that ‘yet’ really told me everything I needed to know. That I was for you, and you were for me, endlessly. Timelessly.
So...I think, no. Fuck. I don’t think, I know you were in love with me, too.
I am currently...six beers, one plum blossom lemon drop and three shots in the hole. Tequila, too. Horrible, I still hate it...but I miss you.
I’m still in Chicago, and hopefully...somewhere in your heart.
Later, winner winner. I love you.
You do remember your first kiss, and you’re sitting at the cafeteria at your job with your hands wrapped around a mug of coffee with seasonal plum blossom creamer in it. You’re done with meetings, your coworkers worriedly patting your shoulders at the swelling in your eyes, your lips bitten raw from holding back your sobs in the ladies’ room.
You’d been dating Mingyu for a few weeks at that point. Dating, not his girlfriend – you'd been on six dates and something about him made your skin prickle with excitement. His smooth words paired with clumsy movements, pouted lips that brought you to a steaming hot blush every time they brushed your cheek as he dropped you off to the door of your apartment...
Hands that snaked around your waist every single time he tried to go in for the kiss, and you turned away.
“You can wait a little longer,” you’d roll your eyes as he brushes his nose to yours, and you’d crinkle it as you patted his chest. He would wait, he’d been open about it – he'd wait as long as you needed him to...because Mingyu was absolutely smitten with you.
It didn’t take a genius to figure that out, or to figure out that if he insisted just a bit more – he'd be in your bed before the word girlfriend even followed his introduction of you to his friends.
You wanted Mingyu just as bad, if not more.
He proposed the trip to Japan on the sixth of December, to leave by the eight and be back home by the fifteenth. Six days and seven nights, and he’d book you separate hotel rooms.
“I just want to spend time with you...uninterrupted. God, that sounds perverted but I don’t mean it that way, I swear!”
You’d only laughed then, and threw caution to the wind, accepting his invitation with a shy smile. The eighth came fast – and you were buckled into your seat on the plane next to him as he told you all the things he had planned for the two of you to do once you landed. You tried to argue that you’d need to take a power nap, only for him to roll his eyes and say there was no way you were going to waste time sleeping in Japan of all places.
“We’ll have plenty of time to sleep, beautiful. Just trust me.”
And you did. So blindly, so willingly.
He took you all over Osaka, and you’d spent the ninth of December with your fingers intertwined between your hips and walking around an indoor arboretum, a giant greenhouse of sorts. Plum blossom season in Japan wasn’t for another handful of weeks, but he’d insisted he’d been to this garden before and they had them in December – and he was right.
Again.
“I haven’t kissed anyone in a while,” you’d admitted quietly, your hand rubbing your neck nervously as he shook his head, pulling you closer as the area seemingly cleared out of couples and families. You both stood looking at the trees surrounding you, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin before he pulled you slightly closer, “Mingyu.”
“I heard you, honey.” He nodded, pressing a kiss to your temple as he picked a blossom off the tree, tucking it carefully into your hair. “You’re so pretty.”
“Shut up.” You muttered, leaning your cheek against his bicep as he peered down at you. His fingers carefully pinched your other cheek between his knuckles, making you scoff as he leaned slightly into your space. Your eyes had darted down to his lips, pink and plump and smelling of cherry lip balm you’d given him on the train ride there...
And you didn’t kiss him back for three seconds when you felt him press his lips to yours carefully. Your eyes were wide, before you squeezed them shut and kissed him back carefully. You’d both broken into giggles not even five seconds after, but he held your face in his hands gently and peppered chaste kisses all over it before asking if you wanted dinner.
It was one of the first times he’d made dinner for you, and one of the absolute best to date. A beautiful white fish with roasted lemon and brown butter served over a bed of creamy risotto and broccolini. You’d both eaten in silence and on the floor, and you’d been amused at how much he’d been able to whip up on a two-burner hot plate he’d brought from home. He turned his nose up at you as you laughed at him, but smiled smugly as you were rendered speechless by the dishes he’d plated for you.
You were both laying on his bed with the balcony doors thrown open when the words fell from your lips without thinking.
“I’ve never been in love.” You blurted, and he stilled next to you. You'd cautiously peered at him out of the corner of your eye, only to see him deep in thought before he turned to look at you.
“I don’t know if I have, either.” He offered, almost as if to soothe anything you maybe have disturbed. He furrowed his brows, folding his hands on his stomach as he hummed, “I have no idea what that’s like, but...I’m willing to find out.”
You’d felt your face grow hot then, and you sat up abruptly, “with me?”
“If you’d allow it.”
“We’re not together yet.”
He smiled, his cheeks tinging pink as he grabbed the pillow you’d been laying on and covered his face with it, “stop saying that! It makes me nervous and then I can’t stop smiling like an idiot and I lose my cool guy demeanor.”
“You have zero inkling of a cool guy demeanor, Kim Mingyu.”
“Nuh uh! You told me I looked cool when we met at that tangsuyuk place! That you liked my jacket.”
You’d snickered then, crawling over him as his eyes widened. His fingers on the pillow tightened as he looked up at you through his lashes, lips parted as his ears burned bright red. You leaned down, pressing your lips to his carefully. He kissed you back almost immediately, his hands finding your hips just as you pulled back.
“I said your jacket looked cool, not that you were cool. And you tripped after asking for my number, so I say that knocks a couple points off,” you murmured against his lips, only for him to pout as you laughed in his face. You pressed a chaste kiss against his mouth before patting his hip, “I’m going to my room. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Kim.”
“You’re such a tease.”
You only smiled as you climbed off him, holding a finger up as you made your way to the door and looking over your shoulder with a scrunch of your nose.
“Well, I suggest you learn to love it!”
You stare down at the cup off coffee in your hands as the voicemail plays for a fifth time in your headphones. Your lipstick is on the edge of the ceramic cup, the very same lipstick you’d worn the day he kissed you.
If you flipped the tube over, it’d say Plum Blossom Baby.
And you’d remember every single time he kissed it off you like a man starved.
“I miss you, too.”
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 4:46 PM, SEOUL.
(12) Missed Calls – Kim Mingyu.
(1) Voicemail – Kim Mingyu.
Hi, baby! This is call number...twelve! Yeah!
That’s our anniversary date, by the way. December 12th. Mark your calendar, ‘cause it’s almost here!
Can you believe we broke up a year ago today, though? Well, it’s barely the seventh here in Chicago, but the seventh is almost over for you. Do you miss me? I miss you. Maybe that’s why the alcohol isn’t as bitter as it usually is, though.
Anyway, I know I’m probably not super intelligible right now because I’m now six beers, one plum blossom lemon drop, three shots and two whiskey sours in. Because of this information that I’ve just bestowed upon you, my love, I’m just gonna be honest, yeah?
Again.
I miss you.
You know, I probably would’ve introduced you to my parents this Christmas. I had it planned for last year, but then...well, you know. But, I wanted to bring you home, ‘cause that’s what you do when things get serious enough, right? When things feel right and you wanna pop the question, right?
I wanted to bring you home because then that means the future holds that big ass ring you deserve. The ring and the beautiful dress and the nice house I want to buy you and maybe some kids, right? You still want kids with me, right? I would’ve been such a good husband. I’d never be late, either, because I’d be your house husband, too. I would have given up everything for you, even when you tried to say you were just kidding, I know you. I know that glint in your eye...I know you and I love you and I would’ve given up everything to make you happy.
I still would.
I still want to, just like I still want you. I still need you, Y/N.
[SLURRED WHISPERING]
Cheollie wants me to hang up, but I had to tell him you’re not even talking back! God, you’re not talking back and I miss your voice so fucking bad, Chicago feels like Hell right now. I miss you so much it pains me. My stomach hurts, actually, thinking about you right now and missing your voice. Missing you.
I think...I think this will be my last call.
It has to be.
I miss you...so much. Even in Chicago, especially in Chicago. I feel it worse when I’m here, and I’m positive it’s because I was in Chicago the week before we broke up. You looked so pretty in all the outfits and selfies you sent me when I was gone on my trip...God, and you were so beautiful in that little red set you got. Fuck, I can’t think about that. It’s not right.
[SILENCE]
Oh, I never gave you the snowglobe I got you when I was here last year! I got it personalized, it had a picture of you and me the day I asked you to be my girlfriend! It’s still in the trunk of my car, though, and it’s buried inside one last box of stuff I couldn’t bring myself to give you when I dropped it all off with Myungjae. How is that guy, by the way? Still flirting with you? Dipshit.
Sorry.
God, I miss you. I miss kissing you...holding your hand and making fun of you for crying at Shark Tale when Angie confesses to Oscar that she was in love with him when he was nothing.
You loved me when I was nothing, too.
I’d be nothing without you.
...Do you think you’ll miss me too, someday? Maybe as bad as I miss you? Ever?
[SILENCE]
Bad question to ask. I’m sorry. I miss you.
Well.
My name is Kim Mingyu. I’m 28, and I am drunk in Chicago, Illinois. I am desperately missing you, I am irrevocably in love with you and I’ll see you as soon as you want me.
I’ll catch ya when I can, baby. December 12th, don’t forget. I love you.
God, I love you.
Bye, baby.
You’re thankful that you’re sitting on your couch when that voicemail comes in.
You’re so grateful no one can see your trembling fingers as you press play on it, or the way you burst into tears the moment the word baby crosses his lips. You can hardly hear him speaking, but you turn the volume up as high as it will go and sob into your throw pillow. You cover yourself with one of the blankets you’d thrown over the edge of the couch that morning, and you feel your chest ache as you get a whiff of his cologne.
You know Mingyu wanted to marry you.
You’d seen the velvet box in his dresser a few months before the breakup. It wasn’t at all the reason behind it, and you were confident in that. You would’ve married him in a heartbeat, he wouldn’t even have to ask you. He’d have to do nothing of the sort like he did when he asked you to be his girlfriend – no fancy rented restaurant, no engraved bottle of gin, no begging to go down on you after finishing inside you for the very first time.
You think it scared you, though.
God, it scared you so much.
To be Mingyu’s forever – it terrified you to know that you’d fallen so deeply in love with him that he wouldn’t even have to ask. You’d give him anything he wanted, anything he needed at the drop of a hat – just a kiss to your lips and you’d seal his fate forever. House husband, the kids, the house, the stupid fucking wedding that he’d talked about for a few weeks before he left for Chicago last year...
You’d give it all to him.
Every. Single. Thing.
“I love you, Kim Mingyu.”
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 7 | 7:15 PM, SEOUL.
INCOMING CALL – Kim Mingyu.
You watch the phone ring from your couch. You’re still in your work clothes, your pantyhose torn at the knee from picking at it. Waiting for another call.
Hoping for another call.
It rings, and rings...
And it starts going to voicemail before you grab it and slide the toggle to answer it, pressing it to your ear. Your skin prickles as you hear the crunch of snow under his boots, and a sigh from his lips – likely paired with tears beginning to coat his lashes. Seungcheol is hollering in the background, singing something about a girl from Ipanema.
“Okay, I lied. This is the last call—”
“Mingyu, you have to stop doing this.” You blurt, and silence follows your sentence. You dare yourself to peek at the screen, but he hasn’t hung up. He clears his throat, and you hear him stop walking.
“What the hell? Baby?”
“Mingyu, stop calling this number.”
You feel your throat tight, burning as you hear him sigh painfully on the other end, and a soft thud follows. He’s likely on the floor, sitting on a curb in the middle of Chicago....at almost five in the morning.
“I love you, Y/N.”
“I know. I know you love me, Mingyu. That’s why you need to stop.” You feel a rush of hot tears spill down your cheeks, and you don’t bother wiping them away as you sniffle, “Because I can’t promise you that I don’t love you back, and then we’re fucked. We’re in a mess if I can’t tell you that I don’t love you.”
“That just means that you do love me.” He’s pouting, and Seungcheol has switched songs to I’m Your Baby Tonight by Whitney Houston. “You know we can be together. I’ll drop everything for you, right now. I need to be yours or I won’t understand the meaning of life.”
You snort, the amusement feeing cynical as you shake your head, “we can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I have pride.”
“Fuck your pride. Love me like I know you fucking do. I know you love me.” His voice grows soft despite the strong start, and you hear the ping of metal on metal. He’s probably leaning against a lamp post, “Love me, please.”
“Mingyu.” You groan, your voice thick as you sink into the cushions. He hums as you sigh, “I shouldn’t have answered. I gotta go, Mingyu. Get back to your hotel safe, okay?”
“Wait, wait. Don’t hang up, please. I miss your voice...so much.” He whines, before the sound of snow jostles around him, “What if I send you a ticket to Chicago right now? I’ll send you a ticket right now if you promise me you’ll come. Come see me. Love me.”
“Mingyu, why would I do that? I work...I have commitments. You’re just drunk.” You hate how close you are to caving, to calling in sick and using your PTO to go rescue him. A twenty-hour flight over a drunken confession of completely and utterly missing you that you’re sure he’ll regret.
“For closure, I guess. To prove you don’t love me. I’ll send you a ticket right now, and if you don’t love me...” Something akin to a sob rips through him, and you feel your lower lip tremble as the same burn settles in your chest, “if you don’t love me, don’t tell me. Just don’t get on the flight.”
“You’re wasting money, Mingyu.” The waver in your voice betrays you, and his response lets you know that he knows he’s got you. Hook, line...
“I was made to spend my money on you. My time. Give you all my love until I can’t anymore and when I can’t that’s when my time is up. But loving you...God, I'd never fucking die. I’ll love you in this lifetime, in the next one. I’ll love your lips and your face and your heart in every single time and space continuum, the Gods would be fucking sick of my ass yearning for you. That’s what this is. I’m yearning for you to love me from across the world while I’m drunk on a curb in Chicago and all the stars in the sky look like your eyes when you tell me you love me, too.”
Sinker.
“Good night, Mingyu.” You breathe out, and he hums again, his voice thick as he replies softly.
Carefully.
“Good night, Y/N. I love you...so much.”
He hangs up before you can, and you look at your phone with a weight in your stomach.
You stare at it for five minutes, your thumb hovering over the PLEDIS app your company had to put in paid time off or sick leave.
NEW! 2 Messages from: Kim Mingyu
[7:31 PM] [1 Attachment]
[7: 31 PM] check your email. come to me. please.
Your email pings as you press the photo. A screenshot – one first class ticket to Chicago through O’Hare, taking off at seven in the morning your time. A non-stop thirteen-hour flight, because you can’t stand waiting around an airport for a connection.
NEW! 1 Message from: Kim Mingyu
[7:32 PM] i love you.
You open the company app without a second thought.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 8 | 5:34 AM, CHICAGO.
Mingyu is nauseous as he paces back and forth in front of your gate, his hand nearly crushing the flowers he’s got gripped in his palm.
He’s still hungover as fuck, and he has absolutely no idea what came over him the night before – but he doesn’t care, either. If you got on that plane...you’ll be here.
Any minute now.
Seungcheol scolded him the entire ride to the airport. He went on and on about how he can’t do things like that when he’s drunk, that he can’t just drop over two grand to get you to Chicago because he misses you – when Seungcheol had done the same thing the year you and Mingyu met, but for Jeonghan.
Seungcheol argues he and Jeonghan have been in love longer than Mingyu has even known how to wipe his ass. Offensive, gross and not true...but slightly endearing as the older man flushes at the mention of his long-term boyfriend.
Mingyu’s collar is too tight as he nibbles on his lip, watching people start trickling out the gate. Families, a couple. Another couple, elderly and wobbly as they hold hands tightly and carry light backpacks – a young girl screaming from behind him and running up to them. He stops pacing, standing next to a man obviously waiting for someone – maybe a her. A girl, a woman.
He’s just as nervous as Mingyu is, holding flowers just like Mingyu. Lips bitten red, cheeks flushed...and Mingyu reminds himself to take a deep breath. He keeps looking over heads of people – more couples, more families...
You.
In a pink hoodie that belonged to him in college, with a black pair of his sweatpants tugged over your hips and almost too long. Wearing cable headphones, eyes swollen and sunglasses perched on your head. Your hands are stuffed in your pocket, and you’re chewing on your lip the way you always do when you’re nervous as you walk cautiously; your eyes slowly raking over everyone waiting before you drop them to the ground.
Mingyu feels glued to the goddamn floor, and the guy next to him nudges his arm.
“That’s your girl?” He utters, and you duck behind a couple, almost like you’re embarrassed. Like you’re not aware he’s there, and you don’t want to look like an idiot.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, “that’s my girl.”
The guy pats his arm, and Mingyu feels adrenaline start coursing through him like a wave swallowing him whole as your name leaves his mouth.
“Y/N!”
Your head darts up, eyes wide as you look all around. You spot him, covering your face immediately as your lip juts out in a pout and he bolts to you. He almost knocks you over as he wraps his arms around your waist, clutching the flowers to your back as he holds you close. Your hair smells like the same perfume that’s haunted him for the last year without you, and your tears are soaking through his shirt as he kisses the side of your face.
“You’re here. You’re here...a-and I love you. I love you so much.” He stutters between kisses, your fingers gripping his jacket tightly as you sob into his neck. “I love you, God. It’s so good to see you, baby.”
“Even when I broke up with you over something stupid?” You blurt, haphazardly wiping at your eyes as his hands come to hold your cheeks carefully. Your eyes are still as starry as ever, glossed over with tears as your fingers pull at his jacket, “I love you.”
He smiles softly, nodding, “I know, baby. I know you love me.”
He feels his eyes sting with tears, your face growing blurry as he pulls you into him. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply as his arms practically crush you in his embrace. Your arms wrap around his waist, your fingernails dragging lightly up and down his back as your sobs subside slowly. He kisses the crown of your head, “you’re really here?”
“I’m really tired.” You whisper back, pulling your head back slightly to look up at him. His thumbs wipe the corners of your eyes gently, and you seemingly hesitate before glancing at his lips.
A kiss.
“Luckily for you...my hotel room has two beds.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sharing with Seungcheol.”
“He’s a fucking cheapskate if it’s not about Jeonghan,” Mingyu jests, making you roll your eyes before they not-so-subtly land on his lips again. He nuzzles his nose to yours, “you’re mine, right? This, you coming. That makes you mine, right?”
“Leave a message,” you shrug, before pressing your lips to his abruptly, your hands cupping his jaw carefully as you pull him to you. He kisses you back softly, pulling away after a few seconds as his hands hold your hips tightly. He smiles against your lips, giving you another chaste kiss before leaning near your ear and pitching his voice up.
“Hey, it’s Y/N. Sorry I missed—”
“Mingyu, I'll get right back on that damn plane.”
He laughs, grabbing your hand and pulling you flush to his hip as he shows you the flowers. Your eyes widen as you smile inwardly, holding them to your chest as you peer up at him through your lashes, “...thank you for leaving all those voicemails.”
“Thank you for listening to them. And picking up...and getting on that flight.”
“I love you, Mingyu.”
He can’t bite back his smile as his cheeks tinge pink, his skin hot as his fingers tighten around yours and you both step out into the cold Chicago air. He rocks on his heels for a moment, before spotting Seungcheol down the pick-up area. He leans down slightly, pressing a kiss to your temple before clearing his throat.
“Hey, it’s Y/N. Sorry I missed your call, leave a message and I’ll get right back to ya! Hehehe.”
You shove him away, beelining for Seungcheol as he snickers. The older man looks pleasantly surprised to see you, opening his arms to embrace you. You allow it, before he opens the passenger side door as Mingyu opens his mouth to argue.
You both stick your tongues out at him, turning your noses up at him as you climb into the passenger seat while Seungcheol takes your carryon.
“I told you she’d come.” Seungcheol scoffs, and Mingyu scrunches his nose, “no you didn’t, idiot.”
“Be nice, Kim Mingyu. We’re kicking him out of his room later, we need to be in his good graces.”
“No way you guys are just getting back together and already fucking.” Seungcheol gapes, and Mingyu feels his face grow even hotter as he just scrambles into the driver’s seat. Seungcheol scowls as he slips into the backseat, too tired to fight it. You reach your hand across the center console for Mingyu to hold as he peels out of the pick-up area, your lips pressing to his knuckles.
Thich Nhat Hanh // Billy Joel—Vienna // Summer Strike (2022) // @sproutlett // Mary Oliver, "Entering the Kingdom" // Everything is Illuminated (2005) // Thomas Christopher Greene, I'll Never Be Long Gone: A Novel // @/jordanklancaster on ig // Jack Gilbert, "Burning (Andante Non Troppo)" // @lucidloving, "Simple, Please"
pairing: f1 racer!jeonghan x physiotherapist f!reader
genre/warnings: fluff, slight angst, flirty jeonghan in general 😔, rash driving, slight mention of cheating (ending is so rushed im sorry TT) lmk if i missed anything :)
wc: 15k
summary: you didn’t expect the guy you swiped left on to show up at your new job — let alone as a top F1 driver. as the team’s new physiotherapist, you’re supposed to stay professional, but jeonghan makes that impossible. flirty, smug, and far too in sync with you, he’s getting under your skin — and the lines between work and something more start to blur.
a/n: writing this was a ride lmao. thank you @camandemstudios for giving me an opportunity to join this collab (met wonderful people on the way) y’all better read everyone’s work because it’s SO good!! 😭🔥 this is not beta-read so sorry for any mistakes. thank you to sarah @kkoongie, ro @shinysobi, ema @hannieoftheyear, and alta @haologram for keeping me motivated, couldn’t have done this without you all <3
You're not nervous.
You keep telling yourself that between deep sighs and aggressive sips of overpriced airport iced coffee. It's just a job. A new job. In a whole different country.
You don't know much about formula-1. You still had to double check how many drivers are on a team this morning. But apparently that didn't matter. Your background in physio is solid, your references are strong, and Williams liked that you weren't, as the HR guy put it “someone who treated the job as a backstage pass”. You don’t know if you should be worried hearing that but you just hope to hold onto this job.
The last job was shit. You were underpaid, overstressed, and one bad sports rehab case away from quitting your last job on the spot. So when the opening came up — international travel, better pay, a big-name organization, you applied. Casually. With no expectations.
And then they called. Twice.
Now you're moving to the UK to start your new job as a physiotherapist for a motorsport team you had to Google during the interview.
You are, unfortunately, a little nervous.
But you’ve got time to sit with that feeling because your flight to London was delayed by three hours. Perfect.
You scroll through your inbox, re-read your welcome packet, and watch a toddler throw goldfish crackers at a businessman like it’s a sport. Boredom creeps in like humidity—thick, sticky, and deeply annoying.
Eventually, you do what any responsible adult would do in a situation like this.
You open the dating app.
Left.
Left.
God, no.
Left again.
Okay, that one has potential—nope. Caption says “CEO of vibes.” Immediate left.
You pause on one profile:
Han, 29.
Half his face is visible, jawline so sharp it could slice through glass. Vague bio. One photo of him on a motorcycle. A second one in sunglasses. Ugh, he obviously has a face that probably ruins lives for sport.
You stare at it for a half a second top long, then swipe left.
“Ouch! Hard no for that one?”
You blink.
The voice came from directly behind you. Deep. Lightly amused. Way too close.
You glance over your shoulder and freeze.
Because it’s him. The guy you just swiped left on.In the flesh. Sitting behind you with an easy smile.
You blink.
“...Are you serious?” is the only thing that comes out.
He leans a little towards you a little closer wearing that same smug expression from his profile.
“Was it the sunglasses? I knew I should’ve picked the dog picture.”
You blink. “Sorry?”
“You didn’t even hesitate,” he says, stepping slightly to the side so he’s half in your line of sight. “I feel like I deserve at least a second of consideration.”
You smile, the kind you give to strangers in elevators. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re great.”
“Wow,” he laughs. “That’s what people say right before they block you.”
You hum, noncommittal, and go back to scrolling through your phone.
And then he moves.
You catch the blur of motion in your peripheral vision — coffee, backpack — and suddenly, he’s sliding into the empty seat right next to you.
What the—
“So,” he says, turning to face you like this is completely normal. “Now that you’ve got a closer look… how do you like me now?”
You stare at him.
He’s looking at you like you’re mid-interview and he’s waiting for your review. Like this is a second chance. Like you didn't already make your decision with one clean left swipe.
You give a short laugh. “You’re… persistent.”
“I prefer ‘charmingly committed.’” He smiles like it’s worked before. It probably has.
You shift slightly in your seat, still polite. Still not encouraging.
He doesn’t say anything for a while after that, and you’re quietly relieved.
You switch to your music app, pull out your earphones. Finally some peace!
You’re halfway to putting one in when—
“Oh! You’re flying to London too?” he says suddenly, peering at your boarding pass. “ Woah fate’s really trying hard with us, huh?”
You look at your boarding pass, then at his. Because apparently, the universe has a sense of humour.
How are you supposed to bear him for the next two and a half hours?
_
The next two and a half hours are… something.
You move to a quieter part of the gate. A few minutes later, he wanders over too — not directly next to you, but close enough to make a point.
You scroll through your phone. He glances over once, like he’s trying to guess what app you’re on. You tilt your screen slightly away, just in case.
At some point, you get up to stretch your legs and browse the nearby snack kiosk. When you come back, he’s gone. Maybe he finally got the hint. But a few minutes later, he reappears, wiping his hands with a crumpled tissue. He drops into the seat right next to you.
“God,” he mutters, “the line for the washroom is insane. Flight delay is making people feral.”
You don’t say anything. Instead you open your laptop and click into an old document — nothing important, just enough to give off busy energy. You hope he takes the cue.
To your surprise, he does. No comments, no questions, no sudden attempts at conversation. Just quiet. You type a few sentences you immediately delete. Adjust your playlist. Sip the iced tea that’s now gone lukewarm.
The minutes crawl.
Eventually, the boarding announcement cuts through the low hum of the terminal. Everyone around you starts gathering their bags, stretching, standing up too fast.
He glances over at you, casual as ever.
“Guess this is it,” he says.
You shut your laptop, give him a small nod, and grab your bag. No eye contact, no final smile. You don’t owe him that.
You board without looking back.
You don’t see him again after that. Not at the gate, not during boarding, not once you're seated. You assume he’s somewhere further back — or up front. Who knows.
Once the plane takes off, you finally let your head fall back against the seat.
It’s quiet. Peaceful.
You think about him briefly. His weird charm. That smug grin of his.Interesting personality. Exhausting, probably.
But whatever.
You won’t see him again.
You arrive ten minutes early, which means you get to stand around pretending to look comfortable while absolutely feeling the opposite.
The Williams HQ is sleek — glass everywhere, spotless floors, that clinical smell of expensive ventilation. People walk past you with lanyards and purpose, tapping away on phones or talking quietly in clipped accents. No one’s told you where to stand, so you pick a random spot near the reception and try not to look like you're on the verge of bolting.
A few minutes later, a woman in a navy Williams fleece appears.
“You must be the new physio,” she says, barely slowing her pace. “I’m Ellie.”
You nod quickly. “Hi—yes. That’s me.”
“Come on, I’ll show you around.”
You follow her through the wide corridors, trying not to trip over your own feet or your nerves.
“We’ll sort your badge and system access later,” she says as you both walk. “For now, just get familiar with the place. You’ll be shadowing me until you’re sick of my voice. You good?”
“I’m fine,” you lie, a little too fast.
“Good. Everyone is on their first day. And if they say otherwise, they’re lying or British.”
You smile, a little more genuinely this time.
She gestures as you pass different sections.
“That’s the medical office. Gym’s next door. Engineering is through that hallway but don’t go in unless you want to hear shouting about tire degradation. Drivers’ area is upstairs—again, don’t wander.”
You nod along, absorbing about half of it.
“They’re all back from Spain,” Ellie says. “Recovery sessions, light workouts, some media stuff. You’ll probably meet them today.”
You nod, keeping pace beside her as she flips through her clipboard. You're mostly focused on memorizing directions — gym to the left, med bay past the doors, don't end up in engineering unless you want to get yelled at.
“Oh!”
A voice from behind catches your attention. Familiar enough to make you stop.
“Ohhh!” Louder this time. Like they’ve just placed you.
You turn around.
Oh no.
It’s the guy from the airport.
You can’t even summon a reaction. Just… blink. That seems to be your default setting around him.
Your expression must say enough though, because his grin deepens as he starts walking toward you. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Each step he takes is a small crisis. You’re not ready. You just got here. You were mentally preparing for drivers, mechanics, trainers. Not smug, possibly unhinged dating app guys.
You can practically feel Ellie looking between the two of you, and you’re just about to lie—to say, “Nope. Never seen this man in my life”—when another voice cuts in.
“Jeonghan! What are you doing just standing there?”
A second man steps into view, tossing a smiley ball from one hand to the other like it’s an extension of his personality.
Jeonghan turns his head, pausing mid-step.
“Just saying hi,” he says, glancing back at you with a flicker of something unreadable—teasing, maybe. Or satisfied.
The other guy squints at you briefly, then back at him. “Right. Well, come on. We’ve got the debrief in five.”
Jeonghan sighs dramatically, but lets the other man grab his sleeve and pull him away. He throws one last glance over his shoulder before they disappear down the hallway.
“Fate’s working overtime,” he says with a wink.
You stare after them like you’ve just seen a ghost.
Ellie nods in the direction he disappears and says, “that’s Jeonghan, one of our drivers.”
Oh, you’re so doomed.
Ellie tosses a look over her shoulders. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the building. The good coffee machine’s on the second floor.”
You follow her numbly, trying very hard not to think about Jeonghan. Or his smug smile. Or the fact that you now have to spend the foreseeable future working in the same building as the man who saw you reject him in real time.
After nearly an hour of walking past medical rooms, simulation bays, and a break area that suspiciously smelled like burnt toast, Ellie finally leads you to a room tucked behind a glass door marked Team Briefing.
“This is where most of the magic happens,” she says, pushing it open with her hip.
You follow her inside.
And immediately regret it.
Because the moment you step in, your eyes lock with his.
Jeonghan’s already there, lounging in one of the swivel chairs like he owns the place, one leg lazily crossed over the other. He perks up slightly when he sees you, tilting his head with that same maddening, unreadable smirk.
Oh, perfect.
A few other team members are seated around the table—engineers, staff, another driver you haven’t met yet—chatting quietly until Ellie clears her throat.
“This is your new physiotherapist. She’s joining us this season and comes highly recommended, so try not to scare her off.”
A few polite nods and smiles ripple through the room.
You give a short wave, trying to keep your voice even. “Hi. Nice to meet you all.”
“Since it’s the start of the season, you’ll all be working closely with her, but she’ll be assigned to one of our drivers primarily,” Ellie continues. “So if she starts yelling at you to stretch more, listen.”
Some scattered laughter.
Then she glances at the clipboard in her hand. “And looks like you’ll be working with Jeonghan this season.”
Your head turns before you can stop it.
Jeonghan grins.
Not just grins—winks. It’s obnoxious and playful and so smug it should be criminal.
You hope no one notices the way your shoulders stiffen. Or the way your brain short-circuits for half a second. Or the very mild fluster in your chest you’re trying to deny.
Ellie gestures toward the seat beside hers. “Take a seat. We’ll go over travel schedules, recovery blocks, and the preseason calendar.”
You nod, make your way over, and sit down—carefully avoiding Jeonghan’s gaze even though you can feel it like sunlight on your skin.This job is going to test your patience in ways your interview didn’t even begin to prepare you for.
The next morning, you wake up with a pit in your stomach and a very strong urge to call in sick.
You don’t, obviously. You’re not even officially on payroll yet, and calling out on day two would be… bold. But still, the dread is very real.
You keep thinking about yesterday—Jeonghan’s wink, his smug little grin, the way he didn’t seem even remotely surprised to see you. You’re already bracing for whatever next-level flirting he’s got planned. Another wink. A suggestive comment. Maybe something wildly inappropriate said in front of other people.
You spend the elevator ride rehearsing all the ways you’ll shut him down.
Polite indifference? A bored smile? Pretend you didn’t hear him?
By the time you reach the gym, you’ve settled on a simple strategy: ignore everything except his joints and posture. No banter. No smiles. Just clinical professionalism.
Of course, that plan goes up in smoke the second he walks in.
He’s five minutes late, hair slightly tousled from what you assume was a jog, and somehow still manages to look like he stepped out of a photoshoot. There’s a towel slung around his neck and a bottle of water in hand, his sleeves shoved up to his elbows — like this is just another casual Thursday.
“Morning, doc,” he drawls. “Didn’t peg you for an early bird.”
You glance at him over your clipboard. “You’re late.”
He presses a dramatic hand to his chest. “Ouch. Straight to business.”
“Let’s get started.”
He grins, but you don’t give him time to retort — gesturing to the mat, already set up. He raises an impressed brow, muttering something under his breath about “being handled” as he drops down beside you.
The session starts smoothly. You guide him through warmups, range of motion tests, a few resistance drills. He’s competent, clearly used to being poked and prodded in the name of performance — but that doesn’t stop him from trying to get under your skin.
“Be honest,” he says midway through a shoulder test, looking at you from under his lashes. “Now that you’ve gotten to know me better… still think I’m a left swipe?”
You pause — just for a beat.
Then let out a laugh before you can stop it. A full laugh. With a snort.
You immediately clamp your mouth shut and look down at your clipboard, pretending to read your own handwriting.
He’s staring at you.
You don’t look up, just scribble something vaguely useful.
But the damage is done. Jeonghan frowns. His mouth opens like he’s about to ask why you laughed, what was so funny about that, but then shuts again. For once, he doesn’t say anything. Just follows the rest of your instructions with unusual focus, mouth slightly downturned in what you suspect might be a pout.
When you announce that the session’s done, he just nods, wiping sweat from his temple.
You rise to your feet and make a note to yourself about his left shoulder. You can feel his eyes on you again, but he doesn’t speak. Not even a wink this time.
You should feel relieved.
Instead, as you leave the gym and toss a glance back over your shoulder, you catch him still sitting on the mat, towel in his hands, brows slightly furrowed like he’s still thinking about the laugh.
Curiosity killed the cat, or whatever they said.
You’re on your way to the break room, badge still clipped to your lanyard and half a granola bar in your hand, when two passing voices hook your attention.
“He’s just getting worse with every season.”
“I don’t know why he’s still on the team.”
You slow instinctively, pretending to fix your ponytail.
They’re not whispering, not exactly—but they’re not saying it loud enough to be brave about it either. And you weren’t planning to eavesdrop, but it’s not your fault you have functioning ears.
Before you can think better of it, you detour, curiosity steering your steps toward the garage. It opens out onto the testing circuit, where the practice runs happen.
You’ve never been here during an actual test before. The track is long and wide, framed by fences and checkered barriers. The whir of tires and distant engine growls thrum like a heartbeat in the background.
A handful of engineers stand lined up behind the barrier, headsets on, eyes fixed down the stretch. One of them—tall, stocky, eyes narrowed beneath his cap—clutches a walkie-talkie and barks out a string of instructions.
You pause a few feet behind him, hands shoved into your pockets. You don’t know much about racing—not really—but the energy here feels tight.
"He's late on the turn again. Sector two's a mess," the man mutters, jabbing at a monitor. "Why’s he pushing that late?"
There’s a car in motion on the track, sleek and black with faint red accents. It disappears and reappears like a phantom through the corners, but you can see the way it jerks—just slightly—through a hairpin turn.
“He needs to pull back, he’s oversteering,” the man snaps into the walkie. “Back off into the braking zone. You’re not proving anything—Jeonghan!”
Jeonghan?
You shift forward unconsciously, squinting at the car as it barrels past the pit wall. It's fast—obviously—but it doesn’t look right. Not reckless, exactly. Just…off. Like it’s being driven by someone trying too hard to pretend they're not falling apart.
The guy beside you exhales sharply and lowers the walkie, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His shoulders slump. Not in frustration, more like disappointment that’s been sitting there a while.
You glance back toward the track one last time.
There’s no spinout. No crash. Jeonghan finishes the lap, pulls into the pit lane with the precision of muscle memory but there’s no celebration in it. No edge-of-the-seat brilliance.
And for some reason, that’s worse.
Before anyone sees you, you slip away quietly, questions pressing against your ribs, and that familiar, unwelcome twinge in your gut.
The break room smells like stale coffee and popcorn, the overhead lights buzzing faintly as you tug open the fridge.
You take out your lunch, a glass container you packed without much thought this morning, and pop it into the microwave. It hums to life as you lean against the counter, arms folded, stomach already growling.
“Hey! There you are.”
You turn to see Seokmin walking in, grinning like it’s his full-time job.
“Hey,” you greet, instantly more at ease. “Lunch break too?”
“Yep,” he says, plopping down at the small table with a banana and two boiled eggs. “Big day of babysitting elite athletes who think foam rolling once a week is enough.”
You snort. “Tell me about it.”
You’d hit it off with Seokmin the first day you got here—he was the one who’d waved you over when you looked hopelessly lost outside the medical wing and introduced you to every single person in a twenty-meter radius. He’s the team physio assigned to the other driver— Soonyoung, always cracking jokes but surprisingly sharp when it came to reading people’s bodies.
“How’s it going with Jeonghan?” he asks casually, peeling his egg with practiced ease.
You pause to take your lunch out of the microwave, sliding into the seat across from him.
“He’s okay… I mean, it’s only the first day I’m actually working with him.”
You open the lid, the smell of warm food rising between you. “Other than his attempt at flirting with me, it’s all good, I think.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is it? I thought it was just me.”
“Oh no, he flirts with inanimate objects if they give him attention. Don’t take it personally.”
You laugh, shaking your head, and start eating. A few minutes pass with idle chewing and muttering about an upcoming medical review schedule.
But the question’s been hovering since you walked in.
You glance over. “Hey, about Jeonghan…”
Seokmin looks up.
“I didn’t mean to overhear anything, but—uh, I was passing by the garage earlier and I heard some shouting. Not that I know a lot about F1, but it seemed… I don’t know. Bad?”
Seokmin sighs and leans back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the window that overlooks a small portion of the circuit.
“Well,” he begins, rolling the eggshell between his fingers, “he was one of our best. Like—top three drivers in the league kind of best. Always sharp, calculated...”
You don’t say anything, just listen.
“And then last season hit,” Seokmin says, voice softer now. “He started spinning out in qualifying. Missed a couple of podiums he should’ve nailed in his sleep. At first we thought it was just an adjustment thing—new tech—but…”
He trails off.
“But?”
“There was some personal stuff. Off-track,” Seokmin says. “It’s not really my place to say, but it was… messy. Things started to spiral.”
You nod slowly, processing. You don’t know the details, and it’s not like you’re entitled to, but something about the way Seokmin says spiral lingers.
“He’s still good,” Seokmin says after a moment, like he wants to be fair. “His instincts haven’t left him. But the spark? That thing that made him unbeatable? I don’t know if it’s still there.”
You glance down at your lunch, appetite slightly dulled.
“He doesn’t make it easy,” Seokmin adds. “The flirting, the bravado—it’s all a cover. And I think he’s gotten too good at wearing it.”
You look up. “Does anyone call him out on it?”
Seokmin grins. “Oh, all the time. He just grins back and pretends we’re all imagining it. Charming bastard.”
You chuckle despite yourself, tucking that little piece of information away. When Jeonghan winked at you yesterday, you’d thought it was just arrogance. Now you’re not so sure.
“Anyway,” Seokmin says brightly, stabbing his banana with a plastic fork, “don’t worry too much. He likes a challenge. You shutting down his flirt game probably raised his respect for you by ten points.”
You snort again, amused and slightly exasperated. “Great. Just what I need—more attention from the emotionally repressed race car flirt.”
Seokmin grins wide. “Welcome to the team.”
The paddock looks different in the morning, almost like it’s still waking up.
Someone’s wheeling in crates of water bottles. A junior engineer yawns into his coffee near the garage door. The hum of machines warming up echoes in the distance, but the energy is subdued—no shouting, no screeching tires yet. Just early sunlight and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to concrete.
You’re earlier than usual, hoping to review Jeonghan’s flexibility notes before your session, but the resistance bands are missing from the physio kit. A mechanic vaguely gestures toward the storage room behind the garage.
The door sticks slightly as you push it open. The room is dim, cluttered, with stacks of cones and kettlebells piled to one side and a crooked ceiling fan turning slowly overhead. You're crouched by a bin of straps, digging around, when a voice cuts through the silence.
“If you're stealing equipment, I have to report you.”
You jolt slightly, knocking your elbow into the bin. You turn to see Jeonghan standing just behind, peering over your neck. He’s not even in his training gear yet—just joggers and a loose shirt, hair still damp from a recent shower.
“I was looking for resistance bands. For you.”
You stand, brushing off your knees, and gather your hair up into a loose bun with a scrunchie from your wrist.
His eyes flick upward for half a second, and he lets out a low scoff.
“Smooth,” he says. “Distract me with beauty while you sneak off with team property. Classic technique.”
You raise an eyebrow, unamused.
“You really think I’d go through all that trouble just to steal a ten-dollar band?”
“I don’t know your life.”
You exhale, already walking past him with the band in hand.
“Stretch mat’s out already. You want to start or do you need a minute to flirt with someone else on the way there?”
“Wow,” he laughs, following you slowly. “Day two and you’ve got claws.”
_
The cafeteria is buzzing with midday chatter — drivers, engineers, media staff, all squeezed into mismatched tables and long benches. The menu’s nothing fancy today: grilled chicken, rice, boiled veggies — but it’s hot, and your stomach doesn’t care much about finesse at this point.
You’re sitting with Ellie and Seokmin, trays lined up in front of you, all mid-bite when Jeonghan slides into the spot directly across from you like he’s been doing it for years.
“Didn’t peg you as someone who eats the cafeteria food,” Ellie says, raising an eyebrow at him.
“I make exceptions for good company,” Jeonghan says smoothly, shooting a wink at her then at you.
Seokmin snorts into his water.
Before you can react, another tray lands beside Jeonghan’s, and Soonyoung plops down with the kind of enthusiastic energy that feels like a golden retriever just joined the table. His eyes go wide when they meet yours.
He introduces himself cheerfully, and when he turns to you, it’s with the kind of open friendliness that makes you like him immediately.
“I’m Soonyoung—other half of the team, basically,” he says, offering his hand with a grin. “Though I drive better.”
“Debatable,” Jeonghan mutters through a bite, still watching you from the corner of his eye.
You shake his hand, smiling. “I don’t know, I’ve only worked with one of you so far, and the drama’s already… notable.”
Ellie stifles a laugh. Jeonghan looks wounded, then leans forward, voice dropping just enough to make it feel intentional. “I thought I was being charming.”
“You thought wrong,” you say without missing a beat, and Seokmin lets out a loud ha!.
Conversation carries on — Ellie talking about how her morning was filled with fixing the same damn monitor twice, Seokmin complaining about someone mislabeling the taping drawers again, Soonyoung grinning through most of it and adding the occasional “true, true” with dramatic nods. It’s clear they all know each other — have known each other for a long time. Jeonghan’s stories are met with knowing groans. Soonyoung throws paper napkins at him halfway through one. There’s a rhythm to them and you're still finding your place in it.
But it’s nice. Warm.
Then Ellie turns to you, nudging your elbow with hers. “You’re coming to the team dinner tonight, right?”
You pause mid-chew. “Dinner?”
Jeonghan perks up beside her, chewing slower, watching you carefully like he’s really invested in your answer.
Seokmin grins. “It’s tradition. Anytime someone joins the team, we all get together, food, drinks—nothing wild, just… a welcome thing. You have to come. It’s your dinner.”
“She has to,” Jeonghan agrees, still looking at you. “Wouldn’t be right without the guest of honor.”
You meet his eyes, unimpressed. He gives you a sheepish little smile, like he knows you’re onto him. Like he hopes that’s not a bad thing.
You sigh, more for show than anything. “Fine. I’ll come.”
Jeonghan’s grin stretches instantly. Soonyoung fist-bumps the air. Seokmin claps once, triumphant.
Ellie just laughs and shakes her head, “You’re in trouble.”
You’re starting to think she might be right.
_
The dinner is loud and warm, like someone bottled up all the noise of the racetrack and let it loose inside the restaurant. Two long tables are pushed together, covered with plates that never stay full for more than a minute. Every few seconds, laughter erupts from somewhere along the table.
Soonyoung is halfway through an impression of one of the engineers when he nearly knocks over a glass. Everyone groans and laughs at the same time. He points at you. “See? She’s laughing. That means I nailed it.”
You shake your head. “That was terrible.”
“Terribly accurate,” Seokmin adds, slapping his thigh.
The teasing shifts, bouncing from person to person. At one point, Ellie insists you join a team game where everyone has to share the most embarrassing thing they’ve done in public. The stories are ridiculous, full of trips and wardrobe malfunctions and mistimed jokes. When it’s Jeonghan’s turn, he leans back lazily in his chair, his smirk practiced.
“I once waved at a girl across the street who waved first,” he says, pausing for effect. “Turns out she was waving at the guy behind me.”
The table erupts, some laughing too hard to breathe.
“You?” Seokmin gasps. “You’re never embarrassed.”
“Maybe I just hide it better than you do,” Jeonghan replies smoothly, eyes flicking toward you before he takes a sip from his glass.
You roll your eyes, pretending not to notice.
The night carries on like that, loud and careless. At some point, you excuse yourself to the washroom, weaving through the tables and slipping out of the noise.
When you return, the air feels different. The laughter is still there, but quiete around the edges.
“Careful, Jeonghan. At this rate you’ll be better at charming the sponsors than driving.”
The table bursts into laughter. Another voice adds, “Don’t worry, at least your hair still has podium potential.”
You glance at Jeonghan. He’s smiling, lifting his glass like he’s in on the joke, but his jaw is a little too tight. A few minutes later, he slips away from the table, quiet and unnoticed.
You hesitate, then follow.
Outside, the night is cooler, quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. Jeonghan leans against the railing, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette that glows faintly in the dark. He doesn’t look up when you step out. Just exhales smoke, eyes fixed on the road like he’s trying to burn holes in it.
You move to stand beside him, leaving a bit of space. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then, lightly, you break it. “If you keep staring at the traffic like that, I’m going to think you’re plotting how to jump on top of a bus and disappear.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. He glances at you, finally, the tension in his face softening. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”
You shrug. “Not really. You’d make a terrible spy.”
That earns a chuckle, low and genuine. He shakes his head and takes another drag, the smoke curling lazily upward. “You’re strange, you know that?”
“Strange keeps things interesting,” you say.
The quiet stretches between you, filled only with the distant honking of horns and the faint hum of music seeping out from the restaurant. Jeonghan takes another slow drag, his expression unreadable again, though softer than before.
You glance at him, then back at the road. “For what it’s worth,” you say after a pause, “I’m here. Whenever you want.”
His head turns, just slightly. The weight in his gaze lingers on you longer this time, and then he gives a small smile, almost rueful but real. “Careful. I might hold you to that.”
You push off the railing, pretending to brush imaginary dust from your hands. “Good. That’s the point.”
He watches as you turn to go, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he schools it away. You’ve only taken a few steps when you glance back over your shoulder.
“And Jeonghan?”
He tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“Stop smoking.”
You say it with mock sternness, narrowing your eyes at him.
His mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “What, and give up my mysterious brooding aesthetic?”
You grin. “Exactly. Trade it in for lungs that actually work.”
He lets out a laugh, shaking his head as he lifts the cigarette between two fingers. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Not on bad habits,” you shoot back before slipping inside, leaving him with smoke curling in the air and that same small smile tugging at his lips.
It has been a few months since you joined Williams, and the rhythm of the job has settled into something almost natural. The early mornings, the endless travel, the noise of the track that rattles in your bones—you’ve grown used to it all. Somewhere along the way, you’ve also grown used to Jeonghan.
He’s still frustratingly unpredictable, slipping between lazy charm and razor-sharp focus like it costs him nothing. But you’ve found small ways into his world. The coffee runs that somehow turn into debates about which city has the best food. The gym sessions where he cheats half his reps and makes you count them anyway. The way he’s started waiting for you in the corridor before team briefings, tossing you a casual “ready?” as if you’ve always been a part of this.
Now, in the therapy room, you’re working through knots in his arm after a long training session. His skin is warm under your hands, the muscle tense, and when you press into a particularly sore spot, he hisses like you’ve stabbed him.
The sound is so loud that a couple of mechanics look up from across the room. You give him a sharp look.
“Stop acting like I’m torturing you.”
He winces dramatically, though the corner of his mouth is twitching.
“How else will people know you’re bullying your patient?”
You swat his shoulder lightly, ignoring how firm it feels under your palm. “You’re unbelievable.”
One afternoon, you flip the page on your clipboard, scanning through the checklist. Jeonghan is toweling sweat off his neck, water bottle tilted back as he catches his breath. You glance up at him before speaking.
“Since the season’s beginning soon, I need to do a full check-up. You’ll have to come to my room later.”
He lowers the bottle slowly, eyes flicking to you in something between surprise and curiosity. A smile tugs at his lips.
“Your room, huh?”
You roll your eyes and jot another note. “The medical room, Jeonghan. Don’t make it weird.”
“I didn't imply anything,” he murmurs, grinning as he slings the towel over his shoulder.
Later that evening, the medical room is quieter than usual, the hum of the overhead lights filling the silence. You’re already setting up when Jeonghan strolls in, moving slower than he should, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“You’re late,” you say without looking up from your clipboard.
“You said later. I thought that meant whenever I felt like it.” His voice is smooth, teasing, and when you finally glance at him, he’s leaning against the doorframe with a grin that dares you to scold him.
“Sit,” you order, pointing to the exam table.
He obeys, dramatically, of course—plopping down with a sigh as if you’re about to ruin his life. “Go easy on me.”
“You’ll live,” you reply, snapping on gloves. You check his vitals first, his pulse steady beneath your fingers. He watches you closely, even when you’re not looking at him.
When you test his reflexes, he smirks. “I feel like I should’ve studied for this.”
“Reflexes aren’t a written exam.”
“Good, because I would’ve cheated off you anyway.”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. He makes everything sound unserious, but when you ask him to rotate his shoulder, his jaw tightens. The soreness is real, and for a moment, the grin slips. You notice it, and your hands steady on his arm, gentler this time.
“You need to be honest with me,” you say quietly. “If something hurts, I have to know. Don’t brush it off.”
His eyes lift to meet yours, and for once, he doesn’t have a quick comeback. Just a small, almost reluctant nod.
The tension eases, but before it gets too heavy, he smirks again. “You’re scarier when you’re serious.”
You swat his knee lightly, and he laughs, the sound bouncing off the sterile walls.
By the time you’re done, he’s lying back with his hands folded behind his head, watching you scribble notes. “So? Do I pass?”
“For now,” you reply, peeling off your gloves. “Try not to break yourself before the season even starts.”
He sits up, swinging his legs off the table. “Guess I’ll just have to stay close to my doctor.”
You give him a look, but he only grins wider.
You’re scribbling down the last of your notes when you hear Jeonghan move. At first, you think he’s finally leaving, but then you notice him lingering by your desk. His fingers trail along the edge of your things with too much interest.
“What’s this?” he asks, plucking up the notebook you left by your clipboard.
Your head snaps up. “Jeonghan, no. Put that down.”
His lips curve into a grin, already flipping to the first page. “It looks like a diary.”
“It’s not for you,” you warn, stepping quickly around the desk.
He clears his throat dramatically and reads in a mock-serious voice, “Day one. Williams garage smells worse than I expected.”
Your eyes widen. “Jeonghan!”
You reach for it, but he just lifts the notebook higher, holding it above his head like a prize. “You keep notes about me, don’t you?”
“Give it back!” You stand on your tiptoes, stretching your arm as far as it will go. He shifts away with maddening ease, smirking like this is the best entertainment he has had in weeks.
“Wow, you wrote a lot,” he says, tilting the book to squint at the lines. “Should I be flattered or worried?”
You swat at his arm, but he keeps dancing back, keeping the notebook just out of reach. He looks far too pleased with himself.
“Jeonghan, I swear—”
You take a determined step forward just as his calves hit the edge of the exam bed. His eyes flicker in surprise, but before he can steady himself, gravity wins. He topples backward onto the bed, and you tumble forward with him, landing squarely against his chest.
The world goes still. His laugh dies halfway in his throat, replaced by the sound of both your breaths tangling in the narrow space between you. He’s lying back, propped on his elbows, and you’re braced against him, face so close you can see the tiny mole under his left eye, the curve of his lips when he swallows.
Neither of you moves. For a split second, it feels like the air has thickened, buzzing with something you shouldn’t be even thinking about.
You clear your throat quickly and snatch the notebook from his loosened grip, stepping back as fast as you can manage. “You’re impossible.”
He grins up at you from the bed, his hair slightly mussed, eyes gleaming like he just discovered a new way to torment you. “Admit it,” he says lightly, “you enjoy chasing me.”
You hug the notebook to your chest, trying to look stern even though your pulse hasn’t quite settled. “Stop going through people’s things.”
“Only yours,” he replies without missing a beat.
You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth threaten to give you away.
The office lights go out one by one as you finally shut your laptop and rub your eyes. It is well past the time you usually leave, but the pile of forms refused to finish itself. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you head toward the exit—only to notice the garage door cracked open, bright white light spilling into the dark hallway.
Curiosity wins.
You step inside and the smell hits first, a mix of rubber and engine oil. The place is mostly quiet, save for the distant hum of something still alive. Across the vast floor, one car cuts along the track, its low growl echoing through the building. You stop near the railing, leaning over just enough to catch a glimpse as it glides across the straight, graceful and fast, though you can’t tell if it’s fast enough by racing standards.
When it finally slows and pulls into the pit lane, it stops not far from where you’re standing, the heat radiating off its hood. The door opens and out steps Jeonghan, pulling off his gloves and helmet in one smooth motion, hair falling damp across his forehead. He blinks when he notices you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“What are you doing here?” His voice carries easily in the cavernous garage. “Your work was supposed to be over hours ago.”
You cross your arms, pretending to look offended. “I had extra paperwork.” Then, with a teasing tilt of your head, you add, “Some of it was for you, by the way. You’re welcome.”
Before he can reply, footsteps echo across the garage floor. His race engineer approaches, a tablet in one hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. He doesn’t even seem surprised you’re there—he’s focused squarely on Jeonghan.
“Good laps,” the engineer says briskly, flipping through data. “But you’re braking a fraction too late into turn six. Car’s steady otherwise. Keep that line through the chicane—it looks clean.”
Jeonghan nods, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile too much. “Got it.”
The engineer pats his shoulder firmly, like a coach sending a player back onto the field. “See you tomorrow. Take rest.”
With that, he heads off, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again. Jeonghan glances back at you, a little sheepish, like you just saw him in his element.
You raise your brows, fighting a smirk. “So… is this where I’m supposed to pretend I understood a single word of that?”
He laughs, the sound rich and boyish. “Maybe. Or you can just admit you’re impressed.”
“By the braking thing? Totally.”
He shakes his head, amused, before softening his expression. “You want to get out of here?”
“Yes, please.”
“Alright. Wait here for me.” He gestures toward the stool near the wall, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
You sigh but obey, sitting with your phone in hand. Fifteen minutes drag by, the garage echoing with the occasional click of tools being put away. Just as you’re wondering if he’s forgotten you, a sudden coldness shocks your cheek.
You jerk in your seat with a squeak, whirling around to find Jeonghan smirking, two cans in his hands.
“Relax,” he says, pressing one into your palm. “A peace offering. For all that paperwork you did for me.”
You roll your eyes but take the can anyway.
Jeonghan drops down beside you, the metal of the step groaning under the weight. He pops his can open with a crisp hiss, the fizz breaking the stillness of the garage. You glance at him, but he doesn’t look at you right away. He tips his head back for a slow sip, Adam’s apple shifting with the motion, and then exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day.
You take that as your chance. “Alright,” you say, nudging your can lightly against your knee. “Tell me about racing. I know almost nothing—just that there are two drivers per team, twenty teams in total, and Williams… isn’t exactly winning.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “That’s one way to put it.”
You grin. “So? Make me less clueless.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, and starts talking. At first it’s simple: practice sessions, qualifying, the starting grid. Then he gets into strategies, pit stops, tire choices. His hands move when words aren’t enough, tracing the imaginary shape of a racetrack in the air. His voice is steady but animated, like he forgets for a moment who he’s talking to because this is his world and he knows it inside out.
And you try to follow—really, you do—but the longer he goes on, the more your focus slips.
The garage lights cast faint shadows over his features, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth when he pauses between thoughts. His lashes are darker up close, fanning against his skin when he blinks. His hair falling loose against his forehead. Every now and then he pushes them back with careless fingers, only for them to fall forward again. And his…lips.
You realize you’re not listening to the words anymore, just the cadence of his voice. He’s so close, and the more he talks, the easier it is to picture this is how he is with people he trusts—unguarded, passionate, lit from within by something you can’t quite touch.
When his eyes flick to yours mid-sentence, you freeze. The intensity makes your chest tighten. You drop your gaze quickly, clearing your throat as you take a sip from your can, the cold fizz a poor distraction.
“You really like racing, don’t you,” you say softly.
Jeonghan leans back against the wall, tipping his head slightly as though weighing the question. Then he smiles, “yeah. I do.”
The silence after stretches. Not awkward, but weighted. The two of you stare out at the empty track, the faint smell of rubber and asphalt hanging in the air.
“How about a bet?”
His head turns. “A bet?”
“You do great this season,” you say, pretending to study your can. “I’ll give you a gift.”
One brow arches, and his smirk returns, lighter now. “Are you bribing me?”
You scoff. “Incentivizing. Don’t twist my words.”
He chuckles low in his throat, tilting his can toward you. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that.”
You tap your can gently against his, the metallic clink echoing in the quiet. When you glance at him again, you catch his eyes on you, softer than before. It makes your chest tighten all over again, and you look back at the track quickly, pretending you didn’t notice.
The season is getting closer and everyone is working like there are not enough hours in the day. Engineers stay glued to their screens, mechanics move nonstop around the cars, and meetings stretch longer than they should. You feel the pressure too, heavy and constant in the air. So when Williams announces a go-karting day for everyone, it feels like someone finally let the team breathe.
Jeonghan, of course, turns the whole thing into a spectacle. While most people stick to driving properly, he spins his kart in lazy circles, waves like a showman every time he passes the group, and at some point drives backwards just to prove he can. His laughter carries over the roar of the engines, infectious enough that even the engineers who were complaining about set-ups earlier can’t stop smiling.
You’re standing on the sidelines with Seokmin, both of you watching the chaos unfold. You can’t help grinning when Jeonghan lifts both hands from the wheel for a moment, earning a string of warnings from staff.
“Does he ever take anything seriously?” you say, shaking your head.
“Not when he can help it,” Seokmin replies, chuckling. “That’s Jeonghan.”
The conversation flows easily, your focus drifting back to Jeonghan every other second. You comment on the way he corners too dramatically, the way he tosses his head back when he laughs, the way he waves at his competitors like they’re adoring fans instead of colleagues trying to beat him. Seokmin hums in agreement here and there, but he’s quiet for longer than usual.
When you finally glance at him, he’s staring at you with a look of dawning realization. Then he gasps loudly, clutching his chest. “Oh my god. You’re in love!”
You freeze, eyes wide. “What?”
He grins like a cat who’s found cream. “You’re in love with him.”
You let out an incredulous laugh. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” He points at you accusingly, delight all over his face. “Do you even realize you’ve been standing here for twenty minutes, and fifteen of those minutes were just you talking about Jeonghan?”
“That’s because I’m his physiotherapist,” you argue, fumbling for composure.
Seokmin raises a brow, unconvinced. “Tell that to my grandmother,” he says smugly.
You sputter, heat rising to your face. “Did you not hear what I said? Half the time I was complaining!”
Seokmin smirks, sing-songing under his breath, “Denial is a river in Egypt…”
You whip your head toward him. “Seokmin—”
Before you can finish, you hear a voice calling your name.
You turn to see Jeonghan pulling up beside the fence in his kart, hair wild from the wind, grinning like he owns the world. He calls your name, beckoning. “Come on, your turn!”
Seokmin elbows you in the ribs. “Go. Your loverboy is calling.”
“He’s not—” you start, but your protest is half-hearted, lost under Seokmin’s snickering. You scoff for show, tugging at your jacket as you walk toward Jeonghan.
You tug the helmet on and slide into the kart, pretending not to notice the way Jeonghan’s eyes are already on you. He looks far too pleased with himself, leaning against his wheel like he’s been waiting just for this.
“I didn’t think you’d actually try,” he says, his grin pulling wider.
“You didn’t think I could,” you shoot back, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.
He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “True. But I didn’t say that out loud, did I?”
The moment the flag waves, Jeonghan flies, swerving so close in front of you that you have to slam the brakes.
“Hey!” you shout, laughter bubbling out despite yourself. “That’s cheating!”
He only tilts his head back and laughs, the sound ringing across the track. Instead of staying in his lane, he veers directly into yours, forcing you to turn wider than necessary.
“Jeonghan!” you yell again, your voice breaking on a laugh. “Stop cheating!”
“Why? You’re still behind me!” he calls back, voice smug.
You try to cut in, but he’s already anticipating it, jerking his wheel so you have to swerve. Your helmet knocks against the padding with the force of your laughter, half annoyed, half exhilarated.
“You’re impossible,” you shout, chasing him down the straight.
He throws one hand dramatically into the air as if waving to an imaginary crowd, kart weaving dangerously as he does it. You can’t even stop laughing long enough to scold him. The ridiculousness of it all—the childish spins, the smug grins, the way he keeps blocking you at every corner makes your chest ache with something warmer than frustration.
By the time you finally catch up to his side, you’re breathless, still shouting his name through laughter. He turns his head, eyes sparkling, and says over the roar of the engines, “See? You love it.”
And you hate that he’s right.
This season’s host city is Baku, and it feels different the moment you land. The airport buzzes with energy that comes with a Grand Prix weekend. Posters of drivers are plastered on walls, little groups of fans cluster around the arrivals area hoping for a glimpse, and the city outside the glass windows glows against the Caspian Sea.
You tug your carry-on along and glance at your friends. Seokmin is humming to himself, Ellie is already scrolling through maps of restaurants she wants to try, and Jeonghan walks a few steps ahead, baseball cap pulled low but still managing to turn heads. Soonyoung lags behind, muttering about needing sleep more than anything else.
It’s loud, crowded, but there’s a strange thrill in the air too. This is the next stop, another race, another city, and maybe a whole different kind of chaos waiting to happen.
The only problem? Your suitcase doesn’t appear on the carousel.
You watch the crowd thin out as people drag their luggage away, leaving the belt emptier and emptier until it’s just circling with a few stray bags that definitely aren’t yours.
You press your lips together. “Don’t tell me…”
Seokmin leans on his suitcase like it’s a piece of furniture. “Lost luggage?”
“Looks like it.” You rub your forehead, already dreading the hassle of reporting it. “This is just my luck.”
Jeonghan, quiet until now, lets out a soft hum and unzips his own bag. Before you can ask what he’s doing, he pulls out a black hoodie and holds it out to you.
You blink. “What?”
“You’re going to need it,” he says matter-of-factly. “Airports, hotel air conditioning. Unless you want to freeze.”
“I’ll be fine,” you protest.
“Just keep it.”
Your cheeks warm before you can stop them. With a small sigh, you take the hoodie and tug it on. It’s big enough to swallow you whole, the sleeves dangling past your wrists, and it smells faintly of his cologne.
“Cute,” Seokmin laughs, earning himself a sharp elbow from Ellie and a glare from you.
Soonyoung appears at your side, eyeing the empty carousel. “Oh, you should report it fast. I lost my luggage once.” He pauses dramatically. “Still haven’t found it.”
The horrified look on your face sends Jeonghan into laughter. “Okay, big guy, let’s get you some sleep.” He pats Soonyoung’s shoulder and steers him forward, the two of them drifting a few paces ahead of the group.
Behind you, Ellie and Seokmin exchange the kind of smirk that makes you want to melt into the floor.
“Don’t,” you warn, zipping the hoodie halfway.
Ellie holds up her hands in mock innocence. “We didn’t say anything.”
“So,” Soonyoung says slyly, “is there something going on between you guys?”
Jeonghan’s laugh comes instantly, like the very idea is ridiculous. “Me and her? No. We’re just friends.”
“Really?” Soonyoung side-eyes him, unconvinced. “You sure about that? You two seem pretty close.”
“Close, sure,” Jeonghan admits easily, still smiling. “But just friends.”
Their voices drift into the airport buzz as they walk ahead. Seokmin glances back at you, his grin positively devilish, and mouths, just friends? Ellie elbows him again, though this time her expression is less amused — more like she’s disappointed.
The ride to the hotel is quiet, a mix of jet lag and city lights rushing past the windows. Baku feels alive even at night, the streets lined with glowing buildings and the sea glimmering faintly in the distance.
Check-in is quick. The staff hands out keycards, and you all compare room numbers. Ellie is next door to you, Seokmin a few doors down, and Jeonghan is assigned to a floor above with Soonyoung.
“Different floors, huh?” Seokmin says lightly, nudging your arm. “That should keep things safe.”
“Safe from what?” you mutter.
He just smirks.
As you slide your keycard into the door, Jeonghan passes on his way to the elevator. He lifts a hand in a small wave before stepping inside with Soonyoung. The doors close, and the quiet hum of the elevator disappears down the hall.
The lock clicks open, and you step into your room. You set your bag down and wash up, but even after slipping under the covers, your body refuses to settle. Every time you close your eyes, your thoughts run circles around the day—the travel, the missing luggage, Jeonghan’s hoodie still draped over a chair by the desk.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The silence grows heavy, pressing against your ears until you finally throw the blanket back with a sigh. Sleep isn’t happening.
You slide the balcony door open and step outside. The night air is cool and sharp, a welcome contrast to the stale stillness of the room. The city hums faintly in the distance, headlights weaving through Baku’s narrow streets.
When you rest your arms on the railing, you notice movement just to your left. Jeonghan is leaning against his own balcony rail, one floor identical to yours, separated only by a slim partition. His T-shirt clings softly to his shoulders, hair tousled like he’s been tugging at it for hours.
He notices you almost immediately, eyes flicking over in surprise before a slow smile spreads across his face.
Your eyes widen. “Wait—aren’t you supposed to be upstairs?”
He glances over at you, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “I was. But the team’s still in the strategy room going over race data, so Soonyoung and I switched to a quieter floor. Figured I’d sneak out here for a bit of air.”
He tilts his head, why are you still up? It's late.”
“It just feels very…weird. Also the jetlag.” you laugh.
He nods like he understands. For a moment, the two of you just stand there, letting the quiet stretch comfortably.
You break it first. “So, media day tomorrow. Are you excited?”
The spark in your voice is genuine, but his reaction is anything but. Jeonghan goes still, his smile fading. He doesn’t answer right away, just tilts his head back to look at the night sky as if he can dodge the question.
When he finally speaks, his tone is softer, almost thoughtful. “Excited isn’t the word I’d use.”
That catches you off guard. “What would you use then?”
He exhales slowly, fingers drumming against the railing. “I hate media day. It feels fake. The cameras, the questions, the answers I’ve given a hundred times before. Everyone sees a version of me, but not me.”
The admission sits between you like something fragile. You don’t know what to say, so you stay quiet, letting him take his time.
Jeonghan glances at you then, the kind of look that lingers longer than it should. His voice drops, quieter still, as if meant only for you. “But with you… I don’t feel fake.”
Your chest tightens before you can stop it. The night air suddenly feels warmer, like it’s carrying the weight of his words straight to you. You grip the railing a little tighter, heart beating faster than it should.
“Jeonghan…” you start, but the rest of the thought tangles on your tongue. You’re not sure what you were even going to say.
He leans his elbows on the railing, closer now, his face partly shadowed by the glow of the balcony lights. His gaze doesn’t waver. “hmm?”
The way he says it so cutely, paired with that small tilt of his head, makes your stomach flip. You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh it off. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t push, but the faint smirk tugging at his lips tells you he knows it isn’t nothing. The quiet between you sharpens, heavy with everything unspoken.
Finally, he tilts his head toward his door. “You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
No. You don’t want to leave. You want to stay, to talk to him, to laugh with him… to just be with him. The truth rises in your chest, you just
You love him so-
The sharp slide of his balcony door yanks you out of your thoughts. You look over, but he’s already gone. Disappointment pools in your stomach, a hollow ache you can’t quite shake, and with a slow breath you step back inside too.
The buffet tables are lined with polished trays, steam rising faintly from the hot dishes. You grab a plate and trail behind Jeonghan, watching as he stacks his selections with practiced ease. He moves without hesitation, spooning eggs, sausages, and something fried onto his plate like he knows exactly what he wants.
That is when a voice cuts in– a random stranger who sounds too self-important. “You shouldn’t eat that. Too oily. Not good before a big weekend,” a man says, leaning slightly toward Jeonghan’s plate. “Athletes need discipline. You should stick to fruit and oats.”
Jeonghan only blinks, lips twitching in the kind of polite smile that does not quite reach his eyes. He hums, as if debating whether to respond at all, but before he can, the words leave your mouth.
“Pretty sure he can decide for himself,” you say, light but firm. “It’s breakfast, not a crime scene.”
The man falters, visibly thrown. You raise your brows, tilting your head just enough to make your point clear. His confidence wavers, and after an awkward beat, he mutters something under his breath and drifts down the line, suddenly very interested in the fruit section.
You glance at Jeonghan, and he is smiling now.
“Defending me before I even take a bite,” he says, voice low. “What would I do without you?”
“You’d still eat the sausage,” you reply, trying not to show how warm your face feels.
His smile deepens, a hint of teasing glinting in his eyes. “Maybe. But it tastes better with you on my side.”
You roll your eyes, but your chest feels too light for it to land. He shifts his tray closer to yours, shoulder brushing as you both move down the line, and you cannot shake the thought that breakfast just became the best part of the morning.
The two of you settle at a table by the windows, trays clinking as you set them down. Morning sunlight spills across the table, warm and soft, but you hardly notice it with Jeonghan sitting across from you, sleeves pushed up and hair still a little messy from sleep.
He glances at your plate and grins. “You really took half the fruit section.”
“They looked fresh,” you defend, stabbing a piece of melon. “At least I’m not the one who took three pastries.”
“Correction,” he says, holding up a fork like he’s making a point. “Four. But who’s counting?”
You laugh, shaking your head, and the two of you fall into easy chatter. He complains about the bitter coffee, you argue that it’s not that bad, and he smirks every time you roll your eyes.
“You always do that,” he says suddenly, tilting his head.
“Do what?”
“Wrinkle your nose when you don’t like something. Like just now, with the coffee.” He mimics the expression, nose scrunching, lips curling.
“Don’t do that,” you laugh, nudging his foot under the table before you can stop yourself. The accidental contact makes your chest warm, but he doesn’t move away—just gives you a small smile, like he noticed.
You go back to your plate, but his gaze lingers. After a beat, he leans in slightly. “You’ve got something here,” he says, pointing vaguely near his own mouth.
“Oh, where?” you fumble for your napkin, dabbing at the wrong corner. “Did I get it?”
He shakes his head, still watching you, amused. “Other side.”
You try again, missing by a mile. His smile widens, but he doesn’t correct you right away, like he’s enjoying the sight of you struggling. Then, before you can ask again, he sets his fork down and leans across the table.
“Here,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly at the corner of your mouth. The touch is soft, unhurried, and when he pulls back, his gaze flicks to yours and holds there a moment too long.
Your breath catches, heat rising in your cheeks. “You could’ve just told me.”
“I did,” he says easily, picking up his fork again. “You just weren’t listening.”
You watch him for a beat too long, last night’s thoughts tugging at you again. You almost said it then, and the words are right there now too.
“Jeonghan, I…” you murmur, just enough to catch his attention. He tilts his head, waiting.
Before you can go on, the space beside you explodes with noise.
Soonyoung drops his tray onto the table with a clatter, pointing an accusatory finger at Seokmin. “Tell him he can’t just steal half my eggs!”
Seokmin only grins as he slides into the chair across from you. “If he didn’t want me to take them, he should’ve eaten faster.”
The whole scene is so ridiculous that Jeonghan bursts out laughing. The quiet between you disappears in an instant, replaced by Soonyoung and Seokmin bickering over eggs like it is the most serious matter in the world.
You close your mouth, the words you almost said slipping away before you can catch them. There’s a small tug of disappointment, but it fades quickly in the noise.
Jeonghan is grinning at their antics, shoulders shaking as he tries to scold them and fails miserably. You shake your head, smiling, and reach for your food again.
The rest of the day rushes by in a blur. Jeonghan disappears early, swept into a rotation of interviews, photoshoots, and media calls that keep him busy from morning until late evening.
You, on the other hand, are trapped in meeting rooms that feel like they are getting smaller with every passing hour. Strategy sessions, scheduling calls, endless discussions that circle back to the same points again and again. You find yourself nodding at the right times, scribbling notes you barely register, pretending to be fully engaged while your mind drifts elsewhere. By the third meeting, your coffee has gone cold, by the fifth, you are watching the clock more than you are listening.
By the time everything winds down, your voice feels tired from speaking too much, and your head aches from pretending to focus on things you barely care about.
When night finally settles, you slip away to the hotel’s pool for a breather, hoping for silence. The pool area is mostly empty, and the quiet you have been craving all day. Until you hear the sound of splashing.
You pause mid-step, eyes widening when you see him. Jeonghan is already there, cutting through the water in clean strokes, his hair slicked back and shoulders gleaming under the lights.
You let out a startled shriek. "Oh my god, you’re here too… naked."
He surfaces, laughing, water dripping down his face as he pushes his hair back. "Half naked, actually," he corrects, voice annoyingly smooth. Then his eyes glint, and he adds, "Not like you’ve never imagined me naked before."
Your jaw drops. "I have not!" you shoot back, scoffing so hard you almost stumble.
Jeonghan tilts his head, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, like he knows more than he is saying. "Sure," he says lightly, and gestures toward the water. "Come on, get in."
You sit on the edge, slipping your sandals off and dipping your legs into the pool. The water is cool, a little shock against your tired skin.
Jeonghan stops in the middle of the pool to look at you, incredulous. "That’s not swimming."
"It’s called enjoying the water without drowning," you retort.
He narrows his eyes playfully, then flicks water in your direction with one sharp kick. "You’re no fun like this."
You gasp when the splash hits you, and glare down at him. "Did you just—"
Before you can finish, he sends another splash your way.
"Jeonghan!" you squeal, leaning back with your hands braced behind you to avoid getting soaked.
"Come in then," he teases, swimming closer, his grin bright and boyish. "Or are you scared I’ll outswim you?"
"You probably would not," you argue, though your voice wavers when he suddenly slaps the surface of the water, sending droplets flying.
You kick the water back at him with your feet, and he laughs, delighted. "That’s weak," he says, splashing you again.
You lean forward, kicking harder, but the edge is slippery. Your foot skids just enough to throw you off balance.
"Ah—!"
Before panic has the chance to set in, a strong hand catches your wrist. Jeonghan is suddenly right there, at the edge of the pool, steadying you as water ripples around him. His fingers are warm despite the pool, his grip firm.
You blink down at him, heart hammering from the sudden slip. His hand is firm around your wrist, steadying you like you weigh nothing. He is close—far too close—his face tilted up toward yours, water dripping down his temples and sliding over sharp cheekbones before disappearing into the curve of his collarbones.
Your chest feels too tight, the words burning at the back of your throat. His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, thumb brushing softly, like he has no idea what he is doing to you.
You swallow hard, your pulse loud in your ears. "Jeonghan…" you begin, and his eyes flicker up to meet yours, steady, waiting.
The air feels fragile, as if one wrong breath could shatter it. You take another in anyway, shaky but determined. "I like you." The words tumble out before you can stop them, soft but clear, heavier than you expected. You keep going, because once the dam is broken there is no point holding back. "I’ve liked you for a long time, more than I probably should. And I just—" your voice falters, "—I needed you to know."
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. He just stares at you, unreadable, the grip around your wrist loosening until your skin feels suddenly cold. His eyes search your face as if he is looking for something, but whatever it is, he does not find it.
Jeonghan exhales slowly, the sound sharp in the stillness. He shakes his head, a small, almost weary motion. "You shouldn’t have said that," he mutters, barely above a whisper. His hand slips from yours completely, leaving you feeling untethered, like the ground beneath you just shifted.
You open your mouth, desperate to fill the silence, but he is already pulling back, putting distance between you both with every movement. He runs a hand through his wet hair, gaze avoiding yours now, and you can see the tension tightening in his jaw.
"I— I can’t," he says finally, firm but quiet, as if even speaking it costs him something. "I’m sorry."
Before you can reach for him, before you can ask him what he means, he is already moving away, climbing out of the pool. Water streams off him as he grabs a towel, his shoulders set, his back turned. He does not look at you again.
QUALIFYING – BAKU CITY CIRCUIT, AZERBAIJAN
You should not have confessed. You should not have said it. The memory keeps replaying, every second of it, every look on his face burned into your mind until you almost wish you could scrape it clean.
Because now, you cannot bear the way Jeonghan looks at you. Or rather, the way he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes anywhere else but on you, his expression calm and collected as if nothing happened, as if your words last night meant nothing at all. Every time you steal a glance, hoping for even the smallest crack, he shifts his focus to the floor, to his gloves, to the bottle of water in his hand. Anywhere but you.
The routine feels stiff, unnatural. Normally, he would grumble about the stretches, tease you about how seriously you take your job, anything to make you roll your eyes. Today, he says nothing. You guide him through warm-ups in silence, your hands checking the pull in his muscles, your voice clipped when you do have to speak. Every instruction sounds foreign in your own ears.
“Rotate your shoulder,” you murmur. He does it without acknowledgment.
“Hold for ten.” He holds, expression unreadable.
Your throat is tight, your hands clumsy where they used to be steady. You can feel his gaze brushing past you but never settling, and it twists something sharp in your chest.
The door swings open and Wonwoo, his manager steps inside, headset pushed back around his neck. “Fifteen minutes to track,” he says, scanning the room. His eyes flick from Jeonghan to you, lingering just long enough to notice the tension, though he doesn’t comment.
Jeonghan only hums, flexing his hands inside his gloves. His gaze never once finds yours.
Wonwoo nods once. “Be ready.” Then he is gone again, the door clicking shut behind him.
Jeonghan stands almost immediately, rolling his shoulders out. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even look at you. He just walks out, leaving you standing there with your clipboard still in hand, heart aching at how easy it was for him to leave you behind.
The door shuts behind Jeonghan, and for a long moment, you stay frozen in the prep room. You force yourself to move, setting down the clipboard and dragging a chair toward the small monitor mounted in the corner. If he will not look at you, if he will not speak to you, then you will just watch him from here.
“Alright, Jeonghan,” the race engineer’s voice crackles through the comms, relayed onto the feed. “Fifteen minutes to go. Tire temps are good. Just keep it clean, keep it steady.”
Engines roar, and then they are off.
The first lap blurs in speed and noise, cars darting past each other like pieces on a board. Jeonghan holds his place in the middle of the pack, slipping between a Red Bull and an Alpine. His line is neat, his braking sharp. But it is not enough.
“Push, Jeonghan, push,” his engineer says.
From the camera angle overhead, you see a flash of red sweep past him. Mingyu in the Ferrari, aggressive and precise, snatches the inside line and takes the position. The commentators’ voices rise, excited.
“Look at that move from Ferrari! Mingyu slides right past Williams and secures P7!”
Your stomach knots as Jeonghan falls back a place.
“Focus. Reset. You’ve got time,” the engineer tells him.
He tries, weaving into the next turn, but then another shadow looms in his mirrors. Lee Chan in the Mercedes. The commentators are practically shouting now.
“Mercedes making a move! Chan is closing the gap—oh, and he’s through! Williams down to P9!”
The camera cuts to Jeonghan’s car, and even through the screen you can see it: the hesitation in his line, the fraction of a second too slow on the acceleration.
“Eyes forward, Jeonghan,” the engineer insists. “Forget what’s behind. Just keep this lap clean. One more push.”
Your hand tightens around your knee, nails digging through fabric. Every corner feels longer, every straight unbearable. He does not claw the positions back, but he doesn’t lose them either. He clings on, stubborn, the blue and white Williams holding steady even as the race roars past him.
Finally, the checkered flag waves.
The standings appear on the broadcast: Jeonghan, in P9. Just inside the cutoff. Just enough to qualify. Unfortunately, Soonyoung didn’t make it.
“P9, Jeonghan. That’s us through to tomorrow. Copy?”
There is a pause on the comms, and then his voice, clipped. “Copy.”
You sit back, pulse still racing, the taste of disappointment bitter in your mouth. He has qualified, yes, but it feels like a hollow victory. Watching him drive today was like watching a ghost.
The broadcast cuts to commercials, and the room falls into silence except for the faint buzz of the air conditioner. You stay seated for a while, staring at the blank screen, the echo of engine noise still rattling in your chest. P9. Qualified, but barely.
The door clicks open.
Jeonghan steps inside, helmet under his arm, fireproofs damp with sweat. His hair clings to his forehead, and there’s a sharp edge to his movements, like he is still carrying the race inside his body. For a second, you think he might look at you, might say something. But his gaze slides right past, as if you are not there at all.
He tosses the helmet onto the counter and sinks into the chair opposite yours. His breaths are still rough, chest rising and falling as he pulls off his gloves. You wait, expecting him to speak first, but he doesn’t. The silence stretches.
Wonwoo enters before you can decide what to do with it. He’s efficient as always, tablet in hand, voice brisk.
“Session’s done. Main race tomorrow. Debrief in an hour, Jeonghan. Good work staying in the top ten.”
Jeonghan nods once, no flicker of emotion.
Wonwoo glances between you and him but doesn’t linger. “I’ll see you at the garage. Don’t be late.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
The door closes again, leaving the two of you in the same room with all the space in the world between you. Jeonghan leans forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. You want to reach for him, want to say something, anything, but your throat locks up.
He does not look at you. Not once.
You grab one of the water bottles from the counter and hold it out to him. “Good job today,” you say quietly.
Jeonghan takes it without hesitation, twisting the cap open. “Thanks.” That's all.
You sit back, watching him drink, watching the water bead down his throat. “P9 is still good. You kept it clean out there.”
“Could’ve been better,” he mutters, not looking up.
You try again. “Tomorrow’s what matters.”
He hums in acknowledgment, a sound that feels more like dismissal than agreement. He doesn’t ask you what you thought, doesn’t let the conversation move past one-word replies. Each attempt feels like tossing stones into a void, waiting for an echo that never comes.
The silence that settles after is heavier than the room itself. He leans back in his chair, eyes on the floor, bottle dangling from his hand. You fold your arms, more to steady yourself than anything, and stare at the muted TV screen.
It is only the first day of the weekend, yet it already feels like a marathon. Between the confession that should never have left your lips, the awkward hours spent pretending nothing has changed, and now his silence pressing down on you like a weight, exhaustion spreads through your body. Tomorrow will bring the main race, and with it, a thousand more ways to either break apart or hold together. Tonight, all you can do is sit in the quiet and let the day end around you.
RACE DAY – BAKU CITY CIRCUIT, AZERBAIJAN
You already know your decision before the day even begins. By the time the main race is over, you will be gone. There is no point staying when Jeonghan barely spares you a glance, when every word from him feels like pulling teeth. You are his physiotherapist, nothing more. And now that the job is done, there is nothing left to hold you here.
The paddock hums with its usual pre-race chaos. Engineers hurry past, radios clipped to their belts, tires stacked in neat rows, fans buzzing just beyond the fences. You hover near the Williams garage, going through the usual checks, hands steady even as your stomach knots tighter with each passing minute. Jeonghan stretches, eyes locked on the floor. He does not look at you once.
Seokmin bursts in, his voice loud enough to cut through the thrum of machinery. “There he is, the man of the hour!” He claps Jeonghan on the shoulder, earning the faintest smirk. “Ready to make history today?”
Jeonghan gives a short laugh. “We’ll see.”
Seokmin notices you then and grins. “And you. Don’t look so tense. It’s just a few laps around the track.”
You roll your eyes, though the smile you manage is faint. “Easy for you to say when you’re not the one driving.”
The warm-up is over quickly. Jeonghan takes his place, engineers swarm around the car, and soon the race begins.
The opening laps are brutal. Jeonghan holds his ground, weaving between cars, taking every corner like it is his last. Mingyu from Ferrari pushes hard, sliding ahead on the straights, but Jeonghan clings to his tail. Lee Chan for Mercedes finds a gap and slips past too, engines screaming as the crowd roars. You grip the edge of the table in the garage, heart pounding with every overtake.
“Box this lap, Jeonghan,” the engineer’s voice crackles through the comms.
“Copy,” Jeonghan replies, calm but clipped.
The pit stop is flawless. Tires swapped in seconds, fuel checked, and he is back out on track. His focus is razor sharp now, movements tighter and more fierce. One by one, he claws his way up, cutting past rivals with a precision that makes your breath catch. The final laps blur, and when the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in third.
P3. Podium. The garage erupts in cheers. Seokmin leaps to his feet, shouting, “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” He turns to you, eyes bright. “Come on, let’s go meet them!”
Your hand shoots out, fingers curling around his sleeve. “Wait.”
Seokmin blinks, still grinning. “What? They’re waiting, let’s go.”
“I’m not.” The words slip out quieter than you mean them to.
His smile falters. “What do you mean, you’re not?”
You hesitate, searching for an easy excuse. “I’m… leaving. Going back early. There’s some work I need to handle.”
Seokmin stares at you, his expression flattening. “Leaving? Now? After this?”
You look down at your hands, twisting them together. “I confessed to him,” you admit, voice low. “And he rejected me. Since the race is over and my job is done, there’s no reason for me to stay. It’s better if I go.”
For a long moment, Seokmin just studies you, his usual bright energy dimmed. Finally, he gives a slow nod. “I see.” His voice softens, like he wants to argue but knows better. Instead, he reaches up and gives your hair a light, reassuring pat, quiet comfort in the gesture.
You force a small smile, though it does not reach your eyes. “Take care of him tonight, will you? He’ll need someone.”
Seokmin’s jaw works like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pats your back, firm but gentle. “Alright. But you’ll see me next week, right?”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Next week.”
He gives you one last look, then turns and leaves, his steps quick as he disappears down the hall.
The walk back to the room is quieter than Jeonghan expects. Usually after a podium, his head is still buzzing with the adrenaline, the shouts of the crowd echoing in his ears long after he has stepped away from the track. Today is no different. The roar of P3 still hums through his chest, a sharp reminder that he is not finished yet. He expects to see you when he opens the door, waiting like you always do, ready to press a bottle of water into his hand.
But the room is still.
His eyes fall immediately to the table. There is no you, only a folded note placed neatly beside a small box. Jeonghan pauses, the quiet so strange that it prickles under his skin. He walks closer, drops his gloves onto the chair, and picks up the paper.
You won, congrats :)The handwriting is unmistakably yours, quick and curved like you always scribble. His throat tightens before he even looks at the box.
The lid comes away easily. Inside is something so familiar it catches him off guard. A keychain shaped like a tiny dice, glossy white with black dots. He remembers exactly when he mentioned it. Weeks ago, late at night after a long physio session, he had rambled about how he used to carry a similar charm on his backpack in school. He had laughed at himself for bringing it up at all. He had not thought you were listening that closely.
But you were.
Jeonghan closes the box slowly, fingers pressing hard into the cardboard as if holding it too tightly might anchor him. A sound at the door makes him turn.
Seokmin steps inside, still buzzing with energy, cheeks flushed from cheering. “There you are. Man, that was—” He stops short when he notices the note in Jeonghan’s hand. His smile falters.
Jeonghan lifts his gaze, voice steady though his chest feels anything but. “Where is she?”
Seokmin hesitates, then says quietly, “She left. Said she was going back early.”
The words land like a weight in Jeonghan’s stomach. He nods once, keeping his face unreadable. “I see.”
Seokmin shifts, clearly wanting to say more, but instead he clears his throat and steps forward. “Come on, let’s get you stretched out before the press calls you.”
Jeonghan lets the note fall back onto the table, the box still heavy in his other hand. He lowers himself into the chair, shoulders stiff as Seokmin begins the usual post-race checks. The room feels emptier with every passing second.
A knock interrupts them. Wonwoo pokes his head in, headset still hanging around his neck. “It’s time. Press is waiting.”
Jeonghan nods again, standing slowly. He slips the box into his pocket before following them out, his face composed for the cameras. But the echo of your handwriting lingers in his mind, stubborn and unshakable.
The press room is hot with lights and filled with the restless hum of reporters shuffling their notes. Cameras flash as Jeonghan settles into his seat at the table, a bottle of water placed in front of him. Wonwoo takes the chair beside him, posture calm and practiced, while Seokmin lingers just off to the side.
The moderator clears his throat. “Congratulations, Jeonghan. First podium in quite some time. How are you feeling right now?”
Jeonghan leans toward the microphone, the smile practiced. “It feels good. Really good. The team has been working so hard, and this result is as much theirs as it is mine. The engineers, the pit crew, everyone behind the scenes—they made this possible. I just had to keep the car steady.”
Another hand shoots up. “Jeonghan, talk us through those last ten laps. Did you think you could hold onto P3 with Lee Chan pushing that hard behind you?”
He exhales softly through his nose, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Chan is quick. He always has been. But we kept our strategy tight, I trusted the calls from the pit wall, and… well, we got there.”
The room ripples with quiet laughter and the clatter of more typing. Another question comes, sharper this time. “You mentioned the team, the strategy, but this was also a big personal comeback. What do you credit for this turnaround?”
Jeonghan sits back slightly, fingers drumming on the bottle. His mind flickers through every training session, every late night, every moment he nearly gave in to frustration.
“This would not have been possible if it wasn’t for…” He pauses.
The next word sticks in his throat. His eyes blur for a moment, the press room fading around him. All he can see is the note on the table, your handwriting, the box with the dice charm that still rests in his pocket.
If it wasn’t for you.
The realization crashes into him so suddenly that his breath catches. He stares down at the desk, silence stretching uncomfortably long. Reporters begin to murmur.
“Jeonghan?”
“Care to finish your thought?”
“Jeonghan, over here!”
The questions grow louder, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His chest feels too tight, words jammed up in a place he cannot force them through. Wonwoo leans forward, his expression sharp.
“No further questions,” he says firmly into the mic.
The room protests, cameras still flashing, but Jeonghan barely hears it. His pulse is pounding too hard, the note replaying over and over in his mind. You won, congrats :)
And then, without warning, he pushes his chair back. The scrape of metal on tile cuts through the noise. He stands abruptly, his face set, voice low but urgent.
“I gotta leave.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. Doesn’t wait for the moderator or the cameras or the press. He turns on his heel and strides out, nearly knocking into the cameras in the front row.
“Jeonghan!” Wonwoo calls after him, already rising from his seat. His headset dangles loose as he rushes out of the room, chasing after Jeonghan’s retreating figure.
The reporters erupt into a storm of questions, but the only thing Jeonghan hears is the hammer of his heartbeat and the thought that he might already be too late.
The air outside the press room feels thin, like he’s sprinted headlong into a vacuum. Jeonghan rips the collar of his suit down, desperate for air, his steps echoing down the corridor. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, only that he has to move, has to find you before you’re gone for good.
“Jeonghan!” Wonwoo’s voice cuts through the haze, firm but tight with irritation. He catches up quickly, hand clamping on Jeonghan’s shoulder, forcing him to stop. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why did you just run out like that? You can’t just walk out on the press.”
Jeonghan shakes him off, turning with wild eyes. “I don’t care about the press right now, Wonwoo. I have to find her. I need to talk to her.”
“Her?” Wonwoo blinks, confusion tightening his brow. “You mean—”
Before he can finish, another set of footsteps barrels toward them. Seokmin. He’s flushed, still in his Williams team gear, worry etched all over his face. “Jeonghan, what’s going on? Why did you run away?”
Jeonghan’s throat is dry, the words scraping out rough. “I need to find her. She’s leaving. I can’t let her leave.”
For a moment, Seokmin just looks at him, really looks, like he’s piecing together everything he’s ever known about Jeonghan and this reckless streak he’s only ever seen on the track. And then, without a word, Seokmin grabs Jeonghan’s wrist. His grip is steady, grounding.
“Come.”
The word snaps Jeonghan out of his spiral. He doesn’t hesitate. He runs with Seokmin, their strides falling into sync, Wonwoo trailing behind, still throwing sharp questions he can’t bring himself to answer. They burst out into the paddock lot, where rows of sleek team cars are parked. Seokmin unlocks one with a beep and shoves Jeonghan toward the passenger side.
“Get in.”
The door slams shut and the engine roars to life. Seokmin doesn’t ease into it, doesn’t bother with traffic etiquette. He tears out of the lot with a squeal of tires, the sudden jolt throwing Jeonghan against the seat. The city blurs outside, neon streaks and tail lights flying past.
Wonwoo, crammed in the back seat, swears under his breath. “You two are insane. Do you realize the cameras are still rolling back there? You’re supposed to be giving interviews right now!”
“I don’t care about the cameras!” Jeonghan snaps, fists clenched tight on his knees. “If I lose her now, if I don’t tell her—” He cuts himself off, the rest lodging in his chest like shrapnel.
Seokmin doesn’t say anything. He only presses harder on the accelerator, weaving through lanes like the road bends to him. Horns blare, headlights flash, but nothing slows them down. Jeonghan grips the handle on the door, body thrown against the seat as they swerve past a bus with barely an inch to spare.
Every second ticks louder than the last. He imagines you standing in line at the gate, your bag slung over your shoulder, boarding pass in hand. He imagines arriving too late, watching the plane take off with you in it, knowing he’ll never get the chance to say what he should have said weeks, months ago.
Not again.
The thought anchors itself deep. He can’t let you go without hearing him, without knowing.
The airport lights flare in the distance, white and harsh against the night. Seokmin cuts across a turn, tires screaming, and finally slams the car into a stop just outside the departures terminal.
“Go,” Seokmin says, breathless but firm. “We’re here.”
Jeonghan doesn’t think, doesn’t thank him. He throws the door open and runs, his chest burning, his mind a single frantic pulse.
Find you.
You roll your suitcase through the sliding doors, the weight of the week still pressed into your shoulders. The terminal hums with the usual chaos. You adjust the strap of your bag, telling yourself this is it, that leaving quietly was the right choice.
Your name rings out behind you, sharp enough to slice through the noise. You freeze mid-step. That voice. No—it couldn’t be. Slowly, almost unwillingly, you turn.
And there he is. Jeonghan. He’s breathless, hair mussed from the sprint, still in his race suit jacket like he hadn’t even stopped to change. His chest rises and falls too fast, his eyes locked on you with a kind of urgency you’ve never seen in them before.
“Jeonghan?” Your voice is a half-whisper, caught between shock and disbelief. “What are you—don’t you have a press meet right now?”
He shakes his head, taking a step closer, and then another, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep moving. His lips part, the words tumbling out raw, unpolished, desperate.
“I like you.”
The world tilts, your feet rooted to the floor. You stare at him, frozen, heart hammering in your chest. He doesn’t stop.
“I like you,” he says again, firmer this time, his voice steadier even as his hands tremble at his sides. “I should’ve said it earlier. I should’ve said it before you ever thought about leaving. I should’ve told you the first time I realized being around you made the track feel less lonely.”
Your throat tightens. He steps closer, close enough now that you can see the shine in his eyes, the panic sitting right behind it.
“You can walk away,” Jeonghan says.“If you want to. But I can’t let you leave without knowing. I like you.”
He swallows hard, eyes flicking away for a moment before he forces himself to meet yours again. “When she… when she cheated on me, I thought it was because of me. Like I wasn’t enough. Like I was the problem.” His words falter, quiet and uneven, but he pushes on. “Since then I’ve carried this voice in my head, telling me I don’t deserve anything good. Telling me I don’t deserve you.”
He shakes his head, a bitter laugh slipping out before his voice steadies again. “I still don’t think I do. But even if I’m a mess, even if I’m not perfect, I need you to know this—I like you. More than I’ve ever said out loud, more than I thought I could.”
Your breath shudders out, the weight of his words crashing into you all at once. And before you can think, before you can reason your way out of it, you’re moving—closing the space between you, your hands curling into the fabric of his jacket as you pull him down.
You press your lips on his. He stiffens for a fraction of a second, then melts into it, his hands cupping your face like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.
Your lips linger against his, breaths mingling in the rush of everything you never thought you would hear from him. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching, softer than you have ever seen them.
“I like you,” he repeats, almost like he is afraid you might not believe it.
You smile, and this time it is easy. “I like you too.”
synopsis ➳ ❝an arranged marriage with the man the entire land is afraid of. the man with a crimson eye. they call him the grim reaper. cold, ruthless, unforgiving. yet you are drawn to him, curious to see the man hiding behind the cold, hard exterior. and the man behind is hauntingly beautiful but your forever with him is not promised.❞
pairing ➳ husband general!seungcheol/ x wife noblewoman!reader
genre ➳ historical romance (joseon era), angst, pining, smut.
wc ➳ 25.4k + 1040 (patreon)
warnings ➳ blood, mentions of war, scars, minor character death, attachment issues, arranged marriage, mentions of cheating, severe injury, miscommunication. cheol is an ass in the first half, reader is lowkey a simp, jealousy, big dicc cheol, bondage, virgin sex, rough, unprotected sex, fingering, teasing, edging, dirty talking, praise kink.
a/n: this is a work of fiction, so take this with a grain of salt. it will be historically inaccurate, so my apologies beforehand. (also, surprise?? posting it a day early hehe)
glossary:
Jangot – Veil-like cloak for women
Binyeo – Decorative hairpin
Yakgwa – Honey-ginger cookie
Jeonbok – Traditional sleeveless vest for men
Dasik – Pressed tea cookie
Jeogori – Upper garment or jacket
Chima – Skirt worn by women
Baduk – Strategy board game (Go)
Daenggi – Ribbon for braids
Hour of the Ox – 1:00–3:00 AM
Hour of the Tiger – 3:00–5:00 AM
Orabeoni – Respectful term for older brother
+82 some miracle
only listen to my general
“Daughter, this is General Choi Seungcheol, your betrothed. Greet him properly,” your father commands softly, his eyes trained on you.
Your breath stutters in your chest.
Whether from the loaded tension in the air, the silence of the room or your future husband’s penetrating eyes on you, you are unsure.
His eyes…
You saw them once, a long, long time ago, and you remember them in explicit detail because they are heterochromatic. His right iris is red, a shade of fiery crimson that is scary but also hypnotizing—a stark contrast to his left iris, which is pure black.
You wish it were only his eyes that were lethal. Unfortunately for you, it is his presence itself. It is the way he silently sits there, poised and alert, holding his sword in his right hand and softly drumming his left index finger on his knee, as if telling you to hurry up. It is the way his face remains unreadable, a porcelain white canvas containing a pair of eyes fiercer than a mountain lion's, a sharp nose that is slightly crooked on the left, and pink lips that are pressed in a thin line. The most daunting of it all, the scar on the right side of his face, just below his eye and on top of his cheekbone. It is no more than a couple of inches long, but the gash looks deep, even after it has healed and imagining the pain behind that curse rakes shivers down your spine.
Finally, you snap out of your reverie.
With a shaky exhale, you bow down and speak as humbly as possible. “Please accept my greetings, my lord. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
—
Choi Seungcheol is well known throughout the kingdom, highly feared and revered. In fact, many hold him in the same regard as the king, which is not unfair or surprising. He is the Minister of War and the General of the royal military, the right-hand man of the King and his most trusted subject. Since his boyhood, he demonstrated excellent swordsmanship, and paired with his keen intellect and faultless war strategies, he quickly rose through the ranks and became the King's favourite. His name spread far and wide after he brought victory to the nation in two consecutive wars. He attended the first one when he was only eighteen, and he became infamous for that.
That war with the nearby enemy nation was extremely brutal, as it took away the lives of many of the best men in the military. When Seungcheol returned to the capital with the enemy General’s head in his hands, he was a changed man who had altered the course of history. Bloodied, beaten and bruised, he sported the deep scar on his face, fresh and bleeding.
Rumours spread from there. Though he brought the nation victory, the townspeople gossiped about everything from his scar, his crimson eye, to his temper, claiming that he was a madman or possessed by an evil spirit.
You have heard a few things from your father, too. He has agreed that the war changed the man, rightfully so. As the state minister, your father saw firsthand how brutal and merciless the war was till the last moment. So much so that he stepped down from his position afterwards.
He lost his son in the war, after all. Your older brother, whom you vaguely remember because you were only eight at that time.
Nothing was the same after his passing. Your father lost his spark, your mother became quiet and indifferent, and the house fell into a deathly silence that felt haunted. The silence still lingers, fourteen years later.
It has been a long time, so long that sometimes you feel like those days never existed. Yet, you remember them vividly: the pain of your mother’s death four years after your brothers, the remaining light dissipating from your father's eyes and the house falling into a perpetuating state of darkness, a place where everyone remained silent, from the slaves to the master. A place that never truly was illuminated, even during the brightest days of summer. A place that you had to call home but wasn’t your home. It was a graveyard where you floated through, watching the world outside bathe and shine with colours when the second war was won, when the king became the father of a boy, when the economy flourished. Seasons passed and years went by, yet your house never celebrated a holiday or a special occasion.
You saw your father survive each day, haunted by his past and unaware of the present. Every day, he would see students from morning till noon, fulfilling his duties as a scholar before retiring to his room and staying there till the next morning.
The only time you saw some life in him was three years ago, when he called you one day in his chamber to announce that you would get married to Choi Seungcheol once he returned from his three-year trip to another country. Choi Seungcheol, the General of the Royal Military. The man with heterochromatic eyes, who came to your brother’s funeral years ago.
That’s how you have remembered him. The man with two different colored eyes, who stood in the rain with a grim expression on his face as they lowered your brother into the ground.
Over the years, you have heard notorious things about him. He has gained an infamous reputation among the townspeople. Many people believe that he is insane and that he murders people for fun. Word goes around that he is a womanizer, a man without a heart, a man who did not spare his own brother and executed him for treason.
You don’t know how much of this is true.
It all might be true; he just might be the devil living in a human body, but funnily enough, you do not care.
You will do anything to get out of this house. Living here for the past fourteen years has been like being buried alive. You are breathing, yet you don’t feel alive—you don’t remember the last time you felt that way, if ever.
And if a diabolical, insane man is your ticket out of this grave, you will take it. You will accept it with open arms and a smile on your face.
—
The marketplace is crowded.
You gently tread through the throng of people, holding your jangot over your head as you eye the stalls leisurely, nothing in particular catching your attention.
“My lady,” Jihye whispers, walking alongside you. “You have been circling the market for the past half an hour. What are you even looking for?”
A dejected sigh flows past your lips.
Last time you came to the market, a pretty flower binyeo caught your eye. You had not received your salary yet at that time, and so, you could not purchase the piece. You had aimed to buy that binyeo today, but now that you've received your pay, it's no longer available. You have been scouring the market ever since, looking for something similar, but there is none.
“You know what, let us buy some yakgwa and head home,” you say, looking for a snack shop. Jihye smiles, her eyes flickering excitedly at your mention of buying sweets.
A few feet ahead of you, you spot a sweet shop. Instead of focusing on the plethora of sweets laid out, your gaze travels to the right, stopping on two men standing by that shop, their backs facing you.
Something about the tall, broad man dressed in black makes you stop in your tracks. Particularly, his long ebony hair feels oddly familiar to you.
The man shifts a little, and you catch the slightest glimpse of his side profile through the busy street. Immediately, you squeak and hide behind a nearby stall.
It is General Choi, your husband-to-be.
“My lady, what is wrong?” Jihye hovers around you worriedly. Without looking away from the man, you dig into the sleeve of your hanbok, fishing out some coins and handing them to Jihye.
“Here. Go buy as much yakgwa as you want.” You murmur, pushing her towards the shop while you get more comfortable in your hiding spot.
You don’t even know why you are hiding. You did not do anything wrong, and you surely have no reason to spy on your future husband in the middle of a busy marketplace.
Still, you continue observing him converse with the other gentleman. His stance is poised and powerful as always, and dressed head to toe in his signature black military clothes, he looks like death itself. Haunting but hypnotizing; which would explain why you cannot look away.
And then, suddenly, he turns around, locking his eyes with you straight, as if he knew exactly where you were hiding.
With a gasp of mortification and terror, you immediately whip your head away and bump into a passerby. Bowing your head in an apology, you let the woman pass through before tentatively turning your head back to the street.
Choi Seungcheol stands right behind you.
“Ah!” You yelp, taken aback and stumble a few steps behind. He reaches out immediately and grabs your elbow in a flash, saving you from the fall.
Flushed and breathless, you gape at him like a fish out of water.
He has the usual grim and unamused look on his face, peering down at you almost like he is judging you. His hair is tied up in a half bun, and his bangs frame half of his face, covering his odd eye and the scar. It is a shame, you find yourself thinking as you observe the rest of his face, counting the moles on his pale skin.
It is when he lets you go that you realize he had been holding onto you all this time, and you stood there like a statue.
How unladylike!
First, he catches you spying on him, and now—
“My apologies, my Lord.” You immediately take several steps back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. Full of shame, you keep your head low as you murmur, “I was simply startled to see you.”
“It seems that you were spying on me.” His voice is smooth and rich, calm and authoritative. “No!” You gasp. “I was just…um…looking. I thought you…ah…looked somewhat familiar…”
He cocks a thick brow in amusement, the faintest smirk creeping up on his lips.
What are you even saying?
Cringing at your own words, you press your lips shut and scowl at the ground, cursing the heavens for your predicament.
“You are not at the palace today?” He asks. You welcome the change of topic with great relief.
"No, my Lord. I asked for a break from my duties this week as I am preparing for the wedding.”
With no mother or close female relatives, it is up to you to prepare your wedding.
Generally, you do not like skipping work. It has been two months since you secured a job at the palace after a lot of struggle. Your father was not very happy with the idea of you working, especially in the palace, but he ultimately gave in.
You work as a teacher to the children under the head court lady of the palace, teaching them how to read and write while they train to be future court ladies. Sometimes you also work as a bookkeeper for the royal library, but that is something you do voluntarily and out of your love for reading. The pay is not very much, but it gives you a sense of freedom and identity, something you struggled to find for the last twenty-two years.
“Head Court Lady Yeo speaks very highly of you.” General Choi states. You do not understand whether he meant it positively or negatively, given his flat tone. Confused, you chuckle awkwardly. “It is a pleasure to work under her guidance. She is very patient and—”
Suddenly, Seungcheol reaches out to you, grabbing you by the arm and harshly tugging you towards him. Completely oblivious as to what is happening, you bump into his chest as his arms snake around you, protectively holding your body next to his.
Less than half a second later, a man riding a horse whooshes by, yelling out apologies to all the people for his rowdy horse. Dear Lord, you were about to be trampled by a horse if not for him.
“Are you alright?”
His voice makes you look up at him, wide-eyed and panting. It takes a moment for you to realize that he is holding you against his chest, his warm hand resting on your shoulder in a protective grip while your hands rest on his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jeonbok for support.
With your heart pounding loudly in your ears, it takes you yet another moment to remember how inappropriate this is, the way you are pressed against him. In a flash, you free yourself from his hold and shuffle back, murmuring a mortified apology. At the same time, you hate how much you miss his touch on you.
How odd.
“My lady, are you alright!” Jihye comes running down the street, a packet of confectionery in her hands.
“Y-yes, I am okay. Let us get going.” You announce, immediately turning away from General Choi, desperate to escape this mortifying situation.
“Hold on.” The deep baritone of his voice steals a breath from your lips. Your body instinctively listens to his command, and you carefully look behind to see him picking up your jangot, which you probably dropped earlier and were about to leave without.
Once more, you cringe at your clumsiness as you watch him brush off the dirt before extending the material towards you. With shaky hands, you reach for it. “Thank you, my Lord. I wish you a pleasant day.”
The next second, you rush out of the marketplace as if the grim reaper himself were chasing after you. Behind you, Jihye struggles to keep up, but you couldn't care less, hiding your face in embarrassment.
That night, under the blanket, you lie wide awake. The memory of General Choi’s hand on your body and his chest pressed against yours keeps repeating in your head in a loop. A foreign, warm sensation pools in your belly, and you find yourself shamefully fantasizing about your future husband, forsaking slumber.
—
You got married today.
According to the elders of the town, it is one of the most important days of your life, yet it felt like every other—quick and ordinary. Probably because the groom was barely there.
During noon, he came in to fulfil the basic rituals before marching out, leaving a note for you with Jihye. The work in the palace is too demanding, so he must go. He would see you tonight at his place. That was all he said.
Hours later, night has fallen and you are now in his home.
You sit alone in a chamber prepared especially for you. His servants made sure you were comfortable, helping you bathe and prepare for the first night with your husband before leaving you alone to sit with your thoughts and hear the hum of the crickets in the nearby forest.
You declined their offer to serve you dinner. It is only appropriate to wait for your husband and share the first meal together.
Adorned in fine silk and pretty ribbons, you sit and wait for your husband to come, watching the flame of the candle dancing and melting away the wax.
You are nervous. It is your first night with your husband. You, who has never even looked at a man for a second too long. You are now married to one of the most feared men in the kingdom. You have heard people talk about his ruthlessness in bed. Apparently, the girls in the brothel talk about it all the time, especially when he visits. Jihye said that whoever spends the night with him needs an entire day to recover.
“Lady Choi,” Head Servant Yang suddenly calls your name before opening the door. “Master has arrived. He is taking a bath currently.”
You snap out of the thoughts of bedding your husband and give her a shy smile. “Could you please set the table then?”
“Of course.” The elderly woman bows and walks out of the room, arranging for dinner to be set in your chamber.
Ten minutes after the dinner is served, General Choi walks into the room. Fresh out of the bath, he is dressed in his nightwear and his hair is tied up in a neat bun, giving you an uninterrupted view of his face. Once again, you find yourself hypnotised by his heterochromatic eyes.
“You did not have dinner?” He asks, sitting down in front of you. His movement is as graceful as always, silent yet stealthy. His posture is upright, the muscles of his shoulders taught as he sits and regards you with careful eyes.
“I was waiting for you, my Lord.” You reply meekly.
“You should not have,” he states, his tone almost condescending. “I am sure Head Servant Yang informed you that I return from work late most days.”
“Today is a special day, is it not?” You find yourself speaking boldly. Your words are firm like the gaze in your eyes, and for a long moment, the chamber is plunged into suffocating silence.
General Choi keeps looking down at you, his gaze as intimidating as ever, and you half expect him to draw his sword from its sheath and slice your head off. Instead, his lips curl upwards, and a noise of amusement leaves his throat.
“Lady Choi, you seem upset.” He states, his voice half challenging and half something you cannot pinpoint. Sarcasm? Threat?
Unsure how to reply to that, you bite your lip and stare at the food laid out in front of you. All your appetite is gone now.
“Let me tell you something, Lady Choi.” Your husband leans closer to you over the table. Something about the way he utters your title forces you to meet his gaze. Like always, the fierce look in his eyes steals away your breath.
The man is hauntingly beautiful.
“I am certain you have some expectations from this marriage, and I cannot hold that against you. However, let me inform you now, I will not be able to fulfil your expectations, whatever they may be. So, I suggest you completely let go of your expectations, for your own good.”
What? You are sure no woman in Joseon’s history ever had to hear these words on her wedding night.
“My Lord, I do not understand.”
He does not bother clarifying his words. Instead, the look in his eyes shifts, his gaze sharpening on you. Lazily, he pours himself a drink from the pitcher and chugs it down.
“I know what this marriage means to you.”
You hold your breath and watch him, alarmed. He smirks. “It means freedom. It is your way out of that house. So, let this marriage be just that. A way out for you and a duty obliged for me.”
Well, consummating the marriage is also a duty. So is spending time with your wife and sharing a meal with her on your wedding night. You want to yell the words out, but you press your lips shut and stare at him, still processing what is happening.
“As long as we maintain our boundaries, this will be a great union,” he announces almost like he is reassuring you. You feel anything but that.
You feel abandoned, yet again.
“You should eat now,” he says, standing up. “I will retire for the night.” Without sparing another glance at you, he leaves the room. For a long moment, you silently sit in your place, your fancy garment and jewellery suddenly becoming too heavy on your skin. Ignoring the sensation, you reach for the rice, nibbling on the grains with your chopsticks.
You do not understand why tears prick your eyes.
—
The next morning, an unknown man waits for you as you step out of your chamber and put on your shoes, ready to leave for the palace.
Your husband had left early in the morning, and while the news hurt you slightly, it also left you with relief. After last night, you have not had enough time to process your emotions to face him.
The strange man bows as he sees you approaching. “Greetings, Lady Choi. I am San. As per General Choi’s orders, I shall accompany you from now on for your safety.” Stupefied, you blink at the man. His build and posture indicate that he is a military person, but you do not understand why your husband would have someone guard you.
“My husband put you up to this?” You raise a brow. “Why?”
“I am afraid I cannot say. It was his order.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “So, from now on, you will what? Follow me everywhere?”
“Yes. Whenever you need to go out, I shall accompany you.”
“Is someone trying to kill me?” You ask, point blank, blinking at him.
San makes a noise of surprise before an awkward laugh spills from his lips. “O-of course not, my lady.” You keep eyeing the strange man with suspicion as you start heading for the front door. “Alright then, let us leave.”
—
You bump into your husband at the palace.
At noon, when the sun is high in the sky, you finish teaching the young girls. Then, you head to the library to cool off and see if the head librarian needs any help. With no new work for you, Librarian Kim serves you some tea and sweets, congratulating you on your marriage. On your way out, he gives you some dasik to take home and share with your husband.
The husband who seems to want to do nothing with you.
With gratitude, you take the sweets and head out of the library, done with your day's work at the palace. That is when you see him. Below the steps of the library building, he approaches, followed by two other men, all dressed in uniforms. Their movements are quick and determined, almost like they are on a military mission.
General Choi takes notice of you as he climbs the stairs. Flustered and oddly shy, your first instinct is to hide. With no place to do that, you stand your ground and bow, “My Lord—”
He walks past as if he did not see you.
You stand rooted to your spot, blinking at the ground.
What just happened?
He ignored you. He blatantly ignored you. His wife. There is no way he did not see you. He did. His eyes met yours, and he held your gaze before looking away.
Hurt and humiliated, you stand there for several long moments, the sun scorching your back. You are tempted to storm back into the library and demand why he did that, but you know better than that.
For one, there is always the danger of him chopping your head off. You heard he once cut off a man’s head just for looking at him too long.
The other issue is more personal. Walking in there would make you look desperate, especially in front of others. You are supposed to be a newlywed happy wife, not someone who chases after her husband when he ignores her in public. The thought makes you feel like pins prickling your heart.
Once more in your life, you are insignificant. You are the lesser one, the one who can be forgotten, overlooked.
With boulders forming in your heart, you head home.
—
Your husband returned home late today as well.
You had your dinner long ago, and Jihye prepared your bed for you. However, you did not get under the covers. In the dimly lit space of your bedchamber, you have been sitting with your head on your knees, curled up in a corner and watching the candle burn.
No matter how hard you try, you fail to get past the incident earlier today. You simply cannot comprehend why your husband would ignore you like that.
Your curiosity gets the better of you. With a resolved breath, you step out of your room and walk into his bedchamber. You knock at his door. “My Lord, may I come in?”
A beat of silence. “Yes.”
Opening the doors, you find Seungcheol tying the knot of his undershirt. The material is thin and white, giving you a pretty decent glimpse of his silhouette. Flustered, you immediately lower your gaze and shake your head at yourself.
You did not think this through. Of course, he would be in his sleepwear, like you.
Shit.
It takes you another second to realize you, too, are in your sleepwear. A thin white top over your underskirt. With the realization dawning on you, you cross your arms over your chest and look up at him, conflicted and embarrassed.
Like always, his face gives nothing away. In the calmest of tones, he questions, “Did you need something from me?”
“Uhm…well…” Once again, you get distracted by the visual of your husband. In the dimly lit room, he appears even more stunning, the light of the candle casting strange shadows on his figure, contouring his muscles underneath the thin fabric. With his long, black hair undone, some strands fall on his face, covering his eyes. Through the curtain of his hair, his odd eye shines exceptionally bright in the darkness, stealing your breath.
“I am sure the reason for your visit is not to stare at me, Lady Choi.” He states once more, and you finally snap out of your thoughts.
Closing the door behind you, you gather all your resolve and stand straight. “My apologies. I wanted to talk to you.”
“I am all ears.” He says, not looking at you. He busies himself by placing his sword next to his mat and sitting down comfortably.
“Why did you ignore me today at the palace?” You get straight to the point. The man turns to look at you slowly, his eyes sharpening ever so slightly. Despite him sitting, you feel as if he is towering over you, and you cannot help but hold your breath, waiting for whatever is to come. Something flashes in his eyes, and once again, you do not know what it is. Rage? Annoyance? Amusement?
You have no clue.
“It seems that you are disappointed, Lady Choi.” He finally replies, his tone containing that tinge of amusement he has with you. Like you are a circus monkey whose action provides him with fleeting, insignificant pleasure.
You wait for him to elaborate, but he does not, looking at you with a challenging stare. You hate how…diplomatic he is all the time. “Why did you do it?” You repeat, trying to appear as stern as possible, which is almost comical. In front of you is the man people call the grim reaper.
General Choi shifts his position, resting his arm on his knee before fixing his gaze back on you. His tone is quiet, serious. “Let me tell you something, Lady Choi. In public, we are not to acknowledge each other. Do you understand me?”
The ground has been snatched from beneath your feet. You fall into an endless pit, your heart crushing into tiny bits with each of his words. Why? Why would he say something like that?
“Why?” You don’t mask the hurt and desperation in your voice. He ignores you. “If that was all, you may leave now. I wish to get some rest.”
Tears brim in your eyes. Why does he treat you like this? What crime did you ever commit against him?
Your mouth hangs open, shocked and helpless at his attitude towards you. Defeated, you silently pad back to the door. Before you open it, however, you pause. Slowly, you turn back to him. “Why did you assign that man to follow me around?”
He does not look at you. “San is one of the few men I trust. He will keep you safe.”
He has this tendency to never answer your question directly. He dances around it, giving curt, memorized answers. It feels like you are talking to a wall, frustrating and pointless. The next words slip past your lips thoughtlessly and barely above a whisper. “Why do we not sleep in the same room?”
That finally gets his attention. He slowly turns his head to look at you, his pupils wide with shock. Like, he cannot believe that you just said that.
Right. Why did you say that out loud?
You look away in embarrassment, cringing at your words.
“So…” he starts to get up. You step back, alarmed.
Why is he getting up? He will slice your head off for sure this time.
With the grace of a lion about to devour his prey, he inches closer to you, his eyes flashing almost unnaturally. You keep walking backwards until your back meets the door and there is no place left to go.
He stops a mere inch away from you, so close that your clothes brush, so close that you can see his chest underneath his nightshirt, so close that you can inhale the scent of soap on his skin. Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes fall shut on their own.
“My wife wishes to sleep with me. Is that it?” His voice is heaven against your ears, deep, husky and warm, leaving your brain fumbling. You open your eyes to see him staring straight at you, and immediately, heat shoots up all through your body from your toes.
“I…I didn’t…mean…” You stumble over your words, the sight of him so close to you, messing with your system.
He stares at you, his lips curling up in a smirk. “I am sure you have heard what they say about me.” He pauses. His hand reaches out towards your face, and you hold your breath in alarm and anticipation. With the faintest of touches, he drags his index finger against your jaw and down your neck. “I am sure you know how I am…in bed.” He whispers against your ear, and you can feel your heart physically drop as tingles shoot through your entire body.
At this point, you have forgotten how to breathe.
“You could not handle me, Lady Choi.” He says and then, absolutely shocking you, leans closer to your neck. Tucking a stray piece of hair beneath your ears, he takes a long inhale of you and then slowly steps away from you.
You feel like you are on fire, beads of sweat gathering on your temples. Your mouth remains agape, processing what just happened as you stand pressed against the door, frozen like prey in shock.
“Good night, Lady Choi.” He says in the most nonchalant way possible, going back to bed. You manage to summon all your strength and rush out of his room, shutting the wooden panels loudly behind you. Outside, you gasp for air, clutching your chest, your heart racing like you just ran for your life. You stand outside the door for a long time, taking in deep breaths and trying to get your heart to calm down as foreign sensations flood through your veins, leaving behind an ache you have never felt before.
You want your husband, you realize. You want him to do all those filthy, animalistic things that you heard of…with you.
—
You have accepted your new life. A married woman without a husband’s attention or acknowledgement.
In the last two weeks, a routine has fallen into place for you. You wake up, go to work, come home for lunch, spend the afternoon with Jihye lounging around before having dinner and going to bed. Throughout the day, setting eyes upon your husband is rare because he leaves with the sunrise and gets home after dinner. Most days, he has dinner in his chamber by himself, and on the rare occasions he is home early (twice), he shares it with you.
The freedom you thought an advantageous marriage would give you has not come. In fact, you feel more restricted than before. With San following you around like a hawk, you have lost interest in going outside to explore the neighbourhood. Jihye, too, has been weird lately. She vehemently opposes you going outside, especially to the market or other crowded areas and always runs your errands for you.
After a lot of thinking, you have come to a conclusion. Your husband has a mistress. Maybe, mistress is not the right word. If anything, you feel like the mistress in this relationship.
“I am sure he has someone he loves.” You hum, nodding to yourself.
It is a Thursday afternoon in early spring, the warmth of the sun shining on you as you return home from an unusually long shift at the palace. A few steps behind you is San, ever present like a shadow, following you down a steep road to home.
With him around, you have started to voice your thoughts, no matter how crazy. There is nothing to hide from him after all. He sees it all firsthand, how his boss never spends time with you.
You have another theory. San knows about the other woman. He has to, right? That is why General Choi employed him to guard you in the first place. He probably knows where your husband goes during his free time, and it is his job to make sure you never see him.
General Choi seems to have bought off Jihye somehow, too. You find that absolutely bizarre, considering her long loyalty towards you. You are deeply hurt by her betrayal, and so, you have decided to shun her until she comes to you and explains what is going on.
That leaves you with San only.
“I’m right, no?” You turn around to take a glance at him. As usual, he looks helpless and awkward, almost like he is about to leave everything behind and run for the hills. You continue. “He has to have known her for a long, long time. However, I do not understand why he didn’t marry her. Is she not a nobleborn?”
You stop for a moment.
“Ah! She is someone from the brothel, probably, right?”
San continues looking at you helplessly, an awkward smile plastered on his face. You continue walking, nodding to yourself. “No wonder he told me not to expect anything from him. He also said that he fulfilled his duty by marrying me. No one will pester him now because he has the perfect cover.” You nod your head, impressed. “I have to give it to him. This is a good plan.”
The path down the cliff comes to an end, and you stop, admiring the sun slowly going lower in the western sky. The birds fly in the sky in groups, returning home as the sky changes colour, a deep tint of orange taking over the blue.
Is she pretty? You wonder to yourself. She must be. There must be something about her that keeps a man like him hooked.
The thought pains you. More than it should.
You understand it. You really do, but what you don’t understand is why he married you. Why did he trap you into this marriage? The least he could have done was be honest with you instead of avoiding you like the plague.
The more you get to know this man, the more cowardly he seems. The thought brings an unironic smile to your face. The most feared man in the country, yet he refuses to communicate with his wife. He does not have the guts to speak the truth, which makes him nothing but a coward in your eyes.
“Let us stop by the market.” You announce, taking a different route. San rushes in front of you, alarmed. “Lady Choi, w-why?”
You stare at him, slightly annoyed. Why is he acting like this? Is General Choi supposed to be there now? With his lover? All the more reason why you must go.
You continue walking, ignoring San.
“My Lady, please. Tell me what you need and I shall get that for you after I escort you home.”
“San,” you abruptly stop and glare at him. “I shall tell you what I need right now. I need you to shut up and follow me quietly. Or, you can just leave and report to your boss that I am breaking protocol. Whatever fancies you.”
The man makes a pained sound, groaning almost like a wounded animal. However, you don’t wait for him, marching down the path with determination. Helplessly, he chases after you.
—
The marketplace is less crowded than you expected. You heard there have been attacks by gangs in this area, so people are more reluctant to leave their houses, especially as evening approaches.
With the roads not as crowded as usual, it takes you only a couple of minutes to spot him. He stands out, as always, his broad shoulders and tall build catching your eye from far away. You observe him for a moment from afar, squinting your eyes to see what he is doing exactly.
He stands in front of a trinket shop, carefully going through the pieces laid out in front of him.
Wow, is he shopping for something for his hidden lover?
Bemused, you watch him, eyes scanning for a woman near him, only to find no one.
“My Lady, we should really get going. This area is not safe, and—” Ignoring San’s plea, you head straight towards where your husband stands.
“My Lord, what brings you here?” You chirp, standing right behind him. The man immediately turns around, his pupils blown wide in shock. You do not miss the way he hides something behind him. It takes a moment for him to register that it is you, and once he does, that grim look settles on his face. “What are you doing here?’’
San rushes next to you, “My Lord, I am so sorry—”
General Choi cuts him off with a raised hand and gives him a look of dismissal, which sends the young man scurrying away. Ignoring his question, you say. “It seems like you were finished with work early today.” You pointedly look at the shop behind him.
“Yes. I finished early today.” He states, expressionless. “Are you returning from the palace now?”
“Yes, the work at the library took longer than usual. Some records were accidentally destroyed, so we had to salvage them.”
“I see.” He nods. You wait, wondering if he has anything more to say. He keeps gazing at you silently, his odd eye hidden behind his hair. You have noticed that he always hides it in public. Why? To avoid detection?
Finally, he speaks, his eyes narrow and his tone sharp. “You should not be here. I am sure you are aware of the looting and killing taking place in this area.”
You hate his tone. Frowning, you reply. “Thank you for your concern, My Lord. I was aware. I just wanted to explore—”
You are cut off.
The next sequence of events takes place exceptionally quickly. First, you see your husband’s gaze shift and focus on something behind you. The very next moment, he yanks you towards him, making a swift turn so that his body covers yours. You lose your footing from the harsh tug, gripping onto his arms with a yelp of surprise.
Something whizzes past you, sharp and quick, that makes you jerk and hold onto him tighter.
Gasps, yells and screams of people echo all around you. You blink, befuddled, staring at your husband, who holds you tightly against his body, looking behind him. Following his gaze, you find San chasing after a man who dashes away through the crowd at remarkably fast speed, shoving people and running over stalls on his way.
Your husband whips his head back to look at you, his eyes wide with alarm. “Are you okay? Look at me!” He shakes you, his grip on your arms fierce. Something wet touches your fingers. Slowly, your eyes trail to your right hand, which is grabbing General Choi’s bicep.
There is a tear on his sleeve, a couple of inches above your fingers and red liquid oozes out from the thin cut. You gasp, your breath escaping your lungs in a choked wheeze.
Finally, everything clicks.
Someone just shot an arrow at him. Who? An enemy? A gang member? An assassin?
“Oh…oh my god! My Lord!” You clutch onto his sleeve, panicking.
General Choi ignores your cry and forces you to look at him, tilting your chin upwards. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
Is he seriously worrying about you right now?
“I am fine.” You choke on a sob. “But my Lord, you are bleeding! What…what should I do?”
He rubs a gentle hand on your back, pulling you closer to him. “I am fine. It is nothing.” He assures, his eyes scanning the place carefully as if looking for someone. You panic. “My Lord, we need to go home. Come on. You are hurt!” You urge, tugging him with you, even though you cannot make him move an inch.
The man stands rooted to his spot, his eyes still scouring through the marketplace. Finally, he nods and pulls you into his arms, holding you protectively. “Let us go.”
—
After your relentless nagging, you finally get your husband to sit still so that you can treat his wound.
“I told you, it is nothing serious.” He admonishes when you step into his bedchamber with a rag, a bowl of water, and some medicine. Ignoring him, you hurry closer to him, inspecting the wound.
You have never treated someone before, but your mother was a very good nurse. She helped a lot of people during the war with her vast knowledge of medicinal herbs. You remember watching her work for hours, and even though you never directly learned from her, you are confident you can do this right.
The memory of his blood seeping out and wetting your hands sends shivers down your spine, and you have to take a deep breath to get yourself to calm down. Your heart has been racing ever since, the adrenaline yet to wear off.
“You should take off your shirt.” You whisper, wetting the rag in the bowl of water. Your husband complies, slowly removing the garment and shrugging it off his shoulders. Your breath catches in your throat once you lay your eyes on his body.
It is not his muscular build but the plethora of scars littering his body. Small and big, they taint his chest and all the way down to his lower abdomen, and you cannot help but stare, wincing at the marks that look particularly nasty.
What has this man been through?
General Choi snatches the rag from your hands and starts treating his cut. Embarrassed, you protest, but he cuts you off. “I can do it myself.” His response, like always, is curt, but you ignore it, too distracted by his scars. The one on his left abdomen looks particularly ghastly, and you know for sure it was a deep stab wound.
The amount of pain he must have been in…
The thought makes you shudder, and you bite your lip, holding your tears back.
“This is why I assigned someone to protect you.” His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “I am sure he told you to return, but you insisted on going to the market.”
“Who was that man?” You cut him off, unable to prevent yourself from voicing your worries any longer. Why did they want to hurt him?
His lips thin, and something flashes over his eyes, leaving you guessing. He pauses for a moment, looking at you impassively, almost like he knows a secret that you don’t. “They were probably from some gang. They have been causing havoc recently, as you know.”
You know it is a lie. It is blatant that he is hiding something from you, and you cannot help but sigh out loud, sagging onto the floor. You do not even have it in you to fight with him right now. You are just glad he is okay. The bleeding has stopped now, and as you watch him apply the herb on his cut, a small sigh of relief flows past your lips.
Finally, it feels like you can breathe.
Silently, you help him tie a clean rag around his bicep before wiping the residual herb from his fingers. “You should take a bath.” He keeps staring at your face as if he is trying to understand something.
“Are you sure you are okay?” he asks, his tone soft. His gaze, for the first time, appears to be almost tender, and for a moment, the concept of language evaporates from your mind.
You want to say a lot of things. You want to yell at him, scream at him to explain himself and cry in his arms. You are unable to do any of that. “I am fine,” you whisper, your voice small and shaky.
He keeps looking at you for a few more seconds before nodding and getting up. Just as he is about to exit the room, you call for him. “My Lord?”
“Hm?” He turns around to look at you.
You pause, hesitating. “I know you bought something today. At the market…” you trail off, unsure why you are saying this. His body tenses, and he looks at you warily…like he has been caught. For a second, you pray that he comes clean, but he remains silent, waiting for you to continue.
You swallow a lump in your throat and look away. Your voice is wobbly when you speak. “You should wrap it. Put it in a nice box. Women love gifts that are nicely wrapped. The woman…whoever you bought it for…you should wrap it.”
You do not dare to meet his gaze, so you sit on the floor, staring at the bowl of water that is now tinted red from his blood. He does not reply but walks out the door, his footsteps padding softly over the wooden floors.
—
That night, you lay in bed awake, replaying the event at the market over and over again in your head. And as you keep revisiting that moment, a shuddering realization dawns on you.
What if…what if…
The arrow wasn't meant for General Choi but for you?
The more you think about it, the more probable it seems. The arrow would have originally hit you if not for him moving you out of the way. The thought makes you bolt up from your bed, your heart racing as beads of sweat gather on your temples. Tossing the blanket away, you step out of your sleeping mat and start pacing around your room.
Today's events are a mystery to you. You have no enemies, and neither does your father. Hell, he has been out of politics ever since your brother died. You simply have no reason to have someone shoot an arrow at you in the middle of a marketplace.
If it were not for your husband, you would have died for sure.
Shit. Who would do that?
Your mind starts spiraling to the point that your temples begin to throb. You press the spot with your fingers, trying to make the ache go away.
It doesn't.
Instead, paranoia starts settling in. Suddenly, the thought of being alone in your room frightens you so much that you feel a chill in your bones. Unable to tolerate the deafening silence and the darkness any longer, you step out of your chamber, taking tentative steps towards your husband's room. The hallway is dark except for one small lamp flickering at the end of the long corridor, an eerie quietness hanging heavy in the air as the whole house sleeps.
You come to stop in front of your husband's room, your hands hesitating to pull open the wooden panels.
What are you doing here? Sneaking into your husband’s chamber in the middle of the night?
With the resolved exhale, you pull open the door. In the darkness, it takes a moment for you to spot your husband sleeping on his side, his long raven hair splayed messily over the mat.
You remain rooted in your spot outside the door, hesitating yet once again before gingerly making your way inside and quietly closing the panel behind you. The room would be pitch dark if not for the faint light of the lamp flickering outside, filtering in through the panel. You take a moment to let your eyes adjust to the visibility before placing yourself next to him. With his sword resting between the two of you, you silently lie down, gazing at the silhouette of his face in the darkness.
Your heart aches. He got hurt because of you.
Why do you feel such a strong attraction towards this cold, stubborn man? Why does it hurt you so much to see him hurt? Most importantly, is this how he feels about his lover? Does her pain make him hurt like this as well? Is that why he refuses to be with you, unable to resist his heart's longing?
So many questions and no answer to soothe your wretched soul.
You keep gazing at him, a strange sensation filling your heart. He is physically so close to you, right within your reach, yet it feels like he is a million miles away, tucked away in a place for which you have no key. At the same time, lying next to him like this, you feel oddly comfortable. With him next to you, the silence and the darkness of the night are bearable, no longer stealing your sleep.
With a heavy ache in your chest and tears in your eyes, you fall asleep, happy to be in the same space as your husband.
—
When you open your eyes next morning, the sun is high up in the sky and the light flooding into the room immediately tells you that you have slept way longer than you should have.
Shit. You missed work today.
All concerns of work, however, fly out the window when you register where you are. You fell asleep on the floor next to General Choi yesterday. Then why are you sleeping on his mat, his blanket tucked around you, and his pillow under your head?
With a gasp, you sit up and look around you, double checking to make sure you are in the right place.
How did you get here? Did he tuck you in after waking up? How did you not wake up?
Your face flushes with heat, imagining him carrying you and putting you in his bed. No wonder you feel so well rested after a long time. You must have slept like a log throughout everything.
Did you snore? Did you drool? Did you say something weird in your sleep?
“Oh dear lord, help me!” You whine, putting your face in your hands, cringing at all the possible ways you might have embarrassed yourself. Once you are over the initial wave of embarrassment, you spot a trinket on top of the small wooden table by the mat.
Curious, you shuffle closer. It is a bineyo with a beautiful butterfly in pink and blue, exactly the one you had been looking for. With a gasp, you lean closer, mesmerized by the way it sparkles underneath the sunlight. Next to it sits a letter, face up.
Dear wife,
I am sorry I did not wrap it. I was interrupted by someone before I could choose a box. I do not know how the misunderstanding came to be, but this was meant to be yours from the beginning, not any other woman’s. I hope you like it.
From, Your husband
Your hands cover your mouth in shock and absolute glee before clutching the letter and the hairpin to your chest. Tears brim your eyes, your heart melting like a caramel under the sun, warm and sweet.
It seems like you misunderstood his actions. Still, some things remain unclear.
“Jihye!” You yell. She rushes in a few moments later. “My lady, you are awake! Master said not to disturb you. He said he will let Head Court Lady Yeo know that you will not go to work today.”
Ignoring her words, you quickly motion for her to come closer to you and sit down. “You,” you narrow your eyes at her. “You have been hiding something from me.” She blinks, her gaze slowly lowering to the floor.
“What did General Choi tell you? He definitely told you something. That is why you have not been letting me out of the house by myself.”
She looks at you helplessly for a long moment before sighing. “Okay, I will tell you, my lady. But you have to promise me you will not tell Master. I gave him my word.” She winces.
What could it be? Eager, you scoot closer to her. “I will not. Now out with it.”
“On the first night of your marriage, he called me and asked about you. What you like to eat, what your favourite season is…things like that.”
Wow. Your heart races with each of her words.
“Then, he asked me what you were doing in the market that day. You know that noon a week before your wedding? When we bumped into him? I said that you were looking for a hairpin. He asked in detail about the hairpin, and I told him that you were looking for one with a butterfly. Then, he ordered me to keep you from going outside, especially to crowded areas, as much as possible. He said it is not safe for you. And he made me promise not to tell you.”
A lot of the blanks start filling up. He listened to her and got this hairpin for you. No wonder!
You keep finding yourself revisiting that moment in the market. The way he protected you. The worry in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped onto you, the way his voice was filled with worry when he asked you if you were ok. The realization that you may have misunderstood him greatly starts settling in your bones.
Maybe there was no one else from the beginning. Maybe it was only you all along. Maybe everything he did was to protect you. But protect you from what? Did he know that someone was after you? Who? Why did he not tell you anything?
No matter, you shall set the record straight when he gets home today. You have caught a glimpse into your husband’s heart, and it turns out he is not as cruel as they say. Now, there is nothing strong enough to stop you. He has had his way until now, and now, it is your time.
“Did he say when he will return?” You ask Jihye, your heart racing.
“No, my lady.”
“No matter.” You smile. “I will wait for him.”
—
The heavens seem to be on your side because your husband returns home right before sunset. As he takes a bath, you prepare in your room, getting dressed for the evening.
Jihye braids your hair for you before helping you put on your hanbok, a soft yellow jeogori with a pastel pink chima.
Just as you are almost finished with your makeup, Head Servant Yang knocks at the door, letting you know that your husband has finished his bath. With a smile, you stand up and walk over to the mirror, smoothing your skirt.
“Jihye, how do I look?”
“Absolutely beautiful, my lady!” She squeals. “Master will not be able to resist you tonight!”
You throw a scandalized look at her before reaching for the hairpin your husband gave you. Gingerly placing it on your hair, you complete the look and twirl in front of the mirror. “Alright, let us go!”
You knock twice at your husband’s chamber.
“Come in.”
Exhaling a shaky breath, you open the door and find sitting on the floor, wearing a navy blue hanbok. A book sits open on his lap, which is discarded once he lays eyes upon you.
Silence.
You hold your breath, watching his eyes scan you top to bottom, before going up again and finally stopping at your hairpin. He looks awestruck and speechless—a look you have never seen on him, and you struggle to stifle a smile.
“May I come in?” You ask coquettishly.
“Ah—yes, of course.” He blinks and sits up straight. With a smile, you walk into the room and sit in front of him, closer than you have ever been before. "How is your arm?” You ask, jutting your chin towards it. “Do you need me to apply some herbs?”
“No, it is fine. I changed the gauze after my bath.”
“Are you in any pain?”
“Thank you for your concern, Lady Choi, but I am well.” He sets the book aside. “What brings you to my chamber?”
You ignore his curt replies. “Thank you for the gift, my lord.” You smile, saccharine sweet. Titling your head, you show him the trinket nestled in your hair. “How do I look?”
“Hm?” He gapes at you, eyes wide, clearly taken aback by the question. “Uh…it suits you. You look lovely.”
You smile like a lovestruck fool. “Thank you, my Lord.”
Silence. He keeps looking at you like it is a staring competition. Realizing he will not be the first one to break the silence, you continue with a sigh, “I have some questions, my Lord. I hope you will answer them honestly.”
His gaze shifts, something unreadable briefly flashing by his eyes. His hands on to rest on his knees, his back straightening as he takes a moment before subtly nodding his head.
“Is there someone trying to kill me?” Your gaze does not waver. General Choi’s lips press into a thin line, his thick brows forming a frown, a look of pure displeasure settling on his face.
You do not back down. “Yesterday, the arrow was meant for me, was it not? You knew someone was after me. That is why you assigned San to be with me. That is why you told Jihye not to let me go outside.”
Another beat of silence. “Yes.” He murmurs, his haunting gaze piercing yours.
You swallow. “Who is it? I do not understand…I do not have any enemies— “
“They are my enemies.” He cuts you off. “The arrow yesterday…yes, it was meant for you, but it was also meant for me. It was their warning to me.”
“What warning? Why are they after you?” You cry.
His gaze narrows. “That is private information. Only the King’s most trusted men are aware of it.” You look down, worriedly chewing on your lower lip. After a beat, you ask, “Is that why you ignored me in the palace that day?”
“Yes. I thought the less I interacted with you, the better.” He pauses, his gaze focusing on the lamp burning at his side. “I am sorry for putting you in danger, but rest assured, they will be dealt with.”
You are not really worried about losing your life. If anything, his being in danger scares you more. Odd, is it not?
“Why did you let me misunderstand, my Lord?” You ask softly.
“That was not my intention.”
“But it happened anyway.” You cannot hold back the bite in your voice. “From the first day of this marriage, I believed that you have someone else.”
He remains silent, looking almost guilty. It scares and infuriates you. “Tell me! Do you?”
“No,” his voice never loses its quiet composure. “I do not.”
“Then why did you lie?”
For the first time, you see his gaze soften. For once, it looks like he is not scowling but rather, he appears ashamed and helpless. The hidden frustration inside you reaches its tipping point. “You could have told me! You could have said that I was in danger instead of pushing me away like I disgust you and letting me think that you were seeing someone else!”
You hear him exhale a breath. “How do you expect me to tell my young, newlywed wife that her life is in danger because of me, her husband?”
The guilt is raw and vivid in his voice, echoing throughout the room like a haunted cry. This new side of your husband knocks all the air out of your lungs, leaving you feeling helpless as you stare at him, tears pricking your eyes.
“My Lord—”
“I know I am not the best match for you. You got married to be free, but instead, this marriage became a trap for you. How could I tell you that? I believed it would be better to let you think all crazy things about me rather than taking away your freedom by scaring you. I apologize for my shortsightedness.”
A lone tear rolls down your cheek. He is not the best match for you? What is he saying?
Unable to hold back any longer, you close the little distance between the two of you and leap into his arms, hugging him tightly. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you rest your face on his shoulder, your fingers tightly holding onto the fabric of his hanbok. “Please do not apologize, my Lord. I understand you.”
Against you, your husband’s entire body remains tense, his hands awkwardly raised into the air like he is too scared to touch you. You ignore his hesitation and hold onto him tightly, your heart breaking and healing simultaneously. The warmth and comfort of his body soothe all the anguish in your heart, making you never want to let him go.
Finally, his hands touch your back, his large palms holding the small of your back, softly patting you.
Loosening your arms around him, you take a peek at his face and find the most sincere look in his eyes, warm and kind, the complete opposite of how you have seen him until now. You truly believed he was beyond all emotions, cold and mechanical, but right now, as he holds you in his arms and gazes at you with so much reverence and softness, you can only think of him as this quiet, considerate man who is misunderstood greatly.
Something in you shifts. No longer afraid, you shift in his arms, positioning yourself better on his lap before kissing him.
You press your lips against his without thinking, pulling him closer by the lapels of his hanbok and holding your lips right there, against his, soft and warm. With your heart hammering in your chest, you stay there, testing the waters. Your husband remains frozen at first, almost like he is waiting for you to back out. Once sure that you will not, he reaches for you, gently cupping your cheek with his right hand to tilt your face. The kiss deepens just a tad bit, his lips pressing against you just hard enough. His touch on you is meticulous and guarded, like you are a wild animal he does not want to frighten. You know he is being gentle for your sake, so you take the lead, snaking an arm around his neck and kissing him the way he led you.
Slow, sweet and passionate.
It is everything you imagined and more, all your dreams coming true and giving you a taste of ecstasy. By the time your lips part from his, there is a ringing in your ears along with your heart galloping like a race horse and a strange, tingling sensation between your legs. You feel drunk on your husband’s kiss, your eyes involuntarily trailing to his lips that are now shining with saliva.
You want this man so much, body and soul.
Your husband’s fingers remain against your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheek, slow and tentative like you are the most precious porcelain. Mirroring his hand, your fingers cup his cheek, your thumb gently tracing the scar beneath his odd eye. The skin is harsh and bumpy under your touch, making your heart heavy. You want to kiss it, tell him that he is beautiful despite it, tell him that you feel his pain, but something shifts.
His gaze grows unfocused, something foreign flashing by in his eyes, like he has been woken back to reality. With a sudden noise, he clears his throat and retracts his hand from your face. The action pulls you out of your haze as well, making you suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you kissed him.
Holy shit. You kissed your husband. And he kissed you back. And it was amazing.
Clearing his throat once more, your husband looks away, carefully trying to put some distance between you and him. Flustered, you take the hint and stand up rather unceremoniously. As you take a step back, however, misfortune befalls.
The ghost of clumsiness yet again takes over your body, and you trip over your skirt. With a loud, unladylike yelp, you fall backwards, terrified but also anticipating the brutal hit to the floor.
It does not come. You do not fall on the ground because your husband saves you, reaching for your arm and tugging you back towards him just in time. Something else happens in the process. The ribbon of your jeogori comes off.
You realize that several moments later, too preoccupied with trying to calm your beating heart and processing what just happened. As you stay pressed against his body, your arms tightly holding onto his shoulders for balance, General Choi’s eyes skim over your face before fixing beneath your neck and on your exposed shoulder.
This time, something dark and carnal takes over his gaze, his eyes sharp and narrow, staring intently at your bare skin. Your heart beats so loudly you fear he can hear it, and for a moment, you are sure you will pass out from the intensity of his gaze and the swirl of emotions—desire and shame, surging within you.
Like before, he is the one who backs away, quietly clearing his throat and looking away. Embarrassed, you quickly fix your jeogori and clutch it tightly to your chest while also scrambling off his body.
“I—” you stammer, mortified to look at his face. “I will see you for d-dinner then, my Lord.” Picking up your skirt to avoid further accidents, you rush for the door, eager to be out of his sight.
His voice forces you to stop right at the door. “Why did you come to my room last night?”
You halt, processing his question. Then, with quick fingers, you tie your jeogori and carefully turn around. Your husband looks at you inquisitively. “Were…were you awake, my Lord?” You ask. He did not even stir when you came into the room.
In reply, he nods. You look around, trying to find the words. “I…was scared to be alone. I kept thinking of what happened at the market, and I do not know…” You trail off, embarrassed and worried about his reaction. He, however, keeps looking at you intently before shaking his head up and down in understanding.
“How did you know I came in? You did not even move a muscle. I thought you were asleep.”
“I smelled you.” He states, his face expressionless. You take a step back, alarmed. “Do I stink?”
He shakes his head. “No. I meant that I smelled roses. You smell like roses.”
Oh. “I see,” you mumble shyly, your fingers twiddling with the fabric of your skirt. He regards you quietly for a beat before murmuring. “You can sleep with me tonight as well, if you desire it.”
“Really?” You squeal, not hiding the excitement brimming in your voice.
“Yes.”
“Thank you, my Lord!” You smile so big it hurts.
—
After dinner, Headservant Yang sets the mattress for the two of you with a suggestive, happy smile on her face that makes you grin goofily.
Once finished with your nightly routine and dressed for bed, you pad into your husband's chamber and find him already lying down, his eyes closed and his hands resting over his chest. One could think he was asleep, but you know better now. With wonder, you observe that the place of his sword has shifted and moved to his left, right next to his mat, now that yours occupies the space it took before.
“My Lord,” you ask softly, “shall I blow out the candle?”
“Yes.” He replies, not moving or opening his eyes. Carefully, you pad over to the study table and blow out the candle before finding your place on the mat. With the noise of the crickets humming outside, you lie on your mat, pulling the blanket up to your chin and staring at the ceiling. Your blood thrums in your veins, your brain too wired to fall asleep. The excitement of lying next to your husband keeps you awake.
Once your eyes adjust to the darkness, you take tentative peeks at him and find him in the same position as he originally was. Is he sleeping? You wish you could tell.
“My Lord?” You speak, quiet as a mouse.
Silence.
“Hm?” He hums.
“Why do you sleep with your sword next to you?”
“Force of habit, I suppose…from the war.”
You hum in acknowledgement, looking at him eagerly amid the darkness. After a short pause, you call for him again. “My Lord?”
“Yes.”
“Can I sleep with you from now on?”
Silence. Seconds pass by, but no answer comes, and you start to think that he has fallen asleep. Just then, he finally replies, his voice quiet and deep in the solitude of the night. “If you wish to.” You smile, happy and wide, even though he cannot see you. “Thank you, my Lord.”
Another short pause later, he murmurs. “Goodnight.” You take it as a sign that he does not wish to talk anymore, and with a nod, you shift and lie on your side, your right arm resting underneath your head. “Goodnight, my Lord.” You whisper with a smile.
—
You wake up just before sunrise.
The spot next to you is empty, and with no sign of your husband, you step out of his bedchamber in search of him. It is a rest day, so you wonder where he is so early in the morning.
You find the man in the backyard, already dressed, quietly observing the flowers in the garden. “My Lord?” You call for him.
“Oh, good morning.” He acknowledges you with a small nod. “Why are you up so early?”
“I woke up and you were not there. Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” He assures. “You should sleep some more.” You pause, carefully observing him. In the soft morning light, the man looks different, more relaxed and homely, dressed in his hanbok and his long raven hair draped elegantly against his back.
How can you leave his majestic man just for a few more hours of sleep?
“My Lord?”
“Hm?”
“Let us go for a walk.”
—
After quickly getting dressed, you and your husband go for a stroll, the early morning sun softly gleaming in the sky.
Your husband heads towards the nearby forest, which leads to a cliff offering a nice view of the town and the hilly background. He walks quietly with his hands behind him, his movements deliberately slow to accommodate your pace. With a soft smile that never leaves your lips, you walk alongside him, your heart thrumming happily.
Can this be called a date?
Without any words exchanged between the two of you, you navigate the path through the forest, your eyes skirting towards him every now and then. The silence between you is not awkward because you can see from his face that he is thinking deeply about something. So, you let him think and use the solitude to take peeks at his handsome face, memorizing the details of his visage.
By the time you reach the cliff, you are out of breath.
“Wow,” you wheeze out, panting for air as you rest with your palms on your knees.
“Are you alright?” General Choi asks, peering down to see your face. “Yes,” you nod, trying to control your breathing. “It has been a while since I came up here. The view is magnificent.”
“It is.” He hums, looking over the cliff. “That last time I came here, I was a child.” You share, standing up and gazing at the view. It is truly still beautiful.
“Why so long ago?”
“What?” You blink, looking at your husband, who is regarding you with a curious tilt of his head.
“Uh…” you think. “My father…he was not fond of me going out much. Especially anywhere far, after my brother died. He liked to keep me within his sight.”
He keeps looking at you attentively, and you wonder what he is thinking. Is he judging you?
Needing to fill the silence, you ramble. “On top of that, I have always been clumsy. I’m sure you have figured that out by now. Once, when I was a child, I somehow broke my arm playing in the yard. My brother ran all the way to the physician’s office with me on his back. With him gone, my father thought it would be better for me to be within the house. For my safety and his mental peace.”
“It was suffocating, no? That is why you married me. For freedom.” Your husband observes. You nod, albeit shakily, thinking of your days back at your parents' home. The cold treatment of your father and the way you were never enough. Not enough to take away the pain of them losing their son.
In the silence, you take a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the man next to you and voicing a question you have always wanted to ask. “Why did you choose to marry me?”
He takes a moment to answer.
“Because no one else wanted to. A lot of ministers tried to get me engaged to their daughters, but the girls refused when they saw me. Some even rejected just after hearing my name. They feared me.”
You find it ridiculous. “Why?” Your tone drips with bewilderment. “My reputation,” he shrugs. “My face does not help much, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?” You frown, leaning closer to him. He regards you in silence, as if the answer to that question is the most obvious thing in the world. “I am ugly.”
“What?” You gape at him, utterly befuddled. Does this man truly think that? His sharp eyes narrow on you, his brows knotting in confusion. “I do not know if you are making fun of me.”
“Why would I make fun of you?” You cry. This entire thing is ludicrous. “I simply find it absolutely enraging that you think so!”
He remains mute, watching you like you are an equation he needs to solve.
You take a tentative step closer to him, mumbling, “It is true that your reputation is scary. I also feared you for that in the beginning. I do not know if you are aware, but people say all types of crazy things about you.” You pause, inching even closer to him. With a few small inches between the two of you, you look up and meet his eyes, hoping to convey your sincerity. “But as I got to know you…I have realized there is nothing to fear. You are undoubtedly a cold man, my Lord, but you are also warm. Your heart is always in the right place. That alone is enough to make you the most beautiful man in the land.”
His face relaxes, and you can see how his gaze softens, the turbulent storms ever present in his eyes dissipating for a moment.
In the back of your mind, one thought runs rampant. You want to kiss him. In the soft morning light, he looks as breathtaking as ever, his lips soft and kissable. Remembering the touch of his lips against yours last night, you muster the courage and lean up on your tippy toes, pressing a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. The man immediately leans back, a look of surprise on his face. Ignoring his reaction, you smile and step back, facing the view again. Your husband clears his throat before silently joining you in gazing at the view.
A while later, you voice out another thought. “My Lord, when you said not to expect anything from you, what did you mean?”
He takes a moment to answer. “I don’t know. Just do not expect anything from me. I cannot give you anything.”
Frowning, you face him. “But you have already given me so much.”
“I do not believe that.”
You sigh. The cranky man is returning. Hitching your skirt, you walk closer to him, determined. “What did you mean, my Lord? I cannot expect what?” He huffs out a frustrated breath. “Whatever a wife expects from her husband, I suppose.”
Your frown deepens. “What? Love? Attention? Devotion?”
“I will be devoted to you, but I cannot give you love.” His words are like a punch to the gut. “Why not?” You plead.
He hesitates. “I…just cannot.”
“You cannot or will not?”
His eyes, sharp and fiery, pierce right through you, and you see the truth in his eyes. You see the answer he refuses to utter. “Let us get back.” He announces, turning on his heel and dismissing you, starts marching down the path. You scoff, watching with an open mouth as he almost runs down the track to escape answering your question.
This stubborn, frustrating man.
—
After breakfast, General Choi goes out to visit an old friend. With a sour mood, you shuffle through the house, watching as everyone remains busy with their work. You try to practice some needlework but fail to get far with that. As always, your hand at embroidery is embarrassingly bad. For two hours, you try to create a flower on a handkerchief, but when it turns out looking questionable, you drop the task.
You find San sitting outside on the porch, chatting animatedly with Headservant Yang. “My Lady, are you bored?” Headservant Yang asks upon seeing you walk over. With your shoulders slumped, you nod, pouting.
“General Choi will not be back for some time. Should we play a game then? San offers.
Your eyes shine. “Sure!”
—
Your game of baduk with San lasts even after sunset.
You keep playing match after match, your own competitive streak matching his. He does not go easy on you just because you are married to his General, and that makes it all the more fun.
Your husband returns right before lunch and after observing the two of you for a mere minute, he leaves, locking himself in his study for the rest of the day. His disinterest irks you, and you decide to ignore him as well, honing all your attention towards the game. During different times, Headservant Yang and Jihye stop by between their work, watching you two play with rapt fascination.
The game only ends with you winning, long after the sky has gone dark. Cheers and yells erupt in the small crowd of servants gathered to watch the game. You grin cockily, finally standing up and stretching your legs. San accepts his defeat and takes his leave, not before you make him promise to join you another day for another match.
“Would you like to have your bath first or dinner, my Lady?” Headservant Yang asks. You ponder, still reeling from the high of winning. “Did my husband have dinner?”
“Yes, my Lady.” You sigh. “Well then, I will have my dinner now and then take my bath.”
—
After your bath, you sit in your room with the mirror in front of you while Jihye combs your hair. “Today was a fun day, no, my Lady?” She asks.
“Yes,” you hum. “It is a shame General Choi did not join us.”
“Indeed.”
“Where has he been all day?”
“In his room, my Lady. He was studying.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Your husband truly does not know how to have fun. Instead of spending a rest day with his wife, he would rather read and strategize and sulk by himself.
As if he could hear your thoughts, the man appears with a knock at your door and steps in a second later. Jihye excuses herself, leaving the two of you alone, the room suddenly buzzing with tension.
Your husband regards you with that same unreadable face, but something in you tells you that he is grumpier than usual. Still, you try to be civil. “Hello, my Lord.”
“Lady Choi. It was hard to catch sight of you all day.”
Yes. He is annoyed about something. The subtle bite in his voice is unmissable. You finish combing the ends of your hair before setting the comb down. “My apologies about that. I was too immersed in the game of baduk.”
“Yes, I noticed.” He peers down at you, his eyes ethereally flashing in the soft lights of your chamber. “You seemed to quite enjoy your time with San.”
“He is an excellent player. He also mentioned that you used to play with him.” You supply, trying to understand what might be the cause of his annoyance.
“I don’t know about excellent.” He murmurs, looking away from you. “I taught him, true, but he is no match for me.”
You narrow your eyes. What is he implying? “I am sure he is not, my Lord.” You force a smile.
“Yet, you chose to spend the entire day with him.” This time, he snaps, clear and offended. Your jaw hangs low, surprised at his pettiness. You stand up frowning. “You were away, my Lord.”
“Not the entire day. I returned long ago, but you were too busy playing with him till dinner time.” He grumbles, not meeting your eyes but staring at the lamp. Stunned, you gape at him, trying to understand where he is coming from.
Your heart flutters. Is it possible that he is jealous?
“My Lord,” you step closer to take a look at his face. “Are you…jealous?”
“Ha!” He scoffs, stepping away. “Why would I be jealous of that little punk?” he half yells, waving his hand dismissively like he is swatting away a bug.
Your spirits dampen, and annoyance starts to take over. You give him a saccharine sweet smile that is evidently fake. “Well then, there is nothing to worry about. Shall we head to bed?”
He refuses to let the topic go. “You finally remembered me, no? Now that it is time to sleep?”
The thread holding you together snaps. With gritted teeth, you stare at him, trying your level best to keep your tone neutral. “Well, when your husband dismisses you at every chance he gets and tries to run from you at the mere mention of intimacy, a girl would naturally be upset and spend time elsewhere. I hope you pardon her for spending some time away from him.” You bow dramatically in apology, making sure that he understands it is sarcasm.
“Wha—” He regards you, eyes wide and mouth agape, like he cannot believe the words coming from your lips. “You—” He seems to be at a loss for words.
You step past him, but he raises a finger at you. “So you prefer San over me? Is that what you are saying?”
You roll your eyes at his words. However, today there is an urge within you to push him to his limit. So, you whip your head back and glare at him.
“Who knows?” You singsong. Your husband’s eyes only enlarge, the look of pure shock taking over his face, his mouth hanging open wider than before. “Maybe I do. Maybe I do prefer him over you. He spends time with me, after all. Despite today being a rest day, you stayed in your room all day when you could have joined us. So what if I prefer his company?” You add the last line for good measure, trying to appear as threatening as possible.
“Take that back,” he says, his tone quiet. The look on his face starts to shift towards something serious.
You egg him on. “I won’t! In fact, from now on, I will spend more time with him. Who knows, he might give me all the love and attention you refuse.”
The man finally snaps. In the flash of an eye, he is right in front of you, his hand behind your neck pulling you so close to him that you feel his breath. All earlier pettiness and playfulness are gone. He looks like a raging beast, barely hanging on by a thread.
“Take that back. Tell me you do not mean it or I swear to God, I will chop his head off.” He grits, his voice shaking with anger and his grip on your skin tightening. His eyes are like two molten pools of lava, angry and bright, and he has never looked hotter.
Without wasting a second, you smash your lips with his, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer and closer towards you.
The force of your kiss is so strong that it knocks him back a few steps. However, he is quick to recover, meeting your lips with even more passion, a side of him completely new to you. Raw and unchained, he goes all in, devouring your lips like it is his salvation.
You don’t hold back either.
You let go of your body weight entirely, pushing him on the ground below you while never letting go of his lips. Your hands—his and yours—move frantically to claw at each other through the layers of fabric. With a huff, your husband finally removes his lips from yours, a long string of saliva connecting your lips to his. “If we continue…I cannot hold back.” He pants, his eyes wild and shining.
His words make you giddy with anticipation, molten hot pools of lava swirling in your belly.
“That is what I want,” you whisper, feeling the cold air against your swollen lips. “I do not want you to hold back.” Slowly, you snake your arms around his neck and you move closer to his face. With a mere inch between your lips, you murmur, “I want you to devour me, my Lord.”
Your husband makes a sound, a low, primal grunt that comes from the deepest part of his chest. He exhales sharply, determination swirling in his eyes as he finally lets go of all the restraint he had been practicing till now.
In a flash, he flips your positions, holding you against the ground, his large body looming over yours. Your breath catches in your throat with the view on top of you, and he has not even taken off his clothes yet. Desire thrums in your veins, making you curl your toes in anticipation.
“I will ruin you tonight.” That is a promise. His voice is laced with something dark, like he will thoroughly enjoy ruining you. Little does he know, you will enjoy it too.
“Please, my Lord.” You beg, all too eager to become his.
His eyes flash at your words, and immediately, his hands get to work. They move with ease, graceful yet quick, as he strips you off your garments. All too soon, you are left only in your underskirt, your bare chest exposed for his eyes to feast on. You have the urge to cover them, and as if your husband can read your mind, he grabs your hands and links your fingers with his, pinning them on top of your head.
“Do not hide from me,” he commands, his lips hovering over yours. You nod, jittery with need and anticipation.
Once sure your hands will not move, he slowly traces his fingers from your jawbone to your neck and then your shoulder, before reaching for your braid. You shift and let him hold your hair, his fingers gently caressing over the long braided strands. His fingers trace over your daenggi before tugging on it sharply. Undone, the strip of cloth comes off as your hair starts to loosen from the braid.
“So beautiful.” He hums, holding a few strands of hair between his fingers. He places a soft kiss on them before reaching for your hands. With your daenggi, he ties your wrists together, making sure the knot will hold before placing your hands back where they were, arms stretched straight on top of your head.
“Be a good girl.” He whispers, his voice sultry, his gaze half lidded yet dangerous. Your heart hammers loudly in your chest as the reality of what is happening actually starts to settle in your bones.
You are half-naked, tied up and vulnerable underneath your husband. The man they call the Grim Reaper, the most merciless man in the land. Yet, you are not afraid.
You watch as he shifts, making himself comfortable between your spread legs. He lifts your underskirt, exposing your core, and despite the urge to close your legs, you cannot.
“So beautiful. It will be a treat to ruin you.” He hums, his eyes focused between your legs, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Without any warning, he slaps you between your legs, right on your sensitive flesh, the sharp whack echoing through the quietness of the night.
“Ah!” You cry, mortified and surprised. It stings but also unlocks a new sensation of pleasure within you. Your face heats up as you realize how much you enjoyed it, a deep and deprived sense of pleasure.
He slaps you again. “Do you like it? I can see you are getting wet.” He says, his flashing eyes set on your face.
You make a pathetic noise of agreement. “Answer me!” He commands, slapping you once more. A long, needy moan is ripped from your throat. You pant. “Y-yes, my Lord.”
Pleased, he smirks before leaning down to press kisses on your inner thighs. He moves slowly and deliberately, playing with you, nibbling on your skin with his teeth before giving it a soothing lick and making sure it is marked. When he sits back up, his eyes trace all over your face as if he is trying to remember every small detail about you. You do the same, peering at him through your lashes with bated breath, wishing you could pull him closer for another kiss.
You could spend your entire life kissing this man.
With the ease and grace of a panther that has trapped its prey, your husband moves, enveloping you with his body, his hair falling over you like a black curtain. Lying on top of you, one of his hands holds on to the nape of your neck while the other explores your body, teasingly moving down your waist and between your legs. His warm fingers trace your core, feeling the wetness gathered between your legs. Without losing eye contact, he plays with you, dipping his fingers inside, making you shiver and whimper and continues to smirk knowingly.
He pushes his index and middle finger inside you, just up to his knuckles and the intrusion have you shuddering, your core throbbing like it has its own heartbeat. A breathy moan tears from your lips, and he uses the opportunity to lean in and bite your lip softly.
Dear god. You whimper. “Please.”
“What?” He mouths against your lips. “T-touch me,” you reply, chasing his lips to reconnect with yours.
You hear him scoff cockily. “I am touching you, wife.” His title for you makes you only more desperate. You whine, starting to writhe, “More.”
You feel him smile against your mouth, his fingers slipping all the way in. His lips trace your jaw, his nose pressed against your skin before trailing down your neck, while his fingers start moving in and out. Involuntarily, your hips writhe, chasing his fingers while he peppers your neck with kisses and bites before fixing on a particular spot beneath your ear that makes you whimper. Then, he uses his thumb to give you a flick, his dark eyes trained on your face as your pleasure amplifies.
“Oh my god,” you shut your eyes closed, reveling in the feeling of his fingers inside you. He starts to pick up pace, moving the fingers in tandem, circling them inside you and giving your clit an occasional flick. You wrap your legs around his lower waist, crossing them over and pulling him even closer, a desperate attempt at trying to ease the growing ache. Inside you, his fingers move rapidly, making your body tense as you start climbing your high, the coil in your belly pulling tight.
“My L-lord…” You pant, looking at him with pleading eyes, even though you are unsure what you are trying to say. “Say my name,” he commands, dark eyes trained on you.
You feel even hotter, the coil in your belly pulled impossibly tight. “S-Seungcheol.”
“That is right. Scream my name.” He orders, eyes hazy with a film of lust and possessiveness. As if teasing you, his thumb brushes over your clit ever so slightly, drawing out a shuddering whine from your lips that makes him chuckle quietly. The sound feels like magic to your ears, a drug to your system that heightens your pleasure. His teeth dig into the soft flesh of your neck, undoubtedly leaving a mark.
“P-please Seungcheol,” you heave, eyes closed shut, fingernails digging into your palms. Humming against your neck, he uses his fingers to rub an even deeper spot inside you as his thumb rubs your clit mercilessly.
“Please!” You hiss, throwing your head back, your toes curling as you wail. “I… I cannot…”
“You are going to cum for me. Now,” his voice is a quiet order.
He curls his fingers inside you one last time and flicks your clit hard with his thumb, sending you over the edge. Your release is a tidal wave of mind-breaking pleasure as your body goes tense, your hips arching off the bed, your mouth hanging open as a reaction to the overwhelming pleasure; your first orgasm.
You experience a type of bliss you had no idea existed, and for a moment, your mind goes blank, your body lying taut and tense underneath his. The onslaught of pleasure leaves your vision blurry with unshed tears and your mind numb to everything as you slowly descend from the throes of heavenly bliss and register that your husband is sitting upright between your legs.
With his relentless gaze locked with yours, he slowly licks his fingers clean, his long pink tongue darting out to caress his digits as he hums, “This is the sweetest pussy I have ever had.”
The sight is more than erotic, and for a moment, you are scared you will die from a heart attack. You want this man. You need him all at once, in every way possible. There is an ache coming from the depths of your soul that only he can satisfy.
“Please…untie me. I want to touch you.” You beg, hoping he takes mercy. It has been torture keeping your hands off of him. Hearing your plea, he takes mercy and undoes the ribbon tying your wrists. Free, you immediately sit up and wrap yourself around him, pulling him close for a kiss. Vigorously, wantonly, you kiss him and taste yourself on his tongue, moaning and gripping onto his back, your fingers itching to touch his skin underneath his nightshirt.
“Please take this off,” you breathe against his mouth. Your husband smiles, undoubtedly enjoying teasing you. “Why?”
“Because…I want to see you.” You whisper sweetly, looking at him through your lashes. The man obliges, letting his hands off you for a moment to take off his shirt.
The sight of his naked body renews the heat between your legs, a new wave of desire overcoming your system. You let yourself gawk at the expanse of the muscles on his chest and the bulky thickness of his arms, all littered with scars, strong and dependable. As he stares at your face for a reaction, you reach for him absentmindedly, dragging your index finger over a scar on his right bicep. It is long, old, and jagged, rough and bumpy to the touch. Without thinking, you lean towards his arm and softly press a kiss on the wound before slowly dragging your lips to his chest, where another scar has bloomed. “It must have hurt,” you whisper to yourself, pressing another kiss on the scar before meeting his eyes. “I want to see all of your scars, dear husband. And I want to kiss all of them. I want to kiss away your pain.”
Something flashes by his eyes, brief but vulnerable. He immediately snakes a strong around around your waist to pull you tight against him and seal his lips over yours in a possessive kiss.
With his lips tangled with yours, he carries you to the sleeping mat, setting you down gently. You sigh in satisfaction as your back meets the soft, warm quilt.
Your husband quickly gets to work, taking off your underskirt in a sharp yank and ripping it in the process. Surprised and embarrassed, you squeak, trying to hide yourself from his gaze. With the lamp burning right on the desk next to the mat, he has a pretty clear view of your body.
“Your pants…” You whisper, tugging them as well, and Seungcheol chuckles. “So desperate, aren't we?”
“Please,” you beg, throwing him your best pleading eyes as your hands roam around his back, feeling the ridge and bump of his muscles.
The man quickly takes off his pants, giving you the briefest glimpse of his cock. You barely get to see him as he leans down towards you again, his eyes locked with yours. He drags his palms up, cupping your breasts and squeezing them. A breathy sigh of pleasure falls from your lips as you automatically lean closer to his face, your lips chasing his. Seungcheol captures them in a soft, teasing kiss, his lips gently biting yours as you feel his cock brush against your thigh.
You shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your skin.
You are a ball of nerves right now, the idea of getting intimate with a man for the first time plaguing your mind with worry. Yet, at the same time, you are overcome with desire, need running through your veins.
This is scary yet perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Your husband attacks your neck, kissing and biting the skin while simultaneously playing with your breasts. You mewl, letting your head fall to one side to give him better access to your neck. He hums, the sound so deep and throaty you feel it in your core. His lips do not break contact with your skin, kissing and sucking your sensitive flesh until your whole body shakes like leaves in a tree.
“Please…” You beg, digging your nails into his shoulder, your body unconsciously starting to grind against him, desperate to ease the throbbing ache between your legs. Seungcheol, finally satisfied with the red spot blooming on your neck, lets you go, peering down at you with his hypnotizing eyes.
“I teased you a lot, did I not, wife?” He hums, caressing your heated face with his knuckles. Drunk with desire, you nod, your half-lidded gaze transfixed. “Please, take me, my Lord.”
He tsks disapprovingly. As if to prove a point, he wraps his hand around your throat but does not apply any pressure. “My name.”
“Seungcheol.” You reply immediately.
“Good girl.” Seungcheol smirks, his eyes flashing with something dark as he leans back on his heels, taking a slow, good look at your body. Then, spreading your legs wider, he spits on his fingers and using it as a lubricant over his cock before lining up with your entrance.
“This will hurt at first.” He warns. You nod, one hand covering your face as you choose to look at the ceiling out of embarrassment.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Look at me.” He demands, the tip of his cock brushing against your pussy lips, making you shiver and follow his command. “Keep your eyes on me. Watch me devour this tight cunt.”
You feel like someone set your face on fire. Face flushed with his crude words, you barely get to make a sound when Seungcheol thrusts himself inside you. Your head lolls forward with the impact as your hands immediately clutch his arm around your waist for support.
“Ah!” You cry out, eyes squeezed shut as you feel a sharp sting between your legs. “Fuck,” Seungcheol hisses, his voice throaty as he remains half buried inside you. Pausing for a moment, he lets you adjust before pulling back and then thrusting back in. This time, he goes all the way in, and you swear you feel him in your stomach. With a loud, pathetic cry, you cling onto his body, your brain unable to keep up with all the different sensations.
He builds a pace, pushing in and out of you in strong movements.
Your brain feels like mush as you fail to utter anything, your mouth simply hanging open to let out breathy pants as you close your eyes and feel every ridge of his cock move in and out of you, the initial pain of intrusion fizzling away. It is a blissful experience, a high you never want to come out of.
“Push out your hips a little,” he orders quietly, dark eyes set on you so intensely, you feel like he can see your soul.
Immediately, you comply, extending your waist towards him while keeping your upper back pressed to the mat. His hands hold your hip bone n a strong grip as he places a pillow under your ass and slides himself back inside you with a leisurely pace, the new angle making his length curve inside you.
You start seeing stars.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, eyes squeezed shut. The back of your thighs rests over Seungcheol’s, your legs dangling around his waist, and your hands clenched around the sleeping mat as he starts to pick up pace. With each thrust, the force increases, the tip of his cock hitting your most sensitive spot, low groans falling from his lips to match your breathy moans.
“I… I cannot…please” your whisper mindlessly, the words scattered and almost unintelligible due to your broken moans. “You want to come?” His voice is almost taunting as he leans closer to look at your face. “Well, that’s unfortunate. You do not come until I give you permission, wife.” Your husband warns, making you whine.
The need to find your release only intensifies. You are so close you can almost taste the blissful release.
“P-Please,” You beg, wrapping your arms around his neck and digging your fingernails into his shoulder blades. “Say it louder. Scream my name. Who is fucking this tight pussy?’’ he grunts in your ears, his warm breath tickling your skin.
“Seungcheol!” The desperate yell is quick to leave your lips.
“Who will make you come?”
“You! Seungcheol!”
“That is right, wife. It is I, your husband.” He gives you a particularly harsh thrust. “Not San. Not any other man but me.”
“Y-yes. Please…” you sob. Gripping your chin, he forces you to look at him. “Who do you belong to?” His voice is as quiet as a winter night.
“You, my husband.” You manage to utter clearly amid his brutal thrusts. “Good girl,” he praises, nibbling on your jaw. One of his hands reaches below to touch your clit as he wastes no time rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pads of his finger, all the while continuing to thrust inside you earnestly.
“Seungcheol!” You scream, your entire body jolting.
Your reaction makes him smirk as he chases his own high, seconds away from erupting inside you. He places your clit between his thumb and index finger, giving you a particularly harsh rub followed by a pinch.
You are catapulted over the edge. Your vision goes white, your entire sweat-coated body twitching from the intensity of the pleasure. It only amplifies as you feel Seungcheol spill inside you, his warm release filling you up and dripping lazily out of you.
You feel like you are floating from the bliss.
—
Your husband’s hand strokes your back in repeated soothing motions while you bask in the afterglow of your passionate lovemaking. With him lying behind you on the mat, your bodies pressed together, you move from reality to dreamland every now and then, the smile never leaving your face as you savour his touch and warmth.
“Are you asleep?” he softly asks, bringing his face closer to inspect you.
You make a noise and shake your head, too lazy to move. Your husband gently turns you so that you lie face to face.
“Are you in any pain?” You ask again, carefully looking at your face, his fingers brushing away the rowdy strands of hair from your face. You open your eyes and look at him with a gaze full of love. “I am perfect, husband. Thank you.”
He smiles when you address him by that name, a warm, gummy smile that shows his unbridled joy. The possessive madman from earlier has completely disappeared, replaced by a man eager to dote on his wife.
This is your first time seeing this side of your husband.
He pulls you against his chest, holding you tight in his arms. “No, thank you, wife. Thank you for being mine.” You smile, nuzzling his bare chest. This is the safest and most comfortable you have ever felt, and you do not want to let go. Ever.
After a moment of pause, he whispers. “I know I lack a lot. I can be clueless sometimes. So from now on, I hope you share with me whatever is on your mind. All your wishes, hopes and dreams, your desires— everything. I promise I will make them come true.”
You are too tired to form a reply, your body growing heavier each second but still, you smile. You peacefully drift off.
—
Seungcheol did not go to work today.
The news delights you when you hear it from Jihye as she helps you get dressed. Her eyes linger on your body, especially on your neck, where little marks have formed— evidence of your lovemaking.
She looks half worried and half scandalized, and you wink at her playfully before stepping out of your chamber. Your husband sits on the porch, fully dressed, basking in the sun with a book in his hand.
“Good morning, my Lord.” You whisper, feeling pathetically shy when you catch sight of him. He looks up, his eyes shining when they land on you. “Good morning, wife. How are you feeling?” Shyly, you walk over to him and sit down without leaving any space between the two of you. Fiddling with your skirt, you look away when you answer, “I am alright, my Lord.”
With a gentle grasp on your chin, he turns your face and forces you to look at him. “The truth.” He says quietly.
Truthfully, you are quite sore, and an ache has taken hold all over your body. However, you cannot complain. The ache is laced with pleasure, especially between your legs, reminding you of last night.
Your heart gallops in your chest as you look into his eyes. “I am a little sore,” you reply timidly. “But it is a good kind of sore, I promise.”
His eyes travel to your neck, eyeing the red marks visible on your skin. “I was too rough with you,” he murmurs, his tone laced with regret, his eyes focused on your neck. Quickly, you snap him out of it. “Not at all, my Lord.” You sling your arms with his, pulling him closer so that you can rest your face on his shoulder. “You were just perfect. I enjoyed it. A lot.” You whisper, face flushing.
Your husband keeps gazing at you like he does not believe you. Whipping your head around, you take a quick scan around the yard before pressing a sweet kiss on his lips and giggling like a child. A soft smile blooms on his lips, even though he tries to stifle it.
“You should smile more, my Lord. You look so handsome.”
“Why are you calling me that? You called me by my name last night.” His lips form a soft pout as he complains. You pause, “Well…last night was…”
“You shall call me Seungcheol from now on.” He announces. “I would like it even more if you gave me a nickname.”
Wide eyed, you look at him.
“Do you understand me, wife?”
“Yes, husband.”
Happy with that for now, he does not pester you anymore. You rest your head on his shoulders, your hands intertwined, and watch the morning sky in silence.
“You asked me to share all my wishes with you last night.” You speak after a while, eyes focused somewhere distant. “Can I share one with you right now?”
“Of course,” he shifts so that his body faces you.
Tilting your head up, you admire a white, fluffy cloud. “Ever since my brother died, I have only had one wish for my life. I wanted to live by the sea in a small house. In that house, there would be my husband and I, and we would spend the rest of our days there, away from all the noise and bleakness of this town.”
“That sounds lovely.” He murmurs. You nod before looking at him. “Do you think it would ever be possible for us?”
He remains silent.
“Given the nature of your job, I understand. However, I need you to promise me one thing. You must take care of yourself. You must not get hurt, do you hear me? You have someone to come home to now. You must think about me and you must return home to me, do you understand?” Your hands grip his in an earnest hold.
His free hand comes to rest on top of yours, and he gives you a reassuring squeeze, warm and soft. “Rest easy, wife. I shall come back to you. Always.”
A lone drop of tear strolls down your cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb before pressing the softest, feather-like kiss on your forehead. After a moment's pause, you speak. “Now it is your turn to share something with me.”
He regards you with confusion.
“Anything. A wish, a secret…” You stare at him with eagerness. He sighs softly, his eyes trained on his lap as he thinks about something.
“Well…when I told you not to expect anything from me,” he begins, looking almost shy, his gaze soft and apologetic. “I was afraid. I wanted to keep you at an arm's length from the beginning because I was scared of losing you. I have lost everyone close to me, and the thought of going through something like that again terrifies me. Since I joined the military, I have kept myself detached from everyone because the less I cared, the better.”
Your heart aches for the man. With gentle fingers, you brush away the unruly strands of hair from his face and trace the scar next to his eye. “You will not lose me, husband. I am right here.” You promise.
He wraps his arms around you as if to test your words. You wrap yourself around him, basking in his embrace, your bodies melting into one. “Do not leave me.” He whispers, his voice raw and vulnerable.
“Never.”
—
Seungcheol left for the palace early today. After two days of relaxation, a letter came for him last night from the palace, demanding his presence first thing in the morning.
At night, Seuncheol held you tight in his arms, soothing away your worries. He finally shared what has been going on in the palace and why there are assassins after him.
Turns out they are working for the Minister of Trade, who is strictly against the new reformations currently being done by the king, like an attempt to abolish the slavery system. Seungcheol has been the King’s number one ally and a powerful piece in the game, which is why they are after him. Removing him from the equation is as good as stripping the King of his powers. Minister Kim has done exceptionally well in covering up his tracks, which is why there is no solid proof against him, complicating this entire issue. He has been playing a cat-and-mouse game with the royal army for a while now.
Your husband left even before you woke up, leaving a note for you promising he would be home for dinner.
The day slowly passes by with you going to the palace and coming home once your shift is over, always under the watchful eye of San. The mood in the palace has been tense today, different rumours about Minister Kim floating in the air and a sinking feeling forms in your gut. No matter how hard you try, you cannot shake off the feeling that something ominous is about to take place.
Your suspicion starts taking shape when dusk falls and Seungcheol does not return. It turns into terror and restlessness as night falls, and still, there is no sign of him. The supper grows cold, and you fall asleep upright, waiting for him, your husband, who never comes.
When you open your eyes again, you find Jihye sitting next to you, a worried look on her face. “What is it?” You immediately sit up straight. “My lady, it is past midnight. Master has not returned yet. Should we send someone to the palace to ask for him?” She asks.
Your fingers fist around your skirt, anxiety coursing through your veins like poison. “We should.” You whisper.
Just as you are following Jihye out of the room, you hear commotion; the voice of a servant and Headservant Yang. Running to the porch, you see Seungcheol entering the house, dressed in his military uniform, his sword in his hand.
He marches straight towards you and drags you into your bedchamber without any words. “My Lord, where have you been!” You cry, gripping his arm. “I have been waiting for you—”
“Listen to me carefully,” he cuts you off, his hands resting on your shoulders as he leans down to be at your eye level. His usual unbothered demeanour is gone, replaced by worry that you see in his eyes as vividly as daylight.
Something must be wrong. Your heart starts racing.
“The Minister of Trade is planning to attack us here tonight. They will be here anytime, so I need to get you out of here.”
“Wha— How did you even find that out? Are you sure?”
“The royal army captured a member of his team yesterday. We tortured the information out of him. Look at me,” he urges you, his fingers gripping your shoulder even tighter. “Minister Kim knows we are onto him. He has gone into hiding. He will stop at nothing to get to me, to you, do you understand? He plans to go down and drag me with him.” You see the fear in his eyes. The unshakable, indestructible man suddenly appears different, and this change terrifies you.
“I am scared.” You whisper.
“You have nothing to be scared of.” He pulls you in his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. “I am going to send you to a safe place. I need you to do as I say, okay?”
You nod shakily, your fingers holding onto his sleeve in a death grip.
“Pack your essentials. We will leave within thirty minutes. Ask Jihye to help you.” He says, pressing a kiss on your forehead before marching outside.
With your heart hammering in your chest, you get to work, moving your shaky limbs to pack a bag with the help of Jihye. Soon, you are ready, and Seungcheol wastes no time wrapping everything up. He places Headservant Yang and the other servant in another neighbor's house to make sure they are safe before setting out with you.
In the darkness of the night, you get onto his horse with his help, followed by him sitting behind you, his arms around you to hold onto the reins. Jihye and another male servant get on another horse, and finally, a royal soldier follows from behind.
A little to the south of the town, there is a long, dense forest which leads to a small, quaint village. There is an ancient shrine there, inhabited by monks, and that is where Seungcheol intends to get you by dawn.
The silence grows heavier and thicker as you tread into the forest; the only sound echoing around is the soft galloping of the horses. You shiver, more from dread than from the cold night air and Seungcheol notices it. “Hold the reins.” He orders quietly so that his hands are free. He takes off the muffler wrapped around his neck and gently puts it around yours.
“I asked you to pack the essentials, wife.” His tone is playful. “I think a muffler in this weather counts as an essential.” He teases, and you understand it is his attempt to soothe you. “I am sorry, my lord. You should keep it. You will catch a cold.” You murmur.
“Hush now,” he shushes you, taking back the reins. “You should lean on me and close your eyes. It will take a while for us to reach there.”
“No, it is okay.” You reply, eyes focused ahead on the dark, narrow road cutting through the forest.
It is such a gloomy night. You cannot spot a single star in the sky, shrouded by clouds.
Time ticks by. The night grows darker.
Your journey continues through the hour of the ox and into the hour of the tiger. Exhaustion takes over you, and unable to resist it any longer, you close your eyes and lean your head back, resting it against your husband’s shoulder. It is not an ideal condition to get some shut-eye, but somehow you doze off.
When your eyes reopen, you hear the loud sound of a horse neighing and its heavy galloping. Seungcheol holds you tighter, and with a sharp tug of the reins and a nudge of his heels, his horse leaps into a full sprint. You look around worriedly, scanning through the dense bushes surrounding you.
“Master! Did they find us already?” Servant Min cries from behind as his horse too picks up pace.
The sounds grow louder, and just as your body tenses up, fearing the worst, you see San pop up from inside the forest, his horse taking a lunge and joining you on the road. “General, you have to keep going!” He yells. “They are right behind us.”
Seungcheol’s horse sprints parallel to his.
“How did they catch up so quickly?”
“Minister Kim had his men spread out. They were hiding in a camp a few miles behind. I took care of them, but the messenger escaped. I’m sure the minister is on his way. You need to move fast. There might be more of his men hiding in the forest.”
Upon hearing his words, you notice the specks of red on his hanbok. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you look behind to see your husband’s face. His jaw is clenched tight. “We need to come up with a plan. If they find us, we cannot hold them off. I need to get my wife to safety.” He yells back.
It is as if a cactus is lodged in your throat. “W-what do you mean?” You cry, your face aghast.
He does not reply to you.
“It will be daybreak soon, General! We should hide somewhere.” San suggests.
Just then, you notice a sudden, strange ball of light in the sky, a little towards your right. It takes a moment for you to register that it is a signal, an arrow of fire shot from behind you.
“There are assassins ahead of us. They now know we are headed that way.” Seungcheol hisses.
“I will take care of it.” San nods, wielding his sword and screaming at the horse, “Go!” The horse runs faster, impossibly so, almost flying forward.
“I need you to stay calm and follow my orders.” Your husband says to you. “Do you hear me?” You nod shakily, “Yes.”
In five minutes, you catch up to San, who has taken care of most of the assassins that sat ahead at the curve. As you sprint near, Seungcheol hands the reins to you and readies his bow and arrow, taking perfect shots at the rest of the assassins. Then, he smoothly gets off the horse, followed by the other soldier who has been accompanying you, their swords wielded as they fight one-on-one.
A little ahead of the curb, you stop the horse and so does Jihye and servant Min, watching the fight anxiously. The three men take multiple assassins at a time, making sure they do not get to you.
You chew on your lower lip, your hands fidgeting as you watch the fight unfold. You wish Seungcheol gave you an archery set. You know the basics because you practised regularly as a child with your brother. Even though after his death, you stopped it for a while, you did not completely let go, taking occasional lessons from the older nobleman in your neighbourhood who used to be a skillful archer once upon a time.
By the time the last member of the group has been killed, shades of blue have coated the sky. Seungcheol and his team run back to the horses, their clothes specked with blood. “Come on, we need to leave,” he says, mounting the horse.
There is a sudden sound; a sharp whoosh like a strong gust of wind just flew by, followed by a soft thud.
It is an arrow.
It whizzes towards you, missing the mark and hitting the tree trunk a couple of inches to your left. Your heart stops. A few hundred meters from the way you came, a large group of armed men show up. It is Minister Kim’s convoy.
They have caught up to you.
At the center, leading them is the minister himself, dressed in iron like he is about to go to war. His eyes, black and empty, scour the dead bodies of his assassins lying on the ground in front of him before looking at your husband.
His thin lips curl up into an evil smile. “General! No point in running now! It’s time to see how good of a fighter you are!” He yells.
You feel Seungcheol's body growing tenser with each passing second, his hand gripping your thigh in a bruising hold. You, too, are paralyzed with fear, unsure of what to do. Then, absolutely shocking you, Seungcheol does the thing you least expected him to do. He starts getting off the horse slowly, his eyes trained on Minister Kim.
“San, take my wife and go.” He speaks quietly to the younger man who hadn’t gotten on his horse yet. “My Lord, what are you—” You do not get to finish your sentence because the younger man has instantly climbed behind you and snatched the reins from your hands.
“Get them!” You hear a shout as you are swept away with lightning speed. San’s grip around your body is iron solid, holding the reins with his eyes focused ahead on climbing the steep, hilly road at the end of the forest.
“No, please! You need to be with him!” You cry, fighting against him as you look behind to see Seungcheol fighting the Minister’s men, accompanied by the other soldier.
He can never outfight all those people.
“Have faith in him. He knows what he is doing.” San assures, kicking his heels so the horse runs faster. You hear sounds right behind you, and you turn to see an assassin on a horse, aiming his arrow at you. San takes notice of it and swerves right immediately to avoid it.
As calculated, it misses, but a second later, your horse neighs out loud, standing on its hind legs before dropping down on the ground, taking the two of you with it. The arrow was meant for the horse. It struck his leg, injuring him, leaving the animal on the ground, softly crying in pain.
San wastes no time getting up and wielding his sword to fight off the man and the others following behind him. Jihye and servant Min, who were right behind you, yell out, calling for you to get on their horse. Jihye extends her hand towards you, but you ignore her, bunching up your skirt and making a run towards the curb.
“My Lady, what are you doing?” San yells, fighting off the assassins. “Jihye, stop her!”
“My Lady, come back!”
Ignoring their cries, you pick up the bow and set of arrows dropped by the assassin and continue sprinting down the steep road.
Then, finding a safe distance and a place behind an oak tree, you spot your husband, his movements sharp and precise as he takes down one man after the other. You watch as the minister slowly walks towards him, his sword dragging on the ground, leaving behind a threatening trail. Due to him wearing the armored plates, you know it is pointless to shoot at him, so you load your bow and aim at the assassins and start shooting.
The first one grazes past the man you aim at. Not discouraged, you continue, and the second one hits the target.
Your husband looks in your direction immediately when the assassin drops dead, his eyes going from confusion to worry the moment he spots you. He does not have the time to do anything about it, as he has to fight the never-ending men.
And you are slightly grateful for that. Right now, he does not have the chance to come to you and force you away, giving you the chance to help him from afar. You continue loading arrows and shooting, missing some but hitting most, well aware of the fact that the Minister has spotted you.
From behind, you hear Jihye coming towards you, her exhausted pleas echoing down the path. “Jihye, I need more arrows!” You yell as you come down to your last two. “There should be some on the road back there!”
By now, most of the assassins have been taken care of, and the remainder are being fought by the soldier accompanying your husband. Minister Kim has approached Seunghceol as they engage in a heated sword fight, the minister swinging his sword like a madman, his growls echoing in the air. Your eyes scan around the place, thinking of finding a way to help Seungcheol, when San finally catches up to you, followed by Jihye, who did not get the arrows you asked for.
“My Lady, enough!” he yells. “You cannot be here! The road has been cleared—”
“We need to help him!” you yell back. “I cannot leave him here for—” You do not get to finish your sentence.
An arrow hits Seungcheol, piercing through the skin right below his right shoulder, on the top of his chest.
“No!” You scream, watching him stumble back for a moment. Your eyes fly through the scene, spotting an archer hidden inside the forest a little ahead towards your right. As you load your bow to take a shot at him, San finally comes to his senses, flying down the road to help Seungcheol.
You take the shot.
The arrow hits the hidden archer right in the chest, making him tumble backwards, disappearing out of sight. Then, you dash down the road, not scared of anything anymore, Jihye following you as your shadow.
San stands no match to Minister Kim, easily overpowered and tossed aside by his brute strength. He has the eyes of a madman, hell bent on getting to Seungcheol, discarding everything in his way like little bugs.
“I told you, you scarred lunatic!” He screams, charging at your husband. “I will slice your head off your neck and then do the same to your wife!”
He swings his sword around, charging for Seungcheol with all his might. Seungcheol blocks him with his sword, but the force of the attack forces him to fall to his knees. Minister Kim takes the opportunity to knock him off his feet with a kick. Seungcheol falls on the ground on his back, and in the split second, the minister raises his sword towards the sky before bringing it down sideways on his chest.
“Seungcheol!” You yell at the top of your lungs. “General!” San yells, coming from behind and tackling Minister Kim to the ground before he can fully swing his sword across. His helmet falls off from the force of San's attack. With your heart thundering in your ears, you point the remaining arrow at him.
It is like your body is not yours anymore. With zero hesitation, you take the shot while he is still pinned to the ground, struggling to get free, and the arrow hits the bullseye, right in the center of his forehead.
His body slumps to the ground.
Pushing him away, San holds your husband’s lifeless body, his eyes slowly falling shut as he yells his name. Jihye and servant Min run past you, calling their master.
The bow drops from your hand.
You stand there, watching the ground go red underneath your husband’s body, your fingers gripping his muffler around your neck.
—
Seungcheol receives his initial treatment in the shrine you were originally supposed to visit.
Once the news of the attack reached the capital, upon the king’s orders, the royal physician Yoon came to treat Seungcheol. He and his assistants crowded the room, tending to your husband’s injury with medicine and wrapping the area with gauze as he lay motionless on the mat.
You stood just outside the room, gazing at your sleeping husband, who looked nothing like his usual self—pale and frail, his body littered with little cuts.
Why won’t he wake up? You miss his eyes. You miss his slow, unravelling gaze on you, his crimson, fiery eye that can almost cut through stone with a simple gaze. Where is that man?
Physician Yoon said he is in a deep sleep. They call it a vegetative state. The injury was quite lethal; the wound just a few centimetres away from damaging his heart. He said that the worst is over, and his pulse is stable now.
But he won’t wake up. He remains unresponsive, and it is unclear how long it will take for him to regain consciousness.
“I see,” was all you said, standing motionless in your spot, gazing at your comatose husband.
A couple of days later, the King sent a royal convoy to move Seungcheol back to his house from the shrine. You had no complaints, wanting your husband to rest comfortably in his own house rather than a shrine. After a long journey, you reached home in the afternoon, greeted by Headservant Yang, who looked as devastated as you. After making sure your husband was okay, physician Yoon left, leaving you anticipating yet another sleepless night.
It is nighttime now, and you sit still next to your sleeping husband. Headservant Yang peeks into the room, begging you to have some food. You ignore her, sitting quietly and observing your husband. The small lamp in the bedchamber casts warm shadows on his face, his sharp features appearing softer and weaker.
He looks oddly at peace. You do not cry. You force a smile.
Leaning closer to him, you glide a gentle hand down his face and whisper, “You can rest. You have had a tough life, my dear. You can rest as long as you need, but you have to come back to me.”
You will pray to every god out there. You will visit every shrine, give unlimited offerings, and pray that your husband returns to you. You will do everything in your power to see him open his eyes. It is truly a shame you do not have much power in your hands.
Sometime later, your exhausted body falls into deep slumber, riddled with nightmares. Your husband lies in a pool of blood, and he does not wake up.
—
The next morning, your father comes to see you. You do not move from your spot next to your husband to greet him as San leads him into the room before excusing himself.
He sits next to you, watching his son-in-law with small, worried eyes, muttering words of regret and concern. You hardly hear them, too busy patting Seungcheol’s face and arms with a damp cloth. Physician Yoon left a while ago after checking up on him and said that there is no progress. The king’s personal messenger came with him as well as the Head Eunuch, praying for Seungcheol and assuring to provide help in any way they can.
You couldn't care less about them. You sent them off, handing the letter you wrote for the king in the messenger’s hand before asking San to see them out.
“My daughter, you should eat something. You have to take care of yourself so that you can take care of him.” Your father urges.
You finish wiping your husband’s body in silence before setting the rag down and clasping his hand in yours. They are calloused but warm, and you silently send a prayer of gratitude to the heavens. He is alive. He is still here.
Tracing over his bruised knuckles with your fingertips, you whisper, “You know, Father, I have been lonely for a long time. After orabeoni died, I thought that was it. It could not get worse, but then Mother died. And I…I hated that I was alive. Because in that house, I was dead. I was dead while still being alive.”
You exhale a shaky breath, pulling Seungcheol’s hand closer to inspect it. You need to apply ointment on his knuckles.
“There was no colour, no joy, no celebration in that house. You were there but also not there. You never saw me. I was not enough, not after losing someone as precious as orabeoni. I felt so guilty. It should have been me, not him—that is all I could think of. I thought my entire life would be miserable like that, which is why I was so eager to marry this man.”
Another heavy sigh whooshes out of your lungs.
“Father, this man…people fear him. They say all sorts of weird things about him. But he is the kindest, warmest man I know. He kept his heart locked and hidden from the world, but he is so precious. He is gentle and kind, and he loves me. He loves me so dearly, Father, and I love him. How could I go on without him?”
And finally, the tears fall. Big droplets of water roll down your cheek as you fall on the ground, clutching onto your husband’s hand and sobbing into the floor, loud and broken.
Your father’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder rather unsurely, softly patting you as you keep crying, the tears that never came till now gushing out like a river with a broken dam. Your broken heart continues to shatter into even smaller pieces, and you cannot help but wonder what if he never wakes up again. Maybe you are doomed to be lonely.
The thought makes you cry some more. After a while, once you have managed to calm down, you sit up and wipe your tears.
“I…I did not know you felt that way.” Your father whispers, his voice ridden with guilt. “I…I never meant to hurt you. I am sorry—”
“I don’t want your apology right now, Father. I want you to pray for him.” You cut him off.
“I will. Of course I will.” He says, his eyes shining with unshed tears and guilt. “And when he is back on his feet, I will come visit you and I will accept your apology then.” You murmur, your gaze trained on your husband.
“Of course. Have faith, my dear. He will be awake soon.” Your father assures, his voice unstable. You hum absentmindedly.
If Seungcheol does not wake up, you do not know what you will do.
—
The wind is particularly chilly this morning.
It has been a fortnight since Seungcheol fell into his comatose state, and he is just as before. Every day, Physician Yoon comes to check on him and then leaves while handing you some herbs to apply to his wound.
You have accepted this as your life now. Waking up every morning with a prayer that all the previous days were a long, gruesome nightmare, but then feeling grateful to see him still breathing, warm and alive.
After completing your daily prayer and offerings at the temple, you walk home in slow steps, the fatigue slowly creeping into your bones. The past week has been hard on you, and it looks like your body to starting to give up. You have not been eating properly, spending all your waking hours beside Seungcheol, tending to his comatose body or crying at the altar of the temple.
You cannot give up. Seungcheol is yet to awake.
Just as you come in front of your house, you find a small stray cat sitting comfortably in the sun. With a small, exhausted smile, you walk closer and crouch down, running your fingers through its shaggy fur. It looks dirty and disheveled, and you wonder where it is from.
You should probably bring it inside and give it some milk to eat. Judging by how comfortably it sits and basks in the sun, you are doubtful you will be able to get it inside your house.
“Would you like something to eat?” You whisper, gently scratching between its ears. The cat meows rather boredly, closing its eyes and resting its head on the ground after a quick swish of its tail.
Right then, a servant bursts out of the front door, looking like he saw a ghost. He looks back and forth down the road before finally spotting you on the ground. The wide-eyed, frazzled look on his face makes your blood run ice cold, and you immediately stand up.
“What is it?”
“My lady…Master is awake.”
You are free falling. You fall and fall, all the limbs of your body finally giving up after a week of war. For a long moment, you stand there, stuck in a daze. You don’t dare to breathe, afraid you would wake up and realize it was a dream.
“I will go get Physician Yoon. Please go inside, my lady.” The servant says before rushing down the street. You struggle to move. The stray cat at your feet has got up due to the commotion and is now strolling into the house.
With your heart racing in your chest, you slowly follow it, your legs shaky due to the nerves.
Seungcheol is awake. He is finally awake.
You hear lots of voices, especially Headservant Yang’s, as she scolds and cries loudly. With a lump lodged in your throat, you keep on walking until you spot the door to his bedchamber. You catch a glimpse of your husband sitting up, and for some reason unknown to you, you immediately hide behind a nearby wall.
You are too scared to see him. Too overwhelmed, too afraid.
You thought of this. You dreamed of the day he would wake and look at you, and now that it is here, you do not know what to do. It feels unreal.
You are angry at him. You are also grateful. Angry for getting hurt. Grateful for waking up.
A sob bursts out of your throat, and you start wailing, unable to hold back the tears any longer. With your palms clasped over your mouth, you cry so hard that it becomes hard to breathe. The sobs wrack your body, knocking the air out of your lungs and leaving behind only pain.
The pain of almost losing him. The pain of seeing him lie there almost lifeless, day after day.
A hand on your shoulder startles you, and you find Jihye standing next to you. Her eyes are misty as she wraps an arm around your heaving body and rubs your arms soothingly. “It is alright, my lady. Please do not cry. He is looking for you.”
Her words make you cry some more before you manage to wipe your tears and snot. It is pretty futile because they do not stop completely. With shaky legs, you move from your hiding spot and continue towards his chamber, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.
Seungcheol spots you immediately, his posture straightening as he sees you arriving. But you do not meet his eye.
You cannot bring yourself to. If you look at him, you will start crying once more, right in the middle of the yard, in front of all the servants.
Headservant Yang and others start moving away as they see you approaching, giving you privacy. You cross the porch, your eyes still trained on the wooden floor of his bedchamber, your hands slightly shaking.
Finally, you step inside and shut the door behind you. Then, your eyes slowly travel to his.
He is definitely paler and thinner than before, but you see life in his eyes. You see the spark and the shine that have always been present in them, and right at that moment, you are sure he will be alright.
Thank god.
He looks up at you, his eyes brimming with longing and guilt. His usual plump red lip shaded in a pale pink colour. His face littered with little cuts that are still healing, yet he has never looked more handsome.
And you have never been happier to see him.
You want to scream. You want to yell at him and tell him how much you love him, but you cannot speak. Tears and sobs threaten to overflow once more, so you stand there like a statue and keep staring at your husband, repeating in your head that he is alive and well.
Until your knees finally give out.
You kneel in front of him and wrap your arms around his neck, careful to avoid his left chest and leaning your weight more on the right. Breathing him in, you hold him as tightly as possible, wishing you could merge yourself into him, wishing you could lock him away and protect him for the rest of his life.
Your tears wet his bare shoulders, your fingers tightly gripping onto the muscles on his back, clutching him on for dear life. It feels as if you let him go— if your grip loosens ever so slightly, you will lose him forever.
It takes a long moment for you to realize how your body is shaking due to your sobs and tearful hiccups, only when your husband's warm hands wrap around you, patting your back like you are a small, wounded animal.
“It is okay, my dear. Everything is okay,” he soothes in the softest voice, and when you hear him, another violent sob slips past your throat while you cling to him and cry in the crook of his neck.
You want to stop, but the tears are endless, a mixture of pain and relief. Gingerly, Seungcheol pulls you away from him to take a look at your face, which is puffy and tear-stained. With his thumbs, he wipes your tears away, murmuring, “Hush, now. It pains me to see you cry like this.”
You want to reply, but the lump in your throat is still heavy, and you know if you try to utter something, only sobs will come out, so you remain silent, raking your eyes over his body before settling on the wound on his chest.
“I am alright, I promise.” He assures you once he sees your gaze. “I feel well-rested, in fact.”
You are glad to hear that.
Wiping the remaining tears and snot rather unceremoniously with your sleeve, you get up on your feet to leave the room, but he tugs on your wrist, pulling you back down and into his arms this time.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you some herbal tea.” You reply, your voice meek and scratchy. Your husband locks his arms around you. “Headservant Yang will do that. I need you to stay here. I have missed you.”
Your lower lip trembles, but you will yourself not to cry again. Instead, you whisper, “I have missed you as well. I have missed you so much, you have no idea, Seungcheol.”
He shifts, peering at your face with a surprised look. “You called me by my name.”
“I have been calling your name for the past week.” You murmur, staring at your lap.
He maneuvers your body with gentle, effortless hands so that he can see you fully. “You know, you look like the one who has been comatose for a week. What is this I am seeing? When was the last time you had a proper meal?” He frowns, his eyes trained on you like a hawk as he squints at your face.
You look away, murmuring, “I have been busy nursing a sick man.”
He scoffs. “Not busy enough to eat. You look like a ghost, my wife. I am genuinely worried about you.”
You do not meet his gaze. With an exasperated sigh, he gently tilts your face up by the chin. “Look at me.” He softly commands you. You do as you are told, finding his eyes set on you, those beautiful, mesmerizing eyes that you missed so deeply.
Your husband’s face inches closer to press a soft kiss on your forehead. It is not quick; he holds his lips pressed right in the middle of your forehead, slightly above your brow, like he is trying to leave an imprint. You close your eyes and lean closer, savouring the feel of his lips against your skin.
Oh, how you longed for this.
“I love you.”
You must have heard wrong. You stop breathing, your body going tense for a moment. Seungcheol leans back, one of his hands wrapped around your neck, his thumb stroking your cheek while the other cups the back of your head, angling your face just slightly upwards and in line with his gaze.
“I love you.” He repeats—his words slow, heavy, deliberate.
You feel faint. It is hard for you to find words, and while you continue gaping at him with parted lips and shining eyes, he continues, “I was scared I would not be able to say this to you. As I lay on the ground and saw you standing there, this was all I could think of. I was angry at myself for never telling you how much I love you.”
“Oh Seungcheol…” your lips tremble. You wrap your arms around his neck, making yourself at home by placing your head under his chin, feeling his hard muscles against your body.
“I love you, dear wife. I love you more than life itself. More than I could ever express.” You hug him tighter. “I love you, too. I love you so much, Seungcheol. You are my whole world.”
“I know.” He murmurs. “I knew the moment you came back towards me. Which you should not have done, by the way. You put yourself in danger.” He loosens his hold on you to catch a glimpse of your face, his gaze admonishing. “I am still mad at you for doing that, but you look miserable enough, so I will let you off.”
You only smile.
“Also, when were you going to tell me what an amazing archer you are? How come I did not know that?”
You look away sheepishly, biting your lip. “You never asked.”
He laughs, the sound sweet and throaty. His arms wrap around you in a tight, protective hold once again, and you close your eyes, savouring the rhythm of his heartbeat next to your ear. As you bask in his warmth, you announce, “You are not going back to the military. I am not letting you go.”
Detangling himself from you, your husband regards you with an amused look, like he cannot believe you. “Oh, really?”
“I am serious.” You huff with a frown. “You are not going back. You have fought enough battles for a lifetime. Now it is time for you to rest.”
“Hm. And what if His Majesty disapproves?” His tone is playful.
“I do not care. I already wrote him a letter, saying that once you woke up, you would not resume your duties.”
Amazed, your husband watches you, his eyes twinkling with pride. “I cannot believe you did that.” You ignore him. “Promise me. Promise me you will not go back to the military.”
He remains silent, watching you calmly, and you start getting anxious, expecting the worst. Just as you start thinking of different ways to force him to stay, he says, “I will not, I promise. I was not going to go any way. That was the first decision I made when I opened my eyes. I got another chance at life with you. I plan on using it very well.”
Your heart soars. You grin, a full-on smile sweeping over your face after a long time. Pressing a soft, chaste kiss on his lips, you whisper, “Can we go live by the sea now?” His eyes shine with love. “Yes, we can.”
You couldn't be happier. Your heart couldn't be fuller. It is pure delight when you think of a future with this man, away from all the noise and the troubles that have been plaguing your life until now.
He can be safe now. He can rest.
Unconsciously, your thumb traces the scar next to his eye, feeling the bumpy skin underneath your finger. The scar now looks like a tree branch that extends into even smaller branches containing little flowers.
You lean forward and press a kiss on it.
“I am just glad you will not get hurt anymore. You have already been through so much.” You whisper, your sad gaze trailing over all the marks on his skin, old and new, before settling on his left chest. You gingerly place your hand over the gauze, remembering how long and deep the gash was.
It will scar for sure. Probably the biggest scar on his body, and it will be because he was protecting you. A shaky breath parts from your lips as you are momentarily transported back in time; him lying motionless on the ground that was turning red. As if your husband can read your thoughts, he gently tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his eyes.
“My dear, I am alright. Look at me.”
“This will scar. You will be in much pain as it heals. Because of me.”
“Don't say that.” He holds you against his chest, his fingers wrapping tightly around your limbs. “You are the only one who loves my scars. Because of you, I now love them too. I would not have changed a single thing if I had the chance. You know why? Because every one of the scars in my body led me to you. And this one?” He places a hand over yours, which is resting on his chest.
“This one tied me to you forever. I earned you. I earned your forever through this. So I think this is the most beautiful.”
A lone tear strolls down your cheek. “Oh, Seungcheol,” you choke over a sob, tilting your face up to capture his lips in a kiss.
His arms engulf you completely, his lips taking over yours, his tongue moving inside your mouth like he has been starving for this.
It is breathless, passionate, and gentle at the same time, conveying all the feelings and emotions the two of you could never put into words.
It is beautiful, like the scars on his body, leaving behind a trace of love.
For a special epilogue, head over to my Patreon. Click here to see the preview!
This fanfiction is cross-posted on AO3. Please show me some support over there as I recently opened my account!
A/N 2: First of all, I want to thank you for reading till the end. Next, I just want to say that this fic has been one of my dream projects. Is it the best? Maybe not but did I have the most fun writing it? Hell yes! It was originally supposed to be a bit longer but I cut some parts out, mainly because I was worried this app wouldn't let me post the entire thing easily. Sure enough, it said that there were too many blocks on my post, so I had to stitch together a lot of passages even though they were separate at first. So, I'm sorry if the flow gets weird in some places. Finally, I just want to take a moment to thank you all for your support. I am really excited to hear from you guys about this fic, so please do send an ask!
That's it from me for now. For my next fic, I will be returning with something short and lighthearted. Stay happy and healthy, y'all! <33
⤷ ゛THE WOLF SMILES ⭑.ᐟ ˎˊ˗ ❛ obsession wears many faces, sometimes a hand that shields, sometimes a voice that soothes, and sometimes a smile so tender it makes you forget that every act of devotion can also be a snare. ❜
⎯⟢ pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader
⎯⟢ synopsis: Meeting Choi Seungcheol, who is both your father’s most trusted right-hand man and your greatest temptation, sets into motion a tale of love, power, and ruin.
⎯⟢ wc: 23.1k
⎯⟢ tags: mature themes, explicit sexual themes, dark!seungcheol, dark romance, age-gap (10 yrs), forbidden romance, mystery thriller ⸝⸝ cws: 18+ mdni, graphic violence, family dysfunction, psychological manipulation, multiple deaths, verbal and physical abuse, murder, power imbalance, obsession & possession, mentions of drugs, poisoning, blood, manipulation, false testimonies, stalking, guns/weapons, smut, unprotected piv sex (please don’t.), rough sex, praise kink, possession kink, daddy kink, fingering, cowgirl, missionary, doggystyle, emotional manipulation during sex, petnames (baby, little dove, angel)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.⟢ ݁˖ sel speaks ⭑.ᐟ this is my very first one-shot on this new blog! i wasn’t supposed to post anything on here anytime soon but my schedule cleared and i finished my to do list for my main blog, so here i am!! i have been biased wrecked by Cheollie so much more than usual these days, so i decided why not debut my first piece for this blog with our beloved leader! i really hope you guys enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it! 🤍 (p.s. this took me about three weeks to finish…)
They say the wolf is easy to spot; sharp teeth, wild eyes, a presence that makes the air heavy. But the ones you should fear most don’t growl or bite.
They smile.
You learn quickly that love can be a kind of violence, dressed in warmth, whispered through promises that sound like salvation. That obsession doesn’t always come crashing like a storm, it seeps in like fog, soft and suffocating, until you no longer remember where it began or if you ever wanted to escape.
He smiles at you once, and you understand.
Some wolves don’t hunt. They wait.
And you… you were always going to walk straight into his jaws.
ii. WHEN EYES FIRST CAUGHT
You were born into a world already carved out for you, the youngest daughter of the CEO of one of the largest conglomerates in the country. From the moment you opened your eyes, you were the family’s spoiled and sheltered baby, wrapped in silk and money and expectations you didn’t yet understand.
Your father was a busy man… too busy, always too busy. He threw money at you like it was a cure, like it could bandage over the hollowness his absence left behind.
When you were little and tugged at his sleeve asking to spend the day with him, he would never meet your eyes for long. He’d offer you an excuse about business, the same tired phrases again and again, his tone clipped and distracted.
“Daddy has to work. There’s a meeting I can’t miss.”
“Later, sweetheart, I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t pout. Here… tell the driver what you want. He’ll take you anywhere. Buy anything.”
And he always did. He’d return with gifts before you even had the chance to sulk for long. The newest dollhouse, the latest limited-edition toys, dresses that glittered like glass under the light. Anything your little heart desired would appear in your room the next day, wrapped in glossy boxes with ribbons so elaborate they looked like they belonged in a store display.
Growing up, you were fine with it.
You told yourself you understood; your father was an important man, a man who carried the weight of entire companies on his shoulders. He couldn’t be expected to sit and play with you for hours. You accepted the trinkets and treasures as proof of his love, even if it was filtered through his wallet rather than his time.
But as you grew older, into your teenage years and then into a young adult, something inside you began to shift. You started buying the most expensive, most unnecessary things you could find, not because you needed them, but because you wanted him to notice. You wanted his attention, even if it came in the form of scolding.
You remembered the way his face would crease when he saw the ridiculous things you spent his money on. He would sigh heavily, press his fingers to his temples as if warding off a headache, and lecture you in that halfhearted tone that sounded more like habit than genuine reprimand.
“Do you even understand the value of this money? You think it grows on trees?”
“One day you’ll have to wake up and realize the world doesn’t work like this. You can’t just buy happiness, you can’t just throw money at everything.”
And you, leaning lazily against the expensive new car he had technically paid for, would roll your eyes and mumble something under your breath, “Hypocrite.”
You weren’t listening, not really. Because even in his irritation, at least he was looking at you. At least he was talking to you.
You had only one sibling, an older brother named Jaemin. And where your father gave you indifference wrapped in money, Jaemin gave you something sharper. His hatred for you was not the normal teasing cruelty of an older brother; it was a deep, festering resentment, the kind that dripped into everything he did.
He wished you had never been born, and he never tried to hide it.
When you were children, he despised the way you butted in when he had his friends over, your small frame appearing in the doorway with wide, curious eyes, asking questions and demanding attention. He loathed the way you always came out on top of your classes, every report card earning praise from your mother while he stood on the sidelines, overlooked and compared. He hated the spoiled way you lived, how you wore your father’s indulgence like a crown, how you rolled your eyes at lectures and shrugged off reprimands.
Your mother was the only one who truly loved you.
The only one who gave you attention without conditions, who brushed your hair back from your face and kissed your forehead when you cried. She was the one who attended every recital, every event, the one who defended you when your father grew frustrated, the one who clapped the loudest when you succeeded.
She loved you fiercely, openly, without measure.
And then, four years ago, she died.
Her health had been declining rapidly, the illness she had stealing her away from you piece by piece until finally, there was nothing left.
When she was lowered into the ground, it felt like part of you was buried with her.
Your father stood at the funeral like a statue. Stoic. Unflinching. His face was unreadable, his eyes dry. He didn’t cry. He didn’t mourn. It was as if the love he had once shared with her had long been eroded by boardrooms and contracts and time. And Jaemin, your brother had looked almost relieved, his mouth set in a flat line, his gaze wandering, as though the woman who had favored you had been nothing more than a nuisance to him.
So you mourned alone.
You mourned every day.
Because your mother had been the last person who made you feel loved, the last person who made you feel important, wanted. She had been your anchor in a world that otherwise only gave you neglect or resentment.
And when she was gone, it was as if the world had decided you didn’t deserve warmth anymore.
That was true.
Until Choi Seungcheol.
You knew the name long before you knew the man.
He was the Chief Operating Officer of your father’s empire, the second in command, the right hand your father trusted most.
Seungcheol was relatively young compared to the other men that filled the boardroom with their gray hair, thinning crowns, and paunchy middles, but youth had never disqualified him. He was sharp, so sharp it seemed he cut through every problem before it could even form. Smart, hardworking, ambitious, the kind of man who wore discipline like it was stitched into his very skin.
Your father admired him. More than that, he treated him like a son.
A bitter irony, because Jaemin was his real son, and Jaemin loathed Seungcheol for it.
Jaemin believed it was his birthright to inherit the company, to sit on that gilded throne as CEO simply because he was the eldest child.
But your father, for all his flaws, was not a fool.
He had built the company from nothing, brick by brick, deal by deal, and he could see how irresponsible Jaemin was, how his short temper and laziness would ruin years of labor in less than a year.
Your father had considered you, of course. You were everything Jaemin was not; focused, clever, unshaken. But in your father’s eyes, you were still a woman, a woman who gets distracted by shiny and pretty things, a woman who spends money as if it did a matter-of-fact grew on trees, and women, to him; no matter how capable… had no place in a world of men who devoured each other across long tables of glass and steel.
That left Seungcheol, the strongest candidate of all. And yet, every time your father so much as hinted at succession, Seungcheol would shake his head with a calm smile and say, “Sir, you’re still young. Retirement is far away. Jaemin has time to grow. He’ll learn.”
You remembered the first time you met him.
It wasn’t earlier in your life, despite his years at your father’s side. He had been working for your family for so long, but somehow, fate never pulled you into the same room. At company galas you were off somewhere else, still in university, or across the world shopping with your friends.
You never crossed paths, not until a year and a half after your mother’s death.
It had been an ordinary morning when your father called, his voice clipped over the phone. “Your brother forgot his phone and laptop at home. Bring them to the office.”
You had scoffed, irritation curling hot in your chest. Why couldn’t one of the dozens of secretaries do it? Why did you have to be the errand girl for your sorry excuse of a brother? You were about to refuse until your father added, in that cold way of his, “If you don’t, I’ll cut your card in half.”
So you went.
The building your father built from the ground up loomed like a monument, glass and steel kissing the sky, its sleek lines reflecting back the sun. You slipped out of the car with oversized sunglasses covering your eyes, strutting through the lobby like you owned the place… because technically, you did.
Employees turned discreet glances as you passed, your heels clicking a steady rhythm against marble floors. The elevator ride to the top floor was smooth, silent, the air tinged faintly with expensive cologne and disinfectant.
When the doors opened, you stepped into the private floor, greeted Mina, your father’s longtime secretary, with a polite nod, and let yourself into the office without knocking.
The scene inside froze for a second.
Your father sat at his massive desk, stoic as ever, papers stacked neatly in front of him. Jaemin stood across, mid-rant, his hands gesturing wildly as he bitched about something or whined about someone.
And there, sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite your father, was an unfamiliar man; unfamiliar, but arrestingly handsome.
Their eyes all darted to you at once.
“Sweetheart, I’m glad you’re finally here,” your father said, his voice flat, his expression unreadable as always.
“Took you long enough,” Jaemin muttered, snatching the phone and laptop out of your hands with zero gratitude.
“You should be thankful I even came, Jae,” you giggled softly, offering him a smile you knew he didn’t deserve, swallowing down the urge to cuss him out in front of a stranger.
Your father cleared his throat. “Darling, this is Choi Seungcheol,” he said, gesturing toward the man across from him. “My Chief Operating Officer. I don’t think you two have ever met before.”
You turned your gaze to him fully then. His black hair was styled neatly, framing a face both sharp and soft all at once. His eyes, dark and cutting, raked over you with a gaze that was far too deliberate, lingering long enough for you to feel the heat of it travel your skin. A dimple carved into his cheek when he smiled, slow and devastating, as he rose to his feet.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice rich and smooth as velvet. He extended his hand, and when you placed yours in his, his grip was firm yet warm.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” you politely smiled back.
He held on longer than necessary, his eyes locked onto yours in a silent exchange you couldn’t quite name, before he finally let go.
Your father continued, almost oblivious to the tension sparking in the air. “Seungcheol has been with me for years. He’s young, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the most reliable man I know. Hardworking, level-headed. If there’s anyone who understands this company inside and out, it’s him.”
Jaemin scoffed under his breath. “Yeah, we all know how perfect he is.”
Your father shot him a warning glance, but pressed on. “He handles operations with precision. Nothing slips past him. If I’m not here, he’s the one people go to.”
“Because that’s not supposed to be me, right?” Jaemin cut in again, his tone sharp with bitterness.
Your father ignored him.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Jaemin turned to you then, venom dripping in every word.
You tilted your head, smiled sweetly, and said with mock excitement, “Yes, I do! Something very important.”
Your father didn’t even look up from the papers in front of him as he asked, “What is it?”
The question was routine, nothing more.
“I’m going to get a massage, a facial, and my mani and pedis. Maybe even go shopping,” you replied brightly, your tone light, teasing even.
He only nodded halfheartedly, his pen scratching against the paper, his eyes still down.
Jaemin snorted. “Very important. The world would stop spinning if you didn’t.”
You simply nodded, smiling, used to it by now, letting his sarcasm roll off like water.
Unbeknownst to you, Seungcheol had been watching the entire exchange closely.
At first, his gaze had been fixed on you, his attention unshaken, drinking you in as if you had pulled the air straight out of the room the moment you stepped through the door. Then, as Jaemin’s words sharpened and grew cruel, Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward him, hardening, daggers barely concealed behind his polite expression.
Finally, he spoke, his tone even but laced with quiet conviction. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”
The words silenced the room for a second. You turned to look at him, surprised, and your smile this time was genuine. He smiled back, slow and sure, that dimple deepening again.
“Well,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “I’ll leave you all to it. Goodbye, Dad. Jae.” Your gaze lingered a heartbeat longer on Seungcheol before you added, “Mr. Choi.”
He inclined his head, polite, though his eyes still followed you as you walked out the door, the click of your heels fading down the hall.
iii. THE WOLF NOTICES
The moment you had walked in, Seungcheol thought the room shifted. You weren’t what he had expected, not that he had been expecting you at all.
For years, he had worked by your father’s side, known of the daughter who lived in luxury, seen your name splashed across tabloids, whispered in passing. But the real thing, the reality of you was sharper, brighter, and infinitely more dangerous than idle gossip could ever suggest.
The sunglasses you wore slid down just enough for him to catch the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes. You walked like you belonged there, and in a way, you did. Confidence cloaked you like silk, the kind of ease only someone born into power could wear so naturally.
He had thought himself immune to distraction; meetings, boardrooms, negotiations, nothing ever shook him. But the second your laugh cut through the tension, light and teasing at Jaemin’s expense, something inside him bent.
When your brother sneered at you, Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. He had always known Jaemin was reckless, entitled, bitter. But watching him spit that venom at you, watching the way you took it with practiced grace, unbothered, unbroken… he felt something stir in him.
A quiet, simmering urge to protect, to defend, to shield.
And so he had spoken, his words deliberate. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”
The way you smiled at him in response, it left an echo in his chest.
When you finally left, offering him that final glance, polite but laced with something more, he realized he was still standing, hand tingling faintly from where it had held yours.
The wolf, Seungcheol thought, had just found something worth watching.
From then on, he never really left your side.
Not in the obvious way, not as if he was tethered to you, but in the careful, deliberate manner of someone who knew how to move without being seen until he wanted to be.
It was a shocking development for you.
You had never expected to be close friends with a man who was nearly ten years older, who wore his authority like a perfectly tailored suit. But here you were sharing silences, lunches, and the strange rhythm of companionship with Choi Seungcheol.
After your initial meeting, you found yourself seeing him more often.
At first, it was nothing; polite smiles exchanged in the corridors of your father’s empire, a nod of recognition whenever you crossed paths in the office. It was impersonal, courteous, and you told yourself that was all it would ever be.
Until your father, in one of his rare bursts of paternal insistence, proposed that you intern for him instead of flying off to Paris or Milan again to “waste time and money.”
“You need to do something with your life,” your father had said in that clipped, dismissive way of his.
You had rolled your eyes and countered, “I just graduated. Don’t I get a few years to figure out what I want? Isn’t that normal?”
The truth was simple… you didn’t enjoy business.
You never had.
The reports, the numbers, the endless chatter of investors, it bored you, drained you, made you wonder if you had been born only to be spoiled, to live a life of indulgence without consequence.
And honestly? You didn’t see anything wrong with that.
But the house, the one your mother once filled with warmth, was suffocating now. Each room carried her absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The silence was oppressive, the marble cold. You needed something to distract yourself, and so, reluctantly, you agreed to intern.
That’s when Seungcheol began to move closer.
At first, he was just there during breaks. Your father was too busy to notice you, Jaemin couldn’t be bothered, and you didn’t care to make friends with anyone else in the company.
Seungcheol filled that space without asking. He would sit beside you in the break room, his presence calm, his attention steady. He didn’t demand conversation, he let you speak when you wanted to, and when you didn’t, he filled the silence with quiet remarks that somehow made the air less heavy.
Sometimes, he’d take you out to eat. “Come on,” he’d say, holding the elevator door for you. “You’ve been staring at that screen for two hours. Food is non-negotiable.”
Other times, when you were too busy or too stubborn to leave your desk, he would appear with takeout bags, sliding them onto your table without ceremony. “Eat,” he’d tell you simply. “You’ll get sick if you don’t.”
And you, strangely, would listen.
It became a rhythm.
Even on his days off, you’d find yourselves together. Sometimes at cafés, sometimes driving aimlessly just to waste time, and sometimes at your estate.
When your father invited him over for meetings, Seungcheol would linger long after, slipping out only to climb up your window like some ridiculous storybook character.
You’d laugh when you saw him, sprawled in your armchair as if he belonged there.
“Do you even realize how insane this is?” you’d whisper, tugging him away from the curtain in case the staff noticed.
He’d grin, unbothered. “Friends climb windows. It’s a rule.”
“Since when?”
“Since now,” he’d reply without hesitation, and you’d roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.
Sometimes he stayed until you drifted off to sleep. He’d lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching you breathe until your lashes fluttered closed. Once, when you asked him why, he answered in that calm, low tone of his: “Because that’s what friends do. They stay until you’re safe.”
It was unsettling, the way he listened to you. Really listened. You weren’t used to that. When you spoke, he didn’t glance at his phone or nod absentmindedly. He leaned in, absorbed every word, and sometimes repeated them back to you later, as if to prove he hadn’t forgotten.
You remember one evening, sprawled on the couch with him beside you. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… existing. My dad is pressuring me to do something just like my brother, but it’s just like I was made to be spoiled and nothing else.”
“You think being spoiled means you’re useless?” he asked, his eyes sharp in the dim light.
You shrugged. “Doesn’t it? That’s what my brother always says.”
“No,” he said firmly. “It means people should have taken you seriously sooner. It means they underestimated you and that you have the all the power to do nothing while everyone does everything for you.”
You blinked at him, surprised. No one had ever said it like that before.
And so, without either of you saying it aloud, your friendship began.
But Seungcheol was always watching.
You noticed it in the little things first, from the way his gaze followed you when you moved around the office, the way his hand would shoot out instinctively to cover the sharp corner of a desk when you bent down to pick something up. The way his shoulders stiffened if someone brushed past you too closely in the hallway.
Once, a junior employee bumped into you, muttering a rushed apology. You brushed it off with a laugh, but Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed into a glare so sharp the poor man practically ran away.
“Cheollie, relax. He didn’t mean it,” you whispered.
“He should’ve been more careful,” he muttered, his jaw tight.
Another time, you struggled with a stack of files that threatened to topple from your arms. Before you could ask, he was there, effortlessly taking the weight from you. “You’re not supposed to carry things like this,” he chided.
“I’m not helpless,” you shot back playfully.
He gave you that look, half amusement, half warning. “No. But why struggle when I’m here?”
Even outside the office, he hovered. At a crowded restaurant one weekend, a waiter brushed too close to your chair. Seungcheol’s hand settled on the back of it, a silent claim, his eyes tracking the waiter until he was out of sight.
You didn’t think much of it, naïve enough to chalk it up to friendliness, to that fierce protectiveness you found comforting.
Seungcheol learned your habits quickly. What drinks you preferred. The way you always peeled the crusts off your sandwiches. The exact moment your mood shifted from amused to irritated. He adjusted himself around you with subtle precision, guiding you with a hand at your back, distracting you when the air grew too heavy, steering you away from things that would darken your expression.
You never noticed how deliberate it all was. You only knew that he was there, always there, quietly absorbing, quietly guarding. And when his eyes lingered too long, you told yourself it was nothing.
After all, friends watched out for each other.
iv. THE COMPANY YOU KEEP
Your father noticed first.
He always noticed more than you thought. His eyes had been on you for years, sharp as knives and cold as stone, the kind of gaze that could slice through silks and pretenses alike. You thought you were careful. You thought the friendship, the hours of laughter, the stolen moments, the lunches tucked away in quiet corners was yours to keep.
But he saw.
He always saw.
It happened late one night, in the quiet of his home office.
The room smelled faintly of whiskey and paper, the heavy oak desk drowning in documents you doubted he ever actually read. He was in his chair, back straight, hands folded, his face an unreadable mask. You stood before him, already feeling too small, too much like a child again despite being a woman grown.
“Sit,” he said, calm, commanding, as though he were addressing another executive and not his youngest and only daughter.
You sat, the leather of the chair cold beneath your palms, your stomach twisting as you realized this wasn’t just one of his endless talks about “responsibility.”
His eyes bored into yours, heavy, deliberate, suffocating.
“I’ve been observing something,” he began slowly, his voice low and even. “Your… relationship with Seungcheol.”
Your throat went dry. Your fingers curled against the chair’s arms. You forced your voice to stay steady.
“We’re just friends,” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively.
It was true.
At least, it should have been. But you felt the guilt the moment it slipped past your lips, the way your chest tightened, the way your gaze faltered. Because it wasn’t the full truth. There was a part of you that wished it wasn’t just that, a whisper in the back of your mind that admitted only to yourself that you were drawn to him, that he was almost too good to be true.
Your father’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing.
“That better stay that way,” he said firmly. His voice wasn’t raised, but it was enough to cut through you like glass.
Your heart sank, your lips parting, but he didn’t stop.
“You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.”
The words stung before you could stop them. You opened your mouth, but his hand lifted in warning.
“He is a serious man,” your father continued, each word deliberate, cruel in its control. “A man with a future. He will need a strong and serious woman by his side. And you,” his eyes locked onto you, unyielding, “are none of that. You will ruin him.”
Your breath hitched. The sting behind your eyes burned as though your tears were waiting for permission to fall.
“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, his tone sharp now, cutting away any chance of argument.
You swallowed hard, blinking furiously, the tears refusing to fall in front of him. You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, unable to say anything more.
“Good. You may go.”
Dismissed like an employee at the end of a meeting.
You stood on shaking legs, the unshed tears burning at the corners of your eyes. You turned, hand gripping the doorknob as though it was the only thing tethering you to yourself.
When you opened it, the world outside the office felt too wide, too heavy.
And there he was.
Seungcheol.
Leaning casually against the wall, his phone in hand, dressed sharp but relaxed in a way only he could manage. He was waiting for his meeting with your father, his head bent, scrolling through something. He hadn’t heard. Relief hit you for a fleeting second.
But then he looked up.
His eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in your expression; the damp shine at the corner of your eyes, the slight tremble in your lips. His phone dropped to his side instantly.
In two strides, he was in front of you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing instinctively against your skin.
“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice was low, urgent, laced with something close to anger and worry all at once.
You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile so brittle it hurt.
“I’m fine,” you lied softly. “I was just yawning, and it made my eyes water. That’s all.”
“Don’t do that,” he pressed, brows furrowing, his grip steady on your face. “Don’t pretend. Tell me.”
Your heart twisted, but you pushed the smile harder, shaking your head again.
“I’m going to bed,” you said firmly, gently pushing his hands down. “And my dad’s probably waiting for you. You should hurry in.”
He searched your face, as though he could tear the truth out of you with just his stare.
“Baby—”
“Goodnight, Seungcheol.”
You turned before he could say more, your steps quick and uneven as you retreated down the hall. Behind you, you heard him sigh, frustrated, but he didn’t follow.
In your room, you shut the door, your chest heaving. You changed quickly, hands fumbling with your clothes, grabbing the first satin nightgown you could find; blue, the fabric clinging soft against your skin. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, your movements too rushed, too desperate to outrun the words echoing in your head.
You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.
He needs a strong, serious woman.
You are none of that.
You will ruin him.
The sting burrowed deep.
It wasn’t just the insult, it was the way your father had said it, so certain, so final. As though you were doomed to be a disappointment not only to him, but to the one person who had made you feel seen in so long.
What hurt worse, what made your chest tighten until it was almost unbearable, was the thought of someone else, another woman, strong, serious, perfect; standing at Seungcheol’s side instead of you.
You didn’t understand why that image made your throat close, why it hollowed something in you.
You curled into your bed, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the tears until exhaustion pulled you under.
You didn’t hear the soft scrape of your window opening.
You didn’t hear the careful footsteps across your room.
A few minutes later, Seungcheol was kneeling beside your bed, his tall frame folded in the dark, his hand reaching out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face. His gaze caught the faint wet trail across your cheek, a tear that had escaped after all. His thumb followed its path slowly, and then, with a deliberate motion, he lifted it to his lips, tasting the salt of your sorrow.
His eyes darkened.
He watched you sleep, his gaze heavy, drinking in the sight of your body rising and falling with each breath. The satin of your gown had ridden up, baring the length of your thigh to the cool air, and still he stayed, his hand twitching with restraint.
Minutes passed before he bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there longer than he should. When he pulled away, his jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.
Seungcheol left as quietly as he came, but the storm inside him followed into the night.
Behind the wheel of his car, his knuckles whitened as his grip strangled the steering wheel. His jaw locked, muscles tense, eyes burning as the memory of your father’s voice replayed in his mind; every insult, every dismissal, every word that made you cry.
He had heard it all.
And it lit something dangerous in him.
Something that whispered he needed to do something.
Something soon.
It was as if fate had heard the vow that burned in Seungcheol’s chest that night.
A domino effect followed, one piece tumbling after the next, each obstacle pushing the two of you closer and closer until there was no more room to pretend.
A few days later, you sat in his office during your afternoon break, a cup of coffee in your hands as though its warmth could shield you from the memories of that night with your father.
You had perfected the art of pretending by now; eyes bright, lips curved into a smile, laughter slipping past your mouth like nothing had ever happened.
You were fine. You were well. A master at pretending.
But Seungcheol saw right through you.
He leaned back in his chair, silent, watching you with the patience of a predator. He didn’t call you out, didn’t press, but you could feel the weight of his gaze each time your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
He said nothing… for now.
And then, like the first domino, you gave him something else to fixate on.
You sighed, sinking deeper into your chair. “I told Anna and Chloe about you.”
That caught his attention instantly. His posture shifted, his eyes sharpening like knives, but he let you continue talking about your friends.
“I mean, I expected it to be normal, you know, catching up, gossiping like we always do. They asked me what’s new, and I told them about you. I thought they’d giggle, ask if you were cute, maybe tease me a little.” Your fingers toyed with the lid of your coffee cup. “But when they found out you’re ten years older than me…” You shook your head, your voice dipping. “They started talking shit about you.”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking once, but he stayed silent, his eyes on you, waiting.
“I defended you,” you rushed on, your throat tightening at the memory. “But then they came after me too. Calling me stupid. Saying I shouldn’t hang out with you because it’s weird, because you work for my father and all that.” Your voice wavered, but you pushed through, repeating their words as though they had carved themselves into your skin. “They said I’m embarrassing. That I’m just playing some pathetic game. That you must be using me. That I’m…” You swallowed hard. “That I’m nothing but a spoiled brat desperate for attention, clinging onto someone way older due to my daddy issues.”
Your chest ached, the humiliation raw again as you relived it. “They texted me earlier, though. Apologizing. Saying they thought it through and realized they were wrong to judge. That they should be supportive of me instead.”
You blinked, forcing a laugh that crumbled at the edges. “But it still hurts. I mean, I’ve been friends with them for years. And instead of supporting me, they judged you. They judged me.” Your voice cracked, your eyes stinging. “It hurt more than I thought it would.”
Seungcheol’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His eyes darkened, the veins in his hands straining as he gripped the armrest of his chair until his knuckles whitened. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, every inhale sharp, every exhale sharper. Rage rippled through him, silent but palpable, like a storm pressed beneath the skin.
And then, in one smooth shift, his voice softened to honey.
“Come here,” he murmured, his tone gentle, coaxing, as though the anger you glimpsed was only a trick of the light. He patted his lap lightly, his other hand reaching out for yours.
You hesitated for a moment, but when his hand wrapped around yours; warm, steady, reassuring, you found yourself moving without thinking. You let him pull you onto his lap, his arms winding securely around you, holding you close. The moment your cheek pressed against his neck, you melted, the tension in your shoulders unraveling as you breathed him in.
“You defended me,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple as he spoke. “Thank you, angel. You’re just as protective of me as I am of you. Do you know how much that means to me?”
You exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering closed as he caressed your thigh, slow and deliberate.
“Do you know how good you are for me?” His voice dipped lower, raspier, a dangerous whisper curling like smoke in your ear. “So, so good for me.”
A sound slipped from your throat, half sigh, half purr as warmth pooled in your chest at his words. You clung to him tighter, soaking in every syllable.
He chuckled softly, the vibration rumbling against you. “But they… they hurt you, didn’t they? They made you cry. They made you doubt. And they hurt me, too, with their words. Friends shouldn’t do that, should they? Friends should support you, like I do. They should protect you, like I do.” His thumb stroked over your thigh, his voice lowering to a coaxing lull. “But they didn’t, did they?”
You shook your head slowly, your lips parting, your body pliant in his arms.
“They aren’t your true friends, baby. I am. I always will be.” His lips grazed your cheek, lingering at the corner of your mouth before trailing down to your jaw, soft kisses searing into your skin. “You only need me.”
Your breath hitched, his words seeping deep, deeper, until they settled like truth.
“Tell me you understand, hmm?” he whispered, nipping lightly at your neck before soothing the bite with a lick. “Tell me you know you only need me.”
Your body shivered, your head nodding blindly. “I–I only need you.”
“That’s my girl.” He kissed your forehead, then your cheek again, slow and deliberate. “Those lowlives don’t deserve you. They never did. Honestly, I always thought they were using you. Hanging onto your name, your money, your shine. But me? I don’t need any of that. I just need you.”
You whimpered at the praise, leaning into the press of his mouth as it trailed down your shoulder, his hands squeezing your thighs with just enough pressure to make you sigh.
“They hurt you, baby,” he murmured again, coaxing, insistent, “so why keep them? Let them go. Tell them you can’t be friends anymore. You don’t need them. You only need me.”
You nodded again, the words tumbling from your lips like a vow. “I only need you.”
“Good girl.” Seungcheol reached over to the desk, his hand plucking your phone as though it belonged to him as much as to you.
He unlocked it without hesitation, the ease of it barely registering in your haze. He handed it back to you, settling behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder, his arms still caged tight around you.
“Now… tell them,” he whispered, his breath warm in your ear. “Type it out. Tell them you can’t be friends anymore.”
Your fingers moved, almost robotic, the glow of the screen reflecting in your eyes as you typed exactly what he told you. Each word, each message crafted by his voice in your ear, his lips pressing tender kisses against your cheek, your neck, your jaw whenever you obeyed.
When their replies came; apologizing, pleading, confused, angry… he read over your shoulder, his scoffs sharp.
“Pathetic,” he muttered darkly. “Desperate. They don’t deserve another second of your time.”
You stayed quiet, numb to their protests, lost instead in the steady rhythm of his lips against your skin and the silk of his voice telling you what to do.
By the time the conversation ended, by the time you had sent the final message ending it all, he kissed your temple again and whispered, “That’s it, sweetheart. That’s perfect. You don’t need them. You have me. I’m all you’ll ever need.”
Your voice was a whisper, broken but sure. “You’re all I need, Cheollie.”
And it was true, you believed it.
The last time you saw Anna and Chloe had been a few days ago, when their words cut into you like knives.
Tonight was the last time you would ever speak to them.
Because a few weeks later, in Paris, the two of them were found dead.
v. HEAVEN TAKES, HELL HOLDS
The sky was absurdly blue; so clean and wide it made the black of everyone’s clothes look obscene. There were no clouds, only a sun that threw itself across the grass as if to prove the world had not noticed the cruelty it sheltered beneath. A gentle wind moved through the trees and lifted the edges of the funeral programs in the hands of strangers, it smelled faintly of cut lawn and something floral that tugged at the back of your throat.
It was ironic in a way that felt obscene, a perfect day for two coffins to be lowered into the earth.
A week ago, the message had arrived like a dull stone dropped into still water.
Anna and Chloe were gone.
Paris, the city where they’d always gone to be loud and youthful and slightly reckless, this time it answered with silence.
At first you were told it was an overdose. They had party habits… harmless, you told yourself; molly, a little weed when the music thinned and the crowd swelled. Those things tasted familiar to adolescents and it’s survivable. You’d done that, too, you’d been with them at times like that. You’d always thought it couldn’t be enough to take them.
Then the second call arrived, colder and heavier saying that tests had been rerun at the parents’ insistence.
Something else had shown up… cyanide, a ghost of a chemical no one expected in the glitter of a nightclub.
Molly, laced with poison.
The image of the two of them, laughing in light and then collapsing just like that, lodged in your throat. The authorities sifted through footage, questioned everyone at the party, watched cameras frame faces that met Anna and Chloe and then walked away. CCTV revealed gestures and shared glances, but none of it looked like the handing off of a murder.
The leads went cold and stubborn.
The killer, remained a faceless presence in the edges of footage. It was a riddle with no answer. Until this day, until this field; those girls were dead at the hands of a cruelty that had no name.
You stood in all black, the fabric pressed and formal, your sunglasses a shield over eyes that had not yet learned how to be soft. Two caskets sat side by side on the green, their woods a dull brown against the manicured grass. Families leaned close, crying into one another’s shoulders, the sound was small and relentless.
The two families had elected to bury them together because the girls had been inseparable since childhood who were bound by years of jokes, slumber parties, and teenage drama.
The joint funeral felt fitting, so straightforward it hurt.
You were there because someone had to be, because the ritual drew the people who loved them closer, and because Anna and Chloe had been yours in some ways that mattered more than the distance that had grown between you. Your father had the excuse of an empire; business, boardrooms, a thousand obligations. Jaemin couldn’t have cared less. So you stood with Seungcheol.
He had not left you once. Not to speak with acquaintances, not to take a phone call, not to fiddle with papers as if the universe outside his office was a problem for someone else. He stayed. When the families wept, when the priest spoke the necessary words, when hands clutched the hems of suits and graves dug deeper, he was a solid figure at your side.
You said nothing through the ceremony, words felt like poor instruments for this depth of shock. When you finally spoke it was only because Anna and Chloe’s mothers came to you, small women made enormous by grief, hands kept busy folding themselves around you as if to anchor you to a present that still accepted condolences.
“We’re so glad you came,” Anna’s mother murmured, voice breaking. She folded you into a hug so fierce you tasted salt on her shoulder. “They were always talking about you. Thank you for being here, truly.”
Chloe’s mother took your hands, palms warm and trembling. “We know how close you were. They always said you were like a sister. I’m so sorry you had to—” Her words dissolved into a sob. She pulled you in and pressed you against her, and for a moment you were nothing but a channeled sadness, a vessel for other people’s grief.
You tried to explain, fumbling for reasons that fell small and insufficient. “We had an argument a few weeks ago… nothing serious, really. Usual things, silly things. We—” Your voice came out in stutters, admitting too much. “They said mean things. We drifted. I thought it was just time, you know? Growing different. I told them I might be working more with my father and they always wanted me to come to parties and raves and things I said I couldn’t make…” You swallowed, the syllables thick. “If I had known– if I had just… I would have been there.”
Seungcheol stayed close, shadow and shoulder as he listened.
Most of what you told the women was accurate; the argument, the drift, the timings. There was truth in your words, ordinary and blunt, but there was also the private ache you only admitted in small tremors. His eyes narrowed once when you mentioned the CCTV and the inconclusive reports, an itch of curiosity passing over his face.
He listened the way he always did, like a man marking pieces on a board.
Anna’s mother sniffed. “Life can be cruel, darling. It’s easy to misunderstand. But you did what you could now, and that’s enough.”
Chloe’s mother clung to your hand. “They wouldn’t want you to blame yourself,” she said, as if she could lift your guilt from your shoulders. “They were stubborn, they were wild, it’s what made them them. They would want you to live. We’ll find out who did this, you know. We won’t stop.”
You tried to smile through it. “I know. I just—” Your sentence broke as the sob found you and you let it. Your shoulders shook as you apologized to the two women: “I should’ve been there. I should’ve… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
They folded you into their arms until you couldn’t tell where you ended and they began. “Don’t say that,” Anna’s mother whispered. “They wouldn’t want you to carry this. They keep laughing with us, they would roll their eyes at you like they always did.” Chloe’s mother pressed her forehead to yours. “We’ll catch whoever did this. Promise.”
Seungcheol stepped forward and took you into his arms. His body was a constant, rigid and warm, and you folded into it as if habit and need had always led you here. He guided you gently away from the small cluster around the caskets, an island formation that whispered of public grief.
He spoke for you, softly, “ We’ll go now. Thank you, truly. For everything.” He turned to the mothers, offering condolences that were steady and practiced. “If there’s anything you need… anything at all, tell me.”
Their faces were tired but grateful, they nodded, murmured thanks, and departed.
Outside, he put you into his car with the same exactness he used always: door, seat, seatbelt clipped with a hand that hovered protectively to make sure the strap lay right. He watched you remove your sunglasses and wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand as if the motion disturbed him. His look was a mix of careful possession and something you hadn’t yet named… fierceness held dangerously close to tenderness.
When he slid behind the wheel and started the car, his voice came low. “Are you alright?” he asked, watching you in the side mirror. “I didn’t expect you to cry so hard…” His sentence trailed off as if he’d assumed you had been composed until this point.
You shrugged, the action meant to be small and deflecting. “It just… hit me now,” you said, and the words felt thin even as you said them.
This was the truth, also an excuse.
His face shifted. “They don’t deserve your tears after the things they did to you, angel,” he said bluntly, a hand finding the steering wheel with new intensity. “That was their karma.”
The words slid over your chest, strangely lancing.
You blinked up at him, the naive part of you wanting to find warmth in his certainty, the other part still raw from your father’s lecture, shrinking.
“I’m scared,” you said then, surprise at the truth of it.
A flicker of confusion passed over Seungcheol’s brow, brief and almost pained. “Why would you be scared?” he asked, voice puzzled, then without waiting for your reply, he lifted his free hand and cupped your face in one swift, possessive move that made you sigh involuntarily. The car hummed around you as he watched the small line of your mouth, the dampness at the corner of your eyes.
The outline of the city passed the windows and blurred in motion. “What if I’m next? What if whoever did this… comes after me?”
His words dropped like stones wrapped in satin. “That won’t happen,” he promised, his tone a blend of reassurance and threat. “Because I’m here. I will protect you. Anyone who even thinks about harming you will suffer.” He did not shout, he stated it as if it were a fact.
Seungcheol’s certainty was a net thrown wide.
You let yourself lean into the safety of that hand. He stroked your cheek, then the line of your neck, his touch purposeful, claiming, and the public stillness of him made your breathing catch. “You’re cold, baby,” he murmured, lifting one of your legs slightly, the hem of your dress slipping back enough for his palm to rest against the bare skin of your thigh. The contact was warm, not entirely unwelcome. “At least I’m here to keep you warm.”
His voice was silk, but there was an edge beneath the softness, the pattern of something that could close like a clamp. He cooed and reassured as he guided his hand further, murmuring, “It’s okay. Look at me. I’m here. No one will touch you without me knowing. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Naivety sat like a warm ember in your chest. You wanted his voice to be true. You wanted his hands to be the shelter he promised. There was a tiny, perverse comfort to the idea of being protected, of being declared precious enough to be guarded so fiercely. And so when he threaded his remarks with judgment of others; “they don’t deserve your tears,” “they were using you,” “they were never true friends” the poison slipped in as a lacquered truth.
It was easy to let his words rearrange your thinking, they fell with the cadence of expertise and care.
You listened and the car hummed on. You let the familiarity of his touch dull the raw edges of your grief.
The line between comfort and command blurred beneath his voice. Each small, warm insistence, his hand at your face, then at your thigh, the lifted hem, the private warmth of skin pressed to palm… it pulled you further from the shaky place where you had stood before.
You told yourself his words were sweetness, kindness, the balm you needed.
Seunhgcheol stroked your neck and said again, softly, “No one will ever hurt you when I’m here, remember that.” He sounded like a promise, and your heart answered like a gullible child.
You closed your eyes and let the motion of his car and the rhythm of his voice drown the edges of the day.
You let go of Anna and Chloe again for the hundredth and final time in your mind, and when you agreed to the small, dangerous bargains he proposed, it felt like survival.
Outside, the sun kept shining. Inside the car, the world narrowed to his voice and the press of his hand, and your lashes fluttered like the lids of a bird too tired to fly.
vi. FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Seungcheol brought you home, his hand steady at the small of your back as though the world outside was determined to take you apart piece by piece and he was the only one capable of holding you together.
The drive had been quiet, thick with the echoes of sobs you’d struggled to contain at the funeral, the taste of grief sharp on your tongue but he never let go of you, not once.
Thankfully, when you both stepped into the estate, the silence was broken only by the creak of the door and your footsteps across the marble. Your father and brother were still at the office, their absence both a relief and a weight. It meant you didn’t have to face their questions, their scrutiny, their watchful eyes. It also meant there was no barrier between you and the man at your side.
Seungcheol didn’t hesitate; he guided you up the stairs with quiet insistence, leading you into your room as though it belonged to him just as much as it belonged to you. When the door shut behind you, you felt the air shift, warmer and heavier, pressing against your skin like an unseen hand.
Without a word, you crossed to your vanity. The mirror reflected a pale, tired version of yourself, shadows clinging under your eyes, lips still trembling from the tears that had not long ago spilled. You reached up and plucked one hairpin after another from your hair. Each soft click of metal against the tabletop echoed louder than it should, and soon your hair tumbled free, cascading down your back in waves.
The relief was fleeting.
You were still lost in your own thoughts, trapped in the labyrinth of your father’s voice, your friends’ absence, your own gnawing doubts.
From behind you, Seungcheol sat on your bed, leaned back slightly, his sharp eyes following your every move. He looked as though he were unraveling you with his gaze alone, watching the way your fingers trembled just slightly as you set another pin down, watching how your shoulders slumped beneath the weight you carried.
“Baby,” he called softly, his voice cutting through the thick silence.
You froze, the pet name tugging you back to the present. Turning your head, you met his gaze in the mirror before slowly turning fully toward him. He was still there, lounged but alert, his eyes never leaving you.
Without speaking further, he lifted a hand and patted his thigh, the gesture commanding and patient all at once. He nodded once, a silent order for you to come to him.
Wordlessly, as though something in your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, you moved. Each step toward the bed felt deliberate, your pulse quickening with each one. You crawled onto the mattress, your hands sinking into the sheets as you made your way to him.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched you climb onto his lap, his gaze dark and heavy with something unreadable. The front of your dress dipped low, and he didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes lingered on the soft swells of your chest, rising and falling with each nervous breath. When you finally settled on his lap, straddling him, he leaned back slightly, his hands resting on your hips, eyes never wavering from your face.
“What’s wrong?” he asked lowly, his voice gentle but edged with demand.
You shook your head quickly, eyes darting away from his.
“Use your words,” he pressed, the firmness in his tone slicing through your silence.
Still, nothing came out. Your lips parted, but no sound followed.
A quiet, disappointed click of his tongue. “Tsk.” His eyes narrowed, unamused by your avoidance.
The tension in the air thickened. He leaned in slightly, his gaze unyielding as he asked, “What did I tell you in the car earlier?”
Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, soft, almost trembling: “That no one would hurt me when you are here.”
A faint smirk curved his lips, but his eyes remained sharp. “And?”
You swallowed hard before continuing, your voice weaker this time. “That Anna and Chloe deserved it… and it’s their karma.”
His head tilted, studying you closely. “Then why do you still seem to be worried?”
“I don’t know…” you whispered, your voice breaking at the edges. “I can’t seem to forget.”
For a moment, silence lingered.
Then Seungcheol’s hand moved, large and steady, cupping your cheeks. His thumb brushed against your skin, slow and tender, before sliding down the column of your throat. His palm wrapped gently around your neck, not tight, but firm enough that you felt every inch of his presence. His lips dipped closer to your ear, his voice nothing but a whisper.
“Do you want me to help you forget it, baby?”
Your breath hitched. A pause of hesitation heavy in the air before you gave the smallest of nods.
“There’s my baby,” he cooed, his voice suddenly soft, almost sing-song, as though he were soothing a child. “That’s it. I’ll make you forget.”
The air between you crackled as your heart pounded through in chest.
Seungcheol leaned in, his forehead pressing yours, his breath suddenly ragged and hot, washing over your lips like a fevered breeze. You felt the phantom brush of his mouth, a near-contact that sent a jolt through your core. Your lips instinctively parted, aching for the connection, leaning forward just a fraction.
He pulled back.
Just an inch. Just enough for cool air to rush in where his heat had been. Your lips chased him instinctively, a small, frustrated sound escaping you; a breathy whine that echoed in the charged silence.
That sound. It ignited something primal in him. His eyes, dark as obsidian, flared with hunger. The hand cupping your cheek tightened possessively, fingers digging into your jawline just shy of pain. He didn't kiss you. Instead, his thumb brushed roughly over your bottom lip before his head dipped again. His tongue, hot and wet, licked a deliberate, slow stripe across your parted lips.
You gasped, the sensation shocking, intimate. Your mouth opened wider on a startled inhale.
Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. His tongue surged into your mouth, not seeking permission but claiming territory. It slid against your own tongue, rough and demanding. A deep, guttural groan vibrated from his chest directly into yours at the feel of your surrender, the taste of you. Then his mouth crashed onto yours, sealing the invasion.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was fire and possession. His lips moved fiercely against yours, slanting, demanding.
A low moan escaped you, muffled against his mouth, a sound born of shock and unwelcome, overwhelming pleasure. His other hand gripped your hip hard, pulling you flush against him so you could feel every hard ridge of his body beneath you, the insistent pressure of his arousal against your core even through layers of fabric. Your hands flew up, not to push away immediately, but to clutch at his shoulders, fingers tangling in the expensive wool of his suit jacket.
The kiss deepened, became messy, wet. The slick slide of tongues, the desperate drag of lips, the harsh breaths mingling, it was a chaotic symphony of need. He groaned your name against your mouth, the sound thick with lust. “Mine,” he rasped between bruising kisses, the word a branding iron on your soul.
And then, the fog of sensation parted for a single, sharp moment of panic… your father’s disapproving face flashed in your mind. You tore your mouth from his with a ragged gasp, pushing weakly against his chest.
“Cheol! Stop!” Your voice trembled with a perfect blend of shock and fear. “We can't... my father... he forbade this! He said—”
“I know what he said!” Seungcheol snapped, cutting you off, his voice rough with sudden fury. He didn't release you; his grip on your jaw and hip tightened painfully. His eyes burned into yours, fierce and unyielding. “I was there. I heard every condescending word that fucker had to say about you.” His lip curled in derision. “‘Seungcheol deserves someone smart. Someone serious.’”
You flinched at the mimicry of your father’s tone. “It... it is true,” you whispered, playing the wounded card, letting your gaze drop. “He said I'm not... not good enough for you.”
Seungcheol scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound that echoed in the room. “Good enough?” His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “Your sorry excuse of a father doesn't know anything. He doesn’t know me. He doesn't know you.” His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip almost tenderly, a stark contrast to the venom in his voice. “He doesn't know what burns inside you. What I see.” He leaned closer, his breath hot on your face. “He doesn't know that I only want you. That I would do absolutely anything. That I would crush anyone,” his voice dropped to a chilling whisper, "kill anyone... who try to stand between us.”
The raw violence in his words hung heavy in the air. It was terrifying. It was possessive. It was undeniably his. You stared into his dark eyes, seeing the fanatic devotion, the dangerous edge of obsession that bordered on madness.
A beat of charged silence stretched between you; the frantic rhythm of your breathing the only sound besides the drumming rain that unknowingly started outside.
Then, something shifted.
The fear didn't vanish, but it was eclipsed by a wave of something darker, hotter. The carefully constructed dam holding back your own hidden desires cracked. Your gaze locked with his, filled with a sudden, fierce hunger that mirrored his own. You saw surprise flicker in his eyes for a split second before you pounced.
You crashed your lips back onto his with a force that stole his breath. This kiss wasn't hesitant or fearful; it was ravenous. Your arms flew around his neck, fingers plunging into his dark hair, pulling him impossibly closer. A low growl of pure satisfaction rumbled from deep in Seungcheol’s chest as he met your fervor with equal intensity.
Hands became desperate explorers. Yours traced the strong line of his jaw, scraped through his hair, pulled him deeper into the kiss. His hands slid down from your jaw and hip, roaming hungrily over your back, down to your waist, palming your ass through the black silk of your dress, grinding you hard against the thick ridge of his erection straining against his trousers. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue.
The kiss descended into pure erotic chaos. Lips slanted, tongues dueled, teeth scraped. Whimpers and breathy moans escaped you with each possessive squeeze of his hands, each demanding thrust of his tongue. He nipped at your lower lip, drawing another gasp that he swallowed greedily.
“Fuck,” he rasped against your swollen lips when you broke for air, foreheads resting together again, both breathing harshly. “Look at you. So desperate for me.” His hand slid boldly up your thigh beneath your dress, bunching the fabric. “My perfect little dove.” He kissed you again, hard and deep before pulling back slightly, his eyes blazing down at you. “Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his thumb finding your clit through the soaked silk of your ruined panties and rubbing a hard circle that made you arch and cry out. “Tell me you want me to ruin this pretty dress and fuck you senseless right here.”
You moaned, grinding down against his hand, the friction exquisite torture. “Cheollie...” It was half-protest, half-plea.
“Say it!” he commanded, increasing the pressure, his other hand tightening painfully on your ass.
The words tumbled out, laced with the moan he ripped from you, “I want you– want you to ruin me, please. I’m yours... please... only yours...”
A predatory smile spread across Seungcheol’s face as he surged forward to reclaim your mouth, the kiss turning filthy again, punctuated by your gasps and his low groans of approval. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties. The sound of tearing silk was sharp and final in the quiet room as he ripped them aside. The cool air hit your exposed heat for only a second before his hand was back, fingers sliding through your slick folds with a groan of pure pleasure.
“So fucking wet for me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with triumph and lust. “All mine.”
He pressed two fingers deep inside you, curling them deliberately. “Ride them,” he commanded, his voice thick with need. “Show me how badly you want it.”
A whine escaped you as you rocked your hips, grinding down onto his hand, seeking friction, seeking him. Emboldened by his command and your own desperate need, your hands flew to your dress. With a frustrated tug, you yanked at the fabric, the delicate material giving way under your urgency, joining your ruined panties on the floor. Your bra followed in a swift movement.
Seungcheol’s groan was pure appreciation, his eyes raking over your bare skin. “Fucking perfect,” he breathed. In one smooth motion, he pulled you closer, his mouth latching onto one taut nipple, sucking hard while his fingers continued their relentless rhythm inside you.
The dual assault drew a loud, keening moan from your throat as you rode his hand with increasing desperation. He switched breasts, lavishing the same attention while looking up at you through hooded eyes. “That's it, baby. Fuck my fingers like you mean it.”
“You feel so good,” you panted, arching into his mouth. “So deep, Cheollie...”
“I know, I know, baby,” he murmured against your skin, releasing your nipple with a wet pop.
“Cheol, please. More. I want it more.” Your voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible above the pounding in your ears.
He chuckled, a dark, rich sound that vibrated through your bones. “I’ll give you anything you want.” He flipped you onto your back with surprising ease, your body a pliant thing beneath his. The soft mattress cradled you as he rose, shedding his clothes with an almost violent urgency. The crisp sound of fabric hitting the floor, the glint of moonlight on his bare skin, all of it intensified the surreal, desperate moment.
His body, sculpted and powerful, stood over you, a shadow against the dim light. “Look at you,” Seungcheol began, his voice dropping to a low, seductive rumble. “Lying there, all spread out for me. My little whore. You think you’re so innocent, don’t you? So pure.” He stepped closer, his shadow engulfing you. “But I see the truth. I see the hunger in your eyes, little dove.” The way your body practically screams for me.” He knelt, his knees pressing into the mattress beside your hips.
“Your father, that old fool thinks you’re going to corrupt me… but it’s the other way around, baby. I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to make you forget every single one of his precious rules.” Seungcheol’s hand reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate line of your jaw, then down your throat, lingering at the hollow of your neck. “And those friends of yours… they talked so much shit, didn’t they? About you, about me. They deserved everything they got. Didn’t they?” His eyes, dark and intense, pierced through you, demanding an answer.
A shiver, not entirely of fear, ran through you. “Yes,” you breathed, the word a confession, a surrender. “They deserved it. All of it.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, a truly wicked expression. “That’s my girl.” He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “Now, open for me. I’m going to show you what real pleasure feels like. I’m going to make you forget everything but me.”
Seungcheol positioned himself between your legs, his cock, thick and throbbing, pressing against your slick entrance. The head, slick with pre-cum, nudged, teasing, a promise of what was to come. You gasped, your hips lifting, begging for him. He plunged in, a single, powerful thrust that stole your breath.
A guttural groan ripped from his throat, a sound of profound satisfaction as he buried himself deep inside you. You cried out, a mix of pain and otherworldly pleasure, your body stretching, accommodating his impressive length. He caged you between the bed and his strong arms, his muscles flexing, taut with effort.
“Ah, fuck,” Seungcheol groaned, his voice raw, hoarse with lust. He pulled back slightly, then slammed back into you, a relentless rhythm beginning. “So tight for me. So good for me.” He began to pound, each thrust a deliberate, powerful invasion.
The bedsprings creaked a frantic song beneath your combined weight, a testament to the force of his movements. Your moans, loud and uninhibited, filled the room, mingling with the wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin, the rhythmic schlick-schlick of his cock sliding in and out of your depths.
“Cheol, oh god, Cheollie,” you whimpered, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. Your head thrashed on the pillow, your eyes wide, unfocused.
He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low, dark whisper. “Listen to yourself, baby. Listen to those sounds. Your friends, those bitches, they’re cold in the ground. Died pathetically like they deserve, poisoned. And here you are, getting dicked down, moaning my name. No care in the world, are you?” He pulled back, his eyes burning into yours, a twisted smile playing on his lips. “Tell me, angel. Do they deserve this? Do they deserve to be forgotten while you get fucked senseless?”
A wild, almost manic laugh bubbled up from your throat, a sound that shocked even you. “Yes!” you shrieked, your hips bucking harder against his. “They deserved it! Every single bit of it!”
Seungcheol threw his head back, a triumphant, guttural laugh erupting from him, a sound of pure, unadulterated madness. He pounded harder, faster, his hips slamming into yours with brutal force. The bed shook, the headboard thudding against the wall. “That’s my girl!” he roared, his voice thick with a perverse delight. “That’s my fucking girl!” His thrusts deepened, each one driving you closer to the edge, your body convulsing with the intensity of it all.
The pleasure was agonizing, a searing fire that consumed you, burning away any last vestiges of innocence.
You were a mess of moans, gasps, and desperate pleas, your body a willing slave to his rhythm. He grabbed your legs, lifting them high, resting them on his shoulders. The new angle stretched you, opened you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper. He kissed you then, a fierce, possessive kiss that tasted of sweat and lust and a hint of your own blood where his teeth had grazed your lip. He thrust harder, his cock grinding against your cervix, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.
“Forget about you father,” he rasped, his breath ragged against your lips. “Forget everything he ever told you. About what’s right, about what’s wrong. About who you are. Because you’re mine now and forever. Understand? Only mine, baby. Only I matter. Say it.” His eyes, dark and demanding, bore into yours.
A wicked smirk, a reflection of his own, spread across your face. “Only you matter, daddy,” you whispered, the words a raw, unbidden confession.
A low, primal groan rumbled in Seungcheol’s chest, a sound of pure, masculine triumph. He pulled out, the wet, sucking sound echoing in the room, making you whine in protest. He flipped you onto your stomach, your ass rising in a tempting curve. A sharp, stinging slap landed on your ass cheek, making you yelp, a surprised moan escaping your lips. He grabbed your hips, pulling you back, your body arching against his.
“Good girl, just like that baby,” he purred, his voice a dark caress. “You like that, don’t you? My little whore. My good girl. Say it again, baby. Say ‘yes, daddy.’”
“Yes, daddy!” you cried out, your voice hoarse, desperate.
Seungcheol repositioned himself, his cock pressing against your eager hole, slick with your own juices from the previous assault. He pushed, slowly at first, then with a surge, burying himself deep inside you from behind. Another guttural groan tore from him, a sound of pure satisfaction. You gasped, a sharp intake of breath, your body tensing, then relaxing around his invading length. He began to pound, a relentless, primal rhythm that drove you further into the mattress. The sounds were louder now, more visceral; the wet squelch of his cock, the rhythmic thwack of his balls slapping against your ass, your own desperate moans, and his low, guttural grunts.
“Look at you,” he grunted, his voice thick with lust, his hips slamming into yours. “My little animal. All fours for daddy. This is where you belong. Under me. Taking every inch.” He grabbed your hair, tugging gently, tilting your head back. “You’re so beautiful when you’re ruined, baby. So perfect.”
You whimpered, a low, continuous sound, your body trembling, on the verge of shattering. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure, building, building, an unbearable crescendo. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, biting gently, marking you. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice a possessive rumble. “Always. Forever.”
Your climax hit you like a tidal wave, a violent, all-consuming release that left you screaming, your body convulsing, muscles clenching around his throbbing cock. You bucked against him, a desperate, primal dance, as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washed over you.
Seungcheol roared, a triumphant cry, his own climax hitting him hard and fast. He emptied himself deep inside you, a hot, pulsing gush that filled you, claiming you completely. He collapsed onto your back, his heavy weight pinning you to the bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Your bodies, slick with sweat and other fluids, slowly stilled, the only sounds the ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of two hearts that had just been irrevocably intertwined in a web of dark desire and twisted devotion.
vii. WHEN BLOOD TURNS COLD
Forever and Always
That was what Seungcheol whispered into your ear that night, words carved into your chest like an oath you could never let go of.
From then on, you forgot every single thing your father had ever told you. His warnings, his cold lectures, his disappointment, they meant nothing anymore.
You were more defiant than ever, your rebellion sharpened and fueled by Seungcheol, who praised you for every little act of disobedience, who told you it was power to spit in the face of expectation.
You and Seungcheol grew inseparable.
In public, his hand lingered on your waist longer than it should, his lips sometimes brushing against your temple even when people whispered, even when they stared. You never flinched. If anything, you leaned closer, held tighter, kissed him where eyes could see.
He thrived in it, and you did too.
The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care because in his eyes, you were all that mattered. And in yours, he was the only one who ever truly did.
Weeks passed since the night you finally gave yourself to him. Weeks of stolen touches, defiant laughter, whispers only for each other. Your father hadn’t made a single declaration that he knew anything or if he even knew at all. Not that you cared anymore. His approval was no longer your oxygen. You had Seungcheol.
But someone else did notice.
Your brother. Jaemin.
And he had a lot to say.
It was late one night in the office. The building was quiet, stripped of its usual buzz, as employees trickled out one by one. The halls carried only the hum of overhead lights. You were in your office, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling as you waited for Seungcheol to finish a meeting with an investor. He always took you home, always.
The clock ticked softly. Your legs were tucked neatly under your desk chair, your mind only half-present, when suddenly the door slammed open.
Jaemin burst in, his voice venomous and sharp.
“You disgusting whore.”
Your head snapped up from your phone, shock coursing through your veins. “Jae?” you whispered, standing and quickly closing your phone. Confusion knitted your brows as you stepped toward him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He sneered, his finger stabbing the air at you. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know everything.”
Your lips parted. You blinked. “Know what? What are you saying?”
“I know about you and that fucker Seungcheol,” he spat, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “I know you’re spreading your legs for him like the little slut you are.”
The words hit like glass shattering against your chest. You stumbled back a step. “That’s not– Jaemin, you don’t understand–”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, dear sister,” he cut you off, his voice louder now, dripping poison. “You’ll never inherit Dad’s company. You know that. So what do you do? You go crawling to the strongest candidate, fucking him to get your way, to get his money. Fucking pathetic.” He jabbed his finger toward your face. “You’re a fucking whore, that’s all you are. A gold-digging whore!”
Tears pricked at your eyes, your throat burning. “I don’t want money, Jaemin!” you cried, voice cracking. “I don’t care about the company. I care about him. We care about each other, and that’s all—”
Jaemin scoffed, shaking his head violently, his lips curling into something cruel. “You expect me to believe that? You expect anyone to believe that?” His voice rose as he stepped closer, towering over you. “I will inherit this company. It’s mine. Rightfully mine, because I am the firstborn son. And you— you’re nothing. A spoiled brat spreading her legs to climb to the top. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
Your back hit the edge of your desk, and you shook your head furiously, tears finally slipping down your cheeks. “Stop it, please—”
“Pathetic bitch,” he snarled.
Then his hand shot out, clamping around your throat.
You gasped, choking, your hands flying up to claw at his grip. The pressure burned, cut off your air, your nails scratching desperately at his skin. Your legs kicked against the carpet as you tried to pry his hand away.
“You think you can fool anyone with this little act?!” Jaemin roared, spittle flying from his lips as he leaned in close. “You’re nothing but a stain on this family, always were, always will be! You spoiled fucking brat!”
You struggled, your lungs screaming for air, vision blurring at the edges. Your nails dug into his wrist, but his grip only tightened, his curses slicing into your ears.
Meanwhile, Seungcheol had just finished his meeting, his steps purposeful as he made his way down the hall to your office. But the moment the door swung open, his world split in two.
He froze.
He saw you; his girl, his everything, being choked by your own brother.
Then Jaemin’s hand released you only to crack across your cheek, the slap echoing like a gunshot, sending you crumpling to the ground. You stayed down, your head bowed, gasping, fighting to catch your breath.
Seungcheol saw red.
His chest erupted with fury, his mind clouded with nothing but violence. Before Jaemin could even step back, Seungcheol lunged. His fist collided with Jaemin’s jaw, the impact cracking through the air. Jaemin stumbled, hitting the ground hard.
“You motherfucker!” Seungcheol roared, standing over him, his voice raw with rage. “You dare lay your filthy hands on her?!”
Jaemin spat blood to the side, then actually had the audacity to smirk. “What? You her knight in shining armor now?” he taunted, his voice hoarse but still cutting. “You’re nothing but a dog on a leash, Seungcheol. She’s got you wrapped around her finger, just like every other man.”
The words snapped something inside Seungcheol. He dropped down, pinning Jaemin beneath him as his fists rained down again and again, each punch harder than the last.
“You think you can talk about her like that?!” Seungcheol growled, his knuckles splitting open. “You think you can put your hands on her and live to breathe another fucking day?!”
Blood smeared across Jaemin’s face, his laugh bubbling through broken teeth. “Look at you,” he coughed out, “pathetic. Throwing punches for a spoiled brat. She’ll ruin you, just like she ruins everything.”
Seungcheol’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Another punch landed. “If you ever touch her again, I swear to God, Jaemin, I will kill you. You hear me? I will end you.”
You sat frozen on the floor, your cheek blazing red, a bruise already forming on your neck. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just watched as Seungcheol tore into your brother with nothing but fury in his eyes.
Finally, Seungcheol rose, his chest heaving, his fists dripping with blood. He pointed down at Jaemin, his voice low and lethal. “Get the fuck out of here. Before I do something worse.”
Jaemin wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, then smirked again, mocking even as he staggered to his feet. He raised both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Have it your way.” He spat on the floor, blood staining the carpet. “But this isn’t over.”
With that, he limped out, leaving silence in his wake.
Seungcheol turned to you. You were staring at him with tear-streaked eyes, your breathing uneven, your cheek flaming red, your throat marred with darkening bruises. His rage melted instantly, replaced by something softer, protective. He dropped to his knees beside you, cupping your face gently despite the tremble in his hands.
“Baby,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re alright. He won’t touch you again.”
Your lips quivered, your tears spilling fresh. You looked up at him, your voice small, broken. “He hurt me, Cheollie… he hurt me.” And then you broke into sobs.
Seungcheol’s chest cracked wide open. He gathered you against him instantly, cooing softly. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you. He’s gone now, you’re safe. I won’t let him touch you again. I promise, I swear on my life.” His lips pressed against your temple, his arms tight but gentle.
You sobbed into his chest, your body trembling as hiccups shook you. He rocked you slowly, whispering over and over. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here. You’re safe with me. Always.”
Then, without hesitation, he slid his arms under you and lifted you up bridal style. You instinctively clung to him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, your tears soaking into his shirt. He stood, striding to your desk with you in his arms, snatching your phone and purse with one free hand before heading for the door.
You sobbed into his neck. “I’m scared… I didn’t know my own brother could do that to me…”
His voice hardened, but his tone to you was soft, reassuring. “You don’t need to be scared, little dove. Not when I’m here. I’ll take care of everything. He won’t get away with this. I promise you.” He pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’ll protect you. Forever and always.”
He carried you out of the office, down the empty hall, and out into the night. His strides were long, purposeful, his arm never loosening. When he reached his car, he settled you gently in the passenger seat, buckling you in himself, his fingers brushing over your trembling hands.
“You’re not staying there tonight,” he said firmly as he closed your door and slid into the driver’s seat. His knuckles whitened around the wheel, his jaw tense as stone. “You’re staying with me. I won’t allow you to sleep under the same roof as that bastard.”
The car ride was quiet but heavy. You hiccupped and sniffled, exhaustion dragging at your eyelids as Seungcheol’s voice filled the space. His words were steady, repeated like a vow. “Everything will be fine. I’ll fix this. You don’t have to worry anymore. Sleep, baby. I’ve got you. Always.”
Slowly, your breathing evened out, your tears drying as sleep took you.
Seungcheol kept his eyes on the road, but his jaw was locked, his knuckles pale from gripping the wheel so tightly. Every muscle in his body burned with fury. Finally, he reached over, grabbing his phone and pressing it to his ear.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then a calm voice answered.
“Seungcheol, you called.”
His tone was cold, sharp, merciless. “Wonwoo. I need you to do something for me.”
viii. THE PERFECT MASKED EXECUTION
Jaemin’s mind was running a hundred miles per hour as he gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles had turned bone white. His breaths came in ragged gasps, chest rising and falling like a man drowning in his own fury.
The sting from his split lip mixed with the hot burn of humiliation; Seungcheol’s punches still echoed through his skull. Blood dripped down his chin, streaking over the collar of his designer suit, staining it with a grotesque reminder of the shame he’d suffered tonight. It splattered on the leather interior of his expensive car, the sharp scent of iron mixing with the faint notes of cologne lingering in the air.
Every drop only fueled his anger.
When he finally pulled up to the estate, he didn’t bother to pull into the driveway. He slammed the brakes hard, jerking the car to the curb, and threw the door open with a snarl. His shoes hit the ground in heavy, uneven strides as he stormed toward the towering doors of the family home, the place that had always been his fortress.
Tonight it felt like a coffin.
The halls echoed with silence as he rushed through them, fists clenched, his jaw tight. His pulse thundered in his ears, every beat chanting Seungcheol’s name. By the time he reached his room, he was panting, chest heaving with rage.
The moment he pushed open the door, his eyes fell to the desk. Papers were scattered everywhere; his research, his lifeline, his one advantage.
Documents detailing Choi Seungcheol’s sins: shady deals buried deep, violent altercations hushed by bribes, money trails that could land him in jail. Jaemin lunged forward, hands shaking as he swept the papers into a pile and stuffed them into his leather bag with manic urgency.
Jaemin’s only thought was to get out, expose Seungcheol before he could make his next move.
But then…
Click.
Jaemin froze.
The cold press of metal at the back of his head sent ice down his spine. His blood turned to stone, his body locked in place. Then came the voice; deep, muffled through some kind of distortion. It was low, calm, and cruel.
“Tsk, tsk… look at you,” the voice tutted, mocking. “So desperate. So pitiful. I almost feel sorry for you.”
Jaemin’s throat closed, his breaths shallow. His voice came out hoarse, shaking despite his attempt at control.
“W-Who are you? What… what do you want?”
A chuckle hummed behind him, slow and deliberate. “Why don’t you turn around and find out.”
His body refused him at first, every nerve screaming to stay frozen, but his legs betrayed him.
Slowly, rigidly, Jaemin turned.
And there he was.
A tall man in all black stood before him. Broad shoulders, muscular frame, every inch of him cloaked in darkness. But it was the mask that rooted Jaemin’s feet to the ground, the full face of a red skull, grotesque and grinning, reflecting the dim light of the room.
The masked man tilted his head and laughed, the sound hollow behind the distortion. “So obedient. So pathetic. I thought you’d put up more of a fight, but… here you are, shaking like a child.”
Jaemin’s nostrils flared as he straightened, trying to disguise the fear clenching his gut. His voice sharpened, though it cracked at the edges.
“What do you need? Money? Is that it? I can give you money.”
The man shook his head slowly, deliberately. “Not here for money.” A pause. “I’m here… for a friend.”
The words hit like a riddle. Jaemin’s heart stumbled, his brows furrowed. “A… friend? Who the hell– what are you talking about?”
The masked man stepped closer, his boots heavy on the polished floor. “You wouldn’t understand. He told me you wouldn’t.” A long, low laugh. “Said you’d be too stupid to figure it out.”
Jaemin’s anger flared through the fear. His teeth ground as he snapped, “Answer me straight, damn it! What the fuck do you want?!”
The masked man leaned in, close enough for Jaemin to see his own trembling reflection in the glossy surface of the red skull. “What I want?” he echoed, almost playfully. Then his tone dropped, eerie and final. “I want you… to remember this moment.”
Before Jaemin could reply, footsteps echoed behind him. He spun, his stomach flipping.
Another figure had entered.
This one tall as well, clad in black from head to toe, but his mask was silver, the same grinning skull carved into its design.
Jaemin barely had time to register the glimmer of metal at the man’s side.
A bat.
Then—
BAM!
The blow crashed against his skull, pain exploding like fire through his head. His knees buckled, vision went black. He hit the floor, unconscious before he could even curse.
The man in the red mask crouched and hefted Jaemin’s limp body over his shoulder like he was nothing more than a sack of garbage. Without hesitation, the two men strode out of the room, their boots striking the floor with eerie confidence, as if they’d walked these halls a thousand times.
The man in the silver mask tilted his head toward the ceiling as they passed. Surveillance cameras lined the corners, their tiny lights dark, disabled. He let out a dry chuckle under his breath. “Perfect.”
Together, they moved down the corridor until they stood before the large wooden double doors of the patriarch’s office.
The red mask lifted his leg and kicked hard.
The doors flew open.
Inside, your father sat at his desk, papers neatly arranged, his glasses perched low on his nose. At the sudden intrusion, he jolted upright. His eyes widened in shock.
“What the hell is this?!” he barked. His voice thundered across the room as he shot to his feet. “Who are you? What do you want? Get out of my house this instant, or I’m calling the police!”
The red mask dropped Jaemin’s unconscious body onto the carpet with a thud.
Your father’s face twisted in horror. “What did you do to him?!”
No answer.
The red mask raised his hand, gun glinting in the dim light.
Bang!
Your father staggered back.
Bang!
His knees buckled.
Bang!
Blood sprayed across the mahogany desk.
Bang!
The fourth shot landed straight between his brows. His body slumped back into the chair, lifeless, eyes open but empty.
The silver mask calmly stepped forward. With deliberate precision, he lifted the bat he carried earlier and pressed it into your father’s lifeless hand, holding it there for a moment before letting it drop beside the corpse’s feet with a heavy thud.
The red mask seized Jaemin’s body once again, dragging him forward until he slumped into the chair opposite his father. With meticulous care, he forced the unconscious boy’s hand around the gun and left it there.
Minutes ticked by.
Eventually, Jaemin groaned, stirring.
The red mask’s hand slipped into his pocket, pulling out a phone.
He dialed.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
The man’s voice changed instantly; concerned, frantic, breathless.
“H-hello? Yes– yes, my friend and I, we were walking down Delaney Street… we… we heard gunshots! From inside the house! We– we didn’t know what to do, we were so scared, we just ran– please, you have to send someone, right now!”
“Sir, calm down. We’ve dispatched a unit. Stay safe.”
“O-okay, thank you! Thank you!”
He hung up.
A groan echoed through the office. Jaemin’s eyelids fluttered as he slowly came to. His head pounded, his vision swam. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. He blinked, sat up—
And froze.
His father’s lifeless body sat across from him, blood dripping down his forehead.
“No…” Jaemin gasped, stumbling back. He stood so quickly the chair screeched against the floor. His hand suddenly felt heavy. He looked down—
The gun.
“No– no, no, no!” He dropped it instantly, the clatter deafening in the silent room.
His head whipped around, and there they were. The red mask. The silver mask. Watching.
Jaemin’s voice cracked as he screamed, spittle flying. “WHAT DID YOU DO?! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!” He repeated it, over and over, desperation breaking his voice.
Sirens wailed in the distance, flashing red and blue lights growing nearer until they painted the office walls.
Before Jaemin could speak again, the red mask’s fist slammed into his jaw. Pain exploded, sending him sprawling onto the carpet.
Upstairs, footsteps thundered. The silver mask tore into Jaemin’s room, sweeping every damning document he’d compiled on Seungcheol into a bag. At the same time, the red mask planted new papers; fraud accounts, stolen stocks, fabricated evidence of embezzlement… every page spelling Jaemin’s downfall.
By the time the police banged on the front door, the two men had slipped silently through a window, vanishing into the night.
They sprinted to a car parked in the shadows, slid inside. The red mask gripped the wheel, the silver mask flipped open a laptop on his lap, fingers flying across the keys as code filled the screen.
From a safe distance, they watched the estate come alive with sirens. Police shouting, battering down the doors, storming inside. Minutes later, two figures emerged; one body bag carried solemnly by officers, and Jaemin, wrists cuffed tightly, dragged into the flashing lights.
The red mask smirked beneath his disguise, then turned the key.
The car sped off into the night.
After several minutes, both men tore the masks away. One’s calm eyes glinted in the glow of the laptop, while the other leaned back, grinning like a wolf.
The one on the passenger seat dialed on his phone.
The line rang once.
Twice.
Then a voice answered.
“So?”
“It’s done, Seungcheol,” He said evenly.
Across the city, Seungcheol leaned back against the headboard of his bed, shirtless. You lay curled against his chest, your breaths soft and steady as you slept, his arm wrapped protectively around you. A smile tugged at his lips as he chuckled lowly.
“I owe you, Wonwoo.”
“What about me?” Another voice cut in.
“I don’t remember asking you for help, Mingyu,” Seungcheol replied flatly. “You’re just a bloodthirsty psycho.”
“Coming from you,” Mingyu shot back, sharp and smug.
Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed, but his voice was calm. “Everything went according to plan?”
“One is dead,” Mingyu said bluntly, his laugh dark and unrestrained. “And one’s about to be the talk of the country tomorrow.”
Wonwoo’s voice followed, cool and precise. “Everything went smooth. I disabled all surveillance cameras inside the estate, outside, and every neighboring house within a block. No one saw a thing.”
Seungcheol hummed low, satisfaction vibrating in his chest as his fingers traced absent circles along your arm. “Good. Thank you, both of you.”
He ended the call, slipping the phone onto the nightstand. His gaze dropped to you, sleeping soundly against him, trusting him completely.
A slow grin spread across his face.
Everything was falling into place.
Tomorrow, the world would burn and you would be his.
Just as he had planned.
ix. THE LAST CURTAIN CALL
The next morning, you wake in a world on fire, yet in his arms, it feels like quiet.
The sheets are warm, heavy, carrying the scent of Seungcheol’s home, his skin, his breath lingering from the night before. His chest is solid against your back, his arm banded around your waist in a grip that feels protective, possessive, immovable.
The sun bleeds weakly through the curtains, but it’s the television that floods the room with light and noise.
You don’t move. You don’t want to. The cadence of his breathing anchors you, and for a moment it’s almost enough to believe you’ve woken into safety. His embrace feels like an answer your body has been craving without realizing it, his presence wrapping you in something that feels more permanent than walls, heavier than bloodlines.
Home.
On the screen before you, the world gnaws itself apart.
“Breaking news this morning,” the anchor announces, voice smooth but cutting. The camera flashes to the sprawling family estate barricaded with yellow tape, authorities crowding in and out of the gates, flashes from news cameras breaking through the gray morning. “The patriarch of the multibillion conglomerate SVT was found dead late last night in his home office. Officials confirm he sustained four gunshot wounds.”
You don’t blink.
Seungcheol’s grip only tightens around you, silent.
“They have also revealed that a metal bat was recovered at the scene, bearing the victim’s fingerprints. Police officials suggest the deceased may have attempted to defend himself before succumbing to gunfire. His eldest son, Jaemin was taken into custody last night, escorted in handcuffs following a violent confrontation. He was found at the home in possession of the firearm bearing his fingerprints. Blood on the recovered bat has been matched to his DNA.”
The screen shows Jaemin bruised, swollen, stumbling as police drag him through flashing lights and yelling reporters. He looks monstrous. You don’t flinch. Not even when the footage cuts back to the anchor’s tight, professional expression.
“Further evidence suggests found in the estate, a history of financial misconduct. Documents discovered in his private study indicate possible tax fraud and diversion of company assets. Sources close to the investigation believe these allegations may have motivated his actions.”
Seungcheol exhales through his nose, sharp. His other hand is on the phone, voice low but thrumming with controlled anger as he speaks into it. His thumb rubs your arm absently, a contradiction in touch.
“No,” he snaps, his voice edged. “Listen to me, this company will not collapse because of that bastard’s stupidity. The board will convene tonight. You’ll get the statement drafted, I’ll handle the press. We are not letting outsiders control the narrative. Do you understand?”
You listen in silence, curled in his arms, staring at your actual home swarmed with police on the television screen.
“And now on developing news,” the anchor continues. “Following this story, we have obtained exclusive CCTV footage leaked from the company headquarters by an anonymous source. Warning, some viewers may find this content disturbing.”
The clip cuts in, grainy, the boardroom office. You. Jaemin. His hand at your throat, squeezing, shoving your back into the desk. The sharp crack of his palm across your face. The grainy black-and-white version of you struggling, choking, your own face barely recognizable in distress before Seungcheol appears, dragging him off you, the image freezing there.
The anchor’s voice overlays, calm and clinical, “This footage, verified by multiple sources, suggests the possibility that the oldest heir may have been physically abusive toward his younger sister. While the extent of this alleged abuse remains under investigation, speculation has arisen that his motive for murder may have been tied to his attempts to seize control of the SVT conglomerate at any cost.”
The words slice cleanly.
You stare, unmoving, but suddenly your body betrays you, warm tears begin to slide down your cheeks. Slowly at first, then spilling faster, the noise of the television blurring into the sound of your shallow breaths.
Seungcheol notices instantly. His head turns; his eyes are sharp, burning, but his mouth softens when he looks at you. He mutters one final line into the phone, his tone cutting, final, a growl that leaves no room for argument.
“Get it done or get out of my way.”
The phone hits the nightstand with a sharp thud, and then his hand is on your cheek, brushing away the tears that keep coming. His voice dips low, gentle, almost coaxing.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You can’t. Your chest shudders, the sob finally breaking free. “H-how could this happen?” Your words stumble, your throat burning. “How could I believe he would– he would do something like this? My da– my dad is gone—”
Seungcheol pulls you up, presses your face into his chest, his hand stroking through your hair, down your spine. “Shh. Don’t do this to yourself, baby. Don’t you dare blame yourself for the monsters they chose to be. Your father…” His voice cracks sharp, then steadies into something smoother, a lie wrapped in velvet. “Your father couldn’t protect you. Your brother never wanted to. But me? I’ll never let anything touch you. Do you hear me? Never.”
You sob harder, your fists clutching at his shirt. “If I was home last night… if I was there—” Your voice fractures into hysteria. “What would he have done to me, Cheollie? What if he killed me too? What if— what if—”
“Stop.” His tone hardens, but his hand is firm, steady on your back. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it. I would never let that happen. He will pay for what he’s done, you hear me? He’ll rot in jail for it. And you…” He tilts your chin up, forcing your teary eyes to meet his. His voice lowers, possessive, absolute. “You are safe. With me. Only with me.”
Your voice comes out small, almost childlike through your sobbing. “You promise? You’ll protect me?”
His thumb wipes under your eye, slow. He smiles, faint but sharp, his eyes burning with something closer to hunger than tenderness. “I already am, angel. You’re mine now. And no one will ever hurt what’s mine.”
After a few minutes after you two fell in comfortable silence, Seungcheol squeezed your arm and broke the silence.
“You should come to the meeting tonight,” he says. His voice is soft, persuasive. “You need to be seen, baby. We’ll go to the office together. It’s better that people see you… see the truth. The footage, the bruises, they’ll understand. The press will help. It’ll make Jaemin’s lies crumble faster.”
You press your palm to your chest as if to steady the frantic beat beneath. The office had dozen memories you can’t face today; the idea of leaving Seungcheol’s house feels like stepping off a cliff. “I don’t want to go, Cheollie.” you whisper. The words tremble out, small and honest.
He tips your chin up with a thumb like it’s the most natural, simple thing. “You don’t have to be brave for anyone but yourself,” he says. There’s a pause, then the softer edging of a plan. “But for this… please. Let them see what he did. Let them see you. Let them know. We need the world to feel the truth. For you. For me. For justice.”
You find yourself thinking, absurdly, that he is the only one using the word justice who doesn’t sound clinical. You nod because the nod is easier than arguing. “Okay,” you say, small.
“But promise… you won’t leave me. Not for a second,” you add, eyes wide and childlike with fear.
His face softens. “I promise. I’ll be right there. Every step, my dove.” He leans down to press a quick kiss above your temple and then he moves, purposeful and precise, to get you ready.
When you arrive the cameras are a living wall.
Flashbulbs pop like small, impatient fireworks. Reporters cluster at the gate, their voices a constant tide of questions. Seungcheol moves like someone who has rehearsed this choreography a thousand times; close to you, intercepting microphones with a shoulder, guiding you with a hand at the small of your back. You keep your sunglasses on because you’re not ready to map your face for every headline.
A reporter shouts, “Miss, how are you holding up?” A camera lens swings to you. You feel the weight of a thousand eyes and then the solid presence of Seungcheol’s hand squeezing your wrist. He leans in to the nearest reporter, cold and fast. “No comments. Move back.” His tone is not rude so much as iron-clad; the press takes two steps back without arguing.
He will not let anyone come near you. When a stranger reaches out, an older woman who wants to touch your sleeve, Seungcheol’s hand shifts like a blind barrier, blocking it gently but deliberately. “We appreciate your concern,” he tells her, voice smooth, and then to you, low, “Breathe, my love. Keep your sunglasses on. Let them see the bruise. They need to see.”
You want to hide the line on your neck. You reach instinctively for the silk scarf in your bag, but his fingers close around your wrist and stop you, soft but firm. “No.” The one-syllable absolute is not cruel; he makes it strategy. “If people see, they’ll know what he did. It helps.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd when they notice the faint red crescent at your jaw and the darker purple beginning to bloom along your neck. Hollow sympathies and blunt outrage fold over one another: “Oh my god, look at her.” “How could he?” “She’s so brave.”
You feel oddly buoyed by the chorus; pity is proof, pity is recognition, pity is evidence the world acknowledges what you felt alone.
Inside the meeting room a few floors up, the board members assemble around the long table. You sit close to Seungcheol who was on your father’s chair, as he has asked, as the rest of the room settles into the business of damage control. He pulls your fingers through his and interlaces them in his lap, his hand large and steady over yours.
The conversation is airless, taut with numbers and reputation.
The CFO opens with the facts, “We need to control the narrative. The footage is circulating; the tabloids will run their own versions. We’ll issue a statement tonight, legal will contact family counsel, and security will audit all internal operations.”
A senior director adds his voice practiced, “We also need a clear succession plan. The market hates uncertainty. We propose an interim CEO, a clean face, someone who can stabilize investor confidence.”
A board member looks at Seungcheol. “You’ve been the operator, if anyone can steady the ship, it’s you.”
Another voice, lower, suggests another tack: “There’s merit to considering now that Jaemin is out the picture, the only daughter as the rightful heir, given recent events. Legally she is a primary family member, and it would show a continuity that may mollify certain stakeholders.”
You feel the table spin for a fraction of a second. The suggestion is courteous, almost shockingly fair on paper, but it feels like a test you had no intention of passing.
“No,” you say immediately, before you can measure the consequences.
The word comes out quick and final. Heads turn.
Seungcheol looks at you; the corner of his mouth lifts like a question. “Are you sure, baby?” he asks quietly.
You take a breath that trembles with memory of your father’s eyes when he treated you like an ornament, of your own clumsy attempts at the office, and of how badly this life pinched at the edges of you. “Yes,” you answer. “He trained you, Cheol. My father trusted you. You have been his COO for years. He would want you to lead. This business… it’s not for me.” The admission is small but fierce.
You feel faintly like a child handing someone else a crown.
Seungcheol’s reply is quiet and confident. “I understand.” His hand squeezes yours before placing a kiss on the back of it.
Later, in the privacy of your chest, he will call this modesty. In the present, it simply feels like relief.
The board continued and discusses logistics; legal filings, press strategy, the expected fallout.
A vote is taken. A few members voice the obvious; “Seungcheol has proven himself; he should be interim CEO.” A couple murmur about governance and optics.
The decision was made quick, Choi Seungcheol, interim leader; he accepts the position with a humility that looks practiced and true; he speaks of stewardship, stability, and protecting the company’s legacy.
When the meeting needed and when other executives leave, their shoes hollowing away down the corridor, the room closes in smaller and softer. Seungcheol pulls you into his lap, your body instinctively folding against him, he then tugs a stray hair behind your ear with the devotion of someone blessing a small victory.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs, voice thick with something that could be gratitude or feigned humility. “Did I do well?”
You blink at the question, and he laughs softly, self-deprecating but proud. “You were perfect,” you tell him, voice almost a whisper.
He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, fingers braced at the back of your head. “Will I do good?” he asks, seeking the approval like a man who needs it to be true.
“Yes,” you reply without thinking.
Your voice is small and certain. You mean it, the way he has maneuvered the world for you, the way he has kept you close, has created a private sky in which he is the only power. You want to believe him worthy.
He is worthy.
Seungcheol smiles, then closes the distance in a practiced move, lips meeting yours. The kiss is swift and exact at first, it softens into slow, insistent, his mouth mapping yours with patient ownership. His hands caressed; one at the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your skull, guiding, steadying. You respond because you are exhausted and because his mouth promises a hush. The kiss deepens; his tongue is deliberate, exploring rather than racing, coaxing you into compliance.
When he pulls back, the air around you feels smaller and warmer. He rests his forehead against yours again.
“Everything will be alright, angel,” he says, voice low and certain. “It’s all falling into place.”
You make a small sound; half sigh, half hum, and sink into him, the sound of it a confirmation.
In his arms, with his word, the world narrows to two people and a plan that will not let anything touch you unless he allows it.
And soon, the trial finally came.
The trial comes like a storm you can’t avoid.
Weeks of preparation collapse into a single morning; suits, papers, microphones, cameras flashing outside the courthouse doors. Inside, the air hums with tension, lawyers setting up files, the low murmur of the audience, the scrape of chairs, the judge’s gavel calling order.
You sit stiffly, your hands folded tight in your lap, Seungcheol’s presence at your side a steady, quiet anchor.
The prosecution begins, voices calm but sharp.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is not one of speculation. The evidence will show that Mr. Jaemin, motivated by greed and resentment, not only abused his younger sister but also murdered his own father in a desperate bid for power.”
The defense counters quickly, their tone crisp, controlled.
“The prosecution will try to paint my client as a monster. But we intend to show he is a victim of circumstance, wrongfully accused, framed by a chain of coincidences and circumstantial evidence. We will show the lack of direct proof linking him to this heinous act.”
The words weave through the courtroom like smoke. You sit silently, each sentence adding weight to your chest.
When the judge calls your name, your stomach knots. You stand and walk to the witness stand, every step deliberate. The oath feels heavy on your tongue, but you speak it. And then you’re seated in the booth, hands trembling in your lap, eyes seeking out Seungcheol across the courtroom. He looks at you like always; steady, reassuring, his gaze warm enough to melt the fear.
The prosecutor starts.
“Miss, can you describe your relationship with your brother, Jaemin?”
Your throat tightens. But you speak.
“He is my brother but… he’s always been… angry with me. I never understood why. Ever since we were children, it felt like I was someone he resented the most.”
“And in recent years? Did that anger escalate?”
“Yes.” You hiccup slightly. “Recently, he’s been hitting me. Sometimes slapping me, choking me. He’d wait until no one was around. I tried to ignore it, but it only got worse.”
You steal a glance at Seungcheol. His eyes shine with something fierce, something like pride. The sight steadies you.
The prosecutor presses on.
“Do you recall an incident when your father discussed the company’s succession plan with you and your brother?”
Your lips part, and the lie forms smoothly now.
“Yes. My dad once proposed I take over after him. Jaemin knew that I have no interests in the business, yet… he didn’t take it well. He dragged me by the hair, screamed at me, called me unfit. He–he verbally abused me, over and over.”
A lie.
A murmur ripples through the courtroom. The defense lawyer rises quickly.
“Objection. Speculative and inflammatory.”
The judge bangs the gavel. “Overruled. The witness will continue.”
Your voice wavers but doesn’t break.
“He’s always been ambitious. He wanted the company more than anything. And when Father suggested me, he never forgave me for it.”
The prosecutor nods solemnly. “No further questions.”
The defense steps forward, eyes sharp.
“Miss, you expect us to believe your brother— a man respected in business circles, physically assaulted you for years and no one noticed? No staff, no relatives, no one?”
You swallow.
“He… he knew when to stop. He knew how to hide it. And I never said anything. I was afraid.”
The lawyer leans closer. “Afraid, or lying?”
Your chest seizes. Before you can form an answer, a chair scrapes violently. Jaemin shoots to his feet, his voice shattering through the chamber.
“Liar! You’re lying! Why are you lying?!”
Your body folds in on itself, a sob breaking loose as you cower in the booth. Tears stream down your face as the judge slams the gavel.
“Order in the court! Mr. Jaemin, you will sit down immediately or be held in contempt!”
Guards press him back into his chair, his chest heaving with rage.
You choke out words between sobs. “I—I didn’t want to say it. But it’s the truth. He’s hurt me for years.”
The jury watches with wide eyes. The prosecutor’s face is set in stone, calm and satisfied.
Witnesses are called one after another.
Former staff. Associates. Neighbors. They speak of muffled arguments, strange bruises, doors slammed shut, Jaemin’s temper and his jealousy.
Their testimonies weave seamlessly into the picture already painted.
You sit frozen in your seat, confusion threading through your mind. You never expected this; so many voices, so much support for lies you thought were only yours. But each time your doubt flickers, your gaze drifts sideways to Seungcheol. He doesn’t look at you… he’s watching the witnesses, calm, almost smug.
Evidence is paraded before the jury: the murder weapon with Jaemin’s fingerprints, financial documents tracing fraud directly to him, CCTV footage of him storming the estate.
The defense fights, but their arguments crumble against the weight of the case built brick by brick.
Finally, the judge calls the jury back. The courtroom stills as the foreman stands.
“We, the jury, find the defendant, Jaemin… guilty of murder in the first degree. Guilty of aggravated assault. Guilty of fraud.”
The gavel cracks once, final and echoing.
“You are hereby sentenced to life in prison.”
Chaos erupts.
Jaemin thrashes as guards seize his arms, his voice breaking with fury.
“No! You liars! You fucking liars! You’ll burn for this! Both of you! Fuck you!”
He kicks, he screams, his words tangled in curses as he’s dragged in chains across the floor. The courtroom watches, stunned, horrified.
Beside you, Seungcheol shifts. He leans in, presses a kiss against your forehead, unshaken and protective. His hand rests firm at the back of your neck.
Relief floods you, sharp and dizzying. But beneath it, winding through the cracks of your soul, is something else; dark, foreign, and strangely sweet.
As Jaemin is hauled away, spitting venom and thrashing against his restraints, you feel it rise in you.
A satisfaction. Sinister, heavy, intoxicating.
You sit very still, tears cooling on your cheeks, and watch your brother vanish through the doors, screaming, cursing, chained; knowing deep inside you that part of you doesn’t grieve his downfall at all.
The last final thing to end this whole story… is the funeral.
The funeral comes on a gray morning, the sky heavy with clouds that seem to hang low enough to suffocate. Black cars line the driveway of the cemetery chapel, their polished surfaces reflecting the pale light.
Inside, the room is full of friends, family, colleagues, every one of them dressed in dark mourning clothes, their faces painted with grief. The air smells of incense and wilting flowers, a blend so thick it clings to the back of your throat.
You stand there in the middle of it all, Seungcheol’s hand wrapped firmly around yours. His grip never falters, not once. Every person who approaches dips their head, voice low, the same refrain repeated again and again.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“He was a great man.”
“My condolences.”
The words blur together, a drone of pity you can no longer bear to hear. You nod politely, sometimes bow slightly, but inside you are exhausted. Tired of the sympathy. Tired of the murmured apologies. Tired of all of them looking at you as though you’re fragile glass ready to crack.
Seungcheol shields you with his presence, tall and steady at your side. His thumb strokes across the back of your hand absentmindedly, grounding you when the faces and voices start to blur too much. Not once does he let you go; not when you move from the entrance to the front pew, not when you sit, not when people file past you with their tears and rehearsed words. He is there, his warmth constant against your palm.
The ceremony stretches on, hymns echoing against the walls, the low hum of prayers filling the air. People cry; loud, soft, broken sobs echoing all around you. You watch as shoulders shake, as tissues are pressed to red eyes, as your father is remembered with reverence, his power, his influence, his supposed greatness.
But you… you don’t cry.
You can’t.
All you can do is think.
You think about the irony of it all.
How you grew up with everything; money, power, fame. A family name that carried weight wherever you went. You had the mansion, the cars, the legacy. You had your father, your brother, your mother.
Yet somehow, you always felt alone.
Your mother tried to fix that, for a while. She gave you warmth, the only real warmth you ever knew in that house. And then she was gone. Your father dismissed you, shoved you aside like you were little more than an afterthought. And your brother… despised you, hated you with a passion you never understood.
You had everything.
But you were always alone.
As the ceremony nears its end, you lean your head gently against Seungcheol’s shoulder. His suit is crisp, his cologne faint but grounding. The solid weight of him beneath your cheek anchors you more than anything else in this room.
And it hits you, so sharp and so cruelly ironic that now, with your whole family gone, you don’t feel alone at all.
Because you have him.
Seungcheol.
He holds your hand like it’s a lifeline, like he’ll never let go. He turns his head slightly, presses his lips against your hairline for the briefest second, and even in the silence of the chapel you hear him breathe with you, steady and calm.
More than enough. That’s what he is. More than enough to fill the empty spaces your family left behind. More than enough to make you believe you were never meant to stand with them but with him.
And as you sit there, in the last rows of mourning, surrounded by grief yet cocooned in his presence, the truth whispers itself to you in the cruelest clarity:
Now, with your father in the ground, your brother behind bars for life, and every tie to your blood severed, he had you completely; your hand in his, your head on his shoulder, your whole world folded neatly into his control.
x. HOWLING IN SILENCE
You didn’t regret it.
Not for a second.
Not when you looked back on it all, not when the echoes of people’s condolences still lingered, not when the weight of your father’s funeral still hung in the air.
No… there was not a trace of remorse inside you.
You remembered it clearly, like the first flicker of a match catching fire.
The very first time you saw Seungcheol wasn’t in your father’s office as he later thought. It was years before, in New York, during spring break. You had slipped into that party like any other restless daughter of privilege, but the second your eyes found him across the crowded room, everything stilled. He didn’t see you, too busy laughing low at something his friends whispered in his ear but you saw him.
The way the soft amber light of the chandeliers slid across his jawline. The way his posture screamed control, shoulders squared, head slightly dipped in quiet dominance. The way women leaned closer when he spoke, like moths to flame, and the way men straightened their backs when he passed, instinctively aware of the gravity he carried.
You admired the quiet strength in his movements, the elegance wrapped around authority. In that instant, something in you locked into place.
You researched him afterwards. It wasn’t hard; nothing was hard when you had money and connections. And when you found out that he worked for your father, when you realized this man, this magnetic force, was tethered to your world, that’s when it began.
The obsession.
You played the long game. You didn’t act, not yet. You let years pass, because if this was going to work, it had to be perfect. It had to be inevitable.
When the moment finally came, it was under the guise of something so mundane it was laughable.
Your brother had asked you to bring his things to the office.
But you remembered your father at dinner the night before, casually mentioning that Seungcheol would be in for a meeting. So you hid Jaemin’s laptop. His phone. You made sure he’d have no choice but to send you.
You dressed with precision that morning; your very best, the kind of outfit that whispered innocence but clung enough to ensure attention. And when you walked into that office, carrying your brother’s things, you felt it.
His eyes.
The heavy drag of his gaze over your frame.
That was the moment you knew everything was falling into place.
From there, you crafted your role with care. A clumsy slip here, an accidental bump there. You made sure he would have no choice but to protect you. And he did. Every time. His hand steadying your elbow, his voice gently scolding, “Be careful. You’ll hurt yourself, sweetheart.”
The soft glare he’d send to whoever you bumped into, as though he was already imagining peeling their skin from bone for daring to be in your way. You basked in it. In his doting, in his attention, in the way his presence bent toward yours like a shield.
You left your window cracked open on purpose. You dressed in soft, satin nightgowns meant for his eyes alone. You savored the thought of him standing outside, gaze trailing over you in the dark, climbing in when the temptation became too much.
And when your father confronted you, his voice booming as he forbade you from seeing Seungcheol again, you weren’t bothered. His words slid off you like rain.
Still, you cried.
Cried deliberately, knowing Seungcheol was just outside waiting for his meeting, your sobs bleeding into the air so that he’d hear. You crafted your need for him carefully, your words always turned toward reassurance, planting in him the unshakable image of you as something fragile, in need of protection.
Then there was Anna and Chloe.
You had been foolish enough to tell them about Seungcheol, expecting friendship, perhaps envy disguised as teasing. Instead, their eyes glazed with lust, their giggles sharp with hunger.
“He’s hot,” Chloe had whispered, her lip caught between her teeth.
“God, imagine if he looked at us the way he looks at you,” Anna added, laughter bubbling between them.
Your blood boiled.
“You’re disgusting,” you spat, your voice cold.
“Relax,” Chloe snickered, “we’re just saying… maybe we’d have a chance too.”
“You? A chance?” you sneered. “With him? Don’t make me fucking laugh. You’d be lucky if he even glanced at you.”
“At least we don’t throw ourselves around like some desperate little girl,” Anna bit back, eyes narrowing.
The fight escalated.
Words flew sharp as glass, names hurled until silence cut them apart.
When you told Seungcheol later, you didn’t reveal the truth. You didn’t tell him how they’d lusted after him, how the thought alone made you see red. You only told him they had been angry; angry because he was older, because he worked for your father and it was inappropriate.
You kept the mask intact, the perfect picture of naïveté.
But you knew what to do.
You knew exactly what to do.
A few nights later, with Anna and Chloe preparing for their trip to Paris, you picked up your phone. The line clicked, and a familiar, smooth voice answered.
“Hey, princess, what can I help you with?”
You smiled at the sound. “Hannie… can you get rid of some pests for me, pretty please?”
A chuckle, low and amused. “Risky words, pretty girl.”
“Risky job,” you teased back.
He hummed, a note of curiosity in his tone. “Tell me.”
You laid it out for him; who, where, when. Calm, casual, almost playful.
“You know,” he said after a pause, his voice warm with mischief, “I shouldn’t. But I owe you. And honestly, hearing that sweet voice beg? How could I say no?”
“I’ll wire you a million dollars.”
He laughed, soft and wicked. “Is cyanide okay, pretty girl?”
“Just make sure you don’t get caught.”
“Do you remember who you’re talking to?”
“Not Batman, that’s for sure.”
“Hey—” But you hung up before he could finish, your lips curving as the dial tone hummed.
When the news broke a few days later, it was almost beautiful. Anna and Chloe. Dead. Cyanide poisoning. No witnesses. No evidence. No leads. No trail. Nothing.
Clean. Silent. Perfect.
You were impressed… so much so that you sent Jeonghan another million.
And still, you didn’t regret it.
Not at all.
You arranged the final acts with the same slow, careful fingers.
You knew your brother’s temper. You knew the small humiliations that would make him snap. You let the building gossip do the rest; the looks, the little conspiracies. You left your messages where he could see them. You let your smiles happen when he passed. You made sure he overheard. You set the stage and kept your back to the audience, watching the trap tighten.
And he snapped, just like you expected.
Jaemin came at you like a storm, face red, voice tearing the air. The words are carved in your memory; his spit, his fury, the raw hatred you’d lived with and weaponized.
“You think you can fool anyone with this little act?!” Jaemin roared, spittle flying from his lips as he leaned in close. “You’re nothing but a stain on this family, always were, always will be! You spoiled fucking brat!”
You felt his hands on your throat tighten, the fingers like clamps. You felt the heat in your ears and the sudden, electric clarity. This was the moment you had rehearsed in the quiet of your mind. This was the culmination of years of small maneuvers. The choke, the insult, the public display of his rage, you had orchestrated a live confession and left the rest to the cameras and the men you’d lined up.
You struggled, gasping in his hold. The edges of pain sharpened everything, and something inside you tilted into a grin that is sinister and bright. You let a soft, small chuckle out of you, the sound the world would later read as hysteria but which, in that breath, tasted like power.
“You’re right,” you said, quiet and close, so that only he could hear at first. “Once you and Father are out of the picture, Seungcheol will take over. And I…” you lifted your chin, let the contempt curl perfect and icy, “I’ll be the spoiled fucking brat for the rest of my life. I won’t get my pretty little manicured nails dirty, God no. Seungcheol will do everything for me. To him, I’m nothing more than a helpless little creature.” You let the words fall like stones, whispering them into his face, the intimacy of the whisper making the insult sting harder.
Jaemin’s face went white with disbelief and then darker with rage. He could not imagine a daughter of their house speaking like that in front of him, confessing coldly to the machinery of their ruin.
You continued, savoring the confusion in his eyes as if it were a flavor.
“You should know by now, Jae… I always get what I want.” You said it with certainty.
Then Jaemin’s hand released you only to crack across your cheek, the slap echoing like a gunshot, sending you crumpling to the ground. You stayed down, your head bowed, gasping, fighting to catch your breath.
It was perfect.
You knew exactly when to let the wordless theatrics end so the crescendo could begin. He had given you the violent proof you needed. The bruise would show. The audience would see the chaos. The trap closed nicely around the man who had underestimated you for so long.
Seungcheol arrived like he had always promised he would; his entrance was perfect. The office door banged open and then everything moved in a blur of sound and force.
“You motherfucker!” Seungcheol roared, standing over Jaemin, his voice raw with rage. “You dare lay your filthy hands on her?!”
You watched as Seungcheol pivoted into something sharply animal. He struck Jaemin with the brutal focus of someone whose restraint was deliberately chosen and now broken. The room filled with the sounds of fists and flesh.
You felt one small part of yourself tremble with a guilty glee because you had written this script and now your brother lived it. You had to look down once, to stop a laugh from slipping out loud. It was almost obscene how perfectly your plan had folded into the fury of the man you’d curated.
When you looked up again, you couldn’t help but admire Seungcheol. He was all angles and power: the set of his neck, the way his breath fogged across his clenched jaw, the angry puffs that made him look like a god. The sight of his back, his fists, his controlled violence; each movement confirmed what you had known the moment you first noticed him at that party.
He was a predator. He would do the part you had written for him and he did it with relish.
When it was over… for a mercenary definition of over; Seungcheol pulled away and strode to you, and you opened to the trap you had laid. You let the waterworks come. You let the tremor, the small broken voice. It worked exactly as he needed it to.
Your lips quivered, tears streaming raw and generous. You looked up at him and said the line you’d rehearsed in the dark, the one you knew would snap the thread around his heart.
“He hurt me, Cheollie… he hurt me.” And you sobbed, the sound soft and immediate.
You deserved an award, you thought then, a private laugh hidden under the sob.
The performance had been pitch-perfect. Each beat was a note you had composed and he had played to an eager audience. You watched his face change in a way that felt like a vindication of long work. He melted into fury and then into tenderness, the exact swing you’d always planned for him to make.
That night, in Seungcheol’s arms, you felt the moment bloom into its full meaning… he finally snapped. He had the motive now and the will. All the loose ends you had not wanted to touch yourself were suddenly being handled by hands that were precisely the kind you’d wanted—the hands of the wolf.
Because you had not only found his tenderness; you had found his history.
When you first looked into his life, it was not a tidy biography of good grades and steady promotion. You had dug; you paid for more than a few discreet searches, a few favors slipped across oceans, a few phone calls that ended with a laugh and an “I’ll fix it.”
You found corners of Seungcheol’s past that the company dossier did not show him sharing at holiday parties. You found men who whispered names, runs and networks that breathed illegal currency, veiled organizations that ran like veins beneath polite business.
You learned that Seungcheol’s empire had darker tributaries. You laughed quietly at the notion he was only the obedient COO; he had commanded shadows long before you had set your sights on him. He had money with stains. He had reach. He had friends in certain circles, the kind who could make trouble disappear or make it appear exactly where you wanted.
You did not have to get your hands dirty. You were never stupid enough for that. You arranged, you provoked, you telegraphed weakness and flung bait. Seungcheol, hungry and proud in the alpha way men like him were, took the chase. He took the role you handed him: defender, avenger, tyrant unto the enemy. You watched him step into violence with the quiet thrill of a conductor watching an orchestra play the single piece you had scored.
Seungcheol gave you everything, spoiled you, loved you, placed himself between you and every real danger and in return, he unwittingly removed your final obstacles. He executed with the merciless efficiency you had always admired.
Men are predators by design, you had learned.
They hunger for the hunt, the chase, the proof of conquest. You are the kind of woman who taught them to chase, you played the game you had learned to play since childhood; small, desirable, fragile. You flattered their control, fed their need to save and command, breathed surrender in the right moments.
Predators cannot help themselves when you lead them along a path that promises both prey and purpose.
They claim, they protect, they prey.
And when the prey is clever enough, when she knows how to make the hunter feel powerful in the moment he is being used, she becomes the quiet architect of his fall.
You taught Seungcheol to protect you, to take bloody action, to believe the story of your rescue was his doing. You gave him the script and the applause. You let him think the power was his.
Letting the wolf take the lead was the slowest, most satisfying part of all.
He would do the dirty work because he could not resist the role you presented… the man who finally took control, who finally defended what was his.
And while he pumped fists and dealt punishment and later arranged for details you never had to touch, you lay on his chest and allowed yourself a rare, controlled smile. It was secure and quiet. You had made him the weapon and the wielder without dirtying the tips of your nails.
The last truth settled like a soft snow: a predator can be taught to swallow the prey whole if the prey knows the right way to smile. You had played the lamb long enough to earn the wolf’s full hunger. You fed his need to protect while he fed yours to be protected. It was the oldest bargain and the most modern trick, entice the hunter with vulnerability, whisper of need, then point him at the things you want removed.
When the day closed and you pretended to sleep, you listened as his phone buzzed. A single call, clipped and precise, the final note of your arrangement. You breathed in the dark and felt very small and very large at once.
Seungcheol fulfilled the part he’d willingly accepted; you had orchestrated the rest.
You did not regret it. You never would.
You had always known how to make the predator love the idea of his prey and in that love, Choi Seungcheol became the instrument of your will.
You were the quiet wolf in lamb’s clothing, and in the end, the predator was poisoned by the very prey he thought he owned.
The wolf ate, and did not know he had eaten the hand that fed him.
xi. EPILOGUE
The wolf was never the danger.
It was always the prey; the pretty little creature with wide eyes and trembling hands, who smiled just enough, who cried just right, who whispered weakness like a promise.
Men live to hunt, to protect, to conquer. And what is a hunter without something soft to cradle, without a reason to bare his teeth?
So the predator chased, devoured, bled for her. He thought it was his story, his kill, his choice. He thought he had won.
But the lamb only ever wore white because blood shows better on silk.
And when the night was done, and the bodies lay where they should, she smoothed her dress, wiped her tears, and smiled because the wolf never realized he’d been led by the leash all along.
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i want a house with a spare room so my friends and family can stay over. so i can say "oh it's too late to drive home, why don't you stay the night?" i want paintings and photos of the people i love on the wall. i want cats on my bed and on my couch and on my lap. i want my home to be cozy and warm and sunny and full of love. there will be no angry men in my house. i want bright colours and wooden floors and plants in the bathroom. i want to grow my own herbs and have a view of the garden out the kitchen window. i want a fireplace and gauzy curtains. i want mirrors with photos stuck in the edges. i want rooms and rooms of books and shelves of trinkets i've been given or picked up on my travels. i want to hear the birds in the morning and drink coffee on the back deck. i want candles and vintage crockery and lacy tablecloths. i want roses on the windowsill. i want a veranda to host lunches with my neighbours. i want lamps that are different colours and bright carpets and a grand piano. i want a wooden bedframe and the perfect mattress and a quilt i made myself. i want a capsule wardrobe and thrifted shoes by the door. i want a brass knocker in the shape of a sun and a vintage kettle. i want a couch on the porch and wallabies in the backyard. i want a house full of love and warmth and no anger.
synopsis ➳ ❝an arranged marriage with the man the entire land is afraid of. the man with a crimson eye. they call him the grim reaper. cold, ruthless, unforgiving. yet you are drawn to him, curious to see the man hiding behind the cold, hard exterior. and the man behind is hauntingly beautiful but your forever with him is not promised.❞
pairing ➳ husband general!seungcheol/ x wife noblewoman!reader
genre ➳ historical romance (joseon era), angst, pining, smut.
wc ➳ 25.4k + 1040 (patreon)
warnings ➳ blood, mentions of war, scars, minor character death, attachment issues, arranged marriage, mentions of cheating, severe injury, miscommunication. cheol is an ass in the first half, reader is lowkey a simp, jealousy, big dicc cheol, bondage, virgin sex, rough, unprotected sex, fingering, teasing, edging, dirty talking, praise kink.
a/n: this is a work of fiction, so take this with a grain of salt. it will be historically inaccurate, so my apologies beforehand. (also, surprise?? posting it a day early hehe)
glossary:
Jangot – Veil-like cloak for women
Binyeo – Decorative hairpin
Yakgwa – Honey-ginger cookie
Jeonbok – Traditional sleeveless vest for men
Dasik – Pressed tea cookie
Jeogori – Upper garment or jacket
Chima – Skirt worn by women
Baduk – Strategy board game (Go)
Daenggi – Ribbon for braids
Hour of the Ox – 1:00–3:00 AM
Hour of the Tiger – 3:00–5:00 AM
Orabeoni – Respectful term for older brother
+82 some miracle
only listen to my general
“Daughter, this is General Choi Seungcheol, your betrothed. Greet him properly,” your father commands softly, his eyes trained on you.
Your breath stutters in your chest.
Whether from the loaded tension in the air, the silence of the room or your future husband’s penetrating eyes on you, you are unsure.
His eyes…
You saw them once, a long, long time ago, and you remember them in explicit detail because they are heterochromatic. His right iris is red, a shade of fiery crimson that is scary but also hypnotizing—a stark contrast to his left iris, which is pure black.
You wish it were only his eyes that were lethal. Unfortunately for you, it is his presence itself. It is the way he silently sits there, poised and alert, holding his sword in his right hand and softly drumming his left index finger on his knee, as if telling you to hurry up. It is the way his face remains unreadable, a porcelain white canvas containing a pair of eyes fiercer than a mountain lion's, a sharp nose that is slightly crooked on the left, and pink lips that are pressed in a thin line. The most daunting of it all, the scar on the right side of his face, just below his eye and on top of his cheekbone. It is no more than a couple of inches long, but the gash looks deep, even after it has healed and imagining the pain behind that curse rakes shivers down your spine.
Finally, you snap out of your reverie.
With a shaky exhale, you bow down and speak as humbly as possible. “Please accept my greetings, my lord. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
—
Choi Seungcheol is well known throughout the kingdom, highly feared and revered. In fact, many hold him in the same regard as the king, which is not unfair or surprising. He is the Minister of War and the General of the royal military, the right-hand man of the King and his most trusted subject. Since his boyhood, he demonstrated excellent swordsmanship, and paired with his keen intellect and faultless war strategies, he quickly rose through the ranks and became the King's favourite. His name spread far and wide after he brought victory to the nation in two consecutive wars. He attended the first one when he was only eighteen, and he became infamous for that.
That war with the nearby enemy nation was extremely brutal, as it took away the lives of many of the best men in the military. When Seungcheol returned to the capital with the enemy General’s head in his hands, he was a changed man who had altered the course of history. Bloodied, beaten and bruised, he sported the deep scar on his face, fresh and bleeding.
Rumours spread from there. Though he brought the nation victory, the townspeople gossiped about everything from his scar, his crimson eye, to his temper, claiming that he was a madman or possessed by an evil spirit.
You have heard a few things from your father, too. He has agreed that the war changed the man, rightfully so. As the state minister, your father saw firsthand how brutal and merciless the war was till the last moment. So much so that he stepped down from his position afterwards.
He lost his son in the war, after all. Your older brother, whom you vaguely remember because you were only eight at that time.
Nothing was the same after his passing. Your father lost his spark, your mother became quiet and indifferent, and the house fell into a deathly silence that felt haunted. The silence still lingers, fourteen years later.
It has been a long time, so long that sometimes you feel like those days never existed. Yet, you remember them vividly: the pain of your mother’s death four years after your brothers, the remaining light dissipating from your father's eyes and the house falling into a perpetuating state of darkness, a place where everyone remained silent, from the slaves to the master. A place that never truly was illuminated, even during the brightest days of summer. A place that you had to call home but wasn’t your home. It was a graveyard where you floated through, watching the world outside bathe and shine with colours when the second war was won, when the king became the father of a boy, when the economy flourished. Seasons passed and years went by, yet your house never celebrated a holiday or a special occasion.
You saw your father survive each day, haunted by his past and unaware of the present. Every day, he would see students from morning till noon, fulfilling his duties as a scholar before retiring to his room and staying there till the next morning.
The only time you saw some life in him was three years ago, when he called you one day in his chamber to announce that you would get married to Choi Seungcheol once he returned from his three-year trip to another country. Choi Seungcheol, the General of the Royal Military. The man with heterochromatic eyes, who came to your brother’s funeral years ago.
That’s how you have remembered him. The man with two different colored eyes, who stood in the rain with a grim expression on his face as they lowered your brother into the ground.
Over the years, you have heard notorious things about him. He has gained an infamous reputation among the townspeople. Many people believe that he is insane and that he murders people for fun. Word goes around that he is a womanizer, a man without a heart, a man who did not spare his own brother and executed him for treason.
You don’t know how much of this is true.
It all might be true; he just might be the devil living in a human body, but funnily enough, you do not care.
You will do anything to get out of this house. Living here for the past fourteen years has been like being buried alive. You are breathing, yet you don’t feel alive—you don’t remember the last time you felt that way, if ever.
And if a diabolical, insane man is your ticket out of this grave, you will take it. You will accept it with open arms and a smile on your face.
—
The marketplace is crowded.
You gently tread through the throng of people, holding your jangot over your head as you eye the stalls leisurely, nothing in particular catching your attention.
“My lady,” Jihye whispers, walking alongside you. “You have been circling the market for the past half an hour. What are you even looking for?”
A dejected sigh flows past your lips.
Last time you came to the market, a pretty flower binyeo caught your eye. You had not received your salary yet at that time, and so, you could not purchase the piece. You had aimed to buy that binyeo today, but now that you've received your pay, it's no longer available. You have been scouring the market ever since, looking for something similar, but there is none.
“You know what, let us buy some yakgwa and head home,” you say, looking for a snack shop. Jihye smiles, her eyes flickering excitedly at your mention of buying sweets.
A few feet ahead of you, you spot a sweet shop. Instead of focusing on the plethora of sweets laid out, your gaze travels to the right, stopping on two men standing by that shop, their backs facing you.
Something about the tall, broad man dressed in black makes you stop in your tracks. Particularly, his long ebony hair feels oddly familiar to you.
The man shifts a little, and you catch the slightest glimpse of his side profile through the busy street. Immediately, you squeak and hide behind a nearby stall.
It is General Choi, your husband-to-be.
“My lady, what is wrong?” Jihye hovers around you worriedly. Without looking away from the man, you dig into the sleeve of your hanbok, fishing out some coins and handing them to Jihye.
“Here. Go buy as much yakgwa as you want.” You murmur, pushing her towards the shop while you get more comfortable in your hiding spot.
You don’t even know why you are hiding. You did not do anything wrong, and you surely have no reason to spy on your future husband in the middle of a busy marketplace.
Still, you continue observing him converse with the other gentleman. His stance is poised and powerful as always, and dressed head to toe in his signature black military clothes, he looks like death itself. Haunting but hypnotizing; which would explain why you cannot look away.
And then, suddenly, he turns around, locking his eyes with you straight, as if he knew exactly where you were hiding.
With a gasp of mortification and terror, you immediately whip your head away and bump into a passerby. Bowing your head in an apology, you let the woman pass through before tentatively turning your head back to the street.
Choi Seungcheol stands right behind you.
“Ah!” You yelp, taken aback and stumble a few steps behind. He reaches out immediately and grabs your elbow in a flash, saving you from the fall.
Flushed and breathless, you gape at him like a fish out of water.
He has the usual grim and unamused look on his face, peering down at you almost like he is judging you. His hair is tied up in a half bun, and his bangs frame half of his face, covering his odd eye and the scar. It is a shame, you find yourself thinking as you observe the rest of his face, counting the moles on his pale skin.
It is when he lets you go that you realize he had been holding onto you all this time, and you stood there like a statue.
How unladylike!
First, he catches you spying on him, and now—
“My apologies, my Lord.” You immediately take several steps back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. Full of shame, you keep your head low as you murmur, “I was simply startled to see you.”
“It seems that you were spying on me.” His voice is smooth and rich, calm and authoritative. “No!” You gasp. “I was just…um…looking. I thought you…ah…looked somewhat familiar…”
He cocks a thick brow in amusement, the faintest smirk creeping up on his lips.
What are you even saying?
Cringing at your own words, you press your lips shut and scowl at the ground, cursing the heavens for your predicament.
“You are not at the palace today?” He asks. You welcome the change of topic with great relief.
"No, my Lord. I asked for a break from my duties this week as I am preparing for the wedding.”
With no mother or close female relatives, it is up to you to prepare your wedding.
Generally, you do not like skipping work. It has been two months since you secured a job at the palace after a lot of struggle. Your father was not very happy with the idea of you working, especially in the palace, but he ultimately gave in.
You work as a teacher to the children under the head court lady of the palace, teaching them how to read and write while they train to be future court ladies. Sometimes you also work as a bookkeeper for the royal library, but that is something you do voluntarily and out of your love for reading. The pay is not very much, but it gives you a sense of freedom and identity, something you struggled to find for the last twenty-two years.
“Head Court Lady Yeo speaks very highly of you.” General Choi states. You do not understand whether he meant it positively or negatively, given his flat tone. Confused, you chuckle awkwardly. “It is a pleasure to work under her guidance. She is very patient and—”
Suddenly, Seungcheol reaches out to you, grabbing you by the arm and harshly tugging you towards him. Completely oblivious as to what is happening, you bump into his chest as his arms snake around you, protectively holding your body next to his.
Less than half a second later, a man riding a horse whooshes by, yelling out apologies to all the people for his rowdy horse. Dear Lord, you were about to be trampled by a horse if not for him.
“Are you alright?”
His voice makes you look up at him, wide-eyed and panting. It takes a moment for you to realize that he is holding you against his chest, his warm hand resting on your shoulder in a protective grip while your hands rest on his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jeonbok for support.
With your heart pounding loudly in your ears, it takes you yet another moment to remember how inappropriate this is, the way you are pressed against him. In a flash, you free yourself from his hold and shuffle back, murmuring a mortified apology. At the same time, you hate how much you miss his touch on you.
How odd.
“My lady, are you alright!” Jihye comes running down the street, a packet of confectionery in her hands.
“Y-yes, I am okay. Let us get going.” You announce, immediately turning away from General Choi, desperate to escape this mortifying situation.
“Hold on.” The deep baritone of his voice steals a breath from your lips. Your body instinctively listens to his command, and you carefully look behind to see him picking up your jangot, which you probably dropped earlier and were about to leave without.
Once more, you cringe at your clumsiness as you watch him brush off the dirt before extending the material towards you. With shaky hands, you reach for it. “Thank you, my Lord. I wish you a pleasant day.”
The next second, you rush out of the marketplace as if the grim reaper himself were chasing after you. Behind you, Jihye struggles to keep up, but you couldn't care less, hiding your face in embarrassment.
That night, under the blanket, you lie wide awake. The memory of General Choi’s hand on your body and his chest pressed against yours keeps repeating in your head in a loop. A foreign, warm sensation pools in your belly, and you find yourself shamefully fantasizing about your future husband, forsaking slumber.
—
You got married today.
According to the elders of the town, it is one of the most important days of your life, yet it felt like every other—quick and ordinary. Probably because the groom was barely there.
During noon, he came in to fulfil the basic rituals before marching out, leaving a note for you with Jihye. The work in the palace is too demanding, so he must go. He would see you tonight at his place. That was all he said.
Hours later, night has fallen and you are now in his home.
You sit alone in a chamber prepared especially for you. His servants made sure you were comfortable, helping you bathe and prepare for the first night with your husband before leaving you alone to sit with your thoughts and hear the hum of the crickets in the nearby forest.
You declined their offer to serve you dinner. It is only appropriate to wait for your husband and share the first meal together.
Adorned in fine silk and pretty ribbons, you sit and wait for your husband to come, watching the flame of the candle dancing and melting away the wax.
You are nervous. It is your first night with your husband. You, who has never even looked at a man for a second too long. You are now married to one of the most feared men in the kingdom. You have heard people talk about his ruthlessness in bed. Apparently, the girls in the brothel talk about it all the time, especially when he visits. Jihye said that whoever spends the night with him needs an entire day to recover.
“Lady Choi,” Head Servant Yang suddenly calls your name before opening the door. “Master has arrived. He is taking a bath currently.”
You snap out of the thoughts of bedding your husband and give her a shy smile. “Could you please set the table then?”
“Of course.” The elderly woman bows and walks out of the room, arranging for dinner to be set in your chamber.
Ten minutes after the dinner is served, General Choi walks into the room. Fresh out of the bath, he is dressed in his nightwear and his hair is tied up in a neat bun, giving you an uninterrupted view of his face. Once again, you find yourself hypnotised by his heterochromatic eyes.
“You did not have dinner?” He asks, sitting down in front of you. His movement is as graceful as always, silent yet stealthy. His posture is upright, the muscles of his shoulders taught as he sits and regards you with careful eyes.
“I was waiting for you, my Lord.” You reply meekly.
“You should not have,” he states, his tone almost condescending. “I am sure Head Servant Yang informed you that I return from work late most days.”
“Today is a special day, is it not?” You find yourself speaking boldly. Your words are firm like the gaze in your eyes, and for a long moment, the chamber is plunged into suffocating silence.
General Choi keeps looking down at you, his gaze as intimidating as ever, and you half expect him to draw his sword from its sheath and slice your head off. Instead, his lips curl upwards, and a noise of amusement leaves his throat.
“Lady Choi, you seem upset.” He states, his voice half challenging and half something you cannot pinpoint. Sarcasm? Threat?
Unsure how to reply to that, you bite your lip and stare at the food laid out in front of you. All your appetite is gone now.
“Let me tell you something, Lady Choi.” Your husband leans closer to you over the table. Something about the way he utters your title forces you to meet his gaze. Like always, the fierce look in his eyes steals away your breath.
The man is hauntingly beautiful.
“I am certain you have some expectations from this marriage, and I cannot hold that against you. However, let me inform you now, I will not be able to fulfil your expectations, whatever they may be. So, I suggest you completely let go of your expectations, for your own good.”
What? You are sure no woman in Joseon’s history ever had to hear these words on her wedding night.
“My Lord, I do not understand.”
He does not bother clarifying his words. Instead, the look in his eyes shifts, his gaze sharpening on you. Lazily, he pours himself a drink from the pitcher and chugs it down.
“I know what this marriage means to you.”
You hold your breath and watch him, alarmed. He smirks. “It means freedom. It is your way out of that house. So, let this marriage be just that. A way out for you and a duty obliged for me.”
Well, consummating the marriage is also a duty. So is spending time with your wife and sharing a meal with her on your wedding night. You want to yell the words out, but you press your lips shut and stare at him, still processing what is happening.
“As long as we maintain our boundaries, this will be a great union,” he announces almost like he is reassuring you. You feel anything but that.
You feel abandoned, yet again.
“You should eat now,” he says, standing up. “I will retire for the night.” Without sparing another glance at you, he leaves the room. For a long moment, you silently sit in your place, your fancy garment and jewellery suddenly becoming too heavy on your skin. Ignoring the sensation, you reach for the rice, nibbling on the grains with your chopsticks.
You do not understand why tears prick your eyes.
—
The next morning, an unknown man waits for you as you step out of your chamber and put on your shoes, ready to leave for the palace.
Your husband had left early in the morning, and while the news hurt you slightly, it also left you with relief. After last night, you have not had enough time to process your emotions to face him.
The strange man bows as he sees you approaching. “Greetings, Lady Choi. I am San. As per General Choi’s orders, I shall accompany you from now on for your safety.” Stupefied, you blink at the man. His build and posture indicate that he is a military person, but you do not understand why your husband would have someone guard you.
“My husband put you up to this?” You raise a brow. “Why?”
“I am afraid I cannot say. It was his order.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “So, from now on, you will what? Follow me everywhere?”
“Yes. Whenever you need to go out, I shall accompany you.”
“Is someone trying to kill me?” You ask, point blank, blinking at him.
San makes a noise of surprise before an awkward laugh spills from his lips. “O-of course not, my lady.” You keep eyeing the strange man with suspicion as you start heading for the front door. “Alright then, let us leave.”
—
You bump into your husband at the palace.
At noon, when the sun is high in the sky, you finish teaching the young girls. Then, you head to the library to cool off and see if the head librarian needs any help. With no new work for you, Librarian Kim serves you some tea and sweets, congratulating you on your marriage. On your way out, he gives you some dasik to take home and share with your husband.
The husband who seems to want to do nothing with you.
With gratitude, you take the sweets and head out of the library, done with your day's work at the palace. That is when you see him. Below the steps of the library building, he approaches, followed by two other men, all dressed in uniforms. Their movements are quick and determined, almost like they are on a military mission.
General Choi takes notice of you as he climbs the stairs. Flustered and oddly shy, your first instinct is to hide. With no place to do that, you stand your ground and bow, “My Lord—”
He walks past as if he did not see you.
You stand rooted to your spot, blinking at the ground.
What just happened?
He ignored you. He blatantly ignored you. His wife. There is no way he did not see you. He did. His eyes met yours, and he held your gaze before looking away.
Hurt and humiliated, you stand there for several long moments, the sun scorching your back. You are tempted to storm back into the library and demand why he did that, but you know better than that.
For one, there is always the danger of him chopping your head off. You heard he once cut off a man’s head just for looking at him too long.
The other issue is more personal. Walking in there would make you look desperate, especially in front of others. You are supposed to be a newlywed happy wife, not someone who chases after her husband when he ignores her in public. The thought makes you feel like pins prickling your heart.
Once more in your life, you are insignificant. You are the lesser one, the one who can be forgotten, overlooked.
With boulders forming in your heart, you head home.
—
Your husband returned home late today as well.
You had your dinner long ago, and Jihye prepared your bed for you. However, you did not get under the covers. In the dimly lit space of your bedchamber, you have been sitting with your head on your knees, curled up in a corner and watching the candle burn.
No matter how hard you try, you fail to get past the incident earlier today. You simply cannot comprehend why your husband would ignore you like that.
Your curiosity gets the better of you. With a resolved breath, you step out of your room and walk into his bedchamber. You knock at his door. “My Lord, may I come in?”
A beat of silence. “Yes.”
Opening the doors, you find Seungcheol tying the knot of his undershirt. The material is thin and white, giving you a pretty decent glimpse of his silhouette. Flustered, you immediately lower your gaze and shake your head at yourself.
You did not think this through. Of course, he would be in his sleepwear, like you.
Shit.
It takes you another second to realize you, too, are in your sleepwear. A thin white top over your underskirt. With the realization dawning on you, you cross your arms over your chest and look up at him, conflicted and embarrassed.
Like always, his face gives nothing away. In the calmest of tones, he questions, “Did you need something from me?”
“Uhm…well…” Once again, you get distracted by the visual of your husband. In the dimly lit room, he appears even more stunning, the light of the candle casting strange shadows on his figure, contouring his muscles underneath the thin fabric. With his long, black hair undone, some strands fall on his face, covering his eyes. Through the curtain of his hair, his odd eye shines exceptionally bright in the darkness, stealing your breath.
“I am sure the reason for your visit is not to stare at me, Lady Choi.” He states once more, and you finally snap out of your thoughts.
Closing the door behind you, you gather all your resolve and stand straight. “My apologies. I wanted to talk to you.”
“I am all ears.” He says, not looking at you. He busies himself by placing his sword next to his mat and sitting down comfortably.
“Why did you ignore me today at the palace?” You get straight to the point. The man turns to look at you slowly, his eyes sharpening ever so slightly. Despite him sitting, you feel as if he is towering over you, and you cannot help but hold your breath, waiting for whatever is to come. Something flashes in his eyes, and once again, you do not know what it is. Rage? Annoyance? Amusement?
You have no clue.
“It seems that you are disappointed, Lady Choi.” He finally replies, his tone containing that tinge of amusement he has with you. Like you are a circus monkey whose action provides him with fleeting, insignificant pleasure.
You wait for him to elaborate, but he does not, looking at you with a challenging stare. You hate how…diplomatic he is all the time. “Why did you do it?” You repeat, trying to appear as stern as possible, which is almost comical. In front of you is the man people call the grim reaper.
General Choi shifts his position, resting his arm on his knee before fixing his gaze back on you. His tone is quiet, serious. “Let me tell you something, Lady Choi. In public, we are not to acknowledge each other. Do you understand me?”
The ground has been snatched from beneath your feet. You fall into an endless pit, your heart crushing into tiny bits with each of his words. Why? Why would he say something like that?
“Why?” You don’t mask the hurt and desperation in your voice. He ignores you. “If that was all, you may leave now. I wish to get some rest.”
Tears brim in your eyes. Why does he treat you like this? What crime did you ever commit against him?
Your mouth hangs open, shocked and helpless at his attitude towards you. Defeated, you silently pad back to the door. Before you open it, however, you pause. Slowly, you turn back to him. “Why did you assign that man to follow me around?”
He does not look at you. “San is one of the few men I trust. He will keep you safe.”
He has this tendency to never answer your question directly. He dances around it, giving curt, memorized answers. It feels like you are talking to a wall, frustrating and pointless. The next words slip past your lips thoughtlessly and barely above a whisper. “Why do we not sleep in the same room?”
That finally gets his attention. He slowly turns his head to look at you, his pupils wide with shock. Like, he cannot believe that you just said that.
Right. Why did you say that out loud?
You look away in embarrassment, cringing at your words.
“So…” he starts to get up. You step back, alarmed.
Why is he getting up? He will slice your head off for sure this time.
With the grace of a lion about to devour his prey, he inches closer to you, his eyes flashing almost unnaturally. You keep walking backwards until your back meets the door and there is no place left to go.
He stops a mere inch away from you, so close that your clothes brush, so close that you can see his chest underneath his nightshirt, so close that you can inhale the scent of soap on his skin. Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes fall shut on their own.
“My wife wishes to sleep with me. Is that it?” His voice is heaven against your ears, deep, husky and warm, leaving your brain fumbling. You open your eyes to see him staring straight at you, and immediately, heat shoots up all through your body from your toes.
“I…I didn’t…mean…” You stumble over your words, the sight of him so close to you, messing with your system.
He stares at you, his lips curling up in a smirk. “I am sure you have heard what they say about me.” He pauses. His hand reaches out towards your face, and you hold your breath in alarm and anticipation. With the faintest of touches, he drags his index finger against your jaw and down your neck. “I am sure you know how I am…in bed.” He whispers against your ear, and you can feel your heart physically drop as tingles shoot through your entire body.
At this point, you have forgotten how to breathe.
“You could not handle me, Lady Choi.” He says and then, absolutely shocking you, leans closer to your neck. Tucking a stray piece of hair beneath your ears, he takes a long inhale of you and then slowly steps away from you.
You feel like you are on fire, beads of sweat gathering on your temples. Your mouth remains agape, processing what just happened as you stand pressed against the door, frozen like prey in shock.
“Good night, Lady Choi.” He says in the most nonchalant way possible, going back to bed. You manage to summon all your strength and rush out of his room, shutting the wooden panels loudly behind you. Outside, you gasp for air, clutching your chest, your heart racing like you just ran for your life. You stand outside the door for a long time, taking in deep breaths and trying to get your heart to calm down as foreign sensations flood through your veins, leaving behind an ache you have never felt before.
You want your husband, you realize. You want him to do all those filthy, animalistic things that you heard of…with you.
—
You have accepted your new life. A married woman without a husband’s attention or acknowledgement.
In the last two weeks, a routine has fallen into place for you. You wake up, go to work, come home for lunch, spend the afternoon with Jihye lounging around before having dinner and going to bed. Throughout the day, setting eyes upon your husband is rare because he leaves with the sunrise and gets home after dinner. Most days, he has dinner in his chamber by himself, and on the rare occasions he is home early (twice), he shares it with you.
The freedom you thought an advantageous marriage would give you has not come. In fact, you feel more restricted than before. With San following you around like a hawk, you have lost interest in going outside to explore the neighbourhood. Jihye, too, has been weird lately. She vehemently opposes you going outside, especially to the market or other crowded areas and always runs your errands for you.
After a lot of thinking, you have come to a conclusion. Your husband has a mistress. Maybe, mistress is not the right word. If anything, you feel like the mistress in this relationship.
“I am sure he has someone he loves.” You hum, nodding to yourself.
It is a Thursday afternoon in early spring, the warmth of the sun shining on you as you return home from an unusually long shift at the palace. A few steps behind you is San, ever present like a shadow, following you down a steep road to home.
With him around, you have started to voice your thoughts, no matter how crazy. There is nothing to hide from him after all. He sees it all firsthand, how his boss never spends time with you.
You have another theory. San knows about the other woman. He has to, right? That is why General Choi employed him to guard you in the first place. He probably knows where your husband goes during his free time, and it is his job to make sure you never see him.
General Choi seems to have bought off Jihye somehow, too. You find that absolutely bizarre, considering her long loyalty towards you. You are deeply hurt by her betrayal, and so, you have decided to shun her until she comes to you and explains what is going on.
That leaves you with San only.
“I’m right, no?” You turn around to take a glance at him. As usual, he looks helpless and awkward, almost like he is about to leave everything behind and run for the hills. You continue. “He has to have known her for a long, long time. However, I do not understand why he didn’t marry her. Is she not a nobleborn?”
You stop for a moment.
“Ah! She is someone from the brothel, probably, right?”
San continues looking at you helplessly, an awkward smile plastered on his face. You continue walking, nodding to yourself. “No wonder he told me not to expect anything from him. He also said that he fulfilled his duty by marrying me. No one will pester him now because he has the perfect cover.” You nod your head, impressed. “I have to give it to him. This is a good plan.”
The path down the cliff comes to an end, and you stop, admiring the sun slowly going lower in the western sky. The birds fly in the sky in groups, returning home as the sky changes colour, a deep tint of orange taking over the blue.
Is she pretty? You wonder to yourself. She must be. There must be something about her that keeps a man like him hooked.
The thought pains you. More than it should.
You understand it. You really do, but what you don’t understand is why he married you. Why did he trap you into this marriage? The least he could have done was be honest with you instead of avoiding you like the plague.
The more you get to know this man, the more cowardly he seems. The thought brings an unironic smile to your face. The most feared man in the country, yet he refuses to communicate with his wife. He does not have the guts to speak the truth, which makes him nothing but a coward in your eyes.
“Let us stop by the market.” You announce, taking a different route. San rushes in front of you, alarmed. “Lady Choi, w-why?”
You stare at him, slightly annoyed. Why is he acting like this? Is General Choi supposed to be there now? With his lover? All the more reason why you must go.
You continue walking, ignoring San.
“My Lady, please. Tell me what you need and I shall get that for you after I escort you home.”
“San,” you abruptly stop and glare at him. “I shall tell you what I need right now. I need you to shut up and follow me quietly. Or, you can just leave and report to your boss that I am breaking protocol. Whatever fancies you.”
The man makes a pained sound, groaning almost like a wounded animal. However, you don’t wait for him, marching down the path with determination. Helplessly, he chases after you.
—
The marketplace is less crowded than you expected. You heard there have been attacks by gangs in this area, so people are more reluctant to leave their houses, especially as evening approaches.
With the roads not as crowded as usual, it takes you only a couple of minutes to spot him. He stands out, as always, his broad shoulders and tall build catching your eye from far away. You observe him for a moment from afar, squinting your eyes to see what he is doing exactly.
He stands in front of a trinket shop, carefully going through the pieces laid out in front of him.
Wow, is he shopping for something for his hidden lover?
Bemused, you watch him, eyes scanning for a woman near him, only to find no one.
“My Lady, we should really get going. This area is not safe, and—” Ignoring San’s plea, you head straight towards where your husband stands.
“My Lord, what brings you here?” You chirp, standing right behind him. The man immediately turns around, his pupils blown wide in shock. You do not miss the way he hides something behind him. It takes a moment for him to register that it is you, and once he does, that grim look settles on his face. “What are you doing here?’’
San rushes next to you, “My Lord, I am so sorry—”
General Choi cuts him off with a raised hand and gives him a look of dismissal, which sends the young man scurrying away. Ignoring his question, you say. “It seems like you were finished with work early today.” You pointedly look at the shop behind him.
“Yes. I finished early today.” He states, expressionless. “Are you returning from the palace now?”
“Yes, the work at the library took longer than usual. Some records were accidentally destroyed, so we had to salvage them.”
“I see.” He nods. You wait, wondering if he has anything more to say. He keeps gazing at you silently, his odd eye hidden behind his hair. You have noticed that he always hides it in public. Why? To avoid detection?
Finally, he speaks, his eyes narrow and his tone sharp. “You should not be here. I am sure you are aware of the looting and killing taking place in this area.”
You hate his tone. Frowning, you reply. “Thank you for your concern, My Lord. I was aware. I just wanted to explore—”
You are cut off.
The next sequence of events takes place exceptionally quickly. First, you see your husband’s gaze shift and focus on something behind you. The very next moment, he yanks you towards him, making a swift turn so that his body covers yours. You lose your footing from the harsh tug, gripping onto his arms with a yelp of surprise.
Something whizzes past you, sharp and quick, that makes you jerk and hold onto him tighter.
Gasps, yells and screams of people echo all around you. You blink, befuddled, staring at your husband, who holds you tightly against his body, looking behind him. Following his gaze, you find San chasing after a man who dashes away through the crowd at remarkably fast speed, shoving people and running over stalls on his way.
Your husband whips his head back to look at you, his eyes wide with alarm. “Are you okay? Look at me!” He shakes you, his grip on your arms fierce. Something wet touches your fingers. Slowly, your eyes trail to your right hand, which is grabbing General Choi’s bicep.
There is a tear on his sleeve, a couple of inches above your fingers and red liquid oozes out from the thin cut. You gasp, your breath escaping your lungs in a choked wheeze.
Finally, everything clicks.
Someone just shot an arrow at him. Who? An enemy? A gang member? An assassin?
“Oh…oh my god! My Lord!” You clutch onto his sleeve, panicking.
General Choi ignores your cry and forces you to look at him, tilting your chin upwards. “Are you hurt anywhere?”
Is he seriously worrying about you right now?
“I am fine.” You choke on a sob. “But my Lord, you are bleeding! What…what should I do?”
He rubs a gentle hand on your back, pulling you closer to him. “I am fine. It is nothing.” He assures, his eyes scanning the place carefully as if looking for someone. You panic. “My Lord, we need to go home. Come on. You are hurt!” You urge, tugging him with you, even though you cannot make him move an inch.
The man stands rooted to his spot, his eyes still scouring through the marketplace. Finally, he nods and pulls you into his arms, holding you protectively. “Let us go.”
—
After your relentless nagging, you finally get your husband to sit still so that you can treat his wound.
“I told you, it is nothing serious.” He admonishes when you step into his bedchamber with a rag, a bowl of water, and some medicine. Ignoring him, you hurry closer to him, inspecting the wound.
You have never treated someone before, but your mother was a very good nurse. She helped a lot of people during the war with her vast knowledge of medicinal herbs. You remember watching her work for hours, and even though you never directly learned from her, you are confident you can do this right.
The memory of his blood seeping out and wetting your hands sends shivers down your spine, and you have to take a deep breath to get yourself to calm down. Your heart has been racing ever since, the adrenaline yet to wear off.
“You should take off your shirt.” You whisper, wetting the rag in the bowl of water. Your husband complies, slowly removing the garment and shrugging it off his shoulders. Your breath catches in your throat once you lay your eyes on his body.
It is not his muscular build but the plethora of scars littering his body. Small and big, they taint his chest and all the way down to his lower abdomen, and you cannot help but stare, wincing at the marks that look particularly nasty.
What has this man been through?
General Choi snatches the rag from your hands and starts treating his cut. Embarrassed, you protest, but he cuts you off. “I can do it myself.” His response, like always, is curt, but you ignore it, too distracted by his scars. The one on his left abdomen looks particularly ghastly, and you know for sure it was a deep stab wound.
The amount of pain he must have been in…
The thought makes you shudder, and you bite your lip, holding your tears back.
“This is why I assigned someone to protect you.” His voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “I am sure he told you to return, but you insisted on going to the market.”
“Who was that man?” You cut him off, unable to prevent yourself from voicing your worries any longer. Why did they want to hurt him?
His lips thin, and something flashes over his eyes, leaving you guessing. He pauses for a moment, looking at you impassively, almost like he knows a secret that you don’t. “They were probably from some gang. They have been causing havoc recently, as you know.”
You know it is a lie. It is blatant that he is hiding something from you, and you cannot help but sigh out loud, sagging onto the floor. You do not even have it in you to fight with him right now. You are just glad he is okay. The bleeding has stopped now, and as you watch him apply the herb on his cut, a small sigh of relief flows past your lips.
Finally, it feels like you can breathe.
Silently, you help him tie a clean rag around his bicep before wiping the residual herb from his fingers. “You should take a bath.” He keeps staring at your face as if he is trying to understand something.
“Are you sure you are okay?” he asks, his tone soft. His gaze, for the first time, appears to be almost tender, and for a moment, the concept of language evaporates from your mind.
You want to say a lot of things. You want to yell at him, scream at him to explain himself and cry in his arms. You are unable to do any of that. “I am fine,” you whisper, your voice small and shaky.
He keeps looking at you for a few more seconds before nodding and getting up. Just as he is about to exit the room, you call for him. “My Lord?”
“Hm?” He turns around to look at you.
You pause, hesitating. “I know you brought something today. At the market…” you trail off, unsure why you are saying this. His body tenses, and he looks at you warily…like he has been caught. For a second, you pray that he comes clean, but he remains silent, waiting for you to continue.
You swallow a lump in your throat and look away. Your voice is wobbly when you speak. “You should wrap it. Put it in a nice box. Women love gifts that are nicely wrapped. The woman…whoever you bought it for…you should wrap it.”
You do not dare to meet his gaze, so you sit on the floor, staring at the bowl of water that is now tinted red from his blood. He does not reply but walks out the door, his footsteps padding softly over the wooden floors.
—
That night, you lay in bed awake, replaying the event at the market over and over again in your head. And as you keep revisiting that moment, a shuddering realization dawns on you.
What if…what if…
The arrow wasn't meant for General Choi but for you?
The more you think about it, the more probable it seems. The arrow would have originally hit you if not for him moving you out of the way. The thought makes you bolt up from your bed, your heart racing as beads of sweat gather on your temples. Tossing the blanket away, you step out of your sleeping mat and start pacing around your room.
Today's events are a mystery to you. You have no enemies, and neither does your father. Hell, he has been out of politics ever since your brother died. You simply have no reason to have someone shoot an arrow at you in the middle of a marketplace.
If it were not for your husband, you would have died for sure.
Shit. Who would do that?
Your mind starts spiraling to the point that your temples begin to throb. You press the spot with your fingers, trying to make the ache go away.
It doesn't.
Instead, paranoia starts settling in. Suddenly, the thought of being alone in your room frightens you so much that you feel a chill in your bones. Unable to tolerate the deafening silence and the darkness any longer, you step out of your chamber, taking tentative steps towards your husband's room. The hallway is dark except for one small lamp flickering at the end of the long corridor, an eerie quietness hanging heavy in the air as the whole house sleeps.
You come to stop in front of your husband's room, your hands hesitating to pull open the wooden panels.
What are you doing here? Sneaking into your husband’s chamber in the middle of the night?
With the resolved exhale, you pull open the door. In the darkness, it takes a moment for you to spot your husband sleeping on his side, his long raven hair splayed messily over the mat.
You remain rooted in your spot outside the door, hesitating yet once again before gingerly making your way inside and quietly closing the panel behind you. The room would be pitch dark if not for the faint light of the lamp flickering outside, filtering in through the panel. You take a moment to let your eyes adjust to the visibility before placing yourself next to him. With his sword resting between the two of you, you silently lie down, gazing at the silhouette of his face in the darkness.
Your heart aches. He got hurt because of you.
Why do you feel such a strong attraction towards this cold, stubborn man? Why does it hurt you so much to see him hurt? Most importantly, is this how he feels about his lover? Does her pain make him hurt like this as well? Is that why he refuses to be with you, unable to resist his heart's longing?
So many questions and no answer to soothe your wretched soul.
You keep gazing at him, a strange sensation filling your heart. He is physically so close to you, right within your reach, yet it feels like he is a million miles away, tucked away in a place for which you have no key. At the same time, lying next to him like this, you feel oddly comfortable. With him next to you, the silence and the darkness of the night are bearable, no longer stealing your sleep.
With a heavy ache in your chest and tears in your eyes, you fall asleep, happy to be in the same space as your husband.
—
When you open your eyes next morning, the sun is high up in the sky and the light flooding into the room immediately tells you that you have slept way longer than you should have.
Shit. You missed work today.
All concerns of work, however, fly out the window when you register where you are. You fell asleep on the floor next to General Choi yesterday. Then why are you sleeping on his mat, his blanket tucked around you, and his pillow under your head?
With a gasp, you sit up and look around you, double checking to make sure you are in the right place.
How did you get here? Did he tuck you in after waking up? How did you not wake up?
Your face flushes with heat, imagining him carrying you and putting you in his bed. No wonder you feel so well rested after a long time. You must have slept like a log throughout everything.
Did you snore? Did you drool? Did you say something weird in your sleep?
“Oh dear lord, help me!” You whine, putting your face in your hands, cringing at all the possible ways you might have embarrassed yourself. Once you are over the initial wave of embarrassment, you spot a trinket on top of the small wooden table by the mat.
Curious, you shuffle closer. It is a bineyo with a beautiful butterfly in pink and blue, exactly the one you had been looking for. With a gasp, you lean closer, mesmerized by the way it sparkles underneath the sunlight. Next to it sits a letter, face up.
Dear wife,
I am sorry I did not wrap it. I was interrupted by someone before I could choose a box. I do not know how the misunderstanding came to be, but this was meant to be yours from the beginning, not any other woman’s. I hope you like it.
From, Your husband
Your hands cover your mouth in shock and absolute glee before clutching the letter and the hairpin to your chest. Tears brim your eyes, your heart melting like a caramel under the sun, warm and sweet.
It seems like you misunderstood his actions. Still, some things remain unclear.
“Jihye!” You yell. She rushes in a few moments later. “My lady, you are awake! Master said not to disturb you. He said he will let Head Court Lady Yeo know that you will not go to work today.”
Ignoring her words, you quickly motion for her to come closer to you and sit down. “You,” you narrow your eyes at her. “You have been hiding something from me.” She blinks, her gaze slowly lowering to the floor.
“What did General Choi tell you? He definitely told you something. That is why you have not been letting me out of the house by myself.”
She looks at you helplessly for a long moment before sighing. “Okay, I will tell you, my lady. But you have to promise me you will not tell Master. I gave him my word.” She winces.
What could it be? Eager, you scoot closer to her. “I will not. Now out with it.”
“On the first night of your marriage, he called me and asked about you. What you like to eat, what your favourite season is…things like that.”
Wow. Your heart races with each of her words.
“Then, he asked me what you were doing in the market that day. You know that noon a week before your wedding? When we bumped into him? I said that you were looking for a hairpin. He asked in detail about the hairpin, and I told him that you were looking for one with a butterfly. Then, he ordered me to keep you from going outside, especially to crowded areas, as much as possible. He said it is not safe for you. And he made me promise not to tell you.”
A lot of the blanks start filling up. He listened to her and got this hairpin for you. No wonder!
You keep finding yourself revisiting that moment in the market. The way he protected you. The worry in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped onto you, the way his voice was filled with worry when he asked you if you were ok. The realization that you may have misunderstood him greatly starts settling in your bones.
Maybe there was no one else from the beginning. Maybe it was only you all along. Maybe everything he did was to protect you. But protect you from what? Did he know that someone was after you? Who? Why did he not tell you anything?
No matter, you shall set the record straight when he gets home today. You have caught a glimpse into your husband’s heart, and it turns out he is not as cruel as they say. Now, there is nothing strong enough to stop you. He has had his way until now, and now, it is your time.
“Did he say when he will return?” You ask Jihye, your heart racing.
“No, my lady.”
“No matter.” You smile. “I will wait for him.”
—
The heavens seem to be on your side because your husband returns home right before sunset. As he takes a bath, you prepare in your room, getting dressed for the evening.
Jihye braids your hair for you before helping you put on your hanbok, a soft yellow jeogori with a pastel pink chima.
Just as you are almost finished with your makeup, Head Servant Yang knocks at the door, letting you know that your husband has finished his bath. With a smile, you stand up and walk over to the mirror, smoothing your skirt.
“Jihye, how do I look?”
“Absolutely beautiful, my lady!” She squeals. “Master will not be able to resist you tonight!”
You throw a scandalized look at her before reaching for the hairpin your husband gave you. Gingerly placing it on your hair, you complete the look and twirl in front of the mirror. “Alright, let us go!”
You knock twice at your husband’s chamber.
“Come in.”
Exhaling a shaky breath, you open the door and find sitting on the floor, wearing a navy blue hanbok. A book sits open on his lap, which is discarded once he lays eyes upon you.
Silence.
You hold your breath, watching his eyes scan you top to bottom, before going up again and finally stopping at your hairpin. He looks awestruck and speechless—a look you have never seen on him, and you struggle to stifle a smile.
“May I come in?” You ask coquettishly.
“Ah—yes, of course.” He blinks and sits up straight. With a smile, you walk into the room and sit in front of him, closer than you have ever been before. "How is your arm?” You ask, jutting your chin towards it. “Do you need me to apply some herbs?”
“No, it is fine. I changed the gauze after my bath.”
“Are you in any pain?”
“Thank you for your concern, Lady Choi, but I am well.” He sets the book aside. “What brings you to my chamber?”
You ignore his curt replies. “Thank you for the gift, my lord.” You smile, saccharine sweet. Titling your head, you show him the trinket nestled in your hair. “How do I look?”
“Hm?” He gapes at you, eyes wide, clearly taken aback by the question. “Uh…it suits you. You look lovely.”
You smile like a lovestruck fool. “Thank you, my Lord.”
Silence. He keeps looking at you like it is a staring competition. Realizing he will not be the first one to break the silence, you continue with a sigh, “I have some questions, my Lord. I hope you will answer them honestly.”
His gaze shifts, something unreadable briefly flashing by his eyes. His hands on to rest on his knees, his back straightening as he takes a moment before subtly nodding his head.
“Is there someone trying to kill me?” Your gaze does not waver. General Choi’s lips press into a thin line, his thick brows forming a frown, a look of pure displeasure settling on his face.
You do not back down. “Yesterday, the arrow was meant for me, was it not? You knew someone was after me. That is why you assigned San to be with me. That is why you told Jihye not to let me go outside.”
Another beat of silence. “Yes.” He murmurs, his haunting gaze piercing yours.
You swallow. “Who is it? I do not understand…I do not have any enemies— “
“They are my enemies.” He cuts you off. “The arrow yesterday…yes, it was meant for you, but it was also meant for me. It was their warning to me.”
“What warning? Why are they after you?” You cry.
His gaze narrows. “That is private information. Only the King’s most trusted men are aware of it.” You look down, worriedly chewing on your lower lip. After a beat, you ask, “Is that why you ignored me in the palace that day?”
“Yes. I thought the less I interacted with you, the better.” He pauses, his gaze focusing on the lamp burning at his side. “I am sorry for putting you in danger, but rest assured, they will be dealt with.”
You are not really worried about losing your life. If anything, his being in danger scares you more. Odd, is it not?
“Why did you let me misunderstand, my Lord?” You ask softly.
“That was not my intention.”
“But it happened anyway.” You cannot hold back the bite in your voice. “From the first day of this marriage, I believed that you have someone else.”
He remains silent, looking almost guilty. It scares and infuriates you. “Tell me! Do you?”
“No,” his voice never loses its quiet composure. “I do not.”
“Then why did you lie?”
For the first time, you see his gaze soften. For once, it looks like he is not scowling but rather, he appears ashamed and helpless. The hidden frustration inside you reaches its tipping point. “You could have told me! You could have said that I was in danger instead of pushing me away like I disgust you and letting me think that you were seeing someone else!”
You hear him exhale a breath. “How do you expect me to tell my young, newlywed wife that her life is in danger because of me, her husband?”
The guilt is raw and vivid in his voice, echoing throughout the room like a haunted cry. This new side of your husband knocks all the air out of your lungs, leaving you feeling helpless as you stare at him, tears pricking your eyes.
“My Lord—”
“I know I am not the best match for you. You got married to be free, but instead, this marriage became a trap for you. How could I tell you that? I believed it would be better to let you think all crazy things about me rather than taking away your freedom by scaring you. I apologize for my shortsightedness.”
A lone tear rolls down your cheek. He is not the best match for you? What is he saying?
Unable to hold back any longer, you close the little distance between the two of you and leap into his arms, hugging him tightly. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you rest your face on his shoulder, your fingers tightly holding onto the fabric of his hanbok. “Please do not apologize, my Lord. I understand you.”
Against you, your husband’s entire body remains tense, his hands awkwardly raised into the air like he is too scared to touch you. You ignore his hesitation and hold onto him tightly, your heart breaking and healing simultaneously. The warmth and comfort of his body soothe all the anguish in your heart, making you never want to let him go.
Finally, his hands touch your back, his large palms holding the small of your back, softly patting you.
Loosening your arms around him, you take a peek at his face and find the most sincere look in his eyes, warm and kind, the complete opposite of how you have seen him until now. You truly believed he was beyond all emotions, cold and mechanical, but right now, as he holds you in his arms and gazes at you with so much reverence and softness, you can only think of him as this quiet, considerate man who is misunderstood greatly.
Something in you shifts. No longer afraid, you shift in his arms, positioning yourself better on his lap before kissing him.
You press your lips against his without thinking, pulling him closer by the lapels of his hanbok and holding your lips right there, against his, soft and warm. With your heart hammering in your chest, you stay there, testing the waters. Your husband remains frozen at first, almost like he is waiting for you to back out. Once sure that you will not, he reaches for you, gently cupping your cheek with his right hand to tilt your face. The kiss deepens just a tad bit, his lips pressing against you just hard enough. His touch on you is meticulous and guarded, like you are a wild animal he does not want to frighten. You know he is being gentle for your sake, so you take the lead, snaking an arm around his neck and kissing him the way he led you.
Slow, sweet and passionate.
It is everything you imagined and more, all your dreams coming true and giving you a taste of ecstasy. By the time your lips part from his, there is a ringing in your ears along with your heart galloping like a race horse and a strange, tingling sensation between your legs. You feel drunk on your husband’s kiss, your eyes involuntarily trailing to his lips that are now shining with saliva.
You want this man so much, body and soul.
Your husband’s fingers remain against your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheek, slow and tentative like you are the most precious porcelain. Mirroring his hand, your fingers cup his cheek, your thumb gently tracing the scar beneath his odd eye. The skin is harsh and bumpy under your touch, making your heart heavy. You want to kiss it, tell him that he is beautiful despite it, tell him that you feel his pain, but something shifts.
His gaze grows unfocused, something foreign flashing by in his eyes, like he has been woken back to reality. With a sudden noise, he clears his throat and retracts his hand from your face. The action pulls you out of your haze as well, making you suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you kissed him.
Holy shit. You kissed your husband. And he kissed you back. And it was amazing.
Clearing his throat once more, your husband looks away, carefully trying to put some distance between you and him. Flustered, you take the hint and stand up rather unceremoniously. As you take a step back, however, misfortune befalls.
The ghost of clumsiness yet again takes over your body, and you trip over your skirt. With a loud, unladylike yelp, you fall backwards, terrified but also anticipating the brutal hit to the floor.
It does not come. You do not fall on the ground because your husband saves you, reaching for your arm and tugging you back towards him just in time. Something else happens in the process. The ribbon of your jeogori comes off.
You realize that several moments later, too preoccupied with trying to calm your beating heart and processing what just happened. As you stay pressed against his body, your arms tightly holding onto his shoulders for balance, General Choi’s eyes skim over your face before fixing beneath your neck and on your exposed shoulder.
This time, something dark and carnal takes over his gaze, his eyes sharp and narrow, staring intently at your bare skin. Your heart beats so loudly you fear he can hear it, and for a moment, you are sure you will pass out from the intensity of his gaze and the swirl of emotions—desire and shame, surging within you.
Like before, he is the one who backs away, quietly clearing his throat and looking away. Embarrassed, you quickly fix your jeogori and clutch it tightly to your chest while also scrambling off his body.
“I—” you stammer, mortified to look at his face. “I will see you for d-dinner then, my Lord.” Picking up your skirt to avoid further accidents, you rush for the door, eager to be out of his sight.
His voice forces you to stop right at the door. “Why did you come to my room last night?”
You halt, processing his question. Then, with quick fingers, you tie your jeogori and carefully turn around. Your husband looks at you inquisitively. “Were…were you awake, my Lord?” You ask. He did not even sir when you came into the room.
In reply, he nods. You look around, trying to find the words. “I…was scared to be alone. I kept thinking of what happened at the market, and I do not know…” You trail off, embarrassed and worried about his reaction. He, however, keeps looking at you intently before shaking his head up and down in understanding.
“How did you know I came in? You did not even move a muscle. I thought you were asleep.”
“I smelled you.” He states, his face expressionless. You take a step back, alarmed. “Do I stink?”
He shakes his head. “No. I meant that I smelled roses. You smell like roses.”
Oh. “I see,” you mumble shyly, your fingers twiddling with the fabric of your skirt. He regards you quietly for a beat before murmuring. “You can sleep with me tonight as well, if you desire it.”
“Really?” You squeal, not hiding the excitement brimming in your voice.
“Yes.”
“Thank you, my Lord!” You smile so big it hurts.
—
After dinner, Headservant Yang sets the mattress for the two of you with a suggestive, happy smile on her face that makes you grin goofily.
Once finished with your nightly routine and dressed for bed, you pad into your husband's chamber and find him already lying down, his eyes closed and his hands resting over his chest. One could think he was asleep, but you know better now. With wonder, you observe that the place of his sword has shifted and moved to his left, right next to his mat, now that yours occupies the space it took before.
“My Lord,” you ask softly, “shall I blow out the candle?”
“Yes.” He replies, not moving or opening his eyes. Carefully, you pad over to the study table and blow out the candle before finding your place on the mat. With the noise of the crickets humming outside, you lie on your mat, pulling the blanket up to your chin and staring at the ceiling. Your blood thrums in your veins, your brain too wired to fall asleep. The excitement of lying next to your husband keeps you awake.
Once your eyes adjust to the darkness, you take tentative peeks at him and find him in the same position as he originally was. Is he sleeping? You wish you could tell.
“My Lord?” You speak, quiet as a mouse.
Silence.
“Hm?” He hums.
“Why do you sleep with your sword next to you?”
“Force of habit, I suppose…from the war.”
You hum in acknowledgement, looking at him eagerly amid the darkness. After a short pause, you call for him again. “My Lord?”
“Yes.”
“Can I sleep with you from now on?”
Silence. Seconds pass by, but no answer comes, and you start to think that he has fallen asleep. Just then, he finally replies, his voice quiet and deep in the solitude of the night. “If you wish to.” You smile, happy and wide, even though he cannot see you. “Thank you, my Lord.”
Another short pause later, he murmurs. “Goodnight.” You take it as a sign that he does not wish to talk anymore, and with a nod, you shift and lie on your side, your right arm resting underneath your head. “Goodnight, my Lord.” You whisper with a smile.
—
You wake up just before sunrise.
The spot next to you is empty, and with no sign of your husband, you step out of his bedchamber in search of him. It is a rest day, so you wonder where he is so early in the morning.
You find the man in the backyard, already dressed, quietly observing the flowers in the garden. “My Lord?” You call for him.
“Oh, good morning.” He acknowledges you with a small nod. “Why are you up so early?”
“I woke up and you were not there. Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” He assures. “You should sleep some more.” You pause, carefully observing him. In the soft morning light, the man looks different, more relaxed and homely, dressed in his hanbok and his long raven hair draped elegantly against his back.
How can you leave his majestic man just for a few more hours of sleep?
“My Lord?”
“Hm?”
“Let us go for a walk.”
—
After quickly getting dressed, you and your husband go for a stroll, the early morning sun softly gleaming in the sky.
Your husband heads towards the nearby forest, which leads to a cliff offering a nice view of the town and the hilly background. He walks quietly with his hands behind him, his movements deliberately slow to accommodate your pace. With a soft smile that never leaves your lips, you walk alongside him, your heart thrumming happily.
Can this be called a date?
Without any words exchanged between the two of you, you navigate the path through the forest, your eyes skirting towards him every now and then. The silence between you is not awkward because you can see from his face that he is thinking deeply about something. So, you let him think and use the solitude to take peeks at his handsome face, memorizing the details of his visage.
By the time you reach the cliff, you are out of breath.
“Wow,” you wheeze out, panting for air as you rest with your palms on your knees.
“Are you alright?” General Choi asks, peering down to see your face. “Yes,” you nod, trying to control your breathing. “It has been a while since I came up here. The view is magnificent.”
“It is.” He hums, looking over the cliff. “That last time I came here, I was a child.” You share, standing up and gazing at the view. It is truly still beautiful.
“Why so long ago?”
“What?” You blink, looking at your husband, who is regarding you with a curious tilt of his head.
“Uh…” you think. “My father…he was not fond of me going out much. Especially anywhere far, after my brother died. He liked to keep me within his sight.”
He keeps looking at you attentively, and you wonder what he is thinking. Is he judging you?
Needing to fill the silence, you ramble. “On top of that, I have always been clumsy. I’m sure you have figured that out by now. Once, when I was a child, I somehow broke my arm playing in the yard. My brother ran all the way to the physician’s office with me on his back. With him gone, my father thought it would be better for me to be within the house. For my safety and his mental peace.”
“It was suffocating, no? That is why you married me. For freedom.” Your husband observes. You nod, albeit shakily, thinking of your days back at your parents' home. The cold treatment of your father and the way you were never enough. Not enough to take away the pain of them losing their son.
In the silence, you take a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the man next to you and voicing a question you have always wanted to ask. “Why did you choose to marry me?”
He takes a moment to answer.
“Because no one else wanted to. A lot of ministers tried to get me engaged to their daughters, but the girls refused when they saw me. Some even rejected just after hearing my name. They feared me.”
You find it ridiculous. “Why?” Your tone drips with bewilderment. “My reputation,” he shrugs. “My face does not help much, I suppose.”
“What do you mean?” You frown, leaning closer to him. He regards you in silence, as if the answer to that question is the most obvious thing in the world. “I am ugly.”
“What?” You gape at him, utterly befuddled. Does this man truly think that? His sharp eyes narrow on you, his brows knotting in confusion. “I do not know if you are making fun of me.”
“Why would I make fun of you?” You cry. This entire thing is ludicrous. “I simply find it absolutely enraging that you think so!”
He remains mute, watching you like you are an equation he needs to solve.
You take a tentative step closer to him, mumbling, “It is true that your reputation is scary. I also feared you for that in the beginning. I do not know if you are aware, but people say all types of crazy things about you.” You pause, inching even closer to him. With a few small inches between the two of you, you look up and meet his eyes, hoping to convey your sincerity. “But as I got to know you…I have realized there is nothing to fear. You are undoubtedly a cold man, my Lord, but you are also warm. Your heart is always in the right place. That alone is enough to make you the most beautiful man in the land.”
His face relaxes, and you can see how his gaze softens, the turbulent storms ever present in his eyes dissipating for a moment.
In the back of your mind, one thought runs rampant. You want to kiss him. In the soft morning light, he looks as breathtaking as ever, his lips soft and kissable. Remembering the touch of his lips against yours last night, you muster the courage and lean up on your tippy toes, pressing a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. The man immediately leans back, a look of surprise on his face. Ignoring his reaction, you smile and step back, facing the view again. Your husband clears his throat before silently joining you in gazing at the view.
A while later, you voice out another thought. “My Lord, when you said not to expect anything from you, what did you mean?”
He takes a moment to answer. “I don’t know. Just do not expect anything from me. I cannot give you anything.”
Frowning, you face him. “But you have already given me so much.”
“I do not believe that.”
You sigh. The cranky man is returning. Hitching your skirt, you walk closer to him, determined. “What did you mean, my Lord? I cannot expect what?” He huffs out a frustrated breath. “Whatever a wife expects from her husband, I suppose.”
Your frown deepens. “What? Love? Attention? Devotion?”
“I will be devoted to you, but I cannot give you love.” His words are like a punch to the gut. “Why not?” You plead.
He hesitates. “I…just cannot.”
“You cannot or will not?”
His eyes, sharp and fiery, pierce right through you, and you see the truth in his eyes. You see the answer he refuses to utter. “Let us get back.” He announces, turning on his heel and dismissing you, starts marching down the path. You scoff, watching with an open mouth as he almost runs down the track to escape answering your question.
This stubborn, frustrating man.
—
After breakfast, General Choi goes out to visit an old friend. With a sour mood, you shuffle through the house, watching as everyone remains busy with their work. You try to practice some needlework but fail to get far with that. As always, your hand at embroidery is embarrassingly bad. For two hours, you try to create a flower on a handkerchief, but when it turns out looking questionable, you drop the task.
You find San sitting outside on the porch, chatting animatedly with Headservant Yang. “My Lady, are you bored?” Headservant Yang asks upon seeing you walk over. With your shoulders slumped, you nod, pouting.
“General Choi will not be back for some time. Should we play a game then? San offers.
Your eyes shine. “Sure!”
—
Your game of baduk with San lasts even after sunset.
You keep playing match after match, your own competitive streak matching his. He does not go easy on you just because you are married to his General, and that makes it all the more fun.
Your husband returns right before lunch and after observing the two of you for a mere minute, he leaves, locking himself in his study for the rest of the day. His disinterest irks you, and you decide to ignore him as well, honing all your attention towards the game. During different times, Headservant Yang and Jihye stop by between their work, watching you two play with rapt fascination.
The game only ends with you winning, long after the sky has gone dark. Cheers and yells erupt in the small crowd of servants gathered to watch the game. You grin cockily, finally standing up and stretching your legs. San accepts his defeat and takes his leave, not before you make him promise to join you another day for another match.
“Would you like to have your bath first or dinner, my Lady?” Headservant Yang asks. You ponder, still reeling from the high of winning. “Did my husband have dinner?”
“Yes, my Lady.” You sigh. “Well then, I will have my dinner now and then take my bath.”
—
After your bath, you sit in your room with the mirror in front of you while Jihye combs your hair. “Today was a fun day, no, my Lady?” She asks.
“Yes,” you hum. “It is a shame General Choi did not join us.”
“Indeed.”
“Where has he been all day?”
“In his room, my Lady. He was studying.”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Your husband truly does not know how to have fun. Instead of spending a rest day with his wife, he would rather read and strategize and sulk by himself.
As if he could hear your thoughts, the man appears with a knock at your door and steps in a second later. Jihye excuses herself, leaving the two of you alone, the room suddenly buzzing with tension.
Your husband regards you with that same unreadable face, but something in you tells you that he is grumpier than usual. Still, you try to be civil. “Hello, my Lord.”
“Lady Choi. It was hard to catch sight of you all day.”
Yes. He is annoyed about something. The subtle bite in his voice is unmissable. You finish combing the ends of your hair before setting the comb down. “My apologies about that. I was too immersed in the game of baduk.”
“Yes, I noticed.” He peers down at you, his eyes ethereally flashing in the soft lights of your chamber. “You seemed to quite enjoy your time with San.”
“He is an excellent player. He also mentioned that you used to play with him.” You supply, trying to understand what might be the cause of his annoyance.
“I don’t know about excellent.” He murmurs, looking away from you. “I taught him, true, but he is no match for me.”
You narrow your eyes. What is he implying? “I am sure he is not, my Lord.” You force a smile.
“Yet, you chose to spend the entire day with him.” This time, he snaps, clear and offended. Your jaw hangs low, surprised at his pettiness. You stand up frowning. “You were away, my Lord.”
“Not the entire day. I returned long ago, but you were too busy playing with him till dinner time.” He grumbles, not meeting your eyes but staring at the lamp. Stunned, you gape at him, trying to understand where he is coming from.
Your heart flutters. Is it possible that he is jealous?
“My Lord,” you step closer to take a look at his face. “Are you…jealous?”
“Ha!” He scoffs, stepping away. “Why would I be jealous of that little punk?” he half yells, waving his hand dismissively like he is swatting away a bug.
Your spirits dampen, and annoyance starts to take over. You give him a saccharine sweet smile that is evidently fake. “Well then, there is nothing to worry about. Shall we head to bed?”
He refuses to let the topic go. “You finally remembered me, no? Now that it is time to sleep?”
The thread holding you together snaps. With gritted teeth, you stare at him, trying your level best to keep your tone neutral. “Well, when your husband dismisses you at every chance he gets and tries to run from you at the mere mention of intimacy, a girl would naturally be upset and spend time elsewhere. I hope you pardon her for spending some time away from him.” You bow dramatically in apology, making sure that he understands it is sarcasm.
“Wha—” He regards you, eyes wide and mouth agape, like he cannot believe the words coming from your lips. “You—” He seems to be at a loss for words.
You step past him, but he raises a finger at you. “So you prefer San over me? Is that what you are saying?”
You roll your eyes at his words. However, today there is an urge within you to push him to his limit. So, you whip your head back and glare at him.
“Who knows?” You singsong. Your husband’s eyes only enlarge, the look of pure shock taking over his face, his mouth hanging open wider than before. “Maybe I do. Maybe I do prefer him over you. He spends time with me, after all. Despite today being a rest day, you stayed in your room all day when you could have joined us. So what if I prefer his company?” You add the last line for good measure, trying to appear as threatening as possible.
“Take that back,” he says, his tone quiet. The look on his face starts to shift towards something serious.
You egg him on. “I won’t! In fact, from now on, I will spend more time with him. Who knows, he might give me all the love and attention you refuse.”
The man finally snaps. In the flash of an eye, he is right in front of you, his hand behind your neck pulling you so close to him that you feel his breath. All earlier pettiness and playfulness are gone. He looks like a raging beast, barely hanging on by a thread.
“Take that back. Tell me you do not mean it or I swear to God, I will chop his head off.” He grits, his voice shaking with anger and his grip on your skin tightening. His eyes are like two molten pools of lava, angry and bright, and he has never looked hotter.
Without wasting a second, you smash your lips with his, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer and closer towards you.
The force of your kiss is so strong that it knocks him back a few steps. However, he is quick to recover, meeting your lips with even more passion, a side of him completely new to you. Raw and unchained, he goes all in, devouring your lips like it is his salvation.
You don’t hold back either.
You let go of your body weight entirely, pushing him on the ground below you while never letting go of his lips. Your hands—his and yours—move frantically to claw at each other through the layers of fabric. With a huff, your husband finally removes his lips from yours, a long string of saliva connecting your lips to his. “If we continue…I cannot hold back.” He pants, his eyes wild and shining.
His words make you giddy with anticipation, molten hot pools of lava swirling in your belly.
“That is what I want,” you whisper, feeling the cold air against your swollen lips. “I do not want you to hold back.” Slowly, you snake your arms around his neck and you move closer to his face. With a mere inch between your lips, you murmur, “I want you to devour me, my Lord.”
Your husband makes a sound, a low, primal grunt that comes from the deepest part of his chest. He exhales sharply, determination swirling in his eyes as he finally lets go of all the restraint he had been practicing till now.
In a flash, he flips your positions, holding you against the ground, his large body looming over yours. Your breath catches in your throat with the view on top of you, and he has not even taken off his clothes yet. Desire thrums in your veins, making you curl your toes in anticipation.
“I will ruin you tonight.” That is a promise. His voice is laced with something dark, like he will thoroughly enjoy ruining you. Little does he know, you will enjoy it too.
“Please, my Lord.” You beg, all too eager to become his.
His eyes flash at your words, and immediately, his hands get to work. They move with ease, graceful yet quick, as he strips you off your garments. All too soon, you are left only in your underskirt, your bare chest exposed for his eyes to feast on. You have the urge to cover them, and as if your husband can read your mind, he grabs your hands and links your fingers with his, pinning them on top of your head.
“Do not hide from me,” he commands, his lips hovering over yours. You nod, jittery with need and anticipation.
Once sure your hands will not move, he slowly traces his fingers from your jawbone to your neck and then your shoulder, before reaching for your braid. You shift and let him hold your hair, his fingers gently caressing over the long braided strands. His fingers trace over your daenggi before tugging on it sharply. Undone, the strip of cloth comes off as your hair starts to loosen from the braid.
“So beautiful.” He hums, holding a few strands of hair between his fingers. He places a soft kiss on them before reaching for your hands. With your daenggi, he ties your wrists together, making sure the knot will hold before placing your hands back where they were, arms stretched straight on top of your head.
“Be a good girl.” He whispers, his voice sultry, his gaze half lidded yet dangerous. Your heart hammers loudly in your chest as the reality of what is happening actually starts to settle in your bones.
You are half-naked, tied up and vulnerable underneath your husband. The man they call the Grim Reaper, the most merciless man in the land. Yet, you are not afraid.
You watch as he shifts, making himself comfortable between your spread legs. He lifts your underskirt, exposing your core, and despite the urge to close your legs, you cannot.
“So beautiful. It will be a treat to ruin you.” He hums, his eyes focused between your legs, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Without any warning, he slaps you between your legs, right on your sensitive flesh, the sharp whack echoing through the quietness of the night.
“Ah!” You cry, mortified and surprised. It stings but also unlocks a new sensation of pleasure within you. Your face heats up as you realize how much you enjoyed it, a deep and deprived sense of pleasure.
He slaps you again. “Do you like it? I can see you are getting wet.” He says, his flashing eyes set on your face.
You make a pathetic noise of agreement. “Answer me!” He commands, slapping you once more. A long, needy moan is ripped from your throat. You pant. “Y-yes, my Lord.”
Pleased, he smirks before leaning down to press kisses on your inner thighs. He moves slowly and deliberately, playing with you, nibbling on your skin with his teeth before giving it a soothing lick and making sure it is marked. When he sits back up, his eyes trace all over your face as if he is trying to remember every small detail about you. You do the same, peering at him through your lashes with bated breath, wishing you could pull him closer for another kiss.
You could spend your entire life kissing this man.
With the ease and grace of a panther that has trapped its prey, your husband moves, enveloping you with his body, his hair falling over you like a black curtain. Lying on top of you, one of his hands holds on to the nape of your neck while the other explores your body, teasingly moving down your waist and between your legs. His warm fingers trace your core, feeling the wetness gathered between your legs. Without losing eye contact, he plays with you, dipping his fingers inside, making you shiver and whimper and continues to smirk knowingly.
He pushes his index and middle finger inside you, just up to his knuckles and the intrusion have you shuddering, your core throbbing like it has its own heartbeat. A breathy moan tears from your lips, and he uses the opportunity to lean in and bite your lip softly.
Dear god. You whimper. “Please.”
“What?” He mouths against your lips. “T-touch me,” you reply, chasing his lips to reconnect with yours.
You hear him scoff cockily. “I am touching you, wife.” His title for you makes you only more desperate. You whine, starting to writhe, “More.”
You feel him smile against your mouth, his fingers slipping all the way in. His lips trace your jaw, his nose pressed against your skin before trailing down your neck, while his fingers start moving in and out. Involuntarily, your hips writhe, chasing his fingers while he peppers your neck with kisses and bites before fixing on a particular spot beneath your ear that makes you whimper. Then, he uses his thumb to give you a flick, his dark eyes trained on your face as your pleasure amplifies.
“Oh my god,” you shut your eyes closed, reveling in the feeling of his fingers inside you. He starts to pick up pace, moving the fingers in tandem, circling them inside you and giving your clit an occasional flick. You wrap your legs around his lower waist, crossing them over and pulling him even closer, a desperate attempt at trying to ease the growing ache. Inside you, his fingers move rapidly, making your body tense as you start climbing your high, the coil in your belly pulling tight.
“My L-lord…” You pant, looking at him with pleading eyes, even though you are unsure what you are trying to say. “Say my name,” he commands, dark eyes trained on you.
You feel even hotter, the coil in your belly pulled impossibly tight. “S-Seungcheol.”
“That is right. Scream my name.” He orders, eyes hazy with a film of lust and possessiveness. As if teasing you, his thumb brushes over your clit ever so slightly, drawing out a shuddering whine from your lips that makes him chuckle quietly. The sound feels like magic to your ears, a drug to your system that heightens your pleasure. His teeth dig into the soft flesh of your neck, undoubtedly leaving a mark.
“P-please Seungcheol,” you heave, eyes closed shut, fingernails digging into your palms. Humming against your neck, he uses his fingers to rub an even deeper spot inside you as his thumb rubs your clit mercilessly.
“Please!” You hiss, throwing your head back, your toes curling as you wail. “I… I cannot…”
“You are going to cum for me. Now,” his voice is a quiet order.
He curls his fingers inside you one last time and flicks your clit hard with his thumb, sending you over the edge. Your release is a tidal wave of mind-breaking pleasure as your body goes tense, your hips arching off the bed, your mouth hanging open as a reaction to the overwhelming pleasure; your first orgasm.
You experience a type of bliss you had no idea existed, and for a moment, your mind goes blank, your body lying taut and tense underneath his. The onslaught of pleasure leaves your vision blurry with unshed tears and your mind numb to everything as you slowly descend from the throes of heavenly bliss and register that your husband is sitting upright between your legs.
With his relentless gaze locked with yours, he slowly licks his fingers clean, his long pink tongue darting out to caress his digits as he hums, “This is the sweetest pussy I have ever had.”
The sight is more than erotic, and for a moment, you are scared you will die from a heart attack. You want this man. You need him all at once, in every way possible. There is an ache coming from the depths of your soul that only he can satisfy.
“Please…untie me. I want to touch you.” You beg, hoping he takes mercy. It has been torture keeping your hands off of him. Hearing your plea, he takes mercy and undoes the ribbon tying your wrists. Free, you immediately sit up and wrap yourself around him, pulling him close for a kiss. Vigorously, wantonly, you kiss him and taste yourself on his tongue, moaning and gripping onto his back, your fingers itching to touch his skin underneath his nightshirt.
“Please take this off,” you breathe against his mouth. Your husband smiles, undoubtedly enjoying teasing you. “Why?”
“Because…I want to see you.” You whisper sweetly, looking at him through your lashes. The man obliges, letting his hands off you for a moment to take off his shirt.
The sight of his naked body renews the heat between your legs, a new wave of desire overcoming your system. You let yourself gawk at the expanse of the muscles on his chest and the bulky thickness of his arms, all littered with scars, strong and dependable. As he stares at your face for a reaction, you reach for him absentmindedly, dragging your index finger over a scar on his right bicep. It is long, old, and jagged, rough and bumpy to the touch. Without thinking, you lean towards his arm and softly press a kiss on the wound before slowly dragging your lips to his chest, where another scar has bloomed. “It must have hurt,” you whisper to yourself, pressing another kiss on the scar before meeting his eyes. “I want to see all of your scars, dear husband. And I want to kiss all of them. I want to kiss away your pain.”
Something flashes by his eyes, brief but vulnerable. He immediately snakes a strong around around your waist to pull you tight against him and seal his lips over yours in a possessive kiss.
With his lips tangled with yours, he carries you to the sleeping mat, setting you down gently. You sigh in satisfaction as your back meets the soft, warm quilt.
Your husband quickly gets to work, taking off your underskirt in a sharp yank and ripping it in the process. Surprised and embarrassed, you squeak, trying to hide yourself from his gaze. With the lamp burning right on the desk next to the mat, he has a pretty clear view of your body.
“Your pants…” You whisper, tugging them as well, and Seungcheol chuckles. “So desperate, aren't we?”
“Please,” you beg, throwing him your best pleading eyes as your hands roam around his back, feeling the ridge and bump of his muscles.
The man quickly takes off his pants, giving you the briefest glimpse of his cock. You barely get to see him as he leans down towards you again, his eyes locked with yours. He drags his palms up, cupping your breasts and squeezing them. A breathy sigh of pleasure falls from your lips as you automatically lean closer to his face, your lips chasing his. Seungcheol captures them in a soft, teasing kiss, his lips gently biting yours as you feel his cock brush against your thigh.
You shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your skin.
You are a ball of nerves right now, the idea of getting intimate with a man for the first time plaguing your mind with worry. Yet, at the same time, you are overcome with desire, need running through your veins.
This is scary yet perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Your husband attacks your neck, kissing and biting the skin while simultaneously playing with your breasts. You mewl, letting your head fall to one side to give him better access to your neck. He hums, the sound so deep and throaty you feel it in your core. His lips do not break contact with your skin, kissing and sucking your sensitive flesh until your whole body shakes like leaves in a tree.
“Please…” You beg, digging your nails into his shoulder, your body unconsciously starting to grind against him, desperate to ease the throbbing ache between your legs. Seungcheol, finally satisfied with the red spot blooming on your neck, lets you go, peering down at you with his hypnotizing eyes.
“I teased you a lot, did I not, wife?” He hums, caressing your heated face with his knuckles. Drunk with desire, you nod, your half-lidded gaze transfixed. “Please, take me, my Lord.”
He tsks disapprovingly. As if to prove a point, he wraps his hand around your throat but does not apply any pressure. “My name.”
“Seungcheol.” You reply immediately.
“Good girl.” Seungcheol smirks, his eyes flashing with something dark as he leans back on his heels, taking a slow, good look at your body. Then, spreading your legs wider, he spits on his fingers and using it as a lubricant over his cock before lining up with your entrance.
“This will hurt at first.” He warns. You nod, one hand covering your face as you choose to look at the ceiling out of embarrassment.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Look at me.” He demands, the tip of his cock brushing against your pussy lips, making you shiver and follow his command. “Keep your eyes on me. Watch me devour this tight cunt.”
You feel like someone set your face on fire. Face flushed with his crude words, you barely get to make a sound when Seungcheol thrusts himself inside you. Your head lolls forward with the impact as your hands immediately clutch his arm around your waist for support.
“Ah!” You cry out, eyes squeezed shut as you feel a sharp sting between your legs. “Fuck,” Seungcheol hisses, his voice throaty as he remains half buried inside you. Pausing for a moment, he lets you adjust before pulling back and then thrusting back in. This time, he goes all the way in, and you swear you feel him in your stomach. With a loud, pathetic cry, you cling onto his body, your brain unable to keep up with all the different sensations.
He builds a pace, pushing in and out of you in strong movements.
Your brain feels like mush as you fail to utter anything, your mouth simply hanging open to let out breathy pants as you close your eyes and feel every ridge of his cock move in and out of you, the initial pain of intrusion fizzling away. It is a blissful experience, a high you never want to come out of.
“Push out your hips a little,” he orders quietly, dark eyes set on you so intensely, you feel like he can see your soul.
Immediately, you comply, extending your waist towards him while keeping your upper back pressed to the mat. His hands hold your hip bone n a strong grip as he places a pillow under your ass and slides himself back inside you with a leisurely pace, the new angle making his length curve inside you.
You start seeing stars.
“Oh my god,” you hiss, eyes squeezed shut. The back of your thighs rests over Seungcheol’s, your legs dangling around his waist, and your hands clenched around the sleeping mat as he starts to pick up pace. With each thrust, the force increases, the tip of his cock hitting your most sensitive spot, low groans falling from his lips to match your breathy moans.
“I… I cannot…please” your whisper mindlessly, the words scattered and almost unintelligible due to your broken moans. “You want to come?” His voice is almost taunting as he leans closer to look at your face. “Well, that’s unfortunate. You do not come until I give you permission, wife.” Your husband warns, making you whine.
The need to find your release only intensifies. You are so close you can almost taste the blissful release.
“P-Please,” You beg, wrapping your arms around his neck and digging your fingernails into his shoulder blades. “Say it louder. Scream my name. Who is fucking this tight pussy?’’ he grunts in your ears, his warm breath tickling your skin.
“Seungcheol!” The desperate yell is quick to leave your lips.
“Who will make you come?”
“You! Seungcheol!”
“That is right, wife. It is I, your husband.” He gives you a particularly harsh thrust. “Not San. Not any other man but me.”
“Y-yes. Please…” you sob. Gripping your chin, he forces you to look at him. “Who do you belong to?” His voice is as quiet as a winter night.
“You, my husband.” You manage to utter clearly amid his brutal thrusts. “Good girl,” he praises, nibbling on your jaw. One of his hands reaches below to touch your clit as he wastes no time rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pads of his finger, all the while continuing to thrust inside you earnestly.
“Seungcheol!” You scream, your entire body jolting.
Your reaction makes him smirk as he chases his own high, seconds away from erupting inside you. He places your clit between his thumb and index finger, giving you a particularly harsh rub followed by a pinch.
You are catapulted over the edge. Your vision goes white, your entire sweat-coated body twitching from the intensity of the pleasure. It only amplifies as you feel Seungcheol spill inside you, his warm release filling you up and dripping lazily out of you.
You feel like you are floating from the bliss.
—
Your husband’s hand strokes your back in repeated soothing motions while you bask in the afterglow of your passionate lovemaking. With him lying behind you on the mat, your bodies pressed together, you move from reality to dreamland every now and then, the smile never leaving your face as you savour his touch and warmth.
“Are you asleep?” he softly asks, bringing his face closer to inspect you.
You make a noise and shake your head, too lazy to move. Your husband gently turns you so that you lie face to face.
“Are you in any pain?” You ask again, carefully looking at your face, his fingers brushing away the rowdy strands of hair from your face. You open your eyes and look at him with a gaze full of love. “I am perfect, husband. Thank you.”
He smiles when you address him by that name, a warm, gummy smile that shows his unbridled joy. The possessive madman from earlier has completely disappeared, replaced by a man eager to dote on his wife.
This is your first time seeing this side of your husband.
He pulls you against his chest, holding you tight in his arms. “No, thank you, wife. Thank you for being mine.” You smile, nuzzling his bare chest. This is the safest and most comfortable you have ever felt, and you do not want to let go. Ever.
After a moment of pause, he whispers. “I know I lack a lot. I can be clueless sometimes. So from now on, I hope you share with me whatever is on your mind. All your wishes, hopes and dreams, your desires— everything. I promise I will make them come true.”
You are too tired to form a reply, your body growing heavier each second but still, you smile. You peacefully drift off.
—
Seungcheol did not go to work today.
The news delights you when you hear it from Jihye as she helps you get dressed. Her eyes linger on your body, especially on your neck, where little marks have formed— evidence of your lovemaking.
She looks half worried and half scandalized, and you wink at her playfully before stepping out of your chamber. Your husband sits on the porch, fully dressed, basking in the sun with a book in his hand.
“Good morning, my Lord.” You whisper, feeling pathetically shy when you catch sight of him. He looks up, his eyes shining when they land on you. “Good morning, wife. How are you feeling?” Shyly, you walk over to him and sit down without leaving any space between the two of you. Fiddling with your skirt, you look away when you answer, “I am alright, my Lord.”
With a gentle grasp on your chin, he turns your face and forces you to look at him. “The truth.” He says quietly.
Truthfully, you are quite sore, and an ache has taken hold all over your body. However, you cannot complain. The ache is laced with pleasure, especially between your legs, reminding you of last night.
Your heart gallops in your chest as you look into his eyes. “I am a little sore,” you reply timidly. “But it is a good kind of sore, I promise.”
His eyes travel to your neck, eyeing the red marks visible on your skin. “I was too rough with you,” he murmurs, his tone laced with regret, his eyes focused on your neck. Quickly, you snap him out of it. “Not at all, my Lord.” You sling your arms with his, pulling him closer so that you can rest your face on his shoulder. “You were just perfect. I enjoyed it. A lot.” You whisper, face flushing.
Your husband keeps gazing at you like he does not believe you. Whipping your head around, you take a quick scan around the yard before pressing a sweet kiss on his lips and giggling like a child. A soft smile blooms on his lips, even though he tries to stifle it.
“You should smile more, my Lord. You look so handsome.”
“Why are you calling me that? You called me by my name last night.” His lips form a soft pout as he complains. You pause, “Well…last night was…”
“You shall call me Seungcheol from now on.” He announces. “I would like it even more if you gave me a nickname.”
Wide eyed, you look at him.
“Do you understand me, wife?”
“Yes, husband.”
Happy with that for now, he does not pester you anymore. You rest your head on his shoulders, your hands intertwined, and watch the morning sky in silence.
“You asked me to share all my wishes with you last night.” You speak after a while, eyes focused somewhere distant. “Can I share one with you right now?”
“Of course,” he shifts so that his body faces you.
Tilting your head up, you admire a white, fluffy cloud. “Ever since my brother died, I have only had one wish for my life. I wanted to live by the sea in a small house. In that house, there would be my husband and I, and we would spend the rest of our days there, away from all the noise and bleakness of this town.”
“That sounds lovely.” He murmurs. You nod before looking at him. “Do you think it would ever be possible for us?”
He remains silent.
“Given the nature of your job, I understand. However, I need you to promise me one thing. You must take care of yourself. You must not get hurt, do you hear me? You have someone to come home to now. You must think about me and you must return home to me, do you understand?” Your hands grip his in an earnest hold.
His free hand comes to rest on top of yours, and he gives you a reassuring squeeze, warm and soft. “Rest easy, wife. I shall come back to you. Always.”
A lone drop of tear strolls down your cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb before pressing the softest, feather-like kiss on your forehead. After a moment's pause, you speak. “Now it is your turn to share something with me.”
He regards you with confusion.
“Anything. A wish, a secret…” You stare at him with eagerness. He sighs softly, his eyes trained on his lap as he thinks about something.
“Well…when I told you not to expect anything from me,” he begins, looking almost shy, his gaze soft and apologetic. “I was afraid. I wanted to keep you at an arm's length from the beginning because I was scared of losing you. I have lost everyone close to me, and the thought of going through something like that again terrifies me. Since I joined the military, I have kept myself detached from everyone because the less I cared, the better.”
Your heart aches for the man. With gentle fingers, you brush away the unruly strands of hair from his face and trace the scar next to his eye. “You will not lose me, husband. I am right here.” You promise.
He wraps his arms around you as if to test your words. You wrap yourself around him, basking in his embrace, your bodies melting into one. “Do not leave me.” He whispers, his voice raw and vulnerable.
“Never.”
—
Seungcheol left for the palace early today. After two days of relaxation, a letter came for him last night from the palace, demanding his presence first thing in the morning.
At night, Seuncheol held you tight in his arms, soothing away your worries. He finally shared what has been going on in the palace and why there are assassins after him.
Turns out they are working for the Minister of Trade, who is strictly against the new reformations currently being done by the king, like an attempt to abolish the slavery system. Seungcheol has been the King’s number one ally and a powerful piece in the game, which is why they are after him. Removing him from the equation is as good as stripping the King of his powers. Minister Kim has done exceptionally well in covering up his tracks, which is why there is no solid proof against him, complicating this entire issue. He has been playing a cat-and-mouse game with the royal army for a while now.
Your husband left even before you woke up, leaving a note for you promising he would be home for dinner.
The day slowly passes by with you going to the palace and coming home once your shift is over, always under the watchful eye of San. The mood in the palace has been tense today, different rumours about Minister Kim floating in the air and a sinking feeling forms in your gut. No matter how hard you try, you cannot shake off the feeling that something ominous is about to take place.
Your suspicion starts taking shape when dusk falls and Seungcheol does not return. It turns into terror and restlessness as night falls, and still, there is no sign of him. The supper grows cold, and you fall asleep upright, waiting for him, your husband, who never comes.
When you open your eyes again, you find Jihye sitting next to you, a worried look on her face. “What is it?” You immediately sit up straight. “My lady, it is past midnight. Master has not returned yet. Should we send someone to the palace to ask for him?” She asks.
Your fingers fist around your skirt, anxiety coursing through your veins like poison. “We should.” You whisper.
Just as you are following Jihye out of the room, you hear commotion; the voice of a servant and Headservant Yang. Running to the porch, you see Seungcheol entering the house, dressed in his military uniform, his sword in his hand.
He marches straight towards you and drags you into your bedchamber without any words. “My Lord, where have you been!” You cry, gripping his arm. “I have been waiting for you—”
“Listen to me carefully,” he cuts you off, his hands resting on your shoulders as he leans down to be at your eye level. His usual unbothered demeanour is gone, replaced by worry that you see in his eyes as vividly as daylight.
Something must be wrong. Your heart starts racing.
“The Minister of Trade is planning to attack us here tonight. They will be here anytime, so I need to get you out of here.”
“Wha— How did you even find that out? Are you sure?”
“The royal army captured a member of his team yesterday. We tortured the information out of him. Look at me,” he urges you, his fingers gripping your shoulder even tighter. “Minister Kim knows we are onto him. He has gone into hiding. He will stop at nothing to get to me, to you, do you understand? He plans to go down and drag me with him.” You see the fear in his eyes. The unshakable, indestructible man suddenly appears different, and this change terrifies you.
“I am scared.” You whisper.
“You have nothing to be scared of.” He pulls you in his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. “I am going to send you to a safe place. I need you to do as I say, okay?”
You nod shakily, your fingers holding onto his sleeve in a death grip.
“Pack your essentials. We will leave within thirty minutes. Ask Jihye to help you.” He says, pressing a kiss on your forehead before marching outside.
With your heart hammering in your chest, you get to work, moving your shaky limbs to pack a bag with the help of Jihye. Soon, you are ready, and Seungcheol wastes no time wrapping everything up. He places Headservant Yang and the other servant in another neighbor's house to make sure they are safe before setting out with you.
In the darkness of the night, you get onto his horse with his help, followed by him sitting behind you, his arms around you to hold onto the reins. Jihye and another male servant get on another horse, and finally, a royal soldier follows from behind.
A little to the south of the town, there is a long, dense forest which leads to a small, quaint village. There is an ancient shrine there, inhabited by monks, and that is where Seungcheol intends to get you by dawn.
The silence grows heavier and thicker as you tread into the forest; the only sound echoing around is the soft galloping of the horses. You shiver, more from dread than from the cold night air and Seungcheol notices it. “Hold the reins.” He orders quietly so that his hands are free. He takes off the muffler wrapped around his neck and gently puts it around yours.
“I asked you to pack the essentials, wife.” His tone is playful. “I think a muffler in this weather counts as an essential.” He teases, and you understand it is his attempt to soothe you. “I am sorry, my lord. You should keep it. You will catch a cold.” You murmur.
“Hush now,” he shushes you, taking back the reins. “You should lean on me and close your eyes. It will take a while for us to reach there.”
“No, it is okay.” You reply, eyes focused ahead on the dark, narrow road cutting through the forest.
It is such a gloomy night. You cannot spot a single star in the sky, shrouded by clouds.
Time ticks by. The night grows darker.
Your journey continues through the hour of the ox and into the hour of the tiger. Exhaustion takes over you, and unable to resist it any longer, you close your eyes and lean your head back, resting it against your husband’s shoulder. It is not an ideal condition to get some shut-eye, but somehow you doze off.
When your eyes reopen, you hear the loud sound of a horse neighing and its heavy galloping. Seungcheol holds you tighter, and with a sharp tug of the reins and a nudge of his heels, his horse leaps into a full sprint. You look around worriedly, scanning through the dense bushes surrounding you.
“Master! Did they find us already?” Servant Min cries from behind as his horse too picks up pace.
The sounds grow louder, and just as your body tenses up, fearing the worst, you see San pop up from inside the forest, his horse taking a lunge and joining you on the road. “General, you have to keep going!” He yells. “They are right behind us.”
Seungcheol’s horse sprints parallel to his.
“How did they catch up so quickly?”
“Minister Kim had his men spread out. They were hiding in a camp a few miles behind. I took care of them, but the messenger escaped. I’m sure the minister is on his way. You need to move fast. There might be more of his men hiding in the forest.”
Upon hearing his words, you notice the specks of red on his hanbok. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you look behind to see your husband’s face. His jaw is clenched tight. “We need to come up with a plan. If they find us, we cannot hold them off. I need to get my wife to safety.” He yells back.
It is as if a cactus is lodged in your throat. “W-what do you mean?” You cry, your face aghast.
He does not reply to you.
“It will be daybreak soon, General! We should hide somewhere.” San suggests.
Just then, you notice a sudden, strange ball of light in the sky, a little towards your right. It takes a moment for you to register that it is a signal, an arrow of fire shot from behind you.
“There are assassins ahead of us. They now know we are headed that way.” Seungcheol hisses.
“I will take care of it.” San nods, wielding his sword and screaming at the horse, “Go!” The horse runs faster, impossibly so, almost flying forward.
“I need you to stay calm and follow my orders.” Your husband says to you. “Do you hear me?” You nod shakily, “Yes.”
In five minutes, you catch up to San, who has taken care of most of the assassins that sat ahead at the curve. As you sprint near, Seungcheol hands the reins to you and readies his bow and arrow, taking perfect shots at the rest of the assassins. Then, he smoothly gets off the horse, followed by the other soldier who has been accompanying you, their swords wielded as they fight one-on-one.
A little ahead of the curb, you stop the horse and so does Jihye and servant Min, watching the fight anxiously. The three men take multiple assassins at a time, making sure they do not get to you.
You chew on your lower lip, your hands fidgeting as you watch the fight unfold. You wish Seungcheol gave you an archery set. You know the basics because you practised regularly as a child with your brother. Even though after his death, you stopped it for a while, you did not completely let go, taking occasional lessons from the older nobleman in your neighbourhood who used to be a skillful archer once upon a time.
By the time the last member of the group has been killed, shades of blue have coated the sky. Seungcheol and his team run back to the horses, their clothes specked with blood. “Come on, we need to leave,” he says, mounting the horse.
There is a sudden sound; a sharp whoosh like a strong gust of wind just flew by, followed by a soft thud.
It is an arrow.
It whizzes towards you, missing the mark and hitting the tree trunk a couple of inches to your left. Your heart stops. A few hundred meters from the way you came, a large group of armed men show up. It is Minister Kim’s convoy.
They have caught up to you.
At the center, leading them is the minister himself, dressed in iron like he is about to go to war. His eyes, black and empty, scour the dead bodies of his assassins lying on the ground in front of him before looking at your husband.
His thin lips curl up into an evil smile. “General! No point in running now! It’s time to see how good of a fighter you are!” He yells.
You feel Seungcheol's body growing tenser with each passing second, his hand gripping your thigh in a bruising hold. You, too, are paralyzed with fear, unsure of what to do. Then, absolutely shocking you, Seungcheol does the thing you least expected him to do. He starts getting off the horse slowly, his eyes trained on Minister Kim.
“San, take my wife and go.” He speaks quietly to the younger man who hadn’t gotten on his horse yet. “My Lord, what are you—” You do not get to finish your sentence because the younger man has instantly climbed behind you and snatched the reins from your hands.
“Get them!” You hear a shout as you are swept away with lightning speed. San’s grip around your body is iron solid, holding the reins with his eyes focused ahead on climbing the steep, hilly road at the end of the forest.
“No, please! You need to be with him!” You cry, fighting against him as you look behind to see Seungcheol fighting the Minister’s men, accompanied by the other soldier.
He can never outfight all those people.
“Have faith in him. He knows what he is doing.” San assures, kicking his heels so the horse runs faster. You hear sounds right behind you, and you turn to see an assassin on a horse, aiming his arrow at you. San takes notice of it and swerves right immediately to avoid it.
As calculated, it misses, but a second later, your horse neighs out loud, standing on its hind legs before dropping down on the ground, taking the two of you with it. The arrow was meant for the horse. It struck his leg, injuring him, leaving the animal on the ground, softly crying in pain.
San wastes no time getting up and wielding his sword to fight off the man and the others following behind him. Jihye and servant Min, who were right behind you, yell out, calling for you to get on their horse. Jihye extends her hand towards you, but you ignore her, bunching up your skirt and making a run towards the curb.
“My Lady, what are you doing?” San yells, fighting off the assassins. “Jihye, stop her!”
“My Lady, come back!”
Ignoring their cries, you pick up the bow and set of arrows dropped by the assassin and continue sprinting down the steep road.
Then, finding a safe distance and a place behind an oak tree, you spot your husband, his movements sharp and precise as he takes down one man after the other. You watch as the minister slowly walks towards him, his sword dragging on the ground, leaving behind a threatening trail. Due to him wearing the armored plates, you know it is pointless to shoot at him, so you load your bow and aim at the assassins and start shooting.
The first one grazes past the man you aim at. Not discouraged, you continue, and the second one hits the target.
Your husband looks in your direction immediately when the assassin drops dead, his eyes going from confusion to worry the moment he spots you. He does not have the time to do anything about it, as he has to fight the never-ending men.
And you are slightly grateful for that. Right now, he does not have the chance to come to you and force you away, giving you the chance to help him from afar. You continue loading arrows and shooting, missing some but hitting most, well aware of the fact that the Minister has spotted you.
From behind, you hear Jihye coming towards you, her exhausted pleas echoing down the path. “Jihye, I need more arrows!” You yell as you come down to your last two. “There should be some on the road back there!”
By now, most of the assassins have been taken care of, and the remainder are being fought by the soldier accompanying your husband. Minister Kim has approached Seunghceol as they engage in a heated sword fight, the minister swinging his sword like a madman, his growls echoing in the air. Your eyes scan around the place, thinking of finding a way to help Seungcheol, when San finally catches up to you, followed by Jihye, who did not get the arrows you asked for.
“My Lady, enough!” he yells. “You cannot be here! The road has been cleared—”
“We need to help him!” you yell back. “I cannot leave him here for—” You do not get to finish your sentence.
An arrow hits Seungcheol, piercing through the skin right below his right shoulder, on the top of his chest.
“No!” You scream, watching him stumble back for a moment. Your eyes fly through the scene, spotting an archer hidden inside the forest a little ahead towards your right. As you load your bow to take a shot at him, San finally comes to his senses, flying down the road to help Seungcheol.
You take the shot.
The arrow hits the hidden archer right in the chest, making him tumble backwards, disappearing out of sight. Then, you dash down the road, not scared of anything anymore, Jihye following you as your shadow.
San stands no match to Minister Kim, easily overpowered and tossed aside by his brute strength. He has the eyes of a madman, hell bent on getting to Seungcheol, discarding everything in his way like little bugs.
“I told you, you scarred lunatic!” He screams, charging at your husband. “I will slice your head off your neck and then do the same to your wife!”
He swings his sword around, charging for Seungcheol with all his might. Seungcheol blocks him with his sword, but the force of the attack forces him to fall to his knees. Minister Kim takes the opportunity to knock him off his feet with a kick. Seungcheol falls on the ground on his back, and in the split second, the minister raises his sword towards the sky before bringing it down sideways on his chest.
“Seungcheol!” You yell at the top of your lungs. “General!” San yells, coming from behind and tackling Minister Kim to the ground before he can fully swing his sword across. His helmet falls off from the force of San's attack. With your heart thundering in your ears, you point the remaining arrow at him.
It is like your body is not yours anymore. With zero hesitation, you take the shot while he is still pinned to the ground, struggling to get free, and the arrow hits the bullseye, right in the center of his forehead.
His body slumps to the ground.
Pushing him away, San holds your husband’s lifeless body, his eyes slowly falling shut as he yells his name. Jihye and servant Min run past you, calling their master.
The bow drops from your hand.
You stand there, watching the ground go red underneath your husband’s body, your fingers gripping his muffler around your neck.
—
Seungcheol receives his initial treatment in the shrine you were originally supposed to visit.
Once the news of the attack reached the capital, upon the king’s orders, the royal physician Yoon came to treat Seungcheol. He and his assistants crowded the room, tending to your husband’s injury with medicine and wrapping the area with gauze as he lay motionless on the mat.
You stood just outside the room, gazing at your sleeping husband, who looked nothing like his usual self—pale and frail, his body littered with little cuts.
Why won’t he wake up? You miss his eyes. You miss his slow, unravelling gaze on you, his crimson, fiery eye that can almost cut through stone with a simple gaze. Where is that man?
Physician Yoon said he is in a deep sleep. They call it a vegetative state. The injury was quite lethal; the wound just a few centimetres away from damaging his heart. He said that the worst is over, and his pulse is stable now.
But he won’t wake up. He remains unresponsive, and it is unclear how long it will take for him to regain consciousness.
“I see,” was all you said, standing motionless in your spot, gazing at your comatose husband.
A couple of days later, the King sent a royal convoy to move Seungcheol back to his house from the shrine. You had no complaints, wanting your husband to rest comfortably in his own house rather than a shrine. After a long journey, you reached home in the afternoon, greeted by Headservant Yang, who looked as devastated as you. After making sure your husband was okay, physician Yoon left, leaving you anticipating yet another sleepless night.
It is nighttime now, and you sit still next to your sleeping husband. Headservant Yang peeks into the room, begging you to have some food. You ignore her, sitting quietly and observing your husband. The small lamp in the bedchamber casts warm shadows on his face, his sharp features appearing softer and weaker.
He looks oddly at peace. You do not cry. You force a smile.
Leaning closer to him, you glide a gentle hand down his face and whisper, “You can rest. You have had a tough life, my dear. You can rest as long as you need, but you have to come back to me.”
You will pray to every god out there. You will visit every shrine, give unlimited offerings, and pray that your husband returns to you. You will do everything in your power to see him open his eyes. It is truly a shame you do not have much power in your hands.
Sometime later, your exhausted body falls into deep slumber, riddled with nightmares. Your husband lies in a pool of blood, and he does not wake up.
—
The next morning, your father comes to see you. You do not move from your spot next to your husband to greet him as San leads him into the room before excusing himself.
He sits next to you, watching his son-in-law with small, worried eyes, muttering words of regret and concern. You hardly hear them, too busy patting Seungcheol’s face and arms with a damp cloth. Physician Yoon left a while ago after checking up on him and said that there is no progress. The king’s personal messenger came with him as well as the Head Eunuch, praying for Seungcheol and assuring to provide help in any way they can.
You couldn't care less about them. You sent them off, handing the letter you wrote for the king in the messenger’s hand before asking San to see them out.
“My daughter, you should eat something. You have to take care of yourself so that you can take care of him.” Your father urges.
You finish wiping your husband’s body in silence before setting the rag down and clasping his hand in yours. They are calloused but warm, and you silently send a prayer of gratitude to the heavens. He is alive. He is still here.
Tracing over his bruised knuckles with your fingertips, you whisper, “You know, Father, I have been lonely for a long time. After orabeoni died, I thought that was it. It could not get worse, but then Mother died. And I…I hated that I was alive. Because in that house, I was dead. I was dead while still being alive.”
You exhale a shaky breath, pulling Seungcheol’s hand closer to inspect it. You need to apply ointment on his knuckles.
“There was no colour, no joy, no celebration in that house. You were there but also not there. You never saw me. I was not enough, not after losing someone as precious as orabeoni. I felt so guilty. It should have been me, not him—that is all I could think of. I thought my entire life would be miserable like that, which is why I was so eager to marry this man.”
Another heavy sigh whooshes out of your lungs.
“Father, this man…people fear him. They say all sorts of weird things about him. But he is the kindest, warmest man I know. He kept his heart locked and hidden from the world, but he is so precious. He is gentle and kind, and he loves me. He loves me so dearly, Father, and I love him. How could I go on without him?”
And finally, the tears fall. Big droplets of water roll down your cheek as you fall on the ground, clutching onto your husband’s hand and sobbing into the floor, loud and broken.
Your father’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder rather unsurely, softly patting you as you keep crying, the tears that never came till now gushing out like a river with a broken dam. Your broken heart continues to shatter into even smaller pieces, and you cannot help but wonder what if he never wakes up again. Maybe you are doomed to be lonely.
The thought makes you cry some more. After a while, once you have managed to calm down, you sit up and wipe your tears.
“I…I did not know you felt that way.” Your father whispers, his voice ridden with guilt. “I…I never meant to hurt you. I am sorry—”
“I don’t want your apology right now, Father. I want you to pray for him.” You cut him off.
“I will. Of course I will.” He says, his eyes shining with unshed tears and guilt. “And when he is back on his feet, I will come visit you and I will accept your apology then.” You murmur, your gaze trained on your husband.
“Of course. Have faith, my dear. He will be awake soon.” Your father assures, his voice unstable. You hum absentmindedly.
If Seungcheol does not wake up, you do not know what you will do.
—
The wind is particularly chilly this morning.
It has been a fortnight since Seungcheol fell into his comatose state, and he is just as before. Every day, Physician Yoon comes to check on him and then leaves while handing you some herbs to apply to his wound.
You have accepted this as your life now. Waking up every morning with a prayer that all the previous days were a long, gruesome nightmare, but then feeling grateful to see him still breathing, warm and alive.
After completing your daily prayer and offerings at the temple, you walk home in slow steps, the fatigue slowly creeping into your bones. The past week has been hard on you, and it looks like your body to starting to give up. You have not been eating properly, spending all your waking hours beside Seungcheol, tending to his comatose body or crying at the altar of the temple.
You cannot give up. Seungcheol is yet to awake.
Just as you come in front of your house, you find a small stray cat sitting comfortably in the sun. With a small, exhausted smile, you walk closer and crouch down, running your fingers through its shaggy fur. It looks dirty and disheveled, and you wonder where it is from.
You should probably bring it inside and give it some milk to eat. Judging by how comfortably it sits and basks in the sun, you are doubtful you will be able to get it inside your house.
“Would you like something to eat?” You whisper, gently scratching between its ears. The cat meows rather boredly, closing its eyes and resting its head on the ground after a quick swish of its tail.
Right then, a servant bursts out of the front door, looking like he saw a ghost. He looks back and forth down the road before finally spotting you on the ground. The wide-eyed, frazzled look on his face makes your blood run ice cold, and you immediately stand up.
“What is it?”
“My lady…Master is awake.”
You are free falling. You fall and fall, all the limbs of your body finally giving up after a week of war. For a long moment, you stand there, stuck in a daze. You don’t dare to breathe, afraid you would wake up and realize it was a dream.
“I will go get Physician Yoon. Please go inside, my lady.” The servant says before rushing down the street. You struggle to move. The stray cat at your feet has got up due to the commotion and is now strolling into the house.
With your heart racing in your chest, you slowly follow it, your legs shaky due to the nerves.
Seungcheol is awake. He is finally awake.
You hear lots of voices, especially Headservant Yang’s, as she scolds and cries loudly. With a lump lodged in your throat, you keep on walking until you spot the door to his bedchamber. You catch a glimpse of your husband sitting up, and for some reason unknown to you, you immediately hide behind a nearby wall.
You are too scared to see him. Too overwhelmed, too afraid.
You thought of this. You dreamed of the day he would wake and look at you, and now that it is here, you do not know what to do. It feels unreal.
You are angry at him. You are also grateful. Angry for getting hurt. Grateful for waking up.
A sob bursts out of your throat, and you start wailing, unable to hold back the tears any longer. With your palms clasped over your mouth, you cry so hard that it becomes hard to breathe. The sobs wrack your body, knocking the air out of your lungs and leaving behind only pain.
The pain of almost losing him. The pain of seeing him lie there almost lifeless, day after day.
A hand on your shoulder startles you, and you find Jihye standing next to you. Her eyes are misty as she wraps an arm around your heaving body and rubs your arms soothingly. “It is alright, my lady. Please do not cry. He is looking for you.”
Her words make you cry some more before you manage to wipe your tears and snot. It is pretty futile because they do not stop completely. With shaky legs, you move from your hiding spot and continue towards his chamber, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.
Seungcheol spots you immediately, his posture straightening as he sees you arriving. But you do not meet his eye.
You cannot bring yourself to. If you look at him, you will start crying once more, right in the middle of the yard, in front of all the servants.
Headservant Yang and others start moving away as they see you approaching, giving you privacy. You cross the porch, your eyes still trained on the wooden floor of his bedchamber, your hands slightly shaking.
Finally, you step inside and shut the door behind you. Then, your eyes slowly travel to his.
He is definitely paler and thinner than before, but you see life in his eyes. You see the spark and the shine that have always been present in them, and right at that moment, you are sure he will be alright.
Thank god.
He looks up at you, his eyes brimming with longing and guilt. His usual plump red lip shaded in a pale pink colour. His face littered with little cuts that are still healing, yet he has never looked more handsome.
And you have never been happier to see him.
You want to scream. You want to yell at him and tell him how much you love him, but you cannot speak. Tears and sobs threaten to overflow once more, so you stand there like a statue and keep staring at your husband, repeating in your head that he is alive and well.
Until your knees finally give out.
You kneel in front of him and wrap your arms around his neck, careful to avoid his left chest and leaning your weight more on the right. Breathing him in, you hold him as tightly as possible, wishing you could merge yourself into him, wishing you could lock him away and protect him for the rest of his life.
Your tears wet his bare shoulders, your fingers tightly gripping onto the muscles on his back, clutching him on for dear life. It feels as if you let him go— if your grip loosens ever so slightly, you will lose him forever.
It takes a long moment for you to realize how your body is shaking due to your sobs and tearful hiccups, only when your husband's warm hands wrap around you, patting your back like you are a small, wounded animal.
“It is okay, my dear. Everything is okay,” he soothes in the softest voice, and when you hear him, another violent sob slips past your throat while you cling to him and cry in the crook of his neck.
You want to stop, but the tears are endless, a mixture of pain and relief. Gingerly, Seungcheol pulls you away from him to take a look at your face, which is puffy and tear-stained. With his thumbs, he wipes your tears away, murmuring, “Hush, now. It pains me to see you cry like this.”
You want to reply, but the lump in your throat is still heavy, and you know if you try to utter something, only sobs will come out, so you remain silent, raking your eyes over his body before settling on the wound on his chest.
“I am alright, I promise.” He assures you once he sees your gaze. “I feel well-rested, in fact.”
You are glad to hear that.
Wiping the remaining tears and snot rather unceremoniously with your sleeve, you get up on your feet to leave the room, but he tugs on your wrist, pulling you back down and into his arms this time.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you some herbal tea.” You reply, your voice meek and scratchy. Your husband locks his arms around you. “Headservant Yang will do that. I need you to stay here. I have missed you.”
Your lower lip trembles, but you will yourself not to cry again. Instead, you whisper, “I have missed you as well. I have missed you so much, you have no idea, Seungcheol.”
He shifts, peering at your face with a surprised look. “You called me by my name.”
“I have been calling your name for the past week.” You murmur, staring at your lap.
He maneuvers your body with gentle, effortless hands so that he can see you fully. “You know, you look like the one who has been comatose for a week. What is this I am seeing? When was the last time you had a proper meal?” He frowns, his eyes trained on you like a hawk as he squints at your face.
You look away, murmuring, “I have been busy nursing a sick man.”
He scoffs. “Not busy enough to eat. You look like a ghost, my wife. I am genuinely worried about you.”
You do not meet his gaze. With an exasperated sigh, he gently tilts your face up by the chin. “Look at me.” He softly commands you. You do as you are told, finding his eyes set on you, those beautiful, mesmerizing eyes that you missed so deeply.
Your husband’s face inches closer to press a soft kiss on your forehead. It is not quick; he holds his lips pressed right in the middle of your forehead, slightly above your brow, like he is trying to leave an imprint. You close your eyes and lean closer, savouring the feel of his lips against your skin.
Oh, how you longed for this.
“I love you.”
You must have heard wrong. You stop breathing, your body going tense for a moment. Seungcheol leans back, one of his hands wrapped around your neck, his thumb stroking your cheek while the other cups the back of your head, angling your face just slightly upwards and in line with his gaze.
“I love you.” He repeats—his words slow, heavy, deliberate.
You feel faint. It is hard for you to find words, and while you continue gaping at him with parted lips and shining eyes, he continues, “I was scared I would not be able to say this to you. As I lay on the ground and saw you standing there, this was all I could think of. I was angry at myself for never telling you how much I love you.”
“Oh Seungcheol…” your lips tremble. You wrap your arms around his neck, making yourself at home by placing your head under his chin, feeling his hard muscles against your body.
“I love you, dear wife. I love you more than life itself. More than I could ever express.” You hug him tighter. “I love you, too. I love you so much, Seungcheol. You are my whole world.”
“I know.” He murmurs. “I knew the moment you came back towards me. Which you should not have done, by the way. You put yourself in danger.” He loosens his hold on you to catch a glimpse of your face, his gaze admonishing. “I am still mad at you for doing that, but you look miserable enough, so I will let you off.”
You only smile.
“Also, when were you going to tell me what an amazing archer you are? How come I did not know that?”
You look away sheepishly, biting your lip. “You never asked.”
He laughs, the sound sweet and throaty. His arms wrap around you in a tight, protective hold once again, and you close your eyes, savouring the rhythm of his heartbeat next to your ear. As you bask in his warmth, you announce, “You are not going back to the military. I am not letting you go.”
Detangling himself from you, your husband regards you with an amused look, like he cannot believe you. “Oh, really?”
“I am serious.” You huff with a frown. “You are not going back. You have fought enough battles for a lifetime. Now it is time for you to rest.”
“Hm. And what if His Majesty disapproves?” His tone is playful.
“I do not care. I already wrote him a letter, saying that once you woke up, you would not resume your duties.”
Amazed, your husband watches you, his eyes twinkling with pride. “I cannot believe you did that.” You ignore him. “Promise me. Promise me you will not go back to the military.”
He remains silent, watching you calmly, and you start getting anxious, expecting the worst. Just as you start thinking of different ways to force him to stay, he says, “I will not, I promise. I was not going to go any way. That was the first decision I made when I opened my eyes. I got another chance at life with you. I plan on using it very well.”
Your heart soars. You grin, a full-on smile sweeping over your face after a long time. Pressing a soft, chaste kiss on his lips, you whisper, “Can we go live by the sea now?” His eyes shine with love. “Yes, we can.”
You couldn't be happier. Your heart couldn't be fuller. It is pure delight when you think of a future with this man, away from all the noise and the troubles that have been plaguing your life until now.
He can be safe now. He can rest.
Unconsciously, your thumb traces the scar next to his eye, feeling the bumpy skin underneath your finger. The scar now looks like a tree branch that extends into even smaller branches containing little flowers.
You lean forward and press a kiss on it.
“I am just glad you will not get hurt anymore. You have already been through so much.” You whisper, your sad gaze trailing over all the marks on his skin, old and new, before settling on his left chest. You gingerly place your hand over the gauze, remembering how long and deep the gash was.
It will scar for sure. Probably the biggest scar on his body, and it will be because he was protecting you. A shaky breath parts from your lips as you are momentarily transported back in time; him lying motionless on the ground that was turning red. As if your husband can read your thoughts, he gently tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his eyes.
“My dear, I am alright. Look at me.”
“This will scar. You will be in much pain as it heals. Because of me.”
“Don't say that.” He holds you against his chest, his fingers wrapping tightly around your limbs. “You are the only one who loves my scars. Because of you, I now love them too. I would not have changed a single thing if I had the chance. You know why? Because every one of the scars in my body led me to you. And this one?” He places a hand over yours, which is resting on his chest.
“This one tied me to you forever. I earned you. I earned your forever through this. So I think this is the most beautiful.”
A lone tear strolls down your cheek. “Oh, Seungcheol,” you choke over a sob, tilting your face up to capture his lips in a kiss.
His arms engulf you completely, his lips taking over yours, his tongue moving inside your mouth like he has been starving for this.
It is breathless, passionate, and gentle at the same time, conveying all the feelings and emotions the two of you could never put into words.
It is beautiful, like the scars on his body, leaving behind a trace of love.
For a special epilogue, head over to my Patreon. Click here to see the preview!
A/N 2: First of all, I want to thank you for reading till the end. Next, I just want to say that this fic has been one of my dream projects. Is it the best? Maybe not but did I have the most fun writing it? Hell yes! It was originally supposed to be a bit longer but I cut some parts out, mainly because I was worried this app wouldn't let me post the entire thing easily. Sure enough, it said that there were too many blocks on my post, so I had to stitch together a lot of passages even though they were separate at first. So, I'm sorry if the flow gets weird in some places.
On a different note, I will also be posting this on AO3 once I have opened my account (I am still waiting for their invitation mail), so once I have made my account, I will link it here. Do support me over there! Finally, I just want to take a moment to thank you all for your support. I am really excited to hear from you guys about this fic, so please do send an ask!
That's it from me for now. For my next fic, I will be returning with something short and lighthearted. Stay happy and healthy, y'all! <33
𝜗𝜚 THEME: fluff, domesticity, you being jeonghan's whole world (mention of the military)
𝜗𝜚 PAIRING: idol!jeonghan x fem!reader
𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT: 792
natalia's note: idc if this is too dramatic, i don't want jeonghan to go
⦗💌 ⦘your favourite past time? playing with your boyfriend's hair, duh. sadly, it's the last time you get to do it for the next two years.
“here,” jeonghan drops a bunch of… somethings in your lap and sits down on the fluffy rug you bought last month, his back facing you.
your boyfriend’s randomness is nothing new; even before you began dating, you quickly found out that yoon jeonghan was an unpredictable man. but no matter how much time has passed since you agreed to be his girlfriend, you are still taken aback each and every time he decides to do something out of the blue in his jeonghan fashion.
you quickly grew to love his randomness, though. it’s like being surprised in the best ways possible.
“what,” you pick up a packet of colourful hair ties and hair pins, “what do you want me to do with those?”.
jeonghan turns around and looks up to meet your eyes, his own holding nothing but fondness and warmth. “my hair,” he says and shakes his head of messy brown hair he died a couple of days ago. “we haven’t done this in a while, so i thought it’d be nice.”
your stomach churned. how many times have you sat like this - you on the edge of the sofa and jeonghan in front of you, resting comfortably against a cushion you placed so as not to strain his back. a drama or a cooking show would be playing quietly in the background, neither of you watching it, too busy with basking in the domesticity.
looking back, it was a no-brainer that you got addicted to your boyfriend’s hair so quickly. playing with it became a little habit of yours - before bed, in the morning, at a game night with the boys, during parties - whenever jeonghan was in your arm’s reach, you’d play with his hair, no matter if they were short or long (though you always mourned his long hair whenever he cut them). it always managed to calm you down and ground you when life got a bit too much.
you’ve never experienced deja vu before, but if this was how it felt then you’d rather be hit with a sledge hammer. it’d hurt less.
and now… despite that you could feel your heart breaking, you couldn’t tell him no. it’s probably the last time you’ll be able to do this before the enlistment anyway, so maybe… maybe it’ll be a nice way to celebrate his last days at home?
“it’s hair. it’s just hair,” your mind seems to scream into the void as you grab a couple of the purple-ish hair bands and slide them on your wrist. but your heart is even louder and it feels like you’re being ripped apart.
were you being dramatic? definitely. did you care? not at all. your whole life would change in the next day or so and despite preparing for this for such a long time now, it didn’t make it any less painful. with jeonghan leaving you’d be losing a part of yourself.
“hey,” he raises his hand and grabs your chin, “get that scowl off your face.”
“i know,” you sigh. “it’s just that-,”.
“i don’t want to hear any of that. we’re having fun tonight, honey,” jeonghan says and runs his thumb over your cheek. affection and pure love, which are always there whenever he looks at you (coups makes sure to point that out on every possible occasion), seemed to slow your racing heartbeat, because the longer you stared into his brown, gentle eyes the more your mind seemed to quiet down. oh, how you are going to miss that lovesick stare. “no more sad faces, yeah?”
you swallow and nod, your heart heavy from all the emotions. the pink ribbons and blue pins look like the opposite of what you are feeling, but… you have to be strong. if not for yourself, then for jeonghan.
“any specific requests?” you ask and comb your fingers gently through his silky hair.
“nope. whatever you do,” he says and turns his back to you, “it’ll look perfect.” you couldn't see jeonghan’s face, but you could hear the smile in his voice.
placing a peck on your exposed leg, he makes himself comfortable against the cushions and lets out his grandpa-esque sigh.
what the next days are going to bring - you aren’t sure. you don’t even want to think about it. but for now… for now, you are as content as you can be. enveloped by your love’s affection like a security blanket, his warm hands sliding up and down your calves, as if reminding you that he’s still there, it is enough for you. enough to swallow your tears and put a brave smile on your face for the man sitting in front of you.
for now it is only you and him and all the pink ribbons.
warnings : language , descriptions of blood , mafia themes
word count : 3.5 k
requested ? no
a/n : there's just something about the domestic side of mafia au's that i just love so dearly . secretly soft and fragile mafia leader crying in the arms of their loved one >>>>>>> ruthless and cold mafia leaders .
The day you stood by Seungcheol at the altar, you promised a myriad of unconditional vows, as did he. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health— until death do you part. To love him without doubt and cherish the heart he had so willingly placed in your care. You swore to cradle it with gentle hands; to keep it safe from shattering until the very last beat.
You were prepared for that. Excited, even.
But as Seungcheol limps through the entrance of the home you've built together, you feel your confidence in that pact falter for the first time. Perhaps you'd missed something in your vows. The part that told you what to do when the love of your life comes home stained in red. From his white button-up to his polished shoes— even his sweet, sweet face— tarnished.
You don't want him to hear the way your voice trembles. But God, that stench. That pungent scent of iron coats your throat and you can't help the way it constricts to keep the subsequent wave of nausea at bay.
"Cheol?"
His head snaps up at you like he's just now realized where he is. Glazed-over eyes connect with the wood floors you'd spent an hour mopping, then to his shaking hands painted in crimson, before that stale gaze finally lifts and meets your own.
"Are you hurt?"
He shakes his head.
"Seungcheol..." You take cautious steps his way, like how one would approach a wild deer. "Who's blood is this?"
Tears are in his eyes, but his face remains rigid. Like his brain is stuck in survival mode, but his emotions are leaking out.
"Chan's."
The boy's name hits your ears like venom. Sweet, gentle, kind, Lee Chan. The youngest intern under Seungcheol's leadership, you'd met him once at a company dinner. You don't think you've ever met someone with such a heart of gold. And it's a little hard to imagine you could be staring at all that's left of him. "Oh my God, is he okay? What happened?"
Seungcheol's face twists at your questions, some memory pulling at his brows and forcing his eyes shut. They open with fresh tears and the first ounce of clarity cracks through his otherwise dazed state.
"He's in the hospital—" You see the words catch in his throat. His fist repeatedly pounds against his thigh and his mouth hangs open until the words finally come. "It's my fault. He's just a kid, this is all my fault— he shouldn't have been there. They shouldn't have been able to get to him. It was too dangerous, he wasn't ready."
Nothing of his fragmented words makes any sort of sense. You've never seen him like this, so frazzled, so pitiful, so... broken. The sight of it twists your heart, contorting in your chest to such an unnatural degree there's a physical ache.
So, despite the nausea burning your esophagus and the screams of protest deep within your bones, your arms open and gravity pulls Seungcheol into them with labored steps. His knees buckle instantly at the contact and it takes every ounce of strength in your arms to catch him. Letting yourself sink with him to soften the fall; even if that means your knees land with a painful thud, already able to feel purple bruises blossoming from the impact.
Because you love him.
Because you vowed not only for better but for worse as well. And vows are only as good as the turmoils they prove to withstand.
Calloused hands grip the sides of your shirt. You try to ignore the stains they leave, pushing your focus onto the man before you on the brink of hysterics. His forehead falls to your chest, and that's when the most wretched sobs you've ever had the displeasure of hearing begin. Loud and sharp, like the blade of a sword, as they slice through the eerily still night.
A chill creeps in from where your knees connect with the hardwood and crawls up the length of your spine. It nests in your mind and metastasizes, igniting alarms in that little part of your brain that warns: you should be scared. Though it doesn't grant you the knowledge of what.
"Baby, what happened?" You ask and recite a silent prayer the answer to that is not him.
He sobs out an unpromising, "I can't."
"Seungcheol, there is too much blood for that shit. You need to tell me what the hell is going on." Your eyes are starting to burn with the flood breaching your lashes, unsure how much longer you can force an ease into your tone.
You need him to just spit it out. Before your heart explodes.
You steady his head between your palms and swipe at the blood spatter decorating his jawline. It just smears, mixing with his tears and tinting more of his cheek in a dull brownish-red. Seungcheol looks at you with eyes that scream please don't hate me and you don't know but... you know. Enough that when the confession finally pours from his lips, the shock doesn't totally shatter your ribs on impact. Instead, the words slowly seep into your skin and enter your bloodstream like a bitter poison.
Suddenly, minuscule details make much more sense, revealing the full picture like a jigsaw puzzle falling into place. The nights he doesn't return until the sun breaches the horizon. The general air of mystery around his job and the "family business" he took over years ago. How insistent he had been with you learning some type of self-defense. All the way down to the dried blood that lingered under his fingernails.
You should be levels more upset than you are at his confession. Any normal person would be. He lied to you, for years. Hid a secret so large it could easily blow a crater in the earth should the measly stilts it balanced on collapse. Yet, the anger you feel doesn't boil over into a blind rage. It stirs with concern and simmers until it has been diluted into nothing but the type of anger that can only be fueled by love. It comes with the terrifying revelation that the person you love most in this world, could've been stolen from you at any moment and you would've been none the wiser as to how. It makes you want to hold him a little extra in the mornings, a little harder, closer.
Then, somewhere, in that tangled web of emotions fighting to reach the surface, there's an unexpected relief. Because one thing has been glaringly obvious since the day you met Choi Seungcheol. The reason he appears as such a pillar of strength relies solely on the fact that he shoulders the weight of the world alone. Rarely does he let his struggles reach his cheery expression. You can't help but think, now that you know, there's one less burden he has to carry by himself.
"Please don't leave me," Seungcheol rasps out. You'd nearly forgotten where you were for a moment. Forgot his face was still between your hands, that blood still smeared his cheek, and tears were still slipping from his lashes. But at this moment, as those weary earth-brown eyes search your face for an answer, you realize just how malleable your morals are when it comes to him.
"I love you." You confess, like it's the first time the phrase has ever left your lips. "Cheol, I love you more than anything in this world." So much it frightens you what you're willing to forgive.
But then again it doesn't. Because he's never been Choi Seungcheol, the city's most feared mob boss. To you, he's always just been Cheol. The man that nearly burned your kitchen down two anniversaries ago trying to make you breakfast in bed. Who pouts and whines when you haven't given him enough attention after work. Who's touch has only ever been as gentle as a Summer's breeze. And maybe you're naive, but you'd like to believe the Seungcheol that peppers your face with kisses every morning and begs for five extra minutes in bed is a truer reflection of his heart than his job.
With one final deep breath to steel your nerves and silence the brigade of questions swirling in your head, you press a long kiss to his temple— one of the only areas not tainted with red. The tension in his muscles visibly melts away at the contact and beyond anything he just looks... tired. You want nothing more than to let him rest in the safety of your arms, but he's still covered in Chan's blood.
"Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" You coax him from the floor, never once letting your voice slip above a gentle whisper. He tries to protest, insisting he needs to be at the hospital with the others to check on Chan, but puts up absolutely no fight when you tell him that can wait until tomorrow as you guide him towards the bathroom.
You gather towels and fresh clothes and lay them out on the vanity. "Take your time, okay? I won't go far, promise." With one last reassurance, you leave Seungcheol in privacy to shower and clean the blood from his skin.
Alone now, the adrenaline in your veins dissolves, and the full gravity of everything finally crashes around you. The metallic scent lingering in the air, the drying blood on the hardwood, the feeling of impending doom that comes with a truth so heavy. It's too much, at least to bear in such a tiny apartment. You all but sprint out the front door, accidentally letting it shut with a hefty slam.
The warm Summer night air hits your skin and wraps around you like a security blanket. You inhale deeply, once, twice, thrice, and on the fourth breath, it feels like the oxygen finally reaches the base of your lungs.
You sit, for a length of time you remain ignorant to, at the bottom of the stairwell. Lost deep in thought until the buzzing of your phone reverberates from your back pocket. You look at it but— no caller I.D.
Answering it anyway, a sense of comfort fills you at the familiar voice.
"Jeonghan." You greet.
"I'm sorry to call so late," He says, voice languid. "I just wanted to know if Seungcheol got home safe yet."
"He did."
There's a long pause of silence. Just the steady beeps of a heart monitor on the other side of the line. Then, "Is Chan okay?"
"Yeah, he's sleeping right now. Doctors gave him some of the good shit to knock him out for the night." There's a hesitance to the way he speaks and you think perhaps he's weighing in his mind what excuse Seungcheol might have told you as to why Chan is even in the hospital to begin with.
"Jeonghan, can I ask you something?"
"I can't promise I'll have an answer, but sure." He's always been so calculated in the way he speaks, which makes sense to you now.
You chew at the inside of your cheek. "Seungcheol, he... He keeps himself safe, right?"
"You know." He sighs, matter of fact.
"I do."
"He's careful, smart, keeps his hands clean-ish. We all look after each other, he's about as safe as he can be." The man on the other end of the line yawns, and you wonder how long he's been up wondering if Seungcheol made it home before he finally called. That in and of itself should comfort you and prove Seungcheol has people who care about him when you're not around, but it doesn't. You don't think anything ever could at this point. Perhaps it was better not knowing the truth.
"That doesn't exactly make me feel better."
Jeonghan snorts. "I didn't think it would."
Another stretch of silence spans over the line for an uncomfortably long time. So long, you begin to think maybe the call disconnected. But that steady beeping is still there, quiet, but there.
Then Jeonghan speaks, his sudden words sending ice pricking through your veins. "You're an accomplice now, you know?" His voice carries no emotion. It's as if he's reading the words straight from an instruction manual. "Unless, of course, you turn him in."
Oh.
You hadn't thought of that.
"Would you?"
His question lingers in the air like smoke, suffocating your airways so much it feels like you might choke before you can even answer.
Never has the idea of betraying Seungcheol's trust ever been a thought in your head, much less an option. But he's right. Your newfound knowledge makes you just as much a criminal in the eyes of the law as if you had committed the act yourself. It's either fess up while you still can or guard his secret with, quite literally, your life.
Perhaps you were a bit hasty. It was easy to hold Seungcheol in your arms and whisper comforting words between his sobs. However, when it comes to your own fate, you're forced to reckon with the dread that washes over you like a bucket of ice, alone.
Still, you're embarrassed that not even a shred of doubt weighs your decision. Just an immeasurable amount of guilt.
"No."
"You don't sound so sure."
"It's a lot to process." You defend, trying not to let your voice waver too much under Jeonghan's scrutiny.
"I know it is," He relents, and suddenly, his voice shifts back to the soothing, angelic tone you've always been used to. "I'm sorry, I haven't even asked how you're feeling."
The conversation lulls in what you assume is Jeonghan leaving space for you to share if so you wish. You don't— knowing that if you were to loosen even a single thread tethering your mind in the realm of sanity, it would all unravel. You've only just begun to construct the brittle wall that separates your Seungcheol from the one covered in blood. If it were to take a blow so early and come crumbling down, you fear you may not have the strength needed to start over.
Your current position is precarious and emotions are already tricky— pouring them out to Seungcheol's best friend even more so.
"I'm fine. I should probably get back to Cheol." You say instead.
Jeonghan hums. "He's had a rough night." Steady beeps still pulse like a metronome in the background, mixing with a subtle chatter. "Let him know everyone is okay and if you two need anything, just call."
"I'll tell him."
"That means you too."
A voice calls Jeonghan's name and the line goes dead before you can say anything more. Not that you had much else left to say— or anything that would be news to Jeonghan at least. It felt like he knew more about your spinning mind in one phone call than you'd pieced together since Seungcheol stumbled through the door.
Seungcheol.
Seungcheol, who's been alone in your tiny apartment for who knows how long at this point. With nothing but his thoughts and a water heater that runs out far too quickly to comfort him. Your heart aches at the idea of him crumpled up in the basin of the porcelain tub alone.
Seungcheol, whom you find sitting at the kitchen island with his head in his hands— hunched over a steaming mug of tea— upon your return. His hair hangs down in damp strings, dripping onto his pair of comfort sweatpants, the ones he tends to gravitate towards when he's had a long day.
The door clicks shut behind you and his head snaps up with lightning quick reflexes. A wild look flashes in his eyes, but it melts away almost as quick as it came. His shoulders slump with relief and for what seems like an eternity, he just let's his gaze linger.
"I didn't think you were coming back." He rasps. His fingers curl around the mug, siphoning off some of its warmth to combat the slight chill in the air.
His hands are clean now— free of any trace of dark red— then again, they never really were. Probably never will be.
"To be honest, I wasn't completely sure I was." You're still some distance away from where he sits, a fact you're made painfully aware of by the way his eyes flit between you and the door. As if he expects you to flee at any moment.
"I would understand, you know?" His voice is as soft and genuine as it was the day he said I do. "I wouldn't be mad. My job, this life, it was never supposed to be your burden. You can walk out and I wouldn't—" His voice catches and he takes a swig of his tea, cringing at the temperature as it goes down. "—I wouldn't stop you."
You know he wouldn't. Because Choi Seungcheol is a good man. There would not be a ring on your finger if he wasn't. It's why you're so comfortable closing the distance that separates you two.
It's why you're so comfortable excusing all of his wrongs.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You should." He croaks. Tears gather at his waterline and on instinct, you wipe the first to fall away. But more continue to silently slip down his cheeks. Unable to catch them fast enough, you step between his legs and guide his forehead to your shoulder with a gentle hand on the back of his neck.
Seungcheol lets out a shaky breath as your fingers trail down the nape of his neck to just between his shoulders, then back up again. You hold him. Just as you've held his heart for years. Delicate. Like handling glass.
"I love you," He whispers. "I'm sorry I lied, I— all I ever wanted was to keep you safe."
"I know."
He tilts his head back, staring up at you with damp cheeks and bloodshot eyes. "I don't deserve you."
You tuck a piece of hair that's fallen into his eye behind his ear. "I could find you in a thousand lifetimes and there wouldn't be a single one where that'd be true."
"I'd still spend every one of those thousand lifetimes making it up to you." His hands grip your hips, holding you steady, as if he's still scared you'll run away.
"You." You hold the underside of his chin so he can't divert his gaze for your next words. Your tone is a firm, bordering on authoritative. "Make it up to me by coming home."
Seungcheol nods, but it's not a good enough answer for you.
"Don't ever make me plan your funeral, Choi Seungcheol. Do you understand? You cannot do that to me."
"I won't."
"Promise me. Because I swear if I ever have to hear from Jeonghan that you're not coming home I swear I'll—"
Seungcheol takes your hand from his chin and pulls it flat against his chest. The quick but rhythmic beats of his heart calms your barrage of threats instantaneously.
"I promise."
The words leave his lips slowly. Each syllable is enunciated loud and clear, so the sincerity with which he says them can reach your ears without doubt. His words linger in the air and all you can focus on is his pulse. How terrified you are that one day it'll stop before your own. That there could come a night where your head rests against empty sheets instead of his chest. No longer lulled to sleep by its steady beating.
That thought rattles you more than any crime Seungcheol could commit.
It takes Seungcheol's thumb grazing over your cheekbone to realize you're crying. But then it becomes unstoppable. More worries spilling out in the form of tears. It's the not knowing that may be the end of you.
"I want you in this lifetime, Cheol. I don't want to wait until the next to live a full life with you. So I need you to keep that promise."
Seungcheol rises from his seat and brings you into his chest. Allowing you to hide away from the horrors of it all in his strong embrace. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to make it home to you." He reassures. And the sheer determination in his voice makes you believe him.
"And no more secrets, okay?" You mumble against the soft fabric of his shirt. "I want you to tell me everything."
"It's better if I don't." He whispers with a deep exhale. And you want to be more upset with his answer than you are. But he keeps rocking you side to side and pressing long kisses to your temple.
"All you need to know is that none of it comes before you." The sincerity in his voice is as prominent as it was reciting his vows. "Everything I've built. All the money and power in the world— I'd burn it all to the ground for you."
We’ve all heard the timeless legends of the ancient Greek gods—tales passed down through the ages. But what if those gods were still alive, walking among us today? In this modern retelling collab, 13 talented authors breathe new life into these immortal beings, reimagining them as members of Seventeen. Once a Greek god, always a Greek god, but now their divine powers and personalities unfold in a whole new world.
Hosted by @beomcoups and @wooahaeproductions
➵Title: Wisdom Doesn’t Falter to Thunder @drunk-on-dk
➵Pairings: Greek God/Heir!Seungcheol x Reincarnated (Metis) Fem!Reader
➵Greek God: Zeus
➵Genre: angst, smut, fluff, coworker au, reincarnation au, fantasy
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: Naturally, as one of heirs of his father’s tech company, Seungcheol had everything he could ask for in life - well, except for his father’s company. Seungcheol, like a thunderbolt, decides it’s time to take action regarding his stake in the company against his brothers, ultimately looping you, his wise advisor, into the mix. Will you be the one to help Seungcheol as he earns true leadership of the company? Or could the tale of you two be as disastrous as the story of Metis and Zeus?
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: as wild and untamable as the sea by @the-boy-meets-evil
➵Pairings: greek god!chan x reincarnated sea nymph!reader
➵Greek God: poseidon
➵Genre: angst, smut, fantasy, minor reincarnation
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: Chan remembers everything. Every little thing that's happened to him since his days as one of the twelve olympians. Poseidon to be exact. Even though he tries not to think about it now that he's living in modern times running a sad little aquarium, some memories are more vivid than others. Then, you stumble into his life and he can't explain the draw. You can't seem to figure out how this man is keeping an aquarium like this running when it seems like it's not that busy. Something about him really seems to put you off, despite the fact that he seems drawn to you. None of it makes any sense…until you start to remember.
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: the soulkeeper’s betrayal by @hannieween
➵Pairings: greek god jun x reader
➵Greek God: hades
➵Genre: angst, smut, fluff, fantasy, mystery
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: when Hades realizes that something has gone awry in the underworld, he has no choice but to ask for help from his estranged wife. Though not without paying a price.
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: Fated Strut by @beomcoups
➵Pairings: greek god!Jeonghan x model!reader
➵Greek God: Hermes
➵Genre: fluff, angst, smut, fantasy, doppleganger au
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: In a whirlwind fashion show, a part-time model's life takes a mystical turn when she becomes the muse for the captivating Greek God Jeonghan. Unbeknownst to her, she shares a deep connection tied to his past. As their chemistry ignites amidst secrets and rivalries, will love conquer their complicated fates?
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: All Is Fair In Love And War @okiedokrie
➵Pairings: Aphrodite Reincarnation! Joshua x Fem!Detective!Reader
➵Greek God: Aphrodite
➵Genre: Crack, Smut, Fluff, some angst
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: Joshua is the king of Los Amsterdam, not by blood, but by having the biggest network in the state. He gets caught up in an investigation regarding the assassination of one of his former clients, where he meets a detective who is strangely immune to his godly charms. Oh, right, he's the reincarnation of Aphrodite. Together they solve the case and find more than the mastermind in the process, maybe, they'll just find love.
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: Kadō @daemour
➵Pairings: Demeter! Dokyeom x Florist! Reader
➵Greek God: Demeter
➵Genre: Fluff, Angst
➵Rating: T for Teen
➵Summary: When the most notorious divorce lawyer in the city becomes a regular at your little flower shop, you're pretty sure it's a bad omen, for both your love life and your store. But with each passing moment, it looks like your flowers are doing better than ever…and perhaps your heart beats just a bit faster seeing Lee Seokmin.
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: Orion’s Constellation @staytinyville
➵Pairings: God!Vernon x Hunter!Reader , Vernon x Reader
➵Greek God: Artemis
➵Genre: Fluff
➵Rating: T for Teen
➵Summary: The story goes that Artemis fell in love with Orion but Apollo was jealous of that love. So he tricked Artemis into killing her love. This is a different retelling. One where rather then the huntress killing the hunter—the hunter followed the orders of the gods. And was repaid graciously.
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: The Prophet and His Muse by @idyllic-ghost
➵Pairings: greek god!woozi x reincarnated lover!fem!reader
➵Greek God: Apollo
➵Genre: romance, angst, fluff, smut, romance, fantasy, soulmate au, reincarnation au, deity au
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: In a world where ancient myths whisper through the fabric of modern life, a poignant tale of love and redemption unfolds. A god reunited with his eternal love. As this ancient bond stirs to life, he must navigate the delicate interplay between myth and reality—striving to rekindle a romance that defies time and embraces destiny’s call.
Read Here
➵Title: Forging the Threads of Time by @wooahaeproductions
➵Pairings: Professor/Greek God!Wonwoo x Reincarnated Female Reader
➵Greek God: Hephaestus
➵Genre: angst, fluff, smut, college au, reincarnation au
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: Wonwoo never expected to meet the mortal love of his life ever again and you never thought you’d feel so drawn to your welding professor.
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: king of kings by @aaagustd
➵Pairings: kingpin/crime lord!mingyu x journalist!(f)reader
➵Greek God: hestia
➵Genre: angst, organized crime au, arranged marriage, childhood enemies to lovers, mystery, supernatural, smut, loosely inspired by the story of King Thrushbeard
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: If you’d known all those years ago that you would have to compete for his heart, you would have never torn it to pieces.
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: the union of bacchus by @hobeemin
➵Pairings: dionysus/artist! xu minghao x (f) oc
➵Greek God: dionysus
➵Genre: supernatural, fantasy, greek god au, smut, romance, angst
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: As the God of Wine, you’d think he’d be just as lively. But no, this enigma of an immortal always kept others guessing. That is until he met her. She was more than he anticipated–mortal or otherwise. Somehow, she put him under a spell. Had he found his equal?
Teaser Read Here
➵Title: Do No Harm by @soongyeopsal
➵Pairings: doctor/greek god!hoshi x fem reader
➵Greek God: ares
➵Genre: romance, angst, smut, coworkers au
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary:
Ares proves to everyone that he can change by living his modern life as Dr. Kwon. But does that matter if you stay the same? This do-over’s prognosis isn’t exactly promising.
Teaser Read More
➵Title: unforgiven by @haologram
➵Pairings: greek god!seungkwan x reincarnated!reader
➵Greek God: athena
➵Genre: angst, second chance romance au, fluff…suggestive
➵Rating: 18+
➵Summary: seungkwan may have been represented by his considerably heartwarming traits, but he ruined his own fate with his vengeful & prideful behavior. despite his flawed outlook, he can still see you in every lover — until it’s you, again.
Teaser Read Here
Thank you @hobeemin for creating the graphics for this collab <3
