⊹ It might be a bumpy ride ⊹

Welcome to my shit show where I write (un)comfortable one-shots <3 You can also find me on Wattpad @bernadettelaboure ⊹ DISCLAIMER: English isn't my native language, but I give you all of my heart ⊹

[bettelaboure]

⊹hello from my little shit show⊹

I’m G, a marketer who has been hiding behind the pseudonym Bernadette Labore for almost a decade. :) 

I grew up being a huge directioner and now becoming a bigger K-Pop fan, and coming back to Tumblr feels like reliving my teenage years. A little bit scared but ready to get down to the rabbit hole. 

Disclaimer: English is not my native language, and I apologize for any mistake that you might find :)

Requests and ask me anything are open <3 I’m looking forward to writing something that has been living in your mind

Also, here is masterlist for standalones and guide to small series 🤍

Lots of love, 

G. <3

[bettelaboure]

for the love of god please use the "read more" function on your posts

i have no idea how to do that and not sure i can learn it 🫡

[bettelaboure]

for my defence, i got hooked on COD while recovering

The rotors were still whining overhead when you stepped off the transport, boots crunching against gravel that smelled like oil, dust, and old rain. The base was a sprawl of concrete and steel, low buildings hunched against the horizon like they knew better than to stand tall. Somewhere in the distance, gunfire cracked—controlled, rhythmic. Training. Always training.

Task Force 141.

You adjusted the strap of your duffel higher on your shoulder and exhaled through your nose. After years in the French Special Forces—operations in Mali, Syria, the Balkans—you’d learned not to romanticize transfers. New unit meant new politics. New egos. New people looking for reasons not to trust you.

Your call sign echoed in your head like a challenge.

Snapper.

You followed the posted directions toward command, the wind tugging at loose strands of hair you hadn’t bothered to tame. Halfway there, you felt it—that prickle between the shoulder blades that told you someone was watching.

You stopped.

Turned.

He stood near the armory doors like he’d been built into the place. Full kit. Plate carrier heavy with mags, gloves on, rifle slung with easy familiarity. A skull stared back at you from beneath a hood, pale and grinning, hollow eyes carved in black.

Ghost.

You’d seen the file photo. Everyone had. Still, seeing him in the flesh—or whatever counted as flesh beneath all that gear—was something else entirely.

He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like he was assessing a weapon rather than a person.

“French,” he said at last, voice low and rough, filtered through the balaclava. “They finally run out of wars for you to lose?”

You blinked once.

Then smiled—sharp, sweet, dangerous.

“British,” you shot back. “They finally promote you for hiding your face, or is the mask there to protect civilians from disappointment?”

For a fraction of a second, nothing.

Then—

A sound. Not quite a laugh. More like a breath pushed out through teeth.

“Careful,” he said, stepping closer. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet those dark eyes behind the lenses. “You talk like that to the wrong officer, you’ll find yourself back on a plane home.”

You leaned in just enough to make the point.

“Careful,” you echoed softly. “You talk like that to the wrong sergeant, and you’ll find out why they stopped calling me patient.”

Something unreadable flickered in his gaze. Interest, maybe. Or annoyance. With Ghost, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Before either of you could sharpen the exchange further, boots approached from behind you—multiple sets, confident, familiar with this ground.

“Well,” a familiar, commanding voice cut in, smooth as aged whiskey, “this is already more entertaining than most transfers.”

You straightened as Captain John Price came into view, hat low over his eyes, beard framing a knowing smirk. Beside him fell the rest of Task Force 141.

Soap—John MacTavish—grinned openly at you, curiosity bright in his eyes. Gaz leaned back on his heels, studying you with the quiet appraisal of someone who’d seen enough bullshit to recognize competence. Alejandro followed just behind, arms crossed, expression thoughtful.

Ghost took half a step back, giving Price the floor, though you noticed he didn’t move far.

“Sergeant,” Price said, extending a hand. “Welcome to 141. Heard the French were loath to let you go.”

You shook his hand, grip firm. “They cried. I didn’t.”

Soap snorted.

Price’s smile widened. “I’ve read your file. Extensive service record. Joint ops in six countries. Confirmed kills that would make most snipers jealous—and that’s before we get into your close-quarters work.” He glanced sideways at Ghost. “You’ll be happy to know she’s just as dangerous when the distance closes.”

“Lucky us,” Ghost muttered.

Price continued, unfazed. “You’ll be running overwatch and recon primarily, but you’ll rotate into assault as needed. Adaptability seems to be a theme with you, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And,” Price added, eyes glinting, “there’s the matter of your nickname.”

Ghost tilted his head again. “What, emotionally unstable?”

Soap barked a laugh before you could reply. “Nah. Snapper. As in snapping the necks of traitors and enemies. Real clean work, from what I hear.”

You turned your head just enough to catch Ghost’s gaze.

Smiled.

And mouthed: You’re next.

For the first time, you were sure of it—this time, Ghost smiled back. Hidden, maybe. But there was something dangerous in the way his eyes narrowed.

Price clapped his hands once. “Right then. Welcome aboard, Snapper. Terror cells don’t care where you’re from, and they’re getting bolder by the day. You’ll be fighting alongside this lot until we shut them down for good.”

He met your eyes, voice lowering just a touch. “Any objections?”

You shifted the weight of your duffel, gaze sweeping the squad—then settling, briefly, on the skull mask.

“None, sir,” you said coolly. “I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

Ghost’s voice followed you as you turned toward the barracks.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can already tell.”

The war for the world had just found a new fault line.

And it ran straight between you and him.

You woke before the alarm.

It was always the same—your eyes snapping open a second before the sharp electronic chirp could break the silence. The barracks ceiling loomed above you, faintly cracked, humming with the quiet vibration of the base coming alive. Somewhere down the hall, a locker slammed. Boots hit the floor. Someone cursed softly in at least three languages.

You rolled onto your side and sat up, running a hand through your hair as you exhaled. Muscles loose but ready. Mind already cataloguing the day ahead.

First full training cycle with Task Force 141.

You dressed without wasted movement. Every button fastened, every strap checked twice. Your rifle waited where you’d left it, immaculate, familiar. You checked the chamber out of habit—not because it needed it, but because you did.

By the time you stepped outside, the air bit cold against your skin. Dawn was still undecided, the sky caught between ink and steel. Floodlights cast long shadows across the training yard, turning every moving figure into something sharper, more deliberate.

Ghost stood at the firing line.

Already geared. Already armed. Already watching.

He didn’t look at you at first, but you felt it—the weight of his attention sliding over you like a scope lining up a shot. You walked past him deliberately, boots crunching on gravel, and set your rifle down with a muted clack.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” you said lightly.

“Sergeant,” he replied after a beat.

Just your rank. Flat. Controlled. A reminder of hierarchy, not courtesy.

You tilted your head. “That’s it? No commentary? I’m disappointed.”

He finally turned, skull mask angled toward you. “Give it time.”

You snorted. “Careful, sir. That almost sounded like a promise.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell gun oil and cold metal. “You testing me already?”

“Always,” you replied. “How else do you know where the breaking point is?”

His eyes hardened. “You don’t test officers. You follow orders.”

You leaned in just slightly. “Then give better ones.”

“Bloody hell,” Soap’s voice cut in, loud and amused. “Sun’s not even up and we’ve got foreplay.”

Ghost didn’t look away from you. “Stay out of it.”

Soap grinned wider. “Nah.”

Price arrived moments later, presence settling over the yard like gravity. He took one look at the scene—two of you squared off, tension sharp enough to draw blood—and shook his head.

“Save it for the drills,” he said. “Or I’ll give you both something else to argue about.”

Training began immediately.

Live-fire exercises first. Movement through mock urban structures, timed clears, overlapping fields of fire. You slipped into the rhythm easily—breathing steady, senses tuned, mind quiet. Targets popped up and dropped just as fast under your scope.

Ghost ran point, voice clipped over comms. “Stack up. Soap, breach. Snapper—hold rear.”

You complied—until you saw it.

A blind angle. A simulated hostile repositioning.

“Negative,” you said calmly, already shifting. “Overwatch east. You’re exposed.”

“Hold position,” Ghost snapped.

You were already kneeling, rifle braced. “Trust me.”

Targets emerged. You took them down cleanly before they could ‘fire.’

Silence crackled over comms.

When the drill ended, Ghost was on you in seconds. “You do not override my orders in the field.”

“You do not ignore changing conditions,” you fired back. “Adapt or die—thought that was basic doctrine.”

Price watched from a distance, arms crossed, eyes thoughtful. Gaz subtly shifted between you—ready to step in if needed.

“Next time,” Ghost growled, “you ask.”

“Next time,” you shot back, “you listen.”

Hand-to-hand drills followed.

When Ghost stepped onto the mat opposite you, Soap actually whistled. “Place your bets.”

The spar was brutal. Efficient. No wasted motion. Ghost’s strikes were powerful, relentless. You countered with speed and precision, slipping under his guard, exploiting openings. At one point, you drove him back hard enough that boots skidded against the mat.

“Getting sloppy,” you taunted.

He caught your wrist, twisted, hauled you close. “Still running your mouth.”

You headbutted him.

The impact echoed.

Price intervened immediately, hauling you both apart. “Enough!”

You stood there, breathing hard, eyes locked on Ghost’s.

Something had shifted.

After showers and food, the briefing room felt smaller. Maps lit the walls, red lines threading continents together.

“This isn’t a warm-up,” Price said. “This is escalation.”

He looked at you. “Snapper’s skills will be critical.”

Ghost crossed his arms. “As long as she remembers chain of command.”

You smiled thinly. “As long as command earns it.”

Price sighed. “You two are going to be a problem.”

Soap smirked. “A useful one, though.”

When the room cleared, Ghost lingered.

“You don’t back down,” he said quietly.

You slung your rifle over your shoulder. “Neither do you.”

His gaze followed you to the door. “This isn’t personal.”

You paused. “Good. Because I don’t lose personal.”

Training was just the beginning.

Orders came down at 0200.

The briefing room smelled like stale coffee and ozone from overheated screens. Red light washed over the table as satellite imagery resolved into sharp focus—coastal sprawl, half-lit docks, warehouse grids like a rotting honeycomb. Somewhere in that maze, a terrorist cell was stockpiling weapons meant to disappear into three different continents.

Price stood at the head of the table, hands braced against its edge.

“This one’s sensitive,” he said. “High-value intel, minimal margin for error. We move quiet or we don’t move at all.”

His gaze slid deliberately to Ghost.

“Lieutenant Riley. You’re running a two-person element.”

The room stilled.

Ghost didn’t react outwardly, but you felt it—the subtle shift, the weight of command settling heavier on his shoulders.

“Sergeant Snapper will be under your direct command.”

Soap’s eyebrows shot up. Gaz glanced between the two of you. Alejandro went very still.

Your jaw tightened.

Ghost’s voice was even. “Understood.”

Price turned to you. “Overwatch and breach. Insertion by water. Extraction window’s tight.” A pause. “I expect professionalism.”

You met his eyes. “You’ll get it.”

Then, because Price was a bastard who enjoyed tension when it served a purpose, he added: “This mission succeeds or fails on trust.”

The helicopter ride was quiet.

The rotors thundered overhead, vibration rattling through your bones as cold night air whipped past the open door. You checked your rifle again, fingers steady, pulse calm. Across from you, Ghost sat rigid, gear immaculate, mask unreadable.

The red jump light flicked on.

“You follow my lead,” he said over comms.

You didn’t look at him. “I always do. When it makes sense.”

A beat.

“Not tonight,” he replied. “Tonight, you do exactly what I say.”

You finally met his gaze. “Then don’t get me killed.”

Green light.

You dropped into black water that swallowed sound and light alike. Cold punched the air from your lungs as you kicked forward, body slicing through the dark. The dock loomed ahead—rusted pylons, algae-slicked ladders, shadows thick enough to hide anything.

You surfaced silently. Ghost followed seconds later.

Two figures. One breath.

You moved together up the ladder, weapons raised, every step measured. The warehouse doors were ajar—just enough to suggest arrogance.

Ghost signaled hold.

You froze.

Voices drifted from inside. Boots scraped concrete. Metal clinked.

Ghost leaned in, voice barely audible. “We wait.”

Your scope caught movement—a sentry pacing toward the door, cigarette ember flaring bright.

“Negative,” you murmured. “Window’s closing.”

Ghost’s hand snapped up—command absolute.

You held.

The sentry turned away.

Exhale.

You slipped inside moments later, shadows swallowing you whole. The interior stank of oil and salt and old blood. Stacked crates rose like walls, creating blind corridors.

Ghost took point. You covered his six.

A shape moved.

You tapped his shoulder—two short presses. Contact.

He pivoted instantly, knife flashing. The body dropped without a sound.

For the first time, you felt it—his trust. Not spoken. Executed.

Alarms screamed.

“Shit,” you hissed.

“Move,” Ghost ordered.

Gunfire erupted, muzzle flashes tearing holes through darkness. You dropped to a knee, shots precise, lethal. Ghost advanced, relentless, calling targets with brutal clarity.

“Left!”

You took it.

“High catwalk!”

You adjusted, fired, watched the body fall.

Then the floor gave way beneath you.

Rotten boards snapped. You fell hard, air tearing from your lungs. Pain flared bright along your side.

Ghost was on you instantly, dragging you behind cover.

“Status,” he demanded.

You sucked in a breath. “Still breathing.”

He pressed a hand to your side—checking, efficient. “You’re staying here.”

You grabbed his vest. “Like hell. We finish this.”

Their eyes locked.

Then he nodded.

Side by side, you pushed forward, back-to-back as enemies closed in. When your ammo ran low, Ghost tossed you a mag without looking. When his rifle jammed, you covered him without hesitation.

By the time extraction was called, the warehouse was silent but for crackling fires and your heavy breathing.

The ride back was different.

Quieter. Closer.

Ghost finally spoke. “You disobeyed me.”

You didn’t deny it. “You trusted me.”

A pause.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

When the chopper lights washed over his mask, you saw it clearly then—the shift wasn’t just mutual respect.

It was something far more dangerous.

Because now, you were no longer enemies.

You were weapons.

And weapons forged together don’t come apart easily.

The next mission came faster than anyone liked.

No time for the comfortable rhythm that had started forming after the docks. No time for the tension to cool.

A convoy interception in the mountains—intel suggested a courier transporting encrypted drives tied to the same terror network. Narrow roads. Steep cliffs. Limited extraction points.

Perfect for an ambush.

You were inserted at elevation just before dawn, the cold thinner up here, biting through fabric and into bone. Frost clung to scrub brush. Wind carried the metallic scent of snow and distant fuel.

You lay prone along a ridge, rifle settled into your shoulder, scope trained on the winding road below.

Ghost crouched beside you, scanning with binoculars.

“Convoy’s early,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome,” you replied evenly. “I told you they’d move before first light.”

He didn’t look at you. “You also said they’d use the lower pass.”

“And you insisted on this ridge.”

A faint pause.

“Which is why we have visual,” he said.

You smirked into your scope. “For now.”

Engines echoed between stone walls. Three vehicles. Armed escorts in the back.

“On my mark,” Ghost said.

“Try not to make it dramatic.”

“Three.”

“Don’t miss.”

“Two.”

“Don’t hesitate.”

“One.”

Gunfire split the morning.

Your first shot punched through a windshield clean and centered. The convoy lurched. Ghost’s rifle cracked beside you, dropping the rear gunner before he could pivot.

Chaos erupted below—men scattering for cover, return fire streaking up the ridge.

You adjusted, breath steady, eliminating targets one by one.

Then the fourth vehicle you hadn’t seen roared from behind a bend.

“Contact right!” you barked.

“Shift!” Ghost ordered.

You rolled, re-aimed—but the vehicle wasn’t stopping. It accelerated.

Toward your position.

“They’re flanking!”

“Fall back!”

You scrambled, boots skidding on loose rock. Gunfire chewed into stone around you.

A bullet struck Ghost.

The sound was wrong.

A heavy, wet impact.

He staggered, one knee buckling.

“Ghost!”

“I’m fine,” he growled—but blood was already seeping dark through his tactical vest.

The vehicle below skidded sideways as armed men poured out.

You didn’t think.

You moved.

Dropping your rifle to your chest, you grabbed Ghost under the arm and dragged him toward a rock outcrop just as another burst tore through the space he’d been standing in.

“Stay with me,” you snapped.

“Don’t—” He winced, breath hitching. “Don’t order me.”

You shoved him down behind cover and fired in controlled bursts, forcing the enemy to duck. “You’re not in a position to argue.”

His hand clamped over the wound, but blood slicked between his fingers.

“You pushed too far forward,” you accused.

“You were exposed,” he shot back. “I corrected.”

“By getting yourself shot?”

“By protecting my sergeant.”

The words hit harder than the gunfire.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t afford to.

Instead, you pulled a smoke grenade, tossed it downhill. Thick white clouds swallowed the lower slope.

“Can you move?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

He almost laughed—almost—but pain stole it.

You slung his arm over your shoulders and hauled him upright. Every step was brutal, uneven. Gunfire cracked blindly through smoke.

You returned fire one-handed when needed, dragging him higher toward the secondary ridge.

“Snapper,” he said tightly. “Leave me. Take the drives.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s an order.”

“Respectfully, sir?” you panted. “No.”

Extraction flares burst overhead minutes later, but it felt like hours. When friendly fire support finally pushed the remaining hostiles back, your legs were shaking.

The safehouse was small. Concrete walls. A single hanging bulb. A table you cleared in seconds.

“Sit,” you ordered.

He remained standing.

You shoved him down.

Blood soaked his side plate. You cut through fabric with surgical efficiency, fingers steady despite the red staining your gloves.

The wound wasn’t clean.

Bullet through soft tissue, missed anything vital by sheer luck—or stubbornness.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered.

“You hesitated,” he countered.

You froze for half a second.

“I did not.”

“You saw the fourth vehicle and you hesitated.”

“I recalculated.”

“Half a second too long.”

You pressed gauze to the wound harder than necessary. He didn’t flinch.

“You advanced without clearance,” you said coldly. “You broke formation.”

“I covered your blind spot.”

“You assumed I needed it.”

“You did.”

Silence hung thick between you.

You wrapped the bandage tight around his torso, fingers brushing heat and muscle and scar beneath the mask and gear and rank.

“Next time,” you said quietly, “you trust me to handle my sector.”

“Next time,” he replied just as low, “you don’t hesitate when it’s my life.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

“I didn’t hesitate.”

He held your gaze.

“You care more than you admit.”

Something dangerous flickered in your chest.

You tied the bandage off with sharp precision and stepped back.

“You got shot because you overcompensated,” you said. “Not because I failed.”

“And you carried me down a mountain under fire,” he said evenly. “Not because it was protocol.”

The bulb above you buzzed faintly.

Too quiet.

Too close.

“You’re reckless,” you accused.

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You didn’t leave.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“No,” you said. “I didn’t.”

For a moment, rank disappeared.

It was just you and him. Blood. Breath. The aftermath of something that could’ve gone very differently.

Finally, he leaned back slightly, testing the bandage.

“Good work, Sergeant.”

You grabbed your rifle.

“Try not to need it again, Lieutenant.”

But when you turned toward the door, you felt it.

The shift.

He’d taken a bullet for you.

You’d carried him through gunfire.

And neither of you were pretending it meant nothing anymore.

Ghost was not built for stillness.

You realized that on the second morning of his medical leave.

The base carried on as usual—boots pounding pavement, engines roaring awake, distant gunfire from the range—but in the small medical wing room they’d temporarily assigned him, everything felt muted. Contained.

He sat upright on the edge of the narrow cot, vest off, bandages wrapped tight around his ribs. The skull mask was still on, because of course it was. Even wounded, he wore armor.

“You’re hovering,” he said without looking at you.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You’re sulking.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“You absolutely sulk.”

His head tilted slightly in your direction. “I’m operationally restricted.”

“You’re benched.”

A pause.

“Temporary,” he corrected.

You pushed off the wall and stepped closer, stopping just outside his reach. “Doctor said two weeks minimum before full field clearance. You tore muscle stabilizing after the impact. You move wrong, you reopen it.”

His jaw flexed under the mask. “I’ve operated with worse.”

“Yes,” you said coolly. “And you got shot.”

That landed.

He stood abruptly, testing his balance. Pain flashed in the subtle tightening of his shoulders.

You noticed.

“You’re not going on the next op,” you said.

“I’m still your commanding officer.”

“And I’m still the one medically cleared.”

Silence stretched tight between you.

“Price assigned you field lead for the next rotation,” he said finally.

It wasn’t a question.

You held his gaze. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t argue.”

You arched a brow. “Should I have?”

He took a slow step toward you. Even injured, he was imposing. “You hate being told what to do.”

“I hate being told wrong.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m right.”

That flicker again. Respect tangled with irritation.

The briefing room felt different with you standing at the head of the table.

Price didn’t make a show of it. He simply nodded once when you stepped forward.

“You’ve got point, Sergeant.”

The holographic map cast blue light across your face as you outlined the operation—warehouse infiltration in Rotterdam, intelligence recovery, minimal exposure.

You spoke clearly. Efficiently. No hesitation.

Ghost stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, silent.

Watching.

When you finished, Soap leaned back in his chair. “Sounds solid.”

Gaz nodded. “Clean entry, clean exit.”

Price looked to Ghost. “Lieutenant?”

Every eye shifted.

Ghost’s gaze remained fixed on you.

“Plan holds,” he said evenly. “If timing’s tight.”

You met his stare. “It won’t be.”

“Confidence,” he replied.

“Experience.”

Soap coughed into his hand. “Christ, you two argue like a married couple.”

“MacTavish,” Price warned mildly.

But there was the faintest twitch of amusement in his beard.

You geared up alone that night.

And you felt it.

The absence.

No shadow at your shoulder. No low voice correcting angles or reminding you of extraction windows.

The mission went clean.

You called movements precisely. Adjusted when a patrol route shifted unexpectedly. Cleared rooms with ruthless efficiency. When a hostile lunged from a blind corner, you dropped him before his finger tightened on the trigger.

No hesitation.

Extraction was smooth.

Professional.

Textbook.

But when you returned to base, sweat drying cold on your skin, you found him in the training yard despite medical orders.

He was running drills one-handed.

Of course he was.

“You’re compensating,” you called out.

He didn’t stop. “I’m maintaining readiness.”

“You’re proving a point.”

He finally turned toward you. “You handled it.”

You stepped closer. “Yes.”

“Minimal deviation from projected timeline.”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You didn’t hesitate.”

There it was.

You held his stare evenly. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

Wind moved between you, carrying the scent of cordite and rain.

“You don’t need me to cover your blind spots,” he said quietly.

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”

Something unreadable crossed his eyes.

“But,” you added, stepping into his space deliberately now, “I prefer when you’re there.”

The admission hung between you—raw, unpolished.

His breath slowed.

“You’re not my weakness,” he said.

“And you’re not mine,” you replied.

A challenge.

A promise.

He shifted slightly, pain tightening his posture despite his effort to hide it.

Without comment, you reached forward and adjusted the edge of his bandage beneath his shirt—firm, efficient.

“Don’t tear it again,” you muttered.

“Don’t outrank me too comfortably,” he returned.

You smirked faintly. “Heal faster.”

His gloved hand caught your wrist before you could step away.

Not tight.

Not possessive.

Just there.

“Snapper.”

Your eyes lifted to his.

“Good work,” he said.

It wasn’t rank speaking.

It wasn’t command.

It was him.

You slipped your wrist free gently.

“Rest, Lieutenant,” you replied.

But as you walked away, you felt it unmistakably now.

The battlefield between you had shifted.

The breaking point didn’t come during gunfire.

It didn’t come during a shouted order or a near-miss extraction.

It came in silence.

The mission had gone wrong from the start.

An intel handoff in Prague—supposed to be quiet, surgical. Instead, the contact was dead before you arrived, throat cut clean, drives missing. Worse—someone had leaked your presence. The ambush that followed was too precise. Too informed.

You and Ghost had barely made it out of the underground metro tunnels before explosives collapsed the stairwell behind you.

Now you stood in the safehouse kitchen hours later, fluorescent light buzzing overhead, adrenaline long gone and replaced with something rawer.

“You deviated from the route,” Ghost said.

His voice wasn’t loud.

It was controlled.

That made it worse.

You turned slowly, wiping blood—someone else’s—from your knuckles with a rag. “Because the route was compromised.”

“You didn’t confirm that.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“You always have time to confirm.”

You laughed once—short, sharp. “Right. I’ll remember that next time someone’s detonating the floor beneath us.”

His shoulders were tight, posture rigid. He’d been cleared for field work only days ago. The bandage was gone, but you knew the wound still pulled when he moved.

“You’re letting instinct override protocol again,” he said.

“And you’re letting pride override reality.”

His head snapped toward you.

“Careful.”

“No,” you shot back. “You be careful. You think because you wear the rank, you can shoulder every decision. You push forward. You take the hit. You absorb the consequences.”

“That’s my job.”

“And mine is to make sure you don’t die doing it.”

The words landed harder than you meant them to.

Silence crashed down between you.

His gaze locked on yours. Not distant. Not masked by indifference.

Direct.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he said quietly.

“You don’t get to decide for me either.”

“You hesitated again in that tunnel.”

Your breath caught.

“I did not.”

“You saw the charge.”

“I calculated distance.”

“You looked at me first.”

That was the strike.

The one that found bone.

You stepped forward, closing the space between you until there was barely air left.

“You think that makes me weak?” you demanded.

“I think,” he said, voice rougher now, “it makes you distracted.”

“By you?”

His jaw tightened.

“Don’t.”

“Say it,” you pressed.

He grabbed your arm.

Not violently.

Firm.

The contact sent heat skidding up your spine.

“You’re crossing a line,” he warned.

“You drew the line.”

“And you keep stepping over it.”

“Because you keep standing in my way.”

His grip tightened slightly.

Your pulse was hammering now, not from combat but from proximity. From the way his breath ghosted against your cheek through the fabric of his mask. From the way his control was fraying at the edges.

“You don’t hesitate in the field,” he said, lower now. “Except when it’s me.”

You swallowed.

“Maybe,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m tired of watching you throw yourself into bullets.”

His other hand came up, bracing against the wall beside your head. Caging you in without quite touching.

“You don’t get to protect me from my job.”

“And you don’t get to pretend you’re not affected when I’m the one bleeding.”

The air felt charged. Like the seconds before a breach.

“You think I didn’t see you in that tunnel?” you continued. “You looked back too.”

His silence was answer enough.

“You hesitated,” you said softly.

His forehead almost touched yours now, mask brushing your skin.

“I don’t hesitate,” he said.

“You did.”

A breath.

Another.

Then—

His hand slid from your arm to your jaw, gloved fingers firm as they tilted your face up.

For a suspended second, neither of you moved.

Then his hand left your face and rose instead to the edge of his mask.

You stilled.

You had seen him bloodied. Commanding. Furious. Silent. But never unmasked.

His fingers hooked into the fabric at his jawline. There was the faint rasp of material against skin as he pulled it up slowly—deliberately—like he understood the weight of what he was doing.

The skull disappeared first.

Then the shadow.

Then him.

Strong lines carved by years of discipline and sleepless deployments. A faint scar cutting through one brow. Stubble dark against pale skin. A mouth set in the same stubborn line you’d argued with for months.

His eyes never left yours.

The air shifted.

Something intimate settled into the space where anger had been.

Your hand moved before you could stop it, brushing lightly along the edge of the mask still bunched in his grip. A silent question.

He answered it by reaching up and tugging yours down as well.

Cool air kissed your skin as fabric slid away. For the first time, there was nothing tactical between you. No barrier. No symbol. Just breath and heat and proximity.

His gaze traced your face as though committing it to memory without obstruction.

“Now,” he said quietly, voice roughened in a way you’d never heard before, “no excuses.”

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t hesitant or exploratory.

It was the kind of collision that happens after months of restraint snap all at once.

His gloved hand tightened at your jaw as he closed the distance fully, and for a split second there was the rough drag of fabric between you—mask shifting, breath tangling—before he pulled it just enough aside to erase the barrier.

Then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Demanding. Uncompromising.

Your breath caught sharply against him, fingers instinctively gripping the front of his vest as though anchoring yourself to something solid in the middle of a storm. The world narrowed to pressure and heat and the faint scrape of stubble against your skin.

He kissed you like he argued—unyielding, controlled on the surface but burning underneath. No softness, no tentative testing. Just intent.

You answered in kind.

Your hand slid up, tangling in the fabric at the back of his hood, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The hard line of his chest pressed against you, steady and warm and real. You could feel the way his breath faltered for half a second—control slipping.

His other hand moved from the wall to your waist, firm and possessive without being careless, fingers splaying against your back as if memorizing the shape of you through layers of gear.

The kiss deepened—not frantic, but consuming. Teeth grazed. Breath mingled. Every movement carried the weight of everything unsaid: the mountain ridge, the tunnel, the way you’d both looked back.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

You pushed him back a step until his shoulders hit the wall, flipping the momentum. For a fraction of a second, surprise flickered through him before his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him again.

The friction of tactical fabric, the heat building between you, the subtle hitch in his breathing—each detail registered with razor clarity.

His hand slid higher along your spine, stopping just below your shoulder blades, thumb brushing there in a slower, deliberate stroke that felt far more dangerous than the earlier force. The anger in the kiss began to shift—not disappearing, but melting into something heavier.

Something undeniable.

When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t from lack of want.

It was because breathing had become necessary.

Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing lightly. The air between you felt charged, crackling like the seconds before a detonation.

His gloved thumb traced once along the line of your jaw, slower now, almost thoughtful.

Your hands were still fisted in his vest.

Neither of you let go.

“You’re a liability,” he murmured, voice roughened by more than argument.

“You’re insufferable,” you breathed back, though there was no real bite left in it.

His gaze searched yours—no mask now between your eyes.

There was heat there.

And something far more dangerous than anger.

“We cannot let this interfere,” he said quietly.

“It won’t,” you replied, even as your thumb brushed unconsciously along the edge of his collar.

The lie sat between you, fragile and obvious.

Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the city.

Inside that kitchen, the line between enemies and something far more volatile had finally burned away.

[bettelaboure]

Are you alive?😪

Not really, unfortunately. I’ve been dealing with some mental health challenges lately, so I haven’t been writing much or feeling very creative. But thank you so much for checking in — it really means a lot. I hope you’re doing well and taking care of yourself too!

lots of love,

G

[bettelaboure]

Hii can you please make a story where the reader wants children but Seung Hyun doesn’t want children because he is afraid that he is going to be a worse father because of his drinking habits. He is cold and passive aggressive towards the reader and reader is clingy and pushy but still very much kind of a obedient partner to him. He is older than the reader. Please 😭

The first time you mentioned children, it was a slip.

Over dinner, one of those rare evenings when Seung-hyun had actually cooked. He’d made jjigae, the broth simmering sharp and red, his hands steady only because he hadn’t yet poured wine into them.

You had laughed at something on your phone—a baby video your friend had sent you—and you’d said, “One day, I want that.”

The chopsticks in his hand stilled. Not dramatically. Just long enough for the steam to curl into silence between you.

“Don’t,” he said finally, voice clipped, as though the word itself was distasteful.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“That.” He waved his hand in the air, dismissive, eyes fixed on his bowl. “That talk.”

You swallowed, tried for a softer tone. “Seung-hyun, I wasn’t— I just meant—”

“You weren’t thinking.” His voice cut. Calm, but cruel in that offhanded way he had. He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to argue, to ask why not, but he reached for the bottle at his side—always near, like a companion you couldn’t compete with—and the conversation closed itself.

You’d known about the drinking before you moved in with him. Everyone did. His reputation, his late nights, the tab at the bar he never failed to settle. But he had been older, sharper, magnetic in a way that drew you in like a moth pressed to glass.

And you had been young. Obedient in the way that made him smirk, as if he liked how easy it was to pull your strings. You told yourself it was love. That if you gave him enough softness, he’d give you softness back.

But Seung-hyun didn’t do soft. He did cold, calculated distance, and the kind of passive-aggression that left bruises on your chest where no hands had touched.

You woke to the sound of glass hitting tile.

He stood in the kitchen, the wine bottle cracked at the neck, red liquid pooling across the floor. His knuckles were white, breath uneven.

“Stop staring,” he said, not looking at you.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

Your voice shook. “You can’t keep doing this.”

He laughed then. Low. Dark. “And what is it you think I’m doing?”

“Destroying yourself.” You hesitated. “Destroying us.”

The word us made him flinch, but he masked it by stepping over the glass, bare feet reckless. “Don’t talk like you understand me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“You want children with me? A family? I can barely hold a bottle without dropping it, but you want me holding an infant? Feeding them at three a.m. when I can’t even feed myself without drowning it in liquor?”

The rawness in his tone shocked you—it wasn’t passive now. It was rage, hot and vicious. But underneath, there was fear.

You stepped closer, ignoring the sting of shards against your skin. “I don’t care. I want you. All of you. Broken or not.”

His gaze snapped to yours, dark eyes unreadable. Then he turned away, the wall going back up. “You’re a fool.”

And maybe you were.

Still, you stayed. You cleaned the glass. You pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw when he was too drunk to push you away. You gave him loyalty he hadn’t earned, affection he pretended to despise but never told you to stop.

He let you cling. He let you orbit him. And sometimes, when the night was too long and the silence too heavy, he let himself hold you back.

It came months later, after another fight. You had begged again—quietly this time—for the life you dreamed of. A child. A piece of hope.

And finally, something cracked.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders bowed under a weight you couldn’t see. “My father drank. Every night. He broke my mother in half before he broke himself. I swore—swore—I would never become that man.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re not him.”

His laugh was bitter. “I am. Look at me.” He gestured to the half-empty glass on the nightstand. “I’m already him.”

You reached for his hand, fingers slipping between his even when he resisted. “You could be better. You could try. For me.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight. “And what if I fail? What if I ruin everything?”

“Then we ruin it together.”

The silence after was long. Fragile. His hand didn’t pull away.

The next morning, the bottle was gone. Not poured, not smashed—just gone.

He didn’t say he’d stopped. He didn’t promise he’d change. He didn’t give you the words you wanted.

But when he looked at you, there was something new in his eyes. A softness, slight but dangerous.

And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to keep hoping.

[bettelaboure]

would you be okay with writing smut for bottom seunghyun? 🥹 i’d love to request it, but i understand not many people are comfortable writing that kind of stuff

⊹Midtown business⊹ | Choi Seung-hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-hyun x The Reader

⊹Summary: a ruthless real estate queen and her longtime rival, investor Choi Seung-hyun, clash over power, pride, and forbidden desire, their battles escalating from boardroom warfare to an explosive, dominant encounter in her office. As the line between hate and hunger blurs, neither is willing to surrender—except to each other

⊹Warnings: contains explicit language, themes of dominance, power play, aggressive banter, and intense sexual tension

it probably doesn't pass as a smut, but here you go

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You spot him the moment you step onto the marble floor of the gala—tall, dark suit cutting a knife-edge silhouette against the city lights beyond the glass. Seung-hyun. Of course he’d be here, the arrogant bastard. He’s got that slow, lazy smile on his face, the kind that says he knows you’re looking, and he likes it.

Your heels click sharp, slicing through the hum of polite laughter and whispered business deals. You’re the reason this party is happening, the queen of real estate, the one people fear as much as they respect. And he? He’s just an old ghost—a memory that refused to fade. You raise your glass in his direction, a mocking salute. He lifts his in return, mouth curling. Two predators in a room full of sheep.

You haven’t spoken in years, not since his first investment—a tiny, insignificant building that’s now worth triple. Back then, he’d looked at you across the table with that same unreadable stare, all sharp jaw and veiled threats, and promised, “Let’s see what you can do.” You delivered—of course you did—and he made a killing off your talent. Then he vanished. Rumor was, he thought the city was too cutthroat, too dirty. Some said you were too much for him, too hard-edged, too relentless. You say he was a coward, but what really pisses you off is that he never bothered to say why. He just left your world and poured his fortune into shinier, easier deals—tech, fashion, any market but yours. Your territory. And that was personal. That was war. And you haven’t forgiven him for it. Not even close.

When he saunters over, you feel it like static, something wicked and sharp running along your skin. “Didn’t expect to see you slumming it here tonight,” you say, eyes raking over his expensive suit, letting him know you see through the performance. “Finally ran out of tech startups to throw your money at?”

His eyes glint. “I go where the profit is. Didn’t think you needed me anymore.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. The only thing I need less than your money is your company.”

He laughs, low and dangerous. “That’s cute, coming from someone who’s been stalking my LinkedIn like a desperate ex.”

You bare your teeth in a smile. “Please. If I wanted to see mediocre returns, I’d watch your music videos.”

His jaw tightens, but he likes it—you can see it in the way his gaze darkens, lingering too long on your lips. “You talk a big game. Still running this city like it’s your personal playground?”

“Still running from real competition?” you shoot back. “What’s wrong, Seung-hyun? Scared you’ll lose your touch if you play with the big dogs?”

He leans in, close enough that you catch the cologne—something smoky, expensive, utterly infuriating. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right reason to come back. Something worth the risk.”

You don’t flinch, even as heat coils low in your stomach. “You couldn’t handle the risk if it slapped you in the face.”

His smile turns wicked. “I can handle anything you throw at me. Question is, can you handle me?”

You sip your drink, pretending your pulse isn’t pounding in your throat. “Try me.”

For a moment, the air between you hums with all the things you’d never say. Hate. Desire. It’s a game, and you both know it—one you’re not planning to lose.

The gala dissolves around you—champagne glasses emptied, polite masks slipping, the power brokers of the city melting back into their waiting cars. You’re halfway to the elevator, ready to disappear into the night, when a familiar voice cuts through the echoing marble.

“Miss?”

You turn. Seung-hyun’s assistant—soft hands, nervous eyes—steps into your path, all apologetic smiles. You can’t even remember his name, just the way he’s always hovered in the background, never quite daring to look you in the eye.

“He wanted me to let you know,” the assistant says, glancing down at his phone, “that Mr. Choi will call on Monday. He’d like to schedule a meeting regarding your new Seoul's Midtown project.”

Your mouth curls. Of course. The bastard couldn’t even do his own dirty work. “Tell him he can try,” you say, voice sweet as venom. “But I don’t take meetings before noon. And he better come with something better than empty compliments.”

The assistant nods quickly, almost trips over his own feet retreating. You watch him go, a bitter satisfaction blooming in your chest. If Seung-hyun wants back in, he’s going to have to crawl.

Monday morning comes with rain, the kind that turns the city silver and restless. Your calendar dings at 11:59—a meeting at your office, top floor, view to kill for. The assistant booked it, of course. You expect him to show up, all apologies and coffee orders, ready to pitch whatever half-baked proposal Seung-hyun is too proud to deliver himself.

But when your door swings open, it’s not the assistant. It’s Seung-hyun himself, in that black-on-black suit, eyes hungry and unapologetic. The tension ratchets up, tight and electric.

He closes the door, his smile slow and dangerous. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

You don’t stand. Don’t offer a handshake. You just arch a brow, lazy and lethal. “Lost your little messenger boy? Or did you finally remember how to fight your own battles?”

He takes the seat across from you, legs sprawling, taking up too much space on purpose. “If I wanted something easy, I’d have stayed away.”

You let the silence linger, daring him to blink first. Rain taps against the window, thunder low and promising.

“So,” you say, dragging the word out, “what do you want, Seung-hyun? And don’t waste my time. I’m not in the mood to babysit another rich boy’s ego.”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of something wild and familiar. “I want back in.”

Your laugh is sharp. “And you think I’ll just let you?”

He leans in, elbows on your desk, voice dropping to something dangerous. “I think you want to see if I’m as ruthless as you remember.”

You smile, all teeth. “Careful. You might not like the answer.”

You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled, letting him sit in the uncomfortable quiet. Outside, the city is washed in rain—a perfect backdrop for a blood sport.

"You want in on Midtown," you say, voice measured, crisp. "What makes you think you’re worth it? I have a waiting list of investors ready to eat each other alive just to see my proposal. I don’t need nostalgia."

Seung-hyun doesn’t blink. "Nostalgia has nothing to do with it. You want your project on every magazine cover in Asia? You want the kind of money that buys influence, not just headlines? No one does that better than me."

You scoff, flipping a file open—thick with numbers, projections, maps. "Money isn’t everything. I remember the last time you were in this office, Seung-hyun. You bailed the second things got ugly. You don’t have the stomach for how I work."

He leans forward, dangerous. "Try me."

You snap the file shut. "Okay. You want in? Prove it. I want triple the capital the others offer, I want you to bring your entertainment contacts—every idol, every brand, every bathroom handshake you’ve ever collected. And I want you to do it on my timeline, not yours. You don’t get to vanish when the game turns dirty."

He smiles, teeth bared. "You want my black book? You better make it worth my while."

You slide a non-disclosure across the desk. "Sign it. I don’t do trust. Not with you."

He picks up the pen, scrawling his name with a flourish, eyes locked on yours the entire time. "Let’s play, then."

You can’t tell if you want to punch him or drag him across the desk. Maybe both.

"Welcome back to hell, Seung-hyun," you say, voice soft as velvet, sharp as a blade.

He just grins, and the storm outside seems to move a little closer.

The next month, you’re striding through the echoing halls of the Midtown project, heels sinking into unfinished concrete, the air thick with dust and possibility. Seung-hyun walks beside you, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, impossible to ignore—even with construction noise filling the air.

He stops in one of the penthouse units, sunlight slashing across the raw floor. “Nice view. Too bad it’s wasted on the kind of people who can afford it.”

You snort, crossing your arms. “What, you going soft? Didn’t realize you were here for the humanitarian mission.”

He steps closer, his shadow brushing yours. “I’m here because you don’t scare me. You never did.”

“Is that so?” You raise a brow, daring him to push further. “Last I checked, you ran the second you realized you couldn’t buy your way through my game.”

He laughs, low, the sound curling in your stomach. “No, I just didn’t like the idea of losing to you. Still don’t.”

You step around him, gesturing to the massive windows. “This is Seoul. No one wins without bleeding. You ready for that, or are you just here for another photo op?”

His eyes track you, hungry, calculating. “You’re the one who taught me that. But I don’t play fair anymore.”

You hold his gaze, pulse drumming. “Good. Neither do I.”

For a moment, the conversation blurs—business and something darker, sharper, layered underneath. He moves closer, inspecting the half-built kitchen, fingers brushing along the granite countertop like he owns it. “I want in on the design decisions. I want this building to scream power.”

You smile, sharp. “Try to keep up. The interior designer’s a shark. She’ll eat you alive if you show weakness.”

He grins, stepping into your space. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

You shove a folder into his chest, hard enough to make a point. “Meet me here at 7am tomorrow. If you’re late, you’re out. No more games.”

His hand closes over yours, lingering. “You’re enjoying this.”

You pull back, refusing to give ground. “I always enjoy winning.”

You turn, letting him watch you walk away, knowing you’ve got his full attention—on business, on the building, on you. And for once, you hope he’s smart enough to know the difference.

You arrive at 6:55, just to prove a point, and he’s already there—leaning against the bare wall of the penthouse, coffee in hand, talking low and easy with your designer. She’s fierce, all blunt bangs and sharper opinions, but the real storm is between you and Seung-hyun.

As soon as you enter, the air shifts. The designer, Min-ji, flicks her eyes between you two, sensing the current but refusing to get caught in it.

“I want something bold for the lobby,” she says, flipping open her tablet. “Statement lighting, maybe a living wall—something organic to offset all this glass.”

Seung-hyun barely glances at the sketches. “Industrial. Cold. I want every person who walks in to feel small. That’s power.”

You shoot him a look. “So you want the lobby to feel like a prison? Great idea. Why not add razor wire and some spotlights?”

His mouth twitches. “Better than turning it into a greenhouse for influencers to take selfies. This isn’t a playground.”

Min-ji tries to steer the conversation, but you’re locked in. “You think intimidation is luxury? Only someone with no taste would confuse the two.”

“And only someone desperate for attention would think plants make up for bad architecture,” he fires back, his gaze never leaving yours.

You turn to Min-ji, all razor-edged smile. “Why don’t you put his suggestion in a mood board labeled ‘bunker chic’? Maybe we can market it to people who miss military service.”

Min-ji’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t dare laugh. Seung-hyun leans in, dropping his voice so only you hear. “Keep pushing. Maybe I’ll show you just how ruthless I can be.”

You meet him glare for glare, refusing to back down. “Go ahead. Show me something I haven’t already beaten.”

For the next hour, every decision is a tug of war—sofa fabrics, art, even the color of the goddamn elevator buttons. You disagree on principle, voices low and biting, both of you performing for Min-ji and for each other. By the end, your blood is singing, the line between hate and hunger so thin you could tear it with your teeth.

As you leave, he follows you out to the empty hallway, words sharp and private. “You know, you don’t have to fight me on everything.”

You don’t slow down, don’t look back. “If you wanted easy, you picked the wrong project. And the wrong woman.”

He laughs, low and dangerous. “Good. I hate easy.”

For the last half year, you’ve run every inch of the Midtown project without him. You made the decisions alone—picked the marble, the lighting, the art. You took meetings late into the night, closed deals before dawn, and signed every sale yourself. The penthouses went to the people who could pay the most, no matter their names or histories. You designed every space to be both beautiful and merciless, and you didn’t hesitate when the worst of his old enemies came calling with offers. It was business. It was your victory.

You barely have time to sit before the door slams open, rattling the glass. Seung-hyun storms in, eyes dark, mouth set in a hard, dangerous line.

“You think this is funny?” he spits, tossing a glossy sales brochure onto your desk. “You’re selling units to the Dong family? To Han Min-jun? What the hell are you doing?”

You don’t flinch, only cross your legs, slow and deliberate. “Selling to the highest bidder. That’s what I do. If you have a problem with my clients, maybe you should have done your homework.”

He’s in your face now, fury radiating off him. “Those people—those parasites—are the reason I left this business in the first place. And you’re decorating their homes like you’re doing them a favor?”

You tilt your head, letting the silence drag. “They have money. Money you seem to like just fine when it’s lining your own pockets.”

He slams his fist on your desk, voice rising. “You’re crossing a line. This wasn’t the deal.”

You arch a brow. “Didn’t realize you were the one writing the rules. Maybe next time, try growing a spine before you come barking at me.”

His laugh is bitter, sharp. “You don’t care about this project at all, do you? You just want to win. Doesn’t matter who gets hurt.”

You stand, voice low, lethal. “Don’t pretend you’re some kind of martyr. You left because you couldn’t handle the blood on your own hands.”

He’s shaking now, anger and something else tangled up in his chest. “You’re unbelievable. I put everything on the line for this, and you treat it like a game.”

You step around the desk, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. “It is a game, Seung-hyun. And I’m better at it than you’ll ever be.”

He grabs your arm, not gentle, voice raw. “You think I won’t walk away? That I won’t burn this whole thing to the ground?”

You twist out of his grip, sneer curling your mouth. “You won’t. Because you want it too much. You want me too much.”

He bares his teeth, wild. “You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

You lean in, all venom and velvet. “If you want something, you’re going to have to ask for it. Nicely.”

He shakes his head, breathing hard. "You’re impossible. You’re kidding me."

You let the silence vibrate between you, sharp as a razor. You move in close enough to feel every angry breath, your eyes on his mouth, your words daring him. “Beg me for it. Admit you need me. Or walk out and never come back—if you have the guts.”

His jaw clenches, eyes burning, pride flickering and failing in real time. For a moment he actually considers it—you see the storm in him, the urge to fight or run, to destroy or surrender.

But he doesn't break all at once. He tries to laugh it off, shakes his head, voice hoarse with pride and frustration. "You think I'm that weak? That I'd crawl for you?"

You crowd in, refusing to let him breathe. "I know you want to fight. Prove it. Show me you can take it. Or admit you can't."

He grabs your wrist, tight but desperate. "You want me on my knees, is that it?"

"Yes," you hiss, your mouth nearly on his. "I want you honest. I want you raw. You hate that you need me. Say it."

He fights the words, muscles tensing, eyes wild—until finally, against every instinct, he chokes them out. "I need this. I need you."

You smile, victorious, your control absolute as you yank him by the tie, claiming his mouth in a bruising, punishing kiss.

He stumbles back against your desk, catching the edge with his hips, but you don’t give him space to recover. You press into him, trapping him between your body and the wood, your hands fisted in his hair. His mouth parts under yours, all defiance melting into something hotter, darker. He tries to take control, to grip your waist and flip you, but you bite his lower lip, hard enough to make him gasp, pinning his wrists above his head with one swift, ruthless movement.

You break the kiss just long enough to let him suck in air. “Not so tough now, are you?” you taunt, voice barely more than a growl. He strains against your hold, teeth bared, but it only makes you smile—makes you want to push further. “Thought you could come in here and bark orders? You don’t get to win today.”

He snarls, “I don’t need to win. I just need you.”

You laugh, low and wicked, your breath hot against his jaw. “Finally, some honesty.” Your lips graze his ear, tongue flicking out just to tease, and you feel him shudder, caught between wanting to fight and wanting to surrender. His hands claw uselessly at the desk, his control cracking with every second you keep him captive.

You take your time, kissing him slow and rough, nipping your way down his throat, marking your territory in bruises and red heat. He moans—frustrated, hungry, desperate for more—but you only let him have what you want to give. "Beg again," you murmur, lips brushing his pulse, and you feel him tremble, pride shattered, all that old fire turned to raw need.

And when you finally let his hands go, it isn’t weakness that has him clinging to you. It’s surrender—and the wild promise that the war between you isn’t anywhere close to over.

He exhales shaky and hot, grabbing you back like he’s starved but letting you push him down, your bodies colliding against the desk in a feverish, tangled rush. You climb over him, pinning his hips, watching his eyes darken with something feral and needy. He’s cursing under his breath, muttering rough praise and filth in your ear—telling you how much he hates needing you, how crazy you make him, daring you to ruin him, just like this.

You kiss him hard, hands everywhere—holding, taking, owning. Your touch is merciless, your mouth at his throat and jaw, biting marks into his skin, dragging more desperate, guttural sounds out of him. He arches into you, all submission and wanting, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer, still begging in broken, heated words. You give him just enough, grinding against him, drawing out every reaction, every shudder and plea, never letting him forget you’re in control.

"Say it," you whisper against his mouth, teasing, breathless. "Tell me how bad you want this. How much you want me."

He swears, voice ruined, eyes full of fire. "You have no idea. I’d let you break me. I want you to. Please—don’t stop."

You laugh, savage and triumphant, pressing him down even harder, claiming every inch of him. Your hands are everywhere—palming his chest, teasing down his sides, pinning his hips so he can’t move, even as he writhes beneath you, desperate and wild. You let your mouth drag down his throat, biting a path to his collarbone, tasting sweat and defiance, tongue flicking the hollow of his neck just to hear him groan for you.

He tries to surge up, tries to steal a kiss, but you hold him down with a wicked smile, rolling your hips, teasing him with the edge of your body. He curses, low and broken, his eyes pleading and defiant all at once—"You drive me fucking insane. I want you to ruin me, do you hear me?"

You answer him with your mouth, hungry and ruthless, one hand tangling in his hair, the other sliding beneath his shirt, nails scraping lightly across his skin, marking him as yours. He arches into you, breath ragged, hands clutching at your waist, needing more, always more.

You grind against him, slow and punishing, your own desire a wild, bright ache. The desk shakes beneath you both, and you can feel his whole body tremble under your control, every muscle straining to please you, every sound he makes a surrender. Your teeth graze his jaw, your breath hot on his cheek—"Say it again," you demand, voice all power and promise.

He shudders, voice raw and desperate—"Break me. Please. I want all of you. I want to belong to you."

You claim his mouth in a brutal, claiming kiss, swallowing every plea, every whimper. You don’t let up, not for a second—owning every gasp, every tremor, until he’s ruined for anyone but you.

When you finally pull back, breathless and wild, he’s wrecked beneath you—shirt rumpled, eyes glazed, lips bruised, hungry for more, aching for your command. The war isn’t over. It’s just begun.

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath@lovelycarmenn @tabibabib

[bettelaboure]

⊹Femme assise⊹ | Choi Seung-hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-hyun x Reader

⊹Summary: a young art student and Choi Seung-hyun fall into an intoxicating, secretive romance marked by instant chemistry and deep emotional tension. As their relationship evolves from shy glances in a gallery to marriage behind closed doors, cracks form under the weight of secrecy, distance, betrayal—and ultimately, devastating loss

⊹Warnings: emotionally intense and mature themes including age-gap romance, infidelity, secrecy, grief, miscarriage, and emotional trauma

PART TWO OF GALLERY

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

You hang up before he can say anything else.

The silence left in his absence wraps around you like a second skin—damp, clinging, suffocating. You walk until you can’t anymore, the weight of the day pressing against your shoulders like soaked fabric. Your feet take you home on autopilot, past flower stalls, cafes filled with laughter, and bus stops filled with faces that aren’t his.

The key turns in the lock, but the door feels heavier than usual. Inside, the apartment is too quiet. The place that once smelled like takeout and charcoal pencils and him now feels empty, cold. You drop your bouquet on the kitchen counter, petals already bruised where your fingers dug too tight.

You stand in the middle of the room, still in your gown. Still dressed for a celebration that never quite happened.

And then it breaks.

A sob punches out of your chest before you can stop it. You sink to your knees on the living room floor, gown pooling around you like a shroud. You press your hands to your face, as if you could dam the flood, but the tears don’t care. They come anyway.

Not because he didn’t care.

Because he did. And because he wasn’t there.

Because all the other girls had someone to lift them, to kiss their cheeks, to make them feel like they had reached something. And you had been strong. You had smiled. You had walked. But when you turned to look for him—when you needed him most—he had been a silence on the edge of the crowd.

You cry until your throat hurts, until your nose is raw and your hands ache from clenching. You let every sound escape, every thought swirl. What if he always disappears when it matters most? What if his life will never leave enough room for you?

And still… part of you wants to forgive him already. Part of you just wants him to walk through the door and say he’s sorry.

The soft click of the door comes hours later.

You don’t rise right away. You’re still on the floor, eyes red, face streaked, body wrung out like a storm has passed through it.

“Hey,” his voice is gentle, hesitant, from the threshold. He doesn’t step closer. Not yet. “I came as fast as I could.”

You look up at him through blurry lashes, your voice small and hoarse. “You weren’t there.”

He nods slowly. “I know.”

“I really needed you.”

“I know,” he says again, stepping inside, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm sorry."

You don’t speak. You turn your face away, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. He lingers near the doorway for a beat longer before quietly crossing the room, lowering himself onto the floor beside you—but not touching. Not yet.

The silence stretches between you, deep and fragile.

“I kept looking for you,” you whisper eventually, the words brittle in your throat. “Every face. Every row. I thought maybe I missed you. Maybe you were hiding.”

“I wanted to be there,” he says quietly. “I was ready to be there.”

“Then why weren’t you?”

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. His hands rest on his knees, fingers curled inward like he’s holding something back.

You don’t press him. You don’t have the energy.

Instead, the silence fills the space again—an echo of what was left unsaid. You both sit there, side by side, close but not touching, two people held together by tension and the weight of everything that wasn’t.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. Your breathing slows, your shoulders aching with the weight of your dress and your pride.

And then quietly, your voice breaks the stillness. “What if this isn’t the last time?”

He glances sideways. “What do you mean?”

“What if you leave for Texas, and I’m here, and you’re surrounded by a whole new world and people and responsibilities... and I become small?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and you hate the silence. It stretches, taut and sharp.

“I’ve seen it happen,” you say, words slipping out too fast, too raw. “People fall in love with the idea of someone until something shinier comes along. What if you forget me out there? What if this—us—is just... a phase you’ll grow out of?”

His brow furrows, pain flickering in his eyes, but still he listens. “You really think I could forget you?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “But the fear is there. It’s real. I’m scared that I’ll be waiting for someone who comes back different. That maybe I’ll be left behind before I even had a chance to catch up.”

He exhales, deep and unsteady. But he still doesn’t touch you.

And that—his stillness—makes the air around you feel like glass.

You add, quieter now, almost to yourself, “I just don’t want to be another girl someone loved quietly. Then left.”

The words land between you like glass shattering.

He shifts then, slightly, his voice rough when it finally breaks through the air. “I’ve spent most of my life building walls to keep people from getting too close. I didn’t think I needed anyone. Not until you.”

You glance at him, startled by the rawness in his voice.

“I didn’t come today,” he continues, eyes on his hands, “because I was afraid—afraid of ruining something pure. Of cameras catching me next to you. Of dragging you into the noise I’ve lived in for years. And now I see I did ruin something. Just by not showing up.”

You don’t interrupt.

“I’m not used to this,” he says, finally turning to you. “Not used to needing someone. To being needed. And I know I’ve already made mistakes. But if you think I could ever forget you...” he shakes his head. “That’s impossible. You’re already too deep under my skin.”

You blink, throat tight.

“I won’t leave you behind,” he says. "Even if I'm half a world away, you're with me. Every step. Every breath."

Your eyes drop to your lap, your hands still trembling faintly. Then, slowly, carefully, you reach out and place one of them over his.

His fingers twitch beneath yours, then curl around them tightly, as if anchoring himself.

“I’m scared,” you admit. “But I want to try. I want to keep trying. Even if it’s hard.”

He squeezes your hand gently, the smallest smile touching the corner of his mouth. “Me too.”

And finally, you let yourself lean into him, letting the warmth between you mend what silence couldn’t.

He shifts slightly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You let your head rest against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat grounding you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering.

The clock ticks on, and neither of you says much. He helps you up eventually, fingers laced with yours, and leads you to the bedroom in quiet solidarity.

You both lie down still clothed, the heaviness of the day pressing into the mattress. He doesn’t reach for more, and neither do you. You simply curl into his side, his arm snug around your waist, your forehead tucked under his chin.

In the dark, you whisper, “Thank you for coming.”

“I never should’ve stayed away,” he murmurs. “I’ll spend as long as it takes proving that to you.”

And with that, the tears return—softer this time, but no less real—as you let yourself be held.

He holds you through the quiet, until sleep takes you both under.

The morning after is quiet.

You wake first, still tucked beneath the crook of his arm, your body pressed to his as if gravity has made a decision on your behalf. His breathing is slow, lips parted in sleep, one hand splayed gently across your back like he was afraid to let go even in dreams. You watch him for a while, counting the faint twitch of lashes, memorizing the curve of his brow, the dip of his shoulder.

Eventually, his eyes blink open.

"Morning," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You nod, pressing your forehead to his chest. “We slept in.”

“Good,” he says. “You needed it.”

The week that follows moves with strange softness. There are no grand declarations, no forced smiles. Just presence. He stays most nights now—sometimes with takeout, sometimes with music on low volume in the background while you work on your final edits for your graduation portfolio.

The tension hasn't vanished—it's still there in the pauses, in the unspoken fears that flicker behind lingering glances—but it's no longer sharp or cutting. It's softened, worn down by late-night talks and the comfort of skin against skin. It’s like the sea after a storm: calmer now, though still capable of pulling you under if you're not careful. But at least you’ve both learned how to swim through it, together.

One evening, three days before his departure, you sit on the couch with your legs tangled over his lap, an open box of leftover pasta between you.

He twirls the fork absentmindedly. “I got my final training schedule.”

You glance up. “Texas?”

He nods. “Thirty-two days. Then launch prep. Everything gets more intense from there.”

You go quiet.

He doesn’t push. He lets you process.

After a beat, you say, “I know I said I was okay… and I meant it. But sometimes it still hits me. That you’re actually going. That you’re not just going on tour or off the grid for a while. You’re… going to space.”

He smiles gently. “It still feels surreal to me, too.”

You exhale. “Have you always wanted it?”

He nods slowly. “Since I was a kid. I used to draw spaceships and tape them to the ceiling above my bed. My mom thought I’d grow out of it.” He chuckles softly. “But I never did.”

“And now it’s real.”

“And now it’s real.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “What do we do with this time, then?”

He sets the fork down, his hand moving to rest gently on your thigh. “We make it count.”

So you do.

You go for long walks through the city at dusk, his hand warm in yours as you slip between crowded sidewalks and quiet parks. You sit by the river, watching the lights ripple over the water as he tells you stories—some real, some likely exaggerated—about tour buses and backstage mishaps and drunken confessions under neon lights. You fall asleep wrapped around each other, the fear still present but softened by the steady rhythm of shared hours.

Each night, he holds you a little closer.

Each morning, you wake a little heavier.

But neither of you says it: that the clock is ticking.

Not yet.

The night before his departure, the air between you is different.

Everything feels slow, deliberate. Like time itself is trying to savor you both.

He comes over late, his suitcase already packed and sitting quietly in the hallway, like a shadow neither of you acknowledges. You eat dinner on the floor—leftover curry and rice, not glamorous, but warm—and drink wine from mismatched mugs. There's laughter, soft and careful, like you both know this isn’t just another night.

When the food is cleared away, he sits beside you on the rug, legs stretched long, hands braced behind him. You crawl into his lap and straddle him without a word, your arms looping loosely around his neck.

He looks up at you, the wine glow in his eyes, and brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I want to.” You look down at him, your fingers gently playing with the collar of his shirt. “I want to say something that makes this easier. But nothing does.”

He exhales, forehead gently resting against yours. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be easy.”

You nod, your hands sliding into his hair. “Will you think of me?”

“Every day.” His voice is barely above a whisper, his eyes not leaving yours. “You’ve become the air I breathe, the rhythm in my bones. When I close my eyes, it’s you I see. I don’t think I could forget if I tried—because I’d have to forget how to breathe.”

Tears sting at the back of your throat, but you swallow them down, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then another, and another.

The hours that follow are slow, unhurried, filled with touches that say everything you’re too afraid to. You don’t talk much. You kiss more, slowly at first—feather-light brushes of mouths like questions neither of you dares to ask aloud. His hands roam your back with reverence, fingertips skating beneath the hem of your shirt as though reacquainting themselves with a place he's afraid to forget. You breathe him in—his scent, the warmth of his breath against your cheek, the small tremors in his throat when you trace a line down his jaw with your lips.

You map each other’s skin like it’s a language, the curves and hollows, the freckles and scars—each touch a word, each sigh a phrase written in a dialect that only the two of you know. His shirt is gone, and then yours. Your hips shift together in slow rhythm, not urgent, but deliberate. Like memorizing the verses of a sacred poem.

He whispers your name against your collarbone, and you shiver at the way he says it—carefully, like he’s afraid it might break in his mouth. "You’re unforgettable," he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder. "Do you know that?"

You answer with a kiss, and then another, and with the way your hands cup his face as if to tell him: I know, and so are you. You move through the night as though it belongs only to the two of you.

And when sleep finally comes, it does so in silence, your limbs tangled, your heart aching—but full.

Because tomorrow, he leaves.

But tonight, he is here.

The sun breaks through the blinds in soft gold streaks. Light pools on the floor and slips across the bed, brushing your bare shoulder with warmth. You stir first this time, shifting against the sheets, the weight of his arm still around your waist. His body is warm, grounding. Safe.

But the safety is fleeting.

You blink at the ceiling, the silence more piercing than comforting now. Today is the day.

When he stirs, it’s slow and reluctant, his breath catching just a little as he turns to face you. There’s a moment—stillness, eyes searching yours—before he speaks.

“Hey.”

You nod, pressing your forehead to his. “Hey.”

Neither of you moves for a while. It’s like you’re both afraid that any shift will set the day in motion.

Eventually, he sighs and pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “What time is it?”

You glance at the clock, heart tightening. “Almost seven.”

His arms tighten briefly around you, and then slowly, gently, he untangles himself from the sheets. You sit up with him, watching as he pulls on his shirt, then his jeans, his movements slow and quiet. The suitcase is still by the door—waiting. Ready.

He turns to look at you, his hair a mess, sleep still soft around his edges, and says, “Come with me to the car?”

You nod, already wrapping yourself in the sweater he left on your chair the night before.

The walk down to the street is wordless. There’s no need for chatter now. The morning air is crisp, the sky streaked with early orange and pink. The driver stands waiting, trunk already open.

He sets his suitcase down and then turns to you.

For a moment, you just stare at each other.

Then he steps forward, wrapping you in his arms. His hug is firm, steady, the kind of embrace that tries to say everything words can’t.

“I’ll text you when I land,” he murmurs.

You nod, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. “And you’ll call before training starts?”

“Every chance I get.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, cupping your face with both hands. “You believe me?”

“I do,” you whisper, even though it aches.

He leans down and kisses you—softly at first, then with more urgency, as if trying to hold the kiss in his mouth for as long as it will last.

When he finally steps away, it feels like something is being carved out of your chest.

You watch the car pull away until the taillights vanish around the corner. Then, slowly, you turn and walk back up the stairs alone.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence is immediate.

But his scent lingers on the sheets.

And somehow, that’s what finally makes you cry.

The apartment feels bigger without him. Not in a good way. Just… emptier.

You move through the rooms quietly, your footsteps softer than usual, as though you’re afraid to disturb the memory of him. The coffee mugs still hold faint lip prints. His charger still rests by your bed. You catch yourself reaching for your phone to text him about the smallest things—what you made for dinner, a squirrel doing something ridiculous outside the window, a song that made you think of him—before remembering the time difference, the schedule, the silence.

He calls when he can. Sometimes at midnight, sometimes when the sun hasn’t even risen. His voice is tired, but always soft when he says your name. You cling to those calls like lifelines.

“Hey,” he says one night. “I heard your laugh today, in my head. Just—out of nowhere. And I smiled like an idiot in the middle of the training room.”

You press your phone tighter to your ear, curled beneath your blanket. “You miss me?”

“So much it’s annoying,” he replies. “To them. Not to me.”

You giggle, the sound light and sore all at once.

When you hang up, the apartment is quiet again. But a little less cold.

Your days begin to form their own rhythm. Mornings filled with job applications and gallery visits. Afternoons sketching on the balcony or pacing the kitchen. Nights spent with your phone clutched close, waiting.

Sometimes, you write him letters. Not to send—just to say the things that don’t fit into short phone calls. You tuck them into a box under your bed.

And somehow, even without him here, your world continues.

But it’s different. Lopsided.

Incomplete.

Still, you carry on.

Because he said, "You’re with me. Every step. Every breath."

And you want to believe that.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes against your chest. You’re already in bed, the lights low, your room dim and quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside your window.

You up?

You smile, despite yourself, instantly replying..

Of course.

The phone rings seconds later, and you answer without hesitation. His voice is a balm.

“Hey,” he breathes.

“You sound tired,” you say gently, curling deeper under your blanket.

“I am,” he chuckles, low and rough. “But I just needed to hear you.”

There’s a pause where neither of you speak. It’s not uncomfortable—it’s charged, delicate, like the air just before a summer storm.

“What are you doing?” he asks quietly.

“Lying here. Thinking about you. Wishing you were next to me.”

You hear the soft inhale on the other side of the line. “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“Your hands. The way they rest on me when you’re half-asleep. The way you fit against me like we were drawn that way.”

You shift beneath the covers, heart thudding.

“I miss your voice,” you murmur. “The real one. Not the one filtered through a phone.”

“I wish I could see your face right now.”

You close your eyes, imagining his thumb brushing your cheek, his eyes tracing the lines of your features with quiet reverence. You imagine his warmth, his steadiness, the way his breath would flutter across your ear.

“It’s late,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“We should sleep.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time his voice drops lower. “But I don’t want to hang up yet.”

The silence that follows is heavier, intimate. You can hear his breath, steady but softer now. You roll onto your side and let your hand rest on your stomach as if he’s there, as if his hand is covering yours.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because I want to tell you how I’d touch you if I was there.”

Your breath catches—

But his tone is soft. Tender. Not rushed.

“I’d start with your hair,” he continues, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Tangle my fingers through it like I always do. I’d kiss the top of your head, your temple… your cheekbone. Slowly. I wouldn’t rush.”

You swallow.

“Then,” he continues, quieter now, “I’d trace the curve of your shoulder. The hollow of your collarbone. Just to watch you breathe differently. Because you do, when I touch you there.”

You close your eyes, your hand mimicking the path he describes, fingertips grazing over your own skin, featherlight. A shiver dances down your spine, unprompted, guided only by memory.

“Are you doing it?” he asks, his voice a gentle hush.

You nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “It’s... like you’re here.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Just... go slowly. Like I would. Like I have. Touch the edge of your neck, then down, right where your shoulder meets your chest. You always respond there.”

You follow, your breath catching. The sheets shift beneath you as you turn slightly, chest rising with every breath. His voice is a tether, pulling you through the distance.

“Are you warm?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You should be,” he says, a smile in his tone. “That’s how I’d want you—wrapped in warmth, under my touch, completely undone even without me there.”

You exhale slowly, grounding yourself in his voice. And though he's thousands of miles away, it feels like he’s everywhere—in the hush of your room, in the weight of your own hands, in the rhythm of your breath as it deepens, as it slows.

“Don’t rush it,” he whispers. “Just feel. Let your own hands remind you of mine.”

You press your lips together, warmth pooling in your stomach.

“You remember everything,” you whisper.

“Of course I do.”

His voice carries over the distance like a hand sliding over your skin. Not hurried. Not bold. Just present. Intentional.

“You make it easy.”

You stay like that for a long time, breathing together across the line, the ache of separation softened by the closeness of imagination.

Eventually, his voice gets slower. Sleepier.

“I should let you sleep,” he says finally.

You smile, eyes still closed. “Only if you stay on the line.”

“Always.”

So you sleep like that—phones tucked under pillows, hearts tethered by sound, by memory, by the softness of wanting that doesn’t need to be louder than a whisper.

Even from across the world, you are not alone.

The days stretch long without him.

Not empty, not entirely—but quieter, disjointed. Like you’re living in a space slightly out of tune with the world around you. You still get up. You still make coffee. You still reply to emails, finish your final coursework, fold your laundry. But everything feels filtered, like your body’s in one place and your heart is somewhere orbiting around a training facility in Texas.

There are days you don’t talk. Days when the time difference and his schedule keep him deep inside long hours of physical drills, simulations, press briefings. He tells you about it when he can—about how strange it is to wear the suit, how surreal it is to sit in a mock capsule knowing someday it won’t be a mock-up.

“It's lonely here,” he says one evening, over a scratchy video call where his face is mostly shadow. “There’s people everywhere, but no one really... talks. Not the way you do.”

You smile for him, even though your chest aches. “You’ll come home soon.”

“I will,” he promises. “And when I do, I’ll kiss you until you forget the days I wasn’t there.”

But time apart isn’t just measured in missed kisses.

It’s the way the dinner table feels off-balance with only one plate. The way the city feels too loud when you walk through it alone. It’s the strange guilt of resenting the dream he’s living—the dream he’s always had—just because you miss the sound of his keys in your door.

Some nights you get emotional. You sit on the kitchen floor with your back to the fridge and cry quietly, clutching your phone even though no messages are coming through. You don’t always tell him. He has enough pressure.

But sometimes, he just knows.

Missed call from SEUNGHYUN

You don’t even have to say hello. When you answer, his voice is soft.

“Breathe, baby. Just breathe.”

“I’m okay,” you lie.

“I don’t need you to be okay,” he says. “I just need you to let me be there, even if it’s like this.”

And you do. You talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about the stars in the Texas desert—how they’re the clearest he’s ever seen. You tell him about your new job, your painting that’s not quite working, your favorite vendor at the weekend art market. The mundane becomes sacred when shared.

You begin collecting voice notes. Little snippets of life. He sends you a 10-second recording of the way his boots sound on the gravel path behind the training center. You send him a 4 a.m. clip of rain tapping your windows.

You write letters you never send.

He sketches constellations in the margins of his notebook and texts you pictures of them.

Time bends and stretches. A month becomes six weeks. Then eight.

When you see him again on screen—his cheeks a little more hollow, eyes slightly more tired—you want to reach through and cup his face. But instead, you settle for a whisper:

“I miss you like oxygen.”

He closes his eyes, the flicker of a smile playing on his lips. “Then I’ll be your air, until I’m home.”

You carry each other like that. Through the distance. Through the static. Through the moments when love has no hands but still manages to hold.

And somehow, it’s enough.

For now.

The message comes while you're standing in line for coffee. Just a single text.

It’s over.

You blink at your screen, heart thudding, not immediately understanding.

Then another text arrives.

They canceled the project. No launch. I’m coming home.

By the time you reach the counter, your hands are shaking. You fumble a smile to the barista, not sure whether to feel relief or grief. After all this time, this dream—his dream—is gone.

The coffee is warm in your hands, but it does nothing to thaw the numbness settling in your chest. You sit on a bench across the street from your building, scrolling back through his messages, reading the words over and over. You try to picture his face when he sent them—flat-toned, blank-eyed, or broken?

It rains that night, soft and cold, the kind that dampens without soaking. You leave the porch light on. You check the hallway mirror three times. Your hands don’t know what to do—fold, smooth your shirt, wring your fingers like you’re waiting for something to drop.

When the cab finally pulls up, you’re already outside, heart thudding like a second heartbeat in your throat. The headlights sweep across your legs and flicker across the bushes as the car slows.

He steps out slowly, not with the weariness of travel, but something deeper. The weight of disappointment clings to him like rain on wool.

His eyes lift to yours.

He doesn’t smile. Neither do you.

But you don’t hesitate.

You cross the pavement and throw your arms around him, your coffee cup falling to the ground beside you. He folds into the hug like gravity pulls him in, and for a long moment, neither of you says a word. You just stand there, two bodies pressed together under the dripping sky, hearts clinging through fabric and bone.

You’re already at the door when he steps out.

His eyes find yours.

You just walk straight into his arms, and he catches you like he’s been waiting to exhale for months.

Inside, the silence is thick with everything unsaid. He stands in the middle of your living room like a man returned from orbit. Luggage still by the door. Shoes barely off.

“I didn’t think it would hit this hard,” he admits finally, sinking onto the couch.

You sit beside him. “You okay?”

He exhales. “I should be. I thought I’d be angry. Or numb. But mostly... I feel like I lost something I hadn’t even reached yet.”

You touch his hand. “You did. But you’re here. And I’m still here.”

He looks at you then, really looks. “Do you resent me for leaving?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. I just missed you so much I forgot how to breathe without missing you.”

He pulls you into his lap then, arms around your waist, forehead to your chest. “Then let me remember what it’s like to be close again.”

And in the hush of your apartment—no static, no countdowns, no cameras—he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to Earth.

You sit like that for a while, curled into him on the couch, his body warm and solid beneath yours. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The world outside feels distant, blurred. All you can focus on is the quiet thrum of his heart against your cheek and the way his fingers trace gentle circles along your spine.

“You feel different,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How?”

“Like you’re here… but still a little far away.”

He exhales, hand pausing for a moment. “Maybe a part of me still is.”

You pull back just enough to see his face. “Then let me help bring you the rest of the way home.”

The invitation lingers between you, unspoken but understood.

You rise from his lap and extend your hand. He takes it without hesitation.

In the bedroom, the air is warm. Still. Familiar. You tug the blankets back slowly as he watches you, his gaze tender, reverent—like he’s not sure if this is real.

When you reach for him, it’s not with urgency but with something slower, deeper. Your fingertips skim beneath his shirt, and he lets you peel it away, revealing the months of tension in his shoulders, the tired lines etched into the corners of his mouth.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whisper, brushing your lips along his collarbone. “Just feel this. Let it matter.”

His hands find your waist, then your back, steady and sure. You feel the press of his fingers, firm but gentle, as if grounding himself in your warmth. The moment stretches out, suspended in the hush of your bedroom, where breath is louder than words and time folds around the curve of his palms.

He leans in and presses his lips to your shoulder, lingering there, then follows a trail along the side of your neck—each kiss deliberate, almost reverent. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, and you feel the ghost of a smile against your skin as he exhales softly, as if he’s rediscovering the shape of you.

You answer with your own hands, finding the familiar landscape of his back, the slope of his spine. Your fingers trace down, relearning the muscles beneath his skin, pressing into him as though to pull him closer not just to your body—but back into the world you share.

When your mouths meet again, it's not with hunger but with aching tenderness. Your lips move slowly, rhythmically, syncing with the rise and fall of your breath. There is no urgency here, only memory, only presence. Only the quiet, exquisite relief of finally—finally—being able to feel each other again.

The sheets rustle. Skin finds skin. Breath interlaces.

There’s no need for words. Not when the touch says, I missed you. Not when the silence says, I’m home.

Later, wrapped around each other beneath the covers, his voice breaks the hush.

“I didn’t know how much I needed this,” he whispers.

You kiss the spot beneath his jaw and hold him tighter.

“I did,” you say.

And in that stillness—no stars, no spacesuits, no dreams of the moon—just warmth and the shape of his body beside yours—you realize that this, too, is its own kind of universe.

The days that follow are both comforting and uncertain.

He’s here now—no screens, no distance—but something has shifted. The weight of what he lost lingers in the quiet between conversations. You see it in the way he zones out mid-breakfast, in the way he stares a little too long at the sky through your window. He’s trying to be present. You know that. But you also know there’s a part of him that still floats somewhere in orbit.

You don’t press him. Instead, you fill the space around him with warmth: dinners at home, soft music while you work, arms that always open to him when the silence gets too loud.

But there’s another ache.

One that’s yours alone.

Because he’s here—but only in pieces. Not in the world beyond your apartment walls.

He doesn’t post about you. Doesn’t mention you when he catches up with old friends. You’ve never been photographed together, and when Ji-yong came by last week, he glanced at you both for a beat too long before saying nothing at all.

You lie beside him one night, your head on his chest, and ask, “What are we, out there?”

He hesitates. You feel it in his breath.

“You know how complicated it is,” he says.

“I know. But it still feels like I’m a secret.”

He brushes his thumb over your hand. “You’re not a secret. You’re my sanctuary.”

It’s beautiful. And it hurts.

Because love like this wants sunlight. It wants to be known, to be spoken aloud. But yours lives in the hush of your apartment, behind closed doors, protected and hidden all at once.

You don’t say it, but sometimes you wonder if he’s ashamed. Not of you—never of you—but of the fact that loving you makes his life more complicated. That claiming you out loud might unravel something too fragile to expose. You wonder if his silence in public spaces is an act of protection or avoidance. You overthink texts he doesn’t reply to quickly. You catch yourself imagining what it would feel like to be introduced, not hidden; to be part of his world, not just the quiet place he escapes to. And though he never makes you feel unloved when you're alone together, you feel invisible in every room he walks into without you. Some days, that invisibility bruises. Other days, it feels like betrayal.

Sometimes you look in the mirror and try to remind yourself that you’re not a shadow.

But other times, when he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in his world, it’s enough.

For now.

But maybe not forever.

You don’t expect it to change.

Not the subtle ache. Not the way he threads his fingers through yours in private but still keeps the world at arm’s length.

But one night—months later—it does.

You're walking together through the park at dusk, leaves crunching underfoot, the air crisp and golden with early autumn. His hand is warm in yours, but his silence has lingered too long.

“You’ve been quiet today,” you murmur.

He stops, glancing at you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. Thoughtful. A little afraid.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says slowly. “About the way I’ve handled this—us.”

Your heart skips. “What do you mean?”

He turns to face you completely, both hands now cupping yours. “I’ve made you feel hidden. And I hate that. You deserve more than that. You deserve everything.”

He lowers to one knee.

Not in a grand place. Not under a spotlight. Just there—beneath the trees, in the hush of the fading day—with the world slowing around you.

Your breath catches.

“I don’t want to love you in the dark anymore,” he says. “I want to love you where everyone can see. If you’ll let me… will you marry me?”

The words fall into your chest like sunlight. Like forgiveness.

You drop to your knees, laugh-sobbing, and nod against his shoulder. “Yes,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Yes.”

He pulls you into him, burying his face in your neck, and for the first time, it feels like everything is yours—not just behind doors, not just in silence, but out loud. Named. Seen.

The wedding is small. Quiet. Almost whispered into existence.

No fanfare. No guest list filled with industry names. Just you, him, your parents, his family, and Ji-yong—who showed up early, straightened Seung-hyun’s tie with trembling fingers, and said nothing except, "About time."

The art gallery where it takes place is dimly lit with golden afternoon light slanting through the windows. Ivy curls along the brick outside, and inside, paintings surround you like quiet witnesses. It feels like a secret still—but a sacred one. The kind you keep close to your chest not out of shame, but to protect it from the noise of the world.

You wear ivory silk. He wears black. You’ve never seen him more nervous. Or more certain.

Ji-yong cries first during the vows, his voice catching in the quiet as he watches the two of you stand together in the soft golden light. He presses a fist to his mouth, trying to muffle the sound, but everyone hears it—and no one minds. Your mother’s hand trembles against your father’s arm, her eyes wide and shining, as though she’s seeing you in a new light for the first time. She leans in close to him and whispers something that makes him nod, slow and proud. On the other side of the aisle, Seung-hyun’s sister clutches a tissue in both hands, her mascara smudged already, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She doesn’t try to hide her tears. They fall freely, landing on the soft fabric of her dress as she watches her brother hold your hands like they’re the most precious thing in the world.

When it’s time to kiss, he pauses for a heartbeat—just long enough to make you laugh through your tears—and then kisses you like the ceremony is just for you two. Which, in a way, it is.

There are photos. Private ones. Smiles pressed into cheeks. The clasp of hands at your waist. You tuck them into a box beneath your bed, where love doesn’t need to be displayed to be true.

And even though it’s not a headline, even though it isn’t shouted across timelines and cameras, the promise still feels thunderous.

You are his.

He is yours.

And finally, you don’t need an audience to make it real.

The decision comes quietly.

There’s no dramatic conversation or heavy ultimatum. Just one late evening on the balcony of your apartment—his hand over yours, his gaze set on the city skyline as he says, softly, "I want to be closer to my family. Closer to the people who’ve always been home."

You know what he means. He means Korea.

And though your heart twists at the thought, though you feel the threads of your own roots tugging in protest—you nod. Because love, real love, sometimes means letting go of the life you imagined for the one you’ve chosen.

You pack your paintings carefully, wrap your sketchbooks in layers of bubble wrap. Your apartment empties slowly, like it’s exhaling a version of you that can’t quite stay. You try not to think of the shows you won’t attend, the studios you won’t step into. Instead, you think of what it means to wake up beside him every morning, no screens, no countdowns, no ocean between you.

Seoul is different. Busy, vibrant, more alive than you remember. You’d visited before, but living there—truly living—is something else entirely.

The first weeks are strange. You fumble through language apps, cling to Google Translate, feel small in the sea of newness. He guides you through it gently—never rushing, never pushing. He’s patient when you get lost, steady when the loneliness creeps in, and fierce in defending your space when whispers start to follow you into quiet cafés.

Because not everyone is kind.

You’re not famous, but he is. And marrying him means bearing the weight of what people think they know. The attention, though quiet, sometimes cuts deep. There are days you avoid looking at your phone. Days you don’t leave the apartment.

But then there are nights where he comes home early, arms full of takeout, eyes bright like the boy who kissed you in a London gallery. Nights where he sprawls across the floor with you and reads your old sketchbook pages aloud like poetry. Mornings where he traces the curve of your shoulder and says, "I like this life. With you."

You’re still adjusting. You miss home. Your friends. Your comfort zone. But when he wraps his arms around you in the middle of the night and murmurs, "Thank you for choosing me," you know it wasn’t a sacrifice.

It was a beginning.

Marriage, it turns out, isn’t the ribbon that ties everything into a neat little bow. It’s a beginning, yes—but beginnings are still full of questions.

You find yourselves tangled in a quiet routine. He leaves early, returns late. You paint in the spare room, which now smells like oils and turpentine and always feels a little too quiet when he’s gone.

He’s working more again. Public appearances, business meetings, sometimes days away for shoots or collaborations. You don’t ask where. Not always.

You trust him.

Most of the time.

Until you overhear two women whispering at the café near your studio—leaned in close over half-finished americanos, their voices low but sharp. One of them says his name, soft but unmistakable. The other laughs and mentions something about a dinner in Itaewon, not public but not exactly private either. The clink of a wine glass. The tilt of his smile. Their words tangle in your chest like smoke. When they notice you behind them, their eyes flick over you, assessing, curious—and then quickly away. You’re not supposed to hear. But you do.

You leave your coffee half-finished. Walk home too fast. Your hands tremble while unlocking the door.

You don’t confront him right away. You sit with it. Let it settle like dust in your lungs. It coats your days in quiet unease.

He’s different lately. More distracted. His laughter feels a beat delayed. His compliments a little too casual, like he's checking a box. He starts wearing a new cologne, deeper and sharper, and buys a sleek new jacket he didn’t tell you about. His phone lights up often—buzzes more than it used to. Sometimes he steps out of the room to answer it. Sometimes he says nothing at all.

You don’t want to be the jealous wife. You don’t want to be the insecure one—the foreigner, the girl who left everything behind and now clutches too tightly.

But you are.

Because you didn’t give up your dreams to become a ghost in your own marriage.

You sit in your studio and try to paint. But the colors feel wrong. The lines jitter under your hand. You keep picturing his smile—directed at someone else. A hand on his arm that doesn’t belong to you. The women’s voices echo louder than the brushstrokes.

And with every hour that passes, your silence grows heavier. A ticking clock made of suspicion and heartbreak.

That night, he comes home late. You’re already in bed, lights low, pretending to read.

He kisses the top of your head like always. “Long day,” he murmurs, already undressing.

You watch him over the edge of your book. “Where were you?”

He pauses. “Meeting with the director. It ran over.”

You nod, eyes back on the page. You don’t believe him. Not completely.

And he knows it.

He stands there, half-dressed, looking at you like he wants to explain. But he doesn’t. Instead, he climbs into bed beside you, reaches for you under the covers. His hands are warm. Familiar. But your heart is cold.

You let him hold you.

But that night, you don't sleep.

And in the dark, doubt begins to bloom.

The days blur. The rumors grow teeth.

It’s not just the café whispers anymore. Now it’s tabloids. Blog posts. Instagram stories dissected like evidence. You don’t look for them—but they find you anyway.

A blurry photo of him walking out of a wine bar with an actress known for her smile and scandal. A press piece speculating about his 'renewed single lifestyle.' Comments that sting even when you tell yourself they’re lies.

You start sleeping in longer. Eating less. Not out of punishment, but because everything tastes like ash when your stomach is full of dread.

Then comes the day you sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, the cold tile leeching warmth from your skin. The world outside the door hums with noise—Seoul traffic, a neighbor’s muffled phone call, the occasional honk—but in here, silence reigns.

You hold the stick in your shaking hands, the results staring back at you in quiet finality. Two lines.

Pregnant.

The word doesn’t feel real. It floats above you, detached from your body, from your aching chest and hollow stomach.

Your eyes blur. You blink and stare again. Still there.

You breathe in deep, trying to steady yourself, but nothing about you feels steady. Your hands, your thoughts, your heart—everything trembles with the weight of this moment.

And he’s not here.

He hasn’t texted in hours. Said something about a meeting this morning. Or was it a shoot? You can’t remember. Everything has been fog and fragments lately.

You curl your fingers around the test like it might disappear. You think of the whispers. The photographs. The way he’s been drifting, unreachable. And now this—this new life growing inside you, unannounced, unexpected, and utterly, terrifyingly real.

You don’t cry.

You just sit there. Alone. Quiet. Wondering if he’ll ever come home the same way again—and if you’re strong enough to tell him what you now know.

You stare at them for a long time. Not shocked. Just... silent.

There’s no one to call. No one to tell.

You think about him—wherever he is that afternoon. At a shoot? In a meeting? With her?

And you wonder if this will fix everything.

Or break it beyond repair.

You don’t call him. You don’t text. You simply wait, the weight of that second line pressing into your chest like a bruise that won’t fade.

He comes home late again. The door clicks open just after 10 p.m., and you hear the rustle of his coat being shrugged off, his soft sigh as he toes off his shoes.

You’re not in the bedroom this time. You’re waiting in the living room, knees drawn up on the couch, the test stick sitting on the coffee table like an accusation.

He steps into the room, halts when he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, cautious. “Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

You say nothing.

His eyes land on the pregnancy test.

There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

He walks toward it slowly. “Is that—?”

“Yes.”

He blinks. “Yours?”

“No,” you snap, then regret the sharpness, your voice shaking. “Yes. Of course it is.”

Another long pause. He stares down at the test like it’s written in a language he doesn’t speak.

“I didn’t know…”

“You didn’t know a lot of things lately,” you say. “Like how to come home. How to talk to me. How to be my husband.”

His eyes flick up to yours. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you say, standing now, trembling. “What’s not fair is waking up to rumors about you being with someone else. What’s not fair is feeling like a stranger in my own marriage. And now, this?” You gesture to your stomach. “I don’t even know what this means anymore.”

He reaches for you. “Don’t do that—don’t turn this into something it’s not.”

“I’m not turning it into anything,” you whisper. “It’s already broken. I just don’t know if it can be fixed.”

His voice cracks. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve been distracted. But I never—”

“Then tell me, Seung-hyun,” you whisper. “Look me in the eye and tell me there’s no one else.”

His silence is a hammer.

You pull away.

“I’m pregnant,” you say again, softer this time. “And I don’t know if I should feel happy or terrified.”

He looks stricken.

His mouth opens, then closes. He takes a step back, rubbing his hand through his hair. “I’m not ready for this,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You freeze.

“Oh,” you say, voice cutting through the tension like glass. “You’re not ready?”

He glances at you, unsure. “It’s just—it’s a lot. I didn’t expect this, and with everything happening—”

“With everything happening,” you echo bitterly. “You mean the rumors? The headlines? The women?”

“That’s not—” he starts, but your laugh is sharp and disbelieving.

“Because I’ve been here. I’ve been waking up every morning wondering if today is the day you leave. And now I find out I’m pregnant—and your first response is that you're not ready?”

His face crumples. “It’s not that I don’t want this. I just—I’m scared. Everything’s been falling apart and I—”

You take a step toward him, tears welling but not yet falling. “You think I’m not scared? You think I haven’t been scared every day since I moved here, since I gave up everything I had to stand beside you in the shadows?”

He opens his mouth again, but you lift your hand. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t fight back.

“I’m pregnant,” you whisper, more to yourself now than him. “And I wanted to tell you with joy. I wanted this to mean something good. But you weren’t here. You haven’t been here.”

His shoulders sag. And still, he says nothing.

So you walk past him. Into the bedroom. And close the door behind you.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You call Ji-yong because you don’t know who else to talk to.

It’s raining. You’re sitting at the window, watching droplets smear the glass, when he answers.

"Hey," he says, voice groggy. “It’s late. Are you okay?”

You hesitate. Then, "No."

Silence stretches. He waits.

"I think my marriage is falling apart."

Ji-yong doesn’t speak right away. You hear the rustle of him sitting up in bed.

"Come over," he says.

You do.

The apartment is quiet, dimly lit. He makes tea. You sit on the floor with a blanket wrapped around your knees. The weight of it all spills from your chest in pieces—missed dinners, late-night silences, the perfume on his coat that isn't yours.

"Do you think he’s cheating?" Ji-yong asks softly.

You shrug, eyes burning. “I don’t know. But it feels like I’m not his anymore.”

Ji-yong leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t deserve to feel that way. Not ever.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The video spreads like fire.

You wake to the pinging of your phone. Messages. Headlines. Screenshots.

You blink blearily at the screen, your mind still fuzzy from sleep. The first message is from Ji-yong classmate: “Are you okay?” The second: “Tell me that video isn’t real.”

Your stomach drops.

The clip buffers slowly, cruelly. It’s grainy at first, then it sharpens just enough.

It’s him. Outside a sleek bar. The neon sign glows behind him, casting blue light on his face. He’s laughing, loose and casual, arm slung around a woman you’ve never seen before. She’s effortlessly beautiful, her dress clinging to her in all the ways that draw attention. She leans in, lips close to his ear, and he doesn’t move away.

Instead, he smiles.

Then she reaches up and he lets her.

A kiss.

Not brief. Not awkward. Not accidental.

A kiss that says, I’ve done this before.

You freeze. Something in you stops. Your breath, your thoughts—still.

The media calls her his lover.

No one knows about you.

You’re a ghost in this narrative. A footnote that never made it to the page.

Your fingers lose their grip. The phone falls and hits the hardwood with a loud clatter that echoes through the stillness of the apartment.

You don’t move.

Your chest is hollow. Air refuses to come in properly. The sound of your heartbeat is loud in your ears, louder than the rain beginning outside your window.

Your legs take you to the bathroom. Muscle memory, maybe. You switch on the light and stare into the mirror.

There’s your face—pale, disbelieving, eyes wide with something between betrayal and horror. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

Tears pool but don’t fall.

You press your palms flat against the sink to steady yourself.

He kissed someone else.

And now the world knows.

And no one knows about you.

You bend over the sink and let the sob rise—not a scream, not a cry, but something quieter. A cracking. Like porcelain breaking in slow motion.

And when you finally slide to the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, you realize you aren’t sure what’s worse: the betrayal, or being invisible while it happened.

He comes home that night.

You don’t even let him take his shoes off.

“You lied to me!” you shout from the hallway, voice already cracking. “You told me you loved me—was that just for show?”

He freezes, the door halfway shut behind him, keys still clenched in his hand.

“What are you talking about—?”

“Don’t you dare pretend like you don’t know.”

His face shifts—recognition, guilt, panic. He closes the door slowly, bracing himself. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“You kissed her, Seung-hyun!” The words rip out of you. “That was my husband on the internet with another woman!”

“She was drunk!”

“And you just accidentally let her kiss you?!” Your voice climbs, raw. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No! I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t—” He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair, pacing now. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“You didn’t mean to lean in? You didn’t mean to smile while she put her hands on you? You didn’t mean to kiss her back?”

“It was a mistake—”

“No, Seung-hyun! Forgetting a date is a mistake. Leaving your laundry on the floor is a mistake. That was a choice!”

His eyes widen at the ferocity in your voice. “You think I planned that? You think I wanted this?”

“I don’t know what you want anymore!” you cry. “You barely come home! You barely speak to me unless we’re behind locked doors! And now this? You humiliate me in front of the whole world?”

He flinches at the word humiliate, but you don’t stop.

“I gave up everything for you. I moved across the world, left my friends, my career—my life—to be with you. And you treat me like a convenience!”

“That’s not fair,” he growls. “You have no idea how much pressure I’m under!”

“Pressure?” You scoff, a bitter laugh breaking in your throat. “You think I haven’t felt pressure? I live like a ghost. I smile when I see your name trending because I can’t scream at the headlines. I eat dinner alone while you’re out getting photographed kissing someone else!”

He steps forward, desperate. “I didn’t want to hurt you—”

“Well, you did!” you scream. “Congratulations. You broke me.”

“That’s not the same—!”

“Yes, it is!” you shout. “Because that moment—that moment you let someone else have a part of you? That was when we ended.”

He’s shouting now too. “I made a mistake! Don’t act like you’ve been perfect either. You’ve been cold. Distant. Always angry.”

“Because I’ve been heartbroken!” you scream. “Because I’ve been waiting for you to love me again!”

Your breath comes fast. Your hands shake. You feel the tremor start in your gut, sharp and hot and spreading.

Then the pain hits.

You stagger back, gripping the wall.

“Wait—what’s wrong?” he asks, rushing toward you.

You double over. “I don’t know—I don’t—” A choked cry slips from your throat. “Something’s wrong.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

But you’re already sliding to the floor, breath short, hands clutching your stomach. The pain isn’t dull. It’s immediate and unbearable.

And in that moment—all the shouting, all the betrayal—melts into one desperate fear.

The hospital lights are too bright.

They flicker overhead as you’re wheeled into a room, the motion blurring your vision. Your hands clutch the edges of the gurney like it’ll keep you tethered. The pain still pulses through you—dull now, but echoing, like your body is grieving in a language of its own.

The nurse places a hand on your shoulder. “We’ll take care of you, sweetheart. Just breathe.”

But you can’t. Not properly. Not when the weight of everything presses down on your ribs, on your heart.

Seung-hyun is just outside the room. You glimpsed him before the doors closed—his hands in his hair, pacing like a man being dragged under.

A doctor enters. Her face is kind. Her voice is soft. But the words—miscarriage, stress, not your fault—they pierce like needles through cotton.

You nod. You don’t cry.

Until Ji-yong arrives.

He doesn’t speak. Just sits beside your bed, takes your hand, and lets you break.

“There was a baby,” you whisper. “And now there’s not.”

He squeezes your hand tighter.

“I didn’t even get to hear its heartbeat.”

There’s a beat of silence before Ji-yong finally speaks, his voice rough. “You don’t have to carry this alone. Not this pain. Not his betrayal.”

You close your eyes, throat burning. “But I do. Because it’s mine now. And he’s out there like nothing happened.”

Later, Seung-hyun is allowed in.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Eyes red-rimmed. Jacket damp from the rain.

You don’t move.

He stands there for a long moment, hands clenched, eyes on you like he wants to say a hundred things but doesn’t know where to start.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling.

He steps closer. “Please. Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” your voice is quiet. Shaky. “That I forgive you? That it’s okay?”

“No,” he murmurs. “Just... anything.”

You turn your face toward the window. The city lights blur in the rain.

“I lost a piece of myself today,” you say. He drops into the chair beside the bed, head in his hands.

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

You let the silence stretch.

Then, finally, “I don’t think you can. Please, make at least one good choice. Leave and never come back.”

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath@lovelycarmenn @tabibabib

[bettelaboure]

scribble

You always knew Ji-yong would come back.

Even when the years were long and the rumors cruel, when his name slid into the gossip pages with words like “washed up” and “finished,” you never once believed it. Because you knew him—Ji-yong, the boy who used to scribble lyrics in the margins of his textbooks instead of solving equations, the boy who turned boredom into rhythm by drumming his pencil against the desk until your teacher yelled at him to “cut it out.”

He never stopped burning, even when the world pretended they’d forgotten him.

You can still picture it: the middle school soccer field, dusk pooling in the corners like spilled ink, the grass itching against your bare calves as you lay on your back, side by side. He was fourteen, wiry and restless, with that ridiculous mop of hair that never listened to a comb. He stared at the sky like it was his audience already, as if the whole world was just waiting for him to step onto a stage.

“Someday, I’ll make them all scream my name,” he said, his voice carrying that mix of arrogance and hope only boys that age could get away with. He pointed upwards, tracing a line between stars with his finger like he could bend the universe into a spotlight.

You laughed, your chest aching in that way you didn’t yet have words for. “And me?”

He rolled his head toward you, his grin slow, sure, the kind that felt like a secret made just for you. “You’ll already be mine.”

You hadn’t understood then what those words would come to mean.

Now, decades later, you’re pressed against the metal barricade, hands clutching so tightly the ridges bite into your palms. The stadium vibrates with the collective roar of tens of thousands of voices. Smoke curls up from the stage as the lights dim, a hush descending like the breath before a storm.

And then—he appears.

Kwon Ji-yong.

G-Dragon.

The boy from the soccer field who grew into a legend, and the man who belongs entirely to you.

The beat drops, and the ground beneath your feet shudders with bass. His body moves like it remembers every crowd it’s ever commanded, sharp lines melting into fluid rhythm. His voice slices through the air, raw and electric, and the ocean of fans erupts.

He belongs to them. But for a heartbeat—long enough to undo you—his gaze finds yours. Just one second in the chaos, his eyes locking onto you with a softness that doesn’t belong to the stage. It’s him saying, I see you. Even here. Especially here.

You swell with pride. With love. With the secret you’ve carried for weeks now, pulsing like a second heartbeat inside you.

The concert ends in chaos and light, fireworks still echoing as he stumbles offstage, sweat gleaming on his temple, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. Before anyone can grab him, he finds you.

“Come here,” he rasps, pulling you into his arms so fiercely your breath stutters. His T-shirt is damp, the sharp scent of smoke and cologne clinging to his skin. He buries his face into your hair, inhaling like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

“Did you see them?” His voice trembles, hoarse from screaming lyrics into the night. “Did you hear them? They’re still mine. After everything…they’re still mine.”

You cradle his jaw in your hands, forcing him to look at you. His eyes glitter with exhaustion and something deeper—relief, redemption.

“They never stopped being yours,” you whisper. And then you take his hand, press it against your stomach, your pulse thrumming beneath his palm. “And now you’re going to be his too.”

His whole body goes still.

For a moment he just stares, the noise of the backstage crew fading into nothing, the world narrowing to the space between your breath and his.

“Wait,” he says slowly, as if the word is fragile. “Are you…?”

Your throat tightens, tears prickling hot. You nod, unable to speak. “We’re having a baby, Ji.”

The sound he makes shatters you—laughter cracked open by a sob, a prayer disguised as disbelief. He drops to his knees, right there on the sticky concrete floor, pressing his lips against your stomach with trembling reverence.

His words pour out in a rush, broken Korean, halting English, promises layered over promises. “Thank you… God, thank you… you’ve given me everything. Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

And in that moment, you believe nothing can touch you.

The weeks after you tell him are golden. A fragile, shining secret tucked between you both, making everything feel different, electric.

He starts fussing immediately, slipping into the role like he’s been rehearsing it for years. You can’t lift a box without him swooping in. You can’t so much as pour yourself a coffee without him frowning and swapping it for herbal tea.

“I’m not an invalid, Ji,” you tease one morning, reaching for the frying pan only for him to snatch it from your hands.

“You’re carrying our baby,” he shoots back, already cracking eggs with exaggerated seriousness. “That means you’re a queen. Queens don’t cook their own breakfast.”

“Queens also don’t watch their husbands burn toast.”

He smirks, leaning in close, flour on his cheek from some failed attempt at pancakes. “You love me anyway.”

And you do. Fiercely.

Late one night, you find him in the spare room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with paint swatches spread out around him. His hair’s a mess, his shirt inside out, and there’s a furrow between his brows as if the fate of the world depends on whether the walls are soft yellow or pale green.

“What are you doing?” you whisper from the doorway.

He startles, guilty, then grins sheepishly. “Just… imagining.”

“Imagining what?”

“Our kid.” He waves at the swatches. “Yellow’s cheerful, green’s calm. Do you think they’ll care? Or am I already the crazy dad who overthinks paint?”

Something twists in your chest as you walk in and settle beside him, picking up a swatch. “You’re going to be amazing,” you murmur.

His eyes soften, and for a moment, all the boyish bravado slips away. He cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I already love them,” he whispers. “So much it scares me.”

Weeks later, you’re lying on the couch, a blanket over your legs, when it happens—a tiny flutter deep inside, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. You freeze, eyes wide, your breath catching.

“Ji!” you call, your voice breaking with laughter and tears all at once.

He barrels out of the kitchen, apron still tied crookedly around his waist. “What? What’s wrong?!”

You grab his hand and press it to your stomach, eyes shining. “The baby. I think they just moved.”

He goes still, his palm flat against you, his eyes searching your face like he’s afraid to miss it. And when the flutter comes again, his jaw drops. Tears spill over instantly, messy and unrestrained.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, collapsing onto his knees beside you. “They’re real. It’s real.”

He stays there for an hour, hand pressed to your belly, whispering secrets to your unborn child like the two of them already share a world only you’re allowed to watch.

That’s what makes the crash so brutal.

One night, everything is hope and laughter and whispered promises. The next, it’s sparks turned sideways, chaos ripping through the finale of a show that was supposed to celebrate rebirth.

You remember the hiss of gunpowder gone wrong, the too-close flare, Ji-yong’s body colliding with yours as he shields you without hesitation. His voice desperate in your ear, panicked shouts from the crew, the roar of fans screaming in confusion.

And then the pain. Sharp, low, wrong.

The hospital room smells like antiseptic and despair. The doctor’s voice is flat, clinical, the words slicing you open. I’m sorry. The pregnancy couldn’t be sustained.

Ji-yong grips your hand until your knuckles turn white. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t show anything. And then, when the door clicks shut, he breaks.

Sobs tear out of him, his body curling in on itself on the sterile tile floor. You want to reach for him, but you can’t. The grief is too heavy. It pins you down.

And you both drown separately, side by side.

The days blur.

He hovers constantly—fetching water you don’t drink, making meals you can’t eat, wrapping blankets around you when you don’t want to be touched. His love is frantic, desperate, suffocating.

“Ji, please stop,” you whisper one night, your voice hoarse. “I just need to breathe.”

He recoils, like you’ve slapped him. His eyes shine wet, his chest heaving. “You think I don’t? You think this didn’t kill me too?” His voice cracks, sharp with pain. “I needed this. I needed them. Don’t you get it? You’re not the only one who lost.”

Your throat burns. “I know. But I’m the one who—” Your voice collapses, choked with guilt. “I’m the one who failed.”

“Don’t,” he snaps, tears spilling over. “Don’t you dare say that. You are the only thing I’ve ever believed in. If I lose you too, I have nothing.”

But the words don’t fix the fracture.

He throws himself back into rehearsals, into shows, into music that sounds like grief bleeding into melody. And you sit at home, arms wrapped around yourself, watching him disappear into the very thing that took everything from you.

And yet, every night, he still comes home. Still crawls into bed beside you, even when silence stretches wide as oceans. Still whispers in the dark, broken and hopeful all at once:

“We’ll try again. Someday. We have to.”

You don’t answer. Not yet. Because you don’t know if you can survive trying.

But you remember the boy on the soccer field, pointing at the stars, swearing he’d make the world scream his name. And you wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s still a way back—for both of you.

[bettelaboure]

hello from my shit show

by the end of August, i'll have a final edition of my second book. and i though that i want to connect more with you guys.

i’m so deeply grateful for everyone who has been with me on this tumblr journey, showed support, and I wanted to find a way to share a little bit of the process with you — and show my appreciation in a special way. So, I’m inviting you to become beta readers for my next book.

if you want to be a part of it, please fill this form and i'll contact you!

thank you again, from the bottom of my heart, for helping me bring these stories to life. you make this dream possible, and i can’t wait to share this next adventure with you.

lots of love,

G🤍

[bettelaboure]

Can you please make a dark fic for TOP and reader. Fem reader please. TOP gets secretly married to the reader to avoid the public backlash and gossiping. Nobody knows that he’s married. Because the reader is way too young for him (not minor) and belongs from another country. They met in London as the reader can be an international student. But here after marriage he changes and different rumors comes out about his connection with other female celebrity. And the reader struggles with all this and Seung Hyun acts nonchalant.

The reader became pregnant and Seung Hyun was not ready for it too. And the story goes on. Please make it if you’re comfortable with it 😭🥺

⊹Gallery⊹ | Choi Seung-hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-hyun

⊹Summary: an art student in London meets Seung-hyun, a reserved art collector and musician, in a chance encounter at a gallery, sparking an immediate but hesitant attraction.

⊹Warnings: age-gap relationship, emotional tension, longing, heartbreak, jealousy, intimacy, relationship struggles, separation anxiety

⊹Author's note: hi, love. so, it ended up being a lot of words, so I promise to do a second part to fulfill your full request. i hope you'll like it!🤍

The gallery smells faintly of varnish and paper, the kind of scent that settles deep in your clothes and lingers long after you leave. Tall white walls stretch upwards, holding bold swaths of color, each painting lit like it holds a secret worth whispering about. You shift your sketchbook in your hands, letting your fingers skim the edges of the paper as your eyes trace the aggressive red streaks on a piece titled The Fractured Silence. It’s raw, unsettling—something you’d analyze in a lecture, not something you’d hang in your own space.

A low shuffle behind you catches your attention. You glance sideways and freeze. He’s there. You don’t know him, but you’ve seen him before, on screens and in articles, his name always circling around the art and music scene like a quiet storm. In person, he feels taller, sharper around the edges, though there’s a softness in the way his scarf rests crookedly around his neck, a sign that maybe he dressed in a rush. Seung-hyun moves with a kind of unbothered grace, hands tucked in his pockets as his eyes scan the canvas you’re standing before.

For a moment, you just… look at him. The slope of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows as he studies the chaotic strokes, the faint reflection of gallery light caught in his dark eyes. He glances at you, and when your gazes meet, there’s a flicker of surprise, like he wasn’t expecting to be caught in the act of existing.

“You like this one?” His voice is lower than you expect—deep, smooth, like the brush of velvet over stone. You hear a slight accent. The sound curls through the quiet air, meant only for you.

You lift a shoulder, your lips twitching toward a smile. “It’s… complicated. I’m studying expressionism for class, but it feels like it’s yelling at me more than speaking to me.”

The corner of his mouth curves, just slightly. “Maybe that’s its job. Art isn’t always supposed to let you relax.”

You glance back at the painting, tilting your head. “Maybe. Or maybe I just prefer my art to be less… angry.”

His chuckle is soft, but it settles low, warm in the space between you. “Then you’d hate my collection,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though his eyes linger on yours a moment too long, like he’s cataloging the way you fit into this setting.

The silence that follows doesn’t feel heavy. If anything, it feels… tentative. Shared. You both turn back to the painting, your shoulders angled just slightly toward each other, as though there’s an invisible thread tying the moment together. Neither of you asks the other’s name. Neither of you leaves quickly, either.

When you finally step out into the brisk London air an hour later, your scarf pulled tight against the wind, you catch your reflection in the glass door of the Tube station. You’re smiling, and you don’t remember when it started.

The next time you see him, it’s two weeks later, and you’re not expecting it.

The café near your university is always crowded, especially on rainy afternoons like this. The windows are fogged, the air heavy with the scent of espresso and pastries, and your sketchbook is already slipping from your damp fingers when you spot him.

Seung-hyun. Back corner, coat draped across the seat beside him, a porcelain cup cradled in one hand. He’s dressed casually this time—a dark sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, watch glinting faintly under the yellow café lights. His expression is unreadable, eyes focused on the man across from him.

Professor Kwon. The guest lecturer from last week’s art theory class. His energy practically radiates, animated hands slicing through the air as he recounts some story you can’t hear over the hiss of the espresso machine. Seung-hyun listens quietly, nodding occasionally, the picture of patience and understated presence.

You hover near the counter, torn between waiting for your drink and slipping out unnoticed. It’s not like you know him. Not really. But as if sensing the weight of your indecision, Seung-hyun’s gaze lifts. His eyes find yours across the crowded room, recognition flashing first, followed by something softer, warmer. The faintest curve tugs at his lips—not a smile, not fully, but close enough to make your breath catch.

No wave. No overt invitation. Just a look, steady and grounding, as if he’s quietly acknowledging the thread you both left untied in the gallery.

Your order arrives, and you’re fumbling with coins when Ji-yong’s voice cuts through the low hum of the café. “Hey—you! From class, right? Come sit, join us!” His hand gestures toward their table, his grin too bright to refuse.

You hesitate, eyes flicking toward Seung-hyun. He tilts his head ever so slightly, the smallest nod, as though to say, It’s okay. Stay.

So you do. You slide into the chair beside Ji-yong, across from Seung-hyun. The table is warm, littered with mugs and sugar packets, and you find yourself tracing the rim of your cup just to keep your hands busy. Ji-yong greets you warmly and dives into a quick chat about your class, asking how you found his lecture and if the theories on modern installation art made sense. You laugh nervously and admit you’re still wrapping your head around it, prompting Ji-yong to explain with a playful metaphor about art as “organized chaos in a gallery.” His words draw a smile from you, and even a soft chuckle from Seung-hyun. Then Ji-yong shifts back to talking about art, about the exhibit he’s curating, about everything under the rain-soaked sky—while Seung-hyun listens, his gaze drifting to you every so often. Not in a way that demands, but in a way that notices.

Your knees brush under the table. Just once. An accident, probably. But neither of you pulls away.

The conversation spins on without you, but somehow, it feels like the room has narrowed to just the three of you—and more dangerously, to just the two of you, orbiting each other in unspoken acknowledgment. Neither of you makes a move. Not yet. But as the rain drums softly against the windows and your tea cools untouched, something begins to settle between you: not loud, not certain, but undeniably there.

The rain has cleared by evening, leaving the streets slick and shimmering under the glow of streetlamps. You step out of the café, tugging your coat tighter around your shoulders, intent on the short walk back toward campus. The air smells of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a cart on the corner.

“Leaving already?” The voice is familiar, smooth, and deliberate. You turn to find Seung-hyun leaning casually against the building, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a closed umbrella. Ji-yong is nowhere in sight—probably still inside, holding court with a table full of students.

You blink, surprised but not displeased. “You… waited?”

He shrugs lightly, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “It’s late. The streets aren’t exactly charming when you’re walking alone.” He gestures toward the path ahead, a silent offer to walk with you.

The two of you fall into step, the city quiet except for the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement. For a while, neither of you says much. There’s no need; the silence feels almost like a continuation of your earlier conversation, wordless but comfortable.

It’s only when you pass a row of shuttered boutiques, their windows reflecting your shapes back at you, that he breaks the quiet. “We’ve met twice now,” he says, voice soft but carrying easily in the night air. “And I don’t know your name.”

You glance up at him, caught by the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “You never asked.”

He tilts his head, a low chuckle escaping. “Then I’m asking now.”

You give it, your name feeling oddly delicate as it slips into the space between you. He repeats it once, carefully, as though testing the sound. “I’m Seung-hyun,” he adds, though you already knew. Hearing it from him feels different—less like a headline, more like something real.

You walk a few more steps before you ask, “So… why the gallery that day? Looking for something angry for your collection?” There’s a tease in your voice, a tentative attempt to bridge the gap.

His eyes crinkle faintly. “Something like that. I like pieces that stir a room, even if they make it uncomfortable.” He pauses, then glances down at you. “But I think I remember that day more for… something else.”

Your heart stumbles, but you force a light laugh. “The art student glaring at a canvas?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe not.”

The two of you reach the corner where your paths split, his building to the left, your campus to the right. The pause stretches between you, full but not awkward.

He nods toward your direction. “You’ll be safe from here?”

“Yeah. Just a few minutes.”

He hesitates, just a fraction, before speaking again. “Then… maybe next time, we don’t leave it to chance?” His tone is gentle, not assuming, but it lingers in the cool air like an unspoken promise.

You nod, the warmth of the moment settling somewhere behind your ribs. “Next time,” you agree, and for the first time, you both leave knowing it won’t just be coincidence that brings you together again.

The sun is already low by the time your last lecture ends, painting the London sky in shades of rose and slate. You step out of the faculty building, exhaustion weighing on your shoulders along with your satchel, when you notice a figure standing across the courtyard. Tall. Familiar. Seung-hyun, leaning against a sleek black car, hands buried in his coat pockets.

Your steps falter. “Have you… been waiting long?”

His lips curve in a faint smile, a touch sheepish. “A while. I thought maybe you’d let me steal you for the evening. There’s an exhibit I think you’ll like—something calmer than screaming canvases this time.”

Curiosity sparks, displacing your fatigue. “An exhibit? At this hour?”

“I asked for a private viewing,” he says casually, as though it’s nothing. His eyes flick toward you, searching for hesitation. “It’s not far. Unless you’d rather sleep?”

Minutes later, you’re gliding through quiet London streets, city lights reflecting off rain-slick roads. The gallery you arrive at is warm, softly lit, and empty but for a single attendant who greets Seung-hyun by name. Inside, the walls bloom with impressionist landscapes and soft-toned portraits—pieces that feel alive but gentle, brushstrokes like whispers rather than shouts.

“This,” you murmur, stepping closer to a canvas awash with muted blues, “is my kind of noise.”

Seung-hyun watches you more than the art, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “I thought it might be.”

An attendant brings out two slender flutes of champagne, bubbles rising in lazy spirals. The alcohol softens the edges of your nerves, loosening your tongue. You trade thoughts about the paintings, your classes, his penchant for collecting “unruly” pieces, and the way certain art feels like it knows secrets about you before you do.

By the time the glasses are empty, the gallery feels warmer, the air thick with something unspoken. He’s closer now, not quite touching, but near enough that you can hear the quiet shift of his breath when you turn toward him.

When it’s time to leave, you both linger by the door, reluctant. He opens his arms in a polite gesture for a farewell hug, and you step into it, the warmth of his coat brushing your cheek. The moment stretches, comfortable and a little dizzy from the champagne.

Before you pull away, your fingers slip a small folded note—your name and number, written neatly in ink—into the pocket of his coat. It’s a silent offering, your heart hammering as you murmur a soft “Goodnight.”

His brow lifts just slightly, like he feels the weight of the paper, but he doesn’t pull it out. Not yet. He simply meets your gaze, a knowing glimmer in his eyes, and replies, “Goodnight. I’ll be in touch.”

As you walk back into the cool night air, the city feels quieter, the buzz of anticipation humming under your skin. For the first time, you’re certain the next meeting won’t be left to chance.

Later that night, in his hotel suite, Seung-hyun shrugs off his coat and reaches for his cigarettes and lighter from the pocket. A small folded note slips free and flutters to the carpet. He pauses, crouches to pick it up, and opens it slowly, your handwriting staring back at him. His lips curve into a faint, private smile as he folds it again, slipping it carefully into his wallet before lighting his cigarette by the window.

The morning light slants through the tall windows of Seung-hyun’s hotel suite, tracing golden lines across the dark table. A half-drunk cup of coffee sits beside his phone, and the folded note with your number rests beneath his fingers. He turns it slowly, running his thumb over the paper as though memorizing its texture. Waiting feels unbearable.

With a soft exhale, he dials.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re stepping out of your flat, balancing your sketchbook and a steaming takeaway coffee. The number is unfamiliar, and for a moment you consider ignoring it. But something—curiosity, maybe intuition—pushes you to answer.

“Hello?”

There’s a beat, then his voice, low and smooth. “It’s Seung-hyun. I hope I’m not waking you.”

You pause mid-step, his voice cutting through the city noise. “No, I’m awake. On my way to class, actually.”

A short, deliberate silence follows. “Good. I wasn’t sure if you’d mind me calling… so soon.” There’s a hint of warmth beneath his steady tone, a trace of curiosity, like he’s waiting to hear if you’re glad he called.

Your lips curve without meaning to. “I left you a note, didn’t I? I was hoping you’d use it.”

A soft chuckle comes through the line. “I nearly didn’t. It fell out of my coat when I got back last night. For a second, I thought I’d imagined it.”

You picture him crouched on a hotel room floor, cigarette in hand, unfolding the note like it’s something fragile. The image sends heat to your chest. “Would’ve been a shame,” you tease lightly. “I don’t make a habit of leaving those behind.”

His reply is low, deliberate. “Then I’ll take it seriously.” A pause, softer now. “I wanted to see you again. Today, if you’re free.”

You slow your steps, the corner near campus buzzing with traffic. “You really don’t like leaving things to chance, do you?”

“I waited outside your faculty for two hours yesterday,” he says, without pretense. “Another week of waiting might kill me.”

The words settle in your chest, heavier than his calm delivery. You find yourself whispering, “I don’t want to wait, either.”

He hums quietly, a sound that feels thoughtful. “Dinner, then. Just us. No rushed goodbyes. No galleries. And definitely no Ji-yong dominating the conversation.”

You laugh softly, tension easing. “That does sound better. Where?”

“I’ll take care of everything,” he says, voice firm but warm. “Seven. I’ll text you the address.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. You can hear him shift, maybe leaning back in his chair. “You sounded tired last night,” he murmurs. “Did I keep you out too late?”

You shake your head instinctively. “No. I slept fine… eventually.”

“Eventually,” he repeats. “Because of the champagne, or…?”

You hesitate, then say it softly. “Because I kept thinking about the night. About you.”

The quiet that follows hums with something warm, electric. When he finally speaks, his voice is a shade deeper. “Then I’ll make sure tonight gives you something else to think about.”

Your breath hitches, but before you can reply, he softens the moment. “Get through your classes first. I’ll see you at seven.”

When the call ends, you stand on the busy street for a moment, phone still in hand, the city rushing around you. The whole day feels different now—less like a routine, more like a countdown.

By late afternoon, your apartment is a disaster. Dresses are strewn across the bed, shoes scattered across the floor, and your phone is wedged between your ear and shoulder as you try—unsuccessfully—to zip up the back of a navy dress.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Jess,” you mutter, lowering your voice as though someone might overhear. “It’s just dinner. But not really just dinner. It’s… him.”

On the other end, Jess exhales dramatically. “The guy who waited outside your lectures for hours and took you to a private gallery? And you’re panicking about what to wear? You need something simple. Black dress, hair down. Stop overthinking it, or you’ll psych yourself out.”

“I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard,” you argue, throwing the navy dress aside. “But I don’t want to look like I walked straight out of the studio either. It’s… complicated.”

“Wear something that feels like you. Not a costume. And stop telling me details, because if you overshare, you’ll chicken out.” Jess’s voice softens. “Just breathe. You’re fine. He clearly likes you.”

You sigh, glance at the mirror, and finally pull a simple black dress from the closet—fitted, but not flashy. Ankle boots, hair down. It feels right enough.

The restaurant sits on a narrow street, its windows glowing with warm light that spills onto the wet pavement. When you step inside, the world feels quieter, softer. Seung-hyun is already there, waiting just beyond the host stand. He’s dressed in a dark suit without a tie, coat folded neatly over his arm, and the sight of him standing there sends a rush of heat to your chest.

“Right on time,” he says, his voice as calm as ever. His eyes skim over you—not lingering too long, but enough that you feel the weight of his attention—before meeting your gaze. “You look… stunning.”

You manage a soft smile, hoping it doesn’t reveal too much. “You’re not exactly hard on the eyes yourself.”

The host leads you to a corner table tucked away from the rest, a single candle flickering between you. The hum of conversation around you fades, as if the room itself knows not to intrude.

He swirls the wine in his glass, leaning forward slightly. “So, how many students noticed you staring at Ji-yong during that lecture?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “At least one. I told her it was because he was distracting everyone, not just me.”

Seung-hyun chuckles softly, the sound rich and low. “That sounds like him. Always the center of attention.” His tone shifts slightly, softer. “I’m glad you came tonight. I wasn’t sure you would.”

Your eyes meet his across the table, the candlelight catching faint glints in his gaze. “I almost didn’t. Had a nervous breakdown. But… I’m glad I did.”

The server sets down your meals, but neither of you immediately looks away from each other. The air between you feels heavier than the quiet of the gallery, a tension drawn taut but warm.

As dinner unfolds, the conversation flows easily, starting with talk of art and your professors, before meandering into music, travel, and confessions of how oddly freeing it feels to be strangers in London. He asks about your favorite exhibitions, leaning in with genuine curiosity, while you tease him about his habit of collecting bold, unsettling art.

He smirks and admits, “I like things that leave a mark—on the room, on me.”

You laugh softly and counter, “So I’m guessing impressionists don’t usually make the cut?”

He tips his glass toward you in playful agreement, replying with a teasing smile, “Not usually, but maybe I’ll make an exception for you.”

You tilt your head, raising a brow. “An exception? Am I supposed to feel honored?”

He chuckles and leans in a bit, his voice low. “Maybe. Or maybe you’ll convince me they deserve a spot in my collection… the art, I mean.”

You smirk.

“You know, you talk about Monet like he’s a rival.” He grins faintly. “Should I be jealous of a long-dead painter?”

“Only if you’re worried about being outshined by someone who understood moods better than most people I know,” you tease.

He leans closer, his voice lowering. “Maybe I’ll prove I can match him… or outshine him, given the chance.”

Each gesture feels heightened: when your hands brush reaching for the wine, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary; when he passes you the bread, his touch grazes yours deliberately, sparking a quiet current neither of you names. Even the clinking of glasses feels weighted, like the toast holds more than casual courtesy. You notice the way his gaze lingers on you when you speak, steady and unhurried, as though every word is worth hearing. The layers of conversation—spoken and unspoken—begin to blur, building a quiet, undeniable tension with each passing minute.

By the time dessert arrives, the restaurant has quieted further, other tables emptying out. The candle between you burns lower, shadows dancing along his jawline as he leans in slightly.

“Next time,” he says quietly, his voice a shade lower, “we won’t even pretend it’s just dinner.”

When you both step outside, the air is cool and damp, the faint smell of rain still clinging to the streets. The city is quieter now, streetlamps casting long pools of amber light across the slick cobblestones. Seung-hyun falls into step beside you, his hands tucked casually in his coat pockets, while your steps slow naturally, neither of you in any rush to part ways.

For a few minutes, silence lingers comfortably between you, the sound of your footsteps and distant traffic the only interruptions. Finally, he glances at you, a faint curve to his lips. “Are you still nervous?”

You let out a small, breathy laugh, tucking your hands deeper into your coat. “Less than I was. The wine helped… but I think I just stopped overthinking everything.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment, warm and steady. “I’m glad you didn’t talk yourself out of coming tonight. I was half-convinced you might.”

You tilt your head at him with a teasing smile. “And if I had?”

He shrugs lightly, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I would’ve just kept showing up outside your classes until you caved.”

The soft laugh that slips from you feels easy, unguarded. A breeze drifts through the street, cool enough to make you shiver slightly. Before you can protest, Seung-hyun slides his coat from his shoulders and drapes it over yours. “You should’ve said something,” he murmurs, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“Thank you,” you reply, clutching the lapels, aware of the residual warmth from him lingering in the fabric.

When you reach the quiet street near your building, your pace slows until you’re standing beneath the soft glow of a lamppost. The quiet between you shifts—heavier, weighted with something that’s been building all evening.

“Well,” you murmur, your voice softer now, “I guess this is goodnight.”

He studies your face for a long, still moment, his expression unreadable, then steps closer. “Not quite yet.”

His hand brushes your cheek, tentative but certain, fingers light as though he’s giving you time to pull away. You don’t. The space between you closes slowly, deliberately, until his lips meet yours. The kiss is gentle at first, warm and lingering, not rushed, not questioning—just a quiet promise.

When you part, neither of you moves back right away. The night feels warmer despite the lingering chill.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, his voice low, softer than you’ve heard it before.

You nod, offering back his coat reluctantly, though your fingers graze his as you do. “Goodnight, Seung-hyun.”

Later, in the soft quiet of your flat, as you’re slipping on your pijamas, your phone buzzes. A message lights the screen.

I’m delighted you came to dinner tonight.Sweet dreams. –S

You linger on the words for a moment, a smile curling at your lips. Before you can reply, another message arrives: Or are you still awake?

You settle onto the edge of your bed, thumbs hovering.

Still awake. Can’t sleep yet, you write back.

He responds quickly. Too much wine? Or still thinking?

You bite your lip, fingers tapping. Both. Also trying to figure out how I ended up kissing someone who casually referenced a music festival from the late 90s—before I was even born.

There’s a pause, then his reply: Ah, so I gave away my age? Does that bother you?

Not really, you type back. It’s just… you talk about bands and movies from when I was in primary school.

Then I’ll make you a playlist, comes his answer, followed by, And we can skip the movies if you want me to stop feeling ancient.

You laugh quietly to yourself and reply: Deal. But only if you promise to stop calling me “kid” like Ji-yong does.

Promise, he writes. Then, after a beat: Sweet dreams. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Your smile lingers as you finally send your reply. Sweet dreams, Seung-hyun.

The morning starts with your phone buzzing against the nightstand. You squint at the screen to see Seung-hyun’s name glowing back at you.

Coffee later? There’s a quiet place near Covent Garden I like. 4 p.m.?

Still half-asleep, you rub your eyes and type back. Can we skip the café? My day’s packed. You could… come here instead? If you don’t mind the chaos.

Another message follows before you can set the phone down: Only if you promise not to feed me instant noodles for lunch.

You grin sleepily, tapping back, No promises. I’m an art student, not a chef.

A long pause stretches before his reply buzzes in. If you’re sure. I’ll bring coffee. Text me your address before you change your mind.

Your fingers hover for a second, nerves fluttering, but you type it out and send it, your heart beating a little faster as you drop the phone beside you.

By late afternoon, rain whispers against your windows, and you’re pacing your apartment. Sketchbooks are stacked neatly now, pencils tossed into jars, every trace of clutter quickly swept aside. You’ve changed outfits twice before settling on jeans and a loose sweater, simple but safe. You glance at the clock, then the mirror, for what feels like the tenth time before the knock comes.

Opening the door, you find him standing there, coat damp from the drizzle, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. His hair is mussed slightly from the wind, his expression calm but his eyes lingering on you a second longer than they should.

“Hi,” you say softly, stepping aside.

“Hi,” he echoes, handing you a cup as he steps inside, shrugging off his coat. His gaze drifts over your apartment—canvases along the walls, the scent of paint and graphite mingled with the warmth of coffee. “This feels… like you,” he murmurs.

“It’s messy,” you admit, brushing your hand down your sleeve.

“It’s yours,” he replies simply, setting his cup on the table. “That makes it perfect.”

The room feels warmer with him in it, the steady patter of rain outside softening the quiet between you. He pauses near your desk, picking up a sketch lying open. “This new?” he asks.

“Finished it this morning,” you reply, stepping beside him. “Same street where we met. I can’t stop drawing it.”

He studies it for a moment, his mouth curving faintly. “Looks calmer here. The day we met, that street felt like it might swallow everyone whole.”

You laugh softly, tension easing. “Maybe that’s why I keep drawing it. To make it feel softer.”

His gaze shifts to you, lingering. “You do that, don’t you? Take things that feel loud and make them quieter. Even people.”

The words linger between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You clear your throat, gesturing toward the table. “Want to sit? I can clear space—”

He shakes his head gently, pulling a chair back. “Leave it. Sit with me.”

You both sit at the cluttered table, fingers brushing as you reach for your cups. The rain fills the pause, a steady rhythm under your heartbeat.

“So,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips, “what did you skip today to bring me coffee? Or should I feel honored?”

He smirks faintly, his voice low. “A meeting I didn’t want to be in. And a verse I was supposed to finish. My manager will complain, but I’d rather be here.”

Your smile softens, the air between you warmer now, heavy with something unspoken yet understood.

The silence lingers, deepening with every shared glance. The rain outside grows steadier, the soft sound cocooning the room as Seung-hyun leans a little closer across the table, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

You feel your breath catch, the air between you charged. Neither of you says anything as his hand slides across the table, brushing over your fingers and resting there. His touch is warm, steady, wordless.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice low, giving you the chance to pull away.

You nod, your pulse drumming in your ears. “Yes.”

He stands slowly, circling the table to where you sit. The closeness makes the room feel smaller, your heartbeat louder. When his fingers graze your cheek, tilting your chin up gently, the first kiss comes—slow, deliberate, tasting faintly of coffee and the charged tension that had been building since the moment he walked in.

The kiss deepens naturally, his hand sliding to the back of your neck as you rise from your chair, your arms curling around his shoulders. It’s unhurried but growing more intense, each brush of his lips coaxing a little more heat into the moment.

Your back finds the edge of the table, the faint clatter of pencils shifting somewhere behind you, but neither of you pulls away. His other hand settles lightly at your waist, grounding you as the kiss turns more insistent, the soft patter of rain outside the only sound besides your breaths.

When you finally break for air, your foreheads rest together, both of you still catching your breath. His thumb traces your jawline, slow and gentle, his eyes searching yours as if making sure you’re still with him in this moment.

“Still okay?” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the rain.

Your lips curve, breathless but certain. “Still okay.”

And then you kiss him again, pulling him closer, feeling his hand slide along your back as your fingers trace the line of his jaw. The kiss grows heavier, lingering longer, breaths mingling as he murmurs softly against your lips, “You taste like coffee.”

The soft laugh that slips from you is quickly caught as he tilts your chin, deepening the kiss until you’re pressed more firmly against the table’s edge. His fingers lace briefly with yours before gliding up your arm, the warmth of his touch making the sound of rain beyond the windows fade further away. Each movement is deliberate, your breaths syncing as the tension between you sharpens.

Your fingers clutch lightly at the fabric of his shirt as he leans into you, one of his hands finding the small of your back and pulling you closer. The kiss builds in urgency, his lips tracing along your jaw before finding yours again, the slow, careful rhythm turning into something more heated, more consuming.

The rain outside becomes distant, replaced by the sound of your shared breaths and the quiet scrape of the chair behind you as you shift closer to him. He murmurs your name softly between kisses, the sound of it grounding and intimate as his hand brushes along your side, fingers tracing the hem of your sweater before resting at your waist.

When the kiss breaks again, the two of you stay close, foreheads touching, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Your voice is soft, but steady. “I don’t want you to.”

His answering smile is subtle, felt more than seen, before his lips find yours again, the moment deepening as the rest of the world fades completely away.

The kiss slows gradually, breaths mingling in the dimly lit apartment. The patter of rain against the window dulls the city beyond into a distant hum, leaving only the warm glow of your lamp and the heat between you.

Seung-hyun doesn’t move far. His hands, warm and steady, rest at your waist as his forehead leans gently against yours. His voice is low, threaded with concern and something softer.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing the hem of your sweater.

A small, breathy laugh escapes you. “I’m not cold.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Good. I’d hate to think I’m that bad at this.”

You glance up, meeting his gaze. His eyes are calm but unwavering, watching you with that steady intensity you’re still not used to.

“What now?” you whisper, barely audible over the rain.

His fingers trace a slow, reassuring path along your spine, the light pressure making your breath catch.

“Whatever you want,” he says softly, almost like a promise. “If you want me to leave, I will. If you want me to stay… I’ll stay.”

Your fingers trail along his jawline, the roughness of faint stubble beneath your fingertips grounding you.

“Stay,” you murmur, the word almost trembling as it leaves you.

His answering kiss is slower, deeper, lingering as if time itself has softened. His hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing gentle circles against your skin. The rain beyond the glass becomes a metronome to your breaths, each kiss syncing with the rhythm outside.

When you both move, it’s unspoken. You drift to the couch together, his arm looping around your shoulders as you sink against him, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek. The tension remains, muted now, but humming like an electric current under the quiet.

“You don’t let go easily, do you?” you tease, voice muffled against his shoulder.

His quiet laugh rumbles under your cheek. “Not when you taste like coffee, strawberries, and rain.”

You pull back just enough to raise a brow at him. “That’s terrible.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, brushing his thumb along your jaw, tracing the curve of your chin, “but you didn’t tell me to stop.”

His lips find yours again, the kiss starting soft but deepening as his other hand slides to your hip, anchoring you closer. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, clutching lightly as the warmth between you stirs again. The couch creaks faintly as you shift, his hand splaying against your back as the kiss grows heavier.

Between breaths, he murmurs your name softly, the sound grounding, intimate. You answer with a quiet hum, your lips brushing along his jaw before returning to his, the slow rhythm between you building with every passing second.

The rain outside doesn’t stop, but neither do you, the sound of it fading beneath the shared cadence of breath and heartbeat, the night stretching, unhurried, as the closeness between you deepens beyond words.

For a while, neither of you speak. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm, your breath syncing to the quiet rhythm of the rain. Then you break the silence, your voice soft. “You never really talk about… before. About BigBang. What was it like? Really?”

He exhales, leaning back slightly. “Loud and chaotic. It felt like running a marathon with cameras always on us. We barely slept—sometimes four hours on a good night. Cities blurred together. I remember one time waking up in Tokyo and walking into the wrong hotel room because I thought we were still in Seoul. Then the next night, we ended up singing with the staff in a tiny bar in Berlin after a show, just to feel human again. Some mornings, I’d wake up and have no idea what country we were in until I heard someone speak.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “That sounds… exhausting.”

A faint smirk tugs at his lips. “It was. But it was also… electric. Standing in front of thousands, hearing them scream your name, singing along—it makes you feel untouchable. Until you’re alone at 3 a.m. in a hotel room and the silence feels heavier than the noise ever did.”

Your brow furrows gently. “Did you ever think about quitting?”

He hesitates, his gaze distant for a moment. “Sometimes. But Ji-yong wouldn’t let me. Even when we are in hiatus. He’d show up with new ideas, drag me to the studio, remind me why we started. It wasn’t just about fame. We wanted to create something that lasted.”

A faint smile plays at your lips. “And you did.”

His eyes return to yours, softer now. “Would you have been in the crowd back then?”

You laugh quietly. “Maybe. But I think I prefer this view.”

He chuckles low, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead. “So do I.”

The quiet stretches comfortably as you trace small shapes on his shirt and he absently twirls a strand of your hair. The rain becomes part of the rhythm around you, blending with the slow thrum of your hearts.

“Tell me something about you,” he murmurs after a moment. “Not about school or art. Something I can’t see in your sketches.”

You grin against his chest. “Only if you tell me something no one knows about BigBang. A story you’ve never told in an interview.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Deal. But you first.”

You pull back slightly, your head resting against the couch as you meet his gaze. “Alright… something about me.” You pause, chewing your lip. “When I was sixteen, I almost quit art entirely. I wanted to study literature instead. My father thought art wasn’t practical, and I started to believe him. I didn’t pick up a pencil for almost six months.”

His brow lifts slightly, surprise flickering in his expression. “What changed?”

“My teacher,” you answer quietly. “She found me sitting in the library, not even reading, just… staring. She put a sketchbook in front of me and told me not to think, just draw anything. I filled that whole book in a week. I realized I can’t not do it, even if it doesn’t make sense sometimes.”

Seung-hyun studies you for a long moment, his thumb brushing gently across your hand. “And now you’re here, drawing streets over and over, turning noise into calm.”

You smile softly, leaning against him again. “Exactly. And now it’s your turn for that untold BigBang story.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Fair. But I warn you—it’s not glamorous. One time during a U.S. tour, Dae-sung convinced us to sneak out after a show to eat street tacos at 2 a.m. We got caught by a handful of fans who followed us from the arena. We ended up sitting on the curb, eating with them and signing napkins because we didn’t have any merch on us.”

You laugh, your head shaking against his chest. “Somehow, I don’t think anyone complained about napkins.”

“They didn’t,” he says with a grin. “But Young-bae still owes me for getting salsa on my jacket.”

The two of you laugh quietly, the sound blending into the rain, your fingers finding his as the moment softens again into something warm and unhurried.

The rain has stopped by the time dawn peeks through your curtains, the early light pale and soft against your walls. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the city waking up. You stir slightly, blinking into the warm blur of morning and realizing you’re still curled against Seung-hyun on the couch, his arm draped around you.

He’s awake, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your shoulder. “Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough from sleep.

You shift, tilting your head to look at him. “Did you sleep at all?”

He smirks faintly. “A little. You steal blankets.”

You laugh softly, rubbing your eyes. “You could have left, you know. Gotten a proper bed.”

“I didn’t want to,” he says simply, his gaze holding yours steadily. “It was… nice, staying here. Quiet.”

You sit up a little, stretching, and notice his phone resting on the table, screen dark. “Don’t you have work? Ji-yong might be sending out a search party.”

He follows your gaze and shrugs, leaning back into the couch cushions. “He can wait a few hours. It’s early, and I don’t want to go yet.”

Your eyes soften as you watch him. The edges of his usual composure are softer in the morning light, his hair a little unruly, his voice gentler than you’ve heard before.

“I don’t usually let people stay,” you admit quietly, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket draped over you both. “But I… didn’t want you to leave.”

His hand finds yours beneath the blanket, giving it a light squeeze. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

For a few moments, neither of you speak. The morning hum of the city outside fills the room, a soft, distant reminder of the day beginning. He glances toward your kitchenette. “Do you at least have coffee? Or am I making us walk to the café?”

You smile, shaking your head. “I have coffee. Might not be as good as what you brought yesterday, though.”

He stands slowly, stretching as he offers you his hand. “Then let’s test it. I’ll even make it—if you promise to tell me more about sixteen-year-old you while it brews.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. “Only if you tell me one more story about the band.”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Deal.”

The two of you move into the kitchen, the soft clink of mugs and the sound of water heating blending with the muted hum of the morning, the easy comfort of shared space settling between you as naturally as the sunlight seeping in through the windows.

In the kitchen, while the kettle hums, he measures out coffee with practiced ease. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him.

“So,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, “sixteen-year-old you almost quit art. What else? What did you picture for yourself at this age?”

You exhale softly. “Not this. I thought I’d still be at home, maybe teaching, maybe not even drawing anymore. London wasn’t in the plan. Neither were you.”

He looks at you, brow raised. “And is that… good or bad?”

You meet his gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Good. Surprisingly good.”

He pours the hot water over the grounds, the smell of fresh coffee filling the kitchen. “Your turn,” he says. “What do you want to know?”

You tilt your head. “What’s something about touring no one knows? Something even the die-hard fans never figured out.”

He hands you a steaming mug, his mouth curving into a faint grin. “In Paris, we missed a flight once because Ji-yong found a rack of vintage coats he had to buy. Our manager nearly combusted. We took a bus overnight to make the next show, and no one ever found out.”

You snort softly into your coffee. “Vintage coats? That’s the great rockstar secret?”

“He still has three of them,” Seung-hyun says, shaking his head. “And I told him I’d sell the story one day if I ever needed leverage.”

You laugh quietly, the easy sound filling the kitchen as the light grows brighter, both of you lingering in the soft calm of the morning.

He leans back against the counter beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush, the scent of coffee and rain still lingering in the air.

“So,” you murmur, nudging him lightly, “what else do I not know about you yet? Besides the fact you’re secretly a decent barista.”

He smiles faintly, glancing down at you. “Plenty. But we have time for that, don’t we?”

Your lips curve as you take another sip, savoring the warm quiet between you as the morning slowly unfolds, neither of you rushing to break the calm.

A month later, London feels warmer, the streets buzzing with late spring energy as you hear the familiar knock on your door. When you open it, Seung-hyun is there, balancing a bag of takeaway with one hand, his other tucking a bottle of wine under his arm.

“Dinner delivery,” he says, stepping inside with a small smile. “Figured we could skip cooking this time.”

You grin, taking the bag from him as he sheds his coat. “I don’t think we’ve ever cooked. Unless reheating leftovers counts.”

The two of you eat on the couch, legs tangled lazily, the quiet hum of the city seeping through the cracked window. After the containers are stacked on the table and the last of the wine is poured, you settle back against him, his arm draped comfortably around your shoulders.

For a long time, there’s only the soft buzz of the evening: the faint city sounds outside, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your arm. But you feel him shift slightly, his hand pausing.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says finally, his voice low. “I got an invitation. Something… big.”

You tilt your head up, curious. “Big like what?”

He exhales slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to your intertwined hands. “The Dear Moon project. They want me to be part of it. A week-long trip to the moon next year.”

You blink, stunned for a moment. “The moon? As in… space? Actually space?”

He nods, a faint, almost boyish smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve dreamed about it since I was a kid. I used to sit on my rooftop in Seoul and watch the sky for hours. My parents thought it was a phase. It never was.”

You rest your chin lightly against his shoulder, studying his profile as he stares past the window, where the faint glow of the city hides the stars. “So… you’re going to do it?”

His eyes flick to yours. “I think so. Part of me is terrified. Part of me can’t believe it’s even possible. But… it feels like something I can’t say no to.”

You’re quiet for a moment, tracing your finger along the inside of his wrist. “When you were talking about touring, I thought that sounded surreal. But this… this is another level.”

His lips curve faintly. “You think it’s crazy.”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “I think it’s… very you. Always chasing something just out of reach.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, pulling you closer. “Maybe. But it feels like something I have to do. Like a dream I’ve been carrying too long.”

You nestle closer into his side, your voice soft as the room settles into a calm hush. “Then I’ll just have to get used to the idea of you disappearing into space for a while.”

His fingers curl gently at your hip, his tone lighter now. “I’ll bring you back a moon rock. Or at least a good story.”

You laugh quietly, leaning your head against his chest as the night drifts on, the weight of his words lingering like the faint glow of the moon hidden behind the clouds.

“There’s more,” he says softly, his thumb tracing an idle circle on your hip. “If I say yes to the project… I have to leave next month. Texas. Training. They want me there for almost 10 months before the launch.”

You sit up slightly, blinking at him. “10 months?” The words taste foreign, heavy. “You’d be gone that long before you even… go?”

He nods, his eyes holding yours steadily despite the faint tension in his jaw. “It’s part of the deal. They have to prepare us—physically, mentally. It’s not like hopping on a plane.”

The room feels smaller now, the warm glow of your lamp casting long shadows as you process. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt. “I'm happy for you, Seung-hyun. I'm really am. But what does that mean… for us?”

His gaze softens, though his voice remains even. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. I don’t want this—what we have—to just stop because of distance. But I know it’s a lot to ask. Letters, calls, time zones… waiting.”

You swallow hard, the knot in your chest tightening. “We’ve only been… us… for a little while. And now you’re talking about disappearing to another continent, and then… space.”

His hand slides to yours, fingers intertwining gently. “I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you. But I also can’t walk away from this chance. I’ve wanted it my whole life.”

Your gaze searches his face, catching the quiet resolve there, the trace of uncertainty beneath it. “And if I say I can’t do long distance? That I can’t just… wait around while you chase the moon?”

His lips press together, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Then we figure something else out. Or… we end it, if that’s what you need. I don’t want to hold you in something that feels unfair.”

The words hang between you, heavier than any silence you’ve shared before. The faint hum of the city seeps back into your awareness, every sound sharper somehow.

Finally, you exhale slowly, leaning your forehead against his. “I don’t know if I can promise anything yet. But… I don’t want this to end. Not yet. Even if it’s hard.”

His hand cups your cheek, his touch steady despite the tension in the air. “Then we’ll make it work. One day at a time. If that’s enough for now.”

You nod, the knot in your chest loosening just slightly as you curl back against him, both of you sitting quietly in the warm glow of the apartment, the future uncertain but not yet out of reach.

For a while, you sit in silence, the low hum of the city and the distant glow of headlights through your window your only company. Then his voice breaks the quiet, softer now. “You know… when I used to tour, I thought nothing could feel heavier than saying goodbye for weeks at a time. But now…”

You tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. “Now it’s different?”

His lips curve faintly, though his gaze stays serious. “Now it feels like there’s more to lose.”

The words settle deep in your chest, the weight of them making the quiet stretch even longer. You shift slightly, cupping his jaw with your hand, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone.

“Then maybe we don’t waste tonight thinking about goodbyes,” you murmur.

His eyes soften, his breath slowing as he leans into your touch. “Maybe we just make tonight last.”

And when he kisses you, it’s slow, lingering—not urgent, but deliberate. The kind of kiss that feels like a promise, even when neither of you can speak it aloud yet. The city outside fades into a dull blur, the two of you sinking deeper into the warmth of the moment, holding on to what you have now before the future comes rushing in.

The kiss deepens, slow at first, turning into something more lingering as the warmth between you builds, each brush of his lips against yours drawing out the moment. His hands trace the length of your back, sliding slowly, anchoring you closer, while his breath steadies against your cheek, the sound soft but deliberate. Your fingers drift over the line of his neck, the curve of his jaw, memorizing the feel of him beneath your touch as if imprinting it.

He murmurs your name softly between kisses, his voice low, almost a whisper that vibrates against your lips. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he breathes, his words warm and heavy. “The way you look at me… the way your breath hitches when I touch you like this… it’s intoxicating.” His thumb draws slow, deliberate circles along your waist, each movement matched by another quiet praise: “You’re stunning… every sound you make drives me insane.”

Without speaking, you both shift, the couch giving way to the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom. The soft lamplight spills across the space, pooling in golden hues, casting faint shadows on the walls as the rest of the world blurs away. Shoes are nudged off, the faint rustle of fabric punctuating the hush as you sink onto the bed together. The air is warm and close, the scent of rain lingering faintly through the cracked window.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his eyes locked with yours as his hand rests lightly along your waist. “Are you sure?” he asks quietly, voice low and smooth. “Because once I start, I don’t think I’ll want to stop.”

You nod, your hand finding his, giving it a firm squeeze. “I’m sure.”

What follows is slow, deliberate—a dance of lingering touches and quiet laughter when elbows bump, his voice threading through every kiss. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing along your collarbone. “Every sound, every little movement… you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.” His words tease but hold a raw honesty that sends warmth rushing through you.

His fingertips trace over your shoulder, down the curve of your spine, drawing goosebumps in their wake as he leans closer, his breath warm and teasing against your ear. “I could stay like this forever,” he whispers, voice husky now. “You feel perfect… every time you breathe, every time you shiver—it’s like you’re pulling me deeper under. Don’t stop, not tonight.”

You respond in kind, your hands roaming across the firm lines of his back, fingertips gliding along the ridges of his shoulder blades and tracing the length of his spine. His breath stutters when your nails graze lightly along his skin, drawing a low, rough laugh from him. “God, you’re going to ruin me,” he whispers, his lips ghosting along your jaw. “And I wouldn’t change a thing. Stay close, let me keep you here as long as we can.”

The room feels suspended in time, every sound and sensation amplified—the soft rustle of sheets, the faint rhythm of rain outside, the way his voice dips low with every praise, calling you beautiful, unforgettable, each word more deliberate than the last. Every kiss and every whisper feels like a vow, an unspoken promise to hold on despite the shadow of his departure waiting beyond the horizon.

Later, when the night has settled into its quietest hours, the two of you lie together beneath the dim glow of the lamp. Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady cadence of his heartbeat as his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your arm.

He breaks the silence in a whisper, almost to himself. “I wish time could slow down tonight.”

You tilt your head slightly, catching the faint light in his eyes. “So do I,” you breathe, the words barely a sound as you press closer, letting the warmth between you and the steady rhythm of his heart anchor you against the inevitability of morning.

The weeks that follow become a blur of stolen moments, each day marked by the quiet urgency of knowing time is slipping away. Seung-hyun seems to sense it too; every time he knocks on your door, every time his hand brushes yours, there’s a lingering weight in his touch, a silent reminder of the countdown ticking toward Texas.

You fall into a rhythm. Morning coffees in the small café down the street, his cap pulled low as the two of you linger over empty mugs just to stretch the minutes. Afternoons spent with you sketching while he quietly works through notebooks and calls, his presence steady even in silence. Evenings wandering through London’s streets, his arm around you as you talk about everything and nothing—books you’ve read, songs he’s working on, little things you notice about the city at night.

Sometimes, he tells you stories of the past, his voice soft as he describes nights on tour, hidden moments behind flashing lights, the exhaustion and thrill tangled together. Other times, it’s quieter: the two of you stretched out on the couch, your legs tangled, his fingers idly tracing your wrist as you both watch the city lights flicker through the window.

At night, the weight of the approaching goodbye feels heavier, but neither of you says it aloud. Instead, you hold each other longer, kisses deepening as if to memorize every detail before distance makes the memories blur. He praises you in the dark, his voice low and warm, murmuring how the world feels softer when you’re with him, how your laughter has become his favorite sound, how he doesn’t want to forget the way you feel when the city outside is asleep. Sometimes he teases you softly, whispering that you’ll be the memory keeping him awake during long training nights, that the way you sigh against his neck might haunt him in the best way when he’s far away. You cling to those words, storing them like keepsakes for the months ahead.

Those nights stretch long, filled with whispered confessions and slow touches beneath the blankets, every kiss drawn out as if it could delay the inevitable. He trails his fingers along your spine, murmuring how he wants to memorize everything—the way your breath stutters, the curve of your shoulders, the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. Sometimes he coaxes soft laughter from you, teasingly asking how he’s supposed to focus on training when he can’t shake the memory of your warmth, your touch, the way you fit against him perfectly.

You answer with your hands, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his jaw, brushing his hair back as you whisper back your own truths—that you don’t know how you’ll manage the quiet of your apartment without him, that every night feels shorter because it’s one less before he goes. You find comfort in the murmured promises neither of you can fully keep but both need to hear: that the distance won’t change what’s here, that somehow you’ll make the waiting bearable.

One evening, your apartment is scattered with half-finished sketches and crumpled papers, your laptop open as you pace in front of it, muttering under your breath. “This is a disaster. My final project is due in a week, and nothing is working. I’m going to fail. I’m not going to graduate.”

Seung-hyun watches from the couch, one arm draped along the back, calm despite your frenzy. “You’ve been saying that every project, and you always finish,” he points out, voice even.

“This one is different!” you exclaim, throwing yourself down beside him. “It’s supposed to be my statement piece, and everything feels… flat. What if they hate it? What if I don’t even pass?”

He catches your hand gently, pressing his thumb against your knuckles. “Breathe. Show me what you have. Maybe I’ll see something you’re missing.”

You glance at him, exasperated but softening as his thumb draws slow circles along your hand. “You’re not exactly my professor, you know.”

“No,” he says, leaning in slightly, “but I know when you’re overthinking. And right now, you’re not seeing what’s already good.”

Reluctantly, you pull up your sketches, spreading them across the table. He studies them quietly, his brows furrowing in thought. “This one,” he says finally, tapping a charcoal piece of a rainy London street. “It feels alive. Work from this. Build around it.”

You stare at him for a moment, the tension in your chest easing slightly. “You think?”

“I know,” he murmurs, meeting your eyes. “And if you need me, I’ll keep you grounded until it’s done. Even if it means keeping you up all night with coffee and pep talks.”

Your lips twitch into a reluctant smile. “That sounds like a terrible but necessary plan.”

He leans closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Terrible plans are my specialty. You’ll finish. You’ll graduate. And we’ll celebrate before I leave.”

The month passes in moments like this—intimate, chaotic, tender. Some nights blur into morning, your body curled against his as his voice lulls you to sleep with soft praises, quiet teasing, and promises to call every chance he can. Other nights, you stay awake together, laughing quietly in the dark, trading kisses that grow slower and softer until words fade into touch. Both of you know these moments are numbered, and so you savor each one, clinging closer, letting each night linger until sleep finally claims you, knowing that soon, the quiet will feel heavier without him there.

The morning is heavy with gray clouds, the kind of London sky that promises rain but never quite delivers. You stand among your classmates, the black fabric of your gown catching the wind as the courtyard hums with voices—parents, friends, students snapping photos. Your portfolio feels heavier in your arms than it should. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you expect to see him: tall, quiet, cap pulled low as always. But he’s not there.

Far away from the crowd, Seung-hyun leans against the window of Ji-yong’s flat, phone in hand. “You’re sure?” he asks quietly, glancing at his friend.

Ji-yong nods, scrolling through his phone. “Positive. I just got a message—press already knows about the graduation. There’ll be cameras, tabloids, and people asking questions. It’ll be chaos, but this is the time to come out, Seung-hyun.”

Seung-hyun exhales slowly, thumb running along the edge of his phone. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

Ji-yong shakes his head. “Not yet.”

For a moment, Seung-hyun doesn’t answer, his jaw tightening. Finally, he sets his phone down. “Then I won’t go. Not if it risks ruining this. She's not ready for this shit show.”

Hours later, when your name is called, you walk across the stage with a steady smile, gripping your diploma as the crowd below bursts into applause. The flashes of photographers make your eyes sting, but you keep your head high, pretending not to notice.

Down the stage, Ji-yong is waiting. He’s dressed plainly, a cap pulled low, holding a small bouquet of white lilies. “Congratulations,” he says warmly, handing them to you.

You take the flowers, offering a small smile before glancing past him, scanning the thinning crowd. “Thank you… but where’s Seung-hyun? He said he’d be here.”

Ji-yong hesitates, adjusting his scarf before meeting your gaze. “He… thought it’d be better not to come. The press was here. A lot of them.”

You blink, the bouquet tightening in your grip. “Oh.” The word feels thin, almost lost in the hum of voices around you. “I didn’t… know.”

Ji-yong’s expression softens. “He’s probably pacing his flat right now, waiting to call you. He wanted you to have this moment without the noise. You know him.”

You nod slowly, looking down at the flowers in your hands. “Yeah. I know.”

When you finally leave the campus, the courtyard’s noise fades behind you, swallowed by the weight of the gray London sky. The lilies Ji-yong pressed into your hand feel brittle, their white petals cool against your skin as you walk alone down the cobblestone street. Everyone else had someone waiting—parents, friends, partners with flowers and proud smiles. You had Ji-yong, but not him. Not the person you wanted to see more than anyone.

Your throat burns as you pull your phone from your pocket, fingers shaking as you dial Seung-hyun’s number. The ring barely hums once before his voice answers, calm and warm, like everything is fine. “Congratulations, graduate.”

The steadiness in his tone feels like a slap, and your voice comes sharper than you intend. “You weren’t there.” The words spill out like they’ve been clawing at your chest all morning, strained and raw. “You promised me you would be there.”

Silence stretches, filled only by the faint sound of him moving, maybe pacing. When he speaks, his voice is even but heavy. “I didn’t want to make it about me. Ji-yong said the press showed up, a lot of them. I didn’t want your day to turn into a circus.”

Your nails dig into the bouquet’s paper, your breath uneven. “It’s my day, and you weren’t there. Everyone else had someone waiting. I kept looking, thinking I’d find you in the crowd—tall, quiet, hiding under a cap like always. But you just… weren’t. You couldn’t even tell me you weren’t coming?”

He sighs softly, his voice dropping lower. “I watched, you know. Ji-yong sent me a video of you crossing the stage. I’ve already replayed it more times than I can count.”

Your eyes sting as the world blurs in shades of gray. “It’s not the same, Seung-hyun. You said you’d be there. You promised. And now the biggest day of my life feels… hollow. Like it mattered to everyone but you.”

There’s a pause, too long, and then his reply, quieter and laced with regret. “Don’t say that. You matter more than anything. I stayed away because I thought I was protecting you, not because you weren’t worth the chaos. If I could’ve been there without stealing the day from you, I would’ve been front row, cheering louder than anyone. I swear it.”

You press your fingers to your eyes, tears slipping free despite yourself. “Then why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out from Ji-yong? Do you know what it felt like, walking out and realizing you weren’t coming?” Your voice cracks, sharp with hurt. “Do you even know how much it broke me to keep looking for you?”

“I know,” he murmurs, guilt laced in every word. “I should have told you. I was trying to spare you, not hurt you. I didn’t want you to stand on that stage thinking about me or the noise. I just… wanted you to have your moment.”

You choke out a shaky laugh, bitter and aching. “My moment feels smaller without you in it. That’s the truth.”

The line is quiet for a heartbeat before his voice returns, softer than before, almost pleading. “Let me come to you tonight. No cameras, no noise. Just us. Let me make this right, even a little.”

You lower your hand, staring at the flowers you’re clutching too tightly, their petals crumpling under your grip. “Just… come. I don’t care about the press or the headlines. I don’t care about anything but you being here. Please.”

“I will,” he says, his voice heavy with resolve, almost a whisper. “I’ll be there soon. I promise.”

Taglist: @petersasteria @redhoodedtoad @mirahyun @sherrayyyyy @sherxoo @dilfismz @breakmeoff @janie-osuih @forevervibezzzz1 @kuinnoa @juliskopf @maskedcrawford @szonyix6277@ldydeath@lovelycarmenn @tabibabib

[bettelaboure]

i'm on vacation, so here is second part to glitter revenge

The next morning, you woke up with a headache.

Not a normal headache. A glitter headache. There was glitter on your pillow, glitter in your hair, glitter stuck to your toothbrush. It was like you’d accidentally swallowed a disco ball in your sleep and were now slowly becoming one with it.

Minji, of course, texted you first thing:

Minji: Good morning, my tiny chaos goblin. Ji-yong hasn’t posted anything yet. Should we escalate? You: It’s 9 a.m. I haven’t even had coffee. Escalate what? Minji: Everything.

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed again. A new message. This time, from him.

Ji-yong: I see you and your little army left a trail of glitter down my street. Should I send the cleaning bill or… just assume you’ll break into my apartment again tonight?

Your chest tightened. Not because you missed him. Definitely not because a small, traitorous part of you thought about how his texts used to make you smile. No, you told yourself, it was because he was smug. Smug and infuriating and the human embodiment of every rom-com “bad boy” trope you swore you didn’t fall for anymore.

You didn’t reply. Instead, you tossed the phone on your couch and stormed over to Minji’s place, where she and Hyunjin were already at the kitchen table, plotting like two Disney villains who had Netflix subscriptions and no adult supervision.

“Phase two,” Minji announced, shoving a notebook across the table toward you. It was covered in doodles of balloons, angry faces, and—disturbingly—a sketch of Ji-yong’s car with devil horns.

You rubbed your temples. “Do I even want to know what phase two is?”

“Of course you do. We’re renting a projector.”

“…For what?”

“To beam a giant slideshow of your cutest couple photos on the side of his building. Captioned: ‘GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN (UNLIKE HIS ABILITY TO COMMUNICATE)’.”

Hyunjin nodded solemnly. “I already contacted a guy with a projector van. We’re calling it ‘Project Petty.’”

You buried your face in your hands. “Why are you both like this?”

“Because,” Minji said, leaning forward, “revenge is healing. Plus, deep down, you want to see him squirm.”

And, embarrassingly, she wasn’t wrong.

By the time night fell and the projector was humming to life outside Ji-yong’s building, you were standing there in the shadows, arms crossed, trying to convince yourself this wasn’t insane.

The slideshow flickered on. There you were, smiling on a beach. Laughing in a photo booth. Wearing his hoodie in a blurry mirror selfie. Each one flashed with captions Minji had written, ranging from:

“He dumped her via TEXT, folks!”

“This man thinks emojis are emotional depth!”

“Available now: A heart, slightly used, handle with care.”

You should have felt vindicated. Instead, when Ji-yong stepped out of the building and spotted the glowing montage plastered across his home, his expression wasn’t anger. Or amusement. It was… complicated.

He spotted you instantly, even in the shadows.

“Really?” he said, walking toward you, hands shoved in his pockets. “A public slideshow? What’s next? Hiring a skywriter?”

Your throat tightened. “Maybe. Depends how irritating you are.”

He stopped a few feet from you, his eyes softer than you wanted them to be. “You really hate me that much, huh?”

You blinked. You expected anger. Sarcasm. Not… whatever this was.

“I don’t hate you,” you said finally. “I just… don’t understand how someone can love me one day and walk away the next. With a text. Like I was nothing.”

For a moment, Ji-yong said nothing. The projector hummed behind you, throwing embarrassing photos across the building like neon ghosts.

“I panicked,” he said finally, his voice low. “Things were moving fast. I felt… overwhelmed. I thought if I had space, I’d figure myself out. But I handled it like an idiot. And now you’re… staging a glitter-based coup against my entire life.”

“Correct,” Minji’s voice chimed in from somewhere behind you, because of course she was eavesdropping.

Ji-yong ignored her. His eyes stayed on you. “If I said I was sorry—really sorry—would you stop? Or do I need to keep a hazmat team on standby for the rest of the month?”

Your heart thudded, messy and unsure. Part of you wanted to forgive him. Another part wanted to shove him into the nearest balloon pit and walk away forever.

So you said the only thing you could think of: “Depends. Are you willing to scrub your own car?”

For the first time all night, he smiled. Not a smirk. Not a smug grin. A real smile. “Deal. But only if you help.”

Minji groaned loudly. “Ugh, am I watching you two fall in love again? Because if so, I’m ordering another glitter bomb just in case.”

Two days after the projector incident, you were convinced of two things:

Minji was completely incapable of letting things calm down.

Kwon Ji-yong was completely incapable of staying out of your head.

Not because you wanted him there. No, definitely not. It was just… every time you closed your eyes, you saw his expression that night. The softness when he said he panicked. The faint curve of his real smile. The way he looked at you like you weren’t just the girl spray-painting his car last week but the one he used to tuck into his side on lazy Sunday mornings.

You hated it. Which is probably why, when Minji suggested Phase Three: The Inflatable Swan Offensive, you didn’t argue as much as you should have.

“It’s elegant. It’s bold. It’s mildly unhinged,” Minji said, pacing her living room as Hyunjin inflated a seven-foot-tall swan with a tiny hand pump. “We fill his rooftop pool with thirty of these and leave a note that says, ‘From your favorite flight risk.’ He’ll either laugh… or spiral into a crisis. Win-win.”

Hyunjin looked up, cheeks puffed from blowing into the pump. “Do we even know if he uses that pool?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Minji said. “The point is psychological warfare.”

You rubbed your temples. “At this point, I think we’re the ones spiraling into a crisis.”

But that night, you still found yourself lugging armfuls of inflatable swans up the emergency stairwell of Ji-yong’s building, muttering under your breath about how you clearly needed new friends.

What you didn’t expect was for Ji-yong to already be there.

He was sitting on the pool deck, hoodie pulled over his head, scrolling through his phone, when you emerged from the stairwell like a burglar carrying two inflatable waterfowl. His eyes flicked up, caught you, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Then, deadpan: “You’re diversifying your arsenal now?”

You froze. “These aren’t for you.”

“Oh? You’re staging aquatic terrorism for someone else?” He stood, walking toward you. “Should I be jealous?”

Your pulse jumped. “You—You’re supposed to be asleep!”

“Hard to sleep when you suspect your ex-girlfriend might be plotting another international incident in your building,” he said, stopping just a foot away. The smell of his cologne—clean, familiar, infuriating—hit you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The swan in your hands deflated slightly, making a sad squeaking noise that somehow made the tension worse.

“Why are you really doing this?” Ji-yong asked softly, his voice losing its teasing edge.

You stared at him, searching for a smart retort, but the words caught. “Because… you hurt me. And I don’t know how else to make you feel even a fraction of that without… I don’t know… turning your car into a glitter bomb or filling your pool with swans.”

His jaw tightened. Then, slowly, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest touch, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to anymore. “I’m sorry. For all of it. For panicking. For texting like a coward. For making you feel like you weren’t… enough.”

The air between you felt electric—thick, charged, like one wrong word could send it sparking into something dangerous. His thumb lingered just under your jaw, and you felt yourself leaning in before you even realized it.

And then—

“Okay, lovebirds, we’ve got twenty-eight more swans to inflate!” Minji’s voice shattered the moment like a gunshot. She popped up from the stairwell, Hyunjin behind her, holding a giant mesh bag of pool floats.

You jerked back so fast you almost fell into the pool. Ji-yong shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering something under his breath.

Minji froze, narrowing her eyes as she looked between the two of you. “…Wait. Did I just interrupt a moment? Are we doing that now? Is this a rom-com pivot? Because if so, I need to order sparklers or something.”

You glared at her. “Inflate your stupid swans, Minji.”

Ji-yong’s lips twitched like he was holding back a smile. “Yeah, Minji. Inflate your swans.”

And as you turned away, heart hammering and cheeks burning, you realized you weren’t sure if you wanted Minji’s chaos to stop… or if you wanted it to keep giving you excuses to keep seeing him.

dedicated to: @jiryuunosnacku @szonyix6277 @belleilichil @clauds7-p @gdragonsversion

[bettelaboure]

usual weekend scribble

The great thing about having a morally questionable best friend was that they didn’t question you when you did morally questionable things.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t started the night doing anything morally questionable. You’d started it by crying into a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, clutching your phone like it was a cursed artifact, staring at the last message Ji-yong ever sent you:

“I think we should break up. I need space. Sorry.”

No explanation. No phone call. No meeting in person. Just a text. A five-second thumb-typed message from the man who once made you laugh so hard at 3 a.m. you thought your ribs would crack.

And the worst part? He sent it while you were at the café you two used to haunt—waiting for him to show up for your date. You’d been sitting there, sipping your overpriced latte, smiling every time the bell over the café door jingled… until your phone buzzed and everything went numb.

You didn’t even cry right away. You just stared at the words until your reflection in the phone screen blurred and your coffee went cold. And when you did cry, it wasn’t a dignified, single-tear-down-the-cheek moment. No. It was a loud, hiccuping, snot-filled disaster that made the barista ask if you wanted a free cookie “just… you know… because.”

By the time you got to Minji’s apartment, you were puffy-eyed and trembling like a broken faucet.

Minji took one look at you, opened her arms, and said, “Okay. Who am I burying and where?”

“I—he—Ji-yong—” you choked, collapsing into her arms like a tragic Victorian heroine.

Minji patted your back and said, with a concerning amount of calm, “Did he die? Please tell me he died and you didn’t just cry like this because of something boring like a breakup.”

You let out a wet, pathetic laugh, pulling away to blow your nose on the tissue she handed you. “He broke up with me… over text. While I was waiting for him. He didn’t even—he just—”

“Oh, that’s it. He’s dead,” Minji declared, marching toward her kitchen.

You panicked. “What are you doing?!”

“Finding something sharp!”

“Minji!”

She turned, hands on her hips, eyes glinting with that dangerous sparkle she got whenever she was about to make your life both better and significantly more chaotic. “Fine. If we’re not killing him, we’re ruining him. And by ruining, I mean creative payback.”

You hesitated, wiping your eyes. “I don’t know… I should probably just, I don’t know, meditate? Move on? Be the bigger person?”

Minji snorted so hard she almost choked. “You? The bigger person? Sweetie, the only big thing about you right now is those under-eye bags. Grab your coat—we’re planning.”

Hyunjin, Minji’s boyfriend, got dragged into the plan about ten minutes later because Minji claimed “we need muscle” (even though Hyunjin’s version of muscle was mostly just long limbs and a face that made old ladies pat his cheek).

“So, what’s the plan?” Hyunjin asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pizza slice dangling from his hand. “We egging his house? TP’ing his car? Classic moves.”

Minji shook her head like a disappointed teacher. “Hyunjin, please. We’re not amateurs.” She turned to you with a wicked grin. “We’re sending a message. Something he can’t ignore. Something so inconveniently sparkly it’ll haunt him for months.”

You tilted your head. “…Sparkly?”

“Glitter,” Minji said, as if unveiling a holy relic.

“Glitter?”

“GLITTER,” she repeated, eyes wild. “In his car. On his doorstep. Falling from his showerhead. Everywhere.”

Hyunjin perked up. “Oh, we’re going full infestation level? I’m in. Also, can we do a banner? A big one? Something with… passive-aggressive congratulations?”

You stared at both of them, wondering how you’d gone from sobbing into ice cream to discussing glitter-based psychological warfare in under an hour.

“…You’re both insane,” you muttered.

Minji smirked. “And yet, you’re not stopping us.”

At 1 a.m., the three of you crouched outside Ji-yong’s luxury apartment complex, your hoodie pulled tight around your face like you were auditioning for a true crime documentary.

His sleek, black car was now coated in so much glitter it looked like a unicorn had exploded on it. Hyunjin was halfway through stringing a massive hot pink banner across the front gate that read:

“CONGRATS ON YOUR TINY… HEART.”

And Minji was scattering 200 neon pink balloons in the lobby with the precision of a general leading her troops into battle.

You were just beginning to feel a dangerous sense of satisfaction when the lobby doors slid open.

Kwon Ji-yong himself stepped out.

In gray sweatpants. A white t-shirt. Hair slightly mussed like he’d just woken up. Carrying a trash bag. Looking, infuriatingly, like the kind of man who didn’t deserve to look good after shattering your heart.

He stopped. Took in the glitter car. The balloons. The banner. The three of you crouched in the bushes like raccoons on a crime spree.

“…You know I can see you, right?”

Silence. Even Minji froze.

Finally, you stood, brushing dirt off your knees and squaring your shoulders. “Well. Consider this… closure.”

Ji-yong’s brows raised. “Closure. In the form of… vandalism?”

“Creative expression,” Minji corrected, tossing a fistful of glitter into the air like some unhinged fairy godmother.

Ji-yong pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about “lunatics,” but when his eyes met yours, there was a flicker—something unreadable, maybe even regretful—before he sighed and said, “Fine. But you’re cleaning this up tomorrow.”

“Glitter doesn’t clean up,” Minji said sweetly, already grabbing your wrist. “That’s your punishment.”

And as Hyunjin doubled over laughing, Ji-yong shook his head, and you let Minji drag you away, you realized three things:

1. You won’t be over him anytime soon. Not even close.

2. You hoped he won’t be over you either.

3. And this… probably wasn’t the end of things.

[bettelaboure]

TAG NINE PEOPLE YOU'D LIKE TO GET TO KNOW MORE

Thanks to lovely @szonyix6277 for the tag 🤍

currently reading: releasing 10 is laying on my coffee table for a week, cause i'm too scared to start it after seeing tiktoks

last song: escape - bang chan & hyunjin

last film: three steps above heaven ( a little throwback to my teens

sweet/savory/salty? salty all the way to hell

tea or coffee? coffee until insomnia

working on: my second book and some nam-gyu fics 🤍

my tags (no pressure): @sherxoo @mashtatosworld @tabibabib @breakmeoff @seungttttop

[bettelaboure]

had a small idea, hihi ⬇️

You’re halfway through your bowl of ramen when you hear the familiar click of the front door opening. You glance up, noodles still hanging out of your mouth, as Seung-hyun strides into your shared apartment. But your excitement immediately gives way to shock. He stops at the entrance, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, his hair dyed a vibrant, undeniable pink. You nearly choke, coughing as you hurriedly slurp up the remaining noodles. “Seung-hyun! What… did you lose a bet or something? Or are you auditioning for a Barbie villain reboot?”

He bursts into laughter, dropping his bags and swiftly making his way toward you. “Hello to you too,” he chuckles, gently patting your back as you cough. “You know, I missed your warm welcomes. Truly.”

Once you regain composure, you stare at him incredulously. “Seriously, pink? Did the stylist finally go rogue or were you held at gunpoint by a group of 12-year-old K-pop stans with glitter guns?”

He grins mischievously. “Actually, it was my idea.”

You blink, mouth slightly agape. “Were you feeling adventurous or just decided to have a mental breakdown in pastel?”

“Maybe both,” he says playfully, taking a seat beside you and leaning close enough for you to catch his scent—fresh cologne mixed with something suspiciously like bubblegum. His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Besides, I wanted to surprise you. Did it work?”

“Clearly,” you reply dryly, though your heart flutters seeing how happy he seems, even with his cotton-candy hair. You raise a cautious hand, gently brushing your fingers through the soft pink strands. “Well, at least it’s soft. Like petting a depressed flamingo.”

“Careful,” he warns teasingly. “It’s addictive. You’ll get emotionally attached.”

You roll your eyes, pretending to pull away, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. His gaze softens instantly.

“I missed you,” he whispers gently, sincerity glowing in his eyes. The goofy, teasing persona melts away, revealing the genuine warmth you’ve missed all week.

You smile softly, letting your thumb brush his cheek. “I missed you too. Even if you came back looking like the ghost of a Valentine’s Day sale.”

He laughs again, leaning in closer, his lips hovering near yours. “You’re saying you wouldn’t order this milkshake again?”

“Depends,” you whisper back playfully. “Is there a return policy if I don’t like the flavor?”

“Absolutely not,” he responds, finally closing the small gap, his lips meeting yours in a sweet, gentle kiss. His hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you closer as warmth blooms in your chest.

When you pull away slightly, your forehead resting against his, you grin. “Lucky for you, strawberry happens to be my favorite.”

His eyes brighten instantly, relief and happiness mingling beautifully in his expression. “Good, because the pink is staying—at least until you get tired of it.”

“Oh, then we might have a problem,” you joke, leaning in for another quick peck. “I could definitely get used to this.”

Later that evening, the two of you are sprawled out on the couch watching a horror movie, a bowl of popcorn between you. Seung-hyun flinches dramatically as a ghost leaps out onscreen.

“You’re such a baby,” you tease, tossing a piece of popcorn at his face.

“Says the one who screamed when the microwave beeped last night.”

“That was different,” you protest. “I thought it was an intruder.”

“An intruder that reheats leftovers?”

You smack his leg with a cushion. He pretends to die, flopping dramatically off the couch. “Tell my story… tell them I was too fabulous for this world.”

“I’ll tell them you overdosed on hair bleach and vanity.”

He peeks up from the floor. “Romantic.”

As the night winds down, and the movie credits roll, he’s quiet for a moment, tracing small patterns on your arm.

“I really did miss you, you know,” he says. “Being away from you—it messes with me more than I want to admit.”

Your heart tightens at the vulnerability in his voice.

“I know,” you whisper, curling into him. “It messes with me too. Even if you come back looking like a Lisa Frank fever dream.”

He laughs into your hair and presses a soft kiss to your temple. “Then I guess I’ll keep coming back—pink hair, glitter, chaos and all.”

You smile. “You better. Just maybe next time… consult me before becoming a neon snack.”

“No promises,” he grins. “But I’ll make it up to you with breakfast tomorrow.”

You lift an eyebrow. “Your idea of breakfast is reheated pizza and existential dread.”

“Then I’ll add coffee. Gourmet.”

Despite everything—bad jokes, pink hair, and horror movie trauma—you feel nothing but warmth. And love. So much ridiculous, chaotic love.

And honestly? You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[bettelaboure]

heyyy, is there anyone else in squid game that you write for other than thanos? could u pls ever write for nam-gyu?? i rlly liked GHOST 😭💔

hi, love!

thank you for reading it! it means a lot to me! ❤️

i have some plans for nam-gyu and jun-ho, there is some brainstorming in my notes, just not sure when it will be done

[bettelaboure]

CAN YOU PLS WRITE MORE TOXIC THANOS OH MY DAYS I LOVE YOUR WORK!

thank you, my dear! i’ll try my best!

[bettelaboure]

Idk if you take requests but if you’re okay with it may you please write an aftermath of ‘Ghost’ of Su-Bong like reminiscing of his past with reader and how he treated her, and him dealing with the grief? I love your fics so so so much!! <3

⊹Afterthought⊹ | Choi Su-bong

⊹Pairing: Choi Su-bong (Thanos) x The Reader

⊹Summary: in the aftermath of a tragic loss, Su-bong is left to confront the ghost of the girl who gave him everything—and the haunting realization that he never truly saw her until she was gone

⊹Warnings: suicide, grief, emotional abuse, toxic relationships, depression, guilt, and emotional trauma

⊹Author's note: thank you for reading my little fics and my mind! i'm grateful for everyone who takes the time to read it. it should have been only a one short fic, but it became a full little series.

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

It’s been five days.

The balcony railing is still dented where his hands gripped it too hard. There’s a cigarette burn on the floor. Your shoes are still by the door, toes pointed in like you had meant to stay. Like you hadn’t planned to fall.

Su-bong hasn’t left the apartment.

The fridge hums. The sink is full. The lights stay off.

He wakes up every day on the couch, half-dressed, sweating from dreams that feel like drowning. He dreams of your laugh, of you calling his name. Sometimes you are walking away, sometimes you are already gone. He wakes gasping, reaching toward the ghost of your shadow.

The news was quiet about it. No name mentioned. Just a brief headline: "Young woman falls from building rooftop, presumed suicide."

But he knew. Of course, he knew.

The night it happened, he threw the sheets off the bed like they were covered in thorns. Your scent lingered anyway. That soft jasmine and something warmer, something that always reminded him of spring.

He tried to clean. Then smashed a glass against the wall instead. Tried to shower. Sat under cold water until his skin turned red. Nothing helped. You were everywhere. In the mirror. In the floorboards. In the pauses between his thoughts.

He plays it over in his head like a reel he can’t pause: your voice shaking, your legs dangling, the cigarette slipping from your fingers. The way you leaned back against him, whispering: "Let me go."

And he had.

Su-bong stares at the skyline, eyes red-rimmed and dry. The city doesn’t pause. The street below is full of people who don’t know a ghost just slipped between them. A girl who gave everything to someone who didn’t deserve it.

He thinks about how many times he could have said something different. Done something different. Chosen you. Seen you. Held you for real instead of with resentment curled in his fists.

He remembers you as a kid. With bruised knees and shy eyes. The girl who read books too big for her age and smiled like it hurt. You had followed him everywhere, back then. Not because you were weak—he sees that now—but because you were brave in a way he never understood.

You gave him everything. And he spat it back.

One night, he pulled an old hoodie of yours from the laundry basket. He sat on the kitchen floor with it in his lap for hours, his knuckles white around the fabric. He could smell you in it. It made his chest cave in.

He tried to write. He tried to rap. Nothing came. Only fragments. Only silence.

One night, the pain cracked something in him. He pulled out a box of photos you’d once made together—black and white snapshots from high school, grainy Polaroids from rooftops, scribbled captions on the back.

In one, you were smiling so wide it didn’t seem real. He traced the image with his thumb until it blurred.

And then he broke.

He curled against the wall, sobbing like a child, whispering your name over and over like it might bring you back. His voice was hoarse by morning.

You told him once that you wanted to disappear just to see if he’d notice.

He hadn’t. Not until you did.

He plays your voice in his head now, softer than memory should allow:

"I did everything. And it still wasn’t enough."

He covers his face with both hands, breath hitching, body hollow. He had thought you would always be there. That you would keep taking it. That love meant endurance.

He never said he loved you.

But he did.

God, he did.

He visits your grave the following week.

The cemetery is quiet, the sky overcast, the wind whispering through brittle leaves. Su-bong walks slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. His hands are buried deep in his jacket pockets, his eyes hollow. When he reaches your headstone, he stops and just stares, breath fogging in the chill.

For a long time, he doesn't move. His legs begin to ache. The cold seeps through his shoes. Still, he stands there, as if rooted in place. As if leaving would confirm your absence.

His eyes trace the letters of your name etched in the marble, his throat tightening until it aches. He thinks of how his name sounded when you laughed. How softly you said it the last time.

A tremor runs through him.

He lowers himself to the ground. The grass is damp beneath his jeans. From his coat, he pulls out a small, worn notebook—the one you used to carry when you followed him to shows. He had kept it, quietly, after you left it behind one night.

He flips it open to a new page and sets it down beside the flowers he'd brought. Lilies. Your favorite.

Inside, scrawled in uneven lines, are the beginnings of a song:

"You followed me into silence, and I never turned around. Now you live in the echo of the things I never said."

He presses his hand to the notebook, bowing his head. And for the first time in years, Su-bong prays.

Not to be forgiven. Just to feel you there.

He starts showing up to your mother’s apartment with groceries she didn’t ask for. Fixes her window. Leaves without saying much. She never speaks to him. But she never tells him to stop either.

He deletes every photo of himself on social media. Leaves the tour. Cancels everything.

He walks the long road home. Sober.

He sits with his grief. Fights through the silence.

And when he finally picks up a pen again, the first thing he writes is your name.

Like a prayer.

Like an apology.

Like a beginning that will never come.

But maybe, just maybe, it can be the start of his redemption.

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