warnings: none really despite descriptions of blood
wordcount:1.8k
note: I'm trying to get back into writing, I was rewatching epic the musical. I had thoughts, idk how this happened so.....that's abt all I can say. it's like 12 am I have a test tmr I did NOT edit ts so pls lmk if there r any mistakes gang
Thinking about your Pirate husband! Hongjoong who's always gone away on long trips, months of him away at the open sea and your only word from him being the letters he sends from the islands they dock on.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who despite technically working for your family's treasury, always brings you back the prettiest trinkets because who else deserves to wear those pretty stones than you? To him they only look good adorned by your neck, your wrists, rested against your chest. The other nobles don't need to ever know where you collect your new pieces from.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who when coming back from a trip, always immediately needs to hold you for several minutes to an hour, weather you greet him at the dock or he walks through the door, he stands there, holding you, whispering how much he's missed you into your ear until those whispers inevitably grow dirty and your knees grow weak and you need to shoo him off to get cleaned up before he starts anything because he smells like months away at sea.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who looks at you with half lidded eyes and drags you to the bathroom to help clean him up because his muscles are just so sore, of course he needs his loving wife's help.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who is always whispered about, ladies behind fans talking about the feared Captain of the black battalion, how awfully it is that the nation's princess was promised to him, and not someone more respectable like their own son(s).
Pirate husband! Hongjoong, despite the rumors, was never anything but gentle, loving you, holding your umbrella under the sun, hand resting on your back no matter where you walked.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who always comes back a little rougher, a little more mean, a little more spiky on the edges. He's done unspeakable things, he's caused amounts of blood no noble could even fathom. He's sacrificed so much of his humanity in order to hold victory for your kingdom, for you.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who went away on an especially long trip, almost 5 years, no word, not from him, from the ship or any of its crew. They were thought to be dead, lost at sea, sunken by an enemy ship or one of the creatures your husband used to whisper about.
Your father wanted you to remarry, no respectable princess should stay a widower, and lord knows your brother wouldn't continue the bloodline, at least not nobly, nobody knows how many bastards he has running around. But you'd refused. He'd suggested it after a year, and you've held him off for four. But it's getting harder, suitors line the halls of the castle, vying for your hand promised to them by your father. The captain of the black pirates is dead, the skilled archer, the legendary soldier who garnered so much admiration, that no self respecting man would ever think of touching his widow.
And that was the problem wasn't it? The men now vying for your hand weren't anything worth respecting, they were vile creatures, sick and hungry wolves circling the one thing that could give them an endless supply of meat, of power- of glory.
You sit up in your bed, gazing out at the window, it's been long since you slept through a night. You never did sleep well when Hongjoong used to go away, five years has not made it easier. You turn, thinking it best to maybe put on your robe, at least be productive, go to the library maybe, that's when you hear it.
The thunder claps first, scaring you enough that you almost fall off the bed, then the rain starts, hard, drowning out any buzz of castle life, it's pouring in through your open balcony window, and you stand to close it. It's when you reach the edge, the wind nipping your skin, water just barely grazing you, that you see it, the large black ship, docked. Not in the harbor that's far from here, no right on the castle's shore. Your heart leaps, practically tripping over yourself as you turn to rush to the door that would lead you out of this room. That's when you hear it, louder than the rain, louder than the normal buzz of quiet shift rotations from the castle staff and laughter from drinking men.
Screams, cries, the clashing of swords and the distinct 'twoop' of a heavy arrow. A sound you know well, one you could never forget. For your husband's bow had always sounded distinct, louder, dominant, a sound that could silence a room just like him. You hear one of your guards that should be posted by your door scream for you to stay inside, you don't want to.
He's here, he's finally home. Why won't they let you out? you reach for the door, it doesn't open, they've jammed something there. You try harder, tears starting to fall down your face as the screams grow louder, closer. You don't know what's happening, why people are fighting, why you aren't allowed out.
You bang against the door until you feel the bruises forming on your hands, stupidly, try and ram it with your shoulder enough that you're sure you've dislocated something. It's stupid, you know it is but you know he's here. It has to be him. You hear the arrow again, a gurgle, the guard outside your door screaming, then another arrow, then silence. You step back, hand against your mouth to quiet yourself... maybe.. maybe this isn't your husband.. why would he hurt your own guards? the drunk men you'd get, you'd expected even, Hongjoong never had been kind to others. But your own guards?
You see blood seeping from outside, beneath the door into your room, there's a shadow moving through the crack until it's in front of you. You hear chains rattling, then dropping, and ever so slowly the door opens.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong stares at you when he first sees you again. 5 long years and you still look the same. Your eyes are more sunken in, tired, he can tell even with them being wide with fear, your lips are dry, chapped and bitten red. But you still look the same. The exact same woman he married, the woman who he kissed Goodbye five years ago, who he'd promised to return to, soon. It was the first promise he'd ever broken.
You barely recognize him, standing before you, blood drenching his clothes, his hairs grown out, covering his face, he holds his bow in one hand, reaches the other up to unclast his cloak, at least try and remove the garment holding the most blood. You make a choked sound. Because it's your husband, you're sure it is but it's also.. not. He looks so different, his eyes so dull, so tired. His jaw is set as if he's had nothing to smile about in these last five years, no twitch at the corner of his mouth at seeing you.
He steps forward, you step back, it's a small movement, but he sees it. You see him see it, see the hurt flashing through his eyes as he looks at you again, and suddenly, as if a switch flipped, you recognize him again. That sad look in his eye, the one he always held when leaving.
"Hongjoong?" you whisper it so quietly you're not even sure he can hear you, he doesn't nod, just drops his bow, the wood clattering to the ground, he takes another step closer, you don't move this time. Another, another and another until he's right in front of you, hands cradling your face despite the cooling liquid that drenches them. Tears fall freely down your cheeks, big heaving, ugly sobs, he doesn't seem to care, his thumbs while them away, his eyes flicking over every detail of your face, a small smile gracing his lips before tears line his own vision.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who sinks down to his knees, arms wrapping around your torso, pressing his face into your stomach to quiet his own sobs. You're so warm, so much warmer than he remembers. Your hand rests in his heart, and his breath shudders. God he's missed you, he's missed you so much. You reach your hands down, your own sobs having quiet to silent tears as you lift his face, cradling his own cheek with your hands now soaked in the blood from his clothes. It's everyone on you now, you realise, but you don't seem to care.
"You came back" you whisper, "not soon enough" it's the first words he says to you, they're rough, his voice hoarse and deeper than last you heard it. Or it could just be that you've started to forget it. "You're here that's.. that's all that matters" you shudder, sinking down to sit on your knees before him, eye to eye.
You don't answer him, you can't, instead you kiss him, soft at first, testing that it is in fact still the lips of your husband. He's been away for 5 years and he tastes the exact same. His hand holds your face, pressing you closer against him, hungry, like a man starved for years for the first time eating food. You suppose he was starving, not having seen you for five years. He doesn't pull back, he can't, he'd die right now by running out of breath if it meant he didn't have to part from you again. Instead you do, push him away, just slightly, forehead resting against his own again, chest heaving. "Your hands are the hands of the husband that cradle me, that's built me everything I hold dear, and whittled me my favorite figures." You reach for his hand, kiss it.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong who stares at you, with a love and intensity you've never seen before, he truly has changed. You hear more commotion down the castle, the other guard shift must have returned. Hongjoong hears it too. His hand grabs yours, the ones that cradled his. He looks at you now, face stained with tear tracks and the blood from his hands, you've never looked more beautiful to him. "I have so much to explain to you, My Love, but we cannot stay here, it's not safe for you here" He stands, pulling you up with him. He pulls you into his arms, holds you tight, you feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest, his lips pressing against the top of your hairline. "Go, out, through the balcony, Seonghwa is waiting for you at the bottom, there's a rope tied to the railing, climb down, meet me at the ship" he says and pulls back, bringing you in for a final kiss, muttering the words 'I love you so fucking much' against your lips, before he's pushing you away, towards the open balcony door and story weather. He turns, grabs his bow to head back out.
Pirate husband! Hongjoong, who will do anything, has done everything, to ensure his wife's safety. He's sure of this, even as he walks out of their once shared marital room, bow drawn again to dispose of this entire castle, those who dared conspire against him, who tried to keep him away from you, who decided having him dead would be better than having him be yours.
summary: after your devasting breakup and wordless, thorough disappearance from beomgyu's life, he's surprised to see that you've moved back to his town. when he happens to meet you again, beomgyu wants to apologize, maybe make amends for his unforgivable behavior, but he's devastated to find out that you've erased every memory of him. you don't want to remember him or the love you once held onto so desperately anymoreâhe knows that to be the caseâso why is it so hard for him to let go?
genre: angst, romance, melodrama, second chance, asshole!beomgyu to groveling!beomgyu (who saw this one coming...), inspired by eternal sunshine of the spotless mind tho i've never seen it and only know major plot points through cultural osmosis
special thanks: i'd like to thank my bunny anon đ° for msging me about how to work out some plot details i couldn't quite figure out how to plan on my own. thanks to her, this is coming out sooner than it certainly would've otherwise (yeah u read that right it would've come out even LATER without her đââïž). she's been consistently encouraging me to write đ„č everyone say thank u bunny! i'd also like to thank everyone else who took the time to encourage me by commenting or sending asks because it's truly so difficult for me to feel motivated otherwise <3 love you guys
"this is an apology letter to the both of us
for how long it took for me to let things go
you know I didnât mean to look so serious
didnât mean to act like a filthy floor
didnât mean to turn us both into a cutting boardâ
-buddy wakefield, hurling crowbirds at mockingbars
âi⊠i know itâs been a while, but i⊠i want to, um, apologize for⊠everything.â he wants to lay down and die at his awkwardness, but he's wanted to say these words for so long, and no matter how much heâs compelled to swallow them down and safely tuck them away in the home they've carved out for themselves in his stomach, he knows this is the right thing to do. especially since you blocked him on everything before changing your number. especially since you left himâand the city, evenâwithout a word. especially since he hasn't seen you in so long, and he doesn't know if he'll ever see you again after this. your eyebrows furrow, and he braces himself for impact. but no amount of contrived mental fortitude could ever prepare him for your next words.
â... do i know you from somewhere?â you ask confusedly.
beomgyu is stunned for a second before a bitter smile twists on his lips. of all of the reactions you could have had, he sincerely did not anticipate youâd outright pretend not to know him. it's a devastating blow to his self-esteem, but he supposes he deserves it. still, he needs to say what he's been keeping to himself since your sudden departure, so he awkwardly slides into the seat in front of you, but he's too afraid to make direct eye contact. he stares at his hands as he wrings them together on top of the table.
âi⊠i understand that you're angry, i really do. honestly, i don't blame you. i just thought you should know that iâmâi regret everything. i'm just really, really sorry, okay?â but you're silent. you're silent for so long, in fact, he's compelled to look up at you, in spite of his anxiety; but you don't look sad, or angry, or even vindicated. just confused and thoroughly weirded out.
âis this⊠is this some weird pickup trick?â you ask in bewilderment. âlook, i, uh, i'm flattered, but i have a boyfriend.â you're very clearly lying about being flattered, and you look at him like he's nothing more than a creepy stranger.Â
beomgyuâs jaw drops, and before he can respond, the door of the cafe swings open and a man comes rushing in.
âi'm sorry i'm late, sweetheart,â the man pants before you rise from your seat in excitement. immediately, the man takes you into his arms and kisses the top of your head.Â
âit's okay,â you giggle before your eyes dart to the off-putting stranger who presumably just tried to hit on you in the most bizarre way possible. beomgyu can see the wheels turning in your head, and he can pinpoint the exact moment wherein you decide that itâs probably best to put as much distance as you can between the two of you. âi havenât been waiting long. do you, uh, want to get out of here?âÂ
the man is about to nod, but he finally registers beomgyuâs shellshocked presence. he curiously asks, âwhoâs this? an old friend?âÂ
you awkwardly shake your head in the negative.
âno, we just met, like, two minutes ago.â and you're too excited to see your boyfriend to pay any mind to the freak who just tried to hit on you in the most unsettling way.Â
beomgyu returns to the apartment you two used to share in a daze. he mechanically hangs up his keys, mindlessly kicks off his shoes, and immediately pulls out his laptop. the thing is, no matter how much he searches, there are no news reports about an accident involving your name or any tangible descriptors. there's always the chance you opted not to share your personal information, but his intuition tells him it's not that simple. he scours your friendsâ social medias for any hints, but comes up frustratingly empty. he feels the ball of dread in his stomach, the one heâs pushed to the very back of it, beginning to unravel. he should forget about this, he should let it go in the same way you seem to have, so why is it so hard not to tug on the loose threads?
-
beomgyu will forget. he has to. heâs driven himself to the brink of insanity this past weekend by trying to figure out what the answers are, but he just can't seem to find them. itâs the past, itâs over, he needs to move on. and he will. at least, he'll tryâeven when forgetting doesn't seem to be his strong suit.
but as if the universe is punishing him for his presumptuousness, as it often does, heâs in for a shock when he arrives at work on monday morning; and there, standing awkwardly in the conference room, is you right next to his manager, sooyoung. he thinks he hears her announcing something along the lines of you being a new recruit, but he's too shocked to really digest her words, all noise replaced with ringing in his ears. what snaps him out of his daze, though, is the way you finally look at him as sooyoung calls his name.
âbeomgyu, did you hear me?â she asks.
beomgyu clears his throat and stammers, âu-uh, no. i'm sorry, can you say that again?â
âwould you mind taking care of our new recruit? you know, show her the ropes?â sooyoung (presumably) repeats.
beomgyu gulps before nodding, not trusting his voice at present.
âthank you, i can always count on you,â sooyoung grins cheerily before turning to you. âalright, if you need anything, just ask beomgyu. he knows everything there is to know.â beomgyu hears you thanking sooyoung, but he's too dazed to truly process anything you say.
suddenly, you're looking directly at him, and he feels like his chest is going to cave in, right where he stands. you recognize him; he can see it. how much you recognize him is something he has yet to figure out.Â
beomgyu freezes. you don't remember. your hand is still outstretched, uncomfortably proffered in the air between the two of you. there is no doubt in his mind now: you have amnesia of some sort. he blinks before tentatively grabbing your hand and shaking it. he doesn't know much about amnesia, but if you don't remember him, then it would surely overwhelm you if he launched into an explanation of who he is (was?) to you.Â
ây-yeah, sorry. i mistook you for someone i used to know, i promise iâm not just some freak who was trying to hit on you,â he feebly explains. you release his hand with a slight smile, and your touch still leaves him feeling warm.
âoh, okay. i was wondering what that was all about, but that makes me feel better,â you laugh, and it makes his heart thud painfully, so beomgyu can't bring himself to do anything but flash you a wry smile in return.
âso?â you ask expectantly.
âwhat? o-oh, yeah. let's get started.âÂ
get a fucking grip, beomgyu, he mentally hisses to himself.Â
beomgyu gives you a tour of the office, but you couldn't pay him to remember what he actually says. he's given this tour a million times, so he's essentially on autopilot for the entire affair, hopefully reciting the same old spiel he gives everyone else; but you're not anyone else, are you? eventually, he shows you to your desk, which happens to be right next to his. damn yeosang for quitting and leaving his desk wide open, but also? thank yeosang for quitting and leaving his desk wide open.Â
âuh, if you need anything, just ask. i'm⊠i'm right here,â beomgyu offers, the feigned casualness of which is still foreign on his tongue.
âokay, thanks,â you grin, and it shoots straight to his heart, yet again.
âyou're⊠you're welcome.â
it's the most bizarre sensation in the worldâsitting so close to you after so much time has passed wondering where you are, wondering what you're doing, wondering if you're thinking of him. he supposes he doesn't have to ruminate on any of those things, even the last one, since you don't even seem to know who he is. but in the face of your return, he mostly just wonders what he should do. should he just keep pretending you're a stranger to him and save you both the awkwardness and heartache? that seems like the best course of action, really. you probably wouldn't want to work here if you remembered anything about him. for the good memories, youâd likely still feel uncomfortable working with your ex; for the bad⊠he doesn't even want to think about how youâd feel. he shakes his head and logs into his computer, resolved to keep up the charade to spare you from the limbo he currently finds himself in.
âhey, sorry, i need a login to use this computer, but i don't have the access to set one up yet. can you help me?â
beomgyu is immediately pulled from his thoughts, so he blinks and clears his throat before saying, âuh, yeah, of course. i'm sorry, that's on me, i forgot about that. um, usually, we just use our first initial, last name, and a couple of numbers for our user idâs.â
he pretends like he doesn't already know your last name, letting you tell him yourself. but what really guts him is, the numbers you choose for your username are, â3-1-3â.
his fingers pause over the keyboard as he turns to stare at you. âwhat?â he asks weakly.
â3-1-3,â you repeat, a bit louder.Â
beomgyu gulps and types it in, then moves out of the way so you can type in your password. what are the chances that you randomly chose his birthday? he looks back at you as you type, studying your expression in vain for any semblance of recognition, but he comes up empty. beomgyuâs heart has ached incessantly since you left him, but it was mostly a dull sort of thrumming he learned to live with. right now, though, itâs aching so much, he can't feel much of anything else.
âthanks, you're the best,â you smile, just like you used to when he did anything for you. when heâd pick up your favorite dinner to surprise you when you were feeling down, when he'd massage your shoulders after a hard day, when he'dâŠ
no. no, just leave it alone.
beomgyu spends the rest of the day feeling like he's holding his breath, too afraid to initiate conversation, but wanting more than anything to keep you talking. and you do talk, of course. you ask him questions about the job, ask him how long he's worked here, ask him where's the best place to get lunch on your break. he knows that his answers are stifled, and he knows that as well they should be, for fear of your memory returning; but that doesn't mean he doesn't like to hear your voiceâit's always been his favorite sound in the world.
he feels a sense of dread as the day draws to a close. he tries to will the clock to move slower, which is something he really didn't see coming, because heâs always ready to go home these days and pass out until the next morning, but that doesn't do anything except make him even more anxious. inevitably, the day does end, and though it's irrational, there's a pit in his stomach telling him you're going to leave and never come back. it wouldn't be the first time. except, he supposes, you did come back, albeit without your memory intact. when it's finally time to leave, he walks out with you.Â
he awkwardly coughs and hesitantly asks, âso, uh, did you have a good first day?â
âhm? oh, yeah, i did. thank you, you helped me out a lot. see you tomorrow,â you beam as you duck into your car. you wave at him as you drive off. he clumsily waves back, almost dropping his car keys in his haste.Â
when youâre out of sight, the breath he's been holding for the entire day shakily exits his body. tomorrow. he'll see you tomorrow.Â
beomgyu drives home in such stupefaction, he doesn't even realize heâs back at his apartment complex until heâs been sitting in the parking lot for at least 45 minutes. eventually, he exits his car, trudging into his apartment with the weight of the world on his shoulders. you said youâd see him tomorrow, but maybe the entire day was simply the result of him fully losing his fucking mind. he perfunctorily eats, showers, and goes through the motions of his bedtime routine in silenceâlike he always has since the day you left.Â
âsee you tomorrow.â please, please, please let that be true.
-
it is true, it seems. itâs true the day after that, and the day after that, all the way to friday. beomgyu was more or less ambivalent about going to work before, categorizing it as something that he somewhat enjoyed because it kept him busy, but resented for reasons that will haunt him for the rest of his life. but now, it's like itâs all he thinks about. he spends every waking moment when he's not there rehearsing what heâll say to youâand how heâll say itâwhen he sees you the next morning, he spends an embarrassingly excessive amount of time carefully choosing what heâll wear, and wakes up an hour earlier than he previously did so he looks his absolute best.Â
heâs not entirely sure why heâs trying so hard; heâs already decided that not telling you who he is is for the better, but he just can't stop himself. at night, he mulls over the innocuous interactions you two had with each other during the day, laughing to himself about how cute you look when youâre confused about something, or how pretty you are when you're biting your lip as you focus on your computer screen⊠until he hits an invisible wall in which the smile is wiped clean off his face. the truth is, youâre only happy because you don't know who he is. thatâs all.
and yet, it takes everything in him to keep himself from actually telling you the truth. so much so, heâs keeping himself on a tight leash with an iron grip; and though he's constantly pondering what he'll say to you, his words are often stifled and his smiles are often formed with pursed lips. it's wrong to be too friendly to you when you don't remember dating and, consequently, leaving him, but it's just as wrong to force you to remember for his own peace of mind. so, he keeps conversations polite, but doesn't delve too deeply. he thought he was doing an excellent job, all things considered, but apparently not, because you bring him a peace offering on friday morning.
âgood morning, i got this for you to say thanks for helping me out so much this week,â you declare as you hold out an iced americano for him. he stares at the drink with what he hopes is a normal expression, but probably looks like pure horror as you uncertainly hold it out his favorite drink to him when you should have no idea that it's his preference.
â... thank you,â beomgyu replies a bit unsteadily as he finally takes the drink from your hand, âbut you didn't have to do this. i know that i've seemed a little off, but it's because, well, i'm just⊠a little awkward, i guess.â you don't look convinced, so he adds, âi swear, it's all my faultâyou've been great this week. i mean it.â
you finally smile, and he finds himself smiling, too.Â
you two are plucked from the moment by sooyoung announcing she bought coffee for the entire team, which makes you and beomgyu look straight at each other and laugh at how ill-timed your gesture was. as soon as the moment passes, beomgyu tries his best to keep his mess of emotions at bay, but they threaten to overwhelm him as the day passes. things are less tense now, and he allows himself to speak to you a bit more warmly, slowly falling back into an easy rhythm he thought was forever lost long ago. he still doesn't dare to let himself get too comfortable, too chatty or playful. conversation flows more freely, but he never says too much. he needs to control himself for your sake.
when sooyoung calls for a meeting at the end of the day, itâs difficult to keep his eyes off of you for long, because the warmth in his chest is stoked by the mere sight of you sitting beside him at the conference table. what's interesting, though, is that as sooyoung drones on about the companyâs recent logistics, which are ultimately meaningless to your team, you seem to be doodling something on a post-it note. beomgyu can't quite see what it is, but he's curious, all the same. after the meeting is over, you stand up and gather your things, causing the post-it to fall to the floor.Â
âshit,â you quietly curse as you go to pick it up, but beomgyu is faster. he tells himself he's just helping you out, and it wonât hurt to just steal a glance at the drawing before handing it over to you; but although heâs probably being incredibly rude by doing so, he can't help but stare at the crude sketch. itâs a mindless doodle, reallyâno special effort put into it, but the subject is what makes beomgyuâs heart momentarily stop beating. his eyes travel from the bottom of the post-it, taking in the lengthy legs supporting an acoustic guitar, held comfortably by spindly fingers as the figure sits on a vague outline of a couch. he feels like heâs going to faint as he sees a man with a mop of long hair staring down at the chords, nothing on his face visible beneath it aside from a small smile peeking out. it's him. he knows it's him, because he has a polaroid you took of this exact momentâfrom when you two first moved in togetherâstuffed into his nightstand.Â
you awkwardly clear your throat, so beomgyu is finally pulled out of his reverie as his gaze slowly shifts from the paper to meet yours. in the face of beomgyuâs silence, you shyly say, âyeah⊠i know it's wrong to draw my boyfriend on company time when iâm supposed to be paying attention, i just got distracted as sooyoung was talking, soâŠâÂ
âboyfriend?â beomgyu asks tightly before he can stop himself. what could this possibly mean? he's not your boyfriend, not anymore, so why are you calling him that? did you finally remember?Â
âoh. yeah, i remember him. does he⊠play the guitar?â beomgyu carefully probes. luckily, your newly established camaraderie makes you more open.
âa little bit, he just got into it recently. he mentioned that he'd been thinking about picking it up for a while, and for some reason, i really wanted him to learn, so he is. he's not very good yet, though,â you laugh good-naturedly. âwhy do you ask? do you play or something?â beomgyuâs mouth twitches at the question.
âyeah, i do,â he answers, hating the way a lump has formed in his throat.
âthat's cool,â you smile, but then, sooyoung calls out to you to ask about how your first week has gone. you mumble out an apology to beomgyu as you scurry away.
no, this isn't right. you did not draw your boyfriend, you drew beomgyu. now that he thinks about it, wonbin vaguely has some of his features. tall, thin, with long, dark hair. he subconsciously reaches up to the back of his neck, about to tug on said hair, before realizing that it's been short for years now. that's right, he cut it when he started taking his career seriously, determined to look as professional as possible. you had playfully complained about missing it before you brushed it off and assured him his new look suited him better, but maybe you did miss it. maybe you do miss it. maybe you do miss him.
adding â3-1-3â to your username, knowing his coffee order without him ever telling you, unknowingly doodling him as your mind wandered, encouraging wonbin to pursue the guitar⊠you still know beomgyu, deep down, even if you don't realize it. maybe you're still looking for him, in some way. maybe your relationship with wonbin is the product of transference, and maybe⊠maybe if beomgyu helps you remember him, youâll realize that he's the one youâve been searching for.
beomgyu flinches as the thought crosses his mind. how could he even think such a thing? you rightfully chose to leave him, and you cut him out of your life so completely, there was no way you were ever planning to come back to him. what right does he have to infringe on your happiness, even if it's born from ignorance? you decisively buried your feelings for beomgyu, leaving them to die. but still⊠still, they live within you, just in a different way. maybe he can show you that the good parts that made you fall in love with him still exist, and the ugly parts that caused you to leave him no longer pollute him in the way they used to. he's different now, everyone says so; and as beomgyu watches you chatter and laugh with sooyoung, feeling his heart ache and heal simultaneously, one immovable desire emerges in the forefront of his mind: he'll help you remember everything he was, good and ugly, and he'll show you exactly how much better he can be now.Â
but why? why does he want that? with the way he's been neurotically preparing for every potential interaction you two could possibly have, dissecting the menial ones you did have, and spending every night tossing, turning, and praying to the universe that he'll see you again in the morning, the answer is obviousâno matter how much heâs tried to push it down. he not only loved you more than anything, he still loves you more than anything. present tense, with no rest in between.
after you two leave for the day, beomgyu races home. as soon as he enters his apartment, he kicks off his shoes and researches amnesia. he's not sure why you have it, but the internetâs general consensus is that he should not overwhelm you with the truth, or else he runs the risk of igniting paranoia, distrust, or aggression. the last thing he wants to do is hurt you even more than he already has, so heâll have to tread carefully to avoid springing too much onto you. as he looks into it, he realizes the real question is: what exactly do you remember?
from then on, beomgyu lets himself speak to you more comfortably, trying to subtly discern the answer to that question. from what he can gather by slipping occasional questions into your increasingly familiar conversations, he finds that you seem to remember pretty much everything he can think of. you tell the same anecdotes from your childhood, your quirks are the same, and he recognizes the names of your family members.Â
one day, he asks, âyou said you moved back here recently, so⊠so, what made you decide to leave in the first place? and did you not like the town you moved to? iâm just curious, because iâve looked into visiting there myself on a day trip or something. i guess i just wanna know if it's worth the drive,â he smiles. it takes every ounce of his willpower to lie so nonchalantly, but somehow, he succeeds. your answer, though, is not what he expects.
âi wanted to explore my options, so i found a good job over there. it was a nice change of scenery,â you answer. the former part is categorically untrue. though your relationship was⊠strained in the end, beomgyu knows for a fact that you loved your former company, and he knows your reasons for leaving it were not so simple. the way you said it was so⊠rehearsed, too. itâs like you were reciting something from a piece of paper. your cadence returns to normal as you continue, âthe city's not bad, there are some pretty cool sites to see, but i guess i just really missed home; and when i saw an opening here, something told me to take it. besides, it's a short enough distance for wonbin and i to go back and forth pretty easily, so visiting each other isn't a problem. everything just seemed to work itself out,â you chuckle.
beomgyuâs mind races as he tries to think of the right question to ask, not wanting to waste this precious opportunity to dig a little deeper. he forces a laugh and says, âyeah, itâs funny how things work out. did⊠did you not like your previous company?â your smile falters at the question.
âi⊠no, i just⊠i wanted to explore my options, so i found a good job over there.â you declare less confidently than before, and you're more so trying to explain your incomprehensible reasoning to yourself than to him. âbut⊠but i loved my old company, and now that i think about it, the job i took ended up paying less. i-i don't knowâi mean, i don't remember why i even wanted to leave so much.â
beomgyu knows he's stepped on a landmine with his probing. he must've gone too far too fast, and when he sees how confused you look, he almost wishes he had never said anything at all. he wants to tell you to forget about answering him, but you're already speaking before he can come up with anything else to say. your next words are nearly inaudible.
âso, why⊠what was the point of moving there, when i had never even considered it before? what the hellâŠâ you trail off. you take a sharp inhale of breath as your temples suddenly begin to throb. you massage your fingers into them and shake your head. âi don't know, maybe itâs not worth thinking about,â you declare with a strained laugh.
â... yeah, you're right,â beomgyu replies with a strained smile of his own. âso, uh, did you see sooyoungâs last email?â
-
beomgyu tries his hardest not to push too hard after that, taking care to ensure his poking and prodding doesn't overwhelm you. he certainly rehearsed and replayed conversations between the two of you before, but now, itâs all he thinks about as soon as he comes home from work. weekends feel endless to him, and while heâs already been neglecting his friends ever since you left, heâs even worse now that youâre back in his life. every spare moment is spent planning how heâll subtly ask you his next round of questions.Â
from what he can gather, you almost immediately moved out of town as soon as you left him. thankfully, you haven't been dating wonbin for very long, which seems to be true; but the peculiar thing is, you mentioned that youâve never had a long-term relationship. obviously, this is very much not the case, and when you said it, it was in that strangely automatic way in which you declared that you uprooted your life simply on a whim. try as he might, beomgyu canât quite work out the reasoning behind it. why does it sound like somebody told you what happened? he supposes itâs possible that your family and friends gave you these comically flimsy explanations to spare you from remembering him, but his intuition tells him itâs not that simple. if that were the case, why didn't you press for more answers? and why is it that your head starts to ache every time those topics come up? he tries to chalk it up to a simple side effect of amnesia, but still, he knows that something is wrong.
in the meantime, heâs enjoying being on speaking terms with you again. it's not a lot, but itâs not nothing, which is what he previously had. more than that, he's drop-to-his-knees grateful that you seem to like him. a lot. a lot, a lot. you always look for him first when something juicy happens, you two share secret smiles when somebody says something ridiculous, and he's noticed that you're considerably chattier with him in comparison to everyone else. you let him pry, and in the same way, you seem genuinely curious about his life. you ask him about his guitar, about his friends, about his family. in a way, the circumstances may be different, but things are progressing just like how they did when you two first met. well, actually first met all those years ago, not the bizarre âfirst meetingâ you had a few months ago, and the natural progression of your⊠friendship since then.
beomgyu knows the looks you give himâheâs seen them beforeâand while he knows that he can't possibly restart your relationship without you knowing the truth about the history between the two of you, itâs exhilarating to realize that you're still drawn to him. the scenery and circumstances have changed, but the sentiment remains the same. the synergy, the way you two feel like the only people in the world sometimes, the banter that comes so naturallyâtheyâve been reignited as if it were destiny. and maybe it is.
one evening, your coworkers invite you and beomgyu out for karaoke. beomgyu asks if you're planning to go, and when you answer that you are, he hurriedly says heâs going, too. heâll take any chance he can get to spend more time with you.Â
so, beomgyu currently finds himself in a sticky situation.
âc'mon, man. you play the guitar, and we heard you at karaoke last year at the holiday party. just sing!â eunwoo pleads.Â
beomgyu, of course, frantically shakes his head in denial. you feel kind of bad for him, honestly, because his face and ears are so red, he looks like he's going to explode. maybe it's the product of the alcohol, but you can't help but find the sight incredibly endearing. inexplicably, you realize that you really, really hope he sings.Â
âcâmon, dude, just do it!â another coworker urges, joining the chorus of people egging beomgyu on. in that moment, for some reason, beomgyu turns to you. you're not sure why he does, but with a gulp, he grabs the microphone and chooses a song.
his voice is haunting, somehow. beautiful, low, almost like his baritone is vibrating against your ribs, shaking something you almost remember in your heart. it's unequivocably lovely, so why does it makes you so sad?Â
âi'll make you mine
keep you apart, deep in my heart
separate from the rest, where i like you the best
and keep the things you forgotâ
when he sings those lyrics, you want to cry, if you're not already. suddenly, you're overwhelmed with the desire to drink even more, as if you're trying to suffocate something stirring to life inside of you. so you do. you drink more than you should, really. you drink until your skin is buzzing and your stomach feels warm. by the time the night is pretty much over, you're drunk off your ass. there's no way you can drive home. you blearily wonder if you should call sumin to come pick you up, but you shouldn't. she's probably already asleep, and she's a terror when she wakes up. with a sigh, you squint as you try to focus your eyes on your phone, intent on ordering a ride.
âwhoa, are you okay?â jia asks as she worriedly takes in your unsteady form.
âyeah, just need to order a ride home and sleep it off,â you slur.
âno need, it's not safe for a girl as drunk as you to go home alone. i'll give you a ride, where do you live?â you tell her your address, and though she doesn't say it, her smile falters at the sheer distance from her home.
âjia, just take me home instead,â eunwoo drunkenly suggests. âi live a couple blocks away from you. beomgyu said he'd give me a ride, but he lives closer to her than me.â it's a bit rude, but he has a point. you look over at beomgyu, and if you were sober, you'd see the anxiety and shred of anticipation in his gaze.Â
âyeah, you have a point,â jia nods. âokay, we'll switch. let's get your drunk ass home,â she laughs as she grabs eunwooâs arm and leads him outside, leaving you and beomgyu alone.
âyou don't have to take me home,â you insist, but you're so out of it, there's no way beomgyu would ever let you ride in a strangerâs car all alone.
âno, i want to take you. it's no problem,â he says softly. he leads you to his car, opening the door for you and making sure you're settled and secure, then carefully shuts the door behind you. he wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans as he rounds the car.Â
the ride is mostly silent, save for the soft music coming from the radio. but thereâs something about the way beomgyuâs hair catches in the dim streetlights that absolutely fascinates you. you know the sight is totally new, but even though you're marveling at him, there's a part of you that finds it familiar enough to make your heart throb with a dull, sweet acheâlike you saw it in a dream, almost. a beautiful dream that somehow makes you happy and sad simultaneously. a dream that you can't quite recall, but feels incomparably important, nonetheless.Â
you find yourself trying to memorize every detail, trying to hold onto the feeling; but just like any good dream, the specifics seem to fade away before you can quite manage to grasp them. in a strange way, though, it's like you already know everything by heart. you know how the streetlights are going to illuminate the contours of beomgyuâs face, you know how he'll tap his long fingers against the steering wheel as he waits for the light to turn, and you know how his eyes will reflect the headlights of oncoming cars. you shake your head as you try to brush away the thoughts flooding your brain. they don't make sense, anywayâno point in entertaining something so nonsensical. besides, your head is beginning to throb. oh well, must be the alcohol.Â
when you arrive at your apartment, beomgyu helps you out of the car, steadying you as he walks you to your door. you feel so warm when he touches you, feel so safe when you lean on him, you can't help the fluttering of your heart. you think back to the way he sang earlier, how moved you felt. how it felt like you were hearing a lullaby you can't quite remember the words toâŠ
âyour voice is beautiful,â you slur. you're too drunk to notice the way beomgyu almost misses a step at your words.
âyou think so?â beomgyu asks after a gulp.
âdefinitely,â you grin. beomgyu can't help but smile at your words, his cheeks burning as he processes them.
âmmm, thank you,â he hums with a shy smile and flushed face.
âyou're welcome,â you laugh.
when you get to your apartment door, beomgyu releases his grip on you. you don't know why, but you already miss the contact. really miss it. really, really miss it. you can't help but stare at him. he looks so pretty in the moonlight, and it's making your heart ache to be near him. you want to be closer, much closer, so you lean in and plant a soft kiss to his lips. it sends every cell in your body into overdrive, yes, but it also wraps you up in a warmth and comfort that somehow feels familiar. beomgyu, on his end, feels like he can't breathe. his heart aches, in a way, but more than that, he feels like the long-withered part of it has been revived. for a second, he freezesâbut, like muscle memory, he gently places one big, warm hand on the small of your back as he tangles the other in your hair.
the door swings open to reveal your best friend, sumin, causing you and beomgyu to franticalltly break apart. she momentarily freezes when she sees that the man you were just kissing is, indeed, beomgyu; but she quickly collects herself and gently asks you, âhoney, can you make it to bed by yourself?âÂ
you giggle and nod as you make your way into the apartment, while beomgyu watches with a soft, lovestruck smile on his face. suminâs demeanor hardens into a grimace as she stares up at him. he always thought sumin was nice, and she seemed to think the same of him, almost until the end. he can see the way her hand twitches as she likely considers slamming the door in his face. he grips the doorframe with a desperation he hasn't felt since, well, sinceâŠÂ
âwhat happened to her?â he asks in a voice taut with nerves.
sumin furrows her eyebrows and asks, âwhat are you talking about?â
he scoffs in impatience. what an insensitive question. âyou know exactly what i'm talking about, don't try toââ
âi mean, yeah, but why are you talking about it?âÂ
âare you fucking serious?!â he exclaims in incredulity and frustration. âi'm talking about my own girlfriend not recognizing me and treating me like a goddamn stranger! was she hurt? why didn't anyone tell me?â ex-girlfriend, actually. but beomgyu refuses to say that.
sumin still seems thoroughly confused. âdid you not bother to read the letter?â
âwhat letter?â he asks in exasperation, feeling more desperate by the second. how could a fucking letter even begin to explain any of this? and youâre the one who doesn't remember, so why does he feel like heâs the one whoâs lost? âwhat the fuck is going on, and why are you being so goddamn normal about it?â
suminâs expression twists from puzzlement to newfound understanding. âthe letter shouldâve told you she erased her memories of you.â
silence. thenâ
âwhat? how did⊠that's not even⊠are you trying to be funny? this isn't funny,â he tremblingly sputters.
âit's really not that complicated. well, it kind of is. but to make a long story short, she didn't want to remember you, so she joined some trial that promised to make her forget. that's the gist of it,â sumin sighs. âyou got a letter from the companyâor you were supposed toâthat explained what she did, and to never contact her again.âÂ
ha. the notion that such a procedure exists is so utterly, utterly ridiculous, beomgyu almost wants to laugh; but suminâs conviction tells him that she's being perfectly serious. you wanted to forget him so badly, you signed up for some highly-questionable trial to purge your memories of him like they were some kind of demonic entity to be exorcised. and against what beomgyu would consider to be logical, by the looks of it, it worked.
âand you⊠and everyone just let her do it?â beomgyu exclaims. âyou all let her get brainwashed by some⊠some sketchy, so-called company?âÂ
âwe tried to talk her out of it, asshole,â sumin snaps. âyou weren't there, you didn't see how badly she wanted it. there was nothing we could do besides try to be supportive.â
â... h-how could⊠why would sheââ
âwhy would she choose to forget you? i don't know, she wouldn't tell me everything, even when i'd beg her toâbut i feel like you should know the answer better than anyone. from what little i do know, i can't blame her, and neither can you,â sumin replies simply, as if this isn't the most earth-shattering news imaginable.
but, oh god, she's right. he knows why you did it, even if he wishes he didn't. he knows it intimately.
âthey said itâd be best for you to stay away from her,â sumin continues without waiting for a reply. âit all seemed pretty effective, but itâs just a trial, so who knows whatâll happen? i think you owe it to her to do that much, at least.âÂ
beomgyu gulps as a torrent of shame threatens to swallow him whole. well, it's not even just that. it's a sickening storm of not only shame, but devastation, and as much as he fucking hates to admit it, acceptance.
before he can fix his lips to reply, sumin finally slams the door in his face.
-
it hasn't been this bad in a long, long time. ever since beomgyu saw you again, he hasn't had to do this; but it feels like the newly-healing wound in his chest has been ripped open, raw and ugly, just as he thought it might finally recover. in the early days, he quickly realized that while he never could bring himself to change anything about the home you two shared, your scent would eventually disappear, but it might be retained in the closet holding the clothes you left behind in your haste to leave him. so, it's become a habit of his to sit in the dark of the small closet when he feels like missing you is too much to bear; because if he closes his eyes and doesn't think too much about it, it's like you're still here. as a result, he's taken to hanging most of his own clothes on a rack he thrifted, which he keeps next to his bed, to keep your scent embalmed. it's pathetic, he knows that, but he tries not to dwell on that aspect. he does it and⊠that's it. no further introspection is neededâwell, it is, but he'd rather not mull over all the ways he failed you; and the lows he's reached in the wake of your departure is a secret he keeps carefully hidden... even from himself, in a way.
he enters the bedroom, his hand already outstretched to grab the knob to the closet before it's even in view, desperate for reprieve.
last night, he had pulled out a particularly striking button-down you bought himâone of an especially luxurious material that hugs his frame and makes him look even more dashing than usual. he hasn't been able to look at it without feeling his stomach lurch, so he'd kept it tucked away in order to give himself the small mercy of not having to be reminded of you in case it just so happened to catch his eye while innocently hanging on his rack. but last night, he'd finally pulled it out in hopes of sparking your memory; and even if that failed, he'd at least look handsome, which would hopefully make you like him more. it all seems so goddamn stupid to him now, with the way his plans were stomped out so thoroughly with suminâs admission from tonight.Â
but in his excitement to draw you to him, he accidentally left the door open, allowing the air from the rest of the apartment to ventilate and taint his makeshift shrine.
âno,â he gasps, running into the closet and burying his face into the clothes. nothing. âno, no, no, no, no!â he cries out as he desperately tries and miserably fails to find your scent, deeply inhaling as he tries to find even the barest traces of you. he crushes the various fabrics against his face, slamming the hangers as he tries to hold onto what's no longer there. he's angry at himself, angry at sumin, and though he doesn't have any right to be, heâs angry at you. you brainwashed yourself just to get away from the memories he's been reduced to preserving a fucking closet to keep with him.Â
âfuck!â he exclaims with a vicious sob as he slams his fist against the closet wall. the shelf above shakes, and down falls a notebook he's never seen before. it's not his, which must mean it's yours. he knows, with all of his heart, he should leave it the fuck alone. after all, he may have already accepted he's a bad person, but even he has moral limits. that's what he tells himself, but who is he kidding? he has to hold onto whatever he can, because as it is, he doesn't have much of you left. with a grimace, beomgyu opens the notebook.
regret is not a foreign concept to most, and if you were to ask beomgyu if he understood it before now, heâd roll his eyes at the absurdity that he could elude it. for example, if you were to fail to speak up when a waiter got your order wrong, you might regret not correcting them once you found your food underwhelming. in a similar way, if your boss were to ask if someone would like to lead a project you were perfectly capable of handling, you might regret not speaking up when asked if someone could tackle it, and you might regret it when the recognition that could have easily been yours went to someone lesser than you, who just so happened to have the tenacity you lack.Â
beomgyu, of course, knows such a feeling, both in the inane sense and the visceral one he lives with every day. he thought he knew true regret when you left him, when he came home that awful night and realized that you were gone. he thought he felt it when he missed you so much, he knew he'd never be the same. he thought he knew it when he'd remember the things he said to you in his darkest times. but at this very moment, he realizes that he never really understood it at all. until now, regret has certainly been painful, but he couldn't begin to degrade what he currently feels by categorizing it as anything other than what it is: devastating. maddening. soul-crushing. the disappointment, the shame, the utter revulsion for himself on a fundamental level can't possibly be associated with such triviality. beomgyu hates himself, despises himself, wishes he had either been born as anyone else, or never born at all.
heâd known he was hurting you back then, but hurting isnât really the word, is it? to assert he was breaking you feels more apt to say. he was breaking you, the person heâs always loved more than anyone or anything, and he didn't even know it. how selfish did he have to be to not see the signs? how could he do this? how could he claim to be a human-being capable and deserving of love when he so carelessly, so brutally drove you to feel like this? he's an animal wearing human skin, as far as he's concerned. he turns to the mirror beside the closet, staring at his reflection without any trace of vanity or appreciation, but with unadulterated disgust.Â
maybe he wasn't angry with you solely because of the bombshell sumin dropped on him tonight, maybe he always felt resentment bubbling up inside of him because of the way you left without a word. now that he lets himself think about it, he can no longer deny that a part of him felt he deserved the dignity of a real goodbye in lieu of the love you two shared. he had always thought, somewhere deep inside him, that you should've looked him in the eyes as you uprooted your lives entirely. and tonight, he was briefly convinced that he had at least deserved to have you fucking remember the love that creeps into his dreams at night. but now, he realizes he doesn't deserve your love, he doesn't even deserve your hatred. he can't blame you for erasing every memory of him, because why wouldn't you? you had every right to forget about the man who made you feel like an unshakable weight. and what could he possibly say to defend the indefensible? that he didn't mean it? well, he didn't, but so what? he did it, anyway. every fathomable course of action seems comically cheap in the face of what heâs done.
the ugly truth is, if beomgyu were you, he wouldn't have stayed, either. he would have ran long before you did, he would have cursed himself for being a bastard, and he certainly never would've looked back. and as much as it breaks his heart to acknowledge it, if the opportunity to purge his brain of such awful memories presented itself, he'd have done just that. and his penance is, he'll have to live with that forever.
âforeverâ used to seem like such a wonderful word to beomgyu. âforeverâ promised a lifetime of warmth, of safety, of love; but now, it's nothing more than a punishment of the acutest kind. is he meant to be alone forever? he thinks so. forever regretting what he did, forever wishing he had done everything differently, forever missing you and loving you and wondering, wondering, wondering. and so, he'll live with that regret forever. but is living the appropriate term? walking around the edges of life like a ghost you can't even remember is hardly a life at all. still, it's his to live.
he can't go back, he knows that. but jesus christ, does he want to.Â
-
you guess you freaked beomgyu out with your drunken flirtations and impulsive kiss. it's humiliating, obviously, but you know you should apologize. even so, beomgyu is impossible to talk to. he sits right next to you, but today, he's almost always away from his desk or talking on the phone. it's a far cry from the way you two were stuck together like glue until now, and he seems even more resistant towards talking about it than you are. in fact, he can barely look you in the eyes.Â
as much as you want to avoid what will inevitably be a painfully awkward conversation, you know you can't. you like beomgyu, probably more than youâve admitted to yourself, and you don't want him to be uncomfortable. besides, you two were paired together for a new project, so it's better to get the conversation out of the way as soon as possible. when beomgyu rushes to the elevator as soon as lunch starts, you follow him with a sigh.
âbeomgyu?â you call out as you trail after him.Â
he pauses and curses to himself just as he's about to escape into the temporary reprieve of the elevator, but turns around with a tight smile.
âyeah?â he asks.
you take a deep breath and wring your hands in sheer embarrassment. you have a hard time looking at him directly, but you give it an honest try.
âi just want to⊠um⊠apologize for my behavior from the other night. i was drunk and totally misread the situation, and i shouldn't have come onto you like that. i don't know, maybe i acted crazy because i broke up with wonbin recently, but regardless⊠iâm sorry for making you uncomfortable.â you're not sure if you really mean the part about your breakup with wonbin influencing you to the point of hitting on beomgyu. you kind of wish it did, just so you'd have some kind of excuse, but you don't really feel any type of sensitivity towards what should've been a devastating occurrence in your life.
as for beomgyu, he wants to proclaim that you didn't make him uncomfortable. actually, he hasn't felt that comfortable in a long, long time. he also wants to thank the universe that you and wonbin are no longer together, even though your relationship status doesn't make much of a difference now that he's resolved to leave you alone.Â
but all he can choke out is, âdon't worry about it. i was just⊠uh, i don't know what i was. but it's alright, there's no need for us to be weird about it.â he knows he sounds like an idiot, but what else is there to say?Â
your eyebrows furrow. you were being weird about it, sure, but beomgyu is being weird, weird. he looks like he's on the verge of a mental breakdown as he smiles at you. but still, you can tell he means what he says. or at least, he's trying to.
âokay, i just thought i'd clear the air. thank you for being so cool about everything. i really like being⊠friends with you, and i don't want to lose my best friend here because i got drunk and stupid,â you attempt to quip lightheartedly.Â
âyou don't have to worry about losing me. i like being friends with you, too,â beomgyu smiles. but for some reason, it seems kind of sad.Â
-
from then on, beomgyu tries his hardest to act like there's not a constant heaviness in his chest, like there's not an almost physical weight he's gasping for breath under. heâs constantly trying to balance being your favorite coworker and giving you the space you obviously wanted in the first place. sumin was right, he owes it to you to leave you alone. he doesn't try to make you regain your memory, because it was already a selfish endeavor in the first place, but it's grotesquely selfish now that he knows losing it was intentional. he resolves to resign and relocate so he can ensure he doesn't stir up your repressed feelings, but he can't until this project is finished. if he leaves beforehand, he'll not only be fucking over the entire company, heâll be fucking you over, by extension. again. just in a different way. fortunately, it seems that even with his previous efforts, he never made any real progress in getting you to remember him. lucky him, he guesses.Â
for now, heâs moving slowly, carefully. like his insides are sloshing around inside of his body, and one wrong move could send everything he is spilling out. on a particularly grueling day of working on your joint project, beomgyu brings you a drink from the vending machine as you work after hours, per your request. he hands it to you and slides into his desk chair.
âthanks, beomie,â you mumble mindlessly as you take the drink from him without even breaking your gaze from the screen.Â
oh. oh. he hasn't heard that name in so achingly long, it's like he's been momentarily transported to a different time. a better time. a happy time.Â
beomgyu gulps before stammering, âw-what did you just call me?â
your eyebrows furrow and you frown as your fingers pause their typing. you look up at him confusedly and reply, âi⊠i don't know. sorry, that was really weird. it just kind of came out. it just⊠felt right.â you trail off and shake your head before adding, âthis project must be driving me crazy.â you laugh a little before refocusing your attention to your screen, resuming your rigorous typing.Â
ah. you didn't mean to say it, and it doesn't mean what it used to mean to you. but still. still, it means everything to him. sleepy mornings together in bed, long nights spent in each otherâs arms, excited chattering about nothing in particularâeach perfectly punctuated with that name you just unconsciously used. but you don't remember those memories, and you don't want to. you wanted to forget, and rightfully so. but as for him? he remembers everything.
and it hurts.
beomgyu silently stands up, pushes his chair in, and walks to the bathroomâlocking the door behind him as he leans back on it for support. then, after a moment of pause, he slides down to the floor and cries.Â
-
sooyoung is anxious today. she got some well-deserved critcism from the higher-ups about her latest presentation to them, and she has no fucking clue what to do. she sits in her office with her head in her hands as beomgyu turns her monitor to face him, analyzing her rejected work and calmly telling her to take note of a few adjustments he recommends.Â
you purse your lips as you watch the interaction. you try your damndest to push down the questions you have, but they must be written all over your face, because eunwoo whispers to you, âcrazy, right? beomgyu should be our manager, for sure.â
you look at eunwoo in surprise and embarrassment at being caught so throughly, but he waves, âdon't sweat it, everyone thinks so, especially when they're on the newer side. he was going to be our manager, actually, and he fought like hell to get it. then, when he finally got the offer, he turned it down out of nowhere. they brought sooyoung in from another department, and the rest is history.â
â... why did heâŠ?â
âwho knows?â eunwoo shrugs as he takes a sip of his coffee.
âi think it's because he and his girlfriend broke up at the time,â another coworker, jia, adds as she joins you and eunwoo in the discreet viewing of your manager on the precipice of spiraling.
âthat's purely speculation,â eunwoo explains.
âthink about it,â jia insists. âhe went from talking about a proposal to nothing at all, and he hasn't mentioned her since right before he got the offer. the timing lines up.â
âehh, i guess so, but maybe he just realized it's too much responsibility. look at how stressed sooyoung is all the time, i wouldn't want to live with that kind of stress, either,â eunwoo reasons.
âthat's true⊠he basically gave up on being the best out of nowhere,â jia nods. âhe might be burnt out.â
instinctively, you want to tell them they're wrong, that beomgyu wouldn't randomly shirk that kind of responsibility. however, you're unsure why you feel so strongly about it. even though you and beomgyu have been quite close since you started working here, it'd be fair to assume that they know him better than you do; but something feels wrong, even if you can't quite put your finger on it. you just feel like it was too important to him to do such a thing, but you can't explain why.
when beomgyu exits the office, sooyoung gratefully thanks him for his help. you kind of want to say something, but before you can, a coworker named dahyun approaches him.
âyou were great in there,â she smiles.
âoh. thanks,â beomgyu says noncommittally.Â
âi'm serious, that was really cool. uh⊠anyway, i wanted to ask if youâd be interested getting a few drinks after work. what do you think?âÂ
your grip on your pen tightens. you don't know why, but you don't like seeing another woman attempting to flirt with beomgyu. you hate it, even.Â
âthank you, but i'm focusing on work right now,â beomgyu answers politely, then heads to the break room to get some coffee.
your deathgrip on your pen relaxes. you didn't realize you were holding it so tightly, it was digging into your fingers until now.
a few hours later, you take your lunch out of the break room fridge as you contemplate the events from earlierâfrom the way beomgyu allegedly rejected a management position either from a bad breakup or burnout, to your irrational reaction to a coworker simply asking him out to get some drinks. as you mull over the sheer incomprehensibility of it all in your head, you mindlessly begin to face all of the drinks frontwards, deep in thought.
jia smiles and asks, âwhat are you up to?â
you snap out of your daze and blink. you didn't even realize you were carefully arranging drinks that will inevitably be messed up by the bustle of your coworkers within an hour or so.Â
âoh, i don't⊠i don't know. itâs just a habit i picked up, i guess,â you mumble sheepishly.
âi never thought i'd see anyone other than beomgyu do that, but i guess there's two of you now,â she teases. you blink more rapidly as you try to process her words.
âthat's funny, i started doing it becauseâi mean, i got it from⊠fromâŠâÂ
youâve had this quirk since you were a kid, havenât you? no, that's not right. you don't remember ever having such a habit. actually, it feels like you started doing it because someone else did. maybe you picked it up from a friend? but that doesn't seem to be the case, either. you got it from someone, but not a friend, not a family member, but maybe aâ
âyou okay?â jia tentatively interjects, derailing your train of thought. âi'm sorry, i was just teasing. i think your habit is charming.â
ây-yeah, all⊠all good. iâm⊠i was trying to remember something, is all.â your head hurts. fuck, why does this keep happening? you need to go to the doctor soon; but you can't help but feel like you're missing something that's right in front of you, something you think will change your life, something that fits perfectly in the empty puzzle that becomes increasingly more insistent to be acknowledged. you just don't know what.
-
the project is a success, much to sooyoungâs relief. beomgyu, however, can only feel conflicted about it, because its completion means that he will have to leave soon. he wants to feel happy for everyone involved, but he's not. he can't be. how could anyone expect him to when he knows he'll never see you again once he resigns? so, he's doing the one thing he does best when faced with something causing him distress: he ignores it.Â
beomgyu tries to join in on the general buzz of excitement around the office, but he canât quite get there. still, he accepts sooyoungâs invitation to the restaurant down the street in order to celebrate the so-called achievement with a strained smile on his face. try as he mightâand he really does tryâhe can't eat, can't do anything but force the occasional chuckle at jokes he doesn't have the brainpower to understand. every so often, beomgyu will look at you as you laugh with your coworkers.
you look beautiful, beomgyu thinks. heâs always thought you were beautiful, but for tonight, he can't bear to look at you for too long. he looks at your hands, at the way they clasp around your drink as you take a sip. those same hands used to massage shampoo into his scalp and scrub his back when he was too tired to bathe alone. then, he looks at your lips, the way they split into a grin at a teasing jab, and he remembers how they felt when they peppered his face with kisses to wake him up in the morning. and then, your eyes. he used to stare into them and immediately know what you were thinking, feeling, hopingâalmost until the end. he briefly wonders what will happen to you after this. will you get back with wonbin? will another man's child have the same eyes you doâthe ones he loves to death? will they crinkle when they laugh in the same exact way yours do? oh, christâŠ
with a murmured excuse of needing some fresh air, he walks outside of the bar and leans back against the wall, letting out a weary sigh. he closes his eyes, trying to think of literally anything else. he's got to write an official resignation, effective immediately. he's got to start job hunting, got to start relying on savings he's let pile up from back when he⊠when heâŠ
âyou okay?â your voice cuts through beomgyuâs spiral.
âuh, yeah,â beomgyu replies with an awkward cough as he stands up straight, stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets. you purse your lips at his unconvincing response.
âlisten, i know it's none of my business, but⊠if you ever wanna talk, i'll listen.â
âth-thanks. it's nothing, uh, it's just me being stupid. as usual,â beomgyu attempts to laugh, but it's so strained, it sounds wretched.
âwhatever it is, i'm sure it's not stupid,â you say carefully.
he doesn't know why, but he can't bite his tongue.
âi... i fucked up. really, really badly. i hurt the last person i ever wanted to hurt, and i don't think she can forgive me for it.â beomgyu shudders, releasing a breath that comes straight from the bottom of his lungs.
âbeomgyu, it's okay. i'm sure you didn't do anything that bad,â you lamely try to assure him, a bit at a loss from his unexpected confession. truthfully, you're inexplicably disappointed by the fact that the rumor about beomgyu being seriously involved with another woman is now being confirmed by him. but that sounds crazy, so you don't let it show.
âit was awful,â he says hoarsely as his eyes flicker down to meet yours.
âwell, have you apologized?â you ask, trying to think of a way to get that terrible look off of his face; but it just turns into a wry smile.
âi did, but i was too late. she doesn't care anymore. she doesn'tâi mean, it's like she doesn't even remember what i did. she's moved on, but⊠but i'm still here.â
âi see,â you hum as you contemplate his words, trying to give a genuine answer despite your bizarre jealousy. âbut people never really forget, do they? i mean, they say they do, but even if they don't care in the same way they used to, everyone is different after being loved, or hurt, or both. even if they don't know it.â
âbut what if she really did forget?â beomgyu answers with a grimace, his voice becoming more urgent in his search for a solution. âwhat if she's scrubbed every memory of me from her brain, all because she didn't want to remember me anymore?â
that sounds ridiculous, but you don't say as much. he seems really upset, so you try to reason with him with the same bewildering "logic" he's using. you shake your head.Â
âeven if she forgot it in her mind, some things can never be forgotten. not really. i don't know what happened with this girl of yours, but i guarantee she's changed because of you, in one way or another. look, i know i don't know what happened, and you may have said and done some shitty things you regret, but i don't think you're a bad person. if you've already apologized, that's great. all you can do now is try to be better and show her you mean what you say.â you hope your words don't come across as insincere or cheesy, and you hope they comfort him, even if only a little.Â
but he doesn't look comforted at all, though he's certainly trying to. his smile is so feeble, you think a gust of wind could blow it straight off of his face. you hesitate before stretching out your arms and gently wrapping them around his waist, pulling him close. you murmur, âit's gonna be okay.â
it feels like all the nerves beomgyu previously thought were dead and decayed are suddenly exhumed from somewhere deep within himâwith a fierceness that would bring him to his knees if you weren't here to hold him and keep him steady. you're always keeping him steady. that same old ache he's been trying to keep locked away for so long floods him from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, and he's tempted to let it drown him; but here you are, keeping him afloat. just like always.Â
with a shuddering breath, he wraps his trembling arms around youâwilling himself not to shake, willing himself to be as steadfast as you are. as soon as he's holding you, it's like his heart is being held gently in your hands as you refill the emptiness he's never quite been able to occupy by himself, no matter what heâs tried. he pulls you close, closer, closer, and he wishes he could always keep you here, always keep you with him. always keep you so close, the warmth of your skin mixes with his, to where he can no longer discern something as arbitrary as what's you and what's him.
âbeomgyu? what are youâŠâ you trail off in concern. you thought a hug might make him feel better, but he just seems even worse off.
beomgyu takes deep, heaving breaths as he tries to get his next words out, trying and failing to will them out of his mouth. finally, he chokes out, âi've been so fucking lonely.â the tension in his throat is too much to bear, so his voice breaks as he says it.
it's not like he wants to cryâthat's the opposite of what he wants to do. he wants the sensation of you wrapping your arms around him and asking him what's wrong to be as familiarly pervading as it used to be, but it's not; and for as many times as you two have held each other like this before, he can feel every second where that wasn't the case settling deep into his bones, demanding to never be left alone again. and so, beomgyu cries. it begins as a sourness behind his eyes, a stinging he desperately tries to blink back, but when he feels your hands subconsciously rubbing comforting circles against his back the way they always used to, there's nothing he can fathomably do to keep the tears at bay.
at first, his shoulders shake almost imperceptibly as he tries to abate his sobs, but when he goes to breathe, his heart and stomach clench, resulting in a gasp. when you hold him even tighter, he devolves into a sobbing, shuddering wreckâhis tears dampening your hair as he hopelessly tries to fill his lungs with your scent before he can't anymore.Â
you attempt to pull away to look directly at him, but he holds you tighter, whimpering, âno, no, noâŠâ as he nuzzles into your neck.Â
âhey,â you whisper as gently as you can. âlisten to me, you're alright. whatever it is, it's going to be okay. iâm here⊠you're not alone.âÂ
but that just makes him cry even harder, because none of it is true. heâs not alright, he hasn't been in so long, he can barely remember what being âalrightâ felt like. it's not going to be okay, because nothing is ever going to be the same again. and finally, you're not here, not in the way he needs you to be, not in the way that wants him, misses him, loves him⊠and because of that, he is, indeed, alone.
âbeomââ you catch yourself before you slip and call him that weird nickname again, âbeomgyu, you have to breathe. listen, breathe in. one, two, three, four, five. out. one, two, three, four, fiveâŠâ
you must repeat those words a million times, so beomgyu eventually finds himself breathing again; even so, it all ends in what feels like a second to beomgyu. you have to pull away to look at him now, and as much as he would rather die than let that happen, he's finally aware enough to know that he can't just keep you crushed against him foreverâno matter how badly he wants to do exactly that. and yet, even though he knows he has to let go, his hands still traitorously fumble for you before he forces himself to clench his fists and pull them to his sides.
âare you⊠alright?â you ask tentatively as you scan his pitiful frame with furrowed eyebrows.
beomgyu clears his throat before stammering, ây-yeah, it's just⊠it's just been a long time since youââ he stops to feebly âcorrectâ himself, âi mean, since anyone, has⊠hasâŠâ
you don't make him elaborate. all you tell him is, âiâm sorry, but i want you to know that i meant everything i said. i don't know what's going on with you, but i do know you're going to be okay, and if you ever need me, i'm here. you're not alone, i mean it.âÂ
and you do mean itâyou mean every word. at least, you think you mean it. you sincerely think it's the truth, but that's only because you don't know who he really is, who he can become when he's angry, and how his anger hurt you.
âyou should probably head home and get some rest,â you suggest, but it's like the dark cloud that had just began to recede is immediately looming over beomgyu again, though he doesn't do anything but stiffly nod in acquiescence.Â
you don't know why, but you're compelled to offer, âi can give you a ride home, if you want.â
it's stupid, it's wrong, and it's selfish; but right now, beomgyu knows that if he were to drive home alone, he wouldn't be safe. he's still little more than a bundle of nerves, still adjusting from death, to revival, to inevitable death again. so, against his better judgment, he feebly agrees.
you have a new car, but the ambience is the same. a myriad of memories flood his mind of the two of you sitting in the front seats, singing along to the radio, talking, laughing. then, his mind shifts to the final days: sitting in tense silence, clicking your tongues when one of you made the wrong turn, arguing about nothing and everything at the same timeâŠ
beomgyu shakes his head. he can't let himself think like that anymore. instead, he looks at you as you drive. he knows this sight by heart, could recall it on command in his sleep, and he often does. the way you purse your lips when someone makes a risky turn, the way your eyes flicker from side to side as you decide if itâs safe for you to merge, the way you mindlessly hum under your breath. beomgyu knows it all.Â
itâs already late, but the sound of thunder coming overhead tells you both that itâll rain soon. neither of you think much of it. you, because it wasn't supposed to rain today, and beomgyu, because he can't really think of anything other than you. but the tentative sprinkles quickly evolve into a torrential downpour, and by the time you pull into beomgyuâs apartment complex, you can barely see a thing through the rain. beomgyu knows you can't possibly drive in weather like this, so while it may be imprudent to do so, he makes an offer to you. again, he's going against his better judgmentâwhatever that is anymore.
âyou⊠you can come in, if you want. it's⊠it's not safe to drive,â he rasps. with a grateful smile and nod, you follow him into his apartment, but you two are thoroughly soaked by the rain despite how quickly you try to shuffle inside.Â
to beomgyuâs relief and suppressed despair, you don't seem to recognize the apartment you two shared, regardless of the fact that you picked out half of the decorations and furniture adorning it. you look over at beomgyu and frown. you're both soaking wet, but he looks utterly miserable from what you can only describe as his emotional breakdown.Â
âmaybe you should shower and get changed into something warm,â you gently suggest.
âw-what? no, i'm fine. you're wet, too. if you want, you can shower and i can⊠i can loan you a towel and some clothes. you know, as a thank you for taking me home and⊠everything else,â he insists.
âno, you're worse off than me. besides, i can shower at home once the storm lets up and i can drive again, â you counter, and beomgyu can tell from your eyes that you're not going to budge on this.Â
â... alright, but you should change into something else in the meantime. and if you're thirsty or whatever, there's stuff in the kitchen.â with pursed lips, beomgyu leads you to the bedroom. he fumbles through his clean laundry to find something suitable, then hands it to you. you thank him before he heads to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.Â
after changing your clothes and placing them into an empty basket, you sit on the edge of his bed and briefly look around. nice decorations, you think. you have no interest in snooping in beomgyuâs personal belongings, but you are pretty thirsty, so you take him up on his offer to get yourself a drink. maybe you stood up too fast, maybe a part of you already knows that something is off, because you're disoriented enough to trip and hit his dresser on the way out. you let out a sharp hiss as you rub your elbow. you're just about to head to the kitchen, but you notice that the top drawer has been jostled open, somehow lighter than the others. you're about to push the drawer back into place before something catches your eye: a notebook.Â
your hand moves towards it, nearly subconsciously, and you pause before you're about to grasp it. what are you doing? this is an invasion of privacy, and you know it. even so, your hand hovers over the notebook uncertainly. something tells you to take it, something else tells you to shut the drawer and pretend like you never saw it, but it's so⊠familiar to you, and your fingers ache to feel it in your hands again. again? that undefinable pull of something that's always only just out of your reach demands that you read it. right now. you decisively pull it out of the drawer, and it's like it was meant to fit in your handâlike you know it, and know it well. your mouth is dry as you open the pages.
you don't read every entry, you don't need to, because you know your handwriting, and you know that this is yours. this is yours, and you remember.Â
beomgyu is always working. always. and even when heâs with you, heâs still far away. he takes calls when youâre attempting to have conversations with him, scrolls through his emails while heâs lying in bed with you, and you can't remember the last time heâs followed through on a date with you due to endless emergency meetings he insists can't be postponed.Â
but that's not what really gets you. if it were, maybe it wouldn't hurt so goddamn much. what really bothers you is not so easily contained. the issue lies in when you actually try talk to himâbe it about your day, about your interests, about something you saw that reminded you of himâyou can see the twitch of irritation in the corner of his mouth. when you want to vent and seek his assurance after a terrible shift, he just rolls his eyes and mutters something about you not even comprehending what real stress is. when you suggest doing something fun together like old times, he sighs and massages his temples with more and more excuses.Â
still, you are nothing if not dedicated. you tell yourself itâs all temporary, that heâs just overwhelmed, that sticking through the rough patches and being there for him to lean on is what love is all about. and even if things stay this way for now, things will eventually get back to how they used to be⊠with enough patience.
but they don't.
what you would previously chalk up as stress-induced micro-reactions become too blatant for even you to ignore. flickers of annoyance on his face become full-on sneers. eye rolls and dismissive mutters become outright mockeries of your supposed stress. what would you know about being overwhelmed, after all? the massaging of his temples becomes unabashedly bitter laughs at the so-called ridiculousness of your requests.Â
you try comforting him, of course. why wouldn't you? you ask if heâs considered asking for extensions on time-crunching projects, but he scoffs at your naivety. you earnestly assure him he is capable of achieving anything he sets his mind to, but he writes anything you say off as insincere, surface-level platitudes. you try to bring home his favorite takeout, but he waves as he mutters something about having already eaten without so much as a glance in your direction, focusing his attention on the screen of his laptop.
you dread coming home now. beomgyu is always on the edge of snapping at you, making you feel like your very presence is some unequivocal annoyance to him. you're only human, so you can't help but snap back at times, which only makes him even angrier. without fail, beomgyu tells you he doesn't have time for thisâthat your pettiness is costing him his precious time. somehow, you can't help but feel like it's always your fault. you know he's spread thin as it is, so why are you being so immature? you really think so, and he tells you as much.Â
you find yourself trying to be quieter. if heâs working overtime on his laptop, which is fucking always, he clicks his tongue when you mindlessly hum. you find yourself trying to be smaller, not wanting to draw his ire when you accidentally get in the way with your cooking when heâs quickly trying to pour himself a glass of water before immediately diving back into work. you find yourself holding your tongue moreâif he doesn't want to hear about something as inane to him as your married coworker cheating with another coworker, why would you disrupt him? and if he doesnât even want to hear about how you feel in regards to everything heâs doing and not doing, why say anything at all?
you spend your time living like a ghost, and the worst part is, youâre actively living with another ghost. you do not know when he'll actually be here with you, but when he is, you still ache to be with him even when heâs right beside you. but along with the ache grows a sense of resentment equally as strong. how are you supposed to have a serious conversation with him when he barely gives you the time of day? and these days, you're having trouble remembering what your relationship is supposed to feel like. still, you try to be patient. you know he's stressed out of his mind, and you know this isn't who he really is⊠but even so, why do you have to tell him not to be an asshole? it's unfair, and you know he knows better. you're constantly torn between being supportive and lashing out, but you're terrified that if you truly lose your temper outside of a sharp and passive aggressive comment, you'll regret it. it's a tightrope, one that you don't know if you can successfully walk, but you try, nonetheless.
what finally breaks everything is, in all honesty and objectivity, not that big of a deal. youâve finally mustered up all of your courage to ask him if he wants to watch a particular movie with you at home. prior to this, you two were supposed to go on a date to the theater to see it, but he had canceled on account of some supposedly catastrophic happenings with a major partnership at his work. so much time has passed, itâs now available to rent; but since you two had chattered about how badly you two wanted to see it ever since the first trailer had come out, you figure it'll be a good chance to bond with him. against all odds, heâs agreed to come home at a decent time so you two can hopefully enjoy it together. a small victory, but one that seems dire to you in this moment.
you have everything set up a full 45 minutes before heâs supposed to be home, but youâre so damn excited, you can't help it. snacks you know he likes are prepared, his favorite blanket is set out for you two to bury yourselves in together just like you used to, and a bottle of wine along with a couple of glasses are set to the side in case he wants to let loose for the first in forever. you grin as you take everything in, counting down the minutes until he gets here. but when 30 minutes have passed after the promised time with no sign of beomgyu, your grin begins to fade. an hour, and the grin has been completely dropped. an hour and thirty minutes, and itâs a full-on frown. two hours, and youâre angrily standing up and putting everything away with the type of aggression that can only be born from long-suppressed resentment.Â
when he finally returns home, youâre practically vibrating with rage.Â
âwhere have you been?â you seethe.Â
âwork, where else?â he snaps as he shrugs off his coat with a sigh. âwhat's your problem now?â
you can't believe it. you can't fucking believe it.Â
âwhat do you mean, whatâs my problem? did you seriously forget? and why haven't you checked your fucking phone?â you spit, knowing you're letting your rage consume you, but still letting it take control. itâs not fair, nothing with beomgyu ever is.
âforget what? in case you haven't noticed, iâm busting my ass trying to get this promotion. i don't have the goddamn time or energy to be at your beck and call!â beomgyu retorts, making you feel ridiculous for a brief moment before your gaze hardens again.
âyou were supposed to be home hours ago! do you have any idea how long it took for me to set everything up for us? iâm so sick of you acting like iâm fucking crazy for wanting to spend time with you!â you argue, your voice growing increasingly louder with every syllable.
âthatâs what you're pissed about? are you hearing yourself? itâs a fucking movie, babe. iâve had a long day, i don't want to come home and hear you attacking me for missing a movie.âÂ
itâs so⊠condescending. so dismissive. this isn't who he is, or so you thought, but maybe it is. maybe youâve just been in denial, and maybe this is your wake-up call.Â
âiâve been waiting for over two hours for you to come home. i had everything planned out for us, iâve looked forward to this all week, and you're treating me like iâm the unreasonable one. you never listen to me, you never talk to me, you never even spend time with me! you're always criticizing everything i do and sayâyou act like being around me is the hardest thing youâve ever had to do. iââ
âwith the way you're acting, maybe it is,â he cuts in fiercely. âare you so goddamn clueless, you can't see that i don't even have time to enjoy the stupid shit you did tonight, let alone set it up myself? i'm glad you have the spare energy, babe. but i don't. quit acting like a victim all the fucking time just because i can't sit around and play house with you.â
your scowl melts away, twisting into a frown as your eyes widen and water. beomgyu, of course, notices.Â
âi didn't mean that. i would never mean that. i justâŠâ he sighs, âiâm really tired, okay? i know you worked hard to make tonight special, but iâve worked hard today, too. we can have a movie night another time, alright?â
itâs a weak compromise, if you can even call it that, but you realize you're just as tired. with a teary scoff, you stomp to the bathroom and slam the door. you run the faucet as you let the tears fall. you're angry, you're sad, you're embarrassed. you're trying so hard to be patient, but he doesn't even care. and when you finally lost your temper, he made you feel like a fucking child. like you're crazy. like you're unreasonable. like you're nothing to him. and maybe⊠maybe you are.Â
maybe beomgyu isn't here anymore because he doesn't think being here is more important than chasing his godforsaken promotion. maybe your earnest attempt at recapturing some semblance of joy is just another unwelcome inconvenience. maybe you're an unwelcome inconvenience. maybe him not breaking up with you after months of turmoil isn't a sign of his desire to make things work, but because he's just too tired to properly do it. beomgyu doesn't like anything about you anymoreâyou know that. he can't even be in the same room as you without pointing out a quirk or benign action of yours he finds unbearably irritating.
you don't know.Â
when you emerge from the bathroom, you expect him to be waiting for you on the edge of the bed, ready to hold you and tell you how sorry he is. you're not sure why you ever thought that, because you already knew you'd see what you're seeing now: beomgyu passed out beneath the covers. your heart breaks all over again, and it takes everything in you not to scream. he's such a fucking asshole. he ripped you apart, and yet, he's sleeping like a baby. and tomorrow, he'll get up, get dressed, and go to work. like always.
you slide into bed beside him, but you stubbornly refuse to touch him. it's not like he'll notice either way, since he's pretty much unconscious while you're curled up into a ball, trying to maintain some pretense of dignity. but who are you kidding anymore? what dignity is there in a relationship, in a life, like this? so, you cry silent tears until you fall into the most fitful sleep of your life.Â
the next morning, beomgyu is awake long before you, as usual. you sit up in bed, tucking your knees under chin and staring at nothing in particular. he enters the bedroom, having forgotten his tie. when he sees you, he sighs.
âiâmââ he sounds like he's about to apologize, but he doesn't. âiâll see you later, okay? we can talk about this tonight.â he goes to maybe give you a kiss, but he stops short when he sees how tense you look. you don't respond to his words, don't even nod in understanding, so he sighs again as he grabs his tie and rushes out the apartment, carelessly shutting the door behind him.
you already know what tonight will bring. beomgyu will explain that he's dealing with yet another cataclysmic event at work, and youâll have to listen to him do it. more than likely, youâll temporarily feel guilty enough to push your feelings down, but the resentment will linger until it erupts again. he will make no changes in his behavior, of course, and you'll be back here in no time. you want to believe he's trying his best, but you don't anymore. you can't hide behind the flimsy excuse that he doesn't know how much he's hurting you, because after last night, he certainly does. and now, he's off having a day like any other at work in the aftermath of a fight that was so devastating to you, you had to take sick time and call out from your own job. youâve tried fixing things in what you thought was a healthy way, and it didn't help. and after your meltdown, and his consequential dismissal of it, you finally realize you were kidding yourself the entire time.
the scene that truly pushes you over the edge is when another character asks the woman, âdo you feel held by him? does he feel like home to you?â you gasp when you hear it, and a part of you wishes you hadnât, but an even larger part of you knows itâs what you needed to hear the most. it rings in your head incessantly for⊠youâre not even sure how long.
do you feel held by beomgyu? no, you feel like youâre doing all of the holding, to the point where youâve dug your nails into his flesh in an attempt to keep you two together. if you let go, what would he do? heâd be grateful, probably. heâd sigh in relief that you did what heâs been aching to do for so long. you don't rely on him for anything other than the title of being your boyfriend, but the security, the trust, the love is something youâve more or less accepted was dead and buried long ago.
does beomgyu feel like home to you? you can't remember the last time he did. you don't turn to him for comfort, because the thing you need the most comfort about is him and how he makes you feel. you don't have a home with him, not anymore, since the life you two have built together seems more like a prison than a place of refuge.Â
as the credits roll, tears stream down your face. you can't keep living like this. what's the point of living with someone who hates you? for stability? but you feel more insecure than you ever did when you were alone. for familiarity? beomgyu is a stranger to youâyou don't know him anymore. for love? you laugh at the thought. what love?Â
youâve never been more sure of anything in your life. you sprint to your room and begin to stuff your suitcases, leaving behind anything that might remind you of beomgyu. when youâre finally finished, youâre panting as you look around your apartment for the last time. you wipe the sweat off your brow before you find a paper and pen and scribble down a haphazard goodbye. you know the mature thing to do would be to look him in his eyes and tell him youâre leaving, try to make him understand why. but youâre so fucking tired of trying to manhandle him into listening to you, and you can't bear to see the indifference you already know he'd harbor in his gaze, or worse, the relief. you think that might really kill you.Â
in the end, the note is pretty short. all it says is that youâre leaving and he should already know why, but if he doesn't, thatâs not your problem anymore. the last words say, âi donât want to see you again.â
-
all you do after your departure is wonder, wonder, wonder; that's the thing that haunts you most. you wonder if you should have said something more in your note goodbye, wonder if you should have told him you wanted to leave like the adult you're supposed to be, wonder how he would have responded had you actually had said conversation. it's suffocating, but there are worse things, too. wondering if he sighed in relief when he saw that you were gone, wondering if he bothered to keep any of the trinkets you two had collected over the years, wondering if he wishes he had done this diffâno. no. you refuse to fucking think that way. he doesn't want you in his life; how many more ways could he have spelled it out for you?Â
but the wondering doesn't stop. any attempt to push it down feels like trying to push a beach ball underwater: futile, exhausting, and strangely humiliating. you try to bury it, but it breaks out of its grave every time. you try to drown it, but it grabs you by the ankles and pulls you under. you try to live with it, let it exist beside you as you distract yourself with whatever you can get your desperate hands on, but it's always in the corner of your eye. and with it, comes a sickening platter of unwelcome feelings. sadness, of course, because you miss him. anxiety, because you're unsure if he misses you. anger, because he probably doesn't.Â
anger. you want to laugh at its belated arrival. there were times where you thought you were angry with beomgyu, and for all intents and purposes, you were; but it was a different kind of anger then. it was resentment, exasperation, the primal anger of a dog biting the hand of a careless handler. but no, this is not the same. you're angry because, even with the âblessingâ of hindsight, you still can't quite understand why things happened the way they did. you're angry at beomgyu, that goes without saying, but you're also angry at yourself. you're unsure if you're angry that you didn't bite as hard as you should have, or if you're angry because you simply shouldn't have bitten at all. should you have screamed out all of your grievances, or would things have been better if you had been more patient?
time heals all wounds, or so you've been told a million times since you left. you've always thought that to be true, because the further you get from somethingâsomeoneâthe more insignificant it becomes in the grand scheme of things; but the very notion seems ridiculous to you now. in fact, the more time that passes, the more important it all feels. it's supposed to get easier, but it never does.
so, when youâre crying to your therapist for the millionth time about how torn up you feel about everything, she cautiously suggests you join a trial to erase the memories. it's not like there's a ton of evidence to support it, and it all sounds like pseudoscience to you, but you're desperate. surprisingly, things aren't that difficult to figure out. they say they're going to take your old memories, but it's best if you move elsewhere for a time to prevent any triggers that could ruin the illusion in the meantime. then, they replace that part of your life in your head with a vague retelling of what happened.Â
the process is thorough, but it's not foolproof. and that's exactly what you are: a fool.
you cry out as a sharp pain pierces through your skull, dropping the notebook to the ground and stumbling backwards until you hit the bed, collapsing on the edge of it. more and more memories flood your head relentlessly, and while some of them are lovelyâthe most beautiful things you've ever seenâothers are filled with all of the times beomgyu made you feel like the most burdensome thing he's ever had to tolerate.
beomgyu rushes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, his hair still dripping wet from frantically exiting mid-shower.Â
âare you okay?! i heardâoh,â he gasps, immediately registering the truth. there you are, the you he knows, and the you that knows him.
all you can do is look up at him with angry tears streaming down your face, scowling as you try to catch your breath.
âwhat the fuck is wrong with you?â you pant between heaving breaths.
âplease, just listen to me,â beomgyu pleads. âi⊠i'm sorry. iââ
âoh? you're sorry? thank christ, it's a miracleâi thought that would never happen! beomgyuâs finally saying he's sorry,â you snarl.
âiâm sorry, i know i was a piece of shit, but i⊠i didn't mean it,â he says so softly, it's nearly inaudible. he thinks it can't get any worse than this, but it can. it really, really can.
âdo you have any idea how you made me feel? how anxious i was every fucking day, because no matter what i did, i knew you'd find a reason to be angry with me. you didn't listenâyou never just fucking listen! everything is all aboutâwas all aboutâfuck!â you exclaim as you hold your head, trying to temper the ache. the memories seem to be happening right now, but also so long ago. it's all jumbled up in your head. you're feeling everything you felt back then, yes, but you're also feeling everything that's happening now. it's just too much.
âwhat's wrong? d-does it hurt?â beomgyu asks in distress as he sits beside you and reaches for your head.
âdon't fucking touch me!â you yell as you bat his hands away. âwhy do you care? you have no problem fucking me up, making me feel small, making me feel like i'm fucking insane for reacting to you treating me like shit!â you shriek, then you remember the past few months, how he's become one of your best friends so quicklyâhow he's wormed his way into your heart again. how sweet and charming and perfect he's been. âand you⊠you let me talk to you again, after everything? you acted like everything was normal, like you didn't know me, for what? so you could get me to be with you, just so you could do the same shit all over again?â
âwhat? no, of course not. i'm sorry. i'm so, so sorry. i wish i could take it all back, i wish i would have done things right. i've been trying to show you iâm different now, and iâll never be the way i was again. but that was before sumin told me everything, and i swear to god, i was going to leave the company and let you be. i didn't want to hurt you. i thought i was helping you remember, that you forgot on your own. i didn't get the letter they were supposed to send, so iââ
âoh my fucking god,â you interrupt. âyou have an excuse for everything, beomgyu! is there any context where it's your fault?!â
this makes beomgyu pause.
âyes, i know. i know tricking you was wrong, and i'm sorry. and i know⊠i know everything happened because of me, because you're better off forgetting about me. i just⊠i thought you could fall in love with me again, and i could show you i'm not that person anymore. i wanted to show you i would never ever hurt you.âÂ
âagain, you mean? you'd never hurt me again, because you already did hurt me," you seethe.
âi know,â he sobs, tears he's been trying to control now escaping from his warm, brown eyes. you lovedâlove?âthem so much, they used to make you ache. they still do. âi know i did, but iââ
âdo you have any idea how hard i tried to be patient for you?â you cut in once more. now that you remember everything, it's like your mouth has no choice but to run. âi gave everything i had to try to make us work, but you didn't even care!â
âi know you did. i didn't know it before, i understand that, but I know it nowâitâs all i know. i love it, and i love you, and iâm sorry. iâm so, so fucking sorry.â
when beomgyu comes home that night after an especially arduous day of work, he feels a sense of dread at the thought of having to continue your conversation from earlier. even worse, he worked late again, so he knows you'll probably be even more upset. after all, how could he look you in the eyes as you finally expressed how hurt you are, when he's just got done doing the same shit all over again? with a deep breath, he unlocks the door.
heâs surprised to see that all of the lights are off. usually, youâll stay up late for him, especially when thereâs an argument to be had. in a way he will later come to hate himself for, heâs relieved to deduce that youâre probably fast asleep. this way, he'll have time to rest before the inevitable fight to come. he hangs up his coat and puts his keys on the hook you had suggested to install because he always loses them, and he heads to the bathroom to do his nightly routine before bed.Â
he mindlessly brushes his teeth, pondering what heâs going to say to you when you two finally get the chance to talk; but he notices something strange. itâs just a feeling, at firstâa nagging sort of unease that he can't quite place, but as he finishes brushing his teeth and puts his toothbrush back to the usual spot where yours usually sits, he realizes that itâs gone. heâs not entirely sure what compels him to do so, but he immediately checks the cabinets for your face wash. gone.Â
well, thereâs always the chance that you just decided to stay the night with a friend in order to cool down, but he finds it a bit strange that you didn't tell him, no matter how angry you probably are. he walks to your bedroom just to confirm his assumption, and sure enough, youâre not in bed. with another heavy sigh, he undresses and carelessly tosses his clothes into the hamper. he opens the dresser to throw on some pajamas, but the drawerâs usual weight is much lighter than he's accustomed to, almost causing it to fall out. in his haste to stop the drawer from completely coming off of its hinges, he quickly jostles it back closed. in doing so, a stray piece of paper falls down to the ground. he impatiently picks it up, flicking the light on to see what it is.
it's not what he thinks. it's not a grocery list, or a stray bill, or any of the mundane things he'd normally chalk it up to. it's not even an explanation of where you are for the night. no, it's an explanation of how you never want to see him again. honestly? explanation is doing an incredible amount of heavy-lifting, because nothing much is explained at all. he rereads the note over and over again, trying to comprehend it, but it's no use. it's not working out, you've left, and you never want to see him again. never want to see him again.
years of love, years of change and effort and vulnerability that can only exist when you truly love and understand someone, reduced to a very obviously hastily scrawled note. he almost wants to laugh, but he can't. he really wants to cry, but he can't. he can't do anything besides neatly fold up the measly scrap of paper, tuck it into his nightstand, and mechanically lie down in bed. he stares up at the ceiling for longer than he can even register. he doesn't think he sleeps, because there's no point. in all honesty, he's afraid that if he does, he'll try to reach for you and wake up in a panic when you're not there. one would think, at this time, he would immediately do some introspection. but he can't think of anything besides the note in his nightstand.
the next morning, when his alarm goes off, heâs already up and about. he does his morning routine, gets dressed impeccably, and eats breakfast on time. but when he gets to work, and the company directors excitedly offer him the managerial position he's been working like a goddamn dog for, he says, âthank you, but no.â
he actually does laugh at that. what are the chances of getting his ever-elusive promotion right after fucking up the entire reason he wanted it in the first place? what was the point of any of this? getting up early, working late, giving everything he had and then some, only to lose you in the process? he thought he was being strategicâthat he was investing in your future together. if he made enough money, nobody would look down on you for getting engaged to a man who previously cared more about casually playing music and living easy than keeping a respectable job. he'd cut his hair off, let his guitar collect dust, given up his notorious job-hopping reputation just to become somebody worthy of you. and for what, exactly? he's still proven himself to be unworthy, just in a different way.
yes, he lost himself for a while, he can acknowledge that, but he didn't realize just how bad it was. he didn't realize it was bad enough to make you leave. he should've, he knows. he knows he became the worst version of himself, but weren't you supposed to know him better than anyone else? weren't you supposed to know it was all for you? but deep down, maybe he understands that's not the entire truth. maybe he knows that part of it was because he was terrified of what people would say if he were to ask you to spend the rest of his life with him without indisputable proof of his ability to be a reliable partner. he thinks you're the best, so he wanted to be the best, too, in his own way. but instead, he's the bastard who blew up his relationship for something as utterly meaningless as a cushy position with better pay.
beomgyu was running towards the things he wanted the most with a fierce determinationâso close to having it all if he could just push a bit harder. but during his manic pursuit of âone last thingâ, he never realized he was losing the most important piece of his life: the cornerstone of his happiness. he was running towards something, and he got it, but the cost was too steep. the cost was everything. and now, he's still running, exhausted and trembling from exertion, but it's only because he's desperately trying to escape from the knowledge that his greed was the very thing that strangled your love to death.Â
he can never seem to run quickly enough away from said knowledge, and a particular vision is especially difficult to evade. it's of you carefully preparing your movie night together, beaming proudly at your handiwork once finished, then seating yourself on the couch as your head snaps up at every noise in the hopes that it's him about to walk through the door. he imagines your grin slowly dropping, your anticipatory posture deflating, then your efforts in undoing all of your thoughtful gestures once you finally realized he wasn't going to follow through. again. from that, beomgyu runs until his limbs ache and his lungs burn.
he can't even say sorry anymoreâthat's how thoroughly you've purged him out of your life. you don't want to see him, probably hate his guts. he tells himself he just needs to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and that if he fakes it until he makes it, maybe he'll feel like there's a reason for his currently purposeless existence again. until then, he'll grin and bear it. does it all feel overwhelming sometimes? does he wake up every morning with an ache he has to crush down just so he can keep up this pretense of a life? yes, of course. but mostly, he tries not to think about it. since he can't fix it, all he can do is keep himself together as best as he can.Â
even if he does run into you now by some cosmic miracle, he isn't sure what he'd even say. he knows apologizing is the right thing to do, but really, would you even want to hear it? he's always had a hard time apologizing, so he doubts he'd be any good at it. besides, for all of his attempts at âself-improvementâ, there's still a chance he'll be too cowardly to confront you after everything he's done. to be perfectly honest, he's barely holding onto his sanity as it is, and he fears that a direct interaction with you might shatter the delicate sense of normalcy (if you can even call it that) he's been able to find. maybe, if the opportunity somehow presents itself against all odds, he'll find the courage within himself to truly apologize.Â
he should have told you everything as soon as you raged at him. he should have explained his insecurities, his hopes, and his motives instead of lashing out and making you want to leave. he knows he can't go back, and any attempts to make amends after your breakup would be futile, since he missed the right time to do it. but still. still, if he could go back to that final night, heâd cry, heâd plead, heâd get on his fucking knees and beg like a goddamn dog.Â
beomgyu is crying so hard, you think he might actually choke. his face is flushed, and he doesn't even attempt to brush away the tears that stream down his mottled cheeks.Â
âthis isn't fucking fair,â you grit out between clenched teeth as hot, angry tears stream down your face. âwhy the fuck are you more upset than me? this isn't my fault, i'm the one who was fucked over, not you.â yes, you were, in so many ways. with your relationship, with your obliviousness to your history while he knew everything, with the way he didn't just leave you alone. you're so fucking frustrated, but more than that, youâre hurting. and even if you want to irrationally deny it, you know your pain makes beomgyu hurt, too.
âi-iâm not,â he chokes out weakly. âi know i was the one who hurt you, and i know that everything i blamed you for was only your reaction to what i did. so⊠so, i'm not more upset than you are. i would never, because iâŠi don't deserve to be,â he finishes with a poorly-restrained, shuddering sob that seizes his entire body.
âdon't lie. i hate it when you lie. just be fucking honest,â you hiss as you take in just how distraught he looks, but the heat in your words is inundated with an overwhelming sadness. you hate that he can hear it, but you know he does.
âi'm⊠i'm sad because i'm making you sad, because making you sad is all i really know how to do,â he whimpers as his shoulders shake. you hate him so much right now. you resent him. you're disgusted by him. or, at the very least, you're trying to be.
âreally? you're sad because you make me sad? wow, i wish you felt that way before,â you say with a strangled, embittered laugh. you hate the way it grates against your ears.Â
âit did make me sad, but i'm just⊠i was so overwhelmed, so frustrated, and i thoughtâi mean, i was angry, because i thought i was doing it all for us, and i was still fucking up. i w-would never⊠that's not an excuse, but that's why. i know you did everything you could to support me, but that just made me angrier, because i knew i was failing you, and i knew you deserved better than me. you always did. i'mâi know i was wrong, i know that, and i know that doesn't make it better. so, please, please, don't feel guilty. i deserve to feel the way i do.â
âbut why?â you ask exasperatedly, the confusion from your regained memory and his illogical words bubbling up in your head viciously. âif you knew you were hurting me, why did you keep doing it?â
âi w-was just trying to make us happy. i thought, you know, if i could just get us through the worst of it, it'd be worth it.â
âbeomgyu, i was happy, and i didn't need all the extra shit you were so convinced we did. how do you think that makes me feel? madeâmakes! i don't know!â you borderline scream.
âi know, i know that now. we⊠i just⊠i thought i needed to give you everything. buy us a house, get you an engagement ring to propose, plan our wedding, and i thought i would get it if i worked harder. i knew things were bad, i knew i was being an asshole, but i⊠i just thought i had more time.â his words are barely coherent, but god, do you hear them. he wanted to propose, and he didn't tell you because he wanted to surprise you with the money to do anything and everything you wanted. and yet, in doing so, he made you feel worse than you ever have. itâs so unfair, you want to scream.
â... i need to get out of here,â you murmur with a sharp breath as you stand up to leave.
you know beomgyu. you've known him for years. youâve seen beomgyu laugh so hard, he cried. you've seen him sick enough to vomit, sleeping in your bed with messy hair, carelessly singing in the shower, lazily sprawled out on the couch with his glasses pushed up against the bridge of his nose. and, most relevantly in this moment, you've seen him at his absolute worstâhanging on by a thread and frazzled as he frustratedly tugged on his hair; so it was only natural for you to assume you've seen every part of him. but never, not in a million years, have you seen him like he is now: dropping to his knees before you as he looks up at you with tears streaming down his cheeks.
âplease,â he says tremblingly. âp-please, don't go. i'm begging you. look at me, please. i'm begging, i'm begging like i should've begged you before.â he takes his shaking hands and grabs yours. you could pull away if you really wanted to, but youâre so floored, you don't. his words only grow more desperate. youâve never seen him so afraid, like his life is on the line. and it is.
"iâm sorry. iâm sorry i was so fucking cruel. i know it doesn't matter what i was trying to do, all that matters is what i did. but⊠but, please, just don't go. don't leave. i know i hurt you, i know i deserve to be alone, and i know you deserve better than me,â he sobs. âi'm so, so fucking sorry i treated you like you were unimportant. that's not true, nothing is more important to me than you. every single fucking day i get to be with you is the most important day of my life. iâm sorry i made you feel like there was anything i needed more than you right here with me, but look at me nowââ he looks around the room he hasn't been able to rearrange since you left, âi don't have anything if i don't have you. i need you. i love you. iâm sorry. iâm so, so fucking sorry. please, iâll do anything if you just stay this time. iâll be a fucking angel if you promise me you won't go.â
what are you supposed to say to that? not too long ago, beomgyu was insisting he was going to let you go. but you suppose you regaining your memories has changed that, since living in ignorance is no longer an option for you. it appears that he's doing what he's wished he would've done in the first place. you don't have the chance to reply, because he's hysterically trying to convince you to stay.
âsince you left me, all iâve ever done is work, come home, and force myself to go straight to sleep, just so i can dream about you,â beomgyu babbles between tears. âbefore you came back, the best part of my day was when i first wake up. everything feels okay then, just for a second, until i reach for you and remember you're not there. and now that you're here, all i think about is how much i want to see you again. i miss you, i miss your smile, i miss your laugh. i miss how just being around you made me want to be a better person; and i know i failed at that, but i'm begging you to let me try againâjust one more time. i'll do anything. please.â
there was a time in which you thought a piece of beomgyuâs heart belonged solely to you, but you eventually came to believe that you were wrong. and now, you're still wrong; because you don't have a piece of it, you have all of it in your handsâpulsing with a beat so frantic, it almost hurts you to hold it. you could crush it, if you wanted. that would be easy. you could leave again, you could walk out of his life and try your best to forget. you could scream at him, call him a piece of shit. you could coldly look into his eyes and tell him you don't care what happens to him after your departure. you could be kind, tell him he'll be okay eventually, even though you know he wouldn't be; because no matter how you'd leave him, the truth is, you wouldnât be, either.
but something bothers you. beomgyu explained his feelings to you, but you've never outwardly acknowledged your next words to him.
âi was so mad at you,â you hoarsely admit, your cheeks warm with tears. âi should have told you how angry i was instead of letting it turn so⊠so ugly. i told myself you should've known, but i never said anything until i couldn't stand it anymore.â
âno, no, no, itâs not your fault,â he insists, gripping your hands more tightly as he looks up at you. âyou were right, i knew i was hurting you. i shouldâve talked to you, should've told you the truth. and iâm sorry for not listening when you finally told me how you were feeling. i think⊠i think i was angry that you said what iâd been so afraid of hearing. and iâm so sorry. i swear to god, i will never, ever be like that again. iâll be a fucking angel. just don't leave me, please. d-don'tâŠâ
you know beomgyu from before, and you couldn't stand that version of him. but you realize you know him now, too. you know beomgyu is incredibly patient, willing to give up the things he thought he wanted most for you. more than that, you know why he was so angry all the time, and you know it wasn't just the result of a meaningless pursuit of prestige. he was awful, you both know it. he made you unbelievably anxious back then, and he knew that. but now, you know it wasn't out of contempt or out of the unspoken desire to cut you loose and prioritize his career. is it excusable? of course not, but he's not claiming that it is. and you know, from the way he's looking at you like you're his whole world, that he meant every word he said about thinking you wereâand still areâthe most important thing in the world to him. and you know, though you temporarily forgot it, that he's the most important thing in the world to you, too.Â
why else did you look for him so much in wonbin? why else did you feel the need to come back to this city, choose the one company in which he works, and feel so possessive over his affections? why else did so many memories of him leak into your unsuspecting mind? unbeknownst to you, you tried to mold wonbin into the man you love the most, will always love the most: beomgyu. god, you've missed him.
âi... i've missed you,â you rasp. âeven when i didn't remember, iâve missed you so much. i was... i was always looking for you. because it can't be anyone else, just you.â
beomgyu cries even more, which he didn't think was possible. he tremulously stands up, grabs you, then peppers every inch of your tear-stained face with desperate kisses.
âmy girl. my sweet girl,â he whimpers shakily between kisses, his breath a welcome warmth on your cheeks. âit can't be anyone else for me, either. do you know how much i love you?â he does. more than anything. more than his reputation, more than his pride, more than himself.
finally, beomgyu captures your lips in an aching, but incomparably tender, kiss. it's different from the drunken one you two sharedâit's intentional, it's teeming with the comfort and gentleness of two people who truly accept each other. neither of you care about the way the taste is tinged with tears, because, really, even if it's imperfect, nothing and no one else could compare. and lastly, there is no doubt in your mind that beomgyu could never want anything else more than he wants you.
because the truth is, beomgyu would rather be alone than try to fill his emptiness with anyone or anything else. if you're coming, beomgyu will be waiting. to be perfectly honest, even if he knows you're not coming⊠he'll still wait. he'd much prefer to live off dreams of you, just like he has been, than forget you. and, now more than ever, you know you feel the same.
notes pt. 2: reposting and gonna try not to stress as much about it. i'm just really... a lot and this meant so much to me/was so difficult to write i would really love to hear from you all. please don't be mean like i'm so serious i hope this didn't disappoint y'all. if you liked this please reblog + give feedback, it makes it all worth it!
Everyone at university says Park Seonghwa and his friend group are dangerous rich kids no one should get close to. Y/N believes it too, until one terrible day leads her into an animal shelter where she finds Seonghwa holding a bunny with the softest smile she has ever seen. From that moment on, she becomes the only person who sees the truth behind his cold reputation.
Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader
Tropes: cold boy x soft girl, Misunderstood male lead, Soft seonghwa, Strangers to friends to lovers, Emotional healing, Found family, Protective friend group, Wrong first impression, Reputation vs reality
Genre: romance, slow burn romance, university au, hurt/comfort, slice of life
Featuring: ateez as seonghwaâs friend group, roommate!soomin
Main Masterlist | Seonghwas Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | [Part 4?]
This is Part 2
Seonghwa considered not going to lecture.
The thought came to him the second he opened his eyes.
It sat there, heavy and tempting, while the pale morning light filtered through the gap in his curtains and painted a quiet stripe across the floor of his bedroom. For a few still seconds, he simply lay there staring at the ceiling and imagined the relief of staying exactly where he was.
If he stayed in bed, he would not have to wonder whether Y/N would be there.
If he stayed in bed, he would not have to think about the possibility of seeing her look at him with hurt again.
If he stayed in bed, he could postpone the problem for one more day.
It was not a particularly noble instinct, but it was honest.
Unfortunately, honesty had never been much protection against the people he lived with.
A sharp knock hit his bedroom door.
Then another.
Then Hongjoong's voice came through the wood with maddening calm.
"If you are pretending to be dead to avoid adulthood, it is not working."
Seonghwa closed his eyes briefly.
"I'm awake."
"Good. Then get up."
He turned his head toward the clock.
Too early.
Far too early for this level of accountability.
He sat up slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. He had barely managed to get his feet onto the floor before the door opened anyway.
Hongjoong leaned against the frame, already dressed, coffee in one hand and judgment in the other.
"You look terrible," he said.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome. Lecture starts in forty minutes."
Seonghwa looked at him flatly. "I know when lecture starts."
"And yet you are still sitting there like a Victorian heroine with consumption."
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Seonghwa's mouth, but not much more.
Hongjoong watched him for a beat. Some of the teasing faded.
"You were thinking about skipping."
It was not phrased like a question.
Seonghwa exhaled. "Maybe."
Hongjoong took a sip of coffee. "No."
Seonghwa stared.
"No?" he repeated.
"No," Hongjoong said again. "You do not get to hide in this apartment because you feel guilty."
"I was not hiding."
"That is exactly what you were doing."
From somewhere behind Hongjoong came Yunho's voice.
"Is he still in bed?"
"Yes."
A second later Yunho appeared too, all easy warmth and far too much morning energy, peering around Hongjoong into the room.
"Oh, wow. He really does look bad."
Seonghwa picked up the nearest pillow and threw it.
Yunho laughed and dodged out of the way.
"Violent rich kid behavior," he announced to no one in particular.
That phrase, stupidly enough, made Seonghwa's stomach tighten.
Rumors.
Whispers.
All the things people thought they knew.
He pushed himself to his feet before the others could say anything else.
"Fine," he muttered. "I'm going."
Hongjoong stepped aside immediately, victorious in the quiet irritating way only he could be.
"Good."
By the time Seonghwa had showered, dressed, and forced himself into a state resembling presentability, the apartment was fully awake.
Which meant the kitchen looked like a disaster zone.
Wooyoung was trying to toast two bagels while simultaneously arguing with Mingi over something so stupid that Seonghwa could not even follow it properly. San was perched on the counter eating fruit and contributing comments designed purely to make Wooyoung more dramatic. Jongho stood by the sink calmly making tea as though there were not three separate arguments happening around him. Yeosang sat at the island scrolling through his phone in complete serenity, somehow untouched by the volume of the room.
And Soomin, apparently there again, was sitting on one of the stools with her chin in her hand, watching them all with the expression of someone who had long ago accepted her brother's social circle as a traveling circus.
The moment she saw Seonghwa, she narrowed her eyes.
"Are you going to class," she asked, "or are you planning to continue your tragic brooding."
"He's going," Hongjoong answered before Seonghwa could.
Soomin hummed. "Good. Growth."
Seonghwa ignored that and reached for the coffee pot.
As he poured himself a cup, Wooyoung looked over and said, "You should wear something especially intimidating today."
Mingi snorted. "Why."
Wooyoung gestured vaguely. "For the rumors. Give the people what they want."
"I think they manage to invent enough on their own," Jongho said.
That, annoyingly, was true.
They left the apartment together twenty minutes later, moving through the city in the loose formation they always did, too used to one another to need much coordination. On mornings like this, when all eight of them were headed to campus at once, the effect was apparently enough to fuel half the mythology students kept spinning around them.
Seonghwa noticed it even before they stepped through the main gates.
The looks.
The lowered voices.
The way conversations shifted when they passed.
He had lived with it for long enough that it usually slid off him without much effort. Let them whisper. Let them make up stories. None of it changed anything real.
Today it felt sharper.
Maybe because he had spent the entire night thinking about Y/N and the way assumptions could bruise. Maybe because he had heard Soomin describe her coming home crying and had been unable to shake the image since.
As they crossed the courtyard, two girls standing near the fountain glanced their way and immediately leaned closer together.
Seonghwa did not catch every word, only fragments.
"That one is definitely the scariest..."
"...heard they got into a fight off campus..."
"...my friend said one of them has family connections to the mafia..."
He looked away before he could hear the rest.
Beside him, Yeosang slid his hands into his pockets.
"I hate mornings," he said mildly.
Seonghwa glanced at him.
Yeosang's expression was calm, but Seonghwa knew him well enough to hear the subtext.
Not mornings.
This.
The constant theater of other people's imaginations.
Ahead of them, Wooyoung had apparently overheard something too, because he turned halfway around and muttered, "I swear one day I'm going to start telling them we secretly run an underground knitting ring just to see if that becomes campus lore."
"It would," Yunho said cheerfully.
Hongjoong did not even look up from his phone. "Do not encourage the rumors."
"I was going to make them worse on purpose."
"That is still encouraging them."
San laughed under his breath.
Seonghwa stayed quiet.
He could not stand it today.
The whispers clung harder than usual. He could feel them following at his back, bending around him, trying to turn living people into stories that were easier to consume.
And people believed what they wanted to believe.
That was the part that always got under his skin if he let himself dwell on it too long.
Not because any of the rumors were especially creative. Most of them were embarrassingly obvious. Rich boys. Private schools. Nice apartment. Expensive watches. Reserved expressions. It did not take much for people to build the rest.
No, what bothered him was how little proof anyone needed once a narrative made them feel satisfied.
He had done the same thing yesterday.
He had looked at Y/N in the shelter doorway and decided what she must be there for before she had even managed to get a full sentence out.
He had believed what fit easiest.
The realization made his jaw tighten as they entered the main building and headed for the lecture hall.
Inside, the room buzzed with the usual low pre-class energy. Students talked in clusters, shuffled papers, scrolled through phones. The professor had not arrived yet.
Seonghwa followed the others toward the back rows automatically.
He did not look for Y/N at first.
Or rather, he told himself he was not looking for her.
But almost immediately, his attention snagged on the corner near the front where she always sat.
And then stayed there.
For a second, he thought he had the wrong seat.
He slowed.
There was someone there, yes. A girl sitting with her notebook already open, shoulders slightly rounded inward the way he recognized. But the bright colors were gone.
No yellow.
No blue.
No embroidered flowers.
Just black jeans. A plain gray sweater. A dark bag on the floor beside her that was not the bright pink one she usually carried.
Seonghwa stopped fully in the aisle.
Hongjoong nearly walked into him.
"What," Hongjoong muttered.
Seonghwa did not answer.
He was still looking at Y/N.
She looked smaller somehow without the colors.
That was not logical. Clothing did not change a person's shape. And yet the girl sitting quietly in that seat seemed dimmed in a way he could not ignore, as if someone had taken a highlighter to her and rubbed all the brightness away.
His stomach sank.
He knew, rationally, that one outfit could mean nothing. People wore muted clothes all the time. A gray sweater was not a tragedy. Black jeans were not a cry for help.
And yet.
After what Yeosang had told him last night.
After what he himself had said.
The absence of color felt pointed enough to bruise.
He took his seat more slowly than usual.
Y/N did not look back once.
Maybe she had not noticed him come in. Maybe she had and was determined to ignore him. Both options felt deserved.
The lecture began.
Seonghwa heard almost none of it.
The professor talked through graphs and projections in a dry measured voice, but the words barely stayed in Seonghwa's head long enough to form meaning. His focus kept drifting downward toward that gray sweater near the front and the neat way Y/N wrote notes, never once turning around.
He noticed stupid things.
How she tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear three times in the span of ten minutes.
How her pencil paused whenever someone near her laughed, like she was checking if the sound had anything to do with her.
How the new bag slumped differently against her chair than the pink one had, less bright even in shape somehow.
He hated that he noticed any of it.
Or maybe he hated what it said about him that he had not noticed before.
Around him, the others were quieter than usual, likely because even they had enough sense not to create chaos in the middle of a lecture. Still, he could feel the occasional flick of attention his way from Hongjoong, who had almost certainly already realized that Seonghwa was paying more attention to a girl in a gray sweater than to anything being written on the board.
Near the end of the class, when the professor had turned to erase part of the whiteboard and half the room had started mentally checking out already, Seonghwa heard the two guys seated in the row in front of him start whispering.
Normally he would not have cared.
Students whispered all the time.
But then one of them glanced toward the front corner, and Seonghwa knew exactly who they were looking at before either of them said her name.
"She actually looks kind of hot today."
Seonghwa's eyes sharpened.
The second guy leaned slightly to get a better look. "Y/N?"
"Yeah."
A short laugh.
"Guess the kindergarten look really was the problem."
Something cold moved through Seonghwa's chest.
The first guy continued, apparently unaware that the person directly behind him had gone very still.
"I mean, seriously. Without all those childish colors, she's cute."
The second one hummed, considering. "Should I ask her out?"
His friend smirked. "Maybe. She's probably the type who'd fall in love just because someone was nice to her once."
That did it.
Seonghwa's expression hardened before he could stop it.
There was something especially repulsive in the casual entitlement of it. In the way they had stripped her down in two directions at once. Mocked her when she dressed in ways that made her happy, then immediately decided she was more desirable now that she looked plainer. As if her value had become visible only once she made herself easier for them to consume.
And the worst part was that Y/N sat close enough to them that there was every chance she could hear.
Maybe not every word.
Maybe enough.
He was already on his feet before he had fully decided to stand.
The movement was abrupt enough that several heads turned.
The professor, halfway through a sentence, paused.
Even the two boys in front of him glanced back, startled.
Seonghwa barely noticed.
He stepped into the aisle and started down toward the front.
The room went oddly quiet.
Not silent. Pens still scratched. A chair creaked somewhere. But the kind of quiet produced when a hundred small curiosities suddenly align.
Students watched him.
Of course they did.
Park Seonghwa did not stand up in the middle of lecture and walk toward the front for no reason.
At the back, he was vaguely aware of Wooyoung leaning toward Hongjoong with an expression that probably meant this would become a whole discussion later.
The professor opened his mouth as if to ask what Seonghwa thought he was doing, then apparently thought better of it and simply stared.
Seonghwa kept walking.
Y/N did not notice him until he stopped beside her desk.
When she finally looked up, she jolted so visibly that guilt and frustration twisted together in his chest.
Her eyes widened.
For one suspended second she just stared at him, clearly too shocked to react.
Up close, the gray sweater looked even softer and sadder.
Ridiculous thought.
He ignored it.
"Come with me," he said quietly.
Her lips parted.
The color in her face changed too fast, surprise running straight into alarm.
He could practically see the panic build.
Not because of the words themselves, maybe, but because he had spoken to her in the lecture hall. In public. In front of everyone.
Around them, he could feel attention gathering like static.
Y/N looked stricken.
She glanced around once, maybe realizing how many people were watching, and then back up at him with the kind of helpless uncertainty that made something in him feel suddenly vicious toward the entire room.
"I..." she started.
Her voice was barely there.
He softened his own without thinking. "Come on."
She still did not move.
Of course she did not.
He had given her every reason yesterday to distrust any request that came from him.
Behind them, the professor cleared his throat in confusion. No one else spoke.
Seonghwa did the only thing he could think of in the moment, which was perhaps not the best decision but was already happening before he could reconsider it.
He reached down and took her gently by the arm.
Not hard.
Just enough to urge her up from the chair.
She made a tiny startled sound and stood immediately, more out of shock than agreement.
The movement sent her pencil rolling across the desk.
For one second, Seonghwa thought she might yank her arm away or tell him to leave her alone.
Instead she looked up at him, shaken and pink-cheeked, and whispered, "I need my stuff."
The words were so small he almost missed them.
He blinked.
Then, to her visible surprise, he let go of her arm at once and reached for her notebook.
The lecture hall remained deeply, painfully attentive.
He ignored it.
Y/N stared as he closed the notebook, gathered the loose handouts into a stack, capped her pen, and slid everything carefully into her bag with much more precision than he usually applied to objects that were not his own.
Her eyes only grew wider.
He picked up the bag from beside her chair and held it out.
For a moment she just looked at it, as if this simple act had broken her ability to predict him even further.
Then she took it with both hands.
"Th-thank you," she whispered.
The stammer hit him strangely hard.
He stepped back enough to let her move around the chair.
"Let's go."
This time she followed.
The room tracked them the entire way.
Seonghwa could feel it on his shoulders, a hundred silent questions crackling in the air as he led her up the aisle and out of the lecture hall with Y/N clutching her bag strap tightly enough to whiten her knuckles.
The second the door shut behind them, the noise of the room dulled to a muffled blur.
The hallway outside was quieter, emptier, sunlit through tall windows. Their footsteps echoed faintly against the floor.
Y/N stopped walking first.
Seonghwa turned.
She stood a few feet away from him, bag held against her chest almost like a shield. Her face was pale beneath the flush in her cheeks, and her eyes were huge.
For one second neither of them spoke.
Then she asked, very softly, "Why did you do that?"
The question was not angry.
If anything, that made it harder.
It was frightened and confused and exhausted in a way that made him suddenly, acutely aware of how this must look from her side. Yesterday he had accused her of following him. Today he had walked across a lecture hall and pulled her out of class in front of everyone.
Excellent work, Seonghwa.
He exhaled slowly.
He had thought only of getting her away from those boys before they could say anything else. He had not thought enough about how abrupt and alarming his method would feel to someone already anxious around him.
She shifted her weight, still watching him like she was bracing for impact.
Seonghwa looked at her for a long moment.
The gray sweater.
The dark bag.
The careful way she held herself, like she was trying not to spill out of her own edges.
And beneath all of it, the memory of her in yellow and blue, bright enough that even he had noticed.
He swallowed once.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
Her fingers tightened on the bag strap.
"About yesterday."
At those words, something fragile changed in her expression.
Not surprise.
Not exactly fear either.
Something more like resignation.
As if she had known, on some level, that whatever had started in the shelter had not truly ended there.
Seonghwa looked at her standing in that quiet hallway and had the sudden impossible realization that apologizing might actually be harder than anything else he had done this week.
Not because he did not mean it.
But because Y/N already looked like someone expecting to be hurt again.
Y/N followed him because she did not know how not to.
And somehow he was going to have to convince her that this time, he had come for the opposite reason.
That was the simplest and most embarrassing truth of it.
One second she had been sitting in lecture, trying very hard to make herself small in her plain gray sweater while pretending not to notice the people around her, and the next Park Seonghwa had appeared beside her desk like something out of a fever dream and told her to come with him.
Then he had touched her arm.
Then he had packed her things for her.
Now she was walking behind him through the hallway, clutching her bag strap so tightly that her fingers ached, and trying not to let the panic building in her chest show too clearly on her face.
She did not know what he wanted.
That was the part making everything worse.
If he had wanted to insult her again, surely he would not have dragged her out of lecture for it. Not in front of everyone. That would be too strange, even for him.
If he wanted to accuse her about something again, why had he looked so serious?
If he wanted to tell her she had misunderstood yesterday somehow, that would almost be worse, because she had not misunderstood at all.
Her mind spun itself in circles as she walked.
The sound of their footsteps echoed softly through the corridor. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows in pale strips, making the polished floor glow. Students passed at the far end of the hall without looking at them closely, but Y/N still felt exposed, acutely aware of how odd they must have looked.
Seonghwa in front, tall and quiet and impossible to ignore.
Her behind him, nervous enough that her stomach had become one tight knot.
She kept looking at his back because she did not know where else to put her eyes.
He wore dark clothes again today. Of course he did. Everything about him still looked exactly the way it should have from the outside. Elegant. Severe. Untouchable. The kind of person people stepped around without being asked.
But now Y/N had seen him in a rabbit room with a soft smile and a carrot in his hand.
That image had ruined the simplicity of him.
It had made things confusing in a way she deeply resented.
He turned down the stairs leading toward the side entrance of the building. Y/N followed automatically, trying not to trip over her own feet while also trying not to stare too obviously at the back of his neck.
What if he was taking her somewhere to tell her off properly?
What if he was angry that she had cried yesterday and made the whole thing awkward?
What if he was about to say that he did not want her talking about what she had seen in the shelter?
That last thought made her chest tighten.
Did he think that of her still?
She had told herself all evening that it should not matter what he thought. Her roommate had said the same. But his opinion had lodged itself somewhere uncomfortable anyway, probably because he had caught her at the worst possible moment and now his words seemed tangled with all the other ones from yesterday.
Weird.
Ridiculous.
Childish.
Y/N swallowed and adjusted the strap of her dark bag higher on her shoulder.
She missed her pink one.
That thought came suddenly and stupidly.
Not because the black bag was ugly. It was perfectly nice. Plain. Practical. Easy. Her roommate had once bought it for her as a backup in case she needed something that matched everything.
Today, it matched too well.
Seonghwa pushed open the side door and stepped out into the crisp morning air. Y/N followed a beat later, blinking in the sudden brightness.
He did not stop walking.
The campus spread around them in soft noise and movement. Students crossed the paths in clusters, some hurrying toward class, others lingering on benches. A breeze stirred the trees lining the outer walkways, lifting strands of hair against Y/Nâs cheeks.
She thought about asking where they were going.
She thought about asking what he wanted.
She thought about a lot of things and said none of them, because Seonghwa was still walking with a kind of quiet purpose that made interruption feel impossible.
Then, without looking back at her, he asked, âDo you like coffee?â
Y/N blinked.
Of all the questions she had expected, that had not even made the list.
âWhat?â
This time he did glance over his shoulder slightly, slowing half a step. âCoffee.â
She stared at him.
Her brain, already overworked, struggled to catch up.
âNo,â she said at last, a little too confused to sound properly cautious. âI donât like coffee.â
Seonghwa looked forward again. âTea?â
Y/N frowned faintly.
âNo.â
Now he stopped walking.
She nearly walked into him.
He turned properly this time, expression unreadable but somehow less severe than it had been in the hallway. âYou donât like coffee or tea.â
It sounded less like a question and more like he was recalculating something.
Y/Nâs face warmed.
Why did this feel like she was failing a test she had not known she was taking?
âI justâŠâ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked anywhere but directly at him. âI donât really drink either.â
He studied her for one quiet second.
Then he asked, âWhatâs your favorite drink?â
That was somehow worse.
Not because it was rude. Quite the opposite. It was such a simple, ordinary question that it threw her off balance completely. She had expected confrontation. Sharpness. Some carefully controlled version of whatever this was.
She had not expected to be asked about drinks.
Y/N shifted her weight, bag still held close against her body.
âHot chocolate,â she admitted softly.
The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to hide.
Hot chocolate sounded childish now that she had said it aloud. Too sweet. Too obvious. The kind of answer someone might laugh at if they were already inclined to find you ridiculous.
But to her surprise, Seonghwa smiled.
Only a little.
Only for a second.
Still, it changed his face enough to make her heart stumble awkwardly in her chest.
The smile was small and quiet, more something that softened his features than a full expression. But it was there.
âOkay,â he said.
Then, as if that settled something important, he started walking again.
Y/N stared after him for half a beat before hurrying to keep up.
This was the sort of place where people wore expensive coats and never spilled on themselves.
Seonghwa opened the door.
The smell hit her immediately. Chocolate, roasted beans, baked pastries, warm milk, cinnamon.
It was lovely.
It was also terrifying.
He held the door open for her without comment.
Y/N stepped inside carefully, suddenly very conscious of her sneakers and the fact that she still felt like a half-finished human being pretending to know how to exist in public.
That should not have been such a difficult instruction.
There were plenty of tables. Small round ones near the windows, a few tucked farther back against the wall, two larger ones in the center occupied by groups of students pretending not to eavesdrop on each other.
Still, she hesitated.
What kind of table did he want?
Something private?
Something near the exit?
Something by the window?
Did this matter? Was there a correct answer? Would choosing wrong somehow make this whole strange morning worse?
Stop it, she told herself.
It is just a table.
Even so, her heart kept beating too fast as she made her way toward a small one near the side wall. Not too exposed. Not too hidden. Two chairs. A little vase with dried flowers in the center.
Safe enough.
She sat down carefully and set her bag on the chair beside her before immediately second-guessing that too and moving it to the floor so she would not look as though she were guarding the empty seat from him.
Then she folded her hands in her lap.
Then unfolded them.
Then pretended to be interested in the menu card propped against the sugar jar even though her eyes kept drifting toward the counter where Seonghwa stood waiting to order.
Y/N, meanwhile, felt like she had wandered into an alternate reality.
Why had he brought her here?
That question kept circling without answer.
Maybe he wanted to apologize privately.
Maybe he wanted to say something difficult where she was less likely to run away.
Maybe he thought buying her a drink would soften whatever came next.
That thought made her stomach twist.
What if he was only being polite now because he felt guilty, and the apology itself would be cold and formal and leave her even more unsure what to do with him afterward?
She stared down at the tabletop.
It was a beautiful table. Smooth pale stone veined with faint gray lines. A tiny chip near the edge that made it feel less intimidating.
She pressed her fingertips lightly to it and tried to breathe normally.
A small movement in her peripheral vision made her glance up.
Seonghwa was coming back toward the table with a tray in his hands.
Her spine straightened instinctively.
On the tray sat a dark cup of coffee, a glass of water, and a large ceramic mug topped with a cloud of whipped cream dusted lightly with cocoa.
He set the tray down carefully.
Then, to Y/Nâs confusion, he placed the hot chocolate in front of her without saying anything.
She stared at it.
Steam curled up from the surface in soft spirals. The whipped cream looked impossibly soft, already melting slightly into the chocolate beneath. There were little shaved chocolate curls scattered over the top too, because apparently even the hot chocolate here had better styling than most people.
Her eyes lifted to Seonghwaâs face.
âThis is for me?â
He sat down across from her. âYou said you like hot chocolate.â
âYes, butâŠâ
She trailed off.
But why.
Seonghwa picked up his coffee cup. âDrink a little.â
Y/N blinked again. The request was so matter-of-fact that she obeyed before she could overthink it. Carefully, she wrapped both hands around the mug. It was warm enough to sink pleasantly into her palms. She leaned forward and took a tentative sip.
And then everything in her face changed before she could stop it.
It was delicious.
Not just good. Not just acceptable. Delicious in a way that felt almost unfair. Rich and warm and perfectly sweet without being too heavy, the chocolate deep and smooth with some hint of vanilla she could not place. The whipped cream melted into it at exactly the right speed, softening each sip into something that tasted like comfort had been distilled into a drink.
Her eyes widened.
Without thinking, she looked up at him, all caution slipping for one bright second.
âThis is really good.â
The words came out in a rush, enthusiastic and entirely unguarded.
âIt tastes likeâŠâ She took another tiny sip as if to confirm it. âIt tastes like melted cake in the best way. Oh wow.â
Seonghwa actually looked surprised.
Not offended. Not confused exactly.
Just slightly caught off guard, as if he had not expected her face to light up so fully over a mug of hot chocolate.
That realization hit Y/N a second too late.
The warmth drained from her expression almost immediately.
What are you doing, her brain shrieked.
She lowered the mug too fast, cheeks heating.
âSorry,â she murmured, retreating into herself with painful speed. âI just meant⊠itâs nice.â
Why had she said oh wow.
Why had she compared it to melted cake.
Why was she like this.
The old anxious coil wound back into place in her chest. She stared down into the mug and wished, not for the first time, that there were some magical middle ground between awkward silence and blurting out every genuine reaction too brightly.
Across from her, Seonghwa did not speak for a moment.
When Y/N finally looked up again, his expression had changed.
The sharpness was gone.
He set his coffee cup down carefully on the saucer.
Then he looked directly at her and said, âI owe you an apology.â
The words settled between them, quiet but heavy.
Y/N went still.
She had expected this, somehow. Ever since he stopped her in the hallway and said he needed to talk about yesterday. Still, actually hearing it made her stomach flutter uncertainly.
Seonghwaâs gaze did not leave her face.
âWhat I said at the shelter was wrong,â he said.
There was no hesitation in it. No defensive edge. Just clear, even honesty.
âI made assumptions about you that I shouldnât have made.â
Y/Nâs fingers tightened slightly around the mug.
âI thought you had followed me,â he continued. âAnd instead of asking you properly, I spoke to you like I had already decided who you were.â
Y/N swallowed.
No one had ever apologized to her like this before.
Not really.
People usually did one of two things. They either pretended nothing had happened and expected her to smooth it over, or they gave those vague little apologies that felt more like a request to stop being upset than any real acknowledgment.
This was different.
He looked as though he meant every word, and somehow that made it harder to know what to do with her own face.
Seonghwa glanced briefly down at the table, then back at her.
âAnd what I said about your clothesâŠâ His mouth tightened, just a little. âThat was cruel.â
The word itself seemed to land heavily on him.
Y/N looked at the whipped cream slowly sinking into her drink.
A strange ache moved through her chest.
Because yes, it had been cruel.
And because hearing him say it aloud made the hurt from yesterday feel suddenly more real, not less.
He went on quietly, âI found out afterward that other people had already said things like that to you earlier.â
Her head lifted.
For a second she forgot to be careful.
âHow do you know that?â
âYeosang told me, he knew it from Soomin.â Seonghwa paused.
Y/N blinked in surprise.
Still, the fact that this somehow connected back to Seonghwa made the world feel unnervingly small.
Of course. Her roommate had said she knew Yeosang. Y/N had never thought too much about it beyond that.
He continued before she could say anything.
âI didnât know at the time. But that doesnât change what I said.â His voice stayed steady. âAnd it doesnât excuse that I made you hear something hurtful twice in one day.â
The version of him sitting across from her now did not fit neatly with the one from yesterday any more than the boy with the rabbit had.
And that should have made her more wary.
Instead it just made her tired in a way that softened her edges.
She looked back down at the hot chocolate.
Her reflection shivered faintly in the dark surface beneath the whipped cream.
âI didnât follow you,â she said quietly.
âI know.â
His answer came so fast that her eyes lifted again.
There was no doubt in his face this time. No guarded suspicion. Just certainty.
Something in her chest loosened a fraction.
She had not realized how much that mattered until then.
For one long second they just looked at each other.
Then Seonghwa said, more softly, âYou didnât deserve how I spoke to you.â
Y/Nâs throat tightened.
The words should not have felt so devastating. They were simple. True. Nothing more.
But after a day and a half of feeling scraped thin by judgment, hearing someone say that she had not deserved it pressed unexpectedly against something fragile inside her.
She glanced away first, toward the window where students moved along the sidewalk outside in blurred little groups.
âI cried really easily,â she admitted in a low voice. âThat was embarrassing.â
When she looked back, his expression had shifted again, something faintly pained moving beneath the calm.
âNo,â he said. âIt wasnât.â
Y/N almost laughed at that, though there was no humor in it.
âIt felt embarrassing.â
âI understand that.â He paused. âBut it wasnât embarrassing.â
The certainty in his tone made her fingertips go warm against the mug.
She did not know what to say to that.
So she took another small sip of the hot chocolate instead.
It was still delicious.
Still rich and warm and annoyingly comforting.
She could feel Seonghwa watching her, not in a harsh way, just waiting. Giving her space to answer in her own time.
That, more than anything else, unsettled her.
Because people usually rushed to fill silence around her.
They mistook her quiet for permission to decide what she meant.
Seonghwa, for all his strangeness, was not doing that now.
Y/N set the mug down carefully.
âI heard them in the cafeteria yesterday,â she said at last. âMy group partners.â
She did not know why she was telling him.
Maybe because he already seemed to know half of it.
Maybe because the hot chocolate was warm in her hands and his apology had opened something that made honesty feel less impossible than usual.
âThey were talking when I came back from the bathroom.â She tried to keep her voice even. âThey said I was weird. And childish. And that my clothes looked stupid.â
Her mouth twisted a little at the memory.
âI tried to act like I didnât hear.â
Seonghwaâs jaw tightened very slightly.
Y/N noticed because she was watching him too carefully now.
âSo when you said itâŠâ She looked back down at the table. âI think it just felt bigger than it should have.â
His voice, when it came, was very quiet.
âIt wasnât smaller because I said it second.â
The sentence made her glance up again.
There was no self-protection in it. No attempt to lessen his role.
He was not trying to be forgiven cheaply.
Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Y/N felt her fear shift into something stranger.
Not comfort exactly.
Not trust, not yet.
But maybe the beginning of being less afraid.
She wrapped both hands around the mug again.
The whipped cream had melted almost completely now, leaving pale swirls through the dark chocolate.
âIt really is very good,â she said before she could stop herself.
The corner of Seonghwaâs mouth lifted again.
That tiny smile.
It was even more disarming the second time.
âIâm glad.â
Y/N looked at him over the rim of her mug and had the oddest fleeting thought that maybe this version of him was the real dangerous one.
Not the cold one people whispered about.
This one.
The one who noticed things, bought good hot chocolate, and apologized with the kind of sincerity that made a person feel seen against their will.
She took another sip before she could think too hard about that.
Across from her, Seonghwa sat quietly with his coffee untouched for the moment, waiting as if he had decided that whatever came next would be hers to set.
And for the first time since he had appeared at her desk in the lecture hall, Y/N did not feel quite so much like running away.
And somehow, that became ist own kind of happening.
Not in the dramatic way Y/N might have expected if this were someone elseâs story. There were no sudden declarations. No strange messages. No scene in the middle of campus where Park Seonghwa decided to become a completely different person overnight.
Instead, everything shifted in small, quiet ways that made her question herself more than once.
He smiled at her sometimes.
Not fully. Not easily. And never in a way anyone else would have noticed unless they were looking for it.
But Y/N noticed.
She noticed the slight awkward lift at the corner of his mouth when their eyes met by accident in lecture. The almost hesitant softness that appeared and vanished so quickly it often felt like she might have imagined it afterward.
She noticed the times he held the door open for her when they reached a building entrance at the same moment.
He never made a big thing of it. Never called attention to it. Never said anything.
Just stepped aside a little, one hand on the door, his face composed in that same unreadable way until she passed. Then, sometimes, when she looked back over her shoulder and murmured a small thank you, there would be that tiny flicker again.
A quiet smile.
Awkward.
Careful.
Almost shy, if she let herself be very reckless with her interpretation.
If they happened to arrive to class near the same time, he did not walk with her. If they crossed paths outside the library or in the courtyard, he did not stop her. He did not ask how she was. He did not bring up the shelter. He did not apologize again or try to explain himself further.
He simply existed near her differently than before.
Less sharp.
More aware.
And because Y/N was Y/N, this somehow made everything ten times more confusing.
At first, she told herself it meant nothing.
He had apologized. That was done. He was probably just trying to be polite now. Maybe he had felt guilty enough that he had become careful around her in the way people became careful around something fragile they did not want to break twice.
The thought made her chest feel odd every time it came.
She tried not to think about it too much.
That failed almost immediately.
Her project partners made sure of that.
The very next day after the lecture hall incident, they had cornered her before class with the kind of eager curiosity that made her want to vanish into the nearest wall.
âWhat was that about yesterday?â
âWhy did Seonghwa pull you out of class?â
âAre you guys, like, secretly friends?â
The questions had come fast and layered over one another before she had even finished setting her bag down.
Y/N had stood there clutching her notebook with wide eyes and no prepared answer.
Because what was she supposed to say?
No, we are not friends. He made me cry in an animal shelter, bought me expensive hot chocolate, and then started holding doors for me like a strangely beautiful ghost with social issues.
That did not seem like an acceptable public explanation.
So she had done what she always did when overwhelmed.
She had smiled awkwardly and said, âIt was nothing.â
Which had, of course, only made them more interested.
Nothing was never enough for people.
Still, they did not get much more out of her than that. Y/N kept her answers vague, quiet, and unhelpful until eventually one of them rolled their eyes and someone else muttered that she was being mysterious for no reason.
As if she even knew how to be mysterious.
After that, the questions spread in smaller ways.
A glance here. A pause in conversation there when she walked by. Two girls in the row behind her whispering during lecture and looking over at her before quickly looking away when she caught them.
Nothing direct.
Nothing she could point to and say yes, this is happening.
But enough that she became even more conscious of herself on campus than usual.
And through all of it, Seonghwa remained infuriatingly quiet.
Only the small things changed.
The awkward smiles.
The doors held open.
Once, in the library, she had reached for the last empty chair at a study table only to realize at the same moment that Seonghwa had been about to take it too. She had immediately pulled her hand back with an apology already forming on her lips, but instead of taking the seat, he had paused, looked at her for half a beat, and nudged the chair toward her.
She had stared.
He had looked away first.
Neither of them had spoken.
She had sat down with a heart beating far too fast for a chair-related interaction.
Ridiculous, she thought now, sitting cross-legged on the couch in her shared apartment three weeks later.
Absolutely ridiculous.
The apartment was warm with evening light and the soft hum of an old playlist her roommate had put on while cleaning the kitchen. Outside, the sky had turned pale gold, the last edges of sunset catching in the windows of the building across the street.
Y/N wore yellow sweatpants and a yellow-and-white striped jumper, her hair loosely clipped back, socks mismatched in a way she had only noticed an hour ago and then decided not to fix.
She had a mug of water in her hands, though she was not drinking it. Mostly she was turning it slowly between her palms while her roommate sat on the floor beside the coffee table folding laundry with the kind of dramatic seriousness she applied to every chore.
Y/N had been quiet for a while.
Too quiet, apparently.
Because after tossing a towel into the finished pile, her roommate looked up and narrowed her eyes.
âOkay,â she said. âOut with it.â
Y/N blinked. âWhat?â
âYouâve been staring at that mug like it owes you money for ten minutes.â
âI have not.â
âYou absolutely have.â
Y/N looked down at the mug in her hands as if it might confirm or deny this accusation.
It remained unhelpfully silent.
Her roommate sat back on her heels. âSo. What is going on in that very noisy brain of yours.â
Y/N hesitated.
She had not actually told her everything.
Not properly.
There had been fragments after the shelter incident, of course. Enough for her roommate to be rightfully outraged and call Seonghwa an idiot several times in increasingly creative ways. Enough for tea, comfort, and threats of fictional hexes.
Then the smiles had started. The doors. The tiny wordless gestures that made no sense and therefore felt difficult to explain without sounding as though she were inventing meaning where none existed.
Her roommate watched her for a few more seconds and then gasped softly.
âOh my god,â she said. âThis is about a boy.â
Y/N almost dropped the mug.
âIt is not about a boy.â
Her roommateâs eyes widened theatrically. âIt is absolutely about a boy. I know that face.â
âI do not have a face.â
âYou have many. This one is the one where you are pretending to be normal while internally writing a ten-page report.â
Y/N opened her mouth to argue and then closed it again because, annoyingly, that was not entirely inaccurate.
Her roommate grinned. âWhich boy.â
Y/N looked at her.
Her roommate looked right back.
Then realization dawned and the grin vanished into scandalized delight.
âNo,â she breathed. âBunny man?â
Y/N hid half her face behind the mug. âPlease never call him that again.â
âThat means yes.â
Y/N made a small sound of despair.
Her roommate clapped once, laundry forgotten instantly. âTell me everything.â
There was no escaping it now.
So Y/N did what she always did when cornered by someone safe enough to deserve honesty. She started talking, slowly and a little unevenly, but with less resistance than she might once have had.
Her roommate listened with her chin in her hands, expression shifting through outrage, fascination, and smugness in roughly equal measure.
Then Y/N told her about the weeks after.
The smiles.
The doors.
The silence.
The chair in the library.
The way her project partners kept prodding her for answers she did not have.
When she finished, the apartment fell quiet for a moment except for the low music from the speaker in the kitchen.
Her roommate sighed.
Not dramatically this time. Almost fondly.
âSeonghwa really is an idiot,â she said.
âNo, but specifically.â Her roommate pointed a rolled pair of socks at her for emphasis. âHe is an idiot in a very particular way.â
Y/N let out a breath that might have become a laugh if she had not already been smiling a little.
Y/N tilted her head. âWhat does that mean.â
âIt means he is anxious about people too.â
That made Y/N blink.
âWhat?â
Her roommate shrugged one shoulder and tossed the socks into the folded pile. âJust in a different way than you are.â
Y/N stared at her.
The sentence fit nowhere at first.
Anxious.
Seonghwa.
Those words did not belong together naturally in her head. One called up images of fluttering nerves, awkward silences, overthinking every expression. The other looked like pressed black shirts, unreadable stares, and the kind of person who could make an entire lecture hall hold ist breath by standing up once.
Her roommate must have seen the disbelief on her face, because she laughed softly.
âYes, really. Some people get anxious and become quieter and shakier.â She pointed lightly at Y/N. âYou.â
Then she pointed vaguely outward, as though Seonghwa might materialize in the living room if summoned strongly enough.
âAnd some people get anxious and become colder and sharper because they want to protect themselves first.â
Y/N thought of the shelter.
Of the way his face had changed the second he saw her.
The softness shutting down. The suspicion. The assumption.
Then she thought of the apology afterward. The hot chocolate. The awkward smiles that seemed to arrive against his own will.
Something in her chest shifted uneasily.
Her roommate stood up all at once, energy changing so suddenly that Y/N nearly flinched.
âOkay,â she announced.
Y/N looked up. âOkay what.â
âWe are going on an adventure.â
Y/N stared. âNo, weâre not.â
âYes, we are.â
âI am in lounge clothes.â
Her roommate looked pointedly at the yellow sweatpants and striped jumper. âYou look adorable.â
âThat is not the problem.â
âIt is for you, which is why I am ignoring it.â
Y/N set the mug down on the coffee table. âWhat adventure.â
But her roommate was already moving, grabbing her own bag off the chair by the door and shoving her feet into shoes with alarming efficiency.
âGet up.â
âThat is not an answer.â
âIt is the only one you are getting right now.â
Y/N remained very much seated.
Her roommate crossed the room, caught her by both wrists, and tugged.
âCome on.â
âWhere are we going.â
âYouâll see.â
âI hate when people say that.â
âI know.â
Y/N groaned softly but allowed herself to be hauled to her feet anyway, because resisting her roommate in this kind of mood was about as useful as trying to negotiate with weather.
Ten minutes later she was outside in the cool evening air still wearing her yellow sweatpants, striped jumper, and mismatched socks hidden inside sneakers she had put on too quickly. Her hair was only half cooperating, and she had not had time to question any of this properly before being shepherded down the sidewalk at suspicious speed.
Her roommate looked entirely too pleased with herself.
Y/N, meanwhile, felt like a confused marshmallow.
âCan I at least know if this is a legal adventure,â she asked as they crossed the street.
Her roommate gasped. âThe disrespect.â
âThat is not a no.â
âIt is a very legal adventure.â
âThat is exactly what someone says right before a moderately illegal one.â
Her roommate laughed and squeezed her hand once before letting go.
They walked through a part of the city Y/N only vaguely knew, where apartment buildings grew taller and newer and the storefronts below them looked expensive in that quiet polished way that made her instinctively straighten her posture.
Eventually they stopped in front of one particularly large building with glass doors, sleek stone walls, and soft lighting visible through a high-ceilinged lobby.
Y/N slowed.
âThis is not an adventure,â she said cautiously. âThis is a rich person building.â
Her roommate did not deny it.
Which was already concerning.
She simply marched inside with the confidence of someone walking into her own kitchen, leaving Y/N no choice but to follow before the doors could shut them out.
The lobby was beautiful.
Of course it was.
Cream marble floors. Tall green plants in sculptural pots. A front desk made of dark wood behind which sat a perfectly dressed concierge who looked up the moment they entered.
Y/N had never in her life been in a building with a concierge.
She nearly turned back around out of reflex.
Then the man behind the desk smiled warmly at her roommate.
âGood evening, Ms. Kang.â
Y/N stopped so suddenly her roommate had to tug her forward again.
Ms. Kang.
The concierge knew her.
Not casually either. Not like a vague tenantâs friend. The way he said it sounded practiced. Familiar.
Her roommate, traitor that she was, only lifted a hand in greeting.
âHi, Mr. Woo.â
Hi, Mr. Woo.
Y/N blinked rapidly and looked between them.
What.
Her roommate pressed the button for the elevator as though this were all perfectly normal.
Y/N moved after her in a daze.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and they stepped inside. Polished brass. Mirrored walls. Soft lighting again. Even the elevator was prettier than some hotel lobbies.
The doors shut.
Only then did Y/N turn properly toward her roommate.
âWhy did he call you Ms. Kang.â
Her roommate leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.
For one terrible second, she actually looked sheepish.
That was never good.
âI may have forgotten to tell you something,â she said.
Y/N stared harder.
âWhat.â
Her roommate smiled the kind of smile that usually preceded disaster.
âI never told you,â she said, âbut Iâm Yeosangâs sister.â
For a second, Y/N heard the sentence perfectly clearly.
And for a second, it meant absolutely nothing.
Then it landed.
Yeosang.
Yeosang from lecture.
Yeosang from Seonghwaâs friend group.
Yeosang who had somehow known about the shelter incident.
Y/Nâs mouth fell open.
Yeosang whose sister, was her roommate.
âWhat.â
The word came out in a tiny shocked breath.
Her roommate winced a little, then nodded.
âYeah.â
Y/N just stared at her.
No coherent thought survived the impact.
Images crashed together in her mind with alarming speed.
Her roommate mentioning she knew someone on campus.
The way she had known too much about Seonghwaâs apology.
The absolute confidence with which she had dragged Y/N into a building that looked like rent probably cost more than Y/Nâs entire yearly stress budget.
The concierge calling her Ms. Kang.
The elegant lobby.
The elevator.
Yeosang.
Her roommate raised both hands slightly. âIn my defense, it just never came up in a way that felt dramatic enough.â
Y/N made a strangled noise of disbelief.
âIt never came up.â
âYou never asked.â
âWhy would I ask if my roommate was secretly related to one of the intimidating rich boys from university.â
Her roommate grimaced. âThat is, admittedly, a fair point.â
Y/N pressed both hands over her face for one second, then lowered them again because she needed to make sure this was still real.
It was.
Her roommate was still there.
Still looking mildly apologetic and not nearly embarrassed enough.
âYou are Yeosangâs sister,â Y/N repeated.
âYes.â
âYeosang.â
âThat is usually how siblings work, yes.â
Y/N looked as though she might combust.
The elevator continued rising with graceful indifference to the crisis unfolding inside it.
Somewhere under the shock, another realization began to form.
If her roommate was Yeosangâs sisterâŠ
Then she knew the others.
All of them.
Which probably meant this whole so-called adventure had been planned far more specifically than Y/N had been told.
Her eyes widened further.
Her roommate saw it instantly and smiled in the most suspicious way possible.
âNo,â Y/N said at once, backing half a step into the mirrored wall. âAbsolutely not. What is happening.â
The elevator kept climbing.
And Y/N, in yellow sweatpants and a striped jumper, could only stare at the person she lived with and realize with growing horror that whatever waited when those doors opened was almost certainly connected to Park Seonghwa.
Y/N had exactly enough time to panic three more times before the elevator doors opened.
Then Soomin caught her wrist and tugged her forward with the kind of determined energy that suggested escape was no longer an option.
âCome on,â she said brightly.
Y/N, meanwhile, felt like her soul had separated from her body somewhere around the twelfth floor.
âThis is a bad idea,â she whispered.
âIt is a very good idea.â
âI am wearing yellow sweatpants.â
âYou say that like it is a crime.â
Soomin led her down a quiet hallway with soft lighting and expensive-looking rugs that probably cost more than Y/Nâs laptop. At the very end stood a large apartment door in dark wood with a polished silver number beside it.
Y/N slowed immediately.
Soomin did not.
She marched right up to the door and rang the bell.
Before Y/N could decide whether to flee down the hallway, the door opened.
Y/N stared at her.
Yeosang stood there in a black long-sleeved shirt and gray sweatpants, one hand still on the handle. His expression was calm for exactly one second.
Then he looked at his sister and said, âSince when do you ring the bell instead of storming in?â
Y/N, acting entirely on instinct, stepped half behind Soomin.
Soomin smiled sweetly and reached up to pat Yeosangâs cheek.
âSince I brought a guest.â
Yeosang blinked once, then looked past her.
His gaze landed on Y/N immediately.
For one horrible second, she considered pretending to be part of the hallway decor.
Then, to her surprise, Yeosang smiled.
Not a big smile. Just a gentle one that softened his face in a way she had never seen in lecture.
âSo youâre the mysterious roommate,â he said, âmy sister tells me so much about.â
Y/Nâs face warmed instantly.
Mysterious roommate sounded far too dramatic for someone who had once cried in front of his friend in a rabbit shelter.
She gave a tiny nod.
âHi.â
âHi,â Yeosang said back, still looking far too calm for someone whose sister apparently treated his apartment like a public venue.
Then Soomin, apparently deciding greetings had lasted long enough, pushed at both of them.
âMove. Youâre blocking the entrance.â
Yeosang sighed softly and stepped aside.
Y/N barely had time to process the polished hallway inside before the sound hit her.
Noise.
Loud, layered, chaotic noise.
Not angry. Not dangerous. Just the kind of volume created when too many people with strong personalities existed in one place without supervision.
She stepped inside and immediately froze.
The apartment was beautiful in the way the lobby had already warned her it would be. Open, modern, warm lighting, huge windows along one side. And completely full of chaos.
Wooyoung and Mingi were in the middle of arguing across the living room about something so stupid Y/N could not even understand it at first.
âI said pineapple belongs on pizza if the pizza is emotionally prepared for it,â Wooyoung was saying.
âWhat does that even mean,â Mingi demanded.
âIt means some pizzas can handle complexity and some cannot.â
âThat is the dumbest sentence you have ever spoken and I have known you for years.â
On the couch, San was laughing into a cushion while Yunho leaned over the back of it looking delighted by the entire exchange. Hongjoong sat at the dining table with his laptop open, though from the expression on his face he had long since given up pretending to work. Jongho was in the kitchen pouring himself a drink with the calm air of someone entirely used to this level of nonsense.
And Seonghwa.
Y/Nâs eyes found him almost by accident.
He sat at the kitchen island with a bowl in front of him, eating as though he had not expected company. Apparently very much not expecting company, because at that exact moment his cheeks were so full that he looked absurdly, almost impressively, overpacked with food.
For one startled heartbeat, Y/N just looked at him.
Then a tiny sound slipped out before she could stop it.
A laugh.
Small and soft, but real.
The effect was immediate.
The whole apartment froze.
Mingi stopped mid-gesture.
Wooyoung turned.
San lifted his head from the cushion.
Yunho straightened.
Hongjoong looked up from the laptop.
Jongho paused with his glass halfway to the counter.
And Seonghwa, still very much full-cheeked and caught in the act of trying to exist normally, went completely still.
Y/Nâs laughter died instantly.
Heat rushed into her face.
Oh no.
She became aware of herself all at once. The yellow sweatpants. The striped jumper. Her hand still half clutching Soominâs sleeve like a nervous child. The fact that she had just laughed in a room full of boys who were all now staring at her.
She wanted the floor to open.
Soomin, completely unbothered, clapped her hands once.
âEveryone, behave. This is Y/N.â
No one moved for half a second.
Then Seonghwa started coughing.
It happened suddenly and violently enough that Y/N took a startled step forward before stopping herself. He pressed a fist to his mouth, coughed again, and reached blindly for the glass of water beside him while trying, with visible difficulty, to swallow everything he had apparently decided to fit into his mouth at once.
Everyone at university says Park Seonghwa and his friend group are dangerous rich kids no one should get close to. Y/N believes it too, until one terrible day leads her into an animal shelter where she finds Seonghwa holding a bunny with the softest smile she has ever seen. From that moment on, she becomes the only person who sees the truth behind his cold reputation.
Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader
Tropes: cold boy x soft girl, Misunderstood male lead, Soft seonghwa, Strangers to friends to lovers, Emotional healing, Found family, Protective friend group, Wrong first impression, Reputation vs reality
Genre: romance, slow burn romance, university au, hurt/comfort, slice of life
Featuring: ateez as seonghwaâs friend group, roommate!soomin
Main Masterlist | Seonghwas Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
This is Part 1
Y/N always arrived at university earlier than everyone else.
It was not because she was particularly responsible or organized. In fact, her mornings were often a mess of misplaced notebooks, half finished water, and frantic searches for her bus pass.
But arriving early meant something important.
It meant fewer people.
And fewer people meant fewer chances of saying something awkward.
The campus was quiet when she stepped through the front gates that morning. A soft wind moved through the trees that lined the main walkway, scattering early autumn leaves across the pavement.
Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
Her outfit was bright again today.
A yellow sweater. Light blue skirt. White sneakers with tiny embroidered flowers on the sides.
Her roommate had once described her wardrobe as looking like a box of highlighters.
Y/N did not mind that description. Bright colors made her feel a little braver when the rest of the world felt too loud.
Still, she knew what people thought.
Weird.
Childish.
Too much.
She walked toward the main building while quietly humming to herself. It was a habit she did not always notice. Her mind liked to fill silence with little melodies, especially when she was nervous.
The university slowly came to life around her.
Students began appearing in small groups. The low murmur of conversations filled the air. Someone laughed loudly somewhere behind her.
Y/N kept her eyes down.
Her first lecture of the day was in the large economics hall.
She slipped inside and chose a seat in the second row near the wall. Not too far in the back where professors sometimes thought you were not paying attention. Not too close to the center where everyone could see you.
The sweet spot.
Her notebook came out. Pens lined up carefully beside it.
Y/N liked order. It helped her feel less like everything inside her head was bouncing around uncontrollably.
The lecture started.
Numbers. Charts. Supply curves.
She focused as best as she could, writing small neat notes while the professor explained concepts in a steady voice.
Halfway through the lecture the doors opened quietly.
A group of students entered.
Y/N did not need to look to know who they were.
The entire room felt it.
That strange shift in the atmosphere.
Like when a storm cloud rolled over the sun.
She lifted her eyes slightly.
There they were.
The group everyone talked about.
Park Seonghwa and his friends.
Eight of them in total.
They rarely sat apart.
They moved through campus like a quiet storm that parted crowds without needing to say anything.
Rumors surrounded them constantly.
Y/N had heard plenty of them.
Some people said they were the sons of powerful business families. Others claimed they had connections with dangerous people outside the university. There were stories about fights at exclusive clubs and expensive cars that appeared outside campus gates late at night.
No one knew which rumors were true.
But everyone agreed on one thing.
It was better not to get involved with them.
The group spread out across the back rows.
Y/N recognized them easily by now.
San with his sharp eyes and quiet confidence.
Wooyoung who always looked like he knew something no one else did.
Yunho who seemed tall enough to block the sun when he walked past.
Jongho with a calm expression that somehow looked stronger than most people twice his size.
Mingi leaned back in his chair lazily.
Yeosang sat beside him, silent and composed.
Hongjoong spoke quietly to someone while scrolling through his phone.
And Seonghwa.
Y/N's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than she intended.
He looked exactly like people described him.
Cold.
Perfect posture. Dark clothes. Expression unreadable.
If statues could walk, they might look like Park Seonghwa.
She quickly looked back down at her notes.
It was not smart to stare.
Not at people like that.
Even the professor seemed slightly distracted by their presence before continuing the lecture.
The class passed slowly after that.
Y/N packed her things carefully once it ended.
Students gathered their bags and filtered out of the room.
She kept her head down as she moved into the hallway.
The corridors quickly filled with chatter and footsteps.
Seonghwa's group walked ahead of her.
People moved aside for them instinctively.
No one asked them to.
They just did.
Y/N watched for a moment before looking away again.
Intimidating.
That was the word that always came to mind when she saw them.
They looked like people who lived in a completely different world than the rest of the university.
Not people someone like her should ever talk to.
She headed toward the cafeteria where she was supposed to meet her project group.
Group projects were Y/N's least favorite thing in existence.
Not because she did not like the work.
But because they required something she struggled with constantly.
Talking to people she did not know.
The table was already occupied when she arrived.
Three of her classmates sat there.
Minji waved slightly.
"Hey, Y/N."
Y/N smiled politely and sat down.
Her hands folded neatly on the table.
The others were already discussing their project presentation.
Marketing analysis.
Deadlines.
Slides.
Y/N contributed when she could, offering ideas in a quiet voice.
Sometimes people listened.
Sometimes they talked over her.
She was used to that by now.
At one point she laughed softly at something one of them said, though she was not sure if the joke had been meant as funny.
Conversations were like puzzles where she never quite understood all the rules.
After about thirty minutes she excused herself.
"I'll be right back."
The bathroom was thankfully empty.
Y/N washed her hands slowly, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
Her hair had escaped its ponytail slightly.
She fixed it.
"You are doing fine," she murmured quietly to herself.
A small pep talk.
She did those sometimes.
Just to steady her nerves.
After a moment she returned to the cafeteria.
Her footsteps slowed as she approached the table.
They had not noticed her yet.
Which meant she heard them.
"She's nice but..."
Y/N froze.
Another voice continued.
"I don't know. She's just weird."
Someone snorted.
"Did you see her outfit today? It looks like a kindergarten art project."
Laughter followed.
Y/N felt her stomach tighten painfully.
The third person spoke.
"And she talks to herself sometimes. I swear I heard her humming during lecture."
More laughter.
"Maybe she's actually crazy."
The words hit harder than they probably intended.
Y/N stood there quietly for a few seconds.
Her chest felt tight.
She knew she was awkward around new people.
She knew she sometimes said strange things without realizing.
But hearing it like that still hurt.
A lot.
She took a slow breath.
Then stepped forward like nothing had happened.
Her smile returned carefully to her face.
"Sorry," she said softly as she sat down again. "There was a line."
The conversation stopped for a moment.
Then someone quickly changed the topic.
They finished discussing the project.
Y/N nodded when necessary.
Agreed when needed.
Smiled when expected.
By the time the meeting ended her cheeks hurt slightly from holding that expression.
Outside the cafeteria the sky had turned pale gray.
Late afternoon light stretched across campus.
Y/N walked slowly toward the bus stop.
Her thoughts felt heavy.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe she was weird.
She liked bright colors too much.
She talked to herself.
Sometimes she did not understand jokes until hours later.
Maybe people like that just did not belong in places like this.
Her bus was still twenty minutes away.
Instead of waiting at the crowded stop she continued walking.
The streets grew quieter the farther she moved from campus.
Eventually she noticed a small building she had passed many times before but never entered.
A sign hung above the door.
Animal Shelter.
Another smaller sign was taped to the window.
Volunteers Welcome.
Y/N slowed down.
Animals had always been easier for her to understand than people.
Animals did not judge you for humming.
They did not laugh at your clothes.
They simply existed.
She hesitated for only a moment before opening the door.
A bell chimed softly above her head.
The smell inside was a mixture of hay, cleaning supplies, and something warm that reminded her of old blankets.
A woman behind the front desk looked up.
"Hello."
Y/N gave a small nervous wave.
"Hi. Um. I saw the sign outside. I was wondering if you needed volunteers."
The woman's face brightened.
"We always need volunteers."
Relief spread through Y/N's chest.
The woman explained a few simple tasks before handing her a pair of gloves.
"If you go down that hallway and take the second door on the right, someone is already working with the small animals. They can show you what to do."
Y/N nodded.
"Okay. Thank you."
She followed the hallway.
Soft barking echoed faintly from another room.
Somewhere a cat meowed loudly.
Her steps slowed as she reached the second door.
She pushed it open gently.
The room was warm.
Soft yellow lights illuminated rows of enclosures filled with rabbits, guinea pigs, and other small animals.
For a moment she simply took in the peaceful scene.
Then she noticed someone sitting on the floor near one of the rabbit pens.
A tall figure wearing a simple hoodie.
Several bunnies hopped around him.
One of them sat calmly in his lap.
He held a carrot carefully in his fingers while the rabbit nibbled on it.
And he was smiling.
Soft.
Gentle.
Warm in a way Y/N had never seen before.
It took her a full second to recognize him.
Park Seonghwa.
For a moment, Y/N genuinely thought she had imagined him.
Not Park Seonghwa exactly. He was too distinct to mistake for someone else, even hunched on the floor in a faded hoodie with his dark hair falling softly across his forehead. But the expression on his face. That was what felt unreal.
Warmth did not belong to him.
Not in the world she knew.
Not in lecture halls where he sat at the back like he did not need to try to make everyone nervous. Not in crowded corridors where conversations dimmed the second his friend group appeared. Not in the whispers that spread around campus with the ease of smoke.
He was supposed to be cold. Untouchable. Beautiful in the sharp, dangerous sort of way that told a person to keep their distance.
He was not supposed to be sitting on the floor with a rabbit in his lap, feeding it a carrot like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Y/N stood in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame, her breath caught somewhere high in her throat. The room felt soft and strange around her. Hay. Warm light. The faint rustling of tiny feet against bedding. The quiet, contented movements of animals too small to understand rumors.
Seonghwa looked different here.
Not only because of the hoodie or because he was kneeling on the floor instead of standing at the center of some whispered myth. It was something deeper than that. Something in the way he held the rabbit with careful hands. Something in the way his mouth had curved into a smile so gentle that it almost made him look younger.
Human.
The thought came to her so suddenly it startled her.
As if, until now, he had not fully been one in her mind.
Y/N stared.
She knew she was staring. She knew she should probably say something. Introduce herself. Explain why she was there. Move. Blink. Do anything other than stand frozen in the doorway like an intruder who had just wandered into a secret she had never been meant to see.
But she could not seem to make her body cooperate.
The rabbit in his lap twitched ist nose.
Seonghwa lifted his eyes.
And everything changed.
It happened so quickly that Y/N almost wondered if she had imagined the softness too.
One second there had been warmth. Quiet. Gentleness.
The next, his entire face shut down.
The smile disappeared.
His shoulders straightened.
His expression turned smooth and unreadable, sharp in a way that made him look even more intimidating after what she had just witnessed. It was like watching a window slam shut in the middle of sunlight.
He stared at her for one long moment.
Then he said, very flatly, âWhat do you want?â
The question hit her like a splash of cold water.
Y/N opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her brain, already fragile from the day she had had, seemed to dissolve completely under his gaze.
She tried again.
Still nothing.
Her lips moved uselessly, soundless and clumsy, and for one horrible second she was acutely aware of how ridiculous she must have looked. Like a fish, she thought wildly. A shocked little fish standing in a doorway, opening and closing her mouth while Park Seonghwa stared at her as if he regretted her existence already.
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
She swallowed and tried to force her voice to work.
âIâŠâ
Nothing.
Seonghwaâs eyes narrowed slightly.
He placed the rest of the carrot down beside him, moved the rabbit gently into a bed of blankets in the pen, and rose to his feet in one smooth motion.
Y/N had known he was tall. Everyone knew that.
But something about him standing and walking directly toward her inside that small shelter room made the fact feel much more immediate.
Much worse.
He crossed the space between them with calm, measured steps until he stood right in front of her. Not touching. Not crowding her exactly. But close enough that she had to tilt her head up to look at him, close enough that his presence seemed to fill the doorway and press the air thinner around her.
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
His face was unreadable.
âWhat do you want?â he repeated.
This time she managed to drag a voice out of herself, though it came out painfully quiet.
âI wanted to volunteer.â
His expression did not change.
For half a second she thought maybe he would simply step aside. Maybe he would point her toward a clipboard or some cages to clean. Maybe this awful moment would loosen and become survivable.
Then he laughed.
It was not loud. Not cruel in the dramatic way people laughed in movies. If anything, it was a very controlled sound. Soft. Brief. Almost amused.
That somehow made it worse.
âReally?â he asked.
Y/N blinked at him.
He crossed his arms. âThat is the reason?â
âYes,â she whispered.
His gaze flicked over her face as if he were weighing that answer and finding it absurd.
âOr did you see me come in here and follow me because you thought it would give you another good story to spread around campus?â
For a second she did not even understand what he meant.
The words took a moment to settle.
Then her head moved quickly. âNo.â
âNo?â he repeated.
She shook her head harder. âNo, I didnât. I just⊠I saw the sign outside and I wanted to ask if they needed help.â
Her voice wavered on the last word, but she pushed forward anyway, trying for once not to disappear into herself. âI didnât know you were here.â
But Seonghwa kept looking at her like he had already decided what kind of person she was.
âI know who you are,â he said.
Y/N went still.
The sentence should not have meant anything. They were in the same class. Of course he knew who she was. University campuses were not that large. Faces repeated. People recognized each other.
Still, hearing it from him sent a strange nervous jolt through her chest.
He continued before she could make sense of it.
âYouâre in my lecture.â
Y/N nodded faintly.
âNo one with eyes would fail to notice those ridiculous bright outfits you wear.â
The words landed with a dull, brutal force.
For a second, she thought she had misheard him.
Ridiculous.
Her mind repeated it in a small stunned voice.
Ridiculous bright outfits.
The yellow sweater. The blue skirt. The embroidered flowers on her shoes.
The same colors she wore because they made hard days feel a little softer. The same colors her roommate smiled at and called sunshine. The same colors she had already heard strangers judge in quieter ways, with looks and whispers and muffled laughter they thought she did not notice.
She looked up at him, genuinely shocked.
And because she was slow in moments like these, because pain always reached her one beat later than everyone else, it was not until then that she understood.
He thought she had followed him.
He thought she wanted gossip. A secret. Something ugly to feed the rumors already circling him.
He thought she was the sort of person who would do that.
Something in her chest gave a small, helpless ache.
So even he had looked at her and seen something easy to mock.
Even after the day she had already had.
Even now.
She tried to speak.
âI wasnât lying,â she said, but the words were thin and shaky.
Seonghwa exhaled quietly, as if he was running out of patience.
âYou should just tell the truth.â
Y/N stared at him.
He had no idea.
He had no idea what kind of day she had had. No idea how carefully she had held herself together after hearing her group partners laugh about her. No idea how hard she had tried to keep smiling so no one would see the crack. No idea how raw and scraped thin she already felt.
Or maybe he did not care.
Maybe that was worse.
She could feel it before it happened, the awful stinging pressure behind her eyes.
No, she thought instantly.
No. Not here.
Not in front of him.
Not after this.
She blinked hard and looked down, willing the tears away.
But humiliation had a way of making ist own choices.
A hot drop slid down her cheek.
Y/N froze.
Her breath caught.
Then another followed.
Oh no.
Her entire body seemed to lock up in horror.
She brought a hand to her face too late, as if she could hide it after it had already started. Tears blurred her vision with humiliating speed, thick and sudden and impossible to stop. Her chest pulled tight with shallow, uneven breaths.
She was crying.
She was actually crying in front of Park Seonghwa.
Out of all the terrible things that could have happened in that moment, this somehow felt like the worst one.
She had not cried when her group members laughed about her. She had not cried in the cafeteria. She had not cried on the walk here.
And now, in front of the one person she least wanted to look weak in front of, the tears came anyway.
She heard his breath catch very slightly.
When she looked up through the blur, his expression had changed.
Not softened exactly. But the certainty was gone.
For the first time since he had walked toward her, he looked startled.
As if this reaction had not belonged anywhere in his imagined version of the conversation.
Y/N hated that too.
Hated being the one who broke apart. Hated that he was seeing it. Hated that she could not stop.
She stepped back quickly, bowing so fast that her hair fell forward.
âI am sorry,â she said, her voice cracking badly on the words. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean to bother you. Iâm sorry.â
He said her name.
It startled her enough that she almost looked up.
But she did not.
She could not bear to see his face.
She turned and hurried out of the room.
The hallway blurred around her. Her bag knocked awkwardly against her hip as she half walked, half ran toward the front entrance. Somewhere behind her, she thought she heard movement. Thought maybe he had stepped after her. But she did not stop long enough to know if that was true.
The woman at the front desk called something after her, confusion in her voice, but Y/N pushed through the door and into the cool late afternoon air before she could be made to explain.
Outside, the world felt too bright.
People passed on the sidewalk without noticing the girl trying to wipe tears from her face while walking too quickly. Cars moved through the street. Somewhere nearby a bicycle bell rang. Life went on around her with that cruel normality the world always seemed to have when something inside her was falling apart.
Her face burned.
She kept her head down and walked faster.
By the time she reached the next street corner her breathing was unsteady enough that she had to stop for a second. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and tried to gather herself, but that only made new tears slip free.
Ridiculous.
The word echoed again.
Ridiculous bright outfits.
She heard, layered over it, the voices from the cafeteria.
She is just weird.
Maybe sheâs actually crazy.
Y/N let out a soft, miserable sound and forced herself to move again.
The walk to the apartment felt much longer than usual.
Every step seemed to drag the scene back through her mind in painful detail. The softness on Seonghwaâs face when he had not known she was watching. The coldness after. The suspicion. The laughter. That terrible look of surprise when she had started crying.
He probably thought she was dramatic now on top of everything else.
Maybe he would tell his friends. Maybe they would laugh.
No, she thought weakly. Maybe not. He did not seem like the type to gossip.
But then, she had not thought he was the type to look at someoneâs clothes and call them ridiculous either.
Apparently she knew less than she had believed.
By the time she reached the apartment building, her eyes felt sore and her nose was pink from crying.
She fumbled with her keys twice before managing to unlock the front door.
The apartment smelled faintly of laundry detergent and instant noodles. Familiar. Safe. Usually enough to settle her.
Today, the second she stepped inside, she heard quick footsteps from the kitchen.
Her roommate appeared around the corner with a mug in one hand and concern already written all over her face.
âY/N?â
That was all it took.
The fragile composure Y/N had been trying to rebuild the entire walk home cracked immediately.
Her roommate set the mug down so fast some tea sloshed over the side.
âOh my god,â she said, hurrying toward her. âWhat happened?â
Y/N tried to answer, but her throat closed up again. All that came out was a shaky breath.
That was enough for her roommate.
She took one look at Y/Nâs face and gently pulled the bag from her shoulder before guiding her toward the couch.
âSit down. No, actually, wait.â She crouched in front of her instead, eyes wide with alarm. âDid someone say something to you? Are you hurt?â
Y/N shook her head quickly.
That only seemed to alarm her more.
âThen what happened?â
Y/N sat on the edge of the couch and stared at her hands. They trembled in her lap. She felt stupid all over again now that she was home and safe enough for the humiliation to settle properly.
How was she supposed to explain that she had cried in front of a boy over two sentences and a laugh?
How was she supposed to explain the entire weight of the day without sounding childish?
Her roommate reached out and squeezed her knee gently. âTake your time.â
That kindness, simple as it was, made her eyes sting again.
âIt was justâŠâ Y/N wiped at her face with the sleeve of her sweater. âToday was bad.â
Her roommateâs expression softened. âStart at the beginning.â
So she did.
Slowly at first.
She told her about the lecture and how she had kept noticing Seonghwa and his friends at the back of the hall, quiet and intimidating as always. How people still moved around them like there was an invisible line nobody wanted to cross.
Her roommate snorted softly at that part. âPeople on your campus are ridiculous.â
Y/N gave a watery shrug. âMaybe. But they really do look scary together.â
âScary and pretty are not the same thing.â
Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped Y/N before she could stop it.
âThere,â her roommate said gently. âKeep going.â
So Y/N did.
She told her about the project meeting in the cafeteria. About the way she had gone to the bathroom for a minute just to breathe, just to calm herself down and practice smiling again because speaking in groups always made her feel like every word had to be dragged over broken glass.
Then she told her what she had heard when she came back.
Her roommate went very still.
Y/N could still hear it as she repeated it out loud.
Sheâs nice but weird.
It looks like a kindergarten art project.
Maybe sheâs actually crazy.
Saying it to someone else made it sound even uglier than it had in her head.
Her roommateâs face darkened with every sentence.
âThey said that?â she asked very quietly.
Y/N nodded.
âAnd they knew you were right there?â
âI donât think they noticed at first.â
Her roommate sat back on her heels with a look so offended on Y/Nâs behalf that it was almost impressive.
âI hope all of them step on wet floors in socks for the rest of their lives.â
The image was so specific that Y/N let out another shaky little laugh.
Her roommate immediately pointed at her. âNo. I am serious. That is horrible. You did not deserve that.â
Y/N looked down again. âI know I can be awkward.â
âSo what?â
Y/N picked at the hem of her skirt. âPeople donât really like awkward.â
Her roommateâs voice sharpened. âThen people are boring.â
For a moment, the apartment fell quiet except for the humming refrigerator in the kitchen.
Her roommate reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Y/Nâs ear in the way she often did when Y/N looked a little frayed around the edges.
âAnd what happened after that?â she asked more softly.
Y/N hesitated.
This was the part she dreaded explaining most.
âI didnât want to go straight home yet,â she said. âSo I kept walking, and I passed that animal shelter near campus.â
âThe little one with the cat painted on the window?â
Y/N nodded. âThey had a sign outside. Volunteers welcome.â
Her roommateâs face lit with immediate approval. âOf course you went in.â
âI just thoughtâŠâ Y/N swallowed. âI thought maybe if I could help a little, maybe the day would feel less awful.â
That idea alone made her roommate visibly melt. âYou sweet angel.â
Y/N gave her a small look. âI am not an angel.â
âYou tried to recover from being bullied by offering free labor to shelter animals. That is the most angelic thing I have heard all week.â
That should have made her smile more than it did.
Instead, her stomach twisted again as the memory rushed back.
Her roommate noticed at once.
âWhat?â she asked. âWhat happened there?â
Y/N took a breath.
Then, carefully, she told her.
She described the room full of small animals. The warm lights. The rabbit pens. The shock of seeing Seonghwa there with a bunny in his lap, feeding it a carrot like he had never frightened a single person in his life.
Her roommateâs eyebrows climbed higher and higher. âPark Seonghwa volunteers at an animal shelter?â
Y/N nodded weakly.
âWith bunnies?â
âYes.â
There was a brief pause.
Then her roommate muttered, âThat is annoyingly attractive.â
Y/N stared at her through damp lashes.
âWhat? I can be outraged and observant at the same time.â She waved a hand. âContinue.â
Y/N looked down at her hands again.
She told her how Seonghwa had looked up and changed instantly. How the softness had vanished. How he had walked over to her and asked what she wanted. How nervous she had been, how her voice had barely worked.
Her roommate had gone still again.
Then Y/N repeated his words.
That he had laughed.
That he had asked if she had followed him there to get another good story for campus.
That he had said he knew who she was because no one with eyes could miss her ridiculous bright outfits.
She did not even get through the entire sentence before her roommate made a horrified sound.
âHe said that?â
Y/N nodded.
âHe actually said that to your face?â
âYes.â
Her roommate stared at her for two full seconds in complete disbelief.
Then, with feeling, she said, âHe is an idiot.â
Y/Nâs mouth trembled.
Her roommate immediately corrected herself. âNo. Sorry. He is a stunning, unbelievable, spectacular idiot.â
That actually pulled a small broken laugh out of Y/N.
But the tears came with it too.
âI donât even know why I cried,â she said miserably. âI just did. I couldnât stop it. I looked so stupid.â
Her roommateâs whole expression softened at once.
âOh, honey.â
Y/N looked away. âI hate crying in front of people.â
âI know.â
âHe probably thinks Iâm pathetic.â
Her roommate moved from her crouch on the floor to the couch beside her in one smooth shift. âNo. He should think he was cruel.â
Y/N let out a shaky breath.
âI justâŠâ Her voice cracked again. âIt felt like everyone I talked to today decided I was strange and annoying and too much. And then he said it too, and I know it was only about my clothes but it justâŠâ She pressed her hand to her chest. âIt hurt.â
The words were barely out before her roommate pulled her into her arms.
Y/N went without resisting, folding into the hug with the exhausted relief of someone who had been holding herself upright all day by sheer will.
Her roommate was warm and familiar. Her sweater smelled like vanilla detergent. One hand moved up to cradle the back of Y/Nâs head while the other wrapped firmly around her shoulders.
âListen to me,â she said quietly.
Y/N shut her eyes.
âYou are not weird.â
The sentence hit something tender inside her.
Her roommate kept going, voice steady and certain in the way Y/N always wished her own could be.
âYou are shy. You are anxious sometimes. You overthink. You wear colors because they make you happy and because the world is already gray enough without helping it. You talk to yourself when you are nervous and animals like you because you are gentle and people who actually know you adore you.â
Y/N felt fresh tears slip free, but these were softer somehow. Less sharp.
Her roommate rested her cheek lightly against Y/Nâs hair.
âYou are not weird,â she repeated. âYou are lovely. Other people being too dull or too shallow to see that is their problem, not yours.â
Y/Nâs hands curled in the fabric of her roommateâs shirt.
âWhat if I am too much?â she whispered.
Her roommate leaned back just enough to look at her, both hands moving to hold Y/Nâs face now.
âYou are not too much. You have just spent too much time around people who do not deserve you.â
That made Y/N cry harder for a minute, because some truths hurt even while they healed.
Her roommate wiped under her eyes carefully with both thumbs once the tears slowed again.
âThere she is,â she murmured. âMy favorite girl in the entire apartment.â
Y/N gave a weak, wet laugh. âThere are only two girls in the apartment.â
âAnd you still won.â
That finally earned a real small smile.
Her roommate smiled back immediately, triumphant at the sight of it. âGood. That is better.â
Y/N breathed out slowly.
The ache in her chest had not vanished, but it had shifted into something more manageable.
Her roommate got up briefly to fetch tissues and the mug of tea she had abandoned, then returned and tucked Y/Nâs legs onto the couch as if arranging an injured bird in a nest.
âDrink,â she ordered gently.
Y/N obeyed.
The tea was warm and sweet, and the ordinary comfort of it almost made her emotional all over again.
Her roommate watched her with narrowed eyes, still visibly fuming beneath the tenderness.
âI cannot believe your project partners said that to you.â
Y/N stared into her tea. âI should probably still work with them. We have a deadline.â
âWork with them, yes. Become friends with them, absolutely not.â
Y/N nodded.
âAnd as for Park Seonghwa,â her roommate continued, folding her arms, âif he has even one functioning brain cell, he will feel horrible by tomorrow.â
Y/N was not so sure.
He had looked shocked when she cried, yes. But shock did not necessarily mean regret.
Maybe he was only surprised that the weird girl in bright clothes had feelings after all.
She hated that her mind would even frame it like that.
Her roommate must have seen something in her face, because her expression softened again.
âHey,â she said. âLook at me.â
Y/N did.
âOne bad day does not get to decide who you are.â
The words settled between them.
âAnd one mean sentence from a pretty boy with emotional issues definitely does not get to decide it either.â
A tiny laugh escaped Y/N.
âThere you are,â her roommate said again. âI want at least three more of those before bedtime.â
âThat sounds like a difficult assignment.â
âI believe in you.â
For a while they stayed like that on the couch, Y/N tucked into the corner with a blanket around her legs and tea warming her hands, her roommate beside her like a guard dog disguised as a college student.
Eventually the apartment settled into evening.
The windows darkened. Someone in the building next door turned on music low enough to blur into background noise. Her phone buzzed once with a group project notification, which she ignored on sight.
Her roommate put on a ridiculous baking show to distract her.
It worked a little.
But even as Y/N laughed weakly at overdecorated cakes and listened to her roommate provide increasingly dramatic commentary, her mind kept drifting back to the shelter.
To the hay on the floor.
To the rabbit in Seonghwaâs lap.
To the way his face had softened when he thought no one could see him.
And then to the way it had hardened the moment he looked up.
That was what confused her most.
Not that he had been rude. Not even that he had misjudged her.
It was the contrast.
Two versions of the same person that felt impossible to fit together.
The boy gently feeding a bunny with careful fingers.
The boy looking at her with suspicion and calling her clothes ridiculous.
Both of them were real. She had seen them within the same minute.
She did not know what to do with that.
Her roommate nudged her knee lightly. âYou went quiet again.â
Y/N blinked and looked back at the television. âSorry.â
âWhat are you thinking?â
She hesitated.
Then, because honesty was easier here than anywhere else, she said, âI think it might have hurt more because for a second he looked⊠nice.â
Her roommate frowned.
âI saw him before he noticed me,â Y/N said quietly. âHe looked so gentle with the rabbit. And then it was like the second he saw me, everything changed.â
That earned a thoughtful silence.
âMaybe,â her roommate said slowly, âhe is used to expecting the worst from people.â
Y/N looked at her.
Her roommate shrugged one shoulder. âIt does not excuse what he said. He was still an idiot. But sometimes people decide to strike first because they assume everyone else came to hurt them.â
Y/N thought about that.
It fit, in a way she did not like because it made things more complicated.
Rumors. Fear. His silence. The sharpness with which he had looked at her as though he had been caught doing something forbidden and had chosen anger as cover.
Still, the memory of his words burned too freshly for sympathy to fully settle.
âMaybe,â she said at last.
Her roommate leaned back into the couch. âEither way, you are not the villain in this story.â
Y/N smiled faintly. âThat sounds dramatic.â
âI am dramatic. It is one of my better qualities.â
They watched another episode of the baking show.
Then another.
And little by little, the apartment worked ist quiet magic on her. The world narrowed back down to couch cushions, warm tea, soft lamplight, and the person beside her who never made her feel like she had to edit herself into something easier to understand.
By the time she finally changed into pajamas and stood in the bathroom washing away the last traces of dried tears, she looked tired but less wrecked.
Her reflection still had pink eyes and slightly puffy cheeks.
But it also had the bright yellow of her sweater folded neatly over the laundry basket, waiting to be worn again another day.
She looked at it for a moment.
Then she looked at herself in the mirror.
Maybe not tomorrow, she thought.
Tomorrow might require softer colors.
But someday soon, yes.
Because her roommate was right.
The people who laughed at her in cafeterias did not get to decide who she was.
And neither did a beautiful boy in a shelter full of rabbits who had looked at her and decided to be cruel before he knew anything at all.
When she came back into the living room, her roommate glanced up from her phone.
âBetter?â
âA little.â
Her roommate held her arms open again at once.
Y/N smiled despite herself and crossed the room to fall into the hug.
âGood,â her roommate murmured into her hair. âAnd just so we are clear, if I ever meet those project partners, I will hex them.â
âYou donât know how to hex people.â
âI can learn.â
âAnd Seonghwa?â
Her roommate drew back enough to look her in the eye, scandalized. âEspecially Seonghwa.â
Y/N laughed, small but real.
Her roommate grinned and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.
âThere she is.â
Outside, the night settled quietly over the city.
Inside, held close and warm in the little apartment that had become her safest place, Y/N let herself believe for just a moment that maybe being seen by the right person mattered more than being misunderstood by everyone else.
Seonghwa did not usually make mistakes like that.
He was careful with people.
Careful with words, with distance, with the measured expression he wore like armor whenever he stepped outside the apartment he shared with the others. He knew what people thought of him. He knew what they thought of all of them. Rich, cold, arrogant, probably cruel. The type of boys people liked to whisper about because the truth was always less entertaining than the version they built out of rumors.
Most days, Seonghwa let them talk.
It was easier that way.
If people already believed he was difficult to approach, then they stayed away. And if they stayed away, then they could not pry into things that did not concern them. They could not take soft things and turn them ugly. They could not ask why he spent afternoons at the shelter instead of at the expensive bars people assumed he liked. They could not laugh if they saw him on the floor of the rabbit enclosure with one in his lap and hay clinging to his sleeve.
Distance was useful.
Distance was safe.
So why, out of all the ways that conversation could have gone, had it ended with a girl crying in front of him?
Seonghwa lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, one arm bent behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. His room was dark except for the warm light from the small lamp on his desk. Across from him, clothes were draped neatly over the chair. A book lay open on the bedside table where he had abandoned it nearly an hour ago without reading a single page.
He kept replaying the scene anyway.
The doorway of the shelter room.
The bright colors of her clothes against the soft yellow light.
The startled look on her face when she saw him sitting there with the rabbit.
Then his own voice, flat and suspicious.
What do you want?
He shut his eyes.
It sounded worse now than it had in the moment.
At the time, it had felt automatic. Defensive. A reflex sharpened by too many years of being looked at and misread before anyone had even tried to know him. He had seen someone from his lecture in the doorway, frozen and wide-eyed, and instinct had done the rest.
She had looked nervous from the beginning.
Not guilty. Not curious in the ugly way people got when they thought they had uncovered something scandalous. Not excited. Not smug.
Just nervous.
And yet he had kept going.
He remembered the way her mouth had moved soundlessly at first, lips parted as if her words had simply stopped functioning under pressure. He had thought, stupidly, that it was an act. That she was trying to appear harmless because she had been caught.
But then she had said, in that tiny voice, that she wanted to volunteer.
And he had laughed.
Seonghwa pressed the heel of his hand briefly over his eyes.
He could still see the tears when they had suddenly spilled over.
That was the part that would not leave him alone.
He had seen people cry before. It was not as if tears were some incomprehensible mystery to him. But this had been different because the whole thing had changed so fast. One second she had been standing there trying to explain herself, and the next she had looked at him like he had hit something raw and bruised without even knowing where it was.
He had not expected that.
He had definitely not expected the apology.
I am sorry. I didnât mean to bother you. Iâm sorry.
As if he had been the one inconvenienced.
He turned his head toward the window, jaw tightening.
There had been something awful in the way she bowed and fled. Not dramatic. Not manipulative. Just humiliated in the most genuine way. Her face had crumpled like she had tried very hard for it not to, which somehow made it worse.
And she had been anxious.
That was the other thing he could not stop thinking about.
Not the casual nervousness most people had around him and the others. Not the careful politeness that came from hearing too many campus rumors. She had seemed genuinely anxious from the first second he spoke to her. Like every word cost her effort. Like his presence had pressed her into herself until she barely took up space in the room.
He opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling.
Great, he thought bitterly.
He had made a shy girl cry in a rabbit shelter.
That was such a specific type of awful that even he had to acknowledge it.
From somewhere beyond his bedroom door came the sound of shouting.
Not angry shouting. Normal shouting.
Which meant the others were all in the living room.
A second later came Wooyoungâs voice, loud and offended. âThat was my drink.â
âIt became my drink the second you put it down and walked away,â Mingi replied.
âYou cannot just claim property like that.â
âI absolutely can.â
Then Yunho, sounding far too entertained. âI saw nothing. Continue.â
Seonghwa exhaled through his nose.
The apartment was chaos when all eight of them were home at once. Controlled chaos, mostly. Familiar chaos. The kind built out of overlapping personalities and years of knowing one another too well.
Usually, he found it grounding.
Tonight he had been hiding from it.
But lying here was doing nothing except giving his thoughts more room to circle themselves to death.
With a sigh, he pushed himself upright and ran a hand through his hair before standing. He grabbed the oversized gray sweatshirt hanging over the back of his desk chair and pulled it on, then opened his bedroom door.
The noise hit him immediately.
The shared apartment was large, modern, and expensive in the quiet understated way their families all preferred. Clean lines, wide windows, neutral colors. The kind of place that should have looked serene if not for the fact that it currently contained eight men in their twenties.
The living room looked as if a small, well-dressed storm had passed through it.
Mingi was stretched half across one end of the couch, all long limbs and lazy confidence, holding the bottle that apparently used to belong to Wooyoung. Wooyoung stood in front of him with his hands on his hips, deeply offended and dramatic enough to act as though this were a betrayal of historic proportions.
San sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, focused on some game controller in his hands, though the curve of his mouth made it clear he was listening to every second of the argument.
Jongho was in the armchair by the window reading something on his tablet with the expression of a man who had long ago accepted that chaos was the natural state of the apartment.
Yunho was leaning against the kitchen counter eating cereal out of a mug for reasons known only to him, laughing every few seconds like he was watching a live comedy show.
Hongjoong sat at the dining table with his laptop open, somehow still managing to work in the middle of all this, though Seonghwa knew from the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that he was not nearly as unaffected as he pretended.
Yeosang was on the other end of the couch, legs tucked under him, flipping through channels with the remote but not actually settling on anything. Calm as ever. Quiet. Observant.
For a second, the sheer ordinary ridiculousness of them all almost pulled Seonghwa fully out of his own head.
Almost.
Hongjoong looked up first.
He always noticed more than he let on.
His eyes moved over Seonghwaâs face once, quick and sharp. âYou look like youâre thinking too hard.â
Wooyoung whipped around immediately. âThat sounds serious. Is he thinking about murder or feelings?â
âWhy are those the only two categories?â Jongho asked without looking up.
âBecause they are the most interesting.â
Seonghwa ignored that and moved toward the kitchen. âCan I not exist quietly for one evening.â
âYou can,â Hongjoong said. âBut youâre not doing it quietly. Youâre doing it like someone just told you your favorites snack got discontinued.â
That got a laugh out of Yunho.
Even Seonghwa felt his mouth twitch.
He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water, leaning one hip against the counter when he was done. He told himself he did not have to bring it up. He told himself he could simply stand there for a few minutes, let the others talk nonsense around him until the tightness in his chest loosened, and then go back to his room.
Instead, he heard himself say, âDo any of you know a girl named Y/N from our lecture?â
That got everyoneâs attention far more efficiently than he would have liked.
Wooyoungâs eyes widened immediately. âYou mean the cute girl with the bright outfits?â
Seonghwa looked at him.
Wooyoung pointed. âWhat. She is cute.â
âThat was fast,â San said.
âI notice people. It is a gift.â
âIt is nosiness,â Yeosang corrected mildly.
Wooyoung ignored him. âYes, I know who you mean. She wears a lot of yellow and blue, right? And she always looks like sheâs trying very hard not to be perceived.â
Seonghwa went still for half a second.
That was annoyingly accurate.
He nodded once. âYes.â
Mingi lowered the bottle a little. âWhy are you asking?â
Now everyone was looking at him.
Wonderful.
He considered brushing it off. Saying it was nothing. That he had simply recognized someone from class and wondered if anyone else had.
But Hongjoong was still watching him with that too perceptive expression, and Seonghwa suddenly had the very strong feeling that if he lied, he would immediately be called out for it.
So he sighed and said, âSomething happened at the shelter.â
The room quieted.
Even Wooyoung stopped trying to steal his drink back.
Seonghwa stared down into his glass for a moment, then set it on the counter and told them.
He told them about seeing Y/N in the doorway of the small animal room. About how she had looked shocked to find him there. About how he had assumed the worst too quickly and asked what she wanted.
He kept his tone even, but the details sounded progressively worse the more he spoke them aloud.
When he reached the part where he had accused her of following him to get another story to spread around campus, Wooyoung winced openly.
âOh,â Yunho said, the single syllable full of sympathy and secondhand embarrassment.
Mingi leaned back farther against the couch cushions and rubbed a hand over his face. âHyung.â
Seonghwa kept going anyway.
He repeated the line about recognizing her from class because of her bright outfits. He did not soften the wording. They all deserved to hear exactly what he had said if he was going to confess any of it at all.
By the time he got to the tears, the room had gone properly still.
âI didnât know she wouldâŠâ He stopped, annoyed by how insufficient the sentence sounded. âShe started crying.â
For a brief moment, nobody spoke.
Then Wooyoung said very quietly, âYou made the cute girl cry in a bunny room.â
Seonghwa gave him a flat look.
Wooyoung raised both hands. âI am sorry. That was not helpful. But wow.â
Jongho finally looked up from his tablet. âDid she say anything before she left?â
âShe apologized,â Seonghwa said.
Something in Hongjoongâs expression shifted.
That, apparently, was the detail that bothered him most.
âShe apologized?â he repeated.
Seonghwa nodded once.
San set his controller down on the coffee table. âThat doesnât sound like someone who came there to stir up gossip.â
âNo,â Seonghwa said, the word low and immediate.
That much he knew now, if nothing else.
Before anyone else could add to it, Yeosang spoke.
His voice was quiet as always, but it cut cleanly through the room. âMy sister lives with her.â
Seonghwa blinked and looked over. âWhat?â
Yeosang looked back at him, calm and unreadable in that infuriating way he had when everyone else was reacting and he had already sorted through the matter in his head.
âSoomin. My sister. She shares an apartment with Y/N.â
That landed heavily.
Wooyoungâs mouth dropped open first. âWhy do you know everything in the most dramatic order possible.â
Yeosang ignored him. âIâve heard about her before.â
Seonghwa straightened away from the counter a little. âFrom your sister?â
âSometimes.â Yeosang rested one arm along the back of the couch. âMostly in passing. Y/N is her friend. She is quiet. Shy. Apparently very bad at believing compliments. Good with animals. Brings home strange fruit-flavored snacks that look suspicious but are usually decent.â
That last part was so oddly specific that it made Yunho snort.
Seonghwa was not laughing.
Yeosang continued, âI also overheard students talking about her today on campus.â
Something cold settled in Seonghwaâs stomach.
Yeosangâs gaze flicked to him briefly, as if he already knew exactly where this was going and did not enjoy it any more than Seonghwa did.
âThey were calling her weird,â he said. âMaking fun of her outfits. Saying they were ridiculous.â
The room went even quieter.
âAnd I know she heard them,â Yeosang added. âShe was right behind them.â
Seonghwa felt as though someone had dropped a weight straight through the center of his chest.
For a second, he said nothing.
It snapped into place all at once.
The way her face had changed when he mentioned her clothes.
The shock first, then hurt.
The tears that had seemed too sudden to make sense.
Except they had made perfect sense.
She had already heard it that day.
Maybe only hours earlier.
And then he had repeated the same cruelty without knowing it.
No.
That was not true, was it?
He had not known she had heard it before. But he had still chosen to say it in the first place.
He could not even hide behind ignorance properly.
Wooyoung cursed under his breath.
San leaned back on his hands and exhaled slowly. âThat explains a lot.â
âIt does,â Hongjoong said.
Yeosangâs expression did not change, but his voice softened by a fraction. âShe doesnât seem like someone who spreads rumors. If she cried that quickly, then maybe she was already overwhelmed. And hearing it from you tooâŠâ He let the rest hang.
From you too.
The words lodged deep.
Seonghwa looked down at the floorboards for a moment, jaw tight.
He felt bad.
That was too simple a phrase for it, but it was the nearest honest one.
He had been unfair. Worse than unfair. He had seen a nervous girl in a doorway, assumed the ugliest motive available to her, and then hit the exact insecurity that had already been bleeding.
And she had apologized to him before she ran.
He let out a long breath. âI know.â
Mingi tilted his head. âYou know what.â
Seonghwaâs mouth tightened. He was not good at this part. The saying it plainly part.
Still, he made himself do it.
âI know I was unfair,â he said. âAnd I know I hurt her.â
No one interrupted.
So he added, more quietly, âI feel bad.â
The room remained still for one more beat.
Then Wooyoung pointed at him. âGood.â
Seonghwa stared.
âWhat? You should feel bad. You were awful.â
âThank you, Wooyoung,â Jongho said dryly. âThat was nuanced.â
âIt was accurate.â
Hongjoong closed his laptop at last and leaned back in his chair. âWhat exactly did you think she was going to do? Stand in the middle of campus tomorrow and announce that Park Seonghwa holds carrots for rabbits?â
Seonghwa rubbed at the back of his neck. âI donât know.â
âThat is not reassuring.â
âI saw someone from class looking at me like Iâd been caught doing something strange,â Seonghwa said, more defensive than he intended. âI reacted.â
San gave him a long look. âYou reacted badly.â
âYes,â Seonghwa said.
Another silence followed, less sharp this time.
Yunho set his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms. âSo what are you going to do about it?â
The question sat in the center of the room.
Seonghwa had been trying not to ask himself that yet because the answer required action, and action was harder than guilt.
Before he could say anything, the front door opened.
Every head turned.
A woman stepped inside carrying a tote bag over one shoulder and a box of pastries in both hands. She kicked the door shut behind her with practiced familiarity and walked two steps into the apartment before stopping dead.
Soomin.
Yeosangâs sister looked very much like him around the eyes, though where Yeosangâs calm was cool and composed, hers tended toward vivid and expressive. At the moment, her expression was thunderous.
She looked from one face to another, then locked immediately onto Seonghwa.
The pastries hit the kitchen island with a soft thud.
âYou,â she said.
Seonghwa blinked once.
This did not bode well.
Yeosang, to his credit, looked only mildly resigned. âHello to you too.â
Soomin pointed at Seonghwa without sparing her brother a glance. âNo. Not now.â
Wooyoungâs eyes lit up instantly with the delighted horror of someone realizing a disaster had become live entertainment.
Hongjoong, meanwhile, had the face of a man who knew exactly what this was about and had already accepted that none of them were escaping it.
Soomin took another step forward.
âAre you actually stupid,â she demanded, looking directly at Seonghwa now, âor did you just decide to behave like the biggest idiot on earth for fun today?â
Seonghwa said nothing.
Not because he did not have a response, but because judging by the look on her face, offering one seemed unwise.
Soomin laughed once in pure disbelief. âUnbelievable. My brother spends years insisting you are secretly nice and then you go and make Y/N cry?â
Well.
That answered the last tiny hope he had that maybe she was angry about something unrelated.
Wooyoung made a soft sound that might have been sympathy or fascination.
Yeosang pinched the bridge of his nose.
Soomin was just getting started.
âDo you have any idea what kind of day she had before that?â she asked.
Seonghwa held her gaze. âI didnât. I know now.â
âOh, good. Wonderful. So after hearing her group project partners call her weird and say her clothes look ridiculous, she got to hear the same thing from you too.â
Every word landed exactly where it deserved.
Seonghwa stood very still under them.
Soomin folded her arms. âShe came home crying. Crying. Y/N barely lets herself do that in front of me unless she is really hurt.â
Something hot and unpleasant twisted in his chest.
He knew that, technically. Or rather, he had guessed as much from the way Y/N had looked as though the crying itself embarrassed her almost as much as what he had said.
Hearing it confirmed from someone who knew her made it feel worse.
âI was wrong,â he said.
Soomin stared at him like she was deciding whether that answer was enough to keep him alive.
âYes,â she said. âYou were.â
Yunho quietly moved the pastries farther from the edge of the counter, perhaps in case righteous anger made Soomin gesticulate violently enough to endanger them.
She pointed again, as if she had not yet finished properly stabbing Seonghwa with the truth. âShe thought the shelter looked nice. She wanted to help. Because that is the kind of person she is. She does not stalk boys for gossip. She barely even likes talking to strangers at all.â
Wooyoung muttered, âThat checks out.â
Soomin shot him a look. âYou do not get commentary privileges right now.â
Wooyoung put both hands in the air.
Yeosang leaned back against the couch, arms crossed now, watching the scene unfold with the composure of someone who knew his sisterâs storms had to spend themselves.
Seonghwa took the full force of it.
He did not really have a right to defend himself.
Not when every additional detail made the picture clearer.
Y/N had gone to the shelter because she needed somewhere soft after being hurt.
And he had become part of the hurt instead.
Soominâs expression shifted slightly then, still furious but less explosive, more deeply offended on behalf of someone she loved.
âShe already feels like people think sheâs strange,â she said. âDo you understand that? She hears it all the time even when no one says it out loud. And then one person actually sees her cry and she feels ashamed for existing near them at all.â
The room had gone silent around them.
Even Wooyoung was keeping quiet now.
Seonghwa looked down for a moment, then back at her. âI understand.â
It sounded hollow to his own ears. Understanding after the damage was done was a weak thing.
Soomin seemed to agree.
âNo,â she said. âYou understand now. That is different.â
He accepted that.
Because she was right.
A beat passed.
Then, more tired than angry now, Soomin shook her head and dragged a hand through her hair. âHonestly. An idiot. My poor girl saw a man cuddle a bunny and thought maybe the universe was being kind for once, and instead she got personally attacked by the bunny man.â
At that, to Seonghwaâs immense dismay, Mingi choked on a laugh.
Wooyoung folded in on himself, shoulders shaking soundlessly.
Even San lowered his head to hide a smile.
Seonghwa closed his eyes for a second.
Bunny man.
Excellent. He would never recover.
Soomin looked over at the others. âDo not laugh. He is terrible.â
âWeâre laughing because bunny man is unfortunately very good,â Yunho said.
Yeosang, traitorously, looked almost amused now too.
Soomin huffed and turned back to Seonghwa. âThe point is, if you are going to walk around looking like some tragic prince and secretly volunteer with rabbits, the least you can do is not be mean to sweet girls in bright sweaters.â
Seonghwa actually had no defense for that.
Hongjoong rested his elbows on the table. âI think the court has made ist ruling.â
âThe court is correct,â Jongho said.
Soomin gave a sharp nod, satisfied that every single person in the apartment had acknowledged Seonghwaâs guilt. Then she reached for the pastry box, opened it, and glared at him one last time before pulling out a cream-filled one for herself.
âFor the record,â she said around a bite, âY/N is too nice. I am not. So if you make her cry again, I will ruin your life.â
âI believe you,â Seonghwa said honestly.
âGood.â
She took another bite and wandered over to sit beside Yeosang as though she had not just entered the apartment like a force of divine judgment.
Wooyoung lowered his hands from his face at last. âCan I talk now.â
âNo,â Soomin and Yeosang said together.
Wooyoung looked delighted by that for some reason.
Seonghwa stayed where he was for a moment longer, one hand resting on the kitchen counter, mind louder now than it had been alone in his bedroom.
He felt bad.
That had been true before.
Now it felt insufficient to an almost embarrassing degree.
Because bad was too vague.
Bad did not fully cover seeing the shape of what he had done through the eyes of people who knew her better than he did. Through the eyes of a roommate furious on her behalf. Through the casual certainty with which everyone in the room had agreed that Y/N was not the sort of person he had accused her of being.
He had judged her in seconds.
He had been wrong in every possible direction.
And the worst part was that the image of her in the shelter would not leave him.
Not just the tears.
The other details too.
The way she had stood in the doorway looking startled, as if she had walked into a secret that had softened him by accident. The tiny hopeful part of her explanation before he crushed it. The bright colors of her outfit against the warm light. The fact that she had come there to help on what must already have been a horrible day.
Bunny man, he thought grimly, because apparently the universe was going to mock him through Soomin now too.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
Across the room, Hongjoong watched him for one long second and then asked, very calmly, âSo. What are you going to do about it now?â
This time, Seonghwa did not pretend not to understand the question.
He lifted his head slowly.
He did not have an answer yet. Not a full one.
But he knew one thing with perfect certainty.
Whatever happened next, he was going to have to face Y/N again.
And somehow, impossibly, he was going to have to find a way to make her believe he was sorry.
genre: a/b/o au, idol au, omegaverse, fated mates au, soulmates au, omega!reader, alpha!hongjoong, beta!seonghwa, beta!yunho, alpha!yeosang, beta!san, alpha!mingi, alpha!wooyoung, alpha!jongho, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive, mentions of verbal abuse from parents, reader finds it difficult and the boys try really hard to make her feel safe
wc: 3.6k
summary: you never cared too much about the idea of 'fated mates', the wolf designed by the moon especially for you. now that you've met them, you're not sure if you can be their omega. but you promise to try and the ATEEZ pack aren't quite ready to let you go without a fight.
a/n: this chapter was complicated to write, easy in place but hard in others. I wanted it to be a continued bridge of chapter 2, of the beginning of their relationship and the respect that the boys have for reader and her choices, despite their innate urges. next chapter will be a lot more fluffy, where reader is spending more one on one 'date' time with her mates and maybe a first touch or two
âNope,â she popped the last sound, amused like you werenât on the verge of having a meltdown. She pushed a silky top into your hands. âPut this one on. Youâll look cute.â
You took it from her and reluctantly obliged. You had been getting ready for your meeting - because it wasnât a date, even if Hajong jokingly called it that - for the last two hours without any success. After Hajong caught you sitting on the floor in your underwear, clothes scattered around the room, she stepped in to help. Things had definitely moved faster once she assisted you - you were wearing a pair of jeans at least, and you had to admit the top she chose was one of your favourites.
But the speed in which she got you to the ultimate destination caused panic to churn viciously in your stomach. This was a mistake, you were certain, and you cursed yourself for listening to Hajongâs positive talk about trying and being brave.
She smiled at you brightly. âYou look great,â she insisted, âyour mates will be falling over themselves to sit next to you.â
Your omega bounced in delight at the suggestion, and you swallowed around the feeling.
There was a firm knock at your door and Dokyeomâs voice came from the other side. âIs it safe to enter?â
You rolled your eyes affectionately while Hajong beamed. You raised your voice to say it was and the amused face of your best friendâs soulmate appeared in the gap.
You liked Dokyeom. To be honest, it was hard not to. He was lanky with a pretty face, great smile and was genuinely one of the more emotionally aware people you knew. He matched Hajongâs excitable, stubborn affection with softness and a calm aura. If there was anyone youâd trust your best friend with, it was him.
His pack was well established before heâd met Hajong at university. Traditionally, wolf packs were formed due to familial connection and fated mates, thus ensuring absolute love and loyalty. The Choi pack was one made of family-like friendship. The connection between their wolves didnât have to be designed by the moon to be strong. You understood that.Â
You didnât know too much - Dokyeom kept parts of his past as quiet as you did - but you knew that his pack alpha had taken him in at a dark time and had continued to support him through that recovery.
You understood that too.
âYou look pretty,â he commented. âReady for your date?â
âStop calling it that,â you complained, as Hajong answered, âshe is - just needs to get out the door on time.â
You grabbed your phone to check the time. 10 minutes until you absolutely had to leave. You fiddled with the hem of your top.
Dokyeom watched you closely. âNeed us to drop you off?â
You considered the idea. âMaybe,â you admitted, âif I get an uber, I might turn around.â
He smiled in understanding and Hajong cheerfully said, âthe first step is honesty.â
âYou know weâre proud of you, right? That youâve decided to do this?â Dokyeom said warmly. If it had come from anyone else, you would have bristled at being spoken to like a child, but there was raw honesty in what he said. They were proud of you and it made you feel happy as much as it made you feel sick.
You sat in the backseat of the car while Hajong drove to the destination of your meeting. Youâd let the ATEEZ pack pick - you would have chosen something smaller and more lowkey but you were conscious that these were idols and there was a certain amount of publicity that came with it. You werenât surprised when Hongjoong messaged back with the directions to a hot pot place that, when you searched for it, emphasised the private rooms that could be rented out.
It wasnât that you wanted an audience for this conversation but the idea of being in a confined space with that pack was so overwhelming.
From the outside, the restaurant looked nice enough. The building was designed to look like a traditional hanok building, with a sloping roof and decorative clay tiles. There were trees with wide branches and pretty flowers planted around a winding path towards the front door, with fairy lights twinkling in the low light hanging from the canopy.
When Hajong reached back to hold your hand, you held onto it tightly. She squeezed your fingers. âYou got this,â she promised.
âI got this,â you repeated.
You were repeating that to yourself as you were walked towards the back of the restaurant by the polite waitress. When youâd asked nervously if the other guests had arrived, sheâd beamed and confirmed they'd all been seated.Â
âJust waiting on you,â sheâd said cheerfully.
I got this, you swore to yourself as she paused in front of a closed room.
I got this, you told yourself as she knocked, announced your arrival and began pushing the door open.
I...donât think I have this.
-
San had never been more nervous than when he was sitting in that restaurant waiting for you. He knew he wasnât the only one, the murmuring of conversations around him feeling shorter and distracted. More than once he and Yeosang had started a conversation, only for the reply to leave either of their heads half way through. It was frustrating, a little embarrassing but everyone understood why.
This moment just felt so big, like standing in the center of a crossroad with no idea which path youâll take. You reaching out to them felt like a dream come true after a week of tension and unresolved pain. The lightness of the pack, as well as the underlying weight of the knowledge that this could be their only chance, was obvious to them all.
âThis has to go well,â Wooyoung murmured on the journey over, body thrumming with agitation.
âIt will,â San had assured, squeezed the shoulder of the younger alpha, even though he didnât know for sure. Maybe it was just blind hope, but it was all he had and he clung to it.
Under his skin, he could feel his wolf circling impatiently. It was like an itch he couldnât scratch, deep in his subconscious. It was worse now, as the time of your arrival drew closer. His beta was on high alert, searching for the omega that had filled his thoughts, which meant San knew when she entered the restaurant before anyone else. The scent was faint but heâd spent so long trying to cling on to it that the moment it strengthened, it was like heâd put his face into your scent gland.
He sat up straighter, hooked his fingers into the loose fabric of his pants and tried to breath.
Which was good because as soon as the door to the room slid open, San forgot how to.
The thing with memory is that the more you focus on it, the more the wanderings of your brain fog the reality. He could remember the feeling of your eyes on him, but not the exact colour. He could remember how soft the tips of your fingers felt against his jaw but not the length of your nails or if you wore any jewellery.
Looking at you now, it was like he was observing in high definition, the world a little less fuzzy, as the sight of you rushed in to fill the blanks of his memory.
San caught the uncertain look that flashed across your face before you murmured your thank you to the server. You stepped into the small space so cautiously, and bowed low to them all. You re-introduced yourself, as if your name hadnât been a whisper between them all since they met, and said, âThank you for meeting me.â
Hongjoong replied as honest and breathless as San felt. âThank you for wanting to meet us.â
They had left a space for you at one end of the table, between San and Seonghwa. That was a matter of great debate between them all, trying to figure out where you would feel most comfortable. It had to be perfect and, it was reasoned, their calmer beta youâd already met and the one youâd already had your first touch with would be the most comfortable for you.
San tried not to stare as you lowered yourself carefully into the open seat. Closer now, he took in how the colour of your top looked so good against your skin, and how the silver bracelet you wore jingled around your wrist when it folded into your lap. He chased your scent and didnât realise heâd visibly moved until Jongho, at his other side, put a hand against his arm and pushed.
You had leant away from him, looking at him with unsettled surprise. San forced himself back and bowed sharply. âSorry.â
âNo, itâs okay,â you said weakly, like you werenât sure if it actually was, âI, um, I should apologise too.â
Sanâs eyebrows furrowed in confusion. âFor what?â
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. âOur...â you gestured between the two of them and there was a moment of understanding. Oh. Right. âI shouldnât have - I mean, it shouldnât have been...like that. Itâs supposed to be special right? And instead, it was...work.â
San couldnât begin to explain that the simple touch had been playing over and over in his mind like the best film heâd ever watched. He couldnât verbalise how he didnât care that his first touch with his omega wasnât how he had thought it would be, because it had felt like the world had aligned itself, perfect now that he had all his mates known to him. He didnât know how to say that just sitting next to you now, your scent wafting gently over him, had his wolf wanting to do childish leaps of excitement.
Instead, he beamed. âIt was special,â he insisted, âbut Iâll work hard to make our second touch perfect for you.â
You flushed, a pretty blush along the ridge of your nose that he delighted in. San longed to reach out and trace the blush over your cheeks, but he resisted.Â
It was true that their first touch was different to how he had expected it to be. With the pack, San had been young, excited, and he had confirmed the feeling in his chest as quickly as possible. There was no true romance, no yearning - just a teenage boy pulling unexpected wolves close so he could chase the scent that warmed his soul. As he got older, a part of him wished that he could have done it differently - held Wooâs hand on their first solo date, brushed hair away from Yunhoâs forehead, kissed the tip of Yeosangâs nose because it turned red when he laughed too hard.
San couldnât live with regret. He was happy with his pack, with the touches that followed to cement his affection for them all. Yes, he had hoped his first touch with his omega would have been something softer - a linking of pinkies on a walk or hands sliding around anotherâs waist as he pulled them closer to kiss - but San couldnât bring himself to look badly on what had happened. Not with you in front of him, not with his pack surrounding him and hopeful dreams of the future dancing in his head.
No, the first touch might not have been ideal, San thought, but heâd make every touch after count.
-
The hard part was, you admitted to yourself, that the ATEEZ wolves were wonderful.Â
You couldnât deny youâd kind of hoped they would be terrible, overbearing, a horrific excuse of a pack, so that when you gave into your fears and stepped back, you would have a list of reasons to justify the retreat.Â
I tried Hajong, I really did, you would sigh, but those wolves - they were the worst kind of people. Fate was wrong and I should stay a lone wolf forever.
But they were trying so hard to be good for you.
Every conversation, Hongjoong asked you for your thoughts directly, making sure you always had time to speak. When you did, Mingi kept his eyes on you, unwavering, making sure you knew you had his undivided attention. When you shivered at a slight gush of wind, Seonghwa noticed immediately and shut the window closest to you.Â
Jongho kept silently filling up your drink, not letting it run empty. Wooyoung - sitting the furthest away from you - kept urging you to âtry this, it's really goodâ and San placed each one dutifully on your plate.Â
Yunho, you noticed, was quietly watching to make sure you ate and smiled shyly when you caught his eye. Yeosang, a change from the last time you saw him, was more vocal, telling terrible jokes to make you giggle and looking so pleased with himself when he did.
They wanted to do more. You knew Seonghwa wanted to offer you his jacket at the first sign of distress. You knew that a few times, San had to catch himself before offering you food from his chopstick. You knew that Yunho wanted to call you some chosen pet name because he stumbled over your name, panicked like heâd ruined everything.Â
You found it all oddly endearing - unfortunately, you found a lot of things about them endearing. Jonghoâs quick witted retorts to his elderâs japs. Wooyoungâs laugh that shook his whole body. The way Mingi talked with his hands and nearly knocked Hongjoongâs drink into his lap.
You had smiled and laughed more than you thought possible. Your omega rumbled in contentment, almost drunk on the scent of the pack around her after such deep longing for them. You felt warm, content and safe in a way that you didnât think was possible. It should have been terrifying and sometimes it was. That horrible feeling of distrust, of nightmarish what-ifs, came rushing back. You tried not to flinch away, to even your breathing, to relax the tense edge of your smile - and it would become easy because Mingi would turn to you with a beautiful smile and ask you about your life and it would be easy again.
They didnât ask, though you knew they wanted to, carefully skirting around any topics too emotional or too deep. You knew though, there was only so long the conversation could be avoided.
Empty plates and what was left of the simmering hot pot was carried away by staff. The meal was at an end and there was melancholy regret in the air, as all became aware that their time together was coming to an end. You were sad that it was and then terrified that you thought that at all.
In the end, it was Seonghwa who asked. He shifted in his chair, knee bumping against yours before it jumped away. He kept looking from the table grain to you as he spoke. âYou said you didnât want...â he rolled his lips into a frown, eyebrows furrowed, as he struggled to find the right words. â...this.â
âYes,â you admitted. You tried not to react to the way San tensed beside you or the way that Yunho sat up a little taller, stiff in his chair.Â
Seonghwa continued, âWhat made you change your mind?â
You thought about it for a moment, trying to decide the best way to express what truly had made you bridge the gap. It wasnât exactly because of Hajongâs words of encouragement. It wasnât exactly because the want of your omega had turned into nausea. It wasnât exactly because your social media had taken on a life of its own and kept putting happily fated mates in front of you, flooding you with a longing you thought long buried. It was like a combination of uncomfortable feelings and hope and a moment of bravery that dragged you here, kicking and screaming all the way.
âI havenât changed my mind,â you finally said, âat least, I donât think I have. That day at the coffee shop, I was so sure this isnât what I wanted.â
âWhy?â Wooyoungâs voice was low, like he was trying to keep his emotions at bay, even as the word came out short and tense. You could smell the sadness that tinged his scent and could see on his face the flicker of disappointment he didnât want to show you. It hurt, even if you didnât begrudge him it. It was hard, you realised, to hurt others when you just wanted to protect yourself.
You hesitated. You still werenât sure how much you were willing to share, though you knew you had to share something. There were names and truths you hadnât uttered out loud since it had happened. It would be scratched at a scab to bring them up again.
Yeosang must have noticed. He was quick to offer assurance. âYou donât have to tell us your reasoning if you donât want to.â
It made you feel warm to hear it. While you wanted to accept the out that the alpha had given you, Hajongâs voice was clear in your head telling you to trust them, just a little. They havenât given you a reason not to.
âItâs okay. You should know...something,â you pressed your lips into a tight smile. âI donât have the best experience being someone elseâs omega. When I saw you, when it just clicked, I...didnât like the feeling.â
It was the first time youâd admitted that, how that immediate flash of connection had made you feel sick to your stomach. The moment that you had always dreamed would bring you such joy had been tainted before they even had a chance. Though it was the truth, it made you feel guilty - it must have felt amazing for them, you mused. You lowered your gaze to somewhere on the wall behind them - it would be easier to talk without having to keep eye contact - but you could smell the way their collective scents spiked and soured.
âTurning you away, returning to my normal life felt like the best way to continue, but I didnât really give you a chance did I?â you mused, âI assumed a lot about you, without even speaking to you all properly.â
âAnd now that you have?â Hongjoong murmured.
You looked at him. Your pack alpha really was pretty, you mused. He was looking at you, really focused, but his amber eyes - the expression was unreadable, his own feelings distant from the moment. It scared you that he could hide his emotions so seamlessly, as much as you appreciated not having to see any hurt reflect in his eyes.
You answered honestly. âI can understand why the moon decided we should be mates.â
âSo youâll see us again?â Jongho asked, eyes wide and honest, even as his hyungâs hushed the alpha for pushing you. It was so earnest, so honest, in his forwardness. He didnât even flinch at the scolding around him, waiting on you.
 âMaybe. No, yes, I think so, I,â you stopped, inhaled sharply through your nose. You rolled your shoulders in discomfort.
âItâs okay,â Yunho soothed, âTake your time.â
What did you want? You remembered Hajongâs words, the request to do this for you, not them. What do you want? It would be easy, you thought, to say this was enough and return to the safety of your room. Hajong and Dokyeom would understand, theyâd hold you close and protect your choices because they loved you.Â
You could go back to life before - to the job you love with your overbearing boss, to the simple structure of your day, to the safety of isolation. Your omega would suffer, you knew, but youâd get used to that feeling if you really wanted to.Â
Did you want to? It was easy, sitting there with them, to see an idealised life, filled with laughter and soft touches. You could imagine the nest youâd make for them to sleep in, the scent of vanilla that would intertwine so completely with yours when Hongjoong gave you a pack bite.
You could just as easily imagine it all falling apart.
You exhaled slowly and came to a decision. âI...I want to take it slow,â you explained, âreally slow. I know some packs expect omegas to just drop everything and run off with them into a happy ever after, but I wonât be. I have a home, I have a job, I have my own bills that I want to pay with my own money. My wolf might be telling me that you are perfect for me but I donât know any of you. Youâre strangers. Youâre idols. I donât understand how I fit into your lives right now.â Be brave, you told yourself and lifted your gaze to linger on each of them. âBut I want to try. I...donât want to run away anymore.â
You knew the ATEEZ pack were beautiful wolves but at this moment, they were breathtaking. The room was almost overwhelmed with the increase of vanilla, of each natural scent twisting with their sweet pack scent. Yunho had covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile but the crease of his eyes at the corner gave it away. Mingiâs eyes were unexpectedly wet, sparkling as he pressed his lips down to stop himself from smiling too wildly. Wooyoungâs expression was soft, melted adoration as he looked at you.
And Hongjoong at the other end of the table, let you see the delight in his eyes. âWeâll make it worth it,â he promised, âWeâll prove ourselves worthy of you, omega.â
After losing her job, her boyfriend, and her best friend in one go, Y/N walks through a strange ivory door and wakes in a cursed forest. San has been hunting the lord responsible for vanished brides, including his own sister. When he finds Y/N at the edge of the well that swallows women whole, he believes she belongs to the enemy.
She thinks she has nothing left to live for. He has nothing left but vengeance. And somewhere between suspicion and survival, they begin to choose each other.
Pairing: Choi San x Reader (Y/N)
Genre: Dark Fairytale Retelling, Angst, Slow Burn, Mystery, Fantasy
Tropes: Door to another world, Knife-to-throat first meeting, Cursed forest,Morally grey hunter, Cynical depressed heroine, He falls first, Found family
Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | San Masterlist
Intro | HJ | SH | YH | YS | SN | MG | WY | JH
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
This is Part 2
Y/N woke to pain.
Not dramatic pain. Not the kind that came with shadow hands and cursed wells.
Just a pounding headache behind her eyes and a dull, throbbing protest from the soles of her feet.
She groaned softly and rolled onto her side, pressing her face into something coarse and unfamiliar.
Fabric.
Not her pillow. Not her bed.
The air smelled like woodsmoke and earth.
Her eyes snapped open.
For a moment, confusion hung thick and heavy in her mind. A half-second where she expected her apartment ceiling, pale and cracked near the corner.
Instead she saw wooden beams above her. Rough. Dark.
The events of yesterday crept back in fragments.
Her stomach dropped.
âOh no,â she whispered into the quiet hut.
The knives. The broad-shouldered, handsome man with dark eyes and steady hands. The fact that her first coherent comment while being held at knifepoint had been that it was the most intimate thing she had experienced in months.
She pressed her palm over her face. âUnbelievable,â she muttered. âAbsolutely unbelievable.â
Heat crept up her neck despite the cool air.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling again, willing it to transform into drywall and water stains.
It did not.
Her headache throbbed in rhythm with her pulse. Her feet protested as she flexed them beneath the blanket. When she pushed herself up slightly, she noticed faint abrasions along her soles, dried dirt still clinging faintly to her skin.
This was not a dream. Dreams did not give you hangovers.
She inhaled slowly.
Outside the hut, male voices drifted through the wooden walls.
Her stomach twisted.
Right.
She shut her eyes briefly in mortification.
She had cried and absolutely lost it. In front of strangers.
In front of extremely attractive strangers, apparently.
She groaned softly again and dropped her face into her hands.
âFantastic,â she whispered. âNew world. Immediate emotional breakdown.â
The voices outside shifted. A faint laugh. The crackle of firewood.
Her mind sharpened further.
She remembered him clearly now.
The man who had pulled her from the fire. The one who had carried her through the forest.
Broad shoulders. Strong arms. A voice low and controlled even when angry.
She remembered the heat of his chest when she had been thrown over his shoulder. She remembered teasing him. She remembered him blushing.
She squeezed her eyes shut. âI need to disappear,â she muttered.
Not dramatically this time. Just quietly.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed carefully and stood.
The hut was simple. Packed earth walls reinforced with wood. Furs stacked neatly along one side. A single narrow door.
The entrance was not ideal. The male voices were directly outside.
If she stepped out, she would walk straight into them.
Her headache pulsed again.
She glanced around.
There had to be another exit.
No one built a secret forest shelter with only one way out.
She stepped carefully along the interior wall, wincing as her bare feet met rough floor. She moved slowly, testing weight before committing fully.
Near the back corner of the hut, partially obscured by stacked crates and hanging cloth, she spotted something.
A small opening. Not a door.
More like a ventilation gap widened over time.
It was narrow. But possibly wide enough.
She crouched beside it and peered through.
Outside, she could see tree trunks and morning light filtering through leaves.
No immediate bodies.
She glanced back toward the main entrance.
The voices continued. Distracted.
She bit her lip. âAll right,â she whispered to herself. âDignified retreat.â
She lowered herself carefully to the ground and wriggled head first toward the opening.
It was tighter than she anticipated.
Wood scraped faintly against her shoulders.
She exhaled slowly and pushed forward.
Halfway through, she paused.
The air outside felt cooler. Free.
She wiggled again, inching forward.
Her head emerged first.
Sunlight hit her face. She blinked against it. Then she froze.
Directly in front of her stood a naked man. Grinning.
Water streamed down his chest and shoulders from a crude wooden shower structure rigged between two trees. A bucket system hung above him, dripping steadily.
He looked down at her with unmistakable amusement.
For one horrifying second, her brain refused to process what she was seeing.
Then it did.
She screamed. Not a delicate gasp. A full, startled shriek.
The man blinked once, then laughed.
âYou could have just asked if you wanted to join,â he said teasingly.
She clapped her hands over her eyes instantly.
âI am so sorry,â she blurted. âI was notâ I did notâ this is notââ
She tried to reverse back into the hole. Unfortunately, she was wedged halfway out and couldn't move.
Her legs were still inside the hut.
She flailed awkwardly.
Water splashed.
He was still laughing.
âThis is not improving my morning,â she muttered from behind her hands.
Suddenly, two strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind.
She yelped again as she was pulled fully out of the hole in one firm motion.
Her feet left the ground briefly before she was set upright.
She stumbled slightly and lowered her hands from her eyes.
She knew that voice before she saw his face.
âWhat do you think you are doing,â he asked evenly.
Broad shoulders. Dark eyes. Chiseled face. Great. Of course.
She swallowed. âAttempting a graceful exit,â she said faintly.
He stared at her.
The grinning naked man behind him was still chuckling as he reached for a towel.
She pointed vaguely over her shoulder.
âI was trying to avoid⊠all of this.â
The broad-shouldered man looked unimpressed.
âThrough a hole in the wall.â
âIt seemed efficient.â
He sighed. Not angry. Just tired.
She shifted awkwardly, heat flooding her face.
âI may have overshared yesterday,â she admitted quietly. âCried. Made inappropriate comments while being threatened with knives. I thought perhaps it would be less humiliating to wander off into the forest and pretend this never happened.â
The naked man snorted behind them. âYou were very entertaining,â he offered helpfully.
She glared blindly at the sound. âThis is the worst possible outcome.â
The broad-shouldered manâs mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
âYou are not wandering anywhere,â he said.
She blinked.
âIâm not?â
âNo.â
She deflated slightly.
âUnderstandable.â
He studied her face more closely now.
The bravado from yesterday was thinner this morning.
Hangover and exhaustion had stripped her down to something softer.
âYou will eat,â he continued calmly. âThen you will answer questions.â
She hesitated.
âAnd then?â
âThen we decide what to do with you.â
She winced.
âReassuring.â
He tilted his head slightly.
âYou were ready to throw yourself into a cursed well yesterday. Yet breakfast intimidates you.â
She stared at him for a second.
âThat was low.â
âAnd accurate.â
She sighed.
âFine. Food. Questions. Potential execution. Productive morning.â
Behind them, the formerly naked man finished drying off and stepped around them, still grinning.
âFor the record,â he said cheerfully, âyou should try the shower intentionally next time.â
She groaned and covered her face again.
âI cannot recover from this.â
The broad-shouldered man watched her for a moment longer.
âYou will survive it,â he said quietly.
She lowered her hands slowly and met his gaze.
There was no mockery there.
Just steadiness.
For reasons she did not fully understand, that steadiness made something in her chest feel less chaotic.
Her headache still throbbed.
Her feet still hurt.
She was still stranded in a forest with men who hunted lords and spoke of cursed wells.
But she was not alone.
And apparently, she was not allowed to escape through ventilation gaps.
âLead the way,â she muttered.
He stepped aside, gesturing toward the clearing.
As she walked past him, she could feel the heat creeping back into her cheeks.
She leaned closer just enough to murmur, âFor what itâs worth, the knife thing was still objectively intense.â
He went rigid.
She caught the faintest hint of red rising along his neck again.
Small victories.
Even in strange forests.
Especially in strange forests.
Y/N followed him into the clearing like someone walking toward a tribunal.
The morning had sharpened fully now. Sunlight filtered through the trees in long, slanted beams, catching in the thin smoke that rose from the fire at the center of their camp. The air smelled of roasted meat and herbs, warm and earthy and grounding in a way she hadnât expected.
Seven men sat or stood around the fire.
They looked up as she approached.
For a brief, disorienting moment, she felt like an animal stepping into a ring of wolves.
But none of them bared teeth.
A pot hung over the flames, something thick and slow bubbling inside. Strips of meat rested on a flat stone near the coals. Simple wooden bowls were arranged in a rough circle.
The broad-shouldered one stopped a few paces from the fire and gestured faintly for her to sit.
She did, carefully lowering herself onto a flat rock opposite them.
Every pair of eyes assessed her.
The tall one with gentle features and quiet strength gave her a small nod. The one with sharp eyes and a calm, almost calculating aura watched her like he was mapping her reactions. The one who had been showering earlier was openly amused. Another, larger and broad-chested, leaned back against a tree, studying her with cautious curiosity. One sat with arms crossed, steady and silent. Another with soft but observant eyes tilted his head slightly, as if trying to understand a puzzle. And then there was the shorter one.
He looked unimpressed.
Sharp gaze. Compact build. Something feisty and alert about him.
He was the only one who did not soften at all.
Y/N cleared her throat.
âThis feels like an interview,â she muttered.
A few of them almost smiled.
The broad-shouldered one spoke first.
"I am San."
âThis is Hongjoong.â
The short one inclined his head slightly without warmth.
âYunho,â he continued, gesturing to the tall, broad-framed man who had nodded earlier.
âWooyoung,â he added, with a pointed glance toward the shower enthusiast.
Wooyoung grinned at her shamelessly.
âMingi,â he indicated the larger one leaning against the tree.
âJongho,â the quiet one with folded arms.
âYeosang,â the observant one.
âAnd Seonghwa.â
Seonghwa stepped forward at that, carrying a wooden bowl.
She recognized him immediately. The one who had caught her when she swayed. The one who had brought her inside.
He knelt slightly and handed her the bowl.
âIt is simple,â he said gently. âBut warm.â
She accepted it, startled by the softness in his expression.
âThank you,â she said quietly.
He offered a reassuring smile before returning to his place.
Y/N stared down at the stew in her hands.
It smelled⊠good.
Her stomach betrayed her with a faint growl.
Wooyoungâs grin widened.
She closed her eyes briefly.
âBefore I eat,â she said, voice steadier than yesterday, âI should apologize.â
That caught their attention.
She lowered her head slightly.
âFor yesterday. For making trouble. ForâŠthe dramatics.â
No one interrupted.
âI didnât know where I was. I still donât. I thought maybe Iâd finally snapped.â
She inhaled slowly.
âI drank too much. I was at a party. Iâd just found out my ex was with my best friend. Iâd lost my job a few weeks ago. I overheard people talking about me like I was some case study in failure.â
Her voice didnât shake this time.
It was clear.
Measured.
âI went outside for air. There was a door in an alley. Ivory. Carved with vines and small stones. I touched it. It opened.â
Hongjoongâs eyes narrowed slightly.
âAnd you walked through it,â he said.
âYes.â
âJust like that.â
She shrugged faintly.
âI didnât have much left to go back to.â
A small silence settled between them.
Yunho leaned forward slightly.
âYou understand how that sounds.â
âCompletely,â she replied. âIf I were you, Iâd assume I was lying or insane.â
Mingi huffed faintly.
âSo which is it.â
âUndetermined.â
A few faint smiles flickered.
She looked down at the stew, then back up at them.
âI donât know anything about your lord. Or your missing brides. Or your well. I didnât even know cursed wells were a thing twenty-four hours ago.â
Hongjoong crossed his arms.
âConvenient.â
âProbably,â she agreed calmly. âBut true.â
There was still doubt in their faces.
She understood it.
Then something sparked in her mind.
Her phone.
Her heart skipped.
Please still be there.
Without thinking too long, she shifted slightly and reached into her bra.
Eight men froze.
Wooyoung blinked rapidly.
Sanâs eyes widened faintly.
âWait,â he began.
She pulled the device free and held it up triumphantly.
âRelax. Technology.â
They stared.
It was smudged slightly but intact.
Her phone.
A piece of her world.
She pressed the side button.
The screen lit up.
The faint glow looked almost unnatural in the forest light.
The men recoiled subtly.
Wooyoung leaned forward in fascination.
âWhat is that.â
âItâs called a phone.â
She turned it toward them, swiping the screen open.
The background photo appeared. A city skyline at night.
Tiny glowing windows.
Buildings of glass and steel.
None of which belonged in this forest.
âIt connects to⊠well. Everything,â she said. âInformation. Communication. My world.â
Hongjoong stood slowly.
âIs it sorcery.â
âNo.â
She hesitated.
âNot exactly.â
She scrolled to her gallery and opened a photo from a few weeks ago. Herself in her apartment. Modern furniture. Electric lights. Windows reflecting skyscrapers.
They leaned in.
The image shifted slightly as she tilted the device.
Mingi muttered something under his breath.
âThat place,â Yeosang said quietly, âis not from here.â
âNo,â she said softly. âItâs not.â
San hadnât spoken yet.
He was watching her face more than the device.
âYou said you came through a door,â he said carefully.
âYes.â
âAnd this came with you.â
âYes.â
Hongjoong exhaled slowly.
âThis is either the most elaborate deception I have ever seen⊠or she is telling the truth.â
Wooyoung reached out hesitantly.
âMay I.â
She handed it to him.
He flinched slightly when the screen responded to his touch.
âIt moves,â he murmured.
âIt responds to touch,â she explained.
He looked genuinely delighted.
Sanâs expression remained guarded.
âBut if you are not from here,â he said, âwhy did the well react to you.â
That question settled heavily.
She swallowed.
âI donât know.â
Hongjoong looked toward the others.
âIf she is not connected to the lord⊠then why would it reach for her.â
Silence.
Finally, Yunho spoke.
âPerhaps we should explain.â
They shifted slightly, forming a looser circle.
San remained standing, arms folded.
Yeosangâs voice was calm as he began.
âFor years, our lord has taken brides.â
âPromised marriages,â Jongho added.
âCelebrated publicly,â Mingi continued.
âBut none of the women remain,â Seonghwa finished softly.
Y/Nâs stomach tightened.
âWhat do you mean remain.â
âThey vanish,â Yunho said.
âAt first,â Hongjoong added, âthere were excuses. Illness. Travel. Family visits.â
âBut no letters returned,â San said quietly.
The weight in his voice drew her gaze.
âWe searched,â Wooyoung said. âQuietly.â
âAnd then,â Mingi continued, âwe found one.â
Her throat went dry.
âFound,â she repeated.
âA body,â Yeosang clarified.
âNear the well,â Jongho said.
Her eyes flicked instinctively toward the direction she had come from.
âThe well,â she whispered.
âThe lordâs men disposed of them there,â Hongjoong said bluntly. âThrown into ist depths.â
She felt sick.
âThe well is old,â Seonghwa added. âOlder than the lord. But blood changes places.â
Sanâs jaw tightened.
âIt no longer holds water alone.â
Y/N swallowed hard.
âAnd now,â Yunho said quietly, âit reacts.â
âTo women,â Wooyoung finished.
She felt cold despite the fireâs warmth.
âSome woman who wanders too near,â Jongho said, âis pulled toward it. Especially if they are connected to the Lord.â
âAnd it tries to take them,â Mingi added.
She thought of the hands.
The blackened fingers reaching.
âWhy me,â she whispered.
No one answered.
Sanâs gaze did not leave her face.
âWe do not know,â he said finally.
The clearing was quiet except for the stewâs soft bubbling.
Y/N looked down at the bowl in her hands.
Lost brides.
Bodies thrown into darkness.
A well that now hunted women.
Her world had been cruel in small, mundane ways.
This one was cruel in spectacle.
She let out a slow breath.
âSo youâre hunting him.â
âYes,â Hongjoong said.
âAnd perhaps,â San said quietly, âwhatever else has begun to stir.â
Y/N looked up at him.
His eyes were not cold.
Just resolute.
For the first time since stepping through the door, her problems felt⊠smaller.
Still painful.
Still raw.
But smaller in comparison to a man who threw women into a well and called it marriage.
She picked up the spoon finally.
âWell,â she said faintly, âI suppose breakfast makes sense.â
Wooyoung grinned.
âSee. We are hospitable cultists.â
She huffed softly.
San did not smile.
But something in his posture eased just a fraction.
And as she took her first bite of stew in a world that was not hers, surrounded by eight men hunting a monster, Y/N realized something strange.
For the first time in weeks, she did not feel entirely invisible.
The stew was simple but grounding. Warm broth. Herbs. Meat cooked until tender. It settled into her stomach like something solid anchoring her to this place.
Conversation resumed cautiously around her. Not fully relaxed. Not entirely distrustful either. A strange middle ground.
Her phone was still in Wooyoungâs hands.
He had not stopped examining it.
He tapped the screen again experimentally.
The device responded instantly.
He flinched slightly.
âIt listens,â he muttered.
âIt doesnât,â she said. âWell. Not intentionally.â
He squinted at the glowing icons.
âWhat is this symbol?â he asked, tapping a green circle with curved lines inside.
She inhaled sharply.
âWaitââ
Too late.
Music burst into the clearing.
Loud.
Clear.
Bright.
A full, modern song she downloaded, exploded from the small speaker at the bottom of her phone, layered with bass and synthetic beats utterly alien to the forestâs quiet morning.
Every single one of them jolted.
Jongho half-rose to his feet.
Mingi nearly knocked over the stew pot.
Hongjoongâs hand went immediately to the dagger at his belt.
Wooyoung yelped and almost dropped the device.
The sound echoed between the trees, wildly out of place against birdsong and crackling fire.
Y/N lunged forward.
âItâs just music!â she insisted, scrambling to lower the volume.
But it kept playing.
Lyrics spilled into the clearing in a voice from her world. Confident. Polished. Intimate.
The contrast was absurd.
Seven men dressed in forest-worn leather and wool staring at a glowing device singing heartbreak pop at full volume.
San did not move.
He simply stared at her.
âWhat is that,â Hongjoong demanded sharply.
âItâs called Spotify,â she said quickly. âIt plays songs. Recorded songs.â
âRecorded,â Yeosang repeated softly.
âLike a traveling bard,â she tried to explain, fumbling with the screen. âBut⊠tiny. And trapped.â
Wooyoung leaned closer again despite the earlier shock.
âIt carries a singer inside.â
âIt does not,â she said, finally managing to lower the volume. âIt stores sound.â
The music softened but continued faintly.
Sanâs eyes shifted to her face.
The lyrics drifted through the air.
A song about betrayal. About loving someone who chose someone else. About realizing you were never the first choice.
Of course. Of all the songs in her playlist.
She let out a small, embarrassed breath.
âThatâs⊠unfortunate timing.â
Wooyoungâs grin returned slowly.
âSo your world sings about heartbreak too.â
âConstantly,â she said dryly.
Hongjoongâs posture remained tense, but the immediate threat had dissolved.
âIt is powerful,â Yunho admitted quietly. âThe sound.â
âItâs normal where Iâm from,â she said softly.
San studied the device more carefully now.
âAnd it works without flame,â he observed.
âYes.â
âWithout strings.â
âYes.â
âWithout a person present.â
âYes.â
The realization settled across their faces in different shades of disbelief.
Mingi shook his head slowly. âYour world is strange.â
She let out a quiet laugh. âYou have cursed wells that grow arms.â
âThat is fair,â Wooyoung conceded.
The song reached ist chorus again.
Sanâs gaze flicked briefly toward her.
âYou listened to this often.â
It wasnât a question.
She hesitated.
âLately,â she admitted.
He didnât press further.
But something in his expression softened almost imperceptibly.
Wooyoung finally handed the phone back to her with exaggerated care.
âIt is loud,â he said. âBut impressive.â
She turned the music off completely this time.
The clearing fell quiet again.
The forest reclaimed ist sounds.
Birds. Wind. Fire.
But something had shifted.
Y/N slipped the phone back into her bra, safer there than anywhere else.
Wooyoungâs eyes followed the movement with theatrical curiosity.
San shot him a look.
Wooyoung raised both hands innocently.
She caught the exchange and couldnât help the small smile tugging at her mouth.
Strange.
Unbelievable.
Dangerous.
But not entirely hostile.
And as the last echoes of her world faded into the trees, she realized something else.
She had crossed into a place of curses and blood.
But somehow, absurdly, her heartbreak still fit here.
Perhaps that was why the well had reached for her.
Or perhaps this forest simply recognized broken things.
Either way, the hunt had gained something new.
And so had she.
San had faced down armed men without blinking.
He had stood at the edge of the well while shadows tried to drag the living into ist depths.
He had buried friends.
He had sharpened blades with steady hands.
And yet watching her inside the hut unsettled him in ways violence never had.
He stood just outside the entrance, close enough to see but far enough to pretend he was not looking.
Seonghwa moved quietly inside, sorting through spare garments they kept for emergencies. Simple tunics. Trousers. Linen shirts that could be belted at the waist.
Y/N stood near the back wall, her pale blue dress still clinging awkwardly to her frame. It did not belong here. It made her look even more out of place against the earthen walls.
She turned slightly as Seonghwa handed her a folded bundle.
âTry these,â Seonghwa said gently. âThey are not tailored, but they will hold.â
She nodded, softer than she had been earlier. âThank you.â
There was no sarcasm now. No defensive humor. Just quiet acceptance.
San watched her fingers brush the fabric, testing it. The way she hesitated before slipping behind a hanging cloth partition.
He did not understand her.
A door in an alley. A world of glass towers and music trapped in metal.
But when she had held up that device and shown them a city that touched the sky, he had felt something shift.
And the pain in her voice yesterday had not been performance.
It had been raw.
He found himself believing her ridiculous story. Which was perhaps the most ridiculous part of all.
âSan.â
He did not respond.
âSan.â
A pebble struck his boot.
He blinked and looked up.
Hongjoong stood a few paces away, arms folded. âWe asked you something.â
San straightened slightly. âWhat.â
âI said,â Wooyoung chimed in from where he sat cross-legged by the fire, Y/Nâs strange glowing device still in his hands, âif you plan on standing there staring at the hut all day.â
San frowned. âI was not staring.â
âYou were absolutely staring,â Mingi said.
Wooyoung tapped the screen again. The device flickered to life obediently. âIt makes light whenever I touch it,â he muttered, distracted and delighted. âAnd sometimes it sings. I love it.â
San ignored him. âWhat did you ask,â he repeated.
Hongjoongâs mouth twitched faintly. âWe asked if you intend to tell her our plan.â
âNot everything,â San replied. âEnough.â
Yeosang, who had been quiet until now, lifted his gaze from the ground.
âShe is pretty,â he said simply.
The statement dropped into the clearing without warning.
San froze.
Yeosang rarely offered opinions unprompted. âI can understand why you pulled her from the well,â Yeosang continued calmly.
San felt heat surge up his neck.
âThat was notââ he began.
Wooyoung gasped dramatically. âLook at his ears.â
Mingi leaned sideways to get a better view. âTheyâre red.â
âThey are not,â San said sharply.
âThey are,â Jongho confirmed dryly.
Hongjoong tilted his head. âInteresting.â
San crossed his arms defensively. âI pulled her from the well because she would have died.â
âOf course,â Wooyoung said innocently. âEntirely selfless. No admiration involved.â
âThere was no admiration,â San insisted.
Yeosangâs lips curved faintly. âBut she is beautiful.â
Sanâs throat tightened unexpectedly. The memory flickered again. The sun filtering through trees. Her pale dress catching light. Tears clinging to her lashes.
Painfully beautiful.
He cleared his throat. âTha-that is irrelevant.â
Wooyoung grinned. âYou stuttered.â
âI did not.â
âYou did.â
Mingi chuckled low in his chest. âHe did.â
San resisted the urge to throw something at them.
Hongjoong watched him with measured amusement. âYou are distracted.â
âI am not distracted.â
Wooyoung waved the glowing device slightly. âYou are. And you believe her.â
San did not answer.
Because he did.
And that unsettled him more than their teasing.
Movement from the hut drew all their attention.
The cloth partition shifted.
Y/N stepped out. She wore a simple linen shirt now, slightly oversized, sleeves rolled up clumsily at her wrists. Dark trousers tied at the waist. Her strange pale dress was gone.
Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, still slightly tangled from sleep.
She lookedâŠdifferent.
Less otherworldly. More grounded.
Still beautiful.
But in a way that felt closer. Real. Tangible.
San swallowed.
Wooyoung elbowed Mingi lightly. âThere,â he whispered loudly. âWatch.â
Y/N blinked against the sunlight and adjusted the shirt self-consciously.
âWell,â she said lightly, âthis is significantly less dramatic.â
Seonghwa stepped out behind her. âIt suits you.â
She smiled at him gratefully.
San tried to school his expression into something neutral.
He failed when she looked at him.
Her eyes flicked over his face and then paused.
âWhy are your ears red,â she asked bluntly.
The clearing erupted in laughter.
San felt his entire face heat.
âWe were discussing you,â Wooyoung offered helpfully.
âI was not,â San snapped.
âOh?â Hongjoong raised a brow. âShould we clarify.â
Y/N looked between them curiously.
âClarify what.â
Wooyoung leaned forward conspiratorially. âIn our village, he was the hopeless romantic.â
San closed his eyes briefly.
âWooyoung.â
âVery quick to fall in love,â Mingi added, grinning.
âAnd very unlucky with women,â Jongho finished calmly.
Y/Nâs brows lifted.
âReally.â
San felt as if the ground might open beneath him.
âThat is exaggerated,â he muttered.
Wooyoung tilted his head. âYou wrote poems.â
âOnce.â
âSeveral times.â
âStop.â
Y/N stepped closer to him.
Too close.
He could see faint freckles across her nose in the daylight.
She leaned in slightly and lowered her voice just enough to make it feel private.
âI would have never guessed,â she said lightly. âfor someone so intimidating and handsome to write poems.â
His mind blanked.
Handsome.
Intimidating.
He opened his mouth to respond with something measured. Something composed.
Instead, he stepped backward. Directly onto a root.
His heel caught.
He lost balance. Not catastrophically. But enough.
He stumbled awkwardly and barely managed to regain footing before fully falling.
Wooyoung burst into laughter.
Mingi doubled over.
Hongjoong actually covered his mouth.
Y/N stared at him for half a second.
Then she giggled. Just genuinely amused.
San straightened quickly, clearing his throat as if the earth itself had betrayed him.
âI am not intimidated,â she added helpfully.
âThat is apparent,â he muttered.
Her smile lingered a moment longer before she stepped back. The teasing subsided gradually.
Hongjoongâs expression shifted back to seriousness.
âEnough,â he said. âWe have more pressing matters.â
The mood sobered. San was grateful.
Y/N folded her arms lightly. âAbout your murderer lord.â
âYes,â Hongjoong replied.
âWe cannot approach the estate directly,â Yunho said. âNot without proof.â
âWe have proof,â Yeosang interjected quietly.
âRumor is not proof,â Jongho corrected.
San nodded. âWe need something undeniable.â
Yeosangâs gaze flicked toward Y/N.
âThe well reacted to her.â
Silence.
Hongjoong considered that carefully.
âIf the well responds to her presence,â he said slowly, âperhaps it will reveal something more.â
Sanâs stomach tightened.
âNo.â
All eyes shifted to him.
âShe will not go near it again,â he said firmly.
Wooyoung tilted his head. âYou look protective.â
San shot him a glare.
Hongjoong held up a hand. âNot alone. Not unguarded.â
Y/N looked between them.
âSo the plan is⊠what. Use me as cursed well bait.â
âNo,â San said sharply again.
She looked at him, surprised by the force in his tone.
He forced himself to breathe. âWe gather information first,â he said more evenly. âThe lordâs next promise. His next bride.â
Mingiâs jaw tightened. âThere is always a next.â
Y/N swallowed faintly.
The fire crackled between them.
San glanced at Y/N again.
She stood steadier now. Grounded in borrowed clothes. Less fragile than she had been yesterday.
But still new to this world. Still breakable.
And dangerously capable of making him trip over roots.
He exhaled slowly.
The hunt had grown more complicated.
Not because of her weakness.
But because of his.
And as they began outlining their next steps against the lord and his men, San realized something he did not want to admit aloud.
He was no longer only fighting for vengeance. He was fighting for the chance that she would not step willingly toward another well again.
San listened. He truly did.
Hongjoong was outlining the lordâs travel patterns. Yunho was recalling the last time one of the promises had been publicly announced. Jongho was mapping possible entry points to the estate grounds in the dirt with a stick. Yeosang spoke quietly about servants who might be bribed. Mingi suggested intercepting messengers. Wooyoung proposed something reckless and was immediately vetoed.
San heard all of it.
But his awareness kept circling back to the warmth at his side.
Y/N sat beside him on the fallen log near the fire, knees drawn up to her chest, arms loosely wrapped around them. Her chin rested against the ridge of her kneecaps as she listened with surprising focus.
No jokes. No interruptions.
Her hair fell forward slightly, catching the sunlight in soft strands. The oversized linen shirt made her look smaller than she had the day before.
She asked questions occasionally, but not to derail them. To understand.
âSo he announces engagements publicly?â she asked at one point.
âYes,â Hongjoong replied. âHe is admired.â
âAnd no one questions why none of the women are ever seen again.â
âThey are told they live comfortably at his estate,â Yunho said flatly.
Y/Nâs jaw tightened faintly.
San noticed.
He also noticed the way her shoulder brushed his every time she shifted. Distracting.
Hongjoong scratched another line into the dirt. âWe need his attention,â he said. âWithout appearing hostile.â
âHe must believe he has found something valuable,â Yeosang added.
Mingi leaned forward. âA reason to invite.â
There was a pause.
Then Y/N spoke. âWhat if I go.â
The clearing stilled.
Sanâs head turned toward her instantly.
âGo where,â Hongjoong asked cautiously.
âTo him,â she said calmly. âAs a bride.â
Silence expanded outward.
Sanâs pulse spiked. âNo.â
It came out sharper than he intended. All eyes shifted to him.
Y/N tilted her head slightly. âI wasnât asking for your permission.â
âYou are not going near him,â San said firmly.
Hongjoongâs gaze flicked between them, interested.
Y/N straightened slightly, lowering her legs.
âListen,â she said, voice steady. âHe targets women he can present publicly. Women who look⊠appealing.â
Wooyoung coughed lightly.
She ignored him.
âIâm new. I donât belong to any known family here. No one would question where I came from if the story is crafted well.â
San felt something tighten dangerously in his chest.
âThat is precisely why it is too dangerous,â he replied.
She looked at him directly.
âI told you yesterday Iâm not particularly clinging to my life.â
The words struck harder in daylight.
His expression hardened immediately.
âYou should,â he said.
Her brows lifted slightly.
âYou should,â he repeated, more quietly but more intensely. âAnd I will not let someone who is innocent of this be placed in his path.â
âInnocent,â she echoed faintly.
âYou are not part of this war.â
âNeither were the other women,â she countered gently.
That shut him up for half a heartbeat.
She continued, ticking points off on her fingers.
âIâm not known here. Iâm not connected to any village. I have no visible ties. I look different enough to intrigue him. I can talk. I can observe. I can stall.â
Hongjoongâs eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
âShe is not wrong,â Yeosang murmured.
Mingi nodded slowly. âHe would notice her.â
Wooyoung tilted his head. âHe definitely would.â
San shot him a look.
Y/N pressed on.
âYou want access,â she said. âI can give you access.â
âAnd if he isolates you,â San snapped.
âThen youâll be nearby.â
âWe cannot guarantee that.â
âNo,â she admitted. âBut you canât guarantee safety any other way either.â
The clearing hummed with tension.
Hongjoong folded his arms, thinking.
âIf she is presented carefully,â he began slowly, âand if we position ourselves strategicallyâŠâ
San stood abruptly.
âI said no.â
The others fell silent.
Y/N looked up at him, surprised by the force in his voice.
He was aware he was overreacting.
He did not care.
âWe are not sacrificing you,â he said.
âIâm not a sacrifice,â she replied calmly. âIâm volunteering.â
âThat does not make it acceptable.â
Hongjoongâs voice cut in gently. âSan.â
He did not look at him.
âWe cannot dismiss this outright.â
Sanâs jaw clenched.
They continued discussing logistics despite his resistance. Clothing appropriate for a noble introduction. A plausible backstory. Timing.
Mingi suggested they would need to visit the village discreetly to acquire better garments.
âAnd she should bathe,â Wooyoung added bluntly.
Y/N glanced down at herself. âFair.â
San felt increasingly boxed in.
He stepped away from the circle abruptly.
âI will gather more wood,â he muttered.
No one stopped him.
He walked to the edge of the clearing and began picking up fallen branches with unnecessary force.
He told himself it was about strategy.
About risk.
About protecting the mission.
It was not.
He heard light footsteps behind him.
Y/N stopped a few paces away.
âYouâre mad,â she observed gently.
âI am cautious.â
âYouâre mad.â
He did not respond.
She hesitated before speaking again.
âIâm sorry about your sister.â
The words were soft.
Unarmed.
He stilled.
The branch in his hands creaked faintly under pressure.
âIt is not your fault,â he said automatically.
âI know,â she replied. âBut Iâm still sorry.â
He glanced at her then.
She was not teasing.
Not dramatic.
Just sincere.
He looked away first.
Silence stretched between them.
âYou should let me do this,â she said quietly.
He exhaled slowly.
âYou think you have nothing to lose.â
âI think I have less than most.â
âThat is not the same.â
She stepped closer.
âYou pulled me away yesterday,â she said. âYou told me I should value my life.â
âYes.â
âSo let me try to do something with it.â
Her logic was infuriatingly clear.
He searched her face for hesitation.
There was none.
Only resolve.
He considered.
He hated that he was considering.
âIf you do this,â he said finally, voice low and controlled, âyou will promise me something.â
She tilted her head slightly. âWhat.â
âYou will not be reckless.â
She almost smiled.
âI wasnât planning to.â
âYou will not provoke him unnecessarily. You will not attempt heroics.â
She studied him.
âAnd.â
He swallowed once.
âYou will not treat your life as expendable.â
Her expression softened slightly.
âAnd how exactly do I do that.â
âYou stay alive,â he said bluntly. âYou remember that you matter. Even if you struggle to believe it.â
The words surprised even him.
She held his gaze.
Then she nodded slowly.
âFine.â
âPromise.â
âI promise,â she said quietly.
He searched her face.
Satisfied enough.
She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice.
âYouâre surprisingly soft,â she said lightly. âFor someone who looks like he could scare off wolves.â
His ears warmed again.
âI am not soft.â
She smiled faintly.
âYou trip over roots when flustered.â
âThat happened once.â
She tilted her head playfully.
âIt was memorable.â
He shook his head faintly, though something in his chest felt lighter.
âWe will prepare carefully,â he said, regaining composure. âYou will not act alone.â
âAgreed.â
âAnd if at any moment I say withdraw, you withdraw.â
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
âAgreed.â
They stood there for a moment longer, the tension between them less sharp now.
Not gone.
But reshaped.
Behind them, Hongjoongâs voice carried.
âWe will need to visit the village by nightfall.â
Y/N stepped back slightly.
âLooks like Iâm getting a wardrobe upgrade.â
San glanced at her once more.
âYes,â he said quietly. âYou are.â
And for the first time since she suggested placing herself in danger, he allowed himself to admit something he had been resisting.
He trusted her.
Which might prove more dangerous than any plan they could devise.
Five days.
It had been five days since she stumbled into their clearing half-drunk and half-broken.
Five days since she mocked danger and then nearly surrendered to it.
Five days since her device sang heartbreak into a forest that had only ever known birds and wind.
San had expected the strangeness to fade.
It had not.
But it had shifted.
The first day, she had felt like something fragile and misplaced. A bright shard of another world that did not belong in theirs.
Now she sat cross-legged by the fire in the mornings, arguing with Wooyoung about the proper way to season stew. She asked Yeosang thoughtful questions about tracking. She listened when Jongho explained blade balance. She thanked Seonghwa every time he handed her something, no matter how small. She made Mingi laugh without meaning to. Even Hongjoong, sharp and guarded, had begun to include her in strategy discussions instead of observing her like a problem.
She was still strange.
She still spoke of cities that touched the sky and music stored inside metal.
But she was also...kind.
Annoyingly funny.
And far more empathetic than he had expected from someone who claimed she had nothing left.
He had caught her once sitting quietly beside Mingi after a conversation about a missing bride had gone poorly. She hadnât offered comfort in words. She had simply stayed.
That mattered.
And he liked her.
He tried not to examine that too closely.
The plan had begun to take shape.
They needed the lord to hear of her.
To see her.
So rumors were necessary.
A woman found wandering the forest. A traveler from a distant land. No known family ties.
Intriguing.
Vulnerable.
Perfect.
Which was why they had come to the village.
San had not returned openly in months. Not since his sister vanished. The villagers had learned not to ask questions when he passed through quickly.
But today, he walked beside Y/N through familiar streets with measured calm.
She wore simple borrowed clothes still. Hair loose. Expression curious but restrained.
The others had split off to speak casually to different corners of the village, letting the story spread organically.
San led her toward the house at the edge of the main path.
His parents house.
The wood beams looked smaller than he remembered.
The garden less tended.
He paused only a second before knocking.
The door opened almost immediately.
His mother stood there.
For a heartbeat, she stared at him.
Then her eyes widened.
âSan.â
She pulled him into a fierce embrace before he could brace himself.
He stiffened automatically and then relaxed just enough to return it briefly.
âYou look thinner,â she said, cupping his face.
âI am not.â
âYou are.â
Her gaze shifted past him.
And landed on Y/N.
Her expression transformed instantly.
âOh,â she breathed.
San closed his eyes for half a second.
âMotherââ
âYou brought someone home,â she said, delighted.
Y/N blinked in surprise.
âIâ hello,â she offered politely.
His mother stepped forward and took both of Y/Nâs hands warmly.
âYou are welcome here,â she said brightly. âHe never brings women home.â
San felt heat crawl up his neck.
âThat is notââ
His mother ignored him entirely.
âYou must come in. You must be tired. Oh, she is lovely.â
Y/N glanced sideways at him with an amused sparkle.
âThis is not what it looks like,â he muttered.
âIt looks exactly like what it looks like,â she whispered back.
Inside, the house smelled faintly of dried herbs and wood polish. Familiar. Safe.
His father emerged from the back room slowly.
He was quieter than his mother. More contained.
His gaze assessed Y/N calmly.
âSo,â his father said mildly. âYou found someone worth bringing home.â
San resisted the urge to walk back outside.
âShe needs a dress,â he said quickly. âA better one.â
His mother paused only a fraction.
âA dress?â
âYes.â
âFor what occasion,â she asked, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.
San hesitated.
âFormal.â
Her gaze flickered briefly.
Then softened again.
He cleared his throat.
âPerhaps⊠one of my sisterâs old ones.â
Silence settled gently in the room.
His motherâs smile faltered.
Only slightly.
Y/N noticed.
She squeezed his motherâs hands gently.
âI would be honored,â she said softly.
His motherâs expression shifted from grief to something warmer.
âI kept them,â she admitted quietly. âI could not bring myself to give them away.â
San swallowed.
âI know.â
His mother nodded once and straightened.
âThen we will make something fitting.â
She turned brisk again, clapping her hands lightly.
âAnd you,â she said to Y/N. âYou need a bath first.â
Y/N blinked. âThat sounds⊠fair.â
San remained where he stood as his mother ushered Y/N further inside.
He caught a glimpse of Y/N glancing back at him once before disappearing into the washroom.
He exhaled slowly.
His father stepped beside him.
âShe is different,â his father observed.
âYes.â
âPretty.â
San stared ahead.
âYes.â
His father hummed softly.
âYou have good taste.â
âIt is not like that.â
His fatherâs mouth curved faintly.
âIt could be.â
San finally looked at him.
âShe is not here for that.â
His father chuckled low in his chest.
San frowned.
His father clapped a hand on his shoulder.
âConsider it,â he said lightly. âBefore someone else does.â
San did not respond.
From the washroom, faint sounds of water splashing echoed.
His motherâs voice drifted outward, warm and animated.
Y/Nâs laughter followed.
He had not heard her laugh like that before.
Not strained.
Not teasing.
Just⊠light.
He did not mean to listen.
But he did.
âI didnât really have parents growing up,â Y/N said softly from behind the thin wall. âIt was mostly just me.â
His motherâs voice gentled.
âYou were alone?â
âMost of the time.â
There was no bitterness in the tone.
Just fact.
San stared at the wooden floor.
Something tightened in his chest unexpectedly.
He had been surrounded by family his entire life.
Even in grief, he had not been alone.
The idea of her growing up without that steadiness unsettled him deeply.
He stepped outside before the feeling rooted too deeply.
He sat on the low bench near the front of the house, hands clasped loosely.
His father joined him.
âYou are troubled,â his father said quietly.
âShe wants to go to the estate.â
His fatherâs gaze sharpened.
âAs bait.â
A pause.
âThat is dangerous.â
âI know.â
âAnd you will let her.â
San hesitated.
His father studied him carefully.
âYou care.â
San did not deny it.
His father nodded slowly.
âThen protect her properly.â
He left it at that.
Time passed.
Eventually, the door opened.
San turned instinctively.
And forgot how to breathe.
She stepped out slowly.
The dress was pale pink, soft and flowing. The fabric caught the afternoon light and shimmered faintly. It fitted her properly, tailored at the waist and falling elegantly to her ankles.
Her hair had been combed thoroughly, falling long and smooth down her back.
His mother had applied the faintest touch of color to her cheeks.
She looked like something out of a story.
Like someone meant to stand in candlelight in a great hall.
His chest tightened painfully.
She searched for his reaction.
âWell?â she asked lightly.
He swallowed.
âYou look⊠presentable.â
She burst into laughter.
âPresentable?â
She stepped forward and reached up, squishing his cheeks between her fingers gently.
âYou are terrible at compliments.â
His ears burned again.
âI was being accurate.â
âYou look cute when youâre shy,â she teased.
âI am not shy.â
She smiled knowingly.
Behind her, his mother and father exchanged a glance.
Subtle.
Smug.
San ignored it firmly.
But as Y/N stepped back, twirling slightly in the pale pink fabric, he could not deny the truth settling quietly inside him.
Sending her to the estate still felt like a mistake.
A dangerous one.
But if she was going to walk into that place, she would not walk in broken.
She would walk in radiant.
And he would make sure she walked back out again.
Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Sans Masterlist
â ââ Pairing: Hybrid!Seonghwa x Female!Reader
ăSummaryă: To prove to your college friends that the haunting rumours about the Aurora manor were nothing more than fictional tales, you venture into the abandoned estate... But what you stumble upon was a way bigger secret than indented, and it changes your life forever.
[Warnings]: Blood. Gore. Swearing. Pet names. Blood drinking. Shitty friends. Mention of abuse. Unprotected sex. (Warnings will update the more the story updates)
Notes: Welcome to the Aurora Manor. Where creatures run the show and humans either fear them or beg to be them.
genre: a/b/o au, idol au, omegaverse, fated mates au, soulmates au, omega!reader, alpha!hongjoong, beta!seonghwa, beta!yunho, alpha!yeosang, beta!san, alpha!mingi, alpha!wooyoung, alpha!jongho, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive, mentions of verbal abuse from parents, reader finds it difficult and the boys try really hard to make her feel safe
wc: 3.5k
summary: you never cared too much about the idea of 'fated mates', the wolf designed by the moon especially for you. now that you've met them, you're not sure if you can be their omega. but you promise to try and the ATEEZ pack aren't quite ready to let you go without a fight.
a/n: I had a plan for this chapter and it kind of got away from me. this one is more about dealing with the aftermath from both ends - readers and the pack. lots of struggling with their own feelings in this one! the next chapter will have a lot more fluff and the boys trying to show they're omega that she can trust them :)
He always had. As a child, he loved his family fiercely. As a teenager, it was music and lyrics that warmed his soul, something he threw himself into consistently, and as an adult, it was his pack, his alphas and betas who helped complete him.
For most of them, he had known right away that these were his pack. There was something in their scent, in their persona, in their passion that sung to him. The only one who was a reluctant member was Wooyoung, placed by the company without much consultation - because idol groups had to come in eights apparently - but the younger alpha had convinced him with excitement, skill and a whole lot of love that was just waiting to come out.
When they found their omega, Hongjoong reasoned, it would be the same - and it was.
Just not for you.
They all went their separate ways when they returned home - to the gym, to the home studio, to mindless television.
Hongjoong had worked on old projects and started new ones until everything felt like acid on his tongue, before slipping into the quiet of the living room.
It was rarely that way, always full of noise and bodies, and perhaps that, more than anything else, truly showed how thrown his pack was.
It was a strange feeling, he mused. His wolf twitching in discomfort, yearning for an omega heâd barely spoken to, while the rest of him knew that you didnât even want that.
âI donât think I can be your omega.â
You hadnât really explained why and, though the question balanced on the edge of his tongue, he didnât ask. It felt too personal of a question to ask someone he had just met, who had sat with discomfort thrumming through her body. Besides, it didnât really matter why, just that you didnât want them.Â
Didnât want his pack.Â
Didnât want him.
Hongjoong had managed to convince you to take his contact number, just in case, and youâd accepted it with a tight smile and a bow. When youâd left, the air had been sucked out of the room. Seonghwa clung to his arm like it was a lifeline, boba eyes watering as he tried not to weep in public, while Hongjoong grit his teeth and tried to act as if he wasn't a second away from breaking down.
You could still call, a hopeful part clung to the idea.
The pessimistic side whispered you can't really believe that.
âI donât think I can be your omega.â
Beside him, soft footsteps sounded against wooden floorboards.
Hongjoong looked up, dragging himself from his thoughts, to blink up at San from his position on the largest sofa.
The beta was subdued. He had been since the photoshoot and the touch, disappearing into the privacy of his room the moment they were back home. Now, Hongjoong could see the tense arch to his shoulders, the way he was slouching just so as he moved closer, and how heavy his eyes looked.
âCan I sit?â San asked, quiet, unsure.
As if Hongjoong would ever say no.
San was a physically affectionate person, whatever he was feeling, and had no qualms about sharing it with others. Hongjoong lifted his arm, angled his body and San squeezed himself into the space there. He pressed his face into the head alpha's scent gland, seeking comfort in a familiar smell.
Hongjoong exhaled slowly. He put his hand through the hair at the back of Sanâs neck. âHow are you doing?â
âFine,â was the automatic response. A lie that had Hongjoong tightening his grip on the back of the betaâs neck in silent warning. The tension drained from Sanâs body like it had been wrung from him. âIâm...struggling.â
âUnderstandable.â
âIt was like burning,â he mumbled distantly, âLike a flame too hot was put against my skin and I couldnât pull away.â His eyebrows knitted, âIt shouldnât have been like that. We should have had time to process and now my wolf is...wanting.â
There was something about the first touch of fated mates that had a physiological response. Hongjoong had read fairy stories about princesses and princes, about how it was a blessing to find one's own or a curse to be kept away from each other. Religions spoke about it being part of a godâs design, and scientists spoke about the desire of each wolf to find the right person to procreate with.
In the past, there were elaborate confirmation ceremonies to ensure that the foundation of a pack was blessed by the moon. Some still happened now and then, usually with more prominent families and with a lot more legal paperwork.
His own, with each of his mates, had been carefully decided by them all. A moment of peace and privacy, a time of connection. He'd tried so hard to be a good head alpha for them all, to make that moment whatever the others wanted it to be. Hongjoong hadn't cared, as long as he got to call them his.
But you and San?
To have it in front of so many people, under the orders of another, from a reluctant mate must be heartbreaking.
âShe could change her mind,â Hongjoong murmured, an offer of assurance unknown, and let his scent wrap around his packmember.
San inhaled deeply. âI hope so,â he whispered the confession, fingers curling and uncurling. âIf I feel like this, she must be feeling just as bad right?"
The alpha's lips curled in distaste at the thought of his omega being in any kind of pain, especially one he could solve so easily.
San continued, "Even if I just got to see her again one time, I think Iâd be happy.â
âMe too,â Hongjoong agreed, but he knew that wasnât true.
If he saw you again, if you reached out to him even for a moment, he wasnât sure heâd be able to stop himself from clinging to you, too terrified to let you go.
They fell asleep like that, spread across the living room sofa, holding onto each other and dreaming of their omega.
-
The phone number, scribbled shakily onto the corner of a cafe napkin, felt like lead in your pocket. It made every step difficult and filled your subconscious.
You should forget about it. You had only taken it because the two had looked so startled, so subdued, so heartbroken at your refusal.
You understood, of course. It wasnât as if your wolf wasnât calling for them, wasnât whining and irritable at the distance of each passing second. You tried not to think too hard about how the two had sat up straighter when you entered or how they had visibly collapsed in on themselves when you broke the news.Â
At a different time in your life, you would have readily accepted it all. You had dreamed about your mates as a child, hopeful in their future love and the life placed before you. Your pack as a child had been small so you always thought youâd like a bigger one, where you werenât the only child amongst a crowd of adult wolves. Youâd dreamed of a pretty alpha and handsome omega that would sweep you off your feet, take you to their den and invite you to make a nest in your shared home.Â
But that was the hope of a person who didnât exist anymore.
Hajong noticed immediately that something was wrong. The beta had been your friend since you were in primary school when her pack had moved nearby to yours.
During community functions, sheâd sought you out. You recalled her having no front teeth, grinning at you and chirping like a little bird more than a wolf. You were obsessed with her immediately, your first proper friend. You had shared jokes, heartaches and everything in between. When you had finished university, a shell of the person you once were, Hajong invited you into her home - a flat owned by one of her packâs betas where she and her soulmate lived - without a second thought.Â
She knew you like the back of her hand.
She eyed you thoughtfully as you hung up your coat and walked on sock clad feet into the kitchen. You murmured your greetings on the way to the fridge to grab your leftovers and warm them up in the microwave. You closed your eyes to the hum of the machine.
âWhatâs wrong?â Hajong asked.
âNothing.â
âLiar,â she shot back, âYouâre cracking your knuckles. Plus, you smelt like burnt toffee.â
You caught yourself just before pressing down on your hand at her words. âLove you too Hajong-ah,â you muttered bitterly.
When you looked at her, she was frowning at you, eyebrows furrowed. She didnât need to coerce you. She knew youâd break and tell her everything eventually. You always did.
The microwave dinged and you sighed. âI....I think I found my mates.â
Hajong was quick. She sat up straighter and her voice was sharp. âThink or know?â
You hesitated before answering. âKnow. I know.â
âHow?â
Hajong didnât mean it as a challenge. It wasnât that she didnât trust your judgement but youâd been down this road before - this nightmarish and painful road. She could remember a time where you had said the exact same thing and had been horribly wrong. Hajong wasnât about to let you go through it again.
You pondered your answer. You thought about that first moment, when youâd seen Mingi before the photoshoot had even started. The way his scent had seemed to overcome you, even from such a distance. The way your wolf had whined and claimed him so confidently. The way that he had paused, eyes flashing, and stared at you. Like you were everything he had been looking for. You pushed that thought away.
âMy omega,â you pressed your hand to your chest and felt the unsteady beating of your heart. âSheâs so sure and when I touched-â you clicked your jaw shut.
You nodded shyly. âOne of the betas. There's 3 of them, and 5 alphas. They - he was the client and Taeji-sshi told me to go help position him and I didnât, I couldnât say no and he didnât know that-â
âYou didnât say anything?â she asked, âthey didnât say anything?â
âWe were at work,â you finished lamely.
It almost felt like you had to justify yourself. You still felt the thrum beneath your fingertips, tugging at your senses, distracting you almost as much as the crooning wolf at the back of your head.
If you let yourself stop, it was easy to remember how soft his - San, your mind supplied with ease - skin felt, how strong his jaw was; how his eyes had tracked you, heavy with barely concealed emotion, and how pretty they looked when they responded to you.Â
His wolf must be having a hard time, you thought absently, and then immediately shut yourself down.
You donât care.Â
You canât.
Hajong could have pressed but she didnât. She tapped an uneven beat on the tabletop. âWhen are you going to see them again?â
You shook your head. âNever.â She said your name softly, sadly, but you pushed on ahead. âI canât be their omega.â
âCanât or wonât let yourself be?â Hajong challenged.
You swallowed. You had worked hard to remove yourself from the darkness of your past. Youâd thought you were going to die. Your human heart had been destroyed and your wolf had retreated so far into you in response that youâd been terrified you might not get her back again. The omega had eventually, months later, following the breadcrumbs of hope that your closest friends and your therapist had laid out for her.
Sometimes, on the worst days, it felt like youâd wake up and sheâd be gone again, leaving this gap of nothingness within yourself.
â...wonât let myself,â you confessed, voice faint, as if putting it out the world would destroy you. Maybe it already was, the words rocking through you, making your skin crawl.
âDo you want my honest opinion?â Hajong asked.
âArenât you going to give it anyways?â you retorted, edged by the sharpness of your emotions.
She didnât even blink. âStop punishing yourself for past mistakes,â she was blunt in a way that made you flinch. âDon't even think about them - you donât deserve to suffer any more than you already have. Your wolf must be trying to wreck you from the inside out. You donât have to do anything, be anything, for them, but you should do it for yourself.â
Hajong got up to press a kiss to your cheek and nuzzled affectionately against your scent gland. Her scent of sea salt overlapped with your sweet one. It was comforting, even as her words echoed around your head, punishing you with their sincerity.
Were you punishing yourself? You wondered, or just trying to protect yourself from future pain?
Hajong smoothed a hand along your cheek. âJust...reconsider meeting them, okay? Just one time.â
You didnât answer. You couldnât.
She murmured that she was going to shower. âDo you want to watch something together after? Deokyum won't be home until late.â
You swallowed around the thickness in your throat. âIâm tired, I think I should just go to bed.â
Another lie. You both knew there was no way youâd be sleeping tonight. This time, Hajong accepted your answer and slipped away, leaving you to your thoughts and your rapidly cooling dinner.
-
Yeosang wished heâd looked at you more.
It was such a small thought yet it kept coming back to him.
He recalled how you were smaller than him with dark hair and bangs that fell around your face, like you were trying to hide behind them. He could pick out the soft lilt of your voice and the faint line of pink that was chasing up the back of your neck the longer they stood there. He could remember your scent, sweet like most omegas were but so much better. Intoxicating.
His wolf had reared back to smell it better and the urge to get closer, to get it from the source, had been immense.
But they were at work.
Yeosang tried to watch you when you weren't looking but he knew you caught him a few times. Embarrassment curled within him and heâd snap his gaze away, pointedly focusing on anything but you.
And when you had touched San, it was like a jealous fire had been lit under him. He wanted you to touch him like that too, he thought, so gentle and careful.Â
Later, heâd reasoned, later he would know more about you than your name and your scent. Later, he would hold your hand and listen to you talk about whatever you wanted.
Because you were his omega.
You were his pack.
Except you werenât.
Yeosang still felt sickness curling in his stomach at the idea that you didnât want to be theirs. Hongjoong had sounded so emotionless when he told them, even though he was sure to be broken inside. He must be. Yeosang definitely was.
It had only been ten days but it felt like a lifetime of emptiness. Which was ridiculous, he reminded him. Theyâd only met you once, barely knew you, but their wolves were distressed, searching for something that wasnât nearby because once they knew it existed, they werenât able to let it go. It was a constant reminder, an ache that grew with each passing second of absence.
As a pack, they havenât spoken about it since, each processing things in their own way, but it could be felt in the air. Jongho was in a silent withdrawal, gaze distant. He forgot his own strength once and put a mug down so hard it cracked on the tabletop. Mingi and Wooyoung were snapping at each other over small things, Yunho and Seonghwa trying desperately to calm the mounting tension between them. San had been clinging to Hongjoong, as if the head alpha could ease the pain he felt in his chest.
Yeosang tried to help where he could but he was never good with conflict and any snap back made him recoil.
That just happened to be the boiling point.
Mingi and Wooyoung were at it again, teeth bared and words sharp. It was something about laundry being left or the wrong snack eaten in the fridge - it didnât really matter why, just that emotions were boiling and becoming uncontrollable.
Yeosang had tried to calm the tensions as best he could but when Wooyoung had snapped at him, a harsh order to mind his own business, heâd flinched back.
âDonât talk to him like that,â San snapped.
Wooyoung sneered. âWhat? Yeosang doesnât need you to fight his battles for him. Heâs a big wolf.â
âHey, be fucking respectful,â Mingi ordered, âHeâs just trying to help calm down your sorry arse.â
Wooyoung spun to him. âMy sorry arse?â he repeated, voice heavy in mocking disbelief, âYouâre the one who got his panties in a twist about something fucking meaningless.â
Yeosang relaxed at the press of Seonghwaâs familiar hands against the back of his neck. The beta rubbed at his scent gland affectionately, pumped out his scent as thickly as he could to cover the sour note that Yeosang had taken on. It was helpful, he admitted, to lose himself in the scent of warm tea leaves that Hwa always had.
Jongho was up, arms folded across his chest, and gritted out the words, âBoth of you need to take a breather.â
Mingi scoffed. "Don't lump me in with this bastard."
Yunho placed himself firmly between the two alphas, hands splayed across each chest. âGuys, this isn't helping,â he frowned.
âDonât start that shit with me,â Wooyoung took a step forward, pushed against the betaâs grip. âItâs this arsehole who started it.â
âStarted what?â Mingi snarled, âYouâre the one who-â
âEnough.â
Pack alpha voice. Hongjoong rarely used it, rarely had to, but when he did, it always had the same effect. Wolves deflating, ears pricked in attention; ears ringing as his pack was forced to obey instinctively.
Seonghwaâs fingers flexed around his neck as Yeosang looked over at their head alpha. He was standing in the doorway of the living room, one gripping the doorway and the other clenched at his side. He didnât look angry, jaw relaxed, shoulders slumped but his eyes were flashing gold with high irritation.
When he spoke again, Hongjoong was quiet and everyone strained to hear him. âThis isnât how we solve our problems,â he told them firmly, âApologise.â
Mingi looked like heâd shrunk and Wooyoung just looked tired. Both murmured their sorries, voices thick with emotion now that the anger had bled away.
âAnd to Yeosang,â Hongjoong pushed.
Wooyoungâs voice broke when he did.Â
âNow sit,â the pack alpha ordered, âpack meeting.â
Everyone gathered in the living room, bodies perched on the edge of sofas or sitting on the floor at the foot of others. Seonghwa came to sit next to Yeosang, arm slipping over his shoulder in comfort, while Jongho sat on the sofaâs arm beside him. Mingi and Wooyoung sat on opposite ends of the space, not quite ready to mend bridges, with Yunho and San between them like a barrier. Hongjoong sat crossed legged on the floor, back against the wall as he took in each of his pack members.
After a moment, he spoke. âWe met our omega.â
Yeosang swallowed. His alpha whined.
Hongjoongâs voice weakened just for a moment as he continued. âShe doesnât want...â he trailed off, gritting his teeth because it was just too hard to say. âOur wolves are going crazy. We need a solution that isnât ignoring each other or tearing each other apart.â
âItâs exhausting to try and keep the peace,â Yunho admitted, âas if only one of us is affected.â
Mingi ducked his head to press against the side of the beta's in an attempt to comfort and apologise.
âShe touched me,â San murmured, âand my wolf hasnât stopped craving her. I canât get it to stop.â
âWe all are,â Wooyoung retorted, before he caught himself and exhaled his frustration slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was measured, honest in its yearning. âAt least you got your first touch...â
âMaybe we should go to therapy,â Jongho murmured. âIf it doesnât get better...â
âI can find someone who specialises in bond breaks,â Seonghwa visibly winced at the phrase. Yeosang did too.
Hongjoong smiled faintly. âIt might be our only option. I wish I could help you all more.â
âSheâs your omega too,â Yeosang reminded him carefully, âitâs okay not be okay.â
He tried to be strong for them, their pack alpha. At work, Hongjoong stood in their corners and fought for each of them to be treated with respect. He supported every endeavour or experience they wanted to try. At home, he soothed distress and offered stability in words and presence when needed. He took his job as pack alpha seriously, always put them before himself, and sometimes it was easy to forget that Hongjoong was suffering too.
For a second, Yeosang thought he saw pain reflected in the alphaâs eyes before it was gone.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and Hongjoong sighed tiredly, already moving to reach for it. Yeosang watched him look at the message and freeze. His scent spiked lighter.
Mingiâs eyebrows furrowed. âWhat is it?â
Hongjoong licked his lips. âIt...itâs her.â
âWhat?â Seonghwaâs heart leaped.
San sat up straighter. âReally?â
âWhat did she say?â Wooyoung demanded to know.
Hongjoong passed the phone around to each of them. Yunho covered his mouth. Mingi shuddered an inhaled breath. Wooyoung muttered a surprised curse. San closed his eyes. Seonghwaâs hands shook when he passed the phone to Yeosang. Jongho pressed in close to reach over the other alphaâs shoulder.
Yeosang could recite that text message long into the night, the words echoing around his head in disbelief.
A part of him thought it was a cruel trick or a hallucination. Seonghwa had said you sounded so certain. And yet, the message was there, formal and distant. It was embarrassing, the insurmountable amount of hope it gave to them.
Genre: Enemies to lovers, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff
She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story.
The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
Your body freezes before your mind does.
Cold mud presses through the thin fabric of your dress as you sit half-sprawled on the forest floor, palms braced uselessly behind you, breath shuddering in your chest as you stare up at the towering figure blocking your escape. The knight doesnât move, doesnât advance, doesnât lower his weapon, but the sheer weight of his presence pins you in place more effectively than iron chains ever could.
Your thoughts scatter, frantic and sharp all at once.
Think. Lie. Run. Fight.
No â fight is useless. One glance at him tells you that much. He is too tall, too broad, armour scarred and darkened by use rather than polish, a silhouette built for war rather than ceremony. If he wanted you dead, you would already be bleeding into the forest floor.
Which means he hasnât decided yet. That, somehow, is worse.
Your gaze flicks quickly over him, cataloguing details with the instinct of someone who has watched knights train her entire life. The sword at his side rests untouched, angled just slightly forward, as though ready but not drawn. His stance is relaxed in the way only dangerous men ever truly are â balanced, grounded, impossible to knock over. The helmet conceals his face entirely, smooth metal swallowing whatever expression he might be wearing, giving you nothing to read, nothing to cling to.
Is he one of hers? Did she send him after me? Did he hear the orders?
Your pulse thunders in your ears as you scramble mentally for explanations â half-truths, excuses, anything that might buy you time.
Lost? A lie, but an easy one.
Attacked by bandits? Too risky -heâll ask questions.
Running from wolves? The blood ruins that one,especially with no injuries.
Your eyes dart past him instinctively, searching for gaps between the trees, for uneven ground you could use to your advantage, for any possible escape route that doesnât end with a blade in your spine. The forest is dense here, roots twisting like traps beneath the soil, branches thick enough to slow even a trained knight, but you are exhausted, soaked, shaking, and every muscle in your body is already screaming in protest.
You wouldnât make it far. The realisation lands heavy and cold in your stomach.
Your fingers curl reflexively toward where your dagger should be, only to remember itâs gone â lost somewhere between the castle halls and the forest floor. The loss feels sudden and devastating, stripping you of the last illusion of control you thought you had.
Your breath stutters.
If he recognises me-
The thought fractures before it finishes. You canât afford it. Recognition would mean questions. Questions would mean answers. Answers would mean capture, or worse â being dragged back to a kingdom that has already decided you are a monster.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression into something neutral, something unthreatening, even as fear coils tightly beneath your ribs. You lower your gaze just slightly, not enough to look submissive, but enough to appear human, frightened, breakable.
Because that might be the only thing that saves you.
The knight remains still, watching. Waiting.
And as your mind races for a story convincing enough to keep you alive for just a few more seconds, one terrifying truth becomes impossible to ignore: Whatever you say next will change everything.
Your thoughts barely have time to finish spiralling before his voice cuts through them, rough and low and edged with unmistakable impatience, the sound vibrating faintly through the metal that hides his face.
âI wonât ask again,â he says, tone flat but dangerous in its restraint. âWhat are you doing out here?â
Your breath catches as his gaze drops from your face, sweeping over you with a slow, assessing weight that makes your skin prickle beneath your soaked dress. His eyes â hidden, unreadable â trace the torn hem, the mud clinging to your skirts, the blood dried dark against the blue fabric, and the way your chest rises and falls too quickly to be anything other than panic.
You donât speak quickly enough.
He stills. Then, quieter, heavier, as though the word itself carries something unwelcome with it, he says, â...Princess.â
The title lands like a blade between your ribs.
For a heartbeat, the forest seems to tilt, the air thinning until your lungs struggle to pull it in. Fear rushes through you in a cold, violent wave, washing away whatever fragile plan you were clinging to. Recognition means everything you were trying to outrun has finally caught you. Recognition means chains. It means being dragged back through the gates you barely escaped. It means Edrea wins.
You brace yourself instinctively, shoulders tensing, jaw setting as though you can somehow prepare your body for what comes next. Thereâs a strange, hollow calm that settles over you in that moment, a quiet acceptance of the danger youâve been running from since the bells began to toll.
This is it, you think dimly. This is where it ends.
But instead of drawing his sword, instead of reaching for you, instead of calling out to unseen guards hidden among the trees, the knight exhales sharply through his nose and lets out a short, humorless scoff.
âWhatever youâre playing at,â he mutters, turning slightly away from you, âstop it.â
Your brows knit before you can stop them.
He shifts his weight, already beginning to step past you, voice dismissive, almost irritated rather than alarmed. âGet home,â he adds. âAnd donât follow me.â
The words donât make sense.
Your heart stutters, confusion flooding in so suddenly it nearly knocks the breath from your chest. He isnât accusing you. He isnât threatening you. He isnât reacting the way someone who knows what happened should react.
He doesnât know.
The realisation creeps in slowly, cautiously, like an animal testing unfamiliar ground.
He doesnât know about the guard. He doesnât know about the note. He doesnât know about your parents.
To him, you arenât a traitor or a murderer or a condemned criminal.
Youâre just a princess who wandered somewhere she shouldnât be.
And for the first time since you ran, youâre not sure whether that misunderstanding is a curse or the only thing keeping you alive.
You stare after him in disbelief as he turns away, boots crunching softly against the forest floor as though this encounter has already been dismissed in his mind, as though you are nothing more than an inconvenience he intends to leave behind among the roots and shadows.
For a heartbeat, you simply watch him go. Then instinct kicks in.
âWaitââ you call out, pushing yourself up from the ground and stumbling slightly as you rush to follow, your legs still shaky from running and fear and everything that has shattered inside you over the last few hours. âWait, pleaseâ!â
He doesnât slow. Doesnât turn. Doesnât acknowledge you at all.
You hurry to match his pace, skirts snagging on low branches as you move, breath still uneven as you try again. âStopâ listen to meââ
Nothing.
He keeps walking, broad back solid and unyielding beneath his armor, as though the forest itself is parting for him alone. Every step he takes feels deliberate, final, and the frustration bubbling beneath your fear flares hot and sharp in your chest.
âPlease,â you try once more, voice cracking despite your effort to steady it. âIââ
Still nothing. Panic and desperation twist together until you blurt the only thing you know might make him stop.
âMingiâŠwait.â The effect is immediate.
He halts so abruptly you nearly collide with his back again, forced to stop short with a sharp intake of breath. Slowly â so slowly it feels intentional â he turns to face you, and for the first time since you ran into him, the full weight of his attention settles squarely on you.
The forest seems to quiet around you. âYou shouldnât know my name,â he says, voice low and edged with something hard and dangerous now, something far less dismissive than before.
Your heart pounds, suddenly aware of what youâve revealed.
He straightens slightly, shoulders squaring as though bracing for impact. âI wonât go back,â he continues, the words coming out rougher this time, laced with conviction rather than anger. âNot now. Not ever.â
You blink at him, confusion cutting cleanly through the fear. âWhat?â you ask, breathless. âWhat are you talking about?â
He exhales heavily, a long breath that rattles faintly against the inside of his helmet, and for a moment you swear you can hear exhaustion beneath the steel. His posture shifts, tension bleeding from it just enough to suggest something unexpected.
Realisation. Slow, reluctant, unmistakable.
ââŠYouâre not here to retrieve me,â he says at last, more to himself than to you, the edge in his voice dulling into something quieter, something wary. He falls silent, standing there in the shadowed forest, clearly recalibrating everything he thought this moment was going to be.
He turns back toward you fully this time, no longer half-angled toward escape, and for the first time since you collided with him, his attention settles on you with something sharper than irritation.
He looks at you properly.
Not just at the title you carry. Not just at the inconvenient presence you represent. At you.
His gaze tracks the trembling line of your shoulders, the way sweat darkens the fabric at your collar, the blood smeared unevenly across your dress where your hands tried â and failed â to save a dying man. He takes in the tear tracks cutting through the dirt on your cheeks, the way your hands curl and uncurl at your sides as though searching for something solid to hold onto, and finally, the fear sitting naked and unguarded in your eyes.
Whatever he sees there makes him still. Alarm creeps into his posture so subtly you almost miss it, his shoulders tensing beneath the armour, his head tilting a fraction as though recalculating.
âWhat happened,â he asks, and this time it isnât a demand. Itâs low, rough, but edged with something close to concern.
Your breath shudders as the question finally cracks you open.
The words spill out of you unevenly, tangled and broken, your voice thin with exhaustion and grief as you try to explain â about the court, the accusations, the guard at your door, the blood, the lies, your parents. You stumble over details, lose your place, have to stop more than once to drag in a breath that doesnât quite reach your lungs, but you keep going because stopping feels like giving in.
âI didnât do it,â you whisper at the end, voice barely holding together. âI swear to you, I didnât. They were alive this morning. I would never â pleaseâŠâ
You donât realise youâve stepped closer until youâre already there, hands clenched in the fabric of your skirt as you look up at him, desperation bleeding into every syllable. âPlease believe me.â
For a long moment, he says nothing.
He stands there, tall and unmoving, his helmet angled directly at you so you canât see his eyes, canât read whatâs happening behind the steel. The silence stretches painfully, long enough for doubt to creep back in, long enough for fear to reassert itself.
Then, finally, he speaks. âI left at the right time.â
The words land bluntly, without cruelty, without comfort â just truth.
You blink at him, thrown. âWhat⊠what do you mean?â
He exhales again, slower this time, as though the admission itself weighs on him. âI abandoned my post,â he says simply. âWalked away.â
Your breath catches. âYou â why?â
âBecause I heard the same announcement you did,â he replies, voice hardening slightly. âBecause I know Edrea. And because I would never kneel to someone like her.â
The conviction in his tone is unmistakable, carved deep and immovable. He shifts his stance, turning slightly away as though the castle itself is something he refuses to face, even from this distance.
âSheâs cruel,â he continues, almost absently. âAlways has been. And cruelty with a crown doesnât end quietly.â He pauses, then adds, more quietly, âI wonât serve that.â
The forest seems to close in around the two of you, the space between your fates narrowing with every word. And suddenly, youâre not standing in front of a knight sent to capture you. Youâre standing in front of a man who ran, just like you did.
The silence that follows his admission settles strangely between you, thick with things unsaid, with choices neither of you seems ready to acknowledge. You study him for a moment, this knight who ran from the same crown now hunting you, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips free.
âWhere are you going?â you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.
He barely glances at you. âThatâs none of your concern.â
Your brows knit, irritation flaring hot and immediate. âIt is if youâre the only armed person Iâve run into who hasnât tried to kill me.â
He turns fully away again, clearly done with the conversation. âYouâll manage. You always do.â
Something sharp twists in your chest at that â at the assumption, at the dismissal, at the way he speaks like youâre already an inconvenience best left behind.
âWait,â you say, stepping forward before you can reconsider. âI need help.â
That makes him pause. Just barely. He looks back over his shoulder, helmet catching a sliver of muted forest light. âNo.â The word is flat. Immediate. Unapologetic.
You stare at him, disbelief giving way to anger in a rush so fast it almost takes your breath. âNo?â you repeat. âYou wonât help me?â
âYouâre not my responsibility,â he replies coolly. âNot anymore.â
Anymore. The implication snaps something in you cleanly in two.
âOh, thatâs rich,â you bite out, fury flooding back into your limbs like a long-lost friend. âYou abandon your post, disappear into the woods, and now you get to decide who deserves help?â
He shrugs, the movement heavy beneath steel. âI decide who gets me killed.â
You laugh, sharp and humourless. âSo thatâs it? Everyone else be damned, as long as you get to walk away with your honour intact?â
He turns back to face you fully now, and though you still canât see his eyes, you can feel the way his attention locks onto you, heavy and unyielding. âYouâre a royal,â he says bluntly. âYouâll be fine.â
Your jaw clenches. âYou donât know a single thing about me.â
âI know enough,â he counters, voice edged now. âYou were born into silk and servants and safety. Youâve never had to fight for anything in your life.â That one lands like a slap. You step closer, anger crackling beneath your skin. âYou think Iâm lazy?â you snap. âYou think Iâm arrogant because I didnât grow up starving?â
He scoffs softly. âI think youâre like the rest of them, used to the world bending when you ask it to.â
âYouâre wrong,â you fire back immediately, the words tumbling out hot and fast. âAnd if you had ever bothered to look past the crown, you might actually know that.â
His shoulders tense, just slightly, and for the first time you sense something beneath his certainty â a crack, a nerve youâve struck without meaning to. âRoyals always say that,â he replies, tone darkening. âThen they go back to their castles and forget.â
You laugh again, but this time thereâs something raw in it. âI donât have a castle anymore.â The words hang between you, sharp and undeniable.
He doesnât respond right away.
Instead, he studies you again â not as a nuisance, not as a title, but as someone standing soaked, shaking, furious, and very much not safe. The argument hasnât ended, not really, but something has shifted all the same, the ground beneath both of you subtly rearranging itself.
And neither of you seems quite ready to acknowledge it yet.
He turns away from you again, clearly finished, his boots already beginning to crunch against the leaf-littered ground as though this conversationâand youâhave already been decided and dismissed.
âWait,â you call out, the word sharper than before.
He doesnât stop.
The panic that flares in your chest burns hotter than fear now, hotter than grief, and before you can weigh the consequences of what youâre about to say, the truth tears itself loose.
âIf you leave,â you say, your voice shaking but unyielding, âmy blood will be on your hands.â
He stops. Not slowly. Not reluctantly.
He freezes as though struck.
The forest seems to quiet around the two of you, the distant calls of birds fading into an uneasy hush as he turns back, every line of his body suddenly rigid beneath the armour. You canât see his eyes, but you feel the way his attention locks onto you â sharp, furious, wounded in a way that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with guilt.
âI have some skills,â you continue quickly, words tumbling out now that youâve started, breath hitching as you force yourself to meet his gaze. âI can fight. I can hunt. I can treat wounds. But alone â out here-â You gesture helplessly at the trees, at the endless wall of green and shadow surrounding you. âI wouldnât last two days.â
You swallow hard.
The forest looms around you, impossibly dense, its canopy layered so thick the sky is little more than fractured light above your heads. The trees stretch on for miles and miles and miles, an ancient, untamed expanse that forms the true border between kingdoms, more impenetrable than stone walls, more merciless than armies. It is the land no ruler ever truly conquered, the place where roads vanish, where maps become guesses, where both common beasts and old, whispered creatures roam freely beneath the cover of leaves and mist.
This forest does not forgive the unprepared.
And it certainly does not protect the hunted.
Mingiâs jaw tightens visibly beneath the edge of his helm. His hands curl once at his sides, fingers flexing as though resisting the urge to reach for his swordâor to tear something apart. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher, lower, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to resentment.
âThatâs not fair,â he says.
You donât look away. âNeither is being sentenced to death for crimes you didnât commit.â
Silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, the kind that weighs more with every passing second. You can almost hear him arguing with himself behind the steel â duty clashing with survival, bitterness warring with something older and harder to silence.
Finally, he exhales sharply, the sound scraping against the inside of his helmet.
âThereâs a village,â he says at last, the words dragged out like a confession he never wanted to make. âFar enough from your kingdom that your name wonât matter. They trade with outsiders. They donât ask questions.â
Your heart stutters.
âIâll take you that far,â he continues, already sounding irritated by the promise forming in his mouth. âAfter that, youâre on your own.â
Relief floods you so suddenly your knees nearly give out, but you force yourself to stay upright, to stay steady, to not look as desperate as you feel.
âI agree,â you say immediately. âI wonât ask for more.â
He nods once, sharply, as though sealing the decision before he can change his mind. âGood.â
Without another word, he turns and starts walking again â this time not away from you, but forward, deeper into the forest, expecting you to follow.
And you do.
Because for now, this reluctant knight is the only thing standing between you and a world that wants you dead.
Its halls, once alive with familiar rhythms and gentle routines, now pulse with frantic motion and barely contained hysteria. Torches are lit long before dusk, their flames flickering wildly against stone walls as guards race through corridors with orders shouted half-formed and half-mad. Servants scurry like startled birds, clutching messages, dropping trays, whispering prayers beneath their breath as the weight of the morningâs horrors settles deeper into the marrow of the place.
The court is in uproar.
Advisors argue in tight circles, voices overlapping, fingers stabbing at maps spread across long tables as they debate routes, forests, borders, and the likelihood of escape. Messengers are dispatched in all directions, boots pounding across cobblestone courtyards, horses saddled and driven hard as though speed alone might undo what has already been done.
âShe couldnât have gone far-â
âSeal the eastern passes-â
âThe forest is dangerous-â
âDangerous or not, sheâs a traitor-â
That word spreads faster than truth ever could.
Traitor.
It slides easily from mouth to mouth now, spoken with fear, with anger, with righteous certainty. Your name is no longer said aloud, nor your title. It doesnât deserve to be. Not anymore.
Edrea stands at the heart of the chaos, dressed in mourning black that clings elegantly to her frame, her expression carved into perfect devastation. She weeps openly when nobles approach her, pressing gloved hands to her face, allowing her shoulders to tremble just enough to sell the grief. She accepts condolences with quiet dignity, nodding as though each one is a burden she never asked to carry.
âThey will find her,â she says softly, voice breaking in all the right places. âThey must. For the kingdom. For my parents.â
Her eyes are red-rimmed. Her voice fragile. Her performance flawless.
âBring the traitor back,â she demands moments later, fury sharpened and public, her voice carrying across the hall with unmistakable authority. âDead or alive. She will answer for what sheâs done.â
Guards bow deeply at her feet.âYes, Your Grace.â
The castle obeys.Â
Search parties spill from the gates, banners snapping violently in the wind as soldiers disappear into the treeline you vanished into hours earlier. The bells toll again, this time not as warning, but as declaration. The kingdom has chosen its truth, and it will hunt until it is satisfied.
Eventually, when the court has exhausted itself into grim, relentless motion, Edrea excuses herself with practiced grace. She retreats to her chambers alone, the heavy doors closing behind her with a finality that echoes long after the sound fades.
Inside, silence reigns.
She moves to the tall window overlooking the forest, the same forest that now swallows you whole, and peers out across the endless sea of green stretching toward the horizon. For a moment, she allows herself to drop the act completely.
The tears vanish .The grief evaporates. The mask falls away.
A slow, wicked smile curves her lips as she presses her fingertips lightly against the glass. âRun,â she murmurs softly, almost fondly. âLetâs see how long you last.â
By the time the sun begins to sink, the forest has changed its mind about you.
The light thins first, fading in uneven strands through the canopy until the world is painted in deep greens and bruised blues, shadows stretching long and crooked across the forest floor. What warmth the day offered slips away quietly, replaced by a creeping cold that settles into your damp clothes and clings there, persistent and unforgiving. Every breath you take begins to fog faintly in front of your mouth, a soft reminder of how quickly comfort can be stolen.
The forest grows louder as darkness approaches.
Branches creak overhead as though the trees themselves are shifting, adjusting their weight, whispering to one another in a language you donât understand. Somewhere deeper within the undergrowth, something small scurries away at your passing, leaves rustling sharply before falling still again. Insects hum low and constant, a steady pulse beneath the quiet, while farther off, an unfamiliar call echoes â long, hollow, and not quite animal.
You pull your sleeves closer around yourself without realising it, fingers stiff from cold and exhaustion.
Mingi moves ahead of you without slowing, his presence a dark, solid shape against the thinning light. He knows this forest in a way you donât â not intimately, perhaps, but enough to read its signs. His steps are careful but confident, avoiding the worst of the roots and uneven ground, angling his body instinctively to keep the densest brush at his back.
As night settles fully, the forest reveals its true nature.
Eyes glint briefly from the shadows before disappearing again. Wings beat suddenly overhead, sending a rush of air through the branches. Something howls in the distance, low and mournful, and is answered moments later by another voice farther away, the sound threading unease straight through your spine.
This place is alive in the dark. And not all of it feels welcoming.
The temperature continues to drop, the cold sharpens until it seeps into your bones, and the smell of damp earth grows heavier with every step. Moss glows faintly in patches along fallen logs, pale and ghostlike, and the path ahead becomes harder to distinguish as the forest swallows what little light remains.
You realise, with a quiet flicker of fear, that if Mingi were to disappear into the trees now, you would have no idea how to follow him. The thought settles uncomfortably in your chest. Night has claimed the forest. And you are very far from home.
The cold creeps in slowly at first, subtle enough to ignore until it isnât.
Your fingers stiffen, numb at the tips, and a shiver works its way through you despite your best efforts to suppress it. Your damp dress clings uncomfortably to your legs, the fabric growing heavier with every step, and the deeper you move into the forest the more the temperature seems to drop, as though the sun took any remaining warmth with it when it vanished.
Mingi does not slow. Does not turn. Does not acknowledge the quiet tremor running through you.
You glare at his broad back, irritation bubbling up beneath your exhaustion. âUnbelievable,â you mutter under your breath, the words barely audible over the crunch of leaves and twigs.
He doesnât react.
You huff softly, wrapping your arms around yourself as another shiver shakes through you. âDo you ever take that stupid thing off?â you ask, voice edged with fatigue and annoyance.
He stops. Just long enough to make you wonder if youâve finally pushed too far. âWhat thing,â he replies evenly, without turning around.
You stare at him for a moment, incredulous. Then you lift a hand and point directly at his head. âYour helm. The walking fortress youâve decided to permanently attach to your skull.â
He turns slowly this time, helmet catching what little light filters through the trees, and the look you imagine behind it is unimpressed at best.
âNo,â he says curtly. Thatâs it. No elaboration. No explanation.
You scoff quietly. âYouâre really not going to explain that, are you?â Silence answers you.
You shake your head, muttering something about knights and their secrets as you fall back into step behind him, your irritation doing little to warm you but at least keeping your mind off the cold. The forest thickens further ahead, the trees giving way to a cluster of massive stone formations jutting up from the earth like the broken spine of something ancient.
Mingi slows then, scanning the area with practiced ease.
Between two towering slabs of rock, half-hidden by creeping ivy and shadow, is a narrow opening â more of a fissure than a cave, really, but deep enough to block the wind and wide enough to crouch inside. The stone around it is worn smooth, as though it has sheltered travelers before you, and the ground beneath looks dry compared to the forest floor outside.
He gestures toward it briefly. âWeâll stop here.â
You peer into the space, noting its limits quickly. Itâs not somewhere to explore, not somewhere to linger longer than necessary, but it will keep the worst of the cold and wind at bay.
For now, itâs enough.
You step closer to the rocks, the forest noises continuing around you as night settles fully in, and for the first time since leaving the castle, you realise you might actually survive until morning.
Even if the company is⊠difficult.
The cold never fully leaves, but exhaustion dulls its edge.
You curl slightly against the stone, knees drawn in, the hard ground pressing uncomfortably into your side as your body finally begins to lose its fight against the day. The sounds of the forest fade in and out around you â sometimes sharp and startling, sometimes distant and muted â until they blend into something almost rhythmic, a low hum that pulls at your consciousness like a tide.
Your eyes slip closed. Then open again. Then close.
You drift in that strange, weightless space between waking and sleep, where time stretches thin and thoughts come untethered. Youâre dimly aware of Mingi nearby, a solid presence just beyond the edge of your vision, unmoving except for the subtle shift of his weight now and then. Each time you surface, heâs still there â standing, watching, listening.
He doesnât sit. He doesnât lean. He doesnât rest.
Even half-lost to sleep, you notice it.
Your lashes flutter as you glance at him again, your head lolling slightly against the rock. He stands at the mouth of the small shelter, body angled outward, sword within easy reach, helm fixed forward as though daring the forest to test him. Itâs instinctive, almost unconscious, the way he positions himself , how his body blocks the narrow opening, how his attention never fully softens.
Knight training, you realise dully. It never left him.
Even now, even after abandoning his post, even after walking away from the castle and the crown and everything they represented, his body still remembers its purpose. Protect. Guard. Endure.
Something quiet twists in your chest.
âMingi,â you murmur, your voice rough and barely more than breath as you shift, the movement pulling you back toward wakefulness. âYou donât⊠have to do that.â
He doesnât look at you. âDo what.â
âStand,â you say softly, blinking as your vision swims. âYou can rest. Iâll⊠Iâll wake you if I hear something.â
For a moment, you think he might actually consider it. Instead, he exhales, a slow, dismissive breath that rattles faintly inside the helm. âItâs fine.â
You frown faintly, fighting the pull of sleep. âYou havenât sat down once.â
âThatâs not your concern,â he replies, though thereâs no real edge to it now â just habit.
Your eyes close again, then open, stubborn even in exhaustion. âWeâre not walking forever,â you mumble. âYouâre allowed to be human.â
He finally glances back at you then, just briefly, the angle of his helmet shifting enough that you feel the weight of his attention settle on you again. âWe wonât be walking far,â he says, voice low and certain. âThereâs a village nearby. Stonehaven.â
The name lingers in the cool air. âBy morning,â he adds, âweâll be there.â
Something about the way he says it â grounded, factual, unwavering â eases the tight knot in your chest more effectively than sleep ever could. You hum softly in response, the sound barely there, and this time when your eyes close, they stay closed a little longer.
You donât see him shift his stance. You donât see him angle himself more deliberately toward the forest. You donât hear the way his grip tightens infinitesimally around the hilt of his sword. But he remains standing all the same.
You are walking through the village you grew up visiting as a child, the cobbled streets stretched long and narrow beneath your feet, every stone too clean, too perfect, as though scrubbed of warmth and memory. The sky above is colourless, neither day nor night, and the air feels thick in your lungs as you move forward without quite knowing why.
People line the streets.
At first, they are familiar â bakers, smiths, women who once pressed warm bread into your hands and men who bowed awkwardly when you passed â but as you draw closer, their faces blur and sharpen into something crueler. Their eyes follow you with open disdain, their mouths twisting as whispers swell into voices.
âTraitor.â
âMurderer.â
âShe killed them.â
âHow could she?â
You try to speak, to explain, to tell them they are wrong, but no sound comes out. Your throat burns with the effort as the words die before they ever reach your lips. Rotten fruit strikes the ground near your feet, splattering across the stone, and something heavier follows, something meant to hurt.
The path leads inevitably upward, toward the castle.
Its gates loom impossibly tall now, iron-black and yawning wide as though expecting you. Guards flank the entrance, faces hidden beneath helmets that look disturbingly familiar, and as you step through, the air grows colder still.
Inside the throne room, Edrea waits.
She stands at the top of the dais, dressed not in mourning black but in gleaming gold, her crown heavy and radiant atop her head. Her smile is slow and wicked, curling with satisfaction as she looks down at you, eyes bright with triumph.
âYou always did like the spotlight,â she says sweetly, tilting her head. âEven at the end.â
Your knees are forced to the floor.
The court surrounds you in a perfect circle, silent and unmoving, their faces pale and hollow, eyes empty of mercy. Someone reads charges you donât recognise, words blurring together until they lose meaning entirely, and then â inevitably â comes the sentence.
Execution.
They drag you forward, through a side door, out into a courtyard drenched in shadow. A massive executionerâs sword â broad-bladed, heavy, impossibly sharp â rests against a block stained dark with old blood. The weight of it presses down on your chest even before itâs lifted, stealing your breath.
You are forced to kneel.
You lift your head at the last moment, desperate and shaking, searching for something, anything, that might save you.
Edrea watches from above, eyes gleaming, her grin unbroken.
The executioner raises the sword.
Time slows, stretching thin and brittle as the blade begins its descent, slicing through the air toward youâ
â
âWake up.â
Your eyes fly open with a sharp gasp, your body jerking violently as though ripped from the edge of a cliff. Cold air rushes into your lungs, your heart slamming so hard it hurts, your hands clawing instinctively at the ground beneath you as you struggle to orient yourself.
The forest swims back into focus. Stone. Shadow. The faint grey of early morning light filtering through the trees.
And Mingi.
He crouches in front of you, closer than he was before, one gloved hand braced against the rock beside your head. His posture is tense, his helmet angled down toward you, and though you canât see his eyes, you can feel the intensity of his stare.
âYou were thrashing,â he says, voice low and rough, threaded with unmistakable concern beneath the irritation. âMuttering. Shouting.â
Your breath shakes as you drag a hand over your face, cold sweat clinging to your skin, the echo of the blade still ringing in your ears.
âIt was a dream,â you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
He studies you for a moment longer, as though weighing whether to say something else, then straightens slightly, stepping back just enough to give you space. âWe move at first light,â he adds gruffly. âTry to stay awake this time.â But the edge in his voice doesnât quite hide the fact that he woke you because he was worried.
A thin wash of grey light seeps through the trees, dulling the shadows and pulling the forest slowly back into focus. The air is still cold, but no longer biting, and a faint mist curls low to the ground, clinging to roots and stone like something reluctant to leave. The night creatures retreat one by one, their calls fading into silence as birds begin to stir overhead, tentative at first, then braver as the light strengthens.
Mingi moves with efficiency as the morning settles in, checking the surrounding area with a practised sweep of his gaze before adjusting the straps of his armour. Thereâs no ceremony to it, no wasted motion, just habit layered over years of discipline. You push yourself upright, joints stiff, limbs heavy with the ache of too little rest, brushing dirt and dried leaves from your dress as best you can.
You glance at the narrow shelter once more before stepping away from it, oddly aware that itâs the first place youâve slept since losing everything. As you follow him back into the forest path, you hesitate, then speak. âYou said the village is called Stonehaven.â
He grunts in acknowledgement, already moving ahead.
âWhatâs it like?â you ask, more cautiously now. âHow far is it from here?â
He lets out a short, humourless scoff. âYou really donât know.â
You bristle immediately, irritation sparking back to life as fatigue loosens its grip. âWhy would I?â
He slows just enough to glance back at you, head tilting. âItâs one of the oldest trading villages in the region. Neutral ground. Merchants, hunters, travellers. Everyone knows it.â
You lift your chin, defensive heat rising in your chest. âItâs not part of my kingdom.â
âThatâs the problem,â he replies flatly. âYou think borders excuse ignorance.â
You stop walking. âThatâs not fair.â
He turns fully this time, arms crossing over his chest with a quiet clink of metal. âYouâre royalty. Youâre taught maps before you can write your own name.â
âYou think I sat around memorising villages for fun?â you snap back. âI learned what I was told to learn. And Stonehaven was never relevant to my duties.â
âMust be nice,â he mutters.
Your jaw tightens. âYou donât get to decide what I was allowed to know.â
He studies you for a moment, the silence stretching just long enough to feel pointed. âYou couldâve asked.â
You laugh sharply. âAsked who? My sister?â The word tastes bitter. âShe didnât exactly encourage curiosity.â
Something in his posture shifts at that â not quite sympathy, not quite concession, but enough to ease the edge of his stance. âStonehaven doesnât care where youâre from,â he says finally, turning back toward the path. âThatâs why itâs safe. As long as you donât act like you own the place.â
âI donât,â you say, following him again. âAnd I never did.â
He hums softly, noncommittal. âWeâll see.â
The forest opens slightly as you walk, the trees thinning just enough to let the morning light through in pale ribbons, and despite the tension still crackling between you, the path ahead feels more real now â less like running, more like moving toward something.
Even if neither of you is ready to admit what that something might be yet.
The forest stretches on around you as you walk, the path narrowing until itâs barely more than a suggestion between the trees, the ground soft beneath your boots and scattered with pine needles that dull the sound of your steps. Morning light filters down in broken shafts, catching on leaves and moss and damp stone, but for all its quiet beauty, the woods feel strangely restrained â as though something is being deliberately held back.
You glance around, frowning slightly.
âItâs⊠quiet,â you say at last, your voice low, careful not to carry. âToo quiet.â
Mingi doesnât slow. âYou expected otherwise?â
You hesitate, then nod. âAll the stories I grew up hearing â about this forest, about what lives in itââ You gesture vaguely to the dense greenery around you. âI thought weâd have seen something by now. Or heard it.â
You swallow, eyes flicking to the shadows between the trees. âI knew better than to come in here. I always stayed near the edge. Close enough to run back if something went wrong.â
He lets out a soft, humourless huff. âThatâs because you were smart.â
You look at him, surprised by the lack of insult.
He continues, eyes scanning the undergrowth with quiet focus. âWeâre not deep enough yet. The creatures worth fearing donât linger near borders.â
Your brow furrows. âWhy?â
âBecause borders mean people,â he replies simply. âGuards. Hunters. Fires. Steel.â
He steps over a thick root, his voice steady as he speaks. âCreatures that survive long enough to become legends learn quickly where not to linger. The closer you are to a kingdom, the more likely you are to run into poachers, mercenaries, or someone desperate enough to try their luck.â
You feel a chill that has nothing to do with the cold.
âThe deeper you go,â he adds, âthe higher the prize.â
You glance back the way you came, unease curling in your stomach. âPrize?â
He finally looks at you then, helmet tilting slightly. âThe more mystical the creature, the more someoneâs willing to pay for it. Teeth. Scales. Blood. Bones. Magic.â
Your mouth goes dry. âSo the storiesâŠâ you murmur.
âAre watered down,â he finishes. âParents tell their children about monsters so they donât wander. They donât tell them about men.â
The words settle heavily between you as the forest thickens again, the trees pressing closer, the light dimming just a fraction more with every step forward. For the first time, you realise that the forestâs silence isnât emptiness. Itâs restraint. And whatever lives deeper within it is simply waiting for you to cross the invisible line.
The forest does not end so much as it loosens its grip.
The trees thin gradually, their branches pulling back as though reluctantly making room, and the dense hush of the woods gives way to a different kind of noise â low, constant, alive. The scent of damp earth shifts too, mingling with smoke, hay, and animals, and when you step out from between the last line of trees, the land opens into a wide, uneven clearing that stretches farther than you expected.
Mingi slows, then stops. âThatâs it,â he says simply.
You follow his gaze.
Stonehaven sprawls before you in a way that feels almost chaotic at first glance, nothing like the carefully planned villages nestled beneath your old castleâs shadow. There are no stone walls here, no towers rising proudly toward the sky, no polished streets or carved gates to announce importance. Instead, the village feels grown rather than built, shaped by need and time rather than authority.
Most of the buildings are made from wood, their frames rough and darkened by weather, packed with straw and clay, roofs thick with thatch weighed down by old planks and stones. Hay bales are stacked haphazardly beside homes, some already half-collapsed where animals have clearly helped themselves. Smoke curls lazily from crooked chimneys, carrying the scent of cooking grain and burning peat into the air.
The paths between the buildings are wide but uneven, churned thick with mud from boots, hooves, and wagon wheels, the earth dark and sticky beneath your steps. You have to watch where you place your feet, lifting your skirts slightly to keep them from dragging through the worst of it, and even then the hem quickly darkens with grime.
People move everywhere.
They are rugged, broad-shouldered, sun-worn, dressed in layers of wool and leather patched so many times itâs hard to tell what the original fabric was meant to be. Men and women alike carry tools rather than weapons â hoes, buckets, knives meant for work rather than war â and children dart between them with careless energy, shrieking laughter trailing behind them as they chase one another through the mud.
Animals roam freely among it all.
Goats bleat as they clamber over low fences and stone piles, completely unconcerned with where they are meant to be. Cows stand placidly in the middle of the paths, chewing lazily while villagers step around them without complaint. Pigs root noisily through discarded scraps near the edges of homes, their grunts mixing with the clatter of tools and raised voices calling instructions.
It is loud. Messy. Alive. Nothing here gleams. Nothing here bows.
And yet, as you stand at the edge of the clearing, taking it all in, there is an undeniable sense of purpose in the way everyone moves, each person bound to the land, to their work, to one another, without the brittle politeness of court life or the suffocating weight of hierarchy.
It is nothing like home. And somehow⊠that makes it feel safer.
You glance at Mingi, who is already scanning the village with the same wary focus he used in the forest, posture still guarded, helm still firmly in place.
âThis is where I leave you,â he says quietly, not unkindly, but final.
You look back at Stonehaven, heart pounding with a strange mix of fear and reluctant hope, aware that crossing into this village means stepping into a life completely unknown.
A life without titles. Without protection. Without certainty.
But also⊠without Edrea. And for now, that is enough.
You turn toward him slowly, the weight of everything that has happened settling heavily but steadily into your bones, and offer him a small, polite nod, the kind drilled into you since childhood, even now refusing to fully leave your body.
âThank you,â you say quietly. âFor bringing me this far.â It isnât grand. It isnât dramatic. But itâs sincere.
He inclines his head a fraction in response, already shifting his weight as though preparing to leave, his presence angled away from you and back toward the road that led deeper into the forest.
âAnd you?â you ask, hesitating only briefly. âWhat will you do now?â
Before he can answer, before the question can settle between you, a loud, sharp shriek slices through the village air.
âHEY-YOU â STOP RIGHT THEREâ!â
A large man barrels toward you from between two houses, boots splashing loudly through the mud, arms flailing with frantic urgency. You startle violently, stumbling back a step as your heart leaps into your throat, the sound ripping you straight back into the instinctive terror of being chased.
Mingi reacts instantly.
He moves in front of you in a single, fluid motion, armor shifting with a sharp clink as his hand snaps to the hilt of his sword. The blade is halfway free before the man skids to a halt, throwing his hands high into the air with a panicked shout.
âWAITâ WAITâ NOâ NO HARMâ NO HARM, I SWEARââ!
Mingi freezes, sword hovering dangerously close to being drawn fully, his stance coiled and lethal, every inch of him screaming threat. The man gulps visibly, eyes darting between the steel and the imposing figure holding it.
âI mean it,â the man pants, breathless, palms still raised. âI donât want trouble â gods, I like my head where it is â I just â Iâve got a message. An important one.â
The word lands with weight.
Mingi doesnât lower his hand, but his grip tightens slightly instead, suspicion radiating from him in quiet waves. âFor who,â he asks, voice low and edged with warning.
The man swallows, then gestures vaguely between the two of you. âFor⊠well. For you. And-â his eyes flick briefly to you, lingering with curiosity before snapping back to Mingi "certainly for the lady youâre travelling with.â
That is enough to give Mingi pause.
He studies the man for a long, silent moment, helmet tilted just enough to suggest scrutiny rather than immediate violence. Finally, he eases the sword back into its sheath with a controlled movement, though his body remains tense, ready to strike again if needed.
âTalk,â he says.
âNot here,â the man replies quickly, lowering his hands but keeping them visible. âWalls have ears in Stonehaven. Come with me. My place isnât far.â
Mingi hesitates only a second before nodding curtly. He glances back at you, just briefly, as though checking youâre still there, then gestures with his head toward the man. âLead.â
The man exhales in relief and turns, weaving quickly through the muddy paths between the houses. You follow, heart thudding with unease and curiosity in equal measure, past goats tied to fence posts and children who pause to stare openly at the sight of a fully armoured knight moving through their village.
At the edge of the clearing, the man stops in front of a small, squat house built from dark wood and packed clay, its roof sagging slightly beneath layers of straw. Smoke curls lazily from a crooked chimney, and a bundle of drying herbs hangs beside the door.
âThis way,â he mutters, pushing it open.
And as you step inside after them, you have the distinct feeling that whatever message he carries is about to change far more than either of you intended.
The inside of the house is warm in a way the forest never was.
Wooden beams stretch overhead, darkened with age and smoke, their surfaces etched with old tool marks and small, careful carvings that suggest hands more used to work than ornament. The walls are lined with shelves cluttered with jars of dried herbs, coils of rope, rusted tools, and bundles of seeds wrapped in cloth. A simple hearth crackles quietly at the far end of the room, casting a soft orange glow across the packed earth floor and the rough table set at its centre.
It smells like soil, smoke, and something faintly sweet.
Mingi steps inside last, filling the doorway before nudging it shut with his heel, his presence immediately dominating the small space. He doesnât remove his helm. He doesnât relax. His hand remains close to his sword as his voice cuts through the quiet, low and unforgiving.
âYouâve got a minute,â he says. âExplain yourself.â
The man swallows, nodding quickly. âRight, yes. Of course.â He clears his throat, straightening slightly. âNameâs Martinus. Groundskeeper here in Stonehaven. I tend the outer fields, keep an eye on who comes and goes.â
You watch him carefully as he speaks, searching his face for any hint of deception, but all you see is urgency, and something else beneath it. Sympathy.
âWordâs travelled faster than your sister wouldâve liked,â Martinus continues, glancing briefly at you before turning his attention back to Mingi. âAbout what happened in Eirendale. The king. The queen. The accusations.â His mouth tightens. âAnd about Edrea being crowned.â
Your breath catches. âSo quickly?â you ask quietly.
He nods. âToo quickly for lies to settle comfortably.â
Your chest tightens as the weight of it presses in. âI didnât do it,â you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. âI swearâ I would never â â
âI know,â Martinus says immediately, holding up a hand. âMost of us do.â
You blink, stunned.
âVillages beyond your borders have eyes,â he continues calmly. âAnd memories. Your sisterâs reputation didnât stop at the castle gates. People remember the way she spoke to traders. To farmers. To the messengers who brought bad news.â He snorts quietly. âNo oneâs surprised sheâd spill blood for a crown.â
Your knees feel weak, relief and grief tangling painfully together.
Mingi shifts beside you. âGet to the point.â
Martinus nods again, expression sharpening as though bracing himself. âThereâs a kingdom far to the west â beyond the ridge and the long coast. Ruled by a young king. No wife. No heirs.â
Your heart stutters.
âHeâs heard what happened,â Martinus continues. âAnd heâs offering sanctuary to the princess of Eirendale.â He pauses deliberately. âAlong with his hand in marriage.â
The words hang heavy in the air. You stare at him, shock rippling through you in slow waves. âMarriage?â
Mingi turns sharply toward him. âWhy?â
âBecause marriage is protection,â Martinus replies simply. âA claim. A declaration that touching her would mean war.â
You swallow hard. âBut the kingdomsâŠâ you begin.
âAlready teetering,â Martinus finishes. âEdreaâs made enemies fast. Borders are tense. Tradeâs slowing. Knights wonât cross into contested land â not yet. Not without blood being spilled.â
Mingiâs jaw tightens beneath the helm.
âHe canât send soldiers,â Martinus says. âBut if she can reach him â if she can travel â his gates will open. No questions. No chains. Safety.â
You feel the room tilt slightly around you, hope and terror colliding in your chest. âThis message,â you whisper. âHow many people know?â
âEnough,â Martinus says quietly. âEvery village outside Eirendale worth trusting has heard. Wordâs being carried by traders, sailors, wanderers.â He meets your gaze steadily. âYouâre not as alone as Edrea wants you to believe.â
Silence settles.The fire crackles. The house creaks softly. And the future shifts shape in front of you â dangerous, uncertain, and suddenly very real. And standing beside you, silent and armoured, is the only man who might get you there alive.
You draw a slow breath, steadying yourself as the weight of the offer settles into something tangible enough to grasp, and then you ask the question that has been quietly pressing at the back of your mind since Martinus first spoke.
âHow far,â you say carefully. âExactly.â
Martinus hesitates, and the pause alone tells you that you wonât like the answer.
âIf the other villages know the truth,â you continue, a flicker of urgency bleeding into your voice, âthen I can travel openly, canât I? Through towns, along the roads. It would be faster that way. Safer.â
For a moment, he only looks at you. Then he exhales, long and pitiful, the sound weighted with the kind of regret that comes from knowing better but wishing the world worked differently. âThat wouldnât be wise,â he says quietly.
Your stomach tightens. âWhy?â
âBecause Eirendale isnât just searching its own borders,â Martinus replies, shaking his head. âYour sister sent word everywhere the moment you ran. Rewards promised. Stories twisted. Descriptions handed out like currency.â His mouth pulls into a grim line. âThere are plenty of men who donât care whether youâre innocent â only that youâre valuable.â
The hope you felt moments ago dims, cooling into something sharper and more realistic. âSo how long?â you ask again, softer now.
âOn foot?â he says. âDays. If youâre lucky. A week, if youâre not.â The words settle heavily in the small room, stretching the silence thin.
Mingi speaks for the first time since the offer was made. âWest,â he says, voice low and certain. âPast the ridge. Across the old trade routes. Toward the coast.â
Martinus looks at him, surprised, then nods. âAye.â
âThe kingdom of Valemere,â Mingi continues, as though testing the name against his own memory. âWhite cliffs. Deep harbours. Neutral ports.â
âOf it,â Mingi replies. âFar enough that Eirendaleâs reach thins. Strong enough that Edrea wouldnât dare cross its borders without consequence.â
Martinus inclines his head. âThatâs the one.â
You swallow, the word Valemere echoing softly in your thoughts, no longer just a rumour or a whispered promise but a real place â distant, dangerous to reach, and possibly the only future left to you.
âA week,â you murmur, half to yourself.
A week of forests. Of roads you canât take. Of hiding when you should be welcomed. And beside you, Mingi remains silent once more, his presence heavy and immovable, as though the distance has already begun to calculate itself in his mind.
The journey is no longer theoretical. It is real. And it is long.
You turn back to Martinus slowly, the weight of everything heâs said pressing into your chest in a way that makes it hard to tell where fear ends and fragile hope begins.
âThank you,â you say quietly. âFor telling me. For believing me.â
He waves a hand as though brushing the gratitude aside, though his expression softens. âYouâre welcome to stay long enough to eat,â he says. âFill your waters. Take bread, dried meat, whatever you need. Stonehaven wonât turn you awayânot today.â
Relief loosens something in your shoulders. âI wonât forget that.â
Martinus nods, then straightens slightly. âLuck be with you, Princess. Youâll need it.â His gaze flicks briefly to Mingi. âBoth of you.â
You incline your head in a polite bow, one last echo of a life youâre not sure youâll ever fully leave behind, and then you step back out into the village.
The air outside feels fresher somehow, cooler against your face as you draw in a long breath and let it out slowly. Stonehaven hums around you â animals shifting, people calling to one another, the scrape of tools against earth â but for a moment you stand still, letting the noise remind you that the world is still moving, still alive, even after everything youâve lost.
Footsteps sound behind you. You donât need to turn to know itâs him.
Mingi stops beside you, his presence solid and grounding, the faint smell of metal and leather carrying with him. He doesnât speak at first, and neither do you. Instead, you watch a group of villagers wrestle a stubborn goat away from a sack of grain, their laughter sharp and real.
Finally, you glance up at him. âCan I trust it?â you ask quietly. âThis⊠offer.â
He doesnât answer right away.
You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, the way his head tilts slightly as though heâs sorting through memories rather than rumours. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, careful.
âIâve never heard anything bad about him,â he says. âNot from traders. Not from soldiers. Not even from men who like to complain.â
You swallow. âYou know his name.â
He nods once. âKing Aurelian of Valemere.â
The name settles into you, familiar andt steady, carrying with it the image of a place far from Eirendaleâs reach and a man whose reputation has not yet curdled into cruelty.
âPeople say heâs young,â Mingi adds. âBut fair. Keeps his word.â
You let the words sit, fingers curling lightly at your sides as you stare out at the village ahead, at the road that will eventually pull you westward whether youâre ready or not.
Fair. Young. A king who listens. It isnât certainty. But itâs something. And for now, that may be enough.
The idea lingers long after you stop speaking about it.
Marriage.
It feels strange to think of the word in connection to yourself now, stripped of ceremony and choice and carefully planned alliances. Youâve always known it would come one day â your hand offered across a table, your future negotiated in quiet rooms â but you never imagined it would arrive like this, whispered in a strangerâs house as a lifeline rather than a celebration.
âIâve heard of him,â you say eventually, more to fill the silence than anything else. âKing Aurelian.â You hesitate, then add, almost awkwardly, âThey say heâs⊠handsome.â
Mingi makes a sound that could generously be described as acknowledgment. âThatâs usually the least important thing,â he replies flatly.
You glance at him, unimpressed. âComforting.â
He doesnât rise to it, only shifts his weight slightly, gaze fixed ahead as though already mapping the road in his mind. The lack of response makes your thoughts wander again, spiralling through what-ifs and half-formed fears until you shake your head, grounding yourself.
âWell,â you say, straightening slightly, âif thatâs where Iâm meant to go, I should probably start moving in the right direction.â You look around, then back at him. âWhich way?â
He turns to face you. Even with his face hidden, the look he gives you is unmistakable. Itâs sharp. Flat. Utterly incredulous.
You blink. âWhat?â
âWhat,â he repeats, as though testing the word. âIs wrong with you.â
Your brows knit immediately. âExcuse me?â
âYouâre not walking there alone,â he says, the statement so firm it leaves no room for debate.
The certainty in his voice catches you off guard. âI didnât say I was.â
âYou were thinking it,â he replies.
You open your mouth to argue, then shut it again when you realise heâs right.
He exhales through his nose, clearly irritated. âThe route to Valemere cuts straight through the deep forest. Not the edges. Not the border paths.â He gestures vaguely westward. âThe outskirts would double the travel time, and thatâs if youâre lucky.â
âAnd if Iâm not?â
âTheyâll expect you to avoid the forest,â he says simply. âSoldiers will search the roads, the villages, the crossings. Every place you should be.â
The implication settles coldly in your chest.
âOut here,â he continues, voice low and certain, âyouâre harder to track. But alone?â He shakes his head once. âYou wouldnât make it.â
You study him for a moment, something cautious and searching flickering behind your eyes. âSo what â youâre escorting me now?â
His jaw tightens beneath the helm. âIâm not letting Edreaâs men find you bleeding in the undergrowth,â he says. âNot after all this.â
Itâs not comfort. Itâs not kindness. But it is a promise.
And for the first time since Stonehaven came into view, the road ahead â dangerous, dark, and impossibly long â doesnât feel quite as lonely as it did moments before.
You let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that pulls itself up from somewhere deep in your chest, and nod once.
âAlright,â you say. âBut I should fill up before we leave. Food. Water.â
Mingi inclines his head slightly, already turning toward the heart of the village. âGood.â He pauses, just briefly, then glances back at you. âYou have a weapon?â
You hesitate, then shake your head. âI dropped my dagger while I was running. Somewhere between the castle and the forest.â You grimace faintly. âBut I can use a bow.â
You wait for it â the disbelief, the sharp comment, the inevitable reminder of what a princess should or shouldnât be able to do. It never comes.
Instead, a low sound escapes him, quiet and unexpected. A chuckle. Itâs rough and brief, more breath than laughter, but it still catches you completely off guard.
âI know,â he says simply.
You blink. âYou â what?â
He doesnât elaborate. He doesnât slow. He just turns and starts walking toward the market stalls at the centre of Stonehaven, armour shifting with each step, voice carrying easily back to you. âCome on,â he adds, almost casually. âLetâs get you to your husband in one piece.â
The words land heavier than you expect.
Not cruel. Not mocking. Just⊠real.
You watch his broad back for a moment before following, heart thudding with something dangerously close to anticipation, and as you step forward â toward supplies, toward the road west, toward a future you never planned â you canât shake the feeling that the most dangerous part of this journey hasnât even begun yet.
Genre: Enemies to lovers, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff
She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths werenât meant to cross⊠but fate wanted a different story.
The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm⊠she stopped running from danger. And started running toward him
The kingdom of Eirendale was always most beautiful in the early hours, before the court woke, before the politics began, before the throne demanded blood.
Beyond the castle walls, the world stretched out in a sweeping expanse of green that felt almost unreal in its softness. Rolling fields unfurled like spilled silk, heavy with tall grasses that swayed in waves whenever the morning wind passed through. Wildflowers carpeted the edges of the meadows in clusters of violet and gold, nodding gently under the weight of dew that glimmered like droplets of glass. Oak trees older than the written histories rose in solemn rows along the distant paths, their branches twisting toward the sky like ancient hands forever reaching for warmth.
And at the center of it all, perched against the backdrop of towering mountains that pierced the clouds, stood the castle.
A fortress of stone and silver banners, built high enough to intimidate and old enough to whisper of forgotten kings. Each wall was carved with the stories of rulers long-dead: battles won in fire, treaties inked in blood, oaths sworn and broken. The mountains behind it were jagged and proud, their peaks dusted with the last remnants of winter snow that never fully melted, even in the height of summer. When the sunlight broke over them, the entire kingdom seemed to glow.
Below the castleâs shadow sprawled the village â large, bustling, and alive in a way the court never was. Cobblestone roads wound through markets teeming with traders and travelers, smithies burned from dawn to dusk, and children tore through the crowded streets with laughter trailing behind them like ribbon. Houses were built of timber and stone, decorated with carved window frames and mismatched shutters painted in whatever colours families could afford. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys; the smell of bread baking drifted through the air; the sounds of life carried toward the castle in warm, uneven waves.
It was a kingdom that looked peaceful from a distance. A kingdom that looked safe. A kingdom that looked whole.
But beauty had always been Eirendaleâs most potent disguise.
Because under the calm breeze and blooming flowers, under the friendly markets and polished stone towers, something in the air had shifted â so subtly that only the mountains seemed to notice, their peaks shrouded in a thin veil of mist heavier than usual.
The kingdom waited. Breath held. Balance tilting.
And somewhere inside that stone castle, beneath its silver banners and carved histories, fate had already begun to turn its knife.
High in one of the castleâs eastern towers, where morning light reached first and lingered the longest, the younger princess stirred before the sun had fully risen. She had always been this way â awake before the servants, before the guards changed shifts, before the castle had even remembered itself. It was a habit formed not from obligation, but from desire; the world felt gentler in the quiet hours, easier to breathe, untouched by the noise that waited behind every door once the kingdom began to move.
Her chambers were modest compared to her sisterâs, though still far more luxurious than any home in the village below. A bed draped in pale linens, a carved wardrobe that smelled faintly of cedar, a small writing desk with ink dried in its well from a letter she never finished. The walls were softened by tapestries of forests and mountains, scenes sheâd always been drawn to more than portraits of kings and queens. Near the window stood the mirror she rarely used, because she never cared much for the way court expected her to scrutinize herself.
This morning, she sat on the cushioned stool beside the open balcony doors, brushing her hair with slow, thoughtful strokes. The gentle rasp of the bristles was the only sound in the room aside from the wind that drifted through, carrying the scent of wet earth and early spring blossoms.
You didnât know it yet, but this would be the one of the last peaceful mornings the castle ever gave you.
You lift the brush through your hair again, watching the strands catch the early light as though lit from within. Outside your window, the world is still quiet; the village hasnât yet stirred, the market tents remain tied shut, and the distant mountains glow faintly pink beneath the rising sun. Birds hop along the stone railing, pecking at crumbs left from last nightâs supper, and somewhere in the gardens below, a gardener hums as he begins tending to the roses.
You have always loved mornings like this. You have always loved the way the kingdom looks before anyone can ruin it.
With one hand, you steady your hair behind your ear, leaning slightly toward the open air as though the horizon itself is calling your name. You were born a princess, yes â but you had never truly felt like one. Adventure thrummed under your skin from the moment you were old enough to walk, and even now, with the castle walls pressing gently around you, you feel the tug of the world beyond them in the same way a tide pulls at the shore.
For now, though, you sit quietly â brushing your hair, breathing in the dawn, unaware that the peace beneath your fingertips is already beginning to unravel.
Unaware that somewhere else in this castle, your sister is already awake too.
And she is not looking at the sunrise. She is looking for you.
Youâre halfway through another stroke of the brush when a sudden, firm knock echoes through your chambers, cutting cleanly through the stillness. The birds scattering from your balcony railing beat their wings in surprise, disappearing into the early light as the sound reverberates a second time â measured, disciplined, unmistakably urgent.
You close your eyes briefly, inhaling through your nose. So much for peace.
âPrincess?â a voice calls from the other side of the door, stiff and formal. âYou are requested to prepare for an immediate meeting with the court.â
Of course you are.
You set your brush down with a soft clink against the vanity and push to your feet, dragging your fingers through your hair to tame the loosened strands. Padding across the room, you tug the door open just enough to see the guard waiting beyond it â helmet polished, armour pristine, posture as straight as sword steel. He looks as though he hasnât blinked since sunrise.
You give him a flat stare. âAn immediate meeting? At dawn? How thrilling. Shall I be allowed breakfast first or is starvation a new royal tradition?â
The guard doesnât flinch, though you see the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth â the universal sign of someone wishing they worked literally anywhere else.
âIâm afraid I wasnât informed of the details, Your Highness. Only that it is urgent.â
âEverything is urgent in this castle,â you mutter, leaning against the doorframe. âUrgent announcements, urgent concerns, urgent summons â yet somehow none of it ever actually amounts to anything other than me sitting in a room while grown adults pretend they know what theyâre doing.â
His helmet hides his expression, but youâre certain heâs silently praying to whatever gods exist for this conversation to end quickly.
âYou are also an adult too, Your Highness. The court wishes for your presence within the hour,â he says, voice carefully neutral. âPreparations have already begun.â
You raise a brow. âPreparations? For what?â
âI⊠do not know, Princess.â
Of course he doesnât. They never tell the younger daughter anything until itâs too late to argue.
You exhale dramatically, tipping your head back. âWonderful. Send my regards to whoever decided dawn was an appropriate time to destroy my mood.â
The guard bows stiffly. âYes, Your Highness.â
And with that, he turns, boots clicking sharply against the stone as he retreats down the hallway. You close the door behind him with a soft thud, resting your forehead against the wood for a moment.
Silence floods the room again.
âWell,â you sigh, pushing off the door and pacing across your chambers, âif my dear sister is already barking orders before breakfast, it must be serious.â
Your voice takes on a mocking imitation of hers, pitched slightly higher, sharper at the edges. ââFetch me the court! Fetch me the guards! Fetch me my mirror, I must see myself while I ruin someone elseâs day!ââ
You flop onto the edge of your bed with an exasperated groan, rubbing your hands over your face.
âGods above⊠what has she gotten herself into now?â
You donât know yet. But youâre about to.
You push yourself upright with a groan that echoes softly in the quiet room, rolling your shoulders back as though trying to shake off the weight of obligation already settling over you. The air is cool against your skin as you move toward the adjoining bathing chamber, the stone floor chilled from the lingering grip of dawn. Servants usually arrive to prepare your bath before you wake, but you were up too early for them today, and for once youâre grateful â privacy is a rare luxury in these halls.
The copper tub in the center of the room gleams faintly in the low light filtering through the window, and you fill it yourself with water warmed over the small hearth. Steam curls upward in delicate spirals as you undress, letting fabric fall silently to the floor. You slip into the water, sinking until your shoulders disappear beneath the warmth, the heat soothing the tension threaded through your muscles.
For a few precious moments, the world softens again. Your eyes drift closed. You inhale deeply. The scent of lavender salts and warmed iron wraps around you like an embrace. The quiet pulses gently, like a heartbeat.
Your fingers float beneath the surface, tracing absent circles through the water. You think about the village, the mountains, the fields beyond the walls. You think about how much simpler life seems from a distance. You think about how your sister is probably standing in the great hall right now, demanding something of someone in that sharp, grating voice of hers.
And you think about how badly you want to disappear into the horizon.
When the water cools, you rise with a soft shiver, droplets running down your skin before disappearing into the cracks between the floor tiles. You wrap yourself in a towel and step back into your chamber, the morning light now brighter, casting long beams across your bed and glinting faintly off the glass of your mirror.
The deep blue dress you always wear for court hangs neatly on its carved wooden frame near the wardrobe. You chose it years ago because it reminded you of storm clouds over the mountains, of twilight skies just before rain â quietly powerful, undeniably present. Itâs not ornate like your sisterâs gowns, lacking the jewels and gold embroidery, but youâve always preferred simplicity with hidden strength.
You pull the fabric over your head, letting it settle along your frame. The material is soft, heavy enough to feel grounded but light enough for movement. The sleeves extend to your wrists, loose and elegant, cinched slightly at the waist before flowing down in a clean line to your ankles. You smooth the fabric gently with your palms, feeling the faint texture of embroidered stitching tracing patterns near the cuffs â your motherâs design, one of the last things she ever made before she grew too ill.
A small ache stirs in your chest.
You move to the mirror, brushing your hair once more, the strands falling neatly over your shoulders in a long, dark cascade. Your reflection gazes back at you â brown, catlike eyes sharp with awareness even in the soft morning light, framed by features that carry the ghosts of both parents but never fully matched your sister.
You donât look like her, not quite. You never have. You never thought it mattered. But today, as you study yourself, a strange, quiet unease flickers beneath your ribs.
You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, straighten the sleeves, lift your chin. âWhatever youâve done this time,â you murmur to your reflection, âI hope itâs worth dragging me out of bed for.â
You step toward the door. And fate shifts with you.
The moment you step into the corridor, the stillness of your chambers dissolves into a flurry of movement so chaotic it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. The usually calm morning hush of the castle has been replaced by a frantic, buzzing energy, servants darting from room to room with arms full of documents and linens, advisors rushing past with hurried whispers clinging to their heels, guards moving in tightly controlled formations as though preparing for something monumental.
The atmosphere feels wrong in a way that settles cold and unwelcome beneath your skin.
Servants stop what theyâre doing the instant they notice you, hands fumbling as they drop into rushed bows, nearly tripping over baskets, scrolls, or each other in their panic to show respect. You offer them the same small, dismissive gesture you always do â two fingers lifted lightly in a silent plea to relax â because youâve never cared for castle hierarchy, not when kindness matters more than titles.
But today, they barely lift their eyes before hurrying on, their whispers crackling through the halls like sparks reaching for flame.
â-did you hearâ
âthe village will be furious-â
â-it canât be trueâ
â-her sister-â
ââŠno, donât say it out loudââ
You slow your steps, sharp eyes flicking to the groups that scatter whenever you approach. The castle has always been loud, always alive, but this⊠this feels like standing in the eye of a storm that hasnât hit yet. The air is thick with tension, tinged with something metallic, something bitter.
A pair of maids sweep past you so quickly they nearly brush your sleeve, clutching folded banners to their chests. One glances up at you with wide, frightened eyes before lowering her head in an abrupt curtsy and rushing away again.
You frown.
Your footsteps echo through the corridor â steady, deliberate â landing against stone floors smoothed by centuries of wandering kings and restless soldiers. Wall sconces flicker with candlelight that dances across the tapestries lining the hall, each woven with scenes of battles won, kingdoms united, and monarchs who carried themselves with poise and dignity. Today, the flames seem unsteady, as though even they feel the tremor in the air.
You pass beneath tall, arched ceilings carved with patterns of blooming flowers and curling vines, their stonework dusted faintly with sunlight filtering through stained glass windows. Colours spill across the floors in fractured ribbons â blue, red, gold â painting your gown in shifting shades as you move.
But no matter how beautiful the castle looks in the morning glow, the atmosphere is suffocating.
Something is happening. Something huge. Something no one has dared say aloud near you.
You keep walking, drawn forward by a strange mix of dread and curiosity, your heartbeat matching the hurried pace of the castle around you.
Whatever this meeting is, itâs not just another tedious court session. Not another argument about taxes or border disputes. Not another lecture disguised as âguidance.â The castle feels like itâs holding its breath.
The heavy double doors to the throne room stand open when you arrive, and for a moment you simply look at them, at the polished oak darkened by age and carved with the sigils of your ancestors â wolves, stags, mountains, crowns â each symbol a reminder that your familyâs legacy was built long before you were even born. Sunlight pours through the high stained-glass windows, casting fractured patterns of sapphire and gold across the marble floor. Itâs beautiful, in the way all things are when theyâre too large, too old, too heavy with expectation.
You step inside.
The throne room is vast, echoing, solemn. Tall pillars rise like stone soldiers along the walls, draped with banners that fall in deep crimson sheets. Advisors, nobles, and council members line either side of the hall, their whispers crawling into silence as your footsteps announce your arrival.
Your father sits upon the throne â a man who once looked as unshakeable as the mountains behind the castle, now smaller somehow, diminished, his spine curved with age and sickness. His crown rests unevenly on his graying hair, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of his seat. Beside him sits your mother, wrapped in layers of pale fabric meant more for comfort than elegance. Her cheeks are hollow, her eyes tired, her breaths shallow. She offers you the faintest smile, soft but strained, as though even that costs her strength she doesnât have.
And then there is Edrea.
Your sister sits poised on a smaller throne adjacent to your parents â far too comfortably, as though sheâd already claimed it as her own. Sheâs draped in gold silk, hair pulled tightly into a style that gleams beneath the light, lips painted red enough to resemble spilled wine. She straightens when she sees you, and her expression twists into a look of exaggerated offense.
âWell, finally,â she shrills, voice slicing the room like a blade. âDo tell us â what kept you? Admiring yourself in the mirror again?â
You donât miss the way several nobles flinch.
You smile sweetly, folding your hands in front of you with mock innocence. âOh, you know how it is. I needed time to properly prepare myself for the honor of standing in your radiant presence.â
Someone snorts. Someone else coughs to hide it.
Edreaâs eyes flash.
Your father clears his throat â a weak, rasping sound â and gestures to the empty seat positioned opposite your sister. âSit, child. We have matters to discuss.â
You move toward your seat, skirts whispering against the marble floor, and lower yourself carefully, eyes drifting between your parentsâ faces. Something in the air feels heavy. Wrong. Final.
Your father exhales slowly, the sound thin and tired. âAs you all know,â he begins, voice steady but worn, âmy health has been failing for some time. The physicians have advised that I am no longer fit to ruleâŠâ
Murmurs ripple through the court. Your stomach tightens.
ââŠand your mother, beloved as she is, no longer has the strength to shoulder the responsibilities of the crown.â
Your mother bows her head, fingers trembling around the handkerchief she holds.
Across the room, Edrea shifts in her seat. The smugness on her face grows like a stain spreading through silk.
Your father continues, each word feeling heavier than the last. âWith the queen unable to ascend in my place, the line of succession falls to the next rightful heir.â
Silence. Even the candles seem to still.
Edrea lifts her chin with a triumphant, almost feral gleam in her eyes.
Your fatherâs gaze drifts toward her, not with joy, but with the resigned inevitability of a man accepting the outcome of a battle he never wished to fight. âAnd so,â he says quietly, âEdrea will be named my successor. She will take her place upon the throne.â
Edrea smiles. Not warmly. Not proudly. But like a wolf finally tasting blood.
A low hum rises across the throne room as soon as the kingâs words settle into the marble floor â soft at first, then growing, rippling outward like the tremor before an earthquake. Advisors lean toward one another with furrowed brows, council members straighten stacks of notes with shaking hands, and nobles exchange wary looks that flicker with calculation, alarm, and thinly veiled dread.
Edrea, of course, sits back in her chair as though she orchestrated the entire moment.
Her chin tilts upward. Her shoulders pull back. Her lips curve into the kind of smile that promises cruelty.
You feel her gaze like heat against your cheek.
The head of the courts â Lord Merin, a stern man with frost-white hair and a posture that could rival the pillars â clears his throat, raising a hand for order. The roomâs muttering drops instantly into silence. He glances at Edrea, then your father, then the assembly with the look of a man trying to balance the weight of a collapsing kingdom on one shoulder.
âGiven His Majestyâs condition,â Merin begins, voice firm but careful, âthe matter of succession must be resolved swiftly to ensure stability across Eirendale.â
âStability?â Edrea interrupts, her voice slicing through the air like a snapped bowstring. âStability will be the least of our concerns if we delay. The kingdom is already restless. They need me.â
Her emphasis on the last word makes several nobles stiffen.
Lord Merinâs jaw twitches ever so slightly. âIndeed, my lady. Which is why it is the courtâs duty toââ
âOh, please spare us the speeches,â Edrea says, waving a dismissive hand, golden bangles chiming at her wrist. âWe all know what must happen. I am the rightful heir. I am prepared. You need only arrange the ceremony.â
You feel her eyes slide across to you, lingering with pointed cruelty, as though tasting victory aloud. You fold your hands in your lap to hide the way your fingers curl.
Merin continues, ignoring her interruption with the patience of a man desperately clinging to professionalism. âAfter a thorough discussion with the council last night, it is our recommendation that a coronation be held within the week. Eirendale cannot afford uncertainty. The people must see strength and unity in their new queen.â
A wave of murmurs rises again â approval, hesitation, fear. A few steal glances at you, quickly looking away again. Not out of pity. Out of discomfort.
Edreaâs smile widens, sharp enough to cut.
âExcellent,â she announces, her shrill voice carrying above every whisper in the room. âA week will do. I already have an idea for the ceremony. Something grand. Something unforgettable.â
Her gaze darts to you again. Unmistakably mocking.
You hold her stare evenly for a heartbeat⊠before she scoffs, turning away as if you were hardly worthy of breathing the same air.
Lord Merin continues discussing logistics â processions, banners, oaths, attendance from foreign dignitaries â but his voice feels distant under Edreaâs constant interjections. She interrupts every detail, correcting, correcting, correcting, as though she has been rehearsing for this moment her entire life.
Her voice â shrill, delighted, venomous â fills the entire chamber. It is the only sound that seems to exist.
The court bows to her with reluctance thinly disguised as respect, each nod and murmured assent feeding her already-inflated ego. She soaks in the power like sunlight, fingers drumming gleefully on the arm of her chair.
And beneath all of it â beneath the smiling, the scheming, the celebration â there is an undercurrent of something else.
Something no one is acknowledging. Something rotten. Something wrong.
You feel it coil low in your stomach. The kingdom, once warm and bright, suddenly feels cold. And Edreaâs smile is the coldest thing in the room.
At first, you try to sit still. You try to breathe through the rising heat beneath your ribs, the tightening coil of anger curling around your spine, the familiar bitterness that always stirs when your sister opens her mouth and speaks as though the world belongs to her alone.
But something about today⊠something about the way she smiles, the way the court bows,
the way the kingdom is being handed to someone who will shatter it⊠makes that heat grow hotter.
Sharper. More dangerous.
It isnât the throne youâre mourning. It never was, you never cared for that title.
Itâs the people.
The villagers who smile at you when you walk through the market. The children who tug flowers into your skirts. The gardeners who saved the rose seeds from your motherâs favorite bush. The maids who sneak extra bread to the stray cats behind the kitchens. The guards who laugh beneath their breath when you tease them. Every person whose life will be twisted into something cruel under Edreaâs rule.
You grip the edge of your seat so tightly your knuckles whiten.
Edrea is still talking â boasting about banners, colours, the cities she will visit, the soldiers she plans to âreformâ into a more obedient force â but you barely hear her anymore.
Your heart is pounding too loudly. Your breath is shaking too sharply. Your skin feels too tight for your own body.
And when Edrea laughs â high, shrill, triumphant â it feels like a knife dragging across your nerves.
You stand abruptly.
Several heads turn. Your father's brow furrows. Your motherâs lips part, concerned. Lord Merinâs eyes widen in warning.
âPrincessââ someone calls.
âWaitââ another reaches for you.
âChild, sitââ your father strains weakly.
But youâre already walking. No â storming.
Your footsteps echo against the marble, quick and sharp, a rhythm of rage that swallows every voice behind you. You donât look back. You donât slow down. You donât care how many people gasp or whisper as you pass.
The heavy doors slam behind you with a thunderous crack that rattles the nearest windows.
The moment youâre out of the throne room, your lungs expand fully for the first time all morning, though the anger still burns, bright and molten and trembling through every part of you.
You follow the long corridor toward the outer courtyard, passing servants who flatten themselves instinctively against the walls. Their eyes widen when they see your expression, but you barely feel present enough to reassure them. Not now. Not when your sisterâs laughter still rings in your skull like a curse.
You push open one of the side doors leading to the castle grounds.
And the world opens up.
The cool air sweeps across your skin, brushing your hair back from your face as though trying to soothe you. The castle grounds are sprawling â lush gardens arranged in winding paths, hedges trimmed into careful shapes, tall birch and elm trees swaying gently against the early morning sky. The grass is still kissed with dew, glistening faintly beneath the sunlight that breaks over the castle walls.
A stone courtyard spreads out beneath your feet, dotted with benches, fountains, and ancient statues worn smooth by centuries of weather and war. Beyond it, a training field lies quiet, the racks of practice swords still untouched from the night before. Beyond that is the open expanse of the eastern gardens, where rose bushes bloom in tangled splendor and ivy climbs the old brick with wild determination.
Everything smells of earth and grass and distant mountain wind. Usually, this place calms you. Today, it only sharpens the storm inside you.
You walk faster, your skirts brushing against the pathways, boots crunching softly against gravel. Your hands tremble at your sides. Your jaw aches from clenching it too tightly.
You feel the kingdom around you â your home, your people, your land â quivering on the edge of something terrible.
And for the first time, a small, uneasy whisper curls through your mind:
Something is going to break.
You just donât know yet that itâs you the kingdom is preparing to break first.
Your steps eventually carry you away from the manicured gardens and carved stone paths, deeper into the quieter heart of the castle grounds, toward a place you were never meant to visit, yet always found your way to.
The knightsâ training yard lies tucked behind a row of towering elms, half-hidden from the main walkways, separated by a strip of uneven cobblestone and an old wooden fence that has seen better years. The air here feels different â sharper, louder, filled with the rhythmic thud of boots striking earth, the metallic clash of steel meeting steel, the gritted breaths of men pushing their bodies beyond comfort.
You pause just before the tree line, letting the familiar sounds wrap around you.
This place⊠this place was your secret kingdom long before your sister ever dreamed of a crown.
When you were younger, you used to sneak out of your lessons the moment your governess grew distracted, slipping down the servantsâ passageway and racing barefoot across the grass until you reached the same tall elm you stand behind now. It had always provided the perfect vantage point â just enough cover to hide you, just close enough for you to learn.
And gods, you learned.
How to string a bow. How to judge distance by breath alone. How knights shifted their weight before striking.How they angled their bodies to block a blow.How they held themselves not as nobles, but as weapons.
You remember those nights clearly â the moon high, the castle asleep, the training grounds dimly lit by torches guttering in the wind. You would creep toward the weapon racks, heart in your throat, and steal a bow small enough for your hands. You practiced silently, firing arrows into bales of hay until your fingers blistered and your arms ached, always returning the bow exactly where you found it before anyone awoke.
It was the one place you felt competent. Alive. Free.
Today, you step behind the same elm, leaning lightly against the trunk as you watch the knights move across the yard.
They are a disciplined storm â swords swinging in clean arcs, shields raised in unison, spears turning like a single row of iron teeth. The lead knight barks orders sharp enough to split stone, pacing back and forth with the authority of someone who has long forgotten what the word fear means.
You breathe in the scent of dust, sweat, and steel. It feels strangely grounding.
Then you hear it - buried in the chaos of orders, footsteps, and grunts:
âMingi! Again!â
Your head snaps toward the voice. Your heartbeat stumbles once, then quickens.
Another knight crosses the yard, armour darker than the others, movements sharper, his stance precise in a way that speaks not just of training, but of instinct carved deep into bone. Heâs tall â gods, taller than most â with broad shoulders and a gait that carries the quiet promise of violence.
You know the name. Everyone in the castle knows the name.
The youngest knight ever assigned to the royal guard. Your sisterâs age. A prodigy forged in battle, not born into power. Silent. Distant. Rumoured to sleep in his armour, to avoid the feast halls, to speak only when necessary.
Song Mingi.
He moves with a brutal elegance, each strike as fluid as it is powerful, his blade cutting through the air like a wordless vow. And even from here â even through the gleam of metal and distance â you can sense something else beneath the armour.
Gravity. Intensity. A quiet kind of darkness. He doesnât speak. He doesnât laugh. He doesnât even look up from his stance.
But something in the air shifts around him â subtle, like the tremble before thunder.
You realise, suddenly, painfully, that youâre staring. You also realise youâve seen him before â always from afar, always in passing, always with his helmet on, always silent as a ghost moving through the hall.
But here, watching him train, watching him move, watching him exist, you feel something stir inside you.
Not attraction. Not adoration. Something else. Recognition.
As though youâve just found a character in your own story you never knew was missing.
Youâre so focused on the knights â on the clean arc of a blade slicing through air, on the barked orders snapping across the yard, on the way Mingiâs movements seem carved from instinct and storm â that you donât hear the footsteps behind you until theyâre far too close.
âSpying again, little sister?â
The voice slithers up your spine like a cold finger.
You flinch, just slightly, and turn.
Edrea stands a breath behind you, framed by the shifting leaves of the elm tree, her golden gown catching the sunlight like a snare meant to lure prey. Her expression is all sharpened sweetness, the kind that looks pretty from afar but reveals the rot underneath when seen up close.
You straighten, schooling your features into polite boredom.
Edrea clicks her tongue, eyes flicking from your face to the training yard with disdain. âHonestly⊠you spend more time near the knights than you do in the court. Sometimes I think Father made a mistake.â She taps a manicured finger against her chin, smile tightening. âYou shouldâve been born a boy. Then at least youâd have a purpose.â
You breathe out a laugh â quiet, cutting, all teeth.
âWhy, Edrea,â you say, tilting your head, âif I had been born a boy, you know I would have stolen the throne right out from under you. Courts rule after all.â
For a heartbeat, the world stills. The smile drops from her face so fast itâs almost satisfying.
A flush of rage blooms across her cheeks â ugly, unroyal, raw â but she swallows it down with a shaky inhale, forcing her lips back into a fragile imitation of a grin. âYou always think youâre so clever,â she says softly, too softly, her voice coated in frost. âAll that sharpness wasted on the wrong child.â
You push off the tree, stepping closer, meeting her gaze without flinching. âAnd all that cruelty wasted on the right one.â
Her eyes flicker. Just once. And then something changes in her.
She straightens â not with pride, but with the eerie poise of someone settling into a role theyâve rehearsed far too long. The tension fades from her shoulders. The rage drains from her expression. The smile that slides back onto her lips isnât smug anymore.
Itâs cold. Deadly. Final.
âOh, donât worry,â she purrs, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve, âI have⊠plans for our kingdom.â She lets the words hang, sweet and poisonous. âAnd I have plans,â she adds, leaning in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you, âfor you, dear sister.â
The chill that runs through your spine is immediate.
Your lips part to demand what she means, but she doesnât give you the chance. Sheâs already turning, skirts sweeping across the grass like liquid gold, posture regal and cruel in equal measure.
You take a step after her. âEdreaââ
She lifts a hand dismissively over her shoulder. âRun along now. Enjoy your morning while you still can.â
And with one final, wicked grin, she saunters back toward the castle, leaving you rooted to the earth, breath caught somewhere between anger and a prickle of dawning fear.
You leave the training grounds with a sick twist in your stomach, Edreaâs words poisoning the edges of your thoughts long after her footsteps fade. The castle feels suffocating â too many eyes, too much tension â so you slip beyond the gates, down the narrow stone steps, and into the forest that hugs the eastern side of the grounds.
The woods have always been kinder than the court.
The sunlight filters through the canopy in trembling streams, dappling the earth in scattered gold. Moss blankets the roots of ancient oaks, soft under your boots, and the air smells of damp bark and early spring growth. Birds flit between branches, singing in fractured melodies that ease the tightness in your chest.
Here, you can breathe. Here, you can move like yourself again.
You reach beneath the skirt of your dress, fingers brushing along the fabric until they find the familiar leather sheath strapped to your thigh. You slide your dagger free â your little secret, your small rebellion, your quiet freedom â and begin practicing the movements you taught yourself as a girl.
A slash. A pivot. A guarded step back. Another slash.
The forest swallows the sound of your blade slicing the air. The rhythm steadies your heartbeat. Helps you forget your sisterâs smile. Helps you forget the way the court bent under her voice. Helps you remember that you are not as helpless as she thinks.
Time folds strangely beneath the trees. Minutes blend into hours. Your anger melts into focus, your fear melts into clarity.
Eventually, your arms begin to ache, the sun rises high, and the distant toll of bells reminds you that the world beyond the woods has not paused for you.
You sheath your dagger, smooth your skirt, and begin the walk back toward the castle. You donât expect the shift to be so immediate.
The moment you step through the side entrance, silence falls like a dropped curtain.
Servants freeze mid-step. Kitchen boys halt with baskets in their hands. A maid nearly drops the linens sheâs carrying when she sees you, her breath catching in her throat.
And then, slowly â too slowly â every pair of eyes in the corridor turns to you.
Not with curiosity. Not with respect. With something darker. Suspicion. Fear. Distrust.
Your heart stumbles in your chest. You force your voice steady. âIs something wrong?â
A guard steps forward before any servant can answer. Heâs tall, helmet on, shoulders squared unnaturally tight. Thereâs no warmth in his posture, no familiarity â just rigid, cold duty. âPrincess,â he says, âyou are to return to your chambers immediately.â
Your brows knit. âWhat? Why? What isââ
He raises a gauntleted hand sharply, silencing you. âOrders from the court.â
That alone makes your stomach drop. You try again, firmer. âTell me whatâs going on.â
He doesnât even look at you this time. âPrincess,â he repeats, âreturn to your chambers. Now.â
The corridor has never felt so narrow. Never felt so hostile. Never felt so wrong.
You swallow hard but fall into step beside him, though every instinct screams at you to run â to turn, to demand answers, to find someone who will actually speak to you like a person.
Servants press themselves against the walls as you pass, refusing to meet your eyes. Some whisper. Some shake their heads. One young stablehand makes the sign of an old blessing, the kind meant to ward off evil. Your pulse thunders.
At last, you reach your door.
Before you can say another word, the guard grips the handle, shoves the door inward with a force that rattles the hinges, and gestures for you to go inside.
You hesitate. Thatâs all the time he gives you.
The door slams shut behind you â hard enough to make the walls vibrate â and then you hear it:
the click of a lock sliding into place.
A sound that feels like a knife tip pressed between your ribs. You turn slowly, staring at the door. Locked. From the outside.
And for the first time since morning⊠you are afraid.
You pace. Back and forth across the length of your room, bare feet whispering against the cold stone floor as your thoughts spiral faster than your steps. Every possibility crashes against the next â every whisper in the halls, every strange look, every tightened jaw, every guard who refused to meet your eyes.
None of it makes sense.
You try to breathe through the knot forming in your chest, but the air feels thin, stretched too tight, as though the room itself is holding its breath with you. You cross to the door again, fingers curling around the iron handle.
Locked. Unmoving. As cold as the guardâs voice.
You rattle it harder, shaking the frame, but the wood barely groans in response. A frustrated exhale tears from your throat. You scan the room â your windows too high above the courtyard, the drop fatal; your walls solid stone; your only exit sealed from the outside.
You drag a hand through your hair, pulse pounding beneath your skin.
âThink,â you murmur to yourself. âThink. What could she have done? What could sheââ
Your thoughts splinter. Your sisterâs smile, too sharp this morning. The whispers at your back. Your fatherâs frailty. Your motherâs trembling hands. Servants refusing to look at you. Edrea saying she had âplans.â For the kingdom. For you.
A hollow dread unfurls inside your chest.
You sink onto the edge of your bed, elbows on your knees, fingers pressing into your temples. The room blurs. The tension, the fear, the exhaustion, everything finally crushes down like a stone wall collapsing inward.
Eventually, despite your refusal to let sleep claim you, your body gives in.
You lie down atop the covers, still fully dressed, eyes fixed on the shadows dancing across your ceiling. You try to stay awake. You try to listen for footsteps. You try to keep your mind sharp.
But darkness softens your thoughts, pulls at your eyelids, and slowly you drift.
You donât know how long you sleep.
Only that the world shatters awake in an instant.
A violent THUD slams against your door â loud, heavy, followed by a pained groan that chills your blood. You jolt upright, breath catching in your throat. Another muffled sound follows â something dragging, something collapsing.
You stumble to the door, heart hammering. âHello?â you call out. âIs someoneâ?â
No answer. Not a single voice.
Just your own heartbeat roaring in your ears.
You grab the handle, twisting, shaking, pulling until your palms burn, until your arms tremble. The lock holds for a moment â one stubborn, terrible moment then snaps.
The door bursts inward under your force, slamming against the wall with a cracking echo that rattles the hallway.
The moment the door slams back against the wall, the breath is ripped from your chest, because lying directly in front of you â crumpled, motionless, and horrifyingly still â is the guard who escorted you to your chambers. His body is twisted in a way no conscious man would allow, armour dented from impact, and beneath him a dark pool of blood spreads across the stone like ink soaking through parchment.
For a second you are frozen, mind struggling to understand what your eyes already know.
Then panic tears through you.
âShit!â Your voice cracks as you drop to your knees beside him, hands trembling uncontrollably as you reach for his shoulders, attempting to shift him just enough to see if he responds. His head lolls to the side, helmet slipping back to reveal a face drained of colour, lips parted as though he tried â and failed â to call for help.
Your stomach turns violently, but you refuse to stop. You press your hands against the warm, slick blood coating his tunic, searching desperately for the wound, for the source, for anything you can save. Your fingers slip across the gash at his ribs, a wound so deep your mind refuses to accept the reality of it, and you press harder, willing the bleeding to slow, willing him to breathe, willing the world to be kinder than this.
âStay with me,â you whisper, though you know he canât hear you. âPlease â just stay ââ
But his chest remains still beneath your palms. The blood only grows thicker, hotter, spreading across the floor and soaking through the fabric of your dress until the deep blue cloth clings to your knees in a wet, horrifying weight.
Your heartbeat pounds loud enough to drown out the world. Your breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts.
Hands slippery with blood, you reach instinctively for your dagger, pulling it from beneath your skirts with the frantic hope of cutting away the torn fabric of his armour to find the full wound. The blade glints in the dim corridor light, your hands shaking so violently that the metal nearly slips from your grip.
You only manage to slice through a few seams before a shout tears through the hallway â a deep, furious voice that echoes with authority and accusation.
âSTEP AWAY FROM HIM!â
You barely turn before a group of guards surges toward you from the far end of the corridor, armour clattering, boots striking the stone with heavy, merciless rhythm. Their faces are twisted with outrage, fear, and something far darker â certainty.
Hands grab at your arms before you can even process whatâs happening, iron fingers digging painfully into your skin as they yank you backward, forcing the dagger from your grasp and sending it skittering across the blood-slick floor.
âWait! N-no â he was alreadyââ you choke out, voice breaking, but your words are swallowed by chaos.
âSheâs armed!â one guard shouts, as though the tiny dagger you dropped were a declaration of treason.
âShe did this,â another growls, pulling your wrists together so tightly you cry out, âI saw the bladeââ
âThatâs not â I didnâtââ Your protest shatters under the weight of their grip. âHe was like this when I â please, listenâ!â
But they donât.
They have no intention of listening.
Rough hands wrench you upward, lifting you clean off your knees as though you weigh nothing at all, dragging you down the corridor with a brutality that steals your breath. Your dress leaves a streak of blood behind you, marking your path like a trail of accusation, your heart pounding in your throat as confusion and terror twist inside you until you can barely think.
The walls blur. The torches flicker past you in smears of orange light. Servants shrink back against the stone as you are hauled through the castle like a criminal, some covering their mouths, others whispering frantic prayers, one woman dropping the basket in her hands entirely.
Your voice strains with desperation. âPlease â someone â tell themâthis isnâtâ!â
But the guards only tighten their grip, muttering curses under their breath, their silence thick and damning.
And then, as though the world itself has conspired to swallow you whole, the massive doors to the throne room loom ahead.
They open. You are dragged inside.
And the room, once buzzing with political chatter and ambition, falls into a silence so complete it feels like the kingdom itself has stopped breathing.
The guards shove you forward with enough force that you stumble, blood still drying on your dress in dark, ugly stains. The throne room is colder than before, colder than it has any right to be, and as your eyes adjust you realise immediately that something is very, very wrong.
Your sister is already standing near the dais, hands folded delicately at her waist, her golden gown shimmering under the morning light. Her expression is carefully arranged into a picture of wounded sorrow â her brows drawn together, her lips trembling, her eyes wide with rehearsed grief. It is a performance so flawless that anyone who didnât grow up enduring her cruelty might actually believe her.
But you know better. You have always known better.
The heads of the court stand in a tight cluster to one side, their faces tight, their whispers sharp as broken glass. Lord Merin looks pale, his hands clasped behind his back, jaw clenched as though bracing for something inevitable and terrible.
The guards who dragged you here shove you to your knees, your legs collapsing beneath you. Pain shoots up your spine, but it barely registers over the pounding terror in your chest.
One of the guards steps forward. He bows stiffly to the court, then speaks in a clipped, loud voice:
âShe was found over the body. Blood on her hands. A dagger in her grasp.â
A murmur ripples across the room â quiet, horrified, hungry.
Edrea lifts a hand to her mouth in a dramatic show of shock, letting out a theatrical, breathy gasp. âOh, gods,â she whispers, far too gently, âI⊠I cannot believe this. My own sisterâŠâ
Her voice cracks perfectly on the last word. You feel sick.
âThatâs not what happened,â you say, your voice strained but steady enough. âHe was already injured. I tried to help him. Iââ
âSilence,â a noble snaps, his voice cutting through yours like a lash.
The court head, Lord Merin, steps forward slowly. His expression is carved from stone â agonised, unwilling, yet unyielding. The kind of look a man wears when forced to pronounce a sentence he doesn't believe in but cannot escape. âThe guard was not the only evidence,â Merin says, and his voice is softer than before, heavier, as though every word is dragging something inside him downward. âA note was found in your chambers.â
You blink, unable to comprehend. âWhat note?â
He hesitates only for a second. But he hesitates.
âA note,â he continues, âdetailing a plan to assassinate the king. The queen. Your sister. And any court official who attempted to stand in your way.â His voice grows quieter, almost remorseful. âAll written in your hand.â
The air rushes out of your lungs.
âWhat?â The word leaves your mouth as a fractured breath. âNo â no, thatâs impossible, I didnât â I would neverââ
âOh gods!â Edrea cries suddenly, stepping forward dramatically, tears shimmering at the corners of her eyes, though none dare fall. âPlease⊠please do not make her repeat it. The kingdom has suffered enough.â
You shake your head desperately. âI didnât write anything â I swear it â I would never harm ââ
Edrea cuts you off again, her voice rising into a trembling wail that echoes through the hall.
âThatâs not allâŠâ She presses a hand against her heart, as though steadying herself. âThe king and queen⊠our parentsâ Her breath shudders â beautifully, theatrically, monstrously. âThey were found dead in their chambers moments ago.â
The world stops.
Your heart lurches violently. Your breath falters. A raw, broken âNoââ escapes your throat, but the room is already erupting into chaos. Nobles gasp and clasp their hands over their mouths. Advisors exchange horrified whispers. A few servants begin to cry openly.
You feel the ground tilt beneath you, your vision blurring at the edges. Your hands tremble uncontrollably, fingers curling helplessly against your blood-stained skirts.
âNo â no â no, thatâs notâ they were alive this morning! I was with them, I spoke to themâ IâI didnât do anything! Someone is lying â please, someone, please listenâ!â But your voice is nothing against Edreaâs carefully orchestrated sobs.
Lord Merin steps forward again, his face ashen. âFor the assassination of the king and queen,â he says, voice barely more than a whisper, âand for treason against the crown, the court decreesââ
âNo!â you cry, pushing yourself forward, the words tearing painfully from your chest. âPlease! Merin â someoneâŠanyone â listen to meâ this is a lieâ my sisterâŠ.s-she âshe plannedââ
He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he does not look at you â he looks through you, past you, toward a future he clearly wishes he could change. ââŠyour death.â
The throne room falls into a silence so deep and suffocating you can hear your own heartbeat breaking inside your ribs.
Your sister stands at the edge of the dais. Smiling. Softly. Triumphantly.
Her victory written in the ruin of your world. And the kingdom, blind and trembling, bows to her.
The accusations do not stop.
Even after the sentence is spoken, even after your heart has already split clean down the middle, the court continues to circle around you like vultures picking apart a carcass. Words you never spoke are thrown at you with feverish certainty; crimes you never committed are piled onto your shoulders until you can barely breathe beneath the weight.
Every voice blends together into a single suffocating roar, and you feel the walls of the throne room closing in, the air thinning, your pulse climbing into your throat until you think it might burst.
A guard behind you tightens his grip on your arms as you start to tremble.
You twist instinctively, trying to pull away.
âHold her,â someone commands.
âBind her hands.â
âDonât let her get any ideas.â
A rough hand clamps down on your wrist, another grabs your shoulder â too tight, too bruising â and something inside you snaps cleanly in two.
âNo,â you whisper, voice shaking but sharp with rising panic. âNo, donât touch me â donâtââ
The guard yanks harder.
Enough.
You turn your head sharply and sink your teeth into the exposed skin between his glove and sleeve. The taste of iron floods your mouth as he howls in pain, jerking backward with a shout so loud it echoes off the marble walls.
His grip falters â just for a heartbeat. But that heartbeat is all you need.
You wrench your arms free, stumbling to your feet, your breath hitching violently as you tear yourself away from him.
âSTOP HER!â Edrea screams, her voice shrill enough to make the chandeliers tremble. âDO NOT LET HER LEAVE THIS ROOM!â
You run.
You do not think. You do not look back. You simply run.
Your blood-stained dress clings to your legs as you race across the throne room, ignoring the shouts behind you, ignoring the thunder of boots closing in, ignoring the rising crescendo of your own heartbeat pounding like war drums in your ears. You shove past a noble, nearly knocking him off his feet, and burst through the doors just as hands reach out to seize you again.
The corridor blurs around you â tapestries, sconces, carvings â all streaking past in a smear of colour and memory. You sprint down the hallway, dodging servants who leap out of your way with startled cries, their faces turning pale when they realise who you are.
âTraitorââ someone gasps.
âRun! Sheâs dangerousââ
âNo â no, thatâs notââ The words tear from your throat, but they fall uselessly behind you as you race forward.
A guard lunges at you from a side hallway. You duck beneath his arms, twisting past him with a burst of desperation that sends pain shooting up your side. Another guard blocks your path â broad, armored, immovable â and you skid across the stone, grabbing a vase from a pedestal and hurling it at him with a strength drawn from pure survival.
It shatters against his helmet, stunning him long enough for you to slip past.
Your lungs burn. Your throat aches. Your vision blurs with tears.
Youâve never run this fast in your life.
You reach the outer doors of the castle just as a squad of archers emerges onto the balcony above. Someone shouts an order you canât make out through the roaring in your ears and then the arrows fly.
You scream as one whistles past your cheek, another embedding itself into the stone just inches from your shoulder. You throw yourself sideways, almost tripping over the hem of your gown, nearly falling as your foot slips on the marble step. Another arrow streaks past, grazing your arm in a hot, sharp line that sends fire racing through your nerves.
You donât stop.
You run down the steps, across the courtyard, past the training grounds, past the places you loved, past the castle that raised you â and is now trying to kill you.
Your breath comes in ragged, broken sobs as you sprint toward the treeline, your hair whipping behind you, tears spilling down your cheeks without restraint. The betrayal wraps around you like a chokehold â your sisterâs smile, the courtâs silence, the guardsâ hardened eyes, the servantsâ fear â all of it crashing over you in a wave that nearly drowns you mid-stride.
You thought you knew this place. You thought you were safe here. You thought the castle, for all its flaws, was still your home.
But now, as arrows rain from behind you and your own kingdom hunts you like preyâŠ
Branches whip past your arms and shoulders as you push deeper and deeper into the forest, the world narrowing into nothing but breath and fear and the relentless pounding of your heartbeat. Your lungs burn, each inhale sharp and ragged, dragging through your throat like broken glass, but you force your legs to keep moving because stopping means dying, and if the castle has taught you anything today, itâs that your sister does not intend for you to survive long enough to defend yourself.
The forest here is older, darker, its canopy so thick it swallows daylight in great, green gulps. Shadows cling to the undergrowth, thick and trembling, moving with the wind like creatures half awake. The air hums strangely, as though the earth itself is holding its breath. You know these woods by name only, never by experience. Youâve been warned your entire life that nothing good lives this deep.
But even danger is better than going back.
Your legs buckle once, then again, your breath stuttering in shallow sobs. The truth weighs so heavily inside your chest you feel it physically: your parents â gone, stolen from you before you ever had the chance to say goodbye. Their blood on your sisterâs hands. The court believing every word she spoke. Your life, your name â torn apart by lies woven with terrifying ease.
They will remember you as a murderer. A traitor. A monster.
And you have no way to prove otherwise.
A sob tears from your throat, raw and hopeless, and you press your hand against a tree trunk to steady yourself. Your dress catches on a branch, tearing the hem, stained with blood, some yours, most not. Your breaths come faster, fraying at the edges until they dissolve into full hysteria.
You run again, even though your legs feel like they might give out entirely, branches tugging at your sleeves, roots clawing at your feet. The ground slopes unexpectedly, and before you can catch yourself, your foot slips on wet moss and your body plunges forward.
You crash straight into a shallow pond hidden beneath the overgrowth, cold water engulfing you in a single, brutal jolt. The shock steals the air from your lungs, and instinct sends your hands scrambling, pushing against the slippery stones as you fight to keep your head above the surface.
You drag yourself out, soaked and shaking, hair plastered to your face, dress clinging heavily to your legs. Mud streaks your arms, water drips from your fingers, and your entire body trembles with a mix of exhaustion, grief, and terror.
The woods around you fall eerily silent.
No guards. No shouts. No snapping branches behind you. Only your own uneven breath echoing into the dark.
You are alone. Utterly alone.
And then you run directly into something that is definitely not a tree.
Something unyielding. Something massive. Something cold and metallic beneath your palms.
You stumble backward, slipping on wet leaves, falling hard into the mud as your heart slams painfully against your ribs. Your breath catches, tears blurring your vision as you look up â slowly, fearfully â at the towering figure you collided with.
A knight. A massive knight.
Armour darkened with wear. Shoulders impossibly broad beneath steel plates. A helmet that hides everything â face, eyes, humanity. A silhouette carved from war itself.
You freeze, breath trapped in your throat.
For a heartbeat, you believe itâs over. That youâve been caught. That Edreaâs soldiers found you at last. That this is how you die â cold, wet, alone, and accused of crimes you didnât commit.
Your lips part to beg, to plead, to explain, but the words never leave you.
Because the knight tilts his head slightly, lifting it just enough for you to see the faint curve of his jaw beneath the helm.Â
A gruff, low voice rumbles through the metal, deep enough to vibrate in your bones.
genre: a/b/o au, idol au, omegaverse, fated mates au, soulmates au, omega!reader, alpha!hongjoong, beta!seonghwa, beta!yunho, alpha!yeosang, beta!san, alpha!mingi, alpha!wooyoung, alpha!jongho, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive, mentions of verbal abuse from parents, reader finds it difficult and the boys try really hard to make her feel safe
wc: 4.5k
summary: you never cared too much about the idea of 'fated mates', the wolf designed by the moon especially for you. now that you've met them, you're not sure if you can be their omega. but you promise to try and the ATEEZ pack aren't quite ready to let you go without a fight.
a/n: this is my newest long fic! I've had this idea in my head about reluctant fated mates with a lot of hurt, a lot of comfort, and a lot of fluff. thank you to @joongsfantasy for your help with writing the pheromones and for the hype while writing!!
masterlist // requests: open
chapter 2
--------------------------------------
You wouldnât say that fairytales werenât real, that the bad guy always wins or that thereâs no such thing as happy endings. That felt too cliche, too bitter and too much like a time where darkness had clouded your mind.
What you would say was that things didnât come easy, even if it looked like it should to the outside world.
You had both parents growing up - a driven alpha mother and a nurturing omega father. They were sweet with each other, shared expressions of love frequently and did their best by you, their only child.Â
That was, of course, until they didnât. They had arguments that flared into days long brutal arguments, where every step you took felt like stepping on a landmine. Your mother, beautiful and strong, would look at her omega daughter and see only weakness to be ashamed of, and your father, terrified of the world you were growing into, wrapped you up so tightly you couldnât breathe.
Those days still lived as scars on you, carried in your flesh and deep into your soul. You had lost yourself once before to those memories, feeling as if they were a weight youâd never be able to shake off.Â
You were passed that now, shadows rescinding as you rationalised the psychology of two adults that should have been better for you. You were an adult yourself, living your own life. You had your own crappy apartment within walking distance of your workplace. You had your own friends, each one messed up in their own way. Youâd had past romances, some good and some bad, that taught you what you were willing to take for the sake of love.
So, it wasnât that you didnât believe in the idea of fate or happily ever after you, but you werenât naive enough to believe it would just fall into your lap. The Hollywood idea that the person youâre supposed to be with will stumble into your life and whisk you away like a princess in an old story, was ludicrous.
You imagined that if you ever did meet your mate, the person that your wolf determined you to be with, it would be ordinary.Â
This was anything but that.
The man in front of you - alpha, you could tell, with the scent of cinnamon, cloves and vanilla - was dressed outlandishly, like heâd just stepped out of a fantasy manga. A long coat with tails and gold buttons, pants clinched tight at the waist and flared at the ankle. Clear glasses that you were sure were for fashion not functionality sat low on his nose, his eyes widening over the top. Blue strands of hair stuck out from under the brim of a stylised hat, covered in clocks and chains.
Heâd been midstep when he spotted you and froze, heavy boot lowering, lips parting in a startled exhale. You, in turn, had tensed, shoulders hunching as this shiver careened down your spine and your wolf peeked her head in interest.
Mate, your wolf indicated. Mine.
You blinked once at him, this strange man looking so out of place in the hallway of your company.
The man took half a step closer to you, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing gold as his wolf responded to yours. âI...â he started and stopped, as if he didnât know what to say.
You, in turn, did the only thing that seemed reasonable at the time - you turned on your heel and walked away.
-
Yunho was in the middle of hair and make-up when Mingi came barrelling towards him. The alpha looked wide eyed, vibrating with something that Yunho couldnât quite read. As he came closer, the chains on his coat got caught on each other.
Yunho tutted. âDude, careful. The wardrobe noonas will be pissed if you break something before the shoot.â
Mingi didnât even seem to hear him. âOmega,â he said.
Yunho arched an eyebrow. âYes, there will be some working here.â
The blue haired alpha shook his head firmly. âOur omega,â he emphasised, âI found her.â
The make-up artist - Daehyun, Yunho vaguely recalled - paused, her brush pressed against his cheekbones. It wasnât exactly something she would normally be a part of, he understood that, so when he turned and asked politely for five minutes, she was quick to bow and scurry away.
It wasnât exactly a secret that they were an omega-less pack right now. When ATEEZ had formed years before, they had just been a collection of alphas and betas that a company had decided would perform well together. Yunho had felt it immediately, the way the room had tipped on its axis, the way his wolf had crooned. They were young then, too young some of them, hadnât known what to make of it. There were fights - teeth and blood as well as words - and a need that was too strong for their wolves to handle at the time.
He remembered how their managers had made them sit down and deal with their feelings. It had helped calm the rattling in his brain.
The pack bonds, those came later. Hongjoong had claimed them all, marked them as a pack and together, after their first music bank win. Idol packs werenât uncommon, no one was surprised, but there had been a few seniors who asked about whether it had been the right course without their omega present. Most groups would have waited until the pack bond could be completed with all parties around, but they had made the decision they didnât want to wait any longer. Hongjoong had agreed.
As a pack, theyâd spoken about omegas before, about their fated mate, the perfect wolf for them. What they would do when they found them, about how Hongjoong as head alpha would want to proceed, how they would fit into the wildness that was their day to day life.
Yunho himself had definitely daydreamed about it since he was a kid. His parents had been fated mates, these two people so completely in love with each other and their lives together. Heâd wanted that desperately, even as he pursued his career, and he felt blessed to even get a fraction of the love that he already possessed. He could live without an omega, if he had the others, but that didnât mean he didnât want to know theirs.
A part of him wanted to believe it was a joke but Mingi was looking at him with such excitement, he knew his pack mate couldnât be.
Still, he had to ask. âAre you sure?â
Mingi nodded eagerly. âSheâs here. I was going to get water and she was just standing there. I think she works here. God, she smelt so good, like sweet hotteok, and my wolf just lost it.â
Yunhoâs heart panged with envy. His wolf stirred within him, pacing restlessly now that he knew his mate was in the building. âWhatâs her name?â
âI didnâtâŠspeak to her,â he admitted and then speedily went on, âshe was busy. I donât know if she even noticed me.â
How could she not? Yunho wondered but he didnât dwell on it, already moving to stand up. He had to find her, had to see for himself that-
âYunho-sshi,â Daehyunâs hesitant voice broke through his thoughts. She smiled apologetically. âWe need to finish up or weâll be late for shoots.â
Right. Work. The comeback. Concept photos. Yunho exhaled, rolled his shoulders and tried to fight off the pathetic whine he wanted to release. He lowered himself back in the stylistâs chair firmly.
âYou should tell Joong-hyung,â he said. âIf she works here, we could find her at the shoot right?â
âRight,â Mingi agreed. One hand came to grip Yunhoâs shoulder and squeezed. âI just canât believe weâve found her.â
-
The image of your mate kept resurfacing, circling your thoughts and distracting you just enough that your boss, Taeji, was starting to get annoyed.
âYouâre ready for this, arenât you?â He asked again. âIâve not made a mistake bringing you along for this project?â
The word mistake carved through you. You straightened, hands tightening around the camera lens in your hands. âYou havenât sir,â you insisted, âIâm ready.â
Taeji made a noise that showed he didnât quite believe you. He clicked his fingers. âLong lens,â he instructed.
You obeyed the order, and watched as Taeji attached the lens he wanted to the front of the camera.
You didnât like Kwon Taeji, not even a little bit. When youâd joined the company as an intern, heâd been sharp, dismissive and completely arrogant. He looked down at you for not knowing enough about the commercial photography and begrudged actually explaining anything. If it wasnât for his alpha, Eunwoo, you might have given up on your career just to get out from under Taejiâs attitude.
Irrationally, you cursed your unnamed alpha. The man in his ridiculous get up - why did he have to turn up today? On your first professional job?
Why couldnât your wolf get a grip? Your omega was in a state of high distress. She didnât understand that your job required you to be present, or that you couldnât throw yourself into the arms of an alpha you didnât know just because your omega liked the smell of them. The idea of it both made your skin crawl and want it desperately.
Alpha, your omega scratched at the back of your head. Find alpha.
Work, you told yourself firmly. Then alpha.
The fact that made you feel discomfort in the pit of your stomach didnât seem to make a difference to your wolf.
In the end, sheâd get what she wanted sooner rather than later.
One of the assistants announced the idols on set and it was time for action. Taeji was standing straight, smile blooming across his face, ready to meet ATEEZ. Heâd met them before, apparently, and liked them well enough.
âThey can follow instructions,â heâd said and you couldnât help but feel like it was a dig at you.
You straightened an off centered camera before looking up.
The smell hit you first. Amber and chocolate, and then vanilla hovering just under the surface. You found yourself inhaling deeper, trying to grab at it more because it felt so familiar.
The man who stood there commanded the room with presence alone. He was confident in how he held his head high, in the hands slipping out of his trousers pockets when he put them together to bow in greeting to Taeji. He was dressed in all black, reddish hair slicked back and thin glasses low on his pretty nose.
Your omega shifted and froze. Alpha.
You choked on air.
It wasnât just one. You could see the blue haired alpha from earlier, saying something to a slender beta in a beige western military styled top and fabric falling from his slim waist. There was another beta, tall, messy hair with goggles sitting between them. A shorter alpha with cherry hair peaking out from underneath a bandana wrapped cap. A broad shoulder alpha in a shirt with too many buttons open and a smile too sweet for his harsh features. Two more alphas - one had his blond hair tucked carefully behind his ears, shoulder muscles moving distractingly as he entered, and the other with an intricately designed trench coat and these wide eyes that met yours as soon as he entered.
Because his alpha was reacting too, screaming the same thing your wolf was.
Mates, your omega rumbled, mine.
You caught yourself from closing the distance between yourself and them. You tensed, made yourself freeze and you noticed they had to do the same, catching themselves on stumbling feet.
âHongjoong-sshi,â Taeji greeted. âItâs so good to see you again!â
The first alpha tore his gaze away from you with some effort. âTaeji-sshi, itâs good to see you too. Thank you for supporting us again.â
âNonsense,â Taeji waved his hand, âyouâre my favourite subjects.â
There were some smiles, some murmurs of thanks. The broad shouldered alpha had to elbow the cherry haired one so he could tear his gaze away from you.
âShould we get started?â Taeji gestured. The set had been designed with reflections in mind, fake walls erected to make it seem like the subjects were trapped. It had some meaning, about how you are perceived by others and who you truly are - you knew Eunwoo had told you, happy to talk about the art of setting, but you couldnât remember right now.
âYour team,â one - the beta with the slim waist, who kept trying to look away but kept coming back to you - interjected quickly, âwe, um, should know their names too right? If theyâre going to help us?â
There were three of you supporting photography today. Seoah, Yijoon. Yours was the only name they repeated, the syllables wrapping around their tongues like it was a delicacy.
You wanted to ask theirs but you held back, just offered a low bow of greeting as would be expected and a murmur of hello.
You knew who ATEEZ were, had listened to a handful of their songs and enjoyed them but you werenât exactly a fan. You didnât know their names, couldnât have picked them out as a familiar group amongst other idol groups. You only learned their names now, when Yijoon called each member for their turn in front of the camera lens.
If there was one thing you could say about your mates, they were wonderfully professional. You could tell they were watching you while they waited, their eyes heavy on the back of your neck. You knew because you were looking at them too, eyes continuing to glimpse over your shoulder at them whenever you got the chance. In front of the camera though, when you were closer to them, you couldnât look away. Theyâd pose for the camera as instructed but every pause for Taeji to check the footage, it was like the real them came out.
Mingi - the first mate you met - acted like a puppy, a sweet excited smile crossing his face when you looked his way. He waved at you once and then ducked his head shyly. Wooyoung, the red head, kept trying to lock eyes with you, lips twitching upwards in the corner when he managed it. You could see Yeosangâs ears turning red when you catch him looking at you - he was trying not to make it obvious.Â
Each time, your omega preened, pranced around. She wanted to touch, to scent, to make your own sweetness mixed with their individual and pack scent - that was the vanilla, you realised, each of them carrying it under their skin.
You didnât though. You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough that you might have drawn blood, and focused on your job.
Hard to do though when Taeji asked you to step onto the stage.
You jerked. âWhat?â
He narrowed his eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. âAdjust the pose,â he ordered.
Your eyes flickered to San, who was looking at you with uncertain wide eyes. It was strange how much smaller he looked now, shrinking under the expectation.Â
As the assistants, the concept and artistic vision of the photographer had been hammered into you. You knew what Taeji wanted, how he wanted the artist presented, how he wanted the clothes to sit. Any other job, youâd have done it with a smile.
But this wasnât just any model. This was your mate.
The first physical touch of a mate was supposed to be intense. Your friend, Hajong, had sighed dreamily and said it was like electricity, like the world righting itself. Hajong was prone to exaggerations you knew but something told you she was being honest about this. The movies always made it seem that way anyway.Â
You werenât sure if you were ready to have that life changing connection while your irritable boss was breathing down your neck about angles.
But you couldnât refuse.
So you bowed in acceptance and closed the distance, each footfall matching with your heartbeat.
San looked as overwhelmed as you felt. The mask of professionalism slipped just so as you got closer. You sniffed. You could smell him better this close - orange and lemon, the citrus tinge blooming when you stopped in front of him.
You were lucky your voice didnât tremble when you asked, âMay I?â
San nodded his head with an unexpected speed. âI,â his voice broke and he stopped to clear it, âYes, itâs fine.â
You adjusted his legs first, warm skin covered by the soft fabric of his slacks. Then his shoulders, a gentle pressure making him turn as you wished. You straightened his collar where it had curled at the movement. The whole time, he kept his gaze on you, lips parted slightly, eyebrows furrowed as he concentrated. Under his shirt, you felt the uptick of his heartbeat.
Taeji took a trail shot and hummed in begrudging acceptance. âGood, head a little up.â
San did as instructed. âLike this?â
âAlmost,â Taeji pondered before he said your name again, âHelp him.â
Sanâs gaze slid back to you, darker now, intense with anticipation. Neither of you could avoid skin on skin contact now. You looked up at him, noticed that he was just a little taller than you and this close, you could see how pretty his eyelashes framed his eyes.Â
You swallowed around the tightness in your throat. He copied you.
At first, nothing happened. You touched your fingertips to his jaw and guided it up. San moved with you so easily, no resistance. For a moment, you thought maybe nothing would happen. An exaggeration of romantic movies or the build up of tension maybe.
Then your omega howled.
Sanâs eyes flashed gold, beautiful and overwhelming. You knew yours must do the same with how your wolf was beginning to claw at you. The citrus scent got sweeter as if to wrap itself around you. Sanâs nostrils flared as he breathed you in.
Mate, mate, mate.
Your vision seemed clearer, hyperfocused on the pretty shape of his jaw, on the curve of his bottom lip and broadness of his shoulders. And where you touched him felt as if youâd pressed to a heating up stove top - a steady increase of heat that bloomed from finger tips, to knuckles, to wrist to the rest of your body. Even your ears felt like they were thrumming.
San inhaled sharply. You answered in kind.
Behind you, Taeji said, âPerfect. Keep that stance.â
The moment shattered. You dropped your hand and scurried back, out of line with the camera lens. You kept your head down, refused to look up, even though you knew San was still looking at you, even though you knew the rest of ATEEZ - his pack, your mates - were staring too.
Your omega was delighted, bumped her head against your nervous system. You ignored her, even as goosebumps broke out on your skin, even as your clothes felt like they were too much on your skin, even as the cameras felt too heavy in your grip. You felt oversensitive, offkilter. Not electricity but like youâd been shocked by lightning.
You wondered if San felt the same because as soon as Yijoon called for the next member, he was stumbling off, jacket sliding off his shoulders like he couldnât get it off fast enough.
At the end of the shoot, Hongjoong led the pack around the room to thank everyone. Your nerves raised the closer they got, throat dry, cheeks red. When he was finally in front of you, he hesitated to touch you, eyes fluttering between want and uncertainty. Maybe it was obvious in your face because in the end, to your relief, he bowed.
âThank you for your help today,â he offered.
Your own returning bow was shaky. âYouâre welcome, Hongjoong-sshi.â His name felt heavy on your tongue and even with the formality attached, a smile blossomed on his pretty face. He glanced around you for a moment, made sure no one was looking too closely.
âWe should talk,â he said quietly.
You glanced at the line of wolves behind him and back again. âAll of us?â
Hongjoong hummed in consideration. âAt some point,â he said, âbut it doesnât have to be now. Just talk to me.â
You nodded. Somehow that made you feel more relieved. You werenât sure if you could face them all, not right now, not while your skin still felt like it was on fire. âThereâs a coffee shop on the corner,â you offered.
You werenât sure whether idols could just go and sit in cafes and honestly, you werenât sure if you wanted to have this conversation in a public place, but it seemed almost safer to do so. If you were alone in a room together, you didnât know what they would expect, or what your omega would beg you to do.
âWhen shooting wraps?â Hongjoong suggested. His fingers flexed.
Soon. So soon, but you didnât think waiting would make it any easier. âOkay,â you agreed.
When they left, to remove the layers of make up and wardrobe, they kept turning back to look at you. San looked at you until the last moment he could, nudged in the right direction by Seonghwa. Wooyoung winked at you. Yunho bowed shyly. Jongho offered you a smile, small and sweet, like he was trying to comfort you.
You couldnât take your eyes off them in turn, even if you wanted to. Your omega whined at the distance, at their scent getting further away. You only jerked from your thoughts when Seoah poked your shoulder, a teasing smile on her face. She was younger than you, incredibly kind from what you knew and now, she looked positively radiant.
âTheyâre ridiculously attractive right?â she whispered teasingly.
She didn't know that those words would make your wolf snarl possessively.Â
My mates.
Jealous tightened in your gut, tightened the corners of your face, before you could fight it off. You made yourself laugh and hoped it wasnât too obviously forced.Â
-
Seonghwa had been on edge since he saw you, behind the shoulder of their photographer, pretty eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. It had been so hard to stay professional, to remember that they were working, with the sweet scent of melted sugar floating in the air, enticing him closer. He knew it was the same with the others, probably worse for his alphas, instincts tugging at them so strongly.
For a beta, his wolf had always been calm. Heâd snap and fight with the others when time occurred, could play and jump and howl, but Seonghwa was a peacekeeper at heart, quick to notice and soothe the pain of those he loved. The desire to touch and scent was so strong that the fact he couldnât, not with you, not yet, had his wolf scratching in discomfort. It made him feel stiff and irritable but then he knew the others did too.
When Hongjoong had told them that you didnât want to meet them all at once - understandable, he reasoned - his pack had exploded as they tried to determine who should come. They all wanted to. The only person who stayed quiet was San, shoulders hunched, head down, as he protested a very public first touch. Yunho had a grip on the alphaâs neck, comforting.
In the end, Hongjoong had decided it should just be Seonghwa and him, the two oldest, the head beta and head alpha. Wooyoung had objected loudly. Mingi had frowned.
âI need calm, she needs calm,â Hongjoong emphasised, âcould any of you give her that right now?â
That swallowed any complaints.
The coffee bar at the end of the road was small, one of those cafes that popped up out of nowhere and somehow became part of the community. There was one barista, who looked like he couldnât care less about what was happening. Heâd only given them a once over in their hats and face masks, before handing over their order and retracting to the back of the bar.
Seonghwa picked an iced caramel latte for you. It smelt right.
When youâd entered, already flushed from the sticky heat outside, you had smiled when he pushed it towards you. Youâd thanked him so sweetly, ducking your head and letting a strand of hair fall from behind your shoulder. He wanted to reach out and brush it behind your ear, an instinctive feeling that he had to grip the front of his trousers to avoid doing.
Beside him, Hongjoong was tense. Nervous, Seonghwa knew. His head alpha bounced his leg uncertainly, laid his hands at the edge of the table and chewed on the end of his straw before you got here. Now in front of them, he couldnât look away.
âDo you...â Hongjoong licked his bottom lip, âyou work for Taeji-sshi?â
You hummed. âOnly for the last few months.â
Seonghwa scrambled to find out more. âYou want to be a photographer?â
âYeah, I...I think you can capture a lot from behind a camera lens,â you explained softly. Seonghwa could have listened to you talk about art and cameras for hours, but you cleared your throat and sat up straighter. He could smell the anxiety making your scent bitter. âYou donât actually want to talk to me about this.â
He did, he really did, but he got what you meant.
So did Hongjoong.
âOmega,â he said it like an announcement, eyes flickering from gold to his usual brown.Â
It was breathtaking how your eyes matched his. âAlpha,â you looked at him, âBeta.â
âI didnât expect...I mean, of all the places and times...â
âDefinitely not the best,â you agreed, âmaybe the moon is laughing at us.â Seonghwa thought he didnât care if she was, if it brought you to them.
âIt was hard to focus,â he admitted, âbut in a good way.â
âA good way,â you repeated the words quietly, like you didnât believe them. You raised your voice to ask, âis San okay?â
âOverwhelmed but okay,â Hongjoong answered. âAre you?â
âOverwhelmed but okay,â you parroted back. Your fingers curled and uncurled around the mug. The same hand youâd touch the younger alpha with. Seonghwa wanted to reach across and hold it, to slide his fingers between yours but he knew that wouldnât help.
âNext time, itâll be better for you,â Hongjoong promised. âPrivacy, scenting - anything to make you more comfortable.â
For some reason, that made your face crease more, bottom lip sticking out, glance sliding around the room but not quite making eye contact with them. âHongjoong-sshi,â you said and the formality made them still. âSeonghwa-sshi. I...donât think there should be a next time.â
Seonghwaâs chest tightened, throat closing in as it became harder to breathe. His wolf dropped low and whimpered. The look you pinned them with was so heartbreakingly sure, even as your voice trembled and your words carved his soul into pieces.Â
âI donât think I can be your omega.â
--------------------------------------
a/n: please reblog and comment your thoughts! im excited to know what you think! (also if you want to be tagged in the next part, let me know!)
pairing: hockey captain!mingi x figure skater!reader
warnings: competitive rivalry, university au, slow burn romance, emotional vulnerability, academic stress (scholarship pressure), banter/teasing, protective confrontation, minor harassment/catcalling (addressed immediately), mild sports related injury, fluff with tension
small note: read icebreaker for the fourth time and decided to write my own lil fluffy spin on this trope<3
word count: 6.6k
ââââ
The rink was never this quiet during the day.
By evening, the university teams had cleared out, leaving behind only the faint smell of rubber and sharpened blades. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off freshly resurfaced ice like polished glass. Cold air pressed against bare skin, sharp and clean and isolating.
You preferred it like this.
No coaches yelling.
No teammates whispering.
No eyes judging the height of your jumps or the tightness of your spins.
Just you. And the ice.
You pushed off from the boards, blades biting in with a familiar scrape. The first glide always felt like stepping into another world. The outside edge curved smoothly beneath you as you gathered speed, arms extending, breath controlled.
Triple lutz.
Landing precise.
You exhaled through the tension in your shoulders. Again.
You reset at center ice, running the opening of your program. The music played softly from your phone speaker resting on the bench â a temporary solution until the next competition. You moved through the choreography without hesitation, each movement calculated, deliberate.
This invitational wouldnât be nationals, but it mattered.
You were ranked first in collegiate figure skating for a reason. Staying there required discipline.
Focus.
Control.
You launched into a spin, pulling tight, ice dust kicking up around your bladesâ
And thenâ
A sharp impact at your shoulder.
Your balance faltered. You caught yourself before falling, blades scraping harshly across the ice.
âWhat theââ
âYou werenât watching.â
The voice was low. Calm. Annoyingly unbothered.
You turned.
Towering a few feet away stood the last person you expected to see on your half of the rink.
Song Mingi.
University hockey captain. Nationally ranked. Infuriatingly confident.
Helmet tucked under one arm. Stick resting against his shoulder. Dark hair damp from exertion like heâd been skating hard already.
âYouâre on the wrong side,â you said flatly.
He arched a brow. âThereâs a line painted down the middle?â
You gestured with your chin. âThereâs common sense.â
A corner of his mouth lifted.
âIâve got practice.â
âSo do I.â
He glanced around the empty rink, unimpressed. âLooks empty to me.â
âIt wasnât.â
The silence stretched.
Cold air. Sharpened blades. Two competitors refusing to blink first.
He shifted his weight, skates carving a shallow groove into the ice. âFine. Half and half.â
You crossed your arms. âHalf.â
He pushed off first, skating backward smoothly to the opposite side. Hockey strides were powerful, aggressive, fast bursts of speed.
Show-off.
You returned to center ice, restarting your music. The opening notes filled the quiet again.
But this time you could feel him.
The scrape of his stops. The impact of pucks against boards. The way his movement disrupted the stillness. You refused to look until the music faded. You skated to the edge to resetâ
And he was standing still.
Watching.
Not casually.
Not distracted.
Watching like heâd forgotten what he was doing.
You raised a brow. âYouâre not practicing.â
He blinked once, like surfacing. âYou almost fell earlier.â
âYou almost ran into me.â
âWouldnât have if you werenât spinning in the middle.â
âI was here first.â
âYou donât own the ice.â
You stepped closer, stopping just a few feet from him. Close enough to see the faint flush on his cheeks from the cold. Close enough to notice that for someone known for cocky interviews and effortless charmâ
He looked slightly off-balance.
âRace,â you said.
His eyes narrowed. âWhat?â
âFirst one to the opposite end wins.â
A slow grin spread across his face. âYou think youâre faster?â
âI think youâre loud.â
He laughed once under his breath. âFine.â
You both positioned yourselves at center.
Three.
Two.
Oneâ
You didnât go straight.
Instead, you pushed off and carved a tight circle around him first, blades slicing in precise arcs. He turned instinctively, thrown off for half a second.
That half second was enough.
You shot forward, edges clean, body angled low. He reacted quicklyâhockey stride powerful and longâbut you already had momentum.
The boards rushed closer. You tapped them first. Clean. You turned just as he skidded in a split second after you.
Silence.
Then you smiled.
âCurves,â you said lightly. âTry them sometime.â
For the first time since youâd known of himâ
He looked flustered. A faint crease between his brows. A breath caught halfway.
âThat didnât count,â he muttered.
âIt absolutely did.â
You skated backward slowly. âCareful, captain. Donât want to forget how to compete.â
His gaze followed you.
Sharp.
Different.
Interested.
For a moment, the earlier irritation had dissolved into something else. Something warmer and less territorial.
âCome to practice tomorrow,â he said suddenly.
You paused.
âWhat?â
He shrugged like it was nothing. âYou can watch real speed.â
âYou just lost.â
âDoesnât mean hockey isnât better.â
You tilted your head. âConfident.â
âAlways.â
There was something underneath it, though. Not arrogance.
A challenge.
You pretended to consider. âWhat time?â
âSix.â
You pushed off toward the exit. âIf Iâm not busy.â
As you stepped off the ice, you felt his eyes on you again.
And this timeâ
You didnât hate it.
âââ
The rink was unrecognizable at six.
Music thumped through overhead speakers. Sticks clattered against the boards. Teammates shouted over each other while stretching along the glass. The sharp scent of rubber and sweat replaced last nightâs quiet stillness.
This was his domain.
And Song Mingi thrived in it.
He moved differently during team practiceâlooser, louder, commanding. His voice carried across the ice as he barked instructions, laughed at a rookieâs missed pass, tapped helmets in greeting.
Top-ranked collegiate player in the country.
Untouchable.
Exceptâ
He kept glancing toward the stands.
Empty.
He told himself it didnât matter and you probably werenât coming.
Why would you?
Figure skaters didnât sit in loud, chaotic arenas. They performed in silence and spotlight.
He pushed off harder during drills, carving aggressive stops into the ice. Puck control sharp. Movements precise. He didnât need an audience. He didnâtâ
The arena doors creaked open.
His head snapped up before he could stop himself.
You stepped inside, bundled in a long coat, hands tucked into your sleeves. You scanned the rink like you werenât searching for someone specific. But then your eyes found him.
And held.
He didnât realize heâd slowed until a teammate nearly collided into him.
âCaptain, focus,â someone laughed.
He ignored them. Instead, he skated straight to the boards beneath where you stood. Helmet still on. Gloves still laced tight.
âYou came.â
It came out quieter than he meant it to.
You leaned on the railing. âYou asked.â
He tilted his head slightly. âDidnât think you would.â
âYou think Iâm all talk?â
A small smirk tugged at his mouth. âYesterday? Maybe.â
You rolled your eyes. âShouldnât you be practicing?â
His team shouted his name from center ice. He didnât look away from you.
âYou staying?â
âFor a bit.â
Something almost invisible flickered across his face.
Then he pushed off backward, skating toward his teamâthough he looked over his shoulder once more before turning fully away.
â
Practice was brutal.
Full-contact drills. Speed runs. Scrimmage rotations. Usually he loved it. Today, every clean shot toward goal felt measured. And every time the puck left his stickâ
His eyes flicked to the stands.
You werenât reacting dramatically. You werenât clapping loudly.
But you were watching intently as if you were studying footwork. Angles. Timing. It shouldnât have mattered. But when he scored during scrimmageâhe didnât celebrate with his team first. He looked up at you and you lifted one brow.
Impressed.
That was enough.
Midway through practice, the figure skating team filtered in for their own session on the adjacent rink space. A few of the skater-cheerleaders leaned over the boards, giggling when they noticed him.
âCaptain Mingi!â one called sweetly. âBig game tomorrow?â
He skated closer automaticallyâhabit.
âAlways.â
They leaned in farther. âYou better score for us.â
Normally, he wouldâve flashed a grin. Maybe winked and tossed back something smooth. Instead he glanced toward the stands.
You were watching. Not jealous. Not upset. Just⊠observing. And for the first timeâ
The flirting felt loud. Forced.
He looked back at the girls briefly. âGot practice.â
Then he pushed off before they could respond.
His teammate nearly choked. âYou just ignored them.â
âFocus,â he muttered.
But it wasnât the game he was thinking about.
It was the way you had crossed your legs casually in the stands. The way your chin rested in your palm as you tracked his movement. The way your expression shifted when he accelerated.
You understood speed.
That realization hit differently.
At the end of practice, sweat cooled under his gear. Teammates peeled off toward the locker room in a wave of noise and chatter.
He didnât follow immediately.
Instead, he skated back to the boards.
âYou stayed.â
You shrugged. âYouâre not terrible.â
He scoffed lightly. âHigh praise.â
âYou rely on power too much.â
His eyes narrowed playfully. âAnd you rely on curves.â
âThey work.â
âUntil they donât.â
You leaned forward slightly. âBig game tomorrow?â
âNational rankings.â
âPressure.â
He held your gaze. âYou coming?â
You hesitated just long enough to make him unsure.
âMaybe.â
He nodded once.
That maybe felt heavier than a yes.
The next night, the arena was packed. Louder than practice. Crowded. Electric. And in the middle of warmupsâ
He spotted you.
Same section as yesterday. Earlier this time. Waiting. Something in his chest tightenedânot nerves. Not fear.
Motivation.
When the puck dropped, he played like heâd been waiting for this moment specifically.
Harder hits.
Sharper passes.
Cleaner shots.
He scored first period. He didnât celebrate long, just glanced up. You were on your feet this time.
Clapping.
By the third period, the game was neck-and-neck. Overtime loomed. His coach barked instructions. Crowd roaring. Ice vibrating under blades. And all he could think wasâ
Sheâs watching.
Final minutes.
Breakaway. He stole the puck clean. Accelerated. The world narrowed to the goalie and the net. He faked leftâshot rightâ
Goal.
The arena erupted. Teammates tackled him against the boards. But through the chaos, his eyes searched and found you.
Smiling.
After the win, the team flooded toward post-game interviews and celebration plans.
âParty at the usual!â someone shouted.
He pulled off his helmet, breath fogging in the cold air.
âLater,â he said.
And skated straight for the exit.
You were halfway down the arena steps when he caught up. Still in partial gear. Hair damp. Cheeks flushed.
âYou saw that, right?â
You pretended to think. âWhich part?â
He stared at you.
âThe winning goal.â
âOh,â you said lightly. âYeah. That was decent.â
He let out a breath of disbelief. âDecent?â
You started walking toward campus housing. He fell into step beside you.
âI made sure we won,â he said after a moment.
âFor the rankings?â
He glanced sideways. âBecause you were watching.â
The honesty slipped out before he could filter it. You slowed slightly.
âThat so?â
He recovered quickly, shrugging. âHad to prove hockeyâs better.â
There it was again. The deflection.
You smiled faintly. âWhatever helps you sleep at night, captain.â
Cold air wrapped around both of you as you reached your dorm building. He stopped just short of the entrance. A beat of silence. Thenâ
âCan I get your number?â
No smirk or joke. Just direct. You studied him for a moment longer than necessary.
âWhy?â
He inhaled slowly. âSo you donât miss the next win.â A pause. âAnd maybe so I donât miss yours.â
That part came softer.
You handed him your phone. âDonât make me regret it.â
He typed quickly, handing it back.
âWouldnât dream of it.â
But as you stepped insideâhe stood there for a second longer than he needed to. Because something had shifted.
And he knew it.
âââ
TypingâŠ
You didnât text him first.
Obviously.
He had asked for your number. That meant he had to initiate. There were rules to these thingsâeven if neither of you had said them out loud.
You made it exactly twenty-three minutes after getting back to your dorm before your phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
Donât trip on the ice tomorrow. Would be embarrassing after watching me win.
You stared at it. Smirked and saved the contact as:
Captain Ego đ
You replied.
You:
Pretty sure you almost fell during warmups.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Captain Ego đ:
Strategic slide.
You:
Sure.
Captain Ego đ:
Youâre welcome, by the way.
You:
For what?
Captain Ego đ:
Giving you something exciting to watch.
You actually laughed.
You:
Iâve seen better.
The typing bubble disappeared, came back then disappeared again.
Captain Ego đ:
You stayed the whole game.
There it was. Underneath all of the teasing, there was a slight hint of⊠care?
You:
You asked.
A minute passed.
Captain Ego đ:
Yeah. I did.
The tone shifted. Subtle. But real. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling.
You:
You ignored the cheerleaders.
Three full minutes this time.
Captain Ego đ:
Theyâre loud.
You:
Youâre loud.
Captain Ego đ:
Only when it matters.
You paused at that.
You:
And did it matter?
Captain Ego đ:
You tell me.
Your stomach did something inconvenient. You locked your phone then unlocked it again.
You:
Donât read into it.
Captain Ego đ:
Wasnât.
Liar.
ââ
The next few days fell into rhythm.
Morning classes. Afternoon practices. Late-night texts. It started competitive.
Captain Ego đ:
How many spins today?
You:
Enough to make you dizzy.
Captain Ego đ:
You already did that once.
You stared at that message longer than you should have.
You:
Still upset you lost?
Captain Ego đ:
Weâll rematch.
You:
Curves again?
Captain Ego đ:
Straight line. No tricks.
You:
Scared?
Captain Ego đ:
Of you? Never.
But the âneverâ sat heavier than it should have.
One night, after a particularly brutal practice, your legs were trembling as you collapsed onto your dorm bed.
Your phone buzzed.
Captain Ego đ:
You alive?
You:
Barely.
Captain Ego đ:
That bad?
You hesitated. Thenâ
You:
Coach changed my layout. Added another combo.
Almost immediatelyâ
Captain Ego đ:
Thatâs insane.
You blinked.
You:
You know what that means?
Captain Ego đ:
More rotations. Less margin for error.
You sat up.
You:
Since when do you know that?
Captain Ego đ:
Since I watched.
The room felt quieter suddenly.
You:
Itâs different from hockey.
Captain Ego đ:
Yeah.
A pause.
Captain Ego đ:
Youâre out there alone.
Your breath caught. No one ever said that. No one outside skating really understood that.
You:
Youâre alone during a breakaway.
Captain Ego đ:
Yeah.
Another pause.
Captain Ego đ:
But Iâve got teammates if I mess up.
You swallowed.
You:
I donât.
Typing. Stopped. Then:
Captain Ego đ:
You wonât.
Your heart stuttered.
You:
That doesnât even make sense.
Captain Ego đ:
It will.
You didnât respond for a long time. He didnât send another message. But he stayed online.
ââ
The first accidental goodnight happened three nights later.
You:
Youâre practicing tomorrow?
Captain Ego đ:
Yeah. 6.
You:
I might be there earlier.
Captain Ego đ:
I know.
You:
How?
Captain Ego đ:
You always are.
You smiled.
You:
Donât be late.
Captain Ego đ:
Iâm never late.
You:
You were when we first shared the rink.
Captain Ego đ:
You were spinning in the middle.
You:
Excuses.
Captain Ego đ:
Go to sleep.
You blinked at that.
You:
Bossy.
Captain Ego đ:
You have practice tomorrow
You:
How do you know my schedule?
Three dots.
Captain Ego đ:
Patterns.
You stared at the screen.
Captain Ego đ:
Goodnight.
You hesitated. Then:
You:
Goodnight, captain.
He didnât reply.
But he heart-reacted the message.
And that tiny notification did more damage than anything else.
ââ
The next evening at the rink felt different. Not hostile. Not territorial. Just charged. You stepped onto the ice first this time. He arrived ten minutes later. But instead of skating to his sideâ
He stopped at center.
âYou didnât fall,â he said.
âYou didnât either.â
A beat. Thenâ
âRace?â he asked.
You tilted your head.
âNo tricks.â
You smirked. âStraight line.â
He extended a gloved hand toward the ice between you.
âDeal.â
You looked at it and then shook. And the contactâbrief through layers of fabricâfelt louder than any cheer in an arena.
ââ
You didnât mean to invite him.
It slipped out between stretches and breath control.
You were both at the rink againâseparate halves, same rhythm. The quiet evening slot had become unofficially shared territory now. No arguments. No negotiations.
Just an unspoken understanding.
You finished a run-through of your new layout, landing the final combination with a sharp exhale. Your thighs burned. Calves cramped.
He tapped the boards once with his stick from across the ice.
âClean.â
You tried not to smile. âMostly.â
He skated closer, stopping just short of your half. âThat second rotation was tight.â
You blinked. âYou noticed?â
âI watch.â
The simplicity of it made your pulse trip. You looked down at your blades for a second, then back up.
âIâve got a competition Saturday.â
He leaned slightly on his stick. âNationals?â
âInvitational. Smaller. Still ranked.â A pause. You werenât sure why you addedâ
âYou can come. If you want.â
The second the words left your mouth, you felt exposed. He didnât answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted his grip on his stick, like he was considering something important.
âWhat time?â
Your heart betrayed you.
âThree.â
He nodded once. âSend me the details.â
Like it wasnât a big deal and he hadnât just rearranged your entire nervous system.
Saturday felt different.
This rink wasnât your universityâs. It was quieter. Polished. Professional.
Judges lined up behind long tables. Families whispered in the stands. Skaters warmed up in controlled, silent patterns across the ice.
You stood near the boards, adjusting your gloves.
You hadnât seen him yet and you told yourself that was fine. You didnât need him here. Youâd competed alone your entire career. Your name was announced and as you stepped onto the ice, the world narrowed.
Music started.
Opening glideâstrong.
First jumpâclean landing.
Applause. You blocked everything else out. Untilâ
âTHATâS IT!â
Your foot almost faltered. You knew that voice. You refused to look.
Combination spinâtight.
âCOME ON!â
Someone shushed loudly.
You bit back a smile mid-spin. Of course he wouldnât know the volume etiquette. Of course he wouldnât.
Triple toe loopâ
Landed.
âYES!â
The sound echoed. Judges glanced up.
You pushed into your step sequence, breath controlled despite the laughter threatening to break your focus. This was absurd. And somehowâ
Comforting.
You finished your final pose, chest rising sharply, music fading into silence. There was a half-second pause before applause began. And thenâ
He practically launched up, clapping above his head.
âLETâS GO!â
A few people turned.
You exhaled slowly, skating off the ice with your composure barely intact.
When scores were announced, you stood with the other competitors. Third place. Second. Thenâ
âFirst placeâŠâ
You.
The rush hit like cold water. You stepped onto the podium and he was already on his feet again. Clapping. Proud. Not cocky. Not competitive.
Just proud.
You didnât see him immediately after. Only until you stepped off the podium.
There he was.
Standing slightly awkwardly near the exit holding flowersâa full bouquet of red and white roses. You stopped in front of him.
âYouâre loud,â you said.
He glanced around sheepishly. âThey kept shushing me.â
âItâs figure skating.â
âI noticed.â
You eyed the bouquet. âThose for someone else?â
He extended them toward you.
âYou were insane out there.â
The words were firm. You took the flowers slowly.
âYou thought hockey was better.â
He shifted his weight. âStill do.â You raised a brow. He turned to look at you. âBut that?â he gestured vaguely toward the ice. âThatâs different.â
Something softened in your chest.
âYou embarrassed me.â
He smirked faintly. âYou liked it.â
You didnât deny it.
As you walked toward the exit together, he added quietlyâ âThat combo your coach added? You nailed it.â
You stopped mid-step.
âHow did youââ
âYou told me.â
Your throat tightened slightly. You forgot.
âI pay attention.â
The weight of that sat between you.
Outside, the air was colder than usual. He walked beside you without teasing or trying to win this time.
âI didnât think youâd actually come,â you admitted.
He looked down at you, almost offended. âYou asked.â Then softerâ
âOf course I came.â
And this time? He didnât ruin it with a joke.
ââ
The library was the last place you expected to see him.
Two days later, you were tucked into your usual corner tableâhighlighters scattered, laptop open, headphones resting loosely around your neck.
You were halfway through annotating a dense chapter when a familiar voice mutteredâ
âYouâve got to be kidding me.â
You looked up and nearly laughed.
There he was.
Hockey captain. Nationally ranked. Intimidating on ice. Staring at a calculus textbook like it had a portal to an alien world sitting between the pages.
âDid the numbers insult you?â you asked calmly. His head snapped up.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âItâs a libraryâŠâ
He glanced around like heâd forgotten that was its primary function.
You gestured to the seat across from you. âWhatâs wrong?â
He hesitatedâwhich told you immediately it was something real. He sat down heavily.
âMidterm next week.â
âAnd?â
âAnd if I fail this class, I lose my academic eligibility.â
You straightened slightly.
âYour scholarship?â
He didnât look at you.
âYeah.â
The air shifted. Youâd never seen him look uncertain. On the ice, he was all command and confidence. Here he looked⊠young.
âYouâre struggling?â
He dragged a hand down his face. âI get the concepts in theory. But when I try the problems, everything blends together.â
You leaned across the table, peering at the page.
âYouâre overthinking it.â
His brow furrowed. âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
He huffed. âYou havenât evenââ
You slid the book toward you. âShow me what you did.â
He watched as you scanned the work.
âYou skipped a step here.â
âThat stepâs obvious.â
âNot in calculus, itâs not.â
You grabbed a scrap sheet of paper and rewrote the equation cleanly.
âLook. Break it down. One move at a time.â
He leaned closer without realizing it, close enough that you could feel the warmth from his shoulder through your sweater. You walked him through the logic slowly.
He followed.
âYouâre good at this,â he muttered.
âIâm good at patterns.â
He glanced at you sideways. âLike curves?â
You smirked. âExactly like curves.â
For the first time since sitting down he smiled properly, relieved.
Two hours passed.
You didnât notice until the library lights dimmed slightly. He solved the last problem on his own this time. You watched quietly as he wrote each step carefully. No skipping or rushing. When he finished, he looked up.
âWell?â
You checked it. Then looked at him.
âPerfect.â
He blinked.
âActually?â
âActually.â
He leaned back in his chair like someone had just lifted weight off his shoulders.
âGuess Iâm better when youâre here,â he said under his breath. Your heart stilled.
âWhat?â
He cleared his throat. âI said I guess I wasnât studying right before.â
Coward.
You let it go.
âFor the record,â you said, packing up your notes, âif you fail after this, Iâm revoking rink privileges.â
He scoffed. âYou canât.â
âWatch me.â
He stood when you did.
âYouâll come to the test review tomorrow?â
You pretended to consider.
âMaybe.â
He rolled his eyes lightly.
âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd yet,â you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder, âyou keep asking for help.â
He stepped closerâjust slightly.
âYeah,â he said quietly. âI do.â
ââ
The next evening at the rink felt different again.
You were midway through footwork drills when you heard him shout from the entranceâ
âI PASSED!â
Your blade caught mid-glide.
He skated toward you at full speed, stopping inches away.
âWith flying colors,â he added, breath fogging between you. âNinety-two.â
You blinked.
âNinety-two?â
âTold you Iâm not bad at this.â
âYou told me you were failing.â
âI was dramatic.â
You shook your head, fighting a smile.
âI helped.â
He looked at you steadily.
âI know.â
A beat.
Then, again, âGuess Iâm better when youâre here.â This timeâhe didnât take it back.
And the ice between you felt a little less divided than before.
âââ
You hated when he was late.
Not because you were waiting. You werenât.
Obviously.
But the rhythm had become familiar. You took the ice first. Ten minutes later, heâd walk in. Tap the boards once like a silent check-in. Tonightâ
No tap.
No loud entrance.
Just you.
The rink was mostly empty except for a few hockey players finishing drills on the opposite half. You recognized one of them vaguely â tall, broad, never a starter.
You ignored him.
You reset at center ice, pushing into your step sequence. Edges clean. Arms sharp. The music from your phone echoed softly in the otherwise quiet space.
You didnât notice the first whistle. But you heard the second.
âYo!â
You slowed slightly, glancing up.
One of the hockey players had leaned against the boards, helmet off.
âYou skate like that for everyone?â
You straightened. Polite. Neutral.
âIâm practicing.â
He grinned lazily. âYeah? Private show?â
You forced a tight smile and returned to your starting position.
âNot interested.â
He laughed like that was funny.
âCâmon. Donât be like that.â
You pushed into another glide, deliberately ignoring him. It shouldâve ended there.
It didnât.
The scrape of skates cut closer prompting you to stop mid-turn.
He had crossed the painted center line. Technically allowed but still unwelcome.
âYou donât have to be so serious,â he said, skating a slow circle around you. âWe share the rink.â
You stepped back slightly. âStay on your side.â
âRelax. I just want to talk to you. Youâre also my type.â
âIâm not.â
He skated closer. Too close.
âCaptainâs not here tonight,â he added casually. âThought maybe youâd want better company.â
Your jaw tightened. You moved toward the boards to create distance.
âI said Iâm not interested.â
He reached out like he might grab your wristâ
And a sharp stop sliced the ice between you.
âBack up.â
The voice was low.
You didnât have to turn to know.
Mingi stood between you and his teammate.
Not yelling.
Not dramatic.
Just solid.
Blocking.
The teammate scoffed. âRelax, captain. Weâre just getting to know each other.â
âShe said no.â
Three words.
Flat.
Clear.
The teammate shrugged. âDidnât sound that serious.â
Mingiâs shoulders squared slightly.
âGet off her side of the rink.â
The air felt charged.
The teammate laughed under his breath. âSince when do you care?â
Mingi didnât blink.
âSince now.â
Silence stretched.
The teammateâs expression shiftedâsomething calculating flickering there.
âDidnât know she was yours.â
Your heart stuttered when you saw Mingiâs jaw flex.
âSheâs not a thing to claim,â he said evenly. âAnd you donât speak to her like that again. Or we can go have a chat with Coach about what happens to players who get caught up in harassment cases.â
The tone wasnât loud but it carried.
The teammate rolled his eyes and pushed off toward the opposite half of the rink.
âWhatever.â
Mingi didnât move until the distance was clear.
Then he turned to you and for the first time since youâd known himâ
He didnât look teasing.
He looked angry.
âDid he touch you?â
âNo.â
âDid he say anything else?â
You shook your head. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair.
âI was late.â
âYou donât control the rink,â you said softly.
His eyes snapped to yours.
âI control my team.â
A beat.
âAnd they donât cross lines.â
The weight of that sat heavy in your chest.
âYou didnât have toââ
âYes, I did.â
You blinked. He stepped a little closer, voice lowering.
âIf anyone makes you uncomfortable, you tell me.â
âI can handle myself.â
âI know.â
The way he said it wasnât dismissive. âI just donât want you to have to.â
The tension shifted to nothing territorial, just⊠carefully protective. You swallowed.
âYou looked terrifying.â
He huffed lightly. âGood.â
Silence settled between you, softer now. Thenâ
âYou were running late,â you said, trying to reset the atmosphere.
âTeam meeting. But I saw him skating over.â
Your heart skipped.
âYou were watching?â
âI always am.â
The words hit heavier than he probably intended. You turned slightly, adjusting your gloves to hide the warmth creeping up your neck.
âWell,â you said lightly, âyou interrupted my combination.â
He blinked. âYou landed it?â
âObviously.â
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
âRace?â
You looked at him.
âStraight line,â he added. You pushed off toward center ice.
âTry to keep up, captain.â
He followed.
But this timeâwhen your shoulders brushed mid-glideâneither of you pulled away too quickly.
âââ
The rink felt steadier again.
No crossed lines or whistles from the wrong side. Just the familiar scrape of blades and the quiet understanding that had grown between you.
You were both finishing up separate drills when he skated toward center instead of his half.
âYou busy Friday night?â he asked, adjusting his gloves.
You slowed to a stop. âDepends.â
âChampionship.â
National collegiate championship.
âYouâre already ranked first,â you said.
âDoesnât matter.â
His jaw clenched slightly. Not nerves exactly. But something close.
âYouâre going to win,â you told him.
He looked at you steadily.
âI play better when youâre there.â
There it was again. Not a joke, a fact. The air between you warmed despite the cold.
âYou want me to come?â you asked softly.
He didnât hesitate.
âYeah.â
Your answer came before you could overthink it.
âIâll be there.â
The tension in his shoulders loosened almost instantly.
âGood.â
He pulled his phone out of his jacket. âIâll send you the ticket.â
You pulled yours out too, stepping closer so you could read the section number he was typing. Your shoulders brushed. Your screens almost touched.
He sent it.
Your phone buzzed. You opened the message and immediately froze. He leaned slightly, clearly trying not to look like he was looking. But he absolutely was. His brows pulled together.
âCaptain Ego?â he read aloud, deeply offended.
You locked your phone quickly. âIt fits.â
He stared at you. âEgo?â
âYou did introduce yourself by challenging my entire sport.â
âThatâs confidence.â
âThatâs ego.â
He pouted. Actually pouted.
âYou couldâve put something cool.â
âI did.â
âThat is not cool.â
You tilted your head. âWhat am I in your phone?â
He went suspiciously still.
âNothing.â
âNothing?â
âI justâhavenâtââ
âYou saved my number, didnât you?â
ââŠYes.â
âShow me.â
He hesitated. Which told you everything.
âYouâre being dramatic,â he scoffs.
âYouâre stalling.â
He sighed like this was deeply unfair, then turned his phone toward you. You leaned in and blinked.
Ice Angel âïž
You stared at it.
âAngel?â you repeated. His ears were red.
âIt was the first thing thatââ
âYou think Iâm an angel?â
âYou landed six rotations. Thatâs not human.â
You were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing.
âYou complained about my curves,â you countered.
âI was wrong.â
You looked up at him slowly. He was already looking at you. Too close. Too soft. You cleared your throat first, stepping back slightly.
âSo. Championship.â
He blinked like heâd forgotten.
âRight. Yeah.â
You tucked your phone away. âWhat time?â
âSeven.â
âBig crowd?â
âPacked.â
You nodded once. âIâll yell louder than the cheerleaders.â
A faint grin returned to his face. âPlease do.â
He started skating backward toward his side. Then paused.
âYouâll come to practice too, right?â
Your heart did something terribly painful again.
âBefore the game?â
âYeah.â
You pretended to think about it.
âMaybe.â
He rolled his eyes lightly.
âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â
âAct like you wonât.â
You smiled faintly. âIâll be there.â
He nodded once, satisfied.
Then turned and pushed off toward the exit. Halfway there, he glanced back. You were still watching him. And when he caught youâ
He didnât look away.
ââ
Practice the day of the championship was different.
Sharper.
Quieter.
Even the jokes from his teammates felt tighter around the edges.
You arrived ten minutes early, just like you said you would.
He noticed immediately.
Of course he did.
He was stretching near the boards when you stepped into the rink. His head lifted before you even called his name. The second he saw youâ
His shoulders dropped slightly like he could finally breathe.
You leaned against the glass. âYou look serious.â
âBig game.â
âYouâve had plenty of big games before.â
He skated over during a water break, helmet tucked under his arm.
âYeah.â
There was something else in his eyes. You studied him.
âYou okay?â
He nodded too fast. âFine.â
Liar.
He pushed off before you could question him further, running drills harder than usual. Faster stops. Cleaner passes. Precision that bordered on ruthless. But every few minutesâ
He looked up.
Just to make sure you were still there.
You stayed the entire practice. When it ended, he didnât come over immediately. His coach pulled him aside. Teammates gathered around. Strategy talk.
You started to gather your things, assuming youâd see him laterâ
Your phone buzzed.
Captain Ego đ:
Donât leave.
You paused. Then another message.
Captain Ego đ:
Meet me by section 112. Tunnel hallway.
Your pulse quickened. You texted back.
You:
Why?
Three dots.
Captain Ego đ:
Please.
That did it.
ââ
The stadium felt enormous without the crowd.
Echoes bounced down the concrete corridor near the tunnel entrance. The distant hum of prep crews and equipment managers filled the background.
You spotted him first.
Still in partial gear. Gloves off. Hair slightly damp from practice.
He looked different here.
Less captain.
More⊠just him.
âYouâre not supposed to wander,â you said lightly as you approached.
He gave a half-smile that didnât quite stick.
âI needed a minute.â
You stopped in front of him.
âWhatâs wrong?â
He looked at the floor.
Then at you.
And for the first time since youâd known himâhe seemed nervous.
âIâve played hockey my whole life,â he said slowly. âBig arenas. Loud crowds. Rankings on the line.â
You stayed quiet.
âIâve never felt like this before a game.â
Something unfamiliar inside of you tightened. âLike what?â
He hesitated. Thenâ
âNot scared of losing.â
A breath.
âScared of letting you down.â
The words hit you square in the chest.
You blinked.
âMingiââ
âI donât care about rankings tonight,â he admitted. âI just⊠I donât want you sitting there thinking Iâm not as good as you thought.â
Your heart softened in a way that almost hurt.
âYou think thatâs why I come?â He didnât answer. You stepped closer. âSo what if you lose?â
His jaw tightened.
âItâs the championship.â
âI know.â You reached for his hand without overthinking it. âYou could lose by ten goals,â you said quietly, âand I would still be there.â
He looked up at you slowly.
âYou didnât let me down when you struggled in calculus,â you continued. âYou didnât let me down when you lost that race.â
âI didnât lose that race.â
You gave him a look. He exhaled a soft laugh.
âYou donât let me down,â you said gently. âWin or lose.â
The tension in his expression eased slightly.
âYouâre ridiculous,â he said.
âYouâre dramatic.â
He shook his head faintly. âYouâre my lucky charm.â
You squeezed his hand once.
âYou donât need one.â
A long, quiet beat passed between you.
The distant sound of pre-game music testing through speakers vibrated faintly through the walls.
âTheyâre going to call you soon,â you said.
He nodded but didnât move. Insteadâhe leaned down and pressed his lips softly against yours, warm and careful. When he pulled back, his voice was steadier.
âStay where I can see you.â
Your breath caught.
âFront row?â
âAlways.â
Down the hallway, a staff member called out, âCaptain! Youâre up!â
The intro music thundered to life, bass shaking the corridor. Crowd noise began to swell as doors opened. He took a step backward toward the tunnel. Then paused, looked at you one more time and smiled. Not cocky. Not teasing.
Starstruck.
When he skated out onto the ice with his teamâlights flashing, crowd roaring, music blastingâhe didnât look at the scoreboard first.
He looked for you.
And when he found youâexactly where he askedâeverything else went quiet in his head. Not nervous anymore. Just focused.
Because for onceâhe knew exactly who he was playing for.
âââ
First period was brutal.
Fast. Aggressive. Physical. The opposing team was ranked just below themâhungry, relentless. Mingi played clean. Controlled. Smart.
But it was tied 1â1 by the end of the first.
During intermission, he didnât look at the scoreboard. He looked up at you. You mimed:
Breathe.
He smirked faintly.
Second period.
The hit came out of nowhere.
He was mid-stride, chasing a loose puck near the boards, when an opposing defenseman checked him hard into the glass.
The impact cracked loud enough for the crowd to gasp. You felt your stomach drop. He didnât get up immediately. For half a secondâ
Everything stopped.
He pushed himself to his knees, shook his head once, then stood.
The crowd erupted in relieved applause.
You didnât realize your hands were clenched until your fingers hurt.
He skated toward the bench slowly at first.
Then steadier.
He glanced up.
Found you.
Gave the smallest nod.
Iâm fine.
You nodded back but your heart was still racing.
Third period.
2â2.
Time bleeding down. The arena felt suffocating.
You could see it in his movements nowânot fear.
Pressure. Every pass mattered. Every missed opportunity echoed. And thenâ
You saw it.
The flicker of doubt.
He glanced toward the standsâtowards youâfor a split moment. Then you remembered your own competition. The silence before scores. The loneliness of being the only one on the ice.
So you stood and yelled at the top of your lungs.
âYOUâVE GOT THIS!â
Heads turned. You didnât care.
âPLAY YOUR GAME!â
He heard you. You knew he did. Because his posture shifted. Not reckless. Not desperate.
Focused.
Final minute.
Breakaway opportunity. He stole the puck clean from center ice. You felt your pulse in your throat. It was just him and the goalie.
Everything else blurred.
He accelerated.
You remembered his words in the tunnel.
Scared of letting you down.
You shook your head slightly.
He wouldnât.
He faked left.
The goalie bit.
He shifted rightâ
Shot.
The net snapped.
For half a heartbeatâ
Silence.
Then the red light flashed.
Goal.
The stadium detonated.
You screamed before you realized you were screaming. Teammates slammed into him, dragging him against the boards in celebration. But even buried under helmets and glovesâ
He turned his head and looked for you.
When he found youâ
You were crying, smiling, clapping so hard your hands stung.
He didnât look at the scoreboard or the crowd.
Just you.
After the trophy presentation, he broke away from the team celebrationâstill in gear, breathlessâand came straight toward the glass where you stood.
âYou saw that?â he asked, voice rough.
You laughed through tears. âBarely.â
He shook his head, adrenaline still buzzing through him.
âI wasnât thinking about the goalie.â
âNo?â
He leaned closer to the glass.
âI was thinking about you.â
Your breath caught.
âIn that tunnel,â he continued, voice lower now, steadier. âYou said I wouldnât let you down.â
âYou didnât.â
âI didnât score because I was lucky,â he said. âI scored because I stopped worrying about proving something.â
A pause.
âI just played.â
You swallowed.
âYou were incredible.â
He shook his head softly.
âIâm better when youâre here.â
There it was.
Not muttered or accidental.
Said clearly.
Sincerely.
The words settled between you like something fragile and real. You stepped closer to the glass.
âYou donât need me to be better,â you said softly.
âMaybe not.â He didnât look away. âBut I want you there anyway.â
The noise around you faded. The celebration. The music. The cameras. It didnât matter. Because in that momentâ
It was just the two of you and the ice between you.
Instead, a princess chooses him, a king condemns him, and a girl from another world is forced to become his companion on a suicide quest for three golden hairs from the Devil.
Tropes: Reluctant Hero, Forced Proximity, Strangers to Partners, Soft Boy x Brave Girl, Protective Male Lead, Fate vs Choice, Touch Her and Die energy, Ordinary Boy Becomes Legend
A/n: The Taglist is open for future stories.
Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Yunhos Masterlist
Intro | HJ | SH | YH | YS | SN | MG | WY | JH
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
This is Part 1
The woman discovered her door at dawn, when the city still yawned and stretched and gathered courage to wake.
She was returning from a night that had asked too much of her heart. The horizon blushed faintly, promising morning. She wanted only sleep, and perhaps the kindness of forgetting.
The door waited beside a bus stop bench. It did not belong there. Nothing about it belonged to the neat geometry of concrete sidewalks and glass storefronts. It stood upright without frame or hinge, planted into the pavement as if the earth had grown it overnight.
Dark wood. Deep grooves. Old scars that might have been left by claw or blade.
Three strands of gold threaded through the grain, catching the pale light.
She should have walked past it. Any sensible person would have.
Instead, she slowed. Then stopped.
Her reflection wavered faintly in the polished handle. Her mascara had smudged beneath her eyes. One heel was already threatening mutiny. A thin rip trailed along the seam of her coat from where she had snagged it on a broken fence hours earlier.
She looked exactly like someone who should go home. Yet the longer she stared, the more certain she became of one impossible thing.
The door was waiting. Not for someone. For her.
A breeze stirred the loose hair around her face. The city hummed softly behind her, buses sighing, distant traffic whispering awake.
Still the door did not move.
Did not creak. Did not explain itself.
Curiosity stepped forward before caution could catch it.
Her fingers brushed the wood. Warm.
Not sun warmed. Not surface warm. Alive warm.
A murmur slipped through her thoughts, soft as breath against skin.
Child of fortune, marked by flame.
Walk unafraid where demons claim.
Seek the gold none dare to keep.
And wake the secrets hell would sleep.
She jerked her hand back.
Her pulse stumbled.
The words had bloomed directly inside her mind.
A laugh nearly escaped her.
Sleep deprivation. Emotional overload. Possibly the lingering effects of cheap champagne.
Yes. That had to be it. She should leave. Immediately.
Yet her hand returned to the handle as if tugged by invisible thread.
The metal burned. Not painfully.
More like the shock of stepping into bathwater a degree too hot. Her breath caught, but she did not let go.
Something waited on the other side. She knew it with the bone deep certainty one rarely questions.
When the door opened, the scent reached her first.
Ash. Iron.
And beneath it, something ancient. Like rain striking stone that had not seen daylight in centuries.
Laughter echoed faintly from beyond the threshold. Not entirely human.
A smarter girl might have closed the door.
A wiser girl would have run.
She stepped through.
Cold struck first.
Not the familiar chill of early morning, but a damp, breathing cold that seeped instantly through her clothes.
Her heel sank into soil.
She blinked.
Gone was the sidewalk. Gone the bus stop. Gone the quiet city.
Trees towered overhead, their branches knitting together so tightly that dawn could barely reach the forest floor. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around her ankles.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
Her brain refused to translate what her eyes insisted upon seeing.
This is a dream, she decided.
That was the only explanation generous enough to preserve her sanity.
People did not step through mysterious doors and arrive in forests.
People especially did not do so after nights fueled by heartbreak and questionable life choices.
She turned quickly.
The door still stood behind her.
Relief loosened her shoulders.
See? Dream logic. Perfectly normal.
She grabbed the handle. It dissolved beneath her fingers.
Not shattered. Not vanished in a dramatic burst.
It simply unraveled, the wood thinning into threads of shadow that drifted upward and disappeared among the branches.
The gold strands were last to fade, glimmering stubbornly before melting into nothing.
Silence rushed in to fill the space. Her breath quickened.
No no no.
Her hands clawed at empty air. The door did not return.
Panic arrived in a clean, sharp wave. This was not a dream.
Dreams bent when you pushed them. Shifted when you doubted them.
The forest remained brutally unchanged.
Think. Think.
Standing still would not help. If there was a forest, there had to be people. Cabins. Roads. Something.
Civilization always found a way to intrude.
She started walking.
Within minutes, the forest punished her optimism. Roots rose like traps beneath the soil. Branches snagged her coat, her hair, once even her earring. Damp leaves surrendered into slick mud that coated her shoes. She fell the first time when her foot slid sideways on moss.
The second when a hidden dip swallowed her ankle.
By the third fall, her palms were streaked with dirt and something that might have been tree sap.
She stopped trying to preserve her dignity. Somewhere between the fourth stumble and the fifth muttered curse, birds burst suddenly from the canopy, scattering into the pale sky.
She froze. Listened.
A Voice.
Faint. Carried by the wind.
Hope flared so brightly it almost hurt. She fell again.
This time the ground did not merely tilt beneath her. It vanished. One moment she was stepping forward, the next she was sinking knee deep into cold mud that swallowed her shoe with an obscene sound.
A sharp breath tore from her chest.
For a wild instant she imagined the earth might drag her down entirely, digest her like some patient beast.
âGreat,â she muttered, wrestling her foot free with a wet pull. âPerfect. Exactly how I pictured this day going.â
The forest did not laugh.
But something else did.
Soft.
Threaded through the trees so delicately she almost mistook it for wind slipping between branches.
She froze.
Listened.
Silence returned so completely that doubt crept in.
You imagined it.
Of course you did.
Her nerves were fraying. Her brain was grasping for patterns where none existed.
She took another step.
The laughter came again.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
Amused.
The sound brushed the back of her neck like breath.
âHelloâ she called, immediately hating how small her voice sounded.
No answer.
Just the distant creak of trees shifting.
She turned slowly, scanning the mist.
âIs someone thereâ
Still nothing.
Then hoofbeats without a horse.
Fire without warmth.
A presence without shape.
The air thickened.
And a voice slid into the quiet, smooth as oil poured over water.
Little wanderer dressed in dawn,
A borrowed path you tread upon.
Through root and thorn your steps are led,
Toward the lord the living dread.
Her stomach dropped.
She spun toward the sound that was not a sound.
âWho said thatâ
The mist curled lazily.
Unbothered.
The voice continued, patient as rot.
Gold you seek though not by choice,
Bound already to my voice.
Three bright strands from midnight torn,
Mark the fate that you have worn.
Her mouth went dry.
âThis isnât funny,â she said, though no one had suggested it was.
For a long moment nothing followed.
Hope fluttered weakly.
Perhaps it had ended.
Perhaps her mind was simply cracking under the strain.
Then the forest leaned closer.
Bring the lamb who kneels in fear.
Guard the heart that draws you near.
When his courage starts to sever,
Choose, and bind your souls forever.
The words settled into her bones with terrible certainty.
âShow yourself,â she demanded, anger flaring now to smother fear. âIf this is some kind of trickââ
A branch snapped somewhere behind her.
She whirled.
Nothing.
When the voice returned, it carried a smile she could almost feel.
Run if you wish. The taleâs begun.
All roads now weave what must be done.
The pressure vanished.
Just like that.
The forest exhaled.
Birdsong trickled cautiously back into the silence.
She stood there shaking, mud cooling on her skin, heart battering against her ribs.
âA dream,â she whispered, though the word lacked conviction now.
Yet what choice did she have but to continue.
Standing still felt worse.
So she walked.
And though she tried desperately to convince herself otherwise, the faintest certainty had begun to root inside her.
She was no longer searching for the path.
The path was guiding her.
Straight toward something that already knew her name.
She pushed forward faster, ignoring the way her calves burned.
The trees thinned. And then she heared it, human voices.
Smoke curled upward in gentle gray ribbons.
Then she saw it.
A village.
Not picturesque in the curated way of travel magazines, but real. Crooked roofs. Dirt paths. Chickens that regarded her with open suspicion.
And people.
So many people gathered in the center that she could not yet see what held their attention.
Relief made her dizzy.
She staggered toward them.
No one greeted her.
In fact, the nearer she came, the more the crowd shifted away.
Whispers rose like insects.
âWhat is thatâ
âLook at her clothesâ
âIs she woundedâ
âWitchâ
She glanced down.
Mud streaked her coat. Leaves clung stubbornly to her hair. One sleeve had torn completely at the cuff.
Fine.
She looked mildly catastrophic.
Still, staring felt rude.
She pushed closer.
And then she saw him.
Kneeling.
Soldiers stood behind him, blades resting with terrifying casualness against his throat.
Sunlight brushed his hair into warm bronze. Even from where she stood, she could see flour dusting the knees of his trousers.
A baker, her brain supplied automatically.
Strange detail to notice when swords were involved.
Yet something about him arrested her completely.
Perhaps it was the stillness.
Not the frozen terror one might expect from a man inches from death.
No.
He knelt like a tree stands through winter.
Afraid, certainly. Anyone would be.
But unbroken.
Before him stood a young woman dressed in silks pale enough to shame the dawn.
Jewels winked at her throat. Rings flashed each time she moved her hands.
Beautiful.
And utterly cold.
âI want this one,â she announced.
The words carried easily through the hush.
A murmur rippled outward.
The kneeling man looked up, confusion softening his features.
âYour Highness,â he said carefully, âyou honor me, but I believe you mistake me for someone suited to entertain you. I sell bread. My life is small. You would grow bored.â
A faint smile touched her mouth.
She stepped forward.
Then, with shocking casualness, she fisted her hand in his hair and yanked his head back.
Gasps fractured the silence.
Up close, his eyes were clearer than she had expected. Brown warmed by gold, like tea held toward sunlight.
He did not cry out.
Did not struggle.
âBored,â she repeated softly. âI think not. I would never tire of a face like this.â
Revulsion twisted through Y N.
The young man met the princessâs gaze steadily.
âI am not a painting to hang on your wall.â
Her expression hardened.
Before she could reply, the older man beside her lifted his hand.
The king did not need introduction. Authority clung to him as naturally as shadow.
âYou may marry him,â he declared to the princess.
Shock fluttered across the crowd.
Hope flickered briefly in the bakerâs eyes.
Then the king continued.
âWhen he brings me three golden hairs from the Devilâs head.â
Silence collapsed inward.
Even the wind seemed to hesitate.
The baker went pale.
âYour Majesty,â he said hoarsely, âno man returns from the Devilâs dwelling. I am not a warrior. Not mighty. Certainly not foolish enough to seek such a death.â
The king studied him with cool interest.
âYou should have considered that before ensnaring my daughter with whatever charm you wield.â
âI did no such thing.â
âIntent matters little. Result is what concerns me.â
The princess watched the exchange with bored impatience, as if discussing weather.
The baker swallowed.
âIf I must go,â he said quietly, âallow me at least a companion. No one survives alone.â
The king turned, surveying the gathered villagers.
And then his gaze found her.
Mud streaked. Breathless. Leaves tangled in her hair.
He smiled.
Not kindly.
âThat thing will assist you.â
Heat flooded her face.
âExcuse me,â she snapped, stepping forward despite every instinct screaming otherwise.
Several villagers recoiled.
âI am not a thing.â
The kingâs eyebrow lifted slightly, as though surprised the creature could speak.
She drew breath to continue, indignation burning bright enough to eclipse her fear.
A hand closed suddenly around hers.
Dry. Firm.
An older woman leaned close, her voice barely more than air.
âChild,â she whispered urgently, âdo be quiet unless you wish to lose your head before breakfast.â
Y Nâs protest died in her throat.
The reality of the swords. The soldiers. The absolute power in the kingâs posture.
This was not a place where arguments kept you safe.
Slowly, she shut her mouth.
Across the square, the baker was staring at her now.
Not with annoyance.
Not even with curiosity.
With concern.
As if she were the one in danger.
Which, she realized faintly, she probably was.
For a moment after the king spoke, nothing moved.
The square held its breath.
Y N barely registered the older woman releasing her hand before the king approached. His boots were polished so brightly that even through the mud clouding her vision she could see the warped reflection of her own ruined figure trembling in them.
He stopped too close.
Much too close.
Then he leaned forward.
And sniffed her.
Not subtly. Not politely. He drew in a slow, evaluating breath like a man inspecting spoiled meat.
Revulsion crawled up her spine.
âWell,â he murmured, âit smells like a swamp creature learned to stand upright.â
Laughter flickered uncertainly through the crowd, quickly dying when his gaze shifted.
âI am not a creature,â she snapped before fear could strangle the words.
The kingâs eyes sharpened.
In the next instant, pain exploded across her scalp.
He had seized her hair.
A cry tore free as he dragged her downward, forcing her knees into the packed dirt. Sharp stones bit through her stockings.
âCreatures protest,â he said mildly. âPeople understand their place.â
Rage surged so hot she nearly forgot where she was.
âLet go of me!â
He did not.
Instead, he shoved her forward so abruptly that her hands plunged into the dust to stop her from faceplanting.
âYou will accompany this evil baker,â the king declared, loud enough for every villager to hear. âThe one who has clearly hexed my daughterâs mind. Perhaps whatever filth clings to you will recognize the Devil when you find him.â
A ripple of uneasy sound moved through the square.
The princess looked faintly bored already, examining her nails as if the entire spectacle had lost its entertainment value.
Y Nâs heart hammered.
âThis is insane,â she breathed. âYou cannot just assign people to die.â
The king released her hair at last.
âWatch me.â
Then he turned away.
Just like that.
Conversation resumed in cautious murmurs. Soldiers stepped back. The fragile spell of authority loosened.
And suddenly she was still on her knees.
Still shaking.
Still trapped in a nightmare that refused to end.
Footsteps approached.
She flinched instinctively.
But the hands that touched her this time were careful.
Warm.
âEasy,â a quiet voice said.
The baker.
Up close, he looked even younger than she had thought. Not boyish, exactly, but untouched by the hardness she saw etched into the soldiers nearby.
Concern shadowed his eyes.
Not irritation.
Not resentment.
Concern. For her.
âCan you stand?â
âI donât know,â she admitted, her voice cracking spectacularly on the last word.
He did not rush her.
Did not grab.
He simply waited until she pushed herself upright, swaying slightly.
For a moment they just looked at each other.
Then he exhaled softly.
âCome,â he said. âBefore they change their minds and decide to chain us together.â
The absurdity almost made her laugh.
Almost.
The crowd parted reluctantly as they walked. People stared openly now, whispering behind lifted hands.
Witch.
Beast.
Omen.
She caught the words like thorns.
The bakery stood only a short distance away, its windows fogged with warmth. The scent reached her before they even crossed the threshold.
Bread.
Butter.
Something sweet threaded with cinnamon.
Her stomach twisted violently.
She had not realized how hungry she was until that moment.
Inside, the world softened.
Golden light pooled across wooden counters worn smooth by years of use. Loaves rested beneath linen cloths. A kettle hummed quietly over the hearth.
Safety, her body whispered before her mind could object.
The baker shut the door firmly behind them.
Silence fell.
He turned.
And whatever fragile gentleness had steadied him outside snapped.
âWho the fuck are you.â
The question landed sharp enough to cut.
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because suddenly it was all too much.
The door.
The voice.
The forest.
The kingâs hand in her hair.
The promise of a Devil waiting somewhere beyond the trees.
Her lungs forgot how to work.
A sound clawed up her throat, thin and broken.
Then she was crying.
Not the cinematic tears of heartbreak that slid gracefully down cheeks.
No.
This was ugly.
Airless.
Her knees buckled and she barely registered the floor rushing up before she folded onto it, hands clutching her coat as if it might anchor her to something real.
âI donât know where I am,â she choked. âI donât know how I got here. There was a door and then there wasnât and he said Devil like that was normal and I donât want to die here, I donât even belong hereââ
Her voice shattered completely.
Dimly, she felt him crouch beside her.
He did not try to hush her.
Did not offer useless reassurances.
He simply stayed.
When the worst of the sobbing ebbed into ragged breaths, he spoke.
âHere.â
Something warm pressed into her shaking hands.
Bread.
Still steaming.
She stared at it stupidly.
âEat,â he said gently. âFear is louder on an empty stomach.â
The first bite nearly undid her again.
It tasted real.
Too real for dreams.
Tears slipped silently down her face as she chewed.
He pretended not to notice.
After a long while, her breathing steadied.
Embarrassment crept in where panic had burned itself out.
âIâm sorry,â she whispered hoarsely.
âFor crying?â
âFor⊠collapsing. Screaming. Existing.â
One corner of his mouth lifted faintly.
âExisting is allowed. Even here. Though I admit the standards are inconsistent.â
A shaky laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
He sat back on his heels, studying her now with quieter intensity.
âWhat is your name?â
She told him.
He repeated it slowly, as if committing it to memory.
âIâm Yunho.â
The name settled strangely warmly inside her chest.
âYou really are a baker,â she said, glancing around again, grasping for normalcy.
âI was,â he corrected softly.
The past tense hollowed the air between them.
Guilt pricked unexpectedly.
No. The princess had chosen him before Y N ever stumbled into this world.
Still, the weight of it pressed close.
âYou should wash,â Yunho said after a moment. âThereâs a basin through that door. I can heat more water if needed.â
She looked down at herself.
Mud flaked from her coat onto his floor.
âOh god.â
âYes,â he agreed mildly. âYou look like you fought the forest and lost.â
Despite everything, heat crept into her cheeks.
âIâll find something for you to wear,â he added, already rising. âMy neighborâs daughter is about your height. Maybe. Itâs difficult to tell beneath the layers you have on.â
When he disappeared briefly and returned with folded garments, she took them with murmured thanks.
The washing room was small but blessedly private.
The moment the door shut behind her, she sagged against it.
Her reflection in the basin nearly startled her.
The king had not been entirely wrong.
She looked feral.
Slowly, she peeled away mud soaked fabric, wincing at each new bruise revealed beneath.
The water was blissfully warm.
Brown rivulets spiraled away as she scrubbed her skin, watching the stranger in the reflection gradually resolve into someone recognizable.
With each layer of dirt gone, the memory of the Devilâs voice seemed less like a hallucination and more like a brand.
Bring the lamb who kneels in fear.
Guard the heart that draws you near.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
No.
Later.
She would panic about prophecy later.
For now, survival.
When she finally stepped back into the bakery, toweling her damp hair, Yunho glanced up from the counter.
And froze.
It was subtle.
A stilling rather than a start.
But she saw it.
Surprise flickered openly across his face before he smoothed it away.
As if he had expected someone else entirely to emerge from that room.
Awareness slid awkwardly into the silence.
âWhat,â she said defensively, âare they terribleâ
âThey fit,â he answered quickly.
Then, after the smallest pause, âYou look⊠well. Much less like a swamp creature.â
She narrowed her eyes.
âThat almost sounded like a compliment.â
âI assure you it was meant as one.â
For the first time since the forest, something close to steadiness settled inside her.
Not safety.
But the fragile beginning of alliance.
Outside, the village murmured on, unaware that two lives had already tilted irreversibly toward a road neither had chosen.
And somewhere far beyond the trees, something ancient waited.
Patient.
Listening.
Yunho had always known this day would come.
Not this exact morning. Not this exact horror unfolding beneath a cloudless sky.
But something like it.
For three months the princess had wandered the kingdom like a child drifting through a garden, plucking whatever flower pleased her.
Only the flowers had been men.
A stable hand first.
Chosen because she liked the way his shoulders filled a doorway.
The king had smiled.
Then demanded three golden hairs from the Devil.
The stable hand had wept.
He never returned.
Next had been a scholar passing through the capital. Too clever for his own safety. She had declared his voice soothing.
He had gone pale when the decree fell.
No one ever saw him again either.
After the third disappearance, the pattern became impossible to ignore.
The princess desired.
The king condemned.
The Devil collected.
The village stopped speaking of it openly. Fear preferred whispers.
Yunho had watched it all with quiet dread, kneading dough while rumors slid through the bakery like cold drafts.
He told himself he was safe.
He lived too simply.
Too invisibly.
Princesses did not notice men dusted in flour.
He had been wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Now the echo of the kingâs voice still rang in his skull as if the decree had carved itself into bone.
Three golden hairs.
Bring them back.
Or lose your head.
His hands trembled.
So he pressed them harder against the counter until the wood bit into his palms.
Across from him, the girl devoured her third piece of bread with alarming determination.
Mud monster, the king had called her.
The memory made Yunhoâs jaw tighten.
When the kingâs gaze had slid through the crowd and landed on that filthy figure, Yunho had felt something inside his chest simply drop away.
Not relief.
Never relief.
Only the cold understanding that the king had not granted mercy.
He had granted spectacle.
A companion meant witnesses.
Witnesses meant a story.
And stories survived even when people did not.
At first Yunho had not even been certain the creature was human.
The tangled hair. The mud streaking every visible inch of skin. Those strange layered clothes that looked stitched for no season he recognized.
Then she spoke.
And the moment he heard her voice, sharp with outrage despite the terror threading beneath it, he knew.
Woman.
Young.
Very real.
His stomach had plunged.
Because dragging someone else toward death felt infinitely worse than walking there alone.
He had almost argued.
Almost told the king no companion was necessary.
But kings did not appreciate defiance, especially from bakers destined for execution.
So he had swallowed the protest.
Just as he had swallowed every other fear today.
Now she sat at his table, alive and undeniably not a swamp creature.
In fact, now that the mud was goneâŠ
Yunho stole another glance.
Then immediately looked away.
Then looked back.
Because surely he had imagined it.
He had expected someone hardened by travel. Someone ordinary. Someone he could quietly position behind him when danger came.
Instead the woman who emerged from his washing room had nearly stolen the breath from his lungs.
Beautiful did not quite capture it.
Not in the delicate, ornamental way nobles were beautiful.
There was something vivid about her. Awake. As if the world had been drawn in softer colors until she stepped into it.
For a disorienting instant, Yunho had wondered whether the Devil had sent her himself.
A trick wrapped in loveliness.
Now she licked honey from her thumb with startling focus and continued speaking as if describing a mildly inconvenient afternoon.
âThere was a door,â she insisted. âJust standing there. Like that was normal. And it whispered.â
âDoors do not whisper,â Yunho said automatically.
âThis one did.â
He studied her carefully.
No madness flickered behind her eyes. Only exhaustion. Fear. Stubborn clarity.
âAnd then the forest sang,â she continued, gesturing with a crust of bread. âActually sang. And something in it was talking to me. In rhymes.â
That made his skin prickle.
Rhymes belonged to old magic.
To things villagers pretended were only tales told to frighten children indoors before dark.
âWhat did it say,â he asked quietly.
She hesitated.
His unease deepened.
âIt knew you,â she admitted finally.
A cold thread slid down his spine.
âImpossible.â
âIt called you the lamb who kneels in fear.â
The bakery seemed to shrink around him.
For a moment he heard again the scrape of soldiersâ blades as they rested against his throat.
He forced a thin smile.
âLamb is generous. Most days I feel more like bread waiting for the oven.â
She did not laugh.
Instead she watched him with an intensity that suggested she was already measuring how much of him might survive the coming days.
An absurd urge rose inside him then.
To reassure her.
Though he had nothing reassuring to offer.
A sharp knock shattered the quiet.
Both of them jumped.
Yunho closed his eyes briefly.
Of course.
The village would not stay away long.
They adored him in the uncomplicated way people adore what is familiar. The boy who rose before dawn. Who never cheated the scales. Who slipped extra rolls into the baskets of families struggling through winter.
He moved toward the door before she could.
When he opened it, half the street seemed to lean forward.
Old Marta clutched her shawl tighter when she saw him.
âChild,â she breathed, though he had long outgrown the word. âTell us it is not true.â
He considered lying.
But what kindness would that serve.
âIt is true.â
A murmur rippled outward.
âWhat will you do,â Tomas demanded. âYou cannot go.â
âI can,â Yunho said gently. âAnd I must.â
Anger flared in the butcherâs eyes.
âThat is not a quest. It is a slaughter.â
Yunho almost smiled at the accuracy.
Before he could answer, several gazes shifted past him.
Curiosity sharpened into collective confusion.
âWell,â Marta said slowly, âwho is that lovely girl sitting at your table.â
Yunho followed their stare.
She looked oddly small now, perched on the bench with her borrowed dress and damp hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.
Mud monster indeed.
âThe king,â Yunho said dryly, âidentified her as the swamp creature assigned to assist me.â
Silence.
Then outrage.
âThat child,â Marta sputtered. âHas the man lost what remains of his mind.â
âApparently.â
Y N glanced toward the doorway then, uncertainty flickering across her features as she realized she was being discussed.
For a heartbeat Yunho saw what the forest must have seen earlier.
Not a stranger.
Someone very far from home.
He stepped slightly into the doorway, shielding her from the weight of so many stares.
âShe arrived this morning,â he said. âShe knows nothing of our roads. Or our dangers.â
âThen send her away,â Tomas urged. âWhy should she die for a princessâs whim.â
Because the king would not allow it.
Because the world had already begun arranging itself toward that terrible meeting with the Devil.
Because some stories tightened once spoken and never loosened again.
Yunho rested his hand against the doorframe.
âI suspect,â he said quietly, âthat none of us are being asked what we prefer.â
The villagers fell silent.
Fear passed between them like a shadow.
Inside the bakery, Y N shifted.
Waiting.
Trusting him, perhaps without realizing it.
And for the first time since the square, the full weight of it settled onto his shoulders.
He was not walking toward death alone anymore.
He had someone to protect.
The realization should have terrified him further.
Strangely, it did the opposite.
Fear remained, vast and cold.
But beneath it stirred something steadier.
Resolve, perhaps.
He thanked the villagers gently and closed the door before their grief could deepen.
When he turned back, she was watching him.
âSo,â she said carefully, âpeople like you.â
âI make good bread.â
âThat is not why they looked at you like that.â
He considered arguing.
Did not.
Instead he pulled out the chair across from her and sat.
For a moment neither spoke.
Outside, the afternoon light shifted, inching them closer to a future neither had chosen.
Finally she asked the question hovering between them since the square.
âAre we really going.â
Yunho thought of the Devilâs rumored dwelling.
Of golden hairs that gleamed like stolen sunlight.
Of the way the forest swallowed men whole.
He thought of the prophecy she carried unknowingly in her bones.
Then he met her gaze.
âYes,â he said softly.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
He added, before he could stop himself,
âBut we will not face it alone.â
Something fragile passed across her expression then.
Not quite hope.
But the beginning of it.
And Yunho realized with quiet astonishment that despite everything, despite the king and the princess and the road dripping with dreadâŠ
The moment she had stepped through his door, his story had already begun to change.
Night came without ceremony.
The village did not celebrate dusk. It endured it. Lamps were lit behind shutters. Doors were bolted early. Even the dogs seemed to bark less, as if sound might invite the forest closer.
Inside the bakery, warmth lingered from the ovens Yunho had not used since morning. The hearth still held a faint red pulse beneath ash. The air smelled of flour and honey and the kind of safety people forgot to name until it was threatened.
Yunho wiped the counter twice though it had already been clean.
A nervous habit.
A useless prayer.
Across from him, she sat with her hands wrapped around the cup he had given her earlier, shoulders slightly hunched as if the world had taught her to brace for impact.
He kept catching himself looking at her.
Then looking away.
It was easier when she had been a mess of mud and leaves. When she had seemed like some strange accident of the forest.
Clean, she was something else entirely.
Not noble. Not polished. Not carved into perfection by people with too much time and too much power.
Real.
And painfully, confusingly beautiful.
Yunho was a baker.
He had seen beauty.
In wheat bending under sun.
In a loaf split perfectly down the center.
In the simple, honest smile of a neighbor child biting into warm bread.
He had not expected to see it like this.
In a woman who claimed to have fallen out of another world through a whispering door.
A fallen angel, a part of him whispered suddenly, with ridiculous insistence.
Not sent by heaven.
Sent down.
A mistake tossed from grace and caught by the Devilâs hand.
The thought struck him so sharply he almost flinched.
Enough, he told himself.
Fairytales made fools of men who stared too long at mysteries.
He cleared his throat.
âIt is late,â he said, though the words felt strange. Time moved differently today. Hours stretched. Minutes snapped.
She nodded slowly.
âI should probably go,â she began, then stopped because the sentence ended in emptiness.
Go where.
There was no where.
Yunho exhaled.
âYou will take my bed,â he said.
Her eyes widened. âWhatâ
âIt is not a debate,â he added quickly, because he heard the protest building. âYou have nowhere to go. And I will not have you sleeping outside when the forest is so close.â
Her mouth opened. Closed.
A faint flush climbed her cheeks. âI can sleep on the floor,â she offered weakly.
âYou will not,â Yunho said, more firmly than he intended. âThe floor is for bread crumbs and mice. Not you.â
The last word came out softer.
The silence that followed felt oddly intimate.
She nodded. âAll right,â she murmured. âThank you.â
He moved before he could overthink it, pulling a folded nightgown from a small chest near the back. It had belonged to his sister before she married and moved away. Clean, but old enough that the fabric had gone thin as worn paper.
âThis is all I have,â he admitted, embarrassed for reasons he could not fully explain. âIt might be too small.â
She took it carefully, as if it was something precious. âI will make it work,â she said.
Then she disappeared back into the washroom.
Yunho busied himself with the hearth. He poured water into the kettle, set it above the coals, coaxed the embers back to life.
His hands knew these motions better than prayer. Outside, moonlight spilled silver across the street.
It looked too beautiful for a world that executed men over a girlâs boredom.
The door creaked softly behind him. He turned without thinking.
And then he had to look away. Not because he wanted to be rude.
Because his chest tightened so suddenly it stole his breath.
She stood in the doorway wearing the nightgown, her hair still damp and curling slightly at the ends. The fabric clung more than it covered, pale and thin, and where the moonlight struck it, it turned almost translucent.
It was not indecent in the way the palace courtiers would have whispered about. It was indecent in the way a sacred thing feels indecent to stare at.
She looked unreal. Soft edges. Quiet eyes. Skin warmed by candlelight.
Like a figure painted onto the night itself. A fallen angel, that traitorous thought whispered again.
Sent by the Devil to watch you die.
His fingers curled tight around the kettle handle.
No.
She was shivering. She was frightened. She was human.
He forced himself to breathe and kept his gaze respectfully on the counter.
âSorry,â she said quietly, suddenly unsure. âIs this wrongâ
âNo,â Yunho answered too quickly. âNo. It is fine. It is justâŠnothing.â
A small laugh escaped her, shaky but real.
He turned slightly then, enough to see her face but not the way the light traced her body through cloth.
He gestured toward the table. âSit. I am making tea.â
She obeyed, curling her hands together near her chest.
The kettle began to murmur.
Yunho dropped dried herbs into a cup. He did not know what people in her world drank, but warmth was universal.
When he placed the tea before her, she wrapped her fingers around it instantly as if it was a lifeline.
She sipped and sighed, eyelids fluttering closed for a heartbeat. âI was cold for hours,â she whispered. âI didnât notice until I stopped.â
Yunho watched her carefully. Not as a man admiring a woman.
As someone memorizing another personâs needs in case the road became cruel.
âYou should sleep,â he said.
She nodded again, slower this time. She stood, hesitated, then stepped toward him.
Close enough that Yunho caught the faint scent of soap on her skin and something else beneath it, something that reminded him of rain on stone.
Her voice softened.
âGood night, Yunho.â
He looked up.
Her eyes were warm. Grateful. So open it almost hurt.
âGood night,â he answered.
Then she added, quietly, as if embarrassed by her own sincerity. âThank you. Again. For not treating me like⊠that.â
Her gaze flicked toward the window, toward the village beyond.
He knew exactly what she meant.
For not treating her like a thing. For not treating her like a curse.
Yunho swallowed. âYou are welcome,â he said simply.
She smiled. It was small. But it reached her eyes. Then she slipped into the back room and closed the door gently.
The bakery fell into quiet.
Yunho remained standing for a long moment, staring at the space where she had been.
His heart felt too loud inside his chest. Finally he extinguished most of the candles, leaving only one burning low near the hearth. He arranged blankets on the bench behind the counter, the one he used during long nights when dough needed watching.
This would be one of those nights.
He lay down.
The wood pressed hard beneath him.
His mind refused to rest.
He thought of the princessâs hand in his hair, lifting his head like he was property. He thought of the kingâs smile as he pointed at the stranger in mud. He thought of the Devil, somewhere beyond the trees, waiting with golden hair like trapped sunlight.
And he thought of the girl in his bed, breathing softly in a room that smelled like bread, as if she belonged there.
As if the world had always had a place for her in the corner of his life.
The thought was so absurd it almost made him laugh.
Instead it made his throat tighten.
Yunho stared up at the ceiling beams until the candle burned low and his eyes blurred.
At some point, exhaustion dragged him under.
Sleep did not feel like sleep.
It felt like falling.
He was in the forest again.
Not the village outskirts, not the safe stretch where children sometimes gathered berries.
Deep forest.
Where the trees grew closer together and the air tasted of iron.
He walked, though he did not remember choosing to.
Behind him, footsteps matched his pace.
Always just behind.
If he slowed, they slowed.
If he stopped, they stopped.
He could not see who followed.
Every time he turned, the mist thickened until it became a wall.
A whisper crawled along the edge of his hearing.
Gruff. Amused. Older than the world.
Bread boy, soft boy, flour on hand,
Think youâll slip past devil land.
Kneel and beg and plead and pray,
Still the woods will take their pay.
His stomach clenched.
âLeave me alone,â he tried to say.
But in the dream his voice came out as smoke.
The footsteps drew closer.
The whisper deepened.
Three months Iâve tasted hearts you bring,
I know the pattern of your king.
Yet this time, boy, the tale runs strange,
A door has turned, a fate will change.
Yunhoâs breath hitched.
He ran.
Branches lashed his face. Roots grabbed at his feet. The forest laughed quietly in the way a predator laughs when prey pretends it has a chance.
The voice followed, steady as breathing.
She fell to me from waking light,
Mud and moon and borrowed night.
Keep her close or lose her quick,
For kings love games and devils trick.
âWho are you,â Yunho tried to shout.
The answer arrived as laughter.
Not the whisper.
Real laughter.
Close.
Right behind his ear.
He whirled.
The forest tilted. The trees bent. The world stretched like dough pulled too thin.
A shadow stood there, impossible to focus on, as if the dream itself refused to name it.
And it laughed again.
Yunho jolted upright with a gasp.
The bakery was dark.
His shirt clung damply to his back. For a heartbeat he could not tell if the laughter still echoed.
Then he realized. It had not been only in his dream.
A sound lingered outside.
Faint, cruel amusement. Followed by a sharp knock on the bakery door.
His heart slammed painfully. He swung his legs off the bench, hands shaking as he stumbled toward the front.
Another knock. Harder.
âBaker,â a voice barked. âOpen.â
Yunhoâs mouth went dry.
He glanced back toward the closed door of the bed room.
Do not wake, he thought desperately. Please do not wake.
He crossed the bakery and unlatched the door.
Moonlight spilled in.
Three guards stood outside, cloaked and armored, swords at their hips. Their faces were hard with purpose.
One stepped forward. âBy order of His Majesty,â he said, âyou depart tonight.â
Yunho stared. âTonightâ
âYou have one hour,â the guard repeated as if speaking to a child. âOne hour to leave the village and begin the kingâs quest. Do not attempt to flee. Do not attempt to bargain. The roads are watched.â
Yunhoâs throat tightened.
He forced himself to speak. âIt is the middle of the night.â
The guardâs eyes gleamed coldly. âThe Devil does not sleep. Why should youâ
Behind Yunho, a floorboard creaked softly. His blood turned to ice. He turned his head slightly.
The door to the back room had opened a crack.
A sliver of candlelight fell across the threshold.
And in that narrow gap, he saw her silhouette.
Awake.
Listening.
And just like that, the hourglass turned.
The tale tightened around them.
And Yunho understood with terrible clarity that the dream had not been a dream at all.
Something was already following.
The guards did not grant them the full hour.
Yunho suspected they had never intended to.
By the time the moon climbed higher than the chapel roof, the bakery stood behind him with ist windows dark and hollow, already beginning to look like a place that belonged to someone else.
He carried almost nothing.
A small satchel with bread that would harden by morning. A flask of water. A knife meant more for stubborn crust than self defense.
His life, reduced to what one could hold in a single hand.
Beside him stood Y N, wrapped now in a borrowed cloak Marta had thrust upon her when the news spread through the village faster than smoke.
She looked smaller beneath it.
But not fragile.
Never fragile.
The guards formed a loose wall around them as they walked through the sleeping streets. Boots thudded softly against packed earth. Metal shifted with low, ominous whispers.
No torches.
The king, it seemed, preferred quiet departures.
Still, curtains trembled.
Doors cracked open just enough for worried eyes to watch.
Old Tomas stood near the well, hat clutched so tightly his knuckles blanched.
Marta wept openly.
Yunho did not trust himself to stop.
If he did, he might never move again.
The village gates creaked as they were pulled wide.
Beyond them waited the forest.
Even from here, it looked wrong.
Not merely dark.
Hungry.
The lead guard halted.
âThis is where we leave you.â
Relief fluttered faintly in Yunhoâs chest.
It did not last.
Another guard stepped forward, younger than the others, his armor less scarred, his expression carrying that careless arrogance often mistaken for charm.
He held something between his fingers.
A flower.
Pale petals glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He extended it toward Y N with an easy grin.
âWell now,â he drawled, âif I had known the swamp monster cleaned up like this, I might have told His Majesty I wished to marry her myself.â
Yunho felt the words like grit between his teeth.
Y N blinked.
Once.
Twice.
She did not take the flower.
âI⊠whatâ
The guard chuckled softly, clearly delighted by her confusion.
âTragic timing, isnât it,â he continued. âAnother day and you might have found yourself quite comfortably wed instead of marching toward a devilâs doorstep.â
The other guards snorted.
Yunhoâs jaw tightened.
The young knight leaned closer, lowering his voice in a way meant to sound intimate.
âYou are wasted on a baker.â
That was enough.
Yunho stepped forward before he fully realized he was moving, placing himself squarely between them.
âDo not,â he said quietly.
The knight raised an eyebrow.
âDo not whatâ
âSpeak to her like that.â
A pause stretched.
The night seemed to lean in.
Then the knight laughed.
âCareful, bread boy. You have not even reached the forest yet, and already you bare your teeth.â
Yunho did not reply.
Because if he did, the words would not be wise ones.
For a heartbeat, something sharp flickered in the guardâs gaze.
Then it vanished beneath another lazy smile.
He tucked the flower into the fold of Y Nâs cloak anyway.
âA pity,â he said lightly. âTry not to die too quickly.â
Yunho did not wait for more.
He turned, guiding Y N firmly toward the treeline.
Away from the laughter.
Away from the village.
Away from the last place that had ever been home.
He did not realize he had taken her hand until her fingers tightened reflexively around his.
Warm. Alive.
The contact shot startling awareness up his arm. He almost let go immediately.
But the forest loomed ahead, vast and swallowing, and instinct overruled hesitation.
âDo not listen to them,â he said, his voice low but steady. âTheir courage grows in groups.â
She glanced back once, eyes wide. âI think he was flirting with me.â
âI know.â
âThat was flirting, rightâ
âYes.â
There was a brief pause. âIs it strange that I hated itâ
âNo.â
He led her faster now. The ground shifted beneath their feet as dirt replaced the worn village road. Grass brushed their ankles. The scent of pine thickened.
Only when the first branches stretched overhead did Yunho fully register what he was doing.
He was still holding her hand. Heat climbed his neck.
He released her abruptly, stepping half a pace away as if distance might erase the awareness.
âStay close,â he said quickly. âThe paths are difficult to follow at night.â
She flexed her fingers once, as though surprised by their sudden emptiness, but nodded.
The forest accepted them without ceremony.
One step beneath the canopy and the world changed.
Moonlight fractured against the leaves, breaking into thin silver shards that barely reached the ground. Shadows layered over shadows until depth itself became uncertain.
Behind them, the village shrank.
Ist lights flickered faintly through the branches. Then vanished entirely.
Yunho felt it then. That subtle shift.
The moment a person understood they had crossed from the known into something older.
The air cooled. Sounds dulled.
Even their breathing seemed too loud.
Y N moved closer without meaning to.
He noticed. Said nothing.
They walked in silence for several minutes before she spoke again, her voice hushed as if the trees might overhear.
âIt is darker than it should be.â
âYes.â
âThe moon is bright.â
âIt is.â
âSo why can I barely seeâ
Yunho glanced upward. Branches knitted tightly overhead, swallowing light. âThe forest does not like to be observed,â he said.
She shot him a look.
âThat is not comforting.â
âIt was not meant to be.â
Something rustled somewhere off to their left. Both of them froze.
Yunho listened. Nothing followed.
Still, his pulse refused to slow.
âYou have been here before,â she said quietly.
âOnly along the edges.â
âAnd nowâ
âNow,â he answered, forcing calm into his tone, âwe walk further than I ever wished to.â
A thin silence fell again.
Then she asked the question he had been avoiding since the guards knocked on his door.
âAre you angry that I am hereâ
The honesty of it caught him off guard.
He considered lying.
Found he could not.
âI am angry at the king,â he said at last. âAt the princess. At a world that feeds kind people to monsters.â
A small pause.
âBut not at you.â
Her shoulders loosened slightly beneath the cloak.
âI did not ask for this either,â she whispered.
âI know.â
They walked on.
The path narrowed until it was barely more than suggestion, roots coiling like sleeping serpents across their way.
Once she stumbled.
Without thinking, Yunho caught her elbow.
He did not let go until she steadied.
Again that flicker of awareness.
Again he ignored it.
After a while, she spoke, softer now.
âWhen the guards came⊠you did not look surprised.â
He exhaled slowly.
âI told you. This has been happening for months.â
She waited. So he continued.
âThe princess grows interested. The king sends the man away. No one returns.â
Her breath hitched. âAnd you knew it might be you someday.â
âYes.â
âYet you stayed.â
Where would I go, he almost said.
Instead he answered simply. âThis is my home.â
Was, something inside him corrected.
A breeze threaded through the branches. For a moment it sounded almost like laughter.
Yunhoâs spine stiffened.
He remembered the dream.
The whisper.
Bread boy, soft boyâŠ
He pushed the memory down. Not now.
Fear would come easily enough without feeding it.
Ahead, the trees thickened further, trunks crowding together until the darkness between them resembled open mouths.
Y N drew closer still.
He did not step away.
âYunho,â she said quietly.
âYes.â
âIf something attacks usâŠâ He glanced at the knife at his belt.
Then back at the endless forest. ââŠwe will handle it.â
She let out a breath that trembled at the edges. âYou are very calm for someone marching toward the Devil.â
He almost laughed. âI am not calm.â
âYou look calm.â
âThat,â he admitted, âis practice.â
They walked until the last trace of village comfort faded completely. Until even the idea of turning back felt impossible.
Above them, the moon floated cold and distant. Below it, the forest closed around them like a story that had been waiting far too long to bbegin.
Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Yunhos Masterlist
pairing: serval hybrid!Yeosang x fem human!reader (feat. white tiger hybrid!Mingi and bsf raccoon hybrid!Wooyoung) (what a mouthful Imao)
genre: fluff, some angst if you squint?
word count: 10.5k (this got so out of hand-)
summary: you've always kept your head down at work, only caring to get your check and then go back home and repeat. But that changes one day, when you return from lunch to a gift on your desk with no idea who left it there. Your best friend, Wooyoung, is convinced you have a secret admirer, and you're both left trying to figure out who it may be that's made your days feel lighter with these anonymous gestures.
warnings: non-idol au, office au, hybrid au, strangers/coworkers to lovers, miscommunication, some angst toward the end, (yeosang struggles with insecurities), potentially incorrect office shit idk all my offices were virtual, i think that's it? If i missed something lmk!
author's note: sooo this is my exchange fic for @everyonewooeverywhere's secret admirer fic exchange! this is undoubtedly the hardest fic i've written so far because i wanted to make it perfect. At first, because my giftee was part of the reason I started writing for Ateez in the first place, and then because she became such a dear friend to me. So to my sweet @stxrrywoo, surprise! It's me, I'm your gifter :) and it was so hard keeping it from you Imao. I plotted myself into a corner so this will be a multi-part fic, but worth it for you my lovely Kay <3 I really really really hope you enjoy this fic :) (thank you so fucking much to @chimivx @redemptions @minkieater and @yeonlymine for keeping me sane while I was making this, I was so close to scrapping it like 73828 times, but they kept me going and I couldn't have done it without y'all! kisses for all of u!) Pardon any typos, I'm human!
main masterlist | fic exchange masterlist
It had been a day like any other.
You were returning from lunch to your cubicle, ready to crack into some work at your computer until the clock decided to finally drag its hands to 5PM. Then you can go home and repeat the same drab routine tomorrow until finallyâ the sweet reprieve of the weekend came round again. You were already dreading the emails you likely had received while chowing down on a sandwich, but when you reach your cubicle, something small and black catches your eye.
A mini figurine was placed on your desk. One that was most certainly not there when you powered down your PC to go on lunch. You look around the office, as if you'd be able to nail the culprit with a single glance, but everyone has their heads down, doing their own work or slacking off in their own ways.
Your eyes go back to the figurine and a glimpse of red makes you realize the figure on the stand was something very familiar to you. You pick it up and look closer, biting back an excited squeal as you realize in your hand was a miniature version of a black cat. Not just any black cat, a special black cat that belongs to a line of toys named Aniteez. Someoneâ no, an angel had left a little Wooyonyang on your desk.
Your brain immediately picked out the likely culprit behind this sweet gift and you quickly walk a few cubicles down toward your work (and overall) best friend, a raccoon hybrid named Wooyoung.
He was sitting in his cubicle, headphones in his ears and one of his many scratching fidget toys in his hands. His claws were slightly extended, scratching at the heavily reinforced sides to ease his animalistic urges and spare himself from having to pay his employer $500 for a new desk. His sensitive ears twitch to the beat of the song that plays, a habit you noticed he had when he helped you clean your house and music was blasting in the background.
He had a lot of little quirks thanks to his animal side, but by far your favorite is his permanent eye bags. Instead of the well-known 'bandit mask' raccoons have, he just had darkened eye bags that never go away no matter how much sleep he gets. In your opinion, it gave him that tired look a lot of people found attractiveâ if you asked Wooyoung he'd tell you he disliked it, but slowly he's learning to accept it as part of his animal side. Just like he had to learn to accept his brain's persistent need to wash all his snacks before he eats them.
Knowing Wooyoung's guard was entirely down, you creep up on him slowly. There was no way he'd hear you anyway with headphones in, but you still took immense joy in 'hunting' Wooyoung before pouncing on him with a hug.
Wooyoung jumps a bit, pulling his headphones out and turning to face you, his ears perking up as he registers who has popped up in his space.
"You scared the shit out of me," Wooyoung huffs out a laugh as he sets his headphones and cube aside, turning his chair to face you head-on, "You bored already? Water cooler break?"
You shake your head as you smile. Typical Woo, ready to abandon work if you gave him a reason to.
"Not this time, I'm here to thank you."
You expect the proud, compliment-loving hybrid to puff up his chest and wait for a shower of affections that you know he lovesâ but instead, Wooyoung furrows his brows.
"For...?" He replies, confusion clear in his tone.
"For...the gift? On my desk?" Your own reply comes out slow as you start questioning the conclusion your brain jumped to.
"Yeah, you got the wrong guy. I haven't been to your desk all day."
You narrow your eyes at your friend, but his usual tells are absent: no excited ear twitches, no fighting back a smirk, no tail swishes of excitement that usually appear when he's up to something.
"But..." You deflate a bit as you look at the Wooyonyang figurine in your hand, "I was just telling you on Monday how I loved Aniteez and Wooyonyang was one of my favorites."
"We did, but I didn't buy that." He nods to the little gift that now held more questions than answers for you, "I would've given something like that to you at your place, not work."
Wooyoung did make a good point, now that you think about it. Your gaze flickers between him and the figurine for a moment.
"Then, who put this on my desk?" You whisper to yourself, though Wooyoung can still hear you.
"Oooo wait, you must have a secret admirer." Wooyoung's rounded, gray-brown fur-covered ears stand at attention, a wide smile spreading on his face as the realization hits him.
"No, no, there's no way." You dismiss the idea immediately.
You were just one of many people working here; you didn't stick out purposely. You kept your head low and did your work so you could get your paycheck and go home.
"There's no other answer here, love. If I didn't put it there, and you didn't put it there, someone else had to. Someone you don't know. Hence, a secret admirer!"
The explanation is simple enough, but it still didn't make sense to you. Who would go out of their way to buy something like this and then give it to you and not leave even a note behind? You ponder that a bit more as you stare down at your newest addition to your cubicle.
This question floats in your mind as you continue your workday, eyes flickering from your little black cat figure and your computer screen constantly. Your thoughts drift to the mystery gift giver, gaze jumping from one co-worker to another, looking for any tell that may expose your mystery personâ but no one stood out.
So you shut down and went home for the day once 6PM hits, looking at the mini Wooyonyang one last time before you make your way to the elevator.
The next day you come in, mind still spinning with thoughts of the gift you had been surprised with post-lunch. Would it happen again today? What would you do if it did? Was it a mistake? You were determined to find out.
The day drags on, as if it knows you're waiting for your lunch hour to hit, taunting you by never being where you want it to beâ but 2 meetings later, your clock finally reads 1PM. You power down and swiftly head to the elevators. After pushing the down button, you look over your shoulder at the office space, noting how slowly everyone was trickling out to grab their lunch.
So many people. But one of them had to be your admirer.
The ding of the elevator shakes you out of your thoughts and you quickly enter it, squeezing in alongside far too many people who were eager to get some fresh air.
As you exit the building, you try your best to ignore the excitement beginning to turn in your stomach. Each bite of your sandwich seems muted, your mind and body too occupied with thoughts of what could be going on in the office building down the street. Just 33 more minutes and you'd be back to work. Back to your cubicle where maybe, just maybe, another little gift is waiting.
You write off the flips in your tummy as a fluke. You weren't looking forward to this, not even a little. If nothing is there, you'd be fine. It wouldn't make your heart drop one bit. At least that's what you tell yourself as you enter the building with 5 minutes left on your break. You fiddle with the bottom of your skirt as the elevator ascends to the 17th floor, tuning out the sounds of light chatter behind your foot taps on the white tiled floor.
The familiar ding sets you in motion, strides a little longer than normal as you make your way to your cubicle. You round the corner, eyes darting right to your desk and to your delight, you see something small and purple sitting next to your keyboard. Knowing that shade anywhere, you pick up your pace just a little and snatch up what is indeed a Sandeoki figure. The little purple cat smiles at you the same way you smile at it as you clutch it in your hand like an airloom.
Remembering you're indeed still at work, you quickly glance around to make sure no one sees you geeking out over a 5-inch-tall figure. Thankfully, everyone is too into their own world to notice you standing there. Your smile slowly comes back as you walk off with a pep in your step to Wooyoung's cubicle.
Your ring-tailed best friend had a spreadsheet open, but his eyes were on his phoneâ sitting back in his chair with his top button undone. You pop up on his left, dangling the figurine in his vision. Wooyoung glances up at it before tilting his head back to look at you.
"Secret admirer strikes again, huh?" He asks, a small smile spreading on his face as he notes the excitement swirling in your eyes.
"Mhm! Sandeoki is now mine." You chirp happily as you set the figurine on his desk.
Wooyoung picks it up and looks over the figurine before sniffing at it.
"Hey!" You slap his arm lightly and he glances your way.
"Just checking something!" He laughs, putting the figurine away from his twitching nose.
As you go into a ramble about the second gift from your mystery person, Wooyoung is going through his mental rolodex. He's always been keen to scents and able to log a scent to a person pretty fast. You have a scent of lemon and sea breeze. His manager, San, always smelled like cinnamon. This scent reminded him of a bonfire, and it's one he is certain he's come across, but he can't remember where.
You slowly go quiet as you realize Wooyoung had spaced out on you. His ears twitch with his racing thoughts as he tries to pinpoint who left this scent behind and where. It was on the tip of his tongue, slipping through his fingers the longer he dwelled on it.
"Woo!"
Your voice brings him back to Earth and he blinks twice before his focus really settles on the woman standing in front of him.
"Where did you go?" You ask, curiosity clear in your eyes.
"Nowhere, sorry. Just had a thought." He dismisses your question as he crosses his legs, "but I'd like to say, told you so. This is the second time, it's an admirer. Someone has eyes for you."
You blush at the notion of someone having a crush on you, but it does fill your tummy with a warm feeling when you think about it. Someone who knew you well enough to get you figurines from your favorite collection. The only question is, who?
"I can't think of anyone who would know this except you, though. I don't really talk to anyone at work about this stuff." You speak your thoughts slowly, hoping an idea of an explanation may hit you, but nothing comes to mind.
"Quietly admiring you from afar then." Wooyoung hums, "It's like some cheesy office rom-com shit."
You roll your eyes despite that idea making your cheeks heat up ever so slightly. You wondered what this admirer could be like. What department did they work in? When did they first notice you? What made them decide to do this for you out of everyone in the office?
"I gotta vet them first though, make sure they're not some weirdo. I'll claw their eyes out."
Wooyoung's words are meant to be playful, but they make your thoughts take a turn you hadn't considered yet. You had been perhaps naively optimistic about this entire situation, but what if this mystery person was obnoxious and you two were incompatible beyond belief? What if they were a creep, or a weirdo who felt entitled to you since they got you gifts?
Your facial expression was a clear indicator of how sour your thoughts had gone, and Wooyoung is quick to quell the new worries swirling in your head.
"I'm sure they're nice! Or else why would they care to give you something you specifically mentioned liking? These figurines aren't the cheapest either, you know?" His eyes drift to the figure in your hand.
This was something that didn't happen often. If anyone deserved something positive to look forward to every day, it's you. He's determined to keep the mood light and have this experience be a positive one.
"Why don't we both try to feel them out a bit?" He suggests after a moment of silence.
You try to shake off the negativity that slipped into your brain by rubbing your thumb over the smooth plastic of Sandeoki's face.
"How do we feel out someone we literally don't know the identity of?" You lean on Wooyoung's desk, resting your hip on it.
"Me? I have my ways. You, however, aren't as cunning and innovative as me-"
"Oh, go to hell-" You interject, but Wooyoung continues as if you said nothing.
"If they're checking your desk every day, leave something behind for them. Maybe a note of some sort? Right where they leave the gift, if there is a common spot. They're sure to read it." He suggests.
You let the idea sit in your head for a while. It's simple, direct, but it could work. How someone speaks is as big an indicator as how they act. The more you can gauge, the better you can try to place a finger on this person and if they're actually someone you'd like to get to know.
"I'll admit, not a bad idea. Maybe I will." You reply, putting a finger to your chin as you think of what you could write.
Wooyoung smiles, watching the gears turn in your mind in real time.
"Well, think it over in your own cubicle? Some of us have work to do." He gently nudges your hip with a pen.
"You're gonna type maybe 5 entries in that Excel sheet before you pull out your phone to go on TikTok." You deadpan as you straighten up your posture.
"Whatttt? No, I'm employee of the month." Wooyoung's fluffy tail flicks behind him as he hides his smile by facing his PC.
"If you ever got employee of the month, it's because the rest of us got fired." You say as you turn and walk off.
Wooyoung throws a paper clip at you, but misses and you bite back a laugh as you return to your cubicle.
You set Wooyonyang's new bestfriend next to him, smiling as your little family grows. You force yourself back into work mode, opening up your emails to see what's been going on while you've been goneâ but every once in a while your eyes drift to the little figurines in your peripheral and you can't help your small smile.
A full set feels like a bit of a stretch, but you'd be lying if you weren't inwardly hoping for it. So the next day when you shut down to go to lunch, you let yourself hope just a little to find a small friend on your desk when you return.
As the office gets emptier, most leaving around the same time for lunch, a certain hybrid sticks around to keep an eye on your desk. Far too curious to not figure out who your mystery suitor is, Wooyoung finds himself curled up under a nearby desk, snug and hidden behind the rolling chair that's entirely tucked under the desk. One more positive about his raccoon side is that he's able to fit into some pretty small spaces, and he actually enjoyed it. For a moment his eyes start to flutter shut, the comfort of the small, dark space making him want to take a nap.
He manages to snap himself awake using sheer willpower. He wasn't on this dusty floor hidden under his friend, Jongho's, desk for no reason. It was for the greater good of his best friend's heart! So he stays alert, his eyes attentive and listening out for any sound.
One thing Wooyoung didn't account for, is how boring it gets when you're stuck under a desk with nothing to keep you entertained. He's resorted to counting the loose threads on his shirt when he hears it.
Footsteps, coming down the very aisle he was hiding in. Wooyoung holds his breath, not wanting anything to give him away. Soon, a pair of black boots comes into view, along with black jeans that lead up to a button-up. Wooyoung sniffs at the air quietly, the smoky bonfire smell was starting to permeate the air and he knows for sure, this is your admirer.
At this angle Wooyoung couldn't see the head of whomever was hovering over your desk, so as quietly as he can he leans forward to get a glimpse of who had their eye on you.
He's welcomed with the sight of dark red hair with a tall, round pair of ears lined with golden yellow fur and black stripes. Considering he's looking at the back of this person's head, it takes a few moments before it hits him. He knows exactly who this is.
Kang Yeosang.
Wooyoung tried to rack his mind for things he knew about Yeosang. He comes up with a few: Serval cat hybrid, works in the IT department, a quiet type that only speaks when spoken to. Not much else to know about the man. Servals are typically solitary creatures, so it isn't shocking. What is shocking to Wooyoung is the fact that you caught his eye. The chances of you two crossing paths are pretty minimal unless you had consistent computer issues, so how did you catch his attention?
The raccoon hybrid's nails dig into the cushion of the chair he's hiding behind as the need to know everything burns in his chest, but the only way to know is to confront Yeosang. Was the knowledge worth putting himself in the middle of what seemed to be an innocent and sweet situation?
Absolutely. If this guy wanted to get you, as your best friend, he'd have to pass Wooyoung's strict test. But not now. Not here. Wooyoung simply notes it and waits until the footsteps entirely disappear before crawling out of his hiding space and wiping his pants clean. He looks off toward the hall that Yeosang had to go down to get back to the IT office and smirks to himself.
This was very interesting indeed, and he planned to get to the bottom of things for your sake and his.
28 minutes later, you're following your usual route back to your desk with a pep in your step. You round that corner for what's likely the 2000th time, eager to see if a new friend awaits you. Your wish comes true in the form of a pink bunny figurine sitting next to your mousepad. You quickly put it right next to Sandeoki with a small happy hop in your chair. You decide then and there you'd take Wooyoung's suggestion and leave a note for your secret suitor tomorrow. Whether they responded or not was up to them, but you hoped they did.
It was strange having something to look forward to on a day-to-day basis in a place you usually hate returning to. Yet as your clock nears 1PM the next day, you grab a sharpie and a piece of paper with your heart racing. The blank sheet of printer paper stares at you, mirroring your current thoughts as you try to think of what you want to leave for your suitor to find.
"Thank you for the figurines" doesn't really invite a response. A question would work better. "Do you like Aniteez?" isn't a bad option, but that also didn't feel right for some reason. You bounce your knee with a soft groan, frustration starting to build as an answer continues to evade you.
Why couldn't they just reveal themselves, and you could just talk to them face to face and figure it out from there? Who were you even trying to connect with?
That's when it hit you. An answer so simple you wonder why you hadn't thought of it already. You notice the close hit 12:58 and quickly write down your question.
"Who are you?"
Not wanting to give yourself the chance to chicken out, you place your message on your keyboard, leave a pen nearby, and head to lunch. Much like your previous lunch hours for the last 3 days, you find your thoughts tethered to your secret suitor and what they were doing right now. Had they left your gift today? Did they see your note? Would they care to respond? The anxiety and excitement mixing in your stomach is a new but welcome feeling. One that made the 45-minute commute to work worth it for the past few days.
You had to hand it to your suitor; they were getting some brownie points before they even showed their face.
This time, an orange, furry-tailed friend greeted you at your desk alongside your pen now being back in the little cup on your desk containing all your pens and pencils. You forgo picking up Jjoongrami in favor of checking your note first for a reply.
Underneath your message is: "No one. Do you like the figurines?"
You tilt your head a bit, a laugh bubbling out of you before you can stop it. What an odd reply. Sure, you didn't expect them to drop their name and address, but saying they were no one was certainly a choice.
You gingerly pick up the little squirrel figurine along with your note and take it to Wooyoung's cubicle where he's actually working for once. You almost consider leaving him to it, but you know there's no use when his furry ears lightly pivot toward you.
"Yes, doll?" Wooyoung asks, eyes still on his PC as he continues typing in formulas and parsing through data.
"It could've been San for all you know." You respond, walking into his space and sitting on his desk to his left.
Wooyoung's fingers pause to look over at you, his lips quirking into a smirk.
"San doesn't walk; he borderline stomps first of all. I could hear your heels clicking, as low as you may keep them. You also have a certainâŠrhythm to your walk. No matter what shoes you're in, I know you're walking when I hear it." Wooyoung explains, folding his hands over his stomach as he leans back in his office chair.
You stare at him for a moment, not expecting such an in-depth analysis of something as simple as approaching him.
"Is this a hybrid thing or�"
"Yeah, though I'm sure humans could too if they locked in." Wooyoung says flippantly as he spins to face you.
You roll your eyes despite the smile on your face and Wooyoung's smirk turns into a full-blown smile, his small fangs on display now.
Despite being best friends for years, you still found yourself intrigued by his hybrid characteristics. It felt so foreign yet cool, like when you used to envy kids who had Heelys in elementary school because your parents wouldn't let you have a pair.
"Oh! I came for a reason. Look." You hold out the Jjoongrami figurine and the note you left.
Wooyoung looks at the figurine first before the note, but when he reads Yeosang's response, he has to stop himself from pinching the bridge of his nose.
This man had 0 game. That much was clear from his stiff response.
"He must be the shy type," You say as Wooyoung looks at the sheet of paper in his hands.
'Shy and bitchless type for sure.' Wooyoung thinks to himself with a mental sigh.
At this rate, Yeosang had little to no chance of actually getting with you. Wooyoung would know, considering he's been there for multiple situationships and a partner or two. Shy was cute, but he would have to woo you somehow to catch your heart and interest in a way that mattered. Yeosang was adrift at sea with no oars or even a map to direct him where he needed to go.
Time for what the raccoon hybrid did best, inserting himself into the picture.
"Yeah, definitely shy." Wooyoung agrees, handing the gift and paper back to you.
"But I don't know what to say now besides yes."
You twist your lips in thought as Wooyoung watches.
"Why don't you sleep on it and see if something comes to you by the time the weekend is out?" Your furry-eared friend suggests and you ultimately agree with him, deciding to let yourself have some time to think it over.
What a week this has been.
"I will, thanks Woo!" You ruffle his hair and he fusses at you, pushing your hands away as you duck out of his cubicle and go back to your own.
Wooyoung watches you go for a minute before his mind goes back to the situation at hand.
Yeosang was hopeless at this. Utterly hopeless. He couldn't exactly blame him for being an awkward type, but Wooyoung knew guidance was needed if Yeosang was to have a chance with you.
So as the day comes to an end, Wooyoung tells you to leave without him, saying he needed to finish up a last-minute assignment before he went home. You whined about it, but didn't want to spend even a second longer than needed in that godforsaken office, so you left shortly after.
Once the elevator doors close and Wooyoung knows you're gone, he beelines it right to the IT office. He pokes his head inside and sees the room half empty. A few stragglers are at their desks, faces drained of life in a way only a job can achieve. Wooyoung looks around and his ears perk up as he finds his target.
Yeosang stood by his desk, clad in a button-up, jeans, and sneakers. His head was down, dark red hair falling over his face as he packed his leather messenger bag to head home like everyone else around him. Wooyoung enters the space with the confidence of someone on a mission. A confidence that the serval hybrid immediately notices when the sound of approaching footsteps catches his attention. On instinct, his large, rounded ears flatten a bitâ tail puffing up lightly as he's approached by someone not only after hours but after he's shut down his computer for the day.
"Any computer issue will have to wait until Monday." Yeosang's voice is flat, golden eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he prepares for push back of some sort.
The audacity of some of his fellow coworkers drove him up the wall, and usually those encounters began with someone who approached him with the energy Wooyoung exuded in abundance.
Wooyoung furrows his brows, ears tilting with his head as he registers the gently aggressive stance Yeosang has gone into. His eyes flicker to Yeosang's hands, noting his claws having slightly extended and digging into the leather of his bag.
"Oh!" Wooyoung says, now understanding the disconnect, "I'm not here for IT, I'm here for you." He clarifies, hoping to relax the man in front of him.
Unfortunately, his reply did the exact opposite. Yeosang's ears lower even more, gripping his bag tighter as his eyes flit around the room to his colleagues. None of them spare him a glance, too worried about leaving the building themselves to care about any sort of holdup that would get between them and freedom.
Yeosang realizes he's stuck in this conversation, and that makes his guard come up even more.
"Goodnessâ look, I just want to ask you something. We can talk on the way out. Please? It won't take long." Wooyoung reassures him, hands in the air in a surrender stance.
Yeosang considers the proposition for a few seconds, ears returning to their upright state as his internal assessment tells him Wooyoung isn't a threat.
"OkayâŠsure." Yeosang agrees, sliding his bag onto his shoulder. "As long as it's short."
Wooyoung nods and leads the way out, purposely taking a path that leads past the main area. He passes through the cubicles but when he gets to yours, which is naturally on the way to the elevator, he stops. Yeosang stops quickly as well, making sure not to crash into Wooyoung. Wooyoung turns around to meet Yeosang's confused eyes as the serval fidgets with the bag strap on his chest. Wooyoung pointedly turns his head to look at your family of figurines, half completed from this week alone. He waits for Yeosang to follow his gaze and soon enough, they're both staring at the little plastic figures kept neatly under your monitor. The raccoon hybrid's eyes are quick to pick up on the smaller tells. Yeosang's face stays stoic, but his ears twitch, and though short, his tail curves downward toward his legs.
"It's you." Wooyoung says softly, eyes boring into the side of Yeosang's face as he waits for a reply.
Yeosang's hands grip his bag strap tighter, jaw tightening as anxiety claws at his chest. In his mind, he had been so careful. How could Wooyoung have known?
"I'm not here to expose you. Like I said, I just want to talk. About this." Wooyoung continues once it's clear Yeosang wasn't going to speak.
The serval hybrid's eyes lower to the ground, cheeks turning a light pink as he realizes he's been caught. By his crush's best friend, no less. The usually reserved recluse feels like a spotlight is on him, one of his worst fears.
"Okay." Yeosang's voice is quiet, ears completely downturning as he accepts defeat in the moment.
Wooyoung knew Yeosang was the shy type, but his body language oozed nervousness and anxiety. If he were a meaner hybrid, he would be all over the cracks in his demeanor, animal side itching to assert some form of dominance despite him not even being a predator type hybridâ but he fights off the urge. That's not why he was here.
"Ever been to The White Whistle?" Wooyoung asks, continuing to lead the way to the elevator.
Yeosang blinks in shock, not expecting that to be what comes out of the younger man's mouth.
"Oh. You mean the pub?" He asks, trailing behind Wooyoung, still gripping onto his bag strap.
"Yeah. Let's go there. Get a drink." Wooyoung pushes the down button for the elevator and looks over his shoulder with a smile.
Yeosang blinks a few times, the serval and human side of him at odds with what's happening. His cat side tells him to say no and run. It tells him to keep his guard up and that Wooyoung can't be trusted at all. Yet his human side is shocked to have been given an invitation, and wanted to accept it. He wanted to believe Wooyoung meant well in his choice to approach him, but he's met some cruel people in his time.
What matters most is Wooyoung knows his secret. He knows about the crush, he knows about the gift giving. That alone is enough to get Yeosang to nod his head in agreement.
It's a quiet and tense trek to the pub just two blocks down. Wooyoung was trying to figure out how to address this best, not wanting to scare Yeosang before he could finish his evaluation of sorts. The silence was welcome by the serval hybrid, but at the same time, each quiet moment made his stomach flip with anxiety.
They sit down at a table in the back, setting their bags aside before finally locking eyes again. Wooyoung smiles, but Yeosang speaks before he can get a word out.
"Did you tell her?" He asks, a desperation in his tone that takes Wooyoung by surprise.
It's clear that Yeosang was horrified by the idea of you knowing he was your admirer.
"No, no I didn't. I wanted to talk to you first."
Yeosang's body relaxes at that, eyes slipping shut for a moment as his heart finally slows down its rapid beating.
"Thank you. I'm not ready to tell her yet." Yeosang says, looking at the menu before him.
"First round's on me." Wooyoung says when he notices where the serval hybrid is looking.
Wooyoung calls a waiter over and orders two beers before turning back to Yeosang.
"So, Y/N." Wooyoung starts, not missing how Yeosang's ears perk up at the mere mention of your name, "Why the figurines?"
Yeosang pauses as a beer is set in front of him, taking sudden interest in its nutritional information instead of the raccoon hybrid currently staring at him.
"IâŠmay have heard you guys when you were talking about them in the break room." Yeosang confesses before sipping his beer.
The chill is welcomed and he takes a calming breath as Wooyoung nods.
"So you decided the best way to shoot your shot was to just leave figures on her desk? How does that translate into you getting closer to her?" Wooyoung asks.
Yeosang's nails lightly tap on the glass in front of him as he keeps skimming the ingredients in his beer.
"IâŠhaven't thought that far ahead." Yeosang's ears flatten in embarrassment as his head drops lightly.
"So you burn a hole in your pockets buying these because�"
"She likes them. I hung around to see her reaction and sheâŠ" Yeosang trails off, and for the first time since Wooyoung approaches him, he cracks a smile. A genuine smile.
"She?" Wooyoung gently encourages him to continue and Yeosang snaps out of his stupor, schooling his expression fast.
"Sorry. This must be weird since you guys are so close." Yeosang drinks more of his beer as Wooyoung shakes his head no.
"Not at all. Just say what comes to mind. I'm not going to tell her, and I'm not going to cut your head off or something. I came to you to talk about this, and that includes her."
The table is silent as Wooyoung's words sink into the air around them. Yeosang considers them, and perhaps it's his lightweightedness kicking in, but he's been bottling up his thoughts for so long and he wanted to let it out for once. Wooyoung can sense Yeosang's resolve weakening and decides to sweeten the deal to get the tight-lipped serval to give in.
"How about this? You answer my questions, and I'll tell you things about her that you wanna know, as long as it's nothing weird." Wooyoung offers, an easygoing smile on his face.
One that he knows disarms those around him easily. Raccoons are cute. Wooyoung is cute. When you combine them? He can be downright adorable in ways that make even the coldest hearts meltâ and he can tell it's working on Yeosang the moment he bites the corner of his lip in thought.
"Deal." Yeosang nods, "Just, don't be an ass about it. I'mâŠnot used to feeling things like this. It's been something trying to figure out how to work this stuff out."
Wooyoung watches the serval shift in his seat, eyes fixed on a point on the wall as he starts lightly chewing on the lip caught between his teeth. Wooyoung's eyes soften with sympathy.
Something most humans don't consider is how deeply embedded some animal instincts can be, especially when it comes to mates. Humans had feelings, but most were able to keep them as just that, feelings. Hybrids had a different struggle which is thanks to their animal DNA. Certain rituals, urges, cravings to claim were hard to ignore depending on which animal you shared DNA with. Certain predator types, like wolves, could experience physical pain when they deny those base instincts.
This fact was one of the main issues that led to humans seeing hybrids as lesser than. Human side ignored entirely and called animals despite having many similar features to those who talk down to them. Wooyoung knew all too well how hard it could be with his own animal being one to become very territorial during mating season.
"You don't want to scare her." Wooyoung says, voice gentle with understanding that made Yeosang feel seen for the first time since these feelings began.
"Terrified of it." Yeosang admits. "May sound bad, but I'm not one to really like people. Especially humans with how complicated it can get, but then here comes this girl who justâŠ"
Yeosang groans, flustered and lightly irritated with the feelings you've caused in his chest. It wasn't close to mating season at all, so this was him. No instincts, no animal urgesâ just raw, heart-stopping, chest-clenching feelings from his human side that have been driving him wild.
"Tell me about it." Wooyoung encourages, even more curious to hear the serval's internal feelings if it was winding him up this much.
Yeosang takes a moment to force some clarity into his mind, not wanting to embarrass himself any further than he already has.
"She gets so excited when she sees the figurines. Her smile gets all wide, and her eyes light up, and then she goes to show you, and it's justâŠ" Yeosang trails off, his cheeks flushing again as he pictures your bright face animatedly talking to Wooyoung after he's left a gift on your desk.
"It feels good. To make her happy, I mean. So that's why I've just kept doing it. No harm in that, right?" Yeosang finishes his thoughts, a casualness in his words that doesn't match the nervous twitching of his ears.
"Not at all." Wooyoung agrees, "It has been something she's looking forward to when she comes in."
Yeosang's smile widens at that, and Wooyoung can't help how his smile mirrors Yeosang's. The joy of seeing you happy was something they both found pleasure in.
"How long have you liked her?" Wooyoung asks, getting back into an interrogation mindset.
The irony of this question doesn't go unnoticed by Wooyoung. Just a year ago, when you two landed your current jobs, he found himself having a similar conversation with you about a 'really cute hybrid' that helped with account setup during your onboarding week. The first week of shared lunch hours were spent partially talking about pretty cheekbones, fair skin, feline-like eyes that somehow were still round and cute, belonging to the very hybrid who was currently shyly confessing to a similar attraction you held for him. Over time, as you realized you'd barely see the 'eye candy' of the IT department, you shelved your interest and focused on your work instead, having mostly forgotten about your first work crush by now.
Ironic how you'd caught Yeosang's eye too, but had no clue.
"A while now." Yeosang replies cryptically, not wanting to out himself entirely.
"A while." Wooyoung repeats, clearly unimpressed with the vagueness, "Weeks? Months? Years?"
"Months."
"Months? But you barely interact with anyone outside of IT issues, and the last time we had anything like that was-" Wooyoung's words cut short as a thought hits him.
"The shared network outage." Yeosang finishes the thought, sighing as he remembers the chaos of that day, "Someone fucked with the permissions and everybody's machines were having problems connecting. We had every department on our line, higher-ups up on our asses to fix it fast since time is money. I think I skipped lunch just to handle the inflow of tickets. So many people were being the fucking worst that day. Treating me like shit and I just had to take it."
Wooyoung gives Yeosang a moment to guzzle down more beer. The memory alone was enough to make Yeosang's fur puff up.
"It was one of those days that makes you contemplate quitting on the spot. Then, around 3PM, I was sent to a desk to help with a password reset. I was ready to get bitched out again honestly, but no. Y/N was sitting at her desk, and maybe it was just because everyone was being so nasty, but she smiled and said hi, asked me how I was doing. Something so simple, but it caught me off guard I justâŠstared at her like an idiot." Yeosang's hands come up to cover his face as he remembers it crystal clear.
You sitting at your desk, chair turned to face him, a friendly smile on your face. You were wearing clear lip gloss that day, and it framed your smile in such a way that Yeosang found himself immediately enamored.
"If I'm being honest, I don't even remember what the hell I said, but it made her laugh." Yeosang continues, corners of his lips still quirked up, "She was kind and patient as I led her through the steps, then at the end she offered me a candy she had as a thank you. It's stupid, I know, but I couldn't stop thinking about it after that. She was just being nice, but being nice isn't something I get much being a hybrid in a human-dominated space."
Wooyoung gives an empathetic nod, letting Yeosang know he hears him without cutting him off.
"Then it was just seeing her around the office, mostly with you in the break room. Sometimes at company lunches. Hiding her giggles behind her hand, smiling at something you said, rolling her eyes when the CEO gives his 'we're a family' speech. I just found myself looking for her when there was a chance she'd be around and well..." Yeosang sets his empty beer bottle aside, ears relaxed, "You see where I ended up."
Wooyoung sips his own beer, letting Yeosang's words hang in the air for a moment before a wide grin breaks out on his face.
"You're whipped."
"Fuck you." Yeosang grumbles, ears flattening as he glares at Wooyoung with no real heat behind his eyes.
Wooyoung laughs, setting his bottle down as he shifts in his seat, eyes gleaming with amusement but no judgment.
"Don't be like that, I'm just telling the truth! Honestly, it's cute."
"I am not cute." Yeosang snarls, cheeks turning an even darker shade of red as his fur puffs up again.
"Ah yes, sorry, predator hybrid." Wooyoung smirks, "Your actions and words are cute, Yeosang."
The raccoon hybrid's assessment was done. That explanation gave him everything he needed to know.
Once you get past the standoffish awkwardness, the hybrid in front of him was actually thoughtful, kind, and head over heels despite only speaking to you for work reasons. Wooyoung found himself strangely invested in this situation now, wanting a happy ending for both you and Yeosang.
"So you want to ask her out then?" Wooyoung asks.
Yeosang nods as he clears his throat, trying to hide how much he wanted to but Wooyoung could read him like a book. However guarded the serval thought he was, he was transparent as glass to someone who prided himself on noticing the little things.
"And when will you be asking her out?"
Wooyoung's question is met with silence that lasts quite a while. Yeosang peels the label off his empty beer bottle, slicing through it with his claws with ease, not wanting to look the glaring issue he's having in the eye.
"You will be asking her out, right�" Wooyoung tries again, leaning forward in his chair expectantly.
Yeosang meets Wooyoung's eyes for a millisecond before averting his eyes back to the tattered paper he was leaving on the table.
"You gotta beâ" Wooyoung groans, head falling to the table, "Yeosang, you're aware you have to speak to her to date her, right?"
"Yes, I know that!" He snaps lowly, but his anger isn't with Wooyoung; it's with himself, "I just can't right now. I still got some stuff left to give her. I'll build up the nerve, I just need time."
Wooyoung lifts his head, giving his new friend another once over. Tense shoulders, claws extended, ears uneven, fur puffing up again.
Defensive stance. He would get nowhere pushing now. So Wooyoung acquiesces and sighs, sitting up straight again.
"Alright, man. Just don't take too long." Wooyoung advises, reaching into his pocket and taking out his phone, "Give me your number. You're gonna need all the help you can get."
"You'reâŠgonna help me?" The serval hybrid's eyebrows raise toward his hairline, skepticism in his voice.
Wooyoung hums affirmatively and Yeosang looks at the phone in front of him like it's booby-trapped.
"You want guidance from someone who knows her like the back of their hand, or do you want to keep fumbling around with no clue how to approach her?"
Yeosang ponders the posed question, and he realizes quickly that Wooyoung approaching him was one of the best things he could've asked for. He puts his number in and gives it back. The raccoon hybrid puts some money on the table before picking up his bag.
"Good talk." He says, a teasing smile on his face as he turns around, "I'll text you. Later."
With those words, Wooyoung leaves the pub and heads home.
The familiar sounds of the city streets allow his thoughts to flow a bit and the surplus of information he's received in the last hour from an unlikely new friend. He finds Yeosang awkward but well-meaning. Shy, standoffish, but the thought and care behind his actions is undeniable. Something you've been missing from your past partners, in Wooyoung's opinion, was someone who actually kept you in mind consistently. Something Yeosang is showing to do before he's even spoken to you on a casual basis.
Yeosang's blushing face flashes in Wooyoung's mind as he gets to his car and he huffs a small laugh. From what he's seen tonight, there's little doubt in Wooyoung's mind that you two would be a cute pair. You helping Yeosang out of his shell with kindness. Yeosang showing you a level of care and thought you deserve, making you feel appreciated. In theory, this could work out wellâ and call it a hunch, but Wooyoung found himself hoping in favor of his new friend.
At least he'd wingman to the point of seeing if your initial interest pokes its head again and something can truly bloom from there.
Meanwhile, Yeosang sits there for a few minutes after Wooyoung's departure, processing everything that's happened. His phone vibrates with a text from an unknown number, and it sinks in that he now has the support of his crush's best friend.
He slowly stands up, throwing his bag on and welcoming the cool evening air hitting his flushed face. This wasn't an outcome he saw coming, but he wasn't upset about it either. In fact, there's a small pep in his step as his sneakers hit the pavement in a beat that his head nods to despite no music being around.
Maybe he actually had a chance with you. At least that's what he's starting to believe as he makes his way to his bus stop.
Monday comes and like clockwork, at 12:58PM you find yourself with a smile on your face as you write a new note for your admirer.
"I do like the figurines! Why don't you let me thank you in person?"
You cap the pen, hoping you weren't being too bold but the need to know who this is was eating at you bad by this point.
Another uneventful lunch passes by and you're speedwalking to your desk a little under an hour later, moments away from checking the note and forgetting to even look for a new gift on your desk.
Then you hear your name being called from behind.
You grab the note, hiding it behind your back before whipping around and seeing a face you hadn't seen in a while.
Song Mingi. A white tiger hybrid you've worked with a few times on various projects. His round white ears are perked up, a wide smile that shows his canines, and rolled up sleeves that show off the dark brown tiger stripes that line his strong arms.
"Mingi! Hey! How have you been?" You ask, genuinely curious but also gently annoyed he stopped you from checking your note.
"Pretty alright! What about you? It's been a bitâ" Mingi cuts himself short when he looks down and sees the figurine you had overlooked, "Is that Bbyongming?"
You look to your right and only now notice the figurine sitting by your keyboard. It was indeed a yellow little chick on a standee.
"Oh! Yes, it isâ wait, you like Aniteez?" Your eyebrows furrow, not suspecting Mingi of all people to know about them.
The big, beefy tiger hybrid liked a line of cute little animals?
Mingi nodded his head quickly, ears flopping as he pulls out a yellow pen and holds it out to you. You noticed Bbyongming's head on the top of it staring back at you.
"Bbyongming is my favorite!" He says, enthusiasm coming off him in waves.
It was infectious and you found yourself smiling back at him as you sidestepped to show him your little collection under your monitor.
"Oh my god, those are so cute!" Mingi steps closer, hunching over lightly to look closer at them.
You get a whiff of his cologne as he steps closer, his large frame brushing yours as he approaches your desk. He smelled really nice, a mix of bourbon and something else you can't place. That was something you noticed when you first met Mingi. He had a certain scent he always wore, one that didn't send his sensitive nose into a frenzy and many seemed to enjoy. Despite being mixed with a solitary type animal, Mingi was pretty sociable and everyone on the floor knew of him to some capacity. A ray of sunshine in a rather meek office.
"These are a new drop, right?" He asked, his hand dwarfing the small figurine as he put Ddeongbyeoli into his palm and smiled at it.
"Yeah! Came out like three weeks ago, I think." You confirm, watching Mingi admire the smooth plastic before setting it back down gingerly.
Mingi opens his mouth to reply but then he sees the time on your computer screen and his eyes widen, fluffy ears standing at attention.
"Shit. I got to go, but let's talk Aniteez again soon, yeah?" He starts walking backwards, waiting for your reply with hopeful eyes.
"Yeah, for sure! See you!" You nod in agreement and Mingi smiles before spinning around and continuing on his way.
You watch him for a moment, admiring his broad back and how his muscles ripple under the cotton of his button-up. He made for really good eye candy, plus he likes Aniteez? What are the odds?
It's then you remember the piece of paper you had hidden behind your back. You pull it from hiding and quickly look over the note.
Under your message was: "Maybe soon."
You smile to yourself at the idea of your admirer coming forward and revealing themselves. Did they have a favorite Aniteez member too? There weren't many who showed an interest in little fuzzy animals around here, butâ
Your train of thought comes to a screeching halt as an inkling of an idea suddenly hits you full force.
It was so obvious that you almost laugh in disbelief as you look at the little yellow chick sitting by your keyboard. You figured it out. You know exactly who this has to be.
With that thought you race over to Wooyoung's cubicle and grab his shoulders, excitement oozing off you as you shake him.
"I figured it out!"
Wooyoung turns to you, confused and slightly freaked out by the sudden hands on him, but he relaxes quickly when he sees it's you.
"Well, look at you. You seem pleased with yourself. Did you finally figure out why your PC keeps turning on randomly at night? I'm telling you your apartment is haunted-"
"No, dumbass. And stop saying my apartment is haunted before I move in with you!" You slap his arm and Wooyoung stifles a laugh.
"You'd be sleeping on my floor if you tried it, but what are you talking about now?"
"I know who my admirer is." You say with so much confidence it makes all playfulness drain from Wooyoung's face.
Warning bells go off in his head. There's no way you could know, but he doesn't say that, instead he straightens in his office chair.
"Oh? Who?" He asks, feigning nonchalance.
"So get this, I was about to check my note when Mingiâ remember him? Tall white tiger hybrid with the stupid big shoulders? Anyway, he stopped by my desk to talk about the figurines and guess what? He also likes Aniteez! On top of that," You show him the note, "What are the odds of my admirer saying he may see me soon and all of a sudden Mingi stops by and talks to me about Aniteez after we haven't spoken in months? It can't be a coincidence! It has to be Mingi, right?"
Your explanation had turned into white noise in Wooyoung's head as soon as you said Mingi's name.
It wasn't Mingi. Wooyoung knew that without a doubt, but that fact is stuck in his throat, held back by his promise to Yeosang not to out him.
He didn't realize it until this very moment, but he was rooting for Yeosang and his plans ever since their talk at the pub after work. He'd even texted Yeosang over the weekend with some encouragement to come forward sooner rather than later. Going back and forth with ideas of how Yeosang could approach you and ask you out on a date. The standard of a flower or chocolates, maybe something more modern like making you a playlist or making his own valentines-esque card to leave on your desk, they'd even entertained the idea of trying to set up a dinner at the pub if Yeosang could find the courage.
Now here you were, eyes bright and smile wide for the wrong personâ and it made his stomach turn.
This was bad.
"-ung, are you even listening?"
Wooyoung blinks out of his thoughts and tunes in just as you're questioning him. He looks at you, a flurry of emotions flowing through him but none being ones he can show without being suspicious. So he paints on his best smile.
"Yeah, sorry, I just started feeling a little sick. I need to run to the bathroom. Let's talk later! Love you!"
You watch Wooyoung step around you and walk quickly down the aisle with a confused furrow of your brows.
"OkayâŠsee youâŠ" You say quietly, mostly to yourself since Wooyoung was long gone.
You slowly go back to your desk, looking at the note in your hands and smiling a little.
"Song Mingi, huh?" You murmur to yourself, a feeling blossoming in your chest that felt warm and satisfying after being left in the dark for what felt like forever.
Meanwhile, Wooyoung pulls out his cellphone as soon as he's in the bathroom and texts Yeosang.
"We got a fucking problem. White Whistle after work."
Wooyoung's foot taps on the tiled floors impatiently as he waits for a reply from the serval hybrid. After a few minutes with no reply, he gives up, going back to his desk and praying you weren't there waiting. Yeosang would likely be caught up in work until closer to clock-out time.
Yeosang replies at 4:45 with a thumbs up but nothing else, and Wooyoung feels his agitation rising ever so slightlyâ but he tries to calm himself down. Yeosang had no idea what was going on so his nonchalance wasn't exactly unwarranted.
Wooyoung finishes the day on autopilot. running on muscle memory until he finds himself sitting across from Yeosang at the pub again.
"What's wrong?" The serval hybrid asks, noticing how tense Wooyoung was.
Wooyoung takes a moment to reply, trying to figure out the best way to approach it. The urgency poking at his nerves makes him cut right to the chase.
"She thinks it's Mingi. Giving her the figurines."
Yeosang blinks once, twice, the information running through his head on a loop but it wasn't sinking in just yet.
"Apparently, Mingi and her had a chat today after lunch about Aniteez. She's certain. The type of certain I know means she won't think she's wrong until proven otherwise." Wooyoung continues, leaning forward on the table, hoping Yeosang understands his underlying message.
"You want to tell her it's me?" Yeosang whispers, his voice soft as he realizes the position he's in.
His efforts were being awarded to someone else entirely.
"No. I want you to approach her." Wooyoung corrects him.
Yeosang shakes his head before Wooyoung even finishes his sentence.
"I can't. I already told you that I'm not readyâ"
"Ready or not, the longer you wait, the more she's gonna fixate on Mingi, and you really won't have a chance with her." Wooyoung cuts him off, an intensity in his tone that makes Yeosang go quiet.
Mingi was big, beefy, friendly, a known face around the office. He was the exact antithesis of Yeosang and deep down, Yeosang was envious of that fact. If he were more like Mingi, he'd be able to confront you easily and just ask you out normally. He wouldn't have to scrape up courage just to reply to a note you left for him.
Alas, Yeosang was a slimmer build, muscular but not as broad as Mingi, awkward at best, easily faded into the background. In all ways that mattered in his mind, he lost in comparison to someone like Song Mingi.
Yeosang looks down, ears drooping as he battles between not wanting his efforts to benefit someone else and his fear of you potentially being let down now that you think it may be Mingi. It was easier when you had no expectations, but now you were expecting someone like Mingi to be your prince charming, not the quiet nerd in IT.
"You can't seriously be considering not saying shit." Wooyoung deadpans, staring at Yeosang who just drops his head into his hands, "Really? Even when you risk losing your chance, you're gonna be a coward?"
Yeosang's head snaps up at that.
"Excuse me? Pardon me for not moving at your pace. We can't all be as unfortunately forward as you, Wooyoung." Yeosang frowns, getting defensive.
"Unfortunately forward? I sure as hell wouldn't let myself get cucked out of a chance with a girl I like at least." Wooyoung fires back.
"You know why I don't want to tell her yet!"
"There's no time for that! I know Y/N. I know how her brain works. She's gonna hyperfocus on Mingi anytime she gets anything from you now, and she's gonna develop a crush that you yourself are cultivating because you're hiding in the shadows."
Yeosang finds himself growling, ears flattening as he feels backed into a corner.
"It's different now. She thinks it's Mingi. What if she gets disappointed if she finds out it's me? Look at Mingi and look at me, two entirely different types. I can't justâ"
"You won't even try! That's what's killing me. You're giving brownie points to another man who isn't even aware he's in the race to begin with. You're going to lose to someone who isn't even trying. Is that really what you want?" Wooyoung hisses, a venom in his tone Yeosang has never heard from the otherwise friendly raccoon hybrid.
But Wooyoung's annoyance had peaked, and it made his tongue fly without his brain kicking in to filter for him. Wooyoung couldn't think to stop himself before he let his heightened emotions win.
"Whatever, man. If you don't care enough to put up a fight then why the fuck am I even here?" Wooyoung gets up, his stool scraping the floor harshly, "Maybe she is better off with Mingi."
Yeosang's retort dies in his throat at that, shoulders deflating as Wooyoung's words hit him right in a sore spot. He just stares at Wooyoung, not quick enough to mask the pain that settles into his eyes before he casts them downward.
Wooyoung throws his bag onto his shoulder before storming out of the pub, irritation leading his actions as he leaves Yeosang with his thoughts.
Thoughts that were eating at him even more now that Wooyoung voiced his insecurity unknowingly.
She's better off with someone like Mingi. Mingi is everything you're not. You're a letdown compared to him.
Yeosang slowly gets off his stool, pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder as he bites down on his tongue. He exits into the chilly autumn evening, the back of his eyes burning as he makes his way to the bus stop down the block.
He wouldn't cry. Not now. Not in public.
But as he sits and waits for the bus, he finds himself flipping his hood up to hide his turmoil from the world. His hand shakes as he puts it into his hoodie pocket to fish out his headphones. He pops in his buds, putting on a song that usually soothes his anxiety, but even that doesn't seem to be working. The familiar melody that felt like a hug most days was more akin to an itchy sweater in this moment. He bites down harder on his tongue, a familiar iron taste settling in as he splits his tongue openâ but the alternative of crying in public was far worse than some spilt blood.
It felt like an eternity had passed by the time he finally got into his car at a local car park by the bus station, but it had only been half an hour of feeling like a pressure cooker on the brink of exploding. Finally within four metal walls he's familiar with, the outside world muffled by thick doors, Yeosang lets the dam break and the first tears flow down his face.
He cries in anger for feeling so inferior. He cries in mourning for a friendship he thought was blooming between him and Wooyoung. He cries in anguish at the thought of his carefully formulated plan leading you into someone else's arms.
And again, that voice in his head speaks to him.
"You didn't really expect a happy ending, did you?"
Perhaps naively, he did. He let himself have hope for a future where he could have you. Now he finds himself feeling more alone than he's ever been before.
But that's just life, isn't it?
Please do not translate, upload, or repost my works anywhere. Thank you for reading!
Pairing: Pirate!Hongjoong x Siren!Fem!Reader | wc: 6034
Masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter
WARNINGS: Slavery, malnutrition, kidnapping, blood, mention of death
A/n: Iâm terribly sorry for the waitingđ unfortunately the last chapters got deleted and Iâm currently rewriting them, thatâs why it took so long.đ Hope yall enjoy this!
IT WAS dark. Not the discreet, natural darkness that wraps nights at sea, when the sky breathes with the water and the stars seem to rock the waves. No. This was a different kind of darkness, compact like mud, dense like burnt oil, heavy enough that every breath felt as though it had to pierce through it.
The air was saturated with a sharp smell of iron and blood, burning her throat with every inhale. Each breath was a scratch against her throat, a thin razor cut that reminded Y/n of the pain spreading through her entire body. Every jolt of the ground made the boards of the carriage vibrate, and with each vibration the chains around her wrists clinked softly, a cold, metallic sound that sliced through the air and dissolved into the monotonous clatter of wheels and the crack of leather whipped against the horses' flanks.
Around her mouth, knotted tightly behind her neck, was a filthy piece of cloth. Her lips burned beneath the pressure, the corners stretched almost to the point of splitting. They had stopped her from speaking, from making any sound at all, because they feared that with her singing she might try to bewitch her captors and escape. And in the end, they were right, because Y/n would have used any chance to flee, even if it meant singing in front of everyone.
Four and a half days had passed since the attack on the Treasure. Four days that felt like months, a suspended time in which every hour had turned into torture. She had traveled aboard an unfamiliar ship where the predatory eyes of pirates watched her as if she were an object on display, where the salt stung her wounds and the rocking of the vessel made her nauseous. Then they had landed, on a small island shrouded in dark, rain-laden clouds. The landing had been violent; Y/n was yanked by the rough hands of her captors onto a dock that smelled of rotten fish and tar. Men shouted, shoving merchandise without sparing a glance for the cargo.
Now she was there, locked inside a carriage with the other prisoners.
The women around her had vacant stares, dark circles framing their eyes. Some had hollow cheeks, faces carved by malnutrition, so thin that their bones jutted beneath their skin, their gazes fixed on some invisible point in the void. Others tried to soothe children who whimpered softly, their voices trembling like taut strings on the verge of snapping. There were mothers, daughters, prisoners of war, perhaps creatures like her, women who had once had a life, and who were now only its shadow.
The girl beside Y/n had curly hair, frizzed by seawater and wind. She trembled constantly, as if the cold had seeped into her bones and refused to leave. Her chapped lips were drawn into a permanent expression of pain. Her hands, knotted and dirty, clutched a tiny piece of fabric, so worn it looked ready to fall apart. Perhaps it was all that remained of a dress. Perhaps a memory. Perhaps everything she had left.
Y/n looked at her in silence. She wanted to speak to her. She wanted to tell her it would end, that she would survive. To reassure her somehow. But the knot in her throat and the cloth pressed between her teeth forced her to remain mute. And besides, she couldn't lie. Things would not be all right. There wasn't even a shred of certainty she could offer that trembling girl.
She lowered her gaze to her knees, trying to focus on something other than the pain from the cut along her ribs or the fear tightening her stomach. The dress they had torn from her, now reduced to rags, was stained with dirt, dried blood, and salt. The fabric, once soft and light, was now rough and stiff in places, as if the world's cruelty had imprinted itself onto her skin. Purple and blue bruises spread across her arms, while irregular scratches tore at the skin of her knees until they bled. Every movement sent a stab of pain through her body, but it was bearable compared to the weight pressing against her chest.
Fear.
It was a visceral fear, one that clenched her stomach and made her heart tremble. She was afraid of dying, of being sold, of having to sing for someone who would never let her stop. She was afraid of the dark, of the hands that would seize her, of the greedy eyes that would look at her as if she were a trophy.
And more than anything, she was afraid of never seeing him again.
Hongjoong.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. She saw his face, his blond hair tousled into rebellious strands by the sea wind. She saw the way sunlight rested on his skin, as if it recognized him, as if it preferred him to everything else in the world. She saw his determined eyes soften every time they turned toward her. She could almost hear him speak, his steady voice calling her name in that calm tone he used only with her, as if he feared hurting her even with a breath.
The memory of his hands alone was enough to warm her chest. She remembered the way he touched her, as if she were something precious, as if he were afraid she might vanish at the slightest movement. And the words he had said to her before the clash came back to her, clear and threaded with worry: «Go below deck. And stay there until it's over.»
Tears, warm despite the cold in the carriage, stung her eyes. She tried to hold them back, but one slipped free anyway, tracing a pale line through the dried mud and dust on her face.
Despite everything, despite the pain and the fear, a part of her still hoped. She hoped he was alive. She hoped he was well. She hoped he was thinking of her. Maybe, at that very moment, he was on the Treasure, locked in his cabin, his forehead resting on the wooden table with a map spread out before him. Maybe he was cursing himself for not having saved her. Maybe he was already planning to come find her.
But Y/n didn't want him to.
She didn't want him to risk his life, or the lives of his men, just to save her. The mere thought that he might get hurt because of her terrified her more than death itself. She would never forgive herself if anything happened to him because of her.
She closed her eyes, inhaling slowly through the cloth pressed against the corners of her mouth. Her breath was short, her heart pounding as if it wanted to burst out of her ribcage.
Stay alive, she thought. Please, stay alive.
The sound of the wheels continued without pause, a monotonous, cruel rhythm marking time like a broken clock. Every now and then, the horses' neighing cut through the air, followed by the sharp crack of a whip and the hoarse voices of the men guiding the convoy, harsh words steeped in violence.
Y/n lifted her gaze to the gaps in the wooden boards, thin lines of silvery light filtering through like luminous veins in the darkness. Through those cracks she glimpsed the outside: shadows of dark trees sliding past, rocks scattered across the ground, the pale glow of the moon veiled by swollen rain clouds. An unfamiliar island. A land where no one would find her.
A sob shook her chest. She felt fragile, infinitely small in the face of such a cruel world. And yet, despite the despair, her heart kept beating for him. Even as she tried to convince herself otherwise, even as she told herself it was better this way, that at least Hongjoong was safe, that at least they had survived. She saw him every time she closed her eyes. She relived every moment they had shared. The lessons in the cabin, their stifled laughter so as not to wake the crew, the songs she murmured when he asked her to sing softly, just for him. The way he looked at her. The way he touched her. The way he had taught her, without meaning to, what it felt like to be free.
I miss you, she thought, and a second tear slid down her cheek.
The carriage lurched violently, and one of the women beside her slammed her side against the wood, choking back a whimper. From outside, a male voice barked an order, followed by the dry crack of a whip. The vehicle resumed its run with a screech of wheels and chains.
Y/n leaned back against the wood behind her, closing her eyes. Sleep came in waves, but shattered every time, against a jolt, a memory, a shudder of the ground that dragged her back to reality. Her mind always returned there: to the Treasure, to the blue sky above them, to the warm wind, to Hongjoong looking at her as if she were both indispensable and fragile. To his words, which now felt like promises spoken to the wind.
Don't come looking for me, she thought again, staring at the carriage floor. I don't want you to get hurt.
But deep in her heart, in that small space no chain could ever reach, she knew what she truly wanted.
Come and get me.
And as the carriage disappeared down the dusty path, swallowed by the forest that smelled of rain and damp earth, Y/n closed her eyes and clung to the only thing she had left: the memory of Hongjoong's hands, warm and steady, holding hers for the first time as if he would never let her go.
The carriage slowed.
At first it was only an almost imperceptible change in the sound of the wheels: the regular rhythm broke, turning into a shorter, uneven creak. Then came a real jolt, a sharp, sudden impact that made all the prisoners stagger. Bodies crashed into one another, chains scraping against the wood with a harsh screech. Y/n barely lifted her head, just enough to keep her balance. The shackles around her wrists clinked softly, as if they were anticipating what was about to happen.
Through one of the bars of the wagon, she caught a glimpse of the outside. The shadow of a building loomed against the late-afternoon sky, dark and compact, like a formless mass. It was large, imposing, devoid of any attempt at welcome. The windows were few and narrow, like slits, more suited to keeping things in than letting light through. At the center of the façade stood an enormous door made of blackened wood, so dark it seemed capable of devouring the air around it.
Above the entrance, a wrought-iron sign swayed slowly in the wind. The metal creaked softly, like a weary lament. The engraved letters glimmered faintly, catching the last light of the sunset.
Magnum Mare.
Those two words shimmered weakly in the dim light. Y/n did not know their meaning, but the sound alone sent a shiver down her spine. There was something ominous in the way the sign was written, slightly dirty and chipped along the edges. The carriage came to a stop with a dull thud, making the planks beneath them vibrate. Immediately after, the sound of iron hinges filled the air: the structure sealing the wagon was being opened, slowly, with a clang that echoed off the building's walls.
A male voice cut through the silence. «Out! Everyone out! Move!»
The command was followed by a low murmur. The prisoners began to move, uncertain, like frightened animals in a cage. Chains dragged along the floor, producing a hollow sound that reverberated against the stone. One by one, they began to step out. The older ones tried to help the children, lifting them when their legs could no longer support them, trying to ease the weight of the chains binding them all together.
The air outside was damp, saturated with the smell of salt and rotting wood. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of a seagull could be heard, a shrill cry that resonated with cruelty. When it was Y/n's turn, a sudden shove to her shoulder forced her forward. She stepped out of the carriage, and the outside air struck her like a slap. Y/n staggered as another blow hit her back, and she clenched her teeth, stifling an irritated sound.
«Walk, fish.» a pirate growled behind her.
Unable to reply, her mouth still bound by the cloth, she turned just enough to shoot him a look full of contempt, a look that, if it could, would have pierced him like a blade. The man burst out laughing, a low, scornful sound, and shoved her again, harder. Y/n moved forward. Every step hurt. Her ankles, battered by the shackles, burned as if submerged in fire. The wind plastered her hair to her face, tangled with sweat and dust, and every breath was an enormous effort.
In front of the entrance, two guards halted the group. They were armed with spears and wore light armor. On their chests, engraved into the metal, was the same symbol: a stylized wave rising from the sea. The spears crossed in front of the door with a sharp, automatic motion.
One of the pirates stepped forward and produced a small brass badge, rolling it between his fingers with a satisfied air. The guards examined it for a moment, then exchanged a silent glance and stepped aside, clearing the way.
The doors opened with a creak. A wave of warm, heavy air hit them, saturated with the scent of wood and wine, a smell that held nothing pleasant. It was the sticky aroma of wealth built on others' suffering, a stench masked by luxury.
The interior of the Magnum Mare was vast and dim. The dark wooden walls were adorned with oil lamps that cast a flickering light, just enough to outline a few shapes: staircases leading to upper floors, rusted metal doors locked tight, balconies from which someone watched in silence. Men were everywhere, merchants dressed in expensive clothes, armed soldiers, authoritative figures who scrutinized the prisoners as one would inspect livestock.
The group was shoved forward, chains clinking against the stone floor. The prisoners walked slowly; some stumbled, others cried in silence. Behind a large dark wooden counter, an elderly man was counting gold coins. They gleamed gently under the candlelight, their clinking sound uncomfortable to those around him. His white hair was neatly tied back, his long beard carefully groomed. The thin smile on his lips never reached his eyes, cold and sharp like shards of glass.
One of the pirates called out to him smugly. «Old man! We've brought you a special haul today. There's everything.» the pirate went on. «Women, children, and even a young mermaid!»
At the word mermaid, the old man's fingers froze. One coin slipped and fell to the floor with a sharp clink. The silence that followed was thick with tension. Slowly, the man lifted his gaze. «A mermaid?» he repeated, his voice hoarse with pleasure.
The pirate nodded proudly. «That's right. Beautiful as the sun. And still alive.»
Y/n barely had time to understand what was happening before she was shoved forward violently. She fell to her knees, bones slamming against the hard stone, and a muffled groan escaped from beneath the cloth covering her mouth. A moment later, a rough hand grabbed her under the chin and forced her face upward.
The old man studied her closely. His eyes lit up, and for a moment the room seemed to fill with the sound of his heavy breathing.
«Incredible...» he murmured, examining the dark markings covering the skin of her neck. «Do you see these marks? She's authentic.»
He leaned closer, until she could almost feel his breath against her skin, too close for her liking. Then, with a smile that froze the air, he added. «This one will bring us a lot of money.»
He laughed. A low, slimy laugh that echoed through the hall like the hiss of a snake.
Y/n closed her eyes. She wanted to scream, but the cloth trapped her voice in her throat. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she did not let a single one fall. She would not give them that satisfaction.
The sound of gold changing hands filled the room. The pirates laughed, counted, nodded in satisfaction.
«Deal done.» one of them said. «You've got yourself a rare jewel, old man.»
The old man nodded, the thin smile never leaving his lips. «Oh, I'm sure of it. At the market, mermaids are worth more than gold.»
The pirates left, laughing. The doors closed behind them, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
A hand yanked on Y/n's chain, separating her from the rest of the group. She was dragged down a side corridor, stumbling several times, her knees hitting the stone, her breath broken. They led her into a smaller, colder room. The walls were rough stone. In front of her stretched a row of iron cells, like the cages of a menagerie. The floor was wet, covered in mud and soaked straw.
One by one, the prisoners were locked inside. The chains were unfastened and reused for others, like an endless mechanism. When it was her turn, Y/n was practically thrown into the cell. She fell heavily to the ground, her hands sinking into the mud, her body throbbing with pain. The impact made her teeth rattle, and for a moment she couldn't breathe.
The guard slammed the door shut with a deafening clang, then moved back to stand behind his master. The old man turned slightly to look at her, that thin smile still etched on his lips.
«Rest well, little pearl.» he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. «Tomorrow will be a big day for you.» He turned the key in the lock, the metallic sound echoing like a death sentence, and walked away, chuckling softly.
Y/n remained motionless, her face turned toward the floor. She felt the tears rising, but she forced them back. She inhaled slowly, trying to calm herself. Then, little by little, she pushed herself up and leaned against the wall. The cell was cold and damp. She looked through the bars, where the torchlight flickered and faded.
That was when she understood she had reached the heart of hell.
And, for the first time since she had been captured, she stopped fighting, just for a moment, and closed her eyes. A sigh escaped her lips, slow and deep, heavy with exhaustion and resignation. Then, in the silence of her cell, she thought of Hongjoong. And she clung to the memory of his voice, the only sound that still managed to give her strength.
The smell of the cell was the first thing Y/n noticed, and perhaps the worst.
It wasn't just the stench of mold, but something far more nauseating. A stagnant mixture of dried blood, rusted iron, and filthy water. The air had a bitter taste that clung to her tongue and palate. Every breath scraped her throat, leaving behind a burning sensation that refused to fade, as if the stench itself wanted to remind her where she was.
She looked around. The stone walls were dark and damp, stained with rust blotches that trickled down in thin streaks to the floor. Some parts of the walls were cracked, as though prisoners' hands had tried over and over again to dig an escape. From the ceiling hung a single torch, its trembling flame casting a yellowish, unstable glow over everything around her.
Y/n slowly got to her feet, the chains around her wrists clinking faintly. The iron bit into her skin, now bruised and covered in cuts crusted with dried blood, and every small movement tore a silent groan from her throat. Beneath her soles she felt a slimy layer of mud mixed with ash and soggy straw, making her wrinkle her nose. She took a few unsteady steps, then turned around.
She wasn't alone.
In the farthest corner of the cell, huddled together, were dozens of people. Women, men, even a few children. All crouched against one another in silence, heads bowed and shoulders hunched. The chains binding them ran like metal roots from one corner to another, fastened to iron rings embedded in the walls.
No one spoke.
The only sound was their collective breathing, heavy, exhausted, occasionally broken by a cough or a muffled sob. A shiver ran down Y/n's spine. It was as if she had suddenly realized the reality of where she was.
She ran her tongue over her lips, but they were dry, cracked from the cold. Her throat felt as arid as sand from the lack of water, and a burning sensation rose with every passing minute. The cloth still tied around her mouth made everything worse; every time she tried to swallow, the fabric rubbed against her skin, soaking up the little saliva she had left. In the end, she sat back down, letting her spine slide against the icy wall. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the pain in her hands, but it was useless.
«I heard they say you're a siren.»
The voice came from her left, hoarse but gentle, as if it belonged to a woman who had only recently stopped screaming. Y/n turned her head slightly. Beside her, sitting on the ground with her legs drawn up, was a woman with dark hair braided messily. A few strands had come loose, falling over a face marked by exhaustion.
Her eyes glimmered in the dim light, two pale pearls set in a tired but still living face.
Y/n looked at her with a mix of caution and curiosity. Unable to speak, she nodded slowly.
The woman sighed, letting out a bitter smile, as if she had already expected that answer. «I thought so.» There was a brief pause. The torch crackled, and the shadow of the bars stretched across the floor. «Seems like it's a good season.» she added, her tone anything but cheerful.
Y/n raised an eyebrow, confused, tilting her head in silent question.
The woman let out a soundless laugh. «They brought three in before you.» She rubbed a hand along her arm, as if trying to brush away an unpleasant memory. «A family. The woman's hair were still wet when they threw her in here.»
Y/n's heart skipped a beat.
Those words struck her like a blade. Her breath shortened, her blood turned to ice.
A family of sirens.
For a moment, everything around her vanished, the walls, the chains, the voices. Everything dissolved into a distant ringing. Her heart began to pound harder, almost painfully.
Her family.
The thought exploded in her mind with such violence it stole the air from her lungs. She opened her eyes wide and looked around, searching past the huddled bodies, past the hunched shoulders, past the shadows. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a dull drum drowning out every other sound.
The woman beside her watched, immediately understanding what Y/n was looking for with such desperation. «They're a few cells away,» she said softly. «You can't see them, but you can hear them. Sometimes they cry. I think they're chained and gagged like you.»
Y/n froze.
For a long moment she stayed still, staring at the floor. Her heart pulsed loudly in her ears, like the beat of a distant drum.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced herself not to let them fall. She took a deep breath through her nose, trying to keep control.
The woman watched her for another moment, then added in a whisper, «I hope you'll see them again.»
Y/n nodded faintly. She couldn't speak, but her gaze said everything words could not.
She then lowered her eyes to her worn boots. The stitching was caked with mud and dried blood, and every time she moved her toes she felt the fabric scrape against her skin. The rope around her wrists seemed to tighten more and more, digging into raw flesh. She wondered how long she would be able to endure that pain.
The hours passed slowly, endlessly. There was no window in the cell, only the torch slowly burning down, dripping molten wax onto the floor. From time to time, at irregular intervals, a distant noise shattered the silence: heavy footsteps, the creak of a door, or someone's muffled screams from another room.
Y/n closed her eyes and began to count. She counted breaths, seconds, heartbeats, anything to keep from thinking about where she was.
But thoughts, like the tide, always returned to shore.
She saw them in her mind.
Her mother, with her long, soft hair braided and adorned with colorful shells. Her father, strong and calm, with that voice that could soothe any fear. Her little brother, with wide, bright eyes, who loved hiding among the waves just to scare her.
Perhaps they were right there, only a few steps away, behind those stone walls. Perhaps they were holding one another, trying to be strong. Perhaps they, too, hoped she was still alive.
The image made her tremble. Her chest rose and fell in quick breaths, and for a moment she thought she might suffocate. She bent forward, pressing her clenched fists against the damp floor, and tried to calm herself.
She had to endure.
She had to find a way to see them again.
But night came too quickly.
The torchlight dimmed until it was no bigger than a grain of salt, and the cell sank into a bluish half-darkness. Somewhere above their heads, the moon had risen in the sky, and its light filtered weakly through the corridor windows, drawing thin silver threads along the walls.
Y/n curled in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest. Her body ached everywhere, but sleep would not come. Every sound made her flinch, and she couldn't relax in that place.
And yet, in the silence, her thoughts drifted back to him.
Hongjoong.
She imagined him in his study, bent over maps, hands stained with ink and brow furrowed. She imagined his voice, calm and deep, the one that always managed to soothe her. She imagined his warm fingers brushing her cheek as he told her not to worry.
A knot tightened in her throat. She wished she could hear him say her name, just once.
She closed her eyes and did it for him, in her mind. She thought his name in silence, over and over again, almost obsessively, letting the sound lull her. With all her heart, she prayed that he wouldn't come looking for her.
Because even if her heart begged for it, she knew it wasn't safe and the last thing she wanted was for him to get hurt.
The night wind slipped gently through the bars, and for a moment it seemed as though the sea was calling her. Y/n lifted her face slightly toward the faint light, letting a single, silent tear trace its way down her cheek.
TIME HAD stopped hours ago, or maybe days. Y/n was no longer sure. Hours and days no longer existed, only a hazy before and a dragging, sticky now. Hunger and thirst had clouded her mind to the point that she no longer remembered how long she had slept, or how long she had cried. She had lost count of the hours since they had locked her in there, and by now her mind had burned out like a candle consumed all the way to the knot of its wick.
She was curled up against the wall, her body drawn into itself as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Her cheek was pressed against the cold, damp stone, rough enough to irritate her skin. Everything hurt, her legs felt heavy, her hands throbbed with pain, and her head spun every time she tried to move. She had stopped trembling: it was as if even her body had decided to give up, leaving her suspended between wakefulness and sleep.
That was when it happened.
A sharp gunshot tore through the air, sudden and violent. The sound thundered through the prison's underground corridors, amplified by the stone. Y/n's eyes flew open, her heart leaping into her chest with such force that it stole her breath. A second shot followed the first, then a third, closer. And right after came the screams.
She sat up abruptly, confused, breathing hard. The sound was clear, unmistakable: above their heads, someone was fighting. Shouts, clashing blades, orders being yelled. The crash of iron against iron vibrated all the way down to the foundations, as if the stone itself were trembling.
Around her, the other prisoners jolted awake. Women clutched children to their chests, shielding them with their frail bodies; some men moved toward the bars, craning their necks to look outside. No one knew what was happening, but they all shared the same fear, that the battle would end badly, and they would remain trapped down there, buried alive.
Y/n slowly got to her feet, swaying. The chains around her wrists clinked heavily against the stone, and her arms trembled under their weight. She approached the bars, gripping them with bruised fingers.
A blast louder than the others shook the air. Somewhere higher up, there was the crash of something collapsing, a section of ceiling, perhaps, or a beam struck by a cannon. A man's scream echoed through the corridor, then another. And amid the terror twisting her stomach, Y/n felt hope rise, warming her chest.
«They're fighting!» someone shouted from farther back, their voice cracked with emotion.
«Maybe... maybe they're freeing us!»
Voices multiplied into a growing murmur, a mix of panic and excitement. Y/n didn't know whether to believe it. Her dry lips trembled against the cloth still gagging her, and the only sound she managed was a muffled whimper.
Then, amid the chaos of battle, there was a different sound: the deep creak of an iron door opening.
Rapid, disorderly footsteps drew closer. Agitated voices overlapped. And suddenly, figures appeared along the hallway, men and women dressed in rags, broken chains still hanging from their wrists. They carried keys, iron clubs, and some even had weapons stolen from the guards.
«The cells! Open the cells!» one of them shouted, and within moments frantic hands were turning keys, forcing locks, yanking bolts free.
The clang of metal filled the air, followed by a chorus of sobs and cries of relief. Freedom, after so long, finally had a sound. When they reached her cell, Y/n took a step back, almost intimidated. One of the men slid the key into the lock, turned it, and the door swung open with a sharp creak.
Another grabbed her wrists and, with a single hard blow, snapped the chain binding them. The metal hit the ground with a dull thud. Y/n stood still for a moment, staring at her freed hands as if she couldn't quite believe she could move them. Then, on impulse, she brought her fingers to her mouth and tore away the cloth clenched between her teeth.
She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air for the first time in days. The oxygen burned her throat, making her cough, but it was a wonderful feeling.
An even louder crash made her flinch. From the far end of the corridor came new voices, strong, commanding, shouting orders in a military tone. And among those voices, there was one that made her eyes widen.
A voice she knew better than the back of her hand.
«Move! Free everyone! Check the cells on the left!»
Her breath broke in half. No. It couldn't be him.
And yet that voice was drawing closer, becoming clearer and clearer, until the figure emerged from the smoke and dust.
Hongjoong.
The world stopped. All the noise, the fire, the screams vanished, as if swallowed by a sudden void. There were only the two of them left.
Hongjoong stood there, sword still in hand, his jacket slashed in several places. His blond hair, disheveled and caked with dust, fell over his sweaty forehead. His eyes, dark and sharp, just as Y/n remembered, were now filled with disbelief and something that looked terrifyingly like tears.
«Y/n...» he whispered.
Just one word. One breath. One name. But it was enough to shatter the wall of days and fear that had kept them apart.
Y/n stared at him, frozen, her chest tightening painfully. «Hongjoong...» she murmured, his name breaking as it left her lips after days of silence.
He took one step forward, then another. And in the blink of an eye, he was upon her. He pulled her into him with a force that almost lifted her off the ground. His arms wrapped around her completely, his hands trembling as they slid over her back, into her hair, along her hips. Y/n clung to his neck, her fingers desperately trying to feel him close, to make sure he was real.
Her face disappeared into the hollow of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent of sea, metal, and burnt wood that she had missed like air itself. «You came...» she whispered against his warm skin, her voice breaking with a sob.
Hongjoong closed his eyes, letting out a breath that trembled on his lips. He rested his forehead against her temple, one hand gently stroking her tangled hair. He held her so tightly they seemed like a single being. «Did you doubt me?» he murmured, with a broken smile, almost breathless.
Y/n let out a weak laugh that turned into a cry, shaking her head softly. «No, I...»
Her legs gave out after days of imprisonment, but Hongjoong immediately catch her, holding her even tighter against his chest. «Easy there, I've got you.» he whispered in a low tone. «I won't ever let you go again, do you hear me? I won't let you go.»
For a moment, they forgot everything else, the voices, the explosions, the fighting. There were only the two of them in that stone corridor, two souls finding each other again after searching through the darkness.
Y/n pulled back slightly and saw his face up close: cheekbones smudged with soot, cracked lips, eyes full of exhaustion and rage.
Hongjoong brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, wiping away the grime. «Did they hurt you?» he asked, his voice heavy with restrained fury.
She shook her head slowly, clasping his hand in both of hers as if he might vanish at any moment. «I'm okay now.»
Hongjoong leaned toward her, his fingers still grazing her skin, as though he were afraid he might break her. But inside him, the fury grew silently. Seeing her like that, malnourished, injured, with the marks of ropes around her wrists, sent blood rushing to his head. He wanted to go back upstairs, grab every man who had dared touch her, and drag them to hell with him.
But not now. Not in front of her.
He had to take her away, to safety the of his ship, in the comfort of his bed. Away from that hell, far from all that pain.
He was about to speak when a voice interrupted him.
«Y/n?»
A female voice, broken, but unbearably familiar, came from the end of the corridor. Y/n jolted, turning sharply, her heart hammering in her ears.
Her blood ran cold.
Eyes wide, she searched the shadows, among the flickering torches and the haze of dust filling the passage.
Hongjoong followed her gaze, his hand still protectively pressed against the small of her back. At the end of the corridor, beyond the half-open door of another cell, a figure could be seen moving with difficulty.
A forced marriage born from grief slowly turns into safety, tenderness, and quiet love.
Fem! Reader/Oneshot
Based on this Request
grief makes the world tilt.
not enough to knock you over. just enough that nothing lines up the way it should.
the house doesnât sound right without your father. no footsteps. no absent humming. the air smells permanently of incense, sweet and choking, like something trying too hard to cover rot. it clings to your clothes, your throat. you keep forgetting to breathe.
youâre still standing in your doorway when your stepmother calls you.
âkitchen. now.â
her voice doesnât echo. it never does. it cuts.
your hands shake as you wipe your face. you already know better than to ask why. when she calls like that, itâs never neutral.
you step into the kitchen and stop short.
four men sit at the table.
they donât look at you like strangers do. they look settled. comfortable. like the room belongs to them now. dark suits, polished shoes, bodies loose with the confidence of people who donât need permission.
your shoulders fold in without you meaning to. your breath goes thin.
your stepmother clicks her tongue. âdonât just stand there.â
you move because freezing has never protected you.
âwho are they?â you ask, staring at the floor.
âtheyâre here for you,â she says flatly. âyour father arranged a marriage before he died.â
the word marriage lands wrong. hollow. sharp around the edges.
âmy father is dead,â you say. it comes out smaller than you expect.
one of the men smiles like this is amusing. âand this was his final request.â
a name follows.
Park Seonghwa.
youâve heard it before. never loudly. always like a warning people expect you to understand.
âI canât,â you whisper. âplease. I donât want this.â
your stepmotherâs eyes harden. âyou donât get to want.â
another man leans forward, thin smile stretched too tight. ârefusing would make things⊠complicated for you.â
your stomach drops. cold spreads fast, rooting you in place.
âgo pack,â she says. âyouâre leaving today.â
as you turn away, the thought hits like something breaking loose inside your chest. this is what being good does. it makes you portable. quiet. easy to hand over.
the car smells like leather and metal.
you sit in the backseat, hands clenched together until your fingers ache. when the door shuts, the sound feels final, like something locking behind you.
âwhere are we going?â you ask.
no one looks back.
one of them laughs under his breath. âsomewhere better than you deserve.â
âthis marriage is an honor,â another adds. âyou should be grateful.â
you nod because your body knows better than to fight. your hands wonât stop shaking. you donât bother hiding it.
tears slide down without sound. the road blurs. you wonder if your father knew. if this was protection, or payment.
the mansion rises like a warning.
iron gates. stone walls. guards everywhere. it doesnât feel like a home. it feels like a place people disappear into.
you donât see him.
but from an upstairs window, Seonghwa watches the way you hesitate. the way your eyes track exits before people. fear sits on you so openly it unsettles him.
dinner stretches thin.
the table is too long. the silence too deliberate. his gaze keeps finding you. you keep your eyes on your plate, spine locked tight.
âeat,â he says.
you shake your head.
irritation flashes across his face. âyou havenât spoken since you arrived. do you plan to, or should I guess?â
his tone snaps.
your body reacts before your mind does. you flinch hard, breath catching. âIâm sorry,â you rush out. âI didnât mean to upset you. please donât be angry.â
the words tumble over each other, desperate and automatic. your hands twist together like youâre bracing for impact.
Seonghwa goes still.
this isnât resistance. this is conditioning.
ââŠstop,â he says, slower. âyouâre not in trouble.â
you donât believe him. not yet. but the hesitation in his voice lodges somewhere painful and warm in your chest.
sleep never really comes.
morning finds you in the garden, knees pulled to your chest, staring at nothing. itâs quieter here. safer. Yunho stands nearby, pretending not to watch.
âdoes he always wake up early?â you ask.
Yunho smiles gently. âyes. he doesnât rest well.â
you hesitate. then, barely audible, âis he cruel?â
Seonghwa sits beside you, close but careful. with a glance, he dismisses the guard.
âIâm not cruel,â he says after a pause. âIâm careful.â
the word lingers between you. not kind. not soft. but deliberate.
days blur.
you talk in the garden. at first, only about small things. weather. meals. silence that doesnât cut anymore. eventually, you talk about your father. his laugh. how the house feels wrong now.
Seonghwa listens. never interrupts.
when you mention the men in the car, the words they used, his body goes rigid.
âwho said that to you?â
âI didnât mean to complain,â you say quickly.
âYou didnât,â he replies. âthey were wrong.â
he leaves. later, you hear his voice low and sharp over the phone. the knowledge that his anger is for you settles strangely warm in your chest.
fear doesnât vanish overnight.
but gentleness arrives quietly.
books left where youâll find them. his presence beside you without expectation. his voice never raised again. when you walk, he matches your pace without comment.
the day before the wedding, he takes you to your fatherâs grave.
you donât expect him to kneel.
âI promise,â he says, fingers tightening around yours, âI will protect her. I will not make her afraid.â
you break against his shoulder. he holds you like itâs permitted.
after the ceremony, exhaustion hangs heavy between you.
âI was scared of you,â you admit.
âI know,â he says. âI was scared youâd only see the rumors.â
