P☆OLIN☆

<3

[ddearina]

Welcome~☆

M.LIST I RULES

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Pao, she/her, 20, French, stay, dimples, yellow, brown, writer, dreamer, lover, her <3

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Welcome to my blog! I write fanfic to help with my delusional thoughts (and because I love to write ig)

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Precisions!

You will be blocked if you don't follow the following rules.

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I can write (about) :

Stray Kids (OT8/individually)

Winter from Æspa (read the last part before you come for me)

Smut

Fluff

Comfort

Angst

Headcanons

Fake texts

Insta stories

I will not write about:

Poly!members

Hateful content

Minor members

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About Æspa:

I don't stan this group, but I mostly started writing fics because my best friend wanted to read fanfics but couldn't find anything she really liked. I will post them but won't write anything about Ningning, Giselle, or Karina because I simply don't know them well enough.

Every post about Winter will be a copy of the version I'll write for my friend.

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Please consider that English is not my mother language.

© 2025 ddearina. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, copy, translate or repost my work to any platform.

No ai used.

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[channlust]

you got me thinkin' nonsense!

or: you don't believe that spiderman is real. who would believe that a masked vigilante just popped out of nowhere, started shooting webs and swinging through Seoul saving people, in spandex?? and most of all, you wouldn't believe that said "spiderman" would have any correlation with han jisung, that's just a load of nonsense!

in other words..: look, in jisung's defense, he didnt mean to get bit by a genetically modified spider. but he did, so now he's stuck with the superhuman side effects, a superhero persona, and his roommates constantly covering for him. and hey, he doesn't mind a sprinkle of chaos into his life. he's actually glad he got this alter ego, a version of himself that does good for other people, y'know...saving the city, and one that he can maybe impress you with, since his original self is stuck being your academic rival that you can't stand even if you were paid.

warnings: academicrival!jisung x reader, college au, nerdsung + nerd!reader, slowburn, eventual smut (not in this chapter), 3racha as roommates, Yunjin as your bsf and roommate, references from multiple spiderman movies, innuendos, profanity, college slop, caffeine slop, group project slop, party slop, talks of biotech and robotics that are probably false (research was poorly done), some action scenes, some injuries and blood loss (not in this chapter), reader is an academic weapon and doesn't catch a break, cameos of other members, crack, fluff, banter, no angst at all because Im sensitive, probably a heck ton of typos.

wc: 14k

part ll

98%.

The number glared up at you from the paper.

it's a good grade, objectively a great one. but there had to be a mistake - you’d stayed up three nights straight reviewing every possible permutation of the material. Your notes had been immaculate. You’d even rewritten them twice just to be sure.

Behind you, someone cleared their throat. you braced yourself for whatever annoying thing Jisung was about to say.

"Oof," Jisung said, leaning over your shoulder. "Ninety eight? I mean, close enough."

His own test fluttered into your peripheral vision, 100%. Of course.

"Better luck next time," he added. His voice was light, teasing - a tone he’d used since freshman year whenever he edged you out by fractions of a point.

You exhaled through your nose, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you shoved your test into your bag, zipping it shut.

Jisung didn’t take the hint. He never did. He propped his hip against your desk, grinning as he watched you pack up.

"Don’t worry," Jisung continued, "I’ll let you copy my notes next time."

You finally looked up at him - his stupidly perfect face, his stupidly smug grin, stupidly big framed glasses.

"Like hell I’d copy your chicken scratch," you muttered, shoving your chair back harder than necessary. making its legs screech against the floor.

Jisung’s grin widened. "y'know, if you actually got enough sleep instead of staying up all night-"

You stood up and stomped on his foot, hard.

He yelped, hopping backward with exaggerated agony. "Ow! What was that for?"

You didn’t dignify him with an answer. You slung your bag over your shoulder and walked off without a backward glance.

Behind you, Jisung’s dramatic whining faded into the background noise of the lecture hall, punctuated by a burst of laughter from somewhere near the exit. You didn’t need to look to know it was Changbin, doubled over with amusement while Chan stood beside him, hand resting on the strap of his bag, waiting patiently.

The three of them had been inseparable since their second year of high school, when Chan, already broad shouldered and responsible beyond his years, had stepped between a scrawny, loudmouthed Jisung who'd just learned curse words and a group of seniors looking for an easy target.

Changbin, who’d been watching the confrontation from a nearby bench, had tossed a water bottle at the ringleader’s head mid threat. The resulting chaos had somehow ended with all three of them in detention, and that was where their friendship formed.

By graduation, the three of them had already cemented their fate - Chan, Changbin, and Jisung were a package deal, an inseparable trio that had somehow survived four years of high school without murdering each other.

So when university acceptance letters rolled in, the decision was already made, they’d stick together, signing a lease for a cramped apartment near campus before the ink on their diplomas had even dried.

And then there was you.

Orientation week had been the beginning of it all, though you hadn’t realized it at the time.

You hadn’t noticed Jisung at first during orientation. Not really. He’d been just another face in the crowd, another overeager freshman with bad posture and a laugh too loud.

as for him though, he had a stupid, undeniable crush on you.

he tried to talk to you, you’d been too busy rearranging your schedule to register his existence - some mumbled joke about the professor’s hair that you’d brushed off with a polite smile before walking away.

Another time, still during orientation, he’d lingered near your seat after the icebreaker games, hovering like he expected you to acknowledge him. You hadn’t.

What had caught your attention was the first exam. You’d walked out of that lecture hall certain you’d aced it, only to find your name one spot below his on the results board.

he'd realized then that you're probably a perfectionist, and that you did not like being in second place. you never were in second place, ever since high school.

he became your competition from then.

Jisung noticed the shift immediately. He could’ve backed off. He didn’t. Instead, he leaned into it.

It wasn’t that he wanted you to hate him. He just wanted you to look at him.

Don't get him wrong, he did try to befriend you, but when that ended in inevitable failure, he opted for his last option, the one thing guaranteed to make you react, relentless, obnoxious teasing. If you couldn’t stand him, at least you’d notice him.

It worked better than he’d expected.

three years later, and Han Jisung was still the single most irritating person you'd ever met.

~

The sound of the apartment door jolted Jisung awake. He blinked at the ceiling, groggy and disoriented, sunlight already painting stripes across his unmade bed.

His phone lay facedown on the floor where he’d tossed it last night. He fumbled for it, thumb smearing against the screen as he squinted at the time, 9:47 AM.

"Shit."

Jisung groaned, rubbing his face with both hands as the pieces clicked together - his snoozed alarm, the muffled knocking he'd sleepily batted away earlier, Chan had tried. Chan had definitely tried to wake him up.

Jisung rolled out of bed, scrambling upright, one hand already tugging his hoodie over his head while the other fumbled for his backpack.

He was not gonna be that late if he decided to take a short cut. And so he did.

Cutting through the science building was a gamble, technically off limits to non majors before noon, but Jisung had long since memorized the janitor’s schedule.

He ducked under a half raised security gate, sidestepping a cart of lab equipment as he beelined for the west exit. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the empty hallway, but he didn’t slow down - not until a sharp clang from an adjacent lab made him skid to a halt.

Jisung turned his head just in time to see a door marked 'BIOTECH RESEARCH - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY' swing shut, the tail end of a lab coat disappearing behind it.

He hesitated for half a second, before the distant chime of the campus clock tower rang. He was so late.

Jisung shouldn’t have been there.

The lock mechanism whirred as he hovered near the entrance, the distant hum of machinery inside prickling at his ears. Curiosity had always been his fatal flaw.

He glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was empty.

The door hissed open with a nudge of his shoulder, just wide enough for him to slip through. The lab was a maze of steel tables and humming equipment, bathed in the sterile glow of overhead LEDs.

Glass tanks lined the far wall, their murky contents swirling with movement - something skittered behind the frosted glass, too fast to track. spiders.

"Cool," he muttered, stepping further inside.

Jisung's fingers hovered over the nearest microscope, its lens gleaming under the lab lights. The surface was cool to the touch. Before he could explore more, a sharp click from the far end of the room froze him mid reach. His breath hitched. The sound wasn't mechanical. It was footsteps.

He ducked behind a lab bench, his knee connecting painfully with a drawer handle. He bit his tongue to keep from swearing.

Through the gap between two beakers, he could just make out the silhouette of a researcher - tall, white coated, absorbed in a clipboard. The man moved methodically down the row of specimens, pausing occasionally to adjust dials or scribble notes.

When the researcher turned toward a computer terminal, Jisung seized his chance. He crab walked backward, keeping low, until his shoulder bumped into something decidedly not a lab table. it was one of the glass tanks from earlier.

The container wobbled. He lunged to steady the glass before it could shatter and give away his presence that was not allowed in this lab, but his palm slipped against the condensation slick surface. The lid shifted with a silent clink.

A spider the size of a quarter dropped onto his wrist.

Jisung's entire body locked up. The spider's legs were needle thin, its body an unnatural shade of iridescent blue that shimmered under the lab lights.

For a suspended second, neither of them moved - Jisung paralyzed by instinctive revulsion, the spider crouched like a coiled spring. Then it bit him.

The pain was sharp and sudden, Jisung clamped his free hand over his mouth to smother the yelp threatening to escape. The researcher's footsteps paused.

"Who's there?"

Jisung froze. His wrist burned where the spider's fangs had pierced his skin, the pain radiating up his arm in slow, crawling waves.

The spider twitched between his fingers, its iridescent body pulsing unnaturally as he pinched it. For a split second, he considered tossing it aside - but the memory of its bite made his stomach twist.

Without thinking, he squished it between his finger, killing it.

Jisung grimaced, wiping his hand against his pants as the researcher's footsteps grew louder. He ducked lower behind the lab bench. A clipboard clattered onto the table above him, followed by the metallic click of a pen. The researcher muttered something under his breath - numbers, maybe, or measurements - before his shoes squeaked against the floor, turning away.

Jisung exhaled silently through his nose. His wrist throbbed. The bite mark was already red, the skin around it blotchy and hot to the touch. He flexed his fingers experimentally, half expecting his hand to lock up, but aside from the sting, nothing seemed immediately wrong.

The researcher's footsteps faded toward the far end of the lab. Jisung waited ten seconds before risking a glance over the edge of the bench. The man's back was turned, his attention fixed on a row of specimen jars. Jisung didn't wait. He walked backward until his shoulders hit the wall, then slid along it toward the door, keeping low.

The door clicked open just enough for him to slip through. He didn't look back.

The hallway was still empty. Jisung broke into a sprint, rounding the corner just as the lab door groaned shut behind him.

By the time he burst through the science building's side exit, the pain in his wrist had dulled to a steady ache. The sunlight hit his face, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, disoriented, before his phone buzzed violently in his pocket.

Changbin's name flashed across the screen.

Jisung fumbled with his phone, nearly dropping it as Changbin's second call lit up the screen. He swiped to answer just as a cyclist swerved around him, yelling something unflattering about his lack of spatial awareness.

"Where the hell are you?" Changbin's voice crackled through the speaker.

He rolled his wrist experimentally, half expecting a jolt of pain, but only a dull ache remained. strange, but not alarming enough to mention.

"Chill, I'm literally two minutes away," Jisung huffed into the phone, sidestepping a group of freshmen clustered around a campus map.

Jisung skidded to a halt outside the lecture hall, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor as he yanked the door open. Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled toward him - including yours, narrowed with undisguised irritation from the front row.

The professor paused mid sentence, her laser pointer flickering against the projection screen.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Han," she said dryly.

Jisung flashed her a grin "Traffic was brutal."

The professor arched an eyebrow. "You live on campus."

"Exactly."

Jisung collapsed into the empty seat next to you with a sigh. Conveniently, there were no other free seats.

The professor resumed her lecture, but Jisung wasn't listening. His fingers drummed restlessly against the desk, his knee bouncing so fast it blurred. You gritted your teeth.

"Would you stop?" you hissed under your breath, jabbing your pen toward his twitching leg.

Jisung blinked at you like he'd forgotten you were there. "Stop what?"

"That." You gestured pointedly at his knee, "You're shaking the entire row."

He glanced down, as if surprised by his own body. "Huh."

Jisung blinked again, his fingers stilling mid tap against the desk. "Oh. Sorry."

He stopped. His knee went still. His fingers curled into a loose fist against the desk. Even his breathing seemed to slow, like he was consciously holding himself in check.

The professor's lecture droned on, but you couldn't focus. Your peripheral vision kept catching on Jisung's unnaturally still form.

Then he sneezed.

The sound was sharp, explosive, and entirely too loud for the lecture hall. Half the class jumped. The professor paused mid sentence, her laser pointer flickering off the screen. Jisung sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand.

"Bless you," you muttered automatically.

Jisung turned his head so fast you heard his neck crack. "Thanks," he whispered back. His voice was hoarse, like he'd been yelling earlier - though you couldn't remember hearing him speak at all today.

The strangeness of it prickled at your neck. Jisung didn't whisper. He didn't apologize. And he certainly didn't stop fidgeting for twenty straight minutes.

weird

~

after lectures, you were supposed to be studying.

Keyword: supposed.

Currently, your textbook lay abandoned as Yunjin scrolled through her phone, legs kicked up onto the library table in direct violation of at least three campus rules.

"I swear to god," she muttered, stabbing her screen, "if Professor Kang assigns one more reading—" she cut herself off with a sigh.

"I'll drop out," Yunjin announced, tossing her phone onto the table. "I'll move to a remote island. Raise goats. Never think about electron configurations again."

You snorted, flipping a page in your textbook without absorbing a single word. "You'd cry over the first goat that liked someone else better."

"Excuse you, I'm extremely likable-" Yunjin's protest cut off mid-sentence as she caught you glancing sideways for the third time in five minutes.

"Ohhhh. That's why you're failing to absorb basic chemistry. Distracted by your archnemesis over there."

You stiffened. "I don't know what you're—"

"Han Jisung," Yunjin sing songed, nodding toward the table where Jisung was slumped over a pile of notebooks, dead asleep.

His cheek was pressed against an open textbook, one arm dangling off the edge of the table, the side of his wrist adorned with what looked like a nasty bruise. A thin line of drool connected his mouth to a page. "You were staring at that."

"I was not staring," you hissed, slamming your textbook shut . Several students at nearby tables startled. Jisung didn't even twitch. "I was just—"

"Admiring his scholarly dedication?" Yunjin smirked, kicking her feet down from the table. "Or maybe his impressive drool radius?"

"I was wondering how someone who sleeps through every lecture still manages to ace every exam."

As if on cue, Jisung shifted in his sleep, his dangling arm swinging. he nearly toppled him sideways out of his chair. Your body reacted before your brain could stop it, half standing, hand outstretched - only to freeze when he somehow righted himself without waking.

Yunjin's eyebrows shot up. "Wow."

"Wow what?" You dropped back into your seat, face burning.

"Nothing," she said, stretching the word into three syllables. "Just never realized you cared so much about Jisung's spinal health."

"I just didn't want to witness a concussion in the library."

Yunjin grinned, kicking you lightly under the table. "Uh huh. Sure. That's definitely why you looked ready to dive across three tables like a superhero." She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. "You secretly like him."

You choked on air. "Like him? Are you insane? He's—" You gestured wildly toward Jisung's sleeping form. "—that. That's what he is. A menace. A sleeping menace."

"Aw, but look how peaceful he is," Yunjin cooed, feigning innocence. "Like a little angel."

At that exact moment, Jisung snorted loudly in his sleep, mumbled something unintelligible, and promptly face planted directly onto his textbook. You winced. Yunjin burst out laughing.

He lifted his head blearily, blinked at the drool smeared page stuck to his cheek, then promptly slumped back down without a single coherent thought behind his eyes.

Yunjin wiped tears from her cheeks, still giggling. "Oh my god. He's adorable."

"You're delusional," you muttered, shoving your notebook into your backpack. The zipper caught on a loose page, and you yanked it free with a frustrated huff. "Let's get lunch before I have to listen to any more of this."

Yunjin’s eyes lit up suddenly, "Oh! Right," she said, snapping her fingers as you shoved the last of your notebooks into your bag. "You’re coming with me to that party tonight."

You blinked. "What party?"

"The one hyunjin’s throwing at his apartment," she said, as if this were obvious. "The one I told you about last week."

"You absolutely did not."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Semantics. Anyway, after lunch, we’re going back to our dorm so you can try on at least three outfits before I approve one."

You groaned, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "No way. I have actual responsibilities."

Yunjin stood, shoving her phone into her pocket "Nope. You’ve been holed up in the library for weeks. You’re coming, and you’re going to socialize, and you’re going to like it." She paused, then added with a smirk, "Unless you’d rather stay here and stare at Jisung some more."

You nearly tripped over your own feet. "What? I wasn’t—"

"Uh huh." She linked her arm through yours, steering you toward the library exit "lunch first, outfits second, party third. No arguments."

You dug your heels in halfway to the door. "What if I want to argue? - who the hell even hosts a party on a school night-"

Yunjin sighed dramatically, turning to face you with a look of exaggerated pity. "Sweet, naive, delusional you. When have your arguments ever worked on me?"

"...Never."

"Exactly." She patted your cheek. "Now move. I’m starving."

You did end up going according to Yunjin’s plans - not that you had a choice, given she’d physically dragged you out of the library, then out of your dorm.

to top it all off, you had to wait for her because if you didn't, there'd be no one to take her drunk ass home, and you'd end up finding her in a ditch somewhere next morning.

so you had to wait till the asscrack of the night to take her home because no matter how un enjoyable a party is, you were not a bad friend.

and you were gonna be so late tomorrow.

~

The blaring alarm tore Jisung from his sleep this time. He gasped awake, limbs tangled in sheets that felt suspiciously sticky - had he spilled something last night? His hand shot out blindly toward the nightstand, fingers slapping against anything but his phone.

The alarm continued shrieking. Jisung groaned, pawing at the edge of his nightstand until his fingertips brushed warm metal. He grabbed his phone and hit the screen repeatedly-

The screen cracked under Jisung's fingers with a pop when he swiped to turn off the alarm. not a full shatter, but a spiderweb of fractures radiating from his thumbprint.

He blinked at it, sleep fogged brain struggling to process why his phone screen suddenly broke just from a few taps of his finger.

The display still functioned beneath the damage, the time, 8:15AM, visible through the splintered glass. Jisung flexed his fingers. He hadn't pushed that hard. Had he?

Jisung frowned, pushing himself up onto his elbows. The cracked phone screen wasn't the only thing that felt off, his head throbbed like he'd pulled an all nighter.

He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, fingers fumbling with the frames in his haste.

The moment he slid them on, the world tilted.

Everything blurred into a nauseating smear of colors and shapes - like someone had smeared Vaseline across his lenses.

Jisung ripped the glasses off his face. The world snapped into focus, he could see perfectly without his glasses. He blinked rapidly. His vision hadn't been this clear since elementary school.

"What the fuck," he whispered, turning his hands over in front of his face. The calluses on his fingertips stood out in stark relief, the whorls of his fingerprints unnervingly detailed.

He rubbed his eyes hard till he saw colors and shapes behind his eyelids, but when he opened them again, his dorm room remained horrifically, impossibly sharp.

Jisung exhaled slowly through his nose and tossed the glasses onto the nightstand - they landed with a clatter, one temple arm snapping off completely.

His wrist itched. The bite mark from yesterday was gone.

Jisung rolled out of bed, his feet hitting the floor with an audible thud that made the loose change on his nightstand rattle.

He stretched, arms arching high above his head - and froze mid yawn when he heard the distinctive rrrip of fabric.

His sleep addled brain registered two things at once, the sudden draft across his shoulders, and the fact that his favorite hoodie, the one he’d slept in last night, now had a gaping tear along the seam.

He blinked down at himself. The fabric clung to his torso in ways it never had before, stretched taut across shoulders that suddenly looked broader. His biceps pressed against the sleeves, the cuffs riding up his wrist like they’d shrunk in the wash.

Jisung frowned and tugged at the hem. It didn’t budge.

his full length mirror confirmed it. His reflection stared back at him - same messy hair, same sleep creased cheek, but it was like he hit a second puberty overnight.

The hoodie that used to hang loose now hugged every contour of his torso, the fabric straining across his chest when he inhaled.

he took his hoodie off - since when did he have abs?? he was met with whole six pack. he even counted them.

he prodded at his own bicep experimentally, half expecting it, I don't know, deflate? It didn’t.

The bedroom door creaked open - Chan appearing at the doorway, "I swear to god, if you're still asleep-" His threat died halfway out of his mouth when he saw Jisung.

Jisung stood frozen in front of the mirror, shirtless and wide eyed, one hand still gripping the torn remains of his hoodie. The morning light caught the sharp new definition of his shoulders, the lean muscle coiled along his arms like he'd spent the last six months living in a gym.

"...Did you steal Changbin's protein shakes?"

Jisung whipped around "What? No! I just-" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I woke up like this."

Chan stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. His gaze flickered over Jisung's torso - the previously soft lines of his stomach now taut, the faint shadows of ribs replaced by something decidedly more athletic.

Chan reached out and poked Jisung's bicep with two fingers. It felt like pressing against granite.

"Ow," Jisung lied automatically, then blinked. "Wait. That didn't actually hurt."

Chan's eyebrows raised. "You're telling me you went to bed and woke up as-" He gestured vaguely at Jisung's entire existence. "-whatever this is?"

A beat of silence. Then, from the hallway, "If you two are having a moment, I'm throwing myself off the window." Changbin's voice, muffled through the door.

Chan ignored him. "Did you take something? Experimental pre workout? Sketchy supplements from the gym bros?"

Jisung's fingers twitched toward his wrist - where the spider bite had been. The skin was smooth. "I might have... broken into the biotech lab yesterday."

Chan's expression grew even more confused. "okay...?"

The bedroom door slammed open before Jisung could answer. Changbin stood in the threshold, mouth already open to ask why the hell they were whispering with the door closed - then his eyes landed on Jisung’s bare torso. His eyebrows shot up. "Woah. What happened to you?"

Jisung threw his hands in the air, "I know! I woke up like - okay listen," he took a deep breath,

"yesterday I was late, like super late, so I took a shortcut through the science building even though I’m technically banned from the biotech wing after the centrifuge incident—"

Changbin mouthed 'centrifuge incident?' at Chan, who pinched the bridge of his nose.

"-and then I heard this noise from the restricted lab, right? So obviously I had to check it out-"

"You didn’t have to," Chan groaned.

"and there was this spider, this huge freaky blue one, in a tank that I maybe knocked over-"

"You knocked over-"

"-and it bit me! Right here!" Jisung brandished his unmarked wrist, "It hurt like hell yesterday but now it’s gone and suddenly I can see everything without my glasses and I just ripped my favorite hoodie like it was tissue paper-" He demonstrated by grabbing the hem of his remaining sleeve and tugging. The fabric split with a sound like tearing paper.

Changbin's mouth dropped open. Chan's blinked in disbelief.

"Okay," Chan said very slowly, "So you're telling me a genetically modified spider bit you, and now you're..." He gestured vaguely at Jisung's new physique. "This?"

Jisung flexed his arms experimentally. His biceps jumped under his skin "I mean, when you say it like that-"

Changbin suddenly lunged forward and punched Jisung square in the stomach - or tried to. His fist connected with what felt like solid concrete instead of soft flesh.

Jisung didn't even flinch. Changbin yelped, shaking out his hand. "Holy shit, dude. That's not normal."

Jisung looked down at his own abdomen, prodding the spot Changbin had hit. "Didn't feel anything." His voice went unnervingly quiet. "Should I be freaking out?"

Chan grabbed Jisung's shoulders - or attempted to, before his fingers slipped off the unexpected slope of muscle. "You shouldn't be able to bench press a car after one spider bite!"

"Technically I haven't tried that yet-"

The alarm on Jisung’s shattered phone blared again, 8:45AM, and Chan visibly flinched. “Shit. Class starts in fifteen.”

Changbin was already halfway out the door, yelling over his shoulder, “I’m not getting marked absent because you two want to dissect Jisung’s sudden glow up!”

Chan walked out of Jisung's room too, coming back after a moment,

"Here," Chan grunted, tossing a black hoodie at Jisung's face. It smelled faintly of fabric softener and Chan's inexplicably expensive cologne. "It's the biggest one I've got. Don't pop the seams."

~

Jisung reached campus a full minute before Chan and Changbin, his sneakers skidding to a halt outside the lecture hall with unnatural ease.

His lungs barely burned, just a pleasant warmth where there should have been heaving breaths.

He turned, bouncing on his toes while waiting for his roommates to catch up, when a sudden prickle raced down his spine. His scalp tingled.

Something was about to happen.

The prickle exploded into full body alarm a half second before the weight hit him.

Jisung spun without thinking - his hands snapping up just as you tripped. His palm connected with your shoulder an instant before you would have face planted into his chest.

The force should have sent both of you crashing to the ground, but Jisung didn’t budge an inch - just absorbed the impact like you weighed nothing.

Your coffee wasn’t so lucky, The cup slipped from your grip. Jisung’s free hand shot out, snatching it mere inches from the ground. Hot liquid sloshed against the inside of the lid but didn’t spill. He held it there, frozen, your shoulder still cradled in his other hand, both of you staring at each other in stunned silence.

Up close, you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes - something you’d never noticed before.

“You-” you started.

“I-” he interrupted at the same time.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Uh. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly. His hands were still there.

Jisung blinked like he’d just remembered they were attached to him, then jerked them away. The coffee wobbled dangerously in his grip. You grabbed it before it could spill .

“Late too?” he asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of Chan’s hoodie.

You nodded, adjusting your bag strap. “Yeah.”

You stared at him for a second too long, suddenly noticing how the hoodie strained across his shoulders - when had Han Jisung gotten broad? The absence of his usual thick framed glasses left his face strangely exposed, his cheekbones and dark lashes more pronounced than you remembered.

"Thanks," you muttered, brushing nonexistent lint off your sweater where his hands had been.

After a beat, you added, "Good reflexes," because it was true and you hated leaving truths unsaid, even for him.

Jisung blinked at you, momentarily stunned by the compliment - his mouth opened, closed, then opened again. A faint pink spread across his cheeks, "Uh," he managed. His fingers twitched toward his face, a habitual gesture to push up glasses that weren't there, before aborting the motion halfway.

"Uh, thanks," Jisung managed after an awkward pause, He cleared his throat "I mean - you're welcome. Obviously. Because I saved your life."

"You caught my coffee," you corrected flatly, lifting the cup slightly as evidence.

His grin returned, familiar. "Same difference." He rocked back on his heels, "You would've face planted on the pavement if I hadn't intervened. Tragic, really."

"I take it back. Never complimenting you again."

before he could retort, Changbin's voice cut through the courtyard "If you two are done flirting, we're gonna be late!" He stood at the lecture hall doors with Chan, who was rubbing his temples like he'd aged ten years in the past hour.

Jisung whipped around so fast his sneakers squeaked against the pavement. "We're not-!"

You walked past him before he could finish the sentence, shoulders brushing hard against his as you passed.

~

Jisung didn't plan to become a hero - it just sort of happened at 1:37 AM outside a convenience store three nights after The Bite.

He'd been pacing his dorm room, fingers twitching with pent up energy, when Chan threw a couch cushion his head and told him to "go climb a building or something, Jesus Christ."

So he did. Sort of. Mostly he just jumped fire escapes until his thighs burned and his lungs finally felt normal again, which is how he ended up perched on a rusty AC unit overlooking the 24 hour convenience store when the guy in the ski mask walked in waving a gun.

The gun glinted under the lights of the convenience store, its barrel wavering between the cashier and the racks of snacks. Jisung's body moved before his brain caught up, one second he was crouched on the AC unit, the next he was dropping through the open window like a damn action hero.

His sneakers hit the floor with barely a sound, knees bending to absorb the impact that should've shattered his ankles. The robber whirled around, gun swinging wildly. Time slowed. Jisung saw the trigger finger tense, saw the cashier duck behind the counter.

He lunged.

What happened next was equal parts luck and whatever the hell that spider had pumped into his veins. His palm smacked the gun sideways just as it discharged - the bullet embedding itself in a display of energy drinks with a sickening thunk.

Jisung's other hand grabbed the guy's wrist, twisting until the gun clattered to the floor. The would be robber screamed. Not from pain, Jisung realized, but from the sight of his own fingers bending the wrong way under Jisung's grip. He let go like he'd been burned. The guy bolted, leaving his ski mask behind in Jisung's fist.

Silence.

Jisung didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the cashier wheezed out a shaky "Holy shit." The gun lied abandoned on the floor between them, still warm from the misfired shot.

Jisung stared at it, then at his own hands - his bare hands, no gloves, no mask, just his stupidly recognizable face that was probably caught on camera. His stomach dropped.

Chan was going to murder him.

The cashier - a guy his age with a nametag reading 'jeongin' - slowly straightened from behind the counter, eyes darting between Jisung and the discarded ski mask. "...Are you gonna rob me too?"

"What? No!" Jisung’s voice cracked. He kicked the gun farther away for emphasis. "I just-" He gestured vaguely at the empty space where the robber had been. "-stopped that guy. Obviously."

The ski mask stared up at Jisung from the convenience store floor. He scooped it up, fingers brushing the rough knit fabric, still warm from the robber's panicked sweat.

The cashier was already dialing the police with shaking hands, but Jisung's feet were moving before his brain caught up. He bolted out the door like he was the criminal, the stolen mask crumpled in his fist.

His knees nearly buckled when he hit the pavement - the sudden realization that he'd just stopped an armed robbery barefaced hit him.

Jisung sprinted down three alleys and ducked behind a dumpster just as police sirens wailed past the mouth of the alley. His heart hammered against his ribs, not from fear, but from something far worse. exhilaration.

He lifted the ski mask toward his face, hesitating for just a second before remembering its previous owner had been sweating bullets into the fabric.

He tentatively sniffed it - then recoiled so hard his head smacked against the dumpster behind him.

"Yuck," a stench clung to it, absolutely not.

He sprinted home in record time, sneakers barely touching the pavement. His enhanced legs carried him up the fire escape in three leaps. The window to their apartment's living room was still cracked open from his earlier escape, curtains fluttering in the night breeze. Jisung slid inside, falling right onto his ass.

"Ow," Changbin deadpanned from his bed, not looking up from his phone.

Jisung scrambled upright, ski mask still clutched in one hand. His gaze flicked from Jisung's disheveled hair to the crumpled mask.

Chan’s eyebrow twitched. “So. You robbed a robber.”

Jisung flapped the ski mask like a surrender flag. “No! I disarmed a robber. Then maybe borrowed his mask. Temporarily.”

Changbin snorted "And you didn’t think to cover your face before playing hero?"

this rooted a bad, bad idea into jisungs head.

he spent the next morning hunched over Chan’s laptop, scrolling through fabric stores frantically. His fingers drummed against the keyboard, pausing only to zoom in on a breathable material that promised "enhanced mobility" and "sweat wicking technology."

The description sounded like something straight out of a superhero movie - which, he supposed, was exactly what he needed now.

Chan watched from the doorway, arms crossed. "You realize this is insane, right?"

Jisung didn’t look up. "Less insane than stopping another robbery barefaced."

his first attempt at making a suit for his superhero persona was a disaster.

Jisung had underestimated the complexity of sewing stretch fabric, resulting in a lopsided mess of seams that bunched uncomfortably around his shoulders.

The second attempt fared slightly better - until he tested its durability by scaling the dorm’s exterior wall, only for the pants to split straight down the middle mid climb.

soon enough, Chan saw jisung's genuine dedication, and had taken pity on him. they spent late nights hunched over fabric scraps, Chan’s steady hands guiding the sewing machine - that chan bought from is own money earned from DJ gigs, mind you - while Jisung sketched designs in the margins of his notebooks.

The final prototype emerged from their shared efforts, a sleek red and blue suit with reinforced stitching and breathable mesh panels. The mask took another three attempts before achieving the perfect fit, complete with oversized white lenses that concealed his identity while enhancing his already unnaturally sharp vision.

Jisung examined himself in the dorm’s full length mirror for the first time, twisting to check the fit. The suit hugged his new musculature without restricting movement, the fabric stretching effortlessly as he flexed. He rolled his shoulders experimentally - it was the most comfortable model so far.

"Okay," Chan admitted, "That actually looks... decent."

Changbin tossed an empty soda can at Jisung’s head from across the room. Jisung caught it without looking, reflexes kicking in. The can crumpled further in his grip.

"Show off," Changbin muttered.

The mask was the final piece. Jisung hesitated before pulling it on, fingertips brushing the blank white lenses. Once these went on, it'd be an official embodiment of... whatever this was.

The fabric settled over his face. His breathing echoed strangely in the enclosed space, but his vision remained clear. He blinked, adjusting to the surreal sensation of seeing more while being seen less.

Chan exhaled sharply. "Well. That's... a look."

Jisung twisted to examine his reflection in the mirror. The suit clung to his new physique like a second skin, the red and blue panels accentuating rather than hiding the slope of his shoulders. with a spider logo stitched across the center of his chest.

"So. What now?" chan cleared his throat.

Jisung exhaled through the mask, watching the fabric flutter slightly with his breath. "Now I test it."

His fingers found purchase on the brickwork without thought, his body moving with an instinct he shouldn't possess. He scaled the dormitory wall in seconds. Below, Seoul sprawled in a grid of neon and shadow, its pulse thrumming through the pavement under his palms.

He jumped.

The world tilted. His stomach lurched from the sheer impossibility of what his body was doing. He arced over the alleyway, arms outstretched, fingertips brushing the opposite fire escape before his feet even registered the landing.

The impact should have shattered his knees. Instead, he rolled smoothly onto the grated metal platform, his pulse steady in his ears.

That was when he heard a scream.

It cut through the ambient city noise . Jisung's head snapped toward the sound. Four blocks northeast. A woman's scream. fear, urgent terror in her voice.

He moved.

His body propelled him forward before conscious thought could interfere. The city blurred around him as he swung from ledges, his shot web lines that shouldn't have held his weight. Yet they did.

The polymer strands stretched taut as he launched himself between buildings, and landed on the third story balcony of a love hotel just as the scene unfolded below, a man dragging a woman toward a waiting car, her heels scraping against pavement as she fought.

Jisung didn't think, he immediately droped down, landing between the assailant and the car with a thud. The man recoiled, dragging the woman tighter against him as a human shield. Up close, Jisung could see the knife glinting in his free hand, the woman's smudged mascara.

"Back off!" the man snarled, blade pressing into her side.

Jisung's hands came up instinctively, palms out. The woman's wide eyes locked onto his mask. "You're-" she gasped.

Then everything happened at once. The man lunged, knife flashing. Jisung's body moved - his hand shot out, catching the blade mid air. Metal screeched against reinforced fabric, but didn't pierce.

The man's eyes widened comically as Jisung twisted his wrist, sending the knife clattering to the ground.

The knife skittered across the pavement. Jisung didn’t wait for the guy to process what had just happened, he pivoted on his heel, using his own momentum to yank the woman free in one motion.

She stumbled forward, gasping, but Jisung was already stepping between them, his body angled to shield her completely.

“Run,” he said. The word came out muffled and distorted through the mask, more like a growl than actual speech. The woman didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted, heels clicking against the sidewalk as she disappeared around the corner.

The would be attacker stared at Jisung, then at his own empty hand, then back at Jisung. “What the hell are you?”

Jisung's breath hitched behind the mask - What was he? A broke college student who'd bitten off more than he could chew. A walking science experiment. Definitely not someone who should be standing between an armed assailant and certain doom at 3 AM on a Tuesday.

"Uh," he managed, voice cracking through the fabric. "spiderman?"

The man lunged. Jisung sidestepped on instinct, the guy's momentum carried him straight into a dumpster with a metallic clang that echoed down the alley. Jisung winced. That had to hurt.

Police sirens wailed in the distance, close enough to spook the would be kidnapper, who scrambled upright and bolted in the opposite direction.

Jisung let him go. Chasing him down would mean explaining why he was dressed like a rejected Power Ranger, and frankly, he'd already pushed his luck far enough for one night.

Jisung crouched on the rooftop ledge, peeling off the mask with a wet shluck sound - the fabric sticking stubbornly to his sweaty forehead.

Below, the woman he'd rescued was giving a statement to the police, gesturing wildly toward the rooftops. He ducked back before she could spot him.

His phone buzzed violently against his thigh. Chan's caller ID flashed across the cracked screen, followed immediately by Changbin's bombardment of texts

BRO

DID YOU JUST GO VIRAL ON TWITTER

THERES VIDEO OF YOU DOING A BACKFLIP OVER A CAR

Jisung groaned, flopping onto his back. Gravel dug into his shoulder blades through the suit. Above him, Seoul's light pollution drowned out the stars, leaving only a murky orange haze.

He held up his phone, squinting at the blurry footage someone had uploaded. there he was, mid backflip, his red and blue suit a neon smear against the night. The caption read

Spiderman??? In SEOUL????

The first tweet had thirty seven likes. By morning, it had seventeen thousand and counting.

Jisung woke to Changbin shoving his phone in his face, screen displaying a grainy video of someone in a red and blue suit flipping over a moving car. "Congratulations," Changbin said. "You're a meme now."

Chan was less amused. He paced their dorm room, pausing only to read the growing pile of news articles on his laptop:

SPIDERMAN IN SEOUL? SUPER-HERO OR SUPER-ZERO?

before rounding on Jisung. "This," he hissed, jabbing a finger at the screen, "is the opposite of keeping a low profile."

Jisung groaned into his pillow. "It was one car."

~

You'd seen the videos. Everyone had. Grainy footage of some idiot in red and blue flipping over cars and catching falling flowerpots like it was nothing. The internet had collectively lost its mind - #SpiderManSeoul was still trending and it's been a whole two weeks - but you refused to join the hype.

"Obviously fake," you muttered in the cafeteria, stabbing your chopsticks into a piece of kimchi. The table next to yours erupted into excited chatter about the latest clip, Spiderman allegedly stopping a truck from hitting a pedestrian near Hongdae.

Yunjin slammed her phone down on the cafeteria table hard enough to make your soup bowl rattle. "That's three robberies he's stopped this week," she hissed, scrolling through blurry footage. "How can you still think this is fake?"

You rolled your eyes, stirring your half cold soup. "Easy. Because physics don't work like that, and neither do people." You pointed your chopsticks at her phone screen where 'Spiderman' was currently doing something that should've snapped his spine in five places. "That's either CGI or a really dedicated performance artist with a death wish."

Across the table, Yunjin made a noise like a deflating balloon. "You're impossible." She flicked to another video, this one showing the vigilante webbing a purse snatcher to a lamppost mid sprint. "Explain that then,"

You leaned in, squinting at the pixelated mess. "Okay one, that 'web' looks suspiciously like industrial grade fishing line. Two-" you tapped the timestamp in the corner "-this was filmed at 2 AM near Hongdae. Everyone's either drunk or sleep deprived enough to hallucinate shit like this."

You snorted into your soup, watching Yunjin's face contort in frustration. "Honestly, anyone dumb enough to believe in 'Spiderman' probably thinks pigeons are government drones too." You waved a dismissive hand toward her phone. "He's probably just some adrenaline junkie with too much free time and a GoPro."

From the neighboring table, someone choked on their rice. You glanced over just in time to see Jisung wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Chan smacked him hard on his back, whether to help him breathe or silence him, you couldn't tell.

"Or," Jisung wheezed, voice still rough from coughing, "maybe he's actually helping people?" He twisted in his seat to face you fully, elbows propped on the table behind him. "Ever think of that, genius?"

Changbin groaned audibly and slid down in his chair.

You arched an eyebrow. "Didn't realize you were such a Spiderman fan, Han. Got a poster of him over your bed?"

Jisung's ears turned pink. "I'm just saying-" he jabbed a chopstick in your direction "-if someone's stopping crimes for free, maybe don't trash talk them while chewing with your mouth full."

Yunjin added "You're just jealous because you can't backflip over cars."

"I could if I wanted to," you shot back, knowing full well your athletic abilities peaked at speed walking to morning lectures.

Jisung snorted. "Sure, and I'm the queen of England."

Chan materialized between the tables. His palm hit Jisung’s shoulder with a dull thwack that knocked him forward into his bibimbap. “We’re late,” Chan announced, already dragging Jisung upright by the collar like a misbehaving kitten.

Jisung spluttered, chopsticks clattering to the tray. “Late for what?”

“The thing,” Changbin interjected smoothly, sliding out of his seat “The very important thing.”

You watched as Chan dragged Jisung toward the exit, Jisung still craning his neck to shout over his shoulder, “Ask me about my queen of England autograph later!”

Chan’s exasperated groan echoed down the hallway as the door swung shut behind them.

Left in their abrupt absence, you blinked at Yunjin. “What the hell was that about?”

She shrugged, scrolling through more Spiderman footage. “Dunno, but Han Jisung defending a vigilante’s honor is weirder than you denying literal video evidence.”

She paused the playback right as Spiderman executed a midair twist that defied every law of physics. “anyway, I think you’re just salty because Spiderman could probably out academic you and out athletic you.”

well...he literally did.

~

your disbelief in spiderman came back and smacked you right in the face.

you were at the library after you finished your lectures for the day, the library was unusually quiet for midterm season, the usual chatter replaced by the frantic scratching of pens and the occasional sniffle from sleep deprived students. You rubbed your temples, staring at the same differential equations page for forty five minutes straight. At this rate, you'd be here until sunrise, again.

Outside, Seoul had long since plunged into darkness, the campus pathways illuminated only by streetlamps. You hesitated at the library doors - your dorm was a fifteen minute walk through the least lit part of campus, but the alternative was another all nighter hunched over textbooks.

You'd taken three steps onto the pavement when the first catcall sliced through the quiet.

A group of drunk frat boys loitered near the bus stop, their laughter too loud, eyes tracking your movement.

You tightened your grip on your backpack straps and picked up the pace. Their footsteps followed, uneven against the pavement.

"Hey sweetheart, why you walking so fast?"

Your pulse jackhammered against your ribs. The shortcut through the engineering building's side alley was suddenly a terrible idea — too narrow, too dark, too isolated. You fumbled for your phone just as a hand grabbed your elbow.

Your elbow jerked instinctively, but the grip tightened. One of the drunk guys leaned in, his breath sour with soju as he slurred, "Don't be like that. We're just walking you home."

The others chuckled, closing ranks around you. Your phone slipped from your sweating fingers, clattering to the pavement.

You tried to say something, anything, but your voice came out shaky and thin, "Let go," you managed, but it sounded more like a question than a command.

The guy holding your elbow laughed, his grip tightening just enough to make your bones protest. His friends shuffled closer, their shadows swallowing the dim streetlight whole.

A second hand clamped onto your shoulder from behind. "Relax," someone slurred. "We're nice guys."

You twisted against the hold, but there were too many of them, too many hands, too many laughs, too many bodies boxing you in.

Then, movement. A flicker of red and blue in your peripheral vision. One of the drunk guys yelped as his hand was suddenly gone from your arm, yanked backward by an invisible force. The others barely had time to turn before something - someone - slammed into their midst like a human wrecking ball.

The drunk guy's hand vanished from your elbow with a wet thwip sound, followed by his startled scream as he was yanked backward into a dumpster.

His buddies whirled around - just in time to see a red and blue blur drop from the fire escape above, landing between them with a crouch.

"Hey guys," Spiderman said, tilting his head. The blank white lenses of his mask made his expression unreadable, "Didn't your moms teach you it's rude to grope strangers?"

One of the drunk guys lunged. Spiderman sidestepped without looking, webbing the guy's sneakers to the sidewalk mid swing. The dude faceplanted with a grunt, his friends gaping as he struggled against the sticky white strands now gluing his shoes to concrete.

"Oops," Spiderman said, tapping his chin. "Must've slipped."

Another guy charged. Spiderman flipped over him effortlessly, landing on the dumpster lid with a metallic clang. "Wow," he mused, watching the guy stumble past. "You're really bad at this. Like, impressively bad."

You stood frozen against the alley wall, watching Spiderman web the third guy's hands to his own jacket zipper. "There," he said, patting the stuck zipper. "Now you can't unzip or zip. Poetic, right?"

The last drunk guy made a break for it. Spiderman sighed dramatically. "Come on, man. Group project participation counts toward your final grade." A web shot out, snagging the runner's ankle mid stride.

He yelped as Spiderman reeled him in like a fish, depositing him neatly beside his webbed up friends.

Spiderman dusted off his gloves. "Alright, team huddle! Here's the deal-" he crouched to their eye level,

"-next time you think about cornering someone in a dark alley? Don't." He tapped the first guy's forehead with one finger. "Or I find you."

The drunk guys paled. Spiderman straightened, turning toward you then froze. His masked head tilted slightly, the lenses widening almost imperceptibly.

You realized three things at once

one, Your knees were shaking.

two, Spiderman was much shorter in person than the videos made him seem.

three, You'd dropped your phone and backpack during the scuffle, and your differential equations notes were now scattered across the alley like confetti.

Spiderman bent to gather your papers, his movements almost... familiar. He stacked them neatly and held them out. "You, uh. You okay?" His voice was softer now, the earlier bravado gone.

You took the notes with numb fingers. "Yeah. Thanks." The words came out hoarse.

Spiderman nodded awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Cool. Coolcoolcool." He cleared his throat. "So. Should I web these guys to a lamppost for the cops, or...?"

One of the webbed up drunks whimpered.

You swallowed hard. "Lamppost's good."

Spiderman saluted. "Lamppost it is."

Spiderman made quick work of securing the drunk guys to the nearest lamppost, his webs forming a messy cocoon around their legs. One of them hiccuped pathetically as Spiderman gave the webbing an experimental tug. "There," he said cheerfully. "Now you can reflect on your mistakes while waiting for the cops."

You hugged your notes to your chest, still processing the fact that Spiderman, the same one you'd spent weeks insisting was fake, just saved you.

"You're... shorter than I expected," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Spiderman's head snapped up. For a second, the mask's lenses just... stared.

Then he pressed a hand to his chest. "Excuse you, I'm perfectly average height for a-" He cut himself off abruptly, clearing his throat. "Anyway. You're welcome for saving your life or whatever."

"You didn't save my life," you muttered, kneeling to gather the last of your scattered pens.

Spiderman made a noise between a laugh and a wheeze. "Right. Sorry for interrupting your very important... pen collecting."

You looked up at him, "I was handling it."

"Uh huh." He crossed his arms, the red fabric stretching taut over his shoulders. "Because saying 'let go' in a squeaky voice is totally handling it."

Your cheeks burned. "I wasn't squeaky."

Spiderman's mask tilted slightly, "Sure," he drawled, dragging the word out.

You opened your mouth to retort when a police siren wailed in the distance. Spiderman's head snapped toward the sound, his posture more alert. "Right. That's my cue." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Need a swing home?"

You blinked. "A what?"

Before you could protest, he'd already grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but careful, "Do you trust me?"

"No," you said immediately.

Spiderman grinned beneath his mask - you could hear it in his voice. "Perfect."

Then he yanked you forward before you could react, making you drop your bag in the process, his other hand shooting a web line to the nearest rooftop with a sharp thwip.

Your stomach lurched violently as your feet left the pavement, the ground dropping away beneath you with terrifying speed.

You shrieked, instinctively locking your arms around his neck in a death grip as the world tilted sideways. Buildings blurred past, wind howling in your ears loud enough to drown out your own panicked breathing.

Spiderman's arm banded around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as he swung into open air. "Relax!" he shouted over the rush of wind. "I've only dropped one person!"

"WHAT?!" You dug your fingers into his shoulders hard enough to bruise - if normal humans could bruise whatever weird super skin he had.

"Kidding!" He adjusted his grip slightly, angling his body to catch the updraft as he launched you both higher.

he released the web line, freefalling for one terrifying second before another thwip sent you arcing upward again. The city sprawled beneath you, the view would've been beautiful if you weren't convinced you were about to become sidewalk confetti.

"wait- you passed my dorm!" you yelled over the wind, nails digging into Spiderman's shoulders as another swing took your breath away. The familiar building of your residence hall flashed below - then vanished behind you .

Spiderman's grip tightened fractionally around your waist. "Yeah, well," he called back, voice strained from the wind and what sounded suspiciously like laughter, "you looked like you could use some fresh air!"

You tried to say something back, but your words dissolved into a startled squeak as the city tilted dizzyingly. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, but somewhere between the fourth and fifth swing, you realized your death grip had eased slightly. Maybe it was the way his arm stayed locked around your waist like a seatbelt, or how he angled his body to shield you from the worst of the wind.

"See?" Spiderman's said, "Not so bad once you stop trying to strangle me." He flipped midair just to hear you yelp, catching another webline with practiced ease.

"You're insane!" you managed, but your arms relaxed incrementally as you adjusted to the rhythm of his swings. The initial terror dulled into adrenaline, mixed with reluctant awe as Seoul sprawled beneath you in glowing grids.

The Han River flashed between buildings, and for one insane second, you understood why people did extreme sports.

Then Spiderman corkscrewed sideways without warning, shooting a web toward a higher rooftop. "check out this view!"

Before you could protest, he backflipped off the webline, sending you both soaring over a pedestrian bridge in a wide arc. Your stomach dropped straight to your shoes.

and suddenly you let out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of everything. at the fact that you were saved by spiderman in an alley, at the fact that you were finally getting your first breath of fresh air after days of being cooped up in either your room, or the library, or the lecture Hall.

The sound burst out, bright and startled against the roar of wind. Spiderman's head snapped toward you so fast, then he laughed too, the sound muffled by the mask but real, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest as he swung you both higher.

you spent a minute or two like that. Spiderman took a sharper turn than intended, nearly clipping a Samsung billboard with his shoulder. "Shit, sorry!" he yelped, twisting midair to avoid impact.

The sudden jerk should have terrified you, but instead you just laughed harder, your fingers loosening their death grip on his shoulders as you clung to him more out of habit than panic now.

"Are you trying to kill me?" you shouted over the wind, a smile still on your face.

"Only a little!" he called back.

Your dorm building came into view far below, Spiderman slowed his swings gradually, letting momentum carry you both downward in gentler arcs until. He landed with surprising grace on the sidewalk out front, setting you down carefully - though your legs wobbled like jelly the second your sneakers hit concrete.

"Whoa there," he chuckled, steadying you with a hand on your elbow. You swayed slightly as your feet touched solid ground again, still dizzy from the swinging.

Spiderman's gloved hands lingered on your elbows, steadying you. "You good?" His voice was softer now .

"I'm-" You swallowed hard, willing your legs to stop shaking. "I'm alive. Which is... surprising."

The adrenaline was fading now, leaving you strangely lightheaded. "I... thanks. Really." The words came out quieter than you intended, but you meant them.

"Yeah. No problem. That's kind of... the whole point of the suit." He gestured vaguely at himself, the red fabric stretching with the movement.

You snorted despite yourself. "Yeah, well. You're still insufferable."

"Ouch. And here I was going to offer you a free ride anytime."

"Hard pass," you said immediately, but you were smiling, a small, reluctant thing.

Spiderman chuckled, the sound muffled by his mask. He rocked back on his heels slightly. For a second, neither of you spoke, just stood there in the quiet aftermath, the distant city sounds filling the space between you.

Then he straightened. "Right. Don't get kidnapped again."

you smiled. "I'll try."

Spiderman gave a two fingered salute, already backing toward the alley wall. "If you do get kidnapped again-" he shot a webline upward without looking, the *thwip* cutting through the night air "-I'll be there." He tugged the web experimentally before adding, "But try not to make it a habit, yeah? My web fluid's expensive."

Before you could retort, he launched himself upward with a sudden burst of movement, the red and blue blur disappearing over the rooftop edge before you even processed the motion.

You stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the empty space where he'd been, your brain still trying to reconcile the fact that Spiderman - the same Spiderman you'd spent days dismissing as fake - had just swung you across half of Seoul.

The walk up to your dorm felt surreal. Your legs were stilll shakey, and you were still slightly dizzy.

You collapsed onto your bed fully dressed, convinced you'd lie awake replaying the night's events - then promptly passed out the second your head hit the pillow.

outside, Spiderman nearly faceplanted into a building mid swing. Because he was smiling like an absolute idiot under his mask, cheeks aching from the stupid, unstoppable smile that had been plastered on his face since he'd heard you laugh mid air.

He landed on the fire escape of their building, still buzzing with adrenaline. Peeling off the mask felt like surfacing from underwater - cool air hitting his sweaty face, the sounds of the city rushing back in clearly.

he shoved the window open, tumbling into the living room. Chan and Changbin were sprawled on the couch when Jisung crashed through the window.

Changbin glanced up from his phone. "Oh good, you didn't die." He paused his game just long enough to take in Jisung's disheveled state, mask off, hair sticking up in wild directions, and that ridiculous grin still plastered across his face. "Wait. Why do you look like that?"

"guys, you won't believe what just happened"

Jisung was halfway through inhaling to launch into his story when he froze mid breath, his eyes widening comically. "Wait - shit, her bag" He scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over.

Chan blinked. "Whose-"

"Be right back!" Jisung yanked the mask back over his head, the lenses setteling into place as he lunged for the window. "Forgot something super important"

Changbin's shout of "What the hell-" was cut off by the sharp thwip of a web line as Jisung flung himself back into the night.

~

You woke to sunlight stabbing your eyelids and the distinct sensation of having been hit by a bus.

The events of last night rushed back in - drunk guys, Spiderman, swinging through Seoul.

You groaned into your pillow, half convinced it had all been some dream.

Then a gust of wind hit your face like a slap. You squinted against the sunlight, realizing with a start that your window was wide open, and you definitely hadn’t left it that way.

you scrambled out of bed and approached your window sil. There, dangling from a single strand of web, was your missing backpack.

The backpack swung slightly as you reached out, the web strand stretching oddly. You tugged it free with a disgusting schlorp sound, and you saw a folded square of notebook paper stuck to the fabric with another glob of web.

You peeled it off with two fingers, The note was written in messy, angular handwriting that looked familiar.

you dropped this. your phone is inside too, you're welcome.

also, you snore.

- s

you stared at it, brain short circuiting between he brought my bag back and he watched me sleep?! before settling on the most pressing question, how the hell had Spiderman even known which dorm was yours? You hadn't told him. You were certain of it.

but maybe he'd just checked every single window till he found you -which would be extremely creepy, but made sense.

"There you are," Yunjin's voice cut through your spinning thoughts. You spun around to find her leaning against your doorframe, hair still mussed from sleep, squinting at you. "I was worried sick - where the hell were you last night?"

You opened your mouth - then froze. The backpack in your hands suddenly felt like damning evidence. "Library," you blurted too quickly.

Yunjin’s eyes dropped to the backpack in your hands, then narrowed at the sticky web residue still clinging to the fabric. Her gaze flicked to the note in your hands, then back to you. "Library," she repeated flatly. "Right."

She padded into your room, plucking the note from your hand with two fingers, then reading it, "You do snore," she said laughed, squinting at the handwriting. "Also, who the hell wrote this, who's 's'?" She waved the note in your face, the web glue still tacky.

You snatched it back. "no one."

She pointed at the webs on your bag. "spider webs?" Her voice pitched higher. "Did you, oh my god. Did Spiderman bring you home last night?"

She planted herself on your bed, legs crossed. "Start talking. Now." Her eyes flicked to your window, then back to you "And don’t even think about leaving out the part where Spiderman apparently knows where you live."

You sighed, sitting infront of her, "It’s not that dramatic. Some guys were being creeps last night, Spiderman showed up, webbed them to a lamppost, and then-" You hesitated, "And then he insisted on swinging me home."

Yunjin’s eyebrows shot up. "Swinging you home?" She grabbed your shoulders, shaking you slightly. "You swung through the city with spiderman?!"

"Yes! And it was terrifying!" You pried her hands off your shoulders. "And also... kind of amazing? But mostly terrifying. I almost threw up on him twice."

Yunjin's mouth fell open. "You- what" She grabbed your shoulders again, shaking you "You rode Spiderman?!"

"Swinging with Spiderman!" you corrected, cheeks flushing as you smacked her hands away.

Yunjin's grin turned positively feral as she flopped onto your bed, "Details. Now. How tall was he?"

"he's definitely shorter than you'd expect"

"Did he smell nice? Was he hot under the mask? Did he-"

"I didn't see his face. And you're disgusting," you hissed, chucking a pillow at her face.

"I'm invested," she corrected, hugging the pillow to her chest. "Also, I told you he was real."

You groaned, collapsing onto the bed beside her. "Okay, fine, he's real. Happy?"

"Ecstatic,"

safe to say, Yunjin wouldn't stop fangirling over this all afternoon.

~

Midterms came and went. You barely had time to process the fact that Spiderman had swung you across Seoul before exams swallowed your entire existence whole.

The only upside was that Jisung, for once, wasn't hovering around to gloat about his grades.

He seemed more busy, like he got a life or something, you'd catch him dozing off more than once, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days.

Winter break arrived soon after. If not at some party with yunjin, you spent most of it holed up in your bedroom, halfheartedly scrolling through Spiderman footage.

The videos had multiplied exponentially, now there were compilations of him rescuing cats from trees, stopping bike thieves, even helping an old lady carry groceries up six flights of stairs when her building's elevator broke.

The comments sections were flooded with debates about whether he was a hero, a menace, or just some guy with too much time.

You never commented. But you watched.

When the new semester started, campus was buzzing with fresh Spiderman gossip. Someone claimed they'd seen him perched on the humanities building at 3 AM.

Another swore they'd spotted him buying convenience store ramen in full costume.

Yunjin, of course, had compiled an entire folder of sightings on her phone and updated you daily despite your protests.

Jisung stumbled into Professor Kim's lecture hall seventeen minutes late, face still puffy like he'd rolled straight out of bed, which, given the pillow crease still visible on his left cheek, he probably had.

he blinked blearily at the seating chart projected on the board before shuffling toward the only empty seat in the room- right next to you, of course.

"You're late," you muttered as he collapsed into the chair with a groan.

"Yeah, well," Jisung yawned so wide his jaw cracked, "tell that to the asshole who decided 9 am classes were a good idea."

His elbow slid off the desk mid sentence, nearly knocking over your water bottle before he caught it with reflexes that were still annoyingly precise despite his obvious exhaustion.

Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, deep enough to be visible even in the lecture hall's dim lighting. and when he reached for his notebook, you caught a glimpse of fresh scrapes across his knuckles.

You didn't think much of it - Professor Kim clears her throat, and announced the semester's major project.

"Partners are assigned randomly," she said, tapping her clipboard as murmurs rippled through the lecture hall. "No swaps, no complaints. You'll be working together for the next eight weeks."

You barely had time to dread the possibilities before the projector screen lit up with the pairings list. Your stomach dropped straight to your shoes when you saw your name right next to Han Jisung's.

"Aw, we're finally spending quality time together."

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, but didn’t protest. Because - annoyingly - Jisung would a good project partner if he bothered to focus.

“Here,” you muttered, shoving your phone across the desk toward him “Put your number in before I change my mind.”

Jisung’s eyebrows shot up, he just stared at your phone. Then his face split into that infuriating smile.

“Aw,” he cooed, snatching the phone before you could reconsider. “You do care.” His thumbs flew across the screen with alarming speed. “Should I put a heart next to my name? Or maybe-”

“If you put anything besides your name and number, i'll take Chan's number and all interactions will be through him”

Jisung pouted before deleting the heart emoji he'd already typed, and then handed your phone back. "You're no fun,"

after class was over, you spotted Yunjin leaning against the courtyard railing, scrolling through her phone per usual.

The moment she caught sight of you, her eyebrows shot up, then immediately waggled suggestively as she took in your exhausted expression.

"Let me guess," she drawled, pocketing her phone with a smirk. "Spiderman swung by again? Or was it just Han Jisung being his usual pain-in-your-ass self?"

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. "the latter." You paused, then sighed dramatically. "And also... we got paired for Kim's semester project."

Yunjin's eyes widened. "Oh my god. You're finally spending quality time together"

"You said the exact same thing he did," you groaned, "Word for word. I swear, both of you share the same overworked brain cell."

Yunjin snorted, "Girl, I wish I did share a brain cell with him, then maybe I'd actually be able to solve Kim's exams without wanting to yeet myself into the Han River."

you sighed, already drained from all the work you'd have to do this semester before it even started "then there's the university festival too"

"oh yea, what'cha planning to do for the big fair" yunjin said. "gonna work on something with han too?" she wiggled her eyebrows.

"absolutely not" you answered quickly, "I won't do anything, I'll just rest. yeah. I'll catch up on all the sleep I'm about to lose"

"aw, what a shame," yunjin said, then she leaned in, whispering, "Though honestly, if you really want to tap into that academic powerhouse, there are way more fun ways to-"

"Finish that thought and I'm throwing you into the Han River myself."

"I'm just sayin'," she said, dodging your attempt to push her, "both of you just need to have a good fuck for this rivalry to go away."

"Speaking of fucks," you said, leaning against the courtyard railing, "I’ll be working on the project at Jisung’s place most days. Which means our dorm will be delightfully empty."

You flicked a stray leaf off your sleeve "Feel free to bring your Tinder disasters over, just keep them away from my room, please"

Yunjin gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. "Excuse you," she said, tossing her hair over one shoulder with exaggerated offense. "My Tinder disasters are upstanding gentlemen—"

"Who leave their boxers on your floor and eat my cereal," you deadpanned, "Just wash the sheets afterwards. And hide the good mugs."

~~~

when Jisung kicked the door open - a lethal combination of unwashed socks, stale ramen, and the faint metallic tang of something that might have been blood hit his face.

Chan looked up from his laptop just in time to see Jisung hurdle over the couch, skidding to a stop in front of the coffee table where changbin was demolishing a bag of chips.

"We have a problem," Jisung announced .

"You are the problem." changbin said.

Chan sighed, closing his laptop, "What did you break this time?"

"Nothing!" Jisung paused. "Well. Maybe the window latch. But that’s not the point." he paused. "She is coming here. To work on the project."

Changbin froze mid chip. "Who’s ‘she’-"

Chan’s eyes widened. "Oh no."

Jisung nodded frantically. "Oh yes."

Changbin’s eyes darted between them. "Wait. Are we talking about-"

"Yes," Chan groaned, already dragging a hand down his face.

Changbin’s chip bag hit the floor with a crunch. “Oh, hell no.” He scrambled up, scanning the apartment with mounting horror.

Medical supplies littered the kitchen counter, spare web cartridges rolled under the couch, and most damning jisung’s half finished suit upgrades dangled from a makeshift clothesline strung across the living room.

“We have twenty minutes to make this place look like normal people live here.”

Chan was already in motion, snatching stray web shooters off the coffee table. “Jisung, hide your suit. Changbin, take the first aid kits.” He paused mid step, “And for the love of god, air out this place. It smells like a rat died in here.”

Jisung went to yank the prototype suit off the clothesline, "It's not that bad," he protested, bundling the fabric under his arms.

The apartment was almost presentable by the time you knocked.

You stood outside their door, knocking twice, when a crash echoed from inside followed by frantic whispering.

after a minute, the door opened, revealing Changbin "Heyyyyy," he drawled, voice pitched an octave too high. "You're early"

you blinked, pointing your thumb back towards the elevator, "I can come back in a bit if you guys are busy-"

Changbin waved a hand like he was shooing away smoke. "Nah, nah, we’re good!" he stepped aside,

“Home sweet home,” Changbin announced, “Ignore the-” He gestured vaguely at a suspicious lump under a blanket that was definitely not laundry. “Decorative choices.”

You toed off your shoes at the entrance, noting with mild surprise that the apartment was cleaner than expected - though said suspicious lump under the blanket suggested they'd simply relocated the mess rather than actually cleaned it.

Chan looked up from his laptop, offering a casual salute as you stepped further into the apartment. "Hey," he said, "Jisung's in his room pretending he didn't just spend twenty minutes panic cleaning."

You snorted. "Sounds about right."

Jisung's bedroom door was slightly ajar, revealing a space that had clearly undergone a last minute excavation.

The floor was visible and his desk was suspiciously organized, textbooks stacked next to his laptop.

"Wow," you said, leaning against the doorframe. "I didn't know you owned a trash can."

Jisung spun around from where he'd been adjusting a poster that was still slightly crooked. "Shut up," he muttered, He gestured vaguely at the desk. "I set up already. Figured you'd want the, uh-" He waved his hands. "The workspace. Or whatever."

You walked in and over to the desk, project outline stared back at you from Jisung's laptop screen - neatly formatted, color-coded, and some parts were already done . You blinked. "You... started without me?"

Jisung shrugged, spinning a pen between his fingers, "Couldn't sleep last night." His knee bumped yours when you sat down, "Figured I'd get a head start before you could accuse me of slacking."

You stared at the spreadsheet he'd prepared, grudgingly impressed despite yourself. The formulas were flawless, the research sources ready, "Well. At least you're not completely useless."

"Wow. Wow. That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me." he leaned closer, "Careful. Keep this up and people might think we like each other."

"get to work," you muttered, pulling your chair closer to his desk.

Jisung straightened, "Yes, ma'am."

You shook your head, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a twitch. He noticed instantly, and his grin widened like he'd won something.

You kicked his chair leg under the desk in retaliation, sending him wobbling sideways with a yelp.

Working with Jisung turned out to be - annoyingly - far less painful than you’d anticipated.

He had a way of cutting through your overthinking, dismantling problems you’d tangled into knots. When you got stuck on a statistical analysis, he spun his laptop around to show you a ridiculously simplified formula that somehow worked.

When he hit a dead end with the literature review, you pointed him toward three obscure sources he’d missed. It was infuriatingly efficient.

you'd also grew to realize that Jisung focused when it mattered.

Then there were the snacks. Jisung kept shoving food at you - convenience store food, but its the thought that counts “Eat,” he’d say, nudging a bar of chocolate toward you without looking up. “Your blood sugar’s crashing. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

You’d protest, but he wouldn't hear any of it until you tore open the packaging begrudgingly.

and he actually remembered things. Tiny, insignificant details you’d mentioned in passing - your preference for blue pens over black, the way you organized your citations, the fact that you always forgot to save drafts until it was too late.

Halfway through typing, your laptop would ding with a message from him You didn’t save again, genius. You’d glare at him, but he’d already be smirking at his own screen.

You didn't expect to bond with Chan and Changbin too, but somehow their apartment became your second home for the past 6 weeks.

you stayed past 10 pm once, Chan slid a takeout menu across the table. "Pick something," he said, "Jisung forgets to eat when he's focused, and you're worse than he is."

The takeout containers were long empty by the time you stretched your arms over your head, joints popping from hours hunched over textbooks.

"You should head back," His voice was casual, but his eyes flicked to the time on his phone, 11:47 PM, then back to your face. "It's late."

You sighed, gathering your notes into a pile. "I've walked home later than this."

"Yeah, and nearly got followed by drunk assholes," Jisung muttered under his breath.

"I'll be fine. It's like, twelve minutes max." You slung the strap over your shoulder.

"at least let me walk you home?" jisung asked.

"Relax. you don't have to act like my hero for the night, i'll be fine."

jisung heard the word "hero" and an idea popped into his mind. bingo

"Fine. Die in a dark alley. See if I care."

"You won't," you shot back, toeing on your shoes by the door.

"Night, guys," you called over your shoulder as you stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.

Inside the apartment, Jisung was already running to put his suit on before Chan caught him by the hood. "Are you serious right now?"

"I'm just gonna-" Jisung started.

"Follow her as Spiderman?" Changbin supplied, "Dude. That's creepy."

Jisung froze. "It's not creepy if I'm making sure she doesn't get murdered."

"It's extremely creepy."

"She literally said she didn't need an escort!" Changbin pointed out.

Jisung waved a hand. "She always says that."

"Because you always try to escort her!"

Jisung hesitated, just long enough for Chan to sigh and release his hood. "If you're gonna be an idiot, at least put the mask on first."

Changbin tossed a web shooter at Jisung's head. "And try not to get arrested for stalking."

Outside, you were halfway down the block when a shadow flickered across the streetlight above you. You glanced up just in time to see a blur of red and blue vanish behind a rooftop.

"Really?"

A thwip sounded overhead. Spiderman landed lightly on a lamppost ahead of you, "Fancy meeting you here," he said, voice dripping with faux surprise.

You crossed your arms. "Are you following me?"

Spiderman gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "I'm patrolling. This is a coincidence."

"A coincidence," you deadpanned.

"Yep." He swung down to street level, falling into step beside you like this was completely normal. "Totally random."

You sighed. "I don't need an escort."

Spiderman tilted his head. "Says the person who nearly got jumped last time."

"That was one time-"

"And here I am," he said, spreading his arms wide, " not letting it happen again."

You glared at him. He smiled at you - or at least, the mask's eyes crinkled in a way that suggested a smile.

"Fine," you muttered, stomping ahead.

Spiderman matched your stomping pace, "So," he drawled, swinging around a lamppost to land directly in front of you, forcing you to halt mid step or you'd have walked straight into his chest. "What's a pretty girl like you doing out so late?"

Your ears burned "I was just coming back from a friend’s place," you muttered, sidestepping him to continue walking. "Working on a project. Unlike some people, I actually take my education seriously."

Oh the irony.

he fell into step beside you, his posture casual, "So this friend," he pressed, "What's their deal? Study buddy? Secret admirer?"

You shot him a glare. "None of your business."

Spiderman gasped, "Ouch. And here I thought we had something special." He swung ahead, landing lightly on a parked car’s roof just to force you to look up at him. "Come on, humor me. Tall? Short? cute?"

You stayed silent, refusing to dignify that with an answer. But Spiderman was nothing if not persistent, he dropped down directly in your path again, close enough that the lenses of his mask reflected your exasperated expression back at you.

"Han Jisung," you finally said, shoving past him. "My project partner. Happy?"

"Han Jisung," he repeated, "Wow. Sounds like a real catch. Bet he’s incredibly handsome and talented."

"He’s annoying," you corrected, kicking a pebble harder than necessary. "And arrogant. And-"

"And?" Spiderman prompted, suddenly right beside you again.

"And none of your concern," you finished through gritted teeth.

Spiderman made a wounded noise, "Rude. Here I am, risking life and limb to escort you safely home-"

"You invited yourself," you corrected.

"-and you won’t even indulge my harmless curiosity about your mysterious project partner." He swung ahead to perch upside down from a streetlight, "Tell me more about this Han Jisung character. Does he have any redeeming qualities? Or is he just tragically, devastatingly handsome?"

You scoffed, refusing to acknowledge how accurately that described Jisung’s stupid face. "Fine. Jisung’s... not completely terrible." You looked at the sidewalk. "He remembers stupid things. Like how I always forget to save my work, or that I hate when people highlight in yellow."

Spiderman’s mask tilted, the lenses narrowing slightly. "Wow," he said, his tone an exaggerated awe. "Truly, a monumental compliment. Does he also breathe air and occasionally blink?"

You kicked a pebble at him, which he caught mid air with a web before it could hit his chest.

"Shut up. He’s..." You hesitated, then sighed. "He’s weirdly considerate. Makes sure I eat when we’re studying. And his roommates are..." You gestured vaguely, as if that explained anything. "nice. more tolerable than him, actually. they insist on feeding me too"

Spiderman went suspiciously quiet. Then, in a voice devoid of sarcasm "They sound nice."

You snorted. "They’re menaces. But yeah. They... grew on me."

A beat of silence. Then Spider-Man dropped from the lamppost, landing softly beside you. "And Jisung?" he prompted, suddenly closer than before. "What’s his fatal flaw?"

You didn’t even have to think. "He's always right somehow. And he gloats about it. alot."

"Horrifying," he agreed solemnly. "Anything else?"

"He’s always there," you muttered, more to yourself than to him. "Even when I wish he wasn’t."

The mask hid his expression, but his next words came out oddly soft. "Sounds like you’ve got it pretty bad, genius."

The familiar nickname prickled at the back of your memory, but you couldn't place it, until Spiderman abruptly straightened, realizing his mistake, clearing his throat.

"So!" he said, "How much further to your dorm?"

You narrowed your eyes at the obvious subject change. "Why? Getting tired already?"

Spiderman scoffed, "Please. I could do this all night." then shrugged "Just making conversation."

"You were doing just fine until the nickname," you pointed out, watching his lenses widen fractionally.

"What nickname?" he asked, voice pitching slightly higher.

"Genius." You tilted your head, studying his frozen posture. "Jisung calls me that."

spiderman got into character again, "Jisung calls you that?" His voice was pitched an octave higher than usual, his hands fluttering in dramatic disbelief.

"Wow. What a coincidence." He leaned closer, "Maybe l'm Han Jisung. Ever think of that, genius?"

He lowkey regret what he said the second the words came out of his mouth. but hey, reverse psychology?

you stopped walking for a second, facing spiderman, genuinely considering what he just said.

"nah" you snorted, shaking your head. "Jisung can barely walk in a straight line without tripping over his own feet." You gestured vaguely at Spiderman's lithe posture. "No way that disaster could pull off... whatever this is."

"Ouch. That hurts. I'll have you know some people find my-" he gestured at himself, "this extremely charming."

"You mean annoying," you corrected.

"Charmingly annoying," Spiderman corrected, He swung lazily ahead, landing atop the lamppost outside your dorm building.

You stopped beneath the lamppost, glancing up at Spiderman’s silhouette squatting on top of it. "This your stop, genius?" he asked, voice lilting with amusement.

"Yes," you said flatly. "And don't call me that."

"Call you what? Genius?" He leaned forward, resting his chin in one gloved hand. "Or pretty girl?"

Your face heated instantly. "Both."

Spiderman laughed, a sound that you swear you heard before.

"Fine, fine. Wouldn't want to inflate your ego too much." He swung down from the lamppost.

He turned to leave, then hesitated, just long enough to glance over his shoulder and add, voice softer than before, "Sleep tight, pretty girl."

Then he was gone, vanishing into the night sky with a thwip of webbing before you could retaliate.

you stayed glued to the pavement for a minute as you watched spiderman's figure get smaller the more he swung away, face slowly heating up.

"Talking 'bout some pretty girl," you muttered under your breath, walking to the entrance of the building

who is this guy?

~

a/n: *takes in a big deep breath* I initially meant for this to be way shorter (10k ish words) but it kinda spiraled and now its more than double that so I had to split it into two parts 😞. the second part is ready just needs proofreading and a few tweaks. hope it doesn't disappoint because I put my entire coochie and butt into this.

[hyunvom]

blue & grey

synopsis: A deaf artist and a famous idol form an unexpected bond built on silence, touch, and learning each other’s language beyond words.

word count: 12k

pairing: idol hyunjin x deaf artist reader

cw: angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, soft romance, eventual smut.

You like museums because they are honest about silence.

People whisper there, but even that feels optional. Sound exists, but it never demands you. No one expects conversation, no one expects responses. You can exist fully inside yourself without apologizing for it.

That’s why you came today on your day off from the atelier.

This exhibition has been advertised everywhere in Seoul, contemporary reinterpretations of classical Korean landscapes. Posters plastered on subway walls, colors blooming against concrete, brushstrokes promising emotion.

Art speaks your language.

You arrive early, before the afternoon crowd gets too overwhelming. The museum smells faintly of polished floors and old paper. Sunlight filters through tall windows, washing everything in gold. Your footsteps echo softly, or at least you imagine they do. You’ve learned to construct sound from memory rather than experience.

As you step inside you immediately feel calm settle over you.

Paintings line the white walls of the museum like open windows into other worlds. Mountains dissolve into mist. Rivers stretch endlessly toward horizons painted with impossible patience. You move slowly, hands clasped behind your back, reading each plaque carefully.

You don’t rush art. You let it happen to you.

A group passes behind you, you feel the vibration of footsteps through the floor before you notice them in your peripheral vision. You shift aside politely, used to navigating spaces by motion rather than sound.

People talk. Mouths move. Laughter appears in shapes you recognize but cannot hear. You don’t mind anymore. You stopped minding many years ago.

Silence isn’t loneliness. It can become a home if you know how to welcome it.

You stop in front of a smaller painting, ink brush mountains rising sharply against a pale sky. The artist captured distance so perfectly you almost feel wind on your face. Your chest tightens the way it always does when something beautiful finds you unexpectedly.

You lean closer..and that’s when you notice him.

You notice him the way you notice art that doesn’t belong to the rest of the room. He stands several paintings away.

Tall.

Black hair falling softly across his forehead, slightly messy like he forgot to tame it before leaving home. He’s wearing a brownish long coat, neutral colors, nothing flashy, yet he looks impossibly out of place among ordinary visitors.

Beautiful is too small a word.

Your brain supplies it anyway.

Beautiful.

A properly beautiful man, and you get lost in your head about how you’re pretty sure, you have never seen anyone this good looking before. Is he from here? Is he a visitor?

He studies a painting with complete focus, head tilted slightly, lips parted as if he’s thinking something profound. His hands rest loosely in his pockets, posture relaxed but elegant.

You stare longer than you should, and you know you are staring but you can’t take your eyes off of his face. You tell yourself to look away.

You don’t. You can’t.

There’s something gentle about him, something quiet, and you catch yourself wonder what he sees in the painting, and then you wonder what his voice sounds like. You rarely think about voices, but his lips move slightly, almost forming words to himself, and suddenly curiosity blooms painfully inside your chest.

You look away quickly, embarrassed.

Focus on the art.

You move to the next piece.

Then the next.

But awareness of him follows you like warmth at your back. Each time you pretend not to look, you somehow find him again across the room, turning a corner, standing beneath another canvas. Maybe he’s moving through the exhibition at the same pace as you. Maybe you’re both drawn to the same pieces. Or maybe you’re just being delusional about your destiny bullshit.

You stop in a room with a huge piece, and the painting dominates the room.

It stretches across nearly an entire wall, a sweeping landscape of storm clouds breaking over a coastline, waves crashing in thick, violent strokes of blue & gray. Light cuts through the storm in one brilliant opening, illuminating a lone figure standing at the edge of the sea.

You feel it immediately.

The ache.

You walk closer and closer, until the rest of the world disappears. You imagine the roar of the ocean, not as sound, but as motion. As pressure. As something vast and overwhelming that exists whether you hear it or not. The lone figure in the painting looks small against the storm, yet unafraid.

You exhale slowly, and you sit on the bench placed before the artwork.

You always sit for paintings like this. Standing feels disrespectful when something demands your full attention. You fold your hands in your lap and let your eyes trace every brushstroke. Minutes pass, or maybe longer. Time behaves differently when you’re absorbed in beauty.

Your thoughts drift.

You think about the waves, what sounds they might make, and your thoughts lead you to roads you don’t want to take right now, like how people describe music as emotional. You’ve never known music. Sometimes people pity you for that, but standing here, feeling emotion swell so strongly it almost hurts, you wonder if music could really feel more alive than this.

You don’t think so.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice him approach. Not until the bench shifts slightly beside you.

Your heart jumps and you glance sideways.

It’s him.

He is so much more unreal up close. His presence feels warm, and you study him from the corner of your eye as he looks at the painting in front of you.

Long fingers resting on his knees. Soft features sharpened by concentration. His eyes move across the canvas slowly, thoughtfully, and you watch yourself thinking that he looks like someone who feels deeply, just like you.

Then he turns slightly toward you, and his lips move.

You blink, not expecting any interaction at all with the beautiful stranger, as if you were invisible in this space and someone interacting with you was impossible.

You look around briefly, wondering if he’s speaking to someone else, but no one stands nearby.

You look back at him.

His mouth moves again. Gentle expression.

You catch only fragments, shapes of syllables, but he’s probably mumbling and being extra quiet given the space you’re in, so you can’t read his lips at all.

Your stomach drops.

Of course, of course he’s talking, and of course he’s talking to you.

Panic flutters in your chest with the familiar anxiety of misunderstandings. Of people thinking you’re ignoring them purposefully. One of those moment where the world just has to mind you that easy communication isn’t built for you.

You hesitate.

Maybe he wasn’t speaking to you after all.

You look back at the painting, pretending nothing happened, but then he leans slightly closer, clearly directing his attention at you this time.

His lips move again, slower. You recognize the expression now. He’s definitely talking to you.

Heat rises to your face, and you hate this part. The part where you must interrupt normalcy. The moment people’s expressions change, surprise, awkwardness, apology. You turn toward him fully and he waits politely, eyes kind.

You look at him in the eyes, his beautiful intense but kind eyes, and you shake your head, pointing at your ear and your cochlear implant.

Then you mouth silently and carefully, hoping he’ll understand.

I’m deaf.

His eyes widen slightly as he realises, and for a brief second you prepare yourself for the usual reaction, exaggerated apologies, embarrassment, people backing away because they don’t know what to do or how to respond back.

He nods slowly. Then he mouths something again, more carefully this time.

You catch nothing. Maybe because you’re so distracted by him, maybe because the beautiful stranger is literally sitting right next to you and is trying to talk to you.

He pauses.

Thinks.

Then, unexpectedly, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone.

You watch his every movement, surprised.

His fingers move quickly across the screen, and a moment later he turns his phone toward you.

“Sorry. I said the painting feels lonely but peaceful. I wondered if you thought the same since you’re sitting here too.”

You stare at the words. Then at him, and your chest does that thing again.

Most people would have simply smiled and stopped trying. They wouldn't try to have a conversation with you. But he was, he was trying. He was actively trying to communicate with you.

You take your own phone out, hands suddenly clumsy with awareness of him watching as you type.

“Yes. Like standing in a storm but not wanting to leave.”

You show him.

His eyes brighten instantly, he smiles and nods at you. Something about his reaction makes warmth spread through you.

He types again.

“Exactly.”

You both turn back toward the painting. Side by side. You can see a smile in his face, and you become acutely aware of everything.

The closeness of his shoulder. The subtle rise and fall of his breathing. The way he glances at the painting, then briefly at you, as if checking whether you’re experiencing the same emotion. Your heart beats faster.

Ridiculous.

You don’t even know his name. You don’t know anything about him. He’s just a beautiful stranger.

And then you catch him typing again, and directing his phone at you, again.

“Do you come to museums often?”

You nod, then write.

“Whenever I want to think.”

He smiles big at you and the smile changes his whole face, making it so soft and childlike, like he’s genuinely so unbelievably happy. And you almost forget how to breathe.

He writes.

“Funny you say that, me too.”

You want to ask more. So much more, but you hesitate. Conversations with strangers rarely last long. People move on. They always do. You don’t want to out yourself up for disappointment

Still, neither of you stands up to leave.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. You exist together in this shared silence, watching painted waves crash endlessly against a painted shore.

You glance at him again.. and he’s already looking at you.

Your gaze collides with his but neither of you looks away immediately. Something shifts. Unspoken. Fragile. Dangerous. You both smile at each other and he looks back at the painting, and he looks shy, cheeks red. You’re pretty sure you look like a radish yourself.

His phone lights up again in his hands. He hesitates before turning the screen toward you, but he does anyway.

“I’m Hyunjin by the way”

Hyunjin. You mouth it silently to yourself, testing how it looks. The name fits him somehow. Soft yet so elegant.

You quickly type your own name and turn your phone toward him.

He reads it carefully and smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and lingers there, warm and bright, like he’s committing your name to memory.

Your stomach flips again at how pretty he looks.

He types again.

“Nice to meet you.”

You nod and type quickly.

“You too.”

It feels insufficient for the strange gravity of the moment, but you don’t know how else to explain what meeting him already feels like.

He looks at the painting again.

Then at you.

Then types:

“Do you want to see the rest together?”

Your heart stutters. You hadn’t expected that. You were just hoping to stay like this besides him for a few more minutes before he’s gone and you never see him again. You stare at the words longer than necessary, and he waits patiently, a look in his eyes as if hoping more than anything you’ll say yes.

You nod, a small movement, but his face lights up immediately.

You both stand at the same time, almost awkwardly synchronized, and a soft laugh escapes him, you see it in the way his shoulders lift, and you wonder what that sounded like.

You begin walking side by side through the gallery.

At first, neither of you types anything. You simply appreciate the art around you. Stopping before paintings and leaning closer to read descriptions. Then you start to occasionally exchanging phones for short comments.

“I like the colors here.”

“It feels nostalgic.”

“I think this one makes me sad. I’m not sure why.”

It’s all so natural and so not forced.

You notice how patient he is when typing, never rushing, and it’s all just making you feel like this is easy, after all, it’s not some huge inconvenience to him. He waits for your responses fully, eyes attentive, focused only on you when you write your words on the screen.

It’s rare. This is rare for you and you know it. People often grow restless. They get tired of having to do this. It has happened too many times. Boyfriends, friendships, coworkers.

The beautiful stranger in front of you doesn't stop. At least not yet.

You start noticing small things about him. The way he tilts his head when thinking. How expressive his eyes are and how carefully he observes everything.

You’re standing before a sculpture when Hyunjin suddenly pauses as if he forgot something, or her left something behind accidentally. He glances around the room, quick subtle movements, and then he reaches into his bag. You watch curiously as he pulls out a black cap. He slides it onto his head, lowering the brim slightly, and then a mask appears too, covering the lower half of his face.

Strange, you think. All of a sudden, why?

He wasn’t wearing any of that earlier when you saw him walk around the museum alone. Your brows knit together slightly and you look around instinctively.

Nothing seems different.

Only his eyes remain fully visible now. And because you stand beside him thankfully you can still see him clearly.

He notices you looking.

For a brief moment, embarrassment flashes across his eyes as he sees the confused look at your face.

He types quickly.

“Sorry. It's just something I have to do.”

You read it twice.

Why?

You glance at him again, puzzled. Again, you think about how free he looked before talking to you, what changed now?

You type back before thinking clearly.

“Not because of me I hope.” and you smile at him, as if joking. So awkward, why would you say that to him, so passive aggressive and for what? You just met the guy.. relax.

He immediately looks apologetic and there’s panic in his eyes. You’re a fucking idiot that’s for sure.

“Of course not!”

Relief softens the tightness in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much you were holding your breath. You nod lightly to show you understand, even if you don’t really. People have private reasons for things. Everyone carries pieces of themselves they don’t explain to strangers. You have no right to ask for explanations on anything.

He studies your face for a moment longer, as if making sure you truly believe him. Then his shoulders relax. Whatever tension had briefly appeared in him fades, replaced again by that quiet warmth you’ve begun associating with his presence.

You continue walking.

He stays slightly closer to you than before, positioning himself so that anyone passing would see mostly the side of his face turned away. When other visitors walk by, his posture shifts subtly, head lowered, brim of his cap shadowing his eyes.

It feels more like a habit of his. Like muscle memory.

You don’t ask why. You’re not going to ask him anything, he has his reasons. You just hope he’s not a criminal or something and he’s scared of being found.

You laugh in your head at the thought of this beautiful, kind man being a criminal.

You slow near the next painting and gesture toward it, inviting his attention back to something else. You both stop in front of a watercolor landscape, pale greens and soft blues melting into each other. He leans closer to read the description while you type a thought onto your phone.

“This one feels quiet.”

He reads it, then nods immediately.

He types

“Comfortable quiet.”

You smile.

Yes.

Exactly that.

The conversation resumes naturally after that. Whatever moment of tension existed dissolves into shared observation again, phones passing back and forth between you like a language only the two of you understand.

And you notice how attentive he is.

When you pause longer at a painting he waits for you. When you step closer to examine brushstrokes, he follows your lead. At one sculpture you circle slowly around it, studying how light changes the shadows, and when you turn he’s watching you instead of the art.

You pretend not to notice but your heart still reacts anyway. You show him another message.

“Do you like art a lot?”

He thinks before answering.

His thumbs hover over the screen longer this time.

“Yes. A lot. I try to make as much time for art as I can.”

You walk through the remaining galleries together, falling into an easy rhythm. Sometimes you talk through text. Sometimes you don’t talk at all. And somehow the silence between you never feels empty.

It feels shared.

At one point your hands brush accidentally while reaching toward the same information plaque. Both of you pull back at the same time. He laughs silently again, shoulders lifting, eyes crinkling above the mask.

You feel warmth rush to your face.

You type quickly, hiding your embarrassment behind humor.

“We have synchronized museum instincts.”

He grins and nods enthusiastically.

You don’t notice how often he looks at you now.

Not just glances.

Lingering looks.

As if he’s trying to memorize something.

Eventually the exhibition begins to thin out and visitors move toward the exit. Afternoon light grows stronger through the windows, signaling the end of the experience.

You reach the final gallery together and neither of you says anything. Neither of you rushes forward. It feels strangely similar to standing at the end of a good book, not wanting to turn the last page because finishing means losing it forever, that it’s over.

You slow your steps and he matches them automatically.

Outside the gallery doors the museum lobby stretches wide and bright. Reality waits there. You stop walking. He stops too. For a moment you both just stand facing each other. The silence changes. Not comfortable now, but fragile. Temporary.

You suddenly become aware that this was never guaranteed to last longer than today, longer than a few hours. That soon he will become a stranger again. You grip your phone slightly tighter.

He shifts his weight, eyes flicking down before returning to yours.

He’s nervous, you can feel it.

You’ve seen nervousness before, in yourself, in others trying to bridge uncertain moments. He types something. Stops and deletes it, then types again

Your heart begins beating faster.

Finally, he turns the screen toward you.

“Can I have your number Y/N? I understand if not, of course.”

You look at him. At the hidden half of his face. At the eyes that have stayed soft with you all afternoon, at the stranger who chose to stay instead of walking away when he realised communication was going to be more complicated than he's used to.

You type your number and you’re smiling down at his phone, and your fingers feel strangely unsteady as you hand the phone back to him.

He exhales, a subtle release of tension you almost miss. He saves it immediately, then types.

“I’m glad I met you today.”

Your throat tightens.

You reply.

“Me too.”

It feels inadequate compared to what you actually mean. You both linger a moment longer near the exit. Neither moving first.

Finally, you bow slightly, and he mirrors you instantly. You turn toward the doors, the remaining sunlight spilling across the floor ahead of you and each step away feels heavier than it should.

You reach the exit and something pulls at you. You glance back.. and he’s still standing there watching you. Not checking his phone. Not leaving.

When your eyes meet again he lifts his hand in a small wave and you immediately smile at him and wave back in a small movement, and then you step outside into the afternoon air, unaware that somewhere behind you Hyunjin remains still for several seconds longer.

As if leaving this moment is harder than he expected.

_

You didn’t expect him to text.

That’s the rule you’ve learned about people who show interest in you. People are not willing to do all that, to put this much effort. These beautiful moments don’t follow you home.

Still, when you step into your apartment you place your phone down on the table more carefully than usual. As if being gentle to your phone will make him text. You change clothes. Wash your hands. Make tea. The routine unfolds exactly as it always does, predictable.

Your apartment is quiet, as it always is.

You sit by the window, watching the city move below. Cars glide past. People talk animatedly on sidewalks, conversations you can see but never enter. And then.. with the corner of your eye you see your phone light up.

Your heart jumps before logic catches up and you go and pick it up way too quickly.

A message.

Unknown number.

You already know.

“Hey, it’s Hyunjin, from the museum. Did you get home safely?”

Warmth spreads through your chest so suddenly it genuinely embarrasses you. You type back immediately, then delete it. You’re being too fast. Too eager. You don’t want to make it seem like he’s all you could think about, even though that’s exactly what’s happening.

You wait for at least five minutes, just hoping he didn’t see you typing.

You: Hi. Yes. Did you?

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

He was waiting too.

Hyunjin: Yes :) I keep thinking about the painting.

You smile instantly. You walk to the couch and sit down, pulling your legs beneath you.

You: The one with the storm?

Hyunjin: Yes. The one we met in front of.

Your breath catches. You stare at the message longer than necessary, unsure how to respond without revealing how much it affects you.

You: I can’t stop thinking about that piece too.

Three dots appear again.

Disappear.

Return.

You imagine him somewhere across the city, looking at his phone the same way you are now.

Hyunjin: I’m glad I talked to you today.

You blush like a schoolgirl. What even is this, why are you so effected by this man you barely know. Yes, he’s very attractive and he seems kind, but those things never effect you if you’re not knee deep in someone’s personality.

You: Me too, thank you for today.

The conversation ends there, but you can’t seem to be able to stop thinking about him for the rest of the night, before finally going to sleep, still thinking about him, replaying everything in your head.

_

As the days go by the beautiful stranger texts you nearly every day, almost always at the same hours, late evening, when the city softens and people begin disappearing into their private lives. And you blush and kick your feet like a teenager who’s interacting with a boy for the first time in her life every time you get a text from him.

At first, the questions are small.

Hyunjin: What do you usually do after work?

You: Go home. Read. Sometimes cook badly.

Hyunjin: Haha, I doubt it’s bad.

You: Do you paint?

Hyunjin: Yeah, I'm trying to find time for that.

You: What do you do for work?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Return.

Hyunjin: I’m a dancer.

You smile unconsciously. It fits him. The way he stood in front of the sculpture. The way his hands moved. The quiet awareness of his body in space.

You: That makes sense.

Hyunjin: Really? How come?

You hesitate, unsure how to explain something intuitive.

You: You notice things. Dancers notice things.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

Stops.

Appears again.

Hyunjin: I think you notice more than me.

The conversations grow slowly as days go by. He asks what silence feels like to you. No one has ever asked that before. You tell him silence isn’t always empty. It can be full. Full of movement, expressions, light shifting through rooms, people breathing.

He sends a message after several minutes.

Hyunjin: That sounds beautiful. I think sign language is very beautiful, maybe you can teach me something one day?

Your chest aches. Teach him sign? One day? This mean he's planning to see you again?

You: Oh, of course, if you'd like that :)

Hyunjin: I'd love it.

Some nights he tells you about the 'rehearsals' he has, as he calls them. You haven’t t quite understood what he does for work. Is he a dance teacher? Is he a backup dancer? He talks about long hours, sore feet and mirrors everywhere, and you imagine him practicing alone in a quiet studio.

You never push for details. You’ve learned people reveal only what they want to.

One evening after weeks of messages that feel strangely essential to your days, you type without overthinking.

You: I wish I could see you dance one day.

The message sends.

Immediately, the typing bubble appears.

Stops.

Appears again.

You watch it, heart beating faster than it should.

…typing…

…typing…

Then it disappears. Again. A minute passes. Two. Your stomach tightens.

Hyunjin: Maybe someday.

Another pause.

Hyunjin: Goodnight :)

You blink at the screen. Something about it feels unfinished. Like a door almost opened and then quietly shut again. What was he writing for minutes straight that he deleted?

You type goodnight back.

The next day passes without a text from him, and you don’t think much of it. People get busy. He clearly sounds like someone who has lots of work and lots of stuff to do. You go to work, come home, make tea and sit by the window as always.

Your phone stays dark.

Two days.

Five days.

A week.

No message.

You stop checking constantly. You place your phone face down now, as if removing the possibility will make disappointment smaller. It shouldn’t hurt. Yes, you both opened up a little bit about your lives, but still, you barely know him. But something settles quietly in your chest, familiar and heavy.

Because this is how it always happens.

People are kind at first. Curious. Interested. They like the novelty of learning how you communicate, the way you watch faces carefully, the patience required to speak with hands or typed words. But eventually comes the moment when effort becomes visible. When conversations require adjustment. When spontaneity disappears.

And then they fade.

Not cruelly or dramatically, but they do, and it always hurts the same. Maybe he wanted to meet with you, but the thought of having to text all the time made him change his mind.

You learned not to blame people for this.

And with him? You just tell yourself this was never different. You tell yourself that you knew better and to stop rereading the messages you exchanged the past weeks, and to stop wondering what he almost said that night.

Two weeks pass.

The rhythm of your life closes again around you, steady and predictable. Evening tea and city lights through your window. You feel foolish for having expected anything else. Some people are just passing moments. Beautiful ones, yes, but temporary. And you're still glad you got to know him even for just a bit. After all, he seemed like a nice, kind man.

_

It's Friday night and you’re halfway through washing dishes. You're planning on tidying up a bit, then putting on a movie and relaxing like that in front of the tv after a shitty day at the atelier.

You dropped your canvas, made a mess in the floor, ruined hours upon hours of hard work and had everyone trying to help you like you were some baby. You’re deaf, you’re not a toddler.

Everything today was just shit, and you deserved to relax and forget this day all together.

Suddenly your phone lights up on the counter. You don’t rush, you’ve trained yourself not to, and you're pretty much sure it's just your mom or your sister.

You dry your hands slowly.

His name.

Your heart forgets all the lessons you tried to teach it.

Hyunjin: Would you be up to meet again?

_

You start getting ready far too early.

The clock says you still have three hours before he arrives, yet you stand in front of your wardrobe like the decision carries unreasonable consequences. Shirts are lifted, held against your body, folded back again. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like trying too hard. You sit on the edge of your bed for a moment trying to catch your breath and looking at all the mess you’ve made in front of you.

You’re being so ridiculous. This is just tea. Just meeting a friend. Right? That’s what he is. A friend.

But your thoughts don’t cooperate. What if he realizes how exhausting it is to talk with you? The pauses while you type. The way conversations sometimes need to slow down or the constant awareness required to communicate with you. People always say it doesn’t matter at first. And then later it does.

You smooth your hands over the clothes you finally picked. A long skirt and a beautifully detailed top.

You tell yourself not to hope too much. To treat this as meeting a friend and nothing else. This is not a date, not a romantic one at least.

The message he sent yesterday replays in your mind.

Would you be up to meet again?

And then the location he chose.

A tea house.

You had mentioned weeks ago casually that tea makes you feel calm and that you collect different kinds, that choosing tea feels like choosing a mood.

He remembered.

The realization warmed you more than the invitation itself. He listens. He listens and he notices and he remembers. You'd be happy even having him in your life as just a friend, so you just hope tonight goes well.

The tea house isn’t in town. It sat far outside the city, near the hills, almost hidden, and you wondered why he would choose somewhere so far when there were dozens of tea places closer. The thought lingered, unanswered. And you didn’t have time to care.

Your phone lights up.

Hyunjin: I’m outside.

Your heart leaps. You grab your bag, check your reflection one last time and step outside.

The car waiting at the curb makes you slow down.

Sleek. Black. You can tell this is a nice, expensive car. Dancers don’t usually drive cars like that. Or do they? Before you can think longer, the driver’s door opens. Hyunjin steps out, and for a moment your brain stops working properly.

He looks unfairly beautiful.

Soft black hair falling into his eyes, simple clothes somehow looking elegant on him, long coat moving slightly with the breeze. There’s nothing flashy about him, yet everything about him draws attention effortlessly. He has a cup on again, a cup that hides most of his face.

He smiles when he sees you and it makes your stomach flip.

Oh no.

He looks even better than you remembered. How are you supposed to try become friends with someone you are so attracted to? A man so beautiful your heart is doing backflips inside your chest. This is never going to work. But you will try, you will do anything to keep him in your life, you're already sure of it.

He walks toward you, slightly nervous energy in his movements. Then he pauses, studying you carefully. He lifts his phone, types quickly, and shows you.

Hyunjin: How do you sign “beautiful” ?

You blink, surprised. You demonstrate slowly, showing him the motion, and his eyes follow your hands with intense focus, repeating the movement carefully, almost reverently.

He signs it back to you.

Beautiful. And points at you right after.

Heat rushes to your face instantly and you're pretty sure your cheeks are red, and he definitely noticed, because the corner of his eyes crinkles as a small smirk appears. You look away, suddenly very interested in the pavement.

The drive is quiet but comfortable.

He occasionally glances at you, like he’s reassuring himself you’re really there. The city slowly fades behind you, buildings giving way to open views and softer landscapes.

You watch the scenery change, curiosity returning. Why here? Why somewhere so far away? But you will not ask. Somehow, the distance feels intentional. Private. Safe. And you find that nice, you trust him. Maybe he just wants to be far away from people because it will be overwhelming having to text and hear all the noise all at once.

The tea house appears nestled between trees, large windows facing an expansive view of hills stretching toward the sea. When you step inside you can see that there are barely any people, and the air smells faintly of jasmine and citrus. They seat you by the window and the view was breathtaking.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You simply sit there, sharing the calm. Then he types something and turns the phone toward you.

Hyunjin: I’m sorry I disappeared.

You blink, caught off guard by the directness.

Hyunjin: Work became overwhelming. I didn’t want to text carelessly.

You nod slowly and you type back.

You: It’s okay.I thought maybe you got tired of talking to me.

You immediately wish the floor would open up and you’d disappear inside it. Why would you just blurt that out so easily? What is wrong with you?

His reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, genuine shock crossing his face. He shakes his head quickly.

Hyunjin: Of course not.

He hesitates before continuing.

Hyunjin: Why would you think that?

You stare at your hands before answering. You already fucked up by being completely honest, you might as well explain.

You: People usually do. They don’t always have patience. Talking with me takes effort.

You expect sympathy or awkward reassurance. Instead, his expression just softens, and he types slower this time.

Hyunjin: Talking to you is easy.

Your chest tightens, and you're still not used to the feeling even though he's making you feel like this way too often.

You hadn’t noticed how tightly you were holding yourself together until the tea arrived. Steam curls upward between you, carrying the faint scent of chamomile and something floral you don’t recognize. The porcelain cups are warm against your fingers.

Hyunjin watches you as you lift the cup.

Hyunjin: Can I ask something personal?

You nod immediately. You’re surprised by how easily trust comes with him.

Hyunjin: Were you always deaf?

You smile at his genuine curiosity and type back.

You: Yes. I was born this way.

You pause, then add more.

You: My parents found out when I was a baby. I have never experienced sound, so I don’t feel like I lost anything.

Hyunjin: Does the cochlear implant help you catch anything?

You reach up instinctively, fingers brushing the small processor resting behind your ear.

You: Sometimes, yes. In quiet places, I can pick up bits of sound, but it doesn’t come through clearly. It’s more like my brain turning electrical signals into rough shapes of meaning. I guess. Speech is the hardest. Some sounds are clearer than others, but none of it feels natural. And I get tired quickly, listening takes effort

He nods as he reads.

Hyunjin: Can you hear your own voice?

You: Not really. I feel it more than hear it.

You tap lightly against your throat.

You: Like vibration inside my chest.

His expression changes, something tender flickering there, and you realize he’s imagining it. Trying to understand your world from the inside.

He types again, slower this time.

Hyunjin: Thank you for explaining it to me.

You nod and smile at him.

Hyunjin: And do your parents know sign language?

You: Kind of, they're still learning, but we can communicate comfortably for the most part.

He smiles.

Hyunjin: I want to learn too.

You look up at him, smiling big without meaning to.

You: I'll teach you then.

And he nods excitingly, as he types again.

Hyunjin: Tell me about your paintings, about your work!

You describe them shyly at first, talking about your favourite techniques and explain how painting feels like translating emotions you can’t always express otherwise. He reads your messages intensely, elbows resting on the table, completely focused. You talk more than you meant to and you open up to him quickly.

Eventually, without thinking, the words slip out.

You: You could come to my house and see them sometime… if you want.

The moment you turn the phone towards him for him to read you immediately regret it and try to take the phone back, but he stops you and holds your hand, turning the phone back to himself. Soft hands, his long fingers making you feel dizzy.

Focus, you're trying to be his friend.

You read his lips: “Let me see.”

You look down quickly, wishing you could pull the invitation back.

He goes still, and you can see uncertainty flicker across his face as he reads it. You rush to type again.

You: Only if you want. No pressure!!!!!!!!

He interrupts gently, typing as a small laugh leaves his throat and you catch the movement.

Hyunjin: I’d like that.

You look at him and he nods once, as if confirming the decision to himself as much as to you. Warmth spreads through you, mixed with nervous excitement.

You: Enough about me though, tell me about yourself too.

He laughs and types.

Hyunjin: I’m not very interesting.

You snort softly before you can stop yourself, and you wonder if the sound you made just now sounded weird. You hope not, and you see him smile, so you don’t think about it too much.

You: That’s not true.

He smiles at your quick response, shoulders relaxing slightly, and he tries again.

Hyunjin: I dance. That’s most of my life.

You nod, already knowing that part, but you wait for him to continue.

Hyunjin: I started young. Training took a lot of time. Long days. Late nights. I still practice almost every day.

You: What kind of dance?

He tilts his head, thinking how to answer.

Hyunjin: Different styles. Contemporary, hip hop, performance dance.

You: Do you like it?

His answer comes immediately this time.

Hyunjin: Yes. When I dance, I don’t think about anything else.

You smile. You understand that feeling. Painting does the same for you.

You: That’s how painting feels for me.

He nods eagerly, clearly happy at the connection.

Hyunjin: Then you understand.

Golden light stretches across the road as you walk back to the car together, and the drive feels different now. You feel closer to him after the talk you had. You feel like you know more about him, but still, you know there's so much more. You can feel that he’s holding back, you just can't put your finger on what it is.

When the car stops outside your apartment your heartbeat picks up again. He picks up his phone after stopping the car right in front of your door and types.

Hyunjin: I have time to see your painting now, if you’re okay with that.

You look at him, not ready for this to happen so fast, but you want him to come and see so bad that you just can’t find it in you to care if your apartment is messy. You nod eagerly.

_

He’s here. About to see your space. Your world. You glance at him, unsure if he’s nervous too, and he meets your eyes and smiles softly.

He follows you quietly into your apartment and the moment the door closes behind him something shifts in the air. You don’t turn on the big overhead light. Instead you move through the small space flipping on the many warm lamps you’ve collected over the years, soft golden pools of light that make the cozy room feel even smaller, more intimate.

The apartment is tiny, walls lined with bookshelves and half finished canvases. The air smells faintly of oil paint, chamomile tea and a lavender candle that even though wasn't lit you could still smell it.

Having him here feels… overwhelming, in a good, perfect way.

Hyunjin looks impossibly beautiful under the warm lamplight. The harsh edges of the outside world are gone. His black hair falls softly across his forehead as he takes his cap off, catching threads of gold. His long coat is draped over the back of your old armchair, and in just a simple black sweater, he seems softer, more real. Every time he moves the light shifts across his face, highlighting the gentle slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the depth in his eyes. He looks like one of your paintings come to life, something delicate and aching all at once.

You lead him to the corner where you paint. The space is cramped but warm, brushes resting in jars, colors smeared on an old wooden palette. Several canvases are propped against the wall, your private little windows into everything you feel.

Hyunjin crouches down slowly so he can see better, eyes moving across each piece with genuine focus. He studies the stormy seascape, soft misty mountains, and the smaller abstract works where colors bleed into emotions you’ve never named out loud.

His expression changes as he looks. First curiosity, then quiet surprise, and finally something close to awe. He leans closer to one particular canvas, a figure standing on a cliff as golden light breaks through heavy clouds, and his lips part slightly.

He pulls out his phone, but then seems to change his mind. Instead, he looks up at you, eyes bright, and slowly signs the word you taught him earlier.

Beautiful.

The movement is careful, a little clumsy but full of effort. His long fingers shape the sign with reverence.

You look up at him, heart pounding so loudly you can feel it in your throat. Without thinking, you sign back “Thank you”, and you mouth the word silently at the same time.

For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you under the warm lamplight.

Hyunjin’s gaze softens. He rises slowly from his crouch until he’s standing close, closer than he’s ever been. The air between you feels charged, fragile, full of all the unspoken things that have been growing since you met. His eyes drop to your lips for half a second, then return to yours, asking without words.

And then he just leans in.

The kiss is impossibly soft.

Tentative at first, like he’s afraid of breaking the quiet you both cherish. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, tasting faintly of the tea you shared earlier. There’s no rush, only tenderness. One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek with feather light care, thumb brushing your skin.

Your eyes flutter closed. After a heartbeat of surprise, you lean in and kiss him back, your hands rising to rest lightly against his chest. You can feel the steady, slightly faster beat of his heart under your palm. The kiss deepens just a little, still soft, still slow.

When you finally pull apart you’re both breathing a little heavier. His forehead rests gently against yours for a moment, eyes closed, as if he’s savoring the closeness, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, then reaches for his phone with slightly unsteady fingers.

Hyunjin: I wanted to do this since the moment I saw you in front of that painting.

You smile, cheeks flushed, and you grab his phone to type back

You: I wanted you to do this since that moment too, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

His eyes are warm and shiny as he reads.

Hyunjin: I don’t want to scare you with how much I already like you. But being here, in your space, seeing your art… it feels like I’m seeing the real you. And I like her so much.

Your chest tightens with a sweet ache.

You: I’m not scared of you.

The hour now has grown late, and Hyunjin glances at the time on his phone, reluctance clear in his expression.

Hyunjin: I have early practice tomorrow… I should go. Thank you for letting me into your world tonight.

You smile at him as he touched your face one last time, and you walk to the door together. He puts his coat back on and pulls the mask and cap from his pocket, preparing once again for the outside world. Before he steps out, he turns to you one more time.

He leans down and presses a final, tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a few heartbeats, and you melt completely. Then he pulls back, eyes soft.

You sign “Goodnight” slowly as you mouth it, and he repeats the sign back to you with a smile.

You stand there for a long moment, fingers touching your lips where he kissed you, the warmth of his presence still lingering in your small apartment.

_

The next afternoon you stepped out to buy groceries, still carrying the warm glow from last night’s kiss. Your steps felt lighter. The world seemed a little softer, and you wanted more than anything to make soup.

You loved soup, and you loved making it. It felt so cozy to make soup. Mushroom soup, carrot soup, chicken soup, onion soup. You’ve tried everything, all of it equally delicious.

You got your groceries and you decided to go home from a different route, to walk around a little longer since the day was so nice. You turned the corner onto the main street, and right there as you looked up, you froze.

There, towering over the busy intersection was a massive billboard. Bright, impossible to miss. Hyunjin’s face, the face of the boy who was in your apartment last night filled most of it, sharp eyes, styled hair, wearing a striking outfit, promoting a luxury brand.

Your bags slipped from your fingers.

The world tilted. You stared, frozen on the sidewalk as people walked past you. Your chest tightened painfully. That was him. Your Hyunjin, splashed across a building like he belonged to everyone.

What the fuck? Is this actually him? Or is this a sick joke? Does he have a fucking twin or something? No. There’s no way that’s him.

_

The groceries hit the floor the moment the door of your apartment closed, milk carton cracking open, vegetables rolling across the tiles.

You didn’t care.

Hands shaking, you opened your laptop and typed “Hyunjin” into the search bar. You didn’t even know his last name, there’s no way anything will come up with just his name.

The page loaded.

Thousands of results.

Photos. Videos. News articles. “Hwang Hyunjin” — Stray Kids. Born March 20, 2000. Main dancer, rapper, visual. Millions of followers. Fancams. Magazine covers.

His face was everywhere.

You clicked frantically. More images flooded the screen, him on stage, glowing with confidence, blonde hair in older clips, intense expressions, surrounded by seven other men. He looked so different yet the same. Powerful. Distant. Like a completely different person from the man who had kissed you so tenderly the other night.

And then the betrayal hit and you felt tears running down your face.

He had lied to you. Not directly, but by omission. While you poured out your world to him he had hidden this enormous part of himself. The cap, the mask, the faraway tea house, the sudden disappearances… it all made brutal sense now.

Is he really that ashamed of me?

The thought tore through you. That’s why he hid his face whenever you were together. To protect himself. So no one would see the famous idol standing next to the deaf girl.

Tears burned hot down your cheeks.

You curled up on the floor beside the spilled groceries, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The apartment felt too small, too quiet, too full of him. You cried until your eyes ached and your chest felt hollow.

How could he do this?

_

The next morning your phone lit up.

Hyunjin: Hey. I keep thinking about your paintings… and you. How are you today?

You read it. Your thumb hovering over the keyboard, but you can’t bring yourself to answer. The hurt is too raw, too fresh.

Twenty minutes later, another message.

Hyunjin: Did you sleep well? I know I left late the other day, I hope I didn’t mess up your sleep schedule. if you’re busy, it’s okay. Just let me know you’re alright?

Read. No reply.

An hour passes.

Hyunjin: Is everything okay? I’m getting a little worried. Did I do something wrong?

You still couldn’t answer and the tears came again. Why was he doing this? What did he want from you? Why is he texting you acting like he cares if he’s so embarrassed to be around you to the point he has to hide under masks?

Then, late in the afternoon another message.

Hyunjin: Please talk to me. Even if it’s just one word. I can’t stop thinking that I messed up the moment I left your apartment. You’re important to me. I don’t want to lose this.

Something inside you snapped. You typed with trembling fingers, vision blurred

You: Are you embarrassed of me, Hwang Hyunjin? Is that why you were hiding your face every time we were together? What do you want from me exactly?

The message sent.

You saw the “Read” notification almost instantly.

He didn’t reply.

_

You feel slightly calmer now after getting that out of your chest, calm enough to look him up again. With a clearer head now, not filled with shock. You searched his name once more and click on a music video titled “God’s Menu.”

The video starts, and you can’t hear a single note. Hyunjin appears on screen, younger, with striking blonde hair, moving with fierce, sharp precision. His expressions are powerful, almost predatory, completely different from the gentle person who had crouched in front of your paintings to look. There were seven other men with him, all radiating raw energy and charisma. The choreography was intense, synchronized, explosive.

He had opened up to you about dancing, about how it made him forget everything. But he never told you this was his life. Why? Why were you not allowed to know about this?

Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. The disappointment felt heavier than the anger now. You had trusted him, but he hadn’t trusted you with this.

It was past 9 p.m when your phone buzzed again.

Him.

Hyunjin: I’m outside your apartment. Please… can I come up and explain? Just five minutes. I’ll leave right after if you want me to.

Your heart clenched. Part of you wanted to ignore him. The bigger part, the one that still remembered his soft lips kissing you, made you walk to the door. You were angry, but you were mostly curious. Curious to know what the fuck he wants from you and why he hid this.

Hyunjin stood there in the dim hallway light, mask pulled down, eyes wide with worry and something else.. fear?.

He looked exhausted. He stepped inside carefully when you moved aside, and the moment the door closed he started typing frantically, then stopped and tried to speak slowly so you could read his lips.

“I’m not embarrassed of you,” he said clearly, voice careful. “Never. Please believe that.”

You stared at him, arms wrapped around yourself.

He continued, typing and showing you the screen.

Hyunjin: My company has very strict rules. Idols aren’t allowed to date publicly. If fans see me with someone, especially if pictures get taken, it can turn into a huge scandal. It could hurt my members, my career… and the person I’m with. I was trying to protect you. Your life and identity. I don’t want cameras or hate coming after you because of me. I was going to tell you. I swear. I just… I wanted you to like me for me, the guy who sat next to you in the museum.

His eyes were glassy and he looked genuinely devastated. Breaking your heart seeing him like this even though you were still upset with him.

“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed. “I never meant to hurt you like this.”

You felt your own tears return. The anger cracked, leaving only hurt and sudden guilt.

You didn’t know any of this. You weren’t familiar with idol culture, hell, you couldn’t even listen to music.

You typed with shaky hands.

You: Okay, I get that, I’m sorry for reacting like this. I saw you on a billboard and then I googled you. So many people know you. Why do i not deserve to? I just instinctively thought you’re embarrassed of me because of my disability.

Hyunjin shook his head fiercely and pulled you into his arms without hesitation. He held you tight, one hand gently cradling the back of your head. You clung to him, face buried in his chest, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. He rubbed slow circles on your back, patient and warm.

After a long while, he pulled back just enough to type.

Hyunjin: I really like you Y/N, and I don’t give a fuck that you’re deaf. It’s just another beautiful part of you, nothing more, nothing less.

You read the text and looked up in his eyes, more tears forming in your eyes, in his too. And you hugged again, tightly, as he kissed the top of your head.

After a while like this..

You: I saw the music videos. You look so cool, and you dance so unbelievably great. I wish I could hear your music

The sadness in your own expression was impossible to hide. Hyunjin’s face softened and he cupped your cheeks gently, thumbs brushing away your tears. He leaned in and kissed you, soft, deep, full of apology and longing. You kissed him back desperately, clinging tighter, your hands fisting in his shirt as if he might disappear.

The kiss grew heavier. Your body pressed closer to his, seeking comfort, connection, anything to fill the ache. Your hands slid under his coat, under his sweater, touching his waist and now actively pulling him toward the bedroom as you kiss.

Hyunjin understood immediately and he stopped you gently as he smiled, breaking the kiss, forehead resting against yours.

He shook his head no, breathing uneven, cheeks flushed.

“Not like this,” he mouthed slowly, making sure you could read his lips. “You’re upset. I don’t want you to.. regret it later.”

And his words are kind but they still hit you like cold water. Your hands loosen from his sweater immediately, heat rushing to your face. Embarrassment floods through you so quickly it almost hurts. You pull back a little too fast, avoiding his eyes.

Of course.

Of course you misread everything and embarrassed yourself again.

You stare at the floor, fingers twisting together. You type quickly on your phone, movements slightly clumsy.

You: I’m so sorry. That was stupid. I didn’t mean to-

Before you can finish, he gently catches your wrist. His expression changes instantly, concern replacing surprise.

He shakes his head, almost panicked.

“No,” he mouths quickly. “No, no.”

He takes your phone, typing himself.

Hyunjin: Hey. It’s okay. Really. You didn’t do anything wrong. We can do that some other time, when you’re feeling better. I want it too.

He looks at you and smiles, warm, reassuring, the kind of smile meant to pull you out of your own thoughts. He’s still standing so close and it doesn’t help that you’ve touched his bare waist. You’re still embarrassed, and you don’t know what to do with your hands for the first time maybe ever.

His hand lifts slowly, hesitant, giving you time to pull away if you want.

You don’t.

His fingers tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Then he leans in again. Gentle, soft kiss, slow. Not desperate or overwhelming, reassurance pressed quietly against your lips.

When he pulls back his forehead rests against yours again for a second, both of you smiling a little shyly now. The tension melts and you breathe out a small laugh, still embarrassed but lighter. And he smiles at the sound you made.

He gestures towards the couch and you nod.

You sit side by side, knees touching, your shoulders brushing occasionally as you both pull out your phones to talk. The room feels calmer now. Safe again.

You glance at him, then type.

You: So… idol.

He groans immediately, covering his face with one hand, and you grin.

You: You hid that pretty well.

Hyunjin: I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… wanted you to meet me first.

You tilt your head, teasing.

You: So you’re secretly mega famous and thought I wouldn’t notice?

He laughs, shoulders shaking.

Hyunjin: You didn’t notice.

You nudge his arm.

You: I thought you were just suspiciously pretty.

He pretends to look offended, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. You both laugh, the last bit of awkwardness dissolving between you, but your next message is softer.

You: I was really hurt yesterday. It really shocked me and my mind went to the worse case scenario.

His smile faded, replaced by something serious.

Hyunjin: I know. I’m really sorry. I should’ve thought of the possibility of hurting you like this.

He looks at you while you read it, eyes vulnerable in a way that doesn’t match the polished image he probably shows the world.

Hyunjin: I was scared you’d treat me differently or feel like my life was too much.

Your chest tightens. You don’t type this time. You just lean in and kiss him. A quiet answer. Forgiveness. When you pull back he looks stunned and then relieved, smiling wider than you’ve seen all night.

You stand up suddenly and he blinks in confusion. You gesture toward the kitchen.

“Tea” you mouth, and sign it at the same time.

His face lights up immediately.

He watches you move around the kitchen, comfortable in your own space, sleeves pushed up as you prepare tea. Something about the normalcy of it seems to calm him more than anything else tonight. When you return handing him a warm cup his fingers brush yours deliberately.

He mouths thank you, and he tries to sign it from memory. His movement is a little clumsy, but you help him get it right as you both smile.

You grab the remote and put on some anime show you’ve left unfinished, looking at him to make sure he’s also cool with your choice, and his eyes widen in excitement as he nods immediately.

As the show starts playing quietly the screen colors flickering across the room. He keeps glancing at you more than the show at first, like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that you’re okay, that you’re still here with him.

Eventually you settle closer. Your head rests against his shoulder and his arm hesitates only a second before wrapping around you carefully, pulling you into his side.

He’s warm. steady, safe.

You both watch episode after episode, occasionally passing the phone back and forth to comment or joke. At some point you stop typing altogether. You’re just… comfortable. Your breathing slows and your body grows heavier against him, and a few minutes later he looks down and realises you’ve fallen asleep on him, your cheek pressed against his chest as one of your hands loosely hold his shirt.

His expression softens instantly and he stays still for a long time, unwilling to disturb you, watching your peaceful face like it’s something fragile.

After an hour he carefully shifts, sliding one arm under your knees and the other behind your back as he lifts you. You stir slightly but don’t wake, instinctively leaning closer into him.

He smiles at that. Finding it adorable.

Carrying you to the bedroom feels strangely intimate, more intimate than any of the kisses you’ve shared. He lays you gently on the bed, pulling the blanket over you and tucking it around your shoulders. He just stands there for a moment, watching you, memorizing your face as his fingers brush lightly against your hair.

He mouths quietly, though you can’t hear it,

“Goodnight baby”

And he hesitates… but then leans down and presses one last soft kiss to your forehead before he leaves. And the apartment returns to silence but holds all of the warmth he left behind.

_

Morning arrives slowly.

Sunlight slips through your curtains in golden lines, warming the blankets tangled around you. For a moment you don’t move, you just lie there, half awake, wrapped in the lingering feeling of last night.

Then memory returns all at once.

Hyunjin, the apologies, what almost happened but he’s just so sweet and considerate, the couch, the tea, his arms around you, falling asleep against him.

Your eyes snap open and you sit up quickly, looking around your room. Deep inside you hoping he’s here. A small flicker of disappointment rises… until your phone lights up beside you.

Hyunjin: Good morning! You fell asleep during episode four.

Your heart jumps, and you open the messages immediately. A smile spread across your face as another message appears.

Hyunjin: I carried you to bed. I hope that was okay. I had work pretty early today so I had to go.

You press your lips together, warmth blooming in your chest at the thought.

Hyunjin: Also… I just wanted to say that I’m sorry again for upsetting you. I never want to make you feel unsure of my intentions again.

You reread that one twice. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, but before you can answer, another message arrives.

Hyunjin: I have an idea, and a feeling you’re going to like it. Can I pick you up later?

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until your cheeks start hurting.

You: You don’t have to apologize anymore Hyun. And yes, you can pick me up!

Hyun.

He smiles at the nickname.

He’s down horribly and he knows it.

_

You notice immediately that this drive feels different. He looks excited but nervous too. His fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel while he glances at you every few seconds, like he’s waiting for your reaction before the surprise even happens.

The car stops in front of a large building and you tilt your head questioningly. He grins, a little shy, a little proud over his idea, and gestures for you to follow him.

You immediately realise you’re in a company building. The hallways are never ending, and staff members bow politely as he passes. You notice it, the familiarity, the respect, the way people instantly recognize him. This is his world. Some of them look at you with a strange look on their faces, but they don’t try to interact with you at all, so you simply follow Hyunjin.

He opens a door carefully.

A.. studio?

You’re suddenly inside a huge recording studio. And right there in front of you is another man who looks back at you and Hyunjin and smiles fondly. Does he know you?

Hyunjin signs slowly as he points at him for you to look:

“Friend”

Chan immediately mirrors the greeting, giving you an enthusiastic wave. His smile is kind, gentle in a way that eases your nerves instantly. He types something quickly on a tablet and turns it toward you.

Chan: Hi! I’m Chan, Hyunjin’s bandmate. Hyunjin talks about you a lot. Welcome to our studio. It’s nice to finally meet you”

You smile at him and nod.

He talks about you? He’s.. talked about you to his members? To his group?

Suddenly Hyunjin takes your hand and leads you towards an enormous speaker setup. Huge. Almost intimidating. He suddenly looks nervous, searching your face for trust.

He signs slowly so you can follow every movement.

“I want you to feel my music.”

Did he do research? How does he know how to signs sentences all of a sudden? Your head is already spinning at the fact he’s fully signing before what he actually said even registers.

He guides your hand gently toward the large speaker, an enormous one that’s resting against the wall.

The music starts, and..

BOOM.

A deep vibration surges through the speaker and travels straight into your palm. Strong and alive and you gasp, eyes widening.

The bass pulses again, and again and again. You feel it climb up your arm, into your chest, into your bones. Instinctively, your other hand presses over your heart. The beat syncs beneath your palm. You’re feeling it. Feeling him. His art, his effort. His voice translated into movement, into vibration and emotion.

Your smile grows uncontrollably and you know your eyes are shinning, and then tears spill before you even realize you’re crying. Hyunjin freezes when he sees them.

For one terrifying second he thinks Did I overwhelm her? Did I do something wrong?

But then you laugh silently through your tears, gripping the speaker tighter, shoulders shaking with emotion. And he understands. You feel it. You feel him. He steps closer, overwhelmed himself now, and gently cups your face. His thumbs wipe your tears away one by one, and then he leans down, kissing them softly from your cheeks.

Behind you Chan quietly smiles, and without a word he slips out of the room, closing the door, giving you privacy, protecting the moment.

Hyunjin rests his forehead against yours, the music still pulses through the floor, through your hands, through your heart.

He signs slowly, again: I wanted to share my world with you.

You squeeze his hand, pressing it over your chest so he can feel your heartbeat racing beneath his palm and you kiss kid knuckles.

That’s your answer.

He exhales shakily, overwhelmed by how deeply this moment means means to him, and scared of how much you mean to him.

The tears on your cheeks had barely dried when something shifted in the air between you. His breathing grew heavier, you could feel it. His thumbs stroked your skin once more, then slid down to your jaw.

He kissed you again, hard, passionate, desperate.

It wasn’t like his usual gentle kisses. This one carried everything he had been holding back, longing, fear, and overwhelming want.

His lips moved against yours with urgent hunger, tongue slipping into your mouth as his hands slid into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted and you whimpered into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt.

He started to guide you to the couch now, and he locked the studio door with one hand without breaking the kiss.

He sat down on the wide, comfortable studio couch and pulled you with him. You climbed into his lap without thinking, knees bracketing his hips, straddling him. The moment your bodies pressed together you both instinctively moaned. And oh you were needy. So needy. And so was he. And the little sounds you were making were driving him crazy.

Your hips started moving on their own, grinding down against the growing hardness in his pants. The friction was delicious, and you rocked against him again and again, chasing the pressure. He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your lips as his hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements.

“Fuck… baby,” he breathed against your neck, making sure you could feel the low rumble of his voice. “You’re so eager for me…”

You answered by rolling your hips harder, desperate little sounds slipping from your throat. The music continued to pulse around you, deep bass thumping through the couch, through his body, into yours. Every beat seemed to sync with the way you moved against him.

Hyunjin’s hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your bare skin. He helped you pull the fabric over your head, then leaned forward to kiss and bite softly at your neck and collarbone while you continued grinding down on him. The humping grew more frantic, and your breathing was ragged, thighs trembling around his hips as you rubbed yourself against his clothed cock again and again.

He was breathing hard too, forehead pressed to your shoulder, groaning every time you rolled your hips just right.

After several long minutes of this, he finally slid one hand between your bodies. His long fingers slipped under your skirt and into your panties, finding you already soaked.

“So wet for me baby” he said, making sure you read his lips, and his words made you shiver.

He circled your clit slowly at first, then faster. Two of his long, elegant fingers pressed inside you, curling gently, opening you up. He scissored them slowly, stretching you, stroking that sensitive spot inside while his thumb continued rubbing your clit.

You clung to his shoulders, hips rocking desperately onto his fingers, soft whimpers turning into broken moans. Hyunjin watched your face the entire time, eyes dark and full of adoration, occasionally leaning in to kiss you deeply whenever your sounds grew louder.

When he felt you were ready, trembling and dripping around his fingers, he pulled them out gently.

He quickly opened his pants, freeing himself. His cock was hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He looked up at you, breathing heavily, eyes sparkling and asking for permission even now. And you answered by lifting your hips, pushing your panties aside, and slowly sinking down onto him.

The stretch was intense.

You gasped, forehead falling against his as you took him inch by inch. Hyunjin’s hands gripped your hips tightly, but he didn’t push, he let you control the pace, groaning deeply every time you sank a little lower.

When he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt, you both stayed still for a moment, breathing each other in.

Then you started moving.

Slow at first. Rolling your hips in deep, sensual circles. Hyunjin’s head fell back against the couch, lips parted, low groans spilling from his throat and you wrapped one arm gently around his neck so you could feel every groan, every moan through your palm. And every time you felt it you’d squeeze him inside you so deliciously.

His hands guided you, helping you ride him harder, deeper.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, looking at you straight in the eyes as he spoke “So tight… so warm… all mine. My perfect girl.”

Your pace quickened. You rode him with desperate need, breasts bouncing slightly with every movement, hands clutching his shoulders for balance. Hyunjin met every roll of your hips with upward thrusts, fucking up into you while keeping one hand on your lower back, pressing you closer.

When you finally came it hit you so hard. Your body clenched around him, a silent cry tearing from your throat as waves of intense pleasure crashed through you. Hyunjin followed right after, pulling out of you quickly, a shuddering groan you felt vibrate through your entire chest. His arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you against him as he spilled on his stomach.

You looked down at the beautiful mess he had made in himself, and you picked some of it with your finger, bringing it to your mouth.

His head was going to explode. The expressions on his face priceless, making you wet all over again by just how hot he looked looking at you.

His hands started to stroke your back slowly, tenderly. He pressed soft kisses to your sweaty temple, your cheek, your lips. His fingers brushed damp strands of hair away from your face with such gentle care it made your chest ache.

“I think i’m falling in love with you” he mouthed and touched his heart.

Your eyes widened, a smile you couldn’t control. You fell on his chest and kissed him, and you could feel each other’s smiles through the kiss

“Me too” you mouthed back.

You buried your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around him, heart still racing.

_

The award still feels unreal in his hands even hours later.

Even after the stage lights, the cameras, the cheers vibrating through the arena floor, the weight of the trophy resting beside the table keeps pulling Hyunjin back to reality.

They won.

The restaurant is loud, warm, crowded with late night laughter and clinking glasses. The members insisted on going out if they won, no managers hovering too closely tonight, just eight exhausted men finally allowed to breathe.

Chan lifts his glass.

“To surviving another year”

Everyone cheers. Glasses collide.

Hyunjin smiles, but his mind drifts elsewhere, and across the table Chan watches him carefully. Too carefully. He knows him too well.

Chan leans forward slowly, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion.

“Why do you look like you’re remembering something illegal?”

Laughter erupts instantly.

Changbin snaps his fingers. “He’s been smiling at nothing all night!”

Han points dramatically. “You can’t possibly be this happy over the award you little fuck, just tell us”

Hyunjin groans, dropping his face into his hands.

“I hate all of you.”

Felix grins. “No, no. We love you. That’s why we investigate.”

Seungmin tilts his head. “It’s her, right?”

The table quiets just slightly. Not teasing now, all of them genuinely curious to know.

Because they know.

They’ve watched Hyunjin change the past few months, softer rehearsals, distracted smiles, the way he stays up texting. The way he just looks happier now, more content, complete.

Chan leans back, arms crossed.

“The museum girl.”

Hyunjin exhales, there’s no hiding he’s down bad for her, they already know, he’s already told them, so what’s the point of shying away now.

His voice comes quiet.

“…Yeah.”

Immediately, smiles spread around the table. Jeongin kicks his leg under the table. “Finally.”

Changbin laughs. “So you’re officially together or what?”

Hyunjin shakes his head, embarrassed but smiling anyway. “I don’t know. Yes? I haven’t asked her to be her boyfriend but do I even have to? We both said we’re falling in love with each other.”

He looks down at his glass, thumb tracing condensation along the edge.

“I think…” he hesitates, searching for words. “…I think she sees me. Who I am, who I really am you know?.”

He thinks about how you looked at him before knowing who he was. How heartbroken you were because you thought he’s embarrassed of you, when the thing he wanted to do the most was yell from a rooftop about you.

“I mean, to find someone like her, so kind, so talented, and to not care at all about this life.. this is one in a lifetime”

His friends have long stopped teasing and are now listening to him, some of them smiling, others almost looking proud.

“When I thought I lost her I was a mess”

Felix nods gently. “But you didn’t.”

Hyunjin shakes his head, a small smile forming.

“No.”

Chan watches him carefully, then grins slowly.

“…So.”

Everyone leans in. Chan’s voice lowers dramatically.

“You brought her to the studio yesterday.”

Groans and laughter explode immediately and Hyunjin’s face turns bright red.

“Hyung...”

Chan points accusingly. “You never bring anyone to the studio.”

Changbin slams the table. “Oh my god, you fucked in the studio didn’t you?”

Hyunjin hides his face again, shoulders shaking with mortified laughter.

“That’s none of your goddamn business idiots.”

“Oh my god they did. They fucked in our studio.”

The reaction is instant chaos. Han nearly falls out of his chair. Felix covers his mouth, laughing and Minho claps like someone just scored a goal.

Chan leans back triumphantly.

“I knew it.”

Minho has been itching to ask this, and he finally does

“So, did you have her sign an NDA?”

Hyunjin looked at him like he had asked the craziest thing in the world. Almost disgust forming on his face

“Dude what? No. She will never do anything shady. She’s not like that”

Changbin nudged him. “You waited forever to meet someone like that.” shifting the conversation, knowing how Hyunjin gets with the whole idea of NDAs.

Felix nods warmly. “You deserve someone who understands you.”

Chan’s teasing fades into something softer. “You look lighter,” he says. “On stage today too. I noticed.”

Hyunjin looks at him and smiles, “Really?” he hadn’t realized it himself, but it was true. The performances felt more free lately. The pressure quieter. Because for the first time since forever.. he has somewhere to return to emotionally. Someone who knows him when the lights turn off and loves him anyway for who he really is.

He smiles to himself.

“She felt our music yesterday, that’s why I took her to the studio. She wanted to know, and that’s the only pleas for her to do that.” he says softly.

The table stills again. They are all so curious about how Hyunjin makes it work considering her deafness. He tells them about your hand on the speaker, the way your smile broke open, how you cried while feeling the rhythm through your body.

No one interrupts. Even Changbin grows quiet.

Chan exhales slowly, clearly moved.

“…That’s beautiful, man.”

Hyunjin nods.

“I think… I think this is serious guys. I’m like.. genuinely in love with her.”

Then eight matching grins spread around the table, and Han raises his glass again.

“To Hyunjin finally being in love.”

Glasses lift. They all cheer loudly as Hyunjin blushes, and he doesn’t deny it. How could he when it’s the truth.

He’s so madly in love with you.

Because when he checks his phone under the table and sees your name lighting the screen with a simple message —

Did you eat? Congratulations on your win, I saw you on tv!

— his chest warms in a way no award ever could ever make him feel.

He types back instantly.

Yes. I miss you already.

He doesn’t notice Chan watching him fondly from across the table. Doesn’t notice the knowing smiles exchanged between the members. They’ve seen Hyunjin chase perfection for years. Seen him doubt himself. Seen loneliness hide behind beauty and talent. Tonight he looks peaceful.

And that matters more than any trophy sitting on the table beside them.

[ddearina]

At the beach, in every life part.2

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Pairing: Bsf!Seungmin x Fem!Reader Word count: 5.3k (5359) Content warning: Fluff!, Confession, Lover!Seungmin, AU!University, Reader and Seungmin are following a literature program, Reader is referred to as Smartass, Y/n, Seungmin is referred to as Seungmin, Seungmo, Kim Seungmin, Mother, anxiety!mentioned, slight!angst bcs Seungmin thinks he has no chance with reader? bcs of an overheard conversation, slight alcohol consumption, almost kisses, messy!confession, teasing, Let me know if I forgot anything!

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Summary : Reader and Kim Seungmin have been best friends for a long time now, and their beach trip was just starting! Except... Seungmin had confessed the crush he had on reader, and is NOT ashamed of it. After overhearing a conversation where he thought you din't love him back, he was waiting for you to admit it and reject him, mentioning his crush every second to give you opportunities. But you, on the other hand, are trying to find the best way to confess your love! This romantic place would be nice perfect for it, except... you guys are only going there on the last day of a seven day-long trip. I guess waiting is the worst but only thing you can do!

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Side note : You can read the first part here -> Part one - I'm sorry it took so long plus it's messy, I struggled to finish it ughhhh

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Seungmin hummed as your favorite artist's voice came out if the radio. A silent laugh left his lips as he realized he was indeed singing. It particularly made him smile because before you guys met, he knew this artist - he did not like it. But you played it so much, not knowing his opinion on this group that he ended up knowing the lyrics.

He quickly glanced at the GPS, his neck feeling more and more tight as time was going by. You guys were arriving in twenty minutes now, and you had been asleep for the last hour.

The drive had been... okay. You and Seungmin were obviously happy to be together, happy to finally going in your first holiday together, but something fell a bit awkward today. For you at least.

You fell stuck between waiting for Seungmin to ask you for an answer and waiting for the right moment to confess your love to him. No matter what, waiting made you uncomfortable, awkward. As if you were hiding something from your best friend.

The thing is - why were you waiting? Because you wanted the confession to feel like a romantic moment. Not like a conversation thrown in, without context, you wanted something... better. Because for you, Seungmin deserved the best.

That's why you have been pretending to be asleep for a while now. Surprising choice of action, but hey; at least you were avoiding a serious conversation you weren't ready for. And it's not like you had been faking it for the whole time : you genuinely fell asleep for forty minutes.

When you felt the car slowing down, you decided it was time to stop your farce. Stretching your arms forward, you faked a yawn.

"Hey."

Seungmin's voice made you jump. It has been a while since he last spoke, and you could hear it.

"Are we there yet?"

"Almost. Slept well?"

"Yeah! You drive well, I honestly didn't feel anything."

Seungmin smile as you chuckled, running a hand through your hair. That's when your eyes fell on the landscape to your right.

A gasp left your lips as the sea lied in front of you. A tons of different shades of blue were mixing, covered by thousands of sparkles thanks to the sun. Without even lowering your window, you could hear the waves crashing at the bottom of the cliff.

"It's pretty..."

"It is." Seungmin nodded.

Except, you were looking at the landscape. He was looking at you.

Sun glowing through the curtains was what woke you up on the next morning. It wasn't that late, but the Sun was already high in the sky. The soft cotton of your sheets felt like a dream, you could stay in your bed for the entire day if you had to choose.

But at the same time... in the room just next to yours, your best friend was asleep. A wave of disbelief and joy flushed your cheeks as you hid your face into your pillow. The trip had started. Even if you were scared, you were definitely happy to be here with him.

"It feels too good to be true" you whispered. A giggle left your lips as you kicked your feet under the cover. Trying to comb your hair down you sat up and pushed the cover out of the way. The room felt cozy with all the sunlight painting the wooded floor, the creamy color of the walls making you feel like home.

As you pushed the door opened, your raised your hand to search for the switch, letting the sunlight flood in. As you took time to look around the house, you couldn't stop yourself from thinking: what if, one day... You and Seungmin owned a house like that? You and him could be cuddling on a white velvet couch, just like that, eating with each other on a wooded table, holding hands while looking at the sea on a balcony like that...

"I need to stop. Oh my god."

Jumping from your bar stool, you padded until you stood up in front of Seungmin's door. Softly knocking, you waited for an answer... that never came. Repeating your gesture, you pushed the door opened. Sneaking a head inside the room, you tried to guess where Seungmin was lying in his bed - tried, because the room was dark - and softly whispered.

"Seungmin? D'you wanna come and take a breakfast with me?"

The sentence seemed so weird in your mouth, and you couldn't stop a smile from growing on your lips.

"Hrmph..."

The only answer you got was Seungmin turning, his back facing you. You bit your lips, finding the situation funny.

"I'll be waiting for you."

Closing the door, your eyes fell on the kitchen. Yesterday, after getting the keys, you had drove to the closest store to fill the fridge. You particularly insisted on buying things for a good breakfast - you were going to prepare the best breakfast Seungmin has ever seen.

That's what lead you, thirty minutes later to be waiting in front of butter, jam, orange juice, coffee - that was now lukewarm, bread and fresh fruits. Sighing, you poured yourself a cup of coffee, then padded to the microwave. Pushing the buttons, you tried to make as much noise as possible until you finished your drink.

Pouting, you picked up the bowl of cut fruits, but as time went by, the bowl found itself emptied. You jumped from your stool, walking to his door.

"Kim Seungmin! Seungmo! Wake up!"

An exaggerated groan followed by ruffles in sheets made you scoff. Seungmin was usually someone who would wake up early, but it was almost 11am and you had seen no signs of him. Looking at your phone, you knocked one more time.

"Yah, Seungmo! I swear I'll stop waiting for..."

Instead of finding the hard wood of the door, your hand met a something soft, but strong. Warm too.

"Yah, you really think screaming to wake someone up can be socially accepted?"

Before you could say anything, the vision you had in front of your eyes had made your brain fry. Seungmin was standing there, his hair ruffled as he rubbed on of his eyes. Your eyes ran down his frame, stopping on his wide shorts and slightly opened sweater. As you stuttered, he sighed, then slid his glasses on.

"What can I do for you?"

His sudden change of tone surprised you, making you laugh.

"I'm... I'm sorry. I... What?"

"You wanted something?"

"I... came earlier and I asked you if you wanted to eat breakfast with me. But maybe you were asleep."

"Oh. Shit..."

Seungmin ran a hand over his hand after taking a look at the kitchen behind you.

"I'm coming. Just give me a minute."

"T-take your time! I'll cut more fruits."

A few minutes later, you were busy in the kitchen washing and cutting fresh fruits while the coffee was heating in the coffee maker. A warm fuzz took your chest as you placed a few pieces of fruits in a plate, then reached for another strawberry.

Seungmin stepped out his bedroom, his heart beating slightly too fast. You looked so... familiar. Not in the sexist way, not at all. More like a young couple, like two person freshly married. Like a wife waiting for her husband to start their day on a cozy weekend.

Silently, he took a seat on a stool as you started to hum. When he poured himself a glass, you turned around and placed the coffee pot on the table.

"Why would you prepare all that food?"

"Because it's our first time going on holidays together," you smiled and picked up the knife. "It's supposed to be special."

Oh, Seungmin loved that about you. How you gave attention to every details around you? Amazing. You turned and placed the plate in front of him.

"As we say, bon appétit."

"It's cute, you know? When you do that."

Your heart jumped as Seungmin smiled, picking up a piece of strawberry with a toothpick.

"Huh? What, the fruits?"

"Yeah, if you want."

Oh, Seungmin was not only talking about fruits. A chuckle left his lips as he picked up a blueberry, popping it into his mouth. You smiled, taking the seat facing his.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you to be this tired. If I knew, I would have let you sleep longer. I mean, we could have take this breakfast tomorrow."

"It's okay. It's because of the road. But you did well by waking me up, at least our day can start. And we can fulfill the little program you made last week."

You smiled, kicking your feet under the table. Crazy how a little comment from him could make you that flustered.

Something funny, you and Seungmin were not the same type of people when going on a trip. You had your program, trying to fullfill every day as much as possible. Your best friend? Total opposite. He was more of the type who would take his time, try to relax as much as possible and go with the flow. But in love he was, and he unconsciously wanted to follow your wants. And if you wanted to follow a program, he was going to follow your program too.

"So? What do you want to do today?"

This sentence had been the one Seungmin repeated everyday. Every morning, he would ask you what you wanted to do. Every day, he would drive you, no matter how far you wanted to go - you said you could drive, but he tend to refuse every time. Every evening, he would walk you back to the door of your room, despite the fact that you lived in the same house, wish you a great night, then he would go to his room.

"Hm... I wanna go to the beach today. The weather app said today was the brightest day of the week, I want to take pictures."

Today was the fifth day of the trip, and thankfully, you were less awkward about the situation than during the first days. You had been to a lot of spots you wanted to see, taking pictures for each other so you'd keep even more memories. Every night, you would find yourself rehearsing, trying to choose what words would be better to confess your feelings. Every night, you would count the numbers of days left before the final moment... which was supposedly tomorrow.

"The beach?" Seungmin repeated. As he drank his cup of coffee, he nodded, as if he was thinking. "You took a swimsuit or something?"

"I did! I bought it with Yej..."

Blush crippled on your cheeks as you though of what 'going to the beach' would lead to. Were you even ready of showing yourself in swimsuit? Not that you weren't confident, it was more because of the thought of doing it for the first time.

"And have you thought of the type of pictures you wanted?"

"I... I'll show you once we're there! I don't want to get too hyped, we don't know if the weather will be good this afternoon."

"Okay. Maybe I should think of an outfit too, so I can force you to take pictures of me too."

You chuckled, genuinely surprised... before quickly realizing Seungmin was messing with you. Being on pictures wasn't something he particularly liked.

"Now that you've said it, you can't say no!"

Oh, you were going to take pictures of him. And why not, with him too?

"Ahhh, look how the weather is amazing!"

Wind softly caressed your face as you smiled, tilting your head to face the sun. Today's traveling time had been the shortest since the beginning of the trip, at it was so nice to be at the beach when May was just starting.

"It's going to be hot. Do I need to remind you to drink water, or did you fill up your water bottle before leaving?"

Hearing Seungmin's condescending tone, you spat your tongue.

"Ha. Ha. Yes, mother, I will drink water."

"Here."

Seungmin handed you a bottle from his bag. The liquid was so cold, little drops were pearling on the plastic. His fingers stayed on yours a bit too long to be platonic as he placed it in your hands.

"Oh. Thank you."

Before you could add anything else, Seungmin had took several steps forward. You scratched your throat before running after him.

"Hey, Seungmo! Wait for me!"

Something you ignored, Seungmin was not running away from you, he was trying to calm his heart from going crazy. You were really pretty in your flowy sundress, matching with the ribbon of your sunhat. You were amazingly pretty.

"Seungmo!"

You bursted into laughter as he rolled his eyes, faking annoyance.

"God, you're..." he sighed, shook his head and put his bag on the sand. "Okay, show me your inspirations or leave me alone."

"Yah!"

Instead of pulling out your phone, you tried to nudge his shoulder. Seungmin laughed as he avoided you hand. As you followed him, he tried to catch both of your wrists.

"Hey, I won't help you if you hit me!"

You chuckled before taking a seat on the sand, holding your hands next to your head.

"Okay okay. Pictures are important."

"Pff, you're something. So? Show me the inspirations?"

Handing out your phone, you made him scroll through tens and tens of pictures, all displaying girls lying on the sand, with colorful shells placed all over their frames, bodies, hair or legs. As he continued searching through the pictures, you quickly removed your dress, sitting next to him in just your swimsuit. Seungmin had to fight every cells of his body and brain to focus on the screen and not on the amazingly beautiful shaped your swimsuit was hugging.

"You.... Um. You'd look cute with shells all over your back. Or your hair?"

"The back would be a good picture!"

You tried to ignore how fast your heart was beating because of natural his compliments were.

"Okay. Lie down. I'll help you."

"O-Okay!"

Lying on your belly, you crossed your arms under your chin as Seungmin took a seat next to you. Poking in the little pile of shells, you smiled to him.

"Make sure to use the pretty ones."

"You're the pretty one here."

Blush crippled your cheeks as he leaned in, focusing on his task. A shiver ran down your spine as his fingers met your skin from time to time, before being replaced by the coldness of the shells. You tried to steady your breathing as he muttered, tilting his head to the side.

"Hm."

"Is there something wrong?"

"No. No. I'm just not sure about... the shape? Should I just place them on a line, or a circle? Or randomly?"

You chuckled as he sighed, a shell sliding from your shoulder blade.

"I don't need to overthink it, it will be pretty anyway."

Blush colored your cheeks as Seungmin muttered. If you weren't that motivated on following your plan, you swore you could have confessed your feelings right here, right now...

The wind bursted into the car as you and Seungmin were driving back to town. You were scrolling through your gallery, silently choosing the ones you would post. Even the pictures you had taken of Seungmin looked good. Your fingers lingered on the screen as you took a good look at the pictures. Seungmin looked great on those.

"Are you going to post the pictures I took of you?"

"Hm... I'll see. If they're good enough."

You chuckled before resting your head against the window. Since it was the same place, it would look like a matching post. This afternoon had felt like... like if you were a couple. And you loved it, you really appreciated it.

"What was that place you wanted to try? I think we should eat outside instead of cooking tonight."

"It was a barbecue place. But... Do you want to go somewhere else?"

Seungmin glanced at you, surprised.

"Where do you wanna go?"

"We should go and have a drink. We have enough time to find a good place, no?"

Oh, you wanted to confess your feelings, but would he believe you? You both had a few drinks, and you would be lying if you said you weren't at least tispy right now.

The night had been great, between the restaurant you drove by and decided to go in and the bar, you felt like you had spent the best night ever.

Now, standing in front of your bedroom, you suddenly felt as is the night hasn’t been long enough. You were not ready to say good night to your best friend.

Seeing you facing the door while being completely still, Seungmin first thought you were trying not to throw up. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he leaned forward.

"Are you okay? Y/n?"

"Y-yeah, sorry. I... thought I had lost my phone. But it's here! Sorry."

"Are you crying?"

His voice made you freeze. You were not crying, but for a moment, a few tears wetted your eyes, leading you to blink for a good minute, trying to swallow them back.

"No? No, I'm not. I'm just... very thankful we could spend this time together."

You opened the door of your space, but instead of stepping inside, you turned around, resting against the doorframe. For some reasons, your heart felt as dizzy as your head.

"We should do that again. Sometimes."

"What, this trip?"

"Sure. But I meant... going out. When it's late at night. Just the two of us. I liked it."

A giggle left your lips as Seungmin smiled, nodding.

"Okay. We can try when we come back."

The mention of coming back felt like a drop of salt on an opened wound. A wave of frustration grew inside your chest.

"Why would you mention the end when we still have time together here? You don't like being with me?" you chuckled, half offended, half joking.

"Of course I like being with you," Seungmin whispered as he wrapped his fingers around your wrist. Your heart jumped as he pulled you towards him, his head suddenly extremely close to yours. Your breath hitched as his breath met your skin. His nose slid against the apple of your cheek as he searched for your eyes, impossible to look away. Maybe it was alcohol speaking, but you swore his cheeks were as red as yours. He was going to kiss you. Unconsciously, you closed your eyes as his hand cupped your cheek.

I guess I'll just ignore him until he realizes I'm a joke and that he doesn't actually loves me? Don't ask him why, but the memory of your voice came back to him at the exact moment. Making him shiver - and not the good kind of shivering - your voice came back to his ears, killing the ambiance you both were so deep into.

So, instead of stealing you a kiss, Seungmin pressed his lips on your forehead, before stepping back. A wave of cold flooded you as his hand left your skin. Not very platonic of you, Kim Seungmin. As reality caught up on him, Seungmin took another step back, trying to avoid blushing too hard. He felt his neck and ears heat up as you looked up at him, eyes bright, wide opened, your mouth barely opened. Like ready for a kiss. But hey; a peck was better than nothing.

"Have a good night. And ring me up if you feel like throwing up."

"...You.. you too."

Seungmin chuckled as he opened the door of his own room and disappeared behind the panel of wood. You pressed a hand against your lips, then forehead, before running inside your room. Your heart felt like it was about to explode, and it was not because of alcohol.

Something you ignored, Seungmin was in the exact same state.

Your eyes fell on your program on your nightstand, just next to your bed. Tomorrow was the day. Well, today was the day, since it was way past midnight. For the first time in several days, you felt like everything was going well.

You jolted up, your head rising from the pillow. God, you smelled awful! And you felt awful, why was your head feeling this heavy? You sighed, rubbing your eyes before rolling on your side. Reaching for your phone, you swiped to remove uninteresting notifications.

"14:35!? No!"

You jumped out of your bed as a cold feeling flooded your chest. Today was the last day of the trip before you and Seungmin would give back the keys tomorrow, at 15o'clock. This morning was supposed to be the best time to go to the place where you wanted to confess your love.

Bursting out of your bedroom, you found Seungmin standing in the kitchen, focused on a pot.

"Oh, you're up? I made soup."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

The disappointment in your voice caught his attention, making him turn around to face you. He lowered the heat and took a few steps.

"Are you okay?"

Seungmin's heart was beating so fast right now. He was still thinking about yesterday night, and if alcohol hasn't been this present, he would have kissed you.

"Why did you let me sleep?" you whispered. Your soft tone surprised him - he was not expecting you to sound this disappointed.

"You didn't woke up when i checked on you this morning. You look tired. Are you sure you're okay?"

You sighed before taking a seat on the stool. Was your plan ruined?

"Hey."

Seungmin placed a hand on the table, catching your attention.

"Talk to me. Why do you look so sad? Is it because of yest-"

"It's ridiculous. It's just that I don't like how I overslept, because I really wanted to go to that place I told you about, and we were supposed to go this morning. But now it's too late, and it's going to rain this afternoon."

You sighed as you finished rambling, resting your head on the wooded panel. Seungming huffed, amused. He turned around, poured you a bowl of soup and pushed it in front of you.

"We can go after you eat this. Yes, it might rain, but I mean, if you really want to go there, you can bare a bit of rain, right?"

That's how you found yourself clutching on your coat as ocean-spray splattered on your face. The weather was the total opposite of the past week, wind gushing and creating waves against the seawall. A shiver ran down your skin as you took a few steps, trying to follow Seungmin.

"God, it's always like that when we follow your plans."

Seungmin teased, pulling his hood on. It wasn't that cold, but there was less Sun that yesterday.

"Don't say that!" you pouted, feeling embarrassed. Was he really thinking this? You looked away, suddenly feeling sad. It felt like your plan was dying every time the wind was blowing.

"I was joking, Y/n. I'm happy we're here."

Seungmin smiled, making sure you were listening to him.

"Maybe we'll see dolphins? I want to see a lot of them."

"Maybe they're hiding because they don't want to see you."

"Or your ugly face."

"Yah!"

It always had been like this between you two. Bickering, being soft to each other before threatening to kill each other the next second. Usually, you were loving this. But today? It was not helping you at all. How could you find the right timing?

"Oh. So we won't see any?"

You tried to hide your frown as the old lady you just asked about dolphins shook her head.

"No darling, not with such a bad weather. You would be lucky if you can walk on the path to the beach, it might be flooded as we speak. You two didn't choose the right day to come here."

Disappointed flooded your chest as you clutched your hands, the rubber of your rain coat wrinkling. Nothing was going according to plan today. Seeing your expression, Seungmin stepped in.

"Do you know if there is something tourists can do instead of waiting for the rain to stop?"

"Oh, you can try the tea house down the street, but it might be closed... Or maybe go back to town, it would be more interesting for you, I think."

"Thank you, we'll see."

You bowed, then turned around to walk towards the house the lady just recommended. Maybe the universe was telling you it wasn't the right time. Maybe you just couldn't get things right.

"Hey."

Seungmin poked your forehead as you turned to face him.

"Yes- Ouch!"

"Don't be sad. We can wait for the rain to stop. Or we can come back another day."

You nodded as Seungmin walked back to the car, opening the door for you. Once you found yourself both sitting, you tugged on your seatbelt but stopped when Seungmin didn't start the car.

"What are you doing?"

"We can't go to see the pier but we can look at the sea from the car. We don't necessarily have to go home."

A chuckle left your lips as you pushed the seatbelt back to its place. Weird idea, but why not?

"You always have the strangest ideas, you know?"

"I guess that's why we're best friends? Yours are even worse than mines."

"Yah-"

"But i guess that's why I fell for you."

Blush crippled your cheeks as you faced him, completely flustered. He was looking at the sea, his hand hiding the bottom half of his face. Trying to be nonchalant maybe?

The air felt thick inside the vehicle. In one sentence, everything had changed, going back to that day where Seungmin confessed his feelings. Except... the naive ambiance of that moment wasn't here.

Today felt more serious.

More decisive.

"But... Why me?"

"Sorry?"

"Why me," you repeated, as your voice shook a bit.

"That's a great question. I think I can't answer it. It just.... doesn't make sense." He scoffed before whispering to himself. "And at the same time, it makes so much sense."

Seungmin and you never took time to talk about your feelings like that. Your friendship was strong, but vulnerability was rare.

It was now time for you to admit your feelings to Seungmin. Scratching your throat, you raised your hand to tug slightly on his sleeve.

"Yeah?" He rubbed the back of his neck, before looking at you.

"Do you know that... This pier is well-known on internet? Apparently, if you confess your love here, it will stay until the end of time."

Seungmin would be lying if he said the sudden change of topic didn't surprise him.

"Really? Ah.. That's why there are tons of padlocks... Cute."

"Yeah. And... one day, we... we should..." you mumbled, starting to get nervous. But before you could finish your sentence, Seungmin's voice reached your ears.

"And one day, you'll come back here with your loved one. I hope you and your loved one will be happy together. Come on, the rain has stopped."

As Seungmin stepped out of the car, you sat there, dumbfounded. What? You and your loved one?

"I wanted to see dolphins... it's a shame the weather was too bad."

Like electrocuted, you opened the door and stepped out of the car.

"Seungmin, what did you say?"

"Sorry?"

The shake in your voice surprised him, once more.

"What do you mean, 'me and my loved one'?"

"Well... I hope one day you'll find someone who you'll put a padlock with on the fences. Why do you look that shocked?"

A shiver ran down your spine as you took several steps forward.

"But... didn't you say you liked me?"

"That's.... my feelings. That has nothing to do with your future."

"Why are you acting like... like I rejected you?"

"I..."

He sighed, before looking back at you.

"You don't have to pretend, you know. You can say you don't like me back. I heard you that day."

"You... heard me?"

"In the library. You were talking to your friend. I didn't mean to listen, I was searching for a book and... you were there."

"Wait, wait. Seungmin. I... I don't get it. What?"

You felt like everything was falling apart. You heart was beating so hard you swore it was just here, inside your ears.

"You look like you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Because I don't?! Seungmin, I don't need another person, I... I just need you?"

There you said it. Nothing had been said according to your plan, but you had said it anyway. Your best friend couldn't believe his ears. A burst of wind blew into your face, and as you blinked, a few tears rolled down your cheeks.

"You what?"

"Why do you think I wanted to go on a trip with you? You almost kissed me yesterday, and I was the happiest. When you confessed to me, I thought I was imagining it. That's why I didn't answer, but believe me, I wanted to. And then I remembered we were going there, and that I could confess my feelings on the pier, so it would last forever, but I woke up late, and the weather is awful, but now you're imagining me with someone else, and-"

The warmth of his arms wrapping around your frame soothed your brain, shutting your mind as he tucked his face into your hair. His hand was slowly rubbing your back, tracing big shapes against the rubber of your raincoat.

"You're so dumb."

A sob left your mouth as you answered his hug.

"You're dumb-ber!"

"I know. I'm sorry."

An awful slurp left your nose as you sniffed, trying to calm your runny nose. You had stopped crying for a few minutes now, but you couldn't help but feeling embarrassed. Seugmin had not let your hand go and was silently waiting for you to come down.

"Are you feeling better now?"

"Kinda."

"Okay. Then we'll take care of the fountain you have instead of having a normal nose."

"Yah!"

He chuckled, handing you a tissue. Snatching it from his hand, you blew your nose, in a very loud and not discreet way.

"Very distinguished."

"Oh shut up!" you whined, before shoving your tissue into your pocket. "I'm embarrassed enough already, I don't need you to add a layer on top of it."

A chuckle left his lips as you wiped your cheeks, trying to get a bit of composure back. This was not what you had expected at all.

"Do you want to go home?"

Behind all the teasing and messing around, worry and softness was easily distinguishable. Your heart clenched as your eyes met his, his thumb still tracing imaginary lines on the back of your hand.

"No. I... Before we go home, I..." you scratched your throat. "Kim Seungmin."

"Yes?"

A scoff of nervousness left his lips as your sudden serious - but emotional - tone.

"I like you. As my best friend, but most importantly, I have the biggest crush on you. And no matter what you heard or misheard, let me tell you: I like you."

Seungmin could have sworn, despite the cold wind and the smell of the now stopped rain, his chest had never felt hotter. Yes, you looked like you had cried, but you looked so pretty, so beautiful, so perfect to him.

"Well... what should we do about that?"

A scoff left your lips but you quickly laughed as Seungmin smiled, squeezing your hand softly.

Later, that night, as you were drifting into sleep, Seungmin poked your nose. You tried to ignore it as the smell of his perfume was guiding you the land of dreams.

"Hey."

"Hm... what?"

He chuckled as you buried your face into your - his - pillow and pulled the cover - his cover - higher onto your face.

"I just realized I didn't answered earlier."

"An..." you yawned. "Answered what?"

Seungmin placed a kiss against your forehead, just like yesterday's night. Except it did not had the same meaning at all.

"I like you Y/n. Thank you for not making me wait any longer."

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to give constructive feedback!

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Please consider that English is not my mother language.

© 2026 ddearina. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, copy, translate or repost my work to any platform.

No ai used.

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TAGLIST: @babribriba @maddieg0531

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[ddearina]

At the beach, in every life part.1

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Pairing: Bsf!Seungmin x Fem!Reader Word count: 3.4k (3494) Content warning: Fluff!, Confession, Lover!Seungmin, BestFriend!Felix, BestFriend!Yeji (ITZY), AU!University, Reader and Seungmin are following a literature program, Reader is referred to as Smartass, Seungmin is referred to as Seungmo, Kim Seungmin, anxiety!mentioned, slight!angst bcs Seungmin thinks he has no chance with reader? bcs of an overheard conversation, Let me know if I forgot anything!

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Summary : Reader and Kim Seungmin have been best friends for a long time now, they basically spend their whole time together. Going on a beach trip would be a nice thing! As you are waiting for your holiday reservation to be processed, Seungmin ends up admitting the crush he has on reader, and is NOT ashamed of it. And guess what? You won't be able to avoid him, your one-week reservation was accepted, and it is non-refundable!

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Seungmin liked you.

It wasn't a secret for anyone but you, and that's maybe what amused him the most.

Seungmin smiled, trying to stay discreet. It was not usual, but were you really that blind?

Resting his chin on the palm of his hand, he gave himself a few minutes to look at you. It was not like you'd notice him anyway. You were seating a few row in front of him and were listening to whatever the professor was talking about. This french literature class was interesting, he loved it just as you did, but today, his mind was on you.

You and him had been friends, then best friends for so long, and surprisingly, he saw himself fall for you easier than what he'd thought he would. Maybe it was your smile, maybe the way your eyes shined every time you heard his voice as he sung, maybe it was because besides his friends, you were the only one who knew him. Who saw him.

When the professor indicated the end of the class, Seungmin calmly put his pens back inside his case, and slid everything in his backpack.

"Seungmo!"

Seungmin sighed, faking annoyance. You were the only one who could call him like that.

"I'm thinking about ignoring you every time you'd dare to call me this."

"Yah, you wouldn't!"

"Actually, I'm thinking about ignoring you because you didn't seat next to me today."

"I was late!"

"And I still saved you a seat."

You chuckled as Seungmin walked down towards the exit, pretending to be pissed off.

"I couldn't just walk past everyone when I am five minutes late!"

"Seven."

"What?"

"You were seven minutes late."

"Ughhh, Kim Seungmin!"

He smiled as you jogged down the stairs, trying to follow him. He wasn't offend at all, he just loved to push your buttons, teasing you as much as he could.

"Are we still going out together later?"

Your suddenly-calm voice brought him back to reality. When he turned to face you, he smile softened. He knew you enough to know that your anxiety could eat your brain, making you less confident than you seemed.

"Of course."

As he saw your shoulders relax, he couldn't stop himself from cracking a joke.

"But since you left me alone, you're paying."

"Ughhh!"

That's how you found yourselves seating in this coffee shop, your hand holding tightly to a pen, scribbling onto a piece of paper. You and Seungmin had planned - mostly you and obliged your best friend into your plans - to have a week holiday in a little town close to the beach. Now that exam were behind you, you both deserved to relax! It was one of those cheap but fun vacation place that needed a few days to process the reservation, so officially, none of you knew if you'd leave next week.

"Why are you so hyped? We still don't know-"

"But what if we got it and we don't have a list of activities and stuff to see? Hm?"

Your eagerness made him smile as he sipped on his drink. You were so... you. Unique, irreplaceable. And always optimistic.

"Plus..."

Seungmin raised an eyebrow as he sensed a slight change of tone in your voice. Your cheeks were pinker than a minute ago as you spoke softly.

"It's not any kind of holiday, it's a trip with you. It already makes it perfect, but I don't want to waste any time."

You must be blind, because it was almost impossible to miss how Seungmin's heart exploded, right here as he was seating in front of you. It took him a good minute to learn how to breath again, as you were writing on your... program sheet? That same sheet of paper you were writing on yesterday, and you were praying for him not to notice the little heart you had unconsciously drew in the marges.

You had the biggest crush on Seungmin, but through your eyes, there was no way someone like him could like you back. He was so intelligent, so many girls were interested in him, and it was too much for your brain to understand why he refused every time. He had that cold vibe every time someone was getting too close to him (or to you), but it was always different with you. No matter how much he'd tease you, he would always do something that would prove how important you were to him.

"Hey, Earth calling you?"

Shaking out of your thoughts, you looked up at him. He was close! Seungmin had leaned forward, pointing at something on your list, but since you weren't answering, he had to find another way to get your attention.

"God-"

"Now you're listening. I was saying, what's with this place?"

Following his finger, you quickly realized he was talking about this famous spot you saw everywhere on social media. It was the place presumed to make couples eternal if confession happened there.

"Uhm. It's.. just... A place i heard about. 'wanted to see it instead of... just pictures online."

"Hm. Okay. Guess we'll see if we have time, maybe at the end."

Your heart pinched at Seungmin's comment. He visibly had no idea of what this place was. Maybe it wasn't the time for your confession. Maybe... it wasn't a good idea to confess at all.

After your hangout, you and Seungmin were walking back to your place - he always insisted on walking you home - but it was surprisingly quiet. You ignored how he was thinking about telling you what he had on his heart, while you were trying to shut your feelings down.

When you reached the front door, a quiet sigh left your lips. Here you were. You were going to thank him for today, Seungmin was going to pat your head and tell you to close your door when he'd left, and he would walk back without looking back, while you'd stay, looking at him until you couldn't see him anymore.

"Hm... I've been thinking you know."

That's not what he usually says.

"Oh? That's new."

You chuckled, trying to place a smile on your lips.

"No but... I've been thinking. A lot. And I... realized something that had always been there, but I never... we... well. I finally put words on it, and I wonder why it took me so long to tell you about."

Huh. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't figure where this conversation was going.

"You know what? I just want you to know, but I don't expect an answer anytime soon. I just want to be honest."

"Honest with what?"

Seungmin chuckled, clearly amused of the situation.

"You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

"I like you."

It was your turn to feel your heart explode, right here, right there, on the little porch in front of your apartment.

"You what?"

You couldn't believe your ears. Maybe your heart was beating too loud and changing what you just heard? Out of everything, it was the most unexpected thing ever.

"I like you? I mean, it's... quite obvious. But it's okay, I didn't expected you to guess."

He smirked as you blushed, half offended, half flustered.

"Yah-"

"Not in that way, Smartass. I'd rather tell you than let you find out on your own. I'm not calling you dumb. Or am I?"

"Kim Seungmin!"

His name came out of your mouth as the weirdest whine ever. Your throat felt so tight, your heart so full, and your brain so empty. He'd just confessed and he was teasing you?

You looked down, flustered and lost at the same time. Maybe because your crush and best friend just admit he liked you?

"As I said, I don't expect you to answer any time soon. You don't have to answer at all. I just wanted to be honest. Okay?"

You nodded softly. Seungmin had noticed how you were fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, and you only did that when you were nervous. Not uncomfortable, but nervous. Slowly, he raised his hand and placed in over your hair, stroking your head slowly.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

He spoke softly. Once again, you nodded, suddenly feeling shy about how close he was leaning. He nodded back, removed his hand and walked away. You took a step, your eyes falling on his back as he walked down the hallway. For the first time since you moved in this building, he stopped, turned back and waved one last time before disappearing behind the corner of the wall.

I like you. Blush painted your face as you bursted into your apartment. Slamming the door closed, you placed your back against it, as if you were trying to stop your emotion from exploding all at once. I like you. You slowly placed your hand against your mouth, trying to calm down. You were shaking. How to NOT overreact when your crush of all time admit he likes you?

You jumped as your phone indicates your received a text. It was him.

"I'm home. Thank you for today" "And don't overthink it. I just wanted to be honest, okay?🙃"

Easier told than done. It was funny how you had absolutely no idea how Seungmin was doing at the same moment. He had just got home, and our boy was stressing. A weird groan left his mouth as he buried his face into his pillow. It was not how he had planned to confess his love - he had not planned anything actually - but he had not imagined it would happen this fast. His roommate stop by his door, holding on a laundry basket, a worried look on his face.

"Seungmin? Is everything okay?"

"Lix-Hyung, I messed up. I confessed and told her I was not waiting for an answer. What the fuck did I mean, not waiting for an answer?"

Felix smiled, sighing softly.

"Tell her? Or give her time. She will talk to you about it. Don't overthink it."

Here you were, both of you thinking, panicking, wondering how things would change in your relationship. What were you going to do?

Ding!

This question needed an answer, and quick, because when you pulled out your phone, and clicked on your email, your heart dropped. Half of fear, half of excitation.

"Miss Y/n F/N, We firstly want to thank you for the time of your wait. We are, as the Holiday House company, pleased to announce the finalized reservation of your order, including a seven-day long vacation in our two-person house. Ih the following lines, you may find a summary of your order. Remember that your order, as it's now confirmed, is non-refundable. The payment must be proceed..."

Great. All the joy you thought you would feel was quickly overshadowed by stress, your heart shaking with a mix of eagerness and apprehension. Taking a screen, you sent it to your best friend. A gasp left your lips as you saw how quickly he had seen your text, and how fast he was typing.

"Great! Can't wait"

Yeah.... you couldn't wait either.

"He did what??"

"Shhh! Please, don't talk that loud!"

You pressed your finger against your lips as your best friend talked a bit too loudly to be discussing this in the university's library. You had spent too much time worrying about the situation, thinking again and again about how you coud confess your feelings, and sometimes, the best thing you can do is ask for advice from your friend.

"No but, that's so him of him! So nonchalant, so.... Seungmin."

You rolled your eyes as Yeji bit the tip of her nail.

"Yeji, I need help, I don't know what to do."

"It's easy, you corner him in a room and kiss him passionately-"

"YEJI!"

She bursted into laughter as you blushed.

"I guess I'll just ignore him until he realizes I'm a joke and that he doesn't actually loves me?"

"That's the worst thing you could do. Never do that."

You sighed, only half joking. Why was being in love this complicated?

"Just tell him. If you don't, you'll loose your chance... it will just make things awkward. He's your best friend before everything else!"

"But I'm scaaared..."

"If you want my opinion, it was scarier because he did it first. You just have to answer. Think about him, he has no idea what you're about to answer!"

As you burried your face into your hands, you had no idea that Seungmin was standing in the book row just behind your table. He did not mean to listen - He even thought of going and say hello, but when he heard Yeji's words, all of his courage had just melted away. It's actually you screaming her name that had caught his attention - it was not complicated to not hear you in a silent room. He looked down at his hand, not knowing if he had heard right. You wanted to ignore him? His brain and ears had basically decided to shut down after he had understood your sentence.

Okay. If him loving you made you this uncomfortable, he was going to try to pretend his confession never happened.

The following night was... weird for Seungmin. He actually couldn't find any sleep. It was a mix of turning around, going on his side, the other, the other again. Turning his pillow over and over, but no matter what, both sides were warm. He couldn't stop thinking about the sentence he thought he heard - he played it so many times in his mind he wasn't sure of anything now - and he couldn't understand your train of thoughts. You were supposed to be best friends before anything else, why couldn't you talk to him?

Frustration bubbled in his chest as he groaned into his pillow. He actually thought he could text you, telling you to ignore his confession, so everything could go back to normal. But every time he took his phone, he ended up on your instagram page, scrolling through your pictures.

"Just talk to me, idiot. How do you want me to..."

Maybe it was the fatigue speaking, but a strange idea came to his mind. He was not supposed to know what you were thinking. So, why would he be ashamed of his feelings? He liked you, it was kind of a compliment, right? Instead of hiding it, the only thing he could think about was showing it even more. Maybe it could make you talk about it?

As he picked up his phone again, his fingers were quick to type on the little keyboard.

"Can I pick you up tomorrow morning? Coffee's on me."

That's what lead you, next morning, to run down the stairs of the building. You weren't late or anything, but the feeling of having him wait was making you nervous. Not nervous-scared, more nervous-eager? Or maybe nervous-impatient. Who knew.

When you reached the first floor, you quickly checked yourself on the mirror of the entrance. Hair? Check. Makeup? Amazing. Outfit? Nice. You sighed, like to give yourself courage, then pushed the front door open.

But instead of being welcomed by his car and the driver faking impatience, you found yourself meeting Seungmin, nonchalantly waiting, leaning against his vehicle. The sound of the door opening caught his attention, and you quickly turned into a blushing mess as his eyes roamed over your frame.

"H-hey!" you tried to sound normal, but your shaky voice betrayed the state of your mind.

"Hey. Nice outfit."

"Thanks!"

To your ears, your voice sounded strained, deformed by nervousness. Oh, you felt awkward. You started to dance from one foot to another, trying to avoid his gaze.

"As I said yesterday, coffee's on me" he said, turning around to open the passenger's door. He gave you a quick look, inviting you inside his vehicule.

"We'll... we'll see!"

Seungmin rolled his eyes, pretending not to smile as he placed his hand on the small of your back, guiding you. You'd be lying if you said it didn't made your heart jump outside of your chest, run three times around the car screaming for help and jumped back to its place.

"I'm paying", he insisted as he pushed the door closed.

His tone made you blush. Usually, you would each pay your part, you would pay his on his birthday, he would pay yours on your birthday too, but he sometimes payed when you were sad, stressed, or when you didn't notice he'd walked to the counter and pre-payed your order. And that happened a lot.

"W-why would you pay?" you asked as he clicked his belt on. "There's nothing special going on today."

"Why wouldn't I?" Seungmin answered, putting his hand on your seat to reverse out of your building's parking spot. It took all of your brain not to look at his forearm, so close, so so close to your eyes. You had noticed Seungmin was an handsome man - who would have not? - but it seemed even more obvious now that you knew how he felt about you.

"Why would you pay?"

"Because... I want to."

"Why do you want to pay?"

"Why wouldn't I?" he repeated, leaning to look at you. Seeing the sudden blush on your skin, his breath hitched. Oh, he wished he could lean just a bit more and... but instead, he leaned back, behaving like the good and respectful best friend he was.

"O-Okay. Thank you then."

Seungmin smiled as he focused on the road towards the coffeeshop. That smiled stayed on for the entire ride, when he opened the door of the room for you and in the line till the counter.

"So, a iced latte and Apple/Lemon iced-tea, both to go. It will be 15,200₩."

"We'll pay together."

"Please insert your card here."

As Seungmin typed his code, you couldn't help but notice how the cashier seemed eager to say something. That's only when her eyes met yours that she dared to speak.

"You... I don't want to sound too personal but you two make a great couple. I wish I'll find someone to be as close as you two seem."

Once more, your cheeks took the brightest shade of pink. Turning to look at Seungmin, you noticed how his polite expression took a surprised tint that changed into a satisfied one.

"Thank you. Have a great day."

As he walked to your usual spot, you stuttered, then hurried yourself after him.

"W...Why didn't you said something?"

"Hm?"

You scratched your throat as you lowered your drink. Looking at the fruits dancing in their juice stopped being interesting after a good minute.

"Why didn't you said something to the cashier. About us being..."

"A couple? Because I didn't want to make her uncomfortable because of her mistake."

His answer made your heart clench a bit. So it was only for her not to feel awkward? You took another sip of your tea, feeling even bitter than the drink.

"...and because I liked it."

"Sorry?"

Seungmin took a quick glance at you as he turned the contact off, his car now parked in the student parking spot of the university.

"Because I like the fact that other thing we are together. We would be a cute couple."

If your heart was still beating, it clearly had stopped now. Seungmin chuckled, half embarrassed, half proud. He wasn't used to admit his feelings like that, but your cute reactions were one hundred percent worth it.

You scribbled quick notes about your class. Today's topic was French Literature, and it was hard to stay focused on whatever the professor was saying. Roxane's story in 'Lettres persanes" was extremely interesting, but today was the last day before holidays. You could swear you would be able to taste it in the air. It was buzzing, everyone was waiting for the class to be dismissed. Your attention got caught as your elbow bumped into your neighbor's hand - Seungmin's hand. As you were ready to apologize, you noticed he was sliding his sheet towards you. Your eyes ran down the page, as you saw how perfect and clean his notes were. You rolled your eyes before focusing back onto your own notes.

It was before his finger met your wrist. Without saying anything, he pointed as the margin of his paper, where was written something.

"At what time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow? We're having the keys at 11am and it's three hours away."

Oh.

Tomorrow was the first day of the reservation. Tomorrow was the first day of a seven-day long trip with your best friend. Trying to avoid his gaze, you quickly scribbled an answer on your own paper - writing on his was too risky, elbows meeting, leaning towards him... too risky - and slid it towards him.

"Maybe 7am? Or at half."

Seungmin nodded, before resting his chin on his hand. Little did he knew, it was only to hide how excited he was for tomorrow.

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Side note: You can find part.2 here!

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Thank you for reading! Feel free to give constructive feedback!

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Please consider that English is not my mother language.

© 2026 ddearina. All rights reserved. Do not plagiarize, copy, translate or repost my work to any platform.

No ai used.

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[binniebb]

still, you stay ⋆ bang chan

⤷ part of the weight of love: eight ways to STAY series

you spend years loving them both in the quiet ways that matter most, never asking for more than the small place you’ve been given in their lives. but when the lines between caretaker, family, and something far more tender begin to blur, chan is forced to face the love growing where he thought only grief could live. caught between loyalty to the woman he lost and the future waiting softly at his door, he has to decide whether letting you in means letting her go.

pairing single dad!chan x babysitter!reader genre employer/employee to lovers, slow burn, angst rating mature, 18+ word count 14k warnings character death (past) ; themes of grieving ; slight age gap ; brief scene of child in distress ; graphic & detailed smut ; oral (m receiving) ; p in v sex

𓄲 get your tissues hunnies, it's gonna be a very bump ride. started this fic and another one on the list a while ago. and then that freaking skz code came out that made me and @joyracha go crazy in the dms and decided to build a series around them. and now here we are! as always, i went rogue and wrote way more than i planned, but hopefully you enjoy! please, if you do like this fic and want to see more, show your love by not only liking, but reblogging and commenting! us creators really do get encouragement by seeing your engagement <3

m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ i n b o x .ᐟ

There are some people who enter your life like weather, all at once and impossible to ignore, and then there are people who become part of its structure so gradually that, one day, you look around and realize years have gone by.

Chan and Haneul are the second kind.

By the time you are twenty-three, halfway through a degree in childhood development and balancing lectures, readings, and practicum hours with more care than sleep, three years of your life have already been folded quietly into theirs. Not in a way that announces itself. Not in a way that invites questions. More in the way a favorite blanket grows softer with use.

You meet Haneul when she is two years old and too young to understand why the world around her has changed, only that it has. A terrible car accident takes her mother in a single, brutal instant, leaving behind a silence too large for a small child to name and too cruel for a man like Chan to fight with anything but endurance.

In the months that follow, his grief becomes something private and disciplined, tucked neatly beneath pressed shirts, beneath tired eyes, beneath the careful steadiness of a father who no longer has the luxury of falling apart.

He does not stop moving because Haneul still needs breakfast in the morning. She still needs her hair brushed, her shoes found, her tiny hands washed after snacks. She still needs lullabies and cartoons and someone to explain why the moon keeps following the car home. The world does not pause to honor sorrow when there is a toddler asking to be carried because her legs are tired.

That is where you come in.

At first, you are only meant to be help. A recommendation passed between neighbors and family friends and someone’s older sister who swears you are responsible, sweet, good with children, the kind of girl who actually gets down to eye level when a child talks instead of nodding absentmindedly while looking at her phone.

You arrive for the first time with your tote bag slung over one shoulder, your hair hurriedly fixed after class, and a nervousness you try to hide beneath a gentle smile. You expect a child made wary by loss, maybe even difficult in the way grieving children are often allowed to become by adults too afraid to say no to them.

Instead, you find a little girl with enormous eyes and a quietness that doesn’t belong on someone so young, sitting on the living room rug with a plush rabbit in her lap.

And you find Chan.

He opens the door looking older than twenty-five should allow, dressed in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, one hand braced against the frame as if he has not sat down all day. His face is handsome in a way that catches you off guard even then, but it is not beauty that lingers with you afterward. It is the exhaustion. The terrible, polished kind. The sort worn by people who have convinced everyone around them that they are managing because the alternative would frighten them.

You remember how carefully he speaks to you that first day, like he is afraid of coming across rude when really he is simply stretched too thin to decorate his words.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, voice rough from disuse or fatigue. “I know this is last minute.”

You tell him it is no problem, and you mean it.

In the beginning, Haneul watches you more than she talks. She is slow to trust in the quiet, wounded way of children who have learned that permanence is not guaranteed, and so you do not rush her. You sit on the floor. You let her bring you toys instead of asking for them. You read books in different voices until she starts to smile at the funny parts. You memorize the exact way she likes her apple slices cut, the songs that make her sleepy, the order of the bedtime routine that keeps tears from gathering in her lashes. Bath, pajamas, two stories, one song, the rabbit tucked beneath her arm, the hallway light left on just enough for the room not to feel endless.

You are studying childhood development, yes, but some things cannot be taught in lecture halls. Some things live in instinct. In patience. In the willingness to hold steady when a child tests whether you really mean it when you say you’ll still be there after they wake up from their nap.

Haneul tests you in all the ways that matter. You pass without ever making it seem like a test at all. And Chan notices.

Not all at once. He is too tired in those first months to do much beyond survive them, but even survival has its moments of clarity. He notices that Haneul cries less on the days you come over. He notices that she starts sleeping through the night more often after you begin watching her regularly. He notices that when she falls and scrapes her knee, she lets you clean it without fuss because your hands are gentle and certain and never tremble, even when hers do.

Most of all, he notices that you never treat his daughter like a fragile thing to be pitied. You speak to her like someone whole. And that alone feels like a miracle.

So what begins as occasional babysitting becomes something far more rooted. Your schedule bends around theirs. Tuesdays and Thursdays after class. Friday evenings when Chan works late or simply needs an hour to breathe without feeling guilty for it. Entire Saturdays sometimes, when errands pile up or Haneul grows clingy and insists on asking every hour when you’re coming.

You become a fixture of the apartment so gradually it almost escapes notice. Your sneakers by the door. Your cardigan draped over the dining chair. Your handwriting on sticky notes by the fridge reminding Chan that Haneul ate all her strawberries already and will definitely ask for more.

The apartment changes too. Not because grief leaves it, but because your presence teaches it how to hold something besides grief.

It is never a large place, but it is warm. The kind of warmth earned through living rather than design. Soft cream walls. Toys tucked into woven baskets that never fully contain them. Crayon drawings held up by magnets on the refrigerator. Storybooks stacked sideways on the coffee table. A faint scent of detergent, baby shampoo long outgrown but not quite forgotten, and whatever Chan has managed to cook between work and fatherhood.

There is always evidence of him everywhere, though none of it showy. A jacket thrown over the couch. A half-finished mug of coffee gone cold on the counter. His laptop open beside a pile of Haneul’s coloring pages because his life is a constant negotiation between responsibility and interruption.

He is the sort of father who carries everything without announcing the weight of it. The sort who wakes at the slightest sound from down the hall, who knows the difference between Haneul’s sleepy whine and her truly upset cry, who kneels beside her bed in the middle of the night with one hand smoothing over her hair while the other checks the temperature on her forehead. He remembers pediatrician appointments without reminders. Keeps extra wipes in the car, crackers in the pantry, Band-Aids in three different drawers. He moves through fatherhood with a quiet competence that would look effortless if you did not know better.

But you do know better.

You see the tiredness under his eyes when he lingers in the kitchen after you arrive, finishing the coffee he forgot to drink hot. You notice the way he thanks you every single time, never once acting entitled to your care even after years of it. You know how often he apologizes for being late, for the toys on the floor, for Haneul being fussy, as if you haven’t already seen him manage work calls while tying the laces on sparkly shoes and cutting sandwiches into stars because she once decided squares were too boring to eat.

There is a devotion in him that feels almost sacred. It lives in the smallest things. In the way he crouches to zip Haneul’s jacket all the way to her chin before stepping outside. In the way he always, always looks back if she calls for him, no matter how busy he is. In the way his voice changes around her, softening at the edges until it becomes something rich and tender enough to wrap around a child like a blanket.

You fall in love with him slowly enough to pretend for a while that you are not falling at all.

Maybe it starts with admiration. Maybe with the first time you see him asleep on the couch after a long day, Haneul sprawled across his chest, one of his arms curved around her even unconscious, as if his body itself knows to protect what he loves. Maybe it starts the night Haneul has a fever and Chan comes home early, tie pulled loose, panic tucked beneath composure, and the relief in his face at finding you there with her makes your chest ache in a way that follows you for days.

Maybe it starts a hundred different times, in a hundred small, impossible moments, until one day you realize your affection has become something far deeper and infinitely more dangerous. You never say a word because know your place.

You are the babysitter. The trusted one, yes. The beloved one, maybe. The one Haneul runs to with drawings clutched in her hand and secrets already spilling from her mouth. The one Chan relies on more than he probably means to. But still, the babysitter. Younger than him by five years, still in college, still building a life of your own. Whatever tenderness threatens to gather in the quiet between you is neatly folded away before it can become visible.

You are not careless with his grief. That, more than anything, keeps you still.

Because even three years later, his wife is not a shadow in this home. She is a presence. A photograph in Haneul’s room. A framed wedding picture tucked onto a bookshelf in the living room. A name spoken gently when Haneul asks questions in that childlike way that manages to be both innocent and piercing. Sometimes, when Haneul is already asleep and the apartment has settled into evening, Chan will look at that photograph for half a second too long before thanking you for staying late.

You never mention it. You never need to.

Loyalty clings to him with the same quiet persistence as grief. Not performative, not self-pitying—simply true. He loved her. He loves her still, in the strange enduring way people love the dead, where memory becomes both comfort and punishment. There are parts of him that remain turned toward that loss even while the rest of him keeps moving forward for Haneul’s sake.

You understand this. You respect it. You build your distance around it brick by careful brick.

And yet time has a way of softening edges no one meant to touch.

Haneul is five now, all bright chatter and quick feet and opinions about everything from cereal shapes to which stuffed animals deserve spots on her bed. She has grown out of her toddler roundness into the delicate, lovely little girl she was always going to become, and somehow, without anyone formally deciding it, you have become woven into the rhythm of her life. You know the names of her classmates, the songs from her favorite cartoons, the exact color she calls “princess pink,” though it looks suspiciously like regular pink to everybody else. She asks for you with the unquestioning certainty children reserve for the people they believe belong to them.

And that is where things begin to shift.

Not because you change.

You are still kind in all the same ways, still patient, still thoughtful, still loving with a steadiness that makes Haneul bloom toward you like something reaching for sunlight. You still arrive with little snacks tucked into your bag and kneel to fasten tiny sandals and sit through tea parties where the tea is invisible and apparently scalding. You still love Chan from a distance so disciplined it sometimes feels like another form of prayer.

No, what changes is harder to control because it is not yours alone.

Haneul starts to look at you with something deeper than affection.

Children do not always have the language for the shapes their hearts make, but they feel those shapes with startling clarity. The comfort of you. The safety. The constancy. The way your hands smooth back her hair when she is upset, the way your voice lowers instinctively when she needs soothing, the way you remember every small thing that matters to her.

The resemblance is not in your face or your voice or your mannerisms. It is in the role your love begins to occupy.

Chan notices it before he lets himself name it.

He notices Haneul reaching for you first after scraping her palm on the playground, even with him standing right there. Notices the easy way she leans into your side during movie nights. Notices the childish, unquestioning possessiveness with which she says your name, as though you have always belonged inside the borders of her world. At first, he tells himself it means only that she trusts you, that your presence has become important to her in the natural way caretakers become important to children.

Then one evening, standing in the kitchen while you help Haneul wash paint from her fingers, he looks up and sees the scene in the darkened reflection of the window above the sink.

You with your sleeves rolled to your elbows, smiling softly as Haneul chatters about the family of lopsided paper butterflies she made that afternoon. Haneul looking up at you with that unguarded little face, all trust and attachment and love. The domestic intimacy of it striking the room so cleanly that it takes the air with it.

Something in his expression changes before he can stop it. Because for the first time, the thought does not arrive as a blur. It arrives whole.

Haneul does not just adore you. She is beginning, in the tender unconscious way of children, to love you in a place shaped suspiciously close to where a mother belongs.

And Chan, who has spent three years carrying grief in one hand and fatherhood in the other, finds himself standing at the edge of a truth he does not know how to survive.

Not only because of what Haneul feels. But because when he looks at you now, his gaze lingers.

On your smile. On your patience. On the quiet grace with which you move through his home as if care is your native language. On the life you have breathed into corners of this apartment he thought would stay dim forever.

And worse than that, more frightening than that, is the part he cannot confess to anyone.

His thoughts linger too.

Not in a reckless way. Never that. Chan is not careless, least of all with you. But desire is not always something dramatic or easily shamed. Sometimes it comes dressed as tenderness that lasts a second too long. As awareness. As the dangerous warmth of noticing your beauty when you tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear while listening to Haneul explain a dream in serious detail. As the temptation to stay in the doorway just to hear you laugh again. As the ache of imagining, only for a moment, what it would mean to let himself want something more.

And every single time, loyalty drags him back. Loyalty to the woman he lost. To the life he thought he would still have. To the version of himself who believes moving on must feel like betrayal if it is ever going to count as real.

So he says nothing. You say nothing. And the three of you continue like that, poised on the fragile edge of something unnamed, each day carrying you a little closer to the point where silence will no longer be enough.

That is how you get here.

Three years after a tragedy that rearranged everything. Three years after you first stepped into Chan’s apartment expecting to offer temporary help and somehow became part of the architecture of his life. Three years of bedtime stories and shared routines and feelings tucked away so carefully they have started to sharpen with the pressure of being held.

Now Haneul is five years old, clever and affectionate and much too perceptive for her own good. You are older too, steadier in yourself, though no less cautious. Chan is twenty-eight and still trying to carry everything alone, still devoted, still gentle, still breaking in places no one sees.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, love has begun to gather.

Not the easy kind. The kind that arrives with history. With grief. With guilt and longing and the unbearable hope of being chosen anyway.

The front door unlocks with the familiar click that always seems to travel through the apartment a beat before Chan does, and the moment it does, Haneul’s entire body lights up.

She has been coloring on the living room floor for the last twenty minutes, tongue peeking out in concentration as she presses a purple crayon too hard against the paper, but at the sound of the door, she gasps like something wonderful and long-awaited has finally arrived. Her crayon rolls away forgotten as she scrambles to her feet.

“Daddy!”

Her voice rings through the apartment bright as bells, and then she is gone in a blur of little socks and wild hair, racing across the hardwood with all the unrestrained devotion of a child who has been waiting to see her favorite person all day.

You do not have to look to know what comes next.

Chan barely gets the door shut behind him before Haneul crashes into his legs, her arms wrapping around him with enough force to make him laugh softly under his breath. It is the kind of laugh you have learned to listen for over the years, quieter when he is tired, roughened around the edges after a long day, but always there for her. Always immediate.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his voice worn down by hours of work and city traffic and whatever else the day has managed to drag over him, but turning warm the second he bends down to scoop her up. “Miss me that much?”

“Yes,” Haneul says with the seriousness of someone stating a fact beyond debate, her arms looping around his neck as he lifts her against his chest. “A lot.”

You can picture it without stepping away from the stove. The way his shoulders finally loosen once he has her in his arms. The way his cheek brushes the side of her head. The way exhaustion never disappears from him all at once, but shifts, settles, becomes something gentler the moment she is close enough to hold.

From the kitchen, you stir the sauce one last time and lower the heat, letting the apartment fill with the warm, savory scent of garlic and soy and browned onions. The pan gives a soft, steady hiss under your hand, steam fogging briefly against your wrist before curling away. Rice waits fluffed in the pot beside it, and the vegetables you chopped earlier are soft now, glossy under the kitchen light. It is not anything extravagant, just dinner, just something simple and comforting after a day that has clearly asked too much of him already, but you know by now that sometimes the smallest things land with the most force.

Chan rounds the corner into the kitchen with Haneul still perched on his hip, and the second he sees you standing there in front of the stove, the look on his face shifts.

It is subtle, the kind of thing someone else might miss if they do not know him the way you do. His tie is gone, probably shoved into his work bag the moment he got into the car. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his forearms, slightly uneven, and there is a tiredness clinging to him that looks almost physical, something draped over his shoulders heavier than the leather strap of his briefcase.

His hair is a little mussed, his eyes faintly shadowed, and for a second he simply stands there taking in the sight of you in his kitchen, dinner nearly finished, his daughter tucked close against him, home smelling like something warm and lived-in instead of the sterile leftovers of takeout containers or the rushed effort of a meal made too late.

Then his mouth softens.

You know that look too.

It is never dramatic with Chan. Nothing with him ever is. But gratitude moves through him like low light across water, quiet and immediate and deeper than he usually lets anyone see.

“You’re cooking?” he asks, though the answer is obvious.

You smile over your shoulder at him, lifting the wooden spoon a little. “I am. Haneul told me she was starving and then listed six different things she wanted, so we compromised.”

Haneul, entirely unbothered by being exposed, presses her cheek into Chan’s shoulder and says, “I wanted spaghetti and dumplings and fish sticks and mac and cheese and strawberries.”

“And instead,” you say, amusement warming your voice, “she is getting chicken stir-fry, rice, and strawberries after dinner if she eats enough actual food first.”

Chan lets out a breath that almost passes for a laugh, though it still carries the roughness of exhaustion in it. “You’re a miracle, you know that?”

The words come out easy, automatic perhaps, but the way his eyes linger on you as he says them makes something inside you pull a little tighter.

You busy yourself with the pan, even though it does not need much attention anymore. “It’s not a miracle. It’s just dinner.”

“Still.” His voice lowers, quieter now, more sincere. “Thank you.”

When you glance back at him, really look at him, the gratitude sits plain on his face. It does something dangerous to your chest every time, the way he thanks you as though your care is never expected, never owed, always something precious enough to acknowledge. Even now, after years of stepping so naturally into the space his home seems to make for you, he never treats your presence like entitlement. He treats it like grace.

Haneul wriggles, suddenly impatient. “Can I set the table?”

“You can help,” you say.

That is enough to make her squirm out of Chan’s arms at once, her little feet landing hard against the floor before she darts toward the cabinet where the plates are stacked. Chan watches her go, the same way he always does, with that quiet attentiveness that never fully leaves him, and then he exhales slowly, one hand settling on the back of a dining chair as if he needs the pause.

Up close, the weariness on him is even clearer. Not just tired. Pulled thin.

“Long day?” you ask softly.

His mouth tips in something that is not quite a smile. “You could say that.”

He does not elaborate right away. He rarely does, at least not until the apartment has softened around him and Haneul is distracted enough that he can let a little more of the day show on his face. Instead, he loosens the top button of his shirt and steps closer to the stove, drawn in by the smell.

“That smells incredible,” he says. “Seriously.”

“It should be decent,” you reply. “We’ve been taste-testing.”

“We?” he echoes, glancing toward Haneul, who is now carrying forks to the table with great concentration, as though transporting priceless artifacts.

“We meaning me,” you say dryly, “while your daughter declared herself head chef and supervised.”

That earns you a fuller smile this time, brief but real. It changes him every time it happens, makes him look younger than grief and responsibility usually allow. Then his gaze drops to the skillet again, curiosity touching the edges of his expression.

“What is it exactly?”

“Soy-garlic chicken,” you tell him. “With vegetables. The sauce is a little sweet, so Haneul approved.”

“Of course she did.” He studies the pan a second longer, then looks at you. “Where did you learn how to make that?”

The question is casual. So are you when you answer.

“Oh.” You set the spoon down against the rest by the stove and reach for the bowls. “I went to a cooking class once for a first date, and they taught us a version of it.”

The silence that follows is not loud, but it is immediate.

It moves through the kitchen like something invisible suddenly slipping between the cabinets and counters, small but unmistakable. You only really register it when you turn, two bowls in your hands, and find Chan standing exactly where he was a second ago, except now there is something different in his face.

Not anger. Not even disapproval. Just a kind of stillness.

It takes you a moment to understand why.

His eyes rest on you with an unreadable weight, his expression gone carefully neutral in the way it does when he is keeping something behind his teeth. For the briefest second, he almost looks startled, as though the words first date have landed somewhere in him he was not prepared to expose.

You blink, suddenly aware of how oddly intimate the conversation has become for something so harmless.

“It wasn’t recent,” you add lightly, setting the bowls on the table. “It was a while ago.”

Chan nods once, but it is delayed enough that you notice.

“Right,” he says.

That single word is perfectly even. Too even.

You glance at him again, trying not to let your confusion show. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not,” he says, which would be more convincing if he did not still look a little thrown.

A tiny smile starts tugging at your mouth despite yourself. “Chan.”

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, his gaze flicking briefly toward Haneul before returning to you. “You went to a cooking class for a first date?”

There it is. Not accusation, exactly. Just disbelief tinged with something you cannot quite place at first, something quieter and sharper than surprise.

You lean one hip against the counter, suddenly more aware of him than you should be, of the loosened collar of his shirt and the tired line of his shoulders and the way his attention has narrowed entirely onto you.

“Yes,” you say, a little amused now. “That is what I said.”

He lets out a soft breath through his nose, almost scoffing, though there is no edge to it. “That feels…” He pauses, like he is choosing a word he will not regret. “Specific.”

You laugh then, unable not to. “It was specific. The whole thing was supposed to be charming.”

“Was it?”

You tilt your head. “The class or the date?”

His eyes hold yours for a fraction too long. “The date.”

The answer should be easy. It should be nothing. A passing anecdote attached to a recipe and no more important than that. But Chan is looking at you in a way that makes the air feel thinner, and for a second you can feel the shape of something unspoken pressing against the edges of the room.

You look away first, reaching for the strawberries just to have something to do with your hands.

“It was fine,” you say. “Not especially memorable, apparently, since the chicken is what lasted.”

Chan hums quietly, though it does not sound like amusement. Something in his expression shifts again, gentling and darkening at once, a flicker so fast you almost miss it.

Jealousy is not a look you have ever thought to assign him. Not toward you. Not in relation to you. The very idea feels too impossible to touch directly, and yet there is something faintly unsettled in the way he stands there, in the careful blankness he is trying to hold over whatever instinctive reaction your answer has stirred.

He has no right to it. You know that. He knows that too. But apparently knowing does not stop it from existing.

The realization arrives slowly enough to be dangerous.

Chan’s gaze drops for a moment to your hands as you rinse the strawberries, then lifts again to your face, quieter now.

“I guess,” he says, voice low, “I never really think about you dating.”

There is no flirtation in the words. That would almost be easier to survive.

What there is instead is honesty, reluctant and unvarnished, as if the sentence slipped out before he could decide whether to keep it.

Your fingers still beneath the running water. You turn the faucet off carefully. “I date,” you say, aiming for casual and not entirely trusting yourself to hit it.

His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

But he does not sound like he knew. He sounds like someone who has just remembered that you exist outside the borders of this apartment, outside bedtime stories and dinner prep and afternoons spent kneeling beside his daughter to help with tiny shoes and crayons. Like the image of you with someone else has caught him off guard in a way he does not understand well enough to conceal.

At the table, Haneul starts humming to herself while lining up napkins with painstaking precision, blissfully unaware of the strange, fragile thing gathering in the kitchen behind her.

You dry your hands on a dish towel and keep your tone deliberately light, though your pulse has begun doing something inconvenient under your skin.

“It was one date, Chan,” you say. “You look like I told you I ran away to join the circus.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him, but it is brief, and when it fades, his gaze stays on you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

The word lands heavier than it should.

You shake your head. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Maybe he does not. Maybe he does.

He glances down, fingers curling against the back of the chair beside him, his expression tightening in a way that tells you he is aware, at least in part, that he has stepped somewhere he should not have. That whatever flicker passed through him a moment ago does not belong to him. Not with you. Not like this.

When he looks back up, he has smoothed himself out again, though not completely.

“Just surprised me, I guess.”

You could leave it there. You should leave it there. Instead, because some reckless little thread in you wants to tug at the seam and see what gives, you ask softly, “Why?”

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and something in the room stills all over again.

For one suspended second, he looks like he might answer. Really answer. Not with something easy or polite, but with the truth or some dangerous piece of it.

Then Haneul spins around in her chair and announces, “I did the forks all by myself.”

The moment breaks cleanly, almost cruelly.

Chan looks away first, that gentle father-softness returning to his face as he turns toward her. “You did?” he says, moving to inspect the table. “That’s impressive.”

You stand there for a beat longer, dish towel still clutched in your hands, the ghost of that almost-confession hovering between your ribs like heat that has nowhere to go.

Then you follow, setting the bowl of strawberries aside for later and bringing dinner to the table.

Conversation slips back into safer things. Haneul chatters about a girl in her class who insists pink crayons work better than red ones. Chan listens, asks questions, and eats like someone who did not realize until the first bite just how hungry he was. More than once, you catch him looking at you when he thinks your attention is elsewhere, and each time he looks away a second too late, the awareness of it settling over you both like a secret too new to name.

Haneul’s bath time has long since developed its own little rituals, the kind children attach themselves to with fierce sincerity once they decide a routine belongs to them.

One of them is the singing.

It starts nearly a year ago, after a phase where she becomes convinced that closing the bathroom door means vanishing, and though she has long since outgrown the fear itself, the habit remains. Whenever she is in the tub and you are not standing directly beside it, she has to sing the entire time. Loudly, continuously, and with enough enthusiasm that neither you nor Chan ever have to wonder where she is or whether she has decided, in some burst of five-year-old ambition, to attempt something reckless with a wet foot and too much confidence.

Tonight, her voice floats down the short hallway in cheerful, slightly off-key waves, rising and falling over the splash of bathwater.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little starrrr,” she belts from the bathroom, only to abandon it halfway through and pivot into a cartoon song about a rabbit who loves carrots and friendship. The words are mostly wrong. The volume is not.

You smile to yourself as you pull her comforter smooth over the mattress, tucking the corners just the way she likes so she can burrow under them dramatically later and declare herself a sleepy princess. Her rabbit is placed at the top of the bed, facing outward. Her nightlight is plugged in. On the small dresser beside the lamp, the framed photo of her mother catches the soft yellow light and gives it back in a muted gleam.

The room is warm with familiar things. Lavender lotion. Clean pajamas laid out in a neat little pile. A picture book already waiting on the pillow. Haneul’s world always feels especially tender at night, as though the room itself settles into a gentler shape once the day begins to dim.

From the bathroom, her voice rises again.

“I’m a bunny, bunny, bunny in the baaath!”

You laugh under your breath. “Keep singing, baby.”

“I am!” she shouts back, indignant and sincere.

You are fluffing the second pillow when you feel, more than hear, someone stop in the doorway.

Chan does not announce himself right away. He only stands there for a second, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame, watching you move around Haneul’s room with easy familiarity. By now, you know the weight of his silence well enough to recognize when it means thought rather than exhaustion, and tonight there is something deliberate in it.

When you glance over, he has changed out of his work clothes into a soft black T-shirt and gray lounge pants, the lines of the day gentled but not erased. His hair is slightly damp at the temples from a shower, and there is a stillness about him that tells you he has been carrying something since dinner and has finally decided to bring it back out into the light.

Haneul’s singing bounces down the hall again, louder this time.

Chan’s mouth tilts faintly. “She’s really committing to it tonight.”

You smooth your palm over the blanket one last time. “She knows the rule.”

“She also knows how to turn it into a full concert.”

“That too.”

He steps into the room then, slow and unhurried, his gaze brushing over the bed, the pajamas, your hands lingering near the pillow. There is always something dangerous in moments like this, in the domestic ease of them. In how naturally you fit here. In how much less space there seems to be between you when the apartment is quiet and Haneul’s little voice is the only thing filling the air.

For a second, he says nothing. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he says, “So…that cooking class date.”

You turn your head toward him fully, already suspicious of the neutrality in his tone. “What about it?”

He lifts one shoulder, feigning lightness badly enough that it almost makes you smile. “Nothing. I was just thinking about it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes flick to the stuffed rabbit on the bed, then back to you. “Guess I’m still surprised.”

There is that word again. Surprised. It shouldn’t needle at you the way it does, but something about it has been sitting under your skin since dinner, unresolved and quietly aggravating.

“Surprised that I can cook?” you ask.

A breath of amusement touches his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

You fold your arms loosely, leaning one hip against Haneul’s dresser. “Then what did you mean?”

From down the hall comes a splash, then an enthusiastic, “Bunny bunny bath time queen!”

Chan exhales softly through his nose, but his attention never leaves you. “I told you,” he says. “I just don’t really think about you dating.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

The words leave your mouth lighter than they feel, sharpened by something you had not intended to show. Chan notices it immediately. You can tell by the way his expression changes, something in it tightening just enough to make the room feel smaller.

“It’s not a problem,” he says quietly.

“No?” You tip your head. “Because you’ve seemed pretty bothered by it for someone who claims it isn’t.”

His jaw shifts. “I’m not bothered.”

You give him a look.

From the bathroom, Haneul transitions into a drawn-out version of the alphabet song, half of the letters swallowed by the echo of tile.

Chan drags a hand over the back of his neck. “I said I was surprised. That’s all.”

“And I said I date.”

The silence that follows is thin and fragile, stretched tight between you.

Maybe if he had left it at dinner, if he had let the moment break and disappear under the noise of plates and Haneul’s chatter, this would still be manageable. But he is here now, bringing it up again in the quiet of her bedroom, after bathwater has started sloshing against enamel and the night has settled enough that every glance feels heavier than it should.

Your heart is beating too hard for something so small.

Chan’s voice lowers. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” you say, and now the frustration is there, unmistakable. “Actually, I don’t.”

His brow furrows, not in anger but in a kind of guarded discomfort, as if this has moved beyond the shape he hoped it would keep. “You’re upset.”

You laugh once, though there is no humor in it. “You’re the one asking follow-up questions about a date I went on forever ago.”

“I asked one question.”

“You brought it back up.”

His eyes flash with something that is not quite irritation and not quite embarrassment, but close enough to both that it catches heat against your own. “Because I was trying to understand why it got under my skin.”

The honesty of that startles you, but only for a second.

“Then maybe you should understand it on your own,” you say, your voice softening in volume and sharpening everywhere else. “Because you don’t get to act weird every time you remember I have a life outside this apartment.”

Chan straightens a little, his face going still in that careful way it does when he feels something too much and is trying not to let it show. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He looks at you. And there it is again, that unbearable sense of something pressing at the edges of the room, something too big and too dangerous to stay unnamed much longer.

You are suddenly aware of everything. The soft lamp glow. Haneul’s distant singing, now wandering into nonsense lyrics about stars and strawberries and glitter. The framed photograph on the dresser beside your elbow. The fact that Chan is standing only a few feet away and somehow feels both impossibly close and nowhere you can safely reach.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet enough that it almost disappears into the room. “You know I can’t…”

He does not finish. But it’s enough.

All the restraint you have wrapped around yourself for years pulls tight at once, then frays.

“Can’t what?” you ask, and your own voice has changed now too, gone unsteady around the edges. “Be upset that I date? Want to know about my life? Feel anything?”

Chan’s expression flickers, pain and caution moving through it so quickly that you almost miss the distinction between them. “Don’t,” he says. It is not a warning. It is closer to a plea.

“No,” you say, because suddenly you cannot bear this version of him, this version of the two of you, where everything is measured and bitten back and left to rot in silence. “You don’t get to do that.”

His gaze fixes on you, unreadable except for the tension in it. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture helplessly between you, frustration spilling out now that it has found a crack. “Acting like it bothers you when I date, acting like it means something, and then pretending it doesn’t. Pretending you don’t feel what I feel too.”

The words hang there.

For one terrible second, the room becomes perfectly still.

Even from the bathroom, Haneul’s singing seems farther away, thinner, as though the world itself has pulled back to listen.

Chan does not move. His face changes, but only slightly. A tiny falter. A break in the careful control he wears like armor.

You hear your own pulse in your ears.

The moment after a confession is always stranger than the confession itself. You expect release, maybe ruin, maybe relief. Instead there is only exposure, raw and immediate and impossible to take back.

Chan’s throat works once before he speaks. “You think I don’t know that?” he asks, and his voice is so low it nearly fractures under the weight of it. “You think I haven’t been fighting that every day?”

Your breath catches.

He takes half a step forward, not enough to close the distance, only enough to make it feel deliberate.

“You think I don’t see the way she looks at you? The way you take care of her, take care of us, like it’s the most natural thing in the world?” His eyes search your face, torn open now in a way that almost hurts to witness. “You think I haven’t noticed what this has become?”

Something hot stings behind your eyes before you can stop it. “Then why are you standing there acting like I’m the only one who has to live with it?”

Chan opens his mouth.

And then the apartment splits open with Haneul’s scream.

It is so sudden, so sharp and terrified, that both of you are moving before the sound has even finished leaving her throat.

“Haneul!”

Chan is out the door first, your feet nearly tripping over each other as you rush down the hall after him. The bathroom light is too bright when you burst inside. Haneul is half-sitting, half-sliding in the tub, water sloshed over the edge and onto the tile, her face crumpled in fear as she coughs and cries at once, tiny hands grasping blindly for something steady.

“I slipped,” she sobs. “I slipped, Daddy.”

Chan is on his knees beside the tub in an instant, all the tension from a moment ago gone, replaced by pure parental instinct. “I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you.” His voice is calm despite the fear flashing across his face as he reaches in and lifts her out, dripping and shaking, against his chest.

She is not hurt. You can see that almost immediately. Startled, frightened, maybe swallowed some water when she went under for a second, but not injured. Still, the panic in her is real, and that matters just as much.

Chan cradles her close, one large hand spread protectively over the back of her head while the other rubs slow circles between her shoulders. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, over and over, his voice warm and anchoring even while his own breathing is unsteady. “You’re okay. Daddy’s got you.”

Haneul coughs again, crying harder now, her wet hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks flushed pink from heat and fright. Chan adjusts her against him, trying to soothe her, trying to calm the trembling little body in his arms.

Then she lifts her face, tears clinging to her lashes, and reaches for you. “Mommy,” she cries.

Everything stops. Something inside the three of you, sudden and absolute.

Chan freezes. So do you.

Haneul’s small hand opens and closes toward you, her face crumpling harder as she reaches again through tears and panic, too scared to understand what she has just done, only knowing that she wants comfort and that your name, your shape, your love have tangled themselves in her frightened little heart until this is what comes out.

“Mommy,” she sobs again, desperate this time.

The word lands like a stone dropped into still water, the impact rippling outward too fast to outrun.

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first.

Chan looks at you. It lasts barely a second, maybe less, but the weight of it is enough to make the room tilt. Shock, grief, tenderness, something rawer than both, all flickering through his face before he lowers his eyes.

You move then because Haneul needs you. Whatever this moment is, whatever it will become later, cannot matter more than the little girl crying in front of you now.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, stepping closer. Your hands shake only slightly as you take the towel from the rack and wrap it around her small body. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Chan hesitates for the briefest second before letting you take her. Not because he is unwilling, but because the transfer itself feels loaded now in a way neither of you can bear to examine. Then Haneul is in your arms, warm and damp and trembling, clutching at your shoulders with frantic little fingers as you gather her close.

You hold her carefully, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing up and down her spine beneath the towel. “You’re all right,” you murmur into her wet hair. “You just got scared. That’s all. I’m here. Daddy’s here. You’re safe.”

Her sobs do not stop right away, but they begin to soften, breaking into smaller hitching breaths against your neck.

Chan stands. For a moment, he stays where he is, one hand braced against the edge of the sink, his head turned slightly away as though he cannot quite bear the sight in front of him and cannot stop looking at it either.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “I need a minute.”

It is not directed at Haneul. Not really. It belongs somewhere between you and the tiled floor and the word still echoing in the steam-thick air.

He does not wait for an answer. He only drags a hand over his face and steps out, walking past the open door with the kind of rigid control that tells you he is holding himself together by force alone.

The bathroom feels too small after he leaves. Too warm. Too bright. Too full of things that can no longer be mistaken for simple. But Haneul is still in your arms, still trembling, still burying her face against your shoulder as if she can hide there from the fright of what just happened. So you hold her tighter.

You sway on instinct, gentle and slow, your own throat aching with everything you are not allowing yourself to feel yet.

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, pressing your cheek to the top of her damp head. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Outside the bathroom, you can hear nothing from Chan at all.

And somehow, that silence is louder than anything.

You dry her carefully, gently, like she is something easily startled back into fear.

Chan does not come back.

You feel that absence like a second pulse under your skin, but you do not go looking for him. Not yet. Not when Haneul still needs your hands steady, your voice soft, your attention anchored fully in her.

“Let’s get you warm, okay?” you murmur, wrapping the towel tighter around her small body.

She nods against your shoulder, still sniffling, her lashes clumped together with tears.

You help her into her pajamas slowly, guiding her arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric down over her back, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head when she leans into you without thinking. By the time you carry her down the hall, her breathing has steadied, but her fingers remain curled into the front of your shirt. 

You sit with her on the bed first instead of laying her down immediately, letting her settle in your lap while you rub slow circles between her shoulders. The nightlight casts a faint glow along the wall, catching the edges of her mother’s photograph and turning the glass into something almost luminous.

Haneul’s voice, when she finally speaks, is small. “I didn’t mean to slip.”

“I know you didn’t,” you say gently. “Sometimes that just happens.”

She sniffles again, then presses her cheek into your collarbone. “I was singing.”

“I heard you. You were doing a very good job.”

That gets the faintest hint of a smile, though it fades quickly, her thoughts clearly drifting somewhere heavier.

You can feel it before she says anything. The shift. The way children carry fear into questions without meaning to.

After a moment, she lifts her head just enough to look at you. “Why did I say that?”

Your heart stumbles. You know what she means. Of course you do.

You smooth a damp strand of hair away from her forehead, buying yourself a second to breathe through the sudden tightness in your chest.

“You were scared,” you say softly. “And sometimes when we’re scared, we just…reach for the people who make us feel safe.”

She watches you carefully, her eyes still glassy with leftover tears. “But I said mommy.”

The word lands differently now. Not sharp like before. Just quiet. Confused.

You swallow gently. “Haneul,” you begin, your voice as steady as you can make it, “your mommy is…she’s in heaven, remember?”

She nods a little, though her expression remains uncertain.

“She’s always looking down at you,” you continue, brushing your thumb lightly across her cheek. “And she loves you so, so much. That doesn’t go away just because she can’t be here the way we wish she could.”

Haneul listens, her brows knitting slightly as she tries to hold onto something too big for her to fully understand.

“And I love you too,” you add, quieter now. “Even if I’m not your mommy.”

Her fingers tighten briefly in your shirt again. “I know,” she says.

The words are simple. Certain. But then her mouth wobbles, and the question that follows breaks something open in a different way. “It’s not fair.”

You blink.

“My friends all have a mom and a dad,” she continues, her voice trembling just enough to make your chest ache. “Why do I only have my dad?”

There is no easy answer for that. There never has been.

You draw her a little closer, pressing your lips to her hair for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at her again. “Sometimes life doesn’t give everyone the same things,” you say gently. “And that can feel really unfair. You’re allowed to feel that way.”

Her lower lip trembles. “I want my mommy.”

The honesty of it is unbearable in its simplicity.

“I know you do,” you whisper, your own throat tightening. “That makes sense. She was yours.”

Haneul leans into you again, quieter now, her small body softening with the weight of her feelings.

“But you know what you do have?” you continue softly, your hand smoothing down her back. “You have a dad who loves you more than anything in the world. You have someone who shows up for you every single day. And that matters so much, even if it doesn’t make everything feel better right away.”

She is quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly, she asks, “Why does Daddy look at you like he looks at Mommy’s picture then?”

The question lands without warning. For a second, you think you might have misheard her. Your breath catches in your throat, your hands going still against her back.

Haneul tilts her head slightly, studying your face with the same quiet curiosity she applies to everything she does not understand yet. “He does,” she says, as if clarifying something obvious. “Sometimes.”

There is no answer ready for that. No careful, gentle explanation you can give that will not unravel something you have spent years keeping neatly contained.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I…” you start, and stop again.

Because what can you say? That she's wrong? She’s not. That she’s right? You cannot. That her father is a man carrying grief and love in the same breath and does not know how to separate them anymore? That is not something a five-year-old should have to hold.

So you do the only thing you can. You pull her a little closer and press your cheek against her hair. “Sometimes grown-ups look at people in ways that are hard to explain,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything bad. It just means…feelings can be hard.”

She considers that, her small face thoughtful in a way that makes her seem older than she should be.

Then, eventually, she nods. “Okay.”

It is not full understanding, but it’s enough for now.

You help her lie down, tucking the comforter around her the way she likes, making sure the rabbit is secured in her arms. Her breathing evens out more quickly this time, exhaustion finally catching up with her after the scare, her lashes fluttering as sleep begins to pull at her.

You brush your fingers lightly through her hair. “I’ll be right here,” you murmur.

She hums softly in response, already drifting.

The apartment feels different once you step out of her room.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, the light dimmer somehow, as if the walls themselves have absorbed everything that just happened and are holding it close.

You hesitate outside Chan’s door because you can hear him.

Not loudly. Chan does not fall apart in ways that draw attention. Even now, the sound is muffled, contained, like he is trying to keep it from escaping into the rest of the apartment.

But it’s there. A quiet, uneven breath. A stifled sob he does not quite manage to swallow in time.

Your chest tightens painfully and push the door open slowly.

The room is dim, lit only by the low glow of the bedside lamp. Chan is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, one hand covering his mouth as he tries to keep himself quiet. His shoulders are hunched forward, the line of his back rigid in a way that tells you he has been holding this in for too long.

He doesn’t notice you right away. Or maybe he does, and he just cannot bring himself to react yet.

“Chan,” you say softly.

He flinches. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Then he drags his hand down over his face, scrubbing hard as if he can wipe away the evidence of what you have just walked in on.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough and unsteady in a way that makes the words ring hollow immediately.

You close the door behind you. “No, you’re not.”

For a second, he does not respond. Then his shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him all at once like something finally giving way.

You cross the room slowly, giving him time to pull himself back together if he needs it, though you already know he will not. Not this time.

When you reach him, you don’t ask permission. You simply sit beside him and wrap your arms around him.

And Chan breaks. He leans into you like he has been waiting for something solid to hold onto, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath stutters out of him, quiet and uneven. One of his hands grips at the fabric of your shirt, not hard, just enough to anchor himself, and you can feel the tremor running through him like something too big to contain anymore.

You hold him tighter. Your hand moves up to cradle the back of his head, fingers slipping into his hair the way you have done a hundred times for Haneul, the motion instinctive and soft and steady. “It’s okay,” you whisper, even though you know it is not.

He shakes his head against you. “No,” he breathes, voice breaking on the word. “It’s not.”

You don’t argue. You just let him have it.

The quiet sobs come and go, each one sounding like it has been dragged up from somewhere deep and long-guarded. You stay with him through all of it, your grip firm but gentle, your presence the only thing in the room that feels stable.

After a while, his breathing begins to slow. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admits, voice raw.

You close your eyes briefly, pressing your cheek against his hair. “You’re doing your best.”

“That’s not enough.”

The immediate certainty in his tone makes your chest ache.

“It’s for her,” you say softly.

He lets out a shaky breath. “That’s not what I mean.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still resting on his shoulders. “Then what do you mean?”

Chan hesitates. For a moment, it looks like he might retreat again, pull the walls back up, tuck everything away where it cannot be touched. But tonight has broken that pattern. Something in the way Haneul said that word. In the way you said what you did in her room. In the way he can no longer pretend this is something small and manageable.

He looks at you. And for the first time in a long time, he says her name out loud. “I still love Ki.”

The words land heavy between you. They don’t surprise you, but they do make your heart twist. “I know,” you say gently.

His eyes search your face, almost desperately. “I never stopped. I don’t think I ever will.”

“I know,” you repeat.

That part has never been the problem.

Chan swallows, his throat working around something painful. “But then there’s you.”

Your breath catches.

He lets out a quiet, broken laugh that holds no humor at all. “And I don’t know what to do with that,” he admits. “Because it feels like…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Like I’m betraying her. Like I’m betraying everything we had.”

“You’re not,” you say softly.

“How can you say that?” His voice cracks again, frustration and grief tangling together. “How can I look at you the way I do and not feel like I’m replacing her?”

“You’re not replacing her,” you say, a little firmer now, even as your heart aches for him. “She’s not something that can be replaced, Chan. What you had with her is yours. It always will be.”

He stares at you, torn. “Then what is this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

The question hangs there, fragile and impossible. You feel it too. All of it. The years. The restraint. The love you have buried so carefully it has started to hurt just to breathe around it.

“This is something new,” you say quietly. “Something different.”

He shakes his head again, eyes closing briefly. “It doesn’t feel different. It feels like I’m…” He exhales sharply. “Like I’m letting go of her.”

“You’re not letting go,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “You’re just…making room.”

His eyes open. There is something in them now that you have never seen so clearly before: Hope. Fear. And something dangerously close to the same thing you have been carrying alone for far too long.

He does not move away from you. And you do not let go. Not when the room is still thick with everything he’s just said, not when his breath is still uneven, not when the weight of his grief and his confession and your own carefully hidden feelings have all finally been pulled into the same fragile space.

You just hold him. Your hand stays at the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, the other resting warm and steady against his shoulder. You can feel the slow, gradual shift in him as the storm eases—not gone, not resolved, but quieter.

Chan exhales, long and shaky. Then, after a moment, he leans back just enough that he can look at you.

Your hands slide down to rest lightly on his arms as he pulls away, but neither of you fully breaks contact. There’s still a thread there, invisible but unmistakable, stretched between your bodies and your breathing and the way neither of you seems ready to let the other go just yet.

He looks at you for a long time. Not like before, not like the fleeting glances or the careful, restrained attention you’ve grown used to. This is different. Open. Unhidden. Like he’s finally allowing himself to see you without pulling back at the last second.

His eyes trace your face slowly, as if committing it to memory in a way he hasn’t let himself do until now. Your eyes, your mouth, the soft curve of your cheek where your hair falls loose from behind your ear. There’s something almost disbelieving in it, like he’s trying to reconcile the person he’s known for years with the person he’s just admitted he wants.

You feel it everywhere—in your chest. In your throat. In the way your hands tighten just slightly against his arms without you meaning them to.

“Chan…” you start, quiet, uncertain what you’re even trying to say.

He doesn’t let you finish. “I love you.”

The words are simple. No buildup. No hesitation once they leave him. And yet they land like something enormous.

Your breath catches, your entire body going still as they settle into the space between you. You knew—some part of you must have known, because nothing else could explain the way he’s looked at you, the way tonight unfolded, the way everything has been quietly building for years—but hearing it is different. Hearing it makes it real in a way that can’t be folded away again.

Chan swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “I didn’t want to,” he admits, voice rough and unguarded. “I tried not to. For a long time.”

You don’t interrupt.. Because he’s still speaking like something is finally spilling out after being held back too long.

“I told myself it was just gratitude,” he continues, a faint, broken smile touching his mouth before it fades again. “That you were good with her, good for her, and I was just relieved. That’s all it was supposed to be.”

Your heart aches at the quiet self-denial in his words.

“But it wasn’t,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “It kept getting harder to ignore. The way you take care of her. The way you just fit here.” His eyes flick briefly around the room before coming back to you. “The way you make everything feel easier without even trying.”

Your fingers curl slightly against his sleeves.

“And I hated it,” he adds, more quietly. “Because every time I realized how much I…” He stops, exhales, tries again. “How much I needed you, it felt like I was losing something I wasn’t supposed to let go of.”

You can see it now, clearer than ever. The war he’s been fighting alone.

“I kept thinking,” he goes on, his voice dipping lower, “if I let myself have this—have you—then what does that say about her? About what we had? About the promises I made?”

You soften, your hand lifting instinctively to his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. “It doesn’t say anything bad,” you whisper.

He leans into your touch without thinking. “I’m supposed to be enough,” he says, and there’s something almost desperate in it now. “For Haneul. For everything. I’m her dad, I’m all she has left, and I feel like if I don’t hold everything together perfectly, then I’m failing both of them.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Chan…”

“I have to do it all,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly. “Because Ki can’t. Because she’s gone. And if I start needing someone else—if I start wanting someone else—then what does that make me?”

The question isn’t rhetorical. It’s raw. Real. Terrifying in its honesty.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let your hand slide fully to his face, cradling it gently, guiding his attention back to you when his gaze starts to drift somewhere far away again.

“It makes you human,” you say softly.

His eyes flicker.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you continue, your voice steady even as your heart beats harder. “You were never meant to. Loving someone again doesn’t erase what you had with her. It doesn’t mean you’re failing her or Haneul.” You swallow, your thumb brushing once more against his skin. “It just means your heart didn’t stop when she left.”

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, slowly, you lean forward.

The kiss is soft. Tentative in a way, like you’re both stepping into something fragile and sacred all at once. Your lips brush his gently, testing, asking without words if this is real, if this is allowed, if this is something he can accept.

Chan stills completely. Then he exhales into you, something in him giving way all over again.

When you pull back just slightly, your forehead hovering close to his, your voice is barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Then his hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers warm and sure despite the tremor still lingering in them. And this time, when he kisses you, there is nothing tentative about it.

He pulls you closer, closing the space between you in a way that feels like a decision, like a line being crossed that neither of you can step back from now. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of urgency that has been building for far too long, not rushed but deep, grounding, as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you, the reality of this moment.

You respond without thinking, your hands finding his shoulders, then his chest, holding onto him just as tightly as he holds onto you.

Everything else fades. The room. The hallway. The years of restraint. There is only this—the quiet sound of your breathing, the warmth of his hands, the way his grip tightens. 

You both pull back to breathe, and before he can say anything, you speak. “Can I make you feel good? Can I show you how much I love you? ”

Your words hang in the quiet air of Chan’s bedroom, a soft demand that stops the slow sway of your bodies against each other. The light from the hallway casts a long, warm stripe across the floor, painting the edge of the bed in gold. His hands, which had been cradling your hips as you kissed, freeze on your skin.

“All of you,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw.

Chan looks down at you, his eyes—a deep, tired brown that has finally started to shine again—searching yours. His breath, warm and steady, flows over your cheek. He doesn’t speak. He just nods, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin that feels like the dropping of a final, heavy weight he’s carried for years.

He lets go of you, his fingers sliding from the curve of your waist with a lingering drag. You stand and reach for his sweats before kneeling before him.

The floor is soft through the thin fabric of your summer dress. You look up at him as you peel his sweats and boxers down his legs, your hands working slowly, taking the time to feel the heat of his thighs, the strength in his calves. He pulls his shirt over his head, the fabric falling to the floor beside you. And there he sits before you, completely exposed.

Chan is perfect. His chest is broad, arms defined, shoulders solid, but they carry a permanent slope, a bearing of quiet burden. And between his legs, his cock stands half-hard, a promise waiting to be fully realized.

It’s beautiful to you. Not in a sculpted, idealized way, but in a real way. The shaft is thick, a solid, warm column of flesh with a slight curve upward. The head is a darker shade, a flushed plum color, already glistening with a single, clear bead of moisture at its tip. The skin is smooth, but you can see the faint tracery of veins underneath, a network of life pulsing just beneath the surface. 

You lean forward, bringing your face close. The scent of him fills your nose—the faint, musky aroma of a man, and something deeper, something uniquely his. You don’t speak. You just open your mouth and press your lips to the side of his shaft.

The skin is hot. Silken. You kiss it, a soft, closed-mouth press that makes his whole body shiver. You hear a shaky intake of air above you. Your tongue comes out then, flat and wet, and you lick a long, slow stripe from the base all the way up to the crown. The taste is clean, salty, male. That bead of precum meets your tongue and you take it, a tiny, sweet-bitter pearl that you savor.

You look up at him again. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed. His hands are clenched at his sides, fists balled tight. He’s holding on, you think. Holding on to control, to the memory of how to receive pleasure without guilt.

You want to give him that permission. To shatter that control.

Your lips open wider. You take the head of his cock into your mouth, circling it, sucking lightly. It’s not fully hard yet, but it responds instantly to the heat and wetness of your mouth, thickening, lengthening, the curve becoming more pronounced. You suck harder, pulling more of him inside. Your lips stretch around his girth. You feel the ridge of his crown press against the roof of your mouth, a firm, smooth bulge. Your tongue dances underneath, flicking against the sensitive seam where the head meets the shaft—his frenulum. You trace it with the tip of your tongue, a gentle, teasing stroke that makes his hips jerk forward.

A groan escapes him, low and ragged. It’s the first sound he’s made, and it cracks the quiet like thunder.

You pull back, letting his cock slip from your lips with a wet pop. It’s fully erect now, standing proud and rigid, pointing up toward his stomach. The shaft is thick, a deep, flushed pink. The head is swollen, dark and gleaming with your saliva and his own fluids.

“Chan,” you murmur, your voice husky. “Look at me.”

He forces his eyes open. They’re hazy, unfocused with need. He looks down at you, kneeling before him like an offering, your face level with his sex.

“I want you to feel this,” you say. “I want you to let yourself feel it.”

You don’t wait for another answer. You dive forward again, taking him deep.

This time, you don’t tease. You engulf him. Your lips seal around his shaft, and you push your head forward, taking him as far into your mouth as you can. The head presses deep, nudging at the entrance to your throat. You relax, letting your jaw go slack, and he slides deeper, a hot, solid invasion that fills your mouth completely. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, drawing hard on him.

The feeling is intense for you, too. The weight of him on your tongue. The smooth, insistent pressure against your tongue. The salty, living taste that floods your senses. You move your head back, then forward again, establishing a rhythm. 

Your hands come up to cradle what your mouth cannot take. One hand wraps around the base of his shaft, your fingers squeezing the firm root. The other hand cups his balls, weighing them in your palm, feeling their fullness, their heat. You roll them gently, a soft, kneading massage that makes his thighs tremble.

Your head bobs. Your lips slide along his skin, a slick, wet glide. Each time you pull back, his cock emerges shiny and dripping, coated in a mix of your saliva and his own essence. Each time you plunge forward, your mouth accepts him greedily, swallowing him down.

Chan’s hands come to your head. They don’t push or guide. They simply rest there, his palms on your cheeks, his fingers threading into your hair. It’s a touch of connection, of gratitude. His thumbs stroke your temples.

You increase the pace. Not frantic. Not desperate. But purposeful. Your suction becomes stronger, your tongue more active. You swirl it around his head each time you reach the top, licking across that sensitive ridge, teasing the tiny slit at the tip. You feel him pulse in your mouth, a hard, rhythmic throb that signals his building climax.

His breathing changes. It becomes ragged, shallow pants. His hips begin to move in tiny, involuntary thrusts, matching your rhythm. His cock slides in and out of your mouth with a wet, rhythmic sound—shhhlick, shhhlick, shhhlick.

“God…” he gasps, the word torn from him. “I’m…I’m gonna…”

You know. You feel it. The tension in his shaft, the way his balls draw up tighter against his body, the frantic pulse beating under your tongue. You want it. You want all of it.

You pull back until just the head is in your lips, suckling fiercely, your tongue fluttering against his frenulum in rapid, tiny strokes. Your hand on his shaft pumps in time with your sucking, a tight, milking motion.

His climax erupts. It’s not a single burst. It’s a series of them, a rolling, hot flood that pours into your mouth. The first spurt hits your tongue, thick and warm, a distinct, slightly bitter taste that is purely him. The second follows instantly, another gush that coats your mouth and fills your cheeks. You swallow, taking it down, but more comes. The third, the fourth—a continuous, generous release that you work to accept, sucking hard to pull every drop from him.

Chan cries out, a raw, unfiltered sound of release that echoes in the quiet room. His body locks and he falls onto the bed, his back arching, hands clutching your head. His hips push forward, driving his cock deeper into your mouth as he empties himself completely.

You stay there, sucking gently through the last few pulses, until his shaft softens slightly in your mouth, until the flow subsides. Then you slowly let him slip out.

His cock lays against his stomach, spent, glistening with a mix of your saliva and his own spend. You lean forward and kiss it once more, a soft, affectionate press against the damp head.

You rise then, your knees aching slightly from the floor. You stand before him, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Chan’s eyes are open, staring at you with a dazed, awed expression. His face is flushed, his chest heaving.

“You…” he starts, but his voice fails.

You smile, a slow, tender curve of your lips before climbing onto the bed with him, straddling his hips. You reach for the hem of your cotton dress, pulling it up over your head and discarding it onto the floor. You’re naked now, save for your panties. You hook your thumbs into the sides of those and peel them down your legs, kicking them away.

You look down at him, at his body spread out before you, at his softened cock resting on his belly. You see the love in his eyes, the trust, the raw openness. It fills you with a warmth that spreads from your heart to every extremity.

You lean down and kiss his mouth. His lips are soft, pliant. He kisses you back, a slow, deep melding of mouths that tastes of shared intimacy. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm, the rise and fall of his breathing.

“Do you have a condom?,” you whisper against his lips.

He nods. You reach over to the bedside table, to the small drawer and take one out, the foil packet cool in your hand. You open it, and you roll the latex down his length with careful, tender hands. He’s already beginning to stir again, his cock responding to your touch, filling out once more beneath the sheath.

When he’s protected, you position yourself over him. You kneel on either side of his hips, looking down at the junction of your bodies. Your own sex is ready, aching for him. You’ve been wet for a long time now. You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, the slippery evidence of your desire coating your inner thighs.

You guide his cock, holding it steady and lower yourself, slowly, letting the crowned head press against your entrance.

Your vulva is swollen with anticipation. The outer lips are plump, a deeper pink than usual, parted slightly by your own moisture. The inner lips are slick, glistening, framing the opening that now welcomes him. You feel the pressure of his tip against your flesh, a firm, promising nudge.

You sink down. The head of his cock enters you, pushing past your outer lips, penetrating your opening. The feeling is exquisite—a slow, stretching fullness that makes you gasp. Your walls are snug, gripping him immediately as he slides deeper. You feel every inch of his progress, the smooth drag of his shaft along your sensitive, soaked inner flesh.

You go down until you’re seated fully on him, his entire length buried inside you. Your body accepts him completely. Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth, hugging him tightly. The head of his cock presses deep, reaching a place that makes your eyes flutter. 

You stay there for a moment, just feeling him. Feeling the connection. The heat. The perfect fit.

Then you begin to move. You rise up, a slow, deliberate lift that drags his cock almost entirely out of you, until just the head remains nestled inside. Then you sink back down, taking him in again, a smooth, gliding descent. Your hips roll as you do it, a gentle, circular motion that grinds his shaft against your walls.

The pace is slow. Sensual. There’s no frantic pounding, no desperate race. This is a joining, a communion. Each upward lift is a tease, a near-separation that makes you both ache. Each downward plunge is a reunion, a filling that makes you both sigh.

Your breasts move with your rhythm. As you rise and fall, they bounce in a soft, circular dance, their weight shifting with each motion. Chan’s eyes are fixed on them, watching the movement, the way your nipples harden and peak in the cool air of the room.

Your hands find his chest. You splay your fingers over his pectorals, feeling the firm muscle underneath. You lean forward, changing your angle, and this shifts the sensation inside you dramatically. Now, as you sink down, his cock rubs directly along the front wall of your pussy, stroking over your most sensitive spot—the swollen, hungry bundle of nerves just inside your entrance.

A sharp, sweet pleasure bolts through you. Your breath catches. You moan, a low, continuous sound that spills from your lips without thought.

“Chan…oh, that’s…right there…”

He understands. His hands come to your hips, not to control, but to feel. His palms cup your bottom, feeling the flesh there jiggle and tighten with each of your movements. Your ass is firm, and as you ride him, it claps softly against his thighs, a gentle, rhythmic percussion of flesh.

You speed up slightly. Your rises are higher now, pulling him almost completely out before you take him back in with a smooth, wet slide. The sound of your joining fills the room—a soft, slick, repeating noise of flesh meeting flesh, of moisture spreading.

Inside you, the feelings multiply. Each time his cock enters, it stretches your opening wide, a brief, glorious pressure that gives way to a smooth glide. Your walls clasp around him, squeezing, then relaxing as he pulls back. The condom makes a slight difference—a faint, latex texture over his skin—but the heat, the size, the shape of him are all there, transmitted through the thin barrier.

His own pleasure is rebuilding. You can see it on his face. His eyes are half-closed, his mouth open in a silent, sustained groan. His hips begin to meet yours, pushing upward as you come down, adding his own force to your movements. The union becomes a collaboration, a shared rhythm.

Your clit, swollen and exposed, rubs against the base of his shaft with each of your downward strokes. The friction is indirect, but constant, a building stimulation that starts to coil a tight spring of tension low in your belly.

You lean forward further, bracing your hands on his shoulders. This changes your angle again, and now his cock is driving even deeper, pressing firmly against that front wall, stroking over your G-spot with every inward motion. The sensation is overwhelming, a deep, internal massage that makes your whole body shudder.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words coming out between gasps. “I love this…I love being with you like this…”

Chan’s eyes open fully, locking with yours. His hands slide from your hips to your back, pulling you closer against him. “I love you,” he rasps, his voice thick with emotion and arousal. “I feel…I feel alive again. With you.”

The words, the connection, the physical joining—it all combines, pushing you toward your own peak. The coil inside you tightens, winding tighter with every stroke, every deep fill, every grind of your clit against him.

Your movements become more urgent, though still controlled. Your rises are quicker, your descents more forceful. Your breath comes in sharp pants. Your breasts bounce more vigorously now, a faster, more pronounced dance. Your ass cheeks slap against his thighs with a firmer sound, a rhythmic beat that matches the pounding of your hearts.

Inside, your pussy is drenched, flooded with your own fluids. The condom is slick with them, making each stroke smoother, easier. Your walls grip him tightly, then release, a pulsing clasp that seems to pull him deeper each time.

You’re close. So close. The spring is wound to its limit.

Chan feels it too. His thrusts become more insistent, his upward drives meeting your downward rides with perfect timing. His cock is a hard, relentless piston inside you, stroking, filling, claiming.

You cry out, a sharp, broken sound as the spring finally snaps.

Your orgasm isn’t a single burst. It’s a rolling, wave-like series of contractions that grip your entire lower body. Your cunt clenches around his shaft in rapid, intense pulses, a squeezing rhythm that milks him through the condom. Your clit flares with a sharp, electric pleasure that radiates out through your pelvis. Your thighs shake. Your back arches.

You see stars behind your closed eyelids. A hot, blinding release floods through you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to his shoulders.

Chan follows you, pushed over the edge by your internal convulsions. His hips buck upward, driving deep as he holds you tight. His own climax, muted by the condom, is still a powerful, physical event. You feel his body stiffen beneath you, feel the hard, throbbing pulse of his cock inside you as he finds his release. His groan is long, drawn-out, a sound of complete surrender. “Oh my God,” he pants out, throat raw.

You collapse forward onto his chest, your body spent, your muscles loose. You lay there, his cock still inside you, both of you joined, both of you breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps. The room is quiet again, save for the sound of your panting, the faint rustle of the sheets.

Slowly, carefully, you lift yourself off him. His softened cock slips out of you, the condom slick and full. You dispose of it quietly, then crawl back onto the bed beside him, curling into his side.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. His skin is hot, damp with sweat. His heart beats a strong, steady rhythm against your ear.

“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy, thick with contentment. “Please don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Channie.”

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[ddearina]

Oh belive me, when i tell you I cried, I CRIED.

[binniebb]

nuuuuu, i’m sorry babes!! although i am evil bc that was my intent 😭😭 i hope you enjoyed though!! and tysm for reading and reblogging 💋💋

[ddearina]

DW!!! omg i forgot to mention how much I loved it 😔😔 usually I'm not a fan of the singleparent!trope but this was GOOD!! the way i crooode when Haneul called the Reader 'Mommy' ughh my eyes are still humid ngl

[binniebb]

still, you stay ⋆ bang chan

⤷ part of the weight of love: eight ways to STAY series

you spend years loving them both in the quiet ways that matter most, never asking for more than the small place you’ve been given in their lives. but when the lines between caretaker, family, and something far more tender begin to blur, chan is forced to face the love growing where he thought only grief could live. caught between loyalty to the woman he lost and the future waiting softly at his door, he has to decide whether letting you in means letting her go.

pairing single dad!chan x babysitter!reader genre employer/employee to lovers, slow burn, angst rating mature, 18+ word count 14k warnings character death (past) ; themes of grieving ; slight age gap ; brief scene of child in distress ; graphic & detailed smut ; oral (m receiving) ; p in v sex

𓄲 get your tissues hunnies, it's gonna be a very bump ride. started this fic and another one on the list a while ago. and then that freaking skz code came out that made me and @joyracha go crazy in the dms and decided to build a series around them. and now here we are! as always, i went rogue and wrote way more than i planned, but hopefully you enjoy! please, if you do like this fic and want to see more, show your love by not only liking, but reblogging and commenting! us creators really do get encouragement by seeing your engagement <3

m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ i n b o x .ᐟ

There are some people who enter your life like weather, all at once and impossible to ignore, and then there are people who become part of its structure so gradually that, one day, you look around and realize years have gone by.

Chan and Haneul are the second kind.

By the time you are twenty-three, halfway through a degree in childhood development and balancing lectures, readings, and practicum hours with more care than sleep, three years of your life have already been folded quietly into theirs. Not in a way that announces itself. Not in a way that invites questions. More in the way a favorite blanket grows softer with use.

You meet Haneul when she is two years old and too young to understand why the world around her has changed, only that it has. A terrible car accident takes her mother in a single, brutal instant, leaving behind a silence too large for a small child to name and too cruel for a man like Chan to fight with anything but endurance.

In the months that follow, his grief becomes something private and disciplined, tucked neatly beneath pressed shirts, beneath tired eyes, beneath the careful steadiness of a father who no longer has the luxury of falling apart.

He does not stop moving because Haneul still needs breakfast in the morning. She still needs her hair brushed, her shoes found, her tiny hands washed after snacks. She still needs lullabies and cartoons and someone to explain why the moon keeps following the car home. The world does not pause to honor sorrow when there is a toddler asking to be carried because her legs are tired.

That is where you come in.

At first, you are only meant to be help. A recommendation passed between neighbors and family friends and someone’s older sister who swears you are responsible, sweet, good with children, the kind of girl who actually gets down to eye level when a child talks instead of nodding absentmindedly while looking at her phone.

You arrive for the first time with your tote bag slung over one shoulder, your hair hurriedly fixed after class, and a nervousness you try to hide beneath a gentle smile. You expect a child made wary by loss, maybe even difficult in the way grieving children are often allowed to become by adults too afraid to say no to them.

Instead, you find a little girl with enormous eyes and a quietness that doesn’t belong on someone so young, sitting on the living room rug with a plush rabbit in her lap.

And you find Chan.

He opens the door looking older than twenty-five should allow, dressed in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, one hand braced against the frame as if he has not sat down all day. His face is handsome in a way that catches you off guard even then, but it is not beauty that lingers with you afterward. It is the exhaustion. The terrible, polished kind. The sort worn by people who have convinced everyone around them that they are managing because the alternative would frighten them.

You remember how carefully he speaks to you that first day, like he is afraid of coming across rude when really he is simply stretched too thin to decorate his words.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, voice rough from disuse or fatigue. “I know this is last minute.”

You tell him it is no problem, and you mean it.

In the beginning, Haneul watches you more than she talks. She is slow to trust in the quiet, wounded way of children who have learned that permanence is not guaranteed, and so you do not rush her. You sit on the floor. You let her bring you toys instead of asking for them. You read books in different voices until she starts to smile at the funny parts. You memorize the exact way she likes her apple slices cut, the songs that make her sleepy, the order of the bedtime routine that keeps tears from gathering in her lashes. Bath, pajamas, two stories, one song, the rabbit tucked beneath her arm, the hallway light left on just enough for the room not to feel endless.

You are studying childhood development, yes, but some things cannot be taught in lecture halls. Some things live in instinct. In patience. In the willingness to hold steady when a child tests whether you really mean it when you say you’ll still be there after they wake up from their nap.

Haneul tests you in all the ways that matter. You pass without ever making it seem like a test at all. And Chan notices.

Not all at once. He is too tired in those first months to do much beyond survive them, but even survival has its moments of clarity. He notices that Haneul cries less on the days you come over. He notices that she starts sleeping through the night more often after you begin watching her regularly. He notices that when she falls and scrapes her knee, she lets you clean it without fuss because your hands are gentle and certain and never tremble, even when hers do.

Most of all, he notices that you never treat his daughter like a fragile thing to be pitied. You speak to her like someone whole. And that alone feels like a miracle.

So what begins as occasional babysitting becomes something far more rooted. Your schedule bends around theirs. Tuesdays and Thursdays after class. Friday evenings when Chan works late or simply needs an hour to breathe without feeling guilty for it. Entire Saturdays sometimes, when errands pile up or Haneul grows clingy and insists on asking every hour when you’re coming.

You become a fixture of the apartment so gradually it almost escapes notice. Your sneakers by the door. Your cardigan draped over the dining chair. Your handwriting on sticky notes by the fridge reminding Chan that Haneul ate all her strawberries already and will definitely ask for more.

The apartment changes too. Not because grief leaves it, but because your presence teaches it how to hold something besides grief.

It is never a large place, but it is warm. The kind of warmth earned through living rather than design. Soft cream walls. Toys tucked into woven baskets that never fully contain them. Crayon drawings held up by magnets on the refrigerator. Storybooks stacked sideways on the coffee table. A faint scent of detergent, baby shampoo long outgrown but not quite forgotten, and whatever Chan has managed to cook between work and fatherhood.

There is always evidence of him everywhere, though none of it showy. A jacket thrown over the couch. A half-finished mug of coffee gone cold on the counter. His laptop open beside a pile of Haneul’s coloring pages because his life is a constant negotiation between responsibility and interruption.

He is the sort of father who carries everything without announcing the weight of it. The sort who wakes at the slightest sound from down the hall, who knows the difference between Haneul’s sleepy whine and her truly upset cry, who kneels beside her bed in the middle of the night with one hand smoothing over her hair while the other checks the temperature on her forehead. He remembers pediatrician appointments without reminders. Keeps extra wipes in the car, crackers in the pantry, Band-Aids in three different drawers. He moves through fatherhood with a quiet competence that would look effortless if you did not know better.

But you do know better.

You see the tiredness under his eyes when he lingers in the kitchen after you arrive, finishing the coffee he forgot to drink hot. You notice the way he thanks you every single time, never once acting entitled to your care even after years of it. You know how often he apologizes for being late, for the toys on the floor, for Haneul being fussy, as if you haven’t already seen him manage work calls while tying the laces on sparkly shoes and cutting sandwiches into stars because she once decided squares were too boring to eat.

There is a devotion in him that feels almost sacred. It lives in the smallest things. In the way he crouches to zip Haneul’s jacket all the way to her chin before stepping outside. In the way he always, always looks back if she calls for him, no matter how busy he is. In the way his voice changes around her, softening at the edges until it becomes something rich and tender enough to wrap around a child like a blanket.

You fall in love with him slowly enough to pretend for a while that you are not falling at all.

Maybe it starts with admiration. Maybe with the first time you see him asleep on the couch after a long day, Haneul sprawled across his chest, one of his arms curved around her even unconscious, as if his body itself knows to protect what he loves. Maybe it starts the night Haneul has a fever and Chan comes home early, tie pulled loose, panic tucked beneath composure, and the relief in his face at finding you there with her makes your chest ache in a way that follows you for days.

Maybe it starts a hundred different times, in a hundred small, impossible moments, until one day you realize your affection has become something far deeper and infinitely more dangerous. You never say a word because know your place.

You are the babysitter. The trusted one, yes. The beloved one, maybe. The one Haneul runs to with drawings clutched in her hand and secrets already spilling from her mouth. The one Chan relies on more than he probably means to. But still, the babysitter. Younger than him by five years, still in college, still building a life of your own. Whatever tenderness threatens to gather in the quiet between you is neatly folded away before it can become visible.

You are not careless with his grief. That, more than anything, keeps you still.

Because even three years later, his wife is not a shadow in this home. She is a presence. A photograph in Haneul’s room. A framed wedding picture tucked onto a bookshelf in the living room. A name spoken gently when Haneul asks questions in that childlike way that manages to be both innocent and piercing. Sometimes, when Haneul is already asleep and the apartment has settled into evening, Chan will look at that photograph for half a second too long before thanking you for staying late.

You never mention it. You never need to.

Loyalty clings to him with the same quiet persistence as grief. Not performative, not self-pitying—simply true. He loved her. He loves her still, in the strange enduring way people love the dead, where memory becomes both comfort and punishment. There are parts of him that remain turned toward that loss even while the rest of him keeps moving forward for Haneul’s sake.

You understand this. You respect it. You build your distance around it brick by careful brick.

And yet time has a way of softening edges no one meant to touch.

Haneul is five now, all bright chatter and quick feet and opinions about everything from cereal shapes to which stuffed animals deserve spots on her bed. She has grown out of her toddler roundness into the delicate, lovely little girl she was always going to become, and somehow, without anyone formally deciding it, you have become woven into the rhythm of her life. You know the names of her classmates, the songs from her favorite cartoons, the exact color she calls “princess pink,” though it looks suspiciously like regular pink to everybody else. She asks for you with the unquestioning certainty children reserve for the people they believe belong to them.

And that is where things begin to shift.

Not because you change.

You are still kind in all the same ways, still patient, still thoughtful, still loving with a steadiness that makes Haneul bloom toward you like something reaching for sunlight. You still arrive with little snacks tucked into your bag and kneel to fasten tiny sandals and sit through tea parties where the tea is invisible and apparently scalding. You still love Chan from a distance so disciplined it sometimes feels like another form of prayer.

No, what changes is harder to control because it is not yours alone.

Haneul starts to look at you with something deeper than affection.

Children do not always have the language for the shapes their hearts make, but they feel those shapes with startling clarity. The comfort of you. The safety. The constancy. The way your hands smooth back her hair when she is upset, the way your voice lowers instinctively when she needs soothing, the way you remember every small thing that matters to her.

The resemblance is not in your face or your voice or your mannerisms. It is in the role your love begins to occupy.

Chan notices it before he lets himself name it.

He notices Haneul reaching for you first after scraping her palm on the playground, even with him standing right there. Notices the easy way she leans into your side during movie nights. Notices the childish, unquestioning possessiveness with which she says your name, as though you have always belonged inside the borders of her world. At first, he tells himself it means only that she trusts you, that your presence has become important to her in the natural way caretakers become important to children.

Then one evening, standing in the kitchen while you help Haneul wash paint from her fingers, he looks up and sees the scene in the darkened reflection of the window above the sink.

You with your sleeves rolled to your elbows, smiling softly as Haneul chatters about the family of lopsided paper butterflies she made that afternoon. Haneul looking up at you with that unguarded little face, all trust and attachment and love. The domestic intimacy of it striking the room so cleanly that it takes the air with it.

Something in his expression changes before he can stop it. Because for the first time, the thought does not arrive as a blur. It arrives whole.

Haneul does not just adore you. She is beginning, in the tender unconscious way of children, to love you in a place shaped suspiciously close to where a mother belongs.

And Chan, who has spent three years carrying grief in one hand and fatherhood in the other, finds himself standing at the edge of a truth he does not know how to survive.

Not only because of what Haneul feels. But because when he looks at you now, his gaze lingers.

On your smile. On your patience. On the quiet grace with which you move through his home as if care is your native language. On the life you have breathed into corners of this apartment he thought would stay dim forever.

And worse than that, more frightening than that, is the part he cannot confess to anyone.

His thoughts linger too.

Not in a reckless way. Never that. Chan is not careless, least of all with you. But desire is not always something dramatic or easily shamed. Sometimes it comes dressed as tenderness that lasts a second too long. As awareness. As the dangerous warmth of noticing your beauty when you tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear while listening to Haneul explain a dream in serious detail. As the temptation to stay in the doorway just to hear you laugh again. As the ache of imagining, only for a moment, what it would mean to let himself want something more.

And every single time, loyalty drags him back. Loyalty to the woman he lost. To the life he thought he would still have. To the version of himself who believes moving on must feel like betrayal if it is ever going to count as real.

So he says nothing. You say nothing. And the three of you continue like that, poised on the fragile edge of something unnamed, each day carrying you a little closer to the point where silence will no longer be enough.

That is how you get here.

Three years after a tragedy that rearranged everything. Three years after you first stepped into Chan’s apartment expecting to offer temporary help and somehow became part of the architecture of his life. Three years of bedtime stories and shared routines and feelings tucked away so carefully they have started to sharpen with the pressure of being held.

Now Haneul is five years old, clever and affectionate and much too perceptive for her own good. You are older too, steadier in yourself, though no less cautious. Chan is twenty-eight and still trying to carry everything alone, still devoted, still gentle, still breaking in places no one sees.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, love has begun to gather.

Not the easy kind. The kind that arrives with history. With grief. With guilt and longing and the unbearable hope of being chosen anyway.

The front door unlocks with the familiar click that always seems to travel through the apartment a beat before Chan does, and the moment it does, Haneul’s entire body lights up.

She has been coloring on the living room floor for the last twenty minutes, tongue peeking out in concentration as she presses a purple crayon too hard against the paper, but at the sound of the door, she gasps like something wonderful and long-awaited has finally arrived. Her crayon rolls away forgotten as she scrambles to her feet.

“Daddy!”

Her voice rings through the apartment bright as bells, and then she is gone in a blur of little socks and wild hair, racing across the hardwood with all the unrestrained devotion of a child who has been waiting to see her favorite person all day.

You do not have to look to know what comes next.

Chan barely gets the door shut behind him before Haneul crashes into his legs, her arms wrapping around him with enough force to make him laugh softly under his breath. It is the kind of laugh you have learned to listen for over the years, quieter when he is tired, roughened around the edges after a long day, but always there for her. Always immediate.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his voice worn down by hours of work and city traffic and whatever else the day has managed to drag over him, but turning warm the second he bends down to scoop her up. “Miss me that much?”

“Yes,” Haneul says with the seriousness of someone stating a fact beyond debate, her arms looping around his neck as he lifts her against his chest. “A lot.”

You can picture it without stepping away from the stove. The way his shoulders finally loosen once he has her in his arms. The way his cheek brushes the side of her head. The way exhaustion never disappears from him all at once, but shifts, settles, becomes something gentler the moment she is close enough to hold.

From the kitchen, you stir the sauce one last time and lower the heat, letting the apartment fill with the warm, savory scent of garlic and soy and browned onions. The pan gives a soft, steady hiss under your hand, steam fogging briefly against your wrist before curling away. Rice waits fluffed in the pot beside it, and the vegetables you chopped earlier are soft now, glossy under the kitchen light. It is not anything extravagant, just dinner, just something simple and comforting after a day that has clearly asked too much of him already, but you know by now that sometimes the smallest things land with the most force.

Chan rounds the corner into the kitchen with Haneul still perched on his hip, and the second he sees you standing there in front of the stove, the look on his face shifts.

It is subtle, the kind of thing someone else might miss if they do not know him the way you do. His tie is gone, probably shoved into his work bag the moment he got into the car. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his forearms, slightly uneven, and there is a tiredness clinging to him that looks almost physical, something draped over his shoulders heavier than the leather strap of his briefcase.

His hair is a little mussed, his eyes faintly shadowed, and for a second he simply stands there taking in the sight of you in his kitchen, dinner nearly finished, his daughter tucked close against him, home smelling like something warm and lived-in instead of the sterile leftovers of takeout containers or the rushed effort of a meal made too late.

Then his mouth softens.

You know that look too.

It is never dramatic with Chan. Nothing with him ever is. But gratitude moves through him like low light across water, quiet and immediate and deeper than he usually lets anyone see.

“You’re cooking?” he asks, though the answer is obvious.

You smile over your shoulder at him, lifting the wooden spoon a little. “I am. Haneul told me she was starving and then listed six different things she wanted, so we compromised.”

Haneul, entirely unbothered by being exposed, presses her cheek into Chan’s shoulder and says, “I wanted spaghetti and dumplings and fish sticks and mac and cheese and strawberries.”

“And instead,” you say, amusement warming your voice, “she is getting chicken stir-fry, rice, and strawberries after dinner if she eats enough actual food first.”

Chan lets out a breath that almost passes for a laugh, though it still carries the roughness of exhaustion in it. “You’re a miracle, you know that?”

The words come out easy, automatic perhaps, but the way his eyes linger on you as he says them makes something inside you pull a little tighter.

You busy yourself with the pan, even though it does not need much attention anymore. “It’s not a miracle. It’s just dinner.”

“Still.” His voice lowers, quieter now, more sincere. “Thank you.”

When you glance back at him, really look at him, the gratitude sits plain on his face. It does something dangerous to your chest every time, the way he thanks you as though your care is never expected, never owed, always something precious enough to acknowledge. Even now, after years of stepping so naturally into the space his home seems to make for you, he never treats your presence like entitlement. He treats it like grace.

Haneul wriggles, suddenly impatient. “Can I set the table?”

“You can help,” you say.

That is enough to make her squirm out of Chan’s arms at once, her little feet landing hard against the floor before she darts toward the cabinet where the plates are stacked. Chan watches her go, the same way he always does, with that quiet attentiveness that never fully leaves him, and then he exhales slowly, one hand settling on the back of a dining chair as if he needs the pause.

Up close, the weariness on him is even clearer. Not just tired. Pulled thin.

“Long day?” you ask softly.

His mouth tips in something that is not quite a smile. “You could say that.”

He does not elaborate right away. He rarely does, at least not until the apartment has softened around him and Haneul is distracted enough that he can let a little more of the day show on his face. Instead, he loosens the top button of his shirt and steps closer to the stove, drawn in by the smell.

“That smells incredible,” he says. “Seriously.”

“It should be decent,” you reply. “We’ve been taste-testing.”

“We?” he echoes, glancing toward Haneul, who is now carrying forks to the table with great concentration, as though transporting priceless artifacts.

“We meaning me,” you say dryly, “while your daughter declared herself head chef and supervised.”

That earns you a fuller smile this time, brief but real. It changes him every time it happens, makes him look younger than grief and responsibility usually allow. Then his gaze drops to the skillet again, curiosity touching the edges of his expression.

“What is it exactly?”

“Soy-garlic chicken,” you tell him. “With vegetables. The sauce is a little sweet, so Haneul approved.”

“Of course she did.” He studies the pan a second longer, then looks at you. “Where did you learn how to make that?”

The question is casual. So are you when you answer.

“Oh.” You set the spoon down against the rest by the stove and reach for the bowls. “I went to a cooking class once for a first date, and they taught us a version of it.”

The silence that follows is not loud, but it is immediate.

It moves through the kitchen like something invisible suddenly slipping between the cabinets and counters, small but unmistakable. You only really register it when you turn, two bowls in your hands, and find Chan standing exactly where he was a second ago, except now there is something different in his face.

Not anger. Not even disapproval. Just a kind of stillness.

It takes you a moment to understand why.

His eyes rest on you with an unreadable weight, his expression gone carefully neutral in the way it does when he is keeping something behind his teeth. For the briefest second, he almost looks startled, as though the words first date have landed somewhere in him he was not prepared to expose.

You blink, suddenly aware of how oddly intimate the conversation has become for something so harmless.

“It wasn’t recent,” you add lightly, setting the bowls on the table. “It was a while ago.”

Chan nods once, but it is delayed enough that you notice.

“Right,” he says.

That single word is perfectly even. Too even.

You glance at him again, trying not to let your confusion show. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not,” he says, which would be more convincing if he did not still look a little thrown.

A tiny smile starts tugging at your mouth despite yourself. “Chan.”

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, his gaze flicking briefly toward Haneul before returning to you. “You went to a cooking class for a first date?”

There it is. Not accusation, exactly. Just disbelief tinged with something you cannot quite place at first, something quieter and sharper than surprise.

You lean one hip against the counter, suddenly more aware of him than you should be, of the loosened collar of his shirt and the tired line of his shoulders and the way his attention has narrowed entirely onto you.

“Yes,” you say, a little amused now. “That is what I said.”

He lets out a soft breath through his nose, almost scoffing, though there is no edge to it. “That feels…” He pauses, like he is choosing a word he will not regret. “Specific.”

You laugh then, unable not to. “It was specific. The whole thing was supposed to be charming.”

“Was it?”

You tilt your head. “The class or the date?”

His eyes hold yours for a fraction too long. “The date.”

The answer should be easy. It should be nothing. A passing anecdote attached to a recipe and no more important than that. But Chan is looking at you in a way that makes the air feel thinner, and for a second you can feel the shape of something unspoken pressing against the edges of the room.

You look away first, reaching for the strawberries just to have something to do with your hands.

“It was fine,” you say. “Not especially memorable, apparently, since the chicken is what lasted.”

Chan hums quietly, though it does not sound like amusement. Something in his expression shifts again, gentling and darkening at once, a flicker so fast you almost miss it.

Jealousy is not a look you have ever thought to assign him. Not toward you. Not in relation to you. The very idea feels too impossible to touch directly, and yet there is something faintly unsettled in the way he stands there, in the careful blankness he is trying to hold over whatever instinctive reaction your answer has stirred.

He has no right to it. You know that. He knows that too. But apparently knowing does not stop it from existing.

The realization arrives slowly enough to be dangerous.

Chan’s gaze drops for a moment to your hands as you rinse the strawberries, then lifts again to your face, quieter now.

“I guess,” he says, voice low, “I never really think about you dating.”

There is no flirtation in the words. That would almost be easier to survive.

What there is instead is honesty, reluctant and unvarnished, as if the sentence slipped out before he could decide whether to keep it.

Your fingers still beneath the running water. You turn the faucet off carefully. “I date,” you say, aiming for casual and not entirely trusting yourself to hit it.

His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

But he does not sound like he knew. He sounds like someone who has just remembered that you exist outside the borders of this apartment, outside bedtime stories and dinner prep and afternoons spent kneeling beside his daughter to help with tiny shoes and crayons. Like the image of you with someone else has caught him off guard in a way he does not understand well enough to conceal.

At the table, Haneul starts humming to herself while lining up napkins with painstaking precision, blissfully unaware of the strange, fragile thing gathering in the kitchen behind her.

You dry your hands on a dish towel and keep your tone deliberately light, though your pulse has begun doing something inconvenient under your skin.

“It was one date, Chan,” you say. “You look like I told you I ran away to join the circus.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him, but it is brief, and when it fades, his gaze stays on you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

The word lands heavier than it should.

You shake your head. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Maybe he does not. Maybe he does.

He glances down, fingers curling against the back of the chair beside him, his expression tightening in a way that tells you he is aware, at least in part, that he has stepped somewhere he should not have. That whatever flicker passed through him a moment ago does not belong to him. Not with you. Not like this.

When he looks back up, he has smoothed himself out again, though not completely.

“Just surprised me, I guess.”

You could leave it there. You should leave it there. Instead, because some reckless little thread in you wants to tug at the seam and see what gives, you ask softly, “Why?”

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and something in the room stills all over again.

For one suspended second, he looks like he might answer. Really answer. Not with something easy or polite, but with the truth or some dangerous piece of it.

Then Haneul spins around in her chair and announces, “I did the forks all by myself.”

The moment breaks cleanly, almost cruelly.

Chan looks away first, that gentle father-softness returning to his face as he turns toward her. “You did?” he says, moving to inspect the table. “That’s impressive.”

You stand there for a beat longer, dish towel still clutched in your hands, the ghost of that almost-confession hovering between your ribs like heat that has nowhere to go.

Then you follow, setting the bowl of strawberries aside for later and bringing dinner to the table.

Conversation slips back into safer things. Haneul chatters about a girl in her class who insists pink crayons work better than red ones. Chan listens, asks questions, and eats like someone who did not realize until the first bite just how hungry he was. More than once, you catch him looking at you when he thinks your attention is elsewhere, and each time he looks away a second too late, the awareness of it settling over you both like a secret too new to name.

Haneul’s bath time has long since developed its own little rituals, the kind children attach themselves to with fierce sincerity once they decide a routine belongs to them.

One of them is the singing.

It starts nearly a year ago, after a phase where she becomes convinced that closing the bathroom door means vanishing, and though she has long since outgrown the fear itself, the habit remains. Whenever she is in the tub and you are not standing directly beside it, she has to sing the entire time. Loudly, continuously, and with enough enthusiasm that neither you nor Chan ever have to wonder where she is or whether she has decided, in some burst of five-year-old ambition, to attempt something reckless with a wet foot and too much confidence.

Tonight, her voice floats down the short hallway in cheerful, slightly off-key waves, rising and falling over the splash of bathwater.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little starrrr,” she belts from the bathroom, only to abandon it halfway through and pivot into a cartoon song about a rabbit who loves carrots and friendship. The words are mostly wrong. The volume is not.

You smile to yourself as you pull her comforter smooth over the mattress, tucking the corners just the way she likes so she can burrow under them dramatically later and declare herself a sleepy princess. Her rabbit is placed at the top of the bed, facing outward. Her nightlight is plugged in. On the small dresser beside the lamp, the framed photo of her mother catches the soft yellow light and gives it back in a muted gleam.

The room is warm with familiar things. Lavender lotion. Clean pajamas laid out in a neat little pile. A picture book already waiting on the pillow. Haneul’s world always feels especially tender at night, as though the room itself settles into a gentler shape once the day begins to dim.

From the bathroom, her voice rises again.

“I’m a bunny, bunny, bunny in the baaath!”

You laugh under your breath. “Keep singing, baby.”

“I am!” she shouts back, indignant and sincere.

You are fluffing the second pillow when you feel, more than hear, someone stop in the doorway.

Chan does not announce himself right away. He only stands there for a second, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame, watching you move around Haneul’s room with easy familiarity. By now, you know the weight of his silence well enough to recognize when it means thought rather than exhaustion, and tonight there is something deliberate in it.

When you glance over, he has changed out of his work clothes into a soft black T-shirt and gray lounge pants, the lines of the day gentled but not erased. His hair is slightly damp at the temples from a shower, and there is a stillness about him that tells you he has been carrying something since dinner and has finally decided to bring it back out into the light.

Haneul’s singing bounces down the hall again, louder this time.

Chan’s mouth tilts faintly. “She’s really committing to it tonight.”

You smooth your palm over the blanket one last time. “She knows the rule.”

“She also knows how to turn it into a full concert.”

“That too.”

He steps into the room then, slow and unhurried, his gaze brushing over the bed, the pajamas, your hands lingering near the pillow. There is always something dangerous in moments like this, in the domestic ease of them. In how naturally you fit here. In how much less space there seems to be between you when the apartment is quiet and Haneul’s little voice is the only thing filling the air.

For a second, he says nothing. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he says, “So…that cooking class date.”

You turn your head toward him fully, already suspicious of the neutrality in his tone. “What about it?”

He lifts one shoulder, feigning lightness badly enough that it almost makes you smile. “Nothing. I was just thinking about it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes flick to the stuffed rabbit on the bed, then back to you. “Guess I’m still surprised.”

There is that word again. Surprised. It shouldn’t needle at you the way it does, but something about it has been sitting under your skin since dinner, unresolved and quietly aggravating.

“Surprised that I can cook?” you ask.

A breath of amusement touches his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

You fold your arms loosely, leaning one hip against Haneul’s dresser. “Then what did you mean?”

From down the hall comes a splash, then an enthusiastic, “Bunny bunny bath time queen!”

Chan exhales softly through his nose, but his attention never leaves you. “I told you,” he says. “I just don’t really think about you dating.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

The words leave your mouth lighter than they feel, sharpened by something you had not intended to show. Chan notices it immediately. You can tell by the way his expression changes, something in it tightening just enough to make the room feel smaller.

“It’s not a problem,” he says quietly.

“No?” You tip your head. “Because you’ve seemed pretty bothered by it for someone who claims it isn’t.”

His jaw shifts. “I’m not bothered.”

You give him a look.

From the bathroom, Haneul transitions into a drawn-out version of the alphabet song, half of the letters swallowed by the echo of tile.

Chan drags a hand over the back of his neck. “I said I was surprised. That’s all.”

“And I said I date.”

The silence that follows is thin and fragile, stretched tight between you.

Maybe if he had left it at dinner, if he had let the moment break and disappear under the noise of plates and Haneul’s chatter, this would still be manageable. But he is here now, bringing it up again in the quiet of her bedroom, after bathwater has started sloshing against enamel and the night has settled enough that every glance feels heavier than it should.

Your heart is beating too hard for something so small.

Chan’s voice lowers. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” you say, and now the frustration is there, unmistakable. “Actually, I don’t.”

His brow furrows, not in anger but in a kind of guarded discomfort, as if this has moved beyond the shape he hoped it would keep. “You’re upset.”

You laugh once, though there is no humor in it. “You’re the one asking follow-up questions about a date I went on forever ago.”

“I asked one question.”

“You brought it back up.”

His eyes flash with something that is not quite irritation and not quite embarrassment, but close enough to both that it catches heat against your own. “Because I was trying to understand why it got under my skin.”

The honesty of that startles you, but only for a second.

“Then maybe you should understand it on your own,” you say, your voice softening in volume and sharpening everywhere else. “Because you don’t get to act weird every time you remember I have a life outside this apartment.”

Chan straightens a little, his face going still in that careful way it does when he feels something too much and is trying not to let it show. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He looks at you. And there it is again, that unbearable sense of something pressing at the edges of the room, something too big and too dangerous to stay unnamed much longer.

You are suddenly aware of everything. The soft lamp glow. Haneul’s distant singing, now wandering into nonsense lyrics about stars and strawberries and glitter. The framed photograph on the dresser beside your elbow. The fact that Chan is standing only a few feet away and somehow feels both impossibly close and nowhere you can safely reach.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet enough that it almost disappears into the room. “You know I can’t…”

He does not finish. But it’s enough.

All the restraint you have wrapped around yourself for years pulls tight at once, then frays.

“Can’t what?” you ask, and your own voice has changed now too, gone unsteady around the edges. “Be upset that I date? Want to know about my life? Feel anything?”

Chan’s expression flickers, pain and caution moving through it so quickly that you almost miss the distinction between them. “Don’t,” he says. It is not a warning. It is closer to a plea.

“No,” you say, because suddenly you cannot bear this version of him, this version of the two of you, where everything is measured and bitten back and left to rot in silence. “You don’t get to do that.”

His gaze fixes on you, unreadable except for the tension in it. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture helplessly between you, frustration spilling out now that it has found a crack. “Acting like it bothers you when I date, acting like it means something, and then pretending it doesn’t. Pretending you don’t feel what I feel too.”

The words hang there.

For one terrible second, the room becomes perfectly still.

Even from the bathroom, Haneul’s singing seems farther away, thinner, as though the world itself has pulled back to listen.

Chan does not move. His face changes, but only slightly. A tiny falter. A break in the careful control he wears like armor.

You hear your own pulse in your ears.

The moment after a confession is always stranger than the confession itself. You expect release, maybe ruin, maybe relief. Instead there is only exposure, raw and immediate and impossible to take back.

Chan’s throat works once before he speaks. “You think I don’t know that?” he asks, and his voice is so low it nearly fractures under the weight of it. “You think I haven’t been fighting that every day?”

Your breath catches.

He takes half a step forward, not enough to close the distance, only enough to make it feel deliberate.

“You think I don’t see the way she looks at you? The way you take care of her, take care of us, like it’s the most natural thing in the world?” His eyes search your face, torn open now in a way that almost hurts to witness. “You think I haven’t noticed what this has become?”

Something hot stings behind your eyes before you can stop it. “Then why are you standing there acting like I’m the only one who has to live with it?”

Chan opens his mouth.

And then the apartment splits open with Haneul’s scream.

It is so sudden, so sharp and terrified, that both of you are moving before the sound has even finished leaving her throat.

“Haneul!”

Chan is out the door first, your feet nearly tripping over each other as you rush down the hall after him. The bathroom light is too bright when you burst inside. Haneul is half-sitting, half-sliding in the tub, water sloshed over the edge and onto the tile, her face crumpled in fear as she coughs and cries at once, tiny hands grasping blindly for something steady.

“I slipped,” she sobs. “I slipped, Daddy.”

Chan is on his knees beside the tub in an instant, all the tension from a moment ago gone, replaced by pure parental instinct. “I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you.” His voice is calm despite the fear flashing across his face as he reaches in and lifts her out, dripping and shaking, against his chest.

She is not hurt. You can see that almost immediately. Startled, frightened, maybe swallowed some water when she went under for a second, but not injured. Still, the panic in her is real, and that matters just as much.

Chan cradles her close, one large hand spread protectively over the back of her head while the other rubs slow circles between her shoulders. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, over and over, his voice warm and anchoring even while his own breathing is unsteady. “You’re okay. Daddy’s got you.”

Haneul coughs again, crying harder now, her wet hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks flushed pink from heat and fright. Chan adjusts her against him, trying to soothe her, trying to calm the trembling little body in his arms.

Then she lifts her face, tears clinging to her lashes, and reaches for you. “Mommy,” she cries.

Everything stops. Something inside the three of you, sudden and absolute.

Chan freezes. So do you.

Haneul’s small hand opens and closes toward you, her face crumpling harder as she reaches again through tears and panic, too scared to understand what she has just done, only knowing that she wants comfort and that your name, your shape, your love have tangled themselves in her frightened little heart until this is what comes out.

“Mommy,” she sobs again, desperate this time.

The word lands like a stone dropped into still water, the impact rippling outward too fast to outrun.

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first.

Chan looks at you. It lasts barely a second, maybe less, but the weight of it is enough to make the room tilt. Shock, grief, tenderness, something rawer than both, all flickering through his face before he lowers his eyes.

You move then because Haneul needs you. Whatever this moment is, whatever it will become later, cannot matter more than the little girl crying in front of you now.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, stepping closer. Your hands shake only slightly as you take the towel from the rack and wrap it around her small body. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Chan hesitates for the briefest second before letting you take her. Not because he is unwilling, but because the transfer itself feels loaded now in a way neither of you can bear to examine. Then Haneul is in your arms, warm and damp and trembling, clutching at your shoulders with frantic little fingers as you gather her close.

You hold her carefully, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing up and down her spine beneath the towel. “You’re all right,” you murmur into her wet hair. “You just got scared. That’s all. I’m here. Daddy’s here. You’re safe.”

Her sobs do not stop right away, but they begin to soften, breaking into smaller hitching breaths against your neck.

Chan stands. For a moment, he stays where he is, one hand braced against the edge of the sink, his head turned slightly away as though he cannot quite bear the sight in front of him and cannot stop looking at it either.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “I need a minute.”

It is not directed at Haneul. Not really. It belongs somewhere between you and the tiled floor and the word still echoing in the steam-thick air.

He does not wait for an answer. He only drags a hand over his face and steps out, walking past the open door with the kind of rigid control that tells you he is holding himself together by force alone.

The bathroom feels too small after he leaves. Too warm. Too bright. Too full of things that can no longer be mistaken for simple. But Haneul is still in your arms, still trembling, still burying her face against your shoulder as if she can hide there from the fright of what just happened. So you hold her tighter.

You sway on instinct, gentle and slow, your own throat aching with everything you are not allowing yourself to feel yet.

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, pressing your cheek to the top of her damp head. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Outside the bathroom, you can hear nothing from Chan at all.

And somehow, that silence is louder than anything.

You dry her carefully, gently, like she is something easily startled back into fear.

Chan does not come back.

You feel that absence like a second pulse under your skin, but you do not go looking for him. Not yet. Not when Haneul still needs your hands steady, your voice soft, your attention anchored fully in her.

“Let’s get you warm, okay?” you murmur, wrapping the towel tighter around her small body.

She nods against your shoulder, still sniffling, her lashes clumped together with tears.

You help her into her pajamas slowly, guiding her arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric down over her back, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head when she leans into you without thinking. By the time you carry her down the hall, her breathing has steadied, but her fingers remain curled into the front of your shirt. 

You sit with her on the bed first instead of laying her down immediately, letting her settle in your lap while you rub slow circles between her shoulders. The nightlight casts a faint glow along the wall, catching the edges of her mother’s photograph and turning the glass into something almost luminous.

Haneul’s voice, when she finally speaks, is small. “I didn’t mean to slip.”

“I know you didn’t,” you say gently. “Sometimes that just happens.”

She sniffles again, then presses her cheek into your collarbone. “I was singing.”

“I heard you. You were doing a very good job.”

That gets the faintest hint of a smile, though it fades quickly, her thoughts clearly drifting somewhere heavier.

You can feel it before she says anything. The shift. The way children carry fear into questions without meaning to.

After a moment, she lifts her head just enough to look at you. “Why did I say that?”

Your heart stumbles. You know what she means. Of course you do.

You smooth a damp strand of hair away from her forehead, buying yourself a second to breathe through the sudden tightness in your chest.

“You were scared,” you say softly. “And sometimes when we’re scared, we just…reach for the people who make us feel safe.”

She watches you carefully, her eyes still glassy with leftover tears. “But I said mommy.”

The word lands differently now. Not sharp like before. Just quiet. Confused.

You swallow gently. “Haneul,” you begin, your voice as steady as you can make it, “your mommy is…she’s in heaven, remember?”

She nods a little, though her expression remains uncertain.

“She’s always looking down at you,” you continue, brushing your thumb lightly across her cheek. “And she loves you so, so much. That doesn’t go away just because she can’t be here the way we wish she could.”

Haneul listens, her brows knitting slightly as she tries to hold onto something too big for her to fully understand.

“And I love you too,” you add, quieter now. “Even if I’m not your mommy.”

Her fingers tighten briefly in your shirt again. “I know,” she says.

The words are simple. Certain. But then her mouth wobbles, and the question that follows breaks something open in a different way. “It’s not fair.”

You blink.

“My friends all have a mom and a dad,” she continues, her voice trembling just enough to make your chest ache. “Why do I only have my dad?”

There is no easy answer for that. There never has been.

You draw her a little closer, pressing your lips to her hair for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at her again. “Sometimes life doesn’t give everyone the same things,” you say gently. “And that can feel really unfair. You’re allowed to feel that way.”

Her lower lip trembles. “I want my mommy.”

The honesty of it is unbearable in its simplicity.

“I know you do,” you whisper, your own throat tightening. “That makes sense. She was yours.”

Haneul leans into you again, quieter now, her small body softening with the weight of her feelings.

“But you know what you do have?” you continue softly, your hand smoothing down her back. “You have a dad who loves you more than anything in the world. You have someone who shows up for you every single day. And that matters so much, even if it doesn’t make everything feel better right away.”

She is quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly, she asks, “Why does Daddy look at you like he looks at Mommy’s picture then?”

The question lands without warning. For a second, you think you might have misheard her. Your breath catches in your throat, your hands going still against her back.

Haneul tilts her head slightly, studying your face with the same quiet curiosity she applies to everything she does not understand yet. “He does,” she says, as if clarifying something obvious. “Sometimes.”

There is no answer ready for that. No careful, gentle explanation you can give that will not unravel something you have spent years keeping neatly contained.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I…” you start, and stop again.

Because what can you say? That she's wrong? She’s not. That she’s right? You cannot. That her father is a man carrying grief and love in the same breath and does not know how to separate them anymore? That is not something a five-year-old should have to hold.

So you do the only thing you can. You pull her a little closer and press your cheek against her hair. “Sometimes grown-ups look at people in ways that are hard to explain,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything bad. It just means…feelings can be hard.”

She considers that, her small face thoughtful in a way that makes her seem older than she should be.

Then, eventually, she nods. “Okay.”

It is not full understanding, but it’s enough for now.

You help her lie down, tucking the comforter around her the way she likes, making sure the rabbit is secured in her arms. Her breathing evens out more quickly this time, exhaustion finally catching up with her after the scare, her lashes fluttering as sleep begins to pull at her.

You brush your fingers lightly through her hair. “I’ll be right here,” you murmur.

She hums softly in response, already drifting.

The apartment feels different once you step out of her room.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, the light dimmer somehow, as if the walls themselves have absorbed everything that just happened and are holding it close.

You hesitate outside Chan’s door because you can hear him.

Not loudly. Chan does not fall apart in ways that draw attention. Even now, the sound is muffled, contained, like he is trying to keep it from escaping into the rest of the apartment.

But it’s there. A quiet, uneven breath. A stifled sob he does not quite manage to swallow in time.

Your chest tightens painfully and push the door open slowly.

The room is dim, lit only by the low glow of the bedside lamp. Chan is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, one hand covering his mouth as he tries to keep himself quiet. His shoulders are hunched forward, the line of his back rigid in a way that tells you he has been holding this in for too long.

He doesn’t notice you right away. Or maybe he does, and he just cannot bring himself to react yet.

“Chan,” you say softly.

He flinches. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Then he drags his hand down over his face, scrubbing hard as if he can wipe away the evidence of what you have just walked in on.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough and unsteady in a way that makes the words ring hollow immediately.

You close the door behind you. “No, you’re not.”

For a second, he does not respond. Then his shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him all at once like something finally giving way.

You cross the room slowly, giving him time to pull himself back together if he needs it, though you already know he will not. Not this time.

When you reach him, you don’t ask permission. You simply sit beside him and wrap your arms around him.

And Chan breaks. He leans into you like he has been waiting for something solid to hold onto, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath stutters out of him, quiet and uneven. One of his hands grips at the fabric of your shirt, not hard, just enough to anchor himself, and you can feel the tremor running through him like something too big to contain anymore.

You hold him tighter. Your hand moves up to cradle the back of his head, fingers slipping into his hair the way you have done a hundred times for Haneul, the motion instinctive and soft and steady. “It’s okay,” you whisper, even though you know it is not.

He shakes his head against you. “No,” he breathes, voice breaking on the word. “It’s not.”

You don’t argue. You just let him have it.

The quiet sobs come and go, each one sounding like it has been dragged up from somewhere deep and long-guarded. You stay with him through all of it, your grip firm but gentle, your presence the only thing in the room that feels stable.

After a while, his breathing begins to slow. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admits, voice raw.

You close your eyes briefly, pressing your cheek against his hair. “You’re doing your best.”

“That’s not enough.”

The immediate certainty in his tone makes your chest ache.

“It’s for her,” you say softly.

He lets out a shaky breath. “That’s not what I mean.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still resting on his shoulders. “Then what do you mean?”

Chan hesitates. For a moment, it looks like he might retreat again, pull the walls back up, tuck everything away where it cannot be touched. But tonight has broken that pattern. Something in the way Haneul said that word. In the way you said what you did in her room. In the way he can no longer pretend this is something small and manageable.

He looks at you. And for the first time in a long time, he says her name out loud. “I still love Ki.”

The words land heavy between you. They don’t surprise you, but they do make your heart twist. “I know,” you say gently.

His eyes search your face, almost desperately. “I never stopped. I don’t think I ever will.”

“I know,” you repeat.

That part has never been the problem.

Chan swallows, his throat working around something painful. “But then there’s you.”

Your breath catches.

He lets out a quiet, broken laugh that holds no humor at all. “And I don’t know what to do with that,” he admits. “Because it feels like…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Like I’m betraying her. Like I’m betraying everything we had.”

“You’re not,” you say softly.

“How can you say that?” His voice cracks again, frustration and grief tangling together. “How can I look at you the way I do and not feel like I’m replacing her?”

“You’re not replacing her,” you say, a little firmer now, even as your heart aches for him. “She’s not something that can be replaced, Chan. What you had with her is yours. It always will be.”

He stares at you, torn. “Then what is this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

The question hangs there, fragile and impossible. You feel it too. All of it. The years. The restraint. The love you have buried so carefully it has started to hurt just to breathe around it.

“This is something new,” you say quietly. “Something different.”

He shakes his head again, eyes closing briefly. “It doesn’t feel different. It feels like I’m…” He exhales sharply. “Like I’m letting go of her.”

“You’re not letting go,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “You’re just…making room.”

His eyes open. There is something in them now that you have never seen so clearly before: Hope. Fear. And something dangerously close to the same thing you have been carrying alone for far too long.

He does not move away from you. And you do not let go. Not when the room is still thick with everything he’s just said, not when his breath is still uneven, not when the weight of his grief and his confession and your own carefully hidden feelings have all finally been pulled into the same fragile space.

You just hold him. Your hand stays at the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, the other resting warm and steady against his shoulder. You can feel the slow, gradual shift in him as the storm eases—not gone, not resolved, but quieter.

Chan exhales, long and shaky. Then, after a moment, he leans back just enough that he can look at you.

Your hands slide down to rest lightly on his arms as he pulls away, but neither of you fully breaks contact. There’s still a thread there, invisible but unmistakable, stretched between your bodies and your breathing and the way neither of you seems ready to let the other go just yet.

He looks at you for a long time. Not like before, not like the fleeting glances or the careful, restrained attention you’ve grown used to. This is different. Open. Unhidden. Like he’s finally allowing himself to see you without pulling back at the last second.

His eyes trace your face slowly, as if committing it to memory in a way he hasn’t let himself do until now. Your eyes, your mouth, the soft curve of your cheek where your hair falls loose from behind your ear. There’s something almost disbelieving in it, like he’s trying to reconcile the person he’s known for years with the person he’s just admitted he wants.

You feel it everywhere—in your chest. In your throat. In the way your hands tighten just slightly against his arms without you meaning them to.

“Chan…” you start, quiet, uncertain what you’re even trying to say.

He doesn’t let you finish. “I love you.”

The words are simple. No buildup. No hesitation once they leave him. And yet they land like something enormous.

Your breath catches, your entire body going still as they settle into the space between you. You knew—some part of you must have known, because nothing else could explain the way he’s looked at you, the way tonight unfolded, the way everything has been quietly building for years—but hearing it is different. Hearing it makes it real in a way that can’t be folded away again.

Chan swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “I didn’t want to,” he admits, voice rough and unguarded. “I tried not to. For a long time.”

You don’t interrupt.. Because he’s still speaking like something is finally spilling out after being held back too long.

“I told myself it was just gratitude,” he continues, a faint, broken smile touching his mouth before it fades again. “That you were good with her, good for her, and I was just relieved. That’s all it was supposed to be.”

Your heart aches at the quiet self-denial in his words.

“But it wasn’t,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “It kept getting harder to ignore. The way you take care of her. The way you just fit here.” His eyes flick briefly around the room before coming back to you. “The way you make everything feel easier without even trying.”

Your fingers curl slightly against his sleeves.

“And I hated it,” he adds, more quietly. “Because every time I realized how much I…” He stops, exhales, tries again. “How much I needed you, it felt like I was losing something I wasn’t supposed to let go of.”

You can see it now, clearer than ever. The war he’s been fighting alone.

“I kept thinking,” he goes on, his voice dipping lower, “if I let myself have this—have you—then what does that say about her? About what we had? About the promises I made?”

You soften, your hand lifting instinctively to his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. “It doesn’t say anything bad,” you whisper.

He leans into your touch without thinking. “I’m supposed to be enough,” he says, and there’s something almost desperate in it now. “For Haneul. For everything. I’m her dad, I’m all she has left, and I feel like if I don’t hold everything together perfectly, then I’m failing both of them.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Chan…”

“I have to do it all,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly. “Because Ki can’t. Because she’s gone. And if I start needing someone else—if I start wanting someone else—then what does that make me?”

The question isn’t rhetorical. It’s raw. Real. Terrifying in its honesty.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let your hand slide fully to his face, cradling it gently, guiding his attention back to you when his gaze starts to drift somewhere far away again.

“It makes you human,” you say softly.

His eyes flicker.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you continue, your voice steady even as your heart beats harder. “You were never meant to. Loving someone again doesn’t erase what you had with her. It doesn’t mean you’re failing her or Haneul.” You swallow, your thumb brushing once more against his skin. “It just means your heart didn’t stop when she left.”

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, slowly, you lean forward.

The kiss is soft. Tentative in a way, like you’re both stepping into something fragile and sacred all at once. Your lips brush his gently, testing, asking without words if this is real, if this is allowed, if this is something he can accept.

Chan stills completely. Then he exhales into you, something in him giving way all over again.

When you pull back just slightly, your forehead hovering close to his, your voice is barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Then his hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers warm and sure despite the tremor still lingering in them. And this time, when he kisses you, there is nothing tentative about it.

He pulls you closer, closing the space between you in a way that feels like a decision, like a line being crossed that neither of you can step back from now. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of urgency that has been building for far too long, not rushed but deep, grounding, as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you, the reality of this moment.

You respond without thinking, your hands finding his shoulders, then his chest, holding onto him just as tightly as he holds onto you.

Everything else fades. The room. The hallway. The years of restraint. There is only this—the quiet sound of your breathing, the warmth of his hands, the way his grip tightens. 

You both pull back to breathe, and before he can say anything, you speak. “Can I make you feel good? Can I show you how much I love you? ”

Your words hang in the quiet air of Chan’s bedroom, a soft demand that stops the slow sway of your bodies against each other. The light from the hallway casts a long, warm stripe across the floor, painting the edge of the bed in gold. His hands, which had been cradling your hips as you kissed, freeze on your skin.

“All of you,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw.

Chan looks down at you, his eyes—a deep, tired brown that has finally started to shine again—searching yours. His breath, warm and steady, flows over your cheek. He doesn’t speak. He just nods, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin that feels like the dropping of a final, heavy weight he’s carried for years.

He lets go of you, his fingers sliding from the curve of your waist with a lingering drag. You stand and reach for his sweats before kneeling before him.

The floor is soft through the thin fabric of your summer dress. You look up at him as you peel his sweats and boxers down his legs, your hands working slowly, taking the time to feel the heat of his thighs, the strength in his calves. He pulls his shirt over his head, the fabric falling to the floor beside you. And there he sits before you, completely exposed.

Chan is perfect. His chest is broad, arms defined, shoulders solid, but they carry a permanent slope, a bearing of quiet burden. And between his legs, his cock stands half-hard, a promise waiting to be fully realized.

It’s beautiful to you. Not in a sculpted, idealized way, but in a real way. The shaft is thick, a solid, warm column of flesh with a slight curve upward. The head is a darker shade, a flushed plum color, already glistening with a single, clear bead of moisture at its tip. The skin is smooth, but you can see the faint tracery of veins underneath, a network of life pulsing just beneath the surface. 

You lean forward, bringing your face close. The scent of him fills your nose—the faint, musky aroma of a man, and something deeper, something uniquely his. You don’t speak. You just open your mouth and press your lips to the side of his shaft.

The skin is hot. Silken. You kiss it, a soft, closed-mouth press that makes his whole body shiver. You hear a shaky intake of air above you. Your tongue comes out then, flat and wet, and you lick a long, slow stripe from the base all the way up to the crown. The taste is clean, salty, male. That bead of precum meets your tongue and you take it, a tiny, sweet-bitter pearl that you savor.

You look up at him again. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed. His hands are clenched at his sides, fists balled tight. He’s holding on, you think. Holding on to control, to the memory of how to receive pleasure without guilt.

You want to give him that permission. To shatter that control.

Your lips open wider. You take the head of his cock into your mouth, circling it, sucking lightly. It’s not fully hard yet, but it responds instantly to the heat and wetness of your mouth, thickening, lengthening, the curve becoming more pronounced. You suck harder, pulling more of him inside. Your lips stretch around his girth. You feel the ridge of his crown press against the roof of your mouth, a firm, smooth bulge. Your tongue dances underneath, flicking against the sensitive seam where the head meets the shaft—his frenulum. You trace it with the tip of your tongue, a gentle, teasing stroke that makes his hips jerk forward.

A groan escapes him, low and ragged. It’s the first sound he’s made, and it cracks the quiet like thunder.

You pull back, letting his cock slip from your lips with a wet pop. It’s fully erect now, standing proud and rigid, pointing up toward his stomach. The shaft is thick, a deep, flushed pink. The head is swollen, dark and gleaming with your saliva and his own fluids.

“Chan,” you murmur, your voice husky. “Look at me.”

He forces his eyes open. They’re hazy, unfocused with need. He looks down at you, kneeling before him like an offering, your face level with his sex.

“I want you to feel this,” you say. “I want you to let yourself feel it.”

You don’t wait for another answer. You dive forward again, taking him deep.

This time, you don’t tease. You engulf him. Your lips seal around his shaft, and you push your head forward, taking him as far into your mouth as you can. The head presses deep, nudging at the entrance to your throat. You relax, letting your jaw go slack, and he slides deeper, a hot, solid invasion that fills your mouth completely. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, drawing hard on him.

The feeling is intense for you, too. The weight of him on your tongue. The smooth, insistent pressure against your tongue. The salty, living taste that floods your senses. You move your head back, then forward again, establishing a rhythm. 

Your hands come up to cradle what your mouth cannot take. One hand wraps around the base of his shaft, your fingers squeezing the firm root. The other hand cups his balls, weighing them in your palm, feeling their fullness, their heat. You roll them gently, a soft, kneading massage that makes his thighs tremble.

Your head bobs. Your lips slide along his skin, a slick, wet glide. Each time you pull back, his cock emerges shiny and dripping, coated in a mix of your saliva and his own essence. Each time you plunge forward, your mouth accepts him greedily, swallowing him down.

Chan’s hands come to your head. They don’t push or guide. They simply rest there, his palms on your cheeks, his fingers threading into your hair. It’s a touch of connection, of gratitude. His thumbs stroke your temples.

You increase the pace. Not frantic. Not desperate. But purposeful. Your suction becomes stronger, your tongue more active. You swirl it around his head each time you reach the top, licking across that sensitive ridge, teasing the tiny slit at the tip. You feel him pulse in your mouth, a hard, rhythmic throb that signals his building climax.

His breathing changes. It becomes ragged, shallow pants. His hips begin to move in tiny, involuntary thrusts, matching your rhythm. His cock slides in and out of your mouth with a wet, rhythmic sound—shhhlick, shhhlick, shhhlick.

“God…” he gasps, the word torn from him. “I’m…I’m gonna…”

You know. You feel it. The tension in his shaft, the way his balls draw up tighter against his body, the frantic pulse beating under your tongue. You want it. You want all of it.

You pull back until just the head is in your lips, suckling fiercely, your tongue fluttering against his frenulum in rapid, tiny strokes. Your hand on his shaft pumps in time with your sucking, a tight, milking motion.

His climax erupts. It’s not a single burst. It’s a series of them, a rolling, hot flood that pours into your mouth. The first spurt hits your tongue, thick and warm, a distinct, slightly bitter taste that is purely him. The second follows instantly, another gush that coats your mouth and fills your cheeks. You swallow, taking it down, but more comes. The third, the fourth—a continuous, generous release that you work to accept, sucking hard to pull every drop from him.

Chan cries out, a raw, unfiltered sound of release that echoes in the quiet room. His body locks and he falls onto the bed, his back arching, hands clutching your head. His hips push forward, driving his cock deeper into your mouth as he empties himself completely.

You stay there, sucking gently through the last few pulses, until his shaft softens slightly in your mouth, until the flow subsides. Then you slowly let him slip out.

His cock lays against his stomach, spent, glistening with a mix of your saliva and his own spend. You lean forward and kiss it once more, a soft, affectionate press against the damp head.

You rise then, your knees aching slightly from the floor. You stand before him, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Chan’s eyes are open, staring at you with a dazed, awed expression. His face is flushed, his chest heaving.

“You…” he starts, but his voice fails.

You smile, a slow, tender curve of your lips before climbing onto the bed with him, straddling his hips. You reach for the hem of your cotton dress, pulling it up over your head and discarding it onto the floor. You’re naked now, save for your panties. You hook your thumbs into the sides of those and peel them down your legs, kicking them away.

You look down at him, at his body spread out before you, at his softened cock resting on his belly. You see the love in his eyes, the trust, the raw openness. It fills you with a warmth that spreads from your heart to every extremity.

You lean down and kiss his mouth. His lips are soft, pliant. He kisses you back, a slow, deep melding of mouths that tastes of shared intimacy. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm, the rise and fall of his breathing.

“Do you have a condom?,” you whisper against his lips.

He nods. You reach over to the bedside table, to the small drawer and take one out, the foil packet cool in your hand. You open it, and you roll the latex down his length with careful, tender hands. He’s already beginning to stir again, his cock responding to your touch, filling out once more beneath the sheath.

When he’s protected, you position yourself over him. You kneel on either side of his hips, looking down at the junction of your bodies. Your own sex is ready, aching for him. You’ve been wet for a long time now. You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, the slippery evidence of your desire coating your inner thighs.

You guide his cock, holding it steady and lower yourself, slowly, letting the crowned head press against your entrance.

Your vulva is swollen with anticipation. The outer lips are plump, a deeper pink than usual, parted slightly by your own moisture. The inner lips are slick, glistening, framing the opening that now welcomes him. You feel the pressure of his tip against your flesh, a firm, promising nudge.

You sink down. The head of his cock enters you, pushing past your outer lips, penetrating your opening. The feeling is exquisite—a slow, stretching fullness that makes you gasp. Your walls are snug, gripping him immediately as he slides deeper. You feel every inch of his progress, the smooth drag of his shaft along your sensitive, soaked inner flesh.

You go down until you’re seated fully on him, his entire length buried inside you. Your body accepts him completely. Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth, hugging him tightly. The head of his cock presses deep, reaching a place that makes your eyes flutter. 

You stay there for a moment, just feeling him. Feeling the connection. The heat. The perfect fit.

Then you begin to move. You rise up, a slow, deliberate lift that drags his cock almost entirely out of you, until just the head remains nestled inside. Then you sink back down, taking him in again, a smooth, gliding descent. Your hips roll as you do it, a gentle, circular motion that grinds his shaft against your walls.

The pace is slow. Sensual. There’s no frantic pounding, no desperate race. This is a joining, a communion. Each upward lift is a tease, a near-separation that makes you both ache. Each downward plunge is a reunion, a filling that makes you both sigh.

Your breasts move with your rhythm. As you rise and fall, they bounce in a soft, circular dance, their weight shifting with each motion. Chan’s eyes are fixed on them, watching the movement, the way your nipples harden and peak in the cool air of the room.

Your hands find his chest. You splay your fingers over his pectorals, feeling the firm muscle underneath. You lean forward, changing your angle, and this shifts the sensation inside you dramatically. Now, as you sink down, his cock rubs directly along the front wall of your pussy, stroking over your most sensitive spot—the swollen, hungry bundle of nerves just inside your entrance.

A sharp, sweet pleasure bolts through you. Your breath catches. You moan, a low, continuous sound that spills from your lips without thought.

“Chan…oh, that’s…right there…”

He understands. His hands come to your hips, not to control, but to feel. His palms cup your bottom, feeling the flesh there jiggle and tighten with each of your movements. Your ass is firm, and as you ride him, it claps softly against his thighs, a gentle, rhythmic percussion of flesh.

You speed up slightly. Your rises are higher now, pulling him almost completely out before you take him back in with a smooth, wet slide. The sound of your joining fills the room—a soft, slick, repeating noise of flesh meeting flesh, of moisture spreading.

Inside you, the feelings multiply. Each time his cock enters, it stretches your opening wide, a brief, glorious pressure that gives way to a smooth glide. Your walls clasp around him, squeezing, then relaxing as he pulls back. The condom makes a slight difference—a faint, latex texture over his skin—but the heat, the size, the shape of him are all there, transmitted through the thin barrier.

His own pleasure is rebuilding. You can see it on his face. His eyes are half-closed, his mouth open in a silent, sustained groan. His hips begin to meet yours, pushing upward as you come down, adding his own force to your movements. The union becomes a collaboration, a shared rhythm.

Your clit, swollen and exposed, rubs against the base of his shaft with each of your downward strokes. The friction is indirect, but constant, a building stimulation that starts to coil a tight spring of tension low in your belly.

You lean forward further, bracing your hands on his shoulders. This changes your angle again, and now his cock is driving even deeper, pressing firmly against that front wall, stroking over your G-spot with every inward motion. The sensation is overwhelming, a deep, internal massage that makes your whole body shudder.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words coming out between gasps. “I love this…I love being with you like this…”

Chan’s eyes open fully, locking with yours. His hands slide from your hips to your back, pulling you closer against him. “I love you,” he rasps, his voice thick with emotion and arousal. “I feel…I feel alive again. With you.”

The words, the connection, the physical joining—it all combines, pushing you toward your own peak. The coil inside you tightens, winding tighter with every stroke, every deep fill, every grind of your clit against him.

Your movements become more urgent, though still controlled. Your rises are quicker, your descents more forceful. Your breath comes in sharp pants. Your breasts bounce more vigorously now, a faster, more pronounced dance. Your ass cheeks slap against his thighs with a firmer sound, a rhythmic beat that matches the pounding of your hearts.

Inside, your pussy is drenched, flooded with your own fluids. The condom is slick with them, making each stroke smoother, easier. Your walls grip him tightly, then release, a pulsing clasp that seems to pull him deeper each time.

You’re close. So close. The spring is wound to its limit.

Chan feels it too. His thrusts become more insistent, his upward drives meeting your downward rides with perfect timing. His cock is a hard, relentless piston inside you, stroking, filling, claiming.

You cry out, a sharp, broken sound as the spring finally snaps.

Your orgasm isn’t a single burst. It’s a rolling, wave-like series of contractions that grip your entire lower body. Your cunt clenches around his shaft in rapid, intense pulses, a squeezing rhythm that milks him through the condom. Your clit flares with a sharp, electric pleasure that radiates out through your pelvis. Your thighs shake. Your back arches.

You see stars behind your closed eyelids. A hot, blinding release floods through you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to his shoulders.

Chan follows you, pushed over the edge by your internal convulsions. His hips buck upward, driving deep as he holds you tight. His own climax, muted by the condom, is still a powerful, physical event. You feel his body stiffen beneath you, feel the hard, throbbing pulse of his cock inside you as he finds his release. His groan is long, drawn-out, a sound of complete surrender. “Oh my God,” he pants out, throat raw.

You collapse forward onto his chest, your body spent, your muscles loose. You lay there, his cock still inside you, both of you joined, both of you breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps. The room is quiet again, save for the sound of your panting, the faint rustle of the sheets.

Slowly, carefully, you lift yourself off him. His softened cock slips out of you, the condom slick and full. You dispose of it quietly, then crawl back onto the bed beside him, curling into his side.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. His skin is hot, damp with sweat. His heart beats a strong, steady rhythm against your ear.

“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy, thick with contentment. “Please don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Channie.”

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[ddearina]

Oh belive me, when i tell you I cried, I CRIED.

[binniebb]

nuuuuu, i’m sorry babes!! although i am evil bc that was my intent 😭😭 i hope you enjoyed though!! and tysm for reading and reblogging 💋💋

[binniebb]

still, you stay ⋆ bang chan

⤷ part of the weight of love: eight ways to STAY series

you spend years loving them both in the quiet ways that matter most, never asking for more than the small place you’ve been given in their lives. but when the lines between caretaker, family, and something far more tender begin to blur, chan is forced to face the love growing where he thought only grief could live. caught between loyalty to the woman he lost and the future waiting softly at his door, he has to decide whether letting you in means letting her go.

pairing single dad!chan x babysitter!reader genre employer/employee to lovers, slow burn, angst rating mature, 18+ word count 14k warnings character death (past) ; themes of grieving ; slight age gap ; brief scene of child in distress ; graphic & detailed smut ; oral (m receiving) ; p in v sex

𓄲 get your tissues hunnies, it's gonna be a very bump ride. started this fic and another one on the list a while ago. and then that freaking skz code came out that made me and @joyracha go crazy in the dms and decided to build a series around them. and now here we are! as always, i went rogue and wrote way more than i planned, but hopefully you enjoy! please, if you do like this fic and want to see more, show your love by not only liking, but reblogging and commenting! us creators really do get encouragement by seeing your engagement <3

m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ i n b o x .ᐟ

There are some people who enter your life like weather, all at once and impossible to ignore, and then there are people who become part of its structure so gradually that, one day, you look around and realize years have gone by.

Chan and Haneul are the second kind.

By the time you are twenty-three, halfway through a degree in childhood development and balancing lectures, readings, and practicum hours with more care than sleep, three years of your life have already been folded quietly into theirs. Not in a way that announces itself. Not in a way that invites questions. More in the way a favorite blanket grows softer with use.

You meet Haneul when she is two years old and too young to understand why the world around her has changed, only that it has. A terrible car accident takes her mother in a single, brutal instant, leaving behind a silence too large for a small child to name and too cruel for a man like Chan to fight with anything but endurance.

In the months that follow, his grief becomes something private and disciplined, tucked neatly beneath pressed shirts, beneath tired eyes, beneath the careful steadiness of a father who no longer has the luxury of falling apart.

He does not stop moving because Haneul still needs breakfast in the morning. She still needs her hair brushed, her shoes found, her tiny hands washed after snacks. She still needs lullabies and cartoons and someone to explain why the moon keeps following the car home. The world does not pause to honor sorrow when there is a toddler asking to be carried because her legs are tired.

That is where you come in.

At first, you are only meant to be help. A recommendation passed between neighbors and family friends and someone’s older sister who swears you are responsible, sweet, good with children, the kind of girl who actually gets down to eye level when a child talks instead of nodding absentmindedly while looking at her phone.

You arrive for the first time with your tote bag slung over one shoulder, your hair hurriedly fixed after class, and a nervousness you try to hide beneath a gentle smile. You expect a child made wary by loss, maybe even difficult in the way grieving children are often allowed to become by adults too afraid to say no to them.

Instead, you find a little girl with enormous eyes and a quietness that doesn’t belong on someone so young, sitting on the living room rug with a plush rabbit in her lap.

And you find Chan.

He opens the door looking older than twenty-five should allow, dressed in a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, one hand braced against the frame as if he has not sat down all day. His face is handsome in a way that catches you off guard even then, but it is not beauty that lingers with you afterward. It is the exhaustion. The terrible, polished kind. The sort worn by people who have convinced everyone around them that they are managing because the alternative would frighten them.

You remember how carefully he speaks to you that first day, like he is afraid of coming across rude when really he is simply stretched too thin to decorate his words.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, voice rough from disuse or fatigue. “I know this is last minute.”

You tell him it is no problem, and you mean it.

In the beginning, Haneul watches you more than she talks. She is slow to trust in the quiet, wounded way of children who have learned that permanence is not guaranteed, and so you do not rush her. You sit on the floor. You let her bring you toys instead of asking for them. You read books in different voices until she starts to smile at the funny parts. You memorize the exact way she likes her apple slices cut, the songs that make her sleepy, the order of the bedtime routine that keeps tears from gathering in her lashes. Bath, pajamas, two stories, one song, the rabbit tucked beneath her arm, the hallway light left on just enough for the room not to feel endless.

You are studying childhood development, yes, but some things cannot be taught in lecture halls. Some things live in instinct. In patience. In the willingness to hold steady when a child tests whether you really mean it when you say you’ll still be there after they wake up from their nap.

Haneul tests you in all the ways that matter. You pass without ever making it seem like a test at all. And Chan notices.

Not all at once. He is too tired in those first months to do much beyond survive them, but even survival has its moments of clarity. He notices that Haneul cries less on the days you come over. He notices that she starts sleeping through the night more often after you begin watching her regularly. He notices that when she falls and scrapes her knee, she lets you clean it without fuss because your hands are gentle and certain and never tremble, even when hers do.

Most of all, he notices that you never treat his daughter like a fragile thing to be pitied. You speak to her like someone whole. And that alone feels like a miracle.

So what begins as occasional babysitting becomes something far more rooted. Your schedule bends around theirs. Tuesdays and Thursdays after class. Friday evenings when Chan works late or simply needs an hour to breathe without feeling guilty for it. Entire Saturdays sometimes, when errands pile up or Haneul grows clingy and insists on asking every hour when you’re coming.

You become a fixture of the apartment so gradually it almost escapes notice. Your sneakers by the door. Your cardigan draped over the dining chair. Your handwriting on sticky notes by the fridge reminding Chan that Haneul ate all her strawberries already and will definitely ask for more.

The apartment changes too. Not because grief leaves it, but because your presence teaches it how to hold something besides grief.

It is never a large place, but it is warm. The kind of warmth earned through living rather than design. Soft cream walls. Toys tucked into woven baskets that never fully contain them. Crayon drawings held up by magnets on the refrigerator. Storybooks stacked sideways on the coffee table. A faint scent of detergent, baby shampoo long outgrown but not quite forgotten, and whatever Chan has managed to cook between work and fatherhood.

There is always evidence of him everywhere, though none of it showy. A jacket thrown over the couch. A half-finished mug of coffee gone cold on the counter. His laptop open beside a pile of Haneul’s coloring pages because his life is a constant negotiation between responsibility and interruption.

He is the sort of father who carries everything without announcing the weight of it. The sort who wakes at the slightest sound from down the hall, who knows the difference between Haneul’s sleepy whine and her truly upset cry, who kneels beside her bed in the middle of the night with one hand smoothing over her hair while the other checks the temperature on her forehead. He remembers pediatrician appointments without reminders. Keeps extra wipes in the car, crackers in the pantry, Band-Aids in three different drawers. He moves through fatherhood with a quiet competence that would look effortless if you did not know better.

But you do know better.

You see the tiredness under his eyes when he lingers in the kitchen after you arrive, finishing the coffee he forgot to drink hot. You notice the way he thanks you every single time, never once acting entitled to your care even after years of it. You know how often he apologizes for being late, for the toys on the floor, for Haneul being fussy, as if you haven’t already seen him manage work calls while tying the laces on sparkly shoes and cutting sandwiches into stars because she once decided squares were too boring to eat.

There is a devotion in him that feels almost sacred. It lives in the smallest things. In the way he crouches to zip Haneul’s jacket all the way to her chin before stepping outside. In the way he always, always looks back if she calls for him, no matter how busy he is. In the way his voice changes around her, softening at the edges until it becomes something rich and tender enough to wrap around a child like a blanket.

You fall in love with him slowly enough to pretend for a while that you are not falling at all.

Maybe it starts with admiration. Maybe with the first time you see him asleep on the couch after a long day, Haneul sprawled across his chest, one of his arms curved around her even unconscious, as if his body itself knows to protect what he loves. Maybe it starts the night Haneul has a fever and Chan comes home early, tie pulled loose, panic tucked beneath composure, and the relief in his face at finding you there with her makes your chest ache in a way that follows you for days.

Maybe it starts a hundred different times, in a hundred small, impossible moments, until one day you realize your affection has become something far deeper and infinitely more dangerous. You never say a word because know your place.

You are the babysitter. The trusted one, yes. The beloved one, maybe. The one Haneul runs to with drawings clutched in her hand and secrets already spilling from her mouth. The one Chan relies on more than he probably means to. But still, the babysitter. Younger than him by five years, still in college, still building a life of your own. Whatever tenderness threatens to gather in the quiet between you is neatly folded away before it can become visible.

You are not careless with his grief. That, more than anything, keeps you still.

Because even three years later, his wife is not a shadow in this home. She is a presence. A photograph in Haneul’s room. A framed wedding picture tucked onto a bookshelf in the living room. A name spoken gently when Haneul asks questions in that childlike way that manages to be both innocent and piercing. Sometimes, when Haneul is already asleep and the apartment has settled into evening, Chan will look at that photograph for half a second too long before thanking you for staying late.

You never mention it. You never need to.

Loyalty clings to him with the same quiet persistence as grief. Not performative, not self-pitying—simply true. He loved her. He loves her still, in the strange enduring way people love the dead, where memory becomes both comfort and punishment. There are parts of him that remain turned toward that loss even while the rest of him keeps moving forward for Haneul’s sake.

You understand this. You respect it. You build your distance around it brick by careful brick.

And yet time has a way of softening edges no one meant to touch.

Haneul is five now, all bright chatter and quick feet and opinions about everything from cereal shapes to which stuffed animals deserve spots on her bed. She has grown out of her toddler roundness into the delicate, lovely little girl she was always going to become, and somehow, without anyone formally deciding it, you have become woven into the rhythm of her life. You know the names of her classmates, the songs from her favorite cartoons, the exact color she calls “princess pink,” though it looks suspiciously like regular pink to everybody else. She asks for you with the unquestioning certainty children reserve for the people they believe belong to them.

And that is where things begin to shift.

Not because you change.

You are still kind in all the same ways, still patient, still thoughtful, still loving with a steadiness that makes Haneul bloom toward you like something reaching for sunlight. You still arrive with little snacks tucked into your bag and kneel to fasten tiny sandals and sit through tea parties where the tea is invisible and apparently scalding. You still love Chan from a distance so disciplined it sometimes feels like another form of prayer.

No, what changes is harder to control because it is not yours alone.

Haneul starts to look at you with something deeper than affection.

Children do not always have the language for the shapes their hearts make, but they feel those shapes with startling clarity. The comfort of you. The safety. The constancy. The way your hands smooth back her hair when she is upset, the way your voice lowers instinctively when she needs soothing, the way you remember every small thing that matters to her.

The resemblance is not in your face or your voice or your mannerisms. It is in the role your love begins to occupy.

Chan notices it before he lets himself name it.

He notices Haneul reaching for you first after scraping her palm on the playground, even with him standing right there. Notices the easy way she leans into your side during movie nights. Notices the childish, unquestioning possessiveness with which she says your name, as though you have always belonged inside the borders of her world. At first, he tells himself it means only that she trusts you, that your presence has become important to her in the natural way caretakers become important to children.

Then one evening, standing in the kitchen while you help Haneul wash paint from her fingers, he looks up and sees the scene in the darkened reflection of the window above the sink.

You with your sleeves rolled to your elbows, smiling softly as Haneul chatters about the family of lopsided paper butterflies she made that afternoon. Haneul looking up at you with that unguarded little face, all trust and attachment and love. The domestic intimacy of it striking the room so cleanly that it takes the air with it.

Something in his expression changes before he can stop it. Because for the first time, the thought does not arrive as a blur. It arrives whole.

Haneul does not just adore you. She is beginning, in the tender unconscious way of children, to love you in a place shaped suspiciously close to where a mother belongs.

And Chan, who has spent three years carrying grief in one hand and fatherhood in the other, finds himself standing at the edge of a truth he does not know how to survive.

Not only because of what Haneul feels. But because when he looks at you now, his gaze lingers.

On your smile. On your patience. On the quiet grace with which you move through his home as if care is your native language. On the life you have breathed into corners of this apartment he thought would stay dim forever.

And worse than that, more frightening than that, is the part he cannot confess to anyone.

His thoughts linger too.

Not in a reckless way. Never that. Chan is not careless, least of all with you. But desire is not always something dramatic or easily shamed. Sometimes it comes dressed as tenderness that lasts a second too long. As awareness. As the dangerous warmth of noticing your beauty when you tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear while listening to Haneul explain a dream in serious detail. As the temptation to stay in the doorway just to hear you laugh again. As the ache of imagining, only for a moment, what it would mean to let himself want something more.

And every single time, loyalty drags him back. Loyalty to the woman he lost. To the life he thought he would still have. To the version of himself who believes moving on must feel like betrayal if it is ever going to count as real.

So he says nothing. You say nothing. And the three of you continue like that, poised on the fragile edge of something unnamed, each day carrying you a little closer to the point where silence will no longer be enough.

That is how you get here.

Three years after a tragedy that rearranged everything. Three years after you first stepped into Chan’s apartment expecting to offer temporary help and somehow became part of the architecture of his life. Three years of bedtime stories and shared routines and feelings tucked away so carefully they have started to sharpen with the pressure of being held.

Now Haneul is five years old, clever and affectionate and much too perceptive for her own good. You are older too, steadier in yourself, though no less cautious. Chan is twenty-eight and still trying to carry everything alone, still devoted, still gentle, still breaking in places no one sees.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, love has begun to gather.

Not the easy kind. The kind that arrives with history. With grief. With guilt and longing and the unbearable hope of being chosen anyway.

The front door unlocks with the familiar click that always seems to travel through the apartment a beat before Chan does, and the moment it does, Haneul’s entire body lights up.

She has been coloring on the living room floor for the last twenty minutes, tongue peeking out in concentration as she presses a purple crayon too hard against the paper, but at the sound of the door, she gasps like something wonderful and long-awaited has finally arrived. Her crayon rolls away forgotten as she scrambles to her feet.

“Daddy!”

Her voice rings through the apartment bright as bells, and then she is gone in a blur of little socks and wild hair, racing across the hardwood with all the unrestrained devotion of a child who has been waiting to see her favorite person all day.

You do not have to look to know what comes next.

Chan barely gets the door shut behind him before Haneul crashes into his legs, her arms wrapping around him with enough force to make him laugh softly under his breath. It is the kind of laugh you have learned to listen for over the years, quieter when he is tired, roughened around the edges after a long day, but always there for her. Always immediate.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his voice worn down by hours of work and city traffic and whatever else the day has managed to drag over him, but turning warm the second he bends down to scoop her up. “Miss me that much?”

“Yes,” Haneul says with the seriousness of someone stating a fact beyond debate, her arms looping around his neck as he lifts her against his chest. “A lot.”

You can picture it without stepping away from the stove. The way his shoulders finally loosen once he has her in his arms. The way his cheek brushes the side of her head. The way exhaustion never disappears from him all at once, but shifts, settles, becomes something gentler the moment she is close enough to hold.

From the kitchen, you stir the sauce one last time and lower the heat, letting the apartment fill with the warm, savory scent of garlic and soy and browned onions. The pan gives a soft, steady hiss under your hand, steam fogging briefly against your wrist before curling away. Rice waits fluffed in the pot beside it, and the vegetables you chopped earlier are soft now, glossy under the kitchen light. It is not anything extravagant, just dinner, just something simple and comforting after a day that has clearly asked too much of him already, but you know by now that sometimes the smallest things land with the most force.

Chan rounds the corner into the kitchen with Haneul still perched on his hip, and the second he sees you standing there in front of the stove, the look on his face shifts.

It is subtle, the kind of thing someone else might miss if they do not know him the way you do. His tie is gone, probably shoved into his work bag the moment he got into the car. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled to his forearms, slightly uneven, and there is a tiredness clinging to him that looks almost physical, something draped over his shoulders heavier than the leather strap of his briefcase.

His hair is a little mussed, his eyes faintly shadowed, and for a second he simply stands there taking in the sight of you in his kitchen, dinner nearly finished, his daughter tucked close against him, home smelling like something warm and lived-in instead of the sterile leftovers of takeout containers or the rushed effort of a meal made too late.

Then his mouth softens.

You know that look too.

It is never dramatic with Chan. Nothing with him ever is. But gratitude moves through him like low light across water, quiet and immediate and deeper than he usually lets anyone see.

“You’re cooking?” he asks, though the answer is obvious.

You smile over your shoulder at him, lifting the wooden spoon a little. “I am. Haneul told me she was starving and then listed six different things she wanted, so we compromised.”

Haneul, entirely unbothered by being exposed, presses her cheek into Chan’s shoulder and says, “I wanted spaghetti and dumplings and fish sticks and mac and cheese and strawberries.”

“And instead,” you say, amusement warming your voice, “she is getting chicken stir-fry, rice, and strawberries after dinner if she eats enough actual food first.”

Chan lets out a breath that almost passes for a laugh, though it still carries the roughness of exhaustion in it. “You’re a miracle, you know that?”

The words come out easy, automatic perhaps, but the way his eyes linger on you as he says them makes something inside you pull a little tighter.

You busy yourself with the pan, even though it does not need much attention anymore. “It’s not a miracle. It’s just dinner.”

“Still.” His voice lowers, quieter now, more sincere. “Thank you.”

When you glance back at him, really look at him, the gratitude sits plain on his face. It does something dangerous to your chest every time, the way he thanks you as though your care is never expected, never owed, always something precious enough to acknowledge. Even now, after years of stepping so naturally into the space his home seems to make for you, he never treats your presence like entitlement. He treats it like grace.

Haneul wriggles, suddenly impatient. “Can I set the table?”

“You can help,” you say.

That is enough to make her squirm out of Chan’s arms at once, her little feet landing hard against the floor before she darts toward the cabinet where the plates are stacked. Chan watches her go, the same way he always does, with that quiet attentiveness that never fully leaves him, and then he exhales slowly, one hand settling on the back of a dining chair as if he needs the pause.

Up close, the weariness on him is even clearer. Not just tired. Pulled thin.

“Long day?” you ask softly.

His mouth tips in something that is not quite a smile. “You could say that.”

He does not elaborate right away. He rarely does, at least not until the apartment has softened around him and Haneul is distracted enough that he can let a little more of the day show on his face. Instead, he loosens the top button of his shirt and steps closer to the stove, drawn in by the smell.

“That smells incredible,” he says. “Seriously.”

“It should be decent,” you reply. “We’ve been taste-testing.”

“We?” he echoes, glancing toward Haneul, who is now carrying forks to the table with great concentration, as though transporting priceless artifacts.

“We meaning me,” you say dryly, “while your daughter declared herself head chef and supervised.”

That earns you a fuller smile this time, brief but real. It changes him every time it happens, makes him look younger than grief and responsibility usually allow. Then his gaze drops to the skillet again, curiosity touching the edges of his expression.

“What is it exactly?”

“Soy-garlic chicken,” you tell him. “With vegetables. The sauce is a little sweet, so Haneul approved.”

“Of course she did.” He studies the pan a second longer, then looks at you. “Where did you learn how to make that?”

The question is casual. So are you when you answer.

“Oh.” You set the spoon down against the rest by the stove and reach for the bowls. “I went to a cooking class once for a first date, and they taught us a version of it.”

The silence that follows is not loud, but it is immediate.

It moves through the kitchen like something invisible suddenly slipping between the cabinets and counters, small but unmistakable. You only really register it when you turn, two bowls in your hands, and find Chan standing exactly where he was a second ago, except now there is something different in his face.

Not anger. Not even disapproval. Just a kind of stillness.

It takes you a moment to understand why.

His eyes rest on you with an unreadable weight, his expression gone carefully neutral in the way it does when he is keeping something behind his teeth. For the briefest second, he almost looks startled, as though the words first date have landed somewhere in him he was not prepared to expose.

You blink, suddenly aware of how oddly intimate the conversation has become for something so harmless.

“It wasn’t recent,” you add lightly, setting the bowls on the table. “It was a while ago.”

Chan nods once, but it is delayed enough that you notice.

“Right,” he says.

That single word is perfectly even. Too even.

You glance at him again, trying not to let your confusion show. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not,” he says, which would be more convincing if he did not still look a little thrown.

A tiny smile starts tugging at your mouth despite yourself. “Chan.”

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, his gaze flicking briefly toward Haneul before returning to you. “You went to a cooking class for a first date?”

There it is. Not accusation, exactly. Just disbelief tinged with something you cannot quite place at first, something quieter and sharper than surprise.

You lean one hip against the counter, suddenly more aware of him than you should be, of the loosened collar of his shirt and the tired line of his shoulders and the way his attention has narrowed entirely onto you.

“Yes,” you say, a little amused now. “That is what I said.”

He lets out a soft breath through his nose, almost scoffing, though there is no edge to it. “That feels…” He pauses, like he is choosing a word he will not regret. “Specific.”

You laugh then, unable not to. “It was specific. The whole thing was supposed to be charming.”

“Was it?”

You tilt your head. “The class or the date?”

His eyes hold yours for a fraction too long. “The date.”

The answer should be easy. It should be nothing. A passing anecdote attached to a recipe and no more important than that. But Chan is looking at you in a way that makes the air feel thinner, and for a second you can feel the shape of something unspoken pressing against the edges of the room.

You look away first, reaching for the strawberries just to have something to do with your hands.

“It was fine,” you say. “Not especially memorable, apparently, since the chicken is what lasted.”

Chan hums quietly, though it does not sound like amusement. Something in his expression shifts again, gentling and darkening at once, a flicker so fast you almost miss it.

Jealousy is not a look you have ever thought to assign him. Not toward you. Not in relation to you. The very idea feels too impossible to touch directly, and yet there is something faintly unsettled in the way he stands there, in the careful blankness he is trying to hold over whatever instinctive reaction your answer has stirred.

He has no right to it. You know that. He knows that too. But apparently knowing does not stop it from existing.

The realization arrives slowly enough to be dangerous.

Chan’s gaze drops for a moment to your hands as you rinse the strawberries, then lifts again to your face, quieter now.

“I guess,” he says, voice low, “I never really think about you dating.”

There is no flirtation in the words. That would almost be easier to survive.

What there is instead is honesty, reluctant and unvarnished, as if the sentence slipped out before he could decide whether to keep it.

Your fingers still beneath the running water. You turn the faucet off carefully. “I date,” you say, aiming for casual and not entirely trusting yourself to hit it.

His jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

But he does not sound like he knew. He sounds like someone who has just remembered that you exist outside the borders of this apartment, outside bedtime stories and dinner prep and afternoons spent kneeling beside his daughter to help with tiny shoes and crayons. Like the image of you with someone else has caught him off guard in a way he does not understand well enough to conceal.

At the table, Haneul starts humming to herself while lining up napkins with painstaking precision, blissfully unaware of the strange, fragile thing gathering in the kitchen behind her.

You dry your hands on a dish towel and keep your tone deliberately light, though your pulse has begun doing something inconvenient under your skin.

“It was one date, Chan,” you say. “You look like I told you I ran away to join the circus.”

That gets the smallest laugh out of him, but it is brief, and when it fades, his gaze stays on you.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

The word lands heavier than it should.

You shake your head. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Maybe he does not. Maybe he does.

He glances down, fingers curling against the back of the chair beside him, his expression tightening in a way that tells you he is aware, at least in part, that he has stepped somewhere he should not have. That whatever flicker passed through him a moment ago does not belong to him. Not with you. Not like this.

When he looks back up, he has smoothed himself out again, though not completely.

“Just surprised me, I guess.”

You could leave it there. You should leave it there. Instead, because some reckless little thread in you wants to tug at the seam and see what gives, you ask softly, “Why?”

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and something in the room stills all over again.

For one suspended second, he looks like he might answer. Really answer. Not with something easy or polite, but with the truth or some dangerous piece of it.

Then Haneul spins around in her chair and announces, “I did the forks all by myself.”

The moment breaks cleanly, almost cruelly.

Chan looks away first, that gentle father-softness returning to his face as he turns toward her. “You did?” he says, moving to inspect the table. “That’s impressive.”

You stand there for a beat longer, dish towel still clutched in your hands, the ghost of that almost-confession hovering between your ribs like heat that has nowhere to go.

Then you follow, setting the bowl of strawberries aside for later and bringing dinner to the table.

Conversation slips back into safer things. Haneul chatters about a girl in her class who insists pink crayons work better than red ones. Chan listens, asks questions, and eats like someone who did not realize until the first bite just how hungry he was. More than once, you catch him looking at you when he thinks your attention is elsewhere, and each time he looks away a second too late, the awareness of it settling over you both like a secret too new to name.

Haneul’s bath time has long since developed its own little rituals, the kind children attach themselves to with fierce sincerity once they decide a routine belongs to them.

One of them is the singing.

It starts nearly a year ago, after a phase where she becomes convinced that closing the bathroom door means vanishing, and though she has long since outgrown the fear itself, the habit remains. Whenever she is in the tub and you are not standing directly beside it, she has to sing the entire time. Loudly, continuously, and with enough enthusiasm that neither you nor Chan ever have to wonder where she is or whether she has decided, in some burst of five-year-old ambition, to attempt something reckless with a wet foot and too much confidence.

Tonight, her voice floats down the short hallway in cheerful, slightly off-key waves, rising and falling over the splash of bathwater.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little starrrr,” she belts from the bathroom, only to abandon it halfway through and pivot into a cartoon song about a rabbit who loves carrots and friendship. The words are mostly wrong. The volume is not.

You smile to yourself as you pull her comforter smooth over the mattress, tucking the corners just the way she likes so she can burrow under them dramatically later and declare herself a sleepy princess. Her rabbit is placed at the top of the bed, facing outward. Her nightlight is plugged in. On the small dresser beside the lamp, the framed photo of her mother catches the soft yellow light and gives it back in a muted gleam.

The room is warm with familiar things. Lavender lotion. Clean pajamas laid out in a neat little pile. A picture book already waiting on the pillow. Haneul’s world always feels especially tender at night, as though the room itself settles into a gentler shape once the day begins to dim.

From the bathroom, her voice rises again.

“I’m a bunny, bunny, bunny in the baaath!”

You laugh under your breath. “Keep singing, baby.”

“I am!” she shouts back, indignant and sincere.

You are fluffing the second pillow when you feel, more than hear, someone stop in the doorway.

Chan does not announce himself right away. He only stands there for a second, one shoulder resting lightly against the frame, watching you move around Haneul’s room with easy familiarity. By now, you know the weight of his silence well enough to recognize when it means thought rather than exhaustion, and tonight there is something deliberate in it.

When you glance over, he has changed out of his work clothes into a soft black T-shirt and gray lounge pants, the lines of the day gentled but not erased. His hair is slightly damp at the temples from a shower, and there is a stillness about him that tells you he has been carrying something since dinner and has finally decided to bring it back out into the light.

Haneul’s singing bounces down the hall again, louder this time.

Chan’s mouth tilts faintly. “She’s really committing to it tonight.”

You smooth your palm over the blanket one last time. “She knows the rule.”

“She also knows how to turn it into a full concert.”

“That too.”

He steps into the room then, slow and unhurried, his gaze brushing over the bed, the pajamas, your hands lingering near the pillow. There is always something dangerous in moments like this, in the domestic ease of them. In how naturally you fit here. In how much less space there seems to be between you when the apartment is quiet and Haneul’s little voice is the only thing filling the air.

For a second, he says nothing. Then, as casually as if he were asking about the weather, he says, “So…that cooking class date.”

You turn your head toward him fully, already suspicious of the neutrality in his tone. “What about it?”

He lifts one shoulder, feigning lightness badly enough that it almost makes you smile. “Nothing. I was just thinking about it.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes flick to the stuffed rabbit on the bed, then back to you. “Guess I’m still surprised.”

There is that word again. Surprised. It shouldn’t needle at you the way it does, but something about it has been sitting under your skin since dinner, unresolved and quietly aggravating.

“Surprised that I can cook?” you ask.

A breath of amusement touches his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

You fold your arms loosely, leaning one hip against Haneul’s dresser. “Then what did you mean?”

From down the hall comes a splash, then an enthusiastic, “Bunny bunny bath time queen!”

Chan exhales softly through his nose, but his attention never leaves you. “I told you,” he says. “I just don’t really think about you dating.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

The words leave your mouth lighter than they feel, sharpened by something you had not intended to show. Chan notices it immediately. You can tell by the way his expression changes, something in it tightening just enough to make the room feel smaller.

“It’s not a problem,” he says quietly.

“No?” You tip your head. “Because you’ve seemed pretty bothered by it for someone who claims it isn’t.”

His jaw shifts. “I’m not bothered.”

You give him a look.

From the bathroom, Haneul transitions into a drawn-out version of the alphabet song, half of the letters swallowed by the echo of tile.

Chan drags a hand over the back of his neck. “I said I was surprised. That’s all.”

“And I said I date.”

The silence that follows is thin and fragile, stretched tight between you.

Maybe if he had left it at dinner, if he had let the moment break and disappear under the noise of plates and Haneul’s chatter, this would still be manageable. But he is here now, bringing it up again in the quiet of her bedroom, after bathwater has started sloshing against enamel and the night has settled enough that every glance feels heavier than it should.

Your heart is beating too hard for something so small.

Chan’s voice lowers. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” you say, and now the frustration is there, unmistakable. “Actually, I don’t.”

His brow furrows, not in anger but in a kind of guarded discomfort, as if this has moved beyond the shape he hoped it would keep. “You’re upset.”

You laugh once, though there is no humor in it. “You’re the one asking follow-up questions about a date I went on forever ago.”

“I asked one question.”

“You brought it back up.”

His eyes flash with something that is not quite irritation and not quite embarrassment, but close enough to both that it catches heat against your own. “Because I was trying to understand why it got under my skin.”

The honesty of that startles you, but only for a second.

“Then maybe you should understand it on your own,” you say, your voice softening in volume and sharpening everywhere else. “Because you don’t get to act weird every time you remember I have a life outside this apartment.”

Chan straightens a little, his face going still in that careful way it does when he feels something too much and is trying not to let it show. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

He looks at you. And there it is again, that unbearable sense of something pressing at the edges of the room, something too big and too dangerous to stay unnamed much longer.

You are suddenly aware of everything. The soft lamp glow. Haneul’s distant singing, now wandering into nonsense lyrics about stars and strawberries and glitter. The framed photograph on the dresser beside your elbow. The fact that Chan is standing only a few feet away and somehow feels both impossibly close and nowhere you can safely reach.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet enough that it almost disappears into the room. “You know I can’t…”

He does not finish. But it’s enough.

All the restraint you have wrapped around yourself for years pulls tight at once, then frays.

“Can’t what?” you ask, and your own voice has changed now too, gone unsteady around the edges. “Be upset that I date? Want to know about my life? Feel anything?”

Chan’s expression flickers, pain and caution moving through it so quickly that you almost miss the distinction between them. “Don’t,” he says. It is not a warning. It is closer to a plea.

“No,” you say, because suddenly you cannot bear this version of him, this version of the two of you, where everything is measured and bitten back and left to rot in silence. “You don’t get to do that.”

His gaze fixes on you, unreadable except for the tension in it. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture helplessly between you, frustration spilling out now that it has found a crack. “Acting like it bothers you when I date, acting like it means something, and then pretending it doesn’t. Pretending you don’t feel what I feel too.”

The words hang there.

For one terrible second, the room becomes perfectly still.

Even from the bathroom, Haneul’s singing seems farther away, thinner, as though the world itself has pulled back to listen.

Chan does not move. His face changes, but only slightly. A tiny falter. A break in the careful control he wears like armor.

You hear your own pulse in your ears.

The moment after a confession is always stranger than the confession itself. You expect release, maybe ruin, maybe relief. Instead there is only exposure, raw and immediate and impossible to take back.

Chan’s throat works once before he speaks. “You think I don’t know that?” he asks, and his voice is so low it nearly fractures under the weight of it. “You think I haven’t been fighting that every day?”

Your breath catches.

He takes half a step forward, not enough to close the distance, only enough to make it feel deliberate.

“You think I don’t see the way she looks at you? The way you take care of her, take care of us, like it’s the most natural thing in the world?” His eyes search your face, torn open now in a way that almost hurts to witness. “You think I haven’t noticed what this has become?”

Something hot stings behind your eyes before you can stop it. “Then why are you standing there acting like I’m the only one who has to live with it?”

Chan opens his mouth.

And then the apartment splits open with Haneul’s scream.

It is so sudden, so sharp and terrified, that both of you are moving before the sound has even finished leaving her throat.

“Haneul!”

Chan is out the door first, your feet nearly tripping over each other as you rush down the hall after him. The bathroom light is too bright when you burst inside. Haneul is half-sitting, half-sliding in the tub, water sloshed over the edge and onto the tile, her face crumpled in fear as she coughs and cries at once, tiny hands grasping blindly for something steady.

“I slipped,” she sobs. “I slipped, Daddy.”

Chan is on his knees beside the tub in an instant, all the tension from a moment ago gone, replaced by pure parental instinct. “I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you.” His voice is calm despite the fear flashing across his face as he reaches in and lifts her out, dripping and shaking, against his chest.

She is not hurt. You can see that almost immediately. Startled, frightened, maybe swallowed some water when she went under for a second, but not injured. Still, the panic in her is real, and that matters just as much.

Chan cradles her close, one large hand spread protectively over the back of her head while the other rubs slow circles between her shoulders. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, over and over, his voice warm and anchoring even while his own breathing is unsteady. “You’re okay. Daddy’s got you.”

Haneul coughs again, crying harder now, her wet hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks flushed pink from heat and fright. Chan adjusts her against him, trying to soothe her, trying to calm the trembling little body in his arms.

Then she lifts her face, tears clinging to her lashes, and reaches for you. “Mommy,” she cries.

Everything stops. Something inside the three of you, sudden and absolute.

Chan freezes. So do you.

Haneul’s small hand opens and closes toward you, her face crumpling harder as she reaches again through tears and panic, too scared to understand what she has just done, only knowing that she wants comfort and that your name, your shape, your love have tangled themselves in her frightened little heart until this is what comes out.

“Mommy,” she sobs again, desperate this time.

The word lands like a stone dropped into still water, the impact rippling outward too fast to outrun.

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first.

Chan looks at you. It lasts barely a second, maybe less, but the weight of it is enough to make the room tilt. Shock, grief, tenderness, something rawer than both, all flickering through his face before he lowers his eyes.

You move then because Haneul needs you. Whatever this moment is, whatever it will become later, cannot matter more than the little girl crying in front of you now.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, stepping closer. Your hands shake only slightly as you take the towel from the rack and wrap it around her small body. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Chan hesitates for the briefest second before letting you take her. Not because he is unwilling, but because the transfer itself feels loaded now in a way neither of you can bear to examine. Then Haneul is in your arms, warm and damp and trembling, clutching at your shoulders with frantic little fingers as you gather her close.

You hold her carefully, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other rubbing up and down her spine beneath the towel. “You’re all right,” you murmur into her wet hair. “You just got scared. That’s all. I’m here. Daddy’s here. You’re safe.”

Her sobs do not stop right away, but they begin to soften, breaking into smaller hitching breaths against your neck.

Chan stands. For a moment, he stays where he is, one hand braced against the edge of the sink, his head turned slightly away as though he cannot quite bear the sight in front of him and cannot stop looking at it either.

When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. “I need a minute.”

It is not directed at Haneul. Not really. It belongs somewhere between you and the tiled floor and the word still echoing in the steam-thick air.

He does not wait for an answer. He only drags a hand over his face and steps out, walking past the open door with the kind of rigid control that tells you he is holding himself together by force alone.

The bathroom feels too small after he leaves. Too warm. Too bright. Too full of things that can no longer be mistaken for simple. But Haneul is still in your arms, still trembling, still burying her face against your shoulder as if she can hide there from the fright of what just happened. So you hold her tighter.

You sway on instinct, gentle and slow, your own throat aching with everything you are not allowing yourself to feel yet.

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, pressing your cheek to the top of her damp head. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Outside the bathroom, you can hear nothing from Chan at all.

And somehow, that silence is louder than anything.

You dry her carefully, gently, like she is something easily startled back into fear.

Chan does not come back.

You feel that absence like a second pulse under your skin, but you do not go looking for him. Not yet. Not when Haneul still needs your hands steady, your voice soft, your attention anchored fully in her.

“Let’s get you warm, okay?” you murmur, wrapping the towel tighter around her small body.

She nods against your shoulder, still sniffling, her lashes clumped together with tears.

You help her into her pajamas slowly, guiding her arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric down over her back, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head when she leans into you without thinking. By the time you carry her down the hall, her breathing has steadied, but her fingers remain curled into the front of your shirt. 

You sit with her on the bed first instead of laying her down immediately, letting her settle in your lap while you rub slow circles between her shoulders. The nightlight casts a faint glow along the wall, catching the edges of her mother’s photograph and turning the glass into something almost luminous.

Haneul’s voice, when she finally speaks, is small. “I didn’t mean to slip.”

“I know you didn’t,” you say gently. “Sometimes that just happens.”

She sniffles again, then presses her cheek into your collarbone. “I was singing.”

“I heard you. You were doing a very good job.”

That gets the faintest hint of a smile, though it fades quickly, her thoughts clearly drifting somewhere heavier.

You can feel it before she says anything. The shift. The way children carry fear into questions without meaning to.

After a moment, she lifts her head just enough to look at you. “Why did I say that?”

Your heart stumbles. You know what she means. Of course you do.

You smooth a damp strand of hair away from her forehead, buying yourself a second to breathe through the sudden tightness in your chest.

“You were scared,” you say softly. “And sometimes when we’re scared, we just…reach for the people who make us feel safe.”

She watches you carefully, her eyes still glassy with leftover tears. “But I said mommy.”

The word lands differently now. Not sharp like before. Just quiet. Confused.

You swallow gently. “Haneul,” you begin, your voice as steady as you can make it, “your mommy is…she’s in heaven, remember?”

She nods a little, though her expression remains uncertain.

“She’s always looking down at you,” you continue, brushing your thumb lightly across her cheek. “And she loves you so, so much. That doesn’t go away just because she can’t be here the way we wish she could.”

Haneul listens, her brows knitting slightly as she tries to hold onto something too big for her to fully understand.

“And I love you too,” you add, quieter now. “Even if I’m not your mommy.”

Her fingers tighten briefly in your shirt again. “I know,” she says.

The words are simple. Certain. But then her mouth wobbles, and the question that follows breaks something open in a different way. “It’s not fair.”

You blink.

“My friends all have a mom and a dad,” she continues, her voice trembling just enough to make your chest ache. “Why do I only have my dad?”

There is no easy answer for that. There never has been.

You draw her a little closer, pressing your lips to her hair for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at her again. “Sometimes life doesn’t give everyone the same things,” you say gently. “And that can feel really unfair. You’re allowed to feel that way.”

Her lower lip trembles. “I want my mommy.”

The honesty of it is unbearable in its simplicity.

“I know you do,” you whisper, your own throat tightening. “That makes sense. She was yours.”

Haneul leans into you again, quieter now, her small body softening with the weight of her feelings.

“But you know what you do have?” you continue softly, your hand smoothing down her back. “You have a dad who loves you more than anything in the world. You have someone who shows up for you every single day. And that matters so much, even if it doesn’t make everything feel better right away.”

She is quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly, she asks, “Why does Daddy look at you like he looks at Mommy’s picture then?”

The question lands without warning. For a second, you think you might have misheard her. Your breath catches in your throat, your hands going still against her back.

Haneul tilts her head slightly, studying your face with the same quiet curiosity she applies to everything she does not understand yet. “He does,” she says, as if clarifying something obvious. “Sometimes.”

There is no answer ready for that. No careful, gentle explanation you can give that will not unravel something you have spent years keeping neatly contained.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I…” you start, and stop again.

Because what can you say? That she's wrong? She’s not. That she’s right? You cannot. That her father is a man carrying grief and love in the same breath and does not know how to separate them anymore? That is not something a five-year-old should have to hold.

So you do the only thing you can. You pull her a little closer and press your cheek against her hair. “Sometimes grown-ups look at people in ways that are hard to explain,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything bad. It just means…feelings can be hard.”

She considers that, her small face thoughtful in a way that makes her seem older than she should be.

Then, eventually, she nods. “Okay.”

It is not full understanding, but it’s enough for now.

You help her lie down, tucking the comforter around her the way she likes, making sure the rabbit is secured in her arms. Her breathing evens out more quickly this time, exhaustion finally catching up with her after the scare, her lashes fluttering as sleep begins to pull at her.

You brush your fingers lightly through her hair. “I’ll be right here,” you murmur.

She hums softly in response, already drifting.

The apartment feels different once you step out of her room.

The hallway stretches a little longer than usual, the light dimmer somehow, as if the walls themselves have absorbed everything that just happened and are holding it close.

You hesitate outside Chan’s door because you can hear him.

Not loudly. Chan does not fall apart in ways that draw attention. Even now, the sound is muffled, contained, like he is trying to keep it from escaping into the rest of the apartment.

But it’s there. A quiet, uneven breath. A stifled sob he does not quite manage to swallow in time.

Your chest tightens painfully and push the door open slowly.

The room is dim, lit only by the low glow of the bedside lamp. Chan is sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows braced against his knees, one hand covering his mouth as he tries to keep himself quiet. His shoulders are hunched forward, the line of his back rigid in a way that tells you he has been holding this in for too long.

He doesn’t notice you right away. Or maybe he does, and he just cannot bring himself to react yet.

“Chan,” you say softly.

He flinches. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Then he drags his hand down over his face, scrubbing hard as if he can wipe away the evidence of what you have just walked in on.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice rough and unsteady in a way that makes the words ring hollow immediately.

You close the door behind you. “No, you’re not.”

For a second, he does not respond. Then his shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him all at once like something finally giving way.

You cross the room slowly, giving him time to pull himself back together if he needs it, though you already know he will not. Not this time.

When you reach him, you don’t ask permission. You simply sit beside him and wrap your arms around him.

And Chan breaks. He leans into you like he has been waiting for something solid to hold onto, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath stutters out of him, quiet and uneven. One of his hands grips at the fabric of your shirt, not hard, just enough to anchor himself, and you can feel the tremor running through him like something too big to contain anymore.

You hold him tighter. Your hand moves up to cradle the back of his head, fingers slipping into his hair the way you have done a hundred times for Haneul, the motion instinctive and soft and steady. “It’s okay,” you whisper, even though you know it is not.

He shakes his head against you. “No,” he breathes, voice breaking on the word. “It’s not.”

You don’t argue. You just let him have it.

The quiet sobs come and go, each one sounding like it has been dragged up from somewhere deep and long-guarded. You stay with him through all of it, your grip firm but gentle, your presence the only thing in the room that feels stable.

After a while, his breathing begins to slow. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he admits, voice raw.

You close your eyes briefly, pressing your cheek against his hair. “You’re doing your best.”

“That’s not enough.”

The immediate certainty in his tone makes your chest ache.

“It’s for her,” you say softly.

He lets out a shaky breath. “That’s not what I mean.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still resting on his shoulders. “Then what do you mean?”

Chan hesitates. For a moment, it looks like he might retreat again, pull the walls back up, tuck everything away where it cannot be touched. But tonight has broken that pattern. Something in the way Haneul said that word. In the way you said what you did in her room. In the way he can no longer pretend this is something small and manageable.

He looks at you. And for the first time in a long time, he says her name out loud. “I still love Ki.”

The words land heavy between you. They don’t surprise you, but they do make your heart twist. “I know,” you say gently.

His eyes search your face, almost desperately. “I never stopped. I don’t think I ever will.”

“I know,” you repeat.

That part has never been the problem.

Chan swallows, his throat working around something painful. “But then there’s you.”

Your breath catches.

He lets out a quiet, broken laugh that holds no humor at all. “And I don’t know what to do with that,” he admits. “Because it feels like…” He trails off, shaking his head. “Like I’m betraying her. Like I’m betraying everything we had.”

“You’re not,” you say softly.

“How can you say that?” His voice cracks again, frustration and grief tangling together. “How can I look at you the way I do and not feel like I’m replacing her?”

“You’re not replacing her,” you say, a little firmer now, even as your heart aches for him. “She’s not something that can be replaced, Chan. What you had with her is yours. It always will be.”

He stares at you, torn. “Then what is this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

The question hangs there, fragile and impossible. You feel it too. All of it. The years. The restraint. The love you have buried so carefully it has started to hurt just to breathe around it.

“This is something new,” you say quietly. “Something different.”

He shakes his head again, eyes closing briefly. “It doesn’t feel different. It feels like I’m…” He exhales sharply. “Like I’m letting go of her.”

“You’re not letting go,” you say, your voice soft but steady. “You’re just…making room.”

His eyes open. There is something in them now that you have never seen so clearly before: Hope. Fear. And something dangerously close to the same thing you have been carrying alone for far too long.

He does not move away from you. And you do not let go. Not when the room is still thick with everything he’s just said, not when his breath is still uneven, not when the weight of his grief and his confession and your own carefully hidden feelings have all finally been pulled into the same fragile space.

You just hold him. Your hand stays at the back of his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, the other resting warm and steady against his shoulder. You can feel the slow, gradual shift in him as the storm eases—not gone, not resolved, but quieter.

Chan exhales, long and shaky. Then, after a moment, he leans back just enough that he can look at you.

Your hands slide down to rest lightly on his arms as he pulls away, but neither of you fully breaks contact. There’s still a thread there, invisible but unmistakable, stretched between your bodies and your breathing and the way neither of you seems ready to let the other go just yet.

He looks at you for a long time. Not like before, not like the fleeting glances or the careful, restrained attention you’ve grown used to. This is different. Open. Unhidden. Like he’s finally allowing himself to see you without pulling back at the last second.

His eyes trace your face slowly, as if committing it to memory in a way he hasn’t let himself do until now. Your eyes, your mouth, the soft curve of your cheek where your hair falls loose from behind your ear. There’s something almost disbelieving in it, like he’s trying to reconcile the person he’s known for years with the person he’s just admitted he wants.

You feel it everywhere—in your chest. In your throat. In the way your hands tighten just slightly against his arms without you meaning them to.

“Chan…” you start, quiet, uncertain what you’re even trying to say.

He doesn’t let you finish. “I love you.”

The words are simple. No buildup. No hesitation once they leave him. And yet they land like something enormous.

Your breath catches, your entire body going still as they settle into the space between you. You knew—some part of you must have known, because nothing else could explain the way he’s looked at you, the way tonight unfolded, the way everything has been quietly building for years—but hearing it is different. Hearing it makes it real in a way that can’t be folded away again.

Chan swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “I didn’t want to,” he admits, voice rough and unguarded. “I tried not to. For a long time.”

You don’t interrupt.. Because he’s still speaking like something is finally spilling out after being held back too long.

“I told myself it was just gratitude,” he continues, a faint, broken smile touching his mouth before it fades again. “That you were good with her, good for her, and I was just relieved. That’s all it was supposed to be.”

Your heart aches at the quiet self-denial in his words.

“But it wasn’t,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “It kept getting harder to ignore. The way you take care of her. The way you just fit here.” His eyes flick briefly around the room before coming back to you. “The way you make everything feel easier without even trying.”

Your fingers curl slightly against his sleeves.

“And I hated it,” he adds, more quietly. “Because every time I realized how much I…” He stops, exhales, tries again. “How much I needed you, it felt like I was losing something I wasn’t supposed to let go of.”

You can see it now, clearer than ever. The war he’s been fighting alone.

“I kept thinking,” he goes on, his voice dipping lower, “if I let myself have this—have you—then what does that say about her? About what we had? About the promises I made?”

You soften, your hand lifting instinctively to his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along the line of his jaw. “It doesn’t say anything bad,” you whisper.

He leans into your touch without thinking. “I’m supposed to be enough,” he says, and there’s something almost desperate in it now. “For Haneul. For everything. I’m her dad, I’m all she has left, and I feel like if I don’t hold everything together perfectly, then I’m failing both of them.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “Chan…”

“I have to do it all,” he continues, his voice cracking slightly. “Because Ki can’t. Because she’s gone. And if I start needing someone else—if I start wanting someone else—then what does that make me?”

The question isn’t rhetorical. It’s raw. Real. Terrifying in its honesty.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you let your hand slide fully to his face, cradling it gently, guiding his attention back to you when his gaze starts to drift somewhere far away again.

“It makes you human,” you say softly.

His eyes flicker.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you continue, your voice steady even as your heart beats harder. “You were never meant to. Loving someone again doesn’t erase what you had with her. It doesn’t mean you’re failing her or Haneul.” You swallow, your thumb brushing once more against his skin. “It just means your heart didn’t stop when she left.”

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, slowly, you lean forward.

The kiss is soft. Tentative in a way, like you’re both stepping into something fragile and sacred all at once. Your lips brush his gently, testing, asking without words if this is real, if this is allowed, if this is something he can accept.

Chan stills completely. Then he exhales into you, something in him giving way all over again.

When you pull back just slightly, your forehead hovering close to his, your voice is barely more than a breath. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Then his hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers warm and sure despite the tremor still lingering in them. And this time, when he kisses you, there is nothing tentative about it.

He pulls you closer, closing the space between you in a way that feels like a decision, like a line being crossed that neither of you can step back from now. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of urgency that has been building for far too long, not rushed but deep, grounding, as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you, the reality of this moment.

You respond without thinking, your hands finding his shoulders, then his chest, holding onto him just as tightly as he holds onto you.

Everything else fades. The room. The hallway. The years of restraint. There is only this—the quiet sound of your breathing, the warmth of his hands, the way his grip tightens. 

You both pull back to breathe, and before he can say anything, you speak. “Can I make you feel good? Can I show you how much I love you? ”

Your words hang in the quiet air of Chan’s bedroom, a soft demand that stops the slow sway of your bodies against each other. The light from the hallway casts a long, warm stripe across the floor, painting the edge of the bed in gold. His hands, which had been cradling your hips as you kissed, freeze on your skin.

“All of you,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw.

Chan looks down at you, his eyes—a deep, tired brown that has finally started to shine again—searching yours. His breath, warm and steady, flows over your cheek. He doesn’t speak. He just nods, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin that feels like the dropping of a final, heavy weight he’s carried for years.

He lets go of you, his fingers sliding from the curve of your waist with a lingering drag. You stand and reach for his sweats before kneeling before him.

The floor is soft through the thin fabric of your summer dress. You look up at him as you peel his sweats and boxers down his legs, your hands working slowly, taking the time to feel the heat of his thighs, the strength in his calves. He pulls his shirt over his head, the fabric falling to the floor beside you. And there he sits before you, completely exposed.

Chan is perfect. His chest is broad, arms defined, shoulders solid, but they carry a permanent slope, a bearing of quiet burden. And between his legs, his cock stands half-hard, a promise waiting to be fully realized.

It’s beautiful to you. Not in a sculpted, idealized way, but in a real way. The shaft is thick, a solid, warm column of flesh with a slight curve upward. The head is a darker shade, a flushed plum color, already glistening with a single, clear bead of moisture at its tip. The skin is smooth, but you can see the faint tracery of veins underneath, a network of life pulsing just beneath the surface. 

You lean forward, bringing your face close. The scent of him fills your nose—the faint, musky aroma of a man, and something deeper, something uniquely his. You don’t speak. You just open your mouth and press your lips to the side of his shaft.

The skin is hot. Silken. You kiss it, a soft, closed-mouth press that makes his whole body shiver. You hear a shaky intake of air above you. Your tongue comes out then, flat and wet, and you lick a long, slow stripe from the base all the way up to the crown. The taste is clean, salty, male. That bead of precum meets your tongue and you take it, a tiny, sweet-bitter pearl that you savor.

You look up at him again. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed. His hands are clenched at his sides, fists balled tight. He’s holding on, you think. Holding on to control, to the memory of how to receive pleasure without guilt.

You want to give him that permission. To shatter that control.

Your lips open wider. You take the head of his cock into your mouth, circling it, sucking lightly. It’s not fully hard yet, but it responds instantly to the heat and wetness of your mouth, thickening, lengthening, the curve becoming more pronounced. You suck harder, pulling more of him inside. Your lips stretch around his girth. You feel the ridge of his crown press against the roof of your mouth, a firm, smooth bulge. Your tongue dances underneath, flicking against the sensitive seam where the head meets the shaft—his frenulum. You trace it with the tip of your tongue, a gentle, teasing stroke that makes his hips jerk forward.

A groan escapes him, low and ragged. It’s the first sound he’s made, and it cracks the quiet like thunder.

You pull back, letting his cock slip from your lips with a wet pop. It’s fully erect now, standing proud and rigid, pointing up toward his stomach. The shaft is thick, a deep, flushed pink. The head is swollen, dark and gleaming with your saliva and his own fluids.

“Chan,” you murmur, your voice husky. “Look at me.”

He forces his eyes open. They’re hazy, unfocused with need. He looks down at you, kneeling before him like an offering, your face level with his sex.

“I want you to feel this,” you say. “I want you to let yourself feel it.”

You don’t wait for another answer. You dive forward again, taking him deep.

This time, you don’t tease. You engulf him. Your lips seal around his shaft, and you push your head forward, taking him as far into your mouth as you can. The head presses deep, nudging at the entrance to your throat. You relax, letting your jaw go slack, and he slides deeper, a hot, solid invasion that fills your mouth completely. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, drawing hard on him.

The feeling is intense for you, too. The weight of him on your tongue. The smooth, insistent pressure against your tongue. The salty, living taste that floods your senses. You move your head back, then forward again, establishing a rhythm. 

Your hands come up to cradle what your mouth cannot take. One hand wraps around the base of his shaft, your fingers squeezing the firm root. The other hand cups his balls, weighing them in your palm, feeling their fullness, their heat. You roll them gently, a soft, kneading massage that makes his thighs tremble.

Your head bobs. Your lips slide along his skin, a slick, wet glide. Each time you pull back, his cock emerges shiny and dripping, coated in a mix of your saliva and his own essence. Each time you plunge forward, your mouth accepts him greedily, swallowing him down.

Chan’s hands come to your head. They don’t push or guide. They simply rest there, his palms on your cheeks, his fingers threading into your hair. It’s a touch of connection, of gratitude. His thumbs stroke your temples.

You increase the pace. Not frantic. Not desperate. But purposeful. Your suction becomes stronger, your tongue more active. You swirl it around his head each time you reach the top, licking across that sensitive ridge, teasing the tiny slit at the tip. You feel him pulse in your mouth, a hard, rhythmic throb that signals his building climax.

His breathing changes. It becomes ragged, shallow pants. His hips begin to move in tiny, involuntary thrusts, matching your rhythm. His cock slides in and out of your mouth with a wet, rhythmic sound—shhhlick, shhhlick, shhhlick.

“God…” he gasps, the word torn from him. “I’m…I’m gonna…”

You know. You feel it. The tension in his shaft, the way his balls draw up tighter against his body, the frantic pulse beating under your tongue. You want it. You want all of it.

You pull back until just the head is in your lips, suckling fiercely, your tongue fluttering against his frenulum in rapid, tiny strokes. Your hand on his shaft pumps in time with your sucking, a tight, milking motion.

His climax erupts. It’s not a single burst. It’s a series of them, a rolling, hot flood that pours into your mouth. The first spurt hits your tongue, thick and warm, a distinct, slightly bitter taste that is purely him. The second follows instantly, another gush that coats your mouth and fills your cheeks. You swallow, taking it down, but more comes. The third, the fourth—a continuous, generous release that you work to accept, sucking hard to pull every drop from him.

Chan cries out, a raw, unfiltered sound of release that echoes in the quiet room. His body locks and he falls onto the bed, his back arching, hands clutching your head. His hips push forward, driving his cock deeper into your mouth as he empties himself completely.

You stay there, sucking gently through the last few pulses, until his shaft softens slightly in your mouth, until the flow subsides. Then you slowly let him slip out.

His cock lays against his stomach, spent, glistening with a mix of your saliva and his own spend. You lean forward and kiss it once more, a soft, affectionate press against the damp head.

You rise then, your knees aching slightly from the floor. You stand before him, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Chan’s eyes are open, staring at you with a dazed, awed expression. His face is flushed, his chest heaving.

“You…” he starts, but his voice fails.

You smile, a slow, tender curve of your lips before climbing onto the bed with him, straddling his hips. You reach for the hem of your cotton dress, pulling it up over your head and discarding it onto the floor. You’re naked now, save for your panties. You hook your thumbs into the sides of those and peel them down your legs, kicking them away.

You look down at him, at his body spread out before you, at his softened cock resting on his belly. You see the love in his eyes, the trust, the raw openness. It fills you with a warmth that spreads from your heart to every extremity.

You lean down and kiss his mouth. His lips are soft, pliant. He kisses you back, a slow, deep melding of mouths that tastes of shared intimacy. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm, the rise and fall of his breathing.

“Do you have a condom?,” you whisper against his lips.

He nods. You reach over to the bedside table, to the small drawer and take one out, the foil packet cool in your hand. You open it, and you roll the latex down his length with careful, tender hands. He’s already beginning to stir again, his cock responding to your touch, filling out once more beneath the sheath.

When he’s protected, you position yourself over him. You kneel on either side of his hips, looking down at the junction of your bodies. Your own sex is ready, aching for him. You’ve been wet for a long time now. You can feel the heat pooling between your legs, the slippery evidence of your desire coating your inner thighs.

You guide his cock, holding it steady and lower yourself, slowly, letting the crowned head press against your entrance.

Your vulva is swollen with anticipation. The outer lips are plump, a deeper pink than usual, parted slightly by your own moisture. The inner lips are slick, glistening, framing the opening that now welcomes him. You feel the pressure of his tip against your flesh, a firm, promising nudge.

You sink down. The head of his cock enters you, pushing past your outer lips, penetrating your opening. The feeling is exquisite—a slow, stretching fullness that makes you gasp. Your walls are snug, gripping him immediately as he slides deeper. You feel every inch of his progress, the smooth drag of his shaft along your sensitive, soaked inner flesh.

You go down until you’re seated fully on him, his entire length buried inside you. Your body accepts him completely. Your walls stretch to accommodate his girth, hugging him tightly. The head of his cock presses deep, reaching a place that makes your eyes flutter. 

You stay there for a moment, just feeling him. Feeling the connection. The heat. The perfect fit.

Then you begin to move. You rise up, a slow, deliberate lift that drags his cock almost entirely out of you, until just the head remains nestled inside. Then you sink back down, taking him in again, a smooth, gliding descent. Your hips roll as you do it, a gentle, circular motion that grinds his shaft against your walls.

The pace is slow. Sensual. There’s no frantic pounding, no desperate race. This is a joining, a communion. Each upward lift is a tease, a near-separation that makes you both ache. Each downward plunge is a reunion, a filling that makes you both sigh.

Your breasts move with your rhythm. As you rise and fall, they bounce in a soft, circular dance, their weight shifting with each motion. Chan’s eyes are fixed on them, watching the movement, the way your nipples harden and peak in the cool air of the room.

Your hands find his chest. You splay your fingers over his pectorals, feeling the firm muscle underneath. You lean forward, changing your angle, and this shifts the sensation inside you dramatically. Now, as you sink down, his cock rubs directly along the front wall of your pussy, stroking over your most sensitive spot—the swollen, hungry bundle of nerves just inside your entrance.

A sharp, sweet pleasure bolts through you. Your breath catches. You moan, a low, continuous sound that spills from your lips without thought.

“Chan…oh, that’s…right there…”

He understands. His hands come to your hips, not to control, but to feel. His palms cup your bottom, feeling the flesh there jiggle and tighten with each of your movements. Your ass is firm, and as you ride him, it claps softly against his thighs, a gentle, rhythmic percussion of flesh.

You speed up slightly. Your rises are higher now, pulling him almost completely out before you take him back in with a smooth, wet slide. The sound of your joining fills the room—a soft, slick, repeating noise of flesh meeting flesh, of moisture spreading.

Inside you, the feelings multiply. Each time his cock enters, it stretches your opening wide, a brief, glorious pressure that gives way to a smooth glide. Your walls clasp around him, squeezing, then relaxing as he pulls back. The condom makes a slight difference—a faint, latex texture over his skin—but the heat, the size, the shape of him are all there, transmitted through the thin barrier.

His own pleasure is rebuilding. You can see it on his face. His eyes are half-closed, his mouth open in a silent, sustained groan. His hips begin to meet yours, pushing upward as you come down, adding his own force to your movements. The union becomes a collaboration, a shared rhythm.

Your clit, swollen and exposed, rubs against the base of his shaft with each of your downward strokes. The friction is indirect, but constant, a building stimulation that starts to coil a tight spring of tension low in your belly.

You lean forward further, bracing your hands on his shoulders. This changes your angle again, and now his cock is driving even deeper, pressing firmly against that front wall, stroking over your G-spot with every inward motion. The sensation is overwhelming, a deep, internal massage that makes your whole body shudder.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words coming out between gasps. “I love this…I love being with you like this…”

Chan’s eyes open fully, locking with yours. His hands slide from your hips to your back, pulling you closer against him. “I love you,” he rasps, his voice thick with emotion and arousal. “I feel…I feel alive again. With you.”

The words, the connection, the physical joining—it all combines, pushing you toward your own peak. The coil inside you tightens, winding tighter with every stroke, every deep fill, every grind of your clit against him.

Your movements become more urgent, though still controlled. Your rises are quicker, your descents more forceful. Your breath comes in sharp pants. Your breasts bounce more vigorously now, a faster, more pronounced dance. Your ass cheeks slap against his thighs with a firmer sound, a rhythmic beat that matches the pounding of your hearts.

Inside, your pussy is drenched, flooded with your own fluids. The condom is slick with them, making each stroke smoother, easier. Your walls grip him tightly, then release, a pulsing clasp that seems to pull him deeper each time.

You’re close. So close. The spring is wound to its limit.

Chan feels it too. His thrusts become more insistent, his upward drives meeting your downward rides with perfect timing. His cock is a hard, relentless piston inside you, stroking, filling, claiming.

You cry out, a sharp, broken sound as the spring finally snaps.

Your orgasm isn’t a single burst. It’s a rolling, wave-like series of contractions that grip your entire lower body. Your cunt clenches around his shaft in rapid, intense pulses, a squeezing rhythm that milks him through the condom. Your clit flares with a sharp, electric pleasure that radiates out through your pelvis. Your thighs shake. Your back arches.

You see stars behind your closed eyelids. A hot, blinding release floods through you, leaving you gasping, trembling, clinging to his shoulders.

Chan follows you, pushed over the edge by your internal convulsions. His hips buck upward, driving deep as he holds you tight. His own climax, muted by the condom, is still a powerful, physical event. You feel his body stiffen beneath you, feel the hard, throbbing pulse of his cock inside you as he finds his release. His groan is long, drawn-out, a sound of complete surrender. “Oh my God,” he pants out, throat raw.

You collapse forward onto his chest, your body spent, your muscles loose. You lay there, his cock still inside you, both of you joined, both of you breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps. The room is quiet again, save for the sound of your panting, the faint rustle of the sheets.

Slowly, carefully, you lift yourself off him. His softened cock slips out of you, the condom slick and full. You dispose of it quietly, then crawl back onto the bed beside him, curling into his side.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. His skin is hot, damp with sweat. His heart beats a strong, steady rhythm against your ear.

“Stay,” he murmurs, his voice sleepy, thick with contentment. “Please don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Channie.”

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[ddearina]

Oh belive me, when i tell you I cried, I CRIED.

[binniebb]

102% ⋆ seo changbin

you and changbin have been competing for the top grade since high school. so when you get a perfect score and he somehow gets 102%, it should feel like just another round—except lately, the rivalry feels a little too personal.

⤷ moodboard

pairing academic rival!changbin x afab!reader genre enemies to lovers ; semi crack rating mature, 18+ word count 11.5k warnings graphic & detailed smut ; switch!changbin ; switch!reader ; oral (f receiving) ; p in v sex

𓄲 another binnie fic for the books! requested by my love @minniebitesfr who wanted an academic rival changbin with a seven minutes in heaven feature teehee. hope i did okay hun! have some things in the works, so look out for more teasers! enjoy hunnies <3

m a s t e r l i s t .ᐟ i n b o x .ᐟ

Midterm days always transform the lecture hall into something close to a battlefield.

Not the loud, explosive kind. No. This one hums with a quieter tension. Chairs scrape against tile. Backpacks unzip and zip again. Someone in the back mutters a prayer to whatever academic deity handles statistics and cognitive theory.

You sit two rows from the front with your pencil already lined perfectly against the edge of your notebook. Your posture is calm. Composed. The picture of a student who absolutely did not spend three consecutive nights rereading every chapter until the words started dancing on the page.

Professor Kim stands at the front of the room with a stack of midterms in his arms.

The stack might as well be a pile of loaded weapons.

“Overall,” he says, adjusting his glasses as he looks over the class, “I was impressed.”

A collective sigh ripples through the room. Impressed is good. Impressed means survival.

He starts calling names, and one by one people shuffle up to grab their papers, some looking hopeful, others already defeated. A guy two seats behind you gets his exam and immediately groans.

You barely hear any of it. Your attention drifts two rows over.

Seo Changbin.

Your academic nemesis. Your intellectual parasite. The human embodiment of a smugness.

He sits slouched in his seat like this entire class is mildly entertaining background noise. Dark hair, sleeves rolled up, thick forearms resting on the tiny arm desk, the furniture not designed for people built like him. His pencil spins between his fingers lazily.

He turns his head and catches you looking. His mouth tilts upward.

You snap your gaze forward immediately, jaw tightening.

Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.

“Y/N.”

You stand instantly and walk to the front. Professor Kim hands you your exam, and you flip it over before you even reach your seat. A bright red 100% beams up at you from the top corner. Heat blooms in your chest.

Victory. Pure, glittering victory.

You press your lips together, but it doesn’t stop the smile threatening to split your face in half. As soon as you sit, your shoulders do a tiny shimmy. A silent celebration. A restrained little dance of academic superiority that no one notices except maybe the girl beside you who glances over like you’ve lost your mind.

Perfect score. Again.

You smooth the paper on your desk and inhale slowly through your nose. Then, very casually, very deliberately, you turn your head again. Time to see the damage.

Changbin is already walking back down the aisle toward his seat. And he’s smiling.

No. Not smiling. Smirking.

Your eyes narrow.

He reaches his desk, turns slightly, and lifts his exam in the air like he’s presenting a trophy. Your gaze locks onto the number at the top. 102%

One hundred and two percent. One zero two. 

You stare, unblinking.

He wiggles the paper slightly between his fingers. Then he sits, completely unbothered, crossing one ankle over his knee as if he didn’t just commit a war crime against your academic pride. Your silent victory dance dies a tragic death.

The rest of class passes in a blur of barely contained rage. You hear none of the lecture. Not a single word about neural pathways or behavioral reinforcement. The only thing echoing in your skull is 102% flashing like a neon sign.

Extra credit. Extra credit he apparently knew about. Extra credit no one told you about.

When the class finally ends, chairs scrape across the floor as people pack their bags and shuffle toward the exit.

Your notebook snaps shut with the force of a courtroom gavel.

Professor Kim barely has time to sit down at his desk before you’re standing in front of him.

“Professor.” Your voice is tight. Very tight.

He glances up calmly. “Yes?”

You place your exam on his desk. “One hundred percent.”

“Yes,” he says pleasantly. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you.” A pause. “But I have a question.”

He folds his hands on the desk. “Go ahead.”

Your eyes narrow. “What,” you say carefully, “was the extra credit?”

Professor Kim blinks once. Then he leans back in his chair like someone settling in for entertainment. “Well—”

“Because,” you continue, the words spilling out faster now, “if there was extra credit available, I would have liked the opportunity to complete it. And I’m fairly certain that offering one student additional points that weren’t made available to the entire class is a little questionable academically speaking, and not to mention extremely unfair given the competitive structure of your class. And if the grading scale allows students to exceed the maximum score then logically that should have been communicated beforehand because otherwise it skews the curve entirely and—”

You stop, only because Professor Kim raises a single hand. “May I speak now?”

You inhale. Long. Slow. Through your nose. “Fine.”

He smiles faintly. “Mr. Seo came to my office hours last week.”

Your head tilts.

“He asked if there was any extra credit he could complete to deepen his understanding of the material.”

Your eyes narrow further. “And?”

“I gave him a short research assignment. Five pages analyzing the practical applications of cognitive bias in courtroom testimony.”

You blink. Five pages. That little—

Professor Kim continues, unfazed. “He turned it in two days later. It was excellent. I awarded him two additional points.”

Your jaw tightens. You look down at your perfect exam. Then back up at him. Then down again. A slow burn creeps up your spine. “I see.”

Your gaze shifts to the left.

And there he is, leaning against one of those awful little chair-desk combo things that universities insist on buying in bulk. One hip propped against the side, arms crossed loosely.

He’s eating an apple. Crunching into it like the most relaxed man alive while chaos unfolds three feet away. His eyes meet yours. He chews, swallows, and then his mouth curls upward into the most unbearably smug grin you have ever seen.

Your eye twitches. “You asked for extra credit,” you say slowly.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Seemed like a good idea.”

“You wrote a five page paper.”

“Six actually.”

Another bite of the apple. Another crunch.

Your professor quietly swivels his chair away and pretends to look at his computer. Coward.

You step closer to Changbin. “You couldn’t just take the hundred.”

He tilts his head. “And let you win?”

Your hands clench at your sides. “That wasn’t winning.”

“Sure it was.”

He tosses the apple core into a nearby trash can without even looking. It lands perfectly. Then he straightens, pushing away from the chair-desk combo, towering just slightly over you as he leans in with that same infuriating grin. “Don’t worry,” he says lightly. “You still did great.”

Your eye twitches again. “I’m going to beat you on the final.”

His smile widens. “Looking forward to it.”

Then he grabs his backpack, slings it over one shoulder, and strolls past you toward the door like he didn’t just ignite a fresh chapter in your decade-long academic war.

You stand there, gripping your exam, staring after him.

Unbelievable.

And yet somewhere, buried underneath the irritation clawing at your ribs, there’s another feeling you refuse to examine too closely. Because when he smiled like that, leaning in close enough that you could smell apple and something warm and clean on his skin…

You should let it go.

That would be the mature thing to do. The adult thing. The very psychologically informed thing, considering you are literally studying human behavior for a living.

Instead, you storm out of the lecture hall three seconds after Changbin leaves.

The hallway outside is loud with the usual post-class chaos. Students cluster in groups, comparing grades, groaning, celebrating, debating whether the exam was unfair.

You barely register any of it. Because your eyes are locked onto the broad back moving down the hallway ahead of you.

Your grip tightens on your exam. “Seo!”

He doesn’t even slow down.

You quicken your pace until you’re practically power-walking through the crowd. Students part around you like startled fish as you close the distance. “Changbin!”

That gets him. He turns halfway around while still walking backwards, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Yes?”

You catch up with him in three strides. “You’re unbelievable.”

He tilts his head, looking genuinely curious. “For doing extra work?”

“For doing secret extra work.”

He snorts. “There’s nothing secret about office hours.”

“You knew no one else would ask!”

“Sounds like a strategic advantage.”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” you repeat.

“Yes.”

You step closer. “I got a hundred.”

“Congratulations.”

“You got one hundred and two.”

“Also congratulations.”

Your voice climbs higher. “You didn’t earn two extra points. You manipulated the system.”

“I wrote six pages.”

“You changed the grading structure!”

“I used initiative.”

“I would have used initiative if I had known!”

“Skill issue.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

Students begin flowing around the two of you as the hallway clears, giving your argument a strange little stage in the middle of campus traffic.

Your voices overlap now. “You always do this—”

“Always do what?”

“You turn everything into a competition.”

“You started the competition.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“You’re the one who keeps raising the bar!”

“You’re the one who keeps chasing it!”

Your steps shift unconsciously. You’re closer now, though neither of you seems to notice.

“Because you keep cheating,” you snap.

“I’m not cheating.”

“You exploited a loophole!”

“You didn’t ask!”

“I shouldn’t have needed to!”

“You sound like you’re mad because you didn’t think of it first!”

Your breath catches slightly because that might be partially true. You both step closer again without realizing. Your voices are faster now, overlapping, words spilling out in a rapid fire exchange that barely leaves room for breathing.

“You act like you’re some academic prodigy—”

“You act like you’re the only smart person on campus—”

“I never said that!”

“You don’t have to say it!”

“You’re impossible!”

“You’re predictable!”

“You’re arrogant!”

“You’re competitive!”

You both stop. Because suddenly you’re standing inches apart. Close enough that your voices don’t need to be loud anymore. Close enough that you can see the tiny crease near his eye when he squints. Close enough that whatever laundry detergent he uses somehow slips past your defenses.

Your brain stalls. Changbin’s mouth opens slightly like he’s about to say something. Then he seems to realize how close you are too.

Both of you step back at the same time. A synchronized retreat. Your hand flies to the strap of your backpack. His fingers rake awkwardly through his hair. You glance down the hallway like maybe someone saw that. A group of freshmen walk past laughing about something completely unrelated. No one is watching. Which somehow makes it worse.

Changbin clears his throat. You adjust the sleeve of your sweater even though it does not need adjusting. Silence stretches between you for a second. Then he says, casually, “You going to the party tonight?”

Your eyes flick back to him. “What party?”

“My frat’s.” He says it like it’s obvious. Which it kind of is.

SKZ. Technically it’s a Greek organization. A fraternity with letters and bylaws and house meetings and all that traditional nonsense. In reality it’s just a house full of extremely chaotic men who somehow run the most legendary parties on campus.

You cross your arms. “Oh. That.”

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Yes. That.”

You tilt your chin upward with practiced dignity. “I don’t go to frat parties.”

“Right.”

“I have better things to do.”

“Of course.”

You glance away. “But my friends wanted to go.”

He nods slowly, like he’s processing important academic data. “Your friends.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re just accompanying them.”

“Obviously.”

“Out of generosity.”

“Exactly.”

Changbin’s mouth twitches. “Well,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets, “I’ll be there.”

“I figured.”

“It’s my house.”

“Yes. I know how fraternities work.”

“Good.”

You both stand there for another awkward second. Neither of you seems entirely sure how this conversation is supposed to end.

Finally you turn. “Whatever,” you mutter. “Enjoy your two extra points.”

“I will.”

You start walking down the opposite end of the hallway. He heads the other direction.

Three steps later you hear his shoes slow behind you.

You don’t turn. You absolutely do not turn.

But behind you, Changbin glances back over his shoulder. Just once. Watching you disappear into the crowd with that determined stride like you’re marching toward battle instead of your next class.

And despite the argument. Despite the rivalry. Despite the fact that you just threatened academic war over two stupid points, a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth before he turns back around and keeps walking.

Jia is holding your face hostage. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Her fingers are clamped around your chin while she squints at you with the focus of a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. The bedroom smells like hairspray, setting spray, and the faint sugary perfume Sana insists on wearing even when she’s just going to the grocery store.

“Stop moving,” Jia says.

“I’m not moving.”

“You’re breathing hard.”

“I can’t control it.”

“Then stop glaring.”

You try to glare less aggressively. It does not work.

The four of you are packed into your bedroom like a chaotic beauty salon. The vanity is buried under a battlefield of makeup palettes, brushes, mascara tubes, lip glosses, and the empty iced coffee Jia finished fifteen minutes ago but refuses to throw away.

Jisoo sits cross-legged on your bed, phone in hand, watching the process like it’s a live sporting event. Sana is kneeling on the floor beside your closet, currently wrestling with a hanger that seems determined to keep the little black dress it’s attached to forever..

“Soooo, you started a fight,” Jia says, dabbing concealer beneath your eye with ruthless efficiency.

“I did not start a fight.”

“You chased him out of class.”

“I followed him.”

“To yell at him.”

“To ask a question.”

Jia leans back slightly to admire her work. “You started a fight over two points.”

“Two unfair points.”

She snorts. “Still two points.”

You glare at her.

“Sweetheart,” Jia says, grabbing a fluffy brush and dusting powder across your cheekbones, “he wrote a paper.”

“A secret paper.”

“There is nothing secret about office hours.”

“Stop siding with him.”

“I’m not siding with him,” Jia insists. “I’m just saying the man played the game.”

She pauses. Then her mouth curls slightly. “And also he’s a total hottie.”

Your glare intensifies, but you don’t deny it. You do, however, point a mascara tube at her like a weapon. “Do not encourage him.”

“I’m encouraging you.”

“There is nothing to encourage.”

“Mm.”

“Jia.”

“He’s hot.”

“Jia.”

“He’s smart.”

“Jia.”

“He’s built like a brick wall.”

“JIA.”

She bursts out laughing.

Jisoo pipes up from the bed. “I think he likes you.”

Your head snaps toward her so fast Jia almost pokes you in the eye with eyeliner. “What?”

Jisoo shrugs. “I mean, it makes sense.”

“It makes no sense.”

“He goes out of his way to compete with you.”

“That’s because he’s annoying.”

“Or,” Jisoo says thoughtfully, “he likes you.”

“That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”

“It’s not dumb.”

“It’s extremely dumb.”

Jisoo tilts her head. “Chan thinks so too.”

Silence falls over the room. You blink. “What?”

“My boyfriend,” she says helpfully.

“I know who Chan is.”

Chan. As in Bang Chan. As in SKZ fraternity president. As in Changbin’s literal frat president and housemate.

Your voice climbs several octaves. “WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO CHAN ABOUT THIS?”

Jisoo blinks at you, completely unbothered. “What?”

“You can’t just casually discuss my academic rivalry with his friend group!”

“I didn’t know it was classified information.”

“It’s not classified it’s just—” you sputter.

She looks genuinely confused. “Why?”

“Because that’s humiliating!”

“But Chan asks about you sometimes.”

“WHY?”

“Because he thinks the rivalry is funny.”

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

“He said you two argue like an old married couple,” Jisoo adds cheerfully.

You scream into your hands.

Sana finally untangles the little black dress and holds it up triumphantly. “Okay but hear me out,” she says.

You peek through your fingers. “What.”

She shrugs. “You guys should just have sex.”

The room goes completely still. You stare at her. She stares back, perfectly serious.

“It would fix the tension,” she continues. “Sex solves a lot of problems.”

You lower your hands slowly. “Sana.”

“Yes?”

“I will push you down the stairs.”

She gasps dramatically. “You would not.”

“You suggested I sleep with my academic nemesis.”

She waves a hand. “Enemies to lovers.”

“That is not happening.”

“Sexual tension though.”

“There is no sexual tension.”

Jia snorts. “Please.”

“None.”

Sana tosses the dress at you. “Put it on.”

You catch it reluctantly. “This is too short.”

“That’s the point.”

“This is inappropriate for a frat party.”

“Nothing is inappropriate for a frat party.”

You sigh heavily and stand. “Fine.”

Ten minutes later you’re squeezed into the little black dress while Jia fixes your hair and Jisoo insists on adding lip gloss.

Sana steps back to admire the final product. “Oh yeah,” she says. “Changbin’s gonna lose his mind.”

“He will do no such thing.”

“You look hot.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“Hot and angry,” Jia adds.

“Stop saying hot.”

“Hot.”

“JIA.”

“Okay okay.”

Eventually the four of you pile into the Uber you ordered.

The driver is weird immediately. He keeps trying to make conversation while staring at Sana in the rearview mirror. “So you girls headed to a party?” he asks.

“No,” Sana says flatly.

“You’re dressed pretty fancy.”

“Funeral.”

He pauses. “Oh.”

“Very tragic.”

The driver keeps talking anyway, which earns him progressively more aggressive side-eyes until the car finally pulls up in front of the SKZ fraternity house.

Music pulses through the walls, and lights glow from every window.

You climb out first. Jia stumbles slightly behind you, Jisoo thanks the driver politely, and Sana leans down toward the open window. “And if you keep staring at girls in the mirror like that,” she says sweetly, “I’m giving you one star and writing a very detailed review.”

The man goes pale. “Have a nice night!” He speeds away so fast the tires squeal.

Sana flips off the disappearing car. “Creep.”

Bass vibrates through the sidewalk. Voices and laughter spill from the front yard where clusters of people already gather under string lights. People are cheering loudly inside, and the unmistakable smell of cheap alcohol floats through the warm night air.

You adjust the hem of your dress. Totally normal. Totally fine. Totally not thinking about a certain smug psychology major who lives here.

You march toward the front door, your friends trailing behind you. And you absolutely, completely, definitely do not notice Seo Changbin standing on the front porch steps.

He’s leaning casually against the porch railing as your group walks up. The porch light casts a warm glow across the steps, music vibrating through the wood beneath his sneakers while people filter in and out of the front door behind him.

He spots you immediately, his expression shifting and his posture straightening slightly. Then his mouth curls into that familiar, irritatingly confident smile. “Well,” he says, pushing himself off the railing.

Your friends slow behind you, sensing entertainment approaching.

Changbin looks over the group of you politely first. “Ladies,” he says. Then his eyes land on you, and stay there. “You all look wonderful tonight.” The words are addressed to everyone, supposedly.

His gaze drifts down before he can stop it, clocking the hem of your dress. The very short hem of your dress.

Heat rushes to your face instantly. Your hand flies down to tug the fabric lower even though it absolutely will not get any longer no matter how much you bully it.

“Don’t,” you mutter.

“Don’t what?” he asks innocently.

“Look.”

“I’m just greeting my guests.”

“You’re staring.”

Behind him the front door swings open and the rest of his friends spill onto the porch like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

Minho appears first, effortlessly cool as always with a lazy smile. Then Hyunjin. Buzzcut Hyunjin. The shaved hair somehow makes him look even sharper, cheekbones cutting through the porch light like someone sculpted him with a chisel. And finally Chan, who practically lights up when he sees Jisoo.

“Hey!” Chan says immediately, stepping forward.

Jisoo beams and throws her arms around him. The two of them hug like people who actually enjoy each other’s company, which makes Sana gag quietly beside you.

Minho nods toward you with a small smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Hyunjin walks straight over and pulls you into a quick hug. “You look nice tonight,” he says when he steps back. There’s a tiny bit of playful emphasis on nice.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Thank you.”

Hyunjin glances at your dress. “Very nice.”

“Okay,” you say dryly.

Changbin shifts beside him. It’s subtle. So subtle most people wouldn’t notice. But you do. He casually steps forward just enough that his shoulder bumps lightly into Hyunjin’s arm, forcing the taller man to shift half a step to the side. It looks accidental, but it absolutely isn’t.

Hyunjin glances down at him. Changbin pretends to examine something across the yard. Minho watches the exchange with visible amusement. Chan, meanwhile, looks delighted by the entire situation.

“Oh this is great,” he says, clapping his hands once.

Everyone turns toward him. He gestures between you and Changbin like he’s introducing a show. “I love seeing you two together.”

You and Changbin both freeze.

“What?” you say.

“What?” Changbin echoes.

Chan beams. “You guys going at it is my favorite thing.”

Your brain stalls. “Excuse me?”

“The arguments!” Chan says cheerfully. “The debates! The academic warfare!”

Jisoo nods enthusiastically beside him. You whip your head toward her. She gives you a bright thumbs up.

Changbin slowly turns his head toward Chan. “You enjoy that?”

“Very much.”

“You enjoy watching us argue.”

“It’s incredible,” Chan says. “The energy. The tension. The intellectual combat.”

Minho snorts quietly.

Chan claps his hands again. “Come on. Start debating.”

You blink. “What?”

“Start debating.”

“How can we just start argu—”

Hyunjin suddenly raises his voice. “SHOTS!”

The word slices through the porch like a starting pistol. A cheer erupts from inside the house.

Hyunjin disappears through the doorway for three seconds and reemerges with two green bottles held triumphantly in the air. “Important question,” he announces. He lifts one bottle in each hand. “Chamisul.” Then the other. “Or Jinro?”

You answer instantly. “Chamisul.”

“Jinro,” Changbin says at the exact same time.

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You heard me.”

“Jinro is terrible.”

“It’s literally smoother.”

“Chamisul has a cleaner finish.”

“Jinro has better balance.”

“Better balance?” you scoff. “It tastes like watered-down ass.”

“Chamisul tastes like actual ass.”

“Then you should love it.”

“Maybe. Depends who’s offering.”

“Shut up. Chamisul wins taste tests.”

“Among people with bad taste.”

You step closer. “It’s the best-selling brand.”

“Marketing.”

“Popularity matters.”

“Quality matters.”

Your voices climb higher as you talk faster. “You clearly don’t understand alcohol distribution economics—”

“You clearly don’t understand flavor profiles—”

“You’re defending Jinro like they’re paying you—” “And you’re trashing it like it keyed your car.”

Chan looks like Christmas morning. His eyes are shining. “YES,” he whispers excitedly.

You and Changbin now standing far too close again while passionately debating Korean liquor brands.

Hyunjin slowly raises the bottles. “Well,” he says thoughtfully. “Looks like we’re doing both.”

You regret coming to this party.

Not in the life-choices kind of way. But in the very specific way that creeps in when you find yourself sitting on the floor of a fraternity living room at midnight, slightly buzzed, surrounded by a ring of loud, half-drunk people chanting at a spinning glass bottle like it’s a ritual object.

How does this happen every time? How does every party in the history of human civilization eventually collapse into spin the bottle?

The SKZ house living room has been rearranged to accommodate the chaos. The couches are pushed against the walls, leaving a wide clearing on the rug where the game has formed naturally like a whirlpool of bad decisions.

Music still thumps faintly from somewhere deeper in the house, but here the focus is entirely on the circle. A bottle lies on its side in the middle of it. And the circle is very, very full.

You sit on your knees between Sana and Jia, which is a deliberate tactical choice because your dress is criminally short and the last thing you need is flashing half of Changbin’s fraternity by accident.

Your knees press into the carpet. Sana leans comfortably against your shoulder, clearly thriving in this environment. Jia is sipping something out of a red cup and watching everything with the calm amusement of someone observing a nature documentary.

Across the circle sit the rest of the SKZ boys and their collection of friends and party guests.

Minho is lounging with one arm draped over the back of the couch behind him, looking like he accidentally wandered into the game but decided to stay for entertainment.

Hyunjin sits cross-legged nearby, buzzcut hair somehow making his already dramatic expressions even more dramatic. A few random girls from campus are scattered around the circle too, giggling and whispering.

And directly across from you—

Changbin.

Because the universe has a sense of humor.

He sits with one knee bent and one arm draped casually across it, posture relaxed, expression amused. His eyes flick toward you occasionally. Just enough to be annoying.

You look away every time.

This game has been going for a while. The bottle spins. People cheer. Someone gets dared to take a shot. Someone else gets dared to text their ex. At one point Hyunjin is forced to bark like a dog for thirty seconds, which he commits to with disturbing enthusiasm.

The energy in the room grows louder and messier as drinks disappear and laughter gets easier. Then the bottle spins again. It slows, wobbles, and then stops, directly pointing at Changbin.

The room erupts immediately.

“OHHHHHH!”

“Let’s go!”

“Bin! Bin! Bin!”

A girl sitting two spots away from Minho leans forward eagerly. She’s pretty. Very pretty. Long hair, glossy lip gloss, the confident energy of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing at a frat party.

The girl who spun the bottle grins wickedly.

Changbin lifts an eyebrow. “Dare.”

“Alright. I dare you to let Yuna kiss you.”

The pretty girl immediately scoots forward.

You hate it. The feeling hits you so suddenly and violently it almost makes you dizzy. It’s irrational. It’s childish. It’s absolutely none of your business. And yet something sour twists in your stomach as she leans closer to him, smiling like she already knows this is going to happen.

You look away. Because watching that would be ridiculous. And embarrassing. And you definitely don’t care enough to sit there and witness—

Your eyes flick up despite yourself, and you see it. The girl is leaning forward to kiss him. But Changbin isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at you. His eyes meet yours for half a second. Then he turns his head slightly at the last moment. The girl’s lips land on his cheek instead. A quick, harmless peck.

The room explodes with laughter.

“Dodged!”

“Coward!”

Changbin leans back with a grin like it was completely accidental. “Sorry,” he says easily. “Missed.”

The girl laughs it off, shoving his shoulder playfully.

You’re still staring at him. He glances back at you again, and this time he doesn’t look away. You break eye contact first.

The bottle spins again. More laughter. More dares.

The night keeps unraveling.

When it's Sana's turn she reaches forward, grabbing the bottle. She spins it hard. The bottle whirs across the carpet, green glass catching the light as everyone leans forward to watch where it lands.

It slows, and then stops completely, pointing at you. Your stomach sinks.

The circle erupts again.

“OHHHH!”

“Y/N!”

You slowly look up.

Sana is already grinning. “Truth or dare,” she sings.

You stare at her.

Your brain runs the calculation immediately. Truth is not an option. Absolutely not. Sana is a menace. She will ask something terrifyingly specific like “Which person in this room would you hook up with if you had to choose?” or “Be honest, who in this circle do you secretly like?”

You straighten your shoulders. “Dare.”

The grin on Sana’s face somehow gets bigger.

Jia snorts quietly beside you. “Bold choice,” she murmurs.

You narrow your eyes at her.

Sana leans forward, elbows on her knees, clearly savoring the moment.

The entire circle has gone quiet. Even Chan and Jisoo look over from where they’re sitting on the couch watching the game.

Sana tilts her head. “Well,” she says sweetly. “I dare you…” She drags the pause out just long enough to make your stomach drop. “…to spend seven minutes in heaven...” A chorus of gasps and laughter ripples through the circle. Your brain freezes. Then she finishes the sentence. “...with Changbin.”

The room explodes.

“YES!”

“OH MY GOD!”

You whip your head toward her.

“Sana—”

She just beams at you.

Across the circle Changbin sits very still, looking straight at you.

You immediately try to stand up and leave the circle, which is the worst possible move because it only encourages them.

“Oh no you don’t!”

“Seven minutes!”

Hyunjin grabs Changbin by the shoulders and shoves him forward while Minho stands up and gestures dramatically toward the hallway like a game show host presenting a prize.

“Pantry’s free!” Minho announces.

“Pantry?” you repeat weakly.

“Yes,” Chan says cheerfully. “It’s the biggest small room we have.”

“That sentence doesn’t make sense.”

“It’ll fit two people.”

You open your mouth to protest. Sana simply grabs your arm and hauls forward.

“Have fun!” she sings.

Before you can fully object, the group herds both you and Changbin toward the kitchen like extremely enthusiastic cattle ranchers. Someone opens the pantry door.

“Seven minutes!”

Then you’re pushed inside.

The door shuts behind you, and the room goes quiet. Well, mostly quiet. You can still hear muffled laughter and music from the living room through the wall, but inside the pantry the sound dulls into a distant thump.

The space is small, designed for one person reaching for cereal boxes, not two fully grown adults who have spent the last several years academically threatening each other. Shelves line the back wall, stacked with snacks, ramen packets, bags of chips, random kitchen supplies, and a suspiciously large amount of instant noodles.

You take a careful step forward. Something crunches beneath your shoe. “What was that?”

Changbin glances down.

You shift your foot. Another crunch. “Great,” you mutter. “You should really clean this better.”

He leans slightly, peering at the floor. “I think Jisung just sweeps everything in here instead of using a dustpan.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“You think this is bad?” he snorts. “You should see his room under a blacklight."

You wrinkle your nose and shuffle again, trying to find a spot that doesn’t sound like you’re walking on broken crackers.

Your shoulder brushes his chest. Changbin inhales sharply.

Your head snaps up. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Don’t sigh like that.”

“I didn’t sigh.”

“You literally just sighed.”

“I inhaled.”

“Like you’re annoyed.”

“I’m not annoyed.”

“Well it sounded like you were annoyed.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

Changbin blinks at you. “You’re the one who started talking.”

“I’m responding to your attitude.”

“I don’t have an attitude.”

“You absolutely do.”

“You’re the one who’s snapping.”

“You sighed!”

“I breathed!” He runs a hand through his hair, clearly baffled. “This is insane.”

“You’re insane.”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“You existed in a judgmental way.”

“I was standing still!”

“In a judgmental posture!”

“What does that even mean?”

You cross your arms. “It means you’re judging me.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“You sighed when I touched you.”

“I did not sigh because you touched me.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really.”

“Because it sounded like you were deeply inconvenienced by my presence.”

“You’re the one who’s been acting like this entire party is beneath you.”

“It is beneath me.”

“You came anyway.”

“My friends dragged me.”

He slaps his hands over his face .

“At least I didn’t try to kiss random girls.”

He drops his hands. Your words hang in the air. Your brain catches up with your mouth half a second too late. Oops.

Changbin tilts his head slowly. “What?”

You immediately look at the shelf behind you like the ramen packets are fascinating. “Nothing.”

“You just brought up the girl from earlier.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

You shrug stiffly. “I just said you tried to kiss someone.”

“I did not try to kiss someone.”

“She leaned in.”

“And I turned my head.”

“After she got close.”

“I turned my head before.”

“You still let it happen.”

“I got kissed on the cheek.”

“That’s still a kiss.”

“That’s barely a kiss.”

“You seemed fine with it.”

“I wasn’t fine with it.”

“You didn’t look particularly distressed.”

“Because it was a joke.”

“Right.”

He stares at you. “You looked away.”

You blink. “What?”

“You looked away when she leaned in.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I was looking at something else.”

“Like the floor?”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe you didn’t want to see it.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Because it looked like you cared.”

“I did not care.”

“You sounded like you cared just now.”

“I’m making an observation.”

“You’re jealous.”

You choke. “I am not jealous.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I absolutely am not.”

“You brought it up out of nowhere.”

“Because it was relevant.”

“How was that relevant?”

“You’re the one who kissed someone.”

“I did not kiss someone.”

“You were involved in a kiss.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“You could have stopped it.”

“I did.”

“Barely.”

He stares at you for another second. Then suddenly he laughs. A short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says, leaning one shoulder against the shelf, “you’re mad about something that didn’t even happen.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re definitely mad.”

“I’m analyzing the situation.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not!”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

You open your mouth. Then pause. Your brain stalls because the answer sitting there is deeply inconvenient. You snap your mouth shut again.

Changbin watches you carefully. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

Your face feels hot. “You’re arrogant.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Push people.”

“I ask questions.”

“You poke at things.”

“You poke at things too.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because—” You stop.

He waits. “Because what?” he asks.

Your voice comes out sharper than you intend. “Because you make everything a competition!”

His eyebrows lift. “You’re the one who’s been competing with me for years.”

“Because you’re annoying!”

“Or maybe,” he says slowly, “you just like arguing with me.”

You scoff. “I do not like arguing with you.”

“You do.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Changbin.”

“Y/N.”

“You deliberately get under my skin.”

“You react every time.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

“You could ignore me.”

“I tried.”

“You failed.”

“Because you keep doing things like getting 102%!”

“You could’ve asked for extra credit.”

“You know I would have if I knew!”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because you didn’t tell me!”

He stares at you for a second. His voice drops slightly. “You think I didn’t tell you on purpose?”

Your arms tighten across your chest. “You like beating me.”

“I like challenging you.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No,” he says quietly, “it’s not.”

You glare at him.

He pushes off the shelf slightly. “You know why I asked for extra credit?”

“Because you’re competitive.”

“Because I knew you’d get a hundred.”

“That doesn’t—”

“I knew you’d ace the exam,” he continues. “So I asked for something extra.”

“That’s still competing.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You stare at him. “Then what is it?”

He hesitates for just a second. Then he says it. “I like keeping up with you.”

The words land softly between you. “That’s still competition.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“But that’s not the reason.”

Your heart starts beating faster. “Then what is the reason?”

Changbin looks at you like he’s deciding something. Like he’s weighing whether or not to say something dangerous. “You really don’t get it?”

“No.”

“You’ve never noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“That I like you.”

The pantry goes completely silent. “What?”

He huffs out a breath like he’s been holding that in for years. “I like you,” he repeats. “Have for a while.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Your brain tries to rearrange every argument, every conversation, every moment you’ve had with him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?”

“Because we fight all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not how liking someone works.”

“That’s exactly how it works when the person you like refuses to admit they like you back.”

Your eyes widen. “I do not—”

“You’re jealous of a girl kissing my cheek.”

“I am not jealous.”

“You brought it up twice.”

“That’s because—”

“Because you like me too.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

You step closer without realizing. “You are unbelievably confident.”

“And you’re unbelievably oblivious.”

“I am not oblivious.”

“You can’t even see that I like you, Y/N.”

“I-I’m frustrated.”

“With me.”

“Yes.”

“Because you like me.”

“That’s not—”

You stop. Because you’re standing inches apart again. Because he’s looking at you in that focused way that makes your thoughts scatter.

Your voice drops. “I hate that you might be right.”

Changbin smiles slightly. “So you do like me.”

You glare weakly. “Maybe.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m just confirming.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like insufferable.”

You sigh. “Unfortunately.”

“Seven minutes in heaven,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips again. “Right.”

You’re still standing far too close to him. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it did earlier.

The party outside is still going. You can hear it faintly through the walls. Music, laughter, someone shouting about more drinks. But it feels very far away.

Right now there is only this small pantry. And Changbin. And the words that just came out of his mouth.

Your brain is still trying to process that when he shifts his weight slightly. Just a small movement, but it brings him half a step closer.

Your back lightly touches the shelf behind you. A bag of chips crinkles softly somewhere near your shoulder, but neither of you looks away.

Your heart is beating in your throat.

“So,” he says again quietly.

“So,” you echo.

Your voice sounds thinner than you meant it to.

Changbin studies your face like he’s memorizing something. His eyes flick between yours, lingering there, searching. Then they drop, just briefly, to your mouth. The movement is small but it hits you like a spark to dry paper.

Heat climbs up your neck instantly. Your fingers tighten slightly where they’re resting against the shelf behind you. Changbin leans forward slowly, giving you every chance in the world to stop him.

His voice drops softer than before. “Can I kiss you?”

The question hits you like a shockwave. Your brain freezes completely.

You stare at him, then your head nods automatically before your mouth can catch up.

Changbin doesn’t move. His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Use your words,” he murmurs.

“Yes.” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

The corner of his mouth curves. “Good,” he says quietly. Then, softer. “C’mere, baby.”

The word hits your chest like someone dropped a stone in still water. Every thought you had dissolves instantly.

You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down, crashing your lips into his.

The impact surprises both of you. Changbin makes a small sound against your mouth, half startled, half something else entirely, before he reacts. And when he reacts, he reacts fully.

His hands find your waist immediately, gripping you, kissing you back just as hard. It’s hungry. Like both of you have been standing at the edge of this moment for years and someone finally pushed.

Your back presses harder against the shelf as he leans into you. Your fingers slide into his shirt collar, gripping the fabric. Changbin’s hand tightens at your waist. Your lips move against his, slow at first and then faster as the rhythm finds itself. The faint taste of soju lingers on his mouth, warm and sharp and entirely distracting.

His thumb shifts against your side. You feel the movement through the thin fabric of your dress and your breath catches. Changbin pulls back just barely, just enough for his forehead to rest lightly against yours. His voice is low when he speaks. “You okay?”

You nod immediately. 

“Say it.”

You swallow. “Yes.”

The second the word leaves your mouth he kisses you again. Your head tilts instinctively as his hand slides from your waist up along your back. His fingers press lightly against the curve of your spine, guiding you closer. Like you weren’t already practically climbing him.

Your lips part and the kiss changes again, softening for a moment before building back into something heavier. Your hand slides from his collar into his hair, and you tug slightly. Changbin exhales against your mouth. The sound sends a shiver straight down your spine.

Your body shifts forward without thinking, pressing closer to him. Changbin’s other hand moves. It settles against your hip first, then slides just slightly lower to grip your ass.

You gasp softly into the kiss.

He does it again. Just a little squeeze.

Then suddenly you’re half lifted just enough that your balance shifts and your back presses fully into the shelves behind you.

Your brain has stopped producing coherent thoughts entirely. All you can focus on is the way he’s kissing you. The way his breathing is uneven. The way your name slips out of his mouth when you tug his hair. One of his hands is pawing at your thigh now.

Your brain briefly sparks back to life. “Changbin—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your mouth.

You forget what you were going to say, so you kiss him again instead. His hand tightens against your thigh as your leg instinctively hooks slightly around his. And that’s exactly the moment the pantry door flies open.

Bright kitchen light floods the small room.

“TIME’S U—”

Hyunjin stops mid-sentence and Sana freezes beside him.

You’re pinned against the shelves, hair messy, dress slightly crooked, and Changbin’s hand very clearly gripping your thigh, his other hand very obviously groping your ass.

The silence that follows is profound.

Then Hyunjin slowly leans his head into the doorway and shouts toward the living room—

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT.”

The living room erupts instantly. Someone, probably Chan, starts clapping like a maniac.

Sana gasps dramatically and slaps both hands over her mouth, though her eyes are absolutely sparkling with satisfaction. “I KNEW IT,” she shrieks.

You’re still pinned against the pantry shelves. Changbin is still very close. Your lips are still parted from the last kiss. And for half a second neither of you move.

Then Changbin sighs, deeply inconvenienced that the moment got interrupted.

His forehead rests briefly against yours. “You okay?” he murmurs quietly.

You nod automatically, still slightly breathless.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Then he turns his head toward the doorway where Hyunjin and Sana are still standing like two extremely nosy gargoyles. “Are you two done?” he asks flatly.

Hyunjin leans further into the doorway like he’s watching a movie. “No.”

Sana crosses her arms proudly. “I told you this would happen.”

“Please leave,” Changbin says.

“Absolutely not.”

You groan and try to hide your face against Changbin’s shoulder. “This is humiliating.”

Changbin looks back at you. Then looks at the increasingly crowded doorway. Then back at you. Something decisive flickers across his face. “Yeah,” he mutters. “We’re not doing this here.”

Before your brain can process what that means, his hands move. One arm slides firmly around your waist and the other grabs behind your knees. Then suddenly the world tilts.

You squeal. Because in one very confident motion Changbin lifts you off the ground and throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“CHANGBIN—!” Your protest dissolves into chaos as he pushes past Hyunjin and Sana.

You’re very aware of two extremely important things right now. One: you are upside down over his shoulder. Two: your dress is very short.

Your hands immediately fly behind you to cover your ass. “OH MY GOD PUT ME DOWN!”

“No.”

“Changbin!”

“Relax.”

“You’re showing everyone my entire ass!”

He barrels through the living room like a man on a mission. People scatter out of the way. Changbin barely slows down, but halfway through the room he suddenly realizes something. Several guys glance over as he passes. Which means several guys are looking directly at you. Which means—

“Oh hell no.”

His hand immediately moves. He shifts you slightly higher over his shoulder and slaps his palm protectively over the back of your dress, covering your butt.

“Eyes forward!” he barks loudly at the room.

Someone laughs. “Changbin—”

“Look away from my girlfriend!”

Your hands pause where they’re still trying to tug your dress downward. Girlfriend??? Changbin continues marching toward the stairs like he didn’t just drop that word in front of half the fraternity.

Minho’s voice floats from the couch. “You're parading her around. Where are we suppose to look?”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

You’re still hanging over his shoulder. “Did you just call me your girlfriend?”

He takes the stairs two at a time. “Yes.”

You blink. “Since when?”

“Since about ten seconds ago.”

“That’s not how that works!”

“We kissed.”

“That’s not legally binding!”

“We made out.”

“That’s still not—”

He reaches the top of the stairs. “Hold that thought.” He walks down the hallway, doors on either side, then kicks his bedroom door open, finally setting you down.

The moment your feet hit the floor you whirl around to face him. “You cannot just declare me your girlfriend!”

He shuts the door behind you, locks it, then turns to you, confused. “Why not?”

“Because that’s insane!”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me!”

“You started it.”

“You called me baby!”

“You liked it.”

“That’s not the point!”

He watches you pace for about three seconds before pushing himself off the door. In two steps he closes the distance between you again. “You didn’t say no,” he says quietly.

Your brain trips again. “That’s not the argument.”

“You didn’t stop.”

“Because you were kissing me!”

“You kissed me harder.”

“That’s—”

“You grabbed my hair.”

Your face feels very warm.

Changbin’s mouth twitches. “Also,” he adds casually, “you were jealous earlier.”

“I was not jealous.”

“You were.”

“So were you. Outside. With Hyunjin.”

He steps closer again. “Yeah,” he continues softly, “I was.”

You squint at him. “You're a hypocrite.”

“Maybe.”

“You can't just call me your girlfriend like that.”

His grin returns. “Well,” he says. “We can discuss the details.”

Your stomach flips. “Changbin.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re insane.”

“You make me insane.”

His hand reaches out, settling gently against your waist again.

Your heart does that annoying flutter again. “You carried me upstairs like a caveman.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.” Changbin’s smile softens slightly.

Then he leans in.

The party’s bass thumps through the floorboards, a distant heartbeat that feels miles away now. Up here, in the quiet of his room, the only sound is your own breathing, ragged and syncopated with his. His lips are on yours again, his hands framing your face.

You break the kiss, pulling back just enough to see his eyes. They’re dark, intent, studying you with a focus that used to make your competitive blood boil during finals week. Now, it makes something else simmer low in your belly.

“So,” you say, your voice a little husky. “Your room is surprisingly clean for a frat house.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “I have a system. Unlike your ‘organized chaos’ approach to note-taking.”

“My system works,” you counter, your fingers finding the hem of his shirt. “I beat your grade in our Developmental Psychology course.”

“By half a point,” he murmurs, letting you tug the fabric up. “And I let you.”

You laugh, a real, unfiltered sound. “You let me? Changbin, you practically had a meltdown when the grades were posted.”

He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head, and then he’s just there. Bare-chested. The lights from the window stripe across his skin, and you see him. You’d felt the strength in the pantry, but now you’re looking at it. His shoulders are broad, solid, the kind that carry weight easily. His biceps are defined, flexing as he tosses the shirt aside, the muscle rolling under smooth skin. His pecs are firm, a masculine plane that your eyes want to map. His abs aren’t washboard, but they’re there, a taut landscape you can imagine the heat of.

He looks at you like he’s never seen a naked woman before. His gaze travels down your own body—you’ve already shed your dress and underwear at this point—and lingers on the swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist

It’s not a leer. It’s reverence. It’s hunger.

“You’re staring again,” you whisper.

“Hell yeah I am,” he responds, his tone low and serious. “I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.”

You snort and step closer, your own hands settling on his waist. His skin is warm, alive. You feel the hard muscle beneath, the latent power in his frame. “Then let me stare at my boyfriend,” you say, and your eyes drift lower. He grins at your acceptance.

His jeans are unbuttoned next, and he helps you by kicking them off along with his socks. He stands before you completely naked. And he’s hung.

The word flits through your mind, clinical and then instantly molten. It’s a pretty cock, really. Thick, with a gentle curve, fully erect and standing proud against his stomach. The sight makes your mouth go dry, your own pulse thrumming between your legs.

“Holy shit,” you say, your voice breathy. You reach out, letting your fingertips trace the hot, silken skin from his hip down to the base of his shaft. He shivers, a full-body tremor.

He catches your hand, brings your palm flat against his chest, over his heart. It’s pounding. “You make me nervous,” he admits, the confession stark in the quiet room.

“You’re perfect,” you assure him. You lean in, kissing his collarbone, tasting salt and skin. “Just stop thinking.”

You guide him backwards until his knees hit the bed, and he sits down. You stand over him, looking down at his beautiful, exposed body. The power dynamic has shifted. You’re in charge now, and the look in his eyes—submissive, eager, utterly trusting—makes you feel powerful in a way grades never could.

You climb onto the bed, straddling his lap, but not letting him inside yet. Your knees bracket his hips, and you lean forward, your breasts pressing against his chest. You kiss him again, deep and slow, your tongue exploring his mouth. His hands come up to cradle your back, then drift down to your ass, gripping you with a possessiveness that surprises you.

“I wanted this,” he murmurs against your lips, “for so long. Even when I was arguing with you about cognition and shit.”

“You just wanted to win,” you tease, grinding your hips down against his erection. The contact is electric for both of you. You feel him jump against your core, and a sharp, sweet ache blossoms inside you.

“I wanted you,” he insists. His hands move to your thighs, urging you up slightly. “I wanted to see that fire in your eyes directed at me. Like this.”

You rise up on your knees, positioning yourself. You’re both slick, ready. You take his cock in your hand, guiding it, feeling its weight and heat. You look him in the eye. “No more arguing.”

“No more arguing,” he agrees, his voice strained.

You sink down.

You take him inside you in one smooth, decisive motion, and the fullness is immediate, shocking, perfect. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that makes your vision blur for a second. A choked gasp escapes your throat, and beneath you, Changbin groans, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands flying to your hips to steady you, to hold you there. “You’re…God, you’re so tight.”

You’re motionless for a moment, both of you suspended in the sensation. You feel every inch of him, the pulse of his blood, the subtle twitch of his muscle.

Then you begin to move.

You rock your hips, a slow, experimental roll. The friction is exquisite, a building heat that coils tight in your core. His fingers dig into your skin, urging you on. You find a rhythm, up and down, each descent a delicious shock of penetration, each ascent a tantalizing withdrawal.

His head falls back, his eyes closed. “You feel unbelievable,” he murmurs. “Better than winning.”

You smile, a wicked, triumphant smile. “I am winning.”

You lean forward, changing the angle, and his cock hits a new, deeper spot inside you. A sharp cry punches out of you, and your rhythm falters, becomes frantic. He responds, his hips rising off the bed to meet your thrusts, to drive himself deeper.

The careful control evaporates. It’s just sensation now, a feedback loop of pleasure. His hands roam your body—your breasts, your nipples which harden under his touch, your back, your ass. Every touch fuels the fire.

You’re panting, sweat glistening on both your bodies. The distant music is gone, replaced by the sound of skin sliding against skin, of wet, intimate friction, of your mingled breaths and soft, urgent moans.

“Changbin,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “I–I’m close.”

“Look at me,” he commands, his own voice thick.

You force your eyes open. His gaze is locked on you, fierce, possessive. The academic rival is gone. This is a man seeing the woman he desires completely undone by him.

It’s that look that sends you over.

The orgasm builds like a wave, cresting from that deep, touched spot he’s now hammering relentlessly. It crashes through you, a detonation of pure, white-hot pleasure. Your body convulses around him, clamping down on his cock, and you cry out, a loud, unashamed sound that the room absorbs. “Oh fuck, yes!”

Your climax triggers his. His hips piston upwards, driving into you through your contracting muscles, and he shouts, a guttural, victorious roar. “Shit! Oh my God, baby.”

You feel him swell, pulse, and then the hot rush of his release filling you. He holds you tightly against him, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

For long moments, you stay like that, joined, trembling in the aftershocks. The world slowly filters back in—the bass from downstairs, the cool air on your sweat-sheened skin, the heavy scent of sex.

You finally slump against his chest, your head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. His arms wrap around you, holding you close. His breathing is still ragged.

“Half a point,” he whispers into your hair, his voice drowsy and satisfied.

You laugh, a weak, breathy thing. “Still arguing?”

“Just establishing the record,” he says. His hand strokes your back.

Your lungs are still working to find a steady rhythm, your heart hammering against his chest where you’ve collapsed. Changbin’s arms are wrapped around you, a warm, solid cage. His breath is a warm gust against your temple. The world is soft and hazy, your body humming with a deep, satisfied ache.

You feel him still inside you, a gentle, fading pulse. The connection is intimate, profound. You don’t want to move. But then, you feel him move.

A low chuckle vibrates through his chest. “I think…” he murmurs, his voice still thick with pleasure, “I think I need a more thorough examination.”

His hands, which had been resting gently on your back, suddenly become firm. He shifts, and before you can process it, he’s rolling you with a decisive strength that leaves you breathless. You’re flipped onto your back on the mattress, the cool sheets a shock against your heated skin. He follows the motion, his body separating from yours with a soft, wet sound that makes you blush.

He’s above you now, propped on his elbows, looking down at you with that same reverent, hungry gaze. The post-coital softness in his eyes is already sharpening into something new, something intent.

“I think,” he begins, a smirk playing on his lips, “that I need to study this pretty body some more”

You laugh, a little shaky. “Is that your way of saying you’re not done?”

“I’m saying,” he says, lowering himself so his chest brushes yours, “that I’m gonna eat that little pussy until you’re begging me to stop.” His lips find your neck, a slow, open-mouthed kiss that sends a fresh shiver down your spine.

His mouth begins a slow, deliberate journey. He kisses your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder. Each kiss is soft, but purposeful. His hands are mapping your body. They skim over your ribs, your waist, the outer curve of your hip.

His lips move lower, tracing the line between your breasts. He nuzzles there, his breath hot. “You argued so well in PSY 301,” he whispers, his voice a tactile murmur against your skin. “All that fire. I wanted to know what it felt like beneath me.”

He closes his mouth over one nipple.

The sensation is electric, direct. It’s not just the suction, the gentle pull. It’s the context. This is Changbin, your rival, the guy whose competitive glare you’ve stared down across lecture halls. Now his focus is entirely, devastatingly, on your pleasure. He suckles, his tongue circling the hardening peak, and a moan escapes you, high and helpless.

He switches to the other breast, giving it the same attentive worship. His hand comes up to cradle the first, his thumb stroking the wet, sensitized skin he just left. You arch into him, your hands finding his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands. You tug lightly, and he groans against your flesh, the vibration adding another layer of sensation.

“You’re so thorough,” you pant.

“I’m a perfectionist,” he replies, his mouth releasing you with a soft pop. He looks up, his eyes glinting. “You know that.”

He continues his descent. His lips and tongue chart a course down your sternum, over the smooth plane of your stomach. He pauses at your belly button, dipping his tongue inside for a fleeting, ticklish moment that makes you gasp and squirm.

“Ticklish?” he asks, grinning.

“Shut up,” you retort, trying to keep your voice steady even as your body is trembling under his systematic exploration.

“Noting that for later,” he says, his tone mock-serious.

His hands slide down your thighs, spreading them gently. He settles between your legs, his broad shoulders framing your view. He’s looking at you, at the heart of you, with an expression of pure, focused awe. It’s disarming. And exhilarating.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, the words simple, stark, and utterly believable.

He doesn’t dive in. He approaches. He kisses the inside of one thigh, high up, near the crease of your hip. His lips are soft, his breath warm. He does the same to the other thigh. The anticipation is a tight coil in your belly, winding tighter with every second of his deliberate delay.

Then he leans in, and his mouth finds you.

The first touch is not his tongue, but the soft pressure of his lips against your outer folds. A kiss. A tender, almost chaste kiss that is somehow more intimate than anything before. You cry out, a short, sharp sound.

He kisses you again. And again. Slowly, softly, building a rhythm that makes your hips lift off the bed, seeking more.

You can hear the unmistakable sound of his mouth exploring your wet cavern, still flooded with his thick cum.

His tongue emerges, a hot, wet point that traces a slow, languid path from bottom to top. It’s a sweeping examination, broad and gentle. You feel every millimeter of the contact, the silken-rough texture of his tongue against your most sensitive skin. He repeats the motion, slower, applying a little more pressure.

“Changbin,” you breathe, your head thrashing back into the pillow.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against you. “I got you, baby.”

He focuses. His tongue finds your clit and circles it, a slow, perfect orbit, strings of both your releases sticking to his pump lips. The pressure is exquisite, building a steady, mounting pulse of pleasure that radiates out through your entire lower body. He doesn’t rush. He varies the speed, the pressure, occasionally flattening his tongue to lick broad strokes that make your toes curl.

One of his hands comes up to rest on your lower stomach, a warm, heavy weight that anchors you. The other hand joins the work, his fingers sliding gently, so gently, inside you. You’re so slick, open, and his two fingers penetrate easily, a slow, curling invasion that matches the rhythm of his tongue.

The dual sensation is overwhelming. The internal pressure of his fingers, curling and searching, and the external, precise focus of his mouth. He finds a rhythm, his fingers moving in a slow, corkscrew motion inside you while his tongue flicks and presses against your clit. The pleasure is no longer a wave; it’s a plateau, a high, steady plane you’re suspended on, and he’s keeping you there, deliberately, expertly.

Your hands are fists in the sheets. Your back is arched. Sounds are coming from you—whimpers, moans, fragmented words. “Don’t…stop…please…”

He doesn’t. He listens. He learns. He adjusts the angle of his fingers, and suddenly they’re brushing a spot that makes your entire body jolt, a bright, sharp spark of electricity in the constant glow. He catches it, and he targets it, his fingers rubbing that spot in a firm, circular pattern while his tongue’s pace quickens, becoming more insistent.

You’re babbling. “Right there…there…Bin, fuck…”

His only response is a low, approving hum that vibrates through your core.

The plateau begins to tilt. The steady pleasure sharpens, focuses into a single, burning point. It’s growing, consuming. Your muscles are taut, your breathing is ragged gasps. You’re hovering on the precipice, and he’s holding you there, teetering, with the perfect, unrelenting combination of his mouth and his hand.

“I’m…I can’t…” you choke out.

He pulls his fingers out, slowly, and the sudden emptiness is a shock. But his mouth doesn’t stop. His tongue becomes more aggressive, faster, a relentless, pinpoint stimulation. He slips one finger back inside, just one, and presses directly on that magical spot while his tongue dances over your clit.

The orgasm doesn’t crash. It unfolds. It blossoms from that deep, internal point and spreads outward in a slow, inexorable wave, radiating through your pelvis, your stomach, down your legs, up your spine. It’s a full-body dissolution. You don’t scream; you release a long, shuddering sigh, your body melting into the bed as the pleasure washes through you, wave after wave, each one triggered by his unceasing, devoted attention.

He gentles his touch as you peak, his tongue softening to gentle laps, his finger still inside you, a steady, comforting presence. He lets you ride the sensation down, until you’re just a trembling, boneless heap on the sheets.

He finally lifts his head. His lips are glistening, his eyes are dark with satisfaction and something else—a deep, possessive pride. He crawls up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your neck, as he moves. He settles beside you, propped on his side, looking at your flushed, spent face.

“Conclusion,” he says, his voice rough but smug. “You loved that.”

You can only manage a weak, breathy laugh. Your body feels like liquid gold. “I guess you do know how to use that mouth for good.”

“I’m very thorough,” he teases, his hand stroking your hip. “Gotta get top marks.”

You giggle, turning your head to look at him. His cock, which had softened, is hard again, thick and impressive against his thigh. The sight sends a fresh, low thrum of desire through your exhausted system. “Round two?”

He groans, leaning closer. “I think I’m in love.” 

You squeak before he kisses you. His body rolls over you, his weight settling between your legs again. This time, there’s no slow movements. There’s intent. He’s hard again, fully, and the tip of his cock presses against your entrance, which is swollen, sensitive, and utterly ready for him.

You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him. He sinks into you.

It’s different this time. The joining is smoother, deeper, because you’re both so needy, so wet. There’s no shock of newness, only a profound, familiar fullness. He fills you completely, and you moan, a low, satisfied sound.

He doesn’t start pounding immediately. He begins with slow, deep strokes, each one a long, drawn-out glide that reaches the deepest parts of you. His arms are braced on either side of your head, his body caging you. He’s looking down at you, his eyes capturing every twitch of your face, every gasp.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of his control.

You can only nod, your hands clutching his biceps, feeling the muscles work as he moves. The rhythm is agonizingly perfect. Each thrust is a slow build, a retreat that makes you ache, and a return that floods you with heat. The friction is a constant, sweet burn, building on the lingering echoes of your first climax.

He changes angle slightly, and the head of his cock brushes that same deep spot his fingers found. A sharp, bright pleasure arcs through you. “There,” you gasp.

He focuses on it. His thrusts become more targeted, shorter, but harder, driving into that spot with a precision that makes your vision blur. The slow burn turns into a fire. Your moans become constant, a low, pleading soundtrack to his movements.

“Tell me,” he grunts, his control slipping. His pace is increasing. “Tell me what you feel.”

“Full,” you pant. “Hot…so deep…Changbin, please…”

“Please what?” he asks, driving into you, his body starting to sweat.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, your own hips rising to meet him, the rhythm becoming frantic, syncopated. “Just…more.”

He gives you more. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you, changing the angle again. The penetration becomes even deeper, even more intense. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, wet and urgent. He’s losing his controlled rhythm, giving in to the raw need. His thrusts are powerful, almost punishing, but each one sends a bolt of pure pleasure straight to your core.

You’re climbing again. The second peak is rising faster, fueled by the first, by his relentless focus, by the sheer, overwhelming presence of him inside you. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your cries are incoherent.

He sees it in your face. His own eyes are wild, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Come for me,” he commands, his voice a rough growl. “Come for me again, pretty.”

Your second orgasm hits, not with a slow bloom, but with a sudden, violent detonation. It claws its way up from your depths and erupts, a convulsive, shaking wave that locks your body around him. You scream, a raw, unfiltered sound that he swallows with a fierce kiss.

His own control shatters. Your contraction around him triggers his release. He drives into you one last, deep, grinding time, and holds there, buried fully. You feel him swell, pulse, and another hot rush floods inside you. He shouts, a guttural, triumphant sound against your mouth, his whole body shuddering as he empties himself into you. 

He collapses onto you, his weight a heavy, welcome burden. You’re both trembling, slick, fused together. He nuzzles your neck, his breath hot and fast. “Thank you Spin the Bottle,” he mumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion and triumph.

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[bibisbia]

— 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐓. 𝟏 [ 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧 ]

main masterlist | part 2 | part 3

˗ˏˋ even though the heiress of the royal family is expected to find a suitor the only thing on her mind is her hot sworn knight ˎˊ˗

⤷ contains : knight! bang chan x fem! princess! reader, medieval au, slight age gap, female and male masturbation, virginity loss, smutty ;) [ wc : 6.2k ]

⤷ now playing : the first time by damiano david

The ballroom shimmered in a whirl of gold and purple, where nobles glided across the marble floor in cascades of silk and velvet. Laughter mingled with the faint echo of violins as chandeliers dripped light over jewels and powdered faces. The scent of roasted pheasant and spiced wine lingered in the air after the grand feast held to honor the king and queen of the Velaria kingdom on their wedding anniversary, a union once forged for diplomacy, yet remembered now as the cornerstone of decades of peace.

Under their miraculous reign, the land prospered—no wars, fertile fields, flourishing trade. The people adored my parents and, to my fortune, me as well. But as my twenty-second spring approached, admiration began to twist into expectation.

Whispers grew louder with every passing season—when would the princess of Velaria finally choose a suitor? My parents, gracious as they were, did not press me into marriage. There were no treaties to seal, no bloodlines to mend, no desperate need for alliances. Yet the court—restless, gossipy, hungry for spectacle—counted the days as if my heart’s decision were a royal decree waiting to be signed.

Tonight was no different. As another nameless young lord murmured empty flattery at my ear, I slipped quietly away, leaving the laughter and candlelight behind. The music faded to a distant hum as I wandered through the quieter halls of the castle, where torchlight flickered across stone and the air still smelled faintly of lavender.

When, a sound, soft and breathless, broke the stillness. In the shadow of an alcove, a couple was entangled in a secret embrace. The woman’s jeweled hairpin glinted as she leaned into her lover’s arms, until the moment he noticed me watching. With a startled grunt, he shoved her back, his face blanching.

Lady Alyna merely sighed, annoyed, and cast me a knowing glance. “That’s just my cousin, you fool,” she scolded the man with airy disdain. “She knows about us. Go back to the ball before someone who doesn’t finds you.”

With a huff, she smoothed her gown and looped her arm through mine as though nothing had happened.

“Someone is going to catch you two one of these days,” I murmured, keeping my voice low. Only the faint howl of the hounds beyond the open window bore witness to our conversation.

“Let them,” a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “My husband keeps a mistress of his own. We all play our parts in the court, dear cousin.”

“And people still say that marriage is a respectable union.” I mumbled, getting her to giggle under her breath.

She led me down the corridor toward the guest chambers she was occupying. As we entered, she turned to me with that same teasing grin that always seemed to promise trouble. “Lord Damian couldn’t take his eyes off you tonight.”

I nudged her shoulder and dropped into the cushioned seat beside the window, the winds of winter slipping chill and crisp against my skin. “I don’t like him,” I said, allowing a smirk to tug at my lips. “He’s an arrogant boy who thinks I should be grateful to breathe the same air he does simply because he owns half the southeastern lands.”

“So you did your homework.” Alyna stretched across the bed, her laughter lilting and light. “Indeed he is a bit insufferable,” she conceded, “but you’re always so sure about the ones you dislike. The way you talk, it almost sounds as though someone has already won your heart.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks before I could stop it. I opened my mouth to deny it, to conjure some witty retort, but no words came. Only a frustrated sigh escaped me as I turned toward the window, pouting like a scolded child.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Alyna said, her tone softening, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Tell me—who is this lucky man who’s managed to make the princess of Velaria lose her composure and reject every lord she ever met?”

I hesitated. My voice came barely above a whisper. “... Christopher.”

Her brows knit in confusion. “Christopher? I don’t recall any lord by that name.” Then her eyes widened, a wicked teasing grin spreading across her face. “Oh. Oh! Perhaps you mean your Sir Christopher?”

Sir Christopher had been my sworn knight since my eighteenth birthday, when old Sir Barristan—faithful and kind as a second father—had taken ill and retired from service. For years, Barristan had guarded me with steady devotion, teaching me the small graces of courage and restraint, his eyes ever gentle and familial. But when Christopher took his place, everything changed.

He was younger, stronger, his frame carved like the statues that stood in the Hall of Velaria, broad-shouldered and steady as oak. His voice carried that quiet gravity of command, and when he looked at me—gods, when he looked at me—it felt as if the world stilled for half a breath. He was perhaps six years my elder, just enough to make him impossibly unreachable and far too handsome for my peace of mind.

I told myself he was only a protector. A knight sworn to his oath. Yet whenever he brushed my arm in passing, or offered his hand as I dismounted my mare, the thought of him lingered long into the night and my mind wandered into my own dreams of living a chivalric romance.

Alyna laughed softly, breaking my reverie. “Ah, so that’s the storm in your head,” she teased. “Fair enough, cousin. I understand your struggle. He’s a man worthy of many sighs. But be warned—you’re hardly the only one enchanted by him. Half the ladies of court have already spun dreams of Sir Christopher, even the maids bat their lashes when he walks by. Tell me, dear Princess, would you even know what to do with a man like that?”

“Stop it.” I buried my burning face against a velvet cushion, clutching it to my chest as if it could smother both her laughter and my own flustered thoughts.

“Where are your manners, cousin?” Alyna laughed, still amused. “Don't fret, I have just the thing for you.”

She rummaged through one of her travel chests until she produced a small leather-bound book, its cover a deep, sultry red. No gilded title, no intricate embossing—only smooth, aged leather that seemed to hum with secrets.

“What’s this?” I asked, hesitating as I took it.

“Education,” she said slyly, eyes sparkling with mischief.

I mindlessly flipped through the yellowed pages and stopped cold at an illustration—a man, bare as the dawn, reclining upon a stone with a lyre in hand, his body shamelessly drawn in vivid detail, especially his stiff member that rested on his stomach like a sword. Hidden behind the painted trees, a nymph peeked out, her expression one of unholy curiosity.

My face flamed hot enough to rival the hearth. I snapped the book shut, holding it as though it might burn me. Alyna only burst into laughter, her voice echoing through the room.

“You’ve never seen one before?” she gasped between giggles. I shook my head mutely.

“Oh, you innocent creature,” she teased. “Take it to your room, then. Keep it hidden, mind you—no one must find it. But read it, learn from it. You’re clever enough to understand more than words can teach. And most of all—enjoy yourself. Curiosity is nothing to be ashamed of.”

I could hardly meet her gaze. My heart drummed so fast it seemed to flutter in my throat. Mumbling something unintelligible, I clutched the little red book and hurried out before her laughter faded into the night.

The corridors were dim, the air heavy with the scent of melted wax. My slippered feet brushed against the cool stone floors as I made my way toward my chambers, head spinning from the wine and Alyna’s wicked words.

Until my shoulder struck something firm, and I stumbled back, barely catching my balance. Two strong hands steadied me, their touch gentle yet unyielding. I looked up—straight into Christopher’s eyes.

Moonlight through the high window carved silver along his jaw and the edges of his armor. Concern flickered there, tender and sharp all at once.

“Are you hurt, Princess?” His voice was low, careful, as though the night itself might overhear. “Forgive me—I didn’t know it was you. I thought you’d already retired.”

“I was… speaking with Lady Alyna,” I managed, my words clumsy, my breath caught somewhere between embarrassment and awe.

He nodded, and his gaze dropped briefly to the floor, where the red book had fallen open.

My stomach lurched. Before he could even bend to retrieve it, I darted down and snatched it up, pressing it tightly to my chest.

He blinked, puzzled, a faint smile curving his mouth. “Another romance?” he asked, his tone light, teasing. “Will you read it to me, as you did the last one?”

“Maybe,” I said quickly, clutching it tighter still. “But only after I’ve finished it.”

He chuckled softly, and the sound was warm enough to melt through my nerves. “Then I’ll be waiting. Sleep well, Princess.”

He bowed slightly, his eyes lingering for one heartbeat longer than courtesy demanded, before turning down the corridor and vanishing into shadow. And I stood there alone, the echo of his footsteps fading, the little red book heavy in my arms like a secret I could never confess.

—

Days began to blur together beneath the hush of candlelight and ink. Each night I returned to that little red book like a sinner to confession—its pages heavy with secrets, its words tasting of honey and sin. One tale became two, then ten, until I knew every verse by heart. The stories grew roots inside me, twining through thought and breath alike, until even the gentle turn of parchment set my pulse racing.

It was becoming an addiction, those forbidden words adorned with images that painted my imagination in shades of heat and gold. I had read of knights and their ladies before, of gallantry and virtue, yet never had I seen passion rendered with such raw beauty, such perilous truth.

And now, when I looked upon my knight, I could no longer see him as I had before.

Sir Christopher—ever patient and kind. His smile came easily, his laughter softer than any man-at-arms I’d known. Yet now each time he took my hand to guide me down the stairway, each time he lifted me to my saddle or brushed a loose strand of hair from my shoulder, I felt those stories stirring to life beneath my skin. When the moonlight spilled across my sheets at night, I remembered every page I’d turned, every sin I’d dared to imagine—until my own sighs drowned in the silence of my room.

Every other afternoon I found an excuse to linger on the castle terrace that overlooked the training yard. Below, the clamor of steel on steel echoed like a song of past wars. The knights moved as one—blades flashing, boots grinding dust—but my eyes sought only him.

Christopher fought with the precision of a hawk, sharp and fluid, his dark hair plastered to his brow, the white of his shirt clinging to his chest. He laughed with his comrades after each bout, sweat tracing the strong lines of his throat. I should have turned away, but my gaze clung into him like ivy.

A maid passed nearby, a girl known for her charms and lack of subtlety. She carried a basket of linen, her bodice straining at the seams, and when she saw him she let out a teasing whistle.

“Getting sweaty again, Sir Christopher,” she called, voice lilting. “You’re giving me too much work with those shirts. Train without one next time, spare me the trouble!”

He chuckled, bashful and kind as ever, shaking his head as the others laughed, but something inside me burned.

Not the soft warmth I’d felt reading Alyna’s book, but a sharp, jealous fire—hot and merciless. It coiled in my chest, in my fingertips, even in the quickening of my breath. Before I realized what I was doing, I was walking down the steps into the training yard, the hem of my gown catching all kinds of dust and mud.

He was bent over a water barrel when I reached him, scooping a handful to his face, droplets slipping down his neck, catching the light before vanishing into the linen clinging to his chest. He straightened when he saw me, surprised.

“Your Highness,” he said with a quick bow, still breathless from the exertion.

I looked at the sword at his hip, the steel glinting faintly in the sun, and before thought could temper me, the words slipped out. “May I… touch it?”

His brows raised and knit in confusion. “The sword, Princess?” he asked, half-smiling. “It’s far too heavy for you. You might hurt yourself.”

“Can’t you help me hold it?” My voice betrayed me, softer than I intended.

A faint blush touched his cheek. “I don’t think I should get too close,” he murmured, glancing down at his sweat-soaked shirt.

“Please,” I said. Just one word, quiet, trembling.

He hesitated, only for a breath, then drew the blade and placed it in my hands.

The weight startled me. My fingers barely fit around the hilt, and before I could adjust, he stepped behind me, his arms encircling mine, large hands folding over my own. The scent of iron and his damp skin filled the space between us.

“Like this,” he said near my ear, guiding my wrists in a smooth arc through the air. The blade gleamed as it turned, and his chest pressed faintly to my back with each movement. His breath brushed my neck, slow and steady.

My heartbeat roared. Every muscle in my body was aware of his—the warmth of him, the steadiness, the strength. And then, in one fragile instant, I felt something else—firm, undeniable, the shape of a man standing too close.

I froze. He did too.

His grip faltered. The sword dipped slightly in my grasp. Silence fell heavy between us, broken only by the faint murmur of the wind and my own unsteady breath.

“I think…” he said at last, voice rougher than before, “that’s enough for today.”

He took the sword gently from my hands, careful not to meet my eyes, and turned away so quickly I might have imagined it. “Forgive me, Princess. I have duties to attend.”

Before I could speak, he was already walking toward the armory, his steps quick, the line of his shoulders tense. There I stood, alone in the yard, my pulse still racing, the cold sun pressing against my skin. The faint imprint of his hands lingered around mine—ghostly, electric. But beneath the calm facade I forced upon myself, a new, dangerous fire smoldered low within me, hotter and more alive than any dream could conjure.

—

Christopher sat alone in the washroom as most of the castle had gone still in supper time. The torches in the corridor outside hissed and guttered, throwing restless light across the floor. He removed his tunic, throwing it on a basket, damp with sweat from the day’s training, carrying the faint scent of dust and steel.

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture sharp, almost angry, while he ran a bath before the shifts changed and he would stand his post through the night on the princess’ door. It should have been nothing. He’d trained noble's daughters before—taught them the grip, the stance, the balance. But never her. Not when she looked at him with those wide, uncertain eyes that seemed to see through every wall of restraint he’d built since swearing his oath.

“Fool,” he muttered under his breath. His own voice startled him. “Utter fool.”

He leaned forward, washing the tight knots of tension from his shoulder with warm water while staring at the narrow window where the moonlight pooled like silver milk on the stone. The night air carried the faint scent of lavender from the gardens around. It should have calmed him, instead it brought her to mind again—her perfume, that hint of sweetness when she leaned closer.

It was making him lose his mind, even though he could not allow himself to get distracted. He tried to focus on the higher results of his oath—protecting the royal family, securing the safety of the princess herself—what higher honor could exist? But she wasn't a shy eighteen years old girl anymore, without him even noticing the princess grew into a beautiful and kind young woman. With a smile that enchanted the entire kingdom, her grace made even the toughest knight get flustered behind his helmet, and he was doubting his own self control

He rose from the bath, wrapping a towel loosely about his waist, droplets still tracing the lines of his chest. For a moment he simply stood there, watching the moonlight slide across his armor, its cold silver gleam a reminder of everything he was supposed to be. A protector. A shield. Nothing more.

He sat lazily on a chair, muscles still damp, and stared up at the ceiling. Yet the darkness only made the images sharper—the way her breath had caught when he stood behind her, the slight tremor on her shoulders, the quiet gasp when she felt him growing behind her.

A slow, consuming warmth spread through him, the same fire that came every night now, as unstoppable as tide against stone. He pressed the heel of his palm against his brow, trying to wield it away, to think of anything but her voice, her scent, her touch. But the body is a creature that does not obey vows, as his palm was already wrapped around his throbbing length. Just once, he kept repeating inside, just this time, but with every thoughtful stroke, every sloppy movement of his hips, his hand gripped tighter, moved faster, when at last a broken moan quietly escaped his lips.

His chest rose erratically, sticky hands resting shamefully on his thigh. When at last he rose, the air felt colder against his skin. He washed himself again, dressed, and buckled on his armor piece by piece until every trace of weakness was hidden beneath iron and leather.

Yet as he walked the moonlit corridors toward her door, the echo of that forbidden heat lingered in him still, a pulse that refused to fade. He took his place outside her chamber, sword at his hip, eyes fixed on the dark hallway ahead. But the scent of lavender drifted from beneath her door, sweet and faint as memory, and he wondered how long he could endure guarding what his heart had already begun to betray.

—

The late winter air was crisp still, but few flowers were already getting ready to bloom. Lanterns hung warmly from wrought-iron hooks, their faint glow gilding the hedges and fountains in amber. Crickets trilled among the grass, and beyond the stone archway the castle slept, its towers lost in mist.

Caught in another sleepless night, where not even the strongest lavender scent could lure me into slumber. I then decided to take a walk in the gardens accompanied by Sir Christopher, after he thoroughly convinced me he ought to escort me. We walked along the narrow gravel path, our steps soft and uncertain. The wine from dinner still warmed my blood, but the quiet between us felt thicker than usual—full of something unspoken.

At last I broke it. “Have you ever…” My voice faltered, and I caught my breath before finishing. “Have you ever kissed a lady, Sir Christopher?”

He slowed, turning his head toward me, moonlight painting silver along the line of his jaw. “Like in your chivalric romances, Your Highness?” A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “Yes. A few times.”

My heart gave a strange flutter. “And have you ever…” I hesitated again, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Been intimate with a lady before?”

He stopped. The night held its breath. “I beg your pardon?” His tone was polite, but his confusion was palpable. “As in—” He rubbed the back of his neck, voice dropping low. “Forgive me, Princess, I don’t think I quite follow. Where—how did you come to ask me such a thing?”

I looked away quickly, the heat in my cheeks betraying me. “Forget about it.”

But he took a step closer, his brow furrowing. “Is it from that book you carry everywhere now? The one I see you reading in the gardens, even during lessons? Where did you find it?”

“Nowhere,” I said too quickly, “it's none of your concern.”

“It is when it’s kept a secret.” His voice softened, a bit stern in tone, but still touched with concern. “You still haven’t told me what it’s about. Did someone give it to you?”

“Lady Alyna did.”

He groaned quietly, a bit of amusement and dread. “Lady Alyna—oh, by the gods.” He dragged a hand across his face, then muttered, “I can already imagine what kind of tales are bound between those covers.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, fingers twisting in the fabric of my gown. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was only… curious.”

He exhaled slowly, as though steadying himself, a moment passed in silence before he finally said something. “Yes,” his voice came low and quiet, “I have been with women… before I took my oath.”

The admission hung between us, raw and simple. Women. The garden seemed to grow smaller around us. I swallowed hard, trying to bury down the envy that grew inside my chest. “How does it feel?”

His gaze darted to mine, then away again. “Princess…” he began, voice low and strained, “I really shouldn’t be having this conversation with you.” He stepped back, the gravel crunching beneath his boot. “When I swore my vow as your knight, I promised not only to protect you from harm, but to preserve your honor until a man worthy of you claims your hand.”

I tried to smile, though my heart pounded. “Will you tell my mother about this conversation?”

That drew a short laugh from him, breathless and helpless. “If I did, I’d lose my post before sunrise. And neither of us wants that, do we?” I shook my head, the smallest smile tugging at my lips.

He studied me for a long moment, his expression softening, then said quietly, “If you truly wish to know… imagine the moment a horse leaps a fence, and for a heartbeat you’re weightless—the world beneath you falls away, your stomach twists, and then you land again, full of adrenaline, out of breath. That… that’s what it feels like.”

I stood still, the air trembling between us. “It sounds… exciting.”

“It is,” he whispered, taking a step closer to me. Then, after a heartbeat “but dangerous too.”

The spell broke as a bell tolled faintly from the distant courtyard. He glanced toward the castle, his composure snapping back like armor sliding into place. “We must go back, Princess. It’s late.”

I nodded, though my feet felt heavy with reluctance. As we walked, the night pressed close around us, fragrant with lavender and secrets. Neither of us spoke again—but in the hush that followed, I could feel his restraint like a living thing, and beneath it, something even stronger that neither of us dared to name.

—

Like a breath of fresh air, spring began and with every passing day the world seemed to stir from slumber—buds unfurling, birds returning, sunlight lingering longer on the stone towers. Yet within me, the slow turning of seasons only made the ache more unbearable. What had begun as quiet admiration had grown into a fever that no prayer nor confession could quell. It climbed through me like ivy, delicate yet relentless, its roots sinking deeper with every glance and brush of his hand.

That morning dawned chill, the air still carrying winter’s last breath. Dew silvered the grass, and the first flowers trembled awake beneath it. But inside me, there was only heat—an unholy warmth coiling low, a hunger that left my skin flushed and my pulse too loud to ignore. The mirror betrayed me, my cheeks were pink, brow beaded with fine drops of sweat, fevered gaze glossing my eyes.

I needed the open air, the cool kiss of running water. Away from the castle, away from him, and from all the thoughts that made me burn.

I slipped quietly through the halls, hidden beneath the hood of my cloak, passing unnoticed through the guard post as the shifts changed. Sir Christopher should be elsewhere—training, perhaps, or tending to his reports. Finally my bare feet found the forest path, I could feel the grass between my toes, and something inside me broke loose. I ran, laughing softly to myself, through the veil of trees where no one called me princess or your highness, where I was no one but a girl set free for a single heartbeat of her life.

The stream waited at the edge of the woods, its voice gentle and cool. I stepped in, the chill biting at my skin, the mud curling lovingly between my toes. But even as the water lapped at my ankles, the fever within refused to fade. I shed my outer dress and waded deeper, the white of my chemise clinging to me like mist. The current curled around me, soothing and relentless, as I lowered myself onto the smooth rocks and let the stream flow over my shoulders.

The cold dulled my thoughts—but only for a breath. Soon, memory returned like a pulse under the skin. His face. His hands. The way his eyes softened when he looked at me, how his voice gentled when he said my name. Every moment became a spark against the rawness of my body. My fingers betrayed me, traveling all the way down my thighs, tracing small circles on my needy core, chasing that sweet ache that had haunted me every night.

“Christopher…” I breathed his name, not knowing if it was prayer or curse. My hips shifted, my legs trembled, the water rippled around me. The world spun as the sky above darkened to violet, my pulse loud as thunder in my ears—

“Your Highness!”

The voice struck through my reverie like lightning. I blinked, dazed, the world tilting in slow motion. A shadow loomed at the edge of the trees. Sir Christopher was there, his white horse pawing the grass behind him, his face a mixture of relief and horror.

“What are you doing out here at this hour?” he demanded, vaulting off his horse. His boots splashed through the stream as he came toward me. “And dressed like this?”

I looked down and realized the soaked silk clinging to every curve of me, the pale fabric turned to near transparency in the sunlight. He turned his face sharply aside, jaw tight, his ears flushed crimson. “By the gods, Princess—everyone is searching for you. Have you lost your senses?”

“I—I only needed air…” I managed, but the world was already dimming again, the trees melting into shadow. My knees buckled beneath me and the last thing I felt was the strength of his arms catching me before I hit the ground.

The rest came in fragments. The rhythm of hooves on the dirt road. The heavy thud of his heartbeat against my ear as he carried me. The warmth of his cloak wrapped around me, smelling of steel and pine.

Voices rose and fell when he brought me inside—my mother’s fretful tones, the stern murmur of the physician, the flutter of maids stripping away my drenched clothes and piling furs over me. The fever made the world swim in colors and whispers. I drifted in and out, my body shaking, until at last all I could feel was heat—his heat, his touch still ghosting over my skin—and I surrendered to sleep once again.

Hours later, the silver moonlight flooded the floor of my room, a glow bright as the warm sun, I tossed and turned, whimpering quietly at how sensitive my feverish skin still felt under the covers. It was all meaningless, my fingers ached to slide lower, tugging at the hem of my nightgown, spreading the growing wetness of my folds all over my inner thighs.

Soft moans and whimpers merged into the night and floated all the way through the other side of the door, where Sir Christopher’s alert senses noticed the strange noises coming from inside. Worried he knocked once, twice, and at last entered the room cautiously.

“Is everything all right, Princess? I heard noises from within.” The low timbre of his voice rippled through me, steady and deep, sending a shiver down my spine as my fingers hesitated.

“I—I’m fine. Truly,” I managed, though the tremor in my words betrayed me.

He stepped closer, the dim light catching the edge of his armor as he knelt beside my bed, his brow creased in concern. “Heavens—your skin’s burning. You’re drenched in sweat again. I’ll fetch the physician.”

He began to rise, but before he could take another step, my hand found his wrist. The touch was desperate, trembling, my gaze lifting to meet his with silent plea, my eyes bright as if on the verge of tears—or perhaps desire.

“Please Christopher… I need you.” His muscles tensed under my grasp, eyes widening upon the realization of what I meant. Every piece of this forbidden puzzle falling into place right before him. He faltered for a moment, a silent battle of duty and desire being fought inside him, until I slowly kneeled in the mattress and brushed my lips against his.

His rough hands trembled, hesitantly cradling the back of my head, tangling his fingers in my hair. He deepened the kiss, as if trying to drown any protest that might emerge from his own throat. My hand rested on the metal plates of his armor, and when we finally separated, breathless and flushed, he slowly peeled the armor away, laying his heavy burden gently to the side.

After he took off his linen shirt, I could finally see the carved muscles of his chest and the sculpted lines of his stomach, which trailed all the way down to the growing volume under the thin fabric. Wordlessly he lowered his underpants, which were already straining at the seams. His length hung heavy in the air, just like the ones in Alyna's book. My face quickly flushed, and a gasp caught in my throat.

“Is it going to…?” My voice was barely a whisper. I knew then that everything I understood was based only on a book, a concept vastly different from the reality before me.

“I’ll be gentle.” His soft touch lifted my face, making me gaze into his eyes. “If it becomes too much, just say the world.”

He positioned his body over mine and began to slowly slide himself into my wet folds. The stretching brought a sharp, intense discomfort, and my lungs seemed to empty of air as I gasped for breath. He paused to soothe me, caressing my inner thighs to open me, like a flower bulb blooming in spring. Then, he sank in again.

“It… hurts.” A small, pained moan escaped me.

“I know” He traced soft kisses all the way up from my neck to my lips. “You’re doing so well, Princess. Just a little bit more.”

I clung to his broad shoulder, feeling him completely take over me, a warmth that spread deep in my lower belly. The ache lingered, but with each thrust of his hips, each kiss planted on my neck, each suck of his mouth on my breasts, it began to dissolve. I felt his muscles tensing and releasing beneath my palm, his soft groans mixing with my moans, the way he seemed to fight his surrender yet still sink deeper into the act.

His touch burned like fire on my skin, the cool wind from outside made our sweat-covered bodies shiver. His movements grew less controlled, and I felt myself clenching tighter around him, until something broke in both of us—a powerful, heavenly release. With trembling bodies, we rode the high, wishing never to come down. Until I finally rested, breathless, with my head heavy on his chest while he drew absent patterns on my back, holding me close as if his duty had never truly left him.

“Do you ever wish,” I began slowly, “that you were not sworn to anyone? That you could just be… yourself?” He looked down, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “I think every man dreams of freedom. But vows are what make us who we are.”

“And what if those vows keep you from what your heart wants most?”

His eyes were still locked with mine, and for a heartbeat neither of us breathed. “Unfortunately,” he said softly, “a man must learn to live with his longings.”

The words struck something deep in me—a quiet, aching truth. I reached out to his face, brushing the edge of his jaw, still he leaned into my touch with a bittersweet gaze. My lips found his under the dark cloak of the night. The forbidden graze between two secret lovers, and this time he didn’t pull away.

—

The morning light crept softly through the silk curtains, spreading across my chamber walls in strokes of gold. My eyes fluttered open to the hush of birdsong and the pale warmth of dawn. For a moment I smiled, until my hand brushed against the sheets and found the cool vacant space where another body had been.

He was gone. Of course he was. A knight had his duties, dawn patrols and court summons, a world of discipline beyond the one night we had stolen. Still, the emptiness beside me ached in a quiet, foolish, almost naive way.

Yet something new lay on my bedside table, a small bundle of lavenders from the royal gardens, dew still caught in their petals. Their scent lingered in the room like a whisper, I reached toward them just as the door burst open.

Two maids entered hurriedly—one older, brisk as ever, and a younger one tripping at her heels. I gasped and clutched the fur coverlet to my bare chest.

“Princess!” the elder cried. “What are you doing under all those blankets? It’s boiling out there, you’ll melt! Are you still feeling feverish?”

“I—perhaps a little,” I stammered.

“Oh, heavens. You should have asked to see the physicians at night! Sir Christopher could have fetched them himself.” She came bustling forward, pulling at the covers. “Come, let me run a herb bath to draw out the heat.”

Before I could protest she had me half out of bed, still wrapped around the covers, steering me toward the washroom. The younger maid lingered behind, frowning at the tangled sheets. “Your Highness,” she said hesitantly, “there’s a white stain...”

“Leave it!” I called over my shoulder, but the elder only tightened her grip on my arm.

“You’re limping,” she said, voice full of concern. “This fever must have weakened you badly. I’ll summon the physician at once.”

“No!” I blurted, too quickly. “No need—I’m feeling perfectly fine.” The bathwater steamed as I slipped into it, thankful for the refuge of its clouded surface. I forced a calm smile while the elder fetched towels.

“How strange,” she mused. “I didn’t see Sir Christopher at his post this morning. He never leaves your door before you’ve broken your fast.”

“Perhaps he was called to the stables,” I mumbled shyly, keeping my eyes fixed on the rippling water.

She made a noncommittal hum and began to pour rosewater into the tub. “Let’s see that color in your cheeks.” Her gaze drifted downward, and suddenly her hands stilled. “What in the name of mercy—”

I followed her look and felt the blood drain from my face. Three small bruises bloomed like wine-colored petals against my breasts.

Before she could speak, the younger maid appeared at the doorway clutching the sheets to her chest, her expression caught between surprise and dawning understanding. The elder turned from her to me, back again, and realization slowly unfolded across her aged features.

“Please, don’t say anything.” I whispered, sinking my body in the water until it graced my chin. It was all I could manage as my mother suddenly swept into the washroom. “What is all this commotion? Why are there no sheets on her bed? Why is she in the bath?”

The elder maid recovered with the speed of a seasoned servant. “The Princess sweated through them, Your Majesty. Seems she’s broken her spring fever at last.”

Mother’s worried frown softened. “Ah, good. Still, no rides today, my dear. Rest, light reading—nothing demanding.”

“Yes, Mother,” I murmured.

She nodded, already satisfied, and left with the younger maid following close behind, sheets bundled like evidence. The door shut, leaving only the elder and me amid the rising scent of herbs and steam.

She laid a steady hand on my shoulder. “Oh, child,” she said softly, a trace of fondness hiding in her voice. “Time moves quicker than any of us reckon. I turned my back for a season and you’ve gone and become a young woman.”

Her touch lingered a moment longer, then she turned to fetch clean linens. I laid my head on the border of the tub, staring at the bouquet on the nightstand through the open door. The lavenders caught the morning sun, their lilac color glowing like a secret too beautiful—and too dangerous—to speak aloud.

the images aren't mine! all rights reserved to © bibisbia, 2025. please do not claim, translate, copy or modify any of my works as your own. reblogs are appreciated! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[bibisbia]

— 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 [ 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧 ]

main masterlist | part 1 | part 3

˗ˏˋ after the princess shared a bed with her knight for the first time, new emotions bloom inside them on her birthday celebrations ˎˊ˗

⤷ contains : knight! bang chan x fem! princess! reader, medieval au, slight age gap, female masturbation, smutty ;) [ wc : 7.2k ]

⤷ now playing : kiss me by six pence none the richer

Spring had finally ripened to its fullest grace. The air beyond the castle walls shimmered with birdsong and perfume, the soft gold of morning pouring through my chamber’s window like a gentle blessing. Beneath the towers, the gardens unfurled in green and violet—rows of lavender trembling in the breeze, their fragrance threading through the windows. Servants’ laughter floated upward from the courtyards, mingling with the clang of steel and the rhythmic beat of hooves from the lists below, where men trained for the grand tournament that would mark another one of my spring.

Inside my chamber, maids moved like quiet doves, fastening the last ties of my gown, smoothing the silver-threaded skirts that brushed the floor. When they curtseyed and slipped out, leaving me alone, the hush of the room felt too heavy with memory—one I tried so hard not to think.

On my dressing table, a small crystal vase stood, the lavenders within had begun to bow their heads, their color fading to the same pale ghost of violet that lingered on my skin. I brushed my fingertips over the drying petals before my hand drifted, as if led by memory alone, to the faint marks at my chest his lips had left. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to thrum again with the warmth of that night—the weight of him above me, the breaking and breathless wonder of it.

A sigh escaped me. I gathered myself, forcing on my lips the serene and untouchable smile a princess owes the world, and stepped out into the corridor.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” came the greeting of the man stationed by my door. Sir Swann bowed promptly, hand pressed over the engraved plates of his breastplate, its polished surface catching the sun as though it too wished to salute me.

“And to you, Sir Swann,” I replied. “The morning is fair indeed.”

“A good omen for the tourney,” he said with an easy warmth. “The gods grant you the finest weather for your celebration.”

“Tell me,” I asked, striving for casualness, “is Sir Christopher engaged elsewhere again today?”

A flicker passed over his features, too brief to name, still far too telling. “He is, Your Highness. Duties on the western wall, and more besides. He insists on taking extra patrols. Says it eases his mind.” Sir Swann lifted his chin a little. “He is a dependable man.”

“Yes,” I murmured, though disappointment tightened my throat. “Dependable.”

I thanked him and moved on. The spiral stairs curved before me like the inside of a seashell, stone cool beneath my fingertips. As I descended, my composure thinned until only ache remained. He’s avoiding me. The thought wrapped around my heart like a tightening vine.

Since that night—since his breath had touched my bare body, since I had offered him a piece of myself no man had ever touched—he had drawn away as though closeness itself had burned him. In the throne hall, his gaze darted anywhere but to me. At dawn, where he once stood faithfully outside my chamber, another knight now waited in his place. “Other duties,” he had told me, as if duty could shield him from what passed between us.

Each distance felt like a small unraveling of the thread I had believed bound us. But perhaps I had been naive, too blind to distinguish love from the consuming feeling of desire.

When I reached the gardens, the sunlight lay soft across the stone path, scattered through the green carpet of grass. Lady Alyna, already seated at a marble table, lifted her head with bright, unabashed delight.

“Good morning, cousin!” she announced, licking away the gleaming honey from her fingers with the unconcerned grace of a woman who feared nothing and no one “Our radiant princess joins the waking world at last. Tomorrow all eyes will be yours—suitors lining like peacocks, poets ready to swear eternal devotion. Tell me, will any of those fine young lords tempt your heart? Or…” her smile curved into mischief, “will you keep quietly pining for your forbidden knight instead?”

I sat opposite her, lowering my gaze to the silver platter. “He’s avoiding me.”

Alyna arched a brow, theatrical in her surprise. “Already? By the gods, did you frighten the poor man into retreat?”

“We… shared a bed,” I whispered, the words slipping out like something fragile escaping its cage—a confession, a surrender, and a wound all at once.

Alyna froze, her hand stilling midair. Her mouth parted, then closed again before a soft, incredulous sound escaped her. For a heartbeat she pressed her hand to her lips, eyes shining with a delight she could hardly contain.

“You didn’t,” she breathed, leaning closer. “You truly did?”

I nodded. No courtly phrasing could soften the truth.

She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Our sweet little princess, seducing a knight of the royal guard! Oh, if the court only knew…”

“Do not say it like that,” I murmured as heat flooded my skin. “I’m not a child anymore, and it was not some schemed seduction. It just…” I hesitated, feeling again the touch of his hands, the trembling of that night.

“Happened?” she teased, plucking a grape and rolling it lightly between her fingers. “Darling, nothing simply happens. Hearts are reckless creatures, and nights even more so.”

She bit into the grape, its juice glistening on her lips. “Tell me,” she murmured more gently, “was it worth the sorrow you’re wearing in your eyes?”

I did not speak. I could not. The breeze stirred the lavender at our feet, releasing another wash of scent—soft, tender, unbearably familiar. Above us the banners of my house lifted proudly on their poles, bright against the sky, yet in that moment they seemed impossibly far from the quiet ache that hollowed itself behind my ribs.

By afternoon, the castle had become a living engine of preparation, every stone humming with purpose. From my balcony, I watched banners rise one by one along the battlements, their colors rippling against the blue sky. The clang of hammers echoed from the lists where squires repaired armor and polished lances. Laughter and shouts drifted up from the courtyard, and beneath it all, a faint hum of lute strings, musicians rehearsing for the feast to come.

I longed to slip free from the watchful eyes, the expectations, the endless orbit of duty. The gardens called to me, their rose arches heavy with blossoms, shaded paths promising quiet. And with my ladies occupied in the seamstresses’ workshop, I slipped away, descending the side stairs that led to the stables.

The scent of hay warming in the sun, oiled leather, and the faint sweet musk of horses embraced me as I stepped inside. The light filtered through thin wooden slats in golden bars on the ground, where hooves shifted rhythmically against stone, a soothing, familiar sound. Stable hands murmured beyond a half-open door, tending to the last tasks of the day. For a heartbeat, I breathed deeply, grateful simply to be unseen.

Then I saw him.

Sir Christopher stood half-turned in the shadows, adjusting the bridle of a chestnut mare. Sunshine from a high window poured over him, gilding the edges of his dark hair until it gleamed like burnished copper. His posture carried a quiet exhaustion—as though he’d surrendered sleep willingly for days—but nothing could blunt the strength carved into his features, nor the gentleness threaded into the careful way he worked.

My heart misstepped.

“Sir Christopher,” I said, my voice no stronger than a whisper against the rustling straw.

He went still. So still I wondered if the air itself had frozen around him. Then he turned.

“Your Highness.” His bow was precise, controlled, perfectly correct, everything he had forced himself to become since that night. “You should not be here alone.”

I managed a faint smile. “I wished to see the horses. Is that forbidden to me now?”

He glanced toward the open door, as if checking if there wasn’t anyone nearby. “Not forbidden. Merely… unwise.”

“Unwise,” I repeated softly. “Strange word to choose, coming from you.”

The muscle on his jaw tightened. “You should return to your chambers. Sir Swann—or any of your ladies—will accompany you next time.”

“Why will you not even look at me?” The words broke free before I could catch them.

His eyes finally found mine, those deep obsidian eyes, shadowed with sleepless nights, and full of something he did not dare name.

“Because it is better this way,” he said, the softness in his voice at war with the distance he tried to hold. “Because what happened between us cannot happen again.”

My throat tightened. “Was it so terrible?”

He flinched, glancing away, as though the question cut clean through every defense he’d built. “Do not ask me that,” his voice quiet and strained. “I serve your father—”

“You serve me. You are my sworn knight.” I said, letting a small, final smile touch my lips. “And you did not seem so bound by duty when your lips were against my skin.”

A flush rose up his neck, vivid against the tan of his skin. “That was…”

“A mistake?” I stepped closer.

His breath hitched. For a moment he looked ready to give in to the pull between us, but then he drew himself upright. “I should go. The guards will be looking for you."

As he moved past me, a glint of color caught my eye—a faint violet stain half-hidden beneath the edge of his collar. A mark. A secret. Mine.

“Sir Christopher,” I murmured, my voice curling with quiet mischief. “You ought to be cautious. It seems you wear something that does not belong to you.”

He stopped as if struck. Stiffly his fingers brushed the spot I had once kissed him hard enough to bruise. His eyes widened, panic flickering through them, the composure he wore like armor slipping for a single glorious instant.

“That—” he began, but nothing followed. Words failed the man who always had them.

He swallowed and looked away. “You should not speak so boldly. Someone might overhear.”

“Then do not give them cause to wonder,” I said softly.

Something pained and longing flickered across his face, gone as quickly as the shadow of a passing bird. He bowed, stiff and formal, a gesture that felt like a door closing.

“Forgive me, Princess. I have duties.”

And before I could answer, he turned and strode toward the sunlight beyond the stable doors, his armor catching the light like the flash of a blade.

For a long time, I remained there, surrounded by the sound of restless horses and the distant bells from the chapel tower. My fingers brushed my lips unconsciously, remembering the way his had once felt against them.

I told myself I would stop wanting him. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flush on his cheeks, the way his breath faltered—the knight who could face any enemy, undone by the memory of me.

—

Lilac and green flooded the kingdom that morning, flags waving around wielding the intertwined lavenders on a green field of my family’s crest. The scent of Velaria’s flowers drifted through every street and stall, a perfume so familiar it felt like breath itself. The whole city trembled with festival fever—merchants calling, banners snapping, noblemen shouting wagers over the clash of lances in the lists.

I wore lilac from shoulder to hem, a gown of layered silk that curved and opened like unfolding petals. As I stepped onto the balcony reserved for the royal family, Lady Alyna gave me a conspiratorial look, her eyes bright with mischief.

“You seem flushed, cousin. Is the defender of your honor already here?”

“No. Not yet.” Though my gaze swept the field as though he might appear from the dust.

A young lord with an eager smile approached us, bowing low, words dripping in ambition. Alyna nearly snorted her amusement behind her cup of wine. But my eyes slid again toward the tournament tents, searching for the only man I wished to see.

Sir Christopher stood inside one of them, fastening the last buckles of his armor with practiced fingers. But his mind was nowhere in the familiar motions. A faint breath of laughter still clung to him, some half-formed memory he couldn’t shake, yet beneath it lingered a deeper tension that twisted in his chest like a vine.

He bent to adjust a strap on his gauntlet when he heard the soft rustle of the tent flap. A figure entered, yellow cape fluttering behind and a golden hawk emblazoned on the chest.

“Excuse me, Lord Armstrong,” Christopher said tersely, assuming it was a misstep. “You must have the wrong tent.”

But the old man only smiled, slow and sly. “Sir Christopher, is it? No mistake. You are precisely the man I’m looking for.”

Christopher’s brows furrowed. “State your purpose, my lord.”

The old lord stepped closer, voice dropping into a tone oily with false courtesy. “Today marks the princess’s birthday, and she—” his lips curled slightly “still has not chosen a suitor. I thought a touch of… theater might help her decision.”

Christopher’s jaw locked, a muscle throbbing in his neck.

“My son,” Armstrong continued, “is a fine fighter—skilled, handsome, talented. And while you are… adequate,” eyes glinting with disgust, “you are also the one who stands under her banner today. So I propose a simple arrangement.”

Christopher’s voice flattened. “And the arrangement is?”

“Let my son win the contest.” The old lord’s smile widened, reptilian. “Let him win her hand.”

Christopher stared. He knew this family, once proud and now rotting beneath debts and desperation. A house fading into irrelevance, clinging to power however it could. And now this old vulture meant to force the princess into a public corner, making refusal impossible.

“That will not work with the king,” Christopher said. “And neither the princess.”

“Oh, you’ll make it work, petty knight,” the old man sneered. “Or I’ll show the court you’re not worthy of that armor you polish so diligently.”

A few minutes later, the two men emerged. Christopher’s face had hardened into steel. He strode to his white stallion without speaking, his eyes flicking only once toward Armstrong’s son—a broad-shouldered young man with tumbled golden locks, strong jaw, and the kind of smile that made half the noblewomen lean forward for a better look.

Even I, despite myself, had sent a brief glance his way. Though it was nothing more than habit, expectation, nothing that stirred me the way Christopher did.

Christopher mounted his horse, every movement stiff and simmering.

The trumpets blared. The crowd cheered. The king and queen took their seats beside me, Lady Alyna whispered something sharp and delighted in my ear, but I barely heard her. The world narrowed to the sight of Christopher gripping the reins in a firm pull, his expression storm-dark beneath his helm.

Armstrong’s son trotted forward, holding a white rose aloft.

“My fair princess,” he called, voice ringing across the field, “on this glorious day, I propose a challenge in your honor. If I defeat your knight, I shall humbly request your hand as my prize!”

A wave of murmurs rippled through the stands. The king scowled with disdain. The queen pressed her fingers to her temple in mortification. I felt heat flare across my face, anger or embarrassment, I could not say.

“If Sir Christopher accepts,” I forced out, “then… I see no harm.”

Christopher did not raise his head. His grip tightened around his saddle. “And what if I win?”

The challenger laughed. “And if you win, knight? What then? You should be happy already to even stand near our beloved princess.” A few spectators chuckled.

Christopher did not so much as glance at me. He simply rode to his mark.

The signal sounded.

The horses thundered forward, lances splintering against shields. Christopher’s sword cracked at the tip—Armstrong’s son aimed poorly and struck at an angle, slightly jolting himself backwards. The old lord scowled from beside the king, his face pinched with fury.

The second pass came, and in the blink of an eye, sand exploded from the ground as the young lord was catapulted from his saddle with a heavy thud. Gasps tore through the crowd.

Christopher eased his grip in a brief moment of distraction, until movement flickered at the corner of his sight. A golden blur. Armstrong’s son lunged from the dirt, sword raised recklessly toward Christopher’s horse.

Before the crowd could cry out, Christopher dismounted in a single fluid motion, blade drawn with a rasp of steel. He struck hard—flat-edged, controlled, but enough to send the young man sprawling to the ground again.

Silence. Then the king’s roar broke it apart. “Enough! By the gods, ENOUGH!”

Armstrong slunk away from the field, face twisted with repressed fury.

Back in the tent, Christopher stripped away his armor piece by piece, each segment sticking to his sweat-damp shirt as though clinging to him. His breath came fast, uneven. When another rustle came.

“I don’t want to hear about your failed schemes, Lord Armstrong,” he snapped without turning. “I told you—”

“Did you know about all this?” The voice that answered was mine.

He spun, color draining from his face, then rushing back twice as strong. “Princess, I… yes. But it means nothing now.”

“Nothing?” My voice trembled. “You let him humiliate me. Humiliate you. Did you agree to his demand?”

“No.” His answer came too quickly. “I had no choice, but I would never let him do anything to you. Please, Princess, go back to the stands.”

“Why do you keep pulling away from me?”

His jaw clenched. “Because everyone keeps talking about perfect suitors, and pretentious lords, and royal weddings—and I’m sick of hearing that!”

I didn’t move, my eyes widened in surprise. The air between us grew thin, trembling.

He turned as if to leave, armor half undone, expression raw with exhaustion and something deeper he refused to name. “I’m sorry, Princess. I—I'm tired.”

I caught his wrist before he could move away.

“I’m not finished.” I said, my voice breaking. “They tried to use you. They tried to make a fool of you. And you stand here acting as if you deserve it.”

He looked away. “He’s still a lord’s son. Still a better match for you than I’ll ever be.”

“That’s—” My breath caught painfully. “That’s infuriating. All of it. You. Them. This.”

“It’s reality.”

“No. You’re not listening.” My fingers tightened around his wrist. “I miss you so much it physically pains me, Christopher. Every moment you pull away, it feels like something tearing. And you pretend not to see it.”

He closed his eyes, pained. “That’s exactly why I pull away.”

“I need you.” My voice lowered, thick with longing and the truth I could no longer swallow. “It hurts so much I can barely breathe.”

Christopher swallowed, chest rising sharply beneath his half-removed armor. “Princess… please. Not here.”

“Then tell me where.”

“Not—now.”

“Christopher, please. I need to feel you again.”

He exhaled a torn, shaky breath, while standing at the breaking point between duty and desire.

He stepped toward me, capturing my lips with desperate certainty, each breath between us tightening the invisible thread that had been pulling us together for days. I took a single step back, then another, until the back of my thighs brushed the edge of a large wooden chest. Christopher’s hands came to my waist, lifting me gently as though afraid I might break, settling me atop it with a care that made my pulse thrum.

My skirts rustled as he gathered them, lifting the lilac fabric just enough to draw me toward him. The warmth of his palms found the sensitive skin of my thighs, rough from a lifetime of swordplay yet impossibly tender as they traveled upward. The breath he released was sharp, almost pained, like a man standing too close to something forbidden but unable to step away.

His fingers pushed my underwear to the side, tracing slow, devastating circles over my already heated core. I had no strength to hide the sound that escaped me—a trembling, helpless little moan. His eyes flashed up in warning, a silent plea disguised as a command for me to keep quiet, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest quiver of desire.

His movements grew more intent, his restraint thinning. My hand slid down, finding his hard length straining against his trousers. He drew in a ragged breath, the kind that seemed dragged from the deepest part of him.

“You can’t go out like this, Sir Christopher,” I whispered, brushing along the rigid outline I felt beneath the fabric. “The ladies might notice.”

He bit his lower lip, failing spectacularly to hide the smirk tugging at it. His belt came undone with the quietest click—a sound that made my heart stutter. In a short movement he pressed the warm tip of his member against my entrance, achingly slow, lowering his forehead to my shoulder as if that small touch could anchor him.

“The things I do for you, Princess,” he murmured, voice rough enough to shiver through my entire body.

The world outside continued merrily—merchants shouting prices, ladies laughing over cups of wine—but inside the tent everything folded into heavy breathing, unbearable heat, and the subtle shift of bodies drawn together by a force neither of us could resist. His hands gripped the backs of my thighs, pulling me closer, swallowing the tiny sounds I couldn’t contain with lustful lips. Every movement was muffled by urgency, fear, and longing, as if no matter how deep he was it would never cease our ache.

As the remains of our climax rippled on our bodies—when I folded into him without a sound but with every trembling fiber of my being—he held me through it. His face buried against my shoulder as he released a soft, broken groan meant for my ears alone.

For a long time afterward, we simply clung to each other, trying to steady our breaths while the world outside carried on in careless celebration. Laughter drifted from the stands, music floated on the afternoon wind, but inside the tent, our secret hung between us.

At last Christopher straightened, slowly slipping away from me. Without a word, he reached for a clean cloth, his touch careful as he tended to me, brushing trembling fingertips along my sensitive skin with a devotion that made my chest shiver. He wiped his own hands, fastened his belt, then helped me down from the chest as though I were made of glass.

I touched my cheeks, feeling the heat flooding them. Before I could speak, his hand lifted hesitantly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, the kind that stole the breath from my lungs far more than any stolen moment of passion ever had.

When I stepped back into the sunlight, everything felt sharper—lavenders glowing like too bright, the air warm against my skin, the birds dancing in the sky. But it was the ghost of his hands, the memory of his lips, that made my heart flutter wildly in my chest, and which made my smile bloom, helpless and sweet, with every step I took.

—

The days after my celebration slipped back into their familiar rhythm—dinners, councils, ballroom evenings lit by chandeliers, lords bending low with their practiced smiles. Everything moved like the inner gears of a clock, precise and predictable. Everything except him.

Sir Christopher resumed his duties at my side, calm and composed as ever, but I could still feel the echoes of that day in the tent simmering beneath every look he avoided, every breath he stiffened, every moment his hand brushed mine and he pretended not to flinch.

And I—well, I had developed a terrible new habit. Teasing him.

Not harshly, never cruelly. Just enough to see the faint crack in his stoic armor. The way his throat worked when I leaned too close, the way his gaze darted away when my dress slipped just a little lower, the way his hand lingered a heartbeat too long when he helped me mount my mare. When I bent over too slowly to pick up a quill, or whispered orders against the curve of his ear instead of speaking them aloud.

I knew it tormented him. I also knew he always let it.

That afternoon, I asked him to accompany me to the forest at the castle’s edge—a quiet place where leaves whispered and sunlight painted mosaics on the ground, far from prying eyes and gossip-thirsty tongues.

I left my shoes by a mossy stone and let the grass tickle the soles of my feet. Christopher sat on a large rock nearby, his gaze fixed dutifully on the ground, though every so often I saw it flick toward me. Or rather toward the way my dress clinged on my silhouette and swayed as I spun.

He noticed everything. He always had.

On a playful whim, I reached for the sword resting beside him. The quick intake of his breath told me he’d noticed that too. I slid the blade from its cover, trying to mimic the flourishes I had watched him perform so many times in the training yard.

“Your Highness,” he said, rising at once. “Stop this. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I won’t,” I said lightly, a hint of teasing underneath my tone. “I had an excellent teacher.”

He stepped toward me, hand extended. “Leave it. You’ll damage it—and yourself.”

“Don’t you trust me with a sword, Sir Christopher?”

The blade trembled slightly in my grip from its weight. Before I blinked, he moved, and in a blur of motion he had disarmed me. The sword clattered harmlessly against the grass.

The sudden shift in balance sent me stumbling backward. He lunged forward, arms wrapping around my waist in instinctive protection, but momentum betrayed us both. We tumbled down together, landing in a soft tangle of limbs and startled laughter.

His face loomed above mine, breath warm, eyes blazing.

“Are you out of your mind, Princess?”

“Maybe,” I said between breathless giggles. “Maybe I’m completely bewitched by you. Perhaps even cursed.”

I slid my arms around his neck and pulled him down into a heated kiss. His entire body tensed, then melted, as though surrendering to a truth he could no longer deny.

“Someone might find us,” he murmured against my lips, the words sounding like a protest he didn’t believe anymore.

“No one wanders this far,” I whispered. “Why do you think I brought you here?”

A helpless, incredulous chuckle escaped him, his forehead brushing mine. Somewhere between fear and desire, he let the smirk slip.

My legs eased around his waist, making him shudder, he lowered his head to the crook of my neck and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my collarbone. My breath trembled.

“I miss you,” I whispered, the confession slipping out more tender than intended.

“I’m always by your side,” he said while tracing a path of kisses all the way to my lips.

“Not enough.”

He lifted his head then, staring into my eyes as though searching for permission, or forgiveness, or maybe the courage he had spent weeks denying himself. He lightly brushed his lips against mine again.

One of his hands found my waist, fingertips trailing the edge of my dress. The fabric rustled softly as he pulled it upward, enough for my bare thighs to shiver right where the breeze kissed me. His movements were careful, measured, as if he feared the moment itself might shatter.

When his hand slipped lower, I gasped, the sound small and unbidden. His lips stayed on mine, absorbing the sound, deepening the kiss, guiding his touches through each trembling breath I gave.

He explored me with slow, deliberate strokes, teasing the boundaries of propriety and restraint, each gentle movement coaxing me toward the edge of sense. My hips shifted helplessly against his palm, seeking more of him. The world fogged, even the birdsong blurred at the edges as he learned every silent plea my body offered.

He built the moment slowly, agonizingly, until my breath caught in a soundless cry, my head tipping back into the grass as everything inside me tightened, then broke open in a wave that sent shivers all the way to my fingertips.

Christopher withdrew his hand and brought it to his lips, eyes dark with something warm and dangerous as he tasted the faint remnants of me there. My breath hitched, heat flaring across my cheeks.

“You’ll be a dangerous queen someday,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.

“And you,” I whispered, smoothing a hand along his jaw, “will be my deadliest knight.”

The last of his hesitation dissolved. And in the way he looked at me—devoted, undone, fiercely mine—I saw the man who had once sworn his life to my father slowly, helplessly surrendering his heart to me instead.

—

Night settled over the castle like a velvet cloak, deep blue and cold as riverstone. The torches along the corridors had burned low, their flames stuttering and coughing in the drafts that wound through the high towers. In my chambers, all light had dimmed save for the soft glow of the embers in the fireplace, painting the room in amber hues that wavered with each sigh of the wind.

But sleep did not come gently.

In my dreams, shadows pressed against me—shapes without faces, voices calling my name from a distance I could not measure. The lavender fields outside the castle walls withered, banners snapped in a wind that carried the metallic scent of blood, and I stood alone in an empty hall where my footsteps echoed like weeping. Somewhere, far away, a man called out to me—his voice familiar, aching—but as I reached for him the world shattered like glass.

My breath hitched. I thrashed beneath the sheets. A choked cry escaped my throat and outside my door Sir Christopher heard it. He always did.

He had been standing at his post for hours, unmoving as a carved statue despite the creeping ache in his muscles. The corridor was dim, lit only by a single torch snapping softly in its sconce, and all was still. Until that voice, fragile and trembling, pierced the silence.

His heart stopped. He didn’t think, didn’t weigh duty against propriety. Instinct overruled everything, and before he realized he’d even moved, his gauntleted hand was on the door, pushing it open with urgent caution.

“Your Highness?” he whispered.

I laid tangled in my sheets, breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts, fingers clawing at the mattress though fighting off invisible hands. Moonlight spilled across my face, revealing tears glistening on my cheeks.

“Princess,” he breathed, crossing the room with a speed he couldn’t disguise.

I startled awake with a gasp—eyes wide, chest heaving, hair plastered to my temples. For a moment I didn’t see him at all. Then my gaze focused, and my entire body softened with relief so palpable it struck him like a blow.

“Christopher…” My voice wavered, small and terrified, not the voice of a princess but of a frightened woman.

He sank to one knee beside the bed. “You cried out. I thought—” He swallowed. “I feared you were in danger.”

My hands trembled as I sat up on the bed and pulled my legs closer to my chest, the silky nightgown sliding a bit from my thighs. “Just a nightmare. But it felt so… real.” The words came thin, tearing at the seams. “I couldn’t breathe.”

I looked at him, eyes shimmering with a vulnerability I had never shown in daylight. And he, who once attempted to promise himself distance, felt every resolve splinter deeper.

“Forgive me for entering without leave,” he murmured. “I only—”

“I’m glad you came,” she interrupted softly.

The admission hung between us like the trembling flame on the bedside table.

I shifted, the sheets sliding, and lifted my hand tentatively toward him. “Please… stay.”

He stiffened. “Princess—”

“Just tonight,” I whispered. “Only until I fall asleep. I… I don’t want to be alone.”

He couldn’t bear the fear still clinging to my voice. Couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me trembling in the dark while he stood useless on the other side of the door.

Sir Christopher rose slowly, removing his gauntlets, setting them quietly upon the table and the rest of the armor near the edge of the bed. For a moment he hesitated, before laying stiffly on the same bed we once shared our most intimate breaths. I shifted closer, my hand wrapping gently around his and pulling his arm around my waist, softly pressing my back to his warm chest.

“Was it truly so terrible?” he asked softly. “The dream?”

I nodded shyly. “Everything around me was breaking, and you were calling for me—but I couldn’t reach you.” My breath shuddered. “It felt like losing you.”

His chest tightened painfully.

“Princess…” He exhaled the title like a curse that haunted us both. “You have not lost me.”

I turned to face him. “Then why do you run from me?”

His throat worked. The truth was a weight he had carried alone—because you deserve more than a knight who cannot promise you anything. Because I fear what I feel for you. Because if I stay too close, I will never be able to walk away again.

But none of those words reached the air. Instead he said, quietly, “I feared I had wronged you. That I had taken what I had no right to take.”

I shook my head, slow and sure, my eyes luminous in the moonlight. “You’re the only person in this castle who has never wronged me.”

Before he could retreat again, I leaned closer and my hips brushed against him. He sucked in a sharp breath, his composure fracturing.

“Please, Princess,” he murmured, eyes pleading with a war he was losing.

I cupped his cheek with one hand, with the other, I drifted downward, tracing the line of his member, feeling the throbbing tension surge through him.

“Please, Sir Christopher.” I whispered. The sound of his name on my lips unraveled the last of his restraint.

He reached for the strap of my nightgown, sliding the delicate fabric away with care and pressing a kiss there, soft, lingering, like a silent vow.

“Just one more night,” he whispered, though we both knew he prayed it wasn’t.

He pulled his linen shirt over his head, the firelight gleamed golden against the shape of him, turning muscles and scars into something dreamlike. He guided me gently back into the pillows, turning me so my back rested against his chest once more. His hands found my waist in a steady motion, trembling despite his strength, and filled me up again.

Between the hush of our breaths, the shifting of limbs beneath linen, our bodies seeked warmth in the darkness. The room filled with quiet sounds—the wet movement of our cores sliding against each other, my stifled moans into the pillow I clung to, his shaky groans pressed into the crook of my neck.

His forehead rested against my shoulder as he moved with a careful, tender rhythm. Each motion pulled us deeper into an intimacy that blurred the lines between desire and devotion.

Sweat gathered along our spines, our hands gripping each other’s arms, our breaths tangling in the dim glow of the fireplace. The world outside the window faded until only the small, secret space between our hearts existed.

By the time our skin hummed with the aftershocks and silence settled again, our bodies were still entwined with one another—warm skin against warm skin, breath against breath.

And in the hush of my chamber, with no eyes to witness and no ears to judge, Sir Christopher understood with terrible clarity, that he no longer belonged to his oath. He belonged to me.

Dawn crept lazily into the chamber with the gentleness of a sigh, pale gold brushing the stone floor before climbing the edge of the bed. The fireplace had reduced to a cradle of soft red embers, their glow barely alive, but still warm, much like the arm wrapped around my waist.

Sir Christopher stirred beside me. For a moment he seemed to float somewhere between dreaming and waking, his breath slow, the weight of sleep still pulling at his senses. Then he shifted and his palm brushed my hips. Not the hilt of a sword, not the grip of a shield. Warm skin. My skin.

His eyes snapped open. Memory flooded him in a silent rush—the way I’d rolled into his arms in the dark, the warmth of my breath on his throat, the whispered pleas, the closeness we had shared until exhaustion claimed us both. His body went rigid, as if any movement might shatter what little sense remained.

Carefully he began to withdraw his hand. I murmured something in my sleep and tightened my fingers around his.

“Christopher…” I breathed, hardly conscious, the name leaving my lips like a lover’s prayer.

His composure broke for a heartbeat. He closed his eyes. Please, saints preserve me. I should never have—

The bed creaked when he shifted, and my eyes fluttered open. For a moment I simply turned towards him in a languid movement, my cheek flushed from the pillow, hair tousled, the morning’s mild light giving my features a soft glow. We were so close that our breaths mixed lightly between us.

“Good morning,” I whispered, a soft hum slipping through as I cuddled closer to his chest.

He swallowed hard, not sure whether to hold me or push me away. “Forgive me, Princess. I fell asleep without meaning to, I need to—”

A sudden sharp knock erupted at the door. We both froze.

“Darling? Are you awake?” came a woman’s voice, refined, commanding, unmistakably my mother.

I shot upright, panic flaring across my features. Christopher stumbled away from the bed and up to his feet only on his underwear. The chamber spun around him in frantic clarity.

“Oh gods,” I whispered. “She never visits this early. Why today?”

Another knock, firmer. “My dear, the seamstress awaits your fittings.”

Christopher’s eyes darted around the room like a man trapped in a burning tower. His armor laid on the floor, the gauntlets still on the table. No time to put it on. No time to slip out unnoticed.

“Princess,” he whispered harshly, “she cannot find me here.”

“I know!” I hissed back, voice high and urgent.

The door handle rattled. Christopher’s breath seized. I quickly grabbed his arm, a touch warm and commanding. “Behind the curtains—go!”

He darted behind the heavy velvet drapes near the balcony, pressing himself flat against the wall. His breath thundered in his ears. He willed himself to stillness, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring.

The door opened and mother swept inside, dressed in a gown of deep purple, her posture regal, her eyes sharp even in the morning haze. She paused upon seeing me still buried under the covers, hiding my bare body from her eyes, hair still a tousled mess from last night.

“You look pale,” the Queen said, stepping closer. “Did you rest poorly?”

I forced a steady breath. “A little, Mother. A troublesome dream, nothing more.”

The Queen’s gaze softened briefly. “Nightmares have plagued you since childhood. Should I summon the healer?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I only need a moment to gather myself.”

From behind the curtain, Christopher forced himself not to flinch at each sound. He felt the brush of the breeze through the slit in the drapes. He could hear the rustling of the Queen’s gown as she stepped even nearer to the bed.

If she walks two steps more, she will see my clothes, my armor. Saints, please, let her leave…

The Queen glanced around the chamber, pausing at the table where Christopher’s gauntlets gleamed faintly in the morning light. My breath hitched imperceptibly.

She tilted her head. “Has Sir Swann been stationed closer than usual? These look like they’ve been brought in for repair…”

I seized the opening. “Yes. I dismissed him late. He left them by mistake.”

Mother hummed, but still accepted the explanation without further suspicion. “I will remind him later. Your father expects all guards to present themselves properly during their duties. He should learn it with Sir Christopher.”

Christopher nearly sagged with relief and guilt, almost moving, before remembering any sound might betray him.

“Well, dress quickly, darling. The castle will be in chaos today. I believe we may have finally found the perfect suitor for you.”

The words slid into the room with the softness of silk, but cut as sharply as a blade. My body tensed. “Yes, Mother,” I murmured, though the sound barely reached the air.

Mother gave a serene smile, already satisfied with whatever arrangements she had spun in the early hours. Then she turned and glided out with her customary grace. The door shut behind her, the latch clicking into place like the closing of a fate I had not chosen.

Silence surged up around me. I exhaled shakily and pressed a hand to my chest to steady the tremor beneath my ribs. Behind me, the curtains stirred faintly and Sir Christopher stepped out, the color drained from his face.

But it wasn’t fear that hollowed him out. It was something deeper, darker, a venomous sting on his heart he tried and failed to hide.

“Princess…” His voice was low, ragged at the edges. “I should not have fallen asleep here. It was reckless. If I had cost you your reputation—”

“You didn’t,” I interrupted, stepping closer instinctively, as though closing the distance could quiet the ache inside me. “And you won’t. Last night wasn’t an accident.”

He didn’t contradict me, not with words. But his jaw tightened, eyes slipping briefly toward the door, where my mother had stood. Where the word suitor still clung to the air like smoke.

Sir Christopher opened his mouth to speak, to deny or to distance himself, but stopped. Because he met my gaze and in it he saw the same softness I reserved for him on all of our secret endeavours.

“You protected me last night,” I whispered. “Even from my own mind.”

He drew a slow, unsteady breath, one that trembled on the way in, as though he was forcing down everything he wanted to say—I cannot bear the thought of you promised to another man. I have no right to want you the way I do. And yet… I do.

“I would face any danger for you,” he said, voice thin with restraint. “But this—this is perilous in ways steel cannot shield us from.”

My hand brushed his, just barely, a fleeting contact, but the touch shocked him like a spark. His fingers twitched, reaching before he pulled them back, muscles tightening as though he were denying himself something he already knew he wanted too much.

“Still, you stayed.” I murmured, voice barely above breath,

The words struck him. Not gently, but like an arrow that found its target. His eyes lifted to mine, the truth shimmering there with no armor left to hide behind.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I stayed.”

The morning light wrapped around us like a fragile blessing as I stood barefoot on the cold stone, hair falling loose around my shoulders. Sir Christopher faced me still rumpled from sleep, bare skin marked faintly by where my fingers had held him last night, devotion and conflict carved equally into his expression. And neither of us stepped back.

the images aren't mine! all rights reserved to © bibisbia, 2025. please do not claim, translate, copy or modify any of my works as your own. reblogs are appreciated! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[bibisbia]

— 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐏𝐓. 𝟑 [ 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧 ]

main masterlist | part 1 | part 2

˗ˏˋ the princess and her knight are separated, but a threat looms over the castle and he's the only one who can save her ˎˊ˗

⤷ contains : knight! bang chan x fem! princess! reader, medieval au, slight age gap, blood and scar mention, blowjob, smutty ;) [ wc : 8.7k ] — taglist : @karlee10261990 | @chansalwayswatching

⤷ now playing : the truth untold by bts

The morning unrolled with restraint, as if the stones of the castle felt the shift that had begun before dawn. My mind wandered despite my attempts to anchor it in the present, threaded with memories of Sir Christopher’s warmth lingering against my skin, the ghost of his breath tickling the curve of my neck, his fingers intertwined with mine so gently as if he could ever be the one to break me.

But the seamstress had little patience for my drifting mood, her needles flashed with brisk, pitiless precision as she tugged and pinned the silk along my figure, shaping me into something worthy of display for the realm.

“You must look impeccable for the audience, Your Highness,” she declared, tugging the waist tighter. Perfection, composure and duty—everything I slowly felt slipping from me.

By late morning the throne hall gleamed in its own splendor, sunlight fractured through stained glass, glinting off golden windows and polished marble. Mother stood tall beside Father, possessing that peaceful grace born of long years spent among courtiers. I held my place at her side, the bodice pressed too close, too tight against my ribs.

The doors groaned open and a procession entered beneath banners of charcoal gray, each emblazoned with a raven mid-flight. House Blackwood was a noble ancient ally to the crown—fair, steadfast, loyal even through famine and war—and tragedy had recently struck them, an illness that had taken away both lord and lady, leaving their only son to bear the weight of ruling the northern lands.

Vincent Blackwood stepped forward beneath the vaulted ceiling. He cut a striking figure, tall and elegantly solemn, carrying himself with a somber beauty that looked like a burden disguised as grace. There was a quiet melancholy etched into him, where dark hair fell in soft waves to his collar, framing his pale face as raven feathers.

I inclined my head. “Lord Blackwood.”

Behind him shifted his counselor, a red-haired scholar in charge of advising him on matters of his lands and inheritance. Copper strands gleamed beneath the sunlit glass as his anxious gaze hovered over the young lord, torn between caution and reassurance, while clasping a heavy book against his chest.

Vincent glanced back only briefly before turning to me once more. “Your Highness,” he said, voice low and unexpectedly gentle. Gloved fingers took my hand, soft lips brushing my knuckles in a gesture perfectly proper yet dangerously intimate.

An armour shifted somewhere behind me this time—an almost imperceptible click—where Sir Christopher straightened, the leather at his sword-belt creaking in discomfort. His stare remained fixed ahead, dutiful as always, yet the line of his jaw was drawn tight as a bowstring.

Vincent lifted his gaze. “Might you walk with me in the garden, my lady?” I answered with a graceful nod. Christopher fell in at a respectful distance behind us, the constant shadow that had long since become part of my every step.

The gardens lay washed in late spring light, petals drifting on the breeze, fountains murmuring softly to the bees swaying among blossoms. Lord Blackwood offered his arm with careful courtesy, guiding me through the flowers as though I were some fragile new bloom he dared not disturb.

Beneath the shade of an ancient tree we found a weathered stone bench. I folded my hands in my lap, turning to him with measured posture. “I heard of your loss, my lord. Truly, I grieve with you.”

He glanced to the far edge of the grounds where purple flowers flowed in the wind. “It came upon us in the dead of winter, ” he replied softly. “Yet there is no greater force than nature. Now the seasons change bearing promises, and promises always have a way of enduring, do they not?”

I nodded, my eyes briefly flickering to meet him. “Yes, they do.”

His gaze traced the sweep of my gown, hues echoing the garden around us. “The color suits this place,” he murmured. “Full of newness, just like thou.” He spoke no florid praise, only that restrained courtesy that suggested shyness, and something gentler still.

“My thanks, Lord Blackwood.” Silence lingered once again, until his attention drifted over my shoulder.

“Does he ever stand farther off?” I followed his look. Sir Christopher waited several paces away, posture rigid, attention narrowed to a spearpoint with a tension he didn’t bother to hide.

“Sir Christopher?” Heat crept across my cheeks. “He has long been my sworn knight. I suppose… yes.”

Vincent’s fingers tapped the dark fold of his cloak. His voice lowered. “Might he be dismissed for a while? We would speak more freely, if we may.”

A ripple of reluctance passed through me, yet this was the language of diplomacy—gesture for gesture, mask for mask.

I gave a single nod in his direction and he bowed respectfully, movement precise but bitterness still shadowing his eyes like a wounded wolf forced to turn its back on the only thing it wanted to protect. He withdrew, not far, never far, only as distant as duty allowed his secret heart to stand.

Vincent watched him go, then leaned closer, a soft conspirator tone beneath the birdsong. “He bears you in his thoughts,” he murmured. “Deeply.”

My breath caught, warmth rose along my throat. “Why do you think so, my lord?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Because the one who bears me in theirs looks at me just so.”

The heart behind my ribs pounding like a drum. “What do you mean?” Vincent’s gaze drifted back toward the castle, where the copper-haired counselor lingered near a high window, posture stiff with unease as he watched us—watched him. The man’s expression was tight, almost pained.

“I believe you are quite perceptive, my lady,” Vincent said softly. “You understand that this union would be most… convenient. Beneficial in appearance, at the very least.”

“I thought…” I mumbled, uncertainty threading my voice, “I thought it was my mother who arranged this.”

“She did,” he replied without hesitation. “But it was Lady Alyna who assured her that you and I might be compatible.” For the first time, a faint warmth crossed his features, softening the severity he wore so well. “She sympathizes with our shared condition.”

I blinked. “Shared condition?”

“Hearts that refuse to obey duty’s command,” he said gently. “You suffer in silence for your knight—just as I suffer for someone I can never openly claim. A scholar who waits for me with a book pressed far too tightly to his chest.”

I drew a careful breath, my gaze returning to the castle. Somewhere within its stone walls, I knew Sir Christopher was pacing—jaw clenched, hands restless at the hilt of his sword—his heart thrumming with jealousy, fear, and longing. Waiting for me, just as Blackwood’s counselor waited for him.

“A false union, then,” I whispered at last.

“Only if you wish it so,” Vincent replied. His fingers rested atop mine, warm and careful, the touch at odds with his cool bearing.

Around us the garden breathed—flowers trembling in the breeze, the tree murmuring overhead—while from the castle’s shadowed heart, unseen yet unmistakable, my knight’s devotion beat like a distant thunder, unaware of the quiet pact being forged that afternoon.

—

Summer soon began to settle over the kingdom. The trees deepened into rich green, birds cut playful arcs through the air to peck at the ripe fruit, and the days grew heavy with warmth. Yet summer also carried its tempers, weeks might pass beneath clear skies and stifling heat, only for the heavens to break without warning in storms, as though the sky itself had grown weary of restraint.

In the days following my first meeting with Lord Blackwood, agreements were drafted, seals prepared. A wedding gown took shape beneath nimble hands and within a matter of weeks, at the height of the season, the kingdom would gather to witness the heir of the throne wed at last.

But when the day came for me to speak the truth to Sir Christopher, gray clouds spilled across the sky beyond the fields, dulling the world to ash. By afternoon, rain had begun to fall.

The abandoned chapel stood upon a low hill beyond the castle grounds, its warped windows and broken roof offering poor shelter from the storm, but it was the only place secluded enough for our meeting. The only place where I could tell him everything.

He paced the chapel floor, boots scraping against dust and stone, his restraint tearing at the seams. I sat upon one of the narrow benches, watching the man who so often embodied discipline unravel before me.

“You cannot truly believe this will work,” he said, his voice reverberating off damp walls and returning to us like an accusation. “It’s madness—absolute madness.”

“Father and Mother are already in talks with his house,” I replied, striving for calm. “They’re warming to the idea. We will simply have our own understanding inside it. Vincent is helping us, you need to trust me.” I tried to soothe him, to meet his gaze in reassurance, but his eyes fell away, dark with worry.

“That does not make it any safer,” he said sharply. “If this is discovered, it will not only ruin me—but his counselor, him, you… and your parents most of all.” At last he turned fully toward me, stepping closer, fear flickering unmistakably in his deep chestnut eyes.

“This is the only way we can remain together, Christopher.” I rose, closing the distance, lifting my hand to cradle his cheek. “What other choice do we have?”

He sagged into me in defeat, resting his forehead against the curve of my shoulder. His hands found my lower back, warm and familiar, and a shaky breath escaped him as he pulled me closer, sharing what little heat we could on that rainy afternoon. Silence stretched between us, suspended and fragile, broken only by distant thunder and the wind’s mournful whistle through shattered glass.

“Lady Alyna once said such arrangements are not uncommon at court,” I whispered, my voice nearly lost to the storm. “We need only to keep it hidden.”

He shook his head faintly, still holding me, before one hand rose to brush the sensitive skin behind my ear. “You can't listen to her advice, Princess. She is not the example of decency you should be following. You have duties to uphold—for the Saints’ mercy, so do I.”

His other hand tightened in my dress, silk whispering beneath fingers that, until just a few months ago, had only ever known swords, dirt and blood. “Are you giving up on me, Sir Christopher? On us?”

“I love you,” he said quietly. “But I worry for you… far too much for my own good.” The words, spoken so softly and without ceremony, stole the breath from my lungs.

His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm as his lips traced their usual path on my skin—brushing my mouth, my cheeks, the tender curve of my neck—slow in movement, yet guided by a desire both restrained and resolute. His rough hands slid securely around my waist, easing me down onto the old wooden bench, his body hovering above mine with careful strength, as though even the faintest crease in my gown might undo us both.

A thunder rolled through the heavens, and the soft moan that escaped our joined lips vanished with it, swallowed whole by the growing storm and the sudden, violent slam of the chapel doors. 

We tore ourselves apart in a single breath. Color drained from our faces as the figure standing beneath the once-grand archway came into view.

My mother did not speak. Rain clung to her garments, water dripping steadily onto the stone floor, yet her posture remained rigid, regal, unyielding. Fury and disbelief flashed behind her eyes, and for a suspended, dreadful moment, none of us dared move—as though motion itself might shatter whatever fragile mercy still lingered that day.

Christopher hesitated a heartbeat too long before stumbling back from me, shock rendering him almost clumsy. In condemning silence the queen advanced with a measured calm, each step controlled, every inch of her trembles buried beneath the armor of discipline she had learned to wear for the court’s unkind gaze.

“I believe you know the way to the dungeons, Sir Christopher.” Her voice was strained, quiet yet tight with fury, echoing through the chapel’s stone walls in low, merciless waves. She did not need to raise it as authority alone carried her words.

For a moment, he could only nod, throat clenching while the words refused to rise. With a stiff movement he bowed and mumbled. “Yes, Your Grace.”

A thin, brittle smile touched her lips.

Already halfway one he looked back at me once, panic and something dangerously close to regret brightening his eyes. Then he turned away, vanishing into the storm beyond the threshold. The bench beneath me shuddered with thunder once again, or perhaps it was only my own shaking limbs.

“Do you take me for a fool?” my mother asked, Her gaze piercing me, sharper than any blade forged within the kingdom.

“No, Mother.” I lowered my eyes, unable to meet her wrath, fearing its weight would crush me.

“Then you, naive child, will tell your father yourself.”

Her grip closed around my arm, iron-tight, and she hauled me to my feet. We moved swiftly through rain and shadows—down dark corridors, along winding staircases, avoiding guards and courtiers alike—until we reached the heavy oak door of the King’s private study.

She flung it open with uncharacteristic force, making my father look up from his parchments startled. Before I could find my balance, Mother thrust me forward and I stumbled and fell to the floor, tears already blurring my vision, sobs breaking from my lips before I could cage them.

“I’m sorry, Father. I’m so sorry—”

“Our daughter has something to confess,” Mother said, face composed, voice stripped bare of anything but iron.

He was on his feet at once, crossing the chamber in long strides “By the Gods, my dear, what has happened?”

“Please—do not kill him,” I cried, clasping my hands together as though prayer alone might save us. “I beg you.”

“Kill whom?”

“Sir Christopher,” Mother answered for me, her tone had the finality of a sealed decree. Father looked between us, confusion creasing his brow, until she continued, cool and steady, “I suspected it after the tourney on her birthday. Today a maid confessed they have already shared… intimacies.”

The words felt obscene upon her tongue, stripping love of all its gentleness. Father’s expression darkened as he rubbed his brow, murmuring something beneath his breath. “Is this true?”

I nodded, unable to lift my gaze, tears splashing onto the stone floor. Mother studied him with furrowed concern before he gestured for her to leave, and the door closed softly behind her.

“It was my fault,” I sobbed, pushing myself to my feet. “He refused me at first, but I insisted.” My words came apart as I spoke them. Father’s gaze held mine, unwavering.

“He was bound by vow and older than you,” he replied at once. “He knew precisely what he was doing.”

He turned away hastily. “I will speak further with your mother. Afterward, we will hasten your marriage to Lord Blackwood.”

The thought of punishment descending upon Christopher struck like ice. “No, please—he is not to blame,” I pleaded, but Father did not look back. The door closed with a hard click, and I sank again to the floor, voice dissolving into the echoing quiet.

“Please,” I whispered into the stone and shadow, “do not harm him.”

—

A day passed—then another, and another still, until time blurred into an indistinct stretch of damp stone and darkness. Sir Christopher remained seated within the dungeon’s humid depths, alone with his thoughts and a heart that beat so violently it seemed intent on tearing its way free of his chest. No voices reached him, no comfort nor cruelty, only the sound of his own labored breathing, rising and falling against the cold walls.

At last, measured footsteps echoed down the corridor, carried across stone slick with moisture and lit by torches whose flames danced and twisted like restless spirits.

The queen’s shadow appeared before the iron bars. She did not speak as she approached, and with a brief gesture signaled to the hard-faced guard beside her, who unlocked the cell without question. She stepped inside, her gaze settling upon the knight slumped on the filthy floor.

Sir Christopher shifted at once, instinct driving him to rise, but with a single lift of her hand she stilled him. He froze, remaining kneeling before her, head bowed.

“Please, Your Grace,” he said hoarsely. “I beg your forgiveness. I never intended for this to go so far.”

Her hand rose again, firm and unwavering, and his words died in his throat.

“I trusted you,” she said at last. “With my daughter.” Her voice was tightly bound, every syllable restrained by years of discipline that would not permit her fury to spill freely.

His eyes burned, tears gathering despite every lesson drilled into him through years of service. “I know, Your Grace. I am deeply—”

“Why?” she cut in sharply. The question struck him harder than any blade. In the poor torchlight her frown carved deep lines across her face. “Why would you do this? I cannot understand it—help me understand.”

He hesitated, mouth opening, then closing again. A long, punishing silence stretched between them before the truth slipped free, barely louder than breath.

“I love her, Your Grace.”

He did not lift his gaze, even as her scrutiny burned into him. Years of knighthood had taught him restraint, but a single tear betrayed him, trailing down his cheek, one that didn't go unnoticed by her.

“How many times?” she asked quietly. “Once? Twice?”

He said nothing. Her eyes searched his face for denial, defiance, anything, but he could give her none. “Three times?” she pressed, the calm in her voice edged now with restrained fury.

He turned his head away. Shame crushed down upon him at last, heavier than iron, heavier than chains—shame born not of the shared nights themselves, but of the knowledge that his feelings had taken root long before the first evening the princess had bumped into him flushed and trembling, clutching tightly that forbidden red book to her chest.

“This is madness,” the queen said at last in disbelief, letting out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though no joy lived within it. “An insult to the crown. And to think we held you in such esteem. You knew how this would end, Sir Christopher, and yet you chose it all the same.” Her gaze hardened. “I will speak further with my husband about what is to be done with you both.”

“Both of us?” Panic tore through him. “No—please. Do not punish her. It was my doing. I failed her. She bears no fault in this.”

He surged to his feet without realizing it, hands reaching toward her in instinctive pleas. She recoiled, eyes narrowing with a mix of hurt and disgust, and with a graceful sweep of her skirts she turned away.

At the threshold she nodded once to the guard and the cell door slammed shut.

“It’s not her fault!” Sir Christopher cried into the darkness, clinging to the bars, voice cracking as her footsteps faded until even their echo was swallowed by the shadows. With a well aimed blow the hard-faced man struck a whip in the bars, tearing a wound across the knight's features.

“Please,” he clutched his face in pain, sinking back to his knees, blood and tears falling quietly into the stone as a broken sound tore from his chest. “Do not harm her.”

—

By the time the bells rang for the wedding, Sir Christopher no longer wore steel. The sword had been taken from him weeks ago, the oath stripped away with words spoken softly and without ceremony, as though erasing him was an act best done gently and secretly.

He dressed now as any other man—wool rough at the collar, boots worn thin at the heel, no sword by his side—and stood among the gathered townsfolk at the edge of the great square, where everyone pressed shoulder to shoulder to glimpse another crown being bound to fate and what they believed was love.

Lilac and gray banners stirred overhead, gold gleamed against stone, and the princess emerged beneath silken canopies in a gown that cascaded to the ground and caught the sun as if it had been spun from morning itself. Her face was calm, composed into something the court would call serenity and joy.

But he knew every line of her body by heart—the tightness in her shoulders, the careful way her breath rose and fell, the faint hesitation before she stepped forward to meet the young lord waiting for her.

Unknowing about the man standing still among the murmuring crowd, hands clasped behind his back as if they still remembered how to rest near a sword hilt. His jaw tightened when vows were spoken, gaze never leaving her, even as cheers broke like waves around him or when the bells pealed again and the crowd surged forward.

Christopher did not move, steady and silent, watching as his true love was led away from him, undeniably happy and not once looking at him. If only he had known the painful realization that struck the princess at that very moment—that perhaps in a room full of people, or a street filled with eyes set on her, she wouldn’t be able to find the love of her life among them, as she always thought she would.

When the square emptied and joy scattered into streets and alehouses, he simply turned and walked back the way he had come, carrying with him no title, no blade, no future at court, only his foolish undiminished love in his heart.

The inner streets were still filled with revelers. Drunken voices rose in indistinct songs, arms slung around strangers’ shoulders as they laughed and stumbled through the night. By some quiet instinct, or perhaps memory’s guiding hand, Christopher found himself before a familiar tavern. Warm light spilled from its crooked windows, and when he stepped inside he was wrapped in heat and human noise, the scent of ale mingling with cheerful shouts.

Behind the counter bustled a woman with plump cheeks and a smile bright as midsummer sunrise. She hurried back and forth, laughing with patrons, singing snatches of half-remembered tunes—the same lively spirit she had possessed since childhood, when he had sparred against an old oak with wooden swords while she played making mud pies on her pretend inn.

Christopher and Brianne had once shared a bed, long before oaths and armor had claimed his life. It had been a single night, followed by a promise to keep their friendship untouched and the quiet assurance that she would help him if ever he asked. So when she at last noticed the pair of eyes fixed upon her, her grin widened in delighted surprise.

“By all the saints—our Sir Christopher returns!” Brianne squeezed her way through the drunken throng, cheeks flushed with delight. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be guarding the princess at her wedding?”

Her arms wrapped him in a fierce embrace, and he returned it with equal warmth. “Thought I might celebrate a bit too , in my own way,” he said. His voice was hoarse, and he thanked the noise around them for hiding it, but Brianne’s gaze did not miss the fresh scar marking his face.

Her smile dimmed, just a fraction. She took in the plain wool of his clothes, the weariness in his eyes, and though she said nothing, concern flickered plainly across her face. “Well then, find yourself a seat, dear,” she said at last, brisk as ever. “You’re always welcome here. We’re bursting at the seams tonight.”

In a quiet corner, the bitterness of ale settled at the back of his tongue. Laughter swelled, mugs clinked, and the tavern shook with joy, yet his frown remained fixed as iron. From time to time Brianne’s gaze drifted toward him, troubled, and when the night finally thinned and the last of the revelers tumbled home, he sat alone, untouched drink before him.

She approached softly while cleaning the last few tables of the room, a rag slung over her shoulder. “So,” she said with a gentle smile, “what brings the dutiful knight to my shabby tavern at such an hour?”

“Can’t a man indulge in foul ale once in a while?” he replied. Her brows rose in that familiar, knowing arch, and despite himself he gave a shy, tight smile, too much like the ones when he was only a child and had broken a window with the wrong movement “Could never keep a secret from you… I’m not a knight anymore, Bri.”

Her expression fell in disbelief. “What are you saying? They can't—well, they can, they’re royalty, but… what happened?” Voice wavering with worry, but no answer came from him.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant murmur of sleepless streets, until the words fell from his mouth with a breath that sounded like defeat. “I… laid with the princess.”

Brianne stared, mouth parting in shock, eyes too wide to even fit on her face. “Christopher, have you lost your wits? That’s—by the saints, that’s the princess!”

He raised his cup in a hollow jest and took a swallow. She leaned closer, whispering almost in a conspiratorial way “But it was once, yes? A foolish mistake—people survive foolish mistakes.”

A strained laugh escaped him as his eyes avoided hers, always so eager and searching. “Maybe… it wasn’t only once.” He mumbled under his breath

She choked, torn between horror and reluctant amusement. “Sweet saints above, Chris. I’ll ask something, but it doesn’t mean I approve. Was it at least worth it?”

He faltered, words tangling tighter and messier than ever, because no language seemed equal to what he felt over the past few months of secrecy, of desire—of her. “Yes,” he said quietly. “Every moment.”

“You filthy dog,” she screeched, laughing and slapping the table. “The king spared your head, but I’ll see you hanged myself.” Their laughter filled the empty corners of the tavern, reminding them of easier times as she wiped dampness from the corner of her eye. “Oh, Chris, good to hear you found release even within the castle walls, but I know how dearly that post meant to you. How hard you trained and everything you gave up for it.”

In the blink of an eye, the joy faded from his face, leaving sorrow raw and bare across his tired features. He let his head drop in defeat and a broken sound tore free from his throat, tears finally sliding down his cheeks. “Oh, Gods, I miss her so much.”

Brianne looked at him—the dear friend she saw train under the winding rain and scorching sun every day of his youth, who vowed to become a knight at such a young age among all the other candidates, who gave up love and a normal life to serve the crown for a lifetime—and the jesting vanished. She drew him into her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder, holding him as the suffocating night pressed close around them.

—

Mornings in the village nearby did not wake gently, as mornings in the castle once had. It arrived with clatter and noise—merchants calling their prices, children racing through the mud, and women leaning from doorways to trade gossip. Brianne thought it would do him good, to keep active somehow, hidden from the guards and his own longings.

Christopher kept to the rear of a small inn, where the forest pressed close and shadows hid among the pines. He worked there because few eyes bothered to look that far. An axe rose and fell in his hands with relentless rhythm, each swing striking the base with precision. Splitting wood was not so different from soldiering, both demanded strength, focus, and sometimes allowed a man to think of nothing else if he chose.

His shirt had been abandoned long ago, draped over a stump to dry. Sweat traced slow paths across his carved chest and shoulders. Breath steady, arms burning pleasantly as he set another log upon the block and lifted the axe again, until a whisper of fabric brushed the silence.

He did not turn immediately, only when the presence lingered quiet and patient, did he lower the axe and glance over his shoulder.

“I am rather certain,” came Lady Alyna’s voice, smooth as velvety as he remembered, “that the castle could always use another woodcutter. The princess, especially. Winters grow cruel in those stone halls and one must keep her warm somehow.”

She leaned against a tree, smirking beneath her hood, eyes glinting with that playful mischief that so often concealed dangerously sharp thoughts.

His expression hardened. “How did you find me here?”

“Brianne,” she replied easily. “Charming woman. Splendid both in taking care of drunk men and keeping secrets.”

He wiped a line of sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “What do you want, Lady Alyna? Have you come to pull your strings again? I’ve had my fill of your schemes.”

Her lips curved. “Everything I’ve done has been to help my dear lovebirds. A little gratitude would suit you, otherwise, you’d still be some lovesick fool wanking off to a glimpse of her ankles.”

The axe bit cleanly into the block as he set it down harder than needed. “Leave.”

“No,” she answered, almost cheerfully. “Because you have an appointment tomorrow night, and I dislike wasted plans.”

He turned to face her fully then, jaw set. “Maybe you should stop playing games that ruin lives.”

“On the contrary, I attempt to save them.” She stepped forward, boots crunching softly in the grass. “On the tenth street of the royal city there’s a small red inn. Find the tenth room and when the bells strike ten times—go inside.”

“And find guards waiting?” His laugh was humorless. “If this is another attempt to drag my name through the mud, I will not oblige. I will not be bait.”

“You’re not bait,” she said quietly, her smirk fading as sincerity edged in. “You are a man with two hours and a locked door. Nothing more, nothing less. She will be there.”

His hands curled slowly into fists. “You’re lying. I’m done dancing for your conspiracies.”

She studied him for a long moment, head tilted and a thoughtful gaze on her eyes, weighing truths and consequences of her actions. “The Princess asked nothing of me. And yet I arranged this because I have eyes. I saw your faces in that throne room. I heard her voice when she spoke of you after it. Use the hours wisely, Christopher, or spend the rest of your life wondering whether one night might have steadied both your hearts.”

A small parchment appeared between her fingers, which she pressed into his palm before he could pull away. He stared at the note, then crushed it into a tight ball with a sharp breath, but even furious, he didn’t let it fall.

Lady Alyna’s smile returned, softer this time. “For your peace of mind,” she murmured, turning away, “I rather dislike unhappy endings.”

She strode back toward the village road, cloak trailing as the forest swallowed her presence. Christopher stared at the crumpled parchment in his hand for a long while, and somewhere in the distance, bells rang faintly as merchants began their day. He exhaled tiredly and tucked the note into his belt, even as he muttered a curse at himself for doing so.

On the next day, when night settled carefully over the royal city, he followed Lady Alyna’s instructions with the same vigilance he once reserved for patrols. He went through shadowed alleys, avoided lantern light, passed through streets only when laughter and noise could swallow his presence, and by the time he reached the inn his pulse had already begun to betray him.

He stood before the tenth room’s door longer than he meant to. For a heartbeat his hand hesitated above the latch, torn between two fears—that she would indeed be waiting inside, and that she would not be waiting for him.

At last he turned the handle. A warm lamplight welcomed him, and there I was, seated upon the narrow bed, dressed in a plain cotton dress, hair loose, unadorned by crown or silk.

“Princess,” he whispered urgently, closing the door behind him with a careful click. “What are you doing here?”

“You came,” I said, rising at once, joy breaking across my face. I threw my arms around his neck without hesitation. He caught me by the waist on instinct, pressing me closer out of muscle memory. My fingers brushed his cheek, lingering on the fresh scar, concern flickering in my eyes, but he caught your wrist gently, shaking his head.

“You shouldn't be here, ” he murmured. “I needed to know Lady Alyna spoke true about you, but this—this is dangerous. You must leave.”

“No, I promise it’s safe,” I insisted softly. “Everything was planned. Even Vincent helped arrange it.”

His jaw tightened. “Then perhaps he would prefer you returned to the castle sooner than later.”

I searched his face, wounded. “Christopher… are you not glad I am here?”

He exhaled a tired breath. “Glad?” His voice dropped. “I am glad beyond reason. Beyond sense. But joy does not make this any safer.”

I answered him not with words, but with a gentle kiss at the curve of his neck, lips warm and familiar, proving to him they still remembered their path.

“Princess… don’t,” he whispered, though his hands had already tightened at my back.

“I don’t wish to be called that tonight,” I said quietly.

For a brief second, his gaze flicked to the locked door then back to me, standing there, real and closer than he could’ve wished for in the past few weeks. At last, he surrendered with a weak breath, the kind he did when he knew I would get what I wanted anyway.

“If that is your wish, my love.” He held the back of my neck, tilting it upward then pressed a soft kiss to the corner of my lips.

I smiled. “I like that far better.”

He guided me back to the bed with care, as though the moment itself were a relic too fragile to break. The mattress groaned softly beneath us as he leaned closer, his presence was a weight of familiar, grounding warmth. Then, fueled by a sudden spark of confidence, I shifted, reversing our positions until I settled above him.

“I want to thank you tonight,” I said, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart, grazing my pulsing core against his growing length over the fabric. “For all you’ve done for me—for us.”

I pressed a fevered kiss to his lips, losing myself in the slick, rhythmic pull of his mouth against mine. I began a slow descent, my fingers worked quickly on his shirt, lips tracing a slow path down the column of his neck to the hard, sculpted planes of his stomach.

A fractured breath escaped him. His hands came to rest upon my shoulders, grounding me, and I lifted my gaze to meet his. “Will you guide me, my love?”

The words got trapped on his throat and all he could answer was a light nod of his head. My fingers caught the hem of his breeches, tracing the heavy heat of him through the fabric before finally drawing them down to free him. I tasted him then, a slow, lingering stroke of my tongue from base to tip that drew a sharp tremble from his skin. My tongue traced the pulse of every vein, devouring the sensation of him until, slick with my devotion, I moved back up to take him inside me.

Clothes fell to the floor in a fluid motion, his head fell back against the pillows as I wrapped around him. The white-knuckled grip of his hands on my hips betrayed the control he was fighting so hard to maintain. I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, my hips moving in slow, agonizing circles that caught every shudder of his frame. Our rhythm grew more desperate, the measured grace of the beginning giving way to a raw, aching need.

He lifted his torso to pull me flush against his chest. With a final, crushing kiss, we gave ourselves over to a spill of heat and shared souls. All the secrets, the hurried nerves, and the shadows of the world outside dripped away, leaving only the damp press of skin against skin.

Later, when the world had narrowed to nothing but breath and the quiet aftermath of the storm, we lay tangled together. The night air slipped in through a cracked window, cooling our heated skin. Christopher watched me in silence, tracing the lines of my face as though committing a map to memory. Perhaps here, stripped of the jewels and silks that marked my station, I looked achingly like someone who might have grown up beside him on those very same streets.

“You look different like this,” he whispered, his voice still gravelly from the heights we’d just reached.

I shifted closer, hooking my leg over his, refusing to let the cold air settle between us. “Perhaps the court never knew me at all,” I whispered. “Perhaps you’re the only one who actually sees me.”

He let out a soft breath, fingers sliding from my jaw to the nape of my neck, pulling me just an inch closer until our foreheads rested together. “It’s a dangerous thing, my love. To look so much like you belong here, in a room that smells of pine and old wood instead of incense and lilies. If I keep you here much longer, I might start to believe you’re mine to keep.”

“And if I don't want to leave?” I challenged softly, my hand coming to rest over the steady, heavy thrum of his heart. A sad, small smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained dark with a lingering hunger. He leaned in, his lips brushing mine.

I sat up slowly, the cotton sheets pooling at my waist. A breeze from the window ghosted over my skin, raising gooseflesh and causing my nipples to peak in the sudden chill. Christopher leaned back against the headboard, his gaze heavy and unblinking, tracing the silvered path of moonlight across my bare shoulders.

“Do you still wish me gone?” I teased softly, looking back at him over my shoulder.

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his face. “I wish this night would stretch far beyond the stars above us.”

I let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I did not know you carried a poet’s heart beneath all that steel.”

“There is much you still do not know,” he said gently, the words a low vibration in the quiet room. “My love.”

The moment was fractured by a chill draft that rattled the curtains and sent the candleflame dancing. A crow detached itself from the night and swept inward, resting upon the sill, its talons clacking sharply against the wood as it ruffled its dark feathers. A sliver of parchment was bound to its leg with a twine.

I slipped from the bed, my bare feet whispering over the floorboards. I ran a soothing finger along the bird’s neck, its glossy eye remained unblinking, fixed on me with ancient intelligence as I freed the message.

“Vincent says I should enter by the side gate instead of the rear,” I murmured, scanning the hurried words. “The guards are changing every two hours now. Father thinks it is safer. There has been too much talk and… suspicion at the castle.”

Christopher sat up, his shoulders tensing with the practiced reflex of a soldier. “If he thinks it’s safer this way, there must be a reason,” he said, his voice losing its warmth to a cold, professional edge.

I crossed back to the bed and collapsed beside him, my cheek resting against the heat of his shoulder while my hair spilled like a veil across his chest. “Are you sulking because I must leave?”

He chuckled and tried to hide a content smirk from growing on his lips. “But something strange happened last week. I was in my chambers, and a hawk came to the window. It didn’t hunt; it just… stared. For minutes. Then it was gone.”

He frowned immediately. “A hawk? Are you certain, my love? Could it have been another crow? They have swarmed the city ever since Blackwood banners arrived.”

“I know a hawk when I see one,” I replied, a spark of impatience sharpening my tone. “You sound like the others. They all insisted I imagined it.”

He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, his brow knitting together. “Forgive me. It’s only… hawks are only common in the south… near the Armstrong borders.”

I went still against him. The name Armstrong felt like a sliver of ice in the room after reminiscing the events of my birthday celebrations last spring.

“Perhaps.” His voice trailed off, the old soldier in him waking by instinct, only to collide with the wall of his current station. “If there were trouble, I would…” He stopped, his breath leaving him in a sharp, humorless groan, “do nothing, I suppose.”

My fingers tightened on his arm, feeling the corded muscle there. “I’m afraid, my love.”

He took my hand, pressing his palm firmly against mine to ground me. “Speak to your father. Tell him what you saw.”

“I did, but he avoids me,” I said, my voice shrinking to a whisper. “Since… all that happened between us.”

“Trust your mind,” he insisted, his tone firm with quiet care. “The royal guards are capable, but I will see what I can gather from the outside. Be brave, you are not as helpless as they think, my love. Don’t let them make you believe otherwise.”

I curled closer into his chest, letting my breathing sync with the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart. As his hands returned to my hair, stroking in slow, soothing lines, the terror of the world outside faded. Wrapped in his heat, I finally drifted into the first true slumber I had known since he left my side.

—

With every day that passed after their stolen night together, Christopher felt his heart hollow further, worn thin by distance and dread. Every shadow that walked across the muddy streets sent a chill racing up his spine, each unfamiliar footstep stirring the same thought again and again—what if this one means to harm the princess?

When Brianne asked him to trade a few goods in the royal city, he welcomed the excuse. He told himself it was errands that called him back, but unease guided his steps as much as duty ever had.

Brianne was not yet at the tavern, occupied with neighbors over some small misunderstanding the previous night, and so Christopher took a seat alone near the wall. The room was empty for once, only a handful of drunks slumped in corners and merchants resting their throats after long bargaining. Still, his attention snagged on two cloaked figures seated far from the light.

They leaned too close, murmuring into one another’s hoods. Christopher angled his body casually, pretending interest in his mug while watching from the corner of his eye. One of them unfolded a piece of parchment and flattened it against the table. Even from a distance, he recognized the shape at once—those stairwells, those corridors, the precise bends of walls he had walked a thousand times, it was undeniably the castle.

His breath slowed when the second figure glanced around, and so subtly he nearly missed it, it slid a narrow dagger from beneath their sleeve. The blade caught the light for a heartbeat before vanishing again.

The tavern door slammed open with a crash. A drunken stumbled in, shouting for ale. Christopher’s gaze snapped back to the table, but it was empty. No cloaks or parchments, not even a disturbed chair.

His heart hammered as he rose and left without finishing his drink. Outside, he told himself it was nothing, paranoia born of loss and longing. Who would dare strike at the crown? For what gain? Revenge, ambition, provocation?

Each thought felt too bold, too foolish. Still something unsettled inside his chest, that perhaps he could imagine a life without her touch, but never a world without her breath. If there were an attempt he had to do something.

It likely would come at night, quiet and probably assisted from within. He remembered her words about the altered guard rotations—new schedules, shorter watches. However by midnight, when work ceased and corridors slept, the castle still lay exposed.

That night he went to an old blacksmith. The man squinted at him with a blind eye, recognition blooming slowly before a smile creased his wrinkled face. The blade Christopher chose bore no ornament, just honest steel, worn smooth by years of service. It felt like the first sword he had ever held.

He took the side gate, just as she had the other night. The secret passages welcomed him like muscle memory. Every turn, every narrow stair rose instinctively beneath his feet. When he reached her chamber, his stomach clenched—there was no guard there.

A slice of lamplight spilled across the floor from the door that wasn’t fully closed, which he pushed open. The scene burned itself into him in a fractured instant, a shadow bent over her bed, one hand pressing a rag to her face, the other holding a dagger he recognized at once. Her body lay unnaturally still.

Christopher crossed the room in three strides. Steel rang as his sword struck the side table, sending cups and glass crashing to the floor. The attacker tumbled back in surprise, cloak flaring, weapon drawn in reflex. They clashed in quick, brutal movements, when a blow grazed Christopher’s forearm. Pain bloomed hot and sharp, but he answered with a clean strike that knocked the figure down.

The noise summoned the guards, pouring in with weapons raised and clinking armours. Christopher had the attacker cornered by the fireplace when hands seized him from behind. Both men were forced to their knees as restraints were clamped on.

The king and queen arrived moments later. The queen’s gaze flew first to her daughter, still unconscious, then to Christopher—confusion and disbelief flashing across her face. The guards tightened their hold until she lifted her hand.

“Release him,” she said.

They hesitated for a moment, but obeyed at once. “Call the physicians,” Christopher rasped, still a bit breathless himself, voice shaking but eyes steady on hers. “I believe… the princess and the prince have been poisoned.”

After that, his memory faded. He recalled physicians rushing in, the king studying the dagger with a grave expression before leaving the chamber, the queen’s hands trembling as her daughter was lifted into care. He remembered the guards again, firmer this time, escorting him back through corridors he had once sworn to protect.

When he opened his eyes again, for a moment Christopher believed himself still dreaming. The dungeon glimmered with that same dim, unreal glow cast by torchlight, shadows painting the damp walls in wavering hues of amber and gold. His body ached with the heaviness of exhaustion, mind slow to gather itself.

Footsteps echoed, the faint noise of royal leather against stone. He lifted his head just a little as a tall figure stopped before the iron bars. The king’s silhouette filled the narrow space, imposing even in the low light.

The king motioned once. The guard unlocked the cell and stepped aside. “Stand, Sir Christopher.”

He hesitated only a breath before forcing himself upright, spine straight despite the ache in his limbs.

“I cannot deny,” the king said, voice low and stoic, “that I was impressed by your actions last night.” His gaze shifted briefly, as if weighed by thought. “My daughter—and her husband—live because of you.”

Christopher swallowed. “Thank you, Your Grace. But I had no right to enter the castle, nor to interfere with your guard.”

“And yet you did,” the king replied evenly. “For her, I believe.”

“Yes,” Christopher said without hesitation. “For her.”

The king exhaled slowly. “I suspected an attempt would come sooner or later. Our dealings with the Armstrongs at the tournament last spring left matters… unfinished.” His expression hardened. “But I did not expect such boldness. Not against my daughter.”

“How are you certain it was them?” Christopher asked carefully. “It could have been blamed on me.”

“The blade is made of yellow steel. Common in the southern lands—Armstrong make.”

A pause stretched between them. The ex-knight shifted on the spot, feeling his heart quicken. “What will you do now, Your Grace?”

“I would avoid war if I can,” the king said at last. “But the realm is fragile, and I would be a fool to cast you aside again—especially after what you have done. Perhaps we were wrong to separate you. Perhaps the Gods bind whom they will, regardless of crowns and vows.”

Christopher’s breath caught. “Your Grace… I don’t understand.”

“You would give up your vows and your life to protect my daughter. The least I could do is give back your post as royal knight,” his grave voice stated plainly. “No ceremony. Retrieve your armor and sword from the armory and return to duty.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sir Christopher’s voice was steady though his heart thundered under his ribcage.

“Lord Blackwood has recovered from the poison,” the king added. “My daughter remains weak, but improving.” He turned, then paused, a faint smile touching his mouth, subtle and knowing. “If you wish, you may visit her. Though I suppose I don’t have to remind you to be careful when visiting her in the future.”

“Yes, Your Grace, I will. Thank you again.”

Christopher almost didn’t feel his feet carry him through the castle. He took the stairs two at a time, heart racing faster with every turn, until he stood once more before that familiar door.

Morning light spilled through a narrow opening, pale and soft. A breeze drifted through the room, carrying the scent of lavender and daisies, just as he remembered from the first time he woke up tangled with her. He pushed the door open gently.

I lay reclined among pillows and light covers, a book resting loosely in my hands. My eyes lifted at the sound and found his standing under the doorframe.

For a heartbeat I could only stare, when a sudden warmth flooded my cheeks, breath catching as his smile broke wide and unmistakable. He crossed the room in a few swift steps, knelt beside the bed, and wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face at my neck as though I could vanish before him.

“How did you—how did you get here?” I whispered against his skin, laughing in disbelief.

“I believe the Gods refuse to part us,” he murmured, lifting his head just enough to meet my eyes. “And it seems your parents no longer wish to try.”

A soft giggle escaped me as I looped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Our lips met, gentle at first, building up to something more intimate, a familiar warmth blooming between us after too long apart.

I rested my forehead against his, still holding to his wide shoulders, too afraid to ever let go again. “I don’t want to be separated from you again. I want a forever with you, my knight.”

“We will have it,” he said quietly, pressing another tender kiss to my lips. “I know we will.”

And he kissed me again, and again, until all the world narrowed to his breath and all I could taste on my tongue and my heart was solely him until the end of times.

the images aren't mine! all rights reserved to © bibisbia, 2025. please do not claim, translate, copy or modify any of my works as your own. reblogs are appreciated! ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

[miunicornfluff]

coming back on here 2 say this

fuck I.C.E

fuck tr*mp

fuck ep*tein

fuck shitrael

fuck sexism

fuck k*rk

fuck pro-life

fuck white supremacy

fuck racism

everything is political.

no one is illegal on stolen land

arrest everyone mentioned in the files

i love immigrants

free palestine, cogo, venezuela, etc

abortion is healthcare

blame the predator, not the victims clothes.

no uterus no opinion

love is love

trans woman = woman

trans man = man

mental health matters

all addictions matter

[notseospicy]

THE LEAP.

Hyunjin x reader. (f,a) SFW

Synopsis: You learn to protect yourself from hurt by building walls around you. Then Hyunjin comes, showing you that love can be soft, patient and gentle — and worth the leap. (17k words)

The gallery is louder than Hyunjin remembers it ever being.

Voices overlap in polite admiration and thinly veiled competition, laughter ringing too sharp against the white walls. The annual student exhibition always draws a crowd.

His painting hangs at eye level, exactly where the faculty suggested it should be. Oil on canvas. Controlled strokes. Composition honed through months of revisions. He stands near it, hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that has been practiced into muscle memory over the years. People drift in and out of his orbit easily.

“This one’s yours again, Hyunjin,” someone says with a laugh, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve outdone yourself,” another adds, eyes bright with admiration. “Second years in a row—legendary.”

Everyone keeps saying, assuming the same thing just because he won the student art prize last year. To Hyunjin, winning has never been something he allows himself to assume—not because he lacks confidence, but because he knows how fragile it is. Art doesn’t belong to expectation.

Hyunjin answers questions thoughtfully. He talks about process, about intention. He never talks about victory. He smiles when he’s expected to. Nods. Thanks them. But he never lets it settle because the moment he believes he deserves something, it stops listening to him.

As the crowd shifts, his attention wanders to other paintings lining the walls, to names printed neatly on placards. He scans instinctively, cataloguing styles, techniques and then, he realizes something. There’s a gap. Not an empty wall, but a presence he doesn’t recognize.

At the far end of the gallery, tucked slightly away from the main flow, a painting holds a quiet gravity that doesn’t beg to be noticed. Green dominates the canvas, lush and layered, alive in a way that feels deliberate rather than decorative. Flowers bloom unapologetically, vines twisting into one another like they’re holding secrets.

He steps closer before he means to and at first glance, it’s beautiful. Serene, even. The kind of work that soothes viewers, that gives them something pleasant to praise. He almost turns away—

And then he sees the space between the leaves sharpens. Shadows pull into shape. Two eyes look back at him, not directly, but as if they’re watching from somewhere just beyond the room. A face emerges slowly, fragmented, hidden beneath the growth. And behind it all—thin, careful lines etched into the canvas. Old wounds. Healed badly. Covered, not erased.

Hyunjin stills because the longer he looks, the more the painting changes. Then he glances at the placard beneath it. A name he doesn’t recognize.

He looks around instinctively, expecting to find the artist nearby so he can ask further about their work, but no one stands there. The space around the painting is empty like it’s been left alone on purpose.

Hyunjin exhales slowly, something unfamiliar settling in his chest. Not jealousy. Not fear. Curiosity.

Because whoever painted this—

They weren’t trying to win. They were trying to be understood.

-

The night stretches on in a slow, gilded blur.

Hyunjin answers more questions, accepts more praise than he knows what to do with. Someone presses a champagne flute into his hand, he takes a polite sip and sets it aside untouched. Every few minutes, his gaze drifts back to the green painting at the end of the room like a reflex he hasn’t learned to control yet.

His curiosity deepens as the artist never appears until eventually, the lights dim just slightly—a subtle cue that the night is reaching its peak. Conversations soften, people instinctively drawing closer to the podium located in the center end of the gallery where the judges gather.

Hyunjin straightens without thinking, smoothing a hand over his sleeve. Around him, bodies shift. Eyes flick toward him, then away again, then back. Expectation hums in the air.

Someone near him murmurs, “Here we go,” under their breath.

He feels that collective assumption settling like a weight on his shoulders. Two years of precedent. Two years of predictability. He doesn’t resent it, but he doesn’t claim it either. He keeps his expression calm the way he always does.

Art isn’t a crown you wear. It’s something you offer and then let go of.

The head judge steps forward, microphone catching softly. They speak about growth. About voices. About courage in creation.

Hyunjin listens carefully, more than most. His pulse remains steady.

“And this year,” the judge continues, “the winning piece moved us not because of its polish but because of its honesty.”

A few students glance at him again, smiles already forming, ready to hear his name being called.

Hyunjin doesn’t move. His fingers curl slightly at his side.

“And the winner of this year’s Art Prize is…”

The name is spoken and it’s not his.

For a heartbeat, the gallery goes silent. The kind that comes from surprise, not disappointment. Hyunjin feels the shift immediately, like the room has inhaled and forgotten how to exhale.

Around him, students turn in unison, eyes flicking from him to the far end of the gallery, to the painting cloaked in green. Whispered confusion ripples outward and buzzing in place.

Hyunjin doesn’t feel the loss. There’s no sting. No hollow drop in his chest. Instead, something else unfurls.

He looks again at the painting, seeing it now not as an anomaly, but as an answer. The judge continues speaking, calling for the artist to step forward, but no one does. A pause stretches and then another.

The artist isn’t here.

A quiet murmur spreads, surprised, uncertain. Hyunjin barely hears it. His attention stays anchored to the canvas, to the pair of eyes hidden in the leaves, to the face that never quite steps into the light.

Who paints something like that and doesn’t come to watch it win?

He exhales, the corner of his mouth lifting just barely in intrigue.

Whoever you are, he thinks, you didn’t paint this for applause.

And suddenly, he wants to know you.

-

Hyunjin sits through his lectures with the same attentiveness he always has, but there’s a thread pulling at the back of his mind, tugging his focus loose every few minutes. Sketches form beneath his pen without him realizing—leaves, curved lines, negative space that keeps resolving into eyes when he looks too closely. He frowns, closes the notebook, forces himself to listen.

By lunchtime, he eats with friends, nods along to conversations about critiques and deadlines and the shock of the prize going to someone new. Your name surfaces again and again, each time spoken with the same puzzled tone.

“You know who painted it?” someone asks him.

Hyunjin shakes his head. “No.”

That answer sits strangely on his tongue.

Between classes, he starts asking around. Just curiosity disguised as coincidence.

“Hey, do you know who painted the piece that won the art prize?” “Oh, her? She’s in the illustration track, I think.” “She’s quiet. Never really talks.” “I don’t think she hangs around much.”

Most answers trail off into shrugs. Finally, near the end of the day, he catches up to someone from one of the shared studios. He keeps his tone light, conversational.

“Do you know where she usually works?”

The student thinks for a moment. “Yeah. She stays late. Always does.”

“Where?”

They jerk their chin toward the older buildings at the edge of campus. “Studio H. The abandoned one after that fire. Barely anyone uses it anymore. She’s almost always there after school.”

Hyunjin thanks them and turns away before they can read too much into his expression.

The last class of the day drags. He packs up the second it ends, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stepping out into the frosty winter air. The sun hangs low, casting long shadows across campus, students spilling out in clusters toward buses and cafes and home.

Hyunjin walks in the opposite direction and the farther he goes, the quieter it gets. The chatter fades, replaced by the sound of his own footsteps and the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.

The building comes into view gradually—older, narrower, one of the walls still has smoke stains from a fire that happened almost a year ago.

Hyunjin slows as he approaches, something like reverence settling over him. The windows glow faintly, warm against the encroaching dusk. He pauses at the entrance, fingers brushing the strap of his bag, suddenly aware of the intrusion his presence might be.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, only that he needs to see the person who painted something like that. So pushes the door open quietly and steps inside.

-

The studio isn’t what Hyunjin expects.

There’s no familiar scent of oil paint or turpentine, no easels or canvas lined neatly against the walls. Instead, the air is thick with clay and dust, cool and damp in a way that settles into the lungs. Half-finished sculptures crowd the room—torsos without heads, hands reaching for nothing, faces frozen mid-thought. It feels less like a classroom and more like a place where people disappear into their work.

Someone stands at a table near the entrance, sleeves rolled up, hands buried in a block of clay. He wears headphones, head bobbing faintly to a rhythm Hyunjin can’t hear. The sculptor glances up when the door opens, eyes flicking over Hyunjin with mild curiosity before returning immediately to their work. Unbothered.

Hyunjin steps farther inside, careful with his footing. His eyes instinctively search for an easel, canvas, brushes, anything that confirms the person he’s looking for belongs here. He doesn’t find one but what he does find is you.

You sit on a wooden stool near the back, posture slightly hunched, fully absorbed. A half-body sculpture rests in front of you. Your hands move with steady familiarity, thumbs pressing, fingers smoothing. Clay clings beneath your nails, streaks your apron, catches in a loose strand of hair by your temple.

Hyunjin hesitates, suddenly aware of the intrusion. He knows this feeling too well because he too, hates when someone interrupt him in the middle of painting.

Still, he clears his throat softly. “Hi.”

You glance at him then. Just enough to register his presence. Your eyes meet his for half a second before dropping back to your sculpture, hands never pausing. No greeting. No dismissal either.

Hyunjin exhales quietly. He decides to be quick. “Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “I’m looking for someone. Do you happen to know where I can find—” He says your name.

Your hands keep moving. You don’t turn to him. “That’s me.”

Hyunjin is puzzled once more. His gaze drifts back to the sculpture, then to you, recalibrating everything he thought he knew. A painter, he had assumed. Not this.

“I—” He catches himself, straightens. “I’m Hyunjin. We haven’t met. But I saw your work at the exhibition.”

Your shoulders tense, just slightly.

He continues carefully, “I wanted to congratulate you. Your painting—it was incredible. I really admired it. And winning the student art prize—”

“I didn’t win anything.”

The interruption is flat and final.

Hyunjin frowns, confused. “But your painting was there. You won this year’s art prize.”

You press your thumb into the clay a little harder than before. “Someone else submitted it without my consent.”

That stops him cold but he isn’t offended. Only sincerely, utterly confused. That painting, raw and deliberate and brave, doesn’t feel like something that should be taken from its creator. And the thought unsettles him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he says honestly.

You finally look at him again, this time longer but there’s no warmth in it. Just distance, hollow.

“If you don’t mind,” you say coolly, already turning back to your sculpture, “I’d like to work in peace.”

Hyunjin nods immediately. He understands that tone. He’s used it himself. “Of course. I’m sorry for disturbing you. I hope you have a good day.”

He backs away slowly, careful not to bump into anything, and slips out the door as quietly as he entered.

Outside, the air feels lighter but his chest only tightens. Hyunjin reaches the doorway, hand hovering over the handle, but he quickly pauses. Because now, more than ever, he wants to know why someone who creates like that would let their work speak without them.

And why they’d rather remain unseen.

-

You’re halfway through cleaning clay from beneath your nails when your phone vibrates on the edge of the sink, screen lighting up with your professor’s name. The subject line is polite and you skim most of it, finding out that she wants to see you in her office later.

So after lunch, you make your way there. Her office smells faintly of paper and old coffee, sunlight spilling in through tall windows that make everything feel exposed. She gestures for you to sit, her expression unreadable in that careful way professors master over the years.

“I wanted to talk to you about the exhibition,” she begins.

You already know about what she did with your painting without your permission. Thanks to whoever came to the studio the other day, telling you that you won something you didn’t even know you were a part of in the first place.

She folds her hands on the desk. “I submitted your painting for the student art prize.”

The words land exactly where you expect them to, and still—they irritate. Settle under your skin.

“I didn’t give my consent,” you say evenly.

She sighs, not frustrated—more thoughtful. “I know. And I understand why you’re upset.”

Upset isn’t the word. But you let her continue.

“It won,” she adds.

You look at her then, exasperated but don’t know how to express it since she’s your professor and your respect her too much. “That doesn’t change anything.”

She studies you for a moment, gaze softening. “You’re exceptionally talented. But you hide. You always have. Your work deserves to be seen.”

You inhale air to calm yourself before speaking. “I don’t need validation. Or praise. Or awards.”

There’s no bitterness in your voice. Just fact.

She leans back slightly, fingers tapping once against the armrest. “It’s not about validation. It’s about connection. About letting others know they’re not alone.”

You stiffen because she’s hovering too close to the very thing you don’t want to talk about.

“Your painting,” she continues, careful now, “it heals. Art heals. People like you—people who don’t know how to speak yet—they see it and feel understood.”

You look down at your hands, at the faint cracks in your skin, clay still embedded in the lines of your palms.

“I don’t make art to heal people,” you murmur. “I make it so I can breathe.”

She nods, accepting that. Then she reaches into a drawer and places the certificate on the desk, followed by the small trophy. They look out of place between stacks of papers and books. “I won’t argue with you. But I won’t apologize either,” she says.

You consider pushing back but you’re too tired and arguing won’t unpaint what’s already been seen. You take the certificate and the trophy, not in triumph, but in defeat.

“Since you won,” she adds, stopping you at the door, “your painting is being showcased in the main hall now.”

You close your eyes briefly. Eyelids fluttering as you hold yourself back. You nod once, hand tightening around the edge of the certificate as you step back into the hallway. The door closes behind you with a soft click, leaving you alone with the echo of her words and the weight of something you never asked to share.

You exhale slowly at the fact that more people know about the painting and the one who painted it now. And you’re not sure how that makes you feel—only that there’s no taking it back.

-

The hallway feels longer after stepping out of your professor’s office. Your footsteps echo softly against the tiled floor, certificate tucked under your arm, the trophy weighing your already packed bag.

Students pass you in pairs and clusters, voices overlapping, laughter brushing past you without catching. You keep your eyes forward, jaw set as you think about the painting. You never meant for it to leave your hands.

It wasn’t created for walls or spotlights or circles of admiration. You painted it late at night, alone, when the studios were empty and no one could watch you hesitate. It’s the most honest you’ve ever been—every brushstroke a confession you never learned how to say out loud. You didn’t plan for anyone to see the face hidden beneath the leaves, the way the wounds rest beneath something alive.

You showed it to your professor because you trusted her. Because she asked gently. Because she never pushed. You thought that it would stay between the two of you, safe in that small space of understanding.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

The main hall opens up ahead of you, wide and bright, sunlight flooding in through the tall and wide entrance of the building that leaves nowhere to hide. You slow without meaning to, pulse ticking louder in your ears. A small crowd lingers near the center wall in that particular way people get when they know something is important but don’t quite know why.

You see it then. Your painting hangs there, framed neatly, too clean for what it contains. The green looks brighter under the lights, the flowers more alive than you remember. From a distance, it almost lies, almost convinces. Up close, the truth waits patiently for anyone willing to look long enough.

You notice one person in particular stands in front of it, unmoving. Tall. Lean. Long, silky black hair falling just past his eyes, catching the light when he tilts his head. His posture is relaxed but intent, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his jeans like he’s afraid to touch anything. There’s a stillness to him that sets him apart from the others drifting in and out.

You recognize him immediately as the guy who came to the studio the other day. He introduced himself and it takes you a while to recall his name.

Hyunjin.

He isn’t looking at the placard. He isn’t glancing around to see who’s watching. His gaze stays fixed on the canvas, expression stripped of anything performative. Just quiet focus like he’s listening to something only the painting is saying.

A strange, uncomfortable thought settles in your chest. Because out of everyone here, he’s the one who’s really seeing it.

You stop a few steps away, heart knocking unevenly, caught between wanting to turn around and wanting to know what he sees when he looks at something you never meant to share. This time, you don’t feel annoyed by his presence. You feel exposed.

You stay where you are as he shifts his weight slightly, head tilting as if he’s following a line only he can see, eyes tracing the edges of the leaves, the spaces between them. He leans in, just a fraction, like he’s careful not to miss anything.

You wonder what he wants from you. When he showed up at the studio, you assumed curiosity sharpened by ego—another artist wanting to size you up, to confirm that the prize made sense. Or maybe obligation. A polite congratulations delivered because it was expected of him, because everyone was watching.

But now, standing here, alone with your painting, he doesn’t look like someone checking a box. He looks… thoughtful.

You wonder if he knows how close he stands to the face hidden in the green. If he’s seen the eyes yet. If he’s noticed the cuts behind the leaves, softened by color but still there, still real. You wonder if he understands that the painting isn’t brave—it’s just tired of being quiet and you hate how much it matters.

You quickly remind yourself that his intentions don’t concern you. That whatever he thinks about your work, about you, doesn’t change the fact that it was never meant to be here.

As if sensing the weight of your gaze, Hyunjin turns and his eyes meet yours immediately. Surprise flickers briefly across his face, then fades into something gentler.

Neither of you speak. The moment stretches thin, suspended between the two of you.

You look away and turn on your heel, heart thudding a little too hard, and start down the hallway toward your next class.

Behind you, you don’t hear him follow. But you feel the echo of his attention linger long after you’ve gone and you don’t know yet whether that unsettles you more than the painting being seen.

-

Studio H has gotten a renovation done months ago but many students choose not to use it anymore because of the fire, the building is old and narrow, and secluded from the rest of the school. This space understands silence better than most people do and for you, that’s the whole charm of it.

There’s only one other person using the studio other than you. Ben. He’s a fellow sculptor, doesn’t talk much and keeps it to himself most of the time which is why you’re comfortable sharing the space with him.

You greet him with a small nod as you step inside. He lifts a hand in return, already half-lost in his work, headphones slipping over his ears. You walk to your usual spot near the back, the stool already molded to the shape of you from hours spent there. The half-body sculpture waits exactly where you left it, surface still bearing the marks of your last touch. You hang your bag, take your apron and put it on.

The door bangs open and someone stumbles in carrying far too much at once—an easel clattering against the frame, a box filled with what looks like paint tubes and brushes threatening to spill, two blank canvases pressed awkwardly under one arm. A backpack recklessly hangs off one shoulder.

Hyunjin freezes for half a second when he spots you, then grins like the disruption is part of his charm. Unfazed, he crosses the room and drops everything into the far corner, directly across from your space.

You watch him quietly as he straightens, dusts off his hands, then shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m a student here. I can use whichever studio I want,” he says with a coy shrug.

You don’t respond but tie your apron and pick up your sculpting tool, turning back to your work as if he isn’t there. But he is.

You feel the way his presence alters the room, the subtle shift in energy. The scrape of the easel as he adjusts it. The soft clink of paint tubes. The rustle of canvas. You try to tune it out, focus on the curve of the shoulder you’re shaping, the line you want to soften. But it doesn’t work because you’re fully aware that he’s there, close enough to matter, close enough to be intentional.

And that’s what bothers you most. You don’t know why he’s here, but you have the uneasy feeling that at least part of the answer is you.

-

People drift between studios all the time, especially this one, tucked away and forgotten. Hyunjin will get bored, you think. He’ll realize there’s nothing here for him.

But on the next day, his easel is already set up when you arrive. The third day, he’s rearranged the corner just enough to make it his. He moves through the space with an ease that unsettles you, like he’s found comfort faster than he should have.

It annoys you more than you expect. You try to ignore him, the same way you ignore most people. You focus on your sculpture, on the press and pull of clay beneath your fingers. Still, you register everything: the scrape of his chair, the soft hum of music leaking from his headphones, the way he pauses sometimes, staring at his canvas like he’s waiting for it to answer back.

A few days in, he starts bringing coffee. He arrives one afternoon with a cardboard tray balanced in one hand, steam curling up toward the ceiling. He offers cups around casually like he’s always been part of this routine. Ben accepts one with a surprised laugh, pulling off their headphones to say thanks.

Hyunjin doesn’t ask you. He just sets a cup down on the empty table near your station and moves on, as if he knows you’ll decide for yourself.

You don’t touch it, but the warm, bitter, faintly sweet smell lingers longer than you want it to.

Another day, you glance up briefly and find him leaning against Ben’s table talking quietly. They’re smiling and chatting. You don’t hear what’s being said, only catch the way Hyunjin’s hands move when he talks, expressive, animated. It’s strange, seeing him like this here, in a space that never belonged to him before.

Hyunjin laughs at something Ben says and the sound makes your chest tighten, just a little. A few minutes later, he wanders over to your station. You feel him before you see him, the air shifting as he stops beside you. You keep working, carving carefully, refusing to acknowledge him. He doesn’t say anything but stands there, watching. Finally, you glance up and he smiles at you, quiet and unintrusive. Not the kind meant to impress or demand. Just… there.

You look back down at your sculpture, irritation curling low in your stomach. You still don’t know what he wants. But it’s becoming harder to pretend he isn’t slowly making himself impossible to ignore.

-

You already know you’ll see Hyunjin.

The thought settles in your mind sometime between your last class and studio H, and instead of following it, you turn the other way. You leave campus behind, cut through streets you know by heart, and end up at the city park just as the afternoon light begins to thin.

The fountain is cold and still, icicles hanging off the edge like flows of water frozen in time. You sit on a bench nearby and pull your sketchbook free, tucking your hands into your sleeves between strokes. The winter air bites, stiffening your fingers until you have to stop every few minutes, rubbing your palms together, breathing warmth into them before continuing. You don’t mind it. This is your version of rest.

You sketch without thinking too much, letting the page take whatever your hands give it. The sky shifts slowly above you, washed in pale gold and fading blue. People come and go—joggers, couples, someone walking their dog—sometimes sharing the bench for a moment before moving on. You notice them only in passing, vaguely, like background noise.

“Hey,” a voice says. “Do you mind if I sit?”

You look up from your drawing and Hyunjin stands there, hands hooked into the straps of his bag, breath fogging faintly in the cold. He smiles when he sees you, easy and confident, like this was always a possibility.

You slowly look back down at your sketchbook. “It’s a public space. Sit wherever you want.”

He takes that as permission.

He drops down beside you immediately, close enough that your sleeves brush. You stiffen, but he doesn’t comment. He just starts pulling things out of his bag: sketchbook, pencils, eraser. He lines them up neatly on the bench between you.

When you think he’s done, you hear the quiet tear of plastic. All of a sudden, he presses something into your hand. You look down to find a small heat pack, warm and humming faintly against your palm.

Hyunjin doesn’t look at you but flips open his sketchbook to a clean page like he didn’t just do all that and starts drawing, pencil moving with slow confidence. You sit there, stunned, heat seeping into your fingers. And for a long moment, you let him.

The two of you draw in silence, the space between you filled with the scratch of pencil and the distant sound of the city. Your hands loosen. The cold eases. The sky darkens until the last streak of color slips below the horizon, and the park gradually empties, footsteps fading one by one.

When it’s finally quiet enough to hear your own breathing, you close your sketchbook and turn to him. “Say what you want.”

Hyunjin pauses, pencil hovering. He pretends to think about it, eyes drifting upward like he hadn’t come here with intention stitched into every step. Then he looks at you with eyes soft, smile gentler than you expect.

“Uhm… Coffee?”

-

The café is warm in a way that slowly seeps into your bones. Steam curls up from your cup, fogging the space between you and the table, carrying the earthy, comforting scent of coffee. You don’t drink it right away. You just sit there and watch him.

Hyunjin cradles his cup like it’s something fragile. He lifts it, inhales first with eyes closing briefly, a small smile pulling at his mouth before taking a careful sip. He looks at ease like he isn’t sitting across from someone who’s wound tight enough to snap.

You keep watching and he doesn’t call you out on it, doesn’t shift or fidget or ask what you’re staring at. He just lets you look, like he’s used to being observed and has nothing to hide.

It’s been a moment and you’re not exactly enjoying his company so you decide being the one who breaks first. “I know you won the student art prize last year,”

He nods once, swallowing another sip. “Yes.”

“So I’m assuming all of this—congratulating me, suddenly working in my studio, following me around—”

“I didn’t stalk you,” he cuts in calmly.

You pause, eyes narrowing.

“Ben told me you go to the park when you skip the studio,” he adds, unbothered. “I just… guessed.”

You ignore that entirely, lean back slightly and look at him properly now. “Did you do all this because you were hurt? Because you didn’t win this year, and some unknown did instead?”

Hyunjin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t defend himself. He simply sets his cup down on the table with care, porcelain meeting wood softly. Then he looks at you and smiles as he says, “I did it because I admire your work.”

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “How? You only know me now.”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s not too late to like something.”

You don’t respond. Mostly because you don’t want to entertain him further.

Silence stretches between you, but Hyunjin doesn’t rush to fill it. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, sincere. “Technically, your painting is incredible. Your control of color, the way you layer greens without letting them turn muddy. Your brushstrokes feel intentional, not decorative. And the composition—how the eye keeps getting drawn inward instead of outward—it’s hard to do that without forcing it.”

You stare at the surface of your coffee, jaw tightening. Then you notice the way his tone shifts.

“But what stayed with me,” he continues, “was the feeling. The restraint. The way the painting doesn’t ask to be understood, but it waits. The honesty in it—how you didn’t soften anything just to make it easier to look at.”

He looks at you steadily now and somehow, you can’t look away. “That takes courage… Being that bare. Not everyone can do that.”

Something in you recoils. It feels like being cut open—not violently, but precisely. Like he’s peeled back layers you never gave permission to touch, standing there with clear sight of everything you keep hidden. You stiffen, spine straightening, walls sliding back into place.

Because this isn’t flattery. This is real. And it terrifies you.

You inhale slowly, forcing calm into your voice. “I appreciate your comments about my painting.”

You stand before he can say anything else. Your chair scrapes softly against the floor as you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder. There’s a tightness in your chest now, something burning and dangerously close to anger.

“But I’d appreciate it more,” you add, not quite looking at him, “if you stopped coming to the studio. Paint somewhere else.”

You don’t wait for his response but walk straight to the door, push it open, and step outside. The winter air rushes to meet you, cold brushing your cheeks, your hair, stealing your breath for a second. As you head down the street, hands shoved deep into your pockets, you frown to yourself. You don’t understand why you’re so mad at him.

Only that somehow, he saw too much and you weren’t ready for that at all.

-

You walk toward the studio with your shoulders drawn in, jaw set, already bracing yourself.

You tell yourself not to but you do anyway. You picture him there before you even reach the door. Hyunjin, exactly where he’s been these past days, sprawled into the space like he belongs, like your words from last night were nothing more than background noise.

You inhale deeply before pushing the door open. Warm air rushes out to meet you as you slip inside, and you’re quick to shut it behind you, muttering a quiet curse at the cold before it can follow.

“Hey, Ben,” you say, out of habit.

Ben looks up from his station and grins, lifting his thumb in a silent thumbs-up. You nod back, automatic, already moving further inside. And oh, you’re dreading it cause you’re going to see—

Hyunjin’s spot is empty. No easel angled just a little too close to yours. No canvases leaning against the wall. No careless backpack slung over a chair, no presence stretching across the space and into your awareness. It’s… bare.

The corner looks wrong without him like something’s been erased.

Ben notices the pause. He slips one side of his headphones down and follows your line of sight. “Oh, Hyunjin came about an hour ago. Packed up his stuff and left,” he says casually.

You hum in response, like that information means nothing to you. You don’t ask why. You just move. Your feet carry you to your station on instinct, hands already reaching for your apron, body slipping back into the familiar rhythm of work. Clay beneath your fingers, cool and solid, grounding you as you pick up where you left off.

Still, your eyes betray you. They flick up now and then, drifting to that empty corner across the room. Each time, they pause for half a second too long, as if they’re waiting for something to fill the space, as if they need time to adjust.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a habit you’ll break.

-

The cold deepens quietly, the kind that doesn’t announce itself until it’s already settled into your bones. Each day, the walk to the studio becomes a struggle—air biting at your cheeks, breath fogging in front of you like a small, constant reminder that winter has decided to stay. You haven’t seen Hyunjin since that night in the café. Not in the studio. Not in the halls. Not hovering in places you didn’t ask him to be. You tell yourself that’s good. That it’s what you wanted.

Today, snow is already falling by the time you reach the studio. It crunches beneath your boots, a soft, brittle sound that follows you all the way to the door. Inside, warmth wraps around you instantly.

“God, it’s freezing,” Ben groans when you greet him.

You hum in agreement, shrugging off your coat, slipping back into routine like muscle memory. Clay under your fingers. Silence where it belongs. Time dissolves without asking permission.

You don’t notice how late it’s gotten until Ben starts packing up. He pulls on his jacket, shoulders his bag, glancing out the window with a frown. “Weather’s supposed to get bad tonight. You might want to head out early,” he says in quiet concern.

“I’ll wrap up soon,” you assures him.

He smiles in understanding. “Be safe, okay?”

You nod and with that, Ben leaves. The door clicks shut behind him, and the studio exhales into stillness.

It’s quiet in a way that feels heavier without other people to dilute it. You lean back against the wooden table and look out the window. Snow flutters down in uneven patterns, catching the light, softening the world into something distant and muted. There’s a strange ache in watching it—something slow and sinking that you don’t bother naming.

You work for another hour anyway and when you finally stop, your hands are numb. You wash them thoroughly, watching the clay spiral down the drain, then button your coat all the way up, tugging it tight around your throat. Bag over your shoulder. You take one last glance around the studio and then you step outside.

The snow comes down immediately, clinging to your hair, your sleeves, the lashes of your eyes. You shut the door carefully behind you, already dreading the long, freezing walk to the bus stop. You turn toward the school gate and halt to a stop when you see someone there.

Hyunjin, leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his coat pockets, snow caught in his hair, dusting the collar of his coat and the red scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He looks like he’s been standing there for a while, long enough for the cold to settle into him. Yet, he smiles when he sees you like all of that doesn’t bother him.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, incredulous.

“Waiting for you,” he says easily. Then, as if it’s obvious, “You didn’t want me in your studio.”

“So?”

“So I waited outside.”

That only makes it worse. “Why?”

He coyly shrugs. “I figured you’d be out late. And the buses stop running when the weather gets like this.”

He glances at the snow, then back at you. “So I’ll… drive you home.”

None of it makes sense. You don’t understand why he’s here. Why he’s worried. Why he’s standing in the cold like this is something he owes you. You’re no one to him. You should tell him to leave. You should say thank you. You should say anything that resembles civility. Instead, what comes out is sharp and raw and unfiltered.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Hyunjin just smiles, breath fogging in the air as he once again, coyly shrugs.

-

The car is warm in a way that makes you too aware of everything else.

Hyunjin drives with one hand on the wheel, eyes steady on the road, posture relaxed but attentive. He doesn’t put music on, doesn’t fill the silence with idle talk. The only sound is the low hum of the engine and the soft crunch of tires rolling over snowed road.

You watch the world slide past the window as streetlights blurred into halos, sidewalks smoothed over by white, everything looking quieter, cleaner. Snow has a way of making the city feel forgiven like nothing bad has ever happened here, like nothing bad ever will. It’s almost convincing.

When he stops in front of your apartment building, you don’t move right away. The engine clicks off. Silence pours into the car, low and intimate. The windows fog slowly, your breath and his blurring the glass until the outside world feels very far away.

This time, he’s the one who speaks. “I tried. After you asked me to stop,” Hyunjin says quietly. “I really did.”

He exhales, fingers loosening on the steering wheel. “But every time I walk past your painting… it just—” He shakes his head, a soft, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “It makes me like you more.”

The words are simple, almost innocent. You take them the way you’ve learned to take things like this. As intentions. As strategies. As something said with a desired outcome already in mind. You can already see where this goes—hopes raised too high, expectations forming, the inevitable collapse waiting patiently at the end. Disappointment. Pain. Regrets. More Pain.

So you scoff, soft but sharp. “So that’s what you want now? Us?”

You finally turn to him, eyes steady but intense. “You want to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Walk around campus holding hands? Kiss and dance under the snow like we’re in some romance movie?”

Your voice stays calm, but there’s something mocking beneath it.

Hyunjin doesn’t flinch as he easily says, “Yeah.”

Then, just as quickly, he adds, “We don’t have to do all of that. Not yet.”

You let out a short laugh because he really doesn’t seem to hear the sarcasm woven in your words.

Hyunjin shifts closer, an arm reaching into the backseat. The movement catches your attention despite yourself as his head lingers so close to yours for a brief moment. He pulls out a folded brochure and holds it out to you.

It takes you a second to register that it’s a brochure for an art exhibition of your favorite sculptor. Your fingers close around it before you can stop them.

“We can start with this,” he says softly.

You hate that you’re considering it, hate that the thought doesn’t feel heavy or terrifying and that it’s easy and possible.

“It’s this Saturday,” he adds, smiling.

You swallow, then hand the brochure back. “I don’t do this,” you say.

“Do what?”

You hesitate for a moment. Then—

“This. Going out. You and me—” You trail off, choosing not to finish the sentence.

He studies you for a moment, then nods like he’s reached a conclusion all on his own. “That’s okay. You don’t have to come.”

Relief barely has time to settle before he continues. “Just so you know, I’ll be waiting outside. In case you change your mind.”

You know what he’s doing. You recognize the shape of it. Emotional leverage dressed up as patience.

You decide not to respond. You unbuckle your seatbelt, fingers steady despite everything tightening in your chest. “Thank you for the ride,” you say.

The cold rushes in the second you open the door. You step out, shut it behind you, and don’t look back.

-

Hyunjin tells himself this was a bad idea. Standing outside the gallery, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, cold seeping through the soles of his shoes, he replays the conversation in his head for the hundredth time.

Waiting outside. In case you change your mind. He winces at his own words.

What was he thinking? This only gives you a way out. He should’ve picked you up, should’ve insisted, should’ve bribed you with something. Anything would’ve been better than this self-inflicted purgatory.

Snow gathers along the edges of the sidewalk. People pass him, couples slipping into the warmth of the gallery, chatting lightly, shaking snow from their coats.

He checks his watch and it’s only been twenty-eight minutes from the appointed time. It hasn’t even been that long, and yet he already senses the disappointment. He exhales, breath fogging in the air, shaking his head at himself.

Of course you wouldn’t come. He knows better than to be angry about it. You were clear. He’s the one who chose to hope anyway. That’s on him.

A few minutes later, acceptance settles in. He reaches into his coat pocket, fingers brushing against his car keys, ready to call it. Ready to leave before he makes a bigger fool of himself.

Then, he looks up and there you are, climbing the steps toward the entrance, coat pulled tight around you, expression calm and composed as always. His hand stills mid-motion, keys half out of his pocket. For a moment, he honestly thinks he’s imagining you.

You stop right in front of him. Your eyes briefly flick to the keys in his hand. “Planning to leave?” you ask flatly, a teasing edge cutting through your deadpan tone.

He gulps, then recovers fast. Too fast. “No. Just—uh—making sure I had my car keys with me.”

You raise an eyebrow in doubt. “Thought you were giving up. Figured you’d assume I wasn’t coming.”

“I didn’t,” he replies immediately, way too quick to be believable.

He sees the way your lips twitch, the split second where a smile almost breaks through before you look away, eyes fixed on the gallery doors instead.

“Can we go in? It’s cold,” you say, shoving your hands deeper into your coat pockets.

Relief hits him so hard it almost knocks the air from his lungs. “Yeah—yeah,” he says, already turning, holding the door open for you. “Of course.”

-

Walking through the gallery with you feels nothing like Hyunjin imagined.

It’s quieter than the campus halls. White walls. Soft lighting. The kind of space that asks people to lower their voices, even their thoughts.

You move slowly, hands tucked into your coat sleeves, stopping in front of each sculpture like you’re greeting an old acquaintance. Hyunjin stays half a step behind you, watching the way your eyes trace lines and shadows before you even look at the plaque.

“So,” he says, stopping beside you in front of a tall, abstract piece, “tell me everything.”

You glance at him. “You can read the brochure.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Or,” you add dryly, “ask the curator.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s letting you in on a secret. “That defeats the purpose.”

You sigh. “And what purpose is that?”

“Bringing you,” he says easily.

You scoff. “Why me?”

He smiles, eyes warm. “Because you’re the only sculptor I know.”

“That’s a lie,” you reply immediately. “Ben’s a sculptor.”

Hyunjin barely thinks before answering, “Yeah, but there’s nothing romantic about taking Ben here.”

You stop walking and turn to look at him. “I came because I thought it supposed to be educational,” you say.

“It is,” he says, grinning. “With romantic undertones.”

You shake your head, muttering something under your breath as you move on, but a few steps later, you start talking anyway. About the negative space. About balance. About how the sculptor clearly wanted the weight to feel like it’s leaning forward even though it isn’t.

Hyunjin listens, genuinely, eyes flicking between you and the piece. At one point, he tilts his head and says, far too casually, “I don’t know. Sculptors always seem like they’re just… attacking their materials.”

You stop mid-sentence, clearly offended by what he said. “Excuse you? That’s such a lazy take. Sculpting is about dialogue—about resistance and cooperation. You don’t dominate the medium, you listen to it.”

Hyunjin’s smile slowly blooming on his face, wider and brighter. “Oh, she has opinions,” he pokes fun.

You keep going, words tumbling out faster now, hands moving as you talk. You’re defending it with your whole chest, and it hits him all at once—how alive you look like this. How open.

You catch yourself a second too late. Your voice trails off. Your cheeks warm. You look away.

Hyunjin laughs softly. “Wow. I didn’t know you could talk this much.”

You shoot him a glare that lacks real bite and Hyunjin lifts his hands in surrender. But he sees you almost—almost—laugh and he counts that as a win.

By the time you reach the last room, the crowd has thinned. Hyunjin feels that soft winding-down of the evening, the way the energy shifts when there’s nothing left to discover but the exit.

You stand in front of the final piece a little longer than necessary, then step back, hands slipping into your coat pockets. “Well,” you say, turning to him, voice measured. “That’s the end of the educational trip.”

Hyunjin doesn’t miss a beat. He shakes his head, slow and confident. “Disagree.”

You narrow your eyes. “On what grounds?”

“It continues,” he says.

“With what?”

He leans in just slightly, lowering his voice like this is the most serious thing in the world. “Learning Italian cuisine.”

You stare at him, an eyebrow raises higher than the other.

He holds your gaze, completely unbothered, then smiles. “There’s an Italian place not far from here.”

He watches you think like this is a decision that will alter the trajectory of your life. Your jaw tightens. Your eyes flick toward the exit, then back to him.

Hyunjin doesn’t rush it. He’s learned better than that. Finally, without saying a word, you turn and start walking.

It takes him half a second to realize what just happened.

He catches up to you easily, falling into step beside you, a triumphant smile pulling at his lip, but careful as to not scare the moment away.

-

This Italian restaurant is what Hyunjin expected to be after reading the reviews on the internet. Farfalle, a restaurant that earned three stars rating. Great place, great food, great service but of course, you don’t care with such thing. Hyunjin doesn’t mind, he likes it that you’re more at ease with a glass of wine within reach.

The food arrives not long after and for a long while, the two of you eat in comfortable silence. Then curiosity gets the better of him.

“So,” Hyunjin says between bites, “why sculpture?”

You look up at him sharply. “What, you think that means I’m bad at it?”

He freezes for half a second. “No—no, that’s not what I meant.”

You hold his gaze, then the faintest smile appears, like a crack in glass. “I like it more. I like that it’s tangible. Heavy. Real.” You gesture lightly with your fork. “It takes patience. Time. You can’t rush it.”

Hyunjin nods, listening closely. Giving you all of his undivided attention.

“Painting,” you continue, quieter now, “is personal. I don’t do it for anyone else. It’s like… a private journal.”

That lands somewhere deep in his chest. He takes a sip of his wine, thoughtful.

“What about you? What do you do besides painting?”

Before he can swallow and answer your question, you tilt your head and add, “Let me guess—you take half the girls at school on ‘educational trips’ like this.”

He coughs once, then laughs, setting his glass down. “First of all, they were not educational.”

You hum as you reach for your wine glass. “Of course.”

“And second,” he adds, shameless, “I stopped because apparently it’s bad for me financially.”

You gasp softly, eyes widening in mock horror. “What a revelation!”

Then you lean back, fingers wrapped around the stem of the wine glass. “And how about this one?”

Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate. He looks at you in the eyes as he confidently answers, “Special occasion.”

You don’t look impressed, but he catches the way your lips curve as you lift your wine glass.

“Whatever,” you say, clinking your glass lightly against his. “You’re paying.”

Hyunjin holds your gaze as you both take a sip, smiling into the moment.

-

Outside, the cold greets you immediately and Hyunjin feels bad for telling you that he’s parked his car down the street so the two of you have to walk through the park to get there. You sigh like it’s an inconvenience carved directly into fate, but you nod and step forward anyway.

He barely lets you take two steps before stopping you. You turn, ready with another comment, but he’s already unwinding his scarf and drapes it around your neck with utter gentleness, careful.

You roll your eyes. “I was fine.”

“I know,” he says, smiling.

You let it happen and that feels nice. It matters to him.

The park is quiet and empty at this hour, snow floating lazily through the air, settling onto benches and pathways like the city has decided to hold its breath. Each step crunches softly beneath your shoes. Hyunjin listens to the sound of the night folding itself around the two of you. He smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. “We had a pretty romantic night, don’t you think?”

You glance at him. “You mean educational?”

He laughs. “Fine. Educational exhibition. Then a romantic dinner.”

“Also educational.”

He hums, pretending to consider. “So what’s next on the list?”

He remembers your words in the café and it’s playing in his head like a tune. You want to be boyfriend and girlfriend? Walk around campus holding hands? Kiss and dance under the snow like we’re in some romance movie?

He smiles at himself as he recalls it. Then looks at you. “We could try holding hands.”

“Pass.”

He nods solemnly. “Okay. Kissing?”

“Hard pass.”

Hyunjin stops walking altogether, drawing in a dramatic breath. “Dancing under the snow?”

You turn to him, unimpressed. “Nope.”

“Why not?”

“This isn’t some romcom. It’s real life. People don’t just… dance under the snow.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, eyes bright and mischievous. “I beg to differ.”

Before you can react, he takes your hand and tugs you forward. You resist at first but barely. Then he feels the moment where resistance softens into reluctant allowance. He guides you gently, twirling you once, twice, laughter slipping into his voice as snow clings to your hair.

You look annoyed but he continues anyway. He spins you out, then pulls you back in a little too hard, too fast. You crash into his chest just as his foot slips on the slick pavement.

“Oh my—”

You both crash down as gravity wins. Hyunjin hits the ground first, breath knocked out of him, and you land squarely on his chest. Cold seeps through his coat, but he barely notices.

“Are you okay?” he blurts, hands already hovering, panicked.

You lift your head and you’re… laughing. Full, unguarded, breathless laughter. It catches him off guard so badly that he starts laughing too, the sound echoing into the quiet park. He asks again, softer this time. “Are you okay?”

You nod in confirmation, still laughing as you roll off him and collapse beside him.

You both lie there, side by side, staring up at the dark sky as snow drifts down, tickling your cheeks, melting into your hair. The hilarity continues for another moment until laughter slowly fades, leaving behind something tender and fragile.

Hyunjin feels this quiet, glowing fullness in his chest. A happiness so simple it almost scares him. He turns his head toward you and his heart sinks when he sees tears sliding silently into your hair.

He knows better not to rush you or interrupt you as you’re processing emotions. He watches for a moment, lets you have the space to feel whatever is breaking open inside you. Then he rolls onto his side, close but not crowding. He finds your red-rimmed eyes, shining, holding a sadness that seems too great to hold by yourself. He lifts his hand, knuckles brushing gently along your cheek, wiping the tears away. His cold skin meeting your hot tears.

“I just…” your voice breaking, heavy with sadness as you whisper, “I don’t want to get hurt.”

Something slides into place. That’s it. That’s the wall you built around yourself. Not indifference. Not pride. But fear, old and crippling.

Hyunjin wipes another tear from your temple, then cups your face fully, grounding you, steady and sure. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he quietly assures you.

You nod, even as tears cling stubbornly to your lashes.

He leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Then his lips meet yours in a soft, fragile kiss, almost reverent. Not a promise of forever. Not a demand. Just proof that he’s here for anything but hurt you. He kisses you slowly, carefully because he’s aware of how easily this could shatter if handled wrong. Your lips tremble against his, and he keeps his hand steady at your cheek, grounding you and himself in the moment.

Hyunjin closes his eyes because he knows that this is something sacred. Fragile. Earned. And whatever happens next, he’ll carry this with him as something precious he was lucky enough to be given.

When you pull back, snow settles softly into your hair. Hyunjin looks at you then and understands something with quiet clarity. This isn’t something he won. It isn’t something he charmed his way into or stumbled upon by luck alone. This is permission. This is trust. This is you opening a door just wide enough for him to stand in the threshold and he knows how rare that is.

He presses his forehead lightly to yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air, and makes himself a promise. He won’t waste this. He won’t rush you. Won’t take more than you’re ready to give. He’ll stay. He’ll prove it, not with grand gestures or pretty words, but with patience, gentleness, and care.

Because being let in like this isn’t something to take for granted. It’s something to earn. And Hyunjin knows, with a certainty that settles deep in his chest, that he wants to spend whatever time it takes earning you.

-

Hyunjin waits by the back exit with his breath fogging faintly in the cold. Both hands are buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, eyes fixed on the path you always take to the studio.

As expected, you appear a moment later with your coat buttoned up, bag slung over your shoulder, expression calm as ever.

He smiles before he can stop himself and he notices the subtle curl of your lips when you see him. Small. Almost nothing. But to him, it’s more than enough.

You keep walking and Hyunjin falls into step beside you, matching your pace easily.

“Going to the studio?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Want to spend time with me instead?”

“Nope.”

The word is flat, but the smile tugging at your lips gives you away.

Hyunjin steps ahead of you suddenly, blocking your path. He turns, hands still in his pockets, a sly grin spreading across his face. “How about somewhere warm and quiet—where I’ll let you draw this pretty face of mine?”

He watches as you scoff but he already knows how this goes. You pretend you’re immune. You aren’t.

You sigh, defeated. “Yes to the warm and quiet. No to the pretty face.”

Despite it, Hyunjin’s grin widens. Before you can reconsider, he reaches out and takes your hand. You tense immediately, instinct flaring, trying to pull away but he holds firm. He shoves your interlocked hands into his coat pocket, warmth closing around both of you, and starts walking.

Hyunjin feels your hesitation soften just a little and he knows—this, too, is something he’s earning, step by step.

-

The city library is warm and quiet as Hyunjin promised. In fact, it’s too quiet that the only sounds that can be heard is the rustle of papers as people flips the pages on theirs book and that low, haunting creaks coming from the trolley the librarian pushes around to return the books to its shelf.

Hyunjin sits beside you on the wide windowsill on the third floor, knees drawn up slightly, sketchbook balanced against his thigh. Outside, the city stretches out in muted winter tones, rooftops dusted with snow, the skyline hazy and distant.

For a while, neither of you speak. Just pencil against paper. Breathing. Existing.

“You draw here often?” you ask suddenly, not looking at him.

 “You’d know about it too,” he says lightly as he glances over at your drawing of the city skyline, “if you didn’t coop yourself up in that abandoned studio.”

Hyunjin smiles to himself because he knows your silence by now—how it’s not dismissal, just refusal to indulge him.

The quiet returns and Hyunjin steals glances at you as he draws. The way your brows knit when you focus. The way your shoulders relax when you forget you’re being watched. There’s something unguarded about you like this—soft, real, almost painfully beautiful.

He can’t help but wanting to know more what’s inside that pretty head of yours.

“What’s your favorite season?” he asks.

“Fall.”

Honestly, Hyunjin didn’t expect that you’d answer immediately. He didn’t even expect that you’d answer at all. He holds himself back from doing any form of celebration and pretends to continue drawing to ask more.

“Favorite singer?”

“Nina Simone.”

“Favorite food?”

“Shrimp scampi.”

“Favorite movie?”

“Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

“Favorite color?”

“Lilac.”

He leans in slightly, opening his mouth for another question and he closes it again when he finds you glaring at him.

“Stop asking questions,” you firmly scold.

He pouts, lower lip jutting out dramtically, genuinely offended. “I was going to ask if you want coffee.”

Your expression softens immediately. It’s subtle, but he sees it. “I’d like coffee,” you say quietly.

Hyunjin smiles and sets his sketchbook aside, then, just to push his luck, leans his head against your shoulder, letting it rest there for a beat. “Wait here, yeah?” he murmurs.

You hum in response.

He lifts his head and looks at you seriously. “I’m serious. Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes to the side. “Yes. I’ll be here.”

Satisfied, Hyunjin smiles again before walking off, warmth settling in his chest.

-

It’s hard to act calm when Hyunjin leans in too close and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek when he tells you to wait here. His voice drops, soft but serious in a way that surprises you.

“Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

It doesn’t sound teasing. It sounds like he means it like he’s afraid that if he turns his back, you’ll disappear. You inhale air before turning your head to look at him.

“Yes,” you steadily says even though something in your chest tightens. “I’ll be here.”

Only then does he nod, satisfied, before finally turning and walking away.

You exhale slowly once he’s gone and force yourself to focus back on your sketchbook. You draw because drawing is easier than thinking, but your eyes somehow keep drifting to Hyunjin’s sketchbook that sits beside you, unattended and flipped open. The page catches the light from the window, graphite smudged at the edges.

You hesitate because you know that you shouldn’t look into someone’s personal thing. You’d hate it too if someone does that. But you can’t resist for long, you pick it up and flip one page, then another.

They’re drawings of people. Strangers, mostly. A boy laughing with his head thrown back. An old woman with deep smile lines. Flowers sketched with detailed attention, places caught mid-breath. All of it beautiful in that quiet, unshowy way that feels honest.

“You know, most people ask first,” a voice says from behind you.

You jolt, nearly dropping the sketchbook.

Hyunjin stands there, coffee in hands, eyebrows raised, not amused.

“I—I didn’t mean to. I just—” you stammer, fully aware that you did wrong.

“Who allowed you to look through my sketchbook… without me?” he asks flatly and then breaks into a big, smile. The kind that makes his eyes form two crescent moons.

He sits back down beside you and hands you your coffee first before setting his aside. He gently takes the sketchbook from your hands. “Since you’ve already seen it, I might as well explain,” he says, the smile still etched on his face.

He flips the pages to the beginning. He eventually stops, pointing to a sketch. “This is from last summer. Kids playing in a fountain. I ruined my shoes that day.”

You smile despite yourself.

He turns the page to show a different drawing. “This one’s a little girl petting a puppy. It wasn’t even her puppy. It just came to her, asking to be petted.”

More pages, more behind stories of his drawing. Flowers from the botanical garden. A garden from one of his trips, drawn with memory rather than precision. He talks with his whole body—hands moving, voice warm, eyes lit with something unguarded.

You watch him more than the drawings. This love for his art that spills out of him naturally. Then he flips to a rough sketch of something familiar, something you’ve seen before.

You place your hand on his wrist, stopping him from flipping the page. “Wait.”

He looks at you, surprised.

“Is that… the sketch of your painting? The one that won last year’s art prize?”

He stills, not expecting that. “You know that one?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “I can see why you won. You’re… really talented.”

You hesitate, then add with sincerity, “I think you were born for this. Painting. Creating beautiful things.”

Hyunjin goes quiet, so quiet that fear flickers through you. You wonder if you somehow crossed a line, if you said too much. Then he smiles and your worries melt away with it.

“Thank you,” he says with a soft, almost disbelieving smile. “That… means a lot. Coming from you.”

You smile, a little shy. You didn’t expect that your words hold that kind of effect on him. You shake your head quickly. “You don’t have to—”

Hyunjin leans in and doesn’t stop until his plush lips meet yours in the most innocent kiss of lips meeting lips, softness on softness. He kisses you like he’s careful not to scare something fragile away.

You stiffen for half a heartbeat and honestly, you’re tired of fighting it. You cave in, slowly part your mouth open, allowing him to deepen the kiss, allowing him more of you to taste.

He retaliates by sliding his hand to the back of your head, holding you with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. He tilts his head, angling his head with such calculation to deepen the kiss the way he wants it. He parts his mouth just slightly and a soft gasp slipped out of you when you feel his tongue slipping between your lips.

In the next moment, Hyunjin pulls away for a brief moment only to have your lower lip tugged between his lips, sucking at it gently. He lets go to kiss you again, deeper, a little harder.

You can hear your own loud heartbeat and somehow, the sound of the kissing is even louder in your ears. Your heart flutters wildly, cracking open, and your fingers clutch the edge of his sketchbook like it’s the only solid thing you can hold on to.

When he pulls back, he smiles. Then he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and keeps it there. “Thank you,” he says once again and you’re not sure if he’s thanking you for your words, the kiss or both.

You mind goes blank as he presses another quick kiss to your lips, lighter this time. He puts an arm around you as he looks out of the window.

“We should go,” he says, noticing the snow coming down in flurries now. “Before the weather gets bad.”

You nod, moving on instinct, heart still unsteady, still airborne. But he takes your hand and somehow, that’s enough to keep you grounded as you walk together into the falling snow.

-

The city lights blurring past the windows like smeared paint. Snow taps lightly against the windshield, rhythmic, almost soothing. You cradle the warmth of your coffee between your palms, watching his reflection in the glass. He glances over after a while like he’s been thinking about saying something and finally gives in.

“Do you want to grab dinner first?” he asks casually, cautiously.

You shake your head, already smiling a little. “No. It’s too cold.”

He nods easily, accepting it without fuss, eyes back on the road.

For a second, that seems like the end of it. Then you add, almost absentmindedly, “We could order food instead. And just… have it at my place.”

The words settle in the car but you see the exact moment it clicks. Hyunjin stills for half a beat. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice: the slight tension in his jaw, the way his grip on the steering wheel tightens before he loosens it again. He keeps his eyes forward, like if he doesn’t look at you, he can play it cool.

“Oh,” he says. Then, a breath later, “Yeah. We can definitely do that.”

You turn your face toward the window, biting back a smile as warmth blooms in your chest. You can practically feel the nerves rolling off him now, hidden behind that calm tone like he’s trying very hard not to overthink the fact that you just invited him into your space.

Snow keeps falling as the car keeps moving and you keep smiling to yourself, holding onto the small thrill of knowing you’re the reason his heart’s probably racing just a little faster right now.

-

In your bedroom, you change into comfortable clothes—an old sweater that smells faintly like laundry detergent and home, leggings worn thin at the knees. You take a breath before stepping back out like you’re crossing some invisible line.

Hyunjin is in your living room, hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans, moving slowly as if the space might spook if he’s too loud. He stops in front of the small painting on the wall—the one of your childhood pet cat, all crooked whiskers and warm amber eyes. He leans in a little, studying it with genuine focus.

“Did you order the food?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

He startles, just a bit. “Yeah—yeah, I did. It should be here soon.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He looks… lost. Awkward. Like he’s been dropped into unfamiliar territory without a map. It’s strangely endearing, especially considering the rumors, the reputation—Hyunjin, who supposedly knows exactly what to do in every room he walks into.

“You can sit,” you tell him gently. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He nods, then pauses when you add, “Do you want something to drink?”

“A glass of water would be nice,” he says.

You head into the kitchen, already reaching for a glass, but you hear his footsteps trailing after you. You glance over your shoulder to see him standing by the fridge, eyes scanning the cluttered door.

He points at the collections of fridge magnets and then his gaze lands on the slightly faded Christmas card tucked under one of them.

“Can I see that?” he asks, softer now.

After dinner, you stand at the sink, sleeves pushed up, warm water running over your hands as you wash the dishes one by one. Hyunjin stands beside you, close enough that your elbows almost brush, carefully drying each plate before setting it aside. He hums under his breath, something absentminded, and you pretend not to notice how domestic it all feels.

He glances out the window and stills. Snow is coming down harder now, thick and relentless, the streetlights outside blurred into soft halos.

“I should probably head home soon,” he says, wistful.

Something in your chest tightens. The thought of him leaving, of the door closing behind him and the apartment going quiet again, makes you uneasy in a way you weren’t prepared for. Before you can overthink it, the words slip out. “You can stay,” you say, casual, like it doesn’t mean anything.

A beat later, you quickly add, “I just think that it’s not safe to drive in this weather.”

He turns to you slowly, brows knitting together in confusion, like he’s trying to figure out if he heard you right. Then a teasing grin spreads across his face as he leans closer.

“Are you worried about me?” he playfully asks.

You roll your eyes, focusing a little too hard on the plate in your hands. “Never mind. I take it back.”

Hyunjin moves behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. You freeze as he presses closer, his solid chest against your back, his chin settling into the crook of your neck. He nuzzles there and your breath catches despite yourself.

“You’re so considerate, so kind for not letting me drive in this weather,” he murmurs followed with a quiet laugh. “Thank you for letting me stay.”

You fight the smile threatening to give you away, squirming in his hold. “Let go,” you say, failing to sound firm.

He doesn’t obey right away but you stop resisting, letting yourself lean back just a fraction, let the moment stretch until it feels dangerously easy to stay there.

After a while, you clear your throat and try again. “I still need to finish the dishes.”

He gasps dramatically like the idea has only just occurred to him. “Oh. Right. Dishes.”

He releases you at once, stepping back with a sheepish grin, and picks up the towel again. As he resumes drying the dishes, his smile lingers while your heart keeps doing things you pretend not to notice.

-

You pull the blanket free and give it a sharp shake, letting it settle over the mattress. Hyunjin stands on the other side of the bed, holding the extra pillow, that same smile glued to his face like he’s won something and decided not to gloat about it out loud.

“What,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him as you tuck one corner of the blanket in. “Why do you look like that?”

He only shrugs, still smiling, eyes following your hands as you work. It makes you oddly self-conscious, like every small movement is being carefully memorized.

You straighten up and meet his gaze. “Just so we’re clear, we’re sharing the bed because the sofa is too small for you. That’s it.”

Hyunjin nods like he’s been expecting this explanation all along. “I know. Blaming my long legs as we speak,” he says but he looks satisfied. Content in a way that makes your chest feel tight.

“And,” you add quickly, “nothing is going to happen.”

This time, he tilts his head, considering it for a second before shrugging. “Who knows?”

The smirk that follows is immediate and infuriating. You swing the pillow in your hands and hit him lightly in the chest.

He laughs and catches the pillow mid-air before it can fall. Instead of tossing it back, he hugs it to his chest, still grinning at you like this is exactly where he wants to be.

“Violence already?” he says, amused. “And we haven’t even gone to bed yet.”

You turn away to hide your face, busying yourself with smoothing the sheets, pretending your heart isn’t beating too fast.

Behind you, Hyunjin stays right where he is—smiling, pillow clutched to his chest, looking entirely too happy for someone who’s been warned that nothing is going to happen.

-

The night stretches quietly around you.

The lamp by the bed is dimmed low, casting soft shadows along the walls, and beyond the window the snow keeps falling. You and Hyunjin lie side by side under the blanket, warm and snug, a careful space kept between your bodies like an unspoken agreement. Close, but not touching.

You talk about the paintings around your apartment, the small ones tucked into corners and above shelves. You tell him which ones are yours, which ones were made by your mom.

There’s a pause, then he turns his head slightly toward you. “Can I ask about the Christmas card?”

“What about it?”

“Your grandparents called you ‘little beaver’ in it.” His tone is gentle, curious. “Why’s that?”

This is the kind of thing you don’t usually give away. It feels small, harmless but it’s yours, and it comes with the risk of being seen too clearly. Still, he’s lying there on his side, facing you, eyes patient and open, waiting without pressure.

So you give in. You keep your voice soft and low as you share. “When I was little. I was obsessed with beavers. Like—really obsessed.”

You let out a quiet breath, half a laugh before continuing. “I even made up this… beaver dance. I used to perform it for my grandparents on family gatherings, birthdays, Christmases… Anway, it was stupid.”

You wince, bracing for teasing. Instead, Hyunjin’s smile widens, warm and earnest. “That’s adorable.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t quite land. “That’s why they still call me that. Little beaver. Even to this day.”

He nods like it makes perfect sense. “Are you still obsessed with beavers?”

“…A little,” you admit, a soft chuckle slipping out before you can stop it.

He grins. “Do you still remember the dance?”

“Barely.”

His eyes light up as he turns more fully toward you. “Do you think I’ll ever get to see it?”

You snort. “Never.”

“Ever?”

You shake your head firmly. “Never. Ever.”

He sighs dramatically, disappointed in a way that’s clearly exaggerated, but still sincere enough to make you smile. “That’s tragic.”

Silence settles after that, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. You glance at him without meaning to and he’s already looking at you. Soft, dark brown eyes deeply staring into yours.

Your gaze drops and notice his hand resting in the empty space between you. Palm turned up and open. Fingers relaxed, slightly curled, like an invitation.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach for it. Your fingers brush his first, testing, before slipping between his. You lace them together loosely, like you might pull away at any second.

You can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone like this. Under the same blanket. Talking about nothing and everything. Offering childhood memories instead of defenses. Being listened to—truly listened to.

Once upon a time, you did this without fear and it broke you.

You remember what came after: being hurt, manipulated, lied to. Cheated on. Your heart shattered so completely that you were sure it would never fit back together the same way. So you built strong walls. Grew a thicker shell. Learned how to survive by keeping everything out. You told yourself that strength meant distance.

But lying here now, fingers tangled with his, you realize something else: you’re strong because you’re fragile. Because you feel things deeply. Because you still can. And it terrifies you.

The fear creeps in quietly at first, then all at once. Your chest tightens. Your breath turns shallow. Your heart shakes like it’s shrinking in on itself, and suddenly it feels hard to breathe.

“I’m… scared,” you whisper, the words barely making it past your throat.

Hyunjin turns fully toward you, concern flickering across his face but not panic. Just understanding. He knows exactly what you mean.

“I’m here,” he says it so low like a whispered prayer. “You can hold on to me.”

You see it in his eyes: sincerity, patience, something steady and real. He isn’t rushing you toward anything. He’s just offering to stay.

You scoot closer before you can talk yourself out of it and the moment you do, his arms gently come around you, pulling you into his chest. He’s warm, solid, familiar already. His scent surrounds you, calming something deep in your chest you didn’t realize was still hurting.

You realize then that loving someone is a leap—an act of faith. It’s stepping off the edge and trusting that someone will catch you.

And right now, wrapped in Hyunjin’s arms, you’re not sure you’re ready for it but your hand clutches at his shirt, clinging onto his chest because it feels like you’re already falling.

-

The weather’s been kinder lately. You notice it halfway through class, the way the light slips in through the window without that harsh winter glare, the sky pale instead of heavy. Snow still lingers in corners of the campus, but the air feels forgiving like it’s giving you a break. You rest your chin against your palm and stare outside a little too long, thoughts drifting somewhere warm and soft and entirely distracting.

The bell rings before you realize it. You gather your things and step out into the hallway. You stop short the second you notice the long, silky hair, the stance that oozes quiet confidence and the eyes that forms into crescents as he smiles.

Hyunjin stops leaning against the wall outside your classroom, his whole face lights up like he’s been waiting only for this exact second. Before you can say a word, he’s already grabbing your hand.

“I still have another class and—” you start, but he’s moving, pulling you gently into the flow of students flooding the hallway.

“I know,” he says easily, like he’s reading your mind.

You glance at him, suspicious. “Then why are you—”

He veers sharply to the side, tugging you with him and slipping into an empty classroom. The door shuts quietly behind you, cutting off the noise of the hallway.

“Hyunjin,” you warn, half-amused, half-confused.

He turns to face you, eyes gleaming. “Do you have your apartment keys with you?”

Your brows knit together. “…What?”

He tilts his head, patient but clearly pleased with himself. “Your keys.”

Slowly, you nod. “Yeah?”

“Where?”

Still confused, you reach into your bag, fingers rummaging past notebooks and pencils before closing around the cold metal. You pull them out and Hyunjin snatches them from your hand.

“Hey—!” you protest.

“I’m borrowing these,” he says cheerfully.

“For what?”

He smirks. “It’s a surprise.”

You groan immediately. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“That’s because you don’t like surprises,” he counters, clearly enjoying this far too much.

He steps closer, hands settling on your arms, grounding you in place. “One more thing,” he says, suddenly serious. “You’re not allowed to come home before seven.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Hyunjin—”

He cuts you off by leaning in and kissing you. It’s long and lingering, the kind that steals your breath and leaves your thoughts scattered. His lips are warm, familiar now in a way that still makes your chest flutter.

When he finally pulls back, he flashes you a crooked grin, eyes bright with mischief. “See you later,” he says.

You don’t answer—just let out a long, defeated sigh.

He laughs softly, already turning to go. But after two steps, he spins back around and presses another quick peck to your lips, stealing it before you can react.

This time, he leaves for real—half-jogging down the hallway, giggling like he’s just won something. You watch him go, the messy bun bouncing at the back of his head, your heart doing something reckless in your chest.

It’s only when the hallway starts to empty that you realize you’re almost late for your next class.

-

You’ve got a little more than two hours to kill. Which feels illegal, somehow—being told not to go home to your own apartment. You end up walking to the studio out of habit, letting your feet decide for you while your mind keeps circling back to the same thing: seven o’clock.

When you step inside, the familiar scent of clay and dust greets you. Ben’s already there, hunched over his sculpture, headphones on, head nodding slightly with whatever he’s listening to.

Noticing your arrival, Ben slips one side of his headphones down and looks at you, eyebrows lifting. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You halt to a stop. “Why not?”

He squints at you, then smirks. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Thought you and Hyunjin would be… I don’t know. Have plans.”

You scoff, a short laugh escaping you before you can stop it. So that’s the kind of “surprise” Hyunjin’s cooking up. A valentine’s day surprise.

You shake your head and walk to your usual spot. The motions come back to you easily: apron on, hands working the material, body remembering what to do even when your mind refuses to cooperate. You used to lose yourself here.

Now, your phone keeps stealing your focus. You check the time. Put it away. Work for five minutes. Check again.

The sculpture takes shape under your hands, but you’re not really seeing it. Your thoughts keep drifting out of your body back to Hyunjin, smirking as he snatched your apartment keys from your hand.

You catch yourself calculating instead of creating. How long it takes to walk home. What time you’d have to leave to arrive around the allowed time for you to come home. You feel restless, anticipatory in a way that makes you want to roll your eyes at yourself.

When you finally glance at the clock and realize it’s time, you don’t hesitate. You peel off your apron and grab your bag.

Ben looks up just as you’re heading for the door, one eyebrow arching. “Leaving already?” he asks.

You pause and smile. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t tease you. Just nods and says, “Be safe on your way home.”

“I will,” you reply, soft.

You wave once and step outside.

The cold hits immediately, but this time, you don’t brace yourself against it. You pull your coat tighter and start walking, breath fogging in the air, heart steady and warm. Because now you have something to come home to.

-

You inhale air before pushing the door to your apartment open and the first thing that hits you is the smell. Something warm, rich… and dangerously close to burning.

You step inside, frowning slightly, and you find Hyunjin in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair tied messily, standing over the stove like he’s in the middle of a battle. Steam rises aggressively from a pot of pasta he’s just strained, curling into the air as he waves a towel uselessly at it, half-coughing, half-cursing under his breath.

For a second, you just stand there and watch him.

When he turns his head and finds you there, his eyes widen, panic flashing across his face like he’s just been caught committing a crime. “Why are you here?”

“Because this is my apartment,” you simply answer.

He stares at you, horrified, then asks more urgently this time. “No, why are you here this early?”

You calmly pull out your phone and hold it up between you, the screen glowing. 7:14 p.m.

“I came right on time.”

Hyunjin gasps like the realization physically knocks the air out of him. “Oh—shoot.”

He whips his head back toward the stove, muttering under his breath. “I lost track of time—oh my god—”

He spirals for a second, moving between the counter and the stove, hands everywhere, unsure whether to save the pasta, turn off the heat, or simply lie down on the floor and accept defeat.

He eventually stops. Straightens his back. Takes a breath. Runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reboot himself. He turns back to you, forcing a smile that’s a little too tight but very sincere. “Okay. So. I need… like, ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. To set things up.”

You open your mouth, ready to say you can help but one look at him tells you he’s already juggling too much. You don’t want to be another thing he has to manage so you nod.

“Go get changed,” he says gently, ushering you toward the hallway. “I’ll call you when it’s… ready.”

You nod once again and then turn toward your bedroom. As you close the door behind you, the sounds of clattering pans and frantic movement resume on the other side. And despite yourself, despite the smell of nearly burnt pasta, despite the chaos on the other side of the door, despite the way everything is clearly not going according to plan— you smile.

-

It’s been twenty minutes since you sit on the edge of your bed, already changed, already ready.

You quietly open the door just a crack to have a peek into situation on the other side of the door. Hyunjin crossing the living room, disappearing into the kitchen, coming back with something in his hands. He doesn’t look done. Not even close.

So you quietly push the door shut again, giving him the grace of time. You us the spare time to brush your hair slowly, add a sheer layer of lipstick—just enough color to look alive. A few sprays of perfume at your wrists and neck.

When you peek again, the living room lights are off. Your heart does a small, traitorous flip.

You close the door gently this time, clear your throat, and raise your voice just enough to carry. “Can I come out now?”

There’s a pause and then the sound of movement that is rather clumsy.

“Give me a second,” Hyunjin says, slightly breathless.

You bite back a smile, picturing him rushing around your apartment, adjusting things, fixing something that probably doesn’t need fixing.

A moment later, he announces, “Okay. You can come out now.”

You inhale air, steady yourself and then turn the knob.

The living room is dark, save for the soft glow spilling from the kitchen and the amber flicker of candles arranged on the dining table. The light dances gently, low and intimate, casting shadows that make the space feel smaller like the world has narrowed down to just this room.

Hyunjin stands beside the table, changed into a white shirt and a tie. And— blue jeans?

You almost laugh at the combination, but the thought dissolves the second you take in his whole look and honestly, he looks good in everything. What you like the most though is the way he’s standing there now, a little nervous, a little proud, smiling at you like this moment matters more than anything.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.

Once upon a time, you would’ve scoffed. Rolled your eyes. Thought it was corny. Cringe. Too much. But now, standing here on the receiving end of candlelight and effort and someone wanting to make something special just for you, you understand.

Those reactions were never about the romance. They were about never being chosen like this. And right now, you feel special.

You take slow steps toward him, the candlelight catching in your eyes, and Hyunjin’s smile never wavers even for a second, a little too soft for someone who used to feel so untouchable. Then he reaches behind his back.

“Uh—” he starts, and pulls out a bouquet.

You stop right in front of him as he offers it to you, both hands like it’s something precious. You take it, fingers brushing his, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.

“I didn’t know your favorite flowers,” he says quickly, a little sheepish, “but you said your favorite color is lilac, so… I got lilac.”

You lift the bouquet to your nose, breathing in the subtle floral scent, hiding your smile behind the soft petals.

“And,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “apparently there are a lot of kinds of lilac. So I kind of… got all of them.”

In this light, stripped of rumors and confidence and reputation, Hyunjin is just… a boy—slightly silly, a bit awkward, visibly nervous and somehow, that makes him unbearably adorable.

You lower the bouquet, take one more step closer. “Thank you,” you murmur.

Before you can change your mind, you lean in to press a quick kiss on his lips. When you pull away, you see the surprise flicker across his face, eyes wide for half a second before he blinks.

You grin. “My lipstick got on you.”

He smacks his lips together experimentally, like he’s tasting it. “Oh.”

You tilt your head. “Never mind. It looks good on you.”

His smile turns slow, dangerous in the gentlest way. “You should put more on me then.”

You laugh. “I’ll go grab it from my room real quick.”

“Never mind,” he says quickly, moving to pull out your chair. “Sit.”

You raise an eyebrow, playful. “Wow. Very demanding.”

But you obey, sitting down and placing the bouquet carefully on the table. Up close, you really take in the effort—the candles, the plates, the way he’s tried to make everything feel intentional.

“Can I eat now?” you ask hopefully. “I’m starving.”

He holds up a finger, stopping you. “Wine first.”

You wait patiently as he uncaps the bottle, eyes squeezing shut in anticipation and fear. When the cork finally pops, his shoulders jump, and you both burst into laughter. He pours the wine, rich red filling your glasses, the aphrodisiac smell of it wafting around the room.

“To—” he starts, lifting his glass, then hesitates.

“To what?” you ask.

He goes quiet, genuinely thinking.

“How about… successfully not setting my apartment on fire?”

He laughs, relieved. “Yeah. That.”

You clink your glasses together, finally having that sip of sweet, earthy tone of the wine.

“Okay. Now can we eat?” you ask impatiently.

His hands fly to the lids covering the plates of dinner and sighs dramatically before reveal them. “Your favorite. Shrimp scampi.”

You lean in, impressed. It looks… good. But you don’t skip the chance to tease him. “Is it safe to eat though?”

He nods confidently. “I followed the recipe. I just can’t remember if I added salt or baking soda.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thank you for the food.”

You have a taste of it and it’s not exactly how you like it, but it’s good. For someone who made it for the first time in his life, he did well.

He watches you too closely. “Well?”

“It’s good,” you say.

“You can be honest.”

“It’s good because I’m hungry,” you jokingly say.

He smiles, entirely unoffended.

Dinner continues like that, filled with teasing, light conversation, easy laughter that comes naturally and sitting there, you realize something quietly—

You feel content.

-

The plates are empty now, pushed to the side, crumbs wiped away. The candles have burned lower, wax pooling lazily at their bases, and the room feels warmer like it’s wrapped itself around the two of you.

“So,” Hyunjin says, swirling the dark red in his glass. “Did you like the dinner?”

You nod without hesitation. “Surprisingly, I did.”

His face brightens immediately, pride blooming so openly it makes your chest ache a little. But you lift a finger before he can bask in it too long. “I liked everything. Except the part where I wasn’t allowed to come home to my own apartment.”

His lips form a coy pout. “I’m not sorry.”

You huff, but there’s no real heat behind it. Silence settles again, gentle this time. You take another sip of your wine, then look at him, sitting there in your space, surrounded by candlelight and effort and intention.

“…Thank you,” you say quietly. “I don’t remember the last time someone did something like this for me.”

“Yeah,” he says lightly, “I can tell.”

You shoot him a look but it does make him feel the slightest but intimidated like you hope it would.

“That look doesn’t scare me anymore,” he says with a soft chuckle.

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

He drinks from his glass, then glances at you over the rim. “By the way, did you prepare a gift for me?”

Your brows knit together. “What gift?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day. I gave you plenty of time to think of a gift.”

You gape at him. “You didn’t even tell me you were doing this. I only found out it's Valentine’s Day from Ben.”

“Oh, so you had a source,” he counters.

“That doesn’t count!”

The argument dissolves quickly into bickering and slowly descends into hilarity, then burst into laughter, the kind that makes your shoulders loosen and your chest feel light.

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands. “You don’t have to get me anything.”

You nod. “Good.”

“But,” he adds, eyes glinting, “it doesn’t have to be an object.”

You narrow your eyes, not liking the sound of it.

His gaze flicks past you, toward the fridge, toward the Christmas card. He leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes crinkling as his voice softens into something dangerously sweet. “Can I see the beaver dance?”

You groan, leaning back in your chair. “Absolutely not.”

He clasps his hands together. “Please.”

“I barely remember it.”

“I’ll take a glimpse. A hint. A historical reenactment,” he tries his best to coax you.

You mumble something incoherent, dragging a hand down your face. Every instinct tells you to refuse, but then you look at him. At the care. The effort. The way he looks at you like this moment matters.

It’s just a silly little dance, you tell yourself.

With a long sigh, you cave. “Fine.”

His grin is immediate and radiant, like he’s just been handed the greatest gift in the world.

You drain half your glass in one go before you can change your mind, the wine warming your chest as you stand up from the table.

“Sit,” you tell him, pointing at the sofa like it’s an order.

Hyunjin obeys immediately, a little too happily, hands clasped together on his lap, eyes bright with anticipation.

You stand in front of him and inhale. Exhale. You wait another second to let the wine takes effect on your nerves. This is a terrible idea. You tell yourself but begin moving anyway. You lift one hand then immediately cringe.

“Wait. I need another second,” you mutter, grabbing your glass again and taking another long sip before returning to your spot.

Okay. Let’s get it over with.

You stare at the floor, replaying fragments of memory you haven’t touched in years. Made up lyrics only you remember. Movements half-lost to time. Your hands curl into small fists, lifting under your chin, elbows tucked in as you sway awkwardly from side to side the way a beaver does.

You mumble-sing under your breath about a beaver who can swim, about it eating apple, about things that made sense only to a child once. You shuffle, hop a little, mimic gnawing motions, cheeks burning, laughter bubbling up because you can’t believe you’re actually doing this.

The whole time, you’re avoiding Hyunjin’s eyes, hate to catch that smile of satisfaction on his devastatingly beautiful face. You continue until you can’t recall the rest of the choreography from memory but you finish with one last ridiculous beaver pose.

That’s when you finally glance up—still laughing, still breathless, ready to see him doubled over, teasing you forever about this.

However, Hyunjin isn’t laughing. He is very still. He looks at you with something so soft, so full, it almost hurts to see. Fondness, yes—but also something deeper. Wistful. Like he’s been shown a piece of sunlight he didn’t know he was missing.

Your stance falter, so does your smile. “…You can just say it,” you joke weakly. “I look silly. Or funny. Or—”

He stands before you can finish. In two long strides, he closes the distance, takes your hands gently, and guides you down onto the sofa. Then he kneels in front of you, right there. Your hands are still in his as he looks up at you, eyes shining even in the low light, voice trembling just enough to be honest.

“I don’t know how much you’ve been hurt. But I hate, I hate whoever made you feel like you had to hide this part of yourself.”

Your chest tightens but you daringly look back into his eyes, holding his gaze steadily.

“I hate that someone made you build walls,” he continues, gaze never leaving yours. “When there’s something this beautiful inside you.”

Your heart quivers because he sees it. All of it. And he isn’t flinching.

“Thank you,” he whispers, squeezing your hands. “For trusting me with this. With you.”

Your vision blurs as tears pooling in your eyes. It’s the way he looks at you, touched you with words that aren’t just words, they’re heavy with meaning and intentions and emotions.

“I promise,” he says, voice steady now, full of conviction, “I’ll do everything I can to make you happy. To make you smile. To make sure you never feel like you have to hide again.”

Tears spill despite yourself and in that moment, you know it with bone-deep certainty. He’s there. He’s not stepping back. He’s on his knees, ready to catch you.

So you lean forward and kiss him.

And this time, you don’t hesitate.

You take the leap.

-

The snow that once clung stubbornly to the ground is gone now, reduced to wet patches and darkened sidewalks, and the light outside feels softer, warmer. The sky is pale and open, the air no longer biting. You smile to yourself because spring is coming—you can feel it in the way the world seems to be slowly loosening its grip.

When the bell rings and you step out into the low hum of the hallway, Hyunjin is already waiting outside your class, leaning against the wall like he’s always been meant to be. His smile is warm and beautiful when his eyes find yours, and something in your chest eases at the sight of it. You walk straight into his space without thinking, rising onto your toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. He lets out a soft laugh, surprised but pleased, and when your fingers slide into his, he laces them together like he’s been doing it for years instead of weeks.

You move down the hallway hand in hand, carried along by the crowd but somehow separate from it, talking over each other about nothing and everything—coffee or a walk, somewhere quiet or somewhere familiar, now or later.

Hyunjin squeezes your hand as he talks, glancing at you like he’s trying to remember this exact moment, as if this ordinary afternoon matters. You bump your shoulder into his on purpose, smiling, already knowing you’ll figure it out together, wherever you end up.

And maybe that’s how it begins and continues.

Maybe the future is unclear, maybe there are still questions neither of you are ready to answer yet, but as you walk beside Hyunjin, you know one thing for certain: you are no longer afraid of wanting, of choosing, of loving out loud.

And if loving Hyunjin means stepping forward without knowing exactly where you’ll land, then this time, you’re willing to do it bravely, openly—together.

-

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[kalisburnerphone]

Uncharted Waters || Bang Chan

Summary: Your life is in shambles. Your friends’ solution? Book a two-week adults-only Caribbean cruise to fix it. Chan is on the same ship, burning out and desperate for peace, so when you crash into each other and you pretend not to know who he is, something clicks. What starts as a drunken proposal to be each other’s “cruise bae” turns into something neither of you planned for; steamy nights, raw honesty, and feelings that don’t care about expiration dates. But when the cruise ends, reality doesn’t and choosing between protecting your heart and fighting for something real might be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.

Warnings: idol!bang Chan x f.poc!reader, reader is a SKZ fan but pretends like she doesn’t know who he is, Chan knows but goes along with it, He’s called Chris for majority of this, smut! nothing heavy but still MDNI!, unprotected sex (porfa, this is fan fiction don’t go doing this with strangers you just met even if it’s your bias), oral (m.&f.rec), kissing, fast burn i.e. they both can’t do casual for the life of them but pretend they can, some fluff,some angst, mentions of the other SKZ members and OCs as friends. As usual I might be missing some things.

W.C: 21.3k

A/N: This was a request from @penny44224. I really hope I did it justice and that I captured what you asked for.

I had these two songs on repeat while writing so for the sake of the plot let’s pretend I hate to admit is what he was working on in a very specific scene.

The intervention came on a Tuesday.

That’s what you had started calling it in your head—the intervention—even though your friends insisted it was just concern. Just love. Just them noticing that you hadn’t really laughed in three months, that you’d stopped posting on social media, that you showed up to their hangouts with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.

“You need this,” Mia had said, sliding the cruise brochure across the coffee shop table. “We all do, but especially you.”

You’d stared at the glossy images of turquoise water and white sand beaches, at the massive ship that looked like a floating city. Azure Escape: An Adults-Only Luxury Experience-14 Days Through the Caribbean. The tagline promised “sophisticated relaxation for the discerning traveler.” Translation, no kids, lots of alcohol, and people old enough to know better but young enough not to care.

Part of you wanted to argue, to insist you were fine, that you just needed time. But the larger part—the part that woke up every morning with a weight on your chest, the part that had stopped believing things would get better—that part was just tired of pretending.

The breakup had been bad. Three years of your life handed back to you in cardboard boxes and awkward silences. Finding out he’d been cheating for the last year of your relationship had been worse. Losing your job two weeks later had felt like the universe piling on. “Restructuring,” they’d called it. “Nothing personal.” As if being made redundant could ever feel anything but personal.

Watching your carefully constructed life crumble while everyone around you seemed to have it all figured out? That had been the final straw. You’d spent a week in bed, another week going through the motions, and by the third week, your friends had staged their intervention. So, you’d said yes. Because what did you have to lose? Your dignity was already in shambles. Might as well be in shambles somewhere with better weather.

Now, standing on the deck of the Azure Escape as it pulled away from Miami’s port, you had to admit your friends might have been onto something. The ship was massive; fifteen decks of restaurants, bars, pools, and more amenities than you could process. The sunset painted the sky in shades of orange and pink that looked too vivid to be real, like someone had oversaturated a photograph.

“To new beginnings!” Sophie raised her champagne glass, her enthusiasm infectious even through your numbness.

“To leaving our problems on dry land!” Jenna added with a grin.

“To getting absolutely wasted and making questionable decisions!” Mia finished, making all of you laugh.

You clinked your glass against theirs, the bubbles fizzing against your lips as you took a sip. The champagne was good, better than anything you’d normally buy for yourself. Everything about this cruise screamed luxury, from the marble floors in the lobby to the Egyptian cotton robes waiting in your cabin.

“Two whole weeks,” Sophie sighed contentedly. “Fourteen days of nothing but sun, drinks, and no responsibilities.”

“I still can’t believe you guys did this,” you said softly, emotion creeping into your voice despite your best efforts.

Mia squeezed your shoulder. “That’s what friends are for. Besides, we needed an excuse to get away too. Win-win.”

As the Miami skyline grew smaller on the horizon, you felt something shift in your chest. Not hope, exactly but maybe the possibility of hope and maybe that was enough for now.

You had two weeks to figure out how to be a person again. Two weeks to remember what it felt like to want something, to feel something other than the hollow ache that had taken up residence in your chest. Two weeks before you had to go back and face the wreckage of your life. You took another sip of champagne and watched the sun sink below the horizon, painting the ocean in shades of gold and crimson, and tried not to count down the days until this temporary escape ended.

Bang Chan was hiding.

It wasn’t something he was particularly proud of but there it was. He was hiding in a corner of the ship’s jazz lounge at eleven in the morning, nursing an espresso and pretending to read a book he wasn’t absorbing a single word of.

“There you are!” Felix’s voice cut through his attempted invisibility. “Hyung, we’ve been looking everywhere. Everyone’s at the pool.”

“I know,” Chan said without looking up from his book, some thriller he’d grabbed at the airport. “I was there. It got crowded.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The pool had been crowded but that wasn’t why he’d left. He’d left because Changbin had started making plans for every single hour of every single day of the two-week cruise, creating an itinerary that was somehow more exhausting than their actual tour schedule. Chan had felt his chest tighten with that familiar anxiety; schedules, obligations, people needing him to be on. This was supposed to be a vacation. His first real break in two years. The company had insisted on it after he’d had that panic attack in the studio, the one he’d tried to hide but couldn’t. Two weeks. Mandatory.

 “Before you burn out completely,” his manager had said, like it was a threat.

But somehow, he’d still ended up being the one everyone looked to, the one who was supposed to have all the answers, the one who couldn’t just…be.

“Chris,” Felix sat down across from him, his expression shifting from playful to concerned. “Are you okay? Like, really okay?”

Chan opened his mouth to give his standard response—I’m fine, just tired—but something in Felix’s eyes made him pause. They’d known each other too long for bullshit.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I thought getting away would help, but I think I brought all my stress with me. It’s like…it’s in my bones now. I can’t remember how to not be anxious.”

Felix nodded slowly. “You know you don’t have to entertain us, right? We’re all adults. If you need space, take it. We’ll survive without you for a few hours. Hell, we’ll survive for a few days if that’s what you need.”

The permission felt like a weight lifting. “Thanks, Lix.”

“Just…try to have some fun? Even if it’s by yourself?” Felix stood, squeezing his shoulder. “That’s what we’re here for. Two whole weeks of nothing. Let yourself have and enjoy nothing for once.”

After Felix left, Chan did try to relax into his solitude. He ordered another espresso, actually read a few pages of his book, watched the ocean roll by through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But the relaxation felt performative, like he was trying to have a good time, which defeated the entire purpose. The voice in his head—the one that sounded like his producer, his manager, his own worst critic—kept whispering ‘You’re wasting time. You could be working. You should be working. What are you even doing here?’

Eventually, he gave up and decided to explore the ship. Maybe a walk would help. Maybe he’d find some quiet corner where he could just exist without the constant pressure of expectations.

He should have been watching where he was going.

You should have been watching where you were going.

But you were looking at your phone, laughing at a meme Jenna had just sent to the group chat, champagne from lunch making everything a little fuzzy around the edges and you definitely weren’t paying attention when you rounded the corner near the casino. The collision was inevitable.

You walked straight into what felt like a wall of solid muscle, your phone flying from your hand as strong arms caught you before you could fall. For a second, you were pressed against someone’s chest, catching a scent of expensive cologne and laundry detergent, feeling the solid warmth of another body against yours for the first time in months, and then you were being steadied, held at arm’s length by hands that were gentle despite their strength.

“I’m so sorry—” you started, looking up. The words died in your throat. You knew that face. You’d seen that face on your screen more times than you could count, had fallen asleep to that voice, had his music on every playlist you owned. Bang Chan. Christopher Bang. Leader of Stray Kids. And he was currently holding your arms, looking just as startled as you felt, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.

“No, that was my fault,” he was saying, his accent crisp and clear in person, deeper than it sounded in videos. “I wasn’t looking, are you okay?”

Your brain was short-circuiting. Every instinct screamed at you to say something, to acknowledge who he was, to tell him how much his music meant to you. How “Levanter” had gotten you through the worst nights after the breakup, how you’d listened to his voice in the dark and felt less alone, but something held you back. Maybe it was the exhaustion in his eyes despite his polite smile. Maybe it was the way he was already glancing around, like he was bracing for recognition, for the moment when you’d start screaming or crying or asking for a photo. Maybe it was the tension in his shoulders, like he was preparing to be Bang Chan instead of just a person. He didn’t want to be Bang Chan right now. He wanted to be just a person. You could give him that.

“I’m fine,” you said, stepping back and bending to pick up your phone. The screen was miraculously uncracked. “Totally my fault. I was texting and walking, which is apparently just as dangerous on a ship as it is on the street.”

He laughed—a real laugh that sounded surprised out of him, like he hadn’t expected it. “Yeah, probably should be a law against it.”

“I’m sure there is, buried in the fine print of that novel they made us sign at check-in.” You smiled at him, keeping your expression friendly but not too familiar. Just another stranger. Just another person. “Sorry again for almost taking you out.”

“No harm done.” He was studying you now, and you wondered if he was trying to figure out if you knew who he was. You kept your face neutral, pleasant. Just another collision on a crowded ship.

Something in his posture relaxed slightly, his shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I’m Chris,” he offered.

“Nice to meet you, Chris.” You introduced yourself, shaking his hand like this was a normal interaction, like your heart wasn’t pounding, like you weren’t internally cataloging every detail to tell your friends later. His hand was warm, calloused, musician’s hands.

“Enjoy your cruise.”

“You too.”

You walked away before you could do something stupid like ask for a photo or tell him that his music had been the only thing that made sense when everything else was falling apart. You could feel his eyes on your back, but you didn’t turn around. Your hands were shaking when you finally made it back to your cabin. You’d just met Bang Chan. You’d had a full conversation with Bang Chan and you’d pretended not to know who he was. The question was, could you keep pretending?

You didn’t see Chris again for three days. The ship was enormous, carrying over two thousand passengers, and the itinerary was packed. Day two brought you to Key West, where your friends dragged you to every bar on Duval Street. Day three was a sea day, spent recovering by the pool with oversized sunglasses and aspirin. Day four was Cozumel, where you went parasailing and actually felt something like joy when you were suspended above the impossibly blue water.

Not that you were looking for Chris. Except you totally were, your eyes scanning every restaurant, every pool deck, every bar. It was ridiculous. You’d had one conversation. A collision and an exchange of names. That was it but you couldn’t stop thinking about the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his whole body had relaxed when you didn’t make it weird. The way his hand had felt in yours.

Meanwhile, your friends were making good on Mia’s promise of questionable decisions. There had been a wine tasting that turned into wine drinking, a midnight swim in the pool where Sophie had definitely flashed a group of very appreciative businessmen, and a karaoke night where Jenna had absolutely murdered “I Will Survive” while you and Mia provided very dramatic backup vocals. It was working, you had to admit. You were laughing more. Thinking less about your ex, about the job you’d lost, about the apartment you’d had to give up. The knot in your chest was slowly loosening, unwinding with each day further from shore.

On the fifth night, there was a formal dinner, one of those cruise traditions where everyone dressed up and pretended to be fancier than they were. You’d packed a black dress that hugged your curves, simple but elegant, with a back that dipped low enough to be interesting. Your friends had insisted on the full treatment; curls swept up, makeup that made your eyes look seductive, heels you’d probably regret by the end of the night.

“You look hot,” Jenna declared, wolf-whistling as you emerged from the bathroom. “Like, ‘make your ex realize what a massive mistake he made’ hot.”

“Fuck my ex,” you said, surprised by the venom in your own voice. “I’m not trying to impress him. I’m trying to impress myself.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mia handed you a glass of champagne. “To being hot for ourselves!”

You drank to that.

The dining room was stunning, all crystal chandeliers and white tablecloths, with floor-to-ceiling windows showing the dark ocean beyond. Your group was seated at a table for four, but the restaurant was packed, the noise level a pleasant hum of conversation and laughter. You were halfway through your appetizer, some kind of scallop thing that melted on your tongue, when you saw him.

Chris was across the restaurant, seated at a table with seven other guys you immediately recognized as the rest of Stray Kids. They were all dressed up, looking like they’d stepped out of a magazine spread; dark suits, styled hair, the kind of casual elegance that came from having stylists on speed dial. They were clearly having a good time, laughing and talking over each other in the way close friends did, comfortable and easy. Your heart did a stupid flutter.

Chris looked…God, he looked devastating. His suit was perfectly tailored, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair was pushed back, revealing his forehead, and even from across the room you could see the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

And then, as if he could feel your stare, his eyes found yours. The moment stretched, pulled taut like a rubber band. His smile faltered, then shifted into something softer, more intimate. He raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment, and you felt heat flood your cheeks.

“Earth to you,” Mia waved a hand in front of your face. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” you dragged your attention back to your table, your heart still racing. “Just people watching.”

“See anyone interesting?” Sophie waggled her eyebrows.

You have no idea. “Nope. Just observing.”

You managed to keep your eyes on your own table for most of the meal, forcing yourself to engage in conversation, to laugh at Jenna’s jokes, to actually taste the food that was probably incredible. But you could feel the pull of his presence like a magnetic field, your awareness of him hyperactive. Every time he laughed, you heard it. Every time he moved, you tracked it in your peripheral vision.

This was getting ridiculous. You needed to get it together.

After dinner, your friends wanted to hit the nightclub on Deck 12, a place called Pulse that apparently had an incredible DJ and a dance floor that converted into a skating rink during the day. You followed them, pleasantly buzzed from the wine pairing with dinner, ready to dance until your feet hurt and your brain shut off. The club was exactly what you’d expect from a luxury cruise ship; sleek and modern with mood lighting that shifted colors, a bar that glowed blue and seemed to float, and a sound system that you could feel in your bones, in your chest, in the hollow places you were trying to fill. The crowd was energetic, people already on the dance floor despite the early hour. Your group claimed a spot near the bar, ordering a round of cocktails that came garnished with elaborate fruit arrangements and tiny sparklers that threw shadows across your faces.

“To forgetting our problems!” Sophie yelled over the music, raising her glass.

“To making new memories!” Jenna added.

“To whatever happens at sea, stays at sea!” Mia finished with a wink.

You drank to that, the cocktail sweet and strong, and let the music pull you onto the dance floor.

Dancing had always been your therapy. You weren’t particularly good at it, but you didn’t care. Here, in the dark with the music loud and your friends around you, you could let go. Could stop thinking. Could just feel; the bass vibrating through your body, the heat of other bodies moving nearby, the way the alcohol made everything soft around the edges.

You lost yourself in it, eyes closed, arms raised, hips moving to the rhythm. This was what you’d needed. Not thinking about your ex, about the way he’d looked at you when you’d found the texts from her. Not thinking about the humiliation of being walked out of your office with your things in a box. Not thinking about the future, about what the hell you were going to do when you got back to shore.

Just this. Just now. Just the music and the movement and the feeling of being alive in your own skin.

You didn’t know how long you’d been dancing when you felt it, that prickle of awareness, the sensation of being watched. You opened your eyes, scanning the crowd, and found him. Chris was at the bar, a drink in his hand, watching you. Not in a creepy way,his expression was more…captivated. Hungry. Like you were the most interesting thing in the room and he couldn’t look away.

When your eyes met, he didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his glass slightly in acknowledgment, then took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your breath caught.

Your friends were distracted, Mia flirting with some guy in a designer suit, Sophie and Jenna lost in the music and each other’s company. On impulse—maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the darkness giving you courage, maybe it was the way he was looking at you like you were something precious—you made your way over to the bar.

“Stalking me, Chris?” you asked as you slid up next to him, close enough to smell his cologne, something woody and expensive.

He laughed, and God, that sound. Deep and genuine and surprised. “I could say the same to you. You seem to be everywhere I go.”

“It’s a big ship. But apparently not big enough.”

“Apparently not.” He took a sip of his drink, something amber, probably whiskey. His eyes traced over you, taking in the dress, the heels, the way your skin was flushed from dancing. “You look…you look incredible.”

The way he said it—rough and honest, like the words had been pulled out of him—made heat pool low in your stomach. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.” It was possibly the understatement of the century. He looked devastating in his fitted suit, his hair slightly mussed now like he’d been running his hands through it, his tie loosened just enough to see the hollow of his throat.

“Are you here with friends?” he asked, his voice pitched low to be heard over the music, intimate in a way that made you lean closer.

“Three of them. Girls’ trip. We’re celebrating, or maybe mourning, depending on your perspective.”

“What are you celebrating/mourning?”

You considered lying, keeping it light and surface-level. But something about the low lighting and the alcohol and the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the room, like he genuinely wanted to know—made you honest. “My life kind of fell apart a few months ago. Spectacular breakup, lost my job, had to move out of my apartment. They thought a two-week cruise would help me remember how to be a person again.”

Understanding flickered in his eyes, something dark and sympathetic. “Is it working?”

“Ask me when we get back to shore.” You gestured to his drink. “What about you? What brings you to the Azure Escape?”

“Similar story, actually. Different details, but same general theme. My friends—” he gestured vaguely toward where you assumed his table was, “—thought I needed a break before I burned out completely. Mandatory vacation.”

“And are you? Taking a break, I mean?”

His smile was rueful, almost bitter. “I’m trying. Turns out I’m not very good at relaxing. I keep waiting for someone to need something from me, to tell me what I should be doing, how I should be spending my time. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to just…be.”

“Same.” You caught the bartender’s eye and ordered another drink; something tropical and dangerous, the kind that tasted like fruit juice but would knock you on your ass. “We should form a support group. Type-A personalities who don’t know how to vacation.”

“Meeting here, same time tomorrow?”

“I think that would defeat the purpose of relaxing.”

He laughed again, and you felt absurdly proud of yourself for causing it, for making this beautiful, exhausted man smile. “Fair point.”

The DJ transitioned into a slower song, something with a deep bass that you could feel vibrating through the floor, through your chest. On the dance floor, couples were pulling together, the energy shifting from frenetic to sensual, bodies moving in sync.

“Do you want to dance?” The words came out before you could second-guess them, breathier than you’d intended.

Chris looked surprised, his eyes widening slightly, then darkening with something that made your pulse quicken. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He set down his drink and offered you his hand. His palm was warm against yours, slightly calloused—musician’s hands, you remembered—and his fingers threaded through yours like they belonged there as he led you onto the dance floor.

You were hyperaware of every point of contact; his hand on your lower back, burning through the thin fabric of your dress, your hand on his shoulder feeling the solid muscle beneath his suit jacket, the way your bodies moved together like you’d done this a thousand times before, like you knew each other’s rhythms already. He pulled you closer, close enough that you could feel his breath against your temple, close enough that your hips brushed with every movement. The music was all bass and rhythm, something primal, and you let it guide you, let yourself sink into the feeling of being held, of being wanted.

“I have a confession,” he said, his mouth close to your ear so you could hear him over the music. The vibration of his voice sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart stuttered. “What’s that?”

“I’ve kinda been hoping I’d run into you again. Since that first day. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t make it weird.” His hand slid lower on your back, almost possessive, pulling you even closer. “Everyone always makes it weird, but you didn’t. You looked at me like I was just a person. Do you know how rare that is?”

If only you knew how weird I’m being internally. “Maybe I’m just very good at hiding how weird I am.”

“Or maybe you’re exactly as cool as you seem.”

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, trying to gauge if he was serious. His eyes were dark in the low light, intense in a way that made your breath catch, made heat pool between your thighs. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, asking a question.

“I’m really not that cool,” you admitted, your voice barely audible over the music.

“I don’t believe you.”

The song shifted to something even slower, and suddenly the space between you was nonexistent, your bodies pressed together from chest to hip, swaying more than dancing. You could feel his heartbeat against your chest—fast, as fast as yours—could smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely him, could feel the evidence of his attraction pressing against your hip. Your breath hitched and his hand on your back tightened, his fingers spreading wide like he wanted to touch as much of you as possible.

This was dangerous. This was so, so dangerous.

“Chris—”

“Do you want to get out of here?” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and there was no mistaking the heat in them, the want. “Go somewhere quieter? I’m not…I’m not trying to—” He took a breath. “I just want to talk to you. Away from all this. But if talking leads to something else…” He left the sentence hanging, let you fill in the blanks.

You should say no. You should make an excuse, go back to your friends, put distance between you and whatever this was becoming. This was Bang Chan. An idol. Someone who lived in a completely different world than you did. This couldn’t go anywhere. It couldn’t be anything but a mistake.

But God, you wanted to make this mistake. Wanted it more than you’d wanted anything in months.

The word that came out of your mouth was: “Yes.”

You texted your friends a quick excuse—met someone, I’m fine, will tell you everything later—and followed Chris out of the club. Your hand was still in his, his grip firm and sure, and you could feel the heat of his palm against yours, the slight tremor that told you he was just as affected as you were.

He led you through the ship’s corridors with surprising confidence, navigating the maze of hallways like he’d been studying the layout. You passed other passengers—couples heading back to their rooms, groups of friends stumbling drunk and laughing—and you wondered if it was obvious what you were doing, where you were going. If they could see the tension crackling between you and Chris, the way you couldn’t stop looking at each other.

Finally, you emerged onto an observation deck you hadn’t discovered yet. It was nearly empty, just a couple at the far end wrapped up in each other, too focused on themselves to notice you. The deck stretched out before you, lined with lounge chairs and small tables. Beyond the railing, the ocean was an endless expanse of darkness, the stars above so bright they looked fake, like someone had hung lights in the sky just for you.

“How did you find this place?” you asked, moving to the railing. The wind whipped your hair around your face, and you gathered it with one hand.

“I’ve been exploring. Looking for quiet spots.” He stood next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. “I’ve needed a lot of quiet lately.”

“I get that.” You turned to face the ocean, letting the wind cool your flushed skin. “Sometimes silence is the only thing that makes sense.”

“Exactly.” He turned to face you fully, his hip against the railing. “Can I ask what happened? With your life falling apart? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

You considered deflecting, keeping it light. But something about the darkness and the ocean and the fact that you’d probably never see him again after this cruise made you honest. Made you want to be honest.

“Breakup. Three years, down the drain. Found out he’d been cheating on me for the last year.” The words tasted bitter. “Then I lost my job, ‘restructuring,’ they called it, like that makes it better. Had to give up my apartment because I couldn’t afford it without my salary. Moved in with Mia, one of the friends I’m here with. General existential crisis about whether I’ve been living the life I actually want or just the life I thought I was supposed to want.” You laughed, but it sounded hollow. “The usual quarter-life crisis stuff, just arriving fashionably late since I’m almost thirty.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, genuine. “That’s…that’s really fucking hard.”

“Yeah.” You looked at him, really looked at him. “What about you? What drove you to mandatory vacation?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was choosing his words carefully. “Panic attack. In the studio. I was working on this track, and I just…I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Everything just crashed down on me at once; all the pressure, all the expectations, the constant need to be perfect, to be ‘on.’ My manager found me on the floor hyperventilating and decided I needed a break before I completely fell apart.”

The raw honesty in his voice made your chest ache. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrifying.”

“It was. It is.” He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “The worst part is, I can’t even enjoy this. This break, this vacation. All I can think about is everything I should be doing instead. The work I’m missing. The opportunities I might be losing. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to do anything that isn’t productive.”

Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

He did, his eyes vulnerable in the starlight.

“You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to take up space without earning it. You’re allowed to just be yourself.” You squeezed his hand. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. Trust me, I know. But you are.”

“So are you.”

“I know. In theory.” You smiled sadly. “Practice is harder.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at your joined hands, then back up at you. “For what it’s worth, I think most people are just pretending to have it figured out. The ones who seem the most certain are usually the most lost.”

“Is that from experience?”

“Yeah. I’ve spent the last few years building this career, chasing this dream, and somewhere along the way I forgot why I started. Everything became about the next goal, the next achievement. I can’t remember the last time I did something just because it made me happy, not because it would advance my career or make someone else proud.”

You understood that more than you wanted to admit. “So what makes you happy? When you strip away all the other stuff?”

He thought about it, really thought about it. “Music still does. But making it, not performing it. Not the staged stuff, the perfect stuff. Just…creating something from nothing. And being with people I care about, when there’s no pressure to be anything but myself. Cooking, weirdly. Taking walks. Really good coffee.” He smiled and it was genuine this time, soft. “Simple stuff.”

“Simple stuff is underrated.”

“What about you? What makes you happy?”

“I’m still figuring that out,” you admitted. “I thought I knew, but I think I was confusing ‘happy’ with ‘comfortable.’ I had this whole life planned out; marriage, promotion, house in the suburbs, maybe kids eventually. And when it didn’t work out, I realized I wasn’t even sure I wanted it in the first place. How messed up is that? I spent three years with someone, building toward a future I’m not even sure I wanted.”

“Not messed up. Human.” He shifted closer, and now your shoulders were definitely touching, his warmth seeping into you. “Maybe that’s what this is—a chance to figure out what we actually want instead of what we think we should want.”

“On a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean?”

“Why not? We’re literally untethered from everything. No responsibilities, no expectations. Just… possibility.”

The word hung between you, heavy with implication. The wind picked up, and you shivered despite the warm night air. Without a word, Chris shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders. It smelled like him—cologne and laundry detergent and something uniquely him—and you had to resist the urge to bury your face in it.

“Thank you.”

“So,” he said, a hint of something darker in his voice now, something that made your pulse quicken. “If we’re untethered from everything, what do you want? Right now, in this moment?”

The question felt loaded. Dangerous. Your heart was pounding and you weren’t sure if it was from the proximity, the alcohol, or the way he was looking at you like you were something he wanted to devour.

“Honestly?” The word came out barely above a whisper. “I want to stop thinking. Stop worrying about what I should do or what makes sense. I want to just feel something other than numb or anxious. I want to feel good again.”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough, strained. “Yeah, I want that too.”

The space between you was charged, electric. You could feel the moment building, the inevitable pull of two people who were both running from something and desperately wanted to run toward each other instead.

“Chris,”

“We’re on a ship,” he said quickly, like he needed to convince himself as much as you. “In the middle of the ocean. And in two weeks, we’ll both go back to our real lives. This doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t have to mean anything unless we want it to.”

Your breath caught. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting…” He reached up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “That maybe we both deserve to stop thinking for a while. To just be. Together. For as long as we’re on this ship.”

“Like a vacation fling?” Your voice was steadier than you felt.

“Like a vacation from our lives. No pressure. No expectations. Just two people who found each other at the right time. Two people who need the same thing.”

It was a terrible idea. You knew it was a terrible idea. This was Bang Chan, international idol, and you were just…you. Living in completely different worlds that would never actually align. Plus, you were still putting yourself back together, still figuring out who you were without your ex, without your job, without all the structures you’d built your identity around. But maybe that was exactly why this could work. Because it was temporary. Because it was safe. Because in two weeks, you could go back to your real life and carry this with you like a beautiful secret, a reminder that you were still capable of feeling something. That you were still desirable, still wanted.

“Okay,” you said, and watched his eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree. “But I have conditions.”

“What’s that?”

“We have to be honest with each other. Completely honest. No pretending to be someone we’re not, no playing games. If we’re doing this, we do it for real.”

Something flickered across his face; guilt, maybe, or concern. You wondered if he was thinking about the fact that you’d never acknowledged knowing who he was. But then he nodded.

“Deal. Complete honesty.”

“And no regrets. When this is over, we both walk away clean. No drama, no hurt feelings, no trying to make it into something it can’t be. Two weeks, and then we’re done.”

“Agreed.” He held out his hand like you were sealing a business deal. “So, we’re really doing this? Being each other’s…” He tr ailed off, searching for the right word.

“Cruise bae?” you suggested, then immediately wanted to die of embarrassment. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that. The alcohol has clearly compromised my brain function. Forget I said—”

He was laughing, that full-body laugh you’d only heard in videos, and then he was pulling you closer, his hands on your waist. “Cruise bae. I love it. It’s perfect.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“Exactly. Perfect.” His forehead was almost touching yours now, his breath warm against your face, smelling of whiskey and mint. “So, cruise bae, what do you want to do first?”

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palms. It was racing just as fast as yours. “I think you know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

The command in his voice sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the wind. “Kiss me, Chris.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The kiss started soft, tentative, like he was giving you a chance to change your mind. His lips were warm and soft against yours, tasting like whiskey and something sweet. But when you pressed closer, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down to you, it deepened into something hungry, desperate, like you were both starving and had finally found sustenance. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and his hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him. You could feel every hard line of his body against yours, could feel the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip and it made you dizzy with want.

You’d been kissed before, but this was different. This was all-consuming, the kind of kiss that made you forget where you were, who you were, everything except the feeling of his mouth on yours and the way your body fit against his like you were made for this. Like every relationship before had just been practice for this moment. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard. His lips were swollen, his hair mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with desire, and he looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“My room or yours?” he asked, voice rough and low.

Reality crashed back in for a moment. “I’m sharing with my friends. Two of us in one cabin.”

“I’ve got my own room.” He was already pulling out his phone, his hands trembling slightly as he checked something. “One of the perks of…well. I have my own room.”

“Very mysterious,” you said, but your heart was pounding. This was happening. This was really happening.

“It’s on Deck 10. Quiet hallway.” His eyes met yours, searching. “Are you sure about this? We can just talk. We don’t have to—”

You kissed him to shut him up, pouring every ounce of want and need and desperation into it. When you pulled back, his eyes were glazed. “I’m sure. Are you?”

“So fucking sure.” His hand found yours, lacing your fingers together. “Come on.”

The walk to his cabin felt endless. You passed other passengers in the hallways—couples heading back from dinner, groups of friends stumbling drunk and happy—and you wondered if it was obvious what you were about to do. If they could see it written all over you, the desire and anticipation making your skin feel too tight. Chris’s hand in yours was the only anchor, his thumb tracing circles on your palm that were simultaneously soothing and arousing. Every touch felt amplified, significant, like your nerve endings were firing on overdrive.

When you finally reached his door, he fumbled with the key card, his hands shaking slightly. It was endearing, seeing him nervous, seeing that you affected him as much as he affected you. The door swung open, and he pulled you inside. The cabin was nicer than yours—bigger, with a king-size bed instead of two doubles, a sitting area with a couch, and floor-to-ceiling windows that showed the dark ocean beyond. But you barely registered any of it because Chris was crowding you against the closed door, his hands cupping your face, his mouth finding yours again.

This kiss was different, deeper, more demanding. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, claiming you, and you moaned into it, your hands fisting in his shirt. He pressed closer, pinning you against the door with his body and you could feel every inch of him, hard and wanting against you.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that? You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“You barely know me,” you managed, but your voice was breathy, unconvincing.

“I know enough.” His mouth moved to your jaw, trailing hot kisses down to your neck. “I know you’re kind enough to let me pretend to be normal. I know you’re brave enough to admit when your life is falling apart. I know you kiss like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. I know I can’t stop thinking about you.”

His teeth grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and your knees nearly buckled. “Chris—”

“Tell me what you want.” His hands slid down your sides, his thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts through your dress. “Tell me exactly what you want from me.”

“I want—” You could barely think, barely breathe. “I want you to make me forget. Everything. I want to feel good. I want you to make me feel good.”

“I can do that.” His voice was dark, promising. “I’m going to make you feel so good you forget your own name.”

He stepped back and you nearly whimpered at the loss of contact. But then his hands were on the zipper of your dress, slowly dragging it down, his knuckles brushing against your spine in a way that made you shiver.

“Is this okay?” he asked, even as the dress began to slip off your shoulders.

“Yes. God, yes.”

The dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in just your underwear; black lace that you’d chosen without thinking, without knowing you’d end up here. His eyes raked over you, taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin and the hunger in his gaze made you feel powerful despite being nearly naked.

“You’re perfect,” he said, voice reverent. “Fucking perfect.”

You should have felt self-conscious. You’d gained weight since the breakup, stress eating and wine and giving up on the gym. Your body wasn’t what it had been, and your ex had made sure you knew it, little comments about how you should watch what you eat, how you used to be more toned but the way Chris looked at you—like you were a goddess, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you—made you feel beautiful. Desirable. Wanted in a way you hadn’t felt in years.

“Your turn,” you said, reaching for his shirt buttons with hands that trembled slightly.

He helped you, shrugging out of his shirt and tossing it aside. And God. God. You’d seen him shirtless in photos and videos, but nothing prepared you for the reality of it. He was all lean muscle and smooth skin, his chest and abs defined but not overly bulky, his shoulders broad. There was a small scar near his ribs, and you wanted to know the story behind it, wanted to know everything about him.

But that wasn’t what this was. This was just tonight. Just physical.

You reached out, running your hands over his chest, feeling his heart pounding under your palm. He inhaled sharply when your fingers found his nipples, teasing them lightly, and you filed that reaction away for later.

“Bed,” he said, voice strained. “Now.”

He walked you backward toward the bed, his hands on your hips, his mouth finding yours again. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, looking up at him. He stood over you for a moment, just looking, his chest heaving. Then he knelt, right there on the floor between your legs and looked up at you with an expression that made your breath catch.

“Can I?” His hands were on your thighs, his thumbs tracing patterns on the sensitive skin.

“Please.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up, his hands sliding up to the waistband of your underwear. Slowly, torturously slowly, he dragged them down your legs, and then you were completely bare to him. You expected him to dive in immediately, but instead he just looked at you, his hands on your thighs keeping them spread, his breath hot against your most sensitive skin.

“So pretty,” he murmured. “I’m going to make you come so hard you see stars.”

Then his mouth was on you, and you forgot how to breathe.

He started slow, teasing, his tongue tracing patterns that made you gasp and squirm. His hands held your hips down when you tried to grind against his face, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, completely at his mercy.

“Chris, please—”

“Patience,” he said against you, the vibration of his voice making you moan. “I want to savor this. Want to taste every inch of you.”

He was methodical, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made your thighs tremble. When he finally focused on your clit, his tongue circling it with perfect pressure, you threaded your fingers through his hair and held on for dear life.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice rough. “Let me hear you. No one can hear us. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that made you see stars, your whole body went taut. The dual sensation of his tongue on your clit and his fingers inside you was overwhelming, and you could feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

“Chris, I’m…I’m going to—”

“Come for me,” he commanded, and the authority in his voice combined with one more perfect curl of his fingers sent you over the edge.

You came with a cry that was definitely too loud, your whole body shaking with the force of it, your thighs clamping around his head. He worked you through it, his tongue gentling but not stopping until you were pushing at his head, oversensitive and trembling.

He pulled back, his chin wet, his eyes dark with satisfaction and barely restrained desire. “You taste incredible. And the sounds you make…” He groaned, adjusting himself through his pants. “I could do that for hours.”

You couldn’t form words. Your brain had short-circuited, your body still buzzing with aftershocks. But you could see how hard he was, could see the way his hands were shaking slightly, and you wanted to give him the same mind-blowing pleasure he’d just given you.

“Come here,” you said, your voice husky.

He stood, and you reached for his belt, but he caught your hands.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you said, looking up at him through your lashes. “I want to taste you. Want to make you feel as good as you just made me feel.”

His eyes darkened further, and he released your hands. “Fuck. Okay. Yeah.”

You unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and helped him push them down along with his boxers. When his cock sprang free, hard and thick and already leaking, your mouth actually watered.

“You’re beautiful,” you said, wrapping your hand around him. He was hot and hard in your palm, and when you stroked him once, experimentally, he groaned.

“If you keep looking at me like that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast,” he warned.

“Good,” you said, and leaned forward to lick the bead of precum from his tip.

His hips jerked, and one hand flew to your hair, not pushing, just holding. “Fuck.”

You took him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the way he tasted, salt and musk and something uniquely him. You couldn’t take all of him, so you wrapped your hand around the base, stroking what you couldn’t fit while you sucked and licked and explored.

“God, your mouth,” he groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. “You’re so good at this. So fucking good.”

You hummed around him, pleased with the praise, and he cursed, his hips stuttering forward slightly. You relaxed your throat, taking him deeper, and looked up at him through your lashes. The sight of him was almost enough to make you come again; his head thrown back, his abs tensing, his free hand fisted in the sheets. He looked wrecked, undone, and you’d done that to him.

“Stop,” he gasped suddenly, tugging gently at your hair. “Stop, I’m too close, and I want to be inside you when I come.”

You pulled off him with an obscene pop, and he groaned again at the sight.

“You’re going to kill me,” he said, pulling you up and kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. “Absolutely fucking kill me.”

He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for a drawer, but you stopped him.

“I’m clean,” you said. “And I’m on birth control. If you’re—”

“I’m clean too. Tested regularly.” His eyes searched yours. “Are you sure?”

“I want to feel you. All of you. I want you to fill me up and make me forget everything except how good you feel inside me.”

He made a noise that was almost a whimper, and then he was pushing you back onto the bed, crawling over you, caging you in with his arms. You could feel him, hot and hard against your entrance, and you lifted your hips in invitation.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Tell me if I need to stop or slow down.”

“I will. Now please, Chris, I need you inside me.”

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, and the stretch was intense, bordering on too much. He was bigger than your ex and it had been months since you’d been with anyone. You gasped, and he froze.

“Okay?” His voice was tight.

“Yeah. Just, give me a second.”

He held still, pressing kisses to your face, your neck, murmuring praise against your skin. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good around me. So tight. So perfect.”

After a moment, you experimentally rolled your hips, and he slid in another inch. The fullness was overwhelming in the best way.

“More,” you breathed. “I can take it. I want all of you.”

He pushed in the rest of the way with one slow, deliberate thrust, and you both groaned when he was fully seated inside you. For a moment, you both just stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged, adjusting to the sensation.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel incredible. Like you were made for me.”

“Move,” you pleaded. “Please move. I need—”

He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and then thrust back in, and you saw stars. He found a rhythm that was deep and steady and perfect, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl.

“Yes,” you moaned. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.” His voice was rough, strained. “You feel too good. Sound too good. Look too fucking good.”

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust was dragging against your clit, and you could feel another orgasm building already.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, his voice taking on that authoritative edge that made you clench around him. “I want to feel you come around my cock.”

You slid your hand between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added stimulation made you cry out. Your inner walls clenched around him, and he groaned.

“That’s it. Fuck, I can feel you getting close. You’re squeezing me so tight.”

“Harder,” you gasped. “I want to feel you tomorrow. Want to be sore. Want to remember this every time I move.”

Something in him snapped. His control frayed, and he began to fuck you in earnest, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, obscene and perfect.

“Like this?” he growled. “Is this what you need?”

“Yes! Chris, yes, just like that—”

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and overwhelming. You screamed his name, your back arching off the bed, your whole body convulsing with pleasure. He fucked you through it, prolonging it, until you were a shaking, oversensitive mess.

“I’m close,” he warned, his rhythm becoming erratic. “Where—”

“Inside me,” you gasped. “I want to feel you come inside me. Want all of you.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” He thrust once, twice more, and then he was coming with a groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his release. He collapsed on top of you, both of you trembling and gasping for breath. After a moment, he carefully pulled out, and you could feel his cum slowly leaking out of you, warm and obscene.

“That was—” he started but couldn’t seem to find the words.

“Yeah,” you agreed because you couldn’t either. He rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were sprawled across his chest. His heart was still racing under your ear, and you could feel the way his chest heaved with each breath.

“Give me like ten minutes,” he said, his hand stroking lazily up and down your spine. “And I’m going to do that again. And again. I have two weeks to memorize every sound you make, and I intend to be thorough.”

You laughed breathlessly. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

“You have no idea.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m not letting you out of this bed until morning. Maybe not even then.”

“What about food?”

“Room service exists.”

“What about my friends? They’ll worry.”

“Text them.” He reached over and grabbed your phone from where you’d dropped it, handing it to you. “Tell them you’re alive and busy and they’ll see you tomorrow.”

You did, typing out a quick message with shaking hands while Chris pressed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear.

Still alive. Still busy. Will definitely have stories tomorrow. Don’t wait up.

Mia’s response was immediate: GET IT GIRL 🔥

You tossed your phone aside and turned in Chris’s arms to face him. His hair was completely wrecked, his lips swollen, and there were faint scratches on his shoulders from your nails. He looked thoroughly debauched, and you’d done that.

“So,” you said, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Cruise bae. Think we can handle two weeks of this?”

His eyes darkened again, already hungry despite having just finished. “I think the question is whether two weeks will be enough.”

It was a dangerous thing to say, implying that this could be more than it was. But you were too sated, too content to worry about it right now.

“Ask me again in fourteen days,” you said, and kissed him before he could respond.

This time, the kiss was slower, more exploratory. Like you had all the time in the world. And for the next two weeks, you did.

True to his word, Chris woke you twice more during the night. Once with his mouth between your legs, bringing you to a slow, lazy orgasm before sliding inside you and fucking you with a tenderness that made your chest ache. Once with you on top, riding him while he watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his hands on your hips guiding your movements until you both fell apart.

Each time was different. Each time was perfect.

When you finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, tangled together with the gentle rocking of the ship lulling you into dreams, you felt more content than you had in months. This was temporary. This was finite. But for now, it was exactly what you both needed.

You woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the gentle rocking of the ship. For a moment, you were disoriented, not sure where you were. Then you felt the warm body next to you, the arm draped possessively over your waist, and it all came flooding back.

Chris.

You’d spent the night with Chris. Bang Chan. And it had been…God, it had been incredible. He hadn’t been lying about being thorough. You were deliciously sore, your body aching in places that made you flush with the memory. You turned carefully, not wanting to wake him, and just looked. In sleep, he looked younger, the worry lines around his eyes smoothed out, his mouth soft and relaxed. His hair was a disaster from your fingers, and there were faint hickies on his collarbone that you definitely didn’t remember leaving but weren’t sorry about.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

“You’re in my space,” you countered. “It’s hard not to.”

He cracked one eye open, a slow smile spreading across his face that made your heart do something complicated. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

He pulled you closer, nuzzling into your neck, and you could feel he was already half-hard against your hip. “What time is it?”

You glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Almost nine. We’re supposed to dock in Grand Cayman at ten.”

“Mmm. Don’t wanna move.” His hand slid down to your ass, squeezing appreciatively. “Want to stay here with you all day.”

“Me neither.” And you meant it. The idea of leaving this bed, this room, this bubble you’d created, felt impossible. “But I have excursions planned. Swimming with stingrays, apparently.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“Little bit.” You propped yourself up on your elbow to look at him. His hand stayed on your ass, possessive even in his half-asleep state. “What about you? What are you doing today?”

“The guys want to go to Seven Mile Beach. Probably play volleyball, drink too much, pretend we’re not all pasty and exhausted.” He opened both eyes now, looking at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. “But I’d rather spend the day with you.”

Your heart skipped. “Chris—”

“I know. Two weeks. No expectations. I remember.” He ran his free hand through his hair, making it stick up even more adorably. “But I’m allowed to want things. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Fair enough.” You traced the line of his jaw with your finger. “We could…I don’t know, maybe meet up later? After our respective activities?”

“Yeah?” His face lit up. “There’s a sunset thing on the top deck tonight. Live music, dancing. We could not-so-accidentally run into each other there.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” He pulled you down for a kiss that quickly turned heated. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, and you could feel exactly how much he wanted you. “Before you go,” he said, voice rough, “let me—”

“Chris, we don’t have time—”

“We have time.” His hand slid from your ass to between your legs and you were already wet for him, still sensitive from last night. “I just want to touch you. Make you come one more time before you leave.”

You should say no. You should get up, shower, get back to your cabin before your friends sent out a search party. But his fingers were already sliding through your wetness, circling your clit with perfect pressure, and your resolve crumbled.

“Okay,” you gasped. “Okay, yes.”

He worked you with practiced efficiency now, knowing exactly what you needed, how you liked to be touched. When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your hips lifted off the bed.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your neck. “Let me make you feel good. Love watching you fall apart for me.”

It didn’t take long. You were still sensitive from last night, and he knew your body now, knew exactly how to play you. When you came, it was sharp and intense, and you bit down on his shoulder to muffle your cry.

“Beautiful,” he said, working you through the aftershocks. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

When you could breathe again, you kissed him deeply, tasting the smile on his lips. “I really need to go,” you said reluctantly.

“I know.” He pulled his hand away, and you watched, mesmerized, as he brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean. “Mmm. Never getting tired of how you taste.”

“You’re going to kill me,” you said, echoing his words from last night.

“Good. Then we’re even.”

You slipped out of his cabin wearing his t-shirt and sweatpants, your dress was too wrinkled and obvious. The walk back to your room felt different in daylight. More real. More dangerous. What were you doing? This was supposed to be simple. Uncomplicated. A vacation fling to remind yourself you were still alive, still desirable but there was nothing simple about the way your heart raced when he looked at you, or the way his laugh made your chest ache, or the way you were already counting down the hours until you could see him again.

You were in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

When you finally made it back to your cabin, all three of your friends were waiting, sitting on the beds like a tribunal. “Well, well, well,” Mia said, her arms crossed but her eyes dancing with amusement. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Walk of shame at 9 AM?” Jenna whistled. “Impressive.”

“Are those men’s clothes?” Sophie leaned forward, squinting. “Oh my God, you actually did it. You had a one-night stand! Except it wasn’t one night because you literally never came back.”

“It wasn’t—” You stopped, because what could you say? It absolutely was more than a one-night stand. “Okay, yes. I spent the night with someone.”

They erupted in cheers, and you couldn’t help but laugh despite your confusion.

“Details,” Mia demanded. “We need all the details. Was he good? Please tell me he was good. You deserve good after that disaster of an ex.”

“He was…” You felt heat flood your cheeks, remembering exactly how good he’d been. “Really, really good. Like, multiple orgasms good. Didn’t know my body could do that good.”

“Okay, I’m jealous,” Jenna said. “And also, very proud. Look at you, having amazing sex with a hot stranger!”

“Surprisingly good?” Sophie asked. “Was he giving off bad-in-bed vibes?”

“No, I just, I haven’t been with anyone except my ex in years, and I forgot that sex could actually be, you know, good. That someone could care about whether I enjoyed it. That it could be about both of us, not just him getting off.” You sat down on your bed, suddenly overwhelmed. “He made me feel…desirable. Wanted. Like my pleasure mattered just as much as his.”

Sophie’s expression softened. “Oh honey. I’m so glad you’re remembering that you deserve to feel good. That you deserve someone who worships your body instead of criticizing it.”

“Are you going to see him again?” Mia asked, her tone careful. “Or was it just a one-time thing?”

You thought about Chris’s invitation for tonight, about the way he’d looked at you this morning, about the fact that you had eleven more days on this ship and you weren’t sure you had the willpower to stay away from him.

“I’m seeing him tonight,” you admitted. “We’re going to the sunset thing on the top deck.”

“So it’s not just a one-night stand,” Jenna observed. “It’s a vacation thing.”

“Yeah. A vacation thing. Two weeks, and then it’s over.” You said it firmly, like you could convince yourself.

“How do you feel about that?” Sophie asked gently.

“I feel like it’s exactly what I need right now. Something with an expiration date. Something that can’t hurt me because I know exactly when it ends.” You grabbed your toiletries and a change of clothes. “Now I really need to shower before we dock. I smell like sex and bad decisions.”

“The best kind of decisions,” Mia called after you as you headed to the bathroom. Under the hot spray of the shower, you let yourself think about last night. About the way Chris had touched you, like you were precious. About the way he’d listened when you talked, really listened. About the way he’d made you laugh even as he was making you come apart. About the way he’d looked at you this morning and said he’d rather spend the day with you than doing anything else.

This was supposed to be simple but nothing about the way you felt was simple at all.

Grand Cayman was beautiful; white sand beaches and impossibly blue water that looked photoshopped. The stingray excursion was exactly as terrifying and amazing as promised. You stood in waist-deep water while massive stingrays glided around you, their skin like velvet when you worked up the courage to touch them. Your friends were in their element, squealing and laughing and taking a million photos. And you were having fun, real, genuine fun but part of your mind was elsewhere, wondering what Chris was doing, if he was thinking about you too. You hated that. Hated that after one night, you were already that person, the one who couldn’t stop thinking about a guy. This wasn’t who you were. This wasn’t who you wanted to be, but when your phone buzzed with a text as soon as you got back on the ship and had signal, your heart still jumped.

Hey, cruise bae. Hope the stingrays didn’t eat you. Beach was good but would have been better with you there. Can’t wait for tonight.

You bit your lip, trying to suppress the stupid smile that wanted to spread across your face.

Stingrays were surprisingly friendly. How was volleyball?

Embarrassing. Changbin spiked the ball directly into my face.

Did you cry?

Almost. But I held it together. Barely.

Very brave of you.

Thank you. I accept praise in the form of kisses. Many, many kisses.

Greedy.

You have no idea.

You pocketed your phone, very

aware of your friends watching you with knowing looks.

“That’s a smitten face if I’ve ever seen one,” Jenna said.

“I’m not smitten. I’m just…enjoying myself.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Mia linked her arm through yours. “Just be careful, okay? I know you said two weeks and done, but it doesn’t look like your heart got that memo.”

“My heart is fine,” you protested. But even as you said it, you knew it was a lie.

The sunset event was everything the cruise had promised; a live band playing soft jazz, string lights casting everything in a warm glow, and couples swaying together on the dance floor as the sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink. You’d dressed carefully; a sundress that was casual but flattering, your curls down, just enough makeup to look like you’d tried but not too hard. Your friends had given you knowing looks but didn’t comment, which you appreciated. You spotted Chris almost immediately. He was at the bar with Felix and two other guys you recognized as Seungmin and Hyunjin, all of them dressed casually , relaxed in a way you suspected they rarely got to be.

Your eyes met across the deck, and the smile that spread across his face made your heart stutter. It was unguarded, genuine, full of warmth and something that looked dangerously like affection. He said something to his friends and made his way over to you, and you couldn’t help but watch the way he moved, confident and graceful despite his earlier claims of being unathletic.

“Hey,” he said when he reached you, and God, even just that one word in his voice made you want things you shouldn’t.

“Hey yourself.”

“You look beautiful.” His eyes traced over you appreciatively, lingering on the way the dress hugged your curves, but it wasn’t leering. It was warm, intimate, like he was remembering exactly what was underneath. “How were the stingrays?”

“Less terrifying than advertised. How’s your face after the volleyball incident?”

He laughed, touching his cheek ruefully. “Bruised but functional. Want to dance?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

His hand found yours, and the touch felt significant now, weighted with memory; these hands on your body, inside you, making you come apart. You let him lead you onto the dance floor, hyperaware of the way your friends and his were watching. The song was slow, romantic, and he pulled you close without hesitation, like he had every right to hold you like this. One hand settled on your lower back, the other holding yours, and you rested your free hand on his shoulder.

“Your friends are watching us,” you murmured against his shoulder.

“So are yours. Should we give them a show?”

“I thought we were keeping this casual.”

“We are. But casual doesn’t mean secret.” His hand pressed against your lower back, pulling you incrementally closer. “Unless you want it to be?”

“I don’t know what I want,” you admitted. It was becoming a theme.

“That’s fair.” He was quiet for a moment, just holding you, swaying to the music. “For what it’s worth, I told the guys about you. Not everything, but that I met someone. That I wanted to spend time with you.”

Your heart did something complicated. “What did they say?”

“Felix said I look happier than I have in months. Changbin made inappropriate jokes. Seungmin told me not to be an idiot and fuck it up. Hyunjin asked if you’re real or if I made you up.” He pulled back slightly to look at you. “What about your friends?”

“They’re thrilled I’m getting laid.” You felt your cheeks heat. “And they want to know if I’m going to keep seeing you. They’re worried I’m going to get hurt.”

“Are you? Going to keep seeing me?“

You looked up at him, at the hope in his eyes mixed with something darker, more cautious. Like he was afraid of your answer.

“We said two weeks,” you said carefully. “No expectations but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy those two weeks, right?”

His expression shifted, something like relief flooding his features. “Right. Enjoy the time we have.”

It sounded reasonable. Mature. Exactly what you’d agreed to. So why did it feel like you were both lying to yourselves?

The song changed to something a bit more upbeat, and suddenly your respective friend groups were migrating toward each other, pulled together by curiosity and the cruise ship phenomenon of everyone wanting to make friends.

“So, you’re the mystery woman,” Felix said, approaching with a grin that was knowing and kind in equal measure. “I’m Felix. Nice to finally officially meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

Introductions were made all around, drinks were procured, and somehow the two friend groups merged seamlessly. Your friends were star-struck but hiding it incredibly well—Mia was doing an excellent job of pretending she didn’t know exactly who she was talking to, and Jenna was keeping her inner fangirl completely locked down. Chris’s friends were charming and welcoming, treating you like you were just another person rather than some random fan their friend had picked up. Hyunjin was devastatingly beautiful in person and knew it, but in a playful way that was endearing rather than off-putting. Seungmin was quieter, more observant, but his dry humor had you laughing within minutes.

“So how did you two meet?” Changbin asked, his English accented but clear, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You and Chris exchanged a look, and you could see him fighting a smile.

“We literally ran into each other,” you said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“And I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Chris added. “Ended up nearly taking each other out near the casino on day one.”

“Love at first collision,” Jenna said dramatically, and everyone laughed.

“More like concussion at first collision,” you countered. “I dropped my phone and everything.”

“But you didn’t break it,” Chris pointed out. “So it was fate.”

“Or good phone case engineering.”

“I prefer fate.”

The banter was easy, natural, and you found yourself relaxing into it. This felt almost normal, hanging out with friends, laughing, enjoying the warm night and good company. If you didn’t think too hard about the fact that you were on a cruise ship with a K-pop group, it was almost like you and Chris were just…dating. Which you weren’t. Because this was temporary. Finite. You needed to remember that.

As the night wore on, the group splintered into smaller conversations. You found yourself talking to Felix while Chris was occupied with Mia and Sophie, who were asking him about music production with genuine interest.

“He seems really happy,” Felix said, watching his friend with an expression that was fond and slightly concerned. “I haven’t seen him this relaxed in…I can’t remember how long.”

“He told me about the panic attack,” you said quietly. “Is he doing okay? Really?”

Felix’s expression turned more serious. “He’s better than he was. But Chan has this thing where he thinks he has to take care of everyone else and never lets anyone take care of him. He burns himself out trying to be perfect, trying to be what everyone needs him to be.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is. That’s why the company forced this vacation.” Felix looked at you directly now, and his eyes were kind but assessing. “Whatever this is between you two, it’s good for him. You’re good for him. He’s actually letting himself just be. That’s rare.”

The weight of that statement settled on your chest. “Felix, this is just, we’re just—”

“I know. Two weeks. He told us.” Felix’s smile was gentle. “I’m not asking you to be anything more than what you are. I’m just saying…thank you. For giving him this. For seeing him as Chris instead of Bang Chan.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded. Later, much later, when the party was winding down and people were starting to drift back to their cabins, Chris walked you back to your room, his hand in yours.

“That was nice,” you said. “Your friends are great.”

“So are yours.” He paused outside your door. “Can I…would you want to come back to my room? No pressure, we don’t have to do anything, I just—I’m not ready to say goodnight yet.”

You should say no. You should establish some boundaries, not let this become an every-night thing. But the way he was looking at you, hopeful and vulnerable, made the refusal die in your throat.

“Let me just grab some stuff.”

His smile was brilliant. You slipped into your cabin where Mia was already getting ready for bed, while Sophie and Jenna lounged on your bed, quickly throwing toiletries and clean clothes into your bag while she made exaggerated kissy faces at you.

“Be safe!” Mia called as you left.

“Use protection!” Jenna added.

“He’s got his own room, not his own pharmacy,” Sophie said. “But seriously, have fun.”

You flipped them off lovingly and slipped back out to find Chris leaning against the wall in the hallway, looking at his phone. When he heard your door, he looked up, and that smile again; the one that made your heart do acrobatics.

“Ready?” he asked, taking your bag from you like it weighed something.

“Ready.”

The walk back to his cabin felt different than last night. Less frantic, less desperate. But no less charged. His thumb traced patterns on your palm, and every touch felt significant, weighted with meaning you weren’t sure you should assign to it. Once inside his room, he set your bag down carefully and turned to you.

“Do you want to—” he started.

You kissed him, cutting off whatever question he was going to ask. Because yes, you wanted to. You wanted him to touch you, wanted to lose yourself in the feeling of being wanted, of being desired. But this time, when he started to undress you, you stopped him.

“My turn first,” you said.

You could see the confusion in his eyes, but also the darkening desire. “What?”

“Last night was…” You searched for the words. “Last night you were very focused on me. On my pleasure. Which was incredible. But tonight, I want to focus on you.”

Understanding dawned, along with something that looked like wonder. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You pushed him gently toward the bed. “I want to watch you fall apart. Want to learn what makes you feel good. Want to make you feel as good as you made me feel.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at you with eyes that were dark and hungry and just a little bit vulnerable. “Okay.”

You took your time undressing him, pressing kisses to each new bit of exposed skin. When he was finally naked before you, his cock hard and already leaking, you knelt between his legs.

“Tell me what you like,” you said, wrapping one hand around him. “I want to know what drives you crazy.”

He groaned, his hips lifting slightly into your touch. “Tighter. I like it a little rough.”

You adjusted your grip, stroking him firmly from base to tip, and his head fell back with a moan. “Like that?”

“Fuck, yes. Just like that.”

You learned him the way he’d learned you, what made him gasp (twisting your hand on the upstroke), what made him curse (paying attention to the sensitive spot just under the head), what made his thighs shake (taking him deep into your throat while massaging his balls).

“Wait,” he gasped after several minutes, his hand in your hair. “Stop, I’m too close—”

“So come,” you said, looking up at him. “I want to taste you. Want to swallow everything you give me.”

“Fuck.” His hand tightened in your hair,pulling slightly. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Good,” you said, and took him back into your mouth.

It only took a few more strokes before he was coming with a shout, his whole body going taut, his release flooding your mouth. You swallowed it all, working him through it until he was pushing at your head, oversensitive. When you pulled off, his eyes were glazed, his chest heaving.

“That was…” He reached down, pulling you up and kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue. “That was incredible. You’re incredible.”

“We’re not done,” you said against his mouth.

His laugh was breathless. “Give me like five minutes. I’m not twenty anymore.”

“I can work with that.”

You climbed onto the bed, and he followed, pulling you into his arms. For a while, you just lay there, touching and kissing lazily, letting the urgency build slowly.

“Can I ask you something?” he said eventually, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip.

“Anything.”

“Do you ever wish things were different? That we’d met under different circumstances?”

Your heart clenched. “Chris—”

“I know. I’m not trying to change anything. I just…” He sighed. “I keep thinking about what it would be like. If we lived in the same place. If I could take you on actual dates. If we had more than two weeks.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, because you’d been thinking the same thing. And it was dangerous, letting yourself imagine a future that couldn’t exist. “I think,” you said carefully, “that if circumstances were different, we wouldn’t be having this. The whole reason this works is because it has an expiration date. Because we can both be completely honest and vulnerable knowing it’s temporary.”

“You’re probably right.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

“Besides,” you added, trying to lighten the mood, “you don’t even know if you’d like me in the real world. Maybe I’m secretly terrible. Maybe I’m a nightmare girlfriend who’s clingy and jealous and doesn’t let you have any fun.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You don’t know. I could be a total disaster.”

“Then we’d be disasters together.” He pulled you closer. “But you’re right. This works because it’s temporary. I’m just being greedy, wanting more time.”

More time. Two simple words that held so much weight. You had eleven days left. Eleven days until this beautiful bubble burst and you both went back to your separate lives. Eleven days to memorize every touch, every sound, every moment. It felt like forever and no time at all.

“Stop thinking,” you said, sliding your hand down his body. He was already half-hard again, his recovery time impressive. “We have eleven more days. Let’s not waste time worrying about what ifs.”

“You’re right.” He rolled, pinning you beneath him, and the sudden shift made you gasp. “Let’s make the most of right now.”

This time was different from last night. Slower, more deliberate. He took his time exploring your body, finding new places that made you gasp; the spot behind your ear, the inside of your wrist, the curve where your hip met your thigh. He mapped you like he was trying to memorize every inch, and when he finally pushed inside you, it felt less like fucking and more like something deeper, more intimate.

“Look at me,” he said, echoing his words from the night before. “I want to see you.”

You locked eyes with him as he moved, and it was almost too much, too intense. You could see everything in his expression; desire, yes, but also something softer, more tender. Something that looked dangerously like the beginnings of real feeling. When you came, it was with his name on your lips and tears in your eyes, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion you weren’t ready to name. He followed moments later, his forehead pressed to yours, and you felt the moment he let go completely, surrendering to the pleasure.

After, wrapped in his arms with the gentle rocking of the ship lulling you toward sleep, you let yourself imagine—just for a moment—what it would be like if this was real. If you could wake up next to him every morning, not just for two weeks but for always. But then you pushed the thought away, buried it deep where it couldn’t hurt you.

This was temporary. This was finite. You just had to keep reminding yourself of that.

The following days fell into a rhythm that felt dangerously close to a relationship. Mornings were your own; you’d wake in Chris’s bed, tangled together, and spend an hour or two just existing in that soft, drowsy space between sleep and waking. Sometimes you’d fuck slowly, sweetly. Sometimes you’d just talk, sharing stories from your lives, learning each other in ways that went beyond the physical.

You learned that he sometimes still felt guilty about choosing his career over being there for his siblings as they grew up. That he loved to cook but rarely had time, and that his favorite thing to make was carbonara even though he could never get it quite right. He learned that you’d wanted to be a writer when you were younger, but had convinced yourself it was impractical, that you needed a “real job.” That your relationship with your ex had started good but slowly eroded your sense of self, little criticisms and comments that made you question your worth. That you were terrified of being thirty and still not knowing what you wanted from life.

Days were spent with your respective friend groups; excursions in Jamaica where you climbed Dunn’s River Falls and Chris sent you photos of himself looking miserable and wet, a beach day in Haiti where you napped in the sun while Mia read romance novels aloud in dramatic voices, a snorkeling trip in Turks and Caicos where you saw a sea turtle and actually screamed with excitement. But you always found ways to see each other. A coffee date between activities. A stolen kiss in a quiet hallway. Text messages that ranged from sweet (thinking about you) to dirty (can’t wait to get you alone tonight and make you scream my name) to just mundane updates about your day (Changbin just fell off a jet ski and blamed the jet ski).

Evenings were spent together, sometimes with both friend groups, sometimes just the two of you. You had dinner at the fancy French restaurant where Chris charmed the sommelier into recommending the perfect wine and then admitted he couldn’t tell the difference between a $20 bottle and a $200 one. You went to the ship’s comedy show and laughed until your sides hurt, Chris’s hand never leaving yours. You spent a late night in the observation deck stargazing, and he taught you about different constellations, making up ridiculous stories for the ones he couldn’t remember.

And nights…nights were spent exploring each other in every way possible. You learned that Chris had a thing for being praised during sex, that telling him how good he felt inside you or how perfect his cock was, made him lose control. That he loved going down on you, would spend hours between your legs if you let him, getting off on your pleasure as much as his own. That he had surprising stamina and could go multiple rounds if properly motivated. He learned that you had a thing for his voice, that when he spoke in Korean—which he did sometimes without thinking, usually when he was close to coming—it made you clench around him. That you loved when he got a little rough, when he gripped your hips hard enough to bruise or pulled your hair just shy of painful. That you could come from nipple stimulation alone if he was patient enough, which he proved one night just because he wanted to see if he could.

The sex was consistently incredible, but it was the after that was becoming truly dangerous. The way he held you while you fell asleep, like you were something precious he was afraid of losing. The way you woke up tangled together, unable to tell where you ended and he began. The way he looked at you in the morning light, soft and unguarded, like you were the best thing he’d seen. You were falling for him. You knew you were falling for him. And every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to pull back, to protect yourself, to remember that this was temporary but you couldn’t seem to stop. Your friends had started making comments. Gentle at first, then more pointed.

“You know this ends in five days, right?” Mia said on day nine, watching you get ready to meet Chris for dinner. “I’m not trying to be a downer, but you look at him like he hung the moon, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I know what this is,” you insisted, even as your heart clenched. “I’m going into this with my eyes open.”

“Are you?” Sophie asked gently. “Because from where we’re sitting, you look like someone falling in love.”

“I’m not falling in love. I’m just enjoying the moment.”

“Honey,” Jenna said, “you sleep in his room every night. You have breakfast together. You literally have inside jokes already. That’s not just enjoying the moment. That’s dating.”

“It’s temporary dating,” you argued. “We both know it ends when the ship docks.”

“And you’re okay with that? Walking away and never seeing him again?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable. Were you okay with that?

“I have to be,” you said finally. “Because that’s what we agreed to. That’s the only way this works.”

Your friends exchanged looks but didn’t push further. You appreciated that, even as part of you wished they would. Wished someone would tell you what to do, how to protect your heart while still holding onto this beautiful thing for the few days you had left. Chris’s friends had apparently been having similar conversations with him. You knew because Felix pulled you aside one evening while Chris was at the bar getting drinks.

“He’s going to get hurt,” Felix said without preamble. “I need you to know that. When this ends, it’s going to wreck him.”

Your stomach dropped. “Felix—”

“I’m not blaming you. I know what you agreed to. I know this was supposed to be casual.” He looked at you with those too-knowing eyes. “But it’s not casual anymore, is it? Not for either of you.”

“What do you want me to do?” you asked, feeling helpless. “We live on different continents. He has a career that requires him to be in Korea, to tour constantly. I don’t even have a job right now. How would that even work?”

“I don’t know,” Felix admitted. “But I do know that Chan hasn’t been this happy in years. And I know that when you look at each other, it’s like the rest of the world disappears. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not enough,” you said quietly. “Feeling something isn’t enough to build a life on. We’d be setting ourselves up for failure.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’d be setting yourselves up for something amazing.” He squeezed your shoulder. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just asking you to think about it. To really think about whether you’re letting fear make your decisions for you.”

The conversation haunted you for the rest of the night, even as you smiled and laughed and pretended everything was fine.

Later, in Chris’s bed, he could tell something was off.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his fingers trailing up and down your spine in that soothing way he did.

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About?”

You considered lying, but you’d promised each other honesty. “About what happens when this ends in five days.”

His hand stilled on your back. “Oh.”

“Felix said something earlier. About…about us. About this not being as casual as we planned.”

“Felix needs to mind his own business,” Chris muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“He’s not wrong though, is he?” You propped yourself up to look at him. “This doesn’t feel casual anymore.”

Chris was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working. “No,” he finally admitted. “It doesn’t.”

“So, what do we do?”

“I don’t know.” He pulled you back down against his chest, like he couldn’t bear the distance. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. Trying to just enjoy what we have while we have it.”

“But we can’t ignore it forever. In five days, we dock. And then what?”

“And then we say goodbye. Like we agreed.” His voice was strained. “We go back to our lives. We remember this as a beautiful two weeks. We move on.”

“Can you do that?” you asked. “Can you just…move on? Forget about this?”

“No.” The admission was raw, honest. “But I’ll have to, won’t I? Because there’s no alternative. I can’t ask you to upend your life for me. I can’t offer you a relationship where we see each other maybe a few weeks a year between tours and promotions and recordings. That’s not fair to you.”

“What about what’s fair to you?”

“I chose this life. I knew what I was signing up for.” His arms tightened around you. “I can’t have both. I learned that a long time ago. So, I choose my career, and I let go of everything else.”

“That’s a really lonely way to live.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

You lay there in the darkness, listening to each other breathe, and felt the weight of the inevitable pressing down on both of you.

“Can we make a new agreement?” you asked.

“What kind of agreement?”

“Let’s not talk about the end anymore. Not until we have to. Let’s just be here. Be present. Make these last five days count.”

“I can do that.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I want every moment we have left. Every second. I want to memorize you so completely that I’ll carry you with me for the rest of my life.”

The words should have been romantic. They were romantic. But they also felt like mourning, like you were both already grieving something that hadn’t ended yet.

“Make love to me,” you said, needing to feel close to him, needing the physical connection to drown out the emotional turmoil. “Make me forget everything except us.”

He did, with a tenderness that made you want to cry, and when you came apart in his arms, you let yourself believe—just for a moment—that this could be forever.

Day ten brought the ship to Barbados, and your friends had signed you all up for a zip-lining excursion through the rainforest. It was exhilarating and terrifying, and when you finished, adrenaline pumping through your veins, you had an overwhelming urge to see Chris.

You texted him: Where are you?

Back on the ship. Guys wanted to go into town but I needed some quiet. You okay?

Yeah. Can I come find you?

Always.

You ditched your friends with a promise to meet them for dinner and headed back to the ship. You found Chris on his balcony, sitting with his laptop, headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever he was working on. For a moment, you just watched him. This was the side of him most people didn’t see; completely focused, in his element, creating something from nothing. His fingers flew across the keyboard, his head nodding slightly to whatever beat he was hearing. You knocked on the glass door, and he looked up, his face transforming into a smile that made your heart ache.

“Hey,” he said, pulling off his headphones and setting them aside. “I thought you had ziplining?”

“I did. It was amazing but I wanted to see you.” You stepped out onto the balcony. The ocean stretched endlessly before you, beautiful and vast and somehow lonely. “What are you working on?”

He looked almost guilty. “Just…music stuff. I know I’m supposed to be on vacation, but I had this melody in my head, and I needed to get it out before I forgot it.”

“Can I hear it?”

He hesitated, and you could see the vulnerability in his expression. This was different from performing, from the polished tracks that got released to millions. This was raw, personal.

“It’s rough,” he warned. “Not finished. Probably not even good.”

“I still want to hear it.”

He studied you for a moment, then nodded, offering you his headphones. You put them on, and he hit play.

The track was beautiful; melancholic and hopeful at the same time, with lyrics in Korean that you couldn’t understand but could feel. The production was layered, complex, with a melody that was somehow both painful and comforting. There was something raw about it, something vulnerable that made your chest tight. When it finished, you pulled off the headphones and just looked at him.

“What’s it about?” you asked, even though you thought you knew.

“It’s about…” He ran a hand through his hair, not meeting your eyes. “It’s about finding something unexpected. Something you weren’t looking for but desperately needed. About holding onto something even when you know you can’t keep it.”

Your breath caught. “Chris—”

“It’s about you,” he said, finally looking at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes nearly undid you. “I’ve been working on it for days. I can’t seem to write about anything else.”

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to respond to that kind of vulnerability, that kind of honesty.

“I need to tell you something,” he continued, the words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. “And I know it breaks our agreement, I know it’s not what we said, but I can’t keep pretending—”

“Don’t.” You put your hand over his mouth, stopping the words you knew were coming, the words that would make this real and complicated and impossible to walk away from. “Please don’t. Not yet. We still have four more days.”

He pulled your hand away, holding it against his chest. You could feel his heart racing. “What if I don’t want to wait four more days? What if I want to say it now, while we’re here, while it matters?”

“It will still matter in four days.”

“Will it? Or will we convince ourselves it was just the cruise, just the bubble, just temporary insanity?” His grip on your hand tightened. “I’m falling for you. I might already be in love with you. And I need you to know that before we get to the end, before we dock and go our separate ways. I need you to know that this meant something to me. That you mean something to me.”

Tears were streaming down your face now, and you didn’t know when you’d started crying. “You said you couldn’t have both. You said you chose your career.”

“I know what I said. But I’m starting to think I was wrong. Or maybe just scared.” He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “What if we tried? What if we at least tried to make this work?”

“How?” The word came out broken. “Chris, be realistic. You live in Korea. You tour constantly. Your life is schedules and obligations and being in the public eye. I live—well, I don’t even know where I live right now, but it’s in the U.S. I need to find a job, rebuild my life. How would we make that work?”

“I don’t know. But people do it. People make long-distance work all the time.”

“Not people in your situation. You can’t exactly pop over for a weekend visit. And what about the public nature of your life? The fans? I’m not—I can’t be that person who gets torn apart online for dating you.”

“We’d keep it private. Just for us.”

“For how long? Until someone takes a photo? Until it leaks?” You pulled back, needing distance to think. “Chris, I care about you. So much it scares me. But I can’t be someone’s secret. I can’t be the thing you hide because I’m not good enough for public consumption.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Isn’t it though?” Your voice was sharper than you intended, edged with all the fear and insecurity you’d been trying to bury. “You’re Bang Chan. You’re successful and talented and loved by millions. I’m unemployed, living with my friend, still figuring out who I am. What happens when you realize I’m not worth the hassle? When the reality of trying to make this work becomes too much?”

“You think I care about any of that?” He looked genuinely hurt. “You think your job status or where you live matters to me?”

“It should. We’re from completely different worlds, Chris. This—” you gestured between you, “—this worked because it was temporary. Because we could pretend those differences didn’t matter. But in the real world, they do matter.”

“So that’s it?” His voice was flat. “You won’t even consider trying because you’re convinced it won’t work?”

“I’m trying to be realistic. One of us has to be.”

“No, you’re trying to protect yourself. You’re so scared of getting hurt that you won’t even take the chance.” He stood up, pacing the small balcony. “Your ex really did a number on you, didn’t he? Made you think you’re not worth fighting for.”

The words hit like a slap. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You keep saying we’re from different worlds, that you’re not good enough, that this can’t work. But what I’m hearing is that you don’t think you deserve this. That you don’t think you deserve to be happy.”

“And what I’m hearing is that you’re willing to blow up both our lives for something that has a very high probability of failure!” Your voice rose, months of pain and fear and self-doubt bubbling to the surface. “You want me to what? Move to Korea? Give up any chance of rebuilding my career in the U.S? Become the secret girlfriend who sits around waiting for you to have a few free hours between schedules?”

“I never said you had to move to Korea. I never said any of that.”

“But that’s what it would be, isn’t it? Because you can’t leave. Your career is there. Your life is there. So I’d be the one making all the sacrifices, and what happens when it’s not enough? When the distance and the secrecy and the loneliness become too much?”

“So instead, you’d rather just walk away now? Not even try?”

“Yes!” The word was torn from somewhere deep inside you. “Yes, I’d rather walk away now while I still can. While this is still something beautiful I can remember fondly instead of something that destroyed me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Chris stared at you, and you could see the moment your words landed, the moment he accepted what you were saying.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“Chris—”

“No, you’re right. This was always temporary. I got caught up in it, started believing it could be more, but you’re right. It’s better to end it now, before it gets more complicated.” He wouldn’t look at you, his jaw tight. “You should go.”

“What?”

“You should go. Back to your cabin. I think—I think we need some space. Some time to think.”

Your heart was breaking, actually breaking. “I don’t want to leave like this.”

“And I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.” His voice was carefully controlled, too controlled. “Please. Just go.”

You stood there for a moment, wanting to take it all back, wanting to tell him you were wrong, that you were scared but willing to try. But the words wouldn’t come. Because you weren’t wrong. You were being realistic, practical, protecting yourself from the inevitable heartbreak.

So why did it feel like you were making the biggest mistake of your life?

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Me too.”

You left, and the sound of his door closing behind you felt like the end of everything.

You didn’t see Chris for two days.It shouldn’t have been possible on a ship carrying two thousand people where you’d been managing to find each other constantly, but somehow you both succeeded in completely avoiding each other. He wasn’t at any of the usual spots. You didn’t go to any of the evening events. Your friend groups, sensing the tension, stopped trying to merge. Your friends didn’t push you to talk about it, which you appreciated. They just stayed close, kept you distracted, made sure you got out of bed and ate and didn’t completely fall apart.

But you felt like you were falling apart anyway. Like you’d ripped out some essential part of yourself and left it in Chris’s cabin. You kept replaying the fight in your head, analyzing every word, wondering if you could have said something different. Wondering if he was right, if you were just too scared to take a chance. Wondering if protecting your heart was worth the pain you were feeling now.

On day twelve—two days before the cruise ended—Mia finally broke.

“Okay, I can’t take this anymore,” she said, barging into the bathroom where you were getting ready for dinner. “You’re miserable. He’s miserable. Felix told me Chan hasn’t left his room except for meals and he’s barely eating. This is ridiculous.”

“What do you want me to do?” you asked, applying mascara with shaking hands. “I can’t give him what he wants.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” Mia took the mascara from you, forcing you to look at her. “Honey, I know you’re scared. I know your ex did a number on you; made you doubt yourself but this is different. Chris is different.”

“Is he? Or am I just projecting what I want to see?” You slumped against the counter. “Mia, I’ve known him for less than two weeks. That’s not enough time to make life-changing decisions.”

“Says who? People get engaged after less time. People move across the world for someone they met on vacation. People take chances on love all the time.”

“And people get their hearts broken all the time. People make impulsive decisions based on vacation feelings and then reality sets in and it all falls apart.” You felt tears threatening again. “I can’t go through another breakup. I can’t rebuild myself again. I don’t have it in me.”

“So instead, you’re going to walk away from potentially the best thing that’s ever happened to you because you’re scared it might not work out?” Mia’s expression was soft, but her words were firm. “That’s not protecting yourself. That’s giving your ex power over your future. That’s letting your fear win.”

“I’m being realistic—”

“You’re being terrified. There’s a difference.” She squeezed your shoulders. “Look, I’m not saying you have to marry the guy. I’m not even saying you have to commit to anything right now. But you have two more days on this ship. Two more days with him. Don’t you think you owe it to both of you to at least talk? To figure out if there’s any possible way to make this work before you completely give up?”

“What if we talk and it’s still impossible? What if there’s no solution?”

“Then at least you’ll know. At least you’ll have tried. And you can walk away knowing you gave it a real chance instead of spending the rest of your life wondering what if.”

You hated that she was making sense. Hated that the idea of talking to Chris, of seeing him again, made your heart race with hope you didn’t want to feel. “I don’t even know what I’d say to him.”

“Start with ‘I’m sorry for freaking out.’ Move on to ‘I’m scared but maybe we can figure this out together.’ See where it goes from there.” Mia pulled you into a hug. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve someone who looks at you the way Chris looks at you. Don’t let fear steal that from you.”

After she left, you sat on your bed, staring at your phone. You could text him. It would be easy. Just a few words. But what would you say? What could you possibly say that would fix this?

Your phone buzzed, and your heart leaped but it wasn’t Chris. It was Felix.

He’s on the observation deck. The one where you first kissed. He goes there every night around 10. Just thought you should know.

You looked at the time. 9:30. You had thirty minutes to decide if you were brave enough to try.

At 9:55, you found yourself standing outside the observation deck, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. You could see him through the glass doors, sitting on one of the lounge chairs, staring out at the dark ocean. Even from here, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the defeat in his posture.

You’d done that to him. Your fear had hurt him. Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the door. He turned at the sound, and the hope that flashed across his face before he could hide it nearly broke you.

“Hi,” you said, your voice small.

“Hi.” He stood up slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement would spook you. “What are you doing here?”

“Felix texted me. Told me where to find you.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Please don’t. He was being a good friend.” You took a few steps closer but maintained distance between you. The air felt charged, heavy with everything unsaid. “Can we talk?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. But I think we need to.”

He nodded slowly and sat back down. You took the chair next to him, and for a moment you both just sat there, looking out at the ocean.

“I’m sorry,” you both said at the same time.

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “You first.”

“I’m sorry for pushing you,” Chris said, his voice quiet but clear. “You were right. We agreed to two weeks, no expectations, and I tried to change the rules without warning. That wasn’t fair.”

“I’m sorry for freaking out. And for some of the things I said. You weren’t trying to make me your secret or asking me to give up everything. I just…I panicked.”

“I know.” He finally looked at you, and his eyes were red-rimmed like he hadn’t been sleeping well. “I scared you. This whole thing scared you.”

“It terrified me,” you admitted. “It still does. Chris, I meant what I said, we barely know each other. We’ve known each other for twelve days. That’s not a solid foundation for turning our lives upside down.”

“I know that too. Logically, I know you’re right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But it doesn’t feel like twelve days. It feels like I’ve known you forever. Like you’re the missing piece I didn’t know I was looking for.”

Your chest ached. “I feel that too. But feelings aren’t enough. Logistics matter. Reality matters.”

“So, what do we do?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? The one you’d been avoiding for days.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I’ve been thinking about it constantly. Trying to figure out if there’s any way this could work. And I just…I can’t see it. The distance, your schedule, the public nature of your life, it’s too much. It’s too many obstacles.”

“What if we took it slow?” he suggested, and you could hear the desperation in his voice, the need to find a solution. “What if we just stayed in touch? Texted, video called when we can. No pressure, no expectations. Just see what happens?”

“And then what? We do that for months, maybe years, seeing each other a few times a year if we’re lucky? That’s not a relationship, Chris. That’s torture.”

“So you’d rather have nothing? You’d rather walk away and never speak to me again?”

“I don’t want that either!” The words burst out of you, raw and honest. “I don’t want any of this! I don’t want to walk away but I don’t want to set us up for failure. I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t have you. There’s no good option here!”

“Then let’s pick the least bad option.” He reached over, taking your hand. You should have pulled away, but you couldn’t. “Let’s stay in touch. Let’s see what happens. Maybe it won’t work; maybe the distance will be too much, maybe we’ll realize this was just a cruise thing. But maybe it won’t. Maybe we’ll figure it out. Maybe we’ll find a way.”

“And if we don’t? If we drag this out for months and it still ends badly?”

“Then at least we tried. At least we didn’t give up without fighting for it.” His thumb traced circles on your palm, and the familiar gesture made your eyes sting with tears. “I know I can’t promise you forever. I can’t even promise you next month. But I can promise that what I feel for you is real. And I can promise that I want to try. Don’t you?”

Did you?

You thought about going back to your life in the U.S. Finding a new job, rebuilding your routine, moving on. You’d be safe. Protected. No risk of getting your heart broken. You’d also be miserable. Wondering what if. Regretting not taking the chance.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“Me too.” He squeezed your hand. “But I’m more scared of losing you without trying.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. At the hope and fear and vulnerability in his eyes. At the way he was holding your hand like it was a lifeline. This man had seen you at your lowest and made you feel beautiful. Had listened to your broken stories and offered comfort without judgment. Had made you laugh and cry and feel more alive than you had in years.

Maybe Mia was right. Maybe you did owe it to both of you to try.

“Okay,” you said, and watched his eyes widen. “Okay, we try. No promises, no expectations about where this goes. We just…see what happens.”

“Yeah?” The hope in his voice was almost painful to hear.

“Yeah. But I have conditions.”

“Of course you do.” But he was smiling now, really smiling, and it made your heart flutter.

“We have to be honest with each other. If it’s not working, if the distance is too much, we talk about it. We don’t let it drag on out of guilt or obligation.”

“Agreed.”

“And we have to be realistic about what this is. I can’t—I can’t put my life on hold waiting for the next time I might see you. I need to move forward, find a job, build something stable. You need to focus on your career without feeling guilty about not being available. We have to have our own lives.”

“I understand. What else?”

“I need time. Before we…before we tell anyone or make this official or whatever. I need to see if this actually works in the real world before we complicate it further.”

He nodded slowly. “How much time?”

“I don’t know. A few months? Long enough to know if this is real or just residual vacation feelings.”

“Okay. A few months of just us. Private. Seeing if we can make it work.” He pulled you closer, until you were sitting on his lap, his arms wrapped around you. “I can do that. As long as I get to keep talking to you, keep knowing you, I can do anything.”

You buried your face in his neck, breathing him in, trying to memorize this moment. “I’m still scared.”

“I know. So am I.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “But we’re going to try anyway. That’s pretty brave.”

“Or pretty stupid.”

“Maybe both.”

You pulled back to look at him, and the tenderness in his expression made you ache. “We have two more days on this ship. What do we do with them?”

“We enjoy them. We be together. We make memories we can hold onto when this gets hard.” His hand cupped your face. “And then we dock, and we go back to our lives, and we start figuring out how to do this for real.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

It sounded simple. You knew it wouldn’t be but right now, sitting in his arms under the stars with the ocean surrounding you, you let yourself believe it could work.

“I need you to know something,” you said. “Before we do this. I need you to know that I—” You took a breath. “I’m falling for you too. Maybe already in love with you. That’s why this is so scary. Because it matters. Because losing you would break me.”

His arms tightened around you. “Then we don’t lose each other. We fight for this. Together.”

“Together,” you echoed.

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and full of promise, and you let yourself fall into it. Let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this crazy thing could work. You had two more days on the ship. Two more days to be together without the complications of the real world intruding. You were going to make them count.

The last two days on the ship were bittersweet.

You spent almost every moment together, trying to pack a lifetime of experiences into forty-eight hours. You had breakfast in bed while watching the sunrise. You went to a wine tasting and got pleasantly drunk, laughing at each other’s terrible attempts to describe the flavors. You convinced Chris to go to the karaoke night, which somehow made you love him more. You made love with a desperation that came from knowing it would be the last time for a while. Slow and tender, mapping each other’s bodies like you were memorizing them. Fast and urgent, trying to satisfy a hunger you both knew would linger. In the shower, on the balcony in the early morning when no one was around, against the wall when you couldn’t make it to the bed. Each time felt like goodbye and hello at the same time. An ending and a beginning.

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” Chris asked on the last night, both of you tangled together in his bed, neither of you willing to sleep and waste these final hours.

“Probably cry,” you admitted. “Then start job hunting. Figure out where I’m going to live long-term. Try to build a life that makes sense.”

“And us? Where do we fit in that life?”

“I don’t know yet. I guess we figure it out as we go.” You traced patterns on his chest. “What about you?”

“Back to the studio. We have an album to finish.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’m going to write you so many songs. You know that, right? You’re going to be in everything I create for the foreseeable future.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“That’s a lot of inspiration.” He tilted your face up to kiss you. “I mean it. You’ve changed something in me. Made me remember why I started doing this in the first place. Not for the success or the recognition, but because creating something that connects with people, that makes them feel less alone, that matters.”

“You’re going to make me cry.”

“Good. Then we’re even.”

You talked through the night, sharing everything you could think of. Childhood memories, future dreams, random thoughts that probably didn’t matter but somehow felt important to share. Building a foundation of knowledge about each other that you could build on from a distance. When the sun started to rise on your last morning together, neither of you had slept.

“The ship docks in three hours,” you said quietly, watching the sky turn pink and gold.

“I know.”

“Are you ready?”

“No.” His arms tightened around you. “But I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to let you go. So three hours from now is as good a time as any.”

The actual goodbye, when it came, was worse than you’d imagined. You stood at the terminal, both friend groups giving you space but lingering nearby. Your suitcase was at your feet. Chris’s was next to him. In a few minutes, you’d go in different directions, you to your noon flight, him to his 3 PM flight.

“So, this is it,” you said, trying to smile and failing.

“For now.” He pulled you into his arms, and you buried your face in his chest, trying not to cry. “We’re going to make this work. We’re going to try.”

“I know.”

“Text me when you land?”

“Of course.”

“And we’ll video call this weekend?”

“Yes.”

He pulled back, cupping your face in his hands. “I love you. I know we said we’d take it slow and not put labels on things, but I need you to know. I love you and I’m going to keep loving you, whether we’re together or apart.”

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “I love you too. So much.”

He kissed you one last time, deep and desperate and full of everything you couldn’t say. When you finally broke apart, you were both crying.

“Go,” he said, even though you could see it was killing him. “Before I do something stupid like get on your flight with you.”

“Goodbye, Chris.”

“Not goodbye. Just see you later.”

You picked up your suitcase and walked away, your friends flanking you like bodyguards. You didn’t let yourself look back, even though every instinct screamed at you to run back to him. This was the right choice. The only choice. So why did it feel like you were leaving half your heart behind?

Six Months Later

The Seoul apartment was tiny, barely bigger than a closet, but it was yours. You’d found it after three weeks of staying in a hotel, with help from Chris and his connections. The rent was astronomical, but you’d found a job; contract work for a Korean company looking to expand to Western markets, plus some freelance writing on the side. Your Korean was still terrible, but you were learning.

It hadn’t been easy. The first month had been brutal; culture shock, homesickness, moments where you’d questioned every decision that had led you here. You and Chris had fought, real fights about boundaries and expectations and the complications of dating someone whose life was so public. There had been a moment, about two months in, where you’d almost given up. A tabloid had published photos of you together, and the fan reaction had been…mixed. Some were supportive. Others were vitriolic. You’d cried in Chris’s arms and said maybe this was a mistake, maybe you should go home.

He’d held you and said he’d understand if you needed to leave. But he’d also said he thought you were stronger than you knew, and this rough patch wouldn’t last forever. He’d been right. The storm had passed. Most fans had moved on to other news. You’d learned to keep your social media private, to avoid reading comments, to build a life in Seoul that existed independent of Chris’s career.

You’d made friends; other expats, some of Chris’s non-idol friends, even a few of the members’ partners who understood the unique challenges of dating someone in the industry. You’d found a coffee shop that reminded you of home, a park where you could walk and think, a rhythm to your days that felt sustainable. And Chris. Chris had been everything he’d promised and more. Patient when you were frustrated, supportive when you doubted yourself, present even when his schedule was insane. He’d helped you build a life here, but he’d also encouraged you to build it for yourself, not just for him.

The decision to move hadn’t been immediate. You’d spent three months doing the long-distance thing, and it had been exactly as hard as you’d feared. The time difference, the conflicting schedules, the ache of missing him constantly but it had also been worth it. Every video call, every message, every stolen weekend when he was in town, it had all reinforced that what you felt was real. That this was worth fighting for.

So when your contract job had offered you the option to work from their Seoul office, you’d taken it. When Chris had carefully, nervously asked if you’d ever consider moving to Korea, you’d said yes. When your friends had asked if you were sure, if you weren’t giving up too much, you’d told them the truth; you weren’t giving anything up. You were choosing something better.

Now, six months after that cruise, you were standing in your Seoul apartment waiting for Chris to arrive for dinner. You’d cooked; not well, Korean food was still beyond you, but you’d tried. The table was set with mismatched plates from the secondhand store. The door opened, and Chris walked in, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“Hey, cruise bae,” he said, using the ridiculous nickname that had somehow stuck.

“Hey yourself.” You kissed him, deep and familiar. “How was practice?”

“Exhausting. But good. We’re almost done with the new album.” He looked at the table, then back at you. “You cooked?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. I’ve been practicing.”

“I’m impressed. And slightly terrified.”

“Smart man.”

Over dinner—which was actually pretty good, if you did say so yourself—you talked about your days, your plans for the weekend, the mundane details of a life you’d built together. It was normal. Comfortable. Real. After, curled up on your tiny couch with his arms around you, Chris pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I love you,” he said. Simple. Easy. True.

“I love you too.”

“Do you ever regret it? Giving up your life in the US to come here?”

You thought about it, really thought about it. “No. Sometimes I miss my friends, and I definitely miss understanding what people are saying without having to think so hard. But regret? No. This is the best decision I ever made.”

“Even when it’s hard?”

“Especially when it’s hard. The hard parts mean it’s real. That we’re building something that matters.” You shifted to look at him. “Do you regret it? Asking me to come?”

“Never. Not once.” He twirled a loose curl around his finger. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Even better than that first week on the cruise.”

“I don’t know, that week was pretty great.”

“This is better. Because it’s real. Because we chose it, knowing it would be hard, and we did it anyway.” He paused. “Actually, speaking of the cruise…”

He shifted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small box.

Your heart stopped.

“Chris—”

“Wait, let me; I had a whole speech planned.” He took a breath. “I know we said we’d take things slow. I know six months isn’t very long but I also know that I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life than I am about you. About us.”

He opened the box, revealing a simple, elegant ring.

“I’m not asking you to marry me. Not yet, not unless you want to. But I’m asking you to keep choosing this. Keep choosing us. Keep building this life together.” His eyes met yours, vulnerable and hopeful. “Will you?”

You were crying, and you didn’t care. “Yes. God, yes.”

He slipped the ring on your finger, and it fit perfectly. Of course it did.

“I love you so fucking much,” he said, pulling you into his lap and kissing you deeply. “Thank you for taking a chance on me. On us.”

“Thank you for making me believe I was worth taking a chance on.”

Later, in your bed, he made love to you with a tenderness that still took your breath away. And when you came apart in his arms, you knew with absolute certainty that this was where you were meant to be.

You thought about that scared, broken vrsion of yourself who’d stepped onto that cruise six months ago. The woman who’d been so afraid of taking ri.ks, of being hurt, of wanting more than the safe, comfortable life she’d built. That woman had been brave enough to take a chance. To say yes to possibility. To fall in love with a stranger and follow him halfway around the world on nothing but hope and faith and the belief that sometimes, the scariest thing is exactly what you need.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Mia.

Monthly check-in. Are you still alive? Still happy? Still insanely in love with your K-pop boyfriend?

You smiled and typed back: Alive, happy, and yes. Also, he just gave me a promise ring. I think I’m going to marry him.

The response was immediate: WHAT. DETAILS. NOW.

Tomorrow. Right now, I’m busy.

Busy doing what?

You looked at Chris, who was watching you with soft eyes and a smile that made your heart flutter.

Busy living my best life, you typed. Busy being happy. Busy not regretting a single thing.

And you meant it. Every word.

The cruise had been meant to be an escape, a brief reprieve from a life that had fallen apart. Instead, it had been a beginning. The start of something real, complicated, and beautiful and worth every hard moment. You’d gone looking for a vacation from your problems. You’d found a future instead and it had all started with a collision, a lie of omission, and a drunken proposal to be someone’s cruise bae.

Best terrible idea you’d ever had.

[deceasedcardinal]

[pangur-and-grim]

I feel so insane about ai. I've had face-to-face conversations with people who use it for therapy, who use it to calculate the safety of pill interactions, who use it for all their emails and grant applications and legal documents and academic papers and finance sheets and for every single question they have about the world, and if you tell them about the ecological costs they just laugh and say "I guess I've used a lot of water." and I've been in multiple gatherings of 10+ people where I'm THE ONLY PERSON who doesn't use chatgpt. it's turning me into a ranting raving pariah, because how don't you people see??? why don't you understand??????? this bullshit didn't exist five years ago, you absolutely do not need it, and it is destroying everything