Hello! I wanted to give you a little information about what you'll find on my Tumblr and to give you a little insight into me;
🌼I'm her, I'm 30 years old, and my first language is Spanish. So I apologize if you find any mistakes when trying to translate this into English. We use different forms of expression, and that sometimes creates confusion in the writing.. 😞
🌼I like a lot of kpop groups, since I'm new to this I'm starting with seventeen, but I also want to write about stray kids, ateez, monsta x, etc.
❌Things I'm NOT going to write about;
Writings about t/n being part of the group (e.g. seventeen 14 members)
idol x idol, y/n will never be part of a famous group.
I'm not going to write about drug-related topics.
Finally, I want to clarify that all scenarios are fictional; nothing is real. No idols or events are real; everything is part of my imagination.
I want my community to be pleasant, friendly, and, above all, based on mutual respect. Feel free to write to me with any requests
Only for adults (18+). If any of this is offensive to you or if you're under 18, please don't view it! All based on fictional events, none of this is real.
TROPES: : Friends to lovers, Friends with benefits, Slow burn..
SUMMARY: One night of soju, a stolen t-shirt, and a risky proposal: friends with benefits. The rules between you and Hyunjin were simple: use each other to blow off steam, and absolutely no catching feelings. But after a wild encounter in Chan's bathroom and too many midnight texts, the line has completely blurred. The game is addictive, but pretending it's "just sex" is becoming impossible.
NOTE: Hey there! I hope you all enjoyed this story with our lovely Hyunjin. I decided to leave it open-ended because I wasn't sure whether to give it a final ending or write a Part 2. Let me know your thoughts in the comments! 🥰
The beeping of the monitor, the murmur from the hallways, and the smell of disinfectant have almost become a part of you by now. It’s 9:30 PM and you still have half an hour left of your shift. You’re just finishing up a medical chart review when your phone vibrates in your lab coat pocket.
You glance at it: “Jinnie”.
You open the messages.
Are you still alive or have they officially declared you a hospital resident? You’re off at 10 PM tonight, right? Serious question: are you going to have the energy to deal with me, or are you too tired for me?
A smile escapes your lips, the kind that only appears for him. You lean your back against the hallway wall and type a quick reply with your thumb.
I'm off at 10, yeah. And I have tomorrow off, so I can deal with you for a bit. If you want, come over to my apartment.
It doesn't even take ten seconds for you to see the three dots appear.
Is that an official invitation, or just pity? I'll head over right now as soon as I leave. If I get there before you, do I still go in? You know, VIP code, special treatment, and all that.
You roll your eyes, even though you’re smiling.
Yes, dramatic. If you leave earlier, go to my apartment. You can pick up some dinner and drinks on your way, I really need to forget the hospital exists today.
Perfect. I’m cooking tonight. Well, "cooking" is a strong word, let's just say I'm heating things up tonight. See you later, little nurse.
You slip your phone back into your pocket, still smiling, and return to your tasks. The last half hour feels like an eternity, but knowing that Hyunjin is waiting for you at home makes everything feel a little lighter.
When your shift finally ends, you say goodbye to your coworkers, head straight to the staff showers, and step under the hot water. You let the water wash away the exhaustion, the sweat, and the hospital smell. You change into your clothes, grab your things, and head out to the parking lot. The sky is already dark, and the warm night air feels sticky yet strangely pleasant after so many hours inside.
The drive to your apartment goes by quickly. As soon as you step into the building and ride the elevator up, you can already picture the scene waiting for you inside: Hyunjin sprawled out on your couch, eating something he probably didn't even bother to put on plates, with the music turned up, probably dancing as if he were on stage.
You reach your door, stopping right in front of the keypad, and before you can even punch in the numbers, you hear it: music playing at a pretty high volume from inside. You can't help but let out a laugh.
You type the code in slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The beeping sounds muffled by the music. You open the door carefully, peaking inside just a little bit at first.
And there he is.
Just like you had imagined.
Hyunjin is in the middle of the living room, his back to you, phone in hand and the speaker blasted to full volume. One of his own songs is playing, and he’s dancing and singing along as if he were right in the middle of a concert. He’s executing the choreography with way more exaggeration than necessary, dramatizing every single gesture, every shoulder roll, every step.
He hasn't heard you. He hasn't seen you either.
You bite your lower lip to hold back your laughter and silently set your bag down in the entryway. You slip your sneakers off carefully, ninja-style, and advance toward him, dodging the coffee table and a couple of takeout bags he left lying around.
You’re right behind him.
Barely a second of hesitation.
You jump onto his back.
"WHAT THE F—?!" Hyunjin lets out a screech so high-pitched it could practically shatter glass as he loses his balance.
The two of you crash to the floor in a fit of laughter, an absolute disaster of chaotically tangled arms and legs. He ends up face down, you half on top of him, both of you laughing so hard your stomachs hurt.
"Are you crazy or what?!" he complains, unable to hide his laughter. "At this rate, I’m going to end up going home in an ambulance. You almost gave me a heart attack!"
"Oh, stop being so dramatic" you reply, giving his shoulder a playful swat as you sit up. "It's not like you're that delicate."
Hyunjin rolls onto his back, still laughing, his hair a bit messy and his cheeks flushed from the jump scare and the dancing.
"You are not normal..." He shakes his head, but the way he looks at you is pure warmth. "As a nurse, you’re terrible. You almost killed your patient before you could even take care of him."
"Patient?" You raise an eyebrow. "You didn't even bring dessert. You're lucky I'm not kicking you out of my apartment."
"What do you mean I didn't?" He gestures to the takeout bags scattered across the table. "I brought you dinner, drinks, and my presence. The complete package. I don't know what else you want."
"A refund" you shoot back quickly.
He feigns a mortal wound to his pride, clutching his chest with one hand.
"That hurt. Seriously, that one actually hurt my heart."
You stick your tongue out at him, push yourself up from the floor, and grab your bag from the entryway.
"I’m going to change."
"Go ahead, scram" he says, still sprawled out on the floor. "Maybe I'll clean up a bit... or maybe not."
"Better not touch anything" you retort on your way to your bedroom. "I know how you are."
You close the door behind you and let out a sigh. Stripping off your street clothes, you feel the immediate relief of ridding yourself of your jeans and bra. It’s warm inside, and your skin still feels cozy from the hospital shower. You open your closet without thinking much about it, and your eyes dart straight to a very specific piece of clothing: an oversized black t-shirt belonging to Hyunjin, one he left at your place months ago.
You love it. It falls to your mid-thigh, smelling like your fabric softener mixed with a scent you recognize as distinctly his, and it has since become your unofficial "uniform" for getting comfortable.
You pull it on without hesitation, along with a pair of breezy shorts. You look at yourself in the mirror for a second: the contrast between his oversized t-shirt and your relaxed body, your hair still a bit damp... It has an intimate feel to it, almost too intimate. You shake your head, brushing the feeling away.
"It's Hyunjin" you remind yourself. "He's been your friend for years. He's seen worse."
You step out into the hallway and head back to the living room. The moment you walk in, Hyunjin turns his head toward you... and lets out a theatrical huff.
"That t-shirt is mine" he says, pointing a finger at you as if he'd just caught you robbing a bank.
You look him up and down with all the calm in the world, not denying it for a single second.
"Yes. And now it’s mine" you reply, completely unbothered.
Hyunjin sits up from the floor, leaning against the couch.
"You can't keep stealing my clothes" he protests, though his smile betrays him. "Every time I come over, you’ve kidnapped something new. Pretty soon, I’m going to have to bring an extra suitcase just to compensate."
"Go ahead and bring it, that way I’ll have more to steal" you shoot back, sitting down in front of the coffee table. "You don't miss it and I enjoy it. Win-win."
"Of course I miss it" he grumbles. "I miss not seeing you in MY t-shirts and MY hoodies. It’s a constant reminder of my loss."
"Oh, please" you laugh. "You know you love how they look on me."
He stares at you for a second, that mischievous smile curving his lips.
"I'm not going to deny it" he admits. "They look way too good on you. That’s the problem."
You decide to ignore the slight flutter in your stomach at his comment and focus on the table: he ordered takeout, there are a couple of open containers, chopsticks, and several bottles of soju and soda.
"Well, at least you survived without setting my kitchen on fire" you say, pouring yourself a glass.
"I considered touching something in the kitchen, but then I thought about the look on your face if I blew it up, and I decided it wasn't worth it" he replies. "I love my life. And I love having eyebrows."
You laugh. You turn the music down a bit from Hyunjin's phone, just enough so it still sets the mood without you having to shout at each other.
The two of you settle onto the floor, leaning against the couch in front of the coffee table. You start eating, and that first sip of soju goes down like heaven itself. You can feel the tension built up in your shoulders finally melting away.
"So, how was your day?" Hyunjin asks, turning his body toward you. "A lot of hospital drama?"
"The usual" you reply, shrugging your shoulders. "People who think that just because you're on shift you're their personal slave, people who get anxious over everything... and the occasional sweet patient who reminds you why you keep putting up with this."
"Sounds intense" he nods, taking a sip as well. "At least someone in this house has a real job."
"You do too" you retort. "What you do is work, too. Even if you have to spend half the day in makeup and the other half fooling around."
He laughs.
"You're not that far off" he admits. "But hey, right now we’re practicing almost every day, preparing new things... and a thousand meetings. You know, the glamor of the idol life."
"What are you guys up to now?" you ask, intrigued. "New comeback? Collaboration? Or is it a state secret?"
Hyunjin lights up as he speaks. He tells you anecdotes from rehearsals—how Chan gets obsessed with the details, how Changbin cracks terrible jokes when they’re all dead tired, how Felix worries about making sure everyone eats well, and how Jisung is late for everything but still manages to be one of the most productive.
You share your own stories: the patient who asked for your number right in front of his wife, the new coworker who almost fainted while drawing blood, the old lady who took a liking to you and always brings you candy. The laughter flows easily. Each sip of soju warms your body a little more and loosens your tongue.
You realize how much you missed this. Just being like this with him, with no rush, no obligation to go anywhere, talking about silly things and important things all at once.
Hyunjin seems looser than usual, too. He laughs louder, acts goofier, does impressions, and shows you silly videos he has saved of the guys. Every time he laughs for real, with his head thrown back and his hand on his stomach, you feel the stress of the day dissolve just a little bit more.
At one point, after another round of soju, Hyunjin sets his glass down on the table and looks at you with an amused expression.
"Oh, by the way" he says, like someone casually bringing up the weather. "Did I tell you about Jisung?"
"What did he do now?" you ask, curious.
"He got himself a… friend" he says, drawing out the word. "With benefits."
You blink.
"So, basically, he’s hooking up with his friend" you summarize with total nonchalance.
Hyunjin lets out a loud laugh.
"Yeah, pretty much" he admits. "He says he doesn't want anything serious, but at least this way he has someone he trusts when… you know."
You raise an eyebrow, taking another sip.
"Well, look at Jisung living the good life" you murmur. "Even he has a friends-with-benefits situation."
You let out a sigh, the alcohol unleashing what you usually keep to yourself.
"I’m jealous" you confess, point-blank. "I can't even remember the last time I had sex... and I’m so sick of meeting idiotic, creepy guys. It’s like they're the only species around lately."
Hyunjin stares at you, at first with a half-teasing smile, but his eyes are sharp and attentive.
"Well..." he says, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, pretending to think. "You could always take advantage of me. I wouldn't mind."
The words are a joke, the tone is too. You both laugh. But there’s something in his gaze—a different kind of spark—that strikes a chord in your chest. You give him a gentle kick on the knee.
"You’re an idiot" you murmur, still laughing.
He feigns exaggerated hurt, but he doesn't take his eyes off you.
"Do you really think it’s that bad of an idea?" he asks suddenly, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Or is it just that you think I'm ugly?"
"Don't talk nonsense" you reply right away. "You know perfectly well you're one of the best-looking guys I've ever met. But don't let it go to your head."
His lips curve a little wider.
"So?" he insists, enjoying pushing you to the limit. "Are you going to get shy with me now?"
You look away, playing with the glass between your fingers.
"It's not that" you say. "It's just that we’ve been friends for years, Hyunjin. It never even crossed my mind."
And you know that’s not entirely true. You’ve always seen him as your best friend... but it would also be a lie to say you aren't aware of how attractive he is. You’d have to be blind not to notice his flawless face, the way he moves, how the veins stand out on his arms when he dances, the way his features soften when he laughs.
You clumsily change the subject.
"Besides, aren't you the needy one here?" you throw at him, trying to shift the spotlight. "With everything you always tell me about work, it can't be easy for you either."
He shrugs his shoulders, completely unbothered.
"Yeah, honestly" he admits. "You know how our world is. If I sleep with someone, there are always risks. People talking, people leaking things, people making up stories… It’s complicated. Even if they see me on the street with you, even if you’re just my friend, there would be rumors everywhere. I bet it would be all over the internet that I’m seeing a 'mysterious woman.'"
You know he’s right. You think about it for a moment, biting your lip. His world is different. Everything that would be low-key for you could turn into a scandal for him.
While he tells you this, he pulls away from the couch a bit and takes off the hoodie he was wearing. It’s warm, and underneath he’s only wearing a black tank top. It hits you all at once that, as the hours passed, you’d forgotten just how much body there is under those baggy clothes.
His arms look defined, his muscles toned but not overly bulked. The fabric stretches slightly over his chest and shoulders. You swallow hard, almost involuntarily.
You don't know if it’s the soju, the conversation, or both, but suddenly it feels strangely difficult to look away. Your eyes follow him as he leans forward to grab the bottle, as he runs a hand through his hair to push it out of his face.
"He’s your best friend" you remind yourself mentally. "Your best friend."
Hyunjin seems to notice where your eyes are lingering. A slow, amused smile spreads across his face.
"Like what you see?" he asks, laughing softly.
"I’ve already seen way too much of you" you retort, trying to sound indifferent as you bring the glass to your lips.
He doesn't buy it. You can tell by the look in his eyes.
He leans a little closer to you, shortening the distance between the two of you. It’s nothing dramatic, but it's enough for the air between you to shift.
"Oh, yeah?" he murmurs. "Then it wouldn't matter if I took my shirt off, right?"
You feel a spark of nerves shoot down your spine. You try to adopt your most casual tone, but your voice betrays you, sounding a bit tighter than you’d like.
"You're free to do whatever you want" you reply. "It's your shirt, not mine."
What you didn't expect was for him to actually go through with it. Without taking his eyes off you, he grabs the hem of his tank top and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. He tosses it onto the couch without looking, as if it were nothing.
Your brain takes half a second to process that Hyunjin is currently sitting right in front of you, shirtless, his abs defined, his collarbone sharp, his arms resting casually on his knees.
You focus desperately on your glass. You grab it and take a larger gulp than you should, just to have something to do with your hands.
Suddenly, you hear his voice, lower, closer.
"Now it's your turn."
You almost choke on your drink.
"What?" you ask, your voice a bit louder than usual, your eyes wide.
Hyunjin smiles, tilting his head, watching your every reaction with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"I said, now it's your turn."
You blink a couple of times, as if your brain needed a hard reboot.
"No way in hell, right?" he finally says, with a small smile that tries to regain its teasing tone, though his voice sounds a bit huskier now. "I didn't remember you being such a coward."
You raise an eyebrow.
"A coward?" you repeat, offended.
"Yeah" he nods, leaning back more comfortably against the couch. "I've seen you in a bikini a thousand times. Pools, beaches, trips... I’m not going to see anything I haven’t already seen. It's not that dramatic."
You bite the inside of your cheek. Of course he's right about that. You've been with him at the beach, in hotels, in a thousand situations where your body was much more exposed than it is now. And yet, this feels different. More intimate. More… charged.
You look down at your own lap, playing with the hem of the t-shirt, turning over what you should do in your mind. You can feel the atmosphere growing thick, almost tangible.
Hyunjin watches you for a few seconds, and his expression changes. The teasing softens from his features. He reaches out a hand and rests it gently on your knee—the contact warm, firm, reassuring.
"Hey" he says in a more serious tone. "I'm sorry. Don't do anything you don't want to do, okay? I was just playing around. You know I would never force you to..."
"I’m not wearing a bra" you blurt out, squeezing your eyes shut as if that could somehow swallow your words back down.
The silence that follows is so abrupt it makes you want to disappear. You feel the heat rushing up your neck all the way to your ears. You let out a breath and, very slowly, open your eyes.
Hyunjin is in front of you, completely still.
And, against all odds, completely quiet.
His gaze has drifted down to your chest, where the thin fabric of his t-shirt isn't exactly doing a great job of hiding anything. To make matters worse, the cool air in the living room and the built-up tension have done their part: your nipples are betrayal-sharp against the fabric.
You cover yourself almost instinctively with your forearms, hunching your shoulders a bit.
"You know I never wear a bra when I'm just hanging around the apartment" you murmur, unable to look him in the eye. "They always bother me. And you know that… it’s just… I don't know."
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him swallow hard. His Adam's apple moves up and down visibly. For the first time in a long while, you're the one who has him completely thrown off. There’s something strangely amusing about seeing him like this, not knowing what to do with his face or his hands.
You tilt your chin up a bit, regaining a sliver of control.
"Come on, they're just boobs, Hyunjin" you toss out, trying to sound calmer than you actually are. "It's nothing to get worked up over."
He lets out a small laugh, his gaze still drifting a bit between your face and your chest.
"I… I know" he admits. "It's just, I've never actually looked at your boobs before, to be honest. And I wasn't expecting your nipples to greet me so directly."
He finishes the sentence with a burst of laughter, and the spell breaks just enough for you to breathe. You grab a couch cushion without thinking and hurl it right at his face.
"You’re an idiot" you protest, half dying of embarrassment, half dying of laughter.
Hyunjin catches the cushion halfway, tosses it aside, and clears his view. When he looks back at you, the teasing is still there... but there’s something else, a spark you’ve never seen look this intense.
"Take your shorts off then" he says, suddenly serious, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "After all, my t-shirt fits you like a dress anyway."
You freeze for a second.
"Excuse me?" you ask, not quite sure if you heard him right.
"Take them off" he repeats calmly, resting his arms on his knees and leaning forward a bit. "I mean, we’re just friends, right? And it’s basically like you’re wearing a dress. Nothing I haven’t seen before... your words, not mine."
You look at him, trying to gauge whether he’s still joking or not. His gaze doesn’t wander; it doesn’t hide. It’s fixed on you, challenging, a bit dark from the soju and something else entirely.
You take a deep breath, feeling the soju burning in your stomach. You think about the years of trust, about all the times he’s seen you a complete mess, crying, laughing, half asleep. There is no one you trust more than him.
"What the hell" you tell yourself. "If he wants to play, let's play."
You grab your glass and take another gulp, this time without making a face at how strong it burns going down. Then you set it on the table, lean back a bit, and lift your hips just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts.
Hyunjin follows your every move with his eyes, in complete silence.
You slowly slide the shorts down your thighs, feeling the friction of the fabric against your skin, until they reach your knees. Then you slip them down to your ankles and kick them off your feet. You bunch them up with one hand, sit back up, and toss them at him without ceremony.
"Happy?" you ask, crossing your legs as you sit down again, the t-shirt falling to your mid-thigh.
Hyunjin catches the shorts out of the air. Instead of setting them aside, he holds onto them, playing with the fabric, his eyes boldly raking over you from head to toe.
"Very" he finally replies with a slow, half-smile. "More than I should be."
You feel the flutter in your stomach intensify. The atmosphere has definitely shifted. It’s no longer just a joke: there’s a steady current running between the two of you, washing away the invisible lines you used to take for granted.
"Don't flatter yourself" you try to joke. "It’s literally your t-shirt. You’ve seen me looking worse."
"Not like this" he replies, not taking his eyes off your legs. "Not when I know you have nothing on underneath. Neither top nor bottom."
The words strike a chord in your chest like a soft blow. You swallow hard. He notices and smiles, satisfied to have caught you off guard.
"You started it" you accuse him, trying to regain some ground. "First by taking your shirt off, then by testing me..."
Hyunjin leans in a little closer to you, propping an elbow on the table to bring his face near yours—close enough for you to catch the faint scent of cologne mixed with soju and warm skin.
"And you played along way better than I expected" he murmurs. "You have no idea."
You feel your pulse quicken. The living room, the background music, the bottles... everything seems to fade away a bit, as if only this tiny space between the two of you were left.
You try to downplay it.
"Well, I had to do something to get you to shut up" you reply, though your voice comes out a bit softer.
He chuckles, the laugh resonating between you.
"You say that as if you don't actually like me looking at you" he says then, dropping his voice another octave. "But you haven't tried to cover your legs."
Only your chest, you think. Only the part that gives you away the most.
You uncross and recross your legs the other way, as if that would help you regain some control, but you know you’re not fooling anyone. Hyunjin follows your movement, attentive to every gesture.
"And what about you?" you question, counterattacking. "Why are you still shirtless? You’re going to catch a cold."
He laughs.
"Oh, right, now you're worried about my health" he replies. "Ten minutes ago you almost scared me to death, and now you're fearing for my cold."
"I'm a nurse, it's my duty" you say, shrugging your shoulders.
Hyunjin leans his back against the couch, letting himself sink a little further down. His abs define themselves as he stretches, his skin tightening. You know he’s doing it on purpose when you catch his half-smile out of the corner of your eye.
"Then fulfill your duty" he says. "If anything happens to me, you're the only one who could do CPR."
You stare at him.
"Stop saying things that sound weird when you’re half-naked" you murmur.
He tilts his head.
"Weird how?" he asks, innocent in appearance only.
You feel the heat rushing up to your face again. You let out a huff, looking away for a second, only to feel him drawing your gaze back like a magnet. Your eyes drift down his neck, his collarbones, his chest… until you catch yourself and snap them back up to his face, only to find that he was already watching you.
"Like that" you reply, simple as that.
There is a second of silent realization. The two of you know perfectly well what "like that" means. How your words, your glances, your gestures have slowly become tangled up together.
Hyunjin finally sets your shorts down on the couch and reaches his hand toward the table, grabbing the bottle to refill your glass and his. When he hands it to you, his fingers brush against yours. It’s a minimal contact, but an unexpected shiver runs through you.
"We can stop whenever you want" he says then, looking you straight in the eyes, without a smile this time. "You just have to say the word. And we go right back to how we’ve always been. Okay?"
His words leave another truth hanging in the air: if you don’t stop, neither of you intends to hold back.
You tighten your fingers around the glass, feeling its weight, the scent of the alcohol drifting up. You inhale slowly.
"I know" you reply, honest.
You drink a little, and so does he, without breaking eye contact for too long. The silence is no longer awkward; it’s dense. In that silence fits everything you haven't said over the years.
To ease the tension, you swirl the glass between your hands and comment, half-joking:
"Turns out Jisung might have had the right idea with the whole friends-with-benefits thing after all."
Hyunjin arches an eyebrow.
"You think so?" he asks.
"I mean..." you reply. "If even he found something that works for him... I don't know, it sounds convenient. No weird dates, no creepy strangers, no risks... I guess."
"With someone you trust" he adds, emphasizing the words. "Someone you already know. Someone who already knows you."
His eyes don't leave yours for a single second. Ironically, your throat goes dry despite the soju.
"Exactly" you manage to say.
He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, bringing himself incredibly close to you. You feel his warmth, his breath—a proximity the two of you had never measured with such precision before.
"Then maybe it's not such a bad idea after all," he murmurs.
Your heart is pounding so hard it almost rings in your ears. You set your glass down on the table very slowly, terrified your hands might shake.
"It depends" you reply, barely above a whisper. "On who."
Hyunjin flashes a lopsided smile, as if that sentence was exactly what he’d been waiting to hear for a while now.
"I think we both know who we're talking about" he says.
As he speaks, he leans closer to you. His hand finds your bare leg again, right where the t-shirt barely covers anything. This time, it doesn't stay still: his fingers rest first on your knee and, very slowly, begin to slide up your thigh, dragging the fabric along with them.
The caress is gentle, almost innocent, but the path it takes is anything but. You notice the contrast between the warmth of his hand and your own skin, cooler from the nerves. The t-shirt rides up a little higher, exposing more and more skin.
You swallow hard, your body freezing completely even though everything inside you is in turmoil.
"What… what do you mean?" you ask, your voice dropping lower than you intended.
Hyunjin lets out a soft chuckle through his nose—the kind that always shows he’s caught you trying to play it cool.
"Come on" he murmurs. "You already get it."
His fingers continue their slow journey upward, tracing almost distracted circles on your thigh.
"We can be friends with benefits, if you want" he goes on, with a calmness that clashes with what he’s making you feel. "We know each other perfectly. And we can have fun without ruining our relationship."
The phrase hits you straight on. "Friends with benefits." Hearing it like that, in his voice, makes it sound all too real.
You realize that all of this is turning you on more than you’d ever dare admit out of the loud. Your body and your mind seem to have agreed to betray you: the heat between your legs, the prickle beneath your skin, your chest rising and falling faster. You think about Hyunjin, about how he’s right there in front of you, shirtless, with that body you always knew he had but had never looked at with such close attention.
You can’t take your eyes off his arm—the one touching you right now. You see how the veins stand out beneath his skin, tensing every time his fingers grip your thigh a little firmer, how the muscle defines itself as he moves. Suddenly, that image strikes you as the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.
You also notice how much closer his face is to yours. Your breath and his clash in the tiny space left between the two of you. When you finally lift your gaze from where he’s touching you up to his eyes, something inside you clicks.
Your body reacts on its own.
You reach out your arm, wrap it around the back of his neck, and pull him toward you all at once. Your lips find his in a kiss that is anything but shy—it’s urgent, hungry, full of all the desire you’d spent the last hour trying to ignore.
Hyunjin takes less than a second to return it with the exact same intensity. He kisses you as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to do so for a long time, and the two of you devour each other without restraint, without thinking.
His hand leaves your thigh and moves to your waist, pulling you into him. The movement makes you lose your balance a bit and ends with you shifting, ending up on your knees in front of him, right at eye level. The kiss doesn’t break; it only changes angles.
Now his hands travel down your back, your waist, gripping your curves tightly as if he needed to make sure you were actually there. Your bodies are pressed together, chest against chest, stomach against stomach. You’re certain Hyunjin can perfectly feel your nipples pressing against his bare skin through the fabric of the t-shirt.
You can’t help the muffled moan that escapes into the kiss when his hands slide down to your ass and squeeze it boldly. The gesture rips a jolt of pleasure out of you that goes straight to the core of your body.
You begin to clearly feel his hardness pressing against your stomach—firm, unmistakable, growing with every passing second he’s pinned to you. That sharp awareness of just how turned on he is shakes you enough that you find yourself needing air.
You pull away from him suddenly, breaking the kiss. Both of you just stay there, face to face, breathing as if you’d been holding your breath this whole time. His lips are swollen and red; you’re almost certain yours must look exactly the same. The silence that follows is thick, charged, but not awkward.
Hyunjin doesn't take his eyes off you for a single second. There is something wild and, at the same time, careful in his gaze.
He is the one to break the silence.
"Do you want to stop… or keep going?" he asks, his voice low, raspy from the kisses.
You lick your lips, still trying to gather your thoughts.
"I don't want to stop" you admit, honest. "But…"—you look down slightly, then look back up—"Honestly, I'm nervous about having sex with you. Just like that, out of nowhere. After so many years together as friends."
His hand remains firm on your waist, like an anchor. He gently pulls you back toward him, narrowing the distance, and lowers his head a bit to let his lips brush against your neck.
He begins to press small kisses there—slow, warm. Between kisses, he speaks, his voice even deeper now, vibrating against your skin.
"We don't have to go all the way today" he whispers. "We can just… test things out. See how it feels. Touch each other. See how far we want to go."
His breath tickles the skin of your neck and shoulder; his hands hold you firmly yet gently all at once.
His lips continue to trace your neck, moving slowly down toward your collarbone. You feel his hand—large and warm—glide along your waist until it rests on your lower back, drawing you closer against him. His erection is still there, pressing firmly against your stomach, reminding you just how real all of this is.
Your breathing quickens. Hyunjin notices your tension and pulls back just a few centimeters to look you in the eyes. His pupils are dilated, his hair falling messily over his forehead.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asks softly.
"No…" you reply, barely a whisper. "I'm just… nervous."
He smiles with tenderness, but also with something darker and hungrier.
"Then let me take care of you for a bit" he murmurs against your skin.
One of his hands travels slowly up your side, underneath the baggy t-shirt you’re still wearing. His fingers brush the underside of your breasts, and you feel your skin break out in goosebumps. You let out a quiet moan as his thumb passes right beneath your nipple.
"Take it off" he begs in a husky, almost pleading voice. "I want to feel you."
You hesitate for only a second before grabbing the hem of the t-shirt and pulling it over your head. The moment your breasts are exposed, Hyunjin lets out a shaky breath.
"Fuck…" he murmurs, looking at you as if he were holding himself back.
He dives in to kiss you again, deeper this time, while one hand cups one of your breasts and gently massages it. His thumb plays with your nipple, hardening it under his touch. His other hand travels down your stomach until it reaches the waistband of your panties.
You can feel his erection pulsing against you. Without overthinking it, you slide a hand between the two of you and rest it on his pants, caressing his length over the fabric.
Hyunjin groans against your mouth.
"Do you want to touch me?" he asks, his voice cracking.
You nod, biting your lip. He pulls away just enough to slide his pants and underwear down a bit, freeing his member. It’s larger than you’d imagined. Thick, heavy, with the tip already glistening with precum.
Your hand wraps around it, shy at first. It’s hot, the skin smooth and tight. Hyunjin lets out a low groan when you begin to move it slowly up and down.
"Like that…" he whispers against your neck. "Fuck, your hand feels way too good."
While you stroke him, his hand slips inside your panties. His long fingers find your slickness, and he growls with satisfaction, confirming just how wet you are.
"Look at you…" he says, his voice dark, sliding two fingers between your folds. "So wet for me."
He begins to caress you with slow, precise movements, circling your clitoris before sliding down to press gently against your entrance without fully penetrating you. You arch against him, moaning his name.
The two of you are on your knees, face to face, pleasuring each other. His kisses grow more desperate, his hips moving slightly, seeking more friction against your hand. Your movements quicken too, gripping him a bit firmer.
"Hyunjin…" you moan as he slowly inserts a finger inside you.
"Shh… just feel it" he whispers, gently biting your bottom lip. "We’re going to make you come like this first… and then you make me come. Sound good?"
Hyunjin inserts a second finger inside you, curling them with precision while his thumb continues to rub your clitoris in perfect circles. Your hips move on their own against his hand, chasing more. The wet sound of his fingers sliding in and out of you fills the room along with your ragged breathing.
"God… you’re so tight" he growls against your ear, gently biting your earlobe. "You’re driving me crazy."
Your hand tightens a bit more around his cock, moving faster. You can feel it pulsing, swelling even more between your fingers. The tip is slick, and every time you run your thumb over it, Hyunjin lets out a husky groan that vibrates against your chest.
The two of you are touching each other with more urgency now. There’s no shyness left. Just years of built-up desire, spilling out all at once.
"Hyunjin…" you moan, resting your forehead against his shoulder. Your legs are starting to shake.
"I know" he whispers, quickening the movement of his fingers. "I want to feel you come in my hand. Let yourself go."
His words, spoken in that deep, heavy voice, push you right over the edge. The pleasure builds fast—hot, almost unbearable. Your walls contract around his fingers, and with a long, shaky moan, you come hard.
Your entire body tenses up. Waves of pleasure ripple through you while you keep moving your hand over him, though more uncoordinated now. Hyunjin doesn't stop; he keeps slowly fucking you with his fingers, stretching out your orgasm until you’re left shaking and breathless.
When you open your eyes, he’s staring intently at you, his lips parted and his gaze completely dark.
"Now you" you whisper, still panting.
You pick up the pace with your hand, gripping him firmer, twisting slightly at the tip just the way you can tell he likes. Hyunjin rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavily. His hips begin to move, fucking your fist.
"Fuck… just like that… don't stop" he growls.
His breathing grows more irregular. You can feel him getting even harder, trembling in your hand. His fingers are still inside you, moving lazily, but his entire focus is on what you're doing to him.
"I’m gonna come…" he warns, his voice breaking.
"Do it" you whisper against his lips. "Come for me."
With a deep, long groan, Hyunjin lets himself go. His hot semen spills out in several thick spurts, pooling over your stomach and your hand. His entire body tenses against yours as he keeps coming, shuddering slightly. You keep moving your hand, slower now, milking him until there’s nothing left.
The two of you stay wrapped in each other's arms, on your knees, breathing raggedly against each other's necks. His semen is still warm between your bodies. Hyunjin kisses your temple, your cheek, and finally your lips with a tenderness that contrasts sharply with what you two just did.
"Fuck…" he murmurs against your mouth, his voice still thick. "I had no idea it would be like this with you."
He caresses your back gently, as if he needed to make sure you're okay.
"Are you okay?" he asks softly, looking into your eyes.
You nod, still a bit dazed, your cheeks flushed and your heart racing.
"Yes…" you reply, letting your breath out bit by bit. "I'm good. Really good, actually."
He flashes a weary, almost incredulous half-smile. You stay like that for a few more seconds, pressed together, breathing against each other, until Hyunjin looks down and realizes the state of things between your bodies.
"Okay… this is a bit of a mess" he murmurs with a soft chuckle.
He pulls away from you slowly, gives you one last short kiss on the lips, and leans back to pull up his pants. He adjusts them, buttons them up again, and runs a hand through his hair, his breathing still a bit ragged.
"Wait here a second" he says then, standing up.
You watch him walk toward the bathroom and disappear inside. You hear the faucet, and then a small thud against the sink—he probably bumped into it, classic Hyunjin. When he comes back, he’s holding a folded, damp towel in his hand.
He offers you his free hand to help you up.
"Up you go" he murmurs.
You stand up with his help; you notice your legs are a bit shaky, though you don’t know if it’s from being on your knees for so long, from the nerves, or from everything else. Hyunjin gently positions you right in front of him and, without a word, begins to carefully run the towel over your stomach, wiping away the sticky remnants of your "masterpiece."
The gesture is so intimate and yet so casual that it throws you off. Afterward, he takes one of your hands and cleans your fingers with the same care. He is so focused on what he's doing that you find yourself just staring at him… until he suddenly starts laughing.
First it’s a suppressed laugh, an exhale through his nose. Then a clearer chuckle escapes him.
It catches on with you instantly.
"What are you laughing at?" you ask, still flushed but smiling.
He shakes his head, as if he can’t even believe what he’s about to say himself.
"It’s just…" he raises the towel slightly, as if it were exhibit A. "I didn't expect to finish the night wiping my own semen off my best friend."
You cover your face with your hands for a second, feeling the laughter shake your chest.
"You are disgusting" you complain through your giggles.
"You started it" he replies, amused. "Well, more or less."
The two of you sit there laughing, that weak, giggly laughter that comes after a very long and very heavy tension, until he finally finishes cleaning your hands and your stomach. He sets the towel aside and, with a natural gesture, grabs his t-shirt and slips it back over you, dressing you.
"There you go" he murmurs, giving the hem of the shirt a little tug. "Presentable again."
"Thank you, Mr. Decency" you reply, rolling your eyes, but there’s a new warmth in your voice.
The two of you head back to the living room and sit down on the floor again, leaning against the couch, facing the half-cluttered table. This time, the silence isn't weird: it’s filled with what just happened, but without any of the awkwardness you had feared.
Hyunjin runs a hand over the back of his neck, playing with his hair, and looks at you out of the corner of his eye.
"That actually happened, right?" he says at last, with an almost timid smile. "It’s not just the soju playing tricks on us."
You chuckle softly.
"I don't think so" you reply. "Though if you tell me tomorrow that it was just some weird dream, I'm going to be pissed."
He shakes his head.
"There's no way I'm forgetting this" he admits, looking at you now without holding back. "I never thought that..."—he makes a vague gesture with his hand—"...that you and I would end up... like this."
"Me neither" you confess, playing with the hem of the t-shirt. "But I don't regret it."
Hyunjin's expression softens. He leans in a little closer to you.
"Me neither" he replies, serious this time.
For a moment, you just look at each other, as if gauging whether you need to say something deeper, but the habit of years of friendship ultimately wins out.
"Well" you joke. "At least now we can say the whole 'friends with benefits' thing started off with a bang."
Hyunjin laughs, tilting his head.
"You really don't do anything halfway, do you?" he says. "Not working, not taking care of people, not..."
"Not coming with me in the living room?" you interrupt him with a smirk.
"That" he nods, letting out another laugh. "That too."
You lean back a bit against the couch, letting your head drop back. You feel the exhaustion from the day, from your shift, from the alcohol, and now from everything your bodies just went through. The atmosphere has dropped in intensity, but it’s still comfortable. Familiar.
At some point, you grab your phone from the table to check the time. The screen blinds you for a second.
"Holy shit..." you murmur. "It’s three in the morning."
Hyunjin opens his eyes a bit wider, surprised.
"Really?" he asks.
You show him the screen.
"Really." You look at him. "Are you staying over?"
He looks at you as if you’d just asked him if he plans to keep breathing.
"Did you doubt it?" he replies. "I brought my backpack with all my stuff."
He nods with his chin toward the entryway where you hadn't noticed before, but sure enough, his backpack is there, leaning against the wall.
You roll your eyes.
"Of course you did" you murmur. "Always so forward-thinking."
"I mean, I knew you were going to beg me to stay" he says, acting smug. "I had to be prepared."
"Right, right" you reply, standing up slowly. "Come on. Let's clean up a bit before heading to bed."
Between the two of you, you clean up just the essentials: you throw away trash, put away the leftover food, and turn off the music. The living room is left in silence, with only the warm light of the small lamp left on.
Hyunjin stretches, letting out a bostezo.
"Okay, now the sleepiness is definitely hitting me" he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
You turn off the living room light and walk together toward your bedroom. It’s not the first time you've done this; you’ve shared a bed with him other nights, after movies, after drinking nights, after long days. Your bed already knows his weight.
You crawl under the covers almost in sync: you on your side, him on his. The sheets are cool, the fan moving the warm air of the room.
You turn toward him in the dark, barely making out his silhouette.
"Tonight try not to throw yourself all over me, okay?" you murmur. "It’s way too hot. I'm warning you, if you smother me, I’ll push you and kick you out of bed."
You hear his laugh, low, weak with exhaustion.
"And now you tell me?" he replies. "Right on the day I finally have an excuse to throw myself all over you."
You give him a gentle nudge with your foot beneath the sheets.
"Go to sleep, clown."
"Goodnight, little nurse" he whispers.
You feel him settle in, how his side of the mattress sinks a little. Despite what you said, the simple fact of knowing he’s there, so close, is strangely comforting. Almost without thinking, your hand searches for his under the sheet and gives it a quick squeeze.
Hyunjin returns the squeeze, gently.
Neither of you says anything else. Exhaustion finally wins out, and little by little, between the warmth, the echo of what you’ve just done, and the familiarity of having him beside you, you drift off to sleep.
The following days pass almost as if nothing had changed… at least on the surface.
You go back to your impossible shifts, your schedule changes, and unexpected emergencies. Hyunjin, for his part, dives straight into rehearsals, recording sessions, and short trips. Your schedules clash more than they meet.
You don't have another sexual encounter.
But it’s not because either of you wants to stop; you simply haven't had the time to see each other. Even so, the texts never stop.
Silly photos of his food, five-second videos from the studio, voice notes of you complaining about a difficult patient, memes, stickers, comments about shows you’re watching separately. And every now and then, a light reference to "last time," hidden between jokes.
I walked past your street today and almost went up just to ruin your rest.
If you don't bring food, you're not getting in. House rules.
I was thinking of bringing other things 👀
Shut up and rehearse, superstar.
The tone remains the same as always, but there’s a new, underlying thread that you both recognize, even if no one says it out loud.
On a Tuesday afternoon, while you’re on your break, your phone vibrates.
Hey, important little nurse schedule:
What days are you free to hang out this week or next week?
I have off: Wednesday night, Saturday night, and all day Sunday.
The guys say they haven't seen you in forever, asking if I'm kidnapping you.
How does everyone getting together one night sound?
You bite the tip of your pen, thinking. You mentally check your shifts.
Impossible this week, they’ve saddled me with three evenings in a row and a night shift.
Next Sunday I’m free all day.
What’s the plan?
He doesn't take long to reply.
Perfect.
Sunday, 8:00 PM, Chan & Innie's place.
We’re having dinner there and fooling around for a bit.
Everyone misses you, myself included, but I'm not gonna say it too out loud.
Too late, you already said it. I'll bring dessert. And my charming presence.
Just by showing up, you're already dessert 😏
Okay, I'll stop.
Sunday, 8:00 PM. Don't be late or I'm sending Changbin to get you.
Sunday feels strange to you. You aren’t working. You wake up later than usual, catch up on some chores around the house, and as the afternoon approaches, you notice that mix of excitement and nerves settling in your stomach.
Around six-something, you decide to start getting ready. It’s nothing formal, just a night at the guys' place... but, without meaning to, you put a bit more effort into it than usual.
You take a long, relaxing shower, wash your hair, and choose a lotion with a subtle scent. When you open the closet, you stand there for a moment, just staring at your clothes.
You could just throw on any old pair of jeans and a random t-shirt. You’ve hung out with them a thousand times looking like that. But today, without fully wanting to admit it to yourself, you think about "the other night." You think about Hyunjin, his hands, his body pressed against yours in your living room. And your hand moves, almost on its own, toward a lingerie set you normally save for special occasions.
A nice bra, one that lifts and fits you well; a matching thong, something more delicate, sexier than anyone would have any reason to see... unless.
You look at yourself in the mirror and huff.
"It’s just a dinner with friends" you remind yourself in a low voice. "You’re ridiculous."
Even so, you put them on.
Over that, you choose a pair of jeans you know make your ass look good, and a blouse that flatters your figure without being too obvious. You do light but careful makeup, a bit more than usual: your skin looks a bit more polished, mascara, a touch of color on your lips. You let your hair down so it looks effortless... even though you spent longer than usual in front of the mirror.
When you’re finally ready, you grab what you've prepared to bring and head out toward Chan and Jeongin’s apartment.
You arrive at their building ten minutes before eight. You ride up in the elevator, your heart beating a little bit faster than it should for a simple visit.
The moment you ring the doorbell, the door opens almost instantly.
Hyunjin.
He’s wearing comfortable clothes, his hair down, and by the way his face lights up when he sees you, you’d say he’s truly happy to have you there.
"About time!" he says, but before you can even reply, he grabs you by the arm and pulls you inside, kicking the door shut with his foot.
Suddenly, you find yourself trapped in one of his tight hugs—the kind that lifts you off the ground without warning.
"Hyunjin!" you protest, laughing as your feet leave the floor. "One of these days you’re gonna squeeze the life out of me, I swear."
"That’s the plan" he replies, laughing too, giving you one last squeeze before letting you down.
When he lets go, his hands linger for a moment on your waist. His eyes sweep over you from head to toe, quick but not innocent at all.
"You got dressed up" he comments, as if you couldn't catch him staring. "You look really pretty."
"Well, I'm here to see important people" you reply, faking seriousness. "I couldn't just show up looking like a mess."
"Well, you nailed it" he says, with that crooked smile. "Go on in. The others are in the living room."
You walk further into the apartment and immediately hear the voices.
"About time!" Changbin yells from the couch the second he sees you appear.
"Look who it is" Chan adds, standing up to welcome you.
You spend a good while giving out hugs: to Chan, who squeezes you affectionately and asks how you're doing; to Changbin, who pretends to be offended because you took too long to greet him; to Han, who hugs you with a loose laugh; to Felix, who welcomes you with a huge smile and a sincere "I missed you"; to Seungmin, who greets you with a calmer but warm hug; and to Jeongin, who holds onto you almost like a koala for a second, laughing.
The atmosphere is the same as always: comfortable, loud, full of overlapping voices.
You all have dinner—something they prepared together (or so they claim; you suspect Chan did most of the work). There’s food everywhere, cans and bottles on the table, shared plates, hands moving back and forth.
They fill you in on everything: rehearsal anecdotes, inside jokes, bad puns. Felix laughs with that contagious laugh of his, Jeongin makes comments that have everyone jokingly ganging up on him, and Jisung dramatizes every story as if it were a stand-up monologue. You also share stories from the hospital, exaggerating some situations and making them laugh.
Little by little, the bottles empty out.
Someone suggests drinking games, and nobody objects.
You start with silly card games, absurd rules, "loser drinks." It doesn't take long for it to become obvious that Jisung and Felix are losing the most, or rather, the ones who are worst at calculating their moves.
Felix is getting happier and happier, his cheeks flushed red, laughing at absolutely everything. Jisung gets tangled up in the rules, protests when he has to drink, and then drinks anyway.
The living room is a pleasant chaos of voices, laughter, low background music, and clinking glasses.
At one point, you feel like you need a breather. The noise, the alcohol—it’s all starting to be a bit much.
"I’m going to the bathroom for a second" you announce, standing up.
Nobody pays much attention; they’re too busy arguing over whether the last card counted or not. You take advantage of the chaos to leave the living room and head down the hallway toward the bathroom.
What you don't know is that Hyunjin, from the other side of the table, watched you get up. And he followed you with his eyes from the very first step you took.
A few seconds after you close the living room door behind you, you hear soft footsteps in the hallway.
You don't know it’s him.
Yet.
As you close the bathroom door, you suddenly feel resistance. A hand catches it just before the frame completely clicks into place. The door opens back up a bit, and through the crack, Hyunjin’s face appears.
He slips inside with you and closes it behind him, this time locking the latch.
You aren't as surprised as you should be. Or at least, not deep down.
"Do you just really want to watch me pee, or what?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Please" he replies. "I’ve played your bodyguard a thousand times while you peed in the middle of nowhere. Highways, rest stops, long walks... Do you remember when those cyclists almost caught you?"
You burst out laughing just remembering it.
"It wasn’t 'almost'" you protest. "They caught me red-handed. You were just laughing instead of warning me, you traitor."
"I was in shock" he says, putting a hand to his chest in a theatrical gesture. "Besides, I was watching out for cars. Cyclists weren’t in the contract."
The two of you laugh for a couple of seconds, that loose laugh of complicity, while the distant murmur from the living room comes through muffled by the closed door.
Then, Hyunjin takes another step toward you.
Another.
Until your back softly bumps against the edge of the sink. He places his hands on either side, resting them on the porcelain, coming closer without pushing you, but making it crystal clear that you are trapped between his body and the counter.
"What are you doing?" you ask, a nervous smile showing on your lips.
He tilts his head a bit, his eyes dropping for a split second to your mouth before returning to yours.
"What does it look like?" he whispers.
You don’t have time to answer.
He leans in and kisses you.
It’s a hungry kiss, without any preamble, charged with all the nights you couldn't see each other, with all the messages that didn't explicitly say what you wanted. You respond instantly, as if your body had been waiting for exactly this gesture: you return the kiss with the same urgency, tangling your arms behind his neck and pulling him even closer to you.
Hyunjin grabs you by the waist, tight, almost desperate, pressing you completely against the sink and against himself. You feel how he fits you against him, how the world outside the bathroom fades away a bit.
He pulls away just a few centimeters, just enough to breathe and speak. His lips brush against yours with every word.
"You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this since last time" he confesses, his voice husky. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about what happened that night."
He looks into your eyes, so close, his own darkened.
"Every time I remember it..." he swallows hard. "It turns me on."
His hands immediately move up to your breasts, squeezing firmly, as if he already knows exactly how to touch you to steal your breath away.
You gasp against his mouth, your body igniting with an ease that scares you and thrills you at the same time. Still, a part of you tries to stay sane.
"Hyunjin..." you manage to say between short breaths. "We need to stop."
He slowly shakes his head, without backing away even a centimeter.
"The guys are drunk and way too entertained" he replies in a whisper, his fingers playing with the buttons of your blouse. "They have no idea what’s going on in here."
His fingers remain on your blouse, undoing them in a rush. As soon as the blouse opens, his fingers move up and lift your bra in a single motion, leaving your breasts completely exposed. He doesn’t waste a single second: he ducks his head and catches one of your nipples with his mouth, sucking hungrily while his hand squeezes your other breast.
You groan, arching your back. One of your hands tangles in his dark hair, pulling at it so he doesn't pull away. Hyunjin grunts against your skin, licking and biting softly, alternating between one breast and the other as if he can't decide which one he wants more.
"Hyunjin... fuck..." you whisper, biting your lip.
He looks up for a second, his lips wet, and kisses you hard while his hands move down to your jeans. He undoes the button and skillfully slides the zipper down. His hand slips directly inside your panties, and when he feels how soaking wet you are, he lets out a throaty groan against your mouth.
"Fuck..." he murmurs, sliding two fingers between your folds. "You're dripping. Did you want this as badly as I did?"
You nod, breathless, and reach down to stroke him over his jeans. You feel his cock hard, pressing against the fabric, throbbing beneath your palm.
Hyunjin thrusts two fingers inside you all at once and starts moving them with a rhythm, curling them right where he knows it drives you crazy.
"I want to fuck you" he whispers against your ear, his voice dark and heavy. "I want to slide my cock inside you and feel how you squeeze me... how this hot wetness wraps around me."
His words make you groan louder. Your walls contract around his fingers, and he notices it perfectly.
"Look how you're squeezing me... Your body doesn't lie. You want me to fuck you as badly as I do" he continues, sliding in a third finger. "Tell me... do you want me to fuck you right here?"
You're so turned on you can barely speak. Hyunjin keeps fucking you with his fingers, faster and faster, while his other hand tightly squeezes one of your breasts and pinches the nipple.
"Ask for it" he taunts, biting your neck. "If you want me to fuck you, tell me."
You're right on the edge, trembling, when suddenly he pulls his fingers out. You're about to protest, but Hyunjin quickly turns you around, pressing your stomach against the sink. He yanks your jeans down to your mid-thighs and freezes for a second when he sees the black thong you're wearing: thin, sexy, leaving your ass almost completely bare.
"Fuck..." he growls, running his hand over your butt cheek. "Did you put this on for me?"
You hear him unbuckle his belt and slide his pants down. He presses against your back, his hot chest flat against you, and pulls your thong to the side. You feel the thick head of his cock brushing against your entrance, sliding between your soaking wet lips.
"Tell me I can fuck you" he whispers against your ear, holding himself back.
"Hyunjin... please" you groan. "Fuck me."
He doesn't think twice. He thrusts in all at once, burying it inside you all the way to the hilt. You both groan at the same time. He starts to fuck you hard, fast, almost wild. The sound of his pelvis slapping against your ass fills the bathroom.
Hyunjin grabs you by the hair, pulling your head back so you look into the mirror. The image you see turns you on even more: blouse open, bra pushed up, breasts bouncing with every thrust, face flushed, and your makeup slightly smudged. Hyunjin is right behind you, watching you with dark eyes as he fucks you.
"Do you like how your friend fucks you?" he growls, pulling harder on your hair. "Do you like that I'm fucking you in the bathroom while the others are outside?"
You groan louder, squeezing him inside you.
"I’m gonna cum..." he warns, breathing heavily. "Are you gonna cum on my cock?"
You nod desperately. Hyunjin lets go of your hair, grabs your hips tightly, and starts fucking you like an animal, deep and fast. The orgasm hits you hard: you cum violently around his cock, moaning his name as your entire body trembles.
The sensation of your walls contracting pushes him over the edge. Hyunjin pulls his cock out quickly and, with a long, throaty groan, cums over your ass and lower back. Hot spurts spill onto your skin as he keeps pumping his hand over himself, emptying completely.
The two of you are left gasping for air, looking at each other through the mirror. Hyunjin leans in, kisses your shoulder, and whispers against your skin:
"This wasn't enough... Not even close."
Hyunjin holds your gaze in the mirror for a second longer, his breathing still ragged, until he reaches toward the sink and grabs some paper towels.
"Come here" he murmurs, his voice still husky.
He helps you straighten up a bit, helping you close your legs once you finally can, and holds you gently by the hip while his other hand carefully cleans your lower back and your ass, where he finished this time.
The contact is delicate, almost tender, very different from a few minutes ago. You rest your hands on the edge of the sink, still trying to catch your breath, your pulse slowing down bit by bit.
"I swear..." he huffs, half-laughing. "I don't plan on starting the night cleaning your things and ending it cleaning mine."
His comment lets out a loose, tired laugh from you.
"Seems like it’s becoming a habit" you say, still with your back to him, looking at your blurry reflection in the mirror.
"There could be worse habits" he retorts, tossing the paper into the trash can and handing you some water so you can finish fixing yourself up. "At least I like this one."
He helps you adjust your clothes, pull up your jeans, and fix your blouse again. When you finally turn around to look at him face-to-face, you feel your face burning. Between the effort, the alcohol, and what you two just did, your cheeks are as red as can be.
"And how are we supposed to walk out like this now?" you murmur. "It’s written all over my face."
Hyunjin watches you for a second, his lips curving into a satisfied smile.
"Don't worry" he says. "I already have it figured out."
"Oh, really?" you raise an eyebrow. "And what genius plan did you come up with?"
He steps a little closer, lowering his voice, but his eyes light up with that trademark mischievous glint of his.
"With a face like that, it's easy" he explains. "I'll go out first and tell them you were a little drunk and weren't feeling well. They'll look at you, see how flushed you are, and they'll buy it instantly. You just have to play along."
"A criminal genius" you say ironically, though deep down you know he's right.
"And if that doesn't work, I can always say you were taking a massive shit" he adds, holding back his laughter.
"You're not helping" you complain, shoving his shoulder with your hand, but you end up laughing too.
He looks at you one last time, makes sure your clothes are in place, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and, unable to help himself, gives you a short, quick kiss on the lips.
"Wait thirty seconds and then come out" he whispers. "And glare at me, just in case."
He unlocks the latch and steps out of the bathroom like it's nothing. You hear him close the door behind him and his footsteps fade down the hallway.
You take a deep breath, looking in the mirror for a few seconds to make sure that, at the very least, you don't look freshly... done. You wet your hands a little, run your fingers over your neck and cheeks to cool the heat down, and mentally count to thirty before heading out.
When you return to the living room, everyone is still at the table, surrounded by cards, laughter, and empty cans. Hyunjin is already sitting in his spot, a bottle in his hand.
Chan looks up first.
"Everything okay?" he asks.
Hyunjin speaks up first, not leaving any time.
"She got a little dizzy" he says, with a "told-you-so" gesture. "She's half-drunk; she literally leaned on me in the hallway. I told her to wash her face."
All eyes turn toward you. Conscious of your still-flushed face, you try to put on a "phew, it's hot in here" expression.
"I'm fine" you say, putting a hand to your forehead. "I just needed a breather. It’s way too hot in here."
Felix looks at you, sees your flushed cheeks, and immediately nods.
"It's all hitting me too" he says, showing his half-empty bottle. "You're not the only one."
Jisung laughs at whatever, and Changbin raises his glass and shouts something about a toast to alcohol tolerance. Nobody seems to suspect a thing. Hyunjin's alibi works perfectly.
You sit back down, more carefully this time, and drink water instead of anything else. The night goes on for a bit longer: you keep listening to their anecdotes and laughing with them, though a part of your mind can't stop replaying what happened in the bathroom just minutes ago, like a movie on a loop.
After a while, you check the time on your phone. It’s later than you thought, and tomorrow you have an early shift at the hospital.
"Guys, I'm heading out now" you announce. "Otherwise, there's no way I'm getting up tomorrow."
The typical protests begin, though everyone is tired and happy enough not to really press the issue.
"We'll call you a cab" Chan says.
"No, I'm taking the subway" you reply. "It's close, and I need to clear my head a bit."
Hyunjin stands up almost at the exact same time as you.
"I'll walk you out" he says without thinking about it much.
You look at him, raising an eyebrow.
"You really don't need to" you reply. "I have an early shift tomorrow, and if you come, I'm sure I'll get caught up talking to you and won't sleep at all. Stay, enjoy the rest of the night. I'm fine."
He looks like he wants to say something else, but he bites his tongue. There's a second of silent understanding between the two of you. He nods slowly.
"Text me when you get back" he requests at last.
"I will" you confirm.
You say goodbye to everyone with hugs that are a bit gentler than when you arrived, promising to see each other again soon. Hyunjin follows you to the door, lingering with you for one more second on the threshold, as if searching for something to say that wouldn't give away everything he's thinking.
In the end, he just leans in a little and whispers to you:
"Talk to you later."
You nod, give him a small smile, and walk down the hallway toward the elevator.
As you ride down, with the echo of his hands still branded on your skin and your body still remembering what happened in that bathroom, you wonder how much longer you'll be able to keep pretending that you're "just" friends with benefits.
Since that night in the bathroom, the line you had crossed stopped being an isolated accident.
Without really talking about it seriously, you two started taking advantage of that "friends with benefits" setup a bit too much.
At first, it was just random messages—half-joking, half-serious.
I almost yelled at a cameraman today. I need to destress, like, right now.
Should I bring you some chamomile tea, or do you prefer a different kind of therapy?
The private nurse one worked pretty well for me last time 😌
I’m free this afternoon.
Noted.
Other times, you were the one opening the door:
Shitty day. Two difficult patients, an unbearable family member, and a doctor who seems straight out of hell.
Tell me what time, and I'll bring food and something to drink.
I don't know if I want to eat or just have you kill me.
I can do both. In that order.
I'll be home at 10:30 PM.
And just like that, without any grand speeches, the encounters became more frequent.
Sometimes it was at your apartment: he’d arrive first, order food, put on some music, and you’d catch up... and sooner or later, a lingering look, a knee brushing against yours, or a hand staying just a little too long on your waist would end up pushing you both to the couch, to your bed, or onto the kitchen counter.
Other times it was in his studio, when it just so happened that you were near the building and he could slip away for a couple of hours. Chan would act like he didn't see a thing if you crossed paths in the hallway, and you’d walk straight into the studio, closing the door behind you.
The pattern repeated itself: first small talk, laughter, a comment here and there about work... and then the deliberate slide. His hands on your thigh. Your fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt. An excuse as simple as:
"Feel like keeping up with 'the habit'?"
And there you went again.
The messages changed their tone too. Without becoming explicitly dirty all the time, there was definitely more confidence, more innuendos.
I heard a song today and I could only think about you in the bathroom.
You know it's kinda scary how much you think about that bathroom?
It's scary how much I think about you in general, but let's pretend I didn't say that.
I can't feel my legs after this shift..
I can help you not feel them for a different reason.
You're dynamic.
And you keep replying, you know you love it.
Between one encounter and the next, everything remained "normal": you were still friends, you still told each other everything, sent absurd photos, and complained about work. But now there was a new, physical layer that neither of you made a real effort to stop.
There were nights when you only saw each other to have dinner and talk, and others that started the exact same way but ended with his t-shirt on your hallway floor and your hands gripping his hair.
Every now and then, one of you would set a boundary, half-joking:
"No falling asleep together, or I'll get attached" you'd say.
"No kissing 'like a couple' outside the house" he'd say.
And yet, it was becoming harder and harder to ignore that when he texted you "I need to see you," he wasn't just talking about sex anymore. Nor when you, in the middle of your break, opened your chat and his name was the first thing that popped up.
That dynamic, so comfortable and so dangerous at the same time, settled in. Every week, if schedules allowed, there was at least one night "to destress." Sometimes two.
Until, almost without you realizing it, you started to notice that what you did together no longer felt like just a practical arrangement between friends.
Only for adults (18+). If any of this is offensive to you or if you're under 18, please don't view it! All based on fictional events, none of this is real.
SUMMARY: Out there, you're just another fan in the front row. But behind the closed doors of his hotel room, with your fishnets torn and the concert adrenaline still rushing through his veins, Hyunjin reminds you who you really belong to.
The bass still thumps in your chest as you step out of the venue, as if the concert were still alive inside you. Your throat is a bit raw from all the screaming, your feet burn in your high boots, but you don't care. Every single second of that show was worth it, because you spent every single second just watching him.
Hyunjin.
You make your way through the crowd spilling out onto the street, excited voices talking about his dancing, his rapping, how he looked on stage, and you smile to yourself, knowing that no one suspects a thing. To them, you're just another fan with her lightstick, her tour wristband, her voice hoarse from singing. To yourself, you're still the girlfriend who had to hold back the urge to scream out something more than just fanchants every time he looked over at your section.
Because he did. You know it.
You felt his gaze more than once, locked onto you, sliding down your body, always returning to meet your eyes whenever you managed to catch his. The outfit you chose was no accident: the leather miniskirt, the fishnets, the tight top that hugged your figure and played into the aesthetic of that night's wardrobe. Matching him, like a shared secret in the middle of thousands of people.
No one knows. No one must know.
As you walk toward the taxi stand, you tightly grip the small SKZOO character plush hanging from your bag. You stroke it with your thumb, a mechanical gesture that soothes you. The night chill contrasts with the warmth you still feel on your skin. Every memory of the concert is a jolt: his hair damp with sweat, the way he bit his lip between songs, the half-smile when the crowd chanted his name.
You hail a taxi and give the hotel address. The driver turns on the radio, some random station, but you only hear the ad-libs in your head, the screams, the echo of his voice through the massive speakers. You look out the window, the city lights flashing past, and your mind leaps ahead a few hours: the hotel room door closing, just you and him, no cameras, no fans, no staff members.
Without having to pretend there is nothing between you.
When you arrive at the hotel, the lobby is half-empty. The front desk staff already recognizes all of you, but as always, you keep your distance, acting as if you're simply someone staying there by chance, nothing special. You take the elevator up to the floor where your room is—the one you requested to be put under your name and not his. Precautions, always precautions.
As you close the door behind you, the silence of the room feels strange after the thunder of the concert. You lean against the wood for a second, taking a deep breath, letting reality hit you all at once. You drop your bag onto the chair, the lightstick on the table, and take off the oversized jacket with the group's logo that you wore to disguise the outfit a bit.
The full-length mirror throws back your reflection: your makeup slightly smudged at the corners of your eyes, the spark in your gaze, the top clinging to your skin, the miniskirt still perfectly in place. You turn a bit to one side, then the other. You think about how he will see you when he opens that door.
You take off the tour wristband, the necklaces, the SKZOO keychains hanging from your skirt's belt loop. Piece by piece, you strip away everything that marks you as a fan, until you are left only with what marks you as his.
You sit on the bed for a moment, just to check your phone. The chat with him is the very first pinned conversation at the top. The last time you text each other was before the concert, when he asked you what section you’d be in, and you sent him a picture of your view from the front row. He only replied with a “👀” and a “I’m going to look for you in the crowd.”
As if you hadn't felt it.
The phone screen suddenly lights up with a new notification.
We’re heading to the hotel now.
Your heart does a little flip. You sit up straighter in bed, crossing one leg over the other. You hold back the urge to type out a whole paragraph and opt for something simple instead.
Tired?
The reply doesn't take long.
Not tired. My adrenaline is still through the roof. All I can think about is getting there. All I can think about is you
You feel your lips curve into a smile all on their own. You bite the tip of your finger to smother the grin.
I was watching you the whole time. There were thousands of people, and I only saw you. That outfit… are you trying to kill me or what?
You laugh quietly to yourself, imagining him typing quickly from the car seat, surrounded by the guys, trying to stop anyone from peeking over his shoulder.
Maybe I am. I'm waiting for you in the room.
You have no idea what things are crossing my mind right now. Stay up for me.
You close the chat, though you linger on his profile picture for a second. You think about the duality: the perfect idol in front of the world, and the boy who falls apart with you, who texts you impulsively, who lets himself go.
You get up and head to the bathroom. You touch up your lipstick a bit, fix a stray lock of hair, and get rid of any leftover merch still hanging from your clothes. When you step out, the room is dimly lit, with only a lamp turned on by the bed. You sit on the edge, cross your legs again, smooth your skirt a little over your thighs, and take a deep breath.
Time stretches: you don't know if ten minutes pass or thirty. You check your phone again. Nothing new. You get up, pace around the room a bit, walk to the window, and pull back the curtain, looking at the city lights in the distance. Imagining him drawing closer in a black van, hidden behind tinted windows, makes you nervous in an almost teenage way.
And then, the phone vibrates.
We just arrived. Coming up now.
Your pulse races. You turn off the hallway lamp, leaving only the one on the nightstand, creating a soft, almost intimate atmosphere. You stand in front of the bed, as if you were waiting on a small, makeshift stage.
You hear the keycard swipe through the lock.
The door opens and shuts with a soft thud. Hyunjin appears in the entryway hallway, still wearing part of his concert clothes: dark pants, a sleeveless shirt, a jacket dangling from one of his shoulders. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead and neck, his skin still slightly flushed from the exertion, his chest rising and falling at a rhythm that doesn't seem to have calmed down at all. His eyes lock with yours for a second, and then, they drop.
You feel his gaze trace your body, slowly but with an almost ravenous intensity. The top hugging your chest, the curve of your waist, the leather skirt barely covering the upper part of your thighs, the fishnets, the high boots. His eyes move back up, lingering on your lips, and something in his expression changes.
He doesn't say "hello." He doesn't say your name. He doesn't say anything. He just lets his jacket drop to the floor and heads toward you with determined steps.
He crosses the threshold and, in a single movement, closes the door behind him with his free hand while the other is already settling firmly on your waist. The dull thud of the door shutting blends with the small gasp that escapes your mouth as he pulls you in, erasing what little space was left between your bodies.
"Fuck..." was the only thing he let out before slamming his mouth against yours.
His lips fall upon yours with urgency, as if he had been holding back through the entire concert. There is no initial testing of the waters, no hesitation. He kisses you like someone arriving at the place they’ve been desperate to return to for hours. You taste the sweat mixed with his cologne—slightly sweet, familiar.
His hand on your waist presses you against his chest; the other, almost immediately, slides downward, slipping along the side of your skirt and settling decisively on your backside. His fingers slip under the edge of the leather, touching the bare skin above your fishnets, squeezing tightly.
"The whole fucking concert..." he murmured against your lips, biting them. "Watching you down there, in that fucking outfit... I knew no one else would notice, but I did. I knew you did it for me. You have no idea what you’ve done to me tonight..."
You try to say something, maybe a witty comeback, but you lose your train of thought the moment you feel his fingers press into you, leaving the imprint of his hand. He pulls away for just an instant, just enough to look you in the eyes, his breath crashing against your lips.
His fingers dug into the skin of your hips right above the fishnet stockings as he shoved you backward until your spine hit the wall. There was no sweetness in that first kiss. It was hunger. It was the high of three hours on stage and having you right there, in secret, just for him.
"Dancing like that... right in front of me... knowing I was watching you" his eyes darken a bit. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to stay focused?"
His words pierce right through you, waking up every single jolt of adrenaline built up during the concert. His dilated pupils, his clenched jaw, the way he looks at you makes you feel like the entire stadium stage has shrunk down into this single room.
"Just for you, hm?" you answer, though your voice comes out quieter than expected.
A lopsided smile appears on his lips.
"You're always just for me" he answers without hesitation. "But tonight... tonight you were my downfall."
He kisses you again, slower this time, but without losing any of the intensity. His lips move over yours as if he wants to memorize every curve, every reaction. His fingers on your backside ease up on the pressure for a moment, only to squeeze again, setting a rhythm of their own, as if he still had the music echoing in his blood.
He turns you around with ease, pinning you against the wall. You feel him press against your back, already hard against your backside. His hands travel up your thighs, tracing the fishnets until they reach your skirt. He lifts it without ceremony and groans when he sees what you had chosen to wear underneath: nothing.
"Seriously?" he laughs against your neck, biting your skin. "You went to the concert like this? With nothing underneath?"
You nod, unable to speak as his fingers move down and touch you directly. He was trembling a little, still wired with energy. He touched you with two fingers, opening you up, checking how wet you already were.
"So ready for me..." he whispered, kissing your shoulder as his fingers entered you with deliberate slowness. "My girl, so good... so bad."
He turned you around again to look you in the eyes. His gaze was glassy, the exact same look he had when he was completely lost on stage. But right now, that intensity was directed only at you.
"I want to fuck you with your boots on" he said bluntly, biting your lower lip. "And the fishnets. Don't take them off."
Aquí tienes la traducción de este fragmento tan explícito y pasional, manteniendo la separación exacta de tus párrafos:
He didn't wait for an answer. He lifted you with ease and carried you over to the bed.
He dropped you onto the mattress and positioned himself between your legs. He ripped his shirt off in one motion, exposing his skin glistening with sweat and his muscles still tense from the exertion of the concert.
He didn't take off your boots or your fishnets. Just like he said.
He leaned over you, kissing you hard while one hand slid down between your bodies. He touched you right through the fishnet fabric, feeling how soaked you already were. Then, using both his index and middle fingers, he tugged hard to the sides. The sound of the fabric ripping was obscene, sharp. The stockings tore right down the center, leaving your pussy completely exposed.
"Fuck..." he groaned, staring at the opening he had just made. "Look at what you're doing to me. Completely exposed for me."
He ran two fingers along your slit, gathering your wetness and spreading it all over your entrance. He stretched you open with them without any rush, rubbing your clit with his thumb while he watched you.
"So wet... Does it turn you on that much that I was watching you the whole concert?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled his pants down just enough to free his cock, hard and heavy. He rubbed the tip against your exposed pussy through the tear in the fishnets, coating it in your juices, teasing you. Then he pushed inside in a single, deep motion, tearing a choked moan from you. The ripped stockings rubbed against his hips with every thrust.
He stayed still for a second, his forehead pressed against your neck, breathing heavily.
"So tight... always so good for me."
He began to fuck you with long, hard strokes, the leather of your skirt pushed up to your waist, the ripped fishnets clinging to your skin. Every thrust shoved you against the mattress. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other squeezed your throat with just the right amount of pressure.
"The whole concert, thinking about this" he groaned. "About fucking you in this fucking outfit..."
"Hyunjin..." you pleaded, arching your back.
He smiled that dark smile he only showed to you.
"Say it again."
"Hyunjin, please..."
He changed the angle and hit you right where you liked it most. Your nails dug into his back. He let out a husky groan and kissed you with tongue, almost violently.
"Harder" you begged.
And he obeyed.
He flipped you over, putting you on your knees, and fucked you from behind, holding you tightly by the hips. One hand reached down to rub your clit through the ripped hole in the stockings while he drove inside you without mercy. You could hear the wet sound of every thrust, his groans, your own ragged breath.
"I'm going to come inside," he warned, his voice cracking. "Is that what you want? Want me to fill you up while you still have your fishnets and boots on?"
"Y-yes... please..."
He came with a long, guttural groan, pushing as deep as possible. He held you there for a few seconds, trembling, before removing the fingers that were still holding you and stroking your back with a contradictory softness.
He turned you over again, kissing you more slowly this time, and moved down to your sex. He spread the torn opening of the stockings even wider and licked you calmly, cleaning up what he had spilled, sucking your clit until you came in his mouth, your legs shaking around his head.
When he finally pulled away, he looked up at you from below with glistening lips and a satisfied smile.
You look at him as he hovers slightly over you, his hair falling into his eyes, his chest still heaving, his expression somewhere between exhausted and fired up. Without thinking, you bring your hands to his face, framing his cheeks, your thumbs tracing the barely visible marks of his already smudged makeup.
He closes his eyes for a second at your touch.
You lean in to kiss the tip of his nose—a soft, intimate gesture that momentarily breaks the tension. He smiles, that genuine smile he almost never shows on stage, reserved for moments like this, when there are no cameras or lights to change him.
He rests his forehead against yours, breathing at your exact same pace.
"Up there..." he begins, his voice calmer now, "when I look out at the crowd and see you, I feel like I can handle anything. But at the same time..." he clicks his tongue, laughing a little against your lips, "at the same time, I just want it to be over so I can come running back here."
His fingers intertwine with yours over your thigh. He squeezes your hand, as if he wants to anchor you to him.
"Do you know what I was thinking about while I was dancing?" he asks, playing with your hand, bringing it to his chest, right over his racing heartbeat.
He shakes his head slowly, teasingly, his lips barely brushing yours.
"I was thinking that nobody had a single clue that the most beautiful girl in the whole room... is mine."
The word "mine" echoes in your ribs. You squeeze his hand back, feeling the strong pulse beneath your palm.
"And I was thinking" you reply, looking directly at him, "that if anyone knew how jealous you get when I say you're not my bias, the stadium would collapse."
His laugh, genuine, fills the room for a moment. That laugh you know so well, the one that shatters the image of the perfect idol and reveals the boy who laughs with his head thrown back, his eyes turning into tiny crescent moons.
His hand returns to your waist, his fingers tracing the line where the skirt meets your skin.
"That's not jealousy" he says, dropping his voice again, bringing his mouth close to your ear. "It's the absolute truth. I'm your bias and your boyfriend. I hold a double title. I've earned it."
You can't help but shiver at his tone, at the way his words feel like both a promise and a declaration at the same time.
You pull him toward you, closing the remaining space. Your lips seek his again, this time at a pace that becomes entirely your own: less desperate, but just as intense, each kiss deeper than the last. His hands glide, memorizing your body over the skirt and the top as if it were the first time, even though you already know the map of his caresses by heart.
A while later, wrapped in his arms, he rests his chin on top of your head, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip.
"Are you going to look this gorgeous at the next concert too?" he asks in a whisper, his voice sleepy yet playful.
You laugh softly against his chest.
"It depends" you reply. "Are you going to keep looking at me like you want to jump off the stage?"
You feel his smile against your hair.
"I’m always going to look at you that way" he says, without hesitating. "Only nobody else needs to know why."
You lift your head to look at him. His eyes are hard to read under the dim light, but you recognize the glow of happy exhaustion, of satisfaction and peace.
You move a bit closer, nesting your body against his.
"It's a deal" you whisper. "I’ll keep being just another fan in the front row. And you’ll keep being the boy who only sees me."
He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around you a little tighter.
You did amazing with the sub Chan fic, here to request more please!! Maybe you punishing him for being too friendly with a girl on a fan call or you hadn’t been punishing him recently so he’s purposely acting bratty to get you to Dom him 👀
Hi, sorry for the delay! I'm trying to catch up on all the requests! I hope you enjoy it and like it! 💜🌼
Only for adults (18+). If any of this is offensive to you or if you're under 18, please don't view it! All based on fictional events, none of this is real.
You got home later than usual. Chan was already there, wearing his hoodie, his hair still a bit damp from the shower, with his laptop on his lap, headphones on, and that focused expression he always got when he was reviewing work. He welcomed you with that 'my girlfriend is home' smile that usually melts you, but tonight, he only gave you a quick kiss on the cheek.
'You were very busy today, weren't you?' you said, dropping your bag on the couch.
He blinked, a little confused.
'I'm always busy, baby. Why?'
You calmly took off your jacket.
You walked into the kitchen, poured yourself a glass of water, and came back. You leaned against the doorframe, watching him.
'I saw several clips from your fancalls today. Again.'
Chan went quiet for a second. He already knew where this was going.
'Ah… yeah?'
'Mmm.' You took a slow sip. 'You were very… attentive. Again. You told the one with the braids, "if you keep looking at me like that, I'm gonna have to sing something just for you," right? And to the other one, the one wearing your merch hoodie, you dropped that "you look too pretty for this to be just a phone call." The whole fandom has already saved it.'
Chan rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous laugh.
'It was just fanservice, honey. Nothing serious. Just to make them feel good.'
"Sure." You put down the glass and walked over until you were standing right in front of him. "Very well-practiced fanservice. Because you know exactly what to say to make them lose their minds. And you say it in that low voice, with that smirk… the same one you use with me when you want something."
He shifted on the couch. The laptop was forgotten.
"It's not the same."
"No?" You leaned in a little, resting your hands on the back of the couch on either side of his head, looking down at him even though the height difference was minimal. "Because you say it to me too. But when you say it to me, I actually follow through. On the other hand, with them… you just leave them wanting more and move on with your life."
Chan swallowed hard. He was already starting to get tense, and not just from nerves.
You smiled, lowering your voice.
"Take off the hoodie."
He obeyed without arguing. He pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. Underneath, he was only wearing a tight black t-shirt. You ran a finger along the collar of his t-shirt, slowly pulling it down until you touched his skin.
"Tonight, you're not going to touch me. Not even once. If you do, we stop and you go to sleep this turned on. Understood?"
"Yes," he answered, his voice already sounding raspier.
"Say it completely."
"Yes, I understand."
"Good."
You sat astride his lap without taking off your clothes just yet. You calmly unbuttoned his sweatpants and pulled them down along with his boxers. He was already half-hard. You, on the other hand, lifted yourself up just enough to slide off your panties, but kept your blouse and skirt on. You sat back down on top of him, this time letting his hardness get caught between your lips, hot and firm.
You started to move slowly, rubbing yourself against his entire length. You could feel the head brushing against your clitoris with every glide. It was slick, effortless. Chan let out a low groan, and his hands instinctively came up toward your hips.
"Hands down" you ordered. "On the couch. Don't move them."
Chan obeyed, digging his fingers into the cushion. You kept kissing him, biting his lower lip, then licking the bite. You could feel him getting harder against your thigh, but you weren't giving him enough friction.
"I thought of something while watching those videos" you whispered against his mouth. "That maybe you should learn not to flirt so much with people who can't do anything with you. Or maybe… I should remind you who actually can."
You kept moving slowly, sliding back and forth, using his length as if it were a toy just for you. Every time the head brushed against your entrance, he caught his breath, waiting for you to finally let him inside. But you never did. You only used him for your pleasure, rubbing against him with precision, moaning softly every time you found the perfect angle.
"Fuck, you're so hard…" you murmured against his ear. "And all of this for flirting with fans who can't even touch you. Do you like being used like this? Being left wanting while I come all over you?"
"Yes…" he confessed, his voice breaking. "I like it."
"Mmm, so obedient." You bit his earlobe. "Let's see if you stay that way."
You slipped a hand down between the two of you and brushed against his erection, barely a touch. Chan let out a choked sound and lifted his hips, seeking more contact. You immediately pulled away.
"Still."
"I'm sorry," he said quickly, lowering his hips again.
You smiled, pleased.
"You're going to stay very still. I'm going to use you for a while… and you're not going to come until I decide you can," you finished the sentence in a low, calm, almost sweet voice. "Understood?"
Chan nodded, his breathing already more ragged. His hands were dug into the couch cushion as if he were fighting against his own instinct.
"Yes… I understand."
"Good" you smiled, satisfied.
You kept rubbing against him, slower, more deliberate. Every time the head of his length brushed against your entrance, he caught his breath. You didn't let him inside. You only used him.
"Fuck…" he whispered, watching how the buttons of your blouse opened with the movement, revealing the curve of your breasts.
He kept looking at you. You smiled and unbuttoned one more button, just enough for him to see how your nipples were hardening against your bra. You kept rubbing against him until the pleasure really started to build. You speeded up the movement a little, frictioning your clitoris against him over and over, until you came with a muffled groan, squeezing your thighs around his hardness. You felt your legs shaking as you came all over him, soaking him.
Chan was trembling. His breath was short, and his gaze was locked onto your face.
"Don't come" you warned him, still recovering from the orgasm. "Not yet."
You slid down to the floor, knelt between his legs, and began the long blowjob you had promised. First, you just licked from the base to the tip, slowly, with a flat tongue. Then you wrapped your lips around the head, but didn't go down more than a few centimeters. You sucked hard for a couple of seconds and pulled your tongue out again, coating him completely in spit. Every time you noticed he was close—from the way his thighs trembled or how he caught his breath—you stopped completely. You kissed the inside of his thighs, his balls, but never enough for him to come.
Chan had his head thrown back, groaning through his teeth.
"Please… please, I need more…"
"Shhh." You looked up at him from below, his length resting against your cheek. "Today you don't ask. Today you endure."
You sucked him again, this time going deeper, but always stopping before he reached the edge. You had him glistening with spit, rock-hard, pulsing against your tongue. Every time you let go, he let out a frustrated groan.
After several minutes of this game, you stood up and sat back down on top of him. This time you actually lined him up and lowered yourself slowly, just the head, letting him inside barely a couple of centimeters. Chan let out a long, almost desperate groan. You stayed still, not going down any further.
"Look at me" you ordered.
When his eyes met yours, you lowered yourself just a tiny bit more… and pulled back up. You repeated it several times: just the tip, going in and out slowly, controlling every single movement. His hands were still on the couch, knuckles white from squeezing so hard.
"You're shaking" you teased softly. "Does it affect you that much to be denied what you want? Imagine how they feel when you drop all those pretty lines and then close the call."
"It's not the same…" he gasped. "With you, it's real."
"Exactly." You slammed down halfway all at once and stayed there, squeezing him with your inner walls. "And that's why tonight you decide how you flirt… but I decide when and how you come."
You started riding him with a slow but deep rhythm. Every time he tried to thrust upward, you stopped and pinched his nipple through his t-shirt as a warning.
"Still. Only I move."
You felt him so swollen inside you. You kept fucking slowly until you felt your second orgasm approaching. You came with his length completely inside, squeezing him tight, contracting around him. Chan let out a choked groan and threw his head back against the couch cushions; his eyes rolled back for a second before closing tightly. He was right on the edge, shaking, but he hadn't come. You felt him trying to control himself, how his length throbbed desperately inside you.
When you got off him completely, he groaned in frustration.
"Baby… please, I can't take it anymore…"
You stood up, fixed your skirt, and headed to the bathroom as if it were nothing.
"I'm going to take a shower. If you're able to not touch yourself while I'm inside, I'll make it up to you when I come out. If you touch yourself… you go to sleep this turned on."
"Fuck…" he groaned, his voice breaking. "I'm gonna explode."
"Then endure it" you answered from the doorway, smiling.
You showered calmly. You took your time soaping up, washing your hair, letting the hot water relax you. You knew he was on the couch, hard, denied, waiting. When you finally came out, wrapped only in a towel, you found him exactly where you had left him. His hands were still dug into the cushion, his length red, swollen, dripping precum. He hadn't touched himself.
You smiled, satisfied.
"Good boy."
You let the towel drop to the floor. With a tilt of your head, you motioned for him to follow you. You walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, completely naked. Chan stood in front of you.
"Take off all your clothes."
He obeyed in silence. When he was completely naked in front of you, you looked him up and down calmly.
"You've been a good boy after all… so I'm going to give you what you deserve."
You knelt on the floor. This time, the blowjob was more intense. His length was extremely hard, almost painfully swollen. You took him all the way to the back of your throat several times, coating him in spit, sucking hard. Chan couldn't hold back his groans; they came out raspy, desperate. You knew he was right on the edge after holding out for so long, but you also knew how much he loved this game. When you noticed he was about to lose control completely, you stood up.
You got onto the bed on all fours, looking back.
"You have permission to do whatever you want now."
Chan didn't need to be told twice. He positioned himself behind you and thrust his length inside you in one single, hard push. The groan he let out was almost animalistic. He started fucking you hard, deep, gripping your hips as if he were terrified you'd deny him again. Every thrust was hard, precise.
"Fuck… you're so tight…" he gasped.
You started to taunt him, your voice breathy:
"Are you going to fill me up, Channie?" you asked between moans, looking at him over your shoulder. "Are you going to come inside me after being such a good boy all night?"
Chan let out a raspy growl and dug his fingers tighter into your hips. The simple fact of hearing you talk like that was driving him crazy. He started to thrust faster, deeper, hitting that spot that made you see stars. Every time he went all the way in, the wet sound of skin against skin filled the room.
"Fuck… yes" he gasped, his voice breathy. "I want to fill you up so much… so much that it spills out."
"Then do it" you taunted him, purposely squeezing your inner walls around his length. "Fill me completely, Channie. I want to feel you come inside."
That was what broke him.
Chan started to fuck you with an almost desperate intensity. His thrusts were hard, fast, the sound of his hips clapping against your ass obscene. Every time he entered completely, he let out a deep groan that sent shivers down your spine. You could tell how his legs were shaking, how he was trying to hold out a little longer, but he was already too far over the edge.
"I'm… fuck, I'm so close" he warned, his voice breaking.
"Then come," you allowed him, pushing back to take him deeper. "Come inside me."
Chan let out a long, raspy groan when he finally let himself go. You felt him pulsing inside you, hot, filling you up exactly like you had asked. He kept thrusting a couple more times, emptying himself completely, until his movements turned erratic and he finally went still, trembling, with his forehead resting against your back.
He was breathing heavily, as if he had just run a marathon.
After a few seconds, he pulled out of you carefully and helped you lie down on your side. He dropped down right next to you, still shaking a little. He wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed your shoulder, the back of your neck, your throat, soft and grateful.
"Fuck…" he whispered against your skin. "You drove me crazy tonight."
You smiled, turning around a bit to look at him. You ran a hand through his sweaty hair and gave him a slow kiss on the lips.
"That's the point" you answered in a low voice. "The next time you're on a fancall and you feel like dropping one of your pickup lines… I want you to remember this."
Chan let out a tired laugh and pulled you tighter against him.
"I think I'm going to remember this for weeks."
You stayed like that for a few minutes, in silence, catching your breath. He kept leaving lazy kisses on your shoulder, the back of your neck, your cheek. When he finally calmed down a bit, he looked at you with that tired but satisfied smile that always melted you.
"Do you forgive me for the fancalls?" he asked softly, almost shyly.
You arched an eyebrow and pinched his nipple as a warning.
"I'm not sure yet. I might have to punish you again next week."
it’s their 11th anniversary 🥹🤧 I wish they stay healthy and happy 🥹🥹💗
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HONEY!! 💜🌼😭 I can't believe it's already been so long and that I've been with them for so many years T_T
That's right, may our boys stay healthy and happy!
Hiii! :) I was wondering if you would do a stray kids reaction to finding out their crush having a lot of tattoos? ❤️ (I have a sleeve, back of my neck, my full back done and part of my leg sleeve done💕)
People are shocked when they find out I have so many tattoos because of how I look, they always think I’m really young and because I’m always in my hoodie lol
Hi! I’m sorry for the late delivery of your order. I hope you like it! I’ve tried to emphasize everything you asked for, but if you’re not happy with it, please let me know and I’ll try to do better! 💜 🌼
BANGCHAN
Chan was already head over heels for you long before he saw a single drop of ink. He loved the way you laughed, how you practically lived in your oversized hoodies, and how comfortable you seemed just being yourself. What he didn't know was what you were hiding underneath.
That day, you were both in the studio. He was in his swivel chair, tweaking a mix, while you were sprawled out on the sofa scrolling through your phone. You were wearing your usual baggy pants, fuzzy socks, and a hoodie—the version of you he knew and, honestly, already thought was perfect.
"Do you want to order some food?" he asked, spinning his chair slightly to look at you.
"Yeah, but I'm roasting. Let me just..." you muttered, pulling your pant leg up to your thigh to cool down.
Chan glanced over for just a second and suddenly froze.
There, on your leg, peeking out from under the fabric, he saw the lines of a tattoo that was neither small nor subtle. It was clear the piece continued further up, disappearing under your clothes.
His heart gave a little thud in his chest. Since when...?
"Hey..." he said, his voice dropping an octave without meaning to. "That's new to me."
He looked down at your leg, then back up to your face, as if he needed to confirm you were still the same person.
"What is?" you asked, playing coy even though you knew exactly what he was looking at.
"Your tattoo." He cleared his throat. "I didn't know you had one there."
You gave him a half-shy smile.
"It’s not just one" you confessed. "I have more. A lot more."
He blinked, genuinely surprised. "Really?"
"A full sleeve, my whole back, the back of my neck, part of my leg..." you listed, giving a small shrug. "I'm always in a hoodie, so nobody ever notices."
Chan looked at you in a completely different light. It wasn't judgment; it was that spark you get when you discover a whole new side to someone you already like.
"That explains it" he whispered.
"Explains what?" you asked, curious.
He let out a soft, slightly nervous laugh.
"I always felt like there was something about you I wasn't seeing fully. It intrigued me." He looked back at your leg, trying not to be too obvious. "Now I want to see the whole album, not just the teaser."
He ventured to ask, carefully: "Can I see it a bit more? I promise not to be weird about it."
You pulled your pant leg up a bit further. As the design revealed itself, Chan swallowed hard. He was trying his best to focus on the art, but he also found it incredibly sexy how the ink accentuated your skin.
"Wow..." he said under his breath. "This is... intense."
He looked up at you.
"I already liked you way too much with all those layers of clothes on" he admitted, half-joking, half-serious. "This isn't helping at all."
"Is that a bad thing?" you teased.
Chan shook his head.
"For me, yeah. Because now it’s going to be ten times harder to act like I don't have a crush on you when you're just lounging on my sofa with an incredible tattoo on your leg" he replied, smiling, but with total honesty in his eyes.
As he turned back to his chair, he found himself thinking that what attracted him most wasn't just the ink—it was the contrast. The girl in the hoodie who seemed so sweet... and the silent fire you’d been carrying hidden all this time.
LEE KNOW
To Minho, you had always seemed… dangerous in a very quiet way. Nothing in your clothes gave it away: hoodies, beanies, oversized cozy things. But he loved the way you spoke, your dry humor, and the way you’d look him dead in the eye without ever looking away. Small things that, unintentionally, made his heart beat just a little bit faster.
That day, you met up at your usual café. He arrived early, as always, and by the time you walked in, he’d been watching the door for a while without ever admitting it.
You sat down, dropped your backpack, and sighed.
"It’s way too hot in here."
"Told you" he replied, sounding indifferent—or at least, that’s what he wanted you to think. "You always come in too many layers."
You looked down at your hoodie.
"Yeah, I definitely overdid it today."
With a quick motion, you pulled it off, leaving you in a dark tank top. Minho glanced over... and right then, his mask of neutrality slipped.
Your arm, a huge part of it, was covered in ink. It wasn't just a tiny doodle. Intricate lines formed part of a full sleeve. It was a very distinct aesthetic, very you.
He stayed quiet for a few seconds, processing it.
"…Wow," he finally said, completely unfiltered.
You looked down at your arm.
"Too much?" you asked, already used to that reaction.
Minho shook his head slowly.
"No. Just… unexpected" he admitted. "You, with your massive hoodies… I figured you were the type to get scared just looking at a needle."
You laughed.
"Well, looks like I'm not."
He tilted his head slightly, observing you differently now. He had always liked you, but this added a layer he didn't even know he needed.
"Can I say something without it sounding weird?" he asked.
"Depends" you teased.
"I saw you as 'innocent'" he confessed. "Maybe too much. And I thought that if I got to know you better, I’d find something that broke that image. I think I just found it."
He leaned in a bit closer to you, his eyes fixed on your arm.
"Can I get a better look?" he asked, his voice dropping into that low, silky tone of his.
You moved your arm closer. He scanned the ink with a perfectionist’s eye, as if he were analyzing a choreography. He didn't touch you, but he was close enough for you to feel his presence.
"It’s powerful" he said. "I don't know… it makes you look more… dangerous. In a good way."
"Do you like that?" you provoked him.
He gave a small, almost conspiratorial smile.
"I’ve always loved contrasts" he replied. "And you are the definition of contrast right now."
He lifted his gaze back to your eyes, holding the look a second longer than usual.
"I think I like you even more like this" he admitted, acting nonchalant, and quickly turned back to his coffee before you could notice how much his pulse had quickened.
CHANGBIN
Changbin already adored you exactly as you were: the girl who laughs at his bad jokes, who sends him encouraging texts when he has late-night practice, and who always shows up in her favorite hoodie with an “I just woke up, but I’m here” face.
That’s why, when he invited you to the gym, he did it more because he wanted to spend time with you than for the workout itself.
"I’ll show you some basics, it’ll be fun" he said.
What he didn’t expect was what came along with "comfortable clothes."
You were warming up. He was in a sleeveless shirt; you, at first, still in your hoodie. After a few sets, you started to feel the heat sticking to your skin.
"Binnie… I’m melting" you complained.
"Take off the hoodie, then" he replied, laughing. "You’re not in an igloo."
You rolled your eyes but agreed. You pulled it over your head… and were left in a sports top that left your entire arm visible: a large part of your sleeve.
He looked at you for a second and a muffled "What!?" literally escaped him.
"Since when do you have… that?" he asked, pointing at your arm without any shame.
You felt a little self-conscious.
"For a while now…" you said. "Nobody sees it because I’m always covered up."
He stared at you intently, as if his brain were readjusting every file he had on you.
“My crush… tattooed. A lot. Very tattooed.”
He stepped closer, not too much, but enough to appreciate the design.
"I always thought you were so cute" he suddenly confessed. "With your hoodies, your baby face…"
"Hey" you complained, laughing.
"And now, suddenly, you’re cute and… intense" he said, searching for the word. "It’s a dangerous combination."
He looked you in the eyes, and this time he didn't dodge it.
"Can I get a good look?" he asked.
You showed him your entire arm. He followed the ink with his gaze, serious for once.
"It’s incredible" he whispered. "You look… strong. Like you’re wearing your story on your skin."
Then he added, almost without a filter:
"And, yeah, also very sexy. But I already suspected that before."
"Oh, really?" you arched an eyebrow.
He laughed, a bit flushed.
"Did you think I was inviting you to the gym just for the sport?" he joked. "Now I have double the motivation to keep you coming back."
And for the rest of the workout, every time you passed by him with your tattooed arm exposed, he noticed his concentration slipping toward you rather than the weights.
HYUNJIN
Hyunjin was already a goner for you long before he knew you had tattoos. He loved the way you listened, how you took care of others, and how you always had your hoodie on—as if the world were too cold and you knew how to protect yourself.
The event he invited you to was just an excuse: he wanted to see you dressed up, he wanted to see another side of you.
"I bought you something" he said, shyly, when you arrived at a quiet room before the event. "For you to wear today."
He showed you a delicate necklace. His hand trembled slightly as he handed it to you.
"Put it on me" you said, smiling.
He swallowed hard.
"Me? Okay…"
You stood in front of the mirror, gathering your hair up to give him access to your neck… and then it happened: the back of your neck was exposed, and he saw the tattoo in that area for the very first time.
He went absolutely still.
The line of ink, the design framed right where your hair ended… something in his art-loving brain clicked immediately.
"…I didn't know you had this" he whispered.
You felt a sudden wave of vulnerability.
"I don't usually show it much" you replied. "I have quite a few, actually."
He didn't respond right away. He stepped a little closer, almost with reverence, looping the necklace around your neck, but his gaze remained fixed on the tattoo.
He moved his fingers to close the clasp; they brushed your skin and, very closely, the ink.
"It’s beautiful" he murmured, his voice soft. "Very you."
"Does it bother you?" you asked, looking at him through the mirror.
Hyunjin frowned, almost offended.
"Why would something that makes you even more you bother me?" he replied. "I spend the whole day observing details about you, and now I find out that on top of everything, you had hidden art. It’s like… an extra gift."
He dared to bring his face a bit closer. His eyes went from the tattoo to your eyes in the reflection.
"I like that it’s here" he said, with total sincerity. "It’s a spot that not everyone sees. Only someone who gets close enough."
In a small, controlled impulse, he leaned in and gave a barely-there, very soft kiss on the skin near the tattoo, without touching it directly.
"I swear, I’m not trying to be dramatic…" he said with a nervous little laugh. "But this just made me have an even bigger crush on you."
HAN
Jisung had been hung up on you for a long time. He loved talking to you online, he loved it when you showed up in person in your giant hoodie—you seemed so comfortable, so natural, that sometimes he thought, “There's no way she’s real.”
When he invited you to that more formal dinner, he spent the entire afternoon imagining what you’d look like. But nothing prepared him for when you actually arrived.
From the front, the dress was beautiful, simple, elegant. He was already halfway knocked out just by that. But when you turned around to greet someone behind you, his breath hitched.
Your back was exposed. And not just your back: your tattoo, occupying almost the entire surface, unfolded like a living illustration.
Jisung just stood there looking at you with a mix of shock, fascination, and a little bit of “I’ve been in love with the demo version of you.”
When you turned back to face him, you noticed his expression.
"Does it look that weird?" you asked, feeling insecure.
He shook his head quickly.
"No, no, no. It’s just…" he laughed nervously. "I’m processing some very intense new information."
He lowered his voice and leaned in a little, as if sharing a secret.
"I’ve had a crush on you for a long time, okay?" he confessed all at once—because that’s how it is with Jisung, things just slip out. "And now I find out that, on top of everything, you have all of this on your back… it’s a lot for my heart to take."
You blushed, but you smiled.
"Do you like it… or does it scare you?" you asked.
He stared at you for a few seconds. There was no doubt in his eyes.
"I love it" he replied. "It fascinates me. It’s like… having read you in black and white for months and suddenly discovering that you were always in full color."
He asked, almost whispering:
"Can I get a good look? Just for a second."
You turned slightly to the side. He scanned the ink with his eyes; he was completely captivated.
"You’re… incredible" he said, not realizing he had spoken out loud. "In a hoodie, in a dress, with or without tattoos… but this… this adds a whole new layer to my crush. Leveling up."
When you faced him again, he didn't even try to hide it anymore.
"If I thought you were gorgeous before, now I don't even know what word to use" he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "Just a warning, I’m going to be looking at you a lot today. I can't help it."
FELIX
Felix always felt especially comfortable with you. He loved going to your apartment because everything there was peaceful: blankets on the sofa, soft lighting, the smell of something delicious in the kitchen… and you, almost always, in your favorite hoodie.
That afternoon, you were going to play video games and order some food. When he rang the doorbell, he was already smiling, thinking only about spending time with you.
You opened the door in your usual oversized hoodie… but this time, you were wearing shorts.
Felix smiled automatically to greet you, but his eyes drifted down for a split second—and they got caught.
Your thigh. The ink climbing from the lower part upwards, part of your tattoo clearly peeking out. It wasn’t a small drawing; it was part of your leg sleeve, visible and very distinct.
For a second, he stood still on the threshold, processing.
"Hi…" you said, with a smile.
"H-hi" he replied, and his deep voice came out a bit softer than usual.
He came in, took off his shoes, and tried to act natural… but as he walked behind you toward the living room, his eyes drifted back to your leg. Between the long hoodie and the shorts, the tattoo looked like a half-kept secret.
You settled on the sofa, controllers in hand. You sat with one leg tucked up on the cushion, leaving the thigh tattoo even more exposed. Felix sat beside you and, although he pretended to be very focused on the screen, he noticed his gaze slipping toward your skin again and again.
He lost lives he normally wouldn't. He pressed the wrong buttons. You laughed.
"You’re really distracted today, Lix" you commented, not fully suspecting why.
"N-no, I’m just having an off day" he lied terribly.
During a pause, while waiting for the next game to load, he made his move.
"Can I ask you something…?" he said, fidgeting with the controller.
"Sure."
"Your… tattoo." He gave a little nod toward your leg, feeling a bit shy. "Since when have you had it?"
You looked at your thigh and smiled.
"For quite a while. I have several, actually" you confessed. "People don’t see them because I’m always in a hoodie and long pants."
He nodded, still with that soft, fascinated expression.
"You always seemed so…" he smiled tenderly. "So small and someone to be protected. And now I find out that underneath the hoodie there was all of this…"
He lowered his voice, sounding a bit timid:
"Do you mind if I take a good look? Just… from up close, without touching."
You adjusted yourself a bit, putting your leg in a more visible position. Felix leaned in slightly, careful not to invade your space too much, and scanned the design with his eyes, calm and composed. The atmosphere remained warm and cozy, but his heart was beating a bit faster.
"It’s very beautiful…" he said eventually. "It looks incredible on you. I don't know, it makes me see you as… stronger. More you."
He looked into your eyes and smiled with that characteristic sweetness of his.
"I already had a huge crush on you…" he admitted, laughing softly. "And now, seeing tattoos on your leg… it’s too much for me."
You laughed, your cheeks feeling warm.
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
Felix leaned back a little closer to you on the sofa, the controller resting in his lap.
"A very good thing" he replied. "I like seeing parts of you that not everyone gets to see. It feels… special."
And as you both returned to the game, he kept playing, but now with a warm sensation in his chest every time he caught a glimpse of the ink on your skin, remembering that this was his crush, on his sofa, in comfortable clothes, letting him see a part of you that almost no one else knows.
SEUNGMIN
Seungmin loved talking to you about baseball. Every time he mentioned a game, you truly listened, even if you didn’t quite grasp all the rules. That genuine interest, combined with your endless hoodies and calm vibe, slowly caused a silent crush to bloom within him.
One day, he decided to invite you to the field.
“I’ll teach you how to bat a bit” he suggested, trying to sound casual. “That way, you’ll better understand what I’m always rambling about.”
You arrived at the field in comfortable clothes: sneakers, joggers, and a short-sleeved t-shirt. That day, you had left your hoodie at home. Your tattooed arm was on full display.
As Seungmin saw you approaching, the sentence he had prepared completely vanished from his mind. His eyes went straight to your arm—the sharp lines, the bold design peeking out from your sleeve.
“Hi” you said with a smile.
“Hey…” he replied, smiling back, though a look of sincere surprise lingered in his eyes. “You came prepared.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly, nodding toward your arm.
“I definitely wasn’t expecting that” he admitted, straightforward as ever.
You looked down at your tattoo and then back at him.
“This?” you asked. “Yeah… I’ve had it for a while. Hardly anyone sees it because I’m always covered up.”
Seungmin nodded slowly, processing it. He didn’t look at you with judgment, but rather like someone who had just discovered a new chapter in their favorite book.
“May I?” he asked, pointing to your arm, seeking permission to get a better look.
You moved closer. He spent a few seconds contemplating the design, serious and focused.
“It looks really good on you” he finally said. “It’s strong, but it doesn’t take away from who I already knew you to be. It just… adds to it.”
You let out a soft laugh.
“I thought it might break the image you had of me” you confessed.
He shrugged slightly.
“I liked you just the same in your giant hoodie” he admitted without thinking much about it. “But I also like that you’re different from what people assume when they see you.”
The word “liked” slipped out, and he cleared his throat, but he didn’t take it back.
He handed you the bat.
“Come on, let me show you” he said, shifting back to baseball.
You stepped in front of him. Seungmin stood behind you to help with your stance, his hands guiding yours on the bat. As he did, his skin brushed against your tattooed arm. He felt the contact—the contrast between the ink and your skin—and his heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t pull away.
“Relax your shoulders” he whispered close to your ear. “Like that.”
He lingered a second too long, catching the scent of your perfume, feeling the warmth of your body and the presence of the ink right under his fingers. He smiled to himself.
“And don't look at me like that... you’re making me lose my focus.”
I.N
There was always a special energy with Jeongin. He treated you with such affection, laughed constantly with you, and even though you seemed young and "soft" in your oversized hoodies, he sensed there was something more beneath the surface. That intuition turned into curiosity… and then into a quiet crush.
When he decided to teach you the choreography for his solo, he did it because he trusted you, but also because he wanted to share something deeply personal with you.
You were in a practice room, just the two of the two of you. He was in his sweats; you were in leggings, sneakers, and, as always, your hoodie.
You’d been practicing for quite a while. Between the laughter, the corrections, and the repetitions, you both started to break a sweat.
“It’s getting hot in here, isn't it?” he asked, his breathing a bit heavy.
“Starving” you replied.
You pulled off your hoodie, leaving you in a simple white t-shirt. You didn’t think twice about it; you were focused on nailing the steps. But as you sweated, the fabric began to cling softly to your skin, tracing the silhouette of your back. When you turned away from him to repeat a move in front of the mirror, Jeongin saw something through the slightly damp shirt—dark shapes that shouldn't have been there: lines, shadows… something that looked like ink.
He blinked, leaning in slightly to get a better look.
“Wait…” he said, stopping mid-motion. “What is that?”
“What is what?” you asked, confused.
“On your back…” he pointed, his eyes wide. “Is that… a tattoo?”
You caught your reflection in the mirror, saw the faint silhouette under the fabric, and smiled.
“Yeah” you answered casually. “My back is tattooed. And some other places, too.”
He stood there in shock for a few seconds, his mouth slightly agape.
“You?” He let out an incredulous laugh. “For real?”
“Yeah” you laughed along with him. “What’s so weird about it?”
He ran a hand through his hair, still processing.
“It’s just…” he said honestly. “I always thought you were so… soft. Like, the 'person-in-a-hoodie who needs protecting' type. And now I find out you have a full back tattoo. My brain is recalibrating.”
You lifted the back of your shirt just a tiny bit—just enough for him to see part of the design clearly without showing the whole thing. You turned slightly to the side so it wouldn’t feel too invasive.
Jeongin’s eyes grew even wider as he saw the detail.
“Wow…” he whispered, genuinely impressed. He wasn't sure where to look—at your back or at the mirror—trying not to be disrespectful, so he kept alternating between the two.
“It looks… incredible on you” he said. “You look so much more… mature. Like, ‘I know what I’m doing with my life and my skin’ type of mature.”
You pulled your shirt back down, amused.
“Is that a good thing?” you asked. He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck.
“It’s a very good thing. I already had a crush on ‘adorable hoodie’ you…” he confessed quickly, before he could overthink it. “And now I have a crush on ‘adorable hoodie + back tattoo’ you. So… yeah, I think the crush just got bigger.”
He said it half-jokingly, but his bright red cheeks gave him away.
“Come on, one more time from the top” he added, quickly changing the subject.
He took his position in front of you, but this time, every time you turned and your shirt clung to your back, he noticed. His eyes tried to stay on the choreography, but a single phrase kept looping in his head:
“My crush has a back tattoo. My crush has a back tattoo. My crush has a back tattoo…”
And curiously enough, it made him dance with even more energy.
Only for adults (18+). If any of this is offensive to you or if you're under 18, please don't view it! All based on fictional events, none of this is real.
SUMMARY: Working as part of ATEEZ’s staff has its perks, but none compare to the secret life you lead as Choi San’s girlfriend. After an intense concert where professional boundaries are pushed to the limit by lingering glances and silent provocations, San decides it's time for a "punishment." Between the luxury of a hotel suite and the firm rules of their relationship, they explore a night of absolute control, ending in a vulnerable connection that proves their bond goes far beyond the stage lights.
NOTE: This is my first ATEEZ fic; I hope you like it! Suggestions are always welcome. Thank you so much for reading!
The concert backstage was a familiar whirlwind: flickering lights, the echo of screaming fans in the distance, and that scent of sweat and adrenaline that clung to your skin. You had been working as part of ATEEZ's staff for months, and in that time, your life had taken an unexpected turn. Choi San wasn't just the charismatic idol you saw on stage; he was your boyfriend, the man who had claimed you in secret, far from the prying eyes of managers and fans. His duality drove you crazy: the sweet, playful San in public, and the relentless, dominant one when you were alone.
Tonight, after the encore, you saw him walk off stage with that post-show energy that made him glow. Sweaty, with messy hair and that tight black shirt that highlighted every line of his toned torso. Your eyes met, and a wolfish grin crossed his face. You knew what that look meant: he was in predator mode, and you were his favorite prey.
"Everything ready for the afterparty?" you asked, stepping closer while adjusting some cables in the hallway. You tried to sound casual, but your voice betrayed your racing pulse. It had been a few days without any alone time due to the tour, and the built-up sexual tension was palpable.
San stopped beside you, his hand discreetly brushing your waist while he pretended to check his phone.
"Yes, but first, come here" he murmured, his voice low and authoritative, for your ears only. He subtly led you toward a dimly lit corner of the backstage area, where the bustle was muffled. "You've been a good girl today, working hard. But I saw you watching me during the performance. Thinking about something inappropriate?"
Heat rushed to your cheeks. He always did that: reading your thoughts, exposing them with that mix of teasing and control.
"Maybe" you admitted, lowering your voice. "It's hard not to when you dance like that."
He laughed softly, but his eyes darkened with that intensity that made you tremble. He leaned in, his warm breath against your ear.
"Rule number one: you don't provoke me in public unless you want a punishment later. Do you understand, princess?"
You nodded, feeling a shiver of anticipation. You had established those "rules" at the beginning of your relationship, after that first wild night in a similar hotel. San was a natural-born hard dom: possessive, demanding, but always attentive to your limits. And you loved surrendering to him.
"Good" he said, his hand moving up your back in a possessive touch. "Finish up here and meet me in the hotel lobby in half an hour. We’re going to my suite. I have plans for you tonight."
The rest of the staff was busy, so no one noticed as you slipped away. Half an hour later, you were in the lobby, your heart pounding. San was already there, chatting with some of the group members, but as soon as he saw you, he excused himself and walked over. He took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours casually, but his grip was firm—a subtle reminder of who was in control.
In the elevator, alone at last, he pressed you against the wall with his body.
"I’ve been thinking about you all day" he confessed, his voice husky as his lips brushed your neck. "Thinking about how you’re going to beg me tonight." His hands moved down to your hips, squeezing just enough to leave a mark, but not enough to hurt... yet.
"San..." you murmured, but he interrupted you with a finger to your lips.
"Sir" he corrected, his tone firm. "Remember the rules, or I’ll have to remind you the hard way."
The elevator stopped on his floor, and he led you down the hallway to his suite. The door closed behind you with a definitive click. The room was luxurious: a king-size bed, dim lighting, and a view of the city at night. San turned toward you, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Strip. Slowly. I want to watch you."
Your pulse skyrocketed. This was what you loved about him: the way he took charge, turning every moment into a power play that left you breathless. You began to take off your clothes, piece by piece, under his hungry gaze. He didn’t move; he just watched, his expression a mix of approval and raw desire.
"Good girl" he said when you were finished, his voice deep. "Now, kneel and wait for my instructions."
You were on the threshold of what promised to be an intense night, your body already responding to his dominance. You knew what would come next: the playful punishments. But for now, it was all about surrendering to him completely.
Kneeling on the floor of the suite, with the soft carpet beneath your knees and the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your naked skin, every second of anticipation felt like an eternity. San watched you from above, his imposing silhouette framed against the dim light of the lamp. He was still wearing his post-concert clothes: the black shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal the sheen of sweat on his chest, and those pants that hugged his muscular thighs. His eyes, dark and possessive, roamed over you as if you were a piece of art he had created himself.
"You've been patient" he finally said, his voice deep and controlled, breaking the silence. He took a step closer, crouching down so his face was level with yours. His fingers brushed your chin, tilting it up so you would look him directly in the eye. "But I remember you breaking a rule today. I saw you watching me on stage, touching your neck like that... provoking me. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
You swallowed hard, heat rising through your body. It was true: during his dance solo, you had let your hand wander to your neck, imagining it was his fingers. You knew he would see it; it was part of the game.
"I'm sorry, Sir" you murmured, your voice trembling but excited. "I couldn't help myself."
San clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips.
"You couldn't help yourself, huh? That means you need a reminder of who's in charge." He straightened up and walked around you, like a wolf circling its prey. His hands reached for your hair, entangling gently at first, then pulling firmly to tilt your head back. "Stand up. We’re going to play a bit before your punishment."
He helped you to your feet, his touch firm but not painful, guiding you toward the bed. He sat you on the edge, and before you could react, he pulled a pair of soft velvet handcuffs from his suitcase—one of his favorite "toys" he always brought on tour.
"Hands behind your back" he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You obeyed, feeling the soft click of the cuffs closing around your wrists. You were bound, exposed, and the simple act made you gasp. San stood in front of you, his body blocking the light, and slowly removed his shirt, revealing his sculpted torso, marked by the stage lights and dried sweat.
"Rule of the game: you cannot touch me unless I say so. You can watch, you can beg, but if you try to break free, the punishment will be worse. Do you understand, princess?"
"Yes, Sir,ç" you replied, your voice shaky. That nickname made you melt; it was his way of mixing tenderness with dominance, reminding you that you were his.
He knelt between your legs, spreading them with his strong hands. His palms moved up your thighs, stopping just before reaching where you needed him most.
"Look at how wet you are already" he murmured, his warm breath against your inner skin. "All for provoking me. You're a naughty girl, aren't you? Say it."
"I'm... I'm a naughty girl, Sir" you repeated, the words coming out in an embarrassed whisper but heavy with desire.
"Good" he purred, rewarding you with a light kiss on your inner thigh. His lips were soft, but his playful bite left a pink mark. "Now, let’s play a bit. I want to hear you beg." His fingers traced slow patterns around your center, brushing but never touching directly. Every touch was a delicious torture, making your hips arch involuntarily.
"Please, Sir... touch me" you pleaded, tugging at the handcuffs. The restraint only heightened the excitement, your body trembling under his control.
San laughed, a low, guttural sound.
"Not so fast. First, a little punishment for your provocation." He turned you over with ease, positioning you across his lap, stomach-down against his thighs. His hands massaged your behind before delivering the first strike—not hard, but enough to sting and send waves of pleasure-pain through your body. "Count," he ordered.
"One" you gasped, the heat spreading. Another strike, firmer this time. "Two." He continued until five, alternating with soft caresses to soothe the reddened skin. Every strike was precise, calculated to arouse you more than to hurt, and between them, he whispered degrading yet affectionate words.
"Look at you, so desperate for me. You are mine to punish and to please."
When he finished, he turned you over again, kissing away the tears of pleasure that had formed in your eyes.
"Good girl, you took that so well." Now, his mouth descended, kissing your neck, moving down your chest. His lips captured a nipple, sucking hard while his hand finally—finally—slid between your legs, fingers exploring with expert precision. He penetrated you with one, then two, curving them to hit that spot that made you see stars.
"Oh, God, San—Sir" you moaned, your hips bucking against his hand. The foreplay had made it unbearable; you were on the edge, but he knew it and stopped just before.
"Not yet" he said, withdrawing his fingers and licking them in front of you, his eyes locked onto yours. "This is only the beginning. We're going to roleplay now: you are my obedient submissive, and I am your owner. Tell me what you want me to do to you, and maybe I’ll give it to you."
"I want... I want you to kiss me, to touch me more, Sir. Please, use me however you want" you begged, the words coming out in a torrent, your mind clouded with desire.
He smiled, satisfied, and finally kissed you—a deep, dominant kiss, his tongue invading your mouth while his body pressed you against the bed. His hands explored, the restraint forgotten for a moment in the heat of the kiss, but you knew the real game was just beginning. Tonight, he had absolute control, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
San’s kiss was devouring, his mouth claiming yours with an urgency that left you breathless. He had you pinned against the bed, your hands still cuffed behind your back, preventing you from touching him—a deliberate torture that only heightened your desperation. He pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes pitch-black with desire, and smirked with that possessive arrogance that drove you crazy.
"Look at you, all wet and begging for me. You’re just a desperate little slut, aren’t you? Say it."
The words hit you like a wave of heat, degrading yet laced with affection in his tone.
"Yes, Sir... I’m your desperate little slut" you repeated, your voice hitching, the flush spreading across your chest.
"Good girl" he growled, rewarding you with another fierce kiss as his hands roamed down your body. He turned you over again, positioning you on your knees on the bed, hips raised high. "But you haven't fully paid for provoking me today." His palm landed on your rear with a firm strike, the sound echoing in the room. The sting turned into pleasure, and you moaned, arching your back. He delivered three more, alternating sides, each more intense than the last, but always followed by a soothing caress.
"Count, princess. And don’t stop until I say so."
"One... two... three" you gasped, your skin reddened and sensitive. The pain blended with pleasure, sending pulses straight to your core. San knew exactly how much to give; he was always watching your reactions, his hand pausing if he noticed anything off.
Satisfied, he leaned over you, his chest against your back, and whispered in your ear: "Color?" It was his subtle way of checking in—green to continue, yellow to slow down, red to stop.
"Green, Sir" you answered without hesitation, aroused beyond words.
"Good." He pulled a small vibrator from the nightstand—one of his favorite toys, with a remote control—and pressed it against your entrance, turning it on low. The vibration made you moan, your body trembling as he slowly slid it inside.
"Don't come until I say so. I’m going to take you to the edge over and over again."
The vibrator hummed against your walls, and San manipulated it with mastery, increasing the intensity only to lower it just as you were getting close. His fingers joined in, rubbing your clitoris in slow circles, pushing you to the limit.
"Please, Sir... I can't hold it" you pleaded, your hips bucking against his hand.
"Yes, you can" he said, his voice husky with arousal. He turned you over again, temporarily removing the vibrator to position you on your knees in front of him. He unzipped his pants, releasing his hard, throbbing erection.
"Now, show me how sorry you are. Open your mouth."
You obeyed, and he guided your head, pushing inside your mouth with a guttural moan. He was rough: his hips moved in controlled thrusts, one hand in your hair to guide you.
"Just like that, good girl... take it all." His words were degrading yet complimentary. "Look at you, sucking me like it’s the only thing you want. You’re perfect for me." He gave you space to breathe, always attentive, but the rhythm was intense, saliva dripping down your chin as you pleased him.
After a few minutes, he pulled out, panting.
"Enough. Now, my turn."
He pinned you to the bed, removing the handcuffs only to reposition your hands above your head, pinning them down with one of his own. He brought his mouth to your center, his tongue licking greedily. He was an expert: sucking your clitoris, penetrating you with his tongue, and then with his fingers, curving them to hit that sweet spot. The overstimulation from the previous game had you on the edge in seconds, but he would stop, kissing your inner thighs.
"Not yet. I want you to beg."
"Please, Sir... fuck me. I need you inside me" you pleaded, tears of frustration and pleasure in your eyes.
San positioned himself over you, his body covering yours completely.
"You are mine" he growled, possessive, as he sank into you in one deep thrust. His hips crashed against yours in a fast, hard rhythm, each thrust hitting deep. One hand wrapped lightly around your neck—soft, just enough pressure to intensify the sensation, never cutting off your breath.
"Tell me who you belong to."
"To you, Sir... only to you" you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders now that your hands were free. The pleasure was overwhelming: the friction of his body, the mingled sweat, his low moans. He picked up the pace, one hand reaching down to rub your clitoris, driving you to the brink.
"Come for me now" he finally ordered.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your body convulsing around him as you screamed his name. San followed moments later, his climax intense as he spilled inside you, his possessive grip on your hips leaving marks behind.
"Mine... all mine" he murmured, collapsing onto you with heavy breaths.
They stayed like that for a moment. But San wasn't done there.
The echo of your moans still resonated in the room, but the world had calmed down. San slid out of you carefully, his warm, sweaty body pressed against yours as he caught his breath. He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he held you, his arm wrapping around you possessively but with a gentleness that contrasted with the roughness of moments before. His chest rose and fell against your back, and you felt his lips plant a soft kiss on your shoulder.
"Shh, princess... you did so well" he murmured, his voice now soft, with no trace of his dominant authority. It was as if a switch had been flipped.
They stayed like that for a few minutes, just breathing together, letting the adrenaline rush dissipate. San always insisted on this; the aftercare wasn't optional—it was part of the game, a way to reconnect and make sure you were okay. Finally, he sat up slightly, kissing your forehead.
"Are you okay? Does anything hurt?" he asked, his eyes scanning your body with genuine concern. His fingers gently traced the pink marks on your rear and then the light ones on your hips from his grip.
"I’m okay... more than okay" you replied, your voice raspy but content. You felt like you were floating—that post-scene subspace where everything felt warm and secure. "Just a little sensitive, but in a good way."
He smiled—that sweet, genuine smile he reserved only for you.
"Good. Let’s get you cleaned up." He rose from the bed with feline grace, disappearing into the suite’s bathroom for a moment. He returned with a warm, damp towel, a bottle of water, and a soothing lotion he always kept in his suitcase—small details that showed just how much he cared for you. He helped you sit up, his movements slow and attentive, as if you were something precious.
First, he cleaned between your legs with the towel, gentle and unhurried, wiping away the evidence of your union with touches that were almost reverent.
"Relax, let me take care of you" he whispered, kissing your knee as he worked. Then, he applied the lotion to the reddened areas: his hands massaged your skin in gentle circles, soothing any residual sting from the strikes or the restraints. Every caress was a reminder of his tenderness, a perfect contrast to his earlier dominance.
"You’re incredible, you know? So strong, so beautiful when you surrender to me."
The flush returned to your cheeks, but this time it was from emotional warmth. You snuggled against him when he finished, and San wrapped you in a soft blanket from the bed, pulling you to his chest. He offered you the water bottle, making sure you took a few sips.
"Hydrate, princess. I don't want you feeling unwell tomorrow." His fingers combed through your messy hair, undoing knots with infinite patience.
As you lay there, wrapped in his arms, the conversation flowed naturally, as it always did after an intense scene.
"Talk to me" he said softly, his chin resting on the top of your head. "What did you like most tonight? Was there anything you want to change for next time?"
You thought for a moment, feeling safe enough to be completely honest.
"I loved the way you played with me... it drove me crazy, but in the best way possible. And maybe, more kisses." You smiled, looking up at him.
San laughed softly, a warm sound that vibrated in his chest.
"Noted. More kisses, and more play if you ask for it. You are my priority. I never want you to feel anything but pleasure and safety with me." His words were sincere, and he kissed your temple, lingering there for a moment. "You know you can use the safety code at any time, right? Red, and we stop everything."
"I know" you replied, snuggling closer. "That’s why I trust you. You make me feel loved, even when you're being... you know, the bossy Sir." You teased, and he joined in your laughter, but his eyes softened with vulnerability.
"That’s what matters most to me" he confessed, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "On stage, I'm San the dancer, the idol. But with you... I'm just me. You see all parts of me: the dominant one, the tender one, the insecure one at times." He squeezed you tighter, as if afraid to let go. "This tour has been tough, with the schedules and keeping us a secret. But nights like this remind me why it's all worth it. I love you."
The words melted you.
"I love you too, San." You kissed him softly—a slow kiss full of emotion, without the urgency of desire, just pure affection. You stayed like that, chatting about nonsense—the tour, funny stories about the staff, plans for when you’d finally have a day off—until sleep began to claim you both.
San turned off the light, pulling you close to his side like a big spoon, his arm draped around your waist.
"Sleep well. Tomorrow, I'll wake you up with breakfast in bed" he murmured, his warm breath against your neck.
You fell asleep feeling safe, loved, and whole. Your relationship had deepened a little more that night, a bond forged in trust and vulnerability. But you knew the game didn't end here; San always had more plans, and you were ready for whatever came next.
can i request a bangchan (i like to calk him chris tho) smut where him and reader haven’t seen each other in a week (or something) and they are both very very needy for each other so they obvi fuck,
but while they are at it they get interrupted by some of the members while doing it, something like this.
had this idea in my mind for long so i hope it makes sense😭
thank you in advance!!💗
Hi! Sorry for the delay… Work has been consuming all my time, so I’m sorry it took so long to get to your orders! I hope you like it and that it matches the idea you had in mind; if you don't like it, please let me know and I'll try my best to fix it!
PAIRING: Bangchan! x F!Reader
GENRE: Romance, smut, fluff and smut, phone sex,humor..
Only for adults (18+). If any of this is offensive to you or if you're under 18, please don't view it! All based on fictional events, none of this is real.
You’ve been counting the days, the hours, even the minutes. One week. Only one week left, but it feels like an eternity. Chris has been swallowed up by a whirlwind of rehearsals, recordings, and meetings with the crew. It’s the preparation for his upcoming comeback, and although you understand—you’ve always understood, ever since you two started dating—that doesn't make it any easier. You have your own job, a chaotic schedule that leaves you exhausted by the end of the day, but nothing compares to the emptiness you feel without him.
The messages have been your lifeline. At the beginning of the week, they were sweet and simple:
Good morning, love. I hope your day is better than mine in the studio 😂
He texts you at 7 a.m., followed by a selfie with messy hair and a tired smile. You reply:
I miss you. When does this madness end?
As the days go by, the texts become more intense.
I can't sleep thinking about you. About how you feel against me
He sends you one night, and you reply with a short voice note, your voice soft and low
Me too, Chris. This shirt of yours doesn't smell like you anymore, and it's killing me
Soon, baby. Just hang in there a little longer
Another day, you send him a photo of yourself on the couch, holding a glass of wine:
Lonely night. What are you doing?
Rehearsing new moves with the guys. Hyunjin fell twice 😂. But I’d rather be with you, kissing you until you forget about the wine.
The longing builds up like a rising tide. You start to notice how your body reacts just by thinking about him: a flutter in your stomach when you see his name on the screen, a warmth spreading across your skin as you remember his touch. You’ve tried to distract yourself—a hot bath, a movie with friends—but nothing can douse that craving. One night, alone in bed, you find yourself fantasizing about him, but you stop, wanting to save that energy for when you finally see him.
On Thursday night, the breaking point arrives with a phone call. You’re at home, lying in bed with the lights dimmed, your phone vibrating in your hand. It’s Chan. You answer with a smile in your voice:
“Hey, stranger. Finally free?”
“Yeah, finally” he replies, his voice husky with exhaustion but full of warmth. “The guys went home a while ago. I’m alone in the studio, finishing some mixes. How was your day? Tell me everything—I need to hear something normal for a change.”
You laugh, settling against the pillows.
“Normal… well, work was a mess. My boss changed the whole project at the last minute, and I was fixing reports until 7. Then, I had dinner alone—leftover pasta from yesterday—and watched an episode of that show I recommended. Remember? The zombie one. But honestly, I couldn't concentrate. I was thinking about you the whole time.”
“Really? And what were you thinking?” he asks, a playful tone in his voice that makes you smile. “Tell me, love. Was it something innocent, like missing my hugs, or… something more?”
"Oh, a bit of everything" you admit, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "I miss your hugs, yeah. But also... how you kiss my neck, how your hands feel on my skin. This week has felt like an eternity without that."
He sighs, a deep, heavy sound.
"God, baby... You have no idea how much I need you. This week has been brutal. Rehearsing until our feet ache, recordings that just don't go right... But the worst part is not seeing you. Not touching you. I’m getting hard just imagining it—you in bed, wearing my shirt, waiting for me."
A shiver runs through you, the heat spreading through your body.
"Chris... Don't do this to me. I'm alone in bed, and hearing you talk like that... It's killing me. Are you really alone? Can anyone hear you?"
"Yes, completely alone. The studio is empty. What’s wrong, baby?" he says, chuckling softly, though his voice has grown lower, more intimate. "Am I turning you on? Tell me the truth. Are you touching yourself yet?"
You sigh, biting your lip, and slide a hand down your stomach.
"Not yet... But yeah, you're getting to me. I’m so needy for you. I'm getting wet just thinking about it. About your hands on me, how you kiss me... It’s not fair that you’re so far away. And you? Are you... really hard?"
"So hard" he confesses with a low growl. "Wait, I’m going to... Yeah, I just adjusted my pants. Shit, love... That turns me on even more. Let’s do something about it. Do you want to masturbate with me? Over the call. Imagine me there with you, touching you. Just say yes, and I'll guide you."
Your pulse races, but you nod even though he can't see you.
"Yes... God, yes. But go slow, tell me what you’re doing. Make it feel real."
"Good. First, take off your clothes down there. Imagine it’s me, sliding your pants down your legs, kissing every inch of skin I expose." You obey, feeling the cool air against your exposed skin. "Now, touch yourself, baby. Play with your pussy for me. Slow at first, soft circles on your clitoris. Imagine they’re my fingers, feeling how wet you are for me. Tell me how it feels."
You moan softly, following his instructions, the pleasure building slowly.
"It feels... incredible. I’m so sensitive. And you? What are you doing? Tell me everything."
"I pulled my cock out" he replies, his voice ragged. "It’s rock hard, throbbing for you. I spit on my hand so it slides better... Fuck, I wish it were your spit. I wish I were buried deep in your throat, making you gag on my cock, feeling you suck it while you look at me with those eyes of yours. Would you like that, baby? Taking it all?"
That makes you moan louder, sliding one finger inside you, then two, blinded by desire.
"Yes, Chris... I’d love that. I need you so much. I need your cock inside me, filling me, fucking me until I can't take any more. I’m pushing my fingers deeper now, imagining you... God, I’m getting close."
His tone intensifies, his breathing heavy.
"When I see you, I’m going to wreck you, baby. I’m going to bury myself so deep inside you until you come all over my cock, screaming my name. I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk the next day." You hear the sound of his hand moving faster, low groans escaping him. "Touch yourself faster now. Imagine my tongue on you, licking you all over. Add another finger, stretch yourself for me."
"Chris... I’m close" you whisper, your fingers moving frantically, pleasure coiling in your belly. "Talk to me more... Tell me what you feel."
"Your voice is driving me crazy. My cock is leaking, slippery... I’m close too, baby. I’m going to come... Fuck, yes... I’m going to come on my hand and my stomach, imagining it’s inside you, filling you up completely." His voice breaks into a deep growl, and you hear him gasp—the sound of his release—a long, drawn-out moan followed by ragged breaths and a satisfied sigh.
"Shit... It feels so good, but it’s nothing compared to the real thing. There’s cum all over my abs now, hot and sticky... I wish you were here to lick it off."
That pushes you over the edge, and you come with a muffled cry, waves of pleasure crashing over you as his voice guides you through it.
"Yes, baby... Come for me. Let me hear you." You moan his name, trembling as the orgasm ripples through you, leaving your body limp and satisfied.
Afterward, there is a comfortable silence, broken by his soft chuckle.
"That was... intense."
"No, it was perfect" you reply, still breathless. "I just... I really need you tomorrow. No more calls; I want the real thing."
“You’ll have it. Tomorrow, love. I’ll wait for you at the apartment. I’ll be alone. Come straight after work. I promise you it’ll be worth it. Sleep well, okay? I love you.”
“I love you more.” You hang up, and sleep comes easily, filled with anticipation.
And here you are now, Friday night, standing in front of his apartment door. You’re wearing tight jeans and a simple blouse, with lingerie underneath that you chose specifically with him in mind. Your heart pounds as you ring the doorbell, the echo of last night’s call still fresh in your mind.
The door opens, and there he is, wearing grey sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. His eyes ignite with pure desire. Without a word, he pulls you inside, slamming the door shut, and takes you in his arms, kissing you desperately. His lips clash against yours, hungry, his tongue exploring as he presses you against him.
“Finally” he murmurs between kisses. “I can’t believe it took you so long to get here. I’ve been counting the minutes since last night.”
“Traffic” you reply, laughing against his mouth, but the kiss deepens, and you feel his arousal pressing against you. “I missed you so much... don’t stop kissing me.”
“I won’t” he promises, his hands sliding down to your ass, pulling you even closer. “God, baby, last night was just a preview. Today I’m going to show you how I really feel.”
“I can’t wait long enough to make it to the bedroom” he says, carrying you to the living room couch and laying you down there. He hovers over you, his hands touching you over your clothes like a madman, tracing your curves, squeezing your breasts. “God, baby, you’re so sexy. I’ve dreamed about this all week. Feel how hard I am for you.”
You respond in kind, scratching his back, kissing him with urgency. You feel how wet you are, and his hardness against your thigh.
“Touch me, Chris. Please. I’ve been thinking about your hands all day.”
“I can’t wait to be inside you” he whispers filthily in your ear, unbuttoning your pants with trembling hands. He slides his hand under your jeans and underwear, touching you directly. His fingers find your wetness, and he growls. “You’re soaking... Fuck, this is for me, isn't it? Tell me you’ve been wet all day thinking about this.”
“Yes... For you, only for you” you moan, arching your back as he slides two fingers in, pumping in a steady rhythm.
“How well you take them... So tight and wet,” he says, his voice husky.
“I’ve been wanting this so bad” you reply, your hips moving against his hand. “Faster, Chris... Make me come first.”
He can’t take it anymore. He pulls back, tugging at your jeans and underwear, stripping them off completely. He spreads your legs wide on the couch, exposing you. Seeing you so wet and glistening, he growls and kneels between your thighs.
“I need to taste you” he murmurs, and begins to eat you out mercilessly, his mouth voracious, licking and sucking your clitoris while his fingers slide in and out. “You taste so good... Come for me, baby. I want to feel you trembling in my mouth,” he says between licks, and it doesn't take long for you to obey, the orgasm hitting you like a wave, coming in his mouth with a scream. He licks every drop, prolonging the pleasure until you’re gasping.
He doesn't give you time to recover. He stands up in front of you, unbuttoning and shoving his pants down to his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and throbbing.
“Open your mouth” he orders softly, cupping your head with a gentle but firm grip and sliding himself inside, starting to fuck your mouth as he let out unrestrained groans. “Yes, baby... Take it all. Deepthroat me, just like we imagined last night.” He buries himself deep in your throat, the heat and pulse of his cock filling you, making your eyes water a little from the intensity, but the pleasure is mutual—you suck, licking the base, and he moans your name, his hips moving with control.
“Fuck, your mouth is perfect... Look at me while you do it.” His eyes lock onto yours, dark with desire, until he slowly pulls out, gasping. He sees your lips, red and swollen, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock, glistening and tempting. “Look what you do to me... You’re incredible.”
“I need to feel you now” he says, his voice rough with urgency. He sits back on the couch and grabs you by the waist, hoisting you onto him with ease. He positions you and penetrates you in one go, sinking deep to the hilt, the delicious stretch making you both groan in unison.
“Fuck, you’re so tight... Move with me, baby. Ride me like there’s no tomorrow.” He begins to thrust upward as you lower your hips, the rhythm frantic and synchronized, your bodies colliding with wet sounds that fill the room. He strips off your blouse and bra with impatient hands, exposing your breasts, and leans in to devour them, licking and nipping at your nipples while you fuck like animals.
“You’re perfect... Feel how deep I am, hitting right there. Do you like it?”
“Yes, Chris... Deeper, please” you plead, digging your nails into his shoulders as the pleasure builds again, waves of heat rushing through you. “You’re driving me crazy... Don’t stop.” He speeds up, one hand on your hip guiding you, the other pinching a nipple, as he growls against your skin:
“I won’t stop. I’m going to fill you up completely, baby. Come all over my cock just like I promised last night.”
At that moment, the climax is close for both of you, your moans mingling... but then, the click of the front door opening rings out.
“Hyung? We brought some stuff from the studio, we thought you were—” Jeongin walks in first, freezing in the doorway at the sight, his eyes widening like saucers. Hyunjin, following close behind, stumbles into his back when Jeongin stops moving, and as he peeks over, he lets out a gasp.
“HYUNG, THERE ARE KIDS WATCHING!” Hyunjin exclaims, referring to Jeongin with a mix of shock and nervous laughter, dramatically covering his eyes while pushing Jeongin back. “Come on, get out! This isn't for minors!”
Chan, without letting go of you and covering you as best he can with his body, grabs a couch cushion and throws it with precision.
“Get out right now! Close the door and don’t say a word to anyone!”
The guys quickly retreat, laughing and muttering apologies between stumbles.
“Sorry, hyung! We didn’t see anything... well, maybe a little! We’re going, we’re going!”—and they slam the door shut, leaving the apartment in silence once again.
You hide your face in his neck, dying of embarrassment, feeling the heat rise from your cheeks all the way to your ears.
"I’ll never be able to look them in the eye again... God, I'm so embarrassed. What if they tell the others? Jeongin is so innocent, poor guy."
Chan looks at you, still inside you, his chest vibrating with a low, genuine chuckle that makes you smile despite everything.
"They’re idiots, love. Hyunjin is probably already dramatizing the story, but don’t worry—I’ll give them a talk later. Forget about them for now." To your surprise, he starts moving again, thrusting slow but deep, his hands stroking your back to soothe you. "Besides, see? I haven't gone down one bit. You still feel way too good."
"I can’t believe you can keep going after that" you say, gasping, but the pleasure is already clouding your mind again, your hips instinctively responding to his movements. "You’re incorrigible... Aren’t you even a little bit embarrassed?"
"I can’t think about anything else right now" he replies, his voice husky as he picks up the pace, kissing you to silence any protest. "Only about you, about us. Let me finish what we started... Let’s change positions, I want to see you differently." Carefully, he lifts you and turns you around, laying you on your back on the couch with your legs around his waist. He sinks back into you, this time with more intense, deep thrusts, his body covering yours as he kisses your neck.
"Like this... Look at me, baby. Tell me you love me as much as I love you."
"I love you... I need you, Chris. Harder" you moan, clinging to him, the couch creaking under the weight of your movements. He obeys, fucking you with a wild rhythm, one hand reaching down to stimulate your clitoris, taking you to the edge once more.
"I’m going to come... Come with me" he growls, his thrusts erratic now, sweat beading on his forehead. The climax hits you both at the same time—you arching with a loud moan, squeezing around him, and Chris groaning your name as he releases inside you, pulsing with every wave of pleasure.
He collapses gently on top of you, both of you gasping for air, and stays there for a moment, tenderly kissing your forehead.
"That was... wow. Are you okay, love? I didn't hurt you?" He helps you sit up, wrapping you in a blanket he pulls from a nearby drawer, and brings you a glass of water. "Drink, you need to hydrate after that."
You take a sip, still flushed but smiling.
"I’m perfect. Just... that interruption was epic. Do you think Hyunjin will leave us alone, or will he come at us with jokes tomorrow?"
Chan laughs, pulling you to his chest.
"He definitely will, but we’ll handle it. This week was worth it for this moment. I love you, baby. Stay the night... and let’s lock the door this time."
Only for adults (18+). If any of this is offensive to you or if you're under 18, please don't view it! All based on fictional events, none of this is real.
SUMMARY: Your group of friends has a new constant: Seungmin. He is sharp, analytical, and has a frustrating knack for challenging every opinion you hold. What starts as a series of intellectual clashes in crowded bars evolves during a weekend getaway where shared silences and a borrowed jacket bridge the gap between rivalry and attraction. Now, the arguments feel less like combat and more like a prelude. You’ve both stepped out of your comfort zones, and as the tension reaches a breaking point, you’re left with one nagging certainty: the next time you’re this close, neither of you will stop.
The following days go by as usual.
Work, messages, the occasional silly photo, a random 'have you seen this?'. Amidst all of that, you manage to set a date for your next outing: lunch at that ramen place he mentioned.
Friday, 9:00 PM.
Ramen and complaining about the world.
Sounds like a good plan.
Friday arrives.
And you arrive… absolutely exhausted.
You wake up with a throat like sandpaper, your head feeling heavy, and your body as if you’d slept under a truck. You sit up in bed, swallow hard, and you know—even before looking in the mirror—that you look terrible.
It’s not just a simple case of “I don’t feel like it.” You’re sick.
You stay there for a while, fighting with yourself, because the idea of canceling is hard to swallow. But you also know that if you go out like this, besides possibly getting him sick, you’re going to collapse at the first corner.
You grab your phone.
Hey.
I think I’m going to have to cancel today.
I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Not even a minute goes by.
Define “truck.”
Fever? Just tired? A cold?
You half-laugh, in spite of everything.
Headache.
Throat feels like shit.
Probably a fever.
And zero desire to get out of bed.
So, a full-blown cold.
It’s fine to cancel.
I don’t want you dying into your ramen.
You’re surprised by the relief you feel seeing that he doesn’t take it the wrong way.
I'm sorry anyway.
I was looking forward to complaining about the world with you.
We can keep complaining over text.
But eat something.
And take something for the fever.
You write with your eyes half-closed.
I don’t have anything here.
And I don’t have the strength to go downstairs.
But I think I’ll survive.
A few seconds pass. You know you’re bordering on being dramatic, but you also know it’s real: right now, the idea of getting dressed and going down to the supermarket feels like science fiction.
His reply arrives quickly.
Don’t be stubborn.
I’m bringing you something.
Your eyes fly open.
No.
You’re crazy.
I’ll definitely infect you.
And I don’t want to be responsible for you dying too.
I’m not planning on letting you die without me.
I don't want to be left without my date partner.
The word hits you hard: dates.
“Dates”? Dramatic.
Call it whatever you want.
Give me your exact address.
And the code or whatever.
I’m not going to bother you much, just leave you some things and that’s it.
You look at your apartment door. You look at yourself: in pajamas, messy hair, looking like a total mess.
Your pride fights a little longer, but you’re way too exhausted to win.
You already know how to get here, idiot...
Door code: XXXX
Floor X
Apartment XX
If you knock loud enough, maybe I’ll manage to get up.
Don’t get up.
I’ll open the door.
I’ll be there in half an hour.
Don’t run away.
You roll your eyes, but you feel something strange in your stomach: gratitude. And nerves. And a kind of relief you don't want to analyze too much.
You drop back onto the bed, phone in hand.
Not much time passes before you hear the building's front door downstairs, then footsteps on the stairs, then your door code.
“I’m going to assume you don’t have hired assassins with the code” his voice echoes from the entryway.
“They wouldn't be very discreet” you reply, your voice half-hoarse.
The door opens all the way.
Seungmin walks in with a bag in each hand.
He’s wearing comfortable clothes: a hoodie, jeans, his hair a bit messy. He’s also wearing an expression somewhere between worry and “I told you so.”
He stops in the doorway of your bedroom.
He sees you in bed, curled into a ball between blankets and pillows, your hair a disaster and your face flushed from the fever.
“Wow” he says. “Pure glamour.”
“Shut up” you mutter, but without any strength.
He drops one bag on the floor next to the bed and pulls out of the other:
A large bottle of water. A box of paracetamol. Tissues. Some simple food (instant soup, some bread, some fruit). A couple of sweet treats “just in case.”
“I brought the basics” he lists. “Plus some junk that seemed like a good idea.”
“You sound like my mother” you complain.
“Your mother wouldn't have put up with this much sarcasm” he retorts, opening the box of paracetamol.
He hands you a pill and the water bottle.
“Take this” he says.
You obey. You don’t have the energy to argue.
He sits on the edge of the bed, without fully getting in.
“Have you taken anything before this?” he asks.
“No” you reply. “I woke up an hour ago, stared at the ceiling, and decided that dying was a viable option.”
He shakes his head, holding back a smile.
“You’re not dying today” he says. “I have plans.”
“Your plans are always just arguing” you grunt.
“Not today” he answers, more softly. “Today it's just watching movies and you sleeping.”
The natural way he says “today it's just watching movies” in your room, sitting on your bed, throws you off.
“You don’t have to stay” you say, out of habit.
“I’m not here because I have to be” he answers. “And I’m not going back home just to ask you every half hour if you’ve eaten.”
He looks at you for a second.
“Besides” he adds, “my presence improves any illness.”
“Or causes it” you retort.
He smiles and, without answering, kicks off his shoes and leans back on the empty side of your bed, on top of the covers, with his back against the headboard.
“What are you doing?” you ask, half-indignant.
“Starting a movie” he says, already holding your TV remote. “And making sure you don't get up.”
You feel like protesting more. But the truth is, the idea of having to move to turn anything on feels like too much work.
“I’ll accept it only because I’m weak” you mutter.
“You’ll accept it because it’s a good idea” he corrects.
The movie he picks isn't complicated. Something light, easy to watch, something you’ve seen before.
You lie back on your side, facing the screen. He’s on the other side, one leg stretched out and the other bent, arms crossed but in a relaxed posture.
Every so often, you notice his gaze on you more than on the TV.
“Does your head hurt a lot?” he asks after a while.
“Less” you respond. “The pill is doing something.”
He nods. Suddenly, he reaches out and touches your forehead with his fingers, quickly.
“You’re hot” he says.
“Thanks for the scientific observation” you grumble.
He pulls his hand back, but lets it rest on the covers, close to you.
You spend quite a while like that: the movie playing in the background, you making sporadic comments, him laughing every now and then, and some complaints from you about your own body.
You start to feel that characteristic lethargy of a fever starting to break: a heavy tiredness, eyes closing on their own.
“If you fall asleep, it’s fine” he says, as if he had read your mind.
“You’re going to get bored” you mutter.
“I’m used to seeing you sleep” he responds, hinting at the car.
You try to fire back a quick comeback, but a huge yawn gets in the way.
He chuckles softly.
“Sleep” he repeats.
And, without meaning to, you listen to him.
You don’t know the exact moment you fall asleep.
All you know is that when you lose consciousness, you’re on your side, facing the screen, with the blanket only halfway up.
Your body, however, has other plans.
In the middle of your sleep, you move. You turn over. You search for warmth. You search for something solid.
You end up turning toward him.
Your forehead finds his shoulder. Your hands, by instinct, close around the fabric of his hoodie. You press a little closer. Your knee brushes against his leg.
He tenses up for a second, caught off guard.
Then, his body gives in too.
He doesn’t pull away.
On the contrary: he lowers his arm until it’s around your back, letting it rest on your waist, holding you loosely.
With his other hand, very slowly, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face so it doesn't bother you.
His fingers stay on your head a second longer than necessary, making an almost automatic stroking motion: soft, up and down, through your hair.
He doesn’t know at what point he went from “I’m here to bring her medicine” to “I’m lying in her bed with her hugging me.”
He isn't sure if he should move, either.
He doesn’t.
He feels you breathing against his neck. He notices your warmth, now a little less intense thanks to the pill. He hears a small sound you make as you settle in—something between a sigh and a sleepy mumble.
His arm pulls you a little closer.
At some point, without realizing it, he falls under too.
The movie keeps playing in the background, but there’s no one left watching.
You wake up with the feeling of being far too comfortable to be alone.
There is something warm under your cheek. Something rising and falling in a steady rhythm. It smells like soap, like a hoodie, like something that isn't your pillow.
It takes a few seconds to put a name to what you're feeling:
An arm around your waist.
A firm chest beneath your head.
A thigh pressed against yours.
You half-open your eyes.
You see gray fabric first. Then, as you lift your gaze slightly: a familiar jawline, a throat, a relaxed chin.
Seungmin is asleep.
His arm is wrapped around your back, his hand resting somewhere on your side. You are practically on top of him, tucked into his side, one leg draped over his.
Your first reaction is to freeze.
Your second reaction is to feel your cheeks flush, even through the fever haze.
Your third reaction—inexplicable—is not to move immediately.
He breathes peacefully, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. His brow is slightly less furrowed than usual. One of his hands is tangled in the fabric of your T-shirt, as if, even while asleep, he couldn’t quite let go of you.
You realize that at some point, he must have hugged you back.
And that you, sick and all, went straight looking for that hug.
You stay like that for a few more seconds, listening to his breathing, feeling the weight of his arm.
You know that as soon as he wakes up, something is going to change. For better or for worse, but it will change.
And yet, in that specific moment, with the fever breaking, his body wrapped around yours, and the world reduced to just that bed, a thought occurs to you that scares you even more than the cold:
You don’t want to move.
You decide not to think too much.
Your body feels heavy, his breathing is steady, and the warmth you share is pleasant. You close your eyes again, settle a little deeper against him—just a tiny movement—and let sleep pull you under once more.
This time you fall deeper, into a dreamless rest.
You don’t know how much time passes before you surface again.
You don’t wake up on your own, but because the “mattress” beneath you moves.
Seungmin opens his eyes before you do. The first thing he notices isn't your weight, but the numbness.
His neck is stiff, his back is half-twisted, and one arm is completely asleep.
He blinks, trying to remember. He sees your hair, your face pressed against his hoodie, your hand still clenched around the fabric. His brain puts the pieces together.
Oh.
He tries to move carefully. His arm—the one around you—feels like rubber. He shifts it inch by inch, trying not to wake you abruptly.
But as soon as he changes position, you let out a moan somewhere between a dream and a complaint, and you half-open your eyes.
“Mm…” you mutter, disoriented. “What…?”
You feel the movement beneath you, the arm slowly pulling away. You lift your head.
You see him looking at you from very close, his hair flattened by the pillow, his eyes still half-asleep.
“Good morning” he says, his voice deep with that "just woke up" rasp.
It takes your brain a second to remember exactly how you were positioned.
Then, the realization hits you all at once.
You were practically hugging him. On top of him. With his arm around you.
You sit up a bit, still half-wrapped in the blanket.
“I’m sorry” you mutter, not entirely sure what you’re apologizing for.
He chuckles softly, flexing his numb arm.
“I think I’m the one who should be apologizing” he says. “I can barely feel this arm.”
He shoots you a quick look, checking on you.
“How are you feeling?” he adds, more seriously.
You take advantage of the question to slide a bit toward your side of the bed, hiding the urgent need to put some space between the two of you.
You sit up until your back is against the headboard.
“Better” you reply. “Less… like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
He sits up too, beside you, and then stands up slowly. His joints creak a little as he stretches.
He raises his arms above his head, turning his neck from side to side.
“I slept like some weird statue” he comments. “My whole body is stiff.”
You don’t say out loud that you slept better than you could have ever imagined while hugging someone.
“You should go take a shower” he says then. “It’ll do you good to wash off the rest of the fever and wake up.”
“You don’t have to—” you start.
“I’m going to make some breakfast in the meantime” he cuts you off, not looking at you this time because he’s already on his way to the door. “It’s not negotiable.”
“Seungmin” you protest. “You’ve done enough. Really. You should be at home resting, not here playing nurse.”
He turns in the doorway, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not going to argue about this with you right now” he says, calm but firm. “Shower. Then eat breakfast. Then you can argue about something else.”
Your immediate impulse is to keep contradicting him. But you’re tired, and the idea of hot water sounds far too good.
You give in, for this once.
“Fine…” you mumble.
He nods once and disappears toward the kitchen.
You get up slowly. You notice your body feels lighter, your head less heavy. Your throat still hurts, but less so. You go to the bathroom and look in the mirror: tangled hair, puffy eyes, but your skin tone is no longer "fever-red," just something more normal.
You shower slowly, letting the hot water wash away some of the heaviness. You put on clean, comfortable clothes: an oversized T-shirt, sweatpants.
When you return to the kitchen, the smell welcomes you.
There’s coffee, toast, some sliced fruit—the table set in an improvised way.
Seungmin has his back to you, stirring something in a pan.
“I told you it wasn't necessary” you repeat, but this time it sounds softer.
“You also told me it wasn't necessary for me to come” he responds without turning around. “You see how much I cared about that.”
He turns off the burner, slides what he was making (some decent-looking scrambled eggs) onto a plate, and sets it in front of you.
You sit down, still feeling a bit embarrassed by the whole situation.
He pours himself a coffee but barely eats; it’s obvious his priority is you.
Between bites, you look at him.
“Seriously” you say finally, lowering your voice a bit. “Thank you. For everything. You’ve done more than anyone else would have.”
He shrugs, brushing it off.
“It’s not a big deal” he says. “I don't like seeing you like that. And if I can prevent it… I try.”
The sentence hits you with unexpected force.
“I don’t like seeing you like that.”
“If I can prevent it...”
There are a lot of things there that aren't being said out loud, but they’re definitely felt.
You press your lips together, swallowing hard.
You finish breakfast. He clears some of the things, takes out the trash, and washes his hands.
Then, he checks his watch.
“I have to go” he says. “I’ve got things to do this afternoon. But I’ll text you later to see how you’re doing.”
You get up with him, walking him to the door.
You lean against the frame for a second, watching him.
“Really” you repeat, because it feels like words aren't enough. “Thank you for coming, for putting up with me looking like a total mess, for… everything.”
He tilts his head slightly, as if accepting the thanks but without making a big deal out of it.
“You don’t need to say it so many times” he responds. “I’ve already heard you.”
He turns toward the door.
You realize you don’t want him to leave yet.
Because, damn it, you like being with him. Because he took care of you. Because you slept better pressed against his chest than many nights alone.
He takes a couple of steps into the hallway.
“Seungmin” you call out.
He stops. He turns.
“Yeah?”
You don’t give yourself another second to think about it. You walk toward him, crossing the small distance between you. Before your brain can scream at you to stop, you lunged forward and hug him.
Not a shy, two-pat hug. You really hold him: your arms around his torso, your forehead almost bumping against his chest.
He goes stiff for an instant from the surprise.
Then, you feel his hands move up your back. One rests between your shoulder blades, the other a bit lower, returning the hug with restrained strength.
Your heart is beating far too fast for someone in recovery.
“Thank you for everything” you whisper once more, your face pressed against his hoodie.
You feel more than hear the soft laugh that escapes him.
“You’re welcome” he murmurs, close to your ear.
The moment lingers a bit longer than you had planned. You realize that if you don’t let go now, you’re going to stay glued to him all day.
With an effort, you pull away, taking a step back.
You don’t look at him directly; you know your face must be as red as a tomato.
“Well…” you stammer. “Get some rest. And… yeah.”
You turn almost at a run and head back into your apartment, closing the door before he can say anything else or see your full expression.
You lean against the wood, your heart racing, the fever already nearly forgotten, and a certainty that pricks you like a sweet, annoying needle:
You are freaking head over heels for him.
And, for the first time, you don’t even try to deny it to yourself
You slowly started to recover.
The fever broke completely, your throat stopped hurting so much, and your body stopped feeling like you’d been run over. You went back to your routine: work, quick meals, the couch, the occasional night out with friends.
But your head didn’t go back to the routine.
Your mind kept drifting back, over and over, to that day with Seungmin:
To him walking into your apartment with bags.
To his hand on your forehead.
To his body on your bed, and yours reaching for his while half-asleep.
To that hug at the door, with his breathing so close it almost hurt.
And, above all, to a truth you could no longer sugarcoat: you liked him. A lot.
A few days later, when you're already feeling almost a hundred percent, a message from him arrives.
Are you still alive? Or did the truck put it in reverse?
You smile to yourself.
I’m still alive.
The truck has been downgraded to a bumper car.
Enough to last through a date.
I still owe you a ramen dinner.
It’s weighing on my conscience.
The word appears there again, plain and simple: date. You’re no longer hiding behind humor to dodge it.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that ramen.
It would be a shame to let it go to waste.
Perfect.
I’ll pick you up tonight.
But remember we’re meeting the group beforehand today.
We can go after dinner if there’s time, or another day.
You sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, feeling a silly kind of happiness settle in your chest.
Sounds like a plan.
You spend the rest of the day checking the clock more often than you’d like to admit.
When it’s time to start getting ready, you choose your clothes knowing you're doing it for him… even if you don't say it out loud.
Flattering jeans, a blouse you love the fit of, ankle boots, and a coat that’s a bit nicer than what you’d wear for just any outing. You put a little more effort into your hair, applying your makeup with care.
You look in the mirror and, for the first time, you don’t feel silly for dressing up so much "just" to see him.
You smile to yourself.
You allow yourself that much.
At the agreed time, his message arrives, right on schedule.
I’m downstairs.
You go down to the entrance.
You see him leaning against his car, just like so many other times. Simple clothes, but you can tell he took his time too: a shirt, a clean coat, his hair styled.
He opens the passenger door for you without a word, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey” he says, with a smile you’ve come to recognize as yours.
“Hey” you respond, feeling something inside you loosen up.
The drive to the bar where you’re meeting the group passes with soft conversation, jokes, and a song or two on the radio that you both know.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just the comfortable feeling of being exactly where you want to be.
When you arrive at the bar, you can already hear the noise from the street.
You walk in together.
You first, him a few steps behind. But close enough that anyone can see you arrived at the same time.
“Hey!” one of your friends greets you, raising a hand. “Look who’s showing up together.”
A friend looks you up and down, then at him, then back at you with a mischievous grin on her face.
“Did you guys come... together?” she asks, drawing out the word as if it were some juicy secret.
You notice several stares and some soft laughter.
Seungmin doesn’t seem phased at all.
He just smiles slightly, ignores the comments, and sits in one of the open spots, leaving the one right next to him free just as you approach.
You sit there.
The silent message is clear: it’s not a coincidence, and he isn’t trying to hide it.
During dinner, the dynamic doesn't go unnoticed:
He pours you water when your glass is half empty without saying a word.
He passes you the salt without you asking for it out loud.
When someone teases you too much, he finishes the joke, but looks at you to make sure you find it funny.
Your friends catch on. For once, they decide not to say too much. They like what they see. Just a few stray comments, a knowing smile here and there. Nothing aggressive.
You know they’re watching you. You know they’re watching us. For the first time, it doesn’t bother you that much.
The night lasts just long enough. Laughter, drinks, stories. After a few hours, people start to leave.
“I’m heading out now” you say, buttoning up your coat.
“Me too” Seungmin adds.
Nobody makes a face or puts on a show anymore.
“It makes sense that you’re heading back together” one friend says, with a sincere smile.
“Take care of her” another adds, half-joking, half-serious.
“I try” he responds.
You step out of the bar, and the night air greets you both.
The drive back to your building has become almost a ritual: conversations that shift from serious to playful, and comfortable silences in between.
He parks in front of your building.
He gets out first.
He walks around the car and opens the door for you. You keep pretending that this isn't something that makes you melt a little inside.
You walk together to the entrance of your building.
You stop and take out your keys. You turn slightly to look at him.
“Well…” you say. “Thanks for tonight. And for the free taxi ride.”
“You’re going to end up owing me way too much” he responds. “I’m going to have to start keeping track.”
You smile.
You turn toward the door, the key halfway to the lock.
And then, you feel something warm wrap around your wrist.
His hand.
You stop.
You turn your head back toward him.
He’s closer than he was just a second ago. His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, soft, not squeezing.
Your eyes flicker from his hand to his face.
He looks you directly in the eyes.
He takes a breath.
“If I don’t do this now” he says in a low voice, with a sincerity you’ve never heard from him before, “I’m going to go home regretting it. Like I always do.”
You don’t have time to ask “do what?”
You already know what he means.
His hand lets go of your wrist to move up, slowly, toward your cheek.
He cups your face with care, as if you were something precious that might break.
He leans in.
The first brush of his lips against yours is soft. Almost a test. Barely a contact, as if he were asking you without words: “Is this okay?”
Your answer isn't verbal.
Your body moves a little closer to his.
Your lips move, responding to the kiss.
Seungmin notices.
And the restraint breaks.
His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you toward him, pressing your body against his until there’s almost no space left between you. His mouth presses more firmly against yours, the angle shifts, and the kiss deepens.
You feel the heat rise from your stomach all the way to your face.
You open your mouth just a little more to welcome him. His lips move with a perfect mix of urgency and care, as if he’s been imagining this for far too long and, at the same time, is afraid of moving too fast.
Your free hand clenches the lapel of his coat, holding him, pulling him even closer.
The world around you blurs: the sidewalk, the door, the night, the cars passing by. Nothing exists but his mouth against yours, his hand on your waist, your chest against his.
There’s a moment where the kiss slows down again, as if neither of you wants it to end, but you both know that if you don't slow down, nothing that comes next will be slow.
He pulls away just barely.
Your lips are still so close that you’re almost brushing against each other as you speak.
Both of you are breathing a little faster.
You find yourself staring at him, not quite knowing what to say. A thousand possible sentences are piling up on your tongue.
In the end, you manage one that sounds less ridiculous than you expected.
“I hope…” you whisper, “that you don’t regret it then.”
His eyes drop to your lips for one more second before meeting yours again.
There’s something resolute in his gaze.
“I promise you I won’t” he replies.
There isn't a hint of doubt in his tone.
And, for the first time since you met him, there isn't any in you, either.
Since that night in front of your doorstep, something changed. It wasn't all at once. There was no "what are we now?" conversation. It just… flowed.
The messages kept coming, but the tone was different now. Fewer excuses, more desire. Coffees turned into dinners. Dinners turned into late-night walks that ended with long kisses leaning against his car, against your door, against whatever wall happened to be nearby.
There was no longer any doubt.
When you were together, his hand would find yours without a second thought. When you laughed, he’d lean in to kiss your temple, your cheek, or your lips if he caught you off guard. When you argued —because you still did, of course— it always ended in crooked smiles and comments like:
"You're unbearable."
"And yet, you're still here" you’d fire back.
"Bad life choice on my part" he’d say, right before kissing you to shut you up.
The group knew. No one had made an official announcement, but they didn't need to. It was obvious in the way you always sat together, how he’d instinctively put his arm around your shoulders, and how you’d steal food from his plate while he just let you.
"It finally happened," a friend said one day with a satisfied smile. "I knew you two would end up together."
"We haven't 'ended up' anywhere" you replied. "We're... a work in progress."
"A long-term project, I hope" Seungmin added by your side, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.
And that sentence stuck with you more than you expected.
One afternoon, after work, while you were on your way home on the subway, the idea hit you.
Seungmin had been taking care of you for weeks: taking you places, paying for dinners even when you protested, bringing you things when you were sick, and showing up whenever you needed him—even if you didn't ask out loud.
You wanted to give something back.
Not in some grand, over-the-top way. Just… to do something for him.
So that same night, you texted him.
Hey.
Do you have plans for Friday night?
Depends.
Are you asking me out?
I want to invite you over for dinner.
At my place.
I'm cooking.
You cooking?
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
Shut up.
I know how to cook.
I just don't do it very often.
That sounds like 'I'm going to poison you by accident'.
If I wanted to poison you, I would’ve done it by now.
Are you coming or not?
A few seconds passed.
I'm coming.
What should I bring?
Nothing.
Just you.
I’m bringing wine.
It’s non-negotiable
Fine. But don’t complain if it doesn't pair well with the food
I won’t complain.
I never complain with you.
Liar.
You left your phone on the side table, a silly smile plastered on your face. You were already thinking about what to cook.
Friday arrived faster than you expected.
You spent the afternoon getting everything organized: you cleaned the house more thoroughly than usual, put on some background music, and set the table with more care than was strictly necessary. Nothing over the top, but it was… nice.
You chose to make something simple that you knew you could pull off perfectly: pasta with a sauce you’d perfected over the years, salad, and bread. Nothing pretentious. Just delicious.
You showered and put on something comfortable that you liked: soft jeans, a long-sleeved shirt that fit you well, and your hair down. A touch of perfume. No heels or excessive makeup. Just you, in your space, waiting for him.
At 8:45 PM, the doorbell rang.
You frowned, checking the clock.
He was early.
You answered the intercom.
"Hello?" you said.
"It’s me" his voice replied. "I know I’m early. I thought I could help you with dinner."
You smiled to yourself.
"Liar" you whispered, but you pressed the button to let him in.
He came up the stairs. You heard his footsteps approaching down the hallway.
You opened the door before he could even knock.
There he was: dark jeans, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, a light jacket slung over his shoulder. In one hand, a bottle of red wine. In the other, nothing, but his eyes swept over you from head to toe the moment he saw you.
"Hi" he said, with that half-smile you already knew all too well.
"Hi" you replied, stepping aside. "Come in."
He walked in, leaving his jacket on the coat rack. He handed you the bottle.
"As promised" he said.
"Thanks" you said, taking the wine and looking at the label. "This looks expensive."
"Not that much" he replied. "But it is good."
You set it on the kitchen counter. He followed you, looking around with restrained curiosity.
"It smells good" he commented.
"I’m not finished yet" you said, heading back to the stove. "That’s why you showed up early, right? To 'help'."
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms.
"I wanted to see you sooner" he admitted, point-blank.
That direct honesty caught you off guard. You turned your head toward him, your cheeks warming up.
"Well, here I am" you said, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Yeah" he responded, without taking his eyes off you. "I see that."
The air thickened for a moment.
You cleared your throat, turning back to the pan.
"Well, if you really wanted to help, you can slice the bread" you pointed to the loaf on the cutting board. "And open the wine, since you brought it."
"At your service" he said, moving through your kitchen with a natural ease, as if he already knew his way around.
Cooking together turned out to be… dangerously comfortable.
He sliced the bread while you stirred the sauce. He handed you things without you even asking: the oil, the salt, a towel when you splashed a bit on the counter.
At one point, you moved toward the sink to wash something. He was right behind you, grabbing glasses from the cabinet.
His hand rested on your waist, soft, as he leaned over you to reach the top shelf.
"Sorry" he whispered, close to your ear. "I just need to…"
His voice so close sent a shiver down your skin.
"It’s okay" you replied, trying to make your voice sound normal.
But you noticed how his fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before pulling away.
When you turned around, he was already on the other side of the kitchen, pouring wine into two glasses as if nothing had happened.
But you knew he had done it on purpose.
A few minutes later, you were tasting the sauce. You blew on the spoon a bit and brought it to your lips.
"Is it okay?" he asked, stepping closer.
"I think so" you said. "You try it."
You handed him the spoon. He took it, tasted it, and nodded.
"It’s perfect" he said.
He left the spoon in the sink and, before you could react, his hand was back on your waist, firmer this time. He gently turned you toward him.
"What are you doing?" you asked, though your voice came out lower than you intended.
"Nothing" he replied, looking into your eyes. "Just… making sure everything is in order."
His eyes dropped to your lips.
"Seungmin" you warned, though without much conviction. "Dinner is going to burn."
"The stove is off" he pointed out, correctly.
Damn observer.
You smiled despite yourself.
"You’re annoying."
"And you’re bossy" he shot back, leaning in a little closer.
He kissed you. Softly, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. His other hand moved up to your cheek, holding you as he deepened the kiss just a little more.
When he pulled away, you had to remind yourself to breathe.
"Okay" you whispered. "Now we really have to finish cooking."
He smiled, stepping away with an irritatingly calm demeanor.
"Whatever you say, chef."
Dinner went well. Better than well, actually.
You sat at the table, face to face. The candles you’d put out (on a last-minute impulse) cast a soft, warm light.
You talked about everything: work, the latest drama in the group, a ridiculous anecdote that had happened to you that week. He told you about a project that was keeping him busy. You talked to him about a book you were reading.
The conversation flowed. Like always. But now with an extra layer of complicity, of intimacy.
Every now and then, his eyes would linger on you a bit longer than necessary. And you let it happen.
When you finished, he stood up before you did.
"I’ll clean up" he said.
"You don't have to" you protested. "You’re the guest."
"Exactly why I should" he replied, already carrying plates to the sink. "You cooked. I wash."
"That’s not fair" you said, standing up as well.
"Life isn't fair" he shot back, turning on the faucet.
You stood beside him, drying what he was washing.
You worked in a comfortable silence, with occasional brushes: his arm against yours, your hand grazing his as you handed him a plate.
Small gestures. But loaded.
When you were done, the kitchen was clean and the two of you were still standing there, facing each other, with not much left to do.
"Well" you said, drying your hands with the towel. "That was… efficient."
"Teamwork" he replied, leaning against the counter.
He was looking at you that way again. As if he were memorizing every detail.
"What?" you asked, crossing your arms.
"Nothing" he said, shaking his head. "Just that… this has been nice."
"The dinner?" you prodded.
"Everything" he clarified.
The air thickened again.
You cleared your throat, breaking the moment before your heart could completely race.
"Shall we watch something?" you suggested. "The couch is free. And I think we have some wine left."
He smiled.
"Sounds perfect to me."
You both got settled on the couch. You grabbed the remote, scrolling through the movie list.
"What are you in the mood for?" you asked.
"Whatever" he responded, stretching out his legs. "You choose."
You put on something you’d seen before, a movie you knew was entertaining but didn't demand too much attention.
At first, you sat with space between you. You on one end of the couch, him on the other, each with your glass of wine.
But that didn't last long.
Ten minutes in, Seungmin set his glass on the side table and turned toward you.
"Come here" he said, extending an arm.
"What?" you asked, playing dumb.
"Come here" he repeated, with that half-smile. "You’re too far away."
You rolled your eyes, but you set your glass down too and moved closer.
He pulled you toward him effortlessly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. Your body tucked against his naturally: your head resting near his chest, your side pressed against his, his fingers distractedly brushing your arm.
"Better" he whispered.
You tried to focus on the movie.
You really tried.
But it was impossible to ignore the warmth of his body against yours, the scent of his cologne mixed with something that was just him, the way his hand moved slowly up and down your arm, almost without realizing it.
You noticed how his breathing changed when you moved a bit to get more comfortable. How his grip grew a little firmer when you pressed closer to him.
You turned your head slightly to look at him.
Big mistake.
Because as soon as you did, you realized just how close your faces were. His lips were barely inches from yours. His eyes weren't on the screen anymore.
They were on you.
"Is the movie boring you?" you asked, your voice lower than you intended.
He tilted his head slightly, without looking away.
"I’m distracted" he replied.
"Is it that bad?" you tried to joke.
His hand stopped moving along your arm. It slid slowly up to your waist, resting there firmly.
"It’s your fault" he said, his tone turning more serious.
Your breath hitched.
"Mine?" you asked. "What did I do?"
His eyes dropped to your lips. Then they flicked back to yours.
"I can't have you like this" he whispered, his voice raspy, heavy with tension. "This close... and just stay still."
The air between you vanished.
Your heart was beating so hard you were sure he could hear it.
"Then don't stay still" you whispered.
That was all he needed.
He leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn't soft this time. It wasn't a test.
It was hunger.
His mouth captured yours with an intensity that left you breathless. One of his hands moved up to the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair, holding you as he deepened the kiss. The other tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer to him.
You responded instantly, turning completely toward him, your hands sliding up to his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt.
The kiss grew more urgent. His tongue brushed yours, and a small sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.
He noticed.
And something in him snapped.
He pulled you firmly, tugging until you were practically on his lap. Your knees on either side of his thighs, your body fitting against his in a way that set your entire skin on fire.
His hands moved down to your hips, holding you there, pressing you against him while his mouth continued to devour yours.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling slightly, and he let out a low growl against your lips.
"Fuck" he muttered, pulling back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. "You’ve been driving me crazy all night."
"You started it" you panted. "In the kitchen."
He let out a raspy, dark laugh.
"You started it" he corrected, "by inviting me here. In those clothes. With that mouth."
He kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense. His hands slid up your back, exploring, memorizing every curve beneath the fabric.
Your body reacted instinctively, arching toward him, searching for more contact, more heat, more of everything.
When his lips left your mouth to trail down your jaw, down your neck, a shaky sigh escaped you.
"Seungmin…" his name came out like a plea.
He paused for a second, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were dark, filled with desire, but also something else: a silent question.
"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice raspy but firm. "Because if you tell me to stop, I’ll stop. Right now."
Your response was immediate.
You took his face in your hands and kissed him with everything you were feeling: the desire, the need, the absolute certainty that this was what you wanted.
When you pulled back just a hair, your lips still brushing his, you whispered:
"Don't stop."
His eyes darkened as he heard your words.
"I’m not going to stop" he promised, his voice deep, heavy with intent.
And he didn't.
He kissed you again, with more hunger, more urgency. His hands moved down your back to your hips, pulling you firmly against him. You could feel everything: the heat of his body, the growing hardness beneath you, the way his breathing became more irregular.
Your hands moved down from his hair to his chest, unbuttoning the first button of his shirt. Then the second. The third.
He pulled back just a bit, looking at you with hooded eyes, breathing heavily.
"Help me," you whispered, tugging at the fabric.
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pulled the shirt over his head in one motion, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. Your gaze swept over his bare torso: warm skin, defined muscles, the line trailing down from his abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Your hands settled on his chest, exploring, feeling his breath hitch under your fingers.
"Your turn" he said raspily.
His hands found the hem of your shirt. He looked at you one more time, seeking permission.
You lifted your arms.
He pulled the fabric up, slowly, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of skin as it was exposed. When the garment hit the floor next to his, his gaze swept over you, lingering.
"Fuck" he muttered, almost to himself. "You’re..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
Instead, he pulled you toward him again, his lips finding your neck, your collarbone, moving down slowly while his hands slid up your back to the clasp of your bra.
He unhooked it with an ease that surprised and turned you on in equal measure.
The garment fell between you, and for a second, you felt exposed. Vulnerable.
But the way he looked at you—as if you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—erased any trace of insecurity.
"You’re perfect" he said, with a certainty that made you tremble.
His hands moved up to your breasts, caressing them with a mix of reverence and desire. When his thumbs brushed your nipples, a moan escaped your lips, completely beyond your control.
He smiled against your skin.
"I like that sound" he whispered, before lowering his head and taking one of your nipples into his mouth.
Your back arched instinctively, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there while his tongue traced slow, torturous circles.
"Seungmin..." you gasped.
He switched to your other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, while one of his hands slid down your stomach, coming to a rest at the button of your jeans.
He looked up at you from below, his lips still grazing your skin.
"Should I keep going?" he asked.
"Yes" you answered, breathless. "Please."
He undone the button. He lowered the zipper. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, brushing over your underwear, and that simple contact wrenched a shaky moan from you.
"You're so..." he muttered, feeling the heat through the lace. "Fuck, I need to touch you."
"Then touch me" you said, your voice breaking.
He didn't need anything else.
He lifted you slightly off his lap, just enough to slide your jeans down along with your underwear, stripping them off completely and letting them hit the floor.
Now you were completely naked on top of him, while he still had his pants on.
His hands traveled over your thighs, moving up slowly, caressing, exploring. When his fingers reached your center, barely brushing you, your entire body shuddered.
"Look at you" he whispered, his voice dark. "So perfect. So ready for me."
A finger slid between your folds, finding your clitoris with a precision that made you moan out loud.
"There" you gasped, clinging to his shoulders. "Right there."
He traced slow, firm circles, watching your every reaction: the way your breath hitched, the way your hips moved searching for more, the way your eyes fluttered shut in pleasure.
"Open your eyes" he ordered, soft but firm. "I want to see you."
You obeyed, finding his gaze locked onto yours, burning, filled with desire.
Then, he slid a finger inside you.
Your mouth opened in a silent moan, your body adapting to the intrusion, tightening around him.
"Fuck, you're so tight" he groaned, starting to move his finger slowly, in and out, while his thumb continued to work your clitoris.
He added a second finger, stretching you, filling you, and the pleasure intensified until it became almost unbearable.
"Seungmin... I can't..." you gasped, feeling the tension building in your womb.
"Yes, you can" he whispered, picking up the pace. "Let go. I want to feel you come on my fingers."
His words, his voice, the way his fingers curved inside you hitting that exact spot...
You broke.
The orgasm crashed through you like a wave, making you tremble, moaning his name as you clung to him. He didn't stop, prolonging your pleasure until you collapsed against his chest, breathing in ragged gasps.
"Gorgeous" he whispered against your hair, withdrawing his fingers slowly, making you shudder again from the sheer sensitivity.
When you caught your breath a little, you sat up to look at him. His lips were swollen, his gaze dark, and the evidence of his arousal pressed against you through the denim of his jeans.
"Too many clothes" you said, reaching for his belt.
He smiled.
"Then take them off."
You unbuckled the belt with trembling but determined hands. You lowered the zipper. He lifted his hips to help you slide his pants and underwear down.
And then you saw him.
Hard, thick, the tip already glistening with arousal.
Your hand closed around him almost by instinct, and he hissed through his teeth, throwing his head back.
"Fuck..." he groaned as you started moving your hand up and down, slowly, squeezing just the way you felt he liked by the way his hips moved, searching for more.
"Wait" he said suddenly, his hand closing over your wrist, stopping you. "If you keep going like that, this is going to end way too fast."
He looked at you with intensity, his eyes blackened by desire.
"I need to be inside you" he whispered, his voice raspy. "Now."
You nodded, your heart beating so hard you felt it might burst from your chest.
"Wait," he said, reaching into the pocket of his discarded pants. "I have..."
He pulled a condom out of his wallet. You looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Prepared?" you asked, with a half-smile.
He had the decency to look slightly embarrassed.
"Hopeful" he corrected, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth.
He put it on with quick, efficient movements, and then his hands returned to your hips, positioning you over him.
"Ready?" he asked, the tip pressing against your entrance.
"Yes" you whispered.
You began to lower yourself slowly, feeling how he stretched you, filled you, inch by inch. It was intense, almost too much, but perfect at the same time.
He watched your face closely, holding his breath, letting you set the pace.
When you finally took all of him, you both let out a simultaneous moan.
"Fuck" he groaned, his fingers tightening on your hips. "You're... perfect. So perfect."
You stayed still for a moment, adjusting to the sensation of having him so deep inside you. Then you began to move.
Slowly at first. Up and down, finding a rhythm, feeling how every movement sent waves of pleasure through your entire body.
His hands guided you, helping you, while his mouth found your breasts again, licking, biting softly, making you moan louder.
"Like that" you gasped. "Just like that."
He began to move as well, thrusting upward every time you lowered yourself, reaching deeper, making you see stars.
"Faster" he groaned against your skin. "You can go faster."
You picked up the pace, riding him with more intensity, the sounds of your bodies filling the apartment's silence along with your ragged moans.
One of his hands reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clitoris and tracing firm circles.
"Oh, God..." you moaned, feeling the tension build up again, even more intense this time.
"That’s it" he whispered. "I want to feel you come again. Around me this time."
His words, combined with his touch and the increasingly deep thrusts, pushed you over the edge.
"Seungmin... I’m going to..."
"Do it" he ordered, his voice strained. "Come for me."
And you did.
The orgasm hit you even harder than the previous one, making you tremble, screaming his name as your body tightened around him in waves of pleasure.
He groaned low, feeling how you contracted around him, and his movements became erratic, more urgent.
"Fuck, I’m going to..." He didn't finish the sentence.
With one last deep thrust, he came with a raspy groan, burying himself inside you as his entire body tensed up. His fingers dug into your hips with force, holding you against him as he spent himself, your name escaping his lips like a prayer.
You collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily, his arms wrapping around you immediately, keeping you pinned to him.
For several minutes, neither of you said a word. Only the sound of your breathing filled the space, while your hearts beat wildly, one against the other.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, moving up and down your spine, sending small shivers across your skin.
"That was..." you started, not knowing how to finish the sentence.
"Incredible" he finished for you, his voice still raspy. "Fuck, that was incredible."
You lifted your head to look at him. His hair was messy, his lips swollen, a thin layer of sweat covering his skin. You had never seen him look more handsome.
He looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile, so different from the intensity of moments ago.
"Hi" he said.
You couldn't help but laugh.
"Hi" you replied.
He leaned in and kissed you, slowly this time, with tenderness. When he pulled away, he stroked your cheek with his thumb.
"I should..." he made a vague gesture downward.
"Oh, yeah" you said, getting up slowly.
Both of you winced as you separated, the sensitivity making itself known.
He carefully removed the condom, tying it off.
"I'll be in the bathroom for a second."
When he disappeared down the hallway, you sat there on the sofa, naked, processing what had just happened.
You had just slept together for the first time.
And it had been… intense. Perfect. Overwhelming.
So different from everything you had imagined when you first met him, back when you couldn't even look at him without wanting to argue.
Right now, the idea of being without him seemed impossible.
You heard the water running in the bathroom. You stood up, searching for your T-shirt on the floor and putting it on along with your underwear, suddenly feeling the need to cover up a bit, to process all of this.
When he came back, he was only wearing his boxers. He stopped when he saw you dressed, a small smile curving his lips.
"Hiding from me already?" he teased, stepping closer.
"I'm not hiding" you protested. "I just... needed a second."
He sat on the sofa, pulling you to sit beside him. He tucked you against his side, wrapping his arm around you.
"Hey" he said softly, kissing your temple. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah" you replied, snuggling closer to him. "More than okay."
"Are you sure?" he insisted. "Because if it was too fast, or if..."
"Seungmin" you interrupted, turning to look at him. "It was perfect."
He smiled—that soft smile he reserved only for you, so different from the mocking grins of the beginning.
"Good" he murmured, stroking your cheek. "Because it was for me, too."
You both stayed in silence for a moment, simply looking at each other.
"You know?" you said finally. "I never thought we’d get here."
"Here?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Here" you repeated, making a vague gesture. "You and me. Like this. When I first met you, I thought you were unbearable."
He let out a laugh.
"You weren't exactly a charm yourself" he replied. "Always arguing with me about everything."
"Because you started it" you protested.
"Because I liked you and I didn't know how to handle it," he admitted, shrugging his shoulders.
Your heart skipped a beat.
"Really?" you asked. "From the beginning?"
"From the very beginning" he confirmed. "Why do you think I was always looking for excuses to talk to you? Even if it was just to argue."
You shook your head, smiling.
"You’re an idiot."
"Your idiot" he corrected, kissing you softly.
And he was right.
He was your idiot.
From that first kiss that changed everything, to all those "dates" you didn't call dates but clearly were, to every text message, every time he walked you home, every gesture that spoke louder than words.
You hadn't needed to define it. It just happened.
And now, after this—after giving yourselves to each other in the most intimate way possible...
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, studying your expression.
"About how much things have changed" you admitted. "About how we went from not being able to stand each other to... this."
He smiled, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.
"Do you regret it?" he asked. Although his tone was light, you could detect a hint of vulnerability in the question.
"Not at all" you responded without hesitation. "Do you?"
"Regret sleeping with the most incredible girl I know?" he said, pretending to give it some thought. "Let me think... no."
You gave him a playful swat on the chest.
"Idiot."
"We already established that I'm your idiot," he replied, trapping your hand against his chest. "You can't take it back now."
You laughed, resting your head on his shoulder.
"Not even if I wanted to."
You stayed like that for a while, in a comfortable silence. The movie was still playing on the TV, completely forgotten. Both of your wine glasses were still on the side table, untouched for who knows how long.
"I should go" he finally said, though he made no move to get up.
"Should you?" you asked, looking at him.
"Well, it's late and we both have work tomorrow" he reasoned, but his arms tightened around you even more, contradicting his own words.
"Or..." you started, distractedly playing with the waistband of his boxers. "You could stay."
He went still.
"Do you want me to stay?" he asked, his voice more serious now.
You lifted your head to look at him.
"Yes" you said simply. "I want you to stay."
A slow smile spread across his face.
"Then I'm staying."
"Good."
"Good" he repeated, kissing your forehead.
You got up from the sofa, holding out your hand to him.
"Come on. I’ll lend you something to sleep in."
He took your hand, letting you lead him down the hallway to your bedroom. Once there, you searched through your closet, pulling out a large T-shirt you knew would fit him.
"Here" you said, tossing it to him.
He caught it, looking at it with amusement.
"Is this from an ex?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
"It’s mine" you replied. "I like oversized clothes."
While he changed, you went to the bathroom to wash your face and brush your teeth. When you returned, he was sitting on the edge of your bed, curiously observing the room.
You turned off the main light, leaving only the bedside lamp on, and climbed into bed. He followed, sliding under the covers beside you.
For a moment, neither of you knew quite how to position yourselves. It was the first time you were sleeping together—literally.
Then, he extended his arm.
"Come here" he said.
You snuggled against his side, your head on his chest, his arm around you. You fit together perfectly, as if you were made for this.
"Comfortable."
"Comfortable?" he asked, his voice already heavy with sleep.
"Very comfortable" you murmured against his chest, feeling exhaustion finally start to take hold.
His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, a gesture so natural it felt as if you’d both been doing it for years.
"Hey" he said after a moment of silence.
"Mmm?"
"Thanks for dinner" he whispered. "And for... everything else."
You smiled against his skin.
"Thanks for coming over. And for... everything else" you said, echoing his words.
You felt his laughter vibrating in his chest.
"We should do this more often" he said.
"Dinner?" you asked, playing dumb.
"That too" he replied, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "But I meant sleeping together. This... having you like this... I could get used to it."
Your heart swelled in your chest.
"Me too" you admitted in a low voice.
He kissed the top of your head, pulling you a little tighter against him.
"Sleep" he whispered. "We have an early start tomorrow."
"Don't remind me" you groaned, but you could already feel your eyelids growing heavy.
"Goodnight, gorgeous."
"Goodnight, Seungmin."
You fell asleep listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling safer and happier than you had in a very long time.
how are you ? Hope doing well ☺️
Are you by any chance taking request right now ?…. Cause I have a very particular yet vague idea in my mind for Seungmin/ Hyunjin fic .
And of course I do like your fic 💗and your writhing style is saurrrrr goodddd 💖✨ and wait for new releases . If your req . are open pls tell …
Hi darling! I’m fine, thank you. I hope you’re doing great too!
Yes, I’m accepting requests; if I take a while to post them it’s because I have several. If you want, send me a message with your idea so I can make a note of it 💗
CONTENT: Enemies to Lovers, (Slow burn), Witty Banter & Sarcasm, Intellectual Rivalry, High Tension..
SUMMARY: Your group of friends has a new constant: Seungmin. He is sharp, analytical, and has a frustrating knack for challenging every opinion you hold. What starts as a series of intellectual clashes in crowded bars evolves during a weekend getaway where shared silences and a borrowed jacket bridge the gap between rivalry and attraction. Now, the arguments feel less like combat and more like a prelude. You’ve both stepped out of your comfort zones, and as the tension reaches a breaking point, you’re left with one nagging certainty: the next time you’re this close, neither of you will stop.
Your group of friends isn’t particularly large, but it is constant. The usual suspects: people from uni, from work, a few acquaintances who just stuck around over the years. You meet up to watch games, celebrate birthdays, or to have a group cry whenever someone goes through a breakup.
One night, at one of those birthdays, someone says:
“Hey, do you mind if a friend of mine swings by? He’s in the area.”
“Bring him along” another answers. “The more the merrier—more people to finish the beer.”
And that’s how he shows up.
He walks into the bar with a couple of calm strides, hands in his jacket pockets, expression neutral. He doesn’t stand out because he’s being loud or because he’s particularly dressed up. He stands out because it seems like he couldn't care less about everything happening around him.
Dark brown hair, soft yet defined features, attentive eyes. The kind of face that could look sweet... if it weren't for how seriously he looks at everything.
“This is Seungmin” your friend says. “A guy from work.” “Hi,” he greets, with a slight nod.
He smiles at you out of politeness, nothing more.
You’re on the other side of the table with your drink. You think something like: well, a new guy. And that’s it. There’s no spark. There’s nothing. Just another guy who looks like his mind is somewhere else.
The first time you actually talk is weeks later, at another get-together. A different bar, but the same old crowd.
Someone mentions a movie.
"It’s crap" you say, bluntly. "Everything that happens in the second half makes zero sense."
"Well, I liked it" another friend replies. "The ending made me cry."
"You cry at Christmas commercials" you tease her.
General laughter. Good vibes.
Then, from the opposite side of the table, he speaks. It wasn’t directed at you, but it reaches you all the same.
"The movie isn't that bad" Seungmin says, calmly. "It’s just that people focus on the obvious and miss the details."
You look up at him.
"Excuse me?" you ask with a half-smile. "Are you calling me basic?"
He holds your gaze, leaning his elbow on the table.
"If the shoe fits…" he lets the sentence hang there, with a tone so subtly ironic that you can’t tell if you’re overreacting or if he’s actually poking at you.
The rest of the table laughs, as if it’s just a funny back-and-forth.
You’re not laughing as much.
"Alright, genius" you say. "Then explain to me exactly which details I missed."
You don’t remember the last time someone disagreed with you so quickly without even knowing you.
He doesn’t back down.
"For starters" he begins, listing points calmly, "the main character's arc isn't about 'what happens to him,' it's about 'how he reacts.' Everything else is just scenery. And the ending doesn't have to make logical sense; it has to make emotional sense. And it does."
He says it just like that, dead serious, as if you were in an academic debate and not in a bar two beers in.
"That’s just a fancy way of saying 'I swallowed the whole thing and didn't question a single bit of it'" you fire back.
Your friends watch you both closely, amused. Someone mutters something like, "Ooh, here we go."
Seungmin barely smiles, but it’s not a friendly one; it’s a "this is getting interesting" kind of smile.
"No" he disagrees. "It’s a way of saying that if you want a story to give you everything pre-chewed, that’s not the story’s fault. That’s on you."
The word "you" sounds almost like a challenge.
Right then, something clicks.
Not in a romantic or pretty way.
More like: this guy gets on my last nerve.
"Right" you respond, crossing your arms. "And if someone doesn't think like you do, it’s just because they didn't understand anything."
"I didn't say that" he shot back. "You did."
And just like that, without knowing how, in less than ten minutes you are deep in a semi-serious mini-argument about cinema, scripts, and expectations, while the rest of the group acts as the audience.
Finally, one of your friends chimes in:
"Okay, Tarantino and Nolan, that’s enough. It was just a movie."
The subject changes. You order another round. Apparently, the night goes on as usual.
But you’ve already walked away with one thing clear: this Seungmin guy has a particular knack for bringing out your argumentative side.
And he seems to enjoy it.
Over time, you realize it wasn't just a one-off thing.
Every time you cross paths —dinner, a house party, beers after work— the same thing happens:
Someone says something.
You give your opinion.
He, from some spot at the table, drops a precise, ironic sentence that contradicts exactly what you just said.
Always without losing his cool. Always with that "I'm just being logical" look on his face.
"There’s nothing fun about waking up that early" you say.
"There's more fun in being on time than in making excuses" he replies.
"Not everything can be fixed by being responsible, you know?" you snap.
"No, but it helps" he fires back.
And so it goes, over and over again.
Your group starts to normalize it.
"Leave them be, it’s just their dynamic" someone says, laughing. "It’s not a real hang-out if they don't argue."
It bothers you that they see it as a "dynamic."
He bothers you.
You don’t know exactly what to call it, but you define it in your head like this:
Seungmin:
Sarcastic.
Slow to laugh.
Quick to disagree.
Too serious for a night out with friends.
With an expression that seems to say, "I’m right and you’re not."
The worst part is that most of the time, when he starts arguing a point, he knows what he’s talking about. He’s not your typical loudmouth with no foundation. His comments have logic, data, examples. Instead of liking that, it pisses you off even more.
Because you can’t fully ignore him. You have to work harder to counter him.
And you are stubborn, too.
So, every encounter is:
One beer.
Two comments.
Three jabs.
And a small or medium-sized argument.
Nothing serious. Nothing that ends in shouting.
Just friction. Constant friction.
There’s one day when, without meaning to, the friction feels… different.
It’s at a house, not a bar. A mutual friend has organized a game night: food, background music, cards, Jenga, things like that.
You’re sitting on the floor on a cushion, looking through the pile of games. Seungmin is right next to you, a can in his hand, reading the rules of one of them.
"That game is crap" you say, pointing at the box he’s holding.
"You and your opinions" he comments, without looking up. "Have you ever even played it?"
"I don’t need to play it to see that it’s boring" you respond. "It looks like a game for people who take winning way too seriously."
He looks up.
"And do you take losing seriously?" he asks.
"I take having fun seriously" you say. "This" —you tap the box with a finger— "is for a Human Resources office, not a party."
He lets out a more visible smile.
"You judge quickly" he observes.
"I judge well" you correct him.
"Always?" he insists.
"Almost always" you admit. "There are exceptions. But generally, my radar doesn't fail."
"What category exactly has your radar put me in?" he asks, with a tone that tries to be light, but has something curious underneath.
You could have said "X" and just let it go.
You don't.
"In the 'guy who thinks he always knows more than everyone else' category" you respond, looking him dead in the eye. "And who thinks he’s way too smart for his own good."
The silence between you grows thicker, but not uncomfortable. More like electric.
He sets the can down on the table, without looking away.
"And which one do you think you're in?" he fires back. "'Girl who has an opinion on everything and gets mad if someone disagrees with her'."
It’s a clean hit.
It only hurts because there’s some truth to it.
"At least I laugh every now and then" you counter. "You act like they charge you for smiling."
"Depends on who I’m with" he responds, quickly.
And right there, for a fraction of a second, something shifts.
Because that sentence, said with that tone, sounds a little less hostile and a little more… interested? You aren't quite sure.
You look at him a moment longer than necessary. You notice, for the first time, details you’d overlooked before: the way his jawline defines itself when he clenches his teeth, how his eyes shine when he’s bickering with you, how his voice drops when he’s speaking seriously.
A fleeting thought crosses your mind:
He’s not bad looking.
You shake it off quickly, almost angry with yourself.
A friend interrupts the moment, throwing cushions, telling you both to stop making a scene.
The night goes on. You play. You tease each other again. Nothing changes radically.
But you can no longer say "I’m indifferent."
Now you do know what to think of Seungmin:
He gets on your nerves.
And that, much to your chagrin, keeps you more focused on him than you’d ever want to admit.
Since that day at your friend's house, something changed that you didn't even want to acknowledge.
When Seungmin was around, you noticed him before you even saw him. It wasn't anything mystical; it was something as simple as your body becoming a tiny bit more tense, your responses coming out faster, your radar switching on by itself.
And that annoyed you.
So you defended yourself the only way you knew how: more sarcasm, more distance, more "I don't care about you."
The idea for the weekend came up in the group chat almost by accident.
"My parents have a house on the outskirts" one of your friends said in the chat. "We can all go, disconnect, drink, have a barbecue—the usual."
You were up for it. It had been a while since you’d broken out of the city-work-bed routine.
You confirmed you were going without overthinking it.
A few days before, the group agreed:
Leave Friday afternoon. Come back Sunday afternoon/evening. Split the cars, the food, the alcohol.
It was only when they sent out the car list that you noticed a silly little detail:
You were assigned to the same car as Seungmin.
You knew yourself well enough to know you weren't going to cancel over that. But you did catch yourself staring at the message for a couple of seconds too long before locking your screen.
On Friday morning, your room looked like a cross between a “mini move” and “I have no idea what to pack.”
You leave the suitcase open on the bed.
You pack:
Two pairs of jeans. A couple of comfortable t-shirts. A big sweater in case it gets cold at night. Underwear, socks, pajamas. Sneakers. A toiletry bag with the basics. An old sweatshirt that you always end up taking on trips out of habit.
You hesitate over a couple of other things: something a bit more “dressed up” in case you go out? Something cozier in case you spend the whole day lounging around?
In the end, you also pack:
A slightly nicer top, “just in case.” Some leggings to be comfortable around the house.
You struggle to zip it shut, open it back up to toss in a charger you almost forgot, and zip it again.
You check the clock. A message pops up in the group chat:
We’re downstairs in 10.
You grab your suitcase, the small bag where you keep your phone, wallet, and headphones, and leave the house.
When you get down to the street, you already see one of the cars parked near the entrance. Two friends are outside, smoking and chatting. Another is already inside.
"Hey, finally" one says. "I thought you’d backed out."
"If I back out, at least I back out with my bag packed" you respond.
"You’re in this car" they point out.
You walk over.
The passenger seat is occupied by one of your friends, sunglasses already on, playlist ready. In the back, on the left side, there’s a backpack. On the right, an empty seat.
On the left side, sitting there, is Seungmin, with his seatbelt already on, looking at his phone.
He looks up when he hears the door.
Your eyes meet for a second.
"You're with me" the driver says, opening the trunk to load your suitcase. "I promise not to play Reggaeton the whole trip."
"What a shame, I’d just mentally prepared myself for it" you respond, opening the back door.
You sit down next to Seungmin, pressed against the window. He moves his backpack slightly to make room for you, without saying a word. You hold your bag in your lap, like some kind of shield.
The car starts.
At first, the noise is filled with low music, silly comments from the front, a laugh here and there. You look out the window, answering every now and then, but you are very conscious of the body beside you: calm, contained, with a knee brushing yours occasionally as the car takes a curve.
At one point, a song you really like plays in the background.
You hum along without realizing it, softly.
"I wouldn't have pegged you for this band" Seungmin comments from the side, without fully looking at you.
"Excuse me?" you turn your head slightly.
"I thought you were more into mindless hits" he says. "Not decent lyrics."
It doesn’t sound like a compliment, but it’s not a direct attack either. It’s… his weird way of saying you’ve surprised him.
"I’m glad to disappoint your expectations" you respond.
He traces a slight smile.
"It’s not that easy" he says.
The conversation goes no further. You both go back to your windows, to your phones, to your thoughts.
But it isn’t uncomfortable.
And that surprises you a little.
The house is on the outskirts, in an area with more trees than buildings—two stories, painted white, with a patch of garden in the back.
When you arrive, there’s already another car parked there. Shouts of greeting, doors slamming, laughter. It feels a bit like a high school field trip, but with more alcohol.
You leave your suitcase in one of the upstairs rooms, shared with two friends. From the window, you can see the garden: a large plastic table, chairs, a barbecue, and a few hanging lights that look like they’ll set the mood once night falls.
The rest of the day is spent: Divvying up beds and sofas, heading to the supermarket for things that were missing (“did anyone bring salt? what about oil?”), prepping some food, opening the first beers, and spending some time lounging in the sun in the garden.
You exchange a few words with everyone, and with Seungmin too at times—always in that half-sarcastic, half-neutral tone that has become your basic form of communication.
If you pay attention, he doesn’t seem to make a special effort to get close to you, but he doesn't leave when you’re around either. He’s just… there. Constant.
When it gets dark, the garden lights come on. Someone plays music from a speaker. Another takes charge of the barbecue. The table fills up with improvised food, snacks, and various bottles.
It’s one of those “we’re way too adult for this, but it feels so good” moments.
After dinner, inevitably, someone suggests:
"Should we play something? Like Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, cards… whatever."
You end up in the living room—some on the sofa, others on the floor. A deck of cards appears, a drinking game, some "uncomfortable questions" app.
Everyone promises "not to go too far." No one keeps it.
You have to drink more than you expected, but not enough to lose your head. You’re at that pleasant point where your tongue loosens up, your body relaxes, and the laughs come easily.
There are silly dares, semi-serious confessions, a few off-color jokes. Every now and then, you lock eyes with Seungmin: sometimes because you’ve both laughed at the same thing, sometimes because you both get mentioned in a question.
"Out of everyone here..." a friend reads, "who would you go to a deserted island with?"
Someone says your name, another says his, and someone else mixes you both together in a joke.
"Those two would kill each other before they even reached the second day" someone says, pointing at you.
"It would be efficient" Seungmin adds, deadpan.
"Especially to save me from hearing your own opinions" you respond.
Laughter.
The glasses empty. Faces turn flush. Bit by bit, the energy changes: some get more clingy, others more philosophical, others just sleepy.
You start to notice that the living room is feeling a bit small: too many people, too much noise, too much heat.
You stand up during a break between games, pretending to go get some water.
No one pays you much attention.
The house has a small balcony on the top floor, at the end of the hallway. You saw it in passing when you dropped off your bags, but you didn't give it much thought then.
Now, walking up the stairs with your glass in hand and opening that glass door feels like an escape.
You step out into the fresh air.
The night outside is darker than what you’re used to in the city. The sky has more stars, and the air smells like grass and damp wood.
You lean against the railing, taking a slow sip of what’s left in your glass. You enjoy the relative silence: only the muffled murmur of the music and voices from below reaches you.
Not even two minutes pass before you hear the glass door open again.
You don't even need to look to know who it is.
"Fleeing the pack too, I see" Seungmin comments, closing the door behind him.
"I’m just here to file a weather report" you respond, without turning around. "Too much noise inside, plenty of stars outside."
He walks over until he's just a couple of steps away from you, leaning against the railing too, but keeping a careful distance between you.
"And which do you like better?" he asks.
"Depends on the day" you say. "Tonight, the stars win."
He nods, looking up.
He stays quiet for a moment.
It’s not that tense silence of "we don't know what to say." It’s more like the breathing room you need after so many hours of having people around.
"I didn't think you were the type to escape" he comments after a while.
"And what did you think I was like?" you throw the question back at him.
"The type to stay in the middle of the noise until the very end" he responds. "That you enjoy the fight."
"I can fight tomorrow" you say. "Tonight, I’m settling for not listening to some nobody tell the same party story for the third time."
A smile escapes you. He smiles too, just barely.
"You’ve paid quite a bit of attention to everyone" he says.
"To spend time with someone, you have to look at them, right?" you respond. "Even if some make you want to look away."
He turns his head slightly, looking at you from the corner of his eye.
"And what category am I in now?" he asks. "The 'makes you want to look away' one?"
You could let out something easy. Something like "yes, next question."
But the light buzz from the alcohol and the night air soften you just a bit.
"In the 'makes me want to argue more' category" you admit.
He lets out a low, genuine laugh.
"That sounds like a weird compliment" he says.
"It’s not a compliment" you fire back. "It’s a diagnosis."
A brief silence follows.
The air is fresh, but not cold. You feel the soft brush of the wind on your arms, the glass in your hand now almost empty.
"You watch people a lot, too" you say, suddenly.
He blinks.
"Oh, really?" he feigns surprise.
"Yeah" you nod. "You always seem to be analyzing something. Everyone. Me, too."
Seungmin takes his eyes off the sky and shifts them to you.
"I like to understand things" he responds. "And people, when they talk, reveal more than they think they do."
"And what have you understood about me, then?" you ask, crossing your arms, curiosity and defiance mixed together.
He takes his time.
"That you like being right, but not for free" he begins. "If someone agrees with you just for the sake of it, it makes you even angrier. That it pisses you off when people don't take you seriously, but you also use jokes as a way to avoid taking some things too seriously yourself. And that, even though you say you don't care about anything, you care about almost everything."
That last sentence sticks with you a little.
You laugh, but not very loudly.
"How observant" you mutter.
"I'm good for something" he says.
"And what should I understand about you?" you ask.
He gives a tiny shrug.
"Whatever you want" he responds. "You have an infallible radar, don't you?"
The way he says it isn't arrogant. It sounds more like: if you want to know, ask.
"That you like to argue" you say. "But not with just anyone. That you find it hard to loosen up because you’re afraid of looking like a fool. That you think you’re rational, but sometimes you’re just as intense as the rest of us—just on the inside."
This time, the silence is his.
He keeps looking at you for a long while, as if evaluating whether you’ve just said something stupid or if you’ve hit on something he doesn't usually hear.
"You're not that far off" he admits.
You realize something: you are speaking to each other in low voices, almost intimately, without shouting over music, without an audience around you.
And you don't feel like going back down.
You don’t feel like sharing this version of him with anyone else.
The door opens for a moment. One of your friends pokes their head out.
"Hey, you guys here? We’re starting another round. Come down if you want."
"We’ll be down in a bit" you say.
"Or not" Seungmin adds.
Your friend laughs, leaves, and closes the door.
You’re alone once again.
"Do you want to go back down?" he asks.
You think about it.
"We can give them ten minutes to kill each other" you respond. "And then we’ll go down as if they hadn't shouted your name and mine together in the same sentence."
He smiles a little more.
"Good idea."
The distance between the two of you remains the same, but something has shifted. You haven't touched; there hasn't been anything physical. But the tension is there—soft, almost comfortable—floating between sarcastic comments and tiny confessions.
And, though you wouldn't say it out loud even if you were drunk, for the first time, being alone with him doesn't bother you.
You’re intrigued.
And that, in your case, has always been dangerous.
In the end, after a bit more of that half-serious, half-sarcastic talk, you finish off the rest of your drink.
"If we don’t go down now, they’re going to come looking for us with torches" you say.
"Or with shots" Seungmin adds.
"Even worse."
You push the glass door open and head back into the hallway. The contrast between the silence upstairs and the noise in the living room is almost violent: laughter, raised voices, some poorly adjusted music blaring from the speaker.
You walk down the stairs one after the other.
As soon as you cross the threshold of the living room, a friend looks up, points, and sings out:
"Look who’s back from the balcony!"
Another joins in:
"Ooh, ooh, ooh… out there a long time, weren't you?"
"Relax" you respond, putting your hands up. "No one died. Yet."
"Are you sure?" someone asks. "Because the tension was visible from down here."
Laughter.
You notice how the comment hits you a little harder than it should. Suddenly, you see yourself from the outside: coming down the stairs behind him, leaving a small, dark place together at the same time.
Your automatic reflex is to stiffen up.
"We have a right to breathe air that isn't contaminated by your alcoholic breath" you snap. "Not everything here is about hormonal drama."
"That sounds like a 'yes, there was tension'" one of them responds, just to mess with you.
"That sounds like you're projecting" you cut him off.
Seungmin, by your side, says nothing. He simply walks toward the table, picks up his glass, and takes a sip as if none of this concerns him. But out of the corner of your eye, you see one corner of his mouth turn up, amused.
He doesn't defend you, but he doesn't fan the flames either. And, curiously, that relieves you.
You both join the next round of the game as if nothing happened. You talk a bit louder than usual, laugh a bit too much, trying to shift the spotlight elsewhere.
It's only when the jokes finally fade out that you realize you've rubbed your neck a couple of times, as if you had something written there.
And you hate yourself a little for letting one balcony change the way you move so much.
The next day smells like hangovers and toast.
You wake up in the shared room, with light filtering through the curtains and the distant echo of someone clattering around in the kitchen. Your friends are still half-asleep, one of them with her arm draped over her face.
You throw on the first thing you find: an oversized t-shirt, leggings, and your hair pulled back into a halfway decent bun. You head downstairs barefoot, following the smell of coffee.
The kitchen is an organized mess: plates, mugs, leftovers from dinner, and a toaster smoking away. A couple of friends are rummaging through the fridge.
And Seungmin is at the counter, his back to you, prepping something in the coffee maker.
"Halfway good morning" you greet them, your voice raspy.
"I don't know about 'good' but it’s definitely morning" one responds.
Seungmin turns his head slightly to look at you.
"Looks like you survived" he comments.
"A disappointment for some" you say, opening a cabinet in search of a mug.
As you reach out, he’s already placing a clean mug right next to the coffee maker.
"Here" he says. "You like it with a splash of milk and no sugar, right?"
You stand still for a second.
"Since when are you taking notes?" you ask, taking the mug.
"Since you always leave the sugar packet untouched" he responds, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He pours your coffee without asking anything else.
It’s a small gesture. It could be normal politeness, if it weren't for the fact that: There are other people in the kitchen, yet he’s only prepared yours and his; he knows you well enough to know how you take it; and he does it with a naturalness that makes your curiosity sting even more.
You take a sip. It’s exactly how you like it.
"You did a good job" you acknowledge, without looking at him.
"I usually get things right on the first try" he responds.
"Here we go again" you mutter.
He smiles out of the corner of his eye and sits in a chair by the table with his own mug.
You sit opposite him, more out of inertia than a conscious decision. The rest of the people drift in and out of the kitchen, but a strange moment is created at that table: you, half-asleep, messy hair; him, in a gray sweatshirt, hair also more tousled than usual.
He looks… less serious in the morning. More human.
"Do you have a headache?" he asks, while a friend struggles with the toaster.
"A little" you admit. "But I’ve survived worse."
"Better that than dying because of a poorly timed 'Never Have I Ever'" he comments.
"I'd die of embarrassment, not alcohol" you say.
He looks at you for a second, with an expression you can't quite read.
"You don't seem like the type to have much shame" he lets out.
"Depends on the day" you respond. "And on who's in front of me."
The phrase hangs in the air, a reflection of his own from the night before on the balcony. He seems to notice it, because his eyes lock onto yours for a moment longer than usual.
Before anyone can make a comment, another friend walks in:
"Has anyone seen my phone? I left it here last night—I swear I didn't drink it."
The kitchen fills with noise again, and that small thread between you is cut, though not entirely.
You finish your coffee and stand up to start helping with the toast. When you turn around, Seungmin has already stood up too and is clearing away empty mugs without being asked.
Under his breath, as he passes by you, he says:
"You should drink some water, too. Coffee alone is just a trick."
"How dramatic" you respond.
But you pour yourself a large glass of water anyway.
Not because he told you to. Obviously not.
The rest of the day is spent being adults who play at being kids: some suggest going for a walk nearby, others want to set up a sort of silly "scavenger hunt" in the garden.
Together, you put together a weird mix of outdoor games: a ball, a jump rope, an improvised "capture the flag" using two scarves.
You end up right in the thick of it, despite having said you were tired. It always happens to you.
You split into teams. Naturally, your friends have the brilliant idea of putting you on the opposite team from Seungmin.
"That way you'll bait each other more and keep us entertained" the organizer says, shamelessly.
"We aren't monkeys in a zoo" you respond.
"A little bit, yeah" Seungmin adds from the other side, with a half-smile.
The game starts: running, chasing, stealing the other team’s scarf, avoiding being tagged.
During one of those silly sprints, you bolt toward the area where the opposing team’s "flag" is kept. You see Seungmin approaching from the side, clearly intending to intercept you.
Everything happens fast:
You accelerate, dodging a friend who tries to stop you; Seungmin comes at you head-on, calculating exactly where you’re going to pass—and the grass is slightly damp in one spot.
Your sneaker slips.
You feel your foot slide out from under you, your center of gravity betraying you. You’re about to fall face-first into the dirt.
But you don't hit the ground.
A firm arm catches you by the waist.
Another grips your forearm, stabilizing you.
Your body, by sheer momentum, crashes into something solid: Seungmin’s chest.
For a second, the two of you stay like that: you leaning slightly back, him holding you up, your faces closer than they’ve ever been while sober. You notice his breathing, the heat radiating off him, the scent of clean laundry and grass.
By reflex, your hands press against his chest so you don't go down completely.
Your fingers feel the contour of the muscle beneath the fabric.
And your brain, ever so helpful, decides to go completely blank.
"You’re going to kill yourself" he murmurs, softly.
It doesn't sound like a taunt. It sounds like a statement of fact.
"And you're going to be my cushion" you respond, your voice still a bit louder than you'd like.
He smiles, just barely.
"I’m not soft" he says.
"I noticed" you blur out, way too honest.
You both realize what you just said at the exact same time.
His eyebrows arch slightly. Your cheeks burn hotter than you could ever blame on the exercise.
"Hey, that’s a foul!" someone shouts. "Illegal contact!"
The spell breaks.
Seungmin pulls you fully upright, letting go slowly, making sure you’re steady on your feet.
"You're okay" he states.
"I always am" you breathe out.
He turns around and heads back to his position. You do the same.
The game continues, but you’re more focused on not slipping again—and on ignoring the ghost-like sensation of his hands on your waist—than on actually winning.
That night, when you sit down at the table for dinner again, someone says:
"Have you guys noticed that whenever something happens, these two are right in the middle of it?"
There it is again: "these two."
There you are again, trying to pretend you don't care.
Except, each time, it gets a little harder to believe your own act.
The rest of the night passes without any major incidents.
More conversations, more laughter, the occasional stifled yawn. The alcohol levels drop as the exhaustion rises. You end up crashing on the sofa for a while, talking about nothing in particular with your friends while the living room slowly empties out.
There are no more balconies. No more near-falls.
Just a strange sense of shared routine, where Seungmin is no longer just "the serious friend of your friends," but a part of the landscape that your mind—whether you like it or not—has begun to record in detail.
Sunday morning smells like goodbyes and trash bags.
You pick everything up: stray plates and glasses, food scraps, air mattresses half-deflated, clothes forgotten on chairs and sofas.
You go up to the room and double-check that you aren't leaving anything behind: charger, toiletry bag, clothes. You zip your suitcase with a bit more effort than on the way there—it always happens—and drag it down the hallway.
When you step out to the front of the house, a group is already organizing the trunks.
Stubborn as ever, you set out to load your own suitcase.
You grab it with both hands and lift, trying to wedge it into the trunk of your assigned car. You’ve spent two days barely sleeping, moving constantly, and drinking more than your body considers reasonable. It shows in your arms.
You feel it, but you grit your teeth and pull anyway.
"Let me" a voice says beside you.
Before you can respond, you feel someone take the suitcase from another angle and, literally, pull it out of your hands.
Seungmin lifts it with ease and fits it into a gap in the trunk.
"I can do it myself" you protest, crossing your arms.
"I saw that" he responds, closing the trunk. "But it's faster this way."
He doesn't sound condescending. He sounds… practical.
Still, your pride makes a lot of noise.
"I'm not made of glass" you insist.
"I know" he says. "That’s exactly why you don't have to carry everything all the time."
You fall silent for a second, lacking an immediate comeback.
He turns around and heads for the rear door of the car. He opens one side.
He sits down.
You walk around the car and open the other.
You lock eyes for a second, as if checking to see if anyone is going to make a comment. No one does. Everyone is too busy with their own things.
You sit down beside him without complaining.
It’s no longer a "what a coincidence" thing. It’s just... the way it is.
This time, you aren't so talkative. The exhaustion shows in your eyelids, in the way you lean a bit more against the door, in how you hold your phone without actually typing anything.
The conversation in the front is handled by the other two: they complain about going back to the routine, plan the next hangout, argue over which playlist to put on.
In the back, at first, there is silence.
Until Seungmin breaks his own pattern:
"Do you always go to everything?" he asks suddenly.
"To everything what?" You tilt your head toward him slightly.
"Thinking too much bothers me" you respond, with an honesty that surprises you. "And if I’m alone, I think. So… I do things."
He nods, staring out the front window.
"That makes sense."
"And you?" you ask. "I see you at almost everything, too. For being the serious one of the group, you don't miss much."
"I don't like missing out on things" he says. "Even if I spend half the night thinking I should have stayed home."
A laugh escapes you.
"Drama king."
"Realist" he corrects.
"Have you always been like this?" you ask. "So… controlling."
"Controlling?" He arches an eyebrow.
"You like being right, you like observing, you like knowing what’s going on. It sounds like control."
He takes a moment to think.
"I’d say I like understanding things" he finally responds. "When I was a kid, I hated being out of the loop. Now… the habit just stuck."
"Were you just as serious as a kid?" you throw back at him.
He smiles, looking at the back of the front seat.
"I was worse" he admits. "I had the face of a grumpy old man. You, back in school... you must have been the one always arguing with the teachers."
"Only when they were talking nonsense" you say.
"So, basically all the time" he summarizes.
"Exactly."
The conversation flows like that for a while: scattered memories, shitty jobs you’ve both suffered through, things you like that the rest of the group doesn't really know about. No shouting, no sharp irony just for the sake of it.
You discover that he has a much drier, more subtle sense of humor than he let on; that he’s into photography, that he hates being told how he’s supposed to feel, and that he reads more than he appears to.
You don't reach any grand confession, but the tone is… different.
Less of a war. More of a truce.
The car has been on the road for quite some time now, and the landscape is starting to repeat itself: highways, poles, billboards, trees.
The air inside is warm, the background music is soft, and your eyes are closing more and more.
You try to stay awake, to keep the conversation going, but there comes a point where exhaustion wins.
You readjust in your seat, leaning your temple against the glass. That doesn't last long: with every bump in the road, your head knocks lightly against the window.
In one of those sways, without realizing it, you lean the other way.
Your head finds a firm shoulder.
And it stays there.
You don’t register it. You’re already halfway into a dream.
Seungmin registers it, though.
He tenses up for a second by reflex, as if he wasn't prepared for that contact. Then he looks at you from the corner of his eye: your eyes are closed, your mouth is relaxed, and your brow is less furrowed than usual.
He lets out a sigh—very, very low.
He adjusts his posture a bit so your neck isn't stuck in a weird position.
A while passes.
At some point, the driver rolls down the window a bit to air out the car. A cooler breeze drifts in.
Seungmin notices you shrink back slightly, instinctively, because of the temperature change.
He takes off the jacket he’s wearing—a light, comfortable jacket—and, careful not to wake you, drapes it over you, covering your shoulders, your chest, and part of your legs.
Your body relaxes even further.
No one in the front seems to pay much attention. One is focused on the road, the other half-asleep against the window.
He stays like that: with your head resting on his shoulder, glancing at you every now and then, as if he isn't quite sure at what exact moment you both arrived at this.
You don't know how much time passes.
All you know is that, suddenly, you feel a hand on your arm, moving you gently.
"Hey..." a voice says, close by. "We’re here."
You half-open your eyes.
The first thing you see is the interior of the parked car, the light looking different. The second thing, very close, is the line of Seungmin’s jaw, the fabric of his t-shirt, the curve of his neck.
It takes you a couple of seconds to process that you’ve been leaning on him.
You sit up quickly—not with a jerky movement, but enough to pull away.
The jacket slides slightly down your shoulders.
"You were out cold," he says, his tone neutral.
"I..." You blink, trying to get your bearings. "Sorry. I... didn't mean to crush you."
"It’s fine" he responds. "You weigh less than you look."
You aren't sure if that’s a compliment, an objective observation, or a weird way of saying "don't worry about it."
You look down.
You recognize the jacket you're wearing. It isn't yours.
"This...?" you ask, pinching the fabric.
"It was cold" he says, as if it were nothing.
Your brain, still half-fogged, decides to process the information in two steps:
You fell asleep on him.
He put his jacket on you.
He isn’t looking at you expecting an explicit "thank you." He doesn't seem uncomfortable. He’s just… there.
"Well..." you adjust the jacket over your shoulders. "Thanks."
"You’re welcome" he responds.
The driver opens the trunk, and suitcases begin to come out. The rest of the group says goodbye with hugs and promises of "we have to do this again," which may or may not ever happen.
You get out of the car with the jacket still on. It’s chilly, so you don't take it off.
While you wait for your suitcase to be pulled out, you feel Seungmin’s gaze on you for a moment. It’s not inquisitive or invasive. It’s… a check.
As if he were verifying that you’re still in one piece.
When you finally drag your suitcase toward your front door, you turn around for a second to say goodbye.
He raises his hand, briefly.
"Get some rest" he says.
"I'll try" you respond.
You turn around and go inside.
It’s only when you close the door to your apartment and leave the suitcase in the hallway that you realize you’re still wearing his jacket.
And that, against all odds, you feel more reluctant to text him to return it than to just keep it on for a little while longer.
Maybe, you think, you can use it as an excuse.
Later on.
The following days return to the usual grind.
Work, public transport, your apartment, the occasional dinner with part of the group. Routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except for your head.
Because your head, for some absurd reason, keeps returning to one specific image: you, asleep in the car, your head on his shoulder, his jacket over you.
And, above all, the fact that the jacket is still in your closet.
At first, you leave it draped over the back of a chair. Then, you hang it on the coat rack by the entrance. One day, without thinking, you put it on just to go down and buy bread. You realize it the moment you hit the street and half-take it off, as if you’d been caught red-handed.
Every time you see it, you think the same thing:
“I should give it back to him.”
And every time you go to text him, you think:
“And what do I say? ‘Hi, here’s your jacket’ as if it’s nothing? Isn’t that totally ridiculous?”
Several days pass like this. A part of you hopes he’ll say something in the group chat—a joke, a “hey, my jacket.” He doesn't.
That makes it worse.
Because if he doesn't mention it, it feels like you're the only one overthinking it.
Until one day, returning from work, you walk into your place, drop your things at the door, look at the jacket on the rack… and you get fed up with yourself.
You grab your phone.
You open the private chat with his name on it.
You stare at the blank screen for longer than you’d like to admit.
You type:
Hey.
You delete it.
You type:
Hello.
You delete that too.
In the end, you take a deep breath and force yourself to write something minimally functional.
Hey, I think I still have your jacket.
You send it quickly, before you can think about it anymore.
You regret it the very next second.
You turn around and go to the kitchen for some water, as if you could somehow run away from your phone. Not even two minutes pass before it vibrates.
You look.
I know. I thought you'd kept it as a war trophy.
You huff. Of course he couldn’t just say "oh, okay." He had to needle you.
You sit down on the kitchen chair.
Don't flatter yourself. It was just in the way on the coat rack.
He takes a little longer to respond this time.
Sure. Anyway, we can meet tomorrow around 6:00 PM at the usual café; that way you can give it back and stop suffering over the space on your coat rack.
You’re surprised by how quickly he suggests a place, a day, and a time.
I’m just going to give you the jacket back; there's no need for coffee.
A few seconds pass.
Since you're leaving the house, and I'm leaving the house,
and coffee exists…
I don't see the problem.
You roll your eyes, even though no one is watching.
But the truth is, you can’t see a solid excuse to say no.
Fine, tomorrow at 6:00.
Bring the jacket; I don't want to have to buy another one.
You bite your tongue to keep from replying with "dramatic."
You turn off your phone. You look at the jacket again. You feel that treacherous tug in your chest: nerves.
And you hate it a little—the fact that you actually care.
The next day, you arrive at the café five minutes early.
The jacket is folded over your arm, as if to make it clear (even though nobody asked) that it’s the only reason you’re there.
The café is the usual one: light wood tables, the smell of freshly ground coffee, people with laptops, a few couples talking in low voices.
You scan the room.
Seungmin is already seated at a table near the window, phone in hand and wearing a black hoodie. No jacket.
When he sees you, he looks up and puts his phone away.
You walk over.
"Hi" you say, resting the jacket on the chair opposite him. "Mission accomplished."
"I see it survived" he responds, glancing at it for a second.
He leans back in his chair.
"I’ve already ordered" he adds. "For you, too."
You blink.
"What?"
"The usual" he says, as if it were obvious.
You raise an eyebrow.
"Since when do I have a 'usual'?"
"Since the fourth time we ordered coffee here with the group and you ordered the same thing" he responds, without hesitating. "Small latte, no sugar, and a cookie—even though you say you don't need it."
Just at that moment, the waitress approaches with two cups: one that matches exactly what he just said, and another (black, plain) that she places in front of him. Then, she sets down a small plate with two cookies.
You feel a strange mix of things: Surprise. A bit of embarrassment. And something warm, small, and treacherous that acknowledges: it’s a nice gesture.
"I’m going to start calling you a walking planner" you mutter. "Or a spy."
"I just have a good memory" he responds, with a slight shrug. "And I'm efficient."
"Not everything is a competition for efficiency," you retort, though the intensity of the comment has faded significantly.
You pick up the cup. It’s exactly how you like it.
Damn him.
The initial plan was to return the jacket and leave quickly. But once the coffee is in your hand, the "well, since I'm already here..." excuse becomes all too easy.
The conversation starts with the obvious: the weekend at the house, the nonsense that happened, the anecdotes that are already turning into inside jokes.
"They're still saying we’d kill each other on a deserted island" you comment.
"It would be fun" he responds with a half-smile.
"Speak for yourself" you say. "I'd only put up with you until you built me something useful. Then, we'd see."
"How generous" he says ironically.
Little by little, the talk drifts away from the group.
He tells you about his week, about a project that’s been taking up all his headspace. You tell him about your job, about how tired you get of certain things.
There are moments when the automatic urge to disagree with him flares up, but you surprise yourself by letting it go. And he, for his part, isn't looking for a constant argument either.
He’s laughing more than usual.
You notice it when something you say makes him let out a short, sincere laugh—one that reaches all the way to his eyes. Not that usual lopsided smirk, but real laughter.
You realize that you like it.
You realize it, and it pisses you off a little to realize it.
But you don’t cut him off.
Because you, too, feel strangely comfortable. You aren’t measuring every word. You aren’t building a constant defense. You find yourself resting your chin on your hand, watching him speak, and suddenly thinking:
He’s handsome.
Not in the abstract. Specifically.
The line of his nose, the curve of his lips, his hands when he gestures just enough, the way he knits his brows when he’s trying to explain something clearly.
You wonder if he’s always been this way, or if this is just the first time you’ve allowed yourself to look at him like this.
When you look at your phone for the first time in earnest, you’re surprised to see the time.
Han pasado más de dos.
"Wow" you mutter. "I had the feeling we’d been here for… less time."
"Is that a good sign or a bad one?" he asks, leaning his elbow on the table.
You think for a second.
"It depends" you respond. "If I count this as 'wasting time,' it's bad. If I count it as 'a break,' it's acceptable."
"And what does your radar say?" he asks, using that word that has already settled between the two of you.
You sigh, but a smile escapes anyway.
"It says it wasn't so bad" you admit. "But don't let it go to your head."
He laughs softly.
"I'll try."
You ask for the check. He, of course, tries to pay for everything.
"No way" you say, pulling out your wallet. "We drank the same amount."
"I invited you" he counters.
"You pay for your coffee" you cut him off. "I'll pay for mine."
In the end, you agree to split it, because you both have the same level of stubbornness and nobody wants to drag out an argument over ten euros.
You step out of the café with the taste of coffee still in your mouth.
"I'm heading this way" you say, pointing toward your street.
"Me too" he responds.
You frown.
"I've been using this route since the day we met and you hadn't noticed" he says. "I guess you were too busy ignoring me."
You feel the urge to hit him with the jacket.
You start walking. At first, you protest.
"You don't need to walk me home" you say. "I'm not a child."
"I'm not walking you home; I'm going back to my place" he responds. "The fact that it's in the same direction is just a failure of urban planning."
"That's a bit of a stretch" you mutter.
The walk is peaceful. There’s no rush. It’s not cold enough to make you want to run. You talk about nonsense: the movie you watched last night, the ridiculous voice note someone from the group sent, a video someone showed you.
Every now and then, a silence forms. It isn’t uncomfortable. It’s… natural. Filled by the sound of cars, people passing by, a dog barking in the distance.
You find yourself actually enjoying his company—not having to fill every gap with either an attack or a defense. When you’re finally close to your front door, you slow down without thinking about it.
You turn toward him.
"Well..." you say. "In the end, it wasn't so bad."
"The same verdict again" he responds. "I'm improving."
You bite your lip.
There’s something that wants to come out, something your rational side is trying to hold back. It doesn't quite succeed.
"I mean..." you clarify. "This could... I don't know... happen again. Some day. This."
The words come out a bit rushed. In your head, they sound even worse.
He looks at you, evaluating, without mocking.
"Being forced to have coffee with you again?" he asks, with a soft tone in his sarcasm.
"Yeah, well" you retort. "We could consider it charity work. See if you can learn to be a little more pleasant."
He smiles—small, genuine.
"Accepting your invitation would be doing you a favor" he says.
"I didn't make it that clear" you protest.
"You made it clear enough" he answers.
He stays silent for a second.
"I'm not complaining" he adds, finally. "We can... do it again. When you're not so afraid to fully admit it."
You stand there, looking at him. You feel a mix of embarrassment, the urge to give him a shove, and something else you find hard to name.
You nod.
"We'll see" you say, giving yourself the last word out of pride.
You walk toward the entrance and put the key in the door.
Before you go inside, you turn back one more time.
"Hey" you add. "Thanks… for the coffee. And for the jacket. And for not letting go when I almost killed myself on the lawn."
"You're welcome" he says. "That's what… acquaintances are for."
The word gets stuck in your head.
Acquaintances.
Not enemies. Not friends. Something in between, shifting.
"See you later, acquaintance" you respond.
"See you later" he repeats.
You enter the building. You go up. When you close your front door and lean against the wood for a second.
You don't know exactly at what point you went from "I can't stand him" to letting the idea of having another coffee with him not seem entirely bad.
But you know it has happened.
And, though you wouldn't admit it out loud or even before a jury, a part of you… is looking forward to seeing when the next time will be.
Since that day, the messages with Seungmin start as something occasional.
And without you even realizing it, they become part of your routine.
At first, they are just random things:
They’ve started showing ads for that movie on TV again.
I remembered your irrational hatred.
It's not irrational.
It's polite.
Another day:
I walked past the café and they’ve changed the coffee brand.
We need to do some quality control.
We?
Since when am I your partner?
From the moment you have an opinion on everything.
You laugh. You don't say it.
Little by little, it’s no longer just comments.
He’ll send the occasional “Are you still alive?” when you don’t show up in the group chat for a few days. You send him bad memes when you know he’s up to his neck in work. One time, he sends you a photo of a cat with a serious face:
Your spirit animal.
And you reply with a dog making a disgusted face:
Yours.
Without realizing it, you get used to seeing his name in your notifications. Sometimes he’s the one to send a “good morning,” sometimes it’s you. Not every day, but often enough that when it doesn't happen, you notice.
One Tuesday afternoon, his message is different.
They’ve released that movie again.
Extended version.
We can go and hate it together. Or you might have to admit it's actually good.
You stay there for a while, just staring at the screen.
Are you asking me out on a date just to argue?
I’m proposing a scientific experiment.
Repeat the conditions, change the "company" variable.
You sound so romantic it's scary.
Friday.
20:00.
I’ll pick you up and we’ll make it in time for popcorn.
Your finger hovers over the keyboard for less time than you expected.
Okey.
I want to be able to criticize it with fresh data.
Perfect.
That way, I can be right with even more arguments.
You roll your eyes, but your stomach does something strange. A sort of knot mixed with very discreet butterflies.
Friday arrives.
You tell yourself it’s just going to the movies with someone from the group. Nothing more.
But when you stand in front of your closet, you don't just grab the first thing you find.
You linger a second longer on each piece of clothing.
In the end, you choose a pair of jeans that fit you especially well, a simple top that makes you feel good, and a jacket that matches—even though you could have just thrown on any old hoodie—and your makeup is light, but more careful than usual: a bit of mascara, some gloss on your lips.
You look at yourself in the hallway mirror before leaving.
“Too much effort for a shitty movie,” you think.
And yet, you go anyway.
At 19:30, he texts you:
I’m downstairs.
You go down.
His car is parked near the entrance. You see him leaning against the side, looking at his phone. He’s wearing a dark shirt under a jacket, jeans, and his hair is a bit more styled than usual.
He looks… more put-together than usual.
He sees you approaching and straightens up.
"Punctual" he says.
"I’ve got a commitment to the popcorn" you reply.
He opens the passenger door for you without saying anything else. It’s a small gesture, but he does it naturally, as if it were obvious.
You sit down. He walks around the car and gets in on the other side.
"Ready to suffer?" he asks, starting the engine.
"Readier than you are for me to shut you up when we leave" you reply.
The cinema is packed. Weekend, special release, couples, groups of friends. The line for tickets is long; the one for the popcorn-drink combo, even worse.
You have to do both.
You stand behind him in the ticket line. When you move to the snacks area, the crowd gets tighter. Someone almost pushes you from behind while trying to squeeze past.
You don't actually trip, but you take a clumsy step forward.
Without thinking, you feel a firm hand on the small of your back.
Seungmin has turned slightly, positioning himself partly in front of you, acting as a barrier between you and the rest of the crowd. His palm stays there, on your back, slowly guiding you as you move forward.
It isn't bold. It isn't invasive.
It’s… protective.
And, above all, instinctive.
Your body notices it before your head does.
You turn just a fraction, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.
He’s focused on the line, not on you.
"So you do know how to behave in public after all" you murmur.
"It’s just to make sure you don't step on my heels" he responds, without withdrawing his hand.
The heat from his fingers stays pressed against you through the fabric much longer than you'd like to admit.
When it's your turn, he orders without asking:
"Medium popcorn, mixed. Two drinks. One with ice, one without."
He looks at you for a second, as if confirming he got it right. He did.
You hate yourself a little for how that makes you feel.
You enter the theater. It’s nearly full. You find your seats in the center, without too many people talking over each other.
You sit down. The lights go out.
You share popcorn. Literally.
Every time one person's fingers brush against the other's in the bucket, there's a small spark that neither of you mentions.
You focus on the screen, the dialogue, the scenes you remember hating. This time, maybe because he’s right there beside you, the movie feels different. Not necessarily better, but… less unbearable.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him frown at the same parts you do, and laugh at a couple of things you also find funny.
At one point, you make a low comment, almost in his ear:
"This shot is gratuitous."
He responds, just as low:
"It’s symbolic."
"It’s posturing."
"Sometimes it’s the same thing."
Something inside you relaxes. This argument, in whispers, without malice, feels like an evolved version of that first fight in the bar.
When the movie ends and the lights come on, you don't leave the theater ready to kill him.
You take it as progress.
As you step out of the cinema, the night chill hits you. It’s not freezing, but you can feel the contrast with the warm theater.
You cross your arms for a second.
"You always refuse to wear a decent coat" he comments.
"I didn't think I'd be stepping out into Antarctica" you respond.
Without overthinking it, he takes off his jacket and holds it out to you.
"Take it."
You look at it.
"This is starting to become a habit" you say. "I'm going to set up a lost-and-found shop for you."
"You could start by returning them on time" he responds.
Even so, he places it over your shoulders without waiting for you to take it yourself.
You adjust it, pretending it’s only for comfort.
The truth is, it smells like him. And that throws you off more than you want to admit.
On the way to the car, the ground glitters slightly with moisture. The city has that yellow lamplight that makes everything softer.
Once again, he opens the passenger door for you. You’re starting to see it as something normal, and that normalcy scares you a little.
You sit down. He gets in on his side.
As soon as he starts the car, he turns up the heat a bit.
"I don't want you using this later to blame the movie" he says. "'I got sick because you forced me to go to the cinema.'"
"How generous" you respond. "Protecting me from the air conditioning and bad cinema."
"Full service" he retorts.
The ride back is quieter than the one there, but it’s not a heavy silence. There’s low music, lights passing by, and the occasional stray comment about specific scenes.
You catch yourself looking at his profile when he stops at a red light: the red light reflected on his face, his hands on the wheel, that quiet concentration.
You quickly turn toward your window when the car starts moving again, as if you’d been caught.
He reaches your street far too quickly.
He parks near your entrance. He turns off the engine.
You unbuckle your seatbelt.
Neither of you moves.
There’s this kind of suspended moment: you with your hand on the door handle, he with one hand still on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh.
"Well…" you start.
"Well" he repeats.
You turn around.
"You were less unbearable than I expected" you say.
"You’re getting used to it" he responds, without missing a beat.
You bite your lip for a second.
You feel that pull again: the part of you that wants to stretch this out, that doesn't want to say goodbye just like that.
"I could admit" you add slowly, "that coming wasn't a bad idea."
He looks at you, leaning his back against the seat now, turned toward you.
"That's getting dangerously close to 'I liked it'" he says.
"Don't get ahead of yourself" you retort. "I'm just saying that… it wasn't bad."
There's a small smile on his lips.
"We can find another bad movie" he proposes. "So you have an excuse."
"Or we could find a good one and save me the suffering" you respond.
"You like suffering, don't lie" he says.
The words flow easily. There is no awkward tension, but there is that soft electricity you already recognize.
You realize you don't have a real reason to stay in the car any longer, but you don't have a real reason to leave so quickly either.
In the end, you force yourself to open the door.
"See you" you say, stepping out.
"Yeah" he responds.
Before closing it, you remember the jacket.
"I'll give it back to you another day" you add, holding onto it. "Or I'll just keep it."
"Do whatever you want" he answers. "As long as you don't blame me if you get used to it."
The door closes.
This time you go up to your apartment with the jacket on, not over your arm.
And it doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
From that night on, the texting intensifies.
They aren't just random comments anymore. They start slipping into your mornings:
Good morning. Today you look like part of the 50% that goes to work by force.
Good morning. And you look like part of the 50% that goes to argue with everyone.
Projection.
In your afternoons:
I saw a book you’d like. Lots of text, zero pictures.
You’ve just described both me and my taste.
And sometimes even in your nights:
Have you seen the moon today? It’s disgustingly cheesy.
So romantic, God. Become a poet.
I don't want to take your job.
You suggest plans.
There’s good cheesecake at this café. Or so they say.
I say we should go check it out.
Or:
There’s a new ramen place. I guess I’ll have to take you there to criticize it.
I guess I’ll have to let you treat me.
You go on to chain together coffees, a stray dinner here and there, short walks. Always with very rational excuses:
"We have to try this." "Since we’re nearby anyway…" "No one else could make it today."
But you know —and he does too— that if it were anyone else, you’d be making more excuses to get out of it.
Eventually, the universe aligns and the entire group is free on the same weekend.
"Finally all together" someone says. "I thought we’d gotten a divorce."
Seungmin walks in a moment later with a general "hello," as always. But, without meaning to, your eyes follow him from the door all the way to the table.
You aren’t the only one who notices.
A friend glances at you with a little smirk.
"Since when do you greet people with your eyes first and your voice second?" she whispers.
"Shut up" you reply, giving her a gentle nudge.
You all sit around the table. By a twist of fate (and available chairs), you end up next to him. No one protests. No one comments on it directly.
But a few looks are exchanged.
Throughout the night, the dynamic becomes evident:
When you make a comment, he follows it rather than cutting it short; when someone makes a joke at your expense, he finishes it, but without any malice; when you speak, he listens. Not condescendingly, but as if he actually cares about what you’re saying.
There’s a moment when someone from the group blabs:
"It’s weird seeing you guys not yelling at each other."
"We’re in a truce phase" you respond, taking a drink.
"Field research" Seungmin adds.
"What’s that supposed to mean?" someone else asks.
"We’ve decided that a constant war is exhausting" you both respond almost at the same time.
And that synchrony is the final straw.
"Okay, enough" a friend says, leaning her elbow on the table. "When were you planning on telling us that this" —she points her finger at both of you— "is happening?"
"What 'this'?" you ask, feigning innocence.
"The tension" another adds. "You can see it from a mile away."
"You’d see tension in a rock" you shoot back.
But your cheeks flush warm.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Seungmin also avoid the others' gaze for a second, taking a sip from his glass.
"We live nearby" he adds, as a clumsy explanation when someone asks why you’ve been seeing each other more lately.
"Sure, sure. Geography is a real bond" someone teases.
The jokes keep coming.
You change the subject whenever you can. But, deep down, you know they’re right about one thing: something has shifted between you.
Even if no one has named it yet.
The night rolls on. People start heading out little by little. Some take taxis, others head to the subway in a group, and a few stay a bit longer.
You decide to leave when you check the time and remember that tomorrow you’re a relatively functional adult with things to do.
You stand up and grab your jacket.
"I’m leaving too" Seungmin says, almost at the same time.
A friend raises her eyebrows, blatant as ever.
"Oh, what a coincidence."
"He lives nearby" you repeat, as if it were the most logical explanation in the world.
You leave the bar together, with the night breeze greeting you on the street.
You walk a few meters in silence, letting the noise of the bar fade away behind you.
"We could have come and gone with the group, and it would have been less obvious" you say, half-joking, half-serious.
"It wouldn't have changed much" he responds. "They're annoying either way."
"They have too much time on their hands to watch" you add.
You walk along the sidewalk, side by side. Every now and then, your arms brush against each other.
Your body doesn't tense up like it did at first. But you do feel that slight current running through you every time there’s contact, however minimal it may be.
"Does it bother you?" he asks suddenly.
"Does what?" You turn a bit.
"That they're meddling" he clarifies. "That they comment on it, I mean."
You think about it.
"It bothers me that they’re right" you admit, more honest than you expected to be.
He lets out an almost inaudible laugh.
"Yeah" he says.
"And you…" you add. "Well? Does it bother you?"
"I’m used to them having an opinion on everything" he responds. "But I prefer to have my own."
"What a surprise" you murmur.
A few meters ahead, the street forks: one path toward your entrance, the other toward the direction he usually takes.
You stop, almost without meaning to.
You turn toward him.
There’s something in the air, heavy with words that neither of you has said yet.
Your brain knows that right now, "something" could happen: a hug that lasts a little too long, a clearer comment, a confession. Your body knows it too; you can feel it in the way your pulse quickens.
You’re one step away from crossing that line.
And everything you’ve been building, little by little, is right there, pushing.
You’re standing on the corner, right where your paths separate.
The nearby streetlamp casts a soft yellow light onto the asphalt. The noise from the bar has faded away. There are cars passing in the distance, but on this specific stretch of street, for a few seconds, it seems to be just the two of you.
You look toward your door. Then back at him.
He looks toward the other street. Then back at you.
Neither of you moves.
His gaze drops, very briefly, to your mouth. Then it returns to your eyes. It’s not blatant, but it’s so evident that it leaves your stomach in knots.
You take half a step back, as if you needed to reclaim your space. He takes half a step forward, closing the distance again without thinking too much about it.
You aren’t pressed against each other, but you aren't as far apart as you should be if this were "just" a walk between acquaintances.
"Well…" you say, trying to break the bubble.
"Well" he repeats.
Your fingers toy with the edge of the jacket you’re wearing.
"See you" you add, your voice a bit lower than usual.
He nods, but he doesn't turn away yet.
"Yeah" he says. "You owe me another bad movie."
"You owe me a decent coffee" you respond.
The corners of his lips lift just slightly. Silence. A couple more seconds right there, on the edge of something.
You get the feeling that if you took one more step, if you reached out a hand, everything would change completely.
And that is exactly why you don't do it.
"Goodnight, Seungmin" you murmur, finally.
"Goodnight" he responds.
You turn around before your body betrays you. You walk toward your entrance, feeling his gaze on your back until the door finally closes.
You walk up the stairs with the nagging certainty that the next time you’re this close, neither of you might stop so soon.
SUMMARY: After months of doubts, shared silences, and club nights that melt into the dawn, the protagonist's story finally hits the shelves. The literary success is real, but the question pulsing beneath its pages remains unanswered: is it possible to love the eternal while being mortal? During an afternoon of book signings surrounded by readers and expectations, the past and present of her story collide in an unexpected encounter. Amidst dedications and whispers, she realizes that closing a book doesn't mean closing a door. A chapter's end that seeks no perfect finales, but rather the courage to keep writing a story without guarantees—where love is the only contract, and the present, the only home.
PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
NOTE: If you’ve made it this far, I want to start by saying thank you. I hope you’ve enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. To be honest, I still don’t know if this is truly the end; I’ve found it so hard to let go, to give it a conclusion that—right now—I doubt is actually final, just as the protagonist herself says.
I’ve grown so fond of this story and all its characters. Perhaps, in time, there will be new chapters. Will the protagonist remain human? Will someone lose their life along the way? I hope we can find the answers together. I’ll be reading your comments!
You open the door without checking the peephole. You aren’t expecting anyone.
When you see who’s on the other side, you freeze for a second.
“Chan…” you whisper.
He gives a faint smile, a hint of awkwardness in his eyes.
“Hey” he greets you. “Am I catching you at a bad time?”
You blink, still caught off guard.
“No, no… come in, please.” You step aside. “Sorry about the mess, I wasn’t expecting company.”
Chan walks in cautiously, as if he’s afraid of breaking something just by being there. He takes a quick glance around: the table with your laptop, a few open books, a forgotten mug.
“Don't worry about it” he says. “I’ve seen much worse in the apartments of thousand-year-old vampires.”
A nervous laugh escapes you.
“Sit anywhere you’d like,” you offer. “Do you want something to drink? Water, coffee, tea…?”
You say it out of habit, out of politeness, more than anything else.
Chan shakes his head as he sinks into a chair by the table.
“I’m good, thanks” he replies.
You sit across from him, crossing your hands over your knees to keep them still.
He looks at you for a few seconds in silence, as if weighing where to begin.
"I needed to talk to you" he says at last. "And I needed to do it somewhere no one could overhear us."
You nod, the knot in your stomach tightening just a bit.
"I've been thinking" he continues. "A lot."
You feel what’s coming before he even says it. There’s a weight in his voice that you’ve heard before—in his warnings, in his silences.
Chan leans back a little, glancing at your bookshelf as if searching for courage among the spines of the books.
"I suppose you’ve already been told... parts of it" he murmurs. "But I never told you myself."
He takes a deep breath.
"Centuries ago" he begins, "I knew someone. Human. Crazy."
The word brings an automatic, warm smile to his face.
"She always ignored my warnings" he remembers. "I’d say 'don't go that way,' and she’d go. 'Don't get close to those people,' and she’d end up sitting with them, coaxing stories out of them. If I tried to pull away... she’d always find me."
It sounds familiar.
He sees it in you and nods, knowing you understand.
"I tried to keep her away" he goes on. "I told her I wasn't... a good idea. That my world wasn't for her. That the sensible thing was for her to find someone normal, mortal, boring."
He laughs without humor.
"Do you know what she did?"
"She followed you" you whisper.
"Always" he nods. "She crossed every line I drew. Until, in the end..." his eyes soften. "I stopped drawing lines."
He was cherishing her in his memory.
"We got married" he says. "We lived as much as we could—hiding, half-lying, improvising. She always fought for everything; she was happy to be by my side, even though she knew the price. She had so much courage... that sometimes she seemed more like one of us than one of her own."
He pauses. When he continues, his voice drops even lower.
"We argued, too" he admits. "A lot. Because she wanted something I didn't want to give her."
You know what it is before he even says it.
"She wanted to turn" Chan confesses. "She wanted to be like us. To live forever by my side. To stop being the fragile part of the equation."
He looks down at his hands.
"We had the biggest argument of our lives over that" he proceeds. "I told her no. That I had already dragged her into my world enough as it was. That I didn't want that for her. That being a vampire isn't as great as it sounds in stories."
He looks up at you.
"You watch the people you love die" he explains. "Humans, vampires. You're forced to change countries, names, languages. To adapt to every new century even when you're already tired of the previous one. To pretend you're twenty when you're carrying two hundred inside. I didn't want that for her. I wanted her to live a normal life, to die surrounded by grandchildren, not by blood."
He swallows hard.
"She got angry" he says. "Very angry. She had a temper... similar to yours. That night..." his eyes get lost for a moment on a spot on the table, "it was all shouting. Words we didn't mean. In the end... she left the house. She said she needed time."
You know what's coming. Even so, you brace yourself.
"That was the moment they caught her" he murmurs.
The silence turns heavy.
"Back then" he explains, "vampires were... different. Worse. There are still some of those left, but back then they were the majority. They weren't just hungry predators; they were killers. They killed for pleasure, for power, for fun, more than out of necessity."
His jaw tightens.
"I knew there was someone after us" he admits. "That they wanted to hurt me. And they knew what my Achilles' heel was."
His eyes darken.
"I knew it that night" he continues. "I felt that something was wrong. I don't know how to explain it. I went out to look for her. I followed her scent through the whole city. In my head, I kept telling myself no. That she wouldn't be in danger. That she would have gone to a friend's house, to somewhere familiar."
He takes a deep breath.
"But my feet... they led me to that mansion" he says. "As I got closer, the smell of her blood..." his voice breaks a little, "it was getting stronger. I... I lost myself."
You can imagine it.
"I went in" he recounts. "And I fought until I nearly died. I don't remember all the details. Just... flashes. Screams. Broken wood. Blood. And that vampire's smile."
His fingers close into fists over his knees.
"The one who took her from me" he adds. "That son of a..." he cuts himself off. "He told me something like: 'I've been wanting to finish you off for a long time, but it gives me much more pleasure to know that, without her, you're going to suffer for all eternity.'"
His eyes wander for a second to a point somewhere beyond you.
"And right in front of me..." his voice becomes barely a whisper, "he killed her."
An absolute silence falls.
"I saw her last tear fall" he continues. "I saw how she looked at me, how she tried to tell me it was okay, that it wasn't my fault. How she whispered that she would always love me. And then..." he swallows his words, "her body went limp."
He breathes, but his breath is trembling.
"I ran to her. I held her in my arms" he says. "I felt her losing her warmth. How... she was slipping away. And I couldn't do anything."
Your throat aches just listening to him. You can almost see that scene through his eyes, even though centuries have passed.
"Years later" he continues, "I found that vampire. I prepared for that moment. I gained strength, I learned things I didn't want to learn. My only goal was to kill him. And I did. I succeeded."
He pauses.
"And do you know what I felt?" he asks.
He shakes his head before you can answer.
"Nothing" he says. "No relief. No revenge. No peace. Because no matter how much I killed him, she wasn't coming back. And I... I was never a ruthless vampire. Killing him didn't turn me into anything but someone... empty."
He looks at his own hands, as if they were still stained.
"Over time..." he proceeds, his voice steadier, "I met Minho. We hated each other a bit at first. Then we became friends. Little by little, the others appeared. Felix, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Jeongin, Seungmin... I started forming what we now call a 'clan'."
He looks at you.
"I’m telling you all of this" he says, "because I want you to know how something like this can end. That he could lose you. Or you could lose him. Or you could both lose each other. I'm not telling you this to scare you. I'm telling you because I've lived it."
He leans forward a little.
"You are already part of the family" he adds. "It’s not just Felix’s duty to protect you. It’s everyone’s duty. Because we... we protect our own."
You take a breath.
"But I can't force you into anything" he admits. "I know what it’s like to love with that same intensity he feels for you. I’m not going to ask him to walk away from you. I couldn't. I wasn't able to do it myself when I was told to."
He gives a sad smile.
"As much as I want to spare them the suffering" he continues, "I can't always be the voice of reason either. We are adults. We’ve lived too much. Each person has to accept their choices. And the consequences."
He leans back a little, resting his back against the chair.
"It’s not just the loss of a love that hurts" he says. "The loss of companions hurts too. I’ve lost more of my own. You guys..." he makes a vague gesture, "are the ones I have left now. If I were to lose any of them..." his voice drops, "I would go just as crazy as I did back then."
Silence.
You feel the weight of everything he’s entrusted to you: not just the pain of losing his wife, but the raw fear of repeating that history with different faces. With yours. With Felix's.
Chan looks at you as if he could read your mind.
"I know what your answer is" he says softly. "Because you're too much like her. You have the same look in your eyes."
You bite your lip.
"Thank you" you finally respond. "For trusting me enough to tell me... this. The worst moment of your life."
He nods, once.
"I love Felix" you say, without beating around the bush. "What I feel for him… I don’t even know what to call it. It’s not just romantic love, it’s not just desire, it’s not just companionship. It’s…" you search for the word and can't find it. "It’s him."
Chan smiles with a shared melancholy.
"I understand" he says. "And I believe you."
He stays silent for a moment, as if hesitating to take the next step.
Finally, he makes up his mind.
"I’m going to tell you something I thought about that night" he continues. "The day my wife asked me to turn her, I told her no. But when I was alone at home, I thought about it. A… selfish part of me was telling me yes. That if she were like me, she’d be safe. That fewer people would want to use her against me if she wasn't 'a human.' I gave myself a thousand reasons to believe that maybe… it could be a good idea."
He looks at you intently.
"I never got to make the decision" he says. "She was taken from me before I could. And since then, I’ve wondered what would have happened if…" he stops, "I had said yes."
A chill runs down your spine.
"I’m not telling you 'do it'" he clarifies. "I’m not telling you 'decide now.' I just…" he lowers his voice a bit, "want to ask you the same thing she asked me."
He takes a breath.
"Have you ever…" his eyes lock onto yours, "thought about being one of us?"
The question remains hanging in the air.
It doesn’t demand an immediate answer. It doesn’t come with an order, or a threat. It comes loaded with history, with pain, with love, with possibilities.
With the echo of a "forever" that, in your case, might not just be a metaphor.
And as you feel your human heart beating wildly at that thought, you know this question isn’t just a romantic what if. It’s a very real door that, if it were to open, would change everything: your body, your time, your place in this world… and in his.
Chan doesn't pressure you.
"I don’t want you to tell me now" he adds. "Not even to me, at all. Just… think about it. Not out of fear. But from the truth of what you want. Because, if that decision is ever truly put on the table… I want you to know that I, who once said no… won’t be the first to judge you if you say yes."
He stands up slowly.
"Whatever your choice may be" he concludes, "there is only one thing I ask of you: don’t make it out of fear. Nor out of desperation. Nor to escape the pain. Make it… if you make it… for love. And knowing that love, one way or another, always brings pain along with it. Whether you are human or vampire."
He looks at you one last time, that mixture of leader, older brother, and broken man who has learned to build something new atop the ruins.
"Thank you for listening" he says.
And, for the first time, you understand that this man, who always seems to have all the answers… is also looking for his own in you.
You stay leaning against the door for a moment after Chan leaves.
The echo of the question continues to float in the air:
"Have you ever thought about being one of us?"
It isn’t just any question. It doesn’t come from Han, or Hyunjin, or even from Felix in a romantic outburst. It comes from someone who has already lived through it, who already heard it from the lips of the person he loved most… and who lost her just the same.
That night, you don’t write.
You open your laptop, stare at the blank page, and write a single sentence:
"What if 'forever' were literal?"
You delete it.
You end up sinking into the sofa, hugging a pillow, staring at the ceiling. Scenes parade through your mind:
You, with grey hair and wrinkles, and Felix exactly as he is now, looking at you as if nothing had changed.
You, turned, walking by his side in a different city a hundred years from now.
Chan screaming someone’s name in a mansion filled with blood.
Felix’s hand trembling as he pressed ice against your knee the other day.
The metal bar striking a vampire’s face.
The smell of coffee this morning.
The taste of his fangs against your lip.
You don’t want to answer yet. You can’t. It would be lying to yourself.
You only know one thing for sure: you love Felix. And for now, it’s enough for that "forever" to exist in your human language: now, today, tonight, tomorrow, as long as your heart beats.
A few days later, Felix shows up at your apartment with two coffees and a bag of pastries.
You don’t say anything about Chan at first. Neither does he. But there’s a contained curiosity in his eyes that you recognize.
You’re sitting on the sofa, your feet tucked under his thighs, talking about silly things—a drunk customer, a new lyric by Seungmin, a meme Han didn’t understand—when, suddenly, he lets it slip:
"Chan came to see you, didn't he?"
You freeze.
"Did he tell you?" you ask.
"Chan doesn't have to tell me anything" he responds. "He got to the club after going to your place and didn't speak for twenty minutes. For him, that's suspicious." He pauses. "And you smelled a bit like his cologne when you came over yesterday."
You laugh, despite the knot in your chest.
"You're a bloodhound" you murmur.
"I’m a full-time vampire, remember" he responds, trying to lighten the mood.
A small silence falls.
"What did you talk about?" he asks, more softly.
You look at him.
You could dodge it. You could say "just clan stuff" and leave it at that. But if you’ve learned anything in all of this, it’s that the only way for this to work is by being brutally honest with each other.
"About her" you say. "About his wife. About how he lost her. About… what she wanted and what he didn't want to give her."
Felix looks down for a second.
"He also asked me" you add. "About… whether I’ve ever thought about being like you guys."
His eyes return to yours, more serious.
"And…?" He doesn’t finish the sentence.
You usually weigh your words a thousand times before letting them out. Not this time.
"And yes" you admit. "I’ve thought about it. Not in a concrete way, but…" you shrug. "When I’m with you and I see all of you, when I think about what happens when I have grey hair and you’re still the same… it’s impossible not to think about it."
Felix tenses slightly. Not out of rejection, but out of fear.
"I don’t want you to do it for me" he says immediately. "Not out of a panic over growing old. Not out of a fear of dying."
"I know" you respond.
You think about it for a second.
"Right now…" you continue, "I can’t decide. I don’t want to. I like being human. I like… living this way. Feeling like my time with you matters precisely because I don't have centuries. That if I go out with you tonight, it’s not just 'one more night out of a thousand,' but this night."
He nods, slowly.
"But if one day" you add, "that question stops being a theory and is truly put on the table… I want the answer not to be a taboo between us. Neither a 'don't even think about it' nor a 'do it for me.' I want… for us to be able to talk about it. Like we're doing right now."
Felix swallows hard. He looks relieved and scared in equal measure.
"I…" he confesses, "have thought about it too. Not about me turning, of course," he gives a lopsided smile, "that's already standard for me. About you. About… what would happen if I did it. If I didn't. If I woke up fifty years from now and you were no longer there."
He takes a deep breath.
"And for the first time in my life" he adds, "I don't have a clear answer. Just… a very great fear of being wrong."
You lean toward him, resting your forehead against his shoulder.
"Then" you whisper, "for now… we don't make any decisions. We just… live. We learn. We love each other. And if one day that question stops being a theory, we answer it together. Not out of fear. Not out of guilt. For love. And knowing everything that it entails."
You feel his muscles relax a little beneath your cheek.
"Deal" he says, lowering his head to kiss your hair.
The future remains a labyrinth of possibilities, some bright, others dark. But for the first time since the conversation with Chan, the thread guiding you from within isn't fear or haste.
It's the same one as always, ever since you walked into that club for the first time: him.
The silence that followed was comfortable, heavy with intimacy. Felix watched you for a long time, as if he were reading every thought still fluttering through your mind. Then, a slow, mischievous smile curved his lips.
"You know… I think I could distract you from this whole matter in another way" he murmured, while his hand moved with deliberate slowness up your thigh, brushing the fabric of your shorts with his fingertips.
He raised an eyebrow, that dangerous little smirk lighting up his face.
You let out a soft laugh, half-nervous, half-amused.
"Oh, really?" you replied, leaning a bit toward him. "I think you spend too much time with Hyunjin."
Felix let out a low, genuine chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin as he moved closer.
"Maybe… but this distraction is all mine."
Without apparent effort, he lifted you from the sofa. Your legs automatically wrapped around his waist while he supported you with one arm under your thighs and the other on your back. He walked toward your bedroom without haste, kissing your neck with cool, soft lips, leaving a trail of chills in his wake.
When they reached the bed, he placed you carefully on the mattress, but this time he didn’t pull away. He stayed over you, propped up on his forearms, looking at you with those golden eyes that seemed to glow in the twilight.
He began to kiss you slowly, deeply, while his hands traced your body with devotion. He removed your clothes with the same reverence as always: kissing every patch of skin that was bared, his cool fingers tracing paths of fire over your warmth. When you were completely naked beneath him, Felix paused for a moment, breathing against your collarbone.
But tonight, you felt that something was different. He was still holding back. You noticed it in the tension of his shoulders, in how his hands paused just before squeezing too hard, in the careful way he controlled every movement.
You pulled yourself up a bit, taking his face between your hands.
“Felix…” you whispered against his lips. “I don’t want you to hold back tonight.”
He went very still. His eyes searched yours, a mixture of desire and concern glowing within them.
“Darling… you know what could happen if I don’t. My strength… it could leave marks. I could…”
“I know” you interrupted him softly, but firmly. “And I want you to stop being afraid. I want all of you. Not just the safe part. I want to truly feel you. Without barriers. Without you having to measure every touch.”
Felix swallowed hard. His breath, though he didn't need it, became irregular.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice husky. “Because if I hurt you…”
“You won’t” you said, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “I trust you. And I want you to trust yourself with me. I want you to make love to me the way you truly desire… not the way you think you should.”
For a second, he closed his eyes, as if those words were too much to process. When he opened them again, something had changed. The control he always maintained with such effort began to crack.
“God… you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting this” he murmured, almost with reverence.
His hands returned to you, but this time without that extreme caution. He caressed you with more intensity: open palms running down your sides, gripping your hips firmly enough for you to feel the possession, yet still with care. He kissed your neck, your breasts, your belly, and every kiss carried a bit more hunger.
When he entered you, he did so deeper than ever. A single fluid motion, slow but firm, that wrenched a long moan from you. Felix let out a guttural sound, burying his face in your neck.
"Fuck..." he whispered, his voice trembling. "You're so warm... so tight around me..."
He began to move. They were no longer just soft, measured sways. His thrusts were stronger, deeper, each one sending waves of pleasure through your entire body. You felt his contained strength releasing bit by bit: the way his hands squeezed your thighs, opening you wider for him; how his pelvis crashed against yours with a rhythm that made the bed creak; the way his fangs brushed against your skin without quite biting.
At one point, he flipped you over with ease, putting you on your stomach. He lifted your hips and entered you from behind, deeper still. One of his hands tangled in your hair, pulling gently to arch your back, while the other gripped your waist tightly. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, along with your moans and his low growls.
"Tell me if it's too much" he gasped against your ear, though his voice sounded less and less controlled. "Tell me and I'll stop... but God, you feel so good like this..."
"Don't stop" you pleaded, pushing back against him. "I want more... I want all of you."
Felix let out an almost animalistic sound. His rhythm became more intense. The bed struck against the wall with every thrust. His hands left reddish marks on your hips, but they didn't hurt; they only reminded you that he was finally giving you everything he had been holding back.
When you felt your orgasm approaching, he noticed. He sped up, one hand sliding between your legs to stroke you exactly where you needed it. You came hard, crying out his name, contracting around him.
Felix followed almost immediately. With a deep, husky groan, he sank into the very depths of you and came, his body trembling over yours as he held you tightly, as if he feared you might break... or as if he himself were about to.
They stayed like that for a long time, joined together, breathing heavily. Felix kissed the back of your neck, your shoulder, every mark his fingers had left on your skin.
"Forgive me if I hurt you..." he whispered, still inside you, his voice full of tenderness.
"You didn't hurt me" you replied, turning your head to kiss him. "You made me feel alive. Completely yours."
He smiled against your skin, still a bit shaky.
"Then... maybe next time I can actually break the sofa" he joked in a low voice, and you both laughed softly, exhausted and happy.
He turned you carefully so you were facing him, holding you against his cool chest while he stroked your hair with infinite sweetness.
"I love you" he said simply. "Whether mortal or immortal... this... this is what I'm always going to want with you."
And in the twilight of your room, with his body joined to yours and his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let go, you felt that, for the first time, Felix had loved you without fear.
For the first time in a long while, Felix hadn’t gotten up before you.
You’re on your side, your back to him, tucked perfectly against his chest. You feel his nose brushing the back of your neck, his fingers drawing distracted lines across your belly, as if he were memorizing your skin.
"Have you been awake long?" you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.
"A while" he responds softly, his deep timbre resonating against your back. "I didn't want to move. You looked so beautiful."
You smile, still half-asleep, and turn just a bit toward him to see him better.
The gesture, as simple as it is, wrenches a faint, stifled groan from you.
A sharp sting shoots through your lower back and your shoulders. Your muscles protest, tense, suddenly reminding you of everything you did last night. Well, everything he did with you.
You notice Felix chuckling lowly, his chest vibrating against you.
"Are you okay?" he asks, though from his tone you know he already understands perfectly well what that ache is about.
"It's nothing" you respond, brushing it off as you stretch slowly. "Just some soreness."
"Oh, really?" he retorts, a dangerous hint of amusement in his voice.
Before you can react, he pulls back the sheet.
The cool air hits your naked skin and you look down… and you see it.
The dark marks of his fingers encircling your hips, perfectly defined, as if his hands were still holding you. Purplish, reddish tones, etched into your skin with the strength of the night before.
Your thighs weren't spared either: there are prints from his hands on the outside, on the inside, traces of where he held you, how he opened you, how he pulled you toward him. Your breasts show small, uneven bruises where his mouth and fingers clung. And, lower down, almost hidden where your pubis begins, you’d swear you see the unmistakable shape of a bite. It wasn't a fang piercing skin, but the intent is there, marked.
And that’s without even looking at your neck yet.
You blink, somewhere between incredulous and fascinated, the heat rising to your face.
Felix watches you with a mixture of guilty pride and tenderness, his eyes glowing with a soft gold in the light filtering through the curtains.
"I warned you" he says at last, with a lopsided smile.
You look at him, then back at your body, then at him again, as if you were still processing that all of this was left by him—the same person who is always so afraid of squeezing too hard.
And yet, a laugh escapes you.
"They’re marks of pleasure" you respond, more serious than you intended, but with a playful smile. "I don’t plan on complaining."
His eyes soften immediately. The dangerous smirk turns into something sweeter, almost shy, as if pride were competing with relief.
"Marks of pleasure" he repeats, savoring the words. "I like the sound of that."
He carefully pulls up the sheet, covering you again, and leans in to brush your lips with a soft kiss, very different from the ones last night.
"Still" he murmurs against your mouth, "tonight I’ll dial back the intensity a bit. I don’t want you to be unable to even walk tomorrow."
"Too late" you joke. "But it's fine. I’ll spend all day mentally showing them off."
He laughs, pulling away a bit and propping himself up, sitting on the edge of the bed. You watch him run a hand through his messy hair, still wearing that domestic air that only appears when he’s here, with you.
"I’m going to shower" he says, standing up. "Then I’ll make you breakfast before I head out."
"No need" you respond, your eyes following the line of his back. "I’m going to the club with you. I’ll just grab something for breakfast on the way."
Felix turns toward you, an eyebrow raised.
"You’re coming today?" he asks, and there’s a flash of genuine joy in his voice. "I thought you’d want to rest."
"I can rest on the sofa in the breakroom" you respond, shrugging. "Besides, that way I can make sure you don't get too 'intense' with anyone else."
He laughs, shaking his head.
"You’re impossible" he murmurs, but the spark in his eyes gives him away.
He heads toward the bathroom, and you stay in bed for one more second, trying to stand up with dignity… and letting out a groan as your back protests again. You laugh to yourself, shaking your head, and finally get to your feet.
You hear the shower water start to run. The bathroom door has been left ajar.
You don’t think twice about it.
You push the door open with your hand and slip inside. The steam begins to fog up the mirror, and the glass of the shower door is covered in tiny droplets. You open the door carefully.
Felix spins around suddenly—he clearly wasn't expecting you there. His expression shifts in a second from surprise to something much softer and amused when he sees you.
"I thought you were going to get dressed" he says, though the way his eyes roam over your silhouette belies any complaint.
"I’m saving time and water" you respond, stepping in with him, feeling the hot water hit your still-sensitive skin. "You’re the one who’s always talking about being efficient."
He lets out a low laugh, bracing one hand on the wall behind you to move a bit closer.
"Saving time and water, huh…?" he murmurs, leaning toward your ear. "Or are you also thinking about going for another round?"
The hot water falls over your bodies, creating small streams that run across your sensitive skin. Felix pulls back just enough to look you up and down. His golden eyes darken as they trace every mark he left last night. Slowly, as if he were rediscovering sacred territory, he raises a hand and lets his cool fingers—now slightly warmed by the steam—devoutly brush against the purplish bruises on your hips.
"God… look at you" he whispers, his voice husky and filled with admiration. "You’re wearing my hands everywhere."
His fingertips delicately trace the finger-shaped bruises adorning your hips, sliding down the inside of your thighs where the marks are most intense, and rising to your breasts, circling the reddish love bites with his thumb. When he reaches the bite near your pubis, right where the skin is most sensitive, he pauses. His thumb caresses it with an almost reverent tenderness, feeling your pulse throb beneath the mark.
"Last night I tried to hold back..." he says in a low voice, leaning in to kiss that rosy crescent moon. "But when you asked me not to, when you told me you wanted to feel all of me… I lost control. And now… now I can only think about doing more to you."
He looks into your eyes, the water falling between you like a silver curtain.
"I want to cover you in me. I want you to remember exactly how I made you mine every time you look in the mirror over the next few days."
His words send a chill through you that has nothing to do with the water. Felix moves closer, pressing his cool body against your warm one. His hands roam your lower back, where you still feel that dull, sweet ache, and slide down to your buttocks, squeezing them more firmly than before, yet still with control. He kisses your neck, his cool lips contrasting with the hot water, and then moves slowly down your collarbone, kissing every mark he finds.
"I want to leave more here" he murmurs against your chest, gently licking one of the love bites before sucking carefully, creating a new shadow of color. "And here…" his fingers press possessively into your hips, letting his nails dig in just enough for you to feel the promise of new marks.
He turns you gently, facing you toward the tiled wall. The water falls over your back as he presses completely against you from behind. You feel his erection, hard and cool, pressing against your butt. One of his hands slides between your legs, separating them softly, while the other rests on the wall beside your head.
"Tell me you want this" he whispers against your ear, his voice deep and trembling with desire. "Tell me you want me to mark you again… to make you mine again without holding back."
"Yes" you respond, almost breathless, pushing back against him. "I want all of you, Felix. Without fear. Without control."
A low growl escapes his throat. He enters you in a single movement, deep and firm, wrenching a long groan from you that mingles with the sound of the water. There is no initial slowness this time. He goes all the way in and stays there for a second, letting you feel every inch of him, cool and perfect inside your warmth.
"Fuck..." he gasps against your neck. "You're still so tight... so warm... so mine."
He begins to move. Strong, deep thrusts, controlled but without that extreme restraint from last night. Each time he pulls out and enters, his hips clash against yours with a wet, steady rhythm. One hand tangles in your wet hair, pulling gently to arch your back, while the other grips your hip, squeezing firmly enough for you to know you’ll have more of his prints.
His lips roam the back of your neck, kissing and biting with care. You feel his fangs brush against your skin, pressing just enough to make you gasp, but without breaking it.
"I want to bite you here" he whispers, licking the point where your neck meets your shoulder. "I want you to wear my mark where no one else can see it… but I can."
He turns you again, this time to look you in the face. He lifts one of your legs, resting it on his hip, and enters you again, even deeper. The water falls over your faces as you kiss hungrily. His thrusts are intense, each one sending waves of pleasure that make you dig your nails into his shoulders. He feels your walls contracting around him, how your heart beats wildly against his cool chest.
"Let me hear you," he asks, speeding up the pace, one hand sliding down between your bodies to stroke you exactly where you need it. "I want you to come as I fill you… as I mark you inside and out."
The pleasure grows rapidly, intense, fueled by the contrast of his coolness and your warmth, by the strength of his hands and the devotion in his eyes. When you reach orgasm, you do so with a muffled cry against his mouth, your body trembling around him, contracting tightly.
Felix follows almost instantly. With a deep, husky groan, he sinks to the very depths of you and comes, holding you tightly against the wall as his body trembles. His lips find your neck and, this time, he bites gently—just enough to leave a new, perfect mark—sucking with tenderness as you both ride down from the wave.
They stay joined for a long while, the water falling over you like a warm rain. Felix kisses the new mark he just left on you, then all the old ones, with infinite sweetness.
"You are so beautiful like this..." he whispers, still inside you, caressing the bruises on your hips with his thumbs. "Full of me. Mine in every possible way."
He kisses your lips gently, almost with adoration, and rests his forehead against yours.
"I love you" he says simply, his voice still husky. "And if one day you decide to turn… I want it to be because you want this forever. Not because I mark you too much."
You smile, exhausted and happy, wrapping your arms around his neck under the hot water.
"Maybe after a few more showers like this one… you'll convince me."
Felix lets out a low laugh and kisses you again, slow and deep, while the steam envelops you both like a shared secret.
The steam still lingers in the bathroom as you turn off the tap. Felix steps out first, wringing the water from his hair, and grabs a towel with that practiced, careful gesture you’ve come to know.
"Come here" he murmurs.
He wraps the towel around you, drying you calmly, with almost the same devotion he had touched you with the night before. He takes a bit longer than necessary running the fabric over your back and thighs, but you don’t protest.
"If you keep this up, we’re never going to leave the house" you joke.
"I’m trying, I swear" he responds, smiling. "But you’re not helping."
You both get dressed in that comfortable silence you’ve built together. He puts on dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a jacket you’ve seen many times at the club. You choose something that allows you to move without being reminded of your soreness every second: wide-leg trousers, a soft tee, a light jacket. When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror to check your neck, you see purplish shadows peeking above your neckline.
"Great" you mutter, tugging at the fabric to cover them better.
Felix, who is fastening his watch, looks at you through the reflection.
"Too visible?" he asks, somewhere between guilty and amused.
"Let’s just say they aren’t exactly family-friendly" you respond. "But as long as no one looks too closely, I’m fine."
He walks over, adjusting your jacket with a gentle gesture and leaves a quick kiss right where one of the marks begins.
"I am going to look at them closely" he murmurs, low.
You walk down together, without rushing. The morning is cold but bright. You’ve already memorized the route to the club, and halfway there, you take a detour toward a small corner café you know well.
"Do you want something?" Felix asks, holding the door for you to pass.
"A coffee to go" you respond. "Otherwise, I’ll fall asleep before the first customers arrive."
While you place your order at the counter, he stays a bit behind, watching you with that mixture of quiet pride and something almost domestic. When you return with your hot paper cup in your hands, he takes off the lid without asking, blows on it once, and hands it back.
"There you go" he says. "I don't want you to burn yourself."
"At this point, I’m at more risk of breaking my back than my tongue" you joke, but you take a grateful sip.
The walk to the club feels short. Felix intertwines his fingers with yours just before turning the corner—a small gesture that still makes your chest tighten.
The sign lights are still off, but the club door is already halfway open. As you enter, the mixed scent of alcohol, cleaner, and cold metal greets you like a strange kind of home.
Hyunjin and Jeongin are inside, finishing up the opening: one is checking bottles behind the bar, the other is messing with the register and the lights.
"Good morning" you greet them, with Felix's hand still linked to yours.
Hyunjin looks up first. A slow smile spreads across his face when he sees you walking in hand-in-hand.
"Look at how cute..." he sings, leaning an elbow on the bar. "The little couple."
Jeongin lets out a little snicker, without looking up from the POS system.
You feel the slight tug at the corner of Felix's lips, but he doesn't let go of your hand. In fact, he squeezes it a little tighter.
"Good morning to you too" he responds, with mock seriousness.
You walk over to the bar, taking another sip of your coffee. You try to walk normally, as you always do, but every step reminds you of your aching muscles. It’s subtle, but there’s a slight stiffness in your hips, a certain caution in how you plant your feet.
And Hyunjin, of course, doesn't miss a thing.
His eyes follow you boldly, up and down, and his smile grows sharper. He sees the glow on your faces, the ease in Felix’s posture, your slightly different gait. He also sees the purple mark just barely peeking out at the base of your neck, poorly hidden by your jacket.
"Well, well..." he muses, barely containing his laughter.
You know he’s going to say something even before he opens his mouth.
"I think someone had some fun last night" he finally blabs, direct as always, breaking into open laughter.
You feel the blood rush to your face all at once, hot, all the way to your ears. You choke slightly on your coffee and almost have to set the cup down on the bar to avoid spilling it.
"Hyunjin" Felix grumbles, with a glare that would have had an immediate effect on any other human. "Shut up."
That only seems to amuse Hyunjin even more.
"What?" he responds, raising his hands in mock defense. "I'm only saying what's obvious. Besides, I should congratulate you..." He looks at you, bold as ever. "Both of you."
Jeongin finally looks up, curiosity in his eyes, but seeing your blush and Felix's expression, he wisely decides not to get too involved. He settles for chuckling under his breath while pretending to check some glasses.
"It's not..." you start, searching for something clever to say, but the words get tangled up in your embarrassment.
"They're marks of pleasure" Hyunjin finishes, as if he’d overheard your conversation from miles away, giving you a wink just to see your blush deepen.
Felix rests both hands on the bar and looks at him with a tense calm.
"Hyunjin, I'm telling you once" his voice drops a notch, not losing its friendliness, but remaining firm. "Drop it."
Hyunjin studies him for a second… and finally, he raises his hands again, though he’s still smiling.
"Fine, fine, alright" he concedes. "I'm shutting up. For now."
You clear your throat, trying to regain some shred of dignity.
"I'm going to… your breakroom" you murmur to Felix. "Before this one starts making bets."
"Too late" Hyunjin whispers, barely audible, but loud enough for you to hear.
You shoot him a mock-murderous glare as you round the bar. Felix steps beside you immediately, like a discreet shield, and escorts you toward the hallway.
When you get far enough away, you can still hear Hyunjin’s low laughter and Jeongin’s resigned sigh.
Felix intertwines his fingers with yours again as you walk toward the room.
"I'm sorry" he murmurs. "You know how he is."
"It's okay" you respond, still flushed, but with a smile you can't quite contain. "Just... I'll remember not to wear open necklines when we come here after... you know."
He chuckles softly, and that laugh, more than anyone’s words, makes the embarrassment dissolve a little, leaving only something warm and light floating between the two of you.
The murmur in the hallway steadily rises: doors opening, laughter, a stray slam, the familiar sound of footsteps, a blend of voices. You’re half-lying on the sofa with Felix, the empty coffee cup now on the low table, when you clearly distinguish Changbin’s voice echoing from the bar area.
"I think almost everyone is here now" Felix murmurs, looking at you.
"Let’s go" you respond, pushing yourself up with some care. Your muscles protest, but you already know the pain and try to move while pretending you don't.
Felix stands up as well and holds the door open for you, letting you pass first. The murmur becomes sharper as you approach the club’s main space.
Hyunjin is halfway up a stool, dusting a shelf. Changbin is checking the sound equipment near the DJ booth. Seungmin and Han are arguing about something on the playlist, and Jeongin finishes aligning glasses on the bar. Only one is missing.
"Look who’s coming out of the cave!" Han announces as soon as he sees you appear behind Felix, a wide grin on his face.
"Good morning" you greet them, raising a hand.
Changbin turns toward you, giving you a quick once-over, and his expression lights up with a teasing look.
"How’s the gym going?" he asks, crossing his arms. "The other day you said you wanted to start strengthening your legs, didn’t you?"
Before you can respond, Hyunjin lets out a clear laugh from the top of the stool.
"I think she’s doing great" he chimes in, with that tone of his loaded with ulterior motives. "She was having a hard time walking today."
His laughter doubles when he sees Changbin frown, confused, and Seungmin look up with an arched eyebrow. Han starts laughing just from contagion, even though he hasn't caught the context yet.
"What?" Changbin asks. "What do you mean she was having a hard time walking?"
Jeongin looks from Hyunjin to you, then to Felix, and his eyes widen just a fraction, as if the pieces had just clicked into place for him. A suppressed smile settles on his face.
"Don't pay him any mind" Felix cuts in, shooting Hyunjin a look that, if it were human, would have frozen his blood. "He’s just bored."
Hyunjin puts a hand to his chest, dramatizing the moment.
"Me? Bored?" He smiles even wider. "I’m just observant."
You feel the heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time the blush is accompanied by a playful spark. You shake your head.
"I’m fine, Changbin" you say at last, answering the original question. "The gym and I are at peace. More or less."
"Uh-huh..." Han murmurs, narrowing his eyes, still clueless but enjoying the atmosphere.
Seungmin just snorts a short laugh and shakes his head, like someone witnessing a scene that’s all too typical.
It’s then that you hear the front door open again. The street air drifts into the club for a second, and a familiar presence enters with calm steps.
Chan.
He’s wearing a dark jacket over a simple T-shirt, his hair a bit messy from the morning, a folder tucked under his arm. He closes the door behind him and, even before greeting the rest, his eyes search for you.
"Good morning" he says generally, but his gaze settles on you. "How are you?"
In his voice, there’s courtesy, but also that soft undertone you already recognize: genuine concern, measured care.
"I’m good" you respond, holding his gaze. "Truly."
The room continues with its minor chaos: Hyunjin jumping off the stool, Changbin returning to the equipment, Han testing a mic. But in that second, the noise around you becomes a bit blurred. Between you and Chan, there’s something silent that no one else seems to notice.
Because you know what he’s actually asking. It’s not just “how are you today,” but how are you after that conversation—after everything you said to each other, after the old wound he opened just to show it to you.
You see the shadow of that same conversation in his eyes. And, alongside it, something else: a sober, almost guilty restlessness.
You take a step toward him, just enough to get closer without drawing too much attention.
"I've been thinking a lot" you say in a low voice, quiet enough that only he and perhaps Felix, beside you, can hear.
Chan watches you in silence, expectant.
"I've talked it over with Felix" you add, getting straight to the point. "And for now… things are going to stay the same. I’m still human. No decision has been made."
For a fraction of a second, something in his features lets go. His shoulders drop ever so slightly, as if he had been holding up an invisible weight. His eyes soften.
"Thank you for telling me" he responds, with a small inclination of his head. "And… thank you for understanding my silence."
You know exactly what he means: his veiled warnings, his fear of repeating his own history through you, his inability to tell you "do it" or "don't do it" without heavying that advice with all his pain.
"I understand it more than you think" you respond. "And I promise you something: if one day it stops being a theory, it won't be a decision I make alone. Nor one I take lightly."
There is a glint of sincere relief in his gaze. Not of victory, not of "you chose what I wanted," but of rest: of knowing that, for now, you aren't heading straight for the precipice he knows all too well.
"That is all I can ask" he says, simply.
Felix, by your side, brushes his fingers against your hand—a minimal but firm gesture. Chan notices it and nods, almost to himself, as if that image—you, human, hand-in-hand with Felix, here, laughing with the others—were an answer in itself.
Someone at the bar turns up the test music a bit too much, and Han lets out a:
"Hey, leader! Come tell me if this playlist isn't too depressing for a Thursday."
Chan pulls away slightly from you, returning to the present moment at the club.
"Coming" he responds, shooting you one last brief look, loaded with things left unsaid, but at peace.
He walks away toward the booth, and the group’s murmur envelops everything once again. Hyunjin is already bothering Jeongin with something, Changbin is fighting with a cable, and Seungmin is taking notes on his phone.
Felix leans toward you, his voice barely a whisper near your ear.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
You think of your aching back, the marks hidden beneath the fabric, Chan’s seriousness, the future still full of question marks. And yet, you feel a strange calm in the center of your chest.
"Yes" you respond, looking around at them, at him. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
Felix smiles—that small but luminous smile that warms you from the inside out.
"Then let’s get to work" he says. "And let’s see how long it takes Hyunjin to say something again."
Almost as if he had heard you, Hyunjin turns his head from the bar and shouts:
"Hey! Who’s joining the betting pool on how long it takes for those marks to fade?"
Felix lets out a resigned sigh, and you burst out laughing despite the embarrassment.
The club’s bustle steadily rises as the minutes pass. The soundcheck music settles into the atmosphere, voices crisscross, someone argues about lights, another about schedules.
You stay leaned against the bar for a while longer, chatting with Jeongin and Han, laughing at Hyunjin’s comments, watching Changbin fight with a cable as if it were his arch-nemesis. Felix comes and goes, checking on things, but every chance he gets, he brushes his hand against your back, asks if you need anything, or looks at you just for the sake of looking.
During a small break, you check the time on your phone.
"I have to go" you murmur, almost to yourself.
Felix, who had just returned from talking to Chan, hears you.
"So soon?" he asks, leaning toward you. "Are you feeling okay?"
"No, no" you shake your head, putting your phone away. "I need to focus on my work. The kind that doesn't involve vampires, alcohol, or Hyunjin making bets on my sex life."
Hyunjin, who overheard you, raises a hand without turning around.
"Hey, the bets are scientific!" he shouts, immediately getting a flying rag thrown at him by Seungmin.
Felix lets out a soft laugh and refocuses on you.
"Are you going to write?" he asks, though you already know he knows.
You nod.
"I’m... close to the end, I think. Or an end" you correct yourself. "I want to take advantage of having a halfway clear head."
Felix looks at you for a moment with his signature blend of pride and wonder, as if it’s still hard for him to believe you’re writing a book where he, in some way, exists.
"Shall I take you home?" he offers.
"No need" you respond. "Besides, you have to stay here and tame these guys."
Several heads turn at the remark, but no one protests.
Felix hesitates for a second, then leans in to give you a brief kiss on the temple—discreet, as if he still wanted to maintain a bit of privacy, even though everyone already knows the truth.
"Text me when you get there" he says.
"Yes, sir" you joke.
You say your goodbyes to the rest: a fist bump with Jeongin, a knowing look with Seungmin, a quick hug with Han, and a "behave yourself" from Changbin that even he doesn't believe. Hyunjin blows you a dramatic kiss and then makes a "watch out for the soreness" gesture that only you and Felix understand.
You step out into the street. The contrast between the daylight and the club's interior forces you to blink a few times. The cold air wakes you up completely. You walk toward your apartment calmly, still feeling—like an echo beneath your skin—the marks he left on you, Chan’s words, the boys' laughter.
You think: This is my life now. Strange, nocturnal, full of things you never imagined. And yet, more yours than ever.
When you get home, you send a “Got here” text to Felix. The reply comes almost instantly: a heart and a “write something beautiful.”
You laugh to yourself.
You make yourself another coffee, sit down in front of your laptop, and open the document that has been growing on your screen for months. Hundreds of pages. Old drafts. Scribbled notes in the margins.
You stare at the cursor blinking at the end of the last chapter.
Without realizing it, you’ve written almost an entire book. You’ve told how it all began: the first night at the club, the curiosity, the fear, the discovery of what they were. You’ve told how you fell in love with a vampire with cold hands and a warm laugh—how you learned his shadows and his lights. You’ve told of your doubts, your jealousy, your fascination, your humanity placed before their eternity.
And now you’re here, trying to decide how to end it.
You type a few lines. Delete. Type again.
You realize that you’re trying to give a closed ending to something that, in your own life, is very far from being over. If you give a definitive answer to the protagonist—to yourself—about whether she’ll turn or not, you’ll be lying. You don't know. Neither does he. No one knows.
You stay there for a while, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thinking about it.
In the book, the story has reached that night with Chan: the conversation at your place, the question of whether you’ve ever considered being like them, the heavy silence he left you as an inheritance.
You could end it there. With the protagonist, still human, with that question bouncing in her head like a coin in the air that hasn't landed yet.
The idea scares and attracts you all at once.
Because it’s an open ending, yes. But it’s also honest.
Your real life goes on. You still have many nights at the club ahead of you, many laughs with Felix, many fights, many coffees, many doubts. Perhaps the day you sit down to write a second book, you will no longer be human. Perhaps you will be, but the world will have changed. Perhaps something tragic will have happened in a fight, and the second book will begin with a loss. Perhaps you will die. Perhaps he will die. Perhaps there won’t be a second book at all.
There are so many alternatives that it would feel almost like a betrayal to pretend you’ve already chosen.
You take a deep breath, place your hands over the keyboard, and decide.
You close the document for “Chapter X” and open a new one: “Final Chapter.”
You begin to write:
That night, when he left and left me alone with the question, I didn’t know what to do with it.
I placed it in a corner of my mind, like someone leaving an important letter on the table, unopened. I knew that sooner or later I would have to read it, but not that night. Not yet.
So, for now, I chose something else: I chose to remain human. I chose to keep walking into that club with my warm blood, my limited time, and fear stitched into my love. I chose to keep loving him like this—without guarantees, without eternity signed in a contract.
One day, perhaps, I will answer the question.
But not today.
You pause for a moment, reading what you’ve written, and feel a small pang of vertigo… and of relief.
You continue:
Today, the story ends here: with a human leaving the club at dawn, her skin marked by cold hands and her heart marked by an unanswered question.
He remains inside, amidst shadows and neon lights. I walk down the street as the sun begins to rise.
At some point along the way, our worlds touch.
For now, that is enough.
You save. You close the document.
Your book—your first book—is finished.
It doesn’t answer everything. It offers no guarantees. But it tells a truth: the truth of this present moment where you remain human, loving a vampire, with the door left ajar to another possible life.
You lean back in your chair, letting your back protest the strain, you stare at the ceiling… and you smile.
Several weeks later
The bookstore smells like new paper, reheated coffee, and the perfume of nervous people.
You’ll never get used to this, you think, as you look at the line stretching from your table all the way to the back of the shop. People with your book in their hands. Your book. With your name on the cover.
The publishing house set up a simple table: a white tablecloth, a small poster with an enlarged version of the cover, a nice pen, a bottle of water. To your right, a stack of extra copies. To your left, a woman from the bookstore who keeps track of the time and smiles at you every time you look up.
You’ve been signing for a while now. Names, dedications, trembling hands reaching out with open copies. They’ve told you things you don't quite know how to process:
"I saw so much of myself in her."
"I’ve never read anything like this."
"Will there be a second part?"
You answer with sincerity: that you don’t know yet, that you are living what you’ve written, that time will tell.
You finish a signature, hand the book back to a girl who leaves with shining eyes, and the bookstore manager gestures for the next person in line to step forward.
You see the book first.
It lands in front of you, open to the first blank page, waiting for your signature. You recognize the cover without needing to look too closely: your protagonist from behind, the neon of the club hinted at, a blurred male silhouette in the background.
Then, you look up.
Blond hair pulled back in a low ponytail, just like that afternoon in the café. Black sunglasses that look a bit out of place inside the bookstore, yet he wears them with his usual effortless cool. A black trench coat that sits perfectly over his broad shoulders, accentuating his height and that blend of elegance and something dangerous he can never quite hide, no matter how much he pretends to be just another reader.
Felix.
It takes him a second to slide his glasses down. When he does, his eyes meet yours and a slow smile curves his lips, instantly transforming the centuries-old vampire into the boy who brings you pastries and dries your hair with a towel.
You try to keep your composure. You know people are watching, phones are recording, candid photos are being taken.
"Good afternoon" he says, in a perfectly polite tone, as if you were an author he doesn't see every single day. "Will you sign it for me?"
You suppress a laugh.
"Of course" you respond, playing along. "And the name...?"
He leans toward you just a bit, just enough so those further back in line won't hear, but you will.
"Write... 'For the boy with cold hands'" he whispers.
Your hand trembles for a second over the pen. You clear your throat, look down at the book, and write:
For the boy with cold hands,
who turned this story into something real.
While you do, the murmurs around you grow in volume. You don’t need vampire hearing to catch them:
"My god, he’s so handsome..."
"He looks like a model."
"He’s so tall."
"He looks exactly like the protagonist, doesn’t he?"
"He’s a dead ringer for the guy in the book, man..."
A group of girls further back in the line whisper shamelessly:
"I swear, even the ponytail... he looks like he was plucked right out of the pages."
"She definitely modeled the character after him."
"Maybe he’s her boyfriend."
"I wish."
Felix keeps his eyes on you, as if the rest of the world had been turned down in volume. But you hear it all, and you can't help the smile that escapes you.
You hand the book back to him, open to the dedication. He glances at it, and you see his expression soften even further. He closes the copy carefully, as if it were something fragile, and then—completely dropping the professional act you’ve been trying to maintain—he leans in and leaves a brief kiss on the corner of your lips.
It isn’t long, it isn’t scandalous, but it’s clear enough to make the bookstore’s murmur jump one or two levels instantly.
"Congratulations" he whispers against your skin. "It's a huge success."
"Thanks for coming" you respond in a low voice. "Mr. 'Cold Hands'."
He pulls back just enough so you can see his face. His eyes are shining with pride.
"I like open endings" he says. "They give excuses for more stories."
And there it is: he has read the book. He knows how it ends. He knows you haven't given an answer to the big question. He knows that, in the pages, the protagonist remains human, the vampire remains a vampire, and the decision to change everything is left for another time.
He knows, too, that this is exactly where you are right now in real life.
"Me too" you respond. "For now."
A soft tap on your arm reminds you that there’s a line, that people are waiting, that the world hasn't stopped.
Felix understands. He nods, takes a step back, adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and before leaving, shoots you one last look over the dark lenses.
You think you hear, amidst the whispers of the crowd, a phrase that makes you smile even wider:
"If there isn't a second part with that lead, I'm going to be so mad" someone says.
Felix blends into the crowd—tall, impossible to go unnoticed, yet at the same time, just another reader getting lost among the aisles of books.
You pick up the next copy placed before you, look at the next person in line, and continue signing.
Your story, in the pages, ends with a human and a vampire separated by the dawn, with an unanswered question floating between them.
Outside the pages, your story continues to be written in days like this: crowded bookstores, coffees, nights at the club, marks that fade and return, decisions you haven't made yet, but that one day, perhaps, you will have to face.
For now, this is enough: being the author of your own open ending. Knowing that, while the book closes on that "for now," you and Felix keep walking, side by side, at that strange point where worlds touch.
And perhaps, one day, you will sit in front of the keyboard again, open a new document named "Book Two," and then, finally, you will know what answer to write.
But not today. Today, you simply sign. And you live.
SUMMARY: It’s not just that she has learned how to fight; it’s that she has decided who is worth bleeding for. Following the attack on the club and a tense truce, the wounds heal, but the bond with Felix and Chan’s clan is sealed forever. She is no longer a protected human; she is a survivor who has chosen her own destiny.
PART 1
PART 2
You shut yourself in.
The next two days feel suspended in a strange limbo. It’s not like you’re dramatically dragging yourself across the floor, but you’re not a hundred percent yourself either.
You only go out for the essentials: some food, a bit of fresh air. The rest of the time, the world is reduced to your apartment: the table, the laptop, the bed, the coffee mug, the half-burnt candle.
Felix doesn’t text.
There are no notifications from him, no “are you okay?”, no poorly timed jokes. The silence from his side is heavy, but it’s also proof that he’s respecting what you said: that you needed to leave, to think.
You pour yourself into the book.
You open the document and, this time, you don’t get stuck on a single sentence. On the contrary—the words pour out as if you’d been holding them back behind a dam for too long.
You write about a human who accidentally walks into a vampire club. About a vampire who smiles as if he’d been waiting for her. About battles, rooftops, bad decisions, and broken necks. About stolen kisses in breakrooms and building entrances.
The more you write, the more obvious something becomes: you aren’t describing “a character.” You’re describing him.
You realize it in the details: in how you talk about the way his hair falls over his forehead, how he listens to heartbeats, how he laughs when he tries to downplay something that hurts. You find yourself sketching entire paragraphs about the way he walks you home, about how he looks at you when he thinks you aren't noticing.
And, between one line and the next, you know it’s not just attraction. It’s not just curiosity. It’s not just that you like him.
It hits you all at once one afternoon: while editing a dialogue, you reread a scene where your protagonist writes, “I think I’ve fallen in love with a monster,” and you feel your stomach drop. Because you’re writing it with yourself in mind.
You had never been in love. Not for real. You’d had crushes, guys you liked for a while, paper characters that kept you up at night. But there was always a distance—a safe barrier between your inner world and the outside. With Felix… there is no barrier.
You think about your life up until now: always tucked away in books, in fantasies, in stories of worlds that don’t exist. Always feeling like there was something beyond the mundane, as if the universe were keeping a secret from you that you couldn't quite reach.
And suddenly, that “something more” has looked you in the eyes, has held your hand, has kissed you, has put you in danger, and has saved you.
You aren’t “normal.” Your world isn’t just this one. You always suspected it, even if it was in a whisper, between pages. Maybe, subconsciously, you had been asking for exactly this for years: for the fantasy to cross to the other side of the looking glass.
The problem is, you’ve discovered that on the other side, it hurts.
You take those days to weigh it all.
You wonder if you can live knowing that, on any given night, an enemy clan could walk through a door and catch your scent. If you can look at someone who breaks necks to protect you and still see him as the guy who holds your coffee while you talk about books.
And the answer, over and over again, is that you don’t know if you can… but you know that you want to.
You don’t warn him.
One night, you simply get dressed, put on your coat—his coat, the one you never gave back—and head out. You know the way to the club so well you could almost do it on autopilot. Every corner brings back a memory: here is where you ran through the rain that first time; here is where you walked with him after that first coffee; here is where you almost tripped while laughing at some nonsense Han said.
The metallic symbol above the door shines just as it always does.
You push it open.
Inside, the atmosphere is like any other night. Music, conversations, laughter, the glint of bottles. But there’s something about the way the place welcomes you that feels different.
Changbin is by the door, arms crossed, keeping watch. When he sees you, his expression shifts from neutral to genuinely surprised.
"Well" he says. "I thought you’d forgotten vampires even existed."
"I’ve been... busy" you reply.
You let out a small smile. He tilts his head.
"You were missed around here" he admits, half-grumpy, half-sincere. "Welcome back."
That disarms you a little more than you expected.
You move toward the bar. Instinctively, you look for Felix... but he’s not there.
In his place stands Jeongin.
He’s drying glasses, changing kegs, moving with his usual quiet efficiency. When he looks up and sees you, his eyes literally light up; the smile that spreads across his face is instantaneous.
"Hey!" he exclaims, dropping everything for a second. "I thought..." He cuts himself off, but his face says it all: he thought you weren't coming back.
"Hi" you greet him, leaning against the bar. "How’s it going?"
"Better now" he replies, without filters.
He leans in a little closer to you.
"The others were already getting used to having you around" he adds, confidentially. "It felt weird only seeing you in Felix’s stories."
Your heart skips a beat at that.
"And him?" you ask, trying to sound casual.
Jeongin rubs the back of his neck.
"Upstairs" he says. "In the breakroom. Lately... he hasn’t exactly been in the best mood."
He looks at you for a second longer, as if weighing how much information to give you.
"It’ll do him good to see you" he adds finally, with a small smile.
He doesn't need to tell you twice.
You walk through the club, head up the short flight of stairs toward the quiet area, and move down the hallway. Every step feels both too short and too long at the same time. You pause for a second in front of the breakroom door, take a deep breath, and carefully turn the knob.
You open it.
Inside, the light is low. The TV is off. On the sofa, lying down, is Felix.
He has one arm over his eyes, as if he wanted to block everything out: the light, the ceiling, the world. His other arm rests on his chest. There is an ancient tiredness in his posture—not physical, but... of the soul.
The first thing he does, without moving his arm from his face, is grunt:
"Han, if you come back to bother me one more time, I swear..."
He cuts himself off.
Not because he sees you—his forearm is still covering his eyes.
Because he smells you. Because he feels you. Because he hears you.
There is a second where the air itself changes. Then, slowly, he lowers his arm.
He sees you.
He sits up a bit, leaning against the back of the sofa, as if he needed to see you from another angle to make sure you aren't a product of his sleep-deprived imagination.
His eyes, usually so bright, have faint dark circles under them, but they widen as he recognizes you.
He says nothing at first.
Because he doesn’t know what to say.
Because, during these last few days, he has spent entire nights with his phone in his hand, the chat with you open, his fingers hovering over the keyboard without daring to type. Waiting to see your name appear on the screen. Waiting for anything to break that silence.
And nothing.
Until he almost surrendered to the idea that he would never hear from you again. That that night in front of your doorway had been the silent end of something far too dangerous.
And now you’re there.
You approach him slowly.
You sit down beside him, leaving a small space between the two of you. You could throw yourself into his arms, you could kiss him, you could apologize through tears, but the words that come out are much simpler.
"Hi."
Felix looks at his own hands for a second. He clasps them together, his thumbs playing nervously with each other. He swallows hard. When he responds, his voice sounds... timid.
"Hi."
You can notice his nerves in the little things: in how he stares at his fingers, in how he keeps his back a bit straighter than usual, in the slight trembling of the leg closest to you.
He can't look at you directly at first.
That pulls a soft, unexpected laugh from you.
He looks up, confused.
"What?" he asks.
You shake your head, still smiling.
"It’s just..." You take a good look at him. "I never would have imagined a vampire being as human as you are right now."
Felix blinks, then lets out a short, almost relieved laugh.
"You’re ruining my image as a creature of the night" he jokes.
"You already ruined it yourself" you counter. "With your fake coffees and your tablet at the bar."
The joke relaxes something in the air. He leans back a bit, resting against the sofa. Now, he truly looks at you head-on.
You decide not to beat around the bush anymore.
"I came to talk to you" you say, point-blank. "And to apologize."
His expression changes, but he doesn't interrupt you.
"I’m sorry for leaving like that" you continue. "I’m sorry for going so many days without a word. It wasn’t to punish you." You bite your lip. "I had things to think about. A lot of things. About you, about me, about... all of this."
He nods slowly.
"You had every right" he responds. "To be scared. To need space. To be angry with me. To feel everything."
You notice how he says it: there is no reproach, no "but I...", no guilt-tripping. Just acceptance.
That pushes you to keep going.
"I’ve written a lot these past few days" you confess. "I had to get everything that was eating at me out before I could see clearly."
You look at him, swallowing hard.
"And the more I wrote about you, the more I realized that..." You search for the right word. "...what I feel isn't just attraction or curiosity."
His eyes widen a bit more; his almost imperceptible breath hitches.
"For me..." you continue, your heart pounding hard, "...this is already falling in love."
The words hang between the two of you, naked.
It’s your first time saying it like that, for real, to someone. Not in a story, not in a fictional dialogue, not in your head... but looking him in the eyes.
It takes Felix a second to react.
His hands, still clasped together, loosen. He lets his arms fall onto his legs, as if suddenly the weight he’d been carrying had shifted.
"I’ve spent nights" he says, very slowly, "thinking you’d left because... it had been too much. Because you’d seen the worst of me, of us, and you’d decided the price was too high."
He pauses for a moment.
"And yet, part of me was glad" he adds, honestly. "Because if you didn't come back, it meant you were far away from all this. Far from trouble. Far from… death."
It hurts, but you understand.
"I don't want to be far from you" you respond. "I want to be far from being killed, from being used, from becoming a trophy..." You give a humorless smile. "But I don't want to be far from you."
You say it calmly, because you’ve thought about it a thousand times.
"My life has never been… safe" you continue. "I’ve always lived in my head, in books, in fantasies, because the 'normal' world felt too small for me, or it hurt in other ways. And now… it turns out the universe has put everything I used to read about right in front of me: vampires, clans, danger, impossible love." You look at him, directly. "Did it really expect me to say no?"
Felix lets out a broken laugh, a mixture of relief and fear.
"You are the least practical human I’ve ever met" he murmurs.
"You are the least terrifying vampire I’ve ever met" you fire back.
"You’ve only met one."
"I know Han" you point out.
"He doesn’t count" he says automatically. You both laugh.
The laughter fades slowly, leaving a different kind of silence: soft, not as tense.
"I can't promise you there won't be more nights like the other day" Felix says sincerely. "I can't promise you no one else will come looking for what you smell like. I can't promise you I won't do things that scare you again."
He lowers his gaze slightly.
"The only thing I can promise you is that..." He searches for your eyes again. "...every time I have to choose, I’m going to choose you. Even if I have to break rules. Even if Chan yells at me. Even if it costs me everything."
You feel something tighten in your chest.
"I don't want you to lose everything for me" you murmur.
"I was already losing it before I met you" he responds. "In slow motion. Between bar shifts, fights, and centuries that look far too much like one another. The only thing you’ve done is..." He gives a lopsided smile. "...remind me that there are still things worth doing stupid things for."
Silence.
His fingers move slowly toward your hand on the sofa. He doesn’t force them; he just leaves them close, only a few millimeters away, waiting for a signal.
That signal has to come from you.
And, although everything in your life has always been cautious and measured, this time your hand moves without hesitation. You close those final millimeters and interlace your fingers with his.
The contact is simple, warm, but it’s charged with everything you’ve just said. There is no going back after this. And there’s no need for it.
Felix gives a gentle squeeze.
"I missed you" he confesses in a low voice. "Far more than makes sense for such a short time."
"I missed you too" you admit. "Even if I didn't text you."
He keeps looking at you, a mix of disbelief and tenderness.
"So..." He clears his throat. "What do we do now?"
You don’t have a master plan. But you do have one certainty.
"Learn to survive in your world without ceasing to be me" you say. "And have you be in mine without ceasing to be you." You squeeze his hand. "The rest... we’ll write it as we go."
Felix smiles—slowly, deeply. And this time, he doesn't seem like a vampire, or a human, or a monster, or a hero.
He seems, quite simply, like someone who is also falling in love with you.
You squeeze his hand a little more, as if securing the connection.
"We could..." you begin, looking at him, "go to my apartment. Talk more quietly. Away from the noise. And the chaos. And Hyunjin and Han lurking around."
Felix lets out a soft laugh.
"Believe me, right now they’re closer than you think" he murmurs.
You frown.
"What do you mean—?"
He tilts his head toward the door, without letting go of your hand.
"Han, if you dig your elbow into me one more time, I swear I’ll be the one who..." he mimics in a whisper, with surprising accuracy.
The moment he says it, you hear a faint, muffled voice from right outside the door:
"Move over a bit, you're the one who won't let me hear properly" Han says, sounding offended.
Then, another, more irritated whisper:
"Shut up already, I can't hear a thing" Hyunjin snaps.
And immediately after, Jeongin’s voice, also in a desperate murmur:
"Both of you, shut up. Seriously. You're impossible."
You cover your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.
Felix shakes his head, somewhere between amused and resigned.
"Their hearing is a curse" he says. "Mine too. And yet, they sometimes forget we can all hear just as well."
He stands up, pulling you gently so you stand too.
"Let's go, before they come in with some excuse" he adds.
He opens the door.
On the other side, sure enough, there are the three of them.
Han is pressed against the wall, Hyunjin has his arms crossed trying to look serious, and Jeongin is in the middle with a glass in his hand that he clearly wasn't washing a second ago.
As soon as the door swings open, all three of them snap into different poses, as if they were suddenly very busy.
Jeongin turns toward the small improvised bar in the room and starts scrubbing the glass with exaggerated energy.
"I... I was cleaning" he murmurs.
Hyunjin smooths out his shirt.
"I was just... passing by" he says, as if he doesn't constantly "pass by" everywhere.
Han looks at the ceiling.
"I’m innocent" he adds, without any context.
Felix looks at them one by one, incredulous.
"I can't believe you sometimes forget we're vampires" he sighs. "I could hear you behind the door perfectly."
Han opens his mouth to protest but ends up laughing. Hyunjin does too. Jeongin covers his face for a second, caught between embarrassment and laughter.
"Idiots" Felix huffs, though a smile escapes him.
"Are you taking her home?" Jeongin asks softly, but loud enough for you to hear.
Felix nods.
"Yeah. Today... I’m off duty."
Hyunjin makes a theatrical gesture with his hand, as if giving you his blessing.
"Go, go" he says. "We'll stay here with the blood, sweat, and tears. You get the romance. Unfair."
Han leans toward you with a crooked smile.
"If he misbehaves, let me know" he jokes. "I'll pull his fangs out."
"You couldn't even pull a fast one on him" Minho cuts him off from the hallway, without even looking.
Laughter eases the tension for a few seconds.
Felix squeezes your hand.
"See you later" he says to the others.
You leave the club.
The street air hits your face, fresh. This time, as soon as you take a few steps, Felix interlaces his fingers with yours without overthinking it, without hiding.
He walks by your side in silence for the first few meters. The awkwardness from days ago no longer weighs on you; what’s there now is a tense, almost sweet calm: that of two people who have said what mattered and finally need a quiet place.
Every now and then, his fingers squeeze yours a bit tighter, as if he needed to make sure you’re still there. You squeeze back.
"Are you sure?" he asks at one point, as you turn the last corner toward your street. "I can drop you off and head back, you don't have to..."
"I want you to come up" you cut him off, soft but firm. "I want to talk to you where nothing and no one can enter without my permission."
He nods. He doesn’t insist.
You reach your building. You open the door with your key and lead him inside.
You walk up the stairs. Every step brings flashes of that first night, when you arrived soaked, and of all the times you’ve come back alone.
This is the first time Felix walks up with you.
You open your apartment door.
"Come in" you say.
He crosses the threshold slowly, as if stepping onto something sacred. Not so much because of the superstition of "entering a human’s home," but because everything here smells like you.
And you notice it.
His senses sharpen. He breathes in deeply, almost without meaning to. The scent of your coffee, your books, your shampoo, your skin on the sofa fabric… all blended into an aroma that, for him, is as recognizable as a heartbeat.
He looks around attentively: the table with the laptop, the notebooks, the unlit candle, the used mugs, the books stacked in chaotic piles, the half-made bed.
"This place..." he murmurs. "It’s very you."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" you ask, dropping your keys on the table.
"It’s... home" he responds sincerely.
Your chest tightens a little.
You gesture toward the sofa.
"Make yourself comfortable."
He takes off his jacket and leaves it on a chair. He sits on the sofa—at the edge at first, then leaning back little by little, as if testing the waters.
"Do you want something to drink?" you ask out of habit. "Water, tea, coffee…"
He looks at you, a small smile curving on his lips.
"No, I’m fine" he says. "I don’t have to pretend here."
That sentence sounds more intimate than it should.
You sit down beside him, closer this time than in the breakroom, your knees almost touching. You turn slightly toward him.
"I’ve been thinking about... how we can try to make this work" you begin. "For real. Not just with kisses on rooftops and fights in clubs."
Felix nods, attentive.
"If I’m going to be a part of your life..." you continue, "I don't want to always live in fear or with my arms crossed. I don't want to just be 'the human who needs protecting' and that's it. I want to learn to defend myself. Even if I don't have the strength of a vampire, at least... to dodge blows. To know where not to step."
He lets out a long sigh.
"I’m never going to let you be in danger if I or the guys can help it" he responds. "That isn't going to change."
"I know" you say. "But I also know you can't be everywhere all the time. And if someone comes for me like the other day..." You swallow hard. "...I'd rather not be completely lost if they find me."
He thinks it over.
He looks at your hands, your shoulders, measuring something in his head: your human fragility, your stubbornness, his fear, your resolve.
"We can teach you the basics" he concedes at last. "Not so you throw yourself into fights, but so you can get out of them. Dodging, running, using your surroundings..." He gives a faint smile. "Han will be thrilled to show you how to get in and out of trouble."
You laugh.
"I don't want to be a slayer or anything like that" you clarify. "Just... to be a little less defenseless."
He nods.
"We’ll do it at your pace" he says. "And if at any point it feels too dangerous to me, I’m going to tell you, even if you hate me for a while."
"I already hate you a little" you joke.
"I make up for it with my charm" he fires back.
You both laugh.
The conversation starts to ease the gravity of the situation. You move from practical plans to softer things: what a “normal relationship” would look like for you two, who lies to whom at the coffee shop about whether Felix actually drinks coffee, how you’d explain to a hypothetical neighbor why you have such a pale guy coming and going from your apartment at night.
And, as you talk, you begin to realize something.
Felix is tense.
Not from fear. From something else.
You notice it in the way he clenches and unclenches his hands, in the way his eyes drop to your lips every now and then without lingering too long, in how he swallows at the wrong time, in the slight tremor of his knee.
"What’s wrong?" you finally ask.
He wets his lips, looking at an indefinite point in front of him before turning back to you.
"I’ve been holding back since you knocked on the club door" he admits in a whisper. "And long before that, if I’m being honest."
Your pulse quickens, obvious.
"Holding back... how?" you ask, though you already know.
He looks at you head-on now. And he doesn't hide.
"From you" he says. "From touching you more than I should. From kissing you the way I want to kiss you. From..." his voice breaks slightly "...losing control in ways that might scare you."
There is a second where neither of you moves.
Then, as if a cord had snapped, he acts.
He leans toward you and, in a movement that is swift but not rough, his hand slides to the back of your neck. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you with a firmness you hadn't felt before, suddenly closing all the distance left between your bodies.
His lips crash against yours with hunger.
This isn't the measured kiss from the breakroom or the shy first touch on the rooftop. It’s ravenous, urgent, filled with everything he’s been holding in: sleepless nights thinking of you, entire days without a message, the fear of losing you, the relief of seeing you again, the love he hasn't yet said aloud but that pulses in every gesture.
He pulls you flush against him.
His hand on the back of your neck holds you there, fitting your mouth against his, guiding the rhythm. His other hand slides down to your waist, pulling you until you’re pressed against his chest. You feel every line of his body—every inch of muscle, coldness, and contained strength.
The kiss deepens quickly. His tongue brushes against yours, exploring, claiming.
In one movement, he pushes you back gently until your back hits the sofa cushions. He leans over you, his chest against yours, his knee between your own, pinning you in—but making it clear in the way he touches you that you can stop him if you want to.
You feel like you’re on fire.
Your hands cling to his t-shirt, his shoulders, whatever they can grab. You pull him closer. You realize how much you’d missed him in your body, not just in your mind.
In the vortex of the kiss, in a split second when you shift the angle, his fangs accidentally slide against your lower lip.
They sink in.
It’s barely a sting, a sharp line of pain that mingles with pleasure. A moan escapes you before you can help it, muffled against his mouth.
Felix freezes.
He pulls back a couple of inches, his breath ragged, his pupils dilated. You see a tiny thread of red on your lip and another on his.
His expression is a wild mix of desire and fear.
"Stop me now" he says, his voice deep, broken. "If you want me to stop, tell me now. Because if you don't… I won't be able to."
Your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to break through your chest.
You could say "stop." You could say "it’s too much." You could say "I’m scared."
But when you open your mouth, what comes out is something else entirely.
"I don't want you to stop."
You say it clearly, looking him straight in the eyes, fully aware of what it implies.
He closes his eyes for a second, as if those words were the final blow to a dam about to burst.
"I’m afraid of being too much for you," he murmurs. "In everything. In what I feel. In what I... desire. In what I am."
His thumb brushes, with an almost painful tenderness, against the trace of blood on your lip.
"And I’m afraid" he adds, even lower, "of hurting you even when I only want to do you good."
You bring your hand to his cheek, forcing him to hold your gaze.
"I’ve already seen the worst of you" you respond. "And I’m still here. If you can live with what you are... so can I."
He takes a deep breath, trembling slightly.
And there, with him leaning over you on your apartment sofa, with your blood on his mouth and his hands on your body, with everything you’ve spoken of alive in the air—fear, choice, love—it is the exact point where your emotional and physical tension has reached its peak.
His eyes, an almost liquid gold now, fix on yours with an intensity that makes you feel naked before he even touches you. There is no rush. There is none of that wild ravenousness you had imagined in his worst nights of restraint. There is only devotion—raw and trembling—as if he were about to touch something sacred.
"Then... let me love you" he whispers against your lips, his voice so low it vibrates in your chest. "Let me do it right. Let me remind you that you are mine... and that I am yours, even if it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done."
His fingers, cold as ancient porcelain and soft as silk, slide from the back of your neck to the curve of your jaw. He kisses you again, but it’s different now: slow, deep, a touch that tastes like promises. His tongue caresses yours with infinite patience, savoring the faint metallic trace of your blood without swallowing it—simply feeling it as an echo of what you are: alive, warm, his.
His hands move down. Slowly. So slowly that every inch they travel feels like an eternity.
First, the hem of your t-shirt. His thumbs slip underneath, brushing the skin of your waist with a reverence that makes your skin crawl with anticipation. He feels the heat radiating from you, that steady, living pulse beating beneath his fingertips, and he closes his eyes for a second, as if he were memorizing the rhythm of your heart.
"God... your warmth" he murmurs against your neck, kissing it with cold lips. "It’s as if you carry the sun inside you. And I... I’ve been in the darkness for so long that it almost hurts to touch you."
He gently lifts you, sitting you on his lap without pulling away. His hands move up, dragging the fabric upward, inch by inch. He doesn’t undress you: he reveals you. Every fold of fabric that falls is an offering. When the shirt passes over your head and hits the floor, Felix stays still, just watching you. His eyes travel over your shoulders, the curve of your collarbones, the valley between your breasts. His hands follow the same path, but with touch: open palms, fingers spread, as if he were drawing a map of you that only he can read.
He feels every heartbeat. On your throat, where his thumb presses softly. On your ribs, where his hands spread like cold wings. On your belly, where your pulse quickens beneath his palm. Your skin burns against his; he is freezing, but he doesn't chill you. Quite the opposite. His coldness makes every touch feel more alive, more electric.
"You are so… perfect" he says, his voice breaking slightly. "Every curve, every mark, every heartbeat."
He leans in and kisses the center of your chest, right where your heart hammers hard. His cold lips contrast with the fire you feel inside. He moves a little lower, kissing the edge of your bra, and with an expert, reverent hand, he unfastens it. He slides it down your arms without haste, letting the cool air brush against you. His hands replace it instantly: he cups your breasts with a tenderness that borders on painful, his thumbs tracing slow circles around your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn't demand. He only worships.
He lays you back on the sofa again, but now he is over you like a protective shadow. His fingers move down to the button of your pants. He undoes them carefully, as if he were unwrapping a gift he’s afraid to break. He pulls the zipper down with agonizing slowness, and his hands slide over your hips, taking the fabric with them. Kisses follow the path: on your navel, on the curve of your hip, on your inner thighs when he finally leaves you in only your underwear.
There, he stops.
His hands travel the full length of your legs, from your ankles to the junction of your thighs. He feels the pulse in your femoral artery—strong, fast, alive. His breath hitches.
"I can hear it" he whispers, resting his forehead against your thigh. "Your heart. Everywhere. It beats for me. For this. And I… I’ve never felt so much fear and so much desire at the same time."
He removes your final garment with that same devotion. Slowly. As if he were uncovering a treasure. When you are completely naked beneath him, Felix pulls back for just a moment to strip off his own shirt. His skin is pale, perfect, marked only by the lines of muscle that tense with every movement. He discards the rest of his clothes with less ceremony, but without ever breaking eye contact. Then, he returns to you.
His hands travel over your entire body now, with no barriers left. From your shoulders to your toes. He touches every inch as if he wanted to commit you to memory: the softness of your belly, the curve of your waist, the roundness of your hips. His cold fingers slide between your legs, but they don't enter. They only caress, exploring, feeling the damp heat radiating from you—the pulse beating there, too, stronger and more urgent.
"So warm… so alive" he murmurs, his voice nearly a groan. "It burns me. It heals me."
He settles between your legs, propping his weight on his forearms so as not to crush you. His cold body against your warm one is a contrast that makes you gasp. You feel his erection—hard and cold—pressing against your entrance, but he doesn't push. Not yet.
He kisses you again, deep and slow, while one hand moves down between the two of you. He touches you with reverent fingers, opening you gently, circling that sensitive spot with slow movements that make you arch against him. He feels every contraction, every pulse of your pleasure. When you are trembling, when your hands cling to his back and your nails dig into his cold skin, he finally moves.
He enters you with exquisite slowness. Inch by inch. His eyes never leave yours. You feel him fill you—cold and perfect—and the contrast makes everything feel more intense. Once he is fully inside, he stays still, trembling.
"I feel you" he whispers against your lips. "Every pulse. Every breath. You are so alive around me... so warm... so mine."
He begins to move. It isn’t a thrust. It’s a slow, deep sway, as if he were dancing with you. Each time he slides in and out, his hands caress you: one on your chest, feeling your heart; the other on your hip, guiding you. His lips travel over your neck, your collarbone, your breasts—kissing, licking, worshiping. His fangs graze your skin, but they don't bite. They only press, reminding you of what he is—and what he chooses not to be with you.
Pleasure builds slowly, like a rising tide. There is no rush. Every thrust is a declaration. Every moan of yours is met with a whisper of his: "I love you," "You’re perfect," "Don't stop beating for me." You feel his coldness cooling your fire, and your warmth melting his ice. He moves deeper, slower, brushing against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
When you reach your peak, it’s as if your entire body catches fire. Your heart beats so hard he feels it all around him—contracting, squeezing him. You moan his name, and Felix follows shortly after, burying his face in your neck, trembling as he spills inside you with a muffled groan that sounds like centuries of held-back longing finally released.
He doesn't pull out of you immediately. He stays inside, holding you, his hands still traveling over your back, your sides, your hair. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your swollen lips.
"Thank you" he whispers, his voice cracked with emotion. "For trusting me. For letting me love you like this. For being my warmth in this cold eternity."
You curl up against his chest, feeling how his skin begins to absorb a bit of your heat, how his heart—even if it doesn't beat—seems to resonate with yours. Outside, the night remains dark. But inside you, with him still inside, everything is light. Delicate. Romantic. Eternal.
Felix notices the shift before you do.
Your breathing slows down; your skin, once flushed and burning, begins to lose its heat. He is still inside you, holding you, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, the corners of your swollen lips—but his instinct kicks in.
"You’re getting cold" he murmurs, almost to himself. "I can’t allow that."
He stays there for just a moment longer, simply to feel complete with you, and then, with all the gentleness in the world, he pulls out. He kisses you one last time—long and soft—before standing up.
In a single motion—so effortless you almost forget how strong he truly is—he gathers you in his arms.
"Felix..." you whisper, half-asleep, half-floating.
"Let me take care of you" he responds, firm yet tender.
He walks through your apartment as if he’s done it a thousand times, but with the reverence of someone stepping into a sanctuary. He nudges the bathroom door open with his foot and flicks on the warm light.
He sets you on the edge of the tub for a second, just to turn on the faucet and adjust the temperature. He tests the water with his hand.
"Not too hot" he says. "Just enough to warm you up."
He helps you stand. Every gesture is patient: he guides you under the stream of water, steps in after you, and slides the shower door shut.
Steam begins to fill the small space.
His hands, which only a short while ago held you with desire, now move with a different intent. He takes the soap, lathers it between his palms, and begins to wash your body with a devotion that nearly steals your breath away.
There’s no rush, no ulterior motives. He washes your shoulders, your arms, your back, your neck—as if every inch of your skin were something sacred entrusted to him. His fingers follow the lines of your body with care, as if memorizing your anatomy from scratch—not to arouse you again, but to make sure you’re okay, that there are no marks, that every part of you is whole.
He gently turns you around, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face.
"Is this okay?" he asks, searching your eyes.
You nod, a lump in your throat that you can’t quite identify as tenderness or sheer exhaustion.
When he’s finished, he turns off the water, slides the door open, and helps you out, holding you by the waist in case your legs feel weak. He grabs a large towel and wraps it around you, patting your skin with soft strokes to dry you off.
Then he dries himself quickly, without much ceremony, and you both leave the bathroom.
He leads you to the bedroom. The room looks different under the dim light of the lamp: more intimate, more yours, more ours.
You let the towel drop onto the bed and pull on your comfortable clothes—an oversized t-shirt, soft pants—your movements somewhat clumsy from fatigue. Felix, meanwhile, stands near the door, as if hesitating over whether he should stay or not.
You turn around.
"Stay" you say simply. "Tonight. Here."
There’s a brief flash of surprise in his eyes, which soon transforms into something warm.
"Are you sure?" he asks, still out of habit.
"More than ever."
That’s enough.
He moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed with you. When you slip under the covers, he lies down beside you, on top of the blankets, as if he doesn't want to overstep his bounds.
It’s you who lifts one side of the duvet in an inviting gesture.
"Inside" you murmur.
He obeys.
He settles on his side, facing you. When you curl up against his chest, he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. You feel his cold skin starting to warm up, little by little, from your heat. Your ear rests right where his heart should be beating; you hear nothing, but there’s a strange sensation—almost as if your own pulse were being reflected back from him.
"Goodnight," he whispers, kissing your hair.
"Goodnight, Felix."
You fall asleep quickly, exhausted, your breathing falling into sync with his. He stays awake a while longer, watching you, memorizing every feature in the shadows, as if he still can't quite believe you’re there, in his arms, by choice.
When you wake up, the light filtering through the window is soft—mid-morning light.
The bed is warm all around you, but the spot beside you is empty. For a second, your chest tightens, until you hear noise in the small kitchen: the clinking of mugs, the hum of the coffee maker, the soft thud of a cabinet door.
You sit up, pull your hair into a messy bun, and head out.
Felix has his back to you in your kitchen, wearing your ridiculously small apron tied around his waist. His t-shirt is a bit wrinkled, his hair gloriously tousled, and he’s plating something onto two dishes.
He turns as he notices your presence.
"Good morning" he smiles.
On the table, there’s coffee, toast, some fruit. Everything is more organized than you usually have it.
"You’ve..." You blink. "You made breakfast?"
"I had the time" he shrugs. "I don't need much sleep, as you know."
You laugh, moving toward the table.
"I’m still not used to that" you say. "I would've stayed in a coma for twelve hours after last night."
He sits across from you, waiting for you to try the coffee.
You do.
It tastes like home.
"How is it?" he asks, a little anxious.
"Perfect" you respond. "You’re missing the whole 'actually breathing' and 'being mortal' thing, but as a late-night barista, you’re not bad at all."
He laughs.
You eat slowly, talking about light things at first: if the toast is too burnt, if he found everything he needed in your chaotic kitchen, if Han will survive a morning without him.
Then, inevitably, the conversation turns back to last night.
Felix toys with the mug in his hands.
"About last night..." he begins. "It was..."
"Incredible" you finish for him, bluntly.
He looks up, surprised but clearly relieved.
"I’ve never..." you continue, "I’ve never been treated like that. As if I were..." you search for the word "...sacred."
Felix looks down for a second, smiling with that shyness that still melts you.
"Actually... I held back too much," he admits suddenly, like someone confessing to a minor crime.
You arch an eyebrow.
"Too much?" you repeat. "If that was you 'holding back,' I don't even want to know—"
He holds up his hands as if surrendering.
"I’m serious" he insists, laughing. "If I hadn’t held back, my strength would’ve left marks on your body that wouldn't exactly be poetic. And..." He gestures vaguely toward the living room. "...you might not have a sofa anymore."
You can't help it: you burst into a laugh.
"Are you saying you saved my furniture?" you joke.
"I saved your back, your thighs, and your living room" he lists. "And, since it was your first time with me... I didn't want anything to hurt more than it had to."
You lean toward him, elbows on the table.
"So..." you say, a spark of dangerous curiosity in your eyes. "Do I have reason to be curious?"
Felix leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, a lopsided smile on his face.
"All the reason in the world" he responds. "And I’d love to prove it to you..."
Heat rises up your neck.
"We’ll see" you murmur, avoiding his gaze for a second.
"I’ll take that as a 'yes, but not today,'" he chuckles.
You finish breakfast amid jokes, stolen touches, and soft kisses across the table. The atmosphere is lighter, safer—as if last night had sealed something between you that no longer needs to be questioned.
After a while, Felix glances at your phone clock on the counter.
"I have to go" he says with a faint grimace. "They need me at the club. If I’m missing two days in a row, Han will declare anarchy and Hyunjin will hold a parade with the corpses of the bottles."
"Sounds like quite a scene" you respond.
He stands up, helping you clear the table, insisting on doing the dishes despite your protests. Finally, at the door, he stops.
"If you want" he says, "tonight... you could come to the club. Not because you 'have' to go. Just... because I like seeing you there."
A smile curves on your lips.
"I’ll see how this afternoon’s chapter goes," you joke. "If my characters behave, maybe their author will sneak out for a while."
"Threaten them" he counters. "Tell them I’ll change their ending if they don’t let me see you."
He kisses you at the door—a shorter kiss than last night’s, but just as full. Then he walks down the hallway, turning his head one last time to look at you before disappearing down the stairs.
Your apartment smells like coffee and like him. Your bed bears his mark. Your body... does too.
You know you’re going to go.
That night, the club has a different glow for you.
You walk in, and the neon is no longer just the warning of a dangerous world: it’s also the sign that says, "He’s here."
Changbin greets you with a nod, Jeongin nearly drops a glass from excitement at the sight of you, and Han throws you a wink from a table. Hyunjin, as usual, puts on a bit of a show:
"Our protagonist has returned!" he proclaims. "Ready for another season?"
You roll your eyes and head toward the bar.
Felix is there, working, moving with that blend of skill and grace you’ve come to know. When he sees you, his smile shifts. There’s an extra spark, something only you know the source of.
Things feel... right.
Until you see him.
Sitting on one of the high stools by the bar, his back to you at first. Brown hair, perfectly styled, a light-colored jacket, a relaxed posture. He could be just any other customer... until he turns around upon hearing the others greet you.
Your world stops for a second.
You know that face.
Not because you’ve seen him in the club before, but because you’ve seen it on screens, on billboards, in advertisements, in video thumbnails, on playlists. You’ve sung his songs while washing dishes; you’ve written with his voice playing in the background.
Seungmin.
You stand anchored to the spot, staring at him, without blinking.
Felix notices your sudden lack of movement. He follows your gaze, sees Seungmin, and turns back to you. He leans in slightly over the bar.
"This is..." he begins to introduce him.
"Seungmin" you say, without taking your eyes off him.
Felix looks at you, puzzled.
"You know him?" he asks, genuinely confused.
You turn your head toward him, as if he’d just asked you if you knew what the sun was.
"How could I not know him?" you respond, still in a state of disbelief.
Around you, you hear Hyunjin’s soft chuckle. That "we know something you don’t" kind of laugh.
Seungmin, for his part, turns fully toward you.
He smiles.
His smile is beautiful: clean, a bit shy, with soft dimples. But that’s not what takes your breath away.
It’s the flash of fangs when his mouth curves just a little too wide.
Fangs.
Your brain short-circuits for a moment.
You look back at Felix, searching for an explanation—anything to tell you that you aren’t on a hidden camera show.
Felix, instead of speaking, gives you the space.
Seungmin leans toward you slightly, propping an elbow on the bar.
"Nice to finally meet you in person" he says, his voice warm. "I’ve heard… a lot about you."
You open your mouth. You close it. You open it again.
"You’re..." you stammer. "You’re a vampire?"
Seungmin laughs—clear and musical.
"I believe I am" he answers. "Unless someone replaced my fangs with decorations while I wasn't looking."
Hyunjin laughs even harder. Han, from a nearby table, gives you a thumbs-up.
You run a hand over your face, trying to organize your thoughts.
"But… how? I’ve never seen you here. I mean..." You look around. "You’re famous."
Seungmin shrugs, almost modestly.
"I do what I can" he says.
At that moment, Chan comes down the stairs from the upper floor, where he’s usually multitasking on a thousand things at once. He doesn’t seem surprised to see the three of you together; in fact, his expression suggests he’s probably been listening from above for a while.
He approaches the bar.
"Seungmin is one of ours" he says, taking over the conversation. "It’s just that... he isn’t an active part of the clan."
He turns you slightly on your stool, as if inviting you to listen closely. He sits on the stool next to you and gestures to Felix.
"Whiskey on the rocks" he requests. "I’ve earned it today."
Felix nods and begins to prepare it, never failing to follow the scene out of the corner of his eye.
Chan continues:
"Seungmin always had a very clear dream" he explains. "To be a singer. Always. In every era. He’s a great composer, even if he finds it hard to admit sometimes."
"The fact that we are vampires doesn't mean we have to live in constant struggle, detached from the real world" Chan proceeds. "You’ve seen that for yourself, falling in love with one of them."
He glances at Felix, who at that moment sets the glass of whiskey on the bar with a perfectly placed ice cube.
"I am no one to stop them from fulfilling their dreams" he adds. "I am here to teach them, guide them, and protect them. Not to lock them away."
He takes a sip of his whiskey.
"So when Seungmin decided he wanted to conquer the world with songs..." he gives a lopsided smile, "what we did was help him avoid messing up in... lethal ways."
Seungmin laughs.
"I sing; they remind me not to, I don’t know, bite a host during a live broadcast" he jokes.
"And to make sure you don't sing lyrics that are too literal about 'blood and eternity," Hyunjin adds from the other end of the bar.
"That too" Seungmin admits.
You begin to see the pattern.
Not all vampires live like Chan: in the shadows, in clans, in wars. Some, like Felix, move between both worlds. Others, like Seungmin, have jumped almost entirely into the human scene, using their immortality for something else.
"Fame helps" Chan continues. "Having someone in the public eye who actually belongs to this side gives us... eyes, information, a certain level of influence. And in exchange, he has a network that protects him when human life becomes a little too curious."
Seungmin looks at you again.
"And it’s good for me to have someone to talk to about books and not just hit charts" he says, giving you a wink. "Felix won’t shut up when it comes to you."
You feel Felix’s gaze, soft, on the side of your face. You turn toward him slightly. He has that look of "I’m not going to deny it, but I’m not going to say it out loud in front of everyone either."
Chan takes another sip, watching you over the rim of his glass.
"I know it’s a lot of information" he says. "A famous vampire, another working as a DJ, another being your boyfriend..." He smiles faintly. "The world is stranger than humans believe. But it’s also more... flexible. Fuller of possibilities."
You let all of that sink in.
Seungmin, a global star, sitting in the club like anyone else, showing you his fangs with a beautiful smile. Chan, ancient, leading a clan but encouraging dreams. Felix, at your side, discreetly intertwining his fingers with yours under the bar while talking to a customer, as if anchoring you were the most natural thing in the world.
And you—human, writer—who always thought your life would be limited to imagining impossible worlds... now sitting in the middle of one.
The feeling of "this is too much" mingles with another, stronger one: "this is exactly what I always wanted without knowing it."
The night with Seungmin stretches on longer than expected.
At first, you’re in shock: you have a global star in front of you—someone whose voice has accompanied you through a thousand moments—and now he’s sitting in a vampire club as if he were just any other customer. But the initial surprise quickly gives way to something more natural.
You talk. A lot.
"Do you really listen to my songs?" Seungmin asks, genuinely curious, resting his chin on his hand.
"I have entire playlists of yours" you confess. "I’ve cried while writing with your ballads playing in the background, you know?"
"Now that is pressure" he laughs. "Playing while someone writes important scenes."
Hyunjin jumps in, as usual.
"Don't tell him that; it’ll go straight to his ego" he jokes, giving him a little nudge with his shoulder.
"You’re one to talk about ego" Seungmin shoots back, "Mr. 'No one shines brighter than me in this club.'"
Han lets out a loud laugh from the other side of the bar.
"This is historic" he proclaims. "My favorite singer is a vampire, and my favorite bartender has a girlfriend. What’s next? Changbin smiling?"
"Shut your mouth" Changbin grunts, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes.
Meanwhile, you jump from topic to topic with Seungmin: from music tours to the logistics of it all, from how he composes to how he manages not being able to stay in the sun for too long during festivals, and how he handles hunger in human environments.
"It’s not that hard if you eat before heading out" he explains calmly. "And if you don’t stay alone with anyone in dressing rooms."
"That sounds like a golden rule" Felix chimes in from behind the bar.
"Learned through a few scares" Seungmin responds, shrugging his shoulders.
The others join the conversation whenever they feel like it: Chan corrects historical facts that Seungmin says "from memory," Han suggests ridiculous names for the next album, and Hyunjin proposes impossible choreographies "just to see if you drop dead on stage so we can revive the myth."
Felix watches you.
From slightly on the sidelines—polishing a glass, serving a drink, adjusting something on the tablet—but with his eyes fixed on you. On how you laugh with the others, how your eyes spark while talking to Seungmin, how Chan slips in clan facts between jokes, and how Han and Hyunjin bicker around you.
And for the first time in a long while, he feels... at peace.
The person he allowed himself to start loving hasn't just entered his life: she gets along with his "family." You joke with Han, discuss serious matters with Chan, put up with Hyunjin’s nonsense, get excited talking about music with Seungmin, and listen intently to Jeongin’s anecdotes.
He isn’t watching you "survive" in his world. He’s watching you become a part of it.
And for someone who has spent centuries amidst loss and goodbyes, that is a gift he can hardly even find the words to name.
After that long night, you continued to return to the club regularly.
No longer just as "the special human girl" or "Felix’s girlfriend," but as someone the clan had truly begun to integrate.
And, as you had asked, they started teaching you how to defend yourself.
You didn't train at the club, of course. Too cramped, too easy to break the furniture. Chan found a suitable space: a sort of empty warehouse on the outskirts—covered but spacious, with concrete floors and no windows visible from the street. A wide territory where they could move without drawing attention.
They would take you there occasionally on their "off" nights.
Changbin took charge at the beginning.
"The basics" he said, crossing his arms in front of you. "Block, cover, endure."
He taught you to raise your forearms to deflect blows, to pivot your body instead of resisting head-on, and to lower your center of gravity so you wouldn't fall at the first rush. His teaching style was... direct.
"Harder" he would grunt when you punched the air. "If you hit a vampire like that, he’ll just laugh and thank you for the tickles."
"I don’t want to hit too hard in case I hurt you" you complained.
"Not even if you wanted to" he replied, amused. "But it’s adorable that you’re trying."
Minho, on the other hand, was more technical.
He would lean against a pillar, observing every movement with clinical eyes.
"Bin, you’re too blunt" he would comment. "If you only teach her to hit hard, the first time she misses, she’ll be wide open."
He would walk over to you, repositioning a foot, a shoulder, or a hip with precise touches.
"Think more about dodging than blocking" he’d tell you. "You aren’t going to win a fight of pure strength. Your goal is to not be where they’re going to hit you."
He made you repeat dodges over and over—spinning, ducking, backing away.
"Imagine that every time you fail, Han invites you to one of his 'ideas'" he’d say.
"Now that is motivation" you’d mutter.
Hyunjin… was technically "supporting."
He had brought a beach chair, planted it at the edge of the space, and was reclining in it wearing a ridiculous hat and sunglasses—as if he were at the coast instead of in a cold warehouse.
From a distance, he would toss out comments:
"I say, instead of all this, we just give her a stake and call it a day. Like in the old times. More effective."
Han, who was doing push-ups just for the hell of it, looked up.
"Did you come here to criticize or to help?" he protested. "Because if it’s the former, you could’ve stayed home looking at yourself in the mirror."
Hyunjin readjusted his hat.
"And miss one of the few times we leave the house to do 'normal' things?" he retorted. "Not a chance."
Jeongin, for his part, provided logistical support: he brought water, towels, and gave you sincere encouragement whenever you managed to properly dodge one of Changbin’s strikes.
"She’s getting better" he’d claim. "The first time, she almost tripped over her own feet."
On the other hand, Chan also wanted to ensure your defense wasn't just physical. One day, he called you up to his office.
"Come" he said, opening a door on the upper floor that you had always made a point not to cross. "It’s time you saw another part of the dirty work."
His office was spacious and somber: bookshelves lined with volumes, a large desk, several screens displaying security camera feeds, and maps of the city with color-coded markings.
And filing cabinets.
A lot of filing cabinets.
He opened one like someone opening a forbidden encyclopedia. Inside were photos, reports, names.
"These are the other clans" he explained. "The main ones, at least. The faces you need to remember."
He pointed them out one by one: leaders, seconds-in-command, dangerous pawns.
"If you run into any of these" he repeated, looking you straight in the eyes, "don't try anything. Don't talk to them, don't play the hero, don't try to prove you can defend yourself."
He insisted once more:
"You run in the opposite direction. And you alert us. Always."
You nodded, more serious than ever. No matter how much they taught you to block or dodge, you knew you’d never have the strength or speed of a vampire to actually "defeat" one. Your training was for survival, not for winning battles.
Changbin, meanwhile, took it upon himself to handle his side of things.
"Gym" he said one day, crossing his arms. "It’ll do you good."
"Are you calling me weak?" you asked.
"I’m calling you human" he countered. "And if you have good stamina, you’ll be able to run longer before you drop. It’s simple math."
You ended up going with him to a 24-hour gym where, curiously, no one dared to take the treadmill next to him when they saw him lifting impossible weights. He acted as your trainer: setting times, correcting your form, letting out approving grunts when you held out longer than expected.
"You don't need to be strong like me" he’d say. "Just that your heart can handle the madness you're going to get into by being with us."
Felix got involved too, of course.
His "lessons" were something else entirely.
"I’m going to teach you how to break out of holds" he’d say. "In case someone tries to grab you."
He would take you by the wrist, the waist, the shoulders... always careful, always with a technical excuse. But his hands lingered just a bit longer than necessary; his fingers traced familiar lines on your skin.
"Like this" he would murmur, guiding you. "Pivot here. Shift your weight to this foot. Use my own momentum against me."
Han, as usual, couldn't help but chime in.
"Stop making up moves just so you can touch her" he complained from a corner. "It's not like she's a fool, man."
Felix looked at him with an expression that promised a slow death.
"Do you want to be her practice dummy instead?" he asked, dangerously.
Han raised his hands.
"Me? I'd be delighted" he smirked. "Though if you train her well, I might end up on the floor, and that's not exactly my favorite kink."
"Get out" Felix snapped.
Among them all, bit by bit, you stopped being "the fragile human" and started feeling something more... capable. Never invincible, of course. But you were no longer just someone they’d expect to see running and screaming: you were someone who, if the time came, would know how to dodge, block, and buy time.
And, while your body learned the basics of that world, your heart anchored itself deeper and deeper to him.
Felix continued to see you as what you had been to him from the start: something sacred. Only now, besides kissing you as if you were his light, he also taught you how to move through your shadows so that no one could blow you out without a fight.
You didn't expect to have to put everything you'd learned into practice so soon.
But someone out there seemed to have other plans.
That night, you're all heading back from training together: sweaty, laughing, exhausted from repeating dodges, holds, and teases.
"You moved better today" Minho says, walking beside you. "You don't look like a duck anymore."
"What a... specific compliment" you respond, panting.
Han is out in front, giving little boxer-like hops.
"I say in two weeks she beats Bin in a race" he proclaims.
"Not in your wildest dreams" Changbin grunts, though he clearly looks satisfied.
Felix walks close to you, his fingers brushing yours every now and then—not quite taking your hand only because Chan is nearby. The atmosphere is light, almost normal. Until you turn the corner into the alleyway.
Something shifts.
You don't notice it at first, but they do.
The bodies around you tense up as if they'd been jerked by the same invisible cord. Felix steps half a pace ahead, Changbin side-steps to put you behind him almost automatically, and Minho looks up toward the rooftops.
Chan stops.
The club door is ajar.
Ever so slightly.
Nothing that would catch a human’s attention, but Chan stands still for a second. He breathes. Or rather, he scents. He listens.
He turns to you, his face grave.
"Behind us" he says in a low voice.
Your stomach knots.
At his signal, everyone takes their positions: Han puts his back to the wall, Changbin gently nudges you until he’s standing in front of you, and Minho already has his phone in hand, opening the app connected to the internal cameras.
Chan approaches the door.
He doesn’t go in.
He pushes it just enough to peer inside and see the interior.
What he sees freezes something that should have already been frozen.
In the center of the club, with the lights half-on, are Hyunjin and Jeongin. Gagged, tied to chairs back-to-back, both clearly beaten: split lips, bruises blooming under their pale skin.
Hyunjin’s shirt is torn. If he didn't have tape over his mouth, he’d likely be hurling insults with elegance.
Chan does not cross the threshold.
He stays where he is, using the narrow angle of the door to analyze the scene. His eyes move rapidly, searching for shadows, movements, any slight indication.
"We’re surrounded" Minho informs from behind, staring at his phone. "Two at the bar. One behind the central pillar. One on the stairs. Three on the top floor, spread out. And at least two others outside the camera angles."
Chan processes this.
He wants to get you out of there. It’s obvious. His gaze flits back and forth between the interior and you. But the time for "peek and retreat" has already passed. If you turn around now, those outside will move to block your path.
He sighs, briefly.
"Positions" he says, in a commanding tone.
He turns to you.
"How ready do you feel?" he asks.
You don't answer. Not because you don't want to, but because your throat has tightened.
He nods, understanding.
"It’s okay" he adds, more softly. "Remember what we’ve practiced. You aren’t a hunter. You aren't here to defeat anyone. Just… stay alive."
He turns back toward Changbin and Minho.
"I want your four eyes on her at all times if you can" he orders. "If anything gets too close, you clear it away."
Both nod, their expressions grave.
Finally, he looks at Felix.
"And you" he says. "Don’t let yourself be carried away by your emotions."
Felix clenches his jaw. His eyes flash for a second.
"I’ll try" he responds.
Chan gives a single nod.
He pushes the door and enters.
As soon as you take three steps inside, the shadows materialize.
Several vampires emerge from behind pillars, the bar, and the sides. They surround you with the ease of someone who has already rehearsed the move.
From above, on the second floor, leaning against the railing as if he were watching a play, there he is.
The clan leader.
He smiles upon seeing Chan.
"Well now" he says. "I thought we wouldn't see each other again after that night."
Chan looks up, a hard smile on his face.
"Me too" he responds. "And I would’ve been happy that way."
The leader shrugs.
"You know I didn't like how things ended" he retorts, glancing briefly at Hyunjin and Jeongin, still tied up in the center.
Han, who never knows when to shut up, blurts out:
"You mean losing?"
Hyunjin, even gagged, rolls his eyes dramatically. If he could speak, he’d likely be calling him everything but handsome.
The leader shifts his gaze down toward you.
He scans you: you’re practically pressed against Changbin’s back, with Minho on one side and Felix on the other. His men notice too: they see how everyone surrounds you, how you are clearly the center of a protective circle.
"My, my, Chan" the leader says. "It seems you haven’t learned from past events."
The reference is clear. Painful. It goes straight to the loss of his wife centuries ago.
You feel Chan tense up.
His jaw hardens, his fists clench, and his gaze turns cold instantly.
"That" he says, in a low, dangerous voice, "will never happen again."
He doesn’t wait any longer.
He leaps.
What for you would be impossible—leaping up to the second-floor railing in one go—he does as if gravity were merely a suggestion. His hands grip the edge, he hauls himself up, and lands in front of the leader with effortless elegance.
From below, Han laughs.
"So much for not letting emotions get the best of us" he comments. "The party’s starting."
And without further prelude, he turns toward the nearest enemy and throws a direct punch.
The fight explodes.
You press yourself even closer to Changbin’s back. You feel his muscles moving under your hand, tense and ready. He steps forward, intercepting the first vampire that lunges toward you.
"Move" he says through gritted teeth, never losing focus. "Remember: don't stay in the same spot."
He opens up slightly to deliver a blow that sends an enemy crashing against the wall. You shift with him, just as you’ve practiced, staying at his back but ready to dodge if anything gets too close.
Han streaks past you, laughing as if he were in a common bar fight.
"Let’s go!" he shouts at you. "Show them you’re not just any human!"
Without you knowing where he got it from, he tosses you a short metal bar.
You catch it mid-air out of pure reflex. It’s cold, heavy, familiar; you’d trained with something similar, "just in case."
Chaos erupts all around you.
Hyunjin and Jeongin remain tied up... for only a few seconds. As soon as one of the attackers gets distracted watching the main fray, Jeongin—hands still bound—lands a sharp kick to his knee. The guy collapses sideways, and Hyunjin, using the other's weight, drags his chair back, slamming it against his partner's. Between clumsy strikes and shoves, they manage to topple both chairs.
Moments later, Minho appears and cuts the ropes with a swift motion.
Hyunjin rips the gag from his mouth.
"Great" he complains, standing up. "Now I’m going to have marks on my precious skin."
Jeongin gets to his feet more discreetly, but as soon as he’s free, he lunges at the nearest enemy with cold efficiency.
In the midst of the chaos, an enemy slips through an exposed gap, advancing toward your blind side. You see only a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye.
Before you can react, a hand blocks the blow aimed at your ribs.
Minho.
He appears between you and the attacker, his forearm intercepting the fist. With a twist of his wrist, he wrenches the enemy's arm and flings him to the side.
He looks at you, grave.
"Focus" he says, with nothing more.
You tighten your grip on the metal bar in your hands.
You take a deep breath.
You repeat to yourself, amidst the noise, the blows, the screams: I chose this. No one dragged you here. No one forced you to love a vampire. No one but you crossed that door the first time.
You steel yourself.
Another enemy lunges toward your right, thinking you’re the weak link. You see his face approaching, mouth open, fangs bared.
You don’t think.
You pivot on your lead foot, raise the bar, and drive it with all your strength toward his face.
Metal slams squarely into his cheekbone.
The sound is dull, heavy. He staggers back, clearly dazed, clutching his face.
Han streaks right past you at that moment, letting out a bark of laughter.
"Nice hit!" he shouts. "That’s what I like to see!"
He kicks another one who was closing in right in the chest, sending him to the floor, and continues on his way, laughing as if this were some kind of macabre festival.
The fight, this time, is fierce... but different from the last one.
Chan, on the upper floor, faces the leader head-on. Neither of them seems to want a repeat of how things ended last time. Chan, however, has changed something: he isn’t looking to kill. He’s looking to control.
"Surrender" he tells him, at a moment when he has the leader backed against the railing, a hand at his throat. "Or you’re going to lose too many of your own again."
The leader, panting, looks over his shoulder.
From there, he sees the scene: several of his men are already on the ground, motionless or groaning; others are retreating, clearly outmatched. Your protective circle still stands: Changbin, Minho, and Felix moving like a shifting wall around you; Hyunjin and Jeongin, now free, fighting with elegant disdain; Han enjoying himself far too much; and Seungmin, who came down when he saw what was happening, using a bar similar to yours with almost rhythmic precision.
His expression shifts from arrogance to calculation.
Chan tightens his grip.
"I don't want another massacre" he warns. "Not the one from centuries ago, and not a new one. Take those who can walk and don't come back."
Finally, the leader spits blood to the side and lets his shoulders sag a bit.
"This doesn't end here" he mutters.
"It never does" Chan responds. "But for today, it does."
He lets him go.
The leader falls to his knees, pushes himself up as best he can, and whistles a brief order. His men who are still standing begin to retreat, dragging those they can. Those who are in too bad a shape... stay behind.
No broken necks this time. Not from Chan and his people. There was no need.
The silence that follows is heavy.
Your body begins to notice what it couldn’t feel before.
Your shoulder throbs—a blow you took at some point, perhaps when you mistimed a dodge. Your knee aches when you shift your weight; someone clipped you on their way down. There’s a stinging on your cheek, and you can’t remember where it came from.
The adrenaline recedes.
You remain standing, the bar still in your hand, your fingers cramped. Your legs tremble slightly; you don’t know if it’s from the effort or from what you just did.
Felix appears by your side in a blink.
His eyes scan you visually first, then his hands follow: shoulders, arms, face.
"Did they hit you?" he asks, his voice deeper than usual.
"Nothing... serious" you respond, now truly feeling every small ache.
Changbin, panting, wipes a hand across his face.
"That was good" he says. "For your first real time."
Han lifts the bar you’re still clutching.
"And good aim, Writer" he adds. "They can't say you're just 'the human' anymore."
Minho, on your other side, watches you with that indecipherable expression of his.
"You did well" he admits. "But don't get overconfident. Tonight was a warning. It could have been worse."
You know it.
You feel it in every muscle: this is only the beginning. Choosing to stay in this world means more nights like this. More blows. More fear. And, yes, also more kisses, more dawns with Felix, more breakfasts with coffee and jokes.
You press the bar against your chest for a second and breathe.
You chose this.
And as Felix, with trembling but firm hands, runs a finger over a small cut on your cheek, you know you will keep choosing it. Even if it hurts. Even if it leaves marks.
Because, for the first time in your life, you feel like you are living a story that is as much yours as the ones you always dreamed of writing. And that, no matter what happens, you don't intend to let anyone else write it for you.
The bodies on the floor groan and complain; some try to push themselves up only to fall back down.
Hyunjin, now free of his bonds and with his shirt half-torn, approaches one of the enemies lying face up—breathing, but with no desire to move. He gives him a nudge with the tip of his shoe.
"Come on, don't be dramatic" he says, with that signature blend of laziness and mockery. "Get up and leave on your own two feet. I have absolutely no intention of carrying anyone."
The vampire tries to snarl something at him; Hyunjin doesn't even listen. He moves to the next one, repeating the gesture.
"Up you go, human drama" he continues. "This isn’t a Greek tragedy. If you can groan, you can walk."
Jeongin, with a split lip and a bruise blooming on his cheekbone, approaches Chan with his head bowed.
"I’m sorry" he says. "They caught us off guard. There were too many for just the two of us. We tried..."
Chan places a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Hey" he cuts him off with unusual gentleness. "You did well."
Jeongin looks at him, surprised.
"But..."
"I don’t care if you lost control of the room five minutes before we got here" Chan continues. "The only thing that matters is that you’re alive. You and Hyunjin."
He squeezes his shoulder a bit tighter, as if wanting to anchor that thought in him.
"We’ll have plenty of nights to discuss strategy" he adds. "Not for discussing resurrections."
Jeongin nods, swallows hard, and allows himself a sigh of relief he wouldn't have let out in front of anyone else.
Chan then turns toward you.
He sees you with the metal bar still in your hand, your shoulders tense, your chest rising and falling rapidly. He also sees the slight tremor in your legs, the small wince of pain when you shift your weight from one foot to the other.
He approaches.
"You did great" he says, point-blank.
You feel the recognition like a surge of warmth in your chest.
Then he looks at Felix.
"Take her home" he adds. "And… take care of her."
Felix nods, without argument. He gently pulls your hand to get you moving.
As soon as you take two steps, you limp.
He notices instantly. He moves to your side, wrapping an arm around your waist and draping your arm over his shoulders, taking on most of your weight. Like this, he practically carries you, making it so your feet barely brush the ground.
"If it weren't for the fact that there are still people on the streets" he murmurs with a crooked smile, "we’d be at your place in the blink of an eye."
You laugh, half-exhausted, half-euphoric.
"Right now…" you respond, "I feel like crap. On the outside."
"And on the inside" he asks, "how do you feel?"
You think for a second.
"Alive" you say. "Ridiculously alive."
He smiles and pulls you a little tighter into his embrace.
At your apartment, Felix carefully seats you on the sofa.
"Don’t move" he orders softly.
He disappears for a moment into the bathroom. You hear drawers opening, the rattle of the first-aid kit, the brief rush of the faucet. He returns with everything he needs: gauze, disinfectant, ice wrapped in a cloth.
He kneels in front of you.
"I’m going to lift this up a bit" he warns, sliding his fingers under the hem of your T-shirt.
You nod, raising your arms to make it easier for him. The fabric rises a few inches, exposing your stomach, your sides, and part of your ribs.
As his gaze travels over your skin, he discovers new injuries.
Bruises beginning to take shape on your side, a faint yellowish-green mark starting on your hip, a thin scratch on your thigh. His hand passes very close, without touching at first—as if he were afraid of hurting you just by brushing against you.
He says nothing.
But you see it in his eyes: the way they darken, the glint of mute rage, the guilt piercing him beneath the surface.
You say it for him.
"It’s not your fault."
He looks up, startled.
"I chose this" you add, before he can even open his mouth. "So stop blaming yourself. I can hear your thoughts even from here."
He smiles, but the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"You're hur," he murmurs. "Because of me."
You shake your head, almost indignant.
"No" you respond. "I'm hurt... because there are people who want to harm you. Even if you and I were just friends, or if I were only friends with Han, Jeongin, Changbin... I still would have fought. Because if one thing is clear to me, it's that your family is mine too."
You take a breath.
"I would have fought for you, for myself... and for them."
Felix looks at you in silence for a few seconds.
And, instead of arguing, he kisses you.
A soft, grateful kiss, filled with something you had rarely felt so clearly: pride. Not just for having defended yourself, but for having stayed—for having chosen his people as your own.
When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
"I think you’re the craziest human I’ve ever met" he whispers.
"Yes" you respond, without losing your smile. "And that’s exactly why you fell in love with me."
He laughs, this time for real.
"Maybe" he admits.
The rest of the night, he takes care of you.
He puts ice on the ankle you slightly sprained, delicately cleans the scratch on your cheek, and rubs your shoulders with gentle hands. He warns you:
"Tomorrow everything is going to hurt more than you expect. Your adrenaline is still high right now. When you wake up… every single muscle is going to complain."
"Great" you groan. "Exactly what I wanted."
"I'll bring you coffee and anti-inflammatories" he smiles. "And then, if you can move, I'll help you stretch. If you can’t…" he shrugs, "I’ll just carry you."
"You’re abusing your strength" you tease.
"And you’re abusing my heart" he counters.
You finish the night in bed—you, covered in bruises but tucked into his arms, with ice on your knee and kisses on every inch that aches.
The days go by.
At first, you remember every single blow each time you get up: your knee protests as you climb out of bed, your side grumbles when you bend over, and your shoulder creaks as you pull on a T-shirt.
Felix is all over every moan and groan: he gives you a hard look if you try to do things on your own, insists on walking you even to the grocery store, and sends you texts like: "Don’t lift anything heavy, including your own dignity."
But the bruises change color. From deep purple to yellowish-green, to almost nothing. The sharp pain turns into a dull ache when you move. You stop limping. Your body begins to remember it can function without complaining at every step.
One day, you get out of bed, go to the kitchen, bend down to grab something from a low cabinet…
And it doesn't hurt.
You smile to yourself.
Not because you're thrilled about having been hit, but because that small, everyday gesture reminds you of something important: you fell, you got up, it hurt… and you got better.
Just like everything you're experiencing with them.
Heyy!! Not trying to be rude or anything, but I read some of ur fics recently and I was just wondering do you use AI? I’m not saying ur whole fics r generated and I’m not accusing you or anything I mean more like using it to correct grammar or translatate, but ur fics have Hyunjin preferred to as She/Her sometimes and it has a lot of dashes. I swear I don’t mean any harm just asking!!!
Hi! No, I don't use AI 🙃, but as I’ve explained on several occasions… I use a translator because my native language is Spanish. I’m aware that in some dialogues 'he' often gets swapped for 'she' or things like that. When I proofread, I try to fix every mistake I spot, but I’m not always able to catch them all.😪
SUMMARY: What started as a confession under the stars on the club's rooftop ends in carnage. After being spotted by an intruder, the protagonist witnesses the true lethal nature of Felix and the clan. Although he kills to protect her, the raw reality of the vampire world shatters the fantasy bubble, forcing her to make a painful choice: to walk away so she can breathe, leaving a vulnerable and blood-stained Felix waiting in the dark.
PART 1
You stop halfway through the venue, your heart shrinking a little. You had never heard that upper floor so clearly before. There was always music covering everything; now, the words pour down the stairs as if someone had opened a floodgate.
“I’m only reminding you how dangerous it is” Chan’s voice—louder than you’ve ever heard it—hits the air.
You freeze.
“I already know” Felix responds, defensive. “You don’t need to repeat it to me as if I were a child.”
You recognize his voice. The tone, you don’t. There’s an edge to it, a contained rage.
You take a couple more steps toward the center of the club, as if that would clarify what you’re hearing. You don’t go up, but the sound reaches you with more clarity.
“Precisely because you’re not a child” Chan insists. “Because you’ve lived long enough to know what happens when you mix our world with hers.”
A thick silence follows. Then, Chan adds, lower but still audible:
“It’s better if you stay away from her.”
Your stomach knots.
“Her.”
They don’t say your name, but they don’t have to. In this context, it can only be one person.
You.
You instinctively hide behind one of the pillars near the stairs, as if they could see you through the floor. You don't want to eavesdrop, but the words keep falling.
“I’m not doing anything crazy” Felix throws the sentences like stones. “I only see her every now and then at the club.”
“I have information” Chan replies, sharp. “Don’t make me look like an idiot. You’ve been seen outside. In daylight. Moving through public places with her.”
You feel as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over you.
“You’ve been seen.”
“Information.”
That “outside, in daylight” is you, inevitably. The cafe, the bookstores, the walks. All those moments that felt so intimate... they’ve left a trail.
Another voice enters the conversation. Lower, cutting.
“It’s none of my business” he says.
You don’t recognize it at first. Then, when it speaks again, you associate it with a face you’ve seen in passing at the club, always in the shadows, always watching from a corner: Minho.
Felix snaps.
“Seriously, Minho?” you hear him almost shout. “You too? Now you’re spending your time following me around?”
“I’m just following orders” Minho responds calmly, without raising his voice. “I’m not the one who decided to stroll around half the city with a human.”
Chan speaks up again.
“Felix, nobody is saying you can’t…” he searches for the word, “…feel things. I’m not a monster. But you know how this ends when one of our kind grows too fond of one of theirs.”
The pause that follows stifles you.
“She isn’t ‘one of theirs’ like the others” Felix spits out, as if defending himself against something even you don’t fully understand. “And it’s none of your business who I see outside the club, either.”
“It becomes my business when your…” Chan seems to hold back the word for a second, “…attachment puts a spotlight on our door,” he says, his tone hardening again. “Ever since she showed up, everyone else has been talking about nothing else. The clans are noticing. They’re asking questions. They want to know why a human matters so much to you.”
The floor seems to shift beneath your feet.
“Everyone else has been talking about nothing else.”
“Why a human matters so much to you.”
The thumping in your ears nearly drowns out the voices.
Felix responds, and now his voice sounds wounded.
“Because she’s not just another human” he says. “And because, for once in too long, something makes me feel…”
He cuts himself off. He hits something; you imagine him running a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“I’m not going to give you explanations about how I feel” he finishes. “I’m not your son.”
“No” Chan agrees, his voice lower. “You’re someone I don’t want to see break over the same story.”
That phrase cuts through you.
The same story.
The idea that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened makes your stomach churn.
Minho speaks again, dryly:
“I’m just saying, if you keep taking her to cafes and going on night walks as if she were your human girlfriend, don’t expect the rest of the world to stay blind.”
That word hits you right in the chest.
“Human girlfriend.”
It isn’t something you have said. It isn’t something he has said to you. But it’s there, in the mouths of others, as if it were already such an obvious possibility that it’s causing concern.
You wanted to leave. To make noise, turn the doorknob, walk out without looking back. But your feet won’t obey. You stay there, caught between curiosity and the guilt of listening to something you shouldn’t.
Felix speaks again.
“Stop talking about her as if she were a strategic risk” his voice trembles with rage. “She is a person. She isn’t a ‘spotlight,’ or a ‘threat,’ or a ‘weak link.’ She is…” he hesitates, and in that void, a thousand possible words slip in. “She is someone I am not going to use or discard for your peace of mind.”
Chan lowers his tone a bit. Even so, it reaches you:
“You are free to think whatever you want” he says. “But your freedom doesn’t erase consequences.”
A longer silence follows.
You feel that if you keep listening, you will hear things you aren’t ready to process yet. And at the same time, you know you’ve already heard enough that nothing will ever fit the same way again.
You take a careful step backward, trying not to make a sound.
Your intention is to leave. Maybe send Felix a message later, pretending you were running late—inventing any excuse so you don't have to look at him with all of this fresh in your mind.
But in that discreet movement, your shoulder brushes against a poorly placed bottle on a side table. It wobbles. It falls.
The crash against the floor sounds far too loud in the silence of the empty venue.
Upstairs, the voices cut off instantly.
Your heart skyrockets. You don't need someone’s hand on your chest to tell you that.
You hear footsteps approaching the stairs.
You don't have time to leave. The street door is too far away. You stay where you are, by the pillar, feeling shame and fear mingle: you’ve overheard intimate, harsh things, and now they’re going to see you there—an accidental witness to a confrontation that revolves around you.
Felix’s silhouette appears at the top of the stairs, coming down fast. His eyes find yours the second he sets foot on the club floor.
For an instant, his expression passes through three clear stages: surprise, concern… and something akin to resignation.
Because he knows you’ve heard, at least, a part of it.
Chan eventually comes down too.
You see him appear at the foot of the stairs, with Minho a step behind him, deeper in the shadows. Chan’s expression is no longer that of the leader you just heard shouting; he has composed himself, but the hardness remains in his eyes.
Their gazes shift from Felix to you. Then they settle on you, fully.
“I suppose you’ve heard more of us than you should have” he says, with a somewhat uncomfortable sincerity.
You’re not quite sure how to stand. You end up nodding, without any embellishment.
“Enough to know you were talking about me” you respond. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to… overhear.”
Chan shakes his head slowly.
“You aren’t the one who should apologize” he says. “We’re the ones who were talking about you like a logistical problem, instead of a person who was about to walk through that door.”
He takes a few steps closer but maintains a respectful distance. Minho stays still further back, watching in silence.
“I didn’t introduce myself as I should have the first time” Chan continues. “I’m Chan. The one who tries to keep all of this—” he makes a gesture encompassing the club, the building, perhaps something even larger— “from falling apart.”
You already knew, but you nod anyway.
“And yes” he adds, without beating around the bush. “We were arguing because of you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because…” he looks at Felix, then back to you, “…because we care too much about what happens to you.”
The choice of the plural catches your attention.
Felix snorts, crossing his arms.
“What he means” he murmurs, “is that I’m an idiot who has let himself be seen with you too much, and now everyone is hysterical.”
“What I mean” Chan corrects with a sigh, “is that there are things that you—” he looks at you, “—don't know yet, and that he—” he points to Felix, “—hasn’t told you either because…” he tilts his head, “well, because he’s Felix.”
The tension between them is still there, but Chan lowers his voice a bit.
“This isn’t a good place to continue this conversation” he adds. “Not now.”
He looks at Felix.
“Take her up to the rooftop” he says. “Talk. Explain to her what she needs to know. I…” he glazes at his watch, “have to deal with suppliers before this turns into a literal soap opera.”
His eyes return to yours once more.
“And for what it's worth” he adds. “I’m truly sorry. You aren’t a ‘risk.’ You’re a person. It’s just that we’ve… lived long enough to see too many times how these kinds of stories end.”
You aren’t quite sure how to respond, so you just nod.
“Thank you… for saying that” you murmur.
Chan nods too, with a slight tilt of his head, and turns to go back up. Minho stays for a second longer, looking at you with those sharp, inscrutable eyes.
“It’s not personal” he says simply. “It’s… survival.”
Then he follows Chan, leaving you both alone on the empty club floor.
Felix runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.
“I’m sorry” he says. “There’s no good way to handle something like this.”
“It could have been worse” you respond, trying to lighten the mood. “They could’ve been talking about what… tastes like—” you stop, wrinkling your nose. “Okay, better not finish that sentence.”
Felix lets out a laugh, brief but sincere. That breaks the tension a little.
“Come” he says. “The rooftop is… more honest.”
The elevator is old and makes a small rattling noise as it goes up, but it works. Felix presses the top button, staring at the floor number with exaggerated focus, as if that would save him from having to look at you and answer prematurely.
You stay silent, too. Every meter you ascend feels like moving a bit further away from the noise of the club… and closer to the heart of something more delicate.
Upon arriving, Felix opens a metallic door and a gust of fresh air hits you both.
The rooftop is spacious, with a couple of industrial fans, antennas, and some potted plants that someone has tried to keep alive. The city opens up around you: distant lights, cars like fireflies, buildings silhouetted against a dark sky with few stars.
Felix walks a few steps toward the railing, gesturing for you to come closer.
“I usually come here when everything downstairs is too much” he says. “There’s no music, no shouting, just… this.”
You lean against the railing beside him. The wind ruffles your hair a little.
For a few seconds, you both just watch the city.
“You heard Chan say ‘The same story’” Felix begins, without beating around the bush. “And I know that if I don’t explain it to you, you’re going to invent ten worse stories in your head.”
You don’t deny it.
“I thought he was talking about you” you confess. “That… something like this had happened to you before.”
Felix shakes his head slowly.
“No” he responds. “I’ve had… complications. But nothing like that.”
He takes a deep breath, as if preparing to pull something ancient out of a drawer.
“The one who married a human was Chan.”
You didn't expect that.
You look at him, surprised.
“Chan… got married?”
Felix nods with a sad half-smile.
“A long time ago. In a time when being what we are was much more… dangerous than it is now. Fewer rules, more chaos. More vampires without a code, fewer ‘neutral’ places.”
He leans his elbows on the railing, looking toward some distant point that you cannot see.
“She didn’t know at first, of course” he continues. “She was…” he barely smiles, “even more curious than you, if you can believe it. And he…” he shakes his head. “He was worse than I am when it came to setting boundaries.”
You imagine it: Chan, younger in appearance, in love with a human, breaking all the rules he now tries to enforce. The contrast tightens your chest a little.
“When he told her, she stayed” he continues. “She believed him. She chose him. Against everything. They got married; they made a life as best they could among shadows, excuses, and white lies.”
A pause.
You know what’s coming. You’ve read enough stories, seen enough traces on Chan’s face not to need a made-up happy ending.
“The enemies we had back then weren’t… ‘civilized’ like some are now” Felix adds. “They didn’t accept neutral ground or deals. When they found out Chan had something to lose…” he grips the railing, “they went after her. Not him. Her.”
You swallow hard.
“They killed her” you say, very quietly.
He nods without looking at you.
“In front of him” he whispers. “To make the punishment last longer.”
The wind feels colder all of a sudden.
“Since then” he continues, “a long time has passed… many years. Chan has seen entire generations die. Humans, vampires. But her… he’s never let go of that.” He finally looks at you. “That’s why he is the way he is. Overprotective, controlling, a pain. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in what we feel. It’s that he knows the price.”
You understand.
Not just with your head, but with something deeper. It doesn’t justify them making you a topic of discussion behind closed doors, but… it explains the fear underneath.
“When he says ‘the same story’” Felix looks back at the city, “he isn’t talking about me. He’s talking about his story repeating with a different face. With yours. Or with mine, broken afterward.”
A knot forms in your throat.
You dare to ask:
“And you? Are you… afraid of that?”
He takes his time to answer.
“I’m afraid of many things” he admits. “Of losing control, of turning you into something you’re not, of you getting hurt because of me.” He shoots you a sideways glance. “And of all that ceasing to matter because…” he falls silent for a second, “…because you matter more to me than every rule I know.”
Your fingers, resting on the railing, tense up a little. You feel the cold metal beneath your warm skin.
You feel a physical need to touch him, to break that half-meter distance that feels like miles.
You don't think about it too much.
You slide your hand bit by bit until it brushes against his. Just with your knuckles, at first. A small touch, to see if he pulls away.
He doesn't.
On the contrary.
Felix turns his hand and intertwines his fingers with yours, firm yet delicate. His palm is cold, but the gesture warms you through and through.
He stares at your hands for a second, then looks up into your eyes.
“You know I didn't start all this for your novel” he says with a sad smile.
“I…” you take a deep breath. “At first, I kept telling myself that. That it was for the story.”
“And now?”
You bite your lip. You could dodge the question, but it wouldn't make sense—not after what you’ve just heard.
“Now I write to have an excuse” you confess. “To keep seeing you. To keep asking things. To keep…” you swallow hard, “…feeling this.”
You squeeze his hand a bit tighter as you say it, without naming it.
Felix closes his eyes for a second, as if those words were something he had been waiting too long to hear… and fearing at the same time.
When he opens them, he takes a step closer. You are even closer now, almost face to face, hands joined between you.
“If I go on with this” he says, very low. “I won’t know how to stop halfway.”
Your heart thumps so hard you wonder if it’s louder than the distant hum of the city.
“Neither will I” you respond.
The tension thickens.
He leans in slightly, his face approaching yours. You can count his eyelashes, see a small blue vein tracing his temple, feel the brush of his cold breath mingling with yours.
His gaze drops to your lips for just an instant, then travels back up to your eyes, as if asking for permission.
You don’t say no.
He takes the final half-step.
His free hand rises, hesitating for a second before brushing your cheek with his knuckles—a gesture clumsily gentle for someone who could break steel.
You feel that if he leans in just one more centimeter, you will finally cross that line.
His nose nearly brushes yours. You close your eyes, unable to help it, breath held.
And then—
“Felix hyung.”
The voice cuts through the air like a snap.
The two of you pull apart suddenly, as if someone had yanked an invisible thread. Your hand remains intertwined with his, but the distance between your bodies increases just enough for the near-kiss to break.
You turn around.
Jeongin is standing at the rooftop door, slightly hunched over, with an expression that clearly says, “I wish I wasn't interrupting this.” He raises his hands, looking guilty.
“I’m sorry” he says quickly. “Really. But…” he looks at Felix, suddenly serious, “they need you downstairs. Han has gotten into trouble with another clan again. Chan says we have to go now.”
The name “Han” rings a bell; you’ve heard it mentioned a couple of times as the group’s walking disaster.
Felix clenches his jaw, the transition from near-kiss to leader-mode being almost painful to watch.
“What happened now?” he asks, still not letting go of your hand.
“He got into somewhere he shouldn't have” Jeongin responds dryly. “Again. They’re ‘talking’ at the east warehouse. And when I say ‘talking,’ I mean that if we don’t go, he’s going to end up with fewer teeth than you.”
Felix lets out a heavy sigh. He glances at your hand in his, then at your face.
In the faint glow of the distant neon lights, you see the internal struggle: to stay, finally, in something that had just begun to open… or to do what he’s been doing for centuries: throwing himself into the fire for his own.
You are the first to let go, slowly, so he doesn't have to choose.
“Go” you say, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “I… I’ll be fine.”
He looks at you with a mix of apology and something far more intense.
“I didn’t want our first…” he cuts himself off, corrects himself, “…I didn’t want this moment to end like this.”
You trace a small smile.
“Maybe it’s even fitting” you murmur. “Nothing between you and me has ever been simple.”
Jeongin clears his throat softly, still at the door.
“Seriously, I’m sorry” he repeats. “But if Han gets his head ripped off, he talks a lot less afterward, and it’s weird.”
Felix lets out a humorless laugh.
“I’m coming” he says.
He gives your hand one last squeeze—quick, like a seal. Then he lets go completely and heads toward the door.
Before crossing it, he turns around.
“Don’t leave the building without letting me know” he asks.
You nod.
“Be careful” you respond.
You watch him disappear with Jeongin down the stairs, urgency clinging to their every step.
You remain alone on the rooftop for a moment before following them, the wind stirring your clothes, the echo of the near-kiss still lingering on your lips, the weight of his story and Chan’s pressing down all at once.
You know that when he returns, none of this is going to be easier.
But you also know, with a newfound clarity, that you’ve already crossed a point of no return: your hands intertwined with his, your feelings spoken—even if only halfway—his fear laid bare to the air.
As Felix and Jeongin leave with the others, Changbin makes sure to lock the main door securely, takes a quick glance at the cameras, and then turns to you.
“No one can cross that door without us seeing them” he says, dryly but calmly. “You’re safe here.”
Hyunjin, already halfway up the stairs, leans over the railing with a lopsided grin.
“Relax, princess” he comments. “Consider this… your temporary home.”
“Don’t call me princess” you protest by reflex.
“Of course” he responds, delighted, before disappearing down the hallway.
Chan, coming down the stairs, adds:
“Seriously, if you need anything, there are cameras and sensors. No one comes in or out without us knowing. If you don't want to stay on the ground floor, the breakroom from before is free.”
You lock eyes with Felix for a second. He hesitates; it’s obvious he’s not thrilled about leaving you alone, but the urgency carries more weight.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can” he promises. “If you get bored, you can look around the place… with common sense.”
You translate “common sense” as: don’t go upstairs, don’t open locked doors, don’t poke your nose where you haven’t been invited.
You nod.
“Be careful” you murmur.
And they’re gone.
The echo of their footsteps fades as they head for the door, and then, after a few moments, the distant vibration of the main entrance opening and closing indicates they’ve stepped outside.
The silence that remains is strange.
Without the people or the music, the club feels larger. The neon is off; only a few warm lights remain on over the bar and at key points around the room. The air still smells of wood, alcohol, and something metallic, but without the weight of so many bodies and mingled perfumes.
You take a deep breath.
You are alone in a vampires' den.
And, curiously, you aren't as afraid as you thought you’d be. A part of you feels… curious. Another feels something akin to a strange sense of belonging: they told you that you’re “at home,” and even though you know it’s an exaggeration, the gesture warms your chest a little.
You take advantage of their absence.
You start on the ground floor, slowly, hands in your coat pockets, eyes alert to every detail usually lost among the shadows.
The tables, now empty, show glass rings, small scratches from rings, the occasional nick that tells stories of previous nights. The bar, impeccably tidy, reflects the light off the lined-up bottles. You see notes taped inside: order lists, schedules, a small sticker of a drawing made by someone—probably Han—in a corner.
Toward the center of the venue, a narrow hallway opens between two pillars. You follow it.
There are several doors on both sides. Some have small, discreet signs: “Restroom,” “Storage,” “Staff.” You test the doorknobs discreetly. Most are locked. The few that aren’t reveal very normal things: a surprisingly clean bathroom, a small room with crates of drinks, another with sound equipment.
You stop in front of a door with no sign, made of thicker metal. The knob doesn't budge a single millimeter. You don't even force it. You know, without needing to see it, that what lies behind it isn't something you have the right to know yet.
You look up toward the upper floor. You know where Chan’s office is; you’ve seen the door at the end of the hallway, but you don't even consider it. It would be crossing a line you don't want to cross—not after what you heard earlier.
You sigh and retrace your steps.
Eventually, your feet lead you to a place you do know: the breakroom.
You open the door.
Inside, everything is calm. The large sofa, the armchairs, the low table. The floor lamp casts a soft light over the rug. In one corner, a small refrigerator hums quietly.
You close the door behind you and allow yourself to let out your breath, as if you had been holding it without noticing.
You hadn’t stopped to look at this room calmly last time; you were too focused on Felix—on what he was saying, on what he was revealing. Now, without him, you notice new details: a couple of forgotten mugs in a corner, a jacket tossed over an armchair, a cushion deformed by the weight of someone who probably fell asleep here far too many times.
On the table, there are a couple of loose pens and a pad of blank paper.
You approach them, almost with the reflex of a predator facing literary prey. You pick up a sheet, feeling it between your fingers. The pen writes well when you test it on a corner.
You smile to yourself.
You sit on the sofa, tuck your legs in, lean your back against the rest, and place the paper on your knees.
You don't have your laptop, but your head is too full to let this pass.
You start to write.
Nothing orderly, nothing clean. Loose phrases:
How Chan sounded when he said “the same story.” The image of Chan falling in love and losing everything. The weight of the centuries he’s been carrying that pain. Felix on the rooftop, telling you about it, his fingers intertwined with yours. The feeling of his hand on your chest, listening to your heart. His laughter in the cafe, the sunglasses perched on his tied-back hair. The streets that seem to belong to him at night. The way he said, “You matter more to me than every rule I know.”
The words come out as they can. Some will be rearranged later; others will stay just as they are—raw—but you don’t have to invent as much anymore. You are transcribing what you feel, disguised as fiction.
You jot down bits of dialogue:
“If I go on with this, I won’t know how to stop halfway.” “Neither will I.” “I don’t want all our firsts to end like this.”
You write his name—Felix—and then you cross it out, substituting it with “him,” with “the vampire,” with anything else that works for the manuscript. But you know who he is.
You concentrate so hard, getting so deep into that writing trance, that time… simply dissolves.
When you finally look up because your fingers and neck ache a little, the silence of the club is no longer there.
There’s noise—voices, footsteps, the none-too-gentle slam of the main door.
You check your phone.
2:07 AM.
You blink.
When Felix left with Jeongin, it was still relatively early. The sheet of paper on your knees is nearly full: loose phrases, scenes that popped into your head, dialogue you didn't want to lose. Between line and line, time had simply unraveled without you noticing.
You quickly tuck the pen back onto the low table, leave the sheet clearly visible so you won’t lose it, and head out into the hallway.
As you lean over the railing of the stairs overlooking the ground floor, the scene hits you full-on.
Changbin and Minho come in first, carrying someone between them. They’re practically hauling him, each holding an arm. The guy in question is covered in bruises: split lips, a swollen cheekbone, a gash on his eyebrow that’s dripping blood. And yet, he’s laughing.
“Did you see his face?” he wheezes, choked by laughter. “He thought he had more bodyguards.”
Han.
Even though it’s the first time you’ve seen him up close, there’s no doubt. There’s something in his chaotic energy, in that misplaced laughter, that fits perfectly with the little you’d been told about him.
“What I saw” Changbin grunts, “is that they nearly ripped your head off.”
“Details, details” Han makes a theatrical gesture with his hand, only to groan when Minho grips him a little tighter.
Hyunjin walks in behind them, looking impeccable despite everything, moving with that effortless elegance that makes him seem detached from the chaos even when he’s right in the middle of it. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that is, indeed, stained red at the side.
“This shirt was new” he laments. “New. Do you know how many minutes it took me to pick it out?”
“I’ll wash it with my blood” Han laughs, doubling over slightly in pain but never stopping with the jokes.
“That’s the problem, you idiot” Hyunjin responds. “It’s already been washed with your blood.”
Chan enters as well, right behind them, his brow furrowed but without the panic you might have expected. He seems more annoyed than anything else.
“One day we’re not going to make it in time” he snaps at Han, shaking his head. “And when I ask, ‘Where’s Han?’, they’re going to point at a puddle.”
“It would be a very cute puddle” Han retorts, winking.
Jeongin enters next, carefully closing the door behind him. His hair is a mess, his shirt wrinkled, but he’s unharmed.
And finally, Felix appears at his side.
You look for him almost without realizing it. As soon as his figure crosses the threshold, the rest of the noise fades away.
He’s wearing the black T-shirt he had on earlier under his jacket, which is gone now. There are smudges of dirt on the sleeves and some dark splatters you’d rather not analyze too closely. On his left cheek, a thin red line opens from his cheekbone toward his jaw—a fresh cut with a single drop of blood still trickling down.
Your body reacts before your head does.
You rush down the stairs, almost running, dodging Hyunjin and Jeongin, leaving Han and the others in your peripheral vision. Your legs carry you straight to Felix, as if by inertia.
“Are you okay?” the words come out without a filter.
He turns just as you reach him. His eyes widen a bit at seeing you so close, so… worried.
Before you can stop yourself, your hand rises and rests on his wounded cheek, carefully, your thumb barely brushing the edge of the cut.
The skin beneath your palm is cold, but the blood is warm.
Felix blinks, surprised. Then he gives a lopsided smile, slightly flushing—not so much from the contact as from the awareness of the gazes behind you.
“It’s… nothing” he says, lowering his voice. “Just a scratch. I’d swear the other guy came out worse.”
You don’t take your hand away.
“You’re bleeding out in the middle of the room” you retort, dramatic out of sheer worry.
“I can’t bleed out that easily” he tries to joke.
“I don’t care how easy it is” you murmur. “You need to clean it.”
Behind you, there’s a muffled throat-clearing. Han has turned his head, wince of pain and all, clearly ready to drop a comment.
“Ooooooh, look who’s— h—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Minho’s hand claps over his mouth in a swift, precise motion.
“Silence” he orders, without losing his cool.
Han grumbles beneath Minho’s fingers, but it’s completely unintelligible. Changbin and Minho take advantage of his distraction to start hauling him upstairs, perhaps toward that very same breakroom to patch him up… or to tie him to a chair.
Jeongin makes himself busy tidying something behind the bar. Hyunjin watches the scene with a smug little smile, but he doesn't say anything either.
There’s something almost conspiratorial in how everyone suddenly finds tasks to do far away from the two of you.
Felix notices all of it and flushes a bit more. Even so, he doesn't pull away.
“There’s a first-aid kit in the breakroom” he says, addressing you. “White cabinet, second shelf. It has everything.”
You nod.
“Let’s go.”
You turn to head toward the hallway and realize then that your hand is still on his cheek. You pull it back with a small apologetic gesture, but in that same movement, Felix’s fingers close around your other hand.
You couldn’t say who grabbed whom.
You only know that as you cross the room toward the hallway, you are holding hands, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The breakroom is just as you left it, except for your sheet of paper on the table. Felix lets himself fall onto the sofa, obedient for once, while you head for the cabinet he pointed out.
You open it.
Inside is a bit of organized chaos: boxes of gauze, disinfectant, bandages, band-aids, scissors. You grab what you need almost by instinct: gauze, saline solution, a bit of disinfectant.
When you turn around, he’s already leaned back a bit on the sofa, tilted toward the rear, watching you.
“You look like you do this often” he comments, watching you prepare the supplies.
“I’ve had clumsy roommates” you respond. “And I’m very well-acquainted with tripping.”
You step closer, setting the supplies on the coffee table. Then you kneel in front of him, positioning yourself between his knees without thinking too much about it, simply for the convenience of reaching the wound properly.
Up close, the cut looks less severe than it did from a distance. A thin line, not very deep, more dramatic because of the blood than the actual damage.
You soak a gauze pad with saline.
“It’s going to sting” you warn.
“I’ve been in worse fights” he responds, relaxed.
As soon as the damp gauze touches his skin, his body makes a small, involuntary gesture: a slight twitch in his jaw, a tightening of his fingers over his own knees. He doesn’t complain, but you notice it.
“See?” you murmur with a small smile. “It hurts you, too.”
“It’s… different” he retorts, almost amused. “A blow isn't the same as… you, with that look of ‘if anything happens to you, I’ll kill everyone.’”
You feel the heat rise to your face.
“I don’t have a face like that” you protest, focused on the cleaning.
“You do” he insists in a low voice.
You finish cleaning the blood and apply a bit of disinfectant. Afterward, with a fresh, dry gauze pad, you pat the edge of the cut dry. His skin is cold beneath your fingers, but very much alive.
The entire time, he never takes his eyes off you.
You’re so close you could count his freckles, see the line of his jaw, notice how the tension from the fight has been transforming into something else since you entered the room.
You’ve just placed a small band-aid—almost ridiculous for someone like him—and you slowly pull your hands back.
You don’t move.
Neither does he.
You stay there, kneeling between his legs, your hands still near his face. Felix leans forward slightly, closing the distance even further.
The silence that settles in isn’t awkward. It’s expectant.
You notice his gaze drop from your eyes to your mouth, just for a second. His right hand moves, slowly, until it rests over one of yours, which is resting on his knee. His fingers intertwine with yours almost by inertia.
Your heart, traitorous, picks up its pace.
“Thank you” he whispers. “I could have left it as it was, but…” he gives a lopsided smile, “…I like that it's you who’s worried.”
“I don’t like seeing you bleed” you respond, more sincere than you intended.
Felix leans in a little more. Now, if you lift your chin, his lips will be dangerously close to yours. You feel the sofa behind him, the floor beneath your knees, the world shrinking to the tiny pocket of air left between your mouths.
His free hand rises slowly, brushing your cheek with his fingertips. The contact is soft, almost reverent.
“Before…” he murmurs, referring to the rooftop, “…we were interrupted.”
“I remember” you whisper, conscious of every single millimeter.
“I don’t want all our… firsts to end like that.”
Your breath catches.
He moves a bit closer.
“May I?” he asks, barely in a breath, his eyes searching yours for one final confirmation.
You don’t look away. You don’t say no.
The answer is in how you squeeze his hand a bit tighter, in how you lean in too, closing the little distance that remains.
His lips brush against yours.
It’s minimal contact at first—a timid caress rather than a full kiss—as if you both needed to prove that this is real. That you can kiss a vampire in a breakroom at two in the morning, after he’s returned from a fight, and that the world won't break because of it.
You feel the cold of his mouth mingling with the heat of yours. The contrast shivers through your entire body.
Felix takes a deep breath against your lips, as if he had been holding back for a very long time.
The kiss deepens just slightly—just enough for his lips to move over yours with more intent, sweetly, without any rush. There are no teeth, no fangs, nothing of what you had feared in your teenage readings. Only an intense gentleness that disarms you.
Your free hand rises by instinct to his neck, fingers brushing the cool skin beneath his hairline. He shivers a little at the touch, but he doesn't pull away. On the contrary, he pulls you a bit closer, as if he feared this were all a dream and he might wake up at any moment.
You don’t know how long it lasts. It could be seconds or minutes. You only know that when he finally pulls back a few millimeters, he is still so close that his forehead brushes yours.
He smiles, his breath unnecessarily ragged.
“That…” he whispers. “That definitely wasn’t for research.”
You laugh, your voice a bit raspy.
“I’m going to have to invent an entire scene to justify it in the book” you murmur.
He rests his forehead against yours for a second longer, as if needing that final point of contact before letting you breathe.
“You don’t have to justify anything with me” he says. “Not here, and not on your pages.”
Your hands remain entwined. Your heart is still racing too fast to be “just curiosity.”
He smiles, half-dazed.
“This complicates my plan to keep you ‘safe and objectively distant’ a bit” he murmurs.
You’re about to say something equally clumsy when, treacherously, your body decides to intervene.
Your stomach growls.
Loudly.
Loudly enough that, in the silence of the room, it’s perfectly audible.
You pull back a bit suddenly, feeling the flush creep up your face.
“Great” you mutter. “Super romantic.”
Felix blinks once and then bursts out laughing—that deep, warm laugh that you like far too much.
“I think I just got some competition” he says, placing a hand over his chest. “Your stomach sounds louder than your heart.”
You cover your face for a second, caught between embarrassment and amusement.
He takes the opportunity to glance at your phone, which you’ve left on the table. He picks it up, pressing the lock button just to check the time. His eyebrows arch.
“It’s past three in the morning” he announces. “You’ve been here since…” he does the math in his head, “…too many hours. You hasn't had a decent meal since God knows when, and you should have been asleep a long time ago.”
He sets the phone back in its place and looks at you with that mix of affectionate reproach and humor.
“I’m the vampire here, not you” he adds. “You can’t go around skipping meals and schedules as if you didn’t need anything.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
“I had… a lot to write” you defend yourself weakly.
“And a human body to feed” he retorts. “Maybe it’s time you headed home. I’d love to stay here with you until the sun comes up, but…” he raises an eyebrow, “…we’ll have time for that. Right now, you need to eat something and sleep.”
You know he’s right. Your body knows it, too: now that the adrenaline from the kiss is starting to fade, exhaustion hits you all at once.
You don’t argue.
“Fine” you concede. “But you’re not going to make me feel guilty for being a focused writer.”
“Only a little” he smiles.
He rises from the sofa and holds out his hand to help you up. You take it. This time, when you stand, he doesn't let go right away. You stay there for a second, standing face to face, still close.
“Come on” he says softly. “I’ll walk you.”
As always, you cross the club together. This time there are no people, no music, no curious stares. Only the dim light, the empty tables, the echo of your footsteps, and the memory of his lips still on yours.
He steps out first, holding the door for you.
The street is quiet, the air cold. You walk slowly toward your building. Neither of you speaks much; you don’t need to. Felix’s hand brushes yours several times, as if testing whether it’s too soon to hold it again.
You don’t reach for him, but you don't pull away either. Your whole body vibrates in a strange balance between calm and electricity.
You reach your front door.
You stop and turn toward him.
“Thank you for… everything” you say, knowing that “everything” covers many things: the talk on the rooftop, the half-confessions, leaving you alone in the club because he trusted you, coming back in one piece, the kiss.
Felix shoves his hands into his pockets, as if he doesn't know what to do with them if he isn't holding you.
“Thank you for not running away” he responds. “Not when I told you what we are, not when you saw Han looking like a mess, not when…” he smiles, tilting his head, “…this.”
A small, strange silence follows.
The other times, everything here was simple: “goodnight,” a smile, him waiting until you went inside, you going up with a calm heart but a head full of questions.
Now, there’s something else in the air: the fresh memory of his mouth on yours just a few minutes ago.
Neither of you really knows how to say goodbye.
He seems torn between leaning in toward you again or playing it safe with a verbal farewell. His eyes drop to your mouth for a moment, then snap back up. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.
You realize that if you don’t do something, the two of you are going to stand there forever, trapped in a “should I kiss him, should I not?” loop.
So, you decide not to overthink it anymore.
You take a small step toward him, stretch up on your tiptoes, and give him a quick kiss on the lips. A soft, short touch—almost like a “seal” on what happened before.
“Goodnight” you whisper before he can react too much.
You turn away instantly, heart racing, and start fumbling with your keys at the front door as if your life depended on it. You feel his gaze on the back of your neck—warm, incredulous.
“Goodnight” he responds, his voice a little lower, a little happier.
You open the door and step inside. Just before it closes, you barely turn your head: you see him still there on the sidewalk, smiling as if someone had just switched on a light inside him.
When the door closes completely, you lean your back against it for a few seconds, trying to process that you just kissed—twice in less than an hour—a vampire at your front door.
Upstairs in your apartment, your laptop, your notes, and your bed are waiting. But tonight, even if you collapse from exhaustion, you know you’re going to dream more about his mouth than any line you’ve ever written.
Felix walks back to the club slowly.
He’s in no rush this time. The early morning air feels less hostile. For the first time in a long while, the weight of the years feels… bearable.
He mentally replayed everything that happened in a single day: the argument with Chan, the rooftop, confessions he hadn't dared to vocalize in centuries, the fight with the other clan, Han nearly losing his head, your hand on his wound, the kiss in the breakroom, your stomach growling, the quick kiss at your front door.
He smiles to himself, in the middle of the street.
Happy, on one hand. Worried, on the other. He knows none of this has made the dangers, the rules, or the eyes watching them disappear. But now those fears coexist with something he hasn't felt in far too long: hope. A longing for a text from you, for an afternoon coffee, for a late-night walk.
And, for the first time, he feels that “the same story” doesn’t have to mean “the same ending.”
Over the following days, the texts fly back and forth.
You write between work, classes, and coffees; he replies between shifts, customers, and clan meetings.
Today I tried to write the breakroom kiss scene.
I ended up writing a different kiss altogether..
Can I become a fan of your novel even if it’s about me?
It’s egocentric, but yes.
At the club, the changes don’t go unnoticed. Felix smiles more. He already smiled quite a bit, but now it’s different: there’s a new light in his gestures, in how he looks at his phone when it vibrates in his pocket, in how his face softens when he sees your name on the screen.
One of those nights, the place is packed. He’s behind the bar, moving quickly between bottles, glasses, and customers, but in every small breather, he reaches for his phone under the counter to reply to a text from you. He can’t help himself. He catches himself smiling like an idiot at a sentence of yours about how Han would be a character of "necessary chaos" in the novel. He’s typing a response when a shadow looms over the bar.
“Hey.”
He looks up.
Hyunjin is standing in front of him, leaning his elbows on the bar, watching him with a sharp smile.
“Stop texting your girlfriend” he says, completely shameless, “and serve these people before they start complaining that the bartender is in love.”
Felix shoots him a warning look, his ears inevitably turning a bit red.
“She’s not…” he begins.
“Of course she is” Hyunjin interrupts, delighted. “If your smile were any more obvious, it would have her name written in neon. In italics.”
Felix huffs.
“Mind your own victims” he retorts. “And stop calling ‘girlfriend’ the person you call ‘princess’ when you think no one is listening.”
Hyunjin feigns offense.
“I respect royalty” he says. “You respect the orders. You have five tickets piling up.”
He nods toward the small ticket printer at the side of the bar, where several slips of paper are indeed stacking up.
Felix looks at his phone one last time. He finishes his text to you with something short:
I’m getting scolded.
I’ll tell you later how Han almost died again.
And how much I love that you worry so much
He locks the screen, slips the phone into his pocket, and grabs the first glass.
“If any customer complains” he says, pouring quickly, “tell them I was busy saving the world.”
“I’ll tell them you were busy thinking about kissing a human during working hours” Hyunjin counters, amused.
Felix tosses a napkin at him.
“Get away from my bar” he grunts, but he’s smiling.
From a corner of the club, Chan watches the scene with his arms crossed, a small, resigned smile at the corner of his lips. Jeongin, by his side, whispers:
“He’s happier.”
“He is” Chan responds, watching Felix shake a cocktail shaker with more spirit than usual. “And that’s going to complicate our lives.”
He pauses.
“But…” he adds, almost to himself, “maybe it’ll make them more interesting, too.”
The story between you and Felix is no longer just “material for your book” or “a security problem for the clan.” It’s something they all begin to see, in their own way: Hyunjin teasing but keeping watch, Changbin grumpy but protective, Minho more attentive to your scent than he admits, Jeongin genuinely delighted.
You get used to the nights at the club.
You no longer enter with the shyness of that first time; you’re still cautious, but your steps are more confident. The red neon no longer feels like a threat, but rather the announcement of a familiar place.
Changbin doesn’t block your path at the door anymore.
“Welcome back” he grunts, arms crossed, but with the corner of his lip quirked in something very much like a smile.
“Thanks, official guardian” you retort.
He huffs, but he steps aside and lets you in.
Inside, the usual friendly chaos: music, laughter, drinks, moving shadows. You don’t get lost in the noise anymore; you know exactly where to look.
Hyunjin sees you before you see him.
“Look, look” he sings from a table near the bar, leaning on his elbow and waving his fingers at you in an exaggerated greeting. “Our VIP customer has arrived!”
A few heads turn, curious. You raise a hand—a small gesture, like someone greeting a familiar bartender.
In front of "the customers," there are no kisses, no intertwined hands, nothing to give away what happens once the doors close. But your eyes find Felix immediately.
He’s behind the bar today in a tight black T-shirt with an open button-down over it, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He moves as if the music were flowing through him: flipping bottles, pouring drinks at a speed no human could ever match, smiling at customers with a warmth that seems almost impossible in a place like this.
Every now and then, a strand of his fair hair falls over his forehead. He shakes it back with a brief, practiced motion. The fabric of his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders as he reaches up for a tall bottle. Your eyes linger there a bit longer than necessary, memorizing the details.
All of this, you know, will eventually be turned into words later on.
Felix, who seems distracted by his work, looks up at the exact moment you are watching him. The spark that appears in his eyes has nothing to do with the neon reflections.
He doesn’t beckon you with a gesture that’s too obvious; he simply tilts his head slightly toward a spot at the bar where a stool is free.
You make your way over.
You sit down.
He finishes serving a couple of drinks, takes the payment, and smiles. When the customer leaves, he approaches you, leaning his hands on the bar and bending forward slightly.
“Hi” he says, in that voice that sounds different when it’s meant for you.
“Hi” you respond.
You don’t touch. You don’t need to for all your nerves to instantly fire up.
For a while, you watch him work. Every chance he gets, he comes over to talk to you for a few seconds: a joke about Hyunjin having too many eyes on him, a comment about the playlist, some low-voiced remark about how beautiful you look tonight, about how much seeing you there distracts him.
You take it all in. The way he polishes glasses, how he moves without bumping into anyone, how he seems to know exactly which customer is going to misbehave before it even happens. You store it all away. A part of you is already writing, even without paper.
In one of those gaps, when the bar is momentarily clear, Felix leaves a glass on the tray, turns to Jeongin—who has come down to help—and shoots him a meaningful look.
“Cover for me for a second” he says.
Jeongin arches an eyebrow.
“Am I going to have to make up another excuse for Chan?” he asks, but he’s already stepping behind the bar.
“Tell him I went to check the stock of…” he searches for a word, then smiles, “…sugar.”
Before you can ask anything, Felix slips out from the side of the bar and reaches out his hand to you.
“Come.”
You take it without thinking.
He pulls you gently toward the hallway.
“Where are we—?” you start.
“Union break” he answers mysteriously.
Your first thought is the breakroom. And indeed, that’s where you’re headed. Felix opens the door cautiously.
Inside, the lights are low. And on the sofa, taking up almost all the space, is a figure.
Han.
He’s flat on his back, half-sprawled out, one arm dangling off the side of the couch, his mouth open in a soft but persistent snore. Someone has tucked a blanket over him up to his waist, as if they’d just accepted that he was going to stay asleep right there.
Felix stops dead in his tracks.
“Great” he mutters. “The ghost of past troubles.”
Han lets out a louder snore, stirs a little, but doesn’t wake up.
You cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing too loudly.
“He looks comfortable” you whisper.
“And if I wake him, he’ll probably run off into another fight” Felix responds. “Not exactly the kind of energy I’m looking for right now.”
He looks at you. You return his gaze, the shared complicity of the last few days pulsing between you.
He closes the door carefully, almost tenderly toward the "corpse" on the sofa.
“Plan B” he says.
He takes your hand again.
You go up.
The rooftop greets you as it always does: colder air, the distant hum of the city, a dark sky pierced by the lights of tall buildings.
The moment the door closes behind you, something changes.
There is no one else. No sharp-eared vampires, no customers, no music. Only the wind, the railing, and the memory of the last time you were here, on the verge of crossing a line.
This time, Felix doesn't hesitate.
He turns toward you, and the next thing you feel is his body drawing near, his hands finding your waist.
He lifts you up.
Just like that, without any apparent effort.
One second your feet are on the ground; the next, you’re in the air, your hands gripping his shoulders by instinct, a small gasp escaping your throat from the surprise.
You laugh.
“Felix!” you protest, but it comes out between chuckles.
He holds you with an unsettling ease, as if you truly weighed nothing at all. His hands are firm: one beneath your thighs, holding you steady, the other on your lower back, pulling you closer to him.
You understand what he wants without him saying a word. You wrap your legs around his hips, anchoring yourself to him. Your breath quickens, but not out of fear.
Felix looks at you closely—very closely. His eyes have that soft amber glow you’ve learned to recognize: it’s not a dangerous thirst, it’s something else. A different kind of hunger.
“I still remember the taste of your lips in that room” he whispers. “Since that day… you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to feel it again.”
You don’t give him the chance to keep talking.
Or perhaps, he doesn’t plan on waiting any longer.
His words are sealed against your mouth as he leans in and kisses you.
This time, there is no initial shyness, no cautious testing. It’s a kiss full of everything you’ve both been holding back: desire, tension, the weight of every “almost” that came before.
His lips move over yours with urgency, yet without losing their gentleness. You feel the contrast of his cool softness and your heat, the brush of his fangs in the back as the kiss deepens just enough, reminding you who you're with without frightening you.
You cling to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. One of his hands remains firm beneath you, holding you steady, while the other slides up your back, pressing you even tighter against his body.
Every part of you that touches him catches fire.
The need becomes almost physical: you were aware that you wanted him, but you didn’t know how much you truly needed this until he finally has you like this—suspended in his arms, pressed against him, your body fitting with his as if it had been waiting for you for centuries.
The kiss grows deeper, more burning. Your breath mingles with his. He lets out a low sound, barely a restrained growl against your mouth, as if having you like this unraveled him more than he’d care to admit.
You could stay like this for a long time.
In fact, you want to.
And it would be the perfect moment for everything to overflow… if it weren't for the fact that, suddenly, Felix’s body tenses up.
You feel it before you see it: a change in the way he holds you, a slight hardening of his muscles, his hand on your back going dead still.
He pulls away from your lips abruptly, though he doesn't let go of you. His gaze darts over your shoulder toward the rooftop door, but he seems to be listening to something beyond it.
His eyes narrow, focused.
“What…?” you begin, panting slightly. “What’s happening?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. He tilts his head just a fraction, as if aiming an invisible ear downward, toward the lower floors.
At first, you don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. But he does.
His jaw tightens.
“I think we have uninvited guests” he finally says, his tone shifting from romantic to alert in a heartbeat.
He sets you down carefully until your feet touch the ground. His hands linger on your waist for an instant longer, as if it were hard for him to let go of you physically as well as emotionally.
“Listen to me” he says, looking you in the eye. “Stay up here. Don’t go down. No matter what happens.”
Your stomach knots.
—Felix…
“No” he cuts you off, soft but firm. “This isn’t negotiable this time. You’re smart; you know when something is a bad idea. This is one of those times. Stay. If everything goes well, I’ll be back in a bit and we’ll finish this…”
His eyes drop to your mouth for a second, then snap back up.
“…the way it’s meant to be” he adds with a tense, half-smile.
He doesn’t give you time to argue.
In a blink, he’s gone.
The rooftop door opens and closes at a speed that escapes your eyes; all that remains is the trail of displaced air and the echo of your own heartbeat.
You try to stay still.
You tell yourself to trust him, to trust Chan, Changbin, all of them. They are used to this. You are not.
But a few seconds later, you start to hear it.
From below, through the stairwell and the building’s structure, come noises that don’t belong in a club’s normal activity: a dull thud, something breaking, a voice rising. Then another. After that, the clear sound of something heavy crashing against a surface.
Your body moves before your brain can approve.
You don’t go all the way down to the ground floor, but you peer over the upper hallway, right at the edge of the stairs—just enough to see part of what’s happening below without fully exposing yourself.
What you see… doesn’t look anything like the usual nights.
In the center of the room, Chan and Changbin stand side by side, arms crossed, their gazes fixed on the door.
In front of them, at the entrance, is a group of figures you’ve never seen before. They smell different even from here: a more aggressive, metallic scent, lacking the sophisticated polish of your own group.
One of them, the one in the lead, seems to be the leader: tall, dark suit, icy eyes. No smile.
“You know you’re not welcome here” Chan says, his voice flat yet tense.
The other finally smiles, but it’s a gesture devoid of warmth.
“We’ve been told you have… special customers here” he responds, brazenly sniffing the air. “And honestly… it smells delicious.”
A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the wind on the rooftop.
Even if he doesn’t say your name, even if the room is filled with different scents, you know he’s talking about you. About the glow your blood has for them. About the rumors that have spread.
Around you, you see movement.
Felix is off to one side, behind Chan and Changbin, jaw clenched, his body taut. He doesn’t lunge, but every muscle in him screams with the need to put himself between them and any threat.
“Chan…” you hear him say, a low warning.
Chan doesn’t look at him, but his voice carries the weight of a command.
“Stay back” he responds. “Don’t get involved. I’ll handle this.”
The leader of the other clan takes another step into the venue as if he owned it.
“Neutral ground, right?” he says, amused. “What a lovely word. But neutral grounds are respected when everyone plays by the same rules. When someone brings… temptations onto the field, it’s only natural for there to be curiosity.”
Chan loses a bit of the calm in his eyes, though his posture remains controlled.
“There is nothing here that concerns you” he says. “Turn around.”
Another vampire from that group lets out a low laugh.
“Maybe we just want to try the menu” he comments. “Not all of us have your scruples, Chan.”
From that moment on, words no longer matter.
It’s a minimal gesture.
Something in the posture of one of the intruders shifts: a slight lean forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Chan doesn’t need anything more. Neither does Changbin.
The fight begins.
It’s nothing like the ones you’ve seen in movies—clunky, with slow effects. This is pure speed.
Changbin lunges first—a wall of sheer brute force. He closes the distance in a couple of strides, his fist slamming into one of the enemy vampires' chests with such strength that it lifts him off the ground and sends him crashing into a table, which snaps in two under the impact. Without letting him fully fall, Changbin spins and, in the same motion, takes down another with a knee to the stomach. Two against one, and the one is winning.
Chan, beside him, moves differently: calculated, precise. It’s as if every one of his strikes is measured by centuries of experience. He dodges a punch with a minimal tilt of his head, grabs the attacker's wrist, and twists it until a crack rings out. Without letting go, he slams the man’s head against the bar with just enough force to knock him unconscious, not kill him.
Jeongin appears from the side, his usual shy expression long gone. His eyes are dark and focused, his body light. He moves with startling agility: he leaps onto the back of one of the intruders, hooks an arm around his neck, and in one clean twist, brings them both down. The dull snap of a twisted neck reaches even your ears.
Hyunjin sheds his trench coat with a theatrical flourish, letting it fall onto a nearby chair. He adjusts his shirt cuff, impeccable, and smiles with that irritating calm that is so uniquely his.
“Try not to stain my suit” he says, as if he were at a party.
And then, he moves.
He doesn’t run; he doesn’t charge. He dances.
His body glides among the combatants with an almost ethereal grace. A step to the left, a spin, an elbow to someone’s ribs; a high, elegant kick that connects with another’s jaw, sending him spinning before he hits the ground. To human eyes, it would be a blur; for you, still adjusting, he’s hard to follow. You only see flashes: his hair moving, the glint in his eyes, the curve of his smirk as he smiles between punches, as if he were performing on a stage.
Han appears from the stairs, disheveled, the blanket still half-hooked over his shoulder.
“The real party starts and nobody wakes me up?” he grumbles, tossing the blanket aside.
But his complaining doesn't stop him from being in the center of the chaos in a heartbeat—tripping enemies, hurling bottles that shatter against heads, laughing as if this were a dangerous playground game.
Minho, always in the shadows, moves like a silent predator. He makes no noise; he doesn’t speak. He simply appears behind someone, one hand on their neck, the other on their hip, and in one fluid motion, slams them into the floor or against a wall. His strikes aren’t flashy, but every single one is definitive.
Felix, at first, holds back.
He stays where Chan told him, eyes darting at top speed, alert to every micro-shift. But when one of the intruders tries to bypass the main fight and heads toward the stairs—toward you, toward the top—his body reacts before his mind can.
In a breath, he is there.
He interposes himself between the enemy and the steps, his hand clamping like a claw around the other's throat.
“No one goes up here” he says, his voice lower and colder than you’ve ever heard it.
His eyes glow with an intense amber. For a second, you truly understand that he is a vampire—a predator, something far more ancient than the boy who drinks coffee with you.
The intruder tries to strike him, but Felix moves with a speed that makes the fist cut only through thin air. He hurls him back against a pillar. The impact echoes throughout the entire room.
From your partial hiding spot, your chest tightens. Fear and pride mingle in a strange mix: fear for him, pride in seeing what he’s capable of, and a flicker of fear for yourself when you realize that even seeing him this lethal, you can’t stop loving him.
The battle continues—fast, brutal, almost accidentally choreographed: Changbin taking down two with a single shoulder thrust, Hyunjin spinning like a performer between strikes, Jeongin appearing and disappearing like an agile cat, Minho finishing them off with surgical efficiency, Chan moving in the center like an ancient axis, and Felix like a sharp blade where you are the one spot he cannot allow to be touched.
From above, you see it all.
And deep down, you begin to understand that your story with them—with him—isn't just fought with kisses and confessions. It’s also fought on nights like this, where the real, dark, and dangerous world of vampires brushes against you closer than ever.
The air in the club grows even denser.
Amidst the blows, the cracks, and bodies slamming against tables and walls, there is a moment when something shifts direction.
One of the vampires from the enemy clan, who until now had been dodging Minho, pauses for a second. He tilts his head back and sniffs the air.
Even from above, you notice the gesture.
His nostrils flare slightly, his eyes narrow… and they shift, searching for you.
You shrink back a little further behind the railing—pure instinct—but it’s too late.
He sees you.
His lips curl into a slow, hungry smile. He’s no longer interested in Chan, or Changbin, or the main brawl. He has found something else.
You.
He begins to move.
Hyunjin notices it first.
He’s just finishing a spin after taking down another enemy when he catches the direction of that vampire’s gaze. He follows the line of his eyes upward, toward your semi-hidden position.
“Jeongin, on your right!” he shouts.
Jeongin reacts like a coiled spring. He snaps his head around, locates the guy who just broke away from the center of the fight, and lunges for him—fast, low, and direct.
But the other one is fast, too.
At the last second, he dodges Jeongin with an agile, almost feline spin. Instead of backing away, he lunges forward, taking a leap that leaves him clinging to one of the club's pillars.
He climbs.
His fingers dig into small crevices in the wall; his feet find purchase on the tiniest ledges. In two movements, he is already much higher than any human could ever reach in such a short time.
He’s coming for you.
You scramble back, your heart hammering so hard it’s difficult to hear anything else. You know you’re too close to the stairs—that your hiding spot stops being one the moment someone actually looks for you.
Below, Felix sees it.
The glint in his eyes changes instantly.
“Fuck” escapes his lips, raw.
He breaks formation without a second thought. He bolts toward the base of the pillar the other is already scaling, determined to intercept him before he reaches the top.
But in that same split second, another enemy, seeing the gap he’s left open, lunges at him from the side, looking to catch him by surprise.
You see it clearly from your angle. You see the second attacker pouncing toward Felix, arm raised, fangs bared, ready to sink in something more than just a punch.
Your body reacts before your mind does.
—¡Felix! —gritas.
Your voice cuts through the noise of the fight, piercing right into him.
Felix looks up for an instant—not toward the immediate danger, but toward you. His eyes meet yours, wide and terrified, pointing to something behind him.
That’s enough.
He spins just in time.
The attacker's arm passes exactly where his neck had been a second before. Felix ducks, evades him, and in the same motion, delivers a sharp blow to his side, right at the ribs. A crack rings out. He uses the other's momentum to spin him around and, with a brutal shove, hurls him against a nearby table that gives way with a crash.
He doesn’t even stop to see if the man gets back up.
He’s already running toward the pillar again.
The vampire who caught your scent has gained more height. He’s halfway between the floor and the upper level, his fingers dug into a molding, his eyes fixed on the ledge where you were hidden just seconds ago.
You move back, out of his direct line of sight, but you know that won’t stop him. Now that he has your scent, he won’t let go.
Felix reaches the base of the pillar.
With hardly any momentum, he leaps.
His fingers catch a lower ledge. With a strength that impresses you even now, he climbs almost vertically, using the wall as minimal support. In two moves, he’s already at the intruder's knees.
The intruder tries to kick him downward, but Felix catches his ankle in mid-air.
He pulls.
The force is brutal.
The other’s body snaps away from the pillar, losing all points of contact. He falls.
Felix releases his grip just in time to avoid going down with him. He slides down the wall, cushioning his descent with his hands and feet, until he also drops to the floor, right beside the enemy.
The rival vampire slams onto his back against the floor, the impact echoing throughout the entire venue.
Before he can even try to scramble up, Felix is already on top of him.
He throws himself onto him with all his weight, one knee pinned to his chest, one hand on his shoulder to keep him glued to the floor. The other hand clamps around his throat.
The intruder struggles, trying to dig his nails in, to strike his face. Felix dodges a scratch by a hair's breadth, but he doesn't blink. His eyes, from above, glow with an intense, almost searing amber.
“Don’t even think about it” he spits out, his voice deep and laden with something you’ve rarely heard in him: pure predatory instinct.
And, without hesitating, he twists his wrist.
The snap of the neck breaking is dry and final.
The body beneath him goes limp instantly, eyes still wide, the expression frozen in a mix of surprise and rage.
Felix lets go of him slowly, breathing heavily despite not needing air the way you do. He stays still for half a second, his jaw clenched, his gaze lost for a moment… before straightening up and turning toward the pillar, toward the top—toward where he knows you are.
Your hands grip the edge of the railing so hard your fingers ache. Your body trembles; you don’t know if it’s from the shock or the adrenaline rush.
Your eyes meet again.
This time, there is no bar, no music, and no customers to hide what he has just done for you.
You realize two things with brutal clarity:
One: that you have just watched Felix kill someone in front of you without blinking.
Two: that he did it for you, to stop that someone from taking a single step further up.
That clash—the monster and the boy, the predator and the one who looks at you with tenderness—is what will mark a "before and after" in your relationship.
The sounds of the fight begin to change.
Fewer dull thuds, more muffled grunts, heavy breathing. From above, you see how, one by one, the intruders are falling: unconscious, wounded, some… far too still.
The leader of the other clan is still standing.
Facing Chan.
The others have intuitively formed a circle around the two of them. Changbin, Hyunjin, Minho, Jeongin, and Felix are keeping the remaining ones at bay, but none of them interfere in that center.
Chan wipes a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His shirt is torn at the side, but he stands firm, his posture straight, his gaze fixed on the other vampire.
The enemy leader smirks, even though he’s missing half a tooth and one eye is already beginning to swell.
“You’ve lost your touch, Chan” he spits a mixture of blood and saliva onto the floor. “It didn’t used to be this hard for you.”
“I didn’t used to try to be nice” Chan responds, his voice low but weighted with something ancient.
They move at the same time.
The other lunges with a direct punch to the face; Chan doesn't fully dodge it. He lets the blow graze his jaw, using that very momentum to pivot, catch the man’s arm, and wrench it behind his back.
A crack.
The leader grunts, but tries to twist around to sink his fangs into Chan’s neck. Chan anticipates it: he drives a knee into the man’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and shoves him back.
They crash against a table, which collapses. Rolling across the floor, the enemy manages to get on top for a second, trying to drive an elbow into Chan’s throat… but Chan grabs him by the wrist, shifts his position with a hip toss, and flips him over.
Now it’s Chan who has him pinned, knee to the chest, a strong hand on the other’s jaw, forcing him to look at him.
“I told you that you weren't welcome here” he says, without shouting. “I warned you. Several times.”
The leader tries to spit in his face.
“Your neutral ground is a joke” he sneers, even then. “You can’t protect everything. You can’t protect her forever.”
Chan tightens his grip.
“I don’t need to protect everything” he responds. “Only what I’ve decided is mine.”
A heavy silence follows.
Chan sighs, as if making a decision he didn't want to make, but one that had already been written the moment they stepped through the door.
“I tried to be nice” he mutters.
He looks him in the eye one last time.
“See you in hell.”
And, with a quick, dry movement, he snaps his neck.
The sound is just like the one you heard beneath Felix only minutes ago: final.
The leader’s body goes limp. Chan releases him slowly, straightens up, and runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He looks around.
The few intruders left conscious take in the scene, weigh their options… and decide to retreat. They crawl, they limp, they practically stumble out, dragging whoever they can with them. None of them dare to utter a single last word.
The club is left filled with the wreckage of the fight: broken tables, glass, blood, motionless bodies.
Silence.
Hyunjin is the first to break it.
He looks down at his shirt, now marked with several dark stains.
“Great” he grumbles. “Cleaning duty. Again.”
He turns toward the others, gesturing at the wreckage.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a black suit not look like a battlefield? And now, on top of hauling away corpses, clearing glass, and making excuses to the humans who heard the noise, I’m going to have to burn this.”
Changbin snorts, but his shoulders remain tense. Jeongin leans against the bar for a second, taking a deep breath. Han, somewhere nearby, lets out a low laugh, still riding the adrenaline. Minho is already checking that the motionless bodies stay that way, with no visible remorse.
Felix doesn't look at the bodies.
He looks up.
He sees you, huddled behind the railing, your knuckles white from gripping the edge so hard, your eyes wide open.
His expression contorts: relief first (because you’re alive, because the intruder never managed to touch you), and then… anger.
Not blind rage, but a mixture of fear and annoyance that knows exactly why it’s there: because you were there. Because he had asked you not to be.
He heads up.
The others let him go without saying a word. Chan makes eye contact with him for a second, a silent message hanging in the air: “Go.” Felix gives a slight nod and disappears up the stairs.
You step back from the railing as you hear his footsteps approaching. You don't know how to stand, how to brace yourself. You’ve seen things you’re still processing: his hand breaking necks, the look in everyone’s eyes as they killed, the ease with which death enters and leaves this place.
The door to the upper floor opens. Felix appears in the hallway, his hair slightly disheveled, his shirt stained, his eyes still glowing with the remnants of adrenaline.
He plants himself in front of you.
“I asked you” he begins, his voice low but taut, “to stay upstairs. Not to move.”
He doesn't raise his voice, but the weight of his words hits hard.
“And I stayed upstairs” you snap back, defensive. “I didn’t go down.”
“You peered over” he counters, taking a step toward you. “You put yourself right where anyone could see you.”
You notice a subtle Tremor in his hands. It’s not just anger. It’s fear.
“If I hadn't made it in time…” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “If I hadn’t heard Hyunjin, if you hadn’t shouted my name when the other one almost caught me from behind…” He closes his eyes for a second. “You could be dead right now. Or worse.”
The word “worse” coming from a vampire makes you swallow hard.
Your heart is racing just as fast as it was a few minutes ago, but for a different reason now: you’re angry too. With yourself, with him, with everyone—with the fact that your mere presence has turned into a bullseye.
“If you hadn’t brought me into all of this” you huff, “there wouldn’t be anyone ‘scenting’ me or leaping up pillars for me.”
The moment you say it, you know it isn’t entirely fair.
He knows it, too.
His expression looks wounded, but he doesn't shut down.
“You’re right” he admits, making no excuses. “I was the one who opened the door. I was the one who let you keep coming in. I was the one who let you…” he lets out a humorless laugh, “…get too far under my skin.”
He looks at you with an intensity that almost hurts.
“That is precisely why” he adds, “I asked you to stay away from the fire once it started. Because if something happens to me, it’s… just part of the deal. But if something happens to you because of me…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
You’ve seen him at his darkest.
You’ve seen him turn into something else: a lethal creature, fast, unhesitating when it comes to snapping a neck to protect you. You’ve seen his friends kill without blinking, cleaning up blood like someone busing tables, talking about corpses as “the next task at hand.”
And yet, looking at him now—his jaw clenched and his eyes glowing more from fear than from fury—your heart doesn't flinch.
You know what you feel.
You know you choose him, with everything that comes with it. With his light and his shadow. With the coffee and the fangs.
But you also know something else: that you can’t keep throwing yourself into this world without thinking. Not just for your sake, but for his—because of the weight you add to him every time you put yourself in danger.
You take a deep breath.
“I’ve seen what you’re capable of” you say, bluntly.
He holds your gaze, without trying to justify himself.
“And I still love you” you add, simply, as if it were a fact. Because it is.
His face softens for a second. Something in his eyes lights up, almost incredulous.
“But” you continue, swallowing against the lump in your throat, “I’ve also seen how close I came to one of yours… or one of the others, touching me. And I don’t know if…” you search for the words, “…if I’m going to be able to keep sitting up there, pretending that this is just ‘material for my book.’”
Felix takes another step toward you.
“It’s not just material” he says, almost pleadingly. “You know that.”
“I know” you respond. “And maybe that’s why, right now… I need to leave.”
The word carries weight.
You see it pierce right through him.
“I’m not saying that…” you rush to add, “that I don’t want to see you anymore. It’s not that. It’s just…” You look down at the half-cleaned chaos. “I need to walk out of here tonight on my own two feet, breathe air that doesn’t smell like blood and fear, and decide how I’ll walk back in next time. If I walk back in.”
A strange silence falls between you.
He could try to convince you to stay. He could promise you a thousand things he can’t control: that they’ll never come back, that he’ll always be there in time, that nothing will happen to you. But he knows he would be lying, and he doesn't.
Finally, he gives a slow nod.
“I’m taking you home” he says, in a low voice.
“I can—”
“I’m taking you home” he repeats, more firmly. “After that… you decide.”
You walk downstairs in silence. The lounge is a mix of disaster and routine: Hyunjin has already hauled away two corpses with a look of pure annoyance; Changbin is stacking the remains of broken tables; Jeongin is mopping up a dark puddle; Han is complaining about a bruise while Minho ignores him.
They look at you as you pass, but no one says a word. There is understanding in some gazes, guilt in others, and a strange kind of respect in all of them.
Felix opens the club door.
The night outside smells different. Cleaner, though it’s still the city. You walk to your building without speaking. This time, his hand doesn’t seek yours. Not for lack of wanting to, but out of an extreme care not to pressure you.
You stop at your front door.
You look at him.
His skin is stained, his shirt torn, his knuckles slightly split. He could be frightening. To you, he isn't.
“I want…” he begins, then stops. “I want you to know that if you decide not to come back, I’ll understand. I won’t stalk you; I won’t sneak through your window like some cheap cliché.”
You trace a sad smile.
“It would make for a good scene” you murmur.
“It would” he admits. “But we’ve had enough scenes for today.”
A pause.
“Just…” his voice drops slightly. “Don’t just stop texting me out of the blue. Even if it’s just to say ‘I need space.’ Don’t vanish without a word. That…” he swallows hard, “I don’t know if I could handle that.”
“I’m not going to vanish” you respond. “I just… need to go today. To think. To feel all of this away from the blows and the blood.”
He nods.
“I’ll text you when I get inside” you say, taking a step back toward the door.
“I’ll be… where I always am” he responds. “Between the bar and the rooftop.”
For the first time in many nights, you don’t kiss him goodbye.
Not because you don’t want to, but because right now, you know that kiss would be an anchor that wouldn't let you fully walk through that door.
You step into the building.
As the door closes behind you, you lean against it for a moment. Your heart is pounding—not with fear, but with a brutal mix of emotions: love, panic, longing, and the urge to run both up and down at the same time.
You know you’re not running away from Felix.
You’re running away from what might happen to you if you keep stepping into his world without looking.
But, as you climb the stairs to your apartment, you also know something else: that there isn’t enough physical distance to stifle what you feel. That even if you decide not to go to the club for a few days, even if you take your time responding to his texts, the simple fact remains:
You’ve seen him kill for you. You’ve seen him tremble for you. And yet, when you close your eyes, what you remember most is how he held you on the rooftop—how he kissed you as if you were the only living thing that mattered in a night full of death.
There, between that darkness and that light, is where your next move will be decided.
SUMMARY: A writer seeking realism for her upcoming novel finds far more than she bargained for when Felix—an enigmatic and magnetic inhabitant of the night—offers to be her 'source of information.' Between afternoon coffees and walks beneath the streetlights, the line between literary research and an irresistible attraction begins to blur. In the silence of the city, she will discover that Felix doesn't just know the secrets of the shadows; he has also learned, by heart, the exact rhythm of her heart.
PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4 FINAL
The rain is falling so hard that your umbrella gives up by the third gust of wind. Google Maps has run out of battery, your headphones just died, and your only goal is: get home without catching pneumonia.
You turn down an alley you almost never use. Between pasted posters and graffiti, there’s a black door with no sign, only a strange metallic symbol glowing under a red neon light.
It’s ajar.
And you are soaking wet.
You push the door open.
Inside, the world changes:
Low music, a soft bass vibrating in your chest. Dim lights, shades of red and blue painting the tables. People way too dressed up for a random Tuesday. It smells like something expensive—a mix of perfume, wood, wine… and something metallic you can’t quite identify.
You stop near the entrance, a small puddle forming at your feet.
"You're drenched."
The voice comes from the bar.
You see him: sitting behind the counter, leaning against the bar with a tablet in front of him and headphones draped around his neck. His light hair shimmers under the neon, his black shirt only halfway buttoned, a silver chain resting against his skin. He smiles, and for a second, all the noise in the room seems to fade away.
"We don’t usually take in people running from the rain" he says, with a half-smile that leaves you wondering if he’s being mocking or kind. "But I’ll make an exception."
You don't answer right away. Your eyes scan the place, nervous.
"I’m sorry, I just… I need to wait for it to let up a bit. I didn’t even know what this place was."
He tilts his head, intrigued.
"You didn’t know" he repeats. "That’s… dangerous."
There’s something strange about the way he looks at you. It’s not the typical 'I like you' look you’ve seen a thousand times. It’s… focus. As if he’s hearing something you can’t.
Actually, he is. Your heart.
It’s too loud, standing out among all the others.
Felix straightens up, sets the tablet aside, and gestures to someone. A dark coat appears, and he holds it out to you.
"Stay until the rain stops" he says, his voice softer now. "Put this on, or you’ll get sick."
You take it, a bit wary.
"Thanks."
Felix leans against the bar, never taking his eyes off you.
"Just promise me one thing."
You look up.
"What?"
For a split second, under the red light, his eyes seem to have a strange amber glow.
"Don't accept any drink that doesn't come from me" he whispers. "And if anyone invites you upstairs… say no."
You bite your lip, uneasy.
"What is this place?"
He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
A neutral territory. A minefield. A sanctuary. A trap.
He thinks all those things, but simply answers:
"Just a club for people who don't fit in anywhere else."
Like you. Like him.
And as you wrap the coat around yourself, unaware that your hands have left a faint trace of light on the fabric, Felix feels something he hasn't felt in decades:
Hunger… and hope.
The coat Felix gave you is far too big. It envelopes you like a heavy blanket that smells of something expensive and warm, with a hint of sweet tobacco and… something else.
You sit on a barstool, trying not to draw attention to yourself. You check your phone: 3% battery. Great.
He places a bottle of water in front of you, on the house.
"Relax, it’s just water" he says, as if he’d read your mind. "We’re not that desperate."
You frown, confused.
"Desperate…?"
Felix chuckles—a low, raspy sound.
"For customers. I mean. It’s Tuesday. No one should be here."
You steal a glance at him. There’s something different about his mannerisms: he’s far too observant, as if every little move you make tells him a story.
"Is it a famous club?" you ask, idling with the bottle cap. "I’ve never seen it before."
"It’s not the kind of place you’d find on Google Maps" he replies. "Let’s just say… if you made it here, it’s because you were meant to."
A soft shiver runs down your spine.
"That sounds like a cult" you joke, trying to lighten the mood.
Felix smiles, tilting his head.
"And what if it were? Would you stay, or run back out into the rain?"
You think of the wind lashing against the windows, your mangled umbrella, your cold and empty apartment, the boxes still unopened. His eyes are fixed on you, a playful glint in them.
"I guess I’ll stay" you mutter. "Just for a bit."
"Good choice."
He turns to arrange some bottles, but you take the chance to get a better look at him. The contrast of his light hair against the black shirt, the chain shimmering under the red light, the rings on his long fingers.
Your eyes linger on his neck, where the chain brushes against his skin. Suddenly, you're aware of how intimate it feels to be looking right there. You look away.
"Are you new around here?" he asks, without fully turning around, as if he already knew the answer.
You sigh.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yes. And that you’re lost, too" he adds, amused. "Most people don't end up here by accident."
"I haven't been in the city long" you confess. "I still get lost on my own street corner, so... yeah, I’m lost. I was looking for a bus stop, or something."
He nods slowly.
"That explains why you haven’t heard the rumors."
That catches your attention.
"What rumors?"
Felix turns his gaze back to you, resting his forearms on the bar. He leans in a little, drawing closer. Now he’s far too close. You can see the faint freckles on his skin, the shimmer in his eyes.
"Nothing you should believe" he says, lowering his voice. "Stories from people with overactive imaginations. Blood, monsters, that kind of thing."
You feel a slight knot in your stomach. You say it without thinking:
"I could actually use some stories like those."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, really?"
"I’m a writer" you mutter, shrugging your shoulders. "Well… I’m trying to be. Novels, online stories, things like that. I guess a place like this should inspire me."
Felix’s smile shifts. It’s still sweet, but there’s something darker behind it now.
"A writer. Interesting."
His eyes scan you, but not in a lecherous way; rather, as if he’s evaluating what kind of character you’d be.
"And what do you write?" he asks. "Romance? Horror? Happy endings or tragedies?"
"A bit of everything" you answer, playing with the rim of your glass. "Though lately… dark romance."
"Of course" he murmurs, almost to himself. "It had to be that."
You lean in toward him a little.
"And what about you? What do you do? Besides saving drenched strangers."
Felix smiles with an almost feline confidence.
"Officially, I work here. DJ, host, sometimes behind the bar. Unofficially…"
He pauses. For a second, his gaze grows heavier, deeper.
"Unofficially, I make sure people like you… get out of here alive."
Your laughter dies halfway.
"That sounds like… a very bad joke" you reply, though your voice trembles just a bit.
"This is a place where people come to get lost" he adds. "And sometimes, some of them don't want to be found."
Before you can respond, someone approaches the bar.
A tall guy, dark hair, sharp features. He looks elegant in a white shirt and a blazer that fits him far too well. He leans against the bar, ignoring you at first.
"Felix" he greets him in a low voice. "Chan wants to talk to you upstairs."
Felix lets out an almost imperceptible sigh.
"Tell him I’m busy."
The newcomer looks at you then. His eyes travel from your still-damp hair to the coat you’re wearing. An eyebrow arches.
"You don’t usually lend out your coat, Lix" he remarks, a half-smile playing on his lips. "How special is she?"
You feel immediately scrutinized. Instinctively, you pull the coat tighter around yourself.
Felix tenses slightly.
"Hyunjin" he calls him with a dangerous calm. "Don't start."
Hyunjin ignores the warning, leaning in a bit closer, as if trying to catch your scent. His gaze darkens for a second.
"She smells… different" he murmurs.
You swallow hard.
"I'm sorry?"
Felix moves fast. He steps between you and Hyunjin, blocking his line of sight. His tone remains soft, but there is steel underneath.
"Go up first" he says. "Tell Chan I’ll be upstairs in five minutes."
Hyunjin looks at him, intrigued, then smiles like someone who has just uncovered a secret.
"Five minutes" he repeats. "Don't be late. You know how he gets when something… shines too brightly in his territory."
He shoots you one last curious look and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
Your heart is racing. Felix closes his eyes for a second, as if the sound of it actually hurts him.
"I’m sorry" he says at last, looking back at you. "I shouldn't have talked to you like that."
"Like what?" you ask, confused.
"Like you’re already a part of this."
That does nothing to clear up your confusion.
"A part of what?"
Felix takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself to say something he shouldn't. On his wrist, one of the leather bands he wears, etched with strange symbols, vibrates slightly—as if reacting.
"Listen" he says, leaning toward you again. "You’re going to finish your water, you’re going to stay here for ten more minutes until the rain lets up, and then you’re going to go straight home."
"Are you kicking me out?" you ask, hurt without knowing why. You barely know him, but something in his tone stings.
"I’m protecting you" he corrects, his voice grave. "You shouldn’t be here."
"Because I’m 'new' or because I’m a 'writer'?" you try to joke.
Felix stares at you. This time, there is no smile.
"Because there are things in here that would eat you alive" he answers. "And some of them wouldn't even bother to make it quick."
Your throat goes dry.
"You’re very dramatic for a DJ" you mutter, hugging the coat closer. "Do you say that to every female customer who walks in alone?"
"Only to the ones whose hearts beat too loud" he answers, almost without thinking.
You freeze.
"What?"
He blinks, realizing what he just said, and looks away, visibly uncomfortable.
"Forget it. I’m talking too much."
Your brain switches into writer mode. You notice details that, on any other day, you would have ignored:
The way you haven't seen anyone else touch him. The strange shimmer in his eyes under the red lights. The way Hyunjin caught your scent as if you were something to be tasted. The symbols on his necklace, on his rings.
"Felix" you say slowly. "What kind of club is this, exactly?"
He hesitates. One second. Two. Three.
Then he leans in, bringing his face far too close to yours. You can feel his breath—cold, yet somehow pleasant. His eyes search yours, as if asking for permission without words.
"If I tell you" he whispers, "you won't be able to un-hear it."
Your pulse sky-rockets. He swallows, and for an instant, his fangs just barely brush against his lower lip. They don't look normal. They’re a bit longer, catching the light for a split second.
You could pull back. You could tell him he’s crazy, get up, and walk out into the rain.
But you don’t.
"Tell me" you whisper.
Felix looks at you as if he’s on the verge of making a colossal mistake.
"This place" he says, very slowly. "It’s not a regular club. It’s neutral ground."
He leans in a bit closer, his lips almost brushing your ear.
"And I’m not regular either" he continues. "I’m not like you."
A shiver runs down your entire spine. Your hands grip the edge of the barstool. His voice is low, deep—almost unintentionally seductive.
"You shouldn’t trust someone who’s hungry" he whispers.
His words make your skin crawl, yet you don’t pull away. There’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you, as if he’s caught between two opposing choices.
For a moment, neither of you says a word.
Felix is the first to break the silence. He pulls back just a few inches—enough for you to catch your breath, but not enough to stop his presence from being overwhelming.
"Look" he says with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "I don’t want to scare you."
He is, but he’s also sparking a dangerous curiosity within you.
"Then stop speaking in riddles" you respond, trying to make your voice sound firm. "What does 'neutral ground' mean? And what does it mean that you aren't like me?"
On his wrist, the bracelet with strange symbols vibrates again. Felix looks down for a second, as if that detail confirms something for him.
"It means" he begins, weighing his words, "that people come here who… wouldn't fit in anywhere else. And that, if you don’t leave soon, they’re going to start looking at you even more than they already have."
You remember the way Hyunjin watched you. The feeling of being… food.
You swallow hard.
"Are they criminals?" you ask in a low voice. "Is that it? Because if it is, I can leave and pretend I didn’t see anything. I won’t go to the police or—"
Felix shakes his head, cutting you off.
"It’s not as simple as 'criminals' or 'innocent'" he says. "Believe me, the police wouldn’t even know how to write the report."
That doesn't reassure you.
"And you?" you insist. "What are you, Felix?"
Your eyes lock onto his, refusing to look away this time. Felix holds your gaze for a few seconds, then smiles… but it’s a sad smile.
"One of those who don't fit in" he answers. "That should be enough."
"It's not" you say, almost without realizing it. "Not after everything you’ve hinted at."
He stays quiet. There’s a clear conflict in his eyes: one part of him wants to keep talking to you, while the other wants to throw you out onto the street and lock the door behind you forever.
Finally, he leans toward you slightly, though this time he makes sure to maintain some distance.
"Do you trust your gut?" he asks.
"What?"
"Your gut instinct" he repeats. "That voice that tells you, 'This is wrong, run away,' or 'Stay a little longer.'"
You think about it. Of course, a part of you wants to get out of there, but there’s another part—stronger, curious—that beats to the rhythm of your racing heart.
"I don’t know if that’s instinct or stupidity" you mutter. "But… my gut tells me you wouldn’t hurt me."
Felix closes his eyes for an instant, as if that both pained and relieved him.
"You shouldn’t think that" he whispers. "You have no idea what I’m capable of if I’m hungry enough."
Before you can ask anything else, a deep voice breaks the tension.
"Felix."
You both turn around.
A man approaches from the hallway that leads, you assume, to the back or to the upstairs. Dark hair, loose, with a tired but firm gaze. He wears a simple T-shirt and a black jacket, but there’s something about his presence that fills the room. Authority.
"I called you ten minutes ago" he says. "We have a problem with the supplier."
His eyes move from Felix to you. They hold your gaze for a second, weighing, measuring, cataloging.
"And I see" he adds, "that you’ve found another one."
You stiffen without knowing why. The way he says it doesn’t exactly sound friendly.
Felix straightens up.
"She isn’t a problem" he answers, his voice serious. "She was just waiting for the rain to let up."
The man raises an eyebrow.
"The rain died down a while ago" he points out, glancing toward the glass door where now only a fine drizzle falls. "And you know we can't afford to draw attention this week."
You feel like they’re talking about something you don't understand, but that you’re already in way over your head.
"Sorry" you intervene, almost automatically. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I can leave."
Felix looks at you, and for a split second, he seems to want to say "no." But he bites his lip and keeps the words to himself.
"I'll walk you to the door" he finally says, stepping out from behind the bar.
The man watches him in silence, with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Before you leave, he extends his hand toward you.
"Bang Chan" he introduces himself. "Owner of this place."
You shake his hand out of politeness. His skin is… cold. Just like Felix’s. Just like Hyunjin’s when he brushed against your shoulder earlier.
"Nice to meet you" Chan says. "I hope you don’t come back."
You blink, uncomfortable.
"How charming" you shoot back, a bit defensively.
Felix frowns.
"Chan."
Chan raises his hands, as if surrendering.
"I'm only saying what’s best for her" he murmurs. "Not for you."
He looks at you one last time, with a certain pity in his eyes, and turns around.
Felix nods for you to follow him toward the exit. You walk in silence. You notice he stays half a step ahead of you, as if shielding you from the stares of others.
When he pushes the door open, the cold street air hits your face. It smells of recent rain, wet asphalt, and distant taxis.
"I’m sorry" he says then, leaning his back against the doorframe. "Really. I didn't mean to drag you into a place like this."
"I walked in on my own" you respond, shrugging. "And I still don't understand what kind of place it is."
He gives a tired, lopsided smile.
"Believe me, it’s better that way. For now."
You step out into the alley. The rain is just a soft drizzle now. You’re still wearing his coat.
"And this?" you ask, tugging lightly at the hem. "I should give it back."
He watches you for a second and shakes his head.
"Keep it" he says. "That way I’ll have an excuse, if fate decides to bring you back."
You feel something strange in your chest. You don’t know if it’s nerves, curiosity, or… something you don't want to name just yet.
"You don’t believe in fate much for a DJ" you joke, trying to lighten the weight of the moment.
Felix looks up at the cloudy sky, then back at you.
"I’ve lived long enough to know that some things… aren't coincidences" he murmurs.
The phrase "I've lived long enough" keeps spinning in your head. How long is "long enough"? Why does he say it as if it’s been decades instead of years?
"Felix" you begin.
"Listen" he interrupts you gently. "Go home. Write. Do whatever makes you feel like tonight was just… a scene for your book."
His eyes shimmer for a second.
"And if you decide to come back" he adds, "do so knowing that nothing you see here will be fiction."
Your throat goes dry.
"Is that… an invitation or a warning?"
"Both" he answers.
You stand there looking at him for a second longer. You want to ask a thousand things, but something in his expression tells you that you aren't ready for the answers.
"Then… I guess I'll see you around" you mutter.
You turn to start walking toward the main avenue. You take a few steps, and then you hear it:
"Hey."
You stop and look back. Felix is still leaning against the door, hands in his pockets, the red neon of the club casting a halo around him.
"Don't walk through this alley at night" he says. "And if anyone offers to take you to an 'exclusive spot'… say no."
"Because it’s dangerous?"
He nods slowly.
"Because not all monsters take care not to break what they like."
You don’t know how to respond to that. So you just nod and walk away.
As you walk, hugging his coat, a part of you knows that any reasonable person would stay away from that place forever.
But you’re a writer. And writers rarely choose what is reasonable.
Once on the bus, with the hem of your pants slightly soaking the seat, you open the notes app on your phone—just before it dies from low battery—and write:
"Chapter 1: A boy with neon eyes and fangs that shouldn’t exist."
You aren’t sure if it’s a story… or an omen.
You reach your building with numb fingers and the oversized coat still draped over your shoulders. The glowing sign at the entrance flickers, half-dead, as always. It’s not a great place, but it’s your place.
You climb the stairs almost blindly, listening to the echo of your own footsteps in the narrow hallway. Every step creaks as if protesting the late hour.
The key scrapes a bit before it turns.
Inside, the apartment greets you with silence and gloom. A single room that serves as everything: bedroom, living room, study. A tiny kitchen in the back, a window with a view of another building just as gray. It’s modest, but your things are everywhere: stacked books, a forgotten mug, a notebook lying open on the floor, post-its stuck to the wall.
You hang Felix’s coat on the nearest hook and steal a sidelong glance at it. It’s far too expensive for the rest of the room. It looks out of place, as if it belonged to another life entirely.
Now that you’re still, the cold truly hits you. You feel your damp clothes clinging to your skin, a lingering shiver running down your arms. You’re exhausted, too, but it’s mixed with a strange electricity you can’t quite name.
You head straight for the bathroom.
You flick on the dim yellow light, and the mirror reflects a tired image: hair messy from the humidity, raindrops still trickling down your neck, faint dark circles under your eyes, and that look you already recognize—the look of someone who has seen something they don’t understand… and is becoming obsessed with it.
You turn on the shower. It takes a few seconds for the water to warm up, and in the meantime, you wrap your arms around yourself. When the steam finally rises, you undress with clumsy movements, leaving your wet clothes in a heap on the floor.
As soon as the hot water hits your skin, your body reacts with a sigh you didn’t know you were holding back.
The cold begins to give way, layer by layer. You feel the heat travel down your back, over your shoulders, mingling with the scent of cheap soap and the constant drumming of water against the tile. Closing your eyes, you lean your forehead against the damp wall.
And then, in that small pocket of calm, your mind is no longer in your apartment.
It’s back at the club.
To the red light bathing the bar.
To the deep voice whispering that you shouldn't trust someone who's hungry.
To the eyes that seemed to glow more than they should.
To the cold hands that, strangely enough, made you feel more present than anything else that day.
The scenes begin to arrange themselves in your head, as if you were reading a book someone else had written for you.
A drenched girl walking into a place where she doesn't belong.
A boy who doesn't fit in, smiling as if he’s been alive for far too long.
A club that is something more than just a club.
"Chapter one," a part of you thinks—almost professionally—even as the water runs down your back.
"Neutral ground," another part notes.
"Monsters that don't want to break what they like."
You realize you're beginning to construct dialogues, scenes, shots. How his laughter would sound on the page. How you would describe that strange shimmer in his eyes. How you would tell the moment he told you that nothing you see will be fiction.
You could write it almost exactly as it happened. Change names, tweak details, but leave the heartbeat intact.
The water starts to cool down. You open your eyes, blinking away the steam. The physical exhaustion is there, but the mental fatigue has been replaced by something else: urgency. A need to pour all of it into words before it fades like the mist on the mirror.
You turn off the faucet.
You wrap yourself in a towel, your skin still tight from the change in temperature. You step out into the main room, leaving a trail of moisture on the floor. You pull on something comfortable: baggy pants, an oversized T-shirt, thick socks. The kind of clothes only your laptop ever sees.
In the small kitchen, you put water on to boil. While the temperature rises, you pick out a mug—your favorite, the one with the tiny chip on the rim—and take out the jar of coffee. The bitter, familiar scent begins to fill the space as you pour the water and stir, watching the steam rise in spirals.
On your way to the desk, you light a candle on the low coffee table. The flame flickers for a second before settling. The sweet scent of vanilla mingles with the coffee, creating something you recognize as "home," even if you’re still not quite used to calling it that.
You pull your hair into a messy bun, damp strands still clinging to your neck. You sit at your desk and open your laptop, waiting through the eternal seconds until it fully powers up.
New document.
Blank page.
The cursor blinks, impatient.
You take a sip of your coffee—hot, almost too hot—and rest your fingers on the keyboard. You don’t have an outline, but you have feelings. And sometimes, for writing, that’s enough.
You start with something simple.
"The first time I saw him, he was behind a bar bathed in red neon, as if hell itself had decided to dress up."
You describe his eyes, his voice, the way he spoke of hunger and monsters as if he were giving you the instructions to a new game.
You describe the cold freezing your fingers… and how everything seemed to stop when he handed you the coat.
You write fast, barely breathing, jumping from scene to scene.
The nameless girl.
The hidden club.
The boy with fangs she can’t quite see yet, but you—as the narrator—can.
You’re surprised by how easy it is. It almost scares you. In less time than you expected, the document begins to fill up. Two pages. Three. Four.
And then, all at once, the flow is cut off.
You’re left hanging on a half-finished sentence:
"When he warned her not to trust someone who was hungry, she had to decide if…"
The cursor blinks at the end of the "if," waiting for the rest. It doesn’t come.
Your mind, so clear just moments ago, goes blank.
Because it isn't just "her"—it’s you. And you still don't have the answer.
You lean back in your chair, letting out a long sigh. You stare at the screen, rereading the last paragraph over and over again. You try to keep going: you delete words, rewrite them, change their order.
Nothing fits.
The coffee grows cold in the mug. The candle burns steadily, indifferent to your internal battle.
You rub your temples. You recognize it: that invisible wall that every writer eventually hits sooner or later. The moment when the story seems to need something you aren't yet able to give it.
You can't decide what "she" would do... because you don't know what you would do.
You get up from the chair and begin to pace slowly around the room, a small circuit from the desk to the window and back. Outside, the city shimmers with small, distant lights. Other people's lives.
Your gaze drifts, inevitably, toward the coat rack.
The coat is still there.
Black, elegant, heavy. Like a promise. Like a question mark hanging on your wall.
You should put it in a bag, take it to the dry cleaners, and return it some reasonable afternoon, at a reasonable hour, with a reasonable mindset.
Instead, you look at it and think:
"I can't write this sitting here. I need to go back to that place. Smell it again. See how he moves. Hear how they talk when they think no one is listening."
Your rational side insists: bad idea. You don't know what that place is, you don't know those people, you have no reason to put yourself at risk for a story.
But another part—the same part that made you cross the ocean to live in a new country and write—whispers something different:
"If you want to tell stories about monsters, you’re going to have to see them up close."
You go back to the computer. You read the unfinished sentence:
"…she had to decide if…"
You stare at the "if" for a long time.
You slam the laptop shut.
The click echoes louder than it should in the silent apartment.
The screen goes black a second after the click. Your faint reflection appears on the glass, distorted by the darkness.
The apartment is silent, save for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing on the street. The scent of cold coffee and melted wax still lingers in the air.
You could turn the laptop back on.
You could.
Instead, you let yourself fall onto the bed without even turning off the main light. Your body feels heavy all of a sudden, as if the shower water, the rain, the club, and its neons had all clung to your muscles.
You close your eyes for "just a minute."
You fall asleep with the unfinished sentence floating in your mind:
"she had to decide if..."
The following days feel far too much like one another.
You wake up, grab a quick breakfast, and head out to your responsibilities—classes, freelance work, errands, whatever needs doing. You get lost in the city a couple more times, but none of those detours lead you back to a black door with a metal symbol.
At night, you sit in front of your laptop.
You open the document.
You reread what you wrote.
You mutter a correction here and there, changing a word here, another one there.
But every time you reach that broken sentence, you get stuck.
"When he warned her not to trust someone who was hungry, she had to decide if…"
Your mind hits a wall right there, as if there were an invisible barrier keeping you from crossing over. You know why: you don't want to lie to yourself.
You don’t want to write that she left forever and never looked back.
You don’t want to write that she forgot him.
You don’t want to write that she brushed it off as just a weird anecdote from a rainy night.
It would be easy. Safe. Consistent.
But it would be a lie.
Every time you close your eyes, you remember the red neon clinging to his skin, eyes that seemed to see something beneath your own, the way he said, “not all monsters take care not to break what they like.”
It’s hard to feign indifference when a part of you still feels curiosity, attraction, fear, and something else you aren’t ready to name.
You add some fake scenes to the story: you invent another character, you swap the club for a café, you turn Felix into someone less dangerous. You try.
It doesn’t work.
You delete more than you write.
The file’s progress bar stays almost the same.
You snap the laptop shut with a bit more force than necessary. You run your hands over your face, frustrated, and look around.
The apartment is warm, the candle lit, a half-finished mug on the table. Everything should be enough: safety, calm, silence.
Your eyes drift, unintentionally, toward the coat rack.
The coat is still there.
You haven’t worn it. You haven’t returned it. It has hung there all these days like a silent reminder of something left undone.
You stand up slowly, almost as if you didn't want to startle the thought that is beginning to take shape. You walk over to it and brush your fingers against the fabric.
The scent is still there.
You hear his voice telling you that you shouldn't trust someone who is hungry… and, at the same time, handing you a coat so you wouldn't get sick.
You swallow hard.
Your rational side lists the arguments against it:
You don’t know those people.
You don’t know what that place is.
He himself told you that you shouldn't be there.
You aren't some teenager in search of cheap thrills; you’ve crossed half the world to build a life, not to throw it away for a mysterious boy.
The other part—the one that made you start writing, the one that brought you to another country, the one that looks at the city as if it were a massive book waiting to be read—responds with a single, clear, stubborn thought:
You can’t write about something you’ve only brushed against once.
You open your eyes.
You don’t decide to go that night.
Nor the next.
Nor the third.
You keep putting it off with excuses: you're tired, you have to wake up early tomorrow, it’s still cold, you ran out of coffee, you have laundry to do. But every day, without fail, your gaze ends up fixed on the same spot: the coat on the rack.
Until a night comes when you no longer have a single believable excuse left, even for yourself.
You’ve spent hours staring at the broken sentence on the screen. You’ve paced around the room, tried to distract yourself with videos, with music, with messages to people on the other side of the world. Nothing works.
You look at yourself in the bathroom mirror while washing your face.
You have that look again: the one you get when you’re about to make a decision that will change something, even if you don’t know what.
You go back to the room, to the desk. The laptop is still open to the same line.
"When he warned her not to trust someone who was hungry, she had to decide if…"
You read it under your breath:
"…if she’d go back," you whisper, "or not."
The word "back" carries weight.
You take a step toward the door.
You stop.
You turn your head toward the coat rack.
This time, you don’t hesitate as much.
You walk over, taking the coat down. As you put it on, something clicks in a strange way—as if you had been avoiding a gesture that was inevitable from the moment he first draped it over your shoulders.
You slip your phone and keys into the pocket. You double-check that you have everything, as if the routine could give you a false sense of control.
As you turn the doorknob, a thought forms, crystal clear, in your mind. You don't know if it’s your own voice, the narrator's, or the character's, but it sounds like this:
If you want to keep writing this story, you’re going to have to go back to where it started.
You don’t know if "the story" refers only to the file on your laptop… or to something bigger, something that includes you in ways you don’t yet understand.
You step out into the hallway.
You head down the stairs.
The city at night greets you with white lights and car headlamps. It’s not raining, but the air has that damp scent after several gray days.
You don't open the map on your phone. You don’t need to. The path has been burned into a corner of your memory: the subway stop, the wide street, the turn into the narrow, graffiti-covered alley.
With every step you take, a part of you repeats:
"Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea."
The other part only responds:
"Necessary."
When you stop in front of the black, unmarked door, with its metal symbol gleaming under a red neon light, your heart pounds against your chest even harder than the first time.
The door is closed tonight, but music can be heard behind it. A soft bass, something dark—already familiar, even though you’ve only heard it once.
You look at your fingers, gripping the fabric of the coat.
"It’s for the story," you mutter, almost laughing at yourself.
You know it’s not just for that.
You take a deep breath.
You push the door.
The door opens only a few inches.
A low, rasping voice comes from inside:
"Closed to humans."
The gap begins to close again, as if they were about to shut you out immediately.
"Wait" you protest, taking a step forward. "I'm here to see Felix. I have something of his."
Silence.
From your side, all you see is the dark metal of the symbol on the door, the glow of the red neon staining the alley. From the other side, someone hesitates.
The door opens again, this time just enough for you to see who is speaking.
He’s shorter than Felix but broader in the shoulders, with dark hair and his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt, a leather jacket, and a "don’t waste my time" expression. His eyes, however, are quick: they size you up from head to toe, lingering on the coat you’re wearing, his brow furrowing.
"That coat..." he mutters.
He doesn't look like the kind of person who is easily impressed, but something in his gaze shifts.
"It’s Felix’s, isn't it?" you ask, slightly defensive, gripping the edges.
He narrows his eyes.
"What's your name?"
You hesitate for a second. You don’t feel like giving too much information to a stranger who just called you "human" as if it were an insult.
"Just tell him I’ve come to give this back" you respond, tugging lightly at the coat. "And that… I need to speak with him."
The bouncer—because it’s clear that’s what he is—suppresses a grimace. He sighs, as if this were a total nuisance.
"Of course. A human in his coat. On a Friday night. Perfect."
He slams the door in your face.
You stand there staring at the black wood, your heart beating a little faster than it should.
One minute.
Two.
Just as you begin to think he’s not coming back, the door swings open.
"Get in," says the same voice as before, dryly, as he steps aside.
You look at him. He doesn't seem thrilled with the idea, but he’s not blocking your way anymore either.
"Did Felix tell you?" you ask, not moving yet.
"I'm the one telling you" he responds. "And believe me, I'm not usually this nice."
He turns inward, jerking his head for you to follow. You end up stepping inside almost by reflex.
The club is different tonight.
The music is louder; the bass vibrates more forcefully in your chest. Red and blue neon lights paint shadows across the walls. There are more people: crowded tables, laughter, glasses gleaming, bodies moving to a rhythm you can't quite place.
It’s not the same empty, silent Tuesday.
The air smells more intense: expensive perfume, alcohol… and that metallic undertone you’ve recognized since the first time.
"Stick to the bar" the bouncer grunts without looking at you. "And if anyone invites you upstairs, you say no."
"Upstairs where?" you ask.
"Exactly." As if that were the only answer.
He clears a path for you through the crowd without much delicacy. A few gazes light up as they see you—curious, perhaps lingering a bit too long—but as soon as they realize you’re glued to the bouncer’s side, they veer away.
You reach the bar. He leans in slightly, searching for someone among the bottles and the lights.
"Felix" he calls out, without raising his voice much.
You don't have to wait long.
Felix appears from the other side of the bar. He’s in black again, but this time his sleeves are rolled up, revealing wrists covered in rings and bracelets. The neon highlights his light hair; his eyes seem darker with the room so crowded.
When he sees you, he freezes.
Just for a second.
Then, the dimple in his cheek appears, but the smile isn't exactly calm. It’s something between relief, concern, and... something that looks a lot like "I knew it."
"I thought you wouldn't come back" he says, resting his tablet on the bar.
“I thought you wouldn't come back” but his eyes say: “I knew you would.”
"Me too" you mutter. "But here I am."
The bouncer snorts.
"Found her at the door" he explains bluntly. "With your coat. And smelling like a human all the way to the ceiling."
Felix shoots him a look.
"Changbin…"
"What?" Changbin raises his hands, looking far from apologetic. "I'm not the one bringing souvenirs home."
Felix sighs.
"Thanks, Bin. You can go back to scaring people who actually deserve it now."
Changbin looks at you one last time, as if memorizing your face out of pure distrust.
"If anyone bothers you, find m," he says curtly. "And if you get into trouble, find me too. Don't scream. Don't run. Don't accept weird drinks."
"I think I’ve heard something like that already" you respond, feeling a bit overwhelmed.
He nods, satisfied, and disappears into the crowd.
You’re left standing in front of Felix by the bar, not quite knowing what to do with your hands. Finally, you tug gently at the coat.
"I came to give this back" you say.
He leans his elbows on the bar, drawing a little closer.
"You didn’t have to come in person for that" he responds. "You could have thrown it away, sold it, burned it..."
His gaze softens a bit.
"...forgotten it."
"I didn't want to" you admit.
He studies you for a second, as if that confession seemed more dangerous to him than anything else.
"Is it just about the coat?" he asks, point-blank.
You could lie. Say yes, that was all. That you wanted to be polite, close the chapter, the end.
"No" you say.
Felix smiles with a sincerity that almost disarms you.
"I figured as much."
He leans in a little further, lowering his voice so you have to draw closer if you want to hear him over the music.
"Chan is busy right now" he remarks. "A meeting. Extra work. Boring stuff."
You translate mentally: other clans, other monsters, other decisions.
"So you’re... 'free'?" you ask, half-serious, half-joking.
"So I can talk to you without him dragging me upstairs" he corrects, amused. "Do you want something?"
The word makes you a little tense.
"Something… to drink?" you clarify.
"Water" he responds without hesitation. "Or coffee. Or whatever you ask for, as long as it comes from me."
You remember the first night, his warning. You feel a small prickle of nerves, but you nod.
"Water is fine."
As he turns to pour it, you realize something: deep down, a part of you believes he knew you’d come back. That maybe he has watched the door every night, waiting to see that coat you’re now holding out to him walk back in.
When he hands you the glass, his fingers brush yours. Cold, just like the last time. But you don’t flinch as much anymore.
"You took your time" he says, simply.
"I had… things to think about" you respond.
Felix tilts his head.
"About me?" he asks, cheeky, but with a shy glint in his eyes.
"About the story" you correct him. "But you’re the reason it exists, so..."
He laughs, low.
"The writer has returned to her field of research" he summarizes. "Dangerous."
You were about to say something when a familiar, sing-song voice interjects between the two of you.
"Look, look, look what we have here."
Hyunjin appears at your side, leaning against the bar with an almost theatrical elegance. He’s wearing a black shirt, a couple of long necklaces, and a blazer that looks like it’s fresh off a magazine cover. His hair falls perfectly over one side of his face, his lips curved into an intrigued smile.
His eyes take the same path they did the first time: from your face to the coat, from the coat to your neck.
"The girl from the rainy Tuesday" he says, as if it were a title. "I thought you’d be lost forever."
"She has a better sense of direction than it seems" Felix responds, without much enthusiasm. "Hyunjin, behave."
"When do I not?" Hyunjin laughs, ignoring the warning.
He turns toward you, resting his chin on the back of his hand, watching you with open curiosity.
"So, you came back" he remarks. "That’s… brave. Or reckless. Or both."
"I came to return something that isn't mine" you say, lifting the coat slightly. "And to talk."
Hyunjin clicks his tongue, as if your answer amused him.
"Oh, talk all you want, princess."
The word stings.
"Don’t call me that" you respond, instinctively.
His eyebrows arch, delighted.
"Of course, princess."
Felix snorts.
"Hyunjin."
"What? I’m just being polite."
Hyunjin leans a bit closer to you, as if Felix weren't right there. His cologne is intense—sweet, almost cloying. His hand reaches out calmly, long fingers brushing the edge of your chin, tilting it just enough so you’re looking directly at him.
Very, very close, his eyes shift slightly. There’s a glint that isn't human. His gaze drops to your neck for a split second—it's fast, but you notice.
Your heart skips a beat.
Hyunjin smiles as if he had heard that change in your pulse.
"You have a beautiful heartbeat" he whispers, bringing his lips dangerously close to yours—not to kiss you, but to murmur something. "And a scent that is driving half of this place crazy, in case you didn't know."
His breath brushes against your skin.
You tense your shoulders, not backing away but not quite knowing how to react.
Hyunjin’s hand is still holding your chin, his body far too close. You can feel his coldness too, though it’s different from Felix’s: where Felix reminds you of a cold but quiet night, Hyunjin is more like the icy edge of a knife.
"Hyunjin." Felix’s voice cuts through the air, harder this time.
Hyunjin doesn't pull away immediately.
"I’m just looking" he responds, with feigned innocence. "I haven't touched anything except—" he tightens his grip on your chin slightly, forcing you to maintain eye contact "—...her pride."
Your back stiffens.
"Let go of me" you say, clear and without trembling this time.
Hyunjin blinks, as if he didn't expect you to stand your ground so soon. His lips curve even further.
"Ah, she likes to speak up" he murmurs, amused. "I love that."
Felix has already moved.
He rounds the bar with a speed that makes the very air shift. He isn't human, and for a second, you feel it viscerally.
He steps to your side, one hand sliding down to your wrist—not to grip you tightly, but to anchor you to him. The other rests on Hyunjin’s forearm, pushing him away from you with controlled firmness.
"She said to let her go" he says, very slowly.
There is something in his voice you haven't heard before. It isn't his sweet side, or the playful one, or the guilty one. It’s something older, more authoritative, that makes even Hyunjin raise an eyebrow.
Hyunjin pulls his hand away from your chin.
"Easy, Lix" he taunts, though he steps back half a pace. "I was only playing."
"Find another toy" Felix responds, still not letting go of your wrist.
You feel the cold of his fingers, but also the intent behind the gesture: protection. And something else you aren't ready to name just yet.
Hyunjin chuckles under his breath.
"Fine, fine" he concedes, raising his hands. "I don't want Chan giving me another lecture about 'not scaring the special guests.'"
His gaze returns to you for one more second, appraising you.
"Anyway, princess..." he raises his hand, this time without touching you, vaguely pointing to your neck, your chest, as if marking an invisible aura. "Don’t get too comfortable. Down here, you aren't the only one looking for stories."
He winks and drifts away, melting into the crowd as if nothing had happened.
Felix lets out his breath slowly, as if he’d been holding it in. Then he realizes he’s still holding onto you.
He loosens his grip immediately, though he doesn't take a step back.
"I’m sorry" he murmurs. "I shouldn't have… touched you like that."
He shakes his head, frustrated.
"And he shouldn't have gotten that close."
"I can defend myself" you respond, though you’re grateful he stepped in.
"I know" he says. "But you shouldn't have to do it here."
His eyes scan the room. From his position, he seems to see dangers where you only see people laughing, dancing, drinking.
"It’s too crowded" he adds, turning his gaze back to you. "I can’t keep an eye on everything. And especially not… on everyone who has already noticed you."
You cross your arms, feeling stubbornness push its way through your nerves.
"I didn't come here for you to send me home" you respond. "I came to understand what you are, what this place is. To..." you hesitate for a second, but say it anyway, "...to be able to write it."
Felix looks at you, a mix of exasperation and fascination.
"You know that’s a terrible idea, right?"
"Yes" you admit.
"And you’re still here."
"Yes."
He runs a hand through his hair, surrendering just a little.
"You’re more stubborn than you look."
"I’ve been told."
He falls silent for a moment, torn.
The music seems to swell a bit. People approach the bar to order. A couple of gazes lock onto you, curious. A girl whispers something into her companion’s ear, never taking her eyes off you.
Felix turns back to the practical side of things.
"Stay here" he finally says. "On my side of the bar. If you want to talk, we’ll talk. If you want to watch, watch. But don't mingle with the crowd. Don't accept drinks. Don't go upstairs. If anyone gets too close to you, you say my name."
You think about it.
It’s not that you want to be treated like a lost puppy, but… something in his tone makes you realize he isn’t exaggerating for the sake of it.
"Why do you care so much?" you ask.
Felix holds your gaze. The answer flickers across his face before he says it in a low voice:
"Because a part of me knew you were going to come back." He pauses for a brief moment. "And because, since the first time you walked in, everything that beats in here sounds different."
His hand moves in a vague gesture, pointing to his own chest, the club, everything around you.
"I don’t know exactly what you are to them" he adds. "But I know you’re different. And in this world, that puts a target on your back."
The sincerity in his words runs through you like a chill.
"And you?" you ask. "What am I to you?"
Felix smiles, but there’s no mockery this time.
"A problem" he responds softly. "One I don’t know if I want to solve… or keep."
Behind those words lies something neither of you has named yet, but it’s beginning to take shape.
The night presses on. The club breathes, vibrates, roars all around you. Felix moves behind the bar, pouring drinks, exchanging a few words with others, returning to you at every opportunity. He tells you half-truths: jokes about "weird customers," stray facts about the music, fragments of a world he still hasn't fully revealed to you.
You observe. You take mental notes. Every gesture, every look, every detail. Not just of him, but of Hyunjin laughing with someone in the corner, of Changbin discreetly stopping a guy who’s being too pushy, of figures moving with a grace that isn’t human.
And the more you see, the clearer one thing becomes:
This story isn't just material for your pages. It’s starting to become something that is going to pierce right through you.
Jeongin appears behind the bar almost without you noticing.
He has dark hair, soft bangs falling over his forehead, and a shy smile that contrasts with the club's heavy atmosphere. He’s wearing a black T-shirt with the venue’s discreet logo and an apron, as if he’s just come from the back room.
"Hyung" he calls to Felix, leaning in toward him. "Chan told me to send you on a break before you drop dead."
Felix looks up from the drink he’s finishing. He sighs, but he looks grateful.
"Oh, so now he’s worried about my well-being?" he murmurs, half-joking.
"He’s worried you might kill someone from exhaustion" Jeongin responds, half-serious, half-laughing. "Besides, I can handle the bar for a while."
His eyes drift toward you. He watches you with open curiosity, but without the hunger you’ve seen in the others. More… human.
"Hi" he says, tilting his head slightly in greeting. "I’m Jeongin."
You return the greeting, giving your name. Jeongin nods, as if committing it to memory.
"She’s the 'coat girl,' isn't she?" he adds, looking at Felix with a small smile.
"The very one" Felix responds, without taking his eyes off you.
Jeongin slips behind the bar, taking Felix’s place with natural ease.
"Go" he insists. "Before Chan sees you're still down here and makes me cover two shifts."
Felix hesitates for a second. His eyes scan the room, then return to you.
"Do you want to… get out of here for a moment?" he asks. "There’s a quiet room upstairs. It’s not..." he searches for the word, "...it’s not 'for that.' It’s just for resting."
You realize he’s truly asking you. You could say no, stay at the bar, go home. But the noise, the stares, the feeling of being in the middle of too many things you don’t understand… they push you to nod.
"Okay" you respond. "If it’s no trouble."
"The trouble would be leaving you here alone" he says, bluntly.
He steps out from the side of the bar and gestures with his head for you to follow. As he passes, he gives Jeongin a soft pat on the shoulder.
"If anyone asks for me..."
"You're in your coffin" Jeongin responds, without losing his smile.
Felix rolls his eyes.
"We don't have coffins" he mutters, in a voice low enough that only you can hear.
"Yet" Jeongin whispers from behind, amused.
You walk beside Felix toward the back of the venue. You pass through a half-hidden hallway, an unmarked door, a staircase leading up. The music muffles as you ascend; the neon lights are left behind, replaced by a warmer, yellow glow.
The second floor is different. Fewer people. Closed doors on both sides of the hallway. You hear a distant laugh, a murmur, but nothing like the chaos downstairs.
Felix stops in front of a gray door.
He opens it with a small key he pulls from his pocket. He looks inside first, as if making sure of something, and then turns toward you.
"It's empty" he confirms. "Go on in."
You step inside.
It’s a simple room, but strangely cozy: a large sofa against the wall, a couple of armchairs, a low table with water bottles and glasses, a coat rack, a floor lamp casting a soft light. There’s a window with thick, drawn curtains and, on a shelf, a few phone chargers and an open box of cookies.
No coffins. No chains. No clichés.
Just a breakroom.
Felix closes the door behind you. He leaves the keys on the table and takes off his jacket, staying in a black short-sleeved T-shirt that reveals part of his arms. He looks more… normal like this. More like a guy your age, less like a creature of the neon.
He sits in one of the armchairs but doesn't lean back completely. He leaves the sofa for you, though you could sit wherever you liked.
"Make yourself comfortable" he says. "Or as comfortable as you can, considering everything."
You sit on the sofa, turning sideways to see him better.
There are a few seconds of strange silence. Not uncomfortable, just… full of things left unsaid.
Felix decides to break it.
"So," he starts. "Writer."
He looks at you with a small smile.
"What exactly are you writing?"
You toy with the edge of your sleeve for a moment before answering.
"Fantasy" you say. "With romance. Dark romance, I guess."
"That makes sense" he nods. "You come to a club full of elegant monsters. Field research."
"I’m starting to suspect that the 'monsters' part isn't just a metaphor," you respond.
Felix doesn't laugh this time. He simply tilts his head, inviting you to continue.
"You said this place isn't normal" you begin, sorting through your thoughts out loud. "That you aren't like me. There are people who look at me as if I were food. They’ve smelled me. You and Chan have skin that is just as cold. And Hyunjin…" you remember his eyes and his overly sharp smile. "There’s something about him that doesn't fit with anything human I’ve ever known."
You take a deep breath.
"And I’ve read. A lot. Things most people call fiction, but..." you shrug. "There’s always a pattern."
"And what do you think ours is?" Felix asks calmly.
He holds your gaze. He doesn't seem to be mocking you. He isn't trying to distract you, either.
He’s just waiting.
"I want you to tell me yourself" you respond. "But if you're asking what I believe..."
You hesitate for a second. Not because you don't have the word, but because you’re about to say it out loud, and that makes it more real.
"Vampires" you say at last.
The word hangs there between the two of you.
There is no immediate laughter. No "oh, how dramatic." No automatic denial.
Felix goes very still.
His eyes search yours, as if he’s checking how much you truly understand... and how much you can actually handle.
The silence in the room grows heavy.
For a moment, you doubt yourself. You wonder if you’re letting your imagination run away with you, if you’ve confused the details, if you’re projecting every book you’ve ever read onto one strange night.
"Say it" you mutter, almost defiantly. "Tell me I’m crazy. Or tell me I’m right. But don't just sit there in silence."
Felix exhales slowly.
And he doesn't deny it.
"You aren't crazy" he says.
He adds nothing more.
Your heart leaps, so hard you almost feel dizzy. It’s not that you hadn't suspected it, but it’s another thing entirely to hear it confirmed in such a simple way.
Vampires.
The part of you that has spent years reading about impossible creatures, romantic monsters, and hidden worlds, lights up. The other part—the one that has survived in the real world, in small apartments and underpaid jobs—feels… a bit out of place.
You look at your own hands, as if you expected to see something different in them. There isn't. You’re still the same person. Only now, you’re sitting in a breakroom with a vampire who offers you water and lends you coats.
You laugh nervously.
"Right" you mutter. "Great. Perfect. Vampires exist. Of course they do."
You run a hand over your face.
"I guess the next thing you'll tell me is that there are also werewolves, aliens, the Loch Ness Monster..."
"Werewolves are a logistical problem" Felix answers with total seriousness. "We don't like them very much. They’re noisy."
You look at him, narrowing your eyes.
"Are you pulling my leg?"
His half-smile finally appears.
"A little" he admits. "As for the others... I won’t tell you they don't exist. I’ll just say they aren't my specialty."
You shake your head, incredulous, but a genuine laugh escapes you.
"I’ve spent years writing about things like you" you confess. "Tragic, eternal, handsome, existentialist vampires." You point a hand at him. "And it turns out, when I finally meet one, he works in a club, uses a tablet, and makes bad jokes."
"It could be worse" he shoots back. "I could sparkle in the sun."
"Do you sparkle?" you ask, genuinely curious.
Felix leans back a bit in his armchair, crossing his arms.
"No. We don't explode, and we don't instantly burst into flames" he explains. "The sun is annoying, exhausting, but it doesn't kill us. The world changes. So do we."
"Do you show up in photos?" you insist.
"You show up better" he responds, quickly.
You feel the heat rise to your face, despite literally talking to someone who doesn't have normal circulation.
"And in mirrors?" you add, just to distract yourself.
"Yes. We aren't ghosts; we’re just half-dead."
He says it with a matter-of-factness that forces you to remember that, behind the joke, there is something dark.
You bite your lip.
"So..." you recap. "Vampires. In a club. In the middle of the 21st century, with smartphones and Spotify playlists."
"More or less" he nods. "We don't use Spotify much. It spies on us."
A laugh escapes you.
After the brief moment of humor, he looks at you again with more composure.
"You're taking this far too well" he observes. "Most humans panic when the word 'vampire' stops being a joke."
You shrug.
"Maybe I've spent so much time living in made-up worlds that a part of me... always wanted to believe there was something more," you respond. "I’ve always thought that if stories exist, it’s because somewhere, someone saw something they couldn't explain."
"And you want to be that 'someone'" he finishes for you.
"I want to tell it" you say. "But I don't want to die trying, either."
Felix nods, serious.
"That combination is… complicated, but not impossible."
He leans forward a bit, resting his forearms on his knees.
"Listen" he says. "What I’m about to tell you now is like making a deal. It won't be written on paper, but I want you to be clear on it."
You watch him, attentive.
"If you’re going to keep coming here," he continues, "if you’re going to keep writing about this, I need you to promise me something."
"What?"
"That if at any point I tell you to run—" his eyes lock onto yours, more serious than ever "—you run. Even if you don’t understand why. Even if you’re in the middle of a conversation, a perfect scene, a revelation. Even if you're with me."
You think about it. The writer inside you hates the idea of abandoning a good scene. The person inside you… understands that she isn't playing on her own turf.
You nod slowly.
"I promise."
Felix seems to relax a little.
"Good."
A softer silence settles in. You breathe more easily.
He watches you for a moment longer, as if there’s something he wants to say but hasn't quite decided yet.
"Do you want us… to not just exist in your novel?" he asks, finally. "I mean…" he clears his throat, and for the first time, you see him looking a bit nervous. "If we’re going to keep seeing each other, maybe it would be useful to be able to talk outside of this place. In a… setting with fewer fangs."
"Are you asking for my number?" you ask, with a small smile.
"I’m offering you mine" he corrects, pulling out his own phone. "For… emergencies. Or for when you want to ask me questions about 'modern life as the not-quite-dead.'"
"Or for coffee" you add.
"Or so you can watch me pretend to drink coffee" he admits, amused.
He dictates his number, and you save it. You show him the screen so he can see how you’ve listed him: just his name, nothing more.
He does the same with yours.
"I don't usually do this" he admits. "Not with humans."
"I don't usually give my number to vampires I meet in underground clubs, either" you respond. "But I guess we’re both trying new things."
Felix smiles, a genuine one.
"We can meet outside" he says. "In the daylight. Somewhere normal. So you can see that not all my settings are so… dangerous."
The idea makes your stomach do a strange somersault. It isn’t just scientific curiosity. It’s something else.
"I’d like that," you respond.
You imagine it for a second: him, sitting across from you in a bright café, no neons, no loud music. Talking about books, about music, about what it’s like to live too long in a world that keeps changing. And you, taking mental notes of everything—but not just for your novel.
You look at your phone again, then at him.
"Felix" you call out.
"Mm?"
"Did you know I was going to come back?" you ask.
He doesn't play dumb.
"I didn't know" he responds. "But…" he places a hand on his chest, right where his heart would be. "Something in here told me it hadn't ended on a rainy Tuesday."
You laugh softly.
"You and your metaphor," you mutter.
"You and your open endings" he counters.
At that moment, someone knocks softly on the door. A voice—Jeongin’s—drifts in from outside:
"Hyung, the place is filling up again. If you don't get down here, Hyunjin is going to start serving drinks with actual blood just for the hell of it."
Felix huffs.
"I'm coming" he calls back. "Give him a clip round the ear if you see him smiling too much."
Jeongin chuckles on the other side and walks away.
Felix stands up, looking a bit regretful.
"I have to head back to the elegant hell" he says. "But you can stay here for a while if you want. Rest. Process."
You stand up as well.
"I think I've done enough processing for one day" you admit.
He nods, moves toward the door… and stops for a moment to look at you.
"When you get home" he says softly. "Don't write down everything you've seen. Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because some things..." he smiles faintly. "They're better lived for a while before you put a period on them."
In your pocket, your phone feels heavier than usual, as if the number you just saved had altered more than just your contact list.
You have confirmation now: vampires, in a modern era, with clubs, phones, photos, and pretend coffees.
And above all, you have the beginning of something else that isn't just a story: a relationship you’re going to be able to write from the inside, beat by beat, look by look.
You leave almost at the same time as Felix.
When he opens the room's door to head back down, you follow him.
"I think… I’ll be going now, too" you say, smoothing out your coat.
Felix looks at you, as if wanting to make sure you aren't just saying it to follow his lead.
"Are you sure?" he asks. "I can ask Changbin to walk you to the street."
He shakes his head with a small smile.
"He doesn't bite unless he's ordered to."
"I’m fine" you respond, though you appreciate the offer. "Besides, I have a lot of things to write."
He laughs softly.
"That sounds like 'I need to run away before I process everything.'"
"That sounds like 'if I stay in this room alone, I’ll start imagining things even worse than they already are'" you admit.
Felix lowers his voice a bit.
"It’s okay to leave while you’re still the one in charge of the story" he says. "Don’t let this place steal it from you."
You step out into the hallway together. As you head down the stairs, the music begins to swell again bit by bit. It feels slightly less threatening than before, but even so, you feel a sense of relief as you spot the exit.
On the ground floor, Felix stops a few paces from the door leading to the alley.
"Do you know your way home?" he asks, half-joking, half-serious.
"More or less" you respond. "And if I get lost, I’ll send you a very dramatic text."
You lift your phone slightly. He does the same.
"Do it" he says. "Even if it’s just to tell me the coffee you’re drinking is better than the blood I’m stuck with this week."
He walks you to the door. Before you step out, he calls to you softly:
"Hey."
You turn around.
"Thanks for not running away that first night" he says. "Or tonight."
"Thanks for not biting me" you shot back.
He smiles, and for a fleeting moment, he looks like a normal guy at the door of any ordinary bar.
"Goodnight" he whispers.
"Goodnight, Felix."
You step out into the alley. The air outside, though cold, feels lighter. The door closes behind you with a dull click.
This time, as you walk toward the brightly lit avenue, the fear is mixed with something very different: an almost feverish motivation. You have confirmations, details, exact phrases. And, above all, you have his number.
You don't look at your phone that night. You don't write to him yet. You get home, kick off your shoes, pour yourself something hot, and open your novel's file. The words flow better now. You don't have to imagine as much anymore; you only have to remember.
A couple of days later, the need to see him outside of that environment becomes too strong.
You’ve made progress on the story, but you realize everything is still orbiting the club. The red lights, the bar, the contained danger. You’re missing another angle: him in the normal world.
You open the chat with his name.
You spend a moment staring at the blank screen.
"Hi" seems too simple for someone who revealed he’s a vampire.
You write:
Hey. I have an indecent proposal: coffee and books. On neutral-neutral ground.
You look at it, delete it, rewrite it without the emoji. You send it before you can talk yourself out of it.
The message goes through. The seconds of waiting feel like hours.
A short while later, the screen lights up.
That sounds like the best kind of dangerous proposal. When and where?
You smile to yourself.
You send him the address of a café-bookstore you discovered recently. Small, cozy, with packed bookshelves and wooden tables. One of those places you could stay in forever.
The day after tomorrow, 4:00 PM. Feel free to pretend you're drinking something.
He responds almost instantly:
Perfect. I’ll look as "human" as possible. I can't promise I won't scare a few books, though.
The day of the meeting dawns sunny.
The streets are filled with clear light and sharp, well-defined shadows. The kind of day that, until a week ago, you would have never associated with the word "vampire."
You arrive at the café-bookstore a little ahead of time. The interior smells of freshly ground coffee, old paper, and varnished wood. There are bookshelves reaching almost to the ceiling, small tables, and warm lamps. A thread of soft music plays in the background.
You order something for yourself, find a table by a bookshelf, and sit down. You take out a book and open it to the page where you last left off. You try to actually read, but every time the bell over the door chimes, your eyes look up.
The third or fourth time it rings, you feel him even before you see him.
The atmosphere shifts slightly, as if a colder draft has slipped in with the street air. The bell chimes, and when you look up, everything seems to move in slow motion.
There, in the entrance, stands Felix.
No red lights, no neons.
His light hair is pulled back into a messy low ponytail, with a few stray strands framing his face. Dark sunglasses hide his eyes, though you guess he’s wearing them more for protection from the light than for fashion. He’s dressed in a simple white T-shirt, a blue denim jacket, black trousers, and sneakers. A silver chain peeks out over the fabric; a few bracelets shimmer on his wrists.
He looks… normal. Too normal for what you know he is.
And yet, the air around him has that something different. A couple of people look at him as he enters without knowing why, as if something about him automatically draws the eye.
You’re completely spellbound.
You watch him take off his glasses for a moment so his eyes can adjust to the dim interior. As soon as he does, you see his pupils contract slightly from the light streaming through the windows. He blinks slowly, scanning the room.
He’s looking for you.
You raise a hand, hesitantly, to give him a small wave.
When his eyes find yours, time snaps back to its normal speed. A smile softens his face—the one you already recognize: the dimple, the corner of his mouth that lifts a bit more on one side.
He puts his glasses back on, but he’s already walking straight toward you.
With every step he takes, you become more aware of your own body. Of your hands on the book, of your breathing, of the absurd fact that you’ve gotten nervous to have coffee with someone who… technically doesn't need it.
He stops in front of the table.
"Hi" he says, and his deep voice fits strangely but perfectly in such a bright space.
"Hi" you respond, marking your page in the book without taking your eyes off him for long.
He gestures to the chair across from you.
"May I?"
"Of course."
He sits down, places his phone on the table, and leans his elbows forward with practiced casualness.
"This place..." He looks around with genuine interest. "It suits you perfectly."
"Because of the writer thing?" you ask, smiling.
"Because of the old soul thing" he responds. "A café, books, soft music, warm light... very 'don't talk to me, I'm reading, but actually I'm analyzing the world.'"
"I didn't know I was that transparent" you mutter.
"I’ve seen you observing at my club as if you were filming a documentary" he shrugs. "Here, you’ve simply changed the wildlife."
A waitress approaches. Felix looks up.
"Do you want anything?" you ask.
"I’ll order something just to blend in" he whispers. "I don't want to spook the staff by not touching a single cup."
In the end, he orders an Americano. The waitress scribbles it down without suspecting a thing, lingering a bit longer than usual as she smiles at him. You notice and roll your eyes to yourself.
"See" you mutter once she leaves. "Outside of your club, you look like… a normal person. If I didn't know what you were, I wouldn't suspect a thing."
Felix tilts his head.
"Is that a compliment or a complaint?" he asks.
"An observation" you respond. "A rather unfair one, by the way."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Because there are people much more dangerous than you with 'friendly neighbor' faces" you say. "And yet, you…" You take a good look at him. "You don't look like you’re going to kill anyone. Especially not with a coffee sitting in front of you."
"Coffee creates a good image" he nods. "Even if I can't appreciate its flavor as much as you do."
"Can't you eat anything?" you ask, curious.
Felix takes a second before answering.
"We can" he explains. "The body adapts. But it doesn't truly nourish us. It’s like…" He searches for a comparison. "Like if you were to eat cotton candy. Full of nothing. Pretty, sweet, but you can't live off it."
"And the..." You lower your voice, looking around out of habit even though no one is listening, "...blood would be the equivalent of a real meal."
"A heavy dinner, yeah" he says, maintaining his calm tone. "But we’re not going to talk about that while you’re trying to enjoy your latte."
The waitress returns with the drinks. She sets down your cup and, in front of Felix, the steaming black coffee. He gives her a polite smile.
"Thank you."
Once she leaves, he looks down at the cup.
"I can drink it" he says. "I just won’t... enjoy it as much as you do."
"I can help you fake it" you offer. "Make comments like, 'Oh, this is so good.'"
"That would just make me look like an even worse impostor" he laughs.
For a while, the conversation drifts toward lighter topics: the neighborhood, the café, books you love, the music he plays at the club. Slowly, the initial nervousness transforms into something warmer.
But even as you talk about seemingly normal things, you notice details.
Every time you get excited and start talking faster, his gaze loses focus for a split second. It’s very subtle, but it’s there.
"What is it?" you ask, noticing one of those moments.
He blinks, as if returning from somewhere else.
"Nothing" he smiles softly. "It’s just... when you get worked up, your heart does strange things."
You flush.
"Are you listening to it?" you whisper.
"It’s hard not to" he admits, without any predatory intent. "For us, it’s like… well, imagine trying to read in a place with a massive, blown-out speaker blaring right next to you. It’s just there. You can’t ignore it."
You look down at your cup, feeling the very blood beneath your skin.
"Does it bother you?" you ask, sincere.
"It distracts me" he responds. "But it isn’t… unpleasant."
He catches your gaze a second longer than necessary.
"It’s nice" he adds, almost in passing.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep your smile from becoming too obvious.
Between sips, you realize something important: outside of the club, Felix looks younger. He talks about shows, apps, the kind of nonsense any guy might comment on. He jokes that social media filters are an insult to someone "who is already naturally pale." He shows you photos on his phone: the view from the rooftop where he lives, stray cats that seem to follow him, a screenshot of a playlist.
He’s a vampire, yes. But he’s also a guy who has learned to live in the 21st century.
And that, somehow, makes him more dangerous to you.
Because it’s no longer just a fascination with the supernatural. It’s attraction, plain and simple, for the person sitting in front of you: for the way he leans back in his chair, for how a stray lock of hair falls over his forehead, for the curve of his smile when you actually manage to make him laugh.
Your body can feel it.
The skin on your arms prickles as he leans a bit further over the table. Your stomach knots when his fingers brush yours as he passes the sugar, "just in case you want more." Every sentence he speaks, every gaze he holds for a second too long, stirs something in you that has nothing to do with research for your novel—and everything to do with the fact that you like him.
More than is reasonable for how little time you’ve known him.
In a quiet moment, while he distractedly stirs his nearly untouched coffee with a spoon, you find yourself saying it:
"It’s strange."
"What is?" he asks, looking up.
"Seeing you here" you respond. "With daylight streaming through the window, with normal people passing by behind you..." You wave a hand around. "And thinking that if I didn't know any better, I’d never imagine you’re a vampire."
Felix rests his cheek on his hand, watching you.
"And does that reassure you... or does it scare you more?" he wants to know.
You think about it.
"I think the idea of how many monsters can look normal scares me more in general" you say. "But you, here..." You take a good look at him. "You make me wonder if you’re a monster at all, or just someone with a strange kind of hunger."
He laughs, low and soft.
“I strive for it to be the latter” he says. “At least with you.”
His words touch you more than they should. You notice it in the way your heart starts doing “weird things” again, according to his criteria.
“I don’t know if that’s a good thing for me” you murmur.
“I don’t know if it is for me either” he responds with disarming honesty.
You both remain silent for a moment, looking at each other over your mugs. People around you are reading, talking in low voices, typing on their laptops. Nobody knows that, at this table, a human and a vampire are starting something that neither of them knows how to name yet.
But you do know one thing: every word, every gesture, every heartbeat you share with him in this “normal” environment feeds both your novel and that silent attraction growing—slowly but steadily—inside you.
The afternoon at the cafe ends with small details that stay etched in your mind.
Felix leans over the table more than once to read the title of the book in your hands, his shoulder brushing yours. When he shows you a photo on his phone, his fingers briefly graze yours as he turns the screen. Every contact is minimal, but in your body, it feels amplified.
You leave the place together.
Outside, the sun sets slowly, staining the buildings orange. Felix puts his sunglasses back on, adjusting them with an automatic gesture.
“Does it bother you that much?” you ask, pointing toward the sky.
“It’s not dramatic” he responds. “Just… uncomfortable. Like someone turning on all the stage lights when you don’t have a script.”
“You prefer the night” you state, more than ask.
“Always” he admits.
He walks you to the subway station. The goodbye is brief but charged: a smile, a “let me know when you get home,” a “don’t go into any weird alleys without me.” You walk away with the distinct feeling that the line between “research” and a “date” has begun to blur.
Days pass, and meeting up becomes a habit.
Sometimes it’s another afternoon of coffee and books.
Others, a quick visit to a small bookstore where he gets lost staring at antique spines while you pretend you aren't watching him more than the books.
Other times, it’s messages that stretch into the early hours of the morning.
How’s the novel going?
Your vampire character is unbearable.
Handsome?
Unfortunately.
Faithfully based on a true story.
You start saving screenshots of some conversations, like private scenes you don't want to lose.
And, little by little, a new routine settles in: on the nights you go to the club, he walks you afterward to the door of your building.
The streets at night belong to him.
It’s something you realize during one of those walks.
There aren't many people—just streetlights, a distant car, the sound of your footsteps. Felix walks beside you with his hands in his pockets, relaxed in a way you hadn't seen under the cafe lights.
He knows every corner, every shortcut, every alley you should avoid. He doesn’t check Google Maps; he doesn’t hesitate. And, above all, he seems to fit into the darkness as if it were his native language.
You turn slightly toward him as you walk.
“By day, you look... out of place” you say thoughtfully. “Like you’re on a borrowed stage. But at night...”
He looks at you sideways, an eyebrow raised.
“At night, what?”
You search for the words.
“It’s like you own the streets” you murmur. “You walk as if nothing could hurt you. As if all of this were… yours.”
Felix laughs softly.
“The night is the only thing that’s always been constant” he explains. “Everything else changes: the music, the clothes, the buildings, the languages… But the darkness has felt the same for centuries. It’s… familiar.”
You imagine him centuries ago, walking along cobblestone streets with that same calm, under lanterns instead of neon signs. That image sends a strange mix of fear and fascination through you.
“It suits you” you admit.
“The night?”
“Being a creature of the night” you clarify. “But…” you add, glancing at him, “afternoon coffee suits you, too.”
He smiles, showing that half-dimple you’ve come to know.
“You’re making me far too human in your notes” he jokes. “The other vampires are going to be offended.”
It’s during these walks that your body betrays you more and more.
You realize you tense up when he gets too close to dodge a group of people; that your breathing quickens when he leans toward you to speak closer because the street is noisy; that your skin catches fire when his hand brushes your lower back while crossing a street.
And he notices.
He always notices.
He doesn’t say it at first, but you see it in small gestures: the way he suddenly stands still, staring at a spot on the ground until your breathing calms down; how he makes a silly comment when he sees you’ve become too nervous, just to ease the tension.
Until one night, he decides not to hide it.
It’s late. You’re coming from the club; you didn't stay long, just enough to gather some information, watch Hyunjin try to be charming once again (and Felix set boundaries without a single word), and wave at Changbin and Jeongin from afar.
The temperature has dropped. A light mist of breath escapes every time you exhale. Felix walks beside you, as always, but he seems quieter than usual.
“You were distracted today” he remarks—not as an accusation, just an observation.
“Thoughtful” you correct him.
“It’s not the same thing.”
“And what was I thinking about, according to you?” you ask, half-amused.
He shrugs a shoulder.
“Many things at once. About me, about your novel, about whether you’re doing something dangerous, about whether you should stop coming… and about how you don't want to stop coming” he responds, as if reading from a list.
You bite your lip.
“You think a lot of yourself” you respond, but you don't deny it.
You turn the corner of your street. The streetlights create small circles of yellow light on the asphalt.
You reach the door of your building. You stop, as always, turning toward him.
“This is it” you say. “Thanks for walking me again.”
“Always” he answers, already automatic.
You usually say goodbye with a “goodnight” and a wave, but this time, as you’re about to take a step back toward your building's door, you feel something.
Felix pulls gently on the sleeve of your coat.
It’s not rough. It’s restrained. But it's enough to stop you.
You turn, puzzled.
“What is it?”
He takes a step toward you. The distance between you narrows—slowly, but clearly. You can smell his cologne, something faint that always smells like clean night and sweet metal.
Your pulse quickens instantly.
“Wait a moment” he asks in a low voice.
You swallow hard.
“Felix…” you whisper. “What are you doing?”
His eyes scan your face, focused.
“I just want to check something” he responds.
He takes another step. Now he is very close to you. Your back almost brushes the building's door. The street noise seems to fade away a little.
You notice every detail: the way his bangs fall over his forehead, the glint in his eyes under the streetlight, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Your heart, on the other hand, is racing.
“Check what?” you ask, your voice barely a thread.
One corner of his mouth curves, but his eyes remain serious.
“This.”
He brings his hand closer, carefully, and rests it flat against your sternum, between your collarbones, without pressing. His palm is cold, but the spot where he touches you burns.
You have the feeling that if he leaned in just a little more, you could count his eyelashes.
“Every time I get close” he murmurs, “it beats faster.”
Your breath hitches. You don’t know where to put your hands; you end up gripping the edge of his coat slightly, as if your body were reaching for an anchor.
“That’s… normal” you try to say. “You’re… too close.”
“I’m just as close as I’ve been many other times at the club” he responds, without moving. “But there, there’s music, voices, other distractions. Here…” he looks around. “It’s just you. And me. And this.”
His hand remains on your chest, feeling every beat of your heart as if it were his own.
“And it’s not fear” he adds in a whisper. “It’s not the rhythm of someone who just wants to run away.”
You look at him, feeling the flush rise to your face. You are so close that you could almost notice the outline of his fangs if he spoke just a little louder.
“Then what is it?” you ask, challenging yourself.
His eyes drop to your mouth for a second, then flicker back up to yours.
“That’s the question I’m asking you” he says. “You.”
You swallow the words you were about to throw out as a joke. Because it’s not funny anymore. It’s no longer just fascination with a vampire.
You know it.
You’ve been knowing it for days, but in this moment—with his hand over your heart and the night closing in around you both—it becomes impossible to ignore.
You like him.
Not just as a character, not just as a source of inspiration, not just as a supernatural rarity. You like him as a guy. As a person. As something you want to have close, even if that means accepting everything else that comes with him.
And he knows it.
He feels it in every racing heartbeat beneath his fingers.
He stays quiet for a second longer, watching you as if he’s waiting for you to reach that conclusion out loud. You don’t say it yet. You can’t. You lack the breath, the courage, the time.
He notices the mix of things in your expression: nerves, attraction, a few too many stuck words.
He pulls his hand away slowly, as if it costs him.
He takes a half-step back, giving you back some of your personal space. He takes a deep breath, as if he also needs to compose himself.
“I’ll… check again another day” he says, with a faint smile that doesn’t quite hide the tension of the moment. “I don’t want you to think I’m abusing my heart-rate monitor powers.”
A nervous laugh escapes you.
“You’re worse than a smartwatch” you respond.
“Much more expensive,” he jokes, lightening the load.
Things slowly return to their usual tone. But nothing is exactly the same. That moment has left something suspended between you—something you both know is there, even if neither of you names it yet.
“Goodnight” he says, taking a definitive step back.
“Goodnight” you reply, your voice still a bit shaky.
You open the building door. Before going inside, you turn around one last time.
Felix is where he always is, on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, his silhouette silhouetted against the darkness. But now you know he isn't just listening to the sounds of the night.
He has also learned, by heart, the rhythm of your heart.
And you are starting to accept that this rhythm, more and more, quickens because of him.
During the week, the club feels like a different place.
Felix texted you that morning:
We’re opening late today. If you want to see the club without the "social monsters," come around 6:00 PM. I promise a private tour and zero Hyunjin.
You accepted almost without thinking. The idea of seeing that place without the noise, without the people, without the mask of dark glamour… it intrigues you too much.
You finish what you have to do that day ahead of schedule, and you surprise yourself by arriving a bit earlier than planned. The sky is still bright; the street is quiet. The metallic symbol above the club door glows dull in the afternoon light.
You push the door open.
Inside, the dimness is softer. There is no music. The lights are in standby mode: a few lamps on, the bar tidy, the tables empty. The echo of your footsteps resonates more than usual.
And, amidst that relative silence, you hear something.
