The one where your antisocial stepbro pretends he's not obsessed—while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you'll use it.
BEST TO READ IN DARK MODE FOR EFFECTS
CONTENT ↠ nsfw! mdni!, smut, angsty toxic Heeseung, obsessive, psychosexual dark vibes step bro Heeseung, stalker heeseung, if I can't have you no one can typpa heeseung, deep voyeurism kink, needy/pervy/manipulative reader, strong depiction of fantasies, sexual tension, consensual edging, p in the v, overstimulation, , light choking, public act, bad behavior's reader.
WORDCOUNT ↠ 9k (not proof read enough.. damn...)
Was literally obsessed with those two songs when writing this : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/album/4OFZVvqlg84Czl7td7XddK?si=rakigTTnSJyY8CnPyp8A7w
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Heeseung barely glanced up the first time you met.
Not when your mom introduced you, her laugh sharp and grating over the clink of designer glassware. Not when she called you her little angel, like she hadn’t spent the last decade ignoring your existence—like a piece of cloth begging to be brought back just because it’s trendy now. And definitely not when you smiled at him like you actually meant it.
He just slouched further into his hoodie—hood up, sleeves covering half his hands like armor. Said something that might’ve been “hey,” but it sounded more like: I don’t give a shit.
You smiled anyway. Quiet, composed. Like you didn’t notice he hadn’t met your eyes yet, hadn’t even registered the color of his irises. He had a good face, for sure. And a nice name. Heeseung. Hee—seung.
Let’s try not to forget it…
He’s Heeseung—the one who doesn't match the luxury flooring or manicured smiles. Heeseung, who looked more interested in his phone screen than the pricey piece of steak he’d just been served.
You—
You were different. And Heeseung noticed.
Because other girls—especially the daughters of his father’s revolving door of Stepford wives—always played the same game: almost flirty, too fake, self-obsessed, and excited to be part of the family.
You… you were calmer. Almost shy. Ashamed to even call your mom “Mom.” You were also interested in his presence—lightly tapping his foot with yours, giving him those apologetic doe eyes, like: Sorry that my shameless mom got a grip on your already-married dad just to milk him dry…
But it’s not like he divorced his mom for yours. And it’s not like you were the first one. Generally, the other step-siblings never asked about him. Never cared to know what lay beneath the hoodie-tortured-kid style he wore like armor.
You?
You looked at him like he was a person. Like you saw something he didn’t even believe was still there.
And with months—and then a year—maybe… you liked what you saw.
You asked questions. Not the fake kind. Real ones.
“You coded that game on your own?”
“You really won a national contest?”
“That glitch mechanic you added… did you write it from scratch?”
He wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Not anymore.
You leaned over his laptop one afternoon, wide-eyed, genuinely impressed. Your breath was warm on his shoulder, the scent of vanilla and soft detergent clinging to your hoodie—one he was almost sure used to be his.
“You’re kind of a genius,” you’d said, and smiled that smile. Soft. Easy. Like you weren’t afraid of him.
Because why would you be? You were always so nice and caring to him. You’d bring him a plate of food when his dad never cared to check even once. Leave Post-its with sweet pep talks before exams—ones that made him smile for the first time in a decade. Sit silently beside him after he got scolded for placing second on the honor board. Your hand, always soft and peach-scented, would stroke his hair like he wasn’t eight months older. And your eyes—so sweet when they met his.
You weren’t supposed to make him feel things.
And he wasn’t supposed to want someone like you.
But there you were. Not just prim—but infuriatingly so. You weaponized it. You made being stuck-up look like a goddamn virtue. All perfect posture and polite smiles. Still, something was off. Like how you made him open up to you, but never really talked about yourself—your life, your past. Always mysterious, always evasive when he got curious, always turning the tables on him.
You… you made him feel watched. Seen. Known.
And he didn’t like not knowing you back. Because he needed to know everything. It was pathological. Every variable that could disturb his life. Every secret.
And you—you were the unknown variable. The only one he couldn’t figure out.
And the worst part?
Heeseung couldn’t match you. He wasn’t good with people. Never had been. Getting you to open up? Never happening. He even got tense in crowds. Even if girls liked him, he couldn't maintain relationships beyond hookups. He could throw a punch, sure—but he'd rather let the other guy walk off with a smirk, too bored to bother.
But he was good at something: systems. Code. Surveillance.
So he broke the rules he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—with you.
He hacked your devices.
He shouldn’t have connected to them. Shouldn’t have hijacked your phone. Shouldn’t have hacked your webcam feed like it was just another game level to conquer.
It started innocent—ish. Really. Just some harmless digital snooping. New mother, new stepsister, weird vibes, potential threat to his peace and privacy—totally justifiable.
But your passwords were laughable. The kind of thing a middle schooler could crack.
Seriously. “Bookworm123”?
Please.
After all he was Mr. Cybersecurity Prodigy. Award-winning code monkey. VPN for his VPN, two-factor-auth god.
And he peeked. Just a little…
Your instagram private account, that your mom swore you didn’t have because “socials medias was too destructive for her future doctor of a child.”
Your spotify. Pinterest boards. You’re files.
like essays about behavioral neuroscience and a note named “journaling” : Plans. Rage. Angry rebellion written between textbook reviews. Your escape plan : college far away, control of your own life, zero influence from Barbie and her string of Stepdads. How you craved more. Your identity crisis, GPA fetishist, and how competitive you were to the point of mania. Basically, a mirror of Heeseung in the shape of someone who tried to play the hero of his narrative.
Then, it got worse.
Because curiosity became fixation. He was too deep for it not to be.
On sleepless nights, Heeseung discovered things he absolutely shouldn't.
That his straight A’s and volunteering hours stepsister — was actually sneaking off to frat party with her friends, just feel alive, get waisted and let some sophomore finger her.
The music you fall asleep to, your “fuck” playlist too — the one you wouldn’t admit to owning even under threat of death.
That habit of yours to flirt with strangers like you had a death wish or just want to be ruined so badly being jailed would be for your own good.
That you send cropped pics, no face — just enough tits and thighs, to creeps then ghost them when they beg to meet, just to feel seen.
And he knew the kind of porn you watched on school nights, after wishing him sweet dreams. Earphones on, lips between your t-shirt collar like you’re scared someone might hear you in that big mansion. And what killed him is how fucking rough it is. Spit. Hair-pulling. Throat-fucking. Girls like you weren’t supposed to want that. Girls like you were supposed to blush and look away, like when he got too close. You’re supposed to be horrified at things like that — not get off to it at 1:38 a.m.
He discovered your texts with that secret boyfriend of yours. How badly he treated you—and how you let him, just to feel owned, loved. He knew when you snuck in those late-night FaceTimes, shirt half-off, hand between your thighs, playing the loyal girlfriend for him and his pathetic dick.
And Heeseung? He was obsessed with that version of you—the one he didn’t even dare to fantasize about, yet you handed to him on a silver plate.
Your self-care sessions got him hard under his desk. Got him jerking off to the way your fingers curled around your own throat in the dim hue of your bedroom, playing at power, pretending you didn’t crave being broken open.
You were too good at pretending. Sitting across from him, blouse crisp, smiling like a poetry award was the climax of your week.
What a goddamn lie.
But at least he’d seen you now. Most of you. And he understood better. Understood your issues. But something in him snapped.
Because this wasn’t just about obsession anymore.
It wasn’t about lust.
Or even protection.
It was about you.
And how you made him feel real again.
How you gave him a purpose.
You didn’t flinch when he glared. Didn’t avoid him at dinner. You just smiled, slid him your extra fries, and asked about the AI competition like it mattered. You looked at him like he was a person.
Not a project. Not a problem.
Not a hacker. Not a delinquent.
Not some mistake his father regretted.
And that… made you dangerous.
Because now you were a necessity. Something—someone—he cared about.
He did want to protect you.
But he also wanted to own you.
To erase the line between your bedroom and his. Between your thoughts and his access. Between your gasps at night and his name.
You weren’t supposed to get close.
You weren’t supposed to care.
And he wasn’t supposed to fall for you.
Fall for you?
...
But now what ?
You were the virus in his system.
The girl who said “good job” when he didn’t ask for praise. Who laughed when no one else did. Who touched his shoulder once—just once—and left him with a twitch in his fingers he couldn’t debug.
But you were a line of code he couldn’t rewrite. A live feed he couldn’t turn off.
And maybe, if he watched long enough—if he memorized every breath, every sigh, every single unguarded look—you wouldn’t disappear like the others.
Maybe, if he learned your pattern…he could break you open before you broke him.
And maybe, just maybe, you’d want him to. Even if it meant losing something. Even if it meant pulling you into the dark with him… and never letting you go.
Now you were sitting across from him. You spare him a glance while structuring your salad like a freak, with those doe eyes and he’s hard. Hard at a family dinner while they talked business.
Suddenly his breath catches your feet touching under the table. Like questioning, you good ?
Yeah it’s me, Heeseung. That sweet voice of yours haunting his head.
His foot slides slower in between your legs mindlessly and when you almost jolt, he realizes.
“gotta go sleep.” he blurred, rushing off the table. “Tomorrow is exam day.”
Fuck, he wants more. More of your secrets.More of you—the real you.
So he turned on your webcam, night after night, and your phone’s, and tab. like you were his favorite streamer, his favorite radio mc, the best sound to sleep. Like you wanted him to fantasise, think of it every night…
You were stretched across your bed, laughing into your phone, wearing nothing but a tank and panties, circling your finger on your belly mindless. The way girls do when they forget they’re being watched.
You laid out your clothes for the next day like some little honor-roll princess—giggling when your friend called you a chaebol, and you shrug her off.
But the way you lingered on the lace you never wear… the silk you only sleep on alone… the sheer pieces he has never seen— holding them up to your chest, slow movements like the reflection was his to tell you what to wear. It was fucking foreplay. You were a fucking siren, with your fucking hair finally down, and those dumb big scare glasses off.
And him ?
Heeseung…
He was already crashing on the rocks. He was a black-hat addict no-full-blown cyber-pervert. rock hard, mindlessly stroking his bulge at the sheer form of you in unmatched underwears.
So innocent. So mine.
Some days later, you knocked on his door while your parents were off circling the globe, allergic to stillness and obligations. Your hair was tied up but messier than usual, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes almost red—like you’d cried.
God, if someone made you cry… I’d kill them.
You held two glasses of soda, dripping with condensation. No way you could deny you’d been pacing by his door for the last hour.
“What are you up to, genius? I’m bored,” you said, voice half-curious, half-something else.
Heeseung—fool, addict, liar—let you in. Let you get too close. Showed you things he shouldn’t because you asked with that look that made him feel like a god, not a glitch. But also made him wonder who had made you sad enough to want to change your mind.
Still, you smiled at his screens like they were art. Touched his keyboard like it was sacred. No step-sister had ever looked at him like that before—hell, no one actually had. Fuck, he needed to focus. Focus on you, not you.
“You really made all this?”
He nodded, trying not to smirk, trying not to shake. His fingers danced across the keys like a seduction.
“Wanna see something fun?”
A window blinked open. He typed some commands, and grainy footage appeared: the neighbor’s yard. Middle-aged man with hedge clippers, snipping bonsai like manicuring his soul.
He tapped more keys. Suddenly, sprinklers roared to life. The neighbor shrieked, dropped the shears, and bolted.
You burst out laughing, collapsing into him, palm against his chest. That sound—reckless, sweet—made something snap inside him. It wasn’t just pride. It was possession. You weren’t weirded out. You liked it. Liked him. Not the fake polite way. The way that made him want to caress your cheek and kiss those red eyes.
But he was a coward—or your strongest soldier, as he liked to call himself. One who wanted you close, for good, not some fling you’d regret like the others he barely tolerated. No, he wanted you for life—and he was in the perfect position, as long as your parents behaved.
Then your eyes met. Dangerous idea sparking. You dared him with your gaze, then dashed out of his room.
“Try it on my bedroom camera!” you shouted, disappearing down the hall, hoodie flapping like a flag.
Fuck. If only you knew he was already connected.
Moments later — Cam03: Her Bedroom Feed lit up.
You stood in front of the lens—he used to fuck himself to thoughts of you—starry-eyed as he purposefully reactivated the red dot, signaling it was on. Made a mental note to re-enable it later.
You waved. Smiled like sin. Mouthing: “See me?”
He choked. Because yes—he saw you. Always had. But now? Now you saw him.
Like you always knew.
You reached for your top, lifted the hem just enough to flash bare skin, then darted out of frame, laughing like it was a game.
His chest burned. Panic and arousal mixed in his bloodstream like a drug. Heeseung’s brain broke.
But he didn’t shut it down. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave in. His trembling fingers dimmed your room’s lights, shifting godspeed to soft pink. He knew it was your favorite. Knew too much.
Then he started your playlist—the one with soft beats, gentle melody, moonstruck, your favorite.
You paused in the doorway. Turned just enough for the camera to catch you again. Smiled with pure fascination, like a kid. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t.
You looked at the cam again, really looked, like he was the sweetest boy, and you didn’t care much what he was capable of—because it was him.
You walked back to his door, dripping sunlight and mischief.
“That was so cool,” you said, high-fiving him like your heart wasn’t thundering. Like you hadn’t just exposed the darkest part of him and come back wanting more. “Can you, like… track people? Their phones or whatever?”
Heeseung blinked. “I-if their GPS is on. Or if they ping the network.”
You tilted your head. Bit your lip. “…Wanna play hide and seek?”
He scoffed in disbelief, but there was a glint behind his eyes—half challenge, half thrill. Like he’d just been dared to play a game he already knew the rules to.
He grabbed his laptop. The mansion was too big. Too full of shadows, quiet corners. A maze of marble, high ceilings, inherited guilt.
Heeseung sat somewhere, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
You texted him: “find me.” One signal. One flare. Then silence.
He tracked you through your phone GPS—chose not to use the hallway cams, even though he easily could have. Something intimate, invasive, about watching your little red dot move on his map. Every time he walked to you was an ode to the game only you two could play.
Library.
“Checkmate. You’re here.”
“Wow! So you really can!”
West Wing.
“If I’m facing a mirror, it’s too easy… not even fun.”
“Fuck…”
Wine Cellar.
“If you’re trying to get drunk, pick the 2007 Bordeaux.”
You laughed.
The pool.
He stuck to the GPS. The red dot blinking. Stalling. Then disappearing.
You texted: “find me now.”
His screen dimmed like the whole house was holding its breath.
Heeseung’s pulse quickened. GPS cut out. No new pings. He tried again. Twice. Three times. Nothing.
Every nerve in his body was a wire of curiosity. The air heavy with chlorine and humidity as he stepped toward the pool deck, leaving his computer by the bar.
Then he found it—your phone, face down on the stone near the pool.
But you, where—
“Got you!” You leapt.
Laughter, bare legs, hoodie off. Heeseung didn’t have time to react before you crashed into him—both of you tumbling into the water with a splash that shattered the silence.
You surfaced first, grinning like a devil. “You can’t find me if I don’t want you to, huh?” you teased, flicking water at him.
Heeseung stared at you, laughing mid-cough. Clothes heavy. Hair plastered to his forehead. The water clung to your skin in a way that made his hands twitch under the surface. You floated closer then. Then reached out and hooked your fingers in his bangs, stroking them like you always did. Then tugging gently.
“How about I cut your hair?” you whispered, too close to him not to have his eyes linger on your lips. “We’re starting university soon. Can’t show up like some code-goblin, right?”
He snorted. But you two didn’t move. Just watched each other's souls for too long. Heart hammering. Skin burning. You were in his pool. In his arms now. In his system.
“Are you okay?”
He, with the most considering eyes a family member ever gave you. But you just nodded to his biggest displeasure. Something was wrong, yeah.
Actually, everything was wrong. And surely something was wrong with you. You felt trapped. In your studies, in your relationship, in these always-new families, in your boring unstable life. You wanted more. More attention, more love, more recognition, more freeness, just more…
You weren't special like Heeseung. You couldn’t clap your fingers and get that video back from your so-called boyfriend—he threatened to leak it if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for university, and couldn’t clap your fingers to make you go to your best choice without the biggest loan you can think about.
But it was better to tell him everything was okay. Because if you didn't fake it… you’d be dead by now.
And maybe it’s the weather, or his concerned look, or his trembling hands on your ribs—not too low, not too high. But it felt good being with Heeseung, even better seeing the way he looked at you—you really had a problem.
“Can you… like… if I ever asked you…”
“What?” He came closer, almost locking in his hands. “Tell me…”
“If someday I needed you, would you… like… help me if I have something very complicated to solve... like… you know, math.” You laughed it off like you weren't about to ask him to get that sextape back.
He nodded so obediently it hurt. Fuck, you had him in the palm of your hand without doing anything more than just letting him watch. Deny his ever-growing desire. Playing this game you caught him in.
Yeah… maybe you really were what your mom made out of you… sadly.
After that, Heeseung was like a man on a mission. He hacked every piece of info he could find on that deep shit. Until he found it… your complicated math exercise…
A tap of you and him. Filmed like you weren’t aware of it. Heeseung couldn’t find the courage to watch it…
Until he did.
And it was everything he ever fantasized doing with you.
He could frame him for anything he wanted. Crash his Tesla. His mind was spiraling as he bit on his nail, replaying that video again and again and again. Zooming on you.
I’ll protect you.
First, you needed an escape. Easy—that guy already cheated on you with so many girls, it was easy for you to catch him. So he wrote a fantasy he hoped you’d fall for. He drafted messages from your bf’s phone. A fake date. Something sweet, just enough like your boyfriend to pass.
“Meet me tonight baby girl. Just us. Let’s talk. 9PM. My room.”
“Baby girl…” you hated that name, but still couldn’t refuse him. And now Heeseung understood.
You saw it, and for a second, you believed. He watched you re-read it, then start getting ready—lip gloss, that fluttery dress, even that nervous little smile like it still meant something.
Meanwhile, your boyfriend was across campus, buried in someone else. Moaning her name. Careless, as always.
Heeseung watched it all—your hope fading when you opened that door, his betrayal, his choke. Your silence. Her grasp. One earbud in, one eye on every camera feed you both could offer.
You left the place in a rush, your phone starting to buzz as Heeseung watched every message your now-ex boyfriend sent you. You found yourself drifting in a club. You needed air, music, and drinks.
The music wasn’t even that good, your drink, not that strong. You didn’t plan to dance. And you didn’t plan for some no-brain guy with smooth hands to hit on you.
And you almost let him have his way near the bathrooms. Just to forget the sound of your phone. Forget that you had to go back to that guy until he decided he’d had enough or leaked the tape.
Almost.
Until Heeseung’s hand was on your wrist, showing up out of nowhere to pull you away.
“Heeseung?”
He got you out of the club, his hand digging into your wrist. The car ride was dead silent. Heeseung looked pissed. You were hollow, but not dumb. And you let him snap.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
You didn’t answer.
“... Don’t you have a bf?”
Still silent. Tears welled up before you could blink them back, and Heeseung was at a loss for words. Yeah, it was that easy to shush him—crocodile cries easy.
“Stop crying…” he muttered, but he looked panicked now. Like your tears were acid on his skin. “Tell me what’s going on?”
Like he didn’t know.
But you had to play it well. Make him do it tonight, and no other night.
“He cheated…”
“Then leave him…”
“I can’t…” Hee looked at you with fake wonder. “He filmed me once… and…”
He nodded, enough to tell you you didn’t need to keep going.
When you got home, Heeseung took your hand before you stormed into your room, and he watched you—really watched—and got in a hug. Caressing your hair, getting closer to your ear, “I'll help you.”
You almost feared he could feel your smile. You detached your head with the saddest questioning expression.
“I’ll protect you,” he said, the heaviest stare he ever gave you.
You just nodded like you weren’t expecting much. When you actually wanted exactly what he gave you.
Back in your room, you kept re-seeing Heeseung’s expression. Almost mad, almost dangerous.
And you. You wanted more. You wanted everything—not just protection, but revenge. Revenge for the time you lost on that guy, for your virginity you couldn’t bring back, for the stress… for everything.
So you opened your laptop. Placed your phone next to it like it’s part of the performance. You know he’s watching.
You know.
Heeseung, on his part, got in his room ready to execute the next part of his plan when the ping of your camera alerts him. But tonight is not the night. After seeing you like that, he doesn't want to do that.
So he started to undress. Until—
“Heeseung?”
His head snapped to his monitor. WTF.
“You’re here, no? I mean, you’re watching.”
He almost fell on the ground, unable to walk straight to his computer.
The webcam light doesn’t flicker on right away when you open it.
You look at your reflection. This webcam is better than the last time you used it. Wide-angle. Pretty high-def. You can see almost your entire room. Bed. Closet. Console. The mirror angled just right to show the bathroom.
God. You made it so easy for him.
You let your fingers lazily drift to your dress straps. In a slow reveal. You watch yourself in the camera—legs tucked just right to keep mystery intact. Eyes locked on the return. You open your—
“You like it when I do that?” You looked almost innocent doing it. What the fuck were you doing, Heeseung’s mind screamed. “You want more?”
Heeseung was stunned. Too many questions. Too many desires.
He didn’t even respond, his hand mindlessly disconnecting your camera’s red dot and reconnecting again like Morse.
“Then ruin him for me. Make him as ashamed as I was.”
You were pulling his obsession like strings. A puppet master in silk cloth. The light on the webcam flickered once again.
You smiled, slowly nodding. “Good night, Heeseung.” Shut it all down.
By morning, half the campus was infected with a juicy little virus: dozens of very compromising photos of your now-ex, including a special feature of him being pegged by none other than his mom’s best friend.
Iconic.
The breakup text? Already sent. Blocked him before your brain even had a chance to process.
You didn’t see him all day. No dinner, no open door when you brought snacks. Nothing.
Maybe you really fucked up. Poor Heeseung, thinking you were innocent, only to find out you were just like everyone else—grey, messy, complicated.
But just before bed, your phone lit up. A note. Your password written clear on the screen.
You sat frozen, eyes flickering between the note that started typing on its own, and the webcam pointed right at you.
“I’ll always protect you.”
Then, an mp4 file popped up. Your lips curved into a shy smile.
You almost said something, but instead, you tapped beneath his words:
“Thank you, Heeseung. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there.”
The cursor blinked, paused—like he was thinking hard about what to say next.
“I protect what’s mine.”
Your eyes drifted to the webcam. “Am I?”
“Aren’t you?”
Your gaze dropped shyly, biting your lip to keep the smile from slipping out. Fuck, it was hot—this obsessive, protective boy who’d kill for you.
“I am…” you breathed, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress.
“Maybe?”
Slowly, you peeled it off. No bra. No panties. Just you—bare, glowing in the soft light of your screen.
Heeseung’s side: panting mess. Trembling. Rock hard. Watching was always intense, but this? His brain shorted out. Every movement you made poured fuel on the fire in his chest—the way you loosened your hair, slid off your glasses, shy but teasing.
Your voice slipped through his headphones like a spell.
“Tell me what you want,” you breathed. “I’ll do it. As a thank you.”
He was nearly feral, watching you perched like a dream made just for him. But now you wanted him to take the lead. For once, you wanted control handed over.
And for a long, heavy moment, silence.
Then, a new line in your notes:
“Anything?”
You nodded, lips parting.
Another line.
“Touch yourself.”
“For me.”
You rose, heading for your bed.
Then:
“No. Here.”
You sat back down. Fully exposed. The chair never felt colder. The electricity on your skin was undeniable—the weight of someone watching, devouring every move.
You shivered. Something folded inside, vulnerable but not scared.
Then your screen flickered.
A video opened.
Porn.
But not just any porn. A girl like you—same frame, soft lighting. She was in a gaming chair, legs parted, cat headphones, a pink toy buzzing between her thighs. Moaning like she’d been waiting for eyes to watch.
You blinked. The message was loud and clear.
Your breath caught—not shocked, but challenged.
Back to the webcam—doe eyes, tempted. Your fingers traced lower, hips shifting, copying her exact position. Mimicry never felt so twisted.
You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers moved.
Heeseung watched like it was a live confession. Pupils dilated, chest heaving, gripping himself tight, trying not to explode too soon.
A message appeared:
“Slower.”
You obeyed, breath shaking, already slick with every stroke.
Another message:
“Fuck, you’re shaking.”
You were. Legs twitching, spine arching against the chair.
You never thought you’d go this far, but he was puppeteering you with his commands.
Then:
“I’ve never seen you like this. Fuck. I want to cum in you. In that chair. Just like that.”
You groaned, eyes fluttering shut, but forced them open—locking onto the lens like it was him.
Another message:
“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it.”
You moaned, fingers freezing.
“I’m yours,” you whispered.
“Say it again,” he typed.
“I’m yours, Heeseung.”
The pressure built—right at the edge—
Then:
“Stop.”
“Don’t cum.”
Your breath hitched. You froze mid-stroke, legs trembling.
Another line:
“I said stop. If anyone makes you cum tonight—it’s me.”
Your fingers hovered, shaking. The ache burned deep in your thighs, stomach taut.
But you stopped.
Because his word mattered more than your desire now.
Your screen blinked.
“Get your toy.”
You swallowed, nodded, reached into your drawer.
The vibrator was familiar—sleek, pink, faintly scented from your date-night oil. You rubbed it, coating it with your wetness, then slid it slowly inside, breath heavy.
Then the toy buzzed. Flickered. Came alive.
You gasped—he was controlling it.
Before you could say a word, it pulsed hard. Your body jerked, chair creaking beneath you. Your grip tightened on the arms as pleasure rolled through you like a whip.
“That’s it,” he typed. “Don’t touch it. Just take it.”
You moaned—too much, too fast—your body trembling, legs spreading without control. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate.
Heeseung’s fingers typed again.
“Grip the chair.”
You obeyed.
The toy buzzed harder, relentless and cruel.
“Look at the camera.”
Tears pricked, but you held his gaze—through that little glowing lens. Your thighs trembled, breath catching—
He knew.
He memorized every sound, every gasp, every twitch.
Your climax hit like an explosion—so fierce your back arched from the chair. Toes curled, lips parted in a silent cry.
If only you could hear it—the gasp, the groan, the shuddering moan from his room. Rooms apart, perfectly synced.
You collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving.
The toy powered down. The room fell silent but electric. Only the Notes app stayed open. One final line appears:
“I know your body better than anyone ever will.”
You smile, eyes rolling, calming yourself. You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes.
Unknown Caller.
You smirk. Answer it without hesitation.
Hee,” you whisper, lazy satisfaction dripping from your tone.
You hear him—shaky, panting, like the edge nearly broke him. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck… You’re so pretty. So fucking pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
His voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint. You picture him—still burning from his climax, hand resting low, skin flushed.
“You drive me insane. Every breath you take, every moan...” He watches you lift your thighs, tucking yourself shyly behind them like a girl playing innocent. “It’s mine. You’re mine. Don’t you get it? I want you so bad I—fuck—I can’t even—”
You cut in softly.
“Heeseung,” you murmur, voice smooth like silk sliding over a blade. “I never said I was yours...”
Silence.
You lean in, sugar-sweet, doe eyes locked on the lens, like you don’t quite know what you’re doing.
“You think this makes me yours?”
He breathes hard. You swear you hear the tension in his throat—how he swallows that growl.
“Then what?” he whispers. “What do I have to do?”
You hum, hiding your face in your thighs, thoughtful. “I’ll know.”
Heeseung almost chokes. “You’re playing with me.”
You tilt your head.
“Of course I am, Hee. Isn’t that what you like? What we always did? Playing games.” Your voice softens, teasing, the tone that always breaks him. “You’re obsessed, Hee. But to own me?” you shake your head slowly. “You’ll have to do more than just watch me cum on camera.”
A pause. You let it hang, let it burn. Then, low and teasing:
“If you really want me,” you whisper. “Stop being a coward. Show me.”
His breath catches. You almost feel the stillness on his end.
Click.
You hang up.
Still smiling, you toss your phone aside.
“Good night, Heeseung,” you murmur to the camera before shutting everything down.
Heeseung hadn’t heard your voice in three days.
Not on the phone, not through the headphones, not even that little intake of breath when you tiptoe around your room late at night.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours of silence.
No webcam flickers. No Notes app replies. No little “good night, Hee” teasing him through pixels.
Nothing.
He tapped at your IP like a lunatic. Pinging dead signals. Checked your cloud for new files. Scraped your cache for cam logs, anything—anything—that might prove you were still playing.
But you weren’t. You’d shut him out completely. Blocked him, in every way that mattered—except the one that destroyed him the most: in person, you were still perfect.
Because in real life, you were still her.
Still the step-sister who sat next to him at dinner, nudging his arm, sipping from his glass like it meant nothing. Still in those stupid soft modest dresses that smelled like your vanilla lotion and innocence. Still saying his name in that sweet voice that didn’t match the girl who once whispered “I’m yours” for a night, while fingering herself in his favorite dress.
Still shy smilling in front of the parents, like he wasn’t slowly going fucking insane of you ghosting him in the cruelest way possible.
Heeseung clenched his jaw until it hurt. His fists, tighter. You were torturing him. Training him with your silence. Denying him touch, sound, ownership—making him feel like just another loser watching from a screen.
And worst of all? You liked it.
He could see it in the way you smiled at him when no one was looking. Like the devil behind a halo. Like the dom who knew her puppy would crawl the moment she said good boy.
You knew what you were doing. And you knew he was starving.
He watched you meet someone new through your messages—tracked him from his first DM. The second the guy sent a heart emoji, Heeseung had full access to his cloud, laptop, phone, and location history.
So when you showed up at that guy’s place in that same dress as that night, Heeseung went feral. watching you through the guy’s hacked MacBook camera. Front-row seat. 1080p. Wide angle. Clear sound. Perfect view.
You didn’t even try to hide untapping your phone camera, angling it for him. But he was already there.
He watched the way you swayed when you walked into the room. That skirt was short—barely legal. Hair done like you were on a mission to ruin him. Lip gloss like you were asking to be kissed. Or owned.
Heeseung’s fists dug into his thigh. You let the guy kiss you. Hands on your hips. Heeseung scoffed in fury. The guy went down on you and Heeseung leaned forward—eyes glued to your face smiling at him. Not for the man.
Only for him.
You mouthed his name, Heeseung, made that sound again—that sweet gasp that cracked every nerve in his body—and his hands were already down his pants before he even realized it. Stroking slowly. Angry.
Then the guy started fucking you. It was… pathetic.
You looked bored. Pretty. But not wrecked. Not how Heeseung would have done you—needed you. Not how you looked when he edged you, whispering commands through your notes.
He texted :
He’s not even close to making you cum.Why are you with him?Stop.
Now.
Please.
You didn’t stop. You got louder. Not for performance, because knowing hee was watching, unleashed you.
Heeseung’s hand stuttered. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard it bled. You were performing. For him, not the other guy. You had to be. And yet you didn’t stop when he begged you.
Heeseung didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t call a friend.
He texted one of the girls who’d been orbiting him since he entered university—some pretty, pouty girl with no idea what she was walking into.
She came fast. Obedient. Heeseung fucked her like punishment.
Shoved her onto his lap, dragged her skirt over her hips without a single word. Didn’t ask if she was ready. Didn’t even pretend to care. Just spread her thighs, lined himself up, and buried in—rough, silent, merciless.
She moaned his name, kissing his neck. Heeseung kept his eyes on the screen. Because on the monitor behind her?
You were still live. Fucking someone else. His airpods were in. And he was moaning your name under his breath.
The girl was clueless to much overwhelmed by his deep, rough trust. Riding him like she thought she was doing a good job for him to be so feral.
Heeseung touched her the way he would have to you, controlling. forcing her in position trying to reach her deepest part, as he watched your hips roll on screen. Your nails dig into someone else’s back.
“Grippe my back. leave marks.” he ordered her.
He hiss, mouthing along with your sounds like a prayer.
“Fuck—Louder. Just like that... Just like that—fuck.”
The girl on his lap whimpered, “does it feel good, Hee?”
Heeseung stared at your body—your lips, your tits, your sweat-shined thighs.
“You’re so perfect,” he muttered. “Fuck—you…”
His climax came hard, violent. He choked your name on the exhale and came inside the girl like she didn’t matter—because she didn’t.
When the girl left, he stared at the screen for an hour. Watched you dress. Watched you check your phone. Smiling.
Not once did you reply to his messages.
You were killing him. Starving him. Making him beg. He slammed the laptop shut, chest heaving, hatred and love boiling into the same sick ache.
You were right. He was a coward. But not for much longer.
You found it on your bed. No card. No note. No sender. Just a black box, wrapped in a ribbon you never heard arrive. Inside: lingerie. Lace. Sheer. Decadent. Your exact size. Your exact taste. Lightly soaked in a scent you could recognize in your sleep—his cologne.
Your fingers trembled when you held it up to the light. No message. But then again, he never needed words.
Heeseung didn’t ask. He tried to command.
So, you didn’t text. Didn’t thank him. You just wore it.
That night, when the webcam light blinked to life, you were already sitting pretty in front of your laptop. Sheer fabric draped over your body like a sin begging to be confessed.
You leaned into the camera, eyes soft, voice sweeter.
“Goodnight, Genius. Hope uni’s not eating you alive.”
And then—
You logged off. Just like that.
Left him starving. You knew he’d pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried, bless him.
He texted the next day, like it was nothing. Invited you to his university party. Like this wasn’t war. Like he wasn’t already losing.
Of course, you went. Dressed in red. Not the lingerie—something sharper. Something that made his friends stare a little too long.
Heeseung barely spoke to you that night. Slipped back into his old self—like he hadn’t spent the week watching you like a man possessed. But he was in his element, charming his nerdy circle, and you were happy just watching him thrive.
Then, it changed.
He didn’t introduce you as his stepsister. That alone cracked the air between you. His hand found your back, fingers tracing lazy nothings while he laughed with his friends, eyes on you like you were art.
You liked seeing him smile. Liked knowing you made it easier.
And then—he excused you both. His friends wished you luck with admissions. So polite. So clueless.
He walked you up a narrow hallway, like it was nothing. A quiet corridor, half-lit.
Then he locked you in a hug.
And kissed your neck.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, hands already exploring.
“You too,” you murmured, smiling. “New haircut? You kept it long in the back. Looks good.”
“You said I should, so...”
You smiled harder, went in for a kiss—your first. His lips were maddening. Soft, sure, and hungrier than you expected. He kissed like he’d waited for years. Like he’d decided waiting was over.
"Untie your dress," he whispered against your mouth, voice low.
You raised a brow, smirking. “Thought you liked watching from afar.”
His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”
You let the ribbon fall, letting the dress slip open. Underneath—his gift. His breath caught.
“You like it?” you teased.
He didn’t answer. He spun you, pressed you into the wall, and his hand was already between your thighs—finding you soaked.
His mouth brushed your ear, voice cracking with restraint.
“Fuck. You’re so wet for me. I’ve waited so long.”
“Say it,” he growled.
“What?”
His thrust was sharp—two fingers deep.
“Say you want me to ruin you. Say you like it.”
You whimpered, arching into his hand. “I like it when you ruin me.”
“Say it right.”
You licked your lips. “I want to be yours, Heeseung. Ruin me.”
His exhale was jagged—like something inside him broke.
Then came silence. Just heat. Breathing. Fingers moving in and out of you as he grinded against your body, shameless and reckless in a hallway anyone could walk into.
And just before you came—he pulled away.
“No,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”
“Home?”
“No. My room.”
His dorm was massive, dark except for the red glow of a snoozed monitor. His roommate was nowhere. Probably never real to begin with. You practically jumped on him. Messy kisses. Wandering hands. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your back—and then—
Your hand brushed his desk. The monitors flared to life. And there you were—your webcam feed, glowing on the screen.
Recording. Your name as the file.
“You always make me watch,” he whispered, stripping you down to the lingerie. “Now watch yourself.”
He pulled you onto the bed, body still facing the screen.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, spreading your legs for the camera. “I’ve owned you since the first time you stepped into this house.”
On screen—your reflection trembled. Moaned. Melted in real-time.
He eased fingers inside you again while holding you in his lap, pinching a nipple until you gasped, breath tangled.
“I know what you fantasize about when you’re bored,” he whispered.
He started humping you, slow and heavy.
“I know what kind of porn you scroll past—then go back to.”
Thrust.
“I know which songs you loop when you touch yourself. I synced your playlist.”
You choked on a gasp.
“I know you changed your passwords, just to make me mad.”
His hand curled lightly around your throat.
“But I like it. I like when you pretend.”
He never slowed—just kept pushing you higher, mean and relentless.
And when you moaned his name?
He broke.
“I’m going to give you every twisted thing you’ve ever typed,” he growled. “Every fantasy you deleted. Every filthy draft you couldn’t finish. I’m going to make them real.”
Your climax slammed into you, shuddering through your bones—but he didn’t stop.
“I’ll tie you up in the library when no one’s looking,” he said, voice wicked. “Bend you over your best friend’s bed and leave a bruise only I’ll recognize.”
He laughed.
“I’ll make you cry my name with someone else inside you—just to remind you no one will ever ruin you like I do.”
You turned and kissed him, wild and unhinged.
He kissed back like a claim. Like he was branding your soul.
Then he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. Reached for a condom.
You stopped him.
“It’s safe today, Hee. Do me raw.”
His pupils darkened. Something dangerous sparked.
He freed himself and dragged his cock against your wetness, teasing your entrance. You moaned each time the head kissed you. His smile was smug. Addicted.
“Heeseung. Please.”
He nodded—and slid in all at once.
You gasped, overwhelmed, stretched so good it hurt in the most perfect way.
He rocked into you deep and slow, biting your neck, lips pressed against skin he couldn’t stop worshipping.
Then he pulled you upright—still inside you.
“You like this position, huh?”
You nodded, dizzy, undone. He studied you like he’d been preparing for a test. He always aced those.
Then—his thrusts changed. Not faster. Just deeper. Harder.
“Hee—”
“Like that, yeah?”
You nodded again, mouth open, breathless at every delicious, punishing thrust.
He looked so fucking good like this—hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, eyes glazed with need. You went for another kiss and he gripped your neck, slid to your hair, pulling until your back arched.
“Like that?”
“Yeah—yeah—fuck—don’t stop—”
He sucked your tits, relentless now, chasing both your highs. You clenched down so hard his groans turned ragged. He bit your nipple, then folded you in half, throwing your legs over his shoulders.
And then—he lost it.
He didn’t slow.
Not even as your body bucked under him, shaking.
He buried himself deeper, fingers biting into your hips, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucked you like he wanted to unmake you.
The monitors kept rolling. Your name flashing on screen, over your own moans.
You reached for him—some desperate grasp for balance—but he pinned your wrists above your head, fucked you harder. One of your legs slipped off his shoulder, and he yanked it back up with a grunt.
“Keep it there,” he snarled, breath ragged. “Don’t move unless I say.”
You didn’t.
You couldn’t.
You were already too far gone.
You felt yourself stretch around him again, again, again—your walls pulsing and fluttering with every brutal thrust. It was filthy, unrelenting, and it wasn’t enough.
Heeseung's voice was in your ear, low and wrecked.
“This how you like it?” he panted. “Getting used like this—getting ruined on camera for me?”
You sobbed a yes—high and gasping—and he growled. His hips snapped forward again, this time shoving you higher on the bed.
“Fucking take it.”
He leaned in, biting your lip, grinding deeper. The rhythm turned meaner—each thrust slamming into you with brutal precision.
“You like knowing I’ll replay this?” he whispered. “Jerk off to it when you’re not around?”
You moaned helplessly.
“Want you to. I want you obsessed.”
“Oh, I am,” he said. “You made me this.”
His rhythm stuttered—he was close. You could feel him twitch inside, groaning against your mouth.
Then—
He came.
Hard.
Buried deep.
His whole body went taut over yours, shuddering as he emptied himself, hips rolling slower, deeper. You felt the heat inside you, the stickiness, the way his cock throbbed even after the high.
And still—he didn't pull out.
He kissed your collarbone, your throat, lazily now. Worn out. Quiet.
The screen behind him kept glowing.
Your body was wrecked, your heart pounding against his chest.
He pulled you close, like he wasn’t finished. Like he never would be.
The next morning, the sun barely broke past his blackout curtains. You were still half-naked in his sheets when you heard his fingers tapping at his laptop. A fresh hoodie hung off his shoulder, hair a messy halo.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
You groaned into the pillow. “Already working?”
He smirked. “Coding clears my head. Better than coffee.”
You rolled over. He looked too good like this. Soft around the edges. Eyes warm.
“I wish you could come here,” he said. “To my university.”
You blinked, suddenly alert. He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “You did apply, right?”
“…Yeah.”
He nodded like he already knew. “But you didn’t tell me…pfff.”
Your stomach turned, just a little, as you smirked. “I didn’t want you to be happy for something so unsure.”
“I know.”
Silence. He got back typing.
“You really think I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “You think I’d just… let you leave somewhere else?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
He smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”
Your heartbeat slowed. Thick. Smiling unsure.
“Heeseung...”
He stood, walking over. Calm. Barefoot. Still smelling like last night and wanting more.
“I didn’t touch your application,” he said softly. “But I might’ve nudged the scholarship committee. You’re exceptional, after all.”
You froze. “Why?”
“Because you belong here, in that prestigious place and nowhere else.”
His fingers grazed your chin. Tender. Possessive.
“...With me.”
You swallowed. He tilted your face up to his, eyes half-lidded.
“You would've turned it down if you knew,” he murmured, getting his lips closer, smooching slowly. “You’re too proud for that kind of help. Too proud to admit you want to be kept.”
Your voice caught in your throat. “That’s not why I applied.”
“I know why you applied, just like me.”
His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.
“That’s why I made sure you’d stay. to be free.”
A flicker of something dangerous passed between you. Or maybe it had always been there. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“You think you’re playing me right now, huh,” he whispered, “but—what if I like being used, if it means I get to keep you?”
Your breath hitched. And he smiled. Like he’d already won. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe you’d just let him believe he had.
Author’s Note:
Babies~ here it is!! 💗 The second part of my enha stepbro AU (first one was HUNTED).
I really hope this one pleased you… did it??? 🥺
I worked so hard on this piece to match the exact vibe I had in mind. Like—why was I waking up at 3 AM with wild ideas for scene effects that were borderline impossible to execute?! 😭🌀
This one definitely has a different flavor! While HUNTED leaned into soft, needy sub!Jakey energy (bless him), I wanted TRAPPED to explore the more intoxicating side of obsession—but not so far that we start hating our sweet little Heeseung~ Just a touch of crazy, y’know?
I really hope the mood translated well, because after rereading it 500 times, I fully lost that "first read magic" feeling I’m not super proud of this draft yet—kinda wish I had more time to proofread and polish it up. I’ll probably update it later (perfectionist problems 😭).
Next up is Part 3, which is supposed to be Sunghoon’s! Let me know if you want anything special in it—I’m all ears... and pervy brain. Just know it’s gonna involve dacryphilia, so bring tissues… for various reasons
Warnings: Power imbalance, possesiveness, very minor mention of blood, mentions of financial desperations, dubious consent, reader is said to have delicate feet, ownership themes, human auction (reader is sold in an auction), physical touch, fluff-?, usage of both Niki and Riki thought referring to the same person- Nishimura Riki, obsessive behaviour, kisses on feet-?
Synopsis: You were a ballerina—graceful, delicate, and broke. When your mentor whispered about a secret gala, you didn’t know you’d be sold. Bought for a hundred million dollars by a man who spoke little and watched too closely, you expected control, cruelty, maybe even a golden cage. But he gave you quiet hallways to walk barefoot, silk sheets to sleep in, and a world scrubbed clean for your comfort. He never asked you to love him. He only made sure you had no reason not to.
Wordcount: 11,1k
Ballet wasn’t just another hobby to you.
It was your life. A silent language your body spoke when words didn’t do justice.
You find solace in the way you move your muscles, the way you pad on your toes, the way you twirl gracefully with your arms stretched.
You love the beautiful symphonies your body makes mirroring the music that plays, it was as if you were one with the music- the art.
You remember the first time you stood on your tip toes- your calves aching, your ankles trembling to balance the weight of your body, but you didn’t mind the pain. You loved it.
The pain only meant one thing- you were reaching, striving.
In a world where everything was slipping through your fingers, ballet stayed.
The studios which mirrored your delicate form.
The pale pink ribbons that moved with you like it was another part of your body.
The aching swell in your chest when the music began- like your heart recognized a home it had never seen.
There was some kind of peace to it. The kind of peace when your thoughts melted away and your body moved through the air.
You didn’t need applause- you didn’t want it.
You didn’t dance because you wanted to satisfy your mentor, you didn’t dance because you wanted the cheers. No. You danced because it reminded you you were alive. And that you weren’t alone- that ballet was with you.
Your shoes which weren't yours padded against the red carpet which led to a theatre.
The dress you’re wearing wasn't yours either. Neither were the diamond earrings which adorned your ears and the glittering thin chain which brushed against your neck everytime you turned your head.
Even your name on the invitation which was printed in delicate gold foil didn’t feel like yours. It was like your name didn’t deserve to be written and printed with such care, such luxury and such extravagance.
But desperate people learn how to lean on to illusions which aren’t theirs.
You looked around the huge halls, the empty space filled with over-the-top pieces covered with diamonds, detailed art pieces and tall ceilings. The interior was lit with warm gold light, soft classical music humming faintly through the windows.
You didn’t eat a full meal in days. Your rent was overdue. And yet here you were- drawn in by whispers and rumors, all tracing back to one thing.
A private gala.
A mysterious host.
A ballet auction.
“Just smile,” your mentor had told you interrupting your thoughts.
“You’re not there to blend in- you’re there to be seen.”
And so, you walked up the marble steps.
You didn’t know that once you entered, you wouldn’t be leaving on your own terms.
You didn’t know his eyes were already on you- sharp, unreadable, and far too focused for someone you’d never met.
And that’s how you are here, on the huge stage.
The air heavy with perfume and money. Everyone’s sitting around the velvet curtained stage, wearing sharp suits. Eyes gleaming. Like wolves dressed in suits.
You’re barefoot, your feet feeling the expensive and polished wood beneath you. Dressed in the faintest ivory silk, hair pinned like you are made out of porcelain, not bone and flesh.
You don’t speak.
You don't need to.
The music begins. A single piano note continued by multiple.
And you dance.
You dance like the men there don’t exist. Your body remembers the movements though your brain doesn’t. You spin. Controlled. Graceful. Your body dances as if it’s one with the notes.
The room holds its breathe like it’s amazed by your performance- your art.
A voice is heard cutting the invisible amazement resting on the peoples’ faces,
“Starting bid, 5 million dollars.”
It rises quickly.
“Seven.”
“Eight million.”
“Ten”
“Twenty-two.”
You kept dancing as if you aren’t hearing the money proposed to win you.
“Thirty-five million!”
Another shout. Another flash of a raised card.
And then—
From the back of the room:
“One hundred million.”
Silence. His voice sharp and sudden like a blade.
Everyone turns.
A young man sits alone, legs crossed, completely relaxed. No paddle. No number. Just a glass of untouched wine in his hand and eyes fixed solely on you.
He doesn’t say it again.
He doesn’t need to.
The host swallows. “Sold.”
The music stops. But you don’t. You do a one last spin. One last breathe. Before everything disappears into velvet.
And he? He watches you. Like he didn’t just buy you. Like he just bought you freedom and like he’s been waiting his whole life just for you to exist.
The sleek black car pulls up infont of the mansion- a fortress of glass, cement, history and wealth. The gate opens with a mechanical hum, and you feel the car entering. No one speaks. The driver doesn’t dare to glance at you. The windows are tinted too dark, but you don’t care.
The car finally stops; the door opens.
You step out, barefoot, the cool stone pressing against the arches of your foot. The mansion stands before you, towering and gleaming in the moonlight as if it’s the mansion’s way of welcoming. Everything is quiet, too quiet.
You’ve never been here before. You’ve never seen anything like this before.
You enter the mansion, your feet touching the cold marble underneath it. You admire the beautiful interior. It wasn’t extravagant, wasn't filled with huge chandeliers and wasn't filled with unnecessary expensive house decors. But it was perfect, plain black walls which reflected him, high ceilings, few paintings, and most minimal but luxurious interior you’ve ever seen.
And then-
“Welcome home.”
You turn to the source to see him standing, the one who bought you.
Nishimura Riki.
His hands are folded, his eyes too calm for someone who just spent an amount of money that could buy entire kingdoms. He looks young. But there’s something behind those dark eyes. Something old. Too old for his face.
“You should have stayed inside the car,” he continues, eyes moving over your bare feet, your attire, the soft lines of your form. “You’ll catch a cold.”
You raise an eyebrow, unfazed.
“Do you worry about everyone who steps foot in your home?”
He watches you for a long moment. Just looks. As if studying your every move, your breath, your body.
“Not everyone,” he answers finally, his voice dropping an octave. “But you’re different.”
You tilt your head slightly. A challenge, though still wrapped in that quiet, ethereal calm.
“How am I different?” you ask.
He doesn’t smile, but there’s an edge to his gaze.
“You’ll know.”
A slow pause, and you step forward, moving with the same grace you showed at the auction. You don’t say anything, just step lightly, like your drawn to the mansion despite the icy feeling it gives you.
“Do you own this?” you ask, your eyes scanning the modern, polished interior of the mansion.
“I do,” he says.
You don’t respond immediately. The silence wraps around you both again, thick and heavy.
“How long are you planning to keep me here?” You ask, your voice finally laced with something less passive—just a soft curiosity.
His lips curl into a smirk, just a little. But there’s something behind it. Something dangerous. He steps closer, leaning slightly forward as he speaks.
“As long as I want. And as long as you don’t give me a reason to make you leave.”
You meet his gaze evenly. No fear. No hesitation.
“I don’t leave,” you say quietly, “unless I’m forced to.”
His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something else—something darker.
“Then I suppose we’ll have to get along,” he says, almost like a promise.
He turns, motioning toward the hallway.
“Come. I’ll show you to your room.”
Your eyes flicker to his back as he leads you deeper into the mansion. It’s huge, an endless series of hallways, high ceilings, stark walls. There’s a feeling that every step you take is watched by invisible eyes. And every step he takes is watched by your eyes.
You reach a door at the end of the hallway; he slides the door open.
“This is where you’ll stay.” he says softly and steps aside so you could enter first.
The door slides open into a room so large it feels like a wing of the mansion. Your eyes widen slightly as you take in the scale of it- the enormous canopy bed, the floor to ceiling glass windows draped with rich, dark curtains, the white marble absorbing the soft glow of the lights.
The room smells like fresh flowers and something else, something clean, like new silk.
The bed is enormous, draped in white silk sheets that shimmer under the low lighting. Pillows are stacked high, luxurious, inviting. There’s a sitting area to the left, complete with velvet chairs and a long marble coffee table. A bookshelf filled with books you know you’ll read. A dresser, a vanity, a full-length mirror.
And then there’s the view. Out of the windows, you can see the mansion’s sprawling gardens- lawns so well-kept they look like the perfect still-life paintings. Nothing out of place. Everything too perfect.
For a moment, you don’t speak. Don’t move.
Niki watches you from the doorframe, his posture relaxed but his eyes intense. He knows you’re analyzing everything, but he doesn’t rush you.
“It’s a little…” he pauses as you step inside, your gaze still flickering around the room. “…larger than what you’re used to, I assume.”
You don’t respond at first. Instead, you run your fingers across the back of a velvet chair, then moves toward the bed. The silk sheets ripple slightly under your touch as you sit at the edge, your legs folded underneath you.
“It’s a little too much,” you say, almost under your breath. Your fingers graze the silk again, still hesitant.
You look up at him.
“What do you want from me?” you ask, your voice steady, but laced with something softer this time. There’s no edge to it, no rebellion—just a curious calm.
His gaze softens. Just a little. There’s something like admiration there, a flicker of understanding.
“For you to be comfortable,” he says quietly, his voice low, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’ll make sure you have everything you need.”
You don’t know if you believe him.
You glance at him, assessing. His eyes are steady—calm. He doesn’t seem like the type who’d force anyone into something they didn’t want. But his silence speaks louder than his words.
“Comfortable,” you repeat, tasting the word. The weight of the room, the overwhelming luxury, feels foreign. But you don’t want to show him that. Not yet.
You stand up, the silk sheets pooling around your feet as you walk towards the window. You stare out at the garden for a long moment, taking in the moonlight, the cold air that filters in.
Riki stays at the door, watching you, but doesn’t speak yet.
“It’s still too much,” you say softly, almost like a confession.
“Everything I have,” he says after a pause, his voice a little more serious, “I have because I want it. If I wanted you to be just another piece of property, I would’ve given you a room just like any other. But I bought you for a reason. I want you to want this.”
You look back at him over your shoulder.
“You think I want any of this?” you ask, your words quiet, but sharp.
Riki doesn’t move, but his gaze doesn’t waver.
“You will,” he says simply.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He nods, stepping back slowly, giving you space.
“If you need anything,” he says, his voice softer, “just call. The house is yours now. But only as long as you make it your own.”
With that, he turns, but not without one last look over his shoulder.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door long after he’s gone.
And though the room feels too large, too empty, you can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take before it starts to feel like yours.
The dining table stretched long and polished, lined with plates and neatly folded napkins that look too delicate for how heavy the air felt.
A staff guides you to the dining room, your bare foot padding behind them against the marble floor.
You sat near the middle, fingers curling and uncurling in your lap. The silk dress they’d given you was too smooth, too perfect. You felt like a misplaced figurine — breakable in a place built for power.
And at the other end of the table…
He watched.
Riki.
He nodded once at the maid. A plate was set before you, silverware shining like it had never been used.
“You should eat,” he said, voice smooth — quiet, but final.
You glanced down at the food. Everything looked expensive. Fragile. Like if you touched it wrong, it would vanish or crack under the pressure of being touched by someone like you.
He noticed your hesitation.
“They asked what you liked,” he added, almost softer this time. “I told them to make a little bit of everything.”
Your gaze lifted slightly, brows tightening.
“You didn’t know what I liked.”
“I wanted to find out.”
Silence again. The kind that wrapped around your throat but didn’t choke.
He was eating too, now — unhurried, elegant in the way predators usually were. Not once did he look away. Not once did his focus shift.
You took a bite. Small. Careful.
He smiled.
“Do you like it?”
You gave the faintest nod. And something about that pleased him too much.
“From now on,” he said, sipping his wine, “you eat with me.”
It wasn’t a demand.
It wasn’t a suggestion either.
It was just something he had already decided.
And you?
You only picked up your fork again.
Because you could feel it — the way the walls of this place whispered his presence.
There was nowhere to hide.
But there was also… no reason to.
Not when he looked at you like you were a piece of art finally returned to its rightful collector.
After completing dinner, you left to your room to rest as Niki suggested. The staff guided your way back to the room, your feet as always, bare walking on the marble but now, it didn’t feel cold. You don’t know if it’s because you accepted it or because you started to like it.
A few days pass by. Niki showed you a ballroom filled with delicate and sheer white cloth surround few areas, art painted across the ceiling with an elegant chandelier in between, a gramophone which fills out the room when played in the corner of the room sitting on a table beside a box full of classical discs.
Riki told you few stories which were experienced by the people in the frames which sat on his wall in the office room. He told the meanings of every art piece you questioned the backstory of. He bought you drinks in the middle of the day when you were laying on the bed bored or just were simply watching the TV.
One thing Niki also did was he noticed every single thing about you.
Like how you like your drinks cool, how you always read in the evenings when it’s about to get dark outside, how your eyes don’t glow with delight when you eat food you don’t like, how you nod your head- just a little when you like the food, how you like to roam around the huge space and especially how you walk barefoot all the time.
You walk barefoot all the time. Right. He noticed it, ofcourse he did.
He didn’t tell you to wear slippers- hell, he didn't even ask you to wear socks. Because he thinks, you can do whatever you wish for. He didn’t want to restrict you, no. He didn’t buy you at the auction for that. He wanted you to be free. He wanted you to do whatever you want without any concerns. He wanted you to think of him as your safe place.
But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you- care about the floors which may not be truly clean because before you, no one walked around the mansion barefoot. The floors were cleaned once every morning due to the sake of it. But this shouldn’t continue because now? Now you’re here, in the mansion with your delicate foot pressing on the white marble.
And that’s the reason why he’s standing in the middle of the main hall, his dark eyes sweeping upon the numerous staff lined up before him. A cold silence hung between them—until he spoke.
“Now on, the floors will be cleaned three times a day,” he said, voice like a blade. “In the morning, during lunch and during dinner.”
A few of them blinked, confused. No one dared question him. Still, one hand lifted in hesitation.
“Sir, if I may—”
“You may not,” he cut, calmly.
“No shoes in the east wing. No carts. No buckets left out. Not a speck of dust. If her feet touch it, and I see a mark…”
He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Let’s just hope I never have to explain what happens next.”
The room went still.
“And one more thing,” he said, voice soft but full of threat. “Do not approach her. Do not speak to her. If she asks for something, inform me. If she wanders into your space, you disappear from it.”
His tone didn’t rise once. He didn’t have to. Every word was an order etched in stone.
“That girl walks barefoot in my house,” he murmured, almost to himself now, eyes distant. “So, the world she walks on will obey.”
Then he turned away and disappeared into the endless hallways, his staff watching him until he’s out of sight. No one understood why he’s like this, but no one dared to question too. With that, the staff disappeared with the new rules repeating in their mind like mantra.
The room feels like it’s closing itself again, the silence too thick, too still. You’ve been staring out the long windows for too long, your fingers brushing against the cool glass. The garden bellow calls to you in a way you can't ignore.
The huge transparent mirror is acting like a shield, protecting the freedom, the liveliness and the peace that comes from the garden. It’s the only thing that’s stopping you from going out and laying on the grass.
It looks alive, so alive compared the stillness inside your room right now. The trees sway gently in the night breeze and you can hear the soft hum of insects even through the thick glass windows. There's something about it, the life, the freedom of it all tugs at your chest.
You stand up abruptly, walking to the door, your silk gown brushing against your mid thighs and you slide the door open before you can second guess yourself. The house is quiet as always, but you aren't interested to keep up with the silence anymore.
You find him in the hallway, sitting on the couch with his legs crossed and a phone in his hand.
"I want to see the backyard." You say, the words slipping out. It's not a demand, but it's not a request either. It's a need, a soft yearning in your voice which surprises you more than it should.
He pauses and then turns his head, looking at you with that unreadable expression. His eyes flicker down to your bare legs and feet, the hard marble beneath, before meeting your gaze again.
"It's late." He replies, but the tone isn't dismissive. There's something about the way he speaks that feels more like a suggestion, but also more like permission. He's not stopping you, but he's not pushing either.
You hold his gaze for a beat longer before speaking again.
"I know, But I can see it from my room- I want to go, it seems so lively out there. I just want to feel it. The world out there feels different." You trail off, unsure of what exactly you're trying to say.
Niki doesn't respond immediately, and you almost thought he'll deny it-
"Alright," he says after a moment, he gets up, his voice soft but firm. "If you really want to."
You're happy, more than anything. It feels like there are no more chains which make you roam only in the insides, no restrictions- just freedom. Freedom of going out for the first time after coming here, taking in the fresh air. You don't waste any time. You step forward and he follows you as you move towards the exit- towards the freedom.
When you finally step outside, the cool and fresh air brushes over your skin and you breathe it in deeply, savoring it. The grass feels soft beneath your feet, like walking on a thick carpet, cool and welcoming.
You pause, letting the sensation sink it. The feel of nature beneath you is something you didn't even realize you craved until now. The quiet rustling of leaves and the happy sounds of birds are the only sounds that fill in the air.
You close your eyes for a moment, letting the moment stretch out, almost like you could forget where you were for just a brief instant. But the sound of footsteps approaching made your eyes open.
Riki’s in the garden with his back leaning against the garden side of your window. He doesn’t come any closer, but his presence is still felt.
“It’s peaceful out here,” you murmur, looking back at him.
“It is,” he agrees, his voice low, almost like a secret shared between them.
He watches you, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. Not one of triumph, not one of ownership—just something soft, something real.
“You’ll get used to it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, the way the night air carries a promise.
“It’s nice,” you murmured, half to yourself.
“You can come here whenever you want,” he said, his voice lower now, softer. “I had it made for you. Just... don’t be out too late.”
You don’t answer. Instead, you look back down at the soft grass beneath your feet, your toes curling into it, grounding yourself.
And for a moment, it feels like home.
The door creaked open with barely a sound.
You didn’t flinch — you heard the footsteps long before. Measured, quiet, almost respectful. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.
Still, you kept your eyes on the book resting in your lap, the pages bathed in the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp. Your legs were tucked beneath the sheets, the silk brushing your skin, and the room smelled faintly of lavender and well, you.
“You’re not asleep,” he said, more observation than question.
You turned a page.
“Neither are you.”
There was a pause.
Then the soft click of the door shutting behind him.
You could feel the air shift, his presence taking up more space than his body ever did. He stepped closer, eyes flickering to the book in your hands.
“What are you reading?”
“Something old. Something quiet,” you replied.
He nodded once, slowly. And then, without asking, he moved to the armchair across from your bed and sat — legs crossed, one hand pressed to his lips as he simply watched.
“You could’ve slept in your own bed,” you murmured.
“Could’ve,” he echoed. “Didn’t want to.”
Your eyes met across the space. And for a moment, it was quiet. Deep, gentle quiet. The kind that doesn't demand answers, only stays.
Then he leaned back, voice barely above a whisper.
“Read to me.”
You blinked. “Now?”
“You’re already awake.”
A beat.
“And your voice makes things softer.”
You didn’t answer.
You just looked back down at the page, cleared your throat, and began.
And while your words filled the silence, Niki didn’t say anything more.
He just… watched.
Listened.
Stayed.
Your feet padded themselves to the ballroom without you knowing few days after that.
The ballroom was empty, but it never felt lonely. Because ballet and music accompanied you in this vast room.
You stood in the center — barefoot, breath steady, arms poised.
The early morning sun spilled through the grand windows, golden and soft, catching on the polished floors like liquid light. The air was quiet, save for the gentle creak of old gramophone and the faint rustle of your skirt as you moved.
This place — for all its grandeur, its intimidating size — felt oddly yours when you danced.
You moved slowly at first, like the music was inside you and still waking. A turn. A lift of your arm. A precise bend of your ankle. The marble kissed your feet like it knew their rhythm.
And then — freedom.
Your body spun into motion, fluid and deliberate. Every step, every gesture, a word unspoken. You danced like you were trying to remember who you were before the world asked too much of you. Before names and price tags. Before being sold, before belonging.
Now — you only belonged to the music.
You danced.
Not for anyone.
Not to impress.
Just because you could.
Just because the quiet felt softer when your body moved to fill it.
Your silhouette spun beneath the high ceilings, your nightgown fluttering like the petals of a lily, weightless with every turn. Every step glided, every pirouette melted back into stillness, like water finding its shape again.
Somewhere behind you, unseen but always felt, Niki leaned silently against the doorway.
He didn’t interrupt. He never did when you danced. He just watched.
His lips didn’t part.
His hands didn’t move.
But in the quiet corners of his soul, something stirred every time you danced.
As if you were a language only he could read.
As if you were never meant to be anything but his.
No matter how many times you ate multiple meals in the dining room you never got used the ridiculously long dining table.
You counted the chairs once — twenty-six, twelve on each side and two on each end. All of them carved from dark walnut, shining under the crystal chandelier that glowed like a silent star above the table.
You were seated at one end. He sat at the other.
And yet, the room didn’t feel empty.
"You're not going to move closer?" you asked, delicately spearing a piece of fruit on your fork.
Niki looked up from his plate — eyes steady, expression unreadable.
“No,” he said calmly. “I like seeing you like this. Lit up. Like you're part of the art in this room.”
You didn’t answer, though your brows lifted slightly. His gaze lingered, not on your plate, but on your fingers — the way they moved, how your foot tapped lightly against the marble beneath.
You chewed slowly. “It’s strange eating alone when someone else is here.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”
“Across twenty feet of table,” you murmured.
He didn’t deny it. Not when you were right and even if you weren’t he wouldn’t deny it then too.
Instead, he stood. You watched him silently as he walked — unhurried — around the table, the soft clink of his shoes echoing in the high-ceilinged hall.
And then, without a word, he pulled out the chair beside you.
He sat, poured you more water like he’d been doing it for years, and placed your napkin across your lap again when it had slipped.
“Better?” he asked.
You looked at him, quiet, your voice softer now.
“Why do you always wait until I ask?”
His gaze was steady.
“Because I like when you ask,” he said. “It means you want me close.”
You didn’t respond. Just lowered your eyes back to the plate and took another bite.
But now, the table didn’t feel so large.
And neither did the space between you.
You both continued to eat while you talk about random stuff. Random stuff including you talking about the recent book, the trope, the characters, your opinion, your analysis most of the time and him nodding, replying and asking questions.
It was simple and you liked it like that.
Somehow, he didn’t make the empty mansion feel lonely, he made it homely even though it’s hard for you to accept it. Not because you hate him but because you never felt like this before. Never felt someone’s care, never felt someone’s love and never felt someone’s presence which was homely and comforting for once. And now that he’s giving all of it to you at once, you aren't sure if it's a dream or not.
Another thing which you never got used to no matter how many times you’ve wandered in these hallways and rooms are its vastness.
You were walking on your feet just like every day but this time you wandered too far.
The hallway you were in was quiet, long, and unfamiliar — no windows, only polished walls reflecting your silhouette and a dozen identical doors. The mansion was a maze made of marble and silence, and you’d made the mistake of thinking you’d remember your way back from the garden wing.
You turned a corner, paused.
And then — a voice behind you.
“Miss? Are you lost?”
You looked back. One of the newer staff, young, maybe a year or two older than you. He looked nervous, holding a tray of clean towels.
“A little,” you admitted. “The halls here feel endless.”
He gave a soft laugh and stepped forward, hesitant but kind.
“I can walk you back to your room— It’s easy to get turned around in the east wing.”
You nodded gratefully. Just as he was about to gesture toward the main corridor, he hesitated — then gently reached for your hand, fingers barely brushing your wrist to guide you.
“This way—”
And then he froze.
The air changed.
You turned your head just as a voice, low and sharp as cut glass, filled the space.
“Don’t touch her.”
Riki.
You hadn’t even heard his steps. But now he was there — at the end of the hallway, his figure calm, but his tone ice-cold. The staff member instantly pulled his hand back, eyes wide.
“S-sorry, sir— I just—”
“She knows how to walk on her own,” Ni-ki said, approaching slowly. “And she doesn’t like being touched by strangers.”
He was looking at you when he said it. Not the staff.
You watched the way his eyes flicked to your wrist — the one that had been touched — then back to your face. Not angry. Just… quietly displeased. Possessive, in a way that didn’t shout but made the whole hallway hold its breath.
“Go,” he said to the boy. The worker bowed quickly and disappeared down another hall.
Riki stepped close, his voice softer now.
“You should’ve waited for me.”
You tilted your head. “I didn’t realize I needed permission.”
His lips curved, ever so slightly.
“You don’t. But I like it when you wait anyway.”
Then he offered his hand — not demanding, not forceful — just there.
And this time, it was you who took it.
He didn’t speak much as he walked beside you.
Just the sound of your bare feet against the cool marble and his longer steps matching your pace. The mansion stretched behind you like a forgotten dream — and ahead of you, he guided, not pulling, just… gently leading.
When he finally stopped, it wasn’t your room. It was his.
Warm light filtered through sheer curtains, and the smell of something faintly familiar — cedar and rain — hung in the air. His room always felt lived-in, quiet, real.
You stood in the middle, not saying anything.
Then, slowly, Niki turned toward you.
His eyes dropped to your wrist.
The same one that had been touched earlier.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t comment.
But his fingers reached for it, careful and slow — like he was checking if the imprint of someone else still lingered there. His thumb brushed over the skin, once. Then again.
“Did it bother you?” he asked quietly, eyes not meeting yours.
You shrugged. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“I know,” he murmured. But he kept his hand there anyway. His touch was different — it never lingered where it wasn’t wanted, but when it did stay, it stayed with meaning.
You looked up at him, curious. “Then why do you look like it did?”
He didn’t answer.
Just kept his thumb moving across that same spot — soft, absent, like he was wiping away a fingerprint only he could see.
“Because it’s yours,” he finally said, voice low. “Your wrist. Your skin. But I’ve seen you dance enough to know every inch of it by heart. It doesn’t feel right when someone else touches it before me.”
Your heart ached, not in pain — but in the strange, quiet way someone’s protectiveness can settle deep inside you.
You didn’t stop him.
And he didn’t stop touching you.
He turned around, opening the door and moved aside so, you could enter first.
You enter without hesitation and let your eyes wander around his room.
You didn’t ask to stay.
But you didn’t have to.
You moved to sit on the edge of his bed — silk sheets pulled tight, a softness that held no weight. You touched the hem of your dress absently; your bare feet tucked beneath you. He said nothing. Just watched, still standing where he had been, as if waiting to see what you needed.
You looked up at him.
“Is it alright if I…?”
You trailed off. The words didn’t come easily — they never did when it came to him. Because no matter how gentle he was, Riki had a way of making everything feel fragile, sacred. Like one wrong move would crack the porcelain.
But he understood anyway.
“Stay?” he asked quietly, as if confirming something he already knew.
“Of course.”
He walked to the far side of the bed, slow and calm. Then without another word, he drew the curtains closed with a single tug. The night dimmed around you like a secret being kept from the world.
“You don’t have to be anywhere else,” he added, voice softer now. “Not tonight.”
You watched as he stepped away for a moment — returning with a folded blanket and placing it at the edge of the bed, like a silent offer. But then he sat beside you, careful not to crowd your space. His presence alone was warm.
Your wrist still tingled faintly where he had touched it.
“You always walk like you don’t want to leave footprints,” he murmured, not quite looking at you.
You blinked, smiling faintly. “I don’t like disturbing the world.”
He tilted his head. “Then I’ll make sure the world stays quiet when you move through it.”
There was no grand gesture. No reaching for you. Just stillness.
But you leaned back against the pillows anyway, letting the silence hold you.
And when he eventually laid down beside you, careful and slow, you didn’t flinch.
You stayed.
And so did he.
The next morning rolled by quickly, it was the same routine. You both had meals together, once in a while you’d bump into each other and then you’d talk but return to your own things quickly. And now, you were laying on your bed tossing and turning. It was late, you should be asleep by now but you aren't because whenever you close your eyes, yesterday’s incidents show up.
It was as if the insides of your eye lids were etched with the memory of you and him sleeping together in the same bed, same room and same atmosphere. You never slept so peacefully and carefree before yesterday. You felt comfortable and... protected.
But now that you are alone without Riki’s invisible shield of comfort, you feel weird and sleeps not coming to you at all. So, with a groan, you put your feet down and walk yourself to the bookshelf taking a book you found interesting.
You took that book and without a second thought, slid the door open and walked towards Niki’s room.
The silence of the mansion stretched endlessly, broken only by the distant sound of the wind brushing against the tall windows. Your bare feet padded softly along the cold marble floor, like a ghost searching for something familiar in a place too grand.
Eventually, your steps brought you to his bedroom.
Riki was already sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him, his phone resting in his hand. The glow of the warm bedside lamp threw shadows across his face, making him look almost unreal—too still, too beautiful.
He looked up when you entered. His expression didn’t change, didn’t question. Just a quiet understanding in his eyes.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and calm.
You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Can you... read to me?”
There was a pause, and then a small tilt of his head as he glanced at you and the book in your hands.
“Come here.”
You climbed onto the bed, not in the middle, but closer to his side—close enough that your shoulder lined up with his chest. You leaned gently back into him. He didn’t move away. In fact, he adjusted as he took the book, shifting the book slightly and pulling you into him more securely.
His right arm held the book, while his left, the one curled around you from behind, slid up and helped support the other edge of the book—like you were both reading together, but he held it for you.
His arm stayed firmly around your waist, your back against his chest, his chin at the side of your head. The book was stretched across in front of you both, resting against his arm and yours. His fingers gently flipped the pages as his voice began to fill the room, reading the story with a steady, soft rhythm.
You barely heard the words.
Because all you could focus on was this:
The warmth of him at your back.
The slow rise and fall of his chest against your spine.
The way his hand, the one around your waist, adjusted the book with care—not once letting go of you, not even to turn the page.
You were in his arms.
Not trapped. Not caged. Just… there. Held. Close. Safe.
Every time he spoke, the words hummed softly against your back. Every time he breathed, your body rose with him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. In that moment, he wasn’t the man who bought you. He was just the man reading beside you—holding the book with you, like it was a shared secret.
And you let yourself sink into the comfort of it, slowly, silently, like a petal folding into the palm of his hand.
You weren’t even aware of when your eyes began to flutter shut.
His voice had that effect—low, steady, curling into your mind like warm smoke. The story blurred at the edges. Words became sounds. Sounds became nothing.
His chest rose and fell gently behind you, one arm still wrapped around your waist, the other steadily holding the book, though the words had started to slow, and then pause.
He felt it.
The shift in your body. The weight of your head relaxing back, your temple brushing against his collarbone. Your breathing evened out. Calm. Light. Deep.
He lowered the book slowly, carefully—not wanting to move too much.
His eyes shifted down to you. Your lashes rested softly on your cheeks, lips parted slightly. Your hand had curled lightly against his thigh, fingers resting there as if you had been reaching for something in your sleep and found him.
Riki didn’t move. Not for a long time.
He just watched you, the way you trusted him without saying a word. The way your body softened only in his arms. Like this enormous house, this lonely palace of glass and silence, only became real when you were inside it, barefoot and blinking at the world.
His thumb brushed the side of your arm, tracing slow circles through the fabric of your sleeve.
You sleep like you belong here, he thought.
And God help him—he wanted you to.
He reached over with his free hand, setting the book down gently on the bedside table. Then, with a slow breath, he shifted down, pulling the blankets over the two of you, careful not to wake you.
You didn’t stir.
So he stayed like that—your face tucked just beneath his chin, your breath warming the cotton of his shirt, your fingers lightly curled against his chest.
Niki pressed a kiss to the top of your head, light but firm.
“Sleep dove,” he whispered, the word only for you.
“You’re safe here.”
And for the first time in years, he slept too.
You woke to warmth.
Not the cold shine of chandeliers or the hush of marble floors. Not the distant echo of silence that usually greeted you. No — it was warmth that curled over you like sunlight and safety.
Your cheek was resting on something steady. Soft fabric. A heartbeat beneath it.
You blinked, slowly, and looked up.
He was already awake.
Niki’s gaze was already on you — sharp eyes calm, unreadable, but somehow... soft. His arm was still around you, firm but gentle, the weight of it like a promise you didn’t ask for.
“You slept through sunrise,” he murmured, voice low with sleep.
“That’s rare.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your voice hadn’t found you yet, and the weight of the moment held your tongue in place.
You shifted slightly — his hand tightened around your waist without thinking, pulling you back before you could move far.
“Stay,” he said, simply. Like a rule.
Your lips parted, brows raising just a little.
“I wasn’t leaving,” you whispered.
A silence passed. His eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes.
“Good.”
His hand moved to your hair, brushing it back gently from your face, fingers warm against your cheek. He didn’t smile — Riki rarely did. But there was something else. Something deeper in the way he looked at you.
Like he could command the entire world to stop spinning — if you ever asked him to.
Like he already had.
And still, he didn’t ask you why you came to him last night. He didn’t ask what kept you awake. He never asked for more than you gave.
He simply reached behind you, pulled the blanket up again — and drew you back to his chest.
“Five more minutes dove,” he murmured into your hair.
“Then I’ll have breakfast brought up.”
You didn’t protest.
You didn’t want to.
You stayed.
You must’ve dozed off again, because the next time your eyes fluttered open, the sun had climbed higher — spilling golden light across the silk sheets, warm and almost surreal.
The space beside you was empty.
But you weren’t alone.
The faint sound of footsteps reached your ears first — steady, deliberate — followed by the soft click of the door opening.
“You’re awake,” Riki’s voice came, smooth and quiet.
You turned toward him — he was dressed now, though not fully formal. Still loose dark sleeves, still barefoot. Still impossibly composed, as though nothing ever touched him.
Except you.
He stepped aside, and in came the staff, heads bowed, silent. A tray was set down on the marble side table, covered in a fine white cloth.
“Leave it. I’ll handle it,” he ordered.
They left. Quickly. Quietly. Like shadows.
You sat up slowly, the blanket still drawn around you, hair falling gently over one shoulder. Niki’s eyes followed you with a look only he wore — the kind that studied and claimed at the same time.
“You didn’t have dinner last night,” he murmured, pulling the tray closer.
“Eat.”
He lifted the cover — steam curling into the morning air. Warm fruit pastries. Soft eggs. Toast. Fresh juice. Not too much. Just enough.
You blinked. “You didn’t have to bring it here.”
He didn’t respond at first. Just placed the napkin gently in your lap, then slid the tray over your legs.
Then his eyes met yours.
“I wanted to,” he said.
“Especially when it comes to you.”
You looked away.
But not for long.
His fingers reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear — slow, deliberate.
“Eat,” he said again.
“You can go back to not talking to me after.”
You let out the barest breath of a laugh. Not mocking. Just… small. Real.
And you took a bite.
His eyes stayed on you the entire time.
It was just another day, you were walking around the mansion, padding through different hallways and just enjoying the peace. The floor- like always is clean. No clutter. No forgotten dust. No stray things that could catch your toe or disturb your peace. Especially after you came here. Every surface, every hallway, every corner—immaculate.
But today, someone had made a mistake.
You were walking down the hallway again, your steps light and silent as usual, your thoughts elsewhere. Until—
Crack.
A sharp sting sliced through the underside of your foot.
You inhaled sharply, stumbling back with a soft gasp, your heel immediately lifting off the ground. You looked down. Red. It was already trickling across the white marble like a delicate thread of silk.
Your breath hitched—not in panic, not in pain. But in mild disbelief.
Your fingers gripped the wall for balance, the pain sharp and clean. You look at the cut brining your leg up and then the glass that shimmered in the light, a sliver of it still embedded which was on the floor.
That’s when you heard him.
“What happened?” came the voice—calm, deep, but already laced with something tight.
You didn’t have to look up. You knew that tone. He was always behind you. Always watching.
He was beside you in seconds.
His eyes dropped to your foot, and something changed in his expression. Softness cracked beneath steel. His jaw tensed as he crouched infront of you, fingers already reaching for your foot, surprisingly gentle.
He looked at the cut as if he’s processing something unacceptable.
You watched him as he cradled your foot in his hands, inspecting the wound with careful attention. He didn’t speak again—just moved. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it gently to stop the bleeding.
You whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t see—”
“You shouldn’t have had to,” he cut her off quietly, but not coldly.
Then he stood.
“Ji-woon!” His voice rang sharply down the hall. A name barked, cold and final. One of the workers came rushing in, face already pale. “I told you,” Riki said, voice low and dangerous, “this house stays perfect. No dust. No clutter. No risk. She walks barefoot.”
“S-sir, I—I thought—”
“You thought,” he interrupted. “She’s bleeding.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The worker was already shaking.
“Get out,” he said simply. “You're done, I'll deal with you later.”
Once the man disappeared, Niki was kneeling infront of you again, dabbing the blood off with his kerchief. He didn’t speak as he cleaned the wound carefully. His fingers were gentle. Reverent. As if hurting your foot was equivalent to failing as a man.
He was already moving again, lifting you up before you could protest. His arms were warm, strong, and you let your head rest lightly against his shoulder, feeling comfort in his presence.
“You walk on your feet too much.” He states as he walks with you in his arms.
You wrap your hands around his neck and hum, “I like to feel the world beneath me.”
“You shouldn’t have to bleed to feel the world,” he whispered.
And you didn’t know if he meant it as comfort or warning.
Later that night after he made a doctor treat your cut, he left while you stayed on your bed. Dinner was bought to you. There were constant maids checking up on you if you wanted anything. And more books bought into your room by one of the staff.
You were sitting on the bed with your back against the headboard and your thoughts floating in your brain.
You heard the door before you saw him. A soft click, so soft it could’ve been the wind. You didn’t lift your head — you knew who it was by the silence he always carried.
“You’re still awake,” Ni-ki said quietly, his voice brushing the room like velvet.
You kept your eyes on the book.
“I didn’t feel like sleeping.”
He moved closer, not bothering to ask permission, and sat at the edge of the bed. You glanced up briefly — his shirt sleeves were rolled up, veins visible on his forearms. His gaze wasn’t on your book. It was on your foot — the one wrapped neatly in a soft bandage.
“Still hurts?” he asked.
You shook your head once. “Not really.”
He didn’t answer, but his fingers ghosted over your ankle anyway — just barely. Checking, like he didn’t quite trust your words.
“Don’t worry” he said. “he’s fired.”
You blinked. “You fired him?”
“Of course I did.”
A pause. Then softer — “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”
You stared at him then. Not because of what he said, but the way he said it. Like it offended him. Like your blood on the floor was a crime against something sacred.
“You should sleep,” he murmured after a beat.
“You should, too,” you replied.
He smiled faintly — almost like it surprised him. His hand left your foot, brushing the edge of the blanket instead.
“I will. Once I know you’re resting. Sleep early, dove”
You didn’t respond.
You just watched as he stood, walking back toward the door — slow, deliberate, never turning his back on you completely.
And as the door closed again with that same quiet click. You laid yourself completely on the bed and pulled the covers up- the silk rubbing against your legs as you reach your dreamland with full of thoughts- thoughts of him.
You were curled up on the oversized velvet couch, legs stretched out, your back resting comfortably against the armrest. A quiet film flickered on the screen in front of you. The room was dim and warm, the kind of stillness that made time feel slower.
Then, you heard the faint sound of footsteps — the kind that were so familiar by now you didn’t even have to turn to know it was him.
Niki.
He didn't say anything at first. Just walked in quietly, gaze drifting to you with that unreadable calm he always wore. You stayed as you were, unmoving, used to the way he never asked before doing things.
He reached the couch, and you felt his hands gently take hold of your ankles. You blinked, watching as he carefully lifted your legs — like you were something breakable — and sat down in the space where they had been. Then, without a word, he laid your legs back across his lap.
Your heel rested against his thigh, your toes brushing the edge of his coat. You watched him from the corner of your eye, something inside you oddly still. His hand found your foot, thumb stroking a slow, lazy circle against your heel.
It wasn’t ticklish. It wasn’t meant to be. It was grounding.
Comforting.
“You’re cold,” he said softly, mostly to himself. His other hand settled on your ankle, thumb brushing along your skin again. “You should’ve said something.”
You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t need to.
“I didn’t notice,” you murmured, half-focused on the way his thumb moved. " ‘s warm now."
His jaw ticked slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. He just kept rubbing soft, unhurried circles against your foot — the kind of gesture someone wouldn’t do unless they really cared.
You watched him in stillness — the way his fingers traced every curve, every line of your sole like it was scripture only he could read. His brows were slightly drawn; lips parted like he was whispering secrets to your skin without words.
Then his head dipped lower.
You felt his breath first — warm, feather-light against the delicate arch of your foot.
And then, he kissed you there.
Not rushed, not fleeting. A slow, deliberate press of his lips against the softest part of you. Like it was sacred. Like you were sacred.
His thumb brushed your ankle as he pulled back just an inch, but he didn’t look up. He stared at the place he kissed, then lowered his head again — this time to the side of your heel, then your toes, reverent, unhurried.
“You don’t even know,” he murmured, his voice quiet, a little rough. “How much I’d ruin the world just so you never have to walk on it.”
Your breath caught.
He finally looked up, eyes dark but soft, mouth still near your skin.
“I’d carry you everywhere, if you let me.”
You look away not knowing what to say, but your attention was on him.
And his on you.
You pressed your feet not hard- but light and firm against the palm of his hand.
Neither of you needed to speak. Not in moments like this.
Here, in this cocoon of quiet, he didn’t need to say what you already knew — that you were his, that he would always make space for you. Even if it meant rearranging the entire world just so you could lie comfortably on a couch.
With that you both continued watching the film in the comforting atmosphere which made both of yours hearts warm.
The door to his bedroom was open, just like always.
You stepped in quietly, the silk of your nightwear whispering against your skin as you padded barefoot across the polished floor. Niki was sitting against the headboard, laptop on his thighs, the pale light from the screen casting a soft glow across his sharp features.
You climbed onto the bed without a word, your movements slow and silent, as if not to disturb him — but Niki didn’t need you to be careful. He always knew when you were near.
You settled beside him, laying on your stomach, your face resting just beside his hip. The cool silk sheets felt soft against your skin, your legs curling slightly to the side. He was warm there beside you — not just in presence, but in something else, something steadying. Familiar.
Niki didn’t glance down right away, but you could feel the shift in his breath, the subtle stilling of his fingers on the keyboard. Then his hand, the one not working, moved gently — his knuckles brushing along your cheekbone, slow and absentminded an. His thumb swept just beneath your eye before sliding into your hair, fingers threading through it gently.
“You always end up right here,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You nuzzled closer without answering, your eyes fluttering shut, cheek resting against the softness of his hoodie where it draped across his hip, your chin on his thigh.
“Makes it hard to concentrate,” he added, but you could hear the smile under his breath. He didn’t ask you to move.
Instead, his hand settled at the back of your head, protective, his thumb occasionally stroking your temple while he kept working — one hand typing, the other gently cradling you like you were something fragile, sacred.
You watched him for a while, the soft glow of his laptop illuminating his focused expression, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys. The quiet buzz of the room, the soft rhythm of his typing — it all seemed to fall into the background as you settled more comfortably beside him, your face still near his hip.
Curiosity tugged at you. “What are you doing?” you asked softly, breaking the quiet, your voice barely above a murmur.
Niki didn’t look at you right away. His gaze was still focused on the screen, but you could see the faint twitch of his lips. “Work,” he answered, his voice casual, but with a hint of amusement.
You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Work?” you repeated, shifting a little to look at him more directly. “I didn’t know you were working tonight.”
He finally glanced at you, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small, knowing smile. “There’s always something to handle,” he said, his voice low. But the smile didn’t last long — instead, it softened as he looked down at you again, the light from the screen catching the warmth in his gaze.
You tilted your head slightly, curiosity still lingering in your eyes. “You are working so late,” you murmured, a small frown tugging at your lips.
He hummed softly, shifting his position just slightly so he could lean closer. “I don’t mind,” he said quietly, the words filled with that same quiet intensity he always carried, “But I don’t want you to feel like you’re bothering me.”
A comfortable silence hung between you, but you didn’t break your gaze. Niki’s hand, still resting on the laptop, slowly moved away as if in response to the unspoken tension in the air.
“Do you need anything?” he asked after a pause, a softness creeping into his voice.
It was then that you let your curiosity spill into something more intimate. “Just you,” you whispered, shifting closer to him, ready to pull him from the world of his work.
And just like that, the click of the keyboard stopped, the weight of his attention shifted, and you felt his focus solely on you. His hand, the one that had been cradling your head, paused for a moment before gliding down your back in a long, quiet stroke. Then came the soft click of his laptop closing.
“You're done?” you murmured, barely above a whisper, eyes still closed.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost lazy. “I’ve got better things to hold.”
You felt the laptop move off the bed, replaced by the warmth of his full attention. Niki shifted, slowly turning his body toward you. His hand found your waist and pulled you gently into him, tucking you into his side. Your face now rested against his abdomen, and one of his arms curled around your shoulders like a shield, holding you close, like you were his grounding point — not the work, not the empire, just you.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, staying there for a moment longer than usual.
“This is better,” he whispered into your hair.
You smiled, eyes fluttering closed again.
And he just stayed like that, holding you, work forgotten on the nightstand.
The grand ballroom stretched out before you, its lavish details and golden accents reflecting the light from the crystal chandeliers above. The air was quiet, only the soft echo of your footsteps as you stood in the center, surrounded by the opulence of the room. Niki’s presence was steady beside you, his figure just as commanding as the room itself.
You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. The moment felt surreal, like a scene out of a dream, but you weren’t dreaming. His gaze was on you, steady and intense, and without thinking, you spoke.
“Niki,” you said, your voice barely a whisper but full of meaning. “Dance with me.”
He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes searching your face. There was a brief pause, but then his lips curved into a small, knowing smile. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers curling around it with a soft but firm grip.
Without a word, he led you toward the center of the ballroom, his body moving effortlessly, guiding you as you followed his lead. Your feet glided across the floor, as though you’d been dancing together for years, the music between the two of you unspoken, but felt in every movement.
The rhythm of your bodies was fluid, as if you were both lost in the moment, and yet there was something more — an electricity that ran between you. His hand rested gently on the small of your back, pulling you closer. Your heart beat faster, not from nerves, but from the undeniable pull you felt toward him.
As the dance continued, his gaze never left you, his movements slow and deliberate. Your body pressed against his, and with each step, it felt like the world around you disappeared.
You tilted your head up toward him, the rhythm of the dance no longer enough to hold the tension between you. The space between your faces grew smaller until his lips were almost brushing yours.
“Riki…” you whispered again, your breath catching.
He didn’t need another prompt. With a small movement, he leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. Time seemed to stop as he deepened the kiss, his hand tightening around you, pulling you even closer. His lips were warm, familiar, and you melted into him, your arms winding around his neck, the world outside the ballroom fading into the background.
The kiss was everything — soft but filled with an intensity that left you breathless. The ballroom, the music, everything around you became a distant memory as you both lost yourselves in the moment, surrounded only by the feeling of each other’s presence.
When you finally pulled away, your faces still close, he looked down at you with a quiet intensity. “You’re mine,” he whispered, the words settling into your skin like a secret.
And as you rested your head against his chest, the world could have stopped, and you wouldn’t have cared. In that moment, it was just the two of you — dancing, kissing, and belonging to each other.
That night the moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. The night was still, save for the sound of your breath mingling with his, a rhythm you both seemed to fall into effortlessly.
His hands roamed over your skin, gentle yet possessive, as if he were trying to imprint his touch into every inch of you. The tension between you had been building for what felt like forever, and tonight, the air was thick with desire.
His lips trailed down your neck, sending shivers through your body, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, your lips finding his once more. It was a kiss of urgency, like you both needed something more, something deeper.
In the heat of the moment, you pulled back just slightly, breathless, your fingers still tangled in his hair. The question escaped your lips before you could even stop it.
“Do you love me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of the words making your heart skip a beat.
For a moment, Niki didn’t respond. His gaze locked with yours, and there was a brief flicker of something in his eyes — something unreadable, but intense. You could feel the weight of the silence between you, the gravity of the question hanging in the air.
His lips curled into a smirk, a dangerous, knowing smirk that only made your heart race faster. Slowly, deliberately, he moved his face closer to yours, his breath warm against your ear.
“Do you think I would be here, right now, with you... if I didn’t?” he murmured, his voice low, almost dangerous.
The words sent a thrill through you, but you needed to hear it. You needed him to say it.
He pulled away just enough to look into your eyes, and in that moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. There was no pretense, no games. Just him, just you.
“I love you,” he whispered, his voice raw and sincere, his hands gripping you tighter as though saying the words made it real. “I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you, my dove.”
The words hit you like a rush of warmth, and you felt your heart swell in your chest. Before you could respond, he kissed you again, harder this time, as if he were sealing his confession with the heat of his touch. And in that kiss, you could feel everything — the love, the intensity, the raw, undeniable connection between you two.
A year passed like a dream draped in silk and quiet mornings. Days blurred into evenings filled with shared meals across candlelit tables, where words weren’t always needed and glances spoke more than conversation ever could.
You learned the shape of his presence — the way he liked his tea, the way his gaze always found you first in any room. Nights melted into warmth, into the comfort of shared blankets and whispered goodnights, into his arms around you and your breath against his chest.
The mansion no longer felt foreign. It breathed with you. It held your laughter in its walls, your footprints on its floors.
There were kisses pressed to your temple without warning, fingers laced absentmindedly under sun-drenched gardens, soft embraces that lingered longer than necessary. Somewhere between the silences and stolen glances, love settled — slow, certain, and deeply rooted.
Now, the night had quieted, the air in the room warm and still, lit only by the faint glow from the wall lamp near the bed.
You lay tangled in his arms, the sheets slipping low around your waists. His lips brushed lazily against yours, the kisses slow, unhurried — the kind you melt into without realizing. One hand rested on your waist, thumb tracing slow circles on your skin like he was memorizing you all over again.
You breathed against his mouth, murmuring something incoherent, and he chuckled quietly. “What?” you asked, voice a sleepy whisper.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His gaze wasn’t teasing. Not soft. Not playful.
It was quiet. Steady. Unnervingly serious.
“Do you want to marry me?” he asked.
Your breath caught.
You blinked up at him, mind foggy from the warmth of his body and the softness of the moment. But his expression didn’t shift. He wasn’t joking.
His fingers grazed your jaw, gently tilting your face toward him.
“I want you here forever,” he said, voice low. “No more pretending this isn’t everything. No more wondering if you belong to me. You do.”
A pause.
“So let’s make it permanent.”
The silence in the room was louder than any answer.
But you didn’t pull away. You smile and nod.
And that — was all he needed.
His hand slid to the back of your head, pulling you into another kiss.
taglist: @gnarlyhoons @stormlit-pages @himynameisraelynn @see-c (lmk if u wanna be added!)
A/N: HELLOOOO???!???!?! did y'all miss me? also the layout is inspired by the extraordinary author, (whom im lucky to call my friend hehehe) @elikajinnie !!!!!!! REBLOGS ND COMMENTS R VERY MUCH APPRECIATED, stay hydratedddd!
summary: growing up, you had two heroes: jake and sunghoon. thick and thin, chaos and crayons, they were always there. so when your ex dumped you for "being so oddly close to your best friends” well… fair. but what he didn’t get is that you never needed him. you’ve always had jake sim and maybe that was the problem.
genre: fluff | best friends to lovers | jake's a professional yearner
characters: best friend!jake x f!reader
words: 13k??
warnings: kissing? making out? thats it!
The schoolyard was too hot. The kind of heat that made your socks stick to your ankles and your patience wear thin. It smelled vaguely like cheese sticks and someone’s forgotten gym shirt. And in the middle of it all—Jake Sim was crying.
Not the loud, hiccuping kind. No. Jake cried the way the sky threatened rain—quiet, heavy, trembling on the edge. His eyes were red, his mouth pressed into a thin, brave line, and his fingers clutched a half-crushed grape soda like it might hold him together.
Across from him stood Minhyuk Kang. Middle school tyrant. Bad haircut. Worse personality. He was smirking like he’d won something.
You weren’t having it.
Your backpack hit the ground as you stormed across the yard, fists curled tight. Your heart pounded in your ears. You didn’t even think—just moved, fueled by friendship and blind loyalty.
“Hey!” you shouted, voice cracking. “Pick on someone your own size, you—oversized… loser!”
Not your best. You were eleven. Your brain was still 60% Capri Sun.
Minhyuk blinked, unimpressed. Then shoved you. Hard.
You hit the pavement with a thud, landing on your butt. Your backpack burst open–papers, pencils, and one private doodle of a sparkly unicorn horse went flying across the asphalt.
Laughter erupted around you.
And then—
That sigh.
That tired, long-suffering sigh that said “I’m getting tired of this,” from a boy who was spiritually seventy-five years old.
Park Sunghoon.
He approached with his hoodie sleeves covering his hands and his cap tilted sideways, like he couldn’t be bothered but also like he was already deciding how to fix this. He stopped beside you and glanced at the chaos—Jake’s glassy eyes, your scraped knees, Minhyuk’s dumb smirk.
Without saying a word, he gave Minhyuk a look.
The kind of look that could curdle milk. Or send boys twice his size packing.
Minhyuk flinched. Then, like the coward he was, mumbled something about catching his bus and slinked away.
You blinked up at Sunghoon. Jake sniffed beside you.
And then—without coordination, without thinking—you and Jake both lunged forward and wrapped your arms around Sunghoon at the same time.
He froze. Sighed again. But he didn’t pull away.
“I’m gonna be stuck looking after you two for the rest of my life, aren’t I?” he muttered.
You grinned into his sleeve. “Yep.”
“Definitely,” Jake added, his voice a little wobbly but smiling now.
Sunghoon didn’t say he loved you.
He didn’t have to.
The cafeteria buzzed around you—noisy, fluorescent, filled with the sound of trays clattering and people trying too hard to sound casual. Jake was nursing a carton of strawberry milk, lazily spinning it between his fingers. Sunghoon sat across from him, trying and failing to look like he wasn’t deeply regretting his protein bar.
Jake leaned over dramatically, voice pitched just loud enough to reach Sunghoon but still just out of your range. “Look at her,” he whispered, grinning. “In love. Disgusting.”
Sunghoon didn’t look up. “I give it two minutes before she makes us throw up.”
You shot them a look over your shoulder and tossed a crumpled napkin in their direction. “Shut up. I’m talking.”
Jake put on a high-pitched falsetto immediately. “‘Hi baby. No, baby, you hang up first. No, you.’”
Sunghoon chimed in, completely deadpan. “‘Babymuffin. Babylove. Babyback ribs.’”
You bit back your laugh and turned away, pressing the phone closer to your ear, trying to keep your voice soft. “No, I’m not ignoring you. I’m with Jake and Sunghoon.”
There was a pause.
Then, flat and cold: “…Again?”
Your stomach dropped. Just a little.
“I told you I’d be with them today,” you said. “It’s the championship game.”
“You said you’d try to come to my gig,” came the reply, sharper now. “You promised. But of course you’d rather play cheerleader for those two.”
“It’s not like that,” you said, your voice tightening. “I told you weeks ago this was important. They’ve worked so hard for this—”
“Jesus. Do you even care about me?” he cut in. “Or am I just the guy you date when your real boyfriends are busy?”
Your hand clenched around your phone. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re always choosing them. Every time. Like I’m your backup plan—”
“They’re my best friends.” You snapped now, barely keeping your voice down. “You knew that from the beginning.”
And that was when you noticed: the table had gone silent. Jake wasn’t spinning his milk anymore. Sunghoon’s jaw was tight. Both of them were watching you.
“And you’re supposed to be my girlfriend,” your boyfriend hissed through the line. “But I guess that means nothing to you.”
You stared down at the table.
Then, softly, with every ounce of control you had left: “You should know that Sunghoon and Jake are–.”
Click.
The line went dead.
The phone hit the table with a muted thud.
You didn’t look up. Not right away. Your arms crossed, your nails digging into your sleeves. Your heart pounded too fast, too hard, and it wasn’t even from the words. It was from how familiar this had started to feel. Like you were always apologizing for choosing the people who never made you feel like a second choice.
Jake’s voice came low, tight. “What’d that idiot say this time?”
Gone was the teasing lilt, the sunshine tone. He looked like he was one bad sentence away from marching across campus and settling it the old-fashioned way. Sunghoon nudged him under the table but Jake didn’t look away from you.
You finally glanced up, eyes tired. Your voice came quiet. “It’s your championship day. Let’s not ruin it.”
Jake held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. His jaw flexed.
But he nodded.
For now.
—
You kept your arms crossed, head low, your gaze fixed somewhere on the cracks in the pavement. Not in a sulking way. Not even angry. Just… heavy. The kind of quiet where the world felt muffled, like someone had turned the volume down on everything.
Jake didn’t say anything. Not at first.
He just walked beside you in silence—his steps matching yours like second nature. Every few moments, the soft fabric of his hoodie brushed your sleeve, but he didn’t try to fill the quiet with noise. Just stayed close. Present. Like always.
Then, after a beat, he gently bumped your shoulder with his.
You didn’t look up, not right away. But you felt it. That familiar nudge. Like he was reminding you: hey, still here.
A few more steps passed before his voice came, light but careful.
“How many fingers am I holding up behind my back?”
You stopped walking.
Your breath hitched, just a little.
God. That game.
It used to be your thing. A childhood ritual for every scraped knee, every bad grade, every time you wanted to cry but didn’t. Jake would hold his hand behind his back and make you guess. If you got it right, you’d get a prize—usually something ridiculous. A neon sticker. A broken crayon. One time, a scribbled picture of you with superpowers and him as the hulk.
You hadn’t played that game in years.
But the second he said it, a small appeared on your lips.
You glanced sideways.
“…Seriously?”
Jake smiled. The kind that barely lifted one corner of his mouth—the one that felt like a secret. Like it was just for you.
“C’mon,” he said, eyes glinting. “Let’s see if you’ve still got it.”
You swallowed.
“Two,” you murmured.
Jake didn’t break eye contact. Just slowly turned and held out his hand behind his back, showing you—
Two fingers.
You let out the softest breath of a laugh. The kind that didn’t really sound like one. Just a shaky little puff of air. But it was enough to lighten your shoulders.
You shook your head, a real smile threatening your lips now. “You still owe me for the time you cheated and held up zero.”
Jake’s eyes widened in mock horror. “That wasn’t cheating. That was high-level psychological warfare.”
“You made me do the chicken dance in front of my mom for a sticker.”
“You did it twice.”
“You said the first one lacked commitment.”
Jake was laughing now, soft and golden, and you couldn’t help it. You laughed too. Quiet. Cracked around the edges. But real.
The silence between you didn’t feel heavy anymore.
He tilted his head toward the lecture hall ahead. “Go grab a seat,” he said softly. “I’ll get you a coffee.”
You blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he said, already backing away. “Unless you’d rather have emotional support gummies.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile was warm. “Coffee, please.”
Jake gave you a little salute—two fingers, same as before. “Coming right up, princess.”
You stood there for a beat too long, then finally made your way into the lecture hall, choosing a seat near the back. You slung your bag down beside you and reached into your pocket, fingers brushing something crinkly.
You frowned. Pulled it out.
Your favorite candy.
The exact brand. The exact flavor. Not something you’d had on you today.
Your breath caught.
Jake.
He must’ve slipped it into your pocket when he bumped your shoulder. Probably while you were distracted. Quiet. Thoughtful. Stupidly considerate.
You stared at the wrapper like it meant something. Like it said everything he couldn’t.
You tucked it into your bag gently, like it was something precious.
Outside, somewhere in a line too long for a Tuesday afternoon, Jake was probably ordering your coffee with extra sugar and exactly two pumps of vanilla.
Because of course he remembered.
Of course he always did.
And maybe you didn’t say it out loud.
But in that moment—you didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Because no matter what, you had Jake.
—-
The bleachers vibrated beneath your feet, alive with nervous energy. Late afternoon sunlight poured across the field in gold streaks, turning everything too bright, too cinematic. You stood at the railing beside Niki and Sunoo, fingers curled tight around the metal bar, heart pounding harder than the game announcer’s voice overhead.
Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
Are you seriously ditching my gig for those two idiot friends of yours?Again? Really?You’re always doing this.You say I'm important, but it’s always them.You’re not dating them. You’re dating ME.
You rolled your eyes.
There was no use replying. You’d tried. He never got it.
Jake and Sunghoon weren’t just friends.
They were everything. They were your history. They were your present. They were scraped knees and matching science fair disasters. They were the reason your parents felt safe sending you to college. They were Sunday family dinners and sleepovers that never really ended.
They were home.
And okay—maybe your gaze drifted toward Jake a little more than it should’ve lately. Maybe it always had. Not in a way you noticed at the time. Not in a way that meant anything.
Just… in a way. As a friend, cf course. He was just…always sweet. What could you do?
Your eyes found him instantly.
Jake—number 10.
Sunlight caught the edges of his hair, wind tugging at the loose strands near his ears. His jersey clung to him, damp with sweat, legs quick and sure as he shouted across the field. His eyes were locked in, his whole body moving with this reckless kind of energy that made him hard to look away from.
Not that you were trying to look away.
You shook your head and scanned the field again, trying to find Sunghoon—but your gaze found Jake instead.
Again.
The crowd roared as the clock ticked down. 2–2. Final minute. The tension in the air buzzed through your chest like a live wire.
“I can’t watch,” Sunoo muttered beside you, peeking between his fingers. “He’s gonna pass out.”
“Shut up,” Niki hissed. “It’s getting good.”
Your eyes tracked Jake’s every step. He had the ball now—legs moving like water, flowing past defenders like they weren’t even there. Sunghoon flanked beside him, silent and steady, drawing players away.
Then Jake cut sharp to the left.
A beat.
A breath.
And then he kicked.
The ball soared.
Time stopped.
It flew past the goalie—clean, sure—and hit the net with a glorious, perfect thwack.
Silence.
And then chaos.
The stadium erupted. Teammates swarmed the field, screaming, leaping, colliding into Jake like a tidal wave of celebration. People were crying. Someone was waving a flag. You might’ve blacked out for a second.
But Jake—Jake didn’t stay buried in the huddle.
He pulled himself out.
Looked up.
And saw you.
And then, he ran.
Straight through the chaos, through teammates and coaches and cheering fans.
Right to you.
“PRINCESS, DID YOU SEE THAT?!” he yelled, already grinning like he couldn’t contain it.
You didn’t even think.
You ran.
You jumped into his arms—legs around his waist, arms around his neck—and he caught you like gravity didn’t exist between the two of you.
He spun you around, both of you laughing, breathless and weightless in the middle of a stadium filled with noise.
“That was insane, right?!” he said, still spinning, still grinning like a madman.
“You’re insane!” you yelled back. “That’s my best friend!!”
He held you tighter for a second.
You barely noticed how close you were. How steady his hands felt against your waist. How natural it felt to be in his arms.
You didn’t think too much about the way your laugh curled into something softer as he smiled at you. Or how your fingers lingered at the back of his neck just a moment too long.
You were just happy.
And Jake?
Jake was still looking at you like you’d hung the stars yourself.
But then you saw him.
At the edge of the crowd.
Your boyfriend.
He was standing stiffly, guitar slung over his back, eyes dark. He looked right at you. Then at Jake.
Then back at you.
And you saw it happen—saw the confirmation of every suspicion he’d ever thrown at you. Every insecure question. Every argument. Every pointed “you’re always with them.”
His jaw clenched.
And then he mouthed it.
Two words. Sharp. Final.
We’re done.
And he turned.
—-
The door slammed open behind you with enough force to shake the picture frames.
You didn’t check to see if Jake and Sunghoon were behind you. Of course they were. You could hear their footsteps trailing in, less hurried than yours but tinged with the same confused urgency. Like golden retrievers caught in a rainstorm—uncertain, blinking, too loyal to run.
“I cannot believe he dumped me!” you snapped, flinging your bag onto the floor like it had betrayed you. “He. Mr. Can't-Name-Three-Films-By-Studio-Ghibli. Mr. ‘I think astrology is fake but also I’m a Scorpio so that’s just how I am.’”
You kicked your shoes off, one of them narrowly missing the umbrella stand.
Jake ducked.
Sunghoon raised his eyebrows and wisely stayed quiet.
“I mean,” you huffed, voice going up a pitch as you spun toward them, “he plays the same three songs on guitar and called Christopher Nolan ‘overrated.’ And he—that man-child with a Spotify playlist called ‘sad vibez’ and no vowels—broke up with me?!”
Sunghoon winced. Jake looked like he was watching a house on fire and wondering if throwing himself into it would help.
You threw your hands up in disbelief. “I was going to dump him! I had a list! A literal note in my phone! And this man—this emo scarecrow of a boyfriend—had the audacity to beat me to it?!”
You stormed to the living room and collapsed onto the couch like it owed you reparations, arms flung over your face as you let out a long, frustrated groan.
“I can’t believe this. He said I was emotionally unavailable. Me! The girl who went to all his stupid open mic nights and pretended his lyrics weren’t just stolen posts from 2018 Twitter in stupid long verses.”
In the hallway, Jake leaned toward Sunghoon.
“Should we, like… say something?”
Sunghoon didn’t even look away from you. “Absolutely not.”
Jake frowned. “You’re the stable one. You talk to her.”
“You’re the one in love with her.”
Jake made a wounded sound in the back of his throat. “That’s not—I mean—I’m—”
“You literally made her tea last night and wrote her name on the mug in sharpie like a loser.”
Jake whispered, “It was a nice mug.”
You sat up abruptly, glaring at them like a storm cloud with a vendetta. “HEY. Tweedle Dee. Tweedle Dum. Shut the hell up. I’m having a justified crisis.”
They both stiffened like they’d been caught shoplifting.
You threw yourself back onto the couch again, dramatically draping your arm across your face.
Silence.
Then—
“She definitely just called us Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” Jake whispered.
“You’re Dum,” Sunghoon replied flatly.
“At least I didn’t cry watching Tangled.”
“…You said you wouldn’t bring that up again.”
“Then stop being Dum.”
You let out a guttural groan. “Can one of you just bring me ice cream or, like, a time machine so I can go back and tell myself to swipe left?”
Another pause.
Then quiet footsteps.
And a moment later, something cold landed in your lap.
Your favorite ice cream.
Jake didn’t say a word. Just sat on the floor in front of the couch, back leaning against it like it was the most natural thing in the world, head tilted slightly to look up at you.
He didn’t smile. Not fully. Just that soft, familiar curve of his lips that you’d seen a thousand times, always reserved for you. The kind that didn’t ask for anything, didn’t demand a response—just offered quiet presence.
Sunghoon dropped onto the floor beside him with a sigh, already scrolling through Netflix.
And you?
You breathed. For the first time all day, you breathed.
It didn’t erase the anger. Didn’t fix the betrayal. Didn’t un-stupid your ex.
But it made your chest ache a little less.
Because even in your most unhinged, spite-fueled, mascara-streaked moments—you still had this.
You had your boys.
—-
Your room was quiet, except for the low hum of the party a few buildings down—the bass thudding like a heartbeat through the floorboards, too far to join, too loud to ignore.
The fairy lights on your wall glowed soft and golden, casting little halos across your shelves, your pillows, the stack of unread books by your bed.
You sat cross-legged on your comforter, oversized hoodie bunched around your hands, hair damp from your post-meltdown shower. There was still a tightness in your chest, the kind that didn’t quite hurt, but hadn’t let you breathe fully in days.
Sunghoon stood behind you, a hairbrush in his hand.
“You sure you don’t wanna go?” he asked, gently easing the brush through the tangles near your crown.
You shrugged, slow and small. “And see him all over her? I’d rather chew glass.”
Her—being the bass player in your ex’s band. The one he swore was “just a friend” until he posted a ten-second Instagram story of himself shoving his tongue down her throat. Classy.
Honestly, you still didn’t know what you ever saw in that idiot.
Sunghoon sighed. You felt it more than you heard it—low and long, his breath ruffling a strand of your hair.
He didn’t say anything else. Just kept brushing, slow and steady, like he could detangle your hurt the way he was detangling the ends of your hair.
He always did this.
Ever since you were ten and crying after a costume mishap in the school play. He’d walked you home, sat you down, and—wordlessly—grabbed the brush from your desk. He’d been doing it ever since. Whenever your heart cracked, he patched it up strand by strand.
He even used your products now. Knew the exact amount of leave-in conditioner. Knew how to finger-detangle without tugging too hard. Knew when to talk—and more importantly, when not to.
You sat still, head tilted slightly forward, letting the rhythm lull you. The brush paused near the ends.
Then came the voice.
Quiet. Measured. A little softer than usual.
“He didn’t make you happy.”
You opened your mouth. But before anything could come out—
“Not once,” Sunghoon continued. “You bent so far backwards for him I was scared your spine would snap. And he never once met you halfway.”
You stared at your lap. Said nothing.
“I know it’s only been two days,” he said, letting out a little laugh, “but honestly? The air’s been easier to breathe without him around. Jake and I Fortnite danced to High School Musical in the living room earlier. Jake even tried to do a backflip.”
You snorted. Couldn’t help it.
Sunghoon grinned behind you. “Almost died. But I’ve never seen the boy look so free.”
You hummed, lips twitching faintly. “He wasn’t that emo.”
“He had stupid hair,” Sunghoon said flatly. “And he smelled like cigarettes and insecurity.”
You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling.
“He called The Wind Rises boring,” you muttered.
Sunghoon gasped, mock horror in his voice. “Criminal. Unforgivable.”
He gently brushed the last of your hair over your shoulder, like a finishing touch. Then crouched in front of you, eye-level now.
And when he spoke next, the teasing was gone.
“You are the actual sun,” he said softly. “And he made you feel like a flickering lightbulb. That’s not love. That’s dimming someone just to feel taller.”
Your eyes stung, just a little.
Sunghoon didn’t flinch. He never did, when it came to you.
“I hated him from the beginning. Jake started calling him ‘the ashtray’ after the second time we all hung out. Not even behind his back. Just… said it.”
That made you laugh—truly laugh—for the first time in days. You shook your head. “You two are mean.”
“We’re honest,” Sunghoon corrected, getting to his feet. “And we love you. More than that guy ever could.”
You didn’t answer. Just looked at him.
And he didn’t say anything more.
Didn’t need to.
You let your head fall back against the headboard and sighed. “Okay. If you keep monologuing in my ear like this, I’m never gonna change.”
“Change?”
“You want me to go to this stupid frat party, don’t you?”
He smirked.
“Get out,” you said, pointing at the door. “Shoo. Go do your weird little victory dance with Jake.”
He walked backward, ruffling your hair on the way like a proud big brother. “She’s back,” he sing-songed, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Not if you keep talking.”
He opened the door with a dramatic bow. “I’ll tell Jake you caved.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered even after he was gone.
And yeah, your heart was still cracked.
But it felt a little less sharp now.
A little easier to carry.
And when you looked at your reflection in the mirror, your hair brushed smooth, cheeks still warm from laughter—
You didn’t look like a girl trying to forget.
You looked like someone learning how to feel light again.
—
As soon as Jake stepped through the door, he barely made it three steps before he was swallowed by chaos.
“JAKE! JAKE! JAKE!”
A rush of frat boys and soccer teammates surged toward him, loud and reckless, lifting him up like some war hero. His legs kicked midair as they carried him toward the heart of the party, chanting his name with increasing volume.
“JAKE! JAKE! MVP! MVP!”
Fairy lights spun above him, casting halos over sweat-damp foreheads. The bass pulsed through the floor, the air thick with beer and adrenaline and championship glory. Jake laughed, a little breathless, a little panicked.
“No—no, I’m good, I swear—”
Then… you saw him. Your ex. And her.
They were near the kitchen—your spot. The one you always waited at after his gigs. The one where he used to pull you into those tired, post-show hugs and whisper how glad he was you came. Now? He was there with her. Arm thrown over her shoulder like it belonged there. Like it hadn’t been around you last week. She was laughing like she’d earned it. Like she hadn’t been “just a friend” two seconds ago.
And the worst part? He looked fine. Smiling. Relaxed. Comfortable.
You weren’t sad. You didn’t miss him. But god, you were angry.
He moved on like you were an old t-shirt. Like you didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t just made you feel like you were the problem for weeks on end. Like he hadn’t convinced you to shrink for him—and then left anyway.
You stood there for one second. Just long enough to feel the burn in your chest. Long enough for your hands to curl into fists at your sides. Long enough for the blood in your veins to scream Really? Already?
Then you turned.
Fast.
Didn’t look back.
You didn’t know where you were going, only that the party felt too loud and too quiet all at once. People brushing past you, drinks in the air, music thumping. And still, all you could hear was your own pulse.
“SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!”
You blinked—and somehow, it was your voice leading the chant.
Your heels dug into the floor. Your lip gloss was smudged. There was probably mascara under your eyes. You didn’t care. You didn’t want to care.
Someone handed you a shot. You didn’t ask what it was. You downed it like medicine.
It burned. But that was the point.
You slammed the glass down on the nearest surface. “ANOTHER!” you shouted, voice cracking, spinning in place. “Let’s go! If I’m gonna be replaced, I might as well be unforgettable!”
Someone whooped. Someone clapped. Someone handed you another.
You tossed it back.
You weren’t spiraling. You were burning.
And the only thing worse than being dumped… Was being replaced this fast. Like you didn’t even leave a dent.
You were angry.
Angry that he got to be fine. Angry that she got to stand where you used to. Angry that your hands still shook while his were busy holding someone else.
And yeah, you’d moved on too. You didn’t want him back. Not for a second.
But it still felt like something had been stolen from you.
And you needed control. Any kind.
So when someone handed you another shot, you took it. And when someone said, “You okay?” you laughed so hard it echoed. Loud, sharp, cracked.
“Never better,” you said, the words tilting sideways like your balance.
And then he stumbled toward you.
Tall. Drunk. Slurring your name like he knew you. Like he mattered.
“Hey,” he grinned, “you’re the girl Jake never shuts up about, right?”
You blinked. “What?”
“Yeah,” he said, swaying. “In the locker room. He’s always like ‘she’s so funny, she does this scrunchy angry face when she’s mad,’ and like… he’s totally into you.”
Your stomach twisted—but your face didn’t budge.
“Cool,” you muttered. “Love being a conversation topic.”
“He thinks you’re amazing,” the guy said, nodding like he just solved world peace. “Hey—have you ever considered going bald?”
You stared. “Excuse me?”
He squinted. “I bet you’d look hot with a buzzcut. You have a strong jaw. That’s what matters, right?”
And maybe it was the alcohol. Or the smoke in the air. Or the ache in your ribs.
But you laughed. Loud. Too loud. And you grabbed his wrist.
“Got scissors?” you asked.
He blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”
“Bring them. Let’s find out.”
He stumbled into the kitchen drawer and came back, holding up a dull pair of kitchen scissors like a prize.
You snatched them, raised them in the air. “Thank you, brave soldier,” you said dramatically. “Now go lay down before you die of alcohol poisoning.”
And you turned, marching up the stairs like a woman with a mission and a pair of scissors she had no business holding.
Jake was mid-conversation when Jungwon ran up, breathless.
“Dude. DUDE. Your girl—she just went upstairs. With scissors. Talking about rebirth.”
Jake blinked. “What?”
“She said something about French bangs and reinvention and then took the stairs like a goddamn hurricane.”
Jake didn’t even think.
He ran.
Bolted through the crowd, shouldered past two people doing body shots, and took the stairs two at a time.
Because he knew you.
He knew that look. That chaos. That split-second decision to feel anything other than the helpless, boiling anger clawing through your chest.
He remembered it from middle school, when someone said your braces made you look like a robot and you tried to cut them out yourself with nail clippers. He remembered it last year, when your cat died and you bleached your bangs at 3AM.
Jake had always known your brand of chaos.
And he had always shown up before it got too far.
Now, he shoved open the bathroom door with zero hesitation.
“Don’t—”
The words died in his throat.
Because there you were.
Standing in the middle of someone else’s bathroom, scissors in hand, eyes glassy and smile way too proud.
“Jakey!” you beamed. “I did it!”
He froze.
There was a pile of hair on the counter. Your bangs—if you could call them that—sat uneven across your forehead. One was short. The other… shorter.
One eye was half covered. The other? Wide, glassy, wild.
Jake covered his mouth with both hands.
“Princess,” he whispered.
“Do I look like Tyra Banks?” you asked earnestly.
Jake blinked. Took a step forward. Then another.
And slowly—so gently—took the scissors from your hand.
His voice dropped to a hush. Steady. Calm. Familiar.
“Hey,” he said. “Let’s put these down, yeah?”
You pouted. “But I wasn’t done.”
He gave you a small smile. “You were perfect before you even started.”
Your lips parted.
His eyes searched yours, scanning every flicker of emotion you were trying to bury beneath alcohol and eyeliner and rebellion.
“You don’t need to do this,” he said. “You’re angry. I get it. I swear I get it. But cutting your bangs at a frat party is not justice.”
You blinked. The world tilted slightly.
“He moved on,” you whispered. “Like I was nothing. Like I was just a placeholder.”
Jake’s jaw tightened. His grip on the scissors hardened.
“You were never a placeholder,” he said, voice sharper now. “You were the whole damn story. He was just a footnote.”
Your eyes welled, but no tears fell. Not yet.
“You’re angry. And you have every right to be,” he said, stepping closer, his hand brushing your cheek. “But don’t punish yourself because he couldn’t see your worth.”
Your lip trembled.
“You think I’m punishing myself?” you asked.
Jake smiled softly. “Princess, look at your bangs.”
You let out a snort. A real one. Ugly and sharp and full of sudden breath.
“I look like an art student who lost a bet.”
Jake laughed. “You look like you could start a girl gang and lead a revolution.”
His voice dropped again. Gentle. Unshakable.
“But you still look like you. And you look perfect.”
You didn’t know what possessed you, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. Like holding onto something solid in the middle of a storm.
Jake leaned down, resting his forehead against yours.
“You don’t have to set yourself on fire to prove you're still burning,” he whispered. “You’re enough. Even when you’re mad. Even when you're messy. Even with gravity-defying bangs.”
Your breath hitched. The room stilled.
And finally, finally, your heart began to slow.
You closed your eyes.
And Jake just held you there.
Right in the middle of the chaos, in someone else's bathroom, with scissors on the counter and party noise below—
He held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like he’d always been the one who would.
—
The next morning came quicker than you wanted. Your head throbbed, your mouth tasted like the inside of a frat house, and your body ached in weird places. But none of that mattered.
Because the second you looked in the mirror— “AAAAAAAAAAAH!”
The scream tore through the apartment like a war siren.
Sunghoon shot upright in bed, blanket wrapped around his legs like a noose. “WHAT THE—?!”
Jake fell off the couch with a dramatic thud, landing in a heap of hoodie and boxers. “SHE’S DYING, SHE’S BEING KIDNAPPED, THE LOVE OF—”
Both boys sprinted down the hallway like the apartment was on fire.
They crashed into your room, out of breath, expecting blood or a ghost or at least an explosion.
Instead, they found you standing in front of the mirror, gripping your bangs in both hands like you could physically undo last night.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you wailed, your voice cracking halfway into a sob. “WHY DIDN’T ANYONE STOP ME?!”
Jake froze.
Sunghoon stared.
“I told you we should’ve hidden the mirror,” Sunghoon muttered.
“We have a bathroom,” Jake hissed back.
You whirled around dramatically, face streaked with tears, eyes wide and watery, holding up a sad tuft of hair like it was a smoking gun.
“I ruined my life!”
Jake opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Because, truthfully?
Your hair looked like it had been through a war. A bad one. Like a rodent got stuck halfway through building a nest and gave up. It was uneven in four different directions. The bangs… bent at angles. You defied geometry. Possibly physics.
Sure, you looked pretty. Beautiful. Perfect, even.
But that was only because Jake was in love with you.
And love had a way of turning disaster into art. Even when the art looked like a sewer rat.
Sunghoon sighed and rubbed his face. “I’ll make pancakes.”
He turned and walked out without waiting for a response. Pancakes were your household’s official emergency protocol.
Jake stayed. Still in the doorway. Still barefoot and half-asleep, but trying really hard not to laugh and even harder not to love you more for looking like this and still somehow being the most you he’d ever seen.
You looked up at him with trembling lips, eyes full of absolute heartbreak.
“I look like I lost a fight with a Edward Scissorhands.”
Jake blinked. “C’mere.”
You didn’t hesitate.
You launched yourself at him like a flying koala, knocking him flat on his back. You landed in a tangled heap of limbs and cotton and regret, curled into his chest, face shoved against his hoodie.
“I’M UGLY!” you wailed.
Jake didn’t even flinch. He wrapped his arms around you, full-on bear-hug style, holding you like he was trying to glue your shattered pieces back together.
“No, you’re not,” he murmured.
You let out a sound that was half sob, half snort, and buried your face deeper into his chest.
“You’re not ugly,” he said again, voice quieter now. “You’re the cutest person I’ve ever seen with a rat’s nest on their forehead.”
You groaned. “I look like Coconut Head from Ned’s Declassified.”
Jake snorted. Actually snorted.
Which made you groan even louder and smack his chest half-heartedly.
“I’m never going outside again,” you mumbled.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “We’ll start a new civilization here. No mirrors. Unlimited pancakes. Sunghoon and I will scavenge for food outside, bring it back here to feed you and our rat children.”
You sniffed.
“I’ll knit you a beanie,” he added. “It’ll say ‘emotional damage’ in rhinestones.”
From the kitchen, Sunghoon shouted, “There’s only enough chocolate chips for one stack, so I’m taking nominations for who’s had the most public breakdowns in the past 24 hours.”
“I CUT MY OWN BANGS AT A FRAT PARTY!” you yelled into Jake’s hoodie.
“And we have our winner!” Sunghoon replied.
Jake chuckled beneath you, brushing a strand of hair gently out of your eyes—or at least tried to. One strand was… vertical.
You blinked up at him. “I want them gone.”
Jake smoothed his hand through the top of your hair. “Let me try to fix them?”
You squinted. “Can you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But if I mess it up, you’ll get to yell at me instead of yourself.”
You stared at him.
He gave you that stupid little grin—warm, patient, already yours.
You sighed. “Deal.”
Jake grinned wider, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. “Okay. Let me grab scissors, YouTube, and a whole lot of…uh…prayer.”
You smiled, soft and reluctant. But real.
Because even with tragic bangs, a hangover, and your dignity in shambles—
Jake made it all feel survivable.
Maybe even a little bit okay.
You were still in Jake’s lap, curled up like a broken barbie from a 6 year old with plastic scissors, when he sat up slowly, fingers brushing back your hair with more care than you thought anyone could ever use on someone so messily undone.
“Alright,” he murmured, barely above a whisper. “Let’s fix this rat’s nest.”
You sniffled, eyes puffy. “You mean my hair?”
Jake’s lips quirked. “Same thing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Say one more dumb thing and I’ll cry again.”
He grinned and stood, effortlessly lifting you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Jake—” you squeaked, clinging to him. “What are you doing?!”
“You’ve clearly lost your decision-making privileges. You’re emotionally unstable. And you keep sniffling like a baby bird,” he said matter-of-factly. “So, I’m airlifting you to your redemption arc.”
You buried your face into his hoodie. “You smell like detergent and protectiveness.”
“You smell like tequila and impulsive choices.”
He walked you into the bathroom and set you carefully onto the counter, warm hands steady at your waist as you adjusted your balance. The moment you were settled, he stepped between your knees without hesitation, reaching for the comb and scissors.
You blinked. Suddenly, the bathroom was a little too quiet. A little too warm. And Jake was a little too close.
“I’m gonna try to even these out,” he murmured, running his fingers gently through your bangs. “Try being the keyword.”
“I feel like this is where I die.”
“You look like a girl on the brink of a villain origin story.”
“Perfect,” you muttered. “Make me look dangerous.”\
As you sat still on the bathroom counter, knees lightly brushing his chest. Jake picked up the scissors again, his brows drawn tight in concentration.
He was taking it seriously. Too seriously. His tongue peeked out just slightly as he combed a section of your hair, eyes sharp, focused like he was performing life-saving surgery instead of fixing your tequila-fueled haircut.
You smiled—couldn’t help it. Because how was he still so cute, even now? Even while fixing the disaster you made of your bangs, looking like an overworked stylist with something to prove.
He tilted his head, snipped gently. Paused. Tilted again.
“Stop smiling,” he muttered, eyes still fixed on your hair.
“I’m not,” you said, definitely smiling.
“I can feel it.”
You laughed softly. “You’re just cute when you’re stressed.”
That made his hands falter. Just a little.
But he didn’t say anything. Just cleared his throat and kept going, slower now—more careful. Like he was stalling. Or maybe... savoring.
Jake leaned in just a little, brow furrowed in quiet concentration. “Hold still,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
You blinked. “What—”
“There’s a bit of hair on your face,” he murmured.
His hand came up gently, fingers brushing the side of your cheek as he tried to sweep away the tiny, stubborn strand that had clung to your skin. You froze.
Because Jake—without even thinking—tilted your chin up with one hand, and with the other, he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered against your jaw, fingers grazing your cheek, and then staying there.
You froze.
Jake didn’t move either.
His hand remained cupped on your face. His thumb brushed your skin. And his eyes—God, his eyes were locked on yours like they were holding something he hadn’t meant to let show.
You could feel the shift in the air. Heavy. Quiet. Like the entire world was holding its breath, waiting.
His gaze flicked to your lips. Just for a second.
And then it flicked back.
But it was enough.
Your heart stuttered. Your knees curled inward, brushing his hips. He leaned in—slowly, almost unconsciously. You could feel his breath now. Feel the tension between you, burning like something fragile and explosive all at once.
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
It was so close. One more inch. Half an inch. Less than that.
You could see the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. The way his jaw clenched like he was holding something back.
His forehead almost touched yours.
And just when you thought he might do it—just when your lips parted like they were waiting—
“GET YOUR DAMN PANCAKES!” Sunghoon’s voice echoed through the apartment like an accidental earthquake.
You jolted.
Jake stepped back too fast, hands dropping like they’d been burned.
You blinked hard, your pulse pounding.
“Right,” you said, hopping off the counter like it wasn’t shaking beneath you. “Breakfast.”
“Let’s go,” Jake said, voice too casual, too quick.
Neither of you looked at each other as you walked out of the bathroom.
But your fingers were still tingling.
And Jake’s heart was still lodged somewhere in his throat.—
The three of you were seated around the kitchen table. You sat across from Jake. The air smelled like sugar, butter, and unbearable tension.
Normally by now, you and Jake would’ve been locked in a battle of sarcastic wits, tag-teaming insults about Sunghoon’s tragic playlists or the sociopathic way he peeled his oranges.
But this morning?
Silence.
Sunghoon was the only one talking.
And he noticed.
“…So I told her, yes, I do moisturize, actually, and no, you can’t just borrow my $60 toner like it’s a sample at Sephora,” he said, pausing only to cut a triangle of pancake. “Anyway. These are the fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever made. Probably because I put love into them and not repressed rage, for once.”
You nodded absently. Jake let out a weird little hum like he was underwater.
Sunghoon squinted at you both.
He continued, tone flattening: “Also, I’m quitting college to become a juice bar cult leader. I’ll sell turmeric shots and emotional detachment.”
Sunghoon blinked slowly.
“…Hello?”
Silence.
He dropped his fork dramatically. “Okay. What is going on?!”
You and Jake looked up at the same time, startled like toddlers caught stealing cookies.
“You’re both being weird,” Sunghoon said, stabbing his fork in the air like a courtroom prosecutor. “Aren’t you usually bickering by now? Or pelting me with toast? Or roasting my skincare routine?”
You blinked. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Jake coughed. “Totally fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Sunghoon snapped. “You’re sitting there like someone died. Did the bang trauma finally kill your friendship? Was it the haircut? Did a ghost tell you to never speak again?”
Sunghoon turned to Jake. “And you. You haven’t insulted me once. Not even when I said I wanted to start a juice cult.”
Jake shoved pancake in his mouth. “I support your passions.”
Sunghoon froze.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Who are you two?!”
You and Jake exchanged a glance.
Sunghoon’s jaw dropped. “No. No. No—”
“What?” you said too quickly.
Jake sipped his coffee like it was spiked with sedatives.
Sunghoon pointed at both of you. “Something happened. I don’t know what. But if this is about some repressed ‘we accidentally almost kissed while trimming tragic bangs’ situation, I swear to god I will scream.”
You choked on your juice.
Jake muttered, “N–nothing happened.”
Sunghoon leaned back, crossing his arms like a dad about to issue consequences.
“Right,” he said. “And I’m emotionally stable.”
He stood suddenly and grabbed his coat off the hook by the door.
You looked up. “Where are you going?”
Jake jolted upright. “Wait—wait. What? Where ya goin’, man?” His voice cracked slightly.
Sunghoon didn’t even blink. “Out.”
Jake laughed nervously. “Nooo, don’t go. We’re having a good time. Bonding. Pancakes. Healing.”
“Yeah,” you said with a smile that definitely wasn’t panicked. “Stay. We can watch something. I won’t even make fun of you for picking a romcom from the 60s.”
Sunghoon narrowed his eyes.
“…You two are being so weird right now.”
Jake blinked. “What? No.”
“Totally normal,” you said simultaneously.
The tension between you and Jake buzzed like a power line. Sunghoon stared. You and Jake sat a full cushion apart on the couch, but somehow it felt like you were breathing the same air.
After a pause, Sunghoon grabbed the doorknob.
“I’m gonna get some more eggs, we ran out of them.” he muttered, and slammed the door behind him.
Silence.
One beat.
Two.
Then you and Jake both shot up and retreated to your rooms at the exact same time, slamming your doors like a choreographed sitcom exit.
You paced around your room.
Back and forth. Arms crossed. Hair bouncing (the parts you hadn’t murdered). You could still feel the ghost of Jake’s hand on your jaw.
Yes. Okay. Sure. You almost kissed him in the bathroom. But let’s review.
You were vulnerable.
You just got dumped.
Your bangs looked like they were cut by a raccoon with ADHD.
It meant nothing.
…Right?
You stopped and groaned into your hands. “It was the vulnerability. I was emotionally compromised and Jake’s dumb face got too close.”
You paused.
“…Jake’s dumb, pretty face…”
—
Late in the afternoon, you wandered into the kitchen with a bowl of greens and the vague desire to do something normal. Something quiet. Something safe. Your fingers moved on autopilot as you chopped vegetables—lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers—something about the rhythm calming the noise in your head.
Until you heard it.
The shuffle of feet down the hallway. That familiar cadence. Soft, unhurried. Jake Sim.
You paused mid-slice.
Jake walked in a second later, completely unaware you were already there—ramen in one hand, phone in the other, texting with his usual boyish ease. The hoodie he wore was slightly rumpled. His hair still damp from a shower. He looked so effortlessly himself it made your chest ache.
He looked up.
And froze.
Your eyes met for one long, breathless second. Too long. Too much.
Then he spun around so fast he nearly dropped the ramen.
He stood in the doorway, awkwardly half-turned, clearly debating whether bolting would make things better or worse. The silence was loud.
After a beat, he cleared his throat and forced himself to turn back.
“Cool,” he said, voice pitched an octave too high. “Great. Dinner.”
He grabbed a pot from the cabinet like it was a lifeline. Filled it at the sink with determined focus, pretending not to glance at you from the corner of his eye.
You turned back to your chopping. Tried to focus.
But the air in the kitchen had shifted—thicker now. Heavier. Like all that nearly-spilled affection from the bathroom was still clinging to your sleeves.
You could feel him next to you. Could sense every inch of space he left between you. Could feel every inch he didn’t.
Then you both reached for the stove.
At the same time.
Your fingers brushed.
You both flinched.
“Sorry—” you mumbled.
“No—you—uh—go ahead—” he said quickly.
It should’ve been fine. It was a stove. It was cooking.
But it wasn’t.
Now you were standing shoulder to shoulder, the side of his arm barely grazing yours every few seconds, and it was like touching static. Every brush sent sparks to your spine.
His noodles boiled. Your chicken sizzled.
And still, neither of you moved.
Jake kept stealing glances—tiny, fleeting ones, like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed to make sure you were real. You weren’t looking at him, but you felt him looking. You felt it like a pulse.
Your heart wouldn’t stop tripping over itself.
This is nothing, you told yourself. It’s proximity. It’s leftover tension. You’re vulnerable, fresh off a breakup. You’re not—
You reached for the pan.
Too close.
Your fingers hit the hot edge. Hard.
“Shit—ow!” you gasped, jerking your hand back.
Jake turned like he’d been shot.
“What happened?!” His voice was sharp with panic as he lunged toward you. “Are you okay?!”
“I just—I touched the—” Your words tumbled over each other as you blinked at your hand, already stinging and red, the skin rising into a welt.
Jake didn’t hesitate.
He grabbed your wrist with both hands—gentle but urgent—and rushed you to the sink, flipping the faucet with his elbow. The cold water hit the burn and made you wince.
But you barely felt it.
Because all you could feel was Jake’s hands wrapped around yours. His thumb against your pulse. His breath too close. His panic louder than yours.
“You okay?” he asked again, eyes never leaving the burn. “Can you feel this? Are you dizzy? Why aren’t you saying anything—why are you—”
He stopped.
Because you were smiling.
Barely. Just the smallest curl at the corners of your mouth.
But it was there.
And so was he. Right there in front of you, looking like he was breaking apart from how badly he wanted to keep you safe. Like your pain physically hurt him.
No one had ever looked at you like that before.
And suddenly, everything shifted.
Because in that moment—burning finger, cold water, trembling hands—you knew.
You were falling for Jake.
And maybe you had been for a while.
The realization made your chest tighten. Made your throat close. You looked at him and your heart skipped like it knew this moment mattered.
Jake helped you sit on the counter, still holding your hand like it might disappear. He moved carefully—so carefully—as he opened the first aid kit, his lips pressed together in a worried line.
He dabbed ointment on the burn with a lightness that made your chest ache. His brows furrowed as he wrapped the bandage, his thumb stroking the back of your hand like a whisper.
“You never pay attention,” he muttered, voice tight with concern. “Always spacing out. Always in your head. It’s like you want me to have a heart attack.”
“You make me worry so much it’s insane,” he whispered. Like he hadn’t meant to say it. Like it spilled out before he could catch it.
You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Not when your pulse was roaring in your ears and his touch made you feel like you might float out of your body.
Then you heard it—quiet, almost to himself.
“God, you’re the only person in the world who makes me feel like this.”
“Like what?” You mumbled.
“Like I’m going fucking insane.”
Jake’s eyes widened a second too late. Like he’d only just realized he said it out loud.
You stared at him.
“…Say that again,” you whispered.
“I didn’t—” he started, panicking. “I didn’t mean—”
You slid off the counter slowly. Your hand still throbbed—but your heart was louder. Too loud.
You looked at him. And in his eyes, you saw everything.
The longing. The panic. The thousand things he wasn’t saying.
And then—
“If you’re gonna keep having slow-burn movie moments in the kitchen, at least don’t do it in the kitchen.”
You both jumped.
Sunghoon stood in the doorway, a grocery bag in one hand and a carton of eggs in the other. His eyebrows were already in judgmental orbit.
Jake stammered, “We weren’t—!”
“You were,” Sunghoon said, breezing past. “You were doing the eye thing.”
“What eye thing?” you asked, flustered.
“The longing one. With the breathing and the tragic backlighting. The tragic yearning...it’s disgusting.”
—
The BBQ joint was already full when you walked in—heat rising from tabletop grills, laughter spilling over like steam, the air thick with the smell of sizzling meat and farewell speeches. You stood at the entrance for a second, bag slung over your shoulder, your heart thudding a little faster than necessary.
You weren’t even sure why you’d come.
Sunghoon had bailed last minute, claiming a “group project emergency,” and you could’ve easily ghosted too. But something had pulled you here—maybe the closure, maybe the company, maybe the quiet, ridiculous hope that things might feel normal again. That you might feel normal again.
Your eyes swept the room, searching for a familiar face.
And there he was.
Jake, halfway across the restaurant, hunched slightly in his chair as he laughed at something someone said. His hair was a little messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His denim jacket hung on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up as he reached for the grill tongs, utterly unaware that he’d just knocked the breath out of you.
You took a step forward. Small. Tentative. A part of you hoping—aching—that maybe he’d seen you already. He saved you a seat.
But then you froze.
Because a girl slid into the chair beside him.
She was pretty. Confident. One of those girls who didn’t need to try to draw attention. She leaned in with ease, like they already knew each other. She laughed, tossed her hair, said something that made Jake glance over and smile—polite, soft.
Not your smile.
Your feet stayed planted. Your throat tightened, jealousy wrapping around your chest like a rope. You didn’t want to feel it. You didn’t even know what it meant. But there it was.
That empty chair had never not been yours before.
And now, suddenly, it wasn’t.
You blinked hard and turned on your heel, moving so fast it felt like fleeing. You didn’t care where you sat—anywhere but there. Anywhere but near him and her.
Jay looked up from his grill station just in time to see you drop into the seat next to him with the force of someone trying to bury a feeling. His eyebrows lifted, chopsticks paused mid-turn.
“Woah,” he said, startled. “Dramatic entrance. Everything okay?”
You forced a smile that didn’t quite make it past your cheeks. “Peachy.”
Jay looked unconvinced.
You stared hard at the sizzling grill in front of you. The sound of meat crackling felt louder than the conversations around you. Too loud. Too sharp. But not sharp enough to cut through the coil of emotion in your chest.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Jake glance your way. Brief, unsure. You didn’t look back.
Instead, you reached for a piece of lettuce like it wronged you in a past life and stabbed your chopsticks through it.
Jay watched you for a moment, then cautiously leaned in. “Sooo... wanna tell me why you look like you’re about to wrestle that cabbage?”
You didn’t answer.
Because on the other side of the table, Jake was laughing again. Soft. Casual. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t been on the verge of kissing you in a bathroom two weeks ago. Like he didn’t used to look at you first when he walked into a room.
But today, he didn’t.
He looked at her.
Something sharp twisted in your gut. Something bitter.
Jealousy, maybe. Or disappointment.
Not that he was talking to someone else.
But that he let her sit there. That he gave away your spot like it never mattered.
Your jaw clenched. You shoved the lettuce into your mouth like it was responsible for your emotional spiral.
Jay winced in sympathy. “So… no comment?”
“None.”
“Cool, cool. I’ll just assume you’re possessed and move on.”
He turned back to the grill, wisely choosing not to push further. You didn’t notice, but your shoulders stayed tense. You didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe right. Your fingers picked apart a piece of grilled pork until it was unrecognizable.
Across the table, Jungwon raised his voice.
“Hey! Let’s talk about the class’s power couple!”
You looked up mid-chew. Wrong move.
“Jake and her, obviously!” he said, pointing at you both with a grin like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You nearly choked on your lettuce. “Yang Jungwon, I will throw this piece of meat in your face if you don’t–”
Jay coughed into his drink. “Here we go.”
Jungwon beamed. “What? You’re always together. It’s, like, a known thing.”
Someone else piped in. “It’s true. Jake’s always doing the sweetest things for her. Didn’t he bring you bubble tea for a whole week when you got your wisdom teeth out?”
“And didn’t he carry your whole bag once when your wrist hurt?”
“And hold your umbrella even though he was getting soaked?” Everyone at the table nodded, laughing. Agreeing. Smiling at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You flushed.
Jake stayed quiet.
Still across the table.
Still next to her.
And still not looking at you.
The realization hit slow and hard—like a wave you’d tried to outrun finally catching your heels.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone had always seen it.
Except you.
Until now.
Your throat felt dry. Your chest felt hollow. And your skewer? Obliterated. You stabbed through the last piece of beef with more aggression than necessary.
Jay leaned over and whispered, “You’re gonna set off the smoke alarm if you keep grilling that poor meat.”
You didn’t respond.
Because the chair he used to save for you wasn’t yours anymore.
And for the first time—you realized how much that seat had mattered.
You didn’t even realize how tightly your hands were gripping your chopsticks until your knuckles turned white. Your jaw ached from how long you’d been clenching it. Everyone at the table laughed at something you didn’t hear, and it felt like you were underwater—sound muffled, air thick, eyes locked on your untouched plate.
You hadn’t meant to care so much.
It was just a chair.
Just a seat at a dinner party.
But it was your seat. The one he always saved without asking. The one he used to pat with a grin like, "Reserved for royalty." The one where your jacket used to end up without thinking, your chopsticks already unwrapped by the time you sat down.
So seeing someone else sitting there—smiling like she belonged there—felt like stepping into a memory and realizing it didn’t remember you back.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
You weren’t together. Not really. Not even close.
But god, that seat had never been up for grabs before.
You slid into the open spot across the table like it didn’t burn, even though every movement felt like betrayal. Like you were betraying yourself by still hoping for something you couldn’t even name.
And then, he tapped your shoulder.
You stiffened immediately, already knowing it was him.
Jake.
The very air changed when he was around. Lighter, tighter, like it had more weight and less oxygen at the same time.
“Hey,” he said, voice easy. Too easy.
You didn’t look at him.
Tap.
“Princess.”
You froze.
Your throat tightened.
Because Princess used to be the softest thing in the world. A tease. A comfort. A reminder that he knew you, saw you, adored you in all the quiet ways he never said aloud.
But now?
It felt… different. Tainted.
It didn’t land the same when your chair was already taken. When he’d let someone else into the only space you thought was sacred.
So you didn’t turn.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t soften.
He hesitated—like he felt the shift, too.
“Hmph,” you crossed your arms like a child.
Jake’s voice dropped, lower this time. “Why are you mad at me?”
You still didn’t answer.
He let out a slow breath and walked around the table instead, crouching beside your chair like a boy trying to pick up something broken.
Your gaze stayed glued to your half-torn napkin.
“Is it… about the seat?” he asked, voice gentler now. Like maybe he already knew the answer. Like he knew exactly what that seat meant.
Your silence answered for you.
Jake swallowed hard.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he murmured. “She sat down before I even before I realized you were coming. I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”
“To what?” you cut in, quiet but sharp. “Replace me?”
Jake flinched.
You regretted it instantly. But not enough to take it back.
Because that seat—that tiny, stupid thing—meant something. And tonight, he let someone else take it like it didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “I should’ve waited for you. I should’ve saved it.”
Your hands tightened in your lap. “Forget it.”
“Princess,” he said again, softer now. Pleading. Like maybe if he said it right, it would mean the same thing it used to.
But it didn’t.
Not tonight.
You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.
And he looked wrecked. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. Just quietly ruined. Like he hadn’t realized how deep this cut would go. Like he was only just now understanding what he’d done.
You turned away before it could get worse.
Before your face could say too much.
Jake didn’t move.
Didn’t say another word.
Just sat there beside you like he would’ve done anything to rewind the night and start over.
But some things you couldn’t undo.
You were chewing in silence, half your brain stuck in a loop of spiraling thoughts and the other half… fully aware of Jake beside you. The way he kept glancing at you every few seconds. The way his leg bounced under the table like he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.
You shifted in your seat.
He didn’t look at you, but he nudged your knee gently with his.
Then came his voice—soft, tentative, like he was knocking on a door he wasn’t sure he was allowed to open.
“I still owe you a prize.”
Your head turned.
Jake was already half smiling. That crooked, boyish smile that always cracked something open in your chest.
You blinked. “…What?”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“…Two,” you whispered.
Jake turned, hand still hidden behind his back—and slowly revealed two fingers.
Your breath hitched. Just barely.
He smiled wider now, eyes lighting up like he’d been holding that hope in all night.
“Correct,” he said gently. “Which means…”
Jake stood up suddenly, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Wait here.”
You blinked again. “What? Where are you going—?”
He was already walking off, dodging servers and plates of steaming food. He made a beeline toward the front of the restaurant where the owner stood at the counter, scribbling on receipts.
From your seat, you watched him gesture animatedly. He pointed to a pen. Then to a napkin. The owner blinked, clearly confused, but handed him a small notepad and a black pen.
You watched Jake furrow his brows, crouching at a little side table and scribbling furiously, tongue poking out slightly as he focused. His shoulders hunched like he was working on something important.
He returned a minute later, cheeks flushed with effort, pen still tucked behind his ear like an afterthought.
Without saying a word, he slid the paper toward you.
“Your prize,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.
You looked down.
It was a drawing.
A bad drawing.
Stick figures, crooked lines, and a questionable attempt at your haircut—short, jagged bangs that stuck out at odd angles, cartoonishly captured in the most chaotic way possible. You almost laughed.
But then your eyes caught the words scribbled underneath:
‘Even with that haircut, you’re still the prettiest girl in the world.’
Your breath hitched.
You looked up.
Jake was pretending to sip water, very invested in the contents of his cup.
Your fingers tightened around the edges of the paper.
“…You’re such an idiot,” you whispered.
His gaze finally flicked to yours.
And even in the low lighting of the restaurant, you saw it.
The softness.
The hope.
The fear.
Like he didn’t know how you’d take it—but he meant every word anyway.
Your throat was suddenly too tight.
You didn’t say anything else.
You didn’t have to.
Because you were still holding the drawing.
—
You slipped your bag over your shoulder, the strap digging slightly into your coat as you muttered a quick goodbye to Jay and Jungwon. They teased you on the way out—of course they did.
The air outside hit your face like a wall. Sharp. Cold. Honest.
You exhaled, breath clouding in the dark. The city lights blurred into little golden halos around you as you wrapped your scarf with clumsy fingers, your hands still shaky from the night. From everything.
And then—
“Wait—hey!”
You turned.
Jake.
He was jogging after you, his jacket flapping open behind him, cheeks flushed red from the heat inside meeting the cold outside. His hair was a little windblown. His eyes found yours like they always did—easily, like home.
You blinked, lips parting. “What are you—”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he asked, breath puffing in the cold. He slowed beside you, steps syncing with yours before you even answered.
You paused, your fingers still tangled in your scarf.
“…Weren’t you still talking to her?” you asked softly. Softer than you meant to. Your voice barely carried.
The silence stretched between you.
Then, wordlessly, Jake reached for your scarf.
You froze.
“Here,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours. “You always do it too tight.”
He didn’t wait for permission. His hands moved gently, expertly—unraveling the mess you’d twisted, smoothing the soft fabric like he’d done it a hundred times. Like muscle memory.
His knuckles grazed your jaw as he tucked the ends in.
You held your breath.
And when you finally looked up, he was already watching you.
You, wrapped in the coat he gave you. In the scarf he’d fixed. In the silence he hadn’t tried to fill with anything other than quiet care.
“I’d rather be walking us home,” Jake said gently. Not a question. Not even a request.
And still—you let him.
The two of you walked slowly, the glow of streetlamps casting long shadows across the pavement.
Jake was rambling beside you—something about Jungwon’s tragic karaoke and lettuce on a grill—but your mind was somewhere else entirely.
It was on him.
It was on every version of him.
On all the times he showed up when he didn’t have to. On all the gentle, quiet ways he loved you without asking for anything back.
On the umbrella he always tilted toward you.
On the bubble teas and playlists and dumb printed emoji sheets.
It hit you so hard you physically stopped walking.
Jake didn’t notice until he took two more steps and realized your footsteps had vanished.
“—and I swear, if he ever touches a mic again—wait, hey, you okay?”
He turned around.
You stood there, frozen in place, eyes wide and glassy like you were realizing something you couldn’t un-realize.
Jake’s face shifted instantly.
“W-What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping forward, concern flashing across his face. “Did I say something? Are you—”
You didn’t answer.
You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him—just like that. No hesitation.
You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, arms looping around his back like you needed to hold something steady. Like he was the only thing steady enough to hold.
Jake stilled.
Completely.
And then his arms came around you.
Slow. Firm. Certain.
You felt his hand press gently into your back, the other cupping the back of your neck like he was trying to piece you back together with touch alone.
Your voice cracked when it came out.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His breath hitched. “Tell you what?”
“That you’ve been in love with me.”
Silence.
Jake went still again. His hand flexed slightly against your back.
You pulled back just enough to see him—your hands still clutching his coat, his eyes wide, mouth parted, heart in his throat.
“That would’ve made everything so much simpler,” you said, voice trembling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have dated that idiot. Maybe I would’ve chosen you. A long time ago.”
Jake looked stunned. His lips parted like he wanted to say something—but you didn’t let him.
“I thought you were just being nice,” you whispered. “I thought… you saw me, maybe, like a sister. I didn’t know…you–”
His brows drew together. Something deep and aching passed across his face.
“I’m sorry,” you went on. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it. You’ve always been there. Always. And I never looked at you the way I should’ve. Not until it was too late.”
Jake stared at you like you’d just knocked the air out of him.
And then.
He cupped your jaw with both hands.
Thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks. Fingers resting gently, reverently, like you were porcelain. His eyes were locked on yours, searching. Burning.
And then he leaned in.
The kiss wasn’t tentative.
It was everything he’d held in.
Years of friendship, of quiet pining, of every moment he almost let it slip and didn’t—it all spilled into that one kiss.
His lips found yours with a kind of desperate relief. Like coming home. Like breathing after drowning. Like maybe, finally, he didn’t have to hold it back anymore.
Your hands curled into the front of his coat. You tilted up into him, breath catching as he deepened the kiss—his hands sliding into your hair, one curling at the nape of your neck, the other still cupping your jaw like he couldn’t bear to let go.
His lips moved, with tenderness, with the kind of aching care that made your knees weak and your chest full to bursting.
When he finally pulled back—just barely—you were both breathless.
Your noses brushed.
His hands didn’t move.
He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes still closed, as if he couldn’t look at you and survive it.
“You didn’t have to see it back then,” he whispered. “I loved you anyway. I always have.”
You closed your eyes.
And kissed him again.
Because you didn’t need to say it yet.
You were already saying it in every breath.
And Jake?
Jake held you like he’d waited his whole life to because well…he did.
Because maybe you hadn’t fallen first.
But you were falling harder now.
You barely made it halfway down the street before you stopped again—just to kiss him.
It started soft.
His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone as your lips pressed to his, slow and testing, like you were still trying to figure out how this all worked now. How it was real. His nose brushed yours. Your fingers curled in the collar of his coat, tugging him just a little closer.
You took three steps.
Then stopped again.
This time his hands slipped lower—one landing on your hip, the other skimming the small of your back as he leaned in again, mouth warm and insistent. His kiss deepened, lips parting against yours, breath catching in his throat as your fingers found the hair at the nape of his neck and tugged, just a little.
“Jake,” you mumbled against his mouth, your nose nudging his cheek, “we’re literally in public.”
He didn’t move away.
Just smiled against your lips. “Not my fault you’re addictive.”
You rolled your eyes.
And then kissed him again.
Longer. Slower. Your body pressed into his chest as his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. He tasted like cinnamon gum and the cold air between you. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before his lips found yours again, open and hungry now.
By the time you reached your building, the two of you were fully drunk on it—on each other.
He had you backed up gently against the brick wall by your door, your back hitting it with a soft thud. His hands braced either side of your head. Yours slid down his chest, fingers dragging across the buttons of his jacket before slipping underneath and fisting in his hoodie.
His forehead rested against yours, your noses brushing.
“I can't believe I get to do this now,” Jake whispered, breathless, lips still ghosting over yours. “Like this. With you.”
You smiled, whispering back against his mouth, “I should’ve kissed you years ago.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his mouth dipping lower, kissing along your jaw before finding your lips again. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten to fall in love with you like this.”
Your arms curled around his neck. You were just about to pull him back in when—
“OH MY GOD. MY EYES!”
You both jerked away.
Jake turned first, one hand still protectively on your waist. You peeked around his shoulder, blinking through the haze of hormones and heat.
Sunghoon.
Standing frozen a few feet away, grocery bag in hand, jaw dropped so hard it could’ve cracked the sidewalk.
“SERIOUSLY?!” he shouted, voice breaking with disbelief. “MY ONE NIGHT OUT?! THIS IS WHAT I COME HOME TO? TONGUE WRESTLING? ON THE DOORSTEP?”
You immediately hid your face in Jake’s shoulder, laughing so hard you nearly collapsed.
Jake just grinned. “You’re just jealous you’re bitter, old, and single.”
“I LIVE HERE, YOU FERAL ANIMALS.”
You peeked up, cheeks burning, still giggling like a teenager. Jake reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers like he’d been doing it forever. His thumb traced slow circles on your skin.
Jake giggled, stepped in, slow and sure, until there was barely an inch between you. His hand let go of yours only to slide around your waist, pulling you in until your chest brushed his. His other hand found your jaw again, thumb grazing your cheekbone.
And then he kissed you. Again. Harder this time.
Behind you, Sunghoon made an actual gagging noise. “CUT IT OUT! This is why I prayed for your downfall, Jake.”
Jake just tugged you toward the elevator, still holding your hand.
—-
You barely made it into the apartment before Sunghoon yelled from his bedroom, voice muffled through the door:
“I’M NEVER WASHING YOUR LAUNDRY AGAIN.”
You and Jake burst into laughter, tripping over each other as you kicked off your shoes, still tangled in giggles and flushed skin and stolen kisses.
Jake followed you straight to your room, still holding your hand like it was his favorite thing in the world. His other hand? Firm on your waist. His mouth? Absolutely relentless.
The second the door clicked shut, he was on you again—his lips warm and insistent against your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. He kissed you like he couldn’t stop, like he didn’t want to stop, like he was mapping every inch of you with his mouth.
You laughed breathlessly, leaning back against the wall as his hands framed your face and his mouth finally, finally met yours again—deeper this time, slower but more demanding, like he was memorizing you.
“Jake—” you gasped between kisses, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, “we have class at eight tomorrow.”
He didn’t even blink. Just leaned back in and kissed you again, his thumb brushing along the underside of your jaw as he tilted your face up to him. “I don’t care,” he whispered against your lips.
You barely had time to respond before his mouth crashed into yours again, open-mouthed, his hand sliding from your cheek down to your waist, gripping just tight enough to make your knees weak. Your fingers threaded into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer as your back hit the door, and you swore you felt the room spin slightly.
When you finally broke apart, panting, your lips felt swollen, kissed raw. Your heart was racing.
“So,” you murmured, dazed and breathless, “does this mean we’re… dating?”
Jake blinked, cheeks flushed, lips red. Then he grinned, cocky and breathless. “Are you asking me out?”
You rolled your eyes, still pinned between the wall and his body, smiling despite yourself. “It’s the least I could do, considering I didn’t realize you were in love with me for, like, a decade.”
Jake laughed—a low, husky sound that made your stomach flip. He leaned in again, brushing your lips with his, soft and slow this time. “You don’t owe me a single thing,” he whispered, one hand still at your waist, the other stroking your cheek like you were something fragile.
Then—just like that—he kissed you again. Harder. Messier.
He angled your chin just right and slotted your mouths together in a way that made you exhale a broken sound against his lips. His tongue teased against yours, slow and devastating, and when you whimpered into the kiss, he tightened his grip on your waist like he couldn’t help it.
It wasn’t just kissing anymore. It was kissing like gravity didn’t exist.
“Gosh,” he murmured against your lips, breath ragged, “I can’t stop. You’re like—” kiss “—a drug or something.” Kiss. “A really addictive one.”
You giggled mid-kiss, your hands sliding up into his hair. “You’re insane.”
And then SLAM.
Your bedroom door flew open like a jump scare.
Jake jumped away from you like you’d just been caught stealing a national treasure.
Before either of you could process what was happening, Sunghoon stormed into the room, dragging Jake into a headlock mid-sentence.
“WHAT THE—!” Jake shrieked.
You collapsed onto the wall, laughing so hard your knees buckled. Sunghoon grumbled something incoherent as he dragged a flailing Jake down the hallway like a sack of potatoes.
“I’m trying to sleep,” Sunghoon barked. “And instead I get moaning and giggling through my wall like I’m living in a romcom directed by Satan.”
Jake was breathless. “I wasn’t even going tor—”
“Yeah, yeah, pipe it, dumbass.”
Sunghoon slammed Jake down onto his bed and slammed the door behind him like it owed him peace.
You were still giggling in the hallway when Sunghoon’s door creaked open again. He stepped out looking 800 years tired, hoodie wrinkled and hair in chaos.
“And you!”
He pointed at you.
You stood straighter.
He stared. Then sighed.
“…Sleep well,” he muttered.
But just as he turned away, he mumbled under his breath: “God, you’re so happy it’s disgusting.”
And you were.
You were dizzy, breathless, borderline giddy.
Disgustingly happy.
And it felt perfect.
—
You laid in bed, the blanket tucked snugly beneath your chin, heart still racing from the absolute whirlwind that had been your night. Your lips were still tingling. Your cheeks ached from how much you’d smiled. Everything inside you buzzed, giddy and light, like you were a teenager with her first real crush.
Only this wasn’t a crush.
This was Jake.
You giggled into your pillow, kicking your feet beneath the covers, limbs wriggling like your body had no idea how to contain this much happiness.
Then—
Ping.
Your phone lit up beside you.
Jake 💙 i miss u already hehe
You let out an actual squeal, smacking your pillow with both hands, grinning like a complete lunatic.
God.
You’d never felt like this before. Not even with your ex. Not even close.
This was warm. This was exciting. Safe. Stupid and lovely all at once.
This was Jake.
Still smiling, you typed back quickly, almost shy:
can u sneak back in?
You held your breath, eyes glued to the typing bubble.
But before it even disappeared—you heard it.
The quiet creak of a door unlocking.
You bolted upright.
Heart stuttering, you threw off your blanket and padded toward your bedroom door, cracking it open just enough to peek into the hallway.
And there he was.
Jake.
In pajama pants and a hoodie, hair tousled and fluffy, tiptoeing across the hallway like some cartoon burglar. His socked feet made no sound, but his face was full of mischief, lit up with a secret smile like this was the best part of his whole night.
He looked up and spotted you, then quickly pressed a finger to his lips.
“Shhh,” he whispered, a ridiculous grin tugging at his mouth.
You had to bite down on your knuckle to keep from laughing. He was impossible.
He reached your door in two quiet steps, gently pushing you backward into your room with both hands on your shoulders, like you were something delicate.
Just as he was about to step in—
SLAM.
Sunghoon’s door burst open like he was a horror movie jump-scare.
Jake froze.
You froze.
Both of you turned slowly, like kids caught red-handed raiding the snack cabinet.
Sunghoon stood in his doorway, hair sticking out in ten different directions, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, expression one hundred percent done with everything.
Jake opened his mouth, already guilty. “We—”
“Go. To. Sleep,” Sunghoon said flatly. His voice had the kind of force only a sleep-deprived man could deliver. “You absolute rabbits.”
You immediately clamped a hand over your mouth to muffle your laughter as Jake stepped back like a scolded puppy, both hands in the air.
“Okay okay! We’re sleeping!” he whisper-yelled as Sunghoon groaned, rubbed his temples, and slammed his door shut again.
The second it clicked closed, Jake leaned down toward your door and whispered with a grin:
“Tomorrow night, I’m climbing through your window.”
You giggled, heart racing again, and whispered back, “You better.”
And he did.
He really did.
But he also got caught by Sunghoon.
Again.
summary: you’re loud, dramatic, and one emotional spiral away from a breakdown. he’s quiet, calm, and allergic to unnecessary words. at first, you drive him insane but maybe that’s part of your charm. you make the chaos, and he makes sure you don’t burn the whole world down with it.
genre: fluff | hyper gf x calm bf
characters: sunghoon x f!reader
words: 13k
warnings: none i think!
The first time you met Park Sunghoon, you’re pretty sure he hates you.
To be fair, it was your first day, and Ni-ki—who you knew for exactly ten minutes—told you pressing the green button on the espresso machine would help "wake it up."
It did not.
Instead, it made the machine scream, shoot steam into your face, and sent you stumbling backward with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying goose. A tray of croissants nearly went down with you.
“OH MY GOD—Ni-ki!” a voice shrieked from somewhere near the pastry display.
You coughed, flailed, and possibly cried, when someone silently reached past you and switched the machine off with a flick of his wrist. No words. Just calm, collected competence. The kind that makes you feel even more like a human disaster.
You looked up—and saw him. Park Sunghoon.
He’s quiet. Like, unnervingly quiet. Dressed in black from head to toe with his sleeves rolled just enough to show his veins (rude), and eyes that flick to you once before looking away again. Not a single word. Just a blank expression like you’re a fly he’s choosing not to swat.
“Don’t mind him,” Sunoo said, swooping in with a comforting hand on your shoulder. “That’s Sunghoon. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s not mean. I promise.”
“I didn’t say he was mean,” you muttered, still trying to rearrange the croissants you nearly obliterated.
“You thought it, though,” Sunoo grinned, like he’s already read your soul.
Meanwhile, Ni-ki was cackling in the corner, filming your breakdown for "training purposes."
Sunghoon, still wordless, wiped the steam wand clean, glanced once at the mess you’ve made, then—finally—muttered, “You shouldn’t listen to Ni-ki.”
His voice was soft, low. Dangerous. Like he only spoke when absolutely necessary.
You blinked. “Thanks for the early intel.”
He looked at you again. Longer this time.
And then, he walked away.
No other words. Just disappeared behind the back counter like you were the one who interrupted his day.
“…So anyway!” Sunoo chirped, practically dragging you away, “Let’s get you trained before you break anything else, hmm?”
You glanced back once, just in time to see Sunghoon glance over his shoulder at you.
He looked away first.
And for some reason… that annoyed you.
—
You’d worked four shifts now. Sunoo was basically your fairy godmother, Ni-ki was your unpaid therapist-slash-chaos agent, and Sunghoon?
Sunghoon was still a cardboard box with perfect skin.
He didn’t talk to you unless he had to. Didn’t smile unless he was laughing at something Sunoo said. Didn’t even look at you unless you were actively on fire, and even then, you weren’t sure he’d do more than mildly raise an eyebrow.
Which was extra annoying because somehow he was also weirdly funny. When he talked to Ni-ki or Sunoo, he’d drop the driest one-liners out of nowhere, and suddenly everyone was on the floor laughing. You tried to talk to him? Nothing. Crickets. Maybe a blink, if you were lucky.
You were cleaning the counter one evening when you caught him saying something to Ni-ki, low and casual, and Ni-ki absolutely lost it.
“Okay, that was actually good,” Sunoo wheezed. “Where was that energy earlier when she knocked over the milk?”
“She was already dying,” Sunghoon replied. “Didn’t need to bury her.”
Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?!”
He looked at you, slow and lazy, like he was surprised you heard. “It’s a compliment.”
“How is that a compliment?”
He shrugged. “You’re resilient.”
You stared. “I—what—resilient?! I tripped over my own shoelace!”
“I noticed.”
Sunoo clapped a hand over his mouth like he was about to implode.
You blinked at Sunghoon. He blinked back.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re so—”
He lifted a brow. “You’re loud.”
You opened your mouth, but Sunoo threw an arm around your shoulders like he was trying to defuse a bomb.
“Okayyy! Let’s all take a breath,” he sang. “Some of us process friendship through gentle banter and others process it by… doing whatever it is Sunghoon does... verbal sparring?”
“I’m not sparring,” Sunghoon said, already walking away.
You glared at his back. “You never spar. You just vanish.”
“Exactly,” he called over his shoulder.
You looked at Sunoo. “I don’t get him.”
Sunoo just smiled. “You will.”
You really thought you wouldn’t—until God bestowed upon you a tragic prophecy, disguised as the café schedule for the following week.
Mon–Fri Closing Shift (5PM–11PM): YOU + SUNGHOON
You stared and blinked, rubbed your eyes, tried processing.
Sunghoon saw it at the same time you did.
“…No,” he said flatly.
You crossed your arms. “Wow. Good to see you too.”
“Sunoo,” he called toward the kitchen. “Switch me. Please.”
“Nope!” Sunoo’s voice floated back. “You’ll thank me later!”
You both stared at the schedule like it had personally offended you. Then—slowly—at each other.
This was going to be a long week.
—
Monday was… quiet.
You tried to make conversation—about the playlist, the new coffee beans, even the weather—but Sunghoon gave you absolutely nothing. Just a few nods and hums, like you were a podcast playing in the background.
You swore he spent more time restocking stirrers than actually speaking to you.
You huffed under your breath, finding him impossible to work with. The shift felt ten hours longer than it actually was, and you were convinced the silence was slowly killing your soul.
As the evening dragged on, you caught him sitting at the back counter, pulling out a laptop in between cleaning duties. You tried not to be nosy—but it was hard not to peek.
Tabs upon tabs of schoolwork were open on his screen—assignments, lecture slides, even a color-coded spreadsheet. You blinked. Huh. Sunghoon was more hardworking than you’d expected. You thought he was just the type to show up, do his job, and disappear back into the void—but here he was, typing away like the shift never even ended.
You munched on your dinner, a sad slice of pizza you grabbed from down the street during your break. The cheese had hardened and the crust was borderline cardboard, but it was food. You leaned against the counter, chewing quietly, when you realized—
Sunghoon hadn’t eaten anything. Not since the two of you started at five.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, fingers tapping against his keyboard, face unreadable in the glow of his screen.
You opened your mouth. “Hey, do you—” But you stopped yourself. Closed it again.
He’d probably just get annoyed. Or say no in that flat, disinterested way of his. And then you’d feel stupid. Still, you kept glancing over at him, stealing quick looks in between bites. At one point, you noticed his hands pressing lightly against his stomach, like he was trying to ignore it. His expression didn’t change, but the movement said enough.
He was probably hungry. You looked down at the last bite of pizza in your hand and sighed.
Tuesday, you decided, would be different.
Tuesday, you showed up with an extra sandwich from the convenience store.
You didn’t say anything. Just slid it across the counter around 7PM, because the night before, he hadn’t eaten dinner and you weren’t about to let him pass out mid-espresso pull.
He stared at the sandwich. Then at you.
You raised a brow. “You didn’t eat yesterday.”
He blinked. “…Okay.”
“You’re welcome.”
You didn’t hear a thank you. But he didn’t give it back either.
Progress.
Wednesday, there was a cup of noodles in your locker.
Just sitting there. No note. No explanation. Just… sitting.
You marched up to Sunghoon, holding it in your hands like evidence. “Did you put this in my locker?”
He looked at the cup noodle. Then at you. Then blinked, deadpan. “…No.”
“Really.”
He shrugged.
You squinted at him.
He walked away.
You were this close to launching the noodle at the back of his head. Instead, you ate it. And maybe smiled. A little.
Thursday, you both brought each other dinner. At the same time.
You froze at the counter, holding out your plastic bag just as he set his down.
“…I got you something,” you said.
He stared at your bag. Then gestured to his. “So did I.”
You glanced at each other, at the food, and then away.
“Thanks,” you muttered.
He nodded. “Mm.”
You caught the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth as he turned around.
You smiled too. But only when he wasn’t looking.
Friday, you didn’t expect anything. You were restocking the fridge when you heard it:
“Hey.”
You turned around, startled. “What?”
Sunghoon was standing there, one hand on the fridge door, the other in his pocket. His voice was quiet, like he was testing it out on you for the first time.
“I—uh,” he started, eyes flicking to yours, then away. “You always wear that hair clip. The pink one. With the sparkles.”
You blinked. “Yeah?”
He nodded slowly. “I thought it was dumb at first.”
“Okay…?”
“But now it’s kinda…” He paused, scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno. Cute, I guess.”
You stared at him.
“Forget it,” he muttered, moving past you.
“No wait,” you said, stepping into his path, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Did you just say I’m cute?”
He didn’t look at you. “I said the clip is cute.”
“That I’m wearing.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“Sunghoon thinks I’m cute~” you sang, spinning in a circle while he groaned and walked away.
But you caught it—right before he turned around completely.
The smile. The real one.
And for the first time all week, you were pretty sure… he might have liked you back.
The silence didn’t feel heavy anymore. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable. Like a pause instead of a wall.
You were sweeping. He was mopping. The usual end-of-shift rhythm. You hummed a song under your breath—something from the café playlist that had been looping for hours. He didn’t comment on it this time. Just kept mopping in sync with you.
The air smelled like cleaning solution and vanilla syrup. The lights were dimmed to their soft closing hour glow. Outside, the city buzzed quietly under the street lamps.
Then you heard it—his voice.
Low. Careful.
“I hear you’re starting college soon.”
You blinked, glancing up from your broom. He wasn’t looking at you, just focusing on a coffee stain near the back corner of the café.
“Yeah,” you said. “Orientation’s next week.”
He nodded once. “Same.”
You stopped sweeping. “Wait—seriously?”
He nodded again, this time glancing at you. “Business major?”
“Yeah. Are you—”
“Same.”
You stared. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, mouth twitching like he couldn’t believe it either. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
You couldn’t help it—you grinned. “Wow. And I thought this week was the end of my suffering.”
He smirked, just a little. “Mutual, believe me.”
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks felt warm. “This is gonna be weird.”
“Probably.”
You leaned against your broom, tilting your head. “What if we get put in the same class?”
“I’ll transfer out.”
You laughed. Actually laughed. And the look on his face softened in that tiny, quiet way he did sometimes—like a blink-and-you-miss-it moment of fondness.
“So,” you said, brushing past him on your way to put the broom away, “does this mean we’re friends now?”
He paused. Looked at you.
Then—“You’re loud.”
You turned around, walking backward. “Not a no~”
He rolled his eyes. But he didn’t say no.
—
Your first day of college started in a lecture theatre that looked like it belonged in a movie.
Wide rows of tiered seats. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive screen at the front welcoming new students with a generic but oddly comforting "Welcome, Future Leaders!" banner.
You slid into a seat at the back row, instinctively avoiding the eager clusters forming near the front. It was still early, and the place buzzed with chatter, nerves, and the rustle of free tote bags and pamphlets.
You opened one of the pamphlets a student ambassador had handed you earlier and scanned it while sipping on the last of your bottled tea. Campus map. Co-curricular activities. After-school programmes. There was even a flowchart on how to balance academic and personal development. It was cheesy, but a part of you—the part that studied like hell to get here—felt… proud. You belonged here. You were surrounded by people who cared just as much as you did.
You let out a small sigh, the kind that came from contentment, then finally looked up—
And blinked.
Sunghoon was walking toward you.
Brown coat sweeping behind him. A scarf looped casually around his neck. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, framing his face in a way that made him look straight out of a campus brochure. He carried two cups of coffee in one hand, the sleeves of his coat pushed just enough to reveal the band of his watch.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just placed one of the cups in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You stared at it. Then at him.
“…You stalking me now?”
Sunghoon raised a brow. “You’re sitting in the back row. That’s the least stalkable seat.”
“Mm,” you hummed, smirking as you took the coffee anyway. “So you do want to be friends.”
He slid into the seat beside you. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” You raised the cup. “Acts of service. Love language. I’m flattered.”
He gave you a look. “It’s just coffee.”
“And glasses,” you added, gesturing to his face. “You’re really committing to the college-boy aesthetic, huh? Next you’re gonna pull out a book of poetry.”
He rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way his lip twitched like he was holding back a smile. “You’re annoying.”
You took a sip. It was warm. Slightly sweet. Exactly how you liked it.
“And yet,” you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, “here you are.”
He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead at the empty podium, his fingers wrapped around his own cup. But his shoulder stayed against yours—light, steady, unbothered.
And you… didn’t move away.
Then, the two of you were a part of a routine.
Ever since you both found out you were classmates, Sunghoon would wait in the apartment lobby every morning with a drink in hand—tea or coffee, depending on how late you texted him the night before.
Before 12AM? Chamomile. After 12? Iced latte, extra pumps of vanilla. No questions asked.
It had been a whole month of college, and while you were still adjusting, you were glad you had Sunghoon. (More like—Sunghoon was glad he had you.)
You were outgoing. People liked you, drawn in by your energy. Sure, you could be shy at first, but once you warmed up, you were easily the heart of any group. Loud. Expressive. A little dramatic. And though Sunghoon called you irritating more times than you could count, he couldn’t deny it was part of your charm.
Part of why he noticed you in the first place.
Now here you were—walking side by side, warm drink in hand, on your way to your first class of the day. You were mid-story about something ridiculous your professor said in a group chat. Sunghoon just walked quietly beside you, listening.
And somehow, that felt like the best part of your morning.
You were walking across the quad with Sunghoon, your cup in one hand, rambling about something dumb from class when a football came flying almost knocking you out.
A second later, a tall guy sprinted into your path, trying to catch it—and collided right into you.
You gasped, stumbling back, but before you could even register what happened, Sunghoon had already pulled you aside, his hand wrapping firmly around your arm, shielding you behind him.
“Shit—sorry!” the guy said, breathless, catching the ball. His cap was turned backwards, and strands of his hair stuck to his forehead from running. He looked at you, eyes wide. “You okay?”
You nodded, eyes locking with his.
He smiled.
And for a moment, your heart stuttered.
He was cute. Really cute. Sharp jaw, dimpled grin, that kind of effortless charm that made you forget what you were saying.
“I—uh, yeah. All good,” you mumbled.
Sunghoon’s hand slowly dropped from your arm. You didn’t notice. You were still looking at Yeonjun.
He looked at you too. “I’m Yeonjun, by the way.”
You smiled, just a little. “Nice to meet you.”
Sunghoon stood still beside you, silent as ever.
But he saw it.
The look. The smile. The way you laughed, a little softer than usual. The way Yeonjun’s eyes lingered when he handed you back the drink you almost dropped.
Sunghoon didn’t say anything.
He just looked away.
—
Yeonjun showed up at the café on a Friday afternoon, all sunshine and charm, and you were too busy juggling orders to notice him at first—until he waved from the counter with that same boyish smile.
Your eyes lit up. “Oh my god—hey!”
He leaned over casually, glancing at the menu. “Didn’t know you worked here. I guess I’ll have to stop by more often.”
Meanwhile, across the room, Sunghoon sat at a corner table with a textbook open in front of him and an untouched iced americano beside it. According to him, he was there to study. According to Sunoo, he was there to “keep an eye out for Selenur.” (Sunoo’s thoughtful codename for you, since he was very sure Sunghoon had a “thing” for you)
Sunghoon told him to shut up.
Now, he watched silently as you and Yeonjun exchanged numbers, your head tilted toward the screen, smile wide. He saw Yeonjun grin, say something that made you laugh, and hand you his phone.
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.
Not my problem, he told himself, eyes flicking back to his textbook. Not. My. Problem.
You walked over seconds later, practically skipping, still holding your phone like it was made of gold. “Can you believe it? He asked me out!”
Sunghoon didn’t look up.
You slid into the seat across from him anyway, hitting his arm repeatedly with giddy little slaps. “Sunghoon. He asked. Me. Out!”
He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. “Stop hitting me.”
“Sorry,” you giggled, not sorry at all. “I’m just excited!”
He watched you bounce in your seat, hair bouncing with you, eyes sparkling like you just won the lottery. He hated to admit how adorable you looked when you were like this. But he had a reputation. And emotions. And he was firmly committed to ignoring both.
Still. Something didn’t sit right.
Sunghoon had done a little digging after the football incident. Nothing crazy. Just… a casual scroll through Instagram. And maybe a few archived posts. Some comments. A look at mutuals. Purely for research.
Yeonjun was a third-year business major. A senior. Popular. Handsome. And according to a few posts Sunghoon definitely did not save—someone who changed girlfriends like he changed outfits.
He didn’t like it.
He didn’t like him.
Not for you.
But what did he know?
He looked down, turning a page in his textbook. Not my problem, he chanted in his head.
Definitely not.
—
Sunghoon stood in the apartment lobby, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order. He checked his phone for the time, glanced toward the elevator—then froze.
You stepped out, smile already bright, your phone in one hand and the hem of your dress held lightly in the other. It was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen you wear—soft fabric that fell just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist, the color making your skin glow. Your hair was styled, subtle makeup dusted across your cheeks, and your lips were curved in that effortless way that made it suddenly very hard to breathe.
You looked… gorgeous.
His heart did something stupid in his chest, but he quickly cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the vending machine.
“How do I look?” you asked, voice playful.
He didn’t meet your eyes. “The same,” he muttered.
“Oh,” you said quietly. “Do I?”
You sighed, and he heard the disappointment in it—saw the way your shoulders dropped just slightly.
Guilt hit him instantly.
“In a good way,” he added quickly, almost too quickly.
You blinked. “Huh?”
He finally looked at you, then down at the coffee he was still holding. “You look… pretty today.”
He cleared his throat and shoved the cup toward you before you could say anything else. Then he turned and started walking first, trying to escape the inevitable teasing.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, you smiled behind your cup and jogged up to walk beside him.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked after a few beats of silence.
“My date with Yeonjun’s today,” you said with a grin.
His step faltered for a split second. “You like him that much?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know about like, but… it’s just—I’ve never been asked out before.”
You tilted your head as you said it, your voice soft. Honest.
Sunghoon frowned. “I’m surprised.”
“What’s so surprising?” you laughed. “You’ve met me. Everyone’s either calling me loud or annoying.”
“Isn’t that what’s so charming about you?”
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
You turned to him, eyes wide, mouth parting. “Did you just—compliment me?”
“No,” he said immediately, gaze fixed ahead like it never happened.
You didn’t press it.
You just smiled again, even softer this time, and walked beside him like nothing had changed.
But for Sunghoon… everything had.
—-
The date started off… nice.
Not mind-blowing. Not movie-level magical. But nice.
Yeonjun took you to a rooftop café near campus—fairy lights strung across the ceiling, soft music humming under the chatter. He pulled your chair out like a gentleman, complimented your dress, and told you you looked beautiful in the golden hour light. You laughed, cheeks warm, nerves fluttering. You weren’t used to this. To being seen.
“You know,” he said between sips of his coffee, “I heard you got into the business faculty because of some competition?”
You nodded, a little surprised. “Yeah. The Young Entrepreneurs’ thing in my final year.”
“That’s so impressive,” he said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “You must have had a really solid proposal. What was it about?”
You blinked. “Um… a sustainable student-run café model. With profit-sharing incentives and local sourcing.”
Yeonjun’s smile widened. “That’s genius. Seriously. Are you using it for any of your current modules?”
You hesitated. “Well… sort of. I’m reworking the model for this semester’s proposal project.”
He nodded slowly. “Wow. You must be at the top of your class already.”
There was a pause. You tried to smile, but something twisted in your gut.
He kept asking—about the proposal, your outline, your ideas. Details most people would only bring up if they were in your group, or at least interested in the topic.
You excused yourself to go to the bathroom.
The second the door closed behind you, you leaned against the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. Something about this didn’t feel right. You couldn’t place it, but the way he kept circling back to your work felt… off.
When you returned, Yeonjun was all smiles again. Charming. Sweet. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just gently interrogated you for thirty minutes under the glow of fairy lights.
You tried to shake it off.
The next day, your phone stayed quiet. And the day after that. And the one after that, too.
No texts. No calls. No explanation.
Yeonjun ghosted you. Completely. Like the date never happened. Like you never happened.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t like you were in love with him. That it was just one date. One boy.
But it still stung.
It wasn’t about Yeonjun, not really. It was about what it made you wonder.
Maybe you were hard to like. Maybe you were too loud. Or too awkward. Maybe you talked too much, or didn’t say the right things. Maybe you weren’t pretty enough. Or cool enough. Or quiet enough.
He smiled at you. Told you you were smart. Sweet. Pretty. And still—he left. Without a word.
And it made you wonder if all the things people always said about you were true. If deep down, you were too much of everything… and not enough of anything.
You didn’t even like Yeonjun like that, not really. But being left behind like you didn’t matter—that part hurt more than you'd ever admit out loud.
Especially when all you did was try to be yourself.
Then came the worst part.
You were working on a different assignment, digging through your laptop for a reference doc when you realized… your final business proposal was gone.
Completely gone.
You stared at the empty folder for a long, frozen second. Then searched again. And again. You turned the whole desktop inside out, but the file wasn’t there.
Panic bloomed in your chest. You didn’t delete it. You never would.
Desperate, you made your way to the engineering block where your friend Heeseung was camped out, headphones around his neck and an energy drink half-empty beside him.
You dropped beside him and wordlessly shoved your laptop in front of him.
“I think my file’s gone,” you muttered. “Like—gone gone.”
Heeseung frowned, pulling the laptop toward him. Fingers flying across the keyboard. You sat still, breath caught in your throat.
After a few minutes, he leaned back in his chair.
“It says here your laptop’s last file access was through a thumbdrive. Someone plugged one in, moved your business proposal, then took it out.”
You stared at him.
“What?” you said. Your voice barely above a whisper.
He clicked again, tilting the screen. “Time stamp says it happened the day before yesterday. Around 8:42 PM.”
Your mind flicked back.
Yeonjun.
That was the night of your date.
No. No way.
He wouldn’t—
He couldn’t—
But the timing fit. The questions. The ghosting.
No.
No fucking way.
—
You were pissed.
You wiped the counters with a little too much force, angrily scrubbing at invisible stains like they personally betrayed you. The blender hadn’t even been used today, but you cleaned it twice. You huffed. You sighed. You muttered curses under your breath while flinging dishrags and slamming cabinet doors just a bit harder than necessary.
Sunghoon stood at the sink, quietly washing mugs like you were a rabid animal he didn’t want to startle.
“I—” he started.
You grunted.
“You—”
You sighed.
He blinked.
You hadn’t let him get out a full sentence all shift.
At this point, you were acting like him, and he was the one trying to initiate conversation.
It was terrifying.
Thirty minutes of silence passed before you finally spoke.
“You know what I hate about men?”
Sunghoon froze mid-dry. He glanced down at his own very male hands.
Great. He was framed by default.
“You people,” you said, voice rising, “and your terrible innate sense of justice.”
You slammed the rag down onto the counter. “Stealing a person’s work? Pfft. How stupid do you have to fucking be?!”
Sunghoon stayed quiet, lips pressed into a thin line. He had no idea what you were going on about—only that your date with Yeonjun clearly didn’t go well.
He opened his mouth to say something, but you waved a wet dishcloth in his face like a white flag of fury.
“And you know what else?” you went on, eyes blazing. “You people are just little gremlins who take. And take. And take.”
You let out another heavy sigh, leaning against the counter like you were carrying the weight of all modern betrayal.
“And for what?!”
Your voice hit a pitch so sharp that Sunghoon actually flinched. He snapped upright like you’d physically struck him.
“I’m guessing the date didn’t go so well?” he offered carefully.
“He stole my business proposal.”
Sunghoon paused. “…What do you mean?”
You exhaled through your nose like a dragon mid-breakdown, pacing the space behind the counter as you told him everything. The date. The weird questions. The missing file. The thumb drive. Heeseung’s diagnosis. The awful, dawning realization.
By the time you were finished, Sunghoon just stood there—speechless. Stunned.
“He’s an… asshole,” he said finally, slow and deliberate, like he needed to taste each word before letting it out.
“Yuhuh,” you mumbled, flopping into the stool behind the register and dragging your hands down your face. “What am I gonna do? The deadline’s on Friday. I spent two weeks on that thing. I’m screwed.”
Sunghoon reached for the industrial bag of coffee beans under the counter, tearing it open like this was a normal Tuesday. “Well, it’s not like you can sneak into his house and steal his laptop back.”
You froze.
“…Come again?”
Sunghoon paused, one hand still buried in the bag. “No. That was just a comment. Not an idea.”
“But a good one.”
You turned toward him slowly, a little too bright. A little too smiley.
He narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“You have to help me.”
“Why me?!”
“Because you gave me the idea!”
Sunghoon sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Like he already knew he was going to give in but had to fight for the sake of his pride.
“You’re lucky I don’t believe in karma,” he muttered.
You grinned, victory written all over your face. “So that’s a yes?”
—
It was 3:07AM when Sunghoon found himself walking through a quiet residential street, questioning every decision that had brought him to this point.
The address you’d sent him earlier lit up on his screen. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, exhaling into the chilly night, when—
“Psst!”
He turned his head toward a cluster of trees—and nearly jumped out of his skin.
You were crouched behind a bush, donned in an all-black ensemble: black beanie, oversized black hoodie, black jeans, and…
“Slippers?” he blinked.
You grinned, proud. “I see you noticed the vibe. I’m dressed up as a burglar.”
Sunghoon stared. “…Isn’t that a little on the nose?”
“Isn’t it cute?” you whispered, excited. “I got it all on sale just now.”
“At what? A Target for burglars?”
You swatted his chest with the back of your hand, ignoring the way he flinched with a low sigh.
“There,” you said, pointing toward the modest two-story house across the street. “That’s his house.”
“Okay, and what’s your—”
You swat him again.
“Our plan?” he corrected, exasperated.
You beamed. “Glad you asked. See that room on the second floor? With the string lights and the cracked window?”
He squinted. “Yeah?”
“My intel says that’s his room.”
“…Your intel. You mean, Sunoo?”
“Yes.” You wiggled your brows mysteriously before turning serious. “So. We put up the ladder. I climb. I sneak in. I get the laptop. We disappear.”
“You’re actually insane for this,” he muttered under his breath.
You ignored him, eyes locked on the prize. “The windows are open, and I made sure he’s distracted tonight.”
Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “How exactly?”
“I texted him from a fake number pretending to be a girl he ghosted last semester. He’s currently having a breakdown about his ‘reputation.’ I give us twenty minutes.”
He stared at you like you’d grown a second head.
And then he sighed. Deep. Long. Existential.
Is this worth it? He thought to himself.
He glanced down at you again—eyes full of unhinged determination, your hoodie sleeves bunched at your wrists, that tiny pout on your lips as you tried to judge the ladder distance.
God. You looked ridiculous. And cute.
So yeah. It was worth it.
“…Let’s do this,” he said.
You grinned like the gremlin you were. “I knew you liked me.”
He rolled his eyes, cheeks just a little too warm. “Regretting this already.”
But he followed you anyway.
—
You set the ladder against the side of the house like you’d done this before. Sunghoon, meanwhile, stood beside it with the stiff posture of someone definitely not okay with committing a crime at 3:15AM.
You looked back at him. “Hold it steady, okay?”
“Just… for the record,” he muttered, “this is breaking and entering.”
“I prefer the term justice retrieval.”
He sighed so hard you thought his soul left his body. “Just don’t fall and die. Please.”
You winked. “Aw, you care.”
“No, I just don’t want to explain to the police why you’re dressed like a criminal and wearing slippers.”
You began to climb.
The first few steps were fine—until one of your slippers nearly slipped right off.
“Oh, fuck—” you hissed, gripping the ladder.
“Do you need to wear those?” Sunghoon whisper-yelled from below, clutching the base of the ladder like his life depended on it.
“They’re comfy!”
“They’re a hazard.”
You ignored him, determined, as you reached the second-floor window. The breeze fluttered through the half-open pane, moonlight pooling gently across Yeonjun’s empty room. His laptop sat on the desk, closed. Glowing faintly.
Target acquired.
You carefully pushed the window open wider and swung one leg through.
Sunghoon watched from below, jaw tight, muttering to himself like a man saying his last prayers. “This is how I go down. Helping a girl in bunny slippers commit theft.”
You managed to slide inside without knocking anything over. Heart pounding. Hands slightly shaking.
You tiptoed across the carpet, grabbed the laptop, and slipped it into your drawstring bag like the world's most underqualified spy.
You were halfway back out the window when—
“HEY! WHO’S THERE?!”
A voice rang out from somewhere downstairs.
Your eyes widened. You turned to look down at Sunghoon, who was still grabbing the bottom of the ladder.
“Go, go, go—!” you whispered harshly.
You clambered down the ladder as fast as you could, nearly taking Sunghoon out as you reached the bottom. He caught your wrist before you could stumble, pulling you into a sprint without a word.
Your feet pounded against the pavement—slippers slapping, bag bouncing, hearts racing. Behind you, a door slammed open.
“HEY!” Yeonjun’s voice echoed into the street.
Sunghoon didn’t slow down. “Left!” he hissed.
You turned sharply, ducking into a narrow alley between two quiet apartment buildings. The shadows swallowed you both instantly.
“Over here—quick,” he muttered, yanking you behind a large trash bin and squeezing into the tight space beside you. It was small. Barely enough for one person, let alone two.
You pressed your back to the wall, chest heaving, adrenaline thrumming in your ears.
Sunghoon’s face was too close. Way too close.
You turned to whisper something, only to notice the way his profile was still partially visible, his cheek nearly poking out past the safety of the shadow. Panic surged through you as Yeonjun’s footsteps grew louder.
Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed Sunghoon’s face—gentle but urgent—and pulled him toward you, forcing him deeper into the corner.
He blinked, startled, his hands landing on either side of you to steady himself.
And suddenly—everything stopped.
His breath hit yours. Warm. Shaky. His nose nearly brushing yours. Your fingertips still on his cheek. You could feel the heat rising between your bodies, your heart hammering against your ribcage.
You were so focused on listening for footsteps that you didn’t notice the way he was looking at you.
His eyes were locked on yours, soft and unblinking. Like you were something precious. Something fragile. Something he wasn’t supposed to want but couldn’t help reaching for.
But then—he cleared his throat.
You blinked, still slightly dazed, and smiled—completely unaware of how close you were until you finally pulled away.
He stepped back the moment you did.
You laughed, breathless, heart still sprinting inside your chest. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“I can’t believe you dragged me into it,” he said, grinning despite himself.
Your laughter echoed down the alley, light and free and bubbling with triumph.
And even as the moment passed, and the footsteps faded, and you both stumbled back out into the quiet night—
Sunghoon couldn’t stop thinking about how your hands had felt on his skin.
—
Sunghoon unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment as if nothing about the situation was even remotely unusual. You followed close behind, hoodie pulled low over your head, black beanie snug, sleeves covering your hands, and—most incriminating of all—a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers completing the look. If anyone had seen you on the way over, they might’ve called the cops.
Inside, the living room was dimly lit, the glow of the TV casting flickering light across Jake and his girlfriend, who were curled up under a blanket, halfway through a rom-com rerun and clearly deep into their peaceful little couple night. That peace shattered the moment Jake looked up and saw you.
He froze with a chip halfway to his mouth. His girlfriend stiffened beside him. Their gazes locked on your all-black ensemble, eyes trailing from your hoodie to your slippers, as if unsure whether to scream, laugh, or call for help.
“Sunghoon,” Jake said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Why is there a burglar in our house?”
You smiled brightly, completely unfazed. “Hi!”
Jake blinked, turning to Sunghoon for confirmation. Sunghoon simply sighed, kicked his shoes off, and muttered under his breath, “Not how I wanted you to meet her.”
“You brought her to the house,” Jake said, still staring. “At 3 a.m. Dressed like that.”
You shrugged, strolling toward the desk and pulling Yeonjun’s laptop from your drawstring bag. “We’re breaking into a computer, not the house. Totally different vibe.”
Jake’s girlfriend leaned forward. “Are those bunny slippers?”
You nodded proudly. “They’re for stealth.”
“Right,” she said, blinking. “Very… quiet.”
Sunghoon dropped his keys on the table with a sigh, already preparing himself for the chaos about to unfold.
“She’s trying to hack into a guy’s laptop,” he said, walking to the kitchen like he needed caffeine and therapy at once. “Don’t ask.”
“Why are you helping her?!” Jake asked, scandalized.
Sunghoon opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “I’m not.”
“You literally held the ladder for me twenty minutes ago,” you called over your shoulder.
Jake choked. “Ladder? What ladder?!”
You turned around, laptop booted up, the login screen glowing faintly. “The one I used to climb through a second-story window.”
Jake gaped. His girlfriend quietly set the chip bag down, her expression somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
“I love her,” she whispered to Jake.
“I fear her,” Jake whispered back.
Sunghoon leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. He looked at you—messy hair peeking out from under your beanie, eyes focused, face lit by the laptop screen. Completely unbothered by the scene you’d walked into.
And for some reason, despite all the madness, he still thought you looked kind of cute.
“God help us all,” Sunghoon muttered.
By the time you cracked into the laptop, Jake and his girlfriend had already retreated into their bedroom. Sunghoon had closed the door behind them with a roll of his eyes and a muttered, “That’s just code for they’re about to smash, so we should probably play some music or something.”
You’d snorted at the time, but now the silence in the room felt heavy.
The soft hum of the laptop was the only sound between you, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor next to Sunghoon’s desk. He sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms loosely folded, eyes flicking over the screen with quiet interest—until he glanced at your expression and realized you’d stopped scrolling.
“What is it?” he asked.
You didn’t answer.
Your eyes were fixed on the folder open in front of you. Document after document lined the screen, all titled neatly with class names and—oddly—names. Different ones.
Mina. Elly. Jisoo. Grace.
And then… your name.
You clicked on it. Your proposal opened, just slightly reworded, your diagrams rearranged—but it was yours. Every piece of it.
You stared at the screen and crossed your arms tightly, a cold knot settling in your chest. The adrenaline was gone now. In its place was something much heavier. You felt small. Humiliated.
“I was just another one,” you muttered.
Sunghoon looked over, brows drawing together.
“Just another girl he got close to for an assignment,” you said, voice flat. “Was I that boring? That forgettable? Was I really so—unlikable—that the only time a guy showed me attention, it was because he needed my fucking work?”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as the words tumbled out, unfiltered. “God. What is wrong with me? What did I think was gonna happen? That someone like him actually liked someone like me?”
You let your arms drop and folded your hands over your face, pressing your palms into your eyes.
“I’m so stupid,” you whispered.
Sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. He just sat beside you, close but not touching, eyes fixed on the floor like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say and coming up completely empty.
You wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, but it was no use—your mascara had already betrayed you, running in streaks down your cheeks. You were crying harder than you realized, tears silent but relentless.
You turned to him, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “So you’re just gonna stay quiet?”
He looked up, startled. His gaze met yours, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. You looked—God, you looked like a mess. Eyes red, lashes damp, your hoodie sleeves pushed up unevenly, and cheeks stained with tears.
And somehow, he thought you’d never looked prettier.
You weren’t pretending. Weren’t smiling for the sake of others or hiding behind jokes. You were just… you. Raw and hurting and real.
He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “What do you want me to say? I’m not good at comforting people.”
“I don’t know,” you sniffled. “Say he’s an asshole or something.”
Sunghoon shrugged a little. “Well, he is.”
You looked at him, still waiting, unsure if that was all he had in him. He looked like he was about to say more, and then—he did.
“He is an asshole,” Sunghoon repeated, louder this time. “I don’t know why you even agreed to go out with him.”
You opened your mouth, confused. “I—”
“You’re loud,” he said suddenly. “You’re pretentious. You’re annoying—”
Your eyes widened, and you flinched.
“What—”
“You interrupt people all the time,” he continued, voice rising with something that wasn’t quite anger—something messier. “You talk too much. You never stop moving. You’re chaotic and stubborn and you don’t think things through—”
Tears were streaming down your face again, this time faster. You looked away, chest tightening.
But then his voice softened.
“...And you’re also caring. Kind. God, you’re the only person I know who goes to the store at four in the morning to feed stray cats in an alley every two days.”
You blinked. Slowly turned back to him.
Sunghoon exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“You’re funny. You’re thoughtful. You remember the little things people say even when they forget they said them. Anyone would be lucky to be your friend… let alone always be with you.”
He looked at you then, eyes steady and full of something warm. Something aching.
“I’m lucky,” he said, quieter now. “I’m the luckiest bastard alive, as long as I get to stand next to you and call you my friend.”
You stared at him, heart pounding, lips parted, breath caught somewhere in your chest.
Because for the first time… it felt like he wasn’t just calling you a friend.
—
Maybe it was the crying. Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of the night—the heist, the heartbreak, the sudden unraveling of every thought you’d kept tucked neatly away. Maybe it was the way Sunghoon had looked at you when he said he was lucky.
But either way, you couldn’t keep your eyes open.
One moment you were sitting beside him, the warmth of his words still lingering in your chest like a quiet heartbeat. The next, the world had blurred softly at the edges, and your body gave out beneath the weight of it all.
So now, you were on his back.
He’d barely hesitated before lifting you, tucking your arms around his shoulders and hooking his arms under your knees. You didn’t even protest—you were too tired to argue, too comforted by the way he held you like he’d done it before.
Your cheek rested against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he walked, the rhythmic sway of his steps, the subtle hum of a tune you didn’t recognize—but it was sweet, and low, and made your heartbeat slow down.
Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just walked.
Past the quiet streets. Past flickering streetlamps. Past your favorite corner store and the alley you fed cats in and the bus stop where he first bought you coffee.
He didn’t complain about your weight. Didn’t tease. Didn’t say a word about the mascara smudged against the fabric of his coat.
You didn’t know if he knew you were still half-awake, but when he gently adjusted your leg, you heard him murmur so softly you almost missed it:
“You’re not stupid.”
Your heart ached.
And then you let sleep take you.
Because if there was ever a place to rest—
It was here. On his back.
—
You woke up warm.
Too warm, actually. Wrapped in layers you didn’t remember putting on. The hoodie you had on last night clung loosely to your body, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms, and your slippers were neatly placed by the side of your bed—something you definitely hadn’t done.
You sat up slowly, blinking at the sunlight streaming through your curtains. Your room was quiet. Peaceful. And completely unfamiliar in the sense that… you had no idea how you got there.
You rubbed your eyes, your body aching in the most confusing way—like you’d run a marathon, cried through an entire movie, and fought off an emotional breakdown all at once. Oh. Right.
The heist. The yelling. The crying.
Sunghoon.
You swung your legs off the bed, still a little dazed, and padded out of your room.
That’s when you smelled it—eggs. Butter. Something slightly burnt, but in a way that made your chest tighten.
You turned the corner and froze.
Sunghoon was in your kitchen.
His hair was messier than usual, falling into his eyes as he stood in front of the stove, flipping something that might have once been a pancake. He was wearing the same hoodie from the night before, sleeves pushed up, a spatula in one hand, your mismatched cat-print apron tied haphazardly around his waist.
You blinked, brain short-circuiting. “What the hell…?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re awake.”
“I…” You looked down at yourself. “How did I get home?”
“You passed out,” he said simply, turning back to the stove. “I carried you.”
You stared at him. “You carried me?”
“Like a princess,” he deadpanned. “Except you drooled on my shoulder.”
You gasped. “I did not.”
“You did.”
You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”
He flipped another pancake—slightly more edible this time—and shrugged. “You needed the sleep.”
You looked up at him again, softer this time. “Why are you making breakfast?”
He didn’t look at you. “Felt like you could use something warm.”
You felt your throat tighten. You wanted to say something, but the words sat too heavy on your tongue. So instead, you just stood there in the doorway, watching him quietly.
And for the first time in what felt like weeks—you felt safe.
Breakfast passed in silence.
Not awkward, not heavy—just... silent. The kind of silence that settled like sunlight through the window, warm and gentle and unspoken.
You sat across from him at your little dining table, your knees brushing every so often beneath the wood, your plate mostly untouched. He ate like nothing was different, like he hadn’t carried you home last night, like he didn’t make pancakes in your kitchen while wearing your cat-print apron.
And yet, something had shifted.
You kept stealing glances at him in between tiny sips of orange juice. The way his lashes dipped as he focused on his food. The subtle curve of his mouth as he chewed. The way his hair curled just slightly at the ends when he didn’t style it.
Your heart fluttered.
Your stomach twisted—but not in the way it did when you were nervous or sad. This was... different. Lighter. Warmer.
What is this? you thought. This weird, floaty feeling in your chest. This little ache every time you looked at him.
Sunghoon glanced up, catching your gaze.
You quickly looked down at your plate.
He didn’t say anything for a moment—just reached for his cup, took a sip, then set it down with a quiet clink.
“Go take a shower and get dressed,” he said casually.
You blinked. “Huh?”
He leaned back in his chair. “You heard me.”
“But it’s Saturday. I don’t have any—”
“I’m taking you out.”
You stared at him. “Out? Like… out out?”
“Let’s go,” he said again, nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just casually turned your whole world upside down with three words.
You opened your mouth, then closed it. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks.
“Oh,” you said. Quiet. Surprised.
Sunghoon stood and collected your plate like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m not giving you the plan. Just go shower.”
And then he walked off toward the sink, sleeves rolled, calm as ever.
You sat there for another ten seconds, frozen, heart racing.
What is this feeling?
And why did you suddenly never want it to stop?
You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of your yellow chiffon babydoll dress for the third time. It swayed lightly around your thighs, soft and airy, the color bright against your skin. You’d tied your hair into two loose pigtails, hoping it came off cute and not childish—just… soft. Sweet. Something that might look good next to him.
Sunghoon, with his wardrobe of tailored coats and muted sweaters. All clean lines and high-end simplicity. He never had to try, and he always looked perfect.
You hoped—just a little—that standing beside him, you wouldn’t look too out of place.
You took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of your room.
He was sitting on your couch, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling casually through his phone like he hadn’t just changed your entire Saturday morning. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.
His eyes flicked up to meet yours.
Then back down to his phone.
No double-take. No compliment. Not even a blink.
“Let’s go,” he said, standing up with a stretch.
You stared at him, jaw tight. “Stupid idiot,” you muttered under your breath.
“What was that?” he asked, turning toward you, brows raised.
You plastered on a fake smile so quickly it nearly hurt. “Nothing.”
He watched you for a beat, unreadable as always, then looked away.
“You look pretty,” he said softly—so quiet it was almost drowned out by the rustle of his coat sleeve as he reached for his keys.
You blinked.
But before you could respond, he was already walking toward the door, acting like he hadn’t said anything at all.
Typical Sunghoon.
Your heart fluttered anyway.
—
“Are we there yet?” you sighed for what had to be the fifteenth time.
Sunghoon didn’t look at you—just kept walking ahead with that maddeningly steady pace. “Almost,” he said.
“You said that two hours ago.”
“Mm.”
Just a hum. No explanation. No sympathy.
You followed anyway, flats sinking further into the mud with every step. You’d taken two buses, a ten-minute train ride, and now you were walking deep into a part of the park you didn’t recognize at all. Far from your neighborhood. Far from everything.
You glanced down at your shoes, now spotted with dirt and regret. This dress, the hair, the whole effort—you were starting to think it had all been a mistake.
Then Sunghoon’s pace suddenly picked up. His eyes lit up, focused on something just beyond the next turn.
“There,” he said softly.
And before you could ask what he meant, he reached for your hand—sudden, unthinking—and pulled you with him.
Your breath caught in your throat.
His hand was warm, firm around yours, fingers interlaced like it had always been that way.
You didn’t say a word. Just followed.
He led you past a line of trees, through tall grass, and down a narrow slope. Then finally—you saw it.
A small, glimmering pond hidden in a clearing. The water was still, mirror-like, catching the soft gold of the late afternoon sun. Willow trees bent low over the banks, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Wildflowers bloomed in quiet clusters along the edge—lilac, yellow, soft blue—and dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface, their wings catching the light like tiny stained-glass windows. It was quiet. Peaceful. Untouched.
Like something out of a fairytale.
You stared, mouth slightly parted. “How’d you even—how’d you find this place?”
Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. He just stood beside you, still holding your hand loosely.
“When I was younger,” he said after a moment, voice softer than usual, “my family came here for a vacation. My sister and I snuck out one morning and found this by accident.”
You glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the water, like it still held something sacred.
“I used to take her here when she cried,” he continued, “whenever she got scolded by our mum. I don’t know... it always calmed her down.”
You smiled, quietly listening.
“Why’d you bring me here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
He laughed under his breath, the sound light, almost shy.
“It’s silly,” he said, eyes still on the pond. “But last night, when you were crying…”
You looked at him then—really looked at him.
His expression was unreadable, caught between memory and now. He glanced at you finally, voice quieter.
“You reminded me of my childhood. Of her. You looked so… innocent.” He gave a faint, crooked smile. “And maybe I thought this place would cheer you up.”
Your chest ached in the most unexpected way.
Not from sadness. Not even from joy.
Just from the quiet knowing that someone had thought of you that deeply.
You looked down again at your joined hands.
Still holding. Still warm.
The two of you made your way closer to the water, weaving past the low-hanging branches until you found a flat patch of grass near the edge. You sat down carefully, smoothing the fabric of your dress beneath you, your feet dangling just above the still surface of the pond.
Sunghoon dropped beside you, resting his arms lazily on his knees, legs slightly apart, sneakers almost brushing the water. The breeze was cooler here, brushing your cheeks with the scent of wildflowers and grass. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of cicadas, and the quiet ripples of the pond.
He didn’t speak.
Of course he didn’t.
You’d grown used to his silences. They weren’t cold, or distant—not really. They were just… Sunghoon. Thoughtful. Still. The kind of quiet that made you want to fill the space, not because it was empty, but because he made you feel safe enough to.
So you talked.
About everything. About nothing.
You told him about the weird dreams you’d been having lately, about the girl in your class who kept trying to copy your notes, about how you once tried to bake cookies for your primary school crush and forgot the sugar. You pointed out shapes in the clouds. Gave names to the dragonflies. Talked about the playlist you made for a fictional road trip you hadn’t taken yet.
And Sunghoon?
He just listened.
Not distracted. Not fake-listening like some people did, nodding along while their mind was elsewhere.
He listened with his whole body. Slight tilts of his head. The way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The quiet little hums when something made him laugh. The barely-there smile when you said something completely ridiculous.
You kicked your feet gently above the water.
“Sorry,” you said at some point, half-laughing. “I talk too much when you’re quiet.”
He shook his head slowly, still looking out over the pond. “I like it.”
You blinked. “You do?”
“You talk like you’re alive,” he said softly.
You turned to look at him.
His expression was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere across the water. But his voice—his voice sounded like truth.
Your heart beat a little faster. You looked down at your hands in your lap, trying to will the blush away.
The two of you had been sitting there for a while now, feet dangling over the edge of the pond, sunlight dancing on the surface of the water. You’d done most of the talking—naturally—and Sunghoon had just sat beside you, quietly listening like always, eyes half-lidded from the warmth, arms resting lazily over his knees.
You were halfway through a very dramatic retelling of the vending machine incident from earlier in the week when something soft landed on your head.
You paused, blinking. “Did something just…?”
Before you could reach up to check, Sunghoon leaned in.
His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing through your hair with careful precision. You stilled completely. He was close—closer than usual—and the moment stretched, your voice caught somewhere in your throat.
His face hovered just inches from yours, eyes focused as he plucked a single pink petal from your hair. The breeze tugged at your dress, your heart did a weird little somersault, and your brain short-circuited trying to process the proximity.
You barely dared to breathe. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and soft. He didn’t move away.
And somehow, your mind made the leap.
Oh my god. He’s going to kiss me.
Your heart leapt. You shut your eyes without thinking, every nerve in your body suddenly very, very aware of the shape of his mouth and the way your knees were touching.
But instead of a kiss, you got—
A throat clear.
You opened your eyes to find Sunghoon leaning back like nothing happened, examining the flower petal with the clinical interest of someone assessing a grocery receipt. Like he hadn’t just completely hijacked your central nervous system.
You blinked at him, heat flooding your face.
He glanced up, clearly fighting back a smirk. “Did you just—”
“No.” Your answer was immediate. Loud. Defensive.
“I didn’t even finish my senten—”
“Shut up.” You whirled on him, hands flying dramatically as the full force of your embarrassment took over. “You scooted so close to me, and you leaned in and, and I—I didn’t know what to expect, okay?!”
Sunghoon’s eyes sparkled, lips twitching. “I was taking a petal out of your hair.”
“You took your sweet time, that’s what you did,” you huffed, arms flailing now. “God, you and your–cold–cold boy exterior. I can’t read your face! You could be about to kiss me or about to tell me my card got declined, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”
He let out a soft laugh, the kind that made your chest ache a little. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Excuse me for assuming I was about to have a romantic moment by a magical pond with a boy who—”
He reached forward suddenly, both hands cupping your cheeks, and you froze mid-rant.
The world slowed.
His palms were warm. Gentle. Holding your face like you were made of something delicate. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
Then his voice came, low and steady.
“Do you want me to?”
Your words died in your throat. Your heart thundered somewhere behind your ribs.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure what to say.
He didn’t press. Just looked at you with that infuriating, calm expression—the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was teasing you or being completely serious.
And somehow, that only made you fall harder.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
“I—” you tried.
Sunghoon waited.
You panicked. “You took way too long with the petal.”
He laughed. This time, fully. And God, if your heart hadn’t already betrayed you, that laugh would've done it.
“Okay,” he said eventually, letting go of your cheeks like he hadn’t just gently cradled your entire soul.
You immediately buried your face in your hands.
You hated him. You adored him. You had no idea what this was.
But you kind of never wanted it to end.
—
The walk back was quiet.
Not the comfortable kind that usually settled between you and Sunghoon. This one was thick. Tense. A silence so loud it felt like it echoed.
You hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the pond.
He’d glanced at you a few times as you walked side by side, but you kept your gaze stubbornly forward, arms crossed, cheeks still warm from earlier. You couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head—his hands on your face, that question, your silence, the way your heart had practically stopped beating altogether.
And now, here you were. Standing outside your apartment. Streetlights glowing gold above you. Crickets chirping. The air cool and still.
He hadn’t said anything either.
Not until now.
Sunghoon cleared his throat softly. “You’ve been quiet since the park.”
You let out a small, unbothered-sounding tch, keeping your eyes fixed on the sidewalk.
What a stupid question.
He knew why.
You were embarrassed. Flustered. Emotionally compromised and desperately trying to hold it together. And he just stood there, calm and collected, as if he hadn’t casually almost kissed you and then walked away like it was nothing.
You turned toward him, fire rising again. “You—!”
You raised your hands, ready to start waving them mid-rant like you always did. But before a single word left your mouth, Sunghoon stepped forward and grabbed both your wrists gently, stopping them midair.
You blinked.
“What are you—?”
And then he leaned in.
Soft. Quick. Certain.
He pressed a kiss to your lips—just a brief, featherlight touch that made your breath catch and your thoughts scatter in all directions.
It was simple.
Barely a second long.
But it knocked the wind out of you.
“There,” he said, voice low and calm, as he pulled back.
You stared at him, completely frozen. Mouth slightly parted. Eyes wide.
“Y-You—” you stammered, hands still in his.
Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “You were being loud in your head. I could hear it.”
“I—That’s not—You don’t just—!”
He raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Feel better now?”
Your heart was a mess. Your brain was fuzz. But still… you nodded.
He let go of your hands slowly, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Goodnight,” he said, and turned to walk away.
You stood there, stunned, watching him go. And somewhere between your heart trying to reboot and your hand brushing against your lips…
—-
The library was quiet, save for the occasional turning of pages and the distant hum of the printer.
You were trying to focus. Really, you were.
But it was hard.
Not because of your thesis—which was enough of a monster on its own—but because of him. Sitting right next to you.
Sunghoon.
The boy who kissed you once. Who sent you home after and said nothing. The boy who still picked you up for class, still shared his earbuds, still split convenience store snacks with you like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Not really.
You weren’t kissing everyday. You weren’t dating. There were no labels.
Just… this strange, sweet in-between. And it was driving you insane.
You’d been hanging out every day, and yet neither of you had brought up the kiss. Not the one by the pond. Not the one on your doorstep.
You were somewhere between friends and more, and he seemed perfectly content to sit in that quiet space—while you were losing your mind wondering what it meant.
You were currently scanning the shelves, trying—and failing—to find a book for your thesis. You swore it was here. The catalogue said it was. But after combing through the aisle three times, you were ready to throw yourself into the return bin.
“Ugh,” you muttered, turning to scan the shelf one more time.
And then, like some book-finding angel, Sunghoon stepped beside you. He reached forward casually, plucked the exact book from the shelf above your head, and handed it to you without a word.
Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
You snatched it from his hand, dramatic as ever, and turned to him with wild eyes.
“I’ve been here for twenty minutes! And you—!”
Your hands flew up instinctively, ready to gesticulate in full rant mode when—
He caught them.
Both of them.
Warm fingers wrapping around your wrists, stopping you mid-rant with that infuriatingly calm expression on his face.
And then he leaned in.
And kissed you.
Just like that.
Soft. Steady. No hesitation.
Your breath caught completely. Your brain shut off. The library, the thesis, the confusion—all of it disappeared under the pressure of his lips against yours.
It was over in seconds.
He pulled back like nothing happened, still holding your hands.
“Loud,” he said, voice low and amused.
And then—he let go and walked away.
You stood frozen in the aisle, mouth still parted in disbelief, the book clutched to your chest like it had personally witnessed a crime.
Your heart was pounding. Your face was burning. You were sure your soul had just left your body.
And once again…
He didn’t look back.
Typical Sunghoon.
You were unwell.
Absolutely, fully, catastrophically unwell.
Because Sunghoon kissed you again.
In a library.
After handing you a book like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And when you raised your hands—to explain, to demand answers, to yell in three different emotional languages—he just… kissed you. Again. Calmly. Casually. And walked away like it hadn’t just restructured your entire brain.
You tried not to think about it. You really did.
But the moment you sat back down at the table, book open in front of you, and he slid a highlighter across the desk toward you like he hadn’t just emotionally detonated you—
You exploded.
“Okay,” you said, too loudly for a library. “What are we?”
He looked up from his notes, blinking once.
You leaned forward. “Because you kissed me. Twice. And you keep holding my face like I’m a traumatized woodland creature and then walking away before I can process anything.”
He tilted his head, resting his chin on his palm. “So you have been thinking about it.”
You sputtered. “Of course I’ve been thinking about it!”
Sunghoon nodded slowly, flipping to the next page of his notes.
You blinked at him. “Are you ignoring me?”
“I’m studying.”
“I’m spiraling.”
“Noted.”
Your hands flailed.
And just as you raised them again, fully prepared to unleash wave two of your emotional breakdown—
He stood up from his seat, leaned across the table, and kissed you. Right there. Again.
Quick. Soft. On the corner of your mouth this time.
You froze.
“I—” you squeaked.
“You were getting loud again,” he said, sitting back down like he hadn’t just completely ended your speech mid-sentence.
You gawked at him, face on fire. “You can’t just kiss me every time I get dramatic.”
“That’s what you think.”
You opened your mouth. He raised an eyebrow.
You closed it again.
He handed you your highlighter. “Let me know when you’re done with denial.”
You stared at him, heart pounding so hard you could hear it echoing in your skull. He was calm. Unbothered. Absolutely smug.
You hated him.
You wanted to kiss him again.
You highlighted the same sentence seven times just to avoid looking at his stupid perfect face.
—
You were walking home from the library with Sunghoon again. Just like always. Quiet sidewalk, golden streetlights, late-night hum of the city in the background.
Except nothing about it felt normal anymore.
Not after the kisses.
Not after the looks he kept giving you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Not after your brain had chewed itself into pieces trying to decode what you were to him.
And tonight—you were done pretending you were fine with it.
“I just think,” you said for what felt like the fifth time, voice rising as your steps quickened, “that if you’re gonna keep kissing me, then maybe—and this is wild—I deserve to know what it means!”
Sunghoon didn’t answer. He kept walking beside you, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. Infuriatingly calm.
“And if it doesn’t mean anything, that’s fine,” you added, already lying to yourself. “But then stop doing it! You can’t just weaponize your mouth to shut me up like some human mute button—”
He stopped walking.
You blinked, still mid-rant, too fired up to notice that he’d turned until his fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you back—swiftly, gently, deliberately—until your back hit the cold brick wall of the nearest building.
The shock of it knocked the words straight out of your mouth.
“Wha—”
And then he kissed you.
Hard.
No hesitation. No teasing.
His lips found yours in one clean, fluid motion, like he’d been waiting, burning, counting every second leading up to this moment. His hand pressed firmly against the wall beside your head, his body angled toward yours—not pushing, just close. Too close. Close enough that you felt the heat radiating off of him, the weight of everything he hadn’t said.
You didn’t even get the chance to breathe before his other hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face up slightly—and then his mouth opened against yours, and his tongue slid in. Slow. Confident. Sure.
You gasped softly into him, your fingers gripping the front of his sweater like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. And God—he tasted like mint and quiet danger, like late nights and secrets he hadn’t told you yet.
He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your mouth.
Like he wanted you breathless and boneless and ruined in the best way.
And you let him.
You kissed him back like it had been building inside you too, like you’d been waiting for him to break first—waiting for this exact kind of dizzying, spine-melting surrender.
By the time he pulled back, you weren’t sure where you were anymore.
Your chest heaved. Your lips tingled. Your back was still pressed to the wall, legs weak, thoughts tangled.
Sunghoon didn’t move far—just enough to speak, his thumb still brushing softly along your cheek.
“You’re loud,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. “But not when you’re kissing me back.”
You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even glare. Your eyes were still wide and unfocused. Your body felt like it had been struck by lightning wrapped in velvet.
And him?
He just took your hand again like nothing happened.
“Let’s go,” he said, like he hadn’t just absolutely wrecked you against a wall.
You followed.
Stunned. Silent.
And for the first time in your life—
You understood exactly why he did that.
Because nothing had ever shut you up like that before.
—
The next morning, Sunghoon was already waiting outside your apartment by the time you stepped out, bleary-eyed and still emotionally unstable from the night before. He stood there with his usual sleepy calmness, one hand in his pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order.
Of course he knew you hadn’t slept.
He hadn’t either.
Because while you were lying awake replaying that kiss over and over again, so was he. He’d tried to read, tried to distract himself—but every time he closed his eyes, all he could feel was you against the wall. Your fingers in his sweater. The way your lips opened under his, soft and wanting. The sound you made when he bit down gently on your lip before pulling away.
He was in trouble.
You walked toward him slowly, eyes puffy, your hoodie a little crooked from sleep. You didn’t say anything—just snatched the coffee from his hand and took three aggressive gulps like it personally wronged you.
“Hmph,” you huffed, before storming three steps ahead of him like an angry little duck.
Sunghoon blinked.
Then he laughed.
God, he was so gone for you.
“Why are you mad?” he asked, catching up easily.
You didn’t look at him. “Because—because you won’t tell me what we are. You keep kissing me every time I get dramatic, and you don’t say anything after, and you won’t tell me if you even like me, and—”
“Don’t you like it when I kiss you, though?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t setting your entire nervous system on fire.
You stumbled. “I—! I—”
He looked far too smug. You hated how good he was at this.
“You can’t just say smug shit like that and make me not want to choke you—”
You didn’t finish. Because just like last time, he moved without warning.
In one sharp, fluid motion, he backed you into the nearest tree, the rough bark grazing your spine as your back hit it with a quiet thud. His hand slid around to the small of your back, pressing you against him, while the other gripped your waist and dragged slowly down to your hip, fingers curving around it possessively.
His mouth was on yours before you could speak. No hesitation this time.
His lips crashed into yours—hot, hungry, open. He tilted his head, deepening it fast, his hand tightening at your waist as he pulled you harder against him. Your gasp disappeared into his mouth.
His tongue slipped past your lips, slow and deliberate. He kissed like he knew exactly what he was doing—like he knew how to pull sound from your throat without a word. His body pinned yours to the tree, firm and steady, his hips brushing into yours just enough to make you lose your balance and grab his sweater for support.
He groaned lowly when you kissed him back, your fingers bunching at his chest, his thumb digging into your side as his mouth moved harder, needier, lips parting, tongue sliding deeper.
And then—he bit down on your bottom lip, just enough pressure to make your breath catch.
“You didn’t stop me,” he murmured, breath warm against your skin.
Your mouth opened. “Because—”
“Because you like it,” he said again, low and certain.
You glared at him. “And what if I do?! At least I’m being honest with my feelings.”
Sunghoon raised a brow. “Are you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Because you haven’t really told me anything about your feelings,” he said simply.
You threw your hands up. “Is it not clear?!”
You folded your arms, frustration bubbling up.
“Is it not clear that I clearly like you?!”
And just like that—he was silent.
Sunghoon had always been calm, collected, a little unreadable—but something in his expression faltered then. His cool cracked just a little, the tiniest stutter of surprise flickering across his face.
His heart was doing things he would never admit out loud.
Because no matter how smooth he could be, no matter how many times he kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing—you were the only one who could completely unravel him.
He looked at you, smiling softly.
“Look under your cup.”
You frowned. “What?”
“The cup,” he said. “Turn it over.”
You squinted at him suspiciously, lifting the cup over your head like it owed you answers. And there—scrawled in slightly smudged black marker under the base—was one word, just barely legible in his messy handwriting:
GIRLFRIEND?
Your breath hitched.
Your arms dropped.
You stared at it, then at him.
He stood there with his usual hands-in-pockets posture, pretending to be all calm and collected—but you saw it. The way his ears were just a little too red. The faint twitch of his mouth like he was holding his breath.
You blinked. “You wrote it… on the bottom of a coffee cup?”
“I thought it was romantic,” he said, completely deadpan.
You raised a brow. “You know people usually use, like, their mouths to say these things, right?”
“I figured this way, you’d actually read it instead of yelling over it.”
You paused.
Touche.
“You truly are a man of few words.”
He shrugged. “You use enough for both of us.”
You rolled your eyes—but your grin gave you away.
And then, quietly, you held the cup closer to your chest.
“…Yes,” you muttered.
His lips twitched. “You’re supposed to say it louder.”
You glared. “Don’t push your luck, loverboy.”
He smiled, wide this time. “Too late.”
Before you could react, his hands wrapped around your waist—confident, steady—and he pulled you in all at once. You let out a small yelp, half laugh, arms instinctively catching onto his shoulders as he swept you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then he kissed you.
His lips pressed into yours like he already knew you’d say yes, like your quiet little “yes” had unlocked something in him. There was no teasing this time, no smirk hiding behind it—just him, kissing you like he meant it.
His grip tightened around your waist, grounding you against him, your body flush to his as his other hand came up to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb brushing just below your ear. You melted into him without a thought, your fingers curling around the back of his sweater, trying to pull him even closer.
You could feel his heartbeat, fast but steady, pressed right against yours.
When he finally pulled back, just barely, his lips hovered over yours—still close enough to steal another breath.
“I’ve been waiting to do that properly,” he whispered, voice low and warm.
you were sunghoon’s muse, his flawless, perfect wife that he dresses in frilly dresses and makes sure you always looked like the idealized woman. that much was evident from all the dolls he made of you that sat proudly throughout your home. but, when sunghoon isn’t there, the dolls move and show you things that would otherwise be hidden in the shadows. one day, they show you something so frightening, something completely sinister that you force yourself to believe that it isn’t real. your beloved husband wouldn’t do something like that, would he? you weren’t so sure about your answer anymore.
( 𝓷 )。 went a bit insane writing this because why is the smut scene alone 5.4k words??? but it’s finally here!! my first post on my new blog (that’s not part of a series) and my first darker content fic!! this was really fun to write and opened a primal lust within me for sunghoon that made me crazier… hehe enjoy loves!!
You always strived to be nothing short of perfect, and you were immensely proud at the fact that you have never strayed from the path of the idealized woman in the eyes of their beholder.
And you were perfect. The perfect person, the perfect woman, the perfect wife. It was what you were born and bred to be, and with a smile you lived your life knowing that not a single frizzy strand of hair was out of place nor was there a single wrinkle in your dress. You were pretty, pristine, perfect. You’d ask for nothing more.
But, as the days started to pass—and your husband was out later and later for work—you started to hate the idea of perfection. You clawed at it like a noose wrapped around your pretty throat. Gone were the days where you’d be set alight with how well you presented yourself—with how much your husband loved to stare at you. These days, you just wanted to be.
In the beginning, you loved to be under Sunghoon’s watchful eye. You loved how he’d dress you in perfectly fitting clothes suited to what he loved to see you in—frills and lace. Loved how he’d fluff your hair if it was too flat or if it wasn’t up to his standard, or smooth down the fabric of your dress. You loved when he treated you like his perfect little doll. It meant the world to you, especially when it came from such an expert dollmaker like your husband himself. In his eyes, it meant you were the best of the best, that no other doll that he has made could compare—his perfect creation.
Now, the more you think about it, the more your throat closes up. But, as much as you’re growing to hate the idea, you just can’t let go of the deeply rooted perfectionism you still strive for. It’s as if it’s embedded in your skin, as if it’s in the marrow of your bones and in the blood that pumps through your veins. You don’t know how to live a life that isn't perfect, and at this point, you’re too scared to find out what that life entails.
So you put on the dress Sunghoon lays out for you before work and you style your hair just the way he likes it—and you be perfect. Because that is all you know how to do.
You stare at yourself in the mirror in your bathroom, your brows knitted together. Confusion spread throughout your body as you tried to put a name to what you were feeling. Disgust, maybe? Hatred? You didn’t know. Sighing softly to yourself, you picked up your makeup brush and dusted more of the blush onto your cheeks.
Sunghoon had already left for work, so it didn’t even really matter what you looked like right now. You stepped out of the bathroom and into your bedroom. Dolls of various sizes greeted your sight. Some had intricate and realistic outfits, the same ones that you wore, and some of them were more plainly dressed. There were dolls everywhere in your home, even some perched on the open shelves of your kitchen. It was a little girl’s dream home. The most unsettling thing about all the dolls around you no matter where you turned was how much every single one of them resembled you in some way.
It was as if Sunghoon could never quite capture your likeness exactly. With some dolls, their eyes were too big, their lips were too small, or the arch of their brow wasn’t quite right. Sometimes he couldn’t accurately carve the curve of your nose. You knew it drove him mad, not being able to immortalize you in his craft.
“You’re too flawless,” Sunghoon had told you once. You were laying in bed together and the tips of his fingers trailed along your arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He used to always give you goosebumps, the good ones. Now it feels more like a chill down your spine.
You stared up at him from your pillow and watched as his eyes devoured your frame. His fingers twitched, briefly stopping their descent back down your arm, and you could tell he had the urge to test his hand at making you again. “I don’t think I’m flawless,” you smile at him, “I’m just as flawed as everyone else—just as human.”
Sunghoon’s gaze flicked up to your face, specifically to your smile, like he was committing it all to memory. He moved the hand that was trialing your shoulder up to cup your cheek. His thumb gently caressed the soft skin before he grazed it along your lips. There was a certain glint in Sunghoon’s eyes that you knew all too well.
“You’re flawless to me,” he stated. His thumb brushed along your bottom lip and pulled it down a little. You watched as his pupils dilated and the mix of lust and fascination that swirled in them grew. Ever so slightly, his eyes widened, too. Sunghoon moved his thumb down to your chin before leaning down to press his lips to yours.
He captured them with a certain roughness—the type that always shocked you with how gentle it initially seemed. Sunghoon’s hand grabbed your chin harder, his fingers creating soft indents into your skin as he leaned your head back and further into the pillow.
You were so moldable for Sunghoon, a shiny lump of clay ready for his skilled hands to turn you into a masterpiece. He hummed into the kiss and his teeth delicately bit down into the flesh of your bottom lip, only enough to not leave a mark. You moaned into his mouth, your arms raising to wrap around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer. In response, Sunghoon pulled his lips away from yours. He pressed feather light kisses to your cheek and up to the shell of your ear. “You’re my muse,” he whispered, before his head dipped to the crook of your neck to leave kisses there too.
You suppose that being so perfect wasn’t so bad if it meant that Sunghoon couldn’t keep his hands off of you—if it meant that he couldn't keep his hands off of his tools to try and remake you over and over again. Perhaps you were viewing it all wrong. Maybe it wasn’t a noose around your throat, but a pretty handmade necklace crafted by his nimble fingers. If it meant that Sunghoon never leaves, then you could be as perfect as he wanted forever. If it meant that he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he ever laid his eyes on, then you would be his doll for as long as you lived.
Maybe it wasn’t perfectionism at all, but an act of complete devotion—an act of love.
Sunghoon left open-mouthed kisses along your chest and moved further and further down until the lace of your lingerie blocked his lips from your skin. He pulled away from you fully and looked down at it like he was offended. You squirmed beneath him, your chest heaving as you tried to take in any air that you possibly could. “Please,” you inhaled, looking up at him desperately.
You weren’t quite sure what you were begging for exactly; maybe for his lips to be back on your skin, or maybe for him to quell the heat radiating from your body. “Please,” you said again, your voice coming out quieter and more forlorn.
Sunghoon ran his hands underneath the sheer fabric at your stomach and you gasped at his touch. “So soft,” he sighed contently, hands trailing further up until they physically couldn’t anymore and were blocked by the lace at your breasts. His calloused hands were a stark contrast to your velvety skin and the slight roughness made you shiver.
He pushed the sheer fabric up your stomach with the movement of his hands until the bottom half of your body was completely bare under him. Sunghoon must’ve decided that he couldn’t wait any longer, couldn’t bear to take the extra second to lift the lingerie over your head, because the harsh sound of fabric ripping filled your ears and the swift coldness of sudden exposure had you gasping again.
Sunghoon tossed the tattered fabric somewhere off to the side next to the two of you and in the corner of your eye you saw it fall to the floor below. His hands surged upwards, no longer bound by the restraints of your lingerie, and grabbed your breasts. Sunghoon’s thumbs rubbed against your hardened nipples and you arched your back off the mattress to give him more access. His hands dropped down to your thighs and he pushed them towards your stomach as he spread them further apart.
Sunghoon’s breath hitched when his eyes finally got a look at your glistening pussy, completely on display for him. His hand then moved from the back of your thigh and he dragged his fingers through your folds, collecting the slick on his fingertips. “Perfect,” Sunghoon breathed out.
Your husband liked to dissect things. He liked to break things apart and put them back together all shiny and new. It’s what he did to you every night—left you in a heap before cleaning you off and making you new again. You didn’t care, you just liked the feeling of his hands on you, even if its intention was to destroy. You knew that it was just a morbid curiosity. As long as he remained by your side, you were content in being a pile of doll parts for him to play with as he pleased.
In your bedroom, your eyes landed on a doll that wasn’t there when you had stepped into the bathroom. It sat in the center of your bed, dressed in the same lingerie that Sunghoon had ripped up. It didn’t look at you, but at the entrance of the room, with the hint of a smile that you knew was carved into the doll but couldn’t help but feel was mocking.
No matter how often it happened, you’ll never get used to the fact that the dolls moved around on their own. It only happened when you were home alone. The dolls never dared to move when their maker was home, but you still felt their eyes on you nonetheless. You had told Sunghoon about it—the two of you even waited around to see if one of them would move, but they never did. It was extremely frustrating.
You sighed at the doll and straightened your back. Leaving said doll where it was without a word, you left your room to put a start to your day.
What you weren't expecting was even more moved dolls in your kitchen. You stopped in your tracks as different, mini, and almost identical versions of you stared directly at you from the kitchen table in a circle. Usually it was only one doll that moved here and there, but this many moved dolls in the span of minutes was completely odd. Cautiously, you stalked towards them to see what they were surrounding.
It was the TV remote. You scoffed.
You grabbed the remote with a roll of your eyes. Aiming it towards the tiny box TV in the kitchen, you clicked it on and placed the remote back down onto the table next to the dolls. You let whatever channel it was left on play in the background as you started making breakfast for yourself.
“We’re here with the mother of one of those young girls today. Can you tell us a little about your daughter, ma’am?” you heard the news reporter ask. You took a pan out from under the lower cabinet and placed it onto the stove, ticking on the heat. You watched as a flame ignited, quick and large as lightning, before calming to something smaller.
A grief stricken voice filled your ears next between your soft humming. You didn’t realize that it was the tune Sunghoon always hummed when working from home—something he didn’t do as often anymore. “She was the most beautiful girl in the world—the most gentle and kind. She loved everyone and she loved love. My daughter was the single spark in this bleak night. Please, if you know where she is, please let a mother know.”
You moved about the kitchen, ignoring the way the dolls’ eyes seemed to follow your every move. Cracking the egg, you let it fall into the pan with a sizzle, fanning away the sudden smoke that rises. “The news station also has an anonymous tip hotline open for anyone who may know any information. The search for the six missing girls is still on. This Friday, the mayor will hold another search party and encourages everyone who can to join.”
Turning to throw away the shell of the egg, you caught a glimpse of the TV. “This has been—” You gasped, the shell falling to the tile below with a soft crack as your hand flew to cover your mouth. On the small screen were the pictures of the six missing girls—six missing girls who all looked eerily alike to one another, eerily alike to you. You rushed forward towards the screen, desperately needing to get a closer look at the girls’ image.
Fear and panic prickled at your skin and clawed its way up your throat. What if you were next? What if whoever was taking these girls had their eye on you to take next? You glanced around the kitchen, the dolls suddenly gone from the kitchen table and perched back in their rightful places on various shelves. What if one day you stepped out of your home to run an errand only to be met with a cloth to your nose and mouth?
You began to tremble as you focused your attention back onto the TV. Did the police have anything on who was taking the girls? Any physical descriptions or perhaps a drawing? You waited for the news to mention anything else, but they didn’t.
Lightheaded, you felt yourself begin to spiral. Your hands grabbed tight to the kitchen counter as you tried to steady yourself and not let the fear cloud your mind. Maybe it was all a coincidence. Maybe you just happened to look like those girls but the perpetrator was after someone else. You inhaled sharply, trying to swallow down the fear and panic and let the oxygen get through instead.
The sudden loud ringing of the smoke alarm startled you and made you jump. The eggs. They were still on the stove! “Oh!” you breathed as you hurriedly moved to turn off the stove. You accidentally stepped on the egg shell in the process. “Oh no,” you said softly under your breath as you moved from the stove to the trash can. You scraped off the burnt eggs, your appetite suddenly gone. You sat the pan in the sink for you to wash later.
Bending down, you meticulously picked up the pieces of egg shells on the floor to throw away as well. When you turned from the trash, there was a singular doll back on the kitchen counter. You jumped again.
It pointed towards the hallway to get to your living room, unblinking. You stared at it for a moment—at yourself. Why were the dolls doing this? “Fine,” you say, smoothing out your dress, “I’ll play along.” You need a distraction from the missing girls anyhow.
You left the kitchen and made your way down the hallway that the doll pointed to. As you slowly made your way down it, you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary besides the way the various dolls’ eyes followed you. You make the bend to the end of the hallway and freeze.
At the end of the hallway was the displayed dollhouse that you didn’t touch. Sunghoon didn’t even let you clean it, opting to clean it himself. It meant a lot to him and he took great care for it to be in as pristine condition as possible. The dollhouse was a perfect replica of your home, down to the welcome sign you weaved on the front of the door. You’ve never even seen the inside of it… until now.
There was a crowd of dolls on the ground below it, more than you’ve ever seen moved before, pointing up at the scene portrayed in it. Swallowing thickly, you stepped further forward as a chill ran down your back.
In the dollhouse were only three dolls: one of you, one of Sunghoon, and one that you couldn’t even begin to understand what it could be. You took another cautious step forward, leaning in to get a better look and taking care to not step on any of the dolls. The scene depicted in the dollhouse was quite simple. You were upstairs in you and Sunghoon bedroom, asleep. Sunghoon was in some room you’ve never seen before, carving away at a doll that you could only assume was of you. Behind him was the other doll, covered in different, mismatched layers of fabric. It was so covered by copious amounts of fabric that it didn’t even seem to have the body of a doll anymore. It was almost grotesque looking, in a way.
Very quietly, almost indistinct, you heard the same melody Sunghoon hums when working. Your eyes widened in shock as you furiously tried to digest and decipher the scene. You shook your head a little. “I don’t understand,” you say, the confusion dripping from your voice. “What does this mean? What is that behind him?”
There was a creaking behind you and you swung around at the sound. More dolls were behind you, pointing. You weren’t sure if they were pointing at you or the dollhouse. Maybe it was both. You swung back around to the dollhouse when you heard something move.
Now Sunghoon was in front of the other fabric-covered doll. His doll was slightly bent at the torso and his head was tilted. The thin, wire-framed glasses he wears sat low on his nose bridge. You knew that look—that inspecting look. That morbid curiosity. It felt as if the dolls were screaming at you, “Do you understand now?” You still weren’t sure that you did. Too many puzzle pieces were missing from the board and it hindered you from seeing the whole picture. The sound of Sunghoon’s humming still filled your ears and you didn’t know what to do to stop it.
More creaking and you turned to look behind you. More dolls. They filled the entire hallway, their tiny fingers pointing at you, trying to force you to understand what they were trying to show you. Behind you, the dollhouse began to violently shake and you gasped as you looked at it. Sunghoon was now back in the bedroom with you. He stood over you, his hand hovering over your arm. You knew the action it was trying to convey—you could feel the tips of his fingers trailing up and down your actual arm now, making you shiver.
You stumbled backwards, even more confused and scared at the shaking dollhouse. The front of the dollhouse slammed shut, locking in the scene of you and Sunghoon inside, and stilled. Your chest rose and fell heavily and you clumsily stumbled your way out of the hallway and into the living room, avoiding any pointing doll that you could.
Later that day when Sunghoon came home from work, you didn’t mention the moving dolls or the dollhouse. It was as if nothing happened at all, every doll was where he placed them and the dollhouse was just as pristine as he left it. You especially didn’t dare mention the scenes depicted in the dollhouse. You feared your husband would think you were crazy.
You carried the plate of hot food to where Sunghoon sat at the kitchen table. “Eat up!” you smiled placing the plate in front of him before placing a chaste kiss to his cheek. You felt him smile before you pulled away. You were turning to make yourself a plate when Sunghoon grabbed your wrist to stop you. You jumped, a gasp slipping between your lips. Trying to cover it all up, you turned back to Sunghoon with a smile.
His own smile faltered and his thick brows drew together. “Thank you, darling…” he trailed, the words falling from his lips one by one. “What’s wrong? You’re never so jumpy.”
You’d been jumpy since he got home, still shaken from the morning’s encounter. It was so bad that you nearly burnt yourself on the stove while making dinner, suddenly startled by the sound of the front door opening and Sunghoon returning home from work. When he kissed you hello, his arms coming to wrap around you, you jumped then too. You tried to distract him with your smile, but you should’ve known that nothing gets past your husband.
“It’s nothing,” you say, smiling again and giving him a slight shake of your head. “I guess my body is just getting used to not being by itself now that you’re home.”
Sunghoon sighed and pulled you back towards him by your wrist. You let yourself be pulled into his lap. Sunghoon buried his head in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry,” he says, his words coming out muffled. “I know I've been working more and more lately and I haven’t had much time for you.”
You leaned into his touch, sighing contentedly. “Can’t you work from home?” you asked meekly, voice barely louder than a whisper, “Like you used to? You work so much and you’re always gone. I miss you when you’re not here, and in return I’m sad the whole day.”
Sunghoon’s black hair tickled you as he lifted his head to press his lips to your neck, right where the thumping of your heart could be felt. His eyes met yours and the gentle pout of your lips. “I don’t have all the tools here that I do at the shop,” Sunghoon responded. When you sighed again and looked away, he continued. “But, I might be able to work from here tomorrow… I already finished most of the workload. We can spend tomorrow together, what do you say to that?”
You glanced back at him, trying to not let the happiness you felt break through your sulky demeanor. Clearly, it didn’t work, because the smile returned back to Sunghoon’s face even larger this time. “I suppose that’s okay,” you grumbled, the smile tugging more at your lips by the second.
Sunghoon chuckled, “Yeah?” You nodded, giggling at the way he dragged his nose along your cheek and the coldness of his glasses. “I love that sound,” he says, holding you closer. “I want to hear it forever.” He pulled away from you just enough to get a good look at your flustered face. Sunghoon brought his lips to yours, capturing them in a sweet and slow kiss.
Giggling more into the kiss, you broke away from him with great effort. “Eat,” you say, standing to your feet. Sunghoon didn’t let you get far. “We have a big day tomorrow.”
“Your dinner smells amazing, my love, but I think I want something else on the menu,” Sunghoon replies. You swatted him with the kitchen towel hanging from the pocket of your apron, your mouth falling into an open-mouthed laugh. Sunghoon just laughed more. “Do what I said,” you scolded him.
Sunghoon pulled you down to chastely kiss your lips. “Yes, ma’am.”
That night as you were getting ready for bed, you gathered all the courage you had. As you moved about your bedroom, Sunghoon watched you from the bed, his eyes trailing your figure and never leaving it. He was lounged up against the bed frame, his head tilted and the wire frames of his glasses low on his nose bridge as he stared. You were in the middle of brushing your hair, trying your best not to get crushed underneath his heavy stare. You were as bare as you could be without taking your clothes off.
When you stood from your vanity, the flowy fabric of your short nightgown moving with you, you met his gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke and you just stared at each other. “Those missing girls…” you started, finally finding your voice, “on the news… Isn’t it odd that they favor me?” Your voice shook slightly and you swallowed down the lump forming in your throat.
Sunghoon sat up straighter, his eyes still on you as his brows drew together. You looked away, shakily climbing into the bed next to him. “I-I mean… how they favor each other. And I favor them too, don’t you think?” you continue. You really hoped that you didn’t sound crazy. That your time alone in the house hasn’t started to drive you mad and see things that aren’t there—that aren’t true. Finally getting settled as the words poured from your mouth, you looked over to him. For a split second, his face was completely devoid of anything—no emotion, not even a quirk of his eyebrow, nothing. Then, in a blink of an eye, his face was how it was before you looked away from him. Maybe you were crazy after all.
“I’m scared, Sunghoon,” you said in the gentlest whisper, “What if I’m next?”
“Missing girls?” Sunghoon says, “I’ve heard about them. But, don’t worry—” he reached over to caress your cheek “—I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe here, with me.” His hand on your cheek trailed down to the crook of your neck and then to your shoulder before he pulled you towards him. The two of you laid down onto the bed and Sunghoon enveloped you completely in his arms. You rested your head on his chest and listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “No one but me will ever touch you,” Sunghoon muttered against your hair.
His comforting words did nothing to dispose of the uneasy feeling you still harbored. The images of those missing girls were burned into your mind and every time you tried to close your eyes and sleep, you saw them staring back at you. While Sunghoon fell fast asleep, him still keeping you protectively in his arms, you lied awake.
Your mind shifted from the missing girls, to the moving dolls, and to the dollhouse. What did it all mean? What were they trying to tell you? You went over the scenes portrayed over and over and over again and still didn’t get it. The answer seemed so close, but so far away at the same time. What were you missing?
You thought about the scene of Sunghoon standing over you while you slept. Did he always do that, stare at you like that? How often did he do it? You wanted to ask him, but you didn’t want to risk him thinking there was something wrong with you—didn’t want to risk him thinking that you weren’t flawless like he believes. And the way he trailed his fingers over the soft skin of your arm… Perhaps it was just him checking on you. Maybe he left the room for some water and when he came back he was making sure you were okay. Yeah, that sounded logical.
Him touching you wasn’t something new—he always touched you at any chance that he could. Always admiring every curve and plane of you completely, it’s normal for him to do so. The tension in your shoulders finally dissipated and you relaxed, snuggling more into Sunghoon as you let your tired eyes flutter closed. You didn’t know what the dolls’ game was, but you didn’t like it. Sunghoon was just being a good husband, is all. It even showed subconsciously in the way his hold on you tightened as you leaned into him. He loves you. He’d never do anything that came remotely close to hurting you, ever. You were more sure about that than you were sure about anything in the entire world.
Slowly, you began to drift off—your body getting heavier and heavier in his arms—and you let sleep overtake you.
A couple hours later, you were suddenly awoken by the sound of something falling onto the hardwood floor. You jumped, eyes flying open. You were met with the cold bed, Sunghoon nowhere to be found in your bedroom. Sitting up, you looked around the room to see what fell.
You sighed as your gaze landed on the doll, it was laying on its side on the ground, staring at you. “Enough,” you said lowly, another sigh pulling from deep within you. “I don’t know what you all want from me.”
The moonlight peeked into your bedroom through the curtains and gave a little light to see with in the dark. You slipped from the bed, deciding to see where Sunghoon was. Smoothing down your bedridden hair and wrinkly nightgown, you opened the door to your bedroom and was immediately met with another mini doll version of you waiting by the top of the stairs. You couldn’t keep doing this.
You passed the shelves on the wall filled with dolls of you and other trinkets as you made your way towards the stairs. You didn’t even give the doll a second look as you made your descent down them.
Sunghoon wasn’t in the kitchen either, but there was another doll there, pointing down the hall again. You tilted your head up at it and followed its directions. He wasn’t in the lounge room or the dining room either. You turned the corner in the hallway and your eyes landed on the closed dollhouse. It was backlit by the hallway sconce, the light making the dollhouse look illuminated.
You dipped into the living room and Sunghoon wasn’t there either. None of the bathrooms were occupied as well. You were convinced that he just wasn’t in the house at all. You stood in front of the dollhouse, annoyance coming off you like steam. Your arms were folded across your chest and you glared at it. It was closed this time, and you were deciding on whether it was not to play into the dolls’ game and open it or just go back to sleep and question Sunghoon in the morning. Alas, you were too curious for your own good.
You slowly opened the front of the dollhouse, expecting to see some confusing scene waiting for you inside. Instead, there was only one doll inside—the grotesque looking one covered in different scraps of fabric. It was in the same exact place that it was in earlier, except this time there was no doll of Sunghoon inspecting it. It was alone.
Taking a closer look, you tried to figure out where this mystery room supposedly was in your home. In the dollhouse, it was located between the living room and the hallway bathroom. You looked at the hallway you were currently standing in with its own mini dollhouse inside. Your brows knitted together in even more confusion. According to the dollhouse, the room should be right where you were standing.
That couldn’t be right, unless the room was in front of you and behind the wall where the dollhouse was displayed. Closing the front of the dollhouse, you moved closer to the wall, inspecting it. There was no outline of a suspected door, no uneven floorboards that could suggest the entrance was underneath you. There was only the hallway, the small bookshelf filled with your cookbooks and Sunghoon’s doll making books, and the dollhouse. You placed your ear against the wall; maybe if there was a room behind it you could hear something.
After a few moments, you almost gave up, deciding not to play the game anymore and just go to bed. But, right when you were about to lift your ear from the wall, you heard something—humming.
It was the same tune you hummed earlier, the same tune Sunghoon hums when working. The same tune Sunghoon hummed when the dolls showed you him working in the dollhouse. This time, you knew it was real. You stumbled backwards from the wall, your elbow knocking the doll over that was suddenly perched there. You gasped before quickly covering your mouth.
Frozen in fear, you swear you heard the humming abruptly stop. You then heard slight creaking, like someone was walking towards you. Scurrying back around the curve of the hallway, you peaked around it to see if anything else would happen.
What if Sunghoon wasn’t even in there. What if it was some stranger living in your walls, and you were just assuming that it was him—that the dolls thought it was him. Or, maybe they were trying to warn you of the stranger in a way that they knew you would listen. What if Sunghoon wasn’t in the house at all right now? Your hand pressed harder into the wall and you began to shake.
More creaking broke through the air, and you watched as the small bookshelf slowly began to push off the wall like a make-shift door. You ducked further behind the wall, just enough to ensure you weren’t seen. You saw a shadow dancing across the floor as the bookshelf slowly closed again.
You were so scared they could hear how fast your heart was beating. So sure that they could feel how hard you trembled through the floor. Hear your heavy breathing like a hawk listening for its prey.
The shadow got larger and you saw a figure start to be illuminated by the light on the wall. A hand reached from the shadows and towards the doll of you that had fallen over—Sunghoon’s hand. He stepped into the light and you could finally see him clearly; saw the way the warm light bounced off his skin, the way the light reflected off his glasses, and how his dark hair fell into his eyes. You pressed your fist to your mouth to keep quiet.
Why did Sunghoon have a secret room in the house? Why did he never tell you about it?
He fixed the doll; shifting its dress so it laid properly and flattened its messed up hair. You saw the corners of his mouth raise as he placed the doll back on the shelf above the dollhouse. It’s big eyes bored into you.
Without a sound, you made your way back to your bedroom as quickly as you could. You closed your bedroom door silently and slipped back into bed, willing your body to stop shaking and your breath to even out. You closed your eyes.
You tried to remember what the inside of the secret room looked like from the dollhouse. From what you could remember, it looked to be some sort of workshop, similar to the one Sunghoon would have at the shop. If it was just a simple place for him to carve dolls, why hide it? It was possible he kept it hidden so you wouldn’t worry about how much he was working. Sunghoon knew how much you disliked him getting obsessed with his work, always carving and shaping dolls until the tips of his fingers were scarred. You relaxed again.
You’d be upset and worried, yes, but he didn’t have to hide it from you. You would understand his dedication to his craft.
A couple moments later, you heard the door knob twist. As you heard Sunghoon’s footsteps near you, you hoped you looked like you were still asleep. His presence covered you like a blanket. Just before you could feel the heat of his fingertips on your skin, you turned to look at him.
With false sleepiness in your voice, you ask, “Why are you out of bed?”
Sunghoon smiled down at you, lightly shaking his head. His hand caressed your shoulder, “Don’t worry about it, my love. I was just getting a jumpstart on work so we could have more time together. Go back to sleep.” His voice was soft and gentle, like he was trying to lull you back to sleep with his voice alone.
You sat up more. “Well, I’m not tired anymore,” you say, a smile pulling at your lips. Sunghoon’s hand at your shoulder raised to smooth your hair before coming to your chin to lift it up. He leaned forward and delicately pressed a kiss to your lips. “No?” he asked in that same soft and gentle voice.
Sunghoon was already climbing on the bed and on top of you before finishing his question. He placed more delicate kisses around the edges of your mouth, his hands dipping lower. You shook your head. His hands slowly lifted your nightgown up your stomach. “You’re sure you aren’t tired anymore?” Sunghoon asked, the corner of his mouth raising ever so slightly. He was lifting the nightgown over your head so you were in nothing but your panties underneath him.
Light giggles left your mouth as you shook your head again, “Yes.”
Sunghoon’s fingers hooked underneath the hem of your panties and he slowly pulled them down your thighs. His eyes were completely focused on the way each tug revealed more and more of your cunt and how it glistened with the strips of moonlight coming through the window. You heard him exhale softly, like he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. “Fuck…” he muttered lowly, “I don’t think I’ll ever get use to seeing this, and it’s all for me to admire.”
He fully pulled your panties off and tossed them somewhere to the side of the bed. Sunghoon spread your legs open and pushed them up towards your chest so he got an even clearer view—just like he always did before taking you apart. He moved his hands so they splayed out on the back of your thighs right near your pussy he was still admiring. You squirmed a little, the air suddenly cold on your skin and from laying there completely open for him as you waited. “Entirely,” you said hushed, looking up at him. His glasses reflected the moonlight and covered the look in his eyes. “It will always be all for you—I’ll always be all, entirely yours.”
You gasped, body jolting when a thumb was pressed into your eager cunt. Sunghoon ran his thumb along your folds, collecting the gathering slick that was forming by the second. Bringing his other thumb to your cunt, he spread you apart even more, like he wanted to watch the arousal drip out of you himself. A soft whine left your lips. You were completely naked and under your husband’s watchful eye while Sunghoon was still completely dressed. He hasn’t even pulled his pajama pants down despite the way you saw him strain against the thin fabric.
“Is that so?” Sunghoon asked, his gaze finally flicking up to you. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards and you inhaled sharply when you finally saw that all too familiar dark look in his eyes. It reminded you of the way people dissected animals, excited to see its insides and how the body worked. Just beneath it you saw his intensely desperate, fiery hot need for you. The two expressions folded on top of each other over and over like an endless piece of paper, like he couldn’t decide what made him more excited. But, you knew which one would win tonight—which one always won.
You nodded slowly at his question. After all, no matter how bitter the idea of perfection tasted in your mouth, it was nothing compared to the sweetness of your husband’s love. It overshadowed everything, clouded your mind until you could think of nothing else. You lived for it, you’d do anything for it—to keep it. And Sunghoon, he loved you for it. So, the cycle continued until you forgot what the bitter aftertaste even belonged to.
Was it so wrong for you to love the suffocating attention he gave you once he wasn’t busy? Maybe. Maybe you should feel some shame for how obsessed you were with Sunghoon. But, at least you knew the feeling was mutual. If it weren’t, you wouldn’t be surrounded by a house full of dolls that looked nearly identical to you made all by his hands. Right? Doll making was a labor of love, and Sunghoon never shied away from showing you how much he loved you.
Sunghoon leaned over you. You felt his arms brush against your thighs as he pushed his soft pajama pants down. His face hovered over yours and you stared at him with big, doe eyes. His lips brushed against yours, pulling away slightly when you tried to chase them. Sunghoon tossed his pants and boxers to the side and you felt his cock slap against your thigh, sending a wave of arousal throughout your entire body. The entire time, Sunghoon’s eyes never left yours. “Like my own, personal little doll,” he continued, his voice low. “The real thing, not any of these flawed imitations. Complete perfection, and all under my hands to do with as I see fit.”
His lips captured yours in an unexpectedly rough, hungry kiss. He moved further over you until his body shadowed you. His hands were on either side of your head as he pinned you to the bed with his body, the kiss deepening and growing hungrier. Sunghoon pulled away from you, lips plumped and wet with saliva that still connected his lips to yours. He tenderly caressed your cheek and asked, “Do you know how much I love you?”
With his other hand, Sunghoon grabbed his cock so he could line himself up with your entrance. He quirked a thick eyebrow as he waited for your answer, eyes trailing the way your chest rose and fell heavily and your breasts pushed more against his own chest. “How much,” he continued, slowly slipping the tip of his cock inside you, “I’d do for you? How I’d do anything?” Your mouth fell open as your back arched slightly at the action. Sunghoon’s gaze returned to you, his hips halting once his thick tip was completely inside you. “Do you?” Sunghoon asked you once again, his heavy gaze weighing down on you.
Your husband liked to dissect things. He liked to break things apart and put them back together all shiny and new. It’s what he couldn’t help but do to you every night. It was the only time he liked you to be messy, when you were laying in a heap of doll parts beneath him. He tried to be gentle with his curiosity, he really did, but it was as if something overtook him. That dark look in his eyes got bolder until he couldn’t hold himself back—until he just had to tear you apart. You used to be scared every time it happened, still not learning to expect it. You should be ashamed that you did let it happen. But, as time went on, you began to like being taken apart; began liking how each time you’d blink away the fog, you were more perfect in his eyes.
Nodding, you inhaled deeply. “I do,” you say quietly, meeting his swirling dark stare. “And I love you just as much. I’d do just as much.”
“No,” Sunghoon spoke plainly. You drew your brows together, confused. “The way I love you, it’s… cavernous. Deep and dark—pitch-black. There is no end, no beginning, it just is.” His hand trailed down to your chin. “It consumes me, my love for you. I can’t control it… I can’t control the things I’d do to ensure you’ll always love me. And you will… won’t you? Always love me?” Sunghoon asked, his eyes boring into yours.
“Yes,” you say meekly. Despite the way Sunghoon’s body blocked the little light in the room, you could still see the way he fought the darkness inside of him. “I’ll forever love you. There’s nothing that would ever change that, Sunghoon. I promise.”
Sunghoon’s body relaxed over you, and his eyes briefly fluttered shut as he shakily breathed in to further calm himself. “Good…” he muttered, his voice barely loud enough for you to hear despite him being so close. “Because sometimes… The thought of you no longer loving me… i-it drives me completely insane.” His grip on your chin tightened and he bent down to sloppily kiss your lips. Sunghoon’s lips slowly worked against yours, like he was using you to calm himself even more. Like he was basking in your love for him like you did with his love for you.
He pulled away, just enough that with each word from his mouth, his lips brushed against yours. “It makes me want to rip you limb from limb. Polish all the parts so you can see it—see how much my love for you breaks me apart.” With a harsh thrust, Sunghoon pushed himself into you completely. You cried out, the sound being muffled by his lips so close to yours. Your nails dug into his shoulders at the action. Sunghoon pulled out of you until just the fat tip of his cock remained inside. With each word, he thrusted into you. “My sweet love, my perfect wife, my doll.”
Loud gasps rang from your mouth and Sunghoon took your hands from his shoulders and pinned them above your head with one of his own. His eyes never once left yours. He wanted to see how you cracked and shattered beneath him. He wanted to witness it. Sunghoon trailed his other hand down the side of your face, his thumb running over the soft skin of your cheek before it moved closer to your mouth. His eyes shined when he dipped his thumb into your mouth and you eagerly swirled your tongue around it, his own mouth opening. Sunghoon’s pace slowed as if he was remembering himself. The languid strokes drove you crazy and your hips lifted off the bed to gain more friction.
It was a constant back and forth of back to back harsh thrusts that felt like it was splitting you open to slow, sweet thrusts that had you begging for more. With your arms pinned about you, you couldn’t even really move besides the slight lift of your hips, and they could only lift so high with how close Sunghoon pressed himself into you. He had complete control over you; over how you moved, how deeply and at what pace you felt him, and over what sounds you made with his thumb in your mouth. Your eyes began to get glassy with how much you wanted him.
You guessed that you liked being used—liked being his toy, his plaything. You guessed that you liked feeling desired, feeling like his doll. You glanced around your bedroom, back arching and loud, unashamed moans falling from your lips at the way Sunghoon fucked you. It felt as if every single doll was looking at you, watching you. Watched you succumb to your husband and watched as the cracks in your porcelain body began to crumble. Watched how you loved every second of it. How wet it made you to the point that Sunghoon was slipping in and out of you with ease and how the vulgar gushing sounds bounced off the walls.
Sunghoon’s pace slowed and he watched how his cock slowly disappeared into you before he slowly pulled it back out and examined how it dripped with your arousal. A soft chuckle left his parted lips as he did it over and over. You clawed at his arm still holding yours above your head, a loud whine came from the bottom of your throat and your body shifted in any way that it could to feel him deeper, to have his cock drag against your walls faster.
He replaced his wet thumb with his mouth, completely silencing your moans and whines. Sunghoon’s mouth worked slowly against yours once again, soft groans vibrating against your lips as he kissed you.
“You feel so good,” Sunghoon whined, barely able to get his words out before his lips were back on yours. He let out another moan, his shallow strokes growing quicker. “Taking everything I give you so well, my love. It’s like your body was made for mine.” Sunghoon finally let go of your arms, giving your body some space as his lips traveled down to your chest. He left wet kisses all over it, teasingly kissing around your perked nipples while you dragged your hands through his hair and pulled at the tips of the strands. Everytime his lips touched your skin it felt like white-hot coals were being placed on you where they touched. Sunghoon looked up at you over the rim of his glasses, lips pressed to your skin with a hint of a smile. “Do you feel good, darling?”
Sunghoon’s hips picked up speed, just barely, but enough to make your head spin wildly. His pace was agonizing and you were sure your frustration showed in how you tugged harder at his hair and pulled his head back and the way your hips pathetically raised to meet his. Sunghoon’s mouth opened and he let out a laugh. “Please,” you begged him, your eyes filled with unfallen tears, “please.”
He sat up, lips brushing against your skin one last time before he pulled away. Sunghoon pushed down on your hips with his hands to stop them from moving, his own still continuing at that agonizing pace. “Please, what?” he asked, head tilted to the side as he watched you squirm beneath him and claw at the bedsheets. “What are you begging me to do to you?”
You whined when his hands moved up to your waist and sent tingles throughout your body. Through your blurry, tear-filled eyes you could see his smile. Pitiful moans escaped your mouth and your chest rose and fell so heavily you would’ve thought you weren’t breathing at all—instead trying to gasp in gulps of breath. “Please,” you begged again. Sunghoon inhaled sharply at the way you clenched down on him, at how your whiny moans filled his ears and the way the corners of your eyes flooded with tears. He halted his movements and pulled out of you completely.
“No, no, no!” you cried and leaned up to reach for him. He pushed you back down to the bed gently. Sunghoon’s own breathing picked up as his wet cock hovered over you. He took one of your hands in his and guided it towards it. “I’ll continue once you can tell me—” his breath hitched once your hand wrapped around his thick length “—what you want.” Sunghoon guided your hand up and down his cock slowly, his hand tightening on top of yours so you squeezed him more. His breath shuddered as he watched your hand work, his stomach tightening every time your hand squeezed his mushroom tip. He moaned again at how easily your hand slipped over him from your arousal, and his moans grew louder when he’d move his hips to force your hand back down his length again and again.
“Tell me…” he breathed out, his eyes fluttering closed, once you still didn’t give him an answer. Sunghoon’s hands laid flat against the back of your thighs—right next to where you needed him the most.
“I… I-I want you…” you stuttered out, voice small. Sunghoon hummed in question, bringing his thumb to your clit. He rubbed circles into it at the same speed he moved his hips. You gasped, back involuntarily arching off the bed. Your hand paused mid-stroke of his cock before his hips rutting against it stirred you back into action. “Closer…” Sunghoon says through a grunt, “but, I’m going to need more than that from you, my love. Don’t you want to be good for me and do what I asked?”
A soft whine left his lips when you squeezed a little too much at the base of his cock. “I want to hear those pretty moans of yours as I fuck you with my cock… see your pretty face as you cum around it. Won’t you give that to me? Do you really want to settle for my fingers tonight, darling?” Sunghoon continued.
How could you tell him what you really wanted? Explain the deepest desire that you had right now? He told you about his inner battle with how much his love for you consumes him. He told you the things that it made him want to do. You wanted him to let go and do it. You wanted him to wipe you clean so you watched it all—saw it all. Enough with holding back—like he tried to do every single night without fail. It was no use when you both knew what was coming. You wanted him to lose control. You wanted that swirling darkness in his eyes to take over. You wanted him to do what he said he wanted to do if you didn’t feel the same way he felt about you. How do you express that to him?
“Do it…” you say, your words coming out strained. A sweet moan left your mouth and you looked him dead in the eyes as the tears finally slid down your hot cheeks. “I w-want you… to do it.” Your voice was just above a whisper, loud enough that only his ears could hear your words despite being the only two people in the entire house. You squeezed down onto his thick cock more as your wrist worked harder. The hand he wasn’t using to rub circles into your puffy clit grabbed your thigh tighter, his fingers surely leaving indents into the plush skin. Sunghoon’s head hung lowly as he tore his gaze away from yours and went back to watching your hand.
Sunghoon plunged two fingers deep inside your dripping entrance and you felt like you could finally feel the oxygen reach your lungs. He pushed them in and out of you, his gaze flicking over to his movements instead of yours to relish in the way his fingers came back out more and more wet. As his fingers curled inside you, causing breathy moans to leave your willing lips, you watched the way his stomach tensed and his hips faltered. Without saying a word, you could tell what was running through his mind right now. You could see his eyes grow more and more darker, fill up more and more with desire. Sunghoon finally looked back up at you, his wire-framed glasses low on his nose bridge. “Do what?” he asks, his voice just as quiet as yours was.
You didn’t have to say anything else. Sunghoon’s hips froze and his stomach tightened even more as a pretty moan ripped straight through him. His eyes fluttered shut, his fingering waned and you lifted your hips to chase his hand. Sunghoon’s warm cum shot all over your stomach and splattered up to your breasts in thick spurts. He let out another moan, this one dragging out from deep within him as his body finally relaxed. You helped him through it all—hand never stopping as he rode out his high and marked more of your stomach with his cum until you were painted a creamy white and he was completely empty.
His eyes blinked open and he looked down at how messy you were. Something in his demeanor shifted as his eyes grazed over you and you couldn’t tell what had changed until he looked at you. You inhaled sharply at his stare, your breathing picking up. His own chest still heaved from his recent release. Sunghoon took his wet fingers out from your cunt, taking a moment to drag them through your folds to spread your arousal even more, all while his eyes never left yours. Gone were the barriers that held him back, that darkness took him over full force.
Meek whimpers escaped your lips and you dug your nails into the bedsheet beneath you. “You like being my doll, don’t you?” Sunghoon asks. His voice was almost flat, and he was still speaking in that hushed tone. His expression was decidedly blank except for the subtle way his brows drew together. “Don’t you?” he asked a little louder when you didn’t answer him. His hands squeezed the back of your thighs and his fingers dug into the soft skin there. You timidly nodded, not daring to look away.
His hands relaxed and his thumbs brushed over where his fingers dug into you comfortingly, his eyes finally leaving yours. Sunghoon grabbed his cock and rubbed his flushed tip in between your folds, the wet sounds it made piercing the silent bedroom. “You know,” he starts, his voice no longer so low, “you really are truly flawless, doll. My muse…”
Sunghoon is already slipping back inside you before you can process the way his thick cock completely stretches you open. You cry out as more unshed tears fall from your eyes. He continues, “It angers me how much I can’t capture you fully. How none of these dolls can compare to the real thing—the real you. It makes me… so angry…”
He’s pulling back his hips as he speaks, the tip of his cock just barely leaving your pussy, before he roughly thrusts his cock back inside of you. Another loud moan emits from you and your vision blurs from more tears as your face gets hot. You could barely hear Sunghoon’s wry laugh over the sudden ringing in your ears.
Sunghoon’s pace is brutal, and you’re suddenly regretting whining so much about how slow he was once going. It gave you whiplash, how fast he fucked into you, and the only thing you could do to keep yourself grounded is tightly wrap your hands around his wrists at your hips. Your arms smeared and got sticky with his cum but you didn’t care. With each thrust, your body shook and pushed you further into the mattress. With your iron-clad grip on Sunghoon’s wrists, your tits pushed together and bounced in accordance with his hips against yours. Sunghoon was fucking you like he wanted to break you in half.
“S-Slo—” you tried to speak but was cut off by the waves of sudden pleasure hitting you one after the other. Sunghoon just shushed you, his hands pulling your hips towards his so you’d feel him deeper. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you couldn’t think about anything other than the way he was making you feel so, so good. You wanted to feel this way forever. Wanted him to stay lost so you never escaped this feeling of immense pleasure. Wanted him to use you to take out his anger at himself—at you—like you meant absolutely nothing, just a doll for him to handle and put back in its place.
You adore it, the way he makes you feel.
Such nasty sounds fill the air, but neither of you could bring yourselves to care about it. If anything, it turned you on more just how loud and demanding to be heard it was. With how much the sounds of the sex the two of you were having penetrated your ears, you would’ve thought that you’d be getting multiple noise complaints at any moment. You both definitely weren’t trying to be quiet in the slightest.
Between your moans, you heard Sunghoon speak. “I want to take you apart, carve into you like I do my dolls, but this time make something real. Have you be so perfect forever.” His voice was almost scarily plain, like he thought this over time and time again before. You blinked away tears and finally got a clear view of him and the way he stared down at you with a hint of a smile, head tilted as he watched you crack and begin to fall into yourself. “Forever my perfect little doll, to bend—” he pushed your knees closer to your chest so you were practically folded in half “—and to break—” he roughly thrusted into you once more, his hint of a smile growing into a smirk as you clenched down on him “—and to put back together and play with as I please.”
“Sunghoon,” you sobbed as your stomach tightened and you started to shake. You didn’t get the chance to get another word out before you were violently orgasming, your cum pouring out of you and leaving a white ring around the base of Sunghoon’s cock as he roughly fucked it back into you. Wet, gushing sounds came from his cock plowing into your pussy and your cum poured out from around him and down the curve of your ass. You could scream at the sudden overstimulation.
“That’s my girl,” Sunghoon says as he watched you shatter. He used your hands still limply wrapped around his wrists to pull you up off the bed and halfway into his lap, his cock still buried within you. One of his hands supported your back and the other came to wipe the tears from your cheeks. “Pretty dolls don’t cry.”
Sunghoon brought your hands to his shoulders and you held tightly onto the soft fabric of his shirt. His own hands dragged down the expanse of your stomach and he wrapped one of his arms around your back. Sunghoon lowered his head so he could look you in your eyes, his free hand lifting your chin to raise your head more. “I love you,” he murmured, pausing a beat to make sure you heard him, before roughly moving his lips against yours and cutting off one of your watery whines.
Your hands moved from Sunghoon’s shoulders to wrap around his neck and pull him closer to you. You deepened the kiss, letting Sunghoon open your mouth so his tongue could slip in and dance with yours. You’d give anything to keep his lips on yours forever.
Sunghoon began to thrust into you again, his hips moving slow at first before they rapidly picked up pace. You moaned against his lips, your eyes squeezing shut. You felt Sunghoon’s lips pull into a smile, “I love you so much.” He said it like it was a confession.
Head falling into the crook of his neck, you cling to him tighter with your last remaining strength and whimper into his warm skin. Your body shook all over until it felt like you might explode. It felt like Sunghoon kept repeatedly turning and turning the winding key in your back, going way beyond the motor’s limitations. It made you nervous for when he would let go and you would burst into action.
His deep moans and grunts rang in your ear and his arm around your back tightened. With his other hand, he pulled you back so he could look at you. Your face was tear-streaked, splotchy with drying tears and you tried to not cry even more. Your brows were knitted together from the overstimulation and whimpers fell from your lips. Sunghoon’s cum stuck to your stomach and your forearms and parts of his shirt, your own cum covered your pussy and Sunghoon’s cock. You were a mess.
Over and over, three words came from Sunghoon’s lips like a mantra as he filled you up with his cum to the brim and past that too. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I—”
Finally, silence rang through the air besides both of your heavy breathing. After another moment, your body finally stilled. The silence was so thick that you felt like you couldn’t move at all. Delicately, like he held the shards of you in his hands, Sunghoon laid you back down onto the bed. He pressed feather-light kisses to your jaw and cheeks before they finally landed on your lips.
You were so overwhelmed with emotions and feelings that you couldn’t feel anything at all. Your head was still foggy and your only penetrating thoughts swirled around him. Despite your eyes being wide open, your vision was cloudy.
Sunghoon kissed you again. “Stay here,” he says, pushing away from you. Your arms fell to your sides limply. He leaned back and pulled his cock out of you, eyes shining with adoration at the way yours and his mixed cum spilled out and dirtied the bedsheets. Sunghoon rubbed the tip of his cock through it a couple times, ignoring how you squirmed and whined. “Absolute perfection,” he said under his breath before standing to his feet.
You laid there on the bed, still spread open and a mess of cum, as your eyes went in and out of focus. When the clouds in your vision did part, all you saw were all of the dolls and how they stared at you. Sunghoon came back a couple moments later, his face coming into focus as the moonlight bounced off his glasses. He climbed over you and began cleaning you up.
You were barely aware of the way he meticulously made sure every nook and cranny was polished nor how he moved you to put new bedsheets on the bed. Your mind didn’t start to come back to you until he was pulling you over him and sitting you onto his cock. You came alive at his hands trailing the expanse of your body before landing on your hips. You moaned quietly, your gaze dripping to look down at him. The darkness in his eyes was not quite all the way gone.
Sunghoon brought you down to lay on his chest. “I could fuck you all night…” he trails and his voice vibrates throughout your whole body as he shallowly thrusts up into you, “and into the morning, too.” His hips stilled and instead his fingers caressed your back. “But then we wouldn’t have the full day together, would we, my love?”
You shook your head slightly and Sunghoon wrapped an arm possessively over you before pulling the blankets overtop of you both, his other arm caging you against him completely. As the moonlight filtered through the window of your bedroom, the two of you slowly fell asleep.
In the morning, you were awoken by kisses on your neck and your pussy fluttering around Sunghoon’s slow strokes. He lifted your leg into the air and you turned your body towards the warmth at your back, blinking away sleep. You hummed, a soft whine pulling from your throat as you looked at him.
His glasses were off, which let you know that it hadn’t been long since he woke up himself. Sunghoon leaned down to press his lips to yours, his cock still dragging at a snail’s pace against your walls. “Are you sore?” he asks, pulling away from your lips to kiss your shoulder.
You nodded. Him still inside you, lazily fucking into you felt good, but you couldn’t ignore the way he stretched you open and the deep soreness that came from it. “A little,” you say.
Sunghoon turned you onto your back so you laid beneath him and he pulled out of you completely. “I’m sorry, my love,” he says and his lips meet yours again. “Let me make you feel better.”
He kissed your lips once more and started trailing kisses down to your jaw and along the length of your neck. Sunghoon looked up at you through the strands of his black hair, kissing lower down your body to your breasts, his hands massaging them as he kissed at your perked nipples. Soft moans left you at his touch.
His kisses spread to your stomach, to your hips, and finally right above where you were already wet for him. He spread your legs open more. “I’ll be gentle,” Sunghoon says, placing a kiss to your clit before his tongue poked out to lap at your entrance.
Without Sunghoon around, the idea of perfection was bitter on your tongue—acidic in your chest. But, when your beloved husband was around, finally in your arms again, you understood why people strive for it. You love it.
If perfection was how Sunghoon saw you, then you’d forever be the most absolutely perfect person, woman, wife you could be.
Days pass and you are once again left alone in the vastness of your home. Sunghoon stood true to his word as best as he could, spending as much time with you when he didn’t have to work, but it still wasn’t enough. The house still felt empty, and the occasional early nights when he would come home didn’t help.
It felt like the early nights home he took came at a price. Most nights when he would finally walk through the front door, you were already asleep or close to it. He would wake you up with a kiss and a content sigh. It made your chest ache even more than it already did when he is away.
You were in the middle of washing the dishes, mind trailed off to someplace else as you idly let the sounds of the TV float around you. “The search for the six missing girls is still going strong. Police still has not found the perpetrator, but an interview earlier with the Chief says that they are very close to finding out who has taken these girls. Our anonymous tip hotline is still up and running for anyone who may have any valuable information on where these girls might be.”
The words brought you back to life, and you gasped quietly as you looked towards the tiny screen. You examined the bold numbers at the bottom of the screen. It reminded you of the secret room behind the dollhouse that you completely forgot about. You quickly finished the dishes, leaving them in the strainer to dry completely as you dried your wet hands.
Slowly, you took quiet steps towards the hallway where the dollhouse was displayed. You looked to the front door to ensure that it was still locked. Sunghoon could walk through it at any moment and you didn’t want him to know that you knew about his secret workshop before you had the chance to see what was inside.
You recalled the way the door to the room opened—the pushed opened small bookshelf that revealed the make-shift door. You tip-toed to the bookshelf, examining its sides and the books on it.
You didn’t really look at the books on the bookshelf besides your own cookbooks. Sunghoon’s doll making books were something you rarely touched, if at all. But, you took a hard look at those too, your fingers running over the spines. They all felt like books, the spines hard and sturdy, but something about them still felt off to you. You looked at Sunghoon’s books again, pulling each one out a little to take a peek at the covers.
In the middle of you pulling one of the books, you heard a quiet click and the bookshelf came loose from the wall. You took a step back, shock showing all over your face. Gently, you grabbed the side of the bookshelf and pulled.
The bookshelf creaked open and revealed an opening that you had to bend down a little to enter. When you stepped inside the surprisingly large room, your eyes did a sweep of what was inside. You froze, your stomach dropping as you stared at what was in front of you, absolutely horrified. You didn’t even really know what was in front of you… It looked like an amalgamation of various body parts, stitched and sewn into one. Its skin was weirdly shiny, almost like it was made of some kind of plastic or resin while still keeping its elasticity.
You disregarded the rest of the room, instead taking careful steps towards the strange creation in front of you. It didn’t look neither dead nor alive and that confused you even further—it barely looked human. Its eyes and lips were sewn shut and it was completely hairless. It was held up onto its feet by long strips of silk hanging from the ceiling that was tied around its naked body. Next to where it stood was a table with thick locks of hair tied with ribbons of your favorite color.
Maybe this was the final crack in your mind and it was crumbling completely, but it kind of looked like you too. Even the hair on the table matched yours perfectly. If you looked past all the stitches, the weird shiny skin, and the lack of hair, it almost seemed like you were looking in a mirror. It looked like an unfinished, life-sized doll of you. Your stomach turned in on itself.
The fear in you raised tenfold in you when it started to twitch. You took a couple steps back from it when it began to pull on its restraints a little. It seemed to start to panic and its shiny arms pulled at the restraints keeping it up even more as it tried to reach out to you. You jumped back more, fearful tears filling your eyes. Your mouth opened to speak, but no words would come out.
The uncanny creation tried to speak, though, before realizing that its mouth was sewn shut. When it began to frightfully hum—the sound off tune and terrifying—did your body start to feel heavy and limp. It pulled at its restraints with all the little strength it had as it reached out to you and began to hum wildly… it hummed Sunghoon’s melody, the one he hummed when he worked.
Realization hit you like a tsunami. Not only was you dear husband making dolls of you, but he was trying to make a real, life-sized human doll of you. And it seemed that every part of this surreal creation was taken from another until it resembled you as close as he could get it. Your mind flashed to those six missing girls—the six missing girls that all looked eerily similar to you. Despite having all the puzzle pieces right in front of you, your mind refused to see the whole picture.
You backed up further, the back of your thighs hitting the desk that was against the back wall near the make-shift door. You twisted towards it, chest heaving as you scanned the scattered papers and opened books. You picked up what looked to be a journal Sunghoon kept and read over the open page with trembling hands.
The entry remarked at how the experiment was working well and how none of the body parts were rejecting like they did before. He praises how the process was much smoother than last time, how the girls he chose were the perfect fit. The journal dropped from your hands.
Those girls going missing due to Sunghoon was no longer speculation. Your eyes snapped back to his “experiment.” It must be those poor girls, their bodies sewn into one to look like you. You still didn’t want to believe it.
Tears poured from your eyes as fear sunk its claws deep within you and forced its way down your throat and into your heart. Your entire world came crashing down around you and quiet sobs left your mouth as you fought against the idea that your husband wasn’t who he said he was—that he was a kidnapper, a killer.
You rushed forwards, your arms raised towards his creation before you wrapped them around yourself and remained a safe distance. “No!” you exclaimed as you rapidly shook your head. “No, this is all a misunderstanding—a mistake! Sunghoon wouldn’t do this… He isn’t that type of person!” You wiped at your eyes, almost believing your own words until you dropped your hands.
Dolls completely surrounded the peculiar creation—Sunghoon’s experiment. It was even more that the ones that surrounded you in the hallway when they were showing you the scene in the dollhouse. They all looked at you for a moment before slowly turning to look up at how the amalgamation of stolen girls thrashed towards you, still frantically humming.
The dollhouse.
It was a warning. Those scenes the dolls showed you… it was all a warning. This was what they were trying to tell you this entire time. This wasn’t just any ordinary experiment for Sunghoon, a dollmaker going completely mad in his craft—no. This experiment was for you. He was using these girls, tearing apart their bodies limb from limb and creating some freakish doll of them that was meant to be you. It was practice… He was doing all of this so he knew exactly what to do when he laid his tools down and cut into the real thing. You were next.
Sunghoon’s words rang in your ears and bounced around in your head: “I want to take you apart, carve into you like I do my dolls, but this time make something real. Have you be so perfect forever.” You finally understood it now.
Suddenly, all thrashing ceased and the humming finally abruptly stopped. The only thing that filled the silence was your muffled sobs. “I’m sorry,” you cried, unsure if it even heard you. “I’m so sorry.”
You stumbled towards the opening of the room and barely missed hitting your head on the way out. You didn’t even wait for the bookshelf to click back into place before rushing through the hallway and to the kitchen. For once in your entire life, you hoped that Sunghoon had a long night at work.
Nearly falling into the kitchen counter, you shakily grabbed the landline on the wall. Those bold numbers of the anonymous tip hotline flashed behind your eyes and you rushed to put in the numbers, putting the ringing phone to your ear. “This is the anonymous tip hotline for the six missing girls. Please only share useful tips that could help a breakthrough in the case. Do you have any information to share?”
Your breathing came out heavy and you tried to force the oxygen to reach your lungs, inhaling sharply as you tried to find your words. “I… I-I think my husband kidnapped those girls…” you breathed in a whisper. The woman on the other end of the line started talking, but your focus was abruptly taken when you heard another, more familiar voice behind you.
“Something scare you, darling?” Sunghoon asks, his voice gentle and filled with worry. You couldn’t tell if he was being genuine.
You jumped, pressing further into the kitchen counter as you spun in place, the phone leaving your ear. Sunghoon sat at the kitchen table, his thick brows knitted together. You didn’t even hear him come back home. Despite the landline being away from your ear, you still heard the woman on the other end asking you questions, frantically asking if you were still there. You were completely frozen.
Sunghoon rose to his feet and the stove light illuminated him. You saw him differently now. No longer was he your loving husband, he was something else. Still, you hated the way your heart soared when you locked eyes on him. How your body relaxed, even in the slightest. You hated how you felt complete now that he was here and how you wanted to run into his arms.
He crossed the short distance to you, his arms coming to rest against the counter on both sides of you. You inhaled shakily now that you and Sunghoon were face to face. Without his eyes leaving yours, Sunghoon took the phone from your quivering hand and hung it back up on the wall. His arm returned to its position next to you, completely caging you within his arms.
Sunghoon leaned his forehead against yours. “I thought I told you that you had nothing to be afraid of, not when I’m here.” His voice was still gentle—soft—and it was lowered as he moved one of his arms to take one of your shaky hands in his. You wanted to pull away from him and wrap your arms around him simultaneously. You felt exhausted.
You voice shook, “Y-You kidnapped those girls, didn’t you? Turned them into… into…” Sunghoon drew back to look at you, his head falling to the side as his brows pushed together. His confused look made you start to question if you had been imagining everything—the dolls, the dollhouse, the hidden room, the experiment. “Into… what?” Sunghoon asks.
“...Into me!” you exclaimed, more tears running down your already wet cheeks as you choked out a sob. Sunghoon’s hand tightened around yours. “You killed them… and who knows how many others! Am I next? Are you going to kill me too?”
Sunghoon let go of your hand so he could cup your face with both of his hands, his thumbs wiping underneath your eyes to get rid of the fallen tears. “They aren’t dead!” he says. “And I swear to you that I’ll never hurt you, my love. You know that. Think of them as… reborn.”
You started to tremble in his arms and tried to shift away from him, but Sunghoon wouldn’t let you go anywhere. “Is that what you’re going to do to me? Was all of this—” you gestured around the room at all the dolls of you sitting pretty on the various shelves around the kitchen “—just practice for the real thing?” you spat out. You tried to move again, but Sunghoon’s hands dropped from your face to your upper arms to keep you in place.
“No!” Sunghoon started, his voice coated in disbelief that you would even ask him that as he shook his head. “No… can’t you see? This—” he used a finger to motion around the kitchen at the dolls “—is a reflection of how much I love you. My devotion to you. You, above anything else, above everything else. A peek inside my mind and how the only thing in there is you.”
“A-And that experiment of yours—the missing girls? Behind the wall?” you asked.
“That… is my dedication to you—m-my oath.” Sunghoon was completely desperate. He pleaded with you, his eyes wide and begging you to believe his words. His eyes were watery, like if you didn’t believe him he might cry as well, and he looked at you over the rim of his wire-framed glasses that slipped down his nose bridge.
You didn’t know what to believe. Didn’t know what to say. You just wanted to go upstairs with Sunghoon and lay in your bed and forget about everything that you’ve witnessed as he held you close to his chest. It was all too much, and your resolve was starting to crack and shatter. You wanted to smooth down your wrinkled dress and fix your messy hair, but Sunghoon didn’t let you move a single inch in fear that you would run from him. You couldn’t tell which one of you was more terrified.
His hands slid down from your upper arms and down to your hands, grasping them so tight that it started to hurt. “Come… Come with me…” he trailed, gulping thickly. You stared at him with wide, frightful eyes, suddenly unwilling to move, but Sunghoon desperately pleaded with you. He looked like he was seconds from getting down onto his knees. “Please,” he begged, pulling you into him, as his voice cracked. “You know I’d never do anything ever to hurt you.”
Sunghoon took a step back, hoping that you would follow after him, and you did. You let him guide you down the hallway all the way to the bookshelf and into the room behind it, his grip on your hands never once loosening. He led you in front of the uncanny image of you that he created. “I know how it looks,” Sunghoon says, his voice hushed. “But there’s no pain, no sorrow, nothing.”
It didn’t try to reach out to you like it did earlier and all the dolls that once surrounded it were gone. It didn’t hum that out-of-tune, terrifying version of the melody Sunghoon hummed when he worked either. It just hung limply from its silk restraints. “It just is,” Sunghoon continued. “And when it’s fully done, and completely polished, it’ll be flawless.” He delicately took your chin and guided your head to the side so you looked at him. Your body finally stopped fighting against itself and you relaxed in his grasp. “Like you are.”
Sunghoon leaned forward, hesitantly pausing to look at you again before bringing his lips to meet yours. He pulled you into him, his body wrapping around yours, and you timidly invited him in.
His lips felt so good against yours, and you knew that once you parted for air you’ll miss the feeling of them forever until he kissed you again. It felt right—it felt like home. The home where the two of you were always together and he held you like he was holding you now—like he was afraid that if he let go he would lose you. That if he didn’t hold you like a delicate porcelain cup you would chip and crack and shatter. And you would.
When Sunghoon’s lips moved against yours like they did in this moment, everything fell into place. All your worries slid off your back and for a brief minute, it was just the two of you in the whole wide world. Nothing existed but him, and his body enveloped in yours, and his touch that made you burn. And the flames danced so beautifully for him, didn’t they?
Just when you were about to pull away to quell the heaviness in your lungs, you felt a sudden sharp pain in your neck. You hissed, breaking away from Sunghoon’s lips just barely. Sunghoon chased your lips, holding the back of your head and pulling you closer against his body as he kissed you harder.
You whimpered against his lips, your nails digging into his arms as you tried to free yourself from his vice-like grip. It was no use, Sunghoon was never going to let you go. You felt your body grow heavy in his arms and he had to hold you up. Your vision began to spot black and fray around the edges, and your ears rang terribly. Just before you passed out completely, and over the ringing of your ears, you heard Sunghoon’s muffled voice as he kissed your neck where the pain stemmed.
“I love you. I love you so much that it hurts, I truly do.”
You fade in and out of consciousness as time passes around you. Sometimes you see blurred glimpses of Sunghoon, sometimes it's just an array of colors until you black out again.
You aren’t sure how long it’s been when your eyes finally do open and you remain conscious for good. Blinking away the blurriness in your vision, you examine how you're laying on the couch in your living room. Your entire body aches and it feels stiff. Your head is pounding and you almost close your eyes again to ease the pain you feel. You notice how you’re in different clothes and there’s a blanket over top of you. Too late do you notice the figure in your peripheral, and your eyes shift to look at them.
Sunghoon hovers over you, his expression a chaotic mix of hopeful, relief, and worry as he stares down at you. He’s wearing different clothes too, and his hair is a complete mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his glasses almost slide completely off his face. “Are you here, my love?” Sunghoon asks quietly. His voice sounds slightly hoarse.
You give him a confused look, pushing the blanket off of you and crying out from the pain you feel as you try and sit up. Sunghoon rushes to your aid, tossing the blanket to the side without a single thought, and helps ease you to your feet. Your gaze drops to your legs as he helps you stand and you notice how weird they look—shiny. There’s slight indented lines at your knees, too. You look at your arms and they’re the same.
You look doll-like.
Once you’re steadily on your feet, Sunghoon moves a step back to take you all in. You notice how done up you are and when you carefully raise a stiff and sore arm to your hair you feel how it’s styled. Your gaze lands on Sunghoon’s face, his eyes meeting yours.
His eyes are shining—completely full of love and pride. You’ve only seen him look like this when he first came to you with one of the dolls he made that looked the most like you, and when the two of you are in bed and his fingers are gently caressing your skin as he admires you. But, it was even more intense than in those scenarios. Confusion clouds you and you wait for Sunghoon to say something, and he does. One singular word.
✉️ ⦂ would it be wrong to say how i absolutely #needthat #desperately… like hehe yes i’ll be your perfect doll for you forever and ever and ever (๑´ω`๑)
pairings 𝜗𝜚 bad boy .ᐟ heeseung ៹ ex ballerina .ᐟ reader
ᧁ ; smut ˒ angst ˒ bad boy .ᐟ good girl
warnings ⊹₊ ⋆ heavy angst lots of deep mentions of death graphic depictions of death centering around the reader and heeseung meeting at a grief group smut car accidents fights drug & alcohol use cheating (not heeseung) reader is a flawed character socialites past and present shifting timelines - this is dark, please read at your own discretion will have a happy ending.
synopsis ୨୧ your world ended the day your best friend died. In the hushed corner of a grief group you never wanted to attend, you find him — the boy with the defiant gaze and a hard exterior. with cracked pointe shoes and a heart still pirouetting in the past, you feel your family’s disapproval tightening around you like an old corset. He is everything you’ve been taught to avoid: trouble, danger, thrill. But in the quiet ache of loss, you discover something soft in him, something that mirrors your own hollow, and you never want to let go.
.ᐟ rain's mic is on ⋆ ͘ . this one is heavy y'all so please read the warnings before reading, I have experienced a loss like this and let me tell you it is not easy. but honestly I think this will be therapeutic to write...I hope you enjoy.
You sit in a circle of battered folding chairs, each one occupied by a stranger cloaked in their own quiet ache. The walls are an unremarkable shade of beige, the ceiling tiles sagging as if even they are tired of holding up this room’s endless, aching confessions. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, buzzing like a fly caught between windowpanes. It hums in your ears, mingling with the low murmur of voices; voices that float around you like a fog you can’t seem to break through. They’re sharing their stories, each word rolling into the next, and yet none of them find purchase in your mind. You hear phrases —“I lost her six months ago,” “he was my brother, my twin soul,” “I don’t know who I am without them.” The syllables tangle together, a blurred melody of heartbreak and hollow confessions that should resonate, but don’t. Instead, your thoughts roam restlessly, slipping past the edges of this circle like water seeking an escape.
This is stupid. That’s all you can think. This room, these strangers, this forced performance of vulnerability. You don’t need to be here, you don’t want to be. It was your mother’s idea, or maybe your father’s, or maybe the friend who found you crying in the kitchen and didn’t know how else to help. “You’re not okay,” they’d said, their eyes soft, their voice careful, as though your grief were a fragile thing that might shatter at the slightest touch. “You should talk to someone.” But you don’t want to talk. Not to these people, not to anyone. You’re still angry — so angry you can taste it, bitter and bright on your tongue. Angry that she’s gone, that the world keeps turning anyway, that people you love can slip away as easily as breath. Angry that you’re here, forced to sit in this room and pick at the edges of a wound that still bleeds no matter how tightly you try to hold it shut.
Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers knotted tight as you stare down at the scuffed linoleum floor. You watch the shadows shift across the tiles, the way the cheap plastic chairs creak as people shift and sigh. You wonder what they see when they look at you; if they can sense how hollow you feel inside, how every breath feels stolen from the silence you can’t seem to fill. A voice cuts through your reverie, sharper than the rest. The instructor; her name is June, but she introduced herself so quickly you barely caught it, leans forward, her kind eyes settling on you. “Would you like to share today?” she asks, her voice gentle but insistent. Her question drifts across the circle, landing in your lap like a stone.
You hesitate. You want to say no. You want to slip back into the fog of your own thoughts, let the stories of these strangers wash over you without having to offer anything in return. But June’s gaze doesn’t waver, and there’s a quiet determination in her eyes that tells you she won’t let you slip away so easily. “I—” you start, your voice a dry whisper in your throat. The word feels foreign, as though it doesn’t belong to you. You swallow, trying to find something, anything to give her, even if it’s just a shard of the truth. But before you can force out another word, the door to the room swings open with a soft groan of hinges. The quiet murmur of voices stills, the air shifting like a held breath. You look up, startled by the sudden interruption.
He stands there in the doorway, framed by the flickering fluorescent light. A boy; no, a young man, but with a reckless, hungry energy that feels too big for this small, sorrowful room. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a black hoodie that hangs loose around his shoulders and jeans torn at the knees. His hair is dark, falling across his forehead in careless waves, and there’s a glint in his eyes that doesn’t belong in a place like this; mischief, or defiance, or maybe both. He walks in like he owns the space, his steps unhurried, each one deliberate and almost lazy. There’s a kind of swagger to him that seems out of place here, where everyone else is weighed down by loss and uncertainty. He moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, like the world could fall away around him and he wouldn’t miss a beat.
Your breath catches in your throat as he turns his gaze on the room. His eyes sweep over the group, pausing on you for just a moment; a flicker of something electric in the space between you, something that hums along your skin like static. He smiles then, a small, knowing curve of his lips that makes your stomach tighten. June recovers first, her voice steady as she addresses him. “Heeseung,” she says, her tone calm, as though she’s known him for years. “Glad you could join us. Please, have a seat.”
Heeseung. The name settles in your mind, a word with edges that feel sharp and dangerous. He doesn’t say anything, just inclines his head in a mockery of respect before sauntering over to an empty chair across the circle from you. He sits with the kind of ease that seems to come naturally to him, sprawling back like he’s at home in this room of strangers and sadness. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know why you’re staring, why you can’t seem to look away. He’s trouble; anyone could see that. He carries it in the curve of his grin, the careless way he lounges in his chair like he’s got nothing to prove and everything to lose. Your family would take one look at him and see every mistake you’ve ever been too careful to make.
But there’s something about him that pulls at you anyway; something that feels like a challenge, or a promise, or maybe just a spark in a life gone too quiet. June’s voice breaks through your thoughts again, gentle but firm. “You were about to share,” she reminds you softly, her eyes encouraging. The others in the circle watch you with polite curiosity, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they wait for your words. You’re too caught up in the magnetic pull of the boy who just walked in, the way he lounges in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the king of this quiet kingdom of broken hearts. His presence crackles in the air, a live wire of confidence and mischief that feels out of place here; like a thunderstorm that’s wandered into a library.
Your eyes meet his again, and for a moment, the whole room seems to vanish. The flickering lights, the shifting shadows, the low drone of sorrowful voices, they all dissolve into a hush that’s just the two of you, suspended in a glance that feels like a secret whispered against your skin. Heeseung holds your gaze with an ease that makes your breath stutter in your chest. His smirk is slow and deliberate, a curve of his lips that’s both a challenge and an invitation, and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks, blooming like a flush of summer in the cold hush of winter. You can feel the rest of the group watching; feel their curiosity flicker and sharpen as they notice the way you’re staring, as if this boy has turned you inside out with nothing more than a look. Embarrassment burns in your veins, a bright, fierce blush that you can’t quite hide. You tear your eyes away, the weight of their collective gaze pressing in on you like a vice, but it’s too late. Heeseung’s smirk deepens, dark eyes glinting with amusement that slices right through you.
You cough, the sound small and fragile in the hush of the circle. Your hands twist together in your lap, fingers fumbling with the edge of your sleeve as you try to gather the tatters of your composure. “I—I have nothing to say,” you stammer, your voice barely more than a whisper. The words feel like an apology, but you’re not sure who you’re apologizing to, June, the others, or maybe just yourself. June sighs softly, a gentle exhalation that speaks of disappointment and understanding all at once. She doesn’t push further, her eyes lingering on you for a heartbeat longer before she shifts her focus to the next trembling soul in the circle. The moment slips away, swallowed by the rhythm of the meeting, but the echo of it still hums in your bones, a melody you can’t quite silence.
You risk one last glance across the room, drawn back to Heeseung like a moth to flame. He’s still watching you, his head tilted just slightly, as if he’s trying to see right through the careful mask you wear. His gaze is steady, unflinching, and there’s a kind of quiet challenge in it, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next, or if you’ll let yourself fall into the gravity of whatever this is between you. You know he’s trouble. The kind of trouble that’s all sharp edges and reckless laughter, the kind that would make your parents’ hearts seize with worry. But you also know that there’s something about him that feels like possibility, like the flicker of dawn on the edge of a long night, a spark of something wild and bright in the darkness of your grief.
You look away quickly, your pulse a ragged drumbeat in your throat. You tell yourself you’re here to heal, to stitch your heart back together with soft words and shared sorrow. But as Heeseung leans back in his chair, that smirk still playing at the edges of his lips, you can’t help but wonder if healing is really what you’re searching for.
Before
You’re back in the old studio, the one with mirrored walls that seem to stretch on forever and floors that smell of rosin and sweat and quiet determination. The soft strains of a piano echo through the room, each note a gentle command that your body obeys without thought. You’re in the middle of your rehearsals, your limbs aching in that sweet way that comes only from hours of repetition, from the careful sculpting of muscle and will. Your best friend Nari is there, her laughter ringing like wind chimes as she prattles on beside you. She’s tying the ribbons of her pointe shoes, nimble fingers weaving them into place as she talks a mile a minute about some party on Saturday. Her voice is a melody of excitement and mischief, rising above the music like a warm breeze. But you’re only half-listening, your mind caught on the precise line of your arabesque, the subtle shift of your weight that can make or break the beauty of a single pose.
The showcase on Friday night looms in your thoughts, its promise and threat shimmering like a mirage just out of reach. It’s everything; the culmination of years spent spinning your soul into motion, of dawns and dusks blurred by practice and sweat. If you can dance this one performance perfectly, if you can become the music itself, there’s a chance you might be seen — truly seen — by those who can open the doors you’ve been dreaming of since you were a little girl with stars in your eyes and blisters on your feet. Nari’s words ripple through the haze of your focus, a bright ribbon of sound you can’t quite catch. “Are you even listening to me?” she huffs, nudging your shoulder with a grin that’s all playfulness and exasperation. You blink, startled out of your reverie, and offer her a sheepish smile. “Sorry, Nari,” you murmur, breathless from both the dance and the sudden warmth in your cheeks. “Can you say that again?”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile never wavers, eyes alight with mischief and affection. “Beomgyu’s having a party on Saturday,” she says again, slower this time, like she’s repeating the steps of a new routine just for you. “He wants me to come, and he said I should bring you too. You know, his roommates are going to be there, and they’re… fun.” She raises an eyebrow in a way that makes you laugh despite yourself, the sound of it soft and surprising in the hush of the studio. You pause, your breath steadying, and you brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “I’ll think about it,” you reply, your voice careful even as your heart tugs in two directions, between the shimmering future of the showcase and the siren call of a night that promises a different kind of abandon.
Nari grins, satisfied. “You’ll come,” she says with the certainty of someone who’s already decided for you. “I’ll see you there.” She winks, and for a moment, the air feels brighter; like the soft glow of stage lights just before the curtain rises, or the hush of the audience as they lean forward in anticipation. You just smile, the knot in your stomach unraveling one by one.
Present day
The clink of cutlery on china fills the hush of your family’s dining room, each sound a brittle punctuation in a conversation that has long since dried up. You’re pushing your food around your plate, letting the fork drag through the creamy potatoes in swirling patterns that feel like they should mean something. The roast sits in thick slices, glistening with juices that have already gone cold. It tastes like nothing in your mouth, like dust and memory. Your parents are seated across from you, the soft glow of the chandelier casting their faces in warm light that doesn’t reach their eyes. Your father’s brow is furrowed, the way it always is when he’s trying to figure out how to reach you without knocking you further away. Your mother’s lips are pressed into a line that might have once been a smile, but now it’s just another careful crack in the façade she wears for dinner.
They ask you about your first day at grief group, their voices careful and measured like they’re afraid of stepping on shards of glass. You shrug, your shoulders stiff and aching with the weight of words you’re not sure how to shape. “It’s stupid,” you mutter, each syllable slipping out like a sigh. “I don’t need it.” Your mother sighs, and the sound feels like a door closing softly in the night. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t push, and for a moment you’re grateful for it, grateful for the quiet that settles like a blanket over the table, even if it’s heavy with all the things you’re not saying. She clears her throat, the small sound snapping through the silence. “There’s a banquet this weekend,” she says, her voice careful as she changes the subject. “I think it would be good for you to come. To get out of the house, to socialize a little.”
Something in you flares at that, a hot spark of anger that surprises even you. Socialize. Like it’s something you deserve, like it’s something you’re entitled to just because you’re still here and breathing. Your fork stills, the silver tines scraping against the porcelain as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “Why should I?” you ask, your voice quiet but sharp. “Why do I get to socialize when Nari doesn’t?” Her name hangs in the air like a ghost, and your mother’s eyes falter, her gaze dropping to the untouched green beans on her plate. The silence stretches, taut and trembling, and you can feel the shape of the words you’re holding back, a raw scream echoing in the hollow of your chest.
“Nari’s parents,” you continue, your tone as flat and bitter as the cold dinner in front of you. “Will they be there? Beomgyu? Should I smile and pretend it’s all okay while they’re looking at me, knowing I’m the reason she’s not here?” Your mother doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. The way her shoulders slump, the way she can’t meet your eyes; it’s enough. It’s everything. You push your chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the wood floor with a grating shriek that echoes in the quiet. Your hands are shaking, but you keep them fisted at your sides as you stand, your breath coming hard and ragged.
“I don’t deserve to socialize,” you say, your voice hollow and aching. “I don’t deserve to sit there and smile and pretend I’m okay when I killed their daughter.” The words fall into the silence like stones, and for a moment, no one breathes. Your father opens his mouth, but there’s nothing he can say, no soft reassurance or gentle lie that can wash the blood from your hands, even if it’s only there in the quiet chambers of your guilt. You turn away before you can see their faces; before you can see the pity or the pain or the fear in their eyes. Your footsteps are quick and sharp as you leave the table behind, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you can’t sit there under the weight of it all, can’t stand to be in the same room with the echo of your own confession.
In the hush of the hallway, you pause, your hand pressed to the cool wood of the doorframe. Your breath is shaking, each inhale a jagged cut. You close your eyes, and for a moment, you can almost feel the soft press of Nari’s hand in yours, the bright laugh that used to pull you back from the edge of yourself. But that’s gone now, a memory that tastes of salt and regret. You open your eyes and step away from the door, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole. Empty.
Heeseung moved like a storm in a bottle, all coiled energy and restless, reckless hunger. The girl underneath him was a blur, a placeholder for a connection he didn’t care to remember the shape of. Her moans were a hollow echo in his ears, a soundtrack he barely noticed as he chased his own release. He didn’t know her name — he didn’t care to know. All she was to him was a means to an end. A small glimpse of euphoria in his already fucked up life.
“Oh god.” Her voice was pitched just right, her body taunt with pleasure as her nails deliciously traced the expanse of his back up and down. It sent shivers down his spine, his head falling forward to rest on her shoulder. His orgasm approached fast and unyielding; blinding him completely for only just a second. When it was over, he didn’t bother with softness or sentiment; he just rolled away, breath ragged, the sweat cooling on his skin in the stale air of his too-small room.
It was then that the pounding came, a hard, insistent thump on the door that rattled the handle and broke through the post-coital haze. Heeseung swore under his breath, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he pushed himself upright. The girl beside him made a soft, questioning noise, but he didn’t answer. Sunghoon’s voice called through the door, muffled but clear: “Hey man… I don’t mean to bother you, but your dad is at the door asking for you.” A string of curses slipped from Heeseung’s lips, low and biting as he turned to the girl. She was sitting up, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with confusion. Heeseung didn’t bother with apologies, he just grabbed her shirt from the floor and tossed it at her, his jaw tight. “Get lost,” he muttered, his voice like gravel.
She scowled but didn’t argue, her movements quick and sharp as she tugged the shirt over her head and gathered the rest of her clothes. Heeseung didn’t watch her leave — he was already halfway to his dresser, yanking on a pair of jeans and grabbing a wrinkled shirt from the floor. His movements were hasty, all careless urgency as he buttoned the shirt with fingers that didn’t quite stop shaking. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was still tucking the shirt into his waistband, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. His father stood in the doorway, the harsh afternoon light casting deep lines across his face and turning his eyes into cold shards of glass. The girl slipped past Heeseung in a hurry, not even sparing a glance at the older man as she ducked out the door.
His father watched her go, his mouth twisting into a frown that spoke volumes without a single word. “Is she your girlfriend?” he asked, his tone as sharp and clipped as the cut of his tailored suit.
Heeseung let out a short, humorless laugh, his shoulders rolling back in lazy defiance. “Nah,” he said with a smirk. “Random girl.” His father’s face darkened, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shook his head in silent disappointment. Heeseung could feel the weight of that look like a hand around his throat, but he didn’t let it show, didn’t let it break through the practiced mask of indifference he wore like armor. “I’m only here because your mother wants you to come to a banquet this Saturday,” his father said, his voice cold and final. “No questions, Heeseung. You’ll be there.”
Heeseung’s lips twisted, his laughter gone as quickly as it had come. “No way in hell,” he snapped. “I’m not going to sit with a bunch of prissy rich kids and play pretend. Find someone else.” His father’s eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to go still around them, the air heavy with all the things they’d never said out loud. “If you don’t go,” his father said quietly, his words cutting deeper than any shout could, “I’ll yank your inheritance money right out from under you. I’m done watching you piss away everything your brother worked for.”
The mention of Han hit Heeseung like a blow to the gut, the name a ghost in the space between them. His father didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just kept his eyes fixed on Heeseung like he was daring him to break. “Usually we’d be asking Han,” he said, his voice low and venomous. “But obviously, because of you, we can’t do that.” The words rang out, sharp and final, the old wound split open once more. Heeseung’s hands clenched at his sides, his breath a ragged snarl as he took a single step forward. “I’ll be there,” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. And then he slammed the door in his father’s face, the sound of it echoing through the quiet of the house like a gunshot.
He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving, the anger coiling in his gut like a living thing. The silence in the house felt heavy, the memory of his brother’s name still clinging to the air like a curse. Heeseung closed his eyes, let the weight of it settle over him for a heartbeat and then he turned away, his jaw set and his mind already miles from the echo of his father’s voice.
Before
The memory snuck in like smoke — thin, curling at the edges of Heeseung’s mind as he lay back on his bed, the anger from the encounter with his father still simmering in his chest. It arrived uninvited, as most memories of Han did, but he never had the heart to push it away. It was a Thursday evening. Late spring, the windows open to a warm breeze that stirred the curtains and carried the faint sounds of traffic from the road outside. Heeseung had just come home from his job; something menial and forgettable at a music store, the kind of gig he kept for pocket money and for the simple pleasure of thumbing through vinyls all day. His shoulders ached, his hair smelled faintly of dust and old plastic, and there was a smear of something, maybe ink on the hem of his sleeve. He strolled through the front door like he owned the place, calling out lazily, “Han! You alive?”
The house was quiet except for the subtle shuffle of papers in the den. Heeseung followed the sound, and sure enough, Han was there, tucked behind their father’s massive old desk, sleeves rolled up, brows drawn in that signature furrow that meant he was neck-deep in whatever the hell their dad had dumped on him this time. His tie hung loose around his neck like a forgotten noose, and the desk lamp cast a tired yellow light over his papers and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Heeseung leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching his brother like a man studying a machine. “What are you doing?” he asked, not unkindly, but with a tone that leaned slightly into mockery. Han didn’t look up right away.
“Contracts,” Han replied eventually, flipping a page with fingers that were stained slightly with ink. “Dad wants me to review the Q2 proposals before the meeting next week. He’s testing me, I think.” Heeseung scoffed and stepped into the room, hands shoved into his pockets. “You know you’re twenty-six, right? You’re allowed to act your age. Get drunk. Flirt with someone. Sleep until noon. Come on, man, you’re wasting your golden years.”
Han chuckled under his breath, a soft, familiar sound. He leaned back in his chair finally and looked up, eyes slightly bloodshot, but sharp. “My golden years?” he repeated with an amused snort. “You sound like a commercial. Look; I get it. But I can’t afford to screw this up. If I’m going to take over the company someday, I need to prove I’m ready. Dad won’t hand me anything just because I’m his son.” Heeseung made a face, as if the very idea bored him to tears. “Yeah, yeah. Legacy, pressure, expectations, whatever.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You sound just like him, you know? Minus the part where he breathes fire every time I walk in a room.”
There was a beat of silence between them, a moment that stretched like taut string. Then Han smiled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “You’re not so bad, Hee. You just… don’t want the same things I do.”
“Damn right,” Heeseung said, grinning. “And that’s why I’m inviting you to this party saturday. You need to blow off steam. Come on, it’ll be fun. Booze, music, girls who don’t talk about market projections. Maybe you’ll get laid, huh?” Han threw his head back and laughed, a full-bodied sound that filled the room and warmed something deep in Heeseung’s chest. “God,” Han said, shaking his head, “you’re such an idiot.”
“An idiot who knows how to have a good time,” Heeseung countered.
Han leaned forward again, reaching for his pen, already turning back to his mountain of responsibility. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to finish this before morning.” Heeseung sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Suit yourself, nerd.” He turned on his heel and headed for the hallway. “One day you’re gonna regret choosing paperwork over parties.” Han didn’t answer that, and Heeseung didn’t expect him to.
Present day
The kitchen is quiet, too quiet for a house that used to hold the hum of music and the scent of spices and your mother’s laughter like a cradle. Now, it’s just you, curled on a barstool with your knees drawn up and your fingers clenched around a lukewarm mug of tea you forgot to drink. The steam’s long gone, and the honey at the bottom has settled into something thick and bitter. You stare into it like it might offer answers, like it might bring her back. The fridge hums. A fly taps against the windowpane. Somewhere upstairs, your father’s voice filters down faintly as he takes a business call, every word sharp and clipped, like life never paused for him. Like the world didn’t lose her. But yours did.
Nari’s absence is a bruise that never yellows, never fades. It’s sharp even now, especially now. She would’ve hated this silence. She’d be here, chattering about nothing, raiding the pantry for snacks and nagging you to put down your damn phone and just be present. And maybe that’s why your thoughts won’t stay still, because they’re clawing for a world where she still exists, a version of today where she might burst through the back door in her worn-out slippers and call you “ballerina girl” with that lopsided grin of hers. You press your palms flat against the countertop. It’s cold beneath your skin, grounding. You try to focus on the pattern of the granite, the little swirls and veins, but your thoughts still pulse like static. You feel raw. Like someone scraped out your insides and filled you with salt. Then — Buzz.
The sound shatters the silence. Your heart jerks like it remembers how to beat.
You glance at your phone, already half-hoping it’s no one important. Spam, maybe. A group text you forgot to leave. Anything but —
Beomgyu.Can we please talk?
Four words. But they land like a punch. Your chest constricts so tight, it’s like your ribs are shrinking around your lungs. You feel your breath stutter. Your fingers twitch. The guilt is immediate, overwhelming, a tidal wave you don’t even try to brace against. You slam the phone down onto the table without thinking, the crack of it hitting the wood startling in the still air. You don’t check to see if the screen’s cracked. You don’t care. Maybe you want it to be. Maybe if it shatters, it’ll mirror something inside you that already has. You bite your lip hard enough to taste iron. Your eyes sting. You haven’t spoken to Beomgyu since the funeral. He hadn’t looked at you, not once. You’d sat three rows back, your nails digging into your palms, your throat like paper. He’d held Nari’s mother’s hand and stared at the coffin with a hollowed-out look that made you nauseous. You’d wanted to crawl out of your skin. You should’ve.
You think of how close they were; how easily they fit together. You’d seen it from the start. Even when Nari denied it, even when she’d said it was “just fun,” you’d known he was her heart. You’d seen the way she softened around him, the way she came alive when he laughed at her jokes. And now? Now he was just another ghost in your phone. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the kitchen where she used to sit, cross-legged on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box and swinging her legs like a child. You can almost see her there, smirking, eyebrow raised like you’re being dramatic again.
You whisper her name, just once, and it falls out of your mouth like broken glass. You don’t answer the text. You can’t. Instead, you let your forehead fall forward until it rests against the coolness of your arms. The silence returns, thick and absolute. And still, your phone waits. Quiet. Unanswered. Just like her.
The room is stuffy today; warmer than usual, like the air forgot how to move. You sit in the same chair you did last time, in the same semicircle of grief-soaked strangers and their tea-stained paper cups, their fidgeting hands, their voices weighed with sorrow and memory. You don’t bother pretending to listen anymore. Your eyes are fixed on a speck on the wall behind the group leader’s head, June, The voices in the room bleed together like watercolor in the rain, a blur of confessions and pain you can’t bear to carry. They all sound the same now.
“My mother was my best friend…”
“It’s been three years but I still smell her perfume…”
“He was just twenty-two…”
You know you should care. You want to care. But your grief is greedy and cruel, and it’s made your heart a locked box. There’s no room left inside for anyone else’s sadness. You hear his voice before you see him; low, a little rough, carved out of something not entirely soft. Heeseung. You turn your head, eyes flicking to him like gravity pulled them there. He’s slouched in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers twitching restlessly in his lap. The swagger he wore like armor the last time is gone today. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t wink. He looks different, heavier. Like something happened between the last session and now, something that hollowed him out and filled him with fire.
June is addressing him now. She’s calm, as always, her voice like a therapist’s lullaby. “Heeseung,” she says gently, “would you like to share something today?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. “Heeseung?” she prompts again, a little firmer.
He lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable. His jaw is clenched. His voice, when it comes, is low and sharp as a blade.
“I have nothing to say.”
There’s an edge there that silences the whispers around the room. Even June falters, just for a second, before she forges ahead. “Sometimes saying something helps. Even a sentence. Even a word.” Heeseung lets out a humorless laugh, short and bitter. He drags a hand through his hair and stares at the floor like it betrayed him. Then he looks up; at her, at the room, and then, briefly, at you. You look away too quickly, pretending not to care.
“I belong in jail,” he says flatly. A sharp silence follows, sucking all the air out of the room. Someone coughs. Someone else shifts in their seat. Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I killed my brother,” he says, his tone brutal and matter-of-fact, like he’s just telling them the weather. “I don’t belong in a grief group. I belong in a cell.”
Your breath catches. The words strike you like a slap. You sit a little straighter, unable to look away. June sighs, quiet and practiced. “Your brother died in a car accident, Heeseung. That’s not your fault.” He’s on his feet before she can finish, the chair scraping violently against the tile as he kicks it back. The crash of it slams through the room like thunder. You flinch before you can stop yourself, your heart kicking wildly in your chest. Heeseung’s jaw is tight now, his face pale beneath his sharp cheekbones.
“Yeah,” he spits, voice rising. “He died picking me up. That’s why he was in that car. Because I was too drunk to drive myself. Because he was always the one who cleaned up my messes.” His voice cracks at the edges; just slightly, but enough to make you feel like something inside you is cracking with it. “I killed him.”
He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, eyes burning like twin eclipses. No one dares speak. The silence wraps around him like a noose, taut and thick. And suddenly, he looks so young. So lost. Like he’s still standing on the side of that road, glass in his skin and his brother’s blood in the air. You’re stunned; not just by what he said, but by the way it pierces through you. Because for the first time, you see him — not as some reckless, charming bad boy you were warned about, but as someone broken in the same places you are. Someone who walks with a ghost too.
You’d thought you were different. You, the quiet ex-ballerina with your good-girl past and your polished life. Him, the disaster with smoke on his jacket and grief in his bones. But maybe you aren’t so different after all. Heeseung doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs his coat and storms out, the door rattling in his wake. The room doesn’t breathe until he’s gone.
You can’t stop staring at the door. You wonder if he’s crying on the other side. Or if he’s just like you, too angry to mourn properly. Too haunted to move forward.
You sit there in the silence, the words echoing in your head. I killed him. You know what that feels like. And somehow, it makes you feel less alone.
You wake with a gasp, like you’ve surfaced from drowning. The sheets are tangled around your legs, soaked in sweat, your skin clammy despite the cool air slipping through the crack in your window. Your lungs heave, but the air feels too thin, like it’s not enough. Like nothing is enough anymore. The nightmare clings to you, half-formed and shadowy at the edges, but the heart of it remains vivid, cruelly clear. Nari’s hand; slipping out of yours. Her eyes, red with fury. The way her voice trembled not with sadness, but with disappointment, with anger.
The way she walked away.
How you let her.
How she never came back.
You sit up, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like you could rub it all away. The images. The guilt. The truth. The silence of the house is suffocating, so you shove off the covers and pad downstairs on bare feet, trying not to wince as the cold tiles bite into your soles. You want water; something cold, something real. Something to distract you from the storm in your chest. The kitchen lights are off, but the refrigerator hums faintly in the dark. You’re halfway to the cabinet when you hear it: the soft, broken sound of someone crying. You freeze.
At first you think you imagined it. But then it comes again — a quiet, trembled sob. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness, and there she is. Your mother, sitting at the kitchen island, her shoulders curled in on themselves like the weight of the world finally became too heavy to hold. One hand grips a crumpled tissue; the other is pressed over her mouth to keep the sound contained, like grief should be polite. You hesitate in the doorway, your instincts at war. Once, not so long ago, you’d have gone straight to her without question. But that was before. That was before everything fractured.
You were a different person then. Back when your world made sense. Back when you could still recognize yourself in the mirror. When you danced like your life depended on it, when your report cards came home like trophies, when your smiles were real. You’d never smoked, never drank, never snuck out. You’d dated the kinds of boys who brought flowers for your mother and shook your father’s hand. You were the girl everyone trusted, the girl who never let anyone down. But now?
Now you move through the world like it’s made of glass. Angry at everything. Detached. Numb. The mirror doesn’t recognize you, and neither do your parents. Especially your mother. You know it. You’ve felt it every time she looks at you like she’s searching for someone who disappeared. Still, something in you softens. You walk forward, slowly, and without a word, wrap your arms around her from behind. She flinches, surprised; your presence, your touch. You used to be so affectionate, but now? Now you rarely even speak at the dinner table. After a moment, she melts into you, her head leaning back against your shoulder. Her sobs taper into shaky breaths.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you murmur into her hair. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Her fingers find your wrist, holding gently. Finally, she says, her voice hoarse, “I miss you.”
You close your eyes. “I’m right here,” you whisper, even though the words feel like a lie. She pulls away just enough to look at you, and in the glow of the fridge light, you see her eyes are puffy and red. She studies your face for a long, aching moment, then says, “No. Not really.” It hits harder than you expect. But she’s right. You haven’t been you in a long time.
“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Your mother nods, slowly, like she’s known that for a while but didn’t know how to say it aloud. She reaches out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear the way she used to when you were little. “I know you’re hurting,” she says. “We all are. But I don’t want to lose my daughter.”
The silence swells again, thick with everything neither of you know how to say. The memory of Nari hangs heavy between you — so present, so piercing. After a long pause, your mother clears her throat. “The banquet this weekend,” she says, as gently as she can manage. “I was hoping you’d come. Just to get out of the house. Be around people again.” You want to say no again. It’s your first instinct. No to the dresses, to the small talk, to the pretending. No to the judgmental stares and whispered sympathies. No to the pressure of having to act normal when everything in you is still on fire.
But then you look at her. At the hope trembling behind her exhaustion. And for once, you don’t have the energy to argue. Or maybe, deep down, you want to try. Not for you; but for her. For who you used to be. “Okay,” you say quietly.
She blinks, surprised. “Really?”
You nod. “I’ll go.” Your mother smiles, small and sad, but genuine. And you wonder when the last time she smiled at you like that was. You get your water, finally, and sip it in the dark beside her, not saying much. But for the first time in a while, the silence feels a little less heavy. And upstairs, your nightmares wait. But at least now, you’re not the only one wide awake in the dark.
The night of the banquet arrives like a storm you’ve tried your best to ignore; thunder rumbling low in your chest, your limbs heavy with dread. You stand alone in your bedroom, the soft click of your heels echoing in the quiet, a fragile sound in the space that once held laughter. The mirror before you shows a girl you almost recognize. The dress clings in all the right places, something tasteful your mother picked. Your hair is pulled back with delicate precision, a touch of makeup to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. But there’s a hollowness beneath the polish, a dullness in your gaze that powder can’t disguise.
You stare at yourself and remember a different version of this same moment. You and Nari, side by side in front of this mirror, perfume in the air and bobby pins scattered like confetti across your desk. You remember how she'd curl your hair for you, then laugh when she burned her own ear. How she'd spin you around, tilt your chin up, and say “Look at you! total heartbreaker.”
And then she'd wink, adding, “Too bad you're a prude.” You press your hand to your stomach as if that could keep it from twisting. The ache there is sharp tonight. This isn’t right. She should be here. Not as a memory; but in the flesh, wearing that crimson dress she swore made her look “dangerously hot,” even though she always ended up changing it last minute. You’d have teased her for trying on three outfits, she’d have stolen your lipstick, and the two of you would’ve danced to some stupid pop song before leaving late and in a rush.
But tonight it’s just you. Just you and the ghost of her smile echoing in the silence. Your throat tightens. You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in days, not since the last nightmare; but the burn is there behind your eyes. That cruel, unshed weight. You let out a long, steadying breath, palms smoothing the sides of your dress. It’s too tight across the chest. Or maybe that’s just your heart.
Then, with lead in your limbs, you move. Open your bedroom door. Step into the hallway. One foot in front of the other, like choreography. Like a dance. Down the stairs, your parents are waiting. Your mother looks up and smiles, that practiced, brittle kind of smile she’s worn too often. Your father offers a quiet nod, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, saying nothing but scanning you like he’s not sure what version of you he’ll be dealing with tonight.
You don’t speak, just grab your coat and purse. And as the front door shuts behind you, you don’t look back at the mirror. You don’t want to see what’s missing in the reflection.
The car ride to the banquet was silent. No music. No idle conversation. Just the occasional turn signal and the sound of tires humming against pavement. You sat in the backseat, your hands clenched in your lap like a child trying to behave, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress with a quiet desperation. Your mother, riding in the front with your father, was too busy reapplying her lipstick in the mirror to notice how stiff you were, how you hadn’t blinked in a minute. You watched the city pass by in blurs of warm gold and shadow. Each lighted window another life you weren’t living. When you arrive, it’s all so… much. The venue is a grand old hotel downtown, the kind of place people book months in advance, with chandeliers like frozen galaxies suspended above a sea of tailored suits and glittering dresses. A string quartet plays in the corner, the music slow and graceful, and the air smells of wine, floral arrangements, and money. You step inside, and it hits you like a punch to the chest. The whispers come fast.
Your chest tightens as if the air itself resents you being here. You swallow hard, your throat raw, and try to breathe around the phantom hands curling around your lungs. It’s not working. You shift your weight, your heels suddenly too high, too loud against the marble floors. Every breath feels borrowed, like you’ll have to give it back if you stay too long. But your mother doesn’t notice. Of course she doesn’t.
She’s swept into a conversation almost immediately, pulled in by polished friends with tight smiles and hands adorned in diamonds. You can see the way she lifts her chin, her lips curving perfectly, as though this night is a role she was born to play. She’s glowing beneath the chandeliers, nodding graciously, clutching a champagne flute like it’s the holy grail.
You’re a silent shadow beside her, just a flicker in the corner of their eyes. You hope it stays that way. You scan the room, dread rising like water in your throat. No sign of Nari’s parents. No glimpse of Beomgyu. You pray, silently, fiercely, that they don’t come. That they stay wherever they are. That you won’t have to meet their eyes and see the grief you gave them staring back. But fate has never been merciful to you. You barely have time to brace before another group approaches. Family friends. Old ones. People who used to pinch your cheeks at holidays and ask how your pirouettes were coming along. You recognize them instantly. The couple with the fox-faced smiles. The man in the navy suit and the woman with silver hair too stiff to move.
“Darling,” the woman says, voice dripping with pretend concern, “we’ve been thinking about you.”
You smile, tight, robotic. “Thank you.”
“And how have you been?” she continues, tilting her head like she expects something profound.
You don’t offer anything. Just one word: “Fine.”
A silence settles over the group, awkward and dense, before the man fills it with a polite cough.
“And ballet?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. More of a test. “Are you still keeping up with it?” You stare at him for a moment, then at the swirling wine in your untouched glass.
“No,” you say simply. “I don’t dance anymore.”
The woman blinks. “But you were so talented. Surely you’ll pick it up again once things settle?”
You force a smile. “Being a ballerina wasn’t in the cards for me. Not anymore.” The way you say it; final, flat, seems to unnerve them. They don’t push further. Just exchange a glance, murmur something about catching up later, and turn back to your parents. You’re left alone again, more alone than you were when you walked in. A knot forms in your stomach. It sits heavy, immovable, like stone. You sip your wine, but the taste is bitter, acidic. It doesn’t help.
Across the room, someone laughs too loudly. A toast is made. Another waltz begins. And still, all you can think about is Nari. About how she would’ve hated this place. About how her laugh would’ve cracked through the crystal calm like lightning. About how she would’ve made a joke about someone’s ridiculous earrings just loud enough for you to choke on your drink. She would’ve made it bearable. You set your glass down on a table and press your fingertips to your temples, as if that could stop the spinning. You want to leave. You need to.
But before you can step away, before you can disappear into the safety of some forgotten hallway, your gaze lands on a figure across the ballroom. Heeseung. He’s leaning against the far wall, half in the shadows, dressed in black like the storm he always brings. His tie is loose, his hair slightly tousled, and he looks like he doesn’t belong here either. His eyes, dark and sharp, scan the room until they land on you.
And just like that, the air shifts again.
Not like before—no, not suffocating this time. Different. This is tension. Electricity. A current you can feel down to your bones. He doesn’t smile. He just stares, unreadable. And you stare back, too stunned to look away. For a moment, it’s as if the crowd fades. The whispers fall away. The chandelier light softens. There’s just you, and him, and everything you haven’t said to each other yet suspended in the space between.
Before
The studio was nearly silent save for the soft shushing of your slippers against the marley floor, the gentle hum of the overhead lights, and the faint throb of your heartbeat in your ears. Outside, the sky had already turned a deep violet, streaked with orange at the edges where the sun had made its quiet descent. But inside, it was still you and your reflection, looping the same phrase of choreography over and over until your legs screamed and your lungs ached. Friday was the big day. The showcase that could change everything. The one that scouts were coming to, the one your instructors called a turning point. You needed to be perfect. There was no room for anything less. So you stayed long after the others had gone home, repeating your variations in dimmed silence, chasing something close to flawlessness.
You paused, chest heaving, sweat glistening along your collarbones. You stepped to the side and grabbed your water bottle, letting the cool liquid ease the burn in your throat. Just as you lowered it, the front door creaked open. You flinched. No one else was supposed to be here. And then, casually framed in the doorway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other running through his shaggy dark hair, stood Beomgyu. Your heart jumped — not just from surprise.
He was in jeans and a soft flannel jacket, the collar folded haphazardly. His hair looked like he'd been in the wind, or maybe he'd just run his fingers through it too many times. He blinked when he saw you, a little stunned himself, then grinned. “Didn’t expect to see you here this late. Thought everyone cleared out by now."
You raised an eyebrow, tugging your towel over your neck. “I could say the same to you.” Beomgyu stepped in, letting the door creak shut behind him. The warm light cast soft shadows on his face, making his features look even gentler. “I came to pick up Nari’s pointe shoes. She said she forgot them in her locker.”
You nodded, gesturing to the changing room. “They’re probably still there. I can grab them for you.”
“Nah,” he said quickly, taking a few more steps inside. “I know where her stuff is. It’s cool. Didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
You gave him a small shrug. “Was just running through the piece again. Nerves.” Beomgyu lingered near the edge of the room, watching your reflection in the mirror. His gaze wasn’t invasive, just curious. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Big show Friday, right?”
“Mhm.” You leaned against the barre, stretching your arms over it. “It’s the one that decides my whole future, apparently.”
“No pressure or anything,” he said with a lopsided smile. You laughed, a real one. It slipped out without your permission, caught you off guard. Beomgyu seemed surprised too, like he hadn’t expected to be funny. “I get it though,” he added after a moment. “We have our first show this weekend. It’s nothing big, just a coffee shop gig. But I’ve been running lyrics in my head all day and still feel like I’m gonna forget everything.”
You tilted your head. “You’re in a band?”
“Yeah. We suck,” he said, grinning. “But we have fun.”
You leaned one shoulder against the mirror and crossed your arms, amused. “What do you play?”
“Guitar. I write most of the songs too. Kind of emo, kind of indie. We're in a genre crisis.” You chuckled. “That sounds about right.” The conversation stretched on easily after that. What started as a brief chat turned into something warmer, something slower. Beomgyu stayed, leaning against the mirror beside you, the two of you trading stories about rehearsals and routines, stage fright, and the strange way people expected so much from you just because you were good at something. He spoke with his hands, animated and expressive, his laughter full-bodied and contagious.
You hadn’t laughed that much in weeks. Eventually, the clock on the wall struck ten. Beomgyu checked his phone, then glanced at you. “Want a ride home?” You hesitated. You were tired, your legs aching. And the walk back felt far longer than it ever used to.
“Sure,” you said. You gathered your bag and hoodie, flicked off the lights, and walked with him into the cool night. The sky had gone pitch black by then, stars hidden behind gauzy clouds. The parking lot was mostly empty, quiet but for the hum of streetlamps and the occasional car passing by in the distance. His car was older, navy blue with a cracked windshield and band stickers on the bumper. He opened the passenger door for you like it was second nature. You climbed in, the scent of spearmint gum and cheap cologne lingering faintly inside.
The drive was short. You lived only a few blocks away. But the silence that settled in the car wasn’t uncomfortable. He parked in front of your house, engine idling, the headlights casting long shadows across the street. You turned to him, already reaching for your bag. “Thanks for the ride,” you said softly.
He was looking at you. The way his eyes lingered was different now. Slower. Focused. Under the streetlight, his features looked almost unreal. The softness of his mouth. The mess of hair falling into his eyes. The calm in his expression that made your chest tighten. “No problem,” he murmured.
You lingered.
So did he.
There wasn’t a single logical thought in your head when you both leaned in. It was instinct. A gravity neither of you had expected, too strong to ignore. The next you know your leaning over all the while he is too. The kiss was soft at first, tentative; but it didn’t stay that way. Your hand found his jaw, his fingers tangled in the hem of your sleeve. It was impulsive, reckless, and stupid in the way only something that feels too good too fast can be. His lips moved against yours like he’d been waiting for it, like he couldn’t believe it was happening either. Your heart pounded. You could feel it in your throat, in your fingertips.
The kiss deepened. Your limbs felt light, dizzy with adrenaline and guilt, a dangerous cocktail that made you bolder. You shifted, climbing into his lap as though something inside you had been aching to feel this wanted, this close.
But then; it hit you.
Like ice water over the head.
Nari.
This was Nari’s boyfriend.
Your best friend.
Oh god.
You jerked back like you’d been burned, scrambling out of his lap, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh no,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Oh no, no, no.” Tears welled up fast, hot and full of shame. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but the pit in your stomach was already growing. This wasn’t just a mistake; it was a betrayal. Beomgyu looked stunned, his eyes wide, mouth parting like he wanted to say something.
“I—” he started.
But it was too late. You shoved open the door, stumbling out of the car into the cold night, tears trailing down your cheeks. You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. The porch light blurred in your vision as you fumbled with your keys, your hands shaking. The kiss echoed in your bones like an accusation, like thunder in a silent room.
You slipped inside, heart splintering. And upstairs, alone in the dark, you cried until your chest ached; because you had just made the worst mistake of your life.
Present day
The air outside was colder than you expected, bracing against the heat still clinging to your cheeks from the banquet. You leaned back on the stone ledge, your palms flat against it, grounding you as your heart slowly tried to even itself out. Too many eyes. Too many voices. You could still hear them; those low, pitying murmurs, the way people glanced sideways and then looked away like the sight of you hurt too much to bear. Or worse, like it was something juicy they weren’t supposed to talk about but would the second you turned away.
You hated it. All of it. The way the room had swallowed you whole, a ghost of who you used to be.
A failed ballerina.
The girl who lost her best friend.
The girl who killed her.
The air helped. A little. The night had a stillness to it, only disturbed by the occasional hum of a car in the distance or the soft click of someone else’s shoes along the sidewalk. You closed your eyes, tilted your head up to the stars that were barely visible through the city’s haze. That’s when a voice broke the fragile quiet. “Hey.” Your heart lurched, and your eyes snapped open. You turned, already bracing yourself, and there he was. Beomgyu. You cursed under your breath, low and bitter.
He looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since the last time you saw him, his tie slightly loosened, his shirt untucked like he hadn’t bothered fixing himself up fully. He looked… tired. More worn than usual. But you didn’t care. He was the last person you wanted to see. The last person you needed. “Did you get my message?” he asked quietly.
You turned your gaze back toward the dark, refusing to look at him. “Yes.”
He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. “Why didn’t you respond?”
That made your blood boil. How dare he act like nothing happened. Like you haven’t betrayed your best friend and now she's dead. Like your word didn’t end the moment the two of you decided hurt her so badly it drove her to her death. You can’t even look at him without feeling an overwhelming shade of shame.
You turned sharply, your voice cold. “Are you stupid?”
Beomgyu blinked. “What?”
“You really came out here asking why I didn’t respond? You really thought I’d want to talk to you?” His brow furrowed, eyes filled with a hurt he had no right to feel. “We can’t not talk about this.”
“Yes we can.” You pushed off the ledge, straightening your back, ready to walk away. “I have nothing to say—” He reached for you. His fingers closed around your wrist. And you yanked your hand back like his touch had burned you. And in a way it did. It felt like a zap to your soul.
“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was sharp, your body trembling.
He looked wounded, frustrated. “Please, Ju—”
“She said let go.”
Another voice cut through the air, low and cold like the crack of a whip. You froze. Beomgyu did too. Your head turned slowly, disbelieving, and there stood Heeseung. Beomgyu looked at Heeseung, eyes narrowing. “Get lost,” he muttered. “This doesn’t involve you.”
Heeseung didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes steady. “It does now.”
Beomgyu scoffed, incredulous. “You don’t even know her.” But Heeseung didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, before you could fully register what was happening, you felt his hand curl gently around your wrist; careful, unlike Beomgyu, and then you were being pulled forward, tucked against him, his arm coming around your waist like it belonged there.
“Don’t touch my girlfriend,” Heeseung said, cool and quiet, the lie sliding from his mouth like he’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Your breath hitched. What? You stiffened against him, frozen. Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for a sign that he was joking; but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Beomgyu, steady, unflinching, sharp as cut glass. It wasn’t a threat. It was a dismissal. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know him. You had barely spoken to Heeseung, and yet here he was, holding you like you were something worth shielding.
And Beomgyu — he just laughed. A single, humorless sound that cracked open something bitter inside you. “Really?” he said, his eyes sliding between the two of you, his smirk twisting. “This loser?” He turned to you then, gaze challenging, voice low. “You can do better.”
You felt the blood rush to your ears. Your spine straightened, anger fizzing to life under your skin. All the things you wanted to say for months clawed at your throat. You stepped slightly forward, still half wrapped in Heeseung’s arm. “Really?” you said, voice trembling with heat. “Like with you?” Beomgyu stilled.
For a second, just a second, you saw something flicker in his expression; something uncertain and maybe even ashamed. But then it hardened again, sealed over by the same easy indifference he wore like a mask. He gave a low chuckle. “Whatever.” He turned to leave, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice floating behind him like smoke. “I’ll catch you some other time. And we will talk.”
You didn’t say anything. You watched his back as he walked away, each footstep carrying the weight of too many things unsaid. The night closed around him until he was just another shadow swallowed by the dark. And then it was quiet. Heeseung’s arm still hovered around you, tentative now, uncertain. You stepped away slowly, enough to put a little distance between you, enough to breathe.
You stayed in silence for a few minutes, the kind that lingered not awkwardly, but gently; like fog curling around a streetlamp. The chill in the air touched your skin, but the tension in your body had started to ease, little by little. Then you turned to him, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice low, but sincere.
Heeseung shrugged, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. “It’s whatever.” And maybe it was. Maybe to him, stepping in like that didn’t mean anything at all. But to you, it meant more than he could know. There was a pause, and then Heeseung tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in the direction Beomgyu had walked off. “What the hell’s his problem anyway?”
The question caught you off guard. You froze for a beat, lips parting. Then you shut your mouth again and gave him the most practiced shrug you had. “No idea.” Heeseung looked at you; really looked at you and you could tell he didn’t buy it. You could see it in the subtle lift of his brow, in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t press.
He just nodded once, slowly, as if to say: okay, I’ll let it go. You didn’t thank him for that out loud, you didn’t need to. The silence consumed you for a few more minutes until finally Heeseung speaks, his words surprising you for the second time tonight.
“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something reckless, something soft.
You blink. “What?”
“This place sucks,” he mutters, glancing back toward the golden-lit banquet hall like it’s a prison, not a celebration. “We don’t belong here.” You open your mouth, about to say something responsible; about your mother, the expectations, the whispers that would follow, but instead, you hear yourself say: “Yeah. Let’s go.”
You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the tightness still winding in your chest. Maybe it’s the look on Beomgyu’s face as he walked away. Or maybe it’s something else entirely, the gravity of Heeseung’s presence, the pull of someone who seems just as lost as you. The two of you slip away from the banquet like ghosts through a wall, unseen, unnoticed. The air outside is cool and silver. You trail behind Heeseung toward his car, your heels clicking softly on the pavement, each step peeling away the image of the girl you were expected to be.
You slide into the passenger seat of his dark sedan, a little stunned, a little breathless. He doesn’t say anything. Just starts the engine and pulls away from the curb like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The ride is quiet. Your hands fidget in your lap, your phone buzzes once — probably your mother, and you silence it without even looking. The streetlights blur past like slow-dancing stars, and you feel something rising in you that you don’t yet have the name for. Guilt, maybe. Relief. Fear. Hope. All of them, maybe.
You glance sideways. Heeseung’s face is unreadable, cast in the faint glow of the dashboard. His hand grips the wheel loosely, like he’s driving nowhere in particular. Like wherever he’s going, he just wants to go there with someone. Eventually, he pulls into a dark parking lot. Some vacant strip mall long closed for the night. A single broken streetlamp flickers near the far end, humming like it’s trying to stay alive. Heeseung parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in like a wave. Neither of you speak.
You sit there, breathing it in, the quiet, the dark, the feeling of being no one, nowhere. You hadn’t realized how much you needed it. Then, after a while, he shifts slightly. Reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls something out.
A small, ziplock baggie.
Weed.
He doesn’t look at you. Just holds it in his palm like a casual offering, then tilts his head. “You cool?” You stare at it. You remember a time — clean ballet shoes lined up like soldiers, your life scheduled to the minute, your mother bragging about you at dinner parties. You remember being the good girl. The golden girl. But that girl is gone.
You turn your gaze to the windshield. The night stares back. “Yeah,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m cool.” And in a strange, twisted way, you think you mean it.
He watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable in the dark. The silence hums between you, heavy with something unspoken. Then, almost gently, Heeseung asks, “Have you ever smoked before?” You hesitate, then shake your head no. Never. You never had the chance, too many rehearsals, too many performances, too much pressure to be perfect. But you’d be lying if you said the idea never crossed your mind. If you said you weren’t curious. If you said a small part of you hadn’t longed for the kind of freedom where you could just… let go.
He raises an eyebrow, not in judgment but in quiet surprise. “Huh,” he says simply, like he’s filing the fact away. Then, he holds the baggie up again between two fingers, his gaze flickering to yours. “You wanna?”
Your heart kicks, once. Sharp and startled. But what startles you more is your answer. “Yes.” You don’t even let yourself think. You just say it. And it hangs there, bold and fragile in the air between you. Because you mean it. If it will help you forget, if it will quiet the scream you’ve been holding in your chest since the day the world cracked and Nari was gone, if it will make the ache a little duller, the past a little blurrier, then yes. You’d do it. Heeseung gives a slight nod, not smug, not surprised. Just understanding. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to want to float outside your body for a while.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s make it a soft one.” He moves with practiced ease, fishing out a crumpled rolling paper and pinching the weed between his fingers. You watch, fascinated, the movements almost meditative. There’s something comforting in the way his hands work, steady, sure, deliberate.
The flame from Heeseung’s lighter flickered to life, casting a golden glow across his face before it kissed the tip of the joint. He inhaled slowly, his cheeks hollowing slightly, and the ember at the end burned a hot, bright orange in the dimness of the car. You watched him with something close to awe, or maybe curiosity, or yearning, or all three twisted into one. He looked so at ease, leaning back against the driver's seat, elbow perched casually on the window frame, his gaze fixed ahead like the night outside held all the answers he didn’t want to say aloud. He turned to you after a moment, his expression unreadable as he held out the joint.
You wanted it to help you forget — just for a moment; the aching cavern in your chest where Nari used to be, the guilt gnawing at your insides like acid, the unrelenting pressure of being whoever the hell everyone thought you were supposed to be. Heeseung passed it to you. You stared at the joint for a beat too long, unsure how to hold it, how to breathe it in, like it was an alien thing and you were fumbling through foreign rituals. He noticed. Of course he did. A lazy smirk crept onto his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them slightly.
“Here,” he said. “Don’t baby it. Just put it to your lips and inhale. Deep. But not too deep, or you’ll cough your soul out.” You rolled your eyes at his amusement, but you did as instructed. You placed it between your lips and drew in a breath, tentative, hesitant, but determined. The smoke filled your mouth and then your lungs and then; You sputtered. Violently.
Coughing ripped through you like a storm, your body jerking forward as tears sprang to your eyes. Heeseung cracked up, his laughter echoing in the small space between you. “Holy shit,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I should’ve recorded that. You sounded like you were summoning demons.”
You glared at him, cheeks burning, but then you laughed too. Really laughed. A broken, breathless sound that felt like relief. Like freedom. You passed the joint back and forth after that, the air inside the car growing warmer, thicker with smoke and laughter and something else unspoken. You slouched lower in your seat, legs folded beneath you, and Heeseung mirrored your posture, his thigh brushing against yours now and then. The world outside faded. The banquet. Your mother. The whispers. The ache. None of it mattered.
You talked about everything and nothing. Dumb things. Childhood stories. Songs you hated. The worst school lunches you ever had. Heeseung told you he once got detention for throwing mashed potatoes at a substitute teacher. You confessed you used to fake headaches to get out of gym. You both laughed until your faces hurt, the high sinking its claws into your skin like a warm blanket wrapping around your bones. But somehow …..the conversation shifted.
Heeseung fell quiet. His smile slipped. The light in his eyes dimmed, like a shadow passed across his heart. “My brother used to love this song,” he murmured, nodding toward the faint music trickling out of his car speakers, some old indie ballad, moody and atmospheric. “He’d play it every night before bed. Drove me crazy.” You watched him closely, the haze not dulling your senses but sharpening them in ways that scared you.
“Is he… the reason you’re in the grief group?” you asked, soft, unsure. Heeseung didn’t answer right away. Then, finally: “I’m the reason I’m in that grief group.” His voice cracked, just a little, like something too heavy to carry was trying to escape his throat. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead, into the dark.
And you understood. God, you understood more than you ever wished to. “I know the feeling,” you whispered. That made him look at you. Really look at you. And in that glance, smeared by smoke and shadows and sorrow, you both saw something reflected. A mirror image of broken pieces. A matching ache. Something shifted.
He leaned forward, just slightly, and you met him halfway. The kiss happened so fast you didn’t even think. It was clumsy, desperate, tasting like smoke and everything you’d never said aloud. His hand cupped your cheek, fingers grazing your jaw, pulling you closer like you were the only anchor he had. Your hands found the fabric of his shirt, tugging, gripping, needing to feel something — anything that wasn’t grief. It deepened in seconds. Lips parting, tongues meeting. Heated. Messy.
Heeseung moved with a hunger that mirrored your own, his hands roaming across your back, your waist, your thighs like he needed to memorize every inch. You felt his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, your breath catching as his palm flattened against your bare skin. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to. This, whatever this was, felt like the first thing in months that made sense. That made you feel alive instead of just surviving. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up. The car was hot now, windows fogging, clothes tangling. His mouth left trails down your neck, and your fingers curled in his hair, pulling him closer.
You didn’t think of Nari. You didn’t think of anything but this moment, and the way Heeseung’s lips felt on your skin, the way his body pressed against yours like he needed you to breathe. It was exhilarating, your body alight like a flame catching fire. You didn’t know how to explain the feeling that seeped through your bones and laid a nest in your marrow.
His hand continued its climb on your thigh inching upward for what felt like a mile a minute. You broke away to catch your breath, your forehead resting on his. “I want you.” Heeseung said, his words low in his throat it almost felt buried, like he was trying to conceal himself but his body wouldn't let him.
“Ok.” You nod because that's the only word you could say that would be coherent.
“But not all the way. I want to take my time with you.” His breath shot shivers down your spine, his fingers caressing the skin of your knee. His lips find purchase on the skin of your neck sucking the skin slightly. A gasp falls from your lips, quick and breathy. You were not a virgin, that was the truth but you had never been as needy as you were now. In Lee Heeseung’s car of all people. He was trouble, that much was clear. You had just gotten high with the guy for crying out loud.
You didn’t care. Not anymore, at least. You were tired of caring. So, you let him continue his kisses down your neck, slow and careful, a strong opposition to your rapidly beating heart. A timeless boom let out into the quiet or your entire body and your entire soul. You welcomed it and it came crashing like a tidal wave.
His hand inched up, and under your dress. His hands caressing your clothed core with his finger. Your breath shook a small mewl leaving your lips. Heeseung smirked against your skin, a slow languid smirk that told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were. His thumb ran across your panties slowly like he was testing the waters. Watching your reactions, keening at your pleasure. Lee Heeseung knew what he was doing, that much was clear.
“I’m going to touch you now, Okay?” His voice was questioning but not uncertain. Like he knew you wanted this but just had to make sure. It was more appreciated than you could even say.
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His finger pulled your panties aside, his eyes never leaving your face, not even for a second. This was a movie and you were the star of the show, the leading lady. You deserved a fucking standing ovation after this one, only it wasn’t an act. This was real; very much so. You moaned breathily watching Heeseung with careful eyes. He was beautiful there was no doubt about it. His finger traced your clit, moving in slow circles over the nub. Your body felt electrified.
You reacted with a gasp, your hand reaching to grip Heeseung’s arm “Hee–” You whimpered as he slid a single finger into your entrance, eyes still locked on your face intently. “Feels good.”
“Yeah?” He asked with a smirk. “How good?”
“So good.” You withered under his gaze, your hips lifting to meet his fingers. It was euphoric. A mind numbing feeling you’d been searching for. It didn’t take long for you to tip over the edge. Your orgasm hitting you like a truck. Your moans ringing through the car and filling the space. Heeseung’s gaze turned dark, drinking you in.
“Beautiful.” He muttered “So fucking beautiful.” Then it was over. And not a single part of you regretted it. You had felt alive, ablaze with feeling. You needed this.
“What time is it?” You asked, after a stretch of silence. You watched as the foggy windows cleared your mind becoming less hazy as you came down from not only the high of your orgasm but the high of the weed.
“Just passed one. Need a lift home?” You nod tiredly, barely gaining the strength to lift your head. And before you know it, he was starting the car and taking off. Your perfect night ending as you knew it.
Before.
The house was already thick with tension, the air humid with summer heat and something more suffocating; disappointment, maybe, or something sharper, something older. Heeseung stood in the middle of the living room, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. The walls around him had once felt like home, but now they felt too close, like they were folding in on him. “You can’t just keep coasting like this,” his father barked, pacing across the living room with his arms crossed, brow furrowed like a permanent fixture. “You’re twenty-three, Heeseung. What are you even doing with your life?”
Heeseung leaned against the back of the couch, arms folded, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch in his jaw. “I’m figuring it out.”
“Figuring it out?” his father repeated with a humorless laugh. “You’ve been saying that for two years. Meanwhile, Han’s already lined up for internships, he’s tutoring on weekends, and he’s still pulling top grades. He actually wants something for himself.” And there it was. Han. The golden son. The measuring stick. Heeseung pushed off the couch, tension suddenly uncoiling in his limbs like a spring snapped loose. “Good for him,” he said bitterly. “Why don’t you make him a damn trophy?”
“Don’t talk about your brother like that,” his father snapped.
“I’m not talking about him,” Heeseung shot back. “I’m talking about you. You never look at me without seeing what I’m not.”
His father’s face hardened. “You have all the same opportunities. You just don’t take anything seriously.”
“Because I don’t want to spend my life miserable just to meet your standards.”
“God, listen to yourself,” his father muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You think life’s about doing whatever the hell you want? You think you’re entitled to waste your time and your potential?”
“I’m young,” Heeseung barked. “Isn’t that what being young is for? I have the rest of my life to hate my job and sit in traffic and drink burnt office coffee. Why the hell would I start now?”
“You always have an excuse,” his father said. “Always. You’re lazy, Heeseung. And selfish. I’m just glad Han didn’t turn out like you.” The words sliced through the air like a blade. Heeseung went still. His chest rose and fell, his breath shallow. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The only sound was the hum of the fridge in the next room. Then Heeseung laughed; quiet and humorless.
He grabbed his keys from the counter. “You know what?” he said, voice brittle at the edges. “Thanks, Dad. Really. That was the push I needed.”
“Where are you going?” His father yelled after him.
“Out,” he snapped, walking toward the front door. “To do something useless. Just to spite you.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot. Outside, the sun was still bright, but it felt cold in his chest. A hollowness had opened up inside him, and he didn’t know how to fill it, except to forget. So he texted the group chat, asking what parties were happening tonight. And as he walked down the street, hands in his pockets and jaw still clenched, Heeseung thought only one thing: Han can keep being perfect. I don’t want that life anyway. But part of him knew; even then, that something had cracked open. And that no party in the world would be enough to glue it back together.
Present day
The car ride home was quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into your skin and makes a home there. After the haze and heat of that night with Heeseung, the soft high that blanketed your brain, the weight of his body pressed into yours like something grounding, you hadn’t thought about what came next. You hadn’t prepared for the way your real life would be waiting for you like a predator at the door. Heeseung pulls up slowly in front of your house, the engine humming low. The porch light is on. A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Your stomach knots. You should’ve known better. You should’ve gone home earlier. You should’ve texted.
You shouldn’t have disappeared. Heeseung glances at you. “You good?”
You nod, though you’re not. You open the door and step into the cool night air, the scent of pine and pavement rising with the wind. The moment the door swings open, you’re met with your mother’s worried face, and your father’s fury. “There you are,” your mother breathes, like the air had left her lungs hours ago and only now returned. Her eyes are wide, red-rimmed. Her robe is tied tightly at her waist, hands clenched. “Where have you been? We didn’t know if something had—”
“Where the hell were you?” your father’s voice cuts like a blade. He’s pacing now, his posture rigid, as if he’s been holding himself still for too long and has finally snapped the leash. The living room lamp casts long shadows on the hardwood, your mother’s expression flickering like candlelight. You cross your arms. “Out.”
“Out?” he repeats, incredulous. “You disappeared in the middle of the banquet. You didn’t answer your phone. We were about to call the police.”
“I was with someone.”
“Who?” he demands.
You shouldn’t say it. You know the weight the name carries in this house, the implications, the judgment it would bring. But you’re still high. You’re still reeling. And your anger, your rage, has been stewing beneath your skin for far too long. You tilt your head, smirk venomously. “I was busy having sex. With Lee Heeseung.”
Your mother gasps, small, but sharp. A sound of heartbreak and horror all at once. Your father stills. There’s a quiet moment, too quiet, before he explodes. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your mother?!”
“I don’t care,” you snap.
His face darkens. “You don’t care?”
“No. I don’t. Because none of you care about me. You only care about what I do. How I act. How I reflect on you. You don’t care about how I feel; about what I’ve been going through.”
“We’ve given you space—”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice rising with the heat in your throat. “You’ve given me rules. Expectations. You wanted me to move on quietly. To cry behind closed doors and never, ever make you uncomfortable with the reality of what happened.” Your mother clutches her robe tighter. “We’ve tried—”
“You’ve tried to ignore it!” you cry. “You want to pretend Nari dying didn’t ruin me. You want me to go back to who I was. But I’m not her anymore.” Your father slams his palm against the wall, the sound like thunder. “We’ve given you so much grace this year after Nari’s death but—”
“There is no buts!” your voice cracks. “My life ended the same day Nari’s did.” A silence falls over the room, heavy as snow. Your father’s voice is low, seething. “No, it didn’t. You’re still alive. And you’re treating yourself like some kind of corpse. Wake up.”
“Why should I?” you whisper. “Why should I get to live comfortably, eat dinner, go to banquets, kiss boys in dark cars, when it’s my fault she’s dead?” Your mother lets out a sound like a sob, but you can’t stop now. The words are fire on your tongue, and they’ve been burning there for too long.
“You don’t get it,” you say to your father, your voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like to carry that kind of guilt every single day. To wish it had been you instead. You’re right. I am acting like a corpse; because I should be one.”
That’s when he takes a step forward, his face pale with fury and pain. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“Don’t you ever say that again,” he growls.
But you don’t listen. You’ve already turned. Your feet carry you down the hall like instinct, your fingers fumbling for your phone. You scroll through your contacts with trembling hands, your vision blurred. You tap his name. He picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Heeseung…” you breathe, voice cracking. “Please. Come pick me up.” There’s a pause. Then; his voice, calm and certain. “On my way.”
You hang up before your father can say another word, before your mother can cry any harder, before the weight of their stares suffocates you completely. You step outside into the night, wind rushing against your skin like a balm, your heart still thrumming with rage and regret and pain. The world outside is dark, the moon obscured by clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. You stand there on the sidewalk, arms crossed tightly over your chest, waiting. And when his car turns the corner, headlights cutting through the dark like a lifeline; you breathe again. You don’t know where you’re going. But you know it’s away. And for now, that’s enough.
Before
The theatre smelled of velvet and varnish and a faint current of dust stirred by restless feet; an intoxicating mix that lived in your bones long before you ever set foot in its wings. It was Friday, the day everything was meant to unfold exactly the way you’d mapped it in your sleepless imaginings: the day the scouts filled the back row with clipboards poised, the day your instructors whispered Watch this one, the day your life would pivot on the sharpened point of a single relevé.
But all week your nerves had been a live wire sparking under your skin. You’d flitted through dressing‐room corridors like a ghost, ducking Nari’s bright grin, her lilting voice calling your nickname, the glitter of anticipation in her eyes. Pre‐show jitters, you’d told her, forcing smiles so wide your cheeks trembled. In truth, your heart was a glass ornament rattling in its box, because tucked into it was a secret kiss that did not belong to you; a kiss that belonged to Nari, to her late‐night confessions about Beomgyu, to the dizzy way she clasped your arm and said He’s the one, I feel it. That kiss replayed in your mind on a merciless loop: the blurred parking‐lot lights washing across Beomgyu’s face, the soft rasp of his flannel collar, the unplanned tilt of two mouths colliding in a moment that should never have existed. Every beat of silence afterward felt like a fresh betrayal. You’d tried to bury it beneath pliés and pirouettes, to sweat it out into the marley floor, but guilt is a clever shadow; it clings to the arch of your foot, the curve of your rib cage, rides the breath of every port de bras.
Now, backstage, the hush before the storm pressed in on you. Scuttling crew members tacked stray cables to the floor; the stage manager hissed cues into a headset. Beyond the velvet curtain came the low hum of an expectant crowd; parents adjusting programs, instructors scanning rosters, the occasional rustle as someone leaned to whisper good luck to a performer slipping past. Your fellow dancers flitted in and out of light like dragonflies, tutus trembling, pointe shoes ticking softly on the worn boards. Somewhere out there was Nari, waiting two numbers after you, hair pinned in a sleek crown, eyes surely hunting the auditorium for Beomgyu’s familiar silhouette. And somewhere, closer than you wanted to imagine, was Beomgyu himself, sitting with the audience’s polite hush draped about his shoulders. You had not dared to look for him during warm‐ups; the very idea set your pulse galloping.
An assistant stage manager approached, clipboard clutched, voice gentle yet insistent. “Five minutes, star.” The moniker landed like a shard of glass. Star. The word rang hollow when you felt anything but stellar, when every muscle was soldered to fear. Still, you nodded and stepped into the narrow spill of light at stage left, waiting for the house to black out and the overture to climb. The curtain would rise on silence, a single spotlight blooming down like moonlight. You would step from darkness into glow, offering your first breath to the rafters. You’d practiced that entrance so many times the floor all but remembered your weight. Tonight you would give it everything, because failure, you’d decided, was the only penance big enough to fit this sin. If you danced perfectly, perhaps the universe would not forgive you; so you vowed to dance beyond perfect, to dissolve into movement so wholly that the world could forget it ever saw you kiss the wrong boy.
The house lights dimmed. A hush rippled across the audience like the draw of a single breath. In that hush you caught the faintest sound: a program dropping, a throat clearing, the soft scuff of someone shifting in their seat. And beneath it all, your name inside your chest, repeating like a mantra: remember the choreography. remember the music. remember the reason you began. When the curtain ascended, it felt almost slow like dawn unfolding. The low whirr of the fly‐system chains, the gentle rustle of velvet reaching upward, revealing a stage hushed, waiting. The spotlight found you, and heat flooded your skin. Applause dotted the darkness: a scattering of claps, polite and anticipatory, then fading to a reverent hush.
The first note of the piano slipped from the orchestra pit; soft, deliberate, as if testing the air. You drew a breath so deep it lifted your ribs like wings, and then your body obeyed the command that had been etched into its sinew over months of repetition. You stepped forward, ankle rolling through demi‐pointe to full, the world narrowing to the music, the floor, the fire in your muscles. For a heartbeat, it was perfect. More than perfect: it was transcendence. Each développé carved an invisible ribbon through space; each alignement felt true, as though gravity itself had arced to cradle you. You surrendered to the dance and let it carry you across the stage like wind across water. Every beat of the piano pulled another secret thread tight inside your chest, and yet, incredibly, you didn’t unravel; you soared.
Then your eyes lifted. A reflex. A mistake. Rows of faces climbed into the darkness, features softened by the spill of stage light. Far left, a head of sandy hair, a familiar tilt of a jaw, a pair of wide dark eyes that had once closed under your kiss. Beomgyu.
The breath caught in your throat mid‐pirouette. The world jolted slightly off its axle. In that split second, the clarity you’d fought so hard for shattered like a mirror under stone, and the edges flew at you; every shard a memory: his smile in the glow of the streetlight, the click of his seatbelt as you leaned in, the soft shock of his lips. Behind those shards, the imagined face of Nari when — if — she discovered the truth. Your next placement faltered. The edge of your pointe shoe skidded. You tried to salvage it, shoulders tightening, arms shooting wide but the correction was too sharp, too late. Your ankle buckled, and gravity claimed you in a brutal, inelegant swoop.
You hit the floor hard enough to send a tremor through the wings. A stunned gasp rippled across the crowd; a collective intake of breath that sounded like a verdict. The spotlight kept shining, merciless, on the shape of your failure. For a moment you couldn’t breathe; the air seemed to have left the theatre entirely. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. In that bright, silent agony, one thought screamed louder than the pain: I deserve this.
Your palms slipped on the marley as you scrambled upright, but the choreography was gone, blown out like a candle. All that remained was the monstrous echo of what you’d done, of who you’d betrayed. The music continued, an empty cascade of sound; and you, trembling, stared out at the sea of faces until one face met your gaze: Nari’s. Stage left, waiting for her entrance, eyes wide with horror and a heartbreak you prayed she couldn’t name yet. Something inside you broke fully then. You couldn’t stay. You couldn’t finish. You couldn’t breathe in a world where she might learn the truth. With a ragged sob, you spun on your heel and fled the stage, the curtains swallowing you, the orchestra faltering into confused diminuendo. Behind you, the audience erupted, someone calling your name, others murmuring like distant thunder, parents half‐rising from seats.
Backstage smelled of dust and rosin and your own panic. You tore down the corridor, past startled crew members, tutus swishing as dancers pressed back against scenery flats to let you pass. Someone called after you; an instructor, maybe but their voice drowned in the roar of your pulse. You pushed through the stage door into the alley, the night slapping cold against your fevered skin. The street beyond the theatre was shockingly normal, cars rolling by, a neon sign buzzing across the avenue, the faint peppery smell of a late‐night food truck. But inside you, the world had ended. You bent double, hands on your knees, tears splattering the asphalt. On the other side of the stage wall, the showcase continued; voices, hurried announcements, an onstage piano vamping to fill the space you’d left barren. You pictured scouts scribbling notes: promising, but no mental stamina. poor recovery. not ready.
None of it mattered. You deserved none of it. You deserved exactly this emptiness, this shame coiled tight as wire around your throat. Because what kind of friend kisses the boy her best friend loves? What kind of dancer lets the stage become collateral damage for her guilt? A monster. You pressed your fist to your mouth to stifle a sob. Down the block, an ambulance siren wailed; shrill, insistent and the sound echoed in your bones. You didn’t know it yet, but hours later you’d meet that wail again in a different key, flashing red against wet pavement, broken glass glittering under streetlights, the night Nari would walk away from you for the last time.
For now, there was only the alley and the wreckage of a dream that had shattered under a single glance. You slid down the cool brick wall until you were crouched amid puddles of stage runoff, trembling with adrenaline and remorse. Somewhere inside the theatre, Nari was stepping into her music, dancing her heart out; maybe flawlessly, maybe faltering because of you. You’d never know, because you couldn’t bear to watch.
You buried your face in your hands and stayed there until the music ended, until the applause rose and fell, until the night air numbed the sting of your scraped palms. By the time a teacher found you, voice gentle, jacket draped over your shoulders; you had already decided you were done. With ballet. With pretending. With believing you deserved good things. Because the monster inside you had spoken, and the stage had listened. And you felt certain — absolutely certain that nothing would ever be bright again.
Present day
The streetlights flicker past like ghosts, golden halos warping through the tears blurring your vision. You don’t bother wiping them away. You just hope Heeseung doesn’t notice, but of course he does. Silence may fill the cabin of his car, but it's not a silence that shelters. It’s the kind that listens too closely, hears too much. The air is thick; warmer than it should be for nightfall. The windows are cracked just enough to let in a breeze that carries the scent of damp pavement and something flowering in the dark. Your fingers are clenched in your lap, nails carving half-moons into the soft flesh of your palms.
You feel his glance before you see it. Heeseung shifts slightly in the driver’s seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other drumming an idle rhythm against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything right away, and you cling to that mercy for as long as you can, but then his voice slips into the space between you. “What’s wrong?” he asks, gentle. Like he’s afraid you might break if he presses too hard.
You inhale sharply through your nose and keep your gaze pinned to the window. You watch as the night spills over rooftops and lampposts and blinking store signs, blurry and distant, as if you’re floating somewhere above your life instead of living it. You debate lying. It would be easy. Safer. You could tell him it was just a bad day. School stress. A family squabble about curfews or drinking or some other shallow wound that wouldn’t require stitching. But Heeseung doesn’t feel like someone you can lie to. Not right now. Not after the joint, the kiss, the way he touched you, the quiet understanding that crackled between you like static in the dark. This thing between you, it’s not defined, not shaped into anything real; but it’s honest. And in a world where most people look at you with pity or suspicion or sanitized grief, Heeseung looks at you like he sees past the performance.
So you speak. Quietly. “I got into a fight with my parents.” Heeseung nods, doesn’t push. Just gives you space. You swallow, your throat tight. “It was about Nari.”
There’s a brief pause. You can feel the shape of the question before he asks it, cautious and curious. “Who’s Nari?”
Your eyes close for a beat. The ache swells in your chest again, a slow, suffocating bloom. “My best friend,” you say. And then, sharper, crueler, the words tear their way out of you: “My best friend that I killed.”
Silence. A heavier one now. Weighted. You brace yourself for the flinch, for the retreat, for the cold rush of judgment that always follows. You wait for him to tell you that you’re being dramatic, that it wasn’t your fault, that grief warps memory and blame. But Heeseung doesn’t say anything. And in his silence, there is no retreat. There is no recoil. You glance sideways. His expression hasn’t shifted into pity or horror. If anything, it’s softened. Eyes dark and unreadable, mouth slack with something that might be understanding, or pain. Heeseung just nods. Like he knows exactly what it feels like to carry something unspeakable.
When he pulls into his driveway, you expect him to say something more, to fill the silence with platitudes or distractions. But he doesn’t. He turns off the ignition, tosses his keys onto the dashboard with a quiet clatter, and says, “Come on.” You follow him into the house. The air inside smells faintly like detergent and something warm from earlier; maybe toast or ramen. The lights are low, and the hallway creaks under your steps. There are photos on the wall, but you don’t stop to look at them. It feels like trespassing, being here. Not physically, but emotionally. Like you’ve brought the rot of your guilt into a space that deserves better.
Upstairs, his room is dim and a little messy; sheets rumpled, books stacked sideways on the desk, a hoodie slung across the back of a chair. You hover in the doorway, unsure, until he gestures for you to come in. You sit on the edge of his bed, suddenly small. Your hands knot in your lap. The air is thick again. Not from heat this time, but from the weight of what’s unsaid.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. Heeseung drops to a crouch in front of you, hands braced on his knees. He looks up at you like he wants to memorize your face in this exact moment. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Your eyes sting again. “I do. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I—”
His voice cuts you off. Firm. “You’re not a bad person for needing someone.” You shake your head, blinking hard. “I betrayed her. She was always there for me, and I hurt her. I broke something so sacred. She trusted me.”
Heeseung’s expression shifts. Not in disbelief, but in recognition. He knows this guilt. Wears it like a second skin. “I get it,” he says, softly. “I killed my brother.”
He doesn’t look away. “Not literally. But I might as well have. I— I did something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now he’s dead. And it’s because of me.”
Your voice is tentative. “That can’t be true.”
“It is,” he insists. His voice trembles just once, then steadies. “I might as well have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.” You stare at him, stunned. Not because of the words, but because of how familiar they sound. Like an echo of your own worst thoughts.
“I told her,” you say quietly, “that she didn’t deserve him. I told her he didn’t love her. I lied. I said it to hurt her.” You’re not even sure when the tears start again. They fall quietly, steadily, like summer rain.
“I kissed him. Her boyfriend. She found out. I never got to explain. I never got to say sorry.” Heeseung says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He just kneels there in front of you, steady as a lighthouse, his eyes locked on yours.
You can barely breathe. “It should’ve been me. Not her. I was the one who ruined everything. I should be the one—”
“Stop,” he says, gently but firmly. Your voice cracks. “Why does the world keep spinning when she’s not in it? Why do I get to wake up every day when she’s in the ground?”
Heeseung places a hand on your knee. Not romantically. Not out of pity. Just to anchor you. To remind you that you're still here, breathing, even if you don’t know why. “Tell me what happened,” he says. “That night.”
You don’t answer right away. You stare past him, past the walls, past the ache. Your throat works around the lump rising in it. That night. The one you’ve rewound and replayed a thousand times. The night everything shattered. You open your mouth. And the scene begins to unwind behind your eyes. But that’s for the next breath. The next storm. For now, you sit in Heeseung’s room, in the quiet aftermath of too much truth. And for the first time in what feels like forever, someone sees you in all your ruin; and doesn’t look away.
It was the night after the showcase, and you felt like a ghost in your own skin. The stage lights had faded, but their burn still etched itself behind your eyes, mocking you. You hadn’t even made it through the routine. You’d crumbled; right there, in front of everyone who ever believed in you. Your body, trained and honed like a blade for years, had given out at the mere sight of him. Beomgyu. His eyes in the crowd. His mouth, the one you’d kissed in secret. Nari’s boyfriend. Her everything. And you’d shattered. Now, your phone was a storm. Ping after ping, call after call. All from her.
Nari.
Her contact photo was a blurry selfie from last summer — her smile sun-kissed and wide, your arm looped around her neck. You looked so happy. So unworthy. She was worried. Of course she was. You were supposed to be avoiding her for pre-show jitters, remember? But now the show was over and the lies had nowhere to hide. The texts were a blur. hey.
please say something. i’m worried about you. i’m not mad. just talk to me. i love you. you know that right? That last one made you feel like you were going to throw up. You dropped the phone onto your bed like it was on fire. You paced. You screamed into your pillow. You considered telling her everything. The kiss. The guilt. The way your bones ached with shame every time her name crossed your lips. But you didn’t. Because what kind of monster kisses her best friend’s boyfriend and lets her say I love you like nothing happened? You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to punish yourself. And then she called.
The ringtone split the silence like a siren. You let it ring. Let it go to voicemail. It rang again. And again. On the fourth try, you picked up, breathless like you’d run a mile. “Hello?” Her voice came through, thin and frantic: “Oh my God; are you okay? Why haven’t you been answering? I’ve been freaking out—”
“I’m fine,” you lied. “Just… tired.”
“Tired? You disappeared after the showcase, you didn’t even stay for the closing photos. Everyone was asking about you. Your parents looked — I don’t know, really worried or something. What happened up there?” You couldn’t answer. Your throat locked up. The sound of her worry made you want to claw your skin off. Nari didn’t push. That was her gift and her curse. She gave you space when you needed it; even when you were lying to her face.
“I think you should come to Beomgyu’s,” she said after a long silence. “I know, it’s dumb. I know you don’t like these things. But maybe it’ll help. Just… I don’t know. I want to see you.”
The line crackled. Her voice wavered. “Please.” It was that word — please that broke you. Even after everything, even not knowing what you’d done, she still wanted you there. Still loved you. You whispered, “Okay.” And hung up before you could change your mind.
The second you stepped through the front door, the night swallowed you whole. Music pounded like a heartbeat, loud and consuming, the bass thudding through the soles of your shoes and up your spine until your body seemed to vibrate from the inside out. The house was an explosion of color and chaos; flashing LED lights staining the air red and green, the smell of alcohol and weed thick enough to choke on. Someone shrieked with laughter from the kitchen, their voice edged in hysteria. The living room looked like a scene from a dream gone wrong: bodies pressed together in the dim light, dancing on tables, spilled drinks soaking into the carpet, lipstick-smeared kisses exchanged without meaning. You were an intruder here, a ghost drifting through a world too loud, too fast, too alive for what was rotting inside of you. Your heart beat too loudly, but only with dread. You were here for one reason — Nari.
Your eyes scanned the crowd in desperation. Faces blurred together, a kaleidoscope of strangers and half-friends you didn’t care to recognize. Every movement felt slow, as if your limbs were dragging through molasses. You called out for her once, twice, but no one heard you over the noise. Your throat burned. Every second that passed stretched thinner than the last, stretched like the lie you’d built between yourself and the girl who’d once been your anchor. You grabbed a boy near the stereo, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes glazed over with party-born indifference. “Have you seen Nari?” you shouted over the music.
“What?” he bellowed, tipping his head.
“NARI!” you yelled again, your voice hoarse.
He squinted, lips pulling into a sloppy grin. “Beomgyu’s room!” He jabbed his finger upward, then turned back to whatever game he was playing with the girl beside him. The words hit like a brick to the stomach. Your legs moved on their own, carrying you toward the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The music dimmed slightly as you ascended, replaced by the echo of your own breathing; shallow, frantic, uneven. The hallway was lit by a single flickering bulb, shadows creeping along the walls like phantoms. You hesitated at the door, the weight of what might be behind it pressing against your chest. You knocked.
No answer.
You tried again. Still nothing.
You opened the door.
The room was dim, just the low glow of a lamp in the corner casting a soft golden haze. Beomgyu was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, head bowed, fingers knotted in his hair like he was trying to rip thoughts straight from his skull. He looked up at the sound of the door creaking, his eyes dark and distant, the slump of his shoulders too familiar. You stepped inside, heart hammering. “Where’s Nari?”
He blinked like he’d just remembered you existed. “She’s in the bathroom,” he said, voice low. You nodded, relief flooding your system. You turned to leave, to find her, to finally talk, to explain.
But his hand caught yours. You froze. “Wait,” he murmured, standing. Your heart leapt into your throat. You turned toward him slowly, your fingers still curled beneath the weight of his.
“What are you doing?” your voice trembled.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said.
The room tilted, the words crashing into you like a rogue wave. You pulled your hand back, stumbling a step away. “What?”
“I—” He reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentleness of the touch striking terror into the hollow space beneath your ribs. “I think I’m in love with you. And I’m not sorry about it.”
Your breath left your body. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick and cloying. Your thoughts scattered like dust in sunlight. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember what day it was or who you were or why any of this had happened. Then he leaned in. And god help you, you didn’t stop him.
The kiss was soft, slow, nothing like what you should have felt. No heat. No passion. Just desperation. A collision of two broken people reaching for something to numb the ache. His lips pressed to yours like a promise he had no right to make, and your body moved on autopilot, not because it meant anything; but because you couldn’t stop unraveling. Because the guilt already inside you wanted to finish the job. And then the door opened.
“Sorry, Gyu, the line was lo—” Nari’s voice sliced the moment in half. You and Beomgyu broke apart instantly. Her figure stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the hallway, her face frozen in pure, heart-wrenching horror. Her lips parted. Her eyes wide and glassy. A silence so violent followed that it rang in your ears.
“Nari—” you began, stepping forward.
“What are you doing?” she asked, voice cracking. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I…”
Beomgyu stepped in front of you, shielded you. “I love her.” The words detonated. You saw them hit her like bullets, tearing through her chest, her stomach, her soul. Her mouth opened in disbelief. Her hand flew to her face, eyes flooding. A tear slid down her cheek, and then another.
“You love her?” she repeated, the disbelief in her voice shattering into something sharper. She turned to you, her face contorted. “How could you?”
You shook your head. “I don’t— I don’t love him—”
“Then what the hell was that?” she screamed.
Your words failed. Every explanation tasted like ash in your mouth. Nari shook her head in disgust, chest heaving, shoulders trembling. “I felt bad for you,” she hissed. “I was here crying for you after you fell at the showcase. I was the only one defending you, worrying about you — and you were falling in love with my boyfriend?”
“I wasn’t—I’m not—” You took a step forward, pleading. “Nari, please—”
“Save it,” she snapped, her voice tight with betrayal. Then she turned and ran. You chased her, heart in your throat, vision blurring with tears. The house blurred around you, voices rising in alarm as people stepped back, made room for the spectacle.
“Nari!” you cried out, louder. “Nari, wait!” You hit the yard just as she reached the edge of the driveway. You grabbed her hand, stopping her.
She spun to face you, eyes wild. “How could you?”
Her voice cracked in two. Your breath hitched. “I made a mistake,” you whispered, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking—I—”
“I loved him,” she spat. “And you knew that. You knew what he meant to me. And you let him touch you anyway.”
You shook your head, helpless. “I was hurting, I wasn’t—I’m sorry—”
But it didn’t matter. She stepped back from you, tears shining in her eyes, her voice growing louder, shriller. “How could you betray me like that?” she screamed. “I gave you everything—I trusted you!”
The crowd that had spilled from the party stood in silence now, some filming, some whispering, none stepping in. She kept backing away, one trembling step at a time, her anger unraveling into sobs. “I hate you,” she choked. “I hate you—” Then headlights cut across the street. A roar of an engine. Screams. Tires screeching too late.
Your scream ripped from your chest. “NARI!” But the car struck her before she could turn. The impact was sickening. Her body flew; crashed to the pavement like a marionette with its strings sliced clean. Gasps exploded around you, someone dropping a drink, the shatter echoing like gunfire. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. You stood frozen as her body crumpled on the road, limbs twisted, her eyes wide and unseeing.
Time stopped.
The music had gone silent. The world had gone quiet. And all you could hear — over and over and over again, was the sound of her body hitting the ground.
Before Heeseung’s pov
The world had already begun to blur around the edges. Music throbbed through his skull like a migraine, and every heartbeat pulsed with fury. Heeseung swayed in the middle of the chaos, a red solo cup dangling from his fingers, filled with something that tasted like gasoline and bad decisions. Sweat slicked his back beneath his shirt, his skin clammy and hot. He laughed too loud at nothing, danced with girls he didn’t know; arms flung over their shoulders, mouths close enough to kiss but never quite touching, never quite feeling. He couldn’t feel anything. That was the point.
He hated this place. Hated the way people looked at him like he was just some pretty face with skates on. Hated the smirk that his father wore every time he talked about Han; the good son, the real winner. The one who did everything right. The one who didn’t mess up. The one who didn’t get drunk and high just to silence the noise of expectation. He stumbled into the backyard, stars smeared across the sky like someone had finger-painted them in haste. His phone burned in his hand, screen too bright, too white. His fingers fumbled over Han’s name. He pressed call.
“Hello?” Han’s voice was soft, groggy, that worried older brother tone he always used. “Hee? Are you okay?”
Heeseung let out a bitter laugh, the sound catching in his throat. “You’re not better than me.”
There was a pause. “What? Heeseung, what’s going on?”
“You think you’re so perfect.” Heeseung’s words slurred together like wet paint. “Dad thinks you’re the golden boy. But you’re not better. I’ll show you. I’ll show him. You’re not better—”
“Heeseung, you’re drunk. I’m coming to get you. Stay there, okay? Just wait.” Heeseung hung up. Or maybe he didn’t. He couldn’t tell. Everything was spinning. He staggered forward, gripping the porch railing like it could keep him tethered. He felt like throwing up. Or screaming. Or both. The inside of his head was all static. And then headlights sliced through the darkness. Han’s car. Heeseung stumbled down the steps, nearly eating it on the last one, and staggered toward the passenger side. Han threw the door open, face pale and tight with worry.
“Get in,” he ordered. Heeseung obeyed, limbs heavy and unwilling. He slumped into the seat, slurring more than he was speaking. “You think you’re better than me, huh?” he muttered, leaning against the window, his cheek pressed to the cold glass. “Just 'cause you got your degree and your dumb finance job and your clean record.”
“I don’t think that,” Han said sharply. “And Dad doesn’t either, he’s just… Heeseung, he’s hard on both of us. You know that.”
“Bullshit,” Heeseung growled, eyes closing. “You never had to be perfect to be loved. He just loved you.”
Han’s grip tightened on the wheel. “That’s not true. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re drunk.”
Heeseung kept going, words bubbling out like poison. “You think I don’t see it? The way he brags about you. Han graduated summa cum laude. Han never got suspended. Han’s never in the papers for fighting or failing.” He laughed. “I hope you’re proud. Look at me now, huh? Look how far I fell.” Han opened his mouth to answer, but he didn’t get the chance. Because just ahead, in the fog of motion and the flash of headlights —
There was a girl.
A blur of limbs and hair and horror, stepping backward into the road. Han shouted. The brakes screamed. But the moment came too fast. The sound, oh god, the sound, of impact was the kind that split your soul in two. Metal and flesh, a sickening crunch, a thud that would echo in nightmares for the rest of time. Heeseung’s body flung forward with the jolt, the seatbelt carving into his chest. Time bent sideways. Han swerved. The world spun. A flash of a tree trunk—then blackness. When he came to, everything hurt.
The car was mangled metal wrapped around bark. Smoke coiled from the hood. Blood ran down Heeseung’s face, sticky and warm, his head lolling forward. His ears rang like a bomb had gone off. He blinked once, twice. Tried to move; glass in his leg. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. “Han?” he croaked. There was no answer. He turned his head and screamed.
Han’s body was slumped over the wheel, motionless. Blood pooled under him, his face obscured. Something primal split through Heeseung’s chest; panic, dread, disbelief. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Han!” He shoved at him with trembling hands. “Come on, wake up—wake up—” Sirens in the distance. Voices shouting. People running.
Heeseung’s breath caught. A sob clawed its way from his throat. It was all his fault. It was too late. And Heeseung had never hated himself more.
Present day
The silence stretches between you like a drawn-out breath, trembling and thin. Heeseung sits beside you on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite back the storm surging in his chest. You can still hear the echo of the past in his voice, the shattered edges of guilt rattling in his throat. The room is quiet but not peaceful; it's the kind of quiet that comes after an earthquake, when everything has fallen and the air still trembles with memory. You sit there, skin cold, heart unraveling, both of you held in the soft aftershock of everything you’ve said. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
His voice cracks like dry wood. And it catches you off guard, more than anything else could have. Of all the things you expected him to say, an apology wasn't one of them. Not to you. Not when the pain has stained both your lives in different, irreparable ways. You look over at him, eyes red but dry now, exhaustion threading through your bones like a second skeleton. “Why?” you ask him, barely above a whisper. “Why are you apologizing?”
He turns toward you slowly. The lamplight casts his features in shadow, sharp and soft at once; eyes that have seen too much, mouth that’s tasted too much regret. “Because,” he says, voice thick, “this all started with me. I was the one who called Han. I was the one who needed to prove something. I got drunk, I spiraled, I needed to be seen, and now he’s gone. And so is Nari.”
Your heart pulls painfully in your chest, but your voice is steady when you speak. “No. This isn’t your fault.” He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it, like your words are a kindness he doesn’t think he deserves. “I don’t blame you, Heeseung,” you continue, softer now. “Not one bit. We’re all carrying so much. And grief... grief makes monsters out of moments. It twists things until we forget where they really began.”
His eyes shine then; wet and wide. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead he leans in. Slowly, hesitantly, as though giving you a chance to stop him. You don’t. You meet him halfway. His lips brush yours with the gentleness of someone who knows how much you’ve lost, how much you’ve suffered. The kiss is slow, tender, and reverent. Like a vow whispered against a storm. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek, grounding you in the warmth of something fragile and real. When he pulls back, you both stay close. Foreheads touching. Eyes closed. For a moment, you just breathe. Then, he speaks. “Take a bath with me?”
The words are so simple, yet intimate in a way that leaves you breathless. Not lustful; this isn’t about escape or distraction. It’s about presence. About being in a space where nothing else exists. You nod, and he stands, offering you his hand. The bathroom is dim, lit only by the soft orange glow of a nightlight and a flickering candle someone must’ve left on the windowsill. The tub fills slowly, steam curling toward the ceiling like the last sigh of a day. You both undress silently, not shy, not rushed. You slip into the warm water, and he follows after, settling in behind you. His legs bracket yours. His arms wrap around your middle. The water laps at your collarbones like a gentle lullaby.
You tilt your head back to rest against his shoulder. He exhales into your hair. “I’ve been angry,” he says finally. “So angry. About everything. About my dad. About Han. About the fact that I’m still here when they’re not. That I keep waking up and they don’t.”
You nod slowly, fingers tracing patterns in the surface of the water. “I feel that too,” you say. “Like life just… kicked me. Over and over. Until I couldn’t stand anymore. Until I didn’t know if I wanted to. I keep wondering if this is the part where I break forever.” Heeseung’s grip around you tightens, just slightly. “You won’t.”
“I don’t know how to start over,” you admit. “Everything hurts all the time. Even the good things hurt.”
He kisses your temple. Not as a promise. Not as a cure. Just as a quiet I know. And maybe that’s enough. Because you’re not pretending it’s all better. You’re not trying to erase the pain. You’re sitting in it together. Letting it be real. Letting it matter. And in that space; where the warmth of the water holds you both like a womb, like a prayer, you begin to believe that maybe you can heal. That maybe ruin doesn’t mean the end. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.
You don’t know where life will take you from here. You don’t know what redemption will look like, or if you’ll ever forgive yourself for what happened. But right now, wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, you believe in the small, aching miracle of this moment. Of choosing to stay. Of choosing to feel. Of choosing each other. You were ready to fall into the ruin. But not let it ruin you.
Epilogue 1 year later
The sky was soft that day, bruised with a gentle gray, the kind that made the world feel quiet; like the earth itself was holding its breath. You sat cross-legged on the dewy grass, fingers tracing the edges of Nari’s name etched into cold stone. A year had passed. A year of aching, unraveling, rebuilding. And now here you were, knees pressed into the earth, a heartbeat steadier than it used to be.
"You would love Heeseung, Nari, you really would.” Your voice came out tender, barely above a whisper. “He makes me laugh. He never lets me lie to myself. He doesn’t try to fix me, just holds me when it hurts too much.” You reached down and brushed away a few stray leaves that had gathered at the base of the headstone. “I wish you could’ve seen me now. I wish I could’ve said goodbye the right way.”
There were still tears sometimes. And nightmares. And those mornings where the weight of memory made it hard to breathe. But there was also sunlight. And laughter. And Heeseung’s steady presence like a compass in your shaking hands. Therapy had taught you to hold space for both joy and sorrow. Grief group gave you words for the things you once buried. But it was Heeseung who reminded you, every day, that you were allowed to keep living; that you didn’t have to stay in the ruins to prove your love for the ones you lost.
“Babe! I got the flowers!” a voice called out behind you, pulling you gently from the past. You turned to see Heeseung jogging toward you, a bouquet of soft blue hydrangeas cradled in his arms, cheeks pink from the wind. He still carried that quiet sadness in his eyes, the one only you really saw, but it was softer now; tempered by time and the work he’d done to understand it. He bent down beside you and laid the flowers in front of Nari’s grave, brushing your knee with his hand as he settled beside you.
“Did you talk to Han?” you asked, voice gentle.
He nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was good. I needed that.”
You turned back toward the grave, reaching for his hand. “I did too.”
The two of you sat there for a long moment, silence curling comfortably between your bodies. The cemetery was quiet, wind rustling through the trees, birds flitting through the distant branches. Around you, the world kept moving; cars humming down the road, life unfolding in soft, ordinary ways. But here, in this pocket of stillness, you felt grounded. Rooted. Whole.
Grief never left, it wasn’t something that vanished with time or faded into nothing. It changed shapes. Grew quieter. Some days, it bloomed like a bruise. Other days, it shimmered like memory. But always, it walked beside you, not as a shadow, but as a reminder. Of love. Of loss. Of the choice to keep going. You looked down at the stone again, your thumb tracing the curve of her name.
“I’ll keep living for both of us, Nari,” you whispered. “I promise.” And this time, when you stood, you didn’t feel like you were leaving her behind. You felt like she was walking with you.
Warnings: Dark Themes, Obsession, Psychological Manipulation, Isolation, Stalking, Artistic Objectification, Voyeuristic Undertones, Implied Murder, Body Horror, Body Worship, Suggestive Content, Drug Use, Slight Manhandling, Possessiveness, Power Imbalance, Noncon turned Dubcon, Humiliation & Degradation, Choking, Chasing, Emotional Coercion? Dead Dove: Do Not Eat!!
Synopsis: Getting accepted as the assistant to Ni-ki, the world’s most brilliant and reclusive artist, was the opportunity of a lifetime. But Ni-ki isn’t what you imagined. Cold. Attentive. The longer you stay, the more the outside world seems to disappear. Then you find the secret behind his hauntingly lifelike sculptures. The truth about his upcoming masterpiece. And now he’s not going to let his muse go. Not when you were always meant to be his.
Wordcount: 16,2k
a/n: Read at your own discretion!! (Requested by @arclviie & following the legacy of @faeyun brilliant sunghoons fic <3) Reblogs and comments are highly valued!
now playing: teeth by 5 seconds of summer | control by halsey | flesh by simon curtis
Since you were a child, you had always been drawn to the world of art, anything poetic, beautiful, or hauntingly expressive felt like home. You didn’t just enjoy it, you lived for it. Art wasn’t just a hobby, it was the path you chose, the identity you built. You dreamed of making a name for yourself, of having your work admired, remembered. But reality came fast — the art world was ruthless. Without the right connections, talent alone wasn't enough. So when you graduated from art school, hungry and hopeful, you didn’t hesitate to send your resume to every renowned artist you could find, desperate for a foot in the door.
With your flawless grades and growing portfolio, you received a handful of positive responses from established artists — some even eager to have you on board. It felt validating, thrilling even. But none of them quite compared to the letter that changed everything.
You hadn’t expected anything from Nishimura Riki.
You’d sent your resume to him half as a joke. He was a legend. A sculptor so brilliant and enigmatic that even critics tread carefully when speaking his name. Wealthy. Respected. A little feared. His works stirred controversy and awe in equal measure, and yet… he was a ghost to the public. Reclusive. Unreachable. He lived in seclusion behind the high iron gates of his estate, rarely seen, never interviewed.
So when his personal letter arrived — sealed, formal, and stamped with an elegant wax insignia, your were shocked.
An acceptance.
No interview. No phone call. Just a single line written in clean, precise ink: “You’ll begin at once. Instructions follow.”
You didn’t hesitate. The other offers were discarded without a second glance. This was Ni-ki. And if this was the door, you were already stepping through it.
It all happened fast after that. A black car arrived the next morning, exactly at 10:00 a.m., just like the instructions had said. The driver did not speak to you, no music was turned on. Just silence.
You watched quietly as the cities and endless stretches of forest and fog blurred past. The road wound like a ribbon of silence, until eventually, through the trees, you spotted it, wrought-iron gates taller than any you'd seen before, guarding the entrance to a grand, grey manor that looked more like a mausoleum than a home.
When the gates opened for you, it felt like a one-way passage. Like once you were in, you weren’t meant to leave.
Ni-ki didn’t greet you at the door. Instead, one of his staff, quiet, pale, and tight-lipped led you inside with a nod. The halls were filled with sculptures. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All unnervingly lifelike. So much so that you could have sworn some of them were breathing.
You didn’t see him until hours later.
He appeared like a shadow, tall, graceful, wearing black like it was stitched to his skin. His gaze landed on you like a blade. He said nothing at first. Just studied you, like he was deciding whether to speak or sculpt.
“You’re the new assistant,” he said at last, voice smooth and cold as polished stone. Not a question. A confirmation. You nodded hesitantly.
He stepped closer — not rushed, but with a kind of slow purpose, like every movement was deliberate, choreographed.
“I don’t repeat myself,” he said. “You’ll listen. You’ll obey. You’ll keep quiet when told. Do that, and you’ll be useful to me.” Then, a pause. His eyes flicked down, then back up. “You’ll also stay on the east wing. Never the west. Understood?”
You tried to ask what was in the west wing, your curiosity nearly slipping out but his gaze cut the thought short.
“Questions waste time,” he said flatly. “And I don’t waste time.” With that, he turned and walked away, coat sweeping the floor like a shadow with its own life. You were left in the grand hallway, silent marble figures watching you from every corner. Their expressions were delicate. Too human. Too knowing.
You kept walkling around the manor, unsure if you were exploring or being quietly swallowed whole. The corridors twisted like they had no end, each lined with door after door, leading to God knows where. Some were locked, others slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of dim rooms with furniture or canvases.
There were sculptures tucked into every corner — some posed like they’d just turned their heads to look at you, others mid-motion, hands reaching for something unseen. Their details were so precise it felt like if you blinked, they’d move.
The walls were painted in deep tones of charcoal and wine, and though everything was pristine, (not a single speck of dust, not even a cobweb) the air felt heavy, like it had been holding its breath for years.
You passed paintings, too. Some abstract, a few were portraits, faces you didn’t recognize, but something about their eyes made you pause. A few looked young.
You hadn’t seen anyone since Ni-ki disappeared down the hall. Not since the silent staff member greeted you. Not another soul.
So when you inevitably got lost — which you knew had to happen in a place like this — there was no one to ask. The silence was total. Swallowing. The only sound was your footsteps, echoing too loudly on the polished floors.
You started opening doors — only the ones that weren’t locked. Room after room, each stranger than the last. Some were filled with blank canvases stacked against the walls, others with shelves of anatomy books and jars of charcoal, brushes, broken tools. One room had mirrors on every wall, all covered in sheer cloth. Another had a single chair in the center, surrounded by sketches scattered across the floor. But the more you looked at them, the more familiar they seemed.
You weren’t sure why it unsettled you so deeply.
But none of the doors led to the bedroom the staff had told you would be yours during your stay. And the longer you wandered, the more the corridors began to blur together, same wallpaper, same carved sconces, same hollow-eyed sculptures watching your every step.
Your skin began to prickle. As if the house was... aware of you. Rearranging itself. Making it harder to leave.
You tried to retrace your steps, but nothing looked the same anymore. The light felt dimmer. Your heartbeat a little too loud. You weren’t panicking — not yet — but something in your chest tightened with every wrong turn.
Then, at the end of yet another unfamiliar corridor you finally saw movement, the first sign of life since you’d arrived.
A figure stood quietly in the corner, dusting one of the many sculptures that lined the halls. They moved slowly, carefully, like touching something sacred. It was a woman — older, dressed in simple black, hair pulled into a tight braid.
Relief crashed over you, sharp and sudden. You rushed toward her, careful not to startle.
“Excuse me— I… I think I’m lost,” you said, voice slightly breathless.
She looked up, and the moment her eyes met yours, something about her expression made you falter. Not unkind. But cautious. Almost… apologetic.
“The house is easy to lose yourself in,” she said softly, barely above a whisper. Her voice was accented, gentle. “It does that. Especially to new ones.”
You weren’t sure what she meant by that, but before you could ask, she was already turning. “This way.” she said, beckoning silently with a nod of her head.
You followed, almost too quickly, desperate for the safety of something familiar. As you walked behind her, you glanced at the sculpture she had been dusting — a young man, mouth parted, eyes mournful. So lifelike. Too lifelike.
You followed the woman in silence, her footsteps nearly soundless against the long stretch of polished floors. The manor didn’t seem as cold with her leading the way, but the halls were still too quiet, too still.
After a few winding staircases and corridors that all looked exactly the same, she finally stopped at a tall wooden door with a brass handle.
“This is yours,” she said simply, then turned without another word, vanishing down the hallway before you could even thank her.
You stood there for a second, hesitant, almost unsure if you were dreaming. But then you opened the door, and the tightness in your chest eased.
Your suitcases were there, untouched, exactly where you'd left them that morning. The room was modest compared to the rest of the manor, but warm in its own way. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and shut the door behind you, locking it out of instinct.
The next hour passed in quiet relief. You unpacked slowly, taking your time while folding clothes into drawers, placing your sketchbooks on the desk. You even lit one of the little candles set beside the window, its flame dancing gently in the fading light.
And yet something lingered.
A faint feeling, like you were being watched, even though the door was locked and the curtains drawn. You chalked it up to exhaustion, nerves, and the strangeness of the day.
If only you’d looked a little closer. If only you’d paid attention to the massive painting hanging directly across from your bed.
At first glance, it was beautiful — dark and tragic. A man, draped in shadow, cradling a limp woman in his arms. Her head rested against his chest, her hair flowing like ink down his lap. It seemed romantic in a haunting sort of way, perfectly fitting for the manor's unsettling charm.
You didn’t question it. Just another piece of Ni-ki’s moody, masterful collection. But what you didn’t see was the truth just beneath the paint.
That the eye of the man in the portrait — the one shaded just enough to seem still — shifted. Only slightly. Just enough to blink.
If you had stood close enough, long enough, you might have noticed the faintest shimmer of reflection in that one painted eye. The way it followed you. Watched as you unpacked, as you wandered around the room barefoot, brushing your hair back from your face.
And behind that canvas, carefully cut into the plaster wall, was a small peephole. Perfectly placed. Perfectly hidden.
A narrow tunnel carved between the walls, just wide enough for someone to stand and watch. It smelled of dust and old wood, the scent of age clinging to the dark. Faint footsteps echoed now and then through its length, soft as breath, careful as hands tracing silk.
Still as a statue. Patient as death.
Ni-ki watched as you moved through the room unaware, touching things that now belonged to him simply because they had touched you. Your hands brushing over the fabric of the bedspread. Your body curling beneath the sheets. The way you chewed your lip when reading the instructions left on the desk.
You weren’t his assistant yet. Not really. You were still a visitor in the manor, naive and bright-eyed, thinking you’d been chosen for your resume.
But that wasn’t why he picked you.
He watched you brush your hair in the mirror, the way your fingers lingered at your throat when you were thinking. Watched as you changed clothes, unaware of how closely your silhouette was being memorized.
You hadn’t seen his private studio yet.
The one below the manor, hidden below locked floorboards and layers of lies. No one was allowed down there.
In fact, no one even knew it existed. Not the house staff, not the few art world elites who dared visit him in person. The studio upstairs — the one filled with scattered tools, a few unfinished sculptures, and just enough mess to look lived-in was a performance. A decoy.
His real studio was underground. A room kept cold on purpose, to preserve the materials. To keep things from decaying.
That was where his truest work began. Where obsession took form and marble met madness. And there, on a long wooden table stained with clay, laid the first sketches of his next masterpiece.
He had to perfect it. Perfect the lines. The shadows. The smallest, most delicate curves.
Eventually, you were called to dinner.
A quiet knock at your door startled you, and a soft-spoken staff member bowed politely before leading you down another winding corridor. The manor was endless, a maze of oil paintings, velvet-draped windows, and antique sconces that bathed everything in amber light.
When the grand dining room doors opened, the scent of roasted meats, herbs, and freshly baked bread washed over you like warmth after a long chill. The table was long. Ornate. Meant to seat a dozen, at least but only two places were set. One at each end. A strange, dramatic symmetry.
Ni-ki was already seated at the far end, his eyes lifted the moment you stepped inside, sharp and unreadable but they softened, just slightly, as they landed on you.
Then, to your surprise, he stood. A small, almost ritualistic gesture quiet respect, or something older. It made your breath catch.
You approached, hesitant and took your seat. The chair beneath you was velvet-lined, too comfortable. Your place setting was made of real silver.
“You finding everything satisfactory?” he asked, voice smooth like poured ink.
You nodded, unsure what to say. Unsure why your chest felt tight despite the warmth, the food, the civility of it all.
He sat again with a subtle motion, fingers folding neatly over the linen napkin beside his plate. His posture was perfect. Not rigid but sculpted, like the rest of him.
Then he smiled, faintly. “I trust you will sleep well.”
You forced a polite smile, reaching for the water. “As well as I could in a place like this.”
His head tilted, just slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”
After dinner, you excused yourself politely, offering Ni-ki a small nod of thanks before the same quiet staff member appeared at your side once more. Without a word, they led you back through the hushed corridors, your footsteps softened by thick rugs and velvet drapes that whispered as you passed.
When you reached your room. The staff bowed once, murmured a quiet, “Good night,” and disappeared down the hall like smoke.
You closed the door behind you and locked it with a soft click, not out of fear, you told yourself, just habit. The manor was old, unfamiliar. It made sense to take precautions.
The room looked the same as earlier. Lavishly furnished. Cold in a way no fire could chase away. That massive painting still hung on the wall across from your bed, its shadowy figures half-swallowed by the dim lighting. You didn’t look at it for long.
Changing into your pyjamas, you crawled under the heavy silk sheets. The bed was enormous, too soft, like sleeping in the center of a storm cloud. You pulled the covers up to your chin, letting your tired body sink into the warmth.
The silence pressed in, thick and absolute. But you were too exhausted to care.
Your thoughts faded — blurry shapes of dinner, of Ni-ki’s eyes, of the way his gaze lingered for a second too long on your mouth when you smiled. You didn’t see the shadow behind the wall shift. Didn’t hear the faintest creak of a floorboard. Didn’t notice the softest exhale from behind the door.
You only slept. Peaceful. Dreaming. Unaware. Breathing slow. Deep. Lost in sleep.
You didn’t hear the faint sound of the lock turning—not picked, but unlocked with a key that was never meant to be duplicated.
Didn’t stir when the door creaked open, just wide enough for a figure to slip in and disappear into the shadows of your room.
He moved like a ghost. Silent. Barefoot. Dressed in black that clung to him like a second skin. Ni-ki stood at the edge of the bed, watching you.
His eyes swept over you slowly, drinking in every detail — the way your lips parted with your breath, the delicate curve of your waist under the silk sheets, the way your hair had fanned out across the pillow like something from a painting.
He knelt beside the bed. Close. Too close. And with a touch so light it barely existed, his fingers hovered above your skin. A ghost of a trace. Along your arm. The curve of your shoulder. The edge of your jaw.
Memorizing. Mapping.
No sketch, no photo, no stolen glance could compare to this, to being right here, with you soft and vulnerable and his.
You shifted slightly, and he froze, breath caught.
But you didn’t wake.
He exhaled, slow and quiet.
He stood silently, casting one last look over you, eyes burning with something far too deep to name.
Then he turned, soundless as shadow, and vanished back into the darkness, the door clicking shut behind him.
You didn’t officially start as Ni-ki’s assistant until a whole week later.
Your tasks were simple — almost mundane for someone who had just landed a position under the most elusive artist in the world. You spent your mornings organizing scattered charcoal pencils and sketchbooks in his office, which somehow always felt untouched despite being full of things. You dusted the surfaces, replaced dulled blades and dried brushes, and signed off on the regular clay deliveries that arrived in massive crates.
Occasionally, you’d have to run into town to pick up special art supplies — imported pigments, rare resins, the kind of materials only someone like Ni-ki would use without blinking at the price. You never saw where most of it ended up. It disappeared somewhere within the manor’s locked corners.
In the evenings, you’d help the staff clean up after dinner, gathering the silverware and folding linen napkins with shaking hands not from fear, necessarily, but from how cold Ni-ki’s eyes could be across the table. Always watching, always polite, never lingering long enough to accuse.
You also began managing what few appointments he allowed. Rare, elite visitors — usually high-end artists or gallery curators — who came for private viewings. Most stayed for no more than an hour. None were ever allowed beyond the guest wing.
You were starstruck at first. Some of the artists were people you had studied in school, people whose work hung in the very museums you once dreamed of visiting. They shook your hand, complimented your diligence, even gave you autographs when you shyly asked. You kept them all tucked in a notebook, a small but glittering consolation for your strange new reality.
But even with the thrill of recognition, there was one glaring truth: You rarely saw Ni-ki. Only during dinner.
He didn’t appear at breakfast — not once — and the staff always claimed he was “working” or “resting” depending on the time of day. No one questioned it. No one even searched for him.
It was like he wasn’t part of the house at all — just a presence that appeared and vanished just like that.
And that made you watch the shadows just a little more closely. Listen for footsteps that weren’t there. Lock your door a little earlier each night. Even if you didn’t want to admit why.
So you didn’t expect it — not at all — when Ni-ki suddenly appeared from around the corner and stepped directly into your path. You had been on your way to the library, arms full of books you intended to study, mind elsewhere. His sudden presence was like slamming into a wall of ice.
You stopped just short of crashing into him, a startled breath escaping your lips as your body jerked to a halt. Your nose had nearly brushed his chest.
His height always caught you off guard. His gaze dropped to you — cool, unreadable — and he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the near-collision.
“I need your help,” he said calmly, voice low and even. “To model.”
You blinked up at him, confused. “Model?”
He didn’t elaborate. Just turned and began walking without another word, fully expecting you to follow.
You hesitated for a heartbeat, your mind catching up with the moment. He wanted you to model for him? He’d never asked before, never even hinted at the idea. You were just the assistant. Just someone to dust his shelves and sign for his materials.
Still stunned, you trailed after him, quickening your pace to keep up with his long strides.
It was only when you glanced down at yourself that the embarrassment hit. You were wearing plain clothes — a soft, oversized sweater and fitted jeans. Comfortable, sure, but hardly anything you’d want the most famous sculptor in the world studying up close.
You cringed inwardly. Maybe he hadn’t meant a serious modeling session. Maybe it was just for a sketch. Just a pose reference.
But that hope withered the moment he led you down an unfamiliar corridor and stopped in front of a tall, iron-handled door. Without a word, he turned the knob and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
You hesitated — just for a second — before stepping through.
The room beyond was cold and quiet, lit only by a few overhead bulbs and a tall window half-curtained by dark velvet. The air smelled of graphite and dusted charcoal, faintly metallic. You took one cautious step further in.
The walls were covered in sketches. Dozens of anatomical studies. Every page pinned or taped with precision, corners curling from age, some overlapping. Each figure was posed differently: arms stretched, torsos twisted, muscles flexed. Some bodies were mid-motion, others limp. A few had faces blurred or scratched out entirely. Latin terms were scribbled in the margins: sternocleidomastoid, scapula, carpi radialis. Dissected in ink, limb by limb.
Your eyes traced a particularly detailed back sketch, the shoulder blades shaded to look nearly real as Ni-ki walked past you.
At the center of the room stood a small pedestal. Simple. Circular. Clean. In front of it, a wide drawing board rested on a stand, stained from hours of use. He took his seat behind it and, without sparing you a glance, reached forward and tore the unfinished sketch taped to it from the page.
You flinched at the sound of paper ripping.
He crumpled it wordlessly, tossed it into a bin already filled with failed attempts. Then, looking up at you for the first time, he spoke with sharp clarity. “Take off your shirt.” A beat passed. “And stand on the pedestal.”
Your heart jumped, thudding somewhere uncomfortably behind your ribs. “Wait—what?”
His expression didn’t flicker. His tone was flat, but firm. “Your shirt. Off. I need the shape of your upper body.”
It wasn’t a request.
His hand hovered over a fresh page, pencil poised. “I don’t need your modesty,” he added coolly. “I need accuracy.”
You looked at the pedestal. Then back at him. Then down at yourself. The sweater you wore suddenly felt like a barrier but also a shield. You hadn’t signed up for this. Not really. But his eyes were fixed on you now, expectant, already studying the way the fabric clung to your frame like he could see through it.
And deep down, some part of you knew if you said no, he wouldn’t get angry. He’d just never ask again. He’d never look at you again. And somehow, that was worse.
Swallowing, you hesitated—just a moment—then reached down and slowly tugged the hem of your shirt up. The fabric slid over your arms and head, soft and reluctant, revealing the simple, comfortable bra you had underneath. The air hit your skin and prickled across your arms like a whisper of cold.
You folded the shirt neatly, more out of nervous habit than care, and set it on the nearby bench. Then, without looking at him, you walked to the pedestal. Your steps felt heavier than they should have. Like you were walking into something you didn’t fully understand.
When you stepped onto the pedestal and looked up, you found Ni-ki already watching. His gaze wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flustered, or polite. No, it was technical. Dissecting. His eyes roamed your exposed skin like they were measuring it, calculating every line, every hollow, every rise and fall of bone beneath flesh.
Like you were something to be solved.
“Now pose,” he said, voice low.
You blinked. “Pose… how?”
He didn’t answer right away. His pencil hovered over the page, his head tilted slightly.
Then, finally... “Turn slightly. Right shoulder forward. Arm loose. Chin up.” He gestured, sharp and precise. “Like you’re tired. But beautiful.”
You shifted. Adjusted. Tried to mimic what he wanted. It felt awkward, unfamiliar but the moment you moved, you felt his attention sharpen like a blade. The scratch of graphite began on paper almost immediately, fast and controlled.
He didn’t speak again for a while. Just sketched. The only sound in the room was the swift rasp of his pencil moving in sharp, confident strokes.
And all the while, you stood still, spine tense, skin burning under the weight of his gaze. You could feel it everywhere, like invisible fingers ghosting over your body. You tried not to shiver. You tried not to think about the way he looked at you like you were already his.
Not an assistant. But raw material.
The minutes bled into each other, and his commands came steady, low, always calm.
“Turn your head.”
“Raise your arm higher.”
“Arch your back—just slightly.”
“Hold that.”
Each time, you obeyed. You weren’t sure whether it was the sheer authority in his voice, the way his eyes flicked up to you like he expected you to follow without question, or the deep, uncomfortable desire to not disappoint him. Whatever it was, you moved. Posed. Shifted.
He sketched with feverish precision.
The pages piled up beside him, each one a version of you — sprawled, twisted, reaching, soft. You tried not to look at them, but you could feel them there. You could feel him looking at you through them, even when his eyes were on the page.
And the longer it went on, the more his gaze changed.
At first, it had been detached. Professional. Focused.
But now… now it lingered. It held too long. Followed the slope of your collarbone too slowly, paused on your ribs, your waist, the inside of your thighs. The scratch of the pencil slowed sometimes, like he was savoring it. Memorizing the view before translating it into lead.
You swallowed hard, your arms beginning to tremble from holding the same position too long.
“Still,” he said without looking up. “You’ll ruin the line.”
“I—I’m trying,” you whispered.
He paused. Lifted his eyes to you.
And for the first time, something like warmth crept into his voice. “You’re delicate,” he murmured, gaze dragging across your form. “Symmetrical. Do you know how rare that is?”
You didn’t answer.
He stood slowly, setting the sketch aside. Another finished piece. Another image of you.
“You shouldn’t ruin it by shaking.” He moved toward you, and instinctively, your breath hitched. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.
Then without warning his hands touched your hips. Firm. Slow. He guided your body like clay, tilting you slightly, adjusting your arms. His palms were large and warm, fingertips ghosting against your spine as he shifted the curve of it, just so.
“Better,” he said, almost to himself. His hands lingered. One on your waist. The other brushing your rib.
You could feel every point of contact, feel how close he was standing. His breath near your ear. The silence wrapped around you both like silk.
He stepped back only when satisfied. Then sat down again. And began sketching anew.
You stood frozen in the pose, heart pounding, skin burning under his touch long after it was gone.
The room was quiet except for the sound of pencil against paper. But it wasn’t soothing — not anymore. It scratched against your nerves, dragged over your spine like something invasive. You could feel the intensity pouring off of him in waves, concentrated on you like a predator watching prey hold still.
He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.
Sketch after sketch. Page after page. You didn’t know how much time passed. At some point, your legs began to ache. Your shoulders trembled again, too tired to stay still. You shifted without thinking—just a fraction.
The pencil stopped.
You felt his stare return, cold and unblinking.
“I didn’t say move,” Ni-ki said softly, but there was no warmth this time.
“I—sorry, I—”
He stood.
Your breath hitched.
But he didn’t speak. He only walked toward you again. His fingers reached out and pressed lightly against your knee, guiding it back into place. Then your wrist, your chin. His touch wasn’t cruel but it wasn’t gentle either. It was clinical, like you were something he was adjusting into perfection.
When he finished, he didn’t move away. Instead, he stood there in front of you, too close. His eyes trailed over your face, your body, his gaze no longer masking the hunger behind it. Not artistic. Not curious. Possessive.
“You’re going to ruin everything if you keep trembling,” he murmured. His voice was low now, dark velvet. “You need to learn to be still.”
You swallowed.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
His thumb reached out, brushing just under your collarbone. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a shiver down your spine.
“But you will.”
He didn’t lower his hand. His gaze held yours, dark and unreadable, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”
You shook your head, barely a movement. “No…”
A faint smile curled at the corner of his lips, like he’d known your answer before you gave it. “Good.” His fingers ghosted down your sternum, tracing the hollow where your ribs met. “Because disappointment ruins the lines. The shape. That soft tension in your muscles when you’re trying to behave, trying to be still…” He breathed out. “That’s what makes you perfect.”
You couldn’t speak.
“You were made for this,” he continued, stepping back just enough to take you in again. “To be studied. To be captured. I’ve had muses before… brief ones. But none of them had your symmetry. Your stillness. Your potential.”
You could feel your knees threatening to give out, not just from standing too long but from the weight of his words. The way he looked at you like you weren’t a person, but a canvas with breath. A sculpture not yet carved.
“Be still,” he ordered softly, picking up his pencil again. “Be a good little muse.”
And like some invisible thread tied you to his voice, you obeyed. Not because you were told, but because you had to. Something about his gaze made it impossible to move, like he’d turned you to stone with a glance. Like Medusa, if she were a man with charcoal-stained hands and a voice that could whisper obedience into bone.
The pencil scratched again. He didn't speak for a long time. He just watched. Drew. Devoured you with his eyes.
Eventually, he pulled away from the sketchpad and studied his work in silence. You dared to lower your gaze for just a second, catching a glimpse of the latest page.
It was you — but not how you saw yourself. It was intimate. Obsessively detailed. You didn’t look like a person.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he said finally, standing and stretching his shoulders, the long lines of his body moving like something fluid. Predatory. “You can put your shirt back on.”
You reached for it slowly, your fingers trembling slightly as you slipped it over your arms. It felt almost wrong now, like covering up something he’d already claimed.
But as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.
“You were beautiful today.”
You blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”
He looked up from cleaning his pencils, his expression unreadable. “I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he said flatly. “So don’t make me repeat myself.”
You opened your mouth to thank him, but he wasn’t done.
“Beauty isn’t permission,” he added, tone quieter now. “It’s responsibility. Mine to display.”
You froze.
He walked over to you, closing the space between you. His height, his presence, made everything else feel smaller. The air thinned when he was this close.
“I shaped the way I see you,” he murmured. “And now that I’ve started, you don’t get to hide that from me.” His hand lifted, just hovering beside your cheek, just enough for you to feel the heat of it. “If you walk into my studio, you belong to the art. To me. Understand?”
You nodded slowly, your throat tight.
“Good girl.” He turned away again, casual as ever, like he hadn’t just spoken words that branded themselves into you. “Now go. Rest. I need your body steady tomorrow.”
And you left silently, head spinning, unsure whether to feel fear or flattery.
The next morning came heavy with fog. Outside the manor windows, the world looked like it had been erased in soft ash.
You were summoned early. One of the staff gave you a short, unreadable nod before leading you to the studio again. You walked in to find Ni-ki already seated at the drawing board, sketchbook open, pencil poised.
Without looking at you, he said, “Shirt off.”
His voice wasn’t sharp, but it didn’t need to be. You moved automatically, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. The chill of the room swept over your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way his eyes finally lifted to meet yours.
But then— “Pants too.”
You froze, your hands hovering near the waistband of your pants.
“I—”
Still seated, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if your hesitation was more interesting than anything he could draw.
“I—” You swallowed. “I’d rather not.”
He stood, slowly. The stool creaked as it was pushed back. And with those soundless steps he was in front of you, tall, elegant, and cold like stone. But when he touched your jaw, it was gentle. Careful even. He bent slightly, lowering himself until your faces were nearly level. “Why not?” he asked, his tone soft. The sweetness in his voice rang hollow, a mimicry of care. “Are you embarrassed? Ashamed?”
You couldn’t answer. The way his eyes searched yours made your skin prickle.
“I see your body in sketches more than you see it in the mirror,” he whispered. “You forget that it already belongs to the art.”
Your silence stretched. You didn’t want to disobey him. Something inside you curled with heat and confusion, a reluctant thrill mixed with hesitation.
He sighed, the sound almost affectionate. “I won’t ask again. Take them off…” He stepped closer, gaze dark. “Or I will.”
The threat wasn’t cruel. It was calm. Controlled. He didn’t move to act on it, just waited, giving you the choice. The illusion of one, at least.
Your fingers shook as you pushed your sweatpants down, revealing your lacey underwear, a decision you regretted now, with how intently his gaze fixed on it.
He didn’t speak. Just hummed — pleased, satisfied. Then he turned from you, moving back to his seat, and gestured at the pedestal.
You climbed onto it, heart pounding.
But this time, he didn’t order a pose.
He approached again — and without a word, began to adjust your limbs himself. One hand on your wrist, another guiding your hips, his fingers surprisingly gentle but firm. The entire time, he didn’t meet your eyes. He was sculpting you in flesh, not marble.
And you stood there, breathing shallowly, caught somewhere between fear and fascination.
A muse. A masterpiece. A possession in progress.
The session stretched on, slow and deliberate. Ni-ki’s hands were everywhere — tracing, mapping, claiming. His huge palms moved over your skin like dark shadows, smudging the charcoal as he worked, staining you in the rawness of his art. Every curve, every line, was a secret only he knew now.
He was rough, but not careless, firm fingers pressing into your waist, sliding down your sides, pulling you closer when you tried to stiffen. His touch was an ownership you couldn’t deny. When he cupped your throat lightly, thumb grazing along your jawline, your breath hitched. He hummed as he made you meet his gaze. There was no kindness there, only a unyielding control that rooted you in place.
“You belong to this,” he murmured, voice dark and hypnotic. “To me.”
You wanted to pull away, but the truth was, part of you didn’t. The power he held over you, the way he commanded every movement, made your chest tighten.
Why did it feel so good to let go? To surrender?
Your heart hammered as he guided your hands to rest where he wanted, forced your body into impossible angles, sculpting you in ways you never imagined.
And every time you caught his eye, there was that same hum of approval, like he was marking you, claiming you beyond just the sketches.
Your mind spun, tangled in a web of desire and submission you weren’t sure you wanted to unravel.
Because even in the silence, under his dominating gaze, you realized you craved this. His control. His possession.
The charcoal was darker today. Maybe it was the way the light filtered in through the curtained windows, but everything felt heavier, as if the air itself had thickened.
You stood in your pose, eyes trained on a point on the far wall, spine held straight like Ni-ki had molded it himself. Your shirt and sweats had long since been discarded — a ritual by now. But today, he hadn’t even asked. He’d simply looked at you. That was enough. You peeled them off in silence.
You told yourself it was professionalism. That you were just doing your job. That all great artists were intense. But when he came toward you, large hands warm and steady, adjusting your hip with a possessive sort of patience, your heart skipped a beat. He didn’t ask for permission. He never did. He didn’t need to — not when he already knew you’d obey.
His fingers brushed along your collarbone, smudging your skin in gray as he adjusted the tilt of your chin. His thumb grazed your lower lip, staining it as if marking you with his signature. Every touch of his hands felt like both a threat and a worship.
“You hold tension in the wrong places,” he murmured, stepping back. “You’ll ruin the lines.”
“Sorry.. I’m really trying,” you said, voice low.
“Try less,” he said. “Just let me move you. That’s what muses do.”
Muse. Not partner. Not assistant. Not even person. Just a subject. A figure for his twisted devotion.
Still, you stayed. You always stayed.
Sometimes he touched you as though you were fragile marble, and other times like you were already his—shaped, claimed, carved into what he wanted. His fingers dragged across the slope of your waist, up the delicate curve of your spine. You told yourself it was part of the process. That it was art. That it didn’t mean anything.
But your breath still hitched every time.
He made you feel small, but not insignificant. Like something to be possessed. Like a masterpiece that only he could understand.
“You hold yourself well,” he said suddenly, gaze flicking up as his pencil paused. “But even strength has pressure points. Yours are just hidden deeper.”
You didn’t respond. You didn’t dare. Not when his voice had dipped so low, like velvet laced with iron.
He tilted his head slightly, watching the way your chest rose and fell with your quiet restraint. “Tell me…” he asked, softly, “does it thrill you? Letting me see you like this?”
You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”
A slow smile curved on his lips, something knowing. “You do.”
Your nerves fired, tense and confused, your body caught in the contradiction of fear and fascination. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t what you came here for. You were supposed to gain experience. Make connections. Learn from a genius, not become his personal muse… or whatever this was.
And yet…
You hadn’t stopped him. You hadn’t even told him no. Why hadn’t you?
Because a part of you—buried deep and dark—thrilled at the attention. At the way his eyes never left you. At the way his hands could reduce you to breathless silence with just a touch. You’d always wanted to be seen, hadn’t you? Truly seen?
But this… this wasn’t being seen. This was being dissected.
Your logic screamed at you—this was wrong. This wasn’t mentorship. This was manipulation wrapped in artistry, control disguised as inspiration.
Still… your feet never moved from the pedestal.
You told yourself it was just the opportunity. That you couldn’t afford to lose this job. That this was temporary. But your body knew better.
You didn’t realize how much time had passed until Ni-ki stepped back, sliding his pencil down with a soft click on the edge of the desk.
“That’s enough for today,” he said. His voice was calm. Unbothered. As if the tension in the air hadn’t been choking you.
You didn’t dare look at what he’d drawn.
“Get dressed,” he added, already turning away, eyes focused on the fresh page he’d begun to sketch on—this one, not of you, but of something abstract. Something warped.
You gathered your clothes in silence, your hands trembling slightly. You held them close to your chest, clutching the fabric like it could somehow shield you. Your breath stayed shallow, unsure if you were holding it in out of tension… or shame. Your eyes lifted, almost unconsciously.
He was still at the drawing board, head bent, pencil dragging smoothly over the page. But then he stopped. He could feel your stare. Slowly, he looked up. His gaze met yours. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just… watching. As if he was still studying you. Still sketching you with his eyes.
The silence stretched between you like a pulled string. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You weren’t sure what you wanted from him. An explanation? An apology? Permission to hate him, or permission to stay?
But all he did was tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. His voice came low, smooth. Dangerous only in how calm it was. “…Is there something you want to say, little muse?”
You swallowed thickly. The lump in your throat ached. Your mouth opened but nothing came out.
He smiled, faint and cold. “That’s what I thought.” Then he turned back to the paper, dismissing you like a scene he’d already memorized.
Your feet stayed planted for one more second. Then, without another word, you walked out of the studio, clothes still clutched to your chest, your skin still warm with the ghost of his hands. And your mind, still caught between the urge to run and the ache to be seen again. To be wanted. Even like that. Even if it breaks you.
Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.
You sat quietly at your end of the long, polished table, silverware clinking against porcelain in an almost rhythmic pattern, your eyes locked firmly on your plate. You hadn’t said a word since you sat down. You didn’t have to. His presence filled the room enough.
And you could feel it. The weight of his stare. Burning. Unrelenting. Even without looking, you knew. He was watching you. Not just with interest. Not with idle curiosity. With possession.
You picked at your food, your fingers tense around the fork. Every movement you made felt rehearsed, careful. Because you knew—if you lifted your gaze, if you so much as glanced up and met his eyes—you wouldn’t know what to do.
Would you flinch? Would you fold? Would you like it?
The thought made your skin prickle.
You’d never been looked at like this before. Never been sought out with this much… intensity. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even obsession. It was deeper than that, like he’d already claimed you in his mind, and now he was just waiting for you to fall into place.
And the worst part?
Some twisted, shameful part of you liked it. Liked the idea of being wanted that deeply. Of being important to someone—even if it was dangerous. Even if it was him.
You shifted in your seat, trying to push the thought away. Trying to keep your breathing even. You could still feel the way his hands had touched you earlier, how his voice had curled around your nerves like smoke. Your thighs clenched without meaning to.
Across the table, he took another slow sip of his wine. “Eat,” he said suddenly, quietly. A command.
You flinched, your fork freezing midair. And then, slowly, you obeyed. You didn’t look up. But you knew he was smiling.
The more time you spent in the manor, the stranger everything became.
At first, it was subtle. A missing face here or there—a maid who used to clean the sculptures, a gardener who always greeted you in the morning. You assumed they were on leave, maybe reassigned. But then there were fewer footsteps in the hall. Fewer voices. Until one day, you realized you hadn’t seen another staff member at all.
Only silence.
You still saw Ni-ki, though less and less. Sometimes not for days. He no longer joined you for dinner. Meals were brought to your room, quiet knocks left unanswered when you opened the door. The food always tasted fine, but you noticed how little you were eating. How your appetite had vanished.
And your strength along with it.
At first, you blamed it on burnout. On stress. It made sense—you were in a new place, around someone as intense and unpredictable as Ni-ki. Of course you’d feel exhausted.
But this wasn’t normal exhaustion. You would wake up feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. Your arms heavy. Legs like stone. You could barely climb out of bed some mornings, and when you did, you clung to the walls just to steady yourself. You even began skipping meals entirely, not out of choice, but because you simply couldn’t bring yourself to get up.
The worst part? Some part of you didn’t even mind. You almost liked it—the soft haze of your thoughts, the way time slipped like water between your fingers. How easy it was to just… stay in your room. Stay still. Stay good. You chalked it up to illness. Or nerves. Or something vague and harmless.
You didn’t question the way your dreams had started changing. Didn’t question when you would wake up feeling a phantom touch on your body. Fingertips trailing over your waist, a thumb brushing beneath your ribs. A pressure at your throat so delicate, it made you shiver in the dark. You’d lie there in the morning, heart pounding, eyes wide open. Paralyzed not by fear, but by the frightening familiarity of it.
Because you swore you knew those hands. You’d felt them before. Guiding your hips into poses. Lifting your chin with bruising care.
You told yourself it was your imagination. But you never checked the locks. You never asked yourself why the sheets always felt shifted when you woke up. Or why you never heard footsteps, and yet still felt watched.
Because deep down, something in you was…waiting. And worse.. something in you was craving.
Much more so now that Ni-ki had stopped calling you. No more orders to pose. No more hushed compliments spoken as if you weren’t meant to hear them. No more hands guiding your limbs into position like you were something fragile and precious.
And now that it was gone, the absence made you ache.
You told yourself you were fine. That this was what you wanted. Distance. Clarity. Space to think. But instead of clarity, you only felt emptier. Like you were made of glass and he had taken the light with him. You found yourself drifting through the manor like a ghost. Listening. Waiting. Hoping. You wandered past closed doors. Past the studio, where the light was always off now.
Your chest grew tight with a feeling you couldn’t name. You didn’t want to admit it — not even to yourself — but his silence was worse than his intensity. You missed being looked at. You missed being needed. You missed the way his attention wrapped around you like a net. Unnerving. Suffocating. Addictive.
And you hated how every hour that passed without him made you feel more forgotten. More irrelevant.
You began lingering near the halls he used to take. Sitting in the drawing room, half-hoping he’d appear. You wore softer clothes. Brushed your hair differently. You told yourself it was for comfort. But you knew better.
Eventually Ni-ki did end up calling for you.
The sound of your name spoken by one of the remaining staff jolted something alive in you. You didn’t hesitate. You barely breathed. You followed the familiar halls, heart tight in your chest, steps quiet but quick. The luxurious living room loomed ahead, gold-framed windows casting late afternoon light across the polished floor, as he stood there, tall and composed.
Your breath caught as you stepped in. But before you could speak, he simply said, “There’s a delivery coming. Accept it. I don’t want to be disturbed.” The words landed like stone. Cold. Distant.
You blinked, the tension in your chest unraveling into a slow, hollow ache. Still, you managed a nod, gaze dropping instinctively. “Of course,” you murmured, almost too quietly.
But before you could step back, fingers curled around your jaw, firm yet careful. Your face was tilted upward, gently and there he was again. Watching you. His gaze was too intense. Too knowing. Like he saw every thought you were too afraid to say aloud. “You wanted something else,” he said, voice low, unreadable.
You swallowed, unsure what answer was safe. His thumb brushed along the line of your cheekbone, too slow to be accidental. “It’s alright,” he added. “Desire isn’t shameful… not when it’s directed properly.”
Your pulse stuttered. You couldn’t breathe for a moment. Then he let go. Just like that before he stepped back.
“Be good and do as I asked,” he said without turning as he left.
And you stood there, touched and dismissed, heart racing, unsure if the weight in your chest was humiliation… or need.
The delivery arrived with the quiet rumble of heavy wheels against the polished floor.
Two large men, expressionless and efficient, wheeled in several crates, boxes, and bags stacked high with clay and other materials. Their presence was imposing, their movements methodical, no small talk, no smiles.
You stepped forward, clipboard in hand, ready to sign off on the delivery. As you checked the list, your eyes widened. The sheer volume was staggering, more crates than you’d ever seen delivered at once, enough clay to fill an entire studio several times over. You hesitated for a moment, heart flickering with an odd mix of curiosity and unease. Why so much? Was it for a massive project?
You signed your name with a steady hand, trying not to show your surprise.
The two men stacked the crates neatly before turning wordlessly toward the exit.
You stood frozen after they left, eyes locked on the stack of crates. They looked almost absurdly large in the opulence of the hallway, towering, sealed shut with thick nails, marked with labels you didn’t recognize. What could possibly require that much?
“Do they meet your standards?”
The voice came from just behind your ear — low, quiet, far too close.
You startled, breath catching in your throat as you instinctively stepped forward, spinning around. Ni-ki stood there, unbothered by your reaction. Calm as ever. His dark eyes held yours, unreadable. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked pleased.
“I—” you blinked, pulse still quick from the shock. “Yes. I mean—yes, everything’s here.”
He didn’t acknowledge your answer. Just stepped around you slowly, his gaze dragging across the crates before landing back on you. “I’ll begin soon,” he murmured. “Make sure no one touches these. Not the staff. Not even you.” His tone left no room for questioning.
And yet you did. “All of this… for one project?”
He tilted his head. “You ask too many questions.” The way he said it wasn’t harsh. It was almost… fond. But the message underneath was clear. Then, just before he turned to leave, he paused, his gaze flicking down your form and back up again. “It’ll be my best work yet,” he said softly. “You’ll see.” And with that, he disappeared back into the shadows of the corridor.
Too exhausted to even think, you shuffled away from the crates, your limbs heavy like soaked cloth. The ornate hallway blurred at the edges of your vision as you made your way to the living room.
You barely registered the plushness of the wide velvet sofa beneath you as you collapsed onto it, the weight of your body sinking deep into the cushions. With a flick of the remote, the television buzzed to life, lighting up the dim room with flickering colors. You didn’t even care what was playing. Some old movie. The voices were a distant murmur, a lullaby you weren’t listening to.
Your eyelids fluttered shut.
The tension you carried slowly melted into the silence, the low sound of the TV wrapping around you like a warm, blurry cocoon. Your breath evened out, limbs relaxing as sleep crept in faster than you could fight it. And before you knew it… you were gone. Curled into the sofa like a discarded doll, unaware of the flicker of movement at the edge of the doorway. Unaware of the soft creak of leather shoes against marble. Unaware of the eyes that never truly left you.
He didn’t rush.
He never did.
The soft flicker of the television painted your face in shades of light and shadow as Ni-ki stepped into the room, silent as a breath. You were asleep, deeply, peacefully, just as he’d intended. The slow rise and fall of your chest told him the dosage had been perfect. It always was. He was careful like that.
Cautious. Patient.
He inched closer, footsteps deliberate on the rug-covered floor, stopping just short of where your legs curled up beneath you on the couch. You looked so small like that. He admired how long it had taken to get you to this point, to stay this close, to stop questioning every strange thing, to grow used to the quiet.
You were doing well. So well.
Ni-ki tilted his head, watching the way your hand twitched in sleep, how your brows furrowed slightly perhaps from a dream, or maybe a memory trying to resurface. It didn’t matter. You wouldn’t wake up.
The medicine in your dinner was never strong enough to harm you, just enough to wear you down. Little by little. He didn’t want you broken all at once. That would be too easy. No, this was about shaping. About keeping you too tired to go wandering, too unfocused to question, too dependent to leave. Until staying felt natural. Until being close to him wasn’t a choice, but the only thing that made sense.
You were already so close.
He knelt beside the sofa, the fabric of his clothes rustling softly as he moved. For a moment, he simply stared, memorizing the shape of you under the gentle light of the television. Like a painting that finally made sense.
Then, slowly, he reached out.
His fingertips brushed your cheek—barely a touch, more like a breath of air. You didn’t stir. Not even the flutter of an eyelash. He watched the way your skin warmed under his hand, and a wave of calm washed through him. You were still. Exactly as he needed you.
His hand moved downward, tracing the line of your jaw, then to the soft curve of your neck. There, his palm rested for a moment, just feeling the steady thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers. Your body was quiet, pliant, unaware. And it soothed something deep, deep inside him.
He exhaled slowly, letting his thumb follow the line of your collarbone, never hurried, never harsh.
You didn’t move. You stayed asleep, still as marble.
He leaned closer, whispering—not loud enough to stir you, just enough to fill the space between you. “You’re almost ready,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “You just don’t know it yet.”
And with that, he withdrew. Standing, stepping away, casting one last look at your sleeping form before vanishing again into the hush of the manor.
Waking up in the middle of the night was a heinous feeling for you. Like your body wasn’t fully yours, like you were drifting between layers of consciousness that refused to align. Your limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as though wrapped in lead. It took everything in you not to sink back into the couch, not to let yourself be pulled under again by the haze still weighing on your thoughts.
With a low groan, you rubbed at your eyes, the blurry glow of the television still flickering across the room. One glance at the ornate clock on the wall told you it was close to 2 a.m. You blinked hard, willing yourself awake, forcing your legs to move as you shuffled toward your bedroom.
The manor was quiet, unnaturally so. The air felt different. Still.
You moved on instinct, guided by routine—or at least, that’s what you thought. Until your eyes finally focused, and the hallway around you came into full clarity. Your breath caught in your throat.
This wasn’t the way to your room.
The corridor was darker here. The walls more ornate, with deep burgundy tones and gold-framed portraits you’d never seen before. The doors were carved with a different motif, heavier, older. There was no sign of the familiar sculptures or tapestries you usually passed. Everything was unfamiliar—yet unsettlingly pristine.
You weren’t supposed to be here.
Your fingers curled slightly, your heart picking up speed as the realization settled in your chest like a weight. You’d wandered—somehow, unknowingly—to the forbidden wing of the manor. The one place you were told never to enter.
You wanted to find your way back to your bedroom, the safety of your familiar sheets, but the halls twisted around you like a maze you didn’t remember entering. Every turn led to another unfamiliar door, another passage that felt too long, too quiet.
The staff had left hours ago. That much you knew.
You tried to think. To reason. To piece together how you’d ended up here. But your thoughts were grains of sand in your palms—running, slipping, impossible to catch. You couldn’t focus. You couldn’t hold onto a single, solid idea. Disoriented and growing uneasy, you reached for the nearest door, fingers curling around the brass handle. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a large, dimly lit bedroom.
One look, and your stomach dropped. You knew exactly where you were.
This was his room.
Ni-ki’s private quarters.
The one door you were never meant to open.
But he wasn’t there. The massive bed sat undisturbed, the sheets smoothed to perfection. Not a wrinkle, not a trace of warmth or sleep. The pillows fluffed just right, untouched. It was eerie in its neatness, its museum-like stillness. It felt… staged. As if no one had slept in it for a long time. Or as if someone wanted it to appear that way.
You closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment too long. You didn’t want to open another door. But you couldn’t stay still either.
Your feet carried you forward, cautious, slow, until you stopped in front of another tall door with a carved crest at the center. You hesitated only a moment before turning the handle.
This one wasn’t a bedroom. It was an office. Or something close to it.
The room was drenched in elegance, black wood panels lining the walls, golden inlays glinting in the soft light from the chandelier above. A towering bookshelf stood against one wall, filled with thick volumes. An antique globe sat in the corner, beside an ink-stained writing desk that looked like it belonged to someone centuries older.
Every item had its place. Nothing out of order. Nothing casual. Even the chair behind the desk sat perfectly aligned. Like no one had touched it in days. Or like it was only touched in precise, controlled moments.
You stepped inside, your fingers brushing the edge of the desk as your eyes swept over it. There were no scattered notes. No pens left askew. Just a closed journal resting dead center. You didn’t know why, maybe curiosity or instinct, but your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up.
The journal opened with a soft creak, the spine cracking like it had been opened regularly. The first page was filled edge to edge with clean sketches—anatomical references, the human body drawn in intricate precision. Muscles labeled in Latin. Bone structures dissected in obsessive detail.
You flipped to the next page. Then another. The sketches became more specific. More… familiar.
There were figures posed just like you had been. Knees bent. Arms curled. Spine arched. Every angle exact. Some were circled with notes in Ni-ki’s handwriting—measurements, proportions, tiny comments like “hold this longer” or “better lighting next time.”
Your chest tightened.
And then, the sketches began to change. There were still figures, but the anatomy began merging with something else, symbols, charts, and what looked like... chemical formulas. Equations scrawled in the margins. Molecular breakdowns. Dosage estimates.
You stared at a note scribbled along the bottom of one page:
"Maintaining docility. Progressive doses. Natural compliance follows physical fatigue."
You froze.
The room didn’t feel elegant anymore. It felt clinical. Sterile. Like a controlled environment. A testing ground. You turned another page with trembling fingers. And there—you saw it.
A sketch of your profile. Unmistakably you. Eyes closed. Mouth parted slightly. Sleeping.
Underneath, in his meticulous writing. “Nearly perfect now. Just a bit more.”
You closed the journal slowly, the metallic taste of nausea rising in your throat. Your back pressed hard against the cold bookshelf as you fought to steady your breath, the room spinning just enough to make your knees weak. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Your eyes drifted over the rows of books—mostly anatomy, physiology, medical texts. Every spine a reminder of the cold precision with which Niki studied the human body.
Then, something else caught your eye.
A book that didn’t belong. A worn paperback with a cracked spine, its cover familiar. You’d read this one before, a twisted romance about a criminal and their captive, a story you’d even owned yourself at one point.
Curiosity ignited again despite the sick knot in your stomach. Your fingers brushed the cover, sliding it free from the shelf. As you did, a faint click echoed softly. Behind the book, pressed into the wooden frame of the shelf, was a small lever.
Your pulse quickened. Without fully thinking, you reached out and pulled it.
The entire bookshelf shuddered, then began to move aside, revealing a dark opening—a narrow staircase spiraling downward.
A hidden passage.
Your breath hitched.
Swallowing hard, you stepped forward, toes brushing the edge of the hidden stairwell. Cold air drifted upward, curling around your ankles like invisible fingers. It smelled faintly of dust and metal… and something else. Something more sterile. Like a hospital.
You hesitated—just for a second.
Then you took the first step.
Each creak of the wooden stairs echoed like a scream in the silence. You kept one hand on the wall, steadying yourself as you descended slowly, your heart pounding harder with each step into the dark.
The deeper you went, the colder it became.
And quieter.
So quiet that all you could hear was your own breathing and the faint rush of blood in your ears. It felt like descending into something ancient, something not meant to be found. The kind of silence that held its breath with you. That waited.
At the bottom, you reached a plain iron door. No lock. No handle. Just a smooth, seamless surface… and a faint hum behind it. Low and rhythmic. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling, before you pushed.
The door gave way with surprising ease—opening into a room lit with a low light. And what you saw shocked you. Desks cluttered with countless sketches, each one capturing you in painstaking detail. Some hung pinned on the walls, delicate lines tracing every curve and shadow of your body in every angle, your expression caught mid-thought, your hands, your throat, the bend of your spine. There were even pieces focused solely on your mouth and your eyes.
In front of you, a narrow hallway stretched deeper into the shadows, disappearing into darkness. The faint glow of the light didn’t reach far, and an odd smell wafted from within—a strange chemical sharpness mixed with a cold, metallic tang that made your skin prickle, almost like.. blood.
You hesitated, heart pounding, but curiosity and something darker compelled you forward.
Step by step, you moved deeper into the unknown, every instinct screaming caution, every muscle taut with a mixture of dread and fascination.
The hallway ended in a chamber—vast, echoing, and ice-cold.
You froze.
Bags of clay were stacked in the corners, some torn open, their contents spilling out in thick, gray piles. A medical examination table stood in the center of the room, its sterile steel frame glinting under the dim light. Nearby, a wide board was pinned with tools—scalpels, chisels, bonesaws, forceps, even syringes each meticulously arranged. Graphs covered the walls, overlapping with torn pages from anatomy books and sketched outlines of muscle, bone, nerve.
Barrels stood in a row along the back wall, lids half-sealed.
And around the room… statues.
At first, they looked like masterpieces, unfinished busts and full-sized sculptures. But as you stepped closer, heart in your throat, you noticed something that made everything in you still.
Bones.. Protruding ever so slightly from beneath the layers of clay, ribs, fingers, fragments of a jaw. They weren’t statues.
They were vessels.
Your knees nearly gave out.
Then, a noise. A door, heavy and metallic, creaked open from the far end of the chamber.
You panicked.
On instinct, you ducked behind a large stone pillar, breath caught in your throat, chest heaving soundlessly. You dared a glance.
Someone entered.
Clad in a full white hazmat suit, faceless and quiet. They dragged a heavy black bag behind them, its bottom thudding dully against the concrete floor with each step.
A hand slipped out from the opening of the bag. Limp. Human.
You pressed a fist to your mouth to muffle the scream trying to escape.
The figure then moved with eerie precision. The hazmat suit was unzipped slowly, the thick material falling away with a rustle. You saw the glint of dark clothes underneath, and when the head covering came off, your heart all but stopped.
Ni-ki.
He slicked his hair back with one hand, looking unbothered, focused, as if this was just another day in a studio, not a nightmarish chamber hidden beneath the manor. His expression was calm, eyes sharp and calculating as he pulled on a pair of heavy-duty gloves. Then he reached for a pair of forceps on a sterilized tray.
Without hesitation, he walked to one of the barrels and pried the lid open. The scent hit even from your distance—chemical, acidic, and unmistakably foul.
You watched, paralyzed, as he plunged the forceps inside and carefully extracted what looked like bleached, cleaned bones. He placed them onto a nearby table, aligning each piece with chilling familiarity. Not like an artist admiring his work. But like a craftsman assembling it.
Then Ni-ki moved to what looked like a rack—like a drying line—and unclipped something from it with both hands. You strained to see through the dim light, squinting at the limp sheet of… something. And your stomach dropped.
It was skin.
Ni-ki laid it carefully on another table under the lamp. His gloved hands smoothed it out like fabric, inspecting every inch. And then, methodically, he lifted it and brought it to one of the unfinished busts. Clay, half-sculpted, stared back blankly.
He began melding the skin over it. Like a mask. A second layer. Covering something once living over something man-made.
You clung to the pillar, your knuckles white against the stone, heart thundering against your ribs so loud you were sure he’d hear it.
But he didn’t.
He just kept working. Carefully. Lovingly. And as the skin began to take shape over the bust, you finally understood. The realization hit like a crashing wave—drowning you in cold horror.
That was why his sculptures looked so lifelike. Why there was something uncanny in their eyes, their muscles, the very texture of their skin. It wasn’t just talent. It wasn’t just skill.
It was real.
Real bone, real skin, real people.
That was his secret.
You could barely breathe as you watched Ni-ki walk back to the bag he had dragged in earlier. With the same calm efficiency, he unzipped it further, then reached in and pulled out an arm.
Just an arm.
You pressed your fist harder to your mouth to stop the sound clawing its way up your throat.
With no ceremony, no hesitation, he carried it to the open barrel and dropped it in. A thick, wet slap echoed through the chamber, followed by the soft bubbling of whatever solution in the container.
Your stomach lurched.
You nearly doubled over, bile rising, but forced yourself to stay quiet. To stay still. You couldn’t be found.
He turned away from the barrel, casually wiping his gloves off with a cloth before walking back to his table, like this was just part of his nightly routine. Like he hadn’t just dismembered someone. Like this chamber of horrors wasn’t buried right beneath the place where you had laughed, eaten, slept.
You shrank tighter behind the stone pillar, your breath shaky, chest tight, heart hammering in your chest as Ni-ki’s movements continued. You dared not make a sound, barely dared to breathe as you watched him shape, mold, and assemble the pieces with an eerie devotion.
Then, unexpectedly, he moved to something draped with a heavy sheet in the corner of the chamber. Slowly he pulled it away.
Your breath caught, and you nearly collapsed against the pillar.
There, unfinished but hauntingly clear, stood a statue of you. The delicate curves of your lower body were carved with an unsettling precision, and beneath it, your name etched in cold stone.
But what froze you was what clung to that form.
A finished statue of Ni-ki, positioned below, looking up at where your face would be. The expression carved into his face was a tortured mixture of agony, love, and desperate desire.
His sculpted hands gripped your lower body so tightly the clay bent and creased under the pressure—an eternal hold, frozen between obsession and worship.
You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the raw, obsessive devotion frozen in stone, both beautiful and terrifying. You wanted to look away. But something deeper, darker, rooted you in place.
The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint drip of moisture somewhere deep in the chamber. You stayed frozen, eyes locked on the haunting statue of yourself until a voice cut through the stillness.
“Do you like it?”
The words hit you like a blow.
You whipped your gaze away from the cold stone figure to find Ni-ki standing a little away from the statue, his eyes intense, already fixed on you.
Your heart lurched in your chest—he had noticed you.
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there.
“I was wondering,” he said softly, voice like silk drawn over a blade, “how long it would take you to find this place.”
You opened your mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to scream—but nothing came out. Your thoughts were a jumbled blur, your body torn between flight and freeze.
Ni-ki tilted his head slightly, watching you like an artist does a subject, measuring every twitch in your jaw, every tremble in your hands. “You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he added, almost as if he were disappointed. “But… maybe it’s better this way. No more pretending.”
You took a step back, but the stone wall was at your spine. Trapped. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. “What… what is this?”
He glanced over at the statue like it was something sacred. “A masterpiece in progress,” he murmured. “Our final form. You and I, forever preserved.”
His eyes found yours again. “Don’t look so frightened,” he said, stepping toward you slowly, carefully, as if you might break. “You’ve already given me so much of yourself. Your time. Your trust. Your body… even if you didn’t realize it.”
You slowly inched backward, your breath catching in your throat, but he matched your every step, never breaking eye contact. His voice dropped to a low, almost hypnotic murmur as he continued.
“You think this is madness, don’t you? But it’s art—my art. You’re part of it now. Every curve, every line, every shadow of you is captured forever. You can’t escape what you’ve already become.”
His gaze bore into you, relentless, and you felt the weight of his obsession pressing down like a physical force. “You belong here—with me, in this creation. You don’t have to understand it all.. Just stay, help me finish..”
You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks, the weight of it all crashing over you. Your voice caught in your throat as silent sobs shook your frame.
But instead of softening, his voice grew even smoother, more insistent. “Shhh, don’t cry. It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid. You’re safe here—with me.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a gentle whisper that barely masked the control behind his words. “You think you have a choice, but really… you’ve already given so much. And the more you resist, the more I need to protect you from yourself.” His hand reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek, his touch tender and possessive. “You don’t have to understand it now. Just trust me. Let me guide you.”
Too exhausted to resist, your body slumped against him as he gently pulled you closer. Your tears continued to fall, but his soft shushing and steady hands rubbing your back began to calm the storm inside you. The warmth of his body and the rich scent of his cologne, clouded your thoughts and muddled your senses.
Your vision blurred, the edges of the room fading as exhaustion overtook you, and before you fully realized it, you fainted, collapsing gently into his arms.
When you woke up, your body felt like lead—heavy and unresponsive. Moving felt impossible, so you didn’t even try. You just laid there, eyes half-closed, letting the silence wrap around you.
The door creaked open, and you watched as Ni-ki entered, carrying a tray of food. He moved toward you with that same quiet grace, his voice soft and low as he cooed, “Good girl… so patient, so still.”
His words made your chest tighten with comfort and unease.
He sat down beside you, gently setting the tray on the bed. Without waiting for your consent, he lifted a spoonful of food toward your lips.
You pulled back at first, shaking your head, but his voice dropped to a low, cold whisper. “Eat now.” His words cut through your defenses like a knife. Hesitating, tears beginning to blur your vision, you opened your mouth and took the food he offered.
As the tears slipped down your cheeks, he brushed them away with unexpected tenderness. “Don’t cry so much,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “It only puffs your eyes up. You need to look perfect for me.”
He kept feeding you slowly, praising every small bite you took. “So delicate… so perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. “You’re doing so well. I knew you’d be good for me.”
When the plate was finally empty, he leaned in close, his fingers gently brushing strands of your hair behind your ear. The warmth of his touch should have been comforting, but a strange wooziness was settling in your limbs, dulling your senses.
Your eyes drifted to the empty plate beside you, suspicion flickering like a shadow. Carefully, you lifted your arm, hesitant, only for Ni-ki to catch your wrist. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “The medicine is starting to kick in now. Just relax… I’m here.”
Your heart hammered in your chest, a swirl of confusion and helplessness crashing through your foggy mind. The warmth of his fingers wrapped around yours felt like chains—gentle, but binding all the same.
You wanted to pull away, to scream, to run, but the heaviness in your limbs made every movement sluggish and distant. His voice, soft and commanding, echoed in your ears like a lullaby.
“Just let it take over,” he said quietly, almost tenderly. “You’re safe with me.”
You tried to find your voice, to protest, to push him away but the words caught in your throat. Before you could say anything, his hand closed firmly around your jaw, tilting your face up.
His lips crashed onto yours in a harsh, demanding kiss—leaving no room for refusal.
Your body tensed, caught between resistance and the strange, dizzying pull of surrender. The taste of him, the force of his kiss, stirred a chaotic storm inside you, one you didn’t understand but couldn’t quite escape.
Ni-ki groaned softly into the kiss, deepening it with a slow, intense pressure that overwhelmed your senses. Before you could fully process what was happening, he gently pulled you into his lap, holding you close.
Your breath hitched, caught between resistance and a strange, reluctant surrender. His hands rested firmly on your waist, steadying you, as if anchoring you to the moment. You wanted to pull away, but your body betrayed you, frozen under his touch.
Ni-ki’s voice was low, almost a whisper against your lips, “Just stay forever. With me.”
You whimpered softly, your voice barely more than a breath as Ni-ki’s lips traced a slow path down your jaw, then along your neck, where he pressed small, lingering kisses that quickly blossomed into dark, tender hickeys on your collarbones. Each mark was like a quiet claim, a reminder of the power he held in that moment.
You tried to pull away, heart pounding, but his large hand came up, curling gently yet firmly around your throat. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but just enough to catch your breath and make your pulse race. You gasped sharply, the sudden pressure sending a confusing rush through you.
Every time you moved or tried to resist, his hand tightened just enough to remind you who was in control, making your breath hitch with a panic and something darker you didn’t want to admit. But the moment you stayed still, obedient and silent, his grip would slacken, almost like a reward for your submission.
Slowly, your body went fully slack in his hold, the tension draining from your muscles as if you were sinking deeper into his control. Your skin was already marked, like bruised petals across your collarbones.
“Beautiful,” Ni-ki murmured, his voice low and filled with dark admiration. He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss that made your breath catch. His groan rumbled softly against you, and you couldn’t help but whine—a soft, helpless sound that slipped from your lips despite the swirl of confusion inside you.
Counting the moments as the sun slipped below the horizon and the moon rose high, you realized with a numb shock that you had been trapped in that bedroom for nine full days. Nine days of being spoonfed by Ni-ki’s steady hands, nine days of the silent staff lady who came in without a word to clean you, bathe you, dress you in lavish gowns, and style your hair and makeup with meticulous care before she quietly took her leave.
You had no energy left to resist. Your body felt heavy, broken down piece by piece, but your mind clung to every detail of the routine. You memorized the sounds, the footsteps by your door, the way the quiet footsteps softened as they passed. You were figuring out an escape plan, slowly, desperately.
You needed to get out.
This couldn’t be your life. Could it?
One early morning, just before the sun began to rise, you did something you hadn’t done in a long time—you got out of bed on your own. Your legs wobbled beneath you as you stumbled toward the door, weak and unsure.
It was locked, as always, but your fingers found the small key you’d managed to nick from one of the staff who had come to change your sheets. With trembling hands, you slid it into the lock, and to your surprise, it turned. The door creaked open, and you stepped quietly into the dim hallway.
Leaning against the cool wall for support, you made your slow, careful way toward the manor’s front entrance. Your heart pounded as you found your shoes by the door, slipped them on, and unlocked the heavy front door. The moment it swung open, a rush of fresh air hit your face, sharp and clean, filling your lungs with hope.
You stumbled forward into the forest surrounding the estate, the dark trees whispering above you. The soft earth beneath your feet felt real—alive. With each shaky step, you moved closer to the front gate, to freedom, to everything you’d been craving.
By the time you reached the front gate, the first golden rays of sun were stretching across the sky. Your breath was ragged, your body aching with exhaustion, but you knew there wasn’t much time before Ni-ki would realize you were gone.
Without hesitation, you clung to the cold metal of the gate and hurriedly punched in the code for the small side door. It clicked open, and you stepped through, relief flooding you.
But then, a cold voice crackled through the gate speaker, stopping you in your tracks. It was Ni-ki’s voice, calm and chilling. “Running away?”
You looked up, eyes wide in panic, and muttered a sharp curse under your breath. You had completely forgotten about the cameras that were now trained on you, recording your every move. Your escape was no longer quiet or unseen.
Ni-ki’s voice came through the speaker, smooth but laced with cold disappointment. “Really, I expected more from you,” he said, each word slow and designed to cut deep. “I thought you’d understand your place by now.”
Your knees trembled, threatening to give out as you forced yourself to stay standing. You glanced up at the camera, feeling his gaze through the lens like a physical weight pressing down on you.
“Why don’t you wait right there,” he continued, voice darkening with cruel amusement, “like a good girl? I’ll come for you soon enough… and then, well… I can punish you properly.”
Your breath caught in your throat, every instinct screaming to run, but you froze, caught in the pull of his words and the fear curling deep in your chest.
"Yes, that’s good," Ni-ki’s voice purred through the speaker, calm but threatening. "Stay right there. Don’t anger me now."
You swallowed hard, tears slipping down your cheeks despite yourself. Slowly, you lowered your gaze to the long, winding road leading toward the town. By car, it would take an hour. By foot—especially in your fragile state—it felt impossible.
You glanced down at yourself. The white, lacy silk dress that barely reached above your knees, the delicate white bow tied in your hair, the sparkling diamonds resting at your neck felt all so out of place. The marks he had left on you—hickeys trailing from your throat to your collarbones, as well as the clearly visible ones on your thighs made the idea of being seen in public feel humiliating. Ridiculous. Vulnerable. And yet, you knew you couldn’t stay there.
With one sharp glance back at the camera, you started backing away, your heart hammering in your chest.
“What are you doing?” Ni-ki’s voice snapped through the speaker, sharp and angry.
You clenched your fists tightly, refusing to answer. Instead, you turned and sped away, your feet barely touching the ground as you broke into a run down the road.
Behind you, Ni-ki’s enraged voice echoed off the trees and pavement, calling after you with promises of terrible consequences. “You’re in so much trouble when I find you! No punishment in the world will be enough to make up for what I’ll do when I get you back!”
But you didn’t stop. You didn’t look back. All you could do was run. Your breath came in ragged gasps as your legs pumped harder, each step pounding against the cold, unforgiving road.
You stumbled and fell more than once, your palms and knees scraping raw against the harsh asphalt. Pain bloomed sharp and fierce, but exhaustion clawed harder at your muscles, threatening to drag you down. Each time you hit the ground, you fought the urge to stay there, forcing yourself up with trembling limbs.
When the road felt too exposed, you veered off, slipping into the shadowed forest beside it. The thick underbrush scraped at your arms, branches snagging your dress, but the dense trees felt safer than the open path. Here, you hoped, Ni-ki couldn’t find you so easily.
You finally reached the edge of the town, exhaustion and fear warring in your chest. Without hesitation, you shakily stepped into a nearby clothing store. You needed something real—something to hide the traces of your ordeal. Luckily, the shopkeepers recognized you and, without question, let you put the purchase on Ni-ki’s tab.
Dressed in plain clothes that made you feel invisible for the first time in days, you made your way to the train station. Your hands trembled as you bought a ticket to anywhere but here. You needed to get far away, to find space to think, to plan your next move.
But before you could gather your thoughts, you almost crashed into two men.
“There you are!” one said with a grin that made your blood run cold. “Mr. Nishimura has set out a search for you. Come with us and we’ll take you back to him.”
Your throat tightened as you looked up at them. Behind them, the train you had planned to take pulled into the station, its doors sliding open.
“Come on now, don’t do anything stupid, miss. You need to get back to him so he can take care of you,” the other warned, reaching out toward you.
“No... I can’t... I won’t...” you mumbled, shaking your head.
Before they could grab you, you slipped past their outstretched hands and stepped onto the train just as the doors closed. You pressed yourself against the glass, watching the furious expressions on their faces as the train started moving.
Relief swelled through you — you were finally moving away.
You sat on the train, your body still trembling from the adrenaline and fear. The events you’d just escaped felt unreal, like a nightmare you couldn’t fully wake from. But the truth was heavier than any nightmare.
No one would believe you. Ni-ki’s reputation was untouchable—his art, his charm, the carefully crafted image of a genius no one dared to question. If you tried to tell anyone, they’d call you crazy, maybe even have you committed. And even if someone did believe you, you knew how he worked. You’d seen it before—how he silenced rumors, crushed anyone who dared to speak out. Those people vanished without a trace, their voices erased before they could be heard.
You realized then you had no choice but to keep running. To survive, you needed to disappear, to live on the edges of a world that didn’t know you. Staying in the country was impossible. You needed out—far away where Ni-ki’s shadow couldn’t reach.
When you finally reached your home, you hurriedly packed everything you still had there—the few belongings you hadn’t brought with you when you first started working for Ni-ki. So much was lost forever, and regret twisted inside you as you glanced around the empty space. There were things you wished you could have back, but it was too late now.
You booked a plane ticket to another country, a flight leaving in just a few hours. You were almost ready to leave it all behind. But as you opened the front door, you froze.
There he was. Ni-ki, standing in the doorway, eyes wild and crazed. “You really were going to leave me, baby?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
You screamed and stumbled backward, giving him time to step inside, close and lock the door behind him.
“You can’t leave me,” he said, his tone low and trance-like. “I told you—you belong to the art, and the art belongs to me.”
He hit his chest, emphasizing every word. “That means you belong to me. Me! No one else!” He reached out to grab you, but you twisted away, shaking your head fiercely. “I don’t belong to you!” you shouted.
His voice dropped even lower, almost a warning. “Now, now… good girls don’t step out of line like that.”
You shivered, fear tightening your chest.
A crazed desperation sank through his voice as he stepped closer, towering over you. “You think you can just walk away?! After everything I’ve done?! After all the time, all the trust I forced you to give me?!” His breath was heavy, voice trembling with need and anger.
You shook your head, voice trembling but firm. “I don’t belong to you! I never did! You can’t control me!”
A twisted smile curled on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Control? No, no, it’s not about control. It’s about us. About what we are. And you—you’re already mine, whether you admit it or not.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, almost pleading, “You can’t run from this. Not from me.”
You took a shaky step back, heart pounding, but your eyes never left his. “I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s to own.”
His face twisted, the desperation bleeding into something darker. “You’ll see. You’ll understand. Eventually.” He loomed over you, the room closing in, his presence suffocating.
His voice softened, almost breaking, as he stepped even closer, his shadow swallowing you up. “Without you… I have nothing,” he whispered, stepping closer. “You think I’m strong. That I’m in control. But I’m hollow without you—like the statues, incomplete, useless!”
You felt your resolve flicker under the weight of his words, a strange pull tugging at your heart.
“You’re the only piece that makes me whole,” he said, voice low and almost pleading. “You’re the art, the muse, the life I can’t live without.”
Slowly, your strength began to wane, your breath catching in your throat as his words wrapped around you like chains—silent, invisible, but heavy.
He reached out, fingers barely grazing your arm, and whispered, “You belong with me. Not because I said so… but because without you, I’m nothing.”
You shook your head fiercely, voice trembling but firm. “No… you’re crazy! You’re a murderer!”
For a moment, his face twisted—hurt and fury mingling in his eyes. Then, his voice dropped to a cold, quiet threat. “Fine… if that’s how it’s going to be…”
Before you could react, he lunged at you. Your scream ripped through the air as he forced you down onto the ground. Your struggles were desperate but weak against his strength—your resistance barely registering as he manhandled you, holding you tightly, as he pulled a pair of cold, metal handcuffs from his pocket. Before you could fully process what was happening, he fastened them around your wrists with a harsh click.
You struggled, but the cuffs held firm, restricting your movements. Ni-ki leaned down, his voice low and chilling. “Now, you won’t be going anywhere.”
Pulling out a syringe, he popped the cap off. You screamed and writhed but nothing affected him, and before you could react, he pressed it into your arm. A sudden warmth spread through your body, and your vision began to blur, edges softening and spinning.
His voice echoed softly as you slipped away, “These clothes don’t fit you… You need something that shows your beauty.”
The last thing you felt was the heavy pull of unconsciousness, dragging you under.
Waking up, you found yourself lying in the same bed in the manor. Your body felt unbearably heavy, as if every ounce of strength had been drained away. Silent tears slipped down your cheeks, hot and bitter.
You were back. All your desperate attempts, all your hope—it had been for nothing. Who were you kidding, really? Ni-ki was too powerful, too wealthy, and far too obsessed to ever let you go. This was your life now.
So when the door creaked open and Ni-ki stepped inside, your body instinctively reached out, trembling and fragile. Your hands stretched toward him, desperate for something familiar, for something to hold onto in the heavy fog of your fear and exhaustion. The moment he saw your outstretched arms, his eyes lit up, and without hesitation, he closed the space between you in long strides, until he was standing right beside your bed.
You were barely able to keep yourself upright as he leaned down. The tears still streamed down your cheeks, your sobs shaking your entire body, and you clung to him weakly, your voice breaking as you poured out apologies. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... I won’t run away again. Please, I won’t... I swear.”
Ni-ki said nothing at first. Instead, he simply listened, holding you close as your apologies spilled out, his arms steady and unmoving around your trembling frame. His silence was almost unsettling as he let you have the space to pour your guilt and fear into words, absorbing every shaky breath and tearful whisper. Gradually, as your sobs slowed and your voice softened, he brushed your hair away from your face and leaned in close.
His voice dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial whisper against your ear. “I forgive you,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “But you still owe me a punishment. Running away, disobeying me, you know I can’t let that go.”
You nodded slowly, your voice barely more than a whisper, “Yes, yes. I deserve it.”
Ni-ki’s smile curved into a smirk, and he leaned in closer, brushing his fingers gently against your cheek. “Yes, you do… and I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” His lips found yours softly at first, tender and warm, as he wiped away the tears that had been falling without control.
The kiss lingered, growing more intense as you instinctively leaned into him, your hands trembling as they reached up to rest against his chest.
When he finally pulled back, his breath mingled with yours. "Cause only good girls," he murmured, his voice thick with dark affection, "are good muses..."
You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers traced the delicate curve of your lips, then slowly slid down to rest on your throat. The pressure of his hand tightened just enough to make you gasp, your chest rising and falling unevenly. You tried to speak, but your voice failed you completely—caught and swallowed by the lump of fear lodged deep in your throat. You felt yourself shrinking beneath his stare, powerless but utterly captivated.
“I’ll shape you, mold you… just like my art,” he whispered, a promise and a warning wrapped into one. “And every mark, every touch will be a part of the masterpiece only I can create.”
You tried to swallow, desperate to clear the tightness, but your throat rebelled, dry and uncooperative. Drool gathered at the corner of your mouth, and before you could try to wipe it away, it trickled down your chin in slow, warm rivulets. The sight, the sensation, should have embarrassed you, but it only left you feeling more fragile and exposed—completely at his mercy.
Ni-ki’s dark eyes flicked down briefly, noting the small trail of drool with a slow smile. It didn’t bother him at all. Instead, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, messy kiss that swallowed every sound you wanted to make. His mouth was warm and demanding, his breath mingling with yours as he held you tightly against him.
The kiss was neither gentle nor rushed, it was full of raw, twisted affection that overwhelmed you. You felt your resistance slipping away, replaced by a dizzying mix of fear and a strange longing. When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, and his eyes shone with a dark triumph. “I will finish my artwork... and it will be perfect.”
You couldn’t answer him. Your throat still too tight, your body too weak, only able to gasp and shudder beneath his hold. If you were to disappear here, in his grasp, at least you’d be remembered.
synopsis: at decelis academy, Nishimura Riki is the name every single teacher sighs at—a relentless troublemaker with a smirk always plastered on his face. Y/N, the no-nonsense class president, is the complete opposite: disciplined, sharp-tongued, and utterly intolerant of Riki’s constant chaos. The two share one thing—an undeniable hatred for each other that electrifies every classroom they’re in together.
genre: enemies-to-lovers, angst if you squint hard, hurt/comfort, eventual fluff
warnings: mild language, mentions of stress/pressure, mentions of insecurity, use of petnames
word count: 2.7k
naomi’s note: kind of inspired by that song “not another song about love” by hollywood ending 😭 I DONT KNOW IF ANYONE ELSE IS FAMILAR W THAT SONG BUT it was pretty popular as a gacha song in like 2020 SHSKDH it gives off enemies to lovers and i feel that riki is perfect for that trope soo 😚😚 this is my first “long” fic so if it gets boring whoops
The first bell rang with the usual obnoxious clang that echoed through the halls, signalling the start of another miserable day. You yawned tiredly, you had just stayed up quite late because you had a lot to do. You adjusted the sleeves of your blazer and for the millionth time, reminded yourself that today would be no different. Another day of leading your class, dealing with ridiculous drama, and most importantly, the chaos led by Nishimura Riki.
The thought alone was enough to make your head throb. It was always like you had to babysit him, that damn headache. You had enough on your plate—endless student council meetings, keeping your grades at the top of the class, making sure every single corner of Decelis was running smoothly, and you were currently planning for the end of the year gala. But Riki was a force that you simply couldn’t ignore.
A sigh escaped your lips as you entered your first class of the day. And there he was.
Nishimura Riki, lounging in the back of the classroom, feet resting on the table in front of him as if he owned the place. His messy hair fell over his eyes, but his smirk was clear as ever, and it was aimed right at you.
“Morning, Prez,” he called, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Good morning, Nishimura.” you replied, your tone stiff. You ignored the thing your stomach did at the sound of his voice (probably organ failure) You were not going to let him under your skin, not today. You were too tired.
You made your way to the front of the room and soon started taking attendance. When you called Riki’s name, he stood up and bowed sarcastically. You heard snickers across the room before you rolled your eyes faintly “Sit down, Riki.” you said firmly. He sighed in an exasperated manner before obeying and sitting down, putting his head down.
The teacher arrived soon after and class began, but it wasn’t long before his attention shifted back to you. He scribbled something in his notebook, ripped the page out, and, without warning, threw it at her desk toward her. It landed softly on your desk, a direct hit.
You didn’t flinch, already used to his antics. You picked the note up, unbothered, unfolded it, and read it out loud. “Nice hair. Hope it doesn’t get caught in your books”? A laugh spread across the room, though your expression remained the same. “Very funny, Riki. You’ve seriously outdone yourself this time.” you said unamused in a flat tone.
His eyes gleamed with mischief, clearly pleased by your reaction. “Maybe next time I’ll write you a poem. What do you think, Prez?”
“Maybe you should focus on your own grades before trying to write poetry for me.” You shot back, your voice sharp.
The class erupted into small giggles and chuckles. Riki’s smirked faltered just slightly, but only for a second before he responded. “Touché.”
You turned back to the front of the class, satisfied with even just that small falter. You ignored him the rest of the period, but as always, he wasn’t one to let things slide easily. Throughout the lesson, you could feel his eyes on you, glaring at you. The almost palpable tension between you buzzed in the air, thick and suffocating, like static before the storm.
Lunchtime soon came with its usual bustle of students flooding the cafeteria. You were in the lunch line, waiting to get your tray of food, but the chatter around you did nothing to calm your nerves.
And then, of course, he walked in.
Riki strode past you, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, his friends trailing behind him like little puppies. He leaned casually on the railing next to you, leaning closer, close enough for you to feel his breath faintly on your neck.
“You know, Prez,” he said, his voice low but loud enough for you to hear, “you need to loosen up a bit. Did you know that stress is bad for you?”
You refused to turn to look at him. “And you should spend less time bothering me and more time actually trying to pass your classes.”
“Aw, come on,” he said, clearly amused. “I pass enough.”
That tension was there again, that impossible-to-ignore electricity. You clenched your jaw slightly, muttering quietly under your breath “How are you even still in this school?”
He let out a low chuckle. “Guess I have my charm.” His fingers brushed against the edge of your shoulder, and for a split second, you didn’t know why, but your breath hitched. But you composed yourself and refused to let him get the satisfaction of seeing how much that affected you.
But Riki wasn’t done, of course.
“By the way,” he continued, his voice suddenly softer, more casual. “You’ve been looking exhausted and stressed lately. Maybe you need a break.” He leaned in even closer, his face hovering right next to yours, and whispered, “Let me know if you need a real distraction. A stress reliever, if you may call it.”
Your heart skipped a beat at his implication. You fought the urge to turn around and ki—no, slap the smirk right off of his face. Instead, you step away from him, glaring at him. “Do yourself a favor, Riki, and stay away from me. I have enough to deal with.” With that, you walked out the line, deciding to skip lunch and go straight to your next class.
He just watched you walk away, his smirk never fading. “Sure thing, Prez. But you’ll come around eventually!” he calls out.
The days that followed were filled with the same old back-and-forth insults, teasing, and that ever present tension. You stopped trying to understand why he kept pushing your buttons long ago. He wasn’t just a troublemaker, he was a literal maniac—and the fact that he seemed to enjoy the conflict between you only made it worse.
But, somewhere in the middle of all of the arguments, something started to shift. You couldn’t quite place your finger on it, but you began to notice the small things. How he would defend you when someone made a rude comment about you. How he would show up to general meetings on time if it actually mattered, even if it was just to prove he could. You found yourself thinking, just for a second—that maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.
After a particularly stressful day when you had decided to stay back late to finish up some work, you were walking to the classroom when you heard noises from around the corner.
Riki was there, leaning against the wall, his face shadowed by the dim lights of the hallway.
“Hey, Prez,” he said quietly, his usual bravado gone. “You look like you need a break. You’ve been working your ass off, huh?”
You blinked, confused by the tone in his voice. “Huh? What’s your deal?”
He scratched the back of his head, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I know you hate my guts, but I also know you’re under a lot of pressure. The expectations, everything. It sucks.”
You weren’t sure how to respond. It was hard enough to wrap your mind around the fact he was actually being serious. He was talking about pressure? The same boy who always acted like he didn’t have a care in the world?
But there it was—an honest, real moment. No games. No snark.
“Thanks, I guess,” you said, your voice softer than intended. “but I don’t need your need your sympathy, okay?” it sounded a bit harsh, but you pushed that thought back.
Riki’s lips curled into a small, faint smile. Though a genuine one. “Not sympathy, just a reminder. You aren’t alone. If you want to talk.. I’m here. I may not be the best at comforting, but I can listen. For you.”
Your demeanor softened slightly at his words, your guard lowering just a teensy bit. “You mean that?” you respond quietly. “Promise.” he replied.
From that day forward, things between you shifted, not completely, but they did. The teasing never stopped, but there was something different now. A level of understanding beneath your bickering, a softness buried in the snide remarks. Your dynamic wasn’t about fighting anymore—it was more about finding comfort in eachothers company.
As second semester slowlyyy drew to a close, you realized you no longer hated the sight of him. In fact, it was quite hard to imagine a day without his infuriating presence. Though, you still despise when he touches you. You like it so much, that you hate it. You would never outright admit that to him.
Every student at Decelis was running on empty, cramming for exams and surviving on a diet of caffeine and stress. You, however, had one extra responsibility that was both a blessing and a curse: the school’s end-of-the-year gala. The gala we’d been fundraising for since freshman year, and now we’re seniors.
As class president, you were in charge of organizing almost everything. From the venue, to the decorations, to making sure everyone was on their best behavior. It was a huge task, and you made it your personal mission to make this the most flawless gala yet. But as always, that meant hours upon hours of work.
You spent this entire afternoon in the student council room, trying to confirm with the venue, decorations, and all of that. It was getting pretty late, the clock hit 6pm, school had ended 4 hours ago.
A knock on the door interrupted your thoughts. You looked up, expecting your advisor, but instead, Riki was there, leaning on the doorframe with a smirk.
“Well, well, Prez,” his tone light but teasing. “You’re still here? Thought you’d have passed out from all that work by now.”
You barely suppressed a sigh. “I know, I know. But I can’t just let this go, the gala’s coming up already next month and there’s still so much I’ve got to do.”
He pushed off the doorframe and walked towards the desk you were at with his usual confident demeanor. “You’re stressing out again. You know, for someone who’s supposed to be in charge, you sure let the little things bother you.”
“Don’t you have something better to do?” You shot back, only half-joking. “Why are you even here anyway?”
He paused for a moment, then shrugged casually. “I don’t know, I thought you could use some help.”
You blinked, a mix of surprise anf suspicion crossing your face. “You? Help?” Are you sure you know how to do anything other than causing chaos?”
His grin widened. “Well, I may not be the most.. academically inclined student, but I’ve got my strengths. Besides, you could use a little chaos in your life, Y/N. You’re always so uptight.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart did a small flutter when he said your name. He always called you “Prez” so him saying your name was new. You couldn’t help the small smile that spread on your lips. “Fine,” you mutter, shoving a stack of papers in his hands. “You can help by making sure the decorations for the gala are on schedule.”
He grinned, snatching the papers and flipping through them. “Decorations, huh? Easy peasy.”
For a moment, it was quiet—just the two of them in the room, working side by side. He wasn’t the best at following instructions, but he had a way of making things more bearable. His constant teasing wasn’t as annoying as usual, and you actually found yourself laughing and giggling slightly at his antics, even when they made no sense at all.
For the next few weeks, he helped you.
One day, you guys were in the library together, and, you don’t know how, but you’re having a “heart-to-heart” right now.
“I’m not as bad as everyone thinks.” he mutters defensively. “You’re not dumb, Riki. You just.. don’t try.” He stared at you for a moment before letting out a small, dry laugh. “Yeah, well, sometimes it feels pointless to try. Doesn’t matter how hard I work, teachers still see me the same.”
You felt a small pang in your chest. “You know,” you began softly, “it’s not just about the grades. You just.. have to show people you’re much than that.”
He just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, he looked back to the front while walking. “I guess you’re right. But that’s easy for you to say.” you raise a brow slightly “What do you mean?” you ask.
“What I mean is, teachers already love you. You’re class president, no? Everyone loves you.” your expression hardens just slightly, he seemed to notice and quickly spat out “Not in that way, but—“ you cut him off. “Not everyone loves me. There’s still people who talk behind my back, and I know it.” he sighs and mutters quietly “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean— I don’t know why I said that.”
he gently takes your hand, your heart skipping a beat. “I’m sorry. For.. assuming that.” you gulp slightly at his words. “H-Huh? What are you-“ he doesn’t know what came over him, but his lips somehow end up on yours. Your eyes widen, but you find yourself kissing him back. After a while, he pulls away.
You step back, unsure of what to do. “I- I need to go.” his heart drops, just a bit, was it a mistake to you? You quickly walk off. He mutters a curse under his breath. “..Fuck.”
For the next few days, you’d been avoiding him completely. You changed the classroom that you studied in, barely sparing him glances in classes you had together. It’s not like you hated the kiss. It’s the fact you enjoyed it so much, and you wanted more, that’s what you hated. You were scared, scared that you’d fall in too deep. That was a bad thing to you. Growing up, you watched people fall out of love. You were terrified of that happening to you.
The day of the gala came, the venue absolutely packed with people. Everything went accordingly.
That was until you saw him. You tried to avoid him, going opposite to where he was headed. But he eventually saw you and began to walk up to you. Just as you were going to walk away, he gently grabbed your wrist.
“Y/N, please. Let’s talk.” he says, his expression unreadable. You sigh softly and nod reluctantly. He then dragged you to a private corner, maintaining his distance. “I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I don’t know what came over—“ he was soon interrupted.
“Riki, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have avoided you like that, I should have talked to you about how I felt. The truth is, I like you. I really, really like you. Too much, even. I was just scared. I loved your touch so much, and I hated that. But I’ve thought it over and.. I think I want to be with you. I want us to be together.” you sputtered out quickly, avoiding eye contact.
His eyes widened momentarily once you said that, but it was soon replaced with a softer look. “You like me? You mean that?” you nodded quickly, still avoiding eye contact as you play with your dress slightly out of nervousness.
He noticed your nervousness, inwardly chuckling. He grasped your chin slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Can you repeat that? Say you like me.” you gulped slightly, your eyes looking up into his. You got distracted for a second before you responded. “I-I like you.”
He smiled and began to lean in, not too fast but not to slow, he gave you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in as well, kissing him. He quickly encircled your waist with his arms, pulling you closer than you already were. Your hands wrapped around his neck.
After a while, he pulled away, smiling. “Does this make us official?” he asks. “Yes, Riki. I’m yours, you’re mine.” he grins at your response, bringing you into another kiss as he whispers against your lips, “I’m so glad I can call you mine now, baby.”
It was then that you realized, maybe love wasn’t so bad when it was with the right person.
The balcony was quiet, a peaceful escape from the noise of the New Year’s party inside. You leaned against the railing, your scarf wrapped tightly around you as the city lights twinkled in the distance. Jungwon slipped through the sliding door, his steps light but purposeful.
“Found you,” he said, his breath visible in the cold night air.
“Wasn’t exactly hiding,” you replied, turning to face him.
He stepped closer, leaning on the railing beside you. “Still, I couldn’t just let you freeze out here alone.”
You smiled softly. “I just needed a break. It’s too chaotic in there.”
“Yeah, but now you’re missing the countdown.”
“Maybe I don’t care about the countdown,” you teased, glancing at him.
Jungwon tilted his head, his lips tugging into a small, knowing smile. “Or maybe you just didn’t want anyone to ask you for a New Year’s kiss.”
Your cheeks warmed, and you turned back to the view. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So,” he continued, ignoring your protest, “who’s the lucky person you’re avoiding? Is it me? Should I be offended?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“Five! Four!”
The distant cheers from inside grew louder. Jungwon straightened up, his tone shifting from teasing to gentle. “You know, if you were avoiding me, I’d probably deserve it.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”
“Three! Two!”
He shifted closer, his face inches from yours now. His voice softened, his usual playful tone replaced with sincerity. “Just saying… if there’s anyone I’d want to kiss at midnight, it’s you.”
“One!”
Before you could respond, fireworks lit up the sky, their vibrant colors illuminating Jungwon’s nervous but hopeful expression. Gathering your courage, you reached up, pulling him down for a kiss that was warm and sweet, a perfect contrast to the chilly night.
When you pulled back, his wide smile made you laugh. “Happy New Year, Won.”
He grinned, his eyes sparkling brighter than the fireworks. “Happy New Year, Y/N.”
naomi’s note: this was requested by someone but i cant reply to itt and i have not yet figured out how to tag people so i hope you see this 🥲 this is also so short omg i put this tg so quickly im sorry !! hopefully this lives to ur expectations hbsjshd thank you for this idea i actually love it sm
The wind whipped through your hair as you stepped off the bus, your fingers gripping the strap of your bag like a lifeline. You had no idea where you were going, you only knew you couldn’t go back. The weight of his words still sat heavily on your chest, suffocating and raw.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. With a shaky hand, you pulled it out. Sunghoon’s name flashed on the screen.
You hesitated before answering. “Hey…” Your voice cracked.
“Y/N?” Sunghoon’s tone was immediately alert. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted, glancing around at the unfamiliar street. “I just needed to get away.”
There was a pause on the other end before he spoke again, firm and steady. “Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”
You didn’t argue. You didn’t have the strength to.
The headlights of Sunghoon’s car cut through the darkness as he pulled up. He stepped out quickly, his brows furrowed with worry as he scanned your face. Without a word, he opened the passenger door and gestured for you to get in.
The ride was silent, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Sunghoon didn’t press you for details, giving you the space you so desperately needed. Instead, he let the soft hum of the radio fill the quiet, the melody soothing in its simplicity.
When you arrived at his apartment, he handed you a pair of his sweats and a hoodie. “Go get comfortable,” he said. “I’ll make us some tea.”
By the time you emerged from the bathroom, the tension in your shoulders slightly eased, Sunghoon was waiting on the couch with two steaming mugs. A plate of cookies—your favorite kind—sat on the table beside him.
“You remembered these?” you asked, a small, surprised smile tugging at your lips.
“Of course,” he said, grinning. “They’ve always been your favorite. Thought they might help.”
The simple gesture brought warmth to your chest. You curled up beside him, pulling the blanket he had draped over the back of the couch around your shoulders.
When you finally started to talk, the words came tumbling out in a rush. “I stayed too long. I thought I could fix it—I thought I could fix him. But all I did was lose myself in the process.”
Your voice cracked, and you stared down at your mug, your fingers trembling. “He made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Like I was hard to love.”
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his mug. But when he spoke, his voice was calm, gentle. “Y/N, listen to me. You were never the problem. You are more than enough—he just couldn’t see it. That’s on him, not you.”
Tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them. “Why do I feel so broken, then?”
“You’re not broken,” he said, leaning closer. “You’re hurt, but you’re still here. And that means you’re stronger than you think.”
His words wrapped around you like a shield, offering you the strength you couldn’t find in yourself. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to cry—really cry—without holding back. Sunghoon moved closer, pulling you into his arms. His embrace was steady and warm, his fingers gently brushing through your hair soothingly as he let you fall apart in the safety of his presence.
The next morning, you woke up to the smell of something sweet. You shuffled into the kitchen to find Sunghoon standing at the stove, flipping pancakes.
“You’re making breakfast?” you asked, your voice still hoarse from crying.
He turned to you with a small smile. “You didn’t eat much last night. Thought you might be hungry.”
Something about his quiet thoughtfulness made your chest tighten. You sat at the counter, watching him move around the kitchen with ease.
“Why are you so good to me?” you asked softly.
He paused, setting a plate of pancakes in front of you. “Because you deserve it,” he said simply. “And because I care about you. A lot.”
Your breath hitched. Sunghoon had always been there for you, always steady and unwavering, but hearing him say it aloud was different.
Later that week, Sunghoon surprised you with a movie night. But it wasn’t just any movie night—he’d pulled out all the stops. Fairy lights were strung up around his living room, a makeshift fort made of blankets and pillows dominating the space.
“What is this?” you asked, laughing in surprise.
He shrugged, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “I figured you could use some fun. Plus, I know you’ve always loved blanket forts.”
The childlike wonder of it all made your heart swell. As the two of you settled into the fort, a bowl of popcorn between you, Sunghoon handed you a mug of hot chocolate topped with an impressive amount of marshmallows.
“This is ridiculous,” you said, laughing as you took a sip.
One snowy afternoon, the two of you decided to go for a walk in the park. The world was blanketed in white, and the air was crisp and quiet.
At some point, Sunghoon bent down and scooped up a handful of snow. You barely had time to react before he tossed it lightly in your direction, hitting your shoulder.
“Did you just—?” you began, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Gotta be faster than that,” he teased, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Before you could think twice, you grabbed a handful of snow and lobbed it at him, laughter bubbling out of you. What started as a playful snowball fight ended with Sunghoon pulling you into a hug to keep you from pelting him with another snowball.
“You’re relentless,” he said, laughing as he looked down at you.
“You started it,” you shot back, grinning.
He didn’t let go right away, and neither did you. For a moment, the world seemed to still, and the warmth in his gaze made your heart skip a beat.
That evening, as you sat on his couch, sharing a blanket and sipping on tea, you turned to him, your voice soft. “Sunghoon?”
“Yeah?” he replied, his eyes locking with yours.
“Thank you,” you said. “For being here. For…everything.”
He smiled gently, his fingers brushing against yours. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad I could be here for you.”
You hesitated, then reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “I think I’m starting to see what you’ve been trying to show me. That I can be loved for who I am.”
“You can,” he said, his voice steady. “And you deserve to be.”
As you rested your head on his shoulder, you realized that with Sunghoon by your side, you were finally beginning to heal. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.
synopsis: after a big fight, sunghoon completely disappeared. now, years later, you’re having to spend yet another Christmas alone.
genre: light angst, fluff, second chance
word count: 0.6k
naomi’s note: this lowkey sucks and i rushed it but i’m loving all of these christmas fics ahh 😭😭 i’m gonna try to make my fics longer cuz they always end up under 1k lol
The snowstorm was relentless, covering the city in a thick, white blanket. You stood by the window of your dimly lit apartment, watching the flakes swirl outside. The warm glow of your Christmas tree illuminated the room, but it didn’t feel festive. It felt… empty.
You sighed, clutching the mug of hot cocoa in your hands, and glanced at the clock. 10:23 PM. Two hours and it would be Christmas.
Your heart twisted as you thought about Sunghoon. You hadn’t seen him in over a year—not since the fight.
It had been ugly. He was overwhelmed with his skating career, constantly traveling, barely replying to your texts. You had felt like an afterthought, and when you confronted him, it all exploded. He said you didn’t understand the pressure he was under, and you said he didn’t care enough to make time for you.
He’d walked out that night, leaving you standing in the doorway with tears streaming down your face. You thought he’d come back, thought he’d call, but the silence stretched on, day after day, month after month.
Now, as Christmas approached, all you could think about was him. The way he used to drag you out into the snow to go ice skating, how he always pretended to lose so you could win your snowball fights. The way he’d hold your hand and tell you that you were his home, no matter where his career took him.
A soft knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. You frowned, setting your mug down and crossing the room.
When you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat.
“Sunghoon?”
He stood there, snow clinging to his dark hair and coat, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place—regret? Hope?
“Hi,” he said softly, his voice almost lost in the howling wind.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice trembling.
“I know I’m the last person you want to see,” he began, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “But I couldn’t let another Christmas go by without trying to fix this.”
Your heart ached as you looked at him, the familiar features you’d missed so much. “You left, Sunghoon. You didn’t even try stay. How could you leave so easily after one fight? Why didn’t you find a reason to—”
“I know,” he interrupted, his voice breaking. “I know I hurt you. And I’ve spent every single day wishing I could take it back.”
You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in.
“I was scared,” he admitted, his eyes glistening. “I thought if I let myself get too close, I’d lose everything. But the truth is, I lost everything the moment I lost you.”
Tears spilled down your cheeks as you tried to process what he was saying. “You can’t just show up after all this time and expect everything to be okay.”
“I don’t expect that,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “But I had to try. Because… all I want, all I’ve ever wanted, is you.”
You wiped at your tears, your heart torn between anger and the love you couldn’t deny. “How do I know you won’t leave again?”
“You don’t,” he said honestly. “But I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I won’t.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind outside. Then, slowly, you stepped aside, letting him into the warmth of your apartment.
As he closed the door behind him, he looked at you, your voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t break my heart again, Sunghoon.”
He reached out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek. “Never.”
He kissed you softly, bringing his hands to wrap around your waist. The kiss was gentle and tender, full of longing. The years of pent up emotions pouring out.
And as the clock struck midnight, you let yourself believe in second chances.
naomi’s note: based on the song “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call” by The Bleachers, it’s really good 🥹 tbh when i heard it for the first time, i cried-/!;&/); honestly most of my writing is based off of songs ahsgja
Snow fell in hushed whispers across the city, blanketing the streets in a soft glow. The kind of night where you could hear your own thoughts too loud, even amidst the hum of Christmas carolers and distant church bells. You sat alone on the worn leather couch of your apartment, the only light coming from a crooked string of Christmas lights half-heartedly draped across the window.
The phone sat on the coffee table, you were waiting for a call. A call that came every Christmas for the past three years since you broke up. You always told him to stop calling you, but he always reached out around this time. You told yourself you hated it, that you couldn’t do anything about him calling you. But in reality, you didn’t want to go no-contact with him.
You ran your fingers through your unkempt hair and stared out at the city. Somewhere out there, he was. Probably laughing at some party or singing a tune, the way he always did on Christmas Eve.
It had been his idea to break things off. “We’re better apart,” he’d said, his voice cracking just enough to betray his resolve. And yet, here you were, a wine glass in hand and a thousand unsaid words hanging in the air.
You picked up your old camera, going back to the date of Christmas from years ago. You found yourself staring at a memory you had recorded. You cursed yourself for beginning to watch it.
It had been three years since you had recorded it in your tiny bedroom, your laughter mingling with the sound of his chuckles in the distance. It was always a happy memory for you. But now, it was a bitter reminder of everything that had gone wrong.
Flashback.
You and Heeseung were in your room, he was practicing the song he recently wrote, he always loved writing songs for you. You secretly started recording on your camera, giggling behind the screen. He caught you. “Baby, what do you think you’re doing, hm?”
You huff, “I want to record you.” he chuckled softly. “You know I don’t like when you do that, don’t you?” he teased. You sigh softly. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, I guueesss.” he rolled his eyes jokingly. “Give me a kiss, baby. To make up for it.” Your eyes lit up and you immediately wrap your arms around him and peck him on the lips. He grinned and you suddenly felt his grip tighten on you, he began to tickle you as revenge. Both of your laughter faded into the back of your mind as the video ended.
End of flashback.
You clenched your jaw and leaned forward, picking up the phone. You were debating on calling him instead. Your thumb hovered over his name in your contacts. You wondered if he’d even answer. Would he smile when he saw your name light up his screen? Or would it sting, like it did for you?
You set the phone down.
“I.. cant. Not tonight.” you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible over the crackle of the fireplace.
Across town, he was sitting on his own couch, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his own phone glowing beside him. He’d thought about calling you. God, he’d thought about it a thousand times tonight. He missed your stupid jokes, the way you always complained about Christmas music, and the warmth of your laugh when you finally caved and sang along to his adorable, silly songs.
But he didn’t call. Not tonight. It was better like this anyway, right? It was never healthy to keep in touch with an ex you still loved so much. Too much.
The city hummed with life as the snow continued to fall, muffling everything except the unspoken words they both wished they could say.
