NotGalli

Your PHS and LBH Literary Writer. 🇵🇭🇩🇪 [WRITING COMMISSION OPEN]

[filthygalli]

Hello! I’m Galli, i’m a college student, 19!

I usually write whenever i got the chance or the idea, i also write mostly under the theme NSFW so please MDNI!! But i’m open to explore any genre when it comes to writing, i love to read and write! Anyways, i hope you like my works below! 🖤

My blog is open for all (just not with minors) i mainly write for Actors and fictional characters, more to come soon! 🔜

Feel free to hit me up if you want to talk about things like fandoms or my works! I would love to interact to my readers so much!

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Tags to navigate my posts:

#🧸: LBH #🐥: PHS #🥃: Hwang In-Ho

#🚬: Masked Officer #🥂: InHun/457

#🦇: FilthyGalli

(I do not own any of this pictures that's been used to my blog, credits to the owners)

MORTAL KOMBAT (XL, 11, and 1)

Actors (Male actors)

001 x 456 (Squid Game)

InFicer (Squid Game)

Formula 1 (Male drivers and Team Principal)

Yoochul (No Other Choice)

[filthygalli]

Do u do F reader x character fanfics for mortal kombat?

Omg anon I haven’t written mk for a while, but yeah I do!! I just don’t write on them often to post but to keep for myself lol!!

I have written for johnny, kenshi, bi-han, and kuai liang

[filthygalli]

Wow!! I just watched “No Other Choice” and loved your fic!! You should consider re-writing the scene where he accuses his wife of sleeping with the other man and makes her give him her panties to sniff. 😩

When I first watched NOC i did consider writing the whole part starting from the part Mansoo would kill beommo til the panty sniffing scene lol!

I was originally gonna make miri (which will be yn) have sex with mansoo during that scene aaaaa

[filthygalli]

The Taste of Devotion

Oneshot: Fem! Reader x Husband! Yoo Man-soo

Main Masterlist

LBH Masterlist

Warnings: Lactation kink, Adult themes, nipple sucking, Submissive! Yoo Mansoo, seunsual kissing

Word Count: 2539

Author's Note: Back from the dead loll! I fear this kink is mainly for mansoo omgggg go get your milk unccc

Taglist: (Join by letting me know)

@rimzaaa @alex-17s-world @sylviavf @sweetstrawberrianne @animelight128 @yxluana @carolinevoight @itsmoonchik @watasinekoru @liliannaroses @maah-sama @thedreamingreaper @sebbymybaby21 @l0vefanficti0n @lazybum0 @astronomicalastro-blog1 @hoffmanfan13 @startled-cats @mostlyyours @matchami1k @frontwomann @behabeha @barbiebabieeex @justsisse @hornylittlesimp @casuallystrangeutopia @aeriikiesss @ilovebyunghunlee @Shristiashish @darkblueeyedperson @bh7vens

The soft click of the front door pulls your attention from the kitchen sink, hands still submerged in warm, soapy water. You don’t turn around. You know the rhythm of those footsteps—the slight shuffle of dress shoes against the hardwood floor of the entryway, the pause by the shoe rack, the tired exhale that follows.

“I’m home.”

Mansoo’s voice floats down the hallway, gentle and unhurried, the same way it’s sounded for the seven years you’ve been married. There’s a weight to it tonight, though. A particular kind of heaviness that you’ve learned to recognize.

“In here,” you call back, drying your hands on the dish towel draped over your shoulder.

He appears in the kitchen doorway a moment later, still in his work shirt—light blue, sleeves rolled to his elbows—and you catch the way his eyes find you immediately, the way they always do. But tonight, there’s something different in his gaze. It lingers. It dips.

You’ve been a mother of two for four months now. Ri-one, your second, is sleeping in the nursery down the hall, her tiny chest rising and falling in the crib that used to belong to your son. Your body still hasn’t forgotten what it’s supposed to do. It reminds you constantly—an ache behind your breasts, a fullness that builds throughout the day, the occasional damp spot on your nursing bra when Ri-one cries and you can’t get to her fast enough.

Mansoo crosses the kitchen and wraps his arms around you from behind, his chest pressing against your shoulder blades, his chin settling into the curve of your neck. His hands rest on your stomach, just below your ribs, and you feel him breathe in deeply.

“Long day?” you ask, leaning back into him.

“Mm.” His lips brush the skin just below your ear. “Better now.”

His thumbs trace small circles against the fabric of your shirt. It’s nothing new—Mansoo has always been tactile, always reaching for you in small ways, a hand on your lower back, fingers intertwined with yours during car rides, his palm resting on your thigh under the dinner table. But lately, the touches have shifted. His hands drift higher. They pause. They hover.

“How’s Ri-one?” he murmurs.

“Fed and asleep. She’ll probably wake up around two.”

“And you?” His voice drops, barely above a whisper. “How are you feeling?”

The question is loaded. You both know it.

Your breasts ache. They’ve been aching since three o’clock this afternoon, when you realized you’d missed your usual pumping session because Ri-one had been fussy and your son needed help with his homework and the laundry needed switching and by the time you remembered, the tightness had already settled deep into the tissue, heavy and insistent.

“I’m okay,” you say. A deflection.

Mansoo’s hands shift upward. Just barely. Just enough that his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts through your shirt, and you inhale sharply—not from surprise, but from the pressure. It’s not painful, exactly. It’s something else. Something that radiates outward like heat through water.

“You’re full,” he says quietly. Not a question.

Your cheeks are warm. Even after seven years, even after two children, there’s something about Mansoo’s quiet observations that undoes you. He’s never demanding. Never insistent. He simply notices, and he names what he notices, and he waits for you to decide what to do with it.

“I skipped pumping,” you admit.

His lips press against your neck. Soft. Chaste. Prolonged.

“Let me help.”

The words hang in the air between you, and your body responds before your mind can catch up—a sudden, sharp tightening in your nipples, a prickle of moisture. You feel the dampness spread against the padded fabric of your nursing bra, and you know Mansoo feels it too, because his thumbs are right there, tracing the curve of underwire, and his breath hitches against your skin.

“Please,” he adds, so softly you almost miss it. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

You turn in his arms, facing him for the first time since he walked through the door. His eyes are dark, pupils wide, but his expression is open. Earnest. There’s a vulnerability there that makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with milk.

Mansoo has always been gentle. Too gentle, your mother once said, and you’d bristled at the implication. That gentleness is what you’d craved, after years of dating men who grabbed and demanded and took. Mansoo asks. Mansoo waits. Mansoo looks at you like you’re something precious, something to be savored rather than consumed.

His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a conversation. His lips part, and your mouth opens to him, and for a long moment, you just breathe each other in.

His hands slide down your neck, over your shoulders, along your arms. He pulls back, forehead resting against yours.

“The bedroom?”

You nod.

He takes your hand and leads you down the hallway, past the nursery door—closed, the baby monitor on the nightstand inside transmitting soft static to the receiver in your bedroom—and into the room you’ve shared for nearly a decade. The curtains are half-drawn, the late evening light filtering through in shades of amber and rose. The bed is unmade, pillows askew from your earlier attempt at a nap that Ri-one had interrupted with her hungry wails.

Mansoo doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is entirely on you.

He sits on the edge of the bed and guides you to stand between his knees. His hands find the hem of your shirt, fingers slipping beneath the cotton, and he looks up at you with that expression—the one that asks permission, even now, even after all this time.

“Can I?”

Your throat tightens. “Yes.”

He lifts the shirt slowly, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the faint silver lines that map where your children grew, the curve of your ribs. The fabric catches on your breasts, and you wince at the pressure, the sensitivity. Mansoo’s hands still immediately.

“Sore?”

“A little.”

He’s more careful then, easing the shirt up and over your head, and then his fingers are on the clasp of your nursing bra—the utilitarian one with the wide straps and the front clips, the one you never imagined would be the focus of someone’s desire. But Mansoo’s breath shudders out of him when the clasps release, when the cups fall away, when your breasts are bare before him.

The cool air hits your skin, and your nipples tighten painfully. A bead of milk wells at the tip of your left breast, pearlescent and white, catching the light. Mansoo makes a sound—something between a groan and a sigh—and his hands rise to cup you, palms warm and careful, thumbs stroking the undersides where the weight is heaviest.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so beautiful.”

Your breasts are different than they were before children. Fuller, heavier, the areolae darker and wider, blue veins visible beneath the surface like rivers on a map. The skin is stretched taut, almost glossy, and when Mansoo applies the slightest pressure, another bead of milk appears, larger this time, threatening to roll down the curve of your breast.

He catches it with his thumb, spreading the moisture across your skin, and you gasp at the sensation—relief and sensitivity tangled together.

“Lie down,” he says gently.

You do. The mattress accepts your weight, the familiar dip of the pillow cradling your head, and Mansoo stretches out beside you, propped on one elbow. His free hand moves across your collarbone, down your sternum, tracing the valley between your breasts with something approaching reverence.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says. “Tell me to stop. Tell me anything.”

He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over your left nipple.

The first pull is gentle—barely more than a kiss—but your body responds instantly. The milk lets down in a rush, a sudden release of pressure that borders on painful before it tips into something else entirely. A moan escapes your throat, involuntary and raw, and your hand comes up to grip the back of Mansoo’s head, fingers threading through his dark hair.

He suckles slowly, deliberately, his tongue pressing against the underside of your nipple, and you feel the milk flow from you in warm, rhythmic pulses. It’s functional—your body doing exactly what it was designed to do—but it’s also something more. Something deeper. The intimacy of it steals your breath.

Mansoo’s eyes are closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and there’s an expression on his face you’ve rarely seen before. Concentration, yes, but also satisfaction. Peace. Like he’s found exactly where he belongs.

He switches sides without being asked, his mouth releasing your left breast with a soft, wet sound before moving to the right. This one is fuller—you’d favored the left during Ri-one’s last feeding—and the milk comes faster, a thin stream that escapes the corner of Mansoo’s mouth and trickles down his chin before he can catch it.

He pulls back, and you watch him swallow, his throat working, his tongue sweeping across his lower lip.

“You taste…” He shakes his head, seemingly unable to find the right word. His voice is husky, rougher than usual. “Sweet. Warm. Like you.”

Your face flushes. You’ve never been good at accepting compliments—not really—and something about this feels more intimate than any praise you’ve ever received. This is your body, sustaining your children, and Mansoo is here, in this private space that motherhood carved out of you, telling you it’s beautiful.

His hand cups your right breast, thumb stroking the side where the skin is stretched tightest, and he watches another bead of milk form at the tip. It trembles there, held by surface tension, before gravity pulls it down in a thin rivulet that traces the curve of your breast and disappears into the crease beneath.

“You’re still so full,” he murmurs, and there’s wonder in his voice. Wonder and something else. Something that makes his eyes darken and his breathing deepen. “I can feel how heavy you are. Does it ache?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Let me take care of you.”

His mouth returns to your breast, and this time, he’s less tentative. The suction is stronger, his tongue more insistent, and your back arches off the mattress as the sensation intensifies. The release is immediate and profound—a loosening of the tightness you’ve been carrying all afternoon, a warmth that spreads from your chest outward through your limbs. Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you hear yourself make a sound that’s half-relief, half-pleasure.

His hand moves to your other breast, not to be idle, but to knead gently—pressing and releasing in rhythm with his mouth. Milk beads at the neglected nipple, trickling over his knuckles, and he catches the stream with his thumb, spreading it across your skin in slow, circular motions.

“That’s it,” he breathes against your skin, and the praise sends a shiver down your spine. “You’re doing so well. Just let go. Let me have this.”

The words settle somewhere deep in your chest, warm and glowing. Mansoo has always been like this—generous with his affirmations, lavish with his attention—but there’s something about this moment, this particular act, that makes the praise land differently. He’s not just telling you you’re beautiful. He’s showing you. He’s drinking from you like you’re the only source of sustenance he’s ever known.

He switches breasts again, and you lose track of time. Minutes dissolve into the rhythm of his mouth—suckle, swallow, breathe, repeat—and the pressure in your chest slowly, gradually eases. The ache fades. The tightness releases. What remains is a different kind of fullness, a warmth that has nothing to do with milk and everything to do with the man beside you, his lips sealed around your nipple, his hand cradling your breast like it’s something sacred.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are glossy, his chin damp. He looks almost drunk—eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled from where your fingers have been pulling at it.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He smiles—that soft, gentle smile that first made you fall in love with him—and leans down to press a kiss to the swell of your breast, right where the skin is mottled pink from his mouth. “Good. I hate seeing you uncomfortable.”

His hand drifts lower, over your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your leggings. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. He simply rests his palm against your hip and looks at you with those dark, patient eyes.

“Can I hold you?” he asks.

You nod again, and he shifts, rearranging both of you until your back is pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in the curve of your neck. One hand comes up to cup your breast again—not suckling now, just holding, his palm warm and steady against the sensitive skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your shoulder.

The words surprise a laugh out of you, soft and breathless. “For what?”

“For letting me. For trusting me.” His thumb strokes idle circles around your areola, and you feel another bead of moisture escape, trickling down to wet his fingers. “I know it’s… different. This. I know it’s not what most husbands want. But I can’t help it.” His voice drops even lower, barely audible. “When I see you like this—full and soft and so beautiful—I just want to be close to you. I want to take care of you. I want…” He trails off, and you feel his throat work against your shoulder as he swallows.

“Tell me,” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a long moment. His hand stills on your breast, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

“I want to be the one who helps you,” he finally says. “Not just the kids. Not just the pump. Me. I want to be the one who makes you feel better when it hurts. I want to be the one you come to.”

Something cracks open in your chest. All these months—since Ri-one was born, since your milk came in, since Mansoo first looked at your swollen breasts with something more than concern—you’d assumed it was a physical thing. A kink. Something primal and simple. But this is different. This is Mansoo, your gentle, submissive, endlessly devoted husband, asking to be needed.

You turn in his arms, facing him on the pillow. His eyes are wet. Not crying, exactly—but close. The vulnerability in his expression makes your heart clench.

“You are,” you say, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You’re the one I come to. You’ve always been the one.”

His breath shudders out of him, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand finds your breast again—not demanding, just resting there, as if the contact itself is what he craves. Milk still leaks from you in slow, intermittent pulses, dampening his palm, but neither of you acknowledges it. It’s just there. A fact of your body. A fact of this moment.

“I love you,” he says. Simple. Earnest.

“I love you too.”

[filthygalli]

I have an idea where Y/N tries a ‘rent-a-boyfriend/husband’ app because her friend suggested it to her since she’s an NBSB girl. He fell inlove with her after that and want to be more you know, any LBH character will do ^_^ And can you somehow include all of his characters in the app? Like, there are many choices to pick from, but they’re all characters played by him (I hope you get it I'm bad at explaining😭)

I can't stop thinking about it ever since I saw a video from a tourist in japan while I was scrolling through tiktok>_<

This is like some boyfriend shopping and it’s all lbh😭😭😭 i love this omg😭😭😭

[filthygalli]

Good omens 3 ending is like watching Squid Game S3 all over again…

[filthygalli]

The Ghost In The Rain

Oneshot: Fem! Reader x Kang Jae-Hoon

Main Masterlist

LBH Masterlist

Warnings: Mentions of death, self blame, Suicide, smoking, drinking, Hallucinations, canon death of a character:3

Word Count: 2513

Author's Notes: This might be a little confusing!! :3

Taglist: (Join by letting me know!)

@rimzaaa @alex-17s-world @sylviavf @sweetstrawberrianne @animelight128 @yxluana @carolinevoight @itsmoonchik @watasinekoru @liliannaroses @maah-sama @thedreamingreaper @sebbymybaby21 @l0vefanficti0n @lazybum0 @astronomicalastro-blog1 @hoffmanfan13 @startled-cats @mostlyyours @matchami1k @frontwomann @behabeha @barbiebabieeex @justsisse @hornylittlesimp @casuallystrangeutopia @aeriikiesss @ilovebyunghunlee @Shristiashish @darkblueeyedperson @bh7vens

The rain wasn’t heavy, but it was persistent. A fine, grey drizzle that blurred the outlines of Seoul’s evening lights, turning the bustling streets into a watercolor painting of smeared neon and washed-out concrete. You stood under the awning of a café you’d never visited before, waiting for a friend who was, predictably, late. The damp chill seeped through your jacket, and you pulled it tighter, your gaze drifting across the street to the towering office building opposite.

It was just a shape in the mist, but you knew it. You knew which floor housed the offices of Solace Architecture. You knew, because for eleven years, you’d known everything about Kang Jae-Hoon.

A year.

Twelve months of silence.

Three hundred and sixty-five days of a life that felt… lighter, somehow. Empty, but lighter. Like you’d shed a heavy, beautifully crafted coat you’d worn for so long you’d forgotten it wasn’t actually part of your skin.

The breakup hadn’t been dramatic. There was no screaming, no discovered betrayal, no bitter revelation. It had been a quiet, terrible thing. You’d sat in the living room of the apartment you shared—the one he’d bought because it had a balcony big enough for the future garden you’d talked about—and you’d said the words that felt like dropping a stone into a still pond.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

He hadn’t argued. He hadn’t defended himself. His face, usually so warm and open, had just… folded inwards. Those dark brown eyes, the ones that had always seemed to hold a separate, private sun just for you, went flat. Dim.

“What did I do?” he’d asked, his voice soft, almost confused. “Tell me. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything.”

You couldn’t tell him. Because there was nothing to fix. He did everything right. He remembered your parents’ birthdays. He learned to make your favorite stew because your mother’s recipe was “a secret.” He worked long hours but always, always, texted you a picture of his desk at midnight with a simple “Miss you. Home soon.” He planned surprises—weekend trips to Busan, tickets to obscure art exhibits he thought you’d like, a sudden dinner at that ridiculously expensive place you’d pointed at in a magazine once.

He loved you. He cared for you. He bought everything you wanted.

And it felt… odd.

It felt like being wrapped in a perfect, suffocating blanket. Every gesture was so considered, so precise, so devoted, that it began to echo in the empty spaces of your own heart. You stopped feeling like a partner. You started feeling like a precious object on a shelf, lovingly polished every day, but never actually held. The future he saw—the marriage, the children, the house with that garden—was a meticulously drawn blueprint. You were the central figure in the sketch, but you couldn’t see yourself moving within it. You couldn’t breathe.

So you left.

He begged. He didn’t raise his voice. He just knelt there, on the rug you’d picked out together, and he apologized. Over and over. For things he hadn’t done. For being too much. For not being enough. He saw his future with you, and you were just too blind—or too scared—to see if there was even a future with a man who loved you too much. A love so intense it left burns where it touched.

You walked out. You never heard from him again.

Not a text. Not a call. Not a letter. A clean, surgical severance.

Your friend, Mi-Ra, finally arrived, breathless and apologizing. “The traffic! It’s insane!” She linked her arm with yours, pulling you into the café’s warmth. “Come on, I need caffeine before I can even think about dinner.”

You followed, but your eyes flicked back to that office building. You’d heard things, of course. Through the fragile, gossamer network of mutual acquaintances that remains after a long relationship dies. Whispers. Fragments.

He’s not the same.

He works all night.

He doesn’t talk to anyone.

He looks… grey.

One of his old colleagues, a man you’d once shared a few beers with, had seen you at a subway station months ago and, with a face full of uneasy pity, had said, “You know, he still wears the watch you gave him. Even though it’s broken. The glass is cracked, and it doesn’t tick anymore.”

That image had stayed with you. A broken watch on the wrist of a broken man.

The café was cozy, overpriced, and full of the murmur of other people’s lives. You ordered a tea you didn’t really want and sat across from Mi-Ra, who was already diving into the latest drama in her own life. You listened, you nodded, you smiled at the right places. But your mind was a ghost, wandering the halls of a memory you’d tried to lock away.

Jae-Hoon laughing, head thrown back, at a stupid joke you’d made.

Jae-Hoon sleeping, his face finally relaxed from the constant, gentle tension of his care.

Jae-Hoon holding your hand in a hospital waiting room when your father was sick, his grip so solid you thought you could lean your entire weight on it and never fall.

Then, the other images, the ones you’d pieced together from whispers:

Jae-Hoon sitting alone at his desk at 3 a.m., the blue light of his computer the only thing illuminating the empty office.

Jae-Hoon at a bar, staring at a glass of something amber, not drinking it, just staring.

Jae-Hoon smoking outside his building—a habit he’d quit for you seven years ago.

A man moving through his days like a machine: work, sleep, repeat. A ghost in his own life.

He was blaming himself. You knew that. He was replaying every moment of those eleven years, looking for the crack, the flaw, the moment he failed. He would never find it, because it wasn’t there. The flaw was in the perfectness. The failure was a love that built a museum around you instead of a home.

Mi-Ra’s story reached its climax, and she took a dramatic sip of her latte. “So, what about you? Any new… prospects?”

You shook your head, a faint, automatic smile on your lips. “No. Not really.”

“Still healing, huh?” she said, her tone dipping into sympathy. “It was a long time. It’s okay to take more time.”

Healing. The word felt wrong. You weren’t wounded. You were… detached. You had performed the detachment yourself. But the phantom limb of that relationship still twitched sometimes, sending a pang of something—guilt, regret, a hollow sadness—through you.

“I’m fine,” you said, and the words tasted like the bland tea in your cup.

The drizzle turned to a proper rain as you left the café an hour later. Mi-Ra went her way, you went yours. Your path, unintentionally or perhaps guided by some deep, magnetic pull of remorse, took you closer to that office building. You didn’t plan to see him. You didn’t plan to do anything. You just… walked.

And then you saw him.

Not inside. Not through a window. He was outside, standing under the scant shelter of the building’s main entrance overhang, waiting for a taxi or just… standing. He was taller than the men around him, his posture once proud and easy, now just… straight. Like a soldier at rest. His dark brown hair, usually so carefully styled, was damp from the rain and fell in a simple, unkempt way across his forehead. He wore a dark suit, but it hung on him differently. He’d lost weight.

His hands were in his pockets, and he was looking down at the wet pavement, not seeing the traffic, not seeing the people hurrying past. He was a statue of solitude.

Your breath stopped. Your feet stopped. You were across the street, partially hidden by a bus stop, but you could see him clearly. The year had etched changes into his face. There was a new tightness around his mouth. Shadows under his eyes that weren’t just from the poor light. He looked older. He looked empty.

The watch. You couldn’t see it from here, but you imagined it. The cracked glass. The silent hands.

A taxi pulled up. He didn’t seem to notice it until the driver honked lightly. Then he moved, his motion slow, almost weary. He opened the door and slid inside, a man entering a capsule that would carry him from one empty space to another.

The taxi merged into the stream of traffic and was gone.

You stood there, the rain now soaking through your hair, chilling your scalp. You felt a cold that wasn’t from the weather. It was the cold of seeing a ruin you’d created. A vibrant, loving man reduced to a silhouette of grief and self-recrimination.

You’d told yourself you’d done the right thing. For you. For your freedom. For your chance to find a love that felt like a partnership, not a devotion. But looking at that ghost of him, you wondered if “right” was a concept that could ever be applied to something that caused such… erasure.

You walked home, your apartment that was now just yours. It was smaller. It was quieter. It had no balcony for a future garden. You made no tea. You just sat on your sofa, in the dark, and let the evening settle around you.

Your phone buzzed. A notification. A social media update from a group you barely followed. You opened it, scrolling absently, until a picture stopped you.

It was from a charity fundraiser event two nights prior. A gallery of photos. And there, in one corner of a group shot, was Jae-Hoon. He was there because his firm had sponsored the event. He was standing slightly apart from the crowd, holding a glass of something, not smiling. His eyes were on the distance, not on the camera. Someone had tagged him. His profile was still there, still active. You hadn’t blocked him. He hadn’t blocked you. It was just… silence.

You clicked on his name. His profile was sparse. A single picture from five years ago—a landscape, not a person. No posts. No updates. But his list of friends was still there. And his workplace. And his city.

And a link to his firm’s website.

You shouldn’t. You knew you shouldn’t. But the ghost in the rain had imprinted itself on you, and the hollow feeling in your chest demanded some kind of… acknowledgment.

You opened the firm’s site. It was sleek, professional. A portfolio of projects. And there, in the “Team” section, was his professional headshot. It was old. The photo showed the Jae-Hoon you remembered from three years ago: smiling gently, eyes warm, hair perfect. The caption under it was simple: “Kang Jae-Hoon, Senior Project Lead.”

You clicked on his name again. It led to a brief bio. It listed his awards, his education, his notable projects. And at the very end, a line: “Currently leading the design for the new Jeju Island Coastal Retreat.”

Jeju Island. You’d talked about going there. He’d said, “We’ll go when we have time. It’ll be beautiful.” You never went.

You closed the browser. You put the phone down. The dark room felt smaller, pressing in on you.

What was he doing right now? Was he home, in that apartment with the balcony? Was he sitting alone, looking at the space where your things used to be? Was he working, his screen the only light in his office? Was he sleeping, or just lying awake, replaying your last conversation?

He loved you so much it hurt. And in the end, the hurt was all that remained. For him. Maybe, in a different, quieter way, for you too.

You had thought your decision was about you. About your feelings, your needs, your vision of a future. But you had never truly considered the nuclear effect it would have on him. You’d seen his love as a weight. You hadn’t seen it as the entire structure of his world. When you walked away, you didn’t just leave a relationship; you demolished a universe.

The guilt wasn’t new. It had been a faint, background hum for a year. Now, seeing him, it had become a clear, piercing tone.

You stood up and went to your window. The city lights glittered in the rain-cleared night. Somewhere out there, in one of those glittering points, he was existing. A man who had dreamed of a family with you, a man who had seen every sunrise for eleven years as a shared event. Now, his days were a monochrome cycle. Work. Sleep. Repeat. And blame.

You had burned that dream away. And you had never given him a reason that made sense. You’d just said, “I can’t.”

A year of silence.

Maybe that was his answer. His way of saying, “I can’t, either.”

You turned from the window. You knew, with a sudden, heavy certainty, that this couldn’t be the end of the story. Not for you. The ghost of him was haunting you now, not from memory, but from the present. A living ghost.

You had to do something. You had to… see. You had to speak. Or you had to forever carry the image of a broken watch on a broken man, knowing you were the one who dropped it.

But how? What could you possibly say? “I’m sorry” felt like a mockery. “I was wrong” might not even be true. You weren’ t wrong for wanting something different. You were wrong for how you handled the demolition. You offered no salvage. No explanation. You just walked away and let the ruins settle around him.

You picked up your phone again. Your fingers hovered over the screen. The social media app was still open. His profile was a static, silent page.

You could message him.

It would be a shock. An earthquake in his silent world.

It might be cruel.

It might also be… a start. For something. For closure, maybe. Or for something else you couldn’t yet name.

You put the phone down again. Not tonight. Not while the image of him in the rain was so raw.

But the decision had formed, like a knot in your stomach. You would reach out. You would break the silence. You would face the ghost you’d created.

You didn’t know what would happen. You didn’ t know if he would respond. You didn’t know if you could bear to see the pain in his eyes again, directly, aimed at you.

But you knew you couldn’t keep walking past bus stops, glimpsing ruins in the rain. You had to step into the wreckage. You had to see what, after a year of silence, still remained.

What are you doing? He’s been dead for years, you’re just…Hallucinating again.

Making scenarios up in your head…

He killed himself, remember?

Because of you.

He gave you everything, he gave every piece of himself to the woman he loved — and yet you didn’t care enough to see.

He’s gone, Y/n. He’s just a ghost in the rain now, You think he still exists don’t you?

[filthygalli]

Mr. Sunshine

Pre-School Teacher! Fem! Reader x Single Dad! Kim Kyoo-pyeong

Main Masterlist

LBH Masterlist

Warnings: Slowburn, Romace, Fluff, Mentions of death, Grumpy! Kim Kyoo-pyeong, Mutual Pinning, Age gap ( 25 x 49), Older man x Younger woman.

Word Counts: 7714

Author's Notes: I may be at my lowest right now due to college, but This request is so adorable!! Thank you @zzzachann for requesting this one (I might do the other request soon!!) I'm not sure yet if I have to make this as a 3 part series because I'm afraid this will be a long one... >0<

Taglist: (Join by letting me know)

@rimzaaa @alex-17s-world @sylviavf @sweetstrawberrianne @animelight128 @yxluana @carolinevoight @itsmoonchik @watasinekoru @liliannaroses @maah-sama @thedreamingreaper @sebbymybaby21 @l0vefanficti0n @lazybum0 @astronomicalastro-blog1 @hoffmanfan13 @startled-cats @mostlyyours @matchami1k @frontwomann @behabeha @barbiebabieeex @justsisse @hornylittlesimp @casuallystrangeutopia @aeriikiesss @ilovebyunghunlee @Shristiashish @darkblueeyedperson @bh7vens

The final bell rings, a cheerful, tinny sound that echoes through the brightly colored hallway. You watch as your little flock of four-year-olds scrambles for their cubbies, grabbing jackets and lunchboxes with varying degrees of success. It’s the usual controlled chaos, a symphony of giggles, misplaced shoes, and the earnest, sticky-handed hugs you receive each afternoon.

“Goodbye, Ms. L/n! See you tomorrow!” shouts Liam, always the loudest, as he barrels toward the door where his mother waits.

“Bye-bye,” whispers Maya, the quiet one, offering you a shy wave before clutching her older sister’s hand.

You smile, your heart feeling full and soft. This is it, you think. This is forever. The mess, the joy, the tiny, incremental victories—seeing a child finally master the curve of the letter ‘S’, or the proud beam when they sing the entire alphabet song without a stumble. At twenty-five, with only three years under your belt, you already know you’ve found your place in the world.

Your gaze, however, lingers on one cubby. Kim Yeon-soo. She’s methodically, almost comically seriously, packing her belongings. Her pink backpack is zipped with care. Her water bottle is placed snugly in the side pouch. She turns, her face lighting up like a sunrise, and skips over to you.

“For you, Teacher,” she says, her voice sweet and clear. She hands you a folded piece of construction paper, bright yellow. You open it. Inside, drawn with purple crayon, is a heart. Below it, in her best handwriting, are the words: “You are nice.”

“Thank you, Yeon-soo. This is wonderful,” you say, your voice warm. You tuck the note into the pocket of your cardigan. You’ve received dozens of these from her. They’re your secret treasure, little affirmations tucked away in a drawer at home.

“Is your Appa here?” you ask, peering toward the classroom door.

She nods, her dark brown eyes—so like her father’s—shining. “Yes! He is waiting. He has a big meeting later, but he came for me first.”

Always first.

You’ve pieced that together.

Kim Kyoo-Pyeong, single dad and, according to the sparse information in the school directory, CEO of something in the tech sector. He’s a silhouette at the door most days, a tall, imposing figure in a well-tailored suit that seems to absorb the light from the cheerful hallway.

His posture is straight, his expression… grumpy.

That’s the word you’ve settled on.

It’s not angry, not unkind. It’s a focused, weary seriousness that hangs around him like a shadow.

You walk Yeon-soo to the door, her small hand in yours. As you approach, the shadow shifts. His eyes, those dark chocolate brown pools that usually scan the room with a detached efficiency, find his daughter.

And they change.

The hardness melts, the focus softens into a warmth so profound it makes your breath catch in a completely non-spicy, purely observational way. His lips, usually set in a firm line, curve into a smile. It’s bright. It’s full.

It’s identical to the one Yeon-soo gives you.

Mr. Sunshine.

That’s the nickname you’ve coined for him in your private thoughts. You never dare to say it aloud. It feels too intimate, too revealing of the quiet attention you’ve paid to this small, daily transformation. His wife must be so lucky, you’ve thought more than once, imagining some graceful, accomplished woman waiting at home who gets to see that smile directed at her.

But you don’t know.

You’ve never asked.

Interaction between you and Kyoo-Pyeong exists in a narrow, functional lane.

He arrives.

You bring Yeon-soo to him.

He nods, sometimes murmuring a “Thank you” so low you almost miss it.

Then he takes her hand, and the sunshine smile remains on his face as they walk away, his tall frame bending slightly to listen to her chatter.

Your world—the bright, messy, sing-song world of preschool—and his world—the silent, serious, suit-and-meeting world—touch only at this fleeting point of transfer.

Today is the same. He’s there, one hand resting on the doorframe. You smile professionally.

“Hi, Mr. Kim. Yeon-soo had a great day. We worked on writing our full names today, and she did beautifully.”

He nods. “Thank you,” he says, his voice deeper than you expect, a smooth, quiet baritone.

Yeon-soo launches into a detailed report about the purple heart drawing, and he listens, his smile fixed on her.

He reaches for her hand.

But then, something shifts.

A flicker in his eyes.

They meet yours for a second longer than usual.

Not a grumpy stare, but a… look.

A moment of actual connection, not through his daughter, but directly. It’s so brief you might have imagined it.

“She speaks of you often,” he says, the words seeming to surprise even him. “At home. She says you are very kind.”

Your cheeks warm slightly. “Oh. Well, she’s a joy to teach. One of my brightest.”

He nods again, but the nod is slower, more considered. “Bright,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. His gaze drops to Yeon-soo, who is now telling him about the new butterfly painting on the wall. “Yes.”

Then it’s over. The moment collapses back into routine. “Goodbye,” you say.

“Goodbye,” he echoes. And they turn, his large hand engulfing her small one, and walk down the hallway. You watch them until they disappear around the corner, the echo of Yeon-soo’s voice fading.

You return to your classroom, the quiet after the storm of departure settling around you. You tidy crayons, straighten chairs, and your mind drifts back to that look.

What was it? Acknowledgement? Curiosity? You shake your head. Don’t push, you remind yourself.

 He’s a busy man. His world revolves around his daughter and his work. You are a pleasant fixture in his daughter’s life, a service provider.

That’s the boundary. You respect it.

---

The week progresses in its normal rhythm. Mornings are a burst of energy, afternoons a gentle deceleration. Yeon-soo continues her campaign of kindness, leaving you a green paper star on Wednesday (“You are smart”) and a blue paper on Thursday (“You sing good”).

Friday, however, brings a change. It’s a grey, drizzly afternoon. The children are restless, infused with the pent-up energy of a week ending. You’ve just finished a chaotic but successful session of “musical statues,” and are herding everyone toward the cubbies for dismissal.

You see Kyoo-Pyeong at the door earlier than usual. He’s not in a suit. He’s in dark jeans and a charcoal grey sweater that seems to soften his edges, though his posture is still that of a man holding up a mountain. His expression is different, too. The grumpy shadow is heavier today, etched with lines of fatigue. Even when Yeon-soo runs to him, his smile seems slower to ignite, a little more strained.

You guide Yeon-soo over, sensing a subtle tension in the air. “Here she is, Mr. Kim. All ready.”

He takes her hand. “Thank you,” he murmurs, but his eyes don’t fully leave yours. They hold a question.

“Is everything alright?” you ask, softly, your teacher’s instinct overriding your shyness.

He hesitates. Yeon-soo looks up at him, her bright smile dimming a little. “Daddy is tired,” she announces, matter-of-factly.

He exhales, a quiet sound. “A long week,” he admits, speaking to you directly again. “And… I have a problem. My usual sitter for Saturday has been canceled. An emergency. I have… an unavoidable obligation tomorrow afternoon. A client meeting I cannot reschedule.”

He says it flatly, but the worry in his eyes is clear. This is a man whose life is built on precision, on control. A gap in his carefully constructed schedule is a crack in the foundation.

Your mind works quickly. You’re not a sitter. But you are someone who cares deeply for Yeon-soo. And you have Saturday free.

“What time is the meeting?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Two o’clock. Until perhaps five,” he says, watching you closely.

“I… I don’t usually do private childcare,” you begin, feeling your pulse pick up a little. “But if it’s an emergency, and if Yeon-soo would be comfortable… I could watch her at my apartment. It’s not far from here.”

His eyes widened slightly. The grumpy shadow recedes, replaced by pure, stunned surprise. “You would do that?”

“She’s a wonderful girl. And I’d be happy to help.” The words feel true as you say them.

Yeon-soo’s face erupts into a smile. “I can go to Ms. L/n’s house?!”

You nod at her. “We could draw, and maybe read some new books I have.”

She claps her hands together. “Yes, yes!”

Kyoo-Pyeong looks from his daughter’s delighted face to yours.

The conflict in his eyes is palpable—the ingrained caution of a man who protects his world fiercely, versus the practical need for a solution he can trust.

“I… I would pay you, of course. The usual rate, plus…”

“Let’s just figure it out,” you say, softening your tone. “It’s okay. Really.”

He studies you for a long moment. The silence in the doorway is thick, filled with the hum of the hallway lights and the distant sound of other children leaving. Finally, he nods, a decisive, grateful motion.

“Thank you. That is… very kind.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a phone. “May I have your number? To coordinate details?”

You give it to him, your fingers feeling oddly clumsy as you type it into his contacts. 

He saves it, then looks at you again. That direct look is back, but now it’s layered with something new: 

Relief.

“I will text you the address to pick her up. Eleven-thirty?”

“That’s perfect,” you say.

The transaction—now suddenly more than a transaction—is complete. He gives Yeon-soo’s hand a squeeze. “Be good for Ms. L/n,” he says to her, his voice warming.

“I am always good!” she declares, and you laugh.

He finally offers you a smile.

It’s not the full, sunshine one reserved for his daughter.

It’s smaller, more tentative, but it’s genuine. It’s for you. “Thank you, Ms. L/n. I… appreciate this.”

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Kim.”

With a final nod, he leads Yeon-soo away. You watch them, but now your mind is buzzing with a strange, nervous energy.

Saturday. Tomorrow.

You’ll be in your own space, with Yeon-soo.

And he’ll be… somewhere else, trusting you with his most precious thing.

---

Saturday morning arrives, clear and cool. Your apartment is a cozy, somewhat cluttered space filled with books, plants, and the remnants of your own childhood loves—a collection of stuffed animals on a shelf, framed prints of impressionist paintings. You tidy up a little, making sure the floor is safe for small feet, setting out some fresh drawing paper and your best crayons.

At eleven-twenty-five, a text arrives. It’s from him. No name, just a number.

“Address: 12 Skyline Drive, Penthouse 4. I will bring her to the lobby at 11:30. Thank you.”

Penthouse.

Skyline Drive.

The words hit you with a quiet force. You knew he was a CEO, but the reality of it—the penthouse—sharpens the image of his life. It’s a world of high floors and silent elevators, a stark contrast to your ground-level apartment with its squeaky floorboards.

You drive there, a short ten-minute trip. The building is a sleek, modern tower of glass and steel, rising above the more modest structures around it. The lobby is vast, quiet, and cooled by discreet air conditioning. A security guard nods you toward the reception desk.

And there they are. Kyoo-Pyeong stands near a massive abstract sculpture, holding Yeon-soo’s hand. He’s back in a suit—a deep navy that fits him perfectly.

The grumpy shadow is present, but it’s mixed with that same fatigue from Friday.

Yeon-soo, in a cheerful yellow dress, waves excitedly when she sees you.

You approach, feeling oddly small in the expansive space.

“Hello,” you say.

“Ms. L/n,” he replies, giving you that tentative smile again. “Thank you for coming.” He glances at the security desk. “They have your name. You can bring her back up here after. I should return by five-thirty.”

“Of course.”

He bends down to Yeon-soo. “Listen to Ms. L/n. Have fun.” He kisses her forehead, a quick, tender gesture.

Then he stands, his eyes meeting yours.

The look is there again, but now it’s charged with a quiet intensity. “If anything… anything… happens, call me immediately. My phone will be on, even during the meeting.”

“I will,” you promise, your voice earnest.

He seems to search for more words, then simply nods. “Okay.” He gives Yeon-soo’s hand a final squeeze, then turns and walks toward the elevator bank. You watch him go, his tall figure moving with a purposeful grace until the elevator doors swallow him.

Yeon-soo tugs your hand. “Ms. L/n, your house!”

You smile down at her. “Yes, let’s go.”

The afternoon is a delight. Yeon-soo is, as always, a bright and engaged companion. She loves your stuffed animals, carefully arranging them for a “tea party.” She draws a spectacular, multi-colored picture of a butterfly for you. You read stories, she sings her alphabet song with gusto, and you share a simple lunch of sandwiches and apple slices.

At four o’clock, as she’s coloring quietly, your phone buzzes. A text. From him.

“The meeting concludes. On schedule. Will be at the lobby by 5:30. How is she?”

You text back: “She’s perfect. We’ve had a lovely time drawing and reading. She’s currently creating a masterpiece.”

A minute later, a reply: “Thank you.”

Then, another minute later, a second text arrives. This one is different.

“I realize I have not asked you for your preferred rate. And I have imposed on your personal time. When I return, may I… offer you dinner? As thanks. And to discuss payment.”

You stare at the screen.

Dinner.

With him. Mr. Sunshine, in his grumpy, tired, CEO reality.

Your heart does a funny little flip, a mixture of anxiety and a spark of something else—curiosity.

You type back, your fingers careful. “Dinner would be nice. But please, no obligation. I enjoyed today.”

His reply is swift. “Not an obligation. A wish. I will see you at 5:30.”

The text ends the conversation. You look at Yeon-soo, who is now telling a complicated story to her colored butterfly drawing.

A wish.

The word lingers in your mind, soft and significant.

At five-twenty, you pack Yeon-soo’s things and drive back to Skyline Drive. The lobby is just as quiet, just as cool. You stand near the same sculpture, Yeon-soo holding your hand, chatting about the tea party her stuffed animals had.

At five-twenty-nine, the elevator doors open. Kyoo-Pyeong steps out. The suit is still there, but the jacket is unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened. The fatigue on his face is deeper, the lines more pronounced. But when he sees Yeon-soo, the transformation happens again—the shadow lifts, the smile emerges, warm and focused on her.

“Appa!” she cries, running to him. He catches her, lifting her up in a hug that seems to absorb all his weariness and transform it into pure affection.

He holds her for a moment, then sets her down, his eyes rising to meet yours.

“Ms. L/n,” he says, walking over. “I hope it was not too much trouble.”

“None at all. She was a delight, as always.”

He nods, then his gaze shifts to the security desk. “The dinner… I had planned to ask if you would be comfortable going now. There is a place nearby. Quiet. Yeon-soo can come, of course. Or, if you prefer, I can have the house sitter take her for an hour. She has returned.”

He’s offering options, giving you control.

The consideration in his voice is new, a layer you haven’t heard before.

Yeon-soo looks up. “I want to go with Ms. L/n and Appa!”

He smiles at her. “Then we all go.”

You feel a nervous flutter, but also a pull. “That sounds lovely,” you say.

He leads the way, Yeon-soo between you, holding both your hand and his. The restaurant is, as he said, nearby—a warm, Italian bistro with soft lighting and wooden tables. It’s not overly fancy, but it’s elegant in a comfortable way. He guides you to a corner table, helps Yeon-soo into a chair, then gestures for you to sit.

The waiter comes. Kyoo-Pyeong orders a simple pasta for Yeon-soo, then looks at you. “What would you like?”

You choose a salad, feeling suddenly aware of the situation. You’re having dinner with a parent. A single, male parent. In a quiet corner of a nice restaurant. The boundary has not only been crossed; it has been gently dismantled.

Once the orders are placed, he leans back slightly, his eyes studying you. The grumpy shadow is gone now, replaced by a quiet, focused attention. “Thank you, again,” he begins. “This week was… difficult. Your help was unexpected and generous.”

“It was really my pleasure,” you reply. “Yeon-soo is a special child.”

“She is,” he agrees, his gaze drifting to her as she carefully arranges the napkins. “She is everything.” He pauses, then looks back at you. “You are her favorite teacher. She talks about you constantly. Your kindness, your patience. She said you helped her write her whole name this week.”

You feel a warmth spread through you. “She was so proud. She worked very hard.”

“She does,” he says softly. Then he takes a breath, as if stepping onto unfamiliar ground. “I… am not often able to be at the school for long. My work consumes a lot of time. I rely on people to be… good. To care.” His eyes hold yours, and the intensity there is undeniable. “You care. I see it. In the way she smiles when she talks about you. In the way you looked after her today, in your own home.”

The directness of his words, the raw acknowledgment, makes your throat feel tight. “I love teaching. I love all my students. But Yeon-soo… she has a light.”

“She does,” he agrees again. A silence falls, not awkward, but heavy with something unspoken. Yeon-soo, sensing the adult conversation, focuses on her crayons, drawing quietly on the paper placemat.

He finally speaks, his voice lower. “I should tell you… perhaps you do not know. Yeon-soo’s mother… she is not with us. It was some years ago.”

The information settles into the space between you.

A widower.

The sunshine smile, reserved only for his daughter.

The grumpy shadow that shrouds him when she’s not near. It all clicks into a new, heartbreaking configuration. His wife must have been lucky—your old thought echoes, now tinged with a profound sadness. She was, and then she was gone.

“I… didn’t know,” you say, your voice gentle. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods, accepting your sympathy with a quiet grace. “It is why… my world is small. It is her, and my work. There is little room for… other things.” He says this not as a warning, but as an explanation. A statement of his reality.

The waiter arrives with the food, breaking the moment. Yeon-soo happily digs into her pasta, and you begin your salad. The conversation shifts to lighter topics—Yeon-soo’s stories about school, your plans for next week’s art project. He listens, engages, asks questions about your teaching methods. He’s intelligent, sharp, but he tempers his intensity to match the gentle flow of the dinner.

As the meal ends, Yeon-soo, full and happy, leans against her father’s side, sleepy. He strokes her hair, his large hand gentle.

“I should get her home,” he says, his eyes returning to you. “But before we leave… the payment.”

You shake your head. “Please, Mr. Kim. It was a favor. From a teacher to a student’s parent. No payment.”

He considers this, his brow furrowing slightly. “Then… the dinner. As thanks. And perhaps…” he hesitates, the words forming slowly. “Perhaps not as a one-time event.”

You look at him, your pulse quickening again.

“I find… I would like to know more about the person who brings such light to my daughter’s days,” he says, the statement simple, direct, and utterly disarming. “If you would be willing… to perhaps do this again. Dinner. Conversation.”

The offer hangs in the air, soft and significant. It’s not a proposition. It’s a request for connection, from a man whose world has been deliberately small. You feel a rush of emotions—surprise, nervousness, and a deep, resonating curiosity about this man, about the sunshine that lives beneath his shadow.

Yeon-soo stirs, looking up at her father. “Can Ms. L/n come to our house next time? We have big windows!”

He smiles at her, then his eyes lift to yours — Those big brown eyes staring at you, waiting for your answer.

—

The silence after his question stretched, warm and heavy, like the air just before a summer rain. Yeon-soo’s sleepy head against his shoulder, his eyes waiting on yours, the soft glow of the restaurant’s lights—it all felt suspended, a moment captured in glass.

You looked at him, at the earnest fatigue in his face, at the quiet hope layered beneath his usual reserve. You looked at Yeon-soo, her innocent suggestion hanging between you like a gift.

“I would like that,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. “Another dinner. Or… visiting your house.” You smiled at Yeon-soo. “I’d love to see those big windows.”

Her face lit up, a beacon of pure joy.

Kyoo-Pyeong’s expression shifted, the lines around his eyes softening into something that looked like relief, and something more—a flicker of pleasure. He nodded, a single, slow motion. “Good,” he said, the word simple but carrying weight. “We will arrange it.”

The waiter brought the bill, and Kyoo-Pyeong handled it with a swift, efficient motion, not allowing any discussion. You protested gently, but he shook his head. “Please. This was my invitation.” His tone was final, but not harsh. It was the tone of a man who had decided to care for you in this small, concrete way.

You all rose from the table. Yeon-soo, now more awake, skipped between you and her father, taking your hand and his as you walked out of the bistro. The night air was cool, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of the city—distant traffic, baked bread from a nearby bakery, the clean smell of rain-washed pavement. The three of you walked in a loose line, Yeon-soo’s chatter filling the space, her small voice weaving a tapestry of simple observations about the stars she couldn’t see and the shapes of the buildings.

Kyoo-Pyeong listened to her, his responses quiet and warm. But you felt his attention, like a soft pressure, on you. Every few steps, his gaze would find you, linger for a second, then return to his daughter or the path ahead.

It wasn’t a stare.

It was a look, the same one from the school doorway, but now it felt deeper, more intentional. It felt like he was seeing you, piecing you together in his mind.

The walk back to Skyline Drive was short, only a few blocks. The towering glass building loomed ahead, its geometric lines cutting into the night sky. As you approached the entrance, Yeon-soo squeezed your hand. “Ms. L/n, will you come next week?”

You glanced at Kyoo-Pyeong, letting him answer.

He met your eyes, then looked down at his daughter. “We will see what Ms. L/n’s schedule is like,” he said, his voice gentle. “But I think we can plan something.”

You nodded. “I’d love to.”

You reached the lobby doors. The security guard nodded at Kyoo-Pyeong, who gave a brief acknowledging tilt of his head. Inside, the vast, quiet space felt like a different world again, a world of polished stone and silent elevators. Your car was parked in the visitor area just outside.

You stopped, turning to them. “Well, I should head home,” you said, feeling a strange reluctance to let the evening end.

“Yes,” Kyoo-Pyeong said. He shifted Yeon-soo’s hand in his grip. “Thank you again, Ms. L/n. For everything today.” He paused, his dark chocolate brown eyes holding yours. “For your kindness to my daughter. And for your company.”

The words were formal, but the sentiment behind them felt raw, genuine. You felt a warmth spread from your chest to your cheeks. “It was truly my pleasure, Mr. Kim.”

He smiled.

It wasn’t the full, sunshine smile for Yeon-soo. It was the smaller, tentative one he’d given you earlier, but it had grown, become more settled, more real. It was a smile for you. “Goodnight,” he said.

Yeon-soo waved enthusiastically. “Goodnight, Ms. L/n! See you Monday!”

“See you Monday, Yeon-soo.” You smiled at her, then gave a final nod to Kyoo-Pyeong.

You turned and walked toward the doors. A part of you wanted to glance back, but you resisted, keeping your steps steady. As you pushed through the heavy glass door into the cooler evening air, you finally allowed yourself a look. 

hey were still there, standing in the middle of the lobby, watching you.

Kyoo-Pyeong’s tall frame was slightly bent, his hand on Yeon-soo’s shoulder. His eyes were on you, unwavering. Yeon-soo was still waving, her little arm moving like a metronome.

You smiled, waved once more, then turned toward your car. The image of them stayed with you—the tall, weary man and his bright, joyful daughter, a unit against the backdrop of that sterile, grand space. You unlocked your car, slid into the driver’s seat, and let the silence envelop you.

The drive home was a quiet procession of thoughts. The dinner conversation, his admission about being a widower, the careful way he had asked for more… it all swirled in your mind.

His world is small, he had said. Her, and my work.

And now, he was opening a door, letting in a little light from outside. The responsibility of that, the delicacy of it, felt immense. You were not just a teacher anymore; you were a person he was beginning to trust, to want to know. The gravity of that trust settled over you like a blanket, both comforting and heavy.

You arrived at your apartment, the familiar clutter a welcome contrast to the sleekness of his world. You changed into soft pajamas, brushed your teeth, and sat on your couch, staring at the quiet room. Your phone sat beside you, a black rectangle on the cushion.

It buzzed.

A text. From his number.

You picked it up, your heart doing a small, hopeful leap.

“Yeon-soo is insisting we must plan the next dinner immediately. She has proposed Tuesday. I realize that may be too soon. Please feel free to suggest a time that suits you.”

You read it twice. The formal wording, the hint of amusement behind it. Yeon-soo’s influence. You typed back, your fingers moving quickly.

“Tuesday is fine for me. I don’t have any plans after school.”

The reply came within a minute.

“Tuesday, then. Shall I pick you up from the school? Or would you prefer to meet elsewhere?”

You considered. Being picked up from school felt… official. It would be visible to other parents, to your colleagues. The boundary between your professional and personal life would blur further. But you also wanted to see him, to step into that space again.

“You can pick me up at school, if that’s convenient.”

“It is. 5:30? After dismissal.”

“5:30 is perfect.”

A pause. Then:

“Thank you, Ms. L/n. I look forward to it.”

You sent a final “Me too.” and placed the phone back on the cushion. The conversation was over, but the feeling lingered—a low, warm hum in your chest. You lay back, staring at the ceiling, and let Monday morning come.

---

Monday morning was a whirlwind of color and noise. Liam burst into the classroom with a story about a dinosaur he’d seen on television, his voice booming across the small tables. Maya followed, clinging to her sister’s hand, offering you a silent, shy smile. The routine of greeting each child, helping them settle, taking attendance—it all grounded you, pulling you back into the world you knew so well.

Yeon-soo arrived a little later, her father’s hand guiding her to the door. He was back in a suit—a deep grey this time—and the grumpy shadow was present, but less pronounced than last Friday. When he saw you, his eyes met yours, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was a nod of recognition, of shared knowledge. Tuesday, it seemed to say.

Yeon-soo ran to you, her backpack bouncing. “Ms. L/n! Appa says we are having dinner with you on Tuesday! At our house!”

You smiled, crouching to her level. “Yes, we are. I’m very excited.”

She beamed, then leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Appa stared at you a lot last night. When you were not looking.”

Your cheeks flushed.

You glanced up at Kyoo-Pyeong, who was still at the door, watching Yeon-soo.

He couldn’t have heard her whisper, but his gaze was intent. You gave Yeon-soo a gentle, non-committal smile. “Well, we were having a nice conversation,” you said, keeping your voice light.

She nodded, satisfied, and skipped off to her cubby. You stood, smoothing your skirt, and walked to the door to greet the remaining parents.

Kyoo-Pyeong lingered for a moment after handing off Yeon-soo. “Tuesday,” he said quietly.

“Tuesday,” you confirmed.

He nodded again, then turned to leave.

As he walked down the hallway, you watched his back, the straight line of his shoulders, the purposeful stride.

Mr. Sunshine, you thought, and the nickname felt softer now, more tender.

The day passed in a flow of lessons and laughter. Yeon-soo was particularly bright, drawing a picture of a dinner table with three people—a tall stick figure with dark hair, a smaller one with a yellow dress, and a medium-sized one with a smile. She presented it to you at lunch. “This is us,” she said proudly.

You praised her artwork, tucking it into your folder with her other notes.

The drawing felt significant, a child’s innocent mapping of a new constellation.

At dismissal, Kyoo-Pyeong was not there. A woman you recognized as the house sitter—a kind-faced, older woman named Mrs. Park—came to collect Yeon-soo. “Mr. Kim had a late meeting,” she explained. “He asked me to pass along his apologies.”

Yeon-soo hugged you goodbye, whispering, “See you Tuesday, Ms. L/n!”

You waved as they left, feeling a small pang of disappointment. You had looked forward to that brief exchange, that silent nod. But it was fine. Tuesday was coming.

—

That evening, you found yourself cleaning your apartment with a little more vigor than usual. You weren’t sure why; you weren’t hosting him. But the act of tidying felt like a preparation, a mental clearing of space for something new. You thought about his penthouse, those big windows Yeon-soo had mentioned. You imagined the view, the quiet, the contrast to your own cozy, crowded space. You wondered what it would be like to be there, with him, in his world.

Tuesday arrived with a clear sky and a nervous energy that buzzed under your skin. The school day felt both ordinary and charged. Every time you glanced at the clock, you thought of 5:30. When the children lined up for afternoon playtime, you caught Yeon-soo’s eye and she gave you a secret, excited grin.

At 5:25, you began the dismissal process. The children filed out, one by one, their parents collecting them. Liam’s mother chatted with you about his progress; Maya’s sister smiled and thanked you. The classroom emptied, leaving you and Yeon-soo, who was carefully packing her things, her movements deliberate with anticipation.

At 5:28, you saw him.

Kyoo-Pyeong stood at the doorway, not in a suit today. He wore dark trousers and a simple, well-fitting black sweater. The absence of the formal jacket made him seem younger, more approachable, though his posture still carried that innate authority. His eyes found you immediately, and the grumpy shadow was almost entirely absent.

He looked… present. Focused on you.

You walked Yeon-soo to him. “Hi,” you said, your voice a little breathless.

“Ms. L/n,” he replied. His gaze dipped to Yeon-soo. “Ready, sweetheart?”

Yeon-soo nodded vigorously. “Yes! Ms. L/n, we go now?”

“We go now,” you said, smiling.

He stepped aside, gesturing for you to lead the way. You walked with Yeon-soo between you, but this time, he didn’t take her hand.

He walked beside you, his presence close, his shoulder almost brushing yours as you moved through the hallway. The other teachers and parents glanced at you, at him, their expressions curious but polite. You felt a flutter of self-consciousness, but also a surge of something like pride.

Outside, the air was crisp. His car was parked in the school’s lot—a sleek, black sedan that looked expensive but understated. He opened the passenger door for you, a gesture so smooth and natural it caught you off guard.

“Thank you,” you murmured, sliding into the seat. The interior was clean, quiet, smelling faintly of leather and something citrusy. Yeon-soo climbed into the back, buckling herself into her booster seat with practiced ease.

Kyoo-Pyeong got in, started the engine, and drove with a calm precision. The silence in the car was not empty; it was filled with Yeon-soo’s happy chatter from the back seat, and with the unspoken tension between you and him in the front. You watched the city pass by, the streets transitioning from the modest neighborhoods around the school to the more affluent districts near his building.

“How was your day?” he asked after a few minutes, his voice low and even.

“Good,” you said. “We started a new project on seasons. Yeon-soo made a beautiful autumn leaf collage.”

He glanced at you, a quick sideways look. “She enjoys art. Her mother was an artist.” The statement came out quietly, a piece of information offered like a gift.

You turned to him, your heart softening. “That’s lovely. She must have inherited that talent.”

He nodded, his eyes on the road. “She did.” A pause. “My wife… she painted. Landscapes. Very… peaceful scenes.” He said it with a reverence that made the air in the car feel sacred.

You didn’t press.

You simply listened, letting the information settle. You imagined a woman with a brush, creating calm vistas, leaving a legacy of beauty for her daughter.

The car pulled into the underground garage of Skyline Drive. He parked, and you all exited, walking to the elevator. This time, you didn’t wait in the lobby; you went directly up to the penthouse.

The elevator ride was smooth and silent. Yeon-soo held your hand, swinging it gently. Kyoo-Pyeong stood beside you, his arm near yours. You could feel the heat of his body, the solidity of his presence. The doors opened directly into his home.

You stepped into a space that was both breathtaking and surprisingly warm. The “big windows” Yeon-soo had mentioned were indeed enormous, floor-to-ceiling panels that offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, now dotted with the early evening lights. The room was spacious, with minimalist furniture—a large sofa, a low wooden table, and a few abstract art pieces on the walls. But it was also lived-in: a child’s drawing tacked to the wall near the window, a stack of picture books on the sofa, a pair of small pink shoes by the entrance. It was a home, not just a showcase.

“Welcome,” Kyoo-Pyeong said, his voice softer here, in his own space.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, genuinely amazed.

Yeon-soo ran to the window. “Look, Ms. L/n! You can see everything!”

You joined her, looking out at the sprawling city. The view was majestic, but it also felt isolating, so high up and away from the noise of life below.

Kyoo-Pyeong moved to the kitchen, an open space separated by a long counter. “I have prepared dinner. It is simple—some grilled fish, rice, vegetables. I hope it is acceptable.”

“It sounds wonderful,” you said, turning from the window.

He nodded, and you saw a slight uncertainty in his movements, a man used to commanding boardrooms now navigating hosting a guest in his home.

It was endearing.

You helped Yeon-soo set the table, placing napkins and utensils while Kyoo-Pyeong brought out the dishes. The food was indeed simple but expertly prepared, fragrant and neatly arranged. You sat at the table, Yeon-soo between you and her father, and began to eat.

The conversation flowed more easily here, in the comfort of his home. Yeon-soo dominated much of it, telling stories about her friends, about a bug she saw in the park, about a dream she had. Kyoo-Pyeong listened, interjecting with gentle questions, his eyes often drifting to you as you laughed or responded.

After a while, Yeon-soo’s energy began to wane. She yawned, leaning against her father’s arm.

“Time for bed, little one,” he said, his voice tender.

“But Ms. L/n is here!” she protested, though her eyes were heavy.

“Ms. L/n will still be here when you are asleep. You can see her tomorrow at school.” He stood, lifting her gently. “Say goodnight.”

Yeon-soo hugged you tightly. “Goodnight, Ms. L/n. Thank you for coming.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Sleep well.”

Kyoo-Pyeong carried her to her room, which was just off the main living area. You could hear his low voice murmuring a bedtime story, the sound of a door closing softly. You remained at the table, sipping the tea he had poured, looking out at the darkening sky.

He returned a few minutes later, moving quietly. He sat opposite you again, his posture relaxed now, his shoulders less rigid.

“She is asleep,” he said. “She was very excited today.”

“She’s a delightful child,” you replied. “You’ve done an amazing job with her.”

He looked down at his teacup, rotating it slowly. “It is not a job. It is… everything.” He met your eyes. “After my wife passed, it was… difficult. For a long time, I was not sure how to be both a father and… a person. I closed off many things. Work became the structure. Yeon-soo became the heart. There was no space for anything else.”

You listened, your own heart aching for him. The loneliness in his words was palpable, but not desperate. It was a fact of his life, one he had accepted.

“And now?” you asked softly.

He looked at you, his gaze steady. “Now… I am beginning to think there might be space. A little.” He paused. “Your presence… it has reminded me that the world outside can be kind. That there are people who care not because they are paid, but because they are good.”

The compliment was so direct, so unadorned, it made your throat tighten. “I care about Yeon-soo because she is special. And I…” you hesitated, then continued, “I care about you, because I see how much you love her. How much you give.”

He stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then softening into something vulnerable. “You see that?”

“I see it every day,” you said. “At the school door. The way you look at her. It’s… it’s everything.”

He leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving yours.

The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was a silence of understanding, of two people acknowledging a connection that had grown quietly, without fanfare.

“She told me something,” he said after a while, his voice dropping even lower. “After we left you at the car on Saturday night. She said… she saw me staring at you when you were not looking.”

Your cheeks warmed. You remembered Yeon-soo’s whisper in the classroom. “She mentioned it to me too.”

He looked embarrassed, a rare flush coloring his neck. “She is too observant for a four-year-old.”

“She is,” you agreed, smiling. “But… were you?”

The question hung in the air. He didn’t shy away from it. He met your gaze squarely. “Yes,” he said, simple and honest. “I was.”

The admission felt like a key turning in a lock. You held your breath for a second, then let it out slowly. “Why?”

He considered, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “Because you are… different. In my world, most people are transactions. Employees, clients, acquaintances. You are not a transaction. You are a person who entered because of my daughter, but you stayed… because of you. Your kindness. Your light.” He paused, searching for words. “I find myself… wanting to look at that light. To understand it.”

Your pulse was a steady drumbeat in your ears. You looked at him, at the earnest fatigue in his face, at the honesty in his eyes. “I find myself wanting to look at you too,” you said, the words coming out before you could filter them. “To understand the man behind the grumpy shadow.”

He smiled, a small, genuine curl of his lips. “Grumpy shadow?”

You laughed softly. “That’s my secret nickname for you. Mr. Sunshine, when you smile at Yeon-soo. But Mr. Grumpy Shadow when you’re at the door, before you see her.”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that surprised you. “Mr. Grumpy Shadow,” he repeated, amused. “It is accurate. I am often… burdened. By work, by responsibility. The shadow is real.”

“But the sunshine is real too,” you said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “The sunshine is real.” He looked at you, and his eyes held that sunshine now, directed at you, softening his features into something breathtakingly open. “You bring it out, sometimes. Even when Yeon-soo is not here.”

You felt a flush of emotion, a mixture of joy and nervousness.

The conversation had deepened, quickly, naturally. You were sitting in his home, in the quiet of the evening, with his daughter asleep nearby, and you were talking about looking at each other, about light and shadow.

It was intimate, but not physical. 

was emotional intimacy, the kind that built foundations.

He shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “May I ask you something… personal?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

“Why teaching? What made you choose this?”

You took a sip of tea, gathering your thoughts. “I love children,” you began. “I love their honesty, their curiosity. They haven’t learned to hide their feelings yet. Every day is a new discovery for them, and being part of that… it feels like being part of something pure. I wanted a job that felt meaningful, not just profitable.” You smiled. “And it is. Even on the chaotic days, when Liam is shouting and Maya is hiding, it feels meaningful.”

He listened intently, his gaze focused on you like you were the only subject in the room. “Meaningful,” he echoed. “My work is profitable. It is not always meaningful.”

“But it provides for Yeon-soo,” you offered. “That is meaningful.”

“It is,” he said. “But it has a different kind of meaning. One built on numbers and strategy, not on… heart.”

The word heart lingered between you.

You felt a pull toward him, a desire to reach across the table and touch his hand, but you stayed still, letting the moment breathe.

“You have heart,” you said. “I see it. In how you are with her.”

He looked down, a modest gesture. “Thank you.”

The conversation drifted to other topics—your childhood, his university years, your favorite books, his taste in art. You discovered he had a deep appreciation for classical music, and you shared your love for folk songs.

He revealed he had traveled extensively for work but rarely for pleasure. You talked about your families—your parents still living in the countryside, his parents abroad.

The exchange was easy, flowing, a mutual exploration that felt both safe and exhilarating.

Time slipped away. The city lights outside grew brighter, the sky fully dark. You realized you had been talking for over an hour, the tea pot empty, the dishes cleared.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It is late,” he said, not with regret, but with a note of surprise. “I have kept you too long.” His eyes finding yours for a minute, “Yeon-soo will be taken care of with Mrs. Park.” He added.

“Not at all,” you said. “I enjoyed every minute.”

He stood, and you stood with him. “I will drive you home,” he said.

“You don’t have to. I can take a taxi.”

“I will drive you,” he repeated, his tone firm but gentle. “It is my responsibility as your host.”

You nodded, accepting.

He walked you to the door, helping you with your coat. As you stepped into the hallway outside his apartment, he paused, looking at you. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “For… talking.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” you replied. “For sharing your home.”

He led you to the elevator, and you descended together, the quiet of the car now more comfortable, more familiar. In his sedan, he drove you back to your apartment, the city night peaceful around you. The radio played a soft classical piece, something with strings and a gentle melody.

When he pulled up to your building, he turned to you. “Tuesday was good,” he said.

“It was,” you agreed.

“May we… do it again? Perhaps next week?”

You smiled. “Yes. Next week.”

He nodded, his eyes holding yours in the dim light of the car. “I will text you.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

You stepped out of the car, and he didn’t drive away immediately. He waited, watching you walk to your door, a silent guardian ensuring you reached safely. You turned at your entrance, waved once, and saw him wave back, a small motion from behind the windshield.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the door, your heart full.

The evening had been nothing more than conversation, shared food, and mutual understanding. Yet it felt like a threshold crossed, a door opened wider. You thought of his smile, his honesty, his quiet admission of staring at you. You thought of Yeon-soo’s teasing, her innocent mapping of your place in their world.

You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that this was not just a friendly dinner. This was the beginning of something, a slow, tender burn that was warming you from the inside out.

[filthygalli]

I'm debating whether I want a mommy kink about a pathetic, submissive Sunwoo (old woman/young boy) first, or a Kyoo-pyeong single dadgirl x primary teacher

BOTH IDEAS ARE GOOD IDK WHICH SHOULD I DO FIRST HELLOOOOO?!?!?

[filthygalli]

Lifetime: PART 3

Oneshot: Fem! Reader x Childhood Best Friend! Kim Kyoo-pyeong

Main Masterlist

LBH Masterlist

Warnings: Angst with comfort, fluff, Alcohol consumption, Smoking, Kyoo-pyeong being a pathetic puppy, Cheating, Smut, Praise Kink, Possessive! Kyoo-pyeong, Oral ( F and M Receiving and Giving), Hint of Kyoo-pyeong being a rich man for the plot ><

Word Count: 30,806

Author's Notes: This fic is over 30k words, and I couldn't publish it here, so the only way ik it'll work is by google docs lol! Ik it's very lazy of me, but I don't really have the time rn:(( anyways, enjoy the fic even though its in gdocs HAHA!

Taglist: (Join by letting me know)

@rimzaaa @alex-17s-world @sylviavf @sweetstrawberrianne @animelight128 @yxluana @carolinevoight @itsmoonchik @watasinekoru @liliannaroses @maah-sama @thedreamingreaper @sebbymybaby21 @l0vefanficti0n @lazybum0 @astronomicalastro-blog1 @hoffmanfan13 @startled-cats @mostlyyours @matchami1k @frontwomann @behabeha @barbiebabieeex @justsisse @hornylittlesimp @casuallystrangeutopia @aeriikiesss @ilovebyunghunlee @Shristiashish @darkblueeyedperson @bh7vens

PLEASE GO READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTES!!!

LIFETIME: PART 3

Songs to listen:

- Kung Ako Na Lang Sana // Sara Geronimo

- Para Sa Akin // Sitti

[filthygalli]

Do you write for House of the Dragon?

I’ve watched it because of Matt Smith so… I guess Yeah!

[filthygalli]

I’m fucking wheezing rn😭

Remember that I used to be a forensic science student for a year? Right, We did case studies there and my professor made us do case reports or something like that, AND I JUST WENT THROUGH MY GOOGLE DOCS TO FIND THAT!

What’s on my mind that day that I decided to use lbh’s signature, Hwang Inho, Seong Gi-Hun, And Jin Hyun Pil as the people in my reports????😭

[filthygalli]

Hi everyone! How’s everyone doing? I hope you’re all doing great.

I know I said i’ll be posting my nee fics and next chapters for my pending. But lately — ever since my Instagram account got disabled — It caused me to get burned out, add the emotional distress too. I’ve had the account 9 years ago. Yes, NINE FUCKING YEARS, I also posted here that I created a new one since some of ya’ll here are my mutuals there, and that’s where I mostly connect and talk to ya’ll which is fun! But not long ago, the new account that I created, alongside my dump account which where I post my pictures which only my close friends are allowed to see also got disabled, It happened to my Facebook as well. Good thing I appealed and my Facebook account wasn’t disabled! >o<

Now, back to Instagram. I don’t know what’s happening to Meta right now, I don’t know why they’re letting an AI Technology to handle such things, a lot of people got affected by this and not just me, years and years of memories had gone down to the drain because of a stupid accusations of violating their community guidelines. They’ve been doing this for no reason at all, not even a warning or a notification.

It’s been causing me to feel drained and depressed about what’s happening, that’s my 9 years of life in there, from pictures — videos — interactions — and all the great people I met there are now gone, I’m not 100% sure if will I get it back, I’ve been trying to look for ways to bring it back, I even paid the Meta verification badge just to get this problem resolved, I also emailed them, and still there’s no response.

I want to deeply apologize for my sudden rant here, I couldn’t really tell no one since most of my friends online aren’t able to contact me due to the disabling of my accounts.

Do better Meta. Stop normalizing AI to do all the work — Humans are more capable of doing these things. FUCK AI!

[filthygalli]

My first year as a Education student is finally done!!!

I finished my last CFE today, and I’m hoping I don’t have to re-take it if ever my score didn’t get passed 60🙂‍↔️ Just a few clearance from here and there and i’ll be done!

I might post the last part of Lifetime within today and work on LYHC’s next chapters which is already in draft and waiting to be posted:3

For my other fics that I told you I was thinking of writing, they’re still in my gdocs at the moment…

[lost-in-thoughts03]

Lifetime || Storm Shadow

How do you grieve for a love that did not even exist?

Summary: Your parents decided to enroll you in a Taekwondo class so that you would be prepared to defend yourself if necessary. However, your world collided with Thomas Arashikage, which may bring something unexpected into your life.

The fluorescent lights of the Taekwondo dojang in Seoul buzzed overhead like judgmental fireflies. You stood stiff as a board beside Master Kim, your new trainer, while two dozen pairs of eyes drilled into you. Some trainees sized you up with mild curiosity while the others looked like they were already calculating how fast you’d quit.

Your parents had dragged you here after one too many playground incidents back home and convinced you that learning to kick would magically turn you into a self-defense machine. Right now, all you wanted was to melt into the polished wooden floor.

“ Everyone, this is our newest trainee.” Master Kim announced in his booming voice with his crisp dobok making him look every inch the authority figure.

“ She just moved to Seoul. Treat her well. No hazing unless you want extra laps.”

A few snickers rippled through the room. You kept your gaze glued to your bare feet while your cheeks are burning.

Master Kim launched into the rules without mercy. “ Respect the dojang. No talking during instruction. No phones. No eating. Break any rule and you’ll run ten laps, do fifty push-ups, or both. Serious violations? You’re out. This is discipline, not a playground.”

His eyes swept the room then landed on you. “ Understood?”

You nodded so fast your neck hurt.

The warm-up started immediately in basic stretches, forward bends, and side lunges. Your muscles screamed in protest; you weren’t used to any of this. While the others moved with practiced fluidity, you wobbled like a newborn giraffe. Every time you tried to touch your toes, your hamstrings staged a full rebellion.

Master Kim noticed.

“ Keep breathing. Slow and steady. You’re not racing anyone.” His voice carried encouragement, but the burn in your thighs made it hard to believe him.

After what felt like an eternity of awkward high kicks that barely cleared the ground, he finally called a short break. You collapsed onto the edge of the blue mat, chest heaving, and sweat already sticking your hair to your forehead.

Tomorrow was going to be hell. You watched the veteran trainees flow through their routines and envy twisted in your gut.

Then someone plopped down right beside you.

You flinched so hard you nearly toppled over.

“ Today’s training feels like my limbs are filing for divorce.” A low voice muttered beside you.

“ I want to quit and become a convenience store clerk. But nooo…I have to be the greatest assassin the world has ever seen. Dramatic, right?”

You turned your head slowly. The guy sitting next to you had a sharp jawline, messy dark hair damp with sweat, and a side profile that could probably launch a thousand fan cams. He looked maybe a year older than you. He’s handsome in that annoyingly effortless way.

He must have realized he’d been monologuing out loud because he let out a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “ Sorry. I'm talking to myself again. It happens when the legs are dying.”

He extended a hand. “ Thomas Arashikage. Yeah, I know that it sounds like I walked out of an anime. Blame my mom’s obsession with ninja movies.”

You hesitated, then shook it. “ I’m…Y/n L/n.”

Thomas grinned in bright and surprisingly warm. “ Y/n. Nice. I noticed you the second you walked in with Master Kim. You had that fresh-meat deer-in-headlights look. A classic newbie.”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself. “ That obvious, huh? I’m just nervous. Not used to people staring like they’re waiting for me to trip over my own feet.”

He nodded while leaning back on his hands. “ You’ll get used to it. The first month is always brutal. Everything hurts. You question your life choices. Then one day you realize you can actually do a proper roundhouse without falling on your face.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “ And when that happens, you get to show everyone your hidden skills. We all have them, you know. Something that makes us different. I can’t wait to see yours.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. Most people just gave polite small talk and Thomas spoke like he actually meant it.

Before you could respond, Master Kim clapped his hands. “ Break’s over! Back to basics…front stance, chamber, and kick! Newbie, watch and copy the form.”

You groaned internally and pushed yourself up. Thomas stood too while stretching his arms overhead with a dramatic wince.

“ See you on the other side of the pain, Y/n.” He said while flashing another grin.

“ Try not to murder your calves on the first day.”

You rolled your eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “ No promises. And stop talking about being an assassin. That’s weird.”

He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “ It’s aspirational! You’ll see. One day I’ll be so good, even Master Kim will fear me.”

“ Thomas!” Master Kim barked.

“ Less talking, more kicking.”

Thomas shot you a quick wink before jogging back to his spot. You tried to focus on the next set of stretches, but your mind kept drifting to the guy who’d just casually declared his dream of becoming the world’s greatest assassin while complaining his legs were about to file for divorce.

The session dragged on and every muscle protested. You caught Thomas glancing your way a couple of times. Once when you nearly lost balance on a side kick while his mouth twitched like he was fighting a laugh. Another time when you finally landed a decent front kick then he gave a tiny thumbs-up that somehow made the burn in your thighs feel slightly less apocalyptic.

By the end of the hour, you were a sweaty and aching mess. As everyone bowed out and started gathering their things, Thomas appeared beside you again, towel slung over his shoulder.

“ Not bad for day one.” He said, voice low so only you could hear.

“ Most newbies look like they’re fighting invisible ghosts. You only looked like you were fighting one ghost.”

You snorted. “ Thanks. I think.”

He smirked. “ Anytime. Just don’t quit before you discover that hidden skill of yours. I have a feeling it’s going to be impressive.”

You opened your mouth to retort like something about how his assassin dreams were probably just an excuse to wear all black, but the words caught in your throat. There was something in the way he looked at you, not judging like the others had at the start.

His gaze lingered a second too long while yours did the same. Then he broke it with another chuckle.

“ See you tomorrow, newbie. Try not to die in your sleep from soreness.”

You watched him walk away, heart doing a stupid little flip that had nothing to do with the workout. As you gathered your bag, one thought looped in your mind that this training was going to be a lot more complicated than your parents had promised.

...

A week into training, the dojang in Seoul had stopped feeling like enemy territory. Your muscles still ached, but the routines were slowly becoming familiar.

Thomas Arashikage was the main reason while other trainees kept to their cliques or shot you occasional pitying looks when you messed up a stance and he always made time for you.

“ Y/n, your high kick looks like you’re trying to swat a very slow mosquito.” He teased one afternoon while demonstrating the proper form with effortless grace.

“ Higher. Pretend the air offended your ancestors.”

You glared, sweat dripping into your eyes. “ Easy for you to say, Mr. Future Greatest Assassin. Some of us weren’t born with legs that cooperate.”

He laughed with that bright and infectious sound that always pulled a reluctant smile from you. “ Hey, my legs filed for divorce last week, remember? We’re in this together.”

Master Kim’s sharp voice cut across the mat. “ Arashikage! Y/n! Less comedy hour, more focus. And Y/n, laugh any louder and you’ll be running extra laps for disturbing the peace.”

Thomas winked at you behind the trainer’s back. Your stomach hurts from trying to stifle the next burst of laughter.

From then on, he became your default partner for pair drills. When you struggled with the chambering motion for a roundhouse kick, he’d open his palms patiently, and letting you practice the snap against his hands.

“ Again. You almost had it. Don’t rush, feel the balance.”

You failed the next three times and nearly toppled over. Instead of frustration, Thomas just grinned. “ See? Progress. Last week you would’ve face-planted. Patience and determination, newbie. You’ve got both. I can tell.”

His long-suffering patience was almost annoying. No matter how many times you botched a routine, he’d correct your posture with gentle hands on your shoulders or elbows, voice steady and encouraging.

“ You’re going to make it. Everyone starts somewhere. I even looked like a drunk giraffe on day one.”

By the end of the first month, the closeness between you had deepened into something comfortable yet electric. Thomas started initiating small outings after training with nothing dramatic, just “sightseeing” as he called it. The first time, he dragged you to Namsan Tower after a grueling session, claiming the view would “reset your soul after all those kicks.”

You went because you trusted him. He never pushed boundaries and never made you feel unsafe. You wandered the trails around the tower, the city lights of Seoul sparkling below like scattered jewels. Thomas pointed out silly landmarks and made up ridiculous stories about them.

“ See that building? That’s where I’ll establish my secret assassin headquarters. Top floor. With a vending machine that only dispenses ramyeon at midnight.”

You snorted while bumping his shoulder. “ You’re ridiculous. And my parents would kill me if they knew I was out with a boy instead of ‘focusing on training and the family business.’”

He raised an eyebrow, teasing. “ Secret rebel, huh? Don’t worry, I won’t tell. We’re just friends appreciating nature. Very wholesome.”

But it didn’t feel entirely wholesome anymore.

The outings multiplied. A quiet walk along the Han River at dusk, where he challenged you to a stone-skipping contest and lost spectacularly, blaming “wind interference” while you laughed until tears pricked your eyes.

Another time, he took you to a small park near the dojang, sitting on a bench as cherry blossoms drifted down even though it wasn’t peak season yet. He’d bring snacks and you’d talk about everything and nothing.

About his dream of mastering every martial art under the sun, your reluctance about inheriting the family business and silly trainee gossip.

Every meeting, the connection grew heavier. Thomas would catch your eye during training and flash that crooked smile that made your pulse stutter. When he guided your form, his touch lingered a fraction longer than necessary when his warm palms steadying your waist during balance drills. You’d pull away first with your heart racing while telling yourself it was nothing.

Yet the unfamiliar feeling in your chest refused to be ignored. A flutter whenever he laughed at your terrible jokes. A quiet warmth when he waited for you after class, towel in hand, and ready with another ridiculous comment.

“ Nice job today. Your kicks are starting to look less like panicked flailing and more like actual Taekwondo.”

You tried to dismiss it. It was unnecessary and your parents had been clear about focusing on training or no distractions. The family business needed a capable heir, not someone mooning over a boy with assassin fantasies.

Thomas was just a good friend.

That was all.

But the more time you spent with him, the louder your heart argued otherwise. During one sunset walk along a quiet trail outside the city, he stopped to pick a small wildflower and tucked it behind your ear without thinking.

“ There. Now you look like a proper Seoul adventurer.” He said softly, his fingers brushing your cheek as he pulled back. His eyes held yours a beat too long, dark and searching.

You swallowed, stepping back with a forced laugh. “ Flirting with the newbie again, Arashikage? Careful, or I’ll tell Master Kim you’re distracting me from my hidden skills.”

Thomas chuckled, but it sounded a little strained. “ I wouldn't dream of it. Just…appreciating the view.”

It's about friendship or something deeper.

You didn’t know yet.

And Thomas didn’t push. He just stayed close, patient as ever and letting the slow burn simmer.

Back at the dojang the next day, he partnered with you again, correcting your stance with that same steady patience. “ See? Determination. You’re getting better every day.”

You met his gaze, the familiar flutter returning. “ Thanks to my annoying personal coach.”

He grinned. “ Anytime, Y/n. Anytime.”

Master Kim barked another warning about noise, but neither of you could stop the quiet laughter that followed.

...

The years blurred together in the Seoul dojang like the steady rhythm of kicks against pads. What began as shy glances and clumsy stretches had evolved into something far more serious.

You and Thomas Arashikage became the school's go-to pair for side missions by escorting VIPs through crowded streets while retrieving stolen training equipment from shady contacts or quietly handling minor disturbances involving rogue trainees who thought they could use their skills for petty crime.

Thomas had been the one to drag you into it.

“ No way I’m pairing with anyone else.” He’d declared to Master Kim while flashing that signature grin.

“ Y/n and I already know each other’s moves. We’ll get it done clean.”

You’d bickered the entire first mission. “ Your ‘concrete plan’ was just ‘run at them and look intimidating,’ Thomas. I almost got elbowed in the face!”

“ Hey, it worked, didn’t it? And you looked cute when you were panicking.” He’d dodged your half-hearted swipe while laughing until Master Kim threatened extra drills.

The missions grew harder. Promotion came after a successful takedown of a mid-level fence dealing in illegal combat gear. Suddenly you were facing real threats of high-profile criminals and corrupt officials using martial arts connections for smuggling rings or even a few powerful businessmen with bodyguards who knew how to throw a punch.

The work was exhausting of long nights tailing suspects through neon-lit alleys in Gangnam, tense stakeouts in rainy Han River parks, and the constant edge of knowing one wrong move could end badly.

Yet Thomas made it bearable. He always arrived with detailed plans sketched on crumpled napkins about the entry points, escape routes, and signals only the two of you understood.

“ Stick close. I’ve got your back.” He’d murmur before every op, his hand briefly squeezing yours in reassurance. His patience never wavered, even when you froze during your first real confrontation with armed thugs.

He’d pulled you behind cover with his calm voice. “ Breathe. We improvise together. You’re not doing this alone.”

Your admiration deepened into something heavier and more consuming. The way he moved in combat mirrored the quiet strength he showed when guiding your form back in training.

Late nights after missions by sharing cheap convenience store meals on rooftops overlooking the city, the tension between you thickened like summer humidity. The unspoken words hung in every lingering glance, every accidental brush of shoulders, every soft “good work today” that felt like so much more.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore. The flutter in your chest had become a constant ache when his body language screamed the same. The way he always chose the seat closest to you, how his eyes softened when no one else was looking, and the protective edge in his voice during dangerous moments.

He felt it too.

You were sure of it.

One humid summer night, after a particularly grueling mission dismantling a small extortion ring, the two of you ended up at a quiet street food stall near Hongdae. Steam rose from tteokbokki and grilled skewers while the air was thick with spicy scents and distant K-pop beats. You sat on plastic stools, shoulders brushing, and sharing a plate of hotteok dripping with honey.

The words spilled out before you could stop them.

“ Thomas…what is this between us?” Your voice was quiet but steady with your heart hammering.

“ I can’t keep pretending. I’m slowly falling for you. All these years…the missions, the laughs, the way you look at me when we’re alone. I think you feel it too.”

He stiffened beside you, skewer paused halfway to his mouth. The easy humor drained from his face. For a long moment, and only the sizzle of food on the grill filled the silence.

“ I…didn’t know.” He muttered finally and set the food down. His shoulders slumped.

“ I wasn’t sure what I truly felt. Or maybe I was scared to admit it.” He ran a hand through his hair with his eyes fixed on the flickering stall light.

“ I want to pursue you, Y/n. God, I do. But I’m terrified you’ll become a barrier to my plans. We’re too different. You’ve got the family business waiting…the one your parents drilled into you. I want to be the best assassin this country’s ever seen. Make my parents proud. Prove I’m not just some loudmouth with dreams.”

Your chest tightened. “ Thomas—”

He cut in gently with his voice laced with regret. “ I don’t want to be the reason you fall. We’re still young. There are so many opportunities ahead. Your parents already forbid you from even being friends with guys like me. If they found out…I won’t let myself become the obstacle that ruins everything you’ve worked for.”

The street noise faded into a dull roar. You felt the crack in your heart widening.

“ I’ll fight for you.” You said, voice trembling but determined.

“ Just don’t leave me to do it alone. We’ve faced worse together on missions. We can face this.”

Thomas shook his head slowly and pain flashing across his handsome features. “ I have too many dreams, Y/n. Being the greatest…it’s everything I’ve trained for. I can’t ask you to give up everything for me.”

His gaze met yours. “ Don’t do that. I won’t allow it.”

Tears pricked your eyes. The boy who had made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who had patiently corrected your stances a thousand times, and who had planned every mission to keep you safe…he was pulling away.

“ After everything? The years, the way you looked at me, the touches that lingered…you showed me all those mixed signals and now you say you don’t know?”

“ I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“ I’m really sorry for leading you on. For not being clear. I do like you, Y/n. More than I should. But my main priority right now is my dreams. I can’t let anything or even this derail that. Not yet.”

The hotteok turned cold on the plate and your appetite vanished. All those moments of his laughter echoing in the dojang, his steady hands guiding yours, and the quiet nights where the city felt like it belonged only to the two of you crashed against the wall he’d just built.

You wanted to argue, to fight like you did on missions when the odds were bad. But the look in his eyes told you he’d already made his choice, at least for now. The slow burn that had warmed you for years now left only embers and smoke.

“ Fine.” You said quietly while standing on shaky legs. The unresolved tension lingered, sharp and painful, but neither of you were willing to close the distance or walk away completely.

“ Just…don’t expect me to pretend nothing happened.”

Thomas didn’t stop you as you left the stall, the Seoul night suddenly colder despite the summer heat. He remained seated, shoulders hunched with the weight of his ambitions and fears heavier than any opponent you’d faced together.

The walk home blurred with unshed tears. Years of partnership, laughter, and deepening connection had led here to a confession met with hesitation, and to feelings laid bare under streetlights only to be gently that devastatingly set aside.

Yet deep down, the spark refused to die completely. You wondered if the next mission would feel the same or if everything had just changed forever.

...

The rejection hits like a poorly executed axe kick and leaves you sprawled on the mat of your own emotions. That night at the street food stall when Thomas’s words had carved a clean line between you.

“ I like you too…but my dreams come first.”

You couldn’t breathe the same air as him after that.

The very next morning you packed your bag at the training camp outside Seoul and left without a word. No note or no goodbye. Every time you pictured his face, the pain flared fresh. Seeing him in the dojang while hearing his voice call out corrections to someone else, would have been unbearable.

So you ran.

Thomas tried multiple times.

Texts lit up your phone for weeks and missed calls.

Thomas: Y/n, talk to me.

Thomas: What did I do wrong?

Thomas: At least let me explain properly.

A voice message where his usual cocky tone cracked.

“ Newbie…don’t disappear on me like this.”

You deleted every one. You avoided every training session he might attend then switched your schedule or changed your number after the third month. When he showed up at your family’s business office once, you slipped out the back door before he could spot you.

Eventually, he stopped trying and the silence that followed was worse.

Then came the cruelest punchline.

During a rare visit back to the old dojang to collect forgotten gear, you overheard trainees whispering. Thomas had been reassigned to a new partner. A sharp, confident girl named Mina who moved like liquid steel and laughed at his jokes even louder than you once had.

They looked good together and the kind of partnership that didn’t need years to build; it simply clicked.

Fate had a vicious sense of humor.

The love you once carried for him curdled into something hollow, cold, and edged with hate. Not the dramatic, screaming kind. It was just a quiet ache that sharpened every time his name crossed your mind.

You threw yourself into training until your body screamed louder than your heart. Muscles tore and rebuilt stronger and techniques that once felt impossible became second nature. You pushed until bruises bloomed like dark flowers across your skin and your lungs burned with every breath.

Years slid by in a blur of sweat, blood, and silent rage.

Now, at twenty-four, you moved through the shadowed underbelly of Seoul as a full-fledged operative in the Cobra Organization. The same syndicate your parents had quietly served for decades.

The work was illegal, ruthless, and paid in secrets and blood. You handled high-value extractions, eliminations of rival players, and protection details for men whose smiles hid knives.

Your loyalty was absolute because Cobra gave you purpose when everything else felt empty.

But the hollow never filled. No matter how many successful missions you completed, no matter how many powerful targets fell because of your precise kicks and colder calculations, the ache remained.

Thomas Arashikage had become a ghost you couldn’t exorcise. You wondered, in the quiet hours before dawn, whether he was still at the old training camp grinding through routines, or if he had finally clawed his way up to become the “greatest assassin” he once joked about.

Had he and Mina become legends together?

Did he still sketch ridiculous plans on napkins?

Did he ever think about the shy newbie who once laughed until her stomach hurt?

You had cut every thread of communication. No social media or no mutual contacts. You trained alone, worked alone, and lived alone. After Thomas, the idea of letting anyone close felt like inviting another rejection you wouldn’t survive.

Your heart has hardened into something efficient and sharp. It's perfect for Cobra and useless for anything softer.

Tonight, you leaned against the cold railing of a rooftop in Itaewon, city lights glittering below like indifferent stars. Another mission completed about a corrupt official who had crossed Cobra one too many times and now slept permanently in the Han River.

Your body ached from the fight, but it was the familiar and welcome kind of pain.

The kind you could control.

Still, memories crept in uninvited.

You remembered Thomas’s steady hands adjusting your stance years ago.

“ Patience and determination, Y/n. You’ve got both.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips and carried away by the night wind.

“ Greatest sense of humor, fate.” You muttered to the empty rooftop.

“ Really funny. You gave me the perfect partner, then turned him into the greatest lesson I never asked for.”

Your phone buzzed about the new orders from Cobra. Another target and another night of shadows and precision. You straightened, pushing the ghost of Thomas down where it belonged. It is buried beneath layers of skill, loyalty, and the cold armor you’d built around your heart.

Somewhere out there, Thomas was probably chasing his dreams with someone who didn’t remind him of complicated feelings. Maybe he had succeeded or maybe he was happier.

The thought twisted like a knife, but you welcomed the sting. Pain keeps you sharp and hate keeps you moving. You had chosen your path the day you walked out of that camp while he had chosen the night he couldn’t choose you.

Two assassins with the same dreams, now walking opposite directions.

You pulled your hood up and disappeared into the Seoul night, footsteps silent, heart still quietly breaking in the same place it had years ago.

And the worst part? Deep down, beneath the hate and the hollow, a tiny treacherous part of you still wondered what would have happened if he had just said 'yes.'

...

The dim glow of holographic displays flickered across the underground conference room buried beneath a nondescript building in Seoul’s Itaewon district. Cobra’s inner sanctum smelled of cold steel and faint ozone from the projectors.

You stood at attention in your black tactical gear, mask pulled down, while Snake Eyes, which is your master, the silent legend who had taken you under his wing years ago that outlined the mission on the central table.

“ Storm Shadow.” Snake Eyes signed and spoke. The words clipped and precise. His masked face revealed nothing, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

“ He is Cobra’s greatest threat right now. His rogue team has sabotaged three major operations in the last six months."

" He hit our weapons shipment in Busan. He exposed our contact in the National Assembly. He moves like a ghost and strikes like lightning. We need him eliminated.”

You absorbed every detail without interruption. Intel on Storm Shadow’s known patterns of his white uniform, dual swords, preference for close-quarters kills, and history with the Arashikage clan.

The name tugged at something buried deep in your chest but you dismissed it. Plenty of operatives used codenames inspired by old ninja lore. It couldn’t be him because the Thomas Arashikage you once knew was probably still grinding through dojang routines or playing house with his new partner somewhere far from this life.

The man who had rejected you, who had let you walk away with a shattered heart, and would never rise to become Cobra’s public enemy number one.

You accepted the mission without hesitation. “ I’ll handle it.”

Snake Eyes studied you for a long moment, then continued. “ You’ll track him through his last known sighting in the mountains near Chuncheon. Use the old training camp ruins as a possible staging point. He’s been spotted near former Arashikage-affiliated sites. Strike when he’s isolated. No witnesses and no mercy.”

He laid out the plan in meticulous detail about the infiltration routes, potential ambush points, and contingencies if Storm Shadow called in reinforcements. You memorized every variable, already mentally refining the strategy with your own touches while using the rainy season terrain for cover, and exploiting his possible overconfidence in hand-to-hand.

Years of relentless training had sharpened you into one of Cobra’s most reliable blades and this promotion would cement that.

“ Success here elevates your rank significantly.” Snake Eyes said.

“ Higher clearance. More critical missions. The trust of the higher-ups. Benefits that will make your parents proud of the legacy they passed to you.” He paused, then added with quiet intensity.

“ I fought to assign you this. Don’t make me regret choosing you over more experienced operatives. Be grateful for the opportunity.”

You met his gaze steadily and nodded. “ I won’t disappoint you, Master. This mission will succeed.”

A faint smile touched the corners of Snake Eyes’ mouth. The closest he ever came to open praise. “ Good. You’ve come far from that shy trainee who could barely chamber a kick. I see the fire in you now. Use it.”

You offered a small, controlled smile in return, but inside, something heavy pressed against your ribs. A vague unease you couldn’t name. The name “Storm Shadow” echoed again in your mind while stirring old ghosts you had buried under layers of cold discipline and hollow loyalty.

You pushed the feeling down. The distraction was unacceptable because you had spent years forging yourself into someone unbreakable precisely to avoid this kind of weakness.

The briefing ended with final coordinates and encrypted comms protocols. As you turned to leave, Snake Eyes placed a hand on your shoulder which was a rare physical contact from the silent master.

“ Remember why you fight for Cobra.” He said quietly.

“ Loyalty above all. Personal feelings have no place on the battlefield.”

You swallowed and nodded once more. “ Understood.”

Outside the conference room, the corridor’s sterile lights felt too bright. Your footsteps echoed as you headed toward the armory to prepare your gear.

It wasn’t fear of the target because you had faced dangerous men before and emerged victorious.

This was something older, deeper, and unresolved.

Memories you had long suppressed flickered unwanted of laughter that once made your stomach hurt, patient hands correcting your stance, late-night street food and lingering gazes full of things neither of you had named.

The rejection that had turned warmth into ice, and the years of training through pain until hate became your sharpest weapon.

You shook your head sharply.

It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. Storm Shadow was the enemy ruining Cobra’s plans. The organization that had given you purpose when your heart had gone hollow. Killing him would be justice for every mission he had sabotaged and every plan he had derailed.

And yet, he weight in your chest lingered like an old injury flaring before a storm. You told yourself it was nothing more than pre-mission nerves. You had cut Thomas Arashikage out of your life completely.

Whoever this Storm Shadow was, he was just another name on a list. Another obstacle between you and the rank you had bled for.

You loaded your weapons with mechanical precision. The cold metal felt grounding and familiar. As you stepped into the elevator that would take you to the surface exit, you whispered to the empty space with a voice barely audible.

“ I won’t be distracted. Not by ghosts or not by anyone.”

The burn of an old wound you thought had scarred over is now itched beneath the surface and threatening to reopen at the worst possible moment.

Somewhere out there, Storm Shadow moved through the shadows, unaware, or perhaps all too aware that the past was about to collide with the present in the most painful way possible.

You exhaled slowly, steeling yourself.

This mission would change everything.

One way or another.

...

The next day, rain lashed the mountains near Chuncheon like a punishment. You moved through the target compound like smoke in a black tactical gear blending with the shadows of Cobra’s rival guards. Snake Eyes’ voice crackled low and steady in your earpiece while feeding instructions with clinical precision.

“ Stay low. Guards at three o’clock. Use the service corridor. Storm Shadow is confirmed inside in white gear and dual katana. Do not engage until you have isolation.”

You obeyed without question while slipping past patrols with practiced silence. Your heart beat steady from yesterday’s briefing still coiled but manageable.

This was your chance. A rank, trust, and proof that the hollow years had forged something unbreakable.

Then chaos erupted ahead.

A figure in pristine white ninja gear carved through the guards with terrifying efficiency. Dual katanas flashed like lightning and bodies dropping before they could scream. You didn’t hesitate. This was the target as you lunged from the shadows while aiming a brutal strike at his exposed flank.

He moved faster than you thought.

A powerful kick slammed into your ribs, shoving you hard into the nearest concrete wall as the pain exploded across your back. Before you could recover, Storm Shadow vanished down a side passage and his white uniform melted into the downpour.

Snake Eyes’ voice snapped through the earpiece. “ You had the opening. Why didn’t you finish him?”

You pushed off the wall while breathing through the ache. “ He was too fast, Master. A direct assault would have alerted the entire compound. I need better positioning so I won’t miss it again.”

A pause. Then, grudgingly. “ Acceptable. End him quickly. Do not disappoint me.”

You gave chase.

The pursuit led deep into a narrow in a forgotten alley between crumbling warehouse ruins, the old training camp grounds long abandoned and overgrown.

The rain hammered down in sheets and turned the ground to slick mud. Visibility dropped to almost nothing but your instincts screamed danger. He was here, waiting, and turning the alley into his trap.

Until light footsteps whispered behind you.

You spun, katana whipping up just in time to block his descending blade. Steel rang against steel and the impact vibrated through your arms when the fight ignited instantly.

He was good, devastatingly good.

Strikes came in fluid like Arashikage sequences. A familiar pattern that clawed at the edges of your memory. You parried, countered, landed solid hits to his torso and shoulders while absorbing punishing blows to your own ribs and thighs. The pain blurred with adrenaline as your mind kept screaming one impossible name, but you shoved it down.

Focus on mission and promotion because the past had no place here.

Rain soaked you both, turning white and black fabric dark and heavy. You saw your chance. With a desperate twist, you hooked your blade under the edge of his mask and yanked it free.

Time fractured.

Thomas Arashikage’s face is older, sharper, and scarred faintly along the jaw stared back at you while the rain streamed down his cheeks. Those dark eyes you once knew so well widened in shock.

Your heart dropped like a stone into an endless well. After all these years, the boy who made you laugh until you cried. The partner who guided your hands with endless patience. The one who had rejected you so gently it still burned.

Storm Shadow or Thomas Arashikage.

He recovered faster than you did. In a blur, he trapped you with his body pressing yours against the cold, wet alley wall and one katana at your throat while the other pinning your sword arm. You struggled, muscles straining, but his weight and leverage held you immobile. The rain poured between you, mixing with the metallic taste of blood from a split lip.

His voice that cut through the downpour. “ Who are you?”

You met his gaze. “ I am that someone will change after they get hurt by a person they were supposed to trust.”

His eyes searched for yours with confusion and something deeper flickering there.

You smirked, cold and bitter. “ If you want to kill me now, do it. I’m not afraid of death.”

Storm Shadow didn’t hesitate. His free hand shot up and tugged your mask down in one sharp motion. The moment your face was revealed, his dark eyes widened further, and raw shock replaced the assassin’s calm while the rain traced paths down his stunned expression.

For several heartbeats, neither of you moved. The alley, the rain, and the distant sounds of the compound are all faded.

“ Y/n…” He breathed, voice cracking on your name like an old wound reopening.

“ Why are you doing this?”

You lifted your chin, refusing to let the tremble in your chest show. “ It's none of your business if I do this. I don’t care if Cobra is the government’s enemy or not. I only care about myself and the promotion this kill brings.”

He laughed in a bitter, hollow sound that hurt more than any strike he had landed. “ I never expected this. The girl who once had so much fire in training…lowering herself to Cobra just for the higher-ups’ approval? For rank?”

“ I don’t care what you think anymore.” You said firmly, though your voice wavered at the edges.

“ You’ve been gone too long from my life. I don’t see you the way I used to. You’re just a mission now. And I should end you right here.”

Thomas stared at you, the katana at your throat never wavering, yet his grip seemed less certain. Heavy angst thickened the air between your bodies, the old slow burn now laced with years of pain and silence.

“ The old you would never be happy knowing what you’ve become.” He murmured.

You laughed, sharp and broken. “ The old me died the day you hurt her”

His expression twisted. “ Just because I let you go doesn’t mean I didn’t hurt too. It doesn’t mean only you carried the pain.”

The words landed like another kick to the ribs. His warmth bled through wet fabric. His scent that faintly familiar beneath rain and blood and stirred memories you had tried to kill.

You wanted to scream, to fight, or to demand why he had chosen his dreams over you like why he looked at you now with the same longing that once made your chest flutter.

Instead, you remained trapped, the promotion, Cobra’s trust, and your hardened loyalty warring violently against the ghost of the boy who once called you “newbie” and promised you’d discover your hidden skills.

The rain kept falling, washing nothing away. Neither of you moved to strike the killing blow. The mission, the years, the rejection, and all of it suspended in this single and agonizing moment of rediscovery.

...

The rain pounded relentlessly in the narrow alley, turning the ground into slick mud that mirrored the chaos inside you. Thomas stood frozen after recognizing your face with his dark eyes wide with a storm of emotions that matched the downpour. His body still pinned you against the cold wall, katanas keeping deadly proximity, but the fight had shifted into something far more dangerous.

You saw the opening when his gaze softened and was distracted by the ghost of the girl he once knew. Years of training took over. You twisted free with a sharp elbow strike to his ribs, then unleashed a barrage of hits. Each blow landed with the weight of every lonely year, every suppressed memory, and every hollow promotion you had chased to fill the void he left.

Thomas accepted them. He didn’t counter or didn’t dodge. He simply absorbed the punishment while grunting softly as your strikes connected with his chest, shoulders, and arms. The rain mixed with the blood from fresh cuts on his lip.

“ Fight back, Thomas!” You screamed.

“ Be fair! Stop standing there like some martyr and fight me!”

He finally blocked your next flurry, strong hands catching your wrists mid-swing. His voice was low but steady despite the pain.

“ I won’t ever hit someone who’s still part of me.”

You chuckled bitterly, the sound hollow and wet. “ How noble. I can hit or kill someone who used to be part of my life. Especially when he made sure I learned how to survive without him.”

With a raw scream torn from your chest when you attacked again. The blades clashed as your katana sang through the rain as you pressed forward blindly and emotions blinded you to everything except the ache that had festered for years.

You were deaf to Snake Eyes’ urgent voice crackling faintly in your discarded earpiece, deaf to reason, and deaf to the mission.

“ I won’t hesitate to kill you if you keep refusing to fight!” You snarled while swinging again.

Thomas dodged or parried with minimal effort. His white uniform now stained and clinging to his frame.

“ Then do it.” He said quietly but his eyes never left yours.

“ I’ll accept my death if that’s what you want. At least I’ll die fighting for what’s right. Unlike you…fighting only to please the ones who own you.”

The words sliced deeper than any blade. You grabbed your katana with both hands and drove it forward in frustration. The tip slammed into the brick wall beside his head with a sharp crack and missed him by inches. He flinched slightly but refused to show fear. His dark eyes remained locked on you, calm amid the storm.

“ I’m tired of this, Thomas.” You whispered harshly.

The rain streamed down your face, mingling with the first hot tears you refused to acknowledge.

“ I’m tired of carrying the pain you caused. Look at me, Thomas. This is your fault. I wouldn’t have walked this path if you had just been brave enough to risk everything. I was willing to risk it all for you…my family’s expectations, the business, or everything.”

“ But you were deceitful. You made me believe the fairy tale was real with every smile, every lingering touch, every ‘you’ve got hidden skills’ speech. You toyed with my emotions and then chose your precious dreams.”

He shook his head slowly while the water dripped from his lashes. “ I never played with your feelings, Y/n. I felt the same. I loved you. But we were too young. I didn’t want you risking your future for me when I saw so much potential in you. I didn’t want to be the reason you fell.”

His voice cracked with old regret. “ You don’t know how much I regretted not taking that risk. How guilty I felt every day after you started avoiding me. I wanted to love you properly…but the timing was never right for us.”

Your eyes glistened with unshed tears that finally spilled over, hot against the cold rain.

“ Liar.” You choked out.

Thomas stepped closer while the alley was shrinking around you both.

“ If you really want Cobra’s approval so badly…” He murmured.

“ Then finish me. Get the recognition you crave from them.”

He reached out, gently but firmly grabbing your wrist. He guided the tip of your katana until it rested against the pulse point on his neck. His skin was warm beneath the cold steel.

“ I’ll never be mad at you for ending me. I’m glad…after all these years, I got to see you again. I’m sorry for hurting you, Y/n. Truly.”

You trembled violently as the blade shook in your grip.

“ Shut up, Thomas.” You whispered brokenly.

“ Just…shut up.”

He only stared at you with that defeated, open gaze with his dark eyes full of quiet sorrow, acceptance, and something deeper that made your heart twist painfully with no anger or no defense.

Just the man who had once patiently taught you to believe in yourself, now offering his life without resistance. But the frustration boiled over. With a choked cry, you threw the katana aside and it clattered uselessly into the mud.

“ I can’t do it.” You gasped.

The dam broke.

You pressed your forehead against his chest while your shoulders shook as years of suppressed pain flooded out in harsh and wrenching sobs.

Thomas didn’t hesitate as his arms came around you instantly, strong and steady, then pulling you close despite the rain, the blood, the mission, and the years apart. His embrace was warm and chasing away the cold that had settled in your bones since the day you walked out of that training camp.

After all this time, you finally felt the warmth you had been desperately seeking. The hollow in your heart cracked open wider, but this time it wasn’t empty. It hurt because it was filled with everything you had tried to kill about the laughter, the patience and the slow burn of feelings that refused to die.

You cried harder while your fists weakly clutching his soaked white uniform, face buried against him as sobs wracked your body.

“ Why…why did you let me go?” The words muffled against his chest.

Thomas held you tighter, one hand gently cradling the back of your head while the other stroking your back in the same soothing rhythm he once used during difficult training sessions.

His own breathing was uneven. His voice was thick when he finally spoke. “ I never stopped thinking about you, newbie. Never.”

Snake Eyes’ voice had long gone silent in the earpiece. The mission, the promotion, and Cobra’s expectations. All of it felt distant and meaningless against the reality of Thomas’s heartbeat under your cheek.

For the first time in years, you weren’t alone in the pain.

Yet nothing was resolved because the past still loomed and Cobra waited for a kill that would never come tonight. Your loyalty, your hardened heart, and his dreams while they all hung in fragile balance.

You cried until your throat burned and your legs trembled, safe for the moment in the arms of the man who had both broken you and somehow still felt like home and neither of you moved to pull away.

...

The rain continued its merciless assault on the narrow alley, but the world narrowed to the warmth of Thomas’s arms around you and the violent pounding of your own heart.

Your sobs had begun to quiet into shaky breaths against his soaked chest when the sharp, deliberate sound of clapping cut through the downpour like a whip.

Both of you stiffened instantly.

Snake Eyes stood at the mouth of the alley, his masked face tilted in mocking amusement, and black tactical gear gleaming wet under the faint alley light.

When a slow and sarcastic clap echoed off the walls.

“ How touching.” He drawled.

“ The angst between you two is so sweet it’s making me cry. A real clingy movie scene. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to sit through the rest of this melodrama.”

Before you could react, he raised his pistol with cold efficiency and aimed it straight at your head.

Thomas moved faster than thought as he shoved you hard to the side while his body twisted to take the bullet meant for you when the shot cracked through the rain.

Thomas grunted as the bullet slammed directly into his chest while the blood bloomed dark against his white uniform. He staggered and collapsed to the muddy ground, clutching the wound with a wet gasp.

“ Thomas!” You screamed.

Snake Eyes turned the gun toward you without hesitation and his finger tightening on the trigger. Rage and grief exploded inside you when you snatched your discarded katana from the mud and lunged.

The blade sliced clean across his neck in one vicious arc. Snake Eyes dropped to his knees while his hands flew to the gaping wound as blood poured between his fingers. His eyes widened behind the mask in shock.

“ I’m done with your bullshit.” You snarled.

“ Done being your obedient dog, chasing rank and approval while you pull the strings.”

With a final, decisive swing, then you beheaded him. The masked head rolled across the wet ground with a sickening thud. You drove your katana downward, stabbing it viciously into the severed head to pin it in place like a grotesque trophy then you rushed to Thomas’s side.

He lay on his back in the mud as the rain washed over the growing pool of blood around him. His hand pressed weakly against the chest wound while his breath coming in shallow and labored gasps.

“ We’re going to the hospital right now.” You said desperately while trying to lift him.

“ Hold on. Just hold on.”

Thomas groaned. “ Maybe…I can’t make it, Y/n. The bullet…hit something fatal.”

“ Don’t say that!” You cried, tears mixing with rain on your cheeks.

“ Fight, Thomas. You have to fight!”

He gave you a sad and gentle smile. The same patient smile he used to give you during difficult training sessions years ago. His bloodied hand rose shakily to cup your face while his thumb brushing your cheek with surprising tenderness.

“ I’m really glad…before I died…I got to see you again.” He whispered.

“ You’re not dying!” You screamed while clutching his hand.

“ Don’t you dare say that. You’re going to live!”

His eyes fluttered and struggled to stay open. “ I always…loved you. Take care of yourself…newbie.”

“ No…no, Thomas, please!” You broke down completely while sobbing as you begged him to keep fighting and to stay with you.

“ Don’t leave me again. Please. I can’t lose you like this. Not after everything.”

His hand went limp in yours. His chest rose once more, then stilled completely. The light in his dark eyes dimmed and vanished. You screamed his name, crying so hard your throat felt raw while rocking his body in the rain as if sheer will could bring him back.

You didn’t hear the soft beeping nearby.

A planted explosive had reached its final timer. The blast erupted in a deafening roar of fire and debris, swallowing the alley, the bodies, and both of you in white-hot agony.

At least in the afterlife, you were together.

Til death do us part.

…

Your eyes snapped open with a sharp gasp.

Bright afternoon light filtered through the high windows of the Taekwondo dojang. The familiar scent of polished wood and faint sweat filled your lungs. You were lying on a stack of spare mats in the corner and the break area where trainees sometimes napped between sessions.

Storm Shadow—no, Thomas Arashikage stood over you, hand extended, his handsome face lit with mild concern and amusement. His dobok was clean, hair slightly messy from training, no blood, no rain, and no wounds.

Your eyes widened in pure shock. “ Thomas…we…we died. The bomb…Snake Eyes shot you…I beheaded him…then the explosion…”

He blinked, then burst out laughing with the bright and infectious sound you remembered so well echoing through the quiet dojang.

“ What are you talking about, pabo?” He flicked your forehead lightly with his finger that made you wince.

“ Snake Eyes? Seriously? That’s the dumbest codename I’ve ever heard. You must’ve had one hell of a nightmare.”

You sat up quickly, heart still racing. “ It felt so real! You died in my arms…I couldn’t save you…then the bomb went off and we both…”

Thomas tilted his head, still chuckling as he pulled you to your feet. “ You’ve been sleeping the entire break. Master Kim is already mad because your ‘nap time’ exceeded the limit. He’s probably planning extra punishment laps for both of us if we don’t show up soon.”

You stared at him, still convinced the nightmare had spilled into reality. “ But…you got shot protecting me. I cried so hard begging you to live. We died together…”

He laughed again, softer this time, and without warning you threw your arms around him in a tight hug. Thomas stiffened for a second in surprise, then relaxed and wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“ You are important to me, Thomas.” You muttered against his chest.

“ I feel so empty without you in my life. Please don’t ever leave.”

Thomas chuckled warmly while his one hand gently rubbing your back. “ Hey…I’m not going anywhere. I won’t.”

He pulled back slightly while he cupped both of your cheeks with his palms then thumbs brushing away the faint traces of tears you hadn’t realized were there. His dark eyes sparkled with that familiar mix of teasing and sincerity.

“ I won’t go anywhere because we’re still attending so much training together. We’re partners, remember?”

You narrowed your brows, confused. “ What do you mean?”

He laughed again and flicked your forehead once more, but lighter this time. “ You’re already forgetting reality because of that nightmare? We’re still here in the Taekwondo school, chasing the same path. You, me, Master Kim yelling at us for being late. No bombs. No Snake Eyes. No dying.”

The relief hit you like a wave. All the bad happenings about the rejection, the years apart, Cobra, the mission, and the painful death had been nothing but a terrible dream.

Your reality was this when Thomas was standing right in front of you, healthy and smiling, still your partner after all these years of training side by side.

You sighed deeply as you leaned into his warmth again. “ It felt so real…I thought I lost you forever.”

Thomas embraced you tighter while resting his chin on top of your head. “ It was just a bad dream, Y/n. You’re safe. We’re both safe. And I’m not letting you go that easily.”

Master Kim’s distant voice barked from the main training area, calling for everyone to return. Thomas grinned and took your hand while tugging you gently toward the mats.

“ Come on. Move your ass before we both get extra punishment. The nightmare’s over. This is us training together…is the real thing.”

You squeezed his hand, heart finally steadying as the last remnants of the nightmare faded. All of it had been a cruel illusion.

In reality, Thomas was still here. Your partner and our constant. For the first time in the dream’s aftermath, you allowed yourself a small and genuine smile.

The two of you walked back to the training floor together, shoulders brushing, ready to face whatever routines and whatever future came next.

No more running and no more hollow hearts. Just the two of you, chasing the same path, one kick at a time.

Author's Note:

Hello, I’m back. I sincerely apologize for being inactive and not posting or updating for the past month. Over the past few weeks, I lost my spark for writing and the motivation to create or share anything related to my passion. I felt overwhelmed and burned out, so I decided to take a short break. I realized I couldn’t write properly if I wasn’t in a good place emotionally, physically, and mentally.

I also didn’t want to disappoint my readers by uploading something that didn’t meet the quality you deserve, especially if I forced myself to write. On top of that, I’ve been dealing with some personal challenges, particularly in school, which made things even more difficult.

I want to express my deepest gratitude to those who checked on me. I truly didn’t expect so many of you to reach out and let me know you missed me...it means more than I can say.

That’s all for now. Thank you so much for your patience and understanding. I may not be as active as before, but I’ll do my best to post whenever I can.

Take care and stay safe, everyone. 💕🫶🏻

Thanks for requesting @lalax06

[filthygalli]

Ik some of ya’ll followed me on IG, not long ago, my IG account got reported for fraud even tho I ain’t doing such things like that😌

Long story short, it got deleted and I couldn’t get it back anymore, 4 years of my pictures, videos, post, and interactions with great people are now gone to the drain:(

I made a new one anyways:3

[filthygalli]

Since everyone wants a PART 3 for Lifetime, I will consider it.

What would be the next and final chapter be?

Angst with comfort, fluff, and smut

Angst with comfort

Voting ended onApr 26