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HE DOESNâT KNOW LOVE. he isnât ashamed to admit it. at three, he was abandoned. at nine, a show-dog for the family adopted. at thirteen, a vagabond numb to the touch. at twenty-one, heâs a host. a cheat. a flirt. and at the earliest hours of the day with soft tender choi jinri nestled against his chest, sehun dares to imagine himself as a viable boyfriend type of thing.Â
he doesnât know love, but sehun supposes at his age heâs learned about adoration.
heâs learned about the power that choi jinri possesses, strong enough to steal oxygen dry from his lungs and replace it with herselfâa silent confession heâd like to imagine between hungry mouthsâcrawling down his throat and coiling around the jaded heart, the dismal soul.
he adores her, protective with fervidity only last shown toward an abandoned feline, one that he, at such a young age, failed to protect. along with the last of his childhood innocence.
but jinri is not a cat and surely, surely, sehun can do better with her.
he wants to be.Â
better, anyway.
âjinri,â gruff, his voice rumbles against her ear, hand slipping under her shirt for something to hold onto, to steel himself against the ghosts, the skeletons, with the slow beat of her heart. âwake up.â













