Summary: Hyunjin is used to surviving storms, sword fights, and life at sea.None of that prepared him for a curious mermaid with too many questions, a love for stray cats, and a habit of looking at him like he’s something worth keeping.
pairing: pirate!Hyunjin x mermaid!female reader
genre: fluff and angst (hints of smut)
tags/cw: soft fantasy, emotional intimacy, POC traits, discovery/first experiences, strangers to lovers, first kiss
word count: ~9k
previous
You were supposed to leave before sunrise.
That had been the plan.
One night on land.
One night with Hyunjin.
Then back to the ocean before things became complicated.
Instead, pale morning light spills through the windows of Hyunjin’s cabin while you wake slowly beneath one of his blankets.
Which feels significantly more complicated.
For a few quiet seconds, you genuinely forget where you are.
The room shifts softly beneath you with the movement of the ship.
Wood creaks somewhere overhead.
Waves crash gently against the hull outside.
Human sounds. Ship sounds.
Hyunjin’s space.
Your eyes drift sleepily around the cabin afterward.
Maps scattered across the desk.
Rings tossed carelessly beside an open journal.
A sword propped near the wall.
Clothes draped over the back of a chair.
Him.
The entire room somehow feels unmistakably him.
Saltwater.
Smoke.
Cinnamon lingering faintly beneath it all now.
Your chest tightens unexpectedly.
Dangerous.
Again.
Voices echo faintly somewhere above deck before footsteps approach outside the cabin door.
Then pause. Like whoever’s outside suddenly remembered something.
A second later, the door opens carefully.
Hyunjin steps inside carrying two cups in his hands before immediately stopping short the moment he notices you awake.
Something in his expression softens instantly.
Sleepy surprise melting into something warmer.
Gentler.
“Morning,” he says quietly.
Your voice comes out softer than intended. “…Morning.”
Neither of you moves for a second afterward.
The intimacy of it settles strangely through the room.
Daylight.
Quiet.
Just the two of you.
Hyunjin recovers first, stepping farther inside before holding one of the cups toward you as you swing your legs around from under the covers.
You blink down at the drink suspiciously. “Is this another human thing?”
Hyunjin laughs softly under his breath. “Tea isn’t that threatening.”
“That’s what you said about cinnamon rolls.”
“And was I wrong?”
"Unfortunately, no."
You carefully take the cup from him afterward, your fingers brushing his briefly in the process.
Warm.
Your heartbeat immediately stumbles again.
Hyunjin notices. Of course he notices.
His eyes flick toward your face for half a second too long before he quietly looks away again.
Which honestly feels worse somehow.
“You stayed,” he says after a moment.
The words are simple.
But something quieter hides beneath them.
Hopeful.
Like he still wasn’t entirely sure you would.
You look down into the steaming cup between your hands.
“…I wanted to.”
Silence settles softly between you afterward.
Not awkward. Just Full.
Hyunjin leans lightly against the edge of the desk nearby, watching you over the rim of his own cup now with that same soft expression he’s been wearing more and more lately.
The dangerous one.
The one that keeps making your chest ache.
Somewhere above deck, loud footsteps suddenly thunder overhead followed immediately by shouting.
“CAPTAIN—”
Hyunjin closes his eyes instantly.
“Nevermind,” he mutters. “Reality found us.”
A second later, the cabin door bursts open hard enough to slam against the wall.
“Captain, Chan said if Minho throws another knife at somebody during breakfast he’s legally allowed to mutiny—”
The sailor stops abruptly.
Silence.
Your eyes meet his.
His eyes widen.
Hyunjin sighs so deeply it sounds spiritual.
“Jisung,” he says calmly, “you are currently experiencing a very important moment called knocking.”
Jisung continues staring at you in complete disbelief.
“…There’s a woman in your cabin.”
“Excellent observation.”
“A very pretty woman.”
“Jisung.”
“Wearing your shirt.”
Jisung slowly looks between the two of you again before something horrifyingly excited flashes across his face.
“Oh my god.”
“No.”
“OH MY GOD.”
Hyunjin pinches the bridge of his nose.
“You have exactly five seconds before I throw you overboard.”
“Captain has a girlfriend,” Jisung whispers dramatically to himself.
“Girlfriend?”
“Not helping,” Hyunjin says immediately.
Jisung points at him in vindication, “SEE?”
The sheer chaos of the interaction leaves you blinking in confusion while Hyunjin looks moments away from sailing directly into a hurricane voluntarily.
“Why are you like this so early in the morning?” he mutters.
“Why are you like this suddenly?” Jisung shoots back immediately. “You disappear for one night and come back with a mystery girl?”
Hyunjin visibly freezes for half a second.
Ah.
Interesting.
So this really is unusual for him.
Jisung notices the realization crossing your face and gasps loudly. “Oh, you didn’t know?”
“Jisung.”
“Captain hates everybody.”
“That is not true.”
“You threatened a man for breathing too loudly yesterday.”
“He was doing it incorrectly.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
Hyunjin immediately looks over at you.
And there it is again.
That softness.
Like your laughter pulls it out of him automatically now.
Jisung sees it happen in real time.
Then slowly: “…Oh, he’s gone gone.”
“Get out.”
"Violently in love....WOW!"
Hyunjin grabs the nearest object off the desk.
Jisung disappears instantly before he can throw it and the cabin door slams shut behind him.
Silence settles again afterward.
Hyunjin stares at the closed door for a long moment before dropping his head into one hand.
“I need a new crew.”
You’re still trying not to laugh, “I thought pirates were supposed to be intimidating.”
“Mine are defective.”
“Mhm.”
Hyunjin glances over at you afterward, still visibly suffering.
“For the record,” he says carefully, “I did not tell him to say any of that.”
You tilt your head slightly. “The girlfriend part or the violently in love part?”
Hyunjin nearly chokes. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”
“Maybe.”
He points at you accusingly with his cup. “Yuna corrupted you.”
“I think your crew just likes embarrassing you.”
“My crew enjoys violence.”
“And yet somehow you’re the one threatening to throw people overboard.”
Hyunjin groans softly under his breath while you finally laugh again.
The sound fills the cabin warmly.
Easier now.
Natural.
Hyunjin watches you through it with that same helpless softness that’s becoming harder and harder for either of you to ignore.
Dangerous.
Again.
“You really stayed,” he says quietly after a moment.
The teasing fades from his voice completely this time.
Leaving something more vulnerable underneath.
Your chest tightens slightly, “You sound surprised.”
Hyunjin looks down into his cup briefly.
“I think I expected you to disappear before morning.”
The honesty in the admission catches you off guard. Because somehow you hadn’t realized he’d been worrying about that too.
“I almost did,” you admit softly.
His eyes lift back toward yours immediately. “What stopped you?”
You should probably say: curiosity, exhaustion, the cinnamon rolls, the cat.
Instead, the truth slips out before you can stop it.
“You.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Hyunjin stills completely across from you.
Like the word physically hit him somewhere important.
Your heartbeat starts stumbling almost immediately afterward.
Gods.
Why would you say that out loud?
“I just mean—” you start quickly.
“No,” Hyunjin says softly.
You stop.
His gaze doesn’t leave yours now.
Warm.
Careful.
Entirely too intense this early in the morning.
“Don’t take it back.”
Your breath catches slightly.
The room suddenly feels much smaller than before.
Hyunjin slowly sets his cup down on the desk beside him afterward without breaking eye contact once.
Then takes a small step closer.
Just one.
But your pulse reacts to it immediately anyway.
“You know,” he says quietly, “for someone who was terrified of humans yesterday…”
Another step.
“You’re getting very comfortable in a pirate captain’s cabin.”
Heat floods your chest instantly.
“That sounds criminal when you say it like that.”
Hyunjin laughs softly under his breath.
Close enough now that you can see the sleep still lingering faintly in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Probably.”
Neither of you moves after that.
But the air changes anyway.
Something quieter settling between you both now.
Heavier.
Your eyes flick downward briefly.
His mouth.
Mistake.
Huge mistake.
Because when you look back up again, Hyunjin notices immediately. Of course he does.
His expression shifts almost imperceptibly afterward.
Softer.
Hungrier.
Your heartbeat becomes genuinely unbearable.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs quietly.
“You stare at me constantly.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Hyunjin’s mouth curves slightly, “I’m better at hiding it.”
The amusement in his voice softens the tension slightly, but not enough.
Not nearly enough.
Because he’s still standing too close now.
Close enough that you can feel warmth radiating from him in the cool morning air drifting through the cabin windows.
Close enough that if either of you leaned forward—
A loud crash suddenly echoes from somewhere above deck.
Followed immediately by yelling.
“THAT WASN’T MY FAULT!”
“YOU THREW A PAN AT ME!”
Hyunjin closes his eyes slowly, “I’m going to kill them.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
The tension snaps apart just enough for both of you to breathe again.
Barely.
Hyunjin shakes his head softly under his breath before glancing back toward the ceiling.
“I should probably make sure the ship is still functional.”
“Seems important.”
“Unfortunately.”
He doesn’t move immediately though.
Instead his eyes drift back toward you again.
Lingering.
Like he’s trying to memorize something.
Your stomach flips painfully beneath it.
“You can stay here if you want,” he says quietly.
“In your cabin?”
“It’s safer than dealing with my crew this early.”
“You make them sound feral.”
“That’s because they are.”
You smile faintly while Hyunjin reaches past you toward the edge of the bed to grab his coat.
His fingers brush your arm in the process.
Light.
Accidental.
Still enough to make your heartbeat trip over itself again.
Dangerous.
Again.
Hyunjin pauses too.
Just for a second.
His eyes flick toward where he touched you before lifting back to your face again.
Something shifts there briefly.
Wanting.
Real enough this time that it steals the breath directly from your lungs.
The moment stretches quietly between you.
Too close.
Too warm.
Too much.
Then—
“Captain!”
Hyunjin’s entire body goes rigid, “What?” he calls back flatly.
“Minho said if you don’t come upstairs right now he’s taking over navigation out of spite!”
A beat of silence.
“He wouldn’t do that,” Hyunjin mutters.
Another voice immediately shouts from above:
“HE ABSOLUTELY WOULD!”
Hyunjin sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world.
You’re openly laughing now, “Go save your ship, captain.”
He points at you once while heading toward the door.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Hyunjin pauses with his hand on the door afterward.
Then glances back at you one more time.
And the softness returns immediately.
Warm enough to make your chest ache beneath it.
“Don’t disappear while I’m gone,” he says quietly.
The words land somewhere deep inside you before you can stop them from settling there.
Dangerous.
Very, very dangerous.
“…I won't,” you answer softly.
Hyunjin smiles.
Small.
Real.
Then disappears upstairs, leaving the cabin strangely quieter without him in it.
The silence after Hyunjin leaves feels strangely immediate.
Like the entire cabin notices his absence with you.
The ship creaks softly beneath your feet while muffled yelling continues somewhere overhead.
Human chaos. Constant.
You smile faintly to yourself before wandering slowly around the cabin instead.
It feels different looking at it now in daylight.
Smaller somehow. More personal. Less pirate captain.
More Hyunjin.
Your fingers brush lightly across the scattered maps on his desk first.
Messy handwriting curls across the edges alongside little ink marks and unfinished calculations.
One corner of the desk holds an untidy pile of rings he apparently removes whenever he remembers they exist.
There’s also: a compass, several loose coins, a dagger, and, strangely, a tiny carved wooden dolphin.
You pick it up carefully.
The carving is worn smooth around the edges like it’s been handled often.
Oddly cute.
Your chest warms unexpectedly.
A sudden knock interrupts your thoughts.
You nearly drop the dolphin immediately.
“Uh,” a voice, you actually recognize, says carefully from outside the door, “Captain said not to bother you but unfortunately we’re all extremely curious.”
Silence.
Then another voice:
“That was the worst possible way to start this conversation.”
“I’m trying my best!”
You blink toward the door uncertainly.
The crew.
Right.
Your stomach twists nervously again.
“We brought food?” the second voice offers hopefully.
You hesitate. Then slowly move toward the door.
When you open it carefully, three men immediately straighten outside like they’d been caught doing something illegal.
One of them you recognize instantly, Jisung.
Still looking far too excited about all of this.
Beside him stands a taller man with dimples and tired eyes carrying a tray, while another leans casually against the wall beside them watching the situation unfold with visible amusement.
All three stare at you for one long second.
Then: “Oh,” the taller one says softly.
“She’s real.”
Jisung looks offended immediately.
“I told you she was real.”
“You also said Captain looked ‘tragically in love,’” the other one points out.
“Which I stand by.”
“You told the crew that?” you ask in horror.
“In my defense,” Jisung says seriously, “it was incredibly obvious.”
“Jisung,” the taller man sighs, “you cannot tell strangers that our captain is in love with them.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Your face immediately warms.
The third sailor snorts softly from beside the wall.
“He’s definitely doomed,” he says.
“See?” Jisung points triumphantly.
You’re beginning to understand why Hyunjin sounds exhausted constantly.
The taller sailor quickly steps forward afterward before the situation can somehow get worse.
“Sorry,” he says warmly. “I’m Chan.”
He gestures toward the others. “Unfortunately, those fools are Jisung and Changbin.”
“Rude,” Jisung mutters.
Changbin shrugs. “Accurate though.”
Chan carefully offers you the tray afterward. “Jisung said you might not know where the kitchen was yet.”
You carefully take the tray from Chan with a small smile. “Thank you.”
The three of them visibly relax almost immediately afterward.
Like they’d been worried you might slam the door in their faces.
Which honestly feels a little fair.
Chan smiles warmly once you take the tray from him.
“Okay,” he says softly, visibly relieved now. “Great. She likes us.”
“Barely,” Changbin mutters.
“I heard that.”
“Good.”
Jisung, meanwhile, is still staring at you with undisguised fascination.
“So,” he says carefully, “how exactly did Captain meet someone like you?”
You hesitate instantly.
Ah.
There it is.
The dangerous question.
“Jisung,” Chan warns.
“What? I’m being normal.”
“This is you being normal?”
“Unfortunately.”
You hide a small smile behind the edge of the cup Hyunjin left for you while Changbin watches the interaction beside the wall with visible amusement.
“To be fair,” he says casually, “we’re mostly shocked Hyunjin willingly spoke to someone.”
“He talks to you.”
Changbin looks deeply offended. “Debatable.”
Chan sighs like this conversation physically pains him. “Our captain has a reputation,” he explains carefully.
“For threatening people?” you guess.
“For avoiding people,” Chan corrects.
Jisung nods immediately. “Especially attractive people who are interested in him.”
“Jisung.”
“I’m helping establish context.”
Your eyes widen slightly, “…Really?”
Changbin snorts.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“The man once ignored an entire tavern after someone flirted with him too aggressively,” Jisung adds.
“That seems dramatic.”
“He’s deeply dramatic,” Changbin says.
“I am standing right here,” Hyunjin’s voice suddenly says from the hallway.
Every single person freezes.
Hyunjin stands near the doorway holding what looks suspiciously like a broken compass while staring at his crew with exhausted disappointment.
“We were being welcoming,” Chan says immediately.
“You were interrogating her.”
“Politely.”
Hyunjin narrows his eyes slightly, “That’s somehow worse.”
Jisung brightens instantly the second Hyunjin steps past them back inside.
“Captain, did you know she already figured out you’re obsessed with her?”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Hyunjin slowly closes his eyes.
“I’m begging you,” he says calmly. “Please learn fear.”
You’re trying very hard not to laugh again.
In which you're failing badly.
Hyunjin notices immediately, of course.
His expression softens the second he looks at you.
Automatically.
Like he genuinely can’t help it anymore.
The crew notices too. All three of them. At the exact same time.
Jisung looks seconds away from exploding.
Changbin immediately turns away to hide a grin.
Chan looks like a man finally understanding something important.
“Oh,” Chan says softly.
Hyunjin points at him instantly. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Hyunjin groans under his breath while setting the broken compass onto the desk beside you.
Then his eyes flick briefly toward the half-finished tea in your hands, then the tray of food on the side table.
“You ate yet?”
The question comes out quieter than everything else.
Gentler.
Concern wrapped so naturally into it that it catches you off guard slightly.
You nod once, “Your crew just brought it.”
“Against my better judgment,” Hyunjin mutters.
“You love us,” Jisung says immediately.
“Incorrect.”
“See?” Changbin says lightly to you. “This is how he flirts.”
Hyunjin looks moments away from sailing the ship directly into the sun.
“I hate every single one of you.”
“No you don’t,” Chan says calmly.
“Some of us maybe,” Changbin offers.
“Fair.”
Jisung gasps dramatically. “Captain admitted affection. Somebody write this down.”
Hyunjin grabs the nearest throw pillow and throws it directly at his head.
Jisung barely dodges it with a loud yelp while you laugh outright now, unable to stop yourself anymore.
The cabin immediately quiets for half a second afterward.
Because every single one of them looks toward you automatically.
Ah.
Right.
Humans do that.
Your smile falters slightly beneath the sudden attention.
Hyunjin notices instantly. Of course he does.
He shifts closer almost unconsciously, stepping between you and the rest of the room just enough to break the tension.
“Alright,” he says flatly. “You’ve all officially bothered her enough.”
“We literally just got here,” Jisung complains.
“And yet I’m already tired.”
Chan sighs softly before gesturing toward the door.
“Come on. Let’s leave the captain alone with his mysterious guest.”
“Future wife,” Jisung corrects automatically.
Hyunjin looks ready to commit murder.
“Go.”
Changbin is visibly trying not to laugh while Chan physically drags Jisung backward toward the hallway.
“You can’t silence the truth!” Jisung shouts dramatically as he disappears out the door.
“Watch me.”
The cabin door finally shuts behind them.
Silence settles immediately afterward.
Real silence this time.
Hyunjin exhales deeply beside you like a man barely surviving a natural disaster.
“I’m so sorry.”
You blink up at him.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
A laugh slips out of you again before you can stop it.
Hyunjin looks over immediately at the sound.
And there it is again.
That look.
Warm enough now that you’re beginning to feel it physically every time it lands on you.
“They’re not what I expected,” you admit softly.
Hyunjin leans lightly against the edge of the desk beside you.
“That’s usually people’s first mistake.”
“No,” you murmur, glancing toward the closed door thoughtfully. “I mean… they’re kind.”
The words leave the room quieter than expected.
Something shifts subtly across Hyunjin’s expression afterward.
Like the answer matters to him more than he anticipated.
“Yeah,” he says softly after a moment.
“They are.”
You look down at the cup between your hands again.
“I thought humans would feel…” You hesitate slightly. “Scarier.”
Hyunjin goes very still beside you.
The teasing disappears from his face entirely now.
“And now?”
Your heartbeat stumbles a little at how gently he asks it.
Honest.
Careful.
Like he genuinely wants to know.
You glance back up at him slowly.
“Now I think maybe I was taught to fear the wrong things.”
Silence.
Heavy this time.
Hyunjin stares at you for one long second afterward like the words physically knocked something loose inside him.
Then quietly: “You really shouldn’t say things like that to me.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“Why?”
Hyunjin’s eyes flick toward your mouth before returning to your eyes again.
Slow enough that you notice this time.
Intentional enough that your pulse immediately loses all stability.
“Because,” he says softly, stepping just a little closer again, “I already like you more than I’m supposed to.”
The confession settles between you both heavily.
Quietly.
Like something inevitable finally being spoken out loud.
Your heartbeat becomes almost unbearable beneath it.
Hyunjin watches your expression carefully afterward.
Not teasing now. Not hiding. Just honest.
Gods.
You don’t think anyone has ever looked at you this carefully before.
Like he’s trying to understand every thought crossing your face in real time.
“Maybe,” you say softly, “I also like you more than I’m supposed to.”
Something in Hyunjin’s expression breaks a little after that.
Not painfully.
Just...Gone.
Whatever restraint he’d still been clinging to loosens visibly.
His eyes drift slowly toward your mouth again.
This time neither of you pretends not to notice.
The air between you feels warmer suddenly. Smaller.
Your pulse stumbles harder the closer he gets.
One careful step.
Then another.
Close enough now that you can feel the warmth of his skin.
Close enough that your breathing starts matching unconsciously.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs softly.
The fact that he asks nearly undoes you more than the moment itself.
Because he would.
You know he would.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of his sleeve.
“I don’t want you to.”
Hyunjin exhales shakily at the words.
Then his hand lifts carefully toward your face.
Slow enough for you to pull away.
Gentle enough that your chest aches beneath it.
His knuckles brush softly against your cheek first.
Warm. Reverent almost.
Like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.
Your eyes flutter briefly at the touch.
Dangerous.
Very, very dangerous.
Hyunjin’s thumb slides lightly along your cheekbone afterward before settling carefully beneath your chin.
Tilting your face upward just slightly.
Giving you every possible chance to change your mind.
You don’t.
His forehead rests briefly against yours first.
The moment surprisingly soft.
Intimate in a way that steals the breath directly from your lungs.
You can feel him smiling faintly when he whispers:
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
Then he kisses you. Softly.
Like he’s been trying not to for days.
Warm lips brushing carefully against yours at first, almost hesitant despite everything else about him.
Your breath catches instantly.
The kiss deepens slightly the second you lean into it.
And Hyunjin makes the quietest sound against your mouth. Like that tiny bit of encouragement completely ruins him.
One hand settles carefully at your waist while the other remains against your face, holding you gently like something precious.
The tenderness of it nearly makes your chest ache.
Because you expected hunger, intensity, recklessness.
But this?
This feels devastatingly careful.
Like he’s kissing you with the same softness he’s looked at you with since the beginning.
Your fingers curl tighter into the front of his shirt instinctively, pulling yourself closer without even realizing it.
Hyunjin immediately responds. The kiss turns deeper afterward.
Slower.
Warmer.
His thumb brushes softly beneath your jaw while he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of it already.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, you realize something terrifying; You don’t want to leave anymore.
He kisses you like he’s afraid of rushing you.
Like he’s spent days wanting this and still can’t quite believe it’s happening.
The realization makes your chest ache in ways that feel far more dangerous than the kiss itself.
Your fingers remain tangled loosely in the front of his shirt while his hand stays warm against your waist, grounding you every time your thoughts start drifting too far.
The ship rocks softly beneath you both.
Waves against the hull.
Distant gulls somewhere outside.
Everything else feels impossibly far away now.
Hyunjin pulls back only slightly after a moment, just enough for the two of you to breathe.
His forehead stays resting against yours.
Eyes still half-lidded. Lips still dangerously close.
“You’re real,” he murmurs quietly, almost to himself.
Heat floods your face immediately.
“That’s a strange thing to say after kissing someone.”
A soft laugh slips from him. Warm against your mouth.
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, you do. Because this still feels a little unreal to you too.
A pirate captain.
A bakery.
Human laughter.
His hands on you.
Somehow your life became this.
Hyunjin studies your face quietly afterward like he’s still trying to understand how he got this lucky.
It makes your stomach twist nervously beneath his gaze.
“What?” you whisper.
His thumb brushes softly along your waist absentmindedly.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Maybe.”
You smile faintly.
Hyunjin’s expression softens immediately at the sight of it.
There it is again.
That look that keeps undoing you completely.
“You keep doing that,” you murmur quietly.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
Something quieter settles across his face afterward. More vulnerable than before.
“I can stop,” he says softly. The answer comes too quickly.
“Don’t.”
Hyunjin exhales shakily at the word. Like it affects him more than it should.
Then he kisses you again.
Slower this time. Less hesitant.
Like he’s finally letting himself enjoy it now that the line’s already been crossed.
Your hand slides upward instinctively, fingers brushing lightly through the hair at the back of his neck.
Hyunjin visibly melts beneath the touch.
The reaction immediate enough to make warmth bloom across your chest.
“Careful,” he murmurs softly against your lips.
“Why?”
His eyes lift toward yours again.
Darker now. Still soft.
But something else lingers there too.
Wanting.
“Because I’m trying very hard to behave right now.”
Your heartbeat nearly stops entirely.
The confession sends heat rushing through you instantly.
Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth afterward, softer now. More affectionate than teasing.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you whisper.
“What thing?”
“Looking too pleased with yourself.”
“Can you blame me?”
Your pulse stumbles embarrassingly hard beneath the warmth in his voice.
Hyunjin’s hand slides slightly higher along your waist before stopping himself deliberately.
The restraint somehow affects you more than if he hadn’t stopped at all.
Dangerous.
Again.
“You know,” he murmurs softly, “you’re significantly less afraid of me than you were when we first met”
“Maybe you stopped being scary.”
Hyunjin laughs quietly under his breath.
“Pretty sure I was never scary.”
“You’re literally a pirate captain.”
“And yet here you are.”
His forehead nudges lightly against yours again while his thumb traces absentminded circles against your side.
Comfortable now.
Familiar.
The intimacy of it settles deeply beneath your ribs.
You’ve known him for such a short amount of time.
And somehow it already feels like this.
Like your body recognizes him before your mind can catch up.
Hyunjin watches something shift across your face then, his expression softening immediately.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Your eyes lift toward his.
“You alright?”
The concern in his voice is so genuine it almost hurts.
You nod slowly. “I think this is just… a lot.”
Understanding flickers across his expression instantly.
“Yeah,” he admits softly. “Me too.”
That makes you smile a little.
Because somehow you hadn’t considered the possibility that Hyunjin might feel just as overwhelmed by this as you do.
He smiles back immediately.
Warm enough to make your chest ache again.
“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly afterward.
Before you can fully process the words, Hyunjin gently pulls you closer against him until your head rests naturally beneath his chin.
His arms settle loosely around you.
No tension.
No pressure.
Just holding you.
The steady sound of his heartbeat fills the quiet cabin while the ship rocks softly beneath you both.
Safe.
The realization hits unexpectedly hard.
Hyunjin presses a soft kiss against the top of your head after a moment.
“You know,” he murmurs into your hair, “this is probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You snort softly against his chest.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“I’m serious.”
“Because you kissed me?”
Hyunjin tilts his head slightly. “Because now I’m attached.”
Your heart genuinely hurts a little at the honesty in his voice.
He says things so simply sometimes.
Like they aren’t devastating at all.
Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
“Good,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
Hyunjin goes very still above you.
Then slowly tightens his arms around you just a little more.
The movement feels almost involuntary.
Like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.
Your cheek rests against his chest while the ship sways gently beneath you both, steady enough now that you barely notice the movement anymore.
Hyunjin’s heartbeat thuds slowly beneath your ear.
Calm.
Until your fingers absentmindedly trace along the fabric of his shirt.
Then suddenly, not calm at all.
A quiet laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.
Warm enough that you feel it vibrate through his chest.
“This is unfair,” he mutters.
“What is?”
“You.”
Heat creeps immediately into your face again.
Dangerous.
Again.
Hyunjin leans back slightly afterward, just enough to look down at you properly.
One hand lifts instinctively toward your face again, brushing a loose strand of hair carefully behind your ear.
The tenderness of it almost hurts.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I really did try not to do this.”
“Kiss me?”
His mouth curves softly. “Like you.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“That seems dramatic considering we officially met, what, four days ago?”
“Five.”
“You counted?”
Hyunjin looks completely unashamed.
“Obviously.”
Your heart nearly folds in on itself.
Because of course he counted. Of course he did.
Hyunjin watches your expression carefully afterward before smiling faintly to himself.
“There’s that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one where you realize you’re in trouble.”
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“I think you’re the one in trouble.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
The honesty in the answer makes you laugh softly.
Hyunjin’s gaze immediately drifts toward your mouth again at the sound.
Slower this time.
More deliberate.
Your pulse reacts instantly.
The room feels warmer suddenly.
Smaller.
Hyunjin notices every single change in your expression like he’s learned how to read you already.
“Tell me if I’m moving too fast,” he says quietly.
Your chest tightens painfully beneath the words.
Because even now
even like this
he’s still careful with you.
You shake your head slowly.
“You’re not.”
Something soft breaks across his face again.
Affection.
Relief.
Maybe both.
Then his hand slides gently beneath your jaw once more before he kisses you again. Deeper this time.
Not rushed.
Just wanting.
Honest wanting.
The kind that’s been building quietly between you since the moment he first looked at you in the ocean.
Somewhere outside the cabin, the ship shifts harder beneath your feet.
The movement pulls a quiet breath from Hyunjin before he reluctantly leans back slightly.
Not far.
Still close enough that his forehead brushes yours.
“I really do have responsibilities,” he murmurs softly, sounding deeply offended by the fact.
A smile slips across your face before you can stop it.
“Tragic.”
“You’re making fun of me in my own cabin.”
“You kissed me in your own cabin. I think we’re past formalities.”
Hyunjin stares at you for half a second afterward before laughing quietly under his breath.
Warm.
Real.
Your chest aches beneath the sound.
Then another rough shift rolls through the ship beneath you both.
Different this time.
Enough to pull Hyunjin’s attention immediately toward the windows.
And just like that —
he changes.
Not completely.
The softness never fully disappears around you now.
But something sharper settles into him almost instantly.
Hyunjin steps back toward the desk automatically, eyes flicking toward the darkening horizon outside while one hand reaches absentmindedly for the compass laying nearby.
“Is something wrong?” you ask quietly.
“Weather changed faster than I expected.”
Calm. Certain.
Somehow that affects you more than it should.
Hyunjin glances back toward you afterward, expression gentling again immediately. “Stay here for me?”
The request lands strangely warmly in your chest.
You nod once, “Okay.”
His shoulders loosen slightly at the answer.
Then he’s moving toward the door, already halfway back in captain mode before he even reaches it.
You follow a few moments later anyway. Quietly.
Curiosity pulling you upstairs despite yourself.
The second you step onto the deck, wind whips sharply across your skin. The crew moves quickly around the ship: tightening ropes, adjusting sails, securing loose cargo.
No panic. Just preparation.
And at the center of all of it: Hyunjin
You learn quickly that Hyunjin becomes a different person while captaining the ship.
Softer with you.
Sharper with everyone else.
Not cruel....just certain.
The crew follows him without hesitation, and somehow that affects you more than the kissing did.
“Secure the starboard side before the rain hits,” Hyunjin calls over the wind.
Immediate movement follows.
No questioning.
No panic.
Just trust.
The ship rocks harder beneath your feet while sailors move quickly around the deck, ropes tightening overhead as dark clouds gather heavier across the horizon.
You stay near the stairs at first, uncertain where exactly you’re supposed to stand without getting in the way.
Hyunjin notices anyway. Of course he does.
His eyes find you instantly despite everything else demanding his attention.
“You should be below deck,” Hyunjin says the second he notices you standing there.
“You said stay in the cabin,” you correct.
“That was before you ignored me.”
“You noticed surprisingly fast.”
Hyunjin gives you a look. “I notice everything on this ship.”
Dangerous.
Again.
Wind catches sharply against the sails overhead while another wave knocks against the side of the ship hard enough to make you stumble slightly.
Hyunjin’s hand catches your waist immediately.
Steady.
Familiar already.
Your breath catches embarrassingly fast beneath the warmth of his grip.
Hyunjin notices that too. Of course he does.
But instead of teasing you for it, his thumb brushes lightly against your side once before he reluctantly lets go again.
Captain first.
“Careful,” he murmurs quietly.
The concern in his voice settles warmly beneath your ribs despite the cold wind.
“You make this look easy,” you admit softly.
Hyunjin glances briefly toward the crew adjusting the sails overhead before looking back at you.
“It’s not.”
Honest. Simple.
Somehow that affects you more than confidence would have.
Chan appears beside the helm a moment later, calling something toward Hyunjin about changing currents.
Hyunjin’s attention sharpens instantly.
Not colder. Just focused.
You watch him move across the deck afterward: giving orders calmly, adjusting ropes himself when needed, steadying the younger sailors when the ship shifts too hard
Everyone watches him. Listens to him. Trusts him completely.
And somehow, standing here in the middle of rough water and growing storm clouds, you finally understand why.
Hyunjin doesn’t command the ship loudly.
He commands it like someone carrying responsibility carefully.
Like everyone onboard matters to him.
The realization settles heavily in your chest.
Because somehow that feels infinitely more dangerous than a pirate captain who only cared about himself.
Rain starts properly a few minutes later.
Cold droplets scatter across the deck while the crew moves faster beneath the darkening sky overhead.
You barely notice at first. Too distracted watching Hyunjin move through the chaos like he belongs inside it.
Until suddenly, warmth settles across your shoulders.
You blink in surprise.
Hyunjin’s coat.
He’s already pulling away before you fully process it.
“You’re freezing,” he says simply.
“What about you?”
Hyunjin glances toward the storm clouds once before tightening a rope beside the mast.
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
Captain.
Again.
Your fingers tighten unconsciously around the fabric of his coat while ocean wind whips harder across the ship.
And beneath all of it, something uneasy twists low in your stomach.
The sea feels wrong.
Not rough.
Not dangerous in the normal way storms usually are.
Just....wrong.
The feeling crawls beneath your skin slowly, instinctive enough that it makes your stomach tighten before your mind can fully understand why.
Another wave crashes hard against the side of the ship.
Your eyes immediately snap toward the water.
Too dark. Too restless.
Like the ocean itself is agitated by something deeper beneath it.
The wind sharpens again. Cold enough now that it bites against your skin through the heavy rain.
Around you, the crew continues moving quickly across the deck, focused entirely on the storm building overhead.
They can only see the surface of it.
Your heartbeat stumbles unevenly.
Because whatever this feeling is, it’s underneath.
“Hey.”
Hyunjin’s voice cuts through your thoughts immediately.
You look up too quickly.
His expression changes the second he sees your face.
Concern replacing focus almost instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you answer automatically.
Hyunjin gives you a look.
One that very clearly says,
absolutely not.
Rain drips slowly from his dark hair while he steps closer, lowering his voice despite the chaos around you both.
“You’ve been staring at the water for the last five minutes.”
Your stomach tightens slightly.
Because of course he noticed.
“I just…” You hesitate, glancing back toward the ocean again. “Something feels strange.”
Hyunjin follows your gaze automatically.
The ship rocks harder beneath your feet.
This time you barely notice.
“Strange how?”
You struggle briefly for the words.
“The ocean feels…” Your brows pull together. “Agitated.”
Hyunjin’s expression stills slightly. Not panic.
Worse.
Recognition.
“You can feel that?” he asks quietly.
Your eyes flick back toward him immediately, “You can’t?”
Another silence settles between you.
Wind screams sharply through the sails overhead.
Hyunjin studies your face carefully for a second before glancing back toward the water again.
Thinking now. Calculating.
But when he looks back at you again, the softness returns immediately beneath it all.
“Okay,” he says calmly.
Too calmly.
Your chest tightens.
“Hyunjin.”
He steps closer before you can spiral any further, one steady hand settling against your waist again despite the crew surrounding you.
Grounding.
“Hey,” he says softly over the storm. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Whatever this is,” he murmurs carefully, “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
The promise settles heavily somewhere deep inside your chest.
Dangerous.
Again.
Except this time, it doesn’t feel dangerous because of him.
Minho stood in the entryway for a long moment, just staring at the wall. His shoulders were up somewhere near his ears, his bag still slung across his chest like he'd forgotten it was there. The kind of day that didn't have a name. Not a bad day in the dramatic sense, no disasters, no fights, nothing he could point to and say that's what broke me. Just a thousand tiny cuts. A schedule that ran overtime. A producer who talked over him. A dancer who kept missing the same count, and Minho had to smile and say "again, you've got this" when what he wanted to do was scream.
He heard you before he saw you. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood. Then you were there, in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing his hoodie and absolutely nothing else of consequence.
You looked at him. Just looked.
No questions. No "how was your day?" No "what's wrong?" Just your eyes, scanning his face, reading the lines he hadn't learned how to hide yet.
Then you turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Minho blinked. He should probably move. He should probably take off his bag. He should probably,
The sound of your voice, slightly muffled because you were already on the phone. "Yeah, the usual. Double the dumplings. And the spicy rice cakes. Yes, to this address. Thanks."
Minho's bag hit the floor.
By the time he made it to the kitchen, you were leaning against the counter, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, scrolling through something on yours. You caught his eye and, there it was. That small, crooked smile. The one that said I see you. I've got you. You don't have to say anything.
You hung up. "Forty minutes."
"How did you-"
You shrugged, like it was nothing. Like you hadn't just reached into his chest and massaged the knots out of his heart without him saying a single word. "You get this little line. Right here." You stepped forward and pressed your fingertip gently between his eyebrows. "Between the eyes. Means you need dumplings."
He caught your wrist. Held it. Pressed his lips to your palm.
"I love you," he said, and it came out wrecked, because it was true in a way that terrified him sometimes.
"I know," you said softly. Then you tugged him toward the couch. "Come on. There's a variety show marathon. You're not allowed to think until the food gets here."
You pulled him down beside you, and he went willingly, gratefully, his head finding its natural resting place on your shoulder. Your fingers found his hair.
He still hadn't told you about his day. He didn't need to.
Not literally. But there was something in his mouth, something soft and vaguely offensive, and he was already mid-cough when he opened his eyes to find Soonie's tail draped directly across his face like a mustache from hell.
He sputtered. Swatted blindly. Soonie, offended by this betrayal, leapt off the bed with a yowl of protest.
Beside him, you were shaking.
Not with cold. Not with fear. With laughter. Silent, shoulder-shaking, hand-over-your-mouth laughter that you were desperately trying to contain and failing spectacularly.
Minho turned his head. Blinked at you with cat hair clinging to his eyelashes. "You saw that."
"I saw nothing," you gasped. "I was asleep. Completely asleep."
"You let him suffocate me."
"You're so dramatic. He was just-" You lost it, a snort escaping despite your best efforts, and that set you both off. Minho tried to stay dignified, he really did, but your laugh was infectious, that full-body thing you did, and soon he was laughing too, cat hair be damned.
You reached for him. He leaned into it instinctively, the way he always did, the way he'd been doing for years without thinking. Your thumb found the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, brushing away the evidence with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"There," you murmured, still smiling. "All better. Very handsome."
He caught your thumb with his lips before you could pull away. Pressed a kiss to the pad of it. Watched your eyes go soft and warm.
"You have cat hair on your face too," he whispered.
"Liar."
"Absolutely. Right there." He leaned in, touched his nose to yours. "Let me get it."
And he kissed you, slow and sweet, tasting morning and you and the life he still couldn't quite believe was his.
When he pulled back, you were looking at him with that expression. The one that undid him every single time. Like he was something precious. Something miraculous.
"What?" he asked, suddenly shy.
You just shook your head, still smiling. "Nothing. Just-" You reached up, tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. "You're here."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of wonder. Like you couldn't quite believe it either.
"Where else would I be?" he asked.
You didn't answer. You just pulled him back down, cat hair and all, and held on.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's choreography, worrying about tomorrow's schedule, spiraling about things that hadn't even happened yet.
He turned over, intending to stare at the ceiling instead, and froze.
You were facing him. Asleep, clearly asleep, your mouth slightly open, your breathing deep and even, one hand tucked under your pillow. The moonlight from the window painted half your face silver.
And Minho couldn't look away.
He'd seen you asleep a thousand times. A thousand nights of this. You stole the blankets. You talked in your sleep sometimes, nonsense words that made him smile. You reached for him in the dark, your hand finding his chest or his arm or his hair, pulling him closer even in unconsciousness.
But tonight, for some reason, it hit him differently.
How?
How did someone like you, you, with your laugh and your kindness and the way you remembered that he liked his coffee with just a splash of milk, the way you defended him to people who didn't matter, the way you looked at him like he hung the moon, how did someone like you choose someone like him?
He wasn't being self-deprecating. He genuinely didn't understand it. He was loud, sometimes too much. He was competitive, sometimes too much. He was insecure in ways he'd never learned to hide, and you'd seen all of it, the ugly parts, the tired parts, the parts he tried to keep from the world, and you'd stayed.
Not just stayed. You'd chosen him. Every day. For years.
Your hand twitched in your sleep, searching. Finding his arm. Curling around his bicep like it belonged there.
Minho's breath caught.
He lifted his free hand, slowly, carefully, and hovered it just above your cheek. Not touching. Just feeling the warmth radiating from your skin. Just tracing the shape of you with his eyes.
I don't deserve you, he thought. I don't know what I did to deserve you.
But he was too selfish to give you up. Too in love to question it too hard.
"I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of you," he whispered, so quiet it was barely air. "I hope that's okay."
You stirred, just slightly. Your lips curved, just slightly. A sleepy, unconscious smile.
"Love you," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft.
Minho's eyes burned.
He closed the distance, pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, and finally, finally felt sleep tugging at him too.
"Love you more," he whispered against your skin. "Always."
Outside, the world kept spinning. Inside, in the dark, with you in his arms, Minho had everything he'd ever need.
Minho was standing at the stove, stirring the kimchi jjigae he'd been perfecting for months, your favorite, the one you always asked for when you'd had a hard day, when you appeared in the kitchen doorway. Same hoodie. Same bare feet. Same soft look on your face.
But something was different.
"Hey," you said. Casual. Easy.
"Hey yourself," he replied, not turning. "Dinner's almost ready. I added extra tofu, like you-"
"Minho?"
Something in your voice made him turn. Made the spoon pause mid-stir.
You were holding the rice cooker insert. Empty. Looking at it with an expression he couldn't quite read. Confusion? Frustration? Something in between.
"Did we..." You trailed off, shook your head slightly. "Sorry, this is dumb. Did we already eat? I was about to make rice and I can't remember if-"
"You asked me to make dinner," Minho said slowly. "An hour ago. You said you were craving the jjigae."
You blinked. Looked at the rice cooker. Looked at the pot on the stove. Looked at him.
"Right," you said, but it came out wrong. Too quick. Too automatic. "Right, of course. Sorry, I just-" A small, self-deprecating laugh. "Brain fog. Long week."
Minho smiled. He made himself smile, because that's what you do when someone makes a joke, when someone explains away a tiny, insignificant thing.
"Yeah," he said. "Long week."
You set the rice cooker down. Came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, pressed your face between his shoulder blades. He felt you breathe in, slow and deep.
"It smells amazing," you mumbled against his back.
He covered your hands with his. Held them tight.
"Anything for you," he said.
—
Three days later, you forgot Dori's name.
You were on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when the ginger menace jumped into your lap and started kneading your stomach with intense, focused determination.
You laughed, scratching behind his ears. "Hey there, buddy. Where'd you come from?"
Minho looked up from the photo album he was organizing, a project, he'd told you, just for fun, just to have all the pictures in one place.
"His full government name is Dori," he said lightly. "But he also answers to 'the menace' and 'get off the counter.'"
You smiled. Nodded. Kept scratching.
And Minho watched you.
Watched you look at the cat you'd had for four years. The cat you'd found as a kitten, soaking wet in the rain, and carried home in your hoodie pocket. The cat you'd named after your favorite character from your favorite movie, the one you made Minho watch at least twice a year.
You didn't say his name. You just called him "buddy."
Minho told himself it was nothing. You were distracted. You were tired. You called people the wrong names all the time, you'd called him Jisung once, early in the relationship, and they'd never let either of them live it down.
Minho was in the bedroom, folding laundry, your sweater, his shirt, the socks that never seemed to match no matter how carefully he paired them, when you appeared in the doorway.
You looked... small. That was the only word for it. Small in a way that made his chest tighten.
"Hey," he said, setting down the sweater. "What's up?"
You didn't come in. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest, and stared at a spot on the floor.
"I need to tell you something."
The words landed like stones in still water. Minho felt the ripples before he understood why.
"Okay," he said carefully. "I'm listening."
You took a breath. Held it. Let it out.
"It's happening more often. The-" You gestured vaguely at your head. "The forgetfulness. Little things. What I went into the kitchen for. A word I was looking for. Whether I already told you something." A pause. "I forgot Chan's name yesterday. When we were texting. I had to scroll up to see who I was talking to."
Minho's hands had gone still on the laundry.
You looked up. Met his eyes. And he saw it, the fear. The real, raw fear you'd been hiding behind smiles and self-deprecating jokes for weeks.
"I'm going to call my doctor tomorrow," you said quietly. "Talk about it. It's probably nothing. Stress, or sleep, or-" You stopped. Swallowed. "But I wanted you to know. Before I... before I didn't."
Minho crossed the room in three steps. Took your face in his hands. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for telling me."
You let out a shaky breath. Leaned into him. Let him hold you up.
"It's probably nothing," you said again, like a prayer.
"Probably," he agreed, because he needed to believe it.
But his heart was already pounding. Already knowing. Already starting to break.
That night, you fell asleep in his arms, your breath warm against his neck, your hand curled loosely over his heart.
Minho didn't sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of you against him. Listening to the sound of your breathing. Committing it to memory. Every inhale. Every exhale. The way your eyelashes fanned against your skin. The tiny mole behind your ear that you hated and he loved.
It's probably nothing.
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to wake up tomorrow and have you be fine, have this be a blip, a scare, a story you'd tell later with a laugh and an eye roll.
But somewhere, deep in his gut, he knew.
Something was wrong.
And for the first time in his life, Minho had no idea how to dance his way out of it.
He tightened his arms around you. Pressed his lips to your hair.
"I've got you," he whispered into the dark. "No matter what. I've got you."
You stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and settled deeper against him.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho held on tight and prayed to every god he didn't believe in that tomorrow would be different.
Minho was in the middle of practice when his phone buzzed.
He ignored it. Choreography was already behind schedule, and Jisung kept messing up the transition, and Chan had that look on his face that meant they weren't leaving until they got it right. One more run. Then another. Then another.
His phone buzzed again.
And again.
He glanced at it between takes. Your name on the screen. Three missed calls.
His blood went cold.
"Give me a second," he muttered, already reaching for his phone, already stepping away from the mirrors and the music and the bodies around him.
"Hyung, we're in the middle-"
"Give me a SECOND."
The studio went quiet. Minho didn't notice. He had the phone to his ear, your contact photo staring back at him, you at the beach last summer, squinting into the sun, laughing at something he'd said.
You picked up on the first ring.
"Minho?"
Your voice. But wrong. Thin and stretched and scared in a way he'd never heard before.
"I'm here," he said quickly. "What's wrong? What happened?"
A breath on the other end. Shaky. Too shaky.
"I'm at the doctor's office. The, the neurologist. I came in for those tests, the memory ones, and they-" You stopped. He heard you swallow. "They want me to call someone. To come in. They said I shouldn't be alone for the results and I didn't know who else to-"
"I'm coming."
"The traffic is bad this time of day, you don't have to-"
"I'm coming. Send me the address. I'm coming right now."
He was already grabbing his bag. Already heading for the door. Chan called after him, worried, confused, and Minho just shook his head, couldn't form words, couldn't do anything but move toward you.
"Minho?" Your voice, small through the phone.
"I'm coming," he said again. "I'm almost there. Just, just stay on the phone. Okay? Stay on the phone with me."
The neurologist's office smelled like antiseptic and old magazines.
Minho burst through the door like a man being chased, hair disheveled, chest heaving, still in his sweat-soaked practice clothes. The receptionist looked up, startled, but he was already scanning the room, already searching,
You stood up from a chair in the corner. You looked so small. That was the only word for it. Small and pale and young in a way that made his heart crack right down the middle. You were wearing his hoodie again, the gray one, the one you'd stolen months ago and never given back, and your hands were shaking.
He crossed the room in four steps and pulled you into his arms. You crumpled against him. Let him hold you up. Let him be the thing that kept you from falling apart right there in front of everyone.
"I didn't know who else to call," you whispered into his chest. "They said to bring someone and I just, I just wanted you. I just wanted you here."
"I'm here," he said fiercely. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
A door opened. A nurse with a kind face and sympathetic eyes looked at them both.
The doctor's office was small. Cluttered with diplomas and anatomical diagrams and a box of tissues placed strategically on the corner of the desk. Minho hated it immediately. Hated the tissues most of all.
You sat in the chair across from the doctor. Minho stood behind you, one hand on your shoulder, because he couldn't sit. Couldn't be still. Needed to be touching you or he might shatter.
The doctor was a woman. Middle-aged. Gentle eyes. The kind of face that delivered bad news for a living and hadn't quite learned how to hide the toll it took.
"Thank you for coming in," she said to Minho. Then she turned to you, and her expression shifted into something carefully neutral. "I have the results of your cognitive assessments and the MRI."
Your hand found Minho's. Squeezed.
"Okay," you said. "Just, just tell us."
The doctor nodded. Opened a file. Looked at it for a moment, then set it aside and met your eyes directly.
"The MRI shows significant hippocampal atrophy. That's the area of the brain responsible for memory formation and retrieval." A pause. "Combined with your cognitive test results and the symptom pattern you've been reporting, we've arrived at a diagnosis."
The room was very quiet.
"It's a form of early-onset neurodegenerative disease. Specifically, a variant of accelerated retrograde amnesia." The doctor's voice was gentle but unflinching. "It's rare, especially in someone your age. But the pattern is clear. Your brain is struggling to consolidate new memories and is beginning to degrade existing ones, starting with the most recent and moving backward."
Minho's hand tightened on your shoulder. You reached up and held it there.
"What does that mean?" you asked. Your voice was steady. Too steady. "What does that mean for, for us? For our life?"
The doctor hesitated. Just for a moment. But Minho saw it. Saw the way she braced herself before continuing.
"The progression rate varies, but based on the scans, we're looking at an accelerated timeline. The memories you've formed in the last few years are the most vulnerable. As the disease progresses, you'll lose them. First recent events, then older ones. Eventually-" Another pause. "Eventually, you may lose most of your autobiographical memory. The people in your life. The experiences you've had."
"You're saying," Minho heard himself speak, his voice rough and strange, "you're saying she'll forget. She'll forget everything."
The doctor looked at him with those gentle, terrible eyes.
"I'm saying we need to prepare for that possibility. There are treatments that may slow the progression. Therapies that can help with coping strategies. But yes. The trajectory suggests significant memory loss over the coming months."
Months.
The word hung in the air like smoke.
You turned in your chair. Looked up at Minho. And he saw it, the moment you realized what this meant. What this would do to him. To the life you'd built together.
"Minho-"
"No." He shook his head. Dropped to his knees in front of you so you were eye to eye. Grabbed both your hands in his. "No. Don't. Don't you dare start worrying about me right now."
"But if I forget-"
"Then I'll remember." His voice cracked. He didn't care. "I'll remember for both of us. Every single day. I'll be here every morning and I'll tell you who I am and I'll make you fall in love with me again and again and again if that's what it takes."
Tears were streaming down your face. You didn't seem to notice.
"That's not fair to you," you whispered. "That's not, you can't spend your life-"
"Watch me."
He said it like a vow. Like a challenge to the universe itself.
The doctor was saying something about treatment plans, about support groups, about clinical trials. Minho heard none of it. He was too busy looking at you. Committing this moment to memory. The way your nose crinkled when you cried. The way your bottom lip trembled. The way your hands shook in his.
"I love you," he said. "I love you and I'm not going anywhere. Do you understand me? I'm not going anywhere."
You nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"I love you too," you whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just don't forget this. Don't forget this right now. Me telling you. Me promising you. Hold onto this as long as you can."
Neither of you spoke in the car. Minho drove. You stared out the window. The city passed by in a blur of lights and shapes and people going about their ordinary lives, completely unaware that the world had ended.
At a red light, you reached over and took his hand.
He looked at you. You were still staring out the window, but your fingers were laced through his, holding on like he was the only solid thing left.
"Can we get ice cream?" you asked quietly. "The place with the weird flavors? The one we went to on our first date?"
Minho's throat closed.
"Of course," he managed. "Yeah. Of course we can."
Later, after the ice cream, after the crying, after the phone calls to family that neither of you had the strength to make yet, you fell asleep in his arms.
Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But everything was different now.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time in his life, he was afraid of the morning.
Because tomorrow, you might wake up and know him.
Or tomorrow might be the first day you didn't.
He held you tighter. Pressed his lips to your hair. Closed his eyes against the dark and made himself a promise.
I'll be here. Every single day. I'll be here.
Outside, the world kept spinning.
Inside, Minho began to say goodbye to someone who was still, impossibly, right there in his arms.
He watched the clock change. 2:13 AM. 3:47. 4:02. 5:19. The numbers glowed green and indifferent, and he watched them all, your body warm against his, your breath steady, your hand curled over his heart like it had always belonged there.
At 6:34, the alarm went off.
Not his. Yours. The one you set every morning because you liked to wake up slowly, to stretch and groan and burrow deeper into the pillows before finally surfacing.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Shifted away from him, reaching for the phone on your nightstand to silence it.
Minho held his breath.
You turned back over. Faced him. Your eyes were half-lidded, sleepy, soft in the pale morning light filtering through the curtains.
And then you blinked.
Focused.
Looked at him.
Your body went still.
Minho felt it happen. Felt the exact moment the warmth in your eyes flickered and died, replaced by something else. Something cold and unfamiliar.
Stranger danger. That's what they called it in animals. That instinctive freeze when confronted with the unknown.
You were looking at him like he was the unknown.
"Hi," he whispered. His voice was wrecked. He hadn't used it in hours. Hadn't cried either, not yet, but his voice was wrecked anyway.
You pulled back. Just slightly. Just enough to create space between your bodies. Your hand slipped away from his chest.
"Who-" You stopped. Swallowed. Your eyes darted around the room, the familiar walls, the unfamiliar man, the cats sleeping at the foot of the bed. "Who are you?"
The words hit him like a physical blow.
He'd known this was coming. He'd prepared for this. He'd promised himself he'd be strong, be gentle, be whatever you needed him to be.
But knowing and feeling were two different things.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice cracked on his own name. "I'm your, I'm your boyfriend."
You stared at him.
He watched your brain working, searching for something, anything, that would make this make sense. Your brow furrowed. Your lips parted. Nothing came.
"I'm sorry," you said, and it was polite. So painfully, horribly polite. The voice you used with strangers who stopped you on the street. "I don't, I don't remember."
Minho nodded. Swallowed. Nodded again.
"That's okay," he lied. "That's, that's okay. The doctor said this might happen. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
You were still looking at him like he was a puzzle you couldn't solve.
"How long?" you asked quietly. "How long have we been together?"
Four years. One thousand four hundred sixty-one days. Thirty-five thousand sixty-four hours. I stopped counting the minutes because it hurt too much to realize I'd never get them back.
"A while," he said instead. "A few years."
You looked down at yourself. At his hoodie you were wearing. At the bed you were in. At the cats who were still sleeping, oblivious, at the foot of it.
"I should-" You started to move, to get up, to escape. "I should go. I shouldn't be here. This isn't, I don't know you, I shouldn't be in your bed, I'm sorry-"
Minho's heart shattered.
"No, no, wait-" He reached for your hand, then stopped himself, hand hovering in the air between you. "Please. Just, can I show you something? Before you go? Please?"
You hesitated. Looked at his hand. Looked at his face.
Something in his expression must have reached you, because slowly, carefully, you nodded.
Minho reached for his phone on the nightstand. Hands shaking. Opened his photos. Scrolled past a thousand memories you no longer carried.
He turned the screen toward you.
It was a photo from two summers ago. You at the beach. Sand in your hair. Ice cream on your nose. Laughing at him for taking yet another picture, for documenting everything, for being ridiculous and sweet and so in love with you it was embarrassing.
You took the phone. Studied the image.
"That's me," you said quietly.
"Yeah."
"And that's..." You looked up at him. Back at the photo. At the way his arm was wrapped around your waist, the way he was looking at you in the picture like you were the sun. "That's you."
"Yeah."
You stared at the photo for a long time.
Minho watched you. Committed this to memory too. The way the morning light caught your eyelashes. The way your lips moved slightly as you tried to find words. The way your hand trembled holding his phone.
"I don't remember," you whispered finally. "I'm sorry. I don't remember any of it."
The tears came before he could stop them.
He turned his face away, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, tried to get himself under control. But they kept coming, silent and hot, because you were right here and you didn't know him and you were sorry and God, it hurt, it hurt so much worse than he'd ever imagined.
"I'm sorry," you said again, and now you sounded scared. "Please don't cry. I didn't mean to, I don't know why I'm here, I don't know you, I'm sorry-"
"It's not your fault." He forced the words out through the wreckage of his throat. "It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just, I'm just sad. That's all. I'm just sad."
You reached out.
Hesitated.
Then, gently, so gently it broke him all over again, you touched his cheek. Wiped a tear away with your thumb.
The gesture was so familiar. So you. Even when you didn't know him, your body remembered. Your body knew how to comfort him.
He looked up. Met your eyes.
You were looking at him with confusion, yes. With fear, yes. But underneath it, something else. Something soft. Something curious.
"You really love me," you said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." His voice broke on the word. "Yeah. I really do."
You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you looked down at his hand, still lying on the bed between you. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and took it.
"I don't remember you," you said. "But I think, I think I'd like to. If that's okay."
Minho squeezed your hand. Held on like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"That's more than okay," he whispered. "That's everything."
You sat at the kitchen table in his hoodie, your hoodie, the gray one, but you didn't know that, and watched him make coffee.
He could feel your eyes on him. Studying him. Trying to piece together who this stranger was who claimed to love you.
"What's my favorite food?" you asked suddenly.
He turned, surprised by the question. "Tteokbokki. The spicy kind. You say it's the only food that's allowed to make you cry."
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "That's specific."
"You're specific. You have opinions about everything. You once spent twenty minutes explaining why the rice at that one restaurant was wrong. I didn't understand half of it, but I loved watching you talk about it."
You ducked your head. Almost shy.
"What else?"
He leaned against the counter. Let himself look at you. Really look.
"You hum when you're happy. Not songs, exactly. Just, melodies. Made-up ones. You don't realize you're doing it." He paused. "You steal the blankets. Every single night. I wake up freezing and you're wrapped up like a burrito and I wouldn't change it for anything."
Your cheeks pinked.
"You snore," he continued, smiling now despite everything. "Just a little. Only when you're really tired. You deny it every time I mention it. You say I'm lying and then you fall asleep on my chest and snore again."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do. It's adorable."
You laughed. Just a small one. Just a breath. But it was real.
And Minho realized, with a ache so deep it almost doubled him over, that this was his life now. Collecting your laughs like precious coins. Hoarding every smile. Falling in love with you over and over again, knowing you'd forget by tomorrow.
He brought you coffee. Made it exactly how you liked it, light roast, a splash of milk, no sugar. Handed it to you.
You took a sip. Your eyes widened.
"This is perfect," you said. "How did you know?"
"I know everything about you," he said simply. "Every single thing."
You looked at him over the rim of your cup. Something shifted in your eyes. Something warmer.
"Tell me more," you said softly. "Tell me everything."
And so he did.
He told you about the first time he saw you, at a friend's party, laughing at something, your whole body committed to it. He told you about your first date, the ice cream place with the weird flavors, how you'd ordered something called "sweet potato and honey" and made him try it. He told you about the cats, how you'd found Dori in the rain and carried him home in your hoodie pocket. He told you about the way you danced when you thought no one was watching, all wrong and beautiful and so perfectly you.
You listened. Asked questions. Laughed in the right places. Cried a little when he told you about the night you first said "I love you."
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his coffee was cold and the morning had somehow slipped away into afternoon, you reached across the table and took his hand.
"I don't remember any of it," you said quietly. "But I believe you."
"That's enough," he said. "That's more than enough."
You squeezed his hand.
"Will you be here tomorrow?" you asked. "When I wake up and don't remember again?"
The question hit him like a blade between the ribs.
"Yes," he said fiercely. "Every tomorrow. Every single one. I'll be here."
You smiled. That small, kind smile. But underneath it, something else. Something that looked almost like hope.
That night, you fell asleep on the couch watching a movie.
Minho carried you to bed. The same bed you'd woken up in this morning, terrified of the stranger beside you. The same bed you'd share tonight, trusting him because he'd spent the whole day earning it.
He tucked you in. Pulled the blankets up to your chin. Brushed the hair from your face.
You stirred. Mumbled something. Your hand found his and held on.
"Minho," you whispered. Just his name. But you said it like you knew him. Like you remembered.
"Yeah," he breathed. "I'm here."
"I'm glad." Your eyes were still closed, your voice thick with sleep. "I'm glad you're here."
Tears slid down his cheeks. Silent. Endless.
"Me too," he whispered. "Me too."
He stayed there until your hand went slack, until your breathing evened out, until he was sure you were asleep. Then he pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead and whispered the words he'd say every night for the rest of his life:
"I love you. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll make you fall in love with me all over again."
He turned off the light.
Walked to the living room.
Sat on the couch in the dark and finally, finally let himself break.
Not in any way a stranger would notice. The furniture was the same. The photos on the walls were the same. The cats still slept on the same pillow, chased the same sunbeams, meowed at the same time every morning for food.
But the apartment had changed.
There were sticky notes now. Dozens of them. On the bathroom mirror: Your name is ____. You are safe. Minho is your person. On the refrigerator: Food inside. Eat something. Minho made it. On the nightstand: This is Minho. He loves you. You love him too.
Minho had gotten good at writing them. Short. Clear. Kind. Nothing that would scare you, nothing that would make you feel broken.
He wrote new ones every night before bed, because you'd been known to wake up in the middle of the night disoriented, and he needed you to see his words before you saw your own panic.
Tonight, he sat at the kitchen table with a stack of sticky notes and a pen that was running out of ink.
The photo album sat in front of him.
He'd finished it last week. Three months of work, distilled into fifty pages. Your life together. Your love story. Page after page of proof that you had existed, that you had been happy, that you had chosen each other.
He'd shown it to you this morning.
You'd flipped through it slowly. Studied each photo like a detective examining evidence. Asked questions he'd answered a hundred times before.
Who's this? That's us at the beach. You buried me in the sand and then left me there to get ice cream.
When was this? Two years ago. Your birthday. You said you wanted to go somewhere warm, so I booked flights that night.
Why are we making that face? Because you dared me to eat a whole lemon and I actually did it. You laughed so hard you cried. That's you crying in the photo. Right there.
You'd laughed at that. Genuinely laughed. And Minho had felt his heart crack open and heal itself in the same breath.
But then you'd gotten to the last page. A photo of the two of you at home, ordinary Tuesday night, you in his lap and both of you smiling at the camera like idiots in love.
You'd stared at it for a long time.
Then you'd looked up at him, and your eyes were wet, and you'd said the words that would haunt him forever:
"I wish I could remember loving you. It must have been amazing."
He'd held it together until you went to take a shower. Then he'd sat on the bathroom floor and cried into a towel so you wouldn't hear.
You came out of the bedroom wrapped in his hoodie, the gray one, always the gray one, even though you didn't know why you loved it so much, and sat across from him at the kitchen table.
He slid a cup of coffee toward you. Perfectly made.
You smiled your thanks. Took a sip. Made that small satisfied sound that made his chest ache.
"I have a question," you said.
"Anything."
You set down the cup. Looked at him with those eyes that held no memory of him but held everything else, your kindness, your curiosity, your stubborn beautiful soul.
"Why do you stay?"
Minho blinked. "What?"
"I've been here a month. I know because of the notes. I write the date on them now, so I can keep track." You tapped the edge of the table. "Every morning I wake up and I don't know you. Every morning you're here, with coffee and kind eyes and a photo album full of a life I don't remember. And I just-" You shook your head. "Why? Why do you stay? This has to be destroying you."
Minho was quiet for a long moment.
Then he reached across the table and took your hand.
"You want the truth?"
"Always."
He took a breath. Held it. Let it go.
"The first week, I thought I couldn't do it. I thought it would kill me. Waking up every day to the person I love most looking at me like a stranger. Having to introduce myself over and over. Watching you search your own mind for something that isn't there anymore." His voice wavered. He steadied it. "I cried every night. I cried in the shower. I cried in the stairwell so you wouldn't hear. I thought about leaving. Not because I didn't love you, but because I thought maybe you'd be better off without some stranger in your apartment every morning, claiming to be yours."
Your hand tightened on his.
"But then-" He smiled. Small and sad and real. "Then I'd make you coffee. And you'd take that first sip and make that little sound. The one you've made every morning for four years. And you'd look at me over the cup, and you'd smile, and you'd ask me a question about myself. Because that's who you are. You're curious. You're kind. Even when you don't know me, you want to know me."
Tears were forming in your eyes. You didn't blink them away.
"Every day, I get to fall in love with you all over again," he continued. "Every day, I get to see you for the first time. Your laugh. Your smile. The way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. The way you talk to the cats like they understand every word. Every single day, I get to discover you again."
He squeezed your hand.
"And every night, when you fall asleep in my arms, you hold onto me. Even when you don't know who I am, your body remembers. You reach for me in the dark. You say my name in your sleep. And I think, I think maybe some part of you knows. Some part of you remembers loving me. Even if your mind can't."
A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away.
"So that's why I stay," he whispered. "Because loving you, even like this, especially like this, is the best thing I've ever done. And I'm not going to stop. Not ever."
You were crying now. Quietly. Beautifully.
"You deserve so much better than this," you said.
"I have you," he replied. "That's the only thing I deserve. That's the only thing I want."
You stood up. Walked around the table. Climbed into his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his shoulder.
He held you. Rocked you gently. Pressed kisses to your hair.
"I don't know why I love you," you whispered against his neck. "I don't remember why. But I do. I feel it. Right here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "It's like, like my heart knows you even when my head doesn't."
Minho closed his eyes. Let the tears fall.
"That's enough," he breathed. "That's everything."
Later, you fell asleep in his arms. Same as always. Same position. Same warmth. Same soft breathing against his neck.
But tonight, something was different.
Just before sleep took you, you stirred. Lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light from the window.
"Minho?" you whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
His heart clenched. "I know, baby. I know."
"What if one day I wake up and I don't just forget you? What if I forget how to love? What if I forget how to feel?"
He pulled you closer. Held you tighter.
"Then I'll love you enough for both of us," he said. "I'll feel enough for both of us. I'll remember enough for both of us. You don't have to be scared. I've got you. I'll always have you."
You looked at him for a long moment. Searching his face. Finding whatever it was you needed to find.
Then you smiled. Soft and sleepy and so beautiful it hurt.
"I believe you," you whispered. "I don't know why, but I believe you."
"That's all I need."
You kissed him. Just a gentle brush of lips. Just a promise.
Then you settled back against his chest, your hand over his heart, and within minutes you were asleep.
Minho lay awake, staring at the ceiling, holding you close.
And he thought about all the tomorrows ahead. All the mornings he'd wake up a stranger. All the coffees he'd make. All the introductions. All the photo albums. All the moments of recognition that would fade by nightfall.
It would be hard. It would be devastating. It would break him over and over again.
But right now, with you in his arms, breathing softly, trusting him even though you didn't know why,
At 3 AM, Minho carefully extracted himself from your arms. You stirred, mumbled, but didn't wake.
He went to the kitchen. Sat at the table. Pulled out a fresh sticky note and the pen that was almost out of ink.
He wrote:
Good morning. I'm Minho. I'm the luckiest person in the world because I get to love you. Today, I'll make you coffee. I'll show you photos. I'll tell you stories. And by the end of the day, you'll smile at me like I'm someone special. You'll hold my hand. You'll fall asleep in my arms.
You won't remember tomorrow. But I will. I'll remember every single second.
And I'll be here. Waiting. Ready to fall in love with you all over again.
Always yours,
Minho
He placed it on the nightstand, right where you'd see it when you woke.
Then he climbed back into bed, pulled you gently against his chest, and closed his eyes.
That's what the doctor had called it, anyway. A last-ditch effort. An experimental treatment that had shown promise in early stages. Not a cure, never a cure, but maybe a slowdown. Maybe a few more months of memories. Maybe a little more time.
You'd agreed before the memory loss fully hit. Sat in that same office with the gentle-eyed doctor and the box of tissues and signed your name on page after page of consent forms. Minho had held your hand the whole time. Had watched you scribble your signature with a determination that made his chest ache.
"I want to fight," you'd told him afterward, in the car, with the rain streaming down the windows. "I want to try. For us. For more time."
He'd kissed you. Right there in the parking lot. Long and slow and desperate.
You'd go to the hospital, sit in a room with pale blue walls and a television that only played cooking shows, and they'd hook you up to an IV. The medication was clear. Unremarkable. It dripped into your veins for three hours while you watched chefs compete and Minho held your hand and you both pretended this was normal.
For the first three months, it seemed to work.
You still forgot. Every morning was still a reintroduction. But the forgetting seemed... slower. Smaller. You remembered the cats' names more often. You remembered the gray hoodie was yours. Sometimes, just sometimes, you'd look at him and something would flicker in your eyes, recognition, maybe, or something close to it.
You were burning up. Literally burning. Your skin was hot to the touch, damp with sweat, and you were shaking, violent, uncontrollable shaking that rattled the bed frame.
Minho was awake instantly.
"Hey. Hey, baby. Can you hear me?"
Your eyes were open but unfocused. Glassy. Your lips moved but no sound came out.
He grabbed his phone. Dialed. Pressed the phone to his ear with one hand while the other held your face, tried to ground you, tried to bring you back.
"The clinical trial hotline," he said when someone answered. "My girlfriend. She's in the trial. She has a fever and she's shaking and she's not responding-"
The ambulance came.
Minho rode in the back, holding your hand, watching your chest rise and fall, praying to every god he'd never believed in.
The hospital was too bright. Too loud. Too full of people going about their ordinary lives while yours hung in the balance.
Minho sat in a plastic chair that was bolted to the floor and stared at a wall that was painted a color designed to be calming. It wasn't calming. Nothing was calming.
A doctor came out after what felt like hours. Young. Tired. Sympathetic in that practiced way that meant bad news.
"Mr. Lee?"
Minho stood. His legs almost gave out.
"She's stable," the doctor said quickly. "The fever is responding to treatment. But we need to talk about the clinical trial."
Minho just looked at him. Waiting.
"The reaction she had, it's a known risk. Severe neuroinflammation. Her body is rejecting the treatment." The doctor paused. "We can continue the infusions, but the likelihood of another reaction is high. Each one could be worse than the last. Seizures. Organ stress. Potentially-" Another pause. "Potentially fatal."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"What happens if we stop?" Minho heard himself ask.
"The memory loss will accelerate. The timeline we discussed initially, it will move faster. Weeks instead of months." The doctor's eyes were gentle. Cruelly gentle. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear."
So pale. So small. Tubes and wires connecting you to machines that beeped and hummed and kept you alive.
But your eyes were open. And when you saw him, you smiled.
"Minho."
It was your voice. Your smile. Your eyes looking at him with recognition, real recognition, not the polite confusion of a stranger.
He crossed the room in three steps and was at your side, holding your hand, pressing kisses to your knuckles, crying without making a sound.
"Hey," you whispered. Your voice was rough. "Why are you crying?"
"Because I love you," he said. "Because I was scared. Because you're here and you know my name and I don't know how to handle any of this."
Your fingers tightened on his. Weak, but there.
"I remember," you said softly. "Today. I remember today. The ambulance. The lights. You holding my hand." A pause. "I was so scared. But you were there. You're always there."
"I'll always be there," he promised. "Always."
You looked at him for a long moment. Then your eyes drifted to the window, to the gray sky beyond, to the ordinary world going about its ordinary day.
"What did the doctor say?" you asked quietly.
Minho's heart stopped.
"About what?"
"Don't." You looked back at him. "Don't protect me. I can tell by your face. It's bad. Just tell me."
He wanted to lie. Wanted to tell you everything was fine, that you'd go home tomorrow, that you'd have more time.
But you'd asked him never to lie. Back when you still remembered everything. Back when you'd made him promise.
"The treatment is hurting you," he said. "The fevers, they'll keep happening. Each one could be worse. They said we can stop, but if we stop-"
"The memory loss gets faster." You finished his sentence. Nodded slowly. "How much faster?"
"Weeks. Maybe."
You were quiet for a moment. Processing. Accepting.
Then you squeezed his hand and smiled that small, brave smile that destroyed him every time.
"Then we stop."
"Baby-"
"Minho." You reached up with your free hand, touched his face. So gently. "I don't want to spend what time I have in a hospital. I don't want you to watch me seize and burn and maybe die in a room with pale blue walls. I want to go home. I want to sleep in our bed. I want the cats to sit on my lap. I want to drink your coffee and watch you dance and-" Your voice broke. "And I want to make as many memories as I can before I can't anymore."
He was crying. Both of you were crying.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
You pulled him down. Pressed your forehead to his.
"How long do I have?" you asked. "Before I forget everything? Before I forget you?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
"I need to know," you said. "I need to know so I can, so I can say goodbye properly. So I can tell you everything I need to tell you."
Minho closed his eyes. Let himself feel the weight of it.
"A month," he breathed. "Maybe two. The doctor said, the doctor said at this stage, with the accelerated timeline-"
"A month." You said it like you were testing the weight of it. "Okay. Okay. One month."
You pulled back. Looked at him with those eyes that held so much. Love. Fear. Grief. Gratitude.
"Then we have one month to live a lifetime," you said. "Can we do that?"
He kissed you. Soft and desperate and full of everything he couldn't say.
"We can do anything," he whispered against your lips. "As long as I'm with you."
The apartment felt different. Sacred, almost. Every corner held a memory you might not have tomorrow. Every object carried weight.
You stood in the living room, looking at the photo album on the coffee table. At the sticky notes on the walls. At the cats weaving between your ankles.
"It's strange," you said quietly. "Knowing I won't remember this. Knowing that right now, this moment, will be gone tomorrow."
Minho came up behind you. Wrapped his arms around your waist. Pressed his cheek to your hair.
"Then let's make it count," he said. "Let's make every second count."
You turned in his arms. Faced him.
"Teach me something," you said.
"What?"
"Teach me something I've never learned. Something new. Something I won't forget because I never knew it before." You smiled. "Give me a memory that's just for today."
So he did.
He taught you a dance move. The one from the music video, the one you'd tried to teach him a lifetime ago. You laughed at your own clumsiness, at his patient corrections, at the way you kept stepping on his feet.
And when you finally got it, finally nailed the sequence, you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him, full of joy and triumph and the fierce beauty of being alive.
"Did you see that?" you laughed. "I did it!"
"I saw," he said, smiling through the ache in his chest. "You were amazing."
You beamed at him. So proud. So present.
And Minho made himself a promise.
He would give you this. Every single day. A new memory. Something just for today. Something the thief couldn't steal because it had never been stolen before.
You sat at the kitchen table, the same table where he'd written a hundred sticky notes, and you wrote. For hours. Page after page.
When you finally came to bed, your eyes were red and swollen.
"What did you write?" he asked gently.
"Letters." You crawled into bed beside him, settled against his chest. "Letters to myself. For when I forget. Reminders of who I am. Who you are. What we had." A pause. "What we have."
He held you tighter.
"There's one for every day," you continued. "For as long as I can. When I wake up, I'll read one. And for a few minutes, I'll remember. I'll know."
Minho's throat was too tight to speak.
You lifted your head. Looked at him in the dim light.
"You're in all of them," you whispered. "Every single one. You're the reason I wrote them. You're the reason any of this matters."
He kissed you. Long and slow and full of everything.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much it's destroying me."
"I know," you whispered back. "I love you too. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have to go through this."
"Don't be sorry." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Just, just stay with me. As long as you can. Just stay."
"I will," you promised. "I'll stay until I can't."
Panic seized him. He threw off the covers, ran to the living room,
You were there. Sitting on the couch. Staring at the photo album in your lap.
"You okay?" he asked, voice rough with sleep and fear.
You looked up. Your eyes were wet.
"I wanted to remember," you said quietly. "I wanted to look at these and really see them. While I still can."
He sat beside you. Pulled you against his side.
Together, in the dark, you looked at photos of a life you were losing.
The beach. The ice cream. The cats as kittens. Your first anniversary. The time he surprised you with tickets to your favorite band. The time you surprised him with a cake that looked nothing like the picture but tasted perfect anyway.
Page after page of proof that you had existed. That you had been happy.
"This one's my favorite," you whispered, pointing to a photo of the two of you in the kitchen, flour on both your faces, laughing at something the camera didn't capture.
"Why that one?"
"Because we're not posing. We're not trying to look good. We're just, happy. Real happy." You traced the image with your fingertip. "I want to remember this. Even if I forget everything else, I want to remember this."
You made a list. Things you wanted to do. Places you wanted to see. Foods you wanted to eat one last time.
Minho made it happen.
The beach where you'd had your first real conversation. The ice cream place with the weird flavors. The park where you'd first said "I love you." The rooftop where you'd watched the stars and talked about the future you thought you'd have.
Every day, a new adventure. Every night, you fell into bed exhausted but smiling.
And every morning, you woke up and read your letter and knew, for a little while, who you were and who he was and what you meant to each other.
Not just from the letter. Not just from the photos. You knew him. You looked at him and your eyes lit up with recognition, with love, with everything.
"Minho," you breathed, and it was his name, his name, the way you'd always said it, full of warmth and belonging.
"Yeah," he whispered, tears already forming. "Yeah, it's me."
You pulled him down. Kissed him like you'd never stop.
"I remember," you said against his lips. "I remember everything. Today. Right now. I remember."
You spent the day like you used to. Before the forgetting. You made breakfast together, pancakes, messy and imperfect and perfect. You danced in the living room, wrong and beautiful and so full of joy it hurt. You talked about nothing and everything. You held hands on the couch. You kissed in the kitchen. You laughed until you cried.
And at the end of the day, as the sun set through the window, you looked at him with eyes that held four years of love.
"Thank you," you whispered.
"For what?"
"For staying. For fighting. For loving me even when I couldn't love you back." A tear slipped down your cheek. "For giving me a lifetime in a month."
He cupped your face in his hands. Brushed the tear away with his thumb.
"Thank you for letting me," he said. "Thank you for being the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for every single day, even the ones you forgot."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I'll try to remember tomorrow," you said. "I'll try so hard."
"I know you will." He kissed your forehead. "And if you can't, I'll be here. I'll always be here."
That night, you fell asleep in his arms.
And Minho held you close and prayed to a god he still didn't believe in that tomorrow, just once more, you'd know his name.
He'd gotten into the habit. Those final minutes of darkness, with you still asleep in his arms, were the only time he wasn't bracing for impact. The only time he could just be with you, without the weight of your empty eyes.
He watched the sunrise paint your face gold.
Committed it to memory. The soft part of your lips. The way your eyelashes fluttered during dreams he'd never know. The small sound you made when you were surfacing from sleep.
Please, he thought. Please. Just one more day. Just let her know me one more time.
You stirred.
Your eyes opened.
And Minho knew immediately.
There was nothing there. Not confusion, not fear, not the polite curiosity of a stranger. Just, nothing. Empty. Like a house where someone had turned off all the lights.
You blinked. Looked at him. Looked at the room. Looked at your own hands like you'd never seen them before.
It was a scream of not knowing. Of existing without context, without memory, without any thread connecting you to the world.
You scrambled backward, away from him, falling off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that should have hurt but you didn't seem to notice. Your back hit the wall and you pressed yourself against it, arms wrapped around your knees, rocking.
"No no no no no-"
Minho was on his knees in front of you, hands up, palms out, trying to be small, trying to be unthreatening.
"Hey," he said, voice shaking. "Hey, it's okay. You're safe. You're in your home. My name is Minho, I'm your-"
You looked at him.
And the look in your eyes stopped his heart.
Not fear. Not confusion. Nothing. Absolute vacancy. Like looking at a person through a window made of ice.
"Who am I?" you whispered.
"You're-"
"WHO AM I?" Louder now. More desperate. Your hands flew to your head, gripping your hair, pulling. "I don't know who I am. I don't know anything. There's nothing. There's nothing in my head. Why is there nothing in my head?"
Minho reached for you.
You flinched like he'd hit you.
"DON'T TOUCH ME."
He froze. Hands still in the air. Tears streaming down his face.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I won't touch you. But please, please let me help you. You're sick. You have a condition. It affects your memory. But you're safe. You're in your home. I'm here to help you."
You stared at him.
And then you started hitting yourself.
Not hard at first. Just slapping your own temples, your own forehead, like you could shake something loose, like you could force your brain to work.
"Come back," you muttered. "Come back come back come back. There has to be something. There has to be something."
Minho lunged forward. Caught your wrists. Held them tight.
You fought him. Actually fought, kicking, thrashing, screaming. Not at him. At the universe. At the emptiness inside your own skull.
"LET ME GO. LET ME GO I NEED TO FIND IT I NEED TO FIND MYSELF-"
"You're right here," he sobbed, holding on, taking the hits because he couldn't let you hurt yourself. "You're right here. You're safe. Please. Please, baby, please-"
You went still.
Looked at him with those empty eyes.
"Baby," you repeated. Like the word meant nothing. Like it was sounds without sense.
One arm around your torso, pinning you gently but firmly to his chest, the other fumbling for his phone on the nightstand. You were still fighting, still thrashing, still making sounds that weren't words anymore, just raw, animal noises of distress.
"911," he gasped when someone answered. "Please. My girlfriend. She has memory loss. She woke up and she doesn't know anything. She's, she's hurting herself. She's terrified. Please. Please hurry."
He gave the address. Dropped the phone. Wrapped both arms around you and held on.
"Shh," he whispered against your hair. "Shh. I've got you. I've got you. You're safe. You're safe."
You didn't stop fighting until the paramedics arrived.
Minho watched them do it. Watched the medication flood your system, watched your eyes go from wild and empty to slowly, heavily closed. Watched them strap you to a gurney and wheel you out of the apartment you'd never remember living in.
He rode in the ambulance again.
Held your hand again.
Watched your chest rise and fall again.
But this time, when you opened your eyes, there was nothing there. And he knew, somewhere deep in his bones, that there never would be again.
The same doctor. The same gentle eyes. The same box of tissues on the corner of the desk.
Minho hated her. Hated this room. Hated the universe for putting them here again.
"She's in a state of complete autobiographical memory loss," the doctor said quietly. "Not just recent memories. Everything. Her name. Her age. The concept of self. It's all gone."
Minho stared at a spot on the wall.
"The terror she's experiencing, it's not something she can control. Imagine waking up in a world you don't recognize, in a body you don't recognize, with no context for anything. No language, even, beyond the instinctive. She doesn't know what a hospital is. She doesn't know what help is. She only knows fear."
"Fix it," Minho said. His voice was flat. Dead. "You're doctors. Fix it."
The doctor was quiet for a moment.
"There is one option."
Minho looked at her.
"The clinical trial. The one we stopped. If we restart it, at a higher dosage, there's a chance, a small chance, that some memories could return. Fragments. Impressions. Enough to give her back a sense of self."
"But?"
The doctor met his eyes.
"But the side effects will be worse. The fevers will be worse. The inflammation will be worse. She'll need round-the-clock monitoring. She'll need to stay here, in the hospital, indefinitely. And even then, there's no guarantee. She might never know who she is again. She might never know you."
Minho's hands were shaking.
"And if we don't?"
"Then she'll remain in this state. Permanently. She'll need full-time care. She won't recognize anyone or anything. She'll live in a world of strangers, including herself."
The room was very quiet.
"There's one more thing," the doctor said. "If we restart the trial, she can't go home. The risk of seizures is too high. She'll need to be here, in the neurology wing, for the foreseeable future. You can visit, but-"
"She can't come home."
"No. I'm sorry."
Minho closed his eyes.
And somewhere deep inside him, something broke for good.
They let him see you before they moved you to the neurology wing.
You were awake. Sedated, but awake. Your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, and there was nothing in them. No recognition when he entered. No fear, either, thanks to the drugs. Just... absence.
He sat in the chair beside your bed. Took your hand.
You didn't react.
"I have to make a choice," he whispered. "And I don't know what you'd want. I don't know if you'd want to fight, or if you'd want to let go. I don't know anything anymore."
You blinked slowly. Your eyes drifted to his face. No spark. No flicker.
"You're in there somewhere," he said, his voice cracking. "You have to be. You're too bright to just, to just go out. You're too you."
Nothing.
He lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one.
"I'm going to say yes," he whispered. "To the trial. Because if there's even a chance, even a tiny chance, that you could come back, even for a moment, even just to know your own name... I have to take it. I have to."
You looked at him. Empty. Peaceful. Gone.
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you from this."
Page after page. Consent forms. Waivers. Acknowledgement of risks. Acknowledgement that you might die. Acknowledgement that you might never come back. Acknowledgement that even if you did, you might not know him.
He signed them all.
Then he went back to your room, your room, in the neurology wing, with the pale blue walls and the television that only played cooking shows, and sat beside you until visiting hours ended.
A nurse came. Gentle. Kind. "You should go home. Get some rest. She'll be here tomorrow."
Minho looked at you. Still staring at the ceiling. Still empty.
"Will she know me?" he asked. "When she wakes up?"
The nurse's silence was answer enough.
He stood. Leaned down. Pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I'll be back tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll always come back. I promised you that, remember? Even if you don't."
You didn't respond.
He walked out of the room.
Walked down the hallway.
Walked out of the hospital and into the night and drove home to an apartment that would never feel like home again.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie. Winding around his ankles, meowing for food, for attention, for the person who wasn't there.
Minho stood in the entryway and looked at the life they'd built.
Your shoes by the door. Your hoodie on the back of the chair. The photo album on the coffee table. The sticky notes on the walls. The half-empty cup of coffee you'd never finish.
He walked to the bedroom.
Your side of the bed was still rumpled. The sheets still held your shape. The pillow still smelled like you.
He lay down on your side. Buried his face in your pillow. Breathed in the last traces of you.
And for the first time since this started, really started, Minho let himself break completely.
He sobbed until he couldn't breathe. Sobbed until his throat was raw. Sobbed until there was nothing left, just empty heaves and the sound of his own heart shattering into pieces too small to ever put back together.
The cats jumped on the bed. Curled up around him. Dori licked the tears from his face.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were gone.
Not dead. But gone.
The person he loved, the one with the laugh that filled rooms, the one who stole blankets and snored and made him coffee and looked at him like he was something precious, that person was somewhere inside a body that didn't know her own name.
You were awake. Sitting up in bed. Your eyes were clearer today, less sedated, but still empty. Still vacant.
A nurse was helping you eat breakfast. You opened your mouth mechanically when the spoon approached. Chewed. Swallowed. No expression.
Minho stood in the doorway.
The nurse noticed him. Smiled gently. "She's had her first infusion. No reaction yet. That's good."
He nodded. Walked to your bedside.
"Hi," he said softly.
You looked at him. Nothing.
"I'm Minho," he said. His voice only cracked a little. "I'm the person who loves you most in the world. I know you don't know me. That's okay. I'm going to keep coming anyway. Every day. I'm going to keep telling you who I am. I'm going to keep hoping."
You stared at him.
Then, slowly, your hand moved.
Reached out.
Touched his face.
Minho's breath caught.
Your fingers traced his cheek. His jaw. His lips. Like you were trying to read him through touch. Like your body was searching for something your mind had lost.
"No," you whispered.
His heart stopped.
"No what?"
You frowned. Concentration. Effort. Like you were trying to climb out of a deep, dark hole.
"No... don't..." You shook your head slightly. "Don't... cry."
Minho realized there were tears on his face. He hadn't noticed them falling.
"You don't know me," he whispered. "How do you know I was crying?"
You looked at him. Still empty. Still lost.
But your hand stayed on his face.
And for one moment, one tiny, impossible moment, he thought he saw something flicker in your eyes.
Then it was gone.
You pulled your hand back. Looked away. Stared at the wall.
Minho sat beside you for the rest of visiting hours. Holding your hand. Talking to you. Telling you stories about a life you'd never remember.
Sometimes you were awake. Sometimes you were asleep. Sometimes you were in the middle of a fever, shaking and burning and surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed.
He was there for all of it.
He read you letters, the ones you'd written, the ones you'd never read yourself. He showed you photos from the album, even though your eyes slid off them like water. He told you about the cats, about Dori's latest mischief, about Soonie's favorite sleeping spot.
And every day, before he left, he kissed your forehead and said the same thing:
"I'll be back tomorrow. I'll always come back. I love you."
You never responded.
But sometimes, when he said it, your fingers would twitch. Just slightly. Just enough.
And Minho held onto that like a drowning man holds onto air.
Three weeks into your hospitalization, Minho found a letter he hadn't seen before.
It was tucked into the back of the photo album. Your handwriting on the envelope. His name. He opened it with shaking hands.
Minho,
If you're reading this, I'm probably gone. Not dead, I made the nurse promise she'd give you this if I ever got to the point where I couldn't communicate anymore. So if you're reading this, I'm in that place. The empty place. And you're still here, being you, being the most stubbornly loving person I've ever known.
I need you to know something.
I'm not scared.
I know that sounds crazy. I should be terrified. But I'm not, because I know you're with me. Even if I don't know it in the moment, even if my eyes are empty and my hands don't hold yours back, some part of me knows. Some part of me feels you. And that part is peaceful.
You gave me that. You gave me a love so big it exists even when I don't.
I need you to promise me something. You're going to want to stay in that apartment forever, surrounded by my things, trapped in a life that's half-empty. Don't. Promise me you'll live. Promise me you'll laugh again. Promise me you'll let yourself be happy, even if it's without me.
I know that seems impossible right now. But I need you to try. For me. For the person who loved you more than anything.
I don't know if there's an afterlife. I don't know if I'll be watching. But if I am, I'll be cheering for you. I'll be so proud of you. I'll be so grateful for every single second you gave me.
Thank you for staying. Thank you for fighting. Thank you for loving me even when I couldn't love you back.
You were my whole heart. You will always be my whole heart.
Forever yours,
(Your name)
P.S. , Take care of the cats. They miss me. Tell them I love them.
Minho read the letter three times.
Then he folded it carefully, placed it in his wallet, and went to the hospital.
You were having a good day. No fever. Eyes open. You even looked at him when he walked in.
"Hi," he said, sitting beside you. "I brought a letter. From you. From before. Do you want to hear it?"
You stared at him. Empty.
He read it anyway.
And when he finished, when his voice was hoarse and his eyes were wet, you reached out and touched his face again.
He sold the apartment. Packed up your things carefully, reverently. Kept the gray hoodie for himself. Donated the rest to a women's shelter, because you would have wanted that.
He found a smaller place. Closer to the hospital. Easier for visiting.
He took the cats.
And every single day, he went to see you.
You never knew him again. Not really. There were moments, flickers, glimpses, tiny windows where your eyes would focus and your hand would reach for his. But they never lasted. By the next visit, you were empty again.
But Minho kept coming.
He kept talking. Kept reading. Kept holding your hand.
Because somewhere, deep inside the empty, he knew you were there. The real you. The one who laughed with her whole body and stole blankets and made him coffee and looked at him like he was the sun.
Minho sat beside your bed, holding your hand, telling you about Dori's latest adventure. The cat had gotten stuck in a paper bag and stumbled around the apartment for an hour before Minho rescued him. It had been hilarious. You would have laughed.
He was mid-sentence when your fingers tightened on his.
He stopped. Looked at you.
Your eyes were open. Clear. Focused.
"Minho," you whispered.
Not a question. Not a stranger's polite confusion. His name. His name.
"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's me."
You smiled. That smile. The one that had made him fall in love with you in the first place.
"I remember," you said softly. "I remember everything."
Minho's world stopped.
"You-"
"For a minute. Maybe less. But I remember." You lifted your free hand, touched his face. "I remember loving you. I remember being loved by you. I remember everything that matters."
Tears were streaming down his face. He didn't care.
"I've been waiting," he choked out. "I've been waiting so long."
"I know." Your thumb traced his cheek. "I know. I felt you. Every day. Even when I couldn't respond. I felt you here." You pressed your hand to your chest. "Right here."
He leaned down. Pressed his forehead to yours.
"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."
"I love you too." Your voice was getting weaker. Your eyes were fluttering. "I'll try to come back. I'll try to remember again."
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll be here. I'll always be here."
You smiled one more time.
Then your eyes closed, and you were gone again.
Minho sat beside you, holding your hand, crying without making a sound.
Minho knew this because the clock on his nightstand glowed green and accusatory, and he'd been staring at it for the better part of an hour. Sleep wouldn't come. It happened sometimes, his brain refusing to shut off, replaying the day's visit, replaying your empty eyes, replaying the one moment of clarity you'd given him a week ago.
I remember loving you.
He held onto those words like a lifeline.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it before the sound could fully register, heart already pounding, because phones don't ring at 3:47 AM for good news.
The screen said: HOSPITAL.
He answered. Didn't speak. Couldn't.
"Mr. Lee?"
"Yes."
"It's Dr. Park. From the neurology wing." A pause. The kind of pause that stretches into eternity. "I'm so sorry to call at this hour. There's been an incident."
Minho was already standing. Already pulling on clothes. Already moving toward the door.
"What happened?"
"She had a seizure. A severe one. The team responded immediately, but-" Another pause. Longer this time. "It was too aggressive. We couldn't stop it. Her heart-"
The words stopped.
Minho stopped too. Frozen in the middle of his living room, one shoe on, one shoe off, the cats watching him with wide eyes.
"Mr. Lee? Are you there?"
"She's gone." His own voice. He barely recognized it.
"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could. She wasn't in pain. I need you to know that. She wasn't in pain."
Minho's legs gave out.
He sank to the floor, phone still pressed to his ear, staring at nothing.
"She was alone," he whispered. "She was alone and she didn't know who she was and she died alone."
"There was a nurse with her. She wasn't alone. And Mr. Lee-" The doctor's voice cracked, just slightly. Professionalism giving way to something human. "In her final moments, she said a name. Just once. Before the seizure took her."
Minho's heart stopped.
"What name?"
"Yours. She said 'Minho.' Clear as anything. And then she was gone."
The sob that tore out of him was animal. Primal. It came from somewhere so deep he didn't know it existed.
She remembered. At the end. She remembered.
"Thank you," he gasped. "Thank you for telling me."
"Someone will be in touch about, about arrangements. Take your time. There's no rush. And Mr. Lee?"
"Yes?"
"She was lucky to have you. I've never seen anyone fight as hard for someone as you fought for her."
The line went dead.
Minho sat on his living room floor at 3:47 AM, one shoe on, one shoe off, and held the phone in his hands.
The cats came to him. Dori first, then Soonie, then Doongie. They curled around him, pressed their warmth into his shaking body.
And Minho realized, with a clarity that cut like glass:
You were really gone.
Not empty. Not waiting. Not somewhere inside a body that didn't know itself.
Gone.
The word didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense. You were too bright, too alive, too much to just be gone.
But the phone call was real. The silence was real. The empty apartment was real.
One moment he was on the floor with the cats. The next, he was in the parking lot, engine off, hands still gripping the wheel like he'd been holding it for hours.
The sun was rising. Pale pink and orange over the buildings. Beautiful. The kind of sunrise you would have dragged him outside to see.
He sat in the car and watched it and thought about how the world kept spinning even when his had stopped.
A nurse met him at the entrance. The kind one. The one who always smiled at him when he came for visits.
Her eyes were red.
"I'm so sorry," she said. "She's still in her room. They haven't, they haven't moved her yet. I thought you might want-"
"Thank you."
His voice was automatic. His legs were automatic. Everything was automatic except the gaping hole where his heart used to be.
He stood outside it for a long time. Staring at the crack of light. Listening to the machines that weren't beeping anymore.
She's not in there, he told himself. She's not in that room. She's somewhere else. She's free.
But his hand still shook when he pushed the door open.
You were in the bed.
Still. So still. Your eyes were closed, your face peaceful, your hands folded over your chest like you were sleeping.
But you weren't sleeping.
He knew because your chest wasn't moving. Because the machines were dark. Because the room had the terrible quiet of finality.
He walked to your bedside.
Sat in the chair he'd sat in a thousand times.
Took your hand.
It was cold.
Minho lifted it to his lips. Kissed your knuckles. One by one. Just like he'd done a million times before.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm always here. Remember?"
Nothing.
Of course nothing.
But he kept talking anyway.
"The cats miss you. Dori tried to steal my food this morning. Soonie slept on your pillow again. They know something's wrong. They keep looking at the door like you're going to walk through it."
He laughed. A broken, wrecked sound.
"I keep doing that too. Looking at doors. Expecting you."
He pressed your hand to his cheek. Held it there.
"The nurse said you said my name. At the end. Thank you for that. Thank you for remembering. Even for a second."
Tears dripped onto your cold fingers.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "I don't know how to be in a world without you. I don't know how to wake up tomorrow and not come here. I don't know how to exist when half of me is gone."
He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to your still shoulder.
"You were supposed to forget me. Not leave me. You were supposed to be here, even if you didn't know me. I could handle that. I could handle anything as long as you were breathing."
A sob wracked his body.
"But you're not breathing. And I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to say goodbye."
He stayed like that for a long time. Holding your hand. Crying into your shoulder. Saying everything and nothing.
Eventually, a gentle hand touched his back.
The kind nurse. Tears streaming down her face.
"It's time," she whispered. "They need to, they need to take her now."
Minho nodded. Sat up. Looked at your face one last time.
He leaned down. Kissed your forehead. The same spot he'd kissed a thousand mornings.
"I love you," he said. "I loved you from the moment I met you. I'll love you until the moment I die. And after that, if there's anything after that, I'll find you. I'll always find you."
He stood.
Let go of your hand.
Walked to the door.
Turned back one last time.
"Wait for me," he whispered. "Wherever you are. Wait for me."
Then he walked out of the room, and you were gone.
Your family. His family. A few close friends who had watched this whole tragedy unfold from the sidelines, helpless.
Minho stood at the front and didn't cry.
He'd done all his crying in that hospital room. Now there was just emptiness. Just the mechanical motions of existing.
They played your favorite song. The one you used to dance to in the living room. Minho stood perfectly still and listened and thought about the way you'd grab his hands and pull him into your ridiculous choreography, laughing, always laughing.
Afterward, people touched his arm. Said words he didn't hear. Cried tears he couldn't join.
He nodded. Thanked them. Waited for it to be over.
When everyone was gone, he stood alone by the grave. Looked at the headstone with your name on it. Your real name. The one he'd whispered a million times.
"I brought something," he said quietly.
He pulled the gray hoodie from his bag. Your hoodie. The one you'd stolen years ago and never given back.
He knelt. Folded it carefully. Laid it on the fresh earth.
"So you're not cold," he whispered. "Wherever you are."
The wind picked up. Rustled the leaves. Carried something that might have been a whisper or might have been his imagination.
He stood. Looked at the sky. Thought about all the mornings he'd wake up without you.
"I'll be okay," he said. "Eventually. I'll be okay because you'd want me to be. I'll laugh again. I'll dance again. I'll live again."
A pause.
"But I'll never stop loving you. Not for one second. Not ever."
That night, Minho sat on his couch with three cats on his lap.
Dori. Soonie. Doongie.
They purred. They kneaded. They looked at him with eyes that held their own kind of grief.
"She loved you," he told them. "So much. She found you in the rain, Dori. She carried you home in her hoodie pocket. You were so small you fit in one hand."
Dori blinked slowly.
"She used to talk to you guys like you understood every word. Maybe you did. She seemed to think so."
Soonie meowed. Soft. Questioning.
"Yeah," Minho whispered. "She's not coming back. I'm sorry. She's not coming back."
The cats curled closer. Pressed their warmth into him.
And for the first time since the phone call, Minho cried.
Not the violent sobs of that first morning. Not the wrecked grief of the hospital room. Just tears. Silent, endless tears, falling onto the fur of the creatures you'd loved.
He cried for you. For him. For the life you should have had.
And when the tears finally stopped, he sat in the quiet and felt something he hadn't felt in months.
Peace.
Not happiness. Not okay-ness. But peace. The knowledge that you weren't suffering anymore. That you weren't scared or empty or lost.
You were free.
And someday, a long time from now, he would be too.
He sat at the kitchen table, the same table where you'd written your letters to yourself, and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen that was almost out of ink.
Dear y/n,
I don't know where you are. I don't know if you can hear this. But I need to talk to you anyway.
It's been a year. A whole year without you. I don't know how that's possible. It feels like yesterday and it feels like forever.
The cats are good. Dori still steals food. Soonie still sleeps on your pillow. Doongie still follows me from room to room like he's making sure I'm okay. I think they remember you. I think they're waiting too.
I moved. Just last month. A new place. Smaller. Closer to the park where we used to walk. I brought your hoodie. The gray one. It's in a drawer next to my bed. I don't wear it, I'm scared of wearing it out, but sometimes I take it out and hold it and pretend you're still here.
I laughed yesterday. Really laughed. Jisung told a stupid joke and I laughed before I could stop myself. It felt strange. Like betraying you. But then I remembered what you wrote in your letter-"Promise me you'll laugh again", and I think maybe you were cheering somewhere.
I'm not okay. I don't know if I'll ever be okay. But I'm here. I'm living. I'm trying.
Because that's what you asked me to do.
I love you. I'll always love you. Every single day for the rest of my life, I'll love you.
Wait for me.
Yours always,
Minho
He folded the letter. Put it in an envelope. Wrote your name on the front.
Then he went to the cemetery and buried it in the earth beside you.
On a quiet Tuesday, many years later, an old man sat in a chair by a window.
His hair was gray now. His body was tired. But his eyes were still sharp, still bright, still full of a love that had never faded.
Three cats, descendants of the originals, slept at his feet.
In his lap was a photo album. Worn. Pages yellowed. Held together by love and tape.
He turned the pages slowly. Smiling at each one.
The beach. The ice cream. The kitchen covered in flour. The cats as kittens. A thousand small moments that added up to a lifetime.
He stopped at the last page.
A photo of you. In the gray hoodie. Laughing at something off-camera. Beautiful. Alive. His.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm getting close now. I can feel it."
The cats slept on.
"I hope you're still waiting. I hope there's something after this. I hope I get to see you again."
He traced your face with a trembling finger.
"If there is-" His voice cracked, old and soft. "If there is, I'm going to run to you. I'm going to hold you and never let go. And if there isn't, if this is all there is, then thank you. Thank you for this. Thank you for everything."
He closed the album. Set it gently on the table beside him.
Closed his eyes.
And smiled.
Because somewhere, in the space between heartbeats, he heard it.
Synopsis: Detective Christopher Bang has finally found peace—with a new life, a new love, and a past he’s sworn to forget. But when a jewel thief thought to be long gone resurfaces, leaving behind a familiar trail of silver, the lines between his obsession and his desire begin to blur. And the more he discovers, the harder it gets to tell who’s really playing the game. (8k words)
Author's note: Here's to my Closer enthusiasts (if they are any🫣) Hope you enjoy it ❣️
For a moment, Chris thinks he’s still dreaming. The warmth of your lips on his shoulder, the way you whisper his name, the softness of your breath on his skin — it’s all too familiar, too vivid to be real. He’s had this dream too many times in the months since you vanished, but then you kiss his mouth, and everything changes.
The press of your lips is real — too warm, too desperate, too you to be anything his subconscious could conjure. His eyes snap open, and he sees you. Really sees you.
It slams into him like a bullet: It’s her. She’s here.
His chest seizes with a hundred emotions at once — relief so sharp it almost hurts, anger that you dare to come back after destroying him, longing that he thought he buried. For weeks he begged for this, for you, and now that it’s happening, it terrifies him more than your absence ever did.
He jerks back, scrambling upright, breath harsh in his chest. You don’t flinch. Instead, you roll to your side, propping a hand to your head like you never left.
“Baby,” you murmur sweetly, a soft smile tugging your lips, “I’m home.”
His gaze darts past you—toward the nightstand drawer. His gun. His body moves before his brain does; he lunges, yanking it free, and in one swift motion he’s on top of you, pinning you to the mattress, barrel pressed to your temple.
Your smile only curves wider. “Oh, no. You caught me,” you say, voice low, playful like this is a game.
“Shut up,” Chris snarls, his grip tight, every muscle in him straining. “I have you now.”
Your hand slides up, wrapping gently around his wrist. “Baby,” you sigh, “can you put that away? You know the house rules.”
His jaw clenches as his hand tightens around the handle of the gun. “Stop talking.”
You tilt your head, still smiling that infuriating, knowing smile. “No use for it anyway. I emptied the chambers.”
The words hit him like ice water. He yanks the clip, checks the chamber—click, empty. Not a single bullet.
You guide his arm down with surprising ease, coaxing the muzzle away from your face. “There,” you murmur, soft and patient, as if he’s the one who needs calming. “Better. Now… can we talk?”
Chris’s chest heaves. Every nerve screams at him to hold onto the anger, the betrayal—but the way you lie there, gazing up at him like nothing’s changed, rattles him more than the empty gun in his hand. He lets it hangs loose in his grip, useless but still heavy, like a prop to hold onto his control. His knees pin you to the mattress, his shadow towering over you. “Talk?” His voice is a low growl. “You think after everything—you just waltz back in here and I let you talk?”
You tilt your head against the pillow, unbothered. “That’s usually how conversations work, baby.”
“Don’t—” His voice cracks, fury and ache knotted together. “Don’t call me that.”A soft chuckle escapes you, maddeningly casual. “So formal now. You never minded it before.”
He finally tosses the gun to the floor, the clatter sharp in the silence. His hands are on you the next second, rough and urgent, skimming over every curve of your body. All he feels is silk clinging to your skin, the smoothness of you under his palms, and it makes his chest twist with a longing he doesn’t want to admit.
You let out a low, playful laugh. “Mmh… we’ve done this roleplay before, haven’t we?”
“Shut up,” Chris snaps, though his voice is already strained. He flips you onto your back and pins your wrists above your head, his grip ironclad. His other hand moves firmly, checking you over—your sides, your thighs, the dip of your waist. Nothing. No blade, no lockpick, no trick tucked away this time. Just you.
“You’re clean,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but he doesn’t release your wrists. If anything, his grip tightens, knuckles digging into your skin.
You tilt your head on the pillow, smirking up at him. “Disappointed?”
He leans closer, eyes burning into yours. “Why are you here?” His voice is low, sharp, his breath uneven.
“Because I missed you,” you simply answer without a beat.
“Don’t lie to me.” His grip on your wrists tightens, the veins in his arm straining.
“Who says I’m lying?” you counter smoothly. “Didn’t you miss me too?”
The silence that follows is deafening, and you can feel the tremor in his body even as he tries to hold steady. His eyes—haunted, torn—say more than his words ever could and you smile, calm and knowing, like you’ve already won. Then, with a smooth motion, you wrap your legs around his waist and lock him against you.
His whole body tenses as you pull him closer, forcing the hard line of his body to press against yours. His grip on your wrists trembles for the first time, though he doesn’t let go. “Careful,” he warns, his voice low, fraying at the edges.
“Careful of what?” you whisper, your lips hovering just inches from his. The warmth of your breath grazes his skin, and it makes his pulse hammer against his throat. “Of me?”
Chris swallows hard, chest rising and falling against yours, shallow and uneven. He can feel the softness of your body under him, the silk shifting against his skin like temptation itself, and for a fleeting second, he forgets the silver dust, the lies, the gun you held to his chest.
“Don’t,” he mutters, though it sounds weaker than he intends.
You tilt your head, closing the space until your lips almost brush his. “Don’t what, baby? Don’t kiss you?”
The words slice through him, sharp and sweet. His grip on your wrists is iron, but his resolve is paper-thin. He feels himself leaning in despite everything, the faintest brush of your mouth ghosting his, and his chest aches with how badly he wants to cave—how badly he still wants you.
“Tell me something,” he rasps, his voice rough. “All this time—everything between us—was it fake? Were you just playing me?”
You tilt your head on the pillow, lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “At first, yes. I meant to play around with you.” Your tone drips with honey, but your eyes gleam with something sharper and then your voice softens as you continue. “But somewhere along the way, it stopped being a game. Maybe I pretended while I dated you… but I did love you.”
Chris lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No. That’s not love. That’s manipulation.”
“Is it?” you purr, pressing your legs tighter around his waist, locking him in place. “Because tell me, Chris—how have you been living without me these past few months? Hmm? You think I don’t know? I know everything. The late nights. The obsession. The way you still ache for me.”
“You’re wrong,” he denies a little too fast.
But your smile only deepens. “No, baby. I know you. I believe you love me too—even if you can’t admit it.”
Chris shakes his head violently, but his denial doesn’t hold steady. Not when you lean forward, closing the last sliver of space, and let your lips wander—along his jaw, the hollow of his throat, anywhere his skin yields to you.
“I miss you,” you whisper between kisses, your voice breaking soft and low, a dangerous blend of confession and temptation. “I miss your sweet smile and dimples and oh… this body… your warmth… your lips.”
Before he can stop you, you catch his mouth with yours. The kiss is scorching, familiar and devastating, and for one fleeting moment Chris sinks into it before he tears himself away, gasping, his eyes wide with panic.
You scoff, eyes flashing with irritation and something wounded. “Stop denying it,” you hiss, your stare burrowing into his soul, so intense it nearly undoes him.
Your wrists are still pinned above your head, but you don’t fight his hold—you twist beneath him, arching just enough for your body to brush against his, the heat between you sparking like a live wire. “Look at you,” you whisper against his cheek, your breath hot, your lips grazing but never quite touching. “Holding me down like this. You don’t want to let me go, do you?”
Chris’s jaw locks, his breath uneven. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Maybe.” Your voice is velvet-soft, dangerous. “But tell me I’m wrong.”
You roll your hips ever so slightly, a calculated move, and he grits his teeth as his restraint threatens to snap. You take your chance, trailing your lips along the line of his jaw again, lingering at the corner of his mouth.
“I miss you,” you murmur, your words feathering against his skin. “I miss the way you taste. The way you make me feel.” Your eyes flicker up to his, wide and guileless, even though your smile is anything but. “You can lie to yourself, but not to me. I know you want me. I know you love me.”
“Stop,” Chris growls, but the edge in his voice wavers, cracks.
You only lean in closer, your lips brushing his again in a fleeting ghost of a kiss, enough to steal his breath but not his resolve. “Then prove me wrong,” you whisper, a dare wrapped in sweetness.
For a moment, silence stretches between you, thick with tension, your heartbeat pounding against his chest where your bodies press together and something inside him snaps. With a guttural sound caught between rage and surrender, he crashes his lips against yours. The kiss is brutal at first, teeth and desperation, but then it melts—raw, aching, like a man drowning who’s finally given in to the tide. His hands release your wrists only to slide down and clutch at your body, pulling you closer, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again if he loosens his grip. Chris knows he shouldn’t, knows this is everything he swore to resist, but God help him—he can’t stop.
The kiss deepens until he doesn’t know where he ends and you begin. His hands roam hungrily, palms sliding over the silk of your dress, the softness of your skin beneath. It’s frantic, messy, like he’s making up for months of deprivation, yet threaded with something achingly tender.
You moan softly against his lips, tilting your head to kiss him deeper, your fingers threading through his hair as if you, too, were starving for him. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him flush against you, and he shudders at the contact.
“God, I hate you,” he breathes against your mouth, the words torn between venom and need.
You smile slyly, your lips brushing his with every syllable. “No, baby. You love me.”
Instead of answering, he grabs the hem of your dress and yanks it upward, desperate to rid you of it, but before he can, your hands slip to his shirt. Slowly, almost reverently, you begin undoing each button, your eyes locked on his.
“God. I missed this,” you whisper as you peel the fabric from his shoulders, your palms sliding across the expanse of his chest. You press a kiss to his collarbone, then another lower, your lips lingering as though you’re memorizing him all over again.
“I missed you, baby.” The words are soft, carried between kisses as you trail down his sternum, your hands exploring every inch of muscle, every scar, every line of him. You look at him like he’s a masterpiece you’re desperate to touch again, and the longing in your gaze nearly shatters him.
Chris’s chest tightens painfully. In the way your fingers tremble slightly when they undo his belt, in the way you mouth at his skin like you can’t get enough, in the sheer raw hunger in your eyes—he almost believes it, believes that this is real, that none of it is fake and that you love him. He crushes his mouth against yours again, unable to resist, swallowing your gasp as you push his pants down, your hands sliding up his thighs. Your touch is worshipful, tender in a way that threatens to undo him more than any kiss.
He knows he should push you off him. He should snap the cuffs on your wrists, end this once and for all. But the way your hands glide over his bare skin, the way your lips trail hot, desperate kisses down his chest, it erases every rational thought from his mind.
You tug his pants down the rest of the way, and his cock springs free, hard and aching. Your eyes flick down and you smile, licking your lips before meeting his gaze again.
“I really, really missed you,” you murmur, curling your fingers around him and giving a slow, deliberate stroke. A guttural groan tearing out of him as your thumb slides over the head.
“Fuck—” He grabs your wrist, trying to stop you, but it’s weak, half-hearted.
You smirk, leaning up to kiss him as your hand keeps moving, slow and teasing. “You can’t even pretend you don’t want this,” you whisper against his lips. “I feel it. I know it.”
His hands grip your hips hard, dragging himself down against you so your wetness slides over his length. Both of you groan at the contact.
“Oh, fuck…” he growls as he rubs his shaft between your folds, desperate for friction.
You guide him to your entrance, sinking down onto him inch by inch until he’s buried deep inside you.
He gasps, nails digging into your hips, eyes locked on your face as you moan and throw your head back. He has you pinned under him, fucking into you with rough, punishing thrusts, every drag of his cock making your walls clench tight around him. Your moans spill out, high and breathless, but then you soften your voice into something sweet, intoxicating.
“Oh, Chris… you feel so good inside me.”
His hips stutter, just for a second, at the sound of your voice dripping honey into his ear. You arch your back, meeting every thrust, your lips grazing the shell of his ear. “I missed this,” you whisper, broken between moans. “I missed you… missed having you inside me.”
Chris groans deep in his chest, his jaw clenching as he pistons into you harder.
“No one fucks me like you do,” you breathe, eyes half-lidded but locked on him, your fingers dragging down his back as your body shudders under his rhythm. “No one. Only you.”
The words rip through him like fire, fueling him, making him snap his hips harder, deeper. “Fuck,” he growls through his gritted teeth.
Your nails dig into his shoulders as he slams into you, the bed rattling beneath you. You cry out, head tipping back, then gasp his name. “Only you, Chris—fuck—only you can make me feel like this.”
His breath comes out in a sharp groan, his forehead pressing to yours, his thrusts relentless, almost wild. The sound of skin slapping, your cries, and his ragged moans fill the room.
Hearing you say it—he knows it’s dangerous, knows you’re feeding his weakness—but it drives him insane. He doesn’t care if you’re lying or telling the truth, doesn’t care about anything anymore except the way you feel around him, the way you’re trembling beneath him, clenching tighter with every thrust.
“Fuck, you’re mine,” he snarls against your mouth before crashing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss, his pace breaking into raw, desperate thrusts as if he can claim you all over again.
With a guttural growl, he rips his lips from yours and flips you onto your stomach, your gasp muffled by the sheets. His big hands shove your knees apart, spreading you wide as he slams back inside you in one ruthless thrust that makes you cry out.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, his hand locking around the back of your neck, pinning you down against the mattress while his hips pound into you, sharp and relentless. “You wanna tell me I’m the only one? You better fucking scream it.”
Your body shudders with every drive of his cock, the rhythm so brutal it makes your toes curl. Your fingers clutch at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks you deeper.
“Chris!” you moan, your voice breaking, “you are—fuck—you’re the only one, no one else, only you—”
The sound rips through him, his chest heaving, his hips slamming harder, deeper, grinding against you like he wants to carve himself into your very bones. He leans over you, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “That’s right,” he growls, dragging his cock out slow just to slam it back in, making you gasp, your walls clenching around him. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
You’re trembling under him, helpless and wrecked, but there’s a glint in your voice when you pant out, teasing, “Then prove it, detective.”
Something snaps in him. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so your moans spill out louder, the other gripping your hip so hard it’ll leave bruises. He fucks you like he’s trying to erase every ghost, every doubt, every lie—like if he claims you hard enough, it’ll make you his forever.
Your moans fill the room, muffled at first against the sheets, but Chris wants more—needs more. His grip on your hair tightens, yanking your head back until your throat is bare for him. His teeth graze the curve of your neck before he sinks them in just enough to make you yelp, then groan.
“Louder,” he growls into your skin, his thrusts hammering into you, shaking the bed. “I want the whole fucking building to know who you belong to.”
Your voice cracks as you cry out his name, tears pricking your lashes from the intensity of it. He feels you tighten around him, your body on the brink, and it only drives him harder. His hips snap fast, brutal, like he’s desperate to bury himself deeper, to leave nothing untouched.
“Oh, baby,” you whimper, your voice wrecked, “you feel so fucking good—don’t stop—”
“Not planning on it,” he snarls, slamming into you with a force that has you arching, clawing at the sheets. He bends over you, his chest pressing into your back, his hand snaking beneath you to find your clit. The rough pads of his fingers rub hard and fast, syncing with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.
Your body jerks, walls spasming around him, the overwhelming mix of pleasure and pain tipping you over the edge. “Chris! Oh fuck—Chris!”
He bites back a guttural groan, his thrusts growing ragged, messy, frantic as you convulse around him. The way your body milks him, the way your voice screams his name—it’s too much.
“Shit, baby,” he pants, his voice breaking, “I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it—”
“Do it,” you moan breathlessly, “cum inside me—please, baby—fill me up—”
That’s it. That’s the breaking point. He slams into you one last time and shatters, his whole body trembling as he spills into you, deep and hot, groaning your name like it’s the only prayer he’s ever known.
For a long moment, he stays buried in you, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his back, his hands still clamped around your body like he’s terrified you’ll slip away again. The silence stretches, broken only by the sound of your breaths evening out, the faint hum of the city outside. His cock still twitches inside you, both of you too wrecked to move, too tangled to separate.
Then, in a voice so sweet it cuts, you murmur against his ear, “Just like old times, hm?”
His eyes squeeze shut as if trying to block it out and for a fleeting moment, he wants to believe this is real—that it was love, not manipulation, that you came back because you missed him. But then he remembers the silver dust, the lies and the smile you wore as you held his weapon to his chest.
His hands tighten on your waist, not possessive, but wary. He can’t stop himself from asking, his voice low and raw, “Was any of it real?”
You hum softly, like the question amuses you. Your lips brush the edge of his jaw as you whisper, “Does it matter? You came apart for me, baby. You always do.”
The words lance through him. He wants to push you off, to grab his gun, to end this dangerous game once and for all—but then you curl closer, legs tangling with his, your warmth seeping into him and his body betrays him, relaxing even as his mind screams.
Chris swallows hard, staring at the ceiling. His heart aches with the weight of it, because he knows: you might be lying, or you might mean it. Either way, he’ll still let you hold him tonight.
-
The sheets are still warm, your body draped over his, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. You let yourself melt against him, your fingers tracing absent circles over the plane of his chest. It feels almost too easy, too natural to slip back into this place, where you belong tucked under his arm.
Oh, you missed this. Not just his body—though you did, every maddening inch of it—but him. The way his presence grounds you when the rest of the world spins. The way he makes you feel seen, not just as Silvene, not just as a thief, but as someone who once wanted nothing more than to belong to someone. To belong to him.
Your hand slides up, caressing his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there. You tilt up, brushing a feather-light kiss over the corner of his mouth, then another along the curve of his cheek. How do you tell him this? That every heist, every alias, every lie—You wanted to throw them all away just to lie here again with him. That every night you spent running, you dreamed of coming to this bed, this warmth, this heartbeat. A home.
You tighten your hold around him, as if you could fuse yourself into him, as if you could stop time here, in this fragile afterglow where nothing else matters. “Come with me, Chris,” you whisper, coaxing him with every word, soft lips brushing against his skin. “We could run, disappear… just the two of us.”
He doesn’t answer and the silence makes you smile against his neck. You shift, propping yourself up so you can look him in the eye. He looks torn apart—wrecked, conflicted, fighting himself more than you.
You cup his jaw, stroking your thumb along the stubble there as you lean close, your noses brushing. “We can be together,” you promise sweetly, like it’s the simplest truth. You kiss him—slow, lingering, tasting the hesitation on his lips—and then you breathe against his mouth, “Come with me, baby. Please?”
For a moment, his resolve wavers. You feel it in the way his lips part, in the twitch of his hand against your waist. But then, he steels himself. His eyes shut you out, hardening, and he rolls onto his side with his back facing you.
“So what do you want to do then?” you murmur, your voice teasing but edged with something sharper.
Chris is quiet, until suddenly he moves. His hand catches yours, and before you can react, you hear the cold click of metal locking around your wrist—cuffs.
You glance at him, expecting victory in his eyes, but find only a storm. Instead of fear, laughter spills from you, low and sweet. “We’ve played this game too.”
But then he shocks you—because instead of cuffing your other hand, he fastens the other shackle around his own wrist. The chain between you is short, binding, unbreakable.
“You can’t go anywhere now,” he says, voice raw with something between desperation and resolve.
You smirk, tugging the chain until he leans closer, until his breath brushes yours. You bite his lower lip, pulling at it slow and deliberate before letting it go with a wet pop. “New game, huh?” you purr, eyes glittering with mischief. Your voice dips low, dangerous, intimate. “Then let’s play.”
-
The chain between you rattles faintly, taut as you give it another deliberate tug. Chris doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens, his gaze burning into yours. He can feel your heat pressed against him, can smell your perfume clinging to the sheets, can hear the sly curl of your breath every time you speak. There’s no space. No distance. No way to escape.
“You think this changes anything?” you murmur, smirk still painted on your lips. Your cuffed hand rests against his chest, right over his heart. “You can’t arrest me like this.”
His chest rises sharply under your touch, but he doesn’t push you away. “Maybe not,” he answers, his voice low, strained. “But at least you can’t disappear on me again.”
Your smile softens—almost tender—as you study him. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Not justice. Not duty. Just me leaving you.”
Chris swallows hard. He wants to deny it, wants to tell you it’s the law, the case, the jewelries you’ve stolen. But the words stick. He knows the truth you’re peeling out of him, layer by layer, with every look and every whisper.
“You faked everything,” he says finally, a last desperate defense. “The dates, the nights in… even this.” His eyes flick down your bare body, still glistening from where you were joined minutes ago. His voice cracks. “Tell me it wasn’t real.”
You lean closer, the cuff biting into his wrist as you move, and your breath brushes his lips. “What if it was both?” you ask softly. “The game and the love? The lie and the truth?” Your eyes search his, daring him to look away. “Tell me, Detective… does that make it easier? Or harder?”
Chris exhales, a shaky, broken sound. He doesn’t answer. He can’t. You’ve cornered him without even trying. The silence between you stretches—heavy, suffocating, intimate. You’re bound together and there’s nowhere to hide.
You tilt your head, studying him like you’re reading every unspoken thought. “See?” you whisper, tugging at the chain so his wrist jerks closer. “You can’t run from me either.”
He should shove you back. He should rip the words out of his throat and spit them like bullets—tell you you’re under arrest, that you’ll never walk away again. But instead, his free hand hovers at your waist, not to restrain you but to feel the warmth he’s missed for too long.
“You think cuffing yourself to me will keep me here?” you tease, your voice silk over steel. “Baby, I never needed cuffs for that.”
He clenches his jaw, refusing to let the heat in your tone pull him under again. “You lied about everything,” he rasps. “You used me.”
You lean in, slow, dangerous, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth as you murmur, “And yet you still want me.”
Chris’s eyes flutter shut for a second—just one second too long. When they open again, you’re smiling, wicked and sweet, your legs tangling with his as though claiming him all over again.
The chain between you tightens when you whisper against his ear, “Maybe the lie was real, and the love was fake. Or maybe the love was real, and the lie was just the game.” Your breath is hot on his skin. “Does it matter anymore?”
The cuffs rattle when Chris yanks you closer, his knuckles white around the chain. His voice is low, almost a growl. “What do you really want?” he demands, though his chest feels like it’s caving in just asking the question.
You hold his gaze, unflinching. No tricks, no sly grin—just the searing weight of your truth. “I want you,” you whisper, tugging gently at the cuff between you. “I want you to come with me.”
Chris’s breath stutters. You crawl closer, slow and deliberate, until your knees press against his hips and your eyes are all he can see. “I want you to choose me.” Your voice cracks with urgency, a tremor that betrays everything you try to keep masked. “And with all of my heart, I want you.”
Every rational thought screams that it’s a trap, another carefully spun thread of your web. But then your lips brush his, soft, trembling, and the lie he’s been clinging to—that he can resist you—shatters.
The chain between the cuffs clinks softly as you shift, swinging your leg over his hips and straddling him. Chris stiffens beneath you, muscles taut as if bracing himself for impact, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes track every movement, pupils blown wide, chest rising like he’s fighting for air.
You ease down onto his lap, close enough that his breath mingles with yours. Your cuffed hand tugs at his wrist, pulling him into your orbit whether he likes it or not. Then you lean in, brushing your lips over the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his ear, the warmth of his neck.
“Chris…” you murmur against his skin, your voice soft, coaxing, dangerous. You press kiss after kiss along his throat, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Come with me. We can leave all of this behind.”
His breath hitches when your lips graze the spot just below his ear, his hand instinctively tightening around the chain between you. You smile against his skin, slow and knowing, before trailing kisses across his cheekbone, his temple, back down to the strong line of his throat.
“I want you,” you whisper, your breath warm against his pulse. “Only you.”
When he doesn’t answer, you lean back just enough to slip your hand between you, and with a soft smile, you hold up your left hand. The ring glints in the low light, the very same one he gave you months ago.
“I still wear it,” you murmur, your voice trembling between seduction and sincerity. “Because I’m saying yes. Yes to you, to us. Not the cop. Not the thief. Just… us.”
Chris stares at the ring like it’s burning a hole in his chest, his throat working as he struggles to find his words. You reach up, cup his face gently, and kiss him sweetly before whispering against his lips, “So come with me, baby. Please.”
His jaw clenches, but his hands betray him, sliding up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise. His resolve is splintering, undone by the sweetness of your kisses, the way you say his name like it belongs to you alone.
When he finally turns his head, your mouths collide—hungry, desperate, messy. The kiss steals the last of his hesitation, his free hand threading into your hair and dragging you closer as if he could fuse you to him.
You rock against his lap, slow at first, then with more insistence, swallowing his groan when your hips grind down on the hard length straining beneath his sweats. “See?” you murmur against his lips, kissing him again, “no one else… only you.”
Your thighs tighten around his waist as you shift, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness before sinking down, slow, deliberate, until he’s buried deep inside you again.
His head falls back with a groan, the sound torn out of him, his grip on your hips turning bruising as though he’s trying to ground himself. But you don’t let him settle. You start to move, rocking against him, drawing out the friction until he’s gasping beneath you.
Your cuffed wrist tugs at his, reminding him of the inescapable link between you as you lean in, lips brushing his ear. “This, baby… we can have this. All the time.” You roll your hips, moaning softly when he fills you deeper. “If you come with me.”
Chris shudders, his breath ragged as you fuck him slowly, sweetly. His hands drag down your back, gripping your ass, urging you to move faster, harder—but you hold control, keeping the pace you want.
You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw, every word a caress and a trap. “You feel how good this is? How good I make you feel?” Your voice softens to a whisper, broken up by gasps as his cock hits deep. “We can have this forever. Just say yes.”
He growls low in his throat, hips thrusting up into you, chasing more even as he shakes his head. “You’re—” His voice cuts off into a groan when you intentionally clench around him, your nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re trying to—fuck—”
“Trying to love you? Yeah, yeah, I am…” you breathe, your lips ghosting over his. Then you kiss him, long and deep, letting your moans spill into his mouth as you ride him harder, coaxing every ounce of restraint he has left to break.
The cuffs clink against each other again as you move faster, your body working him with a pace that makes his head spin. His chest heaves, every breath ragged as his hands claw at your hips, trying to take back control but finding himself at your mercy.
Your lips graze his jaw, your voice trembling with moans as you whisper, “No one fucks me like you do. No one makes me feel like this, Chris.” You kiss him hard, swallowing his groan, then pull back just enough to breathe against his lips, “Say yes, baby. Say you’ll come with me.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, his body jerking beneath you as your walls flutter tight around him. “You—fuck—” His voice breaks when you slam down on him, deep, grinding against his cock in a way that makes him choke on his own breath.
“Say it,” you beg sweetly, rocking your hips, your nails biting into his shoulders. “Say yes and I’ll never stop—”
Chris groans, the sound guttural, torn from deep in his chest as his body bows into yours. His thrusts turn desperate, punishing, his pace losing rhythm as he drives himself deeper into you. You know he’s close—his grip trembles, his jaw clenches, sweat slicks his temples.
You lean in, lips at his ear, voice low and wrecked. “Come for me, baby. Come inside me. Show me you’re mine.”
That’s what does it. With a shudder that rocks his whole frame, Chris lets go, spilling into you as his groan tears out loud and raw. His hips stutter, grinding up into you, chasing every last wave of release as you milk him, clenching tight, whispering filth and sweetness all at once.
You ride him through it, slow and deliberate now, kissing his face, his neck, his lips, murmuring, “That’s it… that’s it… you’re mine, you’re always mine…” until his head falls against your shoulder, spent, trembling in your hold.
Chris tries to turn his face away, but you won’t let him. You cup his cheek with your free hand, the cuff tugging gently at his wrist as you force his eyes back to yours. “Look at me, baby,” you whisper, your voice raw but steady.
His chest rises and falls hard against yours, his jaw tight like he’s bracing for whatever you’ll say next.
You lean in, so close your lips brush his, and in the quietest, most deliberate murmur, you tell him, “I love you.”
For a heartbeat, silence. His eyes widen, searching yours, unsure if he can believe it. So you close the space, kissing him soft and slow—less like a thief, less like prey or predator, and more like a lover who can’t help but mean every word.
The kiss deepens until you feel it—his mouth moving with yours, not resisting, not pulling away. It’s all the proof you need. The way his hands clutch your waist, the desperate way he holds you against him… no matter what words he uses, his body, his heart, they all betray him. He loves you. He always has.
But when you finally break the kiss, breathless, you find him staring at you—those dark eyes torn apart, burning with something heavier than desire. Betrayal.
“I’m turning you in,” he says, voice low but firm. “First thing in the morning.”
You let out a short, bitter laugh, rolling off him and collapsing onto the mattress, the silk of your dress slipping against your skin as you stare at the ceiling. “Of course you are,” you murmur, almost to yourself. Then louder, with a hint of mocking: “Does that make you happy, Chris? Putting me in jail? Locking me away?”
He doesn’t answer.
You shift, the metal biting into your wrist as you raise your cuffed hands and give them a small shake, the chain rattling between you. A smirk tugs at your lips even as something fragile aches inside you. “Well,” you sigh, tilting your head toward him, “I’m stuck with you anyway.”
The room falls into silence again, the kind where both of you are listening—to the chain clinking, to your own uneven breathing, and to the fact that morning is getting closer with every second.
-
As the night gets late, Chris lays on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, but he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see anything. Not the faint shadows the streetlights cast through the blinds, not the rise and fall of your chest as you lay beside him. All he can see, burned into his mind, is the moment you said it—I love you.
He should’ve laughed in your face, called it another one of your tricks, a new tactic to get under his skin. But the problem is… he felt it. The way your lips moved against his, the way your voice cracked ever so slightly when you said it. He felt it, and that terrifies him more than anything else.
The cold weight of the cuff at his wrist reminds him you’re still tethered to him, that even in sleep, he hasn’t let you go. He tells himself it’s because you’re a criminal, because he can’t risk you slipping away again. But the truth gnaws at him—if he really meant to turn you in come morning, why hasn’t he already called Felix? Why hasn’t he put you in the back of a squad car and been done with it?
He turns his head slightly and see you lying there with the faintest trace of a smile on your lips, like the weight of the world doesn’t touch you, like you didn’t just walk back into his life and turn it into a chaos it all over again.
Chris swallows hard, his chest tight. He wants to hate you. He should hate you. But all he can think about is how warm you felt straddling him, how your whisper of come with me burrowed under his skin, how a part of him—God help him—wants to say yes.
The hours drag, the night stretching unbearably long. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees you—laughing in his kitchen, curled up on his couch, or kissing him like you belonged nowhere else but in his arms. Every time he opens them, you’re right there beside him, so close he could reach out and touch you if he just let himself and every time, the same thought circles back, relentless: Can I really turn her in? Or would that be the same as turning myself in too?
Morning creeps closer. And with it, the choice he knows he can’t avoid.
-
Chris wakes with a jolt, his chest hollowing out when his hand brushes nothing but the cool stretch of sheets beside him. Panic spikes sharp and cold through his veins—she’s gone, she’s gone again—
But then, the mattress dips and warmth shifts against his side. You stir lazily and before he can breathe, your lips press softly against his.
“Good morning,” you whisper, smiling into the kiss.
For a heartbeat, he forgets everything. Forget the badge, the cuffs, the lies. Forget that you’re Silvene. It’s just you, warm and close, tethering him to a world he can’t seem to let go of. Then he moves his arm, and the sharp clink of the handcuff reminds him. Reality slams back in—you're still here, still chained to him.
“So what’s for breakfast?” you ask with a tilt of your head, your tone so sweet it nearly cracks his chest open.
Chris hardens his jaw. He can’t let you slip through his walls again. “It’s time,” he mutters.
You sigh, your lashes lowering. “So you’re really going to turn me in?”
He doesn’t answer but reaches for his phone on the nightstand, but you move quicker—catching his wrist, pulling him back into a kiss. It’s soft, lingering, dangerous.
“Just let me have this,” you murmur against his lips, “before you lock me away.”
He should resist but he lets himself sink into you instead—into your warmth, into the way your body fits against his. Every second he caves into your kiss feels like betrayal, but he can’t stop. Then—click.
The rattle of metal jolts him. He jerks his hand, only to feel the cuff slip loose. When he looks, his heart stops—your wrist is free and now, the cuff is looped neatly around the bar of the headboard instead, his own hand locked in place. He pulls at it, frustration flaring as it rattles uselessly.
You sit back on your knees, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m a thief, baby. You think I wouldn’t know how to pick a lock?”
He watches, helpless, as you slip off the bed and begin pulling on your clothes piece by piece. Every movement deliberate, unhurried, like you’ve already won.
“You know,” you say lightly, “putting me in jail won’t make you happy. But I won’t blame you. You’re a good cop. Maybe… too good.”
The words cut sharper than you know, or maybe you do. And Chris can’t do anything as he uselessly pulling the cuff only to make it rattles against the headboard.
“If you don’t want to come with me, that’s fine,” you say, smoothing down your silk dress as you put it on. “But I’m not going to let you turn me in.”
When you finish dressing, you walk back to him. He’s still straining against the cuff, but you lean down anyway, your hand gentle against his cheek. “We’re going to play a new game now,” you whisper with a smirk. “It’s called cops and robbers.”
And then you lean in, kiss him long and deep, a kiss that tastes like both a promise and a goodbye. Chris doesn’t even fight it and by the time you pull back, his chest aches so badly he can’t breathe.
“Game on, Detective,” you murmur with a smirk painted your face.
You get up from the bed and head for the door, you linger at the doorway for just a second, framed by the morning light. You glance back, smile, give him one last wave—before you disappear again.
A while later, he hears your faint, playful “Catch me if you can…” and then everything goes quiet.
Chris jerks his wrist, metal rattling against the headboard and then he notices the keys, left just close enough for his free hand to scrape against. He stretches, fingers straining, and finally manages to hook them. The cuffs click open, and he bolts upright, the rush of freedom tearing through him. He stumbles toward the window, heart pounding. Maybe you’re still there. Maybe he can catch you this time. But when he throws it open, all he finds is the morning air and the faint echo of your absence. You’re already gone.
His breath comes heavy, chest heaving, and his eyes flicker to the phone on the bedside table. Felix. He could call Felix. Tell him you were here. Tell him you just slipped away. There’s still a chance — with enough units on the street, you could be cornered before sundown.
Chris picks up the phone, thumb hovering over Felix’s contact. His pulse races, jaw tight. It would be the right thing to do. The cop in him is screaming for it, but another part of him — the man who loved you, who still loves you despite everything — keeps whispering, Would it make you happy to see her in chains? Would it make any of this hurt less?
His thumb trembles. He thinks. And thinks. And keeps thinking until his arm grows heavy and the phone slides from his grip, landing quietly on the bedspread.
Chris stays there, staring out the window, eyes burning. You’re gone, but he can still feel you in the room, in his skin, in the hollow ache of his chest. And in the silence that resides after you left, he lets himself admit it: he already misses you.
-
Two weeks later, the precinct hums with its usual rhythm and Chris sits at his desk, his gaze lost somewhere in the mess of notes and photos he hasn’t been able to stop reorganizing, chasing threads that never quite lead anywhere.
A courier drops a box on his desk. No sender’s name. No return address.
Chris frowns, tearing it open with the edge of his badge. Inside, nestled in brown wrapping paper, is a book. The breath rushes from his lungs the moment he sees the cover. That book—the one you were reading the first time he met you, at the café.
“Oi,” Felix’s voice cuts in, dragging him back. He leans casually against Chris’s desk, peering into the box. “What’s this? Didn’t know you were the type to order books online.”
Chris stiffens, his hands hovering protectively over the book. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Figured I’d… try something new.”
Felix bursts into laughter. “You? Reading? That’s rich.” He shakes his head, still chuckling, before waving a hand. “Alright, alright. Don’t let me stop your intellectual awakening.” With that, he saunters back to his desk, dropping into his chair and diving into his paperwork.
Chris waits until Felix is fully buried in his paperwork before he dares to open the book. He flips through the pages slowly, careful not to draw attention, until something slips loose and flutters into his lap. A greeting card with a drawing of a raccoon holding a heart in his hands and under it, written in silver glitter “You stole my heart”.
He flips it open and the handwriting inside is yours. He feels his throat tighten as he reads the words scrawled across the card:
Keep your friends close, your enemies closer—
our game’s not done, detective… it’s only gotten bolder.
Chris swallows hard. The corner of his lips threatens to curl, though there’s no joy in it—only the ache of recognition. You’re out there, taunting him, daring him.
He tucks the card back into the book and shuts it, pressing his palm against the cover like he could still feel the heat of your touch in the pages. He stares at the drawer for a long moment before finally sliding it shut, locking away the proof that you’re still out there.
He should report it. He should bring it to Felix, to the captain, to anyone who could use it as a lead. But instead, he keeps it buried—like every part of you that he can’t let go of.
You were right. He did love you and maybe that was the cruelest truth of all.
Chris leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face, and lets the words echo in his head one more time: Keep your friends close, your enemies closer…
His chest tightens, not with duty, not with rage— but with longing.
The line between love and betrayal is already blurred, and Chris knows it’s only going to pull him deeper because no matter how much he denies it, when it comes to you, he doesn’t want the game to end.
-
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Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (6,2k words)
Author's note: Happiest birthday to the guy with a strong black cat energy 🐈⬛
When the company you worked for merged with another, you expected new rules, new systems, maybe even new friendships.
What you didn’t expect was Minho.
The first time you saw him, you thought he was simply the type who wore his seriousness like his suit jacket—stiff, formal, but nothing a smile couldn’t soften. You’d always believed people had gentler sides waiting to be uncovered, so you gave him the benefit of the doubt.
A week into working alongside him, you learned that’s just how he is. Sharp words cut through the air like knives when he caught a junior making a mistake. He didn’t yell, but the low, pointed tone was enough to freeze everyone within earshot. A misplaced report, a late submission, even a typo—Minho noticed it all, and he wasn’t afraid to call people out on it.
Soon, people began steering clear of him like he was a ticking bomb. Words spread across the office—cold, harsh, distant. You should have joined them in keeping your head down, but instead you found yourself watching him.
In the same week you worked alongside him, you also learned something no one knows about Minho. Behind every cutting remark, he was precise. Behind every scolding, there was a strange kind of care—because he wanted things done right, not out of cruelty, but out of pride for the work itself. His standards were high, but he held himself to them, too.
And what began as respect, an admiration for his dedication, slowly grew into something else. Something you didn’t dare say out loud.
Because somewhere between watching him stay late nights to finish projects and catching rare glimpses of him rubbing his tired eyes when he thought no one was looking, your admiration twisted into a secret crush.
-
The weekly strategy meeting—usually a blur of charts and numbers—feels different the moment Minho speaks.
He sits across the long table, posture straight, every word rolling off his tongue clear and precise. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess himself. His voice carries with it a weight that demands attention, and everyone in the room listens.
You try to look casual, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his crisp white shirt stretches neatly across his shoulders, to the silky blue tie that looks far too elegant for such a dull Monday, to the way he leans forward slightly when he’s emphasizing a point. Eloquence drips from every sentence, intelligence carved into the lines of his expression.
You can almost feel yourself melting into your chair just watching him. How is it fair that someone so stern, so terrifying to others, can be so impossibly attractive to you?
All of a sudden, Minho’s eyes flick your way. Sharp, direct, like he knows.
Your heart skips a beat and heat rushes to your face as you quickly duck your head, scribbling nonsense into your notes just to look busy as if you weren’t just openly staring at him a second ago. You pray he didn’t notice. You pray the room is too full, too loud, that you’re nothing more than another coworker in his periphery.
But even as you keep your head down, the image of him—confident, composed, devastatingly beautiful in that blue tie—burns behind your eyes.
-
Not long after the meeting wrapped up, your landline rings and you pick it up. It’s a muscle memory at this point.
The secretary ditches formality and goes straight to the point. “The director wants to see you.”
There’s no need to respond anyway. When the director calls, you come even though the summon usually means extra work, and sure enough, when you step into the office, you find Minho already there, sitting opposite her, one leg crossed over the other, looking maddeningly composed.
“Ah, you’re here,” the director says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’ll get straight to the point. They moved up the new product presentation to tomorrow so I asked Minho to prepare the initial draft. But…”
She briefly glances at him and Minho’s lips curl into the faintest smirk.
“I can’t do it alone.” His voice is even, but there’s something in the way he says it—like he’s already a step ahead. “This project is too detailed for one person to handle without risking mistakes.”
The director nods in agreement. “That’s why I want you to work with him. Tonight, if possible. The draft needs to be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”
Tonight? With him? Just the two of you? You can feel your pulse pick up.
Minho turns his head, and his gaze lands on you. His eyes don’t waver, don’t soften—just steady, dark, unwavering. But beneath the formality, there’s something else there. Something that feels like… anticipation. Almost like he’s curious to see what you’ll say. Almost like he’s looking forward to it.
You swallow air, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your own ears. Being alone with Minho… the thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. You’re not sure you’re ready for whatever comes with it.
Then again, this is work. A task directly handed to you by your superior. You can’t say no.
So you straighten in your seat, clear your throat, and force out, “Of course. We’ll get it done tonight.”
The director smiles, relieved. “Good. I’ll leave it in your hands then.”
When you rise to leave, Minho does too. As you pass each other in the doorway, his arm brushes against yours—light, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. And then, in the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips.
-
The office begins to empty as the evening creeps in. Desks that buzzed with chatter just hours ago now fall silent, one by one. You’re still at your computer, finishing up a few loose ends, when a co-worker passing by pauses at your desk.
“Hey, you’re not leaving?” she asks, slipping her bag over her shoulder.
You shake your head with a small smile. “No. I’ve got to work late tonight… with Minho.”
Her eyebrows jump and then she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice so no one else can hear. “Good luck.”
Before you can reply, she slips away with a knowing shake of her head. You exhale slowly, sinking back into your chair and stretching your arms above your head, shoulders loosening from a day of tension.
The quiet is almost soothing until you catch the sound of footsteps approaching. You glance up to find Minho stands beside your desk.
“What do you want to do?” he asks, voice low but steady. Then with deliberate motions, he undoes the buttons at his wrists and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric slides back, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.
You straighten, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We should probably divide the tasks,” you suggest, trying to keep your voice even. “That way, we won’t overlap.”
You try to focus on his words as he talks about a way to divide the task but your eyes keep drifting down to the veins coiling beneath his skin, prominent with each flex of his hand as he smooths the sleeve into place. It’s such a simple movement, ordinary even, but it makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.
“...and you can handle the visuals,” he finishes.
You force your gaze back up to his face, hoping he didn’t notice the split-second detour of your eyes. “Right. The visuals. I can do that,” you answer a little too quick, a little too casual.
He tilts his head just slightly, studying you with that unreadable expression and then, as if nothing happened, he nods and sits down, pulling his laptop closer.
It’s just you and him in the office tonight. And you know it’s going to be harder than ever to concentrate tonight.
-
Minutes stretch into hours and you’ve buried yourself deep into your slides, eyes locked on the screen, pen tucked between your teeth as you work through numbers and charts.
But even in your focus, thoughts of coffee creep in. Your body aches for the warmth, the caffeine, the small break, the excuse to stretch your legs. You hesitate, though. Should you offer to make one for Minho too? Would he even want you to? He doesn’t exactly seem like the type who accepts favors easily.
You nibble the cap of your pen, debating on it, until the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at you.
Slowly, you turn your head and sure enough, Minho’s eyes are already on you. Not casually, not by accident—just steady, dark, fixed in your direction.
You force your voice low, hesitant, as if the silence between you might break if you speak too loudly. “I… I was going to make coffee. Do you want one too?”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, like he’s searching for something behind your question. Then, finally, his lips part. “Yeah, sure.”
He doesn’t look away, not even once, and it makes your chest flutter in a way that feels dangerous.
You clear your throat, breaking the spell, and push back your chair. The scrape of its legs against the floor sounds louder than it should. With shaky hands, you gather yourself, stand, and head for the pantry, your pulse quickening with each step, as if you’re fleeing from the pull of his gaze.
The coffee machine whirs as you press the power button on and it’s the only sound that fills the pantry. You stand in front of it, arms raised as your fingers knead into the tense muscles of your neck. A sigh slips from your lips, low and drawn out, almost a moan, as you try to ease the ache from sitting at your desk too long.
“Oh, that felt good…” you murmur under your breath, pressing harder on the tension on your shoulder.
The sound of footsteps makes you jolt and you quickly turn on your feet, eyes widening when you see Minho standing at the doorway with his hand tucked in his slacks pocket.
“Why are you so surprised?” he asks evenly, a brow quirked.
You shake your head too fast, clutching for composure. “N–Nothing.”
The smirk that curls on his lips tells you he doesn’t buy it. It’s small, sly, almost like he’s reading straight through your lie. He steps further inside, leaning against the counter with infuriating ease, arms crossed over his chest. His head tilts, his gaze steady, following your every movement as you fumble with the machine like it suddenly became rocket science.
Then, out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the silence. “Am I scary?”
The question makes you laugh awkwardly, too quickly, like it’s a ridiculous thing to ask. “What? No, of course not.” You wave a hand, trying to dodge it, but your laugh dies a little too soon.
Minho doesn’t move but his eyes sharpen. “I know everyone in the office is scared of me,” he says simply, like he’s stating a fact.
You shake your head, stubborn. “They just don’t know you the way they should.”
His gaze lingers, piercing through you, holding you in place. “What about you?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “Are you scared of me?”
The words trip out of you instantly, almost desperately. “No.”
But your smile is too quick, too awkward, as though you’re trying to hide something.
He studies you, silent for a long beat. Then he nods slowly, almost like he’s solved a puzzle. “You’re not scared of me,” he says at last. “But you’re afraid of me.”
His eyes lock on yours, unwavering, and you feel yourself unraveling under his intense stare. He’s too close to the truth, too close to the secret you’ve been keeping.
Panic, you abandon the half-brewed coffee and turn on your heel. “I’d better get back to work,” you mutter in a rush, desperate to escape.
But you barely make it two steps before his voice snaps across the room. “You like me, don’t you?”
You can feel the blood drains from your face as your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. The silence that follows is deafening, your halted body betraying you more than any words could.
Behind you, Minho exhales a laugh—low, knowing, edged with triumph. “Don’t bother denying it. I can see it all over you.”
You walk fast, your heels clicking against the floor as if putting distance between you and Minho could erase what just happened. But the office is nearly empty, and the echo of his footsteps follows close behind, relentless.
You make it to your desk and try to busy yourself by tidying the cluttering pens and papers,. But of course, it’s useless because his desk is right across from yours. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide until the task is done and Minho knows it.
“I’ve noticed the things you do when you think I’m not looking,” he says from behind you. His smooth, low voice peeling away your defenses.
“The way you stare at me in meetings. That little look you give me when you think I’m too busy to notice. You chew your lip when I speak, like you’re holding something back. And just now…” His tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around steel. “…that face you made when I caught you in the pantry.”
You squeeze your eyes shut as embarrassment and frustration mixing until you can’t take it anymore. You spin in your chair, facing him head-on, your words spilling out before you can stop them.
“Yeah, okay, I like you.”
The confession slices through the silence and for a moment, the world holds still. Then, slowly, a smirk curves across Minho’s lips. He steps closer, closing the space between you with unhurried strides.
“Want to know something?” His eyes glint, dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. “I can actually do this job myself.”
Your lips quiver as you mutter, “What?”
He plants a hand on the edge of your desk, leaning in. “I asked for you because I wanted to be alone with you.”
Before you can react, he presses a hand against the desk beside your hip, then the other, caging you in. The wooden surface digs into your back as his body looms over yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him.
You’re pinned, trapped, your pulse hammering in your throat. His eyes sweep over your face, lingering like he’s quietly measuring you, observing you and then he smiles—not cruel, not mocking, but dangerous in its certainty.
“Now that I’ve got you…” his voice drops, low and intimate, “…what should I do with you?”
The smirk on his lips deepens, and for a moment you swear you see something feral flicker in his eyes.
Your lips part, trying to come up with an excuse, or shift the attention back to the task at hand, just anything to escape this situation but before any words can leave your mouth, he crashes his lips against yours.
The kiss is harsh, searing, all teeth and tongue and pent-up tension. The papers you’re holding slip from your hands and scatter across the floor as you clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. He presses you harder against the desk, one hand gripping your jaw to tilt your face, forcing you to open for him as his tongue claims yours without hesitation.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are wet, swollen, your breath shaky. Then his voice dips into a growl.
“We could’ve had this all along.”
Before you can respond, his hand skims down your waist, sliding under the hem of your blouse, fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach. Your back arches involuntarily, a needy sound slipping past your lips, and that’s all the permission he needs. He dips his head, capturing your mouth again, deeper this time, hungrier.
The constant hum of the computer fills the silence between gasps and muffled moans as he devours you, his hands roaming shamelessly now, palming your waist, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against the hard press of his body.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips, biting at your lower one before sucking it into his mouth.
You’re dizzy, drunk on him, your fear completely eclipsed by the way he’s kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s wanted this just as badly.
“Minho—” you sigh between kisses, but the words die as he lifts you onto the desk, scattering pens and files onto the floor.
He steps between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs. “Here,” he says, voice rough, dark. “We’re doing it here.”
Your body already trembling at his words. “Here, what? Why… here?”
A smirk curls his lips as he leans in, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “Because I want you to remember this every time you sit at this desk. I want you to think about me fucking you so good you can’t focus on your work.”
Heat floods all over you at his words, your stomach twisting with anticipation. You try to hide your shiver, but his knowing grin tells you he noticed.
He doesn’t give you time to protest as his mouth crashes against yours again, hungrier than before, his hands sliding up your thighs until his fingers slip beneath your skirt, dragging the fabric higher.
The desk creaks beneath your shifting weight as his palm cups you over your panties, and you can’t hold back the gasp that escapes your lips. He swallows it eagerly, deepening the kiss as his fingers press harder, teasing your clothed sex until your hips are rocking against his hand.
“Already so wet,” he murmurs against your lips, smug, savoring every sound you make. “You wanted this too, didn’t you? Sitting across from me all day, pretending you weren’t staring.”
You bite your lip, unable to deny him. Your silence only makes his grin widen, his fingers curling around your panties to tug them aside.
The office is quiet, eerily so but the thought of someone maybe being just down the hall makes every touch feel dirtier, hotter. Without warning, Minho slips his fingers inside you, stretching you slowly. The sudden intrusion makes your mouth fall open, a sharp moan escaping before you can stop it. The sound echoes too loud in the empty office, and Minho’s eyes go wide. In an instant, his other hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the desperate sound you let out. But there’s a flicker of amusement behind his eyes like he enjoys how reckless you are for him.
“Shh,” he whispers low, his voice hot against your ear. “You want the whole building to hear how needy you are?”
You shake your head quickly, but it doesn’t stop the way your body clenches around his fingers as he pumps them deeper. He curls them just right, dragging out another muffled whimper that vibrates against his palm.
The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. It must be the security guard doing their round. Panic sparking in you, your wide eyes meet his, but Minho just smirks like this is all part of his game. He slows his pace, almost lazy now, each thrust of his fingers driving you insane while his hand stays firmly over your mouth.
“Quiet,” he breathes, his lips brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. “Be good for me. Don’t make a sound.”
The footsteps come closer, so close you swear they’ll stop at your door. Minho’s eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, his fingers never stopping, his expression daring you to hold it together.
Your chest heaves as the guard’s shadow passes by, lingering for a second that feels like eternity… before moving on.
Only when the steps fade away does Minho finally ease his hand from your mouth, his fingers glistening as he pulls them from your cunt. He brings them up between you, studying the shine with a crooked grin before slipping them past his lips, sucking them clean like he’s savoring you.
“Who needs coffee when I have this,” he says, his voice husky, gaze dark as he looks at you trembling on your own desk.
Then his hands are on you again, this time reaching for your blouse, unbuttoning it open but his patience wears thin on the third one so he yanks it open, the buttons scatter across the floor.
“You…” his voice is low and rough, as his eyes rake down your body, “…you hide this under those boring office clothes?”
He mutters it like he’s cursing himself for not noticing sooner, his fingers already tearing at your blouse, ripping the thin fabric open until your bra is exposed. His breaths quickening as he pushes the fabric aside to bare your skin.
“Fuck,” he exhales, almost reverent, running his hand down the front of your body.
Minho doesn’t waste time. He’s tugging at your skirt now, shoving it up around your hips, his fingers digging into your thighs. His eyes burn as he takes in the sight of you spread out across your desk, your clothes clinging in pieces.
“This…” he mutters, almost to himself as his hands trace the curve of your waist, your breasts. “This is what I’ve been missing?”
His mouth finds your skin then, hot and demanding, biting at your collarbone before dragging his lips down your chest. Each mutter against your flesh is half-groan, half-praise, as if he’s talking more to himself than to you.
“Hmm… Perfect,” he breathes, tugging your bra down and cupping your breast in his hand, squeezing like he needs to prove you’re real. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and his muffled voice groans against it, “Absolutely perfect.”
Minho doesn’t rush even though you can feel how badly he wants to. His hands are everywhere, greedy and rough, but his pace is agonizingly slow, like he wants to unravel you piece by piece.
“You know what’s fucked up?” he murmurs against your skin, his lips grazing the underside of your breast before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers circling just above your waistband, teasing but never quite touching where you need him most.
“The whole office is terrified of me…” he chuckles darkly, dragging his teeth over your nipple until you gasp, “…but if they saw you like this? Spread out, dripping for me on your desk? They’d know who really has the power over me.”
Your body arches, chasing his hand, but he pulls back, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Not yet.”
His fingers finally dip under your skirt, brushing over your soaked panties. The low groan he lets out vibrates against your chest. His thumb presses harder on your clothed clit, making you whine.
“Beg for it,” he demands, slipping one finger beneath the fabric but not inside. He drags it up your slit, collecting your slick, then holds it up for you to see glistening under the dim office light. “Beg for me to touch you.”
You try to buck against him, but he pins your hips to the desk with a firm hand, his smirk growing as you squirm. “God, you look so hot like this. All dressed up, torn open, begging me to ruin you.”
His finger dips in just the slightest, barely pushing past your entrance before pulling out again, making you whimper. He leans close to your ear, his voice husky as he whispers, “I’m going to make sure every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how desperate you were for me.”
His words, the way he said it while intensely gazing into your eyes, it undoes something in you. Shakily, breathlessly, you mutter, “Minho, please…”
He triumphantly smirks and without another ounce of restraint, he pushes two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, but the sound barely leaves your mouth before he clamps his other hand over it, muffling you.
“Shhh,” he warns, his breath hot against your cheek. “You don’t want them finding out what a needy little slut you are for me, do you?”
His fingers work inside you relentlessly, curling just right, pumping faster each time you clench around him. The wet sounds echo indecently in the quiet office, and you can feel yourself unraveling quickly, the tension winding in your belly like a spring about to snap.
He watches your face intently, eyes dark and burning with hunger. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. You gonna come for me? Right here on your desk?”
You nod frantically, your muffled whimpers spilling against his palm. He leans closer, whispering filth into your ear as his thumb finds your clit and presses down. “Do it. Make a mess for me. I want to see you fall apart.”
The combination of his filthy words, the ruthless rhythm of his fingers, and the dangerous thrill of being caught sends you tumbling over the edge. Your whole body shakes, convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you firmly, hand still over your mouth as your muffled cries vibrate against his palm.
Minho groans low in his throat, watching the way you shudder and spasm for him. He doesn’t stop until you’re a trembling, breathless mess slumped against your desk. He doesn’t give you a moment to recover as he grips your waist and pulls you off the desk, turning you around, making you face the desk. “Bend over,” he orders, voice like gravel. His hand presses between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the cool surface of your desk, your skirt bunched indecently around your hips.
He lets you go but then you hear the clinking of metal and then zipper being pulled open from behind you, heightening the tension in the room. The next time he has your hands on you again, you feel the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked entrance, smearing your slick across your folds. He doesn’t push in all the way, just the tip breaching you, then pulling out again, over and over, until you’re whining with frustration.
“Please…”
“Please?” He leans down over you, lips brushing your ear, his cock nudging just barely inside before retreating again. “You think you’re ready to take all of me? Hm?”
You arch your back, desperate, your fingers clawing at the desk. “Yes—fuck, yes.”
He chuckles darkly, savoring your begging as he pushes in just a little deeper, stretching you slow, inch by inch. The burn makes you gasp, your body instinctively clenching around him.
“God,” he hisses through gritted teeth, pausing to control himself. “So fucking tight. You feel like you’re going to tear me apart.”
You whimper, pushing back against him, but he grips your hips hard, refusing to let you take more than what he allows. His cock slides another inch deeper, the pace slow, almost torturous.
“Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck like a cruel comfort. “I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this stretch every time you sit at this desk.”
By the time he finally bottoms out, the pressure is overwhelming, your walls pulsing around the fullness of him. He stays buried deep, not moving, forcing you to take the sensation of being completely filled. Then, he pulls back just slightly, only to push it in, hard. You cry out, the sound muffled by your own arm as you bury your face in it.
Minho smirks in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. That’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”
For a moment, he holds himself deep inside you, his thrusts slow yet intense, dragging against every nerve ending. His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his mouth grazing your ear.
“You know how many days I sat across from you at this desk,” he murmurs, hips rocking just enough to make you gasp, “watching those perfect little legs of yours cross and uncross? Made me want to rip that skirt off and see what was underneath.”
You clench around him at his words, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter. He pulls back and slides in again, slow enough to make your toes curl.
“And that tight skirt,” he continues, voice dripping with filth, “hugging your hips, your ass—fuck, every curve showing, but just out of reach. Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over and take you right then?”
Your moan slips out before you can stop it, your face pressing harder into the desk to stifle the sound. Minho smirks against your skin, picking up just a little more pace but still keeping it torturously measured.
“And when you’d sit there,” he says, remembering in vivid detail, “biting your pencil between your teeth as you thought? Drove me fucking insane. All I could think about was how those lips would look wrapped around my cock, how you’d sound with your mouth full.”
You whine, your body trembling, and he growls low in his chest, clearly loving your reaction.
“But the worst,” he groans, thrusting in slow and deep, making your knees buckle, “the worst was wondering what kind of sounds you’d make when I finally got inside you. I used to sit across from you every day, imagining your moans, wondering if you’d be sweet and needy…” His thrust punctuates each filthy word. “…or if you’d scream for me.”
Your walls flutter around him at his confession, and he curses, kissing the side of your neck as though he can’t help himself. “And now I get to find out. Every fantasy—right here, on your desk.”
Your whole body shudders, the tension breaking all at once as his filthy words unravel you. You cry out his name and it’s echoing too loudly in the quiet office. His hand clamps over your mouth instantly, muffling the sounds as your orgasm tears through you, walls spasming around his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans into your ear, holding himself deep inside as he feels you pulse around him. “You really came just from that?” He chuckles low, dark and smug, his hand still pressed against your lips. “All it took was me telling you how I’ve been thinking about you and you’re already falling apart for me.”
Your muffled whimper makes him smirk even more. He pulls his hand away just long enough to whisper, “Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?” before replacing it again when another moan escapes.
Instead of slowing down, his thrusts grow harder, deeper, relentless, each one knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body’s already oversensitive, still reeling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.
“You came a second ago but your cunt’s still clinging to me like it’s begging for more.”
Your mouth falls open in a cry, but it barely escapes before his hand presses over your lips again, muffling your sounds.
The office is silent except for the wet slap of his hips against you and your muffled moans. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. “That’s it. Take it,” he growls. “Every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how I fucked you senseless on it.”
Your body trembles, pleasure coursing through your veins until it’s unbearable. You try to hold it back, but the pressure coils tight and fast, snapping all over again.
You convulse around him, muffled cries spilling against his palm as your second orgasm crashes through you, harder than the first. Your knees buckle, your nails scrape across the desk, and he groans deep in his chest as your walls clamp down around his cock.
“Fuck—there it is. That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he hisses, thrusting through your climax, dragging out every pulse, every flutter. “I’m not stopping until you’re dripping all over this desk for me.”
Your body jerks, overstimulated, yet the heat won’t let go. He doesn’t give you a break, using your quaking, trembling body to chase his own edge, rutting into you like he owns you. His breath fans hot against your ear as he leans over you, chest pressing into your back, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head so you can’t escape the rasp of his voice.
“You could’ve told me,” he says, almost scolding, but with a hint of hunger in it. “All this time, you were sitting across from me, looking at me like that… and I had no idea you wanted me too.”
Your mouth parts, words caught in your throat as your body clenches tight around him at the confession. He lets out a dark chuckle, dragging his cock all the way out before sinking back into you slow, making you feel every inch of his swollen length.
“If you’d told me sooner,” he continues, his pace torturously unhurried, “we could’ve been fucking each other’s brains out every night by now.” His hand slides down your side, squeezing your waist before dipping between your thighs, his fingers pressing against your swollen clit. “All those nights you went home aching for me? You could’ve been screaming my name instead.”
You shiver under him, the words, the rhythm, the overwhelming stretch of him inside you—every part of it coils together until you’re trembling on the edge again.
Suddenly, his tone shifts softer. His lips brush the back of your neck, then your jaw, before he finds your mouth and kisses you. Slow, sweet, devastating in contrast to how he’s been fucking you.
“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs against your lips, his thrusts still rolling steady yet deep, each one more intense for its restraint. “Scares you a little, doesn’t it?” He smirks when your body clenches, when you nod against him. “Good. I want you excited. I want you desperate.”
The push and pull, the sweet kiss and the filthy words, it’s all too much. Your body arches into him, your legs trembling as his thrusts finally grow just a little rougher, just enough to drive him to the edge. He buries himself deep inside you one last time, his hand gripping your hip as he groans, spilling his seed into you.
The sound of his raw, broken groan of your name, echoing in your head long after the moment passes.
He stays buried in you, his chest pressed to your back, both of you breathing hard, bodies damp with a sheen of sweat. Then, slowly, he pulls out. The stretch makes you gasp, and the emptiness leaves you trembling. You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel the warmth spilling down your thigh, his release sliding out of you in a messy trail.
Minho leans back just enough to watch, his dark eyes fixed on the sight. His lips curve into a wicked smirk, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum.
“Fuck. Didn’t expect to see you like this,” he mutters, dragging his thumb along the curve of your hip possessively. His gaze never leaves the way you’re dripping for him. “Ruined and dripping for me… on your own desk.”
The office feels too quiet now, the hum of fluorescent lights a reminder of where you are and the stack of unfinished files is still scattered on the desk beneath you.
When he finally meets your eyes again, there’s no teasing in his stare, just a quiet, dangerous claim.
“You’re mine now. Every time you sit here…” his hand cupping your jaw, forcing you to look back into his eyes. “…you’ll remember who you belong to.”
-
The next day, everything at the office feels the same on the surface but you both know it’s not.
You’re at your desk, leaning forward slightly as you skim something on your computer screen, unaware of the eyes burning into you.
Minho sits across the room, looking as composed as ever to everyone else. But inside, he’s replaying that night in vivid detail—the way you clutched the desk, the way you cried out his name, the way his release dripped down your thighs.
He pushes back his chair and strolls toward you, his expression perfectly neutral, nothing to raise suspicion. He stops at your side, one hand braced casually on the desk as if to ask about the document you’re reading. But beneath the facade, he places his other hand on the curve of your ass, hidden from everyone else’s view.
He leans down, close enough that only you can hear him, and whispers in that low, dangerous tone. “If you keep bending over like that, I’ll take it as a sign you want another round right here.”
His hand slowly strokes over the round of your ass before he pulls back, face still blank, as if he only asked about numbers on a spreadsheet. He walks away like nothing happened, leaving you there, outwardly composed but inwardly seething with need, already plotting when he’ll get you alone again.
-
Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or tip me on my ko-fi!
Synopsis: While everyone else in the office avoids Minho like he’s radioactive, you have a secret crush on him and you think it’s stupid as he’d never feel the same… or so you think. (6,2k words)
Author's note: Happiest birthday to the guy with a strong black cat energy 🐈⬛
When the company you worked for merged with another, you expected new rules, new systems, maybe even new friendships.
What you didn’t expect was Minho.
The first time you saw him, you thought he was simply the type who wore his seriousness like his suit jacket—stiff, formal, but nothing a smile couldn’t soften. You’d always believed people had gentler sides waiting to be uncovered, so you gave him the benefit of the doubt.
A week into working alongside him, you learned that’s just how he is. Sharp words cut through the air like knives when he caught a junior making a mistake. He didn’t yell, but the low, pointed tone was enough to freeze everyone within earshot. A misplaced report, a late submission, even a typo—Minho noticed it all, and he wasn’t afraid to call people out on it.
Soon, people began steering clear of him like he was a ticking bomb. Words spread across the office—cold, harsh, distant. You should have joined them in keeping your head down, but instead you found yourself watching him.
In the same week you worked alongside him, you also learned something no one knows about Minho. Behind every cutting remark, he was precise. Behind every scolding, there was a strange kind of care—because he wanted things done right, not out of cruelty, but out of pride for the work itself. His standards were high, but he held himself to them, too.
And what began as respect, an admiration for his dedication, slowly grew into something else. Something you didn’t dare say out loud.
Because somewhere between watching him stay late nights to finish projects and catching rare glimpses of him rubbing his tired eyes when he thought no one was looking, your admiration twisted into a secret crush.
-
The weekly strategy meeting—usually a blur of charts and numbers—feels different the moment Minho speaks.
He sits across the long table, posture straight, every word rolling off his tongue clear and precise. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess himself. His voice carries with it a weight that demands attention, and everyone in the room listens.
You try to look casual, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his crisp white shirt stretches neatly across his shoulders, to the silky blue tie that looks far too elegant for such a dull Monday, to the way he leans forward slightly when he’s emphasizing a point. Eloquence drips from every sentence, intelligence carved into the lines of his expression.
You can almost feel yourself melting into your chair just watching him. How is it fair that someone so stern, so terrifying to others, can be so impossibly attractive to you?
All of a sudden, Minho’s eyes flick your way. Sharp, direct, like he knows.
Your heart skips a beat and heat rushes to your face as you quickly duck your head, scribbling nonsense into your notes just to look busy as if you weren’t just openly staring at him a second ago. You pray he didn’t notice. You pray the room is too full, too loud, that you’re nothing more than another coworker in his periphery.
But even as you keep your head down, the image of him—confident, composed, devastatingly beautiful in that blue tie—burns behind your eyes.
-
Not long after the meeting wrapped up, your landline rings and you pick it up. It’s a muscle memory at this point.
The secretary ditches formality and goes straight to the point. “The director wants to see you.”
There’s no need to respond anyway. When the director calls, you come even though the summon usually means extra work, and sure enough, when you step into the office, you find Minho already there, sitting opposite her, one leg crossed over the other, looking maddeningly composed.
“Ah, you’re here,” the director says, gesturing for you to sit. “I’ll get straight to the point. They moved up the new product presentation to tomorrow so I asked Minho to prepare the initial draft. But…”
She briefly glances at him and Minho’s lips curl into the faintest smirk.
“I can’t do it alone.” His voice is even, but there’s something in the way he says it—like he’s already a step ahead. “This project is too detailed for one person to handle without risking mistakes.”
The director nods in agreement. “That’s why I want you to work with him. Tonight, if possible. The draft needs to be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.”
Tonight? With him? Just the two of you? You can feel your pulse pick up.
Minho turns his head, and his gaze lands on you. His eyes don’t waver, don’t soften—just steady, dark, unwavering. But beneath the formality, there’s something else there. Something that feels like… anticipation. Almost like he’s curious to see what you’ll say. Almost like he’s looking forward to it.
You swallow air, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat sounds in your own ears. Being alone with Minho… the thought is equal parts terrifying and thrilling. You’re not sure you’re ready for whatever comes with it.
Then again, this is work. A task directly handed to you by your superior. You can’t say no.
So you straighten in your seat, clear your throat, and force out, “Of course. We’ll get it done tonight.”
The director smiles, relieved. “Good. I’ll leave it in your hands then.”
When you rise to leave, Minho does too. As you pass each other in the doorway, his arm brushes against yours—light, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. And then, in the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest trace of a grin tugging at his lips.
-
The office begins to empty as the evening creeps in. Desks that buzzed with chatter just hours ago now fall silent, one by one. You’re still at your computer, finishing up a few loose ends, when a co-worker passing by pauses at your desk.
“Hey, you’re not leaving?” she asks, slipping her bag over her shoulder.
You shake your head with a small smile. “No. I’ve got to work late tonight… with Minho.”
Her eyebrows jump and then she leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice so no one else can hear. “Good luck.”
Before you can reply, she slips away with a knowing shake of her head. You exhale slowly, sinking back into your chair and stretching your arms above your head, shoulders loosening from a day of tension.
The quiet is almost soothing until you catch the sound of footsteps approaching. You glance up to find Minho stands beside your desk.
“What do you want to do?” he asks, voice low but steady. Then with deliberate motions, he undoes the buttons at his wrists and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric slides back, revealing the lean lines of his forearms.
You straighten, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “We should probably divide the tasks,” you suggest, trying to keep your voice even. “That way, we won’t overlap.”
You try to focus on his words as he talks about a way to divide the task but your eyes keep drifting down to the veins coiling beneath his skin, prominent with each flex of his hand as he smooths the sleeve into place. It’s such a simple movement, ordinary even, but it makes your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t.
“...and you can handle the visuals,” he finishes.
You force your gaze back up to his face, hoping he didn’t notice the split-second detour of your eyes. “Right. The visuals. I can do that,” you answer a little too quick, a little too casual.
He tilts his head just slightly, studying you with that unreadable expression and then, as if nothing happened, he nods and sits down, pulling his laptop closer.
It’s just you and him in the office tonight. And you know it’s going to be harder than ever to concentrate tonight.
-
Minutes stretch into hours and you’ve buried yourself deep into your slides, eyes locked on the screen, pen tucked between your teeth as you work through numbers and charts.
But even in your focus, thoughts of coffee creep in. Your body aches for the warmth, the caffeine, the small break, the excuse to stretch your legs. You hesitate, though. Should you offer to make one for Minho too? Would he even want you to? He doesn’t exactly seem like the type who accepts favors easily.
You nibble the cap of your pen, debating on it, until the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. You can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at you.
Slowly, you turn your head and sure enough, Minho’s eyes are already on you. Not casually, not by accident—just steady, dark, fixed in your direction.
You force your voice low, hesitant, as if the silence between you might break if you speak too loudly. “I… I was going to make coffee. Do you want one too?”
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, like he’s searching for something behind your question. Then, finally, his lips part. “Yeah, sure.”
He doesn’t look away, not even once, and it makes your chest flutter in a way that feels dangerous.
You clear your throat, breaking the spell, and push back your chair. The scrape of its legs against the floor sounds louder than it should. With shaky hands, you gather yourself, stand, and head for the pantry, your pulse quickening with each step, as if you’re fleeing from the pull of his gaze.
The coffee machine whirs as you press the power button on and it’s the only sound that fills the pantry. You stand in front of it, arms raised as your fingers knead into the tense muscles of your neck. A sigh slips from your lips, low and drawn out, almost a moan, as you try to ease the ache from sitting at your desk too long.
“Oh, that felt good…” you murmur under your breath, pressing harder on the tension on your shoulder.
The sound of footsteps makes you jolt and you quickly turn on your feet, eyes widening when you see Minho standing at the doorway with his hand tucked in his slacks pocket.
“Why are you so surprised?” he asks evenly, a brow quirked.
You shake your head too fast, clutching for composure. “N–Nothing.”
The smirk that curls on his lips tells you he doesn’t buy it. It’s small, sly, almost like he’s reading straight through your lie. He steps further inside, leaning against the counter with infuriating ease, arms crossed over his chest. His head tilts, his gaze steady, following your every movement as you fumble with the machine like it suddenly became rocket science.
Then, out of nowhere, his voice cuts through the silence. “Am I scary?”
The question makes you laugh awkwardly, too quickly, like it’s a ridiculous thing to ask. “What? No, of course not.” You wave a hand, trying to dodge it, but your laugh dies a little too soon.
Minho doesn’t move but his eyes sharpen. “I know everyone in the office is scared of me,” he says simply, like he’s stating a fact.
You shake your head, stubborn. “They just don’t know you the way they should.”
His gaze lingers, piercing through you, holding you in place. “What about you?” His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes the room feel smaller. “Are you scared of me?”
The words trip out of you instantly, almost desperately. “No.”
But your smile is too quick, too awkward, as though you’re trying to hide something.
He studies you, silent for a long beat. Then he nods slowly, almost like he’s solved a puzzle. “You’re not scared of me,” he says at last. “But you’re afraid of me.”
His eyes lock on yours, unwavering, and you feel yourself unraveling under his intense stare. He’s too close to the truth, too close to the secret you’ve been keeping.
Panic, you abandon the half-brewed coffee and turn on your heel. “I’d better get back to work,” you mutter in a rush, desperate to escape.
But you barely make it two steps before his voice snaps across the room. “You like me, don’t you?”
You can feel the blood drains from your face as your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. The silence that follows is deafening, your halted body betraying you more than any words could.
Behind you, Minho exhales a laugh—low, knowing, edged with triumph. “Don’t bother denying it. I can see it all over you.”
You walk fast, your heels clicking against the floor as if putting distance between you and Minho could erase what just happened. But the office is nearly empty, and the echo of his footsteps follows close behind, relentless.
You make it to your desk and try to busy yourself by tidying the cluttering pens and papers,. But of course, it’s useless because his desk is right across from yours. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide until the task is done and Minho knows it.
“I’ve noticed the things you do when you think I’m not looking,” he says from behind you. His smooth, low voice peeling away your defenses.
“The way you stare at me in meetings. That little look you give me when you think I’m too busy to notice. You chew your lip when I speak, like you’re holding something back. And just now…” His tone dips lower, velvet wrapped around steel. “…that face you made when I caught you in the pantry.”
You squeeze your eyes shut as embarrassment and frustration mixing until you can’t take it anymore. You spin in your chair, facing him head-on, your words spilling out before you can stop them.
“Yeah, okay, I like you.”
The confession slices through the silence and for a moment, the world holds still. Then, slowly, a smirk curves across Minho’s lips. He steps closer, closing the space between you with unhurried strides.
“Want to know something?” His eyes glint, dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. “I can actually do this job myself.”
Your lips quiver as you mutter, “What?”
He plants a hand on the edge of your desk, leaning in. “I asked for you because I wanted to be alone with you.”
Before you can react, he presses a hand against the desk beside your hip, then the other, caging you in. The wooden surface digs into your back as his body looms over yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from him.
You’re pinned, trapped, your pulse hammering in your throat. His eyes sweep over your face, lingering like he’s quietly measuring you, observing you and then he smiles—not cruel, not mocking, but dangerous in its certainty.
“Now that I’ve got you…” his voice drops, low and intimate, “…what should I do with you?”
The smirk on his lips deepens, and for a moment you swear you see something feral flicker in his eyes.
Your lips part, trying to come up with an excuse, or shift the attention back to the task at hand, just anything to escape this situation but before any words can leave your mouth, he crashes his lips against yours.
The kiss is harsh, searing, all teeth and tongue and pent-up tension. The papers you’re holding slip from your hands and scatter across the floor as you clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. He presses you harder against the desk, one hand gripping your jaw to tilt your face, forcing you to open for him as his tongue claims yours without hesitation.
When he finally pulls back, your lips are wet, swollen, your breath shaky. Then his voice dips into a growl.
“We could’ve had this all along.”
Before you can respond, his hand skims down your waist, sliding under the hem of your blouse, fingers teasing the bare skin of your stomach. Your back arches involuntarily, a needy sound slipping past your lips, and that’s all the permission he needs. He dips his head, capturing your mouth again, deeper this time, hungrier.
The constant hum of the computer fills the silence between gasps and muffled moans as he devours you, his hands roaming shamelessly now, palming your waist, cupping your ass, pulling you flush against the hard press of his body.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he mutters against your lips, biting at your lower one before sucking it into his mouth.
You’re dizzy, drunk on him, your fear completely eclipsed by the way he’s kissing you like he’s starved, like he’s wanted this just as badly.
“Minho—” you sigh between kisses, but the words die as he lifts you onto the desk, scattering pens and files onto the floor.
He steps between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs. “Here,” he says, voice rough, dark. “We’re doing it here.”
Your body already trembling at his words. “Here, what? Why… here?”
A smirk curls his lips as he leans in, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “Because I want you to remember this every time you sit at this desk. I want you to think about me fucking you so good you can’t focus on your work.”
Heat floods all over you at his words, your stomach twisting with anticipation. You try to hide your shiver, but his knowing grin tells you he noticed.
He doesn’t give you time to protest as his mouth crashes against yours again, hungrier than before, his hands sliding up your thighs until his fingers slip beneath your skirt, dragging the fabric higher.
The desk creaks beneath your shifting weight as his palm cups you over your panties, and you can’t hold back the gasp that escapes your lips. He swallows it eagerly, deepening the kiss as his fingers press harder, teasing your clothed sex until your hips are rocking against his hand.
“Already so wet,” he murmurs against your lips, smug, savoring every sound you make. “You wanted this too, didn’t you? Sitting across from me all day, pretending you weren’t staring.”
You bite your lip, unable to deny him. Your silence only makes his grin widen, his fingers curling around your panties to tug them aside.
The office is quiet, eerily so but the thought of someone maybe being just down the hall makes every touch feel dirtier, hotter. Without warning, Minho slips his fingers inside you, stretching you slowly. The sudden intrusion makes your mouth fall open, a sharp moan escaping before you can stop it. The sound echoes too loud in the empty office, and Minho’s eyes go wide. In an instant, his other hand clamps over your mouth, muffling the desperate sound you let out. But there’s a flicker of amusement behind his eyes like he enjoys how reckless you are for him.
“Shh,” he whispers low, his voice hot against your ear. “You want the whole building to hear how needy you are?”
You shake your head quickly, but it doesn’t stop the way your body clenches around his fingers as he pumps them deeper. He curls them just right, dragging out another muffled whimper that vibrates against his palm.
The sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. It must be the security guard doing their round. Panic sparking in you, your wide eyes meet his, but Minho just smirks like this is all part of his game. He slows his pace, almost lazy now, each thrust of his fingers driving you insane while his hand stays firmly over your mouth.
“Quiet,” he breathes, his lips brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. “Be good for me. Don’t make a sound.”
The footsteps come closer, so close you swear they’ll stop at your door. Minho’s eyes stay locked on yours the whole time, his fingers never stopping, his expression daring you to hold it together.
Your chest heaves as the guard’s shadow passes by, lingering for a second that feels like eternity… before moving on.
Only when the steps fade away does Minho finally ease his hand from your mouth, his fingers glistening as he pulls them from your cunt. He brings them up between you, studying the shine with a crooked grin before slipping them past his lips, sucking them clean like he’s savoring you.
“Who needs coffee when I have this,” he says, his voice husky, gaze dark as he looks at you trembling on your own desk.
Then his hands are on you again, this time reaching for your blouse, unbuttoning it open but his patience wears thin on the third one so he yanks it open, the buttons scatter across the floor.
“You…” his voice is low and rough, as his eyes rake down your body, “…you hide this under those boring office clothes?”
He mutters it like he’s cursing himself for not noticing sooner, his fingers already tearing at your blouse, ripping the thin fabric open until your bra is exposed. His breaths quickening as he pushes the fabric aside to bare your skin.
“Fuck,” he exhales, almost reverent, running his hand down the front of your body.
Minho doesn’t waste time. He’s tugging at your skirt now, shoving it up around your hips, his fingers digging into your thighs. His eyes burn as he takes in the sight of you spread out across your desk, your clothes clinging in pieces.
“This…” he mutters, almost to himself as his hands trace the curve of your waist, your breasts. “This is what I’ve been missing?”
His mouth finds your skin then, hot and demanding, biting at your collarbone before dragging his lips down your chest. Each mutter against your flesh is half-groan, half-praise, as if he’s talking more to himself than to you.
“Hmm… Perfect,” he breathes, tugging your bra down and cupping your breast in his hand, squeezing like he needs to prove you’re real. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and his muffled voice groans against it, “Absolutely perfect.”
Minho doesn’t rush even though you can feel how badly he wants to. His hands are everywhere, greedy and rough, but his pace is agonizingly slow, like he wants to unravel you piece by piece.
“You know what’s fucked up?” he murmurs against your skin, his lips grazing the underside of your breast before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hand slides down your stomach, fingers circling just above your waistband, teasing but never quite touching where you need him most.
“The whole office is terrified of me…” he chuckles darkly, dragging his teeth over your nipple until you gasp, “…but if they saw you like this? Spread out, dripping for me on your desk? They’d know who really has the power over me.”
Your body arches, chasing his hand, but he pulls back, shaking his head with a wicked grin. “Not yet.”
His fingers finally dip under your skirt, brushing over your soaked panties. The low groan he lets out vibrates against your chest. His thumb presses harder on your clothed clit, making you whine.
“Beg for it,” he demands, slipping one finger beneath the fabric but not inside. He drags it up your slit, collecting your slick, then holds it up for you to see glistening under the dim office light. “Beg for me to touch you.”
You try to buck against him, but he pins your hips to the desk with a firm hand, his smirk growing as you squirm. “God, you look so hot like this. All dressed up, torn open, begging me to ruin you.”
His finger dips in just the slightest, barely pushing past your entrance before pulling out again, making you whimper. He leans close to your ear, his voice husky as he whispers, “I’m going to make sure every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how desperate you were for me.”
His words, the way he said it while intensely gazing into your eyes, it undoes something in you. Shakily, breathlessly, you mutter, “Minho, please…”
He triumphantly smirks and without another ounce of restraint, he pushes two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. The sudden stretch makes you cry out, but the sound barely leaves your mouth before he clamps his other hand over it, muffling you.
“Shhh,” he warns, his breath hot against your cheek. “You don’t want them finding out what a needy little slut you are for me, do you?”
His fingers work inside you relentlessly, curling just right, pumping faster each time you clench around him. The wet sounds echo indecently in the quiet office, and you can feel yourself unraveling quickly, the tension winding in your belly like a spring about to snap.
He watches your face intently, eyes dark and burning with hunger. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight. You gonna come for me? Right here on your desk?”
You nod frantically, your muffled whimpers spilling against his palm. He leans closer, whispering filth into your ear as his thumb finds your clit and presses down. “Do it. Make a mess for me. I want to see you fall apart.”
The combination of his filthy words, the ruthless rhythm of his fingers, and the dangerous thrill of being caught sends you tumbling over the edge. Your whole body shakes, convulsing around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash through you. He holds you firmly, hand still over your mouth as your muffled cries vibrate against his palm.
Minho groans low in his throat, watching the way you shudder and spasm for him. He doesn’t stop until you’re a trembling, breathless mess slumped against your desk. He doesn’t give you a moment to recover as he grips your waist and pulls you off the desk, turning you around, making you face the desk. “Bend over,” he orders, voice like gravel. His hand presses between your shoulder blades until your chest meets the cool surface of your desk, your skirt bunched indecently around your hips.
He lets you go but then you hear the clinking of metal and then zipper being pulled open from behind you, heightening the tension in the room. The next time he has your hands on you again, you feel the thick head of his cock sliding against your soaked entrance, smearing your slick across your folds. He doesn’t push in all the way, just the tip breaching you, then pulling out again, over and over, until you’re whining with frustration.
“Please…”
“Please?” He leans down over you, lips brushing your ear, his cock nudging just barely inside before retreating again. “You think you’re ready to take all of me? Hm?”
You arch your back, desperate, your fingers clawing at the desk. “Yes—fuck, yes.”
He chuckles darkly, savoring your begging as he pushes in just a little deeper, stretching you slow, inch by inch. The burn makes you gasp, your body instinctively clenching around him.
“God,” he hisses through gritted teeth, pausing to control himself. “So fucking tight. You feel like you’re going to tear me apart.”
You whimper, pushing back against him, but he grips your hips hard, refusing to let you take more than what he allows. His cock slides another inch deeper, the pace slow, almost torturous.
“Slow down, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your neck like a cruel comfort. “I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this stretch every time you sit at this desk.”
By the time he finally bottoms out, the pressure is overwhelming, your walls pulsing around the fullness of him. He stays buried deep, not moving, forcing you to take the sensation of being completely filled. Then, he pulls back just slightly, only to push it in, hard. You cry out, the sound muffled by your own arm as you bury your face in it.
Minho smirks in satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. That’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”
For a moment, he holds himself deep inside you, his thrusts slow yet intense, dragging against every nerve ending. His hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he leans down, his mouth grazing your ear.
“You know how many days I sat across from you at this desk,” he murmurs, hips rocking just enough to make you gasp, “watching those perfect little legs of yours cross and uncross? Made me want to rip that skirt off and see what was underneath.”
You clench around him at his words, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter. He pulls back and slides in again, slow enough to make your toes curl.
“And that tight skirt,” he continues, voice dripping with filth, “hugging your hips, your ass—fuck, every curve showing, but just out of reach. Do you know how hard it was not to bend you over and take you right then?”
Your moan slips out before you can stop it, your face pressing harder into the desk to stifle the sound. Minho smirks against your skin, picking up just a little more pace but still keeping it torturously measured.
“And when you’d sit there,” he says, remembering in vivid detail, “biting your pencil between your teeth as you thought? Drove me fucking insane. All I could think about was how those lips would look wrapped around my cock, how you’d sound with your mouth full.”
You whine, your body trembling, and he growls low in his chest, clearly loving your reaction.
“But the worst,” he groans, thrusting in slow and deep, making your knees buckle, “the worst was wondering what kind of sounds you’d make when I finally got inside you. I used to sit across from you every day, imagining your moans, wondering if you’d be sweet and needy…” His thrust punctuates each filthy word. “…or if you’d scream for me.”
Your walls flutter around him at his confession, and he curses, kissing the side of your neck as though he can’t help himself. “And now I get to find out. Every fantasy—right here, on your desk.”
Your whole body shudders, the tension breaking all at once as his filthy words unravel you. You cry out his name and it’s echoing too loudly in the quiet office. His hand clamps over your mouth instantly, muffling the sounds as your orgasm tears through you, walls spasming around his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans into your ear, holding himself deep inside as he feels you pulse around him. “You really came just from that?” He chuckles low, dark and smug, his hand still pressed against your lips. “All it took was me telling you how I’ve been thinking about you and you’re already falling apart for me.”
Your muffled whimper makes him smirk even more. He pulls his hand away just long enough to whisper, “Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?” before replacing it again when another moan escapes.
Instead of slowing down, his thrusts grow harder, deeper, relentless, each one knocking the breath from your lungs. Your body’s already oversensitive, still reeling from the orgasm he just pulled out of you, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.
“You came a second ago but your cunt’s still clinging to me like it’s begging for more.”
Your mouth falls open in a cry, but it barely escapes before his hand presses over your lips again, muffling your sounds.
The office is silent except for the wet slap of his hips against you and your muffled moans. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, burying himself to the hilt. “That’s it. Take it,” he growls. “Every time you sit at this desk, you’ll remember how I fucked you senseless on it.”
Your body trembles, pleasure coursing through your veins until it’s unbearable. You try to hold it back, but the pressure coils tight and fast, snapping all over again.
You convulse around him, muffled cries spilling against his palm as your second orgasm crashes through you, harder than the first. Your knees buckle, your nails scrape across the desk, and he groans deep in his chest as your walls clamp down around his cock.
“Fuck—there it is. That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he hisses, thrusting through your climax, dragging out every pulse, every flutter. “I’m not stopping until you’re dripping all over this desk for me.”
Your body jerks, overstimulated, yet the heat won’t let go. He doesn’t give you a break, using your quaking, trembling body to chase his own edge, rutting into you like he owns you. His breath fans hot against your ear as he leans over you, chest pressing into your back, his hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head so you can’t escape the rasp of his voice.
“You could’ve told me,” he says, almost scolding, but with a hint of hunger in it. “All this time, you were sitting across from me, looking at me like that… and I had no idea you wanted me too.”
Your mouth parts, words caught in your throat as your body clenches tight around him at the confession. He lets out a dark chuckle, dragging his cock all the way out before sinking back into you slow, making you feel every inch of his swollen length.
“If you’d told me sooner,” he continues, his pace torturously unhurried, “we could’ve been fucking each other’s brains out every night by now.” His hand slides down your side, squeezing your waist before dipping between your thighs, his fingers pressing against your swollen clit. “All those nights you went home aching for me? You could’ve been screaming my name instead.”
You shiver under him, the words, the rhythm, the overwhelming stretch of him inside you—every part of it coils together until you’re trembling on the edge again.
Suddenly, his tone shifts softer. His lips brush the back of your neck, then your jaw, before he finds your mouth and kisses you. Slow, sweet, devastating in contrast to how he’s been fucking you.
“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs against your lips, his thrusts still rolling steady yet deep, each one more intense for its restraint. “Scares you a little, doesn’t it?” He smirks when your body clenches, when you nod against him. “Good. I want you excited. I want you desperate.”
The push and pull, the sweet kiss and the filthy words, it’s all too much. Your body arches into him, your legs trembling as his thrusts finally grow just a little rougher, just enough to drive him to the edge. He buries himself deep inside you one last time, his hand gripping your hip as he groans, spilling his seed into you.
The sound of his raw, broken groan of your name, echoing in your head long after the moment passes.
He stays buried in you, his chest pressed to your back, both of you breathing hard, bodies damp with a sheen of sweat. Then, slowly, he pulls out. The stretch makes you gasp, and the emptiness leaves you trembling. You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel the warmth spilling down your thigh, his release sliding out of you in a messy trail.
Minho leans back just enough to watch, his dark eyes fixed on the sight. His lips curve into a wicked smirk, and he lets out a low, satisfied hum.
“Fuck. Didn’t expect to see you like this,” he mutters, dragging his thumb along the curve of your hip possessively. His gaze never leaves the way you’re dripping for him. “Ruined and dripping for me… on your own desk.”
The office feels too quiet now, the hum of fluorescent lights a reminder of where you are and the stack of unfinished files is still scattered on the desk beneath you.
When he finally meets your eyes again, there’s no teasing in his stare, just a quiet, dangerous claim.
“You’re mine now. Every time you sit here…” his hand cupping your jaw, forcing you to look back into his eyes. “…you’ll remember who you belong to.”
-
The next day, everything at the office feels the same on the surface but you both know it’s not.
You’re at your desk, leaning forward slightly as you skim something on your computer screen, unaware of the eyes burning into you.
Minho sits across the room, looking as composed as ever to everyone else. But inside, he’s replaying that night in vivid detail—the way you clutched the desk, the way you cried out his name, the way his release dripped down your thighs.
He pushes back his chair and strolls toward you, his expression perfectly neutral, nothing to raise suspicion. He stops at your side, one hand braced casually on the desk as if to ask about the document you’re reading. But beneath the facade, he places his other hand on the curve of your ass, hidden from everyone else’s view.
He leans down, close enough that only you can hear him, and whispers in that low, dangerous tone. “If you keep bending over like that, I’ll take it as a sign you want another round right here.”
His hand slowly strokes over the round of your ass before he pulls back, face still blank, as if he only asked about numbers on a spreadsheet. He walks away like nothing happened, leaving you there, outwardly composed but inwardly seething with need, already plotting when he’ll get you alone again.
-
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can anyone help me find this leeknow x bridgerton au that was recently released? i accidentally clicked "not interested" instead of "copy link" and now i couldn't find it anymore 🥹🥹🥲
Synopsis: You and Han were each other’s firsts—first love, first heartbreak, first forever. Even as life pulls you apart, the two of you keep finding your way back, caught between what was and what could be. (14,3k words)
Author's note: The final chapter is here and pls don't get upset at me. You asked for angst so I brought you exactly that 🫣🫶🏻
Han sits on the weathered picnic bench, shoulders hunched forward, phone in hand as his thumb scrolls endlessly down a checklist. A hundred little icons of bottles, blankets, creams, and things he can’t even begin to pronounce. His eyebrows knot together as he squints at one particular entry.
“What is BabyBjörn?” he asks out loud, clueless, his tone more baffled than curious.
Josh, seated beside him with his long legs stretched out and sunglasses on, doesn’t even pause before answering, “It’s a Swedish company that produces baby carriers and bouncers and all that bonding-comfort-parent-baby stuff.”
Han blinks at him, wide-eyed. “How the hell do you even know that?”
Josh just shrugs, taking a sip from his can of Coke. “Niamh. And also because we went to a lot of baby showers.”
Han nods like that makes sense, though he’s still looking at Josh like he’s some kind of encyclopedia, but then the word Swedish lingers in his head, tugging up a memory he hadn’t asked for. His lips twitch, an unexpected chuckle slipping out as he murmurs, “Fuck Sweden.”
Josh raises a brow, catching Han mutters something. “What?”
“Nothing,” Han shakes his head quickly, forcing the laugh down before anyone can ask further. He swipes at his phone again, like he can scroll his way out of the memory, but the ache it stirs in his chest lingers.
“How’s she doing?” he asks suddenly, eyes still glued to the screen, voice pitched too casual to be casual.
It’s Luke who answers, sprawled out on the grass with a joint pinched lazily between his fingers. He exhales a thin line of smoke before saying, “She’s alright.”
Han lets out a slow breath through his nose, relief pressing briefly against the tightness in his chest. But then Luke adds, almost smug, “We’ve been hanging out a lot actually. Talking. Smoking.”
That makes Han’s head snap up, brows furrowing. “She doesn’t even smoke.”
Luke shrugs, taking another drag, lips curling with the ghost of a grin. “Well, she is now.”
Han stares at him, unsettled. He doesn’t know what to do with that—should he be glad you’re finding ways to cope? Or should he be concerned that weed is your new crutch? His stomach twists, his thoughts chasing themselves in circles, spiraling toward places he doesn’t want to go.
So he forces himself back to his phone, eyes blurring over another list of “must-haves.” Diapers, strollers, swaddles. He exhales, shoulders sinking. And then, almost to himself, he mutters, “Man… I’m seriously having a baby.”
The words sound different when they leave his mouth. He’s said them before, joked about them, even celebrated them. But now, in this quiet moment with his friends and his screen glowing with responsibility, the reality sinks deep and heavy.
-
The car hums along the smooth pavement, sunlight spilling across the windshield as Han steers through the quiet streets of the new neighborhood. It’s one of those rare days where everything feels… light. Simple. Like maybe life isn’t such a storm anymore. He steals a glance at the rows of freshly painted houses, kids wobbling on bikes with training wheels, a couple walking a dog that looks too big for its leash. For a moment, it almost feels like he belongs here.
“You’re going to be a really good dad,” Isla says suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence.
Han blinks, his hands tightening a little on the wheel. The words throw him so off guard that he has to look away from the road for half a second, catching her profile lit by the soft afternoon light. “What made you say that?” he asks, his voice rougher than he meant.
Isla sheepishly smiles, folding her hands over the swell of her belly. “I don’t know. I just… knew it.”
Heat creeps up his neck. He looks back at the road quickly, but he can’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. Compliments like that—they hit different.
Silence settles between them, but it’s the good kind, the kind that lets him breathe. He lets it linger before blurting, almost to himself, “I just learned you have a middle name.”
Isla tilts her head toward him, amused. “You make it sound like I’ve been hiding it.”
Han chuckles under his breath. “Well… what is it then?”
“Rylie,” she says softly, her smile lingering. “It means valiant. Or courageous.”
Han nods slowly, letting the word roll around in his head. Valiant. Yeah, that fits her. He glances her way just long enough to catch the curve of her smile. “That’s… such a beautiful name.”
Isla’s cheeks color as she dips her head, brushing her thumb absently over the curve of her stomach. “Thank you.”
Han pulls the car into the driveway, his mind still buzzing with Isla’s words—
You’re going to be a really good dad. It feels nice and comforting to hear but at the same time, he can’t ignore the weight of it presses against his chest like a stone he can’t quite shift.
He kills the engine, rubbing the heel of his palm over his tired eyes. When he glances up, his heart stutters as he sees you standing by the trash can. His trash can.
For a second, he thinks he’s imagining it—you, in broad daylight, looking like you’re about to… what, dig through his garbage? But no, the lid’s already lifted, your hand hovering there like a guilty kid caught red-handed. And then you turn, your face freezing as the car jerks to a stop in the middle of the driveway.
Han steps out slowly, trying not to let the confusion leak too much into his expression. But inside, he’s spiraling. What the hell is she doing here?
You plaster on a strained smile, walking toward him like nothing’s wrong. “Hey.”
He forces a faint smile back. His chest aches just seeing you this close again. “Hey. Uh… what are you doing here?”
Your answer comes quick, smooth—too smooth. “I just came to drop your things.”
Han nods, his eyes flicking toward the box by the door. That much checks out. But then his gaze shifts back to the trash can and lingers. He can’t help it. “And… what were you doing at the trash can?”
You hesitate, just enough to give you away. Then, almost too brightly, you say, “Oh—there was a raccoon tearing through your trash. I shooed it away.”
A raccoon. In the middle of the day. In this neighborhood? His mouth almost quirks into a smile, because it’s such an absurd lie, but instead he just watches you and quietly mutters under his breath. “Right. A raccoon.”
Before he can press further, the passenger door opens and Isla steps out, smoothing her hand over her bump as she greets you warmly. Han watches the way your eyes drop to her stomach—how you freeze, how the words tumble out of you before you can stop them: “Oh, you’re very pregnant.”
The air goes tight. He feels Isla’s gentle laugh at your awkward save—“Pregnancy looks good on you”—but Han can see how much it costs you to even say it.
You’re already pulling away, making excuses about leaving, when Han notices the sketchbook clutched to your chest. His sketchbook. His pulse spikes.
“Is that my… sketchbook?” he asks, and the way your eyes widen is answer enough. You hesitate, then thrust it toward him like it burns your hands.
And just like that—you’re gone. Jogging to your car, your bag bouncing against your side. Han stands there, sketchbook in hand, watching your taillights until they disappear down the street. He looks down at the familiar worn cover, thumb brushing the bent corner.
The sound of Isla’s shoes crunching against the gravel pulls him back. She’s waddling closer, one hand supporting her lower back, the other resting gently on her belly. She glances at the book he’s clutching and tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Han’s throat goes dry. He forces a casual shrug, tucking it slightly against his side as if it’s nothing. “Just… one of my old sketchbooks.” His voice comes out light, dismissive, like it means less than it does.
Isla hums, accepting his answer without pressing. She shifts her weight and Han immediately steps forward, sliding an arm around her to help her toward the door. He focuses on the task—steadying her, guiding her up the steps—but it’s impossible not to feel the echo of you still lingering in the air.
The way you looked at Isla’s stomach. The way your smile faltered when you tried to play polite. The sharpness in your eyes when you lied about the raccoon. And, worst of all, the way you had held his sketchbook tight to your chest like you were holding on to the memories it holds.
Han exhales through his nose, tightening his grip on Isla just enough to keep her steady as he pushes the front door open. He helps her inside, but his mind is far away, stuck on the driveway, stuck on the way you bolted like you couldn’t bear to stay another second.
By the time he shuts the door behind them, his smile is back in place for Isla’s sake. But his heart is still out there in the street, running after you.
-
Later that night, Han helps Isla settle on the couch, fussing with the throw pillows until she playfully swats at his hand. “You’re worse than my doctor,” she teases, her smile soft, her eyes tired.
He laughs under his breath, crouching to kiss her forehead. “I just don’t want you uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine,” she reassures him, resting both hands over her belly. “Really. Go do your thing—I’m just going to put my feet up.”
He hesitates, watching her adjust into the cushions, her face glowing in the warm light of the living room. Eventually, he nods and retreats down the hall to his small studio.
The sketchbook feels heavy in his hand. He tosses it on the desk, tries to busy himself with a few quick strokes of a new illustration, but the lines blur, meaningless. His gaze drifts back, again and again, to that familiar battered cover.
Finally, he gives in.
He flips it open and the first page hits him like a punch—two doodled characters you’d both created late one night, when things were young and stupid and full of possibility. He remembers how hard you’d laughed, sprawled across his lap with a pen in your hand, insisting this was your comic debut.
Page after page, the memories unfold. Your handwriting in the margins. Your dumb little captions. The mess of ink where you tried to make him look cooler than he was. He can almost hear your voice again, teasing, urging him to keep going, to dream bigger.
And then—there it is. The page where he drew the proposal. Your character staring down at a ring, his on one knee, cartoon hearts floating above. He remembers vividly how you’d looked up from that page to find him mirroring it, ring trembling in his hand, voice cracking as he asked you to marry him.
Han presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, shutting them tight. For a moment, he’s back there—before things fell apart, before Isla, before the papers and the fights. Just you and him, believing in forever.
He exhales shakily, fingers tracing the edges of the page. The ache in his chest spreads wide, hollowing him out.
God, he misses you.
He closes the sketchbook but doesn’t put it away. Instead, he keeps it close, resting his hand on top of it like it’s the only anchor left between then and now. In the silence of the night, with Isla asleep down the hall, Han finally lets himself whisper into the dark:
“I really miss you.”
-
Han tells himself—over and over again—that he has a good life.
A good new life with Isla, with her kind smile and her quiet strength. The baby on the way, a future he never thought he’d be brave enough to face. A neighborhood that smells like fresh paint and cut grass, neighbors who wave when he pulls into the driveway.
It’s good. It should be enough.
But at night, when the house goes quiet, the thoughts creep back in. What ifs. Could haves. The sound of your laugh, sharper than any memory should be. He finds himself restless, scrolling through his phone for no reason, sketching aimless lines that always, somehow, circle back to you.
He tries to push it away. He tells himself it’s unhealthy, that he needs to stop being stuck in the past. Isla deserves better than half of him lingering somewhere else.
Still… one afternoon, without really meaning to, his car ends up on a familiar street. He doesn’t even think until he’s already parked. His pulse thrums in his ears as he steps out, glances around—like he’s been caught doing something wrong. He knows it’s reckless. Stupid, even. But his feet move anyway, carrying him to the front steps of your house.
He sits. Hands pressed between his knees. Tells himself it’s just a few minutes. You’re probably still at work. He doesn’t even know what he’ll say if you come home, but he waits.
The late sun shifts across the pavement. Leaves skitter along the curb. His chest feels tight, like the anticipation itself is punishment. Then—there it is. The low purr of your car pulling into the driveway.
Han’s heart stumbles as he sees you behind the wheel, the moment your eyes flicker and land on him. The hesitation. The way your face shifts, just barely, as if you’re calculating whether to keep driving or park.
He forces himself to stand as you kill the engine, sling your bag over your shoulder, and step out. He arranges his mouth into something that resembles a smile, though it feels fragile.
You walk toward him, slowly and he swallows hard, pushing air into his lungs like he’s forgotten how. His voice comes out softer than he intended, like the words are scraped raw on their way out.
“I don’t know what the rules are,” he says, eyes locking with yours, “but I’m sure I’m breaking them.”
The silence stretches, the weight of it unbearable. His chest tightens until it feels like it might crack open. Then he exhales, a broken little laugh. “But I really—” He falters, shakes his head, drops his gaze to the ground before forcing it back up to yours.
“I really miss you.”
-
Why is he here?
You repeatedly ask yourself as you move slowly in the kitchen, fingers curling around the cool aluminum of two soda cans, heart thudding harder than it should. He’s here. In your living room. After everything. And you still don’t know why.
When you step out, you find him leaning back on the couch like he belongs there, like no time has passed. His eyes lift, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.
“Soda?” he teases, a little too lightly. “Don’t you have anything harder than that?”
You hesitate, then wordlessly turn back. The clink of glass, the slow pour of whiskey, the way your hand shakes just slightly as you set two glasses down on the coffee table. You take the far end of the sofa, purposely leaving space between you, because you know what happens when he’s too close.
“How have you been?” you ask, voice quieter than you intend.
He shrugs, takes a sip before telling you everything that’s been happening in his life. “Isla’s… she’s friends with someone at MESA. That’s how my stuff ended up there.”
You blink, surprised, but manage a small smile as you genuinely tell him, “That’s amazing, Han. I’m happy for you.”
He looks at you for a beat too long, like he doesn’t quite believe it, then glances away.
The conversation drifts—small pieces of his life, fragments of yours—until the light outside bleeds into darkness and the whiskey in his glass is more water than fire. He sighs, setting it down with a quiet clink.
“I should probably get home.”
You hug your arms around yourself to keep them from reaching out to him. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches, heavy, until the words slip out of you, bare and honest: “It’s really nice to see you.”
That smile—the same one that once lit up every corner of your world—finds his face. It warms you despite everything and then he leans in. Before you can stop him, his arms wrap around you, and you melt into it because it’s him, it’s always been him. His chest solid against yours, his warmth seeping into your bones. For a moment, it feels like nothing ever broke.
You manage to pull away first but not enough to put a gap between your bodies as he keeps his hand on the back of your neck. His breath fans your cheek, his head tilting—too close, too dangerous and then he kisses you.
It’s long and lingering, heavy with everything neither of you has been brave enough to say. You let it happen, because it feels too right to fight, until you finally break the kiss, though his forehead stays pressed to yours. You breathe him in, shaken.
“You should go,” you whisper, though it doesn’t sound convincing.
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, soft, like he’s asking for something forbidden: “Can we just… lie down for a little bit?”
You should say no. You should tell him to leave. But your body betrays you, nodding before your brain catches up.
The next thing you know, you’re lowering yourself onto the sofa, lying on your side, the couch dipping under his weight, his chest pressed to your back. His arm wraps around you, warm and solid, his head tucked into the crook of your neck. It’s quiet except for the rhythm of your shared breaths, almost like old times. Almost.
And then, with his eyes closed, his voice slips out, raw and cracked in the dark. “I can’t believe I’m having a baby and it’s not with you.”
The words slice through you like glass. You squeeze your eyes shut, but the hot sting of tears escapes anyway. You thought you were the only one drowning in what you lost, the only one haunted by the forever you both failed to make real.
But no—he feels it too and that, somehow, hurts even worse.
-
The first thing you notice when you wake up is the silence.
The second is the cold. You turn, reaching instinctively for warmth that isn’t there, only to find the other side of the couch empty. No indentation, no blanket out of place—like he was never there at all.
Han must have slipped out early, before the sun came up. And yet, his presence lingers, stubborn, etched into your skin where his arm held you close, into your lips where his kiss still burns.
You push yourself upright, press the heels of your palms against your eyes, and try to steady yourself. But even as you shower, dress, and force yourself into the office, it stays with you. The knot in your chest won’t loosen.
By the time you’re staring at your laptop, the blinking cursor taunting you from a half-finished paragraph, your thoughts are so tangled you can barely string words together. You rub at your temples, trying to summon focus, but every line you type feels off, forced, shallow.
The knock at your door barely registers before Chris steps inside. He’s holding a stack of papers, brow furrowed.
“Hey, I read your draft,” he says carefully. “And… there are a lot of mistakes.”
You slump in your chair, letting out a groan that borders on a whine. “Of course there are.”
Chris sets the papers down, then studies you with a tilt of his head. “Are you okay?”
You stare at the mess on your screen, words blurring until you can’t tell what’s real. Finally, you mutter, “I don’t know.”
There’s no judgment in his expression, just quiet concern. “You know what? Just take the rest of the day oof. Go home. Rest. Whatever’s going on… you don’t have to fight through it today.”
You sigh, long and weary, before nodding. Maybe he’s right.
By the time you gather your things and step outside, the day is bright and sharp, but you feel dimmed, heavy. Han may have left, but what happened between you clings to you like a shadow, following you even as you leave the office behind.
-
Home should feel like safety. Instead, the silence feels suffocating.
You sit on the edge of your bed, laptop abandoned on the desk, your phone heavy in your hand. There’s nothing to distract you, no noise to drown out the thoughts clawing at the inside of your skull. And before you can stop yourself, your thumb is already moving, muscle memory guiding you to Instagram.
Han’s profile loads instantly, his name and familiar face glowing back at you. He mostly uses his social media to showcase his artworks but the latest post is right there at the top, is a series of pictures of Han and Isla doing a gender reveal.
You swipe through slowly, each frame hitting like a punch. Them laughing as they slice into the cake together. The messy blue filling revealed. Isla smearing cream onto Han’s nose as he scrunches up in mock annoyance. Han smiling at her like she’s the only thing in the room.
And the last one—
The one that breaks you—
Their kiss, soft and full of love, with Isla’s baby bump pressed between them.
The phone slips from your fingers to the bed, and you bury your face in your hands. The sob that rips out of you is raw, unsteady, like it’s been waiting for this moment to spill over. Tears blur everything, hot and relentless, because staring at those pictures makes it impossible to deny the truth.
This could have been you. This should have been you. But you fumbled it. You lost it. And now, someone else gets to live the life you once promised each other. You curl forward, pressing your palms harder against your face as if you could block it all out, but the ache only grows, gnawing at your chest, pulling you under until all that’s left is the sound of your own quiet, broken crying in an empty room.
You glance at your phone where it lies facedown on the bed, as though it burned you when you dropped it. For a long moment, you just stare at it. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t, but your fingers move anyway.
You pick it up, swipe the screen, and his post glares back at you like a cruel reminder. You don’t let yourself look too long this time. You tap his name instead, the little green circle showing he’s active. Your pulse spikes so hard it feels like it’s rattling in your throat.
For a moment, you hesitate. You draft a message and delete it. Start another and erase that too. It feels like you’re holding a lit match too close to gasoline, and yet—
Your thumbs finally type the words before you can stop them: “Can we meet?”
You stare at it, your thumb hovering over send. Your heart is begging you not to, your head screaming about the danger, the mistake. But the ache in your chest—the longing that never left—pushes harder.
You hit send and the message shoots off. No taking it back.
You lock the phone and toss it beside you on the bed, burying your face in your pillow, praying and dreading all at once that he’ll answer.
-
The walk to the bar feels heavier than your body can carry. Every step weighs you down, but still you force yourself forward, heart pounding like it knows this might be the last chance. By the time you reach the door, your palms are clammy, your throat dry.
Inside, the place is nearly deserted—the smell of fresh wood polish and faint beer lingering in the air. It’s barely opened for the day, the lights still too bright, too sterile for what you’re here to do.
Han is already there, hunched slightly at the bar, one hand wrapped around a half-empty bottle of beer. He looks up when you walk in, and his face softens with recognition.
“Hey,” he greets, voice low, tired but warm in its own way.
“Hey,” you echo, sliding onto the stool beside him. You tuck your hands in your lap, trying not to fidget. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
Han glances at you, and something flickers in his eyes—something you can’t name. He smiles faintly, though, cluelessly, at the state of you. It makes you aware of your appearance. You glance down at yourself: the mismatched sweater and shirt, your hair in a messy knot.
“I don’t know what I’m wearing,” you jokingly mutter. “I couldn’t find something nice so I thought, why not just ruin it.”
He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You look like a crazy cat lady.”
A breathless laugh escapes you, but it dies quickly, leaving silence in its wake.
The quiet stretches until both of you blurt something out at the same time, words colliding and dissolving. You wave him off, swallowing hard. “Let me just say something, okay?”
Han’s lips press into a line, but he nods. “Okay.”
You take a deep breath, steadying the quake in your chest. Then you look at him—really look at him—and the words tumble out, raw and jagged. “I don’t know what’s going on in your… other situation,” you start, your voice shaking, “but for the record, I fucked up.”
The confession stings like acid on your tongue. “I was cavalier with you, and I took us for granted. And I know it sounds crazy but—” Your throat closes, breath uneven. “I think I’d regret it for life if I don’t say this.”
You blink fast, fighting the burn in your eyes. Han watches you, unreadable, his fingers tapping lightly against the glass.
“If you were open to it… I feel like I could do better. With you. With us.” Your voice breaks, but you push through it. “If there’s still a chance, I’d love to know.”
The words hang in the air, trembling like they might collapse under their own weight. You grip the edge of your stool, waiting, praying for anything.
A moment passes in silence.
“Han?” you say softly, brokenly, when he doesn’t answer.
He turns his head toward you, and for a split second you think—hope—he might lean in, might say something that could undo the ache clawing at your chest. But instead, his expression crumples. He looks like he wants to say a hundred things, but all he does is shake his head slowly.
“I can’t,” he mutters, voice rough.
Before you can react, Han pushes back from the bar, the legs of his stool scraping loudly against the floor. He stands, drops a few bills on the counter, and without another look at you, he walks out—his back retreating through the door, leaving you stranded in the silence, shattered and small.
You push out of the bar after him, the air outside cool but not enough to soothe the fire ripping through you. He’s almost at his car already, moving fast like he can outrun this whole thing, outrun you.
“Hey! Han!” you call, your voice breaking, but he doesn’t stop until your fingers clutch the sleeve of his shirt.
He turns, startled, his eyes flashing with something raw before dimming back down.
“Why did you come over last night?” you demand, the question spilling out of you before you can think.
He blinks, exhales hard. “I don’t know.”
The answer slices through you, shallow and careless. You shake your head. “But you do know.”
Han’s chest rises as he drags in a breath, jaw tight. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”
A sharp, bitter laugh escapes you, cannot believe that he chose to not admitting it. “You’re a fucking coward.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, but then he throws his own truth at you. “I’m having a baby. I need to figure out a way to make it work with Isla. I’m trying to change.”
Your teeth clench because now you think of the one question that you’ve been dying to ask him. “Why didn’t you change for me?”
Han lowers his voice, steady but soft, almost resigned. “I don’t think you really wanted me to.”
It’s unbearable—the way he twists it like that—and rage crackles through you. “All I did was wait for you to grow up. I rooted for you. I fucking paid for everything. I did everything for you.”
His eyes narrow, and he slides through your words like he’s been waiting to say this. “And I was never your equal. And I think you preferred it that way.”
Your vision stings, tears pricking no matter how much you try to blink them back. “I know my success was never okay with you.”
Han looks away then, his silence betraying him. When his gaze comes back to you, it’s sharp, cutting. “What do you want?”
Your throat feels like it’s closing, your voice breaking and hoarse. “I just want you to admit that you’re wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” Han shoots back, bewildered and heated. “What did you expect me to do? Sit around and wait for you to meet someone first? Is that how you saw it happening?”
The air between you crackles with the tension, so thick you can barely breathe. And then Han steadies himself, his tone cooling in a way that burns worse than shouting.
“I didn’t expect to meet someone so fast. But I did. And I have a real chance of being happy. I don’t want to blow that.”
Something ugly twists in you, and before you can stop yourself, the venom spills out. “Well, you know what, Han? You will definitely blow it.”
The words land like knives, and you see it in the way his body goes still. He stares at you, disbelieving, like you’ve crossed a line too sharp to uncross. “Wow,” he mutters, shaking his head.
When his eyes meet yours again, they’re merciless. “You know, I feel sorry for you. You might actually be alone for your whole life.”
The sentence cleaves you open. His voice. His words. They echo inside you, cruel and unshakable.
Your lips tremble, but you manage to spit out, “Don’t ever call me.”
Han barely hesitates. His tone is final, flat. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”
And then he turns, leaving you there with nothing but the echo of his footsteps fading into the night and the venom of his words clawing at your insides. You wrap your arms around yourself, every step back toward your house heavy, as if you’re dragging the weight of a life you’ll never get back.
-
You might actually be alone for your whole life.
They loop in your head, over and over, like a cruel refrain you can’t turn off. Every step you take back to your house feels heavier than the last, your chest tight, your throat sore, like something inside you is breaking and spilling all at once.
When you finally shut the door behind you, the silence hits hard. It’s too quiet, too empty, and suddenly you’re gasping for air like the walls are pressing in on you.
You stumble into the kitchen, your hands gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache. You try to steady your breathing, try to stop the tears from coming, but they rise anyway—hot, relentless.
You slam your palm down against the countertop, once, twice, like you can beat the ache out of yourself. But it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Because beneath all of the anger, beneath the disbelief, there’s the unbearable truth you can’t outrun: you still love him.
You hate him for the things he said. You hate him for how easily he cut you down. But the worst part? You hate yourself more—for still aching for someone who chose to build a future with someone else.
Your phone buzzes on the table, lighting up the screen, but you don’t even look. Whoever it is, it’s not him. Not anymore.
So you curl into yourself, sitting on the kitchen floor, letting the tears fall until your face feels raw and your body aches with exhaustion. And through the blur of it all, his voice plays in your head again, cruel and final.
You might actually be alone for your whole life.
You press your hands over your ears, desperate to drown him out, but no matter what you do, you can’t stop hearing it.
-
It’s Niamh’s bridal shower. It’s buzzing with laughter, light chatters, and the kind of effortless joy that comes from being surrounded by people who belong. You don’t feel like you belong. You never do at these things.
So you keep filling your flute, glass after glass, champagne sliding down like water, burning only slightly at the back of your throat. Each swallow blurs the edges of your thoughts, softens the knot twisting in your stomach. You tell yourself you’re just trying to take the edge off, but the edge never goes away—it just sharpens differently.
By the time you’re weaving through clusters of women in pastel dresses, your legs feel loose, unsteady. You stumble toward Niamh, who’s radiant, glowing in a way that makes your chest ache, standing beside her mother.
“Ohhh, Mrs. O’Sullivan!” you slur, grinning too wide as you reach out to touch Niamh’s mother’s arm. “You must be sooo happy—Niamh is getting married, isn’t that the sweetest thing? The sweetest.”
Niamh stiffens, her polite smile turning tight at the corners.
“And I know all about marriage!” you continue, ignoring the look on her face. “I was married once, too. It was—” you hiccup, then laugh at yourself, “—it was something, yeah. Except my husband’s, um—” you lower your voice, leaning in though you’re still loud enough for half the room to hear, “—he’s having a baby with another girl now.”
There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for the words to settle heavy and wrong. Niamh’s mother’s eyes flick to her daughter, discomfort plain on her face.
“Okay,” Niamh cuts in, stepping forward quickly, her hand curling firmly around your elbow. “That’s enough champagne for you.”
You giggle like she’s scolding you for staying up past your bedtime, but you let her tug you toward the staircase at the same time the front door opens and Han walks in, Isla’s hand in his. They’re smiling, glowing, the perfect picture of what you once thought would be yours. His eyes catch yours just as your stomach flips violently, and before you can look away, you’re gagging. Your hand flies to your mouth, panic surging.
He sees you. Of course he does. And you want to die right there on the spot. But Niamh’s quicker, steering you up the stairs with sharp determination, whispering urgent, “Come on, come on, don’t you dare do this here—”
She gets you into a bathroom just in time, her hand holding your hair back while you empty yourself into the toilet. It’s humiliating, awful, but she doesn’t let go, doesn’t look away.
When it’s over, she guides you to the edge of the bed in one of the guest rooms, pressing a cold bottle of water into your hand. You mumble an apology, cheeks burning with shame.
“I’m so embarrassing,” you croak. “I ruined your bridal shower.”
Niamh kneels in front of you, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ears with surprising gentleness. “You didn’t ruin anything. Just… stay here, okay? Until you feel better.”
You nod, small and pathetic, like a scolded child. Your lip trembles, and before you can stop it, the truth spills out, raw and heavy. “I don’t want to be alone forever.”
Her expression softens instantly. She cups your face in both hands, her voice tender as she says, “Oh, honey. You’re not going to be alone forever. You just… need a time out. Until you sober up.”
You nod again, and for the first time all day, you almost believe her.
When she leaves the room, the silence swallows you whole. You collapse backward onto the bed, shoes still on, the ceiling spinning above you. Before long, the exhaustion wins. You drift into sleep, your chest aching, your body heavy with the kind of sadness that even dreams can’t untangle.
-
Your house looks like the aftermath of a storm that only hit you. Empty mugs and glasses cover the coffee table, snack wrappers crumpled like little paper failures beside them. The TV drones on, another movie flickering across the screen, but you haven’t been watching. You just need the noise, anything to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.
You’re curled up on the sofa under a blanket that’s half sliding to the floor when your phone starts buzzing somewhere between the cushions. It takes effort, too much effort, to hunt it down—shoving your hand deep into the gap until your fingers close around it. You flop back down, dragging the blanket to your chest like armor.
“Hello?”
“Why haven’t you asked me on a second date yet?” Felix’s voice comes through, smooth, self-assured, too bright for the cave you’ve built yourself in.
You groan. “Second date? I don’t even remember the first.”
He ignores that. “Well? What’s the hold up?”
“Fine.” Your voice comes out muffled against the blanket. “You can have your second date if you bring me cheeseburgers and fries. And we’re having it here. At my place. No exceptions.”
There’s a pause. Then Felix sighs dramatically, as if the weight of your demand is unbearable. “Cheeseburgers? Really? I have to stay in shape, you know. I can’t—”
You cut him off with another groan. “Just remember you’re the one turning it down.” And with that, you hang up, dropping the phone onto the coffee table without another thought before burrowing deeper into your blanket cocoon.
You must drift, because the next thing you register is the sharp buzz of your doorbell. You jolt upright, disoriented, heart racing. You weren’t expecting anyone. Felix was just being cheeky. He couldn’t have actually—
But when you open the door, there he is.
Felix, all smug grin and infuriating charm, holding up a grease-stained takeout bag like a trophy. “Miss me?”
The unmistakable smell of burgers and fries hits you, and your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. You narrow your eyes, but he only smirks wider. He knows he’s won.
-
The wrappers are balled up on the table, the smell of burgers still clinging to the air. You sink back into the sofa, feeling heavier and lighter all at once. Felix lounges next to you, too at ease for someone who just witnessed the mess of your life scattered all over your living room.
He’s looking around, that little tilt of his head betraying the questions you know he’s holding back.
“You know what they say,” you murmur, trying to play it off, “if you can’t handle me at my worst…” The words falter, dying in your throat as you take in your blanket nest, the clutter, the exhaustion hanging off you. You don’t even want to finish the sentence.
But Felix doesn’t push. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t ask. He just leans forward, plucks the remote from the table, and says, “I’m picking the movie.”
So you let him and the TV flickers to life, as soon as the opening theme plays, your chest tightens. Of all things, he’s chosen a Ghibli film—Han’s favorite. The pastel skies, the swelling music—it pulls you under, dragging up memories you’ve been trying to shove back down. By the time you notice the sting in your eyes, it’s too late.
Felix notices. He tilts his head, feigning confusion. “It’s not even a sad movie.”
“I know,” you whisper, voice wobbling as tears slip free. “I just… it makes me miss someone.”
Silence stretches. Felix shifts, and when he finally speaks, his voice is low. “Do you miss him?”
You nod slowly, your throat aching. “I do.”
Maybe it’s the comfort of the dim light, or maybe you’re too tired to keep holding it in, but the words start spilling out anyway. “I thought when we’re older, it’d be easier. You know? Like… all the heartbreak, the choices. I thought it’d make more sense.”
Felix turns his head, watching you closely. Then, with a faint smirk, he leans in just enough to say, “I’ve got bad news for you—it’s not getting any easier from here.”
You let out a scoff, half laugh, half disbelief.
But he smiles softer this time. “What you will get, though, is stronger. And I know you will. You’ll get through this.”
His hand finds yours, warm and steady, and he squeezes gently. It’s simple, but it cuts through the fog that’s been weighing on you for weeks.
You can’t help but smile—genuine, fragile, grateful. You lean your head back against the sofa, tilt your face toward him with your best puppy eyes, and murmur sweetly, “Can we order tacos now?”
Felix bursts into laughter, the sound filling the room like sunlight. “Only if you’re paying this time.”
-
It’s the first time in your life you’re packing hours before the flight, the anxiety is real as half-zipped suitcases yawning open on the bed, clothes scattered, chargers tangled. You scramble from room to room, muttering under your breath as you shove toiletries into your bag, double-checking your passport and flight tickets like they might disappear if you look away for too long.
Less than three hours before your flight. Your stomach churns with nerves and caffeine as you drag your suitcase out the door and haul it into the backseat. On the drive, your mind races—lists upon lists of what you might have forgotten. You’re halfway to the airport when your phone rings, buzzing against the console. Niamh’s name flashes across the screen.
You fumble to answer, pinning the phone between your ear and shoulder. “Hey! Don’t worry, I’m on my way to the airport. Everything’s fine.”
Her voice comes through bright but edged with stress. “Good. But… uh, you have your dress, right?”
Your heart drops straight into your stomach. “Oh, shit.” You slam your palm against your forehead, groaning.
“You forgot it, didn’t you?”
You’re already swerving toward the nearest turn, checking your mirrors as you reroute. “I had it altered and I forgot to pick it up.”
Niamh groans dramatically.
“I know, I know—but don’t panic, okay? I’m turning around right now. I’ll pick it up, and I’ll still make my flight,” you assure her but even it sounds so doubtful to you.
There’s a beat of silence, then a long exhale from her side. “You’d better. Just hurry up and drive safely.”
You wince, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Noted. Dress, flight, wedding. Got it. I promise.”
You hang up and grip the steering wheel tighter, muttering to yourself as you floor it toward the dry cleaner, praying the universe gives you a break this one time.
-
The dash through the airport feels like an Olympic sprint, suitcase wheels rattling across the floor, dress bag clutched in your free hand like it’s the Holy Grail. By the time you slump into your seat on the plane, hair sticking to your temples and chest heaving, relief washes over you. You did it.
The flight blurs by in a haze of cramped seats and recycled air. Before you know it, you’re dragging your suitcase out to the curb and flagging down a cab, giving the driver the address of the train station. The city rushes past the window—buildings stacked close, roads buzzing with traffic.
The train ride is quieter, a long stretch of countryside opening up on either side as you sink into your seat. You watch the blur of trees, fields, and little towns flash by, your reflection faint against the glass. For the first time in days, you let yourself breathe, headphones in, world muted.
At the last stop, you haul your luggage again, this time toward a rental car parked at the edge of the lot. The keys click in your hand, the engine hums to life, and you’re off.
The road winds narrower as you leave the towns behind, giving way to sprawling fields and rolling hills. Then, suddenly, the lake comes into view—shimmering in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by green that stretches forever. The countryside is almost too beautiful, the kind of place that feels untouched by the mess of your thoughts.
You slow the car as the signs for the wedding venue come into view, your chest tightening with anticipation. Niamh’s choice makes sense now—the place looks like something pulled straight from a dream, the perfect backdrop for vows and forever.
By the time you finally make it up to your hotel room, your body aches in that bone-deep way that comes from nonstop motion. You don’t bother unpacking, you take a shower and as you’re drying your hair with a towel, you head for the window, pulling the curtains aside. Outside, the wedding tent is already up—white canvas gleaming against the lake, strings of lights weaving across the poles. It looks magical even half-finished, like a promise waiting to unfold.
-
The sun filters through the canopy of trees, warm and golden, like even the world itself wants to celebrate Niamh and Josh. The lake behind them sparkles, its surface rippling with the breeze. You stand beside Niamh in your bridesmaid dress, her bouquet carefully cradled in your hands, and try to steady your breathing.
Josh’s voice wavers slightly as he begins his vows, but his eyes never leave hers. There’s so much love in them it’s almost unbearable to witness. And Niamh—she glows. Every word she says carries that certainty, that kind of devotion that fills the air around them like sunlight.
Your throat tightens because you know how that felt once. That electric current between two people, that sense of being tethered by something invisible and unbreakable. You remember the kind of joy that burned so brightly it almost hurt.
And it hurts now too, only differently.
A few feet away, Han stands among the groomsmen, the light blue suit and crisp white shirt making him look polished, untouchable. He’s smiling as Josh and Niamh hold each other’s hands, but when your eyes accidentally find his, your chest clenches. You force yourself to look away before the ache swallows you whole.
Then the words come. The words everyone waits for.
“I do.”
First from Josh, then from Niamh, their voices steady with conviction. The officiant’s announcement follows, clear and ringing across the lawn: “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
They kiss, and the whole crowd bursts into cheers. Applause, laughter, whistles. You clap too, a wide smile stretching across your face even as tears prick your eyes. Because your heart hurts—but it’s the kind of hurt that feels almost beautiful.
A reminder of what was. A hope, maybe, for what could be again someday.
And as you cheer for them, bouquet clutched in your hands, you let the ache linger, bittersweet in the best way.
-
Flowers decorated every inch of the wedding tent, champagne flutes catching every flicker as laughter and chatter fill the air. You swirl the last sip of bubbly in your glass, only half-listening as Ariel, Niamh’s younger sister, stands at the small stage. She’s radiant in her matching bridesmaid dress, sharing the same blonde hair, freckled cheeks and round nose as her older sister. Her voice trembles slightly, but her words are drenched in sweetness. “To Niamh, my sister, my forever role model…” She goes on, voice thick with sentiment, and though you want to roll your eyes at the cheesiness, you force yourself to smile.
It’s a wedding, after all. They’re supposed to be cheesy. You endured the same when it was your turn, once upon a time.
You drain your champagne, the bubbles prickling your throat when Ariel’s voice cuts into your wandering thoughts. “And now, give it up to Niamh’s best friend in the world—”
Your stomach drops as she calls your name and then applause scatters through the tent as Ariel steps down, handing off the microphone.
Chris, seated next to you, leans over with a crooked grin. “Good luck,” he mutters under his breath, raising his glass in mock salute.
You shoot him a look, but your pulse is already thrumming in your ears. You completely forgot about it. Between the mess of your own heart, the life drama and the endless bridesmaid duties, you hadn’t written a single word for this moment.
Still, you rise, smoothing clammy palms against the fabric of your dress. Each step toward the stage feels heavy, your smile practiced, shaky at the edges. You take the mic, staring at the crowd—faces blurred by nerves and champagne.
“Well,” you start, voice faintly cracking before you clear your throat. “No pressure or anything, right?”
A nervous ripple of laughter, polite but brief. Your chest tightens. Come on, make them laugh.
“So, uh… I was told the trick is to start with a joke.” You pause, then deliver one you’re not even sure makes sense in the haze of panic. Silence stretches—until someone in the very back chuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet.
You point toward them with mock gravity. “Thank you, sir, for the support. I appreciate you.”
That earns you a warmer laugh from the crowd, tension easing just slightly, though your hands still tremble around the mic.
You glance at Niamh and she’s there, sitting close to Josh, the two of them glowing in that unmistakable newlywed light, her bouquet laid on the table, her cheeks flushed pink. She’s watching you, hopeful, expectant, her eyes bright as if she’s waiting for something more than a flimsy joke.
You take in a deep breath, steadying yourself. “So…” you start again, this time softer. “I just came from quite the journey to get here—planes, cabs, trains, rental cars, the whole lot and… I’m pretty sure there was a rickshaw in there with the donkey. I’m honestly surprised I made it in one piece.” A few people chuckle at that, the sound loosening something in your chest.
“The truth is…” you glance at Niamh, “…I’d go anywhere for Niamh. Because she’s my best friend, and I love her. I’m so happy for her.”
Her eyes glimmer at that, and it pushes you to keep going.
You let your mind wander back through years of memories you shared with Niamh until one settles warm in your chest. “When we were in college, we had this tradition. Every Sunday, no matter what, we’d meet at The Bishop—Niamh and Josh, me and Han.” You catch Niamh’s eyes flicker toward Josh, the two of them sharing a soft, fond look, no doubt replaying those Sundays in their heads.
“There was always something there with these two, even back then. Even when they were just friends.” You gesture toward them, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “Just this ease they had with each other. And now—” you glance between them, voice softening, “they’re perfect. And at last, love wins.”
There’s a hush, a pause where it feels like the whole tent is breathing together, before the crowd breaks into warm applause. You smile, lowering the mic—only, something inside you twists, restless.
You lift the mic again, voice trembling just a little. “Niamh and Josh—you guys are lucky. So lucky to be best friends.” The crack in your throat makes your words wobble. “Work hard on that. Respect that. Be patient and… you don’t always have to be right.” You smile faintly, even as tears sting your eyes. “Even if you are, it doesn’t matter anyway. Fight for it. Every single day.”
Your chest squeezes as the last words slip out. “I wish I had.”
For a beat too long, silence stretches over the room, your vulnerability hanging in the air. Then, before it can sour, you force a smile, raise your champagne flute, and mutter, “Cheers.”
The applause comes a second late, hesitant at first, but it grows, the sound wrapping around you as you step off the stage. You keep your head down, back to your table, where you immediately tip the rest of your drink down your throat to burn back the tears threatening to spill.
Chris reaches under the table, his hand finding yours on your thigh. His palm is steady, grounding, and he gives a gentle squeeze. When you look at him, he smiles—no teasing this time. Just warm. “That was a great speech,” he says, easy and certain.
You know he’s only being kind, but you can’t help but smile anyway because it seems like Ariel isn’t the only one who got cheesy tonight.
-
The dessert table is almost too much—towering éclairs, pastel macarons, lemon tarts with glazed tops that glisten under the fairy lights. You hover there, debating which one to choose, when you feel it. That shift in the air, that quiet certainty. You don’t need to look—you know who it is.
“This might be a bad time to talk about it,” Han says in utter seriousness as he picks up a plate, “but at some point, we have to address Josh’s dance moves.”
Your eyes flicker to the dance floor and there he is, Josh, one leg propped against the tent pole, hips thrusting in some over-exaggerated grind that makes half the guests cheer and the other half cover their faces.
You stifle a laugh, lips twitching. “Wow,” you murmur, still looking at Josh, “Niamh really is a lucky girl.”
There’s a pause. You feel it before you hear him again.
You finally turn, catching his gaze. His sincerity makes your chest ache.
“Thank you,” he adds quietly.
You smile, meaning every word as you reply, “I meant it.”
Han gives a small nod, eyes lingering on yours. “I know.”
The silence teeters on the edge of something heavy, and you don’t want it to land there. So you tilt your head, letting playfulness slip in. “You know what else is beautiful?”
His brows rise, curious. “What?”
“Your son.”
The confusion on his face makes you bite back a grin.
“Stellan Koontz-Smith Hanson,” you remind him.
Blank. Then—recognition dawns. “That Swedish robot? How’s he doing?”
You feign a tragic look. “I had to chop him into pieces.”
Han gasps, dramatic as ever. “How dare you?”
“He wasn’t paying rent,” you explain solemnly. “Did absolutely nothing about it.”
“Wow,” Han shakes his head, biting back laughter. “Cold. Even for you.”
You’re laughing, both of you spiraling down into the kind of ridiculousness you haven’t shared in years, when a voice cuts through.
“Who’s Stellan?”
You both glance up to see Isla at Han’s side, her brows arched, amused.
You wave a hand vaguely. “A robot dresser Han assembled one night.”
“It’s a stupid thing,” you add.
Han echoes, chuckling, “Yeah. A stupid robot.”
Isla smiles at the both of you, laying her hand on Han’s arm. “Dinner’s about to be served. We should head back.”
Han nods, his hand sliding into hers. As they turn, Isla glances back at you with a kind smile. “See you on the dance floor.”
You smile, small but genuine, watching them disappear back to their table. It aches, but in a softer way this time.
As the party swells behind you—music, laughter, cheers—you slip out of the tent, a pilfered bottle of champagne dangling from your fingers. You stand just outside, the cool air wrapping around you, watching everyone inside. They look so happy, so alive, twirling under strings of lights. For a moment, you just breathe.
It hurts, yes, but the hurt feels… different now. Softer. Like the bitter has thinned out, leaving only something warm.
And then the fireworks begin, bursting in the sky above the lake. Gold, red, silver—scattering like sparks of possibility. You tilt your head back, smile curling on your lips. For the first time in a long while, you feel it: the bitter part is ending and the sweet part has only just begun.
-
It’s too neat, too clean, too perfect for a place to work but Chris likes it that way, he even organized his record collections alphabetically because that’s just how he is but your focus is locked on the man, not the fact that he probably has a serious case of OCD. He’s leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen, the universal signal that he’s about to shoot your idea down.
“I’m telling you,” you say, leaning over his desk, your voice stubborn but hopeful. “This band isn’t just good—they’re different. Their lyrics are sharp, the sound’s fresh. They’ve got something real.”
Chris sighs dramatically, tilting his head at you. “You know how many people pitch me ‘the next big thing’ every week?”
You roll your eyes, drop into the chair across from him. “Okay, but how many of them have my track record?”
He smirks despite himself. “You mean the one where you fall head over heels for a band, drag me into it, and somehow… annoyingly… end up being right?”
You grin wide, resting your chin in your hand. “Exactly.”
Chris chuckles, shaking his head like he’s lost this round already. Finally, he scribbles his signature on the sponsorship form and slides it across the desk. “Fine. But if they flop, I’m blaming you.”
“They won’t,” you say with absolute certainty, snatching it before he can change his mind. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Chris mutters something about regretting this already, but you’re practically glowing.
-
It’s the weekend, and for once, you’re having a quiet night in. A book rests half-read on the couch, the TV hums softly in the background, and you’ve convinced yourself that doing nothing is exactly what you need.
Then the doorbell rings.
You frown, not expecting anyone, and pad over to answer it. When you swing the door open, there’s Felix, grinning from ear to ear like he’s been waiting all night for this.
“Felix,” you say, arching a brow. “You can’t just show up at my door unannounced.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he lifts the bag in his hands and cracks it open just enough for the rich, savory scent of tacos to spill into your hallway. Your stomach betrays you immediately, growling loud enough to make him chuckle.
Without another word, you sigh, step aside, and gesture him in. “Fine. You’re lucky you brought backup.”
Not long after, the two of you are sitting cross-legged on the carpet, tacos demolished, glasses of red wine refilled, Scrabble tiles scattered across the board in front of you.
Felix stares at his tiles with a calculating intensity, tongue poking out just slightly as he rearranges them. Finally, he lays down the word: Z-I-F-T.
You narrow your eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”
Felix casually replies, “It’s a word.”
“You’re a songwriter,” you argue, glaring at the nonsense word he’s just set down. “You should know that is not a word.”
Felix smirks, leaning back on his hands. “It’s a word in my world. Which means it counts.”
“That’s not how it works!” you protest, snatching up your glass for emphasis. “You can’t just make stuff up because you don’t want to lose.”
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he shifts forward in one fluid movement, closing the space between you before you can catch up to what’s happening. “You talk too much for a loser,” he murmurs, and then, his lips are on yours.
The kiss is sudden, bold, silencing every protest you had on your tongue. For a heartbeat, you freeze—but then the warmth of it, the softness, the way his hand comes up to cup your jaw, pulls you under. The taste of wine and tacos lingers between you, and the kiss deepens, unhurried but certain, like he’s been holding it back for too long.
When he finally pulls back, he’s grinning, eyes alight. “See? That’s a wordless victory.”
You’re breathless, blinking at him, torn between laughing, smacking him, or pulling him back in. Instead, you manage a weak protest, your voice shaky with the smile you can’t hide. “That… doesn’t count either.”
Felix just leans in again, his forehead brushing yours. “Then maybe I should try harder until it does.”
You try to hold your ground, determined to beat him despite that kiss throwing you off your game, but it’s useless. Even without his cheating, Felix racks up points like it’s second nature. By the end, the board is nearly full, and you’re glaring at the final tally.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter, tossing your last tiles back into the pouch. “You didn’t even need to cheat. You just— you crushed me.”
Felix is already leaning back, hands behind his head, smug as ever. “What can I say? Wordsmith by day, Scrabble king by night.”
You sulk, arms crossing as you slump back against the couch. “I hate this. You were supposed to lose. That was the deal.”
He turns his head toward you, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re actually pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You are.” He shifts closer, his voice lowering, playful but softer now. “It’s… kinda adorable.”
You shoot him a look, about to argue again, but before you can, Felix dips forward and catches your lips in another kiss. This one isn’t sudden or teasing, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the sulk right out of you, his hand brushing your knee before sliding higher. Your arms uncross without thinking, hands finding their way into his hair as the kiss deepens.
The board rattles against the carpet when you shift, tiles scattering, but neither of you care. He pulls you onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the game forgotten as his mouth moves hungrily against yours.
“You’re still a loser,” he murmurs between kisses, grinning against your lips.
“Shut up,” you whisper back, tugging him in closer.
But he doesn’t stop—his hands roam, firm against your waist, pulling you down flush against him. The kiss escalates, no longer playful but needy, and you let yourself get lost in it, your sulk dissolving into laughter, then soft sighs, then nothing but the rush of him everywhere.
Your hands slide under his shirt, tracing the taut muscles of his stomach until he lifts his arms, letting you strip him bare. His skin is warm, smooth, his body lean but defined, and your fingers wander, greedy to touch every inch.
Felix doesn’t give you long before pulling you back into another kiss. His hands roam your sides like he’s memorizing you, tugging gently at the hem of your top until he slips it over your head. He leans back, eyes flicking over you, and the small, dazed smile on his lips is almost enough to undo you right there.
“Still sulking?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your lower lip as if the pout you had earlier lingers.
“Maybe,” you say, but your voice betrays you—it’s too soft, too needy.
He grins, low and wicked, before kissing you again. “Good. I like it.”
The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. His tongue slides against yours, coaxing a shiver down your spine, and before you realize it, you’re on your back, the carpet warm beneath you as Felix hovers over you, hair falling forward and tickling your cheek. He pauses there, eyes locked on yours, as if asking without words. You answer with your hands, tugging him down to you.
Clothes scatter carelessly—your jeans tugged down, his belt unbuckled, laughter spilling between kisses when you fumble impatiently at a button. His mouth maps you slowly, tracing your throat, your collarbone, lingering at your chest before moving lower, his touch and lips coaxing sounds out of you you can’t hold back.
Felix tilts his head, exposing his neck to you and without the slightest of hesitation, you place kisses on his skin, on the column of his throat, his Adam’s apple, his jaws and then you drag your lips close to his ear.
“Felix—” his name escapes you in a whisper, half-plea, half-sigh, and it makes him groan like he’s been waiting to hear it.
He growls in response before crashing his lips against yours again. His hand wildly roaming around your body as yours is wrapped around his swollen length, throbbing the more you slowly stroke it.
When he finally pushes his cock into you, it’s slow at first—so achingly slow you want to scream. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, as though he’s determined to feel every inch, every moment. He kisses you between gasps, messy and desperate, and whispers things against your skin that you barely catch but burn all the same—how good you feel, how much he wants you.
You move together, finding a rhythm, laughter slipping in between the moans when he says something cheeky just to make you roll your eyes even now. But then his lips find that spot at your neck, his pace falters into something rougher, deeper, and the laughter gives way to broken gasps.
The heat builds, wave after wave, until it crashes over you both. You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, his name spilling from your lips as he buries his face against your neck, trembling with the force of it.
After, he doesn’t move away—not right away. He stays pressed to you, breath mingling with yours, his thumb stroking absent circles over your hip. Then he chuckles softly, kissing your temple.
“Guess I win at more than scrabble,” he teases, his voice low and wrecked.
Somehow, in the haze of it, you find the energy to protest again. “What the hell is zift anyway? You don’t even know what it means?” You say with an exasperated sigh.
He only laughs again, pulling you closer and in the quiet aftermath, it feels less like losing and more like the sweetest win.
-
You’re back at the office, running through the last checklist for the indie band’s release party when you hear someone call your name. You turn around—and freeze.
Jeongin is standing there, easy smile on his face, like nothing ever happened. “Hey. Wow, I haven’t heard from you since our date.”
The words sting a little, not because of him, but because of how badly that night unraveled. For a moment you think maybe he’s joking—but no, he looks genuinely clueless.
You force a polite smile. “Yeah, uh… I’ve just been… busy.”
It comes out awkward, thin as paper. He nods like he accepts the answer, but the silence that follows is unbearable. You can feel the air tightening around you, your heart itching to get out of there.
“Well,” you stammer, already stepping back, “I should probably… get going. I have a… super important meeting I need to attend.” You emphasize the words as if they’ll somehow make your excuse more believable, even though you’re clutching a clipboard and nowhere near a meeting room.
Before he can say anything else, you pivot on your heels and dart away, tugging Chris’s arm as soon as you reach him. Leaning close, you whisper through clenched teeth, “You didn’t tell me you hired him for the album release party?”
Chris looks over your shoulder toward Jeongin, then back at you, and he bursts out laughing. “What? I thought you’d enjoy the surprise.”
“Chris,” you hiss, still dragging him down the hall, “you knew about that date.”
“Of course I knew,” he says, completely unbothered, “but you two looked cute together! I figured this would be like a fun little reunion.”
“Fun?” You shoot him a sharp glare. “That was not fun. That was mortifying.”
He just grins wider. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad. You made an excuse about a super important meeting. Classic. Very smooth.”
You groan, pressing your forehead against your clipboard. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Chris says, positively gleeful. “But hey, look at the bright side—at least he doesn’t know you ghosted him. He thinks you’re just busy.”
“That’s… not better!” you protest, but he only laughs harder, clearly enjoying your misery way too much.
-
The bass thunders through the venue, lights flickering over the crowd, when Chris slips out of nowhere and appears at your side. His grin is wide, flushed with excitement and maybe a bit of pride as he leans close to be heard over the music.
“You were right,” he shouts, holding up his phone so you can see the endless stream of notifications flying across the screen. “The magazine’s socials are blowing up—this event is everywhere right now.”
He pulls you into a quick, celebratory hug, his cologne mixing with a hint of alcohol and stage fog. You pat his back lightly, playing it cool even as a smile sneaks onto your lips.
“I’m glad it’s a success,” you say into his shoulder before he lets go.
“Huh?” He narrows his eyes at you. “No, ‘I told you so’ or ‘I’m always right’?”
You scoff a chuckle at that. “I’ve matured, Chris.”
Chris only laughs, shaking his head at your smugness, but there’s a spark in his eyes when he pulls away, that look that says he knows something you don’t.
“What?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Nothing,” he says, far too innocently, then leans in. “Just that the event’s also a success because a certain rockstar decided to attend.”
Before you can demand what he means, you feel a shift in the air beside you. A familiar warmth—undeniable even in a crowd this size. You don’t have to look to know, but you do anyway.
Felix in his leather jacket and jeans, blond hair shining under the stage lights, he looks like he was made to belong here. He flashes you a smile that’s both mischievous and earnest, and your chest betrays you by tightening at the sight.
You immediately mask it, schooling your face into feigned indifference. You roll your eyes lightly, acting as if his presence doesn’t spark something in you. “Oh, great. Him.”
Chris only smirks knowingly before excusing himself, leaving the two of you in the middle of the chaos, as though he’d planned this from the start.
As the band starts performing the tracks from their new album, the venue is alive, pulsing with energy, lights sweep across the stage, the crowd wild with excitement. You’re right there in the middle of it, pulled along by Felix’s infectious laugh, his hand finding your waist like it belongs there.
Neither of you know the words, not a single lyric, but it doesn’t matter—you’re screaming nonsense in time with everyone else, dancing like the floor belongs to you. Felix spins you once, badly, making you stumble into his chest, and you both dissolve into laughter before jumping again with the beat.
Then the music shifts, slows down, the electric charge melting into something softer. Without hesitation, Felix slips behind you, his arms resting securely at your waist, his chest pressed lightly against your back. He sways you both side to side, moving with the lazy rhythm.
It’s easy. Too easy. The press of his body is warm, grounding; his cheek brushing against your hair feels almost intimate, almost right. You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the comfort of it, the simplicity of just being held in the middle of the crowd.
And yet—there it is again. That lingering knot in your chest, the one that whispers of ghosts you haven’t let go of, of love that once burned so bright it left a scar. You can’t shake it. Even as you sway with Felix, even as he hums tunelessly against your ear, even as you smile because it feels good to smile… the doubt is still there, quiet but unyielding.
Are you ready for this? For him? For a new relationship?
-
Felix insists on walking you to your door, even though his chauffeur waits patiently by the car, engine idling, ready to take him straight to the airport as he’s still in the middle of tour. The two of you are still buzzing from the night—maybe from the cocktails, maybe from the music, maybe from the kiss that still lingers like static in the air.
On the front step, Felix suddenly catches your hand and gives you a playful spin, your skirt fanning out as you laugh in surprise. Before you can steady yourself, he reels you back in, catching you against his chest. There’s no space left between your bodies, no air. Just him, warm and solid, smiling down at you as if this moment is all that matters.
This time, he kisses you slower, deeper. Sweet in a way that aches, as if he’s giving you something fragile and precious. You melt into it without thinking—into him—and for a fleeting second, it feels dangerously easy to let yourself fall.
But then something sharp and real cuts through the haze. The weight of everything you’re carrying crashes back in. Your chest tightens, not from joy this time, but from the truth pressing at the back of your throat.
You pull back, your lips brushing his as you whisper, “I can’t do it.”
His smile falters instantly, confusion replacing it. “What? Are you serious? Why?” His voice isn’t demanding, just careful, searching.
You take a step back, drawing in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready for… this.”
Felix doesn’t let go right away. His hands linger at your waist as if he wants to keep you grounded. “But… why?” he asks softly, no judgment in it, only curiosity.
“I think I need to be alone,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “Getting a divorce—it’s something I need to do by myself.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hey, I know you’re getting a divorce and I—”
“I know,” you rush in, shaking your head. “But I think I have to go through that alone. I can’t—” you pause, swallowing, “I can’t skip to something new without getting it done first.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just studies you, his expression softening into something quiet, contemplative. And then, he nods. “Okay. I respect that.”
Relief and guilt hit you all at once. You admire him for the way he doesn’t push, for the kindness in the way he looks at you. He’s been nothing but steady, patient, and a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d needed.
“You’re not ready until you’re ready,” Felix says gently. “So don’t force it.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your throat ache. Without thinking, you lean forward and press a heartfelt kiss against his lips. It’s brief, tender, but you hope it carries everything you can’t put into words—thank you, I’m grateful, I wish I were ready.
When you pull away, his lips curve into a small, warm smile. “I like you,” he murmurs, almost sheepishly. “So when you’re ready, you call me, okay?”
You can’t help but smile back, a fragile but genuine curve of your lips. “Okay.”
You share one last long, tight hug, the kind that feels like a promise. When he finally lets you go, he takes a step back, hands lingering as if reluctant to lose contact. Then, with a soft grin, he turns and walks back toward the car.
Just before climbing in, Felix stops, glances over his shoulder, and lifts his hand in a small wave. You wave back, heart aching and full all at once, watching him disappear into the night.
-
The conference room is sterile in a way that matches the mood. You sit across from Han, a long, glossy table between you, each of you flanked by your respective attorneys. Papers are stacked neatly, pens uncapped, the air thick with silence broken only by the occasional rustle of pages.
Your attorney leans in, her voice calm and professional, guiding you through the next step. “Just here,” she says, tapping the page. You grip the pen, press it to paper, and sign your name, your hand trembling only slightly.
When you look up, your gaze lands on Han. He’s dressed properly for the occasion—dark suit, crisp shirt, but it’s his tie that catches your eye. A deep, rich blue that feels unexpectedly bold against all the seriousness of the room.
Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out. “Love that tie on you.”
Han is rather surprised as if he isn’t sure he heard you right. Then, slowly, his lips twitch into a smile. “Uh… thank you.”
Your attorney looks at you, puzzled, but you’re already pressing on, unable to resist the familiar urge to tease him. “Is it made… out of organic mung beans?”
Han ducks his head, shoulders shaking, trying to smother the laugh that threatens to break through in this suffocatingly formal setup. “No,” he says, voice low with amusement. “I actually found it when I was digging through your trash.”
The two of you break into laughter at the same time—loud and unrestrained, the sound jarring against the eerie quiet of the law firm. The attorneys glance at each other, clearly baffled at how anyone could find something to laugh about in the middle of a divorce proceeding.
And yet, for a fleeting moment, it feels like old times—just you and Han, finding each other in the absurdity of life.
-
When you both step out the law firm, the world feels… strangely the same, though everything has changed. You walk side by side down the steps, neither of you in a hurry to part, neither sure what to say next.
Han glances at you, his mouth quirking into a half-smile before he mutters, almost playfully, “Well… we’re divorced.”
You look back at him, and for the first time in a long while, there’s no sting. No bitterness. Just the truth. “Yep, we did it,” you say, holding up your hand, asking for a high-five
Han stares for a beat, then grins and smacks his hand against yours. The sharp clap echoes between you before both of you break into laughter, the kind that feels a little too loud, too freeing for the moment.
“We nailed that divorce,” Han says, still laughing as he shakes his head.
When the sound dies down, what lingers is a silence that doesn’t feel heavy. You inhale deeply and exhale just as slowly, a sigh that feels like no other—a release, a surrender. Relief. Finality. The end of a chapter, but also the quiet opening of a new one.
Han turns to you, studying your face for a moment. His voice softens, his playfulness giving way to something more careful. “Want to hang out for a bit more?”
The two of you walk aimlessly through the city, the sunset giving way to twilight. Dinner had been simple—nothing grand, just plates half-eaten as you filled the space with stories, laughter, and a kind of ease that only comes with someone who knows you inside out. Afterward, you kept walking, letting the dark settle in like a blanket, the streets glowing with lamplight. It’s when you pass the building—the one you once called ugly—that your feet stop. The light catches it differently now, gold and silver gleaming across the glass, shadows softened by night.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, almost to yourself.
Han pauses beside you, eyebrows raised slightly. “Thought you hated it.”
“Never seen it at night,” you answer quietly, still looking up.
You hear him exhale—a sound heavy, tired. When you turn, he’s already sunk down onto a nearby bench, elbows on his knees, his whole body folding under something invisible but weighty. You hesitate before sitting next to him.
“Hey,” you tease gently, nudging his arm. “We just got divorced, but nobody died, right?”
That makes him scoff a laugh, but it doesn’t last. He leans back, stares at the sky as if searching for words. Finally, his voice comes low, broken at the edges. “I keep thinking about how… you were right.” He swallows hard before turning his head toward you. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The words land sharp. Not because you wanted this confession. Not because you wanted to be right. But because you recognize it. That same fear—new beginnings, starting over without the other person to lean on.
Instead of unraveling with him, you reach for comfort, offering softly, “Do you love her?”
Han hesitates, his gaze flicking away, as if the answer might hurt you, but you can already see it written in him. Slowly, he nods.
You blink away the ache, forcing a small smile. “Then it’s worth fighting for.”
The silence that follows is heavy, but not cruel. It’s weighted with years of knowing each other, with all the things that can’t be undone. Tears well, pooling until they blur the streetlights, and before you know it, you’re standing, brushing them away. “This is getting too emotional,” you joke, voice breaking slightly.
Han laughs quietly as he gets up too, though it’s tinged with sadness. “Yeah,” he agrees.
You face him, the night folding around you both, and you know this moment—this, right here—is the end of something. So you give him words to carry, words you mean more than anything: “You deserve to be happy. And I want that for you. Always.”
His gaze lingers on yours, tender and soft in a way that twists your insides. His voice is a whisper when he says, “Me too.”
Then, almost trembling, he adds, “I love you.”
The words land differently now—less promise, more memory. But they’re no less true.
Tears spill as you whisper back, “I love you too.”
He leans in, and you let him—one last kiss, slow and lingering, tasting of goodbye and everything you once were. Your heart aches so fiercely it almost feels like breaking all over again.
When he pulls away, he lets out a shaky breath, a faint smile ghosting his lips before he turns to leave. You watch him walk away, and for a moment you think you should too.
But then he stops, pivots back, his smile warmer this time, softer. “It’s late,” he says, voice gentle. “I should walk you to your car.”
Something in you loosens at that—because even now, even after everything, he’s still him. You laugh through your tears and nod, letting him fall into step beside you, the two of you walking together one last time.
-
Your office is quiet, the kind of quiet that only settles when you’re too deep into work to notice the hours passing. The cursor blinks on your screen, the article you’ve been obsessing over finally finished, polished, and sent. You’re still rereading a line for the third time when a knock at your door pulls you back.
“Hey, special one,” Chris cheerfully greets as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, grin wide. “Your latest piece is blowing up. Positive responses everywhere. Honestly, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”
You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “It’s literally my job, Chris.”
“Yeah, well, you’re killing it,” he says, pointing at you with mock seriousness. Then his grin tilts sly. “So… any chance you’ll celebrate? Maybe even go on a date? Or are you planning to marry your laptop now that it’s been a while since the divorce?”
You roll your eyes, but don’t bother answering. Chris takes your silence as the win it is, chuckling as he pushes off the doorframe. “Cause I have a plan to set you up with another photographer I know,” he playfully tosses over his shoulder before leaving you alone again.
“Ugh. No, thank you,” you groan as you swivel your chair to face your computer.
The room settles back into quiet, but his words hang there, heavier than you want to admit. You stare at your phone for a long moment before you finally reach for it, thumb hovering over a familiar name.
You know he probably won’t pick up right away—it’s Felix, the rockstar, after all—but still, you press call. When it clicks to voicemail, something about the timing feels right. Almost like the universe is daring you.
You take a breath, smile tugging at your lips. “Hey. I know you’re probably in a hot tub with some naked groupies, but if that doesn’t work out for you…” You pause, your own laughter breaking into the words as warmth spreads through your chest.
“I think I’m ready.”
It’s the first time those words don’t feel heavy, don’t feel wrong. They feel light, honest. True.
And because you can’t resist, you add with a grin, “… to beat you at Scrabble.”
You hang up before you can second-guess yourself. The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty—it feels freeing. For once, you’re not planning ten steps ahead, not gripping so tightly to what comes next. You’re just… letting go.
Maybe Felix will call back. Maybe he won’t. Maybe tomorrow holds something entirely different. For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel the need to control it.
Whatever happens, you’ll be okay and with that thought, you lean back in your chair, close your eyes, and let yourself hope.
-
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